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caffeinewitchcraft · 8 months ago

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Ghost Eater

Summary: You don't like exorcists. They don't much like you either.

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You’d always thought big restaurants like the Brownie Industry only did well in small, midwestern towns like the one you came from. A year working in LA has taught you that, no matter where you go, people will always love garlic bread and sugar.

It’s your day off which means you’re pulling a double shift. You haven’t had time to wash your hair for the past two weeks so it’s frizzing out of your claw clip and flying wild around your face. The lighting is so dim that you’ve tripped over two black purses already, luckily not while you’re running food. The big dining room sounds like an apiary with the tittering laughter of the later adult crowd that’s filtered in from the theater across the four lane road. The main difference between the Brownie Industry here and the one back home is size. The ceiling soars overhead, supported by a series of concrete pillars separating the dining area into three sections.

Normally it would be three servers per section. Today, it’s just you in yours.

One more hour. That’s what the manager promised you. It might even be true if the host stand quits seating you after the table you’re approaching.

There are three people at the table. A woman whose hair might be light blonde or gray in the light of day, her eyes light and piercing. Her face is soft from age, emphasized by the tight, lace collar of her off-season sweater. She reminds you strongly of your mom’s nemesis on the HOA board. The man couldn’t be more out of place next to her despite their equivalent age. He’s wearing a leather jacket – again, it’s not cold here – and a Norwegian metal shirt underneath. His hair is definitely white, so white it almost glows. He’s frowning at the teenager across the table as if she’s touched his motorcycle without permission.

The teenager might be the first you’ve seen all night who doesn’t have their phone out. She’s decked out in what you consider grandma florals – a t-shirt scattered with daisy chains, a bucket hat made out of nana’s carpet bag, and a hand-crocheted scarf in pastel. You can’t really see her face under the shadow of her hat and there’s an odd, blurred quality to the way she fiddles with her napkin. You let your eyes skip past her and back to the two adults. Teenagers don’t pay the bill.

“Welcome to Brownie Industry!” you chirp. You’re sweaty and red but the faded yellow light hides that. You’re a service industry pro so none of your exhaustion shows on your face when you ask, “Is this your first-time dining with us?”

If you weren’t so burned out, you’d have noticed before you introduced yourself.

“Are you Grady?” the woman asks. Her voice is more posh than you expected even with her lace collar. “Grady Pace?”

Fuck. There’s a noticeable temperature differential now that you’re close to them. The restaurant is warm from the number of bodies, maybe even warmer than the summer air outside, but stepping up next to their table feels like walking into an ice rink.

“I’m your waitress,” you say. You don’t have time for this conversation. You’ve got five minutes in your cycle to take their order and then you’ve got food to run. “If you need any other services from me, I have a website.”

“We messaged you,” the man says. His lips thin to the point his thick mustache covers them entirely. “You never responded.”

Because you’ve been making more money at the Brownie Industry than your other job. “I’ll take a look at it tonight.”

“Wait,” the teenager says, sitting upright. She looks from you to the adults and back again. When she smiles, there’s no humor in it. “This is why we drove eight hours to have dinner at the Brownie Industry? For her?”

“Katie, be polite—”

“I’m sorry,” Katie says, “It’s just—I found a priest, you know? An actual exorcist priest and you guys want to trust a waitress over him?”

“Ugh exorcists,” you say. The memory of sour cabbage is so heavy on your tongue that you stick your tongue out in disgust. When you see Katie’s look, you backtrack. “Effective! Definitely effective.”

“Your mistakes have cost us too much already,” the man says, shaking a finger at her. “We are not converting just for an exorcism.”

“I normally don’t agree with your father,” the woman tells Katie, “but in this case I would like to leave conversion as a last resort.”

“We wouldn’t actually convert,” Katie says, rolling her eyes.

“Pretty sure exorcists can tell when you lie,” you tell Katie. When her scowl deepens, you clear your throat. “Did you all need another minute to think about the menu?”

“We need you to help us,” the dad says. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, I know you’re at work and I’m sorry we’re bothering you.”

“We’re desperate,” the mom says. She reaches for her purse. “We’ll pay you. Triple the rate on your website or even quadruple. We need that thing gone by tonight.”

Katie covers her face. “Mom. You’re embarrassing me. Terry isn’t that bad.”

“Oh, he’s bad, young lady,” the dad says sternly. “A bad influence.”

“We caught her trying to perform another séance yesterday,” the mom confesses to you. She leans forward with a pinched expression. “So Terry’s friend Larry could visit too.”

“Interesting,” you say. The food bell rings, but you think you can ignore it for another minute. You study Katie’s blush. “Why did you do that?”

If she was being compelled, she won’t have an answer to your question. You’ve dealt with a lot of ghosts in your time, but so few are sentient enough – or powerful enough – for compulsion.

“Go on,” the dad says, gesturing at you. “Tell her.”

“Leroy, she’s embarrassed enough,” the mom says.

“No, she’s not, Sarah.” The dad – Leroy – gestures to you again. “Tell her.”

Katie huffs, clearly resistant. But when her dad huffs back, she caves. “So,” she says, “I have this YouTube channel—”

“I’m off in an hour,” you interrupt. You don’t care that you’re being rude. Your patience ran out as soon as she said YouTube. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot.” You turn to go.

“A moment!” Sarah shakes out her menu. “How’s the nicoise salad?”

Of course they’re going to order. They’d better tip too if they want you to help them with their ghost problem.

----.

“You said an hour,” mom Sarah says when you leave out the employee entrance. She’s shivering next to her daughter. Leroy is off smoking behind his motorcycle, parked next to the Tesla Katie is leaning on, but he stubs out his cigarette on the asphalt when you walk up. “It’s been two.”

“I had side work,” you say instead of it would have been one if not for you. You rub your bare arms when the familiar ghost chill washes over you. You want nothing more than to go home and wash the scent of garlic and brownie batter out of your hair. “Was there something wrong with my service?”

“No?”

You try to make your voice light. “I see.”

Sarah frowns at your tone anyway. “Why?”

“You tipped five dollars.”

Katie jolts like a scalded cat. “Mom!”

Leroy scrubs a hand over his face. “Sarah…”

“What?” Sarah throws up her hands. The parking lot lights catch on her Swarovski charm bracelet. “I tipped!”

“Like ten percent,” Katie says. She pulls her bucket hat over her eyes for a beat and then peeks at you from under it. “I’m so sorry. It’s not you, she’s always like this.”

“It was actually a six percent tip,” you say. You’re getting a clearer picture of this little family now. It’s becoming more and more understandable why Katie might have started summoning ghosts. “If you want to be precise.”

Leroy reaches for his back pocket. “Let me.”

Sarah swats at his hand. “We’re about to pay her a lot more than that!”

“For a completely separate job,” Leroy says. He pulls a twenty from his wallet and hands it to you with a grimace. “Sorry, Grady, I should’ve checked.”

“You should’ve paid if you cared so much,” Sarah retorts. She folds her arms over her chest. She taps her cheek and widens her eyes. “Oh wait… you never pay.”

“Sure,” Leroy says. This time it’s his turn to throw his hands in the air. “Sure, Sarah. I don’t pay for anything to do with our daughter’s private school or her dance classes or her health insurance—”

“If the court hadn’t mandated—”

“You make twice as much as me—"

“Guys!” Katie says loudly. Her mouth is a thin line of upset when she says, “Argue about what an expensive burden I am later when we don’t have an audience, okay?”

Her parents speak at the same time.

“You’re twisting my words,” Sarah says. “I never said—"

“Sweetie, you’re not a burden—”

“Can you just get this ghost out of me?” Katie asks you. She goes for nonchalance and falls short. “My parents haven’t been in the same room for the last five years for a reason.” She fakes whispering. “They don’t play nicely with others.”

Sarah bristles. “Katie.”

“God, I know how that is,” you say. The whole interaction is giving you the worst case of sympathy for Katie. Before her parents can say anything else, you change the subject. “How long have you been haunted?”

“Six months,” Katie says. She fiddles with her bucket hat so that you can see her eyes for the first time. They’re brown, like her dad’s, and have heavy bruises underneath. She shrugs. “They only noticed a month ago though.”

“I noticed your behavior had changed,” Sarah defends. Like her daughter, she fidgets. She plays with her bracelet and clears her throat. “I thought it was a teenage thing.”

“What signs did you notice first?” you ask the parents. They glance at each other and then away.

“Let’s just say we noticed different things,” Leroy says dryly. He pulls out his phone.

“Moodiness,” Sarah says. She ticks them off on her fingers. “Laziness. Disrespect. Over-sleeping.”

“Those are just teenager things,” Katie says with an astounding level of self awareness. She shrugs. “I’m a senior now. They’re lucky it didn’t start sooner.”

“I,” Leroy says, “noticed this.” He turns his phone towards you.

“Ah,” Sarah says, “Yes. That.”

You examine the picture. It’s of Katie on a small dirt bike. She’s wearing a helmet in the picture, but you recognize the fashion sense in the floral boots she’s wearing. The scene behind her is of the hills, low scrub brush recognizable to someone who’s lived in LA for the past five years. On the bike behind her is a smudge. It could be a cloud of dirt blown into frame or maybe a camera glitch. It could be if it weren’t for the leering face emerging from the cloud right behind her head.

“I just want to say I did not agree to getting her a motorcycle,” Sarah says.

“Mom, not the point,” Katie says.

“Look how close that creep is to my daughter,” Leroy says. He jabs a finger at Katie’s waist in the photo where you can see a ghostly hand. “I want him gone.”

“Dad, he didn’t mean anything by it!” Katie turns to you earnestly. “Terry never rode a bike before and I thought, like, what if he moved on after he got a chance to? It was a philanthropic effort!”

“Plant a tree if you want to be a philanthropist,” Leroy growls. “I want this guy away from my daughter.”

“He doesn’t mean any harm really,” Katie says. “He would move on if he could! He says he’s stuck to me because of how I summoned him. He’s like, really sorry. He even spelled out Sorry in the bathroom mirror once.”

“What,” Sarah says in a dangerous voice, “was Terry doing in the bathroom with you, Katie?”

Katie splutters. “Mom, don’t be gross!”

The family descends into bickering. You have heard about ghosts being stuck to a person before, but usually that’s when the person has some sort of psychic powers. Katie’s wearing crystal in her ears, but they aren’t charged. She might develop some talent later in life, but right now she’s a normal girl.

The parking lost is nearly empty now. You recognize a few employee cars, but very few customers. The kitchen will be cleaning for another half hour before they’re ready to go home. The reality is that, if Terry is stuck, you might not be the best way to handle the situation. If he’s not…

Well.

It’s time to talk to Terry.

Opening your ghost sense is hard to describe. Some psychics liken it to a third eye, right in the middle of their forehead. You’ve always thought that sounded really cool like maybe the world gets cast in a blue hue when they do it and the dead appear like they do in movies. You’ve met other psychics who say it’s like a sixth sense. They know where the ghost is and it’s like they download all that information until their minds can just sort of conjure their image.

For you, it’s like letting your body remember it has a second mouth. Cats have an extra sensory organ on the roof of their mouth that lets them detect scents better. Your second mouth is a bit like that. You can still smell brownies and garlic and the city air of LA, but you can also smell/taste something else.

Something like…pepper?

Your eyes water and you sneeze so viciously that your eyes close. When you open them again, four people are staring at you in surprise.

“Gesundheit,” Leroy says.

“You sneeze like Dad does,” Katie says.

“Did no one ever teach you to cover your mouth?” Sarah asks in disgust.

“I wish you would’ve sneezed on her,” Terry says, nodding to Sarah. “She’s such a bitch.”

“Thank you for the commentary, everyone,” you say. You wipe your nose with the collar of your shirt as you consider Terry. It’s dirty anyway. “Terry. Interesting name for a ghost.”

Terry hasn’t noticed that you can see him yet. He’s floating behind Katie, one arm casually flung over her shoulder. It’s hard to place when he died based on his appearance alone. His hair is chin length, emphasizing the width of his jaw. Squire cuts have been popular for several decades and the bowling shirt he’s wearing could either be a modern fashion statement or a dated uniform. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, sun-kissed and with the air of someone who tells a lot of jokes at the expense of others. His arm around Katie strikes you as possessive, the glare he gives her parents venomous.

“I didn’t name him,” Katie says. “He said it’s short of Torrance.”

You blink. “Wouldn’t he be Torri then?”

“That’s a girl’s name,” Katie and Terry say at the same time. Their cadence is so close that it actually sounds like Terry’s baritone comes out of Katie’s mouth. For a moment, his arm flickers, clipping into her shoulder like a bad animation. When it does, Terry’s form grows brighter, more solid. Then Katie shivers and he’s forced out of her.

You and Terry click your tongues at the same time.

You remember how Katie’s hands seemed to blur at the dinner table. Terry’s not just haunting Katie. He’s trying to possess her. You wonder if that’s why Katie looked up an exorcist rather than a simple spiritual cleansing. Did she know how much danger she was in?

“Okay,” you say. You tear your attention away from Katie and Terry for a moment. Business first. “Sarah. Leroy. Who was it that found my site?”

“I did,” Sarah says. She raises her chin when you can’t hide your surprise. “When Katie was looking up exorcists—”

“She didn’t mean it,” Terry says. He pats Katie’s hat. “Right?”

“—I looked up alternative solutions,” Sarah says, not having heard Terry. Her confidence falters for a moment and she rubs her arm. “I have had some… negative experiences with exorcisms. I don’t want my daughter to go through that.”

Katie’s head whips towards her mother. “What? I didn’t know that.”

“It was a long time ago,” Leroy says. For the first time, he reaches out and hugs Sarah with one arm. You don’t know what surprises you more; Leroy hugging Sarah or Sarah leaning into his side. “When Sarah told me, we decided to put our differences aside. I vetted you through some of my contacts and they all agreed you’d be a safe bet.”

“I am,” you say. You’re not bragging either. You’re probably the safest bet in half the western states besides your older sister. “There are some…peculiarities in my method.”

“Charlatan,” Terry whispers in Katie’s ear. He’s grinning now. “Only charlatans are that confident. Look! She can’t even see me!”

Katie looks doubtful.

Usually, you’d try to talk to Terry at this point. Sometimes spirits can be negotiated with. They can be encouraged to move on or to take on a less aggressive form of haunting. Those that are truly stuck can be helped with the right sort of ritual work. But the way Terry’s affecting Katie’s mood and that fucking arm around her shoulders…

You don’t really want to talk to Terry.

“We can ask Terry to move on,” you tell the family.

“Nooooooo,” Terry says and flips you off. “Pass!”

“Sometimes spirits don’t realize how deeply they’re affecting their hosts,” you say.

“You don’t even know how deep I’m about to be,” Terry jeers at you.

“Many ghosts are confused when they’re called to interact with the living,” you say. “It can blur their understanding of death and, as a result, they cling to life. If they stick around long enough, their presence will affect the living like what’s happening to Katie. It’s not always malicious. It can be a symptom of that confusion.”

