#but i will start saving again maybe if i get a job

[captain-hawks]

SOMEDAY WAS ALWAYS JUST RIGHT HERE.

hajime iwaizumi x f!reader

wc: 3.4k tags: 18+ only, friends to lovers, pining, feels, smut, grinding, fingering, unprotected p in v, praise kink, protective iwa -> requested

“I hate this place,” Iwaizumi grumbles when your group slows to a stop on the sidewalk, the neon purple sign above the entrance of the club washing his face in a vivid hue that only serves to further highlight his displeasure.

“Well, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa elbows him in the ribs, “when it’s your birthday, we’ll all stand in a room looking annoyed with our arms crossed watching paint dry or something.” 

He pats him on the shoulder before striding ahead, following Makki and Mattsun inside. 

It’s been almost six months since the five of you have all gotten together, thanks to the demands of full-time jobs in different cities. 

You missed this. 

You missed them. 

Iwaizumi turns to you, like you’ll be his saving grace with some off-the-cuff excuse to get the hell out of Dodge before the other three notice you’re gone. 

(But you missed him the most, this you know for certain.)

“Oh no,” you tell him. “I spent too much time getting ready to bail now.”

(Though the idea of fucking off with Iwa to some dimly-lit diner with sticky, decades-old menus and watered down soda like you used to when you were teenagers is wholly tempting—)

He sighs but follows you in all the same, albeit the slightly begrudging drag of his feet as he mutters, “I feel like I should have started drinking before we got here.”

Truth be told, if it wasn’t Makki’s birthday, you also wouldn’t really want to spend your only night in town here of all places. But without much of a choice in the matter, and with Oikawa’s none-too-subtle encouragement regarding a certain something last week, you’ve decided to make the most of it—although you’re still not going to get your hopes up. 

—

Oikawa: sooo Oikawa: you said you were going shopping today for something to wear this weekend Oikawa: did you find anything

>>>: [image sent] >>>: Pick a color. I’ve been to ten stores. I’m over it.

Oikawa: well i’m partial to blue  Oikawa: but iwa-chan will loooove the black dress ;)

>>>: TOORU

Oikawa: :)

>>>: You swore yourself to secrecy >>>: Please don’t say anything

Oikawa: i’m just saying Oikawa: maybe show him what he’s been missing out on~ Oikawa: absence makes the dick grow harder!

>>>: I’m blocking your number

—

You’ve been friends with the boys since your days at Aoba Johsai, and you’ve maintained an impressively solid track record at keeping your feelings for Iwaizumi buried under lock and key for just as long. 

That is—until you made the horrid mistake of drunkenly bemoaning your unrequited pining to Oikawa last time you saw them all for a reunion party at Mattsun’s place. A party which happened to include Iwaizumi’s on-again off-again girlfriend. 

(They’re now very much off, permanently. As of the last two months, intel courtesy of the nosey brunette who has now decided to make your mockery of a love life his latest charity case.)

Now, Oikawa falls into step beside you, Iwaizumi shooting him a suspicious glance before he shoos him off toward where Makki and Mattsun are already leaning over the bartop to order drinks. 

“I told you black was the way to go,” Oikawa murmurs under his breath in a singsong voice, appraising your outfit with a satisfied smirk. 

“And I still don’t think dressing nice is suddenly going to make him decide he’s in love with me,” you whisper back in annoyance.

“First of all, he’s been in love with you since high school. Second, he hasn’t stopped looking at you since we picked you up.”

You blink at him several times, chest swelling with warmth and dumbfounded confusion, but any chance of a retort dies on your lips when Iwaizumi returns to your side. 

“You said you didn’t wanna drink tonight, right?” he asks, holding up a glass of what appears to be soda. 

He’s always had a habit of listening to you. 

Oikawa looks infuriatingly smug when he throws a glance back at you from behind him, wiggling his eyebrows for emphasis. 

“Thanks,” you smile, fingertips incidentally brushing against his when he hands you the cup.

