#mid century deep buttoned chair

[wmarximoff]

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: no one needs to know that the president of the most admired sorority on campus has a crush on you.

warnings (18+): a brief smut, Wanda cussing like a mean girl, R being a little shit, slight corruption if you squint. MINORS DNI.

pairing: sorority!Wanda x dirtbag!reader

word count: 3k

A/N: this is definitely not my best work by far, but I'm testing the tone of sorority!Wanda until I can write her in a way I like, so whoever reads this will be my test subjects lol

masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

A pale and motley patch of white sunbeams smearing the glass of a nearby window was what captured your attention for a few bits of seconds that, together, would complete more than the whole of a minute. The window opened to the blue sky outside, to the large green trees rooted there near the building in a healthy lawn, with brownish and thick trunks spaced by stripes of daylight that sent a forest air to that specific region of the campus, which used to be well ventilated.

A deep yawn was stifled by a mouth just behind your head, both your elbows raised across the face of the hard plastic table. In the middle of that spring semester, the white-painted walls of the tapering classroom, which inclined down in steps from student seats that sloped toward Professor Harkness's rectangular desk, into a lesser concavity when pitted against the chairs of the students, they looked chubbier and sunnier than usual, which is why you had to wear light clothing with few layers to make it through that class until the end of the term without sweating to the point of dehydration.

“Shit...” was the tiniest curse uttered under your breath.

The friction caused by the tip of your pen across the paper ended up writing an inexact word in your fast informal handwriting, which you, annoyed, tried to cover up with an eager flick of the wrist towards the right. A wide thin line had slipped above the dashed letters in dark blue ink – because you saw yourself viscerally unhappy about your succinct spelling error (since it is written “economy”, and never “econonomy”). Several other students eagerly tapped their fingers on laptop keyboards (clatter of keys pounding across the classroom), but something nostalgic in you preferred to stick with good old paper and ink.

After scribbling such inaccuracy into your handwritten notes, you resumed your transcripts of what was taught by your teacher, trying to record the minimum necessary. You chewed gum with a cinnamon-synthesized flavor, a customary practice. A pen rolled and clattered to the floor, and then someone reached down to pick it up.

Your committed gaze, therefore, migrated from the articulated writings in your notebook to the professor's figure in front of the rest of the room, leaning with her hip against her long and low table, facing a certain handful of vivacious and diligent students. Agatha Harkness kind of reminded you of the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz – maybe it was her long, thin nose, or the exotic mannerism of her hands.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, to fully understand Austen's novels it’s first important to understand the finer points about economics and mid-nineteenth-century class relations that are portrayed in the relationships between characters in several of her works.”

Blustered Miss Harkness with her thick chestnut locks, her cashmere waistcoat looking more violet than usual on this hot sunny day, her arms clasped close to her ribcage, her cream-colored button-up shirt with the sleeves perched up to her elbows.

“It's not just about dating and marriage or strong female characters that this work is about, however that is what some uninformed people out there might assume. Of course, female empowerment is a crucial part of these novels, but it’s actually important for us to recognize the irrefutable fact that Austen has always dealt with social classes in her works, and because of this she is full of important economic themes that can be pointed out by the reader. Does anyone know what I'm talking about, people? Somebody? Anybody?”

You kind of chortled to yourself, reaching into your chair for a more comfortable position than had ever been found. You could well respond to such an inquiry, so much so that you could presage the formulation of the words that climbed your throat and lodged at the tip of your tongue, prepared to be pronounced in front of the rest of the class. But you just knew there was someone else who would be frothing to answer that question.

The right hand raised in the air, greedy for the intellectual realms of the demanded explanation, had not been yours at all. And silently, just an unimportant listener, you waited for the well-known answer to come, never exposing yourself any further than was necessary like a withdrawn, flowing animal of self-preservation and self-doubt, a silly little smile forming the outline of your lips.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff ?” Agatha pointed with her chin at a few tables behind yours, two steps up from where you were. Her neck craned back, and air seized her lungs in anticipation.

Wanda Maximoff, self-absorbed and with a shrewd, focused countenance, could be found just a tiny amount of meters uphill from where you were located. She was liked, adored and revered, a name passed around campus with airs of admiration, high in the social hierarchy of sororities and fraternities around the university. She had kind green eyes, but the kind of kindness that shouldn't be confused with naivete, something Wanda didn't have at all.

She was a president, the most prudent of them all, appealing even to the eyes of the university who were excluding or not adept at the Greek way of life, known for leading the chapter where some of the girls who turned heads around resided. She was a necessity, a public figure among other young people her age. And, in front of her, you smiled small. She was the most beautiful girl you would ever meet in your life.

Among your many other classmates scattered throughout the classroom, she was the only one wearing high black stockings under a pleated skirt checked in a gray fabric, highlighting the soft skin of her legs so strictly stunning and painstaking.

The long, dark locks were thus partially held back from covering her stunning face, tucked behind the shells of her ears. Fingers with polished black enamel nails, pale extensions adorned with silver rings of the most variegated shapes and sizes, parked the digits over a keyboard of a small portable computer placed right in front of her.

Her wardrobe always looked like a venustic mix of Cher Horowitz clothes and Nancy Downs accessories, choosing to constantly alternate between the two extremes of preppy and dark, usually finding herself somewhere in the middle of the two.

“Most of Austen's characters can be classified as belonging to the middle class of society, and she has never had a problem portraying the inequality between them and members of other social classes, both lower and higher,” irises jadish seethed in a well-educated glow, since it came as no surprise to anyone just how enthusiast of Jane Austen literature Wanda Maximoff could be.

“In fact, Austen's novels portray various socio-economic factors in 19th century Britain, specifically in matters of wealth and poverty and the values of coins at the time, as well as how much capital these people could have even at that time. It was never just about love and marriage.”

Wanda finished off in superb mastery by flashing an exultant little smile, scrunching a patch of skin from her nose like a fluffy little bunny, exuding airs of quite self-satisfaction. When her emerald gaze engaged yours across that sea of heads, you offered her a funny wink with your right eye, to which Wanda only chuckled and shook her head provocatively.

“You are absolutely correct, Miss Maximoff,” Professor Harkness greeted the student proudly from the front of the students as she stood, “I couldn't have said it myself in better words than that.”

You just rolled your eyes in their sockets playfully, resting your chin in the palm of your right hand whose elbow was supplanted by the face of the table. Someday Agatha would still end up adopting Wanda if she could.

ᗢ

“Oh fuck , Y/n!” The lascivious voice growled, reverberating, like a breath of apex, through the walls of the second-floor women's restroom of the university's Languages and Literature building.

“Just like that baby, oh–!” Wanda trapped her bottom lip with her own incisors, confining a moan to the deepest core of her being, her two inner thighs constricting her ears almost deafeningly.

Even that same morning after the classroom, with the emptiness there, a faucet dripping, only the linoleum floor could hear the hums uttered by a breathless Wanda, with her mouth tightened and her face burning in red embers like a peach in her sharp cheekbones, feeling just as satisfied as you prolonged her peak smearing your entire face in erratic movements of her taut hips.

You rubbed her swollen clit against your upper lip, that little knot of nerves squirming blindly in search of prolonging that sensation of pleasure that seeped into her bones, the plaid skirt sharply bunched below her navel. The two of you were squeezed into a bathroom stall, you on your knees and she sprawled all over the sides of that tight little space.

“Fuck,” Wanda gasped in a blink of slow eyelids, very sparingly holding your head against her pussy with the open palm of her right hand, “Fuck, baby…”

Ring-wrapped fingers found themselves fondling between the roots of your hair, the other girl's head hunched back, her lip gloss smudged. When you, as serene as you could be in the face of the beautiful sight of her orgasm, sank your teeth into a light open bite on her inner thigh just to make fun of her, Wanda moaned sensitively and increased her grip of deferred fingers against the roots of your hair.

“N-no,” she squealed in a breathless fashion, her brow creased like someone in pain, “No more, please, I can't take any more.”

“Okay, fine,” you smiled before gracing the bite mark with a slightly swashbuckling chaste kiss, a silent apology so close to her abused cunt dripping in a hangover of pleasure, “I want you to walk out of here with your own legs.”

You, kneeling down to her level, turned your face away from the gap between Wanda's opalescent crotch, still pulsing on your tongue the vigorous taste of the juice coming from her pulsing vagina – the skin down your chin and around your mouth completely burnished in a brilliant radiance from the president's overwhelming orgasm just above your head, chest heavy into her thin fabric blouse, uneven breathing and vaguely wobbly knees.

You scrambled to your feet, stretching your knees inside your baggy jeans, not much to say after accomplishing your mission but offering the sorority girl a smug crooked smile, bringing your knuckles up to sweep away the wetness out of your face. Wanda looked even prettier being panting and flushed after you wrung an orgasm out of her guts.

“My God, pretty girl,” you bit back a smile at the commission of your glossy lips by her cum in a brief tone of astonishment, “You really made a whole mess of my face, huh–”

“Shut your pretty fucking mouth, you're pissing me off.”

Before you could even entertain the idea of cleaning yourself with soap and water, however, a hand pressed the skin on the back of your neck and, in a reckless way, pulled you into a rough kiss, Wanda going forward toward your face sipping from her own orgasm built up by your mouth. And then, a tongue emerged between the pulps of her lips, dragging itself through the commission of your mouth, so much more ecstatic after an extravagant orgasm.

As you parted when oxygen was needed in your burning lungs, you blinked slightly foolishly, so that both your noses were almost touching in midair as Wanda smiled voluptuously at your lethargic blinks, her upper lip pressing lightly on her rosy, somewhat puffy lower lip.

The dark gazes screwed into an invisible line, the verdant darkness taking pleasure in your goofy silence, amused by your silliness. Wanda smiled catlike, the soft fingers of digits stroking the skin from the nape of your neck just below your hairline.

“Well,” you lisped somewhat not knowing what to say under your breath, “Maybe you don't need to walk out of here on your own two legs exactly…”

And your mischievous right hand threatened to touch her again, making your way to the center of her thighs, but as overstimulated as she was, she was firm in preventing you from squeezing her one more time before your fingers crossed the hem of her skirt.

“Don't you even dare to start,” the girl finally walked away, barely managing to unfold the skirt from her upper thighs and smooth the creased fabric with her fingertips before pushing the laminate door out, her lacy panties vaguely forgotten inside the back pocket of your jeans.

“I need to study for a test because you know, unlike you I really care about my grades. We value our good academic performance at Omega Mu Zeta and I am their president, so I–”

“You need to set a good example, yeah, I know.”

Wanda, however, just threw you a glare over her shoulder, as flippant as could be, “You're annoying.”

You rolled your eyes out of their sockets dazedly before following Wanda's sweetly woody scent out of the bathroom stall. That girl was your personal glory, but she would be your undoing at some point in the near future.

“C’mon pretty girl, my grades are pretty good, if you really wanna know,” you propped your hips low beside the pale china sink she was standing in front of, taking in your own appearance reflected in that rectangular mirror on the wall.

“Not being a teacher's pet doesn't necessarily mean I'm a bad student, y’know? That's a very bad impression you have of me, it's almost even offensive.”

“Fuck you,” she stared at her own reflection in the mirror, fixing, with the tips of her fingernails painted in dark nail polish, the cherry gloss on her lips, “I'm not a teacher's pet, I just work hard in understanding the subject. Unlike you.”

You smiled, scrutinizing the sight of the emerald-eyed girl reflected in the mirror – and how beautiful she was, Wanda Maximoff with her cherry lip gloss.

“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess, of converting easily with those I have never seen before,” you recited aloud, your gaze never letting go of hers which, by the reflection in the mirror, turned all emerald attention to her figure with arms crossed before her chest.

“I cannot catch their tone of the conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”

Wanda then turned her face towards him, and one dark brow creased mockingly towards the middle of her forehead. The makeup was very little, accentuating her natural beauty by her cheekbones and jawline curved around the edges, and the dark eyeliner was always sharp, done with exquisite mastery over the almond-shaped eyelids.

“Did you just recite a line from Pride and Prejudice to me just to prove you know what you're talking about?” she smiled a little at your boldness.

“Maybe,” you shrugged smugly.

“That doesn't prove shit.”

“Proves that I’ve read the book,” you offered her a mocking brow lift.

“How old are you, you idiot, five?”

“Six actually,” you kind of chuckled in return, “But then, did it work? Did I impress you?”

Wanda looked at you for a studious half second, scrutinizing your figure with smart green eyes shimmering the color of summer grass.

“I hate you, you little shit.”

With intensity similar to the magnetic pull of a magnet, Wanda stepped forward with her white boot and took your face from the sides with both hands, merging your lips in a rhythmic kiss in harmonic cadence, which quickly made you whimper in dizzying contentment sharpened through your veins. Lovingly, you allowed yourself a smile at the corner of her pink lips, your heart pounding in the right side of your chest as her forearms laced tightly around the outline of your neck.

The kiss deepened into a need, their tongues twining until they were both panting softly, wet foreheads touching each other. You smiled mischievously against the commission of Wanda's swollen lips.

“My room on Friday after school?” you breathed in front of her face, “Darcy is going out with someone, so... I'll have the room all to myself.”

“Y/n,” Wanda whistled your name, her frown creasing slightly at your not-so-innocent suggestion, “I really have to study for that test, you know Mr. Pym is a real dictator in his classes–”

“And who says we are going to do anything other than study?” you smiled complacently, “Geez, Wanda, that perverted mind of yours goes everywhere, doesn't it? And here I thought you were a good girl, who knew you had that in you?”

“Stupid,” she twirled with her eyes comical, bent wrists resting above your shoulders, “Seriously, I need to keep my grades up—”

But the phrase died in her throat when voices could be heard in loud laughter pouring through the bathroom's main entrance, away from the secluded area of prying eyes where you belonged together. And at that notion something shriveled and deflated inside your chest. You actually looked forward as little as you could to those moments out of situations where you could rob her of the rest of the outside world, because that meant the fantasy was coming to an end.

Wanda was the respected president of Omega Mu Zeta, she was a social figure, she was anything she could be, except being yours. She was nobody's, indeed, but that also said she wasn't yours. But when she threatened to draw her body heat away from your torso, you kept your solemn grip firm on her hips through the fabric of her gray skirt, pinning her in place.

“Y/n,” she tried, hands squeezing your shoulders, a warning that reality was piercing sharply into that little bubble that encompassed you and her.

"Friday night? C'mon pretty girl, please? We'll just study, I promise. Girl Scout word.”

A brief shadow of conflict seemed to glide through the swirls of emerald irises, deepening that clear hue of her eyes, before Wanda tipped her chin back over her left shoulder covered by a blazer with a matching print and skirt, searching for an onlooker who wasn't there, only then to turn to your face and, in such a way, sigh a lame sigh before your expectant gaze. You always brought down all the resistance she seemed to want to lift.

“Okay,” Wanda relented, her shoulders slumping into the plaid blazer, “Okay, Friday after school. But as long as it's for us to actually study, you hear me? And I mean it.”

“Sure,” you muttered in jovial good humor, “We'll study, trust me.”

“Seriously, Y/n, no jokes,” a pair of glossy velvety lips pressed against the contour of your jawbone, right next to your pierced earlobe, “Or you're going to regret this,” Wanda it whispered on a warm breath, before there it plunged a painful bite into your epidermis.

A tiny squeak of pain piped out of your throat, shrugging your shoulder closer to your jaw and away from the other girl's half-open mouth, “Ouch Wanda, what the hell, what did you do that for?!”

“For you to remember to behave yourself,” she smiled with a darkly mischievous gleam, “Now I really have to go, baby. I text you on Friday.”

And then Wanda walked away, and with her went the enticing aroma of woody perfume mixed with strawberry dry shampoo, a fragrance that couldn't be described in any other way than just scarlet, closed, imposing and absolutely sexy in the right dosage. But the next person who squealed in pain was the president herself, whereupon you playfully raised your right forearm to deliver a slap of stiff, splayed fingers against the smooth skin of her panty-less ass beneath her pleated skirt, rocking the fabric of the short garment.

When Wanda tipped her chin back to curse you under her breath “Asshole,” the tops of both her cheeks gleaming in a caustic blush, you just grinned mischievously with your tongue sticking out between your teeth. And so, you knew that on that Friday, she would pay a visit to your room. After all, you didn't need more than that.

[armchairsmelbourne]

The Ultimate Guide to Choosing the Perfect Sofa for Your Home

When it comes to home décor, the sofa is undoubtedly a cornerstone piece. It serves as a focal point in your living room, offering comfort and style while also being a practical seating solution for family and guests. 

With so many Australian made sofas options available, choosing the right sofa can be a daunting task. This guide will help you navigate the myriad of choices to find the perfect sofa that fits your lifestyle, space, and aesthetic preferences.

Understanding Sofa Types

Before diving into styles and materials, it’s essential to understand the different types of sofas available:

Sectional Sofas: Ideal for larger spaces, sectional sofas offer flexibility as they can be arranged in various configurations. They are perfect for accommodating large families or frequent entertainers.

Sleeper Sofas: These dual-function sofas are perfect for homes with limited space. They provide comfortable seating by day and convert into a bed by night, making them ideal for guest rooms or small apartments.

Loveseats: Compact and cosy, loveseats are designed for smaller spaces or as a complementary piece to a larger sofa. They comfortably seat two people.

Chesterfield Sofas: Known for their distinctive deep button tufting and rolled arms, Chesterfield sofas bring a touch of classic elegance to any room.

Mid-Century Modern Sofas: Characterised by their clean lines, low profiles, and tapered legs, these sofas are perfect for minimalist and contemporary homes.

Considering Size and Proportions

Size is a crucial factor when selecting a sofa. Measure your living space accurately to ensure the sofa fits comfortably without overwhelming the room. Here are some tips to consider:

Scale: Ensure the sofa’s scale matches the room. A large Australian made lounges in a small room can make the space feel cramped, while a small sofa in a large room can look lost.

Pathways: Leave enough room for movement around the sofa. A good rule of thumb is to have at least 18 inches of walking space around the sofa.

