#classically handsome brutes

[testo-alphas]

Gabriel Zancanelli, one of the big names in Brazil’s burgeoning classic physique scene. On this blog I focus quite heavily on the bloated, overgrown muscle brutes that I consider to be the pinnacle of masculinity, but there’s another type of masculinity that, while not my personal flavour, is just as valid, and Zanca (as well as classic physique as a category in general) embodies it. Rather than chasing size at any cost, they seek to build their bodies in the image of classical gods, paying attention to proportions more than mass. Their steroid cycles are much less extreme than the big guys’, although still considerable, and the knock on effect of this is that the side effects are less noticeable, so the classic physique guys have less hair loss, acne, water retention and generally have the chiseled facial features associated with conventional masculinity, rather than the roided out moon face we see in the biggest guys out there. In short? Zanca, and the men in his category, are more conventionally handsome than if they were roided out to the gills- they still rely on exogenous hormones to maximise their masculine features, but stop right at the dose that is most efficient. These guys are the gold standard of attractiveness- women have 0 interest in weak beta males, and are intimidated by giant bodybuilders (even if they are deep down aroused by the mass), but they fall weak at the knees before men like Zanca.

[guywrestlingaddiction]

That Wrestling Moment: Proving you can fight - Michael Crowe v Devin (thundersarena.com)

Once in a while, a match will come along that turns your perception of gay wrestling on its head.  Up is down, strong is weak, jobber bait can even be an alpha hunk.  Today's wrestling moment is simply about proving yourself and being all you can be.  

Michael Crowe v Devin (thundersarena.com)

SPOILER ALERT: I highly recommend viewing this match in its entirety before reading this post.

The Backstory

We begin with classic wrestling trash talk.  Devin enters spouting about how he wants to hurt everyone.  Veins bulging from his arms, he casually lays it out there that no wrestler, no man out there can stop him.  

Devin is ready to devour all the pretty boys out there.  

When in comes our pretty boy now ...The man is built like superman and puts other wrestlers to shame. 

Michael: Not only am I pretty ... I came here to fight too!  

The Action

Things go about how you would expect with Michael and Devin locking up.  Michael my be pretty but the guy is still a big strong dude, a fact that Devin seems to have misjudged based on his groans.  

Eventually though, our heel finds his footing and puts Michael away.  There isn't a lot of back and forth in the match - Devin simply finds the best way to put that long, lean, model-esque body in pain and bam, there you have it.  Fall one is over.  

Michael tapped out and looking vulnerable.

Round 2 doesn't go Michael's way either.  The lovable jock valiantly fights back only to be leveled with an atomic drop to the groin.  

Michael vows to reclaim some of that big man energy.  

Michael's impressive package is of course the target of attack.  

At this point things seem personal for Devin.  He doesn't just want to win, the big hulking brute wants to destroy the pretty boy.  It's a story as old as time really.  Handsome, strapping newcomer comes along and hopes to replace the old guard - well Devin is not having any of that.    

Michael groans and helplessly flails those long limbs around

Now at this point you'd be forgiven if you mistook this for a squash job.  Our helpless hunk, the personal trainer, the wrestling wannabe Michael really hasn't given us one reason to think otherwise.   All we've seen so far is a jobber destroyed at the jealous hands of a bitter heel.  

Looks like it's the end for our hero ... or is it?

Our Moment

Michael groans in pain as the vengeful heel stomps his gross foot on his chest.  Devin's smile gave away his satisfaction at destroying something so beautiful.  In Devin's mind, there was always someone prettier or better looking out there but today that handsome jock was getting owned and humiliated. 

Michael fights back or how he finally "gets" gay wrestling

Michael works the advantage for all it's worth and mounts his opponent.  

Our moment today is not when we see Michael pin or submit his opponent.  No, our moment is when he proves he's got what it takes to stay in the match.  

Devin attempts a cheap shot of his own.  Punching dangerously close to our man's package.  

Our moment is seeing our abused, humiliated, hero, limp to his feet and get ready for more beat downs.  

Michael dry humped into submission

But not before a sweaty Michael is tossed on Devin's shoulders and thoroughly emasculated.

Right about now you're thinking that this is the end.  Michael proved he can take the punishment and he's just about used up all his nine lives.  Afterall, it's gay wrestling cannon to see a young hot jobber dominated by a older, stronger heel.  

Michael summons the last of his strength, he overpowers Devin

So think again, if you bet against Michael Crowe's sweaty abs of steel, then you my friend are sure to lose. 

You see those muscles aren't just for show.  Those abs can take the punishment. 

Michael thinking - is that all you got? His abs can take all that and more!

This is Michael Crowe - 200lbs of muscle and I own this mat! 

So there you have it.  In his debut, Michael proves his pretty face can take a punch sure but those abs, that incredible body, completes the total package and can take anything gay wrestling throws his way.  Scratch what I said earlier about our moment being Michael taking his punishment - our real moment is when the man turns from pretty face into a gay wrestling action hero.  

[heavymedicshackerwife]

Under the cut for length but... Some musings on how the fandom treats Heavy. TW for fatphobia and discussion of life under the Soviet Union.

(BTW this is the stuff I posted on Discord a while ago. Somewhat ranty but... I just love that dude. I do complain about an artist in this fandom, but PLEASE do not harass them. I do not name them, this is my silly personal opinion.)

I hate how the fandom treats Heavy... He's got such deep lore but all the fans are like "SO FUNNI! STUPID FAT POOTIS COMMIE HUEHUE!"He's none of those things but they've turned him into the butt of the joke. He's a hardcore badass who gets so little appreciation at all. He has a PHD but he's constantly depicted as a dumbarse.

Heavy isn't a communist at all, and his father was killed by the regime. Sorry if I piss off any whiny tankies who get mad at me for dissing a nuclear military superpower that killed millions of people, but the Soviet Union was a brutal dictatorship and generally not a good place to live (shocking! I know!) . Heavy was sent to a GULAG. A work camp. He risked his life to break his family out and free the prisoners, but does anybody care? Nope! Let's make soviet themed cosmetic #283027192 because original funni joke!

The entire fandom on Tumblr seems to ignore Heavy too. He only really shows up in Tumblr tags as "Medic's boyfriend" and they're happy to give him depth... As long as he's just Medic's golden retriever BF. I see so much fanart where he's this big aggressive alpha-daddy but that's not him around Medic either. Heavy is fierce and will gladly tear someone's arms off, but he's not just a brute. He's an intellectual. He really does care for the people he loves. And for the rest of the fandom, he's the butt of a joke. Big, fat, stoopid pootis man.

Valve gave us this incredibly intelligent, deep, creative character and despite all the fat jokes in-game (then again all the Mercs talk shit about each other) he has so much character development that just gets overlooked unless he's either kissing someone else or getting memed. I'm used to SFMs and memes having him as "dumbass fatty" because half of them were made by teenage boys before the comics were made (and they probably didn't know about the Russian translation where Heavy talks like an academic at times), but having Nice Tolerant Tumblr treat him as just "someone's boyfriend" is just as insulting.

There's this one AU by this artist I blocked where he's literally a Mafia boss Alpha Daddy with a cigar, and Medic as his twink femboy boyfriend. That's not him. You're sticking two middle aged men onto the 🥺🗿generic yaoi template. He's not a soft ball of butter but he's not the cruel, brutal classic Heavy either. He really is like a bear like his description says, as people either see him as a funny toy or a big aggressive beast. He loves his family and does this job FOR them, but he's also strong and fierce.

I could go deeper. I could talk about fandom fatphobia and how the only way he's consistently sexualised is as a huge angry muscular dominant, rather than general sex appeal like the other mercs. Lots of NSFW fanart ignores his belly, and just makes him beefy. There are few fics he has (Him and Demo have so few good fics on AO3). He's left out of "Mercenary boyfriend" scenarios on Wattpad. Sure, a 57 year old, 300lb balding Siberian mercenary who's in love with his gun isn't to everyone's taste, but none of the Mercs are conventionally "handsome". I couldn't see any of them modelling underwear for Calvin Klein. I love Medic, I love the ship between him and Medic, but I hate how the fandom treats Heavy as just an extension of him.

He wrestled a bear bare-handed. Sure, he's big. He's overweight. But I'd bet he's in better health and fitness than any of us here. Some people in this fandom literally cannot turn their brains on and actually think of why Heavy night look how he does (appearance and fatness is not a moral failure btw), they just think he's uggo and thus just a joke.

Thing is... He's not even "just" fat! He's overweight and plus-sized, but look at what he does all day. He runs around with a 150kg minigun and several rounds of ammo, alongside a bulletproof vest and TINY legs. He has a strongman's body type which is mostly thick muscle with a layer of fat. He's big, and he certainly has body fat, but he's arguably in great shape for someone over 50 who's most likely lived through several famines. Heavy being fat does not mean he is unhealthy in these circumstances.

He is arguably the best husband out of all the Mercs. Not a pyromaniac or a drunk, not immature, doesn't like his job TOO much, doesn't have lead poisoning or a god complex, doesn't love building killing machines and won't cheat on you with Scout's mama.

Oh mann... I love him. He needs so much more love. And I wish the fandom would love him too

[frombloodandfire]

Indigo [2]

“I used to shine bright like gold, now I’m all indigo.”

A woman who tries to escape her past with no hope for the future, ends up on an unknown place playing childhood games to win. A man from her past happens to be there for the exact same reason. Will they escape their haunted pasts? Or they will end up dying in vain?

Warnings: blood, depression, heavy language

2.

She woke to the echo of classical music reverberating through the room. Her head throbbed as she blinked, disoriented. A green jumpsuit clung to her body, the number 052 stitched prominently on the chest. 

How did I get here?

She sat up, her eyes scanning her unfamiliar surroundings. The room was vast and sterile, its white walls reflecting the cold fluorescent lights overhead. Rows upon rows of bunk beds filled the space, each occupied by people wearing the same uniform. Confusion and fear hung thick in the air. 

Were we kidnapped?

Her hands instinctively patted her sides, searching for her belongings. Nothing. Her wallet, her phone everything was gone. The oppressive weight of uncertainty pressed on her chest, rooting her feet to the ground. 

"You little shit!" 

She turned toward the commotion, heart hammering. A man, towering and furious, had grabbed a young girl by the hair, yanking her into the center of the room. Gasps rippled through the crowd as people froze, their whispers too soft for her to catch. Lyanna edged closer, her pulse quickening. 

"You're the damn pickpocket! You took my money, didn't you? Where is it?" A man bellowed. His fists clenched, his face contorted with rage. 

Her stomach turned. She recognized the man being shoved by the brute:

Gi-Hun.

The man with 101 stitched on his suit kicked Gi-Hun hard, sending him sprawling. Lyanna's breath hitched as she watched the scuffle unfold. 

"What the hell?"

"Who are you" 101 asked Gi-Hun "What do you think you're doing?

"The name's Seong Gi-Hun. I live in Ssangmun-dong."

"Hey Ssangmun-dong shit, this little bitch and I werent done talking."

Lyanna watched, her stomach twisting, as Gi-Hun argued back like a stubborn child. The air was electric with tension, and she couldn't tear her eyes away. Before the situation could escalate further, a sharp ding rang out, followed by the hiss of elevator doors opening. Figures in pink jumpsuits and bizarre, symbol-laden masks stepped out, their presence silencing the room. 

The figure with a square mask stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. 

"I would like to extend a heartfelt welcome to you all," he began, his voice measured and mechanical. "Everyone here will participate in six different games over six days. Those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize."

The announcement was met with a cacophony of protests.

"You expect us to believe that?" a man shouted. "You kidnapped us, dragged us to this warehouse, and now you're talking about games? Do you think we're idiots?"

The square-masked man didn't flinch. "We took these measures to ensure confidentiality. Your belongings will be returned once the games are over."

Lyanna's fists clenched at her sides.

Confidentiality? Masks? This is insane. No way she believed-

Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice that froze her in place.

"Well, I don't believe you one bit. You got that? You tricked us. We were kidnapped. You can make as many excuses as you want to make sure nobody knows you broke the law in here. If you're going to make up for that, then we're gonna need something more."

She whipped her head toward the speaker, her stomach dropping.

Sang-Woo.

Her breath caught as the masked man addressed him.

"Player 218, Cho Sang-Woo. Age, 38. Former team leader of Team Two at Joy Investments. Siphoned money off from his clients' balances, then invested it in derivatives and futures options. Current loss: 650 million won."

Cho Sang-Woo stood amidst the crowd, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His face remained calm, unreadable. Shame clawed at his chest, but he shoved it down, schooling his face into indifference. This wasn't news to him it was the weight he carried every single day.

Lyanna's blood ran cold. Her name followed soon after. 

"Player 052, Lyanna Collett. Currently in debt for unpaid medical expenses. Total: 200 million won." 

Sang-Woo's eyes darted through the crowd, his chest tightening. He hadn't heard her name in so long, hadn't even dared to think of her. And yet, here it was, spoken aloud like a cruel joke. When he saw her standing there, frozen in disbelief his heart stopped.

Her heart sank. How did they know this? How did they know everything? Her humiliation was laid bare, her shame echoed across the room. She glanced toward Sang-Woo, who had gone pale, his eyes scanning the crowd. She caught his gaze for the briefest of moments before they both looked away. 

So much for burying the past.

The masked man continued listing debts as a massive piggy bank descended from the ceiling. 

"Your prize money will be accumulated in this vault after each game. You'll see the total after the first round. If you do not wish to participate, please let us know now." 

Her stomach churned as she scanned the consent form thrust into her hands: 

CLAUSE 1: A PLAYER IS NOT ALLOWED TO STOP PLAYING.

CLAUSE 2: A PLAYER WHO REFUSES TO PLAY WILL BE ELIMINATED.

CLAUSE 3: GAMES MAY BE TERMINATED IF THE MAJORITY AGREES.

