#see? always with the condescending “you're just goody two shoes”

[kozh-lucium]

Thank you for once again for proving that some of you people are prone to knee-jerk reaction when you saw "astarion" and "rant" in the same sentence.

Please, show me where I said that killing the Gur means you're doing an evil run. Unless for some reason you equate killing one guy as "evil run" (which implies you're doing this murder over and over again). And please show me proof, once again, where I apparently "questioning" how other people play the game*. *If your answer is about me fighting some people, I suggest you read again, particularly about this part:

But to say that gandrel is an amoral character who needs to die because he will make a deal with the hag just to find astarion? Or that he doesn't have proof that astarion is hurting people?

If you even spare more than 5 minutes to digest what I posted, you'll notice that my main problem is with the unhinged fans, not with the character itself. You don't know me, you don't know what happen to Astarion in my playthrough. Do you know that I understand what and why he often acts like a dick (something that he still does a bit in act 3, so miss me with that "he's only doing it in act 1")? Do you even know that he's my 3rd favorite character?

Yes I might complain about him (to my online friends), but that mostly because: a) meta reason: I was trying to get his approval high enough in act 1 so that I can focus on other characters in later acts. Not to mention that I don't read any approval guide whatsoever, so I had no other choice but to bring him along because I don't know when a character going to approve/disapprove my choice. b) non-meta reason: it's because I know he's been suffering and I know he can do better. Think of it as if we have a friend who goes to a wrong path and you can't help but feel frustrated because you genuinely want to help him.

And if anything Astarion deserves the right to kill that Gur, because the Gur practically - no they did - beat him to the point of death, so if anything, the gur had his death coming to him.

You do realize they're different people, right? The one who attacks him are dead already, because it happened 200 years ago. When Astarion told you this, he also admitted that those Gur and the current Gur doesn't know they're being employed by a true Vampire (Cazador). And if you said that he can't take revenge on an innocent, he doesn't disagree with it but said he will still do it out of spite alone. If you say Gandrel deserve being killed because of those accident 200 years ago, you might as well condemn the current generation of Germans for WW2. Heck, do we even know they're from the same tribe or related?

Warning, a rant of BG3 fandom (and of astarion)

BG3 and Astarion stans TM (not normal fans, mind you) made me realize I'm too old for fandom like...this.

Idk if I'm just unlucky or something like that, but the amount of people who equates "nuance" with "let's go full genocide bcs it's fun and to troll wyll/karlach" is too damn high.

Aaaand not surprising, almost all of them are astarion stans tm. Look, I'm not saying all of astarion fans are like this, but forgive me for getting more and more uncomfortable with how some people are acting. So apparently I am not allowed to complain about how astarion keeps being a dick in act 1, but they're allowed to hate karlach and wyll so much because they're "goody two shoes"?

Sorry, it sounds like hypocrisy.

Just the other day i had a fight with several people, over discussion of Gandrel (the gur we met in the swamp). It's crazy for me how they feel the need to invent ridiculous just to justify killing him. I can respect if the reson if "It's more pragmatic" (I mean, i still disagree since we can just lie to him), I even respect more when someone said "lol i did it because I'm an astarion simp, I'll do whatever he ask me to". But to say that gandrel is an amoral character who needs to die because he will make a deal with the hag just to find astarion? Or that he doesn't have proof that astarion is hurting people?

Are these people serious??

It's extra ironic how one of them just before this claim that I imposed modern morality for finding their action to be not neutral, and that faerun being medieval dark fantasy setting is suppsed to be more lenient to evil actions, elyet in the same breath accusing an NPC as amoral for trying to strike a deal with the hag, enought that it's okay to kill him.

For some reason, to them, not liking evil run meams you're media illiterate and can't handle nuance.

Look, i can't handle it, i wouldn't enjoy witcher 2 writing and def. will stake astarion the first chance i got.

Sorry for the long rant. I'm super cranky right now. I hate edgelords like them.

[atomicbird101]

Happy Birthday, Butch.

Butch DeLoria x Lone Wanderer | 1,210 words Content warning: alcoholism, CPR mention

"Happy Birthday to me," Butch sarcastically cheers with a bottle of his mother's vodka to his lips. Another year of only two gifts from his best pals – a pack of cigarettes from Wally and novelty flask with the Tunnel Snakes logo etched onto it from Paul. All of his other "birthday presents" were given to him two days ago, (one of the many great things about being born so close to Christmas) and his mother is too drunk to even function, much less have prepared him a gift other than a halfhearted apology and a pat on the back. Birthdays are always so depressing for Butch DeLoria, and his sweet sixteen is no exception.

