#and i KNOW when i go back i have so many appointments and job applications to do and silly stressful tasks to complete

[heylittleriotact]

I completed mortuary school and worked in a funeral home between 2018-2022 and ultimately left the profession because Covid burned me the fuck out and there just aren’t the appropriate supports in place for funeral workers tbh. It’s a profession that’s 20 years behind where it needs to be in a lot of ways.

Anyway, after months of anxiety attacks, insomnia, socially withdrawing from friends and family, and spending what little free time i had basically staring at a wall while drinking and chain-smoking, I decided I’d had enough after I was interrogated on a daily basis over the phone and told I can’t possibly be too sick to come back to work when i had Covid (after having called in sick twice in the entire 4 years I’d worked there).

It seemed questionable to expect me to return to work with Covid when it was very much still a day-to-day concern (and I was sick as shit to boot): I didn’t want to be responsible for bumping off an 80 year old widow who’d come in to make arrangements for her husband and caught Covid because of me.

It was the last fucking straw: I knew going into it that this profession was one of service and that I would be sacrificing holidays and weekends and time with my friends and family. I knew I wasn’t going to make $150k/year. I knew it was thankless, misunderstood work, but it was vital. But over those four years I watched decent, well-meaning, hard working people get bullied and humiliated out of their jobs because they didn’t fit in with the “right” people at the firm. I watched amazing professionals with decades of experience quit en masse because of the patronizing, condescending, unscrupulous way that ownership treated them. I watched standards that were incredibly high when I started, plummet to the point where I was pushing back on ownership about the ethics of selling flawed product to grieving families knowing full well that it was of poor quality. I went to school for this. I gave up weekends and holidays and important family milestones for this.

I wanted to help people, but I couldn’t continue setting myself on fire to do it.

So I said fuck it and tossed a hastily drafted resume and cover letter to a law firm whose posting I saw online while I was still at home, sick as hell. I didn’t actually think they’d call me back - it just felt like by submitting the application I’d made some sort of step in the direction of getting the fuck out of dodge like so many other colleagues had.

But then they actually did. And I had two interviews, and they hired me as a receptionist, because to be honest after working at an unhinged funeral home DURING a global pandemic, I needed a fucking ✨nothing✨ job where I just had to show up every day, look cute, answer phones, and show rich lawyers how to work the Keurig machine from time to time. It was the perfect job for me to get over the burn-out. Even stressful shit was not really stressful when compared to what I’ve already dealt with (my mantra around the office has become: “Okay but has anyone died?” Seriously. I get that your brief is due in 2 hours and all the tabs are fucked, but has an attendant just called you to tell you that they accidentally showed the WRONG dead person to a grieving family and now they’re traumatized?)

ANYWAY. A very nice partner who recently left the firm because he was appointed a Provincial Court Judge, remarked to another partner prior to his departure that maybe they should ask if I had any interest in going down the legal assistant -> paralegal pipeline, because I seemed smart, and uh… overqualified for my current role.

So anyway, that’s what my new year looks like. It took an entire two years to get my feet back under me and start feeling like a person again after I burned out: I started writing again this year. Started dance lessons again this year. Actively pursued life again this year because I had the energy to do it. I’m ready for a new challenge.

I miss funerals a fucking lot. If you follow me here that’s probably obvious by how much I go off about death and nerd out over Emmrich. I truly believe it was my calling, and just based on the way the timing and the way the cards fell, it didn’t work out for me. I’ll always be a bit sad about that, but I’m so, so excited for where I’m going next. It was officially announced to the team today, so I guess it feels real now?

Phew.

I’m going to fucking nail it, I think.

[o-wild-west-wind]

It is the 1 year anniversary of the OFMD finale, and also the 5 year anniversary of my uncle’s death. For no particular reason, I’m feeling compelled to write something about it, so…here goes. This is more for myself than anyone else, but I guess I wanted to put it out there in case it resonates with anyone. I know a lot of us have found healing through this show 💛

When I first found OFMD, I was still in a state of mourning. The loss of my uncle hit me hard; I had been living with him on my breaks during college, and with no kids of his own, I was also his primary caretaker when he was ill. He took me in when my MAGA dad—his brother—couldn’t look at me without starting a fight. In many ways, he was the dad I wished I had.

And then, before he was ready to go, he was gone.

It wasn’t until after I started going through his things that I finally confirmed that he was gay (a copy of an application to be a mentor for the Trevor Project, and a sizable collection of gay erotica LOL). As nice as it felt to know, it also gutted me—because we had both feared backlash from my homophobic dad, neither of us had ever come out to the other. I felt an overwhelming amount of regret for never having talked about it with him, and I especially regretted that he’d lived alone, aside from me. I regretted that I’d never know if he had had the chance at love.

His death snapped something in my brain; I lost my spirituality, became obsessive about death, and was convinced that I was on my deathbed myself. I tried multiple different therapists, but nothing worked. And as years went by, I still felt the fog of grief, depression, and paranoia. The bitterness that my uncle could never be himself to his own family compounded on my bitterness that I had to hide myself in the same way, and I resigned myself to a life I felt almost to be condemned.

When OFMD started, my partner (a longtime Taika Waititi fan) suggested it to me, knowing how much I was looking for a distraction (and a laugh). I’d just been diagnosed with an alphabet soup of neurodivergencies, and told myself to hang onto the world at least until I could get my meds sorted out; but I had months to wait for my appointment, and I needed something, anything, to get me by until then.

So this silly little show came around, and it genuinely felt like the first seedling of spring after a long winter. It was fun, and funny, and just the world I wanted to escape to—but it was also about self-acceptance, love, queer joy, and—in its surprisingly understated way—death. It was a space to explore the themes that had haunted my own life, but in an overwhelmingly uplifting vessel. And it finally hit me that my uncle had never really been alone, like I’d assumed; there was and had always been a whole world of people out there, young and old, like us. We’d carved a space for ourselves, despite. It was the first time I really started feeling that it was okay to just…be.

I got onto an upward trajectory from there—I finally got on meds, came out to my close friends (half of which came out to me in turn lmao), and—thanks to Stede—found the courage to quit the job I hated and go back to grad school. But when S2 dropped, it really felt like the closure I didn’t even realize I needed. I’m not even exaggerating when I say that Ed’s arc basically cured my death anxiety—and the closure of his issues with his own father figures really helped me find a closure with mine.

I guess I say all this as a reflection of what this show gave me, and also in gratitude that a year later, I’m still in awe at the lasting power of its healing medicine. I still have my shit, and I’m working through more loss and grief I experienced during this span of time, but I’m honestly feeling…okay. Like I can breathe again, for once—no longer like I’m just waiting to drown.

I know that this piece of art just managed to be exactly what I needed at exactly the right point in time, but FUCK, am I glad it was. I’m devastated we don’t have more, but I’m so, SO grateful for what we ended up with, because it was exactly what I needed.

And while I wish I could’ve watched it with my uncle—he would’ve loved this show—I’m so grateful that it has turned his memory from something of deep pain to that of humor and joy. Like so many of the characters, he was funny, and brash, and caring beyond belief; he gave me my love of sailing, and taught me to treasure fine things, laugh in the face of hate, and never to give up on what I loved.

So cheers to you, Uncle R. Cheers to the renegades. And cheers to queer joy—because it feels good for the flag that once meant death to me to finally have a new meaning 🏳️‍🌈

[sleepingchurch]

Cleaning today. I'm going to go through all my boxes and really downsizing. I'll basically just have out my clothes when I'm done.

My car could be $550 or another $1200 so. Who fucking knows. I also have to take out bills for this pay period. So I definitely won't be buying any furniture for my room but that's fine. I'm hoping to start getting things by Sept at least.

All I want is a small coffee table, an entertainment center of sorts/ long short table, 2 rugs, seating for at least 2, and I want a vanity too. And that's not too much until you add it up. I just have this feeling that I'll be staying here until next year and that breaks me apart. I was supposed to be out the water but no. I got thrown right back in.

At some point I have to get my wisdom teeth out and I'm terrified because of what happened to G. And I need to make a gyno appointment for my iud. But over all I have to pay for my car now and I still need new tires and struts. So, this procedure, tires and struts, furniture. And during all of that, wisdom teeth, iud, and putting in applications because I need new employment.

I pray to God. Any God willing to work in my graces. That this is the $550 issue and not the $1200 issue.

But today I've had a caramel coffee. Yesterday I had coffee, a caramel cookie, 2 probiotic shots, 2 square sliced slices of pizza, a small garlic bread, miso soup, a California roll, and Greek yogurt. So it was a little more than I wanted but I know I can do better today! And I am!

I'm going to just condense and clean the best I can. And hopefully it'll make me feel a little better. And after that I can shower and look online at job postings.

I'm on my period too so I'm just bloated and craving food and it sucks but I'm going to be better.

I want to have a bday party this year but I'm afraid no one I invite will come. And I'm also afraid that I won't be able to buy the stuff needed for a party. But again I'll just look into it. Everything is about planning and being prepared. So I'm going to put in place as many bricks as I can so my carriage won't stop so often.

Anyway. Let's do this!

[californiaroadtoad]

Didn't Dave Barry write about something like this?

Aaaaand this week is one for the books. First of all, huge thanks to the folks at GoFundMe, particularly Tech Support, and Max in particular. Got be back up and running with this, and I'm as annoying as ever. So, huge thanks. Still, I remain off work, and I'm still trying to find something I can do for an income for myself. I hate being idled out, and I'd rather be working, but with all the foot dragging involved in getting back to work, I'm not overly sanguine about my chances. That said, I had two more appointments with doctors, and there's a possible avenue out: I have other valid disability claims ahead of me, including stuff with the VA. My body's been pretty badly abused over time, and there's a possible rating for me. Not going to lie: anything would help. I'm also looking at a couple of other avenues, primarily in training for new jobs in other areas, but still with ties to trucking. It's not much, but it's a shot. We're also looking at moving to Idaho, and I can finally spend quality time with my grandkids before they disappear completely. Two of them I never see, but the others? I'm happy to spend time with them. I'm putting in applications around Caldwell, Twin Falls, Jerome, Boise, and a few other areas. I'm not overly impressed with what I'm seeing at the moment, but if I can find the right place, at the right price? Boom. Gone. I'll move someplace that's more affordable. I had considered the Midwest. Iowa's gorgeous, as is Indiana. Spending quality time at Fort Benjamin Harrison was pretty nice, and there's a lot to recommend it. (Not that I'm fond of humidity, tornadoes, and hail, but that's Indianapolis for you.) Part of the joy of being Over The Road is you get a first hand look at so many parts of the nation. There are options I hadn't thought of for a very long time. (I still wish I'd moved to Washington State back in the late 90's when I had a chance, but there's no point in wishing.) One step at a time. In any case, my medical insurance changed. Everything is so bollixed up, and thankfully, I got some help from a lot of people to start getting it straightened out. My doctor at Sutter Medical in Yuba City helped out a lot, as did the new insurance company, though there's still a ways to go in getting it straightened out. I still need to work with a new Primary Care Physician, and with luck, I won't find myself bounced all the way back to the beginning on this journey. I also got a lot of help from our Assemblyman, James Gallagher, and his staff. there were a few snafus on the Disability, but they gave me a lot of encouragement and assistance. So, Erin Huddleson, thank you. You're a huge gem, and a great assist to this old Trucker and family. This, of course, led to a drive up to Chico today, and a chance to speak to the Disability folks up there. The staff was helpful, and went out of their way to assist us. Hopefully, I can make the return trip tomorrow, and we can finish this portion of this fight. If I can finally get cleared by the last of the medical folks, I can maybe, hopefully, possibly, be back to work in another month or two. I'm hoping. Like I said. I'm not sanguine, but I'm trying to stay positive. God knows, it's not easy. And, on another front, remember my mentioning the fraud attempt? Yeah, these guys don't give up. Let's just say it's laughable when they call up, claim they're working for Wells Fargo, then try to wheedle personal information out of you. I didn't give them anything, and I'm waiting for a call back from the Yuba City PD, and this is also being reported to the FBI. I'm not about to sit back and let them try this with anyone else. At least the business which was also being targeted in Roanoke, VA has been able to protect themselves. So that's something. More information as I can get it. I'm going to be so glad when the nightmare is over.

