#mahogany wigs

[makeupreviewandbeautyblog]

Exploring Emerging Trends: Enigmatic Reddish Brown Wig

Fashion transcends mere attire; it embodies a proclamation, a manifestation of one’s identity. Within the realm of fashion, evolution transpires swiftly, not only in sartorial choices but also in coiffures. Two phrases currently gaining momentum in the style sphere are “deep wave brazilian hair” and “reddish brown wig.” Let us embark on an expedition into the universe of fashion to delve into…

[zepskies]

Lost on You - Part 1

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Supe!Reader

Summary: 1983 is a big year for you. You’re finally chosen to join the ranks of Payback, led by the most (in)famous supe in the world: Soldier Boy. He’ll never admit that he’s trying his damndest to figure you out. You’ll never admit that he’s actually growing on you. But the problem with this game is deciding who’s the predator, and who is prey.

AN: Welcome to Part 1! You guys have really warmed by heart with all the anticipation for this series, so thank you so much. I think it's going to be a fun ride. 😉

Song Inspo: “Magic” by Olivia Newton-John. And check out the full “Lost on You Playlist” here. There’s going to be lots of ‘80s music in this series!

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: SB being an entitled asshole (strap in for a lot of that), misogyny, bullying, and a “meet cute” of sorts…

🎙️ Series Masterlist || YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 1: Siren Song

April 3, 1983

“Why the fuck wasn’t I consulted about this?” Soldier Boy groused.

Arthur Cohen, otherwise known as “The Legend,” released a heavy puff of his cigar within the relative privacy of his office. Vought afforded him a great deal of luxuries, at the cost of days like this.

So, he’d offered the supe one of his most coveted Cubans to pacify him. Because true to form, he was edging closer to a temper tantrum by the minute.

“This decision came from on high, my friend,” Arthur said, with a smile that hid his inner anxiousness. He tapped some ash off his cigar with a finger adorned by a gaudy gold ring. “Stan Edgar, Stillwell, even the entire board of directors signed off on this one.”

“I don’t give a fuck who bought into this PR bullshit,” Soldier Boy postured, crossing his arms across his dark green supe suit as he leaned into the plush seat adjacent to Arthur’s desk. He raised a solid boot on the edge of the newly polished mahogany, and then another, crossing them at the ankles. His cigar was balanced between his teeth in the corner of his mouth.

“The last thing we need,” he said, pausing to inhale. Then he took the cigar from his lips to blow out smoke in hot annoyance. “Is another broad on the team.”

Arthur inclined his head. “I understand your concerns.”

“Do you?” Soldier Boy snorted. “Countess is bitch enough to deal with, believe you me.”

Arthur sympathized. He knew Crimson Countess’s attitude well, but he supposed Soldier Boy had license to say so more than anyone else, considering she was his girlfriend.  

“Look, I could give you the numbers: expected profit margins, demographics, etcetera, but you don’t get paid to hear that from me,” Arthur said, with a magnanimous hand gesture and a fair bit of old Jewish charm. “I’m askin’ you to trust me. This girl’s good, okay? Not just a wig and a pair a’ tits. Nah, she’s got talent. Got a set of pipes on her too, my God.”

Soldier Boy gave him a sly look. 

“Not like that,” Arthur said. He shook his head in amusement, but not with the face of a man who hadn’t already thought about the girl’s pretty mouth. He stroked his chin.

“She’s…interesting. Well, you’ll see. If she brings up the ratings the way we hope, we’ll be able to relocate Swatto. Hopefully to Siberia. He’s a fucking PR nightmare waiting to happen.”

“All right, the guy’s a moron, but he’s fucking hilarious,” Soldier Boy said, smirking. “Like one of the three Stooges.”

Yeah. Arthur wondered if that homeless man Swatto almost split open in Central Park after a sneeze thought he was funny. 

“And her powers. Really?” Soldier Boy went on. His brows drew together then, as he frowned. “Sounds like she blew something up someone’s ass to get this far, and it ain’t smoke.”

“Trust me, that’s the real deal too,” Arthur assured.

But he could see that Soldier Boy wasn’t convinced. The supe rolled his eyes and released another puff.

“Anyway. I’m fucking bored. What’s the next project?” he said. Arthur took an unfiltered breath and peeked at the files strewn across his desk.

“Well, Red Thunder is coming out this fall. We’re pretty sure it’s gonna be the blockbuster of the year,” he replied. “After that, we’ll see about writing a sequel.”

If it makes back the millions we spent in production going over budget, thanks to this asshole’s weekly benders, he mentally added.

“I don’t care about a bullshit sequel,” Soldier Boy said dismissively. “I want to do something new.”

“Something new,” Arthur intoned.

The supe raised a brow. Again, the cigar was balanced between his teeth.

“Yeah.”

He really must be bored, Arthur thought, if he actually wants to work.

“All right, let me brainstorm on that for ya,” Arthur said. “Matter of fact, tell you what. Give me ‘til the end of the week. In the meantime, we’ve got the security team monitoring the police scanner for potential saves.”

The supe didn’t look impressed. His brows furrowed, as if he was irritated that he didn’t get an immediate answer, but his slight nod signaled his agreement before he finally got up from his chair. His boots dragged off Arthur’s desk, knocking over a framed picture of his kids with it, and thudded heavily on the ground. He left the office thereafter.

Arthur heaved a breath of exasperation. He didn’t get paid enough for this shit. 

Fucking supes.

But he didn’t dare utter that thought out loud.

It was days before Ben finally crossed paths with the new girl. Not that he’d been giving the idea much thought.

After that day in Arthur’s office, Ben became engrossed in his own devices—namely one of the assistants, Joanna, his stylist, Angela, and Rachel, his maid, after Donna blew him off for dinner for the third night in a row. This time for some tree-hugging conservationist gala of some kind. 

Frigid bitch, he thought, shaking his head. 

On his way to the gym, he passed the T&T Twins gossiping. Just the sight of them irritated him. Tommy was a kiss-ass, and Tessa shared a brain cell with her brother, so she wasn’t saying much for her gender either. 

“Would you pick your tongue off the floor already! You’re so disgusting,” Tessa said, shoving her brother.

“What? She’s fucking hot,” Tommy snapped in defense. When they finally saw Ben coming, Tessa piped down with her attempt at a “demure” greeting.

Tommy came in hot with a too bright voice and a, “Hey, boss!”

Ben gave them a stoic nod, fully intending to blow past them.

“Have you met the new girl yet?” Tommy asked, with an unmistakable pop of his brows and indecent smile.

Ben nearly rolled his eyes. “No.”

And don’t fucking care, his tone conveyed. He continued on his way to the gym. Behind him, the twins gave each other a look, and a shrug.

When he got to the gym, Journey was playing overhead. Ben frowned as he saw Black Noir working out by himself. The young man wasn’t wearing his suit. Instead, he was bare-chested and running on a treadmill with a nearly 90-degree incline, sweat glistening on his skin. 

Fucking show off, Ben thought. 

Then there was Gunpowder, his young sidekick, practicing his archery. Ben went to him and slapped a hand on his back in greeting, none too gently. The teen stumbled, his arrow landing into the wall instead of the target. 

“Spot me at the bench, ey kid,” said Ben. “And grab me a towel while you’re at it.”

“Uh, sure,” Gunpowder replied, ducking his head as he went. Ben got settled at his usual bench press machine, sliding his back down the thin leather cushion. He waited for the kid to add on his fifty-pound weights on either side, until it reached two hundred pounds. That was just the warm-up. 

“You met the new girl yet?” Ben asked, after he began lifting his first rep. Gunpowder stood behind his head.  

“No, sir,” he said. “Haven’t seen her yet.”

“I haven’t either,” said Noir. He’d come over on his way to the showers, regaining his breath all the while. Ben gave him a sharp side-eye.

“Did I fucking ask you?” he said. 

Noir paused. He hid his frown behind a stoic front, since he didn’t have his mask to do it for him. He toweled off his face and chest as he left the gym. 

Ben shook his head, but he never broke stride on the bench press. 

You seemed to be mysterious. 

Barely anyone had seen you, and you hadn’t gone out of your way to ingratiate yourself with every member of the team, like Ben would’ve expected. Donna had set him in her sights on her very first day.

With fake demure in her hazel eyes, a flick of her long red hair over her shoulder, and a sultry smile, she’d let him take her hand and bring it up to his lips for a gentlemanly kiss. 

That same night, she’d accepted his invitation up to his suite and let him do some very ungentlemanly things. Ben smirked at the memory as he made his way down Vought Tower’s infinite hallways. She sure knew her way around some kinky shit.  

And she still did, the little minx. She’d just been putting the freeze on his balls lately, for whatever her reasons were this time. He didn’t pretend to care or keep track at this point. 

If people only knew what a royal pain Crimson Countess was.

Ben was only taken out of his thoughts when he heard someone singing in the breakroom, gently, but beautifully. He couldn’t make out the words though. He stopped and leaned inside the doorway, just to see who it was. It was early enough in the morning that he was surprised anyone but him was awake.

You were standing there at the counter, making some coffee from the percolator. Soft and dulcet notes fell from your lips in some kind of lullaby. Quirking a brow, the oddness of it managed to draw Ben’s steps into the kitchen. You were wearing a leather supe suit that molded to your every curve, not unlike Donna’s, except yours was black with violet trim lines.

You eventually noticed him with a smile.

“Good morning, sir.”

Ben gave you a charming grin, blatantly eying you from breast to toe before he noted that the coffee had finished percolating. 

"Hey there, sweetheart,” he said. “Pour me a cup, would ya?" 

You did so, and he admired the graceful movements of your hands, and the sweet sound of your voice as you continue to hum to yourself. 

"You're a little crooner, aren't you?" he asked, taking the plain white coffee mug from you. 

When your hand brushed his, he felt it.

Your power.

It threatened to overtake him, drawing you into him like the crash and current of a tidal wave, where he couldn’t help but be pulled undertow. There in that darkness, he craved your warmth as well as your body. The thought, the need gripped him at his core… 

He wanted you to devour him, body and soul.

And he finally registered that your eyes were glowing violet, along with your knowing smile. 

Then you blinked. The violet haze was gone, along with your hold on his mind. 

You went back to sipping your coffee as if nothing had just happened. Ben faltered, mentally and physically as he was forced to grip the counter. He even had to catch his breath as his mind reeled from the loss of connection. 

He covered his unbalance with a steely, angry frown. What the fuck just fucking happened?

He looked at you harder than before, drawing himself to his full height and towering over you. Still, you didn’t seem all that intimidated.

“What the hell did you just do?” he growled.

Your knowing, easy smile remained. 

“Nothing,” you replied. “Just a little smoke.”

Ben’s eyes widened.

“Sounds like she blew something up someone’s ass to get this far, and it ain’t smoke.”

How the hell had you heard about that?

He quirked a brow, but you just sipped your coffee with a gentle slurp. Your gaze moved away from him as you went to the fridge to take out a carton of eggs.

“Want some breakfast? I’m thinking of making some eggs, sunny side up,” you said.

Ben’s hand clenched at his side, but then, he forced himself to relax. Or at least, to look relaxed. You had some fucking audacity to try toying with him…but he had to admit, you were something new.

Interesting.

“What’s your name?” he asked, in a tone that demanded.

“Sirena,” you answered. Your superhero name, which he’d already known when Stan Edgar told him about you a week ago.

Ben’s frown deepened, but he reminded himself to retain some charm. He took your chin between his fingers. His grip was light, but his green eyes were intense, and focused on you. 

“No. Your real name, sweetheart,” he said, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

You blinked, but you obliged him with your name, and a smile that edged at flirtation.

“What’s yours?” you returned.

He had to smirk. He knew you knew full well who he was.

“Call me Ben,” he said.

Three Days Ago…

You tried not to be completely overwhelmed by the sight of this huge tower as you pulled your suitcase behind you. Vought-American was an institution of superhero production, and Payback was the face of it all. The absolute pinnacle.

I still can’t believe they chose me, you thought, but you tried not to let that show. You needed to make it seem like you knew what you were doing. You belonged here, and you were seizing this chance.

Madelyn Stillwell, the head of Superhero Public Relations, personally greeted you at the gate and showed you up to your room. However, you’d barely gotten a chance to step inside and look around before her pager went off. She wore a certain smile when she saw the number on the screen. She tossed a strand of strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder and glanced up at you.

“Sorry, sweetie. I have an appointment to get to, but the directory is there on your desk if you need anything. Feel free to get comfortable,” she said, gesturing at you with her pager in hand. “I’ll be back in an hour or so to give you a tour of the building.”

“Okay, thank you so—”

The door closed behind her before you could even finish your sentence. That deflated you a little, but you tried not to let that small exchange bring you down. Your apartment was huge. Or at least, it was much bigger than the shoebox you left in the Village, let alone the Brooklyn brownstone you grew up in, sharing with two other families on each floor.

You hefted your suitcase onto the bed and began to unpack your clothes, makeup, and toiletries. 

You also took out the only framed picture you had—one that housed your parents and your older brother Chris. You were both grown already, but in this picture, you were barely twelve years old. That little girl didn’t know that her entire world was about to change, when her powers manifested for the first time. 

That thought did succeed in dimming your mood for a moment, but you sighed and set the frame down on your new dresser. You’d have to remember to call Chris. His son was turning four years old in a few weeks. 

Though your attention shifted to a black shape in the corner of your eye. It was a garment bag hanging on the closet door. You went over and unzipped it, revealing your new super suit. It was all black leather and violet accent lines down the sides, along the collar, and down between the breasts in a V-shape. It was strategic to accentuate curves and bust. 

You whistled lowly. It was beautiful, but Jesus did it look tight. 

“Wow,” you remarked, trying out the zipper up and down. “They really like their leather, huh?”

Still, you itched to try it on. After a few minutes of struggling and wiggling, you managed to get into the suit. They’d taken exact measurements, so it did look good. You felt like a new person…a superhero.

You smiled at yourself in the bathroom mirror. But then, you forced the smile off your face and shook your head, schooling your expression into something less doe-eyed and pathetic. More in control.

There you are, Sirena, you thought. You had long ago trained yourself with that enigmatic look. You knew how it felt on your face. The easiest way for you to get what you wanted in this world, the way you’d gotten this far, was with this exact face.

Only show them what you want them to see.   

Almost two hours later, you’d finished unpacking your belongings and explored every corner of your new beautiful apartment, but still, Miss Stillwell wasn’t back yet.

You checked your watch and hummed to yourself. Your curiosity getting the best of you, you decided to leave your apartment and explore the tower by yourself. You took off the suit as well, so you could make your way around more anonymously. You were sure no one really knew who you were yet. 

Your theory was proven true when you walked through the halls, passing Vought employees without even a blink in your direction. That was okay though. Soon enough, all these people would know your face, as well as your name. 

You reached one of the top floors, where you thought you remembered The Legend’s office was supposed to be (according to the directory). Maybe you could meet him and get a jump start on your schedule.

You stopped short, however, when an office door slid open. Out came a slightly disheveled Miss Stillwell. Her blouse was hastily tucked into her gray pencil skirt, and strands of her blonde hair were a bit frizzy as they brushed her shoulders, as if she’d combed them down with her fingers. You plastered yourself to a wall around the corner, only peeking around after she passed by.

Your brows popped up incredulously when you read the name plate beside the door she just came out of.

Stan Edgar…holy shit. His signature was on my contract!

Along with Arthur Cohen, or The Legend, as Stillwell had told you when she welcomed you in. He was the Senior Vice President of Hero Management, so who the hell was Stan?

Well, whoever he was, he was giving it to the head of PR.

Okay then. You shook your head and continued on your way. At the end of the hall, you finally found the right office. You were about to open the door, when you heard male voices coming from inside—one older and dry, and the other deep and strong.

You reached out with your awareness and allowed your powers to engage, likely making your eyes glow with a violet hue.

Sure enough, you sensed two men in the room. And as the voices raised, you recognized one of them. It was unmistakable; you’d been taking the time to binge all of his movies for the past month, ever since you auditioned to get into Payback.

Soldier Boy. 

A smile spread across your face. For a moment, you were incredibly excited…until you actually heard what he was saying.

“The last thing we need is another broad on the team.”

Your mouth fell open in shock as your brows drew together. You carefully pressed yourself to the door and kept listening.

“And her powers. Really?” he said. “Sounds like she blew something up someone’s ass to get this far, and it ain’t smoke.”

“Trust me, that’s the real deal too,” Arthur assured.

