#with at least one hundred new tabs open.

[akutagawa-daily]

Akutagawa daily 181/★

[sunsetsimon]

i love your stuff about big eater simon with a reader who doesn't eat a lot, but i was wondering if you could do something with a reader whose appetite is as big as his?

☼ quality time is simon’s main love language, and eating is one of his favorite things to do, so being able to have you keep up with him in terms of appetite? he’s even more in love than he already was before.

it’s no surprise that a man his size with his lifestyle has to eat a lot to maintain himself, but i think people underestimate how much simon can really eat.

he’s not big on eating out, so most meals he’s making himself unless you offer to cook instead. a normal breakfast for him would consist of 5 or 6 eggs scrambled (or over-easy depending on his mood), at least 4 links of sausage, a side of potatoes, and some mixed veggies. sometimes he’ll even have baked beans and toast as well before topping it off with a homemade protein shake.

your grocery bill is hundreds because of how much the two of you eat, which he pays for of course, but he tries to be really good about using all the ingredients you already have at home to not be wasteful.

☼ so when big si is scarfing down his breakfast, his heart just swells seeing you keeping up with him. it’s a bonding experience for him to sit next to you while eating meals, talking about your day or watching a show in between each bite. your plate isn’t as big as his of course, but watching you eat a bigger amount of food makes him feel whole. simon just wants you to be happy and healthy, and knowing you’re eating well just marks those things off of his list.

plus he has so much fun cooking with you! he isn’t the best chef and only has a few things he knows how to make, but being led in the kitchen by you is so hot to him. he's a man who can take orders, but fuck they're so much better when they come from you.

☼ he eats pretty healthily for the most part, but he loves snacking. you can't be sitting on the couch for more than 10 minutes before he's standing up, "do you want some donuts, love?"

"simon we just ate dinner 20 minutes ago."

"okay... so is that a no?"

"hmm.. no, give me a few."

he chuckles as he already knew your answer, grabbing his favorite snack of white powdered donuts and cold milk to share with you. the entire bag ends up gone in that one sitting, and he just complains about how it's not his fault because they're so small! even though he purposely grabs the mini's every time, saying it'll make him eat less - yeah right.

☼ it's a breath of fresh air for him to be with someone who doesn't judge him on his consumption, he's just a big hungry man. although he has normal confidence and understands he has to eat a lot to maintain his shape, it can make anyone feel a bit insecure hearing comments of "wow you're eating all of that?!" si loves to indulge on anything food related, so the second you mention wanting something he's ready to go get it!

☼ also, he totally studies the menu before he goes anywhere new. opening the safari app on his phone, there's at least 1 menu to a restaurant in his tabs at all times. while trying to choose where to go for your dinner date, he's searching every restaurant, naming dishes off the menu he thinks you'd like. the choice is always yours though! he just wants to eat with you :)

[lale-txt]

✱ visiting the cat café with JJK men (pt. 1/?)

a/n: first time writing for JJK aaaa. i should have done this a whole lot sooner! happy to be taking those fine gentlemen out for a date at the cat café hehe. and with the current events in both manga & anime i think it's fair to say we deserve to have a bit of a slice of life delulul moment, right... （πーπ）

❦ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

“did you roll around in catnip before we got here or…” 

Gojo only grins at you before he starts a monologue, something about his natural musk that makes him irresistible to little meow meows, explaining how cats are attracted to cursed energy and how he has a limitless amount of it, yada yada yada…

you aren’t listening anymore, only feeling slightly jealous of how he’s swarmed by cats without any effort, like he didn’t have to go through the whole humbling process of getting to the floor and mumbling pspsps until your mouth is dry only for the cats to ignore you

every single cat in the café is practically begging for his attention and honestly, can you blame them 

the cats are in heaven. Gojo is in heaven. the staff is in heaven. 

a chonky white Persian cat is extra persistent and secures a spot on Gojo’s shoulder, chewing on his hair and that’s when you know you will be leaving this café either without your boyfriend or with a new cat

in the end Gojo simply ends up buying the cat café (oh to be stupid rich) and treats it as his own personal oasis from there on and you can’t even be mad because you get to see his beautiful bright smile whenever you head there together

❦ 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈

at first, Nanami isn’t too eager when you suggest going to a cat café 

the thought of cat hair all over his sandwich doesn’t please him, but he can never resist your pleading eyes and from the reviews he read the food there is supposed to be excellent, so he reluctantly agrees

skeptical at first, he sits down with you, trying to study the menu when an extra curious cat jumps on the table, bumping their tiny head against his chin which makes Nanami frown

“aww, someone likes you”, you croon and try not to laugh at Nanami, hesitantly petting the cat in front of him which starts purring loudly

which attracts even more cats

suddenly you’re swarmed with them and Nanami is doing his very best to give each of them a fair share of his love, even loosening his tie a bit and sleeves rolled up

forget about the food, he’s on a mission now

Nanami will lie awake at night, wondering if owning a cat could fix at least a dozen of his problems (they’re all Gojo related)

❦ 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

majestic Sukuna, King of Curses, allergic to cat hair 

oh, he’s trying. he’s fighting for his life, sitting on the floor and trying to pspsps the cats with four hands at once

but his sneezes are so earth shattering loud that it spooks the kitties and they gather everywhere but in his lap

except for that one deaf and blind cat that’s always drooling a little which happily lets Sukuna pick them up 

the King of Curses will look at you triumphantly, like see, I’ve made this peasant cat obey me, but his eyes are tearing too much to even make out the silhouette of you 

good for you because it gives you enough time to snap a good hundred photos of him cuddling with the cat, too stubborn to admit that they might be killing him softly

back home (and after stopping by a pharmacy for allergy pills) you’ll see a dozen tabs open in his browser (you taught him how to google), searching for “anti allergy cats”, “if i shave my cat will i stop sneezing”, “cat hair allergy why” and “why cats won’t obey me”

❦ 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐀

local tired lawyer man needs a fucking break 

you know how prone your man is to overworking himself, so you make it your own little mission to take him out on small dates during his lunch break 

he doesn’t even bat an eye when you suggest a cat café. maybe if he’s surrounded by cats he won’t have to think about the injustice of the whole world, so sure, he’s in

Higuruma feels a sense of calm wash over him the moment he sits down and a kitty rubs their head against his legs, ready to activate their cursed purring technique on him

of course he remembers your favorite drink and orders it for you, something sweet to go along with it as well, and then he’s completely absorbed by the various cats in the café

he’ll point out every kitty that catches his attention and takes lots of photos of them and from you (and he’ll make it his new lockscreen)

kisses you goodbye once you drop him off at the office again and will text you later that he had the most fun in a long time

will also send you the most candid photos he took of you and will smile to himself when you make one your new profile photo, already excited to go back to the cat café with you

[impyssadobsessions]

Excerpts from my WIPS ;3 Guess Which story and when- or if its a story even up. If ya want.

----DPxDC

“Keep communication lines on, we'll be moving towards your location.” Batman had replied, which made Nightwing clicked his teeth. “How much should I bet you're not going to do that?” Dick turned to ask Jason as both of them hopped off the bike. “Do what? I didn't hear anything.” “Okay, so a hundred at least.” Nightwing hummed, as he followed Red-Hood back towards the abandon lab.

----DPxDC

"-One time she sent DASH! To babysit ME! I'm older than both of them now. Y'know how awkward that was? Though the look on Dash's face was hilarious.” Dick smirked, raising a brow. “The guy that bullied you? Why did she ask him?” “Ah, probably because he's a puppy that'll do whatever my sister asks. She knows it too.” Danny clicked his tongue as his face grimaced at the implications of it. “I may or may not have... scared him a few times. I do like a disappearing act.” Dick grinned as he could imagine what Danny meant. He did seem to take any form of “keeping tabs” on him as a challenge. Danny smirked back, a mischievous glint in his eye, before dropping his face. “Jazz was REALLY upset about it. I had assumed this was her being overbearing and protective like usual-I didn't realize how hard this was on her.” The guilt thick in his throat. “She broke down crying and.. I promised her I'll stay out of the house when she's not home. 'Cause I didn't know what to do.. or say. I just..” “Thought of the easiest solution?” “Yeah... I guess.” Danny shrugged, defeated.

---------DPxDC

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Shouldn't you be resting, sir?” Alfred scolded. A small amused smirk on his lips as he carried lunch on a tray. Bruce just made a grunt. His eyes glued to the screen of the laptop. Images, news articles, videos. Whatever he could find was displayed on the screen, while he bit at the end of his pencil. A notepad next to him. “Ah yes, very informative answer, Master Bruce.” Alfred set down the tray on the nightstand beside his bed. There was more than just lunch on the tray as it carried a medical kit. Bruce sighed. He shoved the laptop to the side and struggled to sit up more so Alfred could replace his dressing. “This whole situation just crawls under my skin.” “I say it does, sir.” Alfred's hands move quickly to help replace the doctor's handy work. “Secret government organization, children in peril, and the boarder between life and death getting thinner by the day. Certainly sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

---------BULLY

Pete glanced back up at Mr. Smith. The man was eyeing him carefully, waiting for a reply. He must care about Gary in some way to go through this much trouble, right? And... it would be easier to contact Gary's grandfather than dealing with the headmaster. Pete bit his lip as he thought. “Um, Okay. S-sure.” “Atta boy! Hahaha!” Allen laughed as he smacked his hand on Pete's shoulder, making him stumble. Pete really needed to work on not being pushed around so easily. “Though, if you can mange to keep little Garreth in line, I'll add in a little bonus for your trouble. Since you're doing more than half what I was paying this damn school to do.” “That's not-” “Some good advice. Never work for free, Pete. Consider it a token of gratitude. After all, I think we both know watching my grandson isn't an easy task.” Allen winked.

--------DPXDC

Tim had no idea how he was going to pull this off. His eyes glancing from the Fenton parents to the boy he met yesterday, Danny Fenton. He knew he was dead. At least, was ghostly in some way. Danny didn't act or looked how Greta did, but Greta was visible as Deadman wasn't. So perhaps ghosts varied drastically? Either way, Danny being dead wasn't even the part that was bothering him. It was knowing he had to pretend he didn't know- while Danny sat right next to his oblivious killers. Well, the word killer might be too harsh. Tim theorized it was an accident regarding with a portal that opened on top of Danny. Which might also explain Danny's unique qualities.

---------DPxDC

“...Danny has traces of... Lazarus pit... stronger than yours.” Tim answered, with a concerned tone. They were afraid of how Jason would take it. And Jason was not taking it well, as he felt cold rage deep in his veins. The icy chill as he acknowledged that not only was Danny his blood... he shared the worse part of his blood. The reminder that they... Had died. Those scars... that was how Danny died and so far knowing their luck, he doubted it was painless. “Little Wing? Jay bird? You there, I'm almost at your location. How's Danny?” Dick called on the comms. Jason pulled the boy more into his jacket, giving him the best attempt of a hug he could. “Better than the fuckers who did this to him will be.”

------DPXDC

Danny had made an unfortunate discovery. His powers, like all ghosts, were based on emotion. Other's emotions. Even worse, the strongest one was fear. Fear fed on itself and grew stronger and stronger. And what made him discover this, made his heart sink with dread. He was stuck powerless in Gotham as his friends were laughing themselves to death along with other hostages in the room. Danny cursed at himself for listening to Sam. He should have phased them out of there, regardless of Batman's no meta rule. Now the only fear emitting into the room was his own. They were too far from others for him to feed off of, and ectoplasm was low. No.. more like the ectoplasm was being pulled away from the ground of Gotham and seeping into some other being that was far too greedy. “Well, well, well~ Look what we have here? A little party pooper!” A man with green hair and clown painted face cackled, as he waltz his way over to Danny. The black-hair teen ripped his eyes from his friends, glaring at the man. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist, while he stayed knelt over his friends. “Funny, most parties I've seen at least has music.” Danny was feeling sweat dripping off his face. He needed to do something fast, but if he couldn't transform.. then he wasn't sure what else he isn't able to do. Not like this man looked fit, but... Danny knew danger when he sees it. “Ah, but this is music! To my ears at least, ehehehehe!”

----------CAMP CAMP

“Ah. Smell that, Gwen?” “Smell what.” “That fresh breeze! We had gone a full twenty-four hours without a single camp activity catching on fire.” “Huh, I guess you're right! This camp only smells half as shitty-” “Where's Max?” Both Gwen and David utter out in realization as it had dawn that neither of them had seen the troublesome trio since breakfast. --- “Don't worry Max! We'll save you once I finish chewing off my leg-” “Nikki! DON'T!” “Well... I'm fucked.”

[joelswritingmistress]

You Scare Me, Professor: Chapter 6

Summary: The reader is taking graduate classes at a local university in the wooded upstate New York. She is drawn to her professor, Dr. Joel Miller, though she is also inherently aware that he has something dark about him that she can't quite put her finger on. As the reader's attraction grows deeper, she has to decide whether to endure the danger or run away as fast as possible.

Pairing: Professor Joel Miller x f!reader 

Did he just say that? He just said that. Right?

I wondered if I had somehow inserted that last excerpt from Dr. Miller’s mouth into the conversation on my own. Had my mind made it up because I wanted him so badly?

He was smiling now, not at all able to fight it back. I could tell that he was attempting to without avail.

“Does that make you uncomfortable?” His voice caused my knees to part under the table. I didn’t know if it was instinctual or if the muscles in my legs had suddenly just turned to Jello but I literally felt myself melt down further into the oversized mahogany chair.

“That, uh..” I toyed with a strand of my hair for a half-a-second in my nervous tic, “That makes me a lot of things.”

“Another round?” The waitress appeared out of thin air and I was about to speak but Dr. Miller responded, with a simple, “We’ll take the check.”

I wanted to stay. When he was so eager to get the check after just one drink I couldn’t fight off the look of discouragement that was written all over my face. I knew what I must have looked like and I couldn’t reel it in. And then I thought about it some more. Maybe he was getting the check because he wanted to go somewhere else.

Like his house. It was wishful thinking.

“Stop looking like someone just shit in your cereal.” His accompanying laughter made me grin. There had to be something up his sleeve. This night couldn’t end with such an obscene, suggestive comment and lead nowhere.

“Didn’t want another drink?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“It’s a school night. We both have to be up early.”

“It’s barely nine o’clock.”

Dr. Miller gave a chuckle again and then looked up as the waitress handed him a black, leather case with the tab for two drinks tucked inside. He held up a finger, slipped a one hundred dollar bill inside and then handed it to her.

“I’ll be back with your change,” replied the woman.

“It’s yours.” He looked me in the eye as he spoke to her again and then began rising to his feet as he reached for his coat.

I followed his lead and allowed him to lead us out of the place.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

Was the night really over? On that note? On that red hot amorous note that had been left with a teetering, ‘dot, dot, dot’ next to it. To be continued? Would it?

Stop freaking out! My brain was screaming, shrieking; throwing a fit like a five year old in Toys ‘R Us that didn’t get the toy she wanted to play with. On the outside I smiled, gripped my keys and tried not to stare for too long as I walked beside Dr. Miller.

“You never gave an elaboration to your response,” he said to me once we stood by the driver’s side door in front of the old church.

I looked down and back up. “Should I elaborate?”

“I’d like to know where we stand.” He looked at me with certainty but, again, there was the slightest hint of uneasiness in his posture. Dr. Miller was tense in his shoulders and it traveled up his neck into his jaw as he waited.

“So would I,” I responded, taking a breath. I couldn’t look away from those brown eyes that were swelled black around the pupil. I knew what that meant - at least I thought I did.

“Well, how about this?” He took a step in my direction so there were only a few inches between us. “If you want to discuss it further, I’m opening up my office hours during our regularly scheduled class time on Thursday. Seven-thirty, I’ll walk you into the building, myself.”

I cleared my throat. Of course I was going to go. “Thursday.” I gave a little nod, wishing I had something to say that would affect him as much as he was currently affecting me.

“Email me if you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” I said right away. My chest heaved beneath my jacket and I opened my mouth to speak. At first nothing came out but then I finally asked the question that had been on my mind for the past seven or eight minutes, “Was that true what you said?”

“Which part?”

“About the elevator.” I swallowed hard now and Dr. Miller laughed again.

“Save all of your questions for Thursday at seven-thirty.” He took a step toward me and then nodded toward my vehicle, “Now get in your car so I know you’re safe.”

I looked at his lips. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to lean in and see if he reciprocated, but from what I could tell of Dr. Miller, he was a forthright individual. If he wanted to kiss me, he would kiss me. He wanted to tell me about his racy musings when we were alone in the elevator. He wanted me to meet him alone at the school on Thursday. If he didn’t lean in for a kiss that means he didn’t want one.

