#Prima Lashes

[pynkhues]

I hope you're doing okay with everything, I know a lot's been going on and it sounds mostly fantastic but also tiring.

Definitely watch Prima Facie. I don't want to oversell it, but I really thought she was astonishing.

(x)

Thank you, anon! I'm doing mostly okay? Getting there? Haha, it's been good with my sister and my nephews are settling in really well, but her ex / their father has been pretty vile. He fired his lawyers and is now self-representing, which means any filter he had is gone, and he sent a pretty disgusting series of emails and letters to my sister's lawyers which were first about her and then very specifically about me and our mother, which seem to have been written with the intention of humiliating us and sowing division. I actually was kind of expecting him to do this before court (he and my sister were togther for more than a decade, y'know? Like, he's known me since I was 19) so while it's been embarrassing to have things that happened when I was in my early twenties written out in legal letters, it hasn't really phased me, but it's deeply upset our mother.

He was also refusing to consent to the children being enrolled in school here, which is his only area of control given he lost medical rights over the children and custody in court, and he was having his new wife send screaming voicemails to my sister, but that does seem to be calming down now (touch wood!), which is a relief. He's relented on school when it became clear they would be back in court over that and there is no way the judge wouldn't throw the book at him for blocking their education, and the calls seem to have mostly stopped.

We're also figuring out a bit of a routine, which is great! She's going to stay with me for a couple of months, just until she gets back on her feet and finds her own place, so having a bit of a sense of what's our temporary 'normal' has been good, haha.

And yes! I'm going to try and watch it on Sunday, I think, since I'll be home! :-)

[primalashlashes]

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[sakachichi]

Drabble!Choso

Lazy Sundays are the best, just lounging around in your pajamas binge watching a random show or movie all day, cuddling with your dear boyfriend, it’s the best feeling.

You laid in between Choso’s legs, a blanket covering the two of you, the blinds were shut and the AC was on full blast. Choso had napped like 2 or 3 times already. You just laid there eyes glued to the tv, snuggling up towards your boyfriend when it got too cold. This was the ideal Sunday for you two, no plans, no rush, just literal vibes :p.

“I’m bored.” He mumbles, fingers running through your hair. “What do you wanna do?” You ask him, setting down your phone to look up at him, batting your lashes as you wait for him to answer.

“I don’t know…” he ponders, gears shifting in his head as his eyes wander around the room. He stays silent for a moment before his lips curl into a small smirk, “can I eat you out?” He wiggles his eyebrows. You giggle, sitting up now, “really? That’s you wanna do?” You ask and he nods.

“You don’t wanna play just dance or something?” You suggest, although you would really like to feel his lips on your now throbbing cunt. Choso rolls his eyes playfully, “yeahh, but eating you out is way more funner. Whadda y’say?” He flashes you a dorky smile before you sigh and nod, pretending like it’s such a burden. He lays down flat and motions you with his fingers to sit on his face, “c’mon doll, right here.” He smiles excitedly. You shimmy out of your panties before waddling over to his face, knees now on either side of his head, pussy in full view right in front of him — fluttering and glistening just right. His hands find their way to your hips, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip before latching onto your sensitive clit — sucking on the bundle of nerves so deliciously it instantly has you rolling your eyes back.

“Oh, ffffuck.” You gasp, hips softly rutting against his face, sending shock waves of pleasure throughout your body. Your sweet essence coats hits his tastes buds and he hums as he savors the taste, fucking his tongue inside you for more. His mouth works wonders on your pussy, not leaving a single inch untouched. “Yesyesyes~ right there baby!” You're a complete mess by now, riding his face as you chase your orgasm. And it’s not long before your trembling before him as he nurses your climax so perfectly, “good fucking girl.” He rasps against you, giving your ass a small slap before helping you off of him. “Backshots?” He suggests, and honestly he doesn’t even need to ask because you’re already waiting there with your ass in the air, waiting for him to pull his dick out.

In no time he was already putting in his tip, pussy already so slick and perfect for him to ease in. The whole time the two of you are giggling, enjoying these intimate moments with each other, so raw and beautiful there’s no room for embarrassment. “ ‘love you so much, baby.” He grunts as he’s slamming his hips forcefully against yours, the grip of his fingers almost bruising you. You nod as you hum, to cock-drunk to even say full sentences, “m-me too, mhn!”

The boredom was instantly cured, pleasure consuming your bodies beautifully, cumming so hard it damn near knocked the two of you out. Afterwards both of you collapsed in each other’s arms, drifting off in each other’s arms, but not before sharing some more giggles and kisses. The best way to spend your Sunday.

BACKSHOTSSSS 😛 anyways happy Sunday primas, this is literally me today, I’ve been rotting…alive. Anyways hoped u enjoyed this silly drab lol also ignore the typos I’ll fix it later lol 😛

[justbelievinginmagic]

like a waltz⎯ part 2: fondu.

pairing(s): ateez ot8 x fem!reader; this chapter is heavily wooyoung x reader focused with a bit of san x reader & yeosang x reader! series summary: when 8 mysterious bachelors arrive to town and fall for your charms, will you be able to reach your goal to be prima ballerina or be dragged into a selfish waltz between love and obsession? glimpse: wooyoung and you dance around one another for a month - will he commit to being your patron or will it all be a fun game for the mysterious stranger? somewhere in the distant future, you wake up. warnings/tags: inspired by Ateez’s Ice on my Teeth MV & Teasers, Mafia AU, Ballet AU, early 1900’s AU with some divergences in tech advancements (i.e if i think itd be cool to include, this world has it earlier than irl), 3rd person POV, use of YN, mxm, polyteez, MATURE topics, allusions to sex work in ballet, allusions to exploitation in ballet, implied sexual themes (not really for reader x ateez), strong language, ballet lore, angst, fluff, flirting, suggestive topics, lies, manipulation, wooyoung is a sweet gentleman, medical drugs, traumatic foot injury, unequal power dynamics, injuries, alcohol mention, reader discretion advised, +18 readers only. let me know if there are any more tags i should add. a/n: hi! i'm not completely happy with this chapter (mostly the ending) but it has doubled in word count so I thought itd be good enough lol. i love woo in this fic, he's sweet and flirty. he is the glue for the entire polyteez x reader later on. let me know what you thought of this chapter plssss. next chapter will probably have yunho x reader :) word count: 11k first chapter <- -> next chapter series masterlist read on ao3!

fondu; french pronunciation: [fawn-DEW]; sinking down, melting.

That wasn’t the last time she saw Wooyoung in the ballet boudoir. No, for the next seven days, he was there for every show whether it was a matinee or evening performance. He’d be there, sitting in his box - the cursed box number eight – dressed to the nines. She swore his eyes only watched her when she was performing; it felt like her own shining spotlight, chasing after her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth across the stage. It felt electric as she took glances up at his box to see his curled lips and opera glasses peering down at her. YN didn’t wonder where he looked when she was in the wings, because no matter what he’d visit her.

Her.

Not the other girls.

Not the Prima Ballerina.

Her.

During intermission and after the show, he’d be waiting beside the small vanity (the one she shared with four other ensemble members.) Never did his gaze stray to the other girls – and some tried to tempt. He was one of the most attractive men they’ve had in a long time, and the air of mystery he held was intoxicating. A viable bachelor, a way to climb. Ballerinas were hard-workers after all; they loved and knew the long game.

They’d swish past him in their enticing leotards, skin-tight with no tutu to complete their look. They would bare their neck as they gathered their long hair into a bun. Glance at him through their lashes as they stretched.

Still, he waited patiently, arms crossed as he leaned back against the white vanity’s desk. His brooding eyes zeroed in on the boudoir’s doors. Only when he caught her in his sight did he light up like a firework across the night sky.

“Hello swanette,” he’d coo out with the sweetest grin, hand outstretched to her.

“Hello Wooyoung,” it felt dangerous to call him by his first name, intimate. None of the others ballerinas called their patron by their first name – even the ones fucking one another.

YN wasn’t stupid or oblivious. She knew what this was – what this could end up being. She’d watch the prima ballerina, the principal dancers, really all of the rising starlets of the ballet over the years. They all covered their kiss-bruised skin with make-up, tugged on thick nylon tights that would hide their patron’s affections from audience’s view. She wasn’t sure if she wanted that – even with Wooyoung’s handsomeness. In some ways, her pride bit at the thought with rabid hatred; sourness on her tongue at the thought of not truly being different, not truly earning her way to the top.

Regardless of her conflicted feelings, Wooyoung hadn’t hinted at any of that – even after a week. He hadn’t provided monetary aid either so perhaps he was waiting. A bittered part of YN never understood patrons who didn’t sleep with their proteges. (But then again, it was rare to begin with. She hadn’t met one prima ballerina, one feature dancer who hadn’t slept with their patron.) She was always half-expecting him to let his hands dip lower and lower or high and higher, but, to her surprise, they remained fairly decent. He liked grabbing her waist, his thumb would rub circles over the boning over her bodice but it’d stay relatively far from anything intimate. (Any touch from a man in the public society was intimate though. She still flushed and felt the rush of feelings she didn’t quite understand how to place.) In her mind, he had yet to make a move.

Not even a cheeky kiss.

…

It was nice.

He was nice. She could sometimes forget that he paid to sit and talk to her in-between dances. He smelt nice; he looked nice; he acted nice. The fancy-free touches he gave with little thought were something she could enjoy considering the worser options. (Julia had covered up a nasty bite mark on her collarbone the other night.)

Wooyoung and her would speak of nonsense most nights – idle gossip, comments about the show, the dancers, the town-folk, and the bourgeoise that sat in the seats of the theatre. Who’s who in this town? He’d wonder, and she’s point them out under her breath; the men of the high-class with their wandering eyes and their wandering hands all over their own ballerina. Far cruder touches than Wooyoung’s reverent gentleness as he leaned close into her bubble to hear her whispers.

“That man is the owner of the factories popping up across the port,” she’d tell him, pointing with a lithe finger. (Luckily, all the men had one thing in common; they’d never glance upon another patron’s ballerina; they’d never look their way as long as Wooyoung remained distant.)

“Shohei Takahashi.” YN said, watching as the rich factory-owner pressed a greedy kiss to the mouth of the ballerina of his choice. “Huge factories with little pay. I blame the winter gloom on him.”

Shifting her gaze, Wooyoung followed her eyeline easily as he raised his drink to his mouth.

“That’s Lord Frederickson; he’s the biggest importer of goods. Owns the port and its processing factories. Anything coming in and out goes through him. He’s favored by the King – if you believe the King still has a say around these parts.” Wooyoung smirked at that as he watched her jump to the next.

“Kim Dohyun – big shot in the banks,” she said. “I think he’s trying to start a monopoly, but what do I know?”

“A lot,” Wooyoung replied, quickly, before taking a swig of his drink. His dark eyes slid over each man with a snake’s laziness before he locked his attention on her. “Brilliance and beauty.”

“Charmer.” She teased.

“Only for you.”

He’d flatter, flirt, and call her all sorts of sweet names. Beautiful, swanette, little swan, pretty swan, pretty.

-

The ballet was good for two things – pretty art and petty gossip. And despite her claiming she was an artist, first and foremost, she liked gossip just like anyone else. She was used to listening in, eavesdropping, or being told the news by the youngers. It wasn’t often she was the one gossiping.

“C’mon, he didn’t comment at all about Wooyoung?” YN asked one of the older ballerinas before a show.

“No, YN. He didn’t.”

It was a snap of an answer, but she couldn’t blame her. It was the third time she had asked. (Tiny had gotten her habits from someone after all.)

“I heard from someone that he was, like, like, a runaway prince,” said a younger girl, sighing out as she clung to the barre. “He’s as handsome as one.”

“Princes don’t run to Cromer,” Julia commented, tying her hair into a bun.

“But Lords do?” Everly snorted.

“Ha-ha-ha,” she sarcasmed out. “At least I’m getting my costume paid for next season,” Julia countered, tossing a sweater towards the other girl.

“So, none of the other patrons know him?” YN tried again, falling into a full stretch in frustration. Hunched over, she huffed.

“Nope – could be a traveler. You haven’t asked him?” Mina retorted.

YN struck a nasty face at that, scrunching up her nose. As if. Of course she has. All she had gotten was basics. He was from Aurora. He was in town for a while. That’s all she ever got from him.

Did he like the show? Of course, you were in it.

How was his day? Better now that he was here.

How was his stay in Cromer? Was it always this cold? He was too used to Aurora’s temperatures; he missed the bright sun and humidity.

What did he do for a living? Charm you.

It was like a game of chess, trying to get actual answers out of him. If he wasn’t so fun to talk to about other things, she’d be frustrated. Or more frustrated. After all, Wooyoung wasn’t like the other men in town – he was new and exciting. Despite all his mystery, despite the tell-tale hints of tragedy as a protégé and patron, she couldn’t help but begin to fall for the bright smile that greeted her at intermission.

-

It had been two weeks. He’s slowed his attendance to only every other night, warning her that he had other business to attend to on certain days. But he’d still hover around her vanity when he did show. He’d gotten more nosy she noticed. Not in a bad way. Fingers prodded at the make-up containers; he’d peer into her bag, spotting her folded clothes and sometimes a book or two in it. She noticed from the corner of her eye as she’d get ready for the next act, shimming into another feathered costume.

He’d lean on the edge of the vanity, giving her more room than usual and talking but not saying much and always, always, averting his eyes. It made a warmth bubble in her chest. Respect. He respected her. It was rare here. In under a few seconds, she had the new bodice on, snapped and tied with ease. Her skirt shimmied on and fluffed.

“Decent, little swan?” he queried, eyes still facing towards the ceiling.

With a true smile, she’d nod. Tonight, with affection bubbling in her chest, she reached out to cup his chin with gentle fingers and guide his face down to meet her gaze. His skin felt electric-hot beneath her fingertips like the hum of new-powered light bulbs at the cinema.

“Hello pretty,” he crooned. A tempting smile crossed his face as he shifted forward at her guidance. His fingers pressed against the vanity shifted to land on her waist. He liked the way the feathers felt, the beads he could fiddle with, and the warmth radiating from her.

“Spin for me?” he encouraged.

She held back an eye roll of fondness; when had she grown so fond?; he had seen this costume far too many times, but each time he had her spin about, and he’d grin and flatter and flirt. And she’d flush and flutter.

As she twirled, his fingers barely left her waist, feeling the fabric, feathers and beading twist and tug at him with her movement. He wished her hair would be out of the perfect tight bun, so it’d flow down freely. But Wooyoung didnt encourage such a thought – he was a reasonable man. For now.

“Beautiful,” he complimented, tugging her by her waist to stand in between his legs.

His fine velvet pants brushed against her nylon-tight clad legs. His fingers fiddled over her waist, dancing across beads and sequins, handsewn and delicate. Just like every night. He didn’t climb higher or lower, simply thrummed his fingers across her mid-section as he smiled at her pleasantly. 

“She makes it, you know,” there was an exclamation from a local eavesdropper, Tiny.

The youngster grinned over at Wooyoung from her spot, warming up on the floor. The little girl was cute in the eyes of Wooyoung; the tiny ballerina flashed him an innocent smile even when YN glared at the younger with a clear look of ‘shut up.’

“Makes what, kid?” he queried, glancing her way.

“Her costumes! We all do – or well, we all pay for them. Not YN though! She sews ‘em; all of hers are made by her!”

“Tiny,” YN tried to hush, but Wooyoung squeezed her waist playfully firm.

“Really?”

His tone was melodic as his gaze trailed from the tips of YN’s ballet shoes over her long-toned legs clad in white stockings with the smallest of rhinestones sewn into the fabric… over the white tutu before trailing around her bejeweled waist of beads, false pearls, and feathers. The feathers curved around her, hugging her chest. Everything was tied together with the pretty white-feathered clips in her hair. Everything looked exquisite.  

“You never told me that,” Wooyoung commented. He pouted at her.

That wasn’t the reaction she expected. Surprise, yes. Perhaps pity? Perhaps disgust? She couldn’t afford a seamstress after all. It was embarrassing.

“You never asked,” YN retorted.

He smirked, a rumble of a pleased laugh bubbling in his chest.

“I guess I hadn’t,” he admitted.