He nods, something soft flickering across his face for a brief moment, though it disappears when Oikawa starts shouting your names from afar like a scorned lover. 

You try not to overthink the way his hand gently hovers against your lower back when the two of you make your way through the throng of people to find the table your friends have claimed, or the way his thigh briefly presses up against yours when you slide into the booth.

–

“This feels counterproductive,” you yell over the music to Oikawa as he drags you out onto the dance floor twenty minutes later, a few paces behind a very loud and equally inebriated Makki. Mattsun’s off getting more drinks. “Iwa will die before he comes over here.”

Oikawa’s hands hover over your hips, though there’s nothing suggestive about the touch as he casually urges you to follow the rhythm he’s already moving to. “You really have no idea, do you?”

You huff in annoyance, letting your limbs loosen up as you sway. “He’s not into me, Tooru. I don’t know what you think you’ve been seeing, but you’re wrong.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but Makki sidles up beside you with a flushed face and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses on his head that he definitely didn’t walk in with, hands grabbing both of your arms as he pulls you deeper into the crowd. 

A tall man eventually edges his way between where you’re dancing beside Oikawa, an uninvited hand falling against your hip as he leans into your space and says loud enough for you to hear over the music, “That dress looks gorgeous on you, but it would look even better on the floor.”

You blink at him, body cringing with discomfort at the sleazy look on his face and the way his hand has begun to slip lower toward your backside. While you’re not opposed to dancing with strangers to get your mind off of the man who’s probably still sullenly scrolling through his phone at the table, something about this guy’s presumptuous touch sends you reeling with discomfort. 

Intending to catch Oikawa or Makki’s attention, you quickly turn, only to bump right into Iwaizumi.

His jaw is firmly set, eyes brimming with something dark as he pulls you against him, and the knot of anxiety in your chest immediately loosens at the feeling of his body heat sinking into yours.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

You nod, unconsciously pressing even closer to him, and he tightens the arm that’s wrapped around you a fraction. 

“What the hell, man?” The guy glares at Iwaizumi, like he’s ruined his chances with you. 

“You wanna dance with this guy?” The question is a warm huff of air against the shell of your ear. 

“Absolutely not,” you tell him, eyeing the creep warily.

“She’s not interested, man,” Iwaizumi replies. 

“What, you her boyfriend or something?” The guy sneers, clearly attempting to save face now. “Wouldn’t have known any better with all the guys she’s over here dancing with.”

Iwaizumi shifts forward, fist clenched. “What the fu—“

“Oooookay, time to fuck off now!” Oikawa interrupts, smoothly stepping in between the two men. 

The man looks like he wants to argue more, but Matsukawa moves to stand next to Oikawa, arms crossed, and it quickly becomes a moot point as he sulks off in defeat. 

Iwaizumi lets you go, though his shoulder remains pressed against yours. 

“Iwa-chan, how nice of you to join us,” Oikawa coos, ruffling his hair for good measure. 

Iwaizumi slaps his hand away, glaring. “Well since none of you know how to spot creeps before they become a problem.”

Oikawa offers him a patronizing smile, “We’re not all equipped to be the definition of scary dog privilege like you are.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Iwaizumi grumbles something under his breath before putting his arm around your shoulder and steering you away from the other three. 

“Thanks, Hajime, but I do still want to dan—“

“I know,” he replies, coming to a stop and turning you to face him. 

“So what are you—”

Your words die a spectacular death at the shallow bridge between your tongue and your teeth as Iwaizumi lifts your arms and places them around his neck, moving his own hands to your waist. 

And this time, when the vivid overhead lights wash over him, his expression is soft. 

“We’re dancing,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Like his fingers aren’t a burning hot brand against the curve of your hips. 

“You hate dancing,” you reply dumbly. 

The corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth tilts upward a little. “Yeah, I do.”

The crowd around you moves with vigor, laughing and grinding and shouting over the thrumming, pulsing music. But Iwaizumi’s hand just gently slides to your wrist, and he slowly guides you outward into a full-body spin, his eyes sweeping down your form. 