Proportions: Consider the height of the sofa in relation to other furniture pieces. A low sofa might look out of place next to a tall bookshelf or a high-backed chair.

Choosing the Right Material

The material of your Australian made sofas not only affects its look and feel but also its durability and maintenance. Here are some common materials and their benefits:

Leather: Durable and easy to clean, leather sofas add a touch of luxury to your space. They are ideal for homes with pets or children due to their resistance to spills and stains.

Fabric: Fabric sofas offer a wide range of colours, patterns, and textures. They provide a softer, more inviting look and are generally more affordable than leather.

Microfiber: This synthetic material mimics the feel of suede but is much easier to clean. It’s an excellent choice for busy households.

Velvet: For a touch of glamour, velvet sofas are unparalleled. They add richness and depth to any room but require more maintenance to keep them looking pristine.

Style and Colour

The style and colour of your Australian made lounges should complement your existing décor and personal taste. Here are some considerations:

Neutral Colours: Sofas in neutral colours like beige, grey, or navy are versatile and timeless. They can easily be updated with colourful throw pillows or blankets.

Bold Colours: If you want to make a statement, opt for a sofa in a bold colour like emerald green, royal blue, or mustard yellow. This can serve as the focal point of your living room.

Patterns: Patterns can add visual interest and hide stains better than solid colours. Consider classic patterns like stripes or florals for a traditional look or geometric patterns for a modern touch.

Comfort and Quality

Ultimately, a sofa should be comfortable and well-made to ensure it lasts for years. When assessing comfort, consider:

Cushion Fillings: Options range from foam to down feathers. Foam offers firm support and retains its shape well, while down provides a plush, luxurious feel.

Frame Construction: Look for sofas with sturdy hardwood frames for durability. Avoid frames made of particleboard or plastic.

Springs: High-quality sofas typically have eight-way hand-tied springs, which provide excellent support and longevity.

Final Thoughts

Choosing the perfect Custom made lounges from Australia is a balance of style, comfort, and practicality. By considering the type, size, material, style, and quality, you can find a sofa that not only enhances your living space but also provides comfort and functionality for years to come. Remember, a well-chosen sofa is an investment in your home's comfort and aesthetic appeal.

[haysconcept]

Discover Luxury and Comfort: Eames Lounge Chair Replica for Sale

A Piece of Design History

The Eames Lounge Chair is more than just a piece of furniture; it's a symbol of modern design. Originally created for Herman Miller, the chair quickly became an icon of mid-century modern furniture design. Its sleek lines, ergonomic structure, and high-quality materials have made it a favorite among design enthusiasts and collectors for decades.

The replica maintains the essence of the original, allowing you to own a piece of design history without breaking the bank. Every detail, from the curvature of the molded plywood to the luxurious leather upholstery, is carefully reproduced to ensure that the replica is as close to the original as possible.

Unmatched Comfort and Quality

One of the key features of the Eames Lounge Chair is its exceptional comfort. The chair is designed to provide maximum support while maintaining a soft and inviting feel. eames lounge chair replica for sale The high backrest, deep seat, and plush cushions make it the perfect spot to relax, read a book, or enjoy a conversation.

The replica does not compromise on quality. Made with premium materials, it features high-density foam cushions upholstered in top-grain leather or high-quality PU leather. The shell is constructed from durable plywood, available in a range of finishes to suit your décor. The attention to detail in the stitching, button tufting, and overall construction ensures that your Eames Lounge Chair replica will be a centerpiece in your home for years to come.

Versatility and Style

The Eames Lounge Chair replica is a versatile piece that complements various interior design styles. Whether your home has a modern, contemporary, or traditional aesthetic, this chair fits seamlessly into any setting. Its timeless design and neutral color options make it an ideal addition to living rooms, offices, libraries, or bedrooms.

The chair's iconic look is also a conversation starter. Guests will be drawn to its classic design and luxurious comfort, making it an excellent choice for entertaining. Pair it with a matching ottoman to enhance the relaxation experience and complete the look.

Affordability Without Compromise

One of the most appealing aspects of the Eames Lounge Chair replica is its affordability. Original Eames Lounge Chairs can cost thousands of dollars, making them out of reach for many design lovers. The replica offers an accessible alternative without sacrificing style or quality. Eames Chair Ottoman Replica You can enjoy the elegance and comfort of this iconic chair at a fraction of the price, allowing you to invest in other areas of your home décor.

Easy Maintenance

The Eames Lounge Chair replica is not only beautiful and comfortable but also easy to maintain. The leather or PU leather upholstery is resistant to stains and spills, and regular cleaning with a soft cloth keeps it looking pristine. The sturdy construction ensures that the chair remains in excellent condition, even with daily use.

[deitalia-l-shape-sofa]

DeItalia L Shape sofa

Conquer Conversation Corners: Stunning L Shape Sofa Designs for 7 Seater of Bliss

Say goodbye to the days of cramming onto a loveseat or hastily rearranging chairs when guests come knocking. Enter the realm of luxury with a spacious 7-seater L shaped sofa, where everyone can comfortably gather, fostering lively conversations in your living space. Despite the many choices available, selecting the ideal design may seem daunting. Fret not, for this guide delves into 7 captivating L shape sofa designs, each presenting distinctive style and practicality to fulfill your dream of a 7-seater seating arrangement.

Contemporary Elegance:

Experience the epitome of sleek sophistication with modern L-shaped sofa designs. Featuring clean lines, minimalist profiles, and vibrant hues like cobalt blue or emerald green, these sofas exude a contemporary charm. Opt for leather or faux leather upholstery to infuse a touch of luxury, complemented by chrome legs for an extra dash of modern flair. Perfect for open-concept living spaces, these 7-seater L-shaped sofas elevate your décor while fostering a chic and inviting ambiance.

2.Timeless Charm :

Indulge in the timeless allure of classic L-shaped sofas. Adorned with rolled arms, plush cushions, and neutral tones such as ivory or beige, these sofas exude elegance and sophistication. Offering ample space for cozy movie nights or lively game evenings, these 7-seater designs seamlessly blend with various décor styles, promising enduring comfort and style.

3. Modular Versatility:

Unleash your creativity with sectional L-shaped sofas that offer unparalleled versatility. These modular wonders allow you to customize your seating arrangement to fit your space perfectly. Whether incorporating a chaise lounge for ultimate relaxation or ottomans for additional seating or coffee table functionality, these 7-seater L-shaped sofas prioritize customization, transforming your living room into a personalized oasis of comfort and style.

4. Serene Simplicity:

Embrace the tranquility of Scandinavian-inspired L-shaped sofas, characterized by light wood frames, muted linen upholstery, and minimalist designs. Promoting functionality and a sense of calm, these sofas create an airy and uncluttered atmosphere ideal for fostering peaceful conversations and relaxation. Perfect for those seeking a zen-like ambiance, these 7-seater designs effortlessly marry style with serenity.

5. Retro Chic:

Infuse your living space with nostalgic charm with mid-century L-shaped sofas. Featuring tapered legs, button-tufted cushions, and bold geometric patterns, these sofas evoke the spirit of a bygone era. Serving as a stylish centerpiece for gatherings, these 7-seater designs ignite conversations about iconic design elements, adding a touch of personality to your home.

6. Rustic Comfort:

Bring a touch of the outdoors inside with rustic L-shaped sofas, boasting natural wood frames, distressed leather upholstery, and earthy tones like brown and green. Perfect for cozy evenings by the fireplace, these sofas create a warm and inviting atmosphere reminiscent of a rustic retreat. Ideal for cabins or country homes, these 7-seater designs seamlessly blend nature-inspired elements with comfort and style.

7. Opulent Sophistication:

Elevate your living room with tufted L-shaped sofas, exuding opulence and refinement. Featuring deep button tufting, sumptuous velvet upholstery, and elegant scroll arms, these sofas make a bold statement. Perfect for formal gatherings, these 7-seater designs combine comfort with sophisticated style, ensuring a luxurious seating experience for you and your guests.

[thehistoryvintageantiques]

#134 Danish Dux lounge chairs

Lounge chairs by Dux Furniture

Denmark 1970s

A pair of authentic mid-century Scandinavian lounge chairs by Dux Furniture, Denmark 1970s. Upholstered in deep -buttoned, supple brown leather upholstery, with a blonde-wood frame on a swivel base.

In very good vintage condition.

Price is per chair.

92H x 72W x 88D cm approximately.

Seat Height: 41cm

[fleetwoodmoth]

Crypt

I can’t write normal Cyberpunk fanfiction I have to write au fanfiction apparently. 

Here is the Girl In The Box au with River and @silver-handed‘s Valentine

The Strength To Go On

River pulled the collar of his jacket up around his ears, the chill that undercut the current rainy weather of Night City mixed with the damp cold of the crypt like Underground was enough to make him shiver. He hadn’t considered that maybe the bone deep cold was also due to the victims he and Valentine had just found in the next chamber over. Three girls, no older than Monique, all dressed like they were born two centuries ago, all nearly comatose, their small hands were so cold when he picked them up, but as Valentine called for Trauma Team he had slipped deeper into the hide away. A series of tunnels, old abandoned pieces of the Night City Metro that led to old basements, night clubs, stores, all laid empty after the Underground was sealed off. 

River’s flashlight bounced off of the metal and cement of what looked like an old corpo basement storage area, large cracks had created cramped pathways. The rubble across the floor was moved aside, indicating that someone had been using the path at one point. The possibility that there were more victims deeper in churned River’s stomach. 

“I found another path, I’m going to check for more people,” River called over his Holo. 

“Careful, I have to go lead the paramedics in, you won’t have any back up,” Valentine responded. 

The other side smelt like water and dirt mixed with rusting metal and to his surprise, coolant. He shuffled in until he was finally free of the crumbling shell around him, but instead of a storage room he found what could only be described as some kind of server room.

“Got it,” River squeezed his big frame through the large fissure in the aging foundation. 

“Holy shit V,” he breathed, the line crackling in return, he was too deep for his Holo to reach Valentine. 

He scanned over the wall of vintage tech, old servers from the 20s, mixed with newer pieces that had obviously been updated over the years. Cobwebs hung thick from the ceiling but as River moved further in it was clear they hadn’t been inhabited for about as long as this place had been buried. Half of the room had collapsed in on itself, but as he moved forward he could hear the distinct hum of electricity still running. He pushed in, finding a panel against the far wall, several screens laid covered in a thick layer of dirt and rocks that had fallen from the ceiling. River ran a hand over the center screen, clearing the glass, only for it to spring to life, the sudden light in the darkness made him flinch, he brought his hand up to cover his eyes and to let him adjust. 

“Holy shit,” his breath billowed up in a pillar of fog in the cold. 

The Arasaka logo stared back at him, even under the debris the room around him came to life, a familiar buzz filling the air as servers kicked on. He could finally see where he was standing and what else was in the room, even if the light was faint. An adjoining chamber was to his left, what looked like a ripper doc’s chair sat in the center, surrounded by medical instruments, old clunky versions of the current medical tech available. But it wasn’t the relics that caught his eye, beside the chair was what looked like some kind of netrunner coffin. It was black, although the dust that coated it made it look more of a dark grey than anything, from the top and bottom sprung wires and tubes all neatly tied together and labeled, but River would be damned if he even knew what half of them meant. 

The top had a warning, ‘Do Not Disengage Before Proper Thaw Protocol Is Performed’, the implication that something was frozen in the human sized container making him morbidly curious. He was there to find answers, however to a completely different question, and technically he had already answered those, but he was still going to poke around, what kind of private investigator was he if he didn’t at least ‘poke around’. 

He found a small panel at the top of the contraption, its screen dull but still on, only three buttons were available. Induce Cryo, Thaw Protocol, and Vital Check, all relatively easy to understand, but River was most curious about Vital Check. He pressed it, knowing full well that whatever was inside had been alive at one point. 

Subject V

Heart Rate: 124

Brain Monitor: Delta - 2Hz

Blood Pressure: 112/67

Status: Optimal

River blinked a few times, trying to truly process what he was reading. Whatever, or whoever was inside was still alive. Had he stumbled on another victim? Or some kind of Arasaka patient? The more he tried to puzzle it all out the more it didn’t make sense, why was Arasaka keeping someone in a lab? If it was the kidnapper then how had he used any of the tech without disturbing the layers of dirt and dust on the consoles? He didn’t have time to think about it, he needed to get whoever was inside out. He pressed Thaw Procedure on the console, the strange black coffin hissed and hummed, before finally a beep rang out into the concrete tomb. He went back to its side, grabbing the handle that was just below the warning sign, having to yank on it several times to wrench it free of centuries of caked on debris.

The hissing became louder as the pod decompressed, the air only adding to the frigid atmosphere as it billowed against River. Finally as the lid rested back on its hinge he could see the figure beneath the fog, a young woman with long black hair and warm brown skin was laid out against a white interior. She was much older than the girls who had been taken, maybe in her mid 20s, and she was the opposite of the type of girl the kidnapper seemed to prefer, but that only meant that she was somehow tied to Arasaka and not his case. River pushed aside the growing whirlpool of questions that clouded his head as he shrugged off his coat and laid it over her naked body, before pulling her from the box she had been locked in. 

“I’ve got you, you’re safe,” He muttered, now that she was against him, breathing, alive, he knew the questions didn’t matter. Someone somewhere knew who she was, and he was going to get her home safe, just like the others. 

“I’ve got another one,” River called over the Holo as he made his way back the way he came, the call becoming clearer the closer he got to his exit. 

“What?” Valentine’s voice was slightly muffled by static. 

“I need your help getting her through this hole in the wall, come further in,” River said, squatting down to look through the opening. 

The two of them wouldn’t be able to go through together, but if he handed her to Valentine they could move her without injury. It took a minute or two for Valentine to make his way to where River had ventured off to, peering across the opening, squinting in the darkness. 

“She’s a lot older than the others,” Valentine said, River nodding as he turned to hand her through to him.

Valentine knelt down, reaching out to take the frail body, surprised by how cold her skin was when he touched it. He couldn’t help but study her features, she had an elegantly curved nose, large pink lips and even though her eyes were shut, he could see how long her eyelashes were. The girls they had found were all under the age of 13, white and blond, dressed up like little dolls from centuries ago. 

“Where did you find her?” Valentine asked over his shoulder as he began his ascent to where Trauma Team had landed. 

“In some kind of lab,” River said, squeezing through the last bit of the opening. 

Valentine turned, pausing for a moment, only to continue his way up, he had a myriad of questions but his first priority was getting anyone hurt, out. River followed behind, glancing down every now and then at the girl in Valentine’s arms, the girls they had found were likely traumatized, forever changed by this horrid tragedy they experienced at the hands of another human being, and he wondered idly, what this girl had seen and been through. 

[bayoubashsims]

Naturally

Naturally is a short story about the life of a Dutch-American woman who settled in Indonesia during the early days of its independence, the legacy she carried across the ocean, and the legacy she built in her new homeland. The story reflects on the most poignant events in her long and candid life; from the circumstances that made her birth possible, her childhood in the tumultuous early twentieth century, her new life in a new nation, to the troubles of her offspring, the return to her birthplace, and her dying days. These vignettes of Eleanor Mangkoedimedjo’s life serve as a testament that much of what we are we owe to those who came before us (whether good or bad), particularly our mothers and the mothers before them, and understanding our past often means understanding our future.

Name: Eleanor Mirabelle Mangkoedimedjo Maiden Name: Schuyler Other name(s): Laila Mulyati Place and Date of Birth: Batavia, New York, August 11, 1928 Parents: Lucas T. Schuyler (Adam Sutansyah) and Ana L. Schuyler (née Lahaije); Rosminah Sutansyah Grandparents: Pieter Lahaije and Johanna Lahaije (née van der Maas); Thomas E. Schuyler and Eleanor C. Schuyler (née Thompson) Sibling(s): Coralea Schuyler and Miriam van de Plaas Spouse(s): R. Prabowo H.L. Mangkoedimedjo Children: Matilda E. Willem and Philomena K. Develsbourne

Prologue

Maastricht, the Netherlands  1932

Gerrit Beuling was a tall, thin man with a long swan’s neck and a protruding Adam’s apple. His long, auburn hair went to his shoulders, and was combed back. He trudged along the brick road in that humid summer with a wooden case under his right arm, and he carried with him a manner of expectation.

He stopped when he came to a narrow alley with a stone staircase that led to a wooden door to its left. He cautiously made his way through, up and in, passing by one grimy corridor after another. He arrived half panting at a room at the end of the corridor, covered with faded ruby-colored floral wallpaper and adorned with fine furniture. He placed his case down and took off his coat. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and took a deep breath.

“I don’t understand why you’re wearing a coat like that in such a hot day.” Said Madame Lahaije. She was perched upon a crimson chaise-lounge by the window in a severely outdated, purple buttoned up dress that seemed to betray her own words to the young painter.

“For presentation, of course. And I put a lot of my things inside my coat pockets.”

Madame Lahaije sneered. “A gentleman never puts things inside his pocket. Unless it’s money, of course.”

“Are you ready, Madame?” He asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Do you think this dress is fine?” She asked, adjusting the stiff collar of her dress.

“It’s beautiful. But what a dress to wear in such a weather.” He answered. He was happy with the ironic echo.

“For presentation.” She replied, reassuringly. “Let us adjourn to the other room, shall we?”

She rose up slowly from her seat and walked to the other room as if Gerrit wasn’t even behind her. The other room was a brightly lit, white-paneled alcove at the side of the building that faces the garden, and beyond the horizon lies the countryside. She then proceeded to sit upon a blue, velveteen chair and pointed Gerrit where to sit. Gerrit opened his case, and laid out a set of watercolor paint on a table next to a wooden easel. He placed a canvas upon it and looked at his subject.

“Am I good enough?” She asked.  “Of course.”

Madame Lahaije looked at the boy sitting across her.

‘So young’, she said to herself.

She carefully combed a few strands of loose hair from her teased grey crown and adjusted her collar.

