Follow therandompersonn that’s my main now. I might come back to this one some day but not now.

posting a fic tonight (right now actually)~ if it keeps disappearing and reappearing on your dash please don’t freak out hdjshsj it’s just me deleting and reposting bc the tags won’t work <333

She’d always liked his office. Despite its dimensional uniformity to the rest of the cubicles in the hall, he’d done what he could to imprint himself on it, paint it with pictures, books, odd curios that she hadn’t quite figured out just yet. A broken Newton’s Cradle lay at the edge of his desk, the strings cut, the balls arranged in a neat little pile. She’d almost asked him about it last time she’d been here, but he had a way of distracting her from questions.

Especially now, bleached in the dawning sun, it was thick with him. Sat on the edge of his desk, near those discarded steel balls, she was in the centre of it. It felt like he was there and not, the presence of him making the absence only more keen. One leg slid over the other, and she folded her hands over her knee.

It was early, and her mind wasn’t entirely up to speed yet, especially addled by anticipation as it was, but there was a little suspicion mixed up in there. The thought that perhaps this wasn’t as much of a surprise as she was hoping, that he would walk through that door and there’d be this knowing smile on his face, a smirk that made her come undone far before she meant to. This was her worry, and it wasn’t entirely unjustified.

One leg over the other. Rearrange, fold hands, recompose.

She could feel the pull of her hair on her scalp, the tight bun that wound its way around the back of her head, that slight pressure mirrored by the stems of her glasses behind her ears. It made her anxiety a broad one, the thought of her colleagues seeing her like this once she was done with him, once he was done with her, making her worry all the more. Perhaps it paid to make an effort more often. But then, it wasn’t really the environment for it.

His book was on her left, and she knew if she turned it over she’d see his face, that affected, unfamiliar smile on his lips. It was the only example of it she knew, the only time he’d ever made it, to her knowledge. Both oddly forced and weirdly easy, it made him look like someone else, a doppelganger leering up at her. She left it firmly as it was.

But perhaps it would be nice to see him, even if it was that odd visage. A reminder of why she was there, all the moments that had led up to this moment, the desperate evenings when she had been so utterly, beautifully distraught, taken out of herself and to somewhere entirely else. A reminder of those times when his hazel eyes turned to hard agate, and the centre of him shifted, like mercury. Those times that let her know that the evening had just turned ninety degrees to the left, and an innocent dinner became a prelude to perversion.

The clock thudded temptingly, the tick of the second hand a beguiling finger. He had to be here soon, had to find her there, all composure and intent, every inch of her presentation chosen and assembled with him in mind. The perfect little office girl, waiting for the perfect suited gentleman.

Something moved behind the frosted glass of his door, a vague approximation of a man. Indistinct, ephemeral. It was like he was still an idea, still a concept that she could dismiss like so many fantasies before him.

The handle turned, and the hinges surrendered.

I love how I go to type my very first text post on my new blog and I get an error. Classic Tumblr.

When I get my new class list and see the usual suspects