When you find yourself back in your original position, albeit a bit closer than before, he adds, “But I can be convinced.”

Your heart swells. 

You’ve always been attracted to Iwaizumi, endlessly fond of his dark, messy brown hair and perpetual scowl. But the years have been more than kind to him, his boyish teenage features of days long past now cut into something solid and achingly handsome in a way that leaves your gut churning with heat every time you look at him. He’s taller, and broader—though you try not to let yourself dwell on the second point much for the sake of your own sanity. 

And now he’s looking at you expectantly with his stupidly attractive face, a challenge flashing in his eyes as he waits for you to move. 

So you do. 

For a partner that claims to hate this, Iwaizumi doesn’t miss a beat when you start to move, falling into sync with the rhythm of your body. And all you can think is how the way he holds you, the steady pressure of his hands on your waist—it’s nothing like how it was with Oikawa. 

It’s borderline possessive.

Almost.

It’s a battle in and of itself to resist the urge to let your hand slide to the nape of his neck, to card your fingers through the soft, shorter hair at the back of his head. 

Your insides feel raw, flammable. 

Doused in years worth of longing and desire that have soaked you to the bone, left you shivering with want, pliant and porous with need.

And the audible hitch in Iwaizumi’s breath as you spin and place your back to his front is the match. 

The space between your bodies closes as you lean back into him, as he pulls you in. The aftershocks of his touch spiderweb across your nervous system without mercy. 

You press back into him, harder. The beat of the music overheard is lost to you, drowned out by the blood that rushes in your ears as his grip on you tightens.

“You gonna move?” he teases, voice a little rough. “‘Cause I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Your legs bend at the knee as you drop your body down just enough, ass brushing his thighs, before rolling back up against him. His fingers flex, and he curses hoarsely under his breath.

So you do it again.

Iwaizumi’s mouth is hot when it lands just behind your earlobe, less of a kiss and more of a labored exhale. You shudder at the sensation all the same, and he turns just enough to drag his nose down the side of your neck.

“Hajime,” you gasp.

He lets out a sound that sounds like a broken off laugh, low and abrupt and a little incredulous.

Turning your head, your lips nearly meet, the layer of saliva coating yours prickling against the warmth of his breath that breaches the gap. 

Iwaizumi, as it turns out, is a quick study.

He drags your hips in a rolling motion, rocking forward into you, mouth finding purchase where your neck and shoulder meet. And he does kiss you this time, a hot, slick brand against your skin, your neck, one that sinks in deeper as you breathe out his name again with need punctuating each syllable. 

You’re dizzy on your feet.

And he’s ridiculously hard against you.

Giving in to an urge that spans years beyond this moment, you reach back, dragging your fingers through his hair from the front. You can feel the way he shudders against you. 

“I think I’m done dancing,” you breathe out. 

He doesn’t misunderstand your meaning.

You text Oikawa to let him know you’re heading out, both to save time and to avoid being on the receiving end of what you can only assume will be his most smug look yet.

The taxi ride back to Iwaizumi’s apartment is quiet, but his pinky rests against yours in the middle of the leather backseat. 

He helps you out of your heels as you step through the doorway, his fingers lingering against your ankles as he slips open the buckles.

And you’re sixteen again, biting the inside of your cheek as Iwaizumi kneels in front of you at the run-down local roller rink and tightens the laces on your skates.

He gets you a cold glass of water.

You’re nineteen again, hiccuping and sobbing at two o’clock in the morning on the ugly orange couch at Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s place as the latter mumbles choice words about your ex-boyfriend under his breath. He grabs your wrist to steady the cup of water you’ve nearly spilled twice.

He leads you into his bedroom.

You’re twenty four and you’re hundreds of miles away in a one-bedroom apartment that still doesn’t feel like home. And Iwaizumi’s rolling his eyes fondly on the other side of the phone screen as he takes you for a tour of his new place, making a dramatic grand gesture to show you exactly where he put the omamori you’d sent him via post—on his nightstand beside the bed. 

