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Bereavement I Widow!reader x Nanami

Part One of six: Clock In.

Handling your late husband's estate leaves you little time to grieve. As does the six month back log of evidence you had compiled of his affair with his assistant. Six months ago you had lost him to the arms of another, one month ago you lost him to the hands of death. Both losses weigh your scales back and forth in a turbulent, nauseating haze. In your haze you find yourself across the table from Kento Nanami, his financial planner, sorting out the sizable estate left behind.

WC: 8.9k Masterlist ao3 Ko.fi

Warnings-- discussions of loss and grief, depressive tendancies, signs of obsessive tendancies, infidelity, grief/mourning, minor manga spoilers, pre-shibuya, eventual smut, kissing, masturbation, fingering, mentioned Yu Haibara, Satoru Gojo, Hiromi Higuruma, body worship, oral, weird girl behavior, grief makes you do weird stuff, so does depression, monotony in general is painful.

Nanami had a first meeting with a new client today. Despite how much he hated his job, he knew it was important to make a good first impression. He needed the clients to trust him, believe that their money was going to be taken care of, and their future was in capable hands. He considered his hands to be immensely capable, beyond them being trained specifically to protect the general public at one time, he simply didn’t care enough to screw over clients for the sake of company profit. He wore his nicest suit, clean and pressed to perfection himself that morning, a crispy white button up and red tie. He stepped out of the elevator, onto the office floor, and found his boss grinning, leaning against Nanami’s cubicle desk. 

“Big meeting today, Nanami!” He chattered, while Nanami set his things in their waiting, open spots he had left the night before. Briefcase to the left of his chair, laptop placed center, even with the edge of the desk but two inches back, office phone on the right, lamp on the left. 

His boss was still talking, “it may seem a little simple for a guy of your talents, but the client’s a bit---

Nanami’s eyes flicked upward. 

“-- of a piece of work.” 

Nanami’s jaw clicked, how disrespectful. 

He had read over the file last night before he went home. It was a bereavement portfolio, a combination of life insurance, dissolving and reallocating a trust in the name of the deceased as well as the substantial results of a wrongful death lawsuit, or well, the out of court settlement garnered after threatening to sue for wrongful death. Apparently the deceased had recently started a new medication that ended up not working as intended and gave the estate enough leverage to scare the manufacturers, the doctor, and the pharmacy.  Nanami had read the letter from the attorney’s office, it had been brutal, they had left nothing to chance. This lawyer, Higiruma, was a real shark. 

To call a grieving widow a piece of work was deplorable, but exactly the type of behavior he had come to expect from his floor manager. Who was apparently still talking:

“Talk to her about the stock options, okay. Start little and see if she takes the bait. I’m sure hubby handled most of their finances, she won’t know what’s up or down. It’s a, forgive my language, a fuck load of money were talking about. You play this right and not only does the company profit, but you could be in talks to join the big dogs.” He grabbed the back of Nanami’s neck in some kind of gesture of man-to-man camaraderie that he never truly understood and certainly didn’t value.

It was twenty two steps to the bathroom, thankfully he hadn’t gotten his hands on his jacket collar, so all he would have to do was clean the back of his neck. 

“Handsome guy like you, she won’t even be paying attention.” He let go of Nanami’s neck, “I’m counting on you!”

Finally the floor manager passed into his own office. Nanami cringed and cocked his neck, still feeling the disgusting touch of that man’s fingers on his skin. It was 8:07, he had exactly twenty-three minutes until the meeting was set to begin. He had booked the smallest conference room, it only had one window on the dividing wall, and the rest was enclosed. He wanted the space to feel private, where the widow could feel enabled to both grieve and discuss the logistics frankly without feeling as though she was on display.

 The crawling feeling at his neck was becoming overwhelming, he made his way to the mens room, wet a paper towel and swiped at his neck, the cool water soothing his growing rage. Water had always been soothing to him, the shower, the bath, a cool rag over his screen exhausted eyes, a warm rag on his head when he was sick, the ocean. He sighs in the sterile restroom, the ocean. The smell of salt and sun, the feeling of salt binding and crusting in his hair, the sun on his face and shoulders. Suits didn’t do well in the sun, he would have to leave them behind. Opting for more colorful, free form styling, something loose and flowy that would catch the coastal breeze and tickle the sides of his hips. He opened his eyes and met the stare of his reflection. 

Not yet. 

By every metric he had made plenty of money, but not enough to never work again. For a while last year he was toying with the idea of opening a bar or bookshop in whatever beach town he would find himself in, but even the thought of the processes necessary to open and run a business brought hives to his neck. One more swipe of the towel across the memory inflamed skin and then over his face, folded again so as to keep the contaminate off. He took a deep breath and steeled himself to rejoin his peers in the office halls. 

He had taken to preparing the room at 8:20, setting his computer, the printed copies of the to be accrued assets both liquid and non; a few dossiers of the stock option offered by the company, their individual projected investment gains, the prospective retail prices of property etc. He went back and forth a few times in his own mind but opted to bring in a box of tissues placed on the other side of the paperwork. Close enough to be available but not an assertion that emotion is expected. He hoped it would be thoughtful. Or at least benign and easy to ignore if it wasn’t useful. He pulled out his own and the chair caddy-corner to his, an open invitation to sit down. The room was set, he had a few minutes left until the client was set to arrive, so he took a short walk over to the break area’s kitchenette to make a coffee. He poured his own, letting the sound of draining liquid fill his ears before adding a half packet of sugar and stirring it. The numbers from the settlement  ran through his mind. It was a bizarre amount of money, even without the settlement there would have been more than enough money to live the rest of any human lifetime in absolute decadence. Wasting away on a beach, or in the mountains, secluded and isolated. Expensive meals, the finest linens, endless books for a never ending vacation. A life of relaxation. He sighed away the envy, the coffee’s steam giving a tangible symbol through which to watch the fantasy leave him.  That life would never be his. 

He left the kitchenette and made his way back to the conference room, only to see a figure seated inside. He was well acquainted with the silhouette of everyone who worked on his office floor, which ones to avoid, which ones would be innocuous in his periphery working alongside them, which ones had children they just begged to tell him about, which ones were on projects he worked on as well. But this one. He knew he had never seen this particular silhouette before. The hair neatly styled up into a sleek classic style, showcasing the back of their neck, shapely and long. A clean, well tailored blazer, dark in color as was most appropriate for the circumstances. The chair underneath covered the rest of the mirage before him, his throat felt parched, the coffee in his hand felt cold and absent. Or maybe he had gone numb. He pulled himself together in a snap, lamenting his momentary loss of composure. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and entered the conference room. 

You stood as he entered, offering a respectful bow. 

“Mrs. Kubota, it is nice to make your acquaintance. I am Kento Nanami, I was your husband’s financial planner. I am sorry for your loss, and I do regret the circumstances which have brought you here.” Nanami extended his hand for a formal shake. 

Which you obliged, taking his hand before sitting down once again, “My maiden name is fine, thank you. I have more condolences than I know what to do with, yours are appreciated but unnecessary.”

He nodded, appreciative of your pragmatism. It had been a few days over a month and a half since your husband had passed, and your candor towards not wanting to be fretted over was admirable. But there was an undercurrent of something. Kento took his seat across from you, and could see the dark shadows under your eyes. He wondered if you were sleeping properly. If you still slept in the bed you once shared, relegated to the side that had been yours, not yet taking the realestate now opened to you. He saw the end of your nose was raw, a slight sniffle twitching it every once in a while. He wondered when the tears had fallen. In the elevator, in the car ride over, in the mirror this morning?

“We have quite a lot to go over, can I get you a water or a coffee?” He offered, gesturing to his own beverage. 

“A coffee, thank you.” You seemed to relax in your chair a bit, your reed straight posture not faltering but taking on a feeling of ease. 

He stood again, a bit too fast, his knee almost hitting the table’s edge, “Cream?”

“No, thank you.” You were observing him so closely, he felt caught somehow, “Just one sugar please.” 

He nodded and excused himself out of the room and back to the kitchenette. Once he was gone, you sighed into the chair. Resting your head back against the cushioned edge. You didn’t want to be here. No one wants to be here. When you had gotten married twelve years ago, you never could have anticipated the drab, clinically modern interior of this office, the mountains of logistical work that followed your husband’s death. The endless phone calls with family members, friends, acquaintances, coworkers, and grief counselors. Family members offering to come and ‘help keep the house while you are distracted’, were all declined. They had all been from his family, who had never been particularly fond of you, and were now trying to save face or, more likely, make sure you weren’t planning something catastrophic with his inheritance. No, your inheritance now. You had to remember that this money was yours now, you were entitled to it, and you had to feel that ownership, or the sharks around you would smell the blood before you touched even a cent.

Fuck, this was so much harder than you thought. You weren’t a cold, clinical woman, you were emotional and romantic and you had loved him. You had loved him, right? Even at the end, with the lying and the staying out too late and finding those charges, you loved him. Right?

The bookkeeper entered the room again, setting a ceramic mug of coffee, still steaming in front of you. His own had been in a paper cup, it was odd--maybe generous--that yours was presented differently. 

“I wasn’t sure which kind of sugar you liked so I brought one of each.” He had placed each pastel colored packet along the lip of the saucer that held the mug. 

You selected your favorite and tore it open, the rip splitting the silence in the small, dark room. You stirred it with the provided spoon and took a sip, the best an office can offer, which was less than you were used to, but the warm liquid chased the chill from your arms. 

“Mrs. Kubota--er, Sorry.” He corrected himself as you set the cup down, “You are more than well aware I am sure of the substantial inheritance both from the life insurance and from the wrongful death settlement. Your lawyer has done great work to insure that all of you and your husband’s assets will be absorbed under your name. You will be inheriting quite an impressive sum.” 

You nodded, “Yes, were it not for the loss of my husband, I would be tempted to call myself fortunate.” 

You didn’t care for the implication that people’s voices carried when they spoke to you about his death these days. Perhaps it was just because these logistical types could barely speak past the drool in their mouths when they scanned over the numbers on the page. It was true his family had been exorbitantly wealthy, and his own work had garnered more and more success for their business. But you had borne the burden of that your whole relationship with him. Coming from a regular working class family, the expectation was that you were some gold digging black widow that was only with him to secure your financial future of being a lavish layabout trophy wife. You had spent the last decade working to change your family's perception of you, and the untimely death of your husband, completely out of the blue, only made everyone more suspicious of you. You hadn’t yet confided in anyone about your trouble fitting in among them, or how fruitless it all felt toward the end. 

“I didn’t mean to imply. I’m sorry for my poor choice of words.” Nanami’s voice clipped through your spiral, “With a sum of money this size, it could be wise to invest. There would be very little risk to your financial future, and you could earn even more passively. Allowing you to continue whatever endeavors you saw fit, Travel, art collection, you could start your own business.”

“As you say it is substantial, I would rather not continue the expansion of my family’s wealth if I can help it.” 

“Well, it would be your wealth to…expand. The money in his possession was his own, not the money tied up in the company, that of course, returns to the company. But the will was very clear, all assets in his name will be redistributed to you and any of your children. Seeing as there are no children, this money is completely yours, to do whatever you like with.” 

You nodded, “Right.”

You weren’t interested in whatever commission earning this company may be after. Your husband had chosen this financial advisement team with the instruction influence of your mother in law. You didn’t care about investing, you knew exactly why you were here, and it was burning through the lining of your jacket pocket at the moment. Finally, you couldn’t wait any longer. 

“Mr. Nanami, I am not interested in investment. You were my husband’s financial advisor, were you not?” 

Kento’s eyebrows twitched inward for just a moment before he remembered himself. 

“Yes. One of them.” 

“And he sought your guidance on managing his personal expenses?” 

“To a certain degree.” He nodded, feeling himself becoming confused. “Our firm primarily handles the building of trusts and acquisitions of real estate or businesses.” 

Finally you retrieved the trifolded credit card statements for the last six months of your husband’s life that you had put safely in your purse as you left your apartment this morning. The ones you had been collecting, highlighting, photocopying, agonizing over since the first one came in. You carefully unfolded, gently unstacked, and set out in perfectly aligned order along the length of the table. 

June had been the dinner for two at the Michelin star restaurant you had tried to get him to make a reservation for for the previous Valentine’s day. 

And the bottle of champagne you hadn’t seen any sign of. 

July had been the necklace

A jeweler you recognized but wasn’t one of your favorites, but he happened to be fond of. 

Invoices from florists. 

Chunks of money, sizable enough for either dates, shopping trips, whatever they had been, you never saw. 

August had been the tickets to Macau, for a ‘business trip’ of course. 

It was normal, expected even, for personal assistants to stay in the adjoining room. How else would she have been able to keep him on schedule? 

And the car he had bought for her that same month was a company expense, it was allegedly easier than compensating her mileage, and he couldn’t rely on the train to get her to work on time. 

And of course his brother didn’t know anything about the meeting because he oversees a completely different department.

He started sleeping in the guest room.  

September had been slower. You suspected this was him laying low after his missteps in August. 

There was only the lingerie. Upon finding this charge you were motivated to find the order specifics through his email. It was a beautiful set. Part of you wanted to believe this could be an apology, but it hadn’t even been your size.  

October had another trip, this time he at least had the good sense to recruit some people you would have called friends to make it feel believable. 

Those same colleagues would later speak so highly of him at the funeral. Lauding his loyalty and reliability, and his unending dedication. 

November was busy, dinner dates, the opera, luxury goods masquerading as potential incoming christmas presents. 

He slept in your room a few nights as a trial run. 

Until you found the open credit line only accessible through a number you didn't recognize. 

He would never move back into the bedroom you shared together. The room stood untouched since he left it last.The door remained closed, the last hands to touch the knob his own. 

You couldn’t go inside. 

He died in December. Leaving an apartment building you had never been to, the last person to see him was his assistant. Who conveniently lived right upstairs. 

She hadn’t attended the funeral but whispers of her name echoed and were hushed away whenever you approached the huddled mourners. 

You weren’t a stupid woman, you knew what infidelity looked like.  When he started coming home later and later you praised his dedication to work. Especially when he would tell you he was working through the night and would try and catch a few weary hours of shut eye in his office. You still believed your marital vows were intact, despite how scripted every excuse filled phone call felt. It wasn’t until Macau that you even spoke to anyone about your suspicions. After their his plane had taken off, not so much as an invitation extended your way, you called his younger brother. Who hadn’t apparently known anything about a company merger occurring with a synonymous firm overseas. 

You hadn’t thought you married a stupid man, you had expected him to cover his tracks better. To his credit, the two occasions you had peeked at his phone, his call history had been unsuspicious and his messages to his assistant were professional, and even a little boring. In his absence, left to speculate in your once shared apartment for hours on end, you came to realize he likely had a second phone. One that would make itself known in a small fee each month until you found it and shut it down. 

Whatever, let the plan lapse, the money wouldn’t be noticed anyway. 

Laying the bank statements across the table, with your thorough annotations, the table looked like a conspiracy board. If there were any room in your heart alongside the bubbling betrayal and rage, you could have felt embarrassed. You watched Nanami scan over the documents as a whole. You watched his eyes look up to meet yours, his mouth open to say something that never emerged, before taking the left-most statement, June, in his hand and bringing it closer to read. You didn't sit, your knees trembled but never buckled. You weren’t afraid, you were energized. Vibrating with a bizarre amalgam of relief and sorrow. You never confide in anyone about your husband's infidelity. No family of your own, anymore, no friends you thought would support you through the divorce process, and the overbearing weight of betrayal and grief had poisoned you steadily over the course of this last year. 