You glared at the door furiously, as if you could burn lasers out of your eyes. You crossed your arms, but you breathed evenly as you strived to keep your emotions contained. 

Control, you reminded yourself. With another deep breath, you managed to let go of your ire, but the more you listened to the conversation, the more impossible that became. You turned away from the door and made clipped strides down the hall.

You knew you had to tread carefully here. You’d heard some of the real stories about Payback, because you’d taken the time to listen. You weren’t about to enter Vought Tower without having some idea of what you were getting into, and you knew you’d have to prove yourself as the rookie on the team. You just hadn’t expected their leader to be such a chauvinistic asshole. 

Though inwardly, you snorted. Well, the guy is from the ‘40s. Best generation, indeed.

You rolled your shoulders and shook it away, like water off your proverbial feathers. Your mouth set in a firm line as you held your head high.

The game begins, you thought.

For the next few days, you watched. You studied each member of your new “team” as you encountered them, and you quickly realized that this team wasn’t much of one. 

They looked out for themselves, and bickered amongst themselves, in the case of the TNT Twins. Crimson Countess had given you a lovely, polite face that still somehow mocked you when she walked away, along with the bounce of her red hair. 

Your powers didn’t allow you to sense or read women, but you recognized a diva when you saw one.

Clearly, she was used to being the woman on top, especially as Soldier Boy’s girlfriend. You wanted to roll your eyes at the thought. From what you’d heard (and the masculine cologne you smelled on Arthur’s assistant Joanna yesterday), Soldier Boy got around. His relationship with Countess was either very open, or it was well-crafted PR.

You had another growing, unsettling thought. The more information you gathered just by observing the team, the more you had a hard time believing that you were ever going to fit in around here. 

It was only your third day in the Tower though, you reminded yourself, as you got dressed for the day in your suit. That kind of negativity wouldn’t serve you here. 

So you left your apartment in search of coffee and breakfast at the breakroom and lounge area, exclusive to the team. You supposed these guys were either late sleepers, or they got their food brought to them. You were relieved to find the room empty, and you let out a deep breath.

Remember why you’re here, you thought. It’s not about you. 

It had never been about you. 

You rummaged through the cupboards in search of the one thing that would perk you up—good coffee. You found it near the top shelf and began to prep the coffee maker. You hummed to yourself while your hands moved on autopilot. The tune strengthened, deepening and then sweetening on higher trills. 

Suddenly, your spine prickled. Your mind buzzed faintly with awareness as you sensed a presence.

It was familiar and overwhelmingly male, with heavy, confident steps coming down the hall. You tilted your head and frowned. 

Soldier Boy, that asshole. 

But then, your lips curved upwards. This could be fun. 

When Soldier Boy walked into the breakroom, he noticed you. You pretended not to realize he was there, but you felt the heat of his gaze roaming over your body. You wanted to sigh. Predictable.

Right then, you made a quiet, firm decision. Today, this man was going to learn your name. And he wasn’t going to forget it. 

You turned to him with a smile when he approached—the most pleasant one you could manage.

“Good morning, sir.”

AN: Game, set, match. 😘💚 As many of you know, this story is expanding on this Soldier Boy imagine, which I wrote almost a year ago now. In the back of my mind though, I always thought this idea could be more someday.

So please let me know what you thought of Part 1! I'm so excited for you guys to see what's coming up next...

Next Time:

“Countess, I’m not trying to replace you. I’m not trying to take anything from you.”

“Except my boyfriend,” she shot back. Finally she turned her head towards you with cool disdain. “You think I didn’t see you flirting with him last night at the afterparty?”   

You rolled your eyes, though you hid a sliver of embarrassment. You should’ve known she’d spot that.

“He approached me, okay?” you said. Maybe you were about to let your pettiness to get the best of you, but you couldn’t help it. You smiled slyly. “And from what I hear, I’m the least of your worries. Looks like Ben has quite the appetite.”

The cracks of Countess’s cool façade finally broke through to anger.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Series Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

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[msbigredmachine]

You Again (Roman Reigns) - Part 1

That awkward moment when the biggest star in pro wrestling happens to be your high school bully…and he’s in your office. A 2-part series.

Pairing: Bully!Roman Reigns x OC

Word Count: 2,500

Warning: Hints of smut, stalking, bullying

FINALLY! I've fleshed out this WIP. I'm so proud of myself! Hope you like it. Enjoy!

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

Evelyn squeezed into the crowded elevator, relieved that she’d gotten in before the doors could slide shut. She combed her fingers through her wig, smoothed down her blouse and took a deep breath as another work day that came too soon was about to start. Stepping out on the fifth floor, she fixed her face like she didn’t wish she was back in Cancun sipping on some Piña Coladas at her beachfront cabana. 

The offices of Wow Magazine buzzed left and right, with employees and staff bustling about as the latest edition of the fashion Bible was published on print and digital media today. Evelyn plastered a smile on her face and accepted their glowing compliments on her outfit. Dressed in a cute off-white sweater blouse, a white pleated miniskirt with sheer Fendi ‘F’ tights and black stilettos, the ‘Editor-in-Chief’ nameplate pasted to her door reminded her every day that she couldn’t be caught dead looking a mess at any time.

“Latte for Miss Ashton?” Her assistant, Faith, entered her office ten minutes later with her usual Starbucks order. “Welcome back, boss. You look refreshed and ready to go already!” she chirped, setting the Styrofoam cup down on the mahogany desk. "How was your vacation?" 

"Way too short. I wanna go back already," she replied. "So what's on my agenda today before I change my mind and get outta here?"

Faith laughed and scrolled down her iPad. "You got a meeting at ten with Tessa on September’s feature cover. Your lunch meeting with Roger from Finance is at noon, then there’s a couple of itineraries that need your approval. I’ve already emailed them to you."

"Sounds good." Evelyn took a sip of her coffee and chatted some more with Faith before she was left alone to get settled. At five to ten, she was walking to the conference room when she caught a glimpse of a tall, powerfully built man standing at the reception area, his back only visible in profile. His well-tailored pinstripe gray Gucci suit was a perfect fit on his big frame and all the musculature underneath. A jolt of interest pinged through her for this attractive stranger, but it was quickly replaced by shock as he turned around and his dark eyes met hers.

This was no stranger at all. It was her worst nightmare!

It had been several years, but there was no mistaking that face. It was bad enough that she’d had to look at it every single day for much of her teen years. Said face also haunted her TV on Friday nights, and given how he'd made her life miserable, she couldn’t forget it if she tried.

Oh no. No, no…no!

She felt her stomach drop when his eyes widened. Fuck! He recognized her, too! She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his fiery stare as his lips formed her name.

“Evie?”

Hearing him address her by her shortened name snapped her temporary paralysis. Ducking her head, she almost stumbled in her heels as she rushed into the conference room and slammed the door shut. Flattening her back against it, she exhaled shakily, her heart racing at a million miles a minute as she struggled to process what she’d just seen.

More frightening was the sight of him walking into the conference room just a few moments later with Tessa, Wow’s Artistic Director, a cheery smile on her face as she announced,

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you the cover star for September’s edition, WWE Superstar Roman Reigns!”

Focusing on the meeting was difficult. Staying professional was even tougher knowing her tormentor sat mere feet away, staring a hole through her the entire time. She wanted to throw up as Tessa gushed over the magazine’s newly-penned partnership with WWE, which came with a cover feature for its biggest star in their most popular edition of the year. This also meant that in just a few short weeks, Evelyn would have to see him again, as it was her job to oversee his photoshoot, wardrobe, and the interview itself. Even more nauseating was that Management was to hold a lavish yacht party this coming weekend celebrating the partnership with Joe as their special guest of honor. Clearly, a lot had transpired while she was away, and she didn’t like any of it one bit.

Neither Tessa nor Faith noticed her eagerness to get out of there when the meeting finally, thankfully ended. She quickly darted into the break room nearby and fought to catch her breath, hating that she was running around like a cornered rat. Luckily the room was empty, meaning no one could see her in her flustered state. She was known for her cool calm demeanor, but one asshole had just come into her world and turned it upside down. Again.

She couldn’t believe this! Why was the Lord testing her like this? 

Joe Anoa’i had single-handedly almost ruined her entire high school experience. For one, he made sure no boy came near her during her first three years. She was the constant butt of mean jokes thanks to his stupid football teammates, led by him and his twin cousins Jon and Josh Fatu. Her locker would often be spray-painted with derogatory names or overflowing with trash, and, at one horrific time, used condoms. She remembered the tears she’d cried after she had to clean up that disgusting stuff all by herself in front of everyone.

When her father was transferred out of state right before her senior year began, she had been beyond relieved. Most teenagers would have been devastated to be uprooted for their last year in high school, but Evelyn was ecstatic. She was never going to see Joe or his cronies again, and it was the chance to finally have a normal high school experience.

She could vividly recall the last time she saw him. She'd been so happy at the prospect of escape that, when he paused in the hall to watch her clean out her locker for the last time, she made full eye contact with him for once and laughed in his face.

"Sayonara, bitch," Evie cheesed, smiling smugly when a scowl darkened his irritatingly handsome face. 

"What are you doing?" he demanded, walking up to her, his expression intense.

"Gettin’ away from you and this fucking school forever. You’ll never see me again and I don’t gotta deal with your bullshit anymore," she replied coldly. Stepping past him, she almost fell over when he grabbed her arm and yanked her back, colliding their bodies together.

Joe leaned down, towering over her petite figure, and growled, "Oh sweetheart, trust me when I say you'll see me again. I’ll find you wherever you are, no matter how long it takes. That’s a promise."

Evelyn recalled his raspy last words with trepidation. That he had indeed found her, just like he’d threatened, spooked her to no end.

Behind her, the door clicked open, and the air in the room changed. Shifted. Charged with a palpable tension. Through the reflection of a nearby window, she saw Joe shut the door behind him. With her heart in her throat, she kept her back turned and did her best to ignore his approaching footsteps. But with only a few long strides, he was standing right behind her, boxing her in his much bigger body. She hated the way her skin prickled and the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Blood pounded in her ears as his familiar scent reached her nose, triggering memories of when he had mercilessly tortured her in school. She stiffened at the reminder and struggled with her body's response to his closeness. Close enough now that there was very little room for her to escape even if she wanted to.

His hard chest molded against her back. His thick, muscular arms stretched across the table she leaned on from both sides, trapping her. She could feel every inch of him, every muscle attached to her like steel to a magnet. Her breath caught, torn between shoving him away and giving in to the arousal that pulsed through her body. When she felt his mouth close to her ear, a shiver coursed down her spine. 

"Evie," Joe breathed. His low, husky voice uttering her name set off the butterflies in her belly and spread heat through her body. As his hands moved to her shoulders, her skin broke out into goosebumps and her nipples hardened into sharp little points, chafing almost painfully against the lace of her bra. Despite her body's involuntary reaction, she held herself rigidly, staring straight ahead, giving no indication that she could feel anything.

"I thought I was imagining things," he went on in that gruff, yet velvety tone, "But no. I'd know that face anywhere.”

“Oh look, the leader of N’Stink is here. Long time no see,” Evelyn finally spoke up, her tone cold and clipped.

“Leader of what?” he laughed. She didn't see what was so funny.

“That was my name for you and the evil twins. Jon and Josh. I remember you all,” she said.

Joe smirked. “Who knew little Evie Ashton was so creative.”

“I’m not ‘Evie’ anymore. I go by Evelyn now.” She dared to glare up at him and despised the way her knees weakened immediately. He was more gorgeous than he was twenty years ago and was still able to effortlessly awaken her body with just one look, with just his proximity. It reminded her how, as a teen, she had been so confused and embarrassed by the way she simultaneously loathed him and desired him. Unfortunately nothing about that had changed. 

"This is the other reason I knew it was you." His mouth was by her ear again. To her complete shock, he pressed himself against her, and she sucked in a breath as what felt like an impressive erection lightly prodded her backside. "All you had to do was come near me and you had me so hard I couldn’t walk straight sometimes."

Hold up!

Her eyes went wide. “What are you talking about?”

“You have no damn idea how much I wanted you, Evie,” Joe elaborated, licking his lips as he gazed at her. “I wanted a taste of them soft lips. Your tits. Your pussy. Hell, I still do.”

Evelyn clenched her thighs together, failing to stop the rush of warmth between her legs at his unexpected words. “You’re fuckin’ lying,” she stammered. This coming from the same guy who regularly made fun of her skinny frame and horn-rimmed glasses back then. Total bullshit!

He shook his head. “I'm not. You feel that, don’t you?” He grinded against her again, nudging the back of her skirt a little higher up her thighs. She opened her mouth to tell him to get the fuck away from her, but all that came out was a whimper. She glanced down, seeing his strong, tanned hands now grasping her hips, lining up her ass directly against his crotch. Mindlessly, she pressed back against him, her body giving into the urges despite her brain’s protests. Lust coursed through her, drugging her into docility. The same thing kept happening back in high school. Even when she was furious at him, he'd affected her so strongly on a physical level that she felt almost drunk when she was around him. What was worse, he was the first and only boy who had turned her on like that without even lifting a finger. Not even Chuka, her ex-fiancé, ever set her body on fire like this, despite his numerous attempts. 

As a teenager, she would daydream during the day, and at night, laying alone in her bed, fantasize about being with Joe Anoa’i…wondered what it would feel like, imagined the heights he could take her to if they ever had sex…

Encouraged by her complacency, Joe’s lips trailed the crook of her neck, and her head tilted back reflexively. His steel length felt like it was branding her through her skirt. She panted heavily, air expelling in short bursts from her lungs as his mouth trailed ever closer, ghosting over her jawline and her cheek before finally landing on hers, sucking her bottom lip. For the life of her, she wondered why she didn’t push him away. Perhaps it was because she was starved for a man’s touch which had been missing for the past year. Or maybe because it was a kiss she’d dreamed of; a kiss that would set her ablaze and burn her from the inside out. It was the kiss she’d wanted for two decades but never got. Until now.

Evelyn could hear her inner, mentally-scarred teen scream for joy as she turned in his arms and kissed his soft lips back with a defeated moan. The energy between them had amplified tenfold, making her heart race, urging her to dive into him. Joe seemed to read her mind and, pushing her up against the table, slipped his tongue into her mouth, his hand leaving her waist to curl around her throat. It was the simplest, yet the kinkiest of touches which unleashed a tsunami between her thighs and another moan against his lips. She felt his dick pulse against her belly as the kiss became more urgent, hungrier. With a gentle nudge of his foot, he spread her legs wider apart, and her body jerked with surprise when he shoved his other hand inside her skirt, boldly cupping the mound protected by her panties.

“Just like I thought, you’re wet as fuck. Did I make you wet like this back then? Huh?” Joe goaded, his lips an inch from hers, making her feel every word he uttered. "Tell me."

Evelyn couldn’t stop her eyes from rolling back, or her body grinding against his fingers as they circled around the dampness on her underwear before tugging the satin material to the side. His hand on her neck slipped lower to grab her breast, fondling it in his large palm as his lips latched onto the side of her throat. It was an attack from all fronts and Evelyn was very much losing the fight.

Until his finger dipped inside her wetness, which her brain computed as one lascivious act too many and finally snapped her back to her senses.

“Okay, stop! Stop it!” she hissed in a panic, pushing him off her. She glanced around the room, hoping no one else was there as she adjusted her clothes, and then raced out of the room as fast as her heels could carry her, desperate to get away. She slammed her office door shut and did not come out again until he left.

On her desk, the invite to the yacht party taunted her in its fancy, elaborate lettering and graphics, a craftwork that would have impressed her if it didn’t make her want to vomit and run away forever, or better yet, book another flight to Cancun never to return.

How the fuck was she going to get through the week? 

And where the fuck was her vibrator when she needed it?

END OF PART ONE

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

Thoughts?

Credit to the owners of the pics and gifs.

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[ravenna-reid]

Whiskey, Sultry Tunes & Vigilantes

JASON TODD x JAZZ CLUB SINGER READER

Jason just needs to go to the most famous Jazz club in Gotham to gather intel then quickly leave, but a certain singer makes him stay longer than he anticipated... No warnings <3

I actually rlly like this one so pls lmk if you do too!

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

A magnetic violet blanketed the room from the lights that constantly streamed inside of the club, setting a soft, sensual mood. Guests sat before the stage, a few residing along the quiet bar. Subtle discussions and the clinks of scotch and wine glasses simmered in the air, along with the melancholic yet powerful tune that came from the band and their instruments. The sombre cello, the soulful piano, the triumphant trumpet.

And the famous Jazz singer of the club.