It’s still there now, nestled beside a pair of reading glasses and tube of chapstick.

And when he settles down on the edge of the bed and looks at you with his palms flat on either side of him and face tilted with a smile—

—your face feels hot, and you choke out a sob that feels equal parts pathetic and cathartic as you stand there before him.

Iwaizumi pulls you into his arms, and his voice is strained as he says, “I didn’t want to hold you back.”

It suddenly makes sense now, the subtle, distant change in him after you received your scholarship letter what feels like a lifetime ago.

“And if I said I want to stay this time?”

You hate your job. 

Your lease is nearly up.

He cups your face in both of his hands, his low, rough tone betraying his steady gaze. “Do you?”

You smile, and his thumb strokes away the next tear that trails down your cheek.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

The shape of his lips mirrors your own. “I miss you all the time.”

And when his mouth finally finds yours, when he cups the back of your head and parts the seam of your lips with his tongue while you straddle his lap, as you both go tumbling backward against the mattress—this feels like home. 

–

“Is it too late for me to tell you how good you looked in this tonight?” Iwaizumi says from where he’s lying beneath you as you tug off your dress, his hands finding a home against your bare sides.

You shiver at the sensation, tossing the black material to join his shirt and pants on the floor. 

He watches it fall. “...I guess it does look better there tho—”

“Don’t you dare.”

He grins, surging up to kiss you, hands deftly flicking open the hinge of your bra as his mouth slots against yours. You nip at his bottom lip, taking it between your teeth, and he groans, drawing an equally needy whine out of you as he cups your bare breast and drags his thumb over your pebbled nipple. 

A little embarrassed by the desperation in your tone, you inhale sharply, and he presses an open mouthed kiss to the corner of your lips as he rasps, “No, I wanna hear you.”

He dips his head down, mouth closing over one of your nipples, and your body arches into his as pleasure dances down your spine. You moan.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth from your sternum to your collarbone before hotly kissing his way up the side of your neck.

You’re helpless to stop the whimper that leaves you at his whispered praise, and he knows it—you feel him smile against the curve of your jaw. 

When he slides off your underwear, and as you hook a finger in his boxers in turn, you nearly expect him to crawl forward, to lay you flat on your back. But he pulls you back into his lap instead, groaning softly over how wet you are as he slides two fingers through your slick, dripping folds. 

It’s so intimate—rocking back down onto the length of his fingers as he stretches you open, as his chest rises and falls while he watches you tremble. He kisses you hard, the sounds of your moans echoing in the back of his throat as his tongue scrapes against your teeth, fingers slipping and plunging against your plush inner walls. 

And for all that he’s rendered you hopelessly drunk on his touch, he’s equally as affected, his forehead dropping against your shoulder when you finally wrap your hands around his shaft. Iwaizumi lets out a shuddering breath, taking your skin between his teeth.  There’s a breathless conversation that passes between the two of you, his eyes briefly darting toward his nightstand in question, but the matter is settled on other terms.

Iwaizumi’s eyes burn into yours as he grasps your hips and eases you down onto his thick cock, fingers digging in when you keen at the stretch. Your cunt spasms, slick walls eagerly taking each inch until he’s bottomed out inside of you, his mouth pressed to yours as he rasps again, even softer this time, “Good girl.”

You find yourself worried for a moment that in this position, your trembling legs won’t find purchase in this molten sea of pleasure, but the firm pressure of Iwaizumi’s hands on your hips is a stark reminder of how very observant he is. He guides your body upward, enough that the head of his cock rubs against your aching entrance, and then rolls his hips as he drags you back down. 

“Hajime,” you whimper, rocking your throbbing clit against him once he’s buried to the hilt.

“Keep saying my name like that, and I’m not gonna last,” he groans, voice like gravel, cock now thrusting in and out of you repeatedly. 

Reaching up, you card your fingers through his hair and pull, bringing your mouth to his as you exhale against his lips, “Hajime.”

