#the velvet corp

[the-velvet-corporation]

OOC Beneath The Cut

New episodes are dropping! ill probably start with smaller episodes and work my way up! By episode 5 we should have all the little knacks worked out!

[bloodysticktape]

Drum Corps Stamps I made since the internet lacks them. (Free to use)

[harbingersecho]

Lasombra fashion show?

Now how did you know I've been meaning to draw fashion 'shows' for all the clans…?

But! Here's some Lasombra fashion stuff for you!

+ bonus because I love bullying Lasombra abt their tech issues (:

[whentheskittlesfightback]

i never related to those "hyperfixated on my ocs" posts until now. i needto explode

[taxi-davis]

waterfront dining & 猫 シ Corp. - Pink Velvet

[alygator77]

motherhood and matrimony

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, smut, masturbation, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, fluff, little angst, mentions of death (satoru's father).

a/n. tysm for another follower milestone! as a thank you, here are some ceo! satoru headcanons for my ongoing fic motherhood and matrimony. this can kinda be considered as a teaser for those that haven't read the series. for those that have read the fic, this fleshes out the circumstances between satoru and reader a bit more, giving us a bit of insight from satoru's POV (and showing how down bad he is, hehe.)

ceo! satoru, who walks into meetings ten minutes late, just to prove he can. he never rushes—the clock bends for him, so does the room. postures straighten, laptops shift, conversations hush—eyes flicking away like they weren’t just whispering about the latest tabloid headline with his name in bold.

he doesn’t give them the satisfaction of reacting—never does. because he’s used to the attention. the scrutiny. the weight of being watched.

whatever… he never asked for this. he’s the heir of gojo corp, he just has to exist… right?

ceo! satoru, who doesn't read half the reports placed in front of him—rolling his eyes during company briefings, doodling dicks into the margins of billion-yen contracts. he slouches in a chair that cost more than most people’s rent—twirling a pen, daring someone to scold him. it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father.

“take this seriously satoru. you need to grow up. have you found a wife yet?”

the pressure of his legacy comes dressed in politeness, in tightly-wound ties and family dinners that feel more like interviews. it’s never ‘what do you want?’ only ‘what will you become?’

people think he’s lazy. arrogant. detached. 

eh… maybe they aren’t wrong? 

and yet, for all his mockery, he still shows up. still puts on the suit. still plays the part with a half-smile and his middle finger tucked just behind his back. because maybe, if he doesn’t take it seriously, it can’t hurt him the way it was always meant to.

ceo! satoru, who keeps people at arm's length, especially women. they whisper his name like a prize—because everyone wants something from him: money, attention, his title, a seat at the table. so? he gives them nothing—flirting without intent, touching without feeling, fucking without consequence. 

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. and gojo satoru? he’s tired of being collateral.

so, he stays perfect on paper—sharp in the spotlight, hollow behind closed doors. if he gives them nothing, then there’s nothing to take. 

untouchable, unbothered, and lonelier than he’ll ever admit.

ceo! satoru, who notices you the moment you don’t notice him. you’re new—his father’s latest hire. just another name slipped into a calendar invite he didn’t read, another title he forgot before the ink dried. nothing remarkable. not at first glance. you keep to yourself, all neutral tones and clean lines. head down, posture straight, buried in your work like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. 

boring, uptight. 

that’s his original impression of you. 

until he makes some offhand comment in a meeting—low, careless, designed to make the room laugh. but this time, you glance up, meeting his eyes with a scowl.

“...are you finished?” you mumble. cold. quiet. unamused.

the fuck? 

it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father. and yet here you are—desk-bound and barely blinking—making him feel like he’s overstayed his welcome—in his own kingdom, mind you.

oh. he’s gonna give you hell.

ceo! satoru, who makes it his personal mission to get under your skin. so, he starts dropping by your office more often. for no real reason—papers he could’ve emailed, questions he already knows the answers to. 

“hey miss secretary,” he drawls, dragging the words like velvet across glass. “miss me?”

he pushes. you push back. he reroutes your calendar and you reroute his meetings. he leaves three unsigned forms on your desk just to watch you chase him down the hallway with your heels clicking like gunfire.

“try doing your job sometime,” you hiss. 

satoru lives for the moments you slip. he’s used to women shrinking beneath his name. you don’t shrink—you scowl. and it’s addicting. because all that politeness you wear in front of his father is paper-thin around him, and your patience is stretched tight over something sharper. 

ceo! satoru, who notices you’ve been late three times this week. not by much—seven minutes, ten at most. but still, late. unusual for someone like you.

you—who normally arrives fifteen minutes early. you—who color-codes schedules and double-checks logistics like it’s second nature. you—who never lets a single thread unravel.

“this company runs on discipline, not excuses,” his father lectures you. “apologies sir… my babysitter has a habit of running late.”

and just like that, the room changes. 

ceo! satoru, who said nothing at the time—just watched. you’re a single mom? he’s thinking about the way you never mentioned a child. the way you never once asked for accommodations. the way you kept your head down and your performance sharp, even when your personal life clearly wasn’t giving you much room to breathe. and for the first time, he wonders if he’s been looking at you all wrong.

because it’s easy to call someone uptight until you realize they’re holding the world together with both hands and no help.

you square your shoulders, taking his father’s lecture like you were used to it. why did it seem like you had practice with swallowing apologies you didn’t owe? that doesn’t sit well with him…

ceo! satoru, who didn’t see it coming. not really. one moment his father is mid-sentence, gesturing over untouched steak and quarterly projections. the next, there’s a tremor in his voice—a hand that doesn’t settle, a breath that doesn’t finish. silver clattering to the floor. staff rushing in. panic rising in the air like heat.

he doesn’t remember the walk to the ambulance, only the stillness of his own father’s body.

ceo! satoru, who knows the answer before the doctor speaks. it’s in the look. the way the nurse steps back. the way no one can meet his gaze.

