#this tracksuit is so infamous

[korn-maze]

💜💜💜

[romanreignseater]

Press Play Pt. 3 The Finale

Roman Reigns x Black Female! OC (Xena)

Rating: 18+

Warning: Smut, rough sex, choking, and a special surprise!!!

“Being the girlfriend to a famous divorced father of 5 wasn’t your plan at 26 years old. You trusted him with your life, so you agreed to film a little something, but now you regret ever meeting him when your whole life is exposed.”

A/N: It’s practically the next day for some of us, but I’ve just been having a lot of sleepless nights and very mentally tired, but I feel way better. Thank you guys so much for being patient ❤️❤️!!

GIF: @jeysuso

The ride to the private jet was excruciating, but the actual flight itself was horrid. It was nothing but uncomfortable silence and the sounds of each other breathing.

Even though, your feelings were still hurt you couldn’t help but to gawk at the man you once loved, or still loved.

You were so confused, yet so infatuated by him and everything he’s done.

He brought back his infamous tracksuit and slick back bun. His legs spread apart and his manhood on full display.

“Take a picture it’ll last longer sweetheart.” Rolling your eyes you weren’t here for Roman’s antics. “You know all about taking videos and pictures huh?!” Scoffing, Roman smirked and quietly laughed to himself.

“You’re never gonna let it go?! I’ve apologized and did everything humanly possible to make sure you were safe and your reputation wouldn’t suffer.” You crossed your arms and legs, looking away from him.

“I came back to SmackDown on Friday and the crowd chanted cam boy. I left, headed to the parking lot, and the fans could only say is ‘We Want Xena.’ Chanting for you, people coming up to me asking why did I do you like that and she made you so happy.”

Breathing heavily, your eyes were glued to the night sky. “Xe… look at me when I’m talking to you.” His voice gruff and low. Tears began to well in your eyes, not wanting to feel trapped by his trance. He sighs and gets up from his seat.

You winced and whimpered in the corner as he walked closer to you. Bending down at the side of your seat, he placed his hand on your thigh. “Xe, look at me baby.” Tears fell down your face as you mustered up the courage to look him in his eyes.

Something you haven’t done in weeks.

“There’s my pretty girl.” You lightly smiled. “I promise you I didn’t mean for any of that to happen, I wish I could take it back everyday. Please forgive me and let’s enjoy this vacation.”

Thoughts coursed through your head, not knowing what to do. “Ro… let’s just get to Bora Bora with doing this right now.” Nodding his head, Roman placed a kiss on your cheek and sat back down across from you.

The first couple of days in Bora Bora were actually pretty good. Roman was an absolute gentleman, never mentioning the situation or your relationship once. He really spent his time gently taking care of you and all your needs.

Yet, you couldn’t bare to sleep in the same bed as him. He slept in the living room of the villa, while you slept in the bedroom. He would come in to check on you and use the bathroom. His scent wafting the room, that warm musk and driftwood called your name. But, you just couldn’t.

Waking up, you didn’t get your usual wake up call from Roman. Smelling and hearing the sounds of bacon, you rise from the bed and head to the kitchen. There he stood shirtless, sweatpants riding low leaving little imagination as possible. “You like what you see huh?!” Blinking profusely, you stood dumbfounded.

“I made your favorite mama. Waffles and bacon.” Walking up to the island, you sat on the stool accepting the breakfast he made for you. He pours you a glass of orange juice and watches you eat.

“Do you like what you see weirdo?!” He laughed, enjoying your snide comment. “I love what I see baby, I’ve loved what I’ve seen for a really long time.” Looking down, you continue to eat your waffles. Hearing his footsteps trail closer to you, you duck your head down even lower. He stands next to you, body on full display and heavily breathing by your side.

“Baby look at me.” “I’m good no thanks.” You stand with a mouthful. He pulls your chin in between his fingers and brings you both face to face. “You know I hate when you ignore me.” Your breathing heightened, not planning the next words that came out of your mouth. “Then do something about it.”

His eyes darkened and his grin widen. “There’s my girl. Get your ass up on this counter.” Following his instructions, you placed your on the counter shoving your breakfast aside. Roman immediately grabbed your waist, standing in between your spread legs. “I know you missed me.” Rolling your eyes at his remark. “Just shut up and kiss me.”

“With pleasure.”

Your lips intertwined as if they never left each other. He grabbed your perfect round ass and grind against your clothed cunt. Your arms held his thick neck and never let go. You both began to take off each others clothes, which was little to none.

“I fuckin missed this baby, please don’t leave I’ll never let this happen to us again. Please forgive me.” He said breathlessly as he kissed my lips. “Okay… I trust you.” Roman gave you the biggest bear hug, tightly squeezing you and never letting go.

“I gotta be inside you now mama, I can’t wait.” He gently pushed me back against the island and I propped myself back up on my elbows. He slid my panties down my legs and stuffed them in my mouth. “Don’t get it twisted baby, I still wanna hear those screams.” My legs shut in anticipation, but he quickly spread them apart.

I heard a low “fuck” come from his lips as he admired my wet lips covered in slick. He bit and licked his lips as he pulled apart your lips to expose your bundle of nerves. Roman blows onto your clit, causing you to shiver. He gently licks a bold stripe up your clit, stopping at it to suck it into his mouth. His giant lips encase your clit and his tongue swirled around it.

Your moans muffled by your panties, but still audible. “I’m sorry mama, I just had to get a quick taste. I missed that shit.” Spreading your legs wider, Roman got the hint. He quickly removed his boxers, showcasing all his manhood. Your pussy clenched around nothing, already feeling the effects of his cock without it even being in you.

Roman circled his cock around you clit and swiftly entered your cunt. You moaned loudly and nearly shrieked as the sheer fullness of his dick. “Shhh baby, I got you.” Tears ran down your face as you haven’t been dicked down in a minute.

Roman’s hands wrapped around your throat as he hovered above you. His dick slowly, but surely began to pound your cunt. His balls slapped against your winking hole as he picked up the pace. The wet and hot feeling of his dick absolutely massacring your pussy led you to sob.

“That dick so good, I got your ass weeping. Take that shit baby.” You screamed as he brutally abused your cunt into oblivion. Your tits bounced up and down to the rhythm of his strokes. Your legs were soon placed on the island next to you head and he didn’t skip a beat. “OH MY GOD, I’M GONNA CUM!!” You yelled through your panties. “Let’s do it together baby.”

You both reached your highs and Roman then hit you hard and deep strokes and ensuring all of his cum stayed lodged inside of you. He stared you dead in your eyes and shocked you. “Marry me.”

“What?!”

“You heard me, marry me. I love you with all my heart and the main reason why I wanted this trip in the first place was to propose. When you left me it was the worst time of my life, I couldn’t bare to sleep in my bed alone, go to dinner, hell even brush my teeth alone. I wanna do all those things with you and more forever and ever.”

He pulled out as you both moaned at the loss of fullness. He walks to his bag on the living room floor and pulls out a box. You arise from the island and he stands in between your legs. He opens the box and a beautiful opal diamond ring stunned you. “What do you say baby, be with me forever.” Tears began to flood your face and chest.

You nodded your head while laughing and crying. Roman began crying as he put the ring onto your finger. Sniffling, “It’s perfect and it’s my birthstone.” “What can I say, I know my girl.”

Yes he did…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE END.

Thank you all for being on this little journey with me, I hope to write an even bigger story like this, but I wanted to test the waters. Love you all and thanks for being so supportive and patient with me 💝💝.

MY TAG SQUAD: @cyberdejos2 @thesamoanqueen @nayys-world @mzv11 @babybatlover @vogueyonce @harmshake @harlem11680 @seeingstarks @thewarlordsworld @alyyaanna @southerngirl41 @christinabae @pitlissa22 @thealliasylum @fame-ass-ers @iluvthebloodline @jeyusos-girl @ah-fin3sse

[sserajeans]

you are in love | 34. lee y/n, believe in yourself (written)

it was the morning of the snhs swim team's departure, and lee y/n sat by the kitchen counter staring blankly at her half-filled bowl of cereal. the girl was dressed in her team's tracksuit with a white shirt under the jacket, infamously known for being the prettiest merch from the school clubs. y/n had wonyoung to thank for that.

"that thing won't eat itself, unnie."

hyein sighed, taking the seat beside her older sister with her own bowl of cereal in her hands.

"what's wrong?"

silence filled the air for a solid minute. y/n's expression unchanged, she zipped down the jacket and sighed before taking a spoon of her cereal.

"what if i come back empty-handed?"

hyein's gaze shifted to the kitchen counter the two were eating on, her mind rushing to think of the best words to use to comfort her sister.

"i mean. this isn't my last shot at the national team, i know that. but i at least need scouts for college, and if i mess this up..."

hyein nodded to at least show y/n she was listening, before taking a deep breath, hand on her sister's shoulder.

"truth is, unnie, no one knows for sure what the results of these games are. and i wish i could travel in time to tell you so you'd feel better, but i can't. however, the one thing i am sure of is that you've practiced your best and worked your hardest, just like you always have, and that seemed to have brought good results, right?"

"yeah, i guess so."

"so believe in yourself, unnie. i'll believe in you twice as much in your place if you can't."

y/n nodded and hugged her sister from the side, the younger rubbing her back in comfort. "thank you. it's times like these where i forget you're younger."

"wise words, what can i say?"

the older of the two rolled her eyes, and the lee sisters went on with their breakfast, conversing until their bowls of cereal went empty. perfect enough timing for minji to show up at the door.

the school doesn't usually provide transport when it came to sending less delegates in competitions. in this case, only y/n, minji, and two other swimmers from junior year, qualified to compete. because of this, y/n and minji decided to go to the airport together, courtesy to minji's older brother for driving.

seeing y/n and hyein from the living room window, minji proceeded to step into the unlocked house, the same way she has for the past how-many years.

"y/n! we leave in 5 minutes, and hi hyein."

y/n rolled her eyes and stood up to roll her luggage and duffle bag outside the door to help minji's brother load it in the car. she came back inside for one final check before leaving the house for what'd probably be about 3 weeks. by the time she ensured she hadn't left a single thing, she turned around to debrief her sister.

"you're staying at jiwoo's right?"

"yup."

"lock the door when you leave."

"got it."

"and if you need help, call hanni or zuha-unnie."

"i know."

"and if it's really drastic call them then me, okay?"

"okay!"

"and i-"

"unnie!"

y/n chuckled and gave her sister one last hug before zipping up her jacket and stuffing her hands in the pockets.

"i know, i know... i'll miss you though, even if it's just like 3 weeks."

"gross. i'll miss my free wallet too."

"shut up, hyeni."

"hehe, good luck unnie! you too, minji-unnie. whatever happens, you'll make us and snhs proud."

and those were the exact words both minji and y/n needed before heading off to a competition representing not just their school, but their country, and most importantly, themselves.

masterlist. next.

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[paullicino]

On Poverty and Comfort

Taken from, and funded by, my Patreon. Please check it out.

It’s happening again.

I just got forced back a place in line, mere seconds from being served. Another patron, presumptive and impatient, slid between me and the server working the till in a move that I would describe as all too practised, as smooth, to ask what soup flavours were available. This patron, surfacing from nowhere like a submarine, came up on my starboard side. She cut in, pitched her question across the counter, then cast a glance my way and, to use a phrase my mother would, “looked at me like I was shit on her shoe.”

While I’m not exactly shuffling about in my tracksuit bottoms today, there’s nothing special about what I’ve chosen to wear. I should perhaps have picked The Other Coat, which has magically caused several strangers here to strike up conversations with me. In particular, I feel it’s no small deal for a young woman to decide to start talking to a man she doesn’t know, but one day I was suddenly being told that I am classy and refined, being English and so smartly dressed. Perhaps on a different day I might have felt flattered, but I felt more like some sort of fraud was being committed. I was wearing class camouflage.

It’s something I try to do here, in my local fancy café, because otherwise I feel uncomfortable. But I realise that it’s also something I’ve unconsciously done for so much of my life.

I’ve got a few things that I want to write about here today, everything from sandwiches to suits to submarines, but before I go on I have to ask: Do you know that phrase “like I was shit on her shoe”? Do people say that where you’re from? Some of my lexicon is loaned from Chiswick and Southall, passed down from people who worked as labourers and long-suffering housewives, from bricklayers or from the lower decks of the Royal Navy, from homes that had no hot water and outside toilets. It’s the sort of language muttered past cigarettes on brick stairwells, or yelled across loading docks embellished with incoherent graffiti.

Sometimes these things slip out of me and no-one has any idea what I’m talking about. I make a right pig’s ear of it. And in those moments I’m suddenly somewhere else. I’m in a different time, a different place. And a different income bracket.

Or perhaps the different income bracket is where I am now. So in which do I really belong? Tell me, which would you associate me with? Graffiti and slang? Or poise and politeness?

It’s a question we can return to, if you want, because this piece of writing is in part about returning to things. When I began drafting it, months ago now, I didn’t realise just how much it echoed something I had written nine years before. I was already trying to articulate trends and patterns, without realising I had fallen into one myself.

For now, I have a different question. Did you know that one of Vancouver’s most infamous shortcuts has just closed? The three story, two hundred and twenty thousand square foot Nordstrom store that sits right between the city’s central plaza and two of its busiest stations is no more. Vancouverites will no longer be able to use it to pass diagonally through a whole block, as the crow flies, weaving dreamily amongst racks of designer handbags and thousand dollar flip-flops, before finally returning from this fantasy realm like Dante stumbling out from the underworld.

It’s a shortcut I’ve taken hundreds of times. Sometimes I would stop to inspect a shoe, or to check the price on a tie. The shoe would be upward of seven hundred dollars. The last tie I looked at was one hundred and eighty.

This Nordstrom had its own coffee shop, restaurant and even a cocktail bar. Curiously, its drinks were no more expensive than any other café nearby and, as I began drafting this in the early spring, I stopped for a drink on my way through. I asked the person serving me about her Totoro tattoo and she beamed. “Nobody who shops here recognises Totoro,” she said, and began talking about her clientele. They don’t have that kind of thing on their minds, she said.

She told me that the stations serving drinks were closing within a week and that she didn’t know if she’d have a job after that. “They’ll probably put us on the shop floor with everyone else at minimum wage.” Her colleague, selling suits that ranged from fifteen hundred dollars to eight thousand, told me he didn’t know when his last day of work would be, nor what kind of severance package anyone would have. Apparently, more than six hundred staff didn’t know when their jobs would end, but if Nordstrom did know one thing it was that it certainly wasn’t making enough money in Canada, with its thousand dollar flip-flops sold by minimum wage staff. It was time for the retailer to skedaddle.

I like talking to working people. Often, the conversations are more grounded than the kind of armchair politics you can abruptly find yourself enmeshed in at a house party, trapped suddenly in a kitchen surrounded by revellers armed with dangerously articulated glasses of wine.

The suit-seller had to go. He was run off his feet. Nearby, a rack of torn, pre-ripped jeans was on sale for three hundred dollars, more than seven times what I paid for my pristine pair. They were hung within grasping distance of some thousand dollar dresses.

I’m not an expert on dresses, but the thing about many of those seven hundred dollar shoes, those thousand dollar flip-flops, is that they were shit. They looked absolutely terrible.