[floral-hex]

I don’t know why I’m writing this.

My hearing has kind of gone out again. By “out” I mean I am overwhelmed by tinnitus, dead air, distorted hearing. My hearing aids don’t help, they just make the muddle louder. I’m in a bad place. I feel sick. I’m having a hard time eating. I’m sleeping too much. It’s not just hearing loss, there’s a mental component to it. I feel closed off. I feel so alone. I haven’t been this depressed in awhile. I shouldn’t have stopped antidepressants and now I’m scared to start again because starting them is always the worst, and, well, to be honest, I’ve had a lot of suicidal thoughts these last few days. I can’t see myself living with this for long. I’m scared. I’m alone. Even around others, I feel alone because I can’t understand them and I hate forcing myself and my problems on them. My mother asked how my hearing was today and I broke down in front of her. She’s not my therapist, I hate putting my problems on her, but I couldn’t hold it. I’ve been so desperate for some human contact, for someone to vent to, that I just started weeping. I told her I’m scared about how I’ll live, that I’m falling apart and have been thinking about ending things. We talked for a bit and she said she’d help me make some appointments tomorrow since I can’t really hear right now. I hate this. I hate making her worry. Telling your mom you want to kill yourself… fucking sucks. I don’t know how else to put it. She said she’d take me to the hospital at any hour, if I needed it. She doesn’t deserve that pain. Im not going to do anything harmful. I haven’t reached that point. I’d never want to hurt my family like that. I couldn’t imagine leaving my little brothers. I just don’t know what to do. I feel so overwhelmed.

I wish I could move to some deaf commune like from Sound of Metal. I wish there was a place I could go where I wouldn’t have to worry about my future. Just give me a simple job, a small room, 3 meals a day, and that’s all I want. I’m so lost. I have no friends. No prospects. I miss my dad. I miss being small and having someone else in control. I miss having a partner there, just someone next to me in bed, some other warm body to hold on to when I need physical comfort. I’m sitting in the kitchen right now because I can’t be in my room right now. It feels like a tomb. I hate that it’s 2 a.m. I hate that I’ve been sleeping all day. I have no where to go and I feel alone. I cancelled my gym membership. Too much money and I didn’t have the transportation. They used to be 24 hours before covid. When I first moved back to Arkansas, I was depressed like this. I’d go to the gym at about this time of night while I was depressed. I miss that. Some place to go when my mind needed distracting. Now I have nowhere. I don’t know what to do. I’m just going to keep writing because I need this distraction. I don’t expect anyone to read this. I don’t know if I want them to. To be honest, I don’t even feel like I have friends online anymore. Mutuals keep deleting. All my old friends have moved on. I’m bad at chatting with new friends because I have nothing to talk about. I have such a nothing life. I feel ashamed when people ask about me, about my life.

You want to know about me? I’m… fuck, I don’t remember how old I am. Fuck, I’m 34. I’m 34 and unemployed. I dropped out of college. I can’t hold a job. I was excited about trying to get a job, I thought my hearing had been holding up, I was going to send out applications, I swear, but this present problem has just made me feel hopeless. I can’t make friends because I’m 34, unemployed, live with my family, and have no hobbies besides sleeping and just surviving. I’m sorry. I want to be your friend. I want people to be my friend. I don’t want to die and be forgotten. I put out albums in my 20s! I had a cooking show in high school! I had friends, I went to concerts, I’ve had so many cats. I’m going to be forgotten. My bandcamp will never get visited. I have albums worth of instrumentals I wrote in my early 20s that no one will ever hear. I’ve been thinking about writing a book for years, but I’ve never sat down to actually write. My own family won’t know about these things. I’m going to be forgotten and that feels worse than death. I need my family and friends to know how much I love them. I love them so much. They’re the only reason I don’t want to go. I want to see my brothers grow up. Im so scared. I’m scared for them and I can’t help them. I have nothing to offer them. The world is too heavy. And they’ll be off to college soon enough and I’ll never see them. They’re at that age where they go straight to their room, they don’t talk to me much. I miss watching movies with my little brother. I miss playing video games with them. Talking with them. I just want to hold them and tell them I love them. That they saved my life. That I’ll be here for them as long as I can so please, please don’t shut me out. Please just sit and watch a dumb movie with me and be with me for a little bit because I need to be with them, in that moment, while they’re young, so I can remember this. They’re going to go off to college, they’re going to go live their lives, and I’ll still be here and I know they’ll still love me but I won’t matter as much. I’m worried about my mom. She’s sick all the time. She can’t work anymore. Life is crushing down on us. I don’t want her to hurt. I don’t want her to leave us. I don’t want her to leave her teenage sons. That’s not fair. They need their mom. Their dad already ran off. I don’t want them to be alone. I don’t want them to be 20 and scared and miss their mom. I wish I could be there for them. I told her I was worried about losing her, and she said she could live another 10 years. That sounds like no time at all. 10 years, if we’re lucky. I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want my brothers to lose her.

All I see is everything’s expiration date. I’m so focused on the end. I want to be here, now, but I’m so scared. I’m wasting it. It’s 2:40 in the morning and the world feels dead. I feel like I’m on a dead planet and I’m just sitting here, rotting and postponing the end. It could just end right now, tonight. I know it would be scary, but when it happens, it’s just dark and nothing. Once I passes out giving blood. It was just dizziness, nausea, and then nothing. When I came to, I was surprised how… nothing, it was. It just happened and it was nothingness. No dreams, just gone. I know it’s not the same, but it also kind of is. I’m scared. I don’t want that. I don’t want nothing. I want life. I want to be happy. Please, I need something, I need to be happy, I need a life. I need friends and I need a job and my family and I need my hearing to just fucking figure itself out. I can’t do this “one month of good hearings, one month of bad hearing, repeat.” If I can just survive a little while, I know it’s bad right now. It gets bad.

I have to be positive. I have to be. So tomorrow I’m going to make some appointments, or my mom will if I can’t hear, and I’m going to try to get on some antidepressants, even though I’m scared about how I’ll feel, and I’m going to beg for something like Xanax to help give me immediate relief for these ever increasing moments of massive anxiety and hopelessness. I’m going to try to demand ear tubes. I don’t know if they’ll work, but I’m lost. I’m desperate. Please, just do this small unnecessary surgery so I can feel like I’m doing something. I think I’m going to go back to therapy. I haven’t been in years. I wish weed was legal here, because god knows I need it, but it’s not like I could afford it if I could buy it. I need money. I need to go out. I feel so closed off. I need to go to the movies or bowling or even just back to a gym. Please please let my hearing clear up so I can get a simple job and have some kind of pay check. I shouldn’t be this old and feel this lost.

So now it’s 2:45. I’m in the kitchen. I drank some coffee because I needed the caffeine and sugar to hopefully give me a dopamine boost. I don’t know if it did. I’ve just been crying this whole time, so I don’t know. I slept all day. I need to be awake during the day, so I shouldn’t be drinking coffee, but I think soon I’m going to take some Benadryl, take a shower, and try to sleep until the sun comes up. I feel sick. I’ve been sleeping too much. I have no appetite so I’ve been forcing myself to eat, but it’s all tasteless and hard to swallow. I’ve been here before. I know it can get better. I don’t know how, I mean, everything else seems to be collapsing inward on my family right now, but… I have to believe things can get better. I feel like I’m choking right now. I feel trapped and suffocating. I’m so nauseas and sick and scared. I just want someone to walk in and say “hey, can I sit with you awhile?” I’ll keep going, but this is…

AND I can’t fucking use this app because it eats my battery and overheats my phone! What the hell.

Okay, 3 a.m. 3:05. What am I doing

I ran out of space for tags. This is too long. No one is going to read any of this. Why would you? You shouldn’t. It’s like a really long sad sad rant. Aaaaaaaa I’m losing it. I’m lonely. I’m burnt out. Half tempted to join a cult so I can just live with a group of people that control my life for me. I know that’s a shitty joke and cults are terrible, but also my brain is so bad and I feel so hopeless that when I say I’m half joking, I really do mean I’m partially serious. Sure sure, you’re God, dude, that’s cool, I’ll believe that, just give me a bed, 3 meals, and I’m in. Aaaahh ughhhh 3:15. What am I doing? How many followers will I lose for this? Why do I even have this blog? I’ve been on here for, I don’t know… I want to guess 15 years. Maybe more, maybe less. I don’t know why. It’s some connection to the outside world. No one talks to me on here. Sometimes they do. Some years they do, some years I just “exist” on here with very few interactions. It’s sad. I need real friends. I need a job so my coworkers can be friends. I need money to go out. I need self confidence and money and a job so I can join some dumb dating or friendship app, but right now… okay, I can’t go back down that road right now. Just scroll back up and reread my whining.

3:20. Distract myself. Keep writing. Distract. I can’t write forever. Okay. I need to go. I’ll be okay. I’ll try to be. If you read some of this, I’m sorry, but maybe thank you. I don’t deserve you. This world is so scary and lonely. Thank you for being here. Really. I appreciate you.

[lostinchowkit]

What turned out as expected?

My current job.

I remember walking with a friend from junior high school about what I wanted to do in the future. Many professions crossed my mind upon trying to answer her questions. Ranging from being a psychologist to a criminologist. Mind you I was so obsessed with Sherlock Holmes back then. But eventually, I told her I wanted to do something relating to human rights. Honestly, I couldn't recall what led me to include human right activist as an option there. I think it was because I was reading a collection of speeches from influential people who fought for the sovereignty of society. Thus, sparking the 'calling' to partake in humanitarian work.

Frankly, that once-blooming desire didn't last long. It was then overcome by the ambition to become a criminologist. Although, the chance of me ever having a future ever back then was slim to none. I was in complete shamble. I only showed up to school so they didn't mark me absent and flunk me. I was too absorbed in my emotions. It felt like tons of unpleasant memories coalesced into one giant ball and hit me right in the head. I went on with life relying on the tiny will to keep afloat. I was running in circles with zero idea where I'm heading - or even the knowledge of will ever make it at all. Lord, even I would have numerous mental breakdowns that I had to go home and several hospitalizations as well from stress-induced severe asthma attacks.

This continued into senior high school. I was basically a hopeless case. I would skip school on a daily basis. Even my friends were hesitant to work in the same group as me because they weren't sure I'd show up the following day. Things were looking slightly better upon entering 11th grade. I actually made effort to never skip school even though I could barely process most of the materials the teachers were teaching us. What mattered back then, I tried. I think I even surpassed the minimum of my target. I joined a debate club and became the president of the club. Though I was sure I did a poor job at it.

Twelfth grade was probably the moment when I thought "Eh, this is okay. I'll make it."

During this period, I was so grateful that I didn't have a hard time fitting in and connecting with people. I think it was because I've grown comfortable in my own skin and being alone in general.  I was no longer part of the club because I had to focus on the final exams. But I was appointed to lead our class' final art project.  I still wonder how they could trust me regardless of my poor track record. And with my academic performance, I still never made it to the top ten. But long story short, I graduated.

Sadly, this bubble was kind of shattered when my parents nearly got a divorce. But they didn't and I had to bounce back.

Then came my university years. Those were a complete blast. A moment of true self-growth and self-discovery. I studied Journalism and though it was TIRING AS HELL, I had fun doing all the coverages. I too made so many friends along the way - a few I'm still in contact with. I tried to put myself out there as much as I could. Joined an organization, saw a psychologist, won a competition, went abroad for the first time for free from winning the competition, did an internship, and finished my study with distinction.

Post-graduating, I decided I didn't want to be a journalist anymore. I put that as my last resort if none of my job applications went through. Luckily, after grueling months of job seeking, the universe decided to land me a job at a local NGO. That led me to recall the conversation with a now-distant friend about the future - and the question about whether we'll make it at all.

Now, I'm working at a different NGO. I get to work with many activists fighting for a just society. Thus, indirectly pulling me into their circle, where I can firsthand experience what was my ambition years ago.

 I am still unsure about the possibility of seeing the future as somehow, I no longer feel elated to welcome it. I don't know, perhaps it's because I'm now on meds that kind of nullify my emotions.

The point is, I may never see the ultimate silver lining of it all unless I'm dead. Because the only ultimate silver lining is death. All the silver linings I have experienced and will experience belong to moments. As long as I get to live the many moments to come, then I get to witness and reach the silver linings that promise me better days.