Yet, I told myself.

I hit the button on my key fob and heard the click as my headlights flickered to let everyone in the immediate area know I had just unlocked the car.

“Goodnight (Y/N).” Dr. Miller gave a pained smile that emphasized the crow’s feet on the outskirts of his eyes.

“Goodnight Dr. Miller.” He didn’t correct me this time or ask me to refer to him as Joel. I knew at least a part of him liked having the title roll off my willing lips to acknowledge his authority over me.

Shutting my car door might as well have been shutting the jail cell. I gave a wave and started up the vehicle before reluctantly backing away from where he now stood on the walkway.

Even as I drove down the road, I glanced in my rearview mirror until I could no longer see his figure there and then finally turned the corner to head towards home.

The next day-and-a-half had me worrying about myself. My behavior felt obsessive. I had inspected every social media outlet in search of Joel Miller but there was nothing. He didn't even have a LinkedIn. That one, I had to say, surprised me.

No Snapchat. No Instagram. No Facebook. Nothing.

For my own senseless reasons it frustrated me. I wanted to know more about him. I wanted to see a collection of pictures from his life over the course of the past decade. I decided I was spoiled for having access to just about anyone else's life I wanted to dig into.

Maybe I should put my profiles on private. It was Dr. Miller's casual piece of advice. Anyone could dig into my life and I was too concerned about getting “likes” than I was my own privacy. 

I'm a walking cliche of today's pre-thirty generation. 

Seeing as though my plan to gain access to Dr. Miller's life fell flat on the pavement, I carefully adjusted the private settings on all of my accounts. It had been a suggestion echoed to me by numerous friends and professionals that I hadn't taken seriously; yet here I was after one fleeting proposition from a man I just met making the meager change to my digital identity.

After work on Wednesday I found myself driving past The Library. My eyes scanned for the black Mercedes and I was actually satisfied in knowing that Dr. Miller wasn't out at the bar - at least when I drove by. It allowed my brain to rest rather than toy with the idea of dropping everything to go search inside for him.

Yes, I was officially obsessing. It felt like a violation of not only Dr. Miller's privacy, but also my own sanity.

It didn't stop me from repeating the action on the following afternoon after work. My amateur investigations weren't particularly thorough, though I assumed his car would stand out if he had been around, especially when my eyes were actively seeking out one specific automobile. 

There was a light at the end of the tunnel, however. It was Thursday. It was the evening I would be attending Dr. Miller's office hours.

Office hours. I was sure he hadn't actually posted any office hours. I was going to be alone with him.

In all of my years I hadn't had an off-kilter fantasy. My brain had never fancied the idea of taboo love affairs, or men in uniform or any of the typical sexual scenarios that I had heard others speak about.

Now, the idea of letting my handsome, older professor take me on his desk was enough to ignite a fire in every single part of my body - my head, my heart, my soul, my.. everything.

I wouldn't deny him. Correction, I couldn't deny him. I had created the scenario in my mind time after time. It was far too heavy a weight on my shoulders by now to just shy away from. I wanted Dr. Miller in the worst way.

Tori, my roommate, eyed me suspiciously as I exited my bedroom that evening. My clothes were casual, though rather than a sweatshirt and my white Converse sneakers I wore knee-high, brown boots and a tight, gray sweater that revealed just a bit of cleavage. 

My ponytail was replaced by perfectly straightened hair and just a tad more than the average amount of makeup I typically sported. Yes, if our roles had been reversed I would have had questions. Unless we were going out somewhere I always slummed it in the most comfortably acceptable clothes I could manage.

“Umm..” My roommate’s eyebrows pressed together, “Do you have a date I don't know about?”

I decided to meet her questions in the middle. “I'm going to a quick study session.” Tori gave me an ‘I don't believe you’ look and so I went on, “And then I'm going out with a guy I met at school.”

My professor, I added in my mind.

Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth. But she seemed to believe it and so I smiled when she offered me good luck.

“I'll fill you in,” I lied, knowing whatever happened that evening I would surely be keeping to myself - at least for the time being. Although I loathed the ‘YOLO’ expression, there was a time for everything and so I reminded myself, you only live once.

The drive to Woodbridge had my stomach in knots. I didn't know what was going to happen. Suddenly I wondered if I would even know what to do. I was twenty-seven. I had had sex before - plenty of it actually. I wasn't a nun.. but I wasn't a freak either. What was Dr. Miller expecting? He had certainly been around the block a time or two.

The faintest hint of sweat coated my hairline, a result of my budding anxiety. I couldn't wait, but then again I was so completely out of my league. I had never met a man so sure of himself. The guys I had dated, we were on an even playing field. I felt like a fan in the stands of a rock concert that was just called on stage to sing with Bon Jovi.

Stop putting him on such a pedestal, I told myself; though I truly couldn't help it. All reason had betrayed me.

The black Mercedes was there when I pulled into the lot and I saw Dr. Miller casually step out of his vehicle the second my blinker winked in favor of the parking lot on the left off the main road that cut through campus.

I parked closer to the building and slowly climbed out of the car as he approached. I knew I was a mess. There was no hiding what I was feeling. I was sure he might even be able to hear the thudding of my heart in my chest.

“I offered to walk you in,” he reminded me, to which I nodded as we walked in silence through the threshold of the academic enclosure.

Dr. Miller walked with a purpose toward the elevator in the main lobby, eagerly pressing the down button that would lead us to the basement where his office and our lecture hall sat vacant.

I thought of his words from Tuesday night at the bar as the doors opened and we entered. There were no other people in the building that I saw. There were no cameras in the elevator. As the doors shut with a resounding thump I side-glanced at my professor.

Out of my peripheral vision I could see how tensely straight he stood. His eyes were straight ahead; focused. He didn't blink or move. It almost looked as if he was holding his breath.

Please. I begged him in my mind, though I have to say when the doors reopened and we emerged to the basement level I was disappointed that he didn't immediately try to jump my bones. The opportunity had presented itself for Dr. Miller to do all the dirty things he claimed to have been craving and he hadn't even flinched on the ride. It was okay, now, wasn't it? Now that he knew I was a willing participant.

You're being ridiculous. I was currently questioning my every thought, my every word, my every move.

The stillness of the typically buzzing building heightened my anxiety. It felt as if butterflies were having a rave inside of my stomach. The only sound that gave a mild echo off the walls of the vacant corridor were the gentle clicks of Dr. Miller's shoes.

My temperature felt like it was rising with each door we passed. I counted them to maintain some level-headedness.

One. Two. Three. Four.

When the fifth door came into clear view, Dr. Miller reached a hand into his khakis and removed a ring of keys. 

Next to the oversized, wooden door was a black piece of plastic with Dr. Miller’s name etched into it. Below his name was the door number: 007.

Of course it is, I thought, almost smiling and rolling my eyes. The heat returned to my cheeks, however, when my gaze met his from just a few inches away.

I swallowed hard when the silver key eased into the door handle, glancing down for just a second, before regaining his eyes.

There was a moment of hesitation on Dr. Miller's part before he finally turned the key and let the door swing open from a little push of his forearm.

“After you.” His arm extended outward now and the light automatically went on as I crossed through the threshold. “Can I get you something to drink?” 

He waltzed in, loosening his tie a bit as he rounded an oversized, espresso desk. 

“Umm.. no.” I shook my head, “No I'm fine.”

The corner of Dr. Miller's mouth tipped up in a little smirk. “Please, have a seat.” He motioned to a chair across from where he made himself comfortable and leaned forward with both hands folded on top of the desk.

I did as I was told. On the surface I thought I appeared like I had my shit together; like I wasn't imagining him pinning me down on the desk and having his way with me; like I wasn't conflicted about whether my feelings on the matter were wrong or right; or if he could lose his job if something did happen between us.

The man had a way of building tension. The brief moment of silence that lingered was deafening. His stare was almost too much for me. I wanted to say something, anything, but I couldn't find the words to kick off a conversation.

“I assume you still have the question in your mind.” Dr. Miller finally spoke. “From the other night.”

My chest heaved up and down once from a breath I hadn't realized I had been holding. I opened my mouth to speak but I was interrupted.

“Dr. Miller!” An overzealous young man waved a stack of papers and held an IPad under his arm as he entered through the open door from the hallway.

I held my breath for half-a-second. It was Trevor Nelson. I had had two classes with him and his sheer presence alone was enough to drive me crazy. Right then, he was the bane of my existence. What was he doing here?

His stammering repetition of Dr. Miller’s name almost led me to a physical eye roll.

“Good evening.” Dr. Miller extended his arm out and Trevor eagerly shook it. “Remind me again of your-”

“Trevor,” he more-or-less shouted, glancing at me briefly.

I could see Dr. Miller was taken off-guard, though it was his organically, suave nature that allowed him to get through the unwanted conversation with ease.

“What can I do for you Trevor?”

“I just wanted to discuss a few points from the reading if you had a moment,” Trevor said, “And seeing as though you sent out an email with office hours I suspected you had the time.”

Office hours. He did send out his office hours.

Fuck! Was I all wrong?

“Yes,” Dr. Miller motioned to a second chair beside me. “I wasn't expecting you,” he admitted, “I sent out a sign up sheet-”

“My Wifi kept malfunctioning,” Trevor went on, cutting him off. “I tried. And that's why I printed some things out. I just assumed you would be here anyway and..” He shrugged and then looked at me for the first time, “I'm surprised to see you here.”

Dr. Miller huffed a laugh now. He looked at me with raised eyebrows as if to study what my reaction would be. What would I say to Trevor’s snide remark?

His very tone and uppity attitude was the precise reason why I couldn't stand him.

“I had questions about the reading, as well.” I remained cordial. There was no way I was about to air out a petty reply that would make me seem bitter or immature in my ways.

“Well.. great. We can bounce questions off one another then.” Trevor forced a smile that, while mum, seemed to have the same whiny tone as his nasally voice. 

“I blocked off twenty minute time slots,” Dr. Miller reminded him. “I have another appointment at 7:50.”

My stomach dropped and our eyes caught one another’s. He winked as Trevor took a fleeting peek at his watch with as much disappointment as I knew my face had suddenly been white-washed with.

Despite the wink I couldn't tell if he was serious or lying. Was Trevor really fucking up my twenty minutes alone with Dr. Miller? Was there another student coming in at ten of eight?

As my classmate began his vexatious ramblings I felt a burning hostility brewing in my core. At one point Dr. Miller's foot grazed mine beneath the table but he didn't look in my direction as it happened.

I decided I had to harness my disdain, which I knew was heightened to an unwarranted degree for poor Trevor. I actively told myself to stop being a jerk.

The genuine question that I had from the reading the other night popped into my head. Hallelujah, reason prevailed.

“If it's not too morbid, do you think whoever killed the girl on campus might be suffering from Antisocial Personality Disorder?” It was my first genuine attempt to engage in the conversation. 

Typically, I truly did enjoy the subject matter. That night, however, my mind was deep in the gutter. That's why I had to run with the lone, pertinent thought that inhabited my brain.

Dr. Miller turned and a small smile formed on his face. The dimples that drove me crazy were out in full force and I could see he was intrigued by my question.

“Interesting.” He leaned back in his seat and folded one leg over the other. “Depending on the motive I could entertain it as a possibility.”

I smiled wide, enjoying his mild praise.

“That is an interesting question,” Trevor added.

My eyes shifted toward Trevor for a second as he eyed the ceiling as he pondered my question. When I looked back, Dr. Miller had tipped his mouth up in a half-smirk again.

When Trevor came back down to earth, our professor motioned to the clock above me on the wall. “I'm sorry to kick you out.” Dr. Miller looked directly at Trevor now, “I think we've ended this session with a valid question that we can open with during Tuesday's class.” He rose to his feet and extended an arm in my classmate’s direction, “Sit on that idea over the weekend. Bring some notes to class.” He glanced at me and added, “I think that was a great topic of conversation Ms. (Y/LN).”

“Thank you.” I gave a little nod and Trevor appeared appeased as the three of us began a natural shift toward the door.

“Thank you for your time Dr. Miller.” The young man smiled and tucked his IPad back under his arm before vacating the room ahead of me. He turned for a second and asked, “Do you think they'll catch whoever killed that girl?”

My gaze switched from Trevor to Dr. Miller and he sucked his teeth while folding his hands together on top of the table. “I'm no investigator,” he said, “But if you want my honest opinion..” a breath exited through his nose and he finished with a simple, “No. No, I don't.”

“Why not?” Trevor leaned an arm on the door and Dr. Miller laughed while motioning to the clock again.

“Save it for another time.”

Like Trevor, I wanted to know his reasoning; though I didn't dig deeper into it right then. As intriguing and scary as it all was, other emotions were tugging at my core.

“I'll see you in class,” Trevor said, though I didn't know if he was speaking to me or our professor. 

I wasn't so quick to leave, but I knew it was time. I hadn't expected Dr. Miller to actually post office hours so it was probable that there was another student about to arrive.

Was it a female student? Yep, sparked jealousy inside of me.

When Dr. Miller didn't immediately make a plea for me to stay, I wandered through the open door toward the hallway.

And then I jumped. It was almost inhuman how fast his arm wrapped around my midsection and pulled me back into the room with him with the ferocity of a wolf mauling a lamb.

A gasp escaped my lips when he turned me around to face him as the door closed and my back planted against it. It was all one giant obscure action; a whirlwind of tension released when our bodies were finally pressed up against one another's and I was left panting.

“I thought you had another-”

His finger found my lips to shut me up. A wicked smile advertised his true intentions and his blackened eyes could have set me ablaze right there.

“You are as gullible as your friend Trevor.”

Before I could respond his lips crashed against mine. They literally crashed leaving the back of my head slamming against the thick wood behind me. I barely felt it. 

What I did feel was a rush of adrenaline and desire and a thirst for the man that I couldn't suppress - not when his hands were roaming my body and his tongue aggressively penetrated my lips.

I could barely keep up. I had built the moment up so much and now that I was wrapped up in the middle of this avid tornado of passion it had far surpassed my fantasies.

My arms wrapped high around his shoulders, though he quickly pinned them above my head against the door with one hand. His other hand hastily fiddled in his pocket to remove a set of keys, at which time my cheeks blushed a more fiery red when I saw his arousal peaking the front of his khakis.

My eyes were the only part of me capable of moving freely. The rest of me was a willing prisoner to the force of his body against mine. I never wanted to be released.

Dr. Miller's key slipped into the slot in the center of the doorknob and a click secured us behind closed doors.

With an echoing clank the keys hit the floor and my aching, vacant lips were welcomed back with the immediate warmth of his. When his hand released both of mine on the door my arms instinctively wrapped around him again. I was on cloud nine; in a state of mindless bliss. For the first time, possibly ever, I thought of nothing and just acted without reserve.

It was only when I struggled to breathe that I took a parting breath, allowing air back into my aching lungs. Dr. Miller groaned with the brief separation though it gave him the second he needed to wrestle with the button on my jeans.

In that one swift movement of his fingers he had access to everything I had to offer. I bit my lip in anticipation of him touching me for the first time. Just before my eyes were forced shut I saw his hungry eyes drinking in every part of me.

Dr. Miller's over-pronounced sigh accompanied the sensation of his first two fingers as they made home against my most sensitive areas.

I moaned as quietly as possible, though he made the task more difficult when his lips grazed the area just beneath my ear.

I let out a louder moan when his fingers pushed inside of me and his hot breath landed on my neck, the other cupped over my mouth and my eyes suddenly snapped open.

“Shhh..” Dr. Miller gave a hushed reminder that we weren't exactly in our own private love shack while his fingers continued their exploration. “We wouldn't want Trevor to wander back here because he heard a suspicious noise would we?”

Slowly, his hand was removed from across my mouth. I reached a hand down toward his waist but he swatted it away.

“You're not ready for that yet,” he growled, still speaking in a voice just above a whisper.

I was paralyzed. Paralyzed by pleasure. Paralyzed by the thrill. Paralyzed by my raw attraction to Dr. Miller. At that moment I didn't think I could speak if I tried.

A brand new combination of nervousness and arousal made home within me when his free hand now lingered on my throat. The barely-there pressure added something to what I had been feeling all along.

“You like that?” It was closer to a statement than a question but I choked out a whispered, “Yes,” in response.

There was a shake in my legs that I couldn't relieve. Dr. Miller felt it. There was no way he didn't. I was writhing beneath him against the door as the distance between my parted feet on the floor widened with the spread of my legs.

It didn't take long to reach my climax that was induced by his fingers, his hand on my throat, and the dirty nothings he whispered as he encouraged my impending orgasm.

I struggled to maintain my composure. As the first curse word escaped my lips his hand more forcefully clamped over my mouth again, though all the same his lips found my ear again as he encouraged me to, “Let it out,” in a hiss of whisper.

