#then I remember I can’t afford to finance a home

[mamayan]

Just saw a bald eagle on my way to the range and I really felt the American dream for a second there—

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Four

“How long are you going to make me stand like this?” 

“Claire, the life drawing models do this for an hour at a time, I think you can handle ten minutes.”

“At least they get paid for it, all I get is criticism.”

“Please, try to keep your feet in the same spot, the legs are really important.” 

She sighs and readjusts, planting her feet back onto the two X’s I’ve marked on the floor with masking tape, then stands still for a good five seconds before reaching up to touch her hair. 

I sigh with frustration. “Claire…”

“Sorry, I just feel like my hair looks weird.”

“It’s fine, please can you just…”

“I’m worried you aren’t going to make me look good.”

“It’s not about making you look good, it’s about capturing an accurate portrayal of human anatomy.” 

“Ugh.” She moves her arms back to roughly the correct position, but now her torso has kind of twisted out of position, so I take my gummy eraser and start rubbing out what I’ve already drawn. 

‘Why is this so hard?” I mutter under my breath as I bring the charcoal to the page again, drawing a fresh line for the curve of her spine. It seems like no matter what I do, I can never recreate the focus I have in Ida’s studio. I’ve tried drawing in my sketchbook on the bus, in cafes, while sitting on benches at the park, but my drawings always look off, I don’t feel sure about my talent like I used to. I’m not carrying an inspirational spark with me when I’m outside of the walls of my college and yet, tomorrow is Friday. The day that we all have to lay our sketchbooks out on the floor and critique each other for the work we’ve done during the week, so really I have to come up with something halfway good. I want Ida to be proud. I don’t want the cursed Dean Cullen to be mean, although he inevitably will. His default mode is nasty, but still, I can’t help but want to prove myself. To be good enough. To be the best.

“I’m not going to move, don’t worry…” Claire says. “But I just want to say that I’m getting very cold.”

“It won’t be long, I promise.” I plead.

“Don’t life drawing models also have heaters?”

“It’s not like you’re naked. Leggings and a vest are like, roughly the same thing as a heater.”

“Not at all. And it’s almost winter. Why don’t we at least have the radiators on?”

I shudder at the thought of the last electricity bill, the memory of opening up that little white envelope and feeling like I was going to have a heart attack and collapse onto the wooden floor. It was revealed then that Claire was leaving the heating on pretty much all day from the moment the temperature dipped below fourteen degrees, for the sake of being cosy. Her parents pay for everything, including her half of the utility bills, so really, nothing matters at all to her, and I know she doesn’t really understand why we have to suffer in the cold, or why I kept telling her to buy a hot water bottle instead of cranking on the radiators every time she goes to bed. If I didn’t keep remembering to switch it off our bills would be astronomical every month. I wish I could be the passive-aggressive housemate sometimes and put a padlock on the timer. 

I’m on the student support grant, which just about covers my rent and food. I don’t think she understands that some people have to think about money, that it doesn’t just endlessly flow into all of our accounts, or materialise from thin air whenever we want a new skirt from American Apparel. 

It frustrates me sometimes, the disparity between our finances. I’d never really thought about class, or where I stood in society before I moved away from home, but now it’s all around me all the time and utterly impossible to ignore, woven into my identity. I’ve never associated with the notion of being a working class person from a working class household but when I’m here it feels as though it’s the number one thing that defines me. It saturates everything, everyone’s accents and postcodes under scrutiny. Who’s dad can afford this and that, who has to work evenings and weekends to pay their way, who gets the grant, who doesn’t. I’d never before considered the fact that Claire got a thousand euro for her Confirmation and at my house, the year of the financial crash, we had plain pasta for dinner every day for three weeks, but now it seems as though this was something I should have always been aware of. 

Shane comes into the apartment without knocking, as usual at that very moment, and Claire immediately drops her pose to skip over and embrace him, as if they haven’t seen eachother in a month, instead of every single day. He has his own apartment in Clonskeagh, but is seemingly never there. He’s become our third housemate – the one who never pays rent. I groan and drop my willow charcoal back into my plastic pencil holder. Whatever is on the page now will just have to do. 

“You alright there, Evie?” Shane says over her shoulder, never letting me just have a tantrum in peace. 

“Yeah I’m fine. Just finishing up an assignment.”

“Seems to be going well, sure you look delighted.”

I stick my tongue out at him, and he ignores me. “Bit cold in here, isn’t it?” He comments, and Claire throws her hands up in agreement. “Thank you!” She says. “I’ve been trying to tell her that all evening.”

“She’s cold because she’s in a vest in leggings.”

“That you made me wear for your drawing.”

Shane smirks. “I’m not complaining about the vest and leggings anyway. Come on, just flick the heat on for a while.” He goes over to the thermostat and flips it on expertly, like a man who lives here. Which he doesn’t. He just sleeps here three to four nights a week. Then he comes over and sits beside me on the couch. I try to close my sketchbook before he can catch a glimpse, but it’s too late. He puts his big hand in the way to block me. 

“That’s good.” He says, pointing at the drawing I’ve just done. 

“Is that the one of me?” Claire says, coming over to perch on the arm of the sofa next to him. “Oh, it is good. You made me look very pretty.”

“Not hard to do.” Shane tells her with this dreadful, flirtatious look on his face and I have to suppress a disgusted shudder. 

“It’s fine.” I say begrudgingly. “But it’s not going to be good enough.”

“I think it’s great.” Claire reassures me. “What more could they be looking for?” 

“Perfection.”

Shane lifts the sketchbook out of my hands without asking and starts flipping through it. “So what, is your tutor like some kind of dragon, or?”

I sigh. “Ida is fine, she’s honest but she’s fair. There’s just this one guy.” I take the sketchbook back off him and try to close it in my lap, but he easily slips it away from me again and resumes his snooping. 

“A student, like?”

“Yeah. Dean Cullen. He’s always horrible about my work.”

“I wouldn’t care if some random man was making comments about my work. Sure he’s hardly going to give you grades, is he?”

“No.” I say. “But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of criticising me.”

“I doubt he sees it like that.”

“Yeah, and do you know him, do you?”

“Obviously not but he probably just thinks he’s being constructive, like.”

“He said the legs on my piece were lazy last week.”

“‘Lazy’ isn’t very constructive.” Claire agrees. 

Shane turns another page thoughtfully. “Some lads just say what they think and they don’t care about how it comes out, though. He’s probably like that.” 

“He’s not.” I insist. 

“Sounds like he’s got under your skin.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Alright so.” A pause. “Is this me?” He holds up the sketchbook on a page of drawings of a man’s head in profile. They’re done in brown pencil. He’s got a short-back-and-sides haircut and a bump on the bridge of his nose where it was once smashed with the butt of a hurl and never quite set back the right way again. 

“Yes. That’s you.” 

He looks at it again, saying nothing for a few moments. Then: “Can I have it?”

“No, I need the sketchbook intact for my grade.”

“Well, can you put it online or something then?”

“Why would I do that?”

“So I can show it to people. Sure it looks exactly the same as me. I’d make it my profile picture and all.”

“Nobody wants to see my work online.” I say, going red.

“Oh they would!” Claire says. “Everyone is doing it now.”

“On Facebook?”

“No, Instagram.”

I pause. “What is that?”

She and Shane exchange a look as though I’m some old age pensioner who just had a ‘moment’, and I sigh with frustration. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is, apparently I’m technologically illiterate.”

Claire whips out her brand new iphone to show me the cute little app that looks like a polaroid camera, and then scrolls through her feed, which is just pictures and more pictures, no text posts, no statuses, just photos. “Everyone with an iphone has it now.” She explains. “You just take pictures and upload them. You can edit them in the app and everything, and you follow your friends so you can see what they post too.”

“And everyone is doing this?”

“Yeah, it’s the new Thing. And look.” She opens up a search bar and types in the word “Art”, and immediately the screen floods with images of paintings and drawings. “You can look at what other artists are doing too. I think you’d really like it.”

“Hm.” I say. “Maybe.”

“Hand me your phone.” 

I obey her, and she starts tapping away at it. I watch as she downloads the app, signs me up for it, and then she follows both her account and Shane’s, who I can see has exclusively posted photographs of himself on the football field. Not content I’d be especially interested in, but I can always unfollow him later. She lifts the sketchbook off the couch and carefully turns to the page with Shane’s head drawings, and snaps a picture. She applies some brightening filter to it and then uploads it, and there it is. My first post on Instagram. 

“Thank you.” I say. 

“Go through my follow list and see if there’s anyone else there you want on your feed.” She instructs me. “And like, find out who else in your drawing class has it. You can all compare your drawings and leave nice comments or whatever.”

“That kind of sounds like a good idea.” I admit. 

“Listen to the good feedback, not just what stinky Dean Cullen says.” She strokes my hair affectionately. “You’re so good at drawing, I’d hate it if someone made you think that you aren’t.”

“Thank you Claire. And Shane.” I say as I get up from the couch and start heading towards my room. 

“We’re going to watch a film, if you want in.” Claire offers, but I shake my head. 

“I think I’m going to keep drawing. I can do more studies of my own feet or something.”

“Okay, whatever you want.”

Prev // Next

[lucysweatslove]

We may have to move because finances, and I’m very anxious.

When we moved in to this place, rent was 1800 or 1850/month (honestly can’t remember). This was mid-2020. We have lived here for 3 years, and rent has slowly increased, I want to say it was 1950 our second year and 2100 this year. My husband pays the rent in full so I really don’t remember.

We will be here for 4 more years for my med school, so we were talking about do we try to buy, do we rent, etc. Initially we got excited about buying, but lo and behold we cannot find any place even 30 min+ outside of town that is actually doable… nothing that could work is under $400k (what we can currently afford a full 20% down payment on), and even condos are in the $450-500k range. We could put less down and then have PMI, but estimates for monthly cost are like $3000-3500/month depending on closing costs, APR, etc. Which we feel like we can’t do financially. So back to renting.

We don’t know how much they will ask us for rent… so we were looking around. The townhouse next to us was just rented for $3000.

That is a 40% increase from our current rent.

And given that we would be renting and not putting equity in a home, Rob is adamant that if they are asking 3k, we WILL find a cheaper place.

If the idea of moving my family 2 weeks before school starts didnt terrify me enough, I don’t even know where we can afford to live anymore. I found one place that is just over half this size but still has 3 bedrooms (so we can each have our space- rob works from home and I have school…) that is approx what we pay now, but it’s in an apartment complex proper with no garages, and my car doesn’t reliably start in the winter if it’s parked outside overnight. 🙃 The next cheapest is $2750/month, but it already has 4 applications in which means it’s gonna be gone before we know if we need to move. It’s also further away from campus but I could still make it work.

The issues:

The university here is admitting more students than they can house. There was some mad dash for who could live in dorms and apparently everything was gone within like 5 min. TONS of college kids and grad students need housing now so there is a huge demand for rentals thus driving prices up. FWIW, the people who are renting the place beside us are college kids.

People. Keep. Moving. Here. First it was people trying to get away from ridiculous housing prices in CA, and now it’s from the east coast. I can’t blame them for moving to find affordable housing. But what they are doing is driving demand up and prices up- people will make a first offer in a house at 10-20% higher than asking IN CASH. Locals cannot afford it. The newcomers “affordable housing” is creating the problem they are trying to get away from in a new area. They are displacing their housing insecurity onto us. Who is to blame? Greedy property management / development companies, probably.

Three weeks ago my anxiety was SO low. I was feeling great overall, sleeping super well. Now I literally cannot sleep because of just the potential of this housing insecurity and I am so angry.

FWIW: median family income is ~63k, and we have state income tax. Mean income is much higher at $85k because of higher outside earners pushing this up. How is a typical local family of 4 supposed to afford 3k housing. How are they getting approved for that? They aren’t. Even 2 beds are going for ~2300. Can a family making 63k even get approved for THAT?

This all makes me so sick.

[1988hc]

I love you, but I can't

1988, 1.8k words, hurt no comfort, break up, unhealthy relationship dynamics, unhappy ending

“I can have it painted. Remodel.” “But you won’t.” Sometimes it’s really fucking inconvenient how well Jonny knows him. How stubbornly he insists on demonstrating it. How Jonny always knows better. “Then what will you have me do? Live out of the team hotel?” Pat can feel his heart beating faster, his muscles tensing, everything in him shoring up for a fight, another blow of epic proportions. It’s one of Jonny’s worst qualities, how he can be this brick wall that Pat smashes himself against again and again, grinding himself into dust.

“Don’t buy it. You can’t live there,” Jonny says, because he’s a weirdo who doesn’t know how to start a phone conversation with ‘hello’.

Patrick rolls his eyes, glad that Jonny can’t see him, and closes out their now moot text thread to pull up the real estate listing again. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

He swipes through the pictures, even though he’s seen them all before. It’s a nice apartment. Marble countertops, floor to ceiling windows, good neighborhood…

“It’s a shoebox,” Jonny complains, sounding offended on Patrick’s behalf. Which is oddly sweet, in a very roundabout Jonny way, but also entirely misguided.

“It’s a two bedroom. I’m not gonna need a home theater and basement gym and rooftop garden, and nobody’s asking me to shelter any rookies.” It’s just gonna be Patrick living there, how much space could he possibly need? “I’ll hardly be here, anyways.”

He doesn’t specify whether he means during the season or long-term. In too many ways still, he doesn’t want to be here. But he has to be, for now.

“Travel in the east is a lot shorter, you’ll be there more than you know.”

Looks like Jonny is still as loath to talk about the future as Pat is thinking about it. At least they still have something in common.

“I can’t afford a bigger place. Prices in New York are crazy, man.”

Jonny laughs. It’s not mean, per se, but something about it still stings. “Like fuck you can’t. I’ve seen your accounts.”

Pat doesn’t really want a bigger place. It’s not like Jonny will be there, taking up space with his clutter and his presence and his dreams of buying a dog. It’s just gonna be Pat rattling around in there, and he doesn’t want to get lost wandering aimlessly from empty room to empty room, thinking what could’ve been. He doesn’t know how to say any of that to Jonny, though, doesn’t want this to end in another fight.

“What about this one instead?” He sends Jonny another link.

It’s slightly bigger, and consequently a lot more expensive. Fucking New York, man. Pat’s not really relishing the idea of dropping so much money on a place he has no idea how long he’s even gonna be in. The team had offered to board him in a hotel for the remainder of the season, but that prospect is even more unappealing than buying something short term. ‘New York is a hot market, you can always flip it,’ Steve, his finance guy, had said, and Pat didn’t have any retort to that, so he’d started to make some calls.

“No,” Jonny says, quick enough that he can’t have done much more than pull up the site and glance at the listing.

Pat pinches the bridge of his nose. He only had a question about the energy rating and thermal insulation methods because he remembered vaguely reading something about long term health effects, but he really should’ve known better than to ask Jonny. It’s a hard habit to kill, still his first instinct whenever he turns around, to ensure Jonny’s on board with any major decision because for the longest time it used to be imperative he was. That’s what you do when you’re together. Jonny’s always been his go-to person.

And Pat misses that. More than the team, and the UC, and playing for a franchise he grew up in, that’s been so good to him, in a city that felt like home. He misses having Jonny there, a steady presence by his side, misses having someone to talk to, someone who’ll give Pat his honest opinion. Jonny used to be his sounding board and his reality check and his rock. But Pat’s in New York now, chasing a long buried dream, and Jonny is playing what’s gonna be his last games in Chicago, even if neither of them is willing to admit it yet.

Just another giant elephant in the room. There’s so many nowadays Pat feels like he’s barely got space left to breathe, skirting from one conversational land mine to another, always on tiptoes, braced for the next explosion. It’s why he went, and Jonny stayed.

“Too small?” He asks, and fails to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Jonny scoffs, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “It’s ugly.”

It’s true, the walls are a putrid yellow color that made Pat flinch the first time he saw it, and the all black kitchen isn’t exactly his style.

“I can have it painted. Remodel.”

“But you won’t.”

Sometimes it’s really fucking inconvenient how well Jonny knows him. How stubbornly he insists on demonstrating it. How Jonny always knows better.

“Then what will you have me do? Live out of the team hotel?” Pat can feel his heart beating faster, his muscles tensing, everything in him shoring up for a fight, another blow of epic proportions.

It’s one of Jonny’s worst qualities, how he can be this brick wall that Pat smashes himself against again and again, grinding himself into dust. Jonny can be so goddamn absolute, hard and unforgiving, managing to make Pat feel dumb and small and stupid for trying. Pat bites his lip, using the pain as a focal point to push the tears threatening to spill over back down, tries to breathe even though his chest feels tight. He can’t even tell whether it’s frustration or hurt that’s making him feel this way, emotions he’s not willing to examine bubbling inside him, vulnerable and raw.

Maybe he’d know if he’d gone to therapy like Jonny wanted him to, but Pat didn’t particularly feel like letting a stranger tell him all the things he was doing wrong in their relationship. He got enough from Jonny on that.

Jonny’s breathing on the other end of the line, so Pat knows the call hasn’t disconnected. Jonny’s quiet, though, probably clenching his jaw and staring off into the distance, drawn inward and fucking impenetrable, alone with his thoughts, leaving Pat like a stranger standing outside, banging against the door begging to be let inside.

This is why they stopped working together, why Pat had to go away, break free.