There were a few minutes of silence.  

“Eh-hem.” The lady cleared her throat to break the awkwardness. “Getting impatient are we, Madame?” Asked Gerrit. “No. I understand this will not be fast work.”  “Are you sure you’re comfortable in that dress?” Her eyebrows went up and her eyes squinted.  “Would you rather I take it off?”  Gerrit bit his lips.  “My apologies.”

“You know,” she uttered, her face building up to a slight smile “the last time a man said that to me was my husband, asking me about my wedding dress on our wedding day over 50 years ago. We didn’t have a conventional wedding, you know. My family had disowned me for running off with a man twenty years my senior, and he didn’t have any family left, so it was a few friends and the servants. I remember the dress was white and was very tight. I hated being in it but I looked good in it. Pieter said to me 'Johanna, are you sure you’re comfortable in that dress?’, because he heard me gasping whilst my bridesmaids were closing up my corset. He must’ve thought I was choking or something. It was a humid day, much like this.”

Gerrit’s eyes didn’t turn from the canvas.  “You must’ve looked beautiful.”  “It was a hundred years ago.”  “Oh, I don’t know. You’re still beautiful now.”  Madame Lahaije was not one to take compliments or responded to them, but enjoyed them altogether.

“Don’t you have a girl, Gerrit? How old are you now, 27?”  “28 this October. And no. I don’t have that much interest in courting girls.” “Do you like the boys, then?” She asked mockingly. Gerrit made no response.

“My daughter must be around your age now. I wonder if she’s married.”

“Don’t you keep in touch with her?”

“She hates me so. She lives in America. Ran away 5 years ago.”

“Why does she hate you?”

“Ah, who knows, schaadt. Us mothers do what instincts tell us to. At the end of the day, it’s still a stab in the dark to assume whether or not our children like us. At one point, they will hate you.”

She continued. “I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but she was an accident. I didn’t plan on having kids with Pieter, but then we did. And not long after she was born, he died, which is when I started the business. I made deals with a few men in some places. I took in homeless girls and groomed them. Of course, I am no Saint for turning them into prostitutes. But at least it provided food at the table for them and a roof over their heads and mine, ja?”

“I suppose.”

There was more silence. Madame Lahaije scratched her right eyebrow half-unsure, wondering if the painter will find it annoying that she’s moving around, but there was no response from him. She looked as stiff as a sculpture, like a purple tulip turned upside down, frozen in winter. She was in her mid-seventies then but retained the outline she had in her youth—a dark and well-pronounced outline that emphasized her bones and her heavily-lidded eyes. In her youth, she was a great beauty, though she never thought of herself that way.

Eventually she asked Gerrit ‘normal’ questions—of the weather, of recent happenings in town, and of the interesting stories that happened in her brothel, for instance, the girls who became pregnant would be sent to the abortionist, and those who choose to have the baby will be sent away. She also told him of men who trespassed the boundaries in treating the girls and how often she had to march into the bedrooms and pull them out by any of their parts and kicking them out to the streets. Gerrit nodded and gave some short responses. Madame Lahaije simply went on and on. It was just the way she talked.

“But I do miss Ana sometimes, you know.” Madame Lahaije uttered, wilting a bit. She was talking about the bad economy a few seconds ago. “How can I help it? She came out of my mangy twat and she’s the only family I have.”

“Such are the ties in blood.” Gerrit said.

Madame Lahaije turned back to concrete. “I was turned away by my own mother, left at the backdoor of an orphanage like a grocery delivery.” She said coldly. “The family that took me in, the van der Maas bunch, was more than kind. But I rebelled. I ran away with the painter and never saw them again. I was disowned. So what? I’ve been disowned the minute I crawled out of my mother. I couldn’t stand being locked up in the house.”

“But,” She added. “thanks to the education that they provided, I turned into the woman I am today. I am no idiot like the tarts I employ, who can strut but everything they hear on the right come out of their left. I keep a close eye on my accounts and I know of a great deal about literature, economy, and politics. So I am grateful, I suppose. If I weren’t a lady I’d have gone to war.”

Gerrit smiled.

“My adopted father was a timber businessman. The mother did nothing but groom her daughters, which included me, into fine ladies every single day from the minute she wakes. The brother was, oh, a handsome gentleman. He followed in his father’s footsteps. He died, however, a good six years before I fled. Of cholera.”

Her head was straight and poised, with her eyebrows way up on her forehead.  “He was my first love.” She uttered, and continued. “Mother van der Maas was a strict woman, unlike her husband, who was very much at ease. She was the only sort of mother I ever had, and I was 9 when they adopted me. My need for a mother had rotted years before I met her. Such a shame, no? Nevertheless, I pleased her need for a daughter. Her real daughters, Maria and Nelia, were skittish little things. Very fragile. And so Mother van der Maas took a preference for me. Can’t imagine how she felt when I left them. Mustn’t be like what I felt when Ana left. I remember, I caught Ana leaving with a suitcase in one hand, down by the foyer. I say to her, ‘Must be so easy to leave all this behind’. Well, I thought it, but I did not say it. I simply acted as…a figure of authority, if you must, to this young girl, whom I knew I will never see again or hear from again. She said nothing and left hurriedly. “

There was a silence for a few moments.

"Ah, well.” She shrugged.  “I guess I was never meant to be a mother.”

Gerrit smiled.

There was a silence for a few moments.

Gerrit suddenly rose up.  “I think that’s enough for today. I’ll continue again tomorrow.”

Madame Lahaije was somehow a bit surprised at this but felt settled.  “Fine.”

He draped a white cloth over the canvas and packed his things into the case.

“Same time tomorrow, then?” “Yes.” Answered Gerrit.

Gerrit approached Madame Lahaije, and gave her his hand. Not for a handshake, but for a kiss on her hand. She let him. The kiss was swift, and almost felt like a knife.

“Thank you, Gerrit.”

Gerrit smiled and walked away.

There, in the silence, Madame Lahaije looked out from the window, to the meadow just beyond the house a few miles away.

“What are you thinking?”

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

The Past 

Batavia, New York - Bandung, the Dutch East Indies 1924-1945

The best thing she did was pretending that she wasn’t hurt.

Eleanor had always been a woman with such pride and stubbornness; even when she was a little girl, her mother Ana would chide her for sassing back. Her poor old mother didn’t want to be harsh on her, because her own mother was draconic to her. Ana had three children, but Eleanor, the youngest, stopped becoming her child and became her daughter when she was just six.

Oh, how Eleanor reminded her so much of her own mother. Even when Eleanor was named after her paternal grandmother, her temperament was quite similar to her maternal grandmother, a proprietress of a Maastricht brothel that Ana had abandoned out of spite at the turn of the century.

Before we go to Eleanor, we must learn of the stock that she came from; Ana was born Ana Louisa Lahaije to Pieter Lahaije and Johanna Lahaije (née van der Maas)

Just twenty-one years old back then in 1924, Ana sailed for six days from Hoek van Holland to the shores of America on a migrant ship. As far as she was concerned, she never had a mother, only a cold, leering phantom that she used to see at the other end of a dinner table. It was the prostitutes that worked in her brothel that became Ana’s mothers: Fleurtje was a great cook, Trienke taught her how to sew, Lotte gave great advice, and Madeleine sang songs with her. Johanna Lahaije only did three things for her throughout her life: she gave birth to Ana, she criticized her, and she let her leave. Johanna had caught her leaving with a suitcase at dawn and said nothing. She stood atop the staircase with her claws on the balustrade and she stood by as her daughter, like a deer caught in headlights, fled for the so-called Land of Opportunities. Of course, it was easy to assume that Johanna never loved her. Who knows, right? People tell you ‘I love you’ in different ways.

She had settled in New York and was married into a rather affluent Boer family, the Schuylers. She had married their youngest child, Lucas Schuyler. Her in-laws were the personification of Great White Hunters, who were ‘adventurers’, so to speak, along with their business ventures that took them around the world, while Lucas helped his mother at home and studied architecture in Cornell. Ana became a seamstress and found clientele in the sprawling metropolis, and gave birth to three daughters: Coralea, Miriam, and Eleanor. The Great Depression struck and though they did not suffer too much, the marriage between Lucas and Ana had cracked beyond repair from arguments regarding money to the spoiling of the children.

Lucas, envious of his father and brother’s adventures, decided to leave for the Dutch East Indies, having heard of the nation’s struggles for independence from the colonials that Lucas descended from. Ana refused to go, of course, since she did not drag herself all the way from Europe just to sail to some godforsaken land at the edge of the world. Much to her chagrin, Eleanor went along with her father. She enjoyed hearing the tales she used to hear about her grandfather and uncle, and she wanted to be an adventurer herself. They said goodbye and little Nortje was none the wiser. To the end of her days, she had always been her father’s child.

Eleanor was so proud of herself and her father. She had heard about the Emerald of the Equator from her father, a land so rich and green—filled with opportunities much heartier than the selfish aspirations of America—and thought of her future and the nation’s. One would think that a New York gal would be used to the urban ways, but even her days on her grandparents’ farm was nothing compared to the years she spent in this new land, and she fit right in with all the things other ‘expatriates’ couldn’t stand. They changed their names, too, and their religion. They settled in Bandung and became Muslims, thus Lucas and Eleanor Schuyler became Adam Sutansyah and Laila Mulyati. Mama Ana was not there to reprimand her for sassing, but instead it was Ibu Rosminah, a Sundanese lady so delicate and earthly one would think she was a fairy of the forests. When wartime came and the whites fled, Laila’s family stayed in support of the nation’s independence. The family did not approve of this. She didn’t care. Laila Mulyati did not care.

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

Bandung and Kuningan, Indonesia 1945

Laila met her husband, Raden Bei Prabowo Mangkoedimedjo, in Bandung. Bowo was a neighbor’s pen pal and of gentry birth, and he was instantly head over heels with the dark-eyed Laila, as if a personification of the girl in Panon Hideung herself. They married just as Indonesia gained independence and had twin girls in the following year. Laila was just eighteen when she had babies and it was not easy. Motherhood was something foreign to her and she had to learn it by herself. As nice as Ibu Ros was to her, her volatile relationship with her biological mother was enough to leave her incapacitated when it came to motherhood (mothering, on the other hand, is a different matter altogether). Still, she tried her best. She really did.

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

Kuningan, Indonesia - Boca Raton, Florida 1975

Philomena had graduated from college. Her twin sister Matilda did not stick with her as planned and decided to settle and breed with her high school sweetheart. Philomena did not have the patience to be an egg-brooding hen. She had expressed to her friends that she wanted to leave as soon as possible, especially from her Moes’ smothering. She had chosen to study Sociology at the University of Indonesia and stayed at a boarding house there. That never stopped her mother from dropping in from time to time all the way from Kuningan. She allowed Moes to smother as she pleased because she wouldn’t have to use her own money to buy food when she’s visiting, but it is quite exhausting to allow yourself to be smothered for years and years. Moes overheard this exchange (being the devil incarnate) and the next morning, she told Philomena she is to stay with her Aunt Coralea in Florida for a year.

Philomena was stunned, of course, and before she knew it she was in her aunt’s little condo in Boca Raton. The stay did not prove futile, as she became engaged to Southern aristocracy in the two years she was there. They had two wedding ceremonies; one in the US and one in Indonesia. Moes had a dance class to teach (she taught traditional dancing to the young ladies of Paterosari), so she did not see Philomena off on her day of departure. She hugged Moes goodbye at the door and left. Philomena was none the wiser.

Would you feel hurt telling your child goodbye as she became your daughter?

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

Batavia, New York 1988

Ana’s three daughters came back to New York. Ana had experienced a series of illnesses and was bedridden, so of course they had to settle the estate. When their father left for Indonesia, their paternal grandparents ‘adopted’ their mother and left her the land. The land had been divided and sold throughout the years, and by that time, it was just a small but beautiful piece of land that had been the last home of Ana Schuyler. Her daughters were no longer little girls then. Coralea never married and became a landlady in Florida, so she knew the details of the estate business better than her sisters. Miriam knew next to nothing, having jumped from relationship to relationship and marriage to marriage, hoping that she’d at least get some of her mother’s jewels. Her husbands had always been Dutch men, and Ana refused to visit her in the Netherlands.

And then there’s Laila. She had grown so much from that little girl she saw leaving on a ship with a flowery hat. Still Ana chided her for her sassing even when Laila had two children and four grandchildren by that time, but the years had mellowed them to the point of the interaction becoming in jest. In Laila’s eyes, Ana saw herself, and for the first time, Ana understood her.

She came home as Eleanor. She thought it was the least she could do. She had such pride, that woman.

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

Kuningan, Indonesia 2012

Matilda had died then, of emphysema and lung cancer. Her husband Hugo had disappeared years ago with no explanations, which sent her spiraling to instability. They had four children, and even their children were affected by Matilda’s thunderous descent. She had manic depression, apparently, and Moes remembered she saw the patterns in her own family—the aggression, the moodiness, the pitfalls of depression. It was harder for her to see her daughter suffering than to see her dying, though both practically ripped her apart. Still, she did not show it. Everyone was amazed at her strength.

By the time she was a widow, she had been many things and seen many things. She was involved with revolutionary women’s groups in the past and had joined efforts with other women to fight for the women’s cause in her town—and she understood her privilege as a descendant of colonials. In wartime, she volunteered as a nurse and eventually became one of the most senior members of the Indonesian Red Cross. She hinted, at one time, that she was a spy for the Indonesian rebels, and she defended her medical station from the Dutch with guns blazing. Of course, nobody ever found out if those things were true, but it made interesting conversation in her dance and exercise classes, knitting classes, and bird watching group.

Philomena had buried a husband and divorced two husbands by that time, and she had nothing left to stay on. She had been married long enough to her archeologist first husband to see the world. She had performed in nightclubs, cabarets, and theatres from Las Vegas to Paris. She had discovered a type of lizard in Brazil that was named after her, she had lived through the frigid winds of Siberia eating only dried food, and she even visited the elephant matriarch that killed her Grandfather Thomas in Tanzania. She had a trunk full of pictures, two trunks of knick-knacks, and a lifetime of memories to bring home when she decided to move back to the little town of Paterosari in Kuningan.

For forty years or so, she never stepped foot into her home country. Moes never allowed her, you see. It was always ‘I’ll come over to Atlanta to see you’ or anywhere else Philomena was staying in the US. Philomena never understood why. She never really understood why she was sent off to live with Aunt Lea back then and why, for forty years or so, she was not allowed to return home. As far as she was concerned, she wasn’t a communist connection forbidden to enter Indonesia because of the New Order’s restrictions (though her mother was probably closer to that), so why isn’t she allowed to come home?

It was 2012, and as she walked through the front garden of her house in Kuningan, laden with ferns and devil’s ivy, she decided that this was her last stop. It was as if she had always been there all this time. It was as if she were there just yesterday. Moes greeted her as any mother would, and soon began her readjustment from her worldly past life to her current, more provincial condition. Could it be that Moes was afraid that if her daughter returned home, she would never want to leave again? That she would stick by her dear old mother just to please her? That she would give up her exciting life in the great world beyond for the guilt she felt over leaving Moes?

Philomena never knew, not even when Moes died many years later. She did believe, strongly, that all this time she had been on the longest leash. She and her sister Matilda were her mother’s first and only children. As much as she struggled with motherhood, Moes was fiercely devoted to her children. A lot of this was lost in translation, Philomena supposed, which is why she wanted to leave. Perhaps Moes felt that she did not want Philomena to stick by for her sake. She did not want Philomena staying with her while dreaming of another life, while wondering what could be or what could have been.

Perhaps Moes loved her too much for that, so she allowed herself to be ripped apart for her flesh and blood to be happy. She did live that life, so she did not wonder about what could be or what could have been because she had been, and now it’s over. Philomena thought of how unlucky it is that children cannot choose their parents and how most of the time, it is parents that choose to have children. In retrospect, she was quite thankful.

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

The Future

She would remember, as she lay dying many years later, that she had many names. Eleanor, Nor, Nortje, Laila, Ibu Mangkoedimedjo, Oma, and Moes. All her life she had been known by these different names, and different people called her these different names in different situations. She had learned the pain of having dragged one’s ass from one place to another and the cognitive dissonance of having several names. She was no stranger to ambiguity and ambivalence. She reassured herself, in the silence of her cold bedroom, that it was never anyone’s fault. The broken hearts, the damaged consequences, and the wounded egos—all of them are inevitable in any sort of relationship.

The children were born into this world and they were never theirs to keep. Soon they will build dream after dream, and some dreams are ruined by their parents, parents that they did not choose. Is it their fault? Of course. As adults, they are obliged to be responsible for their actions. Anyone who says otherwise is a goddamn idiot. But then again, there are many ways to say ‘I love you’, and a lot of these things could easily be lost in translation. Does it matter, then, whose fault it was at that point?

At some point, the little eggs must leave the nest, and at that point, they were no longer eggs. What restrains someone from running towards their loved ones who are about to depart as they wave from an airport gate, a train station, behind the fence of an ivy-laced garden, or a wooden door? What difference would that make? Would that keep them at your side for another day? For what purpose?

It is rather difficult to think how hard it was for one to uproot oneself to another place, only for your offspring to come back to the place that was left behind. After all that hard work? What difference would it make?

Well, at one point, one must’ve breathed a sigh that could not be helped. As the world turns and turns you long for it to stop, for you to sit comfortably in your chair without the hours robbing you of your loved ones. You ask whether or not generation upon generation of guilt, of pain, of hurt, of joy, of laughter, and of love was worth all that trouble all your life.

At least she had lived her life then, and most importantly, at least she had come home.

[uncommoncold]

The Assignment

Summary: Professor Park Seonghwa has something to teach his new student, Kang Yeosang, and it has nothing to do with school books.