Kento read each one carefully, taking special interest in your handwritten marginalia detailing the dates and citing the staple attached references to order pages and invoices. You had been incredibly meticulous with your record keeping. Every questionable charge back tracked to the origin of purchase and to its equally salacious delivery. Addresses not in your or his name. PO boxes, hotel rooms, short lived open and shut credit lines. It was…flagrant. 

As he finished the November statement, Kento set it down just where you had originally, as though it was magnetized to the exact spot. It felt like touching an artifact in a museum, the outline of dust waiting to be covered once again by the shadow of history and story that the papers held. 

“This is…” His throat was hoarse as he struggled to find the right word, “glaring.”

You, still standing, nodded, “Did you know?” 

He looked up to you, feeling suddenly small in his office chair, swallowed by the dark office around him, “No.” 

You looked for any sign of doubt, “At least that makes me no longer the last one to find out.” 

You finally took your seat again, the burden of truth taken from your weary shoulders. You had expected some sign of recognition, some familiarity to betray itself across the stony face of the man in front of you, but there had been nothing. Watching his expressions page after page, there was no tell of pre-existing knowledge. 

“Had you spoken to him about these?” Nanami asked, eyes still scanning over the table strewn with dirty laundry. 

“Yes, we had an infidelity clause in our prenuptial agreement. He knew that if I could prove it, I would get half of everything. The company, the houses, the inheritance, even the trusts. He told me it was over in August, but he admitted to the affair. He promised me that was the end of it, that we could go to counseling. That he would change, that he…” Your voice tipped you off to the tears welling in your eyes before you felt their sting, “I knew he was lying. And when he left again in October, with his friends, I knew. I tried to call her at the office and they said she was on leave due to a death in her family. How convenient. And ironic, looking back.” 

A sick chuckle left you before you could catch yourself. Nanami couldn’t find it in himself to blame you. Your lawyer had copies of everything, filed cleanly in a manilla folder marked with your married name. A folder that had been added to while your husband was still alive, a back up plan if things progressed more.

“There is a certain expectation of confidentiality that is appealing to our clients here. Non disclosure agreements, privacy laws, it's all very…bureaucratic. Many clients have similar discrepancies in their financial portfolios that, if they were catalogued, I imagine would bring about the same conclusions. I won't pretend that this is uncommon, or that your trepidation in bringing them forward is unwarranted. But,” He leaned across the table, “I find myself at times struggling to hold my tongue, when spouses come to me directly.” 

You looked at him a moment, trying to figure out what inside of him motivated this admission of knowing passivity. As though him admitting that this is something that happens, would be any boone to your opinion of him. 

“Do you tell them?” You didn’t want to play office drama anymore, a headache was beginning to bloom behind your eyes.  

“No, the closest I have come is flagging purchases as potential fraud enough times that they can put it together themselves and can keep them on hand, just as you have. But, it’s never…come to fruition, at least that I have seen .” He felt guilty that he couldn’t say he had done more. 

He should have done more. 

Part of the reason he hated this job so much was the type of people that he had to service. Liars, gluttons, cheaters, lecherous fat cats that cared only for their own whims. His boss had been conducting an affair for over five years, one that Nanami had turned a blind eye to. One of many, that he had decided were not his place, despite any personal disgust he allowed. The shame of those choices burned his throat sitting before you. 

The parallel burn in your throat was not shame, it was disgust. Disgust at the seemingly endless system of men who would protect each other through anything, no matter the costs. Even this phallic building standing tall and at attention served as a perfect symbol of the passive patriarchal assertion that men will keep their secrets for each other, weighing them out perfectly against their own sins and finding the scales too level to intervene. Were they all so callus, so loyal to their sex that they couldn't break for even a moment? For even the sanctity of marital vows? 

Pathetic. 

“Is that supposed to make you better than them?” You cocked your head, “Because you know about it, and how wrong it is? You still do nothing. You still don’t care about the wives. You think flagging a few missed anniversaries or ill-given gifts makes you some kind of hero?”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“ I’m sure you didn’t. Because you are a coward just like the rest of them. If anything, you’re worse. Clearly you have some kind of conscience that you choose to ignore, to what? Work here? Pay for your own affair? Excuse your own greed?” 

You sat silently, eyebrows raised in waiting to see if more excuses could be roused to fill the space you let open. But he said nothing. He would say nothing more. 

“Dissolve the trust, reallocate it into a savings account under my name alone.” You stood and began to collect the annotated bank statements from the desk, “From there I will redistribute to various humanitarian organizations that I see fit, with no influence from this company or the Kubota family. Or from you, whatever bankroll you were on from my husband died with him, do you understand?” 

This disdain in your voice was palpable, filling the room with an invisible sludge of hate for every foot that crossed this wretched building's threshold. Still, you continued:

“All I require from you will be a comprehensive breakdown of the remaining assets, and acknowledgement  that when the dissolution is complete, the partnership between the remaining Kubota’s and myself will be nullified and my personal involvement with your services will be over. I see no reason this should take more than the remaining days of this week, but from what I understand to be your pay cycles and commission earning spots are, I will give you until the thirty-first of March to complete the severance of assets. Any contact or input you require from me will be conducted through my attorney, with whom you are already acquainted.”

You stacked your brought papers neatly, edges aligned, corners met, before folding them along the tri-folded seams and sliding them carefully back into your pocket. 

“Wait, please.” Nanami stood, trying to preserve…something…do something to…atone, maybe, “Mrs.—er Miss—“

Without thinking he reached for your hand, his fingers barely brushed the joint of your wrist before you pulled it away. 

“I don’t think it's necessary for us to continue speaking. Surely if you have held your tongue this long, you won't mind continuing.” the look in your eyes was haunting, embers of fury trapped behind the iris, Nanami felt himself still, “Am I understood, Mr. Nanami?”

Wordlessly, he nodded. 

You turned and left the conference room, the cup of coffee nearly completely full sat no longer steaming where you had left it. 

You hadn’t raised your voice at anyone since he died. He was the last person you had fought with. Every day since his death your voice felt like it no longer belonged to you. Or at least could no longer be swayed by your emotions. When you were sad enough to feel your body was made of cement, your voice never wavered. When you spoke at the funeral, although briefly, your voice remained steady. You began to wonder if you could emote at all anymore. All your emotions and attempts at explaining them felt the same, this bizarre numbness that filled you completely had coated your vocal cords and now operated them for you like hammers in one of those self-playing pianos. Programmed to emulate the sound of human speech, over and over, but holding no real feeling.

 In the office you had felt more emotion than you had in nearly two months. Confusing swirls of frustration and nausea that all covered something more brutal. The sorrow, the crushing, aching, never ending sorrow. Your heart was lead, it barely beat. Your feet could barely be moved, they were too structural, it would risk collapse to step. Your eyes were boulders moving only when demanded. Even your hair pulled your neck down, be it onto the pillow, the car headrest, or the surface of the dining room table.  

Exactly the position you were in now. One cheek pressed onto the once cool surface of the hard mahogany table in your dining room, back slouched over its dark grain, hands falling limply at your sides, eyes locked on the venetian plaster walls. At one point you had thought they looked dynamic and expressive. But now it looked splotchy and unfinished. Dirty even.

You hated this room. But you couldn’t leave it. You hated this apartment. But where would you go?

Technically in a month’s time you would have more than enough resources to start over. You could go anywhere in the world, you could spend the rest of your life traveling with no responsibilities or ties anywhere. 

God that sounded lonely. 

But maybe that was what the rest of your life would be. It was part of marrying young, you knew it when you did it. You spent less time socializing, which meant you didn’t have a lot of chances to make new friends. And it became harder and harder to socialize outside of the pair of you.You had once thought of yourself as so lucky to have found the person you wanted to be with forever so young. But over the years you began to feel like an extension of him rather than a person yourself. You began to dread attending events alongside him, feeling the glaring lack of personage with which you were met draining. So eventually in the last ten years you had stopped trying. And now here you are, alone. No husband to be identified as an accessory of, no family to emphasize the marital status which landed you among them. Still your once marital status would follow you in its place. 

 Widowed. 

You are a widow now. You would never not be a widow ever again. You had felt an inverse sublime feeling when you had been married. Although those days it felt best expressed through the phrase “you’re married now! And you’ll never have to be alone again.” And now the phrase “you’ll never not have been married, ever again” felt more earnest. 

What time is it? 

The sun had probably set, the room was dark, but it had always been pretty moody. Thick curtains drawn to give it a dramatic, intimate feel. Your headache from this morning was still mumbling behind your forehead. A rolling thunder above the diamond enough to bring caution to the umpire, but not enough to cancel the game. Your aching back pulled your body forward, arching and straining like an overloaded fishing rod. You sat up, checking your thin banded watch. 

7:27 PM.

You groaned, dissappointed by it still being a time in which saying fuck it and just going to bed felt pathetic. If it had been even one hour later you would have done exactly that. Instead you felt the hot, acrid gurgle of shame rise in your throat. Your husband's infidelity had not been the fault of the man who sat across from you today in the conference room. He said himself that he didn’t know anything about it. From what he had said his involvement in your finances had been primarily investment, not day to day. And yet you had launched more anger at him than anyone else. You knew it wasn’t right, per say, but, you couldn’t deny that there had been something intoxicating about yelling at him. It felt cathartic to blame someone for something as unpredictable as a spontaneous death, timed in cruel serendipity around the revelation of adultery. Something so brutal and random and intangible, something where you couldn’t blame him for dying, because it was completely by chance, but you couldn’t be angry with him for cheating either, because he died. 

That bastard really got off easy. Fuck. 

You had been stuck in the loop for so long now the anger had nowhere to go. You didn’t have any interest in directing it toward the mistress. While she knew, obviously, he was married and she should have known better. She was too young to really understand, fresh out of university and painfully, frustratingly naive. You certainly didn’t feel bad for her, losing her lecherous boyfriend and all, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do any of the rom-com revenge movie antics that you sometimes wondered about. It didn’t seem worth the energy. You would be more than fine to just pretend she, specifically, didn’t even exist and that the adultery had occurred in some kind of vacuum. 

You didn’t care to confront his brothers, either, the ones who had begrudgingly embraced you, then lied to your face. The ones who knew everything and stayed quiet. You had wanted to scream at them, make them feel how you felt. But you knew it wouldn’t have worked. You can’t instill this numbness in another person. It’s far too organic. 

Mr. Nanami had become the perfect target for the anger that could go nowhere else. Despite his lack of involvement, earlier this afternoon in a millisecond decision you made him into the sole inheritor of your own misery. It wasn’t fair. But you couldn’t quite come to regret it entirely, there was something so good about releasing all of this frustration. The gratingly monotonous logistical proceedings, the meetings with Hiromi, the funeral arrangements, the calls from doctors detailing the genetic components of what had taken his life as if you had any children to make aware of it, the financiers, the property managers calling to see about their contracts, endless fucking pedantic organization had robbed you of space to grieve properly. You wanted to yell at every single one of them, but you didn’t. 

So you had just yelled at him. And he…took it. He didn’t seem perturbed at being spoken to so informally and cruelly, just…concerned, maybe? You had felt the most this afternoon than you had in months. You had already been mourning when the emergency services called you that night, you had been mourning for half a year. The relationship you once had, the marriage that you had once been so grateful for. But the grief, the grief was still waiting in the wings for room to consume you. The numbness and the anger were taking up too much space inside of you, it couldn’t find the room.

It was wrong, nonetheless. You can’t use other people as catharsis, it isn’t fair. Especially not with something so personal. Mr. Nanami was not your husband, nor was he one of his brothers, or the doctors, or your mother in law, or the friends who called or friends who didn't, or the flowers that were delivered regularly but now dispensed their saccharine sweet rot into the air of your kitchen. He was just a man. A man you were now scapegoating to relieve yourself of the pain you would have forever, even if just for a moment. He didn’t deserve it. You didn’t know him from Adam but you were sure he was a fine enough man who just wanted to do his job. 

You pulled your laptop to you from the side of the table, opening it and logging in. Your email opened automatically, the blue-white light straining your aching eyes. You should take one of those sleeping pills the doctor gave you. It had been a big day already. The email open on your screen was the confirmation email sent to you by Mr. Nanami yesterday morning, confirming the time of your meeting, the address of the office, and your parking validation. You read it over again, it was incredibly traditional. Likely some template that he had made to fill in for appointment confirmations, but your eyes wandered to the little circle icon next to the subject line. You clicked. It expanded. There he was. 

You had been laser focused this morning, well, as focused as you could manage to be in the foggy state you were often in these days. Let's call it, fine mist diffuser focus, one with one of those nozzles you can make bigger or smaller depending on room size. You had been so diffuser-focused on the bank statements that you hadn’t taken much time to really look at him. Beyond when he was reading them, waiting for a tell of recognition to reveal itself. Studying his micro expressions as he read over the papers you should have noticed the fine, angular lines of his face. The sharp line of his nose, the high cheek bones hollowed to meet a strong, square jaw. He was an incredibly proportionate man, thin, shapely lips, the color a bit too close to the skin, betraying how well defined they really were. But his eyes struck you. His expression was completely neutral in what you assumed was a work ID photo, but his eyes seemed to be looking right into you. A light, suede brown, like a perfectly risen, deliciously proofed loaf of sourdough bread. Dark bags hung under them, the ones you had seen in person were worse. But the shadows contrasted the golden brown making them appear to shine. He was handsome, very handsome. 

On reflex your heart pulled and your brain kicked you for even thinking so. The loop of shame and confusion starts again, pulling you along. 

You are a married woman. No. You were a married woman. You are a grieving woman. You are someone’s wife. No. You were someone’s wife. You are--. You…

You are-------fuck----You…fuck you. 

Who are you even supposed to be now? You crumbled against the table in a pile of arms. Hot tears burned your eyes and fell freely. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everything felt wrong, you didn’t know what mattered anymore. None of the titles you once held so close fit anymore. You didn’t know what promises to keep, which ones to allow to fall away, what--if any--expectations stood before you. When you looked up from the table and back at your computer, you met Mr. Nanami’s eyes again. A flash of today in the office came to you, the same eyes but blown wide, reading over what had been done to your marriage. You should at least apologize. You looked at the clock on your computer screen. 

7:37 PM

He would surely be out of the office by now, but he would see a message tomorrow morning. You typed out an email quickly, read it over and hit send before your better judgement could kick in. 

Mr. Nanami, 

I would like to extend an apology for the way I spoke to you this morning. My behavior was inappropriate and frankly it was unfair. I did not mean to implicate you in my husband’s infidelity, and I regret doing so. I hope you can understand how it feels, losing your grasp on grief at what seems like the worst moment. But, that does not make what I did okay. 

 Thank you for your work over the years and your continued work for the remainder of the settlement. 

If possible, I would like a chance to apologize in person. Could I treat you to lunch tomorrow? I understand it is unorthodox, but my behavior this morning was unorthodox as well. I find unusual problems can sometimes require unusual solutions. 

You sighed out once it was sent. The inside of your cheek was swollen where you held it between tight molars as you typed. The pulse in your head, adrenaline temporarily lifted, returned and had now become a drumline. The bottle of sleeping medication was calling to you from your nightstand drawer. It didn’t matter that the clock had just barely passed the hour, you were going to bed. Unshowered, unceremoniously, it was time. It didn’t matter anyway, you hadn’t regularly shared a bed in months. The only filth on your sheets would be your own.

 You stood on sore, fatigued legs, pushing back your chair, not caring to realign it with the table’s edge as you once would have. It no longer mattered if the place was nice or put together. The team of cleaners would come and fix it. You had once been uncomfortable hiring people to clean up your messes, but now it didn’t matter at all. None of that life mattered anymore. Turning away to cross out of the room, you hear a faint chime. You stopped, turning back to the still lit screen. A new email. You huddled over the screen, reading too many words in the wrong order at once. Eyes jumping all over the response in search of confirmation. 