Anyway, sorry for turning it into everything BUT about my job. All in all, hang in there, bubs.

[butchdykeorpheus]

.

[ackerfics]

shall we hold hands and head home? — an anthology ft. levi ackerman and eren

mission title: how i met your father (wc: 6.1k) | masterlist

You have a problem.

“Eren, let’s review for the entrance examination!” you call from the living room, straightening your posture after putting a couple of books you borrowed from the library you’re working in (you got the job) on the coffee table.

Almost immediately, you hear a door slam shut. Specifically, the door to Eren’s room.

You sigh, putting your hands on your hips. “Eren, this is the fifth time you’re doing this now.” He doesn’t answer from behind his bedroom door. “Eren.” Again, there’s only silence. You purse your lips as you narrow your eyes at his door.

This has been going on for three days now and there are only less than five days to prepare for Eleutheria Private Academy’s entrance examination. The day after Eren moves in, you visit the nearby bank for a  withdrawal . The documents you received alongside the money contain the application forms, appointments for the examinations, and the test itself. The moment you read the first question, you instantly question whether this academy is right in the head for asking about how many hectares of land George owned or how many kilometers James trekked in five minutes with the proper direction. The questions are truly for the geniuses of this generation. It baffles you that at Eren’s age, you never had the proper education to solve or comprehend any of these. This is why you should try your hand at teaching Eren how to be a proper student. But that’s not as fruitful as you think when he’s scurrying away every time you say the word  study .

It’s like he’s a kitten. A terrified kitten. And this terrified kitten is peeking through the crack between his door right now. Green eyes narrow at you. You can’t even see it but you know he’s pouting.

“Eren, you have to prepare for the exam,” you coax. The crack between his door and the frame decreases and decreases by the second. You have no choice but to bribe him. You have enough money to spare anyway. Everything you received from your organization has led to this moment. “I’m going to buy you the limited edition  Super Spies  blanket  and  a Merry Meal of two cheeseburgers from the local fast food restaurant.” The crack becomes an open door. Eren is now looking at you like you’re responsible for the positions of the constellations in the sky.

“Pinky promise?” he asks, lifting his pinky in the air.

You smile. “Pinky promise.” He runs to you and loops your fingers together. You seal it with a gentle kiss on his thumb, something that has him beaming. “You have to make sure you have to do the end of your bargain.”

Eren nods, that adorable determined look plastered on his face.

“Now, let’s start with Mathematics.”

At the subject, Eren looks like he’s about to shit himself.

Eren doesn’t like studying.

It triggers nightmares. It gives him chills and he freezes. When the scientists finished their experiments on him, they subjected him to rigorous examinations to maintain the maximum brain power needed for his abilities to occur. Every day for almost twelve hours, Eren was studying in a lab like a newly-bought pet in training. No matter how much he cried or had a tantrum, the scientists never batted an eyelash, including that bespectacled man who took part in his existence. After he escaped, he didn’t touch a single book in the orphanage, except for the times the old bat of a caretaker forced him to do so to appeal to the couples wanting to adopt him, which was quite a challenge because he would fight against it and it would lead to him getting a lashing or not getting adopted in the end. 

The marks on his back start itching as he listens to you drone about the basic operations of Mathematics. Addition and subtraction he can solve with ease. But multiplication and division? He might as well listen in on the other applicants’ thoughts while answering the exam. Now, you’re moving on to more complicated parts of Math. Eren’s left eye twitches when he sees shapes and bigger numbers jumbled in the problems. 

He sniffles at the one-hour mark.

“Eren?” you ask him in the middle of formulating a problem for him to answer.

His bottom lip wobbles in distress. “I can’t do this anymore!”

You gawk at him, your head bouncing between him, the wall clock, and the pile of books on the coffee table. You sigh, the sound encompassing all the incoming exhaustion leading up to the examination. “Eren, you promised, right?”

Eren looks up at you. “But this is hard, Mama!”

“I know it’s hard but you have to study to pass this test.”

“What if I just read—”

You slightly narrow your eyes at him. “Are you planning on cheating?”

Eren purses his lips shut. That’s a mistake; an act of desperation. He almost revealed his powerful weapon. He stays silent as you huff. 

I already have the list of answers from this exam thanks to Hange, maybe I should just let Eren memorize them , he hears from your mind.

Eren’s face morphs into a childish wonder. That’s right, you’re an awesome spy like the main character of the show he loves watching when you’re off running errands or doing what spies do. Maybe you infiltrated a secret base with top-notch security, specifically the hidden vaults of the academy he’s about to enter and suffer from, just to get the test papers and the answers. You’re so cool. Eren keeps on staring at your side profile until you have no choice but to glance at him from the corner of your eye. The both of you regard each other, one gaze filled with admiration while the other is painted in confusion. 

Then, he comes up with this brilliant idea. “I don’t want to study anymore,” he whines. He makes sure to take glances at you in an attempt to gauge your reaction. When you give him a blank stare, Eren keeps on lamenting his fate. “This is so so hard! I don’t think I’m going to pass!”

He hears a sigh. That catches his attention. “I suppose I have no choice but to do this. Eren, I hope you have room for more than one promise. You mustn’t tell anyone about this.” You fix him a stern stare, your pointer finger wagging in front of him. Eren prevents a grin from surfacing on his face. “What I’m about to do is something against my morals but since we have no time, we’re going to take a shortcut.” You take out an envelope with a stamp that says  do not touch . Eren wants to touch it. His eyes brighten at the document. “This,” you wave the envelope in the air, “is an important piece of paper and it has all the answers to your future. All you have to do is to memorize every single letter in here, Eren, and then we’ll be on our merry way. Do you understand?”

“Yes!” It’s not even a second and he immediately answers. He vibrates in his seat as you raise an eyebrow at him. Maybe he shouldn’t have answered that quickly. Oh, well.

“Here you go.”

Eren takes the envelope from your hands and stares at it. All he has to do is to memorize the answers. That should be easy enough.

It’s the day of the exam and Eren doesn’t remember anything from that blessed envelope.

His eyes are shaking in nervousness. His forehead is breaking into a cold sweat. His hands are trembling to the point that he can’t hold the pencil properly. All your efforts of making him look presentable as possible went in vain when Eren looks like he was about to combust and launch himself from the window of the examination room. It’s on the fourth floor of a large Victorian building. His shaggy hair is messier than usual with all the scratching he did just to lessen this funny feeling in his stomach that’s stirring the breakfast you made earlier in the morning. Eren clutches his tummy with a scrunched face. It’s alright that he feels this way because the other applicants look way worse than him. Others are murmuring prayers under their breath, something along the lines of asking a woman named Ymir for guidance (who is that?), while some are already apologizing to their parents.

Eren doesn’t want to apologize yet. He has to finish this test first.

“D-Do you want some ointment?” A timid voice comes from beside Eren.

He turns to the voice and sees a blond boy handing him a tin of aromatic salve. “What?” Eren dumbly asks.

The boy lifts the tin. “Ointment.” At Eren’s intense gaze, he looks down at the long desk connecting their two seats. He starts fiddling with the tin container. It doesn’t help that Eren looks angry when he’s nervous. “M-My Dad gave this to me before I entered the building. He said that it helped my older siblings when they took their exams, too. He told me to open it when I feel too  o-overwhelmed  with the exam.” He pronounces the big word carefully and tentatively. “Y-You look like you need it.”

Eren tilts his head, regarding the tin container as if it’s an unknown flying object in his favorite show. It’s a mystery waiting to be solved. He watches as the blond boy twists the cap and almost immediately, Eren gets a whiff of something minty, fruity, and soothing all at the same time. His shoulders relax and he inhales a good portion of the air surrounding them. How can this measly item make all the butterflies in his tummy vanish? Maybe he should tell you to buy something similar, one with a container filled with stickers of his favorite cartoon characters. Eren doesn’t realize it but he’s starting to lean closer to the blond boy’s side, his nose adorably twitching the more he nears the tin container of ointment.

“Here,” the blond boy pushes it to his face.

Eren backs away when a cooling glob touches the tip of his nose.

The boy jumps as well, panicking that he probably scared off his possibly new friend. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that!”

Still, Eren looks at him with his tiny hands over his nose. His eyes narrow at the questionable thing that shines underneath the streaming lights of the examination venue. It’s shiny though, he gives it that.

“I’m sorry!” the boy continues to plead.

Eren glances away from the now teary-eyed boy. Great, he made someone cry. Now, if you catch any wind of this,  he’s  the one crying while going home. He’s never seen you mad. Frustrated, yes, but never angry that has him tucking his tail between his legs. And seeing as he never wants you to be mad at him, Eren tries to stop this boy’s tears by reaching out his hand, palm up, all the while still not looking at him straight in the eye. “The ointment.” Eren pouts. “Can I have some?”

The blond boy sniffles, his blue eyes glistening with tears. “A-Are you sure?”

Eren nods, almost a huff coming out of his mouth.

The boy wipes the tears from his face and flashes him a brilliant smile. It makes Eren squint. It’s too bright. Not as bright as your smile, though. You have the most beautiful smile in his little mind and he doesn’t squint at the sight of it. In fact, he basks in every fiber of your being. The boy says something and it brings Eren back to reality. “You have to apply it near your nose so that the scent can stay until the exam is over.” The blond boy takes a good dollop of the ointment and smears it on Eren’s hand.

Eren follows his instructions and even makes an invisible mustache around his mouth. “I’m going to tell Mama to buy this,” he says, determined to make you buy this.

“I’m glad you like it!”

“Eren.”

“Huh?”

“Eren. That’s my name. What’s yours?” Eren peeks through his eyelashes.

The boy beams. “Armin. My name’s Armin.”

A small hand waits for another. “Wanna be my friend, Armin?”

Now, the lone palm has someone intertwining with it in a handshake. “Yeah! I hope we pass this together, Eren! That way we can be classmates.”

Eren doesn’t expect to have a friend for this exam. But one thing’s for sure, he’s thankful that he was directed to this seat because Armin knows all the answers to the questions. At least that’s what he thinks. After seeing the test papers, Eren wants to go home the next minute. He knows all the answers to this but the nervousness plaguing him minutes before the start of the exam flicks the memorized letters out of his head. So, he tries reading everyone’s mind all at once. It gives him a headache but still, he perseveres. He strains himself but all he can hear is a jumbled mess of children crying in their heads. Until Armin starts mentally narrating his calculations. Visibly, Eren brightens in his seat and vigorously writes on the test paper, the lead of his mechanical pencil a pleasant sound to his ears. 

Wait for a second, there’s no 10 in the choices!  Armin thinks out loud.

Oh. Now, Eren’s in trouble.

Maybe praying to this girl named Ymir can help him survive this.

He wants to go home and bury himself in cuddles with you. But just like how you have a mission, he has a mission, too. Eren shuts down his mind-reading abilities and starts writing from his memory. It’s a steady flow onward.

You have your hands entwined underneath your chin as you sit in one of the chairs of the ‘waiting room’. With how this area of the academy is constructed, you’d think it belongs to a hospital. The chairs line up the hallway and you’re one of the parents who are praying to some unknown deity just to have your kid pass the exam. You know Eren can do this. Aside from making him memorize the answer sheet, you tutored him in between breaks of memorization just to jog his intellectual and technical reasoning. You still don’t have the heart to break free from your morals of straying from the path of shortcuts. It’s how you achieved where you are right now. You hope Eren took note of that philosophy while you two were studying.

The bell rings, signaling the end of a five-hour exam.

Children crying fills the silence of the waiting room. The doors to consecutive rooms burst open to small pitter-patters of shoes leading the owners to their parents. What the hell? Surely Eren didn’t cry inside his examination room.

You stand from your chair and crane your neck to find that shaggy head of brown hair. After a couple of minutes, you see Eren walking behind a group of rowdy children pushing each other. He doesn’t hold that usual annoyed expression he has when you two go out to the business district. Instead, Eren has his head down, his appearance looking more disgruntled than earlier. Did he battle something in there? You can’t help but think. Like he can feel your gaze, he slowly looks up from the patterned floor. The expression on his face upon seeing you sends a flurry of dopamine inside your body and the next thing you know, a small body clutches your leg in the tightest hug a little kid can achieve. “How was it, Eren?” You gently pull him from your leg before lifting him in the air so that you can carry him in your arms. It baffles you that at six years old, Eren can still be carried like this. He really is too small for his age. 

