#open.txt

“yep, that is a dead body.” a dead body that had something that he needed. now it wouldn’t be his first time playing the part of a cop. he’d faked it enough over the years with the society. had the credentials to pass too. but he hadn’t used them, when he got out that was it. that life was over. but it was so easy to fall into shady things.  he was basically a witch for higher and who ever paid the most got his specific set of skills. if only he could use his power for good instead of evil... said no one ever. though he supposed to night was one of those rare nights the good in him won out. he waited for the other detectives to leave him before he lightly poked at the body on the floor with his boot clad foot. “ alright freddy get up they are gone. fernando aka freddy was on of the vampires he’d help get out - and augustine vampire . he would have gotten here sooner if not being  stuck with this random tag along. holden held out his hand, waiting expectantly. “i told you not to do shit like this didn’t i?” he muttered freddy nodded as he scratched at his neck. “ i figured it would get me some good blood . “  he huffed placing the artifact in his hand. in return holden handed over a brick of his own. “ i told you dehydrated blood first we can’t just have you tapping the vein you aren’t ready.” holden turned his attention to the tag along  as he nodded towards the door. “ mind making yourself useful and keep watch.”

sehun’s seen this little scenario once before. and twice. and thrice. honestly, the amount of times he’s seen the same face come into the coffee shop during his shift seems about enough to make him a millionaire if he’d gotten a penny for every visit. always the same half of a couple on a date, with the other half varying on almost every other occasion. 

he’s long since figured out that the person in question isn’t really about this serial dating lifestyle; the expression they always have is tired, somewhat exasperated, and he’s also heard them mutter something about killing a friend under their breath after one particularly sour date experience. he wonders if coffee shops are a good place for people to date these days; then again, the joint where he works at has a very minimalistic menu in terms of food choices (literally, everything fits on one side of a cardboard-type menu), so what they make for customers, they tend to make well. also, the pat bingsu here is to die for. 

today, they’re waiting on their date, and it’s kind of f u n n y just how bored to death they already look. the slightly malicious part of sehun wants to disappear behind the counter and watch them play candy crush on their phone or something until their date comes in, but he’s not heartless, so he decides to walk over with a menu they probably already memorize, accompanied by a small smile.

Are you kidding me?! ( It’s not Margot’s fault both of the packages were identical white plastic. It’s not Margot’s fault this other Margo - no T - also needs glasses and has the last name Hatley, one dangerously close to hers. Sue her for only half-listening in a painfully dull postal hellscape of white and monochrome grey. 

She is realising, belatedly– ) I could have chosen the option to have my glasses show up at the optometrist’s and I’d have procured them from there. Or, you know, requested their delivery be directly to my doorstep. I could have– ( Paid attention, Margot. Much less embarrassing than alerting the entire post office to the package’s contents with your failing eyesight earlier that afternoon. ) But noooo, I said, ‘oh, I’ll pick them up from the post office! It’s on the way to the hardware store! I’ll get them that way! It’s no trouble at all!’ 

( She adjusts them more, pushing those Wrong Glasses closer to her forehead by their sides, pointer and middle fingers. The frames are ridiculous, and the prescription far too strong. Their contrast is stark and unavoidable: chunky polycarbonate blocks of dark slate-grey clashing against Margot’s round, rosy faerie face. Her eyes are now magnified ten thousand times, vitreous glass stones at the bottom of a fish’s bowl. The sluggish, powerful ache, starting in her temples, further reaffirms her foolhardiness. ) I look like Buddy Holly! ( This Margo Hatley is either a mid-twenties hipster or a matronly algebra substitute. She takes them off, finally, and doesn’t slam them onto the tabletop, as much as she’d like to, but rather sets them there with a clunk, a curt refusal. Her background becomes tolerably fuzzy once again. )

Eve greeted her fellow citizens of Koi on the streets as they passed by her, attempting to strike up a short conversation with anyone who met the bare-minimum criteria of “not hostile of appearance.”

 >> lmao went to MONACO instead of berkely didnt i

....

[ IMESSAGE: unknown / wrong number ]

>> should i do the like. Adult thing and try to find another flight 2 the academic conference im scheduled to give a presentation at in like. 6 hours?

>> or should i put on my one of my Business Slut cocktail dresses, fake a french accent and completely blow but then remake my entire ph.d stipend cheque AND THEN SOME at MONTE CARLOOOOOOOOOOO

finally. this is a chance she’s been waiting to have, and it’s finally here. taeyeon feels like she’s been locked in a damn basement for years, almost literally, and now she’s only starting to see the sun again. and it is blinding. she loves it. 

training idols is always fun, of course; she’s always proud of the artists that she’s helped grow on stage. but she only transforms, never creates. she misses that -- the artistry, the feeling of doing something and being able to call it your own. she hasn’t had that for a long time. 

with enough wheedling and good behavior, though, she’s finally broken through; the company, albeit warily, has allowed her to help in the production of a rookie idol’s up and coming album. sure, it’s not the title track, but it’s something.

the university has long needed fresh blood, faculty-wise. education, even such a prestigious institution, is starting to... fall somewhat flat. it’s an unspoken frustration of yixing’s that the department of international cultural studies is losing more traction than gaining it, consider globalization, and all that. 

when he hears that someone new is joining the faculty, he’s pleased as punch. he likes meeting new people, even if he sucks at it, kind of, and he wants to make a good impression on them if no one else will, since, you know, he doesn’t want the faculty to thin down again. 

he prepares moon cakes in a little tin -- half of it with egg yolk, the other half without, because preferences -- and ties it up in a bow. actually, he got his landlady to do that, but whatever. the thought is what counts. 

I can’t-- ( No one blanket is warm enough, so Brighid sleeps with six, naturally. Always six blankets on her barely-queen-sized bed every night ; and every night they shift frustratingly out of place no matter how carefully she stacks them before. Somehow. 

Tonight happens to be the worst it’s ever been. Her blanket sequence has been completely upended: three of them are crumpled in the corner by the window, one hangs off the end, and two of them lay piled upon the floor. ) Just-- ( Brighid’s frowning now, genuine distress encroaching. ) How does this always happen! They need t’be-- an ordered pile an’ they aren’t! ( They have to be stacked! Her bed is a mess!! How is she going to sleep! 

Brighid crosses her arms. She’s hardly an ages-old goddess right now, stood beside her nightstand in farm-animal pyjama pants and a cream heather pyjama top. Her arms and shoulders ache enormously from arranging and rearranging those darned blankets beyond her reach, but grudgingly she tries again ; sitting on the edge of the bed and taking the topmost one. It’s black chenille. ) Would you mind -- handin’ me tha’ grey one there, darlin’? ( She’s almost sulking. )