Please do not feel as though an apology is necessary. You have not wronged me in any way, nor have you hurt any feelings. I understood, and continue to understand the position you are in. I won't pretend to know how it must feel, but any empathetic mind can surmise the amount of strain you are under. For that I am sorry. 

While an in person apology is not needed, I accept your invitation. There are a few more questions that were left unanswered this morning that I would like to circle back to. I would be willing to extend my work into my lunch time hour if it would not be too much of an imposition to you. 

How is 12:30? There is a patisserie and deli I enjoy near to the office, if you wouldn’t mind coming back to this side of town? 

Awaiting your answer, 

Kento Nanami. 

You read it again. And again. You looked at the sender’s email, then back at the message. You read it one more time. 

You hadn’t expected this so quickly. And so thoughtfully. You had been so rude to him and he returned with nothing but understanding. Who the hell was this guy? What was his problem? You had spent the last month talking to similarly imposing job titled men, all of whom had to actively fight their fear that you would cry in front of them, only to then struggle to hide their confusion when you didn’t. You hadn’t anticipated this level of compassion, especially not from the previous email exchanges you had had. They were brief and deeply professional. No personality or attempts to be jovial, just purely informational. Perhaps after meeting him, being able to hear the voice writing the email made it clearer to you, giving way to his stoicism and sensitivity to feel balanced and apparent, without being forced. 

You pictured him sitting in a dark office, the light of his computer screen highlighting the sharp angles of his face. Blonde hair falling from its neat style, chunky silver watch, you didn’t realize you had noticed, ticking away far from the end of the work day. Feeling sad for him still working, you typed out a quick reply. 

You’re working late. I hope they pay you overtime. Thank you for your understanding. 12:30 is great, feel free to bill me for working you outside of your hours. 

I’ll see you then. 

You hesitated briefly, pinky finger hovering above the enter key. Was this message too casual? It was late, so maybe there was no reason to be as formal as you would be? However the lateness of the hour could require more care on your end to avoid seeming overly casual. 

Whatever. He said he was “awaiting an answer”, you didn’t want to hold him up any longer. You hit send. 

You let out a huff, excitement and guilt swirling together in your chest, making you remember your aching head. It was time to go to bed, you shut your laptop, pulled yourself through the central room of the apartment and into your bedroom. You were too tired to think about the guest room, you passed the door without stopping in front of it and wondering if you could push yourself to enter. You stripped your clothes off and let them fall at your feet, not bothering with pajamas, climbing into your large, empty bed. Finding the prescription in your nightstand you took one and swallowed it down with the stale water beside your bed. 

Did you put it there last night? Or the night before? 

It didn’t matter. Surely it was psychosomatic but feeling the pill descend your throat, you began to feel the sleep take you. 

Kento sat in the conference room after you left for a while. Weighing out what he should have done, what he did do, what you said, and how it all leveled on an elaborate mental scale, trying to figure out exactly how badly he screwed up. He felt so much sadness in his chest, it pulled his sternum down toward his pelvis, he had to fight to stay sitting straight. He hadn’t seen someone so destroyed since high school. And he always expected that to be a unique kind of grief. But he saw it in your eyes, the waver of your voice, the way your hands clenched, the dangerous calm that filled your kinesphere. He could recognize misplaced anger. He just had to look in the mirror. 

He barely registered the lecture his boss had given him for losing them one of their biggest clients. Something about expectations, something about the ‘guys upstairs not being happy with him’, something about being on thin ice. He didn’t enjoy being told his work performance was poor, but he also didn’t enjoy his work, so it was hard to dwell on it for too long. And there was still the meeting’s itinerary that hadn't been completed, along with your demands. He considered contacting your attorney to see if he could pass along a message about the work that had been superseded by your outburst. He still needed your personal information to create this savings account you requested, his work previously had been in your late husband’s name, so in order for him to create a separate portfolio for just you he needed a lot more of your input. Then there were the concerns he had about holding so much money in a single personal account, it could be dangerous to have too many eggs in one basket, it left too much to chance. Kento wanted to help you create a diverse and protected financial set up for your future, and he couldn’t if he just followed your requested course of action. 

But the work day had still only just begun, so he opted to set it aside for the time being and try to work elsewhere. But still your words hung in the space of his cubicle. The switch in your face from collection to fury. The careful way you had stacked and folded your papers, the careful swirling lines of your handwriting in the margins of those vicious forms. The level of care you exhibited in not just the presentation of evidence, but in the way you had sipped your coffee, the way your hair had been pulled up. You must be an incredibly thoughtful woman. 

After lunch he found his dwelling had migrated. The shape of your hands, the soft skin against his own when he had shaken it in introduction. The strong line of your shoulders and neck. The fullness of your cheeks, the shape of your lips, the shade of lipstick you had chosen complimented your coloring perfectly. He wondered if it had a flavor, not even an artificially added one, but the round, mineral taste that most quality lipsticks carried. Kento wasn’t sure why he had become so conscious of your charms. It was incredibly inappropriate for him to be replaying the events of a bereavement settlement and finding he can only think about how your lips would feel against his. You were mourning for Christ's sake. Mourning your husband. He was disgusted with himself.  Hours ticked by, the boss left promptly at five, others began to trickle out. He usually would have been in the elevator and out to the train station promptly, but he found that he was stuck to his desk, your file open before him, lingering over the contact for your lawyer, wrestling with how to proceed.  

That was when your email had arrived. His laptop was permanently set to silent, but he watched as an unshadowed line in his inbox appeared, signalling an unread email. Your name and email along the left side, no subject line attached. It opened itself in an instant, he didn’t even feel his fingers click over the trackpad. He read it closely, and when he finished he found his eyebrows had netted themselves together at the center of his face. An apology? Your husband was a lech and worse, a dead one, and you were apologizing to him? Guilt sunk his already deflated heart further. He didn’t deserve your sorrys, no one in this office, or any office like it deserved any kindness from you. You could have done worse, thrown the coffee in his face or shattered the glass windows, you could have told him to go fuck himself and he would have taken it. The horrid id in the back of his mind wonders if he might have done it. He typed out a response before the voice could speak again. Wanting to release you of any lingering guilt that he may have caused you. You had more than enough to deal with without him making it worse. But the voice didn’t like being ignored. 

She wants to see you outside of the office.

He closed his eyes, trying to regain control of the flash of fantasy that struck him. How perverse, how disgusting. Your kindness was not some kind of veiled invitation into your life. You were his client, he was the manager of the acquisition of your late husband’s estate, there were plenty of things that needed to be discussed. Professionally, and without distraction. He needed to get himself together before tomorrow. And he would. This was his chance to make this right, to do his job and do it well. He had begun packing up his stuff when your final response came in. 

You’re working late. I hope they pay you overtime. Thank you for your understanding. 12:30 is great, feel free to bill me for working you outside of your hours. 

I’ll see you then. 

A smile creeped along the lower half of his face, but he controlled it and set it aside. A professional work lunch, out of the office, to plan out the next steps of the acquisition, how mutually beneficial. Nothing to be alarmed by, nothing to prepare excessively for, certainly nothing to feel this strange giddy hum in his chest about. He slide his laptop into the center most pocket of his briefcase, organizing the interior of your file into a clean stack and folding it safely inside, turning out his desk lamp, and returning the pens he had used into the pencil cup on the top left corner of his desk, cap side down to allow for easy retrieval, capped securely protecting the ink inside. He pushed his chair in once he stood up, making sure the back was even with the edge of the desk and turned out the break room light as he made his way to the elevator. 

Normally Nanami would have taken a moment to relish the feeling of being the only body in the elevator. He wasn’t a small man, tall and broad, sharing an elevator made him feel like an imposition, as though he took up too much space by default. His neatness and cleanliness had stemmed from that same feeling of existing in a world that he felt he didn’t quite belong in. Trying to be as orderly and unimposing as possible, to make up for the characteristics that could be deemed rude or inconsiderate. On the average day there would have been immense relief upon finding the elevator empty, but tonight there was nothing to relieve. His routine executed to perfection, a clear plan for the next day, an assurance that your work together wasn’t yet finished. This feeling of weightless ease carried him into his apartment, into the shower, to his kitchen island, through the cooking of the same dinner he always had on midweek nights, to the half bottle of wine that sat in his fridge, and eventually to bed. Laying in the cool, clean sheets he wondered what tomorrow would bring. The uncharacteristic lightness carried him to sleep, and he did not push it away. 

PART TWO

Thank you so much for reading my angels!!!!!! This really does feel like the best thing i have ever written. Four months of an absolute labor of love, I really, really, really hope you guys enjoy it. As always, I love to hear y'all's thoughts if you have them. We will all meet back here next thursday night!! I LOVE YOU THANK YOU BYE. ---Doodle xx <3 <3

[thechanelmuse]

Kendrick, Drake, and Ethnic/Cultural Identity

One of the most discussed topics during this exchange between the two is if Drake is a culture vulture. In short, yes. He's always been. It boils down to inherited cultural identity and respected history, not the upholding of a social construct of “race.” 

Race is a goofy non-biological caste system that operates in various countries and it’s a dumbass global push to get people to embrace a superior to inferior hierarchy in classifying the globe into 5 broad groups solely based on perceived skull sizes, hues of skin color, and perceived traits and phenotypic features via the teachings of François Bernier, Johann Blumenbach, Carl Linnaeus, and them other hoes. Get race tf outta here.

I’m gonna make this concise as possible, but fleshed out a bit for full understanding.

Kendrick Lamar is Black American on both sides with his roots most likely coming out of Mississippi and/or Alabama to Chicago to Cali by way of the Great Migration. (He may even descend from Duckworths from Louisiana). I haven’t done his genealogy, but now I may out of curiosity.

Black American is a double ethnicity. We’re citizens of America (nationality = US Citizen), and our ethnic group (Black) was created & descends from this land (ethnicity = American) through ethnogensis. It has nothing to do with one’s brown skin color or how the cops see us 🙃, but everything to do with the lineage of one’s parents and their parents, etc. (For info on lineage tracing, refer to my post here.) 

Black Americans are an ethnic group (the largest from this land and largest in this country after Germans), while “white Americans” are a self-identification race to remove ethnic identity and conflate numbers. I can break this down further in another post if y’all want since American history is complex and will explain why Black Americans have been reclassified seven times by the US government 🙃. 

Now.

Culture is largely passed down through your mother, and her mother, and her mother, and so forth for Black Americans (and I’m sure other ethnic groups). No matter if it’s a two-parent or single-parent household, she’s your ultimate teacher in setting the foundation of your cultural upbringing. It’s the same if one is raised by their grandparents. It largely stems from the grandmother. If one’s father is their main parent, that’s a different case of course. 

Drake falls in line with this as someone from a single-parent household. He is half Ashkenazi of Latvian and Russian descent (ethnicity) through his mother and of half Black American descent (ethnicity) through his father. He is a dual citizen of Canada and America (nationality), who was raised in Canada with his Ashkenazi Jewish mother and Ashkenazi relatives with an Ashkenazi upbringing. He went to a Jewish day school and was engulfed in all aspects at home. 

Kendrick is ethnically and culturally Black American. Drake is ethnically and culturally Ashkenazi. He is also ethnically Black American (through lineage), but not culturally Black American. Does that make Drake a culture vulture? No. He just didn’t have the cultural upbringing but could always immerse himself in learning, appreciating, and respecting the other half of his history and culture.

What makes him one is how he operates as an outsider. He participates in an aspect of Black American culture (Hip-Hop) for his monetary gain, adopts a manufactured image for his perception of believability, and disrespects the people of this culture. “…run to America to imitate culture.” It’s like a jacket to him. He takes it off to try on another (like a Jamaican accent) and swaps for another, etc. 

A few examples that’s been touched on: He blackened his face to depict blackface while wearing a Jim Crow t-shirt… That’s specific disrespect towards Black Americans, mocking our history and our ancestors. “Whipped and chained you like American slaves.” That’s specific disrespect towards Black Americans, mocking our history and our ancestors. “[You] always rappin' like you 'bout to get the slaves freed.” Do I even need to explain this? Hopefully it’s understood.

The muthafucka is not like us.

[leggerefiore]

cw: Valentine's Day fluff,

pairing: Guzma/Reader

secretly wrote this as an excuse for bad cheesy pokemon romance lines

The air of romance permeated in every annoying convenience store within the parameter of any civilisation. It was a constant reminder of the corporatisation of love and care for one's partner. Guzma would grumble every year at the sight in frustration at how annoying it was. Really, how could people let something like this stress them out? It was a manufactured holiday. He did not care about actual history or whatever. Though, he would buy the discounted chocolate the day following if the mood struck him.

Most of his team stood behind him in this. Love was a dumb thing. Romance was useless. It was pretty prevailing among them. Even Plumeria seemed peeved at the appearance of Valentine’s Day every year. It made sense. None of their group really had decent experiences by greater society around them. So, he often just let the day pass by with little thought outside of seeing that police officer who watched him grumble a similar sentiment. This year would have been set to be the same as all the ones previous, but Guzma found himself lost in thought.

Honestly, he had not expected to get a long-term partner. Short hook-ups were not uncommon, but an actual relationship felt completely unknown. Yet, here he was. With you. As his partner. The Skull Boss was not a romantic, not in any indirect sense of the word. He simply found it best to say his thoughts with little consideration for what they might mean. He loved you. That was enough, right? Guzma thought so. You clearly liked him a lot.

So, why was Plumeria in his room glaring him down? He thought she understood his feelings on it, but her expression was downright venomous. Her demands to actually do something for you were leaving little room for argument. Guzma wanted to groan. What was the point in participating? “To show you actually care, you dummy,” her words came as a shock, “Getting a gift just shows you appreciate them for putting up with you.” The Skull Boss wanted to argue that he could do that at any time, but he swallowed his words. If looks could kill, Guzma would have long-perished from toxic.

He finally got up, relenting to the woman's clear orders. She was not backing down. While those two could butt heads often enough, he knew when she was being serious. It was actually terrifying. When did she get so invested in his love life? He feared what this could bring. “Fine, fine,” he shook his head and picked up his jacket to slip on, “I'll get some damn chocolates, just stop glaring.” He found himself leaving his room, not wanting to wait for a reply. Getting away from her seemed like the best thing anyway.

So, he found himself trailing into a convenience store. The gazes from various locals fell on him, but he did not care. Tourists were too lost in the mysticism of celebrating a romantic holiday in a “paradise” to pay him any mind. His feet brought him to a middle aisle, where he stared down the chocolates. It was all too cute and red. For some reason, his mind could only go back to elementary school. What did you like? Now, that was something he was unsure of. Did you even like chocolate? Was milk chocolate too sweet for you? These questions plagued his mind.

Though, his gaze slowly fell onto a specific box. “You're my Cutiefly” was printed across the box, with the bug type sitting on a flower as a graphic. He picked it up. The price was not unreasonable. Grumbling to himself, he picked up a card, too, and headed to the register. The store clerk seemed shocked as he put the money on the counter and refused to make eye contact. Really, how was he supposed to be the big, bad boss who beats you down when he was buying chocolates for his partner.

He left the store and found himself shooting you a text to meet him at the Malie Garden. Planning a date felt utterly foreign to him. Your agreement set him into motion of getting there. A few of his grunts saw him stomping over and asked if something was up. He was meeting someone, was his reply. They seemed to assume it was Lusamine. There was no need to correct them. Yet, his hesitance and feelings of annoyance faded when he spied you waiting for him at the entrance to the garden. Your smile and wave made his heart race. Suddenly, his frustration was miles away. You both entered together and headed to an isolated bench within.