He cups the back of your head, licking his way into your mouth and deepening the kiss before reaching down to drag his thumb over your swollen clit. The coil in your abdomen trembles with the need for release as you feel yourself start to go up in flames faster than you ever could have anticipated.

“Let me hear you come,” he breathes out, eyes locked on yours.

The pleasure cresting inside of you explodes.

You cry out, every muscle in your body going taut as your climax stretches you open wide. And Iwaizumi kisses you hard, fucking you through it until you’re whimpering from overstimulation. He pulls out of you, the base of his cock rubbing against your sensitive clit and soaking wet folds as he rapidly strokes himself, gasping when you replace his hand with your own. Hot ropes of cum splatter between your bodies as his hips jerk upward into your touch, his mouth halfway slotted against yours as he breathes hard and fast. 

You don’t bother going back to your hotel that night.

(You’ll take the afternoon train back.)

–

Months later, home is tangled up in these sheets that smell like his body wash and your shampoo.

It’s quiet mornings on the couch and laughter in the kitchen.

It’s slow dancing in the living room and kissing under the string lights on the tiny balcony. 

Home is here, with Hajime, the reassuring warmth of his fingers threaded into yours.

[thickest-slimiest-malware]

GUYSSSS i need to live in a little truck please its importamt for my mental health. i dont a want to see my family

[fuumiku]

It was Maid Day today yesterday a week ago so I got struck by inspiration to draw the worsties, and it ran away from me into a whole AU where they’re coworkers at a maid cafe. She’s a med student & this is just a part time job, and this is his depression job while he gets his life back together. He needs something he can be workaholic about to forget what it’s like having a personal life and personal issues. He’s actually the accountant, but the new hire janitor (Izutsumi) doesn’t show up for half her shifts and is a sloppy worker, so he gets the extra work of doing her job on top of his because he’s undervalued and overworked. Of course, janitors also have an uniform to keep the aesthetic cohesion as they go about cleaning the place, of course.

Senshi’s the part time cook you only see slivers off, he’s kind and warm when you do see him and have a chat but most shifts he’s in and out the kitchen without a trace. Laios and Falin are regulars because Falin and Marcille are besties & in the same med school, Laios accompanies Falin as she visits her friend at work and gets hooked on the food. Chilchuck has to remind Marcille to work instead of chatting with Falin for an hour, and next thing he knows she’s distracting him from work too. That’s it that’s the AU. Inspired by this idol AU fanart a bit <3

This was not meant to be birthday gift but well…… Happy bday Chil!!!

Read from left to right

[feroluce]

When Al Haitham dreams, it's in shades of sandy blonde and red, metallic gold and feather-blue. His nightmares are colored much the same.

Kaveh leisurely strolls ahead of him, shoes leaving deep treads in the soft desert sand. He keeps a careful distance, arms length, and in return Al Haitham keeps an eye on him, the other man's back dead center in his sights.

He curses the sand in his boots and the long line of footprints he steps into, already the exact shape of the soles of his shoes.

They aren't lost. Al Haitham knows where they are. They've been here before. They are still here.

Kaveh doesn't watch their feet. His head is constantly tipped back with his eyes on the stars and their constellations (of which Al Haitham only knows two, Vultur Volans and Paradisaea). He'll walk right into a cactus like that. Al Haitham yells ahead for him to watch where he's going.

Kaveh reaches up to touch the side of his head in a strange motion, but otherwise there's no acknowledgement. They press on into the dark of night.

Something squelches beneath Al Haitham's boot.

It stops him short, pulls his attention like a magnet and as much as he wants to, he can't ignore it. He doesn't want to lose any more ground. But something won't let him move on. Al Haitham watches as red seeps into the golden sand, spills beyond the border of his bootprint until he slides his foot aside.

It's an ear.

It's a human ear, and there's a heavy earring attached, metallic gold, gems red and green, a familiar shape, a familiar shade-

Al Haitham opens his mouth to yell. Chokes. Swallows the lump in his throat as he quickly restarts his pace. Tries again.

"Hey!"