The Blue Room’s jewel. 

Sparkling diamonds hung from your ears and adorned your neck. Glistening eyeshadow, slick eyeliner and plump lips. A black silk dress hugged at your body and draped down to the floor, gloves the same colour running up above your elbows complimenting your dress. The wig you wore looked unbelievably real, the cherry red catching glints of the deep purple from the stage lights above as you sung the sultry tune. Men from across the city always came to watch you sing. Voice sweet like honey, smooth like whiskey, strong like thunder. All eyes were trained on you, and people either wanted to be you, or be with you. There was no inbetween.

Jason had merely heard the gossip about the Blue Room. About its perfect blues music and its reputation for the best served scotch and wine.

He’d also heard about the alluring singer that sang there almost every night.

But not being a fan of crowds or anywhere where parties were often thrown, he never went. Until tonight.

“And you’re sure Black Mask and Penguin are conspiring together in the private booths at this club?”

Dick had asked Jason earlier that week as they both went over their limited evidence on the case in the Batcave. 

“No, that’s why I’m going to go investigate.” Jason answered without looking up from the papers sprawled out in front of him. 

“It’d be a shame if it were true,” Dick sighed, “I love that place.”

“Of course you do.” Jason shook his head.

“Can I come?”

“No.”

Leaving the bustling alleyway behind as he entered the club, the atmosphere around him immediately shifted. The rhythm and blues that so often enveloped the club filled his senses instantly. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes, the LED lights that set the mood for the performance, the sound of the band…

And her. 

One gloved hand holding her microphone, the other gently stretching out to the crowd as she lulled them with her song. Her voice, her words, her eyes…

A softness painted her expression, mixed with subtle confidence and a magnifying aura. Elegance. Strength. Heartbreak.

So much emotion in just one song. So much emotion lacing her angelic voice. 

Jason was irrevocably drawn to you. 

The sudden sound of bellowing laughter from a table in front of him drew Jason back into reality. And he was soon reminded that he was there for work, not for entertainment. 

Blood rushing and heart racing – which was actually ridiculous – Jason ignored you and turned down the side of the bar to the more secluded part of the club. Round, mahogany tables that were much larger than the ones before the stage were occupied by couples. The music became more drowned out at that end of the club, more suitable for those who were wanting a romantic date night. Further down though, along the wall and past the bar sat the four private booths. Two were open; a lit bulb in the centre and purple velvet couches on display. But the other two had their curtains drawn.

As Jason crept towards one of the closed booths, his ears fought to listen to your voice. His legs fought to drag him back to the stage. His eyes fought to steal glances of you. Coming to a halt at the first booth, he ripped the curtain back. Two lovers, one on the other's lap, immediately look up at Jason, mortification frozen on their faces. 

“Sorry, wrong booth.” He quickly said before hastily drawing the curtain closed. His cheeks became a rose red as he moved to the next booth. 

Green eyes, so horrifically mesmerised, found their way back to you again as he searched for your figure through the crowd, his eyes following your voice. It was coming to the end of the song, and just as you were hitting the high note, a silence fell over the room as people listened. Giving a subtle shake of his head, he pulled himself back together.

“Come on, Jason.”

Jason was just about to draw the curtain to the second booth open when –

Ears straining to re-hear what he thought he heard, Jason let go of the curtain and looked to his side. Muffled yells could be heard. Past the bar and bathrooms down a dimly lit corridor. A man in an ivory tuxedo, obviously custom made, gripped at the collar of a man in black before him. The man he was grabbing looked fearful as he desperately tried to talk his way out of the situation. But the man in the tuxedo was past practical discussions. He wanted something. And he didn’t want to have to wait any longer. Cheeks a violent red and the hair he had left a dishevelled mess, he finally let go of the man. 

Thunderous applause caught Jason completely off guard as his focus shifted back to you. 

You gave a small, polite bow to the audience, and when you looked back up out into the crowd, your smile instantly gleamed brighter than the lights and jewels that surrounded you. You took the air from Jason’s lungs. 

The band members behind you nodded their heads in appreciation to the crowd. Whistles filled the air alongside the applause. Someone threw a daisy onto the stage. Jason scoffed.

Daisies aren’t nearly pretty enough for her.

Looking back down the corridor to see what the men were doing now, his heart sank when he found they were gone. 

“Shit.”

Ignoring his desire to look back at you one last time, worried you were finished for the night, Jason began down the corridor. Once he reached the end, there were two doors. One that he was sure led to the back of the building where the dumpsters and connecting alleyways sat. Another, however, looked like a small office. Thankfully, the door was slightly open. Jason peered through it to find the one who was just abused by the man in the tuxedo sitting at the desk, head in his hands. Stacks of paper were his only company, alongside framed pictures, certificates and awards for his business, posters of famous singers, and a shimmering gold plaque.

A plaque that read his name.

Jason took a mental note, but his eyes wandered as he wondered where the man in the ivory tuxedo went.

The man in black was sudden in his movement, sending a spike of anxiety through Jason’s chest. He quickly stood from his desk and went through another door in his office; a door that led to the dressing rooms. As Jason listened, he assumed the man was talking to and preparing the other singers that would soon take your place for the remainder of the night. Taking his chance, Jason quickly crept into his office and grabbed a few notes, envelopes, and folders from his desk. Slipping them into his jacket, he was gone in a blink of an eye as the man made his way back into the room. 

But performers were beginning to fill the back area, and Jason had to quickly leave. Walking back down where he came, he opened the back door and stepped outside.

The warm breeze instantly brushed through his raven black hair and against his skin. The dark, Gotham night sky stared down at him from above. Distant sounds of traffic filled the air. It was in no way better than the atmosphere inside of that club, but it was familiar. Comforting. 

Securing the documents he had obtained in the inner pockets of his jacket, Jason was ready to leave until something caught his eye. 

Silky gloved hands ran up and down your arms. Soft cherry red curls swayed against the skin of your back in the wind. 

Jason couldn’t believe it. It was you. It was actually you.

Your eyes were trained on the night sky above, searching for the stars that hid behind the clouds, and although Jason couldn't see your face, he could imagine the serene expression that was painted across it. 

What were you doing out here?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he got to see you one last time before he left. And suddenly all thoughts and questions centering around the man in black and the man in the ivory tuxedo vanished like mist.

He soon realised you hadn’t heard him come outside. He continued standing nimbly behind you. Fiddling with his fingers and feet rooted in the ground like trees. Heart beating faster than a hiccup. 

Say something. Say something. Say something. Say something.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone you know.”

Voice so soft, so gentle. You looked over your shoulder up at Jason, your eyes catching the light from the street lamp beside him.

Jason’s breath hitched.

Shit.

Part Two Soon

[max1461]

I don't know. Occult stuff and new religious movements just wig me out immensely, I don't want anything to do with them. It's not just because I think they're bullshit (although I do). But lots of stuff that I think is bullshit doesn't wig me out. But this stuff does.

This is I think related to my strong distaste for 50s-60s-70s aesthetics. These two things feel related to me. Certainly there were a lot of new religious movements in that period. It all feels like one big milieu to me, like Woodstock and Scientology and MK Ultra and the Stanford prison experiment and the Beatles and those guys taking LSD and trying to talk to dolphins... that shit is all the same to me. It's the same kind of milieu, it's one big cultural/aesthetic/epistemic milieu that just gives me hives.

On the other hand I'm aesthetically and... well, not so much culturally, but maybe at least somewhat intellectually, a huge fan of like the 1910s-1940s. Man I love that shit. The greatcoats... the mahogany desks... writing Important Math Equations while on a maritime journey across the Pacific (that was just how you got places in those days). Oh man that shit is my jam.

Well anyway. What's the essential difference here? What's the core element this distinction is getting at?

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

The unapologetic scrutiny sees Oliver shivering right down to his toes; the risqué thrill leaving him desperate for more as he pictures the sight they must make from the rooftop garden opposite. His ruminations don’t last long, however, and the sudden emptiness at his core incites a flustered whine, even as the low rasp of Elio’s zipper proves a slow-motion herald of what’s to come.

THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING (IS IN THE EATING)

With its three spindly legs and sleek, curving edges, the reconditioned baby grand is a great deal sturdier than Oliver first assumed, watching the fastidious moving team guide it up three flights of steps to their East Village brownstone apartment. It’d earned him a smirk: that absent-minded observation. Unsuccessfully hidden behind the blue, Columbia Lions mug Elio’s long-since claimed for his own. Yet seeing is believing - as his much-missed bubbe liked to say - and if the past four years have taught him anything, it’s that in order to trust in the improbable, one must first be prepared to embrace the absurd.

Hence the reason he finds himself bare-assed naked on the stately instrument’s cool, mahogany lid.

Grey tracksuit bottoms hobbling his sockless ankles.

Hitching gasps misting the lacquered surface as Elio’s nimble digits scissor his spit-slick rim.

The splayed-wide pads of Oliver’s fingertips are smeared with sweat: the tense muscles of his torso even more so. Gaining leverage is nigh-on impossible, and when Elio strums a ruthless staccato against his screaming prostate, the incoherent plea that spills from his throat has the other man chuckling exaltedly; eyes mischief-bright where he hooks his chin over his straining shoulder.

“You’re doing so well…” he murmurs into the riotous clatter of his pulse. “Uno spettacolo così bello. Tell me: how does it feel?” 

Oliver groans at the unexpected bite to his earlobe. “Sacrilegious,” he pants, all thoughts of structural integrity forgotten as a soothing hand cards his bedraggled hair. “Whatever would Bach have to say?”

Elio flashes a thousand-watt grin. “Oh… the Old Wig was pretty creative,” he answers sagely, angling his face for a clumsy kiss. One that tastes of Yakisoba chicken from the Japanese shokudo on the corner, yet dissolves like powdered sugar upon his tongue. “He’d probably suggest we try it andante.” A beat. “Or maybe a lively allegro,” he adds, skimming the jutting vertebrae of Oliver’s spine. “With a brisk vivace to finish.”

Oliver sniggers. “You’re a menace, Perlman…”

“Always,” he allows, mapping the field of goosebumps that adorn his flank. “But presented like this?” The floorboards creak as a jean-clad thigh urges his trembling knees apart. “All stretched and pink? Taking my fingers so nicely…” 

“Sweetheart, please…”

Elio tugs him impossibly closer. “You’ll take my cock too,” he says then, a simple statement of fact, then proceeds to squeeze his buttock once, twice, three times firmly; opening him further with his thumb. “You’re beautiful, mon amour.” 

The unapologetic scrutiny sees Oliver shivering right down to his toes; the risqué thrill leaving him desperate for more as he pictures the sight they must make from the rooftop garden opposite. His ruminations don’t last long, however, and the sudden emptiness at his core incites a flustered whine, even as the low rasp of Elio’s zipper proves a slow-motion herald of what’s to come.

“Siete pronti?” he asks, painting the sticky pearls of arousal around his greedy hole.

“I’ve been ready,” Oliver protests, the gentle nudge of his glans making him clench in vain.

Chapped lips return to the hinge of his jaw.

Sharp teeth worry the mottled bruise at his collar.

“Elio…” he hears, a blatant provocation before he’s breached properly, and Oliver grunts, choking expletives into the crook of his elbow as his tormentor huffs a bubbling laugh. “Elio… Elio… Elio…” 

His hamstrings are taut where he’s held spread-eagle. His scrotum growing ever tighter at the sense of utter fullness. Over and over, his lover thrusts within him. Over and over, Oliver chants the words in concert: hiccuping the other man’s name until the syllables blend together. Until he’s shuddering - splintering - his brain damn-near convulsing as Elio reaches to stroke his leaking shaft. 

“I’ve got you, mon chéri,” he whispers, circling the spongy tip through each rolling wave, and when Elio buries himself balls-deep - collapsing like a rag doll as he climaxes thereafter - the erratic thrum of Oliver’s racing heart beats a perfect accompaniment to the breathless I love yous peppered between them. 

[visenyasdragon]

My brilliant and correct headcanons about Laena Velaryon 💞🌊🐉

She thinks the tradition of putting dragon eggs in cradles is not entirely a good idea because it leaves and older dragons riderless and then they can get lonely!!! Can't allow that. Also who would want a hatchling when you can just claim an older bigger dragon. Doesn't really understand that those are usually more picky when choosing riders and she just got incredibly lucky with Grandma Vhagar </3

She would not be happy with her daughters being betrothed to obvious bastards and their own claims to Driftmark and the Iron Throne bypassed

Thinks she actually would make a better Lord of Driftmark than Laenor, but she loves her older brother so she only teases him about it sometimes, she would never dream of usurping him

Thinks Laenor's marriage to Rhaenyra was a huge mistake and low-key resents Corlys for arranging it. She thinks Laenor should just have stayed unmarried. She agrees with her mother on that point

Sometimes when she was a child her father would rant that Viserys was stingy in not giving her and Laenor a princely title as was their right as children of royal blood, but she doesn't give a fuck. She has Vhagar so all princesses are automatically less slay than her 👑

She loves seafood, and fish of all kinds, and prefers them far more than roasted game and fowl served in the capital

She's bisexual but we all know that so let's move on

She has a stellar haircare routine funded by her dad. She owns the best hair soaps, oils scented and unscented, jewelled ivory combs, ironwood/mahogany/weirwood/oak combs and brushes, so her silver curls always look PERFECT, glossy and shiny and springy. Her maids (often of Summer Islander descent) are chosen partially based on their expertise in caring for curly hair. The miserable wigs on the show were a psyop

She loves shopping trips to Spicetown and Hull for new clothes and hair products (she's just like me fr)

Daemon was in love with her so help me god

She loves to listen or read about the Conquerors and is very proud to ride Visenya's dragon, but would probably not consent to be a polygamous wife unless she knew for sure that she would retain her position and not be sidelined at all

Huge girl mom. Her daughter's must have the best dresses, toys, nursemaids, servants, guards, tutors, books, of everythingggg just like she had as a child

Knows that some day Rhaena will have a dragon of her own

Loves dragons, especially old and huge ones, but dislikes horses. She thinks they're stupid, unreliable, and much too slow. She hated her horse riding lessons as a child because she lives on an island, what's the point? Why can't mother or Laenor just take her on dragonback whenever they need to go somewhere they can't get in foot? But Corlys insisted they learn to ride the best horses because he wanted that status symbol. So when she claimed Vhagar at 12, she never rode her horse again

Loves to dance, knows all the old Valyrian dances and Westerosi reels

She finds court jesters annoying and unfunny

The more she learns of Alicent's marriage as she grows up the happier she is she dodged that bullet oof. To be so disrespected constantly!!! Couldn't be her

Prefers silver to gold jewelry. But obviously Corlys made sure she has plenty of both bc he's Corlys

Loves to swim in the sea like any Velaryon

Speaks fluent High Valyrian because that's the language Velaryons speak most of the time, especially in private

[katerina-marie]

Bathtub Confessions (Eres Tú)

Sukuna x Reader

Part 4

The one where you learn that certain confessions don't always have to be romantic, but others certainly do.

Word Count: 5.7k

Notes: Sukuna x Reader celebrity!au. Takes place directly after part three. Song of inspiration: Eres Tú by Carla Morrison

Content: bandmember Sukuna x actor female Reader (referred to as such, but left descriptively vague), no y/n, manager Nanami, bodyguard Toji, actor Gojo, found family vibes, some angst, fluff, crack, humor, out of character Sukuna (he's so fluffy), suggestive, maybe lightly explicit, tho no sex actually occurs (sorry), so please avoid accordingly.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

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

“Should I change my name?”

A beat of silence. A drop of water.

“No.”

“Should I get a wig?”

Another beat of silence. A clink of glass on tile.

“No.” 

“Should I flee the country?”

A minuscule half second of silence.

“Not if you’re going to quit paying me,” Toji grumbled. 

His response made the frown on your face dip down further on your lips, and you rolled your head against the back of your porcelain tub to stare at the ceiling.

“Is that all you see me as?” you whined, “A paycheck?”

“You want me to lie?” 

“That’s it, I’m going to drown myself.” 

That gets a long, heavy sigh from your bodyguard and you can hear him readjust himself on the chaise lounge seated in the middle of your expansive bathroom before he carries on.

“First off,” he grunts, “no you’re not. That would require me to pull your sad self naked from the tub, and we both know we don’t want that. Second…you know you’re not just a paycheck.” Toji goes quiet for a moment. “I’d like to think that we’ve become a sort of family over the last couple years, you, me, and Nanami. Shoot, even Megs too when he’s around.” 