“it was a heart attack… i’m sorry. he didn’t make it.”

he nods. once. what is he supposed to do—to feel? he doesn’t know what to mourn. the father he feared? the man he resented? the stranger who lived down the hall of his own childhood? the man who spent his entire life, trying to mold him—now undone by something even he couldn’t control. 

there was no grand ending. no dramatic farewell. just silence. 

and satoru—left with all the noise that came after.

ceo! satoru, who stares down at the stipulation in his father’s will like it’s a ghost. and honestly? maybe it is. maybe this is how his father haunts him—not with memories, but with demands.

to inherit full control of gojo corp and the family estate, satoru must be married. with a child. within one year.

he blinks once, then laughs—quiet, disbelieving. of course. of course the man who never trusted him in life wouldn’t trust him in death. control, even from the grave—his father’s final move, final manipulation.

ceo! satoru, who isn’t prepared when it’s you who offers a solution. no dramatics, no buildup—just a simple, “let’s get married.” it takes him a full breath to process it. a fake marriage. a clean deal. a contract that helps you both. 

you—already a mother, already the picture-perfect illusion his father wanted him to build. you—who has everything the will demands, and nothing he’s ever had to pretend to want. for a moment, he’s stunned into silence. because you’re not offering him love, you’re offering him freedom.

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t trust easily, but maybe he trusts you? because you’ve never wanted anything from him, never asked for his attention. you’re practical. smart. tired in the same way he is (he’s just better at hiding it).

and sure, maybe what you’re offering isn’t customary. no emotional attachments, no strings. just terms, signatures and survival. it’s not what his father would have wanted. but fuck it, that’s the point.

ceo! satoru, who is not prepared for the way you kiss him at a public event. he tells himself it was just the heat of the moment, knowing you only kissed him to play your role. he tries to conveniently ignore the way your lips part first, slipping your tongue in, sighing against his mouth, leaning into him like you’re his—like he fucking owns you.

but… this is just a charade, marriage of convenience—nothing more. shit. then why the fuck is he rock hard remembering the taste of you?

ceo! satoru, who only meant to jerk off to you once—just to get it out of his system, okay?! clearly that’s all he needs right? he lasts maybe five minutes before he’s groaning your name, hips lifting as he’s spilling cum all over his abs, shuddering as he fucks his own fist thinking about you. 

there. that’s it. out of his system—no more, right? (wrong)

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t know what’s worse—the fact that it happens again, or that it happens easier. it doesn’t take much now—just the sight of you leaning over the dining table in a robe, a bare leg bent, hair tangled from sleep. the curve of your neck when you tilt your head. the flash of skin when you reach for something too high.

what the fuck is wrong with him?!

you’re not even doing anything. not really. you’re just there—folded into his space like you belong there. moving barefoot through his estate in oversized sweaters and quiet hums, curling up on the couch without a clue what you’re doing to him.

ceo! satoru, who’s never felt this out of control. not in boardrooms. not in interviews. not even in the middle of his father’s most ruthless lectures. but with you? with you, it’s all unraveling—you’re like gravity.

and now it’s routine—fucking his hand to the thought of you, slipping into his bedroom, pants pushed down, fist tight around his twitching cock, muttering curses into his palm to keep from moaning too loud, because you’re always asleep in the room next door.

it’s just stress relief, he tells himself. a coping mechanism. a release.

taking care of a kid is harder than he expected. the pressure’s always building as ceo of gojo corp. and you—you’re always close. always soft. always there.

ceo! satoru, who imagines you on your knees, in his office, tucked under his desk like a dirty secret. he’s slapping his dick gently against your cheek, rubbing his precum all over your pretty little mouth, encouraging you to part your lips before feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

schlick. schlick. schlick.

his filthy faps echo off the bedroom walls—sprawled out on expensive sheets, cock flushed and leaking down his knuckles as his wrist works faster, panting, groaning, lost in the addicting image of you.

“s-shit—fuck—” he breathes, head tilting back, hips rocking forward. “j-just like that… so good f’me, baby… so fuckin’ good—”

your muffled moans would sound so cute, gagging around his cock, drool dripping down your chin as you blink up at him, teary and beautiful. he’d stroke your hair back, whispering praise, thrusting lazily down your throat.

“fuuuck—look at you, so pretty—s-shit…” he’s fraying at the edges, nearly breaking as his strokes grow faster, messier. “p-please—fuck, need it—need your mouth, please… just wanna—nngh…”

ceo! satoru, who fantasizes about cuming across your tongue—your eyes fluttering closed as he tells you to swallow. and you’d swallow it all, wouldn’t you? looking up at him with ruined lips, cum streaking your chin, smiling all coy with those pouty lips he dreams about every night.