Had he asked anything about her… other than her dancing talent and the daily gossip of the theatrical world? He tilted his head as he took her in again. How much did she know about him?

Some questions he answered; others he twisted words until they were onto another conversation. His questions remained on her work. How long had she been in the ballet? How did a beautiful talented woman not have a starring role? Did she like it here? Did she like him?

Their conversations always ended back to that. More times than not she thought he was playing her like a cat would play with a mouse. While he paid for entrance to the foyer de la danse, like most of her suitors, he had not taken her up as a protégé. Most of the girls who had a patron reassured her that it took time. Some had to fall to their knees first before he agreed.

So, now when his head tilted as he examined her, it felt like the air changed. Ever magnetic but something deeper as his finger picked at a bead with his fingernail.

“You made this?” he asked again, fingering at the beadwork.

Its intricate pattern caught the light on stage beautifully, but he never noticed it made a pattern of a lily pad, ‘til now.

“Yes,” she said, shivering as his touch tickled her ribs.

He noticed her glancing aside, almost shy.

“What other talents do you have, swanette?” He queried, voice low.

“Far too many,” she teased before she escaped his grasp to go towards the now empty-vanity.

Tease them, the older ballerinas had advised. They like a chase, just be sure to let them catch you every now and then. Julia had told her.

There was the stain from their first meeting. A remnant of his rouge-covered fingers in the fine-wood of the ivory vanity. It never seemed to leave despite her scrubbing. Her finger brushed over it on its way to pick up a powder puff to press it into her skin. Wooyoung’s fingers trailed over her arm, looking over her shoulder in the mirror.

“You surprise me,” he admitted. “You know my hyungs love fashion – they’d love to meet you.”

“You don’t know my fashion-taste, Mr. Jung,” she told him, raising a brow. “Just my costumier’s taste.”

“Oh, Mr. Jung, hm,” he repeated in a tut. His chin pressed into her shoulder, face tilting ‘til his lips nearly pressed against her skin. Hot breath fanned over her shoulder down her chest. Gooseflesh tickled up her spin.

“Did I upset you?” he teased before whispering in her ear. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask about your pretty costume.”

She snorted, a bit unlady-like but it made his own lips twitch into a smile. He liked her smiling.

“It’s okay, Wooyoung,” she replied simply. “I didn’t expect you to.”

This wasn’t what the patrons wanted to talk about. Men never spoke of such things.

“I should’ve,” he corrected her. “I want to know about you.”

The air burned for a moment between them, his dark eyes settled on her in the mirror with the pull that only gravity had on someone. There was more here. In these moments, it didn’t feel like a game or an agreement or a partnership of exchange. Not when he looked at her like that.

“So, you sew?” he asked, still closer than acceptable for their society. Pressed into her back, his arms trapping her in. He urged her to lean into him, his chest broad against her back.

“My mother is a seamstress – was. She’s now in a factory rather than an independent shop.” She admitted. “I learned from her.”

“What about your dad?” he asked.

She shook her head before going to pressing powder into her skin with a puff. He huffed a bit as the perfumed thing invaded his nose.

“Not around anymore.”

“What did he do? Did he leave some coin around for you and your ma’?” he asked.

YN sighed out, reaching for the rouge pot next. “Miner. There used to be diamond and gold mines outside of town. I mean, there still are, but they aren’t like they were before. He never found anything worth anything – and when there was a cave in,” she sighed again. “My mother had always provided more; he didn’t leave much. Except me…”

Wooyoung’s hand soothed up and down her arm

“I can’t remember my ‘ma or ‘pa. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t define me. Don’t know much about them - if they sewed or worked at all. I just knew I had to work to survive.” He stated casually. “But Hongjoong, he’s like my brother - he sews in his free time. He’s made all sorts of things for us. So, I know a bit about that.”

Us… it was the first time Wooyoung had mentioned others. This was the first time she had learned anything about the mysterious man. YN itched to ask more about who us were, more about Hongjoong, more about what he had done growing up. How did he end up here, dripping in enough coin to go to countless shows, countless ballet boudoir meetings. But she didn’t know if she could. She didn’t want to pressure him. Push him.

“Maybe I’ll meet him one day?” she instead led, following his thought from moments ago. “Hongjoong and your hyungs?” she added. C’mon, tell me more, tell me more.

Wooyoung smiled bright, almost excitedly before his face fell dramatically. He was prone to that she’d noticed, ever expressive despite the stony gaze that fell over him when he didn’t know she was looking. His grin tumbled into a pout, big lips pressing out and puppy dog eyes gleaming in the gas-light.

He held her closer. “Not yet. I like having you to myself. They love the ballet – they’d love you.”

They. Us. Again, he spoke of others.

Who were they?

They’d love her?

-

In the third week, Wooyoung offered to buy her drinks from the Opera House’s bar, and she always refused. She didn’t want to fall into his arms intoxicated – especially with her aching muscles already. Alcohol wouldn’t help recovery. Instead, he made a game of bringing back a sweet from the concessions. Ones that the kids in the audience would nibble on. It’d always be half-eaten by the time he joined her in the boudoir – which made her smile. It felt intimate as she snacked on the other half of a cookie or taffy after the show. She’d sit on top of the vanity as he watched her eat.

It was during these times they began to talk about what they liked. Sweet or sour? Spicy or mild? What’s your favorite color? Hot or cold? What’s your favorite food? Favorite season? Favorite song?

She learned a lot about him. And he was sweet. His answers were sentimental as he yapped and yapped.

“I like seafood more than anything,” he said in between bites of the cookie she shared with him.

The boudoir was growing colder; the radiator had been turned off for the night. The hallway outside of the room was dim. She was in her own clothes for the first time; her costume hung in the costumier’s closet. Her worn-brown jacket was drawn tight as she and him sat on the vanity.

“Meat over vegetables for sure. But, any stew needs to have vegetables to feel right. But shrimp, mussels, clams, oh, tofu is needed too! Seonghwa makes the best stew – it reminds me of Aurora.”

He could ramble on and on, and YN didn’t mind it was so late as she made mental notes. Not just of the names he’d drop every now and then but his favorites. His preferences. She’d think about it as she made her own meals late at night – while she stood in front of the stove and stirred her potatoes and gravy. Was Aurora seafood better than Cromer’s? She’s only ever had the smallest of fish if they could afford one.

They were the last to leave the opera house that night, practically kicked out by the Madame who insisted upon the time. The moon hung high above them as they walked onto the main street of Cromer. The streetlights were lit; some flickered in the cold air; after all, not all lamps were gas yet. The cobblestones were wet with rain from earlier in the night.

“Let me walk you home?” Wooyoung asked. He was haloed in a gentle lamplight. His cheeks were round from eating the last of their shared treat and his eyes almost sparkled.

She swallowed. Don’t let them into your house; their house is the only fair game. She had heard the ballerinas warn her. Some even insisted on not letting them take you anywhere beyond the Opera House’s porch. There were plenty of spare rooms, they said.

Wooyoung was able to read her easier by the day.

“It’s late, YN. Please.” He insisted. “I’m a gentleman.”

His arm was offered, politely.

It was cold; rain was clinging to the clouds, tempting to pour.

He gave her another look, half-stern… half bratty? Wooyoung nudged his arm again in her direction.

“O—kay,” she conceded after a moment, taking his arm. He was warm against the cold.

But that was just Wooyoung after all.

-

“I saw YN walking home with her patron!” The gossip was electric the next morning.

“They’re in love,” Tiny swooned.

“They don’t know each other!” Another chimed.

“Did you—” there was a question on the tip of their tongues.

“Was he-“

“Had they-“

“No, no; he was a perfect gentleman,” YN reassured. “He stayed on the street as I entered my apartment. My mother had been watching from the windowsill. He simply waved and was off.”

Some of the ballerinas hummed their relief; others huffed their discontent.

“He’ll declare his patronage any day,” Julia whispered to her. “He has to.”

-

On the next Saturday, Wooyoung had ‘snuck’ in before the show. It was not often a patron was allowed before the show – it wasn’t as ‘exciting’ as intermission or after the show. The girls would be in their own clothes, usually warming up or trying to stay warm in the chilly room. His cheeks were flushed from the falling snow; he looked youthful as he bounded up to her, surprising her. Cold hands grasped hers as he spun her about.

Her hair was down. Her costume on, but her feet were in thick wool socks, and her face bare of makeup. It was a surprise he was here, and she felt the flare of insecurity, of worry, flush over her. He hadn’t seen her not so imperfect. Ballerinas were meant to be perfect. Wooyoung didn’t seem concerned as he lifted her into his arms to twirl her again as he chuckled and giggled. He sounded a bit like a hyena but it only made contagious giggles tumble from her own lips.

“Wooyoung,” she giggled nervously as he whirled them about.

All eyes watched her and him; some girls whispered in each other’s ears.

“Happy anniversary, pretty swan,” he chimed out as he finally set her back on the ground.

He looked at her with such innocent joy. His hands shifted from her form to cup her jaw and squeeze her cheeks. Over the past few weeks, his touchiness had grown. His favorite was to do just this, squish her cheeks fondly.

Dark eyes stroked over her features; her cheeks were pink beneath his fingers. Her eyes were bare of charcoal. Her lips were a nude shade. He noticed that despite his cold hands from the wintery outside that she was equally chilly… the entire boudoir felt cold at this time actually. A miniscule purse of his brow crinkled his forehead.

“Anniversary?” YN queried, raising a brow. Her hand rose to stroke the back of his hand softly, her blunt nails circling his skin.

The butterflies fluttered in her ribs, nibbling at her bones warningly. He was celebrating their anniversary? Had any patron done that? She’d have to ask the others.

He looked almost annoyed as if shocked she’d forget the day they met. The glower on his brow was handsome and statuesque before he frowned at her seriously. Her blood felt like fire, then; the skin on the back of her neck turned a clammy hot.

“It’s been a month,” he said, the words not as strict as his face. Instead, it sounded like a reprimanded child’s voice.

“Oh! I know that; I didn’t know you’d celebrate it,” she admitted, warm eared.

And she did. She hadn’t had a patron-suitor this long before but she kept count of the days. Noting them down with precision as she did with everything in her life.

He huffed; perfectly gelled hair fluttering with the action. Grumbling under his breath childishly of this and that, he took a too-close step into their embrace. His leg found a way between hers. He was so warm despite the melting snow on his outer coat.

“Of course I would,” he grumbled, thumbs going over the apples of her cheeks. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you. I do like it! I assume you’d-”

He was babbling at this point, grumbling about this and that quickly. She giggled, and his frustrations eased at its sound.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, hand squeezing one of his hands gently. “I’ve liked getting to know you, too.”

And she had gotten to know him… somewhat. His favorite foods, books, art, and whatnot. She knew that he had moved here over the past month, that he liked the ballet but loved theatre more. Singing was his favorite thing. He had money. He had asked her far more about herself. He knew she’d lived here her entire life, practiced at the company for nearly just as long as she’s breathed. He knew about her family and her mother’s-tired rants after a day at the factory. He knew what treat she favored; he knew that she got cold easily. He still felt like a stranger despite their closeness. Like all she saw was what he wanted her to.

“Of course, you have,” he preened before stepping back.

His hands left her cheeks to present a small velveteen gift box, almost magically.

“Now, accept my gift, pretty.”

She awed at it, insisting he didn’t need to while equally feeling chuffed that he got her something. It was a small box, and her mind raced to think of what could be within. Jewels, diamonds, perhaps it was just a trick… or a treat. Whatever it was she felt a hum of excitement. With a fond look at him, she took the box and opened it.

A pretty pearl necklace rested on a crushed-velveteen cushion. Polished silver-white pearls. She had never had pearls before. Never seen them so up close. Only replica pearls made of melted plastic were what she knew. These had a different sheen, a prettiness to them that felt ethereal.

Pearls were expensive; pearls are things upper-class women wore in multiple loops across their bared throats to tempt their partners to glance down at their bosom. They are status-symbols. She would’ve never been able to afford these – not even just one pearl. Meanwhile, he had bought her a long, long strand, long enough she could wear it in multiple loops. They glimmered and shined in the lamp-light as she carefully reached out to graze their pearlescent surfaces.

“Woo,” she breathed out. “They’re beautiful.”

She hadn’t expected this sort of gift – especially after how little monetary incentive came from him. Her eyes rose from the gift to meet his eyes. They were watching her face with tenderness. His smile curled on his lips, and he couldn’t help the rumble of a fond chuckle from bubbling up in his chest.

“To match you,” he said, easily, before his fingers grazed hers to lift the necklace. “Turn around, baby.”

Baby… he hadn’t called her that yet – just as she hadn’t ever called him Woo. He noticed that and couldn’t help the thrum of excitement, puppy love, adoration, whatever you call it, go through his veins.

YN did turn. Her hair was pushed aside by now-warm hands. Frowning, he felt how icy her skin was; she shivered as the pearls caressed her bare skin. Carefully, he clasped the pearls about her throat ‘til they rested across her decolletage in a double string of pearls.

She stared into the vanity’s mirror. Wooyoung smiled over her shoulder, content as a cat as he watched her admire herself. He sighed, fingers rearranging her hair to rest around her attractively. His fingertips grazed her hair for the first time, fondly, and playfully as he tousled her strands. His hands landed on her shoulders; she was cold, cold, cold. His hands slid from her shoulders to her biceps slow.

“So beautiful,” he sighed. “The necklace looks good, too,” he teased as an afterword, close to her ear.

Her cheeks flushed. A hand rose to stroke over the gift admiringly.

“It is pretty, thank you,” she turned around in his embrace, his hands sliding over her shoulders as she did so. He cornered her to the table. Her hands rested on his forearms, thumb brushing over his coat. She wiped away at some fallen snow, melting on the rich fabric. Glancing up with a genuine smile, she asked him: “What shall I gift you?”

He hummed low. Fingers slid up her arms slowly, eyes grazing over her face thoughtfully. Before he proceeded to unbutton his fine-woven coat-jacket. Her breath caught. What was he doing? Her eyes flickered from him to the room around them. Many of the girls were watching them brazenly. Some with lovestruck eyes as if witnessing some penny film in the nickelodeon; some were looking with jealous-ridden eyes.

She licked her lips, a flash nervous as he shook off his jacket with ease to reveal a fine silk tunic. It was a dark color; she realized he had worn nothing but black each night. Like a night sky shining with starlit clouds, the fabrics clung to his frame temptingly. She glanced up to his face as he swooshed his jacket over her bared shoulders. 

It engulfed her in warmth, his warmth. The intoxicating smell she had begun to recognize as Wooyoung smothered her. The deep spiced-floral cologne filled her senses of him, him, him.

She couldn’t help but let out a jittery breath, not expecting this from him as he smiled down at her, satisfied. He didn’t do much more. She wasn’t sure what she was worried he was going to do in first place.

“Wear them for me during the performance?” he requested.

YN shifted her arms, a hand raising to touch the pearls around her throat again before her other hand rose to catch the coat from slipping off her shoulders. His own hands rose to rearrange the jacket over her, rubbing her arms up and down slowly.

That was all he asked for? Even now, she knew other patrons would request far more. A kiss even wouldn’t have surprised her to be honest – he could’ve stolen one from her lips and not a person would’ve batted an eye in the boudoir. Instead, he warmed her, thumb grazing up and down her now-jacketed arm.

“I will,” she acquiesced. “The Madame might be upset at the costume violation,” she teased lightly. “But, I will do it for you.”

He laughed, the thing a crow-like tone. He hadn’t shifted from her, hands rubbing up and down still. “If she does, I’ll handle it. A pretty girl like you deserves pretty things. And to show off those pretty things.”

She smiled at him. She shocked herself as she rose up onto the tips of her toes, easily with her experience on-pointe, and pressed a sweet fleeting kiss to his cheek. She could smell his after-shave; his skin was soft and warm and inviting before she pulled away to smile up at him.

“Happy month of knowing you, Wooyoung.”

“Here’s to many more,” he smiled warmly.

-

The pearls clung to her neck tightly, tighter than how Wooyoung had clasped them. They needed to be so they wouldn’t clank and clink into her face with each pirouette and jete. She stood out in the ensemble with the pearls gleaming on her throat. No other ballerina bore real pearls except her. No one – not even Odette. And for once, she felt the eyes of the crowd on her. There was a murmur in the crowd; some pointed. But all she could do was search for Wooyoung’s eyes. 

