OPEN CALL - Sandbox

[tensions]

CATCHALL ( full cast ) A space for every one-off scenario that doesn't necessarily need any worldbuilding. It doesn't even need to make any sense. Text posts, calls, image posts, it's everything all the time. It's a party!

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Domestic Bliss - Justin/F!Monty

[tensions]

It’s exactly 5:30 when her husband comes home. Molly smiles, stubbing out the Virginia Slim she had been smoking in the crystal ashtray by the door before opening it to wave at the Buick pulling into the driveway, the setting sun glinting off the locket nestled between her bosom, her check-patterned dress billowing in the wind with a lace apron still tied around the waist. She sees the neighbors smiling at her, nodding their heads as if approving of her obvious and delightful show of her devotion.

They had just moved here a few months ago, a nice neighborhood upstate near the Hudson River. It was a quaint town with all the essentials along its one Main Street and their two story colonial was nestled right near the end of it, a big weeping willow swaying beside it. She personally would have preferred to stay in the city or in her hometown of Boston where they both went to school, but her husband found work in Manhattan and she wanted a yard so he bought the place and surprised her with it on their anniversary. It came complete with a new washer and dryer. She squealed.

And now everyone in town knew the Baruchs and made it obvious that they were particularly fond of the missus. No surprise: Molly made being a housewife some sort of art. Although she had a degree in sociology from Bryn Mawr, and was perfectly capable of finding a career of her own like so many of her sorority sisters had, she actually realized she enjoyed being a kept spouse. A lot. The sacred simplicity of the role, of being her husband’s harbor and singular pillar of his private life was something of a deep honor for Molly. She took great pride in it, both inside the house proper and making sure to keep up appearances for them in their social lives outside of it. She was active in the community and made quick friends with the other wives and mothers in town, often having them over to gossip over some lemon cake after lunch. She volunteered on the weekends, babysat on Wednesday mornings, and adorned Justin’s arm at holiday parties in her tiniest little dresses, her wavy hair pushed back with a stylish band, charming his bosses over the horderves.

She sees Justin get out of the car, his briefcase in hand, his suit still perfectly pressed by her own hand earlier this morning. She beams. “Welcome back, honey! I made a roast for dinner and a green bean casserole so I hope you’re hungry.” She pushes her bottom lip out in a playful pout. “You didn’t go spoil your appetite with the boys out on Wall Street now did you?”

On the table is already set a chilled glass of whiskey on the rocks, a box of cigarettes, and a tiny pile of papers where Molly had taken note, in her delicate cursive, of all the calls and requests that came in for her husband during the day, organized by type (work or social) and time. “I also picked up the dry cleaning,” she continues. “I think you should wear your blue suit tomorrow with the tie I got you for Christmas and the silver cuff links, since you’ve got that pitch with your art department, right? I have it laid out for you upstairs in the bedroom, so you can take a look at it later.”

[blessed_is_he]

Justin Baruch was enormously successful, taking full advantage of all his innate privileges and capabilities to reach the seeming pinnacle of achievement in his field even at a relatively young age. He was tall and handsome, with a face that naturally exuded good-natured friendliness, and these traits, combined with his sharp, creative mind and innate confidence and grasp of performance, made him a force to be reckoned with in all aspects.

But if anyone were to actually ask him about the secret of all his successes, he would likely point to Molly, his wife. They'd met while in school, at one of a variety of social events for the local campuses, and he'd been head-over-heels for her ever since. She, in her turn, had eventually agreed to give him a try, and in the years since had more or less molded herself into the perfect wife for a man of his position, status, and social standing.

"Of course not. I wanted to be home to you as soon as possible," he replies to her initial tease as he passes her in the doorway, pausing to wrap an arm around Molly's tiny waist and pull her in for a warmly chaste kiss in full view of all their neighbors before the door closes behind them. He puts down the briefcase and shrugs off his coat and suit-jacket, already half turned and automatically expecting her attentive hand behind him to help him shed his clothes.

[tensions]

She lifts her little foot in its kitten heel as he kisses her, picture perfect. "Aw, aren't I a lucky girl!" she coos as he pulls away. And she means it: she knows they're lucky. Too many times has she sat and listened to miserable tales of tired wives and dismissive husbands, of unhappy mothers and homemakers who suffer under the hands of their inattentive, brutish men. In comparison, Molly knows she has it made.