Eliminated? Her mind reeled. She knew something was off, why would clause 3 exist?

"Attention, all players. The first game is about to begin. Please make your way to the game hall." 

The Blue Danube played mockingly over the speakers as the crowd shuffled into the next room. They were taking pictures. Once she was done with hers, Lyanna's hands trembled as Gi-Hun found her in the crowd, pulling her into a warm embrace. 

"Lyanna! What are you doing here? How are you even in debt? You're the best person I know!"

She forced a weak smile. "Gi-Hun hi, it's... complicated."

He paused, looking her over with a mixture of concern and disbelief. "I've missed you so much. You saw Sang-Woo, right? He's here too."

Unfortunately she saw him. After almost 8 years she saw him again. She was pretty sure she buried him in the past alongside with the Hwangs.

"Hey, Sang-woo! Oh, Sang-woo, my man!"

She was cursing Gi-Hun for this.

"What happened? What the hell are you doing here? Uh, your mother and I were talking the other day. She told you were out of the country on a business trip. What was that guy talking about, huh? You can't be in debt? The same Sang-woo who attends SNU, right?"

He looked at the floor, unable to look her or Gi-Hun. "We will talk about this later.."

"Attention, all players. After you enter the game hall please stand behind the white line drawn on the field and await further instructions. Once again, will all players please stand behind the white line and await further instructions."

She couldn't turn her head not even a little bit. Because she knew that if she did, she would look at him.

That's the very same thing he did. He went behind Gi-Hun so he couldn't meet her glaze. In his mind she was far away from Korea, living a simple life like she always-

"Here is the first game." The voice from the speaker stopped them both from their thoughts.

"You will be playing Red Light, Green Light."

You are allowed to move forward when "it" shouts out, "Green Light," stop when "it" shouts, "Red Light." If your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated."

"Like the children's game?" She asked Gi-Hun.

"Seems...so?"

"Are you kidding me?" She looked at him with a weird look.

"Those players who cross the finish line without being eliminated within the five-minute playtime will pass this round. With that, let the game begin."

The large creepy doll turned her head and started signing.

Mugunghwa-kkochi Pieossseubnida

She stopped walking. She was that stressed she was almost not even breathing.

Bang.

Was that... a gunshot?

Mugunghwa-kkochi Pieossseubnida

The sound of gunfire shattered her nerves. She froze, every muscle locked in place. The haunting tune barely finished before the gunshot. Lyanna's blood ran cold as she realized the truth. They weren't just playing for money. 

They were playing for their lives. 

The room descended into chaos as players screamed and fled, only to be gunned down mercilessly. Lyanna stood frozen, tears burning her eyes. She couldn't even turn to look for her friends, afraid that the slightest movement would seal her fate. The woman in the speaker repeated the rules.

All of them were standing still and no one moved except an old man. She then heard Sang-Woo whispering to Gi-Hun, right behind her.

"You can't stay there much longer. I think that doll senses when you move around.

You won't get caught if you're behind somebody else."

And that's exactly what the three of them did.

Mugunghwa-kkochi Pieossseubnida

Another step, another gunshot.

For the first time in eight years they looked at each other. He was in her right side behind a large man, looking at her like he was trying to tell her to stay exactly how she was. She understood it right away.

The gunshots were non stop. She was sure she would hear them in her sleep. Until she felt blood on her face. The man in front of her was shooted. She was now exposed. She tried to keep her balance. And she did perfectly. But once the next round started, the man who was once in front of her, pulled her leg and she fell down.

"Help me... I don't wanna die." he whispered with blood in his mouth.

Her chest heaved, panic clawing at her throat. She couldn't help him—she couldn't even help herself.

"Get up."

The voice was calm but firm, and she felt two strong arms pulling her to her feet.

"You forgot how to walk?" Sang-Woo's voice was soft, but his expression was unreadable.

Mugunghwa-kkochi Pieossseubnida

She ran, her legs burning, as adrenaline surged through her. Every step felt like a battle, but she pushed forward, Sang-Woo's presence driving her on.

When she finally crossed the finish line, she collapsed, her body shaking. She looked up to find Sang-Woo beside her, his breathing steady, his gaze unreadable.

"Why did you...?" she began, her voice breaking.

The counter hit 0:10 seconds. Lyanna's eyes widened. But- Gi-Hun. Where was Gi-Hun? She got up and saw him almost ready to fall with a man who was trying to carry him so he wouldn't fall. The doll started saying Green Light and she screamed.

"GI-HUN JUMP!"

A/N: andddd here is part 2! Dynamic start with the first game. Not much are explained but everything will be clear soon! Lyanna and Sang-Woo share a mysterious past they both buried. Maybe meeting in the games is a chance to bring it back to life? Thank you for reading❤️

[wrestlingarsenal]

Caged Heat: A Wrestling Manga

Chapter 2: Blind Rage

(Trigger warning: This post contains extreme brutality and maiming. Viewer discretion is advised.)

Our Americanized version of this violent Japanese graphic novel continues with the champion, whom I've named "Rattlesnake Drake," beginning to dominate the young fan favorite I'm calling "Teddy Valor." One of my loyal readers sent me these images years ago and I recently found time to overwrite the Japanese text with my own English commentary and post the updated images here.

I appreciate the artist for drawing both fighters in black trunks and boots (I love the classic pro look). So far, we've seen the Rattlesnake putting his tall boots to good use, repeatedly kicking young Teddy in the head, followed up now with a big haymaker.

Teddy collapses against the steel cage, leaving visible wounds on his handsome face. Now that he is dazed and helpless, we see the brutal Rattlesnake drag him up by the hair, as depicted in this full-page close-up. This is getting sadistic now (and I'm digging it!)

The sadistic brute presses and grinds Teddy's face into hamburger against the fencing -- a staple of violent cage matches actually. Then Teddy finds his eyeball approaching a barb wire spike. This ain't your grandad's Steel Cage Match!!

Now keep in mind, one advantage of comic books over "real" wrestling is that the most violent acts can be portrayed purely for fantasy, without any real humans actually being harmed.

Whoa-- was this brutality actually intended for impressionable youngsters? Or was this drawn as pornography for adults with violent fetishes? Hopefully the latter -- this shit is DARK!

I guess we shouldn't judge. Here in the USA, plenty of bloody cage matches involving real people (not just drawings) have been viewed by minors -- including myself as a horny teen. And look how I turned out...

To Be Continued...

[calumsrockstar]

Lady and the tramp - Calum Hood

a/n: I'm sorry for any historial inacuracies! I wrote this from the top of my head

Contents: description of abuse, royal courting, tooth rotting fluff, smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f recieving), creampie, mentions of pregnancy.

You were to be wed to your horrible fiancé, but when you spot a beautiful tall man, you think your luck has changed.

Royal!Calum x Royal!Reader (fem)

You looked in the mirror while you applied your favorite rouge to your cheeks. Tonight was the annual Hood ball, since sir Arthur Hood became king, this became a tradition. Every year lavish parties were thrown to celebrate his reign.

Your fiancé, William, which you were bethrothed to since you were 16, grabbed your arm and dug his nails into your skin. "We cannot be late, y/n. You know Arthur is expecting us." He looked into your eyes sternly. Your lady in waiting, Arabella, watched this happen, knowing if she intervened she would get punished.

"I know, i'm almost ready, i'm terribly sorry" You apologized, wincing from the pain. "Good. We'll be leaving in ten minutes." He replied. Finally releasing your arm, he left the room, allowing you to finish your preparations.

Tears started to form in your eyes, while you rushed to Arabella. "I don´t think i can take this much, Bella." You hugged her. She had been your only friend since you were wed to William.

"Be strong, y/n." She told you, wiping your tears. "You'll get through this, I promise." Making you smile.

"Let me help you get ready, maybe you'll find a new husband." She laughed, making you giggle and sniffle. "Suck in." She said, tightening your corset while you placed your hands on your mirror, scrunching your face.

You were wearing a beautiful lavender gown, with your hair put up and slighly curled. You also wore an expensive pearl necklace and white gloves. The epitome of class, you looked absolutely gorgeous.

You turned to Arabella. "How do I look?" You asked. "Splendid." She replied, smiling. She gave you a final hug. "We'll see each other soon." You grinned. "When I get back, I'll tell you all about it."

The ride to the castle was long and arduous. You felt your stomach turn into knots, especially because your fiancé was right by your side, keeping an eye on you.

When you finally got out of your carriage, you observed an extraordinarily large castle, with a huge water fountain, and yards of bright green shrubbery. The night was cold, but William refused to give you his coat.

You walked in with your arm intertwined with your fiancé, getting lost in the big castle. When you finally found the ballroom, it was enormous, checkered floors with gold marble statues, big chandeliers and what seemed to be hundreds of tables.

Loud classical music was playing and you saw hundreds of unfamiliar faces laughing and chatting. You wished you could be as relaxed as them, talking with your partner.

You heard your fiancé hum pleasantly, meaning he was satisfied with what he saw, you on the other hand were terrified. "I don´t know how to dance William, i´ve never been to a ball." You told him. "You´ll learn now, don´t give me attitude." He replied, making you put your head down.

Your eyes locked on one particular man. He was the only one who was sitting down, and he was munching on a quiche, with crumbs all over his suit.

He was astonishingly handsome, fluffy dark hair and soulful deep brown eyes, his bushy eyebrows framed his face perfectly. You giggled, observing the strange sight of the handsome brute.

Women started gathering at one side of the room, while men on another, signifying that the dance was about to start. The mysterious man didn´t get up, instead watched, smiling.

Your fiancé whispered in your ear. "Don't ruin this for me, y/n." Your breath hitched in your throat as you nodded.

You walked up to William, and tried to fit in as much as possible, placing your hand on his and twirling around, looking like a scared little bunny.

The stranger noticed this, he leaned over from his chair, furrowing his eyebrows. He had never seen such a beautiful woman before, you looked stunning in your dress that moved with evey step you took.

He also noticed your fiancé, which had an angry expression, watching over you like a hawk, mentally critiziing every step you took.

When the dance was finally over, William whispered in your ear "We´ll have a talk when we get home." A man came up behind him and greeted him, prompting a sappy conversation. This was your chance to run and dissapear into the crowd.

You picked up your pace, looking over your shoulder to make sure William wasn´t following you, when you bumped into a tall stranger.

"I´m so sorry." You scrambled to find words, when you looked up to see the same person you locked eyes 20 minutes ago. "It´s no problem at all." He smiled.

"What´s wrong?" He asked. You stuttered "Nothing, i´ll be on my way." You replied. "What is a beautiful princess like you running away from?" He asked you.

You gulped. "My fiancé." You covered your mouth, having blurted out very personal information. He raised an eyebrow. "What did he do?" He asked.

The cat´s out of the bag now, you thought. "He´s horrible, he made me come to this ball when I don´t even know how to dance!" You exclaimed, making him chuckle.

"I don´t really like these types of things too." He said, making you laugh in surprise. "What´s your name, if I may ask?" He inquired.

"y/n y/l/n" You replied. "What about yours?"

"Calum." He said. "And your last name?" You questioned.

He started blushing. "Hood." You opened your eyes. "Calum Hood? Like Arthur Hood?" You asked, making him nod.

"Oh my God, I´m so sorry sir-" You exclaimed, and he stopped your sentence, smiling. "It´s fine, you can call me Calum, it´s not your fault i´ve been born into this family."

"Why aren´t you dancing? I can see all those ladies in waiting swooning over you." You smiled. "They´re boring, i´d much rather be with you." He smiled.

Your breath hitched in your throat. "Um, aren´t you married to anyone?" You stuttered. "Yes, she´s pretty and all, but I got married for political reasons, and i´m pretty sure she´s not faithful." He winked.

"Oh." You laughed awkwardly. "Would you like to see the gardens with me?" He asked. You looked back at William, who was clearly preoccupied with a ginger woman, swiping her hand on his arm. "Yes, I would like that." You replied.

He stuck out his hand and yours met his. You felt the ruggedness of his hand through your gloves.

The garden was massive, with hundreds of different flowers and bushes. The air was crisp and chilly and the night sky was clear. Calum saw you shivering and took off his expensive coat to give it to you. "There´s really no need, sir-I mean, Calum." You told him. "It´s my pleasure, y/n." He answered.

He sat down on a marble bench, and patted at his side, prompting you to sit down. You smelled his scent on his coat, he smelled of musk and roses.

There was a calm and comfortable silence. "I can´t believe you´ve never been to a ball, princess." Calum said, breaking the ice. "Yeah, i´m mostly cooped up in my room. I like to write, and paint." You said softly.

"Why are you here with me?" You asked. "Do I need a reason?" he said back, making you smile. You shook your head to signal a "no".

"Do you like being royalty?" You blurted out. "No, not really." He answered. "I feel like a chess piece, being married for political alliances, I can never be who I want, love who I want. It´s given to me like a prophecy, I can never get rid of it." You nodded. "I understand."

You noticed a statue that looked just like him. "You don´t like the statues?" You laughed, making him grin. "I hate those statues, they look hideous." He laughed. "I think i´m much more handsome in real life."

He noticed the bruises on your arms, when your gloves were pulled down, tracing his hands on them. His touch stirred nerves which you never knew you had inside of you. "Did he do this to you?" He said, and you knew exactly who he was talking about.

For the first time since you were a child, you felt safe. You nodded, with tears starting to form in your eyes, he lifted your head with his hands. "You deserve so much better." You looked up at him, starry eyed. You observed that he had a few beauty marks on his face.

At this point, the front parts of your hair had fallen out of your ponytail, framing your face. In the moonlight, you looked like a godess among men.

One part of your brain was telling you that this was wrong, and that you had to go back to your fiancé, but the other part knew that this felt right.

