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hcneymooners · 1 month ago

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⋆ arcane but it's a private university au ( for the girls: pt. i )

ice princess!f!reader x multi. f!characters. men & minors dni.

synopsis: private university!arcane headcanons but it’s really specific bc it’s based on my time at catholic private school except this au is just a private hold the catholic.

cw: this part contains scenarios for caitlyn, vi, & mel. the second part will contain sevika & ambessa bc i went a little crazy. suggestive content. notes: this was really fun to write. after part two, my attention will shift to answering the requests you sweet angels have sent me. i love you.

part two.

the road curved sharply as the gates came into view, their wrought-iron edges glinting in the low sweep of your headlights. beyond them, the school rose like smoke, its silhouette dark against the velvet sky, lit faintly by the soft gold of its windows. the building exhaled exclusivity, from the ivy climbing its stone façade to the manicured hedges lining the long gravel drive. you rolled down the window slightly for a bit of air. the breeze was scented faintly with pine and the cold, metallic promise of winter. you straightened your posture without thinking, your shoulders drawn back against the cool weight of your coat.

inside, the warmth hit you immediately, clinging to your skin like a lover's kiss. the chandeliers sparkled, their light soft and diffused, casting fractured shadows against the paneled walls. voices floated in the distance—low, murmured, intimate. you walked slowly, your boots clicking against the marble floors, eyes drawn to the oil portraits lining the halls. the faces in them were familiar in their arrogance: sharp jaws, heavy brows, lips set in expressions that commanded you to keep your mouth budded shut, like a flower.

your room was at the far end of the east wing, the door heavy and hinting at the beginnings of rot. the key turned smoothly, the lock clicking open with an almost luxurious softness. the space inside was all dark wood and rich fabrics, a fire already lit in the grate. you dropped your bag near the foot of the bed, its velvet coverlet cool under your fingertips. for a moment, you stood still, letting the atmosphere settle around you. outside, the wind whispered through the trees, and in the distance, you could hear faint laughter—a reminder that this place was alive, spilling with bloodlines as silver as the spoon in your own mouth. you wondered what they’d see in you, these strangers you were destined to meet. you wondered what you’d allow them to.

caitlyn kiramman: the academic rival.

୨୧ caitlyn was under the impression she’d be occupying a single suite. she strolled through the double doors, chin high, expecting the echo of her own footsteps in the vast, empty room. instead, she found you curled on the floor, the soft creature of your body lightly clothed, flipping through a thick novel with its spine already cracked.

୨୧ you, too, had assumed the room was yours alone. after all, there was only one massive queen bed planted in the center, framed by ornate lamps that cast a soft glow over the wood-paneled walls. the two of you locked eyes, the silence loud with polite hostility. and then, as if on cue, both your smiles snapped into place—brilliant, practiced, and so painfully fake they practically gleamed. your families would be proud.

୨୧ you managed to get housing on the line after some deliberation over who would cave first. 'apologies, girls,’ the voice crackled through the old-fashioned landline. ‘there’s been an overlap in scheduling renovations. west wing residents have been moved to shared suites in the east. it’s only for a few weeks—after winter break, your single rooms will be ready, and you’ll receive a refund for the semester.’

୨୧ you clicked the phone back into its cradle and turned to caitlyn, flashing another dazzling smile. ‘well,’ you said sweetly, gesturing to her suitcase, ‘shall we get you unpacked?’

୨୧ during this time, you took her in—shamelessly, ravenously. she was tall and impossibly willowy, her movements languid like she’d been raised to glide instead of walk. her hair, a cascade so black it caught blue in the firelight (‘[name] it is blue.’), was swept into a ponytail so bouncy it could’ve been sculpted. she wore a thick knit sweater, tailored trousers, and a delicate diamond pendant—a ‘C’—that caught against her collarbone. her perfume hit you in waves: sweet, salty, like the black licorice you’d once eaten to excess in scandinavia. beneath it was something warmer—vanilla and caramelized citrus. you clenched your jaw to keep from leaning closer.

୨୧ at first, the sharing was civil. one of you curled up on the bed each week while the other resigned herself to the chaise in the corner. but one night, you woke to caitlyn’s face above yours, pale and soft in the moonlight. her almond-shaped eyes glittered as she pressed a deceptively strong hand against your stomach to wake you. her perfume cloyed your throat as she murmured, ‘come on,’ her voice rich and clipped with her posh english accent. she slipped back into bed, her braid glinting in the dim light, and you lay there, swallowing hard before following her.

୨୧ the real challenge wasn’t the shared space. it was caitlyn herself—her maddening proximity. the way her soft thighs brushed yours when she shifted in bed. the way her body, willowy as it was, still seemed to migrate toward you in the night, tangling with yours like it was instinctual. you woke up more than once during those weeks feeling hot, bothered, and frankly mortified, especially during the cruel timing of ovulation.

୨୧ to make matters worse, she was your equal in class. the professor announced your tied scores, and you caught her turning toward you, her bright blue eyes sparkling with something like satisfaction. she smiled, clearly expecting camaraderie, but this was your achievement. your moment. you forced a tight smile in return, already plotting your next move.

୨୧ and yet, caitlyn seemed determined to treat you as an equal. worse, a friend. she was everywhere—every party, every recital, every lecture. she linked your arm and whispered terrible jokes that you begrudgingly laughed at. she told you scandalous rumors about your professor and her husband, her lips brushing your cheek as the crowd jostled you.

୨୧ the glitter from her gloss smeared your skin, warm and wet, and when she tried to wipe it away, you told her it was fine. she blushed, and you hated how much you liked it.

୨୧ she was infuriating. borrowing your curling iron to tease out her perfect curls, dragging you to track practice where she outpaced you with ease, leaving snacks on your desk during finals with notes written in her careful script. she was just so—so perfect, framed in silk and lace and lit by courtyard sunlight, her laugh clear as crystal and echoing in your chest.

୨୧ wait.

୨୧ winter crept into the suite on silent feet, frosting the windowpanes and painting the air with a chill that settled into your bones. the two of you existed in an uneasy truce, navigating the space like chess players plotting moves several steps ahead.

୨୧ you thought you had her figured out, until one morning you stumbled into the kitchen to find her brewing tea, hair tousled and cheeks flushed with sleep. she offered you a mug without looking up, the steam curling between you, and you took it—hesitating only for a second.

୨୧ for all her elegance, caitlyn was infuriatingly human in ways that caught you off guard. she hummed off-key while studying, left tiny notes for herself tucked into the corners of her textbooks, and cursed like a sailor under her breath when she stubbed her toe on the chaise.

୨୧ it wasn’t fair how quickly she worked her way under your skin, the sharp edge of rivalry blunted by moments like these. still, you refused to let her win, clinging to the fire that flared in your chest every time she smirked at you after a particularly cutting comment in class.

୨୧ the tension came to a head one evening in the middle of finals. you were curled on the chaise, poring over notes, when caitlyn waltzed in, hair damp from a shower and wearing nothing but an oversized sweater that skimmed her thighs.

୨୧ she plopped onto the bed and stretched, a picture of unbothered grace. ‘don’t you think you’re overdoing it?’ she asked, her tone almost teasing. your pen froze mid-sentence. ‘excuse me?’ you shot back, eyes narrowing.

୨୧ ‘i’m just saying,’ she continued, utterly unruffled. ‘you’re going to burn out if you keep pushing yourself like this.’ the concern in her voice was infuriating, and you snapped. ‘not all of us can coast by on professors' favor and good looks,’ you said, your words cutting sharper than you intended. her expression faltered for a fraction of a second before she schooled it into something cool and distant.

୨୧ the silence that followed was unbearable. caitlyn moved to the chaise later that night, leaving the bed cold and empty. you told yourself you didn’t care, but the knot in your chest tightened with every passing hour. finally, just before dawn, you slipped out of bed and crossed the room, standing over her sleeping form. her face was peaceful in the pale light, and you felt a pang of regret so sharp it left you breathless.

୨୧ ‘caitlyn,’ you whispered, your voice trembling. her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. ‘i’m sorry,’ you murmured, your throat tight. she sat up slowly, her gaze searching yours. ‘i didn’t mean it.’ ‘i know,’ she said softly, her words a balm to the ache in your chest.

୨୧ before you could overthink it, you leaned in, your lips brushing hers with a tentative softness. she responded immediately, her hands threading into your hair as she deepened the kiss. the world melted away, leaving only the two of you tangled in one another, practically climbing into each other’s skin, the air thick with the heady scent of her perfume and the taste of mint lingering on her lips.

୨୧ the next morning, you called housing together. caitlyn leaned against the counter, her arm brushing yours as you spoke into the phone.

୨୧ ‘yes,’ you said, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. ‘we’d like to stay in the east wing for the rest of the school year.’ you hung up, and caitlyn turned to you, her smile soft and knowing. ‘looks like we’re stuck with each other,’ she said, her tone light but her eyes dark.

୨୧ you squeezed your legs together and let a finger sweep at the dip of her collarbones. ‘it wouldn’t be the worst thing,’ you told her. she smiled.

violet: the lacrosse prodigy.

୨୧ the first time you saw vi, she was slouched in a mahogany chair at your parents' alumni dinner, looking like rebellion incarnate. her suit was expensive but deliberately disheveled—probably borrowed, you'd learn later—with the top button undone and a black tie hanging loose around her neck like an afterthought. you noticed her instantly: the sharp cut of her jaw, the shock of pink hair (freshly dyed, still bleeding slightly at her collar), and the way she balanced her chair on two legs like gravity was merely a suggestion.

୨୧ she noticed you too. maybe it was the way you held yourself, spine straight as a ruler, chin lifted in that practiced way that screamed old money. or maybe it was the way your silver-blue gown caught the light, clinging to you like morning frost on glass. either way, when your eyes met across the room, her smirk said she'd already made you her newest fixation. you looked away first, but you could feel her gaze following you for the rest of the evening, hot as a bruise.

୨୧ by the time classes started, her reputation preceded her like a shadow. vi, the scholarship student who played lacrosse like she was outrunning her past. girls whispered about her in bathroom stalls and behind textbooks: how she'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, how she'd fought her way into this school with nothing but raw talent and a stubbornness that bordered on spite. how she moved like she had lightning under her skin, all barely contained energy and sharp edges.

୨୧ you'd dismissed her first attempt at flirtation—a low whistle and a comment about how your uniform skirt looked specially tailored. she'd winked, and you'd raised an eyebrow so cold it could have frosted glass before walking away. but vi didn't take rejection personally; if anything, your indifference seemed to delight her.

୨୧ each time you passed in the halls, she'd find new ways to try to crack your composure: a deliberate brush of shoulders, a murmured 'morning, princess' that lingered in the air like perfume.

୨୧ what she didn't expect was for you to show up at her first game of the season. you perched yourself in the middle of the bleachers, legs crossed at the ankle, oversized sunglasses hiding your expression. the autumn air was sharp with approaching winter, and you wrapped your cashmere scarf tighter as you watched her warm up. she nearly missed a pass when she spotted you, her double-take so obvious it made your lips twitch despite yourself.

୨୧ she played like she had something to prove that day—all controlled violence and graceful aggression. you found yourself leaning forward despite your best intentions, watching the way she moved across the field like she owned it, her stick an extension of her arm. when her team won, she shot you a grin that was all adrenaline and victory, her chest heaving and hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

୨୧ you didn't smile back, but something in your chest tightened when she lifted her jersey to wipe her face, revealing a strip of toned stomach marked with old scars.

୨୧ it became a game between you—her constant pushing, your calculated resistance. she'd find you in the library, sprawled across a chair like she was posing for a painting, her lacrosse stick balanced across her knees. 'studying hard, princess?' she'd drawl, her voice rough like she'd swallowed gravel, and you'd glance up from your books, unimpressed.

୨୧ 'some of us don't get by on natural talent alone,' you'd reply, your tone sharp enough to draw blood. but she never bled; she just grinned wider, like your cruelty was exactly what she'd been hoping for.

୨୧ the weather turned bitter, and you started noticing things about her you wished you didn't. how she wore the same three sweaters in rotation, all slightly too thin for the season. how she'd blow on her hands between plays, her fingers red with cold because she refused to wear gloves. how she worked twice as hard as anyone else on the field, like she was afraid someone would realize she didn't belong here and take it all away.

୨୧ one evening, you found yourself alone with her in the common room, the fire burning low in the grate. you were curled into the corner of the sofa, a cup of tea warming your hands, when she walked in. she hesitated for a moment before sitting beside you, close enough that you could smell the sharp blackberry of her shower gel mixing with the leather of her jacket.

୨୧ 'you're quiet tonight,' she said, her voice softer than you'd ever heard it. you didn't look at her, but something in your chest unraveled slightly. 'just tired,' you replied, and when she shifted closer, you didn't move away.

୨୧ after that, the boundaries between you began to blur. she started walking you back to your dorm after late study sessions, her stride easy and long beside your measured steps. 'i don't need a bodyguard,' you'd say, but your voice lacked its usual ice. she'd just shrug, hands stuffed in her pockets. 'maybe i just like the company.'

୨୧ one rainy sunday, she convinced you to join her on the empty field. 'come on, princess, live a little,' she said, pressing her spare stick into your reluctant hands. your perfectly manicured nails looked absurd wrapped around the grip, and you gave her your best withering stare. but then she stepped behind you, her hands covering yours to adjust your grip, and suddenly you couldn't remember why you'd been protesting. her breath was warm against your ear as she guided you through the motion, her body solid and sure against your back.

୨୧ you missed every shot, but the way she laughed—not at you, but with you—made your cheeks flush with something other than cold.

୨୧ you told yourself it meant nothing. that she was just another scholarship kid trying to prove herself, that her attention was just another form of rebellion against everything you represented. but then came the night after her team's crushing semifinal loss. you found her in the empty locker room, still in her muddy uniform, staring at her hands like they belonged to someone else. without a word, you sat beside her on the bench, your expensive skirt soaking up puddles of field water.

୨୧ 'you played well,' you said quietly. she laughed, but it was hollow. 'not well enough.' you reached for her hand then, your fingers interlacing with hers, and neither of you mentioned how long you stayed there, sharing silence and something deeper.

୨୧ it happened during one of your late-night walks. the air was sharp with approaching snow, and the campus was quiet except for the crunch of gravel under your boots. she stopped suddenly, turning to face you with an expression you'd never seen before—all vulnerability and barely contained want. 'you know,' she said, her voice rough, 'you're not nearly as cold as you pretend to be.' before you could argue, she kissed you—hard and desperate at first, then softening when you gasped against her mouth. she tasted like cinnamon gum and possibility, and her hands were gentle when they cupped your face, like she was afraid you might collapse.

୨୧ the next morning, vi was back to her usual self, lounging against the dining hall wall with her teammates. but when you walked in, her entire face lit up, and the smile she gave you was different from her usual smirk—softer, private, just for you. you rolled your eyes but couldn't quite fight your answering smile, and when she fell into step beside you later, her pinky finger hooking casually around yours, you let her stay.

୨୧ you'd been raised to be ice—beautiful, untouchable, cold enough to burn. but vi had always run hot, all passion and impulse and raw honesty.