Nordstrom allowed an aimless Dante, momentarily directionless in this realm, to sip their coffee and watch people buying their branded shoes and bags and clothes, and to try and perform some mental mathematics. It was a strange experience, because the conclusions you would reach would be that some of the school-age people buying things here were far too young to be able to earn the sums of money they were spending, whilst others were obviously spending many thousands as they bought items for themselves and others, nevertheless gliding through this experience with the casual indifference of a sleepwalker fumbling through a fridge.

Back in my local fancy café they are advertising for staff and perhaps they can take on one or two of the Nordstrom exodus. I look up the posting and wages start at fifteen dollars sixty-five an hour, which I confirm is the minimum wage in British Columbia. Once again, the coffee here costs about the same as anywhere else nearby, but everything else is expensive. The sandwiches are at least double.

And many of those sandwiches don’t look very good.

The staff here often talk to me. They say they talk to me not because of The Other Coat, but because I’m The Englishman Who Tips. It turns out, they tell me, that a majority of their customers do not tip. Most of these staff are smiling young women with accents from France and Romania and Peru. They are always smiling and they are always on their feet and they are always outnumbered by customers who want things and who will not hesitate to slide into a line with practised skill. They are dressed head to toe in white uniforms, but sometimes their footwear gives them away. They are not wearing thousand dollar flip-flops, or any of the sort of things that their customers are. They are much less affluent or, as we bluntly say where I am from, they are poorer.

I worked about five years of retail when I was a smiling young man and much of it was at or around the minimum wage. There were a lot of customers who wanted things and more than a few slid into lines at the till in manoeuvres that seemed all too practised. I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it here again, because it bears repeating: One of the places I worked was a flagship store that made over twenty million pounds a year, a figure that the Bank of England Inflation Calculator tells me is equivalent to thirty-six point seven five million today, more than three million a month. We’d have these weekly briefings where the managers would urge us to work as hard as possible to help make those numbers as big as possible.

Later, when the Labour party came into power, the minimum wage bumped up to three pounds twenty an hour for young adults. But I wasn’t yet an adult and so that rate did not apply to me.

The great thing about young people is that you can make them do exactly the same things as older people, but pay them much worse. Because young people aren’t as important, are they? They’re not as worthy.

Sometimes these retail roles were very cold. Sometimes they were very hot. Whatever the weather, those customers would surface out of nowhere like submarines. They would glide, as if lubricated by their money, but I suppose money always has been something that helps you grease your way through life. I’m certainly slipperier these days. Occasionally I will glide over problems that might have punctured the Paul of the past. I throw money at stuff like a wizard casting a spell and it just goes away.

When I caught sight of the shoes worn by one staff member in The Fancy Café I was suddenly hurled back through time to my years in retail, and a hundred and one experiences came back to me in the blink of an eye. I still have many, many memories of how customers treat retail and service staff, because when a stranger treats you in an extraordinary and unexpected way, it tends to stay with you. I remember one furious man saying “I pay your wages,” which was not true, because Kingfisher plc paid my wages, but he really believed his money and his transactions gave him entitlements and that this was how you spoke to a sixteen-year-old service worker.

It’s been a hot minute since I was sixteen, but I still react to a nearby “Excuse me” with the assumption that someone must want something.

Nordstrom is all gone now. While I was drafting and redrafting all this, it gradually emptied the last of its inventory, first discounting its shoes and its suits and its ludicrously expensive tableware, before then going on to sell even its fittings and its fixtures. Nordstrom offered you the chance to buy a greasy, scratched glass table for a thousand dollars, for some shelves for four times that. Realising that this may sound unbelievable, I took a picture.

Around the same time, I talked to a friend about Nordstrom and, by coincidence, discovered that they used to work in one in the US. “Nordstrom deserves to close,” they said. “If you don’t make enough via commission, they pay you minimum wage. But you get a warning. You can only do that three times before they fire you. What’s worse, they have a lifetime return policy, no questions asked. If a customer returns an item within a year of purchase, it comes back out of your commission, because ‘if you did your job as a salesperson right, they’ll love it so much they won’t ever return it.’”

“I sold this guy nine hundred dollars of stuff for his daughter for Christmas and I didn’t want to because he had no idea what she wanted. Months later my paycheck was docked because she returned everything.”

Well, it has closed now, but I still wonder about those six hundred staff, much as I wonder if it will be replaced by anything kinder. I think about working a job like that, and how only a handful of circumstances or coincidences separate me from being in that position.

But why should I wonder, and why should I worry? These days, I have the class camouflage. I have the fancy coat, or the ability to speak properly and, provided I don’t accidentally let loose a school story of how one of our teachers was stabbed or talk about bored classmates crashing cars for fun, I can avoid too many strange stares from the people around me. I could pick up one of those thousand dollar flip-flops in Nordstrom and nobody acts like I shouldn’t be there, contemplating two shitty, stuck-together pieces of plastic that I could take to the checkout and buy from someone who would have to work at least sixty-four hours to be able to afford them, a length of time I doubt those flip-flops would even last.

Yeah. Why should I worry?

But these days I can’t avoid the slow swell of something I’m increasingly feeling, a kind of growing gravity that has been tugging at me from my past. These last few months it’s given me a kind of emotional whiplash, as I’m pulled in every direction by currents and collisions, by connections in my personal life, by events in the news, by conversations I share with my therapist on lamplit evenings in those generic and inoffensive spaces made from featureless pictures and neutral colours. Even by my own writing pulling the stitching out of the past as it heals, closes up and knits itself together behind me. Because when I press on the place that it was, I can still feel the contours.

All this pulling and tugging has made for an uncomfortable ride. I haven’t had enough high-g training. Usually when you’re in situations where you’ll be experiencing sharp and sudden manoeuvres there are ways to prepare you, to toughen you up. Pilots and astronauts are put in specialist equipment or precisely-engineered simulators that spin them around and shake them about until they no longer flinch or vomit or pass out. The rest of us have to hold on and hope for the best.

Here’s the thing: much of the last year has been very comfortable for me. Work has been terrific. I travelled to the United States for the first time since 2019, and then again, and then again. I was able to put money into a pension for the first time in more than a decade. I bought myself new things. I made plans for a future that could be more open than ever.

And two of the strongest feelings that I have in reaction to this are guilt and confusion. I am fidgeting awkwardly in that wrong income bracket, in the wrong tax bracket. I redraft this now in the local fancy café, surrounded by people wearing capital B Brands and carrying designer bags, designer scarves, designer hats, even wearing elaborate designer watches, because they have decided they need to spend thousands of dollars to have a second way to tell the time.

I don’t come here to write so much because I choose to be in the fancy café, but simply because it is near and it is open late and it has the most space and the least clamour. There are other places I would prefer to be, but some of those don’t exist any more, others have been pushed too far away. I don’t have much choice.

You see, the wealth that leaks from the fashionable, expensive shops downtown, right where that Nordstrom used to be, has been slowly rolling downhill toward my historically more modest neighbourhood. Like molten gold, it bubbles toward us, gentrifying everything it touches. I see it in the shops and stores that have opened after the peak of the pandemic, replacing the businesses that couldn’t survive. That which regrows is better, because it is more expensive, more exclusive. And I see the same change bubbling through the people on the pavement, the cars parked in the streets, even the photoshoot faces on dating apps.

Bubble, bubble. It’s like the rising tides of climate change.

There used to be a burrito place on the corner that would sell you your dinner for seven dollars. Now it’s a store selling designer clothes for babies. One toddler’s jacket is nine hundred and seventy dollars. Before tax.

Your child will grow out of that in six months.

Back in the spring, some time between my many Nordstrom shortcuts, I went to a party in my apartment building for its longest-serving resident. After forty-five years, this woman in her mid eighties was moving to an assisted living residence. Many people from my building’s ninety apartments turned up, including some who have lived here for decades. Without prompting, several talked about how they could never afford to move out, since the province’s rent caps mean existing residents only have to weather a very gradual increase in rates. This doesn’t apply to signing a new lease somewhere else, and so new people moving into our own building are paying at least a thousand dollars more a month than when I first arrived, and even more than other, longer-term residents. We are all sat tight on islands of safety amongst ever-rising tides. We have become surrounded in our stubbornness.

Around the corner from me, a four hundred and thirty square foot one-bedroom apartment is being rented out for a fairly typical two thousand, six hundred and ninety dollars a month. That’s over thirty two thousand dollars a year. Various contemporary census reports list the median income in my neighbourhood as being between fifty and fifty-five thousand dollars a year, before tax. Someone earning that much would be spending sixty percent of their income just to rent such an home.

I would say that this feels uncomfortably familiar, but a decade ago I was spending maybe three quarters or more of my earnings to cover my rent. And a decade ago I was starting to write something just like this, once again surrounded by notes and drafts that I hoped to shape into something not just coherent, but that people would understand.

And once again I remember what it’s like not to have money.

Those rent caps aren’t protecting us from the ever rising price of everything else. I go shopping, see a pack of bagels apparently price frozen at three dollars and remember when it cost almost half this. It wasn’t long ago, it wasn’t some childhood memory, it was less than two years past. The other week, two dollars were suddenly added to the price of yoghurt. Cereal costs a third more. The cheapest bar of budget chocolate suddenly became fifty percent more expensive. This isn’t happening to luxury brands or inessential items, but staples and budget foods. You can watch it happen almost in real time, like accelerated footage of shoots sprouting or plants budding in the spring.

Wait a second, was I saying this a decade ago, in another country, in another time?

It’s happening again.

I just got forced back a place in line, mere seconds from being served. Another patron, presumptive and impatient, slid between me and the coffee I ordered, snatching it away in a move that I would describe as all too practised, as smooth. They had ordered the same drink as me, after me, and presumably it had never crossed their mind that someone else, stepping up to the counter, could possibly come before them. They make no eye contact. Indeed, they don’t even acknowledge my existence. I’m just some slightly scruffy guy in a New England gallery, probably someone who shouldn’t really be here enjoying art, and I’m not nearly as well-dressed, as well-decked, as they are.

I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not, but sometimes I wonder if, in my scruffier manifestations, I become invisible, inconsequential.

I remember a lot of strange stuff these days. Some people say that the Coronavirus pandemic played havoc with our memories, our restriction and isolation turning our minds inward and having them engage in an odd kind of archaeology. I’ve remembered old friendships, old journeys, old habits. And lately I’ve remembered folded broadsheets on kitchen tables in richer friend’s houses, with the features they carried and the writers who wrote them. I’ve remembered the economic downturn of 2008 and how one broadsheet ran a feature where “We Asked 100 People how they’re Coping with the Credit Crunch” and how what this really seemed to have done was ask one hundred people who were antique shopping in Islington how they had cut back on au pairs and skiing holidays. I’ve remembered how this was when I first noticed the peculiar distance from which such newspapers would observe and report on people who lived on lower incomes, who were poorer, occasionally letting one of them grace their pages with authentic stories of jobsearching and social housing.

Poverty was talked about as if it was some curious other country. It existed somewhere else.

I think I remember this in part because news reporting in the pandemic followed the same patterns the same way a little music box quickly repeats the same cutesy tune. Poorer people, it turned out, were feeling the effects of the pandemic much more, said the reports, officially marking such as observation as news, as if poorer people hadn’t felt the effects of everything else much more, since the god damn start of recorded fucking history.

Or maybe I remember it because, as spring began, a CBC News report on a (the?) housing crisis described the state of some poorer people’s living states as shocking, as if it was new, novel, never before seen. And yet such things can only truly shock someone who has gone through life unaware that some of the human beings around them have much less. I was not shocked by any of the things depicted in that report, much as I am never shocked to learn that someone has mould on their walls, broken windows, dangerous appliances, leaking plumbing, freezing bedrooms, failing electrics, collapsing walls or some sort of exploitative landlord or manager (nor that these things make you sick). I am only shocked that there are people in the world who still fail to comprehend the scope and scale of the poverty around them, who have become so swaddled and spoiled that they may as well be sleepwalkers.

You know what else I remember? I remember  how the pandemic turned my neighbourhood into richer people’s racetracks, how they would roar down my street at night. They rode oversized rollerskates costing a quarter of a million dollars along tight roads full of parked cars and blasted through the stop signs at every intersection. They growled in the night, grumbling down my road at three, four, five in the morning, probably achieving top speeds of thirty miles an hour but making a lot of noise as they did so. Their owners thought a good use of their money was to buy fast cars and drive them somewhere they’d be slower than a galloping horse. Most of these were not even good-looking cars. Most of these looked like shit.

When I first wrote that paragraph, a quarter of a million dollars had not quite achieved the significance that it currently has. But more on that in a moment.

I didn’t grow up poor. I grew up well taken care of and fairly safe. But I did grow up more modestly, poorer, than many of the people I came to know, the kind of people you might meet at a university, or in a New England art gallery, or a convention overseas, or who might make analogies about Dante. I also grew up knowing other kids with families who had much less, families couldn’t always surface their floors or fix their windows or fill their fridges. Wedged between two classes, I grew up knowing people who had multiple bathrooms and multiple garages, as well as those who tried to hide the rot on the walls or who didn’t know how to clean up when their disaffected, distressed dog had shit in the semi-carpeted living room once again.

I never forget that dog, though I never told anyone that before.

You know what else I remember sometimes, at random, when my brain decides to reminisce? I remember taking a bus home from work after a terrible Hampshire day, feeling awful about my life, when an old schoolfriend’s younger sister greeted me with excitement and enthusiasm. She came from the same household as the shit-stained floor. She sat on the back seat of this bouncing bus and delightedly told me how, by the age of seventeen, she was finally going to become a mother.

And then I remember how we were encouraged, pushed, expected to move beyond and away from something such as that. Don’t be like those people. Create distance. Escape.

I stopped writing this thing for a while, because each time that I opened it I became sad or I became overwhelmed, and I wondered both what right I had to write about things like this, being the guy with a pension and a safe apartment, and also who would care to read it. There are likely many reasons that people don’t want to read about some of these experiences and situations and one is that they aren’t very much fun. Why read about people with shit-stained floors when you can do anything else, such as watch a television show about starship battles or elves going on an adventure. These shows have CGI now and it’s all very exciting. It’s hard to compete in a world of CGI shows, funny dog videos and services that deliver dinner to your door.

But then it happened again.

I am trying a different fancy café (we have so many now). I just got forced back a place in line, mere seconds from being served. Another patron, presumptive and impatient, slid between me and the coffee I ordered, snatching it away in a move that I would describe as all too practised, as smooth. Again, they had ordered the same drink as me, and it either never crossed their mind to see if another person might claim this order, or I was somewhere between invisible and insignificant compared to how well-dressed, well-presented they were.

Is that just in my head?

I stepped out onto the street, past a row of sports cars and luxury vehicles. They are all over the place now, and I rarely walk a minute before seeing something that costs more than my neighbourhood’s median annual income. And then there was that whiplash, that high-g experience as I was also reminded of this half-written draft and everything else it contained.

And then I was angry.

I stopped writing this because, in part, I don’t know what it says about me that I didn’t so much leave so many of my low income experiences behind as find ways to run from them. Growing up, I was subconsciously sold a story of aspiration that was all about making yourself better than people who were struggling like this, about doing everything you can to create distance between yourself and them, about finding ways to identify with and relate to a different class. Become richer, sure, but become separate too. I think there is something in some poorer, lower-income, working class mindsets where such people are encouraged to resent themselves, to feel embarrassed, to aspire to be or to pretend to be something else, and to lose that past as soon as you can. I went and re-watched old material by the stand-up comedian Billy Connolly wherein he talked about things like his family throwing coats on the bed to keep warm, then pretending that a kids’ argument over those coats was a fight over the eiderdown (“The coats are in the cloakroom, near the mezzanine.”). I watched another where he tells a story of a person falling from a plane’s undercarriage and of a worried local calling the authorities and asking them to come and remove the body not out of concern for the tragedy or the person’s welfare, but because “I think he’s working class.” I have also never forgotten Connolly venting his frustration at someone who said to him “I was going to buy a copy of the Big Issue [a magazine that supports the homeless and unhoused], but the man was smoking.”

