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Sweetpea pursed her lips around a smile. “If it’s any consolation, I’ll make the hassle worth your while. You’re just my type.”
“Ooh, lemme guess. Between myself and Rishi, is it covetous, cynical, charming assholes?”
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A pauper’s hundred-dollar bill.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 409
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Kudos:
- 5
- Hits:
- 52
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“Jesse,” She begs loud, not even sure what she’s begging for, but he must know because he stands up and is over to her in two strides, crawling over her body and finally kissing her on the mouth. They fit together seamlessly, hungrily, he kisses like he wants to devour her. He might.
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On the days she finds Henry played out on a chaise longue while he breathes in shallow, chemical stutters, unaware of the world around him, of her presence and her deep, childish need to be seen, to be held, to have her hair brushed back from her face and to be given the false promise that everything is okay, everything is going to be okay, she knows it’s all a lie. She stays because she is afraid of what happens when she is no longer needed as a witness to someone else’s suffering, and when no one is left to witness hers. She stays because leaving would require her to admit that this, too, was a choice. That the cold did not sneak up on her. That she walked straight into it and shut the door behind her. That somewhere, in some part of herself, she wants it. She deserves it. It’s the cost of winning. It’s the cost of her being born.
It’s on those nights, already low and pathetic and raw like road burn, that she calls Harper.
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Three days after she finally RSVPs yes to Yasmin’s wedding (late, so late, late enough to know that she’d been accounted for months prior, a fact that sends a thrill all over her skin; a fact she files into her mental rolodex under ammo), Harper books a hair appointment. She doesn’t interrogate the impulse. It’s just there. Has been for months. A low-voltage burn she’s gotten used to.
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Oh my god, you finally managed to baby trap her.
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"When you look at me, Harper," Yasmin insists. "What do you see?"
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Robert leaves Yasmin behind and ponders his future
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industyuri save me.
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Robert follows orders, one last time.
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My fic but from a no sabo kid so the translation might not be accurate
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Post-Season 2, post-firing, somewhere between fallout and reinvention
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Robert has never known love to be easy.
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“Come with me,” Robert repeated in his ear, through gritted teeth. When he moved back, the smile had faded from Henry’s face, and he had the rage of a rich man wanting to tell him to remember his place in his quiet expression.
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People want things. Rob provides.
A character study.
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When Yasmin worked at Pierpoint, the sound of Eric’s voice alone could make her stomach seize up. The studiously casual enunciation, the generic American flatness of his accent, the occasional icy dip down into a lower register: something about it always made her feel like she was looking over the side of a lifeboat and seeing a huge dark shape swim circles underneath. More than once, when he caught her off guard with a request or an admonishment, she actually flinched.
She doesn’t flinch now. “Hello, Eric,” she says. “You’re looking well.”
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Robert Spearing’s complicated relationships with women and his own insecurity.
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The last time Yasmin slept well was at Nikki Beach.
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Your friend who has never seen the show, attempts to describe a scene having never seen the show.
(Or heard enough of it second hand, and their liberal explicit words to get the point).
Series
- Part 79 of I Totally Know What This Is About...
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 443
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Kudos:
- 5
- Hits:
- 110
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Summary
Harper scootered a little closer. “I’m so tired.”
Yasmin faced Harper; her eyes analyzing the girl’s features, the softness of her skin. Yasmin found herself longing to kiss the soft skin on Harper’s shoulder.
Reaching out for Harper’s hand, Yasmin stayed wide eyed, checking if it would be unwelcomed.
Harper held her hand back.