Word Count: 2.3k

Content Warning: Dom Professor Seonghwa, Sub Yeosang, Nudity, Masturbation

It had taken 3 years to actually get into Professor Park’s class - one he actually needed to graduate. Each semester, it was filled almost instantly and this semester he knew enough to be online the second it came up. It wasn’t until Kang Yeosang got to class on his first day that he saw why it was so hard to get into. Almost the entire class was girls and it was standing room only. Unless the school started overbooking their classes like mad, there was no way that all of the people who turned up to the class, were actually in the class. Spying one seat in the back, he muscled and wiggled his way through the throngs of girls who lingered around the door. Now that he was in the room properly, it wasn’t all girls but more than enough to make him wonder.

The din of people talking and yelling back and forth was nerve wracking and it was doing his head in. The girl who he sat next to did a double take in his direction and offered him a bright smile, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m Lee Soomii.” She said and extended her hand out to him.

He shook her hand, “Kang Yeosang.”

“I’ve heard this can be a really hard class but I’ve also heard Professor Park is a really good teacher.” She commented brightly.

Yeosang nodded. He wasn’t really one for chit-chat and strangers generally made him uncomfortable. After several minutes of trying to engage him, she gave up and looked back toward the front of the class just in time for a small ruckus to break out near the door. It reminded him of the way that seagulls would fight for a crust of bread at the beach. All heads turned to the door and he saw a tall and excruciatingly beautiful man pressing his way through the mob and into the classroom. Could that be the reason for all of the girls? He almost felt sorry for the man as he made his way to the front of the class. He ran a hand through his mussed hair and addressed the room, “I have twenty students in my class this semester and I see a lot more than twenty faces. If you’re not registered for this class, please leave.”

His voice was deep and sonorous and then there was the man himself, he was hard to look away from. He had a presence that just demanded your attention and an elegance to him. No wonder all the girls were mad for him and if he was so inclined, he would have probably been beating down his door as well. Looking at him was almost like a punch to the gut. He tore his eyes away to watch all the disappointed girls filing out of the classroom. With the mass exodus, a few seats opened up in the front and the girl who had been sitting next to him, Lee Soomii, grabbed her things and jumped up to take one of the seats in the very front. He couldn’t help smirking, it was obvious why she was there. Maybe she needed the class too but she was far more interested in Park Seonghwa.

Professor Park waited until the door closed on the last girl, who peeked through the opening of the door as long as she could until it closed. “Sorry about that, it always happens the first couple of days of class. Now let’s take names…”

At the announcement that he was going to call roll, four more girls got up and hurriedly made their way out of the room. Professor Park sighed and shook his head before he started calling names. Amazingly, several people whose names he said weren’t in the class. The room was a good deal more empty than it had been when he arrived, making it look like any other class.

The Professor handed out the syllabus and talked about the class. Bog standard stuff for the first class and then he gave an assignment. He wanted them to choose a book from the reading list and write a paper on the roles of the main characters and the impact that their perceived roles had on the choices they made. Yeosang glanced down at the reading list, there were about fifty books on the list, more than enough to choose from. The only problem was narrowing it down to one. He hadn’t read most of them. It looked like he would be heading to the library after this.

Yeosang looked up, feeling someone’s eyes on him and to his surprise, Professor Park was staring right at him. Mild curiosity reflected in his dark eyes as he looked at him, a small smile quirked his lips before he started talking about grading, testing, and his expectations.  

The hour long class flew by and he found himself already looking toward the next class. It was rare that he enjoyed listening to someone talk as much as he did Park Seonghwa. After he finished his last class, he went to the library and took a look at the books. Most of them were classic literature with a few modern pieces thrown in but they too were considered modern day classics. One drew his attention, it was simply titled Pride.

The book was fascinating, it was a period story set in the mid-Joseon Era. He found himself utterly captivated by the main character and his struggles. He identified with him greatly. However, when it came time to write his paper - he was stuck. He knew how he viewed the character and his position and choices but was it right? He wanted to, no he needed to do well in this class and he found he wanted Professor Park to approve of him but … Would he think his opinion was rubbish? He couldn’t write what he didn’t think because that was a sure way the paper would be shit. He took a deep breath and dove in.

He turned his paper in one day early, with more than a little bit of pride himself. Professor Park returned their papers at the end of the week. From his vantage point in the back, he had a decent view of the papers of others and it seemed like he was a fair grader. Professor Park didn’t give him back his paper, just a note that said - Come to my office after class.

Oh shit.

That was not good. That was really, really not good. With a good deal of trepidation, Yeosang waited through class and with leaden feet, made his way to the Professor’s office. He stood at the door for a solid two minutes before he could bring himself to knock. He noticed his hand was shaking slightly as he rapped on the door.

“Come in.”

Professor Park was sitting behind his desk, there was a stack of papers piled high beside him. His gold rimmed glasses were perched neatly on the end of his nose. When he looked up and saw Yeosang, he took them off and set them on the desk. “Kang Yeosang… Please, come in and lock the door if you would.”

He didn’t question, he just locked the door and walked into the room.

“Have a seat.” Seonghwa gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Do you know why I wanted to see you?”

Yeosang chewed on his bottom lip for a moment before answering. “My paper?”

“Yes. Do you know why?”

“No, sir.” He stared down at his hands, which he was wringing together.

Seonghwa opened his desk drawer and pulled out Yeosang’s paper and flipped through a couple of pages, “The protagonist’s submissive nature was at the heart of all of the choices he made. His secret yearning to be controlled and directed was evident in his actions with the man he wished to be subservient to...”

Yeosang shifted uncomfortably.

“I have to say, that is a unique take on the text. I’ve received probably 20 different papers on this book and this is the first time I’ve seen this take.” He flipped through the paper. It was well written and it was obvious he had read and considered the text carefully.

“I’m sorry.” Yeosang apologized though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologizing for.

“Do you think subservience is a choice or do you think that it’s simply in someone’s nature to be submissive?” Seonghwa leaned back in his chair and crossed one long leg over the other, running his fingers down the crease in the front of his trousers.

That wasn’t a question he had been expecting to be asked. He was quiet for a moment as he struggled for an answer, “Both, I guess. It might be in your nature but you might not choose to act it out or you might choose to fight against your nature.”

“Are you a fighter Kang Yeosang?” Professor Park’s gaze was sharp as a razor.

Yeosang struggled to keep hold of that gaze, he finally looked back down at his hands, “I can rewrite it. If you can give me a couple of days, I’ll have the new one for you Monday.”

He started to get up and walk toward the door.

“Stop.” Seonghwa’s voice wasn’t sharp but it was a whip crack in the quiet room.

Yeosang stopped.

“Put your books down.”

Yeosang put his books down on the nearby cabinet top as he turned back to face Park Seonghwa.

“Take off your clothes.”

Yeosang’s head snapped up and he looked at Seonghwa in absolute shock. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, he just stared at him.

Seonghwa’s expression was mild but there was a light in his eyes that was hard to explain and despite himself, Yeosang found his fingers reaching for the buttons of his shirt and one by one, undoing them. The undoing of each button seemed to take a century, the entire time, his heart was thundering in his ears. Soon he stood before Professor Park in just his underwear.

He was well aware his cock was hard and he was blushing so hard he was sure his face would burst into flames at any moment. He held his hands crossed in front of him, trying to hide his greatly unwanted erection. His head was down, his hair was slightly long, almost long enough that he could pretend to hide behind it. Why had he taken his clothes off? Why had Professor Park asked him to? Why couldn’t he tell him no? What was he doing?

For what seemed an eternity, Seonghwa’s eyes just moved over him. Then finally he rose from his chair and walked around his desk. “You’re a beautiful man Kang Yeosang. Why are you so embarrassed? Don’t you want me to look at you?”

Yeosang held his breath, waiting for Seonghwa to touch him but he didn’t.

He walked around behind him. “Why did you stop? I told you to take off your clothes but you left your underwear on, why?”

Finding words had never been harder, he licked his dry lips and cleared his throat. In a small voice he whispered, “I don’t know.”

“Take them off.”

Again he inwardly cursed himself as he found himself instantly obeying rather than thinking about it. Rather than saying no, rather than leaving, he just took off his underwear. It was impossible to hide how hard he was or how he was leaking. Why was his body betraying him like this? He felt Seonghwa’s lips against his ear then, or almost - he could feel the electricity of his closeness, the heat of him and some part of his clothing barely touched his back. It forced a whimper from him, he willed it back in. He wanted time to go back even two seconds so that he could keep that whimper from escaping. Instead, he bit his lips together.

“How do you feel now? Do you feel beautiful? Do you feel wanted? Do you feel powerful? Tell me Kang Yeosang, is this your nature or was it your choice to stand naked before me?”

He was so confused, was this part of his paper? No, he was sure that wasn’t it but it certainly was spurred on by what he had written. No, this was something else but he didn’t know what. He found himself leaning slightly backward, hoping for the smallest of touches. “Do you want me to touch you?”

Yeosang opened his mouth and then closed it again. He didn’t even have to think about it, he knew he did. What was wrong with him? He didn’t say anything.

“The choice is yours Yeosang, the choice is always yours… That’s your power. Think about that. ” Seonghwa pulled away and returned to his place behind his desk. He picked up his glasses and put them back on. “You can put your clothes back on now. I will be free Friday, if you want to come by. Here’s your paper.”

Yeosang put his clothes back on, he had a very hard time getting his still hard cock tucked away into his jeans. It was extremely uncomfortable. Yeosang reached out and took the offered paper. Seonghwa held onto it, forcing Yeosang to look up and meet his eyes. He must have liked what he saw because he smiled. “I’ll see you in class.”

Completely numb and unthinking, Yeosang left Professor Park’s office and walked down the hallway. By the time he got to the bathroom he was running. He threw himself into a stall and unbuttoned his jeans. He wrapped his hand around his cock and began to stroke. He had never been so desperate to cum. It was the man, it was what he said. It was the way he made him feel. Oh Christ, his head fell back as his fist pumped up and down, he breathed through his clenched teeth. Everything went white behind his eyes and he was sure he was going to die from the force of his orgasm.  

Even as he cleaned up, he knew he would be going to Professor Park’s office again Friday.

Links to my other stories can be found here: Master List

[rosemaidenvixen]

A Secret’s Worth

Chapter 8: Toby and Jim

Ao3

Toby yanked the door open and ran into the locker room. 

Please be there, please be there, please be there.

He made a beeline for the laundry bin and practically dived in head first, frantically rooting through the used towels and uniforms. Two thirds of the way in his fingers closed around the object he was looking for. He went limp with relief before quickly realizing that was a bad idea when he was upside down in a laundry bin; which smelled like low tide on the world’s nastiest beach now that he noticed, and squirmed out. Talk about a lucky break. Toby had been that close to losing his wallet over thanksgiving.

Familiar leather rectangle now tucked safely in his back pocket, Toby started to leave when he heard something from the shower area. Curious, he took a few steps closer.

Someone was talking, based on the pauses between their words they were probably on their phone, but it wasn’t just any someone; it was Steve “Bane of Toby’s entire existence,” Palchuk. 

Toby paused, one foot still frozen in mid-step. Normally he’d be running toward the other side of school right now, but something in Steve’s voice sounded...off.

Maybe he was risking his life and the integrity of his face by hanging around, but the potential for dirt on Steve was just too good to pass up. Squashing down his survival instincts, Toby crept closer, pressing his back against the wall and sliding up to the shower area until he could hear Steve’s voice crystal clear.

“I-- I know you’re busy, with work and important stuff-- but these are the semi finals,” his voice cracked “This is one of the biggest basketball games of the season…”

Toby held his breath and stayed as still as he could. That wasn’t puberty cracking in Steve’s voice, it was emotional cracking. Steve was upset-- no, more than that, it sounded like Steve was two seconds away from bursting into tears.

“Please Dad,” Steve’s voice was quivering so much he was practically whimpering now “I...I really want you to see me play,”

His voice died down, probably because his dad was saying something on the other end of the phone.

Things were silent for the longest time. Then Toby heard the click of a button and the soft rustling fabric as Steve hung up and slid the phone back into his pocket without saying a word. 

Just a sniffle.

Toby couldn’t help but wince sympathetically. Everyone already knew about the divorce, Steve had straight up announced it to the entire class back in eighth grade, but this was something new. And it was no wonder he kept it to himself. Steve might have been his least favorite person on the planet and a world class asshole, but even he didn’t deserve to get jerked around by a deadbeat dad.

Nobody deserved that. 

He shook his head, he could feel bad for Steve later, now he needed to get out of here before Steve saw him and turned him into literal mincemeat.

Toby turned to walk away, only to trip on a mop propped up against the lockers. He looked on in horror as the mop seemed to fall in slow motion, handle landing on the tile floor with a deafening clatter. 

“Who’s there!” Steve roared from around the corner.

Oh fuck.

Toby could actually feel his heart shoot straight up into his throat.

No time to run, had to think of something quick.

Blood rushing in his ears, Toby quickly darted around and grabbed the mop with shaking hands, dragging it several feet closer to the door. He gently set it back down on the floor and shot back upright just as a furious looking Steve rounded the corner. 

He forced himself to act casual despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins “Hey Steve, what--”

Steve charged and grabbed the front of his shirt, slamming him up against the brick wall “What did you hear!”

A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck “Hear-- what? I didn’t hear anything, I just walked in when you--”

The grip on his sweater vest tightened, Steve’s snarling face was inches away from his own “Don’t play dumb with me Dumbzalski,”

Toby held his breath, shoulders pressing into the gritty brick wall. No way to run. And if Steve even suspected he’d overheard he was dead. Like legit dead, as in Steve was going to kill him and throw his body in the laundry bin. The only thing to do was continue to pretend he’d just walked in. But knowing Steve he wasn’t just going to let him off the hook that easy.

All of a sudden it came to him. The perfect out.

Toby snorted and rolled his eyes, doing his best to come off as annoyed rather than nervous “Oh my god it’s the twenty first century Steve, if you and Hank want to make out just do it under the bleachers with everyone else,”

Just like magic the furious look on Steve’s face melted into a brief expression of relief, before he quickly adjusted it into a look of annoyed apathy. And when his grip on Toby’s sweater vest loosened and he knew he was in the clear. 

Toby knew Steve, and he knew that if he accused Steve of swapping spit with another guy, he wouldn’t suspect Toby had overheard his real secret. Steve didn’t believe in pulling punches, and if the roles had been reversed Steve would have thrown Toby’s deepest, darkest secrets back at him without hesitation.

Bottom line, Steve would much rather have people question whether or not he was gay than have anyone learn that he was crying in the locker room because his daddy couldn’t come to his game.

So he could tell Steve was more grateful than angry.

But not enough to stop him from punching Toby in the face.

His head snapped to the side. Toby dropped to the ground with a grunt as sharp pain radiated through his jaw.

“Stay out of my way Tubby! You and that crybaby Lake!” with that Steve turned and left, leaving Toby to pick himself off the locker room floor.

Wincing, he staggered to the door and began making his way to the library.

He prodded the bruised area with his tongue, trying to survey the damage.

His heart plummeted when he felt loose bits of metal, mumbling several words that would’ve had Nana make him put money in the swear jar.

Toby liked to consider himself a reasonably forgiving person, if it had just been bruises he would have probably kept Steve’s secret to himself. But mess with the braces and the gloves came off.

Dr. Muelas might be his mortal nemesis, but even he never charged for repairs when his braces got damaged. The issue was time. Every little error took that much longer to correct and get back on track. And judging by the amount of metal floating around in his mouth right now, this was going to take weeks to fix if he was lucky.

Months more likely.

So yeah, he was definitely telling people about Steve’s daddy issues.

Toby was still grumbling to himself when he made his way into the library and found the table their group had decided to set up shop at. Classes had ended for the day, but their pre finals cramming session was just getting started.

Darci was the first one to notice him “Hey Toby we-- Why are you holding your face like that?”

“Now that is an interesting story,” Toby slid into his seat and pried his hand off his jaw with a wince “You guys are never going to believe what I just…”

He trailed off, noticing for the first time that they were down one person.

“Hey, where’s Jim?”

No one rushed to speak up. The girls all glanced at each other and shared a look in a way that made Toby a little uncomfortable.

It was Claire who ended up answering “We asked him to pick up smoothies from across the street,”

“Oh...you got a smoothie craving?”

“Not exactly,” Mary said, folding her arms across her chest, shoulders squared and head held high “Mainly we wanted to be able to talk to you alone for a bit,”

Right away Toby knew something was up. He recognized that look, that was business-Mary, and business-Mary only came out when something serious was going down “You what?”

Claire let out a deep breath and laid both hands palms down on the table “We need to talk, about yesterday,”

Toby grimaced.

Oh. That.

“Yeah, sorry, Dr. L has always been pretty strict about rules,”

“Uh, that wasn’t strict,” Mary said, voice dripping with contempt “That was full on psycho,”

Claire quickly reached out and grabbed Mary’s shoulder “Not helping,” she hissed. 

Toby felt a pang of defensiveness “Hey, Dr. Lake might be a bit...overprotective, but she’s cool,”

Darci cleared her throat, causing everyone to turn in her direction “Toby, I’ve seen strict, I’ve seen protective, my dad could probably write a book about being strict and overprotective. But the way Dr. Lake acted yesterday was pretty unusual,”

“She...was...probably just tired from work,”

Mary opened her mouth but was held off from saying anything by Claire holding up a hand “Let’s start from the beginning,” Claire shifted her chair so she was now directly facing Toby “You’ve known Jim since you guys were five, right?” 

“Yeah,”

“Has he had the same rules and curfew that entire time?”

“No,”

“So what was different about his curfew when he was five compared to now?” Darci asked.

“Well...you see...it’s more like--”

“Either his curfew changed or it didn’t,” Mary cut him off “Which is it?”

Toby’s face grew hot “Ok, the times he had to be home at never changed, but he got to stay up later and talk on the phone more as we got older, once we even pulled an all nighter in Minecraft back in middle school,”

None of them responded to that, but in a way that was even worse.

Shifting nervously in her seat, Claire continued the conversation “Were there ever any exceptions to Jim’s curfew? Like birthdays or sleepovers?”

“Uh....”

Mary raised a single eyebrow “Toby, have you and Jim ever spent the night at each other’s houses?”