Connolly’s take on this was “HE DOESNAE HAVE A FUCKIN’ HOOSE. ALLOW HIM A WEE FAG WHILE HE WORKS OUT WHERE HE’S GONNA SLEEP TONIGHT.”

That’s an anger I understand, but it’s also an anger I am baffled to not see more often, perhaps even all the time, expressed as it should be in proportion to the amount of poverty and hardship I see every day. When I first moved to Vancouver, I encountered dozens of people sleeping on the streets. When I returned as a Permanent Resident in 2019 there were hundreds. There must now be thousands occupying doorways or amongst the growing tent cities that are constantly moved from place to place, an ever-growing population that is pushed away whenever they get too close to those expensive apartments or luxury cars.

When I see these people, I think how only a handful of circumstances or coincidences separate me from being in that position. Bubble bubble, go those rising waters, those rising rents and prices, and I have only climbed a little higher.

A few years ago, I sat next to a person on a train who volunteered their dismay: “It’s such a shame these people don’t want to work,” they said, as if people willingly chose to live in freezing tents without running water or safety or income. And there is valid anger to be thrown at a person like that, but also perhaps the consideration that they have never been exposed to the mathematics or practicalities of poverty, never had to worry quite enough about the cost of living, and have only ever talked about poverty as if it was some curious other country. A remote place of foreigners.

But I still don’t get how anyone can talk of the shock of poverty when it is so ever-present. I don’t understand. Do they look away? Are these the same kinds of people who, surveys have increasingly shown, see their above-average incomes as being unremarkably normal? After all, it now seems that wealth (and poverty) substantially alter psychology.

Nine years ago, in the spring, I shared an essay similar to this one called On Poverty. I talked about the rising cost of food and housing in England, as well as my frustrations around how something that for me was ever-present precariousness seemed somehow surprising, shocking, to many other people. It took me nearly a year to articulate and I only published it because I ran out of patience. To my surprise, it was shared in all kinds of places. Writers I admired got in touch, activists reached out, someone from the UK housing charity Shelter contacted me.

It was already six years after “We Asked 100 People how they’re Coping with the Credit Crunch” and nothing had changed. There was a growing trend toward not buying property in London, but investing in property, to the point that properties that didn’t yet exist were already being pre-bought with the understanding that they would become more valuable and could then be sold to others. Homes were no longer most useful as somewhere to live, but as investments that would appreciate. While I can’t say that this first started in London, I have certainly seen this practice and its consequences everywhere from Vancouver to New England to cities across Europe and Australia and… perhaps you can tell me somewhere where this hasn’t yet begun to happen.

And it is now fifteen years after “We Asked 100 People how they’re Coping with the Credit Crunch” and nine years after On Poverty and all the things that haven’t stopped have only gained momentum. Bubble bubble, the waters keep rising, because whyever would they not? We are, at least, talking more about the trends that we see as the waters reach more of our ankles. In Canada now we talk about how real estate prices that have increased up to three hundred and thirty seven percent mean that Toronto’s housing price to income ratio is now six, while Vancouver’s is ten, how twenty percent of properties are owned by investors (including half of all new condominiums in Vancouver), how the nation’s households now owe more money than the entire GDP, how insolvent an entire generation is. We now do our own versions of stories about, say, how a furnitureless room just big enough for a bed is now nine hundred dollars a month (this kind of story is so familiar… it’s happening again…). In Britain, the food bank usage I was furious about a decade ago is increasingly acknowledged, with a dialogue around how having more food banks thank McDonald’s restaurants might not be a good thing, how an ongoing cost of living crisis pushes more people toward sex work, how raising a healthy family and maintaining a basic standard of living has become increasingly difficult or downright impossible, how ill health is on the rise while life expectancy has stopped increasing and young adult mortality has risen, how almost four and one quarter million of Britain’s children now live in poverty while their parents struggle to feed them (and themselves), all against a background of increasing stagnation. In the United States there is also greater awareness of how wages have stagnated while the cost of living has increased and of how property prices have again wildly outpaced earnings, and continue to do so in no small part because more new properties are bought for the exclusive purpose of being profit-making stock, not to mention how more and more people are not taking lower paying jobs simply because they know those jobs won’t allow them to cover even their most basic needs (there is also an examination of the attempts to fill these voids by relaxing child labour laws in some states and how it might not be a good thing for ten-year-olds to be working the McDonald’s night shift). I see cost of living and inflation discussion across Europe. In South America. Even at the bottom of the world.

But it should never have got this bad, should never have spread this far, and it has done so in part because we ignored the poorer people around us who were the canaries in the coal mine, whose experiences (separated from ours only by chance and coincidence) could very well have been our own, but were instead treated as something happening at a peculiar distance. Those first people caught up in the rising tides were not like us, not our concern. It is only now, as these stories increase and as these graphs grow and as these numbers multiply, that more of us are beginning to understand that the surging waters might well engulf us all. We cannot outpace economics much as we cannot outjump gravity.

And so maybe, just maybe, a few more of you are angry too. You should be.

Two of the challenges I had over the many months that I tried to write this work were trying to start it and trying to finish it. These may sound very fundamental, perhaps even existential, and I suppose they are. Longform writing has been difficult for me the last few years. Trying to find a fresh way to articulate my anger and frustration over something that I have already written about, in one form or another, so many times was hard. There are only so many times I can say that it’s happening again before I wonder if people care. If people care about the increasingly obvious truth that, for a growing number of us, it has essentially become too expensive to be alive, and that if you can’t afford to live, the only thing you can do, either slowly or quickly, is die. And often I wonder why people are not mad about this every day, all of the time, and why much of this increasing poverty and inequality and struggle to survive is still reported and remarked upon with that peculiar distance, rather than being one of the chief concerns of our time. It certainly is a chief concern if it is your day to day life.

And then the submarine happened.

By now just about everyone knows at least something about how the OceanGate Titan submersible was lost at sea, suffering a catastrophic failure as a result of what seems to have been reckless policies and a contempt for safety standards. Tickets for a spot on this tiny, dangerous submarine cost a quarter of a million US dollars, while two nations and multiple air and sea forces invested tremendous resources in trying to locate the missing vessel. I have since witnessed what I think can generously be described as a lack of sympathy for this mixture of carelessness and privilege, as well as the enormous response that had to be deployed in an attempt to rescue rich tourists considered to have made poor choices. In particular, many people noted the contrast between the widespread coverage and intense efforts on behalf of five missing rich people versus the relative dismissal of the recent death of hundreds of refugees, including around a hundred children, in a Mediterranean shipwreck. It was an extremely transparent case of starkly different treatment based upon status.

And I had already woven my submarine analogies throughout half of these paragraphs.

This response is as important as the events themselves. It reflects a growing discontent around the wealth divide and a contempt for the rich, particularly the powerful rich, those who can make decisions that have enormous consequences that they themselves will not have to face. The past week I’ve been presented with thousands of tweets and short video essays by people explaining why they feel so little sympathy and how they’ve had enough. These are presented alongside more and more stories covering things such as the Clearlink CEO celebrating a worker selling their family dog in order to keep their job, or the increasing belief that ongoing inflation is in part caused by a transparent and unregulated desire for profit (including perhaps thousand dollar flip-flops sold by minimum wage staff). In the last few years it’s been revealed that even economic reporting itself is biased toward talking about richer, more comfortable people.

It’s almost July as I prepare to publish this work. The bagels that were, it turns out for only a brief moment, price frozen at three dollars are now thirty cents more expensive, a further ten percent price rise. I look at them and I remember what it was like to count every penny I spent when I was food shopping and I decide that I will include the following paragraph, which I was going to cut from this draft:

You know what the fresh pastries in the supermarket look like when you have only a handful of coins in your pocket? Those cherry-red centres, that glistening applesauce oozing out between crisp layers of puff pastry? They look like lights hung for a festival, they look as bright as Christmas decorations. They lose some of their sense of reality.

I’m not going to celebrate rich tourists lost at sea, but I’m glad it has lead to more people expressing their frustration, their discontent, their helplessness against economic forces that strike them, strand them, like a tidal wave, the surging waters that they cannot begin to climb clear of. I don’t think this means things will change this month, or this year, and I believe that change against forces and trends that have already developed so much momentum will require much more energy, much more pushback. I hope they continue to be angry, that they become angrier still, that they keep articulating and focusing their rage about the growing inequality and unaffordability around them as it begins to affect more and more people. That they express how disgusting it is that it is happening again.

Nine years ago I wrote that I felt we were regressing to the Victorian era, but now I wonder if we’re falling back even further than that. In my world of CGI shows, funny dog videos and services that deliver dinner to my door, almost all of the people who deliver that dinner or who will make me a coffee or who will drive me to the airport, or who perform all those tasks I can request when I throw money at stuff like a wizard casting a spell, are paid garbage and treated like they are disposable. This is usually because they are, and they have few other options. They are not lazy or stupid and we are only separated from one another by circumstances or coincidence, things we had about as much control over as weather, as rising tides, as economic forces with all the power of a tidal wave and which could still strike again and sink yet more of us. It could be happening again. Bubble bubble.

A significant factor in the success of someone like me, of the safer position I now find myself in, is luck, and we don’t talk about that enough.

People are trying so hard to survive. Last week someone broke through the latticework on the door of our building’s dumpster enclosure so that they could slide a hand through a tiny, sharp filigree of twisted metal and operate the handle. They did this in order to reach the trash inside, because their life had become so difficult that they needed to risk harming themselves in order to get trash.

Two blocks away, I finished writing in my local fancy café and stood briefly to return my cup to the counter, which is a common habit in the Pacific Northwest and takes but a moment. The patron next to me looked up from behind gold-rimmed, heart-shaped sunglasses.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that here,” she said. “They have people who will do that for you.”

[papirouge]

sorry for the Tekken sperging

if you want to have an idea of how much japanese game developer hate women, just look into Tekken tbh

there is no female character beyond 25 years old

since there's been a 15 years old gap between Tekken 2 and Tekken 3, and while ALL the characters who were in Tekken were allowed to get old (Heihachi, Lei, the Laws (father & son), Kazuya, etc.) AND still got included in the next games

Michelle Chang? she got a replaced by her "daughter" Julia in Tekken 3. The William sisters got cryogenized for all this time so they biologically didn't age. And now they're basically doing the same for the next opus by bringing back Kunimitsu....through her lookalike daughter (same mask and all) ??? wtf is this??her daughter doesn't even have the same swag as Kuni. That Kunimitsu #2 looks like a cute anime girl, when Kunimitsu was that mysterious morally ambiguous ninja thief, like- HELLO??

glo down of the millenium tbh. rEAL KUNI WHOULD NEVER SHOW HER FACE!!!! Tekken hasnt got a decent/original character since Tekken 6 anyway.

Oh and they killed Jun after Tekken 2 (that may or may not be back from the dead somehow, but ofc won't be old cause she DIED AT A YOUNG AGE WHEN JIN WAS STILL A CHILD !!!! so probably her reincarnation, ghost or some random nonsensical shit like that) And let's not talk about Julia tragic makeover between Tekken 6 and 7 and has become a whole different person : she went from a caring, environment defender Native American to....a hyperconnected bimbo'ish geek?? ...all of this was to cater to scrote ofc bc OG Julia wasn't really sexy to begin with (kinda horse girl'ish - she was the equivalent of Hitomi in the DOA franchise imo). I feel like her character was more serious and had so much substance than she does now... I also HATE how there's a gag overkill in the serie (esp the Mishima e.g their endings in Tekken Tag 2 aaaaaand IDC if the TTT are not canon, stop trying to make this dysfunctional family where everyone wants to kill each other look like a comedy skit EVERYTIME, it's getting old) CANT WE HAVE SOME SERIOUS RELEVANT CHARACTERS WHO ACTUALLY MAKE THE PLOT MOVE FORWARD??

Tekken story plot went down the toilet after Tekken 5 anyway, and the overall chara design tanked big time after Tekken 4 (exception for Dragunov who was truly a novelty I'm always a sucker for mute characters and Lars who's my haafu husbando). My biggest Tekken crush has always been Hwoarang and they made him unrecognizable lately (he was perfect in Tekken 5)

But yeah, Tekken hates women, has become shit, and it bums me out so bad bc that's basically my first video game, and the storyline/lore used to be so good (Tekken 3 had the best plot!!! Heihachi shooting Jin -his own grandson- a bullet in the head in his ending got 9 years old me SHOOK. Ogre was sooo creepy, his Tekken Tag Tournament 2 ending is legit nightmare fuel)

I mean, even Dead or Alive that is infamous for catering to scrotes has a more attractive male roaster at this point (Hayate <3). They also did a brilliant chara design overhaul for DOA6 that made the characters so much prettier and is actually consistent and done tastefully.

Because yeah, what shocks me the most is how SHITTY Tekken chara design has become. It peaked with Tekken 4 (Jin Kazama tracksuit will forever be iconic dont @ me) but it's now such a convoluted tacky mess. Characters don't even have their own style anymore. Lars has the same tacky outfits as King (who's a luchador!!!). Also : WHY HAS HE BECOME SO BUFF??? Did he take the same steroids as Chris Redfield?? He was so hot in Tekken 6... WASTE!

They should take a few pages from team Ninja who knows how to make shit done when it comes to rework characters aesthetic. Look at this work of art

[putschki1969]

2022/05/01 Tweets by H-el-ical// staff

We received some pictures from the performance so I thought I would upload some of them✨ (This is Miss Hikaru during the performance)

Girl Talk !? 🗣

Thank you again for your support today ☺️

#Performance photos Part1 #Should we make rubber bands for Hikaru’s merch?? #Hika band (Source)

Hikaru is wearing different outfits on stage, here’s one of them 👗✨ Why did I choose these photos, you may ask? 💡´- I wanted everyone to see Hikaru's expressions ☺️

Today’s performance STARTS at 13:00 →→→

#Performance photos Part2 #Hikaru doesn't usually wear this kind of dress, so it's a rare sight (Source)

This is my personal favourite scene ✨ Hikaru as Running Man (?) 🏃‍♀️ Thanks to all of this, her physical strength has improved a lot🤣

Thank you to everyone who is coming to see the evening performance!!

#Normally, Hikaru doesn't run, so it's a rare sight #Running man who is leaning forward #Let's make a video of running man next time👀 (Source)

Yes !! Another appearance ✋ Of the infamous Potato Tracksuit🍠 Hikaru @her performance! Such lively photos 📷✨ The evening performance STARTS at 18:00 (￣ ^ ￣ ゞ

#The potato tracksuit looks comfy #I feel like I want to see a green version #I kinda want to make a Hika-jersey 🤔 (as part of the Gachi goods??) #I’ll suggest it alongside the rubber band ✨ (Source)

GAIA Crew images (Source)

[mugiwara-lucy]

What are your favorite non gi outfits for Goku? My favorite is Goku’s outfit he wore before the cell games, the jacket and professional pants look so nice on him

It's what you just said along with the Blue Tracksuit he wore at the Start of Battle of Gods, his farmer outfit, the shirt he wore in the infamous driving episode with Piccolo and ESPECIALLY his Yardrat Outfit!!!