He's startled out of his night of drinking on his own, however, when he hears a knock on his door. Maybe one of his pals left something behind? However, he answers to find Robbyn Brake, the goody-two-shoes Poindexter herself at his doorstep with her hands behind her back.

“What do you want, Nosebleed?”

Robbyn instantly recoils at the stench of alcohol on his breath.

“Yeesh! Banner year, huh?”

“Yeah, well, unlike some people ‘round here, I don’t exactly get shit handed to me on a silver platter.”

She grits her teeth in annoyance at his instant hostility, as well as his presumptuous and condescending statement – however cruel his comment was, it at least got him out of seeing that expression he so hates: pity. And man does he hate seeing it from her.

“...I… know it’s your birthday, and, y’know, doing the math, it must not be the most wonderful time of the year – what with it being right after Christmas, and your mom, and–”

“Lemme stop you right there, geek. I know what you’re gonna say, and I don’t wanna hear it, so you can fuck off with that shit.”

“But I just–” Robbyn stutters an incomplete counter argument as she brings a freshly baked sweet roll out from behind her back and holds it out in front of her, causing Butch to freeze in his  tracks.

“Is that a sweet roll?”

“Uh, yeah…?”

“Why?”

She’s caught off-guard by his question, but she quickly scrounges up a lie that Butch doesn’t believe for a second.

“I, umm, I made it, and there were too many, and, well…”

He raises an eyebrow at her, rolls his eyes, and says, “I know you’re full of shit, but I’ll take it anyway. Better not suck.”

She rubs the back of her neck as he takes it, and she decides to spill the truth after a relenting sigh.

“Look, I know we’re not friends or anything, and I don’t know why you hate my guts, but I do know you’re a miserable son of a bitch who’s more than likely alone on his birthday, and maybe nobody needs to be alone on their birthday. Not even pricks like you.”

There it is. That fucking pity in her eyes.

“I don’t need your God-damned sympathy, so cut that shit out.”

He takes a bite of the sweet roll, and much to his disdain, it’s fluffy, buttery, and overall incredible.

“Listen, man, I’m not asking you to bask in my sweet, saintly glory or whatever, and I’m not here to judge poor Butchie. I’m just dropping off a baked good and fucking off so you can jerk off or whatever it is you do on your birthday,” she says as she turns towards her own dorm.

Butch is savoring every bite of that delicious sweet roll, but pride forbids him from confessing that it’s the best damn thing he’s ever tasted.

“Whatever. Thanks for the pastry, loser.”

She lets out a curt sigh and turns back to face him.

"Y'know, I know you're angry – and don't get me wrong, you have a lot to be angry about – but I don't know why you always have to be such a dick. I know for a fact that you're not always a complete asshole. And I'm praying to God that you're too drunk to remember any of this in the morning, because if I'm being really honest, I kinda miss the Butch from three years ago. Not whoever this is." Her hand gestures all over the douche in the leather jacket before she shakes her head and starts to walk away again.

Butch freezes. His brow furrows and he suddenly looks extremely uncomfortable as he realizes exactly what she’s referring to – the time he gave her her first kiss. He's never brought the lip lock up before, but now she's dropped it, and she says she misses it? He isn't sure how to respond, and his prolonged silence causes her to think that he doesn’t remember, but he remembers that kiss – he remembers it well, since that was his worst birthday by far.

He had just turned thirteen and his mom had had to get her stomach pumped, and despite all the shitty things he'd done to Robbyn, she stayed outside the clinic in the hall to comfort him while her dad was administering CPR. She held his hand and gave him tissues, and as they were talking to keep his mind off of his mother's dangerous alcoholic binge, it came up that Robbyn had never been kissed. After all the kindness she showed him (not to mention her adorable eyes and freckles) he volunteered to be her first kiss. She was taken by such complete surprise that she couldn't do anything but nod her head and let him kiss her, and he held her like glass. This boy who used to pull her hair and push her around touched her so delicately, like he was scared of  accidentally breaking her.