୨୧ and somehow, against all logic, against everything you'd been taught, you found yourself thawing.

mel medarda: the best friend.

୨୧ mel was your constant, like morning light through gauzy curtains or the first cherry blossoms of spring. she had been there so long you'd forgotten what it felt like not to have her around—her laugh echoing in your dorm late at night, her perfume lingering on your sweaters, her tinted lip balm marking coffee cups she'd left scattered across your desk like petals marking her presence in your life.

୨୧ you couldn't pinpoint when it started. maybe it was during those endless summer nights when you were sixteen, lying on her family's sprawling lawn watching satellites paint silver trails across the dark blue sky. or maybe it was in the quiet moments between lectures, when she'd fix your collar with careful fingers, her touch lingering just a heartbeat too long.

୨୧ all you knew was that mel had carved out a space in your life that nobody else could fill, and you weren't sure you wanted them to try.

୨୧ she moved through the world like she was made of starlight and ambition, all sharp edges and soft smiles. in business seminars, she was their star student, her neatly slicked baby hairs drawing the sunlight as she spoke about case studies and economic theory with the kind of confidence that made professors lean forward in their seats.

୨୧ but in your room, she was just mel—shoes kicked off, braids falling loose from their carefully styled updo, gesturing wildly as she talked about her latest thesis project while you pretended to study.

୨୧ you both had your rituals. every thursday night, she'd appear at your door with takeout from that little place downtown that knew your order by heart, and you'd share secrets like candy between your teeth.

୨୧ you'd curl up on your bed, papers spread around you like a hurricane of responsibility, and she'd listen to you complain about your upcoming presentations until your words turned soft and honest. sometimes, she'd fall asleep there, her head on your shoulder, her breathing steady against your neck, and you'd stay perfectly still, afraid to disturb whatever this was between you.

୨୧ it was the little things that undid you. the way she'd absently play with your fingers during long lectures, tracing the lines of your palm like she was reading your future. how she knew exactly how you took your coffee (one sugar, splash of cream and two extra pumps of vanilla, but only before noon). the way she'd look at you sometimes when she thought you weren't paying attention like you were a poem she was trying to memorize.

୨୧ you cataloged these moments carefully, storing them away like heirlooms.

୨୧ you told yourself it was nothing. that best friends always felt this way—heart racing when they walked into a room, breath catching when they smiled, skin burning where they touched.

୨୧ you convinced yourself that the ache in your chest when she dated other people was just protective instinct, that the relief you felt when those relationships inevitably ended was purely sympathetic.

୨୧ but there were moments when the pretense felt impossible. like the night she dragged you out dancing at that underground jazz club favored by grad students, her body pressed against yours in the crowded space, her breath warm on your neck as she whispered something you couldn't quite hear over the music.

୨୧ or the morning you found her asleep in your bed after a particularly brutal finals week, wearing one of your old silk robes. you stood in the doorway for too long, memorizing the way the early light licked her dark skin gold, how her braids spilled across your powder blue pillowcase like spilled ink.

୨୧ she wasn't subtle about her affection. mel had always been tactile with you—casual touches, long hugs, the way she'd rest her head in your lap during study breaks. but lately, there was something different about it. something charged.

୨୧ she'd trace patterns on your skin while you talked, her fingers leaving trails of electricity in their wake. when you'd dress for formal dinners, she'd zip up your dresses with agonizing slowness, her braids brushing against your back as she leaned close, her knuckles tracing your spine like a gentle claim.

୨୧ it was after one of the university's prestigious donor galas that everything shifted. you were both slightly giddy on champagne bubbles and shared glances, stumbling back to your dorm with your heels in your hands.

୨୧ mel was wearing dusty rose, the color melting into her skin, and there was something about the way the hallway lights caught in her hair that made your chest ache. she was telling a story about some legacy student who'd tried to copy her economics paper, her voice low and amused, but all you could focus on was the way her lips formed the words.

୨୧ 'you're not listening to me,' she said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the empty corridor. you weren't. you were thinking about how many years you'd spent memorizing her face, how you knew exactly which smile meant she was truly happy and which one she wore like armor in the halls.

୨୧ 'i'm always listening to you,' you replied, but your voice came out softer than intended. she stepped closer, and you could smell her perfume—something expensive and warm, amber and animalistic.

୨୧ 'then what did i just say?' she challenged, but her eyes were soft, knowing. you couldn't answer because you were too busy watching the way her pulse fluttered at her throat, visible above the delicate lace of her dress.

୨୧ 'mel,' you whispered, and it sounded like a prayer. like every secret you'd ever kept. like years of wanting something you thought you couldn't have.

୨୧ she kissed you first, or maybe you kissed her—later, neither of you could remember who moved first. all you knew was that one moment you were standing there, years of unspoken feelings hanging between you like morning mist, and the next her lips were on yours, soft and sure and tasting faintly of sugar cookie lip gloss.

୨୧ she kissed you like she'd been thinking about it for years, like she was trying to make up for lost time, and you melted into her with a sigh that felt like coming home.

୨୧ when you pulled away, her lip gloss was smudged, and you knew yours was too. she looked at you with something like wonder, her hands still cupping your face like you might disappear if she let go. 'how long?' she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

୨୧ 'always,' you answered, and it was true. it had always been mel, even when you were too afraid to admit it. she smiled then, brilliant and real, and kissed you again, softer this time, like she was making a promise.

୨୧ the next morning, you woke up tangled together in your sheets, her arm draped over your waist, her breath warm against your shoulder. the early light set her skin to flame, and when she blinked awake, the smile she gave you was everything you'd ever wanted but been too afraid to ask for.

୨୧ nothing really changed, except everything did. she still brought takeout on thursdays, still fixed your collar with careful fingers, still fell asleep in your bed. but now you could kiss her whenever you wanted, could wrap your arms around her waist from behind while she made coffee, could tell her all the things you'd kept locked away for so long.

୨୧ your love for her was reminiscent of wine spilled on silk, deep and permanent and impossible to ignore. and finally, wonderfully, you didn't have to try to scrub it out.

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buckets-and-trees · 3 months ago

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Between the Lines

Characters/Pairings: Ransom Drysdale x curvy female!Reader Word Count: 4.4k Summary: When presented with a deal you can't resist, you agree to to create an illusion so you can achieve your actual dreams.

Content/Warnings: masturbation, slow burn, forced proximity, fake engagement, annoyed/disgusted to lovers

Notes: This takes place after the events of Knives Out. Yes, all of the movie. No exclusions. Dividers by @vesearartistry and @saradika. My humble offering for week seven of my Countdown to Chris-mas. Thank you @stargazingfangirl18 and @biteofcherry for both indulging some of my plot-talking for this fic!

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You sat nervously in the lobby of Blood Like Wine Publishing watching the gears behind the glass display on the elegant clock above the reception desk.

Up until the death of Harlan Thrombey, the publishing house had published his works exclusively with a new murder mystery being produced and translated into dozens of languages each year like clockwork, the gears and cogs a well-tested as the antique clock on display.

With no Harlan, the publishing house had opened to submissions and you and your agent had made it through the initial rounds of querying and contract negotiations.

But now, only a year and a half after the prolific genius’s death and transfer of ownership to his nurse and friend Marta Cabrera, Marta had sold to a new owner - yet to go public in name, and they had asked for a meeting before finalizing the contract.

You tried not to fidget as you gripped the leather armrests of the chair, willing the minutes to pass faster. The lobby was eerily quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock and the occasional rustle of papers and the soft clacking of the keyboard from the receptionist's desk. The walls were adorned with framed book covers, each one a testament to Harlan Thrombey's literary legacy. You couldn't help but wonder if your own work would ever grace these halls.

As you waited, your mind raced with possibilities. Who was this mysterious new owner? What did they want? Your agent had assured you that this was just a formality, but the knot in your stomach suggested otherwise. You found yourself studying the intricate patterns in the marble floor, tracing the veins of gold and silver that snaked through the stone like the plot twists in one of Thrombey's novels.

Just as the clock struck ten, the elevator dinged, and a tall woman with perfectly coiffed short white hair strode out, her heels clicking authoritatively on the polished marble floor. She paused at the receptionist's desk, speaking in hushed tones before turning her piercing gaze towards you.

"I assume you’re my ten o’clock?" she questioned, her voice sharp and commanding.

You suppressed a gasp and abruptly stood, smoothing your clothes nervously as you approached none other than Linda Drysdale - the legendary daughter of Harlan.

"Yes, that's me.”

She gave you a once-over, then nodded. “Come with me.”

You followed Linda into the elevator, your heart pounding in your chest. The mirrored walls reflected your nervous expression back at you, and you tried to school your features into something more confident. Linda stood beside you, her posture perfect. In contrast to you, she seemed entirely at ease, tapping away at her phone with manicured nails.

When the doors opened, you stepped out into a hallway lined with dark wood paneling and more framed book covers. Linda's office was at the end, a massive space with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The room was dominated by an imposing desk made of rich mahogany, its surface neat and organized.

"Please, sit," Linda said, gesturing to one of the leather chairs in front of her desk. As you settled in, she moved to a small bar cart in the corner. "Can I offer you a drink? Perhaps some whiskey? A gin and tonic? Coffee? Tea?"

You shook your head, politely declining. "No, thank you. I'm fine."

Linda shrugged, pouring herself a generous measure of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. "Suit yourself," she said, returning to her desk and settling into her high-backed leather chair. She took a sip, savoring the whiskey before fixing you with her piercing gaze once more.

"I've read your manuscript," she began, her fingers drumming lightly on the desk's polished surface. "It's intriguing. You have potential, there's no denying that."

Your heart swelled with pride at her words, but you remained silent, sensing there was more to come.

Linda leaned forward, her eyes never leaving yours. "I'm prepared to offer you a book deal. A three-book contract, to be precise. The advance is generous, and the royalties - well, let's just say they're enough to make even my father's ghost smile."

You felt a surge of excitement, but something in Linda's tone made you hesitate. There was a glint in her eye, a slight curl to her lip that suggested there was more to this offer than met the eye.

"However," she continued, swirling the whiskey in her glass, "there is one small condition."

The word hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "What kind of condition?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Linda smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You see, my father liked to play games. In his will, he left us with one final trick. I don’t know how much of this you heard or followed in the news, but he left us nothing - his cash and assets, our home, and this publishing house all went to Marta Cabrera, his nurse at the time of his death.”

You would have been hard-pressed to have missed the news because it had spilled over into scandal.

“I don’t expect to see the sixty million, and that’s tough, but I can live with that - I’ve made my own fortune, and neither Walt and his family nor my sister-in-law and her daughter need to continue suckling off the teat of dad’s treasury. The house still hurts, but I’ll get it back - I can bide my time. But this? It only took me eighteen months of patience and strategy, working through subsidiaries and intermediaries, to close the deal on getting Blood Like Wine back in the family where it belongs.”

“I will go public with my ownership by the end of the week,” she continued, “but for better and for worse, the acquisition has ended up coinciding with my son’s pending release from prison.”

“Ransom?”

Linda nodded, a flicker of emotion crossing her face before disappearing behind her composed facade. "Yes, Ransom. As you can imagine, his... indiscretions have caused quite a stir in our family and social circles."

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, unsure where this was leading.

"My son made mistakes, grievous ones. But he's served enough time, and now he needs a chance to redeem himself. That's where you come in."

Your brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm not sure I understand, Mrs. Drysdale. What does this have to do with my book deal?"

"The condition," she explained, her voice taking on a steely edge, "is that you convincingly pose as his sweet-as-a-peach fiancé for two years.”

Your mouth fell open in shock. Ransom Drysdale, the man who had attempted to murder Marta Cabrera and frame her for Harlan's death, and she expected you to agree to this? You stared at Linda in disbelief, and the silence stretched between you, broken only by the soft ticking of an antique clock on the bookshelf behind her.

"I... I don't know what to say," you finally managed, voice a little weak in your shock.

Linda leaned back in her chair, taking another sip of whiskey. "It's quite simple, really. You play the role of Ransom's devoted fiancée, help rehabilitate his image, and in return, you get your book deal. Three books, a substantial advance, and the backing of one of the most prestigious publishing houses in the industry.”

"But... Ransom... he tried to kill someone. He went to prison. How could I possibly-"

"Details," Linda waved her hand dismissively. "The public has a short memory. With the right narrative, we can reshape Ransom's image. A reformed bad boy, humbled by his time in prison, now devoted to his charming fiancée and ready to contribute positively to society. We both know the power of a well-crafted story. People will believe anything."

You felt your head spinning. This was so far beyond what you had expected when you'd nervously entered the building this morning. "And what does Ransom think about this plan?" you asked, grasping for any semblance of normalcy in this surreal situation.

Linda's lips curved into a tight smile. "Ransom will do as he's told if he wants to maintain his lifestyle and eventually inherit his share of the family fortune. He knows the stakes."

You sat there, stunned. The offer was tempting - a three-book deal with Blood Like Wine Publishing was beyond your wildest dreams. But to fake an engagement with a convicted criminal? It seemed insane.

"I understand your hesitation," Linda said, her voice softening slightly. "But consider this: you'd have unprecedented access to our family. Think of the material for your future novels. The inside scoop on one of America's most infamous families. Isn't that what every mystery writer dreams of?"

You had to admit, she had a point. The Thrombey-Drysdale saga was the stuff of legend in literary circles. To be on the inside, to see how they really lived and interacted? That alone could draw readers in if they thought there was any chance you’d pull threads and weave it into your future novels.

And besides, this was your dream: a multi-book deal with a prestigious publisher, the chance to see your work in print, and to potentially become not only a published author but one who with Blood Like Wine’s name and marketing department could be a truly successful author. How could you pass it all up?

“What would you say to four books?”

You blinked, taken aback by Linda's sudden offer. "Four books?" you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper.

Linda nodded, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Four books. And we'll double the advance. Consider it... hazard pay." She chuckled softly at her own joke.

Your breath caught in your throat. Four books? The offer was even more tempting now, dangling before you like a golden carrot. You found yourself leaning in, drawn into Linda's web despite your better judgment.

"I... I don't know," you stammered, your mind racing. "This is all so sudden. What exactly would be expected of me?"

Linda's smile widened, sensing your wavering resolve. "Nothing too taxing, I assure you. Attend some charity galas, be seen at upscale restaurants, perhaps a carefully orchestrated paparazzi shot or two. We'll craft a beautiful love story for the press - how Ransom found redemption through your unwavering support and love."

You nodded slowly, uncertainty swirling more strongly, gut churning because you were actually considering this. You could do public appearances…

“A year and a half,” you countered.

Linda shook her head firmly. “No, I won’t budge on the time commitment. Two years is a bankable amount of time to make sure we turn enough pages to fully close this chapter. But I’ll give you six books.”

Your heart leapt at that, and even though your gut was uneasy, your brain was shouting that this kind of deal was something you could not refuse. “Six books, and the first two released before the engagement period is over.”

“Deal,” Linda agreed.

You took a deep breath, your mind reeling from the enormity of what you had just agreed to. Six books. A multi-million dollar deal. And all you had to do was pretend to be engaged to a convicted criminal for two years. It seemed surreal, like something out of one of - well not one of Harlan's novels, but whatever romance author was currently trending.