[veworfone]

Showstars hana set 31

#Showstars hana set 31 full

#Showstars hana set 31 trial

#Showstars hana set 31 tv

after admitting he's struggled to open up to women Spring wardrobe staple: This £15 long-line cardigan will see you through the season - shoppers say it is 'really comfortable'Ĭraig David brushes off his romance woes as he takes to the stage in Cardiff in a sparkly tracksuit.

#Showstars hana set 31 full

Natalie Portman takes to Instagram to share new Thor: Love And Thunder poster showing her in full armor and wielding enchanted hammer Mjölnir

#Showstars hana set 31 trial

Heidi Klum sparkles in green sequin suit while Sofia Vergara slips her famous curves into a ruby red gown as they lead stars attending America's Got TalentĪbbie Quinnen puts on a leggy display in a white cut-out mini dress teamed with black knee-high boots as she attends the Firebird premiereīreaking Bad star Aaron Paul shares adorable pics of newborn son Ryden Caspian Paul: 'So happy you are out in this world'Īmber Heard ADMITS to getting violent with Johnny Depp in audio recordings played during defamation trial as she told him to 'grow up' and was a 'baby' as the cravings for carbs kick in after she 'worked so hard to lose weight' Trump calls Piers Morgan 'fake', 'disloyal' and a 'fool' and WALKS OUT of interview after confronting him over document criticizing his last year in officeīritney Spears complains pregnancy is making her 'extremely hungry'. Neighbours goes ROGUE on TikTok: Account posts spicy memes mocking rival soap Home and Away after being cancelled by Channel 5 'Call me Good Luck Chuck!' Scott Disick pokes fun at himself with rom com joke after Sofia Richie becomes his latest ex to get happily engaged This £30 ergonomic seat cushion provides immediate support and pain relief when WFH - and it's backed by more than 51,600 five-star reviews

#Showstars hana set 31 tv

Water way to celebrate! It's a splashback to the 1970s as Tiswas stars reunite for awardĪnarchic show was pulled from the TV in 1982 after snapping up the property for $6.6 million in 2017 Logan Paul earns a cool $800K profit as he sells his Encino estate for $7.405 million. Viola Davis reveals that she got on her knees and prayed for God to bring her husband Julius Tennon before they met: 'I said I want a big Black man' 'The show can't afford to lose her': TOWIE bosses 'are scrambling to keep fan favourite' Chloe Brockett on the reality show after bloody club catfight after admitting he was 'lucky to survive' e-bike crash Simon Cowell, 62, wears a wrist brace as he walks the red carpet at America's Got Talent auditions. Rolling Stones star Ronnie Wood's grandson Leo, 16, is selected for Team GB Boxing squad and could compete in the 2024 Olympics in Paris Jada Pinkett Smith says family is 'focusing on deep healing' after husband Will's infamous Chris Rock slap as new season of Red Table Talk kicks off Pregnant Lottie Tomlinson joins Kate Ferdinand on her Blended podcast to discuss grief after losing her mother and sister three months after her premature birth via surrogate Nick Jonas and Priyanka Chopra's baby daughter's name revealed to be Malti Marie. Make this spring your most delicious yet! 10 tasty treats to indulge with this month Kate Ferdinand gets ready for summer as she displays her sensational figure and toned tummy in an array of vibrant swimwear the barbs that stunned the Palace: REBECCA ENGLISH's take on Prince Harry's latest commentsīridgerton prequel FIRST LOOK: Golda Rosheuvel cuts a solemn figure as Queen Charlotte while filming funeral scenes as production commencesīillie Faiers burst into tears as she continues to stress over her £1.4m dream house renovation after learning it's 24 WEEKS behind schedule Taking aim at the family he owes his fortune to. Your favourite characters, new faces and a trip to the French Riviera! Prepare to be swept away by the cinematic release of Downton Abbey: A New Era - here's everything you need to know after actor says he's exonerated in fatal shooting on Rust set If COVID did couture! Iris Law shows off her bold sense of style in a quirky hand sanitiser T-shirt and sheer skirt as she attends Ben Cobb Show screeningĪlec Baldwin and his pregnant wife Hilaria Baldwin are spotted out with kids in NYC. after being unveiled as Baby Dino on The Masked Singer Live tourĭon't look now Kim! Court artist strikes again with another unflattering portrait of the Kardashians after first image went viral Jacqueline Jossa shows off her incredible figure in colourful array of bikinis. Sofia Richie is engaged! Elliot Grainge gets down on one knee surrounded by candle light and roses to pop the question to the 23-year-old modelīoundless Beauty: Three inspirational women on breaking boundaries and what makes them feel their best Palace shock at Prince Harry: Royal staff slam 'arrogance' over Duke's comment about 'protecting' Queen and suggestion Her Majesty tells him secretsĮDEN CONFIDENTIAL: It's goodbye yellow brick road, hello £55m as Elton John rakes in a fortune despite Covid pandemic

[azuhra]

Possibly an unpopular opinion, but Tracksuit Gohan is adorable hot.

[yelenabelovasbxtch]

I’m Dating Spider-Woman

A/n: hey everyone! So the fic I posted last night was supposed to be a one shot but somebody made a comment that absolutely inspired me! So I had to make another part to the story.

Part 1

Warnings: lots of fluff! Feel good shit.

Word count: 1441

Concept: After telling Kate you’re spider-woman and admiring you have feelings for her you wanted to make sure she had the best Christmas ever.

Taglist: @imapotatao @kacka84 @sofisnn @hoeforwandanat @variant-l0852 @mellowladyangel @violetwitchmcu @m-zne237 @laaurrel @chloe7076 @miphas-trident @chickenlittlsblog @sapphic-girl @simp4haiz @hardwastelandbread @thorya22 @kassies-take

It had been about a week since you told Kate you were spiderwoman, more importantly it’s been about a week since the two of you admitted your feelings to each other. What you were hoping would be a week in paradise with Kate, a honeymoon phase if you will, turned out to be packed with bad guys and kicking ass. You helped Kate and Clint take down Kingpin and the tracksuits in order to clear their names and ensure nobody is in harm's way anymore. Clint’s mom was unfortunately wrapped up in some pretty bad stuff so she was put away in jail and this was going to be Kate's first Christmas without both of her parents. Clint headed back to his home to see his family and you knew you had to make this Christmas amazing for her.

Since you told Kate you were spider woman she has been obsessing over it. What she would give to tell the world she was dating spider-woman. While she already had feelings for you as y/n y/l/n before, everything was heightened when she found out. She has been BEGGING you non-stop to take her swinging around New York for the last week but you guys just haven’t had time because of all the bad guys running around. So, you knew you had to somehow work that into your Christmas plans for her. That and the infamous Spider-Man upside down kiss of course that we saw all over the news a while back when Spider-Man did it with some person. Since Kate was still your best friend before being your girlfriend, you had already gotten her some Christmas presents but there was one more you had to get that caught your eye. You were stopping a robbing happening in a jewelry store on 82nd street. While you were in between punches you noticed the most beautiful necklace. It was a small silver pendant that had a web engraved into it with a diamond sitting in the middle. You knew how badly Kate wanted to tell people she was dating spiderwoman and you figured this little necklace would be like your little secret with her. The meaning behind it, that is. So, on your way back to the apartment you pick it up in the most beautiful little box. You’re practically skipping to your place you were so eager.

Kate was at her mom's place all morning trying to clean out some stuff to bring home so this was the perfect opportunity to get everything prepared. As soon as you got home you set up the tree, wrapped all the gifts and even started baking some of her favourite home made cookies so that the smell was intoxicating as soon as she stepped through that door. Everything was perfect and you couldn’t have been happier. You could hear Kate coming down the hallway and her keys making noise as they entered the lock. You immediately got into position above the door. As she opened it, you slowly lowered yourself upside down.

“AHHH.” Kate screamed because you startled her as she managed to land a punch right in your chest.

You cough and drop to the ground not having expected that, she knocked the wind out of you.

“Oh shit— y/n I am SO sorry! I thought you were an intruder, I’ve been kind of on edge since fighting Fisk and I— woahhhhh did you do all of this?” She says gesturing towards the decorations.

“Yeah—” you say in pain.

“Shoot, I’m sorry.” She says trying to help you up.

“I just wanted to make sure that you had a special Christmas.”

“Wait— were you trying to do the upside down Spider-Man kiss thing with me?”

“Yeah…” you say awkwardly while scratching the back of your head.

“Awe babes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin that.”

“Kate, stop apologizing. I know you didn’t mean to punch me, love.” You say with a chuckle. “How about we just move past it and get this night started hmm?”

“Okay.” She says with a smile.

You pull the cookies out of the oven and they’re baking to perfection. You had a pizza on the way, one for you and one for the dog and margaritas ready to be made. As the night progressed you two had a lot of fun drinking, eating and you finally got around to opening presents. Kate was pretty tipsy by this point but your tolerance is incredibly high because of the spider powers. Watching her stumble slightly is adorable. She gets extremely affectionate with you when she’s intoxicated. All she wants to do is cuddle and kiss you all over the place. The two of you opened all your presents and there was wrapping paper everywhere. Kate was loving every single thing you bought her, and you the same.

“There’s one more gift.” You say extending your hand. Kate grabs it and stands up. “Follow me”

You bring her to the roof where you lay a kiss on her in the moonlight as snow is falling around the two of you. “Okay Kate, on a scale of 1-10 how drunk are you because I don’t need you puking on me.”

“Puking on you..? Wai— ARE WE GOING SWINGING?”

You just chuckle. “1-10 babes?”

“Hmmm a 3. I’ll be okay yeah yeah don’t worry! Let’s go!”

“Okay! You ready?”

“Ready.” She says in an eager tone.

You jump off the top of your apartment building with her arms and legs wrapped around you. You swing from building to building as you can hear Kate practically fangirling in your ear as you’re doing so. You swing to the top of the Brooklyn bridge where you set her down. The two of you felt like you were standing on the top of the world.

“Wow, y/n this is beautiful and this experience, my god it’s surreal.”

“This is my absolute favourite place to be. When I’m out doing spider-woman stuff and need to relax I come here or when I need to ever clear my head, I come here. It’s just the most relaxing place I’ve ever been and it probably helps that the view is so amazing. But now that you’re here with me, I have something so much more beautiful to look at.”

Kate blushes and tries to chuckle to hide how embarrassed she was from the shade of red she was turning. “Oh stop it, you’re so cheesy you know that?”

“I can’t help it. I just love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

“Oh also I may have lied earlier…there’s one more gift I have for you.” You say pulling the jewelry box out of your pocket.

“Y/n oh my gosh this is too much you already gave me so much this Christmas.”

“Yeah yeah I know but those were all gifts I bought you before we were together. Now that you’re my girlfriend I wanted to buy you something extra special.” You say as you give her the small box.

Kate slowly unwraps the bow and and lifts the lid to the small box.

You see her eyes glaze over as she realizes what she’s looking at.

“Y/n…I don’t know what to say. It’s beautiful. Thank you.” She says in the most heartfelt tone.

“I just thought that you knowing that I’m spiderwoman now was such a huge step for our relationship and I am so thankful that I have a friend now girlfriend that cares so much for me and keeps my secret. It really does mean the world to me.” You say trying not to get too emotional. “Here, let me help.” You say as she hands you the necklace. Kate turns around and pulls her hair to the side as you clip it together on the back of her neck.

“You look beautiful.” You say with a smile.

“I love it and you, so much.”

“I love you too.” You say. “Wait I’ll be right back—”

“Wha-What okay, I guess.” Kate says as you jump off the bridge.

You swing up to the top of the pillars above the two of you and slowly web yourself down. As you come down you pull something out of your pocket.

“Please don’t punch me this time.” You say as you hold a mistletoe out in front of you.

Kate turns around and just chuckles as she sees you hanging from upside down. She grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss.

This right here was the best moment of your life and you knew it was hers too.

— The End —

[glittter-skeleton]

Tntduo Soulmate AU!

This is a purely visual metaphor but the actual au would go like this:

A red string tied to your pinky connects you with the person you’re meant to be with

Wilbur has always hated the string. It feels wrong. Limiting. He’s the one who chooses his faith, not a fucking ribbon

So he gets a life, a beautiful nymph that doesn’t have a string, a son and most importantly a nation. He feels like if he could choose where his string lead, it would be L’Manburg

One day Wilburs string loosens. It’s almost poetic how it leads him to the entrance into his land. But it doesn’t. It leads to the guy he’s spent years dreading meeting

Said guy has always loved the idea of someone somewhere being the perfect one for him. Not that he couldn’t make it on his own, it just made him… hopeful.

He gets even more hopeful arriving in this land and feeling his string become looser

He hears of Wilbur and L’Manburgs rules of “Only Englishman allowed”. He kinda doesn’t like the guy and when he overhears about him staging an election to gain power he likes him even less.

Quackitys string leads him to infamous nation. And the shitty guy that forgot to finish off his own damn political crime. It doesn’t matter that sparks fly between him and the president right now, he has a fucking campaign to run and a brash goatman to flirt back at. (Even if Wilbur is actually really fucking hot, goddamn it)

Months later, after all the false faith put in, all the hurt, the drugs and the bruises they touch their pinkies. Drunk. In a stuffy stone room. It’s not like it matters, they’re too broken to have this anyways

In his last moment Wilbur does not think of such frivolous things as soulmates and pretty red strings. Catching view of a blue tracksuit he hopes he finds himself someone better. After all, Wilbur doesn’t believe in soulmates.

In a cold train station, the string is grayed and almost painful in how hard it tugs. As subway doors open up and he sees an eerie smile, it feels just a tiny bit looser. (And… maybe it does feels hopeful, to know you were meant for something, for someone, for… life)

“You can’t cut that that string, Big Q. Trust me, I tried. But now all I want is to have your hand in mine… again”

[giveamadeuschohisownmovie]

“Hawkeye” becomes a better show if you imagine it as a metaphor for Disney MCU coming to terms with Netflix MCU:

1) Clint Barton represents Netflix Marvel. He is a dark, morally grey, brooding loner who gets into brutal fights and has done some things that aren’t so heroic. Kate Bishop represents Disney Marvel. She is a squeaky clean, positive, bright, and bubbly young hero who is constantly funny. 

2) Kate Bishop’s branding argument pretty much applies to all of Netflix Marvel, not just to Clint. The Netflix shows were infamous for straying away from the original costumes in favor of a “grounded” approach. What I mean is:

* Matt Murdock got his Daredevil suit but was roasted by everyone since he looked ridiculous in it. Also, he doesn’t wear his suit for most of his appearances. Most of the time, he looks like a ninja using clothes he found in his closet. 

* Jessica Jones made fun of her suit, as well as her original superhero name. When Trish suggested the superhero name “Jewel”, Jessica said it sounded like the name of a stripper. 

* Luke Cage wore his original costume once, and it was just for a gag scene where Luke says he looks like a damn fool.

* Danny Rand never even got his costume.

* Frank Castle did get his costume, but it’s not like it was extravagant or anything. It’s literally just body armor with a spray-painted skull on it. 

3) Clint and Kate’s dynamic could be read as Disney MCU trying to “bond” with Netflix MCU. Kate is constantly trying to get Clint to lighten up and only sees him for the hero he can be, not the morally grey vigilante who has done some unsavory things in the past. On the other hand, Clint is constantly annoyed at Kate’s perspective since he sees the life of a vigilante as this dark and unfulfilling job that requires a lot of sacrifices.