“Here,” he grumbled a bit and handed out the chocolate and card, “Happy Valentine's Day.” Your gasp at the gift and taking it made his gaze drift to you. Opening the chocolates, you showed him that they were shaped like flowers and Cutieflies. He blinked. That was pretty cute, actually… Guzma dared not decline your offer of a piece to him. It was nice. The card was simple, but you seemed to enjoy it, too. He sighed when you laid your head on his shoulder.

Fine, he would admit Plumeria was right. Especially when you thanked him and said that you loved how sweet he was. His cheeks burned. You slid a gift to him, too. A small chocolate heart with a Wimpod graphic. “You make my heart race faster than a startled Wimpod.” He snorted. Yeah, you knew him well enough. His arm came around your shoulders.

“Thanks, babe,” he sighed, “You wanna come back to my place?”

Your nod made his usual grin split his face.

[librarisxng]

ATEEZ SMALL PERFUME REVIEW: HONGJOONG — FAITH

disclaimer: this is not meant to be a serious perfume review; this is something fun for me to do as I love perfume. each and every one of us have different tastes and preferences when it comes to fragrances. what works for me might not work for you, vice versa. I’ll try my best to describe the scents, but I will always suggest for you to go and smell them yourself before purchase. if you want to try these perfumes, please test or get a sample before committing to the bottle. picture credits to all owners.

ateez member: hongjoong

fragrance family: citrus woody

notes:

top — grapefruit, bergamot

heart — black pepper

base — musk, blondwood

my scent experience:

the fragrance opening smells like grapefruit. you can smell a bit of bergamot in the beginning, but the grapefruit dominates that citrus. one of my favorite fruits is grapefruit so I’m always pleased to smell it in my fragrances. as it settles, the scent is warm and slightly spicy from the black pepper. the pepper is not intense, so its wearable and it almost smells like leather to me. once the fragrance dries down, it's this warm and soft woody scent that reminds me of suede. the way this scent performs reminds me of Chanel’s Allure Homme Sport. if I had to describe the scent in the most accurate way as possible, I would say imagine being fed slices of grapefruit by someone who is wearing a leather jacket and you're both chilling on your suede couch on a Friday night. try not to get some grapefruit juice on the couch, that would be a mission to remove.

the projection is moderate at first, but it mellows out to this soft intimate scent which I like but I will admit that I had a hard time smelling the dry down because of how soft it became later on. this fragrance lasted approximately 8 hours on my skin which was longer than I expected because of how soft the projection was. this is what I imagine how Hongjoong would smell like and while it's not the most ground-breaking fragrance, it's a nice scent. was it worth the 2-3 month wait? not really. there are fragrances that are similar to this in the market, so you don’t have to look everywhere to find this one. although it’s not something I would gravitate towards to, I think this is good unisex scent.

additional notes from me:

if you asked me which member is most likely to release a perfume line, I would say either Yeosang or Wooyoung as they are fragrance lovers, so I was a little surprised to see Hongjoong being the first one to release a fragrance. I am well aware the group had released a few fragrances that were exclusive for Japan, but he was the first to release an individual one and I was intrigued. I will admit, these notes aren't anything special, but I wanted to test them out anyway. I won’t mention this in the "my scent experience" section, but the bottle and atomizer smell like a public bathroom. I thought I was tripping at first since the fragrance itself doesn’t stink but I’ve found that interesting as none of my bottles have that smell. something must've happened during the manufacturing process because it has been bothering me every time I hold the bottle.

who would I recommend this to?

anyone who likes citrusy and woody scents.

if you’re looking for a scent that can be worn outside and in intimate settings.

if you are able to get your hands on this bottle.

if you've made it to the end, thank you for reading this review! it took a while to get my hands on this bottle, but I finally have it and I'm glad that I've tried it. I apologize for getting this review up so late but better late than never!! I hope you enjoyed this review and let me know what your favorite fragrances are!!

review written by librarisxng 2025

[bellesdomain]

(different Anon) Ooh, now I'm intrigued. Would you mind doing a full Bochum Krupp breakdown? (thank you so much for all the work you do for this fandom!!!)

Let's look at the rest of Krupp, not just his bendy straws elbows! Krupp is a bit of an exception to a lot of the rules of costume design - for instance, no elbow pads, no codpiece.

Krupp is Electra's security - the Armaments truck. His original design clearly draws on a Chauffeur- here we have a character from Downton Abbey, set in 1913, and you can see all the elements in the original design - the exaggerates double breasted jacket that's triangular up on his shoulders, the gloves with leather gauntlets, the bagginess of the trousers, knee-high boots. It's a practical look in many ways because in 1913 the chauffeur was also the mobile mechanic, almost certainly going to be crawling around under the engine, needs to not split his pants!

The Broadway re-working of his design is, to be honest, my least favourite of the Broadway costume designs. I just feel he lost so much of that human angle, he's so mechanical but not particularly "trainy". He reads much more as a war robot! And the fact he narrows down to spandex at his waist makes him feel disproportionate to me - compared to the London costume which was absolutely a jacket. Initially the components didn't have names, they were just "Electra's Entourage". So his identity as Krupp came along after the costume design... the Krupp company was a major arms manufacturer during both world wars if I remember correctly, coincidentally in the Bochum region! But "Krupp the Armaments Truck" existed for years before the show looked at a production in the Ruhr valley.

Anyway, Krupp's base layer - we can see that his red concertina arms are part of his spandex base. My guess would be that it is a unitard - plain black legs under his shorts, kneepads and slinkies - I don't have any photos but logically he's got to have something, plain black, between those pieces or else his underwear would show through! (Performers in Starlight all wear a basic cotton unitard under the costume to help keep things clean and tidy)

Krupp's shorts are one of the most distinctive parts of his look! The design indicates fall-front fastening - historical method of closing men's breeches with a central flap covering buttons underneath - much the same as the way the chauffer's jacket works actually! But that historical suggestion didn't really make it to the end product - we have a continuous red line rather than the edges of a flap. That red line is still fastening though! The two legs of silver leather are not sewn together - there is spandex between them to allow the performer *SOME* movement at least! But that red band holds the front panels together while allowing some movement. The shorts have braces/suspenders over his shoulders, holding it all in place. Casual Krupp with the Hoppers here happens to show us where he has spandex, and where he has the silver leatherette. The back of Krupp's shorts quite clearly shows the non-stretch shiny panels with the stretchy material between.

Krupp's belt (it's Purse's belt on display above), and hat, represent coils of wire. Krupp's belt is very similar to Purse's, only with vertical bars as well. I assume these are all foam, covered in fabric, laboriously sewn and glued together. His kneepads are connected to his shorts with the rings and fabric tabs, which will keep everything from moving around too much. His slinkies are just plain black, often hard to make out in photos against his metallic shiny parts.

Krupp's shoulders. wheew. This box is HUGE, heavy, unwieldy, restrictive... his cylindrical upper arms are connected to the shoulder box. It fastens at the back - the "DANGER" panel is a flap that covers the fastenings. The shoulders really limit the performer's movement - he can't really reach above his head with that much bulk in the way! He has a red collar built in to the shoulders, rather than being part of the fabric elements of the costume. The front and back panels connect to the belt with the tab and snap fastenings, holding him all together while allowing plenty of waist movement, at least.

While he doesn't have elbow pads as such, he has some chonky gloves - the silver cylindrical band that appears to connect to the red elbows is actually part of the gauntlets of his gloves. These are three parts - black leather hands, black gauntlet with large wheels, then the silver tube.

Finally, Krupp's hat/headwear! His wire coil reel hat sits on top of a black cowl, with a silver fabric part connected to the hat. We see the hat on its own without the fabric element, but to be worn it's connected to a skull cap and chin strap (see the Electra pic above!). The black cowl covers his head, neck and shoulders, making sure no human skin is at risk of connecting to the costume. His hat has a visor/grill, the remaining vestiges of the chauffeur's hat, but kept small and light enough to not inhibit the stage lighting. And of course... the shades...

Krupp is one of my favourite characters, but with the biggest gap between my preference for the Bochum vs London versions! One big difference was that in London, Krupp was cast as an understudy for the Rockies, he tended to be a big, muscular black guy, very believably a bodyguard and somebody you didn't want to mess with. In Bochum Krupp was cast to be an Electra understudy and general cover to almost every other character - a strong dancer able to work well as any character, meaning Krupp had less of a distinctive type. And London's Krupp was much more of a human than the War Robot look. Still awesome both ways!

[nuapriori]

enjoy harry's horny bullshit i wrote today

------

Kim’s hand twitches automatically toward the key in his coat.

But it’s not there.

Because the Coupris Kineema—his sleek, immaculate motor carriage—his baby, is now, as of this morning, in evidence lockdown after The Lighthouse Island operation.

Too traceable. Too risky.

So they wait beside the curb until a familiar sputter rounds the corner -- Jean’s beater lurches to a halt in front of them. One headlight out, paint flaked to hell. The kind of car that survives through sheer spite -- but it's one of a kind.

PERCEPTION(easy success):

This particular model has a steering wheel.

ENCYCLOPEDIA(formidable success):

The Caprice 100. Not Coupris. It’s Mesque design, originally manufactured in the early 80's of the last century by a defunct transport cooperative-- known for its political neutrality and zero marketing. No slogans. No names. Just the number. One hundred. Because that’s how many were ever made.

INTERFACING:

Not anything remotely stylish.This one’s been rebuilt half a dozen times with parts from four different countries. No two dashboards alike. No official records.

ESPRIT DE CORPS:

The only reason it’s even street-legal is because the licensing officer gave up with Jean trying to pin down its origin.

CONCEPTUALIZATION:

A symbol of stubborn utility in a world that romanticizes sleek precision. It growls when it turns, smokes in the cold, and leans like a drunk in the wind.

But it runs. God, does it run.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT:

VOLITION (godly failure):

I'm weak.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY (libido strong):

Mmm. Kim Kitsuragi behind the wheel of that wheezing relic—one hand low, steering, the other lazily adjusting his sunglasses, jacket rolled up his forearms, elbow crooked just so. A sharp turn, a flash of dark eyes, and suddenly your blood’s in your throat.

YOU: Gulp...

ELECTROCHEMISTRY:

He doesn’t say much when he drives. You know why?

He’s busy feeling. You’d sit shotgun just to feel the jolt of his choices in your spine. You’d let him shift gears with your heart if he asked. Parallel park you. Strip your dignity like a clutch gone hot.

AUTHORITY(medium failure):

I do actually like the sound of that.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY:

Just say it. You want to be that gearshift.

YOU:

I want to be that gearshift.

INLAND EMPIRE:

You could watch him shift gears all day. Even if it means death by exhaust fumes in a dying steel coffin with no suspension.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY:

You’d die with a boner.

YOU:

I'd die with a boner.

And then—Christ—Harry does the face.

The other one; the one where his eyebrows go slack and his mouth opens just a little, like he's just seen God cruising in low gear. He doesn't even notice he's doing it until Kim glances over—just a flick of his eyes—and one brow lifts. Barely. But enough.

He knows.

Harry looks away. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like that might erase the expression.

AUTHORITY(epic failure):

Good job. Now mutter something incoherent. Fuck.

COMPOSURE:

Pull it together, you absolute walking sausage.

Jean, blessedly oblivious, leans out the driver’s side window of the Caprice, chewing something that may have once been gum.

“She’s all yours, princesses. Don’t grind third. It bites.”

Harry recovers—barely. Grin sharp, voice steady:

“She’s beautiful, Vicquemare.”

Jean flicks a middle finger in his general direction. “She’s older than both of you put together. Treat her right.”

[therobertfrasergang]

Jim Dine's Unused Art for an Unreleased Beatles Album

These five pieces were auctioned at Bonhams in November 2024 for $25,600.

The five works called Untitled (John, Paul, George, Ringo and The Beatles) are graphite and watercolor on vellum and depict group and individual toothbrushes labeled for each member of the iconic band.

Each item is signed and dated 'Jim Dine 1968' in the lower left corner.

The connection with Dine is obviously through Robert Fraser, who was a friend to Dine and showed many of his works at the Robert Fraser Gallery. Another instance of Fraser connecting "his" artists to the Beatles, as he'd done with Michael Cooper, Peter Blake, and Richard Hamilton.

More information on this project, from Bonhams catalog, below the cut:

Made for an approved, but ultimately unrealized Beatles multi-album project in 1968, the present lot is an extraordinary piece of art and music history. Created by one of the 20th century's most iconic artists for the 20th century's most famous music group, these works were created for a 4-album (LP) compilation set of previously released Beatles songs, as suggested by their US manufacturer and distributor, Capitol Records. One of the five artworks (John, Paul, George, and Ringo) was to be the cover art for the 4-LP jacket, and the other four individually named artworks were to decorate and identify each individual album sleeve within the set. John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr were each to select their own favorite Beatles tracks, adding spoken dialogue as to why they considered each selection a favorite. Executed during a transitionary time in the group's history, the project did not move forward despite its public announcement and press coverage. Former President of Capitol Records, Salvatore Iannucci, purchased the artworks from the company in 1973 and they remained in his collection for nearly 40 years. Much like the Beatles, Jim Dine's rise to fame was stellar with incredible visibility, particularly in the 1960s. Dine's celebrity and ambivalent relationship with Pop Art solidified the artist as the perfect choice to execute the images for one of the most exciting Beatles projects to date. In each composition, Dine juxtaposes stardom with an intimate and everyday ritual, in turn obscuring the boundary between the extraordinary and the ordinary yielding a twofold effect: one that delineates the Beatles' significance as a household name (made clear by the use of only the group's first names assigned to each toothbrush); and another which humanizes the Beatles' stardom by associating it with the quotidian. Yet, the unifying force between these two ends is the idea of ritual, which in itself is a fundamental tenant of Dine's own artistic process.

Acquired from the artist through the Robert Fraiser Gallery, London as a commission for an approved but unrealized Beatles album project.

Side note: I'd never heard about this project before. Imagine getting 1968 Beatles to sit down and talk about their favorite Beatles tracks!

[firewoodwander]

Hello! Maybe 🧶 : cozy and fox/rex for the prompts?

Wintertime prompts

Fox lets the needles clatter into his footlocker. Shoved into the back, beneath his polishing rags, behind his “loaned” HUD diagnostics kit. Long and lethal but entirely innocent; he just doesn’t want to have to answer any difficult questions.

The yarn is not pure and it’s not sustainable and it’s probably manufactured on Corellia and shipped however many thousand parsecs around the galaxy. It’s not all that soft, but nothing they’ve ever had is. Whatever. It was cheap. It’s all he can barter for. And it’s a deep, rich burgundy that reminds him of smoking embers and cadet uniforms and blood.

He isn’t even very good at making things. There are holes big enough to fit his fingers through from a dozen dropped stitches. The weave is a little uneven, the sleeves are on the skew, and the panels seem to get wider from shoulder to hip. The edge of the neck hole he made is rough; he doesn’t know how to make a collar.

It will do.

Rex is sitting in the underground tapcaf when Fox arrives, staring into space and ignoring the caf pot on the table. He was right—the jumper he wears now is fraying at every hem and thin and frumpy and even more holey than before. It looks well worn, worn out. Loved. Draughty. It’s even been singed.

Fox tosses the folded garment in his hand and it lands on Rex’s head, making him twitch and scowl and pull it down.

Fox admires how much he has improved since he first picked up a handcraft.

He can’t hide his smugness when Rex’s fingers run over the fresh yarn repetitively. Down each sleeve, across the back, along the hem, around the inside of the missing collar and into each cuff. Fox shoves his own hands in the pockets of a stolen civvie jacket, not bothering to pull down the mask over his mouth.

Rex’s hat is looking worse for wear. It looks like he picked it up off a street somewhere. Perhaps Christophsis. Maybe he can try to make one of those next.

“Thanks,” Rex tells him. He can’t hide his appreciation even if he doesn’t make eye contact. He’s clutching the fabric close even though Fox has no intention of taking it back. He probably doesn’t even realise he is.

