#and to an even more prestigious magazine than the one you asked

[andthatscanon]

[sweetestberryofthebunch]

Ultra Violet - Devil Wears Prada AU (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

When you struggle to find your footing at your new job at renowned Fashion Magazine Runway, a secret Guardian angel decides to help you out. Your mysterious fashionable gifts seem to catch even your stone cold, stern boss's eye. You can’t help but wonder if maybe Agatha Harkness knows more than she lets on.

Content/Warnings: The Devil Wears Prada!AU, CEO!Agatha x Assistant!Reader and the power dynamics that come with that, No pronouns or gendered terms used for R

✨Happy Valentine‘s Day my little loves! Get yourself a sweet cup of coco, a heart shaped treat and enjoy some all inclusive CEO!Agatha fluff!✨

Your new job at Runway was both the best and worst decision you had made your entire life.

Pay was better than the small tabloid you‘d written for until now, their reputation in the industry was insurmountable, and the office had a portafilter espresso machine. All your friends were especially jealous of that one. You’d landed a well paying position at one of the most prestigious fashion magazines in the world.

But that was also the problem. The Fashion. And, if you really boiled it down, your snobby, ruthless, obsessed with shallowness boss.

Agatha Harkness, head and face of the company. An icon of the scene, a trailblazer in the industry (at least that was what your coworkers told you.) Stoic, opinionated, and most of all, impossible to please.

Jen made sure to let you know about that. She had been Second Assistant before you got hired, but now she was promoted to First Assistant and you filled the new position.

She had explained the hierarchy to you in hushed whispers over morning coffee one day, while Mrs Harkness door had been shut and all you could hear were muffled voices arguing behind it.

Jen and your desks were in the hallway just outside, left and right to Harknesses door like two obedient guard dogs. You wondered if that was how she saw you, if she paid enough mind to her assistants for that at all.

It was only your fifth day working at Runway, and your To Do List was nothing but overwhelming. Meanwhile, Mrs Harkness barely spared you a glance, dropping her coat on your desk in the morning without a word, without even a glance, expecting things to be done and never returning a single gesture of gratitude. And everyone, including Jen, just jumped at her bid and word, like she was Queen of the world. It was … a lot.

„Who needs two Assistants anyway?“, you murmured with a chuckle as the meeting seemed to heat up, only to be met by a panicked stare from Jen.

„Don’t ever question Agatha Harknesses choices!“, she‘d tutted, and she looked like she had more to say. But she was interrupted by the door to the hallway where your desks were situated swinging open.

Lillia Calderu, head of the Runway Archives a few floors below dropped a thick binder of fabric samples onto your desk. Strips of dyed denim, all shades of purple so close to each other, you could barely tell a difference. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve laughed.

„What are you two whispering about?“, Lilia asked loudly, only to be met by both you and Jen shushing her sharply.

The voices behind the door to Mrs Harknesses raised in volume, and Lilia swallowed hard.

„I see“, she immediately switched to a whisper tone. „Vidal?“, she asked Jen, who nodded. They shared a serious look, flinching at the yelling.

You bit your lip, glancing from Jen to Lilia. The older woman took a deep breath, leaning against your desk, a hand on her hip.

„Rio wasn’t happy with the placement of her interview in the June Issue“, Jen explained, „I‘ve been getting angry calls from her secretary for days. Now Vidal showed up in person without making an appointment. Had to push back Calvin Klein, they were not happy.“

„What a glorious first week“, Calderu shook her head, giving you a sympathetic look. „Good Luck, Newbie“, she said, and then, her glance slowly dragged down your form, taking in your large green sweater and simple black jeans and sneakers. Her eyes widened, and as she looked back at Jen, she visibly shuddered, „You’re going to need it.“

„What, is something wrong with how I look?“, you gasped, loud enough to get another sharp shush from the other two.

You looked over at Jen, who just shook her head, raising her shoulders in a small shrug. „To be honest, we’ve all been wondering how you got this position in the first place. You‘re not exactly Runway material.“

„Or sidewalk material for that matter“, Lilia added, and Jen clutched her pearls dramatically, trying to stifle her laughter.

„You‘re not wrong, Calderu.“

You shot Jen a hurt look, ready to defend yourself. You were Second Assistant, most of your work happened on the phone, who cared if you wore Armani or not? After all, you had studied Journalism, not Fashion! And you were more than capable of showing professionalism in your profession!

But before you could give the two women a piece of your mind, the door flew open, and a dark haired woman in a suit strutted past you, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

„Admit it Agatha!“, she snarled, glaring back into the office over her shoulder, „This had nothing to do with the collection and everything with your own stubbornness!“

The woman, Vidal, turned around on her heels, dark hair whipping over her shoulder. As she turned, her eyes focused on you, and she froze in her tracks.

„Oh“, a dangerous little smirk formed on her lips. „You‘re new. Clearly.“

She took a step closer, Lilia moving out of her way as she did. Dark eyes watched your every movement like a lynx stalking its prey, and you suddenly felt incredibly exposed, even behind your desk. When she noticed you shudder, Vidal grinned, exposing her teeth.

„They really let anyone work here these days.“, raising her voice loud enough that it echoed through the hallway, she added „Who let the little barista in?“

To your horror, both Jen and Lilia just shrugged, not saying a word in your defense. Stupid, shallow Fashion industry.

Rio Vidal leaned over your desk, dangerously close to your face. She placed one hand on either side of you, practically caging you into your seat. Her voice was low as she smirked down at you, teeth exposed. „Aggie is going to eat you alive, little mouse. Better run while you can.“

„Rio!“, Mrs Harkness' voice rang from her office, a sharp cut through the air.

All four of you whipped your heads around, even Rio, finding the woman leaning against her office door, arms crossed, legs perfectly accentuated by a fitted culotte, a matching blazer draped over her shoulders, silk scarf loose around her neck. Her brow was creased, and sharp, ice cold eyes stared Rio down like a hawk. „Our meeting is over, Vidal. Get your ass out of my office. And“, her jaw tensed, eyes flitting over to you for less than a second. „Don’t touch my stuff.“

There was a slight frown on her face and you wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground and fall through all nine floors of the building.

But still, Rio listened. With a scoff, the dark haired woman pushed herself off your desk, brushing past Lilia as she made her way towards the door.

„I‘m so sorry!“, Jen started babbling the moment the elevator doors closed and swallowed Vidal up, „She stopped for us, we did not-“

„Silence, Kale.“ Agatha didn’t even bother to look at her. Instead, her cold eyes closed in on Lilia. „Have your coffee break elsewhere, Calderu. There is no reason for you to linger around up here. And you, pet.“, her head whipped around, ice cold stare piercing right through you.

„Starting Monday, I want to see initiative. It’s time to take this Job seriously.“

Just like Rio had done just minutes before, Harkness leaned over your desk, glaring you down as she invaded your space. You leaned backwards into your chair, resisting the urge to flinch away. Blue eyes wander down your front, lingering over your exposed throat for just a moment longer. „And no more green at the office.“

Just as fast as she had leaned in, she was gone again, leaving your heart beating out of your chest, hands curled around the arm rests of your chair so tight, your knuckles turned white.

Agatha was already halfway back to her office. „Accompany Calderu back to her office, pet. I don’t want to see you when I leave. And next week, you either show up dressed like you want this, or don’t bother showing up at all.“

You weren’t ever going to admit it to anyone, especially Jen, but that night you crawled into the back of your uber with tears in your eyes. Fuck your stupid boss and her stupid standards and your stupid coworkers who only cared about appearances! Your work was hard, and ungrateful, and no one seemed to care that you did every little task, every small favour that wasn’t in your job description at all, and you did them all marvelously. But still, no one had your back because you wore converse instead of Louis Vuittons. Not even in front of your boss and her infamous ex wife, known for always somehow ending up closer to Agatha than the Runway CEO would like. Even then, in front of two of the most powerful women in the business, no one felt the need to stick up for you.

When you stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of your home, your uber gave you a worried look, and it only made you cry harder.

However, someone seemed to have your back.

As you walked up the stairs to your front door, you noticed a single package. A white box, even adorned with a lilac bow on top of it. And, when you crouched down to inspect the mystery package further, it had your name written on it at the top.

No tape or even a stamp, just a single gift box with a bow, looking like someone had snatched it away from under a Christmas tree. It wasn’t Christmas though, and it wasn’t your birthday either. It was a regular Friday, only tainted by the tears you‘d just spilled over your stupid job.

When you opened the box, carefully pulling at the lilac ribbon, your confusion didn’t let off either. In fact, you were even more lost with the contents.

A pair of black slacks, the fabric smooth and organic. No polyester in sight, this was high quality fabric. When you held them up, something fell out of the left pocket.

A card, a lapel pin attached to it. Fine, polished silver wrapping around a single, sparkling amethyst.

On the backside was a note, written in a cursive so filigrane that at first, you thought it must be printed.

No more jeans. Time to dress for the job you got.

You glanced up, but the street was empty, no cars other than resident vehicles parked under the flickering street lights. Whoever had dropped off this mystery gift had not stuck around. You swallowed, taking the box and bringing it inside. Maybe there was hope for you.

The gifts didn’t stop there. On Monday, you sat down at your desk, wearing your nice, new slacks and a slightly less washed out sweater today, you found another little box, the same white cardboard, the same ribbon. This one was way smaller though, small enough that Jen didn’t seem to notice from across the room as you unwrapped a brand new, sleek watch. The wrist band was incredibly light and slick, the watch itself small but neat, and the pointers were adorned with the tiniest little diamonds, tainted a bright blue if you held them up to the light. Underneath the watch was a note again. Neat cursive.

Meeting with Dior in 10, not 20. Wear the watch.

You bit the inside of your cheek, but before you could think about it, Jen hung up her current phone call, stress written all over her face.

„Dior called, they are coming in-“

„10, not 20“, you gave her a firm nod, „Don’t worry, I‘ll meet them and take notes for Harkness, you do the evaluation with Lilia.“

As you got out of your seat, you slung the new watch around your wrist. It sat perfectly. Jen gave you a confused but appreciative once over.

„Okay“, she said, „See you in 30.“

On Wednesday, you rushed in from driving Agatha’s son to soccer practice to find the hallway empty. Jennifer must have gotten stuck in a meeting. However, that wasn’t what caught your interest. As you put your laptop down, you noticed another box, this one sitting right in the seat of your chair. It was bigger than the others, and as you pulled the lid off, you were met with a bubble wrap. Whatever was in here, it was packaged like something incredibly precious. You bit your own tongue, anticipation bubbling up inside you. And then you unwrapped it.

A leather jacket. A little scuffed, worn in at the elbows. Definitely vintage, worn before. The arms were studded by silver rings, from the shoulders down to the cuffs. It was gorgeous, and vaguely familiar.

Behind you, you heard the clinking of porcelain, and then a sharp curse. When you spun around, Jen was already halfway across the room towards you, ignoring the fact she‘d spilled fresh coffee all over her desk.

„Where did you get that?“, she asked, panic in her voice. You clutched the jacket a little tighter.

„I found it here. Must be a gift.“

Jen came to a halt right in front of your desk, both hands immediately diving into the box on your seat.

„Hey!“, you nudged her away with your hip, but Jen‘s stance was firm, „Stop that!“

“Absolutely not!“, the first assistant just replied, „As per usual, you have no idea what any of this is about!“

„Then you should tell me, as first assistant and all!“, you shot back, and Jen let out a deep sigh.

„1998. Agatha Harkness gets photographed by paparazzi leaving Rio Vidal‘s mansion. The jacket she wore started a trend that didn‘t settle until denim took over in the 2000s.“ She gave you a long, serious glare. „You are holding that jacket.“

Before you could process what she just told you, and what any of that meant, your coworker already dove back into the box. At the bottom was a folded piece of cardboard, just off white and high quality. There was a set of simple, silver cuff buttons attached to it. Jen snatched the note out before you even had a chance to grab it.

„You polish up nice. Pair with a dress shirt.“ She read out loud, gasping.

„No signature? I can’t believe this! There is no way this left the archive without Mrs Harknesses permission.“

You reached for the note, but Jen took a step backwards, holding it out of your reach. Damn her and her high louis vuittons.

Her eyes closed in on you, pointing an accusatory finger at you. „This is why you‘ve been looking good! Someone is playing dress up with you! Do you have a secret admirer in the archives?“

„I don’t know who these are from!“, you told her truthfully, holding the leather jacket close to your chest. You still weren’t 100% sure she wasn’t just going to tear it from you.

„But … Someone‘s been helping me. Lilia has been a lot kinder since I changed the way I dress, even you shared your salad with me the other day!“

Jen creased her brow at that, glancing from the note in her hand to your face and back.

„I guess there hasn’t been any complaints from downstairs either. Whoever sends you stuff does so fair and square.“ She huffed, nose wrinkling, then shrugged, finally handing you the note. Soft, high quality paper, like artists used for Aquarelle painting. The same neat cursive as the other one.

Jen watched you and shook her head. „Whoever is sending you these is right though. You need a button up with this. And some good shoes.“

As if your secret angel had heard her, the next day, you found a bag with the Lauren Ralph Lauren logo printed on it under your desk. Inside was a shoe box. A pair of sleek black ankle boots, shiny, real leather, a minimal heel to give you just a little bit of extra height, but small enough to keep the shoe androgynous and cool. This time, there was no extra goodie attached to the note, however, when you turned it in your hand, a sour, citrusy scent found your nose. The paper was doused in perfume. This time, when you read the note, a smile slowly but surely crept up onto your features.

Looking good. Now show them exactly who you are, pet.

You licked your lips in excitement, glancing up from your desk. Mrs Harkness office door was closed, her way of letting you know she wanted no disturbances right now.

However, you could hear that one Lorna Wu song playing behind the door, the smooth sound of a record player unmistakable. You were starting to get an idea of who might be behind your sudden gift shower.

By Friday, you had an almost entirely revamped closet, held in shades of violet, plum and indigo. Today, you wore a flowy, long sleeved shirt made out of what you were pretty sure was pure dyed silk, the amethyst earrings and a matching bracelet, the slacks that had started all of this. You looked stylish, young, professional. You looked like you weren't a second assistant, but editor of Runway, and you carried yourself through the hall like it too, dropping the leather jacket on your chair as you passed your desk. Jen looked up from her laptop when you came passed, giving you an impressed nod.

„I‘m gonna be honest, I didn’t think you had it in you.“

You let out a little snort, leaning against her desk. „Thanks Jen, you look great today too.“ She always did, of course. Jen had this game figured out like no other. No matter how much Mrs Harkness had to complain about her work ethic or her shitty handwriting or the coffee Jen bought her being just a little too sweet, not even the Wicked Witch of Runway could criticise Jennifer's style. But, if you were quite honest, you started to feel like you were holding up pretty well yourself. This morning when you‘d dropped off a new collection for the Archive, Lilia had pulled you into a tight hug, before introducing you to one of the photographers. She‘d never done anything of the sorts before. When you walked down the hallway, a binder or a bag of clothes or Agatha‘s lunch order in your hand, people greeted you, some even stepped out of the way now.

„So“, you flipped open your notebook, glancing at your To Do List for the day. „What does the afternoon look like for us?“

„I‘m dropping Nicky off at Alice‘s for his guitar practice.“ She explained, „And on the way back I‘ll stop by Gucci to pick up some samples. Agatha has calls until four, and expects her afternoon latte immediately after. Until then, you’re on phone duty.“ Jen gave you a small smile, and you dared to see pride on her face. „Nothing you can’t handle, superstar.“

That afternoon, you knocked at your bosses door no less than two minutes after she‘d finished her last call. You had a tray with her drink and a salmon cream cheese bagel, the mug still steaming as you peaked into the door.

„Coffee’s ready!“, you announced, ready to put the tray down and disappear again.

However, to your surprise, Agatha told you to come inside. You closed the door behind you, putting her order down on her desk before stepping away, feeling oddly exposed in the middle of the room like that.

You’d barely seen her all week, she was always either on the go but in a conference. But yesterday, as she had brushed past your desk, phone in hand as she’d once again yelled at Vidal about … something, you imagined that for the splinter of a second, she‘d winked at you in passing.

Now, Agatha‘s eyes dragged down your form, and for the first time this week, she genuinely smiled. Taking a sip of her latte, she gave you a satisfied nod.

„You may not look like a barista anymore, but I swear this stuff has been better since you started to do the coffee run.“

You caught your lower lip between your teeth. „Thank you, Mrs Harkness.“

Then, as you turned to leave, Agatha called out to you again.

„Wait up, pet.“

You froze, glancing over your shoulder back at her. There was an unreadable glimmer in her eyes, tainted lips curled into a small smirk. „Add whatever you like to drink to the order tomorrow. Use my card.“

You couldn’t help but gasp, smile so wide you quickly had to turn away, before she could see. This was entirely new. Coffee run meant a drink for Agatha, sometimes one for Lilia. Never for the assistants. Well, until now. „Thank you, Mrs Harkness.“

„Call me Agatha.“

„Of course, Agatha.“ Her name rolled off your tongue surprisingly easy, like it had always belonged there. You bit back a grin, feeling your stomach tighten. Her undivided attention felt like opiates in your system, made you feel like you were floating on clouds above the world. Like you wanted nothing else, ever again. It was dizzying.

„Come over here“, Agatha’s voice brought you back to reality. It was calm, and she nodded towards her desk, cluttered with notebooks, concept art and prior issues of the magazine. Every night before you left, you made sure to organise it, but over the course of just one day, Agatha always managed to restore the chaos.

Right now, she was getting off her seat, putting down her cup. To your surprise, she had foregone stockings today, bare skin under her deep purple, tight pencil skirt. The matching blazer was draped over the back of her chair, sleeves of her white shirt pushed up to her elbows. It was unusually casual, uncharacteristically human. It was intimate.

Your stomach did a little flip, stepping forward to stand in front of her desk as she had ordered. The quiet obedience gained you a satisfied little nod.

„You’ve been cleaning up quite well, pet.“

If you thought about it, you didn’t mind the pet name at all.

Praise from Agatha was a rare treat, if you believed Jen, it was near impossible. You played with the rings adorning your fingers, glancing down at the tips of your polished, shiny black boots.