4) Even though the show is very much a Disney MCU production (the humor, the light-hearted tone), it is doing its best to incorporate the style of Netflix Marvel (the one-take car chase scene, the brutality, the morally grey moments, sympathy for the villains).

5) Aside from Kate, the show feels like what would happen if a Netflix MCU protagonist got dropped into a Disney MCU production. Clint Barton, the dark loner, keeps getting pushed into these ridiculous scenarios such as the LARPing scene, the Tracksuit Mafia, and meeting Kate’s parents. He’s annoyed by all of this since he thinks it’s all stupid, especially since it’s a stark contrast to how dark his life was before the show (the Ronin years). 

In fact, here’s a fun game. Switch out Clint Barton with Matt, Jessica, Luke, Danny, or Frank. Aside from maybe Danny (he might enjoy the silliness), all the Netflix MCU protagonists would be just as annoyed with everything happening around them, same as Clint. 

[luminous-letters]

S/O runs from Octavinelle, Jack lets you stay for the night

Maybe it was your own forgetfulness and negligence that brought to this very conundrum. Scurrying around corridors and hiding in bathroom stalls to avoid those two. The Leech twins, in all their towering, toothy and infamous selves.

For some reason, Grim decided to make a deal with Azul. You never got into the details of it and never paid it any mind, and by some stroke of misfortune you had to shoulder the consequences. Thank goodness you managed to persuade Heartslabyul into taking in Grim for the time being.

You knew you couldn't hide forever, those twins always know how to find you. So you opted for somewhere you were guaranteed protection— Savanaclaw.

"Ahhh, Little Shrimpy!! Where are you~~" Floyd hollered across the hallway, heavy footfalls inching closer to where you were. Before he could even the slimmest sliver of a chance, you were already running for the hills.

Savanaclaw bathed in the afterglow, orange rays shone over the dorm— a perfect mix of the rough wilderness of the savannah and the leisurely comfort of civilization.

You ran, not even sparing a single second to head for the lounge. There were multitudes of beastmen swimming in the lounge pool, some were busy wolfing down plates filled with meat, while others were busy roughhousing each other.

In the sea of ears and tails, you managed to find a faint silvery glimmer. Quickly, you approached. Jack looked like he just finished club activities, he was flushed and panting— his orange tracksuit drenched in sweat.

"Jack! Can we talk?"

"Can it wait....?" Jack sighed, running a hand through his damp snow white hair.

"Please."

"Fine...in my room then."

Jack's room wasn't overly lavish like Leona's nor was it too barren like Ruggie's. It was in between the two— a small assortment of books were at the side, while small pots of cacti were out bathing in the last rays of sunlight. You also spotted a few training equipment neatly placed at the corner.

"What?" Jack raised a brow, eyeing your disheveled self.

"Octavinelle." You replied, horrified.

"Again? Didn't you just get out of the whole anemone problem?"

"Please, please, please Jack. My life literally depends on it!"

"Fine, fine. I'll let you stay...only for tonight, got it? We...er, you can sort that entire thing with Octavinelle first thing tommorow."

[thewidowsghost]

Happy Holidays! - Chapter 4

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Kate speeds away, and (Y/n) follows close behind.

“Nice job, Kate,” (Y/n) says.

Kate grins, “Thanks.” Kate’s childish grin has (Y/n)’s stomach fluttering.

The two weave their way through the shelves and shelves of alcohol, but then they hear the sounds of two men speaking Russian.

(Y/n) closes her eyes, listening closely.

“Come on, let’s go. Move,” (Y/n) translates for Kate. “Don’t forget your positions.”

“Mine’s on the left.”

“Yeah, bro,” (Y/n) goes on.

“Get it ready.”

“Move to two.”

“Okay, everybody ready?”

(Y/n)’s eyes flash open, and she grabs Kate, pulling her over just as the door opens, and the men walk out of the room, (Y/n) pressing Kate against the wall.

Kate is glad that the lighting in the room was so dark, her cheeks darkening signifigantly.

When (Y/n) finally lets go of Kate’s arms, they move to peer between more of the bottles.

“Come on, ladies and gentlemen,” they hear the auctioneer say. “This sword belonged to the infamous Ronin.”

Yes (Y/n) had heard of the man before, but she didn’t know who Ronin was.

“Four seventy five,” Armand says, raising his paddle with his number on it.

“Four seventy five, bidder, bidder, do I hear five hundred thousand. I’ve got four seventy five here, it’s going once. It’s going twice. Sold for four-hundred seventy-five thousand dollars. Up next, we have lot number 3-0-9. The companion piece, the Ronin suit.”

As Kate steps forward, examining the wooden box, there is an explosion which rocks the building; people scream.

“You might want to put that back on,” Kate says, turning to face (Y/n).

(Y/n)’s slaps her wrist again, and the suit spreads across her body, and she pulls the mask up to cover her face and her nose, her hair tied back.

(Y/n) throws an behind Kate’s head to protect the woman from the rubble.

Then, a movement catches (Y/n)’s attention, and she motions to Jack, who had picked up the Ronin sword.

(Y/n) and Kate scoot back, pressing their backs to one of the shelves.

Kate looks on the verge of panicking, and (Y/n) takes her hand, squeezing it gently.

Kate takes a few breaths before she nods to (Y/n).

“You stay here, I’ll take care of this,” (Y/n) says and Kate begins to protest.

(Y/n) gets to her feet, moving towards the thieves, flooring two of them with her mother’s signature move.

Unbeknownst to (Y/n), Kate had taken the Ronin suit, put it on, and was fighting the thieves on the opposite side of the cellar.

. . .

Eleanor exits the building, looking worried, her eyebrows knit. She pulls out her phone, trying desperately to call her daughter, “Come on, Kate.”

. . .

“(Y/n),” Kate taps (Y/n)’s shoulder, and (Y/n) tenses, facing the Ronin suited girl. “It’s me.”

(Y/n) exhales. “We have to go,” (Y/n) takes Kate’s hand, pulling her through the hole in the wall.

The scene that (Y/n) next sees makes her boil with anger.

“Hey!” Kate bellows, advancing towards the man kicking the same golden retriever from earlier. Kate kicks the man in the face, and the dog darts off.

Kate and (Y/n) exchange glances before they take off after the dog.

“Wati!” yells Kate as the dog hares through traffic, almost getting hit by a car multiple times.

Both (Y/n) and Kate vault over cars, Kate gathering the dog in her arms, and safely getting the dog to the other side of the road.

Car horns blare as the thieves in tracksuits stop in the middle of the road.

“Come on,” (Y/n) scoops up the dog.

Kate takes off before (Y/n), leading her along.

“Where are we going?” (Y/n) says, panting slightly from the weight of the large dog.

“My apartment,” Kate says.

. . .

“You were right about the tree, Dad,” Lila says, her and Cooper flopping down on the couch to turn on the TV.

“I want one that big,” Nathaniel says, clinging onto his father’s back.

“It wouldn’t fit in our house, dummy,” Cooper replies.

“Please, please, please!” Nate pleads.

“It’s a little late for TV, guys. I’ve gotta pack,” Clint tells his kids, but Lila still turns on the TV.

“We are following a breaking news story. A high society gala rocked by an explosion when it went off at Park Avenue and 68th Street tonight,” the newscaster says. “The cause of the explosion is still under investigation. But witnesses captured cell phone footage of two masked assailants fleeing the scene.”

Clint fixes his eyes on the television, his eyes widening.

Clint’s phone rings and he curses under his breath when he sees the caller ID.

“Hey, Nat,” Clint says, closing his eyes.

“Why isn’t my daughter answering the phone? Why is she running around with RONIN?”

“Nat, I don’t know,” Clint moves away so his kids couldn’t hear him. “That’s not me.”

Word Count: 835 words

Happy Holidays Taglist:

@imapotatao

@starscouffaine

@crazydefendortrash

@harleyswanda

@neverylee

@gay-vet-student

@sofi898

@simsrecs

@Dxnnx04

@xxxtwilightaxelxxx

@suestormswife

[artemis32]

Purloiner

This is the first time I’ve ever actually posted something I’ve written ://

I’d like to think that posting this is my early Christmas gift to myself

BIG thank you to @sunnyfunerals​ for beta reading and encouraging me :D

****

Hunter x Hunter Masterlist

****

****

Yandere! Chrollo x female! reader

TW: dark content, yandere, slight violence, mentions of drugging, implied kidnapping

Word count: 10.9k

****

You take a small glance up. Even in this large crowd of people, they stand out. Clothing that doesn’t quite suit the norm, posture straight and proud, more-so than any of the surrounding businessmen rushing to work. 

What sets them apart the most, however, isn’t their clothing or general disposition. No, the four people occupying the sidewalk all hold the same dangerous glint in their eyes, and an aura that wards off any potential salesmen or beggars desperate for money. 

But no matter how intimidating they may seem, no one gives them much of a berth, people crushing in from all sides even now. The streets of York New City are always bustling with people going about their day. A few dangerous people have never deterred the residents, especially not in Mafia territory. 

The Xi-Yu Family territory is infamous for its high-class criminals. The citizens of York New City would be foolish to be scared off by a few intimidating people in an area like this, especially in broad daylight. 

 Nevertheless, people are sure to keep a wary eye on the odd group while quickly passing them. You chuckle under your breath, a small smirk gracing your features. 

This makes my job so much easier; you think. The crowd is distracted, and the target is preoccupied with his companions.

A quick glance towards the tall blonde woman steels your resolve once more. Pushing yourself away from the brick wall of the small bakery, you take slow, measured strides while surveying the group one final time.

There are four people in total. A tall woman dressed in a dark purple suit, sporting a short, straight bob that reaches down to her neck. Standing next to her, seemingly zoned out of the conversation, stands another small dark-haired girl with glasses. She startles slightly when the man next to her asks her a question. She answers slowly, and the man’s face twists into a frown at her words. He has long hair, laying loosely over his shoulders and sports a tired expression and grown out stubble on his jaw. Lastly, the target. A blonde man in an expensive looking tracksuit with a nasty scowl on his face.

The four people make for an odd group, you’ll admit, and nothing about them really announces their wealth. However, you’ve seen their type before, having been in your line of work for nearly a decade. Their cocky attitudes and the blond man’s loud complaints of “doing the grunt work” gives all of York New an idea of what they have with them. Couriers like them – people who transport expensive, often illegal goods – they’re common in York New. However, most couriers, even the newbies, know better than to talk about their work in such an exposed area.

If the brown package in the target’s pocket is any indication, each person in the group is high-class, and part of the elite of the city. They’re most likely in York New to pay a visit to the Mafia heads, whether to threaten or negotiate doesn’t matter, and it’s none of your business. 

Bringing yourself back to the present moment, you slowly speed up your stride, quickly nearing the group. You keep your heart rate steady, your head tilted down beneath your hood, eyes seemingly glazed over. They won’t be as suspicious if you seem like another straggler, a beggar desperate for some cash or their next fix.

As you lift your eyes to take a quick glance at the target, your fingers twitch in anticipation. 

Four meters. 

The noise of the crowd drowns out their conversation, even as you close in on them.

Three meters.

The target throws his arm around the dark-haired man’s shoulders, muttering something in his ear. 

Two meters.

You slip your hand out of your pocket, curling your fingers into a loose fist.

One meter.

A quick look at the faces of everyone in the group confirms that they’re all preoccupied with one another.

Now.

Your hand darts out as you bump into him, muttering half-hearted apologies under your breath. His face pulls into a disgusted scowl for a moment before the tall woman calls out to him. 

“Phinks, leave it. Boss wants us back soon.” 

He gives you one last glare before they leave. You quickly walk until you reach the end of the street before glancing back, watching their retreating figures, relief flooding your veins. Taking a deep breath, you begin your journey home.

****

The smell of alcohol and cigarettes lingers in the air as you make your way to the office situated in the back of the empty club. People flit around you, working quickly to prepare for the opening shift in an hour. Soon the club will be bustling with people dressed in knock-off designer brands, the strobing lights and low-quality booze making them easy targets. However, that’s not what you’re here for, and your employer has made it plenty clear that his clientele, no matter how lowly, are not to be touched. 

You narrowly avoid a server carrying a tray of empty glasses. She gives you a dirty look as she steadies the tray. Understandable, after all, she would have had to face the wrath of the owner of the establishment, had she dropped the tray. 

The man you work for is infamous in the darker side of the city. Lenson is his name, a man with sharp grey eyes, picking up on even the slightest twitch, and mousy brown hair greying at his temples, the only sign of his age. He’s a well-known loan shark, and he supplies the cheapest muscle for hire in the bad part of York New City. You, however, aren’t involved in his public business. 

No, you aid him in his more underground dealings, many of which ended with you bruised and bloody. You help him acquire in-demand items that require a lighter hand than his clumsy muscle for higher, as well as picking up extra cash when he needs it, hence your pickpocket title amongst the regulars at the club.

You’ve known him for as long as you can remember. You’d call him a father-figure in your life, were it not for the fact that his ‘fatherly tendencies’ include putting you on the list during fight nights hosted by the club. He calls you his trump card, the only term of endearment you’ve ever heard from him.

You were sent to him as a child, whether to pay off the debt of your parents, or because they didn’t want you at all, he never really told you. Honestly, you were probably better off not knowing. In the long run, it didn’t matter either way. He’d done more for you than you’d like to admit, and you owed him greatly for it.

You lightly knock on the door, entering once he yells for you to come in. His office smells like stale cigarettes, coffee, and mould. You drop down into the uncomfortable plastic chair opposite his desk, foregoing small talk and pleasantries.

“What do you want? I didn’t call you in.”

“Relax,” you say as you recline in the chair. “I’m just here to drop off something, I need some cash.” This has become a regular part of your dealings with him over the past eight years that you’ve been working for him. You weren’t employed in his darker dealings until he was sure you had something worthwhile to offer him. It wasn’t unusual for you to come by unannounced, desperate for a pay cheque, your usual amount not enough to see you through the month.

“Well? Get to the point, I have clients arriving in twenty minutes.” He says in an irritated tone.

“Ah, plenty of time. Here, I think this should be worth something.” You hand him the black backpack, eager to return home despite your laid-back attitude. 

Even after all this time, the unease you feel deep beneath your skin never truly dissipates, no matter how controlled you try to keep your expression. Dealing in this kind of business always comes with the risk of being betrayed, no matter how friendly people may seem, no matter the close connection you had with them. Your gratitude to him only extended so far.

He scoffs as he looks down at the bag, most likely doubting the value of the items you’ve brought him. He mutters under his breath about how he should let you go, but you know he’s only speaking out of annoyance. After all, you are his greatest asset, not that he’ll ever openly admit it. There are moments where his pride in you shines through. Ultimately, you were little more than a project to him, trained from the day you arrived on his darkened doorstep.

“Well?” you prompt, annoyed with his slow movement. “Aren’t you going to open it?” 

He sighs heavily before opening the bag, sifting through its contents with a critical eye. 

Suddenly, all the blood seems to drain from his face, and his expression turns a strange green colour. 

“Wh-Where did you find this?” he says as he lifts your most valuable find out of the bag. 