His soft confession brings a smile to your face, and you turn your head to the right to look in his direction from behind a large mahogany privacy screen. It stands tall, wrapping just barely around the ends of your tub where your feet and head lay, keeping you securely tucked away from any prying eyes. It found its way there long ago, because this wasn’t the first time that Toji had played therapist from his dedicated chaise while you lounged in a hot bath and the two of you shared a bottle of wine. 

“Thank you,” you whispered to him, “I’m grateful you’re my friend…and my family.” 

“Don’t worry about it, I know you are. But don’t go on getting too upset or sentimental just because you’ve had a rough day. Things haven’t been that bad,” Toji said, and you groaned at the reminder.

After finally arriving home safely—no thanks to you—Toji immediately went into damage control mode and spent the afternoon fielding phone calls and text messages, though nothing too serious had been blown your way yet. 

You had received a none-too-pleased email from the producer of the movie you and Satoru were co-starring in, accusing you of sabotaging the release by not waiting to reveal your relationship with Sukuna until after the movie premiered in a few short months (as if he couldn’t tell that what happened today wasn’t by choice). Luckily, Satoru swooped in with his sweet-talking words and buttered the producer right back into promising extra money for a job well done. Though Satoru’s idea of fixing things was convincing the producer that the only premise that sold better than a classic love story was the angst of a good ol’ fashioned love triangle, and he was more than happy to play the jilted lover dead set on winning you back. You wondered what it must be like to live in such delusions. 

What really put the cherry on top of a bad day was the text you received from Sukuna shortly after arriving home. It wasn’t anything particularly worrisome, a straight to the point, “I’ll call you this evening, busy smoothing a couple things out, x,” but it had you in a fit nonetheless. After sending a quick affirmation back, you threw your phone across the couch in your living room and flung yourself onto the nearest surface to bemoan your miserable existence. Toji was not amused when that nearest surface happened to be his chest, and he only offered you five minutes of soaking his shirt with snot and tears before he drug you upstairs to your bedroom, turned on the hot water to your tub, and shoved you into the bathroom with a promise to return with wine if you quieted down for just a second. 

So here you were, an hour later, soaking under a mountain of peppermint scented bubbles while you toed at the hot water handle at the end of the tub. 

“You think if I begged hard enough Nanami would let me come stay with him for the rest of his vacation? I’m afraid I’m in need of a tropical escape,” you told Toji, already calculating in your head how quickly you could pack your bags and be on the next plane to Malaysia. 

Toji chuckled, “No, I don’t think he would, considering he refused to tell us anything more about his trip other than what country he’d be in and when he’d be back. You showing up would take seven years off his life. Add three more if he opens up the door to you sobbing like you’ve been all day. Besides, running away to another country just because you’re afraid to talk to your boyfriend is a cowardly move.” 

You ‘tsked’ at him for calling you out on poor behavior and slouched further down into the hot water in shame-filled defeat. Instead of wallowing in it further though, you popped your ankles up on the rim of the tub, tossed your arms back to hang behind your head, and clapped twice to get Toji’s attention.

“Another glass of wine, please,” you mocked in as snobby an accent as you could manage.

“What do you take me as? I’m not your damn butler,” he complained, but you could hear the quick successive cracking of his back as he stood up from the chaise and stretched. 

“Just one more and that’ll be it, I promise.” You considered what else could entice him into doing your bidding. “I’ll let you be done for the evening and take the day off tomorrow if you also bring me a plate of cheese and crackers, please.” 

Toji was silent before letting out a begrudging “fine” and shuffling out the door without another complaint. 

You marveled in the silence, nothing but the occasional lap of water as you adjusted yourself in the tub to break it. After a few minutes, however, you realized the absence of conversation was the perfect environment for your thoughts to run unhindered, and that was not something you cared to partake in at the given time. Trying to concentrate on anything else though was futile, and perhaps trying to wade through your own head for a few minutes would leave you feeling better when you chose to pointedly ignore it once your butler…ahem, Toji, returned with your snacks.

Besides falling on national television—and underneath Gojo Satoru nonetheless—you had a particularly difficult time deducing from yourself what exactly about the accidental revelation of your relationship with Sukuna caused you so much embarrassment. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be associated with him or that you always intended for the relationship to remain secret until it had reached its course; your desire was quite the opposite, actually. It was a feeling best left to baser animals and bedroom activities, but the idea of staking a claim, proving that he belonged to you in a way, was not unappealing and not something you could talk your way out of thinking, especially with the world the two of you lived in. 

If you got down to it, the real problem lay in your unfortunate habit of caring what people thought. You didn’t want Sukuna to see you as childlike, only a few years younger than him in age but miles behind in maturity. You didn’t want him to view today’s incident as a misfortunate foreshadow into the “what if’s” of your relationship. Neither did you want the world looking at the two of you and questioning how exactly something like it came to be. Where Sukuna was all sharp angles and dark colors, suave nonchalance and carrying a presence that demanded to be seen, you felt painfully opposite. You wouldn’t self-deprecate and believe that you were unworthy of standing beside him, but just cognizant of how different you felt. More like something that could be just as appreciated, but more likely to be overlooked and favored over something brighter. A “mismatched pair” is what they would call you, something that struck you so vividly that the pressure in your chest increased ten-fold. You knew he would hear it, see it, be made aware of it, and while he may not agree right away, you wondered how long it would take for the sphere of influence to get to him too. The anticipatory grief (as your actual therapist called it, usually followed by anxiety) of waiting for someone you valued so much to realize that he had better options was enough to make you consider running away from the whole thing entirely. 

And that’s how you came back to scheming your departure from the country. If you hurried, you could probably towel off, pack a bag, and slip out the back before Toji realized (you wondered if the big oaf had decided to take a nap instead of bringing you snacks for how long it’d been since you last heard him). Surely Nanami wouldn’t abandon you in your time of need if you were wailing at him over the phone in the airport of a foreign country. 

But alas, you heard your bathroom door open, effectively cutting off any means of escape.

“It’s about time, Toji. What took you so long?” He neither spoke, nor took another step. “Eh, no matter. Bring me my snacks, please.” 

Footsteps continued again and before you could chastise Toji further, a voice spoke up from right behind your privacy screen. 

“Should I be concerned with the normalcy of your bodyguard attending to you while you’re naked in the bath?” 

The shock of hearing Sukuna’s voice caused you to jolt, sending your legs into the water with an unmistakable splash and leaving you to scurry back into a sitting position from where you had slipped dangerously close to submerging your whole head underwater. The indecency of it all would kill you if this conversation that was about to happen didn’t.

“I assure you,” you started, hoping you didn’t sound as wrecked as you felt, “it is not nearly as salacious as you made it out to be.” 

Sukuna hummed. “Really? Because it sounded as if you were expecting him, and when I ran into him downstairs he told me to tell you that he would be back up to deliver wine and cheese shortly. Sounds like a romantic evening to me if I’ve ever heard one.”

You were relieved to hear a hint of amusement in your boyfriend’s voice, but horrified at what he was saying. 

“Please stop implying things that’ll make me gag.” 

Sukuna chuckled, but was quiet for a minute until, “You have five seconds to tell me to stop before I move this privacy screen so we can talk face to face.” 

You shot upwards, looking around hurriedly as you tried to scrape the remaining bubbles in the tub to strategic places in order to maintain your dignity, though you realized a moment later that it was probably unnecessary. With a second left, you brushed tendrils of your hair away from your face and wiped your thumb across the top of your lip to remove any remnants of a wine stain from your skin. In the next, Sukuna was pushing aside the privacy screen and looking down at you with a blank—but not unkind—expression. You eyed him warily as he walked up to the edge of the tub and dropped a cushion from the chaise Toji was sitting on earlier to the floor. He settled himself down onto it and then placed his elbow on the edge of the tub so he could lean in close to you. 

“Hello,” you whispered to him, settling both your arms down next to his and then resting your head against them. A small smile crossed his face.

“Hello to you too.” 

You were surprised at the lack of tension in his face, no clenched jaw or heavy brow to be seen, and as you trailed your eyes further down his torso you noticed its absence there too. His shoulders were relaxed, and his chin was cupped in the hand propped up on the tub so he could gaze at you with those unnervingly observant eyes of his. You wished he’d been wearing a t-shirt instead of the thin navy turtleneck he currently had on so you could focus your stare on the black tattoos decorating his body. Aside from being intricate, and distracting, they always gave you something to look at when meeting his eyes felt like too much. 

The tenderness of Sukuna’s knuckles meeting your temple forced you to look back up at him, only to see that he was following the path his fingers were making over your skin. They grazed over your cheekbone, feathered down the bridge of your nose, and then were skimming over your mouth, his thumb catching ever so lightly on your bottom lip. His hand didn’t linger there, and it was quick to skate over your jaw before his thumb landed under your ear and the rest of his fingers tangled in your hair while his palm cupped your neck. With a slide of his other hand up your arm and down your back to press between your shoulder blades, Sukuna brought you close enough to him that he was able to reach the rest of the way over the tub and kiss you. His lips remained pressed against yours for a second or two before he broke away, hesitated, and then leaned in to do it once more, twice, and a third time. 

You were the one that put space between the two of you, sitting back in the water and drawing your knees to your chest. You desperately needed to inhale without smelling the crispness of his aftershave or the spiced warmth of his cologne, both of which were guilty of making your head spin. 

“You’re not mad at me?” you asked, breaking the silence before he had a chance to, before you lost your nerve. You watched as his head tilted slightly to one side, his expression a touch befuddled, but full of disbelief. 

“Why would I be mad at you?” He questioned slowly, moving himself to his knees on the cushion so he could go back to resting his arms on the tub. 

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t be,” you told him, your voice a bit sharp. “I inadvertently told anyone with access to the internet that we were dating, without even talking to you about it, and then proceeded to flee the scene like a coward instead of getting back out there to present myself as confident enough to own up to my mistakes. Not to mention the fall with Satoru right before. It’s embarrassing. The whole thing made us—me—look like a giant mess!” 

Your voice cracked on the last word, and you bit down on the inside of your cheek until you tasted iron. Sukuna looked pained, and he reached a hand out to play with your fingers as they sat at the top of your knees. 

“You’re not a mess,” he said, rubbing his thumb in small circles over the middle knuckle of one of your fingers, “and I’m not embarrassed either. I never intended to keep us a secret, and I’m not trying to implicate you when I say this, but I don’t think I ever implied doing so that evening.” 

“Well, yeah,” you huffed, the twinkle in his ochre-brown eyes and the mischievous grin on his face as he hinted to the night the two of you cemented your relationship into the category of “official” making your face get warm, “we didn’t do a whole lot of talking after that point.” 

You tried to jerk your hands out from under his to cover up your cheeks, but Sukuna was unrelenting in his hold, and you gave up before continuing on, “I know you never implied that you wanted to keep our relationship hidden, but that’s been the theme of whatever we’ve had going on these last ten months. We were sneaking around from the very beginning, we lied about it to Yuji and Choso, and then let’s not forget about the whole incident of being caught by Satoru,” you pointed out to him, feeling the slightest bit smug when he looked chagrined. 

“I apologized for that,” he reminded you, his voice tone faintly defensive. You squeezed his hand in comfort. 

“You did, and I’m not upset about it.” 

You took a deep breath and cast your eyes everywhere except Sukuna, taking in the details of your bathroom as you tried to muster the courage to share your insecurities with him. He never let his attention on you deviate, and between that and the heat of the water you had been in for almost two hours, you were beginning to feel lightheaded, and everything finally came rushing out of your mouth.

“I feel like we’re mismatched! It feels like everytime someone looks at us, they’re going to wonder why, like we don’t fit well together. And I’m not saying I believe that, or that you would believe that, and I know this whole thing sounds ridiculous because it is ridiculous, but it’s hard to get outside of my own head about this when I already love you so mu—,” 

The startled look on Sukuna’s face is what clued you in to the fact you had said something you had not intended to. You snapped your mouth shut with an audible click of your teeth and used your feet to push away from him and to the otherside of the tub, wrenching your hands out of his grasp. 

If someone asked why you never liked to talk about your feelings, this was why. Why the words that came out were never as eloquent—or as sane—as the thoughts in your head was something you’d pay so much money to figure out. And Kento was about to have no choice in letting you hide out with him for the rest of his vacation because you were no longer asking, and if he was interested in keeping his job he would do so without complaint. Even so, you considered that forcibly releasing Kento from the grip of a career that was so wrought with overtime would be another mercy for the overworked sal—,

“You know what I think,” Sukuna murmured, bringing you out of your own head to focus with rapt attention on the blissfully contented expression he wore. His fingers curled around the tops of your arms as he reached out to slide you back to his side of the tub, and when you were close enough again, he pushed his nose into the plushness of your cheek to nuzzle there affectionately. You were transfixed by a small tan freckle on the edge of his eyebrow that you somehow hadn’t noticed before.

“I think this whole time you’ve been so focused on pleasing everyone around you—which isn’t necessarily unadmirable, I promise—and treading with extreme care to take into consideration my feelings about our relationship that you haven’t noticed what’s been going on…or I haven’t been doing a very satisfactory job of making it apparent.” 

He said the last part more under his breath, but didn’t give you a chance to interject with an objection before he carried on, making intently sure your eyes were on his. “From the very beginning, even when all I had of you were fleeting touches and secret meetings in questionable places, I was always bound to fall in love with you.” 

You didn’t know what to say, what to think, and trying to wrap your head around the fact that what you considered to be one of the worst days of your life was ending with unintentional confessions of love in your bathtub wasn’t helping. So you did what you could and traced a finger down one of the tattoos under his eyes, hoping he would keep talking.

“We aren’t a mismatched pair,” he insisted, his eyelids fluttering slightly at your gentle touch, “I think we compliment each other quite well, so please, don’t try to hide or run away.” He fixed you with a pointed look that told you Toji had warned him of your current status as a flight risk, and you ducked your head slightly and in a way that you hope conveyed repentance.  

“Because you must know, I will always be chasing after you.”

You wasted no time in hurrying to crush your lips against his and throw your arms around his neck, because what else was there to do when words couldn’t suffice, other than to surrender to the melding of bodies? 

Sukuna reciprocated in fervor, breaking apart from you only to stand up from his place on his knees, and reached down to cup his hands under your bottom, lifting you out of the tub and securing your thighs around his hips while his mouth found yours again.

He seemed to care not that you were dripping water on the floor and soaking the front of his clothes from where you were pressed tightly against him. He stumbled back a couple steps until the back of his knees made contact with the chaise, and the two of you fell back onto it. Sukuna adjusted you to straddle his lap, his hands clasping at your hips while your hands scrambled down his back to pull up his shirt. You ground your pelvis down against him as he dropped his head to mouth at your neck, and the rough groan that elicited from his throat had you deciding that your bed was too far away to justify taking time to separate, and that the convenience of the chaise was worth going to the trouble of having to buy Toji a new one. You had no more than let the thought flutter through your head when an obnoxiously loud knock resounded through the bathroom. 

“You two haven’t drowned yet, have you?” 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. 

Sukuna ripped his lips away from where he was sucking a mark into the space where your shoulder blended into your neck, and met your gaze with one that dared you to intervene. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he growled, using the grip he still had on your waist to hold you in place while he rolled his hips up into yours, and you prayed that the moan you let out wasn’t as loud as it sounded. Even if it was, you hoped Toji would get the hint and make himself scarce.

“Look, I get it,” your bodyguard remarked, sounding both amused and vaguely uncomfortable, “but it’s kinda, maybe important.” 

With both the mood dashed and your anxiety spiked again, you patted Sukuna on the shoulder in a bid to get him to let you slide off his lap. He rolled his eyes, exasperation—and lustful desperation—painted clearly on his face, but he helped you down without giving you any grief and grabbed a black fluffy robe from where it was draped over your privacy screen. He held it out so you could thread your arms through it, and then he proceeded to tie the belt securely around your waist. 

“Come in, Toji,” you called, moving to sit on the chaise while Sukuna came to stand at your back.

Your bodyguard waited a moment before opening the door, peeking his head around first and then sauntering in with his normal arrogance to lean against your bathroom counter just a couple feet in front of you.

“Glad to see that nobody’s drowned. There’s only one of you I’d be willing to do mouth-to-mouth on,” Toji joked, clearly proud of what he had come up with. You felt Sukuna’s hands come to rest on the tops of your shoulders, his fingertips digging into the muscles lightly. They relaxed when you bought one of your hands up to twine your fingers with his. 

“So, to what do we owe the interruption?” you asked. The amusement on Toji’s face vanished, and in its place came weariness. 

