#air one air conditioning old bridge

[alessabriel]

And it didn't.

Summary: with the scars left by civil conflict, of broken relationships and shattered bridges the years passed, and she was finally caught up with the consequences of what she did.

Cw: NO CAITVI, angst for Caitlyn, post arcane 2 and my soft imaginings, Vi x Reader.

✄ — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Caitlyn had lost herself and neither time, nor regret could bring back the people she lost what was important to; I saw the one she pushed away so many times because of that stupid instinct to see her down for being from Zaun who contaminated and infected her, Jayce who even though I told her everything was resolved I still saw that resentment in her eyes and did not blame, her father still loved her and was there for her but in his eyes at times there was a disappointment so palpable that it hurt to see her because she had destroyed what her mother worked so hard for costing lives in Zaun. She knew that her owner and suffering was not justification, it would never be, just as she knew that she had made many decisions that were wrong and even today, at 35 years old, they still haunt her, stalking her in every free moment to think, in every corner of her psyche and heart, it is a curse that would never leave her and she accepted it, she let the remorse bite her skin, scratch her bones fragmenting them until it reached the organs underneath and stay there forever. Not that all Zaunites' looks at her were better or let her forget what she had done in the past, they all looked at her with a well-hidden and civilized rancor, which, in contrast to what happened years ago showed that Zaunites were not animals.

"It's in your blood, it will always be in your blood!"

These are words that still to this day follow her relentlessly, spoken to a woman who stood by her side unflinchingly, daring to wear the uniform of the very beings who murdered her parents, who oppressed her for years and who were part of Zaun's continuing misfortune. Vi wore the uniform and became an enforcer for her, and a with it at that moment, after a shared kiss hurt her and it was not the blow that hurt the most, but hearing Vi cry at the bottom of the well and left her without looking back, at that moment she never regretted it and thought she deserved it for not letting Vi go, she herself pushed her away. Now, as Sheriff with Piltover restored and Zaun in better condition after joining forces to drive away Noxus and his threat, she is surprisingly alone. She had managed to catch Jinx and served her sentence, helped restore Piltover as part of that sentence but even with everything Jinx was never left alone but was supported by all of Zaun and, to her own selfish pain; For Vi, Vi was in the process of Jinx's improvement and her mental treatment, when she was imprisoned and released by herself, she watched as Vi received her and although there was an uncomfortable air Vi saw her with a filial love and bright, shy accompanied by Ekko, Sevika, Isha and another person who did not hesitate to embrace Jinx. Even Jinx even with all the crimes on her list, she had so many people surrounding her and she on the other end just and Sheriff was alone, she knew it was her own fault.

There was a sea of guilt that was always at her feet, threatening on her worst days with a huge swell, monstrous waves that threatened to swallow her whole and sometimes she wished they would but, it would be selfish not to bear the consequences of her actions.

The council had been renewed for the sake of progress since they all had such archaic and cruel ideas by the next leaders of those same houses who were young, people who saw beyond prejudices and painted a difference, a before and an after. A renewed council, like Piltover, with Jayce and Mel at the head, but there were two representatives of Zaun who never showed up leaving two chairs together empty in their name. They had all changed, Piltover finally after seeing how hundreds of Zaunites risked themselves to drive Noxus away without caring about coming back alive showed them how much damage they inflicted on their twin city.

Damage she contributed to, added to, and how it tainted her mother's contribution so that the Zaunites could breathe.

She hated herself but dared not ask for forgiveness, because she did not deserve it and she knew it.

She lives each day mechanically in the Enforcers base office, and with documentation up to her neck, in a cold and monotonous rhythm until that day came, a day where Loris was coming to visit her as she had not agreed to stay in the Enforcers corps with the others but rather, was sentinel in Zaun an organization created by two people in Zaun along with other creations that Zaun did not have before.

"Wow, you're still dating the paperwork Sheriff?" questions Loris, walking into the office with a lazy smile looking at the paperwork by the pile.

"Let's just say they're nice dates" replies Caitlyn, inviting him to sit down, it's the little visits and sincere interactions he has that let him see that he kept too good people away from his surroundings because even Seb kept her at a distance, Maddie walked away from her after he had used her to forget Vi; spoiler he never could, Vi as soon as the conflict ended and the trials came she didn't return to Piltover, so Loris was the only one who still maintained some pleasant air between the two "Something going on? You usually come over on Fridays when I go out for a drink together."

Caitlyn looks at her former partner and notices it, a nervous uneasiness almost shy about how she keeps herself hidden and how Loris tries to keep the air light, jovial and pleasant. Loris was a very short time active part of the Enforcerd but damn but he was a good element and the Sentinels would take a good element. She watches silently as her former partner takes a seat, but it never goes unnoticed the conflicted eyes of the man in front of her and she honestly can't blame him as Loris is one of Vi's best friends and continuing to talk to her feels like some sort of betrayal, or so Caitlyn assumes.

"Well, I'm not wasting your time with my humble visit Sheriff" she concedes, lightening the mood and tension, pulling out a simple envelope sealed with wax and a unique flower that only grows in Zaun "Consider coming, she asked me to deliver it to you."

Caitlyn with that, spends the rest of the day dreading opening the letter leaving it on her office bookshelf as if it has the toxic and poisonous in it, so at the end of her day with the evening light streaming in through the glass she plucks up her courage. She sits up from her chair and takes the letter, it is made of a soft and in plain sight recycled paper but it has a fresh floral scent, with some fear creeping up her joints she opens it using the letter opener seeing how the black wax falls on her desk next to the small single flower of Zaun that she takes and keeps it, inside the envelope is a paper folded in three and when she opens it something stirs in her gut with such force that she feels her organs pushed into her bones and the physical exterior of her body, she restrains herself and swallows the bile to start reading, though she knows that doomed her because she suspects it is.

† Violet and [R] †

Just reading that line generated an immense, monumental dismay in him, had he stopped loving Vi? She didn't want to know the answer because it would hurt, because when she pushed Vi away, making her feel guilty for everything, guilty for not being able to stop loving her sister in spite of everything, what was she thinking back then? Making her choose implicitly only served to further establish the imbalance and mistrust in whatever it was they had, and lo and behold the consequences years of loneliness and minimal, if any interactions with Vi that were for matters merely concerning both cities. At the very thought, the very image of it tightens her chest.

Vi was getting married and he was inviting her to his wedding, with a +1.

She dropped into her chair, tossing the pretty invitation on the desk before scrunching up her face, stressed, hurt, regretful and with an amalgam of feelings of self-pity and cruelty towards herself for the past, for the hatred her being since she was a child had harbored towards Zaunitas which only incubated until it exploded that fateful day where she took it out on Vi, took it out on a woman who knew how to read her better than she did herself and prevented her from doing something she would regret more. He knew he could not give, if he would fail as Vi said but his pain did not allow him to see, understand, or comprehend. His hands tremble running it over his face in an attempt to get rid of that mutilating feeling in his chest, and he feels the pain climb up his bones, Vi was going to marry someone and by name it's a woman; [R]. A short, concrete text, a wedding which will be held in the newly opened temple of Janna, signed below in sweet, flowing calligraphy in Violet's name, next to another straighter, linear calligraphy signing with [R]. They sure did that cute thing of writing each other's name would Vi love her? Would that unknown woman love Vi? How long had they been in a relationship? Did they love each other? Why was Vi inviting her?

She doesn't want to go.

[buzzkillers]

The Deer Was Tired 1/3

synopsis: As a guard for the Atreides family, it's your job to make sure their precious offspring was satisfied. Even if doing so got in the way of your true mission.

Pairing: Paul Atreides x Reader

Trigger Warnings | Content: Manipulative Behavior, Dubious Consent, Abuse of Power, Stalking, Sexual Coercion, Corruption Kink, Assassination Au.

By his fourth night of no sleep, the Archduke was restless, prickly and completely fucking annoying.

If you could kill him you would, but you couldn't. You could just barely grab for your knife and after an hour, even moving had become an impossible task. Call that the 'completely fucking annoying' part.

What a pity. 

Now at this hour, the Palace was a sleeping beast with soldiers that stood bleary eyed in the hallways. The inner workings of the court, nothing more than a shallow husk.

 It reminded you of the cities on Tano, a planet so lively during the day but nothing but a husk at night. But this was not that, this planet was a graveyard. 

An open cemetery filled with the walking dead and the beast that fed on them. Bad actors filled every corner of this world, death licked at your feet and famine yipped at your lungs. You've never been so thirsty. But you were sure that even they were rested now. The disease, the pestilence and the worms. Everything rested at this hour. Everyone but him. 

It was an odd thought. You felt as if you were even breaking some rule, that even the dunes moon hated the fact that the two of you were awake as it shined it's light through the Lords window, successfully lighting up the dark room and giving you a front row seat to the Lord that stared at you like a bug, like something to step on. 

Maybe you were. 

If not a bug than a snake. Something slimy and slick that cleaned up the pest in your walls silently, efficiently. Something meant to be invisible. It was partly true. Just as much as you were partly impressed. 

You never knew such a delicate man could look so demeaning. It reminded you of those old war paintings, the kind filled with vengeful women with burning eyes and gnashing teeth. He wanted to kill you. 

It didn’t help that at this hour, the young man was dressed like his mother. His body decorated in a deep oceanic blue fabric that crashed into waves at the ankles of his calloused feet. Each cross stitch covered in jewels and beads that glimmered in the moonlight while he laid stiff on his cot. 

 He was beautiful like this. And if you were being nice you’d say that he looked like one of those deadly beauties you heard of on the radio-if you were being nice. The look of death on his face kind of ruined it. 

With a face engraved with dark circles and sallow cheeks. The lord looked more sickly than anything. A walking famine. Before he turned towards his window, a frown etched into his regal features. 

Then with a beleaguered sigh, the Lord pinched the bridge of his nose. "Be blunt, soldier," 

"Are you saying it all came up negative?"

You rolled your armored shoulders. It sounded like a machinery of parts. "Yes, m'lord," 

"And what about this room, the walls I touch, the air I breathe?,"

"Checked and cleared, m'lord"

His frown only deepened. "Check it again,"

"But-"

He slammed his fist on the window sill. 

"Must I repeat myself?" You straighten your posture.

"Must I?"  

You shook your head till your helmet let out a creak and the brat unballed his fist. "Good," 

"This sickness has already gotten in the way of the more important things, it can't make me ignore my father's request too," 

You blinked and lied: "The Duke may be lenient," 

He laughed till his cheeks went sickly red but no humor was on his face. "You know him then?" He asked, even though that wasn't at all what you said. 

Still, still he did not wait for your response. He simply groaned, low and hard like an injured animal too stubborn to die. You wished he'd just die. 

"In a weeks time my father will need me at peak condition, and yet I haven't slept in days,"

"I haven't dreamt in days," 

"I have not known rest in days, I can barely hold my dagger any more but you say nothings wrong,"

"It is the truth," you lied again. "I pray for your health everyday m'lord" 

And for a moment there was silence before he cut his eyes towards you. "Don't lie, you are irritated with me and would readily slit my wrist for disrespect if I wasn't a highborn," You've never been more grateful that your armor came with a face shield. 

The stupid prince just had a flare for the dramatics, that was all. 

"My lord," you continued, your voice unnaturally timid because that's what books told you to sound like when speaking to royalty. "May I make a suggestion,"

"You may," But he barely looked at you when he responded, his eyes now locked firmly on the expanse of sand outside his window. His own little view of this hell scape planet. For a moment you wondered what he saw.

"Well as you know, the Duke brought many of the servants on your home planet to the Dunes," you waited for him to interrupt but he did not, you sighed with relief. "Everyone with loyalty to the throne is on this planet" 

The young man scoffed. "Are you suggesting that I make friends with servants" 

"In a way," you lied and before the scowl on the mans face could deepen (fuck it) you continued: "I'm suggesting that you get a whore," You said bluntly and not at all regal or uptight, shit. 

You're barely finished your sentence before the Atreides lord went as stiff as a board. His eyes no longer focused nor his breathing noticeable. For a moment, you mistook him for an apparition until a rush of red bloomed from under his cheeks and his eyes went beady like a bug.

Nonetheless, silence draped over the room like sand, the only thing you could hear being the sound of mice that scurried through the walls and the dancing of desert sand. 

 It would be distracting if you weren't anticipating his answer. The poor man, you must've shocked him. Politicians were rarely known for directness and you've begun to contemplate if you ran into this too abruptly then you thought before you felt it.

The soft tremor of your muscles and the swelling in the back of your head that felt like a banging drum, like a whistled beat. As something red-hot and scorching (fear,fear, dread) seeped from your veins and onto cold white bone. 

The urge to run bursted in every cell of your brain but you could not move. The sense of doom forced you still. For a horrifying second, instinct fought against instinct. You needed to run, you needed to stay. You needed to scream, you needed to choke it all down. You didn't realize it was over until you collapsed to your knees and sticky drool sloshed from your lips while your nails dug painfully into the floor. 

 Atreides hadn't moved an inch. He simply looked at you from the reflection of the glass window. His eyes replaced with black opaques that made you wonder where his irises ended and pupils began. 

Shakily, you stood back to your feet. 

"My-"

"How dare you," he hissed. 

"Please-"

"Get out," And as if space and time were at his beck and call. You blinked, the universe ceased to exist and just like that you were at his door with your armored hand on the handle. 

"And soldier," he whispered, voice now hoarse. The room now thick, muddy and impossible to think through with this heavy cloud that swelled heavy in your head. 

"Check it again,"

__

The next day, the Dune sun sunk into every pore of your skin. 

You could barely hear yourself think as you leaned against the cemented pillars of the palace. Each moment passed by with a drip of sweat made the tree gardener eventually stop and glare before grimly handing you a cup. 'A waste of water' he grumbled before he got back to work, his own skin drier than the dirt itself. 

Oh the thrills of guarding the Palm Trees.

For a moment, you wondered if this was a punishment. Something suggested by the Lord himself before quickly you burned the thought away, the Archduke was not that cruel. No, he was efficient. If he truly wanted you to hurt, a quick walk in the desert would be more his style. You doubt that you would’ve made it to morning if you had truly hurt the Lord. But that was the problem wasn’t it? He wasn’t supposed to want to hurt you. He wasn’t even supposed to know you. And now you were here, so now what? 

Now what?

Your head had begun to hurt as you thought of the possibilities. You could run, you could change your appearance, you could simply die. Did it matter? The end result stayed the same; they would not be happy. They might just bring her back just to kill her again. Oh the horror. They were going to find out and you were going to die and, 

Something like terror had begun to lick at your bones. Fear lapping at your soles. Suddenly it felt like eyes were on you everywhere. That the sky was watching and the walls were listening, they were everywhere and what were you to say? How would you plead your case? Everything watched as you stood there, your entire body damp with sweat and in your delusion even the gardener kept his gaze on you. His deep set skin dragging with his eyes at your form. Did he know what you were too? Did he know what you did? 

What were you to say if they asked? If your stupidity breached the walls of the Lords chamber?

 It was one thing to be the brats guard, it was another for him to remember that you were his guard. Just like that, you gripped the cup painfully. 

If the Brat remembered you...no you couldn't have that. It would ruin everything.It maybe already had. But the man was teased of sleep, of rest. Day and night he screamed and shouted at the guards, at his parents. At this moment, he was no different than a drunken fool. Yes, that was it. Your stupidity could be put down to that. The ramblings of a sleep deprived idiot. Even if he wasn't around, you suspected that the brat would tell your commander about the perverted soldier who attempted to tempt him into depravity, but who would believe him?

Everyone. 

Everyone would believe him. Because he was a prince before he was a fool. And you were going to die. Either by his hand or something far, far worse. It was as simple as that. A fact set in stone. The revelation caused your heart to ram into your ribs. For it was a simple answer for a simple question. All that you had left to do was warn the others, to prepare them.

Or maybe you didn’t as your shift ended with a buzz on the wrist and an overarching shadow that stretched into a soldier with armor like yours appeared in your line of vision. Under the sunlight he stood like death's hand. His metallic armor catching a gleam in your eyes. 

“The commander needs to speak to you,” the man said gruffly. 

“He says it’s urgent,” and that was that. 

You could only jerk your head in acknowledgement and with a nod towards the Gardener, you swiftly made your final exit; but not before looking at the cup of liquid in your hand and throwing it to the ground.

[angellayercake]

Smudge

Papa Emeritus IV x Reader | NSFW

Warnings: Eating pussy and being sweaty! I wrote this for @ghelullu a while back after being tortured with beautiful Copia drawings one too many times and I have been waiting for a hot day to post it and as today was one of the first actually warm days in the UK i decided it was finally time.

The heat is oppressive even now, laying on your bed in nothing but a damp towel. The insulating walls of the old abbey where you live are doing nothing to protect you from the weather, the old stones soaking up the heat of the day so even inside they are warm to the touch. Somewhere in the back of your clouded mind you think you had plans this evening but even after a chilled shower all you can bear to do is lay down and let your little fan push the stifling air over your sticky skin.

It's only when he knocks on your door you remember to expect him and even though you are unsure you can stand the addition of any more body heat in the room you can't turn him away. You call to him unable to muster the energy to move, the last of it stolen by the ever present butterflies dancing around your insides at the idea of his presence. The heat hangs around him like a cloud. Even he, the man raised in the scorching summers of southern Italy is affected, his grey roots darkened with sweat and his usually stark paints mixing in grey drips from his temples.

Tired and uncomfortable as he looks his eyes still alight when he notices your state of undress, his gaze roaming your flushed skin so intensely it almost feels like a caress. You give him a look in an attempt to quell the desire that is building but even under these conditions you feel yourself swept up in his lust. He begins to strip, peeling off the layers that make him Papa until he is just your Copia nude but for his melting paint.

His advances shouldn't be welcome right now, not when even the cool sheets find a way to stick to your skin but as you take in his heat touched body you find yourself craving him just as much. The curls across his chest dark and dampened clinging to his shape and the glowing flush of fresh perspiration. You should tell him to shower, it would be better for both of you but you lose your train of thought when he kneels at the foot of the bed.

He is conscious as he crawls over you, holding space and allowing the circulating air to come between you. You hold his gaze letting the spark of heat you may actually enjoy ignite as he closes the space between your lips. It’s odd, this maintained distance, if necessary; you struggle to ever remember an encounter where you weren’t pressed as close as your bodies would allow. And yet his distance now feels as intimate as your habitual closeness.