Another squelch under a hurried footstep. He doesn't stop to look. Al Haitham is pretty sure he knows what it is.

"Kaveh, hey!"

The path becomes littered, little slices and small pieces, fingertips and knuckles, Kaveh's arms once held casually behind his back now strewn along the sands. Every time Al Haitham extends his hand to him, reality warps and bends like the twisted image in a broken mirror, lines mismatched and edges jagged. Kaveh flits just beyond his grasp, fleeting fae, no longer able to hear him or to reach out to him. Al Haitham can only grit his teeth and follow.

His right foot marches forward. His left follows. His right again. His left suddenly doesn't follow, and Al Haitham is thrown off balance and pitches forward, swinging his arms outward to land on his palms and keep his face off the ground, because he's been in the desert enough times to know what a foot suddenly being stuck can mean.

Quicksand.

Al Haitham curses and swears in just about every language he knows as he tries to spread his weight as evenly as possible, stay afloat at the top of it because if he sinks, he knows he'll be done for, and shit, Kaveh.

His neck cranes uncomfortably in his search, Kaveh had only been a few feet in front of him, he can't be sunk much further, and he's in the desert much more often than Al Haitham anyway, he'll be familiar with what to do-

Kaveh stands in front of him, empty sleeves fluttering loose. Still just out of his grasp, still watching the stars. The quicksand is already up to his calves.

"Say, Al Haitham..." It's the first he's spoken this whole time. His voice resonates somewhere deeply nostalgic in Al Haitham's chest, produces a ripple that momentarily stuns his heart.

Kaveh is sinking.

Al Haitham stretches out on his belly as far as he's able, it's quickly up to his knees, Kaveh isn't even trying to redistribute his weight or pull himself out, it's at his thighs, Al Haitham sucks in a breath and yells for him, his hips, yells louder, his waist, Al Haitham's trembling fingertips can almost reach, his chest, Kaveh drops level with him, quicksand about his neck like a noose.

Kaveh's head tips back, back, impossibly far back, until it hangs, angle awkward, and he's looking right past Al Haitham with his tired smile and gouged, blinded sockets full of starlight.

"Do you believe in karma?"

The quicksand swallows him entirely and Al Haitham dives, shoves his arms deep and pushes off with the one foot he'd had left on safe ground, because he can't, he can't, it's not the same without Kaveh, not anymore, he needs him, no one else keeps him sharp, no one else challenges him like Kaveh, if he can just grab him, if he can just pull him back up-

Al Haitham thrashes, against the sands, against gravity, against the hardwood of his bedroom floor. Clumsily scrubs the back of his hand across his face to rub the grit of quicksand and sleep out of his eyes.

Sometimes he thinks he preferred it when the Akasha was still harvesting his dreams.

He pops his head out from under his weighted blanket and lays where he'd fallen out of bed for a moment, blinking blearily against the lamplight shining from his desk in the corner. Deep breaths. His consciousness shifts along the blurred line of nightmare and reality, crosses over the slow transition into wakeful awareness.

He's home, Kaveh is home. It's dark out. The house is dead silent.

He's just going to go check, he tells himself as he peels himself out of his sweat-soaked shirt and roots around for a replacement. He's already losing memories of his nightmare, the details spilling away from him like wet ink, but he knows he needs to see Kaveh. It'll feel better to do something, anything, than try to go straight back to sleep.

He's quiet when he slips out of his bedroom door, because they both keep late hours but their bedrooms are right next to each other, and Al Haitham will never hear the end of it if he wakes his roommate up.

Lights off, door shut. Nothing conclusive. He moves out to the main room.

Kaveh sits on one of those ridiculous sofas he'd ordered three of for some reason, back to him as he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. A mostly-empty wine bottle stands tall on the table, next to the cobbled-together remains of an architectural model that's been picked and fussed over for four days straight now.

"Kaveh? What are you doing?"

This earns him an exaggerated startle, but Kaveh doesn't turn to look at him, preoccupied with whatever new sketch or blueprint he probably has in his hands. "Ohhh, nothing," he slurs cheerfully. "Just working. Just thinking."