“I just got off the phone with Nanami, and—,” 

“You called him?!” You yelped, springing up from your seat, “I begged you not to!”

“Whoa, Whoa,” Toji cautioned, raising his hands up in a surrender, “easy with the accusations. He called me. He knew.” And before you could open your mouth to ask how, Toji’s expression darkened and his eyes flicked up over you to glare at Sukuna. “Uraume called him.” 

You whirled around to look at Sukuna, who—thankfully—seemed just as surprised by the news as you did. 

“I didn’t ask them to do that,” he assured you, then turned to Toji, “did Nanami say what they wanted?” 

“Just to talk about the whole situation, more or less. Nanami said they only talked for about ten minutes, but they’re planning to discuss things more when he comes back in five or six days.” Your bodyguard sighed and crossed his legs as he leaned back further against your counter. “He was nearly ready to hop on the first plane home, but I managed to convince him to finish his vacation. Told him it’d damn near break your heart if he came back early.” 

You plopped back down on the chaise, bone tired and completely ready for this whole day to be over. 

“Thank you, Toji. I’m sorry for jumping down your throat like that.” 

“Don’t sweat it, Princess,” he said, pulling a vaguely familiar set of keys out from his pocket and pushing himself off the counter to walk towards the door. “You two going to be okay if I head out? I have some errands to run and then I’ll probably crash at Megumi’s tonight instead of the staff quarters.” 

You nodded at him, sending him off with a wave before shifting to look back at Sukuna. 

“Stay with me?” you pleaded. He answered with a kiss to your hair, and then offered his arm so you could stand from the chaise. He followed after you into your bedroom, and the faint flutter of clothing made you glance back over your shoulder. Your heart began to race at the sight of his bare chest, tattoos displayed in full glory. You must have made some kind of noise because he looked up at you from where he was draping his shirt over the back of a lounging chair in the corner of your room.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said sheepishly, “my clothes are wet.” 

You shook your head, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as you watched the muscles in his back flex as he bent down to push his jeans to the floor, leaving him in simple grey underwear. There must have been something written all over your face as he began to walk towards you, for he was reaching out to pull you into him as soon as he got close enough.

“I’m tired, Sukuna,” you warned as he pressed your cheek to his chest, though you wondered if you could muster up the energy to continue where the two of you had left off in the bathroom. Surely he would make it worth your while. 

“I know,” he told you, voice light and good-natured, and he tightened his arms around you briefly before stepping back and nodding in the direction of your bed, “why don’t you go get comfortable. Toji left your snacks on your dresser. Want to finish them off before bed?” 

With a grateful nod, you turned to leap onto your bed, sitting down in the middle and wiggling with excitement as Sukuna came to join you. He sat the tray of food and wine in between the two of you and crossed his legs underneath himself before picking up a piece of cheese and offering it to you. You smiled in thanks and began to nibble on it while he surveyed his options. 

“Mhm,” you started, an errant thought popping into your head, “I’m assuming since Uraume knows that Yuji and Choso know now as well?” Sukuna raised his head slowly from where he had been studying the various snacks, and the hint of guilt on his face wasn’t confidence inspiring. 

“They do,” he drew out, observing you carefully, “they were both watching the interview with me.” 

You groaned as white-hot embarrassment flooded your body, and you fell back against your pillows, grabbing one to shove over your face to muffle the bitter laughter you couldn’t control. “What do they think?” 

“It’s nothing you should be worrying about,” Sukuna said, suddenly sitting by your head and lifting the pillow off your face to set it above your head, “you know they adore you. Choso was his normal, level-headed self. He’s happy for us. Yuji was just as ecstatic once he got his laughter under control, if a bit disappointed that we hadn’t told him.” Your boyfriend paused, his face darkening suddenly, and you watched with interest as a muscle feathered in his jaw. 

“What?” you asked, pushing yourself back into a sitting position and poking him in the arm to urge him to explain. He shook his head, clearly annoyed.

“You know what that little shit said immediately after? He thought that you and Gojo had been secretly dating and were waiting till after your movie was over to say anything.” 

Obnoxious laughter erupted from you, and you hurried to slap your hands over your mouth to try to conceal it as Sukuna’s face fell. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you rasped out in between giggles, unable to stop it as you watched Sukuna sit back against your pillows with a huff and a crossing of his arms. 

“The little idiot is just dense. And delusional. Anyone could see that you and the q-tip don’t have any real chemistry.” He sounded an awful lot like he was trying to convince himself of the truthfulness of his own statement. You wondered, affectionately, at which brother was a touch deluded. You were a fine actor, thank you very much. And you were about to open your mouth and say so when something ‘plinked’ off the window next to your bed. 

Strange. Your bedroom was on the second floor. 

Sukuna jerked his head up, all traces of humor forgotten, and the two of you listened for the noise again. 

Plink. 

“What the hell,” he muttered, pushing off the bed so he could go inspect the noise, “stay right there.” 

You appreciated the concern in his voice as he began to lift the window pane open, and he had just begun to stick his head out to look around when something small smacked him right between the eyes, sending him butt-first to the floor. 

“Sukuna!” you gasped, rushing over to kneel by his side and lift his hand from where he had it pressed to his forehead. You didn’t get a chance to fawn over him any further before he was up on his feet and striding to your bedroom door. 

“Be right back,” he growled, throwing the door open and cursing all the way down the stairs. 

You heard something land next to you on the floor, utterly perplexed when it turned out to be a rock from your flower beds. You got up and tiptoed over to the window, just barely lifting your head over the pane as to avoid becoming another victim of a flying projectile, then shot to your feet when you caught sight of a familiar white-haired costar outside beneath your window.

“Satoru!” You screeched, dumbfounded by his mere presence and the way he waved up at you, completely unbothered, “How in the world did you get through the gate?!”

“Hey! There you are!” He called, with a lazy grin on his face, “that’s not really important right now.” 

“I would disagree!” You yelled back down to him, making a mental note to have Toji go over all the security points around your property after his day off. “What are you doing here?” 

Satoru laughed sarcastically before the smile on his face suddenly disappeared, and he propped his hands up on his hips. “Where is my car?” 

No. Way. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Satoru.” 

“Nope! Give me back my car. It’s one of a kind!” 

You groaned, reaching up to massage the burgeoning headache you could feel at your temples. “Are you sure it’s not out there in the driveway? Toji left just a bit ago, so you shouldn’t be boxed in or—,” you cut off when the memory of your bodyguard twirling an unfamiliar set of his keys around his finger as he left your bathroom flashed across your memory.

Oh god, that absolute bastard. 

Satoru must have caught the horrified look on your face, as well as how you suddenly stopped talking after mentioning Toji because his face blanched even paler than usual, and his voice was two octaves higher in distress when he hollered back up at you.

“Does that criminal have my car?!” 

You deserved a vacation at this point. 

“I’ll call him in the morning, Satoru, I promise. And I’ll make sure he washes it for you or whatever you want, just come back tomorrow.” You hoped placating him with the prospect of torturing Toji would convince him to leave, but no, he still stood rooted to his spot down below. 

“As fun as that sounds,” he mocked back up at you, “I can’t.” 

“What do you mean you can’t?”

He looked a bit like a toddler caught with his hand somewhere it shouldn’t be. “Suguru dropped me off and then left in a hurry. He said he had something to do.” 

You couldn’t believe that the universe thought that pairing those two together in any capacity was worth the absolute chaos they unleashed on the poor, unsuspecting population. 

The slamming of your front door caught your attention, and you figured your boyfriend was about to make himself known.

“Look,” you sighed, backing away from the window slightly, “you can borrow one of my cars and swap it tomorrow when Toji brings yours.” You ignored Satoru’s protests and started to close the window. “Just apologize to Sukuna for hitting him between the eyes with a rock and he’ll open the garage for you.”

You caught the confusion on Satoru’s face, and just barely heard his panicked remark as you shut the window.

“Oh, fu—.”

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

Whew, that one took it out of me, not gonna lie. Angst and I are not friends.

[irrlicht-writes]

etched into your bones

Vox has never danced much, and certainly never with another male. He’s a little nervous, but Alastor’s here. He looks at the man’s face, and they’re about the same height. He’s still smiling. He smells like rot and decay and blood, but everyone does, at least a little. Vox can hear the static cackle in the air. He wants to kiss him. He doesn’t, not yet. But he wants to. | Throughout the years, things change with Vox and Alastor, and they stay the same, too.

-

Chap 1 of idk how many chapters. Stay updated here!

*

Vox wakes up after he dies.

This isn’t where he died, and for a moment, he wonders if he didn’t die at all. What happened? Where is he? Why do his hands look so weird? He stands on shaky legs, and leaves the alleyway he woke up in. He’s never woken up next to the dumpsters before, and he’s not eager to repeat it ever again.

The sky is red, and there’s a – what is that, a pentagram? Where is he? Is this the end of the world? He looks around and – the fuck? Is that goat walking on two legs? And it’s carrying a bag? He stumbles forward and just stares. Speaking of, his face feels weird. He reaches up with his new, weird hands and touches – a screen? What the hell? He looks around quickly and spots a storefront he speed-walks to.

The man staring back at him isn’t him, at all. There’s a... person... with a TV as a head. It has a face and it blinks when he does. What... is he breathing? He takes a deep breath and his lungs fill with air. How...? He doesn’t understand. Gingerly, he touches the glass. This is just a dream, it must be.

“Could you fuckers stop touching my storefront window?!”

An angry... thing storms out of the door and yells at him, and he stumbles back in fear. He didn’t want to offend, even if it was a dream, but... his face is a screen! But before he can reply, the... well, it looks like a little devil-thing, freezes on the spot, eyes going wide. It doesn’t say anymore, and storms back inside.

Well. That was weird. Confused, he takes a step back and bumps into something solid. He shrieks, like a man, and jumps forward, turning around in his wake. There stands a man, and thank god, he looks somewhat normal. He’s all red, but now’s not the time for judging fashion.

“Oh my god, you look normal!”

He storms forward and grabs the man’s arms, shaking him. Well... maybe the man isn’t all that normal. His teeth are weird, and he’s smiling like a creep and is that a weird ass wig? Whatever, he’s normal enough.

“Where the fuck am I? This is weirdest dream I’ve ever had!”

The man in front of him blinks, then takes a step away. He’s brushing his coat off, and smiles widely.

“I’m afraid this isn’t a dream, my good man! Welcome to Hell! You have died, and you’ve made it into Pentagram City! I hope you’ll have a wonderful time here, because you can’t ever leave again, ha!”

He swings his weird cane around and laughs. Then, without another word, the man leaves.

He remains rooted to the spot.

It takes him years before he sees that man again.

It takes him years before he understands that the first man he met in hell was the radio demon.

*

Vox sits at his desk, and pushes against his mug. His mug is empty, and he’s bored. Is there a board meeting today? Probably. There’s always a fucking board meeting. Eventually, they’re gonna run out of spaces they can expand into. Maybe they can take over a new tech company or something, these things keep popping up out of nowhere these days.

Sighing, he lets his face crash onto the desk. It’s mahogany wood, of course. Crashing onto it is a bit dumb if your face is so damn breakable. But he hasn’t slept. He’s tired, but if he leaves the business to Val or Vel for even one day, he’s going to go broke.

“Vox,” calls Velvette from the door. She didn’t even fucking knock.

“What,” he calls back, not looking up. He bets it’s fucking Val again.

“Val’s being a bitch again, go fix it.”

Of course it’s fucking Val again.

“...and then she said I treat them differently, like bitch, what do you expect, your ass is terrible, get it in shape, and then the bloody sound guy said the script sucked, excuse me, what do you think we’re filming here, just get those tits on camera and –“

Vox just stands there, barely listening. It’s best to let Val fucking bitch it all out, then tell him to fucking cool it, and maybe put on a video. He’s already searching for lots of blinking lights, that’ll keep Val occupied for hours.

“Voxxy, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, yes, of course, whatever you just said.”

Val comes over and slaps him on the head. Hey, that’s rude. Vox just wobbles. He wants to go home.

“Voxxy, you’re so tense, do you wanna fuck?”

Huh. Maybe that would help. “I dunno.” He likes fucking Val usually, it’s an easy thing.

“You know, Voxxy, I have just the man for you. Just wait a spell, I’m back soon.”

...huh?

Vox blinks, but when he processed the words, Val was already gone. The right man? The fuck is he talking about? Ugh. Maybe it’s a new hire again. Vox isn’t in the moot to evaluate someone’s talent. But if he shuts off now, Val will get prissy again, and Vox can only take so much. Accepting his inevitable fate, he goes and sits on the table. He looks outside the window, there’s an explosion somewhere. How terribly uninteresting. He wants to turn the radio on, but he knows Alastor isn’t on air. And besides, it’s not like Vox even listens to the bloody thing.

If he says it, it’s true.

“Voxxyyy~! Lookie here!”

Resigning to it, Vox sighs and looks to the door. There Val is, and – Alastor?

He runs over to the door, how’s Alastor – he stops before he reaches them. That’s not Alastor, but fuck, do they look alike. The boy is young and soft, but the skin colour almost matches, and his eyes are red. He’s obviously wearing a wig and the smile is forced as fuck, but if you squint... or don’t look too close...

“Fuck,” he just says and Val chuckles.

“See; don’t say I never do anything for you. I found this baby on the street and just knew I had to have him. He’s barely broken in, too! His videos are gonna sell sooo good, Voxxy, I just know it. I already see the title: Radio Demon getting creampied?! And yes, of course we’ll put a disclaimer in the description. Not that anyone’s gonna read that. Oooh, Voxxy, do you wanna participate in a video? How about, hm, oh yeah, Video fucks the Radio Star. My, aren’t I the smartest cookie.”

Vox isn’t even listening, he’s just staring at this fucked-up Alastor version. He’s a little too short, but who’s really going to notice that?

Vox wants to fuck him.

That’s nothing new; he’s wanted to do that for decades.

But this isn’t Alastor. But it looks like Alastor. He could fuck the boy, and get this desire out of his body forever.

“Mr Vox?” the boy asks, way too timid to be convincing and Vox growls, grabbing the boy and slamming him against the door. He grunts, and then whines, smile dropping and he blinks pretty eyelashes at him. Does Alastor have nice eyelashes?

“Oh, Mr Vox, please...”

His voice, his wrong, wrong voice, sounds seductive. Alastor doesn’t spot a flirt if it’s holding a sign in his face.

He lets the boy go, and he scrambles into action. The fake pawns at Vox’s chest, rubbing against him submissively. He doesn’t know what to do. Does he fuck the boy? He wants to fuck him. Would it be enough?

“Cash or check?”

The boy blinks, confused. He glances over at Val, then hesitantly answers: “I, uhm, I prefer crash...?”

Vox grumbles. It’s okay if the boy can’t play the game. Vox barely knows the rules, assuming there are any at all. Alastor makes up rules to everything as he goes, and dismisses them just as easily. He leans forward and kisses the boy. His lips are soft and gentle and sweet, and he eagerly presses into the contact, brushing Vox’s shoulders with his dainty fingers. His hands are warm. They’re so warm.

“You like him, Voxxy? He’s yours whenever you want.”

Vox looks at the grinning Val next to him. Like him? No, he doesn’t like him. But he’ll fuck him. After all, where’s the harm in that?

“...thanks,” he settles on and Val makes a kissy face.

“Be good to my Voxxy, you hear? Come to me once you’re done. Byeee~”

With a wink, he struts out the door. Vox looks after him. Fucking Val would’ve been easier.

“Mr Vox...?”

He looks at the boy again. They’re still crowded against the wall. He isn’t smiling, and his eyes are so big. The suit is wrong too, Vox notes now, but well, he’s not gonna wear it much longer. But Mr Vox, he likes that. Maybe he’ll get Alastor to call him that, too. Fucker wouldn’t do it.

“Suck me off,” he orders, and the boy scrambles at it. He seems glad to finally have gotten an order.

The boy – fuck he might need a name – unzips his pants and starts nuzzling Vox’s dick. He’s not even half-hard. He closes his eyes as the boy starts licking. His tongue is a little too short, but Vox can look past that.

*

Years and years ago, Vox had gone to some gala. It was all very fancy, and he hadn’t been all that established just yet. Getting invited must’ve been a mistake, surely. But he wasn’t going to let anybody know that. He strutted around like he owned the place in the hopes nobody would find him out. He’s a faker in a room full of fakers. Yes. If he says it, then it’s true.

