will byers stan first human second
noise dept.
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
macklin celebrini has autism
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
roma★
oozey mess
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Peter Solarz
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
taylor price
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occasionally subtle
izzy's playlists!
$LAYYYTER
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tannertan36
d e v o n
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
pixel skylines
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@cul7ish
ـــــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـLace 𝔖. ——— ♰ I like art, and by art I mean music, poetry, sex, paintings, the human body, literature. All of this is art to me. -? ——— 21 ——— BFA in film&photo ——— erotica writer ——— ———Read kittycat———on———Tumblr———ao3———Wattpad———
it’s never over
Just reaching out to touch on the topic of AI after your recent post. It’s nothing super important or requiring of an answer, but it’s been on my mind as of late.
I worry that AI in writing is going to cause an exodus of people involved in real literature. People can and will get away with palming off AI as their own, which is terrible for the true arts. People can generate AI slop over and over and over and flood reading spaces. It’s happening in the film industry, and it’s happening in academia, too.
I’d been approached by a professor when ChatGPT first came out as he feared I had not written my own work. We had a conversation while I showed him high school essays in the same style. He highly doubted that I would ever use AI in the first place, so our conversation was focused on my peers work. The only reason he questioned me, apparently, was because I had composed my work at a senior/grad student level, and proficient writers were far and few between these days—even at university level.
My main concerns with the future of AI and writing also lie within Netflix and their push for “dumbed-down” scripts. I can only imagine what the next decade will bring within the art and media consumption space, especially since these genuine issues are arriving only 4 years in.
Anyways, sorry to ramble. I wish you luck in your plight against the AI accusers lol :p
ugh, i get you. i've been lurking on my private account and i've seen some people start an actual witch hunt towards a writer (different fandom) because their work is supposedly made by AI, when the points they raised were only the usage of em-dashes, the rule of threes, and the fact that they fed this writer's work into an AI-detector. the entire thing is so absurd to me, and feels like it's only the beginning. i do agree with you when it comes to various forms of media dumbing down their content in order for the audience to consume it, i'm currently side-eyeing that one netflix show that had gone insanely downhill to the point of losing their original plot completely. it feels like everything has to be degraded to toddler-level of literacy in order to be considered as human-made these days.
masterlist.
Caterina woke curled on the couch, quilt tangled around her legs, neck stiff from the awkward angle. Sunlight sliced through the curtains in thin strips.
For a heartbeat she forgot—then the cracked phone screen on the coffee table caught the light, spiderweb fractures glinting with the memories of the night.
Real.
All of it.
She sat up slowly, her muscles aching from tension. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant clatter of a garbage truck outside. The chair was untouched, still wedged under the doorknob.
She pressed her palms to her eyes, willing the images away—the snap of the head, the spray against brick, the gurgle, the man who’d dragged her into shadow, his hot breath, his grip on her.
You saw nothing.
Her stomach twisted into a cold knot of fear that made her breath hitch. What if he was watching now? If "we" meant more than just him, were there eyes everywhere, waiting for her to slip?
She hadn’t called. Hadn’t told anyone. The voicemail to her mother was long deleted, and the text to Jess remained unanswered. But even those felt like risks now, like invisible threads that could pull danger closer.
Coffee. She needed coffee that wasn’t spilled across an alley.
The kitchen felt smaller this morning, the counters too close. She filled the kettle, hands shaking enough that water sloshed over the edge. The burner clicked on, flame steady beneath the pot. She needed her routine.
Caterina moved to the window, hesitated, then pulled the curtain back an inch.
Her heart pounded as she scanned the street below. It was the usual crowd, but any one of them could be watching. Was that man by the corner shop lingering too long? Was the woman sweeping her stoop glancing up at her window?
She exhaled shakily, her breath fogging the glass, and let the curtain fall.
The kettle whistled, shrill and insistent. She poured water over the grounds of her French press, letting it steep, before flushing the grounds, the dark bloom spreading in the glass. The smell was bitter as she poured herself a mug. She wrapped both hands around it, letting the heat seep into her palms, but even that couldn't chase away the chill in her bones.
Her phone sat on the counter, screen dark. She stared at it.
Call the police. Now. While it’s fresh. While the memory is sharp.
Her thumb trembled over the emergency dial, but the man’s threat echoed louder. What if they intercepted calls? What if reporting it painted a target on her back? She pictured sirens drawing attention, questions leading to more people closing in.
She set the phone face-down, and took a sip of coffee that burned her tongue.
Good. Pain was real. Pain was here, a distraction from the terror gnawing at her edges.