A tiny part of Pat had hoped that with distance, not seeing each other every day fighting over unopened mail and dirty dishes and stinky socks on a wet bathroom floor, it would get better. That maybe having some time away from each other would allow them both to find their equilibrium again. Instead Pat’s never felt more off-kilter, trying to acclimate to a new team and new city, everything suddenly blue and loud and big, and even winning had felt strange somehow, like Pat didn’t really deserve it.

“What about this one,” Jonny says, because when shit gets tough he’s always liked to retreat to the task at hand, as if everything would somehow magically fix itself if Jonny could just ignore it long enough. Pat’s phone plings with another link. He swipes the notification away.

Nothing’s really changed. It’s been a couple weeks now, and Pat thought that maybe— but Jonny’s still barely talking to him, and when he does it’s about inane stuff, or this. No matter how hard Pat tries, somehow they always end up fighting. They used to be on the same side, but now there’s a rift between them, and Pat doesn’t know which one of them switched sides, or when, or how.

It would be easier if it were something tangible. If someone had cheated, or said something stupid, or whatever. Then they could’ve fought about it, and it would’ve been ugly and a shitshow, but they could’ve moved past it eventually. Or at least Pat would’ve known why they stopped working. Instead it’s been this, a slow death that Pat hadn’t recognized before he’d woken up one morning and suddenly found himself on the outside of Jonny’s fortifications, a wall impossible to scale.

He’s so fucking tired.

The link is an olive branch of sorts, a chance for them to keep talking.

But Pat’s been down this road too many times before.

Jonny’s gonna send him links of condos that Pat is gonna hate, if not for the condos themselves then for that fact that Jonny picked them, Pat resenting that he let Jonny have a say in this and yet unable to tell him to back off. So he’s gonna end up giving in to one of Jonny’s choices just to keep the peace, and resent Jonny even more for it, and himself for being a pushover, and Jonny will be annoyed that Pat’s crabby, and he won’t understand what the problem is when Pat tries to talk about it, because Pat agreed to the condo didn’t he, and if he doesn’t like the condo why did he buy it, when it isn’t even about the goddamn condo. It’s never been about the condo, or money, or their last summer vacation, or Pat spending Christmas with his family, or Jonny’s kooky nutritionist and faith crystal healer, or the right AC setting at night.

It’s always been about them. And Pat can’t do it anymore.

He tried, he tried so goddamn fucking hard. But nothing Pat tries ever makes a difference, nothing he does will ever be good enough, nothing he says manages to get through to Jonny anymore.

He’s been shut out, with no way in.

The rift between them is yawning, a gaping abyss, and Pat can feel it swallow him whole.

“Sorry, Jonny, I don’t think this—” Pat chokes halfway through the sentence, all the old hurt and anger flooding through him anew, an unhealed wound someone’s picked off the scab bleeding fresh and scarlet red. “I have to go.”

He hits disconnect, not giving Jonny a chance to reply.

A drop hits the black screen of his cell phone, and Pat pushes it away, buries his head in his arms folded on the table, and cries. Ugly, wracking sobs that shake his whole body, and once he’s let go is like an avalanche, the dam breaking, the flood sweeping every last, flimsy defense away, leaving Pat floating and unmoored.

It hurts worse than anything Pat’s ever felt before. His chest is the epicenter of it all, pain radiating outwards to his limbs, like someone drove an ice pick straight through his sternum. He tries to curl up, but it’s no use. The pain is inside him, there’s no refuge. It’s cold and cruel, a gaping hole where he used to be whole, like someone’s gone and ripped away a piece of Patrick.

Gone gone gone. Should’ve known better, should’ve tried harder. I hate you, I miss you, I need you. Fucking why, I’m so fucking tired, why did it have to end like this. I can’t I can’t I can’t, oh God.

Why do I fucking love you. Why does it have to hurt like this.

No matter how tight he screws his eyes shut, the truth is right there, staring him in the face, hammering behind his temples to the beat of the ice pick getting hammered into his chest, a steady drum ripping Pat apart.

Pat needs to get out. He needs to breathe. He can’t do this anymore.

Him and Jonny are over.

[maccaulayblake]

[ harris dickinson, male, he/him ] — whoa! MACCAULAY BLAKE just stole my cab! not cool, but maybe they needed it more. they have lived in the city for LIFE, working as a/an FASHION PHOTOGRAPHER. that can’t be easy, especially at only 30 YEARS OLD. some people say they can be a little bit FICKLE and IMPRUDENT, but i know them to be CANDID and VEHEMENT. whatever. i guess i’ll catch the next cab. hope they like the ride back to MANHATTAN! 

 ~ Quick stuff ~ Name: Maccaulay Blake Birthday: January 26th, 1994 Zodiac: Aquarius ☼ , Libra ☾, Leo ↑ From: New York City, New York Residence: Manhattan, Lower East Side Pronouns: He/Him

bio stuff:

Born and raised in New York to a single mother Aurelia "Rea" Blake (60), a famous fashion model from the late 80's/90's. Artist and activist. Her parents, Maccaulay's grandparents, Conrad Blake (deceased) with a lineage tying back to early finance, and socialite Effy Early-Blake, real estate (82). They were and are very hands on with their only grandson and with a desire to see their fortunes stay in the family.

Maccaulay grew up in Manhattan's Upper East Side and attended all the all the prestigious schools since kindergarten and on - a stipulation made by his grandparents, to Rea's chagrin. Having had Maccaulay during the height of her career, it was his home base.

Maccaulay's birth father is out of the picture and has been since day one. The pregnancy was quite the scandal at the time, a whole Mamma Mia situation in the gossip rags of who the father could be. In time to be revealed David Scanlen, Freelance photographer, mostly notably for his Photo Journalism from political and world events from all over the world. Based out of LA with another very famous wife and family all his own - there has never been a relationship between David and Maccaulay, child support and that was it.

His teenage years he skipped the awkward phase and could say grew up too fast. Finding school boring, he found his friends and the rest of New York way more exciting. Indulging in the easily afforded drug scene so many of his classmates were dabbling if not full blown into - he began to party and party hard.

Rea knew (that was her experience as well), instead of pulling him out, uprooted him to Brooklyn with her where she found a brownstone and a studio and began her own pursuit of her art. She didn't pull him out of school yet, giving him the ultimatum that she would pull him out, leave his friends and go to public. Or find a hobby. He did.

Mac found dance - something he still does to blow off steam today. But he'd hurt himself out of carelessness and that led to having to find something else. Enter Photography.

What started as a street project while he was all cast up turned into something much more meaningful. Mac had a raw talent and despite the glaring spotlight it may have put on his birth father. It was something he ended up pursuing.

Of course he had the connections. Not ashamed to use them. He just nearly graduated - with a name and large donation, Conrad made sure he'd get into a college. NYU it was. Where he lasted a year. Once again bored by the structure.

Opting for internships. Afforded of course by who his mother was he worked for some of the most exciting photographers forming a good relationship and connections within Conde Nast and their array of publications within.

With a natural talent - a load of arrogance and a huge leg up he's been on the up and up career wise. Mac's currently shooting for just about any and all major outlets.

random stuff:

loves the night life, hasn't shaken that side of him. is very social, and not one for settling down. has a tattoo between his shoulder blade he does not remember getting of a mermaid. (embarazzzing) is learning the drums - think's he's way better than he is

connections:

Fashion/Work World: I suppose pretty self-explanatory. 'Co-workers' of sorts. Those working in and around a shoot.

Roommate: He lives in a spacious apartment on the Lower East Side, doesn't need a roommate but for as much as he likes his solitude he also likes having a body around.

Friends: He's born and raised, Upper East Side then Brooklyn - he's been around, so really any old childhood friends to someone he met on the Ferry. I'm interested in all kinds.

Dance: He's been doing it since he was seventeen. So studios, rec hall classes, he's tried all kinds. Favors Modern and Contemporary.

Exes: He's not been the best guy to be in a relationship with so I don't imagine he's ever had a relationship lasting really over a year and then some. Maybe they tried, there was cheating, there was loss of interest idk. you know? ;D

Flings: another pretty much self-explanatory.

Negatives: In any capacity! Rivals, old grudges, parents have history, he stole your cab! Anything.

~Legit down for anything, if there’s ideas toss them out. On dash chem is my favorite and just love winging it too! I’ll fill this all out more as time goes on for sure!

[pine-the-mighty]

‎‏I am mohammed ayyad of Gazans, living in very difficult conditions because of the war that the Gaza Strip is under. Since the outbreak of the war on the seventh of October we have been evacuating .

‎‏Then the journey of suffering and separation began,because my children were separated and evacuated from our home without covering or clothes., From here they became infected with diseases, and what increased our fatigue was the constant upbringing due to the different areas in which we were displaced, as we were displaced 9 times, and this was very expensive, the last of which was the 9th of this August from Hamad Town. In addition to that, we have lived in the summer season in a tent that did not exceed three meters, closed with nylon, so it is like an agricultural greenhouse atmosphere. It is very hot. All in all, we live difficult days that no human beings can afford

We have no work because of the war, and we do not have any kind of money and this is accompanied by a crazy and horrible rise in prices.

Although water is not suitable for drinking, this is the cause of many diseases

The last suffering is that we are out of Hamad without taking our purposes or our tents and now we are searching the earth in the roads and our children and our elderly parents are suffering..So we use direct donation including what they can or share links fully so people can know our tragedy and pain. Remember a small contribution can make a difference in the lives of many children who are dealing with their health condition all. Leave their details and make them happy with your generous contribution.

being a minor with my finances watched by my parents, I unfortunately can’t give any help myself, but please, for anyone who sees this, please continue to spread Mohammed’s message and if possible donate to him and anyone else in need!

[throatpunchqueen]

Mom (again)

Can’t make me move

But we won’t enable you to stay here

When I die my debt will go away – true and we are not responsible

Right now, you have us researching senior living communities, willing to help you clean out the house, Shawn will work with Robbie to get it on the market and ready to sell, helping you move, and helping get you finances in order.   This is a one time offer – if you decide you want to stay in the house when you fall again you will need to figure out how to handle all the things that Tracy took care of.  We will not intervene to find you temporary housing and you will likely be forced to go to a nursing home.   You will have no choice because waiting any longer will put you in a position where you will not be able to afford any of these facilities.  The market is in your favor at this point and we are likely heading into a deep recession which puts you in an even more precarious situation.  At this point, we can likely find something nice within your budget where you have the opportunity to meet like minded people, be part of a community the supports and helps one another, activities (and not just bingo) and giving your children the piece of mind that you are enjoying your retirement, meeting new people and that you are safe.  

Your memory is failing – multiple instances where you have stated that you don’t remember one of us telling you something.   If this is an avoidance technique for dealing with tough issues you’ve only made yourself look worse and incapable.   The three of us talk at least once a month and notice that you are only telling each of us a part of the story.  

Your physical health is declining – you’ve fallen 4 times in the past year that we know of.   You have ot rely on your walker/cane to get up the front stairs which are not sturdy to begin with.    To take out your trash you need to go down 10 steps which you are not steady enough to do so.   Your walking has gotten worse and the waddle more noticeable.   Every time we talk you mention that your knee, your hip, or something else hurts.   And this is not just to do with the latest fall, I have noticed this progression each time I see you it gets worse.

You are not able to maintain the house… Tracy had to deep clean your bathroom as it hadn’t been scrubbed in who knows how long.   It’s difficult for you to get upstairs to vacuum before one of us comes to stay (you have stated more than once that you have to sit on the steps and drag yourself and the vacuum upstairs).    You consistently reach out to Shawn to fix things… and state it as an order not asking.   Sump pump, your front door, 

How would you like to spend your last years – continuing to rack up debt that you have no intention of paying making you a burden on society and perpetuating the raising of credit card interest to cover the debt you have racked up, struggling to make pay your bills and put food on the table,  and us kids resenting you for not caring enough about yourself and the consequences of your decisions which have fallen upon us since your retirement.   We have come to your rescue multiple times and you have come to rely on us to fix all the problems – that ends today.   You’re on your own.   

What does this mean to you?   If you need something fixed in the house… don’t’ call Shawn, YOU will need to reach out and find someone to do it and pay for it.   If you fall again, use your life alert and take an ambulance to get treated and find someone to make the necessary updates to the house if that is needed, coordinate your care with your care providers and the insurance, do the necessary follow ups for the equipment you need.   We will not be there to put in a wheelchair ramp, get you into the house post rehab, ensure you have groceries, and anything else you need.   While it will be hard for us to say no because we love you and your are our mother, we cannot continue down this path as it is impacting our mental wellbeing, our daily life, and personally my physical wellbeing.  All of this worrying about you falling or getting injured in some way, your continual struggle to make ends meet, your resilience to take accountability for your actions – my blood pressure is at an all time high, the tension I hold in my body is affecting my ability to heal from my back issues, and it has taken a serious toll on my mental health.   I often spiral and think of getting a phone call one day “your mom fell taking out the trash and wasn’t found until two days later”.    If that’s how you want your life to be, that is your choice.   I am releasing all accountability and worry – you are an adult and from this day forward you are on your own.    This is not to say we will not spend time with you, call you, check in on you – we love you but we are exhausted, frustrated, and done.   

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

Carrying the Banner Chapter 18: Dancing in the Rain- Oscar Delancey x Hilda Beckett

Word Count: 1.8k

Five Years Later

It was a rainy night in Brooklyn. Low rumbles of thunder began to echo through buildings and the dimly lit streets were nearly empty at this hour, especially with the rain. Oscar was sitting at his desk, which was positioned in front of a window, filling out paperwork and checking finances. A flash of lightning lit up his face which caused him to look up as the low sound of thunder followed. 

“It’s really coming down out there,” he mentioned softly. He had hardly noticed that the rain had started at all. He and Hilda had been so wrapped up in work that evening that he hadn’t even gotten up to check on the kids who were all lounging around the lodging home. Oscar wasn’t much different than he was before. He had broken ties with Wiesel and Snyder, and had eventually made up with his brother who had a wife and kids of his own now. Taking over the Brooklyn lodging home as well as the Brooklyn distribution center had just felt right to him, and doing it alongside Hilda made it so much easier. He pulled his chair back and laughed a little. 

“Gosh I didn’t even notice, we’ve been working for so long,” he continued. Hilda, who’d been working on paperwork of her own, barely looked up from her own desk on the other side of the room to glance at the window. 

“Huh, I didn’t even realize,” she muttered absentmindedly before looking back down. It had taken her quite a while, but she’d managed to overcome her fear of storms with Oscar’s help. That wasn’t all that changed about her, however. After Spot had officially left Brooklyn to her when he left for Staten Island the first thing she did was offer a safe space for Oscar when he was still at odds with his brother, uncle and Snyder. The second thing she did was start making changes that would better fit anyone who sought shelter in Brooklyn, making it a safe space for the kids that lived there. She worked hard to build it up, and she still remembered the joy she felt when the lodging house was finally put into her and Oscar’s names. 

Physically, I can’t say she changed too much. She still had her fiery curly red hair, though she’d started pulling it back into ponytails with ribbons to keep it out of her face while she worked, and she was finally able to afford clothes that fit her both aesthetically and body-type wise. She still had her signature big glasses that she always adored, but now she finally fully had the correct prescription. To say she was happy with her life was an understatement. Oscar swiveled his chair around to face her and smiled. 

“C’mon, that’s enough paperwork for tonight, let’s go outside and get some air,” he suggested as he pulls something small out of his top desk drawer and puts it in his pocket, still keeping his eyes on her. His eyes looked wild and eager in a way they hadn’t for years, not since that night on the balcony.

“Oscar, it’s pouring outside,” she pointed out with a soft laugh, eyes once again leaving her desk, though this time to look at him. Their eyes met, and she couldn’t help but smile at the look in his eyes. It brought back a sense of nostalgia from that night on the balcony, which she would always remember fondly. The man shook his head and stood, running over to her and swooping her out of her chair and into his arms.

“I veto that,” he joked, setting her down so she could walk for herself. He opened the window and climbed out like a reckless teenager, holding out his arms for her to support herself as she climbed out. 

“You’re crazy, Oscar Delancey,” she laughed out, giddiness coursing through her as she climbed out as carefully as she could using his help. She gasped as the cold rain fell on her like a shower. It brought back a sort of youthful happiness she hadn’t felt since she was younger. Oscar grinned at her as his hair became wet and stuck to his forehead. He took her hand in his and gave her a quick spin, moving out towards the center of the road which was warmly lit by the street lights around them.

“What’re you doing?” She asked, amusement lacing her voice, though she still followed him without hesitation, just like she’d always done. 

“Don’t ask questions, just dance with me,” he insisted softly, sweeping her away in a waltz as the rain poured down on them. He kept his warm, brown eyes confidently locked onto hers as he did so, the sound of rain surrounding them like a symphony. 

Hilda couldn’t help but smile as she danced in step with him, like they were always made to dance together. They didn’t need a song, the rain and their synced heartbeats was all they needed. Hilda loved these sorts of moments with Oscar. With how busy they’d been building up the lodging house and taking kids in it was hard to find time to just themselves. She’d put her all into her work, but that didn’t mean she didn’t miss spending time with her love. Oscar admired her lovingly, continuing to dance as he spoke. 

“I don’t think I ever actually thanked you,” he started, cupping her face with a gentle hand. “You saw me as a person while I was at my lowest, when nobody else saw redemption in who I was.” The woman smiled up at him with so much love and adoration for the man in front of her that it almost hurt, leaning into his touch a bit as she responded. 