That was the final push. Fireworks might as well have gone off in my lower half as my muffled moans sounded off against the warmth of his palm. My eyes alternated between open and closed in those final seconds and Dr. Miller's provocative growling voice took my right back to the dream I’d had. This was no dream.

The shot of adrenaline had filtered through my body, numbing my limbs like some type of drug had just been injected into my veins.

Fuck! For several seconds I could only focus on the pleasure as I breathed heavily in and out in an attempt to remain quiet.

When I began to come down off the high. All of my senses began to return and I could hear my own breathing as his generous hand warily crept back out from beneath my damp panties.

A smile formed on my face as he stared at him. I was hot and disheveled. My pants were still down off my waist and as I went to tug them back up Dr. Miller stopped me.

“Oh we're not done yet,” he assured me, glancing over his shoulder toward the oversized desk. When he turned back around he reached for my hand and towed me across the room. I felt like I was floating.

When he made himself comfortable in the oversized chair, I just stared at him. With the two fingers that had just been inside of me he waved for me to come to him and pulled me down in for another heated kiss before whispering against my lips. “Now you're going to get down on your knees and return the favor.”

CLICK HERE FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER

@untamedheart81 @amyispxnk @grogusmum @michilandcof @morallyinept @akah565 @cesspitoflove @brittmb115

[melanieph321]

Hola linda, cómo estás? Me está encantando el reto de los 10 días jajaja. podrías agregar algo obsceno de Dusan Vlahovic? ❤️❤️

Sí, claro ❤️

10 DAYS OF REQUESTS

(DAY 6)

Dusan Vlahovic x Reader - Take A Chance

+18

Summary - Dusan asks Reader to go out with him. But you turn him down not once but twice.

Enjoy! 🙈

"Why are we here again?"

"Because we're single and need boyfriends."

"I'm not single?"

"And I don't need a boyfriend."

"Please guys, we've been over this."

A night out with your friends always began with the same old bickering of which bar you should go to and what people to talk to at the selcted bar.

It was getting old.

Not to mention, super annoying.

Especially since you've sworn to cut out brainless men from your life. Of course, this didn't leave you much to choose from. Nevertheless, no more men, and no more lazy hookups. Too bad your best friend India thought otherwise.

"Women should at least be getting laid three times a week, single or not." She stated, the three of you scoping out for the hotties upon your entrance to a buzzing location.

"So we're here to get laid? Why didn't you just say so?" Hailey frowned. However, by saying we, she really didn't mean herself. As of last month, Hailey was in a happy relationship with a guy named Frank. You liked Frank, who knew how to make a great cup of coffee.

"Because Hailey, that's what guys say, not girls." India emphasized, resulting in the three of you laughing your way over to the bar.

It was a fancy new place, opened not too long ago. You had actually been asked to come here before. However, the person who asked you out was a complete asshole, resulting in you declining his offer more than once.

"Y/N, is that you?"

Speaking of the devil.

"Well, well, well, guess you've changed your mind about me?" Dusan smirked.

He was one of those guys who always found a reason to mention their net worth sporadically in the middle of a conversation. Same for the price of his latest investments. Like a watch or a brand new Jeep.

Dusan Vlahovic was a wanna be Wolf of Wall Street kind of guy. Except, Dusan played professional football for a living, which might count as an explanation for his out of touch for a woman's desire, considering that he often had hundreds of them throwing themselves at him during a night out like this.

Everyone but you, of course.

"You must have smelled my new perfume." He chuckled cheaply. "It's the new Dior fragrance. I'm actually their newest brand ambassador."

"Cool." Your friends expressed. They were clearly taken aback by Dusan's God complex. The way he stood tall and erect, like a rooster in the morning. He had slick back hair, with a few wild hairstrands irritating his eyes.

Overall, he was gorgeous. Your type, even. However, his personality was honestly so arrogant that it had become unbearable to reject him as many times as you had. Unfortunately, he was always given a new chance to ask you out, considering that the two of you lived in the same apartment building not too far away from this very bar.

"You girls should come over to our table." He suggested. "My friends and I are happy to put your drinks on our tab."

India and Hailey shared a smug look. You, on the other hand, let your eyes roll into the back of your sockets. Dusan caught your moment of dread, winking his eye at you before leading you and your friends to his table.

The three of you were quickly introduced to Dusan's mates, four guys, a copy paste when it came to their swayed shoes and unbuttoned shirts. They also wore watches, shiny bedazzled watches that most likely told the time. But how would one know with all that bling blinding the eye at every glance.

"So...." Dusan said as he slid into the seat next to yours, resting his arm on the back of your chair. "Does this count as our first date?"

You snorted. "Keep dreaming."

His eyebrows rose with interest, your habit of rejection another game for him to play. After a few drinks shared between you, Dusan took it upon himself to tugg your chair towards him, for the two of you to sit closer together.

"Just looking after you, baby. We wouldn't want you to get too tipsy and fall off your chair, now would we?"

"What do you think you're doing?"

"You're such an asshole." You said, but noted the slurring of your words. Perhaps you did have too much to drink? That's what you get for trying to keep up with India, an avid drinker since your university days.

"Guys, I've got to go. I'm sorry."

"Hailey, no!"

You and India jumped out of your seats to persuade your friend to stay. However. Hailey's night was over. She had a warm bed and a boyfriend waiting for her at home. You longed to return home yourself. To wash away your sins and tuck yourself into your very own cozy bed. However, you couldn't leave India, who unfortunately took an interest in one of Dusan's friends. The two of them were bound to go home together. You just had to stay until they did. In the meantime, you had Dusan, persistently mumbling temptations in your ear.

"I'll take you to Paris someday."

"Oh, yeah, and what would the two of us do in Paris, France?"

"The usual." He shrugged. But then a dangerous smile widened his lips. "But once we are done being tourists, I'd take you back to our hotel room, five stars, of course...." You rolled your eyes. "There I'd have my way with you in the elevator, making you scream my name before we even arrived at our room."

"The elevator, you say?"

"Yes, the elevator." He purred, his voice deep in your ear, his lips close enough to carress the pulse beating in your throat. "I'd have my fingers so deep in your pussy that if I wanted to I could make you a squirter, even if you told me that you aren't one."

"I—." Out of all the tasteless endearments Dusan could have whispered in your ear, this one definitely took the prize. But at the same time, your legs crossed under the table, smothering the flaring heat between your legs.

It must be the alcohol you convinced yourself. Yes. Your terrible ability to consume alcohol without stumbling after two shots was really deceiving your mind tonight. How else would you explain the fact that you let Dusan take you home while India and Dusan's friend disappeared in an Uber together at the end of the night?

The alcohol worsened your judgment of Dusan, convincing you that he wouldn't take advantage of the situation.

"Fuck, I think I'm going to throw up."

"You are? Fuck, my apartment is closer than yours."

He really played his cards well, convincing you to step out of the elevator two floors below yours. However, you were grateful to reach a bathroom in time for you to empty your guts. Too bad your top got ruined in the process.

"Here, let's get you out of this."

You even let the asshole undress you, watching him throw your vomit stained clothes into his washing machine. You then waited patiently for him to return to the bathroom with a clean shirt for you to wear to bed.

His bed.

"Why are you even doing this?" You asked, watching Dusan as he tucked you in.

"What? Help you?" He frowned.

"Yes, and flirt with me so desperately even though you can get any ine of those girls in the bar we just left."

Dusan hid his smile while he fluffed the pillow beside your head. He then maid you raise yourself to sit so he could tuck it comfortably behind your back. "There." He said, complecant, leaving his hands to rest on each side of your head.

You were close.

Too close for comfort considering the smell of vomit on your breath. Who would want to kiss you now? Certainly not Dusan.

Yes. It was indeed embarrassing to admit that a microscopic part of you wanted Dusan's lips against yours. Maybe the alcohol enhanced your attraction for him. However, your stomach was already fluttering as the two of you sat close together in the bar, Dusan's deep and rich voice whispering in your ear.

"God, Y/N." He scoffed.

"What?" You perked up, afraid that he didn't like what he saw as his eyes were upon you, studying you like a puzzle.

Dusan shook his head, a sly smile on his lips. "You really believe that I left the bar without the girl that I wanted."

"Well, didn't you?"

"No Y/N. You're the girl that I want."

"I am?"

"Yes." He chuckled, raising his hand to pinch your cheek. "I've been dying to have you for months. Ever since we first road the elevator together. All I've wanted is for you to take a chance on me, but every time you've turned me down."

"I'm sorry." You squealed. "I really don't know...." That was a lie. You were done with brainless men. You said so yourself. Dusan, however, perhaps wasn't one of them.

Who are you kidding? Of course he was. He looked eager to kiss you despite the vomit on your breath.

"Dusan?"

"Yes?" He watched you lick your lips, the swipe of your tongue making his dick twitch below his pants.

"I want you to..." You were shy to say the words.

"Yeah?"

You perked up, adjusting the way you sat in his bed. "I really want you to...."

"Y/N, if you don't tell me what you want from me, I might go crazy." He laughed.

You emphasized the words, making sure not to slur on any of them. "Dusan, I want you to make me squirt. Please make me a squirter—."

You barely finished the words. The last thing you saw was Dusan's eyes widening before his head ducked under the covers.

"Dusan." You squealed, his lips tracing softly down your legs, causing you to throw your head back with laughter. "Please baby, not so fast."

"Baby?" Dusan's hair was tousled as his head popped out from under the covers, a boyish grin occupying his face. "You called me baby."

"I did." You smiled.

"I like that. Keep calling me that."

Another fit of laughter escaped your mouth as Dusan's head returned under the covers. His pursuit to make you a squirter started off with a couple of soft kisses to your thighs. He then moved on to reveal the soft hair covering your pussy, parting the small strands with his tounge. He did so until his tounge knocked against the bud of your clit, making you moan his name as your head flattened against the pillow, digging you deeper into a sea of utter excitement.

"Dusan."

"Fuck Y/N, you're so wet already." He started teasing you with his fingers, driving you closer to the eruption of your soul.

"Please, don't stop." You pleaded, spreading your legs with width for Dusan's fingers to sink deeper into you. He came up to kiss you, his fingers remaining inside, pumping in and out of you like a well-oiled machine.

"Dusan, please. I'm not clean." You turned your face away from his lips. However, Dusan kept returning for more, threatening to pull his fingers out of you.

"No, please. Don't." You begged, pathetically so.

"Then let me kiss you." He laughed. But didn't kid when it came to wanting your lips against his own. He was good at it too, finding a rhythm in the way that his fingers moved inside of your pussy to match the way his tounge moved inside of your mouth.

That must have been it. A combination of Dusan's fingers and mouth, a rhythmic machine that sent unbearable vibrations down your spine. Vibrations that turned into a violent twich of your pussy walls clenching around his fingers that kept penetrating your reaching edge.

"Dusan, please. I'm gonna...."

"Yes, baby. You're almost there."

"I'm gonna...."

"Yes, sweetheart. Hold on to that feeling for me."

You arched your back with the ripping sensation. A violent feeling of pleasure and pain bottled up into a narrow pipe of anticipation.

"There you go. Good girl."

A loud whimper left your mouth when you exhaled, the orgasm leaving you like a fever dream. Dusan tugged his fingers out of your pussy, holding up his drenched hand to show off the results.

"Congratulations, you're a squirter."

Your hands covered your face, embarrassed yet, happily satisfied.

DON'T MISS - 10 DAYS OF REQUESTS

(DAY 1)

(DAY 2)

(DAY 3)

(DAY 4)

(DAY 5)

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Okay, but does Konig ever buy her a new bra after he cut the old one? >:(

Hnnngh just imagine Engel going through Victoria's Secret website or whatever for some cute lingerie, pouting and saying he owes her an apology. Shows him this one bra and hipster set she really likes, asks what he thinks… And König simply steals her phone (what did she expect?), he just takes it from her hand and starts to get very interested in what he's shopping for here – because of course he wants to make amends!

Engel is like "What are you doing? 🤨" when König is staring at the screen, completely zoned out (he's not looking at the models I swear, he's imagining Engel in those things!)

"Getting you a new bra," he finally says, starts to go through the website, opens like a hundred tabs, mumbling to himself "This one…", "No you need to have this one," "And this one too," "Ach ja… Das ist schön…"

… So yes he gets her a new bra, actually he ends up buying her at least a dozen new pieces. Engel can pick the ones she likes, but mostly it’s König who goes into full shopping mania. She has to have this cute little teal-colored lace thingy, and those bright blush pink strings, oh and what is this? A pure white laced balcony bra? Ja bitte!

He wants to see his Engel in florals and lace and ribbons and see-through mesh and strappy accents and cutouts and he’s almost drooling when he imagines her in different underwear (König treats lingerie as candy wrapping), oh, and no push-ups and pads if possible! He wants to feel everything, see everything just as nature intended.

If Engel says she can't wear some of the things he has chosen because they look uncomfortable or inconvenient, König simply shrugs and says she doesn't have to wear them for long. 🙄

[shadowglens]

like kerosene (on a flame of doubt)

fandom: read dead redemption 2 warnings: canon typical violence, blood and gore characters: alma mcarthy (oc), john marston, dutch van der linde, arthur morgan, assorted original side characters word count: 7,826 overview: alma mcarthy joins the van der linde gang, circa 1891 BEFORE READING: please open in a new tab as it's very long and tumblr formatting is terrible on dash 😭

1891, Wyoming

“I want those stalls all mucked out before lights out, you hear?”

Alma rolled her eyes so hard she thought they might disappear into her skull. “I ain’t your servant, Jeremiah. Do it yourself.”

“Listen, girl.” The slapping of his boots through mud bounced between the walls of the livery as he stormed towards her. “While you are under this roof, taking my gold and tending my horses, you will do what I goddamn fucking say.”

Evening was drawing near. Distantly, if she strained her ears over the sound of her associate’s - sorry, boss’ - incessant droning, Alma could hear a pair of coyotes calling to each other in the nearby hills. One of the horses in the stall closest to her stamped it’s foot with a huff, whether at the threat of wildlife or Jeremiah, Alma wasn’t sure. She absently reached to hush it as the man’s squelching boots finally brought him to stand before her. 

His cheeks were crimson, a vein popping on his forehead and disappearing all the way up into his receding hairline. The horse, a beautiful roan mare, was now at the front of her stall and huffed sharply enough that Jeremiah’s neckerchief fluttered. “Wasn’t I fucking clear, girl? Pick up the goddamn rake and get to work.”

Jeremiah Owens wasn’t a particularly kind man, in the grand scheme of the things. He only knew how to yell or curse, smelt not-so-faintly of manure, and Alma was fairly sure he had never bothered to remember her first name. Girl this, girl that. Still, she fought the urge to stamp her foot like a petulant foal. He had never laid a hand on her, for starters, and shouting aside, he had given her free use of the small loft space above his office. Right now, he was the only thing separating her from the warmth of this livery and the rain-soaked emptiness on the horizon outside. 

“I’ve gotta do up the papers for those mustangs,” she snapped, biting down the fire in her gut. “Mr Darlington was due to send one of his boys tomorrow mornin’ for them, or did you forget?”

That was the other reason she liked Jeremiah. When she’d turned up on his doorstep just under nine months ago, looking like a starving rat no less, he hadn’t just offered her a job - he’d brought her in on the less-than-reputable side of his operation. More than that, he’d let her help with it. Storing and feeding horses was one thing, but a horse fence was an entirely different beast. A lucrative one, too. She knew he had a few hundred gold stored somewhere in the basement of his house, she was sure of it. 

“I ain’t smooth-brained, girl.” Again, she rolled her eyes. Again, he glared. “The papers are already organised. Just muck the stalls out.” At that, he stormed back the way he’d come, no doubt to the comfort of his small house up the way. 

“O-kay boss,” she sing-songed, mostly to piss him off. 

To his credit, he didn’t bother turning back around. 

In truth, Alma didn’t mind the cleaning. It was mindless, sure, and it left her muscles aching every night in her sorry excuse for a bed, but at least it kept her busy. Didn’t give her too much time to think. If she had time to think, she started remembering, and that led nowhere good. 

She worked her way through the stalls as the daylight finally slipped away below the horizon. The roan mare was a legit purchase on Jeremiah’s part, currently the only one in the livery. A group of men had brought in a trio of mustangs a few days ago, beautiful beasts captured from somewhere over the mountain, and then there was the stallion. 

He was a huge Thoroughbred, proud, a striking blood bay colouring. Alma was sure he’d been nicked from one of the local ranches, but it wasn’t her or Jeremiah’s jobs to ask those kinds of questions. Either way, she’d be sad to see him go, even if he would fetch them a fortune. He was magnificent. 