"I think I will have that drink now," you said, your voice sounding distant to your own ears.

Linda's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "I find a good whiskey helps smooth over even the most unusual of business deals."

You nodded, watching as she selected a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid. The soft clink of glass on glass filled the room as she poured a generous measure into a tumbler. The rich, peaty aroma of the whiskey wafted towards you, promising warmth and liquid courage.

Linda returned, extending the glass to you. Your fingers wrapped around the cool crystal and your eyes met Linda's. There was a moment of silent understanding between you - a recognition of the Faustian bargain you had just crafted and agreed to.

As you raised the glass to your lips, Linda's voice cut through the silence. "One more thing," she said, her tone casual but her gaze intense. "I'll up the advance to five million if you agree to move in with Ransom."

Your GPS led you to the top of a cul-de-sac in the Brown’s Wood neighborhood of Lincoln, Massachusetts. Beautiful trees and a typical New England landscape ushered you up the drive to the midcentury modern home owned by Hugh Ransom Drysdale. It didn’t scream home, but there was no denying it was a stunning feat of architecture - white walls and black roofing framing a structure of mostly floor-to-ceiling windows.

You sat in your car for a moment, gathering your courage. The enormity of what you had agreed to in Linda’s office had been sinking in all week, but this was it. Five million dollars. Six books. And two years of your life pretending to be engaged to - and now living with - a man who had attempted murder.

Maybe approaching all of this as if it was one big plot so of course it had to all work out was a ridiculous coping strategy, but it’s the one you had adopted.

But when the seven-figure advance had appeared in your bank account, giving you more money than you had earned in your entire life, you didn’t have it in you to back out.

If he murdered you, at least you would have paid off your student loans, credit card debts, provided for your parents’ retirement, and put away enough money in a trust for your nephew’s college fund.

The house loomed before you, a monument to wealth and taste that felt utterly alien. With a deep breath, you grabbed your bags from the passenger seat and made your way to the front door.

Before you could even ring the bell, the door swung open, revealing Ransom Drysdale himself.

He was taller than you expected, his presence filling the doorway. His piercing blue eyes scanned you from head to toe, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "So, you're the lucky lady my mother's picked out for me," he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You bristled at his tone but forced a smile. "And you must be the charming ex-convict I've agreed to shackle myself to," you replied, matching his sarcasm with your own. "Can we consider the awkward introductions done now?"

Ransom's smirk widened into a grin, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Oh, I like you already. Come on in, darling," he said, stepping aside to let you in. "Welcome to Hill House Drysdale. Try not to get too attached - I hear it's only a two-year lease."

You stepped into the house, immediately struck by the minimalist decor and open floor plan. The entire back wall was glass, offering a stunning view of the surrounding woods. It was beautiful, but cold - much like its owner, you mused.

The house was a stark contrast to the warmth of the Thrombey mansion you'd seen in news reports. This place was all clean lines, minimalist furniture, and an abundance of glass and steel.

"Nice place," you commented, setting your bags down. "I half expected to see crime scene tape and chalk outlines."

Ransom's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Sorry to disappoint. I save all my murdering for the family estate. This is my sanctuary."

You couldn't help but chuckle bitterly at his dark humor. At least he wasn't trying to pretend this was anything other than what it was - a business arrangement.

"So, where should I put my things?" you asked, gesturing to your bags. Some of your things had been sent off to a storage unit, but the things a moving consultant had determined would come here with you had been packed up and moved earlier in the day.

"The master suite is upstairs," Ransom said, closing the door behind you. "Stay out unless you’re embarking on a conjugal visit.”

You scoffed. “Charming.”

He winked at you, then began to take you through the house. “Other than that, you’re free to roam the house, and I’ll stay out of your space. Living room here,” he gestured around, then walked to the right, and you followed him into a sleek, modern kitchen. “Two Bosch ovens, a six-burner range, your choice of pretty much any appliance in one of these cupboards.”

“You cook?”

It was his turn to scoff. “God, no.”

He walked you through the length of it, coming out on the other end of the living room, and then walking through a dining room with a long black table and another two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows.

Ransom didn’t strike you as one for entertaining dinner parties, making this more of a feature room than anything else.

At the other end, you came to a new wing of the house.

“This is you,” he said simply. “First door office, second is your bedroom and bathroom.”

You hesitated at the transition point from the dining room to the other side of the house.

“What is it?” Ransom asked, turning and putting his hands on his hips impatiently.

“Linda said a contractor would be brought in to install a door and security system.”

“She said could, and you’ve got locks installed, but I own this house, installing a wall and door here is more invasive than I was willing to agree to, and since she’s a real estate mogul she conceded it would altar the property value.”

“I…”

“You can relax. I’m not likely to try to murder you - the memory of the inconvenience of being incarcerated will probably last for twenty-four to thirty-six months, putting you in the clear.”

You frowned.

“They’re nice rooms, state of the art locks, you’ll be fine,” he reiterated, rolling his eyes. “Digital reinforced with an analog component that you’ll have the only keys to.”

He tossed you a keychain with three keys, which you were quick to catch.

“Downstairs there’s another living room that’ll be for you exclusively and a laundry room.”

“So, you’ll be coming through here to do laundry then?” you asked.

“Cute of you to think I do my own laundry.”

Now it was you who had an eye roll to give.

"Speaking of, all your stuff was delivered safe and sound, but I took the liberty of having some clothes delivered for you. Can't have my fiancée looking like a struggling writer when we're out in public."

You bristled at his comment. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

Ransom's eyes raked over you, his gaze lingering a bit too long for comfort. "Let's just say they don't exactly scream 'trophy wife of a reformed bad boy billionaire.'"

You gritted your teeth, reminding yourself of the substantial paycheck waiting for you at the end of this charade. "Fine. When is the first public outing?"

Ransom checked his watch, a sleek, expensive-looking timepiece that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. "We have a charity gala tomorrow night. My dear mother thought it would be the perfect opportunity to debut our 'relationship' to society."

Your stomach twisted with anxiety. Tomorrow night? That was so soon. You weren't prepared for this.

“Last thing,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Here’s your ring.”

Ransom reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black velvet box. As he opened it, your breath caught in your throat. Nestled inside was a ring that could only be described as breathtaking.

The center stone was a flawless oval-cut diamond, easily 3 carats, that seemed to capture and refract every bit of light in the room. It was held in place by a delicate setting adorned with two smaller diamonds on either side. Each facet of the ring sparkled with an intensity that was almost hypnotic.

"This," Ransom said, his voice uncharacteristically warm, "is a family heirloom. It belonged to my great-grandmother, passed down through the generations. My mother insisted I give it to you."

He carefully removed the ring from its velvet nest and held it out.

You reached for it, holding it delicately and studying it more closely.

“And I am going to insist that you wear it continually,” he added, tone back to its normal bite, “none of this on and off business. We’re engaged and there’s no reason to risk a slip up forgetting to put it on before you leave the house.”

The weight of it in your hand felt significant, both physically and metaphorically. This wasn't just any engagement ring - it was a piece of Thrombey family history.

"It's... stunning," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ransom's expression softened for a moment, a flicker of something - pride? nostalgia? - passing across his face. "It is, isn't it?" he said, his sarcastic tone momentarily abandoned again. "My great-grandfather proposed with that ring after returning from the war. It's seen its fair share of family drama."

You couldn't help but chuckle at that. "I bet it has."

Ransom cleared his throat, his mask of indifference sliding back into place. "Well, go on then. Put it on.”

"Are you sure about this?" you asked cautiously. "Shouldn't a family heirloom go to someone real?"

Ransom's expression hardened slightly. "I’m hardly that sentimental. This arrangement is real enough for my mother, and it's real enough for me. Besides," he added with a sardonic smile, "you're as close to family as I'm likely to get these days."

With a deep breath, you slipped it onto your left ring finger. The final symbol of the elaborate charade you had chosen to undertake.

It was near midnight, and you were worn out and nearly ready to collapse into your bed. The movers had done most of the work, but you still had had some unpacking to take care of and moved the furniture around in your bedroom and the room that would be your office. After giving you the engagement ring, Ransom had left you alone the rest of the day.

You padded quietly through the dining room that connected the two halves of the house to the kitchen to fill up your water bottle before bed.

The house was eerily quiet as you made your way through the darkened rooms. Moonlight filtered through the expansive windows, casting long shadows across the polished floors. You tried to move silently, not wanting to disturb the stillness of the night or alert Ransom to your presence.

As you entered the kitchen, the cool tile against your bare feet sent a small shiver up your spine. You fumbled for a moment, searching for the light switch, but decided against it. Your eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and the soft glow from the windows was enough to navigate by.

You had just placed your water bottle under the refrigerator's filtered, letting the cool water splash into your bottle, when another sound caught your attention.

At first, it was barely perceptible - a faint, rhythmic creaking from upstairs. You froze, straining your ears. The sound grew clearer: a low, guttural groan, followed by the unmistakable sound of skin moving over skin.

Frozen in place, your cheeks flushed hot as realization dawned. Ransom was fisting his cock and unabashedly enjoying it.

Part of you wanted to flee back to your room immediately, but you were paralyzed, afraid any sound of movement might alert him to your presence.

Your breath caught in your throat as Ransom's moans intensified, echoing through the quiet house. The rhythmic creaking of his bed frame quickened, punctuated by deep, guttural groans that sent shivers down your spine. You stood frozen in the kitchen, your water bottle forgotten as you listened, captivated against your will.

Your body betrayed you, responding to the primal sounds drifting down from above. Heat bloomed in your core, your skin tingling with unwanted arousal. You could almost picture him - his muscular body taut with tension, head thrown back in ecstasy, those piercing blue eyes half-lidded with pleasure. Your imagination filled in the details - the flex of his biceps as he stroked himself, the sheen of sweat on his chest, the way his abs would clench with each thrust into his fist.

You pressed your thighs together, trying to quell the ache building between them.

"Fuck," Ransom's voice drifted down, rough with need.

The raw intensity in his voice sent a jolt through you. Your breath quickened, matching the frantic pace of his movements above. You knew you should leave, retreat to the safety of your room, but your feet remained rooted to the spot.

The sounds grew more urgent, building to a crescendo. Ransom's groans became deeper, more primal. You could hear the desperation in his voice, the need for release. Your own body thrummed with sympathetic tension, your nipples hardening beneath your thin sleep shirt.

Suddenly, Ransom let out a long, guttural moan. The sound of it vibrated through you, igniting every nerve ending. You imagined him arching off the bed, his body taut as a bowstring as he found his release.

The house fell silent once more, save for the pounding of your heart in your ears.

Realizing you were still clutching your water bottle, you turned and tip-toed back to your room as quickly as possible.

You slipped quietly back into your room, closing and locking the door behind you with trembling hands. Your heart was still racing, your body flushed with unwanted arousal. You leaned against the door, trying to steady your breathing.

What had just happened? You'd come to get water and ended up an unwitting eavesdropper to your fake fiancé's private moment. The memory of Ransom's deep groans echoed in your mind, sending another shiver through you.

You shook your head, trying to clear the vivid mental images. This was ridiculous. Ransom was arrogant, infuriating, and had literally tried to murder someone. You shouldn't be affected by him like this.

And yet, the memory of his moans lingered, making your skin tingle and your core ache with need.

When you crawled into bed, you brought a book with you instead of your vibrator, refusing to sate the lust that had been kindled because you didn’t want to risk thinking of him. If you couldn’t resist him the first night living under the same roof, there would be no hope for you to make it two years.

And so you read until your eyes drooped and you were finally succumbed to sleep.

HAPPY KNIVES OUT NOVEMBER! It seemed like an appropriate point during the Countdown to Chris-mas to finally buckle down and write my first Ransom fic!

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #slow burn #chris evans characters #aspen wrote something #female reader #countdown to chris-mas

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prettiedup · 9 months ago

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angel face ୨ৎ

you met toji at a bar. you remember that setting very well, sometimes too well. when you’re bored, you’ll sit back and think about that very night. you had just turned 20 not too long ago, and your friends had finally got the fake ids they ordered months ago. with excited giggles, they handed the ids out. you’ll never forget how your heart thumped as you examined the little card that displayed lie after lie. you had never done something so illegal, something so sinister.

that night, you waited until your parents were sleeping. no, not just laying in bed and resting, but absolutely sleeping. their breathing turned heavy and their chests rose up and down slowly. their backs touched each other as if they had enough of each other, even while unconscious. with the knowledge that they were asleep, you made sure to close the luxurious door as quietly as possible. the door closed shut with a soft thud. you stood there for a second, holding your breath. you weren’t sure as to what you were waiting for, but you waited.

you counted to 60 in your head four times before solidifying that they were actually asleep. your eyes crinkle as a smile adorned your lips. with newfound enthusiasm, your feet that were comforted in white lace socks pitter patter against the prime grade wood flooring. you skip into your room and close and lock the door behind you.

you grab your phone that sits on top of your nightstand.11:20 it reads. you have exactly an hour and ten minutes to get ready. you’re quick to rush into your white marbled bathroom that had soft pink enhancements sprouted throughout the room.

the walls are adorned with large, glossy white marble tiles, reflecting light and creating an illusion of spaciousness. lowered chandeliers create soft, ambient lighting, casting a gentle modern glow over the room. the room's main feature is a gleaming white marble bathtub with simple, elegant lines and a large basin that invites you to have a relaxing dip. a peaceful waterfall faucet that cascades above it softly filling the tub with warm water whenever you feel the need to soak your stresses away.

you choose to use your stand-up shower, for this occasion. the shower is fully glass, exposing everything and more. two sides or large glass panels trap you on your sides to stop the water from escaping freely. as you turn the hot water on, both the overhead shower-head and the six miniature shower-heads come to life. you take off your pink silky robe, hanging it on the nook that’s nailed onto the wall beside your shower. you rub your body clean with soaps and exfoliators. the water plays a soft tune throughout the bathroom, the relaxing sound from the faucet merges with the sweet scents. it’s a precise routine that you do daily. scrubbing yourself until you’re absolutely sure your body is sparkling, and then stepping out of your shower with a pink fluffy towel around your body. a large white bathroom rug catches all of the spare droplets as you walk to your sink.

when you’re done with your skincare routine which includes not only your face but oiling your body down, you’re leaving your bathroom and walking into your walk-in closet. the automatic light sensors turn on, almost if it was awaiting your arrival. you choose a short light pink dress, and a pair of expensive shoes that match the shading. you gush over the cute bows that are etched onto the heel of the shoe.

time moves quickly. one minute you’re brushing your hair and inserting a clip on bow, and the next you’re quietly sneaking out through the back door. you walk to your friend’s white range rover that’s parked three houses down.

the rest of the night is moved in little blurs. you feel like you’re sitting inside of a cinema, watching a newly released movie. the bar is full of men. and not the guys you’re used to seeing around at these little college frat parties. no, these are men with tattoos, men with beards, mens with war battles littered on their body, men who are old enough to be your dad. as you look around, you suddenly feel childish in your outfit. the women in the bar wear crop tops and little shorts that have their ass cheeks hanging out. there’s a sense of maturity that courses through the bar, something the frat parties could never carry.

these are criminals, office men, police officers, businessmen. and suddenly there’s a throbbing in your lower region that you’ve never felt before. you’re looking around curiously as if the bar is some sort of museum that hold rare artifacts.

you look over at a table full of guys, their faces are littered with tired eyes and white beards. you accidentally make eye contact with one of the men and he winks before smirking and muttering something to his friends. they all snap their heads to you and your friends. some of them whistle while the others carry the same smirk. you should feel disgusted, guys that were possibly in the same classes with your dad, are making advances towards you. but instead the throbbing increases and a feeling of need courses through your body.

your friends make it to the bar and take your seats. a female bartender who looks to be in her mid 30s walks up to you four. she has overgrown blonde roots and various random tattoos littered all over her skin. her skin is obviously fake tanned, the exposed parts of her body are three shades darker than her head. her makeup is cakey and there’s dark eyeshadow around her eyes creating a lazily done smokey eye look. there’s a few facial piercings on her face as well. a dermal beside her eye, two dimple piercings, an eyebrow piercing, and when she opens her mouth to greet you all you can see the ball of a tongue piercing.