“Katie, tell her to piss off,” Terry hisses in the teen’s ear. “I’m not confused, I’m bored.” His voice deepens. “Tell her we don’t need her help. Tell her we’re going home.”

Katie opens her mouth robotically. “That’s…” Her brow creases as she tries to figure out what she was going to say. “It seems like we don’t need help then. Terry will move on when he’s ready, like I thought.”

“We aren’t paying you for a ghost therapy session,” Sarah snaps. It’s only because you’re really focusing that you can see the unease under her anger. She’s noticed something wrong with Katie. “Katie, Terry is going away today.”

“Fuck you,” Terry says.

“Fuck you,” Katie says.

Leroy’s head rears back. “Katie, you don’t use that language with your mother!”

“Fuck you too,” Katie and Terry say. The parking lot lights flicker.

“No, fuck you, Terry,” you say, stepping between Katie and her parents. Leroy starts like he’s going to pull you out of the way, but he doesn’t.

“Terry?” Leroy asks. He looks scared. “Terry said that? Is Terry possessing my daughter?”

“Not yet.” You eye Terry’s arm and the way his fingers are sinking into Katie’s arm.

“Oh fuck,” Terry says. He doesn’t look scared. Not yet. Instead, he grins. “You can see me.”

“Not every ghost is malicious,” you tell the parents without taking your eyes off Terry. “But some are.”

“I’m not malicious.” Terry runs a hand through his hair, still grinning. The parking lot lights flicker overhead again. “I care about Katie a lot.”

“Terry’s never hurt me,” Katie says.

You ignore her. She’s not even shaking Terry off now. Her gaze is dull on your face when you say, “I don’t mean to sound like I’m some sort of ghost therapist. However, it’s important to differentiate between malicious and non-malicious hauntings in my practice. My methods are unconventional and, if used indiscriminately, I can get in a lot of trouble.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Leroy says. He steps into your periphery. His gaze flicks from you to the spot you’re staring at over Katie’s shoulder. “We want Terry gone.”

“Not a soul,” Sarah promises. She comes up on your other side. “Please help our daughter.”

“Terry,” you say. Your second mouth is yawning wide somewhere in the back of your brain. The taste of pepper isn’t as overwhelming now. “Last chance. Renounce your claim on Katie’s soul and slither back into whatever hole you came out of.”

“We’re soulmates,” Terry says. He bares his teeth at you. “Go on, Charlatan. Call on your God to banish me. I’ve been around for decades and no exorcist has ever been able to put a scratch on me. And when they manage to push me out?” He laughs and the temperature drops another ten degrees. An unholy light flickers in his eyes. “I just come right back.”

“Then I guess I won’t feel guilty,” you say.

“Guilty?” Katie asks.

You walk forward two steps and grab Terry’s face. Terry’s skin is soft and jelly-like. His facial bones undulate like rubber under your grip. “Hi, Terry.”

Now Terry’s afraid. “What the fuck, you can touch—?”

“Bye, Terry.” You drag him towards you. His fingers pop out of Katie’s arm with a wet sucking sound, and he claws at your wrist.

“Wait! Waitwaitwaitwait--”

You eat Terry.

People come from all around to eat at the Brownie Industry. They love the density of the desserts and the heaps of garlic spread over home-baked (shipped frozen) rolls. It’s a treat to know you’re always going to enjoy the meal even if you’re far from home or eating at the same location a hundred times. It’s consistency, sugar and butter. An easy addiction to have.

Eating ghosts is like that for you. They fizz in your second mouth like champagne and melt like fudge. It’s hard to describe and the ephemeral quality of it sends shivers down your spine. Somewhere Terry is screaming in anguish, maybe crying. You think that the family you’re helping is screaming something too, but the sensation of eating is so consuming you can’t hear the words.

Terry is younger than other ghosts you’ve eaten. He doesn’t have the depth of flavor you’d once been addicted to back in Illinois. The best ghost you’ve ever eaten had been like a six-course meal with all the centuries she’d been carrying. In comparison, Terry is like a bag of pepper chips. Interesting, but gone in a moment. Still, he hits the spot.

When you’re done, you burp a purple cloud of ectoplasm into the still night air.

Leroy is the first to speak. His eyes are so wide you can see the whites all around them. “Pay her, Sarah,” he says breathlessly. His hands shake as he reaches for Katie, steadying her on her feet. “Now.”

You smack your lips and graciously accept the wad of cash Sarah hands you. You raise your eyebrows. “This is more than three times my rate.”

“Consider it a tip,” Sarah says. She’s more composed than Leroy, but still pale. She studies you. “That was…revolting.”

“You didn’t have to watch,” you say. You put your money away and then perk up at a sudden thought. “Hey, if you can, can you leave me a review on my site?”

“I thought you didn’t want us to tell anyone?”

You wave your hand. “Secrets are bad for business. Besides, Terry deserved it. I’m sure they’ll understand if you write that in your review.”

“They…?”

You smile and don’t answer.

The family don’t ask many more questions after that. The parents promise to leave a review and Katie just stares at you as if concussed. You assure the parents that she’ll be back to normal as soon as the soul-shock wears off.

“And if it doesn’t?” Sarah asks.

“Message me,” you say.

“You don’t check your messages,” Leroy says.

“Oh,” you say, patting your stomach, “I’ll be checking them a lot more often now.”

You’re hungry again.

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(Patreon)

#my writing #ghosts #second person #it's spooky season #long post

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maidenvault · 2 months ago

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It genuinely does not matter if there were independent contractors or indentured workers on the second Death Star when it was blown up, oh my God.

Maybe for a moment rebel command thought about it and had a hard decision to make. We don’t need to see that because it would be a short conversation. You don’t let the fascist overlords have a doomsday device that can genocide a whole planet at the push of a button because then the next hard decision you’ll be making is whether you keep fighting the Empire at all when they’ll retaliate by destroying a whole planet, and another one tomorrow and another the next day. The Empire hasn’t poured a stupid amount of resources into creating this weapon and then completely replacing the first one because they don’t mean to use it lightly.

Victories in war always come at a serious cost, but of course after the Death Star is gone there’s celebration despite losses on both sides. Soldiers can celebrate victories and still being alive even when there are complicated feelings because people just died. People lived under the tyranny of the Empire for two decades before the rebellion started striking any serious blows, and it’s not bloodthirsty that seeing the Death Star go up in a huge explosion is treated as a huge win both times.

There’s just no quantifying the damage done by that conversation in Clerks and stupid takes like that becoming inescapable and taken seriously, not just put in a movie to be funny. Star Wars is about fighting fascism and it has a relatively black-and-white morality. As someone who loves some very heightened fantasy that feels like myth and folklore and doesn’t need realism in everything, I’m so tired of it being treated as a given that more symbolic and black-and-white portrayals of good and evil are inherently problematic. They’re not. There’s plenty of problems to be found in Star Wars without straining to be such an insufferable edgelord about its basic premise.

Yes, Star Wars is also about the sanctity of life and how violence and anger can corrupt people. But still every SW trilogy has been about a Jedi fighting in a war of some kind. TLJ ultimately shows DJ to be wrong with his “Don’t join” attitude, and Luke to be wrong for abandoning his duty as a Jedi, and Ben to be wrong for thinking he and Rey can carve their own path that doesn’t mean uncompromisingly resisting the dark side without that meaning they become the bad guys. The Bendu, representing neither the dark or the light, turns out to be a petty asshole whose refusal to pick sides because he’s so above it all just makes him totally useless until Kanan insults his pride enough for him to act. SW makes the point over and over that some things are worth fighting for and neutrality or complacency in the face of oppression is bad, that there’s truly not much gray area when the enemy are Sith or greedy and genocidal despots. Any civilians on the Death Star probably were there because they made a choice to just do their jobs whoever’s in power, because there are plenty of people in Imperial space like that. But by all means keep nitpicking how the particular way the rebellion stopped the Empire makes them ackshually not such good guys you know.

#the last jedi #luke skywalker #kanan jarrus #star wars #star wars rebels #meta #my meta

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nayaesworld · 7 days ago

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The Cruel Mind of Terry Richmond

Inside the mind of Patient#:022802

Psycho!Terry x Psychologist!Black reader

Warnings: MDNI!, mentions of mental disorders, manipulative behavior, smut, mentions of murder

Summary: The workings of the human brain had always intrigued you. How no one person ever shared the same brain, each one properly tailored to their needs. Serial killers and psychopaths were no different. Their brain chemicals had mixed into a dangerous cocktail of insanity, intrusive thoughts, and murderous behavior, but lacked in areas where remorse, guilt, and empathy should have been, leaving them to be caged like animals once diagnosed. But these cases interested you and your curiosity about their humanity had led you to urgently sign up to observe and interview the most recent transfer to the ward.

—

Psychology had always been your first love. It had been there through breakups and losses alike, and had gotten you through college with a doctorate in psychology. You couldn’t imagine life without your innate curiosity for the inner workings of the human brain, what it meant to be human and how some thoughts turned us into monsters. No one brain was created to respond the same to stimuli, each reaction was perfectly tailored to that person's upbringing and personal experiences, and this created the vast and never ending field of psychology.

You had set your sights on Oak Ridge Behavioral Center exactly a year and a half ago. The facility was a haven for progressive research and development into the rehabilitation of the discarded people of the community. The people that had been deemed ‘unfixable’ and labeled as misfits. Today was your lucky day, a call from the center had shook off any doubts you had about your work. They contacted you. They were interested in your work and what you could do for them.

A quick shower refreshed your mind and body and soothed away the first day jitters. After smoothing a thick body butter on your skin you slid into your black jogger scrub pants and black scrub top. Your white On Cloud sneakers would assist you in being on your feet all day, and you grabbed your Apple Watch and white coat before heading to your car.The dark gray gloominess of the weather outside was a stark difference from the excitement that threatened to bubble out of you.

90’s R&B soothed and serenaded you on your short drive to the facility. Your manicured fingers tapping in rhythm to the loud bass flowing through your speakers. This could be a new beginning for you, something you could tell your family and they’d be proud of you..something you could celebrate and finally give yourself that pat on the back you've always deserved. For all the days you felt like psychology wasn’t your passion anymore, this is what would make it all come full circle.

You arrived early, courtesy of your heavy foot and you sat in your car for a few more minutes. Inhaling and exhaling to shake the nerves from your body. You wanted to go in there and be impressive. These people had sought you out and gotten in contact with you. Your work had made waves and not the ripples you equated it to. It took a big brain to graduate college but an even bigger one was needed to understand someone else’s, that’s why you were here. To show them that your work was good on and off papers.

Out of your head and in front of the doors, you badged into the facility being met with icy cool air that makes you pull your jacket a little closer over your body. You’re greeted by Dr.Leland upon arrival and a smile graces your face. She reaches forward to shake your hand and you’re immediately calmed by the soft firm grip of it—safe and intentional. The middle aged woman's smooth dark skin and warm eyes soothed your nerves, her neat braids pulled back into a high ponytail.

“ So happy to have you here, I know you know me as Dr. Leland, but you can call me Karen. I know we’ve chatted some through zoom and what not, but I’d like to give you a more in depth tour of our facility.”

“Lead the way..I’m excited!”

You were stunned. Nothing could have prepared you for the state- of- the- art facility. The pictures quite literally did it no justice. The different stations inside designed uniquely to cater to a vast variety of different personalities. Large windows and atriums pulled in bright natural lighting giving the facility a healthy lush glow. A garden center where patients could help grow fresh produce and tend to all sorts of flowers and fruit trees. A studio where they could experiment with different beats and produce their own music, a form of music therapy. She took you to the pool room, and ended the tour in the art room.

“Dr.Le- I’m sorry Karen…wow! I mean I don’t know what else to say, you all have clearly dedicated yourselves to this cause. There’s a plethora of great therapy options here, something for everyone.”

“We are dedicated, heavily dedicated…but we also know the extent of what we can offer an individual here at Oak Ridge. And if there’s ever a time where our usual practices don’t seem to be working for someone, we call in people like you.”

You couldn’t lie, your curiosity for this ‘troubled patient’ was beginning to grow. Your eagerness to wonder who it was that Karen Leland couldn’t seem to rehabilitate. But this also broughtl on doubt.. if she couldn’t do it, how could you? Karen was a seasoned psychologist, she had seen it all.. and yet she had gotten in contact and needed your help. You were slightly spooked.

“I’m appreciative Karen I really am.. but I have to ask what am I getting myself into here?”

Her lips pursed and her smile faltered a bit before she motioned for you to follow her to another level of the building. The elevator ride down was short and you tried to hide your initial shock at realizing there was a whole other level beneath where you had just been standing. Patients were being housed and treated down here?

Stepping off of the elevator she badged in and two large steel doors swept open quietly. The lighting was the first thing you noticed. It was yellow-green almost and had been a complete stark difference from the bright airy openness of the front of the building. It was darker, quieter, and as you followed closely behind Karen you noticed the patients seemed drowsy and disoriented. Each room an eggshell white with a large glass cutout in the wall, offering you and other doctors a visual of the patients.

“We’ve chosen to nickname this area of the facility Doomsday..and I’d like to show you why. Every patient on this level has exhibited dangerous life threatening behavior either toward me, other therapists, or the orderlies. This is our last attempt at rehabilitation..and their last chance at a normal life.”

You continued walking alongside her, grasping onto her words trying to get a sense of what kind of patient you’d be faced with. You felt like you had seen enough, you were ready for an introduction.

“So I obviously have to ask..when can I meet him? I’ve taken heed of what you’ve told me but I want to get a general idea about this patient before anything.”

Karen seemed impressed by your approach and the two of you began the trek deeper into the lower level.

You weren’t supposed to have expectations of patients, but when you had seen Terry for the first time you couldn’t help your thoughts. He looked like he belonged on the cover of vogue, and had a build like a well paid athlete. He appeared to have been expecting the visit as he stared out at the two of you, clearly aware that a visit was being made today.

“Did he know about today?” Karen nodded before unlocking the iPad and pulling up his profile.

“It was mentioned to him last week before the incident…this meeting was unfortunately supposed to be held on the upper level. I want to brief you really quickly since I’ve got his file pulled up, and then we’ll speak more about last week.”

Her keeping you in the loop about the incident was exactly what you wanted. You had seen so many instances where doctors were thrown into the lion's den with no knowledge of the patient ever being aggressive or volatile. You didn’t want that for yourself, and so far Oak Ridge was alright in your eyes.

The two of you settled into her office and she began to give you the rundown. A rundown that shocked you.

“So we have 33 year old Terry Richmond. He’s born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana, is an only child with one parent still living. He had no prior run-ins with police up until a year ago where he was arrested and charged with two counts of first degree murder for the slaying of two ex girlfriends.”