Eren nuzzles himself into the crook of your neck and you catch a familiar scent of an ointment you smell in passing whenever you are with Mike in the headquarters. The big bear of a man briefly mentioned that it’s the rage in the continent after it was patented by someone working in the business district of Liberio, the zone of Eldian people residing in the heart of Marley. “I finished it, Mama.”

Pride settles in your chest. Your hand runs through his hair, fixing the unruly strands popping in different directions. “That’s great, Eren. You’re so amazing like that spy character you very much like.”

He giggles. “I am, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are.”

From across the hallway, you spot a head of blonde hair done in an elaborate bun, and an expensive dress adorning her figure. She is greeted by a boy sharing the same features as her. Blue eyes that are as beautiful as the sky, are the features only the Tyburs wear with dignity. Suddenly, the little boy points in your direction, the girl following his finger to you and Eren. You look down at Eren who swivels his head from your neck. “Did you make a friend, Eren?” you ask, still staring at the child in your arms. You try not to psychoanalyze the actions of Willy Tybur’s children. Hange once told you that you can be intense when you’re observing someone. Better lay low for now. With the way Eren kicks his legs in the air, you conclude that he did make a friend before the exam started. 

Eren and the little boy exchange waves at each other before the former looks at you with stars in his eyes. “Yeah! His name is Armin. He’s the one who let me use this ointment. Do I smell nice, Mama?”

You heed his question and playfully inhale the area where he’s ticklish the most, right behind his ear. His giggles are a manifestation of seraphs; it makes you smile. “You do, Eren. How about we buy some of that ointment to help you in the future?”

He beams at your suggestion, nodding like a bobblehead charm.

“Okay then.”

Armin A. Tybur. The youngest in the Tybur family and the reason why it’s highly encouraged for you to put a child in this year’s academy admissions. According to the file given to you, Armin is a six-year-old prodigy who is expected to sweep the academy off its feet. Despite having no appearances in public, the maids and tutors working in the Tybur estate mentioned that the little boy started learning how to read when he was only two years old. He even wowed his family by expressing highly advanced emotional intelligence when normal people couldn’t even begin to understand emotions as adults. The Tyburs already placed their bets that the boy won’t have friends while attending an institution that’s open to the general public (in other words, those who have money and wits).

Yet here’s your child befriending such a genius recluse on the day of the examination no less. Eren can be the key to understanding more of the Tyburs than you originally thought. At first, you planned to be closer to the Tyburs by being a part of the parent organizations but with this opportunity in your arms, you’re presented with something that puts Eren on a much more purposeful path.

“How about some ice cream on the way home, Eren?” you propose.

“Really?!”

“Really.”

“I want the new flavors, Mama!”

“Anything you want, Eren.”

The mail always comes at seven in the morning.

You open them at nine after your morning routine has settled you in a fresher mindset and a new set of clothes.

On the table a week after the examinations is a plate of breakfast, a glass of juice, a cup of caffeinated tea, and the mail that has been delivered hours before. Eren is happily gobbling spoonfuls of chocolate chip waffles into his mouth as if it’s his last day on Earth and you’re occasionally taking sips of your preferred flavor of tea as your eyes trail on the envelopes with various stamps. You recognize a few of them containing codes that only the Wings of Freedom formulated for any undetected letter sending but your eyes unconsciously move to an intricate piece of scented paper with a wax candle for a seal.

The seal says  Eleutheria Private Academy  in elegant, cursive letters.

Your breath hitches. The result of the entrance exam is here. You take a quick peek at the little boy oblivious to today’s mail. You try calming yourself down — taking a deep breath while closing your eyes. It’s such a waste to open such an expensive letter but you hardly care now that it carries the fate of your mission. It doesn’t even crinkle at your hold. The seal pops off from the paper and the scent of something floral drifts inside the dining room.

Eren now stares at you. “What’s that, Mama?”

You internally cringe. “The result, Eren.”

The boy gulps down his waffles.

You’re acting as if you’re the one who took the exam. You gingerly take the folded letter from the envelope. The floral theme of this piece of paper mocks you. You faintly hear Eren jump down from his seat in front of you, his small footsteps nearing you until he’s leaning on your knees. “Are you ready, Eren?” He nods at your question with wobbly lips. You nod back before opening the letter.

“Good day!

We are so happy to inform you that your child, Eren Jaeger, passed the written—”

“Oh, my God!” you shriek. “You passed!”

Your mission is still on the go.

Without thinking twice about it, you lift Eren in the air like that cartoon he previously watched, the one where the monkey presents the lion cub to all of the savannahs to see and marvel. You’re the monkey and Eren’s your lion cub. The pride you felt during the entrance examination doesn’t compare to the pride you feel right now. It’s all-encompassing. You can take on any villain right now. The rush inside your veins pushes you to plant kisses all over Eren’s face, his giggles coloring the dining area with the most vibrant hues and shades known to humanity. It’s contagious and it has you laughing along with him. You dance with him in this imaginary tune, your journey leading you to the couch inside the living room. The laughter coming from the two of you dies down a couple of minutes later.

“Did I do good, Mama?” Eren asks you against your chest.

You happily hum, hugging him close to your heart. “You did  very well , Eren.”

Eren giggles, nuzzling more into you.

As he relishes in your warmth, you finish reading the letter in your hands.

“The second phase of the admissions is a mandatory family interview. Both parents  must  attend with the applicant. Absolutely no exceptions. Failure to meet this condition will amount to immediate termination of the application.”

Fuck.

Eren flinches in your hold.

“Why?!” you whine. “Why do they need both parents?!” It’s unbecoming of you to whine.

Eren lifts himself from you. “But I don’t have a Papa!”

“That’s the problem — there is no Papa.”

Where will you find someone who will stand in as your husband?

Levi finds himself in a predicament.

Once a dweller of the ‘Underground City’, the most dangerous place in the continent, it’s befuddling to know that he never leaves any traces of himself after a kill. This is why, as an assassin, nobody has ever uncovered his tracks except for the type of wounds he inflicted on his targets. When one sees holes in the chest right above the heart, that’s the work of Midnight. After his tenth kill he realizes that murdering people undetected runs in the family, only this time, he has an edge compared to his uncle who is literally called The Ripper in Marley and her neighboring cities. Levi kills people who are threats to the government or threats to the clients who hire his services even if those who hire him aren’t ideal citizens, to begin with. He doesn’t even like the lifeless eyes staring at him when he digs his stiletto knives into their chests. He does this to purge humanity of the miasma plaguing its core.

If he wants to continue this gig of his, he has to prove to the government that he’s not a spy. Because right now, he stares from the window of his other job in the City Hall. An Eldian employee of thirty years of age is being dragged by the authorities for being an unmarried man. The man’s screams are piercing and the whispers that follow are ruthless. This is what Marley does to Eldians who reach the age of thirty with no house or family to come home to. They think that by being married under their laws, one pledges their life to the cause and vision of the nation, that there’s no reason for them to betray Marley. Levi thinks it’s bullshit.

“Poor man,” a coworker whispers. “Well, it can’t be helped. It’s better to be wary instead of letting  them  run around here.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

Marleyans.

Levi rolls his eyes and goes back to his desk in one of the large offices.

“Levi!” An irrelevant human being calls for him.

“What?”

The man leans over his divider. “You’re still unmarried, right, and you’re what thirty-five?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Yeesh, you look older,” the man grimaces. “Better hurry up and find a dame or else you’re the next coworker to be tortured by the Military Police.”

You don’t have to say that again . Levi rolls the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows and starts typing whatever document their manager ordered him to do. On better days, Levi would have stabbed that stingy manager in the chest but seeing as he poses this law-abiding citizen with a penchant for tea and hand sanitizers, he chooses to type whatever shit this is. The man continues droning about whoever he finds attractive these days and who he’s planning on marrying but Levi doesn’t listen one bit.

On second thought, maybe finding someone to pose as his wife would be the best solution. Then again, it’s also a win-win situation when this country hunts down all the bachelors and bachelorettes they have their sights on. Preferably, he wants someone who can comply with whatever condition he throws on the table or someone who’s not that noticeable for his coworkers to suspect. Before he can prevent his mouth from opening, he says the stupidest thing he ever said in his lifetime.

“I’m actually married.”

“What?! For real?”

“I heard that! Dom, you owe me fifty bucks!”

“God damn it!”

Now, Levi starts digging his grave for the sake of his other, more important career and life.

This is all he can think about until he’s on his night job.

Bodies surround him in this presidential suite booked by one of the mafia leaders working on the surface. Someone gurgles their blood, clearly alive despite the wounds, and Levi throws his stiletto knife right in the middle of his forehead without looking. It hits its target and the gurgling dies down. Hours before, this suite is bouncing with sound waves of a random Bossanova song. Women are sitting on every bastard’s lap and money is thrown everywhere without care. Now, the women are safely escorted out but not before Levi pushes a specific nerve to make them forget what happened on this night. The bastards create this painting on the suite’s floor, another one of Midnight’s masterpieces. It’s an elaborate abstract one entailing the dirty deeds of humanity — the perfect shade of red splattered on a dark canvas, with no light for days on end. 

Levi sighs, his head tilting to the ceiling. He realizes that there are rips on his black suit. Great, he should visit the tailor shop by his apartment first thing in the morning. For now, it’s another sleepless night of never regretting where he is right now. He’ll put the wife-hunting on tomorrow as well.

The grandfather clock of the suit rings through the room.

Midnight welcomes another day and it’s tomorrow already.

“I fucking hate the world.”

“ Midnight ?”

“Yes?”

“ I have a  client  for you. ”

“...”

“ He goes by the name Lobov and he wants a man named Erwin Smith dead .”

The line goes dead. The  dealer  is always like this — cutting to the chase, considering no questions. He dials another number as soon as the call is dropped.

“Farlan, I need you to look into someone.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Erwin Smith.”

Keyboard clacks reverberate from the other side of the call.

“Hmm. Are you sure he’s a real person?”

“Why would I ask for you to look into him when he’s not?”

“Okay, okay, geez.” Another round of keyboard clacking. “Wow, his files are locked in the database.”

“Who are the people in his close circle?”

Farlan whistles. “Are you going through the “ getting close to subordinates to take down someone���  route? Damn, okay.” It takes him a minute. “I found something. Belladonna.”

“What?”

“Someone named Belladonna is his closest ally. Get close to her and you’ll be closer to your target.”

“Belladonna, huh?”

“She’s a spy of Eldia, Levi. Be careful.”

One would think you’re too excited to put Eren in this private academy. With his application still in processing, you’re already taking him to the tailor shop to have his uniform fitted. You’re one pretentious, confident mother who fully trusts her son to further explore his academic prowess in a place full of prodigies and children of those who treat money like passing interests. 

“Your son is an adorable one, madam,” the owner of the tailor shop gushes as she takes Eren’s measurement. The little boy is trying so hard to make himself taller by standing on his tippy toes. 

You chuckle, leaning on the countertop and watching your son do the most ridiculous faces. “He is. He’s so excited to go to this school that he can’t wait to have his uniform already.”

“Eleutheria Private Academy, huh?” The tailor stands up to write down the measurements on a piece of paper that has the design of the uniform, a detailed piece with the insignia and all. “That’s one fancy school. Your son must be a genius.”

I wouldn’t say that , you silently laugh. You don’t notice Eren swivel his head toward you with a scandalized look on his face. As you open your mouth to retort something practiced, you feel a chill down your spine, your blood running cold in your veins. You inhale a sharp breath, the weight of the gun lodged in the thigh strap beneath your skirt creates this foreboding urge inside you to shoot someone. The door doesn’t ring but a person is walking in front of you, sliding past your senses in a completely predatory-like way, as if they’re a creature of the night. You turn to the person standing beside you, waiting for the tailor to accommodate him in the store. What the fuck?

Levi Ackerman .