The way he held her that night still confuses the hell out of her to this day. They've literally fistfought numerous times since then, but she still thinks back to the time his touch was soft and hesitant, and she can't explain this ache in her chest when she thinks about it, but she knows she misses that tenderness. In all honesty, it was the first time she felt like she could be loved, and she's never been able to make sense of that feeling because it came from her damned bully.

Now she stands at her own door, entering the code to get into her apartment, and he's staring at her, no longer chewing the sweet roll she baked. He doesn’t get this girl. She’s the only gal who’s thought to stick up for him and be nice, but she’s also tough on him and kind of a brat. He’s racking his brain for some kind of witty remark or comeback, but all his sloshed ass can think of is finishing the roll and letting out a small belch.

She scoffs in disgust, then disappears into her dorm – and, if Butch listens very, very closely, he can hear a frustrated growl travel through her living room window. As he gazes after her, he starts to get overwhelmed by various emotions swimming in all that vodka: anger, confusion, and something…sadder. He doesn’t know what she means to him, but she means a lot, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be ready to tell her.

[mypoisonedvine]

10

Joby Taylor or Billy Hargrove. You decide

10. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

warnings: implied smut, flirting, kinda noncon/dubcon, billy being aggressive and condescending, innocent reader, religion mentions, daddy kink

Maybe it was counterintuitive, but you'd gone to the drive-in for some peace and quiet. Not for Billy Hargrove to show up, sauntering over to the back of your truck and hopping in like he owned the damn thing.

"Fuck, you scared me," you breathed. "Can't just show up like that, Hargrove, what if I didn't recognize you in the dark and punched you or something?"

"Punched me?" he grinned. "That'd be cute. I wouldn't mind seeing you put up a fight..."

His gaze drank you in, he was basically undressing you with his eyes. You shifted uncomfortably, pulling the hem of your cut-off shorts down a bit as you became suddenly self-conscious about how short they were. Billy had never been subtle about his attraction, but you didn't take it too personally. He was a player, and he knew you were the shy good girl with super religious parents and a purity ring; you were just a score for him, another girl to sweet talk into his bed and then fuck-and-chuck. You might have a rebellious side deep down-- here you were, sneaking out in the shorts your father would burn if he knew you owned them, watching an R-rated movie, and letting Billy Hargrove within 200 yards of you-- but you knew better than to give it up to a guy like him. You wanted your first time to be special, with someone you loved, if possible.

"Don't try anything, Hargrove," you warned, "or the last thing you're gonna see is me putting up a fight."

"Oh, really?" he laughed quietly. "I don't think you'd last too long, babydoll. You know I'm so much stronger than you."

You swallowed thickly, trying not to let the mental image of Billy having his way with you invade your mind; but it was already playing in your head, making your palms clammy and your throat dry.

"Besides, you wouldn't fight me," he shrugged.

"Wh-what?" you choked.

"You wouldn't fight me. You want it."

You scoffed defensively. "In your dreams."

He clicked his tongue and tilted his head, giving you a knowing look. "Oh, babydoll-- don't play stupid. You might be innocent, and naïve, and a little ditzy when you're thinking about all those things you shouldn't be thinking about, but you're definitely not stupid."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," you insisted.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

You looked away quickly, hoping he wouldn't see your wide-eyed look of getting caught red-handed, but he just laughed again.

"Babydoll," he tutted, "did you think I didn't know? You're not as much of a good girl as you wanna act like. And I don't mean those little shorts that show those killer legs or going to see Elm Street at a drive-in."

He leaned in closer, until you could feel his breath on your neck; he smelled like tobacco and sweat and something sweet... somehow.

"I mean all those thoughts you have," he continued, lowering his voice, "about all the horrible things I could do to you. About all the incredible things I could make you feel."

His hand landed on your thigh, running up higher even though you squirmed slightly.

"I know it's no fun being a goody two-shoes," he cooed, "following all the rules, saying all your prayers. Don't you wanna be a bad girl, just for one night?"

"I should go home," you mumbled, sitting up and trying to push his hand away, "Daddy's gonna wonder where I am--"

"Shh, hey," he soothed, pulling you back down into his arms, and starting to smile, "always in a hurry to do whatever Daddy says, huh? How about I'm your Daddy for tonight, and you can do whatever I say?"