It’s an old wooden box with several ancient engravings on the surface. The contents of the brown paper bag. Your curiosity got the better of you, checking the bag hadn’t been the brightest decision. It could have ended a lot worse. Often, couriers would carry dummies, packages containing decoys to fool anyone dumb enough to try and rob them. Or worst-case scenario, something a bit more violent, meant to teach any would-be thieves a hard lesson. 

However, you’d felt confident enough to decide that people that cocky wouldn’t feel the need to have any safeguards in place. After all, their presence alone should have been enough to deter most people from attempting to steal from them. You got lucky, and it seems that your risk should have paid off. 

The old wooden box held a solid gold amulet, the face of it being encrusted with blue diamonds. It would definitely fetch a high price in the York New underground. The elite of the city were attracted to shiny jewellery like moths to a flame.

“Ah, yes. I got that from an old friend. Never mind that, how much is it worth?” Your eagerness to leave only grows with his reaction. 

“I- ahem- I don’t know. It’s pretty old, probably not worth much. I think you should take it somewhere else. I can’t give you anything for this old piece of junk.” He seems shaken, beads of sweat slowly forming on his brow. 

“Huh? It’s clearly worth something, the people carrying it looked loaded too. What’s your deal? You never shy away from a deal. Now, tell me how much it’s worth.” You become more agitated with his clear dismissal. 

He seems to lose his temper for a moment. There’s a strange glint in his gaze as he addresses you lowly. “Now you listen here, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, but I won’t let my business get involved with this kind of nonsense. You need to leave. Immediately. And don’t bother coming back.”

You keep your face blank, hoping that your eyes don’t convey what you’re thinking. For a moment you weigh your options. Losing your employer and all the valuable customers he brings with him will surely ruin your chances of ever leaving this hellscape of a city. The decision is made easily. You realised long ago that keeping a nonchalant attitude only gets you so far in this line of work. Sometimes a bit of pleading was necessary, especially when it comes to an artifact as valuable as this one. You’ve known Lenson long enough to recognise when you’ve messed up.

“Wh-What do you mean? It's just some old box that I found on the street. Come on, I can fix whatever the problem is, and we can go right back to normal. Or would you rather go through the effort of finding someone else with my particular… skill set?” 

Even though your unease is slowly growing, you refuse to look shaken by his attitude.

However, his next words turn your blood to ice.

“The Phantom Troupe stole this item, amongst other things. The antiques community has been on high alert for the past week, trying to catch wind of where it went.”

You clear your throat, shifting nervously in your seat, unable to calm yourself. “What do you mean the Phantom Troupe? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

For a moment he looks almost empathetic as he regards you, now shaking slightly. He closes his eyes and sighs heavily. Thoughts race through your head, all of them blurring into white noise. Your head feels fuzzy, almost like you’re underwater. Your panic makes you dizzy, and the room feels like it’s spinning. 

He takes a deep breath in and levels his gaze on your dazed form. “Listen to me. I can’t do much for you now, I don’t want to be involved any more than I already am, but I can give you some advice. Leave. Don’t pack your things, don’t stick around. Run as far as you can and don’t look back. Take some cash, but don’t stop. Now go!”

His yell rouses you from your dazed state. You jump up in fright, breathing rapidly. 

He’s right, you realise. I need to leave. Right now. I’ll stop by my apartment to grab my bag and leave. They’ll realise it’s gone at any moment. There’s no time. Go!

You grab the bag and stuff the old box inside, slinging it over your shoulder and running to the door. You glance over your shoulder, seeing him staring at his desk, deep in thought. 

“Please,” you say lowly, “if they come here, don’t say anything. Buy me some time.”

You’re begging him now. Swallowing your pride to ask for a favour, for help. It may well be your dying wish. Stalling for time, however little, might save you. 

He stares deep into your eyes, thinking, searching for an answer. His shoulders sag and he nods. “Fine. One last favour.”

Your sigh of relief is audible as you yank open the door and dart out of the office. 

He stares after you, a sad look on his face, muttering a small prayer for you under his breath, however useless it may be. The mistake you made is irreparable. There’s no fixing this. Even if it was an accident, messing with the Phantom Troupe was the final nail in your coffin. Even Lenson, with his power and status, couldn’t protect you from this.

You bump into the server in your haste, knocking the tray of glasses out of her hands. Her angry shouts follow you out the club, but you don’t look back as you run.

****

The sweat burns your eyes as you scramble through your apartment, grabbing the emergency bag hidden beneath the floorboard under your dresser. It should have enough cash to see you through several weeks, if not months underground. Hopefully it won’t take that long to come up with a solution. 

You dash to your front door, grabbing a dark green hoodie on your way out, switching it out for the one you’re currently wearing. You have a change of clothes in your bag, it’ll have to do. There’s no time to stop.

You pause by the door, staring at the box in your hand.

Is it really worth it? I could just leave it here and run. Maybe they’d leave me be if they get what they want. Should I?

You chide yourself, stuffing the box into a hidden pouch in your half empty bag. Cash and clothes are the only things you need. 

Don’t be stupid. This is the Phantom Troupe. They’ll kill me to set an example. I’ll be better off leaving with what I can get.

 You dash towards the elevator in your apartment building, waiting for the car to arrive. Thoughts race through your head, planning out the next few days. You’ll have to catch the bus out of the city, as far as it’ll take you. Air travel is out of the question, leaving a trail for the Troupe to follow would only solidify your doom even more.

You’re lost in thought, watching the numbers above the door light up as the elevator slowly makes its way up to your floor. Turning your head, you spot something out of the corner of your eye. Time seems to stop for a moment, your blood running cold. 

There.

There’s no mistaking it. 

It’s the man from before, the one with the seemingly permanent tired expression on his face. You duck down immediately and press yourself to the wall. He hasn’t seen you yet. Your breath catches in your throat as you try to escape the open view of the window, thinking to yourself. A moment later you realise what’s going on, head whipping towards the elevator. Turning on your heel, you push yourself off the wall and sprint towards the doorway to the roof.

There’s no time to waste, they already know that you’re the one who stole from them, and where you are.

Your whole body trembles as you push the door open, panting slightly from the running. As you slam the door shut and lock it, you hear the quiet ding of the elevator as the door silently opens. 

There’s no time.

You feel the desperation slowly claw its way up your throat, breaths heaving as your chest quakes. 

Calm. I need to stay calm. I can still get away. I just need to make sure that they don’t see me.

With a plan in mind, you feel significantly calmer, panic no longer fuelling your movements. 

You turn and begin running, hoping to make it to the street below before they figure out that you’re no longer in your apartment. As you near the ledge, a large boom sounds behind you, like thunder calling from the sky above. You risk a quick glance over your shoulder, blanching at what you see. 

The man you stole from stands at the door, the blonde woman behind him. What scares you isn’t the fact that they found you. No, that was expected. What terrifies you is the murderous expression on his face, the glint in his eyes promising you a slow, painful death.

A newfound adrenaline fills you as you spin on your foot and sprint to the edge of the building. The woosh of air behind you tells you that he’s catching up fast. You lean forward, nearing the edge, and at the last moment, you jump.

For a moment you fear you won’t make it. After all, the distance between the two buildings is vast, and no normal person should be able to jump it. However, years of training, as well as the seemingly natural gift of superhuman agility has you crossing the chasm, the street far below taunting you, and landing hard on the opposite roof. The fear from before leaves your mind, quickly being replaced by pain as you slam into the hard paving of the roof, rolling to avoid more injury.

You struggle to breathe; your bones ache and you have to wait a moment for the world to stop spinning. Finally, you regain control of your movement and stand up on shaky legs, daring a glance behind you. 

The man looks shocked, whether by the fact that you managed to make the jump – or even dared to try it – you’re unsure, but the expression leaves his face quickly, replaced by a look of triumph as he stares behind you. You whip around so quickly you think you might get whiplash.

Shit.

You’d assumed that only the four people you’d robbed would come after you, and even that many people was a generous amount. After all, you’re just a petty pickpocket. You’d accounted for the angry man in the tracksuit, as well as the blonde woman. You’d also taken note of the man on the street before you’d tried to flee. While you were shocked that they’d all bothered chasing after you, you’d accepted your fate and run. 

But as you turn around, spotting the hulking man before you, you think they must be a lot more upset than you’d originally thought.

The man stands tall, well over eight feet, and the ground below your feet trembles as he walks towards you. His height is the least intimidating thing about him at the moment, as your focus shifts to the large grin that splits his face. Behind him you notice the tired man from before as he speaks to the gigantic man before him.

“Uvo, boss wants the amulet. Remember that. Don’t do anything before we find it.”

The giant, Uvo, you think, laughs. It sounds like thunder, his head tilted back as he lets out a roar. 

“Yeah Nobu, I gotcha. After we get the thing back, I can do what I want, right?”

Nobu hums in agreement, and with that, your terror returns. 

You swivel around and jump off the ledge of the building, landing on the fire escape. As you rapidly descend the staircase, yells sound out from somewhere above you. You refuse to chance a look up, knowing another fright would freeze you in your place.

The clanging of the fire escape sounds out around you as you reach the bottom ladder and jump down. Usually, your movement are smooth and silent, but your terror makes you clumsy. They’ve almost reached you, moving faster than you thought possible. 

Not wanting to waste any more time, you jump the remaining distance and feel a line of fire zip up your ankle. 

Damn it. Why now?

Jumping down the fire escape may have gained you a few precious seconds, but you ended up spraining your ankle in the process, maybe even breaking it if the pain licking up your calf was any indication.

Biting your tongue to keep in a cry of pain, you stand up and begin making your way to the street as quickly as your injury will allow, hobbling at a much slower pace than you’d like.

Reach the street. 

That’s the only thought on your mind. The bustling main street, brimming with people rushing home, is your last hope of escape. The cover of the crowd should allow you to blend in and escape.

The ruckus behind you continues as you feel your heart skip a beat. Not a second too late, you make your way into the street, being swept away into a crowd of suits and sweaters, your heart calming significantly.

You duck your head and continue to hobble forward, a new plan forming in your mind.

****

When the retrieval party returns to the current Troupe hideout, the irritation is clear on their faces. Phinks’ scowl is deeper than usual, the wrinkles around his mouth pinched in a look of clear annoyance. 

Another blond man, one with soft boyish features, perks up at the sight of the four members and calls out to them. “Uvo! Phinks! How’ve you been? Do you wanna play cards? Machi and Feitan don’t want to play, so we have a few open spots.”

This seems to trigger Phinks’ anger as he storms away from the small group huddled around a pile of playing cards. At this, the seemingly happy blond, Shalnark, looks towards the remaining three in the retrieval party, shrugging as they ignore him in favour of following Phinks’ seething figure.

Phinks begins making his way towards a lone figure seated a ways away from the rest of the group. The figure, a man with cold grey eyes and an intricate cross tattoo on his forehead, doesn’t look up at Phinks’ approach. Instead, his eyes remain on the book in his hand, its worn brown leather cover not betraying any hint of its contents.

He halts before the seated man, waiting for permission to speak. After a few moments, the man, Chrollo, closes the book with one hand, setting it to the side and facing the group before him. At Chrollo’s nod of acknowledgement, Phinks begins speaking, irritation clear in his words. 

“She got away. We nearly had her, but she slipped away and took the amulet with her.” By the time he’s finished his report, the vein on his forehead looks ready to burst, his anger almost palpable in the cool evening air. 

The other members scattered throughout the room slowly join, eager to hear what their leader has to say. Once everyone is settled, the group falls silent, watching with bated breath as Chrollo seems to mull over what to do next. 

“How did a common thief manage to evade you not once, but twice now?” The question is posed innocently enough, but the Troupe members, all veterans to Chrollo’s annoyance, know better than to believe it. The question hangs in the air for a moment before Chrollo speaks again. 

“I think it’s time I investigate our little thief myself.”

At this the group explodes, many members such as Uvogin and Phinks arguing that they could handle the situation themselves, while others critique their handle on the matter thus far. The bickering between members only increases as they yell at one another.

After a few moments of incessant squabbling between members, Chrollo stands, his movement immediately silencing the group before him. The silence only lasts a moment before he addresses the group.

“Phinks, Pakunoda, you’re coming with me,” he announces. “I think it’s time we look into the thief that has caused us so much trouble.”

****

When the three Troupe members arrive at the lively club, they immediately make their way to the office at the back of the club. Any security guards feeling particularly brave – or stupid – enough to try and stop them meet a quick end by Phinks’ hand. They arrive at the door to the occupied office in no time.

Phinks wastes no time breaking down the door, startling the occupants of the room. All five men lounging around the room stand up quickly, the leader of the small group demanding an explanation for the rude interruption. 

With a small nod from Chrollo, the two men closest to the door are shot by Pakunoda, dead within seconds. This sends the remaining three men into a panic, two of them rushing towards the group, trying to buy their boss enough time to escape.

They barely make it two steps forward before Phinks kills them. Their bodies hitting the ground with a dull thud, necks twisted and eyes blank.

Lenson scrambles to the back wall, digging through a drawer behind his desk desperately searching for a weapon before he’s dragged backwards, Phinks’ grip on his shoulder almost causing his knees to buckle. Any fight he might have put up was squashed out by the look on Phinks’ face. 

He swallows thickly, his mouth dry, before he speaks, sounding a lot more confident than he feels. 

“What do you want? You can’t just come barging into a meeting like this. You and your friends over there need to leave immediately, or I’ll call security to escort you out.”

At his words, Chrollo allows himself a small smile, his mouth twisting into an expression of amusement at the man’s oblivious words.

Lenson is forced to his knees by Phinks, who moves to stand behind him, his hand still an immovable weight on his shoulder. Chrollo picks up the chair that was knocked over in the commotion, setting it upright and settling in it comfortably, looking at home in the obviously uncomfortable hard plastic chair. 

Once he’s seated, he gives a small nod to Pakunoda. And with that she steps forward and lays her palm on Lenson’s forehead. He flinches back in surprise, or at least tries to, held in place by Phinks’ unrelenting grip.

He tenses up, bracing himself for the wave of pain he expects. When nothing happens, his eyes flit between Pakunoda and Chrollo, the latter still seated comfortably with a pleasant expression on his face.

His confusion only increases when the woman takes out a gun, drops a singular bullet into an empty chamber, proceeding to fire the shot towards the seated man. He jumps slightly at the bang of the gunshot, stilling as the man straightens, no injury to be found.

“Ah, I see,” he says with a knowing look in Lenson’s direction. “Well, this makes things interesting.”

“Who are you people? You freaks can’t just barge in here and start shooting one another!” Lenson’s lingering confusion turns to anger as he begins demanding answers.

The man relaxes into the chair, clearly not planning on leaving anytime soon. He nods towards Phinks, and his grip on Lenson disappears as he goes to shut the door, leaning against it to block the only escape route in the room.

“We are the Phantom Troupe,” says Chrollo, his amusement growing at the terrified expression that appears on the man’s face. “We’re here to retrieve something that was stolen from us.”

Lenson immediately opens his mouth, lies and words of denial forming on the tip of his tongue before Chrollo interrupts him.

“Don’t bother trying to lie. I already know everything. (Y/n) is it? Yes, she’s been quite a bother lately. Now, I want you to tell me where she went. I can always find out the hard way if you aren’t willing to talk.”

Lenson stalls for a moment, glancing around the room nervously. He clears his throat before he begins talking. “I don’t know where she went, she left without telling me. Listen, I can pay you, however much that amulet was worth, I can give you the money. I can double it! Just leave her be, she doesn’t need this in her life. Please.” 