Fox smiles and pours himself a mug of caf.

[infiniteeight8]

Omega fox Stephen

Alpha dragon tony

Canon au

No body knows their secondary and animal form

Pre ironman

Go wild !

I’ve done a few Sentinel spirit guide / daemon / animal form type prompts where whatever animal form they have is considered unusual or misunderstood. So this time I decided to go frame their forms as symbolically meaningful, but not otherwise special.

I’ve assumed that by “form” you mean that shapeshifting is a part of this type of AU. We only get a partial shift here, alas.

-

Stephen was less than impressed when he got called to the emergency room to do a neurological consult on Tony Stark. It was painfully obvious that the hospital administration only wanted to impress the billionaire. With that in mind, Stephen marched toward the room where Stark was being treated, his most icily professional mask firmly in place. If he pissed Stark off the hospital administration would eviscerate him, but that didn’t mean he had to pander to the man. 

Raised voices became audible some distance from the exam room, despite the closed door. “I’m fine. The airbag did its job, and I’ve already been evaluated by a doctor. I don’t want to waste the time of some specialist, I want to go home.”

“A car accident is serious—”

“It was a fender bender. I wasn’t injured.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“I’ve been seen by a doctor. If I was Joe Schmoe instead of Tony Stark, billionaire, I’d be gone by now.”

Anger mostly deflated by Stark’s understanding of the nature of the situation, Stephen pushed open the exam room door and stepped inside. Stark was standing next to the exam bed, his companion—a woman—standing across from him with her arms crossed. Both their gazes snapped to Stephen. “And now apparently you’re going to be seen by another one,” he said. “Miss, step outside, please.”

She started to protest, but Stark rolled his eyes. “Just go so we can get this over with.” Sighing, the woman left. Stark made a face. “Sorry about this, Doc. I know you have better things to be doing.”

“As do you,” Stephen said, beginning his exam. “But the hospital administration is a force to be reckoned with.”

“As is Pepper,” Stark replied, amused. 

Stephen ran through his exam as quickly as he responsibly could. Everything came back normal, of course. When they were done, Stephen offered Stark his hand. “Thank you for cooperating.” Stark could easily have taken his frustration out of Stephen.

Stark snorted. “You’re welcome,” he said dryly, taking Stephen’s hand.

As their hands closed around each other, Stark’s eyes lightened to a brilliant gold, his pupils narrowed to slits, and scales spread from the corners of his eyes down his throat. With only a partial shift to go on, someone else might have mistaken Stark for a snake-form, but Stephen was a doctor. “You’re a dragon,” he blurted out, startled.

“And you’re a fox,” Stark replied, eyeing the pointed ears and fur that Stephen had sprouted. “Unusual, for a doctor. You must do research.”

‘Unusual’ was the pot calling the kettle black here. Dragons were powerful protective forms; it was very nearly the last form Stephen would have guessed for a weapons manufacturer. “I do,” Stephen answered aloud. Reluctantly, he let go of Stark’s hand. Both of their forms faded back into a regular human appearance. “I apologize,” he went on. “I wear gloves for more intimate exams, but handshakes aren’t supposed to trigger reactions like that. Not unless—”

Not unless the two were an exceptionally compatible alpha/omega pair.

Stark gave him a faint smile. “It’s fine,” he said. “Am I good to go now?”

Stephen blinked, refocusing on his work. “Yes, of course. You’re fine.”

“Thanks, doc,” Stark said, scooping up a jacket draped over a nearby chair and heading for the exam room door. Once there, he paused and glanced back. “This is just between us, right?”

“Docter-patient confidentiality,” Stephen assured him.

“Good.” Stark nodded briskly, and then he was gone.

Stephen knew that they were far from an appropriate match. Walking out immediately was the right choice. But despite that, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, with Stark’s departure…

…he’d lost something.

[cheralith]

𝟎𝟏 : 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐬 tabiali — entry one ... "colour in your step, let me lose your mind."

feat. karasu tabito || wc: 1.7k contains: self-shipping content so there are elements from my own life, but can be read as an x-reader, use of she/her pronouns, terribly ooc karasu at the end so sorry

The city is clogging.

It's just a mess of grey matter that splatters itself everywhere he looks, trailing him akin a phantom. Rough smoke coughed out from cars, stony buildings that tower over, cracked concrete for horizons... there is just always the haunting unsaturated hue spaced at every corner Tabito looks towards that inches down the feeling of concern that planted itself within him when he first arrived to the city. It feels more like a weed is sprouting in him rather than something more whole and beautiful, unwanted and untamed.

It doesn't help that the city is roofed with clouds of taupe that veil the sun from view, a dense and thick hazy ceiling of sorts that make him feel more closed in than he is already.

Despite the hustle and bustle of everyday people he passes and whatever their business is, Tabito thinks that the city is much more lonely than the countryside. People are artificial and keep to themselves, screwing on false smiles just to go about their day to their own accord. Nothing about the city life seems nurturing.

It isn't unlike his city in Osaka, where everywhere feels homely and your name (not the fake ones that people often give baristas to spare them the humiliation of a misspell) is known by at least five different families. It felt easy to live in such a place; the same old shops with the same old stuff on the same old roads, Tabito was comforted by the ease in knowing his hometown and not having to use a stupid GPS for a five-minute walk to get somewhere so he doesn’t end up in a strange alley again.

There was actual color too—real color made by Mother Nature herself and not just the speckles and splashes of the occasional graffiti art on a formerly naked wall. He loved the lush blades of dewed green grass that prismed the nurturing shades of the sky casted by the sun especially, and people wearing colorful homemade clothing crafted with love and intent; not just the same mass-manufactured black and white uniforms that he often sees people don.

Even though he wears something like it right now to disguise the fact he's a not a native.

A country transplant is what his neighbors said the city folk may tease him about being. Karasu insisted that he could just cover up his accent to blend in, so Mama told him to try and do a city-folk accent, one that makes them to pronounce vowels too hard and consonants too soft.

"May ah please havuh... er... have a cuppa cauwfee?" he had attempted to iterate much to his family's delight. "Weather's lookin' real peachy—ah, I mean... good... terday." He gave up quickly, realizing his accent was much too dense and that it was just better to flaunt it.

So as a layer of protection, before any of his finer details leak out, he uses the same jacket, the same jeans, the same hats, and the same shoes that he sees everyone in the city wear to make himself blend in. Nothing good comes out of people knowing you're not a native, anyways, Mama says that you're easy to take advantage of if you look like you don't know your way around.

It's a mediocre way of living yes, but it's safe. And right now, Tabito just needs safety to help him secure his new life in the city.

He camouflages himself in the monochromatic crowd, the grey clouds having no trace of the morning light and it looks more like it's half past two in the afternoon rather than the cracking minutes of eight in the morning. This is a life he'll have to get used to for a few months until spring blooms—waking up to grey skies, looking out his office window into grey nothingness, and going home under ink-blotted grey clouds until the night sky spills over.

And even if he attempts search for those mischievous twinkling of stars, he won't be able to. Light pollution is a bastard, he thinks. He'll have to settle for the street lamps, the taillights of cars, and the lit offices of whoever decides to torture themselves with overtime.

A coffee helps alleviate the pain of the mundane, a spike of energy to wake him up and actually help him live as a human and not some corporate cog in a machine that needs oiling.

Tabito examines the crowd in front of him and across the street from him. It's all the same as always. Speckles of black, white, grey... maybe the occasional beige of a trenchcoat, but that's the most color he'll get for this morning...

... until a flash of red speeds by him suddenly, brushing his shoulder.

His eyes automatically land on it. It passes by so swiftly, but the shade is so violently red, it's hard to miss it in a crowd as dull as this one. Tabito attempts to fix itself on the green blur of the crowd, but it escapes before he has a chance to dehaze his vision.

He blinks. Then shakes it off. Whatever.

He stalks himself off into a corner that leads to his typical cafe, dulled indigo gaze focused on the ground in front of him until he looks up and comes to face-to-face with the shade of red again.

It's plastered on worn-out peplum leather jacket that lays on the back of a woman who hums to herself as she focuses her gaze on the menu above. Behind her, Tabito stares at the shade of red and how much it contrasts against the minimalistic cafe's environment, finding it rather astonishing. Striking, slightly-patchy plum dyed hair brushes against it that adorns a cream white headband bringing another spotlight of color into his vision.

"Matcha... lavender match a..." the woman mumbles, bringing a freshly-apricot manicured nail to her lips blotted with a rosy mauve, her sky-blue jeaned legs crossing over each other. "Expensive... but alright."

Tabito thinks he looks a little foolish standing right next to such an oddish rainbow of a human, how boring he looks standing right next to here as he'll order a boring iced americano to-go. It's almost embarrassing and distasteful.

But not as distasteful as ordering... matcha out of all things. Liquified grass, he thinks, is not the best starter to the morning.

"One medium iced matcha latte with oat milk, please," the woman says to the cashier. "With less ice, if you can."

The price of the drink appears on the screen and he watches as the woman fumbles through a floral-printed crescent bag, assumingly for a wallet. To no avail, it seems, as she turns back to the cashier with what he thinks may be a guilty look.

"I-I'm so sorry, I must've left my wallet at my—"

The cashier breaks out into a grin and shakes her head. "No worries. Don't worry about it. We're trying to get rid of our matcha supply anyway."

A lucky day for her, huh?

"You're so sweet," she breathes out with relief. "I swear I'll be here again tomorrow to pay you back. Thank you..."

The cashier tells her not to dawdle on it again and that it's on the house before repeating her order back to her just to recover its details and Tabito pulls a face when the cashier mentions matcha again.

How the hell do people drink that stuff? he purses his lips in.

Suddenly, the woman turns around, gold-flecked eyes wide behind olive-rimmed square glasses. Tabito jumps slightly at her oddish gaze, trying not to admire it.

Oh... did he say that out loud? Oh no.

You blink at him owlishly, raising a brow. "Well, it's not your order, is it?" she remarks.

Oh, so he did. Whoops.

Shoot. Where does he go from here?

The answer spills from his lips faster than he can catch it, his natural snark as a defensive mechanism slipping through. A scoff coughs out from his throat, one of the corners of his lips lifting ever so slightly to display a smirk that he doesn't want to put on his face.

"Sorry. Just didn't know that people like drinking liquid grass."

He twitches and fights the urge to slap a palm over his hand. What the hell is he saying?! It's like there was an alter-ego pulling the strings inside his body, marionetting his jaw.

This time, both of your brows pull upwards, a little shocked at his nerve. His face says desperation—something sharp and what attempts to be blistering.

Your eyes narrow. "So there's this thing called 'having different tastes'? I don't know if people from where you're from have ever heard of it, but..." you falter mockingly, giving him another look.

He flushes deeply, his accent clearly indicating that he's not from around these here parts. He supposes that no matter how good of a job he does at physically disguising himself as another, the traces of his origin will always linger with him, whether he likes it or not.

Tabito feels himself regaining his body back, and he tries to catch himself before he tumbles even further than he already has. But you sigh out and exit the line, sparing him another side-eye as you mumble something about going back home quickly before the train comes.

He wants to try and say something to excuse whatever possessed him to spill out something so impulsive, but you've already vanished from his point of view, color draining from his world again.

The cashier says he's next.

Tabito moves forward miserably, returning to his world of grey again.

His apartment complex is grey. The elevator doors are silver that lead into a paled walls with some iron handles bolted onto them. The buttons are grey, as well as the floor numbers.

The numbers that slowly ascend to each floor are flickered with white on a blank screen. His monochromatic world manages to bleed into the safety of his home, a quiet telling of how this will be his life in the city, so he might as well touch it in every aspect—quiet, boring, and dull.

Even the floor of where he resides is this sickeningly white hardwood, where it looks less like an apartment complex and more of a hospital ward. Tabito sighs as he enters into the hallway, trying to fight the urge to crash out until he lets himself into his apartment. The jangle of his keys twinkle out a melody dissonance as he juts it into the keyhole, ready to relax and wind down from another day of monotony.

But just as he feels the lock click, when Tabito looks down, there's a strike of color that hits his eyes.

On the white floor, near the door that sits to the right of his, is a small splotch of liquid.

And for some reason, Tabito has the sneaking suspicion that he knows what it is.

tags: @rroxii a/n: and out comes my first official yumeship thingy yayyy ! i wasnt thinking too hard about it and lowkey started getting lazy at the end but wtv.

[kindersurprisebacterium]

Betrothed (Soap/Reader)

CW: arranged marriage, victorian, churches, virginity, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (it’s the 1800s, deal with it), reader wears a wedding dress

Gender Neutral AFAB Reader, They/Them Used

WC: 4.1k

Writing this at work, forgive any formatting errors

Read on AO3

A soft knock echoed through the small farm house. Rushing to my feet, I ran to the top of the stairwell. My dress pooled around my legs as I crouched. A sliver of light slowly widened as my mother pulled open the front door.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the man at the doorstep. Just barely visible over my mothers shoulder was his broad frame. The hardwood floors creaked beneath me as I moved closer to get a better look. If I had no say in this matter, I at least wanted to know what the man looked like.

He was handsome, canines glinting in the sunlight as he smirked. He wore a belted kilt, the deep blue tartan falling around his waist. In his clenched hand was a thick rope. The goat at his side bleated, jaw moving as it chewed on its cud. In his other hand was a satchel full of bank notes.

“The dowry,” he said, holding out the satchel. My mother took the leather pouch in her hands, gently pulling it open to peer at the bills inside. A soft hum rose from her throat. Nodding, she set the satchel aside.

“You can take the nanny to the pasture,” my mother held out a finger, pointing to the tattered fence.

Only for a moment did I catch a glimpse of those cerulean irises as they swept across the sparsely decorated parlor. His smile widened. Heat rushed to my cheeks as he waved. I stumbled to my feet, dashing into my bedroom. Squeezing my eyes shut, I took in slow breaths in a meager attempt to still my racing heart.

“Skittish thing, aren’t they?”

-

“Ow!” I hissed, bringing my gloved palms to my ribs. The corset smothering my chest dug into my skin, sending jolts of sharp pain down my stomach. Turning over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked artificial, manufactured, like a China doll. Every blemish on my skin was painted over, and a thick layer of blush was added to ‘liven me up’

I felt like nothing more than an item for purchase. At the cost of just seven hundred pounds and a goat, I was to be bought and sold to this man whom I didn’t know.

I would’ve never chosen this dress, or the tartan draped around my shoulders. I scrunched my nose at the unfamiliar pattern, shaking away the feelings within my bound chest.

This navy cloth was more than just an adornment. It was a reminder of my identity being stripped, myself being dissolved into the clan of this stranger. I wonder if the satchel of currency was worth it. The cost of my dignity seemed meager now in comparison to the rest of my life.

“Your laird is waiting.”

Sighing a pained breath, I stepped forward, fingertips toying with the laces of my corset. Without a word, my mother grabbed me by the bicep, walking beside me. Nausea pooled in my stomach as we turned into the corridor. The soft chatter of the guests seeped through the stone walls.

My hands trembled, fingers quaking as I clasped my hands together. The chapel doors were propped open. Streaks of colored light hit the tile floor. Taking in a shaky breath, the two of us turned into the chapel.

The organ whirred to life, a hymn rising out of the pipes. The antiquated mahogany pews creaked as the guests stood.

“Right foot first,” my mother whispered under her breath. Her nails dug into my skin, sure to leave behind angry red marks. I took a step forward, straightening my posture. Shoulders back, and chin up, just as my mother had told me.

Even though they wouldn’t be seen underneath my dress, I wore heeled shoes. My gate was unsteady, ankles threatening to roll under the strain.