Alma had reached his stall, and was about to sneak him a sugar cube, when something clattered to the ground at the opposite end of the stable.

The stallion jerked away from her hand, startled, as Alma too spun on the spot. 

Her hand went to her hip on instinct. Her revolver, as always, was holstered. Jeremiah had fought her on it for about a week before a wannabe gunslinger had held them both up over ten dollars. She’d been armed while working ever since.

The livery was deathly silent. 

Most of the lights were off by this time of night, only one illuminating her end of the stable and one in Jeremiah’s office. The office where the sound had, undoubtedly, come from. Alma crept in that direction, keeping her shoulder tight against the stall doors and the shadows they cast. There was only one place Jeremiah ever was at this hour, and it for sure wasn’t working. Lazy bastard.

A shape darted past the office window. 

Fury, at being robbed, at being stolen from, gripped Alma, and before she could think of any common sense she was sprinting for the door. 

The hinges were always loose and creaking, and even her slight frame sent the door slamming open as she barrelled into it. The shape turned out to be a person as the door also slammed into them, sending them careening into the far wall with a shout. Alma twisted, revolver drawn.

It was a man, scrambling to his feet while one hand gripped his nose. There was blood covering his chin and throat. She couldn’t see much of his face through his curtain of dark, greasy hair, but she could hear him cursing under his breath.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Alma snarled, gun aimed between his eyes where he was leaning back against the far wall. 

“You broke my fucking nose!”

She took a step towards him, gun still up. “You were trying to steal from us!”

He shifted, spat a glob of blood in her direction. He spoke like a street rat, kind of looked like one too, but his clothes were just a little too nice to be one of the petty thieves Alma was used to seeing around town. The leather of his boots, though now muddied, was clearly well looked after, and the holster for his own revolver looked well made. Maybe he was from a gang? Jeremiah had grumbled that there were a few that rode through every so often, but usually they brought good business to the livery.

“What do you want?” she snapped. Back in the stables, she could hear the mustangs cracking a fuss at all the commotion. 

He scoffed. “Your money. What, are you simple?”

“Fuck you!” Alma glanced quickly at his gun - still holstered. “Give me back anything you’ve taken. Now!”

Despite the gun pointed at his forehead, he had the audacity to laugh. “Or what? You probably don’t even know how to use that thing.”

Oh, this greasy fucker. 

The Alma from five years ago would’ve baulked at even holding a gun. Her Pa had taught her how, of course, but she’d been a proper little girl back then, with parents who loved her, and a warm home to run back to if things got too hard. 

Five years was a long time.

The man’s left arm, the one not gripping his broken nose where it was still streaming blood down his face, twitched closer to his holster.

No you don’t.

Alma shot him.

“Fuck!” he screamed as the shot rang out through the office and livery and the land surrounding it. The horses cried out, an owl scattering from the rafters and into the trees beyond at the sudden noise. His body slammed back against the wall, broken nose long forgotten as he clutched helplessly at his shoulder and the rough line the bullet had drawn through his skin. He was lucky she’d only grazed him and not put it between his eyes.

Alma stormed up to him, lunging, and before he could react she had his revolver in her free hand. “I said, give me back anything you’ve taken!”

She could hear Jeremiah shouting for her up at his house.

The man dropped to the ground, one shaking hand held palm-out as the other tried to stem the bleeding. Alma was close enough that she could see the sweat on his brow and the wide-eyed look on his face, like a startled filly. It was barely a flesh wound. He really hadn’t thought she’d shoot him.

Belatedly, she realised he was barely older than she was, maybe even the same age. More a boy than anything. Just like she was barely anything other than a girl.

“ - all of it!” he stammered. She hadn’t realised he’d been talking. “Get away from me, you psycho!”

He’d emptied the small satchel at his hip, sending an assortment of trash and stolen goods scattering to the floor. A few wads of cash, a stack of fraudulent papers that Alma had hand-written herself, a pack of cigarettes, a few twigs and rocks, a tin of gun oil that looked like it was nothing but dregs, and a little pocket knife. She took the cash and papers, thought for a moment, then pinched the cigarettes too even though she didn’t smoke.

She glared at him, raising both guns again. “I’m the psycho?”

“You shot me!”

“You deserved it,” she said, backing up to slam everything back onto the desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the drawers all sitting wide open. Subtle. “Now get -” she started, breath caught at the adrenaline coursing through her veins, “now get the hell out of here before I really shoot you!”

The man - the boy - just stared at her. His nose, thankfully, had stopped gushing blood all down his front, although now his arm was stained russet too. His shirt was well and truly ruined.

Alma marched over to the window he’d apparently crawled through and slammed her hand against the frame. “Are you deaf?! I said go!”

That seemed to shake him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. She tracked his every movement across the office, guns still razed, and simply glared as he awkwardly tried to clamber back out the window with only one good arm. She slammed the butt of his own gun against his back as he went, sending him tumbling into the mud outside.

He cursed, stumbled and slipped, before righting himself and sprinting for the edge of the property. If she squinted, she could make out the shape of a horse hidden just beyond the treeline. 

“And don’t come back, you bastard!” she screamed after him. 

Jeremiah chose that moment to burst into the office, door slamming open the exact same way it had moments before. “Alma!”

She leant back against the wall beside the window, a gun still gripped in each hand, and raised an eyebrow at her boss. “So you do know my name.”

“What happened? Did I hear a gunshot?” He eyed the leather-wrapped revolver in her right hand. Alma almost laughed when she realised he was only in sleep pants. Maybe the old geezer did care after all. “Where did that come from?”

“A gift from a thief. Don’t worry, I chased him off cause, unlike you, I care about this business.” 

Jeremiah just gawked at her. “You shot him?”

“Would you rather I let him take all your cash and papers and everything not nailed down?”

“Well, no, but …” he only then spied the blood smeared on the wall and floor. “Hells, girl. How many times did you shoot him?”

Alma scoffed at him as she inspected her new revolver. “Just once, barely. I’m not a monster.”

...

One of Jeremiah’s cousins, Gregory, came by the next day to help shore things up in the wake of the attempted robbery. The man was Jeremiah’s opposite - tall, rotund, intimidating - which Alma supposed was a good thing. It’d hopefully scare any other would-be thieves off, at any rate. 

Not that they had to worry. The next few days were entirely uneventful. Mr Darlington sent a few boys down to pick up two of the mustangs, and paid triple what they were realistically worth without batting an eyelid. Jeremiah had made her hide the Thoroughbred out back before their arrival, just in case their suspicions rang true.

Alma had also convinced Jeremiah to let her man the fence after her little display the other night. That’s where she was that morning, perched on a stool behind the cut-out in the wall with her head propped up on one hand, when a man on a beautiful white stallion came trotting down the path. Even from a distance, she could tell she wouldn’t like him. The moustache alone put her off.

“Why, good morning to you miss!” he cawed. In the morning sunlight, the red of his waistcoat shone like rubies. “Fine day, isn’t it?”

Alma just stared at him. “I suppose.”

“Quite an establishment you’ve got here.” He hitched his horse by the post at the livery entrance, then waltzed over to where she was perched around the side. For a new customer, he sure knew his way around. 

“It ain’t mine, sir,” she said, fighting to smooth her brow against a brewing frown. “Can I help you?”

He was right before her now, smiling with too many teeth and his silly slicked-back hair. “Forgive my manners. Dutch van der Linde.” The hand he held out was tanned, roughened, yet adorned with rings of all metals that glinted as he moved. An unusual combination. When she simply looked from his hand to his face and back again, the man - Dutch, apparently - simply smiled and shifted to clutch at his gun belt with a hip cocked. “I was hoping to discuss a proposition with you, if you’d be amenable?”

Oh boy. “Unless it’s to sell that pretty horse of yours, sir, the answer’s no.”

“Now, now miss, don’t be so rash.” Alma felt herself tense, toes curling in her boots where they were hidden behind the counter. She could image Jeremiah in her ear, insisting that she be amenable to all customers lest she drive away business. She forced herself to breathe as Dutch kept yapping. “I’m here to propose an offer to you, specifically. You see, one of my boys said he ran into you a few days back, said you had a bit of a … disagreement?”

Any pretence of her being a good salesperson flew out the door at that. So the greasy fucker was back to haunt her then. She pulled her revolver from the holster at her hip before she could stop herself, jumping off her stool in the same moment. Trust her luck that the moment Gregory was nowhere to be seen was the moment she needed him. 

Dutch, to his credit, didn’t even flinch. Instead, he held up both hands in surrender. Still smiling. Still too many teeth. “Easy miss, I’m not here for what you think. Like I said, I have a proposition.”

Alma scoffed. Kept her revolver raised. “My mumma didn’t raise no fool.”

“I can see that. But I truly mean you no harm.” Dutch breathed out a laugh, or maybe it was a grimace? Alma could quite read the way his face twisted. “From the looks of John’s nose and shoulder, she apparently also raised quite a fighter.”

Was this the boy’s - John’s - father, then? Uncle? Alma supposed there was a bit of a resemblance with the dark hair, but it had been nighttime. Maybe she was misremembering. “Yeah well maybe you need to teach your boy some proper manners. Didn’t you hear it’s rude to accost a lady in the night?”

Dutch laughed properly then, glancing to his feet for a moment as if to collect himself before lifting his gaze back to Alma. His brown eyes assessed her. “Now, there is fire in you, miss. I knew I’d like you. ”

“The feeling’s not mutual.”

Another laugh shot from him, short like gunfire. “Hah! Now, where was I? Oh yes, I came to thank you for not killing John on sight, the boy was foolish to steal from such a … reputable establishment such as this one.” He waved his hands at the livery in question with an eyebrow raised. “I’d also like to offer you a job, of sorts.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m already gainfully employed, if you couldn’t tell.” Alma glanced behind her, hoping fruitlessly that one of her associates would actually be found in their place of work when she needed them. Alas, all that greeted her was the beautiful Thoroughbred with his ears perked in her direction. She kept her revolver gripped.

Dutch, apparently oblivious to her distraction, or perhaps not caring, soldiered on. “But does this place truly bring you satisfaction? Purpose? You’re clearly an intelligent young lady and have a mind for business and horses, and I just happen to find myself in need of someone with such talents.” He reached into a pocket of his coat, slowing as he saw her grip on her revolver tense, before producing a few pieces of paper. He gently placed them on the counter between them. Alma couldn’t help but gape a little when she recognised her own handiwork. “I’ve seen how you operate. Smart idea, faking the papers to get a higher price. I bet you’re making a killing out of the rich fools around here.” He paused again, for dramatic effect or to assess her reaction, Alma wasn’t sure. “Wouldn’t you rather put your skills to better use? Me and mine can offer you that and more.”

Alma fought the urge to ask where he’d got the papers from. “Let me guess? By ‘better use’, you mean scamming people for you, rather than this business? You must think me a proper idiot, just like that John of yours.”

It was an insult, and she’d meant it as one, but Dutch only kept smiling. Something in his eyes had sparked. “Think bigger! The government would see us civilised, chained up, would see our freedoms taken away. The rich folk around here no doubt deserve to lose some cash to you, sure, but a woman with your talents could be doing more than taking coin from a few oblivious ranchers. You and me and the others in my community? We can make a real difference.”

Surely he was a fool. The government? His community? Alma had seen how the law and the government treated people who didn’t fit in, people who lived outside the confines of society, and it weren’t pretty. As much as she hated the system sometimes, she had no desire to slide back into the fear she’d only just managed to crawl out of. 

Then again, what had her parents gained by being dutiful citizens? They’d been happy, for a time she supposed, but what were they now other than six feet under with no gravemarkers for Alma to visit? They’d done what they were told, had tried to live the great American dream, and it had torn them up and spat them back out like they were nothing. 

Worse than nothing. 

Still. Going in guns blazing surely wasn’t the solution either. No matter how many big, pretty words people like Dutch used to decorate it.

Gregory had apparently decided to finally do the job his cousin had asked him to, and Alma could hear him trudging through the stable in her general direction. She forcibly shook herself from her thoughts and perched back on her stool. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m mighty fine sticking to scamming the rich folk around here. Thanks, but no thanks.” She rested her revolver on the counter between them. “Now, if you don’t have a horse to trade, I think it’s time you left, sir.”

If Dutch was disappointed, he didn’t let it show. He simply smiled and held his hands in mock surrender, rings glinting again. “Well, if you change your mind, my associates and I will be in town for the next few days. We’ll be in the saloon, or nearby at the very least. You have a good day, Miss …?”

Alma bit the inside of her gum. Threw caution to the wind. “Alma McArthy.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss McArthy.” Dutch started walking backwards to his pretty horse with his pretty waistcoat and perfectly styled hair, and smiled. “Think about my offer?”

“Don’t count on it,” she called after him.

Gregory was beside her now, leaning over her shoulder to glare at Dutch’s receding form. His horse was small, fast no doubt, but he took his time trotting back up the path and over the rise. Alma kept her gun out until he was fully out of view.

“He give you any trouble?” Gregory grumbled, arms crossed. They were as thick as small trees.

Alma sighed, rubbing at her forehead. “Nah. Just … wanted to sell me something. I told him to sod off.”

“Hmm. Good.”

...

Alma was tossing and turning up in her loft above Jeremiah’s office, as she had been for the past few hours, when the gunfire started.

She tumbled from her cot, landing with a thud while her eyes adjusted to the near-pitch darkness. 

Another gunshot. Glass shattering. 

She fumbled across the small space for her gun belt, her revolver and the boy’s still tucked in their holsters. Lunged, then, for her coat where it hung on a hook haphazardly nailed into the far wall. The off-white of her sleep shirt near-glowed in the dark; even with her coat tugged on, her knees were still exposed. 

Another gunshot, another, another. Screaming. The horses were whinnying. 

A bullet shot through the wall of her loft, sending a spray of splinters towards her. Alma threw herself backwards on instinct, heart a drumbeat in her ear, and almost tripped over her boots where she’d left them scattered at the end of her shift. The whole livery was writhing as if in pain, had come alive with screams and gunfire. 

“Serves ya right!” someone - not Jeremiah or Gregory - was shouting over the cacophony. “Thieving scum!” 

It had been a relatively quiet few days, besides that boy trying to rob the place. Surely Dutch hadn’t returned? He had been a pompous ass with a stick a mile up his ass, but he hadn’t seemed to have any ill-feelings towards her or the stable. 

Alma went to make for the door, thought better of it, and tugged open the window instead. It was still at least a few hours before sunrise, the sky more stars than anything, and her eyes were still stuck with sleep. She couldn’t spy movement in the nearby treeline, but from this angle she could see figures darting about towards the front of the livery. 

“Come out here, you fucking coward!”

“Burn the place to the ground!”

“Flank them!”

It wasn’t too high of a drop, maybe a few metres. 

Another spray of bullets cut through the loft floor.

Alma jumped.

The grass and mud cushioned her fall enough that she didn’t snap both ankles on impact, and she never thought she’d be praising mud in her entire life. She made to run, slipped, fell flat on her front, and her sleepshirt was well and truly soiled now. Her mind unhelpfully supplied an image of the boy as he’d fled, bloodied and muddied as he’d been, as she now half was, and she cursed at herself. She could taste manure.

“Get the fuck outta my property!” That was Jeremiah. Alma raced to peer through a ground floor window, the glass shattered by bullets, and spied him crouched behind a stall with his rifle gripped in shaking hands. He was in the same state of undress as she was. “You good for nothing inbreds!” 

The remaining mustang was rushing its stall, as if in hopes of breaking free, and Alma could hear the roan mare crying out at the top of her lungs. Movement caught her eye towards the entrance, and she caught sight of the Thoroughbred’s tail disappearing out the stable doors with someone atop him. 

Her heart dropped into her stomach.

Alma left her window behind and crept further along the outside wall, until she could just make out one of the men that had been decorating the livery in bullet holes. He was tall, criss-crossed with scars and looked as if he too had slipped in the mud at some point. Even through the grime and the black dots of her panic-riddled vision, she would recognise the family crest stitched into his coat collar anywhere.

The Darlington’s.

Well, shit.

The quickly-receding outline of the Thoroughbred disappeared over the rise. Alma wanted to punch something, shoot something, wanted to set the whole damned lot of them on fire. It was their own faults for being so complacent in guarding their property. Now, not only had a couple of hundred dollars worth of gold just run out of the livery, but it had left a trail of bullet holes in its wake. 

“ - pay for this!” The Darlington’s, those who weren’t in the process of also stealing the remaining horses, were still exchanging gunfire with Jeremiah. The mustang was giving them more trouble than it was worth, but a duo of fools were trying helplessly to muster it into submission while also avoiding getting a bullet between the eyes. 