“There’s no need to thank me. I did what you believed no one could, and I couldn’t be happier that I was the one you let do so,” she said softly. The man’s steps slowed to a sway as a flash of lightning lit his face once more. 

“That night in the refuge, holding you in my arms to shield you from the storm- the night after on the balcony, every morning that I’ve woken up by your side makes me feel like I’m the luckiest man alive, and I think there’s only one more thing I could ever want,” he muttered, holding her at a standstill as if time itself had slowed down for the two.

“Really?” She asked softly, staring up at him with sparkling eyes and a dreamy smile on her face. “And what’s that?” He squeezed her hand and, to her surprise, he lowered himself to one knee and fumbled at his pocket for something. 

“Your hand in marriage,” He responded rather simply. It was hard to tell through the rain, but tears were running down his cheeks, mixing with the rain water and dancing down to his chin as it continued to pour around them. 

“You are just the utter definition of love to me. You make me young and wild and free, you make me laugh, you make up the matter in my heart that keeps me going every day. I could talk for hours, really I could. There was a moment that night that I came to visit you in Staten where you looked into my eyes and I told myself, this woman is going to be my wife. I want to have a future and a family and a life for this woman. I wanted to throw everything else away for you and that feeling has never left me,” he said through soft cries. “Please Hilda, be my wife. Grow old with me so we can dance in the rain forever.”

The moment the first words leave his lips Hilda’s jaw dropped. As he continued to speak her eyes well up with tears, and she couldn’t even begin to attempt to suppress the smile that gradually formed on her lips. By the end of his speech she’s full on crying, though the only indication was her tearful laugh as she nods her head fervently.

“Yes,” she answered softly, sniffling afterwards as she cupped his face in both hands. “I’ll marry you Oscar.” A bright smile appeared on his face and he swooped her up, not even caring to put the ring on her finger as he spun her, cradling her head as he cried in joy.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear those words.” Hilda laughed through tears and hugged him so tight her arms began to hurt after a minute, but she didn’t care. She’d stay wrapped up in his arms forever if she had the chance.

“I know the feeling” she giggles out, beginning to pepper kisses all around his face, unable to contain her joy. Oscar scrunched up his nose, trying to turn his face as he laughed.

“You’re too cute!” He shouted over the rain, a flash of lightning once again striking through the sky almost as a response to his words. He cupped her face to stop her from kissing him, his whole body was shaking with laughter. 

“You make me so happy.” The woman laughed joyfully as she rested her hands over his, staring at him as if he’d strung up the stars and moon for her. 

“You make me even happier,” she says with full sincerity. He dipped her down in his arms and kissed her passionately, his head tilted to the side as he did so. She returned the kiss with all the passion she could muster, holding him as if she never wanted to let him go (which she likely didn’t). After a moment he pulled back slightly, keeping her in the deep dip and cradling her head, his head over hers to shield her from the rain like he did that night in the refuge, but now in a different manner. He pressed a smaller kiss to her lips then smiled.

“I love you, my songbird,” he whispered, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” she whispered, pushing away some hair that stuck to his forehead from the rain. “And I can’t wait to marry you.” Oscar stood her up and pressed his forehead against hers for a moment before pulling away and smiling down at her. 

“Let’s get you inside” he whispered, already beginning to lead her inside with his arm around her waist. 

Like Spot and Quinn, their meeting was shrouded in unfortunate circumstances. Two people taught to hate the other, eventually falling in love. Oscar almost couldn’t believe it, but he wasn’t angry about it. As morbid as it sounded, part of him was almost happy that Hilda been sent to the refuge. Because she had no idea if he would’ve had the pleasure and honor of meeting her otherwise. He never would’ve gotten to love her, to devote himself to her the way he did now. But, thankfully, he never had to worry about that possibility. Because now he had the privilege of getting to marry her soon. And they were both happy about it.

[jdgo51]

Practicing Boundaries: Love vs Enabling

Today's inspiration comes from:

Boundaries

by Dr. Henry Cloud & Dr. John Townsend

"We all want to care and help those in need. But how do you know when you are being loving with someone, or are actually enabling them? When you are faced with a request for your time, energy or money, how do you know if the right response is to say “yes” and provide it, or “no” and decline?

The Bible teaches, over and over again, that we are to help others:

And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased. — Hebrews 13:16

We are designed to love others in word and deed. Also, for most of us, it’s much easier to say “yes” than “no”, for a number of reasons:

We feel compassion for the person’s struggle We remember our own difficult situations We don’t want them to feel disappointed and discouraged We wonder if God has placed us in their life for this situation We think we may be the only solution for them

At the same time, however, our provision for someone can actually make the situation worse for them, because we may be preventing them from experiencing some consequence for their behaviors, and not learning to change how they operate in life. This is the process of God’s disciplining us, so that we grow up and mature:

No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it. — Hebrews 12:7

The process of experiencing consequences is key:

A child in a 5-minute time out begs to get out in 3 minutes A teen asks not to be grounded for bad grades A friend who has had several failing jobs asks for a loan A spouse with a drinking problem asks their spouse to give them one more chance before requiring counseling In all of these examples, it’s unsure what the right thing to do might be. There is just not enough information here. So back to the question: how to tell if you’re being loving, or if you’re enabling? Here are 5 questions to ask yourself as a sort of filter, and you will find the answer to the issue when you engage with them. You will probably answer some as a “yes” and some as a “no”, and don’t worry that the answers for all agree. You’ll see the balance to help your decision.

#1. Are they unable?

We are called to have compassion and help those who have not, and also can not. They simply do not have the capability or resources to solve their problem. For example, a tribe in a developing country has no water wells. Or a homeless man has nowhere to sleep but under a freeway. Or a young businesswoman needs a mentor to help her grow in her leadership. We all are to be mindful to carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. — Galatians 6:2

However, to be unable is very different than to be unwilling. Something may be difficult or inconvenient, and that’s just life. For example, a young adult who is living at home and doesn’t want to work, go to school, or do house chores, is more unwilling than unable.

How do you know when you are being loving with someone, or are actually enabling them?

#2. Are you resourced:

Do you possess what the person is asking for? That might include the finances, or the time, or energy required. So often, I see people giving what they can’t afford to give, and then not being able to meet the demands of their lives. I have had to work with pastors whose families suffered because while Dad was helping everyone in the church, he wasn’t around to be a parent and husband. Here are some sobering words:

Anyone who does not provide for their relatives, and especially for their own household, has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever. — 1 Timothy 5:8

We need to make sure we are resourcing ourselves for the priorities we have been tasked to do.

There is certainly always a case for sacrificial giving, as in the example of the woman who gave her last two coins (Mark 12:41-44). So pray, and make sure you consider if the sacrifice is one that God has surely called you to do.

#3. Do they have skin in the game?

In other words, are they also putting significant effort into solving the problem? This might involve going to job interviews, starting one’s own microbusiness, putting a small percentage of money into an initiative and doing homework after a coaching session:

The one who is unwilling to work shall not eat. — 2 Thessalonians 3:10

When a person who is struggling simply receives that help passively, it tends to foster increased passivity and what psychologists call “learned helplessness.” Learned helplessness is a sense that we don’t have choices that matter, so we simply give up and don’t take initiative or agency to solve our challenges. But when our efforts are part of the solution, we are strengthened and grow.

#4. Will you feel cheerful or will you feel reluctant or under compulsion?

This question is based on Paul’s words about giving:

Each of you should give what you have decided in your heart to give, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver. — 2 Corinthians 9:7

Our emotions provide information for us. If we feel cheerful, then that’s a sign that you are happy you made a good choice. If we feel reluctant (grudging) or under compulsion (guilt-ridden), that’s a sign that you might need to rethink all of this.

#5. Is the outcome gratitude and autonomy, or entitlement and dependency?

This last question is based on your history with the person. What have been the results of your providing for them? Are they thankful and able to bear their burdens more? That’s a good thing, and a positive sign that you may be doing the right thing. Or do they become entitled and demanding for more of your resource, and is their dependency on you increased? Not a good sign. Pay attention to the outcomes, or the fruit:

A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit. — Matthew 7:18

If you have no giving history with the person, ask others who know them for their feedback.

Use these questions to clarify what the loving, but not enabling, path should be for yourself in your situation. Be sure to pray and ask safe friends what they think.

Finally, finally finally: if, after you have used this system, it’s still murky, and you’re unsure, then it might be best, in this particular situation, to default to grace. It’s always the best place to be."'

Written for Devotionals Daily by Dr. John Townsend, author with Henry Cloud of Boundaries.

[piratesfromspace]

Finance Management (Deckard Shaw/Reader)

Deckard Shaw (Fast & Furious) x Reader

Word count: 1.9k CW: mention of food & alcohol, smut

Female reader

Note: This short fic has been inspired by a friend of mine who created the character of the financial advisor of mister Shaw.  Also there is not enough fics with Deckard Shaw so here we are. 

Read on Ao3

MASTERLIST

“Mister Shaw, it’s me again, I’m so sorry but I really need you to call me back please. It’s important. Thank you.”

You let out a deep sigh as you hang up. Handling the finances of rich people is a lucrative and thrilling job, but damn it sometimes those clients of yours are annoying. Especially Mister Shaw.

First, he’s annoyingly busy and unreachable. Most powerful people are, but he can disappear for weeks on end without so much as sending an email.

Second, he’s also infuriatingly handsome and smart and funny. And he has an impeccable sense of style. He has nothing in common with the other clients of your firm, mainly old and boring men, whose only conversation subject is their money and how they hate their wives.

And finally, the worst thing about him is how good of a lover he is. You found out half a year ago, when you ended up in his bed after what should have been a regular business dinner. It was a mistake of course. One that could have cost you your career because it was a very serious breach of contract to sleep with a client.

You never told a soul, and you promised yourself to never do it again. But it was still hard to forget the feeling of him pressed against you, of his hands holding your waist, of his mouth between your thighs...

You try to focus again on your task and stretch your legs, kicking out your high heels. Feet bare on the soft carpet, you walk to the floor-to-ceiling window of your posh office, taking a second to admire the view, as the final rays of the sun disappear over the lake, and Geneva lights up under you. It’s breath-taking, really. But it also means you’re once again staying way too late at the office. Your assistant has gone home a couple hours ago, and your colleagues are either on vacation or on business trips, making you the only person on the building’s 7th floor. You still have a few things to finish so you plop on your leather chair and get back to work, hoping to make it home before 11pm.

That’s when you hear it: the familiar *ding* of the elevator’s door, at the end of the corridor. You tense immediately. You’re not waiting for anyone, and the security guards always use the stairs when completing their patrol.

Steps are coming down your way, and you grab your phone, ready to dial for the security team. And then you recognize his silhouette through the polished glass wall. There is a knock on your door before it opens to reveal Deckard Shaw himself. He’s wearing an expensive suit and an even more expensive watch, a very light stubble is highlighting his perfect jawbone and his deep grey eyes bear a mischievous glint. Handsome, as always.

“Mister Shaw…” you stammer.

“You know you can call me Deckard.” His stupidly sexy British accent and cocky smile will be the death of you.

He’s been in your office for two seconds and you already want to slap him in the face - or climb him like a tree, you can’t really decide.

“It’s quite late, Mister Shaw, you scared me. Anything I can do for you?” you insist on saying his family name, in a feeble attempt to maintain a professional façade.

“You needed to see me.” it’s more a comment than a question, and you’re suddenly reminded of the dozen of unanswered phone calls you made trying to reach him.

“Yes… yes, that’s right, but honestly you could have called tomorrow morning.”

“I’d rather see you in person.” he answers, looking you straight in the eyes. You can feel yourself blushing under his gaze. “Wanted to make sure you’re alright. You’re working too much you know.” he says with a soft smile, as his eyes drift down to your sore bare feet and then to the discarded heels under your desk.

What a condescending prick, you think. But at the same time, he’s right and his care seems somewhat genuine. It will not make you forget you almost lost your job because of him though.

“How did you know I was still here tonight?” you purposely redirect the attention on him, rather than you.

“Well, let’s say I would not leave the woman in charge of my assets without any... supervision.”

“Is that a polite way to say you’ve been spying on me?” you retort dryly.

“Oh I love when you’re getting all angry and snobbish, your French accent is even cuter.”

You’re gonna murder him. You really really want to tell him to go fuck himself, but he’s the one responsible for a very generous part of your paycheck, so you have to keep quiet.

“I would be more comfortable if we keep our conversation strictly professional, Mister Shaw.”

“Everything you want, dear.”

-----

“Mmph, fu-ck... Deckard, don’t stop”

The professional attitude has been long forgotten, since Deckard has pulled you onto his lap on the velvet couch of his presidential suite at the Four Seasons hotel, where you were supposed to only review the important documents he needed to see. But when the room service had brought a very nice bottle of Scotch, you knew you were screwed. You could not refuse a drink, and the warmth of alcohol combined with the warmth of his hand slightly brushing against your thigh had overcome all your resolve.

You are now sprawled on the king-size bed, moaning his name as Deckard Shaw is destroying your sanity very methodically. One foot on the floor, one leg bent on the edge of the bed, he’s pounding into you, holding your hip with one hand, and circling your clit with the other. His pace is calculated, not too fast so you can feel every inch of him, but not too slow so your nerves don’t have any respite, and it’s driving you crazy. Hands tangled in the dark silk sheets beneath you, you try to catch your breath to no avail.

“I won’t stop darling. Not until I can feel you coming again all over me.” His voice is like heavy honey, dripping all over your senses, drowning you in sweet and sinful promises.

You want to close your eyes to focus on the overwhelming feelings, but the view in front of you is too good to be missed. He looks like some demi-god, bathed in the subdued light of the room, broad and muscular chest, abs perfectly drawn. What is his job again? You vaguely remember him talking about serving a few years in the military when he was younger, but he is still definitely hitting the gym on a regular basis.

His muscles flex when he brings you down on his thick cock a little more sharply than before, and you keen as he hits that perfect spot inside of you. You can feel your orgasm build again, and so can he.

“You’re close, princess, aren’t you?”

You mewl in response and he chuckles darkly, keeping up with his ruthless assault on your most sensitive parts. He angles his fingers just a bit differently on your clit, and keeps thrusting into you, stretching you so perfectly you can’t remember the last time someone fucked you this good - wait , actually you can, it was a few months ago and it was by mister Deckard “annoyingly perfect” Shaw.

“Come on, I know you want to, I’ll keep going until you give me one more anyway princess…”

And that's it. You’re gone. Back arching off the bed, you come hard, harder than the first time, clenching around him. You barely hear him hiss in pleasure as you spasm helplessly on the soft sheets, the silk feeling almost cool against your burning skin.

----

“Good morning darling."

You open an eye, natural light is flooding the room, as is the delicious smell of fresh coffee and tea. At the foot of the bed, you spot a room service trolley loaded with breakfast treats and through the open door of the bathroom, you can see Deckard is looking at you in the mirror reflection while buttoning a crisp white shirt.

"Your tea is ready. Black, no milk, right?”

He's right and it's annoying because is there anything this man messes up?

"What time is it?" You ask, suddenly remembering you have a busy schedule today.

"You have 27 minutes to eat and get ready, so I can drop you off at your office in time for your first call of the day."

He knows about your tea preferences and your professional agenda, of course he does , he was not joking when mentioning the whole "spying-on-you" situation, or "supervision" as he liked to call it. He needs to stop it, but you decide to keep this discussion for another day.

You stretch, and rise to put on the hotel bathrobe, sighing at the thought of having to wear the same clothes as yesterday. Last you saw them, they were scattered on the floor all over the room and your underwear were positively ruined.

"The concierge was very helpful this morning, thanks to him I got you a few clothes delivered for today." Deckard adds as he pours himself a cup of coffee from the cart and gestures to the leather armchair where a couple of bags doning logos of luxury brands are perched.

You make your way to the packages, and open the first one to reveal a sophisticated dress, fitted and sexy, but not too much that it would be inappropriate as office wear. The second bag is a thoughtful selection of high end make-up products. And the last one contains a gorgeous set of lacy lingerie, nothing too raunchy but sexy nonetheless. Of course everything is in the right size.

"Thank you..." you whisper, a little stunned. The assortment must have cost him a couple grands at the very least - not that he can't afford it because you're well placed to be sure he can, but still, he did not have to do this.

You have to suppress a smile, because damn he's being annoyingly perfect once more, but you don't want to give him the satisfaction to reveal he was right when promising you could stay the night instead of going home and still look fresh for your day at work.

"I was thinking, I'm free tonight, so maybe we can finally review those documents, you know the ones you were supposed to show me before you jumped on me on the couch last night?" Deckard states as he bites in an apple in front of the window, casually looking at lake Geneva glinting in the bright morning sun.

You blush unwillingly, struggling to find a reply that would save you from admitting you had failed at enforcing your usual work ethic.

"I'm kidding dear!" He barks in a laugh. "I know enough to trust you on this venture, you have my approval to go on with the investment." He continues more seriously.

You open your mouth to answer but he's quicker.

"I'm not kidding about being free though, so what about dinner and then we can see where this takes us…"

When you don't answer immediately, he turns to look at you. Maybe he's realizing the situation can be awkward and precarious for you since you're technically working for him.

"You can say no, I won't take any offense." He adds without irony.

"Yes..." You finally answer, tip toeing toward him until you can snatch the apple he was eating from him. He protests but you shush him.