Agatha paced around her desk in a slow circle, until she was standing right behind you. „Everything I’ve heard about you has been nothing but positive.“

Goosebumps rose on your skin. „Thank you, Mrs Harkness.“

She tutted. „I told you to call me Agatha.“

A warm hand grazed your hip, and you exhaled sharply at the touch. „And here I thought you were good at taking orders.“ She glanced at you over your shoulder, a mocking pout on her lips.

Her fingers curled around the silky fabric of your shirt for a mere moment before letting go again.

„Turn around.“ You spun around to face her without missing a beat.

Agatha‘s eyes dragged over your blouse, along your shoulders, your collarbones exposed by the silky fabric, dipping lower for just a moment. Your breath hitched.

She took a step forward, into your space. Instinctively, you took a step back. The air got sucked out of your lungs when you felt the desk press into the back of your legs. You were now caged in between Agatha‘s presence in front of you and her desk behind you.

Your boss seemed unbothered, her hand reaching out, running over the neatly folded collar of your shirt. You’d added the lapel pin to it, the silver reflecting in the blue of her eyes. You swallowed, and her glance focused on the movement of your throat.

„Gorgeous“, she murmured, and you weren’t sure what exactly she meant. You imagined you saw her lick her painted lips, but you weren’t sure. Either way, goosebumps tickled your arms, your chest, all over your skin.

Agatha’s index finger and thumb take your collar between them, silky, deep purple fabric running through her hold. You felt her gently tug on the fabric and your heart skipped a beat. The only thing you wanted was for her to touch your skin instead.

But then she spoke, and it took every fibre of your being to concentrate on her words.

„Ultra Violet, the Pantone Color of the Year in 2018“, her lips pursed into a dangerous, thin smile, „Do you know why that is?“

She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she took another step closer. You swallowed hard, halfway sitting on her desk now, knees sliding apart automatically as she stepped between them. You didn’t stop her, just held still as she invaded your space. It was like there was electricity flimmering through the air.

“George Hobeika Fall 2017 Couture showcase. He comes to me with a collection of deep oranges and reds. Orange for fall? How original. I send him a note telling him to shove his off the rack bullshit back to where he must be hiding that visionary spirit he claims to have. The color of the paper?“ Her brows raised, blue eyes unreadable as she scanned your face expectantly.

„Ultra Violet“, you guessed, and the pleased curl of her lips has your heart almost beating out of your chest.

„Exactly“, she murmured, so close that you felt her breath on your face. „Ultra Violet. The colour of the standout dress of the show, the colour you saw on every Magazines front page for a full year after.“ She chuckled, tugging on your collar just the smallest bit. The upper button came undone. You didn’t stop her.

Agatha’s voice dropped. „I send Kale to buy office supplies once and the entire fashion industry bends over backwards for me.“

Her fingers let go of your blouse. Instead, her thumb hooked underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards. There was no escape to her intense eye contact now. Her voice was low, amused. She practically purred at you.

„And look at you, wearing my color, seven years later.“

She took another step towards you. Her hips pushed against yours now, and your hands found the surface of her desk behind you, pushing yourself upwards as she pinned you against it. Her body was warm against you, even through layers of expensive satin and velvet. It was only now that you noticed your blouse matched the colour of her skirt, of her blazer. Her rings were adorned with the same amethysts that dangled off your ears.

All the little gifts on your desk, every single item in your new, professional closet, they all had one thing in common. Ultra Violet. The colour of the Woman herself. Every single thing that made Jen green with envy or Lilia whistle impressed, they weren’t just gifts from a secret admirer who wanted to help you. They were territorial markings. They were hers. You were hers, visible to everyone’s eyes.

Blue eyes twinkled down at you in approval, the realisation written all over your face.

„My colour, all over you“, Agatha purred, her thumb dragging along your jaw, up towards your cheekbone, and then slowly towards your slightly parted lips. Her touch was gentle and you stopped breathing at the feeling, trying hard not to lean into the touch. But then, her hand found your hair, fingers curling into it, pulling you closer. Her other hand slipped around your waist, palm pressed firmly against your lower back. A familiar scent found your nostrils, sour and citrusy.

She was so close, you felt every single one of her words on your lips.

„You wear it so well.“

That was when the knot inside you snapped. All restraints, every last ounce of professionalism flew right out the window. Your eyes fell shut. It took barely a slight nudge of your chin to close the gap between you. Finally, your lips were on hers.

Agatha was firm against you. The sweetness of Charlotte Tilbury matte lipstick met your tongue, her painted lips creamy and soft against you. She kissed you with vigour, her hand firm on your lower back as she pushed you flush against her. She leaned forward, pushing you onto her desk with strong arms. Your shirt slipped off one shoulder and you let out a surprised squeal. Agatha took the opportunity and slipped her tongue between your lips. The faint bitterness of Espresso hit your tastebuds, her tongue dancing around you with the confidence of a leading dance partner.

Your hands found her shoulders as your back hit the surface of her desk, pulling her down with you. Holding onto her tightly as she stood between your legs, she kept you in place exactly where she wanted you with the hand in your hair.

A little moan escaped your lips, devoured immediately by her mouth against yours, and her teeth grazed over your swollen bottom lip.

Suddenly, the penetrant sound of a new notification cut through the air. On the other end of the desk, Agatha‘s phone lit up, vibrating once.

A part of you wanted to grab the damn thing and throw it out the window into the night, but you also wanted to keep your job. Now more than ever, actually.

So, as Agatha pulled away, adjusting her blazer as she did, you pulled your shirt back in place as well. But not with a frustrated little sigh, sitting up on her desk as she gave you a warning look with raised brows.

While you were still catching your breath, Agatha stepped around her desk casually, reaching for her phone before turning to the skyline behind her desk, New York City gleaming back at her in shades of Neon and Steel blue. The bright Purple Runway sign from above your building tainted the entire street in a faint violet light. Her mark was everywhere.

Agatha‘s brow creased as she typed into her phone.

„Before you go home, make a dinner reservation for two at the French Place at the Boulevard. 9 pm sharp. Message Nicky‘s babysitter to let her know I‘ll be late.“, she said matter of factly, and you scrambled for your notepad to write down everything she told you. Even your notepad was purple. How had you never noticed that until now?

„And remember to pick up your suit for Vidal‘s Gala before Saturday. You’re going to need a fitting.“ You tried to ignore the way your heart leaped in your chest. Your first event as her assistant, and she was taking you and only you!

“Oh, and Y/N,“ Your name on her lips was new, and it was exciting. You felt your chest flutter at the sound.

Agatha turned back around to look at you, the city lights illuminating her form. Her lipstick had smudged the slightest bit, but it did not ruin the image of perfection she was. If anything, it just made your stomach burn even hotter. Her eyes found yours and there was a twinkle in them, lips curled into a subtle smirk.

“You have Dinner at the French place on Boulevard at 9. There‘s an outfit waiting for you in the Archive.“

A knowing smirk tugged at your lips, raising a brow at her. „I must polish up nice to wear archived items.“

Agatha tutted, bright eyes twinkling. „You have been.“

[eu-nicola]

Mr. and Mrs. Leclerc

summary: a remake of mr and mrs smith (from a request)

warnings: mentions of weapons and other things

word counter: 4115

author's note: english is not my first language

The murmur of the cameras and the dazzling lights felt like a constant buzzing in your ears. You wore a perfectly tailored black dress, its design elegantly embracing your curves, while your hair fell in soft waves over your shoulders. Charles, impeccable in his custom-made tuxedo, held your hand with the same grace. To everyone’s eyes, you were the perfect couple: he, Ferrari’s star driver; you, the woman who shone on every red carpet.  

That night’s charity gala was one of the most important of the year. You were in Monaco, at the Opera House, surrounded by high-society figures, billionaire entrepreneurs, and fellow drivers. Your lips curved into a flawless smile as you answered a journalist’s questions.  

“You two look more in love than ever,” commented the reporter from a prestigious lifestyle magazine.  

“We’ve always been a great team,” you replied sweetly, intertwining your fingers with Charles’s. He looked at you with that mix of adoration and confidence that he had perfected, his jaw relaxed but his eyes sharp.  

But behind all that spectacle, there was a subtext that only you and Charles understood. You knew his thoughts weren’t on the flashes or the trivial conversations with other guests. His mind was analyzing, observing. Just as yours was.  

As Charles stepped away for a moment to greet a sponsor, you excused yourself with an elegant nod and walked toward the bar. You ordered a glass of red wine and leaned lightly against the counter, discreetly surveying the room. Among the attendees, you recognized a familiar face someone who didn’t belong in this world.  

‘A client’, you thought.  

Your ears caught a coded phrase, spoken softly by a man walking past you. You pretended to adjust the bracelet on your wrist as you mentally connected to the information you had been given. Your mission was clear: gather intel on that man before the night was over.  

Charles reappeared beside you within minutes, placing a hand on your waist. His touch seemed casual, even affectionate, but you felt the subtle pressure of his thumb a signal. He had also identified someone.  

“Are you all right, mon amour?” he asked, with that charming smile that could melt anyone.  

“Of course,” you replied, meeting his gaze with knowing complicity.  

The gala continued as usual, with speeches, auctions, and live music. However, you and Charles operated on a completely different level than the other guests. While conversing with people, every word you spoke and every gesture you made was carefully calculated. Between you, words weren’t necessary to coordinate.  

At some point in the night, you found yourself walking toward an empty terrace to get some fresh air. As soon as you closed the doors behind you, a familiar voice spoke from the shadows.  

“The target is on the move,” Charles murmured, already there, waiting for you.  

You turned to him, surprised by his speed.  

“I saw him speaking with an unknown contact near the stairs,” he added, adjusting his watch.  

“Then it’s now or never” you said, your eyes locking onto his.  

Charles took a step toward you, closing the distance with that unwavering confidence he always carried.  

“Be careful” he whispered, running a hand along your cheek as if it were a romantic gesture.  

“You too” you murmured, leaning in to brush your lips against his in a brief but tension filled kiss.  

Without another word, you both parted and blended back into the crowd, each following your target.  

The night continued with wine glasses, studied smiles, and trivial conversations. Amid all the luxury and false compliments, you and Charles kept playing the game.  

The target of the night was a man named Alexander Moreau. His name wasn’t on any public list, but in his world, he was an information broker, a mediator between powerful clients and assassins like you. Tonight, your job wasn’t to eliminate him but to extract what he knew.  

You were the first to approach. You found him deep in conversation with an older businessman, a gleaming gold watch on his wrist and a whiskey glass in his hand. You smiled elegantly, tilting your head slightly.  

“Pardon the interruption,”

you said, with that sweetness that masked your true intentions. “Mr. Moreau, may I steal a moment of your time?.”

The man lifted his gaze, studying you with interest. Charles, from across the room, glanced at you, his posture relaxed but keenly attentive.  

Moreau followed you to a more secluded corner of the hall, where the music and chatter softened.  

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said with a sly smile. “Though I must admit, I’m intrigued.”

“I found your presence at this gala interesting. Not quite your type of event, am I wrong?.”

“One must adapt to the times. But I suspect you already know that.”

You smiled, feigning amusement. You knew Moreau was intelligent and wouldn’t give away information easily. So you didn’t waste time on pleasantries.  

“I know you recently sold information. Information my client wants back.”

Moreau raised an eyebrow.  

“My dear lady, information is power. I don’t give it away without getting something in return.”

“Of course,” you replied, leaning slightly toward him, letting your perfume work its magic. “But we both know that if you don’t give us what we want, it will be a problem.”

Moreau studied you for a moment before chuckling.  

“Always so persuasive. Fine, I’ll tell you this: the information you seek was sold to one person. Someone who, if not handled carefully, will be a problem for everyone.”

“A name?,” you asked, keeping your composure.  

Moreau smiled again, but this time, with amusement.  

“You’ll find the name yourself. But I’ll give you one piece of advice: pay attention to who’s watching too closely.”

Before you could press further, Charles appeared at your side, his presence steady.  

“Am I interrupting something?,” he asked, with his usual calm.  

“Not at all” you replied, not breaking eye contact with Moreau.  

The man took a sip of his whiskey and, with one last smile, disappeared into the crowd.  

Charles exhaled lightly.  

“Always so cryptic.”

“But he gave us something,” you said. “Someone here has the information. We just need to figure out who.”

Hours later, the gala had ended. You were in a hotel room on the outskirts of Monaco, a meeting point whenever your boss summoned you. The room was luxurious, with a vast window offering a panoramic view of the illuminated city.  

In front of you stood a tall man in a dark suit. His face was nearly expressionless, but his cold, calculating eyes spoke for him. His name was Victor Langley. You knew little about him, only that he operated in the shadows and that his word was law.  

“Good work tonight,” he said in a neutral tone. “Moreau is a difficult man to make talk.”

Charles lounged on the sofa, his jaw tight.  

“He only gave us half-truths.”

Langley nodded slowly.  

“That’s how Moreau plays. Now, I have a new assignment for you both.”

You frowned slightly. It wasn’t common for you and Charles to receive the same mission.  

“Who is it?,” you asked.  

Langley barely smiled, a gesture that didn’t reassure you at all.  

“That’s the interesting part. I won’t give you a name.”

Charles leaned forward, eyeing him intently.  

“You’re saying we have to figure out who to eliminate?.”

“Exactly.”

A tense silence followed. You crossed your arms, demanding answers.  

“That makes no sense. If you want us to take someone out, it would be logical to give us their identity.”

Langley shrugged, as if it wasn’t his problem.  

“The orders come from higher up. I was only told that you two are the only ones fit for this job.”

Charles let out a humorless laugh.  

“How convenient.”

Langley observed you both calmly before adding:  

“You’ll find out soon. Consider this a test. You have one week.”

With that, he turned and left the room, leaving more questions than answers.

The silence left in the wake of his departure was heavy. Charles ran a hand through his hair, exhaling in frustration.  

"I don't like this."  

"Me neither," you admitted. "It's too risky."  

He looked at you, his green eyes intense under the room’s dim light.  

"We'll figure it out."  

You held his gaze and replied,  

"We always do."  

Charles gave a faint smile before leaning in, brushing his lips against yours in a slow kiss.  

The morning after the meeting with Langley, life returned to its usual course. At least, on the surface.  

You and Charles woke up in the massive bed, the sheets tangled between your bodies. The sea breeze drifted in through the open windows, and the sound of the city gradually waking up filled the air.  

But as Charles stretched and pressed a distracted kiss to your shoulder before heading to the shower, your mind was already elsewhere.  

The target.  

You didn’t know who it was. You had no leads. All you knew was that you had one week to find and eliminate them.  

You and Charles operated in the same world, but when it came to work, each had their own methods. There was an unspoken agreement: you would handle this separately. And although you trusted each other, at the end of the day, you were both trained assassins. You didn’t share information unless it was necessary.  

So that morning, after having breakfast together and laughing as if nothing was wrong, you each went your separate ways.  

Your first instinct was to go back to Moreau. You knew that bastard had more information than he had let on at the gala.  

You found him in a private club in Nice, surrounded by bodyguards and beautiful women. Moreau lived like a king, but you knew that beneath all his luxury, he was a man always one step away from death.  

You waited for the right moment. When he stepped away from his group to a more secluded area of the club, you followed him.  

"You're persistent," he said without turning around, as if he already knew you were there.  

"You know I don’t like being given half-truths."  

Moreau slowly turned, a smug smile on his lips.  

"That’s what makes this more fun."  

You didn’t waste time. In a swift motion, you pulled a small knife from your dress and pressed it against his side. Moreau didn’t even flinch.  

"How much do you want to live, Moreau?" you whispered.  

He sighed, as if he were tired of the game.  

"Alright, alright. Listen… There’s someone in Monte Carlo who's been asking too many questions. Someone new in the scene. Might be your target."  

"Name."  

"I don’t have one. But I know they frequent the casino at the Hôtel de Paris. If I were you, I’d start there."  

You studied him for a moment. Moreau wasn’t easy to read, but you knew when he was lying. This time, he seemed sincere.  

"If you’re deceiving me, I’ll kill you."  

"I know, darling," he replied with a smirk. "But I’m not."  

You put the knife away and walked out without looking back.  

Meanwhile, Charles had taken a different approach. His instincts led him back to Langley.  

He didn’t like taking orders without clear information, and he wasn’t going to play a game without knowing the rules.  

The problem with Langley was that he wasn’t easy to find. So Charles had to turn to an old contact at the Monte Carlo port, a man who worked in private security for certain illicit businesses.  

"Langley isn’t in town," the man said, a burly guy with a few days’ worth of beard. "But he can see you over a video call."  

"Do it."  

The man led him to an office in the back of a warehouse. As soon as the screen lit up, Langley’s image appeared, his expression as neutral as ever.  

"I knew you’d come, Charles."  

"Give me something more. I’m not hunting a ghost."  

Langley sighed, as if tired of repeating the same answers.  

"Always so impatient."  

"Always so annoying," Charles retorted.  

Langley gave a faint smile.  

"Fine. Here’s your clue: the target was at the Monaco Grand Prix this year."  

Charles frowned.  

"That’s not enough."  

"It’s all you need. Start there."  

The screen went black before Charles could respond.  

He stood in silence for a moment, processing the information. If the target had been at the Monaco Grand Prix, it meant they had access to the elite of the sport. A sponsor, a businessman, a politician… or someone far more dangerous.  

Charles clenched his jaw.  

He didn’t like riddles.  

But one thing was certain: he would find this person.  

That night, you returned to the penthouse just as Charles was walking through the door.  

You both looked at each other, analyzing each other’s faces, searching for traces of what the other had discovered. But as always, neither said anything.  

"How was your day?" you asked with a flawless smile.  

"Productive. And yours?"  

"The same."  

Charles set his keys on the table and walked toward you, wrapping an arm around your waist.  

"Dinner out?"  

"I’d love to."

That night, they chose a discreet restaurant on a quiet corner of Monte Carlo. It was a small, elegant place, with barely half a dozen tables and an intimate atmosphere created by candlelight and the soft murmur of distant conversations.  

You chose a simple black dress that highlighted your features, while Charles opted for a perfectly tailored suit, as always.  

The dishes arrived one after another, a parade of delicate flavors they barely registered. Each bite was an excuse to avoid speaking, to not risk saying something that would give them away. As he filled your wine glass, you looked at him, wondering if he also felt that invisible weight.  