Kaveh has always been the world's chattiest drinker. Al Haitham waits for the rest of it.

"Say, I think...I think I asked you this years ago, back then, but you never answered me." Al Haitham feels all the blood drain from his face in ominous familiarity, drip cold down the length of his spine. Kaveh sinks into the couch until he can tip his head over the back of it, looking up at him with a tired smile and exhausted eyes.

"Do you believe in karma?"

[spadefish]

Need to figure out a way to acquire enough money for top surgery + hysto without losing my foodstamps

[carcarrot]

i guess im being offered the job lol

[arts-i-enjoy]

AHHHHHH

[orcelito]

I think I cried harder today over my dad's jackets than I did at his deathbed. That was a miserable time of course, a memory that will likely be seared into my brain until I die, but I cried... I think a normal amount, all things considered. More than I ever usually do of course, but I typically don't cry At All. All this free crying is certainly surreal.

The jackets, though. I was put in charge of doing his laundry, because we don't want to pack up dirty clothes. I was expecting it to be unpleasant bc my dad's dirty clothes - gross. But really, it was much more unpleasant in that... those were his. It felt wrong to touch them. Felt wrong to treat his jackets as gross. Because they were just his jackets. They weren't even in the hamper. And then I was remembering him wearing them, and then I was crying. Again. And again. Weeping over these damn jackets.

Then I found a shirt on his bed that still smelled like him. It smelled like a Hug From Dad. And that set me off crying even harder.

In total, I think I cried like 6 times within 40 minutes. It took me that long to finish sorting the damn clothes bc I just. Was a wreck. Like, what are you supposed to do when you're living life like normal, vaguely hopeful bc you're taking steps to secure your own happiness, and then 4 days later you're sorting your dad's laundry because he fucking died. Suddenly. Without a goodbye.

And you have to worry about his lack of a will (even under an ideal situation, only 2 heirs and no conflicts between us, probate's a fucking Bitch), and arranging the funeral, and prepping his obituary, and picking out pictures, and writing a speech bc you want to talk at his funeral, of Course you want to talk at his funeral, but even just thinking about anecdotes you could share has you crying yet again.

I've cried more times in the past 3 days than likely the entirety of last YEAR. And that's WITH my cat, and uncle, and family friend dying. Those all hurt, my uncle most of all, & I was real fucked up over it. But this? This was my Dad. Likely the person I'd have named 2nd closest to me in my life, second only to my sister. He wasn't perfect, but he did so much for me throughout my entire life. All he wanted was to raise us to be happy and independent. And he accomplished it, we're getting by without him, but we still wanted several more decades with him. He was only 57. We should've gotten several more decades with him.

But here we are now. Playing investigators to his life, digging into all his shit, trying to find documents and take inventory of all his things, and learning Many things about him in the process. In his lockbox of sensitive documents, like his SSN and birth certificate and all that stuff, we found an old letter. About a decade old now, written in my hand. Right at the very top, we found that he'd kept the letter I wrote to him telling him frankly about my struggles and the things I wanted him to do better. He kept it. He tried to take it to heart. He looked at it again, sometime more recently than all the rest of the documents. That was on top.

His love for us is evident everywhere. The pictures he has hanging up all over the place, majority of them with us in them. The old fathers day cards placed on display in his bedroom bookshelf. The gifts we gave him, even stupid little knick knacks, placed around his apartment with pride. I wish we'd taken more videos of him. I don't want to forget the sound of his voice. I don't want to forget his smell either, the smell of a Hug From Dad, but I still tossed that shirt into the wash even though it felt like saying yet another goodbye.

It's the suddenness that hurts the most, I think. We were planning on having him help me finally get my license this year. My final words to him, the last thing he would've seen from me, were messages asking up on whether he'd called his car insurance company to make sure there wouldn't be problems. I should've called him more. I don't know if I'm going to learn from this.