But she also knows it's not entirely because of who she married. It's really...because of her. She's a woman who knows where to hide and use her power. She's a woman with teeth. If anything, the luck is in this: she found someone who likes to see them bared.

The door closes behind them. Immediately, Molly swarms Justin with attention, anticipating his every need, his every move like clockwork. She reaches out to catch his coat and jacket, angling herself so that he doesn't have to, and bending down to arrange his shoes by the door, neatly, once he's done with them.

"Did you have a good day today?" She chirps, her blue eyes bright and her long, flowing hair done up ala Brigitte Bardot tossed over her shoulder. She follows him to the dining table, doting and attentive, immediately ready with a lighter should he decide to reach for a smoke. "You know, one of your junior associates called again. He couldn't find you during your morning briefing." She giggles. She knows the reason. Justin was late because she had him rail her against the washing machine until she came squirting and screaming for him. But, if she was at all sorry about that, she doesn't show it in the slightest, her smile wide and unwavering. "He seems very concerned with you. He asked if maybe you were home sick. It's so cute."

[blessed_is_he]

He certainly hadn't minded starting his day off that way, but it had made him late on his commute, and even with his rapidly rising position and reputation, he did have to maintain certain standards and appearances. "That would be young Archer, wouldn't it?" He says, as he picks up the glass of whiskey and takes a long swallow first before settling down in his seat at the head of the table, and fanning out the pages of meticulous notes and commentary. Molly was a master of distilling these conversations down to their essentials while also maintaining her own facade; not a single one of his business associates knew how vital she was to keeping track of these correspondences on his behalf, so he could always be up-to-date and professional about handling these communications. He knew somewhat why she chose to do things this way, but it always struck him as an odd use of her talent, to be satisfied with merely supporting him so expertly from the shadows.

He plucks that particular piece of paper out - confirming the source as Joshua Archer, a new fresh hire who had started working with him half a year ago, and mentioning the time, the number, and the gist of the communication - and considers it carefully. Molly always had a specific reason for bringing such things up out loud, rather than leaving him to the process of sorting through them in his own time, and he has that in his mind as he replies, "he's still nervous about being left on his own. But he's growing by leaps and bounds and very quick on his feet; he did an excellent job without me today, in fact. I may not need to keep attending those morning briefings that much longer, if he keeps on this path."

He puts his half-empty glass back down, ice cubes clinking against the sides, and reaches out, wrapping his hand around Molly's waist again and pulling her closer to him. He was tall enough that even sitting down his head was level with her chest, and he slides his other hand down, under her apron and her skirt, then up along her thigh, until -

"Molly, dear," he says, his tone steady and sure, not a hint of surprise at what he hadn't discovered under her clothes. "It's a little early to be sitting down to dinner already, don't you think?"

[tensions]

She's instantly by his side, thoughtfully undoing his tie for him as well as refilling his cup the moment it empties. "He's a darling, that's all," she explains, being very careful with her tone and wording. "I was thinking we should invite him over for dinner some time. Maybe introduce him to our friends. He's new at the company, isn't he?"

Molly doesn't sit, but watches Justin's face carefully, having learned early on how to read her husband's expressions, how to anticipate his emotions and mood from the quirk of a brow or the press of his lips, and adjust herself accordingly. She wonders, as she did several times earlier today, if he had been upset with her this whole time (as he sometimes is when she oversteps, when she forgets that the reason why she holds such power in his home is because he allows it) for causing him to miss the 7:15 am train, dragging him back from the doorway to the laundry and spreading her legs for him, wanting his attention, needing him.

There have been...moments, after all, when he had had to remind her of her place. Very clearly.

But tonight, her husband is sweet on her again, fond and patient and clearly adoring with the way his palm sneaks up her bare thigh to touch her where she's warmest, his fingertips dancing slowly across her smooth skin of her navel. His arm is a steady weight around his body. "Sounds like you just want some dessert first, Mr. Baruch," she teases, sliding her manicured hand through his perfectly style hair, mussing it. "Naughty."