Chrollo exchanges a look with Pakunoda, one that Lenson can’t decipher. The silence pulses in the room, the only sound Lenson can hear is the rapid pounding of his heart. Chrollo seems to decide something as he turns his head to Lenson and begins speaking once more.

“Strange, you seem to care for her. Almost like a father,” he sighs, and the room seems to hold its breath as he continues speaking. “But it’s no matter, we’ll find her sooner or later. Your money means nothing, it’s the amulet I’m after. Tell me, do you know the lore behind that amulet?” 

He waits for Lenson’s hesitant answer, “N-No, I’m not really interested in antiques myself.”

Chrollo hums in understanding, continuing a moment later. “The amulet belonged to an elder in the Kurta clan a few millennia ago, a priestess if I remember correctly. It’s one of the few remaining relics belonging to the Kurta clan, originally stolen from one of their sister clans in a massacre that destroyed them. The name of the clan was lost to time, I’m afraid, but it’s no matter. We wiped them out a few years ago, the Kurta clan, but the amulet was stolen long before we arrived. You must be wondering why I’m boring you with a history lesson.”

An expectant look is sent Lenson’s way, and he nods quickly as Phinks takes a step towards him. Chrollo gives him a small smile, amusement dancing in his eyes as he speaks once more. 

“The Kurta had many valuable relics, their eyes being one of them. I was disappointed to discover that the amulet was gone. They were such a private clan; I had no idea that half of their artifacts had been stolen. A bit of searching revealed that it had been taken by a group of hunters twenty-five years prior. There were rumours of the amulet guarding the wearer from evil. However, the truth is that it originated in some far corner of the Dark Continent, meant to be used as a map of sorts. Do you understand now why I want that amulet back?”

“Yes, I think I do. Bu-But why are you telling me all of this?” At this, Chrollo’s face splits into a large, seemingly genuine smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling upwards. 

“You didn’t honestly think I’d let you live, did you? That being said, your death will be far more painful if you don’t tell me what I want to know. You’ve delayed for long enough, now tell me. Where did she go?”

Lenson seems frozen in his spot, panic clear on his features before his expression goes blank and he looks up at Chrollo. 

“She probably went to the countryside, somewhere secluded. She’ll try to leave the country as soon as possible.” He looks down, shame covering his eyes as he says, “Don’t hurt her too badly.”

Chrollo hums, whether in agreement or acknowledgement is unclear, and he stands, passing the kneeling figure of the pitiful man on his way to the door, Phinks makes his way to Lenson, leaning down until his mouth is near Lenson’s ear before he whispers, “When I find her, I’m going to snap her neck, like I should have the moment she ran into me.” 

His words cause the blood to drain from Lenson’s face as he calls out to Chrollo desperately. Pausing, his hand outstretched to the doorknob, he smiles slightly at Lenson’s final words. “Even if you don’t fulfil my wish, she won’t be easy to kill. She comes from a long line of high-classed hunters. She may not seem strong, but she’ll put up a fight. I can’t say I pity any of you.”

Chrollo opens the door and makes his way down the hallway, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of the mysterious thief. The deafening club music muffles the thud of Lenson’s body hitting the ground.

****

The bandage is wrapped tightly around your ankle, pinching the sensitive skin as you give it an experimental step.

Eh. Better than before, I suppose.

You’d escaped the four Troupe members and found shelter in a nearby alleyway, the dark storefront foreboding when you’d first caught sight of it. However, the thought of clean clothes and reprieve from the rain made you desperate, so you entered the store with your head tucked low beneath your hood.

The store owner, a grumpy looking old man with a stump for a leg and a rough voice, was a lot kinder than his exterior would imply. He gladly fixed up your ankle and gave you fresh clothes when he spied your torn, dirty clothing.

You thank him sincerely as you exit the darkened store, wishing you could properly show your gratitude, but still desperate to get as far away from York New as possible.

The warm interior of the store gives way to the chilly night air, the rain causing small streams to form in the street. You glance around cautiously, the bustling of the still rowdy crowd in the street drowning out any hints of your stalkers. 

Upon not seeing any sign of the angry blonde man or the hulking figure who would surely haunt your dreams for years to come, you slowly heave a sigh of relief.

For a moment you contemplate leaving the amulet here. It’s already been far more trouble than it’s worth. They’d surely be able to track you to this dark corner of York New, and once they arrived, they’d find their precious amulet and leave you be. By the time they arrived, you’d be long gone.

That thought quickly leaves your mind. Even if they were to retrieve what you’d stolen from them, there was no guarantee that they’d simply leave you be. No, you were far better off keeping what little you had with you, no matter how much trouble it had initially caused you.

With your mind made up, you begin making your way back to the entrance of the alleyway, body almost humming with the eagerness to join the thrumming crowd of people once more and leave this forsaken city behind for good.

You barely make it in time, catching the last bus out of the city for the night.

****

On the nine-month anniversary of your successful escape, you decide to venture into a small town East of your isolated home for the day, mostly for your usual supply run, but also to treat yourself to some of the famous cake from the only diner in all the surrounding mountainous towns. After all, you’d effectively managed to completely evade the infamous Phantom Troupe for nearly a full year. That in itself was cause enough for celebration. 

You’d awoken early that morning to prepare yourself for the six-hour long trip. The remoteness of your cottage was the main reason you’d chosen it all those months ago, already tired from the constant travel and incessant fears hounding you, most of which stemmed from the amulet you’d stolen and constantly kept with you. 

The fear you’d felt had greatly dissipated over the course of the past three months, the comfortable quiet of the mountainous area you’d chosen calming your frazzled nerves soon after first settling in. You’d decided the safest course of action was to completely isolate yourself, and you’d ended up keeping the amulet with you, not wanting to sell it in fear of the Phantom Troupe somehow finding you. You wore it around your neck, the shiny gold of the chain kept warm by your body heat. Some nights, you’d sit and stare at it, wondering if the shiny piece of junk was really worth the loss of your previous life. No matter how much you’d hated it, it was still your life, and you’d left it all behind, most likely crushed by the Troupe’s anger. 

You remained wary of those around you, hence the trips to town for supplies being so few and far between. The choice to completely isolate yourself had been awful at first, the loneliness eating at your mind within the first month in your new home. There had been many times where you’d thought you would awaken to a certain blond Troupe member above you, ready to kill you in your sleep with no way to call for help or plead for your life.

Your paranoia had even extended to your infrequent trips to the nearest town. Once, you’d accused an old woman of following you around the small town, claiming she had hoped to get you alone so that she could snap your neck and leave your body lying in the town square to act as a lesson to those who would dare cross the Phantom Troupe. As it turned out, the old lady had only wanted to return your umbrella, which you’d left behind in the restaurant you’d eaten lunch at.

You hadn’t gone back to that town, the townspeople making sure to tell you how awful you were for yelling such vulgar accusations at a poor old woman. Although you’d apologised profusely, they’d made it clear that you were no longer welcome in their town.

Needless to say, you’d realised the absurdity of your thoughts, and you hadn’t gone back to the same town twice after that incident. It was such a shame really, it’d been the closest town by far, only a three hours’ drive, but it managed to calm your somewhat senseless paranoia. 

As you enter the small town, you go through your mental checklist one last time, not wanting to linger in such a crowded area for any longer than necessary. You needed supplies to fix your leaking roof, as well as extra rations of non-perishable foods, your own stock running low after being snowed in the previous week. You would try to find a few pieces of dry firewood too. The harsh winter chill that had settled over the mountain had soaked through all your pre-chopped wood, rotting it with the moisture.

With your mental checklist completed, you set about completing your shopping trip in record time, eager to get your cake and get back home. The trek home in your rundown truck would be much harder in the dark, so you tried to be home well before sundown.

Two hours later, your shopping was done, all your supplies securely locked up in the back of the truck. You quickly make your way to the inviting diner in the centre of the town, the bell above the door tinkling when you push it open. 

You remove your coat, gloves, and boots before entering, placing them in their designated spot by the door before making your way to an empty table towards the back of the diner. You sit down, taking note of all the people present in the empty diner. There are two families, each with a few small children, and several couples scattered throughout the diner. One of the couples is situated at a table two tables away from your own, right near the entrance to the kitchen.

The woman has a strange shade of pink hair and a haughty expression on her face, while the man sitting across from her has light blond hair and boyish features that make him look far younger than he truly is. They seem to be deep in conversation, glancing around for a moment before resuming their discussion.

Lastly, you take note of the man sitting at the table next to yours, the only other person alone in the diner besides yourself. 

He’s an attractive man, perhaps a few years older than yourself. He’s dressed warmly like many others in the diner, and he has black hair that hangs loosely around his face, not obscuring the bandage wrapped around his forehead. His grey eyes critique the menu, scanning the options. He smiles as the waitress approaches, conveying his order with a joyful attitude. They converse for a bit longer, the young waitress seeming increasingly flustered as the conversation continues, her face flushing as she retreats to the kitchen before returning to take your order.

“Hi there! My name is Hari, I’m your waitress for today. Are you ready to order?” Her happy nature is calming, her smile splitting her face as her eyes scrunch up.

“Hi Hari,” you say with a small smile. “I’d like a cup of tea, sugar, no milk, and two slices of your famous cake please, one to eat here and one to go.” She writes down your order with a firm nod before looking back at you and confirming your order. She then scurries off to the kitchen, going about her duties.

You sigh heavily, leaning back in your seat before looking around the diner again, your eyes flitting over all the customers, before settling on the dark-haired man. You startle slightly, stiffening once you realise that he’s staring directly at you. Gulping, you try to rationalise his uncomfortable stare. 

Maybe I have something on my face? No, I haven’t eaten anything yet. Maybe he wants company? No, I’m sure he would have said something by now. Perhaps he thinks he knows me from somewhere? Yes, that must be it.

With your nerves eased by your thoughts, you relax once more, keeping your guard up and staring at the cheap plastic surface of the table before you. You jump slightly when the chair across the table scrapes the linoleum floor, eyes widening at the sight of the dark-haired man seating himself across from you.

“I hope you don’t mind me intruding. I felt awfully lonely, and you’re sitting by yourself, so I thought you wouldn’t mind me joining you. I’m not overstepping any boundaries, I hope.” 

His words seemed sincere enough, but you remain wary, relaxing only slightly as he apologises once more. 

“Oh, um, it’s fine. I just didn’t expect anyone to sit down, that’s all.”

“Wonderful. Having company always makes a meal better, don’t you agree? I find being alone for too long leads to thoughts running wild.”

You hum in agreement, not wanting the company, but feeling too awkward to say anything to the man. He continues before you have a chance to say anything.

“Are you from around here? One of the neighbouring towns perhaps? I just recently moved here myself, I needed a slight change of scenery. Perhaps we could make this a regular thing, lunch together?”

His words leave you feeling odd, your politeness getting the better of you. 

“I’m, ah, yeah, I’m from a town nearby. I came down for a day trip with my friends, they’re actually expecting me to be back soon, so I might have to leave shortly.”

The excuse rolls off your tongue easily, the lie tasting as sweet as honey. You’ve become quite accustomed to lying, not wanting people to question your strange lifestyle or ask questions you couldn’t answer. 

He opens his mouth, preparing to ask more questions no doubt, but before he can continue, Hari exits the kitchen, making her way to the two of you. While you revel in your newfound relief at her interruption, you don’t notice how her smile seems to droop when she notices that the man has moved to sit at your table, nor do you catch sight of the way she eyes you with a strange look when she arrives at the table, placing a cup of black coffee in front of him. She places your order on the table roughly, spilling some tea onto the tabletop. 

“I’m so sorry!” she exclaims nervously, her face twisting into a horrified expression. “That was completely my fault. Wait here a moment, I’ll get something to clean it up! And a replacement for your drink!”

She runs back to the kitchen, leaving you and the man sitting there awkwardly. You grab a few serviettes from the dispenser, attempting to stop the mess from spreading further. Unfortunately, you’re too late and it begins to drip onto your lap.

You quickly stand up, looking at the man before you before announcing that you’d be right back. He only hums in acknowledgement, looking off to the side. You don’t notice how he makes eye contact with the couple near you. You hurriedly make your way to the bathroom, walking past the couple you’d spotted before. They seemed to be deep in conversation, agreeing on something before the blond man stands up and makes his way to the kitchen.

Hm, this waitress seems to be quite clumsy today, these people are unhappy too. Maybe this is a sign, I should probably leave. I’ve stayed far longer than I should have anyway.

Your mind is made up, quickly cleaning up what you can and washing your hands in the bathroom sink before you return to your seat. You would just take your cake and tea to-go and return home as soon as you could.

When you reach the table, you notice that the blond man is once again seated across from his girlfriend, and Hari is setting down your replacement tea, her back towards you. She seems to be conversing with the man. 

Ah, you think, it’ll probably be more effort for her to make the drink to-go. I’ll just finish it here and then leave.

You thank her as you sit, asking her to prepare your bill and wrap both slices of cake to go. She nods stiffly, her movements seem forced, and the light in her eyes seems dim. 

She probably feels guilty for messing up.

You reassure her, telling her that you’re fine, that everyone makes mistakes, and she gives you a small nod before hurrying back to the kitchen. Staring at her back, you spy a bat-shaped pin sticking out of the collar of her uniform.

Fashion is so strange these days. Is that some sort of body piercing? Or maybe it’s meant to be a part of her outfit? 

Shrugging, you turn to the man, noticing his scrutinising stare. You both sit in an uncomfortable silence for a moment before he begins speaking. “You’re leaving? Did the waitress put you in a bad mood? Don’t leave because of her, at least finish your drink with me.” 

You smile nervously, licking your lips slightly before answering. “No, I’m fine, I just need to be home before dark. It’s not exactly safe to be driving in the snow. And, uh, yeah. I’ll finish this before I leave, no sense in wasting all her efforts, I suppose.”

With that you gulp down your drink in record time, setting it down on the table.

Yuck, she forgot the sugar. Hari clearly doesn’t like me; this tea is so bitter. She probably would have given me off milk if I’d wanted milk.

You meet the man’s eyes, addressing him awkwardly. “Well, I guess I’ll be leaving now.”

You stand to leave, but his next words freeze you in place.

“Why the rush? After all, we’ve spent months searching for you. The least you could do is have a proper drink with me.”

The shock of his words makes you dizzy as you stumble back, eyes wide and you question him. “Wha-What do you mean?” 

Your panic has you trying to play off your confusion. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. I really need to leave now. Maybe we can share a drink next time?” Your words are a lie, of course. You don’t plan on returning to this town ever again, your resolve only solidified by his strange words.

Your knees wobble, black spots dotting your vision before you can try to leave, forcing you back into your seat. He speaks again, seemingly amused by your now thinly veiled panic. 

“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere for a while. I must admit, you were quite difficult to find, you hid yourself well. You must have known that we’d find you eventually. I’ve learnt so much about you,” he says as he stares you down. “On a separate note, I didn’t expect you to finish that drink quite so quickly, but I suppose that makes my job easier.”

The man stands and is joined by the couple from before. They seem to be talking, but you can’t make out what they’re saying, the blood rushing in your ears drowning out their words. Your head feels like it’s underwater, and you slowly lose control of your body, head hitting the table as your vision slowly goes dark.

The last thing you see before you pass out is the dark-haired man’s face, staring at you as you’re pulled into unconsciousness.

****

You dream of a girl, someone you’d heard about long ago, a few years after you’d started working for Lenson. The girl had been in a similar line of work, something along the lines of thievery and secrecy, most likely a spy or a small-time pickpocket like yourself. 