You were stunned, but you did your best to conceal your facial expressions. This was a wild card for sure. But all you had to do was get deeply submerged in as much knowledge about his situation as you could; that is how you would even the playing fields.

“His attorney was able to get him acquitted by reason of insanity, and he was carted off to us exactly ten days after his court date. His diagnosis.. bipolar schizophrenia, he apparently had been living with these thoughts and feelings for the majority of his life but his mother never had him seen. Hence this huge blowup at the age of 32 that cost him his freedom.”

“Never having him seen as a child is a bit odd, were there ever any signs during childhood?” Karen put away the iPad and swiftly stepped from around the desk.

“Are you ready to ask him yourself?”

You held your head up as you began to approach his cell, and you felt confident knowing that you had the skills to thoroughly assess the patient and rehabilitate him. You were let into his room and given a chair to sit in. His bulky form draped in the ivory sweatsuit provided by the facility. His hands and feet were shackled and clamped to a heavy slab of concrete in the middle of the floor, prohibiting him from moving from the chair he was sitting in. You looked back outside the glass and Karen gave you a nod of approval. You could begin.

“Hi Mr.Richmond I’m Dr.Rhode and I’ll be your doctor for the rest of your time here. It’s nice to meet you.” Your introduction seemed to fall on deaf ears as hazel eyes locked onto your face before swishing away in disinterest.

“The system owns me like a dog.. do they own you too? Do they whistle and you come running..trained and ready to obey?“ He scoffed and looked away, hands rubbing against his pants slightly.

“Well no… I’m here to help you. This is all about you Terry. Can I call you that?”

He never answered and instead threw a pointed look your way. You’d instead continue.

“For the duration of my time here I plan to implement tasks and exercises that will help you achieve a level of rehabilitation that will allow you to live a normal life.”

“Sound like the same shit the last one said..and the one before that. Why are you any different..why should I put my care in your hands?”

“And beside.” He continued “What do those little files tell you about me that I can’t tell you myself hmm?” His face morphed into one of annoyance before you could later up and answer.

“Why don’t you try me..tell me everything you want me to know.”

Terry Richmond was an odd man—particular mostly. His life before Oak Ridge had been colorful and full of adventure. But he wasn’t shy on speaking about the urges he had felt his whole life. How he often restricted himself from the public because being around people would trigger that part of himself and he wasn’t sure most times if he would be able to be without an incident.

“You think you can rehabilitate me…put me back out into the public that’s cute. I’ve accepted what I am..now it’s time for you and the rest of these people to do the same.”

“That’s my jo-“ You didn’t complete your sentence before he cut you off, eager to get his point across.

“No, your job is to assess me and interview me. Don’t try to be a hero, it won’t end well for you.”

Over the course of four months she interviewed him and he shared details;details so sick that she’d become physically ill after their sessions. He gave her what she wanted, graphic descriptions, recaps and stories of his ‘hunting sessions’ as he liked to call them— the rituals he would do afterwards. A kind of sacred ceremony for him, tying him to the crimes he’d committed and centering him—making him feel righteous in his actions.

“When I was younger I used to mutilate small animals and my mama would say ‘oh that’s just what boys do’…until I turned thirteen and this time I had stabbed my cousin with a steak knife for touching my Xbox. Wasn’t so boyish of me then.”

The tone of voice he spoke of his mother in was..interesting. He loved the woman with everything in him and yet hated her for not seeing the signs early on—hated her for not getting him help. He blamed her for his actions, because in his mind if she’d helped him like a mother was supposed to, he wouldn’t even be in this situation.

“I don’t think what I did was so bad.” He continued “Of course everyone overreacted a tad bit.. is it a crime that I don’t take kindly to betrayal? Is it a crime to expect from others what I give to them?” His fist smacked into his palm a few times before he sat back roughly in his seat; agitation clear on his face.

“You speak about betrayals and over offering yourself to people that were undeserving. Who and what were these betrayals?” You leg crossed over the other as you scribbled neat shortened notes of his accounts.

Some time lapsed before you realized he hadn’t yet answered your question. It was silent..dead silent. He had been given a little more leeway with his shackles and his hands gripped and pulled at his hair before he began to cut into his forearm with his nails. Bright red blood spilling out from the tiny punctures and coloring his honeyed skin.

“Woah woah! Terry if this question is too much for you we can skip it…please do not harm yourself. Take it slow, just breathe.”

The ragged breaths came out rushed before his large frame stilled with smoother air coming from his nostrils. Tears had started to form now threatening to fall and tell the story for him.

“They tried to get over on me..give away what was mines. They said they loved me, that they would marry me and give me children. I was engaged to both of them. At separate times of course ..and they betrayed me by keeping the company of lesser men.”

“Why do you think you had ownership of these women even after you were no longer together?” The question needed to be answered. How and why did this drive him to commit murder.

He rubbed at his reddened nose and he twisted his full lips to the side, regaining his thoughts on the matter.

“Women are emotional beings…if they connect with you emotionally a different sort of bond forms. They feel linked to you, they know and see you better—they begin to love you.”

“And how could I turn that down?” He continued. “That overwhelming feeling of being wanted and worshipped through love. I wasn’t without love in my life..I always had it—but I never twisted it the way I did with them.”

You clung to every word. Absorbing the pain that oddly seeped from his words. He sounded regretful and proud at the same time. A major mind fuck.

“I was never a good man. I was constantly applauded for the bare minimum…validated in all my actions. I still hear their voices sometimes..in here.”He motioned to his head, the corners of his mouth lifting into a soft smile. “They aren’t angry with me.”

“I’m a monster. Monsters don’t deserve rehabilitation, they deserve isolation.”

Their session ended shortly after and his words stayed with you all night. You showered with them. Ate with them. And when sleep didn’t come so easily, you sat at your computer desk reading article after article. Your blue light frames reflecting gory images and the film from his interrogation. The cold steel timbre of his voice as he answered all the detective's questions. Completely unfazed and unapologetic. He hid nothing from them. Told them how he did it, why he did it..didn’t fight when they began to cuff him.

You fell asleep at your desk. The days blending together like a cocktail and seeping into your brain as you rested. The focal point of them all being your patient; Terry Richmond. Why was your brain trying so hard to victimize and protect him? Maybe it was your psychology brain trying to exhaust all options before you addressed him by what he called himself—monster. Who was really at fault here? Who had failed him? Wasn’t it his job to make well thought out decisions that would impact his life for the better? Murder did the exact opposite; and yet somehow you felt sympathetic towards him. This feeling was freeing and it validated your growing feelings toward the man; you could be the pillar that made him sane again.

“I heard you got some free time today. You got to get out of here and paint in the art room..did you enjoy yourself ?”

You had spoken to Karen when you first arrived and was happy to hear that he was able to have a little normalcy.

“I’d rather talk to you..you paint a far better picture than I ever could.”

“Well you know we only meet every Wednesday and Thursday Terry but between those days I’ve recommended some enrichment time outside of this room for you.”

“Have you ever thought about how it might feel to not think those thoughts one day? How it might feel to free your mind?”

The questions seemed obvious enough on your end. And the exposure would have done well for his mental health.

“No that’s not something I want to ever entertain …because those thoughts feature you now. You make my stay in this dog pound worth it…even if I doubted your abilities at first.”

Redirect him. “ Did you paint anything you liked, anything you wanna hang up in your room?”

Surprised wouldn’t quite be the way to describe the painting that he was now showing to you. You felt honored and embraced. Who was really broken here? In all your years of study, you never actually had taken the time to turn the mirror around on yourself. You were compromised. And if Karen knew the thoughts that ran through your head day in and day out you’d be fired and shunned by this community. She had entrusted you with this patient, high expectations of your work ethic and integrity to commit yourself to this job—and you were failing. But what Karen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Reaching into your large tote bag to flicked through the cameras that had been linked to your iPad. In the midst of doing risky shit you needed full coverage of what was going on around you. No one could know about this.

Like he had read your mind you watched his eyes shine with pride and endearment. You had finally come around to him. No more fighting it. No more wasted time.

“Thirty minutes is all we have. I need to be filled to the brim and I need it quickly.”

You popped the bottoms of your blouse and exposed your heaving chest to him. Dark brown areolas peering through your bra at him.

“Come closer. Now..I’m in chains and now you want to come to your senses. Get the fuck over here!” His shackles shook with each word and you crossed the room to get to him in mere seconds. Body filled to the max with a need that burned inside you so fiercely.

This wasn’t about right or wrong. This was about fixing the man in front of you, you knew you could get through to him. Make him a man of the future and not one of his terrifying past. A union that would shape the both of you for the rest of your lives.

Shackles on the floor beneath you both as your hands gripped his shoulders tightly. Nothing in the world could have prepared you for the jolt of emotions that would come over you both as the two of you finally connected. The way he gripped your face as you rode him, nose red and eyes wet with hot tears. Your foreheads collided as you sped up. It felt like only the two of you existed—creating your own universe. Creating your own life.

Your watch signaled to you that only minutes remained of what you would describe as the best time of your life. His dick throbbed and pulsed along with your convulsing pussy. Heavy breathing and spit swapping became the soundtrack to your ears. His heavy hands roaming up and down your back as ropes of his cum entered your willing pussy.

“Tell me you love me…and I promise to do my best to let them treat me. Then me and you—and our baby were going far away from here.” He pressed his hand to your belly sealing the fate of what you both knew as your future.

This plan was the end all be all for the two of you. Something that sounded so crazy and unattainable just months ago was now within arms reach. Keeping your license was important, and getting Karen to integrate Terry back in with the top floor was the key to his freedom. So yeah you would lie and lie again about how he was doing. Anything to feed her what she wanted to hear, her praises amping you up and turning you into a deceiving manipulative woman. You were doing it all for love.

The coming months hit hard and fast. Your work at Oak Ridge continued through a plethora of other patients Karen believed you could achieve great things with. Hiding your bump was a no brainer. You wanted no one in your business, no coworkers and no family. You missed out on a lot and the distance from your family was hard most days . You couldn’t ask your mother about pregnancy and how she had navigated it three separate times in her lifetime. You attended your appointments alone, only able to update Terry through small spurts of information whenever you were within a few feet of him. The cold winter made it easy to bundle up during your last trimester and shorter work hours were given to you under the guise of ‘spreading yourself too thin between hospitals’.

The two of you were welcoming a Christmas baby. Your due date being on the twenty third of the month; set exactly two weeks after Terry would be released. You sighed briefly to yourself as you watched Terry play it up to Karen. You longed to reach out and touch him, to let him touch you and begin to learn the life that you had grown inside of you for the last eight months. But you were closer to the finish line than you’d ever been; you could taste the freedom. Sadness still managed to creep in when you were alone at home though. Lies flew from your mouth so fast. ‘No mommy I won’t make it to thanksgiving this year, the workload is tough’ the way you’d mute the phone and weep quietly to yourself as you let down your parents yet again. But this was for a greater cause, you and Terry both believed that.

Stranger things had happened to you. But when the Uber stopped outside your home and his broad figure came into your view you knew that this was your destiny. Duffle bag slung over his strong shoulders as a dark brown beanie protected his ears from the bite of the freeze; the two of you were meant to meet.

His knees graced the floor of your foyer immediately as he entered your home. Large gloved hands roaming over your protruding bump and raising the heather grey camisole to kiss where the baby softly kicked. He stood to his feet and craned his neck a bit to meet your plump lips. He was finally home.

“Thank you for this baby..thank you for your patience. I owe you eternal peace.”

“It’s a girl Terry. I wanted to surprise you at birth but you deserve to know…deserve to know that she’ll have the best parts of the both of us.”

Falling into a routine was easy with him. He finished your sentences, cooked and cleaned. He even dealt with the whirlwind of your hormones. Your feet were swollen, your back ached, and babygirl didn’t hold back on getting comfortable in your uterus. But the pain was only temporary and she eagerly slid into this world with three pushes and a loud strong wail. Come Christmas Day she was dressed in a snug reindeer onesie as you sipped hot chocolate and gave Terry his gifts. But the best Christmas gift was the one you carried for nine whole months and nestled close to you.

—

You curbed your family’s appetite to see you in the flesh just three months after you had given birth. Doing your best to hide any indication of childbirth, you had met them at their house and their house only, you cheered,laughed, and enjoyed a hearty Sunday dinner before you scurried back home to Amelia; your four month old bundle of joy. You felt relieved and satisfied after seeing your family and deep down you knew you had truly missed them. All the banter and loudness that made them into everything you loved and everything you knew growing up.

You brushed the shiny black curls of Amelia’s head before you allowed her to latch onto an engorged breast. Her small cheeks puffing and filling with milk as her tiny ocean eyes held yours in an intense match of who loved who more. Your greatest accomplishment. Terry came to get her and lay her down shortly after she fell asleep on your nipple, you took that needed time to pump breast milk and shower away the scent of outside.

Excitement beamed inside of you. The three of you were relocating. Your family believing the lie that you had found a higher paying job in another state; a partial lie if you will. Your whole house was in boxes right now and the two of you had to rent the U-Haul tomorrow to officially pack up and head to greener pastures. Terry's hand around your neck shocked you from your happy thoughts and you turned to him.

“We leave tomorrow.. Milly’s gonna grow up away from here. We’ll have new beginnings; together. Did you ever think our dreams would come true?” His keen focused eyes beamed with live and adoration for you.

“I promised you eternal peace my love..a freedom away from here. Me and Milly will always love you, she’ll always have you in her and that’ll get her a million miles further in life. I love you, you have given me everything I ever wanted; now rest my heart.”

Sharp pain. A swift puncture to your heart, was this heartbreak? What were you feeling? In your shock you watched your shirt stain crimson, your life force leaking slowly from you as the love of your life pushed the dagger deeper into your dying heart. You fell into his arms, gripping his wrist tightly as he tugged the dagger from your heart with a grunt before gently laying you on the living room floor. Your eyes fluttered quickly and your vision blurred with tears of betrayal and fear, your little girl wouldn’t remember you; she’d grow up without you.

But you couldn’t hold on for her. And you tried so hard to, so hard to gather up enough oxygen to even wiggle a finger. But no more fight was left. “Rest my love..it’s as easy as falling asleep.” His low voice laid you to rest and sealed your eyes closed for good.

Your earthly eyes shut and a new pair opened. Death had become you and you were dead. Your body laid sprawled on the floor and your blood trickled slowly from your stab wound. You watched as he sat Amelia next to your dead body. Her chubby hands tugging and pulling at your face before her bottom lip poked out and she began to scream loudly from your still face. Her tiny shrills filled the house and she gripped Terrys coat firmly when he lifted her to his chest. Was it possible for your heart to break in the afterlife?

“Say bye bye to mommy Milly. It’s just you and dada now..just you and me.” He pressed kisses to her chubby cheeks and her toothless grin returned to her face as she attempted to put his nose in her mouth.