At the gala, he talks to a few people, sound designers, and camera techs. He’s trying to raise VoxTek, and he always needs new talent. Can’t hurt to build connections, even if they would go nowhere. He’s making good head-start, but what he really needs are partners. He can’t run the company all alone, but who could he partner with?

He’s contemplating getting some of the food, when he hears panicked gasps from the entrance. They’re all demons here, whatever could shock them all so? Did someone die? Frowning, he moves closer. Maybe he can get footage. Disaster always sells well.

Wha...? Why are people cowering? He fights his way through until he can see the door. Whoever could’ve arrived here that made them all shit their pants? Finally getting trough, he can see and then, he understands.

Standing there in all his crimson glory, is the radio demon.

He’s wearing a pretty, fancy suit and is wearing his trademark smile. He’s come alone, and the doorman stands next to him, frozen in fear. The radio demon lets his eyes glaze over the knot of people and his face turns sly.

Vox has heard about the radio demon. People whisper his name only behind closed doors, and when he appears, they run away. He’s supposedly one of the most powerful sinners in Hell, and nobody really knows what does or does not evoke his wrath. Vox has never seen the man before, he thought. But now he recognises him. It is the man that welcomed him to Hell, all those years ago. Vox wonders if the radio demon remembers him. A screen is memorable, no?

He wants to partner with him.

With the radio demon as his partner, there’s nothing in his way.

Nobody says a word. Then, the demon laughs.

“My, have your mothers not told you it’s rude to stare? Are we not here to celebrate? I’m sure my invite got lost in the mail, hmm? Mailmen are so unreliable these days, aren’t they? Barely worth a snack, I’d say. Now, where can I get a quilt?”

He laughs, and wanders off. The crowd lets out a collective sigh of relief, and somehow Vox is a part of it. Around him, murmurs rise up, but he hardly listens. He watches the radio demon head to the bar and he sees the bartender freeze in shock before scrambling to get the man whatever he ordered. Vox is fascinated. He wants that too. He wants to emit the same feeling to a crowd; have them hang on his every word. He’s going to talk to the radio demon. He’s gonna do it.

But maybe he shouldn’t arrive empty-handed. A conversation starter would be helpful. Quick, what does he know about radio? Well, he knows how to turn one on, that’s for sure. Like yeah, that’s gonna impress the radio demon, for sure. Vox grumbles.

Looking again, he can see that most of the others avoid the bar for now. Vox wonders why. Sure, he’s heard the tales, but... the man looks rather harmless, doesn’t he? He was friendly that first day in Hell, too. Vox takes a deep breath. He’s here for connections. There’s likely no better connection besides the fucking radio demon. Gathering courage, he marches over.

He sits down bravely. The radio demon doesn’t look at him; he’s playing with his glass. He looks somewhat bored. Vox clears his throat. It’s now or never.

“H-hello,” he says and fuck, why did he stutter?

The radio demon glances over. “Do I know you?”

Vox wants to be upset, but of course, why would the radio demon remember him? His heart is beating too fast.

“I – I don’t – we met briefly before, but didn’t introduce each other! I – I’m Vox, from VoxTek!”

He bows forward, like a little boy and accidentally smashes half his face into the bar. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Not only did his face hurt now, he’s gone and embarrassed himself in front of the radio demon within the first five seconds.

“Di mi!” The radio demon chuckles and Vox shoots his face back up. Fuck, he’s cracked. Fuck. He blinks only. What the fuck does he say now?

“My, now you’ve gone and cracked yourself. A true bunny, hmm? Let me see, now.”

And then, the radio demon reaches forward, and strokes his finger along the new crack and Vox forgets how to breathe. The man snaps his fingers, and the crack is gone. What... what the fuck was that? What just happened?

“A freebie for some entertainment,” the radio demon chuckles, turning back to his glass. “Don’t expect any more from me.”

Vox sits there, dumb-founded. And that’s who everyone’s so afraid of? Unashamed, Vox lets his eyes wander. The radio demon is fucking handsome. He cuts a sleek figure and Vox could wrap his hand around that waist easily. His voice is sultry smooth, and the radio filter is certainly a choice, but it sends a pleasant tingle down Vox’s spine. His hair looks soft too and – are those weird tufts of hair, or ears? Here in Hell, it’s always difficult to tell.

Vox wants to fuck him.

“I – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

The radio demon laughs. Fuck, that goes straight to Vox’s groin. Maybe he’d be up for a quickie in the bathroom. Sex is something that’s usually easy to get here.

“Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you, quite the pleasure! Now, good man, what brings you to this terrible sockdollager?”

The what sock? Vox blinks irritated, but now he has a name: Alastor.

“I – I was hoping to make connections for my business –“

“Boring!” Alastor interrupts him. “What do you deal in, dear Vox?”

Fuck, the radio demon remembers his name. “In television –“, he starts but Alastor lifts his hand, finishing his drink in one quick motion. Would he swallow Vox’s dick just that quick? Fuck, he needs to find out.

“No, let’s not talk about that tonight. I believed this clip joint to be more fun tonight, but everyone is so boring. It’s quite the flat tire so far, and I’ve only just arrived!” He sighs, and dramatically shakes his head.

“Did they really lose your invitation?”

Alastor fully faces him then, a perplexed smile on his face. He blinks once, twice. Vox blinks back. Surely the radio demon was the first they invited, right? Then, Alastor laughs again. Oddly, it feels rather genuine. Vox frowns. What did he say that was so funny? He’d like to remember it, so he can use it again.

“My, my, dear friend. Aren’t you a blue surge, hmm? Tell me: what does your business need?”

What were these words Alastor kept using? Regardless, he answers: “Well, I’m building my company up, so what I need are people; real talent. Sound guys, camera guys, you know the ilk. I need tech guys, I can’t build a television all by myself. I need to be fast, too, before the others get ahead of me.”

Alastor cocks his head from side to side, thinking. He’s still smiling, and he looks amused still. That’s good, right? Really, what are people so afraid of? Alastor seems like a real friendly guy, and he likes to laugh. Vox smiles. Maybe he’s found a friend.

“Is there someone specific at this event?”

Vox glances over to where Rodriguez is sitting. He’s one of the best sound guys in the biz right now, and Vox really wants him on the team, but there’s no way in hell he can pay that guy’s wage.

“Yes, but I can’t pay him. I already talked to him, and he’s not interested.”

Vox grinds his jaw. He had to pretend he didn’t really need Rodriguez, but he did. Without that stupid sinner, he’d have to hire several more sound guys just to have a chance.

“Hmm,” Alastor replies, following Vox’s gaze. “Stay here a moment, dear Vox. I have a sudden need to speak to this wonderful sinner.”

The radio demon slips from his seat and Vox blinks. “What... wait, where are you going?”

Alastor doesn’t turn around, and Vox stays seated, like he’s been told. What’s Alastor gonna do? Hopefully, he wouldn’t offer the guy the pay he asked for. Well, Vox could always say no, after all. But... Alastor’s gone for him, hasn’t he? He shifts on his seat. Yeah, he wants to fuck him. He wonders what the radio demon would sound like. Damn, now he’s having lewd thoughts. That’s never happened this fast before. He hopes he’d get to do the fucking. Alastor’s been so polite; he can just imagine him as a pillow princess. Or maybe he’d get wild in the bedroom? Now he really wants to find out.

“Mr Vox!”

Vox blinks and turns around to be face-to-face with Rodriguez. “Huh?”

“I’ll accept your previous offer, please hire me on!”

Rodriguez, the smarmy bastard, bows deep before Vox. Behind him stands Alastor, smiling like a sly fox, with his hands behind his back. Fuck, Vox had been right.

With the radio demon at his side, there’s nothing in his way.

Vox looks at Alastor, as if asking for permission and the man just tilts his head and gives him the sweetest smile. Fuck. Vox hadn’t known he could speedrun so many emotions this quickly. He wants to kiss him. He almost forgets about Rodriguez, too. But only almost.

“Hmm,” he says, pretending to be disinterested by looking at his nails, “I’m afraid the offer has changed.”

He’s playing a dangerous game, but Alastor is here. Alastor, who just appeared next to him out of thin air like he hadn’t just stood behind Rodriguez half a second ago. Okay, yeah, just don’t freak out. When the sinner doesn’t say anything in protest, Vox tells him a new number – significantly lower than his first offer. His heart his beating fast. Rodriguez bleaches and looks up, face angry and then – “Of course! I’ll take it! Glad to be working for you!”

Vox’s face goes slack. Rodriguez flees before Vox can respond. “Wait... what, really?”

He turns to Alastor but the man blinks straight ahead as if he hasn’t seen what’s just happened.

“Alastor?” He asks carefully. Is he okay? Maybe he’s seen someone in the crowd?

“Well!” The radio demon then just blurts out. “I assume business is concluded?”

Baffled, Vox just nods. Getting Rodriguez is way more than what Vox expected out of tonight.

“Splendid! Now, dear Vox, I must ask you to dance. I’m afraid No isn’t an option.”

He holds out his hand and Vox looks at it. His fingers are long, and his claws shine in the light. He’s hesitating before he takes it, but just one second. Alastor notices, but Vox doesn’t, not yet. Alastor’s hand is cold, but it feels right. The radio demon pulls him from his seat and leads him to the dance floor. Vox has never danced much, and certainly never with another male. He’s a little nervous, but Alastor’s here. He looks at the man’s face, and they’re about the same height. He’s still smiling. He smells like rot and decay and blood, but everyone does, at least a little. Vox can hear the static cackle in the air.

He wants to kiss him.

He doesn’t, not yet. But he wants to.

A new song starts, and Alastor leads. Which is good, because Vox doesn’t know the steps. Alastor twirls and pushes him around, and Vox is just trying to keep up. The man dips him, too, and fuck, Vox hopes he’s not going to pop a boner right then.

“Now, dear Vox, don’t give me that absent treatment, it’s very rude!”

Vox almost whines, but he tightens his hold on Alastor’s hand, and tries to match him. The steps aren’t all that hard in themselves, but they’re fast, and Alastor doesn’t slow down to let him learn. But that’s not a problem. He can match the radio demon. He tries, and Alastor chuckles.

“Yes! Yes, very good. Keep up, now, don’t disappoint me.”

Vox vows he won’t. He bullshits the steps he can’t figure out and Alastor laughs. He’s doing well, and when Alastor dips him again at the end of the song, his face is close enough to kiss. Vox could just reach up and steal a small peck. Alastor’s eyes are so red, it’s mesmerizing. But before he can make up his mind, Alastor straightens again, and steps away from Vox. It’s just a half-step, but it feels like too much.

“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Vox shakes his head. His heart is beating fast again and he’s fantasizing about kissing and fucking the radio demon. Alastor smiles wide, as if he knows, somehow.

“You’re very good, Alastor.”

The man in question laughs. “Ha! Yes, I quite am. A gentleman should know how to dance, no? Don’t worry, darling Vox, I’m not upset you messed the dance up. You will learn, in the future. And then it’ll all be well!”

Vox wants to jump his bones, but they go fetch dinner instead.

“Didn’t you want anything?” Vox asks tentatively as he’s biting into the hell-chicken. Alastor looks over to the plate.

“No, they have nothing to my tastes. I’ll feast later.”

As he says that, he looks back to the crowd of people. They have visibly relaxed ever since Vox attached himself to the radio demon. He squints, but then shrugs his shoulders. Whatever, if Alastor wants to be weird, let him. More chicken for him, in any case.

“Are you done at this festivity?”

Surprised at the sudden question, Vox looks up. He nods slowly. Sure, there are more people he could talk to, but he doesn’t have to. Rodriguez is such a huge win for today, he’s content with that.

“Why, you wanna leave?”

Alastor makes a non-committal sound. Vox is panicking, all of a sudden. If the radio demon leaves now, who’s to say he’s ever gonna see him again? He needs to shoot his shot now, before it’s too late.

“Ah, the party is dying, I’m afraid. Nobody worth dealing with, I suppose. It’s always such a tragedy, isn’t it? I had high hopes, too! There’s just nobody with style anymore these days. Ah, well, it can’t be helped. Such was life, and death is hardly any different.”

All of these words make sense, but that didn’t make any bloody sense.

“Before you leave,” Vox says, “can you come with me for a second?”

Alastor blinks in his direction, slow and lazy, as if he were tired. “Why yes, of course!”

As they walk over to a more secluded spot – Vox isn’t that brave just yet, okay? – he’s gathering his courage. He’s not going to mess this up. No. He’s going to enhance it. He stops next to the wall and looks at the floor. He can feel Alastor’s eyes on him.

“What did you want to tell me? Is there a reason it must be done in this dank corner instead of at our well-illuminated table –?”

Being as brave as he’s never been before, Vox grabs the lapel of Alastor’s suit and kisses him. He’s screwed his eyes shut, and he’s overheating, but oh, he’s doing it, he’s doing it. Then, he feels Alastor’s hands at the sides of his face and oh yes, yes, that’s good. His hands are harsh and cold and they press onto the screen with unexpected strength. Vox whimpers, and presses closer. And then –

Oh fuck, that’s a tongue. That’s a long tongue, wrapping itself around Vox’s own. Alastor moves them and presses Vox against the wall. Yes yes yes yes. Vox is so hard, he could come like that. He starts rutting against Alastor’s leg a little and then there is an ice-cold hand, holding him still. Fuck. No rutting, then. But that’s okay; he can save that for later.

He feels the claws dig into his hip, and that shouldn’t be this hot. Alastor removes himself too soon, and Vox’s tongue is bleeding and he’s chasing after the radio demon’s mouth, hungry like he’s been starved for years. And then Alastor breaks half of Vox’s screen away.

Vox doesn’t scream. He’s not even sure if it hurts, right now. He looks at the radio demon. He doesn’t understand. What did he do wrong?

“I’ll forgive your transgression this once, little Vox. Do it again, and I’ll do so much worse. Do you understand?”

Vox isn’t afraid. He feels nothing, right now. But he nods, anyway. He does understand. But he doesn’t, either.

“Now,” Alastor drawls, “time for the main event, no?”

He looks back over his shoulder, to the rest of the party. Nobody’s paying them any attention. “If you value your little useless life,” Alastor whispers, “then you will not move until I’m done.”

Vox doesn’t understand. Done? Done with what? Didn’t he talk about wanting to leave; that the party was dying? But Vox does value his little useless life, so he decides to not question the order he’s been given.

Alastor struts back towards where they came from and he has his cane in hand.

“Hello and welcome back, dear listeners! I know you’ve been waiting a while, and I dearly apologise for the delay, but at last, we have arrived! Something’s unfortunately had caught my interest and you know me, dear listeners, I like to indulge in these things. But now, the hour has struck! Sit back; and relax!”

He lets go of his cane, but it’ floating. Vox wonders if it’s sentient. What’s Alastor gonna do? The radio demon is a friendly fellow, and the tales are just that: tales.

But then, Alastor’s body contorts, and it shifts, and it expands, and it grows.

With his one remaining eye, Vox watches in horror.

Alastor turns into a monster with long, lanky limbs and he reminds Vox of a stickman in the woods. The static in the air is tangible and the people scream. Alastor laughs, deep and booming, and the air cackles with his movements.

He snatches up a group of people and lifts them in the air, swallowing them whole.

I’ll feast later.

Vox shivers.

His tongue is still bleeding.

There are people close to Vox, but he doesn’t move. Alastor turns this way, and he stalks over. The ceiling is too short for him to properly stand up, so he’s hunched over. Shadows dance in the bright light, and Vox can do nothing but stare.

The radio demon swipes the sinners next to Vox, but doesn’t touch him. He looks at him, though. Red, red eyes turned radio dial, and the demon laughs. Vox is mesmerised. He wants to reach out and touch, but he doesn’t dare move.

The demon turns away again and Vox just stares.

He’s being spared.

Why?

Why him?

Because he was brave enough to talk to the demon?

He wants to believe it’s because it’s him. Maybe it is. Alastor remembers his name now, after all.

Vox sits and stares, and when Alastor is done, everyone is dead. He does not return to Vox.

He sits here a long time before he can gather enough of himself to leave.

The next day, he learns Rodriguez was spared as well.

Why?

Why?

Alastor’s a monster.

Vox wants him even more.

His radio never leaves Alastor’s station after that day.