She dressed in layers. Her softest sweater, jeans, and a scarf wrapped twice around her neck as though extra fabric could armor her against what she’d seen. Her reflection in the mirror looked haunted, eyes shadowed, skin pale. She forced a smile, but it lilted at the edges.
The walk to the bakery felt longer than it should. Every step was a battle against the urge to run. Every corner made her flinch, her pulse spiking as she imagined hands grabbing from the dark. Every man in a dark coat looked too broad, too still, their builds echoing either of the men from last night.
She kept her head down, steps quick but not running.
Don’t look back.
But she did, once, twice, her breath coming in shallow gasps, convinced footsteps echoed behind her.
The bell above the door jingled, too cheerful for her frayed nerves. Inside, the air was thick with yeast and sugar. A handful of regulars sat at small tables, newspapers open, voices low. She scanned their faces instinctively.
She ordered an espresso and a cornetto at the counter, hoping excess caffeine would clear her mind. The barista, a man with sleeves of faded tattoos, slid the cup toward her without meeting her eyes.
"Rough night?" he asked, tone neutral.
Caterina’s fingers tightened around the saucer, her heart lurching. How could he know? Was it written on her face? "What makes you say that?"
He shrugged, wiping the steam wand. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Ghost. Like the dead man in the alley.
She didn’t answer. Just took her coffee to a table near the window and sat facing the door, back to the wall, eyes darting to every new customer.
Around her, conversation drifted, too quick to follow completely.
"One less rat."
Caterina’s fork paused mid-bite. She leaned in slightly, feigning interest in her phone, her pulse thudding.
"One less problem," another murmured in agreement, sipping his coffee.
One of the older men at the nearest table folded his newspaper, revealing a small headline buried on page seven: Man Dead in Robbery Attempt. No photo. No details beyond time and location. It was twisted into something mundane.
She stared at the words until they blurred.
A shadow fell across her table.
She glanced up and forgot to breathe.
The man standing there filled the space without effort. Tall, broad through the shoulders, dark coat open over a charcoal suit that fit him like it had been invented for his body alone. His build reminded her too much of the man that had grabbed her. His hair was black, thick, and swept back just enough to reveal a sharp hairline. His face was all angles, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked made for both smiles and threats. Dark eyes fixed on her with quiet intensity, and for a split second, she saw a casual menace in that gaze.
He didn't ask. He simply pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat in one fluid movement, claiming the space as if the bakery belonged to him.
Her mind screamed to run, but her legs felt glued, trapped by the same fear that had frozen her in the alley.
Up close, the scent of him reached her. Definitely something expensive, cedar and smoke, with a trace of coffee underneath. But beneath it, she imagined the faint metallic tang of gunpowder, though she knew it was her paranoia.
"You're new," he said. Not a question. His voice was low and lightly accented, the kind of voice that didn't need volume to be heard, but it carried the same gravelly edge she’d heard last night.
Caterina's fingers tightened around her cup, knuckles white. "I... yes." The words came out smaller than she intended, her voice quivering with the effort not to bolt.
A faint curve touched his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Santino Amodei." He extended a hand across the small table.
She hesitated, her hand shaking as she slipped it into his. His palm was warm and calloused. His grip was firm but careful, as though he knew exactly how much strength to use. His thumb brushed once across her knuckles before releasing, a touch so brief she might have imagined it if her skin didn't tingle afterward, mixing the warmth with repulsion.
"Caterina Mantovano," she managed, voice barely above the clatter of cups around them.
"I know." The smile deepened, revealing a flash of white teeth. "You teach kindergarten at St. Agnes. My cousin and I support the school."
Her heart stumbled. Amodei. She had heard whispers from the teachers about generous local businessmen, but nothing concrete.
Santino leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, studying her with unhurried interest that made her skin crawl. "You look like someone who didn't sleep much."
“Busy weekend,” she forced herself to respond.
Santino tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Busy night, you mean. You walked home late. After midnight. Alone.”
Her breath caught, terror flooding her veins like ice.
How could he possibly know? Unless... he was watching. Or part of "we."
She looked up, eyes wide, voice a whisper. “How do you—”
“People talk,” he said softly, but his tone held an undercurrent of amusement that didn't match the alley's menace. “Especially when a pretty new teacher wanders the streets at that hour. Makes folks nervous. For you.”
“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly, her voice cracking as she fought the urge to glance at the door.
“Are you?” Santino’s voice dropped lower, almost gentle, but it only heightened her fear. “Because you look like you’ve seen something you can’t unsee.”
She froze, the alley flashing behind her eyes—the snap, the spray, the gurgle. The hand over her mouth.