“fuckfuckfuck—” his voice cracks, stomach tensing, cock jerking in his hand. “‘m gonna cum— ‘m gonna—fuck—" he gasps, hips lifting off the edge of the bed as his orgasm crashes through him like a tidal wave.

and it wrecks him.

cum spills over his fist in hot, desperate spurts, leaking between his fingers, dripping down his wrist, painting his abs, his shirt, his thighs in thick creamy streaks.

“g-god… yes… f-fuck, baby… f’you, all f’you…” he whimpers, eyes fluttering shut as your name slips from his lips, over and over again like a prayer.

ceo! satoru, who lies there afterward, sweating and spent, staring at the ceiling like it might tell him what the fuck he’s doing. you’re not actually his—you were never meant to be.  sure, you’re his wife, but only on paper, nothing more. so… why do the lines keep blurring? thinning. you’re already under his skin. already in his sheets. in his head. on your fucking knees every time he closes his eyes.

and it’s not just lust anymore.

it’s the sound of your voice when you’re half-asleep. the way you talk to your daughter in that soft, maternal tone, tugging at something deep in his chest. the gojo estate used to feel like a museum. all cold marble and high ceilings, every corner echoing with the absence of something warm. he never realized how empty it felt until you started filling it. slowly. quietly. without trying.

now there’s a pink toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. a collection of tiny socks and hair ties on the entryway table. a soft giggle in the morning light and the scent of syrup in the kitchen air.

your daughter’s toys spill out across the living room rug. your coat hangs next to his in the foyer. your voice carries down the hall like it belongs here.

he wants you like a home he never thought he deserved.

and... that’s the most terrifying part of all.

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. if he gives you everything—his time, his trust, the bruised, aching thing in his chest he swore no one could touch—what would you do? would you break him?

a/n. awww... for those that have read the fic it was fun to go back to the start of this story to see how far this pair has come 🥹 i figured ceo deserved his own headcanon, i love my pookie. chapter 10 is in the works. if you enjoyed this teaser consider checking out this fics full masterlist here! i will also be reopening this taglist.

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys @k1ttybean

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer @elliesndg

@maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

[funniestbitchinfaerun]

Bg3 companions and what vintage fashion era I think they belong in based on vibes only

this post brought to you by my degree in costume design

Gale: with that hair he can only be from the 80s. Remember that Miami Vice guy with the white suits and pastel shirts? Gale would think he looked so cool in that fit but would be an obvious nerd anyway.

Shadowheart: 90s-early 2000s goth. she would wear those spaghetti-strap velvet dresses and chunky black platform boots. she was Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way before Ebony was.

Lae'zel: 1940s. Partly because of the militaristic nature of githyanki culture and partially because i think she would look so gorgeous in one of those Women's Army Corps uniforms with the little hats. Give Bae'zel a little hat.

Astarion: 1930s but specifically in the way of those British guys from Noel Coward plays who hang out in velvet smoking jackets all day.

Wyll: 1920s. I'm talking three-piece suits, Gatsby style. Long cigarette holder. Wingtip shoes. Doing the Lindy Hop all night. I'm swooning just thinking about it.

Karlach: Gives me serious late-70s punk energy. She needs a beat-up leather jacket with Ramones and Blondie pins and the ripped-est jeans ever. Hair can stay exactly the same.

Halsin: This one's easy. Late 60s hippie. Homemade tie-dye, flower crowns, Birkenstock sandals. Possibly one of those suede fringed jackets.

Minthara: Also 1930s in that slinky Joan Crawford femme fatale way. She'd rock those bias-cut evening dresses and fur coats. Don't worry about how she got those diamonds during the Great Depression.

Jaheira: 80s mom vibes. Her high-waisted jeans and shoulder-padded blazers conceal her superspy badassery.

Minsc: 1950s greaser in the wholesomest way imaginable. Don't fight me on this. Boo has a tiny leather jacket of his own.

[wtfgaylittlezooid]

Mitsiiiiii

Bonus concept doodle + lore underneath

Mitsi, like most wasps (specifically she is a thistledown velvet ant), was trained to be a soldier from the moment she pupated. While she isn't happy as a scout, she tolerates is because at least she is helping people in a way.

She was stationed in an area right outside of Bugaria, it was mostly just a Wasp Military Outpost right outside the Giant's Lair. Just far enough to not be considered in Bugaria, but just close enough to be within the Mother Crystal's reach and protection from Deadlanders. She was part of the patrols that went into the Giant's Lair, mostly to aid travelers or the Roach Village.

Anyway she's the one to find and rescue Victim. Things go normally from there, they make the outpost into a town, but the main difference is Victim never loses the obsession of Alan. And Mitsi, as much as she cares about Vic, is only a temporary distraction from it.

Anyway while this gets muddy from here because IDK yet, they both had very different ideas for Rocket Corp. Mitsi wanted to keep it just a tech company to aid people, Victim still wanted it to use that tech to get rid of Alan.

And in the moment where she's supposed to die, she survives. Just barely, she's stuck recovering for a LONG time, and moving inside Bugaria, Victim and Agent don't have any real way of finding out. And while she can come back, she decides against it. Victim has almost completely changed Rocket, and she doesn't want to be affiliated with it.

It was making her happy before, but. if she joined now it wouldn't be any different than how she was a soldier. So when she can, she decides to rebuild the home she lost. One small step at a time.