She’d piqued the interest of an assassin, someone with much influence and power. She must’ve run into him while on a job, and he’d grown fond of her, or so people said. A month after he had first laid eyes on her, she was stolen away, locked up like some sort of pet, made to play house with the renowned assassin.

No one had been stupid enough to try and help her. She’d disappeared and no one had heard a thing about her since, most people pretended she had never even existed. No one had dared breathe a word of the assassin’s name in fear of what he might do, should he find out about the rumours surrounding her disappearance.

It’s better this way, they’d said.

Rather her than us.

You sometimes wished you’d known the girl before she’d disappeared. You’d understood, even back then, the fear and helplessness she must’ve felt, shunned by everyone before she’d even realised what her fate was. She had become a social outcast in those last few days before she was taken. People were too scared to help her, and no one had the heart or the bravery to tell her what would happen.

There had been all sorts of rumours a few years after she’d been taken, most of them untrue, saying that his family had ordered her to be killed for her family’s debt, or that she’d gotten in the way of his work. The truth was far from that, and you’d realise soon enough that you’d managed to land yourself in the same kind of trouble that she had.

****

Waking up to the smell of mould and dust does nothing to help the pounding in your head. The urge to fall back asleep tugs at you, encouraging you back to the safety of your dreams. However, the strange sense of urgency hanging over you wins out and you force your eyes open, blinking wearily as the room slowly comes into focus. 

You lay there for a moment, the last few peaceful dregs of sleep keeping you calm and happy. 

Once you’re fully awake, you register the fuzziness plaguing your mind, your tongue feeling thick in your mouth and your throat dry and sore.

What happened? The last thing I remember is leaving the table to go clean up in the bathroom. Did I pass out? No, that’s not it… 

A jolt runs through your body as your memory rushes back, not that you remembered much. Your memory comes back in fragments; the strange way Hari was acting, the bitterness of the tea, the man’s insistence on you staying for a drink…

Your breathing becomes a bit shallow as you piece together what had happened. The Phantom Troupe. Of course. You should have known that there was never any chance of escaping. You’re just lucky that you managed to survive for this long. In fact, you should be grateful that you’ve lived this long at all. After all, not many people could have run from the Troupe.

Strange. 

Thinking about it now, it’s odd that you’re still alive. Surely they would have killed you the moment they found you, your body left to rot in a ditch, the Troupe long gone, off to steal and kill in another abandoned corner of the world.

What if they want to truly use me as an example? I don’t want to die. I want to live. I was happy for those nine months on the run. Loneliness is much better than being dead. I can’t die here, not after all this time. Not after managing to escape. It’s not fair!

You’re so deep in your thoughts of self-pity that you don’t register the creak of the old, rusted door, nor do you hear the footsteps steadily making their way towards you. Only once you’re roughly jerked to your feet do you realise that you’re no longer alone in the small room.

You still immediately, barely daring to breathe as your widened eyes meet drooped, tired ones. 

“Come on, boss wants to see ya,” Nobu says as he drags you to the door.

You know better than to fight back. You’re tired, and even though you hate to admit it, you’re scared. You’re in no condition to fight, and there’s no way you’d be able to escape now. Hell, it’s not as if you could win against a member of the Phantom Troupe on a good day. 

Lenson used to spew all sorts of nonsense about how strong you were, saying you could defeat even the strongest thug, going as far as to say you could even fight A-grade assassins. You never had any delusions about his end goal, his words were meant to inspire you enough to do your job well, but there was never any meaning behind them. Had there been, you wouldn’t be as terrified as you are right now.

Your thoughts of escape are interrupted by the creak of the door before Nobu drags you behind him, making his way to his “boss”. You begin shaking as you realise the severity of the situation. They’d probably interrogate you about the amulet, and when they got what they wanted, they’d kill you. 

A quick death, you think, resigning yourself to your fate. Should I beg? No. I won’t lose my last shred of dignity to a group like the Phantom Troupe. They’ll end up killing me either way, I might as well die with my pride still intact.

This thought steels your resolve as you will yourself to stop shaking and lift your chin. There’s no sense in getting upset about it – being forced to run, being caught, your death – it was all inevitable from the very beginning, stealing from the Troupe made sure of that.

With your decision made, a strange sense of calm settles over you, and you turn your head to eye Nobu, trying to remember the face of the man that was dragging you to your death.

“What?” His voice startles you. 

He gives you a pointed look, clearly expecting an answer. You clear your throat slightly before answering him.

“So- ahem- I’m probably going to die soon, right? I mean, I knew I would, but it'd be nice to believe that I’ll live a bit longer.” 

You laugh a bit before looking at him again. “You guys are probably used to people begging for their lives, huh?”

He gives you a strange look, a mix of pity and amusement, before answering you.

“You’ll understand once boss sees you. We’ve been looking for you for a while, so this should be interesting.”

His words make your stomach turn, the gleam in his eyes making you wonder exactly what was in store for you. 

You aren’t left to your nightmarish thoughts for much longer, soon reaching a vast room held up by large pillars. The room, like the rest of this place, smells of mildew and dust, but unlike the room you woke up in, it’s filled with multiple wooden crates, many of which are covered by crisp white sheets. 

Stolen artifacts, most likely. I wonder how many people had to die for them to get what they wanted. 

Did they put up a fight? Did they surrender once they realised who they were up against?

Your focus shifts from the layout of the room to the group before you. 

The Phantom Troupe.

You feel oddly calm for someone who’s about to die. You’d resigned yourself to your fate long ago. The very moment you’d chosen the blond man as your supposed “easy target” had been the moment you’d signed your death certificate. It was foolish of you to ever think you could escape, a hopeful dream of an ignorant child who had fooled herself into believing that she could do any better with her life.

You come to a stop in the centre of the group, standing awkwardly as they all stare you down. Of course they wouldn’t be happy with you, you’d sent them on a wild goose chase that had lasted nearly a year and ended with you right where they wanted you. 

Your eyes flit through the group, recognising only a few people. The giant man, the two women from your heist, seemingly bored, uninterested, the couple from the café, and the blond man with the scowl. The look in his eyes makes you take a step back, frightened by the intensity of the rage his gaze directed towards you.

Before he can take a step towards you, you hear your escort begin speaking.

“Boss, she’s awake.”

“Thank you, Nobunaga.” The voice has shivers running down your spine, fear paralysing you. Your eyes slowly move over to the source of your fear. The man from the diner. He’s no longer dressed warmly, now he dons a purple coat with a white fur collar and cuffs, and his hair is slicked back to reveal the cross-shaped tattoo on his forehead.

With Nobunaga’s words, your suspicions – and fears – are confirmed. The man before you is the leader of the Phantom Troupe, the other members clearly looking to him for guidance, with a look of reverence in their eyes. It disgusts you, the way they admire a murderer as if he’s someone worthy of being idolised. Your inner turmoil is disrupted as the man addresses you.

“(Y/n). I’ve been looking for you for quite some time. I’m afraid it took me a while to find you. We could have met far sooner, had you not chosen to run so frantically.”

His words confuse you. He speaks so calmly, sounding almost relieved that he’d finally found you.

You decide to try your luck, foolishly thinking that they were only after the amulet.

“If it’s the amulet you’re after, you can have it. It’s caused more problems than it’s worth, I want nothing to do with it. All I ask is that you allow me to leave.”

You slowly trail off once you see the smile that your words put on Chrollo’s face. He seems amused, and the chuckles you hear from the other Troupe members around you only confirm that your words are a source of amusement to them. Your confusion dissipates, replaced by horror and a tinge of disgust at Chrollo’s next words.

“It’s no longer the amulet I’m after, it’s you.”

He sees the mixture of confusion and terror on your face, and as he continues to speak, your feelings of helplessness only grow.

“You see, originally, it was only the amulet I was after. It’s quite valuable, you know. But that’s beside the point. Soon after your escape from York New City, I paid a visit to your… employer. He said some things that sparked my interest in you, and throughout my search for the amulet you stole, I developed a fascination with you and your past. I decided that you would be taken alive once we eventually found you, which leads us to this moment. So, in a way, I am indeed still interested in the amulet, and I will have it back in due time. But currently, it is you who I have decided to pursue.”

He smiles, pausing for a moment before shattering your hopes of escape.

“I’ve discovered so much about you over the past nine months. For example, your parents were both astounding hunters, truly a class above the rest. Both descending from a long line of incredibly strong nen users. You yourself have the potential to possess a strong nen ability, one which I’d delight in taking off your hands. And, possibly the best piece of information I’ve discovered in my search for you. You are possibly the last direct descendant of the Ito clan, who migrated from the Dark Continent. The very same clan that was massacred by the Kurta millennia ago, and the same clan that crafted the amulet that led me to eventually finding you. Ironic, is it not?”

You grow stiff at his words, trying desperately not to panic. You hear Chrollo dismissing the Troupe and their groans of complaint over the rush of blood in your ears. They disperse throughout the large hideout, breaking away into smaller groups to give Chrollo the privacy he desires.

“Now that I have you here, you’re never leaving. Even after I’ve developed and taken your nen ability, you’re staying with me. You’re mine now, my dear (Y/n).”

Slowly, your body starts shaking, the adrenaline turning you numb and making your body hot. You could have fought, you probably could have dealt some serious damage, but before you have the chance to decide, your body starts moving. Your fight or flight response pushes all thoughts from your mind, forcing your legs to push you towards the exit.

You hear distant shouts behind you, as well as a few laughs of disbelief, but there are no concerns in your mind, the only thought pushing your body forward is to escape…escape escape ESCAPE.

Because you know. You know that if you’re caught now, death is the least terrifying thing you’ll have to face. Death is preferrable to a potential life locked-up with a band of thieves and murderers, dragged around like a pet on a leash until they decide they’re finally bored enough to snuff out your existence.

You think of the girl from your dream in that moment, the one who had been stolen away, forgotten by those who should have protected her. You realise that the two of you might have been friends, had you had the chance to meet. Because you’d both managed to catch the attention of dangerous men, however unintentional. And you’d both be locked up and kept as dolls. You were under no delusions of Chrollo’s intentions, his words made his motives clear.

So, you run. You run like your life depends on it because it does. You run for Lenson, for his sacrifice to spare your life, for the girl you hadn’t met, but shared a similar fate with, for all those who suffered by the Troupe’s hand because of your mistakes.

You make it four steps out of the building – a church, you note – before a hand grips the collar of your shirt and drags you back. You knew you couldn’t have escaped, but the knowledge that you at least tried brings you some semblance of peace. 

Knowing what comes next doesn’t make it any easier, and you struggle against the person dragging you back, away from your freedom. The fading sunlight is the last thing you see, the sun slowly slipping below the horizon before the doors are shut and your freedom is stolen from your fingertips.

[free-pancakes]

Hi hi - really love your Drabbles. May I ask for a “way of the househusband” levihan au?? It’s totally okay if you don’t wanna !! Also just wanted to know your drabbles always lightened up my day whenever I was down. LOADS OF LOVE ❤️❤️❤️🙈 also pls hydrate if you haven’t already. 🥰

Jean looked down at the piece of crumpled up paper in his hands.

“126 Forest Ln.”

Erwin had told Jean to check up on him—Jean had no idea what had happened to his old boss, Levi. He had been one of the most infamous Yakuza members known to the world. But suddenly, he retired. They all thought he was delusional, that one day he would return. But he never did. It had been years... no letter, no call, no nothing. Only recently did he hear about it, and it was to be under wraps. Erwin had finally made contact with Levi, and here was his address, in his hands. Jean was absolutely terrified, but he had been tasked to do this, to check up on his intimidating, fearsome old boss.

Jean walked up to the address, a small, neat town home—pristine flowers and shrubbery outside, much cleaner than the plants in each of the identical houses lined up on the street.

Could Erwin have given him the wrong address? Levi? Living... here? Sweet old suburban neighborhood, parents pulling their kids in wagons, young people walking dogs, middle aged men mowing the lawns?

It must have been wrong. But just to make sure he could tell Erwin he made an honest attempt, he walked up and knocked on the door.

The door creaked open to reveal a short man wearing a navy blue tracksuit with the sleeves rolled up the elbow, revealing dragon tattoos all over his forearms. Over this, he wore a white apron with the words “Kiss the Cook”. He wore yellow tinted sunglasses on his face, held a whisk in his hand and... a golden wedding band on his ring finger.

“L-Levi?!” Jean sputtered. Shock was written all over his face, but after a few seconds, he felt the beginnings of a laugh reaching his lips. He was quickly cut short as he flinched in response to Levi’s signature glare.

Oh it was Levi, alright. But this was... different, to say the least.

—————-

“And you met because... her cat pooped in your yard?”

“Yeah. Why, you got a problem with that??” Levi said with a glare, as he held a large knife in his hand

Jean grit his teeth as he flinched a bit—“No, no! That’s... great Levi, I’m happy for you.”

Levi looked back down and continued to chop up vegetables. He was clearly making a lot of food, and it smelled great. Jean never knew Levi could cook. He wondered what else he didn’t know about Levi.

“Will I get to meet her?”

“Yes, and you better be nice, today’s her birthday.”

He continued to cook and at some point threw a broom at Jean asking him to help clean up. As Jean swept around the little house, he found the two cats Levi had mentioned. The black one looked quite annoyed at the other who kept walking in circles around him, purring and licking at him every few steps, but it clearly tolerated it. He tried to pet it but it hissed and Jean ran back to the kitchen.

Levi suddenly shoved a lighter into Jean’s hands, and Jean stared at the beautiful cake he was holding.

“Levi did you make that yourself??”

Levi smacked him. “Just light the candles you idiot!”

And just as Jean finished lighting them, the front doorknob rattled.

As Hange walked in, Jean stared in awe. She was beautiful, hair tied up in a messy ponytail, wearing a sleek navy business suit, and clubmaster glasses.

“Hey stop staring and sing!” Levi muttered darkly, and the two of them began to sing happy birthday to Hange.

Her eyes lit up like the sun, her smile lighting up the whole room. “Aw Levi...” she sighed. She walked up to the two and blew out her candles.

“Come on Hange, I made all your favorite foods,” Levi said as he walked into the kitchen, leaving Jean alone with Hange.

“Wait Levi, who’s our guest?!” she called out, and she heard something like “an old work friend” under the sounds of dishes in the kitchen.

“Ah, nice to meet you!” Hange said with a grin, and ruffled his hair. Jean froze— she was so warm, in every way. How did Levi end up with such a kind soul?

“What’s your name?”

“Jean. Nice to meet you.” He said with a small bow.

She pushed him towards the dining room to sit down, inviting him to stay for dinner—he could hear Levi grumble and complain about it in the kitchen.

“Aw Levi, don’t be such a grump, let the kid stay!”

Jean watched as Levi stood in front of the stove top, stirring, and Hange walked up behind him, and laid her chin on his shoulder. The cats suddenly appeared, meowing and rubbing their bodies up against Levi and Hange’s legs. Hange took her finger and picked up a little bit of whipped cream on the cake and wiped it on Levi’s cheek. She laughed while giving him a small kiss on the top of his head.

It almost looked like Levi was about to smile—Jean thought this whole situation was quite shocking, but he couldn’t help but feel happy for Levi. It gave him hope that he could find a better life with a certain girl he worked with. But that would be a later problem. The issue that bothered him now, was that he was 100% sure no one would believe him if he explained exactly what Levi was up to after leaving the Yakuza.