Bile rose in the back of his throat “No,”

All three of the girls stared at him open mouthed.

“You guys literally live right across the street from each other,” Darci said incredulously.

Toby forced out a chuckle, trying to dispel some of the tension “Dr. Lake thinks sleepovers aren’t healthy. Not sure if I believe it but hey, she’s the doctor,”

None of the girls were smiling.

He fought the urge to fidget under their scrutiny. Why did he bring that up? How Dr. Lake did things wasn’t anyone else’s business. Now they were going to think she was some kind of weirdo.

Claire leaned over and laid her hand over his elbow “Toby, I know this is how it’s been for years, but it’s not normal to have a curfew that early, or to be that scared for breaking it,”

“Jim was just nervous because, because…” Toby fumbled for the right words “Jim probably just freaked out because he lost track of time and...panicked,”

His painfully clumsy attempt to reassure the girls failed spectacularly. With every word he said their frowns deepened and the three of them kept flashing suspicious glances back and forth.

And when Jim walked in on them like this it would not be pretty.

He gripped the edge of the table with sweaty palms. Why did Mary, Darci, and Claire have to make such a big deal about this? Yesterday had been bad, but it was just a curfew slip up, that’s all. And sure Dr. Lake’s curfew and rules might be a little out there, but there wasn’t anything wrong with them.

stay here I’ll get the scissors

Right?

*

Jim carefully balanced the bag while pushing open the side door of the school. A brief glance inside revealed all smoothies were present and intact. He hurried up the stairs to the library, mom had agreed to pick him up today, which meant he could stay right up until the last minute, but he still didn’t want to miss a second.

Nudging open the library doors with an elbow, he spotted the table they were all sitting at. Jim waited until he was closer before smiling and holding up the bag in greeting “Hey guys, I got the smoothies,”

They all turned at the sound of his voice and immediately he knew something was wrong. Darci and Claire kept exchanging nervous glances, Mary looked like she had bitten into a lemon, and Toby looked like he was about to be sick.

Uneasy, he pulled up a chair and took a seat, setting the bag on the table in front of him “Is everything ok?”

“We need to talk,” Mary said bluntly.

“Oh...kay?”

Her eyes narrowed “About yesterday,”

Jim did his best not to flinch.

“Sorry I had to bail like that. I’ve set an alarm on my phone so it won’t happen again,”

Jim hadn’t really expected that answer to satisfy them, but part of him was really hoping it would. No such luck.

Darci folded her arms “The issue isn’t that you left early, it’s about how you did it,”

He let out a nervous chuckle “What...do you mean?”

“Jim,,” Claire spoke up “When you ran out of there yesterday, you seemed scared. Really really scared. And your mom was acting pretty strange too,”

A lump formed in his throat “Mom...worries,”

“Worries enough to never let you have sleepovers?” Mary said flatly.

Jim very deliberately did not look over toward Toby, even though his friend was squirming in his seat, and bit back the urge to snap at them that how he and his mom did things was none of their business. 

“Look, that’s a separate thing, me not doing sleepovers has nothing to do with my curfew, and yeah ok, I overreacted a bit, but that’s it,” Jim stopped himself before he could ramble on any more, his voice had already started to rise in volume and pitch. If he started getting worked up it would make them even more suspicious.

For a few seconds no one said anything, then Darci broke the silence “Jim, we’re your friends, you can trust us. If you’re having a hard time or if you and your mom are struggling with something, you can tell us,” she gave him a soft smile “Whatever’s going on, we’re here for you,”

Now all eyes were on him, waiting for his response.

Jim had to hide his hands under the table to hide how badly they were shaking. 

We’re here for you. 

Despite the strained, uncomfortable atmosphere Jim had the hysterical urge to laugh.

He didn’t doubt that Darci spoke for everyone there when she said that, but Jim couldn’t let himself believe it. What happened to him wasn’t like anything they were thinking of. This wasn’t a ‘normal’ family problem like someone getting divorced or sick or moving away. The truth of Jim’s life was so far outside the realm of possibility for Toby, Claire, Darci, and Mary that they couldn’t even comprehend it. 

No one could.

The familiar prickle of anxiety twisted in Jim’s stomach as he tried to think of the magic words that would make them let this go.

How worried they were or how much they cared didn’t matter. If they found out what he turned into every night it would all go out the window. 

The girls would all be horrified, best case they’d run away screaming, worst case they’d call the feds on him. And Toby…

His throat tightened. Jim couldn’t even imagine how betrayed Toby would feel after discovering his best friend lied to him for over a decade.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

He took a deep breath and counted to get his breathing under control. 

There was no reason to start panicking and lose his head like he did yesterday. The girls just thought his mom was going overboard with protectiveness. Not the first people to think that and probably wouldn’t be the last. 

Jim could work with this, he’d been selling that story for years, he could do it again right now. Not lying exactly, just giving them pieces of the truth that fell in line with the idea they already had. 

“Everything’s ok at home,” he started haltingly “It’s just that...with only the two of us….things can get hard sometimes,”

They all stayed silent and watched him expectantly, so Jim continued “Mom only wants me home so early so she can know I’m safe. Yesterday she didn’t know where I was and I wasn’t answering my phone so she got...scared,”

That was the whole truth at least, last night his mom had been the most terrified he’d ever seen her in his entire life.

“Sure it’s not fun sticking to all the rules she has, but if being home at the hours she wants makes things just a little bit easier on her, I’m ok with that,”

He trailed off and everyone at the table shared an uncertain look.

“If you just want to help your mom out why did you have such a major freakout when you realized you were late?” Mary saidin a clipped tone “That seems more like a ‘Call your mom and let her know what happened’ situation than a ‘Ditch us all and run back home’ one?”

Jim let out a sheepish laugh “I’m really sorry I bailed the way I did, I’ve never been out that late past curfew before so when I realized the time I kind of...flipped out, but I promise I won’t ditch you like that again,”

He allowed himself to let out a tiny sigh of relief a little when he saw the girls starting to relax from their tense postures, Toby looked so limp with relief that he was practically sliding out of his chair. Jim was almost in the clear, just had to keep it up and smooth over any lingering doubts. 

“Everything’s really going ok with you?” Claire asked.

“Yep,” Jim said with a nod “I’m doing just fine,”

“Good,” Darci beamed at him “That’s all we wanted to know,”

Toby grabbed the edge of the table and hauled himself into an upright position “So…” he drummed the tabletop with his fingers “Should we get this study session started?”

“Sounds good to me,” Jim said while pulling his textbooks out of his bag, relieved at the change of subject.

Mary tugged a stack of loose papers out of the tower of books and notes sitting on the table in front of her “Let’s start with history first, I just know that Mr. Strickler’s going to make the final brutal,”

The last of the tension fell out of Jim’s shoulders as they all reached for their smoothies and immersed themselves in notes.

Yesterday had been a close call, probably the closest he’d ever had, but he had bounced back from it just fine. Jim gave himself a mental pat on the back for diffusing the fallout so well. Keeping his cool had paid off just like he knew it would. 

His secret was safe and no one was the wiser.

Sure he would have to be extra careful from now on with planning, and hanging out, and making sure he got home on time; but he could do it.

Jim had everything under control. 

[haysconcept]

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#87 pair mid century modern Italian Lounge Chairs

claudio salucchi for sormani

Italy 1960’s

mid century modern lounge chairs from Italian designer claudio salucchi for sormani. Arched, 3 leg, rosewood base with buttoned, upholstered cushions.

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85 Wide x 80 deep x 70 high cm.

[allthephils]

Where Our Heart Is

Rated G Word Count: 1613

Written for @phandomficfests​ bingo for my forever home square

Summary: Dan is in France when their dream house goes up for sale

Read on AO3

Dan was in France when the listing went up. He was meant to be spending time with his family, away from the internet. He was meant to be taking a break from everyday life, focused on nothing more than relaxation, decompression, and reconnection. There was internet in the town though and the whole family would pull out their phones over coffee, modern togetherness. After checking Twitter and Instagram, Dan couldn’t help but do a little house hunting and there it was. The house ticked all their boxes; good neighborhood, big windows, private garden, every single one. 

  He knew Phil wasn’t looking. He just didn’t see the point.. Every house in their price range was highly in demand. It wasn’t like they were going to put an offer on something without Dan seeing it. It seemed masochistic to fall in love with places that were bound to slip between their fingers. When he sent the listing, it was immediately followed by a calendar notification for the showing appointment the same afternoon.

  “I watched the virtual tour. It’s amazing. If it’s just as good irl, this could be our dream home.”

  “So what if it is?” Phil said, “What then?” 

  “Then we make an offer. Fucking quick too. They’ll be a dozen offers by tomorrow.”

  It didn’t feel right but Dan assured Phil there’s always a way out after the inspection. He was adamant that they not let this one pass them by so Phil agreed and booked an Uber to drive him to the house.

  “I’m going to text you a play by play the whole time I’m there.”

  “That’s fine. I’ve got my phone. I’ll stay in town for the signal.” 

  Their estate agent, Cam, is waiting outside when Phil arrives. He’s dressed in chinos and a slim button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He always looks like a businessman who’s pulling an all nighter. He also always wears a smile, always. It must be exhausting. When Phil gets out of the car, Cam rushes toward him, grabbing his hand for a two handed shake. 

  The house is beautiful, modern but not too modern, probably mid century but Phil doesn’t actually know that sort of thing. It sits back from the street so there is potential for a privacy fence if it becomes necessary. Phil stands back and takes a photo for Dan. 

  Cam is droning on about architecture and styles and roofing materials. Phil should probably listen more carefully. He’s stared at the house for a good few minutes but now he’s facing the other way, eyeing the park across the street. That would be a great place to have a run or just an evening stroll with Dan. It would be a good place for Dan to take a walk when he needs to be alone. A park in such close proximity would be especially useful if they have kids. The weight of that thought sits heavy on his chest for a moment and he breathes deep.

  They could have kids. They could have kids and raise them here. Phil scans the park for a play structure and sees one off to one side. He can’t make out the ground material form here. This street is a little busy and there’s foot traffic. Would their kid be able to cross safely to go play when they’re old enough? Is this too visible? Maybe they should be looking in a gated community where no one could spot them and take photos of their family outings. Phil’s heart is pounding when Cam’s hand lands on his shoulder and he jumps.

  “Woah, sorry there buddy,” Cam says, “you ready to head inside?”

  There’s a tight smile on Phil’s lips as he follows Cam to the front door. This part is always so weird. The houses are all staged, furnished like someone very successful and very boring lives here. Phil would actually prefer to view a clean slate but that doesn’t happen in their price range. 

  After an exuberant tour, Phil is fully briefed on every impressive feature the house has to offer. It’s nothing he didn’t already know from the listing. He’s standing in the garden with Cam. It’s lovely and private, big enough for a dog.

  “Cam,” Phil speaks up in a rare quiet moment, “is it ok if I walk through the house alone?”

  He moves slowly through the house, room by room. He runs a hand along the dark wood cabinetry in the kitchen, opens the fridge, turns on the faucet. If Dan were here, he’d be pushing buttons on the very tech looking oven and Phil would come up behind him and kiss his cheek. He’d tell him this is a perfect place for Dan to make him breakfast. He tries to picture it but he’s not sure. Maybe Dan would prefer painted cabinets, maybe the dark wood isn’t modern enough.

  There’s a big space for a table, not quite a dining room but not quite in the kitchen either. They could entertain here, have game nights. The lounge has a gas fireplace, wood would be better. On the other hand, neither one of them is going to want to haul wood into the house. The windows are pretty incredible. You can see clear across the park and Phil bets it would be even better at night. They are exactly what he always wanted, at least he thinks they are. Maybe big windows would be better upstairs, maybe they’d be better facing the garden. His thumbs are hooked in his pockets to keep himself from chewing on his cuticles. His skin feels restless, like it could take off running any minute and take him with it. He sighs and carries on.

  The office is just a big empty room with a window looking out to the garden. It would be good for filming, they could have a few permanent spaces set up, for Phil and for live shows, for gaming. They could make content together again, once they’ve settled in. 

  Wandering upstairs, he finds the master bedroom. It’s nice, the en suite is nice, the bathtub is nice, Phil feels absolutely nothing. His fingers are curled around his phone now, gripping too tight. He’s snapped a photo or two in each room and he sends them now, hoping Dan can give some input, and hopefully, bring some clarity. Phil’s head feels muddled and his heart is just confused. 

  Dan texts as soon as the last photo sends. Looks pretty great Phil.

  I guess 

  There’s a big cushie velvet chair in a very Instagram worthy shade of teal and a bed with a luscious looking white duvet. Phil sits down on the floor.

  You guess? Is there something I’m not seeing? Cuz it looks perfect to me. I think we should do this Phil.

  We’re choosing our home, Dan. 

  I know that Phil.

  We can’t rush it. Phil hits send and then leans back onto the bed behind him and lets out a long slow exhale before typing again. I’m just not sure Dan. It’s too much pressure.

  I trust you Phil.

  I know you do, but I don’t trust me.

  …

  …

  The phone vibrates in his hand. “Dan.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t tell if it’s right for us.”

  “If it’s right, you’ll know. It’ll feel like home.”

  “It doesn’t feel like anything. I don’t think it can feel like home without you here.”

  “Phil.”

  “I know. I know I’m being sentimental and impractical but I want to hold your hand and look out these windows.” Phil’s says wearily. “The kitchen opens onto the garden. I kept thinking about how our dog is gonna run around in the rain and track mud all over the floor. I wanted to say it out loud and see if your eyes crinkle.”

  Dan laughs gently into the phone. “If my eyes crinkle?”

  “Your eyes crinkle when you get feels.”

  “They do?”

  Phil hums a yes. A few moments of quiet pass. It’s a comfort just to have Dan’s soft, barely there breathing in his ear.

  Eventually, it’s Dan who breaks the silence. “Our dog, huh?” 

  “Yeah.”

  “Or our kids,” Dan adds.

  “Yeah.”

  “I just want you to love it, Phil. If you love it, I’ll love it.”

  “Right,” Phil says, “and I don’t know if I love it. I need to see your face light up. That’s how I’ll know.“

  Dan’s laughter is sweet and Phil just knows he’s shaking his head. “We really are co-dependent.”

  “Guess I can never leave you then,” Phil says.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “I miss you.”

  “I know. I miss you too,” Dan says, “Guess we’re letting that house go then.”

  “Guess so.”

  “They’ll be others.”

  “There will.” Phil stands up and heads out to find Cam.

  “Tell Cam to set up some viewings for when I’m home?” 

  “I will,“ Phil says.

  When he gets outside, Cam is on his phone, talking fast about percentages. He nods to Phil with a signature smile and wink. 

  Phil responds by whispering, “I have to go, this isn’t the one. I’ll email you.”

  Cam pouts and starts to end his call but Phil hurries away, escaping an awkward conversation he isn’t ready for. He doesn’t order a car. It’s nice out so he walks to the tube by way of the park, looking back for one last glance at the house before he gets too far.

  From here, it does look like something they’d design in the Sims. It kinda is their dream house. They aren’t looking for a dream house though, they’re looking for a forever home, and they can only find forever together.

  End.

[16reapergrell66]

Happy Birthday Lucio!

Words: 3358

Pairings: Lucio x Wyverne x Midnight

Warning(s): 🍋🍋🍋

Features: Orgasm Denial, Fingering, Food Play, Piercing Play

Summary: The girls wanted something fun for Lucio's birthday before the Masquerade. A nice spread of food and good champagne and themselves. Is Lucio ready for just desserts?

AN: Well this was buried haha. I forgot I had this in my drafts. I'm sharing this now because... perfect opportunity lmao. Midnight belongs to @candygirl3473

It wasn't quite Masquerade festivities in Vesuvia, though the entire city was preparing. The Palace was getting draped in luscious gold and Lucio's signature Vesuvian Red, the many rooms richly decorated in different themes, from bubbles to rainbows to all four seasons. Outside, the gardens were getting the same treatment, the gazebos getting facelifts and topiaries becoming cute animals.

Wyverne and Midnight, Lucio's wonderful Court Magicians, were busy preparing an early birthday night. The room was softly lit with candles, the aroma decadent and rich. Fresh ripe strawberries were arranged on silver, fresh cream whipped to perfection and placed in an ornate, shallow dish. Bubbling champagne was packed in ice, waiting to be opened and shared. The sheets were fresh, soft silk in rich crimson shades, the plush down comforter a dull gold with brushed silver embroidery. Crushed velvet pillows lined the head of the bed, small gold tassels on each corner.

Wyverne had taken one of Lucio's soft cotton suit jackets, the cream standing out against her skin, the dull gold buttons half done. His sleeves were long, slightly bunched at the elbow so the sleeve edge just met the first knuckles on her hands. The jacket hem skimmed her plush thighs, hiking up a touch as she settled herself on the bed.

Midnight had taken Lucio's old mercenary shirt, the bloodstains soft and dull, fabric slightly rough from one too many washes. The sleeves were big and billowy, hanging around the second knuckles on her hands. The hem was around mid-thigh, the fabric gathering at her hips. She walked over his large floor length mirror, giving herself a onceover and adjusting the hems and collars to give a more flattering appearance.

Wyverne had placed the fruit and cream on the bed, shifting the champagne closer to the bed. Midnight climbed on the bed, making sure to not disturb the cream too much as she sat in front of Wyverne.

"Do you think this will work?" Midnight had dipped her finger in the cream and taken an experimental lick.

"Of course! He's been so busy lately," Wyverne replied, taking a strawberry into her mouth. "I don't think he's had time to observe what we've been doing."

Midnight made a slight hum, a sound of probable uncertainty. She had another fingerful of cream, and smirking, she swiped it across Wyverne's nose, following the path of slightly faded freckles. Wyverne giggled, swiping some off her cheek and tasting it, humming with approval. In retaliation, she took the smallest scoop she could get and smeared it along Midnight's collarbone.