Charles seemed relaxed, but you knew him too well. His movements were a little slower, his eyes less bright. He was thinking, analyzing. Just like you.  

When they finally paid the bill and walked back to the penthouse, silence remained their greatest refuge. Neither of them mentioned the investigation or the clues guiding them down parallel paths toward the same truth.  

The following days were marked by the routine of their double life. In the mornings, they behaved like the perfect married couple: having breakfast together on the terrace, attending social events, and maintaining their impeccable public image. But as soon as the sun began to set, they separated, each with their own secret agenda.  

Your investigation led you back to the casino at the Hôtel de Paris, following Moreau’s trail. You spent hours observing, mentally noting the familiar and unfamiliar faces that frequented the place. You tried to identify someone who didn’t belong, someone who might be the target. But every time you thought you were getting close, the trail vanished.  

Finally, one night, you intercepted an intermediary working for Langley. It was difficult to get anything out of him, but you managed:  

“The target is closer than you think,” the man said before disappearing into the shadows.  

The phrase left you cold. What exactly did it mean?  

Charles, meanwhile, followed the lead through the Monaco Grand Prix. He reviewed guest lists, sponsors, and businessmen who had attended the event. He made discreet calls and pressed old contacts. But just like you, he encountered an unsettling void.  

One afternoon, while reviewing documents in his private office, he received an envelope. Inside was a note written with mechanical precision:  

“The closest enemy is the hardest to identify.”  

He read the words over and over, as if the truth was hidden between the lines. Something didn’t add up.  

Both of you reached the same conclusion at the same time, though you were in different places.  

You, mentally reviewing the pieces of your investigation, began to notice a pattern: every path seemed to lead back to Charles. The vague phrases, the contradictory clues everything pointed to one possibility.  

He, staring at the note in his office, had a similar revelation. If the target was “close,” if the enemy was “hard to identify,” then it couldn’t be an outsider. It had to be you.  

When you both returned to the penthouse that night, you didn’t talk about it. But you both knew.  

The following days were a mix of tension and denial. You both moved as if nothing had changed, but the truth chased you like a shadow.  

In the mornings, you still shared breakfast on the terrace. Charles poured your coffee, you asked about his day. Smiles, glances, small touches of affection. But it was all an act, a way to avoid the inevitable confrontation.  

At night, you both pretended to be busy. You said you had meetings, he mentioned important calls. But in reality, you were making plans, evaluating options, looking for a way to complete the mission without the other knowing.  

Neither of you wanted to do it. But you knew that failing to complete the assignment would be an act of betrayal. And in your world, betrayal was paid with life.  

On the last night of the week, you both returned to the penthouse at the same time, as if fate had planned the encounter.  

The atmosphere was different. The tension was palpable, like a knot in the air. You looked at yourself in the mirror as you removed your earrings, noticing how your hands trembled slightly.  

Charles, in his room, sat on the edge of the bed, holding a glass of whiskey. He watched the amber liquid, lost in thought.  

That night, neither of you slept. You knew the deadline was about to expire. And you knew the moment to act was drawing closer.  

The question you both avoided asking was the same: Will I be able to do it? 

A couple of hours later, the clock struck two in the morning when the phone rang.  

It was a call you had been expecting, though neither of you wanted to answer.  

You were on the balcony, watching the lights of Monte Carlo reflect on the sea. Charles was inside, pouring himself another whiskey. But when you both saw the screen illuminated with your respective bosses’ numbers, you knew time had run out.  

There were no more excuses. No more delays.  

With almost synchronized movements, you answered the call.  

“It’s time,” said the voices on the other end of the line.  

There were no further explanations. None were needed.  

You both hung up at the same time. The silence that followed was deafening.  

You kept looking at the horizon, feeling the cold breeze against your skin. Charles placed his glass on the glass table with a faint *click*.  

No words were necessary.  

Slowly, you turned around.  

He was waiting for you in the center of the room, his posture relaxed but alert. His jacket rested on the sofa, his fingers playing with the ring on his hand.  

You walked toward him calmly, your heart pounding in your chest.  

You both knew what had to be done.  

You both knew this would only end one way.  

And yet… neither of you was the first to attack.  

For an eternal moment, you stared at each other, as if waiting for the other to find a way out of the inevitable.  

And then, almost at the same time, you both moved.  

Your first strike was quick, aimed at his face, but Charles dodged it easily, catching your wrist in the process. With an agile twist, you tried to free yourself, using your other hand to throw a punch at his side.

He blocked it with his forearm and pushed you back, making you crash against the coffee table. The glass trembled but didn’t break.  

“You're going to have to do better than that, amour,” he murmured with a lopsided smile.  

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of responding. Instead, you took advantage of the distance to pull out the knife hidden on your thigh. With a precise movement, you tried to cut him, but Charles was faster.  

He dodged by mere millimeters, twisting his body and catching your wrist again. This time, he used his strength to turn you around and push you against the wall, pinning you in place.  

But you had already anticipated the move.  

You used the momentum to lift your leg and strike him in the ribs, forcing him to release you.  

Charles staggered back with a low grunt, bringing a hand to his side.  

“That hurt.”  

“That was the idea.”  

He smiled. Not like a man who was losing, but like someone who was enjoying the challenge.  

And then, he pulled out his gun.  

He aimed it straight at your chest.  

But you were already prepared.  

Before he could pull the trigger, you threw the knife at his hand. You didn’t manage to cut him, but the impact was strong enough to make him drop the weapon.  

The gun hit the floor with a loud clang.  

Both of you lunged for it at the same time.  

You rolled across the marble floor, feeling the cold against your skin. Charles tried to reach it, but you were faster.  

Just as your fingers brushed the metal, he grabbed you by the waist and flipped you over with force, making you land on the carpet.  

The impact knocked the air out of you, but you didn’t give up.  

You used your weight to turn him over, ending up on top of him. You tried to reach for the gun again, but Charles caught you, rolling with you until he was the one on top.  

Your wrists were trapped in his hands, pinned against the carpet.  

Both of you were breathing heavily, your bodies tense with adrenaline.  

Charles’ hair fell slightly over his forehead, his shirt was half unbuttoned, and his parted lips revealed his ragged breathing.  

Your legs were still tangled with his, and you could feel the heat of his body against yours.  

For a moment, neither of you moved.  

Desire and fury were indistinguishable in that instant.  

Charles smiled with that arrogant air that drove you crazy.  

“You know you can’t beat me, chérie.”  

His voice was low, almost a whisper.  

Your lips parted, your heart hammered in your chest.  

And then, instead of answering, you disarmed him in the only way you knew would make him fall.  

You kissed him.  

With the same intensity with which you had fought.  

Your lips crashed against his in a fierce, desperate kiss, pouring all the anger, frustration, and desire into every movement.  

Charles growled against your mouth, surprised at first, but then, his grip on your wrists loosened. His hands, which had been trying to dominate you, now trailed down your arms, touching your skin with a need that had nothing to do with the fight.  

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, making him let out a breathless gasp against your lips.  

Nothing else existed in that moment.  

Just the two of you.  

Just the need to forget, for an instant, that you were supposed to kill each other.  

But then…  

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Both of you froze.  

Charles let his forehead fall against yours, closing his eyes in frustration.  

“Tell me it’s not what I think it is…”  

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips.  

“If we don’t answer, they’ll come in.”  

Charles cursed under his breath in French before getting off you and walking toward the door, still disheveled.  

He opened it just enough to see the hotel manager. An older man with an impassive face that had seen too much in his lifetime.  

“The neighbors have complained about the noise,” the man said calmly. “Is everything all right here?”  

Charles ran a hand through his hair, forcing a tired smile.  

“We’re working.”  

The man nodded immediately, asking no further questions.  

“I understand. Try to keep it down.”  

Charles closed the door without another word.  

When he turned around, you were still on the floor, breathing deeply, an amused smile on your lips.  

“Working, huh?”  

He shrugged, leaning over you again.  

“It wasn’t a lie.”  

He looked at you with those intense green eyes, with an expression you knew all too well.  

The battle wasn’t over yet.  

But for that night, the war would be on pause.

[mead-iocre]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

spoiled!reader who grew up going to a prestigious boarding school nestled between mountains in switzerland. breakfast at the dinning hall involved freshly baked pastries, aristinal breads, cheese boards, and locally sourced fruits that aren't even in seaosn. she gets taught latin on wednesdays and fridays, and horseback riding is part of the curriculum. fencing was optional, and the classes were always crowded, so she chose polo instead. the uniform was a crisp white blouse, tucked neatly into the pleats of italian cotton plaid skirt. the navy blazer, with the school crest—a silver eagle-- hand embroidered and shining proudly on the pocket. shoes had to be only the finest leather shoes, matte not shiny so no one stands out, and preferably with a inch or two heel for the girls. she detested the uniforms because it made everyone bland and constricted individual expression. also: her prada heels were not made to wear with an ugly plaid skirt.

as a result of being away from home so often for most of her childhood, she grows up quite detached from her parents. she's independent but because she really had no other choice. birthdays and christmases were always lavish, but never sentimental. every year she would get an email from her parents with a short, straight forward "happy birthday" and some more money added to her card that day. even though her family had a lot of it, money was always conditional. father’s greetings over the phone always start with “if” and mother’s favourite word was “but”.

"if you continue to get full merits on your quarterly report cards then we'll buy you that bag you've been asking for" or "your teacher says you have gone down a rank-- from top of the class to third which isn’t too bad but it’s disappointing" and "if you want to be home for Christmas, you'll finish and submit your project early or else Daddy won't pay for a flight"

as a result, spoiled!reader grew up thinking money was conditional. that whenever someone spent money on her, she needed to do something to earn it. but when she met leah that all changed. spoiled!reader will never forget their first date when she offered to split the bill (like she does with every single date she has ever been on), but leah adamantly refused. she waited for the condition to come, the "well since I payed you for you, owe me another date" because it always came sooner or later, but there was none. leah ended up getting that second date, and the third and the fourth...

so now as you ascend the stairs into the looming doors of the school entrance, it isn't as scary anymore. what used to be a place of dullness and routine, is now a mere memory tucked into the furthest places in your mind. you pull the hand that's holding leah, eagerly stepping into the grand foyer where you recognizes a few familiar faces. your pink Fendi heels, shiny not matte because you want to stand out, click clanking against the marble floor as you lead leah into the high school class reunion. some of the people in this room you have not seen once in 10 years.

"are you ready to meet the most pretentious, self-absorbed people you'll ever meet?" you whispers to your lover.

leah entwines your fingers together and gives you a grin. "remember, the safe word is apples"

in the middle of the conversation between acquaintances not friends, they speak about their current lives. subtle drags about how they can appear more fulfilled and better than the woman standing next to them. talks about law school and medical school, about how hard it's been to manage their careers. fruitless stories about how they were all busy these days that it was even a miracle they could attend the reunion. eventually, they turn their conversation to you. "what are you doing these days?"

swallowing the last sip of vintage white, you smile. "I still work at the magazine but part time now"

"oh."

you catch the note of pity in their voices, willing yourself to hold the smile threatening to crack on your face. you wanted to yank the tacky pearl necklace that rests against her collarbones. Veronica never liked you, even back then.

"Don't you want to do something with your life? You know, instead of wasting your days at some desk job"

Leah stiffens beside you, her grip on your hand tighter than it was a minute ago.

"I don't mind it, actually", your reply is curt. "My job allows flexibility for when I have to join Leah for away games and whenever I have to travel with her for work. One day we'll be in London and the next day we'll be in New York for fashion week events"

They nod along but they're obviously not too impressed. which is fine because you weren't here to impress them or participate in this little game they've invented about who has a better life post-high school. "I'm actually quite spoiled these days"

"Ahh still being spoilt by mummy and daddy?" she meant it teasingly probably but you caught the hint of scorn in her tone.

From your peripheral, you notice Leah talking a small step forward, positioning herself so that she is almost shielding you from the rest of them. her height towering slightly over the other women in your group. you notice the stiffness in her jaw and the way her eyebrows lift in mockery. she chuckles slightly into the rim of her wine glass "yeah her daddy definitely spoils her"

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

idk what I just wrote but i typed out that last bit with the biggest cheesy grin on my face lol

I'm sorry if this wasn't exactly what you were asking for, anon. if you want something else please send me another prompt in my inbox <333333

*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission. Thanks for respecting that!

[schmergo]

If you think I was a kid who loved to read, you’d be right, but that doesn’t just mean I was reading, like, Newbery Award nominated prestigious children’s novels. Because in my experience, most kids who love to read are more gourmand than gourmet. I was also reading:

* Class rosters. I begged my teachers for these. I wanted to try to memorize everyone’s middle names.

* Similarly, old yearbooks. I liked judging whether people’s names matched their faces and making up different names for them if they did. I also loved reading baby name books and making lists of names I liked.

.* The personals section of the newspaper. I liked picturing the people as they described themselves and imagining which combination of people on the page might like each other.

* The ingredients of food packages. Not even for any real informational reason, I just really liked certain fantasy-sounding words like thiamine and riboflavin.

* An old World Book Encyclopedia from the 1970s. I would sneak out of bed to read it because the bookshelf was near my bedroom door and I could crawl to it without making the floor creak. My favorite entries were the ones about Hawaii and tigers. I kinda developed a ritual of rereading the Hawaii article when I had read a scary book before bed and needed to calm my brain down.

* My dad’s Dave Barry and Woody Allen humor books and also transcripts of all of the Monty Python’s Flying Circus episodes. This is probably why my sense of humor has been so weird from such a young age.

* The part of the church hymnal with ceremonies for baptisms, weddings, and funerals. I liked to imagine them.

* Wine catalogs at friends’ houses. The descriptions of the wines seemed so poetic and abstract. I also liked when they said “fruit on the nose” because I pictured a dog balancing a whole piece of fruit on its nose.

* My parents’ parenting books. I liked to see if I was exhibiting developmentally appropriate behavior. I am not 100% sure if doing that is, in fact, developmentally appropriate behavior.

* Those little brochures advertising various roadside attractions and tourist activities at rest shops. I would grab as many as possible when we stopped to use the bathroom on a road trip. Also, travel guides in general.

* I checked out the entire “unexplained” section of the library over the course of third grade. (Dewey decimal 001.9.) Ask little me about Project Blue Book, I guess.

* I LOVED party planning books, especially ones with highly specific themed parties that seemed impractical to put on in real life like a whole chess-themed party culminating in a game of human chess, complete with lemon chess pie for dessert.

* Seed packets. I find the writing style of these very endearing. It always sounds so affectionate toward the plants.

* My grandma’s Reader’s Digest magazines, which felt like Russian roulette because they sometimes published disturbing articles that gave me nightmares. (Reader’s Indigestion?) I especially vividly remember a feature on adopted kids who need to wear Ilizarov apparatuses to straighten their limbs because they became malformed due to severe neglect at orphanages.

* For some reason, I loved reading restaurant menus and imagining what kind of food different fictional characters would order from there.

* And last but certainly not least, because I think this is a relatable one: the AMERICAN GIRL CATALOG! No, I never had an American Girl doll, but getting the catalog was a source of much excitement.

[hanihazeljade]

Three Videos

The aftermath of letting Tim and Tam drink without any adult supervision.

(CW: swearing)

Part 6 of Three Weeks

Prev - Three Settings

Next - Three Pasts

Tim and Tam had a nice Saturday. 

The day that was started by nothing but bullshit from the Wayne family and was remedied by Tamara’s good redirection using alcohol is amazing. They may or may not have black outs around 9 in the evening and he doesn’t want to remember the shit Tam put him through.

But fate is a bitch and he wakes up in Tam’s living room, on her soft grey carpet and is now trending throughout the social media of Gotham. Is he aware of anything that could possibly result in the entirety of Upper Gotham to suddenly bombarded him with proposals of courtship? No. Is he enthralled by this sudden development? No. Did he want the ground to suddenly open up and swallow him and spew him out in Hokkaido? Yes! 

This sudden development was actually not a bad thing as he looked at Twitter and saw many screen-recorded shit he and Tam did. And lo and behold, it was from Instagram Live, not just anyone’s  Instagram Live but it was Tim’s Instagram Live. 

Sure, Tim’s Instagram is far less known than the public accounts of Richie Wayne and Brucie Wayne, with almost all of the population of Gotham and some of the neighbouring cities, but he has some good amount of followers to be famous but not a big time influencer. However, as any model that has been featured on some top magazines in Japan, he has enough influence to navigate the fashion industry, just like the bear jacket and the wedge high heels that he loves to wear everyday in Japan.

But then again, it was mostly just in Japan, Asia is already pushing it. So, he doesn’t really kind off get it how did the Americans found his Instagram Account, after all his username is not even close to Timothy Drake, it was akatori, directly translated to Red Bird and if the Gothamite actually have some brain cells to think, it was a direct hint that he was once the Red Bird, Red Robin, to be exact. 

But Timothy is not an idiot. Red Bird can have a lot of meaning. Like the tattoo that he got when he settled in Hokkaido, or it could be the emblem of once prestigious Drakes. Red Bird has a lot of meaning in Tim’s life and all of them hurt to different degrees.

Now, back to the trending page of Twitter. All of the clips of the live show were just him singing different songs. He doesn’t remember singing and he also doesn’t remember putting on a live show, heck he doesn’t even remember anything after the second bottle of tequila was down. 

He looked at the tags and he was trending under the tag of #tim_drake_live. He clicked on the first video that the tag has and it was him singing so passionately of Walls Could Talk by Halsey and Tam was beside him singing the oh-oh-oh part and it was hilarious. It was like he knew so many things that he could not say to the public and he was now suffering from it. Timothy chuckled at his thought but then halted as it was true to his life.

“Imagine the amount of tea this man could spill.”

“A nepo baby that decides to leave everything for peace? Spill the tea.”

He clicked another video and it was him singing to Tate McRae’s “you broke me first”. It was truly a song that can describe his emotions but he doesn’t expect himself to call out Richard’s name after the line of ‘Now suddenly you're asking for it back Could you tell me, where'd you get the nerve?’ Like where in the bloody soup of Kardashian’s list of lawsuits he got the confidence to call out Richie Wayne so boldly. Or could it be that he was just drunk?

“Wonder what did the bimbo Richie do to him?”