[bitter69uk]

“Whenever Diana Ross goes shopping in Paris, it is a sign of what a famous person’s charisma can do. One day, she wanted some trinkets to wear to go dancing. After having lunched with friends at Maxim’s, her mile-long stretch limousine (something rare even in Paris) pulled up, and she was the first outside on the sidewalks in her floor-length sables at noon. Off she cruised to E. Oxeda, the Faberge of antique jewelers. Inside, she threw her sables on a chair. She jumped up on a Louis Something desk, her fake hair flying at half-mast. She crossed her legs, dangled them as she selected in ten minutes an antique pearl necklace, a diamond clip and some earrings that did the shake, rattle and roll between her cheeks and hair. The image of fame came when the bill was drawn up. “Would you like some identification?” asked Diana. Mme Oxeda said: “No, Miss Ross. We will deliver the jewels to your hotel this afternoon before six.” And this was a high Saturday when no banks could be called to verify her astronomical check, drawn on a bank across the Atlantic Ocean. It could have easily been an imposter, a drag queen, a professional thief. But Diana Ross’ super glamour is so authentic, it can’t easily be imitated.”

/ Andre Leon Talley in the book Mega-Star (1984) /

All hail the Queen! Call her Miss Ross! Happy 80th birthday to durable, volatile veteran pop diva, occasional (Oscar nominated) actress, sequin enthusiast, all-round glamour icon and one of Detroit’s finest daughters – the fabulous Diana Ross (born 26 March 1944)! Understandably everyone loves Ross’ music (both with the Supremes and solo), but I particularly treasure Ross’s spectacular 1975 film Mahogany in which she plays a struggling aspiring fashion designer who achieves the pinnacle of supermodel mega-stardom in Italy. It’s an unassailable so-bad-it’s-GREAT camp classic in the tradition of Valley of the Dolls, Mommie Dearest or Showgirls (and Ross’s outrageous costume and wig changes surely sparked the imagination of generations of Black drag queens, including “Mama Ru” himself). Fittingly, La Ross is currently one of the official muses of Saint Laurent’s Spring / Summer 2024 campaign – and it feels like a belated Mahogany moment! Portraits by David Sims.

[canadiannationalfox]

Murder Drones Prequel fanfic - Gone Girl part 7 - Raising the Stakes

James Elliott paced back and forth in his office.

Cyn sat in a corner of the room, playing with a newton's cradel.

The was a pounding at the door before two human workers dragged in Alexandria who was still dressed like Tessa.

James approached the girl and scorned aggressively, "You have some major gall, young lady, for running away like that."

The little creepy absolute solver robot chimed in, "Sir, that is not Tessa."

The slightly taller guard confirmed dryly and sternly, "The drone is right, this is not your daughter, sir."

Alexandria was shoved to the floor, she sat looking up at the JC Jensen CEO, a glare of vitriol in her eyes as she glared.

"Why were you impersonating my daughter?"

Alexandria spat back, her voice teeming with disgust, "You really think I know what your daughter dresses like? I snuck out to the club to have fun and next thing I know your goons are dragging me away." She crossed her arms as she stood up, trying to make her 5'6" self look slightly taller as she stood up to the one who employed her and her father.

Cyn suggested in her maniacal monotone voice, "I think you should fire her, sir."

James couldn't believe it but he was actually sort of liking this drone. "I think the little robot is onto something."

Lexi barked back, "So? I could open my own shop and repair robots."

Mr Elliott didn't like that response. "You realize that JC Jensen holds the patent to all worker drones under the brand and 3rd party repair technicians will be forced to Cease and Desist all unauthorized work."

Lexi held strong, she wasn't going down without a fight that easily. She stated back, her confidence unshaken, "All because I was at a nightclub. I've read over the remote employee handbook and there's nothing in the dress-code about after hours attire and there's nothing in the guidelines about not being allowed to have downtime, especially for minors."

The little robo-anti christ responded in a sinister monotone beep, "[Giggle] Unless you knowingly dressed like Tessa to help her escape... Sh-should we actually be looking for a g-girl in pink argyle socks?"

Lexi went a little pale but did her best to try to not let them get to her.

James raised his cane over his head, ready to bring it down and shatter Lexi's kneecaps when his phone at his desk rang. He calmed himself, collecting his thoughts before he walked back over to his mahogany desk. "James Elliott, CEO of JC Jensen speaking," he greeted as he answered the phone.

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

"Hey Father," a soft and upset Aussie voice greeted into the payphone at a gas station still 185 kilometres away, "I'm safe... I'm sorry I ran off, that wasn't right of me... I'm coming home, I've been walking home, and if you're looking for me, right now I'm at the gas station diner outside of Cumberland and I'll be hitch hiking home."

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

Lexi perked up as she heard Tessa's voice, thankful her friend was safe.

James Elliott scolded into the phone, "When you get home, there's going to be serious consequences, young lady! Now get yourself home by tomorrow or your little robot is going to get it," he put the phone on speaker so Cyn could say something.

"[Giggle] I a-am in danger, Tessa," Cyn teased, knowing very well she could rip Mr. J Elliott's spine out of his back like it was bubble gum tape out of a hubba bubba container.

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

"No! I'll make it home, I promise, just don't hurt any of my robots" Tessa sobbed over the phone. Her eyes welled up as she heard her father shout at the phone, "Don't push your luck, dingo... You have until 10am... get going," before the line fell silent. She ran back to the van and hopped in, she hugged herself tightly once she was seated in the front seat with N and J. "Drive, J, drive," Tessa urged as she switched with N to the middle seat, buckled up, and began pulling her pink and purple wig off. N, who had just switched spots with Tessa, put his hand on her leg to comfort her. "What happened, if I can ask," he worriedly inquired, his insides whirring with anxiety for his human friend.

"Dad's going to kill Cyn if we don't get home before 10am," Tessa almost gagged from fear on her words. She clenched the pink wig in her hands and hugged it like it was a teddy bear, "It's going to be my fault... This is terrible... I... I... I shouldn't have gone out."

The once again formally dressed J, who would've normally boasted about being right, didn't feel that was the best option right now and chimed in reassuringly, "Tessa, princess, it's not your fault."

Tessa dried her eyes as she looked to her favourite girl worker drone, the mentioning of J's pet name for her had snapped her part way out of her panic spell.

"Look... You're subjected to actual torture and you're kept locked up like a budgie in a cage, you wanted an escape... and if things had gone differently, yes we might've gotten away forever... but... even if we didn't, we still had a great night out, and that's a memory you can cherish and recall." She felt a pang of guilt as she sighed, "Even when you're punished for however long they're going to punish you for..." J's voice got brave again, she soothed strongly, "And even then, I will be there for you... and so will N, even if I think he's as useful as a team morality pizza party."

Tessa let out a little giggle, despite her still crying. "You're right J..."

And N chimed in optimistically, "And it's not over yet! We have 8 hours to get home! That's lots of time!"

The road seemed to stretch on and on, the trees along the highway loomed like watching giants. J would pull over and switch off the van's lights whenever they'd see the headlights emitting a perfect #FFFFFF white light of another car coming up the road, since only JC Jensen had the right to use perfectly white tinted headlights.

The dark road stretched ahead, it was the final stretch back to the Elliott manor when.

"J, LOOK OUT A DEER!" Tessa screamed!

There was a deer on the road.

N, J, and Tessa braced himself for impact as the van landed into the ditch. All were unharmed, thanks to seatbelts.

J swerved the van and landed it right in the ditch. She cursed, "Son of a board room meeting!" before hopping out to assess the damage. The embankment back to the road was far too steep, even if the van was fine.

Tessa got out of the car and looked up the road, she knew that if they tried to walk home, they'd be caught. She felt herself get sick, her stomach lurched with anxiety and she hurried off the bushes.

J sighed feeling a sense of strong dread and finality, "I guess that's it... There's no other way home besides turning ourselves in and becoming scrap."

N remembered something and pulled out a spare flip-phone he kept on him any time he would take Tessa for a walk around the estate. He beamed as he started dialling.

"Who are you calling, dipshit?" J inquired as she crossed her arms, "That coma patient to let her know you're gonna die?"

N rolled his eyes and responded, "Actually yes. I'm calling that sweet little maid, and she has a name, it's V."

To be continued

[asa-do-your-thing]

An inconvenient Attachment - Chapter 2

“Callers”

Regency AU! Aemond x F! OC

18+ MINORS DNI​

Word Count: 2,2k

Warnings: not really anything besides some lying and period-accurate misoginy. The tiniest amount of fluff if you squint.

Also a huuuge thank you to @crownedtargaryen​ for pre-reading it and giving me help&advice!

Dividers are by @firefly-graphics​

​

The morning of the Countess of Stanmore and her daughter, Camille, began like every other day at their townhouse in Hanover Square in London. As the first dim rays of the rising sun slowly crept in through the windowpanes, the servants’ footsteps could be heard from the hallway below. Soon enough, the house was alive with the clatter and chatter of the servants preparing breakfast and attending to their duties.

The Countess, attired in a dark silk morning dress and a lace trimmed shawl, was already in her drawing room. She had her breakfast laid out on a mahogany side table and began to enjoy a cup of tea as she read through some correspondence. Camille soon joined her mother, wearing a pretty pink day dress, her hair tied into a bun at the back of her head.

Yawning, she sat down and poured herself some tea, rubbing her sore eyes. "Good morning, mother. How are you?" The Countess looked up from her letters and smiled warmly. "Good morning, my dear. I am well, thank you. And how did you sleep?"

Camille took a sip of her tea, savoring its warmth. "Not too well, I'm afraid. I might have overindulged myself in the punch yesterday for I had the strangest dreams last night."

"Oh?" the Countess raised an eyebrow in interest. "Pray, do tell."

"It was nothing, really," Camille said, shrugging. "Just some silly dreams about suitors and duels...well, it doesn't matter." She trailed off as a servant entered the room with a tray of freshly baked pastries.

The servant bowed and set the tray down on the table. "My lady, there is a caller at the door."

The Countess raised her eyebrows in surprise. "A visitor at this hour? Who is it?" she said as she rose from her seat to go and greet them.

She returned shortly with a rather clumsy looking gentleman wearing a deep blue tailcoat, flaxen breeches, and a powdered wig that seemed to be slightly out of place. She introduced him as Lord Blywood and asked Camille to stand so he could greet her properly.

Camille blushed slightly and stood up reluctantly, but was soon put at ease by Lord Blywood's gentle mannerisms. He began telling her about his travels in Europe, speaking animatedly about the beautiful landscapes and fascinating cultures he had encountered there. Despite herself, Camille found herself intrigued by his stories, imagining what it would be like to travel the world like he had done.

He went on about his most recent expedition, into the Pyrenees mountain range, where he claimed to have uncovered an old temple filled with priceless artifacts. As he spoke, it became more and more difficult to believe his story; his passion for exploration seemed too good to be true. Camille stifled a yawn. Wasn't calling upon someone the first step in a courtship? Why on earth did he try to bore her with false stories, then?

She couldn't quite believe him, as he told her all of these fantastic stories. Arching an eyebrow, she cocked her head to the side. "Aren't the Pyrenees in France, my Lord? What kind of temple did you find? For it is not known that the Gauls had any temples there and Roman temples are... well, well known."

Lord Blywood's expression faltered for a moment as he seemed to realize he had been caught in his lie. "Ah, well, my dear, you are quite right. It was actually in Egypt where I made that particular discovery."

Camille chuckled softly to herself, wondering what other grand tales Lord Blywood had up his sleeve. After a moment, the conversation eventually turned to more mundane topics of politeness and gossip, and Camille found herself growing bored once again.

As soon as Lord Blywood had taken his leave, Camille turned to her mother with a sigh. "What a bore," she said, rolling her eyes. "All that talk of temples and expeditions."

The Countess smiled indulgently at her daughter. "Give him time, my dear. Perhaps he simply needs to find the right subject to engage you with."

Camille shook her head. "I highly doubt it, mother. His stories were quite absurd, and I found his mannerisms to be rather off-putting."

"Well, we shall see," the Countess said with a shrug. "Perhaps he will surprise us yet."

But deep down, Camille knew that Lord Blywood was not the kind of man she could fall in love with. She longed for adventure and excitement, not safe and boring tales of far-off lands. As she sipped her tea and nibbled on a croissant, Camille made a mental note to keep searching for the kind of man who could truly capture her heart.

It wasn't long before several more callers arrived. Lord Fennly was the quintessential London gentleman, with a dashing smile and the kind of wit that kept Camille entertained for hours. He brought her a bouquet of daffodils, from god-knows-where, seeing as snow was fast approaching. But amiable as he was, she couldn't help feeling that he would be better suited to one of the other debutantes, especially those that loved... a thrill.

The next caller was less handsome but more dignified. Lord Thurston tried his best to engage Camille in spirited conversation, but it quickly became apparent that they had nothing in common—he favored dull topics such as politics and economics while she enjoyed reading novels and attending musical events. In the end, they agreed to disagree politely and part ways shortly after.

By now it was beginning to seem like none of the gentlemen who called on her would ever captivate her heart the way she hoped—not like Lord Aemond, who seemed so full of promise when they met at last night's ball.

Just as a rather old italian Count whose name Camille had completely forgotten had given her a lame compliment, the door flew open and Lord Aemond strode in with a cold expression. One of the Earl's footmen brought in a gargantuan vase of mixed flowers and set them on the small table in front of Camille, obscuring her view and hiding her from everyone else.

"What is this?" the Countess exclaimed, frowning slightly at Lord Aemond. The young man set his jaw and cleared his throat. "A gift for the Lady Camille," he replied, smiling confidently. "My apologies for calling upon you so late in the day."

Camille pressed her kerchief against her nose, trying her hardest not to sneeze and tried glancing over the flowers at him. "Th-- Thank you. Achoo!", she sneezed and tried her best to bow to him.

"My lady, you look quite beautiful today," he said, looking down at her over the flowers. He smiled and glanced around at the other men surrounding Camille, who had been left standing awkwardly around the Countess's drawing room.

“Are they giving you trouble, my Lady?” He asked, putting on a protective expression and getting between her and the other men. Camille awkwardly shook her head and looked at her mother, who in turn stood up and gave them a short smile. "I am most grateful for your presence this day, gentlemen. I must now humbly request your departure, though you are ever welcome to return in the future." The Count and the other gentleman hurriedly bowed to them both before they left in a flurry of cloaks and hats, leaving Lord Aemond and Camille alone, save for the Countess, who had begun pouring Brandy into her tea mug.

Camille tried to peek out between the leaves of the huge bouquet he brought, feeling embarrassed and awkward as ever. This was her first time 'alone' with Lord Aemond and she could feel her nerves starting to get the better of her. As she tried to think of something witty or charming enough to say, she noticed that Lord Aemond was looking intently at her, evidently waiting for her to say something.

“Forgive me my Lady, but you look comical hidden behind these flowers like that!” He said with a chuckle.Camille blushed furiously, wishing more than anything for some kind of distraction so she wouldn’t have to look up into his face directly. “Yes…well, I do thank you for this kind gift, it is rather beautiful…um...what were you saying?” She stammered nervously before taking another sip from her tea cup in hopes that her embarrassment would soon pass. Lord Aemond bit his lip, as if he was getting annoyed with her awkwardness. "I was simply asking how your day has been so far, my lady. You seem to have had quite a few callers."

Camille rolled her eyes, the memory of Lord Blywood's elaborate stories still fresh in her mind. "Yes, quite a few," she said with a sigh. "But they were all rather dull, I'm afraid."

Lord Aemond raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? Well, I hope I won't bore you with my conversation, then."

Camille smiled, yet still hoped that the ground might swallow her up at any given moment. Why on earth was he making her feel this way?  "I highly doubt that," she said teasingly, trying to bite down her nervousness. "You always have something intriguing to say."

Lord Aemond chuckled, his eye cold and sparkling. "Flattery will get you nowhere with me, my lady," he said, leaning forward slightly. Camille felt a sudden warmth overtaking her chest, but she tried to ignore it and simply nodded and laughed, fanning herself. "Oh, I wasn't aware that you were that easily impressed!" She joked, glancing up at him. Why did he always have to look so stoic with his dark eyepatch and pomaded hair? The Lord only knew. Lord Aemond smiled at her before getting up from his seat and bowing slightly in front of her. 

He looked just like a cat that was inches away from a sweet, fat mouse. "If I may be so bold, my lady… Would you graciously accept to accompany me to the opera house this evening? It has been an age since I have listened to some sublime melodies, and I can think of no more delightful companion than one as exquisite as yourself."