You slowly closed your eyes and placed a kiss on his lips. You felt him smile into it. He kissed you again, more passionately, his lips hungry for yours, while he held your face with both hands. "You´re so beautiful." He said, making you smile. "Nobody should ever make you feel this way, princess."

Your head was fuzzy, you couldn´t think straight, feelings that were buried deep inside you were being stirred, making you blush. Calum heard his name being called out, meaning he had to go back inside. "I wish I could stay here forever." You said. "Me too." Calum agreed.

"I hope to see you soon, y/n" Calum said. "Likewise." You replied, heading back inside the ballroom.

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

Two weeks went by, slowly, all that was in your head was CalumCalumCalumCalum. You told Arabella all about your adventures. and she agreed that you should meet him again.

You were all he thought about. When he went to bed, when he had dinner with the royal family. when he went to shower. How he longed to touch your soft hands, and hold your delicate face.

While you were painting, you heard a knock on your door. "There´s been a letter delivered to you, Princess y/n." The guard said. You thanked him, and closed the door to your room.

To my beloved y/n:

I cannot hold it any longer, my heart aches for you. On Saturday, I will send you a carriage, at eleven in the morning, driven by my best men. If you don´t accept, please ask them to leave. But I hope you do see me.

From yours truly, Calum Hood.

You stood reading the letter, with your mouth wide open. You decided to accept, since your fiancé would not be home, this was a perfect opportunity to go see Calum.

You could not go to sleep, your body was on fire, every nerve longed for Calum´s touch. You´ve never felt this before, for anyone.

You stayed awake for the remaining of the night, painting, since you couldn´t go to sleep.

At the early hours of the morning, Arabella came into your room. "I´m going to go see Calum." You giggled. Arabella smiled. "When?" She asked. "At eleven, today." You replied, prompting her to hug you. "But you cannot tell William, or a single soul." You whispered. Arabella did an imaginative motion with her hand, zipping up her mouth and throwing away the key.

Counting the minutes to 11, you were outside waiting. Sure enough, there was a caarriage there. You looked to your guards for approval and nodded, then entered it.

Falling asleep, you woke up to a sudden stop. You had gotten to the castle, even more beautiful in the daytime.

The big gates were opened, and you wandered in, looking through the rooms was when you found him, sitting at a dining table. Both of your eyes lit up as you saw each other.

You ran up to him, and then realized you should be curteous, and bowed to him, making him laugh. "It´s okay y/n, nobody´s looking." You looked around, and gave him a kiss on the lips, making him smile. "I missed you." He said. "It´s only been two weeks." You giggled. "That´s already too much." He replied.

"Shall I give you a tour of the castle, m´lady?" He said, bowing sarcastically. "You may." You giggled and grabbed his hand.

You both ran througout the castle, going through the main hall, the kitchens, bathrooms, laundry rooms, all the guest chambers and the cellars.

"I have one more thing I want to show you." He said, grinning, and taking you up a big flight of stairs.

You both entered a gigantic room, with a huge red bed and a few giant paintings of Calum. "Welcome to my chambers, m´lady." He grinned while you had your mouth wide open. You let go of his hand and went to explore, touching all of the furniture and the bed. "I think this is the best room." You smiled, making Calum chuckle.

You couldn´t help but laugh at the paintings, depicting Calum in various positions, posing. "I know, those paintings are ridiculous." He blushed. "I think they´re marvelous." You giggled. "Very fancy."

You turned around to see Calum standing in front of you. "I think you´re much more handsome in person, sir." You told him, making him smile and roll his eyes. "You really think so?" He asked. "Of course." You replied, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

He tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear, whispering "Well, I think you´re beautiful too, y/n." Kissing your neck. You couldn´t help but moan into his kisses, making your body feel on fire.

"Calum - William is expecting me soon." You stuttered. "Does William make you feel like this?" He asked, grazing his hands on your ass. You shook your head signaling a no. "Then fuck him, you don´t deserve him."

William had sex with you, but it was never something for your pleasure. He got himself off and that was it. Calum felt different, he felt like he cared.

You pulled him into a kiss, grabbing him by his collar and dragging him onto the bed. Making him smile. When the kiss was broken, you observed his messy hair and his big grin.

Today, you opted to not wear a corset, and wear a simple blue dress. Just your luck, you thought.

He pointed to the hem of your dress. "May I?" He asked. You nodded. "Please." Making him grin. "Good girl."

"You look so beautiful, let me make you feel good, princess." He said, dragging his eyes up at you, observing every curve in your body.

He unclasped your bra and took off your underwear, gently making you lay down on the huge bed.

You clenched your legs together, in embarassment while Calum placed sloppy kisses from your mouth to your stomach. "No need to be shy, princess. You look gorgeous." He said, making you blush, and gently parting your legs with his hands.

You hid your face in your hands, covering your blushing. You felt his hot breath on your core. You had never felt like this in your life. A carnal desire for someone.

His tongue finally made contact with your soaking pussy. Making you throw your head back, as he lapped long stripes inside of you. "Oh-oh my God." You moaned, while gently grabbing a handful of his hair, making him audibly groan.

With your back arching off the matress, he used his toungue in meticulous pattern, rubbing circles against your clit that had you squirming.

"You taste amazing, y/n." He said, in between licks, making you blush at the praise, rolling your eyes back into your head.

You felt like there was a rubber band about to snap inside of you. "I´m close, Calum." You groaned, as you felt your pussy twitch in electryfing pleasure. "Come for me." He said with a deep gravel in his voice.

You felt that cord snap, cumming all over his face, coating his stubble. "Holy fuck." You laughed.

"Take off your clothes please, I want to see you." You begged Calum. "Your wish is my command, princess." He took off his long sleeve shirt. "You have tattoos, they´re beautiful." You said, trailing your hands through his biceps.

"Thanks, princess." He smiled, taking off his pants and his boxers. You watched his erection spring up, hitting his stomach, making your jaw drop. Precum was bubbling on his tip.

"I need you inside me, Calum." You mewled. "So needy..." He chuckled. "Please."

Grabbing your back with his large hands, he slowly filled you up. making sure you were getting used to his size. "Are you okay?" He asked. You just nodded, biting your lip. "You can move now." You told him. His opened mouth turned into a long drawn out moan,

The stretch turned into pleasure, while he pushed into you, you made obscene noises, looking him in the eyes making him go absolutely feral. "You're gonna be the death of me, y/n." He groaned.

He started picking up the pace, while your nails scratched his back, he was wincing at the pain, but he enjoyed this very much.

You were moaning wantonly, and he pressed his hand against your stomach, only doubling your already unbearable pleasure even more.

"I´m gonna come, please fill me up, Calum." You moaned, not even thinking about the words that you said.

There was always the risk of pregnancy, if you were to get pregnant, you could be forced to marry him, but you didn´t think it was a bad idea after all.

"Yeah, want me to fill you up with my babies?" He moaned, while you bit your lip. "Yes, please, that´s all I want."

Calum´s weight on you, and the way his cock drives into you makes your eyes roll back, your brain going fuzzy. Every nerve inside you being stimulated at the same time.

"Oh god - Oh, Calum!" You exclaim, clenching your walls. "Cum for me, y/n, wanna see that pretty pussy cum all over my cock." Like a button was pressed, you gushed all over him, panting.

He buries his face into your neck, and you feel hot ropes of cum inside you, you ride him through his orgasm, watching his muscles relax.

He smiled and tucked your hair behind your ear. "Let´s get you cleaned up, shall we, princess?" You smiled and nodded. "That would be great, thank you."

Grabbing a wet washcloth, he helped you clean up, and put your dress back on.

You both laid down, facing each other.

"Your fiancé never touched you like this?" He had a soft expresison on his face. "Not really, just got off for himself if i´m being honest." You replied.

"What a cunt." He rolled his eyes. You burst out laughing. "Yeah, you could say that." You smiled.

Your expression turned serious. "You know there´s a chance we could have a baby, right?" You asked him. "Yes, I know." He softened his gaze. "You´d have to marry me." You added. "Yes, I know." He repeasted and smiled.

You smiled back. "Would you like that?" He asked. "I would love it." You grinned back.

[heartsandmarketplaces]

My HCs what they look like

Pollux he/him

Built like a rugby lock. 6'5, big guy, chubby (!), thick wrists and fingers, big hands, broad shoulders, one of the strongest campers in terms of brute strength. BICEPS.

Fluffy blonde hair, cowlick left temple which always stands up

Square face (think like Nick from Heartstoppers), straight nose, thick eyebrows

Brilliant purple eyes, long blonde eyelashes

Full and quite girlish lips, normally grinning

Mole under his eye like Caz

Exclusively wears kilts and knitted jumpers, workboots

Caz (Castor) they/them

You wouldn't think they and Pollux were twins

Lean and lithe, 6'2, seems taller than they are, angular quite elegant hands, easy way of moving,

Pink hair, wavy-curly, natural hair colour is a deep secret

Loads of moles, nose piercing, loads of ear piercings

Purple eyes, slightly lighter than Pollux's - more like violet, Lee is low-key obsessed, dark eyelashes that almost looks like they're wearing eyeliner. Dark brows

Aphrodite kids gave them a charm so they never have to shave their face which helped heaps with dysphoria <3

nice collarbones

Very mischievous grin, rarely not smiling

knows they're hot

varied dress sense. cool jackets, crop tops, wide-legged jeans, patterned button down shirts with sleeves rolled, palazzo pants, docs, tailored slacks, eclectic. HATES tight/skinny trousers and the camp shirt. Will not be caught dead in either

Theo (oc) she/her (when older)

Shorter than her siblings, when she's full grown about 5'5,

Curly dark hair, tends to keep it close-cropped to cheek-length

really light grey eyes, very soulful, and super dark eyelashes,

high-cheekbones, sharp jaw, lips a perfect pout,

throat something an artist would faint at

very androgynous (like her dad -- clearly effeminate but there's a boyishness there too)

likes to wear glitter round her eyes

excellent dress sense, very 20s-30s inspired (despairs over Will's fashion choices). Makes the campshirt look great somehow

Takes heavily after Mr D as he looks classically

Lee he/him

just a hair shorter than Caz, 6'2, surfer body, tan, biceps (!), stronger than he looks, leggy

spitting image of his father -- but definitely in his boyish youth way. Lee can't grow facial hair to save his life

Curling gold hair,

sharp jaw, nice arch to his neck, noticeable Adam's apple

blue-green eyes (one of the differences between him and Apollo), dark curled lashes

long, flat nose, classically handsome

light dusting of freckles everywhere

great arms

blonde leg hair

Comfy running shoes, baggy shirts OR singlets, no inbetween, has been known to wear dungarees,

Will he/him (when older)

Taller than Lee and loves it, 6'3, surfer body, tan, broad shoulders, very muscled arms

Also spitting image of his dad, he and Lee could pass as full siblings. But he's overall taller and broader and just bigger somehow. Like. He's A presence

Curling golden hair, tighter curls than Lee and a little frizzy because he doesn't take great care of it

FRECKLED. Freckles upon freckles,

Dimples, slight gap toothed, jawline to melt on

Ready smile, baby blue eyes

sun tattoo

The worst sense of style in the worldTM. Huge fan of the campshirt

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

A Khan By Any Other Name

a prequel to Star Trek: Into Darkness

mystery, suspense, danger ~ romance & NSFW material to follow

summary: Seraphina DiPietro is wise in the ways of the world of world; she has to be, as she travels the California coast as a torch singer in pubs, bars, and nightclubs. She knows how to take care of herself and stay out of trouble--most of the time. When trouble comes, it's usually because she lets her kind heart overrule her common sense. Stopping to check on a handsome stranger stranded roadside in the Mojave Desert, her curiousity is piqued as much by his classic, mint-looking Mustang, as by its driver--a tall, dark, mysterious drink of water, whom she quickly learns is so much more than he appears.

characters: Khan Noonien Singh (aka: John Harrison), Seraphina DiPietro (OC)

word count: 2.4k

Chapter One

Her first mistake had been slowing down to have a second look.  Three plus years with a vintage car enthusiast (her ex now, thank god; three months gone and good riddance to him, her mantra whenever he crossed her mind) had ingrained the habit in her. The habit, frankly, plus an appreciative eye for the sweetest of rides.  Thanks to Simon (and his obsession), she could distinguish in seconds between the genuine article and that which easily fooled the masses, a cunningly detailed replica—and the sleek ragtop that looked to have skidded to the side of the road, leaving a spray a gravel and black, burnt rubber in its tracks, was absolutely the real thing.

So she’d slowed down, only half meaning to, cataloguing the fine details and quickly estimating its worth, while admiring its classic lines and the bright flash of its chrome detailings.  Seraphina couldn’t keep from grinning, thinking about how instantly covetous Simon would be in the face of such a find, and how jealous he would feel to know that she had stumbled upon it with no effort whatsoever.

The man bending over the open hood

straightened as she passed, arresting her attention with a commanding, steely gaze that left her feeling like a marked woman.  As though he not only saw her, in her every visible feature, but somehow inexplicably knew her—and needed her.  Vitally, and immediately. Despite the lick of common sense apprehension that fluttered through her vitals, simple curiosity and a deeply embedded tendency to act the good Samaritan had Seraphina making her second, even bigger, mistake of the afternoon--pulling over to park her hovercraft several feet in front of his stalled vehicle.

She looked into her rearview mirror; he had turned to watch how she would proceed, holding his hands up with his fingers splayed wide, surely his way of expressing she could approach him safely.  “Not so fast, buddy,” she murmured, “I wasn’t born yesterday…and I’ve seen your kind before.” Sera cut the engine, pulling the keys from the ignition and flicking the lock mechanism off the small can of mace dangling from her keyring.  She wasn’t so foolhardy as to face the tall, well-built stranger unprepared; nearly a decade of travels up and down the coast of California, performing in seedy, small town dives, then upscale pubs and bars, and finally city nightclubs, had taught her well to be ever on her guard.