Midnight was about to retaliate with a pillow when they both heard it. Lucio's heels slow on the marble floor of the halls, his soft weary sighs from a long, tiring day. They exchanged wide eyes, and Midnight quickly hugged the pillow to her chest, Wyverne scooting up against the pillows behind them.

¤¤¤

Lucio had lazily stretched, stepping out of Camio's lavish birdhouse. It always soothed him, talking to his Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo. His day had been hectic, nothing short of chaotic with party planning and troubles, forseen or not. He had passed his Court Magicians in the halls throughout the day, always wanting to steal quick kisses and soft nips from them, but never having the time. 

He had climbed the staircase to his wing of the Palace, greeting his Borzoi with ear scritches. They groaned in approval, their heads cocked into his hands, savoring the simple act. He smiled at them, and continued to ascend the stairs, giving himself another stretch and a small rub to the nape of his neck. He walked down the long hallway, glancing at the portraits of himself. Maybe he should get some new ones. Replace some of the tacky ones. Get his lovely ladies in some of them.

As he drew nearer to the door, he heard their giggles, their soft squeals. He thought this strangely odd. Camio had definitely said his ladies would be here alone. So what could they be giggling about, sounding so cute and carefree for? He hummed to himself, his gauntlet closing around the handle. He pushed open the door slowly, hoping he wasn't interrupting.

¤¤¤

Midnight had started to swipe the slowly melting cream from her collarbones when the door opened on silent hinges. Wyverne had stopped in midbite of a strawberry, lovely cream against the natural pink of her lips, her heart quickening its pace. They hadn't expected Lucio back, not until later at least.

His silver eyes were wide, a blush starting to form on his high, pale cheekbones. Those minxes! Wearing his clothes, what were they planning to do, make him swoon into the next century? He watched Midnight lick the cream from her fingers, and Wyverne finishing the bite of strawberry, pale red juice snaking down her chin.

"Well, well," he chuckled, leaning in the doorway. "What a lovely surprise. It isn't even my birthday!" He bit his lip, watching him intently, gaze slowly turning molten.

"Well that's true," Wyverne muttered around the strawberry, nibbling on it. She shifted positon, deliberately making the hem of the jacket slip up further along her thighs.

"Maybe we just wanted to spoil," Midnight taunted, sickly sweet. She swiped the cream trickling down between full breasts, suckling it from her finger, grinning at the low growl from Lucio.

"I wonder, should we let him play with us?" Wyverne wondered, a soft huskiness to her voice. "I think we should let him squirm," Midnight responded, letting a shoulder fall, exposing more to his eye.

Lucio bit his lip, his cock hardening. He ran his fingers through his hair, kicking the door closed and tossing his cape on a nearby chair. He took off the sash, undoing the jacket the rest of the way. His gaze held a single command, one the girls knew well. They smirked, devilish little ones as their heads slowly shook back and forth. He had reached the edge of his grand bed at this point, a groan from somewhere deep in his chest.

He watched Midnight take a banana from the tray, freshly peeled. She swirled her tongue tastefully around it, giving him her signature smoulder. Wyverne giggled, watching him squirm as Midnight carefully let the banana slide down her throat without so much as a sound. A sigh left his lips, imagining his cock in place of the fruit, watching as she pulled it from her lovely mouth, her lips turned up in a smirk as she started to eat it. It was all sensual, the way she took the bites, the way her tongue wrapped around each piece, the hums she saved for his cock, the careful swallows, the little lip licks.

Wyverne had grabbed the champagne bottle, the ice shifting and settling where the bottle had been. While his attention was on Midnight, she had taken the gold foil off, and undid the gold cage around the cork. Midnight had given him the last of her banana, not giving him enough time to suckle on her fingers, glancing at Wyverne.

She had gotten the cork out, the sudden action causing just enough of the gold liquid to spray Lucio. She had covered her mouth, eyes wide, stifling giggles, her shoulders shaking. She had aimed well, hitting his bare chest, the droplets running down hard abs. Midnight was practically cackling, falling back onto the bed as Lucio looked down in something caught between amusement and disbelief.

"I-I'm sorry! Are-Are you alright?" Wyverne fought the giggles, barely containing them. She went to touch, to make sure he was ok, when his gentle hand stopped her.

"I'm alright, love," Lucio said with the barest hint of a purr. "Not the first time I've been this wet." He kissed her fingertips, shrugging the jacket off his shoulders.

"If you wanted me bare all you had to do was ask, doves." He worked the jacket down his arms, gently tugging on the sleeve edges and tossing it to the side. He started to lift the dress shirt up over his head, when the girls gently stopped him, lips gently bitten, soft blushes on their cheeks.

Midnight was kneeling on the bed, her hands cupping cheeks, thumbs gently smudging his warpaint. She stole a kiss, her plum colored lips staining his a delicate shade of purple. Her lips parted from his, hands trailing his bare skin, slightly smudged lips meeting his neck. She kissed both warm skin and cool fabric, a lip print shared between fabric and skin. Long nails raked down creamy skin, making him hiss in pure bliss as she licked the scratches, the flat of her tongue tasting sweet alcohol and the tang of blood.

Wyverne was kissing a seam down his abs, hot kisses leaving little marks in her wake. She was so close, her lips hovering over his cock, her hand palming him through the thin material of his pants. His hands were tangled in their hair, a growl starting low in his throat. Wyverne kissed him, just above his cock, barely there, making his hard cock stand out even more, his grip tightening in her hair. One of her signature moans left her, a mixture of a wanton need and sweet bliss.

Midnight was the first to fall back on the bed, legs gently held together, an arm above her head, a finger coyly dancing at the seam of parted lips. Wyverne had giggled, having been picked up from the floor and tossed onto the bed like a child after playtime. Her curtain of curls touched Midnight's ombréd hair, a hand across her stomach and legs splayed. Their breathless giggles died down as Lucio hovered over them, pure lust in molten eyes.

"Such naughty girls, so eager to share me without permission," Lucio purred into their ear. He heard it, the soft little gasps that left their throats as hands trailed their bodies, not quite touching what they wanted, feeling them squirm under him.

He chuckled, something so low it could've been another growl if you didn't know. He slowly sat up, admiring the blush on the girls' cheeks and the smeared plums on Midnight's pouty lips. He reached over Wyverne, his gaze pinning them down as he took a strawberry between his lips. His eye wandered, snaking a path down their delectable bodies, an idea slowly forming. He offered the half bitten strawberry to Wyverne, then Midnight, who gently suckled on his fingers before he pulled them away.

"Up against the pillows, both of you," he told them, voice sultry and low. The girls obeyed, shifting and crawling and pressing back against crushed velvet clouds, enveloped in his scent.

"Now undress, I won't ask a third time," Lucio told, a soft warning at the end. Midnight went first, slowly shifting the large shirt over hips, up soft curves and over soft breasts. She lifted it up over her head, waves of ombré bouncing against shoulders, and quickly tossed the shirt to the side.

A hum of approval came from Lucio, and he tilted his chin towards Wyverne. She went next, slender fingers unbuttoning dull gold. She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, the fabric gently sliding from shoulders, revealing her soft breasts and warm piercings. Her jacket joined his on the floor, the cool air tickling her sensitive buds. He smirked, a low chuckle of approval as they sank back into plush pillows.

"Mmmm, play with your nipples. Imagine how I would tease them, doves," he said, all softness and warmth and commanding lust.

Wyverne started first. Her hands trailed from shoulders to breasts, gently cupping them, fingers easily finding them. She rolled them between her fingers, gently tugging and softly scraping her nails against them to mimic his canines. Midnight mimicked Wyverne's movements, her tugs a little harder, nails flicking against them, trying her best to mimic Lucio's expert mouth.  He smirked, a finger on his lips, watching his name fall, a silent prayer on their lips.

"Wyverne, I want you to touch yourself," Lucio murmured against his finger, watching the way the tips of her ears turned red. "Show me just how much you've missed my mouth against your cunt. Midnight, I want you to watch. You'll do this soon."

Wyverne bit her lip, and turned her head to the side, her right hand snaking down her body, legs apart. Her fingers found herself, a coolness exploring her petals. Wyverne found her clit, less sensitive without a piercing, but still sensitive all the same. She traced circles and lines, her finger tracing her entrance with his name. She tried to mimic his silver tongue, how he explored every inch, how he tugged at her nib with careful attention, nipping and licking and suckling. She couldn't remember when pleas for him started to softly fall from full lips, couldn't remember when his name started to sound like a prayer. Her slick accompanied her moans, making Lucio chuckle and his pants become tighter. When he could sense her getting close, he ordered her movements to cease, chuckling at her frustrated whine.

Midnight drew a deep breath, a smirk from Lucio her cue. She parted her legs, her left hand snaking down her body. She easily found her clit, gently pinching and pulling and massaging, soft gasps and low moans spilling from her lips, chest rising and falling. She slipped fingers inside her entrance, soft sounds of her slick reaching Lucio's ears as she moved two fingers inside herself, his name falling from plum lips, her slick fingers spreading apart pink petals. His name was traced, his title written around her little bud, hips shifting against the pillows, her cheek against her shoulder. Lucio stopped her then, a frustrated moan escaping her.

Lucio chuckled, slowly unzipping his pants. He gently pulled his cock free from tight confines, steadily oozing precome. He caught their eye, how they widened at the sight, slight gasps stuck in their throat. He took two strawberries, swiping them through his oozing slit, giving them to each girl. The sweetness of the fruit mixed with the tang of his precome had them almost melting back even further into clouds, strawberries slowly savored with little moans.

He then took this opportunity, taking the bottle of champagne and gently spilling it over Midnight, watching it cascade down her body. He chuckled at how her monochrome seemed to darken, how she willed herself to not squirm despite the coldness of the drink. He took the dish of cream, taking some with his fingers and dropping a dollop over the dips of her hips.

"Just a simple body shot my dear," he murmured against skin, fingers trailing lines down her skin, lips caught around the swells, tongue lapping against cooled skin. His throat bobbed with each swallow, long tongue swiping the skin clean.

"Lucio!" Midnight moaned, hand curled in thick blond. She had never made this kink obvious, though it had been obvious enough to Lucio to use this on her, with an expert's touch. "Oh, Gods! H-How did y-you-"

"Shhh, snack cake," Lucio muttered against her, reaching for the cream. "Let it happen. I won't tell my Consul, unless…"

A playful smack to his bicep sent him into a chuckle. He took the cream and dipped the head of his cock in, covering it in a gorgeous peak of stiff white. He motioned for Wyverne to come closer, and pulled her hair back gently.

Wyverne swiped her tongue through the cream, wrapping pink lips around him. He hummed his approval, watching her, loving the way his cock looked in her mouth. She looked up at him, taking as much of him as she could, tongue swirling around his length, fists clenched around her thumbs. He groaned, and tried as he might, he couldn't stop a short thrust of his hips, feeling the back of her throat. She pulled away, her own saliva turned cloudy from the cream she hadn't yet swallowed.

Lucio chuckled softly, catching his lip between his teeth. He glanced at Midnight, all lust and desire in molten eyes. She was still in her bliss, her monochrome not quite meeting him, a hand at her hip where he had taken his shot of champagne. He gave Wyverne a silent command, then crawled over to Midnight, settling between her legs. He rubbed gentle circles into her clit with his thumb, rousing her from daydreams with a cracked moan.

"Are you ready for me, my dove?" He teased her entrance with the head of his cock, making her keen. Slowly, he inserted himself, savoring every inch of her.

She gasped softly, gently clawing at his arm. She heard him chuckle against her ear, kissing the shell as he started to move his hips. She moaned, his name falling from her lips anew, his piercings against her walls giving her spots of white across her vision. His lips caressed the curve of her neck, nails raking down his back, drawing faint trails of blood. He hissed at the pain, which only made him try and grind her hips into the mattress.

"Mmmm trying to mark me, dearest?" He started to grind his hips up against her with each thrust, his pace picking up. He quickly changed topic, a smirk on his lips. "I wonder, how the finest wines would look splashed on your skin. What they would taste like, lapped from your skin?"

Midnight's high came all too soon for her. The mere mention of wine spilling against her was enough. Her back arched perfectly, her ankle trailing up the back of his leg. A soundless moan, her lips forming his name but the letters caught. After a few erratic thrusts, Lucio spilled himself inside her, buried to the hilt, cock twitching against her walls as they pulled at him weakly.

Lucio slowly pulled out, kissing her all over her face. Midnight giggled, playfully shoving him over. She slowly sat up, bottom lip catching between her teeth, the coolness from the champagne having turned her skin the tiniest bit tacky.

Wyverne giggled at the playfulness, stretched out on her stomach. She had started to eat a banana, legs slowly swaying back and forth. A soft start of surprise left her lips when she left Lucio settle behind her, his lips tracing her spine. He spread her legs a little, soft touches to her center. Wyverne moaned softly around her last bite of banana when Lucio teased her entrance, her head slightly buried in the comforter.

He chuckled against her ear, slowly easing himself inside. Lucio started to thrust inside her, sweet little moans muffled by the comforter. He tsked, gently raising her head, his index finger teasing her lips.

"No, pet. Let me hear you~" He growled into her ear, kissing her shoulder. His finger found its way into her mouth, her tongue eagerly wrapping itself around his finger. 

Her wanton moans were muffled, her suckling occasionally stopping when he hit this particularly delicious spot inside her. He chuckled, looking at Midnight, challenging her to avert her eyes as Wyverne started to come undone around him, her thighs starting to quiver. She clutched the sheets, her climax slamming her senses hard, Lucio reaching his own just shortly after her.

¤¤¤

The bath was warm, soothing against tired muscles. Wyverne was running her fingers lazily through Midnight's hair, giggling softly as they waited for Lucio. They had made the bath smell like the sea, using some of the Nevivon bath salts on the gold tray by the edge, and a mixture of a couple other vials.

Midnight had run her fingers through Wyverne's soft curls, nails gently scratching her scalp. Goosebumps ran along her skin despite the warm bath, eyes fluttering closed. Midnight smiled softly, running her nails along Wyverne's arm as Lucio quietly entered the water. He kissed their hair, quietly stroking, gently nuzzling. They leaned into him, loving the soft touches, the gentle caresses. Hands through hair, the gentleness of his hands, warmth of the setting sun on pale skin.

"I love you girls," he murmured into their hair, a soft purr to his voice. "This was the best birthday."

[lycorogue]

Latest Story: “I Don’t Care”

I had posted this via an AO3 share on Friday, but it hasn’t had any notes, and I usually get at least one like on my ML stuff. Maybe it’s because it’s a Gabriel and Emilie Agreste love story instead of following one of the teens. Or, maybe because people can’t find the AO3 shares? I thought they were specifically designed to hit the Tumblr algorithm, but maybe I got that backwards?

So, in case it’s because I used the AO3 share button, instead of sharing as I normally would, I’m trying again my traditional way.

Summary: Gabriel Agreste's life was safe, stable, predictable, and boring. That is, until he literally ran into a strange woman at a club; a club he didn't even want to go to. He felt instantly that this Emiile woman would forever change his life. He didn't realize how true that feeling was.

Word Count: 5406; In-Progress

Chapters: 2 out of ?

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences  (mostly because I don’t know where I’ll be going with this.)

Ship: Emilie and Gabriel Agreste

Characters: Gabriel Agreste, Emilie Agreste (before she was an Agreste), and a bunch of OCs. Perhaps Nathalie and/or The Gorilla will make appearances at some point.

You can find the story at my normal 3 spots: on AO3, on FFN, and on DA

In this story, Gabriel is probably about 21 or 22, and Emilie is roughly 20 or 21. Also, since Adrien is 14 in the late 2010s, then he must have been born around the turn of the century. Assuming Emilie and Gabe were together for a little bit before having him, this story is taking place mid- to late-1990s. I’m picturing some time between 1997 and 99.

**Disclaimer: I never intended this story to be more than a one-shot, so I have no clue how frequently I’ll work on it; nor do I know how long it will be once done. This will be a nice palate cleansing side-project whenever I’m stuck in my main writing. So, enjoy this casual ride through Gabriel and Emilie’s romance, and see how Gabriel once was: an actually loving man.

This story actually originated as my Tumblr Exclusive one-off: Stranger in a White Dress. However, I was inspired by Ed Sheeran’s acoustic of “I Don’t Care” and decided to come back to this universe.

For those who wish to read the full story here on Tumblr

Again, “chapter 1″ can be found here

Chapter 2: Alone at a Party

Of course she wasn't there. Why would she be?

Gabriel nodded his thanks to the rented bartender, and walked his glass of whiskey to the far side of the apartment great room. The party was in full swing. A party for someone Gabriel didn't even know. He hated that he let his flatmate Sylvain talk him into coming along. He didn't belong there. He belonged at home.

Or, perhaps with her.

The memory of a slinky white dress and golden Hollywood loose curls flashed in his mind. His phone number on a bare arm. The mysterious fleeing of an astonishing woman. She was his Cinderella, but she hadn't bothered to leave him a glass slipper.

Gabriel settled onto one of the few collapsible chairs scattered about the perimeter of the room. Around him, people were dancing, and laughing, and joking with each other, and catching up on wild tales, and even making out. He didn't want any part of it. In a room stuffed with people, he was alone.

The majority of the party loomed before him. The small rented bar and accompanying bartender were in the opposite corner, past the picture windows and French doors to the balcony. Off to Gabriel's right was the main entrance, constantly flowing with party-goers. There was a chance he'd be able to sneak out unnoticed via the crowd, but if he got bogged down at all Sylvain could spot him and wrangle him back into the party. The hallway behind his left shoulder lead to the bathroom and bedrooms. Gabriel could sneak back to one of them. There had to be an emergency exit; a fire escape or something. He could use that.

Except it was probably off one of the bedrooms, which were all most likely preoccupied already by some promiscuous twenty-somethings enjoying their youth. Something Sylvain swore Gabriel should also be doing.