She had a bad habit of looking up at Box 8 in general now. Her gaze would flicker up and up, head tilting as she snuck small glances towards the private box Wooyoung had claimed. Usually, she’d catch his eyes, staring at her solely and smiling a small smirk in the shadows of the theatre.

But it wasn’t just him today. In the shadows of the theatre, she could see his familiar form, his opera glasses glinting in the low gas light of the grand chandelier. But behind him, dark blurs of shades, were other figures. She squinted.

It shocked her at first, doing a double take as she performed a jete.

What? Who?

There were others with him; he turned to say something to the one beside him.

It surprised her that she knew the form of him so well to know even in darkness and distance that he sat in the front. But she knew in her core as the figure turned back to look at the stage. Wooyoung sat in the front in his usual spot. A figure sat beside him, shadowed in a brimmed hat. And one, or was it two, figures shifted behind him.

When she left the stage, she remained waiting in the wings, peering and squinting at his box.

“He has guests,” an older ballerina whispered in her ear, startling her.

“Is there a woman?” she whispered back, trying to get a good sense of the forms.

It looked like ghosts behind him, two…or maybe three shifting figures. She saw one lean forward and cup a large looking hand against Wooyoung’s ear. Glinting rings winked at her, taunting her as fingers hid the stranger’s face from view.

“That one looks like a man,” the same ballerina advised to her.

They both squinted as a reflection from the Odette’s glamourized costume glared into their eyes. Looking away, YN rubbed her eyes before looking back at the box. It looked like only three figures now.

“What of the other… others?” she asked.

“I can’t see.”

“Neither can I.”

All she knew was Wooyoung was not alone.

-

She tried asking about as they waited for the next cue – was there men? Was there women? What can you see? But when they crept onstage once more for their small promenade across the stage as a ‘flock’ of swans, her stomach dropped.

Box 8 was empty.

-

He didn’t come visit during intermission, and she felt uneasy. Had he left? Why? A childish part of her cried out it was their anniversary. Her fingers fiddled with her pearls. The Madame glared at her addition as she passed the large open doors of the boudoir but said nothing.

-

He didn’t come after the show either.

-

When she crept out of the Opera House, her pearls were hidden beneath a coat. And there was no sight of Wooyoung outside. A fragile thing in her heart peeked out and she swallowed down the disappointment as she began her walk home in the cold snow.

Why had he left? He left mid-show with his friends? It burned despite the chill.

-

The next day, YN felt nerves eating up her stomach. She was a creature of habit, a person of rehearsals and repetition. Why hadn’t he shown? Why did he leave? Was he unhappy she hadn’t gotten him something? Was it due to the kiss? Was she too forward? Was he unhappy with her? He had never not shown up to the boudoir after a show. He had never left during a show, and he’d seen the show countless times now.

YN had arrived early to the boudoir, hoping to practice away her worries. Clad in her warmest clothes, she began to warm up on the floor.  She only got so far when she heard a voice.

“YN!”

It was Tiny. Her footsteps were a flurry of tip-tap-tapping as she rushed towards her. “YN!”

The little one hadn’t changed into her costume yet, wearing a dark brown skirt and matching orange blouse. A hooded cape kept her warm.

“He’s one of the new bachelors! He’s one of the bachelors!” the young girl cried out in excitement as she charged into the room. Her giggles were light and fluttery as she bounced on her toes. “The ones who have taken over the Ateez Mansion. He’s one of them! He’s one of them!”

“What?” She paused in her movements.

“Your patron! Your patron! It’s in the paper! Remember his box had more folk last night, right? It was the other bachelors!” she squealed. “I heard from the newsie! ‘Kim Yeosang, the finest tennis player this side of the Atiny Sea, spotted at the grand Cromer Opera House last night accompanied by frequent ballet goer Kim Wooyoung and others. This is the athlete’s first public appearance in Cromer since his move into the famed Ateez Mansion.’”

“Kim?” she queried.

Wooyoung had introduced himself by Jung Wooyoung.

“Maybe they’re brothers!” Tiny exclaimed. “An athlete, YN! He must be fit. And handsome!”

“And rich,” another ballerina commented from across the boudoir.

YN was still confused. “He’s never mentioned brothers – I mean, he mentioned he had friends that were like his brothers. But the only name I’ve heard has been Hongjoong… Seonghwa.”

Tiny repeated the names curiously. “I didn’t hear the newsies say those names. Just Yeosang and Wooyoung! Maybe it’s in the paper. Do you have 5 coins?”

5 coins! It made her splutter. When did she have money to toss at papers?

“No,” she laughed.

“Well, I just thought with the necklace and all – he hasn’t paid anything?” Tiny gossiped.

Her cheeks flushed as she shoved the tiny ballerina away. “Not yet.”

Her hand self-consciously fiddled with the pearl necklace. Kim Wooyoung. It felt weird to think rather than Jung Wooyoung. And, Kim Yeosang, she wondered. She hadn’t heard the name but she wasn’t privy to most sports. Who had time for sportly leisure in this age – especially as a trained ballerina? But a world-known tennis player… it made sense how he’d have money. Why move here? Sure, it was a major port, crawling with trade, but it was just Cromer.

Hongjoong. Seonghwa Yeosang. Wooyoung.

Who were they to Wooyoung?

Were they here last night? Were they the reason he left without even a note of warning?

-

That night he didn’t appear in his box. There was gossip amongst the girls.

“Maybe it was too good to be true.” A dancer taunted

YN. Jealous and envy were bitter dregs of ballet society.

She found herself playing with his necklace more and more.

-

“Miss YN, if you continue to fiddle with that god-forsaken necklace on stage, I’ll rip it off your neck myself.” The Madame croaked, her cane thudding against the floor during their debrief of the latest performance.

“Sorry,” YN managed to get out.

“Sorry doesn’t fix mistakes. Which you’ve been making. Your pirouettes were sloppy all evening; improve or else I shall remove you from the scene.” Her words went in one ear and out the other. Like they had all night. She was just in her head.

She had thought it was different between them – why had he given the cold shoulder? Was it the cold shoulder? She wasn’t sure. Weren’t things fine between them? He had gifted her pearls for goodness sake.

When had she begun to care about the relationship? YN had never cared for her patron-suitors but… she did like Wooyoung. Had she disappointed him? Had his guests warned him away?

She licked her lips, barely hearing the criticism pouring out of the mouth of the Madame of the Opera House.

-

The next day at intermission, there was a white-papered note on her vanity. Bounding up to it excitedly, hope in her stomach, she unfolded it to reveal the too-neat cursive script of the Madame.

‘Remove the necklace or face a fee for costume violations.’

Her necklace was gone the next act. She couldn’t face any more costs.

-

It was two weeks before she’d see Wooyoung again.

When he did return to the Opera House, it was done in a Wooyoung style. Rather than waiting until intermission, he strode through the boudoir’s door with the confidence of someone who owned the place like he had on their ‘anniversary’. YN was by the vanity per usual; make up caked on her face and her neck bare.

“Hello, pretty swanette,” he greeted, his arms wrapping around her waist in an embrace. The scent of him hit her like a train – she hadn’t realized she missed it. Missed him. Her jaw tightened in annoyance.

No, she didn’t want to miss him. He was the one disappearing like a ghost. No wonder he stayed at the Ateez Mansion; he fits right in with the phantom stories there. Her lips were stern as she painted on her rouge with a fine-precision brush. She tried to not to make eye contact with him, tried to not to seek out what he looked like tonight. Were his cheeks rose-flushed from the cold? Was he wearing the silken tunic or a warmer velvet?

“Swanette,” he repeated, shifting her in his arms. Swaying her softly.

Her head tilted; her face twitched as she placed the brush down and grabbed the coal-eyeliner pot.

“Oooh,” Wooyoung cooed out. Minty breath fanned over her neck. “You missed me.”

His voice wasn’t pleading or angry or upset. In fact, it was almost giddy. He took pleasure in her displeasure. It wasn’t like she was giving him attention – or perhaps the lack of attention was so obvious, it was simply attention all over again. Intentionally ignoring someone meant they were on your mind. He was on her mind. She wondered for a moment was he like her – searching for the spotlight.

She finished applying her eyeliner as she felt his lips almost touch her bared shoulder. Her jitter was clear and he chuckled. Dark eyes watched from over her shoulder.

“Your necklace is gone.” He commented, pouting. Long fingers tickled at her neck, as if the pearls were simply invisible around the column of it.

No reply as she placed the make-up down, shifting in his tight embrace but never leaving it, never breaking the bond of his arm around her midsection. He smiled at that. So, for a moment, he simply laid his chin on her shoulder – waiting. He was an optimistic man and, even if she was frustrated, she didn’t pull away from him.

“Your left brow twitches,” he noted casually after a while, making her brow furrow.

“When you’re angry.” He clarified.

“How do you know that?” she countered, breaking her silence with a bite.

He smiled at her words. He got her to talk.

“I know you, swanette – which is how I know you are upset with me. I’m sorry I was gone.” He apologized.

She swallowed and glanced to the side. It was silly to be angry at him. He’s just--- a man. A rich boy with too much money to flaunt. This entire situation was stupid. She never pined after a man, after a stupid patron, too. She focused on her work not men. When had seeing him made her so… excited? And when had not seeing him ruin her day?

His pout came into view as he reached out to tip her chin his way.

“What else, hm?” he urged, thumb petting at her chin. “I was gone for days unannounced but what else could be making you distant?” He sighed, searching her eyes. “Was your necklace not pretty enough? Were the girls cruel? Were-“

“You had guests that Saturday.”

His eyes sparkled at that almost like the gleam of ice in a whiskey glass. He smirked. “Yes, I wanted them to see you.”

“They - you didn’t come to the boudoir.” She followed up her statement, shifting her head from his grasp.

He paused before like a cat prowling his gaze fell into a lazy leer. “Is that why you’re upset with me?” he crooned.

“I’m not—”

“Don’t.” he cut her off, sharp but not cruel. There was a jingle of a singsong in his next words. “You were jealous.”

Now, that made her splutter. “I was not jealous!” she turned around to face him fully. “You left before intermission and then stayed away. I saw you whispering to them!”

“You didn’t like someone stealing me away from you,” Wooyoung continued, smirk on his lips.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she accused him. He was acting like he was the one being courted after not herself. “I-I just wanted—”

“You wanted to meet them, hm?” he swept in a step to wrap an arm about her waist. It was strangely comforting despite their conversation taking a bubbling turn. Almost as if he was reassuring her with his closeness. “Wanted me to show you off?”

She grimaced, not meeting his eyes. Did she? Over the weeks, she had felt a lot, conflicting and confusing.

“I got your hopes up, hm?” he continued to tease.

“Are they your brothers?” she countered, seriousness to his teasing. “Hongjoong? Yeosang? Seonghwa?”

“I told you I don’t know my family, no brothers to my name,” Wooyoung replied easily.

“Your name maybe, but what is your name? Mr. Kim Wooyoung?” she said, raising a brow. Wooyoung’s tongue licked over his teeth as a low bittered rumble of a chuckle built. “Or is it Mr. Jung Wooyoung?”

“Jung Wooyoung to you,” he hummed. “Hongjoong and Seonghwa got me out of a tight spot. Yeosang is like my brother; I trust him like one. You remember a lot, don’t you, swanette?”

She nodded tentatively. It didn’t answer her burning questions of why were they there with him and why did he give her a false last name or did the papers have the wrong one?

“He said you were the prettiest there. He had wanted to meet you – I wanted to show you off, swanette.” Wooyoung reassured.

“Why didn’t you?” it sounded of a whine and her cheeks burned in humiliation. Why did she want him? Was she so used to his praise and attention?

Thumbs went up and down her sides reassuringly. “We got pulled away, is all. It wasn’t intentional. I had wanted them to meet you. I swear it.”

Wooyoung was a charmer, she knew this. But his words tasted so sweet, so honey-sweet. It was hard to question him when it felt real.

“You didn’t mean to leave?” she asked, feeling foolish. Foolish for wanting to know, foolish for asking, foolish for caring at all.

“No,” he laughed out. “Trust me, I’d rather spend time with you than what I got caught up in.”

There was a pause as she took in his face. He had a faint cut over his brow, covered by his perfectly styled hair. Her eyes fell back to meet his gaze.

“Say you missed me?” he encouraged, leaning forward with a smirk. “It’s been weeks; you had to miss me?”

Was this a game? Was this the way patronage felt? A tug back and forth between enjoying their presence while being dreadfully aware that this was all paid pretty folly for them.

“I missed you,” he said when she took a moment too long.

Another beat hung in the air as she pressed her lips together, trying to decipher her confused emotions. There was just one emotion she could figure out.

“I missed you, Wooyoung.”

-

“What happened to your pretty pearl necklace?” He asked later that night. Their tension had eased only a smidge. He sat on the corner of the vanity; multiple treats sat beside him on a silver platter. An apology he said. It had all of her favorites.

“Madame requested I no longer wear it. I’d receive a fee to my costs.”

He scoffed. “Stupid. I’ll talk to her.”

“She won’t take to talking,” she laughed. “She’s the worst woman I’ve ever met.”

“Does she give you a hard time?” he queried.

YN nodded her head as she took a bite out of brownie.

“She’s always disliked me,” she admitted. “I wasn’t as dedicated to dance when I was young. I liked reading and wanted to go to school like the rich girls in the audience. Madame thought I was disobedient.”

“You were just carving your way,” he said.

She shrugged as she offered the other half of the brownie to Wooyoung. He took a nibble, his mouth forming over her own bite.

“I’ll pay the fee,” he said softly after a moment. “Wear it tomorrow.”

He reached up to tuck a strand of her free hair behind her ear.

-

There was someone with him once more. Box #8 looked cramped with Wooyoung and this mysterious man sitting side by side. Throughout the entire act, all she could see was them. Wooyoung grinning and whispering to the mystery man.

Waiting in the boudoir, the pearl necklace around her neck felt hot, like it was on fire. When Wooyoung bounded inside, he looked ecstatic. 

“I brought someone to see you,” Wooyoung revealed in a false whisper, the tone muddled loud with excitement like a child keeping a secret. “I told you I wanted to show you off.”

His hands squeezed hers before with a flourish he spun her around. Hands leaving hers only to find home on her waist. Holding her steady as she was faced with the broad chest of a suited man. Fine fabric draped over his form, tailored from his large shoulders to his lean waist. Spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose, a gleam over his eyes. His hair neatly gelled back into a pompadour.

“Swanette,” Wooyoung’s timbre of a voice was close to her ear; so close, that he could smell her perfume, her hairspray, her hair gel – all aromas that made up the blossoming scent that was uniquely her. Intoxicating. His breath kissed her skin and made her shiver. She could feel the pearly white of his teeth smile against her. “YN, this is San.”

San smiled a smirk down at the dancer, his amber brown eyes flickering to look at Wooyoung. Approval burned in his eyes, and Wooyoung’s grin grew.

San’s hands weren’t large or imposing like his form as he reached for her hand. With gentleness, he clasped her hand and raised it to his mouth. The cat-like smirk didn’t fade even as he pressed a short kiss to her knuckles.

“Miss Y/N, Wooyoung has spoken so much about you,” San’s voice was lower than Wooyoung’s, and it held a honey sweet tone. He hadn’t let go of her hand. “You are a beautiful, talented dancer.”

“Thank you,” she shook his hand softly. “I appreciate your kind words. And it’s nice to meet one of Wooyoung’s friends.”

Wooyoung’s chest rumbled against her back. He squeezed her hips, fingering the place where the beads of her bodice meet her tutu.

“Sannie is my best friend,” he whispered close to her ear. “And he isn’t a kind-worded man; you must’ve really wooed him, swanette.”

San rolled his eyes, hearing Wooyoung’s words. His fingers twitched in her grasp before he let go of her hand carefully.

“Don’t slander me.” He warned before his eyes settled back fondly on her. “I’m a very nice person, little bird.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she replied. “How do you know Woo – did you grow up in Aurora?”

San’s face twitched at the mention of Wooyoung’s previous hometown. “I’ve known Wooyoung since we were tots.” he said, agreeing.