Lesson learned the hard way. Red lights were actually red and so were stop signs. And monsters were exactly what they looked like; monsters. Consequences of your actions landed you here, a harsh lesson but a lesson nonetheless. For as long as you could, you would watch your little girl grow up. She’d never see your face again but it was your job to guide her and steer her away from the monsters of this world. You had learned a great enough lesson for the both of you.

—

@chessteena @ch33z3grits @slvt4her @thevelvetwhispers @moebuttta @blackmoonchilee @blyffe @big-button @motheroffeline @prettyinpikk @writingsbytee @bizzle-xoxo @atasteofmir @sleepynoirr @mrsknowitallll @theereinawrites @keehendrixx @chocoflagcutii @tswrldd @dbaileyblog @zunibugsiren @juniperlovesstuff @becauseimswagman1 @slyy-foxx @wherethewildtingsare @my-anime-garden @partypoison00 @cocooned-butterfly @orchidwonder @rawflwrs @23jammy @nikkireeds553 @princesskittendonut @keyaho @kenshisluvrgirl @zillasvilla @ranikyani @ovohanna24 @kimuzostar @playgurlxoxo @megamindsecretlair @brattyfics @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @thabiddie23

#aaron pierre #terry richmond #black women #rebel ridge #aaron pierre x black reader #original character #black oc #aaron pierre x black!oc

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ijustmissyouraccenths · 1 month ago

Text

Let’s Call It Even

Where Y/N is an interviewer who pushes Harry Styles too far.

Word count: 2.5k

The hotel suite is dimly lit, the kind of warm lighting designed to make people feel at ease. It’s supposed to create intimacy, lower defenses.

Y/N doesn’t buy into it.

She sits across from Harry Styles, her recorder already running, her notepad resting on her lap. He’s leaned back in his chair, the picture of effortless ease—legs spread slightly, fingers tapping a light rhythm against his knee. He’s been in interviews all day. She can tell by the slight shift in his posture, the polite but rehearsed smile.

He thinks this will be just another round of the same.

He’s wrong.

She clicks her pen. “Let’s talk about Jack.”

Harry nods slightly, shifting forward in his seat. “Let’s.”

She studies him for a second before speaking again. “Do you think Jack sees himself as the villain, or does he believe he’s the hero of his own story?”

The smile on his lips falters just a fraction, but it’s there. He takes a moment, pretending to really think about it, but Y/N knows that’s just part of the act.

“I think Jack believes he’s doing what’s right,” he says finally. His voice is smooth, unhurried. “That’s what makes him dangerous, isn’t it? He thinks he’s protecting something. Love, security, order. But he’s also selfish. Blind to how much control he really has over Alice.”

It’s a good answer. Polished. Almost too perfect.

Y/N doesn’t even blink.

“But isn’t that just a way to excuse him?” she presses. “Saying he thinks he’s doing the right thing doesn’t change the fact that he actively chooses to manipulate Alice. It’s not a gray area—it’s deliberate harm. Doesn’t that say more about how men like Jack justify their actions?”

There. The shift.

His jaw tightens slightly. His fingers stop their rhythmic tapping.

For the first time, she has his full attention.

“I think you’re trying to make it black and white when it isn’t,” Harry counters, voice still calm but firmer now. “Jack is a product of his environment. The whole world he exists in is built to make him believe he’s right.”

“But that doesn’t make him any less responsible.”

Silence. Thick. Charged.

She watches as he exhales through his nose, the muscles in his jaw working as he measures his next words.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that you came into this interview already deciding what you wanted to hear from me.”

A flicker of something in his eyes—challenge, annoyance, something deeper beneath the surface.

And just like that, the easy rhythm of the interview is gone.

Y/N doesn’t flinch at Harry’s words. If anything, she leans in slightly, her grip on her pen tightening just a fraction.

“I think,” she says, mirroring his tone, “that you came into this interview already deciding how much you wanted to say.”

Harry’s lips twitch, something between amusement and irritation flashing across his face. “That’s what interviews are, aren’t they? You ask, I answer. Isn’t that the game?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” she counters. “Unless you’re just playing it safe.”

His expression shifts—still composed, still carrying that air of practiced charm, but his body language betrays him. The way his fingers flex against his knee. The way his jaw tenses, like he’s biting back something sharper.

“I don’t think wanting to be thoughtful with my words means I’m playing it safe.” His voice is controlled, deliberate. “It means I’m not interested in giving you some soundbite you can twist into a headline.”

Y/N tilts her head slightly, studying him. “I don’t need to twist anything, Harry. Your answers do that on their own.”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t break eye contact.

The tension stretches between them, thick and unspoken. There’s something electric about it—not just frustration, but something deeper. An unspoken challenge hanging in the air.

She watches as he inhales through his nose, running his tongue along his bottom lip before he speaks again.

“I think Jack is complicated,” he says finally, voice lower now, more measured. “I think he’s someone who believes his love is enough to justify everything he does. And I think that kind of love—the kind that demands control—is the most dangerous kind there is.”

Now that is an answer.

Y/N doesn’t say anything for a beat, just lets the weight of his words settle between them. Then, slowly, she nods.

“I think that’s the most honest thing you’ve said today.”

His smirk is barely there, but it lingers, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And I think,” he murmurs, “you like getting under people’s skin more than you like the answers themselves.”

She smirks right back.

“Only when they need to be pushed.”

The interview continues, but the air between them has shifted. Every exchange is laced with something unspoken, something simmering just beneath the surface.

The interview wraps. The cameras stop rolling. The crew starts moving around, packing up lights and cables, but Y/N barely notices.

She can feel him watching her.

She keeps her focus on gathering her notes, her movements precise, calculated. She’s expecting him to leave—to shake hands, flash one last easy grin, and walk out like he does in every other interview.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, she hears the quiet shuffle of his boots against the carpet. The shift of fabric as he moves closer.

Then, his voice. Low. Sharp.

“Was that the goal?”

Y/N exhales, fingers tightening around her pen before she finally looks up at him. He’s closer than before, standing just at the edge of the table, his expression unreadable.

“Excuse me?”

Harry tilts his head slightly, eyes flickering over her face. His jaw is still tight, like he’s holding something back.

“You wanted me to get mad, didn’t you?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge beneath it, something simmering. “Push me hard enough so the clip goes viral. ‘Harry Styles loses his cool.’ That the angle you were going for?”

Y/N lets out a short breath, shaking her head. “That’s insulting.”

“Is it?” he challenges, stepping just a fraction closer.

Her jaw clenches, but she doesn’t move back. If he’s trying to intimidate her, he’s wasting his time.

“I wasn’t trying to make you mad,” she says evenly. “I was trying to make you think. There’s a difference.”

His lips press together, and she can tell he’s fighting the urge to snap back. She’s seen this before—the way frustration sits behind his ribs, the way he wrestles with it instead of letting it spill over.

But this time, it’s personal.

“You think I wasn’t thinking?” His voice drops, quieter now. “Or do you just not like it when people don’t give you the answers you want?”

Y/N exhales through her nose, tilting her chin up slightly. “I think you’re used to people letting you get away with easy answers. And I think, for once, someone actually made you sit in the uncomfortable part of it.”

A flicker of something—anger, intrigue, something tangled in between.

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, then lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You are a real piece of work, you know that?”

She smirks, crossing her arms. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

For a second, he just looks at her. The air between them feels thick, charged with something unsaid.

Then, he shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before turning toward the door.

But just before he steps out, he pauses.

“You know what the worst part is?” he says, glancing over his shoulder. His voice is lower now, almost too quiet. “You’re right. And I fucking hate that.”

And then, he’s gone.

It happens at a party.

She’s not surprised. The industry is small, the circles even smaller. She knew, deep down, that their paths would cross again.

But she didn’t expect it to be like this.

The venue is dimly lit, golden light casting long shadows across the room. Low chatter hums beneath the pulse of bass-heavy music. It’s one of those exclusive events—where artists, directors, and industry names sip expensive drinks and pretend they’re not watching each other.

Y/N isn’t here to play the game. She’s here because she was dragged by a friend, because she needed a break, because—

Because she told herself she wouldn’t think about him.

And then, she feels it.

That familiar prickle at the back of her neck. The unshakable sense of being watched.

She turns, and there he is.

Harry, leaning against the bar, a whiskey glass in hand, watching her like she’s something he can’t quite figure out. His suit is tailored but effortless, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he stopped caring the second he walked in.

But it’s his eyes that catch her—the way they flicker under the low lights, dark and unreadable.

She should look away.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she lifts her chin slightly, a silent challenge, before turning toward the balcony.

She doesn’t need to check if he follows. She already knows he will.

The air outside is cooler, quieter, a stark contrast to the warmth of the party. The city stretches out below, glittering and endless.

She leans against the railing, exhaling slowly.

“Didn’t think you were the type to sulk in the corner at these things.”

His voice comes from behind her, smooth but laced with something heavier.

She doesn’t turn around. “Didn’t think you were the type to hold grudges.”

There’s a low chuckle, and then she hears his footsteps—slow, unhurried.

“You made quite an impression, love,” he murmurs, coming to stand beside her.

She finally glances at him. “I do that.”

His lips twitch, but there’s something else in his gaze. Something he hasn’t decided if he resents or respects.

“I meant what I said,” he continues, taking a sip of his drink. “You like pushing people. You like watching them squirm.”

She shrugs, turning back to the skyline. “Only when they need to be pushed.”

“And you decided I needed it?”

“I didn’t decide anything,” she says, then glances at him. “You showed me you did.”

That does something to him. She can tell by the way his jaw clenches, by the way he exhales slowly, like he’s trying to temper whatever is simmering beneath his skin.

“You think you know me, don’t you?” he mutters, more to himself than to her.

Y/N tilts her head, studying him. “I think you hate that I might.”

Silence. The air between them shifts, tightening.

She expects him to snap back, to smirk, to find some way to deflect like he always does.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sets his glass down, leaning in just enough that she can feel the warmth of him, the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“Tell me, then,” he murmurs. “What do you think you know?”

Her pulse jumps, but she doesn’t let it show.

She meets his stare, unflinching.

“I think you like control.” The words are deliberate, measured. “You like being the one asking the questions. You like being the one who sets the pace, who decides how much people see.”

His throat bobs as he swallows.

She steps closer—not much, just enough to test the space between them.

“And I think,” she continues, voice softer now, “you hate that I see past it.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. His fingers flex against the railing.

For a second, she thinks he’s going to walk away again.

But then—

“And what if I don’t hate it?”

The words hang between them, heavy, raw.

Her breath catches, just for a moment.

She should say something sharp, something cutting.

Instead, she whispers—

“Then that’s a whole different problem, isn’t it?”

And for the first time since they met, he doesn’t have an answer.

The weight of his words lingers between them.

Harry doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, watching her, like he’s trying to decide whether to close the space between them or run before it’s too late.

Y/N holds his gaze, waiting. Daring.

For once, he doesn’t have a smooth response, a rehearsed quip to throw back at her. And she sees it—the crack in the armor, the flicker of something raw beneath all the charm.

“This is a problem, then?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerously soft.

Y/N exhales slowly, feeling the cool night air against her skin, the contrast of the heat rolling off him. “It is if you make it one.”

His jaw clenches. His hands flex against the railing.

Then—

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?”

Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t look away. “Funny. I was just about to say the same thing.”

His breath hitches—just slightly, just enough for her to notice.

And then it happens.

He moves.

Not fast, not reckless, but with a sharp, deliberate intent that makes her heart lurch.

One second, they’re standing there, balancing on the edge of something unspoken.

The next, he’s close. Closer than before.

His hand comes up, fingers brushing over the column of her throat, tracing the line of her jaw. Not quite touching, not fully closing the distance, but there—a silent question, a warning, a threat.

Her pulse pounds beneath his fingertips.

She knows this is a mistake. She knows they should stop, pull back before it spirals into something they can’t control.

But when his thumb drags lightly across her skin, when his lips part like he’s about to say something and then doesn’t—

She doesn’t care.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

Her breath catches.

“Say what?”

His fingers slide to the back of her neck, his touch just firm enough to make her head spin.

“Say you don’t want this.”

Her throat tightens.

Because she should. She should say it. She should tell him that this is just leftover tension from their interview, just a fleeting moment of frustration, just—

But then his nose brushes hers, his breath warm against her lips, and all rational thought crumbles.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

The second the words leave her mouth, everything snaps.

His lips crash against hers, and it’s nothing like she expected. It’s not slow, not tentative—it’s urgent, desperate, messy in a way that betrays just how long they’ve both been holding this back.

His hands tighten against her waist, pulling her flush against him. She fists his shirt, grounding herself, anchoring herself to something before she completely loses her mind.

He tastes like whiskey and something she can’t name, something sharp and intoxicating and so fucking infuriatingly him.

The kiss is a battle. A push and pull.

He bites her lower lip, and she gasps. He smirks against her mouth, but she drags her nails down his back, making him groan, and suddenly the tables turn.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be even.”

He presses her back against the railing, one hand gripping her waist, the other tilting her chin up, deepening the kiss like he’s trying to prove something.

Like he’s trying to win.

When they finally break apart, their breaths are ragged, lips swollen, pupils blown wide.

Harry drags his thumb over her bottom lip, watching her like he’s waiting for her to take it back.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she smirks.

“That wasn’t very professional of you, Styles.”

His answering chuckle is dark, breathless.

“You started it.”

She arches a brow. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

He leans in again, lips ghosting over her jaw. “No?”

Her grip tightens in his shirt.

“No,” she murmurs, voice softer now.

He hums, his nose trailing along the curve of her neck.

“Then let’s call it even.”

Y/N exhales a shaky breath, tilting her head slightly.

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bonefall · 14 days ago

Note

Hey, I saw your post about Holstein cows and your knowledge about cows seems enciclopedical for someone who doesn't know shit about them like me. I was kind of wondering if you have an opinion about nelore cows. They are the most popular breed in my country, and I wanted to know more about them👉🏻👈🏻

YOU 🫵 are going to BRAZIL 🇧🇷

The Nelore is an absolutely outstanding cow. Able to withstand extreme heat, thick-skinned and insect resistant, intelligent yet easy to handle, it's hard to find a better beef breed for a humid, tropical environment.

Naturally, it's become popular all across South America, but the Nelore is the pride and joy of Brazil. Bred from a breed of zebuine cattle called the Ongole, the quality of the Nelore is what makes Brazil SUCH a powerhouse in meat production, globally. In fact, they've been the NUMBER ONE exporter of beef several years in a row!

Bask in the shape of this beautiful woman.

You'll probably first be drawn to the elegant dewlap and folds. This is how the cow manages to be so tolerant of high heat; lots of skin and lots of pores makes for more surface area to cool down quickly! Even her coloration helps-- white fur reflects the sun, but black skin underneath protects her from the rays that aren't.

If you're a bit more discerning, you might also be noticing her sculpted muscles, long legs, and humble udder. Nelore are bred to be healthy and athletic above all. They can survive just fine in a pasture year-round, very rarely needing medical care-- especially not when it comes to the care of their calves!