The press of his lips is slick and salty when he licks into your mouth and encourages you to do the same with a deep groan as your tongue slides against his. The heat of your mouth doesn’t content him for long though as he indulges the urge to taste every inch of you in lieu of his body flush against yours. His paints leave a map on your skin of his progress, smudged lip prints getting less distinct, the sharp black shapes to light grey smears in a gradient down your body. He settles between your legs, the only point of contact a firm hand gripping your thigh and his hot breath against your core.

Holding your breath is the only reasonable action in this moment waiting for him to take his first taste but just as you think he is about to close that distance his mouth finds your inner thigh. He grazes you with his teeth, worrying the already heat sensitive skin until you are writhing. Your fingers find his hair when you reach your limit no longer giving him the choice and when his tongue tentatively touches you you are lost.

It is lazy the way he works you over with the slow grind of the bridge of his nose, his attempts to taste every part of you with his dexterous tongue and his infuriating soft sucking pulling you further and further from reality into a sweltering haze of pleasure where only the two of you exist. You are caught in his half lidded eyes as lost in your bliss as you are. It’s hard to distinguish the heated air from the almost overwhelming heat building with your climax as they work together to scramble what little rational thought you have left. The lack of his touch makes you feel almost adrift so when a hand crawls its way up your body to massage your breast, palm rough against your hard nipple, it’s the grounding you need to let yourself go.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, an unconscious threat to keep him exactly where he is greedily swallowing down the fruits of his labours with a moan that vibrates through you. Your whole body resonates with your pulse and you try to remember how to breath again. He eases back on to his knees sensing your need for some space and giving you the opportunity to appreciate the debauchery written all over him. His chin and cheeks are entirely clear of his paints, both of your sweat and your slick wiping him clean. The lamp light catches in the beads of sweat decorating his body your visceral reaction to taste him taking you by surprise.

His cock lays thick against his thigh, the gathered precum making your mouth water but as much as you wish to tease him to hardness you suspect that he might have hit his limit for the day. Somehow you manage to kneel next to him, wanting so badly to pull him close and bury your face in his chest but already knowing you will regret it. He knows what you need, as he always does, sensing your need because he takes your hand and encourages you off the bed. Only when you are both steady on your feet does he pull you closer, gifting you the soft press of a kiss to the back of your hand.

‘Shower with me?’ His voice is rough but happy, his tired smile bleeding into his words and you realise these are the first thing he has said to you today. With your hand still in his he leads you back into your bathroom. In the mirror you take in the pleasant mess he has made of your body and the tired look of pride on his face as he regards you just the same. The air begins to chill as the cool spray fills the stall and reluctant as you both are to wash away the evidence the siren call of reprieve from the heat is too strong.

It is easier like this to stand the skin to skin contact you always crave with him. Allowing yourselves gradually closer as the water cools you in increments until you can stand to be in his arms and you can relax. Washing can come later, for now you enjoy being close, face pressed into his neck where the water hasn't managed to wash away the scent of him.

The time is short, or as long as your ancient water tank allows, but for now at least you can both relax.

[wttcsms]

repeat offender, hiromi higuruma.

pairing hiromi higuruma x f!reader  word count 1.9k  synopsis vignettes of hiromi higuruma's life, featuring his inevitable early-onset mid-life crisis, his disillusionment with the justice system, and how he can't seem to shake you off. content contains law partner's daughter!reader, no curses au, corporate/big law lawyer!hiromi, bratty, always trying to get a reaction out of him reader x just trying to survive the day hiromi, slight age gap (hiromi is 26, reader is 20), eventual smut in later parts, sfw but suggestive author's notes something a bit different; just wanted to test out diff narrative formats lol (and also, this was the closest thing in my gdocs to being finished & i feel guilty for not giving y'all new content)

all the wrong dialogue options were chosen here

Despite the ceiling clearance being so high that it’s enough to make a man of his stature feel small and the fact that despite all the warm bodies in this banquet hall right now, it would still be more of a challenge to bump into someone rather than avoiding them; despite the fact that the air conditioning system must be working overtime since he hasn’t felt the need to shrug off his tuxedo jacket once, despite the fact that he’s free to leave at any time he wants since he’s already gone through the obligatory introductions and the empty pleasantries—

—despite it all, Hiromi Higuruma feels trapped. The walls are slowly closing in on him, and someone from across the massive room is laughing a bit too loudly, and the ceiling, with its intricate crown molding, feels like it’s going to collapse onto him at any second. 

That’s the problem when you decide to be someone you’re not. He’s constantly on his toes, always having to look behind him, always trying to make sure his mask isn’t going to slip. Fresh out of law school. Top marks, top of his class, actually. As expected, as always. 

Hiromi is used to setting the curve, so it doesn’t take him long to learn how these circles operate. Laugh at the right jokes, order the right drink, find the right people to praise, the right suit to wear — he’s good at figuring out the right answers to everything. 

“The party’s never going to end, so if you feel like leaving, you might as well just go now.” 

Hiromi turns to face the source of that sentence, only to have to glance downwards, taking in the sight of you. Glossy lips, long lashes, slinky gold gown clinging to the curves of your body. He swallows. Hard. 

You smile. Sweetly. 

“Before you go, though, you mind getting me a drink from the bar?” You point to the bar that’s across the room, the area Hiromi just left, one old-fashioned in his hand. 

The first wrong thing Hiromi says is, “It’s an open bar.” 

Your shining smile barely falters, but he catches the subtle curve of a frown almost taking shape. 

“Do you really think I could fight off that crowd?” You give him a faux pout, one that only emphasizes the pretty shape of your lips. 

Looking like that, he thinks you wouldn’t need to fight the crowd to get the bartender’s attention. Everyone would probably be clamoring for yours, actually. He doesn’t tell you this, though. Instead, he says, “Like you said, I might as well just go now.” 

Boo. This stranger is no fun. What a waste of good looks, you think to yourself. Taking in the way his body fills out his suit, the tall bridge of his nose, the sharpness of his features — maybe it’s for the best that he’s no fun. You’re not sure how you would be able to keep your cool if he actually was interesting. 

“Don’t just paraphrase. I remember saying that after telling you you should do that if you feel like leaving.” 

He wonders what you’re doing here, at one of the biggest charity galas sponsored by the big law firm he’s going to be joining shortly after his graduation. There’s no way you’re a law student; only a select few final year students were invited in the first place. He can’t fathom you being someone’s plus-one; looking like that, he certainly wouldn’t be able to let you out of his grasp. 

He doesn’t ask you anything, though. He doesn’t compliment you, or say anything that’s on his mind. Instead, he hands his half-empty glass to one of the catering employees walking by that’s collecting dirty glasses, and he tells you, “I’ll be heading out now. Good luck with the bar.” 

It certainly wasn’t the right thing to say, but being a genius comes with some pressure. He figures he’s allowed to give out a few incorrect answers every once in a while.

apex predator 

The click-clack of your four-inch heels making impact against the tiled floors of your father’s law firm serves as a signal to everyone that they need to seek immediate shelter (read: cower in the nearest coworker’s office) and try not to make direct eye contact with you. 

When the boss’s daughter comes to visit, everyone’s on edge. 

Everyone except the new hire. 

Hiromi Higuruma is by no means slow on the uptake, but he’s clocking in the most billable hours out of everyone. Very rarely does he get a chance to take a break, and he doesn’t plan on wasting what few precious minutes of a break he can get on hiding from some brat whose single defining characteristic is sharing the same last name that’s plastered on this skyscraper of a building.

When he passes you by in the hallway, you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. Broad shoulders, slim waist, and a familiar slope of a nose bridge you’ve seen before. You almost falter in your footsteps — almost. 

bucket list idea: fuck in an elevator

There’s something intimate about being in the same elevator as someone else.

When there’s a handful of people, it’s casual. Simple. Someone who forgot deodorant, someone who’s running late for work, someone who just burnt their tongue trying to drink their coffee too fast. All of it is mundane. 

Being in an elevator where it’s just you and him — you haven’t decided yet if it’s a gift or a punishment. 

“My father loves the work you’ve been doing,” You’re the first one to break the silence. You can only hope that he’ll be the first one to break the distance between you two: a respectful four feet apart. 

Hiromi clears his throat, straightens his tie. He’s staring straight ahead, right at the shiny silver of the stainless steel doors. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me. I’m not the one who said anything about your work.” 

The corners of his mouth almost turn up at that. He fights the urge to smile. 

“Then thanks for the honesty.” 

“Do you like that?” You ask him. 

“Like what?”

“Honesty?” You ask it innocently enough, but when you give him those eyes, and make your lips form that pout, everything comes out sounding sultry. He’s convinced you could be reading his most recent M&A deal out loud to him and make it sound like you’re reading an erotic romance. 

“Well, I’m a lawyer.” He finds that he has to bite back his smile when he’s around you. He stares at the slowly changing numbers on the screen. The two of you entered from the parking garage, and the elevator’s making its steady ascent to the thirtieth floor. 

“So that’s a no.” You muse.

Hiromi makes no comment.

whatever pays the bills, i guess

Hiromi Higuruma, unlike every other undergrad trying to get into law school, does not take… creative liberties when it comes to his personal statement on why he wants to become a lawyer. Potential medical school students lie and say they want to “save lives” because “living with six-figure student loan debt for the first decade out of school and then making crazy bank afterwards seems like a good trade-off” just doesn’t sound very awe-inspiring, does it? 

In another life, he thinks he’s probably a defense attorney. Representing the Little Guy. Keeping alive his desire to uphold the principles of justice and that the wrongfully accused receive fair representation. Even with the odds stacked against his client, he’s certain that he’s good enough to win their case.

However, the world is unfair. Doing the good thing rarely pays off. Being a good person doesn’t get you very far, either. One of his former classmates was such a bright, kind girl. Passionate statement of purpose, too. She applied to all the same law programs as Hiromi and got accepted to exactly zero of them. 

Hiromi got into every single one, and his statement of purpose was honest, straight to the point, and damn-near clinically cold.

I need a competitive environment that takes pride in its intellectual rigor, but I have no desire to pursue medical school just to spend a decade in college and residency. Law school seems most appropriate for my needs.

who hired the intern?

Hiromi doesn’t know what you do around the firm, just that you’re constantly here. 

Even when you’re not physically present, he still finds traces of you lingering everywhere. The scent of your perfume that sticks to the elevator’s walls, your now-empty medium sized iced matcha latte in the trashcan of the breakroom, whispers of your names when his colleagues are in the mood to gossip, the click-clack of your heels that he can hear from inside his office even though his door is closed.

He can’t tell if you’re just inescapable or if he’s constantly subconsciously seeking you out. He doesn’t want to know the answer.

What he does want to know the answer to is why you’re sitting on top of his desk at seven in the morning, your medium sized iced matcha latte in all its green glory (this is the first time he’s seen it full and not as an empty plastic cup in the trash). You’re wearing a fitted white button down with a gray wool skirt that will have the HR manager doing a wide-eyed double-take when you walk past her. Your legs are crossed, and Hiromi scolds himself for noticing. 

He focuses on your face instead, upset to see that you’re still doing that unfair move of yours — that pout, those eyes. 

“What are you doing in here?” Hiromi manages to get the words unstuck from his throat. He’s not even sure how you got the keys to his office, and then he remembers who your father is. 

You smile brightly. 

“My dad says I need some ‘resume-boosting’ activities, and how convenient is it that the firm is looking for an off-cycle intern?” 

How convenient, indeed.

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re sitting on top of my desk.” During your chirpy exclamation, Hiromi manages to pull himself together. He’s getting a few steps closer to you. He’s not going to sit behind his desk, not yet, but his approach only serves to bring you two into closer proximity. If you stretch your legs, the pointy tips of your stilettos will brush against the fabric of his trousers. 

“Well, every intern at the firm is apparently assigned a lawyer to work under. Y’know, to be a mentor.” 

He can’t decide if he likes or detests where this is going.

“And,” you continue. “Dad only wants the best for me. It’d be, like, kind of suspicious to be working directly alongside my father, though.” Yes, Hiromi muses. Because getting a law internship at one of the most prestigious firms during your undergrad is certainly not suspicious at all. “So, the next best thing would be the so-called prodigal lawyer that everyone can’t stop praising. How convenient is it that you’re able to watch over an intern for the semester?”

“Very convenient.” Hiromi raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to get off my desk now? I can’t imagine you’ll be able to learn much if your back is going to be facing me when I’m sitting at my desk.” 

“Whatever you say, sir.” You hop off the desk, gently tugging your skirt down in place. He keeps his eyes focused on your face the whole time.

[fantasticsandwich]

yandere influencer x fem! reader (pt 1)

Don't you know you're the apple of his eye?

The dull hum of the museum’s air conditioning blended with the soft shuffle of footsteps, hardly alleviating the stifling heat that clung to  your skin. You trailed behind Cillian, gaze lingering on a serene landscape that seemed worlds away from the cramped gallery you occupied. However, instead of succumbing to the immense discomfort of being perceived, Cillian was in his element, angling his body to capture the perfect selfie, his phone held aloft.

“Stand over there,” he directed without looking your way, focused on capturing his reflection in the glass protecting a centuries-old portrait. “I need more light.”

Yielding an ungodly ring light, you shuffled into place, feeling the tight pull of your blouse as you dangled it over your head. Struggling to hold it in one hand, you fidgeted, tugging at the fabric, wishing you could blend into the walls and disappear. Your oversized glasses slid down the bridge of your nose as you glanced at Cillian, who paused to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead before flashing another practiced smile at his phone. Or rather, yours, because he thought pictures always looked better through your lens despite the inferior quality.

A couple cast a glare in your direction, clearly annoyed by the disruption. You watched Cillian wave dismissively at the glaring onlookers, his attention never straying from the image on his screen.

“Can’t have them ruining the shot,” he murmured.

As Cillian lined up another photo,  your thoughts churned. The museum had become a stage, and Cillian, its sole performer. Every sculpture, every painting—they were merely props for his endless stream of portraits. You wondered if he saw anything beyond the likes and comments each picture might garner.

“Isn’t it hot in here?” you ventured, seeking some acknowledgment of the discomfort you felt. “The light isn’t helping. Maybe we could enjoy the art without—”

“Comfort doesn’t get followers, Y/N,” he interjected, his tone light but firm. “You know how it is. Image is everything.”

“Right, of course,” you answered, your cheerful facade slipping into place as easily as your sleeves slipping down your arms. “Image is everything.”

In the silence that followed, punctuated only by the sound of Cillian’s camera shutter, the art around you—a tapestry of colors and emotions—seemed to fade into the background, overshadowed by the one-sided performance playing out before it.

His silhouette morphed with the statue beside him, his body language shifting from casual to statuesque in a heartbeat.

“Y/N,” he called over his shoulder. “Stand next to that one. I want  a photo. It looks like you.”

You hesitated, your eyes tracing the contours of the marble goddess before her: poised, serene, and eternally graceful. You glanced down at your own trendy and curated, yet slightly mismatched attire.

“Um, sure,” you replied, stepping forward with a forced smile. Your limbs felt awkward as you raised an arm, trying to emulate the statue's elegant gesture. The solid chill of the museum air wrapped around your exposed skin, making you acutely aware of how out of place you looked.

“Just like that,” Cillian encouraged from behind the camera, his voice smooth as silk. The device made a soft click sound as it captured the moment.

“Did it turn out okay?” You asked, hoping your performance had been convincing enough to meet his standards.

“Let me see,” Cillian murmured, tapping on the screen with slender fingers. A pause stretched between the pair, filled with the hum of distant conversation and the subtle clicks of camera shutters from other visitors. “Perfect,” he declared, the word dropping from his lips like a verdict. He switched off the camera, his eyes not meeting yours. “Just perfect.”

Your heart fluttered with a mixture of relief and unease. His approval was something you couldn’t help but crave, despite the cost. His hand brushed against yours as he handed back the device, leaving a trail of cold uncertainty in its wake.

“Thanks for helping,” he said with a smile. “Let me treat you to something.”

Exiting the viewing hall, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the muted whispers of other patrons as you and Cillian found your way to a secluded bench in the museum's on-site cafe. A sigh escaped  you, your shoulders slumping slightly as you settled onto the cool metal seat, Cillian taking the booth. Already, he held his phone. His thumbs flicked across the screen, dredging forth a gallery of images.

“Look,” Cillian said, holding the phone between them. On the screen was a photo of him standing confidently next to a marble statue, both strikingly handsome, distant and untouchable, cold in their own regard. “Which is prettier?”

You hesitated, your gaze flitting between his expectant eyes and the image of the two figures frozen in time. You zoomed in to inspect their expressions. The statue’s face was one of great speculation, perhaps even sorrow. Cillian, though undeniably attractive, seemed haughty, almost too aware of his beauty. You experienced a surge of jealousy when you realized his skin was as pale as marble and his eyes were as clear as the glass protecting it from view. Adorned by a light blush, his cheeks were not untouched by the heat. Still, not a single hair was out of place. Not a single blemish or dark spot on that noble farce. His skin was smoother than porcelain.

Meanwhile, spotting your bespeckled reflection on the screen nearly caused your heart to stop. Little flyaway strands plastered against your forehead and splay out across your flushed cheeks. Sighing, you turned your head away, pressing against your shoulder to push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. You felt a dull ache as your lips parted to answer, only for the words to tangle in your throat.

“Hard to choose, right?”

“Both are remarkable,” you managed to say, your words carefully neutral. You hoped your voice didn't betray the unease that coiled within, the sense of being tested. His smile widened, but there was a sharpness to it that didn't quite reach his eyes, and you wondered if your response had been enough to satisfy.

“Of course,” Cillian replied, the word drawn out like a soft purr. “But I’d prefer you say I’m living art.”

Your gaze lingered on the screen as Cillian flicked to another photograph, this one a close-up of his profile silhouetted against a canvas of Renaissance art. His nose stood out. Roman, straight, and perfect, casting a shadow that seemed sculpted by the same hands that had carved the figures they admired all afternoon.

“You are. You look like a statue,” you murmured, voice laced with an involuntary admiration that made your stomach clench. Why weren’t you as pretty as him? Was some cosmic force punishing you for a misdeed in a past life?

“Yeah?” Cillian reveled in your praise, leaning closer. “And what about my other features? Do you think they’re just as perfect?”

You glanced at the high curve of his cheekbones, the arch of well-groomed brows, and how his smile never appeared to belong to you.

“More so. It could’ve been modeled off of you, but you’re still incomparable.”

Abruptly popping out his seat, Cillian muttered an excuse and bolted to the counter. He swiped your desserts up and returned in three long strides. Carefully, he placed them onto the table. Humming cheerfully, you swiped a spoon off the table and guided its tapered head to the dessert.

“Wait,” he said, hand blocking the spoon’s path. “Take some pictures.”