“THAT IS WHAT WE LOVE. NAME DROPPING”

“Imagine having the power to call Richard Wayne out for all of his bullshit, the power Tim Drake has is immaculate”

“#RichieWaynePartyisOver”

He clicked to several more videos of him just singing to different more songs but the one that captured his focus was the rendition of CARYS “Princesses Don’t Cry” and but his confident drunk ass change the princess to a Drake and he can see the sliver of tears sliding to his face and he knows why because he can still feel the light ache in his heart.

He looked at the comments and he was shocked to see people sympathising with him. He is not used to this, he was the one that always sympathises and not the other way around. And somehow, the sympathising of thousands of faceless people behind the screen made him feel so… valid. That he was heard and people actually listened to him and believed him. Something inside of him felt touched and was healed.

“The fact that he change the princess to drake is a power move, ngl”

“Didn’t the media say that he didn’t cry during his parent’s funeral, was it the drake’s fault or the wayne’s?”

“He also move away from gotham for seven years and he come back for his sister’s wedding, watta brother”

“Is it just me or did he cry during the bridge? I swear i saw tears”

“The voice kind off shakes throughout the whole song, unlike the prev songs”

“Could it be that the whole song applied throughout his life? He was a part of upper gotham after all”

He didn’t expect that other people that he doesn’t know, actually sides with him. He was believed for once and for all. He was not judged as a crazed lunatic that was looking for attention, that he was grieving or just lost in his emotions. He didn't need to explain his reasons, but then he was understood. 

He sighed and put his phone down and took a deep breath. He got up from the carpet and he freshened himself before he went to Tam that was dead asleep on her couch and somehow didn’t wake up with all the shit he played on his phone.

“Tam! Wake up!” Tim yelled at the girl but Tam just groaned and mumbled, “go fuck yourself.” and Tim just chuckled and let the young lady be. He went to the kitchen and gathered anything that he could make him a breakfast and maybe Tam if he felt like it.

He made himself a guacamole sandwich and made Tam one, because he doesn’t want to get hit and as he was eating, he decided to go live one more time to apologise to his behaviour the night prior. He clicked the live button and he smiled at the camera.

“Hey everyone. I am pretty sure that everyone that is here, saw what happened last night.” He awkwardly chuckled by himself. “I am pretty much black-out drunk and can’t remember what happened last night and if there are no clips circling throughout the internet, I would never know what I did.” 

“I am apologising for such display of behaviour and hopefully wouldn’t do it again in the future. But we will never know, maybe I got betrayed and chastised again and need to drink so much again.” He joked and the comments are egging him on making more drunk live karaoke nights, as it made them realise that they are not the only ones that are sad during holidays.

“‘Don’t apologise, we like the chaotic tim drake’ wah? Really? Was I really that entertaining?” Tim chuckled at the comment before addressing something more, “And please call me Timothy, Tim is for little me, Timothy sounds more elegant.”

““Who bets that Timothy preferred to call himself Tim before he left?’ Pretty sharp, huh? But no, my parents always called me Timothy with so much affection and I couldn’t listen to people calling me Timothy, as it brings me grief but now, I like it.”

““Didn’t your parents leave you by yourself?” Yes, that is true. But it was actually a series of trial and error. My parents brought me to a few of their digs and we found out the hard way that I should not be in dig sites.” Timothy chuckled as he remembered that Tim was brought in one of the dig sites at Peru and was found tampering with a very important relic and his parents just hired a nanny until Tim was ten. And Mrs. Mac became his guardian during those days until Janet died.

“ “And you just don't think that you are neglected?” Oh no. I may be a neglected child in front of the outside eyes but my parents always call me everyday if the service can reach them and once a week if the service can’t. We also do family bonding everytime they come home, we go golfing, rock climbing, fishing with dad, baking with mum and learning ancient texts with both of them.” Tim commented, hoping that it will finally remove any bad cloud in his parent’s reputation.

“My dad and mum may not be ideal parents for anyone but for me, I love my independence of cooking what I eat, cleaning my own room, doing my homework on my own and establishing some routine and schedule with no interference from my parents is actually really cool. My mum actually tried to bring up the idea of going with them one more time to a dig site so that she can watch over me everytime, not just when she comes home, but I knelt down and cried for 3 hours to just let me be and my mum just let it go. It stopped when she died.” He bitterly smiled at the attempts of his mother trying to include him at their dig and he always cried as he didn't want to stop his nightly escapades.

Before he can comment any further, Tam shows up behind him, clearly still has a hangover and just woken up, “Why does my phone have thousands of notifications?” 

TIm smiled as he pointed his phone to Tam, “Say hello to the live, Tam.” Tim chuckled and Tam paused as if she was processing what just Tim and hit Tim when everything finally set in. “I fucking hate you.” Tam cursed him as she went to the bathroom.

“There is a guacamole sandwich on the counter for you.” Tim yelled but Tam just popped her hand out and raised her middle finger, making Tim laugh. Tim looked back at the fast scrolling of comments until he saw a very interesting comment.

“ “Are you going to get back together?” Me and Tam? The chance of that happening is like the chance of Lex Luthor stopping antagonising Superman. And Tam has her own endeavour right now. She can’t court a certain baldie that has a penchant for breaking their nose.” Tim laughed at his own joke but  screamed when a cold pair of wet hands just suddenly wiped his face.

“I heard you were talking shit about me.” Tam said, quoting  a meme, making the comments send a bunch of laughing stickers and making Tim laugh after a while. Tam grabbed her sandwich and sat beside Tim, she bit into the sandwich as she asked, “So why are you livestreaming your morning? Is this a hobby of yours?”

Tim shook his hand, even Tam doesn’t remember what they did last night, “Apparently I livestream the two of us singing while drunk, and now everyone wants to know who the heck I am.” Tim briefly explained, and Tam choked a little, before giggling. 

“I knew you were going to have so much clout someday, and that is why I stuck around.” Tam laughed and Tim joined in. “What did you sing while drunk?” Tam asked as she took another bite of her sandwich. 

“I have so many songs that I sang. Apparently the live show was streaming for three hours, and I definitely sang for at least three hours. It is a miracle that I haven’t lost my voice.” Tim told Tam and Tam shot her eyebrows up.

“Damn, man. I know you are kind of indestructible but damn.” Tam said before she looked at the camera and added, “I mean in any way shape or form.” she winked.

Tim rolled his eyes, “So, yeah. The Waynes probably want to know where I am and I need to go back, I still need to prepare for my sister’s wedding. Thank you everyone, and again I am very sorry for my actions last night.” Tim said as he waved to the camera before ending the live.

Tim sighed, “I am very shocked that none of the Waynes are actually trying to break into your house.”

Tam laughed, “I may or may have not done something about that.” she cryptically said. 

Tim widened his eyes, “What did you do?”

Tam grinned, “When I got the news that you filed for your resignation letter, and even the Waynes don't have any clue where you are, they went through with everything that happened after you left to travel the world. But I stepped my foot down when they were trying to break into my house and my office trying to figure out where you are after I got your new number.”

“And they listened to you?” Tim is in disbelief, the Bats listened to someone who established boundaries? That’s news to him.

“Apparently threatening them with you is very effective, since it was kind of fairly recent that you went off the face of earth.”

“Wonder how that works.” Tim murmured, probably guilt and conscience. But Tam heard him and just winked at him.

[medusapelagia]

03 - The price of success

written for @steddieangstyaugust (prompt:  The sunset looks lovely, don't you think?") and @augustwritingchallenge (Prompt: Dark Academia) Rating: Mature Relationship: Steve/Eddie TW: demons, enemies to lovers (mentioned), gun violence, murder, major character death, sad ending, magic, demons Words: 1448

(A big thanks to @midsummer-semantics who told me about the Ornamental Pear Tree 😂)

Steve should have known better. There was no way that using an old book he found in the prohibited section of the library to conjure a demon to help him with his college grades was a good idea. Robin tried to talk him out of it, but he did it the same, and it worked.

It worked so well that now he quickly became the youngest professor in the entire Academy, and even his long-time rival Edward Munson had to acknowledge Steve's competence.

Ancient Rome's history and culture? He knows everything, from the most trivial things to the biggest secrets none was ever able to unravel.

But a deal is a deal, and every deal has a price.

The demon told him that he would have claimed his soul the very moment he found love. As if someone could ever love Steve for real.

Steve immediately agreed, but instead of making him sign a scroll with his blood, the demon just said, “The sunset looks lovely, don't you think?” and disappeared in thin air.

From that moment on Steve’s grades got better and better, he won scholarship after scholarship and numerous colleges offered him a place to teach, but Steve never accepted, being at his college and watching Edward Munson struggle was more than enough for him.

Looking behind himself, with a glass of whisky neat swirling gently in his hand, Steve can see all the opportunities he missed in his life.

He lost all his friends, and he never got married or had a life away from college. He devoted his entire life to his studies, and now that he's close to retirement, nobody is here to celebrate with him.

Still, there's a party down at the cafeteria in honor of his old rival, Edward Munson.

Some old students traveled from all over the world to celebrate the old teacher who left such an impression on their young minds. A couple of those have even dedicated their academic success to Edward Munson.

None did that for Stephen Harrington. The only thing he got was a threatening letter from one of his students accusing him of destroying his future. As if a failed exam could do that to a person.

But that’s just Steve’s life. None was there with him when he won his first Award from the Historical Association or when he published his graduation thesis in a prestigious historical magazine.

Not even his parents, who Steve was so desperately trying to impress, gave him any recognition of his academic success like he was always expected to succeed and the fact that he actually did was just a confirmation that he was doing what he was expected to.

He missed Robin, deeply, but he couldn't really blame her for choosing to follow her girlfriend, now wife, to the other side of the globe. She even tried to stay in contact for the first few years, but after facing Steve's stubborn silence, she slowly distances herself from him.

That hurt, Steve can't deny it, but in the end, it was a good thing, if none was close to Steve he would be safe from the demon curse.

He gulps down the whisky in one go and slowly moves toward the fancy bottle to pour himself some more when a soft knock on the door catches his attention.

For a moment he stills, who might be knocking at his door at this hour, he asks himself, frowning at the big wooden doors. Probably a prank.

He turns back toward the chiseled furniture, pouring more whisky, but someone knocks again with more intention.

"Professor Harrington? Are you there?" a familiar voice asks.

"Professor Munson, what are you doing at my door? I thought you were having a little celebration with your acolytes." he snarls back, not hiding the disdain in his tone.

"Yeah. The kids throw a little party for me. It was nice, I must admit it, but I wanted to celebrate with my old enemy. Would you like to join me in the garden? Our bench is still there."

Steve knows exactly what he's talking about, the old wooden bench where they used to sit when they were young, next to the Ornamental Pear tree, or cum tree as Eddie playfully used to call it due to its strong smell.

But that was ages ago, before Steve's deal, when they were studying together and they dreamed of making some great discovery together.

Steve looks at him weary, before deciding that instead of drinking whisky alone in his office he could always drink whisky with Eddie under the cum tree. After all, today was the last day he would be forced to see him.

He grabs the bottle and two glasses, "Lead the way." 

The college is almost cleared out, the lessons ended the week before and only a handful of students and teachers are still there.

They sit under the cum tree, chuckling about their shared past made of academic competition.

"Do you ever think that things could have gone differently if you weren't such a prick?" Eddie asks, sipping his whisky slowly.

"I'm not a prick. I was a man with a goal and I did my best to achieve it."

"And you totally did. Stepping on everyone, not caring about the debris you left behind, but hey, even after thirty years you're still the greatest expert on Ancient Roman History." Eddie chuckles.

"And you were too busy having fun every night and playing that stupid guitar. Did you ask me to come here just to insult me? Because if that’s the case I think I’ll go back to my study."

"Nah. But I wanted to ask you a question. Was it worth it?" Eddie asks, gulping down the last of his whisky, "Was it worth it to spend all your life alone? Maybe I never won a prestigious award or hosted a special on History Channel, but I had a full life and love and now that I'm retiring everyone came to celebrate." he turns slowly, "Your retirement celebration plan was getting drunk in your office."

"There's nothing to celebrate," Steve replies, "I'm going to lose my home and someone younger will teach a course I created from nothing. Why should I celebrate?"

"You never celebrated. Not even one of your academic successes. Why?"

"I just did what was expected from me." 

"Jee… that's sad even for you, Stevie."

Stevie, like he used to call him when they were friends.

Steve looks into Eddie’s eyes, they are clear and honest like always, and he makes a stupid decision.

"Would you believe me if I told you I made a deal with a demon to achieve academic success?" he asks, pouring more whiskey into his glass.

"I think you're drinking too much."

"I did. But the demon told me that the price was that he would have claimed my soul the very moment I found love. Didn't sound like a big deal at the time."

"Exchanging your happiness for a stupid title? It sounds like a big deal to me!" Eddie replies, chuckling.

The whisky bottle is almost empty when Eddie puts a hand on Steve's knee, "You were the biggest regret of my life, Steve. I had a happy life and few lovers but you… you were something else. The other half of my soul. The missing piece of my puzzle. And I asked you to come here because I'm leaving tomorrow and there's one thing I regretted all my life, and it was not kissing you when I had the occasion. Would you… would you let me...?”

It's just a kiss and then they'll never see each other again. It can't hurt, right?

Eddie tilts his head and bends toward Steve, slowly, giving him the time to recoil, but Steve doesn't move and they finally share a kiss.

"I love you, Steve Harrington," Eddie whispers on his lips and Steve would like to answer that he loves him too, he always did, but someone is running toward them and an angry voice screams something about how unfair Steve's grades were and how he destroyed his future. Steve doesn't really have the time to understand what's going on because the boom of the shoot deafens him for a moment before the man lets the gun fall to the ground and runs away. 

The college security chases the shooter, yelling, while Steve holds Eddie's bloody body in his arms.

"The sunset looks lovely, don't you think?" Eddie stutters. The same word the demon said to him when Steve signed his contract, and when Eddie’s body goes limp Steve finally understands that that's the price the demon requested.

[meetmyothersouls]

Back to u 4 tonight ?

I have worked my ass off on this so I really hope you guys love it!

Back To You

Jonah Hauer-King x reader

Warnings: memory loss, being drunk, throwing up, not proof read

Chapter 4

Jonah's POV

I sit in the library, leaning against my desk. I'm lost in thought, many of them. One of which is the information Jorge just threw at me. I scoff out loud even though no one is around to hear it. The idea of him taking y/n from me is so disgusting to me, it makes me sick to my stomach. I let him walk away unscathed only because I don't want y/n's new opinion of me to turn into a negative one.

Y/n. Then my thoughts go to her. I'm suddenly overwhelmed with a mixture of sadness, longing and love for her. I want our old life back so badly it hurts. I look around the library. It was her favorite room. One, because of all the books. I used to joke that she loved the books in this room more than me. Two, because of all the times we made love in here. I believe there's not one surface left untouched by-

A soft tap on the door brings me out of my daydream. I stand up straight, no longer leaning on my desk. It's Haven.

"Sorry, I was just looking for y/n."

"She's not with you?" I ask, immediately worried.

"No...I thought she was with you."

"Shit," I mutter under my breath. "Well, she's gotta be somewhere in the house. She doesn't know how to get anywhere else," I say, mostly to calm myself down.

Haven and I make our way down the hall, she's not too familiar with the layout of our house either, so she checks the downstairs amongst the guests Val invited, while I check the other two floors of our house. I wait and save my panic for when I'm totally out of sight. I check her room first, then the nursery; the two rooms I know y/n has seen with her own eyes. When those turn up empty, I scour the rest of the house. By the end of my search, I'm flying down the stairs and practically knock Haven over when I reach the bottom floor.

"No luck?" I ask breathless.

"No, but someone mentioned they saw her heading out with Val. Any thoughts on where they could be?"

I groan out loud, "I have an idea or two."

Y/n's POV

I'm downing my fifth shot, Val, Jorge, and several other people I don't know are chanting my name. I've never been much of a drinker, but according to Val, her and I go out and have drinks all the time. She shows me my favorite shots and drinks that we used to get together all the time and, to my surprise, I really like them. I apparently, lean towards the fruity ones with pineapple and strawberry purees. The shots are very bitter and nasty, but they burn going down which I kind of like.

"Okayyyy," I half yell/half slur. "Okay! I think I'm done."

Jorge and Val are talking, deep in conversation with one another and all of a sudden everyone is way too fucking close to me. The room is spinning and my heart is racing. It's too hot, my clothes are too tight, and I'm in England. I run out of the pub and the cool, now almost evening air hits me.

"I'mjustgonnagoonawalk," I call out to Val as the door to the pub swings shut. I wave to her as I turn the corner. I have no idea where I'm going and it's clear to me in my mind, but it doesn't stop me from walking on. The last...how many days has it been? Has been a whirlwind of emotions and information. I'm married, I was pregnant, I live in England and write for an apparently very prestigious magazine according to Val. For some reason the married thing and the pregnant thing have me laughing. I poke at my stomach. It's a little flabby and the tiniest bit sore, it's evident that something was there. That's when I notice that I'm not even wearing a wedding ring. I immediately feel kind of bad because of it. Jonah really is a nice guy and he clearly cares about me. And...I mean...he's very easy on the eyes. He's got the prettiest slightly curly hair, the bluest eyes I've ever seen. His skin is like this permanent sun kissed color that just occurs naturally. I start to wonder what his hands would feel like on my body and I'm reminded about how he grabbed the small of my back on the stairs today. I giggle out loud and have to grab a streetlamp post to steady myself. I look up and I laugh even harder, because I see him walking right toward me. I point to him and wave. Then he sees me, and he starts running. I'm almost on my knees by the time he gets to me. Jonah grabs me and pulls me against him.

"Thank god," he says breathlessly.

"You are real!" I giggle.

"What?"

"Wot?" I imitate his adorable British accent.

"My god, y/n are you drunk?!"

"Yes, Jonah, it appears thatIam. Val and Jorge introduced me to some verygood drinks."

"Jorge?"

"Mhmm. Jorge." I start to walk and Jonah follows. I feel a bit better about walking now, since he at least knows where we're going.

"He didn't...try anything did he?"

"Pffft."

"Y/n, I'm serious."

"Me too. I wouldn't have let him anyway. You're way hotter than he is." I'm a few steps ahead of him and I start to cross the street.