And she’d learned a few tricks in the course of her career, for if the mace should fail; she could—and had—flipped a drunk onto his back a time or two, who’d tried to cop a feel when she passed across a darkened dancefloor; and she knew all too well how much force was necessary, knee to groin, in order to incapacitate those pigheaded brutes who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer when they followed her out to the parking lot at the end of a gig. Handsome he might be (decidedly so, she mused, angular features, piercing eyes, thick, dark hair, an errant lock strayed upon his brow; such a striking combination!) but she was not fool enough to ever judge the book by it’s cover.

The stranger stood motionless a moment more, the light breeze ruffling that wayward lock until he brushed it back, a swift yet languid move that spoke of cat-like grace and an elegance that didn’t fit the setting or the way that he was clothed.  He was straight-backed, slim-hipped, long-legged--and poised with a confidence befitting a prince, and not the work-a-day posture of a blue-collar joe or road-weary drifter.  Yet the smile he gave her did not reach his eyes; Sera found it a little feral, and felt her pulse increase as a taste of adrenaline—that trusty “fight or flee” response—hit her system.

But she was already committed, having left the safety and cool comfort of her two-seater; if he was an actual threat, the worse that she could do was show the weakness of timidity now. Sera left her sunglasses in place, determined he would not read a bit of doubt in her eyes or bearing, the can of mace tucked neatly in the palm of her left hand, and walking forward into the dry, baking, Mojave Desert heat.

Sera gave a low but audible whistle, advancing as casually as she could, finally calling out to him, "She's a real beauty--and someone's taken serious loving care of her too." The 300-year-old Mustang appeared as close to mint as any vintage vehicle she had ever seen; given its obvious value, she had to wonder why the hell he would even have it on the road--especially in desert conditions. That instinctive voice of warning sounded an answer in her head: that's because it's not his.

Okay, Sera, she cautioned herself, give him the benefit of the doubt; he could have come by that automobile in any number of ways. She stopped a half-dozen steps from where the stranger stood, aiming to read his reaction as she asked, "Early 21st century, right?"

The man smiled--more sincerely this time--and nodded. "That she is," he replied, sparing a brief look at the stalled car, "Unfortunately, she's not going anywhere, anytime soon." His smooth, deep voice was as pleasant to the ears as his form was easy on his eyes, and his accent distinctly British, leaving Sera to ponder how and why he'd found his way into the midst of the Mojave. "I believe it's the transmission," he added.

In an instant, his eyes flicked downward, as though he registered that small, innocuous movement. She rushed to fill the vacuum of silence that hung between them, hoping to distract him from whatever suspicions her little move might have awakened.  “I know collectors,” she told him, running her right hand through her hair, fluffing it a bit, hoping to draw his eyes upwards again “…fanatical ones, who would pay a small fortune to make such a treasure theirs.”  She leaned toward him, adopting a confidential tone, honest in her curiosity, “However did you manage it?”

Sera could hear the tick of the internal combustion engine as it cooled, informing her he hadn't been stranded long. Surveying the area behind the Mustang, she spotted several telltale puddles of transmission fluid in the car's wake. "Looks like you might've blown a hose," she speculated, indicating the fluid spotting the back trail. "Those kind of parts are few and far between these days...but I bet we can find a mechanic who might be able to juryrig something enough to get you on the road again."

She turned back to find him watching her, his exotic-looking eyes narrowed. Appraising her in a way that made her feel...exposed. Unnerved. Vulnerable. Sera squeezed her hand against the reassuring weight of the small, defensive weapon cupped in her palm.

He inhaled sharply, a fleeting look of calculation crossing his face.  “It was an unexpected…” he paused, studying her carefully, “…but well-timed acquisition of…convenience.”  Such a reply was far too vague to answer her question—but didn’t surprise her in the least.

“Then you must be a man of remarkable luck, Mr…” Sera let her voice trail off with the question, fully expecting there would be little truth in his answer.

And then he was moving past the safe cushion of space between them, extending a large, powerful looking hand towards her, as way of introduction. “Harrison. I’m…John Harrison.” His grip was firm, not too tight, but Sera sensed—felt—a strength restrained that fit his bearing perfectly. Intimidating, but not frightening; confident—and intriguing her beyond her good sense should allow; and his eyes were locked on her, regarding her with such curiosity and healthy appraisal, that she slipped her sunglasses atop her head without a moment’s hesitation, meaning to meet his gaze directly.  

Sera hadn’t realized she was staring until he cleared his throat. “And you are?” he asked, smiling warmly, surely feeling the advantage now of having gotten past her bravado.  Her mouth felt dry—it had to be the arid atmosphere and not embarrassment over her awkward reaction to him--so that her tongue actually stuck a moment before she stammered out her name. “Seraphina.”  She said it rather breathlessly, then bit her lip against revealing her surname.

Harrison had not released her hand, although his grip was gentle, and the warmth of his skin pleasant against her own.  “Seraphina,” he repeated, the small smile creases bracketing his mouth deepening, and a hint of his true smile finally reaching his eyes.  “Lovely name, Seraphina. Exotic in its way, and as rare and fetching as a desert rose.”

Ordinarily, Sera would laugh off such obvious flattery; she’d had enough of it--and insincere at that--throughout her years as a torch singer.  This stranger—John Harrison—looked a better class of man than those who usually tried to ply her with compliments.  That was no reason, of course, to take him more seriously than any of the others.  And yet she felt a sort of…solemnity…about him; a dignity and self-assurance that spoke of a far more purposeful life than those of plain, ordinary men. He was damned attractive too, enough to have her a bit flummoxed at so dear a distance.  

"Seraphina,” he reiterated, teasing the syllables along, the depth and richness of his voice making her shiver a little despite the desert heat. “A derivative of seraphim, the highest order of celestial beings in religious myth.  Heavenly, fiery, winged immortals, tasked with surrounding and praising the throne of god.”  He leaned nearer, well past that unspoken barrier of personal space, closing his eyes while inhaling deeply through his nose, seeming to seek her essence by scent alone.

Such unexpected intimacy left Seraphina speechless, every instinct she had telling her to give ground a step or two—yet she remained still, for when he opened his eyes, she found herself fascinated by their changing hue. Seraphina had never seen such striking eyes on a man before; and she’d have sworn that they were blue.  Pale blue when she’d seen them from a distance, in the bright, unfiltered sun; then a surprising, piercing, azure when she met him face to face.  Now they seem to shift unpredictably from purely blue to nearly green with however the light played upon them, with flecks of gold speckling around the pupils.

“I wonder,” he mused, almost to himself, while Sera remained entranced and silent, unable to look away despite knowing she must look utterly foolish, “Might you be the angel of mercy I’m in such desperate need of?”

Befuddled, Sera sputtered back, "I...um...what?", finally taking a step back and pulling her hand from his grasp.

"I mean to say how fortunate I am, you came along precisely as you did. " Harrison shrugged and took a step back as well, his manner self-effacing enough to lend sincerity to his words. "And that your nature is a kind one--I imagine most women would have cruised by without a care for my predicament, given this isolated location and the potential threat I could embody."

Regaining her composure, Sera lifted her chin proudly, "I've managed to look after myself for many years now, and in dodgier situations." Her usual insoucience restored, she asked the most vital of questions, looking him squarely in the eyes to read the truth before he even answered, "Do I have reason to fear for my safety, Mr. Harrison?"

His eyes widened and he grinned, and then he began to laugh. Heartfelt, and deep in his throat; the rich sound of melted, dark chocolate--the rare sort of sweet that was supposed to be healthy for one, but only if consumed in moderation. A woman could lose herself in such a laugh, she realized, and I'll bet he knows it too.

"If there was any reason at all, you've quite disarmed me already." Now it seemed he was sizing her up beyond first impressions--and liking what he saw, by the look of satisfaction on his face. "I promise you, Ms..."

"It's just Seraphina for now please, if it's all the same to you. " Sera pressed her lips thin against the smile that wanted to break forth, enjoying both his unspoken surprise at her overall boldness--and what she dared to believe was an appreciation for her physical charms.

Harrison acquiesced with a tilt of his head. "Then I promise you, pretty Seraphina, that I harbor no ill intent towards you. And I would be deeply indebted to you for the aid I am sure you intend to offer me."

She felt her cheeks flush at his easy compliment--not taken in, but happy to accept it nonetheless. "Well, it's a shame to have to abandon her here, but the closest hope you have for a spare part--and a mechanic with working knowledge of antique cars--is at least a hundred miles away."

"Alright then," he affirmed, moving past her to slam shut the Mustang's hood, "We should probably be on our way."

"Of course." Sera turned to follow him, wanting a closer look at the rare vehicle before they drove away. "You should put the top up too; you may not make it back here until tomorrow at least."

He nodded again, striding to the driver's side door to start the car and raise the top. Something not quite right here, she thought, frowning; I could swear that this model and the ones that followed, had a remote on the key fob to control the mechanism. It reminded her that she'd initially thought the car did not belong to him--and that somehow she had allowed his charm cause her to lower her guard.

She stepped to the passenger side, hoping for a peek inside to confirm her growing suspicion. "You ought to raise the windows, too," she told him, leaning close enough to peer inside the passenger side window, "No telling what might find its way inside here once darkness falls. It gets pretty cold here at night..." Sera swallowed hard when she got a look at the ignition cylinder; it had been removed from its place beneath the steering wheel and hung down by several wires. The wires themselves appeared to have been rearranged.

Her heart in her throat, Seraphina searched her memory for the word to describe exactly what she was seeing. Hotwired. That's what they called it; a quick and easy way to boost a car. Simon had educated her, marveling at the skill of those he'd read about who could do do in under a minute. She'd never dreamed of seeing something like it up close. Yet there it was, and the man who'd done it clearly hadn't wanted her to see it. Which meant...

He was faster than her by far; almost preternaturally fast. Harrison had grabbed her left arm ( --- damn, he had noted she was carrying something there! --- ) through the window opening, his iron grip digging into her flesh painfully. "Drop it," he ordered her, "Drop it now. I can explain everything if you just remain calm, Seraphina."

She didn't mean to, but she whimpered softly, not only at the discomfort he was inflicting, but also for the cold menace in his eyes. Had she thought them beautiful, compelling, alluring, just moments ago? Now it seemed to her they were the deadliest eyes she had seen in her life.

(to be continued)

[tosahobi-if]

What do the Ros look like?

i’ll be posting full character introductions so please look forward to seeing those as well! (the heights are subject to change, so i'm sorry in advance LOL)

jinwol: 180cm. practically a replica of his mother with her delicate, pretty features and little to no resemblance to his father. stands with a very upright posture. has a serious resting expression though he frequently adopts a charming, friendly (fake) demeanor. renown within even non-sect circles for being good-looking. long, dark hair that he wears tied up, and very dark eyes. lashes are impressive enough to make people angry at him. looks slender in most clothing, but has a huge amount of small muscles. practices the mount hua style of fighting, which is outwardly showy but very technically precise. compared to the rest of his neat, scholarly appearance has calloused, scarred hands.

yul: mc's height + 1cm. good-looking enough to do a double take. dark brown, wavy hair they usually keep pinned back or down loose. sparkly eyes that are an odd color: dark, but not exactly black or brown. has a very cold, frigid expression throughout most of their social interactions – does a complete 180 when with the one person they like. (10 points to whoever gets this person right.) firm, compact muscles with not a lot of bulk to their torso. very muscular thighs and well-defined calves, their preferred style of martial arts is a tandem type of offense and defense, so they maintain a lower center of gravity.

iseul: 175cm. classically handsome looks, has the appearance of a hero straight out of an old folk tale. has strong brows and well-defined bone structure. pin-straight black hair, usually keeps it tied up in a ponytail. pale, blue-green eyes that look grey in most lighting. has a cheerful, sunny countenance, which is frequently at dissonance with the calculating way she examines things. fights with a style suited towards brute strength (first strike ends the battle!) has long arms, broad shoulders, and similar to a javelin thrower, has muscle mass on her lower back. sturdy core and a very flexible upper body. a lot of compact muscle on her thighs and calves for bursts of speed.

???: 190cm. the showy looks of an entertainer but the unreadable smile of a skilled negotiator. the sort of person to strike more fear into the hearts of people than they do admiration (could make an argument for both.) upturned, violet eyes, thin brows, and a generous mouth. beauty mark beneath their left eye. carries themself as the largest person in the room, whether in presence or stature. elastic, well-defined muscles, built for dexterity and power, has the upper body of a swimmer with broad shoulders and a long torso. characterized by long legs and arms, more bulk on the top than the bottom. small waist.

[tellmeallaboutit]

WIP WEDNESDAY

thank you @littleplasticrat for tagging me. I am sharing three WIPs and I am tagging @dodorimo @pouralaura @theemptyislost

WIP Nr. 1 (Raphael x Tav), tale madre tale figlia

"Is this the gentleman?" Celeste inquired, her eyes narrowing as she studied Raphael from a distance. 

He was standing by the garden pavilion under the canopy of vines, enjoying a chilled glass of limoncello. Classically handsome, almost mundanely so, with the grin of a man all too pleased with himself. Erik, her husband, stood across from him, looking much less at ease. 

"Less disappointed in me now, mama?" asked Judith, scoffing slightly.

"Could have been worse," Celeste replied. "Could have been better if you'd done things the right way and had a proper wedding. How old is he?"

Judith thought for a moment, trying to come up with a passable answer.

"Forty-five, I think," Judith finally offered.

"The same age your father would have been," Celeste said, half reproachful, half imagining this man as her own husband. "Looks older. Southerner?"

Judith answered each question with a slight delay.

"South of Thar."

"Old money?" Celeste's question sounded more like a statement.

"Ancient money," Judith answered.

WIP Nr. 2 (Rugan x OC), trouble at the disco (NSFW)

“You know the type you seem to be, princess?”, Rugan asked. “A spoiled brat in need of a good spanking.”