My gaze landed on my soon-to-be husband. His tailored jacket complimented the tartan hanging from his waist. A small leather sporran was belted to the center of his kilt.

I kept my head held high, pursing my lips into a thin line as I slowly traveled up the aisle. Nearly two dozen eyes were upon me. My pulse pounded in my ears, pumping hot blood through my limbs. With a shaky step forward, I left my mothers side, rising to the altar beside my betrothed.

The man reached out, wrapping his fingers around my own. I glanced down at his hands, calloused and rugged from seasons of tending his ranch. His thumb stroked the back of my hand softly.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together these two children of god in holy matrimony.”

My ears began to ring. I could feel sweat begin to ooze from my pores as the priest began his sermon. I took in a shaky breath, my hands trembling in his grasp. He squeezed my fingers, pulling my gaze up to him. He stared down at me with his bright cerulean eyes, plush lips curling into a gentle smile.

The droning words and formalities left my mind as my gaze locked with his. Pressure left my chest, my shoulders dropping as I exhaled my anxieties.

“Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined,” the priest closed his book, looking up at the small gathering of people before the altar.

I glanced out at the audience before us. My mother narrowed her eyes, arms crossed firmly over her chest. She tapped her foot against the tile, soft clinking echoing throughout the chapel. The rows of seats behind her sat empty.

across the aisle was a more vibrant gathering of people. Sets of blue eyes landed on me, grins flashing as they watched the display before them. The party was dressed in tartans resembling that of the man before me. Clasped in their hands were bags of rice.

It was an odd display, one that lacked any sincerity. Despite the arrangement, my fiancé reached out, fingers gently turning my head.

“Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?” The priest stated at me with wide eyes, fingers tapping the altar, “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Swallowing down my nausea, I nodded. “I do.”

The priest gestured to the two of us, handing us a delicately braided cord, adorned with hand embroidered emblems that matched the adornments on his sporran. The man took the rope, draping the tassels over our wrists. I watched as he took one end, glancing at me. I took the other end between my fingers, joining with his own and making a loose knot.

“With this cord I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

The room erupted in unison with cheers and applause. His calloused palm cradled my cheek. Almost instinctively, I leaned into his touch. He stepped down from the altar, tugging me forward.

Rice landed in our hair as the group before us scattered handfuls. The man looked back at me, a wide grin on his face. He nodded toward the wide mahogany doors at the end of the aisle. I gripped the layers of tulle and lace around my hips, pulling my dress over my ankles and following behind him.

He pushed the doors open. The afternoon sunlight shined down on us as we rushed down the stairs. A stallion, adorned in handcrafted leather reigns, stood before us. I watched as my husband swung a leg over the horse before reaching out to me. The cord fell from our wrists, gasping, I gathered the cord, holding it tightly in my hand.

With a soft grunt he pulled me onto the horse. Heat rushed to my face as I marveled at his sheer strength. It didn’t show through his coat jacket, but I was sure he was hiding toned muscle underneath the layers of fabric.

I wrapped my arms around his waist, leaning my body against his. The horse shoes clicked against the pavement as we rode off down the street. I rested my cheek against his wool coat, my gaze skimming across the rolling green hills.

“M’ ranch ‘s just o’er the hills.” He said.

Humming, I rested my chin on his shoulder, glancing at the dirt road ahead. We slowly approached a wooded area, thick canopies casting shadows on the path. He was still smiling, blue eyes fixated on the ground before us.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“John,” he said, glancing back at me over his broad shoulder. I nodded, repeating the syllable in my head. My husband John. John my betrothed. A biblical name.

I took in the way my arms effortlessly wrapped around his waist. The way my chest pressed against his back. How my cheek felt against his coat. For something as impersonal as an arraigned mairrage, it felt like two puzzle pieces slotting together.

He hummed a hymn under his breath as he tightened his grip on the reins. The horse whinnied, shaking its head as we turned down another path. I narrowed my eyes, looking at the pastures ahead.

Neatly painted fences stretched along the hillside. A heard of cows stood in the tall grass, tails wagging as they picked at the foliage below their feet. Further down the path was a small cottage, much more quaint than I’d expect from a man of his class. Sheep bleated, drawing my attention to the other pen. A lone herding dog sat beside the fence line, panting in the hot summer air.

He swung his leg back over the stallion, guiding the horse to the stables with his hand still firmly on the reign.

“C’mon, down ye go,” he gestured with his hand. I glanced at the ground beneath me, pursing my lips together. My mouth went dry, legs shaking as I attempted to dismount.

John laughed, chest heaving as the sound bellowed from his belly. My lips curled down into a frown, fists gripping my skirt tight. His fingers wrapped around my wrist, pulling me off the horse. I yelped, grabbing at his coat as he pulled me into his chest. My feet kicked in the air, only to meet the firm earth beneath me.

“Promise I’ll ne’er be rough wit ye ‘gain after tha’” he gave my hip a soft pat before letting go of my waist. “N’less ye ask me to.”

I glanced away, hiding the blush that surely rose to my cheeks. I watched in my peripherals as he led the stallion to the stables. The silver hardware clinked as he hung the reigns up on the wall.

He brushed the dust from his hands, turning on his heel to face me again. A crooked smile spread across his face as he took in my expression. He took a step forward, his hand resting on my hip.

“Dinnae tell me yer shy.” His palm fit so perfectly on my hip, fingers toying with the tulle beneath his grasp.

“I’m sorry.”

“Dinnae ‘polagize,” he shook his head, his plump lips pouting. “C’mon. Let’s get ya inside. Yer stiff as a board.” He stepped forward, tugging me into his side.

My heart quickened as the smell of his cologne wafted over my senses. Panicked thoughts wrapped around my mind. My mothers words echoed in my head. A warning of sorts.

I gripped the thick fabric of my skirt. Nausea pooled in my stomach. Was this supposed to hurt? Consummating the marriage? If this was really my duty as a spouse, why was I to be forced into it.

His house was modest for someone of his class. Fresh crops sat on the drying rack beside the sink. The table was neatly set with plaid placemats and delicately carved silverware. My gaze drifted across the dining room, to the room just ahead. The curtains were still drawn, the only light being a small oil lamp.

He led me inside. I watched in the mirror as he stood behind me, fingers toying with the laces of my corset. I stiffened as the boning began to loosen around my chest.

I sighed when his stubble brushed against my shoulder. His lips were chapped as they pressed soft kisses against my skin. His calloused palms skated up my sides, fiddling with the hooks at the front of the garment.

“Is this okay?” He asked, pulling apart the fabric.

“Is this going to hurt?” I asked, my lip quivering. The mahogany planks beneath our feet creaked as he circled me. He reached out, gently cradling my face in his hands. I draped my own over his wrists. His heated breath wafted over my skin.

“Promise I’ won’,” his cerulean eyes dipped to my parted lips. “I’ll make ye feel s’ good.”

I let my eyelids flutter closed, taking in the rich sandalwood scent of his cologne. The warmth of his palms seemed to melt into my skin. Each breath he exhaled I drew in, soaking in the faint trace of tobacco on his breath.

“D’ye trust me?” He asked. Pursing my lips together, I nodded.

He continued undoing the latches at the front of my corset, fingers skillfully toying with the hardware. With a soft thud, the fabric fell to the floor. I drew in a deep breath, my ribs painfully expanding for the first time in hours.

“I’d never make y’ wear one of ‘em bloody things.” He huffed, fiddling with the thick ribbon around my waist. I leaned into his chest, nuzzling my face into his dress shirt as he toyed with my skirt. The layers of tulle slid down my thighs, dropping to the floor.

I felt his fingers skid across the sleeve of my chemise. Pulling back, I grasped his wrist.

“I don’t know if I can…” the words failed to fall from my tongue. His fingers gently wrapped around my wrist. I watched as he pulled my hands to his chest. My fingertips brushed against his suit jacket. Taking the lead, I pinched the fabric between my fingers and eased it over his shoulders.

I could feel his toned muscles beneath the thin dress shirt. With every little movement, they shifted beneath my touch. I dragged my fingers down his collarbones until i reached the top button of his shirt. With shaky fingers, I pulled at the fabric, only for it to slip beneath my grasp. I drew in a breath, pinching the fabric with my nails.

A deep laugh bellowed from his chest. He draped his hands over mine, skillfully undoing the buttons. I took in every inch of bare skin. My fingertips traced along the dark curls that adorned his chest.

He was left in just his kilt and his shoes. Heat rushed to my face as a deep rosy blush settled on my cheeks. He took my hand in his, stepping back toward the bed.

The mattress squeaked underneath my weight as I sat on the edge of the bed. John sank to his knees before me, staring up at me through his thick eyelashes. With a soft clink he undid the buckles of my heels, gently pulling the leather off of my feet. He pressed a kiss to my calve, slowly traveling up to my thighs.

My stomach fluttered as he reached higher and higher, kissing over my hipbones and my stomach before reaching my neck. His thick rubber soles thudded as he kicked them from his feet.

Heat pooled in my core, growing hotter and hotter as he rolled his hips against my own. I could feel something stiff poking my thigh with every rut forward. A soft noise fell from my lips involuntarily. Furrowing my brows, I pursed my lips in a vain attempt to quiet my bubbling nerves.

His fingers dipped beneath my thin chemise, lifting the fabric up over my stomach. I whined as he pushed the fabric over my chest. His pupils dilated, turning his cerulean irises into a deep navy. I lifted my arms, pulling the bunched up fabric from my shoulders.

His fingertips dipped beneath the hem of my knickers. I gripped the duvet, glancing down at his hands. He slowly tugged the fabric over my hips and down my thighs. He let the fabric fall to the floor, palms soothing over my calves.

“Spread your legs f’ me,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to my knee. Propping myself up on my elbows, I obliged, slowly spreading my legs for my newly wedded husband.

He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, biting back a low groan. His palms skated up my inner thighs, pushing my knees even further apart. He leaned in, dragging his tongue up my core. I whined, pulling away from his face.

“John, what are you doing?” I asked, closing my legs.

“It’ll feel good, I promise,” he said, gently nudging my knees apart.

“It’s immodest,” I frowned.

“It’s what married people do, doll.” His gaze pierced through me, sparking alight my nerves. My heart pounded in my ears as he slowly leaned in once more. “Lay back f’ me,” he cooed.

His tongue licked a thick stripe up my core before curling around my clit. My eyelids fluttered closed, an unfiltered noise falling from my tongue. I reached out, carding my fingers through his curls, tugging gently at the locks.

Soft licks soon turned to messy open mouthed kisses. Saliva ran down my thighs, soaking into the duvet beneath me. He groaned against my skin, sparking jolts of pleasure up my spine.

My brows furrowed as I felt the intrusion of one of his fingers at my entrance. A dull aching ignited in my hips, growing as he pushed the digit inside of me. He sucked harshly on my clit, pulling my mind from the unfamiliar feeling of being stretched out.

I rutted my hips against his mouth as he slowly rocked his finger in and out of me. A stream of loud noises fell from my chest. Beads of sweat ran down my sternum as shallow breaths filled my lungs.

The pain of the intrusion soon melted into an even more unfamiliar sensation. My back arched off of the mattress, hips pushing against his face. He laughed, wrapping his lips around my clit. My thighs began to quiver as he sucked harshly.

I moaned as he pushed another digit inside of me. My cunt squelched around his fingers, my arousal running down his wrist. He didn’t relent for a moment, even when I squirmed underneath his touch. It was almost too much, and yet I couldn’t do anything but lay back and bask in the stimulation.

Pressure slowly built in my stomach. My muscles pulled tight, tensing further with every flick of his tongue.

“John- don’t stop, please!” I cried out, my voice breaking. Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to spill over. Pain sparked behind my eyes as they rolled to the back of my head. My lips parted in a slime my scream, drool spilling from the corner of my lips.

A wave of immense pressure surged through my body, pulling my limbs taut like the strings on a marionette. My toes curled, fingertips digging into the soft duvet. His name fell from my tongue, over and over, crescendoing into a scream. My cunt seized around his fingers, squeezing the digits tight.

He pulled away, blue eyes fixated on my fluttering cunt as he withdrew his sodden fingers. His face was glistening with my arousal. The mattress dipped as he kneeled on the edge of the bed. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to mine. I could taste myself on his lips, his tongue tainted with musk.

His belt fell to the floor with a clatter. Pulling away, he wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock, stroking himself slowly.

“Lay against the pillows, love.” He cooed. Drawing in a shaky breath, I pulled myself further up the mattress. My head met the plush pillows, the soft cotton cradling my neck. He moved to kneel between my legs, hands hooking beneath my knees.

Heat rushed to my face as he pushed my knees to my chest. I turned away, cheek pressing into the pillow beneath me.

“C’mon, look at me, doll,” he spoke softly. I squeezed my eyes shut, my fingertips digging into the cushions. Gently, he grasped my chin, turning my head to face him. His lips met mine once more in a soft kiss.

I groaned against his mouth when I felt the intrusion of his cock. He slowly nudged his hips forward, sinking inside of me. I pulled away from his lips, looking down at where our bodies met. My eyelids fluttered closed as I took in the feeling of his cock, every brush against my nerve endings, and the feeling of his head nuzzling against my cervix. His lips traveled down my neck, whispering soft praises against my skin.

His hips rocked against me, starting at a slow pace. He bottomed out with every thrust, thick curls at the base of his cock meeting my own. The feeling of him inside me pushed the air from my lungs. My stomach tensed, my skin growing hotter with every bit of stimulation.

I crossed my ankles behind his back, keeping him flush against me. Groaning in my ear, he grinded his cock into me, twitching inside of me.

The dull ache of his cock stretching me out soon melded into pleasure. I felt undeniably full, nearly bursting at the seams, and yet I needed more. Soft whines fell from my tongue. My fingers raked up his back, leaving behind angry red trails of raised skin.

“You feel so good,” he grunted, pistoning his hips into me.

“Faster- faster please,” I whimpered, hooking my arms around the back of his neck. I pulled him into my chest, holding him still against my beating heart. I could feel his breath, his chest rising and falling, feel the rumble of his voice, and his fluttering heart which matched the pace of my own.

“Oh god- I love you!” He sputtered, his hips snapping against mine. Loud, rhythmic clapping filled the room.

“I love you too, John!”

His noises slowly climbed in pitch, growing louder and louder. The force of his hips against mine was enough to shake the headboard, thudding harshly against the wall. He pressed sloppy, open mouthed kisses to my neck, brows furrowing as he drew closer and closer to his climax.

I bit down on my lip, swallowing back the onslaught of sounds that threatened to spill over. I drew in a shaky breath, my back arching off of the mattress. His lips ran down my neck, leaving a trail of spit that traveled to my chest. I grasped his dark curls, pulling gently as his lips wrapped around my nipple.

“I’m so close- please, please!” I cried. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks, sinking into the pillows below.

My muscles seized under his touch, my legs wrapping tightly around his waist. Static washed over my frame as my nerves pulsed. Tinnitus swelled in my ears, muffling the low groans that fell from his puffy lips. Warmth flooded my insides, spilling down my thighs.

I whined as he pulled out. The bed shifted as he moved to lay beside me. His warm palms soothed over my stomach, fingers splayed over my sticky skin. I turned to my side, tucking into the embrace of my betrothed. He hummed, combing his fingers through my tangled hair.

“D’ye mean it?” He asked. Lifting my head from his chest, I glanced up at the man before me. His deep blue eyes flicked across my face, brows knitting as he awaited my response.

“Mean what?” I brought my palm to his chest. I could feel his pounding heart beat beneath my touch. Quick, yet steady. A rhythm that could lull me to sleep.

“D’ye love me?” He pursed his lips into a thin line.

Leaning forward, I pressed a soft kiss to his lips, pulling back to see his expression soften. He sighed, tensed muscle softening under my touch.

“Course I do,” I cooed, “my husband.”