The Texas Longhorn (a breed which was developed in feral conditions) has an unassisted calving rate of 86%. The Nelore is 95%!

Lastly... do you see those bulges on the hump and on the rump? Those make for wonderful cuts of beef; Cupim and Picanha. Cupim is unique to Brazilian cuisine, but Picanha is sometimes called sirloin cap or rump cap in English.

I also really like the fact that sometimes they have gray bag markings under their eyes, so they look kinda like tired, wrinkly grandmas.

This is Yzma, to me.

As even better news, there's been a ton of progress in terms of lessening the ecological impact of cattle grazing since Lula unseated the weird fascist whose face I don't respect. Brazil produces a downright staggering amount of beef (only slightly less than the entire USA!) on a decreasing amount of land, swapping over to a HIGHLY efficient form of sustainable farming called ICLF, or Integrated Crop-Livestock-Forestry.

It's really inspiring, if you'd like to read about people doing good things in these troubled times.

If I have any beef with Nelores, it's simply that I do also wish for there to be more room for heritage breeds like the Indu-Brasil... but also, it's hard to condemn actual efficiency and real results, unlike the horror show that's going on with Holsteins. Nelores are a fantastic breed of wonderful, happy animals with very few problems. I must love them.

...just please appreciate this droopy thing too. Bloodhound ass Snoopy cow. my heart would break if we lost the Indu-Brasil </3

#cows #nelore #indu-brasil #cattle #bone babble #BRAZIL #Also I wanted to show off a little nelore figurine I own but it's on a top shelf #But when I took a picture it was dusty as fuck #And im not trying to get ripped to shreds about the absolute size of the dust bunnies on my shelf lmao #Cow lore detour

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erinelliotc · 11 months ago

Text

A few years ago I used to be that annoying "transmasc lesbians don't exist, this shit is harmful and invalidates both transmascs and lesbians" person, and now I'M the transmasc lesbian. Seems like the tables have turned, huh?

I've spent so many months, years, trying so hard to fit into these categories that I saw so many people talk about as if it were the definitive truth, and this shallow and simplistic vision seems to be gaining a lot of attention and traction here in Brazil. Isn't it ironic to free yourself from cisnormativity and heteronormativity and all these binary boxes to find yourself again trying to fit into other boxes and norms that don't actually describe your experience correctly? Because your experience with gender is so chaotic and confusing (as expected of a nonbinary identity, and even more so if you're neurodivergent too) that there's no simple way to describe it. Then when you find out what describes this, people say you can't identify yourself that way because two or more of your identities are "incompatible". I see people treating non-binarity as if it were an exact science, as if it were math, as if it were something simple and logical, as it is precisely the escape from what has been established in our society as the only two possible options, generating countless identities within a gray area outside this black and white vision, so of course it's something complex, abstract and subjective.

EDIT: One of my reasons for thinking this way was that I ignored that the transgender experience and the cisgender experience aren't and will never be equivalent. It's obvious that a cis man can't be a lesbian, but the same doesn't go for transmasc people, and I thought that admitting that was the same as being transphobic, denying the masculinity of transmascs, denying their male identity. I already had a debate on Twitter because people didn't want to admit that trans men and transmasc people in general can suffer misogyny and male chauvinism (as society can still see and treat us as women) because they also saw it as the same as saying transmasc people are women. The identity of trans people is a very complex experience that involves a series of factors that cis people will never experience. We cannot equate the trans experience with the cis experience.

I thought identifying as a butch lesbian was enough to describe my masculinity, but I realized that I felt like it didn't encompass everything I felt, I still felt like something was missing. Preventing and depriving myself of identifying with more explicit masculine identities was actually making me feel bad and dysphoric. So yeah, I've been avoiding identifying with male-aligned identities because I thought that would mean having to stop identifying as a lesbian, and I didn't want that, and I don't really feel like calling myself straight makes any sense.

I have a text in Portuguese talking about my experience as a butch lesbian, and I feel that now it also serves to describe my experience as a nonbinary transmasc (the part where I talk about not identifying with "traditional masculinity", but with a "different type", like "soft masculinity", is directly related to the fact that, in addition to being nonbinary, I don't identify as a man, I don't feel comfortable with the term "man", but rather with "boy"). I spent a few months wondering whether I was libramasculine or boyflux, and I ended up deciding that if I can't identify which one I am, maybe it makes more sense to just adopt both identities, maybe I am both then! I'm tired of trying to fit into supposed rules about being nonbinary. This is exactly how non-binarity shouldn't be. I'm supposed to feel free, not trapped again. My identity is my identity and that's nobody's business.

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pineconepie · 2 months ago

Note

This is all so amazing but I have to have some more of Vincent talking care of us especially what happens with his mob and stuff like if he’s out how much defense does he know on you and if so how many of them are around our finger by our 2 meeting?

This isn't exactly what was requested, but I still like the way it turned out :3

TW: Mentions of violence, parental/platonic yandere, infantilization

...

You hold Vincent's hand as he steps out the limousine, gently tugging you along with him.

When he mentioned bringing you to his office and workplace, you had no clue what to expect. So far, most of what you've seen matches the theme of Cryo and their various properties and establishments - mostly sleek black and white, with hints of blues and grays thrown in here and there.

You look up at the building nervously, but he doesn't seem too worried about it at all.

In fact, he looks rather excited for this visit. "You'll love it! We have lots of nice stuff here," he reassures you. "I'll hire a babysitter for you soon, but for now I want you to stay with Dad some more before we separate too much."

Babysitter, huh? Well, it makes sense given how protective and controlling Vincent acts around you. Not that you'd complain too much, you're well fed and generally content, besides the occasional panic session.

He smiles widely, putting his hands on your shoulders and guiding you into the lobby area.

The walls are painted a light cream color, the floors tiled grey.

There aren't any windows on this floor, just doors leading elsewhere inside.

There are several men and women walking around wearing suits and carrying briefcases or files. A few glance at you curiously as they pass by, but otherwise they keep focused on their tasks.

They all move aside quickly upon noticing Vincent approaching with you, however. None of them want to get in your way or risk upsetting the boss by holding up traffic.

That must mean these people really respect him, or fear him.

Probably a little bit of both.

Either way, it gives you chills thinking about what kind of person could command so much authority without even raising their voice once.

Then again... You suppose that's part of being in charge of a massive organization like Cryo. Anyone who steps out of line gets dealt with accordingly. No questions asked.

A woman approaches him briskly. "Good morning, Mr. Brewer," she greets politely, bowing her head slightly as she does. Her gaze flickers to you briefly before returning back to him. "How may I assist you today?"

"Just making sure my kiddo settles in nicely here." Vincent pats your head affectionately. "Come on, munchkin." He guides you down the hall.

Everyone stares at you openly now, curious about the newcomer. You try not to pay attention, focusing instead on Vincent and where he leads you. Eventually, you arrive in front of an office door marked 'Mr. Vincent Brewer.'

Inside is an enormous space filled with expensive furnishings and decorations.

Huge bookshelves line one wall; another contains a large fireplace surrounded by comfy armchairs. The ceiling itself seems to stretch upwards forever, ending somewhere far above your head.

On the opposite side of the room sits a desk piled high with papers and other items that look like they belong to important meetings. A huge map covers most of the surface. Behind it stands a window overlooking the city below.

"I made sure the mini fridge is stocked full of juice boxes and snacks," he tells you, gesturing to the corner of the room. "Only the best for my baby."

You blush and rub your arm. "I-I'm not a baby..."

He smiles at you sweetly, booping your nose. "Aw, yes you are, sweetie. But its okay! You don't have to worry about anything anymore." He then scoops you up in his arms and rocks you back and forth, making you giggle. "See? You try to act all tough and grown-up sometimes, but deep down you just wanna be babied, right?"

"...shut up," you mutter into the fabric of his shirt.

He hums softly and continues to sway you back and forth for a few moments longer before finally setting you down again. Then he takes your hand and leads you towards the couch near the fireplace.

"Here's some blocks and crayons and stuff." He sets a box of toys on top of the coffee table, along with a coloring book. "I have lots of important paperwork to do, so play quietly and let Dad focus on work, okay?"

You nod obediently, already reaching for the box.

Your fingers brush against plastic bricks and cardboard books before pulling away again, grabbing hold of some colored pencils instead. You start drawing random lines and shapes onto blank sheets of paper, enjoying yourself more than you'd like to admit.

Meanwhile, Vincent sits down behind his desk and begins sorting through various documents, scribbling things down whenever he needs to jot something down.

Every now and then he glances over at you, smiling warmly each time.

When you finish scribbling aimlessly across the page, you glance up to see what else you could do. The idea of sitting still for hours while listening to Vincent shuffle through papers is boring beyond belief.

You wonder how much you could annoy him if you truly acted the child he's so keen to treat you like.

You crawl into his lap, giggling when he jolts in surprise, looking down at you.

"What are you doing, cutie pie?" Vincent asks. He wraps one arm around you protectively. His grip tightens slightly as he leans forward to get a better view of your drawings. "Drawing pretty pictures for Dad, hm?"

"Yep!" you chirp, smiling brightly up at him. "Wanna see?"

His expression softens further as he nods. "Yeah, sure! Come on, up ya go." He lifts you higher onto his chest so he can see everything clearly. Then he examines your artwork closely for several seconds. Afterward, he gives you an approving nod. "My baby is so talented! That's beautiful. Didn't know I was in the same room as an artistic prodigy!"

Your face heats up at the compliment, feeling embarrassed yet oddly pleased at the same time. "T-thank you..."

He ruffles your hair affectionately and sets you back down again. "Why don't you draw some more? Maybe make Dad a picture too?"

You were hoping he'd be annoyed with you, but he looks more happy than anything, even with how busy he must be right now.

Oh well.

Maybe next time.

You continue to doodle idly for a while longer. You find yourself wanting to push the envelope with Vincent's patience, see how much he'll allow before it becomes too much.

But then he stands, adjusting his tie. "I got a quick meeting to attend," he says, offering you a sad smile. "Wait here. I'll come check on you and bring you lunch after."

Disappointed, you nod, frowning as he pats your head and walks towards the exit.

The door closes behind him with a quiet click. Only then do you slump against the cushions of the chair you sat upon earlier. Now what will you do?

You return to your doodles, deciding that this is probably the best way to pass time while waiting for him to return.

Once you get bored with those, you wander around the office. You poke around his desk drawers, finding nothing interesting there besides the usual stuff like pens and pencils.

You sift through folders of documents, but its hard to understand any of it, since there's loads of big words you don't know and lots of numbers involved. You end up staring blankly at pages full of graphs showing lines going upwards and downwards, wondering how anyone could ever read such boring stuff without falling asleep halfway through.

When that gets boring, you go to the door, turning the knob, expecting him to have locked it behind him.

However, much to your surprise, it opens easily.

So either he trusts you won't run off while unsupervised, or he simply forgot to lock it due to distraction.

Whatever the case may be, it means you have access to explore the building freely...

With excitement bubbling in your stomach, you quickly step out of the room and shut the door carefully so it doesn't make a noise.

Oddly enough, you don't want to try escaping, even if the chances were in your favor.

You take the elevator up a few floors and look out the window.

The view up here... It really is breathtaking. From where you stand, you can see miles and miles away, watching the sky shift colors as clouds drift overhead.

"Oh, poor thing. Are you lost?" a gentle voice coos.

You turn to see a man who looks slightly younger than Vincent, with long dark hair and grey eyes. He wears a suit, but he has several bandages wrapped around his hands.

"N-no! I'm just..." You pause, unsure what excuse to use. "...I was exploring."

He frowns. "Is that so? I'm Trenton. What's your name, little one?" He kneels down, even though he isn't much taller than yourself.

Why is everyone so insistent on treating you as a child?! But you can't deny, it does make you feel smaller. "...(Y/n)."

Trenton blinks for a moment. "Ohh, you're Vincent's child! Oh, wow. I can tell why he dotes on you, you're adorable. What on earth are you doing here? It's dangerous and I know for a fact Vinnie wouldn't allow it."

Another group of people come over, before you get the chance to even reply.

"Woah! Why's a kid here?" a man with short messy hair asks.

"That's Boss's kid," a woman in a pinstripe suit remarks. "We shouldn't mess with them. He won't take kindly to us interactin' with them."

Suddenly, you feel tiny amongst these tall adults surrounding you.

Trenton notices your anxious expression. "That's just Quinn, don't mind her. Oh, and this is Phoenix."

"Heya, squirt," Phoenix greets. He ruffles your hair. "We should probably get them back to Mama Bear's office before he notices. I'd rather not have all my limbs broken today."

"Mama Bear?" you ask in confusion, tilting your head.

"The Boss," Quinn replies shortly. "Our new little code name for him."

"Because of youuu," Phoenix croons, pinching your cheeks. "Boss treats you like his baby cub. I think it's cute, personally."

"Okay, leave (Y/n) alone," Trenton scolds. "Come on, I'll lead you back downstairs." He holds out his uninjured hand for yours, which you accept. Not like you have much of a choice.

"I can come with you guys!" Phoenix exclaims. "And so can Quinn, right?"

The woman sighs. "Well, it beats working."

As the four of you begin descending the stairs, you look at Trenton's bandaged hands. "What happened?" You don't even realize its rude until you say it out loud. "I'm sorry if that was personal..."

He chuckles. "Aw, it's okay. It's fine." He stretches them out, examining the wounds beneath his cloth wrappings. "Just some... accidents in the workplace." He smiles faintly.

Phoenix elbows him roughly in the ribs. "You didn't tell em the best part! About the fork!"

"I don't want to traumatize the poor thing!" Trenton exclaims. "You know Vincent would kill me."

Quinn smirks. "The story behind it was pretty funny. Some bastard thought he could break in and steal some documents, but good ol' Trent here managed to take him out with a single fork. Very gory, very bloody. I sat and watched the entire thing. The best part? It was a Hello Kitty-themed fork."

Trenton glares. "It was actually Keroppi. Get your Sanrio characters straight next time."

She rolls her eyes dramatically.

You frown. "T-that's awful... is the intruder okay?"

Phoenix laughs loudly. "Pft— Hell nah! Boss had us kill the dude. None of us really like killing, but it comes with the job."

"I like it," Quinn shrugs, earning another glare from Trenton. "What?! Don't get a job here if you're squeamish about killing."

Trenton sighs, then notices your terrified expression. "I know that's probably scary... but we only kill the people who deserve it." He offers a small smile. "Don't worry, sweetie. We won't hurt you." He narrows his eyes at both Phoenix and Quinn. "Now please, they've already been traumatized enough. Let's talk about happier things, shall we?"

They hear yelling as they get closer to the hall you remember Vincent's office being.

"Someone had to see them! Are you all stupid?! They're so small, there's no way they got far! Fuck! Check the cameras!" Vincent bellows. "If they aren't found in the next ten fucking minutes, you're all dead!"