“what can i get for you ladies?” her voice is somewhat strained and gravelly. as she leans in, you can smell the lingering smell of cigarettes on her tongue.

“can i have eight shots of lemon drop, please.” your friend flashes the bartender a mischievous smile.

those shots were what got the night going. you were already very tipsy after your two shots and also a half glass of tequila. your friends had scattered around the bar, having conversations amongst themselves. you watch them, there’s envy burning in your stomach at how social they’re able to be so easily. you take it as competition. you sway your head to the side and your eyes land on a guy who’s sitting on the far end of the counter.

with the confidence you mustered, you walk up to him and sit in the wooden chair beside him. the chair creaks as you adjust yourself. sucking in a heavy breath, you smile at him.

“hi.” you greet him.

“’m not a perv. fuck off.” his response has you blinking rapidly in shock.

“uhm .. what? i’m-i’m of age!” you exclaim. you don’t know why you feel so offended at his words. most girls would’ve instantly stood up and walked away from his hostility, but if anything it strung you in even more.

“yeah, okay. and lemme guess, there’s pigs out there flyin’.” he chuckles but it’s forced, if anything.

“you, sir, are reaaaal hostile.” you drag the word out. the alcohol in your system is fumbling with your ability to talk normally.

“go away, little girl.” he dismisses you once again. he’s gripping his glass, with the muscles straining from his tight black shirt you wonder if he’s going to end up breaking it.

you have no idea as to why you’re so stuck on staying beside him and continuing to try. “i’ll have you know,” you emphasize, making sure the word rings through his head. “i can do everything you can do. vote, pay taxes, drive, all of that.”

“not drink, though.” he argues.

your eyebrows scrunch and suddenly you’re digging through your purse searching for that fake id. once your fingers grasp it, you’re pulling it out and slamming it on the polished wood.

“actually, i can.” you challenge. you’re sliding the card in front of him, all of your confidence powered into that one finger.

the guy goes quiet for a second, he’s reading your id. you cross your arms in victory. yeah, he doesn’t have much to say now.

or so you thought. “this shit’s faker than me claimin’ t’be a good father.” he says, his voice tinged with disgust. he slides the card back in front of you.

“okay. whatever. ‘m of age, though. okay? i’m 20 and if i’m not mistaken that’s grown.” you reply.

he finally turns, his entire body turns to look at you. lean and toned. he’s extremely built, with muscles everywhere. not to mention his waist, that’s so so slim. he’s wearing black jeans but you don’t even have to see his legs to know they match his arms. your eyes dart away his lower body to focus on his face. his face is rugged and masculine. he has sharp, angular features, including a strong jawline and high cheekbones. his green eyes are sharp and piercing as he stares down at you. you notice there’s an attractive scar that runs through his thin lips.

“‘nd is there a reason as t’why you keep botherin’ me, ms.twenty year old?” he asks sarcastically.

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“g-gonna cum again!” you gasp. your head lays in the crook of his neck. he has one strong hand holding your head so even if you wanted to move it, you couldn’t.

you had only had sex with one guy, ever. and he was more so on the skinnier side. you wouldn't shame him at all, he had managed to pull a few orgasms out of you. but this一this was different. he was stretching you out in ways that had your mind completely fucked. your pussy is stretched and wrapped tightly around his cock as if it was made for him and him only.

your knees laid on both sides of his hips. you had started off riding him but he had quickly taken control when he realized how awkward you are when you’re on top. the way you stiffly jerked your hips would have resulted in absolutely no orgasms if he had let you continue. his feet were planted flat on the mattress while his other arm was wrapped around your lower back so that he could have leverage as he plowed his cock into your dripping pussy.

you could faintly hear the sound of police sirens through the thin motel walls. you had let the mystery man sway you to this cheap motel that looked as if it was infested with a little bit of everything. you remember the look on the receptionist’s face, a big man dressed in all black with a girl that’s inches shorter than him right beside him. they looked suspicious until you grabbed at the guy’s hand to lead him back outside once the two of you got a key.

“fuck are you so quiet for?” his voice snaps you out of your thoughts. before you could respond his big palm is striking down on your ass, sending multiple slaps. you whimper and jerk in his hold but he doesn’t let you move. “ungrateful thing. should i stop?”

“no!” you sob out. “please don’t stop.”

he rubs his hand over the spot he attacked before gripping your hip and fucking up into you even harder. the sound of his balls slapping against your skin and your pussy wetting his dick even more echoed through the room. the motel bed squeaks with every movement, like an old door protesting against being opened.

your senses whirl as he abruptly hurls you onto the side of the bed. your form plunges into the worn mattress, a musical of creaking springs accompanying your fall as you land on your stomach. everything moves fast as he’s suddenly behind you and pressing cock back inside of your awaiting pussy.

“arch your back.” he grumbles. he doesn’t give you time to move on your own before he’s grabbing your hips and adjusting them into the air. his sharp eyes take in your bruised pussy that’s clenching around nothing.

he lets his leaking cockhead rub against your pussy for a few moments. he shudders when his thick pre cum mixes with your arousal, creating a beautiful canvas. you’re whining and cooing out to him, he takes note of you growing impatient and taking it upon yourself to move your hips in desperate attempts that his dick would enter you.

“desperate girl.” he tuts before lining himself up and slamming his dick back inside of you.

you let out a deafening scream as your pussy streams out liquid. he quickly pulls out and rubs his length through the mess you’re creating.

"gooood girl. mhm cum all on m'dick. jus' like that." he coos at you. "gonna gimme some more? hm?" he asks while bracing his cock for your tight walls.

you whimper out something unintagible as you fix your arch once again. just the thought of him scolding you for not listening put a sense of uneasiness in your body. you wanted to continue being his good girl.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

nestled in a sea of soft, spiraling sheets and flat pillows, your soft breathing created a peaceful, rhythmic lullaby in the room. your chest's soft rise and fall resembled the waves' gentle rise and fall on a calm beach. your shape was nestled into the motel bed, which provided a false sense of haven from the outer world. toji gives your body a once over. he had really done a number on you. your body is littered with bites and bruises from him gripping you too hard. and somehow through all his negligence and however rough he was with you, you continued to moan and beg for more.

he told himself he was done with one night stands. god damnit. and then here you go walking into the bar with those needy ass doe eyes. he could smell the youthfulness on you. a twenty year old prissy girl with no true understanding of how ugly the world actually is.

toji exhaled while being lost in his own world as he stood outside the dimly illuminated motel room, wisps of smoke swirling around him. the light from his cigarette flickered with every breath, highlighting his face in the shadows.

he'd be lying if he said it didn't feel good. having a fine thing begging for more of his cock, the way you gripped the sheets whenever the overstimulation got too much to deal with, your choked sobs as he brought you to a place you've probably never reached before. a smirk tugged on his lips. you made him feel young again, that's for sure.

he could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket, it's possibly his boss who has found a shady job for toji to do. usually, he would've accepted in seconds but the thought of you halted him from doing so. this motel was located in a rather dangerous location and toji would feel like shit if he was listening to the news one day and found out some criminal got to you. he decides he'll walk you to a safer area before the two of you part ways.

his heart thumps hard in chest when he realizes this is the first and last time you two would ever do something like this. he enjoyed your smart replies and the fake confidence you put up at the bar. even more so, he enjoyed the size difference between you two. he dwarfs you in every way. he was practically throwing you around like some ragdoll and you took it. you took it all and that shit is fascinating to toji.

he tilts his head back, a cloud of smoke escapes through his mouth and into the air. that was一fun. he decides.

#prettiedup ♡#prettiedup’s jjk fics .ᐟ toji #olderbf!toji #i hope this made sense was u guys r interested cus i wld luv t'continue dis #toji smut #jjk toji #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji x you #fushiguro toji #toji x y/n

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mushroompollution · 1 month ago

Note

From Saintworks:

[PRESS THIS BUTTON WITH YOUR BRIGHTNESS AT MAX]

>Doing so would cause little, blocky flurries of light to appear over the phone or laptop screen, tiny pixels turning to atoms, and forming a complex object right there in the air, out of data and light. It's a sleek, carbon-fiber black pocket watch, on a black chain, at least from the outside. It fits in the palm of the hand, and is engraved with the image of a pair of hands, grasping each other for dear life, as if one was pulling the other from danger.

>Inside the device is an actual fake watch face, keeping the time with a razor-thin digital clock that turns analog arms, but flipping that up reveals a small, rectangular port, and a screen. The port is covered by a sliding door, which opens automatically to reveal a pair of little jewel-like stones at each end. The little round screen is extremely low resolution, and as it turns on, a pixelated compass arrow spins a full circle across it, before the words "Insert trace sample" scroll across it.

Elliot freezes at the sudden popup, his thumbs paused over his phone screen. There's been so much information, so many conversations and offers being thrown at him, and his head aches.

But with no winks or nudges or deals or Contracts mentioned, he had rather blindly agreed to this one. And really... It couldn't hurt to try, right?

If it could save Leo, then

you i needs to save him.

hurry!

While deliberating, he must have tapped the screen by accident. His blue eyes widen as the pixels knit together, materializing before them. And the result is breathtaking. Hesitation be damned, he gently takes the pocket watch, turning it over between his nimble fingers. If nothing else, it's instantly become his new favorite timepiece.

But then the watch face flips open, and he feels his nerves creep in again. Right. The hair. Leo's hair. The hair from Leo's hairbrush--

Elliot walks into his adjacent bathroom, only to stare down at his own brush, sitting perfectly in its assigned spot on the marble counter.

Wait.

But Leo doesn't brush his hair in the bathroom, because Leo doesn't do mirrors. Those nerves start to prick the hairs on his neck as he thinks.

Leo leaves that thing all over both their rooms. And then he uses it as an excuse not to brush it! Seriously! This is why Elliot's always telling him to make a habit of leaving it on the dresser. "Well, okay, Leo. Where did you--"

Suddenly, he freezes.

"have it last...."

His heart sinks.

Oh.

Oh no.

He turns quickly on his heel, heart pounding as he returns to his bedroom. He picks up every single object on his dresser, his nightstand, his desk, his tv stand, his bookshelf. He drops to the ground, searching beneath his bed, his sofa--

Then he races into Leo's small, adjoining room to do the same.

No no no no no.

His fist slams hard against the paneled wall in agonizing frustration as he's forced to accept the realization.

The last place Leo had his brush was in that townhouse. The one that had burned to the ground the night his father had been murdered and Leo had---

You I can't just give up.

Not after someone had gone so far to send him this gift.

He tears his sofa apart, hoping to find so much a toenail. He checks the trash, their pillows, the shower drain, anything. Anything!!

But it's been two weeks, and the Nightray family only employs the most thorough maids.

He feels his heart sink and his legs go out.

#ooc #answers #[not visible ic]

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magniloquent-raven · 2 years ago

Text

enough of you to dull the pain

HEY it's been a minute since i put any writing out there lol how yall been

tag list: @spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you 💕

(read on ao3)

If it was anyone else Billy would have said no. Immediately. No question. He's got rules, and staying in familiar territory is a big one. Doesn't matter how good the money or the dick is, he doesn't let johns choose the location. As much for his own safety as Heather's peace of mind. He always tells her where he's going before he leaves the apartment.

Until tonight.

Until Steve fucking Harrington.

He figured Steve was a fake name at first. It's generic as hell, and the deer-in-the-headlights rapid blink he did before it fell out of his mouth that first night seemed like the look of someone scrambling for an answer. Usually isn't that hard for people to just tell the truth when someone asks their name.

But no.

He tossed Billy his wallet once. Still naked and sweaty and stretched out in questionably clean motel room sheets, a rosy glow on his cheeks and not a care in the world, like he hadn't just handed some random street walker every piece of ID he owns and $600 more than he's worth.

His driver's license was tucked into a clear plastic pocket on the inside flap. A faded picture, his hair neatly combed, the corner of his mouth pinched like he was trying not to smile. Harrington, Steve. No middle name. 5' 10". 175 lbs. Eyes, brown. Hair, brown.

He's a year or so older than Billy. Born in the fall.

"Harrington, huh," Billy drawled out, liking the way the name fit into his mouth.

Steve shrugged, lounging, beautiful even in the dim light of a dirty lightbulb. The tiny smile that tugged at his reddened lips set something aflame in Billy's chest. Something that had been burrowing its way inside for weeks and had no business being there.

Something he's long since accepted isn't going away any time soon. They're months past Heather jokingly calling his weekly appointments date night and not thinking anything of him nervously brushing it off. Weeks past her dawning horror, growing concern, slammed doors and three rounds of a shouting match. He's tired of her going quiet every time he tells her where he'll be on a Friday night. Her judgemental eyes and pitying frown. Her chastising and talking in circles about how much of a moron he's being, like he doesn't fucking know already.

He always knew he was in over his head. It's been blindingly obvious from the start. Even when they were on his turf, Steve in his pressed slacks, unclipping his shiny fucking Rolex so he could carefully lay it on the scuffed-up table next to their rented bed, too clean, too bright, too good to be sitting on wrinkled sheets next to Billy in a dingy motel. The home field advantage should have kept him grounded but Steve's presence alone—his touch, his taste, the way he laughs, the way he looks at Billy like he's an actual person—kept him falling so far out of his depth he didn't know which was was up anymore.

It's so much worse here. He's unmoored. Blind and struck dumb, nothing to hold onto but Steve but clinging too tightly hurts.

He should have said no. He was prepared to say no. But that's not what came out of his mouth, and now here he is, in some ritzy fucking hotel, worlds away from anything resembling a safety net. He's pretty sure the floor his grimy boots are clomping on is actual marble, smooth and glassy and probably worth more than his first car.

His reflection stares back at him in every surface he looks at. Shiny golden columns, lacquered wooden panels, crystal light fixtures sparkling on every wall, everything's so fucking polished and pristine he can't stop seeing his own face, flushed cheeks and barely concealed nerves, sticking out like a sore thumb even in his nicest shirt.

It shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. He's here to do a fucking job, the thread-count of the sheets he ends up between doesn't change that. All he needs to do is keep it together 'til he's there. Then he can forget about the concierge and his pressed suit glaring down his nose at Billy's cheap rings and butchered haircut. And the lady with her ankles crossed, eyeing him up from over her newspaper. And the man at the front desk with his bushy mustache, its edges curled with disdain. And the air in the room pressing in on all sides, thick and perfumed, catching in his throat like he's fucking drowning.

A familiar sickly feeling bubbles in his gut. His fingers twitch, curled into fists in his jacket pockets, sweat gathering in the creases of his palm. Ten years ago he'd have been giving in to the urge to break shit and run. Pick a fight, any fight, smash a window, knock over a stupid goddamn vase, anything to not be the only damaged thing in the room.

Hell, he still might. He hasn't grown up that much.

Steve's hand lands on the small of his back, and he jolts, tensing, heart in his mouth.

"I already checked in, just wait 'til you see the room," Steve says in a low voice, breath warm on the side of Billy's neck.

Thank Christ, at least he doesn't have to stand around in this gilded hellscape attracting stares while Steve rents a room, totally fucking oblivious to how this looks to everyone in the foyer.

There's a crude remark on the tip of his tongue. Some kind of innuendo he'd normally make in this sort of situation. It's expected of him. He's got a very specific role here, no matter how many idiotic fantasies he has about the what ifs.

But he chokes. The thought of someone hearing him, the idea of leaning in and making it even clearer what they're here to do, it's all too much and his throat goes dry.

Neither of them speak until they're alone in a third floor suite with the Do not Disturb sign hanging securely on the handle of its locked door.

It's a nice room. Obviously. Well-lit. Plush carpet. There are at least six pillows on the bed, and none of them look drool-stained.

Billy kicks his boots off, letting them land lopsidedly next to the coffee table.

Damn, the carpeting really is fucking ridiculous. Might be easy on his knees for once.

He bounces on his toes a little, trying to be subtle about shifting his weight around. Reminds him of walking barefoot on the beach, the warm give of sand shifting under his feet. But cleaner.

"Nice, right?"

Billy freezes, caught. Steve shed his jacket while Billy wasn't looking, and he's absentmindedly loosening his tie, eyes warm, watching.

"Uh." Great. Good job. Steve's really getting his money's worth with all this witty banter. "...Yeah." Jesus fucking Christ.

Steve hums, seemingly content with Billy's answer, and continues to undress.

Now would be a good time to get it together. Like, right now. Say something cool, or offer to suck his dick, or…

"So, plans fall through with your wife or something?"

Not that. Idiot. But he can't take it back now, no matter how much he wants to. Steve might not wear a ring, but that doesn't mean Billy isn't about to hear something he never wanted to know.

He busies himself with taking his jacket off and laying it carefully over the back of the nearest chair. When he chances a peek at Steve he catches a glimpse of a furrowed brow and parted lips.

"Dude, I'm not married."

"Girlfriend then."

"No."

Billy lets out a silent breath, relief he has no right to feel washing over him.

He doesn't ask why he's here if not to fill some void in a pre-existing plan. It won't be what he wants to hear, 'cause he's gotten too lucky already. Best to quit while he's ahead.

It's probably just a kink thing.

Because he's here to fuck and that's it.

Every time they meet up it gets a little harder to remember that.

Which isn't entirely his fault, to be fair. It's not all on him and his incredibly inappropriate crush. Steve's started to linger, longer and longer after they're finished, he'll just…hang out. Asking Billy questions. Telling him little things about his life.

Maybe they're sort of friends. In a fucked up way.

"How do you want me tonight?"

"Oh, uh…" Steve's shirtless now, thick mat of chest hair on full display. He's got good shoulders. Well-muscled. Broad, even if he doesn't hold himself like they are. He puts his hands on his hips, standing like a suburban dad who can't find his reading glasses while he eyes Billy up. Somehow this does not make him any less hot. Mostly it's just stupidly endearing. "What are you in the mood for?"

Billy blinks at him.

It's not out of the ordinary for Steve to be mindful of Billy's needs when they have sex. In fact, he's very consistently been a generous lover, but he's never outright asked like that before, because…that's just not how this goes. Even when he gets clients who prefer being more submissive it's just a game they play, and they both know he doesn't make the rules. It's always about what the johns want. He's providing a service.

But Steve loves to come in and change shit, doesn't he.

Billy used to let clients kiss him. He likes kissing. He likes having someone's tongue in his mouth. He likes the heat on his lips and the pressure and the softness. Not all of them are good at it, but a bad kiss can still be kind of fun.

And then he met a client that he wanted to kiss more than anything else. Steve Harrington's mouth fucking haunts him. He dreams about kissing him. Lazily. Sloppily. Hungrily. Laying in bed for hours and just pressing their mouths together. He wanted to kiss him the second he saw him, and he knew it would ruin his fucking life.

So he lied. When he was giving Steve the run-down he told him he didn't kiss, and he pointedly ignored the puppy-dog eyes and the way Steve's gaze drifted south with poorly concealed disappointment.

And to make matters worse, he hasn't kissed a client since. Because none of them are Steve, and Billy's a fucking idiot.

"C'mon, anything. What d'you wanna do?" Steve coaxes gently, so gently, like he's approaching a stray cat he wants to pet.

Billy shakes his head, hoping it'll dislodge all the dumb rosy thoughts of sunlight in Steve's hair and petal pink lips trailing up his chest. "That's not how this works."

"Why not?"

"Seriously?"

Steve just looks at him. Just fucking looks. His expression is fairly neutral, but his jaw is set. He's not going to just let this drop. Of course he isn't.

"Because. You're the one paying, man. Your wish is my command and all that shit."

"What if my wish is to do what makes you happy?"

That pulls a laugh out of Billy, a tiny, surprised noise burbling up out of nowhere. "Jesus Christ," he mumbles, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. The tips of his ears are warm, and it gets worse when Steve beams at him. "Yeah, yeah. You can't sweet-talk yourself a discount y'know."

"Not what I was after."

Steve really needs to stop looking at him like that. Before Billy does something even stupider than agreeing to come here in the first place.

He doesn't stop. It gets worse, actually. His delight softens into something fond, eyes crinkled at the corners and honey-sweet. And he comes closer. Close enough that Billy can smell his shampoo, an outdoorsy scent, clean and sunshiney. It's familiar by now, but still hits him right in the chest.

"What're you after then?" Billy asks. He meant to sound light and flirty, dripping with enough innuendo to get this back into safe territory, but instead his voice is barely a whisper, straining with his failed effort to keep his feelings out of it.

Steve toys with a button on Billy's shirt, tracing circles around it with a fingertip. "Told you already." He keeps running his thumb along the seam, teasing, a hair's breadth from the bare skin peeking out of the low dip of Billy's neckline. "I wanna make you happy."

It's too much. Everything, the tone of Steve's voice, low and earnest and soft as velvet, the lump in the back of Billy's throat, his heart squeezing painfully, his lungs seizing, the cold sweat on his back, and the tiny point of contact between them, just…

He can't do this.

He pulls away, stumbling back, shoulders hunched, hands frozen mid-air because he doesn't know what to do with them. "Don't do that."

Steve's expression drops, his eyes wide, lips parted. He shuffles a step away from Billy, arms wrapped around his middle. "Shit—sorry. Sorry. I…uh. Are you…okay?"

"Stop."

"What?"

"I'm not your fucking boyfriend, stop treating me like…" Like there's a chance this might go somewhere? Like hoping isn't a dangerous waste of time. Like there aren't hundred dollar bills burning a hole in the pocket of that jacket on the floor.

Billy rubs his eyes, pressing with the heel of his hand until he sees stars.

"Sorry," Steve says again, quieter. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

God fucking damnit.

"Why are we here, Steve?"

He's just a good person. He's just considerate and kind and it's not his fault Billy can't stop seeing signals that aren't there. The hotel was just a friendly gesture from someone with too much money. Or it was a sex thing. Or what the fuck ever. Billy doesn't want to hear it, but he fucking needs to.

So, he waits. And waits. Steve blinks at him, opening and closing his mouth silently.

"Steve."

"I don't want to make you more uncomfortable!"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I—" Steve bites his lip. "It's been a year."

"What."

"A year ago today. Since we met. It's dumb, alright. I got a little drunk and booked a room, and I wasn't sure if you'd even say yes but I figured I'd ask, 'cause I'd already done it, and then…well, I mean, and now we're here. Because I…" He runs an agitated hand through his hair. "I want you to have nice things."

That wasn't what Billy expected. He was vaguely aware that they met this time last year, but he hadn't marked the day. And he definitely didn't think Steve had.

He shoves his hands into his pockets to stop them from shaking. "You…" He trails off, at a loss.

Steve's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, his gaze dropping from Billy's face. "Yeah, I know, I'm a pathetic cliche. Miserable trust fund baby falls in love with a hooker. Shock, surprise. I'm sorry, okay, I…" He freezes, seeming to realize a second too late what he just said, but instead of back-paddling he just winces and looks apologetic.

He's not taking it back.

But he can't mean it, right?

Billy's pulse roars in his ears. His ribcage feels hollowed out, full of hot air and champagne. Steve's words echo in his head, repeating over and over and over, but no matter how many times he hears it, it doesn't quite sink in. Doesn't feel real.

His whole body is jittery, wracked with terror like he's never felt in his fucking life.

He's been trying so hard to keep Steve at arm's length. Not that he's been doing it well, but he's tried. For Steve's sake as much as his own. Their relationship should've been simple. Easy. Just a business transaction. And Steve wasn't paying for Billy to get his dumb selfish feelings all over the place.

Billy somehow never stopped to consider the flipside in all of this. He was too caught up in his own shit to notice that Steve was…Steve is…

Fuck, he has to say something. The right thing, for once. Hopefully.

He pushes a hand through his hair, fingers catching in tangles behind his ear, and he wastes a moment fiddling with the curls caught on his shirt collar. Stalling does nothing to settle his nerves. The rise and fall of his chest is still stilted, shallow, lungs burning as he tries to even out and can't quite get enough air. He opens his mouth. Closes it. And…

"At least we're a pathetic cliche together?" He manages to push out a wobbly exhale that's almost a laugh.

Steve blinks at him.

Another long moment passes. Silence.

"Are…you saying. What I think you're saying?"

"What do you think I'm saying."

"I…" Steve looks unsure, shifting his weight around. It's almost too much to bear, his kicked puppy-dog face, downcast eyes and contrition a weight around his shoulders.

"Steve," Billy says softly. He pauses, chewing the inside of his cheek. The words are there, stuck. It feels like a physical thing, a lump in his throat that he can barely breathe around. It takes effort for him to whisper, "I want you to kiss me."

Which at least gets Steve's attention. His head whips up, cheeks flushed pink, and he locks eyes with Billy. "You do? Right now?"

"What—yes, obviously, right n—nmm—"

Kissing Steve Harrington is better than he imagined.

It's overwhelming in the best way. How suddenly Steve is just there, in his space, a gentle hand cupping his jaw, warmth radiating off him, his bare chest, his thigh pressed to Billy's, and his mouth, god, his mouth. Soft lips and a clever tongue. Billy's never wanted so badly to be devoured, aching more with every teasing scrape of teeth along his bottom lip.

The room could be on fire and he wouldn't notice.

Eventually they come up for air. Billy's not sure when his hands ended up on Steve's shoulders, fingertips pressing white marks into his biceps, but he's glad for the support, because his knees sure as hell aren't holding him up on their own.

"Jesus Christ, we should've done that a long time ago," Billy chuckles breathlessly.

"Been wanting to for a year."

"Mmn." He sighs, and rests his forehead against Steve's. "Yeah. Same."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. Now kiss me again."

And he does.

#stranger things #harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #a raven's writing desk

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jukebox-arts · 11 months ago

Text

Next Chapter's ready

Glittering, shimmering, perfect.

The aurora’s yellow glimmer reflected off the hundreds of panels of glass that littered the skyline like precious jewels, all lit from within by the wondrous generators laid out in underground chambers that formed the base of E’rta City. Each one meticulously crafted, cleaned and updated to better regulate the supply of etherylle and electricity as the city demanded; each one belonging to Oinn Energy & Supply, itself a jewel in the figurative crown of Vissara Oinn, the CEO. Had it suited her, the middle aged woman would wear such a thing without a hint of irony, however such gaudy things had fallen out of fashion eons before her ancestors set the groundwork for their legacy in energy cultivation.

Vissara was nothing if not modern.

The term ‘ivory tower’ was an old one, supposedly meant to denote wealth and privilege without being literal, but for Vissara it very much was both. Turning from the window, she tucked a stray black hair behind her ear and approached her desk, a fine piece of rare dark wood that stood out starkly among the white and gray marble walls laced with gold trim and filigree. She found the dark spot to be suitably unnerving in its isolation to those who found themselves in the luxurious walls of her private office, as if it made them so very aware of their own misplacement in her presence. This pleased the woman every time she saw eyes shift nervously across the room or weight switch from foot to foot as they felt the hollow weight bear down on them from a room too big, too empty, too tall to be comfortable in.

She found comfort in that emptiness and the power is held over the minds of the socially stagnated.

The comm unit on her desk beeped just as she reached her chair. With a faint flicker of a smile always in place, Vissara touched the Open Link button gently with a ruby and gold gelled nail. “Yes?” she purred, expecting something good.

“Silvon is here,” the small voice on the other side replied.

“Ah,” the woman mused, smile widening with genuine happiness, “perfect, perfect! Send him in!”

No sooner had she hung up the comm than the great carved doors of the office opened with a groan, a single lean human standing there patiently. Dressed with fine lilacs and chains, the masculine human stepped into the room, round glasses frames shining in the brightness. “Miss Oinn,” they greeted with typical monotone.

Approaching them gracefully, Vissara’s heels clicked over the marble floor as she stepped off the carpet with barely contained eagerness. “Excellent timing, as always,” the woman mused, stopping a few strides away from her guest. “Tell me good news, Silvon. Have you found my boys yet?”

Faded magenta irises gazed evenly, unbothered by the stark echo of heelsteps off the walls and oppressive emptiness they knew Vissara was so keen on using to intimidate others. “News, yes, but I can’t say it’s good.”

Painted lips pursed in an overplayed pout. “Well that’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“My apologies.” Silvon knew not to play into her act; unlike her lavish material things, they knew Vissara herself to be one thing: fake. Nothing she said or did could be taken at face value, whether it was a business deal or a pout that was suspiciously too coy to be genuine. Always, she was waiting. Baiting. “The rebels were mostly contained and interrogated, however a handful of them were witnessed escaping the bounds of the city, heading into the jungle.”

Lacquered nails folded together patiently. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

Eyes closing behind wide rimmed glasses, Silvon continued, “We believe your ‘boys’ were taken by those who managed to escape.”

“Of course.” True disappointment was rare to hear in the woman’s voice, and this was no different a time; she’d expected this on some level, Silvon thought. “First they ruin my party, then they take my treasures. Horrid! All because they disagreed with the relocation effort.”