[blessed_is_he]

He nods, leaning back in his chair as they chat. "Yes, I think he's been working for...oh, a few months now. I'm sure he'd appreciate an invitation, since he hasn't had much free time to meet people," oh, how well he remembered those grueling first few months on the job, "and I think he moved here from out of state. Though," he pauses, glancing at her with amusement in his eyes, "I didn't know he'd made that much of an impression on you, dear." He can guess at the incident in question, one of Molly's surprises, when she'd stopped by his office with lunch after a morning of indulgent shopping, and shared out some of the bounty with his direct reports.

But then Justin almost visibly dismisses that line of discussion, clearly caught up in Molly's proximity and the gentle contact between them, the feeling of her bare skin under his fingertips as they skim up and down, over her stomach and her thighs, and then between her legs...

"That's right, I do," he murmurs, gazing up at her, filling the light friction of her nails through his hair. "I think I need to make it clear to you how I feel about the little stunt you pulled this morning." His arm tightens around her, a clear show of strength, but his tone is sweet and amused and affectionate, not a hint of anger at the moment.

[tensions]

She lets out a little gasp, long lashes fluttering when she feels his thumb brush along her already damp folds. She's amused and eager to play along. "I thought you felt great about it considering how many times you came inside of me." She says the lewd words with such ease and comfort that they float out of her mouth as if she were talking about something commonplace and even boring.

"And time can't stop me quite like you did" | Domestic 1970s AU | Justin/F!Monty

[tensions]

She arrived right after the appetizers were served and the second round of drinks were poured and mixed. The men are laughing and the restaurant is oozing with cigarette smoke and the perfume of spoiled mistresses. Molly does her best not to wrinkle her nose (it was unbecoming for a lady such as herself. Her mother would have a fit) as she walked in, uninvited, drawing all manner of appreciative eyes as she headed to the table in the corner like an insistent arrow towards its target.

She was wearing the new, expensive evening dress she bought for herself with a somewhat vindictive swipe of her husband's credit card the week before and appeared with her bare neck and ears adorned with tasteful pearls. She was an absolute vision and she knew it. She had given a pretty excuse for her being here, claiming she had come into the city to do a little shopping and mindlessly wandered in ("What a ditz I can be!"). And her husband's coworkers had hopelessly grinned up at her while she rested her hand on Justin's shoulder, nails digging into his jacket before taking a purposeful seat between him and his own boss.

The night was a little awkward, certainly, but she held her own, flirting and charming her way into a world that was clearly not meant for her. But she had been mad, tired of having the dinner table and their bed go cold night after night, after her husband would ring her on the telephone past 11 pm to say not to wait up, he'd be staying in Manhattan for a while longer.

She was being petty and bitter and rude. She knows. But right now, she admits to none of it, simply eager to jab her husband where she knew it'd sting. She wouldn't have it, having him forget what she was capable of.

Now that that was over, she giggles and waves at the other men as they go back to their cars despite her husband's sudden and firm grip around her small, upper arm. "What?" she says, turning to him, her voice carrying the chill of smug irritation. "I thought that was swell. Maybe if I let your boss put his hand further up my thigh under the table, he would have finally given you that promotion you've been trying to get for the past month."

[blessed_is_he]

There'd been a moment, right when Molly had first walked in and he'd caught sight of her, when he'd felt his face light up, that expected, habitual thrill of seeing her again. It was instinctual, and had nothing to do with what she was wearing or doing - simply taking intrinsic pleasure in her presence - and while it had quickly been buried as the reality of what she was actually doing (deliberately pushing him, in public) set in, he can't help but be impacted by that remembered reaction.

In a way, it was the only thing buoying him through the rest of the night as she smiled and charmed and flirted her way through the dinner, focusing particularly on his boss, one of the firm's senior partners, who had basically been preening under the extra attention all night, enough to forget restraint and decorum, especially with all the refills Molly had been giving his wine glass throughout the evening, the way she'd leaned in towards him and laughed uproariously at all his inappropriate comments, while sneaking deliberate glances at Justin every time, gauging the effect.

But now, especially in the cold streetlights, what he mostly feels is... tired. Disappointed. He understands the situation, understands her intent, and contemplates what steps he should take. "Where did you leave your car?" He asks, his voice soft, politely inquiring, though with none of his usual warmth. He doesn't loosen his hold on her bare arm.