"Whoa!" Jonah yells as he pulls my wrist. My back is against him now and I'm very aware of how his body feels pressed up against mine. I make an effort to press harder against him, and if he notices he doesn't let on, but I wish he did. "Y/n, you can't just walk into oncoming traffic, Darling."

"Darling?" I look up at him, but he's looking forward, his eyes focused on the crosswalk, but he's got the slightest smile on his face.

Jonah's hand is resting on my lower abdomen, holding me protectively. It gives me a flutter in my stomach that I'd normally try to push away, but don't have the mental capacity to right now. He waits for the cross walk to change and when it does, he moves his hand. That's when I grab it and run across the street. We bump into a couple that's walking our direction and I accidentally knock the woman's coffee out of her hands.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry!" Jonah calls over his shoulder as I pull him along.

I'm doubled over in laughter as we make it to the sidewalk while Jonah stands next to me, his hands on his hips in disbelief. His mouth hangs open adorably, as he looks at me like he's seeing me for the first time. Then he's laughing. Hard. It's the happiest I've seen him look since I woke up in that hospital room a few weeks ago.

"You're really a piece of work, you know that?" Jonah says.

"Oooooh, is that a park? Come on!" I take off again, dodging couples and dog walkers and people on mopeds and bikes. Then, I'm on grass it's slightly damp and I feel it through my canvas shoes. It reminds me of the parks in New York. In the distance there's a pond with a fountain in the middle and several swans swimming against a sunset. It looks like a painting.

Jonah finally catches up, his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. "Where is everyone?" I ask.

"Huh?"

"There's not a lot of people here."

"Ah, yes. They're all at home, most likely."

I'm so focused on the scenery in front of me I don't even look at Jonah. "But it's so beautiful."

"Yes. You are."

"What?"

Jonah's staring right at me when I whip my head around. He clears his throat and looks off into the distance. "Yes it is. You know it's funny you came here."

"Why's that?"

"Well," Jonah says, as he begins to walk, "this is where you like to come when you need inspiration for writing. Sometimes I'll find you here laid out on a blanket with a book or a laptop. One time, ahh maybe two years ago, I couldn't find you anywhere. You left your cell at home, I checked every bookstore in London and you were nowhere to be found. I was about to call the police, when I drove past the park and saw a tiiiiny figure way out in the middle of the field."

"Was it me?"

"Mhm. It was. You came out here to read and guess what you did?"

"What?"

"You fell asleep!"

"No way!"

"Yes! You had me worried sick," Jonah laughs. He's still looking out into the distance like he can see the memory in the skyline. And suddenly I feel terrible. I feel dizzy and lightheaded and sick to my stomach. Maybe it's all the alcohol or maybe it's because he clearly loves me so much and I can't recall all those feelings myself.

"You okay?" Jonah asks when he finally looks at me.

"Y-yeah, just need to sit down."

Jonah grabs my hand and leads me to one of the park benches. We sit down and my nausea calms down slightly.

"Jonah?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry." I turn to face him and my breath hitches in my throat. His face is close to mine, much like when we were on the staircase today. He's so beautiful up close I just want to touch his face.

"What for?" Jonah whispers.

"For not being what I was before."

"You're still my y/n, memories or not. You're mine and I'm yours."

"But...but how could you still like me the same knowing I don't have the memories you do or..."

"Y/n, you are my wife. I love you. I'm sorry if that overwhelms you. You don't have to say it. I know you don't love me. Why would you? You don't know me. But I've got a month to make you fall in love with me again and I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen. And even if you never love me again," he swallows hard, and I can feel his breath on my lips as he sighs. His face is so close to mine. He licks his lips and I can't help but lean in. I press my lips against his. He kisses me back softly then pulls away, just as I expect him to.

"Y/n, I'm sorry I just...I want you to be in the right state of mind before I kiss you and-"

Jonah doesn't finish his sentence before I'm throwing up on the ground in front of us.

"Your shoes!"

"It's okay, don't worry about them," Jonah says as he's pulling my hair back. I throw up again and again until my vision goes out and I lose everything around me.

I wake up and it's daylight, but it must be early. I'm wearing new clothes, which is just and oversized t-shirt, and my shoes are off. I'm in the same bed that I slept in the night before. The room is filled with that early morning bluish hue. It's making the room feel cozy and soft and cool.

I sit up in the bed, still no memories...other than kissing Jonah, him rejecting me and then throwing up all over his shoes. I groan and run my hand down my face just as the bathroom door opens and Jonah walks out wearing only a towel around his waist, his hair and body are wet from the shower he must have just taken.

And suddenly I'm filled with even more regret than before.

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[mystacoceti]

a chapter from Edmund White's Our Paris, with a drawing by Hubert Sorin

I first heard of Pierre Guyotat years ago, while I was still living in New York. Richard Howard, the celebrated poet and translator from the French, told me, "The avant-garde is alive and well in France. No, I'm serious, they still believe in it, and the latest genius, le vrai génie du moment, is named Pierre Guyotat, and he's written a magnificent, obsessive, unreadable, impossible book called Eden, Eden, Eden."

Soon after I moved to France, my friend and translator Gilles Barbedette invited me to dinner with Guyotat, a bald man with an imposing dome and a small dark rosebud of a mouth and a permanent shadow of a beard. He seldom lifted his eyes from the table, and he ate everything in sight, with his white, small-boned hands moving constantly toward his mouth. He ate all his food, then began to pick off my plate and then Gilles's. He never stopped eating, and Gilles was embarrassed and rushed out to find odds and ends in the fridge that he could submit as offerings to Baal, because with his small, intense features inscribed in the lower quarter of his immense pale sphere of a head, with his solid, stubby limbs and barrel chest and his hieratic, mysterious manner, Guyotat resembled a pagan idol, though he ate his food with the tidy gourmandise of a grizzly bear.

He spoke constantly of his work and his life and career. At that time he was finishing a canonical work entitled quite simply Le Livre (The Book); it occurred to me that if the Bible is known as the Good Book, his could be known as the Bad Book, since there was possibly something satanic about him. The author of the Bad Book assumed one was already a devotee, so I thought it would be rude to ask him any direct questions, but I gathered from his monologue that his new work, the product of many years' labor, was written not in ordinary French (which he referred to dismissively as la langue normative) but in a strange subvocal language of his own devising, one that omitted vowels among other unnecessary luxuries.

At the time I was writing a column for American Vogue about the cultural life of Paris and mentioned in print that Guyotat was about to publish a landmark in the history of the avant-garde, Le Livre. I also suggested to an arty little magazine on the West coast that it commission a translation of one chapter from this work, and the review was delighted to do so. At Christmas I received a card from Guyotat himself with the message: "This year you have done more for Guyotat than anyone else." I was very gratified.

Years went by and I heard of Guyotat only indirectly. The library in Paris where I was doing research for my biography of Jean Genet also housed Guyotat's archives, and there I might a beautiful but haggard young woman who was writing her thesis on Guyotat and therefore had to make constant burnt offerings to her deity. She told me lots of stories about evenings and even weekends entertaining the great man. Often she had run errands for him. I asked her if Guyotat was homosexual, but she said his sexuality did not involve other living creatures.

Stephen Barber, the English biography of Antonin Artaud, came under Guyotat's spell, since he regarded Guyotat as the direct heir to the even more lunatic aspects of Artaud's genius. He invited Guyotat to a mansion where he was house-sitting in Greenwich, but he was dismayed to learn when Guyotat arrived that he intended to stay two months; after a week Stephen cracked and announced that unfortunately his hospitality would be curtailed by the imminent visit of a bedridden grandmother.

Then a couple of years ago Albert Dichy, director of the Jean Genet archives, programmed a series of discussions and readings at the Odéon theater in Paris around the run of a prestigious revival of Genet's play The Balcony. Albert considers Guyotat a direct spiritual heir to the more violent and pronographic side of Genet's genius, and he asked him to give a reading.

Guyotat consented. The reading was scheduled for a twenty-minute slot just after a panel discussion and just before the stagehands had to set up for that night's performance of The Balcony. When Albert told Guyotat he'd have only twenty minutes to read, the writer replied loftily, "But time is inscribed within the interior of the work and has no independent exterior existence." Albert swallowed hard.

Bald head gleaming under the spotlights, Guyotat began to intone in his own tongue, scrupulously avoiding any concession to the normative language. His hands moved rhythmically and beautifully as though he were the sibyl inhaling the sacred fumes and swaying above the tripod in a trance. In his language everybother word sounded like "testicles" for some reason. The impious in the audience fled in droves, leaving behind only hardcore devotees.

Backstage another drama was brewing. As the twenty-minute limit was approaching, the stage manager told Albert that he couldn't let the reading go over, not even a minute or two. After all, he had a whole team of union stagehands to supervise and their work time was quantified down to the last second. Still Guyotat intoned on dreamily, his hands writhing like the serpents around the caduceus. The stage manager announced he was going out now to remove the poet forcibly from his pulpit. Albert protested that if the stage manager did any such thing the rest of the Genet festival would be canceled. Just as the two men were about to come to blows, the time inscribed within the interior of the work mysteriously ripened and the high priest swept off, to the ecstatic applause of the woman writing her thesis, Stephen Barber, Albert's wife, Hubert and me. The rest of the shallow audience had evaporated.

Hubert and I live only a block from the Centre Georges Pompidou, where cultural events are frequently programmed into the large hall of the basement. When my Genet book came out, there were five successive evenings devoted to such subjects as Genet and the cinema, Genet and politics, Genet and homosexuality, and so on. Before this Genet festival, however, Guyotat announced he'd be staging his own five-day festival. Each night he would improvise prose live before an audience. For this event he graciously conceded to speak in the normative language. Catherine, the woman writing her thesis on Guyotat, was there every night, of course, taping every word, and Albert, who was handling the Guyotat archives, was also in constant attendance. The great man had not announced how long he'd be speaking on any given evening; on some nights his inspiration gave out after thirty minutes, but the lucky audience on another evening had a full three-hour improvisation.

He was dressed in black trousers and a black shirt and jacket. His eyelids were half closed. His hands were weaving the air before him. As he spoke, he created a vision of a foul dog writhing in the filth of primeval slime, belly huge and erotically bulging, the trademark testicles much swelled on. There was a conflict of some sort with higher creatures in the eternal night. Prostitution, rifle butt's and testicles were recurring themes. It had been a long day, and soon I was dozing, blending Guyotat's words into a dream vision of Milton's Lucider, bedecked for the occasion with a pair of bright red Christmas balls. Hubert, I'm ashamed to say, was wide awake for the entire two house and seventeen minutes.

[daifukumochiin]

Summary: Sasuke's orderly life at elite Sairiumu Academy is disrupted by the arrival of Hinata, a timid transfer student whose obvious crush on him, a young man dedicated to his craft and his current relationship, stirs unease. (Initial SasuSaku with SasuHina endgame, modern Norse myth AU, high school, angst, romance, photography, postmodern-ish fic). Rated T

LIGHTS,

BOWS, and

MISTLETOES

an entry for SasuHina Month 2024, Day 27 : Forget and Remember

(for peachy-hina, since December)

@sasuhinamonth

ffnet: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14369143/1/Lights-Bows-and-Mistletoes

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57030778

Part 1: Lights

go to Chapter List>

v

The small white flower with a sunny yellow center and a wiry stem catching Sasuke's eye under his desk the next morning seemed inconspicuous enough to ignore. He wondered how it got there—perhaps someone had sat at his desk—but his main concern was whether anything had been disturbed. Upon inspection, everything seemed intact; no scribbles were left in his notes like the ones from his grade school days declaring I love you’s. This was Sairiumu, he reminded himself; not an ordinary school filled with snot-nosed kids from pesky neighborhoods. 

Then the sightings continued: it turned up in the gap of his locker, under his umbrella, even wedged in the seam of his car door by the driver’s seat. This strange occurrence persisted until the day of the photography club's orientation.  

To become a bonafide member of Sairiumu's prestigious photography club, candidates must rank in the top fifty of the qualifying exhibition. The previous year, it had been to a jury of select faculty on the theme of “Divinity”; naturally, Sasuke achieved top scores. This year, the club decided on an open anonymous exhibition subject to the votation of the student body. As for the theme, Sasuke couldn’t care less. He wasn’t paying attention to the meeting when it happened—whatever the recruitment committee head suggested, whatever the others voted for, he okayed it and presented it to the potential recruits during the orientation.

Not that he was agreeable.

Far from it.

Everyone in the studio who had suffered Sasuke’s relentless scrutiny knew better than to cross him. His temper is not for the weak of heart. Any aspiring hobbyist photographer who looked up to him because of the tender sensibilities that his works portrayed in famous photography magazines risked bruising their illusions of him. But already, freshmen none the wiser who signed up for the club flocked around him asking for autographs and pictures.

Sasuke indulged them; nothing too untamed that it should bother him so much. He loved good-humored attention in heaps, but not the extreme kind. 

Amid all the fawning clamor, he caught a whiff of that blueberry scent, and that was enough to make him guarded, his accommodating smile vanishing from his face.

“Senpai? If you don’t mind one more pic…” requested one of the freshmen when he made an about-face. 

He didn't find her there. She hadn’t bothered him in class or followed him and Sakura home since the subway train incident. That had also been the last time he’d been wary of her. She had stayed out of his periphery and it assured him that she was practically harmless at that point. During the orientation, he had also been too preoccupied to notice if she attended.

“Sorry. Some other time,” said Sasuke. “We need to make preparations and you could really use the time to think about your entries.”

Disappointed, the freshmen hesitated to press him further seeing how his mood took a 180-degree turn.

As the crowd dissipated and the auditorium was emptied leaving only Sasuke and his core club members, recruitment committee head Tenten pointed out, “You’ve got a cute, little thing there,” nodding at his chest pocket.

Sasuke scrunched his brows and looked down his nose. He found the small white flower he had been finding everywhere peeking up at him and retrieved it. “I think someone’s playing mind games with me.”

Tenten burst into laughter. “With chamomile?” she asked incredulously. “Looking at it closely, that must be a wild chamomile—a weed!”

Sasuke responded with a disapproving click of his tongue. "It must be a form of harassment," he remarked.

The others, preoccupied with indulging in premium donuts and delicate afternoon tea treats, overheard the exchange and dismissed it as 'almost neurotic' with lighthearted amusement, not taking Sasuke's comment seriously following Tenten—they savored the instant as much as they did their luxurious delicacies; it was such a rare opportunity, a happenstance that boosted budding protestations to surface.

But Morio, his classmate and club vice president, said:

“So you think Hinata Hyuuga’s harassing you?” 

At the mention of her name, Sasuke's jaws clenched, perturbed by a flood of feelings he couldn't comprehend: angry, that he thought his concerns about Hinata had been done away with; disturbed, by the possibility of the little show he and Sakura put on the other day not being enough to dissuade further attempts from her.

Their laughter ceased; their tea suddenly lukewarm; the scones turning bland due to the nervousness that the palpable tension in the air around Sasuke could so easily induce upon them.

"How so?" Sasuke cautiously asked. How did Morio come up with the notion? He never told anyone. Apart from him, only Sakura knew.

“Gotta hand it to you—she is weird,” added Morio who kept his calm. “Thought you had a flirtatious affair going on when I saw her slip it in…”—he took a sip from a Ginori, amusement dancing in his eyes—“Thought I had witnessed you cheating on your girl.” 

There, Sasuke determined he had enough. Bogged down by the thought of the paranoia she caused him since meeting her for the first time at Hashirama’s bridge in the rain, of the sleepless nights thinking about her and what she said, of the confusion about whether any of it had anything to do with him at all—because she made it seem like he did when really, he doesn't—he quickly excused himself from the rest and exited the auditorium.

While crossing the central courtyard to reach Cluster B where his classroom was, he stumbled upon Hinata by the central fountain. Heart caught in his throat, Sasuke discovered that words had deserted him.

What was he trying to say? How is he the worst at confrontations having nothing to do with photography?

The fountain's gentle rhythm mirrored the turbulent emotions coursing through him, mingling with the rustling leaves from the bower of Linden trees lining the adjacent paths.

There was an unspoken intensity trammeling as it coursed the air when their eyes met. Hinata stood there, her expression a portrait of shock as if she were a cat caught mid-theft, frozen and wide-eyed, as during that time at Hashirama’s bridge, holding her breath, faintly searching for recognition in his eyes, where there stood none.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of them in silent, differing agonies.

Maybe it served his peace of mind best to ask what she meant by her words then. On the other hand, Sasuke feared she'd take it as tacit permission to do whatever she so desired; whatever that is, he could only conjure to mind the worst things from experience. He doesn’t know her, she doesn’t know him. And if she ever does know about him through magazines or the internet, he won’t indulge whoever fan with any of their delusions in parasocial relationships.

Finally gaining chutzpah, Sasuke held out the flower clenched in his right, and with a pang of cruel satisfaction when he saw expectation gripped Hinata's face, threw it on the fountain where it floated momentarily before being carried away, shaking against the ripples.

Hinata gasped. Her eyes widened further, lips trembling as she bit back words that seemed desperate to escape.

“So it is you,” Sasuke confirmed. “Stop while I’m still asking nicely.”

“But–” she began, her voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t follow me around," Sasuke interrupted, his tone harsher than he intended. "My girlfriend doesn’t appreciate it, and neither do I. Stop before the worst things happen to you.”

It wouldn’t be his worst sin; being cruel to her like this is also kindness on his part. Sasuke appeased his raging conscience with that thought. "And if you're looking for someone... You’re sorely mistaken. That person is not me."

go to Chapter List>

[ayotofu]

I saw you talking about publishing poetry, how do you go about doing that? I entered contests when I was in college and enjoyed it, but idk where to look for that stuff now that I'm graduated.

hm well i'm not like an expert but basically here's what i do

read poetry. like, not even as a "u learn how to write by reading thing (though u def do)" but as "see where the people you like and the people u emulate get published and check those places out"

read more stuff from them

if u have stuff that seems to fit their vibe, check out their submission guidelines (usually easy to find, but uh. not always. see: HAD)

put together a submission packet. i tend to be of the "more is more" thought in this regard. if the option is 3-5 poems best believe i'm sending 5 unless i really just don't have any. my thought process is that 5 poems gives them two more chances to say yes than if i only sent 3

write a cover letter. this, again, can be tailored to the place youre submitting to. most places i send a really formulaic letter because i don't want to stand out for my cover letter and not my writing, u know? i usually list the pieces in the packet and some previous publications and then some biographical info (very brief, just places of study and relevant info like that) and some places don't ask for cover letters at all anymore! and then there's also HAD which i usually submit to in a desperate frenzy to make it so my cover letter is usually something like "wazzup" because of the. insane way HAD runs their submissions

then start submitting!