"Oh?" she replied. "And you think you're the man to give me one?"

Her slightly elvish eyes raked over him in a thorough appraisal. She hoped he would be the man to give her one.

"With that very leather belt you're eyeing up," Rugan said. "Until that pampered arse of yours is cherry red."

Margaret's breath caught in anticipation and Rugan could feel his cock stiffen at the prospect. He could almost see her imagining the sting of each blow.

"What a brute," she murmured, not without a dash of admiration.

"Somebody should teach you some respect," he growled, his hand sliding up her thigh. "Alas, I suspect the moment I pull down your frilly knickers you'll be screaming for the guards. One thing this life taught me: some risks are just not worth taking."

He reclined in his chair and exhaled deeply.

“So, sorry, lass. Try your luck elsewhere.”

WIP Nr. 3 (Gale x Tav), the Riv'vil

The human male was evidently as dense as a dwarven door.

She had made herself abundantly clear, and yet the riv’vil stood, in his wizard robes, absent-mindedly petting his chin, and said:

“Charmed. Name is Gale of Waterdeep”.

It's no wonder human males are notorious for being slow. Gathering the shreds of her patience, she attempted once more: 

“I am Yvonne Barrison Del'Armgo, the first daughter of House Barrison Del'Armgo”, she said, hoisting her foot onto a boulder and thrusting forward her boot, which was splattered with the viscera of her venture on the nautiloid and needed immediate cleaning. 

Even the sun-dweller should know what being the first daughter of that house meant. It meant he should drop to his knees and prostrate at her feet immediately.

The male didn't blink an eye. She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed:

“You are permitted to kiss my boot, sun-dweller”.

[kurtvrich]

Tumblr Hunk…

Amp Classic. Handsome RAE. Gone are the days of brute force and slinging the mallet.

[lovelylogans]

the parent trap

CHAPTER TWENTY: the queen elizabeth the second the second

The twins attempt to revive the past. The parents wish to change it

⁂

Patton watches, amused, as Remus looks in the mirrored wall of the elevator, stick his hands into his hair, and deliberately mess it up.

“Kiddo,” Patton says, his voice coming out a touch too wheedling for a father speaking to his eleven-year-old. “Not even a little hint about where we’re going?”

“Nope!” Remus says in delight, shaking out his hair like a dog, and Patton stifles the urge to reach out and even out the collars of his shirt; one poking up, one tucked inside his jacket.

Knowing Remus, that’s an intentional part of the whole ensemble. He’s wearing a almost chromatically green silk shirt with some kind of rippling design reminiscent of tie-dye. He’s paired it with his little leather jacket and a black pair of dress pants, and also his lime green Converse. Patton supposes you can’t win it all—mostly formal is still a major win in the books in terms of the Remus outfit appropriateness for the occasion meter.

“Not even after I point out how many surprises I’ve had today?”

“Nuh-uh,” Remus says, licking the palm of his hand and running it along the back of his head to make his cowlicks stick up even more than they already do. “You’ll love it, Pa, trust me.”

“You understand why that makes me nervous,” Patton says. The elevator comes to a stop, and Remus skips out of the elevator.

“Hey,” Patton calls, hurrying after him. “you get why that makes me nervous, right?!”

“C’mon, Pops!”

Patton follows Remus out of the front door of the hotel, where Remus has paused. Then Remus grabs his hand and starts hauling him toward—

“We’re going in a limo?!” Patton says, shocked.

“Apparently.”

Patton turns to see the voice, and nearly does a double-take.

Janus is devastatingly handsome. 

He’s wearing a pair of elegant earrings, dangling circular diamonds surrounded by gold, cascading down like clusters of grapes ripe for the picking. 

He wears no necklace to match them, which only serves to accentuate his long, graceful neck, his collarbones and shoulders, which are bare to the evening air—the neckline is straight across, perhaps an inch or two below those very collarbones Patton had once pressed kisses to, with only a pair of little straps to show that the shirt is clinging to him via some means other than magic or the sheer, brute strength of Janus’s strikingly good looks.

His pants are tailored, fitting well—Patton absolutely refuses to gawk at him for any longer—and he completes the look with a little clutch he’s holding tightly in one hands, a checkerboard black-and-white shawl he’s somehow managing to keep up with his elbows. Patton would’ve dropped it five time already, but Janus, as always, makes it all look so effortless.

Patton had almost hoped that ability of his had faded through the years, or perhaps quelled itself in the face of Patton being engaged to another man.

“Hello, Papa,” his other son says.

“Hey there, Rome,” Patton says, trying his best to snap out of it, Parker, by wrapping an arm around Roman’s shoulders and tugging him into his side, lest he mess up Roman’s hair, which looks very particularly coiffed. “You look great, sweetheart!”

He’s dressed in a much more classic suit style than Remus—white shirt, red tie, suit with a red pocket square folded carefully, and Oxford shoes. Patton does spy a little peek of bold red patterned socks, though. So he is still an eleven-year-old boy putting some fun in his outfit.

“So, erm…” Janus leans in, rising up on his tip-toes slightly to whisper in Patton’s ear. And there it is, that smell, that intoxicating smell that’s haunted Patton for years: freesia, sandalwood, sage. “Do you have any idea where they’re taking us?”

“Not a clue,” Patton murmurs back.

Janus pulls back with a sigh, tapping his clutch against his hand. “Right.”

Patton clears his throat, stepping forward and opening the limo door.

“Gentlemen,” he says to his sons and ex-husband, “after you.”

⁂

“Where are we?” Janus asks, even as Patton hustles around the car to open the door for him.

Patton offers a hand. Janus, almost like he can somehow not think anything of it, clasps Patton’s hand in his own, pulling himself to stand.

Janus’s hand meets his own, and suddenly it’s years ago, and they were giddy with new, young love, and yet at the same time they’re older, father to twins, and Patton’s calloused hand is holding Janus’s smooth one and once they were married and he had been allowed to hold Janus’s hand like this all the time and how sweet it had been then, how bittersweet it is now—

And Janus lets go, and Patton swallows, returning his hand to his own side

“Boys,” Patton says, “I don’t really see a restaurant here… is this where we’re eating?”

“No, actually,” Remus says, grinning brightly, and he points across the water.

Where a yacht is waiting.

Patton’s starting to have a very nervous feeling about this.

“That’s where we’re eating.”

And so Janus and Patton are promptly hustled down the dock to a small speedboat that carries them the short distance across the water to the boat.

Yes. They are boarding the boat. He’s once again boarding a boat with the man who had once been his husband. Who he’d met on a different, very large boat. This is somehow real.

“So,” Janus says, with a wry twist to his mouth as they ascend the stairs. “How exactly are we paying for this?”

“We’ve pooled our allowances.”

“Remus,” Janus scolds.

“All right,” Roman cracks first. “Grandfather chipped in a bit.”

“Roman!” Patton exclaims.

“Okay, he chipped in a lot,” Remus says with a laugh, before he speeds ahead of them all. “C’mon, you guys are gonna love it!”

Roman gently nudges past them to join his brother, before they both turn to face them with a choreographed flourish.

“Patton,” Roman says.

“—and Janus,” Remus says. Patton is slightly cheered that the oddity of being called his first name by his child is not only strange to him. “Your dinner—”

“—awaits,” Roman says, and together, they pull open the door to reveal the boat’s interior.

There’s a rear wall, painted blue, with several nautical-themed paintings along the wall, but the real star is directly in front of them: they’re near a massive window open to the outdoors, which means the boat is practically open to the bay all lit up, the city lights glinting off of the water.

“Boys,” Patton says, slightly choked up.

It’s beautiful. Dark woods and white tablecloths and blue accents, candles flickering in spare corners to provide the whole area with a soft, warm glow; the windows to the interior are lined with heavy-looking blue velvet curtains, which look comfortable to the touch.

Janus clears his throat. “The table’s only set for two.”

Patton blinks at him, then looks down at the table.

Yes. He’s right. There’s a floral arrangement of roses in the middle of the table, two tall candles on either side, two empty, silver plates with silverware, napkins folded into little boats, and two chairs, made from the same dark wood as the rest of the place.

“Oh,” Remus says, sounding like he’s barely quashing his laughter. “That’s the other part of the surprise. We’re not joining you!”

“You’re not?” Patton says.

“No,” a familiar voice says, “but I am.”

And then, clad entirely in white, one of Patton’s most favorite faces rounds the corner.

“Good evening, I’m Virgil, and I’ll be your sommelier this evening.”

“And I am Logan,” Janus’s cousin says, rounding the corner, in matching naval whites with Virgil. “Your chef.”

“May I offer you both a glass of the bubbly, in the hopes that you will perhaps not yell at us for following the orders of these particularly brazen eleven-year-old boys?” Virgil says, presenting a bottle to Patton in a well-practiced gesture.

Patton’s about to speak, but Virgil taps at the label. Which makes Patton inadvertently read it.

A 1988 Ruinart. Oh, Virgil knows Patton’s wanted to try a Ruinart from 1988 practically the moment since the champagne had been bottled, darn him. Buttery and hazelnutty, with a hint of honeyed lemon at the finish, or so he’s heard—and the cool spring and sunny summer meant an excellent harvest that year, it’s meant to be divine.

Patton wavers, looking from the bottle, to Janus, back to Virgil and Logan.

“It is rather sweet,” Patton admits in a quiet voice.

“Oh!” Remus cries out, and they all turn to face him. “We forgot the mood music! Roman, hit it!”

“Just relax,” Roman says as he clambers for a remote, “Sail through time… back to yesteryear…”

He hits the play button as both twins depart behind closed doors.

I love you for sentimental reasons… I hope you do believe me…

And Patton’s eyes at last fix onto one more decoration.

A life preserver, painted with familiar eleven-year-old handwriting.

Queen Elizabeth II ♥ 1986 ♥

“They’re recreating the night we met,” Patton says. “The boat, the music…”

“Yes, I’d gathered that,” Janus says dryly. “Virgil? I’ll have that drink now, if you don’t mind.”

Virgil pours two flutes of champagne with a practiced hand, setting the bottle in an ice bucket before he ferries them over.

Then he and Logan bow out.

And Janus and Patton are alone.

Truly alone.

Well. As alone as you could get, Patton thinks as he spies two identical heads peeping through the door’s port windows, on a ship like this.

But then, he and Janus had made that work quite a bit to their advantage over a decade ago.

“Now I know how a goldfish feels,” Patton murmurs, tilting his head in the boys’ direction.

Janus turns and offers a truly impressive Paternal Look Of Scolding. The twins both hastily duck.

Patton clears his throat, gesturing to the vantage point that looks out over the bay, a little further away from everyone else’s viewing stations, and Janus seems to understand his gist. They step away together. 

“You know, I haven’t been on a boat since the QE2.”

“No, nor have I,” Janus agrees, then looks down at the champagne glass. “Erm. Well, here’s to…”

“Our sons.”

Janus looks at him. His eyes, in the low light of the candles, the distant city lights, the shimmering reflections of the water, are all tourmaline: inviting, captivating, glittering, but inscrutable to him.

“Our sons,” he agrees softly, and gently clinks his champagne flute to Patton’s.

Patton chances another look to the windows; empty. So either they’re alone, or the twins are crouched somewhere out of sight with their ears pressed against the door.

“You know,” Patton says, quietly. “If you don’t mind—now that we’re alone—I wondered if…”

Patton gathers his nerve. 

“I may never be alone with you again,” Patton starts over. “So… only if you’re comfortable—can we… talk? About us? Those few weeks feel so hazy to me now. It ended so fast.”

Janus smiles, a bitter little thing. “It started so fast.”

“Oh,” Patton says, quiet. “That part isn't hazy to me at all. I remember that bit perfectly.”

Janus smiles, sipping his champagne.

⁂

“Seems like it’s going well out there.”

“Yes, it rather does.”

“Feels a bit silly for us to be spying on them in the same way as the kids.”

“...yes, it rather does.”

“Guess we should probably occupy ourselves with the next course. Um. What is it?”

“Oh! It’s a vichyssoise. Potato and leek soup.”

“Huh! Sounds good.”

“I can ladle you a sample, if you’d like. Certainly the boys don’t seem too inclined to it—what are they doing out there?”

“Playing poker, I bet.”

“Oh, goodness. Yours is a poker fiend as well?”

“Oh yeah. He’s banned from playing with customers, he swindled someone out of almost a hundred bucks once.”

“Goodness!”

“Yours?”

“Oh, yes. Him and my Uncle—Janus’s father—if you walk into the study while they’re together, they’re almost assuredly playing. Here you are.”

“Oh—thanks… hey, that’s really good!”

“Thank you.”

“Do you like to cook?”

“I do. Most people wouldn’t expect it, but I’ve always rather enjoyed chemistry. It’s simply a different application.”

“Applications of chemistry…?”

“...yes…”

“...maybe I should, um. Check the wine stores.”

“Oh—yes. That’s probably a good use of time. I’ll… go serve.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

“...”

“...”

“...after you. It’s, um. It’s a bit of a squeeze in here, isn’t it?”

“Quite right! Yes. Erm—I’ll just… go—! Oh, I hope I didn’t step on your foot just now!”

“Oh, no, you’re—you’re fine. Ah, sorry I grabbed you—”

“Quite all right. I fear I might’ve fallen. Ah. If you’ll…”

“Right, yeah! Yeah. Letting go now. Um. Good luck with the soup.”

“And good luck with the wine.”

⁂

Patton’s almost better than he remembers.

Which is, Janus thinks, absolutely disastrous news for him.

“So,” Janus says, fishing for a change of subject. “You seem to have done well for yourself, haven’t you?”

Patton shrugs, all bashful and unintentional charm.

“Your own vineyard—that old dream of yours actually came true.”