Gabriel took a sip of his drink. It wasn't top-shelf whiskey, but it was at least smooth with a nice flavor to it. Also, it was free; thank god for hosts who had the decency to set up open bars. Eyeing up the crowd once more, Gabriel plotted his excuse for Sylvain. Would he even notice Gabriel's retreat? He'd most likely go home with at least one person at the party, and wouldn't be bothered to check for when Gabriel made it to the flat. He could just tell Sylvain that he made it home around two. That seemed customary for one to enjoy a "night out."

Maybe he'd go to that club again instead of going home. Could he meet her there a second time? What would the odds be of that? What if she were a university student? Should he walk the campus and hope she's on one of the great lawns? Would he seem like a creep if he did?

First, he had to get out of this blasted apartment.

"Don't have much diversity in your wardrobe, huh?"

Gabriel startled. Something about the voice rang familiar; a tone that he couldn't quite shake out of his head for the past week. He turned, and standing by his right shoulder was the blonde woman he met at the club; the woman he was just thinking of, the woman he couldn't stop thinking about: Emilie.

She had her hair in a ponytail this time, and she wore a simple, Merlot-colored, off-shoulder, long-sleeve t-shirt covered by a deep-dyed, fitted jean vest. Her matching skinny jeans were tucked into black knee-high stiletto boots. A thick, black choker with a silver heart charm dangling from it wrapped around her neck. She looked casual and dressed up at the same time, the gorgeousness of someone who just "threw something on."

She held her warm smile for a few more seconds, but when Gabriel didn't respond, her face fell.

"Oh. Right. The whiskey. You probably don't remem-"

"I definitely remember you." With Gabriel's hand on his lap, he was actually about even with Emilie's hand, which was dangling temptingly by her side. His hand inched across his thigh as he debated wrapping his pinkie around her index finger. Would it be too forward for him to reach out and take her hand? She did kiss him within five minutes of them meeting. Gabriel had no clue what the protocol was for their relationship, if one could even call it that.

Emilie's smile returned, and she sat in the chair to Gabriel's left, forcing him to pivot again to keep eye contact.

"You look like you're having a good time," she teased.

Gabriel huffed. "Flatmate's idea. He's under some impression that he's in charge of my social life, and that I don't have enough of one."

"I have no clue where he could get that idea when you clearly give off such party-animal vibes." Emilie gestured at Gabriel's khakis and rust-colored cable-knit sweater over a white button-down.

"That's true." A smile started tugging at the corners of Gabriel's mouth. "Did you know, a sweater fairly similar to this very one got me ambushed by a complete stranger last Saturday?"

Emilie laughed as a pleasant blush pinked her cheeks. "What can I say? Thick sweaters are like catnip to me."

They shared a short laugh. Emilie inched closer, and crossed her left leg over her right knee. As she settled, her left toes brushed against Gabriel's shin.

"So, tell me about this flatmate of yours. He just kick you out the door like at cat at night?"

"No. He's here. Dragged me with him to this party."

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Emilie popped upright, planting both feet to the floor. Gabriel instantly missed the feel of her boot against his leg. "I didn't realize he could go invisible!" She leaned around Gabriel, to where she was standing when she greeted him. "How do you do, Mr. Flatmate." She smiled at the air.

"What on earth are you doing?" Gabriel glanced past his shoulder – half expecting to actually see his flatmate standing there – before staring back at Emilie. "Of course he's not invisible, what kind of nonsense is that?"

"Well." Emilie squared her shoulders and puffed out her chest. "I thought to myself 'Gabe's flatmate brought him here, and yet I don't see him. So either he abandoned his flatmate while at this party, or he's invisible and I was rude to have ignored him this long.' I simply went with the more pleasant answer." The right side of her mouth curled up in a playful smile.

Gabriel laughed and shook his head. He took another sip of his drink before using the rocks glass to gesture towards the cleared out living room floor. A small mob of party goers were dancing, but they were too tightly packed for Gabriel to find Sylvain within the pack.

"He's in there. Somewhere."

"Did he even last ten minutes before lassoing some cutie to grind against?"

Gabriel choked on his sip of whiskey, coughing it back into his glass. He let out a few more chuckles.

"It's fine," Gabriel told her lightly. "It just means I can sneak away without him realizing I cut out early."

"Oh? You're leaving so soon? But I just re-found you."

"Well, I-"

"We can't have that." Emilie stood up and grabbed Gabriel's drink from his hand. "Whiskey again?"

Gaping, Gabriel slowly nodded. Emilie shrugged, and then downed the rest of his drink.

"What are you-?"

Emilie placed Gabriel's now-empty glass down, grabbed his hand, and tugged him out to the dance floor.

"Come on, you have to at least have some fun before you run away."

"Who said I wasn't having some fun just now?" Just like the first night they met, Emilie easily flowed through the crowd, whereas Gabriel, dragged behind her, bounced off nearly every person they passed.

"We didn't dance at the club. We should dance here." She halted to the right of the crowd. Her chest rose and fell like she was panting, even though they didn't do anything terribly strenuous.

"First of all, we didn't dance because you mysteriously disappeared back onto the dance floor without me, and without so much as a proper goodbye. Secondly, I don't dance."

"Alright. I accept your first point, but I refuse to believe the second one. Everyone dances, even if it's goofily while alone in their bedrooms."

"I do structured dances; ballroom dances."

"Ballroom?" Emilie nearly screamed with surprise. "Alright, that I definitely have to see. I doubt they'll let us put on Chopin, however. Either way, it still means that you do indeed have a sense of rhythm. So, come on, don't be shy."

She started bobbing her head and shuffling her shoulders to the synth beat of the club music playing. Adding in some snaps on the downbeats, she wiggled her hips. Raising her hands over her head, Emilie slinked around Gabriel as she danced. As her hip passed his, she bumped them. With a quick spin behind his back, she bumped his other hip with hers, then continued to dance in front of him.

Gabriel was thrown off balance with each hip bump, and not just literally. The contact from her short-circuited him each time. All he could manage was dumbly watching her dance before him. Suddenly, he once more wondered what he was doing at that party; with her. At the same time though, he didn't wish to be anywhere else.

"Well?" Emilie giggled, "Are you joining in?"

Gabriel bashfully shook his head. "I told you, I don't dance."

"Actually, quite the contrary. You just told me that you do dance. So let's see it." She then smirked and grabbed each of Gabriel's hands. "Here, I'll even help you get started." She altered pumping each of their arms over their heads, then she leaned away from him so she could wiggle their arms as if they were swinging double-dutch rope.

"What are you doing?" Gabriel laughed.

"Helping you dance to prove that you can do it. Your shoulders are still a bit stiff though." She dropped his hands and instead grabbed his shoulders to shake them to the rhythm.

He laughed harder and grabbed her hips to try to stop her. Instead, she smirked and rocked her hips more enthusiastically. Her own hands shifted from his shoulders to the sides of his chest in an attempt to get that to move as well.

"We look ridiculous." Gabriel shook his head, and stubbornly didn't move his feet.

"Exactly! That's how you know we're having fun."

"Okay, enough 'fun' though." Gabriel chuckled and pulled her against him so she had no room to keep moving. It kept him a second too long to realize what he had just done.

They stilled as they stared at each other, their arms wrapped around each other's backs. Somehow, Emilie's jade eyes seemed a richer green than Gabriel remembered. The scent of lavender enveloped him. His body burned, and their chests rose and fell in sync.

A smooth jazz song with an electronic bass started up, causing the crowd to slow down and pinch close to each other.

Very much like how Gabriel and Emilie already were.

The song was in three-quarter measure, and had a sultry flow to the notes. Gabriel eased at the familiarity of the rhythm. He pulled Emilie's left hand off his back, and placed it on his right shoulder. He then tugged gently on her right elbow to coax that hand off his back as well. Sliding his fingers down her right forearm, he took her hand in his.

"Gabe?"

He smiled and gave her a quick wink. Mentally counting the start of the next measure, he began twirling her around their little circle of the floor. He smoothly lead her in a simple waltz. There was more space between them then there was a moment before, but somehow it felt more intimate; dancing with her like that. Her eyes enlarged and sparkled as a grin grew wider and wider across her face.

"Does this mean I know how to dance the waltz as well?" Emilie teased.

"It means you have a good partner."

She bit her lip as her smile kept crawling up her face. "I do, do I?"

Gabriel blushed and averted his gaze. Emilie quickly cupped his chin in her left hand, and redirected it back towards her. Running her fingers along his jawline, she then brought her hand back to his shoulder so they could continue dancing.

"Tell me about this mysterious flatmate of yours. Why does he feel like he's your keeper, and why the need to force socialization onto you?"

"He's one of those exhausting people-persons who needs stimulation every waking moment, and he's quite confused as to how I can enjoy our little flat, and be content with just my drafting table. So he shoves me out into the world and demands I take part in it."

"Drafting table? Are you some sort of architect then?"

"Fashion designer. Aspiring, at least."

Emilie leaned further away from him, eyed up his outfit, and giggled.

"Please tell me this isn't one of your designs."

"What's wrong with it?"

Emilie grew red, and pulled against Gabriel's hold, trying to shrink away from him. "Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to insult you, I just figured the outfit was sort of plain, especially for a party like this. But I'm wearing a t-shirt, so I shouldn't judge what's fashionable. It was so insensitive of me, I just-"

Gabriel burst into a laugh. "I was just joking." Emilie backhanded his shoulder, and Gabriel reflexively muttered 'ow.' He laughed a bit more at her surly pout, but quickly settled. "I focus mostly on women's clothing designs, although you are probably right that I should start dressing the part a bit more myself. I might have to branch out into men's clothes as well."

Emilie's head slowly rocked side-to-side as she studied him. "You know, your blue eyes are almost a silver color."

"They are?"

"Yep. You would look really sharp in an ivory, or maybe a nice royal purple. It would really make your eyes pop."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

Gabriel pressed gently on Emilie's back, directing her into a spin under his arm. He held her at arm's length, and she leaned away from him, waiting to be pulled back in.

"Why did you let him bring you here? Your flatmate. If you weren't going to enjoy yourself at this party, then why come? Why not stay at your drafting table designing the next great fashion trend?"

Gabriel tugged gently to again spin Emilie under his arm, and caught her back in the standard waltzing pose.

"He was persistent. Also, perhaps a part of me hoped I would stumble into you again."

"You didn't even know I'd be here. I bet you can't tell me who invited me to this party."

"That's true, but it had been a week, and clearly you didn't need more cheering up. So, I decided to leave our meeting up to Fate, and Fate seems to have delivered."

"So you're saying it pays to leave the flat every now and again."

"In this one instance, yes, but don't let my flatmate know, otherwise I'll never get any rest."

"I'll be sure to avoid the topic, however I still don't know who your flatmate even is."

"Good. We should keep it at that."

"Afraid he'll whisk me away?"

"More that he'd scare you away. He's a bit... intense."

"Damn extroverts."

"Precisely."

Emilie giggled as the song ended. Tucking a non-existent stray strand of hair behind her ear, she tugged on Gabriel's hand. Silently, he allowed her to lead him out onto the balcony.

"You have a thing with balconies, don't you?" Gabriel hung back by the door as Emilie continued towards the railing.

"I enjoy taking in Paris. Your flatmate is right; you need to be out in this glorious city, not trapped inside with a drafting table. How could you not be inspired by all of this?" She swung her arms wide as they overlooked a sea of dazzling lights.

"It's not much different than the view I have by my drafting table. I did make sure to place it by a window."

"But it's not just the view! It's the people! The experience that is Paris!"

"The experience? You sound like a tourist."

"That's the point!" Emilie grabbed his hands and pulled him to the railing. She then gestured out towards the grand view, pointing to a large spire poking out in the distance on their left. "The majesty of the Eiffel Tower." She then pivoted Gabriel to face to their right. "The romance of the Love Locks on Pont des Arts." She stretched in front of him, pointing to the large tower looming just past their peripheral on their right. "The breathtaking views of Paris seen from atop Montparnasse." Gesturing to her left again, she pointed in a vague direction. "The history of the Place de la Concorde."

"You don't know where the Place is, do you?"

"Eh, it's over there somewhere." She wiggled her fingers roughly straight ahead. "I'm not the best with cardinal directions. I do know it's to the east of the Eiffel Tower."

Gabriel smiled, keeping his eyes on Emilie instead of the view she was trying to show off.

"But it truly is the people of Paris that makes this city special. You have to walk among them; greet them; rub elbows with them-"

"Kiss them?"

Emilie blushed. "Uh, about that. I didn't mean-" She turned towards Gabriel, and found him pressed against her side. "-to, uh, offend." Gabriel leaned in, and her blush deepened. "I'm sorry I never called you."

"Did you not want to?"

"No. I did. I wanted to so badly."

"You don't seem the type to hold back when you want something."

"You had been drinking. I didn't know if you'd want to hear from me again. Didn't know if you would even remember me."

"I don't think I could ever forget you." He ran his hand across the railing, and rested it on top of hers.

Emilie's eyes darted to his hand, then back up to meet his intense gaze. Her hand grew hot under his. Her lips parted slightly; welcomingly. Gabriel ran his index finger across the edge of Emilie's swooped bangs, following their line to her ear. He then brushed his thumb down the side of her face, their eyes never breaking contact. His thumb continued across her chin, and stopped just below her lips. He could feel the gloss of her lipstick, and wondered if it tasted of anything. Maybe the remnants of his whiskey that she had downed before they danced.

Emilie closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached out to kiss the tip of Gabriel's lingering thumb. It made his own breath catch.

"We both had some whiskey this time," Gabriel whispered.

Emilie hummed in response.

"I don't think that's why I feel drunk though," he continued.

Emilie's breath was sharp and loud. Her eyes darted open, and her hand wrapped around the nape of Gabriel's neck, pulling him hungrily down to her. Gabriel's hand quickly shifted to Emilie's back so his thumb wouldn't be in the way.

She seemed so tiny in his hands, and yet she was so fierce. He still barely knew her, but he wanted to more than anything else in the world. Every second he was with her, he craved more. He hated the world, hated being in it, but he'd gladly stand in the middle of a crowded Tokyo if it was to be with her.

He didn't understand what his appeal was to her, but he'd figure that out as well. He'd learn everything about her. He'd spend the rest of his life as her student; mastering every nuance, every scent, every movement, every tone, every kindness, every flaw; everything that made up Emilie.

They pulled apart after Gabriel had no clue how long, but he knew it was too soon. He rested his forehead against hers, his thumb running across the hand still tucked under his.

"I think you should give me your number this time, since clearly you can't be trusted to pick up a phone."

"Does that mean you'll leave your Fortress of Solitude again; join society?"

"As long as it means spending time with you."

She smiled and pulled away from him. She slinked her hand free of his, and held it palm up to him.

"In that case, I hope you have a pen on you."

[thegraypope]

New Haven Chapter 1

A feminine figure, clad in all black and carrying a sniper rifle, walked alone down a dank, shadowy corridor. The only light coming from holes in the roof and broken windows in side rooms. The woman arrived at a usually non-descript door, the only unique factors it had being that it was in one piece and was still hanging in its frame. She slung the rifle over her head and right shoulder, onto her back and raised her short bodied assault rifle. Her left hand pushed on the door slowly as her raised rifle methodically scanned the room. Inside was a waiting area for a series of offices, the room was dark and almost untouched by the chaos raging around it. The woman rifled through the desk and draws in the waiting area, finding nothing but a few energy bars passed their sell by date and a half full box of battery packs. She threw them into her satchel and began to drag the desk to the door she came through.

She gave a final, hard push and the desk rested flush to the wall. She picked her rifle up from its strap on her chest and pointed toward the offices and corridor and began to walk, slowly toward them. The woman checked each individual room methodically, propping each door open with a chair or piece of wood and continued to the final room. The last of the offices was at the end of the corridor and to the left slightly, giving the entrance some extra cover. The woman looked over the door and placed her left palm flat against it and slowly pushed, her rifle once again scanned the room.

The room was, as were the others, empty save for the furniture. The window was grimy and dust had caked the outside so thick that it had become opaque. The woman pulled down the mask that had covered her mouth, revealing almost porcelain skin. She pulled down her hood, her copper hair glistened and her blue eyes shimmered in the light. She placed her sniper rifle and rifle onto the floor behind her as she pushed a filing cabinet onto it’s side and across the door. She piled the rest of the furniture on top, except for the desk and a table holding a small fish tank and wilted flowers. She placed the flowers and fish tank on the floor and pushed the table up to the window, draping the curtains over it to make a blind. Once the room was ready she lay on her belly under the table and pulled out her combat knife. She ran her knife through a lock on the side of the window, eventually breaking it. She turned a mechanism which span several small vertical pieces of glass in place. She used her knife to leverage five pieces in the middle of the room out of the frame. As she looked down to the street below she realized that the tenth floor was higher than she had thought and stared down for a few seconds, taking in the destruction of the adjacent buildings and the calm, still chaos of the scarred street. She climbed out of her hiding place and took a breath, grabbing her sniper rifle and rifle, lying them down under the table.

She stood and stretched, letting out a deep, tired sigh. Her hands quickly went back to work, removing her body armour, followed by her jacket. She rolled the jacket up like a pillow and placed it next to her rifle, the armour was rested against the fish tank. ‘What did I put all that shit by the door, I need to get out that way.’ She muttered to herself before removing the debris from the door and piling it in front of the window. She took her pistol from her thigh holster and brought it up, she moved to the door and slowly opened it.

There was still nothing in the corridor. ‘I need a bed and I am not sleeping on an office floor.’ She mumbled again, her face never changing from blank determination. She looked down the corridor and saw that the door was still barricaded and put her pistol away. She walked up to the sofa she had passed in the waiting area and grabbed the four cushions which made the back and base, dragging them to her room. She placed them in a corner away from the window and went out of the room again. She looked in each room and found one with a set of floor-to-ceiling curtains, she gave them a hard tug and carried them into her room. One of the curtains went over her makeshift bed and the other went into her firing position. She kicked her bed into an acceptable shape and lay down next to her sniper rifle.