Her hands trembled visibly now, coffee sloshing in the cup. Was this a test? A warning?
“I—” She swallowed hard, throat dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Santino’s smile softened, almost kind, but his eyes held a spark of something protective, like he was weighing her fear against some internal debate.
“You do. I can see it in your eyes. That little flicker. Like someone just took something from you and you’re still trying to figure out what it was.”
Her fingers curled tighter around the cup, nails digging into her palms to ground herself. “I’m just… tired.”
“Tired people don’t flinch at shadows,” he said quietly. “Tired people don’t look over their shoulder every three steps. Scared people do.”
She stared at him, her breath shallow, the resemblance to the alley men making her stomach churn.
“I’m not scared,” she lied, but her voice wavered, betraying her.
“Liar,” he murmured, voice fond, almost teasing, as if trying to coax her trust despite the danger radiating from him. “Beautiful liar, but still a liar.”
He leaned back slightly, giving her air, but his gaze never left her face, softening just enough to suggest he saw her as more than a problem. “Whatever it was, it’s already being taken care of.”
Her stomach dropped, bile rising. What if "taken care of" meant her?
Santino’s eyes darkened just a fraction, but with a hint of reluctance, like he was pushing back against some darker impulse. “The neighborhood has its own way of handling things. Quick. Clean. No loose ends.”
She thought of the man in the shadows. The one who’d grabbed her. The one who’d said the same thing. Her vision blurred with unshed tears of fear—was this man here to finish it? To tie up the loose end she represented?
“I don’t want any part of... whatever this is,” she whispered, voice trembling, her body coiled to flee.
Santino’s expression softened further, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out but held back.
“Then stay out of it. But if you ever need someone to stand between you and whatever comes next—you have my number.”
He placed a business card on the table between them. Thick cream stock with simple black lettering: Santino Amodei. A single phone number beneath. It looked innocuous, like any businessman's card, but to her, it felt like a trap.
His fingers lingered on it a moment, then withdrew, his gaze on her with a warmth that clashed with her terror. “Day or night, dolcezza. Doesn’t matter.”
Before she could form a reply, the bell jingled again.
The temperature in the room seemed to shift, a colder draft sweeping in.
Another man stepped inside. He was taller, leaner, and moved like a predator—his stride too purposeful, too reminiscent of the shooter's casual melt into shadows. His suit was black and his tie knotted precisely. His hair was darker, almost blue-black under the lights, and his eyes were a colder shade, grayish green and piercing.
A faint scar traced the edge of his jaw, silver against olive skin, adding to the air of quiet threat. He scanned the room once, gaze landing on Santino, then sliding to Caterina with a calculating chill that made her blood freeze.
The air felt thinner, her fear spiking anew. This one looked even more like trouble.
He approached slowly. The bakery noises seemed to dim under the weight of his presence.
"Luciano," Santino greeted, voice warm with familiarity, but he didn't stand, and there was a subtle tension in his posture, like he was bracing for disagreement.
Luciano didn't answer with words. He simply stopped beside her chair, close enough that she caught his scent, something like winter air and leather. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, her heart hammering as she imagined him drawing a gun with the same ease as the alley killer.
He looked down at her for a long moment, expression unreadable, but his eyes held a shadow of something lethal, like he was assessing a risk to be eliminated.
"Luciano is my cousin and business partner. Luciano, this is Caterina," Santino supplied, a hint of amusement threading his tone, but undercut with a protective edge, as if subtly challenging the other.
Luciano's gaze didn't leave her face. "Miss Mantovano," he said finally. His voice was deeper, rougher, like gravel under silk, carrying a finality that made her flinch inwardly.
She swallowed, throat tight with dread.
"Hello." It came out a whisper, her hands clammy under the table.
Something dark flickered in his eyes, perhaps weighing her as a loose end.
He reached past her to pull out the chair beside Santino, the movement bringing his arm inches from her shoulder. She felt the warmth of him, the controlled power in the way his coat brushed her, but it only amplified her terror.
He sat, long legs stretched slightly under the small table, and the space suddenly felt crowded in a way that made her pulse race, trapped between two men who mirrored her nightmares.
Santino's smile widened, easy and dangerous, but with a glance at Luciano that held a silent plea.
"We were just discussing how overwhelming the city can be."
Luciano's gaze flicked to his cousin, a subtle tension in his jaw, as if disagreeing with Santino's soft approach. Then back to her, cool and unwavering.
"Especially when you see things you shouldn't,” he stated.
Caterina's heart slammed against her ribs, fear choking her.
Did he know? Was this the end?