“Well, yours too,” Patton says. Still uncomfortable with too much of the attention on you, I see. “You were always drawing on napkins and corners of newspapers, and now you’re this major designer. Vogue! You were always reading that, and now you’re in it!”

Janus cannot help but grin at the memory.

“We both actually got where we wanted to go.”

“Yeah,” Patton says. “We did.”

“And I thought I’d never see you again,” Patton says, very quiet.

“Isn’t that part of it?” Janus says bitterly. “Never seeing each other again. Is that part of why we’ve let things lie the way they have, for so long?”

“Not we, Janus,” Patton says.

Janus sighs, reaching for the champagne, wishing it was a pack of Parliaments. “Well, you know, that part’s become hazy to me too, over the years.”

“You don’t remember the day you packed?”

“Oh, no, I remember that perfectly,” Janus says with a cringe. “Did I end up hurting you when I threw that…?”

“The hairdryer?” Patton says and, lucky Janus, his voice is all wry amusement now. “Not enough to leave a mark that’s lasted this long.”

“Right,” Janus says. “Erm—sorry. That was… rather too far of me.”

Patton swallows, suddenly very preoccupied with fiddling with the place setting.

“So,” Patton says, voice very soft. “That day… why’d you go?”

“Oh, Patton,” Janus sighs. “We were both so young, I had such a temper… we said stupid things, and I packed. Got on my very first plane and…”

Janus looks down at the champagne, swilling it about the glass. It’s a lovely color, a soft flaxen yellow, and the combination of bubbles and the cut of the glass catch the light in a very interesting way.

It’s an easier thing to focus on than to look Patton in the eye while he admits this old heartbreak. A ridiculous one, to be sure, but one that he still holds, cradled deep in his heart and undisclosed to anyone.  

“You didn’t come after me.”

He takes a sip of the champagne, attempting to seem unaffected as he looks up. 

Patton looks stricken. It’s as if someone has stolen the residual joy that seems to sit everpresent upon Patton’s face, from the crinkles that are starting to form at the corners of his eyes to his resting, generally pleasant expression.

It’s as if Janus has stolen all the joy from his face, Janus corrects himself grimly. It is Janus who has put this suspicious shine in his eyes and the way his fists are clutching, uncertain, at his once elaborately-folded napkin.

“I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

The words are barely a whisper.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore now—it’s all done with.” Janus clears his throat. “Anyway—what are we going to do about the boys?”

“I want to be in Roman’s life,” Patton says immediately, then he clears his throat, rubbing a finger under an eye. 

“And I want to be in Remus’s,” Janus says. “We’re in total agreement on that.”

“Good,” Patton says, looking relieved. “And the boys—they’ve met, the court can’t keep them apart after all this, can they?”

“I’d certainly hope not,” Janus says, frowning. 

They both fall briefly quiet as Logan serves them a vichyssoise.

“I’ve never been sold on that judge of yours,” Logan says, with a scowl on his face. “Psychologists say that separating siblings, in the short term, cause stress and greater potential for sadness and loneliness. In the long-term, it could cause traumatic effects—there was recently a study revealed that intentionally separated twins and triplets into adoptive families without disclosing to those families or the children until they reached their adult lives.” 

“Was there?” Patton says, startled. 

“Oh, yes. It’s an ongoing conversation—especially concerning the ethics and potential coercion.”

“I’ll take your word for it—I’m not exactly the bookish type,” Patton says, with a little self-deprecating laugh. “Goodness, how awful for those poor people. But—but if all the common ideas now say so, then they’ve got to agree to a reworking of the custody arrangement, don’t they?”

“It’d be madness if they didn’t—ongoing psychological trauma!” Janus says. “We’d contest it, of course.”

“Of course!” Patton says. 

“What was the name of that lawyer we used last time? If he’s still in practice, we may as well get someone familiar with the case.”

“Remy,” Patton says. “Erm—Remy… gosh, how do you spell his last name. It was really long, I remember that. Remy… Zatawski? Zawikowski?”

It takes the rest of the soup course for them to remember that his last name is Zawistowski, and even then it’s because at last Logan takes pity on them and goes looking for a phone book that, fortunately, has his law firm listed.

“He’s probably not in the office right now,” Patton points out.

“Sure,” Janus says. “But we can call and leave him a message, can’t we? Here—you should probably leave your number for him. International calling’s hell on the phone bill.”

They both pause.

“How much international calling do you think the boys have done in the last month?”

Janus sighs, pressing his palm to his forehead in an attempt to stave off an upcoming headache. “I’m sure we don’t want to know.”

“Probably,” Patton agrees. “All right, here goes.”

He dials in, putting the phone on speaker. Sure enough, they hit an answering machine.

It beeps.

“Hi,” Patton begins. “This is Patton Parker, myself and my—my ex-husband were clients of yours about eleven years ago? Janus James, there was the matter of international custody—”

Janus figures their case is probably fairly unique.

“Anyway, we’ve recently had a meeting and we’ve decided we’d like to rearrange our custody agreement. Let us know if you’re capable of taking our case back on again, or if you have any recommendations for us. Thanks so much for your time. Oh, I should leave my phone number so you can reach me—”

Janus absolutely tries his best not to memorize the digits that Patton reels off in an exceedingly well-practiced way, but, well, he says the phone number three times, and what if Janus has to call him in the future regarding the children? No, knowing his phone number is for the best in the long run, surely.

Janus figures that will be the end of it.

And it is, until they reach the end of the entrée—they’ve mostly chatted about the children, though there were a couple momentary side-tangents into their respective businesses these days—when a splitting beeping echoes through the air.

Patton blinks at him, but he returns his hand to his pocket.

“That’s my phone,” he says uncertainly.

“Go on.” Janus says, gesturing with his fork.

He opens it, then puts it on speaker.

“Hello?”

“Hey—Patton Parker, great to hear your voice,” says that breezy New York accent, familiar even after over a decade apart and through a phone line. “I’m so happy you called me back, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for ages, I think you changed your number—listen, you still have time to get in on the suit—”

“Suit?” Patton says, blinking. “Sorry, what suit?”

“The lawsuit,” Remy says.

“I… don’t know about any lawsuit,” Patton says. “Janus, do you…?”

“Why would I know about some American lawsuit?” Janus says, as baffled as Patton.

“What lawsuit!?” Remy says. “Jeez, I really didn’t have the right contact information, did I? Look, there’s a whole situation—the same judge who presided over your case years ago, he’s getting sued.”

“What?!” Janus and Patton both say at the same time.

“Look—long story short—the floodgates have been opened on this guy ‘cause he way overshot his hand in regards to international custody, he’s getting sued for malfeasance, you two definitely have a case given how he’s divided up your boys, do you want in?”

“I—yes, of course,” Patton says, still perplexed.

“Are you telling me,” Janus says, incensed, “that this judge who repeatedly told us that this would be the best for the boys—”

“Didn’t know jack shit?” Remy says. “Yeah.”

And then the rest of the evening is lost entirely to details.

previous chapter | masterpost | next chapter

[sundrownsthehouse]

Can you read my mind? I've been watching you (Part II of III)

Find it here on AO3 (I much prefer the formatting there)

Part I

Pairing: Matty/George

Summary: Matty's bored. He decides to make it everyone's problem.

(AKA a fic about that unhinged video of Matty gagging on his own fingers).

Words: ~3k

Rating: E

Seen by bedforddanes75

As the minutes ticked by, the rush of excitement and adrenaline that drove Matty to act out had quickly given way to embarrassment. A light sweat broke out at the nape of neck as he resisted the urge to physically cringe; he couldn’t bear to look down the aisle, no matter how desperately he wanted to. He squirmed in his seat, his mind racing.

What if it was too much? What if he’d pushed it too far, annoyed George, completely mugged him off? Fuck, what was he even thinking, putting himself through this on a ten hour—

Matty stilled. Goosebumps rose on the back of his arms. At the edge of his awareness, he felt it; George’s presence was undeniable.

His first thought as he glanced up was that George looked furious. To anyone else, his blank expression might have come across as indifferent, bored even, but Matty knew better. His stomach clenched with a heady mixture of fear and arousal as he took in the thin line of George’s lips, the intensity of his stare, the way he loomed from above— tall, broad, and imposing. There was something about George’s stature and the hidden power it conveyed that triggered a primal response in Matty’s subconscious, the innate knowledge of he’s bigger, stronger, could hurt me if he wanted to sending all of the blood in his body rushing south.

Before he had the chance to say anything a tight grip encircled his wrist, hauling him up into the center aisle. George guided him toward the rear of the plane without so much as a glance back, stepping gingerly to avoid waking the others. Matty stumbled and struggled to right himself as he trailed behind, whipping his head around to ensure that no one noticed them.

When they arrived at the bathroom George slid the door open and all but thrust Matty inside. Matty wavered— “Jesus, George”— and steadied himself against the wall, muttering low under his breath. He turned around just in time to watch George flick the lock closed with a deadly sort of calm.

He’d wanted a reaction, but he never expected to finally get one— and if the icy look in George’s eye was anything to go on, he was well and truly in for it. Matty allowed a smirk to play at the corner of his mouth, an arrogant gesture of self-satisfaction that he was certain George would clock immediately. It was an attempt to mask just how high-strung he really was. His pulse pounded in his ears as he silently grappled with that strange, overwhelming fight-or-flight response that George—sweet, perpetually stoned George— seemed to evoke in him.

The tiny room was far too small to contain the mounting tension as they sized each other up. For a moment, the only sound was the steady thrum of the plane’s engine, giving the air an odd, muffled quality. Paired with the harsh light of the florescents, the whole scene seemed altogether surreal— dreamlike, even — until George broke the spell with a question.

“What’s your damage?” he asked darkly.

Matty shrugged, nonchalant: “Dunno what you’re on about.” He jerked his chin at George’s hard stare. “What’s yours? Dragging me back here like a brute.”

George snorted and stepped forward, crowding Matty against the wall, filling his field of vision. Matty couldn’t help but admire George’s features up close; his strong brow, narrow eyes, plush lips… the stubble across the sharp angle of his jaw… George was so fucking beautiful, so classically handsome in a striking, intense way, it was unbelievable that it had taken him so long to see…

After days of taunting, the proximity had Matty’s head spinning. The tiny sliver of air separating their bodies was alive, charged with heat, shimmering like the first few drops of rain on asphalt in the summer sun. It took everything in him not to reach out and touch, so he relished the way George broke first, leaning in to grip his hips just a little too tight. He slid his hands up and under the hem of Matty’s shirt, the pads of his fingers brushing against bare skin. The sensation made Matty's abdomen twitch.

“What do you think you’re doing, Matthew?” George implored softly as their foreheads met. He sounded wrecked. The low rumble of his voice reverberated deliciously inside Matty’s skull.

Licking his lips, Matty looked up at George from beneath his lashes. “What do you mean?” he murmured.

George sighed in frustration. He dragged his left hand up Matty’s torso to rest along the long column of his neck, fingers splayed to cradle his jaw. He drew their bodies together, solid, warm and hard. Matty’s breath hitched; there was no mistaking the swell in George’s jeans, throbbing insistently into the angle of his hip bone.

“That needy little display you put on the internet for everyone to see,” George grumbled, grazing his lips against Matty’s ear.

He sounded so annoyed that Matty actually laughed. “Don’t slut-shame me,” he protested. “Ah!—”

George bit brazenly at the corner of his jaw in response, pulling a shocked, heated moan from deep within Matty’s throat. He shuddered and gasped as George mouthed at the sensitive skin to soothe it, trailing hot, open kisses down the edge of his jawline before sucking a bruise into the exposed dip of his collarbone. When George spoke, his voice went straight to Matty’s cock:

“Don’t act like such a fucking slut, then.”

Matty’s eyes fluttered closed with a groan as the electricity coursing through his veins doubled-back and intensified. One of the most unexpected things he’d learned about George when they started sleeping together? He had a filthy mouth on him— and what a discovery that had been.

In a useless act of half-hearted defiance he gave George’s shoulder a weak shove. George easily captured his wrist, pinning it to the wall with a tsk of disapproval. His other hand still lingered on Matty’s neck; he didn’t place any pressure there, but he didn’t have to. Matty was already fighting to focus through the haze of lust consuming him, already finding himself slipping as his chest heaved. Why was he even resisting? What was the point, again? When it would feel so good to just give in?

George drew back to take in the sight before him. Matty knew what he must look like by now; pupils blown wide, cheeks aglow, mouth all soft and pink and wet. He melted under George’s gaze, tilting his head against the wall as his hips rose of their own accord, seeking some kind of friction. George traced Matty’s mouth with his thumb, pulling gently on his lower lip just to watch it pop back into place. Matty’s tongue darted out to stroke the border of the tattoo inked into the skin there. Transfixed, George’s eyes grew hazy. He slowly shook his head, incredulous.

“Look at you. You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he whispered.

The tension in the room, stretched taut like a rubber band, finally snapped.

Lips collided, both men groaning with relief at the contact. Matty surged forward to fist at the collar of George’s shirt, pulling him in, needing him as close as possible. The hand that had been resting on Matty’s neck moved to his hair, threading through the messy curls as George changed the angle of the kiss. Matty quickly became lost in the increasingly familiar feeling of George’s warm, soft lips moving against his own; it was like he was floating above himself, and yet somehow, he’d never been more grounded in his body.

George’s mouth covered his as the kiss deepened, growing hot and languid. He parted his lips to allow George’s tongue to sweep against his own, to taste, sending pleasant little shivers down his spine. Time slowed, dripping over them like honey. God, Matty had needed this; needed George to take up his space, surround him, burn through him until there was nothing left. He never could understand how it always felt this good to be caught up in George’s orbit. Matty was fickle when it came to sex; it was easy to catch his attention, but he was quick to lose interest. It was different with George. Things had always been different with George.