Some other notes:

I'm not paying money for this shit. when i was younger i was more willing, but now im unmoving in my stance. i'm not paying other people to maybe publish my work. reading fees are dumb imo and i'm not paying.

to that end, contests are almost always pay to enter, but that is different to me. the payments generally go to pay for whatever prize there is or if there's a guest judge or whatever. you kind of accept that when it comes to contests. i still don't submit to contests, but thats less because i reject the concept of them and more because i'm poor and my poetry is dece but not good enough to win a contest lol

i've submitted to bigger magazines, but i usually have the most fun with the fringe weirdo ones. they're less prestigious if you want a career or whatever but mostly i just like that HAD published my poem about my aunt's teeth u know?

anyway thats way more information than you asked for but there you go!

[shannendoherty-fans]

August 1992 - Shannen Doherty on the cover of YM (Young & Modern) magazine, by Firooz Zahedi.

Brunette bombshell Shannen Doherty – How she got it all - Part 1.

The got-it-all Girl

BY DARIO SCARDAPANE The real Shannen Doherty isn't anything like guy-magnet Brenda Walsh. In fact, Shannen didn't even snag a date for her high school prom. But now she's got it all – a mega-hit TV show, major bucks, a great-looking fiancé and the world at her feet. We got the girl who's got it all to tell all.

Shannen Doherty arrives at the Beverly Hills Hotel in a brand-new Mercedes 500 SL convertible – black, of course. Next to her, in the leather seat, sits her 26-year-old fiancé, Chris Foufas, a very wealthy and very good-looking real-estate developer. The valet attendants jump they've seen a lot of star power wheel up this driveway and they know the drill – and Doherty and Foufas receive the ultra-VIP treatment reserved for Hollywood's elite. The car taken care of in grand style, Doherty, dressed in a green silk shirt tucked into faded blue jeans, strides confidently past the smiling doormen into the hotel's sumptuous lobby. Money, cool cars, gorgeous guys. Is there any need to ask the zip code of this hotel? You guessed it. It's 90210. But the tiny (about five-foot-three-inch) brunette who nestles into the booth of the hotel's Polo Lounge is a far cry from Brenda Walsh. For one thing, she's prettier her skin under very light makeup is crystal clear. For another, she's older (21) and a whole lot wiser than her high school TV heroine.

"It's fine to look up to Brenda Walsh," Doherty says, gazing at a menu. "But Shannen Doherty is a different person. Brenda's more insecure, she's not as much of her own person as I am. And I have a career, Brenda doesn't."

Yes, Doherty definitely has a career – a solid body of work that began in 1982 with the TV series Little House: A New Beginning, included a role in the film Heathers, with Christian Slater and Winona Ryder, and landed her on fame's doorstep with the phenomenal success of 90210. Although she attended L.A.'s prestigious Lycée Français (whose previous students include Jodie Foster and Christie Brinkley), all that work left her little time for the joys (or the boys) of high school years. "I wasn't really there," Memphis-born, L.A.-reared Doherty recalls. "I didn't really have friends from that school, 'cause I was on [the TV series] Our House. So I was being tutored after hours, and then I did Heathers, and I took 12th grade at the same time I took 11th grade just to get out of school because I hated it. You know, I guess my problem is that I am not the most social person in the world. I didn't really need the social scene of high school." Nor did Doherty need the attentions of would-be high school sweethearts. "I never dated high school guys when I was young," Doherty says with a smile. "I dated older men 'cause I sort of had a thing, like every girl has a thing, for older men. There was nothing wrong with the guys in high school, but at the time I was a little confused, and I didn't want to add a confused boyfriend to that." All in all, Doherty's teenage years held less luster than does Brenda's heady social whirl on 90210. Even the prom, that peak night of adolescent bliss, was a lot less than it was built up to be.

"I'm not a prom girl. I didn't go to my prom," Doherty says, sipping orange juice. "But my father had a business associate who had a son, and he asked me to go with him to his prom.'

She rolls her eyes as she recalls that enchanted evening. "I went, and I hated it. Hated it. For one thing, I wore this dress that I wore on Our House. It was black, strapless and very, very low cut – unlike any other prom dress there. I don't know, the kids looked at me kind of funny, and I went, 'This is not my scene. I think I'd much rather be at home reading a book.' So I left pretty fast."

Shannen at a glance Birthday: April 12, 1971. Sign: Aries. Born: Memphis, TN. Reared: Los Angeles, CA. Siblings: One brother, 24, a law student. Parents: Dad's a banker; Mom runs Vera's Retreat, a facial salon in Beverly Glen, CA. Dogs: Five – two rottweilers, a Great Dane, a golden retriever and a Labrador retriever. Favorite book: The Sun Also Rises. Favorite designers: Anthony Moorcraft, Gigli, Armani, Gaultier, Roberto Robledo, Moschino – and Levi's: "I'm very much a Levi's girl." Favorite bands: The Replacements, the Cure, Cowboy Junkies, the Black Crowes, the Rolling Stones. Favorite movies: The Black Stallion and Breakfast at Tiffany's. Favorite fragrance: Coco.

Meeting Chris, her fiancé, changed everything. But the two came together under less-than-idyllic conditions. "Oh yeah, we met in a very interesting manner." Doherty chuckles. "Basically I was dating his best friend…. It's not as bad as it sounds. And his best friend turned out to be the biggest jerk in the world. And I broke up with him. Then Chris and I started becoming friends…. We just fell in love." Judging by the size of the diamond on Doherty's finger, this is the Big One, that true love thing. There's been a lot said in the press about the rock set in Doherty's engagement ring – the price, the size – and all the speculation seems more than a little impolite and catty. Let's just say it's big… very big. Six-and-a-half-carats big.

When our waiter arrives, Doherty does something unexpected. Looking at her perfectly svelte form, you'd guess she'd have a nice melon or something bran-like for breakfast. No way, not this girl. Doherty orders a cheeseburger, "extra greasy" with mayonnaise, and a side of fries. She notes my look of astonishment and laughs. "My diet is whatever I want to eat," she chirps. "I have a really high metabolism, and I'm always running around doing something, so I've never watched what I've eaten." But greaseburgers must play hell with that perfect parchment complexion, I say. "Well, my mom runs a facial salon, Vera's Retreat. And my facialist, Melissa, is amazing. I get facials every three weeks. Other than that I go home and wash it, and that's all I do." All right, she can eat whatever she wants and never pick up a pound or a zit. Her fiancé's a babe with bucks, and her television show's a raging success. Is there anything else the girl could want?

"I always want more," she says with a steady look in her eye. "I read something that answered the question, 'Can women have it all?' by saying, 'Nobody can have it all.' And I thought, What a negative attitude, because in my opinion, you can have it all – if you work hard. What's having it all to me? Having it all is having a successful film career. A wonderful marriage. Kids." And although many women find balancing a career and a family a job in itself, Doherty foresees no trouble in that department. “I'm an actress, and I'm here to work. My main goal is to work for the rest of my life. But I find time for Chris and my family. Because when everything is said and done, the acting may not be there, but the relationship will, so that's what you have to work on the hardest."

It's precisely this type of wisdom that separates Doherty from Brenda and most of the young people, fictional or otherwise, living in the environs of 90210. For all the attention, money, cars and fame at Doherty's command, her head seems remarkably clear, downright mature.

Doherty pushes the remnants of her cheeseburger around on her plate. "Well," she says with a trace of wistfulness, "I grew up kind of fast." Which is usually a tried-and-true recipe for disaster. So far, though, the got-it-all girl seems to be beating the odds. Make that obliterating them.

(Part 2)

[phanfictioncatalogue]

New York Masterlist

Aria in the Snow (ao3) - Eavans

Summary: If you asked most people of Daniel J. Howell’s lot in life, they’d tell you it was pretty good. A small career writing for a fashionable magazine, the heir to one of New York’s most prestigious hotels, the convenience of youth and an ailing millionaire father… what more could an 18-year-old ask for?

So when a night at the symphony turns into the start of a whole new double life in the city’s queer underworld, the heir to New York’s most fashionable hotel will have to learn what is what when you’re dating a cabaret singer, and who is who when that singer becomes a troubled star.

So it’s nothing but fate to blame when things start to fall apart. The catch? It’s the last half of the 1920s—

And this romance is illegal.

A Summer Beside You (ao3) - yiffandquiff

Summary: Dan Howell, a New York City native, suddenly finds his world turned upside down when he is told that his estranged father is wanting to spend the summer with him. Having not seen his father since he was young, he is reluctant to travel to this small little beach town to see him. Bringing his younger brother along with him, he boards a plane and heads south. Upon arriving, Dan goes to the boardwalk just down the beach and runs into a native by the name of Phil Lester. As Dan starts to spend more and more time with the native rich kid in town, he finds himself slowly falling in love. Through trips to the boardwalk and even just simple walks down the beach, Dan realizes that he doesn’t want to leave this town behind. But as the date of his departure edges closer and closer, he finds that his grasp on this small town and his love for Phil strengthen, leaving him to make the ultimate decision: Do I go back to NYC or do I stay here with my dad and Phil?

Devotion (ao3) - roryonice

Summary: Dan is a ballerina who’s practicing for an audition at Julliard, but he’s afraid of performing in front of other people. He meets Phil, who’s gathering photos for his art portfolio, and Phil helps Dan come out of his shell in an interesting way.

everything has changed (ao3) - gamingbeats

Summary: Dan and Phil go on holiday to NYC and everything changes when Dan books only the couple's options.

falsettoland (ao3) - confusednp

Summary: New York City—1979. All Phil Lester wants is a tight-knit family, even as he struggles to connect his ex-wife and child with his lover, Dan. Their lives become tangled together when the lesbians from next door give a grave warning: something bad is happening. As life becomes darker than anyone could’ve imagined, the eccentric family finds way to keep believing that everything will be all right.

i can hear it now (like i heard it then) (ao3) - kay_okay

Summary: Dan watches Phil light up, and suddenly feels like everything's in slow motion. They're still making their way up 7th, Times Square’s persistent neon glow casting waves of pinks and greens and yellows onto the pale of Phil’s face like a projector to a wall. He's struck by his own memory, their own night up on the Manchester Eye, surrounded by another city dark and light at the same time.

He doesn’t hear a word of Phil’s story.

in wildest dreams (i never dreamed of this) (ao3) - twoheadlights (fizzfic)

Summary: Dan and Phil take a walk in Central Park.

i will follow where this takes me (ao3) - curiosityandrain

Summary: Dan has a great life, he has an amazing job as a photographer and he lives in New York City. Phil is an independent filmmaker who hires Dan to work on his upcoming feature film after his usual cinematographer was involved in an accident. The two hit it off and become instant friends. Weeks of working together everyday helps develop their friendship and slowly but surely, Dan realises his feelings for Phil run deeper than just friendship. The only problem is, Phil’s taken.

I Don’t Love You (ao3) - Raspberrysaxophone

Summary: Dan and Phil work in an office and are (unfortunately) sharing a desk. Phil is often away on business or working from home so they are never there at the same time. They both get frustrated with how the other one organises the shared space and tell each other that through notes

- or -

Dan and Phil hate each other, but soon Dan realises that he is developing a crush on him. What will a New York business trip (where they are sharing a room xxx) do to their relationship?

magic in the hamptons (ao3) - t_hens

Summary: Phil is bored with going to parties every weekend with people he doesn’t like. Bored of going to school for a degree he hates just to please his parents. Bored of pretty much everything in his life, until he meets Dan, an inscrutable college student, who shows him that maybe he can have the things he wants in life - he just has to be brave enough to pursue them.

Maybe I miss you (ao3) - Misha_with_wings

Summary: Phil leaves Dan for several months to temporarily live in New York City and work on a movie set.

The distance between them drove them both insane, but neither of them could voice the reason why.

When Dan comes to visit Phil in New York his feelings are threatened to spill after an encounter with one of Phil’s new friends, but he keeps lying- to both Phil and himself.

Hopefully he can eventually tell the truth, because Phil gets another long-term job opportunity in California and Dan can’t take any more distance.

new york, new york - gorgeousdan

Summary: It’s Dan’s eighteenth birthday, and Phil has a special surprise for him.

New York Surprise! (ao3) - Hannah_Writes

Summary: Dan wanted to give Phil the greatest gift ever, a trip to New York! But what happens when Phil gets sick?

plum (ao3) - twoheadlights (fizzfic)

Summary: "Have you ever woken up next to someone and been like, 'you know I don’t think this is going to work out'?"

-

things start to look a little different away from london. it gets phil thinking.

Reach for the Stars (ao3) - KaytheJay

Summary: Dan is a lawyer who went to New York when he forced himself to take a break from work. He thinks it is a pointless trip until he runs into his favorite YouTuber from back in the day.

somewhere up above my heart. (ao3) - commonemergency

Summary: This is a space that he knows. This is what familiarity feels like. Home has been a lot of things lately but right now this was the truest definition of it. or a brief moment of affection and new york city lights.

The End Of All Things (ao3) - whispersbabe (orphan_account)

Summary: Dan and Phil are in NY for TATINOF and the exhaustion of travelling is starting to kick in. When their attempts at sleep prove to be in vain they go for a walk and realise what they mean to eachother. It's cute.

The Sixteenth of April (ao3) - thesassykels66

Summary: Why does the month of April always seem so significant to Dan and Phil? Simple, it is when they celebrate their anniversary.

Welcome To New York (It’s Been Waiting For You) - doomedhowell

Summary: Phil’s a popular British youtuber who’s currently living in New York, and he’s been talking on Skype to Dan, who lives in London. After talking months on Skype and begging his parents, Dan finally goes to New York to meet Phil for the first time.

When the Sun Came Up (ao3) - thatsmistertoyou

Summary: Prequel to the existing parts of the RWWA series; in which Dan and Phil learn how to be in love again.

[disillusioned-phantasma]

It’s the silver watch on his slender wrist that you linger on. Nothing too flashy, just a simple piece that somehow catches your eye. Tick, tick, tick, its elegant pearly white hands moved across the bold numbers. 

He sighs, blowing through his nose in annoyance and one hand worming into his pocket where he digs for his wallet. “I’ll pay you double- no, triple the price if you let me have it.” Confidence oozes into his tone, the corners of his mouth lifting up in a slight smirk. You wonder if anyone has ever told him the word no.

Probably not. 

Kids these days. 

You don’t realise you’d said it aloud until his lips twists down in a furrowed scowl and the hand in his pocket stills. “I’m 18 you know? It’s not as if you’re that much older than me.” 

He’s right. But you certainly weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of admitting that. 

You huff distastefully, reaching out with your free arm to pick up the strawberry slice none too gently and placing it on his tray. “Well, you should at least be more respectful to your elders.” You retort with a roll of your eyes when his pale brows rise upwards in surprise. 

“Keep your money.” You give him a dismissive wave of your hand, giving the pearly cream covered cake one last look before heading to the cashier to make your payment as your retreating back shrinks in his glasses.  

When you push open the door, the dainty wind chime tinkles in your wake. It’s then you manage to place a name to the watch like a puzzle piece clicking in place. A news article you’ve read on the papers about the watch being specially crafted by a dying famous brand as his last trademark work, only 15, (18?) available pieces in the world. 

Damn, maybe I should have taken his money after all. 

----

The second time you meet Gojo Satoru, you have absolutely no idea that the brash teen has grown into, well, Gojo Satoru - current CEO of Gojo industries which happens to be one of Japan’s multi billion dollar conglomerates. The name Gojo alone is prestigious enough, a proud clan rumoured to be direct descendants of the infamous shoguns themselves. Now, those four bold letters single handedly carry Japan’s rising economy on their shoulders. 

The envy for every man, the dream for every woman. And maybe he’s both to some. 

Everyone is abuzz in whispers upon the knowledge that he would be visiting the club. Your boss finally hires proper cleaners to polish the floors until they shine and snaps at everyone to be on their best behaviour. He’s even in a suit and tie rather than that yellowed polo t-shirt he usually dorns. 

The girls giggle amongst themselves, making sure their lips are extra pouty, hair extra shinier, skirts a little shorter. It was common news that Gojo Satoru was a… generous man. The countless heated scandals he’d gotten into over the years from A list actresses to billboard models were only a peek into his glamorous life. How many times had you walked past the stores to see his smiling carefree face plastered all over various tabloid magazines? 

What’s even more glamorous are his gifts. The latest edition Hermes bag, outrageously priced heels months before their official launch, a flashy new Lamborghini (in crimson red) for the foreign Russian model that everyone was so sure he would marry until they had a dramatic break up last month. 

“Why is he here anyway?” You ask, in the midst of curling your hair as you accept a pin to secure the curls in place from your friend across the tiny vanity table. “There are much better clubs around town.” 

“Who knows.” She shrugs, “I think he just wanted to check out this place? I heard he just purchased the prefecture for investment purposes.”

“This area?” You chime in quizzically. Sure this area was still a part of Tokyo, but one would consider it to be less...desirable. It was no secret that beneath the glittery dazzling charm that Tokyo held as one of the world’s metropolises slumbered a far darker side to it that everyone seemed content to ignore in favour of upholding their facade. 

Every year, hundreds flock to Tokyo in hopes of fulfilling their dreams. A fashion designer longing to see her clothes on the billboards, an eager business man hoping to be promoted for his hard work, a wide eyed artist and her worn down guitar. And when these dreams fizzle out, they turn to somewhere else instead. 

The streets here are darker (with only an occasional light flickering weakly on the good days), drunken men stumbling down the uneven alleyways back to their cramped apartments, the sound of wails and vicious threats echoing late at night that people pretend not to hear. This prefecture was not a place for the rich and lucky, it was nothing but a place for the poor and unfortunate. A place where people would do anything to scrape by for another day.  