She scanned the street below for any enemy movement, it was a dead zone of corpses and heavily damaged mechs, tanks, trucks and cars.  She sees a shadow twitch, maybe a trick of her tiring eyes but she must check. She traces her rifle over a heavily damaged Templar suit, slumped over the rear of a car. She sees nothing, then the horns and spines of an alien trooper appear from behind the car. She opens fire, her shot landing exactly where she put intended, the round pierced through the car’s body work and straight into the alien’s head, a spurt of blood and matter into the air gave her the signal that she hit. She moved her eye slightly away from the scope and looked out onto the streets, four more aliens were running onto the street. The aliens had appeared from a door way just off the street and were sprinting towards their dead comrade. Their heads were heart shaped with a horn which sat flush to their face from chin to just above their forehead, creating a spear shaped protrusion. Behind their horn were five sensory spines which ran from the horn to the base of their skull. The Aliens were never well armed, armour was scavenged metal from areas they had taken; their fire-arms were no more advanced than those of the mid twentieth century. With little difficulty her rifle took out the rear three but missed the fourth, who had dived down to the car. She traced along the car as the alien’s horn bobbed up and down. The horn disappeared behind the templar suit “Shit, my rifle can’t take crack that thing’s armour.” She presses a small switch on a rail attachment to her assault rifle and leans away from the snipe rifle, picking up the assault weapon. Looking down it’s sights, she pushes another button on the attachment and a thin red laser fires out. After a few seconds, an aerial drone flies out of the building below he and hovers near to the car. It slowly moves around the car and opens fire on the hiding alien. The alien trooper jumps up and in that split second the woman fires two shots at it, one hits the head and the second hits the chest and the alien falls to the floor mid run.

The woman traced her rifle over the rubble of the buildings across from her and found nothing, she looked toward the alleyway the aliens had appeared from and, again, found nothing. As the light began to die off and into night she pulled a piece of wood across the front of her hiding place and backed away from the sniper rifle.  She picked up her Assault rifle as she came to her knees outside of the hide and tumbled forward onto her new bed she whispered “Night shift,your turn.” She lay the assault rifle next to her and pulled the curtain over her body, falling asleep in seconds.

[kee-writestrashh]

Guns for Hire

Ramsay Bolton x Reader

ao3

Summary:  You are the wife to the Heir of the Red Kings, Ramsay Bolton. living the undercover life of a mob wife has its perks, and you love your husband. But you find out something that seems to unfold a series of unwanted events…

Chapter 45: Good Time

It had been a long time since all the Boys were together in your presence. But last time wasn't as awkward, as you all sat there around Ramsay avoiding eye contact, waiting to see who was going to finally break the news, as Ramsay rested his head back into the couch, eyes closed, and rambling possible plans off to the ceiling.

Finally you sat up straight and cleared your throat, placing your hand gently on his knee, "baby, you do know it's Sunday, right?"

Ramsay picked his head up, throwing his eyes open, and jumping up.

"What? Do you mean to tell me, Matt, that you want to rob a bank on a Sunday?"

"I didn't want to rob a bank at all!" Matt said weakly, cowering in fear.

"I mean, we can just hack and wire shit, if you want, boss." Ben suggested.

"No. That's the problem with this hi-tech twenty first century bullshit. It's making us lazy. Someone pull me up a list of the banks in the city." Ramsay said, taking his seat again. "Kid, go check my mail."

Matt made to stand up, before stopping half way, "but it's Sunday. The mail doesn't run on Sunday."

"Exactly. Now, go check my mail."

"But... You don't even get mail here!" Matt said, confused and baffled.

"For wasting my time, I'm going to waste yours. Go check my mail or I will knock you the fuck out." Ramsay leered.

Matt swallowed and left through the front door.

More awkward silence as Yellow Dick handed Ramsay his phone.

Ramsay sucked his front teeth, pulling his own phone out and dialing a number.

Matt came back in and sat back in his chair with a small sigh.

"Well?" Ramsay asked, looking up from both phones.

"No mail today, boss." Matt mumbled, shaking rain out of his hair.

"Kid, for your mistake we are going to up the stakes a bit." Ramsay said, finally hitting call, speaker, and holding the phone tight as he rested his elbow on his shoulder. He sniffed, rubbing his nose against your shoulder with a groan.

"Nine one one, what's your emergency?"

"Yeah, just wanted to let you know, tomorrow, around lunch... not sure what time yet... I'm going to rob a bank. A Tyrell bank. That narrows your search down to six in the city. I'm taking no hostages. Tell your cops good luck."

You stared at Ramsay, jaw dropped, as he hit end and dropped his phone in his lap, handing Yellow Dick his phone back.

"Are you insane?!" You cried, throwing your arms up.

"A bit." Ramsay chuckled, looking at his group of men, "dinner then, since we're all here?"

There was a murmured agreement. As if they were going to say no. You sighed, you had really not felt like cooking today. A nagging headache was forming in the back of your head. You hit the Home button on your phone. It was only two in the afternoon.

You rose from the couch, looking out the window. Torrential rain and howling wind. You gave a shiver. You walked into the kitchen, leaning in the pantry doorway, blindly looking at boxes, cans, and spices.

"Call nine one one... what an idiot." You muttered to yourself with a sigh, turning back to the main part of the kitchen and glaring at the stove as if it would start cooking of its own accord if you gave it a mean enough look.

Moose sat at the backdoor, watching you closely.

"I wouldn't advise going out there right now." You said, frowning at the dog who whimpered, laying down under the table.

Again the pouring rain caught your eye and dinner came to you.

×××

"The fuck is this?" Ramsay asked over your shoulder, looking down into the pot.

"Chicken and dumplings." You said with a bright smile. "You'll like it. I promise."

Ramsay gave you a disbelieving look and sniffed.

"Now, while I have you in my clutches," you hummed, turning to face your husband completely and grabbing him by the front of the shirt, "Why are you robbing a bank? You're sick as fuck. What are you going to do, walk in there and sneeze on them until they give you the money?"

Ramsay gave you a reproachful look, "No. That's rude and gross. I'm not a monster, doll."

He grabbed your wrists and squeezed until you made a noise and released your grip from his shirt.

"I'm robbing a bank because I want to. Because I can." He said as if settled the matter.

"Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. What if you get caught? Baby, that's easily twenty five fucking years in the pen. I'm pregnant with your child. What about him? In case you hadn't noticed we are four days away from March. I only have four months left, and I haven't prepared for anything. You won't even give me a name!" You said, suddenly becoming emotional as you got all the frustration off your chest.

His grip on your wrists tightened further and he examined you closely. "I won't get caught. There is plenty of time to get ready for our child. And... I'm working on it."

He released you and crossed the room to the shelf that held all of the liquor bottles.

"If you don't hurry up and give him a name I may just name him Domeric." You said sourly.

He slammed the bottle in his hand down on the counter. You heard the crack in the thick glass as he turned slowly toward you.

You swallowed hard, holding your head high. That was all you could do.

"What did you say?" He growled menacingly.

"Nothing, baby." You said quietly, dropping your eyes to the floor.

"No. Go on. Tell me what you said." He said, taking a step toward you.

"I'm sorry baby. I didn't mean it." You said quickly, rooted to the spot as he advanced on you.

Too soon he had reached you, grabbing your face in his hand. You shut your eyes tight, not sure what to do.

"Now baby girl, what did you say?" He whispered, every syllable shaking in a suppressed, quiet anger.

"Nothing baby. I'm sorry. Really. I didn't mean it." You whimpered.

His grip tightened, "What did you fucking say?" He shouted.

You opened your eyes, looking anywhere but at Ramsay. You caught sight of Damon, standing in the doorway, clearly coming to see what the problem was.

'Don't fuck up.'

You swallowed and looked up at Ramsay. You took a deep breath, "I said, if you don't hurry up and give me a name I'm going to name him Domeric."

Ramsay released you with his trademark smirk in place. He ran his thumb over your cheek. "See? Was that so hard?"

Relief washed over you, and you felt a bit weak all over as he turned away from you and finished pouring his drink as if he had not just shouted at you and probably ran over fifteen different ways to kill you in his mind.

You sunk into the closest chair, staring at the floor.

Ramsay turned back to you holding his glass and opened his mouth to speak and stopping mid word formation as his eyes watered and sneezing with so much force he dropped his glass.

You sucked in a small gasp as he turned his eyes to the broken glass and liquor seeping into his shoe. He clenched his jaw, eye twitching, and took a deep breath through his nose, or attempted to as it was stopped up.

"I got you, fam." Damon said, taking a step forward, but Ramsay just held up his hand. Damon stopped mid step. He exchanged a look with you.

Ramsay took another deep breath, pulled his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. He slowly pulled a smoke from the pack, and just as slowly lit it, pinching the bridge of his nose.

It happened like a flash of lightening as Ramsay smashed the bottle and put his fist through the wall, turning on his heel to leave.

You caught the words 'not drunk enough to deal with this bullshit' as he left the kitchen.

Quickly, you stood and turned off the stove, grabbing the roll of paper towels.

"(Y/n), I got it." Damon said, taking the paper towels from you.

You gave a small smile, glancing at the hole in the wall, before leaving the kitchen to find your husband.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, changing his shoes.

"Baby, I'm sorry." You said quietly, snapping the door shut behind you.

He glanced up at you and shrugged. You frowned, stepping into him and pulling the cigarette from his lips, placing it in the ashtray and taking his head in your hands.

You climbed into his lap, straddling him, and kissing him deeply.

He opened his mouth under yours. He was fevered again. But his mouth was so comfortably hot as you ran your tongue over his.

You pulled away from him with a grin.

"Hm?" He hummed.

"I was just thinking how good your tongue would feel against me. You're burning up." You purred, nipping his bottom lip.

He ran his tired eyes over you, "is there time for you to find out?"

"Only if you feel up to it, baby. I know you feel like shit." You said, running your hand through his hair.

He shifted you lay you on the bed, yanking your pants down. He ran the side of his hot face up the cool skin of your thigh, giving you the chills.

He brought his eyes to yours as he slowly parted you with his tongue.

You let out a gasp, grabbing at his hair and shoulder, pushing your hips up.

"Baby." You murmured as he pushed his tongue inside you.

He made a noise, the thrum of his lips making you shiver and moan.

He took your folds gently between his teeth, tugging lightly.

"Harder." You panted, swallowing hard and closing your eyes tight.

He pulled harder, releasing you to dart his tongue over your sensitive spot.

"Mm. Right there daddy, don't stop." You whispered, pushing yourself further into his face.

As he continued to fuck you with his tongue, he slowly undid his pants and struggled to get out of them.

He crawled up your body, placing his lips harshly against your neck and taking your skin roughly between his teeth.

He aggressively worried a hickey on your neck as he buried himself into you.

You both let out deep moans as you ground your hips against him and finding a deep, rough rhythm with him. Warmth and needing filling you, as you felt his body quake as he pushed himself relentlessly into you.

His breathing came ragged and shallow as he broke out into a furious sweat, grinding his body against yours, biting roughly at your skin.

You clawed at his back under his shirt, arching yours as you clashed your hips with his. It was slightly uncomfortable as your pregnant belly was very much in the way. But you pushed this discomfort away as you continued to claw at his slick, sweaty skin, failing at keeping the noises of lust and needing from escaping you, and pushing your hips into his as roughly as you could.

"Let go, baby girl." He panted in your ear, bringing his thumb to sweep across your clit.

"Harder." You panted back, dropping your hand to tangle with his as he rubbed firm circles into your sensitive bud.

You drew a breath, momentarily forgetting how to breath as you reached your orgasm, with a moan, body relaxing completely.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck and let out his own noise of euphoria as he met his release inside you.

He finally pulled away from you with a furious sniff and groan.

"Poor baby." You pouted, sitting up, and sliding from the bed to grab up your discarded towel from this morning.

"I told you. I'm dying." He chuckled, wiping his brow on one of his discarded shirts on the floor. "You and the Boys go ahead and eat. I'll eat when I get out of the shower."

You gave him a look.

"I promise I will eat your biscuits drowned in thick chicken juice gravy soup... whatever." He assured you, kissing your forehead.

"They aren't biscuits. They are dumplings." You corrected.

"Right. And it's not raining outside." He said, pulling shorts on, and leaving you to redress alone.

×××

"Oh man, check it Al." Ben chuckled, handing a picture to Alyn.

You sat there watching the Boys swap pictures and reminiscent laughs as they combed through the box. Watching them made it hard to remember that every man before you was a murderer, kidnapper, thief, and mafia member, among many other things.

"Dude, look how ripped you were on your wedding day." Damon laughed, looking up from the picture at Ben.

Ben took the picture, "man, those were the days. Only time I could of probably stomped Ramsay."

"You couldn't have caught me." Ramsay hummed, behind Ben as he entered the room, finally finished in the kitchen.

"Maybe so. But if I had ever caught your ass it would have been over. Man, look at Liz. You know she cried for like three hours after the wedding. And I still have no idea why."

"Probably because you gave her your last name, probably just got her pregnant, and were deploying for six months two days later." Yellow Dick said fairly.

Ben laughed, "yeah, maybe so. I really don't miss those days."

Ramsay sat beside you and pulled you into him.

"How do you feel?" You asked, resting your head on his shoulder.

"Well, my eyebrows don't hurt. That's about all I have going for me." He shrugged, taking a long drink from his glass.

"So, how are we doing tomorrow?" Alyn asked, clearing a spot on the coffee table.

Ramsay glanced over at Matt, who was curled up in the recliner, asleep.

"Not sure. We will make it quick. Not concerned with how much we grab. Kid is too innocent, so just need to shock him. I'll draw up something tonight and run it over with y'all before we show up for our five o'clock news closeups."

You frowned, but knew better than to argue. Especially not in front of all of the Boys.

You examined each man in turn as they drank, swapped street gossip, and played cards. Alyn was first to leave, taking Matt with him. Awhile later Yellow Dick left, mostly because there was a scuffle going on somewhere in the city between Lions and Stags, and some of the soldiers were restless with itching trigger fingers.

"How's Liz?" You asked Ben as he pulled his coat on, finally folding his cards and standing up.

He shook his head, "not good. Chemo is killing her. And if that doesn't, her depression will. And the mother in law... ugh. Always yelling at me over some stupid shit. And when you only speak English.... I have to have Kaden translate the old bats hateful words."

"How is Kade?"

Ben shrugged, "dunno honestly. He's become a bit reclusive. Quiet. Teacher says he isn't interested in anything anymore. But I dunno what to do."

"Get him a dog." Ramsay interjected, looking up from his cards, "there's a reason they say a dog is man's best friend. Take him to pick out a mutt from the pound and you'll be better for it."

"That sounds great in theory but I don't have time." Ben sighed.

"After tomorrow take a few weeks off. I'll put the kid on your job."

You, Ben, and Damon gaped at Ramsay.

"What's the catch?" Ben asked cautiously.

"None. Family. It's important. Take as much time as you need. Paid vacation. I'm tired of you looking as sour as Alyn always does." Ramsay shrugged, finishing off the last swing from the bottle on the table, and standing to stretch.

Ben crossed around the coffee table and embraced Ramsay in a bone crushing hug.

"Thanks, Rams." Ben whispered, finally pulling away from your husband, who looked winded and rumpled. Ben was so much taller and wider than Ramsay.

"Yeah, yeah. Now go, before I change my mind. I'll expect you here first thing in the morning."

"I'll be here." Ben said, giving you a small wave and leaving.

"We really waiting until lunch to do this shit?" Damon asked after awhile of silence between the three of you.

"Yeah. It'll be fun watching the kid get nervous and nauseous." Ramsay chuckled. "Besides, I need to go check on the Greyjoy in the morning. He must be missing me."

"You are such a dick." You huffed, your lit phone screen at the end of the couch catching your attention.

[Olyvar: hey, we need to meet up tomorrow. Putting our liquor and food orders in at the end of the week. Besides you need to see me. I'm a bit salty. Had to find out from Tyene you're having a boy.]

[You: so sorry, dear! It's been so busy. I hardly have a moment to myself. But yeah, we can totally catch lunch tomorrow and divvy up orders.]

[Olyvar: I know I know. Just giving you a hard time. Usual spot? At around 12:30?]

[You: i'll be there!]

"who you talkin' to at this hour?" Ramsay asked, side eyeing you.

You glanced at the corner of your screen. It was only 9:15. You snorted and rolled your eyes.

"Oly. I'm meeting him for lunch tomorrow. Placing our orders for alcohol and food at the end of this week. The bar should be done on March twenty fourth." You said, excitement bubbling.

Ramsay sniffed and gave a nod, "Speaking of March.... what kind of back bend am I doing for our anniversary?"

You gave him a long look, "I dunno. Haven't thought on it. We don't exactly celebrate anything, so...?"

"Mkay then." He replied, leaning back into the couch with a deep sigh, running his hands over his face.

"Right, I'm outta here for the night. Thanks for dinner, (y/n). Catch ya both in the morning." Damon said, standing and pulling his keys from his pocket.

"Bring the wife with you. I know she doesn't work on Monday's." You called after him.

"Yes ma'am." Damon called, closing the backdoor.

"Need you to clean my arm." Ramsay said, with a sigh that clearly told you he did not want you to fuck with his arm.

Moose rested his head on your knees, looking up at you innocently through his big eyes. You looked at him suspiciously.

"What did you do?" You asked, raising a brow.

Ramsay rose from the couch and disappeared down the hall. After a few moments you heard furious shouting from the bathroom.

"I'd go hide if I were you." You whispered to the dog, pushing him away as you stood up.

You entered the bathroom to find it destroyed. The plastic lining of the shower curtain torn to shreds. As well as a whole roll of toilet paper, and... a bottle of body wash covered the floor.

"Get a dog he said, it will be fun he said." You laughed, picking up the chewed bottle.

"I hope he ate half that soap and it makes him sick." Ramsay seethed, kicking aside the ruined shower curtain.

"Lighten up baby. He's a puppy. We'll just start keeping this door closed. No big deal. Let me fix your arm and I'll clean this up in the morning." You said, grabbing his hand and tugging him towards you, to give him a kiss.