Sighing, you yielded and accepted his phone. The parfait was already melting into a puddle of unappealing, inedible goo, but you slid it across the table. When you pulled back from the lukewarm glass, sugary residue clung to your fingers. The strawberry syrup was congealing, slowly sinking to the bottom to mingle with the yogurt, bleeding pink.

Staring at the mess, you licked your lips. You longed to steal a spoonful, but you couldn’t even consider eating until Cillian decided they had enough pictures. Already, you had snapped fifteen at every angle possible. Upon request, you even shimmied out of your seat to take more.

To think, you could’ve been at home, studying, doing anything else instead of practicing your still-life portrait skills. You shouldn’t have been so excited to be invited out by Cillian. Excitement only brought disappointment.

Popping upright, your knee nearly knocked against the underside of the table. At the last second, Cillian reached out, slotting his hand between to lessen the impact. His skin was warm and soft against yours. His palm enveloped the entirety of your knee. You winced and nervously laughed at the contact, swatting him away.

“Tell me what you think about them,” you said, passing the phone back into the hands of its owner.

Your beaded keychain snagged on a strand of hair that had fallen loose from your ponytail. Wincing, you halted to allow Cillian to detangle it. Once free, you moved to stand at his side, peering over his shoulder as he flicked through every photo. One by one, Cillian kept zooming in on his face, only to pinch his fingers back out to focus on a minuscule detail. Not a single pixel was free from scrutiny.

Slipping his phone into his pocket, he sighed. His hands snuck out across the table, then his gangly arms followed. Elbows resting on the table, he cradled his face in his palms. His gaze rose, narrowed onto you, startlingly innocent.

Although it enhanced his features during photoshoots, you loathed his opaque expressions. Even after several years of knowing him, it was impossible to gauge his response, to anticipate his next word. Fortunately, most of his requests were only minimally irritating to fulfill.

“Can you take a few more pics on your phone? Maybe they’ll turn out different.” He requested, peering up from his device. Neck craned back to view you, his hair flopped over, billowing out into disarray.

A stray strand brushed against your nose, tickling. His roots were growing in, stark against his bleached strands. You pursed your lips, urging your attention elsewhere. Otherwise, he’d ask what you were looking at, and you’d have no choice but to answer. Since that apparently wasn’t a solitary task, you could expect to dedicate an additional hour to helping him pick a shade then dye his hair.

Self-conscious at the proximity, you stabbed your fingers through your hair, tugging the thick mop back. Prodding through knots, you felt the sweat of your scalp melting through your fingertips, boiling into your skin. Mournfully, you realized you would have to take another shower. And to think, you finished your favorite shampoo the morning prior. You’d ask him to buy more and call it a photography fee.

Feeling more coerced than inspired into the act, you sighed and snatched your bag off the back of the chair. Rummaging through the contents, you plucked your phone out. Cillian eyed the keychain with a small grin.

You inhaled for the sake of your patience. Lowering into another awkward position, you guided the camera around, searching for the perfect angle as he posed, arms thrown over the back of the plush seat.

He was rather opinionated about composition; he liked either having his face centered in images or leaning more to the right-hand side. Rule of thirds, symmetry, and whatnot. A simple photo became a portrait, something meant to rival baroque image. You clicked another picture when he scooped a glob of the parfait onto the spoon. Another, when he took a bite, then another when he pressed the spoon to his lips, and another when his eyes fluttered shut.

At some point during the ten-minute extension, a drop of the watery yogurt slipped past your trained eye, dribbling onto his chin. You set the phone down and moved to grab a tissue off of the table when he prompted you to continue. You complied. At last, Cillian decided to grant your wobbly arms mercy as he finally picked his final pose. To end it, he winked and blew a kiss. 

You grumbled, plotting back onto your seat. You winced when the cold metal touched your thighs. “Pay me.”

“An air kiss isn’t enough? Want a real one?”

“Pass. I’d rather gut myself.” You swiped your hair over your shoulder and grabbed a stack of napkins to fan yourself with. Hoping to experience a reprieve from the heat, you reached for your dessert and was sorely disappointed to discover that it had liquified. Only the precipitation clinging to the cup was cold. You grabbed the cup and sloshed its contents around, watching globs spill over the edge. You looked over at Cillian’s dessert and sighed upon discovering that it was in an even worse state. His big, warm hands had cradled it for too long.

Opening up Instagram, you slumped over, assassinated by a surge of jealousy. Posts about vacations in Granada, California, and Rome filled your recommended feed. These broke college students shouldn’t have been partying abroad, living it up. And why were they on vacation when there were still two weeks of spring semester left? Did they take their finals early? How? Could you still get in on the action? Oh well; it wasn’t as if you had money for plans anyway.

When you were done imposing misery upon yourself, you handed your phone to Cillian. He accepted it with the grace of a dog snagging meat.

“I appreciate it,” he said, attention glued to the screen. You saw the images flash across his eyes, his own face superimposed on his retinas as he zoomed in, pinching and frowning. After browsing and sending the photos, he placed your phone down on his lap. Ignoring your sudden anxiety, he rested his hands on the table and smiled. “I mean it. No one else does this for me. Thank you.”

You observed the rings on his knuckles. Glinting like teeth in subdued laughter, he tapped against the table. So pretty and shiny, gleaming with sunlight… And that face… If you became rich enough, you would consider asking him for fashion and skincare advice. He’d taken to giving you gifts at random, and all the products were from expensive brands you couldn’t pronounce.

The perks of having a trust fund, you supposed.

“You’re leaving the country soon, right?” You leaned back against the chair and splayed out your legs, recoiling when your foot made contact with his shim.

A trickle of sweat ran past your neck, seeping down to the plunge of your shirt. Contrarily, Cillian was dressed to attract the sun; he wore a dark dress shirt, rolled up to his elbows. The top few buttons were unfastened to reveal the black designer t-shirt trapped beneath. His jeans were black, with slices at the knees.

“I’ll only be gone for two weeks. Why do you ask? Are you going to miss me? Already feeling the crushing weight of my absence? Don’t worry. I’ll text you everyday. I’ll even bring you souvenirs.”

“No.” Firmly, you shook your head. “You’re the one who’s going to miss me.”

“Get WhatsApp so I can text you without getting charged. It’s about time you finally downloaded it.”

“So you can spam my messages with even more pictures of yourself? No thanks. You have a mirror, and my gallery is already filled by you.” You narrowed your eyes. “Even if I wanted to, how can I download anything if you have my phone?”

“You mean this thing?” Teasingly, Cillian brandished the device. When you reached for it, he leaned back, toting it out of reach. “I can figure out your password and get it for you.”

He typed random combinations of numbers until he successfully unlocked it.  You rose from your seat, more serious about retrieving it. To counter, Cillian hunched over, shielding the screen with his body.

“Relax,” he said, head disappearing beneath the table. Self-conscious again, you tugged your skirt down. “I’m sending myself the photos you took of me.”

Red with anger, you joined him, ducking beneath the table. With the slit of your phone screen showing through the opening in his posture, you glanced down, realizing he was going through your messages and replying with a selfie of himself.

“Cillian…” You grasped his shoulder. “Stop being a cunt. I’m not getting WhatsApp if you’re going to keep acting like this.”

Ignoring you, he abruptly stood. In y ourhaste to follow, your head slammed on the underside of the table. With a hand pressed against your scalp, you rose, only to encounter your frazzled expression staring back on the screen.

“Say cheese!”

Holding the phone over his head, Cillian snapped a selfie of you. As usual, he was smiling, sparkling, while your hair was frazzled and your face was sullen. Although you begged him not to, he promptly posted the picture to your Instagram, accompanied by some of the parfait and himself.

“Cillian,” you tried again. Shaking his shoulders, you groaned when he refused to budge. “Alright, then. I guess I’m just gonna get your phone.”

As if shocked by lightning, he jolted upright. He stared at her, eyes peering into your soul. “Go on. I don’t have anything to hide. But why don’t you want me to have yours? Do you have something to hide?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Good.” He shot you one of his infamous, heart-melting smiles. “Since I already looked at yours, we can look at mine together. It’d please you, right?”

There were moments when he sounded peculiar. Was it something in his tone, or was it his irregular phrasing? Regardless of the strange feeling’s origin, you felt a guilty caution and were inclined to dishonesty in his presence. You wouldn’t want to be a bad friend by misinterpreting his overly-zealous intentions.

Swiping his phone off the table, Cillian placed it into your palm. He relayed the password, but his hand remained enclosed around yours, so you punched in the code with your thumb. Chewing your cheek,  you scrolled, hesitantly tapping onto a conversation, utterly disinterested until you saw the strange memes passed between Cillian and his friend.

“Here,” you said, resigned as you handed the device back.

He smiled. “See? Nothing to hide.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Shrugging, Cillian retrieved your phone from his pocket again to scrutinize the photos in your camera roll, trained on his appearance as he glided between filters and toyed with the saturation.

You futilely observed him before redirecting your thoughts to something more productive, the upcoming final exams. Soon thought, you began to daydream about fast cars and countryside estates, forgetting how, with the new year’s onset, you watched self-help videos, browsed countless articles to curb your materialistic tendencies.

You took up new hobbies with your friends, painting and snacking on charcuterie and wine. You denied yourself the pleasures of theaters, of restaurants and shopping hauls. But when your paycheck arrived, you found yourself partitioning it into tuition costs, then different discretionary categories.

Your mother incessantly begged you to enjoy your youth. One day, you’d have a fulfilling hospital job, packed with plentiful hours. Even then, there was an expected exchange of currency; time for a pay stub. So, at some point, you lost the desire to save and smartly concluded, that whether for necessity or whim, people only made money to spend it. Money was entertainment. Money was activity. Money was the tears in your mother’s eyes when you paid for half of your snot-nosed brother’s school fees.

Money was whatever you needed it to be, and it was all you lived for. You had tried amending this mindset countless times, but no other inspiration stuck. It was fortunate that you were friends with someone who had too much of it. Cillian spoiled you on excursions, with gifts. So, if he had money, then money was him, and by proxy, you were getting that bag while being in his presence.

Once, during your final year of secondary school, you turned to Cillian for advice. You purchased a shirt from a designer brand and wore it to his birthday party, only to have his younger cousin spill juice on you, Rianning it. On the verge of a breakdown, you stormed to the kitchen. As you furiously scrubbed your shirt with a dishrag, you heard footsteps in pursuit. Teary-eyes, you turned to him and asked to hear his truth of the world.

He hadn’t been rich back then. He was only the boy in the council house next to yours, your life-long friend. He knew you better than you knew yourself. You were attuned to his every quirk.

“I’m so tired of buying, buying, buying, but never feeling like I have enough. How do you get through it? Feeling like you’re enough without having it?”

“I’ll show you,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He removed a small clasp mirror, the kind that comes free from stores with a hundred-dollar purchase, and unceremoniously presented it. “You’ve got to love yourself.”

“And how do I go about that when I haven’t the slightest clue?”

“It’s simple.” A light red tinted his cheeks. “You tell yourself ‘You’re everything I’ve ever wanted,’ and know that’s what you’re always meant to be. At the same time, you need to know you’re insignificant no matter what you do. Only relationships define you, and no one wants to be around someone pathetic. You’ll only be used like that, so you need to change to protect yourself.”

Almost reluctantly, he peered up from the glassy surface to look at you, but you felt as if he never truly looked away, as if he were still tracing the contours of his every feature through the glare of the spectacles perched on you nose.

“People say beauty is on the inside, but if you’re ugly on the inside, then you know it can be manufactured.”

Cillian still hadn’t stopped staring at himself as he walked past anything reflective, anything that resembled him. He’d still stare so deeply into your glasses, at his reflection in your eyes and you still wondered if he was searching for a mirror that would twist his form into something beautiful.

You were snapped out of the memory when he voiced a request.

“Your turn,” he said suddenly. “May I?”

“May you… May you do what?”

“You looked at me earlier. I want to do the same.”

“I  mean, you’re already looking at me…” You felt his stare and winced. “But it’s… alright? Yeah, go ahead.”

The air was thick as you waited, trying to anticipate his thoughts, unsure of what he had in mind. Cillian observed you with an intensity that felt almost palpable, his scrutiny a tangible force that rendered you immobile—a specimen under a microscope, a subject in a frame.

“Such pretty features,” he commented softly. His fingers slid along the curve of your cheek, coming to rest on the bridge of your nose. Before you could comprehend his intentions, he plucked your glasses off with a swift, almost surgical movement.

The world around you dissolved into a wash of colors, each brushstroke of reality smearing into an indistinguishable palette of hues. Sounds seemed to amplify in the absence of clear sight, the distant murmur of museum visitors swirling around like wind rustling through autumn leaves.

“You look better without these. You can’t see without them.” He dangled the glasses just out of focus, the lenses catching the light and casting ghostly reflections onto the blurred canvas. “But when I’m this close, can you only see me?” He leaned in, noses almost touching. “Sometimes, I like when you wear them, too.”

You blinked, trying to force clarity back into your vision, but it was futile. The room felt larger, more intimidating, as if the ceiling had stretched away and the walls were leaning in to listen. You were acutely aware of your heartbeat, a tumultuous rhythm against the backdrop of this disorienting scene.

“Cillian?” Your voice quivered slightly, betraying your unease.

“Shh,” he hushed, the sound slicing gently through the air. “Just look at me.”

You tried, oh how you tried, but his face was nothing more than a kaleidoscope of light and shadow, his features lost in a fog. He loomed over you, a specter made of shifting shades rather than flesh and bone. The faint scent of his cologne, usually so comforting, now seemed overpowering, filling your nostrils and clouding your thoughts.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, though whether he spoke of you or to himself, you couldn’t tell. The air was charged with a strange energy you couldn’t define. “Can you see me?”

“Only… only shapes. Outlines.”

“Like an abstract. Can you read me? Do you know what I mean?”

“No?” You said, uncertainty. “If you want to talk art, give me a day to talk to that one upperclassman who keeps begging to paint you.”

His presence was static, pointillism in slap-dash dots, yet there was a sharpness to it, like the glint of a knife hidden beneath silk. Suddenly, Cillian's hands cupped your face. His thumbs brushed against your cheeks in an unexpectedly tender gesture.

“You’re cute.” A soft laugh escaped his lips. The familiar sensation of being pinched and appraised was oddly comforting in its normalcy.

“Alright,” he said briskly, pulling away and breaking the momentary spell. Your gaze fluttered up, onto him. He stood, legs screeching against the ground as he jammed his chair under the table. “It’s about time to leave. We’ve got places to be.”

You blinked, trying to focus on his voice as it cut through the disorientation of your vision. “Can I have my glasses? And my phone?” you asked, reaching out in the direction of his voice, fingers grasping blindly at the air.

“Your glasses?” Cillian teased, dangling them just out of reach. “But you look so adorable without them.” His laugh held an edge, like the thin crack running down a perfectly glazed vase.

“As you know, I need to see,” you said, the words coming out more plaintive than intended. You felt for the spectacles once more, movements uncertain without sight to guide you.

With a sigh that suggested he was granting a favor, Cillian finally placed the glasses in your outstretched hand. The world snapped back into sharp relief as you slid them onto your nose, the cafe and its patrons coming into clear view once again.

“And this?” Cillian echoed, his tone playful. Retrieving the device from his pocket, he waved it around. “I’ll give it back, but you need to promise that we'll look at these together tomorrow. I want to coordinate our feeds.”

“Sure, yeah. We’ll align our online synergies tomorrow,” you echoed, using buzzwords and nodding although a part of you screamed in protest.

Standing, you snatched a few napkins and wiped down the photo shoot's debris. On the way out, you tossed the melted goo into the trash and bid him goodbye, slouching as you turned away and stepped onto the sidewalk, almost immediately surrounded by a torrent of pedestrians. You surged ahead, elbowing your way through the crowd.

“Hell is other people,” Cillian mindlessly commented. You instantly pinpointed his melodic voice amidst the throng. “Want me to give you a ride? Or walk you to the bus stop?”

Halting, you spun around, wrapping your hands around your mouth to shout. “No thanks. It’s not that far. You should also get home before it gets dark.”

“Alright. Be safe. Don’t get kidnapped.”

“Walking with you could endanger me. Someone would take you for ransom.”

“And you’d pay for it, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, I need to get my paycheck first.”

“Y/N,” he whined.

“You’re not Caesar, so why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged and turned away, finally bidding you goodbye. His arms dropped to his side, madly swinging. You watched for a moment as he pranced, caught in his cool-guy act that he pursued it even as he stumbled over a curb. You chewed your lip to stifle a laugh, allowing yourself a final glance at his strange gait. You began at a leisurely pace, loosening up to let your arms swing like him. Maybe he was happy because he allowed himself to live so freely.

[out-there-tmblr]

Young zaundads wip (9)

***

"And how," Silco says, looking unimpressed by the contraption in Vander's hands, "are you going to build anything with that?"

"I'm not. " Vander turns it over. The box is missing a crank and two of the curved speakers are dented. "But Banzo might be able to get it to work. Felicia was just saying that the mess hall could use some music."

"She suggested a fiddle or guitar. Not a glorified music box."

"Yeah, well, music's music," Vander replies, carefully placing it in the bag slung over his shoulder. He follows Silco down the dark riverbank, working their way towards the bridge and the fishing trawlers moored further up.

It's a compromise of sorts. Vander agreed to help Silco salvage and attempt to repair the abandoned shed, but only if Silco agreed to make time for them to eat every night.

("That's your condition?" Silco had asked as if Vander was some sort of idiot, as if he could have extorted far more for a few hours' labour each night. "You get mean when you're hungry," Vander replied and it startled a smile out of Silco, and an amused, "I'm always mean.")

It's slow going. Some nights, there's nothing usable washed ashore. Last night, they spent hours carrying a solid wooden chest back down to the mine, and then they had to pull it apart to fit in through Silco's secret entrance.

The abandoned shed has a roof, a frame and a door but three quarters of the walls are missing. They have a hammer and a crowbar, but it's time consuming to pull things apart without destroying the wood. And using old nails to attach it can be frustrating when they bend at any lopsided strike.

The one upside of their meagre supplies is that they usually run out of nails or wood, long before the dorm curfew. Sometimes, they sit in the half-finished building and talk. Sometimes they'll return to the mess hall for the last hour, Vander will have a drink or two while Felicia and Connol joke about what's kept them busy.

Tonight, Silco made a face when Vander suggested the mess hall, so they're sitting in the dirt with their backs against the one finished wall. It's a nonsense conversation, discussing the worst desserts in the mess hall, but Silco keeps dragging two fingers along Vander's thigh, back and forth. Silco keeps gesturing with his other hand, trying to capture the terrible texture of a sloppy rice pudding, and all Vander can think of is those fingertips sliding over his leg.