A man nearing his thirties and has yet to be married. He’s one of the people on the list of probable marriage partners Hange gave you the night before. His file is too empty for him to be called a citizen of Marley. The only things you know about him are that he’s unmarried, an Eldian, and that he works for the City Hall under the Taxes Department. Oh, and he has no historical background. The more you stare at him in the corner of your eyes, the more he seems suspicious. How did someone like him get past the strict security of Marley? Is he a person of importance behind that office worker facade? You narrow your eyes at his appearance. Black hair neatly styled on his head, a three-piece suit with no creases, muscles straining against the material of his clothes — he’s actually attractive. There’s not a single flaw found in him. His side profile is otherworldly and makes him appear like a sculpture made by the finest artist of the century. He puts all the muses for the perfectly-proportioned man to shame.

Silver irises meet yours.

Your face burns now that you’re caught staring at this man.

“Is there something you need from me?” His voice is blunt and takes no shit. It’s almost intimidating the way he trails his eyes from the top of your head down to the toes of your shoes. “I don’t appreciate the staring.”

You fix your panicking mental state. “No, I just found you handsome, that’s why.”

His eyes widen a little. He fully turns to you. God, did the deities take time in making him? “You find me attractive?” He’s not even skeptical. You nod at his question because it’s the truth. “So—”

“Mama!”

Oh, yeah. Eren.

The man you’re talking to is the one Eren saw when he held your hand for the first time. This future of yours that he got a glimpse of is within a golden hour, lights down low and slow songs serenading the kitchen of a much cozier home. Sizzles coming from a frying pan brought the scent of a multitude of savory smells that had Eren wishing he could have a taste of the food being prepared in this vision of his. The two of you are not alone though. The black-haired man staring at you right now also stared at you in his vision, eyes softer and riddled with an overflowing efflux of love and adoration that remained superior to the present. The man was holding you close to him as you were humming along to the tune of one love song, his more muscular build swaying you to the melody. And Eren was sitting on his shoulders, looking over to watch you stir vegetables and meat, his tiny hands holding Levi's ears in a tight yet harmless grip. It was a picture-perfect family worthy of being placed in a museum.

There’s no doubt about it — Eren has to put you two together so that the future will be met.

Shit, she has a kid? Did Belladonna marry someone? How will I go about this situation now? But she’s the one Erwin Smith trusts the most. Fuck. This is the kind of thing that exposes me as an assassin. I can’t exactly terminate her now.

Eren gasps. This man is dangerous. An assassin and he’s after you? Not on Eren’s watch. But the vision didn’t show any sign of this behavior at all. 

He grasps your leg tighter, his viridian eyes glaring at the man that’s supposed to be his father. He doesn’t know if he should trust this man that easily yet.

Fathers are cursed anyway.

“ I’m your father, Eren, so do as I say! Stay still and let me inject this so you could be the one who saves us all! ”

Eren shakes his head free of that memory. This is no time to dwell in the past.  You’re  the one who saved him from that path and you’re happy with this man in your future.

“Oh, Eren, are you finished with letting the kind lady take your measurements?” You lean down and pat his head, something that he nuzzles into. It never fails to make him feel warm.  So cute , he reads your thoughts. 

“Yeah!” he cheers. He loses his smile and looks up at the angry-looking man staring down at him with furrowed brows. Eren uses his so-called cuteness to hide the fact that he just read something life-threatening from this man’s mind. He tilts his head to ask, “Who’s this, Mama?”

You don’t answer the question. Instead, you turn your head to the man standing in front of you with his hands inside his pockets, expectantly waiting for him to say his name. “I believe he hasn’t introduced himself to us yet, Eren.”

“My apologies. My name is Levi.”

“Okay, Mister Levi.” Eren emerges from behind your skirt. The way he stares at Eren can be adorable but you recognize that look anywhere. It’s the same one he had when he was wiping his face from tears as he was memorizing the answer key to Eleutheria’s entrance exam. You saw it when he was trying to imitate the fighting scenes in his favorite shows. During the times Eren is trying to make himself stronger and older than he is, he has that look on his face. Your first meeting with him was there. When you saw him for the first time, it was blazing, and right now, his eyes hold the summer sun. Levi doesn’t even have time to respond because Eren opens his mouth to say, “Be my Papa!”

Maybe having this man as his new father will be the key to preventing you from getting killed, all the while becoming the best son there is. After all, Levi looked so bewitched and besotted with you in the future. Eren will make everything come true.

taglist:

@misslovingpearl

[ladyyatexel]

Have you been thinking that there's a real lack of hopeless strangers on your dash asking for help lately? ☆Congratulations, I have arrived!☆

I feel obligated to a certain level of jesterdom while doing this, like perhaps I can earn my keep by entertaining people. It's bleak and humiliating, but we're gonna Have Fun With It! :D This is perhaps more a note to make to self and to a therapist rather than note here, but it segues well into the important point of:

~.•°¤.°•○~☆ I Can't Afford Shit ☆•*.°○.•°*×

let alone a therapist

I'm currently stuck in a weird position, both physically and situationally, because I have some sciatica scoliosis spinal bone spur nonsense that decided that now was its time to shine. I'm in pain all the time at every angle and position, so I'm not doing Great?

I'm in the middle of the process of filing for disability and if you've ever applied for a job and been frustrated that you gave them all of your information and then the application asked you to give them the same information all over again, applying for disability is like doing that, but times 40, and with information you don't have memorized the way you have your phone number and home address. They also insist on doing it through the mail. My next step is to be evaluated by some kind of impartial physician. My appointments are in mid to late July. I am unsure what they want me to do with myself until that time.

The work I'm trying to do is not enough. I'm making buttons like crazy but in the end they are just buttons and they sell for 2 to $4 and so you really need to be someone who is absolutely psyched about buttons and buys 40 of them or I need to tap into a market that is Larger in order for this to be reliably sustaining. I do not know what that market is. I was the weird kid in school - what is popular, I don't know, I was never meant to know, it is a mystery.

Do not get me wrong, I am currently holding my face above water because of some really enthusiastic fans of buttons.

But I can't sell a month's rent worth of buttons. I don't even think I have the supplies to make that many.

My rent is USD$670, which is hiked up an extra $70 from where it was last year because my landlord wanted to bleed me dry while the world is on fire. Despite how poorly insulated and badly maintained this house is as a structure, I do enjoy having even a badly insulated roof and a place to put all my shit.

If you've got a need for $700 worth of buttons for some reason, hit me up.

If you don't, then hey, I'm another artist in crippling pain on your dash hoping people in better situations than I can help out. I would love to cover my rent to remove that anxiety for myself for another month, but Every Bill keeps happening, so more beyond that it going to my electric which hasn't been paid since February, and my internet which will keep me afloat in nearly every way possible. I'm also almost at the bottom of the bag of Science Diet food that keeps my beloved cat, Onyx, healthy. I do not know how best to keep a ticker tape of a goal, because there isn't one? I need to survive until at least July. It's June 17th as I write this. Two months rent and some cat food? Don't know, I'm five minutes from a phone call which will determine if they will still allow me food stamps.

SO.

Ways in which I can dance for your amusement so that you may throw coins in my direction:

Art Commissions! I can paint like a motherfucker! I have an extremely ill-advised expensive piece of paper saying I can do it!

Check it out, man. There are COLORS and everything.

Radical.

I have a Patreon where you can see Secrets!

And a Ko-fi! I sell buttons on Ko-fi, in case you were wondering when that plot point would come back. It's not very satisfying narratively, I am sorry. Thinking about offering prints there, as well!

I have other options in my sidebar - RedBubble, Society6, etc!

There is also paypal.me/ladyyatexel if you just want to give money to my literally actually broken ass without getting a cool item in return.

And yes, if you're thinking this all looks and feels kinda familiar, I had to dance and beg on the internet in Dec 2021, and I made that go as far as I possibly could. It's six months later and everything I'm trying to do to better my situations is just taking Forever. I'm trying to come up with a way to stay afloat while rescuing myself takes its time.

Thanks for reading if you made it this far, friend. Even just knowing someone listened to you yelling for a minute is helpful.

No need to feel obligated, especially if you don't feel I deserve a second round of help, I understand. But if you wanna spread this around and let me 'Will Art For Food' on someone else's dash, that would be sick.

Take care of yourselves, friends, it is brutal out there.

[poisonousquinzel]

Hey y'all, I really hate to be making a post like this, but in true 2020 2.0 fashion, life has been... rough.

I've been trying to get a job in my city since May, but I've been denied because of my health issues.

We also don't have a car. And our town is small so while we technically have a bus, it comes by near my house once per day and isn't reliable.

My mom can't work and my step dad's online work has been stretched dry recently so he's been making bare minimum for months.

I had been under the impression in the beginning of May that I would have the assistance of my parents in this, I've never done most of this before and they made it sound like my mom would help me.

However that wasn't really the case, personal stuff happened for them and I don't necessarily blame them for that, but then in June I got denied for a job because "I have too many health issues" and my step dad told me that we'd get back to it after my birthday. (Post 12th)

I've asked my step dad every morning when I wake up what we're going to do that day, because he had said he was going to be the one handling the job stuff when we started again.

And every day we've done whatever it is he said. We walked up to 7-11, turned in an application, looked up online jobs, etc.

We did the same on Wednesday and the only reason I didn't keep looking into more of them that afternoon was because I had a migraine. And when I have migraines they're not just headaches and they're not just migraines.

It's something I've been working through with my doctor about, because my previous long term doctor since childhood was completely incompetent at her job.

When I get migraines, it makes me nauseous. And being nauseated makes my heart slow down and I faint or collapse.

I can't sleep, it hurts to close my eyes or move them behind my eyelids. It feels like it's sparking against metal with every movement.

I've had to go to the hospital for it in the past when I collapsed into a pile of bags and was barely breathing, my previous doctor just... didn't look at the hospital's report on my visit. Like when I tell you in hindsight she really sucked, she really fucking sucked.

So, yeah, I slept a lot on Wednesday. I wasn't thrilled about it either.

And I told my step dad that I'd do all that stuff on Thursday.

My physical state was pretty visibly clear, I couldn't leave my extra darkened room without wearing sunglasses even though it was 8:30 at night.

But, then on Thursday instead I got into a really heated discussion with the two of them.

And... I am just very, very tired now.

I panic called my therapist 5 times in less than 10 minutes afterwards. It was a really bad day.

Thankfully I was able to get back to back emergency appointments with her and my doctor yesterday morning so dw emotionally wise. But I don't know how I'd be fairing if I hadn't been able to get those scheduled.

But Long Story Short:TLDR: we are a couple of weeks away from being on the streets.

Or in a shelter. We wouldn't be able to bring any of our cats. We would lose all of them.

I don't want to beg, but I suppose I am cause I'm terrified

We're behind on bills and next months are just around the corner, we've run out of local resources here that can help. I don't know all of the specifics, but I do know we're out of options.

If you're in a good financial situation and you feel like it, if you can, literally anything would help.

It'd mean the world. I don't want to end up on the streets or in a shelter, and I really don't want to lose my cats.

I can't.

They're the only thing keeping me going, so, please

PayPal •

its.me.ya.frustrated.girl@gmail.com

Cashapp • $Poisonousquinzel

reblogs and signal boosting are also super appreciated!!

[xpeachesncream]

fiend | one shot

f i e n d ;

a person who wants something really bad, and keeps coming back for more.

because that's exactly what you are with your boss who dicks you down properly, time and time again.

pairing: assistant!reader x ceo!yg

genre: ceo au | smut

words: 2.7k

warnings: cussing, mature language/implied sexual content, bondage, unprotected rough sex that makes you cry, multiple orgasms, breast play, fingering, oral (m. & f. receiving), pussy smacking, ass smacking, dirty talking, doggy style, choking, i think that’s it? 

note: uh, definitely filthiest smut i’ve ever written by far.. i’m sorry lmao i’m trying to experiment with smut and yoongi is the one i’ve decided to experiment with. again, pls excuse any errors. enjoy!

Your eyes drifted down the hallway, quickly making eye contact with your boss before you turned the corner. Soon after, you heard his foot steps following behind you, his fingers grazing the buttons of his blazer as he unbuttoned them and quickly loosened the tie around his neck as he continued to follow your path.

You bit your lip as you took one last look behind you, seeing him coming for you, the lust seeping through his skin. Apparent in his eyes. In his walk. The way he licked his bottom lip.