An involuntary tic hit Silvon’s jaw, forcing them to clamp it down firmly and avoid speaking up about her use of the term ‘relocation’. This was not the time. “If it would please you, miss Oinn, I can contact the provider and have them… remade for you.”

“Now why would I do that?”

Silvon’s eyes opened, meeting the unreadable, faintly grinning face of Vissara as she stared them down, manicured hand laying on her cheek in a mockery of worry. “Pardon?” They tried to keep disappointment from giving away their feelings about her answer.

“Certainly, I can go out anywhere and just buy a new Sun and Moon, but they won’t be mine . Anyone can go out and buy a trophy from a prop shop and have it engraved with their name and some mediocre accomplishment if they wanted to–-but would that make the trophy in any way valuable?”

Uselessly searching her face for an answer, Silvon took a slow breath. “No, ma’am.”

“Precisely,” she hummed, a finger pointing to the human for a moment as if playfully taunting them. “Awards are valuable because they’re gifted–-earned . I earned those boys with my tact and forethought.” Silvon’s jaw twitched again. “If I just buy another set, they won’t have that same meaning. Being gifted new ones is just cheap, it won’t be the same as the first time. No, I want my boys back, and if that means tracking those awful renegades across the greater part of Per’iah then so be it.”

Steadily, Silvon nodded. “Of course. I’ll let the company know how you want to proceed and–”

“Oh, don’t bother.” A flash of red caught Silvon’s eye as the woman waved her hand dismissively, trotting back to her desk to open a hapscreen laden with files all marked by photos of people Silvon only barely recognized. “I’ve already invested in a special group of scruffies to track them down.”

Concern cut through Silvon’s mind for a moment, urging them to speak up. “Scruffies, ma’am? Really?”

“Well, the Runners won’t do it, I already asked,” she mused with that same fake pout.

“Really?” They found that hard to believe.

“The scruffies were cheaper and there are more of them so there’s more chance of success, right?”

Silvon knew that wasn’t the reason–-and that Vissara knew they knew-–but bringing up details of the ‘relocation’ was a fast way to end up on the underside of a steamroller if one wasn’t careful. The Free Runner Guild rarely turned down jobs, especially high paying ones, but they didn’t have their reputation for nothing; quite a few folk in and out of the Guild disagreed with miss Oinn’s business decisions, regardless of their reason for being made. Money was certainly not the issue for this woman, Silvon knew very well, and was willing to bet it was because she was still on the infamous no-job list the Guild purportedly had for those rare individuals whose reputations would tarnish the Guild’s just by association.

Silvon did not blame them one bit.

“For my own sake, then,” the lilac-dressed human insisted, one hand on their chest as they gave a shallow bow, “I would like to have the makers represented. They already have… an idea to help the specialists out.”

Sitting on the edge of the wooden desk, Vissara huffed, crossing her legs to show the red bottom of her far-too-expensive heels as her foot bounced rhythmically to her thoughts.

Sensing a chance, Silvon went on, “They also have some connections worth pursuing for information I’d like to utilize.”

“Oh?”

A faint smirk graced Silvon’s lips for just a second as they straightened up, seeing genuine curiosity in the woman’s eyes. “Not everyone in the Guild is as… morally stagnant as the Guild itself can be.”

Recognition flickered in Vissara’s eyes as she understood what was being implied. Red lips thinned as they stretched into an amused, cold smile, revealing perfect teeth behind them. “If that’s the case, then assist away.” Gracefully, she waved a hand, palm up, as both a gesture to continue and as a dismissal.

Taking this chance, Silvon nodded and turned to the door, leaving as it slowly creaked shut in their wake, leaving the horrid woman to ponder over her choices in isolation. Quickly, Silvon stepped out into the garden of the estate, barely aware of the flock of snow-white Cygnus cranes occupying the pond that took up most of the view from the patio. A few of them peeked up at them as they passed, but couldn’t be bothered to do anything except stand there, as per their programming. No matter.

At the edge of the lawn, far from any possible devices or ears, Silvon cast a quick eye around before pressing their left earlobe between their fingers. In the same moment, they opened a comm link screen on the wrist unit made to appear like they were on a call in the event of possible eavesdroppers. The call did not go through on the comm however. Rather, the lens of their glasses blinked as small numerals danced at the edges, establishing a direct link to a hidden number; the haptic activator had been a bit uncomfortable at first, but earlobe call implants were becoming more common and were far easier to hide than wires and watches were. No one thought twice in passing about someone rubbing their ear, after all.

The comm link flickered to a screen that appeared to be connected just as the real call connected in the lens of Silvon’s glasses; the fake screen showed a generic company link profile titled ‘Exxona Company’ with a number and site link that, if used, would connect to a working webpage and comm relay.

Just in case.

The true call going on in Silvon’s ear was lacking in any flourish, the relay screen only showing a string of characters that denoted the private link and an indicator they were connected. A click assured the call was answered, despite no voice confirming such.

Quietly, Silvon spoke, just enough to be heard by the recipient.

“The skies are clear. We are ready to take wing.”

“Thakk me.”

Head in her hand, Jenn stared a hole into the wall behind her desk, foot tapping rapidly against the cel-metal flooring of the lab. Her pulse was thrumming–-she could tell purely based on the fact her collar bone was practically vibrating in her chest–-but nothing short of a macrodose of numbing sedative was going to fix it. Over and over, thoughts cycled, replaying the day, the talk, trying to find something to latch onto. An angle, a detail–-anything to begin explaining the cockamamie situation she found herself in with any amount of plausible rationale.

But there wasn’t any.

“So then I make some,” she affirmed, speaking out loud to try and distract her mind as she got up and began to pace between the desk and the table. The lab was both secure and soundproof so there was no way to be overheard–though it also necessitated she leave her guests unsupervised yet again until she had her thoughts squared away. “‘Walk yourself through it’ as dad would say.” Pausing, Jenn turned on her heel and yanked her chair from its position at the desk, hauling open a drawer rife with pens, rubber bands and other office paraphernalia to find an erasable marker. Clearing space with a sweep of her arm, she climbed onto the desk and sat, knees sprawled, to better reach the whiteboard full of miscellaneous bits and bobs that covered most of the wall over her desk.

She popped the cap off the marker with her teeth and began to write, dragging random magnets that littered the edges of the board into place to help organize her thoughts as she scribbled down the things she knew so far. “They’re from here…” Pulling a paper map fragment down from the corner of the board, she drew a large circle over an area near the bottom and stamped it into place with a magnet, the marker cap plopping into her lap. “The storm dropped them here.” The marker squeaked as she made an arrow. “So they likely got yanked here…” Another squeak.

Glancing quickly between the points, she began to write on the board itself an equation. “Class-D means lowest possible wind speed… the ridge is about… that far across… to make it here then they probably hit the peak of the arc here…” A few moments later she’d plotted a handful of probable distances and velocities to reference off of, a smudge of marker on her hand from erasing mislabelled numbers. “Alright so they survived that fall, and regular market grade alloy tends to be decorative, not functional.”

Pausing, she turned and pulled the elusive binder toward herself from where she’d shoved it moments before, flipping the pages to the section labeled ‘Sunrise and Moondrop’. On the left hand edge of the base diagrams were notes about material grades; she tapped the casing list with her finger. “Yeah, alright, exactly what I thought. Durmacite’s inherent tensile strength is barely better than copper, so they’re definitely not In Market.”

Jenn’s eyes skimmed the diagram for what felt like the hundredth time. “I knew that though.”

Tearing her focus back to the board, she wrote these observations down. “Military grade material, likely a titanium alloy of some sort, or ceralium if they really didn’t cut corners… then there’s that stuff.” Jenn’s free hand balled into a fist, voice dropping to a murmur. “I haven’t been to that city in ages, so if they were after me why would their location history be from E’rta? None of their parts had the institute’s logo on it, so it couldn’t have been their work…”

After a moment, Jenn began to scribble a shape onto the board. “There was a logo though.” Imperfect a recollection as it was, the symbol was legible; two Xs stacked atop each other with a single dot in the center where they met. It was unfamiliar to her. “So that’s probably their maker… or at least the parts supplier. The company wouldn’t buy in what they could make at the institute–” Her hand dropped onto her thigh, the marker tip tapping her leg wetly and causing her to jump. “Shekt.”

Futilely, she wiped at the mark on her leg but it only smeared more, leaving a bright, red streak behind. “Fine, whatever.” Huffing, she fidgeted with the marker in her fingers, trying to reclaim her train of thought.

Jenn didn’t notice the small, purple smudge climb its way out of the vent hole above her head.

“Those stooges shouldn’t be able to afford shoelaces, let alone the material to build two Infiltration Class units, nevermind it’s super illegal to do so.”

Laa slipped down from the ceiling and hovered behind Jenn’s shoulder, peering at her patiently.

Stomach twisting, Jenn swallowed and found her throat dry. “Alright… so let’s say they aren’t from the institute or the company. They apparently got here by accident, and have no idea what they are, let alone built to do.” Glancing into her lap, she found the maker cap had rolled off somewhere. “--piss.”

Laa cheeped at her.

Screaming, Jenn flailed–with a rush, her knee slipped from the edge of the desk and took her with it, her body slamming into the floor with a clatter and bang. The marker sailed to the far side of the lab, papers scattered–the purple companion tilted her head curiously at her mother who was laid out on the ground, senseless and groaning. Some minutes later, Jenn finally picked herself up, head and neck throbbing from hitting the metallic floor with all her weight.

“Laa,” she chided, “What have I told you about that? You can let me know you’re there when you get there .”

The small unit stared for a moment, then peeped once dismissively.

“Yes, it’s rude to interrupt but it’s also rude to scare the piss out of someone.”

Laa peeped again in the same tone and turned to look at the board, leaving Jenn to pick herself up slowly.

“Actually, now that you’re here,” the human mused, noticing her companion’s focus on the notes and pointing to the X logo, “can you do a quick search for this symbol or any variations of it? For parts and materials suppliers of Task Managers.”

Giving an affirmative whistle, Laa studied the logo for a bit before her eyes began to flicker–a second later she stopped and shook her head.

“Ah,” Jenn grunted with surprise. “That was quick–what do you mean no?”

Craning her head up, Laa projected a small hologram from the mark in the center of her display that read ‘No Matching Results’.

“Well… that’s not right.” Concern was becoming the dominant feeling in Jenn’s mind–not for herself, but for the robots in her house–as every answer she found only brought more questions and none of them were good. “There’s nothing?”

Laa’s eyes flashed again for a moment longer, searching for anything that matched the logo even slightly, but it ended the same: a slow shake of the head.

Hand to her mouth, Jenn’s mind began to race once more. “Military parts from an unknown manufacturer, runaway bots from a city I haven't been to in months, no reaction to my prodding and no desire to stay put…”

“There we go.”

Jenn turned the corner, hot on heels–tails?--of the flickering lights only to halt as the threads scattered, winding down various corridors filled with shimmering blocks of memory displays on either side. Awestruck, Jenn walked slowly, taking in the cycling loops of memory snippets carefully as she passed each one. Most–actually, almost all of them–were in the same locations: a white marble office with a single, dark desk in the middle; a lush garden under willows that sheltered beautiful white Cygnus cranes in the grasses; a dining hall decorated with banners emblazoned with company logos, dozens of bodies milling about with a group clamoring around a tall figure that could only be the Sunrise model; a room with a single window in the ceiling where Uls peeked in, faintly illuminating the bedsheets; a small space full of dust and cleaning supplies.

Over and over the same places, a frightening number of them being scenes of empty rooms–though that could simply be missing context due to the selective nature of the snippets chosen to represent the larger memory. It wasn’t until the datestamps began to read as recent that the snippets had some variation to them; curious, Jenn reached out and placed her hand on one of the clips, pulling it out from its module. The screen unfolded into a large display, the scene taken from Moon’s perspective being one of a lacquered wood floor laid in a complicated, repeating diamond pattern–it shifted as he lifted his head to see Sun standing tip-toe, stretching to tie something onto the highest point of a pillar, one of many that lined the edge of the room.

Jenn swiped the screen away back onto its module; as she pulled her hand back, something ashen caught her eye. On her fingertips was… residue?

That’s not normal.

Faintly, she could hear them talking about something or other, but the details could wait. Pulling the screen out again, Jenn ignored it to place her hand into the module itself where the screen had been, rubbing across it and pulling back to find her palm fully darkened by black, metallic dust. Without thinking, the human leaned into the panel vacancy and started rubbing the alcove carefully, brushing her fingers over the surface–a jagged bump caught her ring finger. Tracing it slowly, she realized it was a crack, masked by the deep, black soot to be invisible at a glance.

Jenn followed the line of the crack steadily until it reached the edge of the module and disappeared; she found she could almost wedge her fingers into the wall if she pressed hard enough, but all that it managed to do was cover her in the burnt residue filling the alcove. Jaw set with concern and curiosity, Jenn closed the panel once more and marched to the next turn to try and find another trace of the crack that shouldn’t be there.

She made a hard right at the next junction–

“Yikes!”

Scorch marks.

They were everywhere, cutting into the floor and walls, some of the edges still seeming to smolder with purple and green embers. It was as if a wildfire had ripped through the corridor, chewing its way through modules and files in its rampage. She knew then this was not a normal system failure.

She’d seen this before…

It was some minutes after that horrid discovery that Jenn confirmed the worst; while Moon deigned to question every choice and request she made, Jenn took it upon herself to get answers. She’d found an uncorrupted memory file nearby and played it side-by-side with the burnt one, finding an odd bit of dialogue between the brothers that started the entire path of confusion she currently found herself on.

“You can’t genuinely think we’re going to stay here? Can you?”

They had been arguing–vaguely, she’d realized it was the very argument she’d caught a stray fragment of while on her journey to recover her binder. It was baffling to know that they weren’t meant to or intending to stay there, as it fully contradicted her initial worry they were there to kill her. With that knowledge, regardless of whether she was supposed to know it or not, plus the other scant details she’d picked up all served to reinforce the wiggly feeling in her gut that doubted what her fear first tried to force on her.

These two were not here to hurt her.

She was not their target.

“Laa.” Jenn’s voice was soft and low. “Have there been any newsworthy incidents in the area in or around E’rta City the last… month or so?”

Eyes flickering, Laa found a handful of articles in seconds, each one popping up as a haptic prompt before the small robot. Picking through them, Jenn swiped away any that didn’t quite fit what she felt she was seeking; for each one that she dismissed, another filled its place. A dozen of them were banished back to the depths of the e-web before something finally caught her eye.

‘Anti-Relocation Protestors Crash Celebratory Banquet’.

Her gut twisted and her heart skipped in a dreadful way, which she knew as a feeling to be obeyed without question. Opening the article, Jenn’s blue eyes skimmed through it rapidly; as she did, she focused on certain words just long enough that Laa’s eye tracking picked up on it. The purple bot found reference-paired articles relating to the terms and had them at the ready for her mother to open when needed.

This was a rabbit hole that needed to be explored thoroughly.

Moon jolted, coming to wakefulness suddenly. Initial scans of the immediate environment came back clean. Vaguely he knew where he was despite it not being terribly familiar, yellow eyes darting quickly from corner to corner, seeking changes or disturbances.