You choked on a whimper. "Billy--"

"Not so loud, babydoll," he scolded, "people are gonna hear you. What are they gonna think we're doing if you say my name like that?"

You bit your lip. You couldn't afford that.

"Are you gonna be good and quiet now?" he asked in a coo, and you hesitantly nodded. "That's what I like to hear. Now, open your legs up a bit so Daddy can see what you've been hiding all this time..."

[quandaryqueen]

Wake up alone

Gotham Edward Nygma X Reader

What's supposed to be a good day, takes a turn the moment he woke up alone.

Edward Nygma woke up feeling rejuvenated for the day. My, in all his days, this way maybe the first time his bouts of insomnia did not decide to hit him full-force today.

He looked to his side to see his sleeping partner, their back turned against him and huddled beneath the blanket. The man felt a certain giddiness in his chest, a smile crossing his features first thing in the morning at the sight of you.

What a cute little thing, wrapped from head to toe. Were you that cold? Ah, maybe he should have turned the thermostat after all and ignore your insistence. You have always been so polite.

He pulls you to his chest by draping his arm on you, peeling the cover of your head. God knows if you can even breathe under that thing. He steal a kiss in your temple, nuzzling his cheek against your head with a content look.

You look so peaceful, just sleeping and undisturbed. So serene, so cute, so still...

Still...

Still?

Nygma's eyes flew wide open in panic and in the haze left by the lingering sleepiness, he shot off his bed. Your name slipped from his lips out of worry, when he realised your chest was not rising nor falling under his touch. Your name slips again in a silent whisper, a whimper, as he approached with wary.

His trembling hand held your shoulder and turned you over.

"No... No... No..." Edward shook his head, the reservoir in his eyes bursting uncontrollably. "Not again please..."

"Good morning sleeping beauty~"

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO THEM?!"

Edward's blurred vision scan your body, Rigor Mortis has yet to occur meaning your death had transpired mere moments after the pathologist woke up. He was forced to recognise there were outlines of fingers— his fingers— on your neck, is when he found out The Riddler got out of control again.

"No-no-no-no-no, please god no!" He cradles you against his body, tears dripping from his eyes and into your face. Through hiccups and profuse apologies, his thumb ran across your cheeks to erase the tears that fell upon his lashes. "Y/N, I'm so sorry, please, oh god—"

"Ugh, look at yourself. Who would be scared if you're all snotty?"

The Riddler didn't like you all that much— always so fucking obnoxious with you and your soft heart, influencing the weak-willed that is Edward Nygma. And for once, the Riddler thought that Ed would have learned after Kristen, after Isabella, after Oswald, after Lee and goddamn it, now you—!

"I am so sorry, Y/N. Please forgive me, god please I love you!"

The display was making the Riddler sick, he could throw up. All he wanted was to paint Gotham with questions and enigma, and riddles and puzzles, he is a man with simple needs and wants, why did you have to come along? Riddler made sure Edward will never be ever coming back, what substance did you concoct to bring him back again?

It's been long since the Riddler has spread terror against the morose city, but no, Eddie had to play Mr. Goodie-two-shoes to woo you. The alter ego wanted to stretch his legs out so bad that he would get between the relationship of Edward and you, if that's what it takes. And did so, successfully. Now the obstacle is gone, time to strap a bomb I'm some random kid's backpack liek he always wanted.

"Tsk, look at you." The Riddler points at Edward with a condescending furrowed brows, eyes casted on the tip of his nose. Edward remains a pale mess muttering apologies, shedding tears and caressing your cold face. "We used to be so liberated, you and I were always having a blast terrorising Gotham with riddles—"

"You did! Not me! I'm not a monster!"

"I'm a part of your psyche, genius. What part of split personality disorder do you not get?" The Riddler rolls his eyes. Seriously? This again? He thought they were over it in like, season one, but he digresses. "I know all your thoughts, your subconscious... And your subconscious has always wanted to know how afraid they look when you're on top of them, with their life at your hands, their fate in your mercy..."

"No I don't... I love them, they loved me! I could never think of such a thing about them! They're the only person that truly loved me!" Edward shouts through tears, sniffing for a moment to pause. "They don't deserve this... They're irreplaceable..."

"God, you're so pathetic. I bet you said that to Kristen... Or Isabella... Or Oswald... Or Lee... Y/N's not that irreplaceable, seeing as you replace your exes almost immediately after tragedy struck." Riddler shrugs. "Sorry not sorry."