Vander's not even sure Silco realises he's doing it.

They kissed in the mine, but it was only that once. There have been other moments – standing by a moonlit river, light catching the soaring curve of Silco's cheekbones or looking at each other in victory when they finally drag another piece down here – but Silco always seems… wary. Like he's expecting Vander to pounce on him.

And then Silco will relax and forget himself, and lean into Vander or drape an arm around his shoulders or curve his fingers around Vander's neck. Or like tonight he'll lean back against Vander, head tilted up as they talk, and fingers trailing Vander's thigh. Vander can't tell if it's a challenge or a test.

When he places one large hand over Silco's, pinning Silco's palm against his leg, Silco tenses and sits up straight. He turns to watch Vander; his hand doesn't even try to pull away.

Vander leans in, mesmerised by Silco's blue eyes. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs but he doesn't expect Silco to laugh loudly at him. It breaks the mood. "What?"

"You're not the first miner to offer to buy me a meal for sex. You don't need to…" Silco shakes his head, waving one hand through the air. "I've just been waiting for you to collect."

For a second, the idea of Silco with other people fills Vander with scarlet-bright rage, but aSilco doesn't use his looks in the mines, he doesn't flirt and smile at the men around him. Silci walks through the mine glaring and scowling, daring anyone to be stupid enough to approach him. He might have had offers, sure, but Vander's sure he had no trouble refusing.

"Really?" Vander asks, leaning in to rest his cheek against Silco's. "You've just been waiting for me?"

Silco betrays himself with a small gasp and Vander presses a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the edge of Silco's jaw. He follows the line of Silco's narrow jaw, pressing kisses to the dusty skin until he reaches Silco's mouth, and licks along those delicate lips.

Silco grabs a fistful of Vander's hair and drags him closer, licking past Vander's teeth. They keep kissing like that, deep and dirty, until Silco makes a frustrated sound and climbs over Vander's lap. That works even better. No more twisting his head down to kiss and when he wraps hands around Silco's hips and drags him closer, he can feel Silco growing harder with each kiss.

Vander's toying with the buttons on Silco's hips, starting to tug the fabric free when Silco pulls back and says, "Curfew."

"Huh?"

"Dorm curfew," Silco says, scrambling away from him. "We've got to go or they'll lock us out for the night."

They quickly stack tools out of sight and Silco leads them back through the tunnels, through the mine and across the courtyard to the dorms.

Vander finds his bunk in the dark, unbuckling his clothes by feel.

"Just friends, huh?" Benzo teases in the dark. Vander ignore him entirely.

***

[readyforthegarden]

Fitting Room

Pairing: Danny Wagner x F!Reader

Synopsis: Adonis and Angel are back for a little adventure! When Angel acts bratty in public, Danny is going to put her in her place, regardless of how far they are from the privacy of their own home.

Warnings: smut, sex in public place, soft dom!danny, restraints, oral (m!receiving), fingering (f!receiving) teasing, choking, full penetration)

WC: 4424

In your entire life, you never thought that you’d be bored while shopping. You loved diving through racks of clothes, boxes of shoes, furniture and decorations, it was like an Olympic sport to you. Trying to find the best deals on what you wanted or needed usually sends a wave of endorphins through you. 

But today you were on your last leg, following Danny through the department store searching for new golf shirts. He came home from tour for a nice, long break and suddenly his old shirts were too tight in the arms, and had to go. Not that you were complaining, he put the muscles to good use as soon as the two of you were alone, a new level of stamina coming from this tour as well. 

“What do you think about this one?” Danny held up a turquoise colored polo, the sweat resistant material shining in the fluorescent lights above. You could tell your temperament was beginning to get at him too, no longer cheerful in his showing of shirts. You had already snapped a few times, causing him to give you a few looks. 

“It’s very nice, honey.” you muttered, folding your arms over your chest. Your eyes were beginning to feel dry from the air conditioning being pumped into the store, and you squinted, pinching the bridge of your nose, hoping the impending headache you felt would go away. “Just like the last fifteen you’ve shown me.” 

“What’s with the attitude?” Danny furrowed his brows at you. “You’ve been so snippy today.”

“This is the most boring shopping trip ever.” you groaned, stomping your foot a little. Truth be told, it was more than that. You were tired from a late night out, a little hungover if you had to admit, and you were hungry after only eating half of the strawberry poptart Danny had offered you that morning. 

“Oh because it isn’t for you?” Danny challenged, raising an eyebrow with a roll of his eyes. 

“No, because every golf shirt is the same!” You reached up, shuffling through a rack. “White polo, blue polo, yellow polo, stripes oh now we’re getting cuh-razy!” you moved toward the wall of more polos and gestured to them. “Just pick a few and let’s go!” 

It happened quickly. Danny barely glanced around, and suddenly you were against the polo wall, snug between two racks. Danny’s large, free hand was on your throat, squeezing the sides. Your eyes were wide as you looked up at him, and all you received back was something only Danny could master, a tender glare. 

“Where is she, hm?” Danny asked softly, giving a soft squeeze to your throat. “Where is my Angel?” He didn’t let you respond. “Instead she’s been replaced with such a brat. I shouldn’t have to tell you more than once to behave. I have half a mind to take you into the fitting room and bend you over my knee for your attitude.” 

He saw the sparkle in your eye at his words, your head tilting down to look up at him through your lashes. His hand left your throat, grazing your neck until his fingers were moving up into the hair at the base of your skull. He clenched his fist there, tugging your head back so you had to look down your nose at him. A whine emitted from your throat, and he smirked. 

“What? My pretty little Angel didn’t think her god wouldn’t know all her tricks?” Danny laughed under his breath and his voice was lower. A thrill sped up and down your spine, igniting your veins. Adonis was here. “I think you’d like that a little too much.” He glanced down at your chest, watching it rise and fall quickly. “Nah, that’d be too easy. I can’t very well give into you when you’re acting like this.” He let go of your hair, and your head fell forward. His hand now came under your chin, lifting it with his finger, his thumb resting in the middle of your chin. “Be my sweet Angel again and maybe you’ll get rewarded. Can you do that for me?” 

“Yes,” you murmured. Danny bent down, capturing your lips in a sweet but demanding kiss before letting go of you entirely. 

“I think I’m gonna get the turquoise one.” he nodded, back to the sweet and happy go lucky man he normally was. You were still between the racks on the wall, reeling over Danny acting like that in public. In your time together Danny had helped you explore more sexually than you’d ever considered. You’d found new things that turned you on, learned that you had a taste for roleplay here and there, and you especially liked when Danny introduced a soft dominant side of him. But never had he been this way in public before, and the idea of being so exposed, the risk of being caught had you pressing your thighs together. 

You followed Danny around the men’s section, smiling and nodding and giving polite opinions on shirts you knew he didn’t want or like, he simply was testing you. This went on for a few moments until he became distracted, looking for some socks to match his shirt. 

“Stay here,” he instructed, handing you the armful of clothes. “I saw a few pairs around the corner.” he mumbled as he was already stepping away. Adjusting the heavy, sweat wicking clothing on your arm, you glanced around, finding you were close to the women’s section of the store. Craning your neck, you tried to see if anything caught your eye. You raised yourself to your tiptoes, and nearly jumped out of your skin when Danny cleared his throat. 

“Looking for something?”

“I was just trying to see what they had,” you answer, coming back flat on your feet. Danny gazed at you, then to the clothing section behind you, smiling. 

“Well, you’ve been a good girl again so far,” he started, taking the clothes from your arms. “Go ahead and browse a little.”  There was a moment's hesitation, and Danny laughed “Go on!”

Stepping around a few racks, you began looking through what the store had to offer you. Sundresses were on sale, and you thumbed through a row of them, a pretty mauvey pink one catching your eye as you moved deeper into the section. Danny watched you like a hawk, eyeing everything you touched. You tried to think, should you pick one out? Or should you pick one you don’t really like in case he teases you and says you can’t have it? This side of Danny was newer to you. In the bedroom games like this were easy, don’t touch yourself until I say, do this do that. In public, you weren’t sure what the rules were. 

“You like that one baby?” Danny’s voice was low and soft in your ear. You’d been so focused on getting one step ahead of him you hadn’t realized you had frozen, a powder blue dress in your hand. Swallowing nervously, you nodded. “I don’t.” He removed your hand from the dress and reached up, grabbing another one. This sundress was golden yellow, and he held it out to you. 

“This one?” You asked. Danny nodded. 

“I’ll even let you try it on, as a treat.” He grinned. “Let’s go find a fitting room-oh wait! I need to go back and get one more thing,” 

You sighed before you could stop yourself, and once you realized, looked up at Danny. His eyes were glaring, but his mouth was pulled into a smirk. You fell right into his trap, failed the test. Shoving the clothes in his arm at you again, he stood back. 

“Go get a room, I’ll be right there.” Nodding, you scurried off, into the fitting rooms and went to the very last stall, shutting the door. You hung up the shirts and dress, placing the packs of socks on the small shelf. You waited for Danny, ignoring how washed out the overhead lighting made you look in the mirror. 

Three sharp raps on the door and you opened it, letting Danny slide inside before shutting and locking it behind him. He gazed at you for a moment, hands behind his back.

“What?” you asked softly, suddenly feeling shy under his gaze. Danny smirked, sitting down on the small seat in the room. He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest and grinned.

“Try on that pretty little dress for me.” he commanded, nodding to it on the hanger. Reaching down, you unbuttoned your jean shorts, sliding them down your legs and stepping out of them. Kicking off your shoes you stood in just your socks and underwear after pulling your top over your head. Danny adjusted in his seat, eyes raking up and down your body. He knew you were stalling, and held up a hand, index finger pointing down and moving in a circle to tell you to turn around and continue. 

Taking the cotton dress in your hands, you removed the thin straps off the hanger, it was soft and light, and you knew it would make the perfect dress to run errands in or out to dinner. Pulling it over your head, you let the material fall down your body, adjusting it once it was fully on. Forgetting the game at play, you turned to the mirror, reaching into the top and adjusting your breasts in the sewn-in cups, then flattening down the torso. 

Twisting and turning in the mirror, you scanned every part of yourself in the dress, targeting every flaw and positive you could find. It wasn’t until Danny’s hands rested on your shoulders that you stopped. Looking at him in the mirror, he met your gaze, smiling softly. 

“There’s my Angel,” he murmured softly. “You look so pretty in this dress, in this color.” his right hand, traveled softly up and down your arm, caressing it and leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Are you my sunshine again?”

“Yes, Danny,” Danny’s smile fell.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Adonis,” you whispered. Danny turned his head, his nose burying into your hair and he inhaled deeply. His slow exhale was warm against your skin and in your hair, causing a shiver to go down your spine. 

“That’s right,” he murmured into your hair. His left hand left your body, reaching behind him. He stood back from you, slightly to the side so you could see as he slid a brown leather belt from his back pocket. Hearing the material softly move through his hands as he made a loop made your pulse race. Softly snapping it a few times, he watched your face, noting the excited gleam in your eyes. “Do you like this?”

“Yes, Adonis,” your voice was a whisper. Anxiety and excitement swirled together in your stomach, watching him step closer. You were preparing to be bent over and spanked, but instead he approached, coming around you and standing in front of your reflection. 

“Hands in front or behind?” you took a few moments to decide, Danny being patient as you made up your mind. You held your wrists out to him, and he smiled, beginning to loop the belt around your wrists, tightening it and glancing up at you, mask dropping to check that you were okay. You nodded and gave him a soft smile, and instantly Adonis was back. “Get on your knees.” 

Lowering yourself to your knees, you kept eye contact with Danny, gazing up at him through your lashes, his hand not in your hair to stop you this time. He bit his bottom lip, reaching down and undoing the button and fly of his pants, pushing them down to his mid-thigh, along with his boxer briefs. His cock was already hardening, and he stroked the length a few times, bringing it closer to your mouth. The tip grazed your bottom lip, soft and velvety smooth. 

“Open,” Danny murmured, and you obliged, laying your tongue flat as Danny tapped his cock against it. You closed your mouth around him, swirling your tongue and tasting him. Humming, you began bobbing your head, working down his length. You already wished for your hands to take care of what you couldn’t take. Soft sighs of pleasure fell from Danny’s open mouth as he stared down at you, hypervigilant of every twitch of your lips, flutter of your eyelashes, and flare of your nostrils as you inched further down his length. 

The weight of his cock on your tongue was something you enjoyed, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating up from your chest, to your tongue, making Danny suck in a quick, sharp breath. Smiling around him, you looked back up through your lashes at him, taking the tip of your tongue and pressing it along the thick vein on the underside of his cock as you pulled back to the tip. One of Danny’s hands held his shirt flat against his toned stomach, the other reached forward, easily cupping the back of your head and gently pushing you back down his length. You let him guide your movements, doing your best to keep breathing as the tip of your nose began grazing the coarse, trimmed hair at the base of him.

Hollowing out your cheeks, you swallowed around him, fighting the reflex in your throat as Danny’s tip grazed the back of it. He began pumping his hips, and you could feel the hot prickling of tears welling up in your eyes as you gagged slightly, taking short, quick breaths through your nose as you let Danny use your mouth. 

“So fucking good,” the words were ragged as he praised you, fucking into your mouth. You hummed, your fingers twitching, itching to grip his thighs, to have some hold on him like he did you. They were also desperate to relieve the ache between your own thighs. Spreading your legs as imperceptibly as possible, you brought your wrists between them, trying to rub them against your core. Danny heard the buckle of the belt around your wrists clink, and let out a breathy laugh. “Aww Angel, you wanna touch yourself?”

“Mhm,” you nodded slightly, blinkin up at Danny. A few tears slipped from your eyes and you knew your mascara was at the very least flaking, if not running down your cheeks. Your hips were still rocking against the bundled leather on your wrists, though it wasn’t doing much. 

“I don’t think you deserve to, after all the attitude you gave me today.” Danny’s words were harsh, matching the thrust he did of his hips. Sniffling, you batted your lashes at him. “Fuck, you look so good with your makeup like that,” he took the hand off the back of your head and swiped his thumb across your cheek, collecting the black stained tear. Without another word, he pulled himself out of your mouth, standing back before leaning down and grasping your arms, lifting you up to your feet. One of his large hands wrapped around the middle of the leather belt, and you got excited, thinking he was going to give in and untie you, but he pulled you toward him as he backed up, taking a seat on the small bench. 

Your stomach flipped watching him stroke himself with his free hand, the clothes next to his head reminding you that you were in a public area. Danny continued to pull you forward, reaching up under your skirt and pulling down your panties, watching you step out of them carefully, He tugged you closer until you were kneeling, a leg on either side of his muscular thighs. He let go of his cock, bringing a hand to your hip, the other raising up the hem of the sundress.

“What do you say,” Danny leaned in close to your face, the tip of his nose gently grazing your cheek as he pressed a chaste kiss to it. “We ruin this fucking dress? Hm?”

“It’s not mine,” you replied shakily, watching Danny pull back and grin wickedly. 

“It was yours the moment I saw it.” he replied. You bit your bottom lip, feeling Danny’s long fingers graze your inner thigh. Your hips jolted as his index and middle fingers slipped between your legs, feeling the wetness that had gathered there. “You’re so wet for me, Angel.” he slipped the tips of his fingers in, making you moan softly. He pumped them in and out, eyes trained on your face as you found some relief at last. Your hands were in between both of you, resting on his stomach, and your fingernails scratched at his skin, the hairs on the trail to his hips, as he reached deeper and deeper.

“So good,” you whispered, Danny twisting his wrist slightly so his thumb grazed your clit with every pump. Your eyes closed as your head fell back, relishing in the pleasure.

“You’re taking my fingers so well,” Danny praised, “Can you take my cock like this?”

“Yes, Adonis,” your voice came out in a whine, raising your hips, ready for him to take his hand away. When he stilled his hand, you brought your head back up and opened your eyes.

“How bad do you want it?” Danny asked. You felt annoyance bubble back up in you, the ache between your legs growing stronger. 

“Badly,” you groaned, rolling your eyes. Danny’s hand left your hip, grabbing your chin roughly. 

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” he hissed. Heat burned your face, and you tried to pull out of his grasp, but his fingers dug in a little harder, keeping you in place. “Answer me.”

“Yes, Adonis.”

“You think because you don’t get what you want exactly when you want it, that you can act this way?” he scolded you, making the heat in your cheeks turn them bright pink with shame and embarrassment. 

“‘M sorry,” you muttered out. Danny loosened his grip slightly.

“What was that?”

“I’m sorry, Adonis.” Danny let go of your chin, using both hands to grab your hips, pulling you forward. He slowly rubbed the tip of his cock through your folds, slickening it before pressing inside of you. You moved to sink down, but Danny’s grip on your hips was strong, keeping you up so just the tip was inside. An aggravated groan rumbled through your chest as you glared at Danny. “Please, what the fuck!”

“I don’t think you deserve any more than this,” Danny hissed. “You were being so good and now you’re failing every test.”

“Please, please,” you whined, leaning down, grasping whatever skin of his you could with the limited movement of your fingers. You were nose to nose, clenching around him, feeling like you were going to cry if he didn’t let you take him fully. The ache was becoming unbearable, and as you looked into his eyes, the Adonis persona faltered, your loving Danny flashing in his eyes. “I need you so bad, baby, it’s starting to hurt,” Without another word, he pulled you down, allowing you to sink down to his hilt. You let out a strangled moan of relief, and Adonis was back.

“I love it when you plead like that, Angel,” he groaned softly, thrusting his hips up into you. “Sounds like a prayer just for me,” you nodded, unable to verbalize much of anything as he pounded up into you. “What am I?” your eyebrows knit together in the middle of your forehead, glancing down at him. “What am I to my Angel?”

“A god?” Danny grinned. 

“That’s right, say it again,” he somehow slid himself down on the bench, the new angle sending tingles down your spine. 

“A god!” you moaned loudly. “A god my god, god!” Danny laughed darkly, bringing a hand up quickly and covering your mouth. 

“I don’t want the whole store to hear it too,” he murmured, leaning forward and pressing a kiss in the valley between your breasts. “Can you keep quiet for me? Think you can cum quietly?” nodding, you gave him an affirmative noise, muffled by his hand. You pressed a kiss to his palm before he pulled it away, and he grabbed your hands, lifting them up and over his head so your body was closer to his. Your head slumped into the space between his neck and shoulder, his thrusts jostling your body. Quiet, high-pitched whines and moans fought their way out from your lips, suddenly, he halted all movement. You raised your head up, ready to argue with him, be a brat again, but he put a finger to his lips, glancing at the door. You heard shuffling outside the door, and your eyes widened, hearing soft voices talking about a sale happening, the sound of cheap metal hangers scraping against the racks they were on.