“Do you stay at the Ateez Mansion as well?” she queried.

San nodded. “I do.”

“He likes to decorate the place. He like shiny things.” Wooyoung added, half nuzzling into her shoulder.

“And he likes to blab, if you haven’t noticed,” San countered. “I thought this was time for me to meet the woman you couldn’t shut up about?”

Wooyoung’s hands rose off of her waist in defense at his friend. A curling smirk on his lips, teasing… bratty.

“Excuse me,” he snarked. “I’ll leave you two to it then.”

He stepped away, making her turn to glance at Wooyoung. His face looked serious but there was the air of teasing that Wooyoung just had. His dark eyes shifted from his friend to her with a cat-like slowness.

“I’ll be back,” he pressed a quick kiss to her temple, surprising her.

Her heart jumped and stuttered. He had never done that before. Her ears turned bright red to rival her rouge lipstick.

San smiled at her, his first true smile. It wasn’t curling or seductive but boyish. A grin that made his eyes shut and his nose scrunch. A soft laugh rumbled from his chest. He eyed her with that same grin as she rubbed her temple where his lips had touched, shocked.

She looked after Wooyoung as he scurried away, a rhythm to his steps. His hands tucked cooly into his jacket. If he had been facing her, she’d see the coy grin, boyishly spread on his face. Maybe a cocked eyebrow.

“He’s affectionate,” San revealed. “I’m surprised he hadn’t stolen a kiss yet.”

“He’s a gentleman,” she defended, blushing.

“Gentleman, huh?” the broad-shouldered man repeated with a lilting brow.  He glanced towards the multi-storied doors that he just passed through.

“As much as a man can be while spending money for the boudoir,” she commented. She blinked once and then twice. “I mean— all the men here are gentlemen. . . “ Her laugh was awkward, fumbling.

Perhaps the kiss shook her up a bit too much or YN was surprisingly too comfortable around San already – loose lipped enough to break the allusion of the foyer de la danse. There was a pause before he leaned in. She leaned away out of instinct, hands and form pressing backwards into the vanity. San’s smile hadn’t shifted from his lips nor did the playful grin change to anything offended. He kept her trapped there.

“I don’t know much about this opera or ballet shit,” San admitted, his voice bashful despite his profanity as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “While my household have plenty of enthusiasts... I’m a bit of a novice at this, Miss YN.”

It was charming his confidence in not knowing. It was also charming how he covered for her insult, shifting the attention.

“I see,” she murmured. 

“This is all new to me,” he glanced this way and that at the room. “Wooyo had said he had befriended the prettiest dancer, not that he came to this. What is this place?”

He didn’t sound cruel or tricking. He sounded curious if anything. He leaned forward on the vanity, one arm pressing into the wood to hold his weight as he leaned in close. It reminded her of when she and Wooyoung met. The closeness, the intimacy, the magnetic energy. She thought it was strange to have it with one person, let alone two, but here they were.  

She licked her lips as she ghosted after his gaze around the room. The boudoir in front of her looked like its own scene out of an opera or play. Every girl in their spot; every patron a leading role in their own fantasy.

“Ballet is costly, Mr. San,” she started, her tone low and quiet. He hummed in response.

“These gentlemen-” she continued her post-humous correction through gritted teeth. She saw one of the regular patrons slide a hand over a ballerina’s thigh lower and lower. YN scowled, looking away for the benefit of the girl. “-pay. They pay to see us up close, to talk to us. Our time is theirs.”

“And?” he continued, tearing his eyes away from another patron and his ballerina.

“And anything else they want is theirs,” she managed to get out.

San frowned before spotting Wooyoung returning from where-ever he had ran off to, now carrying back three glasses. One was precariously balanced in between his ring-covered knuckles as he hurried back with careful steps.

“Hello, love birds,” he called, raising his brows playfully. His eyes darted at the closeness between the two of them. San shifted politely away from her.

“Love bird?” he repeated to his friend. “Says the peacock fluffing its feathers.”

Wooyoung crowed out a laugh. It caught the attention of a few ballerinas.

“I’ll take that. I’m handsome.” He flipped his head back to push away his hair that has swung in front of his eyes.

San’s smile returned with ease as he swooped in to grasp one of the glasses before anything more spilled to the wood planks below.

“Swanette?” Wooyoung offered one of the glasses her way. In the glass was no amber liquid but water? She raised it to her nose and sniffed suspiciously.

“It’s just water, baby-doll,” the smaller man reassured.

“She’s a smart one,” San commented.

He smiled politely before taking a sip of his drink. His actions were slow around her she noticed. Or maybe Wooyoung was so high-energy that his friend felt slower in comparison. He moved with intention. Careful. Concise. 

“What were you chatting about?”

“Nothing.” They both said at the same time.

“Intriguing,” Wooyoung countered before smiling wide.

He looked so happy. His smile was so comfortable and yet beaming. She didn’t know it but she was matching the look on her own face. San glanced between them, fondness crinkling his eyes. He cleared his throat.

“Miss YN was just explaining the boudoir to me.” He repeated.

“Boudoir… isn’t this the foyer de la danse?” Wooyoung queried.

“Nickname,” she tried to reassure.

“And what did she say?”

“It’s a whore house,” San said cooly, taking a sip.

Her face flushed at that. “No, I did not!” she exclaimed. Wooyoung glanced between them, amused.

“She wouldn’t have,” he snorted in agreement. “She’s a lady.”

“Its essentially what she said,” San sighed out, raising a brow at his friend.

There was a long moment between the two men before the smaller man looked to her. Wooyoung glanced her up and down.

“Is that true?” he whispered. Concern flashed in his eyes.

“Woo, I – “ she glanced aside, anxiety tumbling. Like theatre, the façade of the boudoir worked only when there were the illusions in place. But now Wooyoung’s careful concerned gaze made her feel like something was wrong. Trouble. Like the theatre was aflame. Like something was changing. “I’ve never- Wooyoung has been my first patron.”

“I’m your patron?” he bumbled out, brows pursing.

Had he thought… they were something else? San had called her his friend. The woman he wouldn’t stop talking about.

She nodded nervously.

“I thought so – you hadn’t paid but the necklace, the treats, everything-“

“Swanette-“ he started, talking over her as he took a step forward. But she didn’t have another chance to voice her words. San’s arm curled over Wooyoung’s shoulder.

“It’s a good thing we’re her patrons,” San insisted. “Patrons like them-” he glanced around at the men in the foyer de la danse with disdain, taking a protective step forward as well. “-aren’t to be trusted.”

YN was shielded from the boudoir in that moment. Like a bird caged in, but was she truly caught? Or was she in the warm embrace of a nest?

San looked at Wooyoung with a little nod, and, with that, the shorter smiled.

San grinned at her, and it sent a zing up her spine, electric.

“I’ve got you, honey. We’ve got you.”

And YN believed them that night.

-

In the dark of another night, her eyes flickered open. She wasn’t in the expensive automobile, nor cradled in Seonghwa’s arms. The last thing she remembered was the gentle rise and fall of his chest and the smell of everything that made Seonghwa Seonghwa. Bittered ground coffee beans, warm vanilla, and a hint of something deeper, something like burnt florals. Elegant and strict-cut like him. How many nights had she spent consumed by that scent in his sheets?

Now, she felt a strange conflicted fondness for his scent. It comforted her as much as it made her stomach churn. A bittersweet situation.

Even now as she blinked her crusty eyes, YN sought it out. Sought him out. It itched at her anger. He wasn’t safe now. Were any of them?

She went to move, push off the too-warm sheets from her form. The room crackled with a lit fire-place; the smell of smoke was heady in the air. She could barely move. Her body didn’t hurt, but her limbs felt slow and sticky like she was submerged in honey, melting into molasses. With a small whine, she shifted under the luxurious covers of the bed restlessly, rustling them as she tried to push herself up.

“Be careful, sweetheart,” a voice rumbled out.

Her bleary eyes shifted to look around the room. Ah, of course, it wasn’t her room. Her sheets were never so heavied. Her fire-place wasn’t ever lit. He stood in front of the flames, a pick prodding at the logs.

Her face sturdied, frowning at him as she tried to move again.

“Don’t move too quickly, sweetheart,” he sounded soft as he put back the pick and approached the fluffed bed.

“Are you in pain?” the man asked, kneeling beside her.

He smiled fondly at her, a hand going to wipe hair out of her face. She wanted to turn away from the love written over his face. Her numb legs reminded her of what had happened. It hadn’t been a nightmare.

“Don’t touch me,” she mumbled, blearily.

“Are you in pain?” he pressed again.

He petted her hair back, tucking it behind her ears. She felt coddled like a pet. Her brow twitched.

“I can get Yunho; the doctor promised him that he gave you enough medicine that you wouldn’t feel a thing until tomorrow’s check-up. If you are –” the man chuckled lowly. “He’ll have hell to pay.”

She glared. The mention of doctors, of Yunho, of everything made the flickers of her rage burn.

“Yeosang, stop,” she bit out. The haze of sleep was fading and as she took deep breaths of the smokey air she felt her anger grow.

His smile faded for a moment at her abrupt command. He licked his lips as his hands mother-henned about her. Fixing the covers to lay lower, fluffing a pillow. She wanted to wiggle away.

“Yeosang!” she snapped again as he continued to fuss.

“YN.” His voice rumbled out warningly.

There were footsteps outside his door. He glanced towards it before, with a deep sigh, he shook his head.

“I know you’re upset.” Yeosang sympathized softly. His hands slid from the comforters to rearrange her hands to rest on her stomach. His fingers intertwined with hers. “But you don’t need to be hurting on top of that. So, I’m going to ask again – are you in pain?”

She glared at him. Why did he have to look at her with such softness? Such devotion. Did he plot her injury? Did he know? No, for some reason, she felt like Yeosang couldn’t manage such cruelty – even if he was cruel on the court. And there was the glaring obvious fact that he hadn’t been in the mansion for some days.

“YN,” he pushed again.

“No,” she admitted.

Her gaze fell to their interlocked hands. His thumb brushed soothing circles and the occasional ‘x’ across the back of her hand. He smiled, small and kind. Relieved, she realized.

“Good,” he breathed before he leaned forward to press a warm kiss to the back of knuckles.

Her fingers twitched. He didn’t move after the kiss. His chin rested there on her stomach as he stared up at her. Yeosang always held this reverence, similar to Wooyoung. Eyes of devotion she used to think, but unlike Wooyoung’s playful gleam, Yeosang’s had a look to his eyes. Of seriousness. It wasn’t a darkness, no, his eyes were the most honeyed-ambered of the bunch, soft and gleaming like a fire-place’s embers. There was no humor, no teasing, when it came to her. Steadfast, knowing.

He breathed in her skin, lips hot against her skin.

“Why are you here?” she asked after a moment.

He frowned at her, head unmoving.

“You were away on business – you had been gone for days,” she continued. “And now you are just back?”

“I heard what happened to you, sweetheart,” he offered. “I had to come back.”

“How did you hear? It’s only been hours – no letters could reach you that quick.” She retorted.

Yeosang’s smiled against her knuckles. “I had a feeling.”

It felt like he was painting an ‘x’ on a treasure map – all pointing to the fact that she was right. They had done something – they had known something; they had planned this. Her own lovers. The same men who had made her melt into the idea that she was safe with them.  

She scoffed and, with the little energy she had, she pushed his cheek away from her. It didn’t do much. How much pain medication was she on to be so weak, so drowsy?

“Seonghwa had mentioned you were upset, but not this upset,” he pouted as if she had slapped him.

“How would you handle this, Yeosang?” she bit back. “If someone had broken your arms? Your wrists?”

He’d understand; he had to understand. He was dedicated to his sport; the fearsome Kim Yeosang. Awarded countless first-places and countless prizes for his talent on the court. But instead, she saw this sadness flood his gaze. Not tears, no, he never cried.

Yeosang’s hand rose to stroke her cheek with a gentle forefinger. Far too gentle compared to the harsh words, he spoke next.

“I would have never tried to leave, sweetheart. I know better; I wouldn’t have tried it ever.”

[ene-ask]

OMG I just realized it's only the SECOND TIME we actually saw Prima's eyes?!??!

Absolutely ADORE your take on him, being the sweet-looking older sibling who can actually tear you apart + has a bunch of personal issues he believes nobody could help him with cause technically the only one wiser than him (as he believes) is Primus himself

Also his long beautiful lashes 🤌🤌

I also noticed it while drawing haha, the very 2 times we see his eyes are they're both so serious lol

Glad you enjoy Prima' character so far!!

[lets-try-some-writing]

I wonder what was Mars reaction to humans sending him rovers the first time. i imagine Earth probably warned him in advance that humans planned on sending him something (Sojourner was the first sent if i believe correctly) and he knowing what humans are like prepared for the worst definitely

Mars: I really hope this thing won't infect me with anything..

Sojourner: *beeps*

Mars:

Sojourner:*starts collecting rocks*

Mars:

Moon: Earth asks if you're al- *senses Mars em field*Are you crying??

Mars: *deep in fatherhood*No *he is*

This is adorable and it deserves a mini fic. Enjoy.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Mars always told himself he didn’t mind the solitude. He was near his brother and close enough to Mortus—or rather Pluto—to feel content with himself. Sometimes Halley came to visit, which was always a pleasant surprise. It was not often someone immune to the rust corroding him happened to be both nearby and actually interested in communication. Earth was certainly nice enough, and Mars eagerly awaited her every message when she saw fit to reach out to him or use Moon as a proxy.

Moon. Mars. Pluto. He would never fully adjust to the new names given to them by his brother’s beloved Terra. Personally, he preferred his Cybertronian name, but he would never dare say as such aloud. Mortus didn’t care, and Fengari, his elder brother, would be prone to lash out if Mars ever voiced his objection to his new name. Not only that, but he wasn’t keen on making Terra upset. 

How many vorns had he been in orbit around the Unmaker and the life giving Titan who shielded him? It was hard to keep track without any citizens on his surface to constantly chatter to and about him.

Right. Citizens.

Being in his alternate mode, Mars was incapable of sighing as he wanted to. But as he took control over one of his drones and piloted it to the surface, he let the drone pause and linger on the view. Why had he lived while his wards died? It was not fair. He should have carried them until the very end, bringing them to salvation and away from the fires of Cybertron.

If only there hadn’t been plague. Maybe then he could at least have the chance to take on new citizens and ease the ache in his spark.

No, no. He couldn’t think like that. Contemplating such things almost always led to dark thoughts. It was not allowed. He had to stay calm and composed for Fengari. His poor brother was blind for Prima’s sake. Fengari lost his optics, his citizens, and his ability to take to the stars if he so desired in order to stay with Earth. Fengari suffered more. It was not Mars’s place to weep when he at least had remnants of his people upon his frame in the form of paintwork.

He still had them with him, in his spark and through the echoes they left upon his surface. Sweet Solus, many of their inner habitations were still untouched. He’d ensured it remained that way.

He still had relics. He had echos. He was fine. He had no reason to cry.

Right?

“Primus, our maker... we are so far from you. Can you hear us? Do our sparks still resonate with yours?” He spoke through his drone, letting his voice ring out with only a slight bit of static due to the corrosion of his vessel. He sighed as he received no answer, not that he really expected one. He stared though his drone in silence for a while, the quiet of the void all but deafening.

If he listened closely with his real body, he could hear the faint song of stars, the thrum of their very being radiating nearby. Earth’s Star had quite the pleasant melody. Enough for him to fall into recharge.

But he couldn’t allow that. If he slumbered, he may not wake. Instead, he endured the silence, the isolation. Perhaps Mortus would be kind enough to come and pay him a visit during one of his patrols. 

‘Mars? I have news.’

He stalled for a moment as waves of emotion crashed against him. Mars had to pause to translate the EM field communication he found himself assaulted with. Young Terra was not the most educated in matters of gentle or polite correspondence, but she could most certainly be heard.

‘Earth, it is  a pleasure to hear from you. What news do you have for me?’

He tried to keep his communication controlled and neutral. But as he sent back a response, he sensed something coming near to him. It had been heading in his direction for a while, but for the longest time he’d simply assumed it to be space debris. Looking more closely, it appeared to be some kind of device.