[tensions]

“Down the street, two blocks,” she replies, tugging her arm but realizing that she can’t move away despite her best efforts. She can tell Justin’s upset with how level his voice is, both calm and distant. She feels a lump rise in her throat but her pride refuses to let her back down.

“I can drive myself home, thank you very much.”

[blessed_is_he]

"No," he replies, in that same even tone, his hand not even budging slightly despite her best efforts. "You won't be doing that tonight."

He tilts his head in the opposite direction, and there is not a hint of hesitation or question as he says, "I'll be driving us both back." He doesn't move, his eyes steady on her face, their normal expressiveness seemingly shuttered, opaque, waiting and watching for her reaction.

[tensions]

She glares at him but bites her tongue. They’re still out in public and the weight of etiquette and the status quo clamp her mouth shut. She could never be caught talking back to her husband, despite the fact it’s clear from the intense stubbornness shining in her eyes that she has quite a lot more to say.

But here, right now, she is helpless. She can only obey.

[blessed_is_he]

He waits, lets the moment stretch long and tense and almost painful. When Molly stays quiet, only her eyes bright with unsaid words, he quirks his brow slightly, but otherwise his expression is almost severe as he turns around, lets his hand slide down her arm to her wrist in a facsimile of their usual affectionate tenderness. "So, you haven't entirely forgotten how important it is for me to be able to keep up appearances in public," he notes, as neutral and dry as though he were simply commenting on the weather. Justin Baruch was a past master in a carefully applied cutting word, a must-have in his cutthroat profession, even if he preferred to lean on his cheerful demeanor and calculated affability, but this isn't that. He sounds almost tired, resigned.

when i walk in i can still make the whole place shimmer | Domestic 1970s AU | Josh/F!Monty

[tensions]

She leaves her part-time job early, just before noon, to cross the main avenue down five blocks to the building where her husband works. She's wearing a dark dress that ends right at her knees and hangs off the curve of her shoulders, her arms bare, her neck glinting with delicate gold. Her hair is up, done in a tasteful snail-shell chignon.

It's not to Justin's taste. And she knows that. But she's not here to see her husband today.

She rides the elevator up, her foot tapping a jaunty tune in her head. The doors part before her and she waves at the partners as they dip their heads and hats and trades gossip with the girls on the typewriters. And then she arrives at a rowdy cluster of cubicles. The boys (because really, they're still boys, what with their nervous energy and aggressively loud laughs, desperate to be noticed and accepted) turn and hoot at her, telling her how nice she looks and immediately offer up their lighters when she pulls out a skinny cigarette. "Mr. Archer," she says, her voice honeyed and playful, his gaze landing steadily on her target. "I actually came by to tell you my husband wants to see you in his office. Do you mind?"

[singinthestorm]

He hears the clamor well before she actually arrives, bent over his own work. Even now, almost a year after starting, he still feels a little out of place. Most of his peers in the office, who'd started around the same time he did, are still noticeably older than him, and he feels those years very keenly at times, watching their easy camaraderie, their casual exchanges, the effortless machismo. He was far from a pushover, had learned quite well how to stand his ground, but there was still a part of him that kept waiting for people to realize he didn't belong.

The whole group falls silent when it becomes clear that she has a specific target in mind, knowing glances passing between him and his boss' wife. "Me?" He asks, half expecting his voice to break, already stepping forward automatically, trying desperately to keep his gaze from wandering. None of the ladies in the secretarial pool had legs quite that long. "No, I don't- mind, but Mrs. Baruch-" He was pretty sure Justin had said he'd be stepping out to meet with a client during lunch?

[tensions]

She raises her brows. "But, what?" She asks, patiently. Innocently. As if she didn't know her husband's schedule. As if they hadn't explicitly planned this.

Her legs cross at the ankle and she leans forward, her hands planted on the desk in front of her. The boys around her all seem to gulp in unison as she bends forward.

[singinthestorm]

"Um." His mouth is dry, and his gaze drifts low to her long slim legs, before his eyes snap guiltily back up to her eyes. "Nothing," he says, clearing his throat, and leans over his desk to get his bag - an absolutely useless cover, to be sure, but he wanted the security of it anyway - and straightens again.