Danny looked to the door, then back to you, a small, mischievous smirk tugging his lips. He slowly began moving his hips as the voices got closer, and you pressed your lips together tightly, fighting the whimper that wanted to escape. Your stomach was flipping, the excitement and embarrassment of almost being caught and the thrill of doing something so naughty in public turning you on further. He started moving a little faster, and you squeezed your eyes shut, praying he kept this pace so no one would hear the sound of skin slapping and come looking. One of his arms snaked behind you, up your spine and grasping the base of your neck and shoulders, using the grip to pull you down roughly.

“I think they’re gone,” Danny breathed out after a few moments of silence. “We need to be quick in case they come back.” nodding, you followed his lead as he ducked from under your arms and moved you off of him, standing the two of you up. He made quick work of undoing the belt restraint, though he didn’t give you time to rub your sore wrist before you turned you around and pressed a hand on your back, bending you over. 

Grasping the side of the bench, you felt him flip your skirt over your hips, gripping your skin there. You could hear Danny spit, the sound of the lubrication running up and down his cock before he pressed into you again, making your jaw drop. Danny was merciless in his pace, and you winced, though it wasn’t at the grip on your hips of the pressure of his hips bones hitting your ass over and over, but from the sound. You hoped and prayed that no one was around outside the fitting area, that there were no curious shoppers out there. 

“You feel so fucking good around my cock, Angel,” Danny groaned through grit teeth. “You were made for me, so perfect,” he shifted his hips slightly and was suddenly hitting a spot that made your jaw drop, your mind go blank, sharp, breathy curses the only thing able to be vocalized. You clenched around him, feeling the molten hot coil in your core tighten almost unbearably, your body tensing.

“Oh god, please,” you whined, nails digging into the bench. 

“Yeah? Please what, baby?”

“Please, I wanna cum,” you whispered. “Please, Adonis?”

“I don’t think you should,” he shook his head, his sweaty curls bouncing. “You’ve been such a fucking brat today.”

“Please Danny, please Adonis, please god!” you cried softly. If you could have screamed at the top of your lungs, you would have. Danny’s fingers dug deeper into the flesh of your hips, sure to leave bruises, his trimmed nails leaving crescent moons into them. 

“Like I said, I love to hear you beg,” Danny’s hips pounded into you, and you pushed back as much as you could to meet every thrust, whispering his name like it was the only word you knew in the English language. He didn’t punish you for saying Danny this time, letting you have this one win as he felt you cum, your thighs shaking, knees buckling.

“Fuck, Angel, I’m gonna cum, where do you want it?”

“Anywhere, fuck I don’t care,” you were riding out your orgasm, needing his release now just as much as you needed yours. 

“Such a filthy brat,” Danny grunted, hips stuttering as he came, releasing inside of you. He stayed still, bent over you as you both caught your breath. You gasped when he pulled out, feeling empty immediately, but he stuck his fingers inside you, fucking his cum further into you. When he pulled them out, he grabbed your shoulder and turned you around, sticking his fingers into your panting mouth. “Clean ‘em, don’t leave a single drop behind.” he murmured, watching you do as he said. “That’s my girl, do we taste good together?”

“Mhm,” you moaned around his fingers. He withdrew them slowly before grabbing your face, pulling you to him and kissing you passionately, tasting the traces left. When he pulled away, he smiled at you, and Adonis disappeared. 

“That was hot as fuck, baby,” he chuckled, his eyes glimmering, before they dropped down. “Oh, oops,” you followed his eyeline, seeing a few wet spots on the neckline of the sundress. Using your finger, you dabbed at them, giggling as you wiped them on Danny’s boxers as he stepped back and pulled his bottoms up. “I think you’re gonna have to wear that out of the store.”

“Oh for sure,” you agreed, bending down and picking your panties up, slipping them back on. “Do you need to try on these clothes?” you nodded towards the shirts he had you carry in. Danny grinned cheekily.

“Nah, I know they’ll fit,” he admitted, walking over and grabbing them off the hook. “I just wanted to drive you insane.” you straightened from gathering the rest of your clothes, mouth agape. Reaching out, you smacked his shoulder sharply. Danny caught your wrist after the hit landed, bringing to his lips and kissing where your skin was still pink from chafing in the leather belt. “Be careful, I might have to teach you another lesson if you do that again.”

“Is that a promise?” Danny’s eyes flashed as he let go of your wrist, reaching down and snapping the price tag from your dress.

“Go get the pink one you were eyeing, then meet me at the registers. I’m taking you home.” he answered. You turned, a sharp swat landing on your bottom, making you jump. “I’ll show you what a real smack is supposed to feel like.”

“I can’t wait.”

Taglist: (feel free to add yourself!)

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[phonydiaries]

See How Deep the Bullet Lies - Chainshipping - I, II, III

continuation of my Jigsaw apprentice Adam AU; can be read as a standalone but makes the most sense in context, links up top!

Summary/Preview: “You know what’s funny?” Adam asked, his brows furrowed in mock-puzzlement. Gordon had a feeling he didn’t want to know. Adam dragged his finger across several torn-out articles, cross-referencing. “Not a single one of these articles mention the fact that I have you to thank for this weird little hole in my chest.”

The office was meticulously clean, organized. Little warm lights were placed with the intention of creating a relaxed and peaceful environment. Everything here was designed to encourage healing, which had the ironic side-effect of coming off as aggressively clinical. Lawrence should’ve felt right at home. Instead, he staved off a migraine, head in his hands, pinching the bridge of his nose as he struggled to explain himself. 

Be open. Be emotionally Available. Ali chided him in the back of his mind. She was right of course, but he was too stubborn to listen. Just one of the reasons she’d spent more and more time visiting her family out of state since the Jigsaw incident. 

“It’s not that I see him, per se.” Lawrence said hesitantly. Although, sometimes he did, out of the corner of his eye. “It’s just that sometimes when I come home, or I’m out for a walk.”

“Oh good, you’ve been walking.” The therapist cut in, scratching down a note in the margin of her clipboard. At least Lawrence’s PT would be happy about that. 

“But go on.” She urged him. By that time he already felt silly for saying it out loud. His recollection lost steam. 

“It just sort of feels like he’s there. Like if I turned around I’d see him.” Lawrence let out a long sigh. “I’m losing it aren’t I?” He muttered, the sound of his voice slightly muffled through his hands. His therapist, a sweet thirty-something year old woman, hummed thoughtfully. She was nice enough, even if Lawrence hadn’t picked her himself. He’d tried to rush headfirst back into his work almost as soon as the hospital cleared him for outpatient care. The hospital administrator, rightfully wary, let him back only on the strict condition that he see one of their resident psychotherapists once a week. 

“I don’t think you’re losing it, Larry.” She said, distractedly making another note. “What you’re describing sounds like bereavement hallucinations.” Lawrence looked up at her quizzically. 

“Is that common?” He asked. The therapist put on a practiced sympathetic expression and nodded. 

“More than you’d think, though it’s most common in people who have lost a spouse.” She’d tacked that on so casually. 

“What?”

Realizing her mistake, a look of painfully earnest regret flashed across the poor woman’s face. She hurried to explain,

“But, I mean, given the extreme circumstances you met under, it makes perfect sense that-” 

Lawrence didn’t want to talk about this anymore. Based on what he’d told the authorities, the FBI had Adam presumed legally dead only weeks after the Jigsaw incident came to light. There was enough of a pattern established with the previous traps that they felt confident declaring him another victim that didn’t make it. 

Lawrence didn’t want to get into all the times he’d not seen, but felt Adam still looking over his shoulder or staring at him from across the street. The hallucinations weren’t quite visual, but he’d been plagued with the sense that the young man was always with him, just a few feet away, and always just out of reach. 

-

Lawrence knew before walking through the door that Ali (and by extension, Diana) wouldn’t be waiting for him inside. He hadn’t quite made up his mind yet on whether things were better or worse on days she spent away. He’d tried, really tried to be a better husband, a better father. He just couldn’t seem to give her what she needed and he didn’t blame her for getting air. Maybe space was what they needed- still, it hurt. 

He flipped the lightswitch in the foyer and rubbed his eyes as they adjusted. Exhaustion showed on his face and never seemed to leave him these days. Semi-dazed he passed the kitchen, not as obsessively clean as he used to keep it, and let himself linger on the family photos on the fridge. How depressingly prophetic that he was always the one holding the camera, just a few feet away and well out of the picture. 

“Oh, good. You’re home.”

Lawrence froze, immediately plunged back into reality. He’d never thought about how terrifying it would be to hear the sardonic whip-sharp voice of the man he’d shot casually greeting him in his kitchen. He felt himself slowly turning around to face him, against his will. Christ, nothing could’ve prepared him for looking back into those unerring eyes; relearning the uncanny feeling that there was nothing they didn’t see. Great waves of emotion crashed over Lawrence in rapid succession. Grief, shock, relief, sadness, fear. 

Adam couldn’t have looked more aloof. The young man sat at the kitchen table, his chair teetering on its back legs, a half eaten bowl of cheerios in front of him. Methodically, he sized up Lawrence, his gaze diligently working its way from head to prosthetic foot. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Oh, ha ha. 

“Sorry.” Adam said, putting his hands up apologetically. “I know it’s rude to show up unannounced, but since we’re such good old friends I figured you wouldn’t mind.” Each word that left his mouth was coated in sugary sarcasm. Lawrence couldn’t even fathom where to start with him. He had a thousand questions to ask and a slew of accusations and apologies to rattle off. They all died behind his lips. All he could do was stare. Adam cleared his throat. 

“You’re wondering how I got in.” That hadn’t even cleared the top 15 questions. 

“How did you get out?” Lawrence hated the way that came out of his mouth. Demanding. Adam’s face darkened. 

“You tell me. You left to get help.” His voice was laced with bitterness. Lawrence grit his teeth and sucked in a measured breath. 

“Cut the bullshit.” He snapped. Adam, like the juvenile he was, rolled his eyes. 

“Does it matter? I’m here.” He said, throwing his hands up. He couldn’t resist tacking on an accusatory glare. “Despite your best efforts.”

He was exactly as hotheaded and infuriating as Lawrence remembered. Still, he couldn’t stop the building guilt in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t know how long Adam had stayed in that awful room with two decaying corpses, waiting for help that would never arrive. However Adam made it out, however he’d gotten here, he was looking for an explanation. Lawrence owed him that much. He tried to still the shaking in his voice. 

“Look even before I-” Lawrence began, then stopped himself abruptly. He was already making excuses. He tried to walk it back. “I wasn’t in my right mind.” He said plainly, shaking his head. “All I could see once I’d… done it was Ali and Diana and then with the blood loss…” He trailed off. The fuzziness was genuine. The memories always went blurry here. As much as he’d tried to wring any detail from them, he always came up blank. Even after months of searching and questioning, the FBI was no closer to discovering the precise location of Lawrence and Adam’s trap. 

“Most days I can barely remember how I made it out. Things start melting together.” Lawrence finished quietly. It wasn’t quite an apology, or even an admission of guilt. Adam clearly thought as much, offering Lawrence an unimpressed slow blink. He sighed loudly, as if deeply disappointed, and pulled a crossbody bag out from under the kitchen table. 

“Well, that would explain all the interviews.” He said, rummaging around in the bag. Lawrence’s eyes narrowed. 

“What?”

Adam pulled out a thick stack of newspaper clippings and sifted through them briefly. 

“Ah, there we go.” He said brightly, slapping a handful of scraps onto the table with a sharp smack. He generously allowed Lawrence a moment to take in the breadth of what he was looking at. Spread out in front of him was every mention of the bathroom trap that had ever made the news, every headline, every picture of Lawrence, every statement he’d ever given to the press. How typical of Adam to be such a diligent archivist. He’d never stopped watching Gordon after all this time. Suddenly Lawrence felt like a fool, questioning all his recent supposed hallucinations. 

“You know what’s funny?” Adam asked, his brows furrowed in mock-puzzlement. Gordon had a feeling he didn’t want to know. Adam dragged his finger across several torn-out articles, cross-referencing. “Not a single one of these articles mention the fact that I have you to thank for this weird little hole in my chest.” He said casually, gesturing to his right shoulder. 

“I thought the editors must’ve made a mistake, y’know because you’re such a stand-up guy. You wouldn’t lie to them.” He turned an expectant gaze on Lawrence and smirked when the doctor remained silent. It would’ve been kinder to stab him in the chest. Like those words hadn’t haunted him every night for months. 

“But then I checked the police reports.” Adam said, reaching for a paper hidden beneath all those surrounding it. He skimmed it thoughtfully before reading aloud. “And wouldn’t you know it; Dr. Gordon reports witnessing Shepherd “Zepp” Hindle, a former orderly at his place of work, fire a single round into Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight’s chest. Gordon says Faulkner-Stanheight was left unmoving on the ground showing no signs of life.” As Adam finished, he held up the little clipping and whistled in disbelief. 

Blackmail? Was that Adam’s game here? Lawrence stepped up to Adam, making a cheap grab for the police report. Whether he was moved by guilt or rage he couldn’t say. As if expecting it, Adam closed his hand around Lawrence’s arm and shoved him away. Lawrence sucked in a sharp breath as the back of his head collided with the wall. Adam planted his hand square in the middle of Lawrence’s chest, warning him to stay put. 

“What do you want from me? Money?” Lawrence hissed, holding his hands up. Now it was Adam’s turn to look surprised, his face twisting with genuine bafflement. He cocked his head to the side, looking up at Lawrence. 

“You think I want your money?” He asked, incredulous. 

“What the fuck else?” Lawrence snapped. He couldn’t parse the look in Adam’s eyes, severe and hungry and demanding. Adam’s free hand disappeared behind his back. When it returned Lawrence felt a steel muzzle press against the front of his shirt. His face went slack. Adam didn’t look away once, his searing gaze boring two holes into Gordon’s skull. 

“I want you to know what it felt like,” He breathed, “To be left for dead.” 

This isn’t happening. All the mess that would inevitably be left in Lawrence’s wake ran through his mind. His patients, his staff, Alison, Diana- she couldn’t grow up without her father, even if things were rocky with Alison he couldn’t leave her a widow. He felt his chest tighten, felt his head begin to swim. Is this really what it was like? Adam was younger. He had so much life ahead of him. Not for the first time, Lawrence wondered how much he would’ve robbed Adam of if the shot had really been fatal, how many years of love and life lost? Maybe he deserved it, but his family couldn’t suffer for his sins. 

“Adam-” He murmured. 

“Shut up.” The cylinder trembled against his chest. Adam’s hand was shaking. Lawrence wondered if the injury had left him with a tremor. 

“Please. My family, they can’t- my daughter-” He couldn’t collect himself enough to form full sentences. How quickly he was reduced to begging. Adam shook his head gravely. His brows furrowed and a look of earnest regret seemed to float in his eyes. It just wasn’t enough to stop what he’d already put in motion. In a moment of terrible deja vu Gordon placed his hand over Adam’s bad shoulder. 

It was the first time Adam looked shocked, closing his eyes following what Lawrence assumed was a sharp pain. The wound wasn’t fresh, but the nerve damage from an infected gunshot could take a lifetime to heal. He suppressed a gasp and Lawrence wondered if for a moment he saw it too; the cool fluorescent lights and the filthy tile floor. Adam blinked something away. He closed in, leaning into the pain, challenging. Only the fabric of his shirt kept Lawrence’s hand from touching the wound he’d inflicted himself. He heard the revolver click and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“You should’ve finished the fucking job, Doc.” Adam’s voice barely broke a whisper, his breath hot and heavy. Blindly, Lawrence felt the weight of Adam’s forehead against his, hair brushing against his face. They’d been this close before. Only once. He felt Adam take a breath. Hold it. Let out a long sigh. 

“Fuck.” Adam muttered under his breath. A second click. Lawrence could hear the smile in his voice and it made his fucking blood run cold. 

“I’m just not like you, Larry.” And he almost sounded relieved. Lawrence felt him back away as cold sweat seeped in to take his place. He opened his eyes. 

Adam was already packing up his table scraps, haphazardly showing papers back into his bag. The revolver was tucked away back into the waist of his jeans. Lawrence felt drunk, his head spinning with the aftermath of the hurricane that had just ripped through his kitchen. Calling anyone was thoroughly off the table- who was going to believe him? Adam rummaged around in his pocket for a moment and threw Lawrence his house keys. They hit him in the chest and clattered to the floor. Well. There was that mystery solved. He slung the crossbody bag over his shoulder and shot Lawrence an utterly incomprehensible look. Fondness attempted to bury itself in layers of resentment. He had a feeling this wasn’t the last they’d see of each other. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, Larry.” He warned, lingering like a specter in the doorway. “I’m good at hiding.”

[lbulldesigns]

Zaun (AITAH Arcane AU Mood board)

The City of Iron and Glass, and revitalisation

Seventy years ago, Zaun, still going by the moniker of the Undercity, was in a constant state of desperation.

The mining colony turned city, was no stranger to hardships. From unsafe mining conditions to unsafe working conditions within the factories jammed packed within the city, to unsafe living conditions due to poor maintenance to residental structure and over pollution brought on my the factories and the toxic gases from the deep mines being compressed within the underground city.

All of this was due to the conscious negligence of Piltover. Whose one and only concern was image and wealth. To them Zaun was an eyesore but they refused to acknowledge that this was due to them.

They preferred the image of being righteous and a city of academics and kept their well-shoed foot to Zaun's throat by unleashing their Enforcers upon them who dealt their "justice" in brutal fashion.

This continuous abuse and oppression had to come to an abrupt end, however.

In 1954 Piltover and its Enforcers had stepped on Zaun and Janna's (Goddess of the Wind) final nerve.

When during an arrest of a factory worker voicing his outrage for being unfairly fired, an officer took liberation to bludgeon a 12-year-old girl who had stepped in to beg her father's release before shooting dead the distraught father.

In this moment something snapped within the people witnessing the scene and every Zaun citizen present attacked the Enforcers without conern for their own lives. This attack would go on to inspire more within the city to take up arms and riots broke out everywhere, with the intention to put as many Enforcers down.

Janna tried to protect as many innocent lives caught in the crossfire as she could, but the death toll was climbing with her people dying in droves.

When Piltover took to trying to blow the bridges and starve the residents in Zaun, Janna had reached her limit and decided something more drastic had to be done.

For a month, the Goddess of Wisdom and Harmony became an unyielding and unrelenting, furious storm.