‘My children have created a drone of sorts. They are sending it to your surface to analyze you. Do not fear; the drone appears to be insignificant and designed purely for observation. I simply wished to warn you.’ 

Mars almost stiffened, but he forced himself to relax so that his surface would not shift as the thing drew closer. Without a second thought, he moved his drone as far from the potential landing site as he could get without losing track of this incoming drone that was apparently headed his way. He forgot to send a reply for a long while as he watched the thing draw ever nearer.

Earth’s humans were such deadly and destructive beings when they were left unchecked. Mars had witnessed the horrors himself when he watched them drop bombs all over poor Terra’s surface. Even now, the wounds still brought her pain from time to time. 

What would happen if her humans found him to be of use for some grand scheme? Would they harm him too? Mars was a Titan; he could survive if he had to. But he would rather not expose himself and, consequently, his kin to Earth’s destructive little scraplet farm. Why she loved them so dearly was beyond him.

‘Thank you for the warning.’ 

He eventually sent back curtly as he watched the drone finally land on his surface. It felt so very strange to have a new entity roaming his frame. Halley rarely landed, and when she did, her very frame eliminated warmth like a young star barely contained within living metal. This thing was cold, but not necessarily in a wicked sense. It seemed... almost like a protoform, yet lacking a spark. The emotions were familiar, the feeling of potential almost overwhelming.

Mars stared through his drone, his very spark flaring in its chamber as ancient desire rose within him. The drone was tiny, barely the size of the smallest newsparks that he had nurtured before the fires of Cybertron. And yet, as he looked upon the small wheeled entity roaming and prodding at rocks and pebbles like they were the most interesting thing on this side of the galaxy, Mars, or rather, Bellum’s spark, swelled with love.

The ache that had long burned within his core seared as he gazed upon the youth of the small thing roaming his surface. So small. So pure. So full of potential. 

Ancient coding sang within him, and before Bellum knew it, his drone moved just a bit closer, although still out of view. This one did not appear to be affected by the rust of his surface. It roamed freely, without a care in the world. Such innocence… Bellum needed to guard it.

Had Earth’s humans sent him this little gift out of kindness? No. They couldn’t have. They did not know he lived. And yet, he couldn’t help the way every part of his processors screamed at him to accept the offering. Such things were done for the sake of an alliance between Titans back on Cybertron. Old habits died hard, and Bellum could hardly contain himself as he fought the urge to have his drone snatch the Earth-born drone and drag it toward his core so he could connect to it intimately.

He couldn’t expose himself. Not yet. But Bellum was a patient being. Let the humans explore through their gift. His scans indicated that the poor drone wouldn’t last more than a few years without maintenance. He would wait until the humans abandoned it, and then, when all was done, he would finally have a chance to serve his purpose once more.

“Sweet little roamer, do not fear. You may not understand now, but soon, when your creators have let you fly away from them, I will take you under my wing.” He all but purred, keeping his vocalizations below the range of the drone as he observed it. 

“You will not know fear. You will suffer no illness. I will give you a spark, and when the time is right, I will make you into something more.” His spark flared in affection as the tiny Earth-born gathered rocks, observing and producing soft sounds of affirmation as it went. What a lovely voice it would have once Bellum granted it a spark. 

He could hardly wait.

‘Mars, are you in distress?’ 

Fengari, Moon, whatever designation he went by, sent a message that snapped Mars back to attention. Only after he refocused did he realize he’d been sending out waves upon waves of countless emotions in short, and likely unsetting bursts. His brother’s concerns made sense now.

‘I am perfectly fine, brother. In fact, I feel better than I have in millennia.’

Confusion met Mars’s response. He didn’t pay it much mind as he continued to observe the drone upon his surface. It was just so small. 

‘Let Terra know that so long as more of these drones are sent to me, she shall have my full allegiance.’ 

Shock met him this time, but Mars merely hummed. He had something to hope for now, and he had no intention of missing a single moment of his new firstborn’s life. He would have to get his visual images printed at some point for the little one to see once they developed mentally.

“Explore to your spark’s content, sweet roamer. I shall wait for you.” Mars felt his frame ease and a faint song escape his true vocalizer as he watched the small drone pick up a rock and stare at it.

Soon. Soon he would be a Sire again.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

I Now Declare You

Warnings: Lloyd being Lloyd and dark overtones.

Prompt: Lloyd and Mimi get married. Lloyd is mega groom-zilla. 

Character: Lloyd Hansen (from Carpe Noctem)

As usual, I appreciate any and all feedback and enthusiasm. Please reblog and leave a comment. Love! 😍

The day has come. Most women would be excited. You’re getting married, but just like everything with Lloyd, there’s a caveat. This isn’t exactly your choice. None of it is. 

The dress is pretty but the amount of cleavage isn’t entirely you. No, that’s Lloyd. Or the flowers. Elegant but you prefer simple. The ring, overzealous is as nice as you can describe it. At least it’s a small affair. A courthouse wedding but you’re still surrounded by strangers. Lloyd’s guests, not yours. 

You stand across from him as the officiant goes through his script. You can tell by the twitch in Lloyd’s mustache and the grip on your hands that he’s irritated. It isn’t his perfect dream wedding. Or yours. Or maybe he’s impatient. He said he was more concerned with the wedding night than the day... 

Typical. 

The recital of the binding words fade into a drone. You can trace through all the events that led to this but you still wonder how you ended up here. Of all people, you’re bound to this man. Well, he can act like a child sometimes and you have quite a bit of training in minding toddlers. 

The tick in his cheek deepens as the officiant declares that long-awaited act. The first kiss as husband and wife. You’re still reeling from the vows. Is this real? Are you really legally bound to this man? It’s not much of a change since you’ve been chained to him in all but law. 

He draws you in and you gasp into his mouth as he smothers you without shame. You press your hands to his lapels as he traps you in a bearish embrace. He consumes you with the hunger of a man who swore himself to celibacy since the day he proposed. His self-imposed restraint hardly made him any less needy. 

He parts, his nose tickling yours, and whispers, “I’m about to destroy you wifey.” 

Your lashes flick at the intensity in his tone. You can never really describe him as anything but intense. Even so, he catches you off guard now and again. 

You rocks you and gives a wink as he reluctantly pulls away. The small courthouse room is full but there’s not too many people. Those same friends from the night you met in the private room at the club, an assortment of women on their arms, though none of them seem very happy to be there. 

“Okay, shit stains, let’s get the photos quick,” he declares. “I got some prima nocta waiting for me.” 

The antiquated and rather off-putting reference makes you wince. It’s embarrassing how he just says whatever he wants; he doesn’t even care about the officiant waiting patiently with pen in hand. She clears her throat. 

“You need to sign. Your witnesses too.” 

“Ah, fuck, yeah,” he drags you by your hand to the table against the wall. “Where the fuck?” 

“Lloyd,” you nudge him gently and smile at her, “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise for me,” he takes the pen and wiggles it impatiently. 

“Fair, you should apologise for yourself,” you retort. 

He frowns and gives you the side eye. The officiant taps the papers. “Here and here,” she points to each. 

He scribbles quickly and flips the pen in your direction. You pluck it from him and move closer. You sign then hand off to the first witness. Nick? You think his name is. 

The officiant hands you the certificate and Lloyd just as quickly snatches it. She leaves you to the room until the end of the hour. Lloyd sucks his teeth and shoves the certificate at Andy’s date. “Hold onto this.” 

He turns and before you can react, he scoops you up. You squeal and he turns to face the chairs. “Alright, snap away.” 

The photographer moves from the corner of the room. Lloyd smushes his lips to your cheek as he cradles you in his arms, your skirts clouding out around you. The shutter clicks endlessly and you wriggle in his grasp. You’re precarious in his hold but no matter how many times you tell him not to pick you up, he insists. 

“Fuck, mimi, I’m gonna tear this thing off you.” 

He squeezes your leg before he sets you on your feet. You’re dizzy from the suddenness of it all. He grabs your hands and turns you then gets to his knees. He brings your hands to frame his throat and he snickers. 

“Get a few just like this,” he says to the photographer. The guests chuckle at the ridiculous tableau. 

“Lloyd,” you rebuke. 

“Oh, don’t be shy, mimi. You know you’ll be doing lots of this tonight,” he chortles so the whole room can hear. “And I’ll be doing a whole lotta begging.” 

[apomaro-mellow]

This was such a cute mermay idea I had to do it

Nancy watched as they took the first mer out of the tank, nicknamed 'Billy'. His tail was a deep blue but she knew better than to attach too much connection between the coloration of the tail and their personality. He was anything but calm and soothing. If anything, she would call him a brute, but it was hard to even say that regarding an animal.

Sometimes fish could be aggressive. And clearly putting two males in one tank had amped up that aggression. Poor Steve had yet to leave his cave after Billy's last attack. They'd need a diver to help coax him out and tend to his wounds.

It takes a couple of weeks for him to recover and in that time, the team brings in a new mer, another male. Robin was vehemently against putting him in the same tank as Steve.

"He just got over what happened with Billy. What're you gonna do if this one tries to fight him again?"

"Steve isn't totally helpless", Nancy said, remembering the wounds inflicted on Billy as well. "Besides, we need to figure out if it really is just instinctual, territorial stuff or if there's something else going on."

And so the second male was put into the same tank as Steve's. At first, he was appropriately cautious, as was the other mer. They both kept to opposite sides of the tank. Then Robin began to notice some odd behaviors in them.

The new one, dubbed 'Eddie' by his wrangler Wayne, would sometimes poke and prod at Steve. He would do so and then immediately swim away, like he was bold but shy at the same time. Steve didn't lash out the way he had with Billy, so perhaps it was some form of play? It was times like these that she wished they knew more about these creatures.

Then Steve did more than just not lash out. He appeared to be playing along. Steve had never engaged in play. Honestly, to Robin he seemed a little haughty, like a prima donna of a fish. The gossamer frills of his tail, almost like a betta fish, gave him that look of someone above it all. But when he played with Eddie, he looked, well, goofy.

But he seemed happy. Healthy even.

Then, one day, while passing by on her lunch break, Robin noticed something she had never seen Steve do before. Eddie floated nearby while Steve swam in an alluring display, his tail undulating in a way that made Robin feel like she shouldn't be watching. So she didn't stay for long. There were always cameras on the tanks just in case something happened while no one was around anyway.

But she brought it up to Nancy immediately. Because if her suspicions were correct...

"It looked like a mating dance to me, Nance."

"Don't be silly, they're both males. And if that was possible, then why didn't Steve perform for Billy?"

"Uhh, he kept biting and clawing at him? Not very romantic. And let's not pretend homosexuality is a purely human invention", Robin pointed out.

Nancy was still skeptical. "Well, even if they are engaging in courtship, the fact remains that they can't reproduce together."

Unexpected babies could complicate things in the tank when they knew so little about mers to begin with. How did they even raise their young? It was the kind of question they'd learn the answer to sooner rather than later.

A few days after Robin took notice of the supposed mating rituals, a diver noticed that Steve's belly appeared to be a bit more full. They tried to get closer to inspect but in his first act of aggression, Eddie pounced with the intention to bite their head off. Thankfully, they were fully covered and got away with just a chunk taken from their goggles. Unable to inspect up close, the research team chalked it up gaining weight. It could either be from preparing for winter or having less stress to effect his appetite.

About a week after that, during a routine clean up, Nancy saw that the moment a diver went into the water, Eddie stood sentry at the cave and Steve was nowhere to be seen, presumably inside. Not wanting to agitate him, they waited until he was asleep to send a camera down. Through its night vision lens, they saw the two adult mer and what appeared to be a clutch of about five eggs, the size of grapefuit settled between them.

When the evidence came back, Nancy pointedly kept her gaze from Robin's 'I told you so' face.

"Don't look so smug unless you can tell me how this happened", Nancy said.

Robin shrugged. "I have theories."

It took about three weeks for the eggs to hatch, after doubling in size. The team kept their distance as Eddie's territorial streak rivaled Billy's when his mate was in a vulnerable state. But they checked in whenever they could. Only two of the eggs grew to full term and hatched, the other three deflating not long after being laid.

Nancy chalked it up to it likely being Steve's first mating and having come from a stressful situation. She was proven correct when a year later, he laid again, six this time, and they all made it to full term. She and Robin watched as Eddie and Steve floated together, tails in a twist and holding hands, letting the current carry them as their eight children chased each other around.

Robin nudged her partner. "We're gonna need a bigger tank."

[kkatomii]

BRIAR | @kkatomii

briar, a prima ballerina . . ౨ৎ

hair ୨୧ earrings ୨୧ necklace

dress ୨୧ gloves ୨୧ pointe shoes

overlay ୨୧ lashes ୨୧ gloss

thank you to all cc creators !

[kvetchlandia]

I Haven't...

really wanted to engage in a rant about Luigi Mangione because the subject is just so depressing. Beyond the general issues with the Mangione case, things become even more complex because the reign of His Imperial Highness, Generalissimo, President for Life and Defender of the Faith in His Cult, Pussy Grabber I, is about to begin in just a few days and anything said against him, his cult or his knuckle-walking, mouth-breathing, hairy-palmed followers just might be cause for disappearance into the nacht und nebel, and sooner rather than later. But I figured, what the fuck, if I'm gonna be targeted, it'll be because of more years than I care to count of activism in progressive causes, in my union and in defense of science and learning against religious superstition and ignorance rather than because of a post on Dumblr. So, here I go.

I believe that the murder of corporate executives, while completely understandable, is the politics of despair. It doesn't and can't lead to change. It's just lashing out. The reasons for such lashing out are as obvious as the day is long. The man killed by Mangione, Brian Thompson, the CEO of United Healthcare, was without question, a murderer himself. He was the chair of the largest private, for profit health insurance company in the United States. As has been noted countless numbers of times, American private health insurance is not a healthcare system, it's a healthcare denial system. United Healthcare had the largest percentage of denied claims of any major health insurance company in the United States, roughly 33%. There is no question that some of those 1/3 of all claims made that were denied resulted in the deaths of the claimants. That makes Thompson and his leadership team at UHC murderers, even if their murders are conducted under the color of law. Beyond that, on account of the their typically high premium rates and their low rate of payout on fully justified claims, United Health Group's revenue was $371.6 billion in 2023, an increase of 14.6% from 2022. They claimed a profit of $22 billion in 2023, a number that I believe is actually much below their real profit level but which is what was claimed after all of the legal ways their battery of highly paid attorneys and accountants legally cheat on their taxes and reduce their published profits to avoid taxation on them are factored in. Thompson himself claimed an income of $10.2 million in 2023, largely based upon his success in denying the claims of customers who'd paid for insurance services they were ultimately denied, thus increasing company profits and shareholder dividends.

Given this ugly reality, it's no wonder that the population of the United States largely applauds Mangione. Everyone understands his frustration and his anger, and many of us share those feelings. We get that his objective anger was made worse by his own subjective experience of suffering from a condition that left him in constant pain and which, from published reports, he had difficulty getting treated even though he was from a wealthy, privileged background. Hell, even a lot of MAGA scumbags speak out in defense of Mangione. I guess the only ungodly rich jerkoffs they like are their cult leader, Trump, and his evil prima donna prime minister, Elon Musk.

Murdering these corporate criminals changes nothing. It might remove an individual or two from the scenes of the crimes they routinely commit, but it doesn't change the system that allows and flourishes because of this legal criminality any more than the murders of Carmine Galante, Albert Anastasia and Joey Gallo ended the mafia. The only way to really end this criminality is to end capitalism, the system that thrives on it. There are smaller steps than complete social revolution that might ameliorate the problem without changing the system, but they're really only half steps. For example, the United States could join the rest of the industrialized world in providing fully national healthcare to the residents of this country, paid for through graduated taxation of both individuals and corporations. We could do that, but anyone who believes that a country whose government is going to be dominated by the Trump cult for at least the next 2 years, a cult noted for its greed, mendacity, racism, misogyny and xenophobia, is going to increase taxes on the wealthy and corporations in order to accomplish that probably also believes in the tooth fairy and that the earth is flat. This country is going to do exactly the opposite, most likely making the very limited gains of the Affordable Care Act ("Obamacare") fewer and harder to receive.

So, where does that leave us? At the moment, exactly where we started out, but with much more ugliness, exploitation, oppression and misery looming just over the horizon.