[pupsmailbox]

GOTH ID PACK

NAMES︰ abby. ace. addam. alister. amelia. amoret. ange. angel. angelo. anubis. arachne. arch. archette. ash. aslan. aspen. astor. astoria. astrophel. atticus. axelle. azazel. azrael. bael. bat. batsy. battie. bella. bellatrix. blade. blair. blanchette. brahms. branwen. briar. cain. caine. callan. calliope. cannibelle. caskeite. casketta. caskette. caskieth. caspian. celeste. celestia. cemetrell. chaos. charlotte. cherry. chira. chiraelle. chiro. chirobelle. chiroptairre. chiroptelle. chiroptera. chiropteranne. chiroptira. choir. christian. circe. cofette. coffin. coffine. coffyn. coffyth. constantine. corbin. corpse. crimson. crow. crowley. damian. damien. demonesse. divina. dorian. draven. ebonyie. echoella. edgar. elatha. elijah. elix. elwin, elwin. elwood. ember. emmaline. etienne. eulalie. evan. evangeline. eve. faith. forest. forrest. frill. frille. frilleine. frilliette. frilly. genesis. ghost. gothita. gothitella. gothitelle. gothitess. gothitesse. gothlyra. gothorita. grey. grisveil. gwen. hades. hawthorne. hecate. hemlock. imortalle. imortella. iris. israel. jakob. jet. jett. johnas. josiah. judas. kain. kane. kedi. keir. kross. krosse. lacey. laciene. laciette. lazarus. leo. lilith. lilithe. lolita. lucid. lucien. lucifer. lucius. luscious. lynx. maeve. malice. mana. martyr. max. melancholy. merle. micah. michael. misery. mordred. morris. mors. morte. morticia. mortis. morvessa. mourge. mourgette. mourne. mournelle. mourveil. myrette. nightshade. noah. noctelune. noctre. noctrelle. nocturne. noir. obscurine. obsidian. oleander. omen. onyx. orion. orpheus. ozul. ozzy. prince. prophet. ransley. raven. ravenie. raveniette. ravenith. requiem. rogue. rook. rowan. ruby. saber. saint. salem. samael. samuel. scarlet. secrette. seraph. serenity. shilo. shiloh. silas. silver. silvester. skelly. skulliene. skulliette. skully. skullyfir. solanine. sorrow. sylvester. syn. thorn. thorne. thornyse. tobias. tommy. trix. umbriel. valkyrie. valo. velouryne. vervain. vesper vesper. victoria. ville. violetta. vito. vlad. woundie. zeon. zephyrine.

PRONOUNS︰ abby/abby. ae/aer. ash/ash. bat/bat. bleed/bleed. blood/blood. book/book. bug/bug. burn/burn. ce/casket. ce/cem. ce/cer. chain/chain. chap/chapel. chi/chir. chill/chill. claw/claw. cloud/cloud. co/cof. co/coffin. cob/cobweb. cof/coffin. coffin/coffin. corps/corpse. creep/creep. cri/cross. cro/cros. cro/cross. cross/cross. cross/crosse. da/dark. dae/dae. dae/daem. dark/dark. de/der. decay/decay. dee/dark. des/despair. devout/devout. div/divine. dust/dust. e/echo. e/eerie. echo/echo. edge/edgy. en/envie. fae/fang. fang/fang. fe/fear. fie/fiend. fog/fog. fri/frill. frill/frill. ghost/ghost. ghoul/ghoul. go/goth. gore/gore. goth/goth. goth/gothic. gra/grave. grave/grave. gri/grim. ha/haunt. halo/halo. hie/hiem. ho/holy. holy/holy. horn/horn. hx/hxm. hy/hym. ink/ink. lace/lace. lae/lace. lost/lost. mist/mist. moon/moon. net/fishnet. ni/night. night/night. null/null. par/parasol. parasol/parasol. pray/pray. pray/prayer. proph/prophet. ro/rose. rose/rose. rot/rot. rust/rust. sac/sacrifice. saint/saint. scar/scar. shx/hxr. shy/hyr. si/sinister. sie/sier. sin/sin. sku/skull. skull/skull. snake/snake. spider/spider. spike/spike. sto/storm. stud/stud. thiey/thiem. thorn/thorn. thou/thorn. thron/thorn. thxy/thxm. tom/tomb. tor/thorn. vae/vaer. ve/ver. velvet/velvet. vi/vile. vi/vir. vo/void. whis/whisper. whisper/whisper. witch/witch. wood/wood. x/x. xae/xaer. xi/xir. xie/xiem. xie/xier. ×. ♠️. ♣️. ⚰️. ⛓️. 🌑. 💀. 🕯. 🕷. 🕸. 🖤. 🥀. 🦇.