She took the fight straight to Piltover and wrecked havoc upon the city. Gleaming, unblemished structures that reached to the sky came crumbling down as if they were sandcastles within the oceans reach.

She dispersed her followers to ransack the city of the progress of food, clean water, and medicine. And kept the Enforcers secluded to Zaun, without backup and provisions and many beaten Zaunites looking for their own pound of flesh.

After a month of nonstop terror from the Goddess and many injured and homeless within Piltover, its Council flew up a white flag and begged for an audience.

Upon the Bridge of Progress, Janna stood mighty, if not unproud of her destruction, and yet resolute in her decision. She was done watching the mindless cruelty and violence to her people and would be ruling over them from then on.

An accord was struck that day.

Zaun would be its own nation from then on, and Piltover would pay compensation to the people for their negligence, in the form of money, technology, healthcare, and education.

An accord, that Piltover had no other choice but to agree to.

And this is how we come to Zaun today, under Janna's rule.

A city crushed by oppression and poverty, now turned metropolis of renewed vigor and spirit.

Zaun has transformed within the past seventy years into a technological paradise, built of off science and magic.

Its once toxic air has been dissipated by the trees that now grow within and upon every building, sustained by the HexTech-empowered artificial sun bolted to the cavern ceiling, and scheduled rainy days using the sprinkler system stretched out throughout the city. Water filtration has drastically improved drinkable water, and botany has become an essential subject in every school.

Zaun is now the cultural hotspot in Runeterra, with many coming from all over the world to visit or call Zaun its home.

You'll now find many cultures thriving within the city, as well as old structures standing proud against the tides of time.

One such building is a bar/pub called The Last Drop.

Religions of all caliber operate in Zaun, but none hold a candle to the temples of the Wind Goddess.

Mages with elemental talent, are often in high demand as they assist in the evironmental stability of the city.

And although Enforcers do still operate within the city, their presence holds neither respect nor true authority. Many Zaunites will opt to seek the services of private security firms, such as The Eye Of Zaun or the newly formed Firelights flying through the city on their chem tech-powered hoverboards; invented by 15-year-old Ekko Bennet in 2015, making him one of Zaun's first adolescent millionaires.

However, Enforcers have been reported to tiptoe on the boundaries of the two cities accordance.

With reports of Zaun civilians being killed just on the outskirts of the city, and more than a few being assaulted and/or killed within back alleys of Zaun. It is not difficult to discern what is happening.

The Enforcers are either trying to return to their old ways, or someone is looking to profit of off a potential war.

Either way, Zaun will be ready for what comes at it.

It vows to not wait for their gentle Goddess to bloody her hands again for them, they are the warriors who built this town.

[enterrandomname]

Frederick Chilton + Child!Reader

Warning: Might be OOC, I dunno

Word Count: 411 words

⋆——————✧◦♚◦✧——————⋆

“Dad.”

“Dad.”

“Daddy.”

“Papa.”

“Dad, wake up!”

A slap on the face immediately woke Frederick up. He gasped for air as he sat up, turning his head to look at the child that waited impatiently next to his bed.

“Santa came to the house and left gifts!” you exclaimed, jumping up and down as you pointed at the opened door. Chilton sighed but nodded. “Yes, yes, can’t you just give me 5 more minutes of rest, sweetie?” He mumbled, grabbing his pillow and shoving it in his face.

“But, dad!” you whined. “I want to open my presents!” You looked down at the ground, trying to come up with an idea to get your father out of bed. Frederick kept his eyes open as he waited for whatever was going to happen.

Sighing once again, he placed the pillow on the side and got out of bed, putting his slippers on. You smiled and grabbed his hand pulling him to the living room. “Calm down; the presents aren’t going anywhere.” He said that, giving you a pat on the head with his free hand.

“Fine!” You huffed, letting go of his hand before crossing your arms. Chilton shook his head, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Do you want pancakes for breakfast?”

“Yes!”

A smile formed on his face as he heard your response. He never once found himself having a child, but it seemed that changed when he found you all by yourself near his house. He felt some sort of connection with you.

“Dad?” Your voice tore him away from his thoughts. “Yes?” He responded, looking down at you. “Can we get a cat?”

. . .

“Perhaps when you’re old enough, we can get one.” God knows what he is getting himself into in the future.

Placing a plate of pancakes in front of you, he watched as you ate your pancakes happily. “Remember to eat slowly; I don’t want you to choke.” He reminded you. “I know! I know, dad!”

“Why do you always act like I haven’t fed you in months? Is this some sort of medical condition that needs to be checked?”

⋆——————✧◦♚◦✧——————⋆

“Dad, is it okay if I go to Hannibal’s house next week? He is going to teach me how to cook.” He raised an eyebrow as he looked at you. “Aren’t you a bit young to be cooking?” He asked. “Yeah, but Hannibal said it’s never too young to start!” You exclaimed.

“Should I be concerned?”

[rippersz]

𝖠𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺 𝖨𝗇𝖼𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍, 𝖲𝖾𝖽 𝖭𝗈𝗇 𝖮𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗍

───※ ·❆· ※───

───※ ·❆· ※───

SEQUEL TO: Que Sera, Sera

(An OC/Named Reader x Larissa Weems) (Bittersweet; Hurt/comfort; Good ending)

Title Translation: The stars incline us, they do not bind us.

───※ ·❆· ※───

“I need to tell you something.”

“You need to tell me a lot of things.”

They were in a ‘school-owned van’ according to Larissa. She was driving, probably leading Odette to Hell, or maybe the Underworld, or even(if she was lucky), to California. Or New York.

Oh the thought of that was bittersweet. New York… New York… Somehow, Larissa managed to bruise her favorite memory. Making it hard to touch- to think of. Although maybe it was her own fault. If she weren’t so emotional, so easily attached, so much this and that, then… well. Then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Maybe she could have separated the woman from the memory. Maybe if she were a bit more dramatic, and wanted to make her companion hurt, she’d mention her old hopes and dreams right then and there. While she had Larissa trapped. She’d tell her how she used to wish upon each star in the sky, pleading that one day she’d be able to see New York with someone by her side. With Larissa by her side. Experiencing Times Square in the early morning; walking around Central Park until their feet hurt; stopping by an expensive bar to share a shot before losing themselves in the oily heaven of a fast food restaurant. They could’ve seen a movie. Or a show of some sort. They could have gone on a holiday - to see fireworks. They could have lounged in a well air-conditioned hotel room, watching TV and sharing stories. They could’ve seen the stars. The water. The lights from afar. They could have witnessed the world while sitting beside the one person they met so unceremoniously. So randomly. So… fatefully.

“I know,” Larissa’s voice cut into her thinking.

She held back a scowl. Since Odette agreed to hear her out, the two of them had calmed down. The tears were long gone, but that only made room for tension and suspense. Odette wasn’t sure what she’d hear and Larissa wasn’t sure what she’d say. Sorry wouldn’t be enough. Both of them knew that.

“…Well, are you gonna explain now or later?” She grumbled. Her arms had been crossed since the very moment she sat down, sending the world a message that read: Odette is very unhappy! But really the only one who needed to know that was sitting at her side, a center console being the only thing separating them.

Larissa held back a sigh.

“I’d prefer that you have all of my attention. Is that alright with you?” Her voice was soft, restrained; revealing the fact that she was trying oh so hard not to be placating. And mean. And desperate. Really, all she wanted to do was grovel - to dispel Odette of her negative emotions… but she knew it would come in time. And she knew she’d understand. Somehow. Someway.

And of course she was well aware of just how terribly their sweet bridge burned… just how charred and unrecognizable it was… just how broken. Fixing it would be hard. Piecing it back together… holding Odette’s fragile heart in her hands… It was an honor to have the heart in person, but it certainly made her task more daunting. Having to look into the beauty of her hazel eyes, having to spill the last bits of her life out on a platter - just to serve to the woman she gave up. Even though, at the time, she knew she’d regret it. And she was right. Regret it, she did. Regret it, she did.

“Fine.”

-

The rest of the ride was quiet. Words died on their tongues; false starts were thrown to the ground. Odette was pretty sure Larissa was thinking hard about what she was going to say - and Larissa was pretty sure Odette was thinking hard about if she’d cry or not. There was a time, when they were still in the thick of their friendship, where Odette didn’t like crying. She was rather obstinate back then - always set in her ways, always eager to explain her opinion, always desperate to be heard; it was amusing at the time. Amusing and comforting. Familiar. Intimate. Old. And gone. Long gone. Carried by the wind, whisked away into the past, lost to the passage of everything. Destroyed by actions and events both in and out of her control. Decimated by Fate.

Always by Fate.

Cruel, unforgiving, horrid Fate…

…Loving, precious, beautiful Fate.

Fate that pulled them together, brought them to the same sea, and then pushed them apart, sending them to different lands. Only to have the tides take them right back to where they started. Floating in each other’s orbits. The Milky Way and Andromeda galaxies, destined- constantly- to smash into each other - to collide in a cosmic event that tore the universe in two. To meet beneath the setting sun, fated to say hello and goodbye. Hello and goodbye. Hello and goodbye.

Hello, Odette’s eyes read- warm and glimmering and welcoming and brilliant.

Goodbye, Larissa’s gaze responded- cool and detached and secretive, hiding hiding hiding all she felt.

Every emotion. Every bit of her soul. Allowing Odette to claw at her chambers and open her up a bit more, giving her permission to pull laughs and stories and memories. Letting her break through Larissa’s walls…… only to shove her out again. Violently. Pushing her off the edge of the abyss. And never looking back.

Or always looking back - depending on how one viewed it. Her dreams, for example, featuring getting another letter from Odette and finally sending one back; or her everyday desires, how cluttered her mind was with all of their words. Their thoughts. Feelings. Maybe her quiet longing meant she reminisced constantly. Or perhaps it was just a testament to her pathetic behavior. Always the coward, wasn’t she? Nevermore’s brave headmistress, equipped to take care of business matters and student issues; strong enough to lead a school with her gloved hands.

But not strong enough to send a letter. Just one. Pre-written, too. Enveloped, as well. But never sent.

God, how pathetic could a woman get?

-

“Please, come in,” Larissa spoke softly as she unlocked the door to her office and stood aside, welcoming Odette with a stiff body and pounding heart.

Naturally, the smaller woman was hesitant. Hesitant and angry. Ticked off. Pissed.

“Why didn’t you tell me you work at Nevermore?” Odette growled, storming into the office and approaching the desk before she whirled around and faced Larissa with a glare.

The tone of her voice- the accusation, the implication, the veiled disgust- had Larissa flinching; her heart nearly spazzing out in macabre surprise. And as if sling-shotted into defense, the principal let the door close harshly behind her while she straightened her back and fixed her shoulders and lifted her head, eyes ablaze with disbelief and rage.

“I suggest you fix your tone immediately,” she spat, “I don’t take kindly to any amount of disrespect aimed toward me, my students, or my line of work, Odette. I don’t care who you are. I don’t care how long it’s been. Do I make myself clear?” Larissa’s expression was twisted into one of fury. Her hands were clenched into fists, her chest was heaving, her eyes were wide. Wide wide wide, staring at Odette as if she could barely recognize her. As if she were a stranger. As if all of their letters, their words, their love? would turn to ash should Odette dare to speak out against outcasts- should she dare to speak out against her family.

But she wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t. Odette was still the same woman she was in their letters. She was still respectful, still full of humor, still willing to listen listen listen and learn learn learn and love love love. She was just hurt. Torn apart in some ways. Picked at by Larissa’s clumsy hands, ripped at by her nails, pushed to the ground and stomped on… and not on purpose. She didn’t mean to hurt her, of course. She didn’t mean to break Odette’s heart. She didn’t mean to turn her life around. She didn’t mean to mean so much.

But she did. Whatever she intended to be didn’t matter because she did. She did mean the world. And she did hurt her old friend. And that old friend did come back to her. She’d always come back to her. She’d always want her. Odette knew that. But Larissa… well the fire that sparked within her eyes spoke to some uncertainty. To some mistrust. She never told her much about her job - she never told her much about herself. White lies were easily crafted through pen and ink. Avoiding questions could be a skill perfected. Memories, stories, conversations were different from sharing personal information. Working at Nevermore, for example, was serious and private… and risky. There was a chance that if she had mentioned it in the past, she wouldn’t have ever received a response from Odette at all. And that would have been the end of it. But since she kept it close to her heart, since she referred to her own unconventional looks in the vaguest sense possible, she had perhaps saved herself from a heartbreak far more bitter than the one she actually experienced.

Nevertheless - Odette’s annoyed expression fell instantaneously.

“No no no,” she began, swift and hurried and surprisingly soft, oddly reminiscent of their letters, as she tried to rectify her mistake. “No no that’s not what I- I didn’t mean it like that,” her hands pinwheeled, “I just meant- well usually working at Nevermore Academy would call for some mention, wouldn’t it? How could you just- I dunno- how could you just keep that from someone, Larissa?” It was clear that she was trying to tread the line carefully. Not step too far to one side and not fall onto the other; wishing that perhaps they’d just stayed in the middle of the street after all. Seclusion seemed far too intimate.

She’d spent all that time not knowing Larissa’s face and loving her anyway. How on Earth was she supposed to be normal in her company after finally seeing her? How could the Gods place someone like that in her path?

How could she possibly love her even more?

“I was uncertain. I didn’t know if you’d be very receptive or… kind.” Larissa’s response was measured but hesitant- like she finally realized just how silly she sounded.

“Kind?” Odette slipped her bag off of her shoulder and placed it on the wooden desk she leaned on - right before crossing her arms and shooting her old friend a look. “What do you mean kind? Was I ever unkind? Was I mean?” Hazel eyes rolled within her head. “Just say what you really want to say, Larissa. Stop beating around the fuckin’ bush.” It hurt her to be so assertive, to be so rude, but she was aching. And desperate to forgive.

Oddly enough, the no nonsense tone seemed to sober up the principal quite quickly, leaving her to take a deep breath and nod as she edged further into the room. It was her office, she could do what she wanted… but Odette was there. And for some reason, things were different when Odette was there. Things felt less like her own as she felt less secure. Because everything was her fault. And guilt was eating her alive. And Odette looked so damn beautiful even when she was upset.

“Okay.” Larissa finally decided, throwing her heart to the wolves. “Okay.” An elegant hand went out and gestured toward the couch near the fireplace as she glanced away from Odette’s withering expression. “Will you please take a seat and make yourself comfortable? I can make some tea or-”

“I’m okay, thanks,” she was cut off.

The sharp tone had Larissa deflating, heart panging with guilt as she hid her instinctive desire to pout. Kindness was not something she deserved, no, but Odette did not have to make it so difficult. She did not have to make the entire process, explanation and apology and all, so grating and awkward. Or maybe she did. Larissa wouldn’t know. Larissa never had to listen to the reasons why her old pen pal, her old friend, suddenly stopped responding to her. Larissa never had to experience the pain of abandonment like that and Larissa never had to stumble upon said old friend and wonder if she was even worth pursuing anymore. No, she never had to do what Odette did.

But she did have to make it right.

So she nodded, reached into her purse, and fished out a key.

“Then if you’ll give me a moment, I’ll be with you. There’s something I have to fetch first,” and without waiting for a response, Larissa ducked out of the room and walked into the hall - leaving Odette alone with her thoughts.

The exit was very abrupt, but Odette’s more optimistic tendencies told her to be patient with Larissa and allow her to collect herself. If she didn’t deem the explanation enough, then she’d simply walk out. She’d simply walk out, close the door behind her, find her way back to the Academy entrance, and book an Uber or something to get her back to the cabin. It would hurt, she knew. It would really really hurt. But it would be necessary. Some people are not supposed to know each other for life; some people are better left separated. They mixed like salt and sugar in their letters - unable to tell each other apart as Odette’s sass rubbed off on Larissa and Larissa’s vocabulary rubbed off on Odette. The age-old study of transferred traits between individuals in frequented close environments was only proven within their friendship. But being face to face was entirely different. Larissa was gorgeous, first of all. Such long legs and porcelain skin and perfect snowy hair and refreshing floral perfume and red lips and blue eyes and velvety rich English tone. So lovely. So out of Odette’s league…

Letting out a relenting sigh, black sneakers took her over to the couch Larissa had gestured to. She suddenly felt so drained. Like the entire mess of bumping into her old friend had just gripped her vitality in both hands and tugged it away from her. If Larissa felt the same, it didn’t show. Though then again, Odette had a feeling that she didn’t let many things show in the first place. Emotion was weakness in an authoritative position - especially when the one feeling emotions was a woman. A beautiful woman. A beautiful woman who probably ran her school with much prestige and pride. Because that’s just the type of soul she was; Odette could remember that with fondness. The woman’s determination. Her success in everything she put her mind to. It was admirable. It had Odette looking around, taking in the dazzling decor of the office she sat in - feeling some sort of warmth coil within the corners of her soul. It was only a moment later, after she admired the mirrors on the ceiling and the walls and the golden details and high-backed leather rolling chair behind the long mahogany desk, when she realized that it was pride. She was full of it. Pride. Pride for Larissa and only Larissa.

Good memories of the other woman’s childhood were few and far between. Life had been difficult for her; being cast into her brother’s shadow, being outed by a trusted girl that she kissed one too many times, forced to remain in second place during her school days as her roommate took gold every. single. time. Her life had been frustrating. Maddening. The paper did very little to muffle the hurt in Larissa’s heart - Odette could feel the scorn and sadness even from California.

But in that moment, soaking up the lavish office Larissa found herself spending most of her days in, Odette could feel nothing but pride and relief. Larissa deserved to have her job. She broke her heart, yes, but she still deserved the world. And in her own way, she had it. Odette could not give her anything more. Except maybe acceptance. Except maybe understanding. But that was a thin rope she’d be walking on - balancing carefully - desperate not to ruin everything but understanding that she was allowed to be upset. Just because Larissa showed remorse didn’t mean anything.

Or it meant everything.

“I apologize for the wait-,” speak of the angel, “-I just felt it was necessary to pull this out first.” Larissa huffed as she walked through the office door. She seemed a bit out of breath while shrugging out of her coat and getting herself finally situated. And ever the curious soul, Odette turned to peer over the back of the couch with wide hazel eyes.

The ‘this’ Larissa was referring to was a box. Held in those strong hands, bare of gloves and delightfully elegant and long, was a box. It was small and dark with a golden locking clasp and metal detailing along the edges. It seemed mid-evil. Important. And Larissa held it tightly, still taking care not to scuff it or damage it as she sauntered over to the couch and took a seat on the opposite side. Odette watched intently as Larissa’s hands moved to cradle the box, keeping it close to her body like it was a precious child. The rest of her was a large contrast to her soft touch - she was sharp; all tensed shoulders, straight back, and grave features. It was clear just how uncomfortable she was. The clench of her jaw and line between her fair brows said enough. But despite that, and despite the way she perched herself on the edge of the couch, clearly not willing to settle into comfort just yet, Larissa still took a deep breath and cleared her throat. Then fixed her gaze onto Odette - who had yet to look away. It was hard not to stare. She’d never had that problem before, but with Larissa… well. Everything seemed to be different with Larissa. Including apologies.