Aren't I the cheery sort?

[zmwrites]

OC Kiss Week Day 6: Forbidden

WIP: Vessel WIP

Pairing: Fenna x Rook

CWs: just kissing

Words: 1,103

Notes: these two are disasters and i love them

Fenna leaned against the end of the library aisle, watching as a familiar figure browsed the shelves with a strange intensity. Rook was still dressed for the outdoors, his black cloak shimmering with crow-like iridescence in the candlelight, and his fingers traced the spines of each book in turn.

She slipped into the aisle and approached him, her slippers silent on the stone floors. He was looking at tomes from the earliest era they had that described the creation of the world, the gods, and their predecessors. Stories most people knew by heart if they’d attended a temple for any amount of time.

“What are you searching for?” she asked.

He jumped and his head snapped towards her. As soon as he saw her, his face softened and his posture relaxed. “Fenna.”

“Rook.” She sat on the table behind him, the yellow silk of her dress sliding easily on the polished wood. “Looking for a refresher on the creation stories?”

“I thought you’d be in bed by now,” he said.

She pursed her lips. It was incredibly annoying when he ignored her questions. The avoidance strategy might’ve worked with other people, but she’d spent too much time with him to fall for it. “Prima Phyrra has given me more freedom after we had a chat. So I ask again: what are you searching for?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” Rook turned away from the shelf and took a step towards her.

“Everything you do concerns me,” she replied archly, playing on the double meaning of the word. “But really, I can help. I know this library like the back of my hand. I’ve read just about every book in here.”

“Let me rephrase: nothing I want you involved in just yet.”

Fenna rolled her eyes. “May I remind you that you’re not allowed to be in here? As soon as someone else catches you in the sanctum you’ll be banned from the temple.”

“I’d like to see them try,” he said, moving a bit closer. “I happen to be a favourite of Phyrra and her Vessel. Anyone who tried to ban me would be quickly overruled.”

“That’s rather presumptuous to say you’re one of my favourites,” she replied.

He took the final step into her space, hands landing on the table on either side of her. “Am I mistaken?”

She couldn’t help herself—she leaned forward so their faces were just a few finger widths apart. As annoying as he was at times, she still found herself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. “You haven’t done anything recently to endear yourself to me. Keeping secrets, vanishing unexpectedly, showing up randomly during the night… that’s hardly proper behaviour for someone who claims to be my favourite.”

“How would you like me to endear myself to you?” he asked, almost purring. He towered over her even though she’d straightened to her full height. He twisted a lock of her hair around his finger.

She hummed, her lashes fluttering. “I’m sure you could think of something.”

He tilted his head towards her until their noses brushed. Her heart thundered in her chest. She didn’t want to get her hopes up—they’d gotten this close before but he always pulled away. Always diverted at the last second. It was killing her.

He gently tugged the lock of hair and released it, then backed out of her space. “You should go to bed, Fenna.”

She swallowed her disappointment and hopped off the table. She needed to stop allowing him to get so close. All she was doing was breaking her own heart, and after eighty-some years of keeping it locked away from the world, she wasn’t sure how much damage it could handle.

“Goodnight, Fenna.”

It was her cue to walk away, but she couldn’t convince her feet to move. Words bubbled from her chest before she could stop them. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?” he asked. His eyes tightened with pain, like he was begging her not to press the subject.

“Refuse to follow through.” She curled her hands into fists at her sides to keep from crossing her arms. She didn’t need to announce how vulnerable she felt. “You’ve come so close to kissing me multiple times and you always back away. Why? Is it me? Am I not worthy in some way?”

“That’s not it.”

“Then why?” she demanded.

“There are rules, Fen,” he said. He reached for her again, but his hand dropped back to his side before he touched her. “I cannot love you like you deserve.”

“I would rather have half than nothing,” she argued. “I am living on borrowed time. Even if I had my entire mortal lifespan to love you, it would be a fraction of a moment in the context of your existence. I have months left to experience life after being numb for so long.”

He made a pleading gesture. “I’m supposed to be above human temptations and desires.”

Fenna stepped into him, raising her chin defiantly to meet his black eyes. “Then say ‘no’ and walk away.”

“I should say ‘no.’” Despite his words, his eyes searched her face longingly and the tips of his fingers trailed up the exposed skin of her arms.

“So do it,” she challenged. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

They stared at each other for a breathless, charged moment. She wondered if she’d pushed too far, if she’d crossed a line.

Rook growled with frustration, then his hands were cupping her face and his lips were on hers with so much force that she stumbled back against the table. It was rough and bruising and she could feel the frustration he was pouring into it. She clung to him, molding her body to his, as the blood in her veins crackled like fire racing under her skin. It was more intoxicating than the strongest wine, more exhilarating than her wildest escape, and for the first time she understood why so many people ruined their lives for love.

He pulled away and took two large steps back until he was pressed against the opposite bookshelf. His eyes were wide and wild, his mouth and cheeks a charming shade of pink. “I apologize for my indiscretion.”

“Rook—”

“I’ll take my leave.”

“Rook!”

The candlelight flickered and plunged them into darkness, there was a swell of warm air, and the sound of many beating wings filled the space. When the candles returned, she was alone.

Fenna leaned heavily against the table and brushed a finger across her lips. The moth and the flame metaphor was apt—she would burn just the same.

[depravitymoon]

Yandere Bucci Gang by Mental Instability

Mental instability: How normal do they look to society?

1 is you'd think they're normal.

5 is having moments of insanity slip through.

10 is everyone sees a walking red flag.

Trish 1/10

Giorno 2/10

Bruno 4/10

Narancia 5/10

Mista 6/10

Fugo 7/10

Abbacchio 7/10

Explanations below

Acts normal

Trish - Trish is just a normal girl, so she does know how to act in public. Yandere Trish, I imagine as a prima donna. She wants you and she wants to be the center of your world. If it means ruining your life to make that happen, she will. Don't worry, she'll be there to comfort you. However, she'll sabotage your life by ruining your reputation, so I imagine she does need to act as normal as possible.

Giorno - Canonically, most stable because he rarely acts out in public unless there's a dire situation. With Yan!GioGio, I imagine he tries to keep a normal demeanor. As Don, he might have a power trip, but I doubt that would last. He's able to charm people out their belongings, he can totally charm you into believing he's not crazy.

Has their moments

Bruno - Charming guy, but honestly, he is not stable considering his backstory and how he licks people to tell if they're lying. Canonically, he beats people in public and is very nonchalant when his crew was beating on an obvious civilian, even allowing them to stuff the mam with potentially poisonous food. Also, the blurted out that he and his crew was trying to find Diavolo in broad daylight where the enemy can easily spot them. If it wasn't for the fact Bruno is canonically loved by the locals, I would deem him too mentally unstable to be normal in society. Yandere Bruno might not act differently in terms of his private and public antics.

Narancia - Canon Nara is okay. Yeah, he burnt down street and explode cars, but it was in a dire situation. He also freaked out when he realized he was beating on a civilian. With Yandere!Nara, I imagine he's too childish to keep a stable demeanor if you reject his clinginess. He will pout, he will shout, he will lash out. He might also stab. Being delusional does not help.

Mista - Homeboy was randomly stealing people's money outside of theaters, willing to almost die to do so, and boldly stood up against a bunch of armed men. Also, in Trish's body, he was willing to touch private parts in public and blurt out very private information about Trish. Definitely not stable. Yandere Mista is delusional, so he will rationalize his actions of committing violence in broad daylight. He's only in this category because he seems laidback enough to not have people be constantly cautious of him.

Walking Red flags

Fugo - His outbursts are a problem and in the anime backstory, he warned that his temper gets so bad that it might kill Bruno. Also, Abbacchio had to keep Fugo from going off the deep end with his emotions twice in the anime. Most importantly, we're introduced to him violently beating up his own best friend over being a little shit about math. Then casually apologized as if he and Narancia weren't about to fight to the death. Yandere Fugo still has outbursts.

Abbacchio - Willing to pee in teapots in public, viciously beat a man in public and when he found out the man was an innocent civilian, forced fed the man food to see if it's poisoned. Gonna be honest, Abbacchio does not strike me as stable. Yandere Abbacchio would be plagued with depression and paranoia that you'll be abandon him like so many others have, either through death or being disappointed in him.

I rated both Fugo and Abacchio a 7, but I think Abbacchio's slightly worse. Fugo attempts to be better. Abbacchio actively seeks to act unhinged.

[primalashlashes]

Prima Princess

This princess rules the castle! The items included in this collection were created in collaboration with a super sassy 8 year old, who loves to copy everything her mummy does!

[sakachichi]

COMING IN HOT W THESE DRABBLES YALL 😤 gather around primas 😈🙏

Drabble!Satoru and you we’re getting ready to go to a very fancy dinner w the schools higher ups, Satoru ofc didn’t wanna go but he had no other choice, going against his will unfortunately ;( You on the other hand were more than excited to grub on some very high quality wagyu, and some other delicious dishes!

You sat prettily at your vanity as you put on some mascara as the final touch, focusing very hard. You wore a nice navy blue dress, super tight it hugged your curves just right, making your tits look amazing (Satoru will definitely stare at them shamelessly :p) as you continue to focus on your lashes, you didn’t realize his tall figure standing behind you.

“How about we don’t go? I know you’re all dolled up but-“ he begins walking towards your shared bed before sitting down and man spreading, “imagine you right here..” his hands motion your invisible body straddling him, “your all dolled up, and I’m just like-“ he air slaps your invisible ass.

You roll your eyes at your husband’s silly actions, “how about after?” You smile sweetly at him and he grumbles. It was worth a shot trying to convince you to stay home :p

Anyways, now you guys are at dinner and Satoru could not keep his eyes off of you, eyes drinking you up. You just looked so good, your eyes glistening in the lowlight, your hair blown out to perfection, and your ass…your ass! So pretty he’s drooling just looking at you. If he was a lot more psychotic he’d have spread out on the table, shamelessly ramming into you like if he had something to prove, but alas he has at least some decency.

Now you guys are home and Satoru wasted no time in crashing his pink juicy lips onto yours, desperately, hungrily kissing you. Teeth and tongues against each other, your fingers gripping onto his snowy hair, and his gripping onto your ass. Then, he unzips your dress, letting it pool around your feet revealing your bare chest, he rolls his head back as he giggles. So giddy and excited to finally get this party started :p you smile as he latches his lips onto one of your perky nipples, sighing from his warm mouth on your skin.

He’s giving both of your tits the attention they need, greedily fondling and sucking on them. Finally Satoru lets go w a loud pop! “Touch yourself, pretty, wanna see how you do it when I’m not here” he yanks your cute baby blue panties off leaving you in only your heels, and you obliged, dipping your fingers into your wet swollen cunt, rubbing sweet circles on your clit. Rolling your head back as you moan, “fuck you’re so sexy” he whispers.

Frantically Satoru takes off his slacks, his raging cock finds its way into one of his big hands, jerking himself as he watches you lose yourself to pleasure. And when he couldn’t wait any longer, he grabs onto your arm and swiftly turns you around, ass perfectly arched inviting him in. Slowly he sinks into you bottoming himself out, letting out a slutty groan as he rolls his head back before fucking you senseless.

“Fuck! O-oh my god Satooo” you whine, tits bouncing crazily, and your hair falling before your face as you let your head hang in between your shoulders. “You’re taking my cock so well, you love when I fuck your pussy like this huh?” He’s breathless, gripping onto your wrists with a bruising force, your heels giving you the perfect height to let him hit that sweet spot over and over and over again, making your legs tremble.

“Tell me how much you love my dick inside you, baby, c’mon doll tell me” he grits in your ear, loudly moaning as he’s near his high. And all you could muster is a pathetic, “yesyesyesyes” as your eyes roll back. One of Satoru’s hands grips onto your hair, pulling you flush against his chest, making him hit your sweet cervix repeatedly.

“Pussy so fucking tight, mmm’ohmygod” the grip on your hair is so painfully tight, making you whimper as he pulls on you with each thrust. Finally he forcefully lets you go, letting you fall back to your original position. His free hand slaps your ass so hard repeatedly, the pain strikes up your spine as you cry out, pushing you oh so close to the edge.

“Ah! S-sato m’gonna cum!” You whine out, Satoru hums as he shakes his head, too pussy drunk to reply. And minutes later you cum sooo hard on his cock, walls flutter around him as he milks your orgasm. “Mmm~ baby fuck” you moan out, looking back at him. Seconds later he cums as well, shooting his hot sticky load inside you. Hips stutter as he slows down his thrusts, moaning so fucking loud as he continues to fill you up.

“Is this what you wanted, Mr.Gojo?” You ask as you look back at him, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath

“Baby you know I want more”

Idk when I saw this vid on twt but it was this lady fully naked and w just her heels on and I thought hmmm yea gojo 🌝 anyways primas hope yall enjoyed 😻🫶🫶

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Prima Nocta (or the right of the first night) Part 1

Warnings: so so so so many for thematic material. This is dark. Quite dark. This is freshly divorced and verrrrrry bitter and disillusioned Elvis helping himself to the bride of the newest Memphis Mafia initiate. Hugely unreliable narrator, belittling and objectifying of women, dub con because of that, sanctimonious chauvinism, reference to his marriage going very south. no actual sex yet but definitely 18+.

Notes: this got so long from just lead up that I figured it was worth publishing on its own and seeing if there’s interest for a part 2. Sorry for going bonkers on this one, sometimes you just gotta tap into the villain side of yourself. Also, this was inspired by many talks with my previous mutuals about THAT picture of Elvis holding a gun to George Klein’s head at his own wedding…I’m using it for solely for vibes, sorry George

Series: Sky High Lovin -reading Honeymoon might make this even better but not necessary

Dedicated to: Sweet Christi with the wayward mind and all my thanks to Ally and Jane and Elise for spitballing this into existence.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Elvis enjoyed life affirming events like weddings, believe it or not. He enjoyed facilitating days to celebrate love and loyalty and vows before God, promising everlasting devotion. That is, until he learned that “till death do us part” meant about as much to most as a “bless you” did when someone sneezed.

It makes surveying the pink and white festooned hotel ballroom something of an eyesore for him as he lounges back, dressed in black velvet, a sore thumb of ominous derision amidst the pastels, viewing the merry reception through moody, tinted lenses. The familiarly charming table accents of champagne and flowers and paper mache hearts twist his own into something a little furious and decidedly bitter.

A man’s wife betraying him and leaving him and stripping him of his pride and his joy and all his best intentions for her and your child will do that to a man.

Couldn’t even make it a whole decade before she found fault and spread her legs for another and turned his child against the father that loved her.

Sorry for being away so much baby, I was just singin’ myself hoarse to buy you that fuckin ring and car and hair and face and keep you in the style you’d married me for.

Cause it was obvious as all hell that honoring and obeying hadn’t been first and foremost in her mind when she promised forever. Forever to riches and fame, maybe, but not forever to him. She has those now, and he hasn’t got the family he’d prayed an Old Testament God for.

Rather like the pretty lady currently allowing her rodent of a groom to feed her their wedding cake, fake giggles and batting lashes adding to the nauseating act of pretending she can stand being in his company for longer than a couple hours.

Forever, my ass.

Elvis watches her through his shades and with each passing minute the anger burns brighter and his justification steadily builds for the liberty he’s about to commit.

The groom is here for Elvis’ paycheck, the lovely bride is planning to suck that idiot's cock till death doth them part (or a good four years) for the status of being a Memphis Mafia wife, and even the guests now stuffing their faces with pasta and alcohol are here for what Elvis’ money buys.

Loyalty is dead and what’s left is the goddamn food chain, like they’re the animals school tells them they’ve evolved past. In the recent months since his divorce, Elvis has felt a near Devine calling to bring this wicked devolution of morals and motivations to light, to humiliate these homosapiens until some level of shame is regained by mankind. If this is a pack of animals that surrounds him, he is King of the Jungle, and it is a careless and heartless king who lets his subjects run amuck.

He has no appetite for pasta, the hours of frivolity pass him by and he remains aloof, crouching in wait in his chair, running off righteous indignation and primal sufferance. Good things come to those who wait.