"...Yes, I would like this very much..."

As he starts to protest again, you take a big bite from the fruit with a knowing smile.

"...but only for dinner. Nothing more."

"You'll be the death of me." Deckard says, falsely irritated, his voice dropping lower.

"At least the feeling is mutual, mister Shaw ..."

[jackrrabbit]

open season thirsts [4/?] /// Iwaizumi x f!Reader (18+)

Request: Omg I love you Bodyguard!Iwaizumi x bratty daughter of a wealthy man? I love this trope because of the tension, brat taming, and dom!iwa

A/N: why do i keep making these drabbles long asf…gotta say though this concept hits 🥵

Tags/warnings: dom/sub, brat taming, power dynamics, teasing, impact play/spanking, coercion? but like barely idk, all characters are adults

did you really think he wasn’t going to notice you leaving?

listen, iwaizumi gets it. you’re a grown woman, it must be difficult to live like a sheltered little girl just because you’re the daughter of a diplomat. but iwa’s not getting paid to listen to your excuses—he’s getting paid to stop you from doing dumb shit like sneaking out at 1AM to see your stuck-up trust-fund friends. and if you were really as mature as you seem to think you are, you’d at least have the decency to look ashamed when he catches you.

“…oops.”

“is that all you have to say for yourself?” iwa’s leaning on the hood of your lexus lfa, holding the keys up for you to see. the car is one of the many many luxury toys your dad’s spoiled you with over the years. if iwa remembers correctly, this one was an 18th birthday present a few years ago, long before he started working for your family. you’ve bought more cars since (always financed on daddy’s centurion amex), but the lexus is your favorite. iwa knew you’d be taking this one out.

“so you caught me. whatever.” you roll your eyes and swipe a lock of salon-perfect hair behind your ear. “what, are you waiting for a medal or something?”

god, you’re irritating. iwa should be at home right now watching the news and microwaving his dinner, but no. he’s in the garage of a mansion that’s worth more than his entire ancestral line has made in their collective lifetimes, babysitting a rich girl who’s too full of herself to understand the meaning of the word rules. “your father made it clear that you need to stay on the property after curfew.”

“what does he think’s going to happen? i went out all the time before he got this stupid job.”

iwa folds his arms over his chest and glares at you. lesser people would flinch, but you don’t seem to care. “the ambassador has received threats, and he’s deemed it an unacceptable risk—“

“oh, come on,” you interrupt. “he’s not here, is he? just let me go, i won’t tell.”

“i have a job to do.” it’s like you’re trying to get on his nerves…come to think of it, you probably are. iwa can’t stand your type. you’re under the impression that you can just bat your eyelashes and flash the ysl wallet you keep daddy’s money in and get whatever you want. but it stops here. “do you remember what your father said he’d do the next time i caught you sneaking out?”

that gets a reaction. you pull back and look directly at iwa. “wait—no, he wouldn’t. dad wouldn’t actually cut me off.”

“i guess we’ll see.” iwa twirls the keys around his finger and the jingling echoes out through the oversized garage.

you blink, take a couple slow steps up to him so you’re almost chest to chest, then delicately lay your hand over his, tracing soft circles on his pulse point with your thumb. “come on, hey. you’re not actually going to tell him, are you?”

and there it is, the coquette act. you have it down to an art. it’s probably worked on every other bodyguard your father’s hired, and iwa wouldn’t blame them—it’s almost working on him too. you know exactly what you’re doing and so does he, but fuck—you look up at him through those thick, pretty lashes, bite your lip, and he tries to swallow but—his mouth feels dry all of a sudden.

“please…would you let me off just this once?” you sigh, sweeter than licorice.

goddamnit. iwa can’t keep himself from skimming over your body, lingering first on your bare legs under the little skirt you’re wearing and then your soft perky tits and then the glossy wet pink of your lips. you look like a model in a magazine ad for clothes he can’t afford. you look too perfect to be real, like jesus no one looks that perfect in real life but somehow you do. your perfume smells like some combination of a swedish spa and—something like honey. fuck. your gel nails are filed into short points that you’re dragging lightly over his palm, trying to reach…

…the key. obviously.

“rules exist for a reason,” iwa says in monotone, pulling the key away from you. “go back to bed. i’m going to talk to your father in the morning.”

a quick look of frustration passes over your features, and then you smooth it down and slip back into your seduction attempt, this time playing with the sleeve of his jacket. “oh, please. i’m sure there’s something i can do to convince you. don’t you want to help me out?”

do you have any idea what you’re saying?

because sure, iwa hates your type. spoiled little rich girl. if you were anyone else, he’d shut it down right here, go tell your father as promised, force you to hate him. but for some reason that doesn’t feel like the right move with you…

you’re really not that bad. you talk to him like a person most of the time, and you aren’t quite as air-headed as the brats he usually has to keep track of. you just need to get it into your head that when you misbehave, your actions are going to have consequences.

like, see, when you told iwa just now that you’d like to do something to convince him to go easy on you—when you tipped your head to the side like that and put your hand on his shoulder to stroke his bicep—he knows you weren’t thinking of the follow-through. you’re expecting him to be so thrown that he just caves, gives you your key, and keeps his mouth shut. you’re not actually thinking he’ll take you up on your offer.

“maybe there is something,” iwa hears himself saying. “if you really don’t want your father to know…it looks like i’ll have to teach you a lesson instead.”

for a second you think you heard him wrong. no way. iwaizumi didn’t—your bodyguard didn’t just insinuate—what? you run through a few alternatives in your head but nothing seems to make sense, so you figure he’s joking. only when you shift your weight to your other foot (damn it, these heels were not made to actually be stood in) and pause for him to crack a smile and take it back, he doesn’t. the disapproving look on his face stays firm.

so you laugh, all cold and haughty so he knows you’re pissed. “you’re kidding.”

“bend over,” iwa tells you in the same tone of voice he always uses when he orders you around.

your jaw drops. “oh my god—who the hell do you think you are?”

“bend over the hood right now, or get cut off. your choice,” he says flatly.

and maybe it’s because you still don’t quite believe that he’ll actually do anything, but you decide to go ahead and play the game of chicken until he caves. iwa’s been working for your dad for almost a year now, and you’ve never seen him lose that ultra-professional bodyguard aura. sure, you’ll bend over, but it’s not like he’ll actually touch you.

“fine,” you say, flipping your hair over your shoulder and carefully setting your bag down on the lexus’s roof. you shoot iwa a look—hey idiot, i’m playing along, how do you like that?—and then primly fold forward over the hood with your ass in the air. today was not a good day to wear the wool miniskirt that’s currently riding way up over your hips—iwa must have an excellent view of the thong you’re wearing stretched tight over your mound.

which he does.

and honestly, it’s affecting his judgement a little.

you adjust your position a little bit and it makes you wiggle. iwa looks at the playboy-quality upskirt shot in front of him and thinks that the only possible thing that could make your ass look better right now would be if his hand was on it. “did you ever get spanked when you were young?”

“corporal punishment? that’s barbaric,” you scoff.

“hm…it’s about time someone actually disciplined you.” no turning back now. iwa strokes a hand over the soft skin of your ass cheek and sees your muscles twitch in response. “unless you want your father to know you tried to sneak out again.”

there’s your out, but you’re not taking it. what can you say? part of you wants to see your straight-laced bodyguard actually do something naughty for once. besides… you look back at him standing behind you and see he shed his jacket to reveal the tight white undershirt he was wearing underneath, the tanned skin of his neck, the veins roping down his forearms.

so he’s actually stupid hot. go figure.

“whatever. are you going to spank me or not?” you ask him, doing your best to keep the anticipation out of your voice.

fuuuuck. iwa has to grit his teeth, close his eyes for a second. “we’ll start with ten. keep quiet, or i’ll start over,” he says, and then without waiting for your reaction, he raises a hand and gives your ass a nice firm slap. it’s nowhere near what he’d consider hard, but he still hears the muffled squeak of shock coming out of your mouth. you turn back to him, eyes burning, obviously ready to chew him out, but a second later you think better of it and hold your tongue.

good girl, iwaizumi thinks. you’re learning. “that’s one.���

[amjustagirl]

castles in the air: chapter 5

chapters: one.// two.// three.// four.// five.// six.// seven.// eight.// nine.// ten.//

pairing: kuroo tetsuro x f! reader  genre: romantic dramedy, fluff, angst  wc: 5.2k summary: kuroo is your pain in the ass classmate. nothing more. really.

For the first time ever, Kuroo Tetsuro isn’t awake when you leave your room before dawn. 

This time though, you’re not wearing your running shoes. Instead, you lug your bag onto your back, wheel your suitcase out of your room. You’ve packed your things long ahead of time, and you were supposed to take the bus back home with Kuroo, but that plan’s definitely moot, after last night. You’re anxious to avoid any prying eyes, and you haven’t slept well, tossing and turning in between bouts of sobs, so you may as well take the bus ride home to calm down, mark the end of an unpleasant chapter of life. 

The world feels infinite, and oh so small when you step beyond the dorm’s gates, the sky muted in shades of dark grey, cold air heavy, dead in your lungs. The wheels of your suitcase bump over cracks on the pavement, bag straps digging into the soft flesh in your shoulders. A short wait before the bus trundles down the hill, door  whooshing open, the driver calling out a greeting to you. 

You get on without turning back. 

Your father hasn’t left for work when you reach home. There’s rice and tamagoyaki on the table, garnishes of spring onion, seaweed and furikake on the side. Your mother bustling in the kitchen, too busy to pay you any mind, your little brother still fast asleep, on holiday, just like you. 

“Otou-san”, you greet him. He smiles back, wrinkles deeper than you remembered. 

“Welcome home, darling.” 

You muster all your energy to respond with a kiss to his cheek, try your best to return his smile. 

In no world are you a good actress. The fact that you only ever played supporting roles in school growing up is testament to that. But you manage to hold a whole conversation with your parents, explaining why you turned up half a day earlier than expected, updating them that yes, exams went very well, yes, you’re very happy at university, yes, you’re enjoying your classmates, no, there are no boys that have caught your eye, please mom, don’t set me up with your friend’s cousin’s son, he might turn out to be a serial killer - 

(that single, solitary lie makes your heart lurch in your chest, but you soldier on) 

“When does your lease for your apartment start?” your mum asks, before you can steal away to your bedroom to unpack your precious books, longing already to lose yourself in them in an attempt to wear away the hurt that’s gnawing away in the hollow of your chest. 

“The following week, I think”, you reply. 

Just in time for your internship with the large bank in Shinjuku that made all your classmates jealous because you were the only freshman they chose to accept. But misfortune never tends to come singly, they haunt you in pairs. On the same day, you find yourself fielding a call from a very apologetic A-chan, who tells you she can’t take up the lease with you in the end, because her mother’s ill and she’ll have to take the semester off school to stay home and nurse her mother back to health. 

“It’s nothing serious, thankfully, but I’ll pay my share of the rent until you find a roommate.”

“Nonsense”, you reply briskly, even though you’re panicking at the additional financial burden you’ll have to shoulder. “I’ll figure something out. Go take care of your mom, I’ll swing by with flowers once her surgery’s over.” 

Your finance excel skills come in handy when you calculate that it’s impossible for you to afford the apartment without a roommate, unless you take up a full time job. Sure, you could tide yourself over during the internship, the stipend you’ll earn will help as long as you’re frugal with your other expenses (you can skip meals if you really need to) but there’s no way you can shoulder the burden yourself during term-time, even with a part time job. Asking your parents for help is absolutely out of the question - they’ll have to pay for your little brother’s university fees next year, which is why you worked so hard to be eligible for as many scholarships as possible, you won’t even countenance asking them for a single yen more than they’d otherwise have to pay. 

One disaster after another. You can’t catch a break. 

At least your latest predicament distracts you from your phone, which lights up with texts and calls from Kuroo. You’ve only bothered to read the first one. It took you long enough, riddled as it was with spelling errors, where he claims he’s sorry, he was drunk, he never intended to hurt your feelings, he hopes you can still be friends - you’re too tired to read anymore. You don’t intend on believing the empty words of a fiend, of a liar, and you wait to accumulate enough texts from him to delete them all in one swoop. 

You have bigger things to worry about, you tell yourself. There isn’t time to waste being naive. You have no desire to waste any time on Kuroo Tetsuro anymore. 

(no more crying, don’t you dare. you’ll forget soon enough that you even cared.)

Waseda’s intranet, fortunately, is your best friend in this situation. You send out a message seeking a roommate who’d be willing to step into the lease at short notice, and thankfully, within a day or two, you’re busy meeting potential roommate candidates to size them up. You reject the first because she has cats (unfortunately, the landlord prohibits that), nearly runs away from the second because she professes to not even know how to use a microwave oven. 

“Hello!” The third candidate strides into the cafe at the appointed time, punctual to the dot. She offers her hand to you, and you immediately notice her warm eyes, an open smile. You can’t help but like her already. 

“I’m Chinen Yua! I’ll be taking a masters degree at Waseda for the next two years. Glad to make your acquaintance!” 

It seems the third time’s the charm. You sign the lease with her the very next day. 

Yua - as you now call her after she insisted you drop her family name, because she refuses to be called that when she’s at home, is the best roommate you could ask for. She’s chirpy and caring, a literal sunbeam in human form, and though you find it funny that she deems the little apartment you’ll share for the year ahead home so quickly, within a week of her pottering about the apartment, arranging little knick knacks and fairy lights about the living room and kitchen, your books in their place of honour in the shelf above your study desk, you realise that she might be right after all.  

You grow accustomed to coming home after a long day at your internship to a warm welcome, dinner bought from the combini by her (you reciprocate on the weekends, sometimes making a full brunch with pancakes that she devours), to nagging her to sleep instead of staying up all night watching ridiculous dramas that make her sob (you ignore her pointing out that you’re the exact same when the bookstore renews its stock of romance novels). 

“It’s because I miss Shugo”, she babbles, as you hand her another tissue. You nod, having heard her gush on and on and on about her love for her boyfriend - the very tall, very dashing Meian Shugo, middle blocker of the MSBY Black Jackals. 

“You called him twice today, Yua”, you raise your eyebrows, as she doesn’t stop sobbing over a scene where the protagonist has to split up with her love interest, in order for said very tall, very dashing love interest (who bears an uncanny resemblance to Meian, now that you think about it) to chase his dreams. 

“Y-yes, but it’s not enough”, she wails. You pat her back, sigh internally to yourself but fetch her another cup of tea. 

Impromptu breakdowns aside, within a month, you feel as if she’s the older sister you’ve never had. She understands when all you want to do is hide in your room with your books to decompress, but she also tactfully tries to lure you out when she thinks it’s time to cheer up by chasing you out of the house for a run, or organising a girls’ night in, with steamboat and a ghibli movie or two.

So it’s easy when she pops her head into your bedroom to sheepishly ask if it’s alright if Meian stays over for the weekend because competition season’s over and he’s got a couple of days off. 

“Yeah, of course”, you reply without thinking. “I could stay over at my parents’ so you have the place to yourself - don’t fuck on my bed though, that’d be really gross - “

She squeals your name, and you laugh. “I don’t want to chase you out of the apartment. Not when you have every right to stay here”, she demurs, wringing her hands. 

“I mean, I’m all for seeing you get romanced, especially if that stops you from being lovelorn and moping all over our sofa like you did last night. Again. Just y’know - have fun, use protection unless you want to pop out a couple of kids, enjoy your boyfriend to your heart’s content.”  

“Thank you”, she gushes, flying off presumably to text her darling Shugo. “You’re the best!” 

You do end up meeting one very tall, very handsome Meian Shugo before you head out for your parents’ place. His hand is so large it literally engulfs yours, and you have to bite your tongue not to ask the impertinent questions surfacing in your mind like - what on earth did your parents feed you when you were a baby and - is the weather truly different from up there, but Yua’s got that ridiculous dopey expression on her face that signals that you really shouldn’t dally, so you’re out of there, waving a cheery goodbye to the pair of them. 

When you do return, Yua’s sprawled face down on the sofa. There’s no sign of a giant in your apartment, so her soul probably left her body but just for laughs, you take her wrist to pointedly check her pulse, and she lets you, lying limp like a dead fish. 

“Shouldn’t you be energised from being exposed to the love of your life?” 

She stirs, a zombie rising from the dead. “But now I miss him even more!” 

You roll your eyes skywards at her dramatics, even though you sit by her to make sure she’s truly, really, fine. “Hey, at least you have a nice guy in your life that loves you very much -” 

That’s definitely the wrong thing to say to a romance junkie longing for her boyfriend. Her head immediately swivels to you and it’s your long honed instincts from fending off your mother’s bad habit of matchmaking you with her friends' very ineligible sons that you jump back, hands outstretched to ward your irrepressible roommate off. 

It doesn’t work anyway. 

“You should find yourself a nice guy too, so you can understand the pain I’m going through.”  

Oh, hell no. 

“I think you’ve snared one of the few decent guys in all of Japan. I’ll stick to 2-D men instead, they’re less likely to disappoint”.

Yua has the gall to protest that that’s not true, chattering on that you’re pretty, even if you spend your waking hours either in square, boxy jackets for work or shapeless hoodies, sagging pyjamas, that you really should put yourself out there, get yourself a man. When she adds slyly that Meian’s team has just added a libero to their roster, and he’s super cute, super sweet, and very, very single - 

“Yua”, you say, tone firmer than you’ve ever used with her. “Please, stop.” 