[sombaf]

Kara blinked against the onslaught of light, her eyes a battlefield where every photon was an invader. Each time her powers rebooted, it was as though the city unleashed a symphony of chaos aimed directly at her senses, the light slicing through her like a scalpel of pure luminescence. The noises of the city boomed like the echoes in a colossal cave, the light a relentless adversary. It was cacophonous. Blinding. She resorted to the meditative techniques Kal-El had imparted: a deep, measured breath, a silent count to five, followed by a forceful expulsion of air, another silent vigil to five, then a replenishing inhale. She repeated this ritual until the metropolitan pandemonium and the chorus of countless voices faded to a whisper. Fatigue draped over her like a dark velvet curtain, pulling her down into the depths of sleep, accompanied by a mysterious rhythmic beating, elusive like a shadow in fog.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

xxx

When Kara awoke on the unyielding cot of the DEO, the relentless glare of sun lamps greeted her. She cautiously opened her eyes, stretching her limbs like a cat under the first warm rays of morning sun. Feeling rejuvenated, her powers fully restored, she dismissed the pulsating clamor of the city with the ease of an empress dismissing her court. Listening briefly, she discerned it was late afternoon, the city's arteries clogged with the rush-hour flood; only then did the streets orchestrate such a cacophony. Amidst the chaos, the gentle, rhythmic thumping that had once serenaded her to sleep murmured its soft lullaby.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

It was slow, methodical, and strangely comforting. Kara focused on it, letting the tranquility it offered seep into her bones.

"Welcome back, sis," Alex greeted, her hand warm on Kara's shoulder, her smile a sunbreak in stormy weather. For a moment, Kara's muscles tightened—memories of Alex under Myriad's control flashed through her mind. But that was past; Alex was safe now. Kara breathed in deeply, letting the past dissolve like mist in the morning sun.

"How do you feel?" Alex asked, her expression painted with the strokes of guilt. Kara opened her arms in response, and Alex moved closer. "I'm sorry," Alex murmured into Kara's shoulder, and the hug they shared was a silent pact of forgiveness. "It's okay, Alex. You weren't yourself."

Alex stepped back, wiping away a stealthy tear.

Kara's attention returned to the enigmatic thumping, a soothing mantra in the chaos.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Her head tilted, pondering—was it a drumbeat, or perhaps the pulsating base of a distant song?

"Do you hear that too?" Kara suddenly asked Alex.

"Your growling stomach? How could I not!" Alex replied with a laugh, pulling Kara to her feet. "Let's eat; I've ordered dumplings."

Kara nodded, her thoughts momentarily drifting from the enigmatic sound. Hunger gnawed at her with the insistence of an unanswered question.

xxx

Tossing and turning in her bed, Kara found herself a prisoner to restlessness. It was the dead of night, and though days had passed since the restoration of her powers, sleep eluded her like a ghost in the shadows. She strained her ears for the city's call for Supergirl, yet the night draped its silent veil over the world. Amid the stillness, one sound persisted—a thumping, steadfast and nearly melodic.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The sound cradled her toward sleep, its rhythm a gentle tide pulling her into the embrace of dreams.

xxx

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Is everything okay?" Clark's voice cut through her reverie as they ascended in the glass-encased elevator of the L-Corp skyscraper. The lobby below them, a vast expanse of white marble, seemed to retreat with each passing floor. The mysterious thumping intensified, a heart growing louder with each beat. Kara had tried to dismiss this phantom sound for weeks. At times it had vanished, leaving an inexplicable void in her senses, her citywide searches fruitless. And when it returned, it was like the shadow of a faithful companion, unobtrusive yet ever-present.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Kara?!" Clark's snap brought her back, her heart skipping a beat.

"Yeah... yeah, I'm here," she stammered, her voice a faint echo in the vast chamber of the elevator.

As the elevator doors slid open at the tower's apex, they stepped into a grand reception area. The minimalist elegance of the space, with its geometric purity and restrained palette, commanded a silent awe. The city sprawled beneath them, a tapestry of life and light, the clouds above like soft brushstrokes on the azure canvas of the sky. Kara resisted the temptation to reach out and touch the ethereal fluff, closing her eyes instead.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Miss Luthor is ready for you, Mr. Kent."

Clark, ever impatient, tugged at Kara's sleeve. "Kara, are you coming?" His voice, barely a whisper, was meant only for her.

Her response was too swift, her movement too sharp, drawing an astonished glance from the assistant and a disapproving look from Kal-El. She muttered an apology and followed him through the large doors into an office flooded with sunlight.

"Miss Luthor. Clark Kent from the Daily Planet, and Kara Danvers from CatCo."

As Kara extended her hand towards Lena, their eyes locked, each gaze piercing into the other's world with an electrifying clarity. Lena's eyes were a compelling stormy gray, swirling with intelligence and a hint of mystery that seemed almost otherworldly.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Time appeared to fold in on itself, creating a pocket of suspended reality where only they existed. The soft murmur of the city below faded to a whisper, overshadowed by the loud, resonant beating that Kara had been tracking—now echoing like a drum in the quiet storm of their meeting.

Thump-thump-Thump-thump-Thump-thump

The air was charged, thick with an intensity that made Kara's breath catch in her throat. The heartbeat she had heard, that had led her here, throbbed with a new urgency, syncing perfectly with the rapid pace of her own. It was as though a tempest raged within her, a tumultuous sea stirred by the winds of realization and fate.

The rhythmic thumping that reverberated through her was unmistakably a heartbeat. HER heartbeat.

Clark's cough broke the spell, his nudge gentle but firm.

"Kara Danvers, from CatCo," she introduced herself, her smile a mask of charm.