Matty gasped when George released his wrist from the wall to settle over the bulge in his trousers. He’d been painfully hard since he looked up to find George looming over his seat, and it was nothing short of divine to finally have George’s hand on him. Matty retreated from the kiss, breathing hard as he leaned into George’s shoulder. George was stroking him properly now, running his hand up and down his length with the perfect amount of pressure. A needy moan fell from Matty’s open mouth.

“You wanted my attention so badly?” George murmured, squeezing Matty through the thin layer of fabric. Matty, for once, was rendered speechless. His mind was fuzzy, wholly captivated by the feeling of George’s strong body pressed to his… the smooth timbre of his voice… the drag of his fingers…“You have it.”

George shifted his hands to Matty’s shoulders and pushed down, hard. The sudden change of pace startled him, cutting through the fog clouding his mind. He wobbled as he went to his knees, protesting at the twinge of pain as they met the floor.

“Fuck’s sake, I need those you know,” Matty snapped.

Above him, George’s eyes flared. He grasped Matty’s jaw in a vice-like grip between his thumb and index finger, digging into the soft skin of his cheeks. Matty glared even as his heart jumped in his throat. George leaned in close, his voice deceptively soft: “Don’t pretend that this isn’t exactly what you wanted when you posted that shit,” he warned venomously.

Matty wanted to argue. He wanted to shove George away, run his mouth, object to being manhandled like this. Yet even as the thoughts crossed his mind, he could feel the desire to commit to any of them slipping away. The act of being brought to his knees already had the outside world fading out of focus.

George fumbled with the buckle on his belt with trembling hands, the metal gently clinking as it came loose. He pushed his jeans down his thighs, revealing the hard length of his cock trapped beneath the thin grey material of his boxer briefs.

“I need to be able to sing tomorrow,” Matty cautioned, eyes trained on the way George gripped himself through the fabric.

George shook his head, an amused smile at the corner of his lips: “Should’ve thought of that earlier.”

He released Matty’s aching jaw to run his fingers through his hair before gently drawing Matty’s face to his groin. Matty went without complaint, mouthing along the outline of George’s cock, teasing, soaking the soft fabric. George groaned appreciatively above him. Matty could feel himself going under again, losing himself to the simplicity of giving George pleasure. He was good at this— he knew he was— and it felt good to give for once instead of take. It seemed like he was always taking.

George tightened his grip to a fist and pulled Matty off, wrenching his head back in the process. Matty thrilled at the sting, at the tiny pinpricks of pain tingling along his scalp. He could already feel the strain on his neck and shoulders, and the ache only made him sink deeper into that blissfully blank headspace.

George slipped his briefs down his legs to pool at his feet with his jeans, his frankly intimidating cock bobbing up to curve toward his stomach. With one hand still in Matty’s hair he squeezed himself, eyes drifting closed with a sharp exhale. Matty’s mouth fell open as he drank in the utterly intoxicating sight of George touching himself. It made him feel even more desperate, if that was even possible— he fucking loved sucking George off. He tried to take George in his mouth, but the fist in his hair held fast— he couldn’t budge. He flicked his eyes up to find George gazing down at him thoughtfully.

“Wider.”

Matty shuddered, and did as he was told.

George tapped the head of his dick on Matty’s outstretched tongue a few times in quick succession, the wet, rhythmic sound filling the room. He guided it over the outline of his swollen lips, rubbed it against one cheek and then the next, repeating the pattern until saliva glistened on Matty’s face. Matty tried to close his mouth around it, eager to swallow him down, but George merely tighten the grip in his hair to pull him back, controlling exactly how far Matty could reach. The easy display of power made Matty whimper. The most he could do was push his tongue forward, just barely able to lap at the tip, his mouth filling with saliva as he struggled.

“You’re obscene,” George murmured reverently. He released his rough hold on Matty’s hair to stroke his cheek. Matty melted into the tenderness of the touch, floating on the endorphins flooding his system. George drew his eyes up with one finger beneath his chin, in so much contrast to the way he’d yanked his head back by his hair mere moments ago. It made something warm glow in Matty’s chest. “What do you need, love?”

“Need you. Need this,” Matty pleaded, mouthing at the shaft of George’s cock. “Need… I need you to tell me what to do,” he confessed in a rush.

“You like when I tell you what to do.”

It wasn’t a question, but Matty answered anyway: “I fucking love it.”

George let out a shaky, uneven breath.

“Then suck.”

Finally released, Matty promptly wrapped his lips around the head of George’s cock, swirling his tongue, savoring the salty taste of the pre-come gathered there. He took more and more of his length into his mouth, thrilling at the stretch, at the way his jaw was already protesting at the position. Above him, George was moaning into his fist, trying desperately to keep quiet as the silky heat of Matty’s mouth engulfed him. Matty took him to the base, pulled off with a lewd sound, and dove back in to bob his head in earnest. George’s panting was laced with bitter curses and strangled groans of pleasure.

“Fuck, your fucking mouth, Matty—”

George’s words only spurred Matty on, stoking the fire blazing through his body. A dizzying sense of relief washed over him. Distantly, he realized that this was the most at peace he’d felt for days.

George’s hands came to rest at Matty’s temples, his fingers gently burying into the dark curls. He gave a small thrust into Matty’s mouth, searching his face for some sort of sign. Matty took the hint, slowing his own movements and gazing up at George in silent permission. George held his head with both hands as he slowly began to rock in and out of Matty’s pink, wet mouth, fragmented praise spilling from his lips.

“Fuck, baby, just like that… so good, so good for me always…”

Despite his best efforts not to, Matty gagged and sputtered as George set a punishing pace. His eyes watered as he tried and failed to control the broken sounds forming deep in the back of his throat.

“You wanted it so badly?” George demanded, breathless, “so badly that you couldn’t wait, like I asked?”

Matty whined, unable to nod. George stilled and guided Matty’s head back so their eyes met, Matty’s lips still around him. “Let’s see you take it, then. Take all of me… that’s it, just relax…” He steadily fed his cock further and further into Matty’s mouth until his nose was pressed into wiry hair at the base. Matty trembled all over, concentrating on his breath as he felt his throat flutter around George’s length, his own spit dripping down his chin. He flushed with satisfaction at the feeling of George’s whole body shuddering, at the ragged pants falling from George’s lips, the deep growl in his voice.

“You’re such a fucking brat, d’you know that?”

Matty choked harshly as George thrust once, twice, before pulling him back down to the base: “Takin’ me so well, Christ.”

Matty was just barely on the edge of true discomfort when George pulled out with a grunt, somehow always knowing just when to ease off. Strings of saliva still connected them as Matty panted, fighting to catch his breath, luxuriating in the warm, deep calm that had settled into his bones. He didn’t realize his eyes were wet until George crouched down in front of him to wipe the errant tears away, gazing at him with adoration and something like pride.

George kissed him softly, cupping his cheeks. Matty made a small, happy sound at the contact. “You were so good Matthew, so good for me. Are you okay, love?”

Matty nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He was better than okay; he was euphoric.

“C’mere,” George murmured, helping Matty to stand up on shaky legs.

“I'm not through with you.”

I'm not through with you either, Matty thought slyly, a mischievous smile pulling at his lips.

[nefelibatat]

Bluestocking and the Brute

So there’s this story. It’s about a clever, spirited young woman who scoffs at the absurdities of people around her, has a very close relationship with her dad even though everyone thinks her family’s embarrassing, and turns down a “suitable” yet insufferable marriage option who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Some judge her for it, but in the end her choices are vindicated, allowing her to snag a handsome rich guy who made a horrible first impression but got better since. And her name is… Elizabelle.

No, wait, now that I think about it there are at least two stories exactly like this.

When I was rewatching Beauty and the Beast (1991) the other day, I actually got something of a Dracula vibe from the beginning — you know, that whole thing about being trapped by wolves in a monster’s castle — and while that train of thought doesn’t go very far, it did get me on the track of literary parallels, which is how I realized that Disney’s Beauty and the Beast (1991) is more of a Pride and Prejudice adaptation than it is a Beauty and the Beast (1740) adaptation. Seriously, you could list the things it has in common with the original on one hand.

Like most adaptations though, it’s missing something essential from the work it was inspired by. See, Jane Austen knew that some people think it’s a woman’s job to “fix” all sorts of misfortunately misguided men, so she wrote a story that was very pointedly Not That. She also wrote another story that deconstructs the whole idea — shoutout to Mansfield Park — but that’s for another day. In the story we’re talking about now, the broody bad boy is successfully turned into husband material. So how is it a subversion?

Well, the work having come out 212 years ago, there isn't much ground left for me to break. I'll just sum up the most important points that's already been unearthed, the first of which is that Darcy fixes himself. Elizabeth may hand him the wrench but all the hard work is on him and him alone. The second bit is that he does so without expectation of reward. Darcy has no hope of winning Lizzie's heart after the disasterous first proposal, yet he still goes out of his way to show her respect, which proves that he really reflected on his behavior instead of just following a script to get he wants like a certain Henry. And here's the real kicker: the only person Elizabeth does fix is herself. The whole plot hinges on her being so petty and biased— or one might even say prejudiced against Darcy that she, who prides herself on rationality, ends up overlooking a veritable parade of red flags because the guy was nice and told her what she wanted to hear. The text itself breaks down her hypocrisy and poor conduct, pointing it out to the reader and giving her room for introspection. This is crucial, since it reframes the entire premise from “good woman improves a bad man” to “two flawed people become better as a result of meeting each other”. It removes the gendered roles, making them equals.

This is what really sets Disney’s take apart from the timeless classic that is Bride and Brejudice. The central moral remains the same: “don’t judge a book by its cover”, but Belle, bookworm that she is, starts off already knowing that. It sure helps that her Wickham makes no attempt to hide his nature and the only women who like him are those silly blonde Bimbettes that apparently exist just to show how Belle is Not Like The Other Girls™… That’s a whole different beast, really. But speaking of beasts, his appearance never truly affects their relationship either, only his behavior. There's no misconception to be overcome — her books-over-looks attitude is consistent all the way through. Belle is the good woman to his bad man, not a flawed person to his flawed person.

Now if instead of Disney vs great literature you wanted to see a much fairer match of Disney vs Disney, then…

A common heroine archetype in Disney movies is a girl who feels stuck where she is and wants to venture into the Outside. You might be reminded of Ariel, Jasmine, Rapunzel, Anna, or Moana. This motivation is often expressed through something TV Tropes would call an “I Want” song, the page image of which just happens to be the exact thing we’re talking about. Belle, much like When Will My Life Begin, focuses on the monotony of her everyday life.

There goes the baker with his tray, like always The same old bread and rolls to sell Every morning just the same Since the morning that we came To this poor provincial town

7 AM, the usual morning lineup Start on the chores and sweep 'til the floor's all clean Polish and wax, do laundry, and mop and shine up Sweep again, and by then it's like 7:15 And so I'll read a book, or maybe two or three

…while its reprise emphasizes her longing to break out of it, much like Part of Your World does.

I want much more than this provincial life! I want adventure in the great wide somewhere I want it more than I can tell And for once it might be grand To have someone understand I want so much more than they've got planned

You want thing-a-mabobs? I've got twenty But who cares? No big deal. I want more! I wanna be where the people are I wanna see, wanna see 'em dancin' Walkin' around on those... What do you call 'em? Oh, feet

But they're not just caged birds; they're also lovebirds. Before Disney began to favor strong independent women who don't need no men, romance played quite a big role in its standart formula. So what do Eric, Aladdin, and Eugene all bring to the table? Novelty. Discovery. Exploration. In one word: freedom. They’re not just from the Outside; they are its living embodiment.

Narratives like Frozen and Moana seem more obviously empowering because while Kristoff and Maui do support the heroine, they’re not central to her arc — other female characters are. And that's great, really! But it would be reductive to say that classic Disney was anti-feminist. I guess my hot take of the day is this: in a world of overwhelmingly male-centric writing, a straight pairing that actually cares about the woman half of it is progressive in its own way.

With slightly different approaches, Jane Austen and Disney arrive at the same result: a male lead that helps his female love interest achieve personal fulfillment, instead of only the other way around. Bed and Breakfast (1991) being a metaphorical bridge between these two styles could've made it perfect for following up on the themes of freedom and self-improvement through another. …except Belle gets neither, because she has nothing to improve and the Beast imprisons her. Which is kinda the opposite of freedom. Closest we ever get to an “expanding the horizons” moment with them is the library scene. But while Belle loves books, a library to rival Wan Shi Tong's is not her deepest dearest wish; if anything it’s implied that she uses reading as a form of escapism and wouldn't rely on it so much if her own life wasn't so dull. It’s like if instead of introducing Rapunzel to everything she’s been missing out on, Eugene won her heart by stealing buying her the world’s best paintbrush to keep drawing all the beautiful things she's never gonna see. I mean, it’s a great gift, but ultimately it’s about her hobby, not her dream.

When you think about it, really, the Beast has much more in common with Mother Gothel. Belle begins her story the same way Rapunzel ends hers: “let him go, and I'll stay with you”. Does it mean that “the Beast is abusive” crowd is correct?

To this I give a resounding… kinda? What I mean is, people focus on the wrong thing here. We all know that he was mean, but then he wasn't, and that only then did Belle even consider giving him the time of day. His brutish manner was always presented as an obstacle to their relationship rather than a turn-on, so there's not much room to argue that the movie romanticizes violent behavior. You know who does have a lot of room though? Belle. In fact, rooms are pretty much all she has. Because she's a prisoner. A really comfortable, well-treated prisoner. Up until this point:

The Beast: “Are you happy here with me?” Belle: “Yes!” *Belle looks away sadly* The Beast: “What is it?” Belle: “If only I could see my father again… just for a moment. I miss him so much.” The Beast: “There is a way. This mirror will show you anything. Anything you wish to see.” Belle: “I’d like to see my father, please.” *the Mirror shows Maurice struggling in the cold* Belle: “Papa… Oh no! He’s sick! He’s maybe dying! A-and he’s all alone!” The Beast: “Then… y-you must go to him.” Belle: “What did you say?” The Beast: “I release you. You’re no longer my prisoner.” Belle: “You mean… I-I’m free?” The Beast: “Yes.” Belle: “Oh, thank you.” […] “Thank you for understanding how much he needs me.”