“The last letter you sent me was on October 28th of last year. 2024…”

Odette watched silently as Larissa took a deep breath and began unclasping the pretty metal lock on the box.

“…that was after a very troubling time in my life…”

Porcelain hands curled into the depths, collecting its contents - all of which were hidden from Odette’s wanting eyes.

“…a time in which I was unable to respond.”

Her blood ran cold. She didn’t even let Larissa continue before her mouth was falling open.

“Why.” It wasn’t phrased as a question. It was phrased as a demand. Why. Why why why. What happened. Who hurt Larissa. Goddammit- she knew it! She knew something happened! She knew her friend wasn’t safe. She knew-

“I was stabbed. With a syringe of nightshade,” Larissa’s eyes snapped up and Odette felt her heart crack in two at the sight of the barely restrained agony in that midnight blue gaze. “And I fell into a coma… so I couldn’t respond.”

Odette didn’t know what to say. All she could do was frown. And blink. And try to push down the full-body ache that ran right alongside the tears fighting for control behind her eyelids. Well- well of course Larissa couldn’t respond. She- god she could have died! She nearly did! If Odette were in her shoes, their correspondence would have been the last thing on her mind. If Odette were in her shoes, healing and survival would be key. If Odette were in her shoes, she- well… she wouldn’t know because she wasn’t. And since she wasn’t, all she could do was swallow her tongue and allow her old friend to continue speaking.

“But, even so,” Larissa sighed, “I recovered. And still didn’t reach out.” Her hands were fidgeting behind the lid of the box while her eyes searched Odette’s, wading through the hazel warmth, trying to find purchase there. “And for that… I have never been more sorry.”

The hands moved. The lid closed. Something was placed in between them, resting on the soft cushions of the couch, delicate and familiar. All of them colored differently. All of them with a unique wax seal. All of them written to the same woman. All of them opened politely; all of them sliced clean across the top with a dull blade - leaving the seals untouched. Leaving the words unbothered. Still preserved in their sentimental beauty. Forever dedicated to Larissa Weems.

Even while she rested in Limbo, dancing within the grey space between life and death. Unknowingly fighting for her life while Odette cried into her pillow every night and tried not to think too hard about why the woman she loved just suddenly up and left her.

But she didn’t leave her. Not willingly, at least. Not with her permission. No, her life was nearly stolen from her body - ripped from beneath her hands by a wicked person that Odette wished she could meet so she could deck them in the fucking face. But she couldn’t, because that time was long gone and Larissa had already made her recovery and the other person was probably (hopefully) dead. So to put it simply, she was ultimately, a bit too late. And she couldn’t rewind and go back and tell her old self to send more letters for when Larissa woke up. She couldn’t go back and say “She’s hurt. Give her time.”

…But maybe it was good that she couldn’t. Maybe it was good that she couldn’t say a word. Because even when Larissa did have her time back… she didn’t say a word. She was probably recovering psychologically, but she didn’t say a word. No “Hey Odette, I’m alright. Here’s my number so I can text you while I recover from my coma.” No “Odette, I miss you. I got very hurt but I’m okay now. How are you?” No “I miss you I miss you I miss you I love you thank you for loving me and missing me back.” Not a bloody word.

Odette felt the tears spill over before she could stop them. Her eyes were stinging, her hands were shaking, her lower lip was quivering and she hated getting emotional but when she looked up into Larissa’s eyes, seeing the surprise and the horror and the guilt guilt guilt…… well she couldn’t suck the sadness back in. The tears were already down to her chin - and her mouth was already moving before she could stop it.

“I’m sorry.” It was hoarse- whispered- choked out into the tense silence of the office air. “I’m so so sorry, La-rissa,” her voice crack was embarrassing but she ignored it, choosing instead to watch the way the older woman’s expression turned into one of utter grief.

“No. No no no Odette you should not be apologizing,” and she shuffled closer, moving the box and the letters onto the table so she could grasp Odette’s forearms and hold them gently in her clammy hands. “Do you hear me, Odette? Absolutely not. No apologies. You did nothing wrong. I-” Larissa swallowed, eyes wide with urgent understanding and the intense need to comfort. “-I am sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. I am sorry I didn’t respond. I was just- I was-” but she couldn’t say it. Her lips pressed together, firm in a hard line, and her brow furrowed; like the words teetered on the edge of her tongue but her teeth were thick iron bars, keeping them from spilling out.

Odette frowned, heart aching terribly as she moved to brush away her tears. With a sniff, she asked, “You were what? What were you Larissa?”

And the woman’s shoulders drooped. A sigh left her lips. Her eyelids fluttered, weighed by the implications behind her words.

“I- I was… frightened,” her hands moved away from Odette and went tangling themselves together in her lap. “I didn’t know if you’d- if I sent another letter, if you’d realize that our correspondence was not what you wanted after all. I mean the letter you sent originally wasn’t even addressed to me, so why would you want to… why would you want to dive back into something you finally escaped?” And Larissa’s tone grew so soft, mumbled beneath her breath, that Odette had to strain to hear. “I was scared that you’d realize you didn’t know me. And wouldn’t want to be- wouldn’t want to talk with me… anymore.”

Odette blinked.

Then blinked again.

“Are you an idiot?”

Honestly she didn’t mean to say it. It was one of those moments where something lingered in the back of the mind and you told yourself not to say it but you got so caught up in not trying to say it that you just said it anyway. And it was quite comical really; in her sad dramatic haze, Odette looked at her old friend with a queer expression and a tilt of her head. It had Larissa’s eyes widening- the tears falling down her cheeks but no longer sparked by sadness; they fell just to fall.

“Excuse me?” Her lips parted in shock. Odette wanted to kiss them.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to- god-,” she sniffled and wiped away the rest of her tears before fixing Larissa with a sheepish smile. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that, it’s just… well… I’m not really sure how you could think that. I’m not the- the type. To regret, I mean. And certainly not the type to regret you. I mean you’re so- you’re just so- ya know.” Odette’s hands rolled over and over in the air, utterly desperate to get her point across in one big huff.

But Larissa had absolutely no clue what the fuck she was talking about.

“Odette-”

“You’re just so amazing!” Larissa flinched at the outburst as the younger woman stared with wide watery hazel eyes. “Amazing! And smart! And so eloquent- and I’m just so lucky I was ever able to be your friend in the first place! And I even- I-” she looked down, glancing at the letters on the coffee table with fondness, “I kept your letters too.” She smiled. “All of them. I mean they’re hidden away now, to avoid any sadness ya know but- they’re still there. They’re still there. They always have been…”

“Odette-”

“…And like honestly, that should come as no surprise! Your writing is lovely, really and- and you’re lovely! You’re-” she took a deep breath, her shoulders heaving with the strength of it, “perfect…”

“Alright that’s not-”

“So beautiful, too-”

“Oh- thank you, but-”

“And funny and creative-”

“Yes, thank you Odette-”

“And sparkly! Strong! Sophisticated and intelligent; god Larissa you don’t even know. I’ve been hooked ever since that first letter. And then the second? Girl, I was gone. Just absolutely-” Odette pressed a few fingertips to her head, at an angle, before theatrically throwing her hand away, “-gone. Totally out of this world type of gone. And I’m so happy you wanted to be my friend after that- I’m so- I’m so lucky that you didn’t think I was too nerdy or annoying or rambly or- or anything but myself! And- and-”

“Odette!” Larissa shouted, surging forward to wrap her hands around the other woman’s biceps.

“And I think I’m in love with you!”

…

…

“..What?”

Pale hands slipped away from shapely arms.

“No-” Odette’s face fell, her expression slowly replaced with one of sheer undisturbed terror. “No no no-” She began shaking her head. Back and forth and back and forth. “No no no no- that wasn’t supposed to come out- not now. Not here-”

Larissa was frozen. I think I’m in love with you. I think I’m in love with you. I think I’m in love with you. I think I’m in love with you. I think I’m in love with you. I think I’m in love with you. I think I’m in love with you. I think I’m in love with you. I think I’m in love with-

“Nono no no no oh god Larissa I’m sorry- I’m so sorry I didn’t mean- God I’m just, I’m just fucking this all up! Please ignore me. Please don’t even-”

Larissa watched distantly as Odette’s chest rose and fell with a heaviness, expanding and compressing and falling flat as she hyperventilated. So panicked, she was. So uncertain. Even though she finally- finally- told Larissa all she had been wanting to hear for so long.

I think I’m in love with you.

A smile crept across red lips.

“-I promise I’m not a creep, I promise the reason why I was writing to you did not just rely on the fact that I love you. Actually, just forget I said that! Forget I admitted anything because it’s- it’s not true and-”

“I think I love you too.”

“-and whatever I’m saying is just spilling out for no reason because I’m nervous I’m seeing you again and- and-……. What?” Odette gaped, eyebrows shooting up to the heavens.

Larissa found it endearing. A warm blush ran to her cheeks.

“I said,” came her stuttered breath, “that I think I love you too.” And with that, a slender palm was running along the curve of Odette’s soft jaw and beckoning her closer. It was slow, it was loving, it led her into heaven as Larissa’s blue gaze melted and her red lips parted - so beautiful - so wanting of Odette’s affection.

“What- is happening right now…” the redhead murmured, eyes wide as their lips brushed together oh so softly-

“Do you want me to stop?” Larissa spoke, hesitant and in need of reassurance.

Odette blinked, glancing from one blue eye to the next before she cleared her throat and placed a palm on Larissa’s shoulder. It kept her in place while she leaned back.

“No just- just pause. I have to show you something first too. Is that okay? Just like two seconds, don’t even move.” Then she was popping up from the couch and going over to the desk, immediately bending to rifle through her purse for something.

Larissa watched her hurried movements with keen eyes, feeling the thump of her heart in her ears. She was planning on kissing Odette senseless, but clearly the other woman had different plans. What she possibly could have stopped her for was beyond Larissa’s comprehension, leaving her frazzled and on edge until the redhead went ‘Yes! Got it.’ and came dashing back to her side. There was a soft smile on her face when she wiggled closer, pressing their thighs together before depositing something in Larissa’s lap.

“Read it… it’s important.”

Larissa glanced into the hazel eyes of her companion. Only warmth existed there. No betrayal. No contempt. Nothing but love and acceptance and a soft swirl of melancholy. There was no reason not to trust her. There was no reason not to open the letter in her lap.

So she did just that- and squinted as she read the unfamiliar handwriting.

'Dottie,

I’ll start with saying that it hurts that you’ve found someone else, but I’m also really happy for you. It’s like a weird mix of feelings. You know what I mean. Anyway, she sounds great. Like really great. Don’t be sorry for going into detail; you have every right to do so. Maybe, in future though if we keep talking, don’t mention her so much? You used to talk about me that way too once upon a time, but it was also different. Like now it feels more… real. Probably because I’m not the one on the receiving end (of your romantic love at least), so it’s not the same. But that’s okay! That’s okay. You deserve all the good feelings, Dottie. You deserve all the good love. This ‘L’ person sounds cool. A little too formal for me, but cool. I hope she treats you better than I did. And if it just so happens that she drops your heart, tell me - cuz I’ll always wanna pick up the pieces. Glad you’re doing okay.

Talk next time, Mirabelle’

As if sensing that she finished, Odette’s voice came in a soft whisper. “She wrote back somewhere around mid-March. I didn’t um… I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. I didn’t wanna stop talking. So I just sort of responded and set her down gently and said look… I’ve found someone else. And I really cherish this person… and because of that, I can’t let them go.” A pale hand snuck around Larissa’s wrist; it was warm while running up to her palm and slowly interlocking their fingers. “And you uh- you did drop my heart,” Larissa grimaced at the reminder, “But I didn’t wanna reach out to her. Cuz like, at that point, the little pieces had little L’s written all over them and someone with an M name just can’t put something like that back together…… ya know? Am I making sense?”

Larissa turned to look at the redhead, giving her a soft look as she started speaking again.

“Cuz like if I’m not, just tell me. I know it’s really weird I didn’t say anything. But I didn’t wanna lose you and maybe I was scared too that you’d realize you didn’t want this anymore and- I- I dunno. Like you’d come to your senses as well and-”

“For such a beautiful writer, you ramble off track quite often. Did you know that?” Larissa interrupted, not unkindly but instead with a playful little smile on her red lips.

The sound of that low voice had Odette pausing. A rosy blush grew across her face.

“Yeah I- it’s a habit. Sorry…”

“I didn’t say that for an apology,” Larissa shook her head, turning to give all of her attention to the woman next to her. “I said it because I find it fascinating. I find you fascinating. Utterly so.”

And there wasn’t even a hint of dishonesty in her warm expression. Odette could hardly believe it. Her? Fascinating? When Larissa was so… Larissa? Goodness. Well. She shot her companion a shaky smile before giving her a lazy shrug.

“I mean I’m not- ya know. Crazy cool or anything.”

“You are to me,” Larissa offered, amusement lacing her tone as she slowly leaned forward. “To me, you’re cooler than ice.”

Odette let out a little scoff of a laugh, looking over the other woman’s features with love. Oh those blue eyes… endless… and that strong nose… divine… and those red lips… plush… getting closer…closer… so close…

“Just kiss me already,” Odette breathed, her arms sliding up around Larissa’s neck, lazily draping over her shoulders. “Please.”

“Well since you asked so nicely~”

───※ ·❆· ※───

I don't like this so much but I hope it's alright. Tell me what you think? And do let me know if you'd like to see more Odette. Love you much! - Rip x

(P.S. I know Que Sera, Sera is spanish/italian and this is latin. I know.)

───※ ·❆· ※───

[rashoumon-homo]

- Bottom Dazai Week 2024 -

Day 5 - Burned Bridges

5/17/24 - “You’re pathetic.” // Begging

Dazai is on the run from the Port Mafia, and being alone is starting to weigh on him.

♡ ♡ ♡

The motel was dingy and dirty and cheap. Dazai had paid $25 in cash at the front desk for a room. The receptionist, a rail-thin old woman, thankfully didn’t even look up from her gossip magazine as she counted the bills and handed him a room key.

The room had a single queen-size bed. Moth-eaten curtains covered a window across from the door. When Dazai poked his head into the bathroom and turned on the light, several roaches scuttled under the cabinets. He sighed and turned the light back off.

It hadn’t even been a week that he’d been on the run since leaving the Port Mafia and he was already sick of it. Sleeping in ratty motels when he could, and squatting in abandoned buildings when he couldn’t. Stealing food from open-air market stalls on busy days when he could blend into the crowd, or digging through restaurant dumpsters for salvageable leftovers on the bad days. He also had no one to talk to- he was completely and utterly alone, which was regrettably weighing on him more than the physical conditions.

Dazai took off his tie and shirt and hung them up in the small closet. No coat- he’d burned that shit in the same fire that decimated Chuuya’s car. Burning bridges, fresh start, all that good shit. He slipped off his shoes and took off his pants, hanging them up as well. He’d have to get to a laundromat soon, everything was starting to smell.

Left in only his boxers, he flopped onto the bed. The mattress was lumpy and the sheets were musty, but he couldn’t complain. At least he’d be sleeping on a real bed.

The downside to being safe, if even momentarily, was that it gave space for his thoughts to wander. Lately he’d been having nightmares about Oda’s death, but today his thoughts went in a different direction. One plagued by visions of red hair and blue eyes. Of a face that so often scowled but could twist into the most breathtaking smile.

♡ ♡ ♡

Continue reading here!

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[thatbadadvice]

Help! My Mother-In-Law Buys A New Outfit Every Time She Pours Jet Fuel on Chilean Sea Bass and Throws Their Carcasses, Flaming, Into the Rainforests from the Open Belly of Her Private Plane

Care and Feeding, Slate, 1 May 2023:

Dear Care and Feeding, My husband and I have two children (2 years and 6 months). We recently moved back to my husband’s hometown to pursue a career opportunity for me. My husband has been home with the kids but was just offered a job. We found a daycare, but it can only take the kids three days a week right now (we’re on waitlists for full-time, but it seems like it could be months or more before we find two full-time spots). My mother-in-law has generously offered to watch the kids for the other two days. Overall, she is a lovely, responsible woman, but we have some significant value differences around environmental issues and I’m not sure how to navigate them. Our household focuses heavily on environmental awareness. We drive electric cars, we compost, we limit our air conditioning, we limit our flying, we eat all leftovers, we avoid plastics whenever possible, and we buy exclusively secondhand clothing. My mother-in-law is a big fan of consumption. Her house is full of plastics. She throws away whatever is left on her plate at the end of a meal, she keeps her house so cold in the summer that I need a sweater and she drives a minivan. I’m concerned about the message it sends to the kids if we stick to our values, except when to do so would be inconvenient. How do I bridge our two very different lifestyles going forward? —Environmentalist Mama in Limbo

Dear Environmentalist Mama,

I'm not sure how you can describe a person who air-conditions her home and drives a minivan as "lovely" and "responsible" but I will assume that this planet-hating harpy has gripped you so tightly in her environmentally irresponsible talons that you cannot see the wildfire-ridden forest for the trees (which she is personally cutting down for fun and profit). Do not let yourself be hoodwinked by promises of familial love and generous offers of free child care, as if these things matter more than assiduously composting! This woman is a monster who is single-handedly destroying the only earth your precious babies have to live on. Imagine the tragedies that will unfold if your children experience a loving connection with a person who purchases items made of plastic? They could come to believe that other humans are whole people with their own interior lives and decision-making apparatuses and values instead of ugly nasty baddies who dare to oppose Mommy's One True And Only Way?

You simply cannot bridge two lifestyles as different as the two you describe here. On the one hand, we have your blameless and perfect eco-conscious little household of brave, Dumpster-diving Oliver Twists, and on the other hand, we have an ethically compromised, unscrupulous, indefensibly ignorant shitbird who probably barbecues her factory-farmed meats over asbestos tiles and flies to Australia to distribute the ashes over the Great Barrier Reef. If Planet Earth does not spin out into an apocalyptic ball of climate disaster by the time your children are old enough to be knifing their peers over tire fires for their share of rat rations, it will be because your uniquely virtuous family had the moral fortitude to drive an electric car and limit your flying. After all, electricity comes from magical climate-neutral fairies and the jet fuel industry is waiting with bated breath for the day that you ground your family and send an international behemoth into wholesale free-fall.