"Lena Luthor, from... L-Corp... obviously," Lena's words stumbled out, accompanied by a timid smile, the moment hanging between them like a delicate promise yet to be fulfilled.

xxx

Lena had just snapped her laptop shut, a deep sigh escaping her lips as she pondered the perplexing chaos that seemed to engulf the world. The normality of life appeared to have taken a detour into the bizarre, with threats looming ominously as if scripted from a thriller. Restlessness was her unwanted companion tonight. Rising from the plush embrace of her large armchair, she wandered to the minibar and poured a measure of Scotch into a crystal glass, its clink a lonely sound in the quiet of her office. She tilted her head back, eyes closing, as the amber liquid traced a burning path down her throat, a fleeting escape from the madness.

A sudden knock jolted her from her reverie, causing her to spin around sharply.

"Miss Luthor," came the husky greeting from Supergirl. Her voice, rich and comforting, was a reminder of the Scotch's smoky trail.

Lena's gaze settled on the figure hesitating at the threshold of the open terrace door. Moonlight bathed her golden hair in a halo of light, a stark contrast to the shadows that played across her face. This was not the Supergirl known to the public, with her hands assertively on her hips and a confident grin. Instead, her smile was tentative, almost vulnerable, under the dim office lights. The royal blue of her eyes sparkled, drawing Lena in as she slightly tilted her head, trying to reconcile this image with the heroine she knew.

"Kara," she stated, an undercurrent of surprise mingling with certainty in her voice.

"How...?" Kara stepped forward, her presence filling the room, her questions hanging silently between them.

"The idea that the world is fooled by glasses and a ponytail is almost... embarrassing." Lena's tone could have been interpreted as scornful, but the slight curve of her lips and the twinkling mischief in her eyes softened the words.

Kara looked away briefly, a blush coloring her cheeks, before her lips parted in a radiant smile that seemed to light up the darker corners of Lena's office.

"What are you doing here, Kara?" Lena inquired, her curiosity piqued as she closed the distance between them. Kara hadn't noticed the subtle, almost seductive sway in Lena's walk earlier that day, a testament to her hidden depths. Lena exuded a quiet confidence, commanding yet vulnerable, an enigma that Kara found intriguing. If Kara hadn't been able to hear the rapid beat of Lena's heart, she might have been convinced by her calm exterior. But Kara knew better; the fast pace betrayed her nervousness, the slight dilation of her green-gray eyes revealing more than words could.

As they drew closer, their breath mingling, Lena's gaze inadvertently dropped to Kara's lips, and Kara responded with a playful, mischievous smile. Lena arched an eyebrow in response, intrigued by the boldness of Kara's stare on her vivid red lips.

Kara leaned in, their lips inches apart, then paused, pulling back slightly.

"I followed your heartbeat," she whispered, her breath a warm caress against Lena's skin.

Lena's breath hitched, the close proximity sending shivers down her spine. She tilted her head subconsciously, inviting more of Kara's gentle exploration. Kara's eyes fluttered closed as she breathed in deeply, almost intoxicated by the floral notes of Lena's perfume, its elegance laced with a hint of danger.

"My...heartbeat?" Lena's voice was husky, a whisper in the charged air.

"Mhm," Kara confirmed, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Lena's neck, each touch sending Lena's heart into a frenzied beat.

Lena's eyes drifted shut, a soft moan escaping her as she felt Kara's lips tracing a path along her neck. The touch was tender yet filled with a raw sensuality that seemed to bridge the distance between them, drawing them into a world where only they existed. Kara pulled back slightly, her fingers tracing Lena's cheek, compelling her to open her eyes and face the depth of what was unfolding between them. Their lips met in a slow, deliberate kiss, exploring each other with a growing urgency as their hands roamed, discovering the contours and strength hidden beneath fabric.

"Kara...we should..." Kara's nod was filled with understanding.

"I don't want a one-night stand, Kara," Lena breathed out, her forehead pressed against Kara's, "Not with you."

"Will you go out with me, Lena?" Kara's voice was low, hopeful, her breath mingling with Lena's.

Lena nodded, her heart affirming her consent.

Reluctantly, they parted, one final kiss sealing their unspoken promise. "Tomorrow night, 7 PM, I'll pick you up," Kara murmured before soaring into the night sky, leaving Lena to watch her departure, a sense of calm replacing the unease that had plagued her. She touched her lips, still tingling from their contact, and allowed herself a rare, genuine smile. Perhaps the world wasn't as mad as it seemed.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57456838

[ackerink]

Hi. How are you?

Take your time. Don't be in a rush to write.

Levi Ackerman civilian x female reader captain

In which the reader here takes Levi's place in the plot.

The reader came from the underground with her two friends being taken by Erwin Smith.

Kuchel, Furlan and Isabel are alive and live as civilians along with Levi.

The reader is humanity's strongest soldier. Ackerman here is not the clan that suffered the experience 100 years ago, but rather the reader's clan.

The reader is shopping together with her squad. Levi and Kuchel have a tea shop. Levi admires the reader and would like to meet her, but he is shy. Petra ends up finding Levi's tea shop and tells the reader.

I leave the development up to you. I have so many ideas with this theme of the reader taking Levi's place that I don't know if you would accept it. But, don't feel obligated to do it.

this is an interesting idea, i'll make a place for this on my masterlist if you decide to submit another one of these "reverse au" asks!

"levi." kuchel lays her hands on her son's shoulders, only then does his attention begin to shift. "sorry," said levi. "i wasn't paying much attention." his response earns a laugh from of his mother. her hands linger on him, the scent of her soap, old wax candles and herbs calm his senses.