That’s what the bride is thinking, Elvis suspects, as the reception winds down and her luxurious honeymoon full of sunbathing and spas, good food and rich wine and the obligatory playing hooky to get out of sex draws nearer. Just a little more time letting fuckin’ Ronnie feed her cake and paw at her, then she’ll be on her way, securely locked into her future of privilege. He’s got nothing against Connie, uh, Sandra, -oh hell what was her name? he consults the gold embossed invitation at his elbow,- He’s got nothing against the newly minted Mrs. Kemp, nothing in particular, except that she’s a woman. And Elvis has a bone to pick and a point to prove with the whole, whorish lot of them.

Elvis opens the limo door for the bride himself, gallantly ushering in the happy couple before joining them as arranged, the whole merry band of his boys piling in after.

The new Mrs. Kemp, unlike some of his boys wives, had had the good grace not to whine about the lack of privacy and alone time to be found in and around Graceland’s inner circle. As a result Elvis allowed her to choose the more expensive flowers and gold embossed invites and french vintages, even if he knew why knew she’d been disgustingly eager for any chance of her intended husband being distracted from her. Elvis is certain, thanks to first hand accounts from fuckin’ Ronnie himslef, that the groom has sampled the bride already. It’s the way of things in this decadent decade, and she’s no fresh outta the nest baby chick. The fact Ronnie could give no further details about his encounters with his betrothed beyond the mechanics of thrusting above her till he blew his load, made Elvis despair of humanity and suspect Mrs. Kemp had a serpentine pragmatism about this entire arrangement.

Oh my buddy my pal, he thinks to himself as the limo flies through the never dark streets of Las Vegas towards the airstrip, I gave my wife everything and that wasn’t enough, how can you compete? God gave Eve the whole of Eden ‘cept for one measly apple tree -and what did the mother of all mankind do? She took, she ate, she damned them all with her disloyalty.

Ronnie is a damn fool, and while Elvis’ warnings were not needed during the engagement and this marriage has progressed to a limo ride and honeymoon, Elvis is not to be thwarted in his determination to save Ronnie the slow disillusionment, the slow death of any pretense of love in his wife’s eyes, the crumbling of all faith in anything such as Elvis has endured. Better to rip the bandage off now, five years is a long crucifixion.

As the limo parks on the tarmac and the gleaming hulk of the private jet looms over them in the night sky, no doubt Ronnie harbors some pathetic hope Elvis has forgotten his promise.

Elvis proceeds his guests up the jet bridge, cane thumping and carefully harnessed excitement radiating through him as he enters the opulent space, watching with benign magnanimity as the newlyweds board his jet, the boys providing a rollicking group to ferry the new couple to their honeymoon destination.

This was Elvis’ treat, he had insisted the jet drop them off before he heads back to wherever it is he’s supposed to be tomorrow. He’s not lost his appetite for spoiling folks. Only this time, he is gonna get repaid in currency a little more tangible than ephemeral, transient, fleeting loyalty. And Ronnie, kiss-ass, weak-spined fuckin’ Ronnie wasn’t man enough to hold out more than a few minutes when Elvis told him his new bride was the price for being inducted into the inner circle, the intitiation to prove his loyalty to The King.

Predictably, after some pathetic and scandalized objections, some monetary threats by Elvis and some judgmental snickers by the guys, fuckin’ Ronnie had caved and betrayed his loyalty to his own wife before he’d even walked down the aisle to marry her.

“B-b-but d-did the rest of t-the g-guys h-h-have to do this?” Ronnie had protested while they were shootin some pool, leaving the gals the other rooms to wedding plan, “Is it a-a-always this w-way?”

It hasn’t always been, no. Because Elvis hadn’t always been so astute. He had allowed his taste for pleasure and innocence and childish notions of fidelity to cloud his perception of women and the men they married. Elvis once was blind, now he saw, and now there was a currency of wedding nights established in the jungle.

“No one’s forcin’ ya to stay in this group.” Elvis had pointed out while lining up his pool cue with the ball, “you’re mighty welcome to go right on out that door, never receive another check from me or a glimpse of Vegas again, you’ll lose that girl, too, cause she sure as hell won’t be stickin around when all your bells and whistles fall off and it’s just you she’s left with. She don’t want ya Ronnie, she wants what I give ya, which makes me her provider, don’t it?” he reasoned before making his shot, the clatter of the balls deafening against the green felt as the older members of the mafia held their breaths in sick fascination with this new form of hazing. “And now, if I’m her provider,” Elvis had straightened up his posture to watch Sonny mark the score on the board, “that makes me a husband of sorts, an authority, a protector. A sugar daddy. Don’t it? You gonna tell me I should throw you guys a damn weddin’ and honeymoon, buy ya the house you live in and the cars you drive, the clothes she wears and the food you eat cause you hang around me an’ promise to protect me if the time comes? Bodyguard my ass, I could turn anyone to chopsticks before you even woke up long enough to realize a threat. Face it Ronnie, there’s a totem pole in this here life, and no one blames ya for bein’ a few notches down than most in the scale of things, but it don’t give ya much leverage bein’ down there. I give you that leverage. And I’d like to compensate myself for my generosity with a lil marital privilege. Jus’ once, just first night rights.” he took a swing of his coke and watched Ronnie closely, licking the sugar off his lips with deliberate swipes of his tongue, “Or would ya prefer I just wait and fuck her in six monthes when she comes knockin’ on my door sayin’ she just got lost in this big ole place?”

Fuckin’ Ronnie was a coward and a cad and he essentially agreed that he’d rather Elvis fuck his wife on the wedding night and be done with it than always be watching his back, suspecting her of carrying on an affair. Ronnie was a little bitch, Elvis surmised. Gone was any protest that he couldn’t do that to her, that she was a good gal, that Elvis wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Kings had no friends. And tonight Ronnie was oh so close to being officially inducted into the Memphis Mafia, he’d do nothing to jeopardize that . Elvis figured he’d wait until the plane took off to sample the goods, make her husband squirm guiltily over it while his new bride puzzled over why he was so tense.

Out of consideration for her downer of a groom, Elvis handed her a drink, playing the gracious host and taking her mind off her husband's stiff bearing and sweaty pallor.

“Don’t mind him, honey,” Elvis whispered hot and wet in her ear as he handed the drink off, “Ronnie boy here’s just scared of flyin’. You’re not scared are ya, honey?”

Honey….he couldn’t recall her name, Mrs. Kemp’s name, his fatigue and apathy too strong. He stood straight and dug in his pocket for a pick-me-up as he watched her smile and blush under his attentions,

“No sir, Mr. Presley, I’m not scared.” she smiled, “One could think we’re sat in a living room, it's so spacious here.” she added a compliment.

“I’d like to show ya the rest.” he says sitting down next to her, his arm heavy and warm around her shoulders and his gaze intent on her, knowing the effect this has on an ignored woman.

He recalls using that same line on his young bride during their honeymoon, eager to show his own new wife everything he had to offer. Beauty and luxury and care and a damn good fuck in front of the mirror back there. And it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough.

He can feel Ronnie tense further against the back of his hand where he clasps the bride’s shoulder, knowing that the “rest” of the plane beyond this lounge is a conference table, a toilet and a bedroom. Ronnie has had the privileges of being part of the TCB and now he’s about to pay his admission fee, and Elvis smirks at the thought that the man will never ride aboard this jet again without thinking of getting cuckolded by his boss.

The Bride is trying to make sense of Elvis' sudden shift of mood along with her husband’s. Both of them seeming to have swapped bearings, changing from the reception as if the jet’s air pressure had doused Ronnie’s merriment and finally revitalized Mr. Presley from the rather sullen attendee he had been. Elvis can feel her hesitancy to agree in her body language and the way she keeps looking over to Ronnie, as if to figure out his nervous ignoring of her and the way Elvis makes up for it in touches and attention. Beneath them the jet rumbles and takes flight, her little gasp at the heart swooping feeling of take-off a taste of what’s to come, of what he’ll pull from her body, willing or not . He’d rather lure her, try that first, the other can always be resorted to.

There’s an unspoken agreement to wait on this lil tour till the jet reaches cruising altitude, and Elvis spends the wait rubbing her arm and watching her try to make conversation with her groom who finds discussing the latest baseball stats with Red far more interesting than recalling the beauteous memories of the last few hours with his now introspective and mildly panicked bride. It’s funny to hold a woman whose mind is racing, Elvis can almost feel the frantic thoughts and conflicting emotions battering her frame from the inside out like a caged bird against its bars.

Elvis allows the minutes to trickle by and work for him, the soothing sweep of his hand slowly melting her rigidity, the continued abandonment of her husband's attention going from hurtful to frustrating, the innocuous chatter of the fellas talking and laughing around them, the cool air of the jet’s cooling system kicking on, and his warm and broad chest already pressed against her, now beckoning like a little haven for her to cower inside until the confusion passes. He clocks all these developments as the minutes go by, fully aware the boys are making small talk with their minds as preoccupied as Ronnie’s about when Elvis will make his move, their anticipation mounting while her guard drops, finally accepting his closeness without question. The jet rumbles and her drink kicks in and with the wedding fever abated it leaves her drowsy, unmoored.

Elvis waits for the perfect moment to pounce and is rewarded for his patience. The cool blast of the AC has made her begin to curl towards him and he’s met her halfway and it’s not till her head almost nods weakly to lay on his shoulder that her sensibilities prick her and she jerks it back up, another little gasp. It makes his repeated,

“Lemme show ya round, honey, got all sorts of remarkable stuff up here”

sound like a gallant cover for her lapse of decorum. Predictably, she shakes herself upright and gives him a polite nod of thanks, their first mutual, unspoken communication acknowledging something the rest of the room isn’t privy to. Her loyalty is slipping and all it took was a few minutes of heating her up with his embrace, a few whispered teases and buying her a whole damn lifestyle. To her credit she looks to Ronnie as she rises, asking him to come along in a coaxing voice Elvis knows is her trying to get her new husband to even look at her.

Elvis watches her try and fail at this from the curtained doorway leading to the back of the jet, thinking it makes a striking picture. A bride still dressed in white, bending over to try to catch her husband's eyes as he watches TV in his rumpled tux, the entire plane’s worth of masculine attention directed on her, except for the man who swore to worship her. Perhaps the disillusion will go both ways tonight, maybe women aren’t all merley bitches in heat, maybe some start out intending to be faithful and good and content.

Elvis has yet to meet a woman faithful and good and content once he puts his mark on them, they spend the rest of their lives day dreaming and closing their eyes when their husbands are in them and clogging his phone lines, kidding themselves that they’re special. He’s saving her the sin of coming to his room in a couple of months or years and saying she got lost while dropping her silk nightwear down her frame, an old and familiar expression of invitation on her face. She might not know that’s in her future otherwise, but he does. And he’s gonna save her the wait. When she wants something she’ll come to him now, not her husband, and he will have the discipline to make the right choices for her.

Elvis holds the curtain aside and beckons her with his fingers, and she would be angrier that he has the nerve to summon her away from her husband if she weren’t so humiliated at being ignored by the man. Frustration at their man makes women very susceptible to comfort, Elvis knows this intimately, and in their strong desire to be understood and soothed, they’ll spread their legs for the first person who tells them they deserve that attention.

She ducks under his arm, into the shade of the conference room with an attitude written on her face. Elvis drops the curtain behind them, the prey corralled. Nothin so easy as a woman scorned, nothin’ quite so hungry and quite so fierce. He hopes she’ll take out some of that miffed little ‘tude out on his back with those fancy nails his money bought her. It makes him smirk in anticipation and he can tell she finds that unsettling, her huffy bearing faltering once she notices him just watching her move round the glossy table top, suddenly aware of their seclusion and the fact she left her groom behind for a tour of the jet. She’s beginning to doubt her choice, doubt her loyalties.

Honeymoon off to a damn good start, she thinks sourly.

It’s innocuous, standing at opposite ends of a conference table with a man who is your husband's closest friend and at whose house you’ve eaten multiple dinners. There’s nothing wrong with it, but she feels her skin prickle none the less like she’s in danger, like those eyes observing her through shaded lenses are not fully human, not fully beneficent. She curses Ronnie for humiliating her, for his weird mood these past weeks making her feel isolated, for her past making her paranoid of this assessing male gaze.

She’d met a panther in the woods on an Appalachian bike ride once. They’d stared each other down as he had crouched and observed, his eyes fathomless and intent, the muscles of its body undulating in readiness beneath sleek black fur. Her mouth had dried out exactly the same as it does now when her shy smiles aren’t met with anything besides those assessing eyes and that crooked smirk that holds no fondness for her, no pride in his jet, no amusement at her awe of his wealth. A smirk of pure and smug knowingness.

Then he calls to her and the warmth of his voice melts her fear. “Check out this icebox, honey”

Her face lights up like a kids in the yellow glow of the refrigerator light as she bends over to look inside, white stain skirt hugging her perfectly and he gathers that all that athleticism has done her good, she could probably ride a man for hours without tiring, judging by the firm curve of that ass.

“See anyhtin ya’d like?” he asks her casually, laying a light hand between her shoulder blades as she reads rows and rows of labeled refreshments.

“Oh, uh, no, no, the drink was enough for now. Thank you Mr. Presley.”

He used to correct folks when they called him that, and used to punt the honorary title to his father. But nowadays he finds “Mr. Presley” might be closer to “your majesty” than mere “Elvis” -in which case he’s stopped putting little floozies at ease by asking them to call him by the name his mama gave him. That’s a name used by a wife back when he was happy and respected and alive.

“C’mere, I wanna show ya this television back here.” he beckons again, removing the heat of his hand from her back and she breathes easier with him taking the lead, she’s able to watch his imposing figure unobserved as he leads her past the conference table and into a small hallway with a large, showbiz style mirror.

Elvis swaggers right on by the marvelous monstrosity with its low counter and doused bare bulbs, but she can’t help herself. A flicker of childish glee taking over as she flips the switch on the wall and makes the bulbs buzz to life, brilliant as a spotlight in the inky gloom, illuminating them from the knees to the ceiling in a gaudy reflection. The sudden blast of light makes him pause on his trek to the bedroom and he joins her in looking at their reflection.

“Hell, honey,” he drawls amused as he takes in her fresh little wedding set and his decadent black suit, “we look like cake toppers.”

She laughs at that, a sweet unaffected thing that is music to his ears, and no doubt a screech to Ronnie’s. Elvis finds his grin growing at that thought and she mistakes it for joy. She laughs again, aborted little chuckles tapering out.

“There’s a tv back here, too?” she asks, embarrassingly at ease with entering a bedroom in the company of Elvis Presley.

Interestingly she doesn’t even glance at the bed when he ushers her in, she’s peering at the walls and the built in furniture for a peek of a screen.

“Mhmm, keep lookin, it’s hidden.” Elvis follows her and shuts the door behind him, a quiet click she doesn’t hear as she’s got her back to him, busily creaking open dresser doors and clapping in commendation upon finding the tastefully camouflaged TV set.

“How wonderful!” She praises and his heart does something funny and nostalgic over unpretentious enjoyment of what he has to give her.

One day it’ll be old hat to her and she’ll be like all the other wives, naggin’ and bitchin’ over keeping up with each other, forgetting about what it was they ever wanted, consumed with one upping each other and dominating the pecking order, spending Elvis’ money not for pleasure but for bragging rights. For now he watches this young woman bounce in her heels over a hidden TV set and makes a pact with himself to be nice, to gentle her into this ruination.

Then he recalls she married Fuckin Ronnie, and that twists his gut in reminder she’s a practical gold digger like all the rest. And he doesn’t mind that about her, he just hates the dishonesty of pretending she’s in it for more, and her ignoring him for a tv irks him as disingenuine.

“Wanna kick back and watch somethin, doll?” he asks her and sees the exact minute his words make her back and shoulders stiffen beneath white silk.

“Uh, on this one?” she’s scared to ask, scared to sound like she’s accusing him of suggesting it, scared to suggest it and give him ideas.

“They got the damn game on the other.” he answers her smoothly, coming up behind her and reaching round her to power it up.

“Elvis.” she dares to sound reprimanding when all he’s done is stand behind her and punch a button, she’s the one who walked into a bedroom with a man who isn’t her husband.

“Gonna be a long flight, three more hours I reckon.” he is patient with her.