If there is one guaranteed way forward through the climate crisis, it is to silo ourselves into individual categories of "good people" who use paper straws (like you! you are so good!) and "amoral reprobates" (such as your mother-in-law, who sucks!) who do not. The very future of humanity depends on demonizing and shaming other people until they behave as we want them to, privileging individual actions over collective resistance to and accountability for the worst global offenders, and rejecting community-building opportunities in favor of being the only best good person ever.

Build no bridge with this woman! She would probably just drive over it with her minivan, and then the blood of billions will be on your hands.

[basil-the-scorned]

Trent Baretta and Orange Cassidy Drabble

Don't know where this came from, but is definitely after full gear. (and written halfway before the chaos happened)

He's been keeping up with AEW since Orange took him out, and slowly the feeling he felt towards Orange kind of…dimmed. He's not over the monkey wrench to the head--- that takes a hell of a lot to get over---but he guesses it was payback that was coming since it was swung at Chuck's ankle.

The Orange he was painting in his head, all high and mighty and for himself, was nowhere to be found this month. The only proof of what hes been saying about Orange was through Mox, and months ago it would be exactly what he wanted to hear. That he was a snake, cold-blooded and unnerved. But Trent had the somewhat pleasure to know Orange long enough to know he was far from that right now.

So he made himself come a few minutes away from the pay-per-view a day later, when everyone else left to go to their own houses and apartments in the city. He went to the same old apartment that's now a hotel and knocked on the same door he remembered.

The wind was blowing in his ears, and he was ready to turn around when the door swung open. Whatever saying Trent had on his mind died when he saw the faint sight of red near Orange's head.

Then he saw the white of the door slam in his face.

It was a stupid idea to come out here. He knows it, the universe above him knows it enough to keep making his nerves not act right when he thinks about it. Yet he kept standing there with a slight hope that maybe it would open back up. He was also prepared for the bridge he burned to fully be in ashes.

He was still surprised to see the door creek right back open with eyes that told a worse story: a puffy square of red around his eyes and the bridge of his nose. It looked weird compared to the chill in his eyes, still not expecting Trent of all people to be knocking at his door. But he just stepped a small enough space away from the door, barely enough room for Trent to walk into the hotel room.

Before he could even say a sentence, Trent heard than saw feet rushing towards him before his own feet were knocked back into the air. He felt something crush his side and a rush of air blowing through his ears as he was falling to wherever he was about to land hard on. Thank God all he did was fall for a living, because he was used to the blow on his back as he landed something that he hoped was a bed.

What was was able to focus on though was Orange now on top of him, face now matching in red. The panting was the only sound that filled his ears besides the air conditioning above him. Then suddenly, that same AC cut off and it made something in Orange set off.

Before he could even process it, Orange's fist was connecting to his chest. (Or nose. One thing for sure, it hurted like hell) "Ow, fu-" Trent couldn't even finish before another fist hits him, then another one, each one going to different places, so he couldn't even know how to block them well. Random, some soft, some hard enough to have him hiss and groan out in pain. Some getting the arm he finally put up, others at his chest. One got him good in the gut, and he felt some of the air leave him. Unpredictable, too much for Trent to guess so he reached out and grabbed one of Orange's rounding fist coming for his chest again.

"Stop!" He yelled out, now panting as well with his body glowing with pain. Orange's eyes were wild, his hair not laid down as much. The grip Trent had was broken by a surprise fist to his nose. "Fuck!" This time, he knew something was going to be dripping down soon.

But before Orange could give another blow, Trent blindly reached out and grabbed a solid soft object that he was hoping was a pillow--either that, or something that he could knock Orange off of him at this point--and swung it around. Thankfully, he saw the square pillow hit Orange in the shoulder, and he lowered it to where his face was.

He could taste the metal running down his throat and starting to feel it run down to his lip. A reminder of how bad this could go if he wasn't careful enough. He was basically giving Orange ammo. Softer, yes, but still something that can be used against him.

He felt his only protection be pulled out of his hands, having the slight it does something else to save him.

It does save him, by being bulkier and easier to block with his arm. It also finally made sounds come out of Orange now instead of just Trent, each swing came a grunt or some kind of half yell. Eventually, the swings didn't thud against his arm as much, and the final blow was more of a push against his stomach once again.

Orange's chest was heaving, his face still just as red but so was his eyes now. He looked….exhausted underneath all the anger he just threw out of there. All Trent could do was just lay back, not really knowing what's next.

"Why?" A question, rough and scratchy, came out of Orange's throat. The pillow was lifted again, and he asked again a bit louder. His voice croaked with every question, like it always did when he didn't talk for a long time. As Trent was hit again and again, he kept getting asked why and Trent tried to fill in the blanks himself. Why was he here, why did he come after he lost something important again, why wasn't he with Don or even Mox instead of here, why, why, why?

A final soft blow and then the pillow stilled on his chest. Small half stripes of blood was now on it, and again Orange had the upper hand. His whole weight was still pressing hard, not even giving Trent a chance to flip him over--he wasn't drunk or cozy enough for him to not care.

He cared a bit too much tonight. It's all in his shoulders and ruined eyes that was still glaring at Trent with a tired fury. Then it was something was cut off, and Orange dropped on top of Trent and the pillow.

[handeaux]

More Than A Daredevil, Ruth Neely Paved The Way For Cincinnati’s Women Journalists

When Ruth Neely France died in 1956 Cincinnati’s ink-stained wretches tumbled all over themselves to effusively memorialize Neely’s non-nonsense style and her outrageous adventures in the quest for a front-page headline. Some of the anecdotes were actually true. A few would have brought a smile to Neely’s face. In her day, she was not above a dash of hyperbole to keep her readers entranced.

Did she really climb to the top of the Suspension Bridge? Pilot a dirigible? Slide down a pocket fire escape from the tallest building in town? Yes, Ruth Neely did all this and more.

The daughter of an attorney, Neely was born in Kentucky around 1875, received an unusually thorough education for a woman at that time and taught in the Covington schools for several years. One day, she walked into the offices of the old Cincinnati Commercial Tribune and talked herself into an unpaid quasi-internship ferreting out bits of neighborhood news. Within a few months, the editor offered her a full-time position.

Neely was not the first woman hired by Cincinnati newspapers. A bevy of mostly unsigned scribes had compiled the society columns for decades prior and the Commercial Tribune’s competitor, the Cincinnati Post, already had a powerhouse “girl reporter” in Jessie M. Partlon. Neely’s influence, however, was unmatched and she was a force to be reckoned with for more than half a century.

As Miss Partlon discovered at the Post, newspapers considered women suitable for only two assignments – social tidbits or stunts. Miss Neely (she employed her birth name throughout her career even after marrying traveling salesman William France in 1912) dove into the latter role, quickly gaining a reputation as a dauntless daredevil.

Cincinnati was enthralled by a 1909 air show out at the Latonia racetrack. Glenn Curtiss was there, buzzing the grandstands while demonstrating maneuvers. So was Cromwell Dixon, a 17-year-old aeronaut with his motor-powered dirigible. All of the other aircraft were one-seater biplanes of various makes, requiring a great deal of skill and mechanical aptitude to fly. Cromwell Dixon’s dirigible was little more than a floating rowboat with a bamboo seat. Neely hopped aboard and drifted upward and out over a lake. She wrote:

“Not more than a decade ago I skated on the same lake. If, at that time, I had glanced upward and said to my companion, ‘Look, there goes a woman in an airship,’ I am sure he would have thought me mad. Yet it is but 10 years.”

Neely’s stunts gained her fame but exasperated her family and friends. She was undercover, investigating conditions in the women’s wing of the Cincinnati Workhouse, when a delegation from the Woman’s City Club arrived for a tour. According to the Cincinnati Post [9 September 1999]:

“The visitors were pleased to find the inmates in good condition and spirits – particularly one in a freshly laundered uniform ‘smiling smugly’ at them. When the club women realized who she was, they stared at each other in horrified consternation until one blurted out: ‘Mrs. Ross, it's your sister! It's Ruth!’ Mrs. Ross is said to have replied: ‘Good heavens! What on earth has she done now?’”

Among Neely’s other feats, she was the first woman in America to fly in an Army airplane to promote an enlistment drive. She climbed to the highest point on the Roebling Suspension Bridge for an interview with a worker repairing the span. He was startled but answered her questions.

Every report of Neely’s career dutifully mentioned the time she slid 34 stories from the top of the Union Central Tower, the tallest building in Cincinnati at that time, on a “wire fire escape contraption.” Well, not exactly.

Pietro “Peter” Vescovi traveled the country in 1914, demonstrating a “pocket fire escape” of his own invention, consisting of a spool of steel tape. His routine varied little from town to town. Vescovi found the tallest building in that particular burg, announced to the local newspapers that he would safely descend from the roof to the sidewalk, and collected headlines and sales. In Cincinnati, the brand-new Union Central Tower fit the bill. It was, at the time, the tallest building outside New York City.

On Friday, 30 January 1914, Vescovi stepped off a ledge on the fourth story of the Union Central Tower and glided to the pavement. Watching from the ground, Ruth Neely asked if she could give the apparatus a try. With an eye toward her own headlines, she suggested a higher launching point, so Vescovi led her to the 21st story. Fastening his steel spool to the window sill, Vescovi and Neely both stepped into space. She reported:

“We swung, swayed by the wind, slightly to eastward, affording just one hideous glimpse of the Vine street canyon. Then the breeze veered, whisking us, its plaything, westward ho. A huge mass of nothingness was disclosed, attached neatly to a bank of clouds. I closed my eyes.”

The pair alighted on the roof at the 17th floor. Neely insisting that she had clung to the unusual device so fervidly that her thumbprint dented a steel buckle on Vescovi’s harness.

Neely later flew around Cincinnati in an autogiro piloted by Amelia Earhart, and dropped her report of that flight onto the roof of the Cincinnati Post as the famed aviatrix buzzed the building.

After three decades at the newspapers, covering everything from gardening to political conventions, Neely spent a year writing and editing the three-volume “Women of Ohio,” including biographies of 1,200 women overlooked in the history books. She was an early member of the Women’s City Club, was instrumental in organizing the Cincinnati Peace League and participated in the local chapter of the Foreign Policy Association. A plaque at the Hamilton County Courthouse lists her as one of the women responsible for gaining women the vote. On her death, her good friend, Post columnist Al “Cincinnatus” Segal, opined:

“She was not the first woman, of course, to be a ‘regular reporter’ on a daily newspaper. But she had to prove, to many a skeptical male in the business, that she could use her wits and courage and come back with her story. She won her place, her journeyman’s rating, the hard way and she helped pave the way for the many women who followed her into city rooms since the early years of the century.”

[tac0tesseract]

Downtime

It was inevitable that sooner or later word got around proclaiming Emma “the computer kid” and she was absconded by the Karrakins for tech support. At least the diagnosis was simple enough: it's hot here, you idiots. Computers don't like heat. She got it, though; the printer was tied up making things more immediately important than air conditioning.

What concerned her more was that Sam wasn't there waiting for her when she got back. He'd been busy when she left, too, and for someone so insistent on being seen it was rare that he wasn't projecting. After a moment of peering down at his empty projection pad, she decided to pull the cord from her pocket, sit down against the wall, and plug into it directly.

She wasn't sure it would work without his invitation. He'd constructed this metaspace for them maybe a week ago using holographic and ontological tech “borrowed” from all their time with SSC. Much as he detested coding, he'd still done it purely of his own volition – carefully crafting it to bridge with her subjectivity suite and all her human senses. It wasn't lost on Emma how much research he had clearly put into this, and how it was for her as much as it was for him.

But the transition was as liquid as always. Today their virtual dimension took the form of the beachhead from where they'd launched toward the Velichye: neon blue sky, towering bergs of shock-white clouds, sands like sugar. There was a clock-like percussion to the waves. The breeze had that almost fishy tang that Emma was coming to learn was simply the scent of the ocean itself – perfectly, painstakingly recreated even though he himself could not smell it.

Sam sat on a rocky outcropping facing the sea with an old-fashioned paint set. The wind somehow did not reach him. His blue silk robes pooled around him in a placid mirror of the sea, and the nebula of his hair fell still along his back while his focus was elsewhere. That might have been the most curious detail of all – it meant that he, a Deimosian, was distracted by something. Emma paused a moment to send her consciousness back to her laptop, to check what programs were running. She'd pirated several digital art programs for him ages ago, but most of them had been made specifically for NHPs.

PixEL.exe was running. That one was made for humans. It meant that he was deliberately handicapping himself, painting strictly in linear time.

“Got tired of painting in MUSE, huh?” she asked as she approached.

He didn't immediately turn to look at her, but she caught the new split in his attention as he labored to maintain the illusion: paint suddenly manifested on his fingers and hands. Dream logic.

“It's more challenging this way,” he said. In here, his voice did not echo. In here, he pretended to breathe. “Creation is satisfying because it's difficult. It's an act of defiance.”

Emma grinned, taking a seat beside him. The rock was as uncomfortable as expected, but not overly so; Sam ran a considerate simulation. “And what exactly are you defying?”

“Serpent shit.” He smirked sidelong at her.

“God.” She laughed a little. “You know, I...I haven't really thought of RA, not since...everything.”

Sam gave an easy shrug, pausing to refill his brush with blue. “They're not going anywhere. Though I get the sense you haven't lost your faith.”

She hugged her knees to her chest. “Yeah, not really. It's not RA that was wrong, but how the Cousins were interpreting Them. I guess I'm just...making my own interpretations now?”

“What do you think I did?” Sam grinned, waving the brush around lazily. “ChakraChef kept coming to me, half the time with these kids not even as old as you were. And they'd kneel and make offerings, and – I won't lie, pretty nice on the ego.” The grin faded from his eyes. “And the stuff they asked me...I knew that if I slipped up, they'd run off and go kill themselves, or someone else, in my name. I couldn't explain to them that if I am some kind of angel, then RA made me just as clueless as the rest of you.”

“They liked you, though.”

“Everyone likes me. And I like to think that I kept them from being too stupid. But at the end of the day the Lessons are lost on me, too.”

“But you're still ruminating on Serpent shit?”

“Nah.” Sam turned back to his painting. “Well, maybe a little.”

“Baccara.”

“Yeah. And Radimir.”

The waves slowed, but maintained a rhythm. Somehow it sounded louder when they broke upon the shore now.

“...I think...I felt actual, physical pain back there,” came his quiet admission.

Emma stared. “But that's--”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Sam...” She reached for him without thinking about it, as she would for any human. Bless the simulation for being as thorough as it was, bless him for allowing her hand to actually connect with his arm, for finding warmth beneath the fabric as if he were...

“I'm fine. It's nothing permanent.” He smiled at her.

She watched him. “But you think it was targeted. That even though Baccara was attacking our enemies, they were also trying to hurt you, specifically.”

“Maybe.” Perhaps he saw the rage, the indignation igniting on her features, because he reached out to pull her into a hug. “Em. I'm alright. I promise.”

“You never hurt Baccara! It's bullshit!”

Bullshit, and...terrifying. The shock and confusion was the worst part about all of this. What in the galaxy could cause pain to an NHP? Even Legionspace slapfights didn't work that way.

The idea of anyone hurting Sam was...

He held her tighter, his hair falling around them both, his false heart ticking beneath her hands. He had a faint scent like a man. He was so warm. It was too perfect, too real. If only he'd been able to do this sooner. Emma balled her fists into his silken lapel and thunked her forehead against his chest.

“Would you like to see what I've been working on?” he asked. It was a deliberate change in subject, but a necessary one, perhaps; Emma knew that there wasn't really much anyone could do about Baccara, but maybe she could talk to Daughter later.

“You know I would,” she said with a half-smile, pulling away from him.

Sam chuckled and stood, sweeping his arm out such that all the canvases he'd been working on appeared around them in a semi-circle. He'd made dozens of works in the past few hours – almost all of them immersive depictions of the seascapes they'd encountered on the way to Radimir. Corals, fishes, leviathans, plants, the wrecked ship itself: once upon a time, thousands of years past, the rich detail in his work might have been described as 'Ghibli-esque' – but every subject had a sort of abstract realism to it as well, wreathed in what was best described as an aura and subtly textured with hundreds of tiny mandala fractals that could only be seen up close. It was a beautiful marriage of the real and the surreal, a hint at the way he naturally viewed the world, and that was the most valuable thing of all. Just as he worked in linear time to try and glimpse how she lived, his art allowed her to experience the same.

“Sam,” she breathed. “These are insane! You should show them to the others, I bet they'd really love them!”

“What, with the team?” He blinked. “Why?”

Emma laughed. “Because it's art, dummy. Art is supposed to be seen. Even I've put my terrible fanfics out there.”

“Hey, Solmates has done numbers,” he countered.

Her face grew hot. “I can't believe you've read that.”

“It was research.” He turned back to the canvases. “...You really think they'd enjoy it?”

“Why not? It's a beautiful reminder for those of us who went on the dive, and a lovely illustration for the folks who didn't. Besides, art is a really...humanizing thing. Maybe it'll make you seem a little less alien to our NHP holdouts.”

“Perhaps I will, then. But maybe only these. I think the ocean has become my new obsession.”

“Hyperfixating? It's almost like you're my twin.”

She grinned at him knowingly. His eyes flashed approval.

And then Sam did something he never, ever did.

He hesitated.

“...Are you busy, Emma?”

“No. Not until tomorrow, anyway. Baron Serious McFuckface wants...something from us. I'm sure he's keen to make use of all the Lancers that just miraculously fell into his lap.” She watched him. “Why?”

Sam smiled up at his paintings. The wind finally caught his hair. “I was just wondering if you'd stay here a while. I know I can't give you a real beach, but...”

Those words conjured an echo from what felt like a lifetime ago, when she was lost and terrified and he had first appeared to her, triggering in them both an uncanny feeling of familiarity. 'Stay with me...' she'd pleaded, as she felt Queen's eyes upon her back and resolved to spend the night inside what was apparently now her chassis.

Emma stepped forward, taking him by the hands and gently prying the paintbrush from his fingertips. “Always,” she said, echoing how he'd responded to her back then. “Will you show me how to paint?”

“You want to paint?”

“I mean obviously I'm not gonna be fuckin' Delgado.” She laughed, sweeping an arm out. “But we're right here! Surely even I can't fuck up the ocean. It's darker blue against lighter blue, right?”

He chuckled. There was such human warmth in his eyes as he looked at her then. “Yeah, alright. We can start with the basics and see how you feel.”

She was terrible at it.

But she painted with him for the rest of the night.