She stared at her cornetto, crumbling it further between nervous fingers, her mind screaming to escape. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken threats.
Luciano's voice cut through it again, low and measured, each word laced with a subtle edge that made her skin prickle. "Chicago has rules, Miss Mantovano. Unwritten ones. Break them, and things get... complicated."
She glanced up despite herself, her voice barely audible. "I didn't break any rules."
His eyes narrowed faintly, the scar on his jaw tightening as he leaned in a fraction closer, his tone dropping to something almost intimate yet chilling. "Witnessing isn't participation. But it can be a problem all the same. Problems need solutions."
Santino broke in, voice soft but insistent, his eyes on Luciano with a hint of defiance. "You don't need to be afraid here, Caterina. Not with us around."
She dared a glance up. Both men were watching her, Santino with that charming curiosity laced with genuine concern; Luciano with an unwavering intensity that bordered on predatory, like he was still deciding if mercy was worth the risk.
Together, they were like standing between sun and shadow, but the shadow felt ready to engulf her.
Her voice came out small, trembling at the edges. "I... I don't know what you mean."
Luciano leaned forward just enough for her to feel the shift, his eyes narrowing faintly, as if calculating the cleanest way to end it all.
"We think you do. And if you don't forget quickly... well, we might have to help you with that."
The cousins rose, a synchronized movement that felt rehearsed—Santino glancing at Luciano with a look, before leaning forwards once more, pointing at the card.
“For anything, really, don’t be scared to reach out.”
With that, he buttoned his coat. Luciano turned toward the door.
They left together, the bell jingling behind them.
Caterina sat there a long time after, espresso gone cold, and the cornetto lay in ruins on her plate. Her hands shook as she pocketed the card, unsure if it was salvation or a sentence, the fear coiling tighter in her chest.
Cross-posted on Wattpad, AO3
masterlist.
Caterina's hand fumbled for her pocket, fingers clumsy with shock.
Phone. Call 911. Tell them. A man shot. Dead. Alley beside the store. Hurry.
The screen lit up as she pulled it out, thumb sliding to the emergency dial. Her breath rasped, loud in the quiet.
Just press it. Speak. They can't ignore—
A rough hand clamped over her mouth from behind, interrupting her thoughts and stifling a gasp. Another arm snaked around her waist, yanking her backward into the shadows of the side passage, away from the alley's mouth. Away from the body.
She thrashed, elbows flailing, heels digging into pavement. The phone tumbled from her grip, clattering across the concrete, screen cracking on impact. A muffled cry escaped against the palm, but the grip only tightened, lifting her slightly off the ground.
"Stop fighting," a voice growled in her ear, low and gravelly, accented thickly. Male. Not young. Not the shooter—she'd glimpsed that one's lean frame and casual stride. This guy was bulkier, rougher.
Caterina kicked backward, heel connecting with a knee. He grunted but his grip didn't let up. Just dragged her further, around a bend, brick scraping her arm through her coat.
He slammed her against the cold wall, one forearm pressing across her collarbone, pinning her shoulders. The other hand stayed over her mouth, fingers digging into her cheek. Up close, his face was half-shadowed under a wool cap, only allowing her to see stubble and the dark glint in nis eye.
"You saw nothing," he said, slow this time, each word deliberate. "Understand?"
She shook her head, tears stinging, hot against his palm. Her fingers clawed at his thick, unyielding wrist. She tried to bite, teeth grazing skin. He hissed, pressing harder, cutting off her air for a heartbeat.
"Easy," he muttered. "You fight, you bleed. I don't want that."
He eased the pressure just enough for her to draw a ragged breath through her nose. She sucked air, chest heaving.
"Let—go—" she managed when he shifted his hand slightly.
"No." His thumb brushed her cheek—almost gentle, but the pressure behind it was not. "You call the police, they come. They ask questions. They find you. Then we have to find you too."
We.
The word landed heavier than the gunshot.
She froze, pulse roaring in her ears. His eyes flicked over her face, assessing and cold.
"You're new," he continued, voice dropping lower. "You don't know how it works here. The streets clean themselves. You saw something that wasn't meant for you. So you forget it. Capisce?"
She nodded because nodding felt safer than shaking her head again.
"Good girl." The praise was flat. "Now listen closely. You walk home. Straight. No running. No looking back. No phone calls. You lock your door. You sleep. Tomorrow you wake up, it's a new day. The alley? Empty. Like it never happened."
He leaned in closer, his stubble brushing her temple. "You tell anyone—anyone—and we know. We always know."
Her stomach twisted. She thought of the leasing agent, the teachers' secretive smiles, Rosa's warning. The neighborhood. “Close-knit”, as they’d called it.