I cut my 2 weeks off early to have time to grieve and to work on things for the funeral and settling the estate. The last thing I'd wanna do right now is selling fucking bubble tea in a job I already decided to leave. So here I am without a job, though with potentially two life insurance policy payouts to come. Inheriting half his 401k. Inheriting couches, knickknacks, keepsakes, paintings, art pieces, maybe even his guitar and other furniture if we can figure out what to do about space (I don't have room for this furniture, I don't know if I even have room for the couches, but God do I want to keep so much of this furniture). It has me even considering keeping one of his guns, just one. A tiny little revolver, it sits so comfortably in my hand. I don't even want to use it for anything. I just want to have it, keep it stored in a drawer with its ammo kept separate. I don't like guns, but this is a part of him. He loved collecting guns. He was about as responsible with them as someone can be, keeping them locked in a lockbox and impressing upon his children the importance of gun safety (I've known the basic gun safety rules ever since I was a little kid. Of course, of course, of course.) It reminds me of him. It's horrifically easy to have a gun in Indiana. I apparently don't even need a permit to carry anymore. (I have no intention to ever carry this in public.)

It's all a cycle. Business, grief, thoughts about my future. Round and round, like the most nauseating carousel in existence. I don't know how I'm still so functional. My skills with compartmentalization have been my lifesaver.

And im just thinking about the story my dad's best friend shared today. About a friend of theirs who lost her father. She reached out after hearing about my dad to share his words with her: "it's okay to grieve, but don't make his death your life".

He explicitly referenced himself in this, saying if he were to die suddenly that he wouldn't want us to define ourselves by it. Grief is expected, but he wants us to be able to move on. He's always wanted us to establish ourselves and make ourselves happy. He wouldn't want to be a weight holding us back from that.

So every time I start to feel guilty for thinking about having nicer furniture or using his life insurance payout to fund the rest of my college, I remind myself of that. Thinking about the material isn't a bad thing. I'm only human. And in the end, he'd Want me to be thinking about it. He never intended to die, certainly not without warning like this, so he would've only encouraged me being pragmatic about it all.

He only ever wanted us to be happy. So I need to do what I can to live up to that.

I love him. I miss him already.

[seven-oh-four]

it's probably not a normal household thing to be fantasizing about escaping and going no contact

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

thinking about nora again

[ophthalmotropy]

You can barely tell because I'm still, you know, posting, but the amount of time I spend here has decreased massively. Most of it was just scrolling out of restlessness and not actually wanting to post something lmao.

[scatteredcloud]

Can’t afford my gender affirming beers so I guess I have to start smoking the eight I bought like 6 months ago before I promptly stopped smoking

[munamania]

and is there not just generally a certain level of decency that would make you like ease up on a person who's obviously more than a little frazzled i am sorry that i cant process all my feelings and regurgitate them to you in an easily digestible manner while im actively In a situation or have a prepared disclaimer about how im so sorry but im just overwhelmed and need you to leave me alone right now or whatever else maybe i just dont know maybe i cant tell you exactly what im feeling or need and if i have to figure it out and explain that to you my brain is going to explode. but you could read the room. is there not a point where a friend would probably just go oh okay let me not continue pushing this person let me take a moment to reflect on their state and perhaps try to ease that or at least not keep fucking pushing on it. and also maybe not choose these moments to make otherwise innocuous but contextually just kinda meanspirited jabs. ok whatever

[sanchoyo]

i start that new job tomorrow 😶 ...

[southislandwren]

crying in a coffee shop as i apply to a second shift quality assurance lab technician position at [redacted]. all this CDL nonsense was god testing me, it was always going to be [redacted] there was never any other option. i would be in the lab with my two bestest friends (A and M if any of you remember my [redacted] posting). i would work 10am to 7pm- at work while the neighbors are noisy and i would be off work in time for band/orchestra practice. i knew in 2020 this is how it would go and its all coming together now

[sad--tree]

keep saying i don't want 2 work another retail xmas but canNOT 4 the life of me make myself finish my goddamn fucking job applications !!!!!! death & dying & despair etc. etc.