You turned the knob to a room, not knowing who's it was but you didn't give a single fuck. All these rich folk and their big ass homes, there was no way any of them truly and actually cared about each and every single room in the house. Before you could fully shut the door, your boss slips himself in, silently shutting it close for you and locking it.

"Running away from me?" Yoongi asks in your ear, his breath grazing your neck.

"There's no fun if I don't, right?" You slightly cock your head to the side, a smirk slowly growing at the corner of your lips. Suddenly, you feel the cold material from his tie wrap around your wrists.

"Hmm." He hums. "Now that I've got you though, you're not going anywhere." He says lowly, holding the tie tightly as he bends you forward onto the side of the drawer against the wall. He finishes tying his tie around your wrist, your breathing slightly hitching when he tightens it. You feel him lift the back of your dress up, your thong exposing your ass cheeks and your folds almost swallowing the material with how bent you are at the moment.

How you got here? You didn't know, but you also didn't care. Min Yoongi was one of the youngest thriving CEOs to exist and out of all applicants, he had chosen your innocent ass as his assistant. You literally had just graduated not too long ago, finding an ad for the position online as you nonchalantly surfed the web and did your rounds of poking for entry-level positions. It didn't contain many requirements, which sparked your interest. But you figured you'd never land the job having interviewed amongst other women and men who had been executive assistants previously for months, even years.

Little did you know that you'd star in your own Fifty Shades of Grey movie, and honestly, all this shit was worth it to you. You didn't care about the dirty ass looks the rest of the staff would give you. You didn't care about the shit talking they'd do. You were never one to worry about little things like that; You did you and you carried your own shit. You knew the women were jealous, and you knew they wanted to be you.

Why would you be mad about that?

It ultimately became Yoongi's weakness. You just had it like that.

You'd watch as they'd take your job and prepare Yoongi's coffee in the morning, hoping to bat an eyelash and shower him in compliments. You sat at your desk smirking to yourself at how hard they tried. Sometimes Yoongi would acknowledge it, most of the time - he didn't. Because he was fixated on you and you had yet to learn that.

He wasn't one to build relationships with his staff, he made sure to keep his personal life separate from his career. He didn't talk much in the beginning, having random people train you before he began to step in and show you the ropes himself. He'd come off cold at first, barely showing any expressions. Barely acknowledging you by name, even. But as time went on, you were able to exceed his expectations, doing things before he'd even ask and you found him slowly unraveling around you. He'd tell you goodmorning as soon as he'd catch sight of you at your desk. He'd ask how your day was. He'd ask for your opinion on certain things. He'd ask for you to fully handle his schedule because he loved the way you treated him so delicately, moving appointments around just so he'd have time to breathe and eat. Then, you'd catch his smile. His laugh. How he'd shower you in compliments, talking about how nice you looked that day. He'd leave you notes on your desk, thanking you for your hard work.

If you weren't mistaken, you had felt a small crush developing for your boss. But, you knew you had to keep it professional. That is - until Min Yoongi had caught on and acted on it. He stood behind you as he looked over your shoulder at the computer screen. He had one hand planted on your desk, while the other rested on the top of your chair. You looked up at him from your seat, his eyes locked onto yours. He edged his face closer to yours, locking your lips with his. You couldn't help but gasp as you quickly pulled away, pushing yourself off after reality had settled in. But he had grabbed your wrist ever so gently, shaking his head as he told you to stop holding back.  Something so innocent had turned lustful, full of desire and passion. You gave in and allowed him to get a taste of all of you. Once you were in, there was no going back. He fucked you so good that you could barely walk, fucking you in all places you could imagine - his office, his car, his home, his kitchen, balcony, now this party that was flooded with such highly important people. All you wanted was him, all you craved for was him; Just as he had craved for you every second of his day.

That's why your ass was bent over on someone's expensive ass black dresser, Yoongi's tie tied tightly around your wrists as he swipes his fingers down his tongue before giving your pussy a good smack. You let out a small whimper as he pulls your panties down and throws them aside, his tongue licking a stripe in between your folds.

"You gonna be a good girl for me?"

"Yes." You whimper once again when you feel him spread your cheeks to take full advantage of the position you were in. You feel his tongue gently probe your entrance before you hear him suck you dry, a slight chuckle releasing from his lips as he pulls away and starts to insert two fingers to stretch you out. His long fingers start slowly, Yoongi full out enjoying the sound of your wetness every time he pulls in and out. He curves his digits upwards, causing you to twitch on the drawer from how deep he's tickling your core.

"Ohhhhh, Yoongi, please." You mewl. Your hands are slightly getting tired from being held behind you, but at the same time, you're so fucking turned on at how rough he's handling you - like he had been wanting you all night. Which, he has. He couldn't believe the audacity you had to show up to this party in that tightly fitted dress, hugging you in all the right places. You caught on quick, teasing him throughout the night by grazing your hand against his, brushing your fingers across his manhood area ever so gently in passing, whispering how good he looked in his suit.

"Stay still. You said you'd be good." He says, quickening his pace while he held the tie down to keep your hands in place. The faster he pumps his fingers in and out of you, the quicker you feel yourself coming undone.

"Hohhhh, fuck." You moan. "I'm close."

"Gonna cum around these fingers, baby?" You want to hold on so badly, but you can't. And you don't. You find yourself trembling on top of the dresser, Yoongi licking up your mess and completely disregarding how overly sensitive you are right now. The pain turns into more pleasure for you, and you want nothing more than to feel him inside of you.

But he has other plans first. He wastes no time bringing you back up to standing position by holding his tie, aggressively getting you on your knees in the middle of the room.

"You better make good use of those hands when I let them go." He says, undoing his tie. You slightly wince at how sore you are from keeping your hands in one position for some time, but you brush it off as Yoongi stands in front of you, ready for you to unzip his pants and let his aching dick free. He loves watching you suck him on your knees, the sight of your pretty face and his dick going in and out of your mouth being something out of this world for him. He ain't ever gotten head so good until he's gotten it from you.

And so you're craving to make him feel just as good as he made you feel, gripping his hardened member when it springs free from his boxers, your tongue following its length like a guide. His dick wasn't the thickest, but it was long and that shit never failed to make you cum time and time again. That shit never failed to tear you up. You suck his tip, your tongue swirling around the pooling pre-cum before you pull back with a pop. You watch from below as he tilts his head back in pleasure, small moans leaving his mouth as his hands are tangled in your hair. He begins to lower you onto his dick, steadying the pace before he wants you to start taking him all the way. His tip tickles the back of your throat while he keeps you there for a good minute, tears streaming from your eyes as you choke on him, saliva trailing from your mouth and his tip once he tugs your head back.

"So fucking pretty when you take my shit like that." He smirks before biting his bottom lip, his grey hair lightly brushing past his eyes. You swallow him whole a couple of times more, more saliva trailing down his dick and between your mouth and his tip before he's satisfied with how fucked out you look simply from taking his dick down your throat. "What do you want me to do to you, pretty girl?"

"Fuck me, please." You whine. He grips your chin and stands you up to eye level.

"You want me?" You nod. "Tell me how much you want me, babygirl."

"I want you so bad, Yoongi. Please. Wanna feel you."

He smirks. "Gonna make you feel good, sweetheart. Don't worry about that." He doesn't hesitate to carry you, albeit he struggles a bit with his pants below his ankles, allowing you to wrap your legs around his torso before dropping you onto the bed. You wiggle yourself up a little higher before he crawls on top, his lips pressing against yours. The kiss quickly becomes messy, your hands getting tangled in his hair as his tongue sensually caressed your mouth. You moan into it while his hands work to bring the bottom portion of your dress above your waist. He pulls down your top portion just enough to expose your bare breasts, his hands giving them a good squeeze before taking your nipples in between his fingers and giving them a good pinch. You let out a small cry as he pulls away from the kiss, your nipples feeling incredibly hard and sensitive from his touch. He brings his mouth down to one nipple at a time, toying with it for a second by using his tongue to flick the bud around before sucking.

"That feels so good." You let out breathily. He lets out a small moan as he sucks on the other before bringing his mouth back up to yours. You wiggle yourself onto him, feeling his tip graze your folds, driving you insane. The heat is pooling in your core, almost unbearable at the fact.

"You want this dick in you now?" He whispers in your ear, nibbling at your earlobe right after. You let out a hiss as you nod, letting out a small whimper as you watch him pump his dick a few times below you. He inserts the tip, your mouth slightly open at how fucking good he feels slowly filling you up. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you grip onto his shirt while he bottoms out, the sound of your wetness bouncing off of the walls while he rolls his hips into you, working inwards and outwards. He keeps your legs open with his hands, making sure your wide enough to feel every inch of him inside of you.

"Fuuuuck, Yoongi." You moan. "Give it to me." He picks up his pace. "Just like that, just like that." You repeatedly whine until you can't cry it out any longer. The pleasure completely takes over your body as you bounce up and down in his grip, his eyes marveling at your titties bouncing around while he fucks you senselessly.

"Always so good to me." He groans. "Taking me in so perfectly. I wish you could see how fucking good you look crying out for me." You were absolutely perfect to him, in every way possible. The music outside is so loud at this point that you're sure no one can hear you yelling his name in this room. Your nails are digging into his clothed arms, his hands now making his way up to your neck to slightly grip onto it while he aggressively hammers into you.

"I'm gonna cum again." You manage to spit out as his hands are barely giving you room to speak. Sooner or later, one to two more powerful thrusts in, you feel yourself spiraling out of control, groaning as you tremble underneath him. He bites onto his bottom lip as he slows his pace to help you ride out your high and places a sloppy kiss onto your lips.

"Turn around for me." He says, you quickly obeying silently. He has you on your fours towards the edge of the bed, his tie now wrapped around your mouth and in between your teeth. He tugs on it ever so slightly to the side, getting a good look at your face before planting a kiss on on your neck. He quickly swipes his hand down your pussy, knowing full well how sensitive you still are. You twitch at the sensation, Yoongi letting out a small chuckle at how sexy and vulnerable you are right now. He slips himself in, letting out a moan at how wet you are around him. He holds onto his tie as he fucks into you quick, tears streaming down your cheeks. You let out a loud moan, but it's muffled through the material of his tie, enjoying every bit of the pain and pleasure your boss is bringing you at this moment. He grips your ass with his free hand before giving it a good smack, groans leaving his mouth as he pumps in and out.

"Who's pussy is this?" He leans forward and asks in your ear.

"Yours." You mumble.

"Who's?"

"Youuuuurs." You cry.

"Shit, babygirl. I'm gonna cum. Gonna fill you up so good." He leans back, his high coming to a close. Your eyes shut close as you feel your walls constrict around him at the same time he lets himself go, his cum coating your walls while you coat his dick. He lets the tie go gently, allowing you to breathe through your high, huffing and puffing to regulate yourself. You let out a small gasp feeling him remove himself from inside of you, cum leaking out of your throbbing pussy. You can barely fix your position, your legs trembling and weak from how fucked out you are. Yoongi takes a napkin from the nearby dresser, wiping you clean before getting himself together and helping you up.

"So much for enjoying the party like you wanted." You tease as you fix yourself in the full length mirror near the bed. Yoongi stands behind you, adjusting his blazer and shirt and tossing his tie aside since it had been drenched from your saliva.

"Didn't have to be such a tease."

"I thought that's what you wanted." He comes from behind you, lowering himself to your ear.

"You know I always want you though, so there's no need to be one. You ever think about that?" He says lowly near your ear as he lifts up your long lost panties with his finger.

[cumbunnywitch]

Sometimes I like to think back to when I was a little egg. I don't even really remember when I started cracking that shell, maybe sometime around 15, maybe 16? A lot of my trans friends will say they knew really early on that they weren't their agab, but I don't really feel like I can say the same.

At some point, wanting to be a girl became a thing for me. It might just be my brand of Weird Brain Shit, but it felt very sudden. All at once, I was going through puberty and dating and having sex and doing all the things teenage boys do at that time, and it almost never felt off. I was in shape, I was actually pretty muscular and if I had kept up with my workout routine that highschool sports had instilled into me, I might have come out looking like a pretty hot guy. Especially after the acne went away.

But, something clicked in me. Something tiny that didn't make sense just yet that I wanted to be a girl. Not that I didn't feel like a boy, or that I couldn't keep being one, but that I wanted to be a girl. I couldn't find words to explain it for a very long time, and I still don't think I'm doing it justice, but I've come to understand it a little.