“You deserve love too - ”

(amber eyes, dim in the dying light. the smell of alcohol, heavy in the night.)

Your stomach lurches. You want to throw up.

“Yua.” She looks up, startled. “Stop.” 

She calls your name, you flee to your room. But Yua, despite her bubbly, sweet demeanor, isn’t deterred easily, tailing you even as you stubbornly bury your head into your pillows, refusing to look up at her. “I’m sorry, sweetie”, she murmurs, stroking a cool hand through your hair. “I didn’t mean to push you into something you’re uncomfortable with, but if you want to talk about it, I’m happy to listen anytime.”

 “There’s nothing to talk about”, you reply petulantly. 

“There isn’t? What about the fact that your phone’s been buzzing with texts and calls from some guy - Kuroo Tetsuro, was it?.”

You want to tell her it’s very much none of her business. You’ve kept the events of that night to yourself, sealing the memory away from even your high school friends. But maybe it’s the warm sympathy in her eyes, the gentleness in her voice that opens the floodgates, and you spill, secret after secret. Your crush on Kuroo Tetsuro - your classmate, the closest friend you’ve made in school. How you built castles in the air centered around him, in hopes that he reciprocated your feelings, or at least saw you for you. How his actions brought your dreams, your carefully cherished castles crashing down into the earth, constituting the worst sort of betrayal because you trusted him, and he repaid you by mocking you, hurting you by humiliating you in front of his entire team. 

You don’t realise you’re crying until Yua presses a tissue to your cheek. You take it, numbly brushing them away. 

“I suppose it’s my fault for thinking I stood a chance with him.” 

(for dreaming. for trying to grasp more than you deserve.)

“Oh, sweetheart”, Yua crushes you into her chest. “How is any of this your fault?” 

You fall asleep soon after that, head pillowed on her lap. When you wake, you find her curled up around you, a protective shield. Through the glass of your narrow window, there’s the faintest reflection of daybreak, the lightest dappled sunlight, gleaming just ever so slightly pink and gold.  

“I’m sorry about last night”, you tell Yua, shamefacedly hanging your head. You shouldn’t have dumped all your problems on her shoulders, however willing she professed to be. She simply shakes her head, heads out to make you breakfast, hand you a cup of tea. 

“Don’t be”, she replies, when the fog of sleep has lifted. “I’m glad you talked to me.” 

You shrug, shoulders slumping. “It is what it is”, you say, a touch dramatically. “I’ll die alone, a spinster with ten cats, and maybe they’ll find my body because my cats will get hungry and break out of the apartment for food.” 

Yua snorts, a habit she’s picked up from you. “Not all guys are pricks like Kuroo Tetsuro. You just gotta get out there and find a nice one for yourself instead of hiding amongst your books.” 

“Yua, have you not listened to a word I’ve said -” 

She disregards your protests. “Maybe it’s a bit too soon to say this but my mom always said to strike when the iron’s hot. That worked with Shugo at least - let me tell you, a short skirt worked wonders in getting him to see me as something other than his best friend’s little sister -” 

“Yua!” she giggles at your exaggerated gasp. “You hussy!” 

“Look, the point is - well, okay, maybe I’ve lost my point -” she waggles her head back and forth, as if she’s allowing her thoughts to rattle in her head before exclaiming anew - “Oh! So - look, if you want something, you gotta go get it for yourself. I’m sure you do that in every other aspect of your life. Shouldn’t you apply the same philosophy to romance?” 

You tilt your head at her, confused. “And how am I supposed to do that?” 

“By going on dates - think of them as practice exams! By dressing a little prettier - not that you should dress for the male gaze or anything silly like that - my mother would kill me if she heard me say that - but dress to make yourself feel more confident. It’ll make you happier, I swear and when you’re happier, you’ll be more inclined to be open to new people and new experiences and that’s the best way of finding love -” 

“Yua”, you interrupt. “You’re rambling again.” 

She pinches your cheeks playfully, but for once her eyes are serious. 

“You know what I noticed?  You’re kind. You’re caring. I see it in so many ways. You always remember to pick up my favourite snack for me when I’m blue, watch my  shows with me, even though you hate them. You give me the living room where the internet’s the most steady just so I can call Shugo, and you don’t even tell me off when I get a little loud and you’ve got to wake up early for work the next day. And it’s not just me - you’ve got a soft spot for the oldies in the building, always helping them with their bags.” 

“That’s not - I’m not a nice person, Yua. Don’t make it sound like I am”, you insist. 

“You are, but for some reason, you refuse to show it, hiding instead behind sharp words. You judge people because you’re scared of being judged yourself. All that results in is you hiding behind your books, convinced that real love - the type that exists outside of the written page - is not meant for you.” 

Maybe what she’s said is true. You’ve internalised your fears and insecurities, dressing it up in your prejudiced manner towards your classmates, towards most new people you meet, never letting them breach the buttressed walls you’ve put up. But the thought of pulling your walls down for everyone to see you for who you are scares you, when your trust has already been broken once before. 

“What if it is?” 

“You won’t know if you never try.” 

You - you are scared. Letting yourself be vulnerable scares you, more than it should. But there’s sense in what she’s said, as you mull over her words until your tea grows cold. It was an impulse on your part to even reach out to Kuroo that fateful lecture, and that led you to a firm friendship, regardless of how it ended. Perhaps you were over-hasty in dismissing the rest of your classmates, limiting your circle of friends out of projected fears, deep-held insecurities. Perhaps, you could do better. Perhaps you can be brave enough to build more castles in the sky, in the hopes that one will eventually stick, even if there’s the risk that they might be brought down into the ground. 

You look up at Yua. “Where should I start?” 

“Yua, no.” 

You stare at the outfit she’s put you in with abject horror. It’s too short, too bright, too - too everything, not to mention the fact that you’ll probably freeze to death if you wore this dress out. You deeply regret allowing Yua to play dress up with you as her victim. 

“Oh, yes.” 

You pull at its hem, shifting from foot to foot. You stare at the mirror before you. You don’t recognise the girl that stares back at you - she’s in a dress that you’d never pick out by yourself, not that it’s not pretty, but you just - you hardly wear anything this tight and form fitting. 

Dresses like that…well, it’s just not you. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Come on”, Yua wheedles. “Do you not like it because you genuinely feel uncomfortable, or because it’s unfamiliar to you?” 

“Because I look stupid”, you grumble, folding your arms in front of your chest. That’s another thing - the neckline is so low, you’ll probably fall out of it, if you tilt the slightest bit forward, not that you really can lean forward without exposing your underwear, that’s how ridiculously short this stupid dress is - 

“Fine”, Yua puts up her hands, signalling defeat. “Why don’t you try this one instead?” 

She hands you another dress that’s still somewhat impractical for winter (all dresses are, you’d argue), but it’s soft and woolen and hugs all the right places. It reminds you a little of the sweater dress you wore on New Year’s eve, nevermind that it was forced onto you by your friends. You actually feel kind of - well, somewhat pretty in it. You twirl around in front of the mirror, feeling a little like a kitchen maid sneaking off to the ball, and decide you might actually like what you’re wearing. 

“I like it!”

“Great!” she says, too-easily, and you somewhat suspect you’ve been played. “Just in time, cos Shugo’s coming by after his practice match anytime soon, and Shion will come with him - ”

Your nerves hit you like a sledgehammer. 

“Yua”, you say. “Are you sure - are you sure this is a good idea? I’ve never been on a date! What if I make a fool of myself - I mean, I know he’s not looking for anything serious, I’m just coming along as a fourth wheel but seriously, seriously - ”

“Practice exam, remember”, Yua says gaily, fixing her hair. At least she didn’t force you to wear make-up, you drew a hard line at that. “Just have fun!” 

Just have fun, she said. The doorbell rings, and your stomach tries to claw its way out of your throat. Definitely the opposite of fun. “Shugo!” Yua shrieks, flinging herself into her boyfriend’s arms, and you wait patiently, resisting the urge to chew your nails, glancing nervously at the brown haired man watching bemused as his teammate gets willingly mauled by your roommate. 

“I’m Inunaki”, he bows politely to you. Stunned, you greet him with a bow of your own. 

Dinner goes fine, you suppose. Yua is all snuggled up with Shugo in the booth seat across from you, leaving you and Inunaki to strike up a conversation as best you can. 

“Yua tells me you’re treating this as a practice exam”, he says, smiling wide, flashing you a row of perfect, white teeth. 

You glare at your roommate, but she’s too busy trying to get herself thrown out of the restaurant for public displays of affection to pay you any mind. 

“I’ve never been on a date before and Yua convinced me to practice - as if it’s something you can get good at”, you confess, heat already creeping up the back of your neck. This is such a bad idea, no matter what Yua said - you can’t believe you’re actually out with a pro-athlete, even if neither of you are looking for anything serious. Little old cranky you, who prefers hiding amongst her fortress of books instead of actual, real-life people - 

“C’mon. How about we get out of here, let the two lovebirds have some privacy?” 

Wordlessly, you let him lead you out of the restaurant, down bustling Tokyo streets until you reach Shinjuku junction, throngs of people passing you, neon lights flashing, an array of billboards to distract you. He bumps your shoulder lightly with his elbow, grins when you turn to look at him. 

“Since you’re in need of some practice, why don’t you take me somewhere you think would be a good place for a first date?” 

“I can’t promise I’ll be good company”, you warn. “Or be any good at - at this at all.” 

“Practice makes perfect. You can flirt with me until you get it right”, he laughs as you hide your face in your hands, embarrassed by his straightforwardness, waiting patiently until you recover and decide which direction to steer him in. 

Desperation and sheer embarrassment makes you tumble into your favourite ice cream shop, nevermind that it’s the tail-end of winter. Inunaki doesn’t seem to mind, gamely ordering a huge sundae and two cups of hot chocolate, informing you merrily that it’s the off-season, so he doesn’t have to heed his nutritionist’s instructions, even though he’s sure he’ll pay for it when he’s back full-time at training. 

“It sounds hard, being a full time athlete”, you comment, stirring marshmallows into your drink. 

“It’s worth it if you love the game, I think. But enough about me, why don’t you tell me about yourself?” 

It’s a transparent attempt to ease you into conversation, but you appreciate his thoughtfulness. You trade stories about university and work, about your childhoods. He’s easy-going, quick to laughter, roaring with mirth when you admit that you were relieved when you discovered he wasn’t a giant like Meian. He tells you it’s one of the few times his height (or lack thereof) has been a boon, and not a curse.

“Yua must need a ladder to climb Meian”, you giggle. “At least, a girl like me can reach you easily.” 

“I’d be down to practise that if a pretty girl like you is asking”, he says cheekily as you clap your hands over your mouth, aghast at what you’ve just said. 

You scold him for being a flirt. He laughs even harder, but you find yourself not minding it at all.   

It’s a conversation that flows easily, now that you’ve let go of any insecurities, any preconceived notions about either him or you. You forget you ever dreaded the very thought of going out on a blind (practice) date and regret its end, when he does the chivalrous thing, walks you all the way home. He claims that it’s a necessary gesture, lest he court extra laps from his captain for being a shitty date to a friend of a friend. 

“It’s not a real date so Meian really wouldn’t mind”, you say. “It really doesn’t count, it’s fine.” 

He pauses on your front step. “It’s a pity that I’m not looking for anything serious, or I’ll definitely ask you out on a second date.” 

His smile is earnest. You decide he’s telling the truth. 

“Thank you”, you reply, giddy with relief. “I’m glad I didn’t screw up, at least. A successful practice - check!”

You suddenly realise he’s eyeing you with a look you can’t quite decipher. Before you can ask him what’s wrong, there’s a sudden press of lips to your cheek. He steps back, a hint of regret in the curve of his smile. 

“You aced it, pretty girl. Do yourself a favour and find yourself a guy who actually deserves you, okay?”

 You’re so shocked you’re unable to react, watching him leave after he bids you goodnight, goodbye. 

“He kissed you?!” 

You’re tempted to see if it’s possible to suffocate yourself from being buried alive in couch cushions to avoid the too-bright, too-eager look in your irrepressible roommate’s eyes, but you nod anyway. You regret it immediately. 

“See! Told you trying to be open to - to things like dates with nice boys, and clothes that make you feel confident, not frumpy might be a very, very good thing! And I bet you weren’t cranky and snarly for once, that probably helped - I don’t know why you insist on hiding behind your grumpiness all the time. Well, now all you gotta do is continue this streak of trying new things!” 

“It’s just one kinda successful date with no follow-up cos Inunaki-san isn’t looking for romance right now, you’re reading too much into this”, you snark back, because Shion might have been the right person (perhaps, perhaps),  but he’s clearly entered your life at the wrong time. 

Still, Yua seems undeterred, deeming your date with Inunaki as an unrivalled success. You think she’s drunk on Meian, but feels too bad to gush about her absolute hunk of a boyfriend (her words, not yours) that she’s trying to burnish up your non-existent, pathetic love life. But maybe, just maybe, she’s right. Stepping out of your comfort zone, saying yes to new people, to new experiences might actually be a good thing. Who knows what might come your way if you just try? 

Maybe, just maybe it’s time to be brave. It’s time to stop being afraid of what might come your way. 

That thought sticks with you when you catch sight of a “help wanted” sign in the window of your favourite bookshop, a cute boy with dark eyes greeting you solemnly when you walk in to enquire about a part time job, gnawing incessantly at the back of your mind when your professor emails you about setting up introductory lectures and tutoring sessions with incoming freshmen, when you say yes to some of your university friends inviting you to a karaoke session, a night out for drinks with them and their larger circle of friends. You watch your words more, try not to give in to your impulses to lash out with sharp words whenever you feel uncomfortable, and resort to human kindness instead. 

To your surprise, your efforts are slowly reciprocated. You’re welcome with warm smiles and open arms. 

“I asked Akaashi-kun from the bookstore out on a date”, you tell Yua. Predictably, she shrieks. You stuff your fingers in your ears patiently until she subsides. “Could you help me choose what to wear?” 

A wicked, cheeky grin grows on her face. “Why, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Another castle in the air starts to form. 

You continue building them fearlessly, despite knowing they may topple into the ground. That’s the very nature of dreams. The whole point is to keep striving for them, in the hopes that one day, some day, they might come true. And if they don’t - well, at least you were brave enough to try, brave enough to start dreaming again. 

That’s an achievement in and of itself.

Your second year of school begins in a swirl of pink and white petals. 

You’re in class before the petals and leaves strewn on the sidewalk disintegrate from the stampede of students rushing  around. There’re a lot of considerations behind choosing the perfect seat, not right in front where you have to crane your head to peer up at the lectern, not too far behind where you’re liable to get distracted. Four rows up from the bottom, dead in the center, but to your annoyance someone’s already occupying the seat besides, a certain someone you were hoping to avoid. 

A dark plume of unruly hair. A lopsided, wry smile that borders on a smirk. 

Fuck. Kuroo Tetsuro is trying to say hi.  

Horrors of horrors - you rear back, about to turn on your heel to fly down the stairs, screw getting the perfect seat. You and Yua discussed the possibility of him approaching you to talk because your past self and him signed up for the same classes, even had an agreement to continue working together. You had a plan to greet him politely with some dignity intact, before avoiding him for the rest of the semester. But before you can make your escape, he catches your wrist with catlike reflexes. 

Plans foiled, but you still can recover from this. 

“Kuroo-san”, you greet him stiffly, mindful of curious glances being thrown your way from your classmates streaming into the room. “I hope you’ve been well.” 

He ignores any attempt at pleasantries. “D’you think we can talk?” 

You certainly do not want to talk. But your attempts at shaking him off fail. 

He doesn’t let go.

m.list.~ taglist.~

a/n: pretty please, tell me what you think?

[sukirichi]

earned it [06]

Gojo Satoru is a firm believer that if you work hard for it then you shall earn it. But on the other side, he’s not unfamiliar with his own sins. He also believes that there is punishment due for his sins as he’s earned it.

cw. attempted murder and suicide, angst ig i feel nothing at this point because NAOYA 😭

notes. i’m rolling with the earned it jokes that reader is shippable with everyone so HAH enjoy this chapter because I didn’t enjoy the last LMAO (IM SO EXCITED FOR TOJI TO APPEAR!)

series masterlist

Your muscles throbbed, the pounding of your heart felt even through your skin. You’ve spent hours in the training room, taking punch by punch, landing blow by blow – yet no matter how hard you tried, you kept falling on your ass. At this point, your backside was beyond sore, skin drenched with sweat and clothes sticking uncomfortably to the surface. Meanwhile, your ‘savior’ barely felt the need to catch his breath, instead gazing down at you with disappointment written all over his face.

“Why do you expect so much from me?” you panted, fists clenched on the mat. “Didn’t you tell me you just needed me to get your money back and that’s it? I didn’t ask for you to do anything so stop telling me I’m indebted to you all the time.”

Naoya clicked his tongue, clearly disappointed by your lack of resolve. Above you, he swept up his cane and finally balanced himself. You previously thought he didn’t struggle because he looked so calm and composed, easily overpowering you even with his injury, but his lips were strained, jaw clenched tight that perhaps he was just good at concealing his pain. It made you shut up and watch his every move; his back faced you – probably to hide whatever fleeting moment of vulnerability he had.