“What do you think of my lashes?” She grins mischievously at you while batting them, eyes twinkling under the harsh light due to the many bejewelled fake gems lining her eyelids. “Enough to seduce a billionaire into getting me a new apartment so I can finally move out of this shit hole?” 

You laugh aloud, “Definitely.” 

-----

His eyes are so much bluer in real life. 

The pictures you’ve seen across tabloid magazines don’t quite manage to capture the multi shades in those magnetic orbs, shimmering iridescent crystals that reflect the dim light each time his sharp gaze shifts. Long lashes frame those blues, brushing against his haughty cheek bones almost silver in colour that they look dusted in fine glitter. 

He walks as if he owns the world in the palm of his hands (and maybe he does) and everything about him yells different! The barely distinguishable lift of those broad shoulders and the cocky smile painted on his lips that differentiate him from his entourage even when they are all dressed near identical. It’s his hair that has you captivated. As white as freshly fallen snow. 

Maybe it’s because you’re too staring at his hair that you miss the faint flicker of recognition that crosses his face when he catches sight of you across the room. 

You may not recognize Gojo Satoru the second time you meet him, but he certainly does. 

-----

Gojo Satoru doesn’t believe in love. 

Not with the shitshow his parents had potrayed throughout his teens. It was no secret that his father was always a little too touchy with the company’s secretaries and maids, always coming back stinking like perfume because work ran late. You’d think he would at least have the decency to wipe off the pink lipstick stain on his crisp white collar. 

His mother on the other hand, took her anger out on her husband’s many mistresses. How many times had he caught her screaming at the mansion’s maids, clawing her french tipped nails over their cheeks as their pleas of innocence fell on deaf ears. On the worst days, she’d turn her anger on her own son too. Gojo remembers clearly her the shaking of her frenzied pupils, the sharp bite of her fingers digging into the meat of his cheeks to hold him still with a cruel unrelenting hand. “What did your father tell you? Has he been sleeping with that office wench again? You should at least know that right?” 

Gojo remembers crying, screaming at the top of his lungs to escape her iron grip as pain slices along his face when blood spills. Begging and begging for someone to get him away (but no one did), cursing himself for being born under the Gojo name. 

He’d learn very quickly that tears would not help. 

The day his mother flung herself off the highest window in the mansion was the day he stopped fearing. 

The featherlight touch of your cool fingers tracing over the faint silvery half-crescent scars on his cheekbones snap him back to reality. He doesn’t open his eyes, as much as he longs to see your face, maybe if he stays like this, these seconds will melt into a standstill. An eternity with your comforting weight draped across his bare chest, the sheets still warm from the sun and the two of your bodies, the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest by his side. Maybe if he doesn’t open his eyes, everything will stay just as it is. 

Right, Gojo Satoru doesn’t believe in love. But you make him happy, so unbearably happy that it scares him how afraid he is to wake up one day and find you gone. 

The way you look at him makes his heart skip a beat (or more). Even if he knows that you’ve probably looked at every other customer as if they hung the stars in the sky.  It’s the only thing he wants, to see your bright eyes filled with nothing but him. And Gojo Satoru has never longed for anything more than you. 

only you

You never ask him about the scars marring his face though Gojo can tell that you want to. And he’s glad that you don’t ask because it’s a story he’s not ready to tell. Instead, you hum quietly, long hair falling into his face when you lean down to peck his cheek. 

“Morning sleepyhead.” You laugh, “I know you’re awake.” 

“Ah,” He blinks, taking a few moments to adjust to the sudden brightness that floods his vision. “And here I thought I fooled you with my Oscar worthy acting.” 

You grin in response, eyes crinkling at the sides- a smile that he’s grown hopelessly addicted to. 

“It’s already 10 Mr. Satoru.” You untangle yourself from his arms, stretching your body across the king sized bed and Gojo’s gaze follows greedily over the long clean lines of your bare limbs under the strong light, barely concealed by the white sheets draped across your naked figure. You look adorable, blinking up at him. You have no idea what it does to him when you look like that so warm and adorable and perfect. 

He can’t help but wonder absentmindedly if you’d look better with a diamond necklace draped around your slender neck when he fucks you senseless. Better yet, one with his name carved on it. 

But you’ve never asked, and it irks him to no end at how stubborn you are when it comes to being independent. He’s used to providing by now, a thousand red roses on Valentine’s day for his first girlfriend, giving his second girlfriend free access to his master black card when she threw a screaming fit (that got featured over the cover of every single tabloid magazine) after he ran late from his meeting. 

Then again, those were different, it’d felt obligatory to please them; more of a necessity than out of love. With you, he wants to shelter and care and provide, he wants to shower you with everything in the world and more. Why would you continue living in that shabby place when you can pick a new one that he’d pay for without hesitation? Why continue working when he can provide you with a comfortable life by his side? 

When it comes to you, Gojo Satoru finds that maybe there are things in the world that money can’t buy. 

“Don’t you have a meeting to attend?” You continue, propping your head against his shoulder, wide round eyes blinking at him and he resists the urge to kiss you silly right there and then. 

Right, his memory seemed to be failing him these days. Not that it really mattered. 

“I’ll cancel it.” 

 “I can’t help but wonder how on earth you manage to run a business with that attitude of yours.” 

Gojo wriggles his silver brows with a mischievous grin, “It’s all in the charm and looks baby.” 

His reply earns him a pillow in the face and he lets out a muffled yell of indignation as you pummel him with it before he catches your wrists. “Do you not believe me?” Gojo pouts and you snort at his wounded look. 

“The secret to business,” Gojo pulls you back down to his chest, resting his head on yours, “Is a few sweet words.” His hand dips under the blankets to trace invisible circles on your bare skin. “And I get anything I want.” He blows a puff of air against your ear and your tiny fist strikes against his chest as you wriggle in his arms.

He flips you over in a swift motion, pining you underneath his muscular body and it’s absolutely endearing to watch the way your expression morphs into one of bashful mortification as you squeal in surprise. It’s a sight he can never get tired of. Gojo pushes your legs apart, ignoring your weak protests. 

“Since the meeting is now cancelled.” He grins at you from between your parted legs, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs to keep your from squirming as he gives you a smile dripping of pure sin and sex. “Don’t you think I deserve breakfast in bed?” The sight of your pretty pussy completely exposed to his sight already has blood rushing to his groin. He could satisfy himself, but your pleasure brings him pleasure too. 

Your back arches at the first touch of his tongue on your slit, fingers scrabbling for purchase in his white hair. “Wa-wait!”

A light suck on your sensitive clit has his name falling like honey out of your mouth and Gojo watches from beneath his long lashes in shameless admiration, utterly entranced to the way you fall apart beautifully under him. Right, you may have had other men before but he’s determined to be your last. 

and he will be no matter what

“I-I’m still sen-sensitive from last night!” You slur unconvincingly, head thrown back against the pillows when he slides a long finger into your soaked heat and crooks it just right. “Don’t lie,” he purrs when your hips buck upwards (nearly riding his fingers) in an effort to get him deeper. “Your pussy is making such a big mess over my fingers already.”

“I’ll let you pick princess.” He hums, watching your cute hole clench desperately around nothing “Do you want me to use my hands or my mouth?” 

“Gojo!” Your voice falls out as a breathy plea instead of a stern remark. Your face is utterly flushed by now and he licks his lips to savour your arousal, waiting eagerly for your answer. 

“...both.” You mutter.

“What was that?” 

“Ah, I said both!” You scream, burying your face in your hands in absolute mortification. 

“See, that was easy wasn’t it?” Your mouth opens to retort something else but everything you're about to say dies down the moment Gojo dips his head down again like a starving man and the sensation of his tongue in you makes you keen sharply. 

He laughs, a deep melodic rumble that shoots right through your body as your thighs close around his head. If eternity allows it, he thinks when your sweet taste floods his senses and he’s rewarded with another one of your broken mewls, he wants to spend it with you. 

he wonders if the other angels fell as sweetly as you did. 

----

Going out with Gojo feels more like a fever dream than reality, as if you were dancing along the edges between present and illusion. It feels unreal, to see his name blazed across one of Tokyo’s highest skyscrapers when you cross Shinjuku street, the countless stories of private jets he posted on his public account. Or that one time he rented out an entire restaurant so that he could have some peace and quiet. Or how he has a ridiculous sweet tooth and an insatiable appetite for all kinds of cake and candies. 

Gojo Satoru, it’s hard to believe that he was the man you were cuddling just two days ago. 

It was a breath of fresh air, to finally have a ridiculously good looking customer that respected your values and didn’t treat you like a slab of meat. He was nice, a little too loud mouthed at times but at the end of the day, you can’t help but wonder just why on earth was he still coming back? 

You’d think a man of his caliber would be bored of you by now. But the one single night drags to weeks and Gojo, ever the persistent man, calls for you each night and persuades you to stay with him even outside of work hours. Your boss is more than ecstatic to welcome a customer like him each night, looking at you with those wide hopeful eyes that practically screams ‘Make sure he comes back!’ each time Gojo sweeps you out of the establishment with his hand pressed firmly against the small of your back each step of the way. 

He takes up most of your time these days. And when he’s not around, the gifts start pouring in. They start simple enough, a dainty silver bracelet, diamond earrings that would get you mugged if you ever wore them out, a necklace dripping with silver to match the entire set. 

It’s not uncommon to receive gifts from your customers. But Gojo takes things to a whole new level unreachable by anyone else.

He sends you a new phone first, claiming that he wants to see your face clearer when the two of you facetime while he’s away on a business trip and refusing to take it back all the times you protested. Of course, you don’t have to know about the neat little tracker that’s installed in it, do you?

Then comes the expensive garments delivered in velvet lined boxes that look utterly out of place propped against your shabby apartment door. Gold letters are emblazoned on the box in a language you don’t understand (French maybe?) and a simple google search on the internet has you slamming down your laptop in horror.

He sent you a dress that’s worth an entire year of your rent. And there are more waiting patiently to be unwrapped. 

After the dresses comes a car. 

You nearly trip backwards when he twirls the key in his hands, languid body splayed across your tiny couch that’s clearly not meant to accommodate someone his height and size. 

“It’s just a surprise gift.” He smiles, unbothered by the fact that your face has taken a total 360 turn. He bought you a car? It made sense if the two of you were dating but he’s your customer, things were anything but official in your relationship. 

Sure, you’d probably mope around if he disappears one day but the feeling wasn’t mutual between the two of you right? At the end of the day, you were sure that Gojo Satoru merely saw you as a pretty shiny plaything for him to spoil. It was only a matter of time before another A list actress or model tumbled into his embrace again as you are discarded.

right? 

It takes you several moments before you find your voice and it comes out shaky, “Sa- Satoru I can’t accept this.” 

He cocks his head to the side, blinking at your stuttering. “Why not? I even got it in your favourite colour. You like blue right?” 

Gojo jerks a thumb out of your window and you follow it where a shiny sleek blue Bentley is perched neatly along your apartment street. You’d thought it was merely another one of many cars when he showed up in it (it was a miracle no one had tried to mug him the many times he showed up at your apartment). 

Not for the first time, the large chasm yawns darkly before your feet, segregating you from the snowy haired man on your apartment couch even when he’s barely a metre away. It’s an inescapable feeling, it was these moments where the sheer difference between the two of you really shows its true colours. How were you meant to keep up with him when he lived in a totally different world? A world where everything spins on its axis around Gojo Satoru. He can snap his fingers and captivate the entire of Japan if he wanted to. 

It’s overwhelmingly suffocating. And you are reminded of your place beneath him, you know better than to fall for him. 

Sensing your sudden change in mood, Gojo’s face softens, the arrogance lining his handsome face melts into one of slight concern. 

“Are you alright?”

You sigh, crossing the room to straddle his lap, letting your fingers play the hem of his shirt as you think of your answer. “I don’t need a car Satoru.” You rest your forehead against his, staring into his mesmerizing crystalline blues and he drops the key unceremoniously with a loud clatter (you fight back the urge to wince) to wrap his large hands around your waist. 

“But I want to give it to you.” He argues, bright gaze holding you captive. You smile lightly at the frown across his forehead, talking to him was like calming down a grown child from his tantrum sometimes. 

“I don’t want it.” You say firmly, soothing a thumb over the furrow between his brows. “You know I don’t need these kinds of things Satoru.” Something you can’t quite decipher flashes across his face. 

Whatever you're about to continue  is cut off by the sharp buzz of your phone and you draw back in surprise, reaching for your phone at the same time. The lightness of your new smartphone still surprises you each time you pick it up and with your head bent, you miss the gleam of satisfaction in Gojo’s eyes when he sees his gift in your hands. 

“Who is it?” 

You hum nonchalantly, wriggling around to lean your back against his chest. “It’s just my old customer, he’s asking if I’m free this week.” 

His grip around your waist tightens convulsively. 

“What did you say?” Gojo keeps his tone light, almost neutral though his sharp eyes zone in like a hawk to the name on the top of your messages as you purse your lips in thought, fingers flying across the screen as you type out a reply. 

“I told him I’ll think about it.” 

“Stop using your phone and pay attention to me. Today is one of the rare days Nanamin hasn’t bugged me to attend my meeting.” He whines, nuzzling into the side of your neck. 

“You bought me this phone.” You remind him but set it aside anyway. 

Your hands, so much tinier than his move to cup his face, tilting his chin up. “Happy now?” 

“You should move in with me.” 6 simple words with the full force of a punch in the gut. 

You draw back as if he’d scalded you and something ugly rears its head in him at your expression as he captures your fleeing hands in his.  “What...Satoru...what?” 

“Move in with me.” He repeats his words, all traces of earlier childishness had vanished as if a cool mask had settled in place over the elegant planes of his face instead when his lips press into a straight line. You can’t help but wonder if that’s how the actual Gojo Satoru looks, unnaturally quiet yet calculative as his cold blues study every little flicker of expression on your face. 

Like he was seeing through you, peeling back each layer until you were exposed and completely left to his mercy. 

You laugh nervously in a pitiful attempt to clear the stifling air that clings to your suddenly heavy body. 

“I…I don’t think I can commit to such a big step yet.” You say slowly, choosing your words carefully. 

“Why not?” Gojo presses on ruthlessly, “I can provide you with everything, you wouldn’t have to work-” His lips curls into one of barely concealed disgust, arrogance dripping from each word. “There anymore.” 

Fury blazes through you, made even more painful by the sharp stab of disappointment because it came from him as you push yourself off his lap stiffly, snatching your hands out of his grip. “Why I’m sorry.” You say, voice dripping with venom and hands balled into trembling fists at your sides. “I didn’t know you had such high standards Gojo, but have you forgotten that I’ve been working at that place for the past 2 years?” 

“Or the fact that you yourself visited one?” 

“Get out,” You hiss, snatching his jacket from the couch and hurling it at his chest with as much force as you can muster when Gojo rises to his feet. “No point spending your time with someone you find revolting am I right?” 

His face crumples into one of frustration at your glare. He moves towards you, almost tripping over his own feet in haste- Gojo Satoru, who never stumbled, who’d never looked anything but perfect and glamorous. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it please.”

“You did.” You say, words almost soundless, barely a whisper. 

“Right,” Gojo said, “No-no, you-you’re different. You don’t belong there, don’t you see it? I can give you everything you deserve.” A small muscle jumps as the side of his mouth, his eyes were dark, dark enough that you could see your own reflection in each of his blue pupils, a miniscule image of your face inside his gaze. Suffocating. 

“You can’t expect me to drop everything just for you! Who are you to tell me where I-” You stop yourself, the sharp sting of tears brimming in your eyes. “Please- just go.”

His hand, millimetres from your cheek halts in its tracks, the warmth of his fingers barely brushing your skin as your treacherous heart does a slow somersault even when your throat tightens painfully. “Go home.” You repeat softly, turning away from him. 

And he leaves. Because if there’s anyone that Gojo Satoru listens to, it’s you. 

----

You don’t get very high in the hierarchy being a goody two shoes. 

Gojo’s hands have been covered in blood the moment he pulled the trigger for the very first time 3 years ago. Even today, he swears there’s a layer of rust that clings underneath his nails if he squints hard enough. 

But he’s not a brute. At the end of the day, it’s simply because his charm and looks don’t quite work on everyone and the blood that pools around the edges of his expensive leather shoes seems to be unavoidable. 

Gojo doesn’t enjoy lying to you but sometimes, it’s better to tell you half truths than the cruel reality of how he  actually handles his business when things are in a rough patch. 

It’s fine, he reassures himself against the dark storm brewing in his head, it was natural for arguments to occur. He’ll ask you out later in the week, bring you- 

“It’s just my old customer, he’s asking if I’m free this week.” The flash of reckless anger bursts back to life at the sudden recollection. 

And right now, there’s not a trace of pity nor remorse in his body except the insatiable itch to vent his frustrations out in a bloody mess. 

“You shouldn’t be doing this here,” Nanamin, leaning against the wall says in a deep rumble.

He knows Nanamin is right (or more accurately, Kento is never wrong), he shouldn’t be beating the man into a bloody pulp in the middle of his living room where the stains were beginning to seep into the walls and this would take an unholy amount of bleach to be removed. But he’d been too impatient to wait any longer, not with the sight of the man below his feet that has the audacity to ask you out. 

He’d made it very clear to the boss the moment he came back for you the second time. You would be reserved for him only, any other customer seeking would be turned down and any loss in profits would be covered by him in triple the amount. Gojo was planning on purchasing the entire establishment too. 

It makes his vision cloud red. 

The sickly wet coughs from the man below makes him click his tongue in annoyance. It’s pathetic really, Gojo had expected him to put up more of a fight. 

“Pl-please, I’ll do anything.” The man scuttles away like a dismembered crab when Gojo approaches him again, one bloody hand propped against his chest and his eyes wide with maniacal fear. 

At that, Gojo’s face broke into a grin. It was an unsettling grin, less a flash of amusement and more of the wicked gleam of an unsheathed blade.

“Me? Needing something from you?.” He drawls, eyes narrowed into bright half slits as if holding the sheer force of the blazing lightning in them. “Do you think I dragged you here because I want you to give me something?” Gojo squats down to eye level, grabbing the man by his cheeks and digging his cruel fingers into the broken skin hard enough that shrill wails pierce the air. 

“I don’t need anything from you.” He says softly, “But, you made me mad. Very, fucking, mad.”