Door: shut.

Lights: dim.

Couch: occupied.

He paused, focusing on the couch a moment longer. The occupant rolled, a long, golden arm slipping off the edge, dragging along the floor.

Just Sun.

Relieved, Moon picked himself up from the lounging seat, stepping lightly on the balls of his feet; he knelt and gently placed his brother’s arm back on the couch, leaving only a lingering stroke of the finger against the lanky robot’s head. Rest, Moon thought to him, standing and taking a step back with practiced, silent ease.

Something had woken him, but it hadn’t been Sun’s tossing nor any change in the room he could perceive. Closing his eyes, Moon listened, focusing on the air, the lights with their nearly silent hum–-a faint sizzle.

Sizzle?

Brow furrowed, Moon exited the lounge room, moving methodically through the small house; the sound was louder here, coming from around the curve. Olfactory sensors also picked up on an odor that was somehow familiar, but not in a way he could place: oily, thick, vaguely sweet. With quick, light steps, the dark robot made his way to the source of the sound, coming to the edge of the doorframe leading to the kitchen. Something within moved just out of sight.

He pressed his back to the wall, head tilted to catch any faint sound of someone approaching but only heard a clatter and clink. Dishes being moved? Shuffling. Bubbling.

Moon felt something wet brush his fingertips. Taking a glance, he saw water had gathered in dark bubbles along the tips of each digit, at the ready for him should he need it. He tucked his prepared hand behind his back to keep it hidden and half-crouched, reaching for the doorframe; the occupant made another loud clatter.

He stepped, turning into the kitchen–-

Blue eyes met his, his step faltering just a fraction. Something clicked in his head.

“Well-woken,” the human greeted him, one hand holding a flat wooden spoon while the other gripped the handle of a cast iron pan wrapped with a dish towel. “Sorry if I made too much sound.”

Moon stared for a heartbeat, confused, then flicked his fingers to dismiss the water still collected in his hand before she could notice he was hiding something. This was her house , what on Azil was he doing?? “Ah, no.” The sizzle was coming from the skillet. She was cooking. The smell was food. “I tend to wake up on my own. Heard… something and came to look.”

Jenn turned as he spoke, scooping spoonfuls of whatever it was onto plates; an ache began in his circuits, followed by a small notice on his HUD.

//Battery recovery limited; organic Re_cycler empty/

He was hungry.

“It’s just me, big blue,” Jenn mused with an odd amount of civility. “After yesterday, I figured you both would be pretty hungry so I decided to make breakfast. Is your brother awake?”

“Not yet.” Something was off. Searching the room, it was more or less the same as the last time he’d been there, yet he could feel a change in the air. The Sirius-–Rukbat-–was under the table gnawing away at something, Jenn was wearing the same clothes she’d been in before but she had her hair pulled back while working; for all intents and purposes, this was a normal scene in a normal house. Moon felt…

Misplaced.

“Well,” Jenn’s voice kept him in the moment, her tone much more open than he remembered it being previously, “come sit, I’m making kefin. I can go wake the sleeping princess.”

His jaw tensed, body already turning to exit the kitchen. “No, I can–”

Jenn snapped her fingers at him and pointed at the seat he’d used the day before, her eyes glinting with authority. “Eat.”

Sitting, Moon scowled as Jenn exited, gaze following her over the threshold; it was there that something caught his attention for a fraction of a second. The hem of Jenn’s shirt was hanging low on her shoulders as a strap slid from its place; as she corrected it, a twist of discolored skin beneath the fabric under her arm peeked out. Studying it acutely before she got too far, he realized there were other marks dotting her skin at her back mostly hidden by her top. Now that he’d seen one he couldn’t help but notice others in various places.

Scars? he wondered briefly, but she had turned the corner and was gone before he got a good read on them.

A tap at his foot got him to lean down and look under the table, unsurprised to see Rukbat staring up at him, tongue lolling happily. The canine waved his paw, tapping Moon’s foot again.

“Can I help you?” the blue bot wondered rhetorically.

Rukbat whined softly, jaws closing and opening.

“Are you asking for food?”

Jaws closed with a louder urf , his tail thumping against the floor.

“Well, this is mine. You should ask your maker.”

Ur-wurf.

“Excuse you.”

Jenn leaned into the dim lounge and peeked around, seeing nothing unusual. Sun was still laid out on the couch, the only piece of furniture that had a hope of holding his long self with any kind of comfort, facing the back cushion. Approaching quietly, the human took a moment to study her unexpected guest, the natural curiosity in her begging for a closer look.

Gold and white and orange, meticulously decorated and placed patterns of alternating color, rose tinted inner musculature structures, light-optic eyelashes that would shimmer and glow while awake–he was beautifully built, Jenn noted. Both of them were, bearing the same patterns and aesthetic choices though with minor variations here and there, one made of day’s warm hues and wakeful light and the other the dark, deep shadows and coolness of those rare nights where the Sky-Beyond-the-Sky was visible to all of Azil. Those patterns held weight to them, though, that made her skin crawl after everything she’d read. A sick joke they were not privy to know they were part of.

She laid her hand on the delicate shoulder of the golden bot and gave him a gentle shake. “Wakey wakey.” Nothing. She drummed her fingers against his cheek, cooing, “It’s time to get uuuuuuuuup.” His face scrunched a bit. “I made breakfast.”

Sun’s eyes opened, lashes flaring to life with light. He jumped slightly as Jenn snatched her hand back, radials blinking to life as he cycled into wakefulness and sat up. “Ah–hel–um–well… woken?”

“Geeze–” Jenn yelped, holding her hand over her eyes against the bright white and orange light Sun’s radials gave off in the dim room.

“Oh!” Quickly, Sun retracted the main array which brought his luminosity down to a more reasonable level. “I’m so sorry!”

Blinking the spots out of her eyes, Jenn picked herself up. “No, it’s fine, I forgot about the light. Anyway, there’s food in the kitchen, come on.”

Quickly, Sun got up, pausing only to fix his shirt before following the small human out of the lounge. As the lighting changed and grew brighter outside, he allowed his radials to fully reform, keeping pace at Jenn’s heel politely as she led him down the somewhat familiar hallway to the cluttered, cozy kitchen. He was somewhat surprised to see Moon already there, a plate lifted over his head to keep it away from the begging mouth of Rukbat who’d gotten up and placed his paws on the seat in an effort to nick a snack.

“Rukbat-al-Rami!” Jenn snapped, getting the canine’s ears to pin and tail to tuck as he crawled back under the table. “Yeah. You know what you did. Naughty.”

Sun tensed at her harsh tone, meeting Moon’s gaze as the dark robot slowly put his plate down on the table now that it was safe to do so.

Grabbing a dish off the kitchen counter, Jenn marched around the room to the door in the back; her gaze was fixed on the form of Rukbat as he slowly padded after her, looking dejected. “You know better. You’re being a bad boy.”

Both brothers recoiled slightly, Moon tearing his gaze from them in discomfort, Sun raising a hand in a plea. “Please don’t,” he tried to say, “it’s not an issue. You don’t have to punish him.” Moon winced.

Jenn raised a brow at Sun. “Punish him?” She opened the door, revealing it led to the patio. “I hardly think being let outside is a punishment. Besides,” her gaze snapped back to the canine, “he knows what he did. Bad bots eat outside.” The dish clunked as she placed it around the corner of the door, waiting for Rukbat to guiltily pad his way through so she could shut it behind him. “What? Did you think I was gonna shut him in a closet or something?”

Despite it being in a humorous tone, neither brother dared to acknowledge the claim, both avoiding her gaze as she looked between them. Sun waited patiently at the counter, Moon shoved a mouthful of egg and starch into his mouth. The silence was alarmingly awkward.

“Right.” Disquieted, Jenn served Sun his plate and poured herself a mug of kefin, offering them each a cup. Moon declined, but accepted water, while Sun quietly asked for more tea if it wasn’t inconvenient. “Sure,” she went about getting the mixture ready without hesitation. “How’re you boys feeling then?”

The brothers shared a look, Moon catching the faintest flicker of guilt in Sun’s teal eyes as he looked away abruptly; Moon’s shoulders sagged slightly.

Politely, Sun lifted a spoon of scramble to his mouth, a bit surprised to find it wasn’t unpleasant. Simple, lightly seasoned and buttery–a far cry from what he’d normally be given for breakfast. “This is good!” he blurted as Jenn placed the tea he’d requested in front of him, moving the sweetener over so he wouldn’t need to reach across for it. She remembered? he wondered faintly, murmuring thanks.

“You don’t have to suck up to me,” Jenn replied dryly, a half grin on her face as she leaned against the counter, cradling her mug of black, caffeinated bliss. “It’s just a scramble, I didn’t know what you boys liked so I went simple.”

“But it is! Isn’t it, Moon?”

He wanted to agree by reflex, but beyond the first bite to avoid saying anything, he’d failed to eat any more. Too many things bubbled in his head to allow him to focus on eating. “It’s… good.”

Jenn rolled her eyes. “Don’t lie to spare my feelings, I’ll make something more suited to your tastes later.”

Moon snapped his gaze to her. “‘Our taste’?”

She met him with the icy glint that he recognized. “It doesn’t take a genius to reason out that Goldlight Sunrise and Moondrop models tend to end up only in the hands of the very wealthy and affluent. People that can afford delicacies as snacks and rare ingredients as a daily staple. Or are you telling me you didn’t get fed?”

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who claims it's not your business.” Unwilling to share the details of their old lives even by accident, Moon shoved another bite into his mouth; he didn’t dislike the dish, but now he simply didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of praise.

“And you have a smart mouth for someone that was two steps shy of trespassing.” Jenn made a loud sip in her mug, the drink still hot enough to burn her mouth if she wasn’t careful. The roasted, dark delight made her groan slightly, eyes half closing as she enjoyed the bitter taste for a moment.

Sun studied her face as she relaxed, noticing something odd. Did she seem pale? With his middle finger, Sun gave a quick tap-tap on the table,a minute motion that served to get his brother’s attention discreetly. It worked, Moon’s eyes snapping to his hand, then to him in acknowledgement. Carefully, Sun flicked his gaze from Moon to Jenn and back, forming a silent question.

Does she seem tired to you?

With his signature nonchalance often used in public assemblies where they couldn’t talk openly, Moon masked his movements with typical gestures, tipping his head back to drink from his glass as Jenn took another sip from hers. Turning slightly as he finished, to give himself a better look, Moon opened one of his subsystem files and ran the program for companion assessment.

//HOST ACCESS ACCEPTED/

/OPENING: TM_moon10300.sys%CompAs_

>Specify: Jenn_%

>>Appending data_

>Assessing…

Just as Jenn seemed to catch he was staring, Sun asked, “Are you not going to eat?” which drew her attention away.

“I ate already,” she assured. “Benefit of being the cook, I can snack as I go. Gotta taste the food and all that.”

“As long as you aren’t sacrificing your pantry for us.”

“Nah, I needed to use those tayn roots before they went bad anyway.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” Sun pointed to the half-mashed, crispy bits of starch mixed with the eggs.

Moon would never not be grateful for Sun’s ability to engage in smalltalk at the drop of a hat. The assessment completed and sent a summary to his HUD, prompting him to turn away back to his plate while reading it over quickly. It didn’t bring up anything alarming, but he knew his scope of data was limited with how far apart they were; to be fully accurate, he’d need to be right in front of her or in physical contact to read her blood pressure and magnetic array.

He was absolutely not going to do that.

Despite this, there was something to Sun’s observation beyond that signs of potential dehydration and fatigue he did pick up on. Faint as they were, Jenn’s eyes had dark rings forming underneath them as if she hadn’t slept well; she also had indicators of synthetic mesh he hadn’t noticed before, most specifically along her neck and jaw on her right side. That, at least, was easy to figure out the cause of, given she was missing an entire arm on that side; he chalked it up to medical reconstructive surgery for the time being. Then there was her odd behavior.

She was being friendly. Cautious, but friendly.

Risking a glance, Moon froze as the piercing blue eyes he’d been avoiding pinned him to his seat for a moment, the color hard and cold as if he’d been caught. Had he?? Was he too slow?? Too clumsy?? Or was he overthinking it?

Just as quickly as the unsettling glare came, it went, her face relaxing and growing soft with fatigue. Moon could swear the rings under her eyes grew faintly darker in that moment. Unable to help himself, he inquired, “Did you sleep?”

She sipped her drink, venturing a full swallow now that it had cooled somewhat to a tolerable level. “I caught a few.”

Doubtful , he felt, opting to finish his meal before she could come down on his head about wasting food.

Sun had already completed his portion and stood up, taking the plate with him–only to stop dead, eyes widening. “What happened to your leg???”

Moon turned fully in his seat to look at Jenn, who was peering down at her leg where Sun’s sight was pointed. A giant red streak stood out against her pale skin so much he felt stupid for not noticing sooner–he was too busy looking at her face for tells or hostility!

“Oh, forgot about that.” With no sense of urgency, she set her mug down and turned to her kitchen sink to find a damp cloth, wiping away at the mark intently.

“Are you alright??” Sun was quick to circle the table, his rays turning and bouncing with concern as they returned to place around his head. He placed the dishes in the sink quickly and knelt to offer aid–Moon couldn’t bring himself to stop his brother, knowing the golden bot was still laden with guilt and likely to overcompensate in other ways for his mistake.

Thankfully, there wasn’t much to compensate for as the red mark simply wiped away with no trace of injury to show for it. “I dropped a marker on myself,” Jenn explained simply, tossing the rag into the sink. “Sorry for that, probably looked suspiciously bloody, didn’t it?”

“A bit,” Sun admitted, relaxing.

To himself as he finished his water, Moon remarked, It’s not the mark that makes you suspicious, before getting up and putting his own dishes away to wash. “Thank you for the meal,” he said flatly, stepping back to allow Sun to get up from the floor.

“No problem.” Jenn finished her drink and gave a hearty sigh. “I’ve got chores to do, feel free to roam or lay around. If you’re lucky and the relay tower is back up, you might find something on the television.”

TV held no interest to either of them, nor did laying around doing nothing.

Brushing past them both, Moon made sure to move away just enough that she wouldn’t touch him by accident, but for a half-second he thought she’d sent another cold glare to him in passing. Is she challenging me? he wondered cautiously, his back tensing against the idea. Or seeing if I’m buying her friendly act?

Sun, bless his circuits, couldn’t keep himself from doing nothing or standing aside while his host worked hard. Reaching out, he tapped her shoulder before she could leave the kitchen, rays pulling in bashfully. “Um, can… can I help?”

Any hint of glare was nowhere on Jenn’s face as she studied the golden robot curiously, a brow arching over her aqua eye as she considered his offer. “Yeah, sure I guess? It’s not much to do but if you want.” She shrugged, gesturing to the door down the hallway. “I’ll meet you on the deck once I get changed, alright?”

Against his better judgment, Moon muttered, “So you do have more than just your pajamas to wear? I’m shocked.”

Sun chided him, shocked, “Moon!”

This time, Jenn’s disdain was openly displayed, her mouth turned in a small scowl that could only read as ‘unamused’.