I ended up letting my at-the-time undiagnosed anxiety hold me back for a very long time. By 17 I knew that I didn't really think I was cis, maybe genderfluid or bi-gender, because those were easier things to think of. Around 18, I told my friends at the time, who at this point had seen me in a skirt in private on more than one occasion. But that was all just for sex and playing with gender roles with fuckbuddies. I still didn't understand.

At 20, I pushed that all down as hard as I could for awhile. I wanted to join the navy, be a pilot and fly fast planes. I still kind of wish I could, but that time has come to pass. At 22, when my application kind of just fell through and my girlfriend of 4 years (12 now) moved. I rekindled my relationship with my gender questioning, but I still wasn't motivated. I even went on a few dates (thanks polyamory!) dressed as a woman, though I'm not sure I really fit the part yet.

And then, the big thing happened. I was 25, squandering my life, and had just moved again. I didn't have a job and both me and my partner were depressed as hell. She broke up with me days before the move, and I went back home to my mom.

Utterly broken and looking for anything that could change me for the better, I started therapy. My therapist convinced me to talk to myself, to understand who I was and what I was feeling, In three sessions, I understood that I wasn't male. I shouldn't have been trying to be, I had been so lazy and so stupid and the 19 year old me would be disappointed in how I wasted the body we had sculpted into this lazy, floppy mess. I ugly cried in his office for 45 of our 50 minutes. He wasn't very familiar with this kind of problem, and gave me what help and resources he could.

Within a few months I had a job again, complete with health insurance and the kind of stability you get from having a paycheck. On October 30th, 2018, I had my first appointment with a doctor to start HRT. I met them as my old name, but that would end shortly.

On Halloween, I started my first dose of estrogen and spiro. I cried again, asking myself why it took so long to do this. I had insurance before, I could have done this then. I could have looked online, I could have done so many things! But I didn't. I pushed it off because it was easier then.

I'm tired of doing the easier thing all the time. It feels good to not have to work hard sometimes, but no matter how good the flowers smell in your backyard, you'll never know how the ones down the street smell if you don't get up and take a walk.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts) 

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

*

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

*

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

*

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

*

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

[chaotic-jjk-fiction]

The Surrogate: Nanami Kento x Reader x Gojo Satoru

Please be warned that this piece is 4.3k words

I am willing to write a part two if you guys like it 

TW: Pregnancy, Artificial insemination, Morning sickness, Surrogacy   

You were tight on money, you couldn’t deny that. Sometimes you had to pick between paying rent and eating, but that was just how it was living in Tokyo. You had just graduated from university last year, and finding work wasn’t easy. One night when you and your friends were hanging out and one of them jokingly brought up the idea of becoming a surrogate to make some money. You all laughed at the idea then, but a few months after that conversation took place you found yourself googling the surrogacy processes and the money that could be made. While surrogacy was not actually illegal in Japan but it was still frowned upon by many, however, this wasn’t going to stop you.   

Now you were filling out your application to become a surrogate mother. You went through all of the agency’s testing and formal legal work and they told you that they would notify you if you were chosen by a family. All you could do now was wait and see. You had almost forgotten about your application when you got an email explaining that you had been selected by a couple and that a meeting needed to be scheduled so that both parties could meet and decide if they wanted to continue. You quickly replied with all of the dates and time that worked for you and internally jumped with joy that things were actually working out, much quicker than you had expected. 

The meeting time was also set quickly and you found yourself growing nervous as the day approached and you had to remind yourself that this was no different from any job interview you had ever done. Finally the day had come and you were headed off to meet the family that you would potentially be carrying a baby for. You dressed in your best clothes and did your hair in a way that you hoped would impress them, you knew that if they were able to afford surrogacy, they were probably of high status. The meeting was at the agency and one of their doctors would be there to explain everything to both parties and help everyone feel comfortable. When you made it to the agency you were escorted into an office type room with a desk and three chairs. Two of them were closer together, and the third was more off to the side and you guessed that one was for you, and the other two were for the couple. You sat down in the chair off to side your hands folded in your lap as you looked around the room. You jumped when you heard the door open and you turned around to see two men enter the room. One man was obviously the doctor and the other one you assumed was the husband in the couple. The doctor went and sat down on the other side of the desk, and you stood up and bowed to the man in a tan suite. He was pretty tall, and you weren't going to lie, he was making you feel a bit intimidated. He bowed back to you. 

“My name is Nanami Kento” he said very formally, “Thank you for meeting with us, and I apologize that my partner is late.” You were a little taken back by how formal he was, but then again it was what you were expecting. 

“My name is y/n'' your voice wavered a bit, “and the pleasure is mine.” You two bowed again, and then he took his seat and you followed. There was an awkward silence in the air and you just tried to focus on your hands which laid in your lap and not the intimidating man sitting in the chair a little ways away from you. Five minutes passed before the door slammed open and you jumped in surprise, whipping your head around to see who had busted in. A man with white hair and sunglasses stood in the doorway. 

“Sit down” Nanami said in a stern voice, “your late Satoru.” The man in the door frame made his way over to the chair next to him and sat down before turning to you, 

“The name’s Gojo Satoru'' he stated and then turned back around to face the doctor. You were a little shocked, but you also turned back to face the doctor. You noted the wedding rings on their hands and you realize that they were the married couple that you would be potentially carrying a baby for. It made sense, obviously they couldn’t have a child together, and it made you hope that this worked out. The doctor soon began his speech on how surrogacy works, explaining  how you would be artificially inseminated with a semen sample that the men provided. You would then be monitored closely throughout your pregnancy and updates would be provided for Nanami and Gojo. They would pay any medical bills that were related to the pregnancy, and how the three of you could work out specific details on which doctor you would see and which hospital you would give birth as you pleased. You just sat there silently nodding every now and again to show that you were listening to what was being said. The thought of actually carrying a baby inside of you for nine months was intimidating, but you really needed the money. After the doctor had finished his part of the meeting he then opened the floor to questions and open discussion. You really didn’t know what to say, and you were glad when Nanami pulled out a notebook and began asking the doctor questions and taking notes. You felt so unprepared compared to them. After he was done interrogating the doctor, he turned to you and you panicked a little about what he was going to ask. 

“Thank you again for meeting us here today” he started off formally “Would you mind if I asked you some questions?” You nodded, 

“Of course not.” He looked down at the page of questions decide which one to ask first, before finally deciding to start with your relationship status. You explained to them that you hadn’t been in a relationship since you were in your first year of university. He went on asking questions about family history and health, and other stuff along that line, you answered every question to best of your ability. You noticed that his husband, Gojo appeared to be antsy and trying not to start bouncing off the walls. You wondered how these two had ended up together. After Nanami had gone through everything he had to written down, he asked you had any questions for them to which you responded, 

“I only have one,” you paused a moment before continuing “What brought you two to deciding that you wanted a child” Nanami looked back at Gojo before looking back to you 

“Well” he started before getting cut off be his husband 

“Because we work with kids all day and seeing them all grow up and mature makes me want to have a kid of my own to help grow and mature” Gojo exclaimed “Plus babies are cute as hell” You couldn’t help but giggle at his last statement, Nanami however just shook his head. 

“Ok” you said “So far I’m feeling good about going through with this. You two seem like a wonderful couple.” Both of them looked at you smiling, and a grin broke out on Gojo’s face. Nanami nodded in a very business like manner, 

“Before we sign any papers” he interrupted “We have a few terms and conditions” you smiled and nodded and he went on

“We would like to be at most, if not all of your ultrasounds” he explained

“I think that’s perfectly reasonable” you chirped 

“We would also like to see your living accommodations, we need to know that our baby is being cared for properly, even before they are born” you paused for a moment before answering. 

“That can be arranged,” you said slowly. And just you were signing the legal papers that set your fate in stone, setting a date to get inseminated, shaking hands with Nanami and Gojo, and then you were on your way back home.    

Your appointment to be inseminated at the clinic was fast approaching and you were a tab bit anxious, but you were also pretty giddy. You were happy that you could give such a sweet couple the baby they wanted. Some time passed, and the next thing you knew you found yourself seated in the procedural chair, your legs in the stirrups watching a doctor pull on gloves before she took the odd syringe with a long thin tube on it and held it up.

“Ok” she said “I need you to try and relax as much as you can and just take a deep breath. '' You did as she said and tried hard not to pay attention to how uncomfortable it was. She slowly injected the liquid, which you knew was sperm through the tube, and you found yourself wondering which man's sperm it was. 

“I’m all done” she informed you as she moved to clean up “We’ll be seeing you in a week to see if an egg fertilized” you nodded as you redressed. Two weeks and few days later you found yourself back in the doctors office with Nanami and Gojo waiting to see if you were pregnant or not. The room was tense as the doctor looked over your blood work in his hands

“Your hCG level is at 21” the doctor stated. All three of you were on the edge of your seats, “Congratulations. You're pregnant” he said looking from the paper up to you. She let out a sigh of relief, you felt like a weight had been lifted off your chest. What you weren't expecting was to suddenly be lifted out of your chair and hugged, the action causing you to let out a squeak of surprise. 

“Put her down Satoru” Nanami commanded. You were then set down so that you were standing on the floor looking up at Gojo who had apparently been the one to pick you up. Nanami stood up and took your hand 

“I’m very glad that this worked out” he said a little stiffly “I look forward to what’s to come for all of us.” You nodded happily with a big smile on your face. He felt a smile tugging at his lips as he looked at your bright eyes and happy expression matching Gojo’s. 

“So, who is you obstetrician?” Nanami asked after the initial excitement had died down. You paused, looking down avoid eye contact

“I don’t have one” you said sheepishly. The two men exchanged glances before looking back at you, your head still down. 

“We can set an appointment up for you with one of our choosing if that’s alright with you” Nanami offered. Gojo quick budded in with

“And we’ll pay for it of course.” You looked back up at them, before you nodded

“That sounds great. Thank you so much”  

“It’s the least we could do” Nanami said with a soft smile on his face “You are carrying our child after all.” Gojo made his way to his husband's side and took his arm and pressed a soft kiss to kiss cheek. It made you happy to see the two of them so happy, you were feeling pretty good about your decision to become their surrogate. Two weeks later they called you to set up your six week ultrasound with a doctor they had picked in Tokyo, that when you looked her up seemed pretty high scale and you were glad you didn’t have to pay. All three of you set a date that would work, with the agreement that after the appointment they would come over to your house and check it out and you agreed. They also asked about how you were feeling so far, you explained to them that so far your breast had been pretty tender, you were definitely bloated, however, you hadn’t had any morning sickness yet. They seemed relieved to hear that you were doing good. You hung up after setting the date for your first ultrasound and the waiting process began again. Two more weeks passed until it was finally the day of your appointment. You had developed morning sickness around the middle of week five and you found it was mostly triggered by certain smells. Your breast, you were pretty sure had also gotten a bit bigger.

 You took the bus to the station closest to where the doctor was before walking the rest of the way to the building. You took a seat in the waiting room after filling out the patient intake form. It was a fancy office, that was for sure. Nanami and Gojo soon walked in and took a seat on either side of you so that you were in the middle of them, you felt so small. A nurse called your name and you stood up and followed her, the two of them close behind you. The room she took you to was pretty big, it had two chairs against one wall, an examination table in the middle of the room, and an ultrasound next to the examination table along with a rolling stool for the doctor. You laid down on the table as a technician put a little blue pee pad type thing on your thighs before pulling down your pants a bit and instructed you to pull up your shirt, which you did. 

“The gel will be cold” she warned you before squirting it onto your belly, it was indeed cold. She took the ultrasound wand and pressed it to your belly before starting to move it round, spreading out the gel. All three of you stared at the monitor with baited breath, and there it was, a fuzzy, little bean looking thing that was your baby. You looked over at Nanami and Gojo who were sitting in the chairs to see Gojo holding his husbands had tightly eyes wide looking at the screen. 