Camille felt her heart skip a beat at his words, unable to comprehend why such a handsome and well-known gentleman would choose to spend an evening with someone like her. However, before she could find an answer in herself, he extended his arm for her to take hold of it, smiling warmly at her – a look so genuine that all doubts seemed to vanish in seconds. "Yes," She said shyly, putting on a brave smile as she accepted his invitation. After that, conversation seemed to come much easier than before. Lord Aemond showed himself quite the gentleman, talking about his love for works of literature, philosophy and art. Camille had never expected a nobleman to be so open-minded and well-read, yet here he was – speaking as if they were lifelong friends instead of strangers. In little more than an hour they were already deep in discussions regarding the many sculptures they planned to visit during their trip to the opera house.

Camille couldn't believe how quickly time had gone by. She had never felt so comfortable talking to someone she barely knew, and it was a feeling that warmed her heart like nothing else.

With a smile on her face, she got up from her seat, bowing politely to Lord Aemond. "I think it is about time for me to retire to my chambers," She said with an awkward smile, feeling the heat of his gaze upon her.

He nodded in understanding, also getting up from his seat. "It has been a pleasure spending some time with you, my lady," He said warmly before looking away and taking a step back as if to remind himself that it was proper etiquette not to keep someone in their company any longer than necessary.

She smiled and gave him one last curtsy before turning away and walking out of the room. But as soon as she closed the door behind her, Camille could feel her cheeks heating up at the thought of what had just transpired between them–it seemed like an eternity since she had experienced such lovely feelings like these!

Could Lord Aemond have felt something too? She wondered dreamily as she made her way towards her chambers. Only time would tell…

As she sat there, lost in thought, a knock sounded at the door, interrupting her musings. Her maid entered, her face flushed with excitement. "My Lady! There is a package for you, left here by Lord Aemond Targaryen," she said breathlessly, holding out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

Camille took the parcel, her heart racing with anticipation. She opened it up, revealing a beautiful necklace made of pearls and diamonds with a thick sapphire in the middle.

"Please tell me if I should consider courting you, my Lady. Do not make it it more difficult for me than it has to be. I know I'm not your first choice.."

A faint crease appeared on her brow as she surveyed his note. She hastened to don the necklace, perplexed by its purpose. Evidently, he was the only person to arouse any kind of romantic feeling in her, so what was he thinking about?

[marastriker]

One Small and Tiny Detail I Would Change About all the StEx Update Costumes If I Was In Charge Of The Costume Department:

Rusty: he should always have curly hair, let's not have the wig look too flat. It took me a moment to really come up with something for him cause I honestly believe the Rusty costume is the BEST it's ever been now.

Pearl: more volume and length in her wig!

Greaseball: Most would expect me to say add some padding! He's gotta have muscle! But honestly I would redesign the makeup. It's quite boring honestly, and it needs to have some pizzazz to it like back in the Broadway days.

Dinah: give 👏 her 👏 a 👏 collar 👏 I really don't like bare necks

Momma: listen I don't know why they exaggerate the padding on her....cough, backside like that but it looks kinda weird. Get rid of that, it's a strange way to show that she's an old woman

Elektra: the corset piece around his torso beneath the chest piece NEEDS to be more form fitting. Right now it's like an ill fitting crop top

Caboose: WHY....why is he the only one without something at his ankles. Why. It looks weird and out of place. Give him black spats with silver buttons to match his headscarf. Peak design would be reached.

Carrie: I will admit the 4 suitcases on the headpiece is a little too much. I think 2 would suffice, that way you can see her hair and diamond hairpiece more clearly and it's less crowded.

Brandi-Belle: she needs to be less...yellowish orangish? And have more of a dark reddish brown palette. Mahogany comes to mind when I think of her, kind of that dim and romantic feel that a lounge would have.

Rockies: I mean the obvious thing is to cast more POC, but that's not related to the costumes themselves so - I think if you're going to make the artistic decision to have them look a little older and perhaps with some graffiti on them, then it shouldn't be so uniform between them? Either make the worn-downness unique, or actually commit to making them uniform. And let Rocky 3 have green lipstick!!!!! If 1 can have blue to match and 2 can have yellow to match, why doesn't 3 match?! Let her look like freight!

Dustin: Also the obvious thing to do is to cast more actors of size, but again. That isn't related to the costume. The update already toned down his makeup so it isn't so nightmare inducing clown aesthetic anymore which I genuinely appreciate because it doesn't match his character at all....otherwise I can't think of anything that would massively improve the look.

Flat Top: okay someone fix his hair situation. I get you're trying to keep that "flat top" hairstyle but it looks like something that belongs on a muppet. Brick can still be a hat, that's fine, idc

Nationals costume gripe in general: they have asymmetrical gear and it bothers my poor little brain

Coco: it's so obvious the fabric around her neck is the exact same fabric used for Elektra's costume. Could you be any lazier...please give that part of her costume a unique design.

Ruhrgold: I got nothing, he looks like a good stable man.

Brexit: I understand what you're trying to do with the tie.....I get it. But you know that party is racist right? Right? Regular funky dad tie pls.

Espresso: he should have a different hat. Fight me. Otherwise his costume looks great!

Manga: I have no issues with the Manga costume, gonna be real. He looks wonderful!

Turnov: I think the black base is a little out of place?

Killerwatt: I feel like there should be SOMETHING that indicates he's actually a train. I don't know what it is, but something. Maybe wheels on his gloves, like all the others?

Volta: you have two options. One - give him a B L A C K codpiece because the silver one looks weird. Option two: get rid of the codpiece all together! Krupp or Purse didn't need one! Why does male!Volta/Zero?

Wrench: they already fixed my only gripe which was the crane helmet fitting on the head so that you can see the ears of the person alright. Otherwise I really don't have any issues with this costume, it looks fantastic

Joule: as much as I appreciate Joule sometimes having butch hair, I think her wig needs SOMETHING funky. Cause Joule is funky and would do crazy stuff. A mullet or rattail braids? She would.

Trax: I think the codpieces on them are so out of place cause I don't even know if they're trains? They shouldn't have elaborate costumes with all the stunts they're doing obviously but idk what I would do to fix that

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

the wrath of a gentleman pirate

- - - PLEASE SEE AO3 FOR TAGS AND WARNINGS - - - 

Just because Stede won’t get his hands dirty, doesn’t mean he won’t take a stand against injustice.

You can read it on AO3, here

The room wasn’t anything fancy, but it had a touch of charm to it. A large table made out of solid mahogany sat in the centre of the room, bolted to the wooden floorboards so that it didn’t move if the ship were to hit rough waters. Atop the table lay a pristine table runner made of white silk, embroidered with the emblem of the Royal Navy and decorated with fine stitches of gold thread in elegant and intricate patterns and filigree.

The British officers sat around the table, sharing uncomfortable looks with one another as they tried to ignore Stede’s men who stood nearby.

The Captain of the British Navy crew sat at the head of the table. He was dressed in his bold blue uniform, the jacket of which was embroidered with yellow along the opening and gold ornaments. He wore a powdered wig that stood out against his sea-beaten, wrinkled face and bushy dark brows like a turd would stand out in a punchbowl.  

Stede had long given up such frivolities. He, himself, was dressed in a neat jacket made of blue-grey fabric that had a subtle pattern woven into it, neat trousers, and a cotton shirt. His sandy-blonde hair was curled back from his face. No frills, not ornaments, no pretending.

“What have you been up to, Bonnet?” the captain asked.

Stede took a sip of his wine before setting the glass down to answer, “I believe the word you would use is ‘privateering’.”

The captain chuckled as he raised his glass of wine to his lips. His eyes darted around the room, taking in each of Stede’s men. He cleared his throat.

“You have… quite the crew,” he said, the meaning of his words hidden behind his masqueraded charm.

“Yes, I do,” Stede replied honestly, smiling proudly at his crew. “Great men, each and every one of them.”

“Where did you find them?”

“Many of them have served on ships like this before, among crews such as yours,” Stede replied, not really answering the question—he was hardly going to tell a captain of the British Navy where to find the pirates they were hunting.

“I’ve never had any of them act such dignity or civility. I must say, you’ve taught them well,” the captain complimented. He let out a boisterous laugh as he added, “I dare say, you’ve civilized the savages.”

The other officers joined in with the raucous laughter.

“Me? No,” Stede said, his voice humble as he brushed the comment aside. The officers fell quiet. “I haven’t taught them anything. It was you and your kind who taught them what they know.”

The room fell silent. The captain looked at him with a confused and bewildered expression. The other Navy officers exchanged questioning looks.

“Well, you see…” Stede rose from his chair at the other end of the table. He put his hands behind his back and stepped out from behind his seat. “It was you and your kind who took them from their homes and brought them into our world,” Stede explained, slowly pacing around the room—circling the officers who sat at the table. “You taught them our language. You put them to work where they learnt their work ethic. You taught them what it is to be enslaved, and as such you taught them the meaning of freedom and liberation.”

A few officers smiled smugly—a few even turned to the crew ad nodded curtly as I to say ‘you’re welcome’. Stede’s crew indulged them, offering kind smiles and courteous nods in return.

“You taught them how to weather the worst conditions—freezing cold, sweltering heat, starvation, dehydration, sleep deprivation,” Stede continued.

He made his way around the end of the table where the captain sat.

“You taught them how to make a man fear for his life.”

The softness of Stede’s voice had disappeared, a cold sternness adding an edge to his tone that struck each man to their core.

The room fell silent.

“You taught them how to beat and torture a man until he is on the brink of death but deny him the release of eternal sleep.”

He watched the captain swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his ascot.

“You taught them how to make a man bleed and beg for his life.”

He finished his circuit of the table and stopped by the grand double doors that led out of the dining room, a wicked glint in his sea-blue eyes as he looked at each of the officers, one at a time.

A heavy tension settled over the room, palpitating and hot as the officers tried not to make eye contact with Stede’s crew.

Stede smiled and shrugged half-heartedly as he said, “All I taught them was to take what they’re due.”

He turned to the doors, pushing them open.

“Oh,” he said as an afterthought, pausing in the doorway. He turned back to the room. “I also taught them how to fire a gun.”

There was a flash of a wicked smile as Stede left the room.

The officers’s eyes widened with realisation.

Before they could react, an eruption of gunshots split the air.

Stede waited outside the room, listening as the bodies slumped forward on the table or hit the ground with a solid thwack. The bitter metallic stench of blood mingled with the thin haze of smoke and gunpowder in the air.

He couldn’t help but smile as he quietly said to himself, “And I taught them well.”

[razorsadness]

Black Mare

It snakes behind me, this invisible chain gang— the aliases, your many faces peopling

that vast hotel, the past. What did we learn? Every twenty minutes the elevated train,

the world shuddering beyond the pane. It was never warm enough in winter.

The walls peeled, the color of corsages ruined in the air. Sweeping the floor,

my black wig on the chair. I never meant to leave you in that hotel where the voices

of patrons long gone seemed to echo in the halls, a scent of spoiled orchids. But this was never

an elegant hotel. The iron fretwork of the El held each room in a deep corrosive bloom.

This was the bankrupt’s last chance, the place the gambler waits to learn his black mare’s

leg snapped as she hurtled towards the finish line.

* * *

How did we live? Your face over my shoulder was the shade of mahogany in the speckled

mirror bolted to the wall. It was never warm. You arrived through a forest of needles,

the white mist of morphine, names for sleep that never came. My black wig unfurled

across the battered chair. Your arms circled me when I stood by the window. Downstairs

the clerk who read our palms broke the seal on another deck of cards. She said you’re my fate,

my sweet annihilating angel, every naked hotel room I’ve ever checked out of. There’s nothing

left of that, but even now when night pulls up like a limousine, sea-blue, and I’m climbing the stairs,

keys in hand, I’ll reach the landing and you’re there—the one lesson I never get right.

Trains hurtled by, extinguished somewhere past the bend of midnight. The shuddering world.

Your arms around my waist. I never meant to leave.

* * *

Of all that, there's nothing left but a grid of shadows the El tracks throw over the street,

the empty lot. Gone, the blistered sills, voices that rilled across each wall. Gone,

the naked bulb swinging from the ceiling, that chicanery of light that made your face

a brief eclipse over mine. How did we live? The mare broke down. I was your fate, that

yellow train, the plot of sleet, through dust crusted on the pane. It wasn't warm enough.

What did we learn? All I have left of you is this burnt place on my arm. So, I won't

forget you even when I'm nothing but small change in the desk clerk's palm, nothing

but the pawn ticket crumpled in your pocket, the one you'll never redeem. Whatever I meant

to say loses itself in the bend of winter towards extinction, this passion of shadows falling

like black orchids through the air. I never meant to leave you there by the pane, that

terminal hotel, the world shuddering with trains.

—Lynda Hull

[fashionablyenigmatic]

The Trial of Alphonse Monroe: Drabble

In the grand and imposing courtroom of Victorian London, adorned with dark mahogany wood and dimly lit chandeliers, the atmosphere was heavy with a mix of anticipation and dread. The judge, a stern figure with a powdered wig and a grave expression, sat high on the bench, his gavel poised. The courtroom fell silent as he began to read out the charges, his voice echoing through the chamber.

"Members of the court, we are gathered here today to address the grievous charges brought against the defendant. He stands accused of the heinous crime of sodomy, an act deemed both unnatural and abhorrent by the laws of our land. Furthermore, he is charged with moral corruption, having engaged in conduct that flagrantly violates the principles of decency and propriety upheld by our society. These charges, if proven, threaten the very fabric of our moral order, and it is our solemn duty to ensure that justice is served."

Alphonse gazed stoically up at the judge, his expression an unyielding mask. Yet, within him roiled a tempest of unbridled rage. This marked the third occasion he had been summoned to face these charges. True, he had indeed committed the acts of which he stood accused, but he resolved not to succumb to the hypocrisy of moral grandstanding and the deeply corrupt justice system.

The judge, his piercing gaze fixed upon Alphonse, allowed a brief pause to punctuate the gravity of the moment. He then leaned forward slightly, his voice steady and commanding as he addressed the defendant.

"Alphonse, you stand before this court accused of sodomy and moral corruption. How do you plead to these charges?"

"Not guilty," Alphonse declared, his voice unwavering. "But if found guilty, I will be quite relieved that I won't have to attend any more of your wife's luncheons. She is quite the bore."

A smirk played at the corners of his lips as the courtroom erupted into a mix of gasps and laughter. The judge's face flushed with anger, his composure momentarily shaken by the audacious remark. He banged his gavel sharply, restoring order with a scowl.

"Mr. Monroe! I shall hold you in contempt if you continue to mock this courtroom," the judge thundered, his voice laced with indignation.

Alphonse's smirk faded slightly as he inclined his head. "I apologize, Your Honor. Please, continue."

The judge's glare lingered on Alphonse for a moment longer before he turned his attention to the prosecutor. "You may proceed with presenting the evidence."

The prosecutor, a sharp-eyed man with an air of self-assuredness, stepped forward, holding a bundle of documents. "Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the court," he began, his voice resonant and clear. "The evidence we are about to present is incontrovertible. The defendant, Alphonse Monroe, was apprehended in close proximity to a notorious establishment, known to be a gathering place for those engaging in illicit and immoral activities. Following a raid on this establishment, Mr. Monroe was discovered nearby, under highly suspicious circumstances."

He paused, allowing the implication of his words to settle over the courtroom before continuing. "Witnesses will attest to his frequent presence in the vicinity of this club, a place where debauchery and vice run rampant. The very nature of his association with such a place speaks volumes about his character and intentions."

Alphonse's mind raced as the prosecutor continued to detail the charges. He had indeed been at the club before the raid, dressed in drag and entertaining the patrons with his performance. He had done nothing improper, merely dancing and singing, but the mere association with the club was enough to cast a shadow over his character. Luckily, he had been tipped off about the impending raid and had hastily left, changing out of his costume and heading to a nearby pub where he was mending his dress when he was apprehended.

The prosecutor reached for an evidence bag, its contents obscured but clearly significant. To the casual observer, Alphonse appeared to be growing anxious, his eyes darting toward the bag. However, to those who knew him well, it was evident that he was calculating, a faint glimmer of strategy in his gaze.

"Alphonse was seated at a pub near this den of moral corruption, sewing up a dress that, as the court will note, is within his measurements."

With a dramatic flourish, the prosecutor opened the bag, revealing its contents. Instead of a dress, the bag was filled with blocks of beeswax. The courtroom erupted in murmurs of confusion and disbelief.

Alphonse's lawyer, his eyes red and weary, leaned in and whispered with barely concealed irritation, "Beeswax?"

Alphonse, barely suppressing a smirk, replied, "As in, it's none of theirs."

The lawyer sighed, shaking his head. His eye twitching. "Will you let me do my Job Al? Fucksake." He whispered angrily