“Darlington’s just lucky his whole goddamned stable isn’t here!” Jeremiah shouted. “Ain’t my fault he can’t keep his own things nailed down.”

“Speak for yourself, asshole!”

The roan mare was halfway out the door now, a rider grasping for her mane as they hoisted themself atop her. The swarm of gunmen was actually less than Alma had initially thought. She pulled her revolvers, crouched, aimed for the nearest idiot’s forehead.

Gregory was tackling the man into the muck before she could fire.

The two men went flying. Gregory was twice the man’s size, if not more, and easily had his opponent straddled with a fist flying towards their face before Alma could even blink. Once, twice, he slammed his fists down, spit and blood flying with every impact. Once, twice, she heard something crunch. 

Alma shifted her focus to one of the men trying to tame the mustang. Breathed. Fired. Unlike with the boy, she aimed properly this time, and the man crumpled satisfyingly as her bullet tore through his chest. The mustang reared back at the sudden freedom, sending the other man scattering away to avoid a hoof to the temple. 

Jeremiah seemed to be gaining ground too, his rifle picking off another Darlington. Alma should try to flank, get behind - 

Screaming.

Distantly, she recalled a gunshot. 

When she twisted, Gregory was looking right at her. He was still straddling the now-twitching corpse beneath him, his fists mangled messes, and his entire front was drenched in crimson. Not from his victim, though, she realised. Alma jerked forward on instinct, her body no longer her own, as she watched half his internal organs pour out of the newly-carved hole in his gut. She wasn’t sure if she was screaming. It didn’t matter. The thud of his body toppling to the mud forced her to her knees.

“You fucking bastards!”

Laughing. “Payback’s a bitch, Owens!”

“You fucking bastards!”

Hooves thundered past. The mustang, maybe. Alma forced herself to move, to throw herself behind the cover of a stall, as the gunfire kicked up again. Jeremiah was still cursing, still shouting, still firing.

She shouldn’t care so much. She’d known the man for barely a day. Her fury built, threatening to swallow her whole. He’d barely said two words to her. She wanted to kill something.

All at once, the sound came rushing back to Alma. The livery felt as though it was falling down around them. She spat out the taste of bile that had thundered up her throat, adjusted her grip on her revolvers, before standing and picking her next target. Most of the Darlington’s had fallen back to the stable entry, what with all the horses now having been properly stolen. There were still enough of them to be a threat though. Alma managed to clip one man’s shoulder, almost got another in the chest before he dived for cover, sent one falling back with a hole between the eyes.

Jeremiah cried out, deeper in the stable. Alma spun; despite the carnage, she could just make out his balding head through a hole that had been blasted through the stalls. A shadow was looming beside him. Seconds later, she could fully make out the man that had crept through the back door. 

The gunfire stopped as Jeremiah clearly struggled against his attacker. Alma, any hope of stealth long abandoned, sprinted for the pair. Gregory’s corpse. The rancher’s corpse. Her parents' corpses. Gregory’s corpse. The rancher’s -

She’d almost made it to them, had her revolvers raised, when someone slammed into her. 

Manure came rushing up to her, and for the second time that night she was rolling in it, hay and shit caught in her hair and coat. The bare skin of her legs tore against the debris of the livery floor. Her attacker, a wiry man with copper hair, immediately flipped her. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound died before it could erupt from her throat as he slapped her hard enough that the stars were suddenly inside the stable.

“Now, now, who’s this, Owens?” the wiry bastard asked, smiling as he grappled with her flailing arms. Not again, not again. “She’s a little young for a whore, ain’t she?”

Jeremiah had slumped back against the stable wall, but the fury in his eyes could have burnt them all to the ground. “Get off her, you sick inbred!” 

Her wrists were now pinned above her head. Alma could feel the cool evening air on her legs as her sleep shirt rode up. Someone else had moved to grab her feet where she had been kicking them. Not again, not again.

The man that had attacked Jeremiah now leaned over her boss. He had a bloodied knife in one hand. “I was gonna put this little lady out of her misery, but I think I’ve changed my mind. After all, who’s gonna keep this place running, once all that blood catches up to you, huh old man?”

Alma screamed, writhing, and earned herself another slap. 

The man with the knife wandered over to Alma then. Dark hair swung in his face as he crouched beside her and held the butt of his knife to her temple. His breath smelt of tobacco when he said, “We’ll be seeing you mighty soon, little lady. In the meantime, lights out.”

Darkness.

...

By the time she woke the next morning, her head was pounding so hard she could barely see straight, the livery was burnt to its foundations, the horses were all long gone, and Jeremiah was a cooling corpse laid out beside her.

...

Everyone stared at Alma as she burst into the saloon.

The place was quiet, which she supposed was to be expected given it was barely midmorning. Too early for the nearby ranch hands, too late for the drunkards. A small gaggle of men were half-heartedly playing poker in the corner; the sight of her dripping blood and stinking of manure in the entry grinded their conversation to a halt. 

She wasn’t sure if she recognised anyone. She didn’t care. This town, and these wretched people, would soon be lost on the horizon behind her.

“Jesus,” the barkeep shouted at her across the room, “get lost, girl, before I throw you out myself.”

Alma ignored him.

She hadn’t bothered to change out of her soiled sleep shirt. Couldn’t, not with the livery burnt to the ground along with any of her belongings. They’d left Jeremiah’s house standing, for some reason, but the place was better left to be the mortuary it now was. The rifle slung over her shoulder was the only remnant of the place she’d had the heart to grab before making the long walk into town. Her hair was a matted mess down her back, and her knees were still lazily oozing blood where they’d been scraped raw on the stable floor. A drowned, beaten rat likely looked better.

Her heart was still pounding in her chest. Alma was sure her jaw might snap in two at any moment with how hard she had been clenching it since waking up a few hours ago.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to flee after a massacre. Any respectable, well-mannered girl of society would scarcely be seen in public alone, or at least without a good reason, lest it bring scandal. For Alma, she felt almost called to it, like a compulsion she just couldn’t shake. Always catastrophe. Always running. Always one. One day she was sure she’d run out of horizon to swallow her up. Either that, or her own fury would do it for her.

“Did ya hear me, girl? I said get lost!”

She had the rifle pointed at his forehead before he could blink. “Shut up,” she snapped, even as the sound of guns suddenly being drawn ricocheted through the saloon, “before you make me lose my goddamn fucking temper.”

“Put the gun down!” one of the patrons yelled.

The barkeep raised his hands, leaving his dishcloth to fall forgotten to the floor. “Woah, easy there missy.”

Alma chewed on her gum to still her raging thoughts. “There’s a man in town, said he’d be nearby for the next few days. Dark hair, moustache, fancy clothes. Goes by Dutch. You know him?”

The other patrons were still shouting at her. The barkeep’s eyes kept dancing between her, the rifle, and undoubtedly the guns pointed at her own head. “I ain’t answering no questions with a gun between my -”

“Do you know him?” A piece of her spit landed on his cheek.

“Who’s asking?”

Alma risked glancing to her right, towards the back of the saloon, and there in all his pretend finery was Dutch Van der Linde. The pomade in his hair was still stiff as bricks, and his outfit remained largely unchanged from when she’d seen him a few days ago. His boots were muddied at the edges, but at a quick glance he didn’t seem any worse for wear. Definitely not like he’d been involved in a major shoot-out or arson attack. 

Dutch’s gaze was cold where it landed on her. One of his hands was gripping his gun belt casually, although she didn’t doubt he was quick on the draw. It took him a moment, his eyes bouncing around her face, before they sparked in recognition. “Miss McArthy, is that you? By God you look miserable.”

“It’s been a long day.” Alma glared back at the barkeep, her nose scrunched, before begrudgingly lowering the rifle. “I’d say thanks for the assist, but I figure you probably deserved the bullet.”

The barkeep, for his part, seemed less phased without a gun in his face. “I weren’t lying, girl. Get the fuck out of my establishment. You ain’t welcome here no more.”

“Or what?” she spat, Dutch forgotten for the moment. “You’ll call the sheriff down on me? That good-for-nothing asshole couldn’t even jerk himself off if he tried .”

Someone coughed out a laugh by the stairs.

“Now, now, what Miss McArthy means to say,” Dutch said from where he’d suddenly walked up beside her, “is thank you for your incredible hospitality. We were just going, weren’t we my dear?”

“Don’t put -”

Dutch gripped her forearm. “Weren’t we?”

There were too many guns surrounding her, and she wasn’t a total fool. She’d have to find someone else to beat her anger onto. Maybe Dutch and his perfect little waistcoat would do. The look he was sending her made her insides boil enough as it was, but she eventually relented and let him drag her towards the back door.

They passed the stairs and another soft laugh escaped one of the two figures leaning there. Dutch wasn’t even looking at her as he led them outside, but called over his shoulder, “Come along, boys.”

“Real charmer you’ve got there, Dutch. I’m surprised you two didn’t get along better, Marston.”

“Oh fuck you.”

Alma waited until they were outside proper before wrenching her arm free. She still had the rifle gripped in one hand, and spun with it loosely gripped to glare at the trio. Dutch had stopped to assess her with his arms crossed, hip cocked as usual, and despite the commotion inside there was the ghost of a smile on his face. The young man beside him was as tall and broad as an oak tree, with hair like dirtied sand and a healthy spray of stubble across his jaw. He was in the process of jabbing a younger man beside him, who was all wiry limbs, dark hair and - 

“You?!” Alma shouted, stomping a step forward. 

The boy - John, if she remembered Dutch correctly - flinched back on instinct, which just seemed to make the tall man laugh. 

“Stay the hell away from me!” John shouted in the same moment that the tall man laughed, “Watch out, Marston, or she’ll skin ya alive.”

“There will be no skinning,” Dutch said with a sigh as he stepped between them all, and Alma wondered again if he was the boys’ father. “Miss McArthy, this is Arthur Morgan.” He indicated the tall man, who was still laughing under his breath. “And we all know you’re well acquainted with young John Marston.”

She just glared at them. John glared right back. Alma didn’t miss the way he rubbed absently at his shoulder.

Dutch apparently took that as an invitation to continue. “Introductions aside, I must ask, Miss McArthy, what brought you to be in such a state of disarray? I’m understandably thrilled that you’ve come to discuss what I offered but, I’ll admit I wasn’t convinced I’d ever see you again.”

There wasn’t any pretty way to describe a slaughter, she knew that from experience. Judging from the copious weapons strapped to the three men before her, she figured they weren’t squeamish. Still, she’d rather not think about it. “People change. It’s human nature, in case you weren't aware.”

He laughed. “That fire’ll sooner get you into trouble you can’t fight your way out of, miss.” He took a step towards her, hands in his pockets. “The truth?”

She glanced at John and Arthur, but they were both leaning against the back of the saloon, spectating. Fabulous. 

“You said you and your ‘community’ were out to make a difference. That you help people, take from the rich, that kinda thing.” She swallowed the bile and fire in her throat. “Turns out those oblivious ranchers you were talkin’ about weren’t so oblivious after all.”

Dutch, for his part, did look genuinely struck as the truth settled in his mind. “The stables?”

She shrugged, indicating her ruined form. “What’s left of it is standing right here.”

“I am sorry, miss. Truly.”

Alma scoffed. Began to pace, rifle still white-knuckled in front of her. “I ain’t here for your sympathy. I came for your help.”

“Dutch is many things, Miss McArthy, but he ain’t a god.” Arthur leaned forward as he spoke, his face half obscured by his hat. “Can’t turn back time, I’m afraid.”

She fought the urge to walk up and hit him. “You think I’m simple? I’m no fool.” He held up his hands in mock surrender as John snickered beside him. She turned her gaze back to Dutch, who hadn’t entirely dismissed her. “I know who did it. I know where they live. You help me settle this debt, I can make it worth your while.” 

“As sorry as I am to see you in such a state, Miss McArthy, my people and I don’t operate on revenge.”

“Bullshit you don’t!” she snapped, stepping so close she could smell Dutch’s cologne. “You’re outlaws, aren’t you? A gang? Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you lot are. ‘Community’ my ass.”

Arthur took a tentative step away from the wall, the line of his shoulder suddenly sharp. Dutch simply held her gaze, and when he spoke his voice dripped of barely-contained venom. “You’re walking on mighty thin ice, miss. Best you don’t stomp too hard.”

“I ain’t judging you. We all do what we need to get by. Hell, I’m not saint.” Alma indicated her blood-stained clothes. “I know what you are though, what you do.” She jabbed a finger into his chest despite the way he towered over her. “You said you like sticking it to rich folk. Help me do that and I can guarantee you coin for your trouble.”

The little patch of grass behind the saloon was quiet for a long moment. John had started pacing a little, still scratching at his shoulder. Arthur was watching Alma’s hands where she was gripping the rifle.

She knew she had Dutch hook line and sinker when he tilted his head, all predator. “How much coin are we talking, exactly? And from who?”

“At least a few thousand, probably more.” Arthur whistled at that. “The Darlington’s own a big ranch west of town. Follows the river, has the big fuck off homestead planted in the middle. You’ve probably seen it. They took all our horses before sparking their matches, and I’m sure there’s a few more on the property worth pinching. Their Thoroughbred stallion alone would fetch you seven hundred.”

Dutch raised an eyebrow at her with a hand on his hip. “So you expect us to not only break into a heavily guarded ranch, but also walk out of there with multiple horses that we’d then need to resell? And the establishment where we’d do such a thing just got burnt to the ground.”

John was looking at her like she’d hit her head.

“You’re outlaws, aren’t you? Surely you do this sort of thing all the time?”

“Not exactly,” Arthur said, but he was scratching his chin in thought. “I know the place, Dutch. Hosea got talking to one of the ranch hands yesterday at the store. Could be worth our time.”

“Of course it’s worth your damned time!”

 “I’ll be the one who decides that, thank you miss.” Dutch planted a hand on her shoulder. “After we do this, and it pans out, what do you say about my offer? A young lady like you would be wasted on the streets in a backwater dump like this, and I’d hate to see you suffer.”

The man was as slimy as a snake and half as pretty, but Alma wouldn’t pretend that the offer wasn’t … tempting, especially given her current circumstances. Her mumma had always warned her away from trusting powerful men, especially those with only illusions of it, but what choice did she have? She’d been burned before, and she’d likely be burned again. If they didn’t do it, she’d surely just do it to herself.

His questionable company and fashion taste aside, Dutch didn’t seem entirely insane. Arrogant, prideful - sure. At least in that regard he was honest about his intentions. Jeremiah had been a weak man, at his core, and Dutch seemed as far from weak as you could physically get. Arthur, too. John … well he didn’t count.

Alma looked at Dutch and sighed. “So you’ll go to the ranch?”

“Let’s just say you’ve sold me on the idea,” he said with a smile, squeezing her shoulder where it was still gripped in his hand. “Besides, you were right. I do like knocking rich folk down a peg or three, especially when we profit from it. It’s good for my soul and pockets.”

A chill wind rushed between the buildings. Alma remembered her state of undress, and ached for warmth and a home that no longer existed. When she met Dutch’s eyes, she saw burning. 

“If it pans out. We could all be riddled with bullets in a few days.”

“That’s the spirit, Miss McArthy!” Dutch laughed, clapping her on the back. “Arthur, see about getting the young lady cleaned up and fed, won’t you? We’ll head back to camp and start talking out this plan.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” John shouted, eyes wide as saucers. “You’re letting this psycho stay, just like that?”

Alma spat back, all venom, “Says the greasy rat who smells like he crawled out of a gutter. What are you good for anyway, besides annoying everyone?”

Dutch just rolled his eyes and walked off, calling after John over his shoulder. Arthur met Alma’s eye with a smirk, before turning to ruffle John’s dark hair where he still stood, gawking. 

“Oh, little Johnny Marston here is good for lotsa things. Failures of plans, entertainment, target practice -”

“I hate you both,” John grumbled as he stormed off after Dutch, who had already disappeared around the corner. 

Alma couldn’t really find it in herself to laugh, not crusted with blood and manure as she was, but in another life she would have. As it stood, she just slung the rifle back over her shoulder and winced as the movement caught on her bruised side. The pain made her remember Jeremiah and Gregory, slaughtered and left to rot in the sun, and she had to swallow bile for the third time that morning.

If Arthur noticed, he thankfully didn’t say anything. “I think you and me are gonna get along just fine, Miss McArthy.”

In the almost-midday sun, the blue of his eyes glinted. “I wouldn’t be so sure, not with the company you keep.” He laughed under his breath. “And … just Alma is fine, if it’s all the same to you.”