“I won’t always be there to save your sorry life,” he said calmly, “You need to learn how to be strong on your own no matter how tough it gets. Now if you’ll keep complaining instead of finishing your training, I could happily lock you up and force you to do my dirty work for me.”

“Then why don’t you go ahead?!”

“I don’t want to,” Naoya responded without missing a beat. He easily closed the distance with a few staggered steps, his head tilted to the side as he surveyed you.

You wondered what went through his mind. Did he see a weak woman? A woman who must be so helpless, so useless that you stayed there, legs too tired and muscles aching too much you couldn’t move? There was no telling with Naoya, and his guarded gaze didn’t help either. Satoru had always been difficult to read at most, but with Naoya – it was practically impossible.

Even as he cupped your chin and twisted it sideways, his eyes narrowed over all your features like he saw something you didn’t, he was too guarded.

“I need you in taking down Gojo Satoru. In order to accomplish that, I have to use his weakness against him. You showing up won’t be enough. No, I want to hurt him…and what better way than to take what was once his, right? Dangle right in front of his eyes what he let go of, make him regret his actions?” his smile turned dark, and for the first time since you’ve met him, you got a glance of what his heart really looked like.

It wasn’t true that Naoya was heartless – no, he just had a dark, sinister heart that didn’t beat the same tune as others. He played his own music with the bones of his enemies, drinking their lifeline from a gold cup and drowning in them, his ominous laughter the perfect antithetical melody of what could’ve been angelic hums.

“Don’t you want that?”

His question made your heart skipped a beat. This whole time, you’ve been so hell bent on achieving something, but what you wanted to reach had never been clear. You were too driven by emotions, by the pain Satoru’s absence had caused, and now that the opportunity was presented before you, you faltered.

“I don’t know what I want.”

“Well, if you ask me what I want…” he tilts your chin up with his finger “It would be to see you strong enough that even you would be capable of taking me down. So be strong, keep fighting – I’ll be there with you every step of the way. You only have one job, and that is to live. I am not allowing you to give up at the slightest of minor inconveniences.”

“And if I get weak?” you questioned with an oscillating tremor, the bite of his cold skin against your heated ones spiking. “If I want to give up? Would I fail you then?”

“I don’t think you’re someone who cares about failing others, so don’t fret whether you’d please me or not,” Just like that, Naoya’s scornful tone had risen again. He let go of you until you dropped down to your palms, blinking back at the sudden change of atmosphere. “Like I said, just do what you need to do, keep going. Don’t look back or be afraid to take the next big step because I’ll always be there right beside you.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“I’m not asking you to, princess,” he snickered, already half way to the door that only he was allowed to go in. Even though you’ve been staying in his manor for quite some time, there were still some things Naoya didn’t trust you with, leaving you only more curious to find out the secrets within.

“Only time will tell. But once you’ve made your decision, know that my ring is always waiting beside your table,” his voice echoed through the large room, stopping in his tracks to look at you once more. This time, he had no haunting features, only the cold emptiness likened to staring back to an infinite void of nothingness.

“I expect an answer when I get home.”

You still remembered the day you decided to wear his ring. Naoya had come then, tired and aggravated from matters he didn’t bother explaining. You stood on his doorway, lips shut tight as you nervously fiddled with your ring, unsure if whether you should tell him or allow him to piece the puzzle himself.

Thankfully, Naoya was a lot more observant than you gave him credit for.

His eyes slid over your face before he followed the motion of your fingers, smirking as the jewel glinted under the bright lights of his home. Wise choice, he’d once told you, and you believed it.

Your life hadn’t been the same ever since. Your spontaneous marriage equated to hellish training of perfecting your image as his trophy wife, spending hours in his secret laboratory and discussing business plans through a glass of wine. Naoya wasn’t around much to teach you everything and it pained him to be your own trainer too so you had to ask help from his guards, refusing to give up and fall down even as your muscles screamed at you to take a break. For Naoya, with Naoya, giving up and running away felt like a myth; a buried solution in the past that should never be brought up again. But now that he was gone, you did exactly that.

You’d given up. Satoru had made you run away.

“Miss,” a deep voice cut you from your thoughts. You tore your gaze away from the  glowing night city of Milan to turn to Satoru’s right hand man, the tall figure looming rather shyly instead of imposingly. “You haven’t eaten since we got here. Would you like anything? Mr. Gojo will cover your expenses.”

“I want to go home.”

He froze at your deadpan statement. Finally meeting your gaze under his lashes, Geto pursed his lips. “You know we can’t do that, Miss. It’s unsafe back in Japan.”

“And who’s to say Toji won’t follow us here?” you snapped, pushing your weight off the Cleopatra set and uncrossing your legs. “Why can’t your stupid boss just activate the account and give it back to us? I think we’ve made it clear we’re more than capable of handling our finances, and I’m pretty sure Satoru doesn’t need any more money when he can afford all this.”

“Mr. Gojo…has his reasons for everything he does.”

You laughed bitterly. Maybe it was the fact that Satoru had left this morning for whatever business he had that you didn’t have anyone else to let your anger out to that you’d swiped your gun under your thigh holster and dashed his way.

Geto’s back slammed against the wall, the cool barrel of your gun pressed to his jaw. He swallowed nervously, eyes darting to your weapon, and you laughed heartlessly. “Oh, please, do tell because nothing makes sense,” you crooned, flipping the safety off and letting your heated gaze meet his rather docile ones. You almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“I could easily put a bullet through your head and hijack his plane. I’ll be gone before you know it and who’s to stop me from doing that? Why should I stay here any longer with you?”

“Because your husband asked you to,” Geto responded softly. You stepped back with wide eyes, yesterday’s event crashing all over you once again. He must’ve sensed you no longer held any hostility because he used his pointer finger to move the barrel away from him, gently peeling your hands off his suit. “Because you know, if you go back to Japan, there will be nothing waiting for you there.”

You balled your fists. “I will kill Fushiguro Toji myself. Then I’ll kill Satoru.”

“Even if he used to be your lover?”

“Especially because he used to be my lover.”

Okay…maybe your plan of escaping and returning to Japan hadn’t worked out that well. Exhaustion finally crept up to your senses that you passed out not long after attacking Geto – who reassured you to no end he wasn’t mad you tried to kill him – and days have passed ever since. You hated to admit it, but being stuck in an overseas hotel wasn’t so bad. Geto’s presence was a lot more comforting than his master’s that you didn’t mind having him watch your every move. Plus, he was really nice to immediately follow your every whim. You wanted hot chocolate? Extra pillows? A really expensive wine that you refused to pay for because you were petty and dramatic? He provided it all without question.

Except he probably should have, because you’d stripped off to your underwear, head tipped back to take one final swig of the nearly empty bottle as you slid deeper into the tub.

Your fiery nature of rolling your eyes at Satoru every time he came around (which was rare, for some reason) couldn’t fool anyone – not even yourself. The moment Geto retired to the living room, you would bite the pillows to muffle your cries, thinking back to when Naoya was still alive. It was an endless torment of what if you had stayed, what if you had pushed the rubble off him, what if you just saved him?

Would he still be alive? Would he have survived? Would you be back with him in the Zen’in Estate instead of holding your breath under the tub in a desperate attempt to conceal your tears?

It hurt so bad. It hurt everywhere.

Your lungs begged you to rise up and breathe, but you stayed still under the water, eyes shut tight and hands clenched around the tub’s edges so hard your knuckles turned white. Soon, you grew dizzy and your grip slipped away. Finally, fucking finally, you were falling, falling way too deep that your legs bent inside the tub. Bubbles erupted from your lips in one last breath. At the back of your mind, you let out a sincere laugh for you’d meet your husband soon. He’d be disappointed, probably scold you all the way to the afterlife – until strong arms pulled you out of the tub and into someone’s chest instead.

“Shit, what are you doing?! You could’ve drowned!”

You coughed out water and fisted Satoru’s button-up shirt that had now clung to his skin from the water. Looking around you, you were still very much alive, the uncomfortable twisting of your heart a painful reminder of that. Above you, Satoru sat you in his lap while he remained cross-legged on the floor, muttering curses under his breath as he wrapped a towel around you.

Scoffing, you pushed his hands away, though you kept the towel anyway to lessen your shivering. Why the fuck was the AC so damn strong here?

“Dying seems like a better option, don’t you think?” you snarled at him, teeth chattering from the chill that had begin to seep in.

Momentarily, you worried on how much of a hot mess you probably looked like. Smudged eyeliner, wine-stained lips, unbrushed hair and remnants of the wine mixing with the once clear bath water – you shook your head at the thought and glared at Satoru.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“I was out contacting friends to ask for help. We’re going to need a hundred pairs of eyes watching anywhere that Toji could possibly come through.”

“Is this your pathetic idea of ‘keeping me safe’? Locking me up in this stupid hotel and having your man watch me all the time?” you pushed yourself off him, the sudden motion of standing up giving you wobbly legs. Satoru reached over to steady you but you slapped his hand away, your glare warning him to not take another step.

Seeing his face, seeing him worried as if he didn’t just cause your life to turn into absolute hell, you wanted to grab the wine bottle and smash it right at his pretty face. He had no right to look at you with pity.

You hated him, utterly and terribly despised this man with your entire being.

“What are you really planning, Satoru? Why can’t we just come back home and attack Toji with all we’ve got? Why don’t you just give back our fucking money so we can end all this for once and for all and I can leave?!”

“Because I don’t have the money!”

“What?”

“The money…” Satoru’s back slid off the wall, his palm coming up to thread through his hair. He sounded weak, defeated. “I don’t have it.”

“Gojo,” you snatched him by the collar, teeth bared as you demanded, “What do you mean you don’t have it?”

Satoru paled. “When I stole the money from the Zen’ins, the figures were all fake. They’re not real, there’s no actual money hidden behind their accounts and it was too late before I realized that,” his lips trembled as he continued, “Whatever Toji placed in there, it’s not his actual account where he hides everything and it would make sense too because I stole it too easily – almost as if they wanted me to take it. A few hacks here and there and it was immediately wired to me but after meeting you…” Satoru shook his head, chin dropped down low. “I checked again and the account never existed. It’s a fake one. The digits are just there for show.”

“So then why would Toji want it? Why did my husband have to die for nothing?!”

“I don’t know, okay, I don’t know anything!” he argued back until your faces grew closer, his nose brushing with yours.

Somehow, you couldn’t pull away. His knees had drawn up, forcing you to rest on his thighs as you both breathed heavily, your grip on his collar almost havered.

“Whatever the Zen’ins are hiding, that’s beyond me. I may be in the business for far longer than they have, but they have always been notorious with their possessions that I’m not surprised even I can’t find where it really leads back to. Whatever Toji is hiding there, your husband must’ve known something about it. Why else would they fight tooth and bone over it?”

“If there was, Naoya would’ve told me about it.”

“He would if he trusted you,” Satoru suddenly grabbed your wrist and shook it until you stared at your ring. “How are you even so sure he could trust you with that information? Have you forgotten you’re just a pawn to his game and you’re nothing but a bed warmer?”

“Don’t you ever speak about us that way. You don’t know how much he cared for me.”

“If he really did, then why didn’t he tell you why his cousin is after you? He’s using you as bait, Y/N. I’m not the bad guy here. That man you’re so deeply in love with? I can’t guarantee he’s better than me. We’re all men in the mafia, love is the last thing we would care about.”

You pushed yourself off him.

His words stung too much, not because it was a lie, but because you know there was some sort of truth ringing behind it. You trudged out of the bathroom and sat on the bed, unstirred by the fact you dripped all over the carpeted floor. From behind you, Satoru’s rushed footsteps echoed, but you didn’t care. You simply threw on a robe with your back turned to him.

“And you’d know that better than everyone right? Considering how easy it was for you to leave me?” When Satoru didn’t respond, you chuckled humorlessly and sat on the bed. “What Naoya and I had…it was a friendship that healed my soul. I don’t…I don’t know what to do without him.”

“Friendship?”

You smiled sadly. “I wasn’t actually in love with him, idiot. Men like Naoya don’t know what love is, but he sure does know how to protect family.”

The notion of talking about him, of accepting that maybe he really was gone…somewhat reliving.

Satoru was the last person you wanted to talk to your late husband about, but Geto – which is the much better company – wasn’t around, and you hugged your knees to yourself, refusing to let Satoru see through your vulnerability.

“You know, I trusted him more than I did myself. He was always there for me, no matter what. His soul was dark, angry, corrupted – he’s not the man I would fall for, but despite all that, he was the friend I needed,” you buried your face in your knees, voice muffled as you cried, your heart shattering again and again and again.

The ring on your finger had never felt so heavy ever since you wore it.

“I loved him as much as I hated you.”

Satoru was silent, so much so that you wondered if he was even in the same room at all. You sat there crying, too hopeless to even try to conceal it anymore. Shivering, you close your eyes and forced the image of Naoya’s last moments away from your memories, desperately praying to whoever had mercy that you could just forget all about it.

“Geto told me you tried to kill him,” Satoru murmured after a beat, “You could’ve easily escaped and went back to Japan if you wanted to, so why didn’t you? Was it because of me?”

You remembered what you tried to do today.

Just like that, Naoya was alive once more. You were brought back to the day of your wedding when he’d clasped your sweaty, clammy hands in his, rubbing some warmth in them before pressing a kiss at the top of your knuckles. He’d asked you to promise him something then – an entire contrast from his constants orders over your well-being – and it was a promise you’d momentarily forgotten; a promise you’d broken out of mourning.

“Naoya once told me,” you reminisced through dry, cracked lips and even more shattered heart, the picture of his disappointment as clear as day. “Death was the only place he can go where he would never allow me to follow.”

It took a lot, but it somehow got better. After allowing yourself a faint moment of weakness where Naoya resurfaced in your mind to remind you of our promise and your purpose, you felt stronger, somewhat steadier with each step you took. You were still wary around Satoru, although that was a given.

His friend, Geto, was really nice, on the other hand, and you couldn’t explain why you always lowered your guard around the formal dark-haired assistant.

You and Geto were playing chess when Satoru barged in out of nowhere, a plate and a syrup condenser on his hand. “So I got you breakfast,” was his greeting, nodding at Geto once as a silent order to give you two privacy. You pouted as the latter left, but soon your attention had been diverted to the heavenly aroma filling in your senses. Seeing your approval, Satoru hid a smile behind his dark sunglasses. “Still like pancakes?”

“Trying to get into my good graces now?”

“I’m just trying to cheer you up.”

You rolled your eyes but snatched the plate from him anyway. “So I talked to my lawyer,” you begun, pouring syrup all over the fluffy bread until it was almost spilling to the sides. Beside you, Satoru’s snickers were barely muffled, to which you ignored wholeheartedly. “They’ve already processed my inheritance over Naoya’s possessions and assets. Once we return to Japan, I’ll be the next leader of the Zen’in Clan, much to the disappointment of his elders, of course, but they can’t do anything about it,” you informed him with your fork hanging in mid-air, the words falling thickly. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

“That we’re back to being enemies?”

You offered him a sarcastic smile. “Naoya lied about strengthening his alliance with your family. He doesn’t actually give a fuck about you.”

“I figured that much,” he snickered to himself, shifting his weight until his elbows rested on his thighs. “Listen…a friend of mine is flying to Milan tonight to meet us. They have strong connections with banks all over the world and they brought in some information about that hidden Zen’in account. I think we’re finally getting off to somewhere and finding out what really is in there,” Satoru gauged for your reaction, but you kept eating – more like stuffing the pancakes inside your mouth for you were finally free of having to act perfect without your husband.

Satoru’s hand landed on top of yours. “I promise…I’ll give it back to right where it belongs. As soon as it’s wired back to you, I’m setting you free.”

You stared at the unwanted figure over you, and you snatched your hand back, waving a bread knife below his lashes. “You can’t set me free when I was never yours,” you sang breathily, the tip of the blade hovered right at his lips. Satoru raised a brow at you, but you quickly retrieved the knife back with widened eyes. “Now that you mention it…I think Naoya told me something about his family stashing secret weapons and even heirlooms through offshore accounts and buried under islands. He was a little sleepy during that time but I remember it,” pushing the plate away from you as you lost your appetite, you clutched your palms under your chin in thought. “He said he was looking for something he lost as a child, possibly an heirloom.”

“He’s doing all this for heirlooms?” Satoru immediately coughed his words back when you glared at him, raising his hands in surrender. “I mean, I was just saying. I didn’t think he was a sentimental type of guy.”

“The question here is what both Toji and Naoya could’ve both wanted from that account. It’s not just an heirloom, obviously there’s something there worth more than money,” You argued and slapped your knees, heading straight to your (unfortunately) shared room. “Whatever. I’ll get this over with as soon as I get the money back.”

Satoru, as always, was hot on your heels. It annoyed you how he trailed over you like some sort of puppy or shadow – Naoya had always been too classy to not give you space.

The difference between them just kept getting more and more uncannily obvious.

“Whoa there, stop. Did you really think I’d give back the money to you and that’s it? Are you forgetting the fact Toji is out there to kill you just so he can have his hands on it?”

“He can have the money for all I fucking care,” you shrugged and sat on your bed, scrolling through numerous piles of emails and records that Naoya entrusted you to keep. Surely you could find something. “I just need to find whatever Naoya’s spent his whole life killing for.”

“Why don’t you care about the money? Didn’t Naoya expect you to take over his business?”