The Riddler sunk from his braven posture. God, he has been stuck in this body with the host for so long and yet he still can't stand the whiny man.

"You know what? I'mma take the wheel for the time being. You stay put."

After that, Edward blanked out of reality. He didn't come back until he realised he was worn out and covered in dirt, that's when he knew the Riddler disposed of your body... Was it weird he was thankful that the alter ego didn't do anything to your body?

"Yes, I didn't saw their hand off and put it in the vending machine. I made them a cozy bed under a bed of (favourite flowers), next to mother dearest's grave~"

What is Edward supposed to do now? Your evidence would be difficult to erase, your friends and family cared deeply about you surely they would dig around and find out—

"This is why I'm taking the reigns again. And you, stay back!"

And just like, Edward Nygma's consciousness has been dormant again.

[sdaomine]

I Won't Say (I'm in Love)

AU || Outside forces leave two esteemed lawyers no choice but to work together. Artem Wing finds himself dangerously falling for Ingrid Rosworth, again.

“Wing,” the woman whined in between gritted teeth. “You better let me go before I scream my lungs out and report you to the police,” she taunted, “you don't want that, do you?”

“Why should I?”

A seething look. “Why should you what?”

“Let you go.”

There was a bit of a shudder that went through her skin. Artem felt it too; after all, he was the one pinning Ingrid against the wall inside his vacant office. But he couldn't care any less.

“You're being quiet.” An observation. “Mouth went dry?”

“You... you little—” she halted, needing to release a frustrated breath. “What do you think you're doing?”

What am I doing?

Artem contemplated, also finding their situation confusing. What led them to this? Why is he being so bold, now of all times?

I'm... pinning Ingrid against the wall.

Staring at her. At her caramel eyes.

Ah, those eyes; enchanting enough that it pulled Artem into the depths of them. Artem had always avoided looking at them back in high school, or else he'd be distracted to even pay attention to his classes.

He had turned his attention away whenever she walked past him; not that she noticed him in that way, she just knew Artem because he was her greatest rival in academics. Little did she know that his school rival was actually smitten.

Oh, the suffering he had to go through back then. Who would've thought liking Ingrid was such an agonizing feat? Having a crush on her brought just enough anguish that it lasted ‘til he was thirty.

Things turned up pretty well for him, actually. Ingrid went to another company. He had met Rosa and somehow had a crush on her, too. Artem had initially thought it would be Miss Rosa he'd be pursuing, but... shit happens.

Shit, meaning outside forces that cannot be controlled nor stopped; meaning having to work with Ingrid, see her everyday, actually talk to her—Artem had to cool his head when it sunk in his mind that the best and worst person to ever happen in his life is now his work partner.

A shared space. Shared hours. Overtimes, working late into the night. Together, alone.

The thought of it all...

It makes me feel... things.

And now they're here.

It had been months since Ingrid started working for Themis’ Law Firm. Her seniority and work experience was enough to replace Rosa immediately after her first day. And since then, the bickering, berating, and condescending exchange of words traversed back and forth inside the office space. Artem's, to be exact.

They didn't like each other, everyone knew that. Celestine considered breaking them apart and putting Rosa back in as Artem's partner, of course; but even with their constant quarrels, the two just worked so well together, their top-tier skills and brilliance the perfect match Themis could ever have.

The impossibly powerful, intimidating team that is the Ingrid Rosworth and the Artem Wing.

But can Artem survive yet another day night with this spoiled, egoistic brat?

“Artem Wing.” Ingrid stares him down, her sense of superiority so overwhelming it didn't even matter anymore that she's literally trapped between the wall and Artem. “Release me. Right. Now.”

“Really, now, Ingrid? After all those months of working together, and you still couldn't say please? What's wrong with you?”

“Release me, Artem. Now!”

Why did I pin her to the wall, anyway?

Ah, right. He was exhausted with little to no sleep and food yet. They were having yet another overtime and, as usual, Ingrid started berating him because of some petty thing. And he was so done for.

Had enough of her looking down at him like he's someone inferior; had enough of Ingrid making him feel like he's some goody two shoes and, most of all, tired of her not seeing him the way he sees her.