He released her mouth completely now, but kept her pinned by the shoulders. "Say it."
"I... saw nothing," she whispered, voice trembling.
"Louder."
"I saw nothing."
He studied her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers like he could see the lie underneath. Then he stepped back, just enough to give her space.
He bent, picked up her phone from the ground. She could see the cracked screen, but it still glowed. He pressed it into her hand, fingers closing hers around it.
"Go."
She didn't move at first. Legs locked again.
He sighed, almost impatient. "Walk. Now."
Caterina took one step. Then another. Backward at first, eyes on him, afraid to turn. He didn't follow. Just watched, arms loose at his sides, his cap low.
She shoved the phone deep into her pocket and bolted, tote banging against her side. The street blurred, yellow lamps streaking like warnings.
Every corner felt like eyes, every shadow felt like a hand ready to grab.
Two blocks, then one.
Her building loomed as she fumbled the key until the door gave way. Inside, the lobby's lemon cleaner smelled too sharp, too clean.
Up the stairs. Third floor.
Key in lock. Turn. Bolt. Chain.
She slid down the door, back to wood, knees to chest. Breath came in sobs now, silent at first, then choking. The apartment was dark, boxes still stacked like silent witnesses. The quilt on her couch called to her, but she couldn't move yet.
Minutes passed. Or hours. The clock on her phone said 1:47 a.m. The crack on the screen spiderwebbed from the fall.
She managed to crawl to the bathroom, her knees scraping the hardwood. The light was harsh, fluorescent buzzing like the store's had been.
She turned on the faucet and scrubbed her hands—hot, then hotter, soap lathering pink from... no, just coffee. But it felt like blood.
Her shoes were stained now, the leather dark and sticky. She kicked them off, shoved them under the sink. Socks too, balled and tossed in the trash.
The mirror fogged from the steam. She wiped it, stared at her reflection. Her eyes were blown, her cheeks pale, hair disheveled from the grab.
The man in the shadows. Not the shooter—different build, different voice. But connected. Had to be.
Caterina stripped, tossing her clothes in a pile on the tile. The shower she took was unnecessarily hot, but still she stood under the spray until her skin reddened, praying to wash away the night's grime. But the images stuck.
The snap, the spray, the slump.
She wrapped a towel around herself tightly upon exiting the shower. Before dressing, she dragged a chair from the kitchen and wedged it under her apartment's doorknob. Even with the locks. Just in case.
The apartment felt smaller now, walls pressing in. She checked the windows—latched and curtains drawn—peering out once to the empty street below.
But the alley was out there, two blocks away. Would the body be gone by now? Handled like the man had said?
She sank onto the couch, the quilt from her grandmother pulled over her like a shield, phone in hand.
Call someone, she demanded herself.
Her thumb scrolled contacts until she reached her mothers, hesitating before tapping the glowing number.
It rang out, leaving Caterina at her voicemail box.
She opened her mouth. "Mom, I... I saw something. A man, he was shot. Right here. I think he's dead. I don't know what to do."
The words tumbled out, voice cracking. But she stopped, finger hovering over send. What if they heard? What if the man—or men—knew?
She deleted the recording, moving to text her old roommate, Jess: "Hey, crazy night. Saw something scary. Call me?"
She sent the message and waited to no avail. Jess was probably asleep, time difference.
She googled instead: "Chicago alley shooting tonight." Nothing. No news alerts. No reports. Just old stories from months ago.
Of course. Handled.
She set the phone down, screen dimming, and curled tighter under the quilt. The city hummed outside. She listened to sirens far off, a car horn, the muffled voices of her downstairs neighbors. Ordinary. Safe?
But the gurgle echoed in her ears, wet and final.
Cross-posted on Wattpad, AO3
masterlist.
T.W. - Graphic Depiction of Violence
Two weeks after moving to Chicago, Caterina stayed late at St. Agnes. It was simply an accident. She had planned to leave by eight, maybe nine at the latest, but the classroom had slipped into that rare kind of calm that only came after dark.
The building felt hollowed out, emptied of voices and expectations. The hum of the fluorescent lights was steady, almost soothing. The tiny desks sat in neat rows, waiting.
Friday night. The last weekend before classes began.
She sat on the floor with her back against the chalkboard, lesson plans spread around her. Her pen tapped against her notebook as she rearranged the schedule for the fourth time.
Morning circle. Reading. Art. Snack. Recess.
Structure mattered, especially for children who didn't yet know how much they needed it.
Her phone buzzed—a reminder to sleep soon spanned across her screen. Caterina stared at it a second longer.