Your thumb froze over a file. Suddenly, your throat grew dry, and you quickly flashed Satoru a stinky eye. “I-it’s not my main concern.”

“It’s not safe for you. If Toji finds out—”

Got it. You bookmarked an email Naoya had forwarded you around three years ago and resent it to an old friend, pocketing the phone back to your pyjamas before Satoru could see. “I’ll handle it. I’ve been doing well so far before you came into our lives again,” you finalized, stopping for a bit as you waited for that all-too familiar footfall matching with yours, only for the room to be coated in silence.

Satoru stood there on the other side of the room, eyes deep in thought before he sighed. “I’ll meet you at the hotel restaurant tonight. We have a lot to discuss on what our next move should be,” nodding once, Satoru left the room.

The hotel room was eerily silent.

Dinner came around faster than you expected. With Geto out to run some errands for Satoru, something about ‘establishing bases’ or whatever, you were locked in your room, using Naoya’s black card to get enough amount of clothing to last you for your stay here. Even though Satoru had promised he’d take care of everything, you didn’t want to be in his debt for any longer. You weren’t his, you were Naoya’s, and you shot down his curious looks when heaps of shopping bags had been delivered to your door.

An hour later, you left the room, struggling to zipper the back of your dress. Satoru was already in the living room buttoning up his suit jacket, just as handsome as ever (though you’d never tell him that.)

His hands froze in the last button once his eyes landed on you, and you huffed at him, too distressed to even act cute or bothered while pointing to your dress. Satoru strode to you in three long steps, his cold fingers brushing against the dip of your spine when he clutched on the zipper.

You had to bite your lip down to prevent the shivers from spilling through, his lips dangerously close to your ear as he whispered, “You look great.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

If Satoru was bothered by the lack of sincerity in your voice, he didn’t comment on it. He removed his hands from you and watched as you slipped black velvet gloves through your arms – just in case you had to end up killing someone; leaving fingerprints was a risk you couldn’t take.

“Did you really get dressed to kill?”

“I came here to negotiate,” you corrected, “I’ll do everything I can to find out whatever’s behind that offshore account. And you, sir,” Frowning at him, you pulled Satoru closer by the tie, perhaps a little too harshly since he nearly knocked his head with yours. He was quick to steady himself as you fixed his tie, flattening it down with your fingers. “You need to know where you should stick your nose in. This is more my business than yours so don’t get in my way acting all hero and shit. I assure you I can handle myself.”

“You’re really going to berate me for worrying about you?”

“You can no longer worry about me,” you disclosed, snatching your black purse from the counter before doing the come hither motion at his shock-still figure. “Now let’s go. We have a case to crack.”

“Case to crack? You sure sound like a detective.”

You snickered, but made no further comment. The elevators dinged and you arrived at the restaurant, which you really regretted not visiting soon enough because the place was grand. Red carpeted floors, golden chandeliers, soft jazz music playing in the background as the lights dimmed down low, the faint clinking of utensils against plates and light chatter of the guests so heartbreakingly nostalgic.

It seemed that even after his death, Naoya had every intention to never leave your side. The setting reminded you too much of your never-ending late night fancy dinners.

Naoya being Naoya, he didn’t blink twice in flaunting his money and renting out entire restaurants all for himself, claiming that he just ‘wanted to have an intimate moment with his wife.’ Sure, it mostly consisted of you discussing what move you should make next, but it was the most affectionate gesture you’ve received after spending years in the quiet and cold environment of the Zen’in Estate.

The outside world wasn’t any better when you and Naoya were marked as targets by the entire government, so it made sense, that only with him that you’d find comfort in.

You must be so out of it you never even noticed Satoru leading you to your seat, a warm meal that should’ve been comforting right under your nose. It was too much – too similar that you headed straight for the wine, ignoring Satoru’s questioning gaze. You noticed from the corner of his eye that he opened his mouth too many times in an attempt to make light conversation, but this dinner wasn’t for you to rekindle your old flame.

No, you were here to wait for his ‘friend’ and review important matters. You were determined to fulfill that purpose alone and only that alone that you never once made eye contact with him, even standing up to reach the salt shaker near him instead of asking him to pass it.

Just as you leaned back to your seat, the music grew louder. A foreign man walked to the stage where he was basked in the spotlight, all heads turning to him when he tapped the microphone, sending little echoes all over the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s loosen up tonight with a drink and bring our lovers out here on the dance floor,” he sang while swaying side to side, snapping his fingers to the beat that had turned into calming to sensual. “It is a fine evening, isn’t it? Come on, don’t be shy, the night is still so young!”

You dropped your fork beside the plate. “Did you know about this?”

“I swear, I had no idea.”

“Those two attractive lovers in table 42, the dance floor is still much too spacious!”

“Pretty vulgar for a five star hotel,” you commented under your breath and dabbed the pasta sauce off your lips with a napkin, slapping it down the table as you stood up – much to Satoru’s surprise who’d tried to make himself invisible from the host’s eyes. Stupid him; did he really think he could blend in with his sunglasses and snow white hair?

If you were to be honest, you’d rather choke on shrimp than dance with him, but you had an image to upkeep. If you couldn’t gather with the crowd and pretend to be one with others, both your true natures would be fished out even with innocent eyes. You were left with no choice but to be comfortable in the dance floor, sighing deeply as you placed your hands down on Satoru’s wide shoulders. He furrowed his brows at you but said nothing else; strong, cautious hands sliding down from your back before they settled at the curve of your hips.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Mister. I won’t hesitate to stab a fork through your jugular right here.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I know you’re not my little angel anymore.”

Angel. It was what he used to call you back then – when you were still but an innocent, naïve being who never believed in monsters until you fell for one.

He was right; you were no longer his angel. The woman he loved had been left abandoned in the street, the purity of her soul tainted with anger and heartbreak that soon bathed in blood and the need for revenge. His angel was no more – the woman he danced with was nothing but a replica of the face and body he adored the most. Now, you danced with him, not as his angel and neither as his rival’s wife, but simply as a woman whose kindness had long vanished into thin air.

Satoru danced with the devil.

And he should be disgusted just as you should be repulsed with how sickeningly smooth and graceful he was in everything he did, but the wine – yes, it was the fucking wine – messed with you that you actually enjoyed it. Your bodies moved in rhythm and syncopated with the beat, the romantic high notes of the violin and the tender embrace of deep trebles like a classical painting coming to life and you were its subjects to be expressed.

Perhaps…you were just sad. You grieved and mourned too much you’d momentarily forgot what love was, in turn making you forget what it felt like to be constantly unsafe and peeking over your shoulder in case someone tried to kill you.

Satoru just felt so warm, so safe and alive that you found your head dipping lower, your muscles relaxing around his soothing and undeniably tender touch, the space between your bodies diminishing until you surrendered to the power of your desire. You were so close, your ear about to press on his chest to listen to the blissful sound of someone’s reassuring heartbeat along with the music, and then you saw him.

A tuft of blonde hair, a chiseled face, a nude cream suit and a deep blue shirt beneath – what the fuck was he doing here?

The spell was broken in an instant.

Satoru must’ve been under the same trance for his hand trailed lower to pull you closer, your chests grazing with one another before you placed your palm flat on his body, lips thinned into a grim look that resonated with the sick, twisting feeling in your guts.

“I,” you croaked out, clearing your throat when it went dry. “I need to go to the ladies.”

You left Satoru without another word, bunching your dress up to run to where he had disappeared. He was still walking coolly and inspecting the paintings hung in the empty lobby with faux interest – although knowing him, the bastard probably did enjoy classical pieces and studied about them in his free time; which he didn’t have much to begin with.

As if sensing your presence, he stopped right in front of a replica of The Sleeping Venus, his hands dug deep in his pockets. “The shape of being is the visual demonstration of a state of being in which idealized existence is suspended in immutable slow-breathing harmony. All the sensuality has been distilled off from this sensuous presence, and all incitement; Venus denotes not the act of love but the recollection of it. The perfect embodiment of Giorgione’s dream, she dreams his dream herself,” he narrates in his baritone voice, “A little cordial, is it not?”

You took your gun out from your thigh holster and lowered it right at the back of his skull. “Don’t move another inch.”

“No need to be so hostile in a public setting, Y/N. I’m only here to look out for you and making sure you’re not forgetting who you are. Killing me isn’t part of the plan.”

“Neither was murdering my husband,” you growled, pushing the barrel harder against him, though the man didn’t budge before you. “I know that it wasn’t Toji who set off the bomb, Kento, you did.”

“We simply saw an opportunity that couldn’t be wasted. Two notorious mafia leaders in an unsuspecting supposed safe environment?” The fact he didn’t even deny it left you speechless. Kento spun around until your gun rested between his eyes, and he languidly pushed his glasses up his high nose as he looked down on you. “We could’ve killed two birds with one stone had you not been in the way.”

“You guys are out to kill me too now?”

“Don’t act too surprised. The Organization isn’t patient enough to wait for both leaders to die.”

“So you killed my husband?!” you argued, “He was my friend, I told you not to touch him!”

“Only in the exchange that you hand him to us,” Kento echoed, jogging your memory until you were kept up to date. “But it’s been five years and what has happened so far? You’re fraternizing with the enemy and even manufacturing drugs for your so-called husband. Now that he’s dead, you’re here in Italy, looking as stunning as ever as you wine and dine with a former lover,” Kento tilted his head to the side to study your appearance – smiling at how you seemed too bright and fashionable for a woman in supposed mourning.

“I hardly believe you’re actually affected by this at all.”

“How dare you! I’ve proven to no end my loyalty of the higher-ups!”

Kento didn’t bat an eye at your outburst. If anything, he stepped closer to your weapon. “Kill me if you wish, Y/N, but know the moment you put a bullet in my head, the Organization will place you on the same pedestal as Naoya’s and Gojo’s. I wouldn’t recommend such methods considering we’re already at unease on whose side you’re really on. If you do this, you will be our enemy.”

“I did everything for the Organization. What else would you want from me?”

“The contract was easy. We want both leaders – whether dead or alive – in our custody. If you don’t hold your side of the deal, it’s not only your life that we’ll take from you,” Kento pulled out a red coin that made your heart sink deep into your stomach for it served as a threat over the consequences of your actions.

He lowered your gun with the coin and smirked at you, his lips right beside the shell of your ear as he purred, “I suggest you be careful with what step of action you take next.”

“Oi, Nanami, you’re here!” Satoru’s voice suddenly boomed in the hallway. Nanami was as unbothered as ever from taking a step away from you, nodding to your gun which you quickly concealed right before Satoru arrived. You were frozen – rendered immobile with the flashing red metal from his palm – that you couldn’t even protest against Satoru wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “I see you’ve met Mrs. Zen’in already.”

“Hmm, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Madam,” taking your hand in his, Kento’s eyes were nothing but eerie as he kissed your knuckles. “Shall we start our discussion?”

SUKI RANTS! Nanami quoted Sydney Joseph Friedberg (an art critic) in one of his dialogues. A little backstory on the painting was that the portrait was originally made by Giorgone, who had a student and also his lover (if I’m not mistaken) called Titian. Giorgone never finished the portrait because he died from the plague but Titiane finished it for him, symbolizing that Y/N still has a mission that connected her from Naoya even after his death and she has to finish something he started. The portrait is of a nude woman that symbolized oneness of nature and that the woman isn’t posed for the gaze of men, but rather they are dreaming, hence the quote: “Venus denotes not the act of love but the recollection of it. The perfect embodiment of Giorgione’s dream, she dreams his dream herself.” Nanami said the painting’s meaning resonated with Y/N’s situation too much since she wasn’t in love with Naoya, but she had a recollection of their moments that still represented their relationship, and that Naoya’s dream (goals) are also shared by Reader. I was gonna ask you guys what your theories are on that scene but I think this makes me sound cooler if I explain it so *lip bite emoji because I’m still broken over Naoya’s death*

taglist open (lmk if you want to be added/removed):

@sixeyesgojo @shingekiyofeels @q-the-rockaholic @whatthefuckisthatthing @rogueofbullshit @kat-su-ki @kellyyween @sebootyforlife @asshxcm @charlie-xo @aoi-turtle @ladywaifuuwrites @savantsoulfinder @my-reality-is-in-my-head @hannya-quinn @90s-belladonna @tinyfrogsinmybrain @kinekyuroo @evesmores @ambiguous-something @lilith412426 @kakashiharusohma @aizawap @yumeneji @dora-the-grownup @jotazinha @themrsgojo @d34r-s4t4n @marai-t @toji-bee @hai-cool @badsadbby @stesphy @peach-buns-unicorns @misslezah @gracefullyfallinglikeanime @iwaplant​ @mikiminaccch​ @riri-marley​ | bolded users cannot be tagged

[merakiui]

hello!!<3 can i request an angst scenario (it can have a happy ending it's up to you!!) childe x fem!reader where they are together for some time and she didn't know he's fatui (she hates them bc her parents were in debt and overall they ruined her life and he's too scared to tell her) but she finds out and wants to broke up?? THANK YOU

In which you discover Childe’s ties to the Fatui.

cw: angst, debt, small mention of depression as a result of debt, female reader note - I woke up and chose pain with this one. >:) it also got long;;; oops!

You hate the Fatui. And although that’s such a strong, hurtful word it's your true feelings. You’ve never experienced their wrath firsthand, but you have witnessed what it can do to people. Your sweet, loving parents, who took loans out of the bank in order to pay for repairs to their shop, were reduced to frightful messes at the mere mention of that harrowing F-word.

It’s horrible to see them in such a state, especially since a few agents had come by once and practically demanded the money. As a result of such a distasteful discussion, you refuse to go into any sort of monetary career: trader, merchant, and even a wandering saleswoman. You’ll find a way to make things right by getting a job that will bring in lots of riches for your poor parents. Then the Fatui will have no choice but to leave your family alone.

Your own funds have dried up, having gone into another Fatui agent’s gloved hands. You can’t even argue because you have an inkling as to what will happen when you finally run out of money to give. Ever since this entire debt charade, your parents have become hollow shells of their former selves: paranoid, depressed, and starved of the happiness that comes with being in a regular, debt-free family.

Childe tunes into your rant as if someone had just turned on the switch that designates his listening skills. The two of you are sitting on a lovely hilltop, watching the stars twinkle in and out of focus. Liyue Harbor can be seen from afar, glittering in warm colors of gold and red. If Childe remembers correctly, another festival should be right around the corner. He’ll have to take you when he finds time to slink away from his work.

Speaking of his work, he’s never actually told you about it. When you asked, he simply said it was a job that allowed him to travel. It sounded like a traveling merchant to you—perhaps even a fishmonger specializing in exotic types—considering he was seemingly loaded with Mora. It made you jealous that he was so well-off with his finances, but you couldn’t complain when he so readily emptied his pockets for your sake.

“And then that stupid agent shows up at our door right when I get home! It’s the worst timing ever. My parents were pretending to be out of the house and I showed up and ruined their plan.” A heavy sigh tumbles from your lips as you flop back onto the grass, where Childe fixes you with a lopsided, sympathetic grin. “I hate it. They’re not even themselves anymore. It’s like they lost all sense of life. I’m picking up as many commissions as I can, but it doesn’t even help. The Fatui just take it all faster than I can save it.”

“They’re the worst, aren’t they?”

“And the sky isn’t blue. Of course they’re the worst!” You inhale softly. “No use getting mad about something that already happened, though.”

“You’ll just give yourself more stress and you don’t need that.” He joins you on the plush grass, turning his head to look at you rather than up at the inky night sky. “I can help with your commissions, you know. I’ve been itching to smash some hilichurl camps.”

“I can handle it myself. It’s fine.” Only it’s not and you’ve started realizing that. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Funny. I was going to ask you something, too!”

“Oh. Uh...”

He chuckles, staring at you with blue eyes that don’t sparkle. “There’s this festival coming up and I wanted to take you. It’ll be just the two of us for one night. You can forget all about work and money—”

“What about you? You said your job has you traveling all over the place. That’s why we’ll rarely see each other in the future. Once you’re done here in Liyue, that is.” You move onto your side, holding yourself up on your elbow. “I don’t think it’ll work.”

“Well, my boss doesn’t have to know. It’ll be our tiny secret!”

You roll your eyes, smiling a little. Deep inside you’ve always felt like something was off about his story. For the past few months, he’s remained in Liyue and once you even caught him slipping into Northland Bank when you were running some errands. You hope he isn’t in a similar situation concerning debt and poverty. No, he wouldn’t need to be. He’s shown you just how many lavish things his funds can afford. Why would he be in debt if he has a stable job?

“Are you...doing something bad?”

You could’ve phrased that better, but it’s already out in the open now. Sheepishly, you avoid his befuddled stare, opting to watch the moon as its light becomes obscured behind a dark cloud. An airy chuckle escapes him, but he doesn’t say anything. His silence confirms your fears and it dawns upon you that he hasn’t been truthful this entire time.

“This mask.” It’s in your hands before he can stop you. You’re tapping at it with a finger, equal parts curious and apprehensive. You refuse to beat around the bush; your doubtful gaze catches his and it hardens at once. “You’re Fatui, aren’t you?”

He sits up calmly, holding out his hand. “That’s quite the accusation, my dear. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“I’m not jumping to any conclusion. I’m right, aren’t I?” Now you’re sitting up, staggering to your feet to find some sort of leverage over him. He’s taller than you and far more powerful than he once let on. “Childe, why would—“

He sighs, lowering his hand out of defeat. “I suppose there’s no point avoiding it now. You were bound to find out one of these days.”