If it wasn't for this one scene, it would've been easy to assume they've already put the whole hostage thing behind them and are engaging with each other as equals. But had she really been our guest and not our glorified captive, Belle would've felt within her rights to pay her dad a quick visit instead of just wistfully stating how much she wants to. She certainly wouldn't still be waiting for explicit permission to leave — four permissions, technically — when she knows he's about to go from dad to dead any minute now. The key words in “You're no longer my prisoner” are “no longer”. It might not be strictly abuse, but it sure is one hell of a questionable power dynamic that paints their cute bonding moments in a much more awkward light. Why does this dialogue exist, though? It must have been written with a purpose, and I doubt that purpose was to teach kids that locking up your girlfriend is okay if you're nice to her. But what else does it accomplish?

Since we've established that the writers were taking a page out of Jane Austen's book, let's look at said book for answers. There comes a point in P&P where the only way for Darcy to save Elizabeth from infamy is to appease his worst enemy, letting him get away scot-free with all the insults he's dealt, including but not limited to trying to ruin the life of Darcy's beloved sister. If pride leaves a bitter aftertaste, then Darcy wouldn't be able to taste anything else for months with how much he's swallowed. This sacrifice is the culmination of his character arc, one final proof that he truly overcame the flaw that strained their relationship in the first place. Clearly, in letting Belle go as the ultimate show of selflessness, the Beast overcomes his fatal flaw. Right? The problem is, you can only truly sacrifice something that belongs to you. Darcy would've been justified in refusing to pay off Wickham, because at the end of the day it's his money and his pride (and prejudice). The lack of obligation is what makes the act meaningful. Naturally then, to frame “letting Belle go” as a sacrifice implies that the Beast has a right to keep her confined. That's messed up! Even more messed up is that Belle seems to believe it herself.

This is the direct consequence of a narrative that solely concerns itself with what's best for Beast — Belle is just the means through which his journey is realized. When it needs her to leave so he can rescue her, she leaves. When it needs her to stay put so he can graciously dismiss her, she stays put until he does that, even though she's already broken her promise before and now there's a much more pressing reason to do it. The Beast's big moment only works if Belle is robbed of all agency, because otherwise she'd be out the doors before he could make a sad face about it.

Beauty and the Beast (1991) is one of those works that are clearly genuinely trying to be feminist, but fall short because of the writers' subconscious bias. They deliberately wrote Gaston as a scathing commentary on toxic masculinity while at the same time neglecting their female lead and not seeing a contradiction there. Belle has no character progression, does not achieve the one thing she said she wanted, and nearly all of her plot-defining choices are driven by male characters instead of her personal qualities and motivations. She doesn't come to the castle because she wants to explore new places; she comes because she's worried about her dad. She doesn't leave the castle because she's sick of being stuck there; she leaves because she's worried about her dad. And when she comes back, it's once again for the sake of a man who needs to be saved by the Belle. Her lack of autonomy in the story is what truly undercuts it, and I think a lot of nuance gets lost when you instead frame the discussion as “how big does the library have to be to make up for kidnapping her dad”.

In conclusion: Shrek did it better.

[fantasycreature123]

01 | Seasons of Solitude

Genre: Fantasy, with classic fairytale vibes

Starting date: March 28, 2023

Last edited: March 28, 2023 (except for some minor changes and title selection)

Published on: June 19, 2024

In a forgotten tower hidden deep within a forest, a princess sits alone, waiting for someone gallant to come and defeat her captor. The beast that keeps her there might not kill her, but it seems boredom will. She clings to the glimpses of life that she catches from her window — the lively birdsong in spring, the golden hues of summer, the melancholy of autumn leaves, and the silent beauty of winter. Her solitude is finally shattered when a sudden storm brings a group of men to her tower.

A long, long time ago, there lived a beautiful princess, locked away in a tall tower by a monster. Her captor was so ferocious that the princess did not dare to even step out of the tower, and she waited and waited for a knight to come and save her. A great many knights did come, but all of them were slain by the beast; and as time passed by, the princess began to think that she had been forgotten. No more knights came to fight for her freedom, and the monster itself seemed to have forsaken her. Yet she waited.

In the early days, the princess used to cry and beg and plead with the monster to let her go, but the brute would not hear of it. It had taken her from her grand palace and brought her to this place, a stone tower in a clearing in a forest, so tall that its top was higher than any bird had ever flown. She would dream of a handsome prince on a grand horse, who would ride down the cruel creature and carry her away to her home. But it never happened. No matter how many princes came, no matter how many knights, the beast would find a way to defeat them all. 

As time flew by, the princess began to look forward to these doomed attempts even more, for they were the only new thing that happened there. Life in the tower was so dull that even an occasional storm seemed to be fascinating to her. All day she used to sit near the window of her room and look down at the vast green forest, and look up at the vast blue sky. Back then the monster still treasured her, and she would often notice its sharp eyes on her, keeping watch lest she escape. The cell where she was kept was not as high up as the top of the tower, and sometimes she would think of climbing down the steep tower wall. She never did, though, for the monster always kept a close guard on her. 

But that had been a long time ago. 

Now the princess was alone, all alone. All the time she had spent here — she did not recall how many moons, nay, how many seasons had passed — had taken their toll on her. Once she had been plump and pretty, with skin as smooth as silk and a face like the moon, but now only bones remained. Her beautiful long hair, all golden curls tumbling around her face, was tangled and matted and filthy. The gown she wore had holes in the fine fabric, and her shoes had worn out too. 

Yet she smiled, and waited.

She watched the days come and go from her perch by the window, like the birds that occasionally visited her. The forest was alive, and it changed colours with the season. In winter it was all silent and white, a snowy wonderland so quiet she could have sung a song to the fishes that lived in the glittering silver stream far away. It would seem that all life had vanished in that vast white land. 

But that would be until spring came. With spring arrived fresh flowers and bright birds that chirped and twittered all day long, singing songs of joy and love and life. The princess saw snow still lingering in the clearing where her tower was, and wondered how, until once she noticed a lovely blue butterfly fluttering down to the field of snow. Then she realised, it was not snow but flowers, a carpet of delicate little snowdrops.

Spring was her favourite time of the year, for then there was life all around, and sometimes she got visitors: mostly small birds, such as robins and sparrows. They sat on the window’s ledge and told her stories of the land, of all they had seen and all they had heard. She listened and smiled and dreamed of travelling the great wide world with them. Oh, how she wished she could fly like those birds! Fly away, out of the tower, out into the open blue sky… but that never happened. 

Once she saw an eagle flying right beside her window. She had often seen those majestic birds soaring high in the sky, but never so close. That one close glimpse of the bird flying by — of the rich brown feathers that gleamed in the sun, the powerful wings that beat the air, and the focused eyes that never lost sight of their aim — made her think, Life is capable of such wonders. She had spent so long waiting, and for whom? She could break out on her own. She would defeat her captor herself and leave, or die in the attempt. But then she remembered — the monster was gone, and she could not even get up.

Summer followed spring. Although she missed the cool weather, summer was not bad either. The sun shone brightly and painted everything gold and yellow. Clouds chased each other endlessly across the clear blue sky, like children in a meadow. The trees, which had started to grow new leaves in spring, now became heavily laden with fruit. Fresh new smells wafted up to her on the light breezes that blew often and brought some respite from the heat. Like spring, summer was a time when life was active, and the princess spent hours staring at the forest and the creatures in it. 

And the rains! They never had a fixed time to arrive, but would come and go as and when they pleased. Be it winter, spring, summer or autumn, rains would come like relatives and friends; their arrival always a surprise, and their departure always a loss. Rains were something to break the monotony of her dull existence. The very earth would have a smell then, a rich fragrance that no words could describe. Sometimes there would be winds, and then the cool, pure drops of water would patter against the tall tower, the wide-open window, and the pretty princess. Those were the only times water touched her dry face, and she smiled at the blessed moisture running down her features. In winter there would be snowflakes instead of raindrops, and the calm beauty of snowfalls was the only thing that made the loneliness bearable.

After some months of heat would come fall, and then the trees all turned yellow and orange and brown. The leaves fell like rain onto the forest floor, which was soon carpeted with their dry, lifeless bodies. A strong wind sometimes blew a bunch of leaves to her, and they danced around her room while she watched on. It would never last long, though, for the wind would soon die out, and then the leaves would fall to the floor again, dead.  It was during those times that the princess would begin to feel sad, for life was preparing to disappear once more during the winter, and she would be all alone in her barren stone tower. 

And then winter once more, cold and barren and silent, devoid of life as far as she could see. Perhaps in the forest there were hares moving about, running from foxes or owls which hunted them. But she never saw any. For her, winter was solitude, winter was longing, winter was regrets. 

One late afternoon, the forest seemed troubled. Dark clouds obscured the sky, casting a gloom on the day. Far away, beside the silver stream, birds took to the air. The breeze blew harder, and brought with it an unusual smell — the smell of smoke. Smoke meant a fire, and a fire, in this cold weather, meant men.

As the princess watched, the day grew darker still, and new sounds could be heard in the forest. What was that? Was that the neigh of a horse? She could only sit and wait and watch. 

It began to rain. Big, fat droplets of water fell to the ground, and within seconds it was raining so hard that a grey curtain fell across her vision. She could listen, though. She heard sounds of shouts and more neighs. Would they come here? Would they find her? Suddenly the princess was scared. Did she really want to go home? She did not know. Where was home? Who was she?

Through the haze of rain, she saw the men coming into the clearing. One, two, three… nearly as many men as her fingers! All of them had horses and wore thick clothes. But the clothes were clearly failing to keep them warm, for the sight of the tower made a cry of delight go through the group. They spoke to each other, but through the howling of the wind and the sound of the rain, the princess did not understand a word.

They rushed into her tower. If the princess had a heart, it would be beating fast against her chest now. Who was she? Where was home? Raindrops ran down her face like tears. The only home she knew was the earth, the forest, the sky; and the only one she knew was… was…

Downstairs, the men were getting dry. They cursed the rain, and blessed the tower. How had it come there? They wondered. But no one bothered thinking much about it, for it was dry and seemed to be safe — and if it wasn’t, they all had good swords. One of them noticed a big door on one side. It looked ancient and majestic. A door like that did not belong in a simple house; or a tower, for that matter. Surely it was hiding something: treasure, perhaps? Gold and silver, gems and pearls… or at least a good high spot to take a look around the clearing and get to know the area.

They broke down the door. Grand though it was, age had weakened it, and it gave way under the strength of the men’s shoves. Creaking and protesting, it came off its frame and revealed, amidst a cloud of dust and splinters, a set of steep stone stairs leading up. By now a fire was ready, and three men took a torch and went up to explore.

Up they went, coughing and sneezing from the dust which lay thick on the stairs and the walls. The flickering flame of the torch soon revealed another door before them. This door was much more modest, and it hardly required one push from a man before it fell open.

“Good gods!”

The sun set outside, hidden behind the thick dark clouds. The stone tower echoed with that cry, the only words spoken in it for a long, long time. And the men stared openmouthed at the girl — at the bare skeleton dressed in a gown, looking out at the world through the window, its teeth bared in an eternal smile.

Author's Note

Hi there! I'm glad you are here and that you read this far.

This was technically my first short story ever, if you don't count the 500-word-long ones I wrote for school essays. We hardly get time to think there, let alone develop a plot or characters. And the word count!

Anyway, frankly, I like this one. Usually I take so much time planning and thinking that I never get around to actually writing, but this story — it flowed out of me. I got the idea in the bathroom, and then I spent the rest of the day typing away on my laptop. I finished it that day itself, which is a rare event for me.

I was going for a classic fairytale vibe in this one. Do you think I achieved it? My only regret is that nothing much happens, it's mostly descriptions. I tried to convey the mood of the princess and her thoughts within that prose, but don't know how successful I was. I enjoyed writing it though. I hope you enjoyed reading it too.

Any kind of interaction would be great, but a short review of what you liked in the story and what could be improved would be best. Your thoughts are very valuable to me, as feedback and criticism helps me learn. So, constructive criticism is much appreciated. Thank you for reading, and I wish you a wonderful week.

(here come my 999+ tags)

[wrestlingarsenal]

A rare Tag Team squash match was recently released by Wrestler4Hire, and I must say I really enjoyed it. Two of the biggest, meatiest brutes in wrestleporn -- Zach Altovito and Mark Muscle -- are defeated by two of the smallest Heels -- Cameron and Ethan. If you get off on little guys dominating and humiliating big muscle jobbers, this one is for you!

The little guys, in their matching yellow trunks, use every Tag Team trick in the book to utterly wreck their larger opponents, and I'm here for it. They double-team after every exchange, cheat behind the ref's back, bust jobber balls, and even employ a Foreign Object!

I love seeing this classic Tag Team brutality (which has always triggered me) being performed in Underground wrestling. Please let's have more Tag Teaming from all my sources of gay wrestling!

Mark Muscle pays Face-in-Peril for most of the match, although the other bikini-clad stud takes his licks too. These two muscle-jobbers are wonderfully submissive and helpless, like big tackling dummies.

The cocky little Heels verbally trash the bigger men while beating them down with plenty of Stomps, Splashes, and Sleepers. They know their Tag Team gimmicks. Total humiliation!! Great work by all four of these ring veterans.

And an honorable mention for the handsome ref (not sure who he is) who falls for every Heel scheme. He is adorably clueless and easily distracted, keeping a watchful eye on the Muscle Jobber outside the ring while all hell breaks loose behind his back.

To be continued...