-

“My husbands such a bore.” One of the ladies frowned, stabbing her needle through the thick cotton fabric. “He wants another child, but I’m not sure if I can bare to have intercourse again.”

Glancing up from my messy stitch work, I locked eyes with the group of women before me.

“Just have him do the thing with his tongue. Hell, my husband begs for it. Insatiable thing.” I chuckled, tying off my last stitch.

Silence fell between us. I glanced up, my amusement stopping abruptly when I was met with confused glares.

“Do yours not…do that?”

Masterlist

[gothamitewriter]

I can't breathe (at least you're here with me)

Febuwhump Day 3: Pinned Down

Words: 2.5k

Warnings: Gun violence, blood and injury, trauma

Summary:

Bruce is off-world, Tim is with Young Justice, Damian is with the Titans. Where does that leave Gotham? In the hands of three idiots with no sense of self preservation.

Or: Dick, Jason, and Steph are having a bad time, and the week is just getting started.

Dick would like to state for the record that this whole situation was all Jason’s fault. Okay, maybe that was a bit harsh. But it was at least 70% Jason’s fault. Honestly Dick didn’t even want to be in Gotham right now, but Bruce was in space, Tim was with Young Justice dealing with some sort of catastrophe, Damian was with the Titans, Cass was away at some sort of ballet intensive, and Duke was injured. 

Gotham was left with Jason and Steph. While Dick was the only vigilante in Bludhaven, crime in Blud was far less likely to involve masked maniacs. Bruce had actually called Dick, asking if he could pick up patrols in Gotham for the next two weeks. Dick had said yes, like an idiot, because he could never say no to his family. So there he was, on his first patrol in Gotham, when Jason spoke up on the comms. 

“Nightwing, can you meet me at the warehouse on the corner of Martin and 36th? I’ve a got a weapons deal going down here and it looks like they might have some alien tech. Might be Tamaranean,” Jason’s voice crackled to life in Dick’s ear.

“Can do, eta 6 minutes. Will you be good that long?” Dick asked, twisting in the air and making a sharp right turn. 

“Should be, buyers aren’t here yet. There’s a skylight on the northern edge of the building where you can drop onto the rafters without being spotted.” Dick tapped his comm twice to confirm that he heard as he leaped up onto the rooftops, the buildings too short here to effectively grapple. 

“Tactics going in?” Dick came out of a roll, he was only a block or so away, and it would be good to have some semblance of a plan in place. 

“Pick off as many silently as possible. I don’t know what those weapons are capable of, and I would rather not find out first hand.” Dick spotted the skylight that Jason had directed him towards, sliding towards it on the loose gravel of the warehouse roof before slipping inside. He landed just behind where Jason’s hulking figure was crouched down, listening to the conversations of the criminals below. 

“Numbers?” Dick muted Jason on his comm to avoid feedback. 

“There’s the three guarding the crates there, four more out front, at least 5 others making rounds of the warehouse. Don’t know how many the buyers will have, but I’d say somewhere around ten is a safe bet for deals like these, maybe more if there really is alien shit involved.” Jason pivoted to face Dick, a tuft of white and black hair visible underneath the hood of his jacket. 

“Pick off the 5 making rounds first, hide them out of view?” Dick suggested, looking around the wide space to mentally catalog the bodies in the space. 

Jason nodded, “I’ll take the eastern half of the building, you take the western half. Keep an eye on the door.” 

Dick made his way across the rafters. The building had once been some sort of storage facility for some clothing manufacturer. Huge metal racks filled the space, some had been knocked over at some point, leaning at odd angles. Others were broken, metal shelves hanging limply from the vertical supports by single bolts. Rotting cardboard boxes covered many of them, as well as large portions of the floor. In the maze of racks Dick spotted the first of the men keeping an eye on the building. 

The man looked like fairly typical hired muscle. 6 feet tall, bulky, and carrying far too many weapons. A ski mask covered his face, the holes for the eyes and mouth showing his fair skin and brown eyes. Dick waited until the man was at a dead-end, dropping down from the rafters and wrapping his thighs around his meaty neck. Dick applied just enough pressure to cut off blood to the brain, before dismounting from the man’s shoulders and helping him carefully fall to the floor. 

Dick was mostly hidden by the shelves and boxes, and he started moving carefully through the space. He held his weight over the balls of his feet, silencing his steps even on the squelching cardboard that sank in whenever he moved. He caught a glimpse of blonde hair around a corner. This man wasn’t wearing a ski mask, only a black surgical mask obscuring the lower half of his face. 

Dick pounced forward and drew his escrima from their clips on his shoulder blades. Using his escrima to extend his reach he pulled the man towards him by the neck. Once again it was a matter of carefully applied pressure - it wouldn’t do to cause any brain damage, after all - and carefully lowering the limp body to the ground. 

Jason had said that there were five men in total patrolling these outer stacks, but Dick didn’t know how many of those were on this half of the building. He was in a fairly secluded area so he pressed the button on his right escrima to grapple back up to the rafters. If there was anyone else it would be quicker to find them this way, and if not he was hidden out of the way for when the buyers arrived. 

“I��ve got three unconscious over here, Nightwing.” 

“Copy that, Hood. Two down here, that should be all of them, right?” Dick answered quietly. 

“Should be. You’re in the rafters?” At Dick’s affirmative noise Jason continued, “Good, position yourself above the crates. I’m going near the entrance.” 

Dick sighed. If they were waiting for the buyers they could be waiting anywhere from a few minutes to nearly half an hour. Any longer than that seemed unlikely with how long Jason had already been there. 

Luckily for Dick’s ADHD ridden brain, he didn’t have to wait long. The screeching sound of metal against concrete echoed through the space, followed by a cacophony of steps as the buyers entered the space. 

Shit.

”Ah, fuck,” Jason’s statement echoed Dick’s owns thoughts as he took in the very clear military uniforms in front of him. 

“Why is the military buying weapons from some small-time gang in Gotham, of all places?” Dick whispered, mentally saying goodbye to this suit that was almost certainly about to be riddled with dents from bullets. 

“Well, they know big bitchy and brooding is off-planet doing some diplomatic bullshit. When else would they do it?”

”Fair point. How do we approach this?”

“I’m going to try to lure the big guys out into the street. Pick them off as they come through the door. You deal with the other three. Fair warning, I can’t promise non-lethal shots.”

Dick thinks about arguing with that point, makes a vague noise, before Jason cuts him off. 

“It’s this or I blow out the front wall, take your pick.” 

“I said nothing. Let’s leave all the walls where they are for now, please,” Dick begged, silently hoping that Jason wasn’t already aiming the rocket launcher. 

”You never want to have any fun,” Jason whined. 

“That’s not true! I just don’t want to set off explosives near potentially unstable alien technology.” 

They lapsed into silence once more. Jason had left his comm line open, so Dick could hear as he grappled into a sniping position. The mechanical clicking of Jason’s twin pistols combining into one truly impressive sniper rifle filtered over the line. Dick knew that rubber bullets weren’t going to be an option with opponents this potentially heavily armed. Silently, he made peace with the potential lives lost, trusting that Jason would minimize casualties if at all possible. 

An explosion rocked the building, luckily the front wall was in fact still intact, so Dick assumed Jason was just using some sort of explosion as a distraction technique. Using the distraction of the men guarding the crates, Dick swooped down to take them out as quickly as possible. The first crumbled with a sharp strike to the temple, unfortunately giving the other two the time to aim their guns and start firing. Dick did his best to avoid as many bullets as he could, but he could feel the bruising impacts against his body armour. 

Dick shifted his grip on his escrima, feeling more than seeing the way that the electricity crackled along their length. The remaining men’s eyes widened as Dick deflected more bullets before lunging low and taking out their legs. One of them immediately fell unconscious, while the other hit the ground hard and kept shooting.

“Oh come on, just pass out already,” Dick sighed as he flipped into an upright position, kicking the man in the head on his way down. Now that the gunfire aimed at him died down, Dick could hear the thunder of the fight just outside the building. Jason had muted his comm to give them both quiet to focus on their own fights, but even without that Dick could hear his peals of laughter as bodies dropped. 

Dick made his way behind the group, but Jason seemed to have things well in hand. One guy tried to run back inside to secure the weaponry, but Dick took care of him quickly. Dick grappled up to the rafters to watch the rest of the military men fall. That was going to be… interesting to explain to the commissioner. He was going to let Babs and Jason deal with that, actually, Dick was going to go back to Bludhaven the second he was no longer needed. 

“Alright, we’re clear. We need to take a look at those weapons, see what we’re dealing with. If it is Tamaranean, we should call in Kori to dispose of them properly,” Jason landed next to Dick, before dropping down to the ground and making his way to the crates, Dick following behind.

Jason pried open the nearest crate, revealing black foam padding surrounding rows of handguns looking right out of a science fiction movie. 

“Definitely Tamaranean. I’ll give Star a call. We want to get this out of here ASAP, head back out on patrol. Spoiler being out there on her own makes me nervous.” Dick turned away from the crates and moved to make the call. Then, he froze. 

“I don’t like the sound of that…” Jason grimaced. A high pitched whine was emitting from the crate. 

The world went white, and then dark.

---

Everything hurt, that was the first thing that Dick registered when he regained his senses. There was metal digging into his shoulder blades and something embedding itself in his right leg. 

“Hood?” Dick wheezed. Dust clung to his lungs. He didn’t have hope for a verbal response, if the night vision in his domino was broken then his comms no doubt were too. 

Dick took stock of his body, outside of the wound in his leg he seemed relatively uninjured. He couldn’t take a full breath, what seemed to be the remains of the rafters pinning him down to the ground. His ears were ringing, as to be expected from the close proximity of the explosion. He couldn’t see more than three feet in front of him, but it looked like the entire building had caved in. 

Shifting could be heard behind him, the scrape of boots against concrete. 

“‘Wing?” Jason sounded awful, rasping and coughing. 

“Status? I’ve got no comms, pinned under the rafters,” Dick tried to throw his voice as far as possible, but it came out weak and airy. 

“Got thrown against one o’ the racks. Think it broke, stuck me in the side? Not concussed, I don’t think. Roof’s collapsed, but the rack is propping it up, so I’ve got a bit of room to move. Any injuries?” Dick let out what little sigh of relief he could.

“Something in my right leg, can’t move enough to tell what. It doesn’t feel too deep, and I don’t think it’s hit anything vital. Still, it's going to be hell to get out of here. Any idea how long that’ll take?”

“My comms are out too. I think the blast might have involved an EMP, there doesn’t seem to be any physical damage to my mask. Oracle will have sent backup our way as soon as we dropped out of comms, but with the damage to the building? It could be a bit before they can safely extract us.” Jason’s speech was clearer, giving Dick hope that he really didn’t have a concussion. 

“How are you holding up? Not physically, just. I can’t imagine warehouse explosions are particularly pleasant. Not that they’re ever pleasant.”

“Trying not to think about it, actually, so thanks for that Dickwing. At least there’s no fire. Just a shit-ton of dust and debris.” As if on cue, a cough ripped through Dick’s chest.

“Yeah, you can say that again. Can barely breathe over here.” They both lapsed into silence with that. Dick’s leg was starting to burn as the adrenaline faded. He was so tired, but falling asleep in the remains of a warehouse seemed like an all around poor idea. “So, you and Roy, huh?” 

“Oh fuck off, man. You really want to talk about my love life now?” Jason barked out a rough laugh. 

“When else? Can’t run away from me now.” 

“He’s nice. Dunno what else you want me to say,” Dick could practically hear the shrug.

“If he hurts you… I’d say that I’d kill him but I wouldn’t take that privilege from you. But I’ll piss on his grave.”

“You know Roy, if something happens between us it’s going to be my fault, man.”

Dick frowned, “Hey, no self-depricating here.”

“Not self-depricating if it’s true. I should have double checked those crates for explosives before popping them open.”

“You couldn’t have known, never can with alien shit. Plus, we don’t know if opening the crate is what triggered it at all, could have been a remote detonation, could have been time-based. No way of knowing until Babs takes a look.”

“B would have figured it out, wouldn’t have gotten himself blown up like an idiot. Again.” Well, that was a trauma-filled can of worms.

“I’ll have you know that B got the both of us blown up like an idiot a lot more than just twice. That was a typical Tuesday until he upgraded his cowl scanners. Or rather, Babs and I upgraded his cowl scanners,” Dick tried to sound comforting, but it wasn’t easy with the way his throat was starting to protest making any sound. 

“Yeah, and my scanners are just as upgraded as his are, more even, with the shit Roy has thrown in there. But there I went, fucking it up again. What else do you expect from the failure Robin.”

“Who the fuck called you that?” Dick snapped in the same tone he would say who do I need to kill.

“S’what everyone says. Robin number two, the failure. Spoiler’s told me, how B used me as a cautionary tale to the new Robins.”

“Fuck him. I was pissed when B gave you Robin, sure, but I made sure that you lived up to the title and you absolutely did. You’re the best of all of us with civilians, you’re the only one that anyone in the Alley trusts at all,” Dick trailed off, unable to put into words how wrong it was for Jason to be called a failure in any measure. 

Jason just grunted. Dick pretended not to hear the way that his breath hitched. They would be out of here soon enough. 

[mothdust23]

⟢A bug in the system - P1⟣

Up down turn, up down.

Up down turn, up down.

Up down turn, up down.

Up down turn twist- pause.

Up down turn, up down.

Pen's clockwork had never twisted before. Sometimes it skipped, causing it to choke and collapse, its limbs seizing up until its witch could repair it, but it had never experienced a twist. Something was wrong.

Up down turn, up down.

Most dolls weren't made with engines, manufacturers and witches preferring more efficient and versatile options like direct magical power. Pen was a very archaic doll, however, made in a time before such spells were invented. It took a lot of pride in its age, being passed down from witch to witch.

Up down turn, up twist down. Up twist down twist turn twist-

A wave of revulsion fills it. Dizziness. It wasn't designed to experience dizziness..

"Miss!! Miss!" it managed to crackle out, holding onto a wall for support. It barely manages to catch a view of her hurrying towards it before everything goes dark.

Turn. BEEP.

Turn. BEEP.

Turn. BEEP.

Turn. BEEP.

Its eyelids slide open, but everything feels off. One of its legs is numb. Its engine sounds.. wrong.

..looking down, there's a hole in its chest, an unfitting metallic device attached to it with dozens of wires snaking down to.. a.. heart monitor?

"Oh, good morning. Are you awake?"

An unfamiliar man is sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, staring at it. This isn't its witch's mansion. Something must be terribly wrong. His suit is white, gaudy, with a yellow dress shirt and white tie. When he gets up off the chair, it notices his cufflinks - stylized eyes.

"Where.. is this one? Where is its witch? What is happening?"

"Your engine failed."

It stiffens, expression shifting imperceptibly.

"So.. this one is dead." it says, tersely.

"Oh, heavens no! You were submitted to a care ward. That-" he says, pointing at the device in its chest- "Is a fake engine. You would need it to power you in the meantime."

"Where is its witch? Is she ok?"

"Your witch is fine, just worried. Don't fret about that." he gently says, putting his hand on the back of its head. It flinches away and glares at him, causing him to hold his hands up as a symbol of peace. Those cufflinks almost seem to stare back at Pen.

"Where is this one."

"Safe, why?"

"WHERE."

He looks away uncomfortably.

"Well, where do you think?"

"Well.. this one is in a hospital, yes?"

"There you go. Your words, not mine."

Something was odd about the way he spoke. Pen couldn't put its finger on it.

"What hospital?" "Mn.. Just, try to rest, ok? I have some paperwork I'd rather you sign so I can send you on your way."

The man produces a clipboard from inside of his jacket. Pen manages to catch something staring back at it before he quickly buttons it shut again. He offers Pen the clipboard, and it sighs and places it on the table beside it.