"Ohhh, someone messed up big time," Phoenix says under his breath, glancing over at you. "Lemme guess - you left while he went somewhere?"

You swallow nervously and nod.

"(Y/n)! Baby, where are you?! Please don't do this to me!" Vincent cries from afar. His tone went from livid to desperate in the span of just a few seconds. "Please, angel, if you can hear me, come back! Where are you?!"

Trenton grimaces. "This is the most upset I've seen him since... ever." He glances at Quinn and Phoenix. "I think you guys should leave if you don't want to face his wrath."

"Good plan. Seeya, squirt." Phoenix gives your shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "Bye, Trenton. Good luck."

When you finally reach Vincent, he's panting and pacing back and forth, gun in hand and eyes crazed. He looks genuinely terrifying right now.

"(Y/n)?!" He sprints over immediately, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. "Oh, oh thank god. Are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt anywhere?" He starts patting you down, searching every inch of skin for injury. "Where have you been? Do I need to kill someone?" He kisses your face all over, squeezing you impossibly tight in his embrace. "God, don't scare me like that!"

You glance at Trenton, silently pleading for help.

Trenton clears his throat. "Boss... I found them wandering around, they got lost. They were looking for you. Everything is okay."

Vincent stares at him, still clutching your trembling body tightly. "Is that so?" Then he returns his attention to you again. "Baby? Is that true?"

You hesitate, because that's far from true, but lying would probably spare you from his anger. "I got worried. You were gone forever." You bury your face in his shoulder, hoping he'll feel pity for you. "Please don't be mad at me... or Trenton."

Vincent sighs heavily. "Oh, pumpkin... It's alright." He kisses the top of your head lovingly. "Sorry I left for so long. I'll call my driver to pick us up early, then we can put this all past us." He leads you back into his office, passing Trenton a grateful smile. "Thanks, Trent. I'll buy you a new set of Keroppi silverware."

"...that would be appreciated."

...

"Boss's ride is here, where is he?" Phoenix tilts his head.

"In his office. I'll make sure he's okay," Trenton says.

Quinn and Phoenix follow. Trenton knocks gently and cracks open the door to check in on Vincent and his kiddo.

On the couch, you're sleeping soundly on his lap, a blanket draped across you and Vincent cradling you like you're the most precious thing in existence. Probably because to him, you are.

"Aww," Phoenix coos, leaning on the doorway. "Mama Bear and his cub!"

Vincent shoots them the middle finger, but they can all see the amusement barely hidden on his face. "Don't you three have somewhere to be? Get out before you all get demoted."

Trenton stifles a laugh. "Your ride is here, Boss."

"Hmm." He carefully scoops you up, rubbing your back soothingly when you stir awake. "Shhh, shhh, its okay, munchkin. Just me and Trent. And Phoenix. And Quinn, for some reason. Go back to sleep." You fall unconscious again, instinctively nuzzling closer to Vincent.

You hate to admit it, but you feel safe.

#parental yandere #familial yandere #platonic yandere #yandere #forced age regression #forced agere #yandere age regression #yandere oc #vincent oc #trenton phoenix and quinn are now your big siblings!! congrats

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arliganzey · 4 months ago

Text

Pretend with me that strills have a genetic diversity similar to earth dogs.

In general, I think strills are komodo dragons with velvet pitbull fur and the wrinkles of a Sharpei over its body (less so around the face for eyesight). Lizard mammal hyena dogs, if you will.

Lord Mirdalan is your basic hunting strill: short fur, gliding skin flaps, can climb and swim and run. It is highly independent and intelligent while also being totally obedient to its owner.

What if there were also…

Guard strills: bigger than your typical strill with longer fur to block out the elements (cold, rain wind). They are bred to be independent but also extremely loyal to protect its flock/pack (livestock/Mando family). These strills guard the perimeter of a given area and will sound the alarm and brutally fight off any threats. They have longer, slightly more upright necks/shoulders so they can see into the distance and keep a look out. They aren’t nose to the ground hunters, they rely more on eyesight.

Herding strills: shorter and much faster (think corgi legs). These are stubborn strills bred to adamantly herd livestock (and kids sometimes!). They’re intelligent thinkers and can do problem solving tasks. Extremely fast and agile. Their claws aren’t as long as other breeds, they’re equipped more for running than climbing. Might have shorter snouts to help with maneuvering around livestock.

Companion strill: hear me out. There’s a very rare breed of strill that’s about half the size of a regular strill that’s been bred to be emotionally aware of its owners, a bit lazy, and loves attention and close contact. These are strills that thrive in big clans with age extremes (very young and very elderly) and provide support in tough times. They’re playful and love to learn tricks and play games. They can hunt pests and keep farms tidy of mice and things.

I like the idea of strills having different color coats too! Mird is gold, maybe there’s also black, brown, blue/gray, white… patterns, perhaps…? Not opposed to colors like purple or pink either!

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk ❤️

#strills #strill #lord mirdalan #republic commando #repcomm #mandalorians #mandalorian culture

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w1w2 · 3 months ago

Text

A Contract of Silence

Previous part | Part 2 | Next part

Giselle x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 6,5k

Synopsis: Y/N adjusts to her new life in Giselle’s cold, opulent world, where every moment feels like walking on a tightrope.

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The streets blurred outside the cab’s window as Y/N stared at the bustling cityscape. The contract she had signed felt like a phantom weight in her bag, an ever present reminder of the choice she had made.

It was a strange feeling, this mixture of apprehension and determination. She had spent the past few days packing up what little she owned, saying goodbye to the familiarity of her old life. The tiny apartment she had shared with her family, filled with secondhand furniture and fading wallpaper, now felt like a lifetime away.

When the cab pulled up to the building, Y/N’s breath hitched. The high rise towered above her, a gleaming monument of glass and steel. The doorman opened her door with practiced precision, offering a polite nod as she stepped out.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he said, taking her single suitcase with ease. “Miss Uchinaga is expecting you.”

The words sent a chill down her spine. Y/N forced herself to nod, clutching her bag tightly as she followed the doorman through the grand lobby. The space was vast and pristine, with polished marble floors and soaring ceilings. Even the air smelled expensive, a faint mix of fresh flowers and something clean and metallic.

Her nerves prickled as she stepped into the private elevator. The doorman pressed the button labeled “PH” and offered her a brief smile before stepping back.

“Have a pleasant evening,” he said as the doors slid shut.

Y/N wasn’t sure if “pleasant” was the right word for what awaited her.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing a space so grand it momentarily stole Y/N’s breath. The penthouse was a masterpiece of modern design. Clean lines, muted tones, and carefully curated art pieces gave the space an air of effortless sophistication.

The living room stretched out before her, dominated by floor to ceiling windows that framed the city skyline like a work of art. Sleek furniture in neutral shades of gray and cream was arranged with precision, and every surface seemed to gleam under the soft, ambient lighting.

“Miss Y/N.”

The voice was unmistakable, sharp, composed, and commanding.

Y/N turned to see Giselle, she was dressed impeccably in a black blazer and tailored trousers, her hair pulled into a low ponytail. She moved with an air of authority, each step deliberate, her movements fluid and purposeful against the polished wood floors.

“You’re late,” Giselle said. Her tone wasn’t scolding, but it carried a weight that made Y/N’s cheeks flush.

Y/N fumbled to pull her phone from her bag, typing quickly before showing the screen to Giselle.

“I’m sorry. There was traffic.”

Giselle’s gaze flicked to the screen, her expression unreadable. “Follow me,” she said curtly, turning on her heel.

Y/N followed, her footsteps hesitant as Giselle led her through the expansive penthouse. The space was larger than anything Y/N could have imagined. Every corner seemed to radiate wealth, from the sleek, minimalist kitchen to the artfully arranged bookshelves lining the walls.

“This will be your section,” Giselle said as they stopped at a hallway branching off from the main living area.

Y/N peeked inside as Giselle gestured toward the rooms. The bedroom was impossibly large, with a king sized bed dressed in crisp white linens and a plush gray headboard. A soft rug covered part of the hardwood floor, and a floor-length window offered an unobstructed view of the city skyline.

Next to it was a bathroom that looked like something out of a magazine. The marble countertops gleamed under recessed lighting, and the oversized tub practically invited her to sink into it and forget the world for a while.

“There’s also a small sitting area,” Giselle continued, motioning to a cozy space with a loveseat and a sleek black coffee table. “You’ll find it adequate for your needs.”

Y/N nodded, pulling out her phone to type a response.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Giselle glanced at the phone briefly, her expression betraying no emotion. “Dinner is at seven. Don’t be late.”

With that, she turned and walked away, her posture as straight and poised as ever.

Y/N stood frozen in the doorway of her new room, her suitcase still clutched in her hand. The space was undeniably luxurious, but it felt... cold. There were no personal touches, no warmth. It was a far cry from the chaotic coziness of her family’s apartment.

She set her suitcase down and perched on the edge of the bed, staring out at the glittering city beyond the window. For a moment, the surrealness of it all washed over her. She was here, in Giselle Uchinaga’s penthouse because she had agreed to a life she didn’t fully understand.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled out her phone again and opened the notes app.

“I’ll make this work.”

The words felt like both a promise and a challenge. Sliding her phone back into her bag, Y/N stood and began unpacking, the faint echo of Giselle’s footsteps lingering in her mind.

By the time she finished unpacking, the clock on her phone read 6:57 PM, just enough time to head to the dining room.

The dining room was as grand and intimidating as the rest of the penthouse. A long glass table stretched across the room, its polished surface reflecting the cold, sterile light of a modern chandelier that hung above it. The chairs, sleek and minimalist, seemed almost too pristine to touch, their design a perfect match for the rest of the penthouse’s austere elegance.

Y/N hesitated in the doorway, feeling small and out of place in the cavernous space. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag, which she still hadn’t put down since unpacking. Across the room, Giselle was already seated at the head of the table, her posture impeccable, a glass of deep red wine cradled elegantly in her hand.

She didn’t look up as Y/N entered, her gaze fixed on a tablet resting on the table beside her. The faint glow of the screen illuminated her sharp features, making her seem even more untouchable.

Y/N’s stomach churned as she glanced at the chairs lining the table. Each one seemed too formal, too far removed from the world she knew. She fumbled to pull her phone from her bag, typing quickly before holding up the screen.

“Where should I sit?”

Giselle’s eyes flicked up briefly, her gaze cool and assessing before it dropped back to the tablet. She gestured to the chair directly beside her.

“Here. Always next to me, for appearances.”

Her tone was as measured and detached as ever, but the command in her voice left no room for hesitation.

Y/N nodded, swallowing hard as she slid into the chair Giselle had indicated. Her movements felt awkward, as though she were trying not to disturb the air in the room.

Moments later, the housekeeper appeared, moving with the quiet precision of someone well accustomed to working in the shadows of power. She placed a plate in front of Y/N with a practiced grace that made the act seem almost ceremonial.

The meal was exquisite. The duck was perfectly seared, its skin crisp and golden, while the roasted vegetables were arranged in an artful pattern around the plate. A delicate drizzle of sauce completed the dish, its aroma tantalizing.

But Y/N could barely taste it.

The tension in the room was suffocating, wrapping around her chest like a vice. She cut into the duck with careful precision, her hands trembling slightly as she brought a bite to her mouth. The flavors, though extraordinary, felt muted against the backdrop of her nerves.

Across the table, Giselle ate with the same calculated precision she seemed to apply to every aspect of her life. Her movements were methodical, her gaze focused on her plate or her tablet, as though Y/N wasn’t even there.

The silence was unbearable. Y/N glanced at her phone, considering typing something to break it, but the thought of interrupting Giselle’s icy composure made her hesitate.

Halfway through the meal, Giselle set down her fork with a soft clink. The sound, though subtle, made Y/N’s heart jump.

Without a word, Giselle reached into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out a small black velvet box. She placed it on the table between them, her movements as smooth and deliberate as always.

Y/N stared at the box, her heart racing as Giselle flipped it open to reveal a dazzling diamond engagement ring. The light from the chandelier above caught the stone, sending tiny rainbows scattering across the table.

“We’ll need to make this believable,” Giselle said matter of factly, her tone devoid of emotion.

Y/N’s eyes widened as she stared at the ring. It was stunning, far more extravagant than anything she had ever imagined wearing. She fumbled with her phone, typing quickly before holding it up.

“You’re giving me this?”

Giselle arched an eyebrow, her lips curving into the faintest hint of a smirk. “It’s not yours,” she replied. “It’s a prop. You’ll wear it at all public appearances, starting tomorrow.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she reached out to take the ring. The velvet box felt soft against her skin, a stark contrast to the weight of the moment.

She slipped the ring onto her finger, her breath hitching as it slid into place. The diamond sparkled brilliantly, catching the light with every slight movement of her hand.

“It fits,” Giselle observed, lifting her glass of wine and taking a slow sip. Her tone was neutral, as though she were commenting on something as mundane as the weather.

Y/N hesitated, then typed another message, her thumbs moving quickly over the screen.

“Does it look convincing?”

Giselle’s eyes flicked to Y/N’s hand, her gaze sharp and calculating. For a moment, she seemed to study the ring as though evaluating its worth before leaning back in her chair.

“It will suffice,” she said simply. “Just remember, this is for appearances only.”

Y/N nodded, her chest tightening at the reminder. She forced herself to take another bite of the duck, but it felt like swallowing stones.

When the meal was finished, Giselle set her napkin down. She rose from the table with effortless grace, smoothing the front of her blazer as she turned to address Y/N.

“My assistant will contact you in the morning to finalize preparations for the Lueur gala. Be ready.”

Her tone was calm and detached, as though she were delivering instructions to an employee rather than speaking to the person who was now supposed to be her fiancée.

Y/N nodded quickly, fumbling to pull out her phone. Her fingers moved across the screen, typing out the expected response.

“I’ll be ready.”

Giselle’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, sharp and assessing, as if she were scrutinizing Y/N for any sign of weakness or hesitation. Y/N felt her cheeks warm under the weight of that stare, but she held her ground, her back straight and her expression composed.

After what felt like an eternity, Giselle gave a faint nod of acknowledgment before turning on her heel and walking away. Her steps were soft against the polished floor, the sound fading as she disappeared into the shadows of the penthouse.

And just like that, Y/N was alone.

The silence in the dining room was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the chandelier above. The table, with its sleek glass surface and untouched place settings, felt impossibly large.

Y/N’s eyes drifted down to the ring on her finger. The diamond caught the light from the chandelier, scattering tiny rainbows across the table. It was stunning, a perfect piece of craftsmanship, its beauty undeniable. And yet, all Y/N could see was the lie it represented.

It was beautiful, flawless and completely fake.

Her chest tightened as she studied the ring, her thumb brushing absently against the cold metal band. The weight of it was heavier than she’d expected, a constant reminder of the role she had agreed to play.