He waved a hand in the general direction of the main street, and Alma down a nearby alley beside him. His shadow engulfed her. “‘Course. Let’s get you cleaned up and pretty before we all get shot by your ranchers tomorrow.”

“Don’t blame me for being realistic. And they ain’t my ranchers. I’d sooner see ‘em gutted like pigs for what they did.”

Arthur looked at her with a raised eyebrow, shaking his head, but kept pace with her as they headed towards the local hotel. “Miss Grimshaw is gonna love you.”

...

Two days later, Alma was fleeing the Darlington ranch with a few hundred dollars in her pockets and a freshly stolen mustang mare underneath her. A week later, she was halfway across the state with a gang of outlaws known as the Van der Linde gang. 

And that, as they say, is that.

...

TAGLIST:

@nokstella, @celticwoman, @florbelles, @zahra-hydris, @arborstone

@kibellah, @carrionsflower, @fenharel, @daerans, @fashionablyfyrdraaca

@loriane-elmuerto, @imogenkol, @knakrack, @roguecritter

[kulay-ng-banaag]

A Gentle Reminder

One visits the other to rekindle the light. (Indonesia/Philippines) Warnings: -anxiety attacks (mild at best but the buildup is there) -smoking -politics (one side more explicitly than the other) Read on AO3 (registered users only)

[ Photo from Pinterest; have not yet traced back the photographer. ]

☼ ☼ ☼

The sound of running water cuts off as he turns the faucet knob. Glassware, ceramic dishes, and steel utensils clanked together in the sink bowl. The atmosphere was filled with the revving of motorbikes, the rusty booms of the azan signaling the hour of Isha, and the lucid voices that beamed from the newscast playing on the TV.

Once he finished scrubbing the table and the counters clean, he popped open a bottle of milk tea and flopped down on the sofa. Even with his tito Bikol’s cooking, he had never developed as strong a spice tolerance as he would have liked. Neither had he developed a language proficiency on par with the locals, despite the many letters exchanged and visits conducted. At least not in the same capacity as he had hundreds of years ago, but even the lingua francas of old were as mutable as clay, and the living things molded out of it.

Like all other things, nations changed over time. Philippines was no stranger to that truth.

All he had to do was keep tabs on the news from the other side of the screen, observing the inevitable winds of change. Once he foresaw the calm before the storm, he quickly scraped together in the wee hours enough necessities to suffice a week of travel. The closest to a formal notice he left behind was the blunt instructions he texted to a handful of staff handpicked by his gut feeling.

If anyone asks, I’m in Jakarta 👋🏽✈️

Nothing more.

He could fabricate a working visit out of nowhere, but it would almost certainly be followed up by a slew of questions regarding his rationales. His true intentions. His commitments to the burdens he never signed up for in the first place. People would express — as a request or not — their want for his presence, but rarely their need for it.

Not Indonesia. Not explicitly, at least. He gracefully wielded a commanding presence in public, but he was a closed book in the private sphere. A core of scorching hot earth buried deep that could explode with the right amount of pressure. Under the right conditions, a volcano could erupt violently. Once it did, there was no stopping its flow of destruction. The best Philippines could do was to be the ocean waves awaiting the incoming lava flow.

He listened intently to the stories broadcasted in front of him. It would be a mistake to call Philippines a tone-deaf airhead when he learned, painfully and repeatedly, to temper how his instincts would translate into his body language. In the comfort of his partner’s abode in the capital — at least for the time being — he was free to unravel the mask he wore in public.

The cracks began to form on the level-headed expression he maintained ever since he made landfall where he was not supposed to be. Through all the reports and commentaries as close to impartiality (or not) as they could get, he could see the wars of emotions taking place. Abstracted exhilaration on one end, ineffable grief on the other, and in between the buried pains had begun to fizzle and release steam. He would rather tune out the cries of despair and rage until they all dwindled together into empty static. With his arms crossed, his hands were already gripping tightly on his sleeves and he could already feel his heart beating as if it wanted to break out of his rib cage, away from the memories that were flooding in. Memories of pain and terror that he wished he could forget, but could not afford to.

What snapped him back to reality were the sounds of the front door clicking shut, followed by the taps of leather soles against the terracotta tiles that ascended to the upper floor. The silence of a lover in anguish was louder than the discordant harmonies of an agitated country.

He shut the TV off and made his way upstairs, down the hallway, and towards the open archway that led to the balcony. As he knocked his hand gently against the hardwood frame, a breeze wafted through the bamboo wind chimes above, almost as if Ibu Pertiwi wanted to ensure her guest was acknowledged.

Already, a lit kretek dangled between Indonesia’s fingers (one of which had an unmistakable ink stain at the tip). If Philippines had never cared about preserving his vocal cords, he would have succumbed to the vice as hard as Indonesia had. He only ever smoked when he was under extreme stress, and it surprised many at how infrequent that was.

The last time he lit one up for himself was two years ago, for the same reasons that Indonesia was going through now.

He sat down on the empty chair next to Indonesia’s, unfazed by the burning scent of bitter herbs and spices. Besides, the electric fan standing across them was whirring in their direction, out of respect for the other songbird that lived in the same space.

Philippines glanced up at the brightly-colored wicker cage hanging above on the opposite end of the balcony. He whistled a little tune, and the feathered resident within chirped back in reply.

“He’s healing up well.”

Philippines glanced back in surprise from hearing Indonesia speak up at last.

“I’ll be taking him to a rehab center in Kalimantan. That way, I’ll be around by the time they release him back to the wild.”

“That’s good to hear,” Philippines replied.

Indonesia pressed the end of the cigarette to his lips, then exhaled a puff of smoke. “I hope he doesn’t get caught again.”

“Oh.”

The soft smile on Philippines’ face faded from the realization. Often, Indonesia would foster rescues in critical conditions. At the time of the raid, the songbird was a sickly hatchling. Not only did it make a full recovery, but it chattered so much that the only bigger chatterbox was Philippines (who had pursed his lips like a child making tampo when Indonesia made the joke). Still, even with such a hopeful future ahead of it, there remained the risk of recapture, the violent return to a system that gambled on its ability to satisfy lofty aspirations, and swiftly disposed of those that failed to keep up.

Such a possibility seemed so far-fetched, yet the lack of certainty only served to tighten the suffocating grip of fear. Indonesia and Philippines knew that all too well. Centuries ago, when they had professed their love for one another, they were torn apart by conquerors from far away. Centuries later, when they had renewed their vows for one another, they were torn again by tyrants from within. Decades later, they broke free of those cages, only to return to a world they struggled to adapt to.

Now, they were birds at risk of recapture.

Minutes passed as they sat together in silence, struggling to keep themselves afloat lest they drowned from the millions of clashing voices that burned inside them both. Whatever the outcome, inevitable or not, Philippines would rather burn brightly in hell with Indonesia than abandon him, even if it meant he could at least march onward with most, if not all, pieces of himself intact. Maybe that was the problem, to begin with.

Yet, despite everything, the world continued its revolution around the sun. People continued to move forward with their lives, refusing to let anything or anyone take that away from them. The caged bird continued to sing, even in the face of an unambiguous future.

Indonesia exhaled a last puff of smoke before stubbing out the cigarette in the sand-filled ashtray. Philippines drew his knees up and scooted closer when he felt Indonesia lean onto him. He wrapped Indonesia’s arm around his and their hands slowly entwined together.

Philippines was the first to speak. “Abang?”

“Hm?”

“Do you remember what you told me two years ago? When I was going through what you’re going through now?”

Indonesia remained silent as he recalled.

By that point in time, Philippines was as battered and bruised as anyone, and had been bleeding all over for too long for comfort. Indonesia would easily admit that Philippines was luckier for breaking free a good decade earlier than he would. What he disliked to admit was how it had made him anxious when Philippines would not respond for days, weeks even. That had been his way of learning about how the final results would be of such paramount importance that its reverberations would be felt across the world.

Indonesia’s sole regret was that he did not see Philippines sooner, let alone immediately. Indonesia knew better than anyone, however, that Philippines, for all his exuberance, was the type to push people away when he was upset. He did not even want to celebrate his birthday that year. The next time Indonesia heard from him was when he sent a message that he was arriving a week ahead of the scheduled state visit.

Philippines had remained steadfast against all odds in the crucial months building up to that pivotal moment. He had snuck away to help distribute meals to volunteers who had lightened the load of an immense burden off his shoulders to the best of their abilities. Ultimately, he was desperate to get an up-close-and-personal glimpse of the numbers that were coming in.

He excused himself to get away from the monsters that manifested before his eyes. The flowers of hope still bloomed in many parts, but a bramble of sharp thorns had been growing at a suffocatingly exponential rate that threatened to engulf the whole garden. Philippines felt it crawl up onto his skin and pierce itself onto his very being, causing him to stumble in the empty hallway. It was brightly lit, but it grew increasingly cold and dark. The walls had begun to close in, threatening to crush him if the thorns did not yet thoroughly impale through him first. He wanted to cry out in pain. He wanted to scream for help, but he found himself unable to speak. Or maybe no one could hear him.

Suddenly, he sensed the light ding of a bell and a mild buzz from his pocket. With shaky hands, he pulled out his cell phone and stared at the message that flashed on his screen. He took a step back and steadied himself against the wall before slumping down to the floor. He sat there in the comfortable silence of the empty hallway. He gasped for breath as he held down the outburst of emotions that had welled up in him. A smile radiated across his face, trembling lips notwithstanding, as he rubbed the back of his hand against the tears that had flowed down.

Philippines remembered that moment. He would always remember those words that had been the lifeline he failed to admit that he needed. He wanted Indonesia to remember them, too, forevermore.

Indonesia let out a sigh before finally responding, “I remember.” He was caught by surprise when he felt a hand cup his face to wipe the tear that had trickled down, the faint scent of jasmine emanating from it. He turned to gaze back at the warm gaze of his beloved pearl, remembering how he longed to see them again after years of confined stillness. How he longed to hear his phone ping and see something, anything, new from Philippines. How he had been sitting in drab and stifling formalities. How he had stepped out for a breath of fresh air and passed that onwards to breathe back life into someone from over 2,700 kilometers away. How he wanted Philippines to have something to hold on to, no matter how bleak and dark it got.

He wished he could be kinder to himself, and he was grateful that Philippines was there to remind him.

They gently pressed their foreheads together, and Philippines leaned closer to press his lips against Indonesia’s. He whispered those same words Indonesia had told him before wrapping him in a tight embrace.

I love you, no matter the results.

☼ ☼ ☼

TRANSLATIONS:

azan: The Muslim call to daily prayer (salat). The last one, Isha, is at nighttime. In this age of modernity, loudspeakers play the azan from the mosques. tito: Uncle (Tagalog). It’s not restricted to addressing a biological relative; very often it’s used to address older men like how we use “sir” in English. Ibu Pertiwi: lit. “Mother Earth” in this case; A historical national personification of Indonesia. In my honest opinion, using the local name slapped harder than merely writing “mother nature.” kretek: Indonesian cigarette blend of tobacco and cloves as the main ingredients. tampo: Tricky to translate into words — it’s ten times easier to demonstrate in person. In this context, think of a parent telling their child they should eat their ampalaya (bitter gourd) and the child makes this face >:T abang: Older brother (Bahasa Indonesia); same as how kuya (Tagalog) is used to refer to older peers/upperclassmen (as in like the senior-year senpais, not the elite trapos if you get lmao). Sometimes also a casual way of calling people “sir.”

MISCELLANEOUS:

Frankly, I’ve only ever been to East Java (mostly in Surabaya), so if I missed out on any observable nuances from Jakarta, that’s on me. I also wrote this on a whim of inspiration and spite. In minimized general, Philippine cuisine builds on a sour base with salty or sweet complements. However, spicy is king in Northern and Southern Luzon, and Southern Mindanao. One of my classmates is Bicolana, so eating spicy Indonesian food is a no-brainer for her. Fortunately, they have plenty of milk tea in stock in convenience stores in Indonesia…for those who need a little help in neutralizing the spicy taste HAHA! Someday, I’ll talk about my bayan OCs. Not today. I need more time ironing them out; time I simply do not have right now. For now, Bikol is he/they. Going back to my trip, I saw so many households with pet birds. I ended up learning about how the popularity of songbird competitions drives wildlife trafficking. 🥲 Speaking of which, I headcanon Indonesia as a wildlife officer. Half to restore balance to the universe for the cursed fact that he’s technically a cop; the other half because if Piri is the musically-gifted Disney Princess, then Indo is the forest friend Disney Princess. Kalimantan because that is where they’re constructing the new capital city of Nusantara because Jakarta is sinking among other reasons. Since the dirt children have to work closely with their governments – whether they like it or not (or choose to lol) – Indo would have to eventually move in, assuming it comes through (just saying because my home city was supposed to be the new capital but clearly that flopped lol). The bird rehab center is very real. It’s my first time learning of the place — thanks to me getting insecure about making it up. 😭 Specifically, Piri was at the Parish Pastoral Council for Responsible Voting (PPCRV) command center. It’s non-partisan but affiliated with the Catholic Church in the country; we have another watchdog entity without any religious affiliation – the National Citizens' Movement for Free Election (NAMFREL). The volunteers were encoding election returns in tallying the votes. One of my dearest friends was fast enough to sign up. I had wanted to draw a 612 comic right after Halalan 2022. Scrapped it altogether because I was horribly depressed, so to say. Then, during one of those many low points, I cooked up that plot bunny when Indo texts Piri those words (the last phrase of the fic). Still, I couldn’t get a comic together any sooner, even if it was a shorter one featuring that plot bunny, as I’ve since returned to university. Following the news and social media posts on Indonesia’s post-elections definitely brought back painful memories. And that plot bunny. Originally, I wanted a far shorter but no less cathartic drabble. Ended up going really ham. I wish I could do more. I hope this is enough.

[iridium-quality-salad]

Sticky Business

[ID: The banner of the game, with the title, sticky business, written over purple brush strokes, next to a pair of pink scissors and an open box with several stickers inside: a frog wearing a suit, a piece of pepperoni pizza, a pink popsicle on a stick with rainbow sprinkles, and a rainbow with a heart. Everything is pixel graphics. End ID]

Do you like pixel graphics? Have you ever wanted to run your own online shop, but you don't actually want to deal with taxes, rude customers, or the post office?

Then this might be the game for you!

[ID: Three stickers made in the game, all with a purple theme. The first is designed like a polaroid, with some books in front of a rainbow as picture. Pink tape with I heart is clipped to the top right corner, and a pencil is writing the word books at the bottom. The second is a round sticker with purple night sky, a half moon, and a very round black cat with white eyes at the bottom, in between high rows of purple plants. The third is an assortment of purple potion bottles, crystals, and plants. End ID]

Now, let's be clear. This is not a business simulator. I'm not sure if it is even possible to actually lose the game by running out of money - you can run out of money, for sure, but at least the first time, someone will bail you out. There also seems to be no penalty for messing up/missing an order.

This is a "have fun creating fun stickers" simulator.

[ID: Full screenshot of the game, showing the sticker creator. On the right side are all the object categories, with the DLC one chosen, showing various words like books, gratitude, travel, and work. In the middle of the screen is the assembled sticker, a flowerpot with a red bow. The plant growing out of it has a smiling dog head with a flower above its ear. End ID]

The mechanics aren't groundbreaking. You design stickers from premade assets by placing, resizing, flipping, turning, and sometimes tinting. You arrange them on a sheet of paper to print—there's different types of paper with sparkly effects, too. Customers order stickers, and you pack them into packages to sell.

You cannot pick prices, reorder, promote, or anything like that, only list and delist. Each object used gains experience with each sticker with it sold, which you can boost by up to 75% per order. When an object levels up, you gain points you can use to unlock more elements.

Sometimes, customers will tell you their story and ask you to make stickers with special elements. You can do that. Or you can shrink the element and hide it behind something else 😂

[ID: Full screenshot of the game, packing stickers up for shipping. The top row shows all available stickers. The first one in the list is a small rainbow with a thank you note, available over 1000 times. The left side shows one order at a time, with the message the customer sent, if available. The right side shows multiple tabs of available goodies to include, currently strawberry candy, miniature chocolate bars, and chewing gum. In the middle is an open box, padded with pink paper and blue wrinkly paper, containing the stickers appearing in the last screenshots (despite not being ordered), as well as two pieces of candy. End ID]

The boosting is basically free: just make a tiny (unlisted) sticker that can fit in all the cracks and blanks on any sticker sheet, and you have hundreds of those to throw 15 (max bonus) into every order you send. There's little point in purchasing actual goodies, just like actually using wrapping paper has no influence on anything.