12:03 a.m.
"Oh my God," she whispered, scrambling to her feet, gathering the papers in clumsy handfuls. Her earlier calm had quickly evaporated into embarrassment. How could she let time get away from her?
The hallway lights were dimmed, casting long shadows along the stone walls. Her footsteps echoed too loudly as she hurried toward the main exit, keys already in her hand. She pulled the door.
Nothing.
She tried again, harder, rattling the handle this time. Still nothing. The sound echoed down the hall, swallowed by the building's silence.
"Damn," she muttered, the word reverberating in the empty space.
She fumbled for her phone, its battery low but enough to dial the number pinned to the staff board. The after-hours line. It rang twice before a voice answered, gravelly and unhurried.
"St. Agnes maintenance. Marco speaking."
"I'm locked in," she said. "Caterina Mantovano, the new kindergarten teacher. I was prepping and—"
"On my way," he cut in. No surprise evident in his voice.
Fifteen minutes later, footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall. Marco emerged from the shadows, keys jingling on a ring clipped to his belt. He was old and weathered, with hands scarred from years of fixing what the city broke. His eyes flicked over her once then to the door.
"You're here late," he said.
"I—yes," she replied quickly. "I didn't realize the time."
"Happens," he nodded in her direction.
"New locks," he said by way of explanation, sliding a key in. "Automatic after six. For safety."
She sighed, stepping back. "I didn't know. Thank you."
He pushed the door open, night air rushing in cool and thick.
"Be careful walking home," he added as an afterthought.
She murmured another thanks and slipped out, the door clicking shut behind her. The street outside was nearly empty.
The walk home stretched longer in the dim light. Streetlamps buzzed overhead, casting pools of yellow that didn't quite touch the alleys. Her heels clicked against the pavement.
Hunger gnawed at her as the glow of a convenience store ahead pulled her in.
Just coffee, maybe a snack, she thought.
Something to steady the faint tremor in her hands.
Inside, the store smelled of stale cigarettes and instant noodles. The shelves were crammed with chips and candy. She grabbed a granola bar and poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup. The clerk, a young man with tired eyes, rang her up silently, sliding her change across the counter. His eyes flickered briefly toward the clock on the wall.
"Late night," he said.
"Yeah," she replied. "Guess so."
Outside, the air cooled her, the street hushed except for the distant hum of traffic. She sipped the coffee, warmth spreading through her chest, and started walking again.
The alley beside the store yawned dark to her right, a narrow gap between brick walls tagged with faded graffiti. She didn't glance down it, not at first.
Then movement caught her eye. A shadow shifted—two figures stood at the alley's mouth. One man backed against the wall, hands raised in surrender, while the other faced him, posture coiled, something glinting in his grip.
She froze, cup halfway to her lips.
The shot cracked like thunder, sharp and final.
The man's head snapped back, a spray of red blooming against the brick behind him, blood and bone fragments exploding outward in a wet arc, chunks sliding down the wall in thick, glistening trails.
His body jerked once, knees buckling as another round hit his chest, tearing through fabric and flesh with a sickening rip. Blood bubbled from the wound, dark and foaming, soaking his shirt in seconds.
He slumped sideways, eyes wide and glassy, mouth open in a silent gasp, a gurgle escaping as air and blood mixed in his throat.
The shooter stood there a moment, gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel. Then he turned casually and melted into the shadows deeper in the alley.
Caterina's breath caught, the coffee slipping from her fingers to splash hot across her shoes.
She didn't scream. Couldn't. The world narrowed to the body on the ground, the pooling blood inching toward the sidewalk like fingers reaching out.
Run, her mind screamed. But her legs wouldn't move.
Cross-posted on Wattpad, AO3
Do you prefer reading first person or third person pov?
1st
3rd
either
Contemplating switching my story from third to first, but third is so much easier to encapsulate everyone’s perspective. Trying to gauge thoughts.
masterlist.
Caterina Mantovano did not expect Chicago to feel like this.
She stood just outside Union Station with her suitcase angled awkwardly against her shin, the handle cold in her palm, and tried to slow her breathing. The city surged around her in every direction. No one looked twice at her, and no one noticed her hesitation.
She adjusted the tote on her shoulder and checked her phone again, even though she already knew the route. Three blocks north. One turn. Simple. The kind of walk she'd done a thousand times back home.
The sidewalks narrowed as she moved farther from the station, the buildings rising taller and closer together. Brick facades with fire escapes clinging like metal ribs.
Her leasing office was tucked into the ground floor of an older building, its windows shaded and its door heavy when she pulled it open. Inside, the temperature dropped a few degrees. The space smelled faintly of polished wood and paper.