For a moment, the enormity of it all threatened to overwhelm her. The contract, the charade, Giselle’s icy demeanor, it felt like stepping into a world that didn’t belong to her, a world where warmth and sincerity were replaced by calculated appearances and unspoken expectations.

Taking her phone, Y/N opened the notes app with a trembling hand. Her vision blurred slightly, her thoughts swirling in a chaotic mess of doubt and determination.

“I’ll make this work.”

She stared at the words, her lips pressing into a thin line. They felt like both a mantra and a desperate plea. She didn’t know if she was trying to convince herself or simply reminding herself of why she was doing this.

She thought of her mother, whose hands had grown rough from years of endless work, and her siblings, whose laughter had become rare under the weight of their struggles. They deserved better, a future free from the shadow of her father’s debts.

The coldness of the penthouse, the sharp edges of Giselle’s personality, the suffocating pretense of their arrangement, it didn’t matter. As long as it helped her family, she would bear it all.

Y/N closed the app and slipped her phone back into her pocket, her fingers lingering on the device for a moment as though it were her lifeline. She took a deep breath, the action doing little to calm the storm inside her.

Rising from her chair, she pushed it back gently and glanced around the dining room one last time. The space felt cavernous, the cold light of the chandelier only amplifying its emptiness.

Her footsteps echoed softly as she walked back toward her room. The penthouse was eerily quiet, the silence pressing against her like a weight. The city lights glittered beyond the windows, but they felt distant, like a world she could see but never truly be a part of.

When she reached her room, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, her eyes drifting to the skyline visible through the large window.

For a brief moment, she allowed herself to wonder what Giselle was thinking. Did the CEO feel the same weight, the same sense of isolation? Or was this world so familiar to her that she didn’t even notice?

Y/N shook her head, pushing the thought away. Giselle’s world wasn’t hers to understand. All that mattered was playing her part and doing it well.

She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, her hands resting in her lap as she stared out at the glittering city beyond. The faint reflection of the diamond ring in the glass caught her eye, and she tightened her fists slightly, grounding herself in the decision she had made.

“For them”, she reminded herself again.

She exhaled slowly, lying back on the bed and closing her eyes. The city lights flickered against the walls of her room, but Y/N didn’t look at them. Her thoughts were already focused on the day ahead, on the expectations waiting for her.

Tomorrow, her new life truly began.

Morning sunlight poured into the penthouse, streaming through the towering windows and casting long streaks of light across its sleek, sterile surfaces. The golden glow softened the sharp edges of the modern furniture, but it couldn’t warm the cold, impersonal atmosphere of the space.

Y/N stood by the window in her room, staring out at the sprawling cityscape below. The world outside felt impossibly far away, the lives of the people bustling in the streets below so different from her own. Her reflection in the glass stared back at her, small, uncertain, and out of place in the luxury surrounding her.

Her phone buzzed, breaking the silence. She glanced down at the screen.

“The stylists will come to your room at 3pm. Your gown has been delivered at your doors.”

The message from Giselle’s assistant was as curt and professional as ever, but it sent a jolt through Y/N. She turned to look at the gown hanging on the hanger by her door.

It was stunning.

The gown was a masterpiece of shimmering fabric and intricate detailing. The deep emerald green material caught the light, shifting between shades of forest and jade with every movement. The neckline was elegant, dipping just enough to be daring but not over the top, and the intricate beadwork along the bodice shimmered like tiny stars.

Y/N hesitated, stepping closer to run her fingers lightly over the fabric. It was unlike anything she’d ever worn. It felt delicate, almost too precious for her to touch, let alone wear. The sight of it filled her with conflicting emotions, excitement at the thought of stepping into a world she’d only seen in magazines, and dread at the realization that she didn’t belong there.

"What if I embarrass her?"

The thought crept in unbidden, making her chest tighten. Giselle had been clear, this was business. A performance. Mistakes weren’t an option.

The hours leading up to the event passed in a blur. Y/N barely had time to think as a team of stylists and makeup artists descended upon her room, transforming her into someone she barely recognized.

A stylist stood behind her, carefully curling her hair into sleek waves that fell over her shoulders like liquid silk. The faint smell of hairspray lingered in the air, mixing with the soft hum of conversation from the team. A makeup artist leaned in close, her brush sweeping over Y/N’s cheekbones to highlight them with a subtle glow.

“Hold still,” the artist murmured, tilting Y/N’s chin slightly as she worked on her eyeliner.

Y/N obeyed, her thoughts spinning as she stared at her reflection. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like her. She looked polished, sophisticated, a version of herself that belonged in Giselle’s world. But beneath the makeup and carefully styled hair, Y/N still felt like an outsider.

When the team finally stepped back, murmuring their approval, Y/N slipped into the gown. The cool fabric slid over her skin, fitting her perfectly. The weight of it settled around her like a reminder of the role she had to play.

She took a tentative step toward the full length mirror, her breath catching as she saw herself fully for the first time. The emerald gown clung to her figure in all the right places, the shimmering material accentuating her every movement.

“You look incredible,” one of the stylists said, their voice filled with genuine admiration.

Y/N gave a small nod, her lips curving into a polite smile, but inside, her nerves were fraying.

When she finally stepped out of her room and went into the living room, she froze.

Giselle was waiting for her, standing by the massive windows that framed the glittering city skyline. She was breathtaking.

The CEO was dressed in a fitted black evening dress that hugged her figure with an elegance that seemed effortless. The gown’s neckline plunged just enough to command attention, while the intricate detailing along the sides shimmered faintly under the light. Her dark hair perfectly straightened, framing her face.

For a moment, Y/N forgot to breathe.

Giselle turned at the sound of Y/N’s heels clicking softly against the floor. Her sharp gaze swept over Y/N from head to toe, taking in every detail with a calculating air.

“You’ll do,” Giselle said simply, her tone brisk but not unkind. She extended her arm. “Let’s go.”

Y/N hesitated for a fraction of a second before looping her arm through Giselle’s. The contact sent a jolt through her, but she quickly steadied herself, her heart pounding as they walked toward the elevator.

The mirrored walls of the elevator reflected their image back at them. Y/N glanced at their reflections, Giselle, poised and commanding, and herself, trying not to let her nerves show.

“Smile,” Giselle said softly, her voice low but firm.

Y/N turned her lips up into a small, tentative smile, hoping it would be enough.

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into the underground garage, where a black car was waiting for them. As they approached, the driver opened the door, bowing slightly as he gestured for them to enter.

Y/N slid into the car first, her gown rustling softly against the leather seat. Giselle followed, settling beside her with the kind of grace Y/N could only dream of emulating.

As the car drove further into the city, Y/N stared out of the window, her fingers tightening in her lap. The city lights blurred together, their glow reflecting in the glass.

Tonight, she would step into Giselle’s world, a world of power, elegance, and scrutiny.

Her heart pounded with anticipation and fear.

The car was enveloped in a heavy silence, broken only by the faint hum of the engine and the occasional soft sound of the tires rolling over uneven pavement. The dim glow of passing street lights flickered across the interior, casting fleeting shadows on the leather seats.

Giselle sat beside Y/N, her posture impeccable as always, her gaze fixed on the window. She seemed completely at ease, her sharp features illuminated by the city lights streaking past. To Y/N, Giselle’s composure felt almost otherworldly, a stark contrast to the storm of nerves building in her own chest.

Y/N reached into her bag and pulled out her phone, clutching it tightly as if the device might somehow anchor her racing thoughts. Her fingers hovered over the notes app. She wanted to type something, anything, to break the silence. But what could she say? Giselle had made it clear that this was business, and Y/N worried that even the smallest misstep might chip away at the carefully constructed façade they were about to present.

Her thumb brushed the screen, but before she could decide, the car began to slow.

After putting her phone back in the bag, Y/N’s breath hitched as she looked out the window. The grand entrance of the venue loomed ahead, its golden lights spilling onto the red carpet that stretched toward the towering double doors. Paparazzi crowded the sides, their cameras already flashing like strobe lights in the dark. The muffled hum of voices filtered into the car, growing louder with each passing second.

The driver exited and circled around to Giselle’s door, pulling it open with practiced precision.

Giselle moved first.

As she stepped out of the car, her expression transformed in an instant. The cool detachment she had worn moments ago melted away, replaced by a radiant smile that lit up her face. It was as though she had flipped a switch, her entire demeanor shifting to exude warmth and confidence.

Y/N watched in awe, momentarily stunned by the sheer charisma Giselle seemed to radiate. This was the Giselle the world knew, the poised, charming CEO who could command attention with just a glance.

Giselle turned, extending a hand toward Y/N.

“Ready?” she asked, her voice warm and inviting, as though she had been waiting for this moment all her life.

Y/N hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. She slipped her hand into Giselle’s, the coolness of Giselle’s skin sending a small jolt through her. She pushed the feeling aside as she shifted toward the open door.

The moment her feet touched the ground, the flashes erupted in a frenzy. The noise was deafening, cameras clicking, voices shouting questions, the murmur of admiration spreading through the crowd.

“Giselle, who’s your stunning date?” “Giselle, over here! Look this way!” “You two look incredible!”

The chaos of the moment was overwhelming, and for a second, Y/N froze, her body stiffening under the onslaught of attention.

Giselle’s grip on her hand tightened slightly, grounding her. The older woman leaned in just enough for her voice to reach Y/N’s ear without being overheard.

“Remember to smile,” Giselle murmured, her tone low and intimate, as though they were sharing a private joke. “They’re watching everything.”

Y/N nodded, forcing her lips to curve into a soft smile. Her heart raced as the cameras continued to flash, capturing every step they took together.

Giselle’s hand rested lightly on the small of Y/N’s back as she guided her down the carpet, her movements fluid and confident. She stopped occasionally to pose, her expression never faltering, her smile effortlessly charming.

Y/N followed her lead, doing her best to mimic Giselle’s ease. The weight of the ring on her finger felt heavier now, a tangible reminder of the role she was playing. She glanced briefly at Giselle, who turned to meet her gaze with a look so convincing, so full of warmth and affection, that Y/N almost believed it herself.

As they posed for photos, Giselle’s hand lingered on Y/N’s waist, her fingers brushing the fabric of her gown. Y/N’s cheeks burned under the scrutiny of the cameras and the admiring whispers of the onlookers.

“She’s stunning, Giselle!” someone called out from the crowd.

“Congratulations to the happy couple!”

Y/N’s smile faltered for a brief moment, but Giselle’s subtle squeeze on her hand brought her back to focus. She took a deep breath, her lips curving again as she stood a little straighter.

Finally they reached the doors of the venue, a staff member opened them with a bow, gesturing for the pair to step inside. The noise from the paparazzi faded slightly, replaced by the hum of conversation and the soft strains of a live string quartet playing in the background.

Giselle turned her head slightly, her lips brushing close to Y/N’s ear as she spoke. “That’s the easy part. Now the real work begins.”

Y/N’s heart sank slightly at the words, but she nodded, her fingers tightening around her purse. The cameras outside might have stopped, but inside, the eyes of the city’s elite were already on them.

When they stepped into the grand hall, Y/N felt every gaze in the room land on her. Her smile remained, but the weight of their attention was suffocating.

Giselle led her further into the room, her hand never leaving Y/N’s back. To the world, they looked every bit the perfect couple. Poised, elegant, and untouchable.

Inside, Y/N’s nerves roared, but she kept moving forward, staying close to Giselle. She reminded herself again of why she was here, of the family she was doing this for, and of the promise she had made to herself:

The venue was even more dazzling than Y/N had imagined. The grand hall seemed to glow, its golden lights reflecting off the cascading crystal chandeliers that dripped from the vaulted ceiling. Every detail spoke of extravagance, from the polished marble floors to the intricate floral arrangements that adorned each table. The faint sound of a string quartet filled the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation.

Y/N’s breath hitched as she took it all in. This was a world she had only ever glimpsed through the glossy pages of magazines. Everywhere she looked, people moved with an effortless confidence, their designer gowns and tailored suits exuding wealth and influence.

Giselle’s hand rested lightly on Y/N’s back, the subtle pressure a constant reminder of her presence. It was an unfamiliar gesture, not cold, but not exactly comforting either. It was calculated, like everything else about Giselle.

They moved through the crowd together, Giselle’s elegance and poise drawing every eye in the room. Heads turned as they passed, whispers trailing in their wake.

“Is that Giselle Uchinaga?” “And who’s she with?”

Giselle handled it all effortlessly, her charming smile never faltering as she exchanged pleasantries with the city’s elite. Her voice was warm and polished, every word perfectly chosen to leave a lasting impression.

“This is Y/N,” Giselle said smoothly as they stopped to greet a particularly curious couple. Her hand lingered on Y/N’s waist as she added, “My fiancée.”

The words sent a ripple of surprise through Y/N, even though she had known they were coming. It was the first time she’d heard Giselle introduce her that way, and it felt strange, like a borrowed identity she wasn’t sure how to wear.

As the conversation continued, Giselle effortlessly guided it, ensuring that Y/N wasn’t left behind. She wove their story together with precision, painting a picture of a devoted couple with a seamless blend of truth and fabrication.

“She’s been an inspiration to me,” Giselle said at one point, her voice carrying just enough sincerity to make the lie convincing. “Her strength, her resilience, it’s one of the things I admire most about her.”

Y/N glanced at Giselle, her heart twisting at the ease with which she spoke. It was all an act, of course, but Giselle played the part so well that even Y/N found herself momentarily believing it.

A small group began to form around them, drawn by Giselle’s magnetism and curiosity about her fiancée. Y/N responded with simple gestures and soft smiles, her hands moving in small, precise motions whenever someone asked a question she could answer through sign language.

“She’s charming,” someone murmured from the group.

“Giselle’s so protective of her,” another whispered.

The words floated around Y/N like a cloud, both flattering and suffocating. She focused on keeping her smile in place, knowing that every movement was being scrutinized.

The chatter of the crowd had softened to a hum, the buzz of voices fading as the evening began to wind down. Y/N found herself drawn to one of the grand windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. The view was breathtaking, a vast expanse of glittering city lights that seemed to stretch endlessly, like a sea of stars scattered across the night.

She pressed her fingertips lightly against the cool glass, her reflection faintly visible against the dazzling skyline. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe, her chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm. This quiet moment felt like a fragile bubble, separate from the noise and expectations of the evening.

Her eyes dropped to the diamond ring on her finger. It caught the faint glow of the lights outside, its brilliance reflecting in the glass. She lifted her hands to adjust it, the smooth band sliding slightly against her skin.

The weight of it was grounding, a constant reminder of the performance demanded perfection, every movement, every smile, every interaction carefully measured to fit the image Giselle wanted to project.

Y/N’s chest tightened slightly as she stared at the ring. "This is my life now," she thought. A life of pretending, of fitting into a world that didn’t feel like hers.