Joshua Archer's charm tended to reside in his smile, his manner. He wasn't built in the same way Justin Baruch was, to be sure, but he was tall, with a sturdy slimness that evokes graceful movement; he swam on most weekends, when he wasn't swamped in work.

"May I?" he asks, offering her his free arm, tilting his head in the direction of the bank of offices towards the outer edge of the building.

[tensions]

As if she didn't notice. As if she wasn't also checking him out. She straightens too, throws the other boys a wink over her shoulder before taking Joshua's arm and letting him lead her to that familiar door.

Justin's office was a corner room with towering views of the city. It was small and discreet but nonetheless impressive, a clear testament to his rank and accomplishments.

"No need to be so stiff around me, handsome," she teases, as they open the door (already unlocked, of course).

[singinthestorm]

His cheeks pink lightly, but his laugh is sweet and musical as the door closes again behind them. He's familiar now with this office, this space - Justin could be demanding and exacting regarding the work, but he was a very fair and kind boss - and some of the tension seems to loosen from him as he puts his bag down.

"I haven't exactly done this before," he says wryly, just the right touch of self-deprecating humor, as he reaches one hand out, confident without being entitled, and tucks it lightly around Molly's waist, not yet reeling her in for a closer embrace - or perhaps a kiss - but making his own desires known.

"keep me in the quiet, at your feet" | Office AU | D!Justin/S!Stiva

[blessed_is_he]

After only six months into his tenure as the personal assistant to Stiva Shchervaskaya, most would agree that Justin Baruch had made himself irreplaceable. He served as a bright, cheerful contrast to his rather dour superior, always ready with a smile and a more diplomatic turn of phrase to smooth over a curt - albeit devastatingly accurate - pronouncement, never once contradicting but always rewording in such a way that what was once a seemingly impossible demand was simply a perfectly reasonable favor, the upending of months' work into constructive feedback, a subtle alchemy of exchanging venom for honey, without ever removing the original sting. He was an iron fist in a silken glove, and while some ignorant executives could be forgiven for mistaking his calm, pleasant demeanor for vapidity to their own detriment, none of their own secretaries ever would.

By now, he held every single aspect of Mr. Shchervaskaya's work life in the palm of his hand - every major meeting on his schedule, every travel arrangement, even each brief office chat with his direct reports - and the man's star had never been more ascendant. Word in the office was that he would be getting yet another promotion soon, that the accounts he oversaw had never seen better returns, that the higher-ups were running out of ways to reward such obviously excellent performance without bringing him into their own ranks. Stiva Shchervaskaya's incredible aptitude and dedication, his unmistakable skills and abilities, were polished to a perfect mirror shine with the quiet assistance of his seemingly devoted secretary, who, over the past few months, had somehow ensured that all his boss's work always got put before the exact right audience at the exact right time, that he had the right hands to move all his projects along, that his achievements never got buried, but always received proper and timely recognition.

It was considered gauche - not to mention a possible HR violation - to comment on individuals' orientations in the workplace, but that didn't stop the gossip from swirling around the seemingly perfect pairing of Stiva as a Dominant, setting the tone and direction, matched to Justin as a submissive, adept at carrying out those orders in support of those goals.

But Justin had his own suspicions about Stiva's orientation, in those blocked out sections of the man's calendar that he wasn't currently privy to - after hours, private, fully locked - and on evenings like this one, both of them late in the office while the man fretted himself into a frenzy over the upcoming make-or-break presentation for all the senior staff...

Well. Let's just say that he'd never fully squashed down the temptation.

"It's getting late, sir," he observes, sitting calmly in his seat in front of the screen, watching his boss pace back and forth as an outlet for his obvious anxiety. "You should be at your best for the morning meeting."

[harsher]

Stiva doesn't look like the kind of man that likes to spend his nights on his knees.

Especially not when he was at work. In the office, he was a leader after all. He had strong personality (which was just a nicer way to say: stubborn and uncompromising) and was known to be a little frightening. He was decisive as well as vain which led most people to think Stiva was the kind of person who would never be caught dead taking orders from another. In fact, so many of his staff could barely manage to get a gently worded request past his upturned nose. No, there is no other place they can imagine him being but at the helm, his hands gripped tight on the wheel.