The maximum amount of orders coming in depends on whether you have ongoing "quests" - that is, those customer story email chains not yet finished. As soon as the last one is done, you get many more requests, allowing you to gather currency for unlocks much faster.

There is an achievement for unlocking everything. I got it early—and I am glad I did. Halloween, Christmas, and the DLC brought three huge new categories, and I am not sure if they count for that achievement, but if they do, it would take twice as long now.

[ID: Two more stickers. One shows a green goblin in front of an open book. Left to it are a crossed sword and magical staff. At its other side sits a little ferret. Three red, twenty-sided dice are in the foreground, all showing 20. The other sticker is a christmas three. End ID]

All in all, it was a fun game, and I messed around with it for about 20 hours. I made lots of stickers I loved and shared with some friends, and *whispers* I even managed to spell the word fuck.

Why the frowny face then?

I played mostly on the steam deck.

At first, you may think "whee, full support, awesome", but the longer you play, the more things get incredibly frustrating.

It's impossible to export stickers on the deck. Why? Hell knows. Perhaps because they don't trust a "console user" to find the steam compatdata folder. You can override this by forcing it to not recognize the device as steam deck with the launch option: SteamDeck=0 %command%

The cursor keeps flipping back to the start of the list. Every time you pack the last of one sticker, the cursor flips back to the start of the list. Every time you go into another section (for example arranging stickers on the sheet) the cursor flips back to the start of the list. This isn't so bad the first time. Ten hours in, it makes me wanna cry. Also because:

There is no way to scroll through a list or even hold a button. No. You. Need. To. Press. The. Button. Over. And. Over. Again. To reach that 30th sticker you made.

While you probably break your mouse wheel finger trying to scroll through the end of day report, there's no button that works at all on controller. So you either sit through the painfully slow popping up of the report, or you speed it up and can't see it.

There is also no display when creating a sticker to show which assets are already maxed out on points you can earn. Have to go into the asset store for that. If you make me need thousands of points to unlock things, at least show me what can earn/earned those points!

Very occasionally, I couldn't edit a sticker sheet I made on desktop/deck on the other without having to adjust some stickers.

Also occasionally, the game started up on desktop without the save being synced, giving me half a heart attack as I thought my save was gone.

Don't get me wrong. It's still a good game, and it delivered exactly what was promised, and I wouldn't vote it down for that but. Geez. To play the DLC, I forced the deck to pretend it's a desktop and set mouse/kb controls, dealing with the touchpad mouse just so I could have A BUTTON THAT SCROLLS.

If my cursor had jumped back to the start of my sticker list. One. More. Time. I would have made another sticker that said fuck.

[blueiscoool]

Vast Subterranean Aqueduct in Naples Once 'Served Elite Roman Villas'

Once played in by local children, a vast tunnel that goes through a hill in Naples, Italy, is actually a Roman aqueduct.

Forty years ago, when children in Naples were playing in caves and tunnels under the hill of Posillipo in Italy, they didn't know their playground was actually a Roman aqueduct. When they shared their memories with archaeological authorities recently, it kicked off an exploration of one of the longest, most mysterious examples of ancient water infrastructure in the Roman world.

Rome's famous aqueducts supplied water for baths, drinking, public fountains and more. Built during a period of about half a millennium (roughly 300 B.C. to A.D. 200), aqueducts around the former Roman Empire are highly recognizable today thanks to their multitiered arched structure. But this marvel of ancient architecture represents only a small fraction of the actual water system; the vast majority of the infrastructure is still underground.

Outside of Rome, subterranean aqueducts and their paths are much less understood. This knowledge gap included the newly investigated Aqua Augusta (opens in new tab), also called the Serino aqueduct, which was built between 30 B.C. and 20 B.C. to connect luxury villas and suburban outposts in the Bay of Naples. Circling Naples and running down to the ancient vacation destination of Pompeii, the Aqua Augusta is known to have covered at least 87 miles (140 kilometers), bringing water to people all along the coast as well as inland.

But the complex Aqua Augusta has barely been explored by researchers, making it the least-documented aqueduct in the Roman world. New discoveries earlier this month by the Cocceius Association (opens in new tab), a nonprofit group that engages in speleo-archaeological work, are bringing this fascinating aqueduct to light.

Thanks to reports from locals who used to explore the tunnels as kids, association members found a branch of the aqueduct that carried drinking water to the hill of Posillipo and to the crescent-shaped island of Nisida (opens in new tab). So far, around 2,100 feet (650 meters) of the excellently preserved aqueduct has been found, making it the longest known segment of the Aqua Augusta.

Graziano Ferrari (opens in new tab), president of the Cocceius Association, said in an email that "the Augusta channel runs quite near to the surface, so the inner air is good, and strong breezes often run in the passages." Exploring the aqueduct requires considerable caving experience, though. Speleologists' most difficult challenge in exploring the tunnel was to circumvent the tangle of thorns at one entrance.

"Luckily, the caving suits are quite thornproof," he said. "After succeeding in entering the channel, we met normal caving challenges — some sections where you have to crawl on all fours or squeeze through."

In a new report (opens in new tab), Ferrari and Cocceius Association Vice President Raffaella Lamagna (opens in new tab) list several scientific studies that can be done now that this stretch of aqueduct has been found. Specifically, they will be able to calculate the ancient water flow with high precision, to learn more about the eruptive sequences that formed the hill of Posillipo, and to study the mineral deposits on the walls of the aqueduct.

Rabun Taylor (opens in new tab), a professor of classics at the University of Texas at Austin who was not involved in the report, said in an email that the newly discovered aqueduct section is interesting because it is "actually a byway that served elite Roman villas, not a city. Multiple demands on this single water source stretched it very thin, requiring careful maintenance and strict rationing."

Taylor, an expert on Roman aqueducts, also said the new find "may be able to tell us a lot about the local climate over hundreds of years when the water was flowing." This insight is possible thanks to a thick deposit of lime, a calcium-rich mineral that "accumulates annually like tree rings and can be analyzed isotopically as a proxy for temperature and rainfall," he explained.

Ferrari, Lamagna and other members of the Cocceius Association plan to analyze the construction of the aqueduct as well, to determine the methods used and the presence of water control structures. "We believe that there are ample prospects for defining a research and exploration plan for this important discovery, which adds a significant element to the knowledge of the ancient population" living in the Bay of Naples, they wrote in the report.

By Kristina Killgrove.

[aquilamage]

had a small random burst of aa inspiration and whipped up an excerpt of the untitled aai2 au. context: I didn’t want Kay Seb and Badd in the same place until Forgotten but couldn’t find any good reason for Badd not to be at the Zodiac Gallery. So I took Kay and Sebastian out of Inherited. Kay goes digging for info on what happened to Sebastian (or at least tries to). Except then she runs into him and they continue to butt heads. These bits are before and after that scene

.

To avoid Badd having any last-minute suspicions about her outing, Kay strategically waited in her room until after he left (accidentally slept in until her 10:00 alarm). She was still yawning as she made her way to the door to put on her shoes. When she picked up the second one, she noticed a piece of paper stuck in it.

Snacks in fridge.

Dropping the shoe, she ran over to check. Sure enough, on the middle shelf was a small lunchbox. Its contents: cheese sticks and pepperoni, apple slices in water with side compartments of peanut butter and cinnamon sugar, some homemade chocolate chip granola bars, and a little bag of pretzels.

She stared at it. Well, now she felt a little bad about lying. Not bad enough to change her mind. She needed to uncover the truth here, with or without his approval.

.

She made her way out of the Prosecutor’s Offices with a bit less caution than when she’d come in. (Almost no one who might even recognize her was left, anyway.) Jumping all the stairs from the outside doors to the sidewalk, she cut across the grass in the direction of the nearest bus stop.

Dropping her weight against the plastic back wall of the bus shelter, she huffed out a sigh. Well, that had been stupid. Not only had she gotten to do zero digging, but Sebastian had turned out to be just as insufferably...Like That...when he was alone as any other time. After that disaster, he’d lost all rights to her even dropping hints about who she was. (If she hadn’t seen him stumble over so many other seemingly obvious hints, she would’ve thought he had to be doing it on purpose.) Ugh. If she didn’t see him for another month, it would be too soon.

Someone had walked into the bus stop moments ago and she’d ignored them, busy glaring at a plastic bottle on the ground and bouncing on her feet as she ruminated. But then the hair on the back of her neck prickled too much to ignore the impulse to look.

It was Sebastian. Standing at the far diagonal of the shelter, staring, baton threatening to snap out of his grip. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” she retorted. Based on everything else, she thought he would’ve gotten his own brand new car the moment he was old enough to drive.

His expression scrunched. “I asked you first!”

She put her hands on her hips. “I asked you second.”

For a moment, he continued to watch her with what was probably meant to be a glare but was actually a squint and a wobbly pout. Then, with a huff, he spun around to stomp off.

Right as it began to absolutely pour.

He shrieked and tripped over himself running backward into the shelter.

Kay sighed to herself. Pulling out her phone, she slid along the wall until she got to the point furthest from the bench. After a minute of Sebastian not moving she said, still not looking up, “You can sit. I don’t want to.”

It took another long moment, but finally he went and sat. Still not talking, which she was thankful for.

Opening her internet browser, she flicked through the hundred plus tabs she had open to locate that one article on knot tying she’d been meaning to read. Nah, not that one. Or that one. Ooh, a parkour technique video.

She’d just gotten through the initial explanation segment when she heard a low stomach growl. She looked down at her own with a frown before almost immediately remembering Sebastian. Hm. Well that was his problem. She started up the video again.

It happened again. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but be a little impressed. Getting through her earbuds and the incessant drum of rain.

(She did still have most of her snacks in her bag, her brain reminded her.)

Her finger hovered over the play button.

(...And Seb always really liked the granola bars every time she’d brought them to school.)

With a sigh, Kay yanked out the container in the same motion as she crossed the couple steps over to hold it out in offering.

He flinched once as she approached, and then a smaller one when she dropped it in his lap.

“You, uh, sounded hungry.” She rocked on her heels.

“Oh.” He lifted the lid cautiously. “Thanks?”

“Yeah sure,” she said quickly, scooting back to her corner. “Just give me the container back.”

She put her earbuds back in, but didn’t start the video up. Not yet. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him pick one up. It was silly, to think that just tasting the snack would be enough to make him recognize her, after everything else. That was something out of a story.

...But it also wasn’t impossible.

If that was even what she wanted anymore, she thought again, stomach turning.

He paused, frowning slightly, after his first bite, but otherwise didn’t visibly react. (Also still not taking his gloves off, despite the fact that he was definitely gonna get chocolate on them. So he really did wear those all the time. Maybe it was a texture thing? He’d had a bunch of texture things in school.

So she went back to her video.

Nearly at the end, absorbed in calculating how long she might take to learn it (and how spectacularly she could injure herself if she messed up), Kay startled when he interjected, too loud, “Hey?”

From his expression as she turned, he hadn’t expected the volume either. “Um, what time is it?”

“2:13.”

He nodded, biting his lip. Hands gripping the bench, he rocked slightly, now staring out into the rain.

“...Is your bus late?”

He tensed, and then tears started to collect at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah,” he squeaked.

With an internal sigh, she began pulling up the bus system tracker. “What number is it?”

“Thirty-four.”

Kay froze. That’s my route. Not the one she was currently waiting for: the one that went right by her childhood home. It was the kind of thing she would have laughed and commented about, if she was talking to a friend. Or a friendly acquaintance. Or a stranger. “Yeah, it says that one showed up like, super early. And the next one’s at 2:40.”

He nodded, still in the same pose.

When he didn’t give any other response, she rolled her eyes and looked back at her phone. She swapped over to one of her game apps, but just as it loaded she realized. Of course that was Sebastian's bus route; she could have guessed before she even asked him. He was probably still living in the same house, the one he'd grown up in – safe, familiar, with his parents the whole time-

Her throat burned like acid. She had so much energy: to scream, to stomp, to run out into the rain all the way back to the apartment. Instead, she threw herself to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees. Sebastian moved out of the corner of her eye, but she ignored him. He didn't say or do anything else. Good. If she had to talk with him right now she'd explode.

She stayed like that until her bus came, then ran for the door. Sebastian yelled something after her, but she ignored him, sitting on the far side of the aisle and refusing to think about any of the day all the way back home.

[sibillascribbles08]

ok last one i promise KDKFKG

107

You say this like I am bothered I can assure you I am not alskjdf

Donatello hated that he was going to his dad for advice.

Mainly because he'd already tried that before asking Jase out, before even being friends with him in fact. Befriending Jase just slowly lead him to the realization that he had no parental figures in his life that had any good advice regarding romantic relationships.

After all, just look at the line up. His dad, who's only stable relationship resulted in him being imprisoned in an arena for years. Draxum, who's relationship history was not only a mystery but also one Donatello didn't care to dig up. Holly Blue, who flat out told him when he asked her about dating to just never bother with it--not encouraging. And who else? Todd? Donatello wasn't about to open that can of worms either.

At least this was far less about general relationship advice and more specific like what the heck kind of things did you do with someone for a date?

Donatello didn't want to get his information from films, far too fictional to trust, and running internet searches was not only embarrassing but came with mixed results. Especially for New York City. A three hundred dollar dinner? No thank you.

So, here he was, standing in the living room while his dad watched some kind of romance drama on the big screen.

"Hey, Dad?" Donatello cleared his throat.

Splinter glanced over at him. "Yes, Purple? Did you need something?"

"Uh, just, wanted to ask for your opinion on something." He tried not to clear his throat again, tried not to fidget as he kept glancing to the side. "Like um... date ideas."

Splinter's ears shot straight up before he rolled over in his chair to lean over the arm rest. "Ohohoho, with that purple dragon boy?"

Donatello grit his teeth, trying to shove back the heat emerging in his cheeks. "He's not a purple dragon anymore, but yes."

Splinter hummed, tail swishing from side to side, obviously amused. "Surprised you're asking me for advice."

"I'm desperate." He scoffed.

"Hmph, rude! But well... date ideas would entirely depend on what the two of you like to do."

Donatello pressed his lips together. "Uh... programming?"

"No! Non-working activities. Going to the zoo? The park? A demolition derby?"

The last one was a joke, but Donatello glared at it.

"How about a movie?" Splinter pointed to the screen with his tail. "I know you love those."

That was actually a good idea. Jase had already shown him a few back when they were just friends, and apparently there were many, many movies that Donatello could still catch up on.

"Hm, I see you have your idea." Splinter flopped back onto the sofa. "Hope he has space at his place, or you get your own TV. You are not stealing mine so you can make-out on the sofa."

Donatello flinched, all the heat rushing back to his face. "Dad!"

His father just laughed.

----------------

Jase sighed, staring at the wall of math homework still on the screen. He technically didn't have to do it all tonight--the professor just posted all the weekly homework at once--but he wanted it out of the way so it didn't cut into his weekend free time.

Still, maybe he should take a break. Online math homework was a nightmare.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed on his desk. Jase picked it up, looking at Donnie's icon before answering it.

"Why, if it isn't Othello Von Ryan." He taunted into the line as he tabbed away from the math page.

"I can't believe you're still calling me that." Donnie tsked.

"You come up with a dumb fake name I'm never letting it go." He mindlessly scrolled through his social feed, looking to see if there were any updates on the leaks for the next line of transformers. "Any particular reason you called? You usually like to text."

"Ah, well... I just thought it would be easier to ask over the phone?"

"Lie." Jase said flatly. "You're really bad at that, you know."

"Only sometimes." Donnie snapped. "Fine. It's been a few days so I wanted to hear your voice."

Ah. Jase adjusted his glasses before messing with his hair to ease up the burning in his ears. "You said you wanted to ask me something?"

"Yes." Donnie's typical, confident tone returned. "You, me, popcorn, two liter Dr. Pepper and a movie. You in?"

A movie? "What movie?"

"I am so glad you asked. I have narrowed down my list of two hundred possible films to just five by calculating the length, ratings, content, actors, the actor ratings, the--"

Jase couldn't stop himself from snorting and laughing.

"Huh?" Donnie said. "What? What's so funny?"

"Sorry." Jase said between laughs. "Sorry, not laughing at you. It's just... so you."

"What's so me?"

"Going through all that analysis just to pick a movie." He let out another chuckle before running a hand through his hair. "But yeah, sure, send me the list and I'll help pick one out."

"So... that's a yes?"

"Yeah, Donnie, we've watched movies before."

"Sure, but not as a date."

He forced himself not to laugh again, both out of amusement and nerves. He found it so endearing that Donnie, who almost always had this guise of confidence and boldness would always get so shy about conversations like this.

Not that Jase was any better.

"Does it have to be Dr. Pepper by the way?" He tried to change the subject a little.

"Dr. Pepper is the superior movie soda."