Behind the desk sat a man who looked like he'd been there for decades. His hair was graying at the temples, his suit pressed and dark, his posture straight. He looked up the moment she stepped inside, as though he'd been expecting her.
"Miss Mantovano," he said, already reaching for a folder.
She blinked. "Yes. That's me."
"Welcome," he replied, his tone even. "I trust your move went smoothly?"
"Yes," she said, because it felt easier than explaining the seven hour train and her nervous jitters. "The rest of my things are arriving later today."
He nodded once, making a note she hadn't seen him write. "The movers were arranged?"
"Yes. A truck from Indiana. They should be here this afternoon."
"Good."
He gestured for her to sit, and she did, smoothing her skirt over her knees. The chair was solid beneath her and the room was quiet. No music and no chatter. Just the faint tick of a clock somewhere behind the wall.
"You'll be teaching at St. Agnes," he said, glancing down at the file.
"Yes. Kindergarten."
He paused at that just long enough for her to notice.
His eyes lifted briefly, assessing her, before settling back into something neutral.
"Children are important," he said after a moment.
She smiled politely. "They are."
The lease slid across the desk. Everything was in order. The rent matched what had been discussed. The terms were clean, straightforward, and almost considerate for a city apartment.
She read each page carefully anyway, pen hovering before she signed, the habit ingrained by her father's voice reminding her that signatures mattered.
When she passed the papers back, his fingers brushed hers. The contact was brief, but it lingered strangely.
"Welcome to the neighborhood," he said as he closed the folder.
Outside, the noise rushed back in all at once, bright and overwhelming. Caterina stepped onto the sidewalk and walked faster than necessary, not stopping until she reached the corner. Only then did she slow, her heart beating harder than he situation deserved.
"You're fine," she murmured. "It's just a city."
Her building stood a few blocks away, modest but well kept, its iron gate painted black and its flower boxes stubbornly alive despite the grime of the street. Someone had cared enough to plant things here.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of lemon cleaner. A bulletin board near the mailboxes displayed neatly arranged notices of trash schedules, quiet hours, and a handwritten flyer announcing a block meeting. Ordinary things. Reassuring things.
Her apartment was on the third floor. By the time she reached it, her arms were sore and her excitement had settled into something steadier. She unlocked the door and stepped into a space filled with afternoon light. Hardwood floors gleamed softly. The windows were tall, the walls bare and waiting.
She set her suitcase down and closed the door behind her, resting her forehead against it.
"I did it," she whispered.
The afternoon passed in a blur of small tasks. She unpacked what little she'd brought with her. She folded clothes into the narrow dresser and stacked books carefully on the windowsill. Around three o'clock, the sound of a truck outside pulled her to the window.
The moving van took up half the street, its logo faded but familiar. Two men began hauling boxes up the stairs, grunting complaints about city parking and narrow hallways. Caterina directed them as best she could, apologizing too often and thanking them more than necessary.
By the time they left, her apartment was filled with cardboard towers and the comforting clutter of her old life.
The door closed behind the movers with a solid click.
That night, sleep barely came. The city refused to quiet, sirens in the distance, footsteps on the sidewalk below, voices drifting up through the open window. None of it was threatening on its own, but together it made resting hard.
Morning arrived with sunlight and the smell of coffee from somewhere down the street. Caterina dressed carefully, choosing clothes that made her feel capable, and began her trek to St. Agnes.
The school was an old stone building softened by ivy and time. Inside, it smelled like crayons and disinfectant and something faintly sweet. Her classroom sat at the end of the kindergarten wing, sunlight spilling across the floor as she arranged desks and pinned up artwork.
This part of her life made sense. Children always did.
During lunch, she sat in the break room with a few other teachers, listening more than she spoke, for the most part.
"So you're new-new," one woman said, stirring her coffee. "Fresh out of college?"
"Last semester," Caterina admitted.
"Where'd you move from?" another asked between bites of salad.
"Indiana," Caterina said. "Small town."
"You picked an interesting neighborhood," she added lightly.
A knowing smile passed around the table.
"You'll adjust," another teacher said. "This neighborhood has personality."
"What do you mean?" Caterina asked carefully.
The teachers exchanged looks.
"It's close knit," one of them said. "You'll see."
As the week went on, she began to recognize patterns. The same men gathered outside the corner shop every morning, espresso cups in hand. The same woman swept her stoop at dawn. The same dog barked precisely at five o'clock every afternoon.
On Friday evening, as she checked her mail, her downstairs neighbor approached her.
"You're the teacher," the woman said.