But the truth was, when he was away from his desk and in his day-to-day life, Stiva much preferred to let go. It was an alarming contradiction that he swore to keep as a secret for as long as he could. He had his ways to satisfy his cravings anyway, away from the public eye. His reputation would never show any of the stains so often found on his bedsheets. So to speak.

Luckily, he had Justin Baruch. Was there anything this man couldn't do, any wound he couldn't soothe and mend (and, terrifying, turn somehow into something profitable). It hasn't even been a full year yet but Stiva can't even remember what his life was like before Justin came into the picture, managing not only his working accounts but also his personal ones. For once in his life, Stiva was able to overpromise and overdeliver while simultaneously getting three meals a day and a full night's sleep.

Well, except for tonight.

He's not sure where things went to shit but they did and although Stiva does not panic, he does tense up faster than wet cement left out in the hot sun. "I'll be fine," he dismisses, waving his hand carelessly as if to physically bat away the annoyance he was currently feeling

[blessed_is_he]

Not at all put off by Stiva's curt mood - typical, really, though Justin was adept at both bearing and redirecting the brunt of it, to the everlasting gratitude of the rest of the staff - Justin continues to observe Stiva, quietly and almost dispassionately noting the visible tension in the man's body, even disguised by the perfect tailored suit, his shoulders hunched, his near-perfect posture a disguise for the exhaustion of several days.

It had been a truly unfortunate chain of events and one almost entirely out of their control; the sudden transfer of an entire portfolio of accounts to their department due to the untimely (though, others might say, convenient) departure of another member of senior staff, just in time for annual reviews. This near doubling of workload at such a sensitive time would have been hard on anyone, but Stiva had built so much of his reputation on doing the impossible, on rising above. Much of Justin's early tenure had been spent feeling out the other members of the department, matching skillsets and strengths to Stiva's exacting standards, and then subtly coaxing the man into letting go of the reins, little by little, until almost the entire department, through Justin as an adept conduit, could actually support rather than hinder him, leaving him free to exercise his natural abilities to their fullest.

Unlocking a person's potential. It was the type of thing that Justin deeply enjoyed doing, in many different contexts. But sometimes his charges could be... recalcitrant. And he had his own particular ways of dealing with that.

"You're not, and you won't be," Justin replies, the slightest hint of uncharacteristic displeasure sneaking into his otherwise even and polite tone. "You've done all the preparation you can. And continuing to run yourself into the ground now will simply be a waste of all that effort. Memorizing every line won't do you any good if you keel over for lack of both food and sleep in the morning." In not so many words, he knows Stiva is aware that Justin is aware that he skipped all his meals that day in favor of coffee, and that he'd been pulling near all-nighters the entire week and weekend in preparation for the Monday morning meeting, because Justin had been present for most of those hours, even when he'd been given leave to go home.

[harsher]

Stiva is used to things going out of control. That is not the same as him being happy about it. He mutters to himself about how inefficient this all was and how annoyed that made him, his vision narrowing down entirely to this one problem as if it were some burning hot coal being held to his forehead, seizing him with fever.

He can tell Justin's tone of voice is going just slightly sour but he ignores it. "It's still not good enough," he snaps. "And I can't have all this work go to waste if I can't execute this the way I would like to. I would never sign my name to something I'm not fully proud of. You of all people should know that."

He's being difficult. And a bit of a bully. He won't ever admit to it, but it's true.

"If you're going to try to convince my otherwise, you should just go home then," he decides, almost like a threat.

[blessed_is_he]

He almost scoffs at that, loud and inelegant, but the subtle lift of his eyebrow is more than enough to make it clear how he feels about Stiva's ultimatum.

Justin Baruch is not really a man who tries.

"I have no intention of convincing you of the appropriate course of action," he replies, deceptively airy and unconcerned. "But I have a vested interest in your professional well-being, and right now that is very much linked to your personal mental state." His eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly, as he watches Stiva continue to pace. "So perhaps I need to take more drastic measures."

[harsher]

"Drastic?" he chuckles. Stiva stalks over to where Justin was standing, narrowing his eyes. He's impressed (as always) with how the other man never flinches. "Really? Please, enlighten me."