Confusion flashes in the man’s eyes at his words and Gojo can see the gears turning in his head as if trying to dig up any shreds of clues to save his own life. But it’s too late, Gojo had never planned for him to leave this place the moment he made up his mind. 

Or more accurately, he would leave this place with a hole through his head.  

“Hey, hey.” Gojo taps his finger impatiently when the man’s desperate gaze flickers to Nanamin, “Don’t look at him, he’s not going to save you.”  

Nanamin snorts, fingers readjusting his yellow tie but otherwise remains silent. He’s seen his fair share of Gojo’s outbursts through the years and he’s definitely no stranger to blood, but there was no denying that something about the white haired man seemed much deadlier than usual. 

For the first time, Nanamin sensed a deliberate urge to kill from his boss. 

“I’m going to give you a clue.” Gojo says calmly over the loud whimpering like an adult explaining something trivial to a child. “And you can make a lucky guess alright?” 

At the sound of your name rolling off his tongue, the man’s eyes widen almost comically. “That woman? She- she’s nothing! Just one of those escorts! I can bring her for you! Just give me an hour, I’ll bring her here-”

Gojo cuts off his frantic rambling with a solid fist connecting against the side of his head so hard that the man drops bonelessly to the floor with a sick thud. 

Before the man can push himself up in a choked wheeze, Gojo slams his head back down to the marbled floor with a heavy merciless stomp, pining him in place. He’s thought that doing this would quench his frustration, but the mere thought of the disgusting trash landing his grubby fingers on you has him planting another kick to his jaw and a loud crack fills the air. 

How dare he even think of going near you? Don’t you see? This is exactly why you don’t belong there, where men like him wouldn’t think twice to sacrifice you for his own pitiful life. 

Ah, he can feel his blood pressure rising with each passing minute, maybe this wouldn’t help with his agitation. The warbled distorted screams from the man due to his broken jaw grating his ears don’t exactly make things better either. 

“Nanamin, will you be kind enough to hand me my gun?”

The weight of the metal is comforting in his hands, Gojo doesn’t enjoy murdering people but it’s what his hands have been molded to hold since he was born under the Gojo name. It’s what he’s come to accept, to hide every dark gritty thing beneath the facade of a carefree billionaire. 

Until you came along like a beacon of light. And Gojo finds that maybe, just maybe, his hands too are capable of tender touches and love instead of destruction and havoc.  

Love. This is love right? He supposes it is, maybe he’d fell in love the moment you placed the cake on his tray, maybe he started loving you the moment he opened his eyes with your tiny body snuggled tightly against his chest and his heart beats a little easier when you’re simply there. 

If he’s willing to do anything, everything for you. It’s love right? 

The sudden realisation has him pausing, crooked finger just a hair's breadth away from pulling the trigger. 

“Is something wrong?” Nanamin asks at the hesitation.

“No,” Gojo answers, pulling the trigger. 

A blood curdling scream fills the room. 

The moment Nanamin curses lowly under his breath, Gojo is already whirling around with his gun poised to fire before it slips from his grip to clatter uselessly on the floor. 

It’s you. Your face painted a perfect mask of horror and your trembling hand slapped across your mouth. You stare at him; backlit by the chandelier dripping off the ceiling and the crimson splattered over him, his hair was more silver than white. And he’d never looked more terrifying.

The loveliest angels make the cruelest demons. 

Right, he’d given you the code to his mansion. 

“You can come visit me anytime. I’ve added you to my guest list. They will let you in no matter what.” He recalls the conversation as clear as day, his phone, propped against his ear to better hear your voice as Gojo shuffles through the endless pile of paperwork on his desk. 

He’d been so ridiculously happy that you called him first, lips tugging upwards until his face hurt from smiling the entire call. “Aren’t you scared that I’ll steal all your riches?” You piped back and Gojo can see the mischievous grin on your face blazed across his vision even when he’s thousands of miles away. 

“But you’ve already stolen my hea-”

“Oh stop!” You laughed, “I’m going to be so creeped out if you finish that sentence.” 

A different time, a different place that has passed by and over. Back when things were so much simpler. 

Gojo’s gaze flickers down to see his jacket (the one he’d left in your apartment) cradled in your arms.

“Sa..toru.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, eyes as wide as moons and Gojo can see your shoulders shaking. 

Behind him, Nanamin takes a heavy step forward and you flinch back. “Stay down Kento.” He snarls. How much did you see? He sees your fearful gaze dart to the gun, to the cooling corpse behind him and finally, to him. 

The answer comes to him the moment your gaze locks with his. 

“You- you killed him?” It ends in a question, as if you were still somewhat hopeful that he hadn’t been the one who pulled the trigger.

He wants to say no. 

“Yes.” Gojo says evenly, taking a step forward and you stumble back immediately. 

“Don’t come near me.” Your voice pitches upwards, face pulled tight with fear when Gojo comes closer. 

“Listen!” He winces when the desperation makes his tone harsher than intended. “Listen,” Gojo says again, forcing his tone to settle into something more delicate (but he’s never been delicate), “I did it for you, for us.” 

“No,” You shake your head, backing away even more, hands pressing against the sides of your head as if to stop it from splitting apart and the sight of you in pain makes his chest ache. “No-no, no, no, you’re insane.” 

One more step. One more and he’s closer enough to catch you in his embrace. 

As if sensing his thoughts, you bolt. A large hand latches onto your arm just when you round the corner and you find yourself falling into his arms. 

“Let me go! Let me-”

“Stop.” Gojo growls into your ear, the blood on his skin seeping into your shirt and sobs begin to wrack your body. You flail and scream, struggling in his arms until your voice grows hoarse and the energy drains out of your limp body. All the while, Gojo holds you in his embrace, strong arms keeping you captive until the fight drains out of your body and you’re slumped against his chest as silent tears track down your face. 

“I did it for you.” He murmurs into your head, each puff of air rustling against your hair. A mockery of a lover’s embrace. The smell of cold iron makes your head spin dizzily.

Lies. You don’t want to listen, want to clap your hands over your ears. 

“I love you. I love you, I’ll take care of you.” Gojo says lowly, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest in sync with his own steady heartbeat. “You don’t need to work there anymore, you don’t need to worry about men like him.” 

“Shh, shh.” He wipes away the tears on your face and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. Bloodstained fingers caressed your jaw, he pretends that his fingertips won’t be scorched into the notches of your skin, pretends that his hands are gentle. 

“I’m only doing what’s best for you.” He sighs, taking your silence for compliance. “I love you don’t you see? No more lies, I promise.” 

“...let me go.” 

Gojo sucks in a breath of air, the resolve in him hardening at your defiance as the fury cools from its blazing fire into something sharper, deadlier. He’d sunken his nails in you and there was no letting go. “For every step you leave.” 

“Blood will cover the path you choose to take, every man, every woman, every child.” Gojo’s voice is soft, yet carrying a force behind them that makes your blood run cold “I’ll kill anyone who even looks your way.”

You bite back a rising sob of bile. Maybe, in his own twisted fucked up way, Gojo Satoru really does love you after all.

———

Tainted Love

Yandere! Gojo Satoru x Reader (Modern/Mafia Au!)

- Billionaire Gojo brainrot <3 

Right, Gojo Satoru doesn’t believe in love. But you make him happy, so unbearably happy that it scares him how afraid he is to wake up one day and find you gone.

Warnings: Yandere themes, mentions of gore/violence & guns, ‘NSFW’, ‘smut’, dark themes (slight mentions of past abuse, suicide & cheating), extreme possessive/obsessive behaviour

—–

The first time you meet him, he tries to buy the last strawberry sliced cake that you were both eyeing for triple its price. 

“Hey, I saw that first.” A youthful voice, clear and bright as day, echoes by your ear.

The tongs you’d had, hovering carefully over the sliced cake freezes. It nearly slips out of your fingers when a hard body jostles against your elbow and you blink in surprise at the sudden force before righting yourself in annoyance. 

How rude.

Silently, you turned to face the culprit. A dark blue baseball cap and a pair of dark tinted sunglasses perched on the elegant bridge of his nose that shields his gaze. He’s absurdly tall, enough so that you had to crane your neck up in order to look properly at his face. You swear you catch a hint of silver that gleams teasingly underneath the shadows of his cap. 

You blink again and he clicks his tongue. “Are you going to take it?” 

“Would you take it if I didn’t?” You said, pondering your next words. Your curious eyes flicker over his outfit, he’s dorned in black from head to toe, leaving only a silver of his sculpted collarbones peeking out the collar. 

Keep reading

[miabarness]

Media Relationships That Matter: From Pitches to Partnerships

In today’s hyperconnected world, building authentic media relationships isn’t just a nice-to-have it’s essential. Whether you’re a budding entrepreneur, a scaling startup, or an established brand, your ability to connect with media can dramatically shape your reputation, your reach, and ultimately, your success. But let’s be real: the media landscape is saturated. Journalists are flooded with pitches, and attention spans are short. So how do you cut through the noise? You build real relationships the kind that last.

At 9figuremedia, we’ve helped clients break through the media clutter to land powerful placements in prestigious outlets like LA Weekly Magazine, Fast Company Magazine, and Entrepreneur Magazine. These aren’t just flashy logos to stick on your website. They’re powerful platforms that lend credibility, amplify your voice, and open doors to new opportunities.

Why Media Relationships Matter More Than Ever

Let’s take a step back. Why should you even care about media relationships? Simple: visibility without credibility is noise. And credibility without visibility is obscurity. You need both. But the bridge between the two? That’s the media.

Media relationships are about more than just landing one-off mentions. They’re about creating lasting bonds with journalists, editors, and publications. These relationships yield:

Trust and Reliability: When journalists know you as a reliable source, you become their go-to for quotes, insights, and story leads.

Opportunities for Deeper Features: Think exclusive interviews, profiles, or recurring expert commentary.

Broader Reach: Coverage in outlets like Fast Company Magazine or Entrepreneur Magazine exposes your story to massive, targeted audiences.

We’ve seen it at 9figuremedia time and again: a well-nurtured media relationship can lead to a domino effect of opportunities — one article becomes two, then four, then a speaking invite or investor interest. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.

1. Understanding Media Relationships

Media relationships are just like any other relationship — they require time, trust, and mutual respect. You wouldn’t walk up to a stranger and immediately ask them for a favor, right? It’s the same with journalists. You have to build rapport.

Here’s what that looks like:

Respect their time.

Understand what they care about.

Add value before making asks.

At 9figuremedia, we coach our clients to treat media contacts as collaborators, not just conduits. You’re working together to tell a story that matters both to your brand and to the audience.

2. Know Your Target Outlets

Each publication has a unique voice, audience, and editorial focus. You wouldn’t pitch the same story to LA Weekly Magazine that you would to Fast Company Magazine and that’s exactly why research matters.

2.1 LA Weekly Magazine

LA Weekly Magazine is a cultural staple in Los Angeles. It thrives on stories that highlight local flair, creativity, and community.

Audience: Creatives, artists, cultural enthusiasts, and LA locals.

What They Love: Art, food, music, innovation, local activism.

Pitch Tip: Tie your story to the city’s pulse. Is there a neighborhood angle? A local movement? Ground your pitch in something real and relevant.

We once helped a local fashion designer get featured in LA Weekly Magazine by focusing on her unique fabric sourcing process all done locally, supporting downtown artisans.

2.2 Fast Company Magazine

Fast Company Magazine is where innovation meets impact. It’s ideal for thought leaders who are shaping the future of business, tech, and design.

Audience: Entrepreneurs, business executives, tech innovators.

What They Love: Disruption, progress, ethics, leadership.

Pitch Tip: Show how your company is solving real problems in a creative, future-forward way. Think big picture.

A 9figuremedia client in the edtech space was featured after we crafted a narrative around how their platform was closing the education gap for rural students using AI. Fast Company loved the innovation angle.

2.3 Entrepreneur Magazine

If you’ve built something from the ground up, Entrepreneur Magazine wants to hear about it.

Audience: Founders, small business owners, solopreneurs.

What They Love: Gritty stories, actionable advice, behind-the-scenes journeys.

Pitch Tip: Be raw and real. Share your setbacks, your pivots, your triumphs. Offer takeaways that other entrepreneurs can use.

We helped a woman-owned fitness brand land a profile in Entrepreneur Magazine by leaning into her challenges from running workouts in parking lots during lockdowns to creating a full online platform.

3. Start With Research

Before you even type “Hi [Journalist Name],” you need to know who they are, what they write about, and what they’ve recently published.

9figuremedia uses a mix of media databases, social media monitoring, and plain old reading to uncover insights that make pitches personal.

Read Their Work: What themes keep coming up? What tone do they use?

Engage Authentically: Comment on their articles. Retweet their insights. Let them know you’re paying attention.

Keep Notes: Build a journalist Rolodex. Who covers startups at Fast Company Magazine? Who’s profiling creative entrepreneurs at LA Weekly Magazine?

4. Mastering the Art of the Pitch

Crafting a compelling pitch is part science, part art. Here’s our proven formula at 9figuremedia:

Subject Line: Clear, specific, curiosity-inducing.

Personalized Greeting: Use their name. Reference a recent piece.

Hook: Start strong. Why now? Why you?

Value: What does your story offer their readers?

Proof: Data, quotes, context.

CTA: Suggest next steps. Keep it casual and polite.

Journalists don’t owe you coverage your job is to make it easy and enticing for them to say yes.

5. Working With 9figuremedia

When you work with 9figuremedia, you get more than media placements you get partners invested in your story.

We craft narratives that resonate.

We build press kits that stand out.

We pitch strategically — not just broadly.

We follow through to turn one feature into many.

Our clients have landed multi-page features, TV segments, podcast invites, and even investment deals all starting from the right media relationship.

6. Maintaining the Connection

Relationships aren’t built on one-off favors. Stay connected by:

Saying Thank You: A genuine note after a story goes live goes a long way.

Offering Value Year-Round: Share interesting data, trend reports, or new angles — even when you’re not pitching.

Being Reliable: Meet deadlines, provide quotes quickly, and don’t flake.

9figuremedia clients often get called back for future pieces because they’re known as responsive and thoughtful. That’s no accident — it’s part of the strategy.

7. Case Studies from the Field

LA-Based Wellness Brand Lands in LA Weekly Magazine

We helped a wellness startup tell their founder’s personal healing journey — which resonated deeply with LA Weekly Magazine’s focus on authenticity and community. The feature boosted their local sales by 60%.

B2B Platform Featured in Fast Company Magazine

A tech founder was struggling to explain their impact. We reframed their message around solving burnout for remote workers — and Fast Company Magazine took notice. Investor interest surged within weeks.

Underdog Entrepreneur Goes Big in Entrepreneur Magazine

A barbershop owner in Atlanta had built a six-figure business with zero ad spend. We helped craft his story around creative hustle and community building. Entrepreneur Magazine loved it, and it led to a regional TV segment.

8. Metrics That Matter

Media isn’t just about exposure — it’s about impact. Here’s what we track at 9figuremedia:

Impressions: How many eyeballs saw the piece?

Engagement: Shares, comments, backlinks.

Traffic & Leads: Website hits, email signups, inquiries.

Brand Sentiment: Are people associating you with your core message?

We use analytics tools and post-campaign debriefs to refine and improve every round of outreach.

9. Final Thoughts

Media is about people — not press releases. If you want to get featured in outlets like LA Weekly Magazine, Fast Company Magazine, or Entrepreneur Magazine, you need more than a good story. You need relationships rooted in empathy, relevance, and value.

And if that sounds like a lot? Don’t worry that’s why we’re here.

At 9figuremedia, we help you build bridges to the media world that aren’t just effective they’re lasting. Because once you’re in, you’re in for good.

Need help turning your story into headlines? Let 9figuremedia guide the way. From pitch to publication, we’ve got your back.

[leicamoments]

Competition Time

I see the new year round of competitions has started...announcing the commencement of the 2024 process to apply for the merry-go-round.

I've not entered a competition in around 30 years and refuse to do so these days. For the record, the last one I entered was the Wanderlust competition and I won my category...the image being published in their book, in the magazine and shown at various exhibitions.

It wasn't the first competition I had won - but it certainly was the last.

Why? Because most of the competitions I see these days fail on three fronts.

Firstly, there are too many of them that require you to pay to play. Why should you have to pay to enter one of your pictures, for the judges to look at?

The body running the competition can make money from publishing the photo(s); they can get sponsorship for the competition; they can get publicity for running the competition that boosts their sales or membership.

So, my advice is, don't pay to enter any competition!

Secondly, Gratuitous copyright grabs. There are competitions that essentially take your copyright, or certainly ensure that however good your image is and however commercial it could be...you won't ever make a penny from them because they enforce an exclusivity clause or hold the rights to publish.

So again, don't give in to that small print clause.

Thirdly, a lot of competitions boil down to a popularity vote. Favouring those people with large social media followings, associations with groups or companies, or simply are shameless enough to relentlessly market their image at people asking them to vote for it.

A popularity vote, where the image may not be even be looked at by those that vote...simply, in my eyes, invalidates the competition and results.

At the end of the day, those competitions that don't fail the above tests are essentially a subjective process of the 'here and now'. What I mean is that at the given time and place, with the person(s) asked to make a judgement on what is in front of them...it is simply a comparative decision.

That doesn't mean your image isn't good enough. It doesn't mean that your picture isn't superb and deserves to win. Not at all, it just means, at that time an arbitrary decision was made to rank photos in a particular order...when at a later date, they could be put in a totally different order.

I've seen so many professional photographers putting up on their websites that they are an 'award winning' photographer and that may well be true, but what in the end does that mean?

Most of the awards that they list may well be competitions that you've never heard of and may find difficult to find out much about. Who says that they are even real competitions!

I've seen several photographers that base their whole marketing of their company and themselves on being 'award winning'; and when you look at the images they've won awards for...it may very well be the same photo entered into 20 competitions over a period of ten years.

I find that a questionable practice - but believe me, it does happen (and far more frequently than you would imagine).

So no, I don't enter competitions. I don't say that I am an award winning photographer. I don't care about that side of the industry.

For those that win the big, recognised and prestigious competitions - I am genuinely in awe of some of the work that is shown; but the rest...as Shania Twain said...that don't impress me much.

For the pay to play and popularity vote awards...If that's your bag...then fine...I wish you luck!