"Yes," Caterina replied. "Caterina."
"I'm Rosa," she said. "You live alone?"
"Yes."
Rosa studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Lock your door."
"I—of course."
"And don't wander at night," she added, softer now, before turning and walking away.
― kittycat | 18+
Blurb:
In this corner of the city, nothing happens without the permission of the Amodei family. The two cousins have kept the streets clean and the family untouchable for years. And now their attention has fallen on the wide-eyed new teacher who saw too much. Caterina wants to run. She should run. But every whispered warning, every lingering glance, every brush of a hand pulls her deeper into the darkness, and into the intoxicating pull of two men who've never shared anything… until her.
Genre:
mafia romance, reverse harem, smut, dark romance, angst
Warnings:
graphic depictions of violence and murder, organized crime themes, stalking, possessive/morally gray love interests, power imbalance, explicit sexual content, dubious consent situations, threats, intimidation, and psychological tension
Status:
ongoing
Index:
one. - two. - three. - four.
© cul7ish - all rights reserved.
Cross-posted on Wattpad, AO3
You may not translate or reproduce my work on any platform, nor feed it to any AI.
i do not trust stories with ai covers.
instellawetrust
a few great films that are free on the internet archive
in decent quality too!
here is the archive collection of these films so you can favorite on there/save if desired.
links below
black girl (1966) dir. ousmane sembene
the battle of algiers (1966) dir. gillo pontecorvo
paris, texas (1984) dir. wim wenders
desert hearts (1985) dir. donna deitch
harold and maude (1973) dir. hal ashby
los olvidados (1952) dir. luis bunuel
walkabout (1971) dir. nicolas roeg
rope (1948) dir alfred hitchcock
freaks (1932) dir. tod browning
frankenstein (1931) dir. james whale
sunset boulevard (1950) dir billy wilder
fantastic planet (1973) dir. rené laloux
jeanne dielman (1975) dir. chantal akerman
the color of pomegranates (1969) dir. sergei parajanov
all about eve (1950) dir. joseph l. mankiewicz
gilda (1946) dir. charles vidor
the night of the hunter (1950) dir. charles laughton
the invisible man (1931) dir. james whale
COLLECTION of georges méliès shorts
rebecca (1940) dir. alfred hitchcock
brief encounter (1946) dir. david lean
to be or not to be (1942) dir. ernst lubitsch
a place in the sun (1951) dir george stevens
eyes without a face (1960) dir. georges franju
double indeminity (1944) dir. billy wilder
wild strawberries (1957) dir. ingmar bergman
shame (1968) dir. ingmar bergman
through a glass darkly (1961) dir. ingmar bergman
persona (1961) dir. ingmar bergman
winter light (1963) dir. ingmar bergman
the ascent (1977) dir. larisa shepitko
the devil, probably (1977) dir. robert bresson
cleo from 5 to 7 (1962) dir. agnes varda
alien (1979) dir. ridley scott + its sequels
after hours (1985) dir. martin scorsese
halloween (1978) dir. john carpenter
the watermelon woman (1996) dir. cheryl dune
EDIT: part two here + the letterboxd list
edit: part three here
my ex boyfriend used to get upset with me for doing this, stating, “if you can’t think of the words straight from your head, then you shouldn’t be using them.”
i’ve literally forgotten what a television was called while staring right at it.
so google to your hearts content.
ཐི ❤︎ ̥˚̩̩̥͙ 𝄞 ۪۪۫۫ᤢ ᣟ݂ ͏͏͏. ͏͏͏ https://
⠀✿꯭𐧺 ㅤׂㅤ ᩙ ⠀ I⠀want it all ⠀⠀ ˙ ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙
𝂴 ㌗ ɖȯ̮ʅʅ᩸ 𒂭۪۪۪۪᳝۟💭 ━╋⠀
⠀. 𐧺 ⠀ ˚⠀ ⣴⠟⠉⠉⠛⢦ ⣴⠟⠉⠉⠛⢦⠀ ֺ 🦴㞫 ࣭
⠀⠀𝄃𝄀⠀⠀⠀¹⁹⁶⁰⠀⠀⠀⸍⠀⠀⠀PRINCESS.⠀⠀⠀横⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ✿人⠀⠀⠀𝇔𐍸⠀⠀⠀
瀏.⠀⠀⠀PINK⠀⠀⠀⎯𝗚𝗜𝗥𝗟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𓏶⠀⠀⠀⠀ ▗▬̸̎͞/̄͆̅ ̎ ̎̿͞ι̚━─ ⠀⠀♥︎ིྀ ༑ྀི ͜͡❀