The sound of footsteps behind her broke her reverie, the sharp yet soft rhythm unmistakable. Y/N didn’t turn right away. She didn’t need to. Giselle moved with a kind of precision that was impossible to miss, her presence filling the space without effort.

“Tired?” Giselle’s voice was low, pitched just enough for Y/N to hear and no one else. There was no warmth in it, but it wasn’t cold either, it was neutral, like an observation rather than a question.

Y/N turned to face her, her gaze meeting Giselle’s. The older woman’s expression was as composed as ever, her sharp eyes studying Y/N with an intensity that made her chest flutter uncomfortably.

For a moment, Y/N hesitated, unsure how to answer. Her hands instinctively moved to sign, but she stopped mid motion, her stomach twisting. "She doesn’t understand," Y/N reminded herself.

Instead, she nodded, a small, hesitant motion.

Giselle’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her expression didn’t shift, but something flickered in her gaze, a brief, almost imperceptible pause as though she were processing the unspoken response.

“We’ll leave soon,” Giselle said, her tone neutral, as though discussing a routine matter.

For a moment, Y/N thought that was the end of the conversation. But then Giselle added, almost as an afterthought, “You handled tonight well.”

The unexpected comment made Y/N blink, her lips parting slightly in surprise. She had expected critique, not praise, and the words, however simple, made her stomach twist with something she couldn’t quite name.

Her mouth opened as if to respond, but she closed it again, unsure what to do. Instead, she offered a small, uncertain smile, hoping it would suffice.

Giselle’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before she turned away slightly, slipping seamlessly back into her composed demeanor. “We can’t go yet. Not before we say goodbye to the hosts,” she said.

Giselle extended her arm, her posture as poised and effortless as always. Y/N hesitated for a heartbeat before looping her arm through Giselle’s. The contact was still unfamiliar, but it steadied her, giving her a sense of direction as they moved back toward the crowd.

As they walked, Y/N caught glimpses of people turning to look at them, their gazes lingering with admiration and curiosity.

“You’re doing fine,” Giselle murmured under her breath, her voice so low it was almost lost in the hum of the room.

Y/N glanced up at her, catching the way Giselle’s eyes remained forward, her expression unreadable. Was that reassurance? A reminder to stay in character? She couldn’t tell.

The hosts stood near the center of the room. The couple, a man in a sharp tuxedo and a woman in a flowing burgundy gown, exchanged delighted glances. Their smiles widened as Giselle and Y/N approached, and Giselle’s charm seemed to amplify.

“A pleasure to meet you,” the man said, extending a hand toward Y/N.

Y/N hesitated for a brief moment, then reached out and shook his hand, offering a polite smile. Her voice might have been silent, but she had learned long ago how to let her body language speak for her.

Sensing the unspoken question in their expressions, Giselle spoke up. “Y/N doesn’t speak,” she explained gently, her tone perfectly pitched to avoid making it seem like an inconvenience. “But she communicates beautifully in other ways.”

The woman’s curious expression softened into something warmer. “Oh, how lovely,” she said. “Do you use sign language?”

Y/N nodded, her movements measured and fluid. She lifted her hands and signed a response, her fingers forming the words. “Yes, I do.”

The woman’s eyes lit up, and she signed back slowly, her movements deliberate but kind. “Your dress is lovely.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a genuine smile, her hands moving again. “Thank you. Yours is beautiful too.”

The woman’s expression softened, her smile widening. “She’s wonderful,” she said to Giselle.

“She is,” Giselle replied, her voice carrying just the right amount of affection to make the act convincing. “I’m lucky to have her.”

The words hung in the air, stirring something in Y/N that she couldn’t quite name.

Before leaving, Giselle exchanged a few polite words with the hosts, her poised demeanor drawing admiration. Once their brief conversation concluded, she maintained her air of elegance, guiding Y/N with a light touch on her back.

The whispers followed them out, blending with the fading music and laughter.

When they reached the car, Giselle opened the door for Y/N, the action smooth and automatic.

As Y/N slipped inside, she caught a final glimpse of the grand venue. She exhaled softly, her body sinking into the leather seat as Giselle slid in beside her.

The door shut, sealing them in silence once more.

By the time they returned to the penthouse, Y/N felt like she could finally breathe again. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and she stepped out into the expansive living room, her legs aching from the unfamiliar heels and her face sore from maintaining a perfect smile all evening.

The silence of the penthouse enveloped her immediately, stark and unyielding compared to the vibrant hum of the event. The cold, polished surfaces of the furniture and the vast emptiness of the space made it feel less like a home and more like a museum.

Giselle, however, looked as composed as ever. Her expression was unreadable, and her posture as impeccable as it had been when they left. She strode into the living room with the same controlled grace she always carried, her movements precise and deliberate.

“Good work tonight,” Giselle said, her back still to Y/N. Her voice was calm, devoid of the warmth she had displayed at the event. The affectionate tone and radiant smiles were gone, replaced by the cool professionalism Y/N had come to expect. “The media will eat it up.”

Y/N hesitated in the doorway, her fingers brushing against the strap of her clutch. Her phone felt heavy in her hand as she pulled it out and began typing, each word deliberate and slow.

“Do you think they believed us?”

Y/N stepped closer and lightly tapped Giselle on the shoulder to get her attention. Giselle turned, her sharp gaze locking onto Y/N’s. For a moment, she said nothing, her eyes scanning Y/N’s face as though searching for something. Then, with a faint nod, she replied, “Of course. They believe what they see.”

Her tone was matter of fact, but there was an edge to her words, a quiet confidence that left no room for doubt.

Y/N nodded slowly, her chest tightening as she typed another message.

“You’re very convincing.”

Giselle’s lips curved into a faint smirk, the expression barely touching her eyes. “It’s what I do,” she said simply, as though her ability to manipulate perception was as natural as breathing. Without another word, she turned and strode past Y/N, disappearing into her private quarters.

Left alone in the vast emptiness of the penthouse, Y/N remained standing near the elevator, her phone still in her hand. The cold, clinical silence of the space pressed down on her, amplifying the faint hum of the city outside.

Y/N sank onto the couch slowly, her body sagging under the weight of the evening. The cushion beneath her felt far too soft, the stark contrast to the hardness of the night catching her off guard. She slipped off her heels, letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud. Her bare feet tingled as they pressed against the cool surface of the rug, a small relief from the ache that had settled in her legs.

For a moment, Y/N stared down at her phone, her thumb hovering over the notes app icon. Her mind replayed the night’s events in vivid detail, Giselle’s touch on her back, the way she had leaned in with whispered reassurances, the convincing affection in her gaze as she introduced Y/N to the crowd.

It had all felt so real.

But now, in the cold emptiness of the penthouse, the illusion was gone. The Giselle who had smiled at her so warmly, who had acted as though Y/N were the center of her world, had vanished the moment they’d stepped through the door.

The disconnect left a hollow ache in Y/N’s chest. She had known it was an act, of course, but seeing the shift so starkly still unsettled her.

Y/N opened the notes app and stared at the screen, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance.

Finally, she typed a single sentence.

“I’ll keep up the act.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at the words, the weight of their meaning settling over her. She didn’t have the luxury of faltering. Her family was depending on her. For them, she would endure the coldness of this world, the carefully constructed lies, and the unrelenting presence of Giselle’s scrutiny.

With a heavy exhale, she closed the app and set her phone down on the coffee table.

Her gaze drifted toward the window, where the city lights twinkled in the distance. They felt so far away, as though they belonged to another life entirely. A life where she didn’t have to carry this weight, where she wasn’t bound by a contract or a diamond ring.

But that life wasn’t hers.

Sliding back against the cushions, Y/N closed her eyes. The quiet of the penthouse seemed colder now, but she reminded herself of the promise she had made.

"For my family," she thought.

And as the tension in her body eased slightly, she let herself drift into an uneasy sleep, the weight of the diamond ring still heavy on her finger.

#kpop imagines #girl group imagines #gg x reader #kpop x reader #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #giselle x fem reader #aespa giselle x reader #giselle x reader #giselle uchinaga x reader #a contract of silence

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rey-129-fan · 1 year ago

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Gotham-Amity Co-op AU Part 3

Part 1 | Previous | Next

“Hola beauties, and welcome back to Fashionable History, I’m Paulina,”

“And I’m Star, and on this channel, we teach you how to be at the height of fashion, no matter what time period you find yourself in.”

“Now for our long-time viewers who missed our community posts, you might be wondering about the change in location. Well, we are moving up in the world. That’s right, fam, we are officially-

“College girlies!” The two shouted into the camera.

“Ah, such a big step,” ‘Star’ sighed.

“Indeed it is. And to celebrate, let us dress up like we’re going to meet the queen of fashion herself: Marie Antoinette!”

***

“So you would think it would be hard to demonstrate Amity Park’s weirdness while no longer living there, but you would be wrong,” a black man said into the camera while walking down a hallway, his glasses fallen ever so slightly down his nose. There were voices in the background progressively getting louder. “You see, Danny’s mentor popped by this morning, and apparently, he decided that the perfect way to tutor Danny and piss off his bosses at the same time was to allow a bunch of college kids to summon a historical figure of their choosing to discuss their area of expertise. Once a week.

“Jazz got to go first.”

The black man stopped in a doorway. Much clearer in the background was a woman’s even voice. “And Jazz, being the future psychologist that she is, picked the most sex-obsessed man in history.”

The camera flipped to show a young red-head sitting across an older man with a white beard in a blue three piece suit. In the background was a younger man, his blue eyes glazed over as he sat there sipping from his mug, his head of black hair bobbing as he fought to stay awake. Really, it wouldn’t gather a second glance, except for the tiny detail that the older man’s skin was as green as a sunburnt person’s was red.

“-indeed homosexuality is not an illness, and in fact the only link between it and mental health has been observed to be caused by familial and community reactions.”

“That is good to hear. Indeed, many people throughout history were homosexual, and a lot of them did not show any other signs of mental illnesses.”

“It is. However, with the recent pushes for public acceptance of those not heterosexual, many have come forward with sexual orientations beyond just hetero and homosexuality, including those that are attracted to both men and women at the same time, as well as those who experience no sexual attraction or are completely repulsed by the idea of anything sexual.”

The camera flipped back to the first man. “She is explaining how psychology has developed in the last 100 years without trying to rip apart Freud’s work.

“This isn’t even the first time something like this has happened. Occasionally, we’d get guest speakers that would turn out to be some famous author or pioneer in their field. It’s how our English teacher got his copy of the Tempest signed by the original author. I think this might be the first one that won’t end in a raid by government idiots in white, though.

“So yeah, we occasionally get to talk to dead celebrities and don’t bat an eye at it. Amity Park is very weird.”

***

“Danny! You left your cups in the sink again!”

“How can you tell it’s mine?”

“They’re glowing green and you’re the only one that drinks ectoplasm! Now take care of them before you bring the food to life again!”

“Fine…”

The camera pans over to a goth woman giving the camera a flat look. On screen, there’s some text that reads: ‘When your boyfriend forgets to clean off his dishes after his mildly radioactive smoothies.’

***

“Urgh!” Just die you stupid, lazy skeleton!”

“How long is this attack going to be!”

“I don’t care, because when it’s finally my turn, I am going to stab the dust out of this depressed sack of bones!”

On screen was a couch, and on that couch sat 3 young adults, two women and one man. One of the women was Valarie Gray, US National Taekwondo Silver Medalist, was jabbing her thumb down on the d-pad of her controller, lips pulled back in a snarl. The other was Samantha Manson, more known for the TikTok channel Our Strange Lives. The man was a muscular blond. All three were focusing on the screen, their eyes emitting faint light and Valarie’s teeth seemed to be getting sharper.

Quietly a blond woman walked on screen, a backpack slung over her shoulder. The woman was Star Strong from Fashionable History.

“You guys are still streaming?”

“This boss is stupid difficult and Manson and Gray are the only ones willing to play.”

“What happened to the guys?”

“Fowley, Wes, Singh all had work. Fenton got to the first boss and then lost it because ‘Goat Mom just wanted to protect us’ before getting a call from his lil sis asking for help. Kwan is working on a lab with a guy from his chem class, and Kyle passed out a couple hours ago.”

“Stop dodging!”

“Wanna play?”

“Can’t. Going to the library to study for a calc exam I have coming up. See you guys later.”

“Later.”

“FUC-”

***

“And so, with this polaroid image, we have evidence to prove that-”

“Hey, Wes, do you have something I can use for a collage? Oh sweet, thanks bro!”

“What? No! Kyle! Get back with that! That was the proof I was going to use to prove the existence of Yetis!”

“Oh damn. This is some nice creature work! Danny, your friend has an incredible costume, man!”

“Thanks, Kyle! I’ll pass it on!”

***

Tim paused the video right as Wesley Weston stood to chase his older brother.

There.

The red-head’s eyes had a slight glow to them. Tim clicked over to the other images he had gathered of the Amity Park teens, all with their eyes glowing or other signs of something inhuman.

Tim had been introduced to this group by Stephanie when she found a martial arts demonstration Gray did that involved breaking multiple boards, all several feet above her head. Stephanie had meant it as a ‘check out his cool person doing what we’re doing,’ but Tim noticed something. All the boards were being held by seemingly the same person- or at least people dressed very similarly. And not in a way where they’re sitting on a ledge above Gray and are switching out the board each time she broke one. More that there were multiple companies of the same white glove all holding a board and all floating several feet above where they should have been. That was already a little weird, but it could’ve been some special effects or just a uniform.

No, what caught Tim’s attention was the quick glimpse of the face of one of the board holders. It was youthful- late teens- but with paper white hair that showed no signs of bleaching. Now these features would have been a thing to cement the mysterious person in Tim’s mind. But it wasn’t that.

No, what got Tim to do some digging to find out about a previously unknown supposed hero from a small town that has been blacked-out by the US government, was his eyes.

His calm, glowing Lazarus green eyes.

***

So we finally get a taste for the shenanigans our liminals are up to. Sam, Tucker, and Danny all share a TikTok where they show off how weird the other two are and how weird their town is. Wes is trying to prove cryptids exist, which Kyle ruins. Dash has a gaming stream that most often Kwan joins in on, and Paulina and Star do dress history. Oh, and Valarie is a national taekwondo because karate has only been an event for one Olympic games, but taekwondo has been an event since 2000 and Val seems more like a kicker than a thrower. Plus, I actually took taekwondo when I was younger.

We do get another Bat showing up at the end. There is absolutely no plot, however, so who knows where this is going. Certainly not me!

I'm still looking for names (please, I need them). As for majors:

Jazz-Psych (obviously)

Kyle- Liberal Arts (I wanna put him in accounting, but Liberal Arts works for now)

Tuck- Comp Sci

Danny- Poly Sci, minor in Astronomy

Sam- Double Poly Sci and Environmental Science

Val- Criminal Justice

Dash- Undecided (both me and him)

Kwan- Pre-Med for now, though he wants to do Child Development/Education

Paulina- Fashion Marketing

Star- Sports Science