"i can see that, what were you looking at?" she asks, her eyes scanning the direction in which levi seemed so entranced in. the town falls silent, onlookers stare on at the incoming soldiers. the wings of freedom dawning their uniforms, blood staining their hands. kuchel's smile fades a little, yet she keeps quiet.

"the survey corps?" she mutters, tasting the words on her tongue as if she had never said them before. levi points, his finger following in your direction. "they call her 'humanity's strongest soldier'." he acknowledges, staring at you, watching you stride. a fatigued and wearied walk that looks like it drains you of whatever energy you have left.

still you stand out from the rest, levi can't explain it but he can sense fortitude, stability and resilience from you. he imagines having to hear the distant screams, pleas and howls of the soldiers who didn't back it back—the ones who were eaten, crushed or worse.

"what does it take to be the strongest? i want to ask her myself. . ." levi whispers, a silent prayer to whoever will listen that maybe, he'll get to meet you. kuchel ponders her son's words in silence, turning away from him to see to the customers who pass by.

mornings, nights, afternoons, all pass by and you do too. every expedition is another step towards something better, or maybe that's something you just tell yourself.

"excuse me," velvet features and soft, blue, warm irises is what levi is met with this morning. the woman waves to get his attention, wearing the uniform he had gotten so familiar with. "hello." levi greets her, a towel in his right hand, a duster in his left. "what do you sell here?" the young lady asks, an uncertain expression twists her face.

"tea, black tea, earl grey, chai. any kind." levi's eyes don't meet hers, too busy scanning her uniform. the robust characteristics taking up all of his attention until she speaks again. "um, can i get the chai?" a smile stretches across her face. "it's for my captain, she's not picky."

"your captain?" levi inquires, passing the box of tea over the thin wooden counter. the soldier nods, exchanging the currency in her hand for the tea. when she turns around there are other soldiers stalling, most likely waiting for her. when levi glances over her shoulder, he sees your face again.

"your captain is. . .humanity's strongest?" levi already knows the answer however he asks anyway. "i've always wanted to meet her." levi never thought of himself as shy though the prospect of even being in your presence makes his stomach flutter with trepidation. the woman nods again, her smile brighter than before. "really? i'll call her over for you." levi can't object, he can't shy away—not now. this is his moment to finally speak to you.

"captain! over here!"

[the-velvet-corporation]

[OOC POST]

HELLO EVERYBODY!

We are in need of voice actor(s)! We have a character named Calypse with nobody to voice her. She is black, so you need to be too if you'd like to voice act her. We just think it would be weird if the voice actor was white for a poc character. We can also take auditions for Cyprus, he's white! Proabably. I have no design for him yet. But we might already have someone for him, I'm unsure. Let us know if you're interested, and thank you for your time!

GOODBYE!

[crepesuzette2023]

Fave reconciliation fics?

What a wonderful ask, thank you!

Reconciliation is such an important part of many Beatles fics, especially those about John and Paul. Don't we all wish they could have...And what if...and why couldn't they...

It's interesting, because on the one hand it's an intellectual challenge to come up with a good reconciliation story (could they have reconciled? How?), and on the other hand, it's pure self-indulgence: a way to give them the ultimate warm, fuzzy, tear-soaked, slicked up, soaring piccolo trumpet catharsis they deserved. Together.

Or perhaps their reconciliation will be a small gesture? A silent agreement? A warm little spark? Anyway, enough waffling: here are some older faves and more recent stories with reconciliation at its focus. Focus is on John and Paul, with some others added. It's a long-ish list, so here's a break.

(Just like) Starting Over by dollylux. John and Paul are writing together again in 1980. Is there anything better? (I found this one on @beatlesficrecs! Thank you, recommender.)

dreaming of the past by @revollver. 1969. To deal with the Apple corps horrors, John imagines a very sexy Tiny Paul during business meetings. When he confesses this to real Paul, something starts shifting.

broken-hearted jubilee by @backbenttulips. John listens to McCartney and...understands. He and Paul meet. Dot dot dot.

where the spirit meets the bone by @scurator. All right, "reconciliation" might be a bit of a reach, but on the other hand, no, it isn't. How would you call it if a man makes peace with the lost love that haunted his life, and breaks through to the happiness he deserves? Heartbreak and one of favorite endings ever, period—all in one fic. Read it to experience it yourself.

Aninut by @pauls1967moustache. The Beatles reconcile after Brian's death, the way they should have done.

believe me when i tell you by @zilabee. John talks to Paul about the way he sings Oh! Darling. The mesmerizing sight of the elusive McCartney heart, captured but not crushed by John's beautiful hands.

Lucky You by @crumblingcookies. 1970's. On a whim, Paul answers an ad in a gay paper looking for a Paul McCartney lookalike. The person placing the ad was John. It turns out this roleplay setting helps them to...reconcile.

Running with Scissors by @unchaineddaisychain. John and Paul reconcile after John cut the dress of Paul's girlfriend in Hamburg. Blood and blades and cuts and aftercare—incredibly hot and intense.

the touch of the velvet hand by downtothelastdrop. Early days. After Paul gives John his first blowjob, things become fraught and awkward. But not for long.

Origin of Love by @scurator and @paulmcfruity. 1971. After a boring business meeting, John and Paul spend some time alone and do what they fucking should have done. Extremely satisfying read.