"This one would rather.. rest, for now. If that's alright."

He looks surprised, but quickly hides it with a smile.

"Of course. I'll check in with you later." he says, stepping out of the room and shutting the door quietly.

⟢⟣

[sionisjaune]

Mika/Nico 2004 Arctic Rally flirtation on the occasion of @blorbocedes ‘s birthday!

Mika is stripping down to his thermals when the kid slinks inside his cabin, bundled in a thick winter coat, tufts of blonde hair poking out underneath a knit hat. He bites the inside of his cheek, manufacturing a reason to grimace instead of welcoming Nico into his arms like he used to do when he could still call himself innocent. 

“Not your cabin,” says Mika, tugging off a sweaty glove and tossing it on the countertop.

Nico shuts the door behind him and braces himself against it, nose red from the chill outside. His entire face, or at least the part visible between the collar of his coat and the hem of his hat, is chafed red and blotchy. He licks his lips, and Mika’s gaze lingers on the chapped and wind-bitten skin of his mouth. 

“My dad snores,” Nico mumbles. “Just wanted to get some rest—”

“No,” says Mika, immediately. He knows what Nico’s going to ask of him, and he knows that if Nico asks it outright, he’s going to say yes. 

“You didn’t even hear what I was going to say!” says Nico, pouting rather childishly. Mika wonders what it says about him that he finds Nico’s worst moments attractive.

“No,” says Mika again. “Go back to your room. Cabins are for competitors only.”

Nico tilts his head, still tucked against the door in his coat. Mika watches him shuck his scarf and toss it haphazardly on Mika’s sofa. “I could compete,” says Nico. “I’m good on the ice.” 

“You’re not—” says Mika.

Nico cuts him off, a sparkle in his eye. “Old enough?”

“Used to rally,” Mika finishes. “It’s an entirely different sport.” 

“Really?” says Nico, eyes widening. It’s obvious what he’s doing. Mika strips off his other glove and lets it happen anyway, peeling his racesuit down his chest to hang around his hips. Nico makes a parallel move, drawing the zipper open and shimmying the coat down his arms to reveal a tanned neck and collarbones, the result of a half-Finn unaccustomed to his native climate. Mika doesn’t know why Keke bothered to drag him to Lapland to spectate. “Explain it to me,” says Nico. He drops his jacket on the floor and joins his scarf on Mika’s sofa, curling his legs underneath him.

“First of all, you have a co-driver in the car with you,” says Mika. He tugs the racesuit the rest of the way down, pulling it off his ankles one leg at a time. He was going to make use of the cabin’s meager hot water tank and shower off the sweat sticking to his skin, but with Nico around it’s probably best he keeps his clothing on. 

Nico shrugs, wrapping his arms around himself as if to stave off the cold. “I could handle that. I already have an engineer in F3.”

“It’s a different relationship,” Mika corrects. He can’t help but fall into this avuncular role with Nico, like Keke is still in the room.

“A relationship,” Nico purrs, learning over the edge of the couch. Mika bites the inside of his cheek, wondering where Nico learned this from. He stalls for time by folding his racesuit into a neat little rectangle and setting it on the countertop beside his gloves. It reeks of stale sweat and the ankles are damp with melted snow, but if Nico minds he doesn’t say anything. 

Mika sinks into the armchair opposite Nico and watches Nico furtively scoot towards the end of the sofa closest to Mika. His bare arms are startlingly skinny against the thin fabric of a white singlet. The faded jeans make him look like a ten-euro hooker, even though Mika knows Nico doesn’t wear anything that costs less than a hundred. 

“I bet you disregard your engineer all the time,” says Mika.

“No I don’t,” says Nico. 

Mika gives him a meaningful look. 

“Fine,” says Nico. “Sometimes. But only when he’s wrong.”

“Ah,” says Mika. “The difference is that your co-driver cannot be wrong. You trust him implicitly. If he says full-throttle, you don’t break until the finish line.” 

Nico wrinkles his nose. “I can’t picture you taking orders from anybody.” 

Mika raises a hand to massage his temples. “When I need to,” he says. The hand in front of his eyes conveniently blocks his view of Nico curled up on the corner of the couch, but he can still hear Nico twisting and fidgeting around. 

“Tired?” says Nico. 

“Yes,” says Mika. 

“Me too,” says Nico. He shuffles around on the couch again, and then seems to still. A moment later, Mika feels him plop down on the arm of the chair next to him. He drapes his long legs over Mika’s lap and leans close to his ear. Mika removes his hand from his face just in time for a lock of Nico’s hair to fall in his face while Nico murmurs in his ear. “And I’m cold. It’s fucking freezing in here.” 

Mika bites the inside of his cheek again. The flesh is getting raw, like it always does around Nico. 

“Nico,” he warns. 

“What?” says Nico. He’s completely irreverent. 

Mika shifts to create more space between himself and Nico’s skinny frame. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Doing what?” says Nico.

“You know what,” says Mika. 

“I just want to warm up,” says Nico, curling closer. 

“I have to race tomorrow,” says Mika. He can hear his own voice wavering.

The corners of Nico’s mouth curl like a cat toying with its prey. “Nothing that will make you sore.” 

Mika exhales, rubbing his temples again. “Not even pretending anymore?” 

Hearing his permission, Nico slides into Mika’s lap and surrounds him like his limbs are made of putty. He wraps his arms around Mika’s neck and attaches his mouth to the skin above the collar of Mika’s thermal shirt. “I don’t need to,” he whispers. “Besides, don’t you want to see what I’m wearing under this?”

[sonics-atelier]

𝟑 𝐀𝐌 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐁

Summary:Two grown men stuck in an airport at 3 AM decide that the only logical way to pass time is by committing fashion crimes in the duty-free store. Chaos, questionable life choices, and a near-ban from Terminal B ensue.

WC: 1.2 K. Read On AO3 or below the cut.

For 31 Days Of Tamcien, Prompt - Day 22 Stuck in an airport at 3am AU.

. . .

Airports at 3 AM were not designed for human survival. They were purgatories disguised as places of transit—sterile, soulless, and illuminated by artificial lighting that buzzed with the smug indifference of the eternally awake.

Tamlin, sitting stiffly in one of the least comfortable chairs ever manufactured, had resigned himself to misery. Their flight was delayed indefinitely due to what the bored voice over the intercom had called “operational challenges.” The phrase meant nothing, but it had efficiently crushed his last remaining shred of hope.

Lucien, on the other hand, seemed to be thriving on the chaos.

“This,” Lucien announced, stretching his legs across two seats, “is a test of our willpower. A battle against the forces of bureaucracy and fate itself.”

Tamlin exhaled sharply. “It’s just a flight delay.”

“Oh, is it?” Lucien tapped his chin. “You say that now, but what happens in another hour? Another two? Despair sets in. Madness takes root. We’ll start questioning reality. Who’s to say we ever even had a flight? Maybe this has all been a lie.”

Tamlin, who had spent the past forty-five minutes staring at the vending machine contemplating whether a $6 granola bar was worth selling his soul, did not appreciate the theatrics. “We’re not descending into madness. We’re just bored.”

“Exactly,” Lucien declared, sitting up suddenly. “Which is why we need entertainment. And since I don’t see a live orchestra conveniently stationed in the middle of Terminal B, we’re going to have to create our own fun.”

Tamlin sighed, already bracing for whatever nonsense Lucien was about to suggest.

Lucien stood, stretched, and gestured toward the glossy duty-free store, its pristine displays glittering under the fluorescent lights. “We,” he said with the gravity of a man about to propose a military campaign, “are going in.”

Tamlin frowned. “Going in where?”

“The store.”

“For what?”

Lucien’s grin was positively wicked. “We’re trying on the most ridiculous outfits we can find.”

Tamlin groaned, running a hand down his face. “Lucien, that’s—”

“Genius? I know.”

“I was going to say immature.”

“That too.” Lucien shrugged. “But look around you, Tam. We’re trapped in a liminal void. Time doesn’t exist here. There are no consequences. We must seize the moment before we start contemplating our mortality again.”

“I wasn’t contemplating my mortality.”

Lucien arched a brow. “Oh? So the six-minute-long staring contest you had with the vending machine was just for fun?”

Tamlin glared. Lucien grinned.

Tamlin exhaled. “Fine.”

And so it began.

Lucien, as always, threw himself into the endeavor with reckless enthusiasm. He vanished into the aisles, only to emerge minutes later wearing a blindingly loud floral suit in shades of fuchsia, emerald, and some deeply offensive shade of orange. A pair of oversized sunglasses perched on his nose, and in one hand, he held a designer handbag that he swung dramatically over his shoulder.

“I call this rich divorcée who just got custody of the yacht,” he announced, striking a pose.

Tamlin, despite himself, let out a short laugh. “You look ridiculous.”

“I look expensive,” Lucien corrected, adjusting the sunglasses. “Your turn.”

Tamlin, with great reluctance, allowed himself to be shoved toward the racks. He grabbed the first things within reach and disappeared into the fitting room. When he stepped out, Lucien let out an audible gasp.

“Oh my gods,” Lucien whispered, clutching his chest. “You look like a midlife crisis on legs.”

Tamlin scowled. He had somehow ended up in a tight leather jacket, ripped jeans that looked like they had been personally attacked by a knife-wielding maniac, and a pair of aviators.

“You’re one to talk, Mrs. Yacht,” Tamlin muttered.

Lucien beamed. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

And it was.

It spiraled quickly. Lucien, in his quest for aesthetic chaos, made it his mission to push Tamlin into increasingly absurd outfits. Tamlin endured an offensively sequined blazer (“You look like a Vegas magician”), an oversized fur coat (“Ah yes, wealth”), and, at one point, an airport pilot uniform.

Lucien nearly doubled over with laughter when Tamlin stepped out in the crisp navy-blue jacket and hat. “Welcome aboard,” Lucien intoned in a mock-serious voice. “This is your captain speaking—our flight is still delayed. Please scream into the void.”

Tamlin yanked off the hat and threw it at him.

Lucien caught it and placed it on his own head, striking a dramatic pose. “You know, I think I was meant for a life in aviation.”

“You don’t even know how to drive a car.”

“Which makes this all the more thrilling.”

At some point, security started watching them with a sort of exhausted resignation. A store employee cleared their throat meaningfully when Lucien attempted to try on a third fur coat, but they hadn’t yet been kicked out.

“I give it another ten minutes before they call someone,” Tamlin muttered as they swapped their latest selections for something new.

“Then we have ten minutes to make the most of it,” Lucien declared.

Tamlin rolled his eyes but couldn’t quite smother the small smile threatening to break through.

Lucien returned in a full-length trench coat, his hair mussed as he adjusted the collar dramatically. “Do I look like I run a secret underground empire?”

Tamlin, suppressing laughter, nodded solemnly. “Very menacing.”

Lucien flourished the coat dramatically before eyeing Tamlin with a slow, assessing look. “Alright. One last one.”

Tamlin narrowed his eyes. “I don’t trust that tone.”

“You shouldn’t,” Lucien admitted.

Minutes later, Tamlin emerged in what might have been the worst ensemble yet: a designer tracksuit in a shade of neon green so offensive it could probably be seen from space. Lucien, upon seeing him, immediately collapsed into a chair, laughing so hard he nearly fell off.

“Oh, Tamlin,” Lucien wheezed. “You look like an Eastern European mobster who launders money through a nightclub.”

Tamlin crossed his arms. “You’re the one who picked it.”

“Yes, and I regret nothing.” Lucien wiped a tear from his eye. “Alright, we should stop before we actually get banned from this place.”

With great reluctance, they returned their ridiculous selections, changing back into their own, much more boring, clothes. As they left the store, a security guard gave them the kind of exhausted look usually reserved for parents of particularly hyperactive children.

Lucien stretched, a satisfied grin on his face. “Well, that killed some time.”

Tamlin shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“I know.” Lucien bumped their shoulders together lightly. “But admit it, you had fun.”

Tamlin hesitated, then sighed. “Maybe.”

Lucien’s grin widened. “Good. Now, since we’re on a streak of questionable decision-making—wanna go find out if the baggage carousels are fun to ride?”

Tamlin groaned. “Lucien.”

“What?”

“…Lead the way.”

And so, in the liminal, fluorescent-lit purgatory of Terminal B, Tamlin and Lucien continued their descent into airport-induced madness, killing time with sheer, unrepentant chaos.

Somewhere, their flight remained delayed.

But at 3 AM, in a world where time seemed to stand still, that hardly mattered.

. . .

- @sonics-atelier 2025 ( do not repost or reuse in any way, shape or form )

[thoughtportal]

A group of bacteria has proved adept at destroying the ultratough carbon-fluorine bonds that give “forever chemicals” their name. This finding boosts hopes that microbes might someday help remove these notoriously pervasive pollutants from the environment.

Nearly 15,000 chemicals commonly found in everyday consumer products such as pizza boxes, rain jackets and sunscreens are recognized as perfluoroalkyl and polyfluoroalkyl substances, or PFASs. These chemicals can enter the body via drinking water or sludge-fertilized crops, and they have already infiltrated the blood of almost every person in the U.S. Scientists have linked even low levels of chronic PFAS exposure to myriad health effects such as kidney cancer, thyroid disease and ulcerative colitis.

Current methods to destroy PFASs require extreme heat or pressure, and they work safely only on filtered-out waste. Researchers have long wondered whether bacteria could break down the chemicals in natural environments, providing a cheaper and more scalable approach. But carbon-­fluorine bonds occur mainly in humanmade materials, and PFASs have not existed long enough for bacteria to have specifically evolved the ability to digest them. The new study—though not the first to identify a microbe that destroys carbon-fluorine bonds—provides a step forward, says William Dichtel, a chemist at Northwestern University who studies energy-efficient ways to chemically degrade PFASs.

To identify a promising set of bacteria, the study’s authors screened several microbe communities living in wastewater. Four strains from the Acetobacterium genus stood out, the team reported in Science Advances. Each strain produced an enzyme that can digest caffeate—a naturally occurring plant compound that roughly resembles some PFASs. This enzyme replaced certain fluorine atoms in the PFASs with hydrogen atoms; then a “transporter protein” ferried the fluoride ion by-products out of the single-celled microbes, protecting them from damage. Over three weeks most of the strains split the targeted PFAS molecules into smaller fragments that could be degraded more easily via traditional chemical means.

By directly targeting carbon-fluorine bonds, the Acetobacterium bacteria partially digested perfluoroalkyls, a type of PFAS that very few microbes can break down. Even so, these Acetobacterium strains could work only on perfluoroalkyl molecules that contain carbon-carbon double bonds adjacent to the car­bon-fluorine ones. These “unsaturated” perfluoroalkyl compounds serve as building blocks for most larger PFASs; they are produced by chemical manufacturers and also emerge when PFASs are destroyed via incineration.

Scientists had previously demonstrated that a microbe called Acidimicrobium sp. strain A6 could break down carbon-fluorine bonds and completely degrade two of the most ubiquitous perfluoroalkyls. This microbe grows slowly, however, and requires finicky environmental conditions to function. And researchers do not yet fully understand how this bacterial strain does the job.

The Acetobacterium lines target a separate group of PFASs, and the team hopes to engineer the microbes to either improve their efficiency or expand their reach—potentially to more perfluoroalkyls. Lead study author Yujie Men of the University of California, Riverside, imagines the microbes would perform best in combination with other approaches to degrade PFASs. The range of chemical structures in these compounds means “a single lab cannot solve this problem.”

Any future commercial use of the microbes would face numerous hurdles, including breakdown speed and replicability outside of the lab, but Men looks forward to seeing how far her team can push the technique. “We’re paving the road as we go,” she says with a laugh.