“Artem! I—”

“What did I ever do to you?” His grip around Ingrid's wrists tightened that it scared her, making her pretty mouth shut. “You keep on reprimanding me when I never even did anything! You make it hard for me to go through each and every day of my weekdays, even weekends, but I—”

“Then don't work with me!”

“Are you stupid? I work here too, Ingrid. What the hell? Did you hit your head or were you neglected when you were a goddamn child—”

“I hate you.”

Artem freezes. “What did you say?”

“I loathe you,” she emphasizes, her once intimidating eyes now brimming with tears. Her hands ball into fists, still pinned to the wall. “All I did... everything... just to defeat you,” she said quietly, “to prove my existence, that you're not the best there is! That, that I'm not a shadow, that it's not always Artem Wing! I—”

“Ingrid.”

“Just so you'd notice me.” Eyes of golden fleece looking away. Shaking hands. Tears against skin. “But you never, ever, looked at me. Not a glance. Not in high school, not in college; not in law school.

“And when I knew you were the one handling my client's case, I did my best so I could defeat you in court and maybe then... maybe then you'd pay attention.”

Ingrid's eyes finally met his deep sapphire ones—she wondered what went on in his head as she so blatantly confessed, but that didn't really matter now, right?

“Oh, silly me. All I battled in court was your junior lawyer, and still I lost. I could see how proud you were of her,” she let out a bitter scoff. “I'm surprised you haven't pursued her yet.”

Silence. On Artem's right, the landscape of the city lights glowed so vividly; his office room is not luminescent but dimmed, and he could only see her almost tearful eyes.

Only the soft, steady breaths coming out of her mouth filling his ears—the way her body shivered, as if electrified by his touch.

With this view, this ambience, it could've been a romantic evening for them. A dinner date for two, a couple working overtime together. Making out in this very room, among several others—

Making out with Ingrid in my office...

“Now it's you whose mouth went dry, Wing,” she muttered, almost to herself than him. “You know? That's fine with me. I think it's better if we don't interact at all.

“I'm filing my resignation tomorrow. I'm going back to Baldr. With the bullshit I just told you, we're better off apart, don't you think?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don't want you to leave,” he mutters softly, “stay here with me.”

Is he stupid? Ingrid wanted to laugh. “Artem—”

He didn't need to hear anything else. Her confession, it was enough. Almost too much for him to take that it drove him mad.

All this time, she liked him back? All this time he'd been such a coward, a jerk for making her feel that way? He missed out on so many things, too many experiences; all the what-ifs flooding his head like a never-ending loop: what if he had confessed back then, what if he wasn't such a weakling and actually did something to pursue her...

He has no plans of wasting any more chances.

If this was the last one—if this is the last one, then I would take it.

Artem gave Ingrid an objection of a different kind; probably the best one he had ever given her. There were no need for further evidence, for he'd found a hole in her defense—she was in love with him, and she told him that herself. Like a suspect admitting to her crime.

A crime of falling in love?

Artem kissed her, soft and steady. He was inexperienced; he didn't know a thing. But he wanted her, wanted those plump lips of hers against his. And so he pressed himself a little harder, their bodies now touching—Ingrid instinctively clutched his sleeves, eliciting a light gasp from him.

“What... What are you doing—”

Artem interrupted her with yet another kiss, this time long and deep. “I'm in love with you. I love you.” He held her chin, tilting her face to meet his eyes. “Sorry. But I'm in love with you—”

Ingrid grabs the opportunity to hook her fingers on his tie and pull him close, so close that their lips are almost touching again. “Stop. You're stupid. I hate you.”

“Ingrid,” he called. “Really?”

“No,” she answered, and with all her might switched positions with Artem—the force was too much that they both collided against the desk, some paperwork now scattered on the floor.

“No?” he asked, and rested his large hands on her waist. Soon, Ingrid found herself sitting on his work desk. “Ingrid.”

Her legs, now wrapped around his thighs. Artem moved closer. Ingrid felt her cheeks heat up at the closeness, but it was no different from the fiery blush all over his face and neck.

“Artem,” she whispered, his name being Ingrid's plea for more...

That night, the city lights glowed a little too brightly than usual; a sudden rain tapped endlessly against the glass windows, too. Hours have passed and yet to them, the evening seemed young.

These two hotshot attorneys better clean up their mess before Celestine discovers what they were up to the next day.