Stop all the Clocks by @javelinbk. Paul and John retreat to Paul's farm in Scotland after Brian's death and confront their feelings about everything, including each other. Brian is beautifully present in this story.

Adventures in Total Honesty by @merseydreams. 1975. Paul and John meet after the grammies. They talk. They drink Margaritas. They...reconcile.

Slip of the Tongue by @pauls1967moustache. Maybe my favorite reconciliation story? 1960's. Paul and John reconcile after John says Stu's name during sex. John POV, but there's also a great POV switch to Paul here!

Bonus 1: Paul and Stu

Baselines by cloudy_blue. Stu gives Paul his bass after leaving the band. Reconciliation? A kind of truce.

filling the cracks that ran through the door by @wronglennon. Hamburg. John fights with Stu. Paul can't stand Stu. And yet, sex and reconciliation and sex are possible. A comforting thought in these times.

Bonus 2: Paul and Jim

Hand in Glove (Hand Covers Bruise) by @cherrycreamtangerine. Paul and Jim have the talk they should have had.

Bonus 3: Omegaverse Art (J/P). Yes, they reconcile. Thoroughly.

I Need You by @macca-is-art. Treat yourself. Just go there.

[peithopathos]

You know how Commandant Stilson sold Ranger titles to rich kids in the Early Years? I wonder if any of the "bought" Rangers are still around by Ruins of Gorlan. Like, imagine some rich unmarried middle child whose parents buy them a job as a Ranger because they just want him gone so bad. However, instead of buying himself a velvet cloak and flaunting his power around, he puts 213% of his pussy into becoming an *actual Ranger* based on tiny scraps of knowledge and hearsay.

He ends up joining the rebellion because he has genuine respect for the Corps/king but because the EY Ranger Corps was a bureaucratic nightmare with no documentation literally no one knows he's anything more than a slightly underperforming Ranger with a shitton of determination. Crowley only catches on like 30 years later when refiling some pre-EY paperwork and finds the "receipt" of his position's sale. By then, our unnamed fake-Ranger has had 3 apprentices and is nearly retired so Crowley just sweeps it under the rug.

[Alternatively: Everyone knows he's a "bought" Ranger immediately but he has so much moxy that they retro-fit him into a late apprenticeship anyway.]

[[Alternatively-Alternatively: The unnamed Ranger is Halt and his parents shipped him off into a mid-level position in a different country under a changed name as a plot to fake his death and have Ferris rule instead. Presumably, because Halt is clearly autistic and an "embarrassment" to the family.]]

[whentheskittlesfightback]

what if instead of the velvet corporation it was the 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 corporation and they made 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 toothpaste and they had 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 employees who had to dye the toothpaste 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 colours 🤔🤔

LMFAOO @ifollowapollo

[chic-a-gigot]

Voici la mode de décembre 1935, Paris. Bibliothèque nationale de France

Somptueux manteaux de velours d'albène, belles robes de satin ou de crêpe rhodia, créant l'élégance du soir.

Sumptuous coats of albene velvet, beautiful dresses of satin or rhodia crepe, creating evening elegance.

Élégant manteau en velours d'albène velitaf de Chatillon Mouly Roussel, très joliment garni de renards bleus; comme vous le voyez, la tête part des épaules; les manches, larges, sont montées à plis tuyautés.

Elegant coat in Chatillon Mouly Roussel velitaf albène velvet, very nicely trimmed with blue foxes; as you can see, the head starts from the shoulders; the sleeves, wide, are set in piped pleats.

—

Cette élégante toilette est faite en crêpe satin rhodia solana de Pierre Hurel; le côté brillant apparaît au panneau retourné dans le bas, lequel coupe le côté gauche; le décolleté drapé se termine par un long pan sur l'épaule.

This elegant toilet is made in Pierre Hurel's rhodia solana satin crepe; the shiny side appears at the turned-back panel at the bottom, which cuts the left side; the draped neckline ends in a long panel on the shoulder.

—

Robe en bourdeline marocain rhodia de J. Bourdelin, très souple par son ampleur groupée en avant, retenue à la taille par la ceinture de velours rouge et au décolleté par une torsade.

Dress in rhodia Moroccan bourdeline by J. Bourdelin, very supple with its fullness gathered at the front, held at the waist by the red velvet belt and at the neckline by a twist.

—

L'élégance de cette toilette, en satin rhodia druidesse de Stunzi, réside dans son drapé, fixé à l'épaulette par un long pan bordé de renard argenté ainsi que celui dos; la taille, drapée, est retenue par une incrustation continuant la découpe du dos.

The elegance of this ensemble, in Stunzi rhodia druidess satin, lies in its drapery, fixed to the shoulder pad by a long panel edged with silver fox as well as that of the back; the draped waist is held by an inlay continuing the cut of the back.

—

Ce manteau, complétant la robe ci-contre, est en velours bleu d'albène, envers satin rhodia 1100 de Pierre Hurel, avec manches-capes montées par des rangs de fronces; le col, drapé, se fixe dans le dos et fait corps avec l'empiècement; une large bande de renard argenté borde la cape.

This coat, complementing the dress opposite, is in blue albène velvet, reversed in rhodia satin 1100 by Pierre Hurel, with cape sleeves assembled with rows of gathers; the draped collar is fixed in the back and forms part of the yoke; a wide band of silver fox borders the cape.