"Yeah? Did you calculate that too?"

"Well, statistically--"

"Oh my god." He groaned, even though he kept smiling. "No. How about I just bring my own soda."

"It better not be that weird knock off grape soda."

"The taste of purple."

"Ugh!"

"Going to chug half the bottle right in front of you."

"Disgusting. Horrible. Maybe I should un-invite you."

"Yeah?" Jase rested his arm on the desk before leaning forward to put his cheek on it, still holding the phone to his ear. "Then who are you going to watch the movie with?"

"Hm, you have a good point. I suppose your company will just have to do."

"Yeah, whatever Donnie." Jase couldn't seem to stop smiling. "I look forward to it."

"Right." Donnie sounded nervous again. "I um... do too."

Jase glanced at his computer screen, the math tab haunting him. He sat up again, minimizing the entire window before pushing away from his desk. "Are you busy right now?"

"Not entirely, though Mikey will probably call me for dinner soon enough."

"That's okay." Jase flopped onto his bed. "Just want to talk for a bit longer. What were you doing at work today?"

"Oh! Well Alori, the cheetah yokai, she came by to test the new hanging lights and..."

[re-coding]

I make a stupid decision to decide to make a (fic) writing app, cheers

Well now, I know there's like tons of them out there in the market. A lot of them are good! And even free (or have pretty good free versions)! A reddit thread I found have a few very good ones, you guys can check it out! (I'll add my own two cents later :3)

But look, the only thing I want to do, is to have a place when I can throw my ideas into a list (like what I'm did in my notes app) then auto convert it to a document when I feel like I want to write it. None of them (or at least, what I saw/found) have it!

To do that, I set up a Google Form-Google Sheets system so I can just fill in the form when I get some thoughts™. Then when I feel like I want to add another WIP to my ever-growing list of WIPs, I'll just open the associated sheet, see what idea I would like to write, then create a Google Docs and copy/paste the idea there.

Easy, right? Problem solved?

No, not really. For me, there're a few problems with this.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The Problem(s)™

The process of opening Google Forms takes forever to load (depending on my Internet) and I have a goldfish memory. What are the odds that I forget my ideas by then.

(Just use phone notes app then) But I'm in the mood to type my fic in a computer 😔😔 I don't wanna copy my prompt there to a doc via phone, or worse, retype it out. There's like 4 steps there at least! I'll lose my motivation by then!

Google Sheets has this problem where the text refuses to wrap properly if you add a long text (my ideas are sometimes a few hundred words of rambling y'know). So whenever I decided to grace the sheet with my presence, I'll need to reformat the wrap if I wanna read what I wrote. That's 1 whole extra step.

I'll need to open at least two tabs here, 1. my sheet file, 2. open a new docs file

Look, they're all pretty minor inconveniences imo, but I'm 1. a lazy mf and 2. a tired mf

So, I made a decision any sane person with a job and 0-energy would do - I thought "Hey, why don't I make my own?".

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

And thus begin the brain-storming

Ok, look I'm not that good at UX/UI designing. I figure that should be the first step so I went and watch a few video and stumbled upon Juxtopposed's world's shortest UI/UX design course (it's pretty great, do check it out!). Simple, quick, concise - perfect.

First, I started with designing the user flow. I planned out a general idea of what I want my app to do and how it would flow from there starting from the landing all the way to when users save their work and exit the app.

Boy, I sure hope I did that correctly.

This generally is made up of user actions (except for landing). You may notice how it's mostly AO3 focused because yes, I'm using this just for AO3 - as in I stopped using fanfiction.net, Wattpad and Quotev a long time ago.

I did get some inspirations for some of the features from other existing apps. Like:

Scriever - it's paid, but most people say it's a godsend but personally, I've never tried it. I think it pioneered the scenes idea tho.

Manuskript - Free open-sourced version of Scriever basically! They also have words and phrase frequency analyser and I think that's pretty neat!

MyStory.today - I like the idea that you can edit and view multiple scenes at once but the writing UI itself feels kinda clunky? It feels bothersome to add a new scene below my current one. But free version is enough and that's pretty nice. Oh yeah, not sure if it's just me, or it's kinda laggy

Wavemaker - ok this actually a great one! Everyone should give it a chance! But again, too complicated to just add one simple idea when I just wake up for instance.

Story Plotter - This one is nice. It actually have a idea to story button but, why are there... so many things... to choose before I can start writing the story. Granted, all of them are optional and you can just spam skip... a whole 7 times (unless it's a freeform, in that case, 4 times). But this provides a nice idea to combine more than 1 ideas into one plot tho. Also, not my style

Campfire - Is nice, there's so much things you can customize! But well, the free version can be quite limiting, like what if I need more than 25k words :(

Notion - Ok, here me out, it's not a great idea to write multi-chapters long fics here exactly without some amount of setting up too. BUT I love the markdown system here and I wanted to include it.

Do try some of them out, maybe you'll find your new writing app soulmate, who knows?

So... about the user flow diagram

I'm making this app because of two main features, ok maybe three, that I want to make my life easier and make me happier.

The ideas being converted and directly stored in my writing doc.

Being able to use markdowns to type unlike google docs *squint eyes*

Copying the whole chapter in HTML so I can just throw it in AO3 and click update without worrying about forgetting the formatting OR having to go to those docs to HTML converters.

And a secret fourth thing to maaaaaybe include things like chats, boxes, and other workskin related things

Oh, yes and how could I forgot, syncing progress across multiple devices

So I want to implement auto-save features (well, at least when you're connected to the internet, else it'll save locally first). The database I'm thinking to store these should be the user's own google drive (but that would required the user to sign in to their drive first).

Inversely, I'm thinking if the user did edit the doc in the drive, it should reflect in the app too, so I'll need to think about that. But the idea is that one chapter should be stored in one doc, and then separated by a scene separator symbol (I'll figure this out) to break it into scenes in the actual app. That may be a bit messy to edit in docs though so maybe a traditional folder + docs might suffice but then, there's also a space constraint, where there is too much scenes. That's probably where the web services come in.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

And, oh! another diagram!

Ok look, the user flow made perfect sense to me while I was making it. After looking at it again while writing this... In hindsight, I should also make a screen/page flow diagram, or sitemap, so here it is! So- ta-da~!

So this should be the whole flow of screens for the app. There may be more screens in the future but for now I think this should be it!

The app mainly just consist of -

The home page - which displays ALL your works/books

The ideas page - which is basically my notes app for, well, ideas, word vomit, random shower thoughts about how much you want a fictional character to be xxx

The writing page - which will be the main working space, the rest of the pages like references, characters, places, timeline, chapters and individual scenes can be accessed easily from this page too

The profile page - well, it's your profile! Access your profile settings, change themes, work space settings or what you want to copy in your html here - maybe add friends for collabs and betas in the future? We'll see

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

And that's it! ...For now

Oh my god, I'll admit, this post went on longer than I expected haha. That's all that I have to share for now! Next up, I'll get started on the wireframing process (moodboards? hunting down apps? reddit???? ok nevermind, reddit sounds like a bad idea). I know I kept calling it app, but I think I want it to have an app, windows, (macs?) and web version.

Thanks for making it this far and reading it all!

[seradae]

Umbilical [FF] [sci-fi] [Spire universe] [SFW] [thriller]

No matter how many times she saw it, the sun rising over the arc of Mars never ceased to amaze her. She was in an EVA suit some 250km above the planet and while she should've been working, she couldn't help but stop and stare; wouldn't be such a problem if it didn't happen every half hour.

She shook her head and refocused on her work, welding giant plates together. This activity was of critical importance, but utterly tedious. If she looked behind her, she'd see the hundreds she already put together that day, but there was no time for that.

In six more long months, these plates would be the external structure of the largest space station ever constructed; a massive spaceport, hotel, and shopping mall for the solar system's richest assholes. But right now, it was just rough iron plates, spinning around the planet like a shattered asteroid.

But for now, her day was almost over and she needed to focus. She finished the bead linking the new plate to the structure she was working on, checked her work, then reached into the plate holder behind her and began moving the new one into place.

A voice startled her as it came through comms in her helmet. "Lys, how many do you have left?"

"Three; running behind."

"Pick it up. The next shift starts soon and we can't afford any delays." She discovered early-on that even in space, bosses are assholes.

"Copy," she spat out as she finished positioning the next plate. The magnets began pulling the pieces into tight alignment when she realized her umbilical had gotten caught between them. There was no time to abort; by the time she clocked the problem, all that was left to do was gasp out "oh sh-."

Reaching up to her chest, she pulled an emergency tab, cutting off the - now severed - external air supply and engaging the internal air generator. Five minutes. She had five minutes to get to safety or she would die. At most.

She slapped the button to open comms and shouted, "mayday. Umbilical severed. Heading back to my pod." As she did this, she turned around and grabbed the kevlar tether holding her to her ship. It was only around a hundred meters away, but it seemed a world away.

She always considered herself to be good under pressure, but as she pulled herself along the tether and back to safety, she couldn't even make out the questions coming through her helmet; all she heard was the dull roar of her blood pumping.

She reached the airlock and cranked the door open as quickly as she could. How much time had passed? It could've been a minute or five; she couldn't say. Did she feel light headed? Would she make it?

It cracked open and she pulled it, throwing herself inside as she disconnected the tether, no time to wind it back up. She turned around to grab the hatch and close it as she noticed a loop of the tether stuck in the door. "Oh fuck."

In her rush to get inside, she hadn't considered basic physics: the tether had her velocity when she detached it, and it followed her in. Briefly, she considered just shoving the door until it cut the tether, but there was no chance; the kevlar would win that fight.

Quickly, she opened the hatch and grabbed the loop of tether, throwing it out. She grabbed the door and closed it, then began spinning the handle to lock it. That's when the edges of her vision began going dark.

In retrospect, she was proud of making it this far. Despite the exertion using up her oxygen, she made it almost seven minutes. But this was it. She couldn't go any further. "Fucking tether," she thought as it all went dark.

Then the lights came back. The airlock was foggy and frigid, and her helmet was being pulled off her head. "I have never been so fucking scared in my life," cried Amelia, her long pink hair floating behind her as tears pooled in her eyes and obscured her vision.

"I was watching through the airlock window. I'm so, so glad you're okay. You are okay, right?"

"I think so. I hope so, at least," Lys panted, relishing in the recycled oxygen, even as her teeth chattered.

"Come on, let's get inside," Amelia said gently as she pulled her into the capsule and closed the hatch. Lys started removing her suit, but Amelia virtually pounced on her, giving her a deep kiss and holding her close.

"I love you and I'm so glad you're okay. That was terrifying, from the second I heard your call on the radio. If that asshole hadn't rushed you, you would've been fine."

"I know, love. But I'm okay now. I promise," she said, running her fingers through Amelia's hair.

"You are never leaving this capsule again," she whispered, clinging to Lys.

"You and I both know that can't happen," Lys said with a kiss to her nose. "But I'll always come back."

[aerodaltonimperial]

(i have no idea how OnlyFans works, so, uh, whatever. LOL thanks group chat!!!)

Heather wakes up to her phone dinging.

WAKE UP, GIRL, NEW CHIP REVIEW INCOMING, Julie’s message thread screams. Heather scrambles out of her blankets and kicks free, grabbing her laptop. He never gives them lead-up time, the asshole; they’ll get maybe five minutes before the stream goes live at all hours of the day (and night), and as a result, Heather’s had to deal with her phone notifications all night just to ensure she doesn’t miss one of the reviews.

She pulls up OnlyFans, grateful that she lives alone in a crappy studio apartment and gets her own credit card bills now, so her parents can’t see that monthly charge. Yikes. Having to explain that one would be a nightmare.

Her phone dings again. Some monstrosity from Japan that was sent to his P.O. Box.

Fucking amazing, Heather writes back.

The video starts up. It always starts empty, because Hook films all his own videos in the laziest way possible and doesn’t seem to have a camera with a count-down. He slides onto the screen in a hideous neon green sweatshirt and holds up the bag of chips, which sports three pictures of fire, something in Japanese that Heather can’t read, and in English, CALBEE KAATAGE - GRILLED SEAWEED.

“Girl, no,” Heather says to her computer screen. “What in the hell...”

Her phone lights up. The chat says someone paid $100 to get him to wear that sweatshirt.

It’s hurting my eyes!! Heather returns. At least Hook’s good looks help neutralize the glaring hue of the sweatshirt. Last week, it had been hot pink camo. Heather and Julie are planning to go in together to see if they can’t pay enough to get him to wear a sweatshirt with the bisexual flag colors.

Hook sits down on his couch that looks like he fished it out of a landfill. Really, it’s all part of his weird charm. The number of viewers along the bottom leaps up past two hundred, then three hundred, and then five hundred as everyone logs on to try and catch the latest reaction. Hook opens the bag of weird Japanese chips and takes one out, studying it for a few moments before popping it in his mouth. He chews. Heather sucks in a quick breath, afraid to move.

Then he sort of nods, frowning. “Hmm.”

Oh, he didn’t like that one! Julie’s text reads. Buuuuurn.

The feed cuts out. Heather updates the list of flavors she’s keeping on her laptop with the verdict. Then she swings her legs out of bed to get ready for work, glad that Hook decided to start the stream at a more sensible time this morning. The 3 AM ones are killing her.

++

The next one is three days later. They’re starting to pick up now that everyone is sending shit to his P. O. Box, trying to track down the most insane flavors available. Heather’s already on her computer watching YouTube, so she tabs over to OnlyFans when the notification email startles her out of her reverie.

When the video starts up this time, the chip bag is in front of the camera.

Oh my god, Julie texts. Holy shit it’s the one chip challenge.

Who the fuck sent him this?? Heather writes back.

Hook settles on his couch, holds up one finger. Oh my god, he’s really going to do it. He might burn his tongue clean off, and then where would they be? Heather can’t survive without the chip reviews. Hook then holds up a glass of milk, so at least he’s smart enough to be prepared. But still, Heather is almost afraid to watch. (His sweatshirt is dotted with red hearts; definitely something someone sent in for him to wear.)

Then the chat on the side of Heather’s screen blows up, capslock for miles.

HOLY SHIT, Julie says. DANHAUSEN IS HERE.

HE SENT IT, Heather returns. YOU KNOW HE DID.

She’s pretty sure she’s right when, in the chat, Danhausen’s weird little painted-face emoji says: hook has the spicy chip! perhaps he should take his sweatshirt off?

“YES, BAE,” Heather exclaims, pumping her fists in the air.

On screen, Hook squints, focusing on the comment. Then he sighs, rolling his eyes in a grand show, before standing up and pulling the sweatshirt free over his head. The chat, as expected, goes nuts again. Hook’s been hitting the gym or something--his shoulders look broader. It’s impossible to see that under the bulky sweatshirts he wears all the time. Heather likes to focus on the tattoo near his left collarbone on the rare occasions when the stream finally nudges down a direction OnlyFans is better known for.

yes, very good, Danhausen says in the chat. Heather could kiss his weird clown emoji for making her day so much better. the fanhausens are happy now.

Hook gives the video feed a middle finger, and then pops the chip in his mouth. Chews. Furrows his brow. “Eh.”

Anticlimactic, Julie writes.

But then Hook starts coughing. Heather loses it, because it’s always the part that comes after that gets people. She laughs so hard she nearly snorts water out her nose as Hook scrambles around on the screen for the glass of milk. In his flailing, he manages to knock the whole thing over.

Oh no!! Julie’s text says.

Suddenly, Heather is afraid Hook will actually die and then her will to live will follow.

oh, oh, hold please, Danhausen says in the chat. Then he disappears, his emoji vanishing.

Hook’s stumbled off-screen, but his harsh coughs are still audible. Heather stares at the shadows along the back of his couch. In the background, a door opens, a clicking latch. Then, the sound of glass against a countertop. Mumbling that’s not at all comprehensible over the sound of Hook’s continued hacking.

Finally, Hook sits back down with a new glass of milk. It seems to help. He glares at the camera and gives the feed a thumbs down.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, Julie says. What just happened. Someone was in there with him.

Was DANHAUSEN in there with him?? Heather fires back.

OH MY GOD, Julie screams. ARE THEY DATING. IS THAT WHAT THIS IS.

The stream ends. Heather thinks she might expire.

Holy shit, she types. Holy shit. That’s why D is the only one who can ask for Hook to take his sweatshirt off without getting IMMEDIATELY banned.

We should have known he wasn’t single, Julie mourns. My whole 10-year life plan is ruined.

Yeah, Heather’s going to have to rework some things on her vision board. She sighs. But, on the flip-side, at least Hook isn’t dead, and she’ll get to keep watching the chip reviews.

It’s the little things.