“One of these days? What? Like, when my family’s on the streets because the Fatui took our house?”

It hurts that he wasn’t honest and it hurts even more knowing that he has the power to help. He could’ve spent his time working out ways to get you out of debt, yet he decided to shower you in affection and useless trinkets! Trinkets that are only good for selling and receiving money to pay off the debt. You could cry; that’s how much it hurts. And when he makes no solid effort to comfort you, the tears begin to form.

“Of course not. I’d never let that happen!”

“Then why would you lie about it? Why not help me? Why can’t you just be honest? You always avoid questions you don’t want to answer and I hate it! I’ve been with you long enough to know that that mask is bad news. I was just waiting for you to confirm it, but you didn’t.”

You think it’s selfish for wanting his help—for wanting help from a Fatui agent, no less—but you’re too upset to care.

“(Name), you know that’s—“

“What else haven’t you told me? What else have you lied about? I don’t care if you’re trying to protect me. I’m already on a list. The Fatui still show up to my house and you just...let them. Why?”

“If I interfered, it would look bad in front of Her Majesty. You know I can’t go against her orders. I want to help you—I do. But...”

You’re fumbling for new words, at a complete loss with yourself. No matter how many questions you spout, he’ll evade them like they’re optional. And even if you want answers and honesty more than anything right now, you know he’ll fail to provide it. You shove the mask into his hands, shaking your head in disbelief. A swell of emotions overcome you: sadness, anger, and regret. You feel utterly betrayed. The sweet Childe, whom you once thought was your perfect match, is working for the Fatui—the people who have turned your life into misery.

And that’s probably not even the half of it.

“Let’s break up,” you say before he can spin another false tale. Another easy excuse to avoid this downfall. Childe stops short to stare at you in surprise and it’s weird to see that emotion scrawled across his face. He’s usually smooth and collected; he always knows what to say and how to act. Not this time, though. “It’s not going to work if we’re together while the Fatui are hounding my parents. And they wouldn’t approve of our relationship either.”

“Now, (Name), wait a moment. You’re not thinking straight. You’re just—” He struggles to find the correct words and in that small moment between foggy clarity and paralyzing uncertainty he plasters another plastic smile on. “Look. I know you’re upset, but I didn’t mean to lie to you. I was going to tell you eventually. Just had to find the right time to do it, you know?"

“I know. And that’s why we should go our separate ways.” Like Childe, you also put on a faux show, building up your walls as high and strong as his are. You don’t think you’ll last another minute in his presence, as you’re far too close to tears. “Thank you again for tonight. I’ll take my leave now.”

Rather than pain, it’s bitter when your lips fall upon his soft cheek. And the gesture stings harder than a slap on the wrist. 

The searing pain returns when you pull away and begin the descent from the hill as fast as your trembling legs will allow. You refuse to look back and fall into his arms in hopes that he’ll reassure you. The fact that he doesn’t chase after you—doesn’t even call out—stabs your conflicted heart and it’s more than enough confirmation. Childe isn’t exactly boyfriend material. He’s callous when it comes to a battle and he’s driven by his own ulterior motives. Surely this relationship was just a means of spending his extra time when he found himself bored and lacking a fight. Maybe he thought of his work when the two of you were on secretive dates. Maybe his heart was empty when the two of you were intimate. Maybe you were just the glue holding this crumbling bond together.

Childe remains on that hilltop, watching you disappear into the distance. And it’s then when realizes he’s lost you. The feeling is different from the battlefield and it’s far more real than when he’s snooping around as a Harbinger. You’re just a normal, good-natured citizen and he...ruined that part of you. With his ties to an enemy that has crushed your family. He’s partly, if not fully, responsible for what transpired just now and for the first time in a while real guilt gnaws at him. He’s left wondering why he did all of that—why he couldn’t just face your questions head-on.

It’s his fault, isn’t it?

On that windy hilltop, under the silent, disapproving darkness of the sky, he’s left to pick up the pieces of a fractured relationship. And it’s all because he couldn’t admit the truth to his precious girlfriend.

In a way, the Fatui have taken something from him, too, and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to patch it up with honeyed promises. 

Looks like we won’t be going to that festival anytime soon...

[youngbugandtonystank]

And now anti Tony people are blaming him for letting Sam’s family being in financial trouble wtf the man is dead! Let him rest!

Yeah, I saw. 

They’re definitely going to keep doing that, gotta say, the MCU never failed with Tony's character, they created circumstances for him exactly just like Stan envisioned. The ‘love-to-hate’ trope is strong when it comes to him, this is what Stan wanted out of Tony Stark's relationship with his fans/audience. Thing is, the reality of the MCU superhero is that they’re all flawed. None of them are exempt from anything. Why Tony gets more hate than the others?

He’s the most popular character. There’s no discussion in this instance. Popular superheroes that first come to people’s minds are always Batman, Iron Man and Spider-Man. Tony Stark/Iron Man is a pop culture legend and the fact that RDJ got to portray him as great as he did, helped a lot. People are always going to circle back to the character who has more hype and audience. 

He’s the one with the money. The fact that Tony is swimming in money automatically makes him the target of the ‘eat the rich’ mentality. People fail to remember that other characters such as T’Challa (who has more money than Tony would ever wish to see and lives in the most technologically advanced country in the world), Shuri, Thor (a literal king with a kingdom), The Pym family, Danny Rand (he has a net worth of $5 billion and is one of the richest comic book characters of all time), etc exist. And we still haven’t seen the other Marvel characters (in the MCU) that are richer than Tony like Reed Richards, Professor X, Warren Worthington, Norman Osborn, Namor, Doctor Doom, etc. 

Even if some of us see RDJ as attractive and good looking, some people don’t. For them, RDJ is nothing compared to Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth, Sebastian Stan, etc. It’s easier to hate a character you don’t find attractive. And also the fact that they find those actors relatively younger than RDJ. 

It’s the most shippable character. This also means he must be in the way of some other ships. Even if this sounds unbelievable, many people don’t get their irrational hate for a character until it dawns on them that they only hate him because he either treated one half of their ship unfairly or because he’s in the way of that ship. The more reasons they can find to hate him, the more legitimate their senseless hatred seems in their minds.

People don’t call out characters like T’Challa or Shuri because they’re scared of being called ‘racist’. T’Challa is so rich that Howard Stark could only buy (just an assumption, it’s a possibility he stole the vibranium lmao) only a portion of vibranium to build Steve’s shield, and because is the world’s most indestructible material, his worth is approximately $10,000 a gram (Fantastic Four #607) and Wakanda's vaults hold 10,000 tons of the material (Doomwar #1) T’Challa is not a billionaire, he’s a trillionaire lmaoooo everyone else is a joke compared to him.

Even having all of this info, Tony and T’Challa owe nothing to anyone.

T’Challa helped Bucky because of his principles (Tony offered to do this at the beginning as well until of course, he found out he killed his parents) but because of that, that doesn't mean T’Challa owes Steve, Sam, Wanda, and Natasha money or housing assistance. He didn't give it to them at all and he doesn’t have to. 

James Rhodes: Well. You guys really look like crap. Must've been a rough couple of years.

Sam Wilson: Yeah, well, the hotels weren't exactly five star.

Wanna know why? Because T’Challa knows they’re adults and they make their own decisions. Sam chose to be on Steve’s side, Wanda did too, Natasha too, etc. Adults make decisions and they should deal with the consequences that come with that. Tony was not going to deal with their financial problems because they made a choice and it’s not his problem to deal with. Tony is not their father. People need to ask themselves why Sam was not in the ‘lift the hammer’ scene after the party, because he wasn’t familiar with them, he wasn’t friends with Tony, only with Steve. Besides that fact, they all fought Tony, hurt his best friend, and left him to deal with the rest in CW. They’re not family.

Sam Wilson: No, I'm not actually sorry. I'm just trying to sound tough. I'm very happy chasing cold leads on our missing persons case. Avenging is your world. Your world is crazy. Steve Rogers: Be it ever so humble. Sam Wilson: You find a place in Brooklyn yet? Steve Rogers: I don't think I can afford a place in Brooklyn. Sam Wilson: Well, home is home, you know?

There’s absolutely no reason Steve can’t afford a place. He’s an adult, he has a good reputation, he worked for shield (why aren’t yall on Nick Fury’s ass if he had Steve and the others as employees? Fury set an entire place for Clint, why can’t he do it for the rest of them, he is the founder of the Avengers after all), and was pretty much capable of doing stuff for others. Tony provided them with a home while they were working together, he doesn’t need to concern himself with their personal problems because they’re not actual friends. Rhodey is his friend. Happy is his friend. Also consider the fact that maybe Sam didn’t want his help? 

And let’s also take into consideration that Tony is not only an Avenger, but Tony is also a businessman, an inventor, an engineer, has a company to keep an eye on, he is the one who finances the Avengers’ messes and other superhero messes too by co-owning the department of damage control, etc. He has other things to do. The rest of the Avengers are adults too, they should seek a job that could give them a future too, not just depend on Tony’s money. Tony had a family and he had to make sure they were covered after his death, this includes, Pepper (his wife, therefore she gets his stuff), Peter (his son, he left him EDITH, he’s basically set for life with that given the A.I. has access to the majority of his things including bank accounts), Morgan (his daughter; his responsibility), Happy and Rhodey (I’m sure we’ll see what he left them in Armor Wars). Why? They’re his actual family. 

If some of you know this and you’re still looking for reasons to put the blame on him, you’re failing to recognize you’re obsessed with hating Tony just for the sake of being right. Wouldn’t you like a life where you don’t have to constantly look for reasons to hate on a fictional character, better yet, a character you don’t like at all. Why the effort? You can love Tony and Sam at the same time, I promise you, this is not going to kill you. 

So please, instead of whining about Tony Stark all the time, why don’t yall just enjoy the fact that the show is showing you a vital and important event that happens in life while representing a part of Sam’s life to add to his emotional depth and character development? Especially because he’s a superhero and possibly the next Captain America, it’s good to see someone who is supposed to be a figure (superhero) whose actions or achievements are far greater than what people expect deal with normal things. They’re giving you a background; a solid storyline for his character. Let it be. Enjoy the shows yall, you can’t keep coming back to blame Tony for everything that happens after every single movie or Disney+ show, look for another metaphorical punching bag. The man is dead. 

[liaromancewriter]

Dancing in the kitchen for Sienna and Max 🥰

New Normal

Premise: Max and Sienna adjust to parenthood, discovering old and new ways to bond as a family.

Book: Open Heart

Pairing: Sienna Trinh x Max Valentine (M!OC)

Rating/Category: General. Domestic Fluff.

Words: 1,370

A/N: I’ve been dying to write this fic, especially after I saw the prompt request. It helped me combine two ideas into one self-indulgent domestic fluff for my favorite fluff couple, Max & Sienna. Enjoy!

I’m also participating in this week’s @wackydrabbles, and the prompt “Stop pinning this on me!” will appear in bold.

The apartment was quiet, but its occupants weren’t complaining. Max Valentine let out a tired sigh, savoring the silence as he turned to spoon his body around his wife, Sienna.

Whoever said that all newborns did was sleep, eat and poop had never met Noah Hudson Valentine. He had an aversion to sleeping through the night, at least he did now that he was almost four weeks old.

Max believed that he enjoyed watching his parents dance to his tune and had even told Sienna that after a particularly difficult night. She had just shaken her head at him in amusement and said babies didn’t think like that. Max wasn’t convinced.

The first couple of weeks after they brought him home from the hospital, he and Sienna had actually worried when he didn’t make any sounds and slept peacefully in his crib. They’d even spent a few nights in the nursery watching him sleep, not trusting the baby monitor.

Those days were a fond and distant memory.

“Do you hear that?” whispered Sienna.

He cocked one ear towards the baby monitor.

“It’s quiet,” he whispered back, snuggling her close.

Noah might be in the nursery, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t aware that his parents were close by, hence the whispering.

“Exactly!” exclaimed Sienna.

“Don’t jinx us, babe,” said Max, showing her his crossed fingers before he grinned. “Once was more than enough.”

“Stop pinning this on me!” protested Sienna, turning her head to give him a flinty-eyed look that said she wasn’t amused.

But then she started laughing and he was right there with her. His head fell into the crook between her neck and shoulder, their bodies shaking with mirth. The more they shushed each other, the more they laughed as exhaustion made them punchy.

“We need to stop,” said Max, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes.

“I’m trying,” said Sienna, clutching her belly to hold in the laughter.

“If Noah wakes up, you’re on your own,” he said, swallowing the chuckle threatening to break free.

The thought had a sobering effect and they both stopped abruptly, but the smiles stayed on their lips.

She turned in his arms so that they lay facing each other. Her hand cupped his jaw, feeling the roughness of the stubble against her palm. He closed the distance, his warm lips gliding over hers in a brief but sweet kiss.

“What did Avery have to say?” she said after a few more minutes of silence, referring to their neighbor who had dropped by earlier.

“Was he complaining about the noise?” she asked worriedly.

“Nothing like that,” said Max, squeezing her hand in assurance.

“Besides this apartment is sound proofed and even our kid can’t break the sound barrier,” he quipped. “Avery’s selling the apartment and moving back to Seattle. He wanted to know if we’re interested in buying it.”

“Oh,” said Sienna, her mind turning over the possibilities. “Can we afford to do that?”

“One day, you and I need to sit down and go over our finances, in detail. And this time you’re paying attention,” he said with amused exasperation.

“You know Cassie and I got access to our trust funds when we turned 30, right?” he asked, waiting for her nod before continuing.

Sienna remembered their brief conversation from when she’d first moved in. After they had gotten married, he told her about the trust accounts he’d set up for her and their future children. The shares she’d received in the Hudson Group alone had already paid dividends in amounts that boggled her mind. So much so that she had almost paid off her medical school debt.

But Sienna could admit that every time he’d tried to explain the intricacies of their finances, she had brushed it aside. However, he was right; she needed to know this stuff, as much for Noah as for herself.

“Long story short,” he was saying when she tuned back in, “we can afford it. Question is, do you want to stay here long term? If we buy the apartment next door, the whole floor would be ours and we could easily expand. I know the building owners well and I’m sure they’d approve it. But it would mean no townhouse.”

“I love it here,” she told him. “This is our home. I love the neighborhood, and it’s convenient for both our work.”

“Alright,” he said, raising her hand to press a light kiss on the inside of her palm. “I’ll get the ball rolling.”

Just then a thin cry echoed through the baby monitor, increasing in frequency with every passing second. They both sighed, rolling off the bed.

“It was fun while it lasted,” said Max as they made their way to the nursery.

An hour later, Noah’s fussiness only increased. He’d been fed, changed and rocked, but nothing satisfied him. It wasn’t even full-on crying, just whimpering with tiny tears streaming down his face.

Remembering Cassie’s suggestion, Max wrapped the baby sling around his body, easing Noah into it, adjusting to make sure the baby was comfortable. The closeness to his father’s warm chest seemed to give Noah pause as he nestled closer, his tiny hand trying to clutch at the shirt.

“Come on,” said Max, grabbing Sienna’s hand as he led his family to the kitchen.

“I’m so tired,” said Sienna, yawning loudly and wishing she could just lie down again.

“I know, but there’s something I want to try,” said Max, “and it always works best here.”

He took the phone from his pocket, pressed a couple of buttons to sync it with the overhead speakers and selected a familiar song on his playlist. It was the first song that he and Sienna had danced to; one that they had enjoyed dancing to in this very space just a few short weeks before their son was born.

As the melody began, Noah stopped fussing, tilting his head up to stare at Max, lips pursed.

“You like that, buddy?” said Max, smiling at the curious expression on his son’s face.

It reminded him of the one that he often glimpsed on his wife’s face when she was excited about something.

He tugged at Sienna so that her arms circled his neck, smiling down at her when they started to swing to the music, cuddling Noah between them.

Sienna snuggled close, her lips nuzzling Noah’s neck so that he gurgled excitedly. His eyes turned round when the tempo picked up and the three of them gently twirled together. They both laughed when Noah’s legs started kicking.

Sienna reached for Noah’s tiny hands, holding them gently in hers, helping him find the rhythm. Max adjusted his arms to wrap them around her hips, keeping her tucked close as he directed their steps, swaying them side to side, backward and forward.

Noah cooed and hummed, the tiny sounds making them smile especially when they rose as Max executed a short spin. His hand came up to rest on the back of Noah’s head while the other stayed around her.

As they danced together, the soft kitchen light casting shadows on the wall, they both marveled at how their son was already a harmonious blend of their features.

Her dark hair and the shape of his eyes slightly slanted, but light in color so that they might turn green over time. The slope of his nose was all Max, but his rosebud lips were Sienna’s. At least that’s what Max believed, telling her with certainty that he would know those lips anywhere.

Sienna nestled into Max’s shoulder, her hands clutching his hips for balance, her face resting close to Noah’s. She watched Noah yawn, his tiny mouth moving as he cuddled closer to his father. His eyes struggled to stay awake, but eventually drifted close.

She and Max continued to shuffle gently in place, holding each other up as contentment surrounded them so that neither noticed when their son finally fell asleep.

Their life was never going to be the same, thought Max as he led a sleepy Sienna and Noah to the master bedroom, laying their son down between them on the bed. But it was going to be better once they found their new normal.

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

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