Unwilling to offer a reaction to her, he lifted one shoulder dismissively. “What? All I’m saying is she’s been wearing that outfit since we woke up, I was starting to think it’s all she had.”

“That is so rude!” Sun gave his brother a shake to emphasize his words but Jenn was also unwilling to give Moon the satisfaction of a reaction and simply walked away, leaving them in the entryway. “Why are you–”

Moon covered Sun’s mouth with his hand, yellow eyes flashing intently, voice low and quiet. “I’m not setting an expectation of tagging along or being invited. You can go with her, try to keep me apprised of her location. I want to look around a bit.”

Sun’s brow knit with concern. He pulled Moon’s hand from his face, also dropping his voice to a hushed tone. “Why?”

“Didn’t you notice her change in attitude today?”

Sun’s eyes darted to the side a moment as he thought. “A… a bit? Is that bad?”

“It’s too much of a change if you ask me. I want to make sure she isn’t planning something.”

Disappointment touched Sun’s face for a moment. “Moon, I really think you’re overthinking this. I don’t think she’s a bad person.”

“I didn’t say she was bad, I said she’s suspicious.”

That determined glint was back. Sun knew he couldn’t argue it without causing another blow up and he had no energy for that right now. “Fine,” he sighed, looking to the floor. “Just… don’t break the rules, please.”

“I won’t be if I’m not caught.” With an assuring pat to his brother’s shoulder, Moon turned to take the back door of the kitchen, intending to look around while their host was distracted. Her behavior was strange, particularly after their ordeal yesterday. Looking into his personal system so directly was far too enticing to her. That binder she wanted in the lounge was far too mysterious.

She knew something.

He was going to find out what.

The jungle was actually remarkably peaceful now that he wasn’t sprinting for his life through it, Sun thought pleasantly while waiting for his human host to meet him. Or perhaps it was more of a forest? What even was the difference? Small birds dipped from branch to branch, playing some sort of avian game that he tracked with his eyes, following the pop of color they made against the green-blue and yellow-green leaves of the canopy. There were far too many things he realized he didn’t know or understand about the outside world now that he was in it, but he wasn’t afraid of it now. This was a chance to learn and that fact was rather exciting!

It didn’t do enough to swallow the guilt he felt, however.

Elbows folded over the railing, Sun’s thoughts continually strayed back to the day before any moment he wasn’t forcibly observing something. What could he do? He’d apologized many times and Moon didn’t seem mad, but he also wasn't acting normal either. ‘Happy’ was not the word to describe his brother at any point, but the snappy, sarcastic attitude…

Well, it’s not new , Sun reminded himself, knowing full well Moon had… opinions about their old living situation. Colorful ones. But they were always shared in private, away from the eyes and ears of that woman.

Vissara.

Sun shuddered, shaking his head to remove the name from active thought. She’s not here. Rubbing his cheek, Sun looked to the grass to find something to focus on that wasn’t his shadowy thoughts. Moon was never openly hostile, he reiterated, finding nothing of interest to amuse himself with in the yard. Stone faced? Sometimes. Sarcastic? Absolutely. His snarky quips could usually bring a smile to Sun’s face, as they were often the thoughts they shared about their lives that he dared not vocalize, but never, ever had Moon been so openly flippant and callous with someone.

Stress, maybe? the golden bot pondered. A shadow passed overhead, prompting him to look up where Aquila was circling. The birds stopped their little game immediately, the trees growing still with anticipation. Speaking of stress…

Aquila rounded the clearing once before banking up and disappearing behind the house. A moment later, the birds began to flit about again as if they hadn’t been bothered.

Nature was strange.

Stress, Sun knew, could cause all kinds of bizarre changes in things. Plants could die suddenly, animals and people could become sickly or aggressive when they normally weren't; Moon was not an animal, but robots were susceptible to system collapse and parts failure if they were overworked or given too many tasks. Perhaps the two weren’t unrelated? Given their situation, he felt he would be more concerned if Moon wasn’t stressed about everything, especially…

Burying his face in his hands, Sun felt his rays spin and pull into their port slightly as shame blanketed him.

“Actually… that’s my fault.”

Eyes lingered on his face, a faint mix of concern and confusion; he wanted to melt away or dissolve into ash. Sun’s rays whirled and pulled in, betraying his shame-–not that he could hide it well anymore. Jenn’s visor cleared, allowing a better look at her face through the screen; she seemed confused by his claim, but only for a moment.

It was Moon was the most baffled and, faintly, hurt by the statement. Sun could see it in the flicker of his yellow irises.

With a quick motion, Jenn cleared off and removed her visor, setting it to the side; there was something in the set of her jaw and the glimmer of her eyes but Sun couldn’t identify it beyond a vague sense of disappointment–-or perhaps that was just him. “What do you mean?” she asked slowly, studying him for a reaction.

Fingers twisted up and over each other, Sun couldn’t take the staring and squeezed his own eyes shut, blurting out, “I messed up with the chip! It’s my fault!”

“I–” Jenn paused. He folded lower, wanting to crumple up and vanish tenfold. “I understand that, but I need to know why.”

“Sun?” Moon’s voice spoke up before the golden bot could form an answer, his tone soft but extremely confused. Of course, he probably didn’t remember the event; Sun pressed a hand to his mouth for a moment, trying to keep from reaching for his exposed head.

The truth, he told himself. Just tell the truth. Hands shaking, he inhaled and lifted his face, irises dulling to a gray hue of themselves. “It was an accident. I… we…” Explaining meant confessing. Moon didn’t want to share their motives with the human with blue eyes but there was no way to really get around it. They both deserved answers. “When… we were running and running and it got dark…” Memory flashes passed through his active mind. “You pulled me off the path into the bushes. I kept trying to talk to you but you told me we had to be quiet… You were the one who mentioned the tracking chips.”

Moon straightened slightly, brow creasing just a fraction.

“You were the one who warned me about the memory failure, that it was a risk…”

Jenn grunted, touching her chin. “That tracks, they were implanted right next to the CeMCA–” Both of them looked at her curiously. “The Central Memory Conversion Augment, it’s where experience data from your senses is collected, sorted and compressed into memory files. Only memory-related things are supposed to attach to it but I assume whoever put those chips in you did that on purpose to keep people from trying to tamper with you. A deterrent.”

Moon glanced around a bit as he thought over that statement until Jenn touched his head, telling him to hold still as she unplugged him. Cross, he tried to sit still, urging Sun to continue.

Squeezing his hands into fists and releasing the tension, Sun tried to settle to finish explaining. “You tried to… pull mine.” The fiber cable came loose just as he spoke, Moon jumping from the disconnect and startling Sun for a second, cutting off any comment or question the darker robot might have had. “I… I panicked, so you told me to do you first. I… think you were trying to show me it wouldn’t be so bad. But I was shaking so much… I…” His fingers laced back together tightly. “I tried and there was a spark–-something zapped me and you collapsed. It was only for a second but… that must have been when it happened. Then the footsteps caught up and I had to pull you up. You were disoriented and I didn’t know where we were going. The ridge…”

He couldn’t.

No more.

Sun fell silent and covered his face, feeling so very small.

Head sealed up safely once more, Moon pivoted and reached for his brother, barely acknowledging Jenn’s motions as she rolled her cables up and cleared the equipment away. Pulling gently, Sun sank into Moon’s grasp; though they couldn’t shed tears, they were capable of sobbing. A sick imitation of distress, Moon felt, that some twisted programmer thought would be good to include in their emotional replication processor. Azil knows they didn’t figure it out through imitation.

It did its job though, scraping his focus from everything that wasn’t Sun for a moment. Their Lock–-the Tidal Lock paired Task Managers could be given to help maintain their emotional health–-took precedence when distress occurred, muting or pausing any non-critical function to push their faculties into correcting the mental disharmony. Each pair was slightly different; their methods of addressing, correcting and soothing each other would be unique to them and their link based on their personalities and directives; even with that knowledge, Moon often felt incapable or ineffective in doing his part to keep Sun’s mind clear and sharp. All he knew to do was hold him close and hum.

Hum a nonsense tune measured in breaths that rarely failed to calm them by resetting their inner rhythm. He could hardly consider it his own ability to care for Sun’s wellbeing, as he couldn’t be sure there wasn’t some unknown program buried deep in their computer parts that forcibly reset them, regardless of what state they were in. Part of him hoped it was genuine effort, but another part wished, faintly, he didn’t have that responsibility.

Moon hated that he even felt that to begin with.

“It’s not your fault,” the dark robot murmured after a moment when his brother’s shaking had subsided.

“But–” Sun croaked back, only to be cut off by Jenn.

“Well, you’re half right.”

Moon’s eyes flashed dangerously to the human who was sitting back on her hands, seeming unfazed by the emotional distress being experienced in front of her. Sun’s breath shook once, then he stilled.

“What? Lying isn’t going to do him any good.”

“Shut up,” Moon bit out, the inner mechanisms of his legs coiling with the urge to fight.

Jenn didn’t back down though, meeting his eye with her own firm gaze. “Welcome to the real world. Shifting blame doesn’t remove consequences; it’s better to address it directly. Get over it, don’t bury it.”

Furious, Moon had to purposefully focus on his breathing cycle to avoid losing his temper entirely. Sun sat up, listening intently to the human but also subtly placing himself just the slightest bit in between them–-just in case.

“That’s quite the glare you have.” Jenn folded her legs, shifting to sit forward. “You can be mad, but it’s the truth. I’ve had to learn that the hard way, so maybe listen to the feral human living in the woods if you want to cut the crud and learn.”

Placing a hand on Moon’s knee to try and still him from his desire to tackle the human, Sun spoke carefully, measuring his words, “You… are absolutely right.” He could feel Moon reel back a bit, no need to turn and look to know he was shocked. “I did cause this… and I want to do anything I can to fix it.”

Jenn studied him–-both of them–-for a long moment. Sun could feel her eyes on him even as he stared at the grass, unable to focus; the weight of his guilt was somewhat alleviated now that he’d confessed his mistake–-oddly, the insistence of responsibility didn’t make him feel worse. How could he feel worse than he did already?

Rather, he felt motivated.

“Even if it means hiking cross-country through the wilds for days and days?”

That got him to lift his head, the suggestion too bizarre to ignore. Without hesitation, he agreed. “Absolutely.”

“Sun,” Moon chided, his voice a low warning.

Against his nature, Sun forced himself to ignore Moon, unwilling to give energy to any argument his brother might cook up to drop the idea or that would cause him to fold like a lawn chair under the slightest pressure.

Jenn stared a moment longer, expression some mix of unreadable blankness and a complex myriad of thoughts neither brother could begin to parse out. “Alright then.”

They sat, blankly ogling.

She seemed to realize they didn’t understand her, her mouth pressing into an annoyed line. “I need a few days to figure things out but if you’re really willing to risk getting lost, hurt or worse to fix this issue, then I’ll help you.”

Moon’s brows raised with concern as he barked a, “What?” having gotten caught on the ‘or worse’ part of her offer.

Sun was more hopeful than anything, eyes regaining some saturation. “You will?”

“Of course.” Gesturing with her hand, Jenn indicated Sun to come closer; he realized he still had a cable in his head that didn’t need to be there anymore.

“Hold on,” Moon said, struggling to wrap his mind around the claim of danger. “Why?”

Bluntly, as if already tired of repeating herself, Jenn replied, “It’s the right thing to do.”

Sighing deeply, Sun lifted his head. While he didn’t feel quite as bad after telling them what happened, he still felt horribly guilty. Taking responsibility felt… good, though. Moon might be bearing the brunt of his mistake, as usual, but this time Sun would correct it. No more vicarious punishments.

They weren’t on the estate anymore.

A soft laugh escaped Sun’s mouth as realization dawned on him. This wasn’t the estate. There were no rules here–-other than Jenn’s of course–-no expectations and ever-changing requests.

No more Vissara Oinn.

“What's so funny?”

Sun turned quickly at the voice that was growing in familiarity, looking up to the patio and stilling. Jenn was at the top, wearing a curious assortment of earthy clothing with simple patterns that he didn’t recognize. She sported a brown tank top that didn’t seem much different from her previous one, but her regular, human arm had a black sleeve pulled over it that wrapped around the fingers and tied across the chest-–a protective glove perhaps? Mossy green leggings with gold patterns covered her legs and matched the green, asymmetrical panel skirt that hung nearly to the ground in the front, a red and gold pattern of some sort twisting up the length and wrapping around her middle like a scarf. Completing the odd look were plain, leathery shoes-–were they shoes? They seemed soft, lined with fur and tied at the ankle with cord of some sort. She wasn’t barefoot at least.

Odd as it was compared to how he and others around him would dress, Sun found the outfit charming. Rustic and comfy. It was with a mild start that he noticed how the skirt fluttered as she descended the staircase, accentuating the sway of her hips with each step as she shifted in and out from behind the decorative panel. Surely that was some effect of the fabric, right? It wasn’t until she was level with him, moving something from her head to her hip that he even noticed she’d been hefting a large woven basket the entire time.

“You okay?”

If his face could burn, he’d be on fire, surely. “Your clothes are very cute!” Sun wanted to scream-–mostly at himself.

She gave a light laugh, seeming confused as she looked at herself. “It’s just gathering clothes, not really a gala gown.”

“They suit you!”

Her gaze was friendly, a faint smile on her lips that read to him that she was accepting of and baffled by his compliment. “Is that why you’re blushing or are your chromas acting up?”

Sun didn’t want to scream.

He wanted to jump off the patio and knock himself out.

“I am?” His voice was barely a squeak.

Tapping the side of her nose, Jenn mused, “The yellow parts of your face turned orange. Are they not supposed to?”

“Oh–” How would he explain that without lying?

Blessedly, Jenn seemed to lose interest in his emotive display, huffing in an amused way as she put the basket on her head and descended the final set of stairs. “C’mon.”

Thank you thank you thank you, he rambled to himself, trotting behind her quickly. “May I ask about the basket?”

“How else do we gather food?”

Gather food? Sun shook his head a bit and tried again. “Well, I assume as much–-but why are you carrying it like that?”

Jenn had her gloved hand laced into a patchwork panel on the side of the basket’s base to keep it in place, the woven material creaking lightly with each step she took, while her other hand pulled up the front of her skirt to keep it from snagging on tangles and brambles. “Cuz it’s a big basket…?”

I am not good at this , Sun fretted, being careful to follow her footsteps as precisely as he could–-Azil knows there could be tripping hazards in the grass if he wasn’t careful. “Why not use a smaller basket?”

“You’ll see.”

She was not good at giving answers either. Resigning himself to learning by observation, Sun ducked to avoid a branch that hung a bit too low at the edge of the yard; passing this point brought him fully into the jungle, the available room to move suddenly becoming extremely limited. It seemed that beyond the clearing Jenn claimed as her yard space, the ground was still overgrown and tangled up in roots and weeds, unkempt and wild. The gold robot prayed he wasn’t making a mistake by following her into the wild unknown.

#security breach au #robot #fnaf oc #sundrop #moondrop #free runner au #azil #oc #security breach #dca #free runner sun #free runner moon #daycare attendants

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