“Y-yes.” she hesitantly agrees, watching the screen flicker to life, “And I wanna spend it with Ronnie, exc-“

Liar! He doesn’t let her turn around, he puts his hands on her shoulders and keeps her facing the TV, keeps her away from the closed door she’s not yet noticed, he nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck telling himself, gently, gently, tempt her, tempt her. “Doesn’t seem like Ronnie is eager to spend it with ya.” he mourns low and sympathetic in her ear and she gasps at his brutal honesty, at the fact he’d have no tact to pretend he didn’t notice.

“Elvis, t-this isn’t right.” she parrots her mother or her favorite tv show or some rote set of rules she doesn’t really embrace.

“What ain’t right, honey?” he rumbles, keeping his hands on her, moving them from her shoulders down her arms, then swooping them up again and fingering at the sides of her neck, delighting in the shiver her body yields up to him.

If he hadn’t been so aloof before, she figures she might not feel so electrified by his sudden, all consuming touch. But it’s not just that, he’s kept his distance from her since she started dating Ronnie and in her star struck insecurity she’d made no move to become friendly with him.

Now this, this intentional hovering and the petting that tastes like something she’s only ever heard about. It’s Elvis, Elvis petting her in her wedding dress on the way to her honeymoon destination and that’s simultaneously about as predictable and uncredible as can be. Elvis, who’s been the ephemeral host for countless of lovely parties, Elvis who’s been the presiding specter over all their schedules since she became part of the group, Elvis who has been the magical name on the credit card used for everything she ever wanted. Elvis Presley, the man who achieved all there was in life by 21, and has been bored by it ever since. What did she expect him to be, a fatherly figure?

“Did you like your weddin’ honey?” he asks her after her raging thoughts consume the time she should have spent answering and protesting him.

The hands descending to her hips and squeezing there hint a warning prompt even as his gentle tone reminds her of all he has done for her, his inexhaustible benevolence -which it seems something has finally exhausted. She begins to panic, no need to see those panther eyes when the heat is radiating off of him, sexual intent potent from his aura alone, no need to feel a crude gesture or have it spoken out in clunky declarations of desire. Ingrained self doubt takes hold of her for one brief moment before the scratch of his sideburn rubs against her cheeks and the hot press of his lips against her neck tells her it is not vanity making her project on him, Elvis Presley really is trying to seduce her mere hours after her vows, a few yards away from her new husband and his friends.

“Mr. Presley!” she resolutely stiffens in his embrace and tries to turn and leave his hold of her and he lets her so far as she’s spun round and facing him, her stern tone wobbling out when she’s met with the hypnosis of his expectant stare, “Y-yes it was lovely, thank you.” she stammers out, fear and primal instinct kicking in and guiding her to cower and simper her way out of this, her boldness having bounced off him like shotgun shells off cement. Nothing but damaging to her. “T-thank you for all you did.” she tries again, her tone unsure as his face remains unreadable, his eyes burning and unblinking behind his shades, lit with white hot something in the glow of the tv screen. “You’re very generous.” she admits, tacking on every obeisance she can think of while resolutely ignoring the feel of being held to his chest, near eye level with the gap of his shirt and the chains glittering on his skin. “I need to rejoin my husband, sir.” she begs, begs that she doesn’t want this, denies she’s ever hoped for this.

Idly he wonders if she’s being honest, then he watches her swallow thickly as she catches a whiff of his scent.

Suddenly he crushes her to him, her mouth smashed to the metallic, skin warmed nest of his chains, pinning her there with a hand to the back of her head as his other reaches for the hem of her skirt and drags it up and over her ass, palming it even as she shrieks in shock, “Tell me, Mrs. Kemp,” he growls in her ear, “did you go after Ronnie cause he was near me, or did ya come for the money and stay in the hopes I’d pay attention to your little self? Was you countin’ on me gettin lonely some night an’ sendin’ your husband on an errand so I could get my fill of his wife? Is that what keeps ya from gaggin when he’s on top of ya? Is that the hope?”

Elvis’ fingers find the band of her lacy panties -honeymoon lingerie his money bought her- and he snakes his hand in, down the warm curve of her ass and along her crack, dipping between clenched thighs to rake through predictably sopping wet folds. She gave the whole resistance act a good try, but her womanly body responds to dominance, and Elvis is dominance incarnate. It’s in her weak nature to drip for him, plain and simple, and so he swipes and dips and drags his fingers through her as she fights against his chest, pounding her fists impotently against the velvet of his coat.

“Shhh, shhh honey, I know, it ain’t your fault.” he is magnanimous, gracious as King Solomon. “This, honey, this is what hope tastes like.” he brings his glistening fingers to her snarling mouth and shoves them in against her tongue, savoring the way her choke distracts her from the obvious defense of biting him, “Taste that? That’s how hope tastes, and there ain’t anyhtin’ more harmful than hope. Makes a purgatory of your life. Doesn’t let ya be satisfied with what ya got, won’t let ya get dissatisfied enough to wanna change anythin. You just hope and hope and your life goes by, while you’re hopin.”

She whimpers around his fingers, wilted white silk in his arms, dress bunched up obscenely in the screen-lit room. He strokes her cheek with his spit wet hand, the ring faces of rubies and diamonds and priceless gems caressing her tears away, lulling the creature back to her basic instincts, hypocrisy and futility purged away beneath Elvis’ healing hands. “I ain’t gonna let you go on hopin for years and years,” he enchants her with whispers, rocking her now as she whimpers in catatonic fascination, “I’m gonna gift ya with knowledge.”

Everything she’s given up while fighting to get herself on a jet like this, married to a man of means, with a house and a steady future and a predictable timeline stretching out before her -security at last! -all of it crowds her mind, the devil and the angel on her shoulders whisper in a traitorous debate. Of course life isn’t how she wanted at eighteen when she expected to marry for love, yet of course her mature self is pleased with this match. Those can both exist, and she planned for them to exist in a tidy world where Elvis Presley wasn’t an option, because he’s not. He’s not offering himself, doesn't even have enough dreams of his own to bother with lying about it to buy them both a minute of reprieve from the disillusioned hellscape that is life in one’s thirties when you comforted your starry eyed twenties by telling yourself it gets better. Then to no one’s surprise -it didn’t. The one last insupportable piece of this maturing puzzle that would cement her growing up forever is tasting this then going back to Ronnie. It’s out of the question and she doesn’t give a shit what he’s going through right now, or what Ronnie thinks about her angering his boss, what she needs is the peace of mind that comes with not knowing.

“You can take your knowledge and shove it.” she snaps out of the pliant heatstroke his embrace caused her and shoves him away, only succeeding at making room between them because he’s so surprised by her sudden surfacing out of the trance.

One final thrash of the prey and he watches with amusement as she stumbles in haste across the flickering room, yanking open the closed door and steadfastly booking it to the front of the jet. Headed to the shelter of a man who promised to protect and defend her and cherish her and swore it all while counting his bonus for selling her out.

Elvis watches her till she and her crumpled white dress fly past the brightly mirrored hallway and disappear from his vantage point through the doorway. He picks at his nose and thinks about what he might like to take on this little experiment, and having procured a few items of use saunters after her at a leisurely pace. He sets them on the conference room and table and watches as she pulls back the curtain and steps into the lounge, her whole being vibrating in a way that is not subtle or discreet about what just occurred between them.

It’s warmer in the lounge, just pulling the curtain back wafts warmth into the ice box chilled areas of the plane that Elvis frequents, it makes her tremble with relief. She’s back in public, back where he won’t try anything. Ronnie, to her angry bewilderment, is still glued to watching the TV like he didn’t even register her absence. But his mere existence will still work for what she needs. She needs to belong to someone and sit beside that person for three hours while his boss cools off.

She is not prepared for the way everyone in the lounge spins round to look at her once registering her presence, looking with absolute surprise as if her reemergence was the surprise, not the lengthy plane tour to the back bedroom. It makes her seethe inside, they thought she’d go through with it, damn animals that they are, all “what happens on the road stays on the road” and carefree chauvinism inherited from their boss. She has to remind herself why she wanted this life in the first place, has to recall the perks and the wages and lavish reception.

Red and Joe now flank Ronnie and her seat beside him is taken up by those two manspreading oaf’s. Desperate, she decides to play at being cute and makes to sit on her husband’s lap, spinning round to find Elvis watching hehe from the curtained doorway as she tries to lower herself down to perch.

“Babe, I can’t see the damn screen with you like that.” Ronnie has the churlishness to complain and she wants to scream at his denseness, the way pushes at her lower back to tip her out of his lap.

To save herself the humiliation of face planting on the plane floor she chooses to stand of her own accord and catch herself from the shove. She sees Elvis’ lush mouth frown behind the cigar he’s lighting up.

“Don’t be an ass to her Ronnie, she’s your wife.” he reprimands and she gets a funny feeling of appreciation for being defended in all this. Her loyalty teeters towards the man she has to remind herself she needs to escape from. “Or have ya forgotten, ya unchivalrous bastard?”

That’s a little harsh but the memory of Ronnie not giving a damn about the fact she was almost assaulted -that’s harsh word for that too, her traitorous mind supplies- reminds her that she isn’t happy with him at all. But in fact, come to think of it, she isn’t pleased with any one them, and there’s no where to go on this damned plane. It starts to make her skin crawl, the realization that she’s surrounded by men who would either not believe or else not care if Elvis went through with the forceful attentions he was showing her back there. Who would believe her if she said he forced her?

“Ronnie I’m tired and my seat’s been taken!” she argues with him, “I just wanna sit down. Lay down, even!” she begs, thinking of how best to clear the couch of anyone but him so that no one takes liberties and sits down beside her.

“Then go lay down in back where there’s a fuckin’ bed? Why’d you come out?” he snaps.

“Cause-“ because Elvis Presley tried to take liberties, that’s why, but she feels strangled watching how all the men await her answer with a little too much investment, the way Elvis is still watching her behind tinted shades and a haze of cigar smoke.

“You get all bitchy when you’re tired, go lay down and take a nap, honey. I’m watching the game.” Ronnie suggests her worst fear and it infuriates her how he’s changed just since he slipped a ring on her finger.

“Ronnie please-“ She whimpers and would give anything to know why Joe is leering up at her with a sly grin. There’s no time to think on it as Elvis’ ringed fingers close around her elbow and tug her back towards the curtain.

“C’mon honey, ya heard your husband, let’s get ya situated.” he coos and her fingers turn to ice from the shock of it all.

“I don’t wanna!” she protests, “Ronnie!” she tries one more time while being backed away from her husband by his boss.

“Oh for fucks sake just do what he wants!” Ronnie begs with something akin to frustration but the red hot blush sweating up his neck suggests he’s humiliated to be caught saying it.

“Beg your pardon?” she hisses in disbelief, feeling Elvis’ hand clamp on her arm just a little more, maybe to keep her from marching up to Ronnie and smacking him.

“Just, just give him what he wants. Just tonight.” Ronnie spills the beans far sooner than needed and Elvis wants to roll his eyes at how fast they went from taking her for a nap to admitting to something far more sinister.

The bride’s head swivels from viewing her husband to Elvis and back to her husband and the room full of men who’s thrumming interest in her makes her wanna bolt straight out of the plane now she knows why. It’s sickening yet so strongly in character for them she doesn’t waste many moments in disbelief, it all makes sense in a horribly predictable way. Every one of these fella’s grinning at her discomfort are pathetic in her eyes, as pathetic as men who’d prefer to watch naughty movies than better themselves as lovers. Somehow in the mess of it all, Elvis alone stands out as something a little less deplorable. Even if it’s just his brash and demented honesty she admires.

“Y’all planned this?” she asks dully, scanning each lip licking face, ending with her husband’s sullen one, “This was all planned out? You offered me up? You goddamn, two faced bastard-“

Elvis loops his arm around her waist to prevent her from launching at Ronnie and clawing him to shreds. His chest is searing her through the silk on her back and his hands grab at her more than they need to in order to restrain her. It makes her pulse pound and fury swirls inside her, battling with the cold dread of weakness and helplessness.

“Ronnie made a little deal with me.” Elvis is drawling in her ear in so soothing a way it almost counteracts the nauseating confirmation, “And now, we can watch you runnin’ round this plane for hours to get away from me like a Junebug in a bottle but that ain’t gonna change how this night ends. How bout ya just be sensible, hmm? Just cause he’s a lyin’, no good sunnuvabitch don’t mean you gotta turn bad yourself, ya know? He gave ya instructions, ya can still be a good lil wifey and honor and obey him, can’t ya?”

“Why?” she persists, but feebly this time, not knowing if she’s asking her husband who keeps his face averted towards the screen or the man whose hands are mapping out her body in full view of his friends. “Why y’all gotta do this?”

“I told ya honey,” Elvis murmurs, rucking the hem of her skirt up passed her knees, “hope’s a dangerous thing. I don’t allow it in my house. An’ you’re part of my house now, ain’t ya?” he pets at the damp plushness of her inner thighs as the men stare and she struggles to find a way to empower herself while caught in such a feeble position. Hurting Ronnie, twisting the knife a little more like he’s done her is all she can think of at the time. “Don’t you belong to me, sweetie?” Elvis is prodding once more and his cheek is clammy and hot against hers, the cigar smoke pungent around them.

“Yes sir.” she agrees while sneering at Ronnie’s reddened face.

“That’s more like it.” Elvis’ voice gentles to something a little less frightening than before but all the more terrifying for how sure and smug it sounds. His hands grab at her breasts and she can’t help the whimper she lets out from the presumption, no doubt it’ll only get worse. “Since you’re so eager to stick close to ole Ronnie and include e’rbody in our private business, I reckon it’s only fair we conduct this lil interview on the conference table, hmm?”

When she cranes her neck to look behind him and past the curtain, she can see the shiny table top littered with items it didn’t hold when she made her hasty exit passed it; scarves and a strange sort of plastic wand, that stupid police flashlight and a box of cigars are clumped at its foot in an ominous hodgepodge.

Admitting to being frightened by it would strip away her last bit of autonomy in this and so in a bid to act unbothered she slips out of Elvis’ hold and walks on her own two feet into the room, turning her back to Ronnie before shifting herself to sit on the cold, hard surface of the table.

“Is this what you had in mind, Mr. Presley?” she asks him meekly and makes sure to let her legs fall apart just so. She thinks she’s going to have some control in all this, the silly little thing, thinking he’s a man with regular tastes and base preoccupations, easily distracted from the purpose of this like any other. And the purpose is not pleasure -though he intends to draw it from her till she is broken from it- but purity of intention and nature. A lie dressed in white no more, but a wanton woman giving in to her true nature. Only he has the power to bring this out in every one he meets, and to purge it all the same.

Elvis Presley eyes her, as do all the men in the lounge just past him, until with an approving little hum and smile that is almost pleased, he steps towards her, yanking the curtain closed behind him and leaving them (somewhat) alone together in the dimly lit room, full of anticipation.

And maybe dread.

[transingthoseformers]

https://www.tumblr.com/transingthoseformers/773592221904666624/can-you-imagine-being-the-first-cybertronian-to?source=share

honestly.... I think it would be pretty boring real fast once the sense of wonder wears off .....

but then I, as the first cybertronian ever, would be the first chaotic and menacing inducing being ever.

not even Unicron would have anything to do with it (probably encourage it tho)

and this brings in the Original Primes, it would be like a chat room but worse.

Centuries later, all the current Cybertronians would try and decifer what all the old language is saying but it's old drama between Leige and Prima. Alpha recorded it (Liege may have put up a good speech lashing but got his ass handed to them when the sword came into play)

and if it was in pictures on the walls, it would look like a battle

it wasnt, a few were petty fights and it looks more like friends/family drama with a dash of "Bitch Do You Want Me to Jump Across This Table? Cuz I dont have all day for this ALRIGHT?" "You Feeling Froggy? LEAP." and "I did it. I broke it. It burned my hand so i punched it. Good. It was getting chummy around here."

Exactly

EXACTLY SHIT LIKE THAT EXACTLY

It'd become mundane quick, but it'd be such a thing at first

AND YEAH I LOVE MOMENTS LIKE THAT BETWEEN THE THIRTEEN PRIMES VSGSDGDHFH