“I’m going to see if we can find the heartbeat now” she informed you. You looked back over to the monitor, watching the little bean. You watched as she moved the wand, and tapped some buttons, trying to capture the little beating heart she pointed out to you. You felt like you wanted to cry. You were actually carrying a tiny precursor to a human being, with its own, functioning, heart. There were a few more less enjoyable parts to your appointment, but you guessed you were going to have to get used to people looking at your “lady parts.” You walked out of the office with Gojo and Nanami at your side, Gojo was holding a file of your ultrasound, along with some pamphlets from the doctor about what to expect in the first trimester.

“Are you ready for us to go to your house?” Nanami turned to you and asked. You froze, you had completely forgotten that you’d agreed to that, you gulped, then nodded 

“I’m ready” you informed them. They led you to a car and Nanami helped you into it, although that really wasn’t necessary in your mind. You were surprised to find that the car had a driver, who was introduced to you as Ijichi Kiyotaka. He asked for your address and you gave it to him, although you felt embarrassed saying it out loud, and the silence in the car wasn’t helping. On the ride to your apartment you were seated in the middle seat, between Gojo and Nanami. About halfway to your house, Gojo opened up the folder and pulled out the sonogram pictures that had been taken, before going on a little rant about how cute they were going to be while looking at the image.   

Before you knew it, the car had pulled up in front of your hole in the wall apartment building and all three of you were getting out and making your way up stairs to your floor. The first thing the two men noticed was that the building didn’t have an elevator, that didn’t seem good as you would most likely have trouble with stairs later in your pregnancy, especially since you lived on the fourth floor. One they made it up to your unit you unlocked the door, but before opening you turned around to face them

“I apologize for any mess in advance” you said and then pushed the door open. All three of you took off your shoes before entering the actual living space. The thing that stood out most to them was how little furniture there was. You had a sofa and a coffee table in the small room, along with a bookshelf and a little rug but nothing else in your living room. The kitchen was practically non-existent. You had a fridge, a microwave, a rice maker, and a small gas stove next to an equally small sink. Nanami looked around skeptically and Gojo headed straight for the fridge, opening to find nothing but a few kinds of convenience store pickles. 

“What do you eat?” he exclaimed, obviously shocked at the lack of food, he then proceeded to go through the few cabinets finding a bag or rice and some instant miso soup mix. He looked at you in shock and you could feel your cheeks turning red with guilt. 

“Is this all you have?” Nanami asked, looking at you. You looked from one to the other, before letting your eyes rest on the floor. 

“Money has been tight recently,” you explained. Both of them looked from you to the other one, they seemed to reach a silent, mutual agreement before Nanami spoke. 

“You do know that this is not an ok environment to be pregnant in, right?” He looked genuinely concerned and it just made you feel so much worse. 

“I know it’s not ideal” you said, “but I can’t afford anything else.” There was a gap of silence until Gojo spoke up, 

“You could stay in our guest room” he exclaimed “we never use it, and it would allow us to keep an even closer eye on you” He was basically jumping up and down about his new idea. 

“I couldn’t” you stammered “I don’t want to impose on your life” Nanami thought for a moment before expressing his opinion. 

“Satoru is right'' he paused, “I would be better for you to stay with us, and it would be better for our peace of mind as well.” You were at a loss for words, could you really take their offer? Was that even an ethical thing to do? 

“Please” Gojo whined putting his face in front of yours. You took a moment before sighing 

“Ok” you said “it still doesn't feel quite right to me” you added. You looked from Gojo to Nanami, waiting to see their reaction. Nanami nodded, 

“I understand. But please do not feel as though you are intruding, we are welcoming you” he reassured. Gojo put his hands on your shoulder and pushed you forward from behind. 

“Go hurry and pack” he beamed, you staggered forward a bit before whipping around to face him. 

“Right now?” you gawked. Gojo just nodded and smiled before ushering you forward again. You looked to Nanami to see what he had to say. 

“I mean there’s no reason to delay your move” he remarked. And so it was decided, you were going to move in with them tonight. You went to your room and pulled out a duffle bag and began to pack the clothes you thought you would want most. Before you went back out to them, you also packed your favorite pillow and blanket, along with your toiletries. You made your way out back to the living room where they were still just standing in the middle of the room. Nanami took the bag, and Gojo took your arm, and you all walked back down to the car. Nanami placed your bag in the trunk and got into the car. The ride to their house was fairly long, and you found yourself drifting off, your head starting to fall on to Gojo’s shoulder. He just watched as you fell asleep, making no move to push your head off. 

“We’re here” Gojo announced, waking you up from your nap. You got out of the car and came face to face with an upscale apartment building the likes of which you’d never seen. You were in shock as they led you to the elevator and up to their floor, which you could only access with a key.

“We’ll make sure to get you a key tomorrow,” Nanami commented, before pressing the button for the fifth floor. You just nodded in awe. Once the elevator reached the fifth floor the two of them stepped out and into a little hallway type room with  the door to their actual apartment a few feet away. Nanami took out another key and unlocked the door, pushing it open to reveal a beautiful entrance room. You walked inside and took off your shoes before allowing yourself to step inside and marvel at the magnificent furniture and design of the living room. 

“Let me show you to your room” Gojo proclaimed as he took your arm and led you through the living room, which you could now see was connected to their kitchen, down a hallway and past a few doors before he stopped in front of one. He flung open the door to reveal a room as big as your old living room with a twin bed, a bookshelf, a dresser with a mirror, and a little sofa in one corner. The thing you found most amazing, was the huge window that allowed you to look out onto Tokyo. Nanami placed your duffle bag down on the sofa before turning to see you in a state of shock. 

“I hope you like the room” he said “your bathroom is right across the hallway, feel free to put your toiletries in there. Satoru and I’s bedroom is upstairs” You nodded at his words, internally screaming at the fact that the apartment had an upstairs. 

“We’ll leave you to get settled” he added “Please come out when you're ready and have some food with us.”

“Ok” you agreed and watched as the two men left the room, closing the door behind them. You flopped down against the bed and relished in how soft the mattress and sheets were. After just allowing yourself to process the events of today, you got up and started to put your clothes into the drawers before you laid your blanket and pillow on the bed. You took your toiletries out of the duffle bag and set them back down on the sofa, you then placed the now empty bag on the bottom of the bookshelf. You picked up the items off of the sofa and left your room and opened the door to a wonderful bathroom with a separate shower and bath so that one could wash off before getting into the tub. The toilet was also fancy. You put your bathing products on the shelves cut into the shower wall and set your toothbrush along other oral hygiene products and your hair brush into their respective places on the sink counter. After taking one last look around the room you made your way to the kitchen where Gojo was sitting on a high bar stool at the counter and Nanami was standing behind the counter cooking something. You took a seat one bar stool away from Gojo and looked at what Nanami was making. It looked like he was putting together rice with a fried egg, topped with, what you were guessing was salmon leftover from their dinner last night, and nori. It looked amazing and you were excited to be able to eat it, because, in all honesty, you were incredibly hungry. Nanami set a bowl in front of you along with a pair of chopsticks. 

“Itadakimasu” you and Gojo say in unison. You take your chopsticks, and pick up a clump of rice with salmon on it. Before you can place the bite in your mouth, you feel bile rising in your throat. You carefully set down your chopsticks and cover your mouth before hopping off the stool and speed walking to the bathroom where you promptly threw up the contents of your stomach. You looked up to see Nanami and Gojo standing in the doorway, a look of concern on their faces.

“I’m sorry” you apologized, your voice rough from the acid. You gagged again feeling more bile coming up your throat and you turned back to the toilet bowl and threw up once more. You were breathing heavy, your eyes were watering, and your face felt hot. It wasn’t until you calmed down a bit before you realized that Gojo was kneeling behind you with hand on the small of your back. He quickly supported you as you stood noticing how shaky you were. 

“I’m sorry” you apologized again, flushing the toilet. 

“Hey, don’t worry about it” Gojo chirped, “You're pregnant.” He helped you two the sink where you washed your mouth with mouthwash. You looked over to Nanami who was still standing in the doorway,

“Thank you for cooking dinner, I’m sure that it’s delicious, but right now I think I really just need sleep” you explained. He nodded in understanding

“Of course,” he said “I understand. If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask, Satoru and I will be staying up a bit later.” You bowed your head and thanked them again before going into your room, changing into your pajamas and laying down. You found it fairly easy to fall asleep thanks to how tired you were, and how comfortable the bed was.

[girlmeetsliv3]

Cruel Liaisons

~~ Previously Lingerlust ~~

A/B/O!MiniMoni x Reader; Poly BTS

“When one strikes the heart of another they seldom miss, and the wound is invariably fatal.”

Release Date: May 7th, 2021 @ 12:15 p.m. (GMT-5)

Apologies for the late update. Hope you enjoy it.

Trigger Warnings: blood and gore.

February 2nd, 2022

           “Please state your name for the record.”

           “Jeon YN.” YN stared at the recording machine in front of her, it looked antiquated like the type that wasn’t automatically connected to a cloud or storage system. “Those types have to be manually saved. Which can come in handy.” The officer’s cleared their throats, drawing back YN’s attention. What were their names again? “We need you to state your sub-gender as well.” The one on the left spoke lowly, his voice coming out a bit tense and nervous. “Beta.” When YN tried to smell them, she noticed both were wearing scent blockers, though her sense of smell was never her strong suit.

           “This is officer Park Sooyoung and officer Kim Jisoo.” The taller one stated, her tone dull, as if she rather be anywhere else. Judging by the bags under her eyes and the large cup of coffee in front of her – a bed seemed to be her choice. Officer Kim reached to the ground and placed a file on the desk, she opened it to reveal a series of photographs; five to be precise. Males and females from around a same age group are placed with one female in the center, she looks strangely familiar to YN. The rounded tip of her nose and arched brows but she can’t quite place the face. There is someone YN does recognize though, a face she saw just a few days ago.

           “Anyone you recognize?” Officer Kim asks, her tone is serious but airy. The smile on her face after every sentence lets YN know that she’s the ‘good cop.’

           YN points at the second photo from the left, “Him. I saw him in a missing persons ad on the news, but he didn’t look this old.” They had likely picked a picture from when he was younger, the man on the news held a bright smile. His jawline sharp and his cheekbones high but not defined. The man in the photograph in front of her had a pronounced jawline, hollow cheeks, and an ugly scowl that did nothing to mar his features. ‘K.T’ read the bottom.

           “What news channel and around what time?”

           “KBS, maybe late evening. I watch it before I go to sleep.”

Both officers nod, as Park shifts around on her seat. Now facing directly at YN, resting both elbows on the metal table. “Are you aware of the reason you were brought into the station today?” Officer Kim jumps in before YN can answer, “Just so you know you aren’t being charged with anything.”

Yes. “No, I don’t know.” She shrugged, keeping her eyes level and gaze neither too intense nor too bored.

“You’re here due to your affiliation with Alpha’s Kim Namjoon and Park Jimin,” Park spoke, “They’re your employers, correct?” There was an edge to her voice that YN recognized. Many people weren’t fond of them – many had a reason not to be.

“Yes.” YN nods.

“How long have you worked for them?” Kim asks.

YN notes how neither women are writing anything down, nor looking towards the one-sided mirror behind them. Are they perhaps recording this with a second device? If that’s the case it's not just her voice YN must be cautious of, but her expressions as well. “Around nine months, I’m their housekeeper and take care of Hyunwoo.” After a bit of silence from the police, she elaborates more, “I cook, clean, and help the child with his homework.”

“That’s quite a lot for just one person. Especially considering you have little background in those areas before you were hired, correct?”

They’re trying to bait me. “I’m used to doing those things at home.” YN shrugs, she can see the growing frown on Park’s features.

“How exactly did you hear about the job?” Kim leans forward, but one of her hands drops below the table. Park’s eyes dart over to her partner for a second, but YN catches it. Kim likely gave her a signal or something like a reassuring squeeze, YN hopes it’s the latter. “What was the hiring process like?”

“From an acquaintance Dr. Sihyuk.” Both officers nod along, they don’t seem to recognize the name. “Bang’s dead. Unlikely anyone will find something there.” They always knew to cover their bases. “Um, normal, I guess. I sent in an application and then had an interview.”

“You made a lot of money as the Kim’s housekeeper. Did you never ask yourself where that money was coming from?” It seemed the officers were done trying to be subtle.

“No, it wasn’t my place. Plus, most of the money I earned went into paying family debts.”

“Do you know Kim Namjoon’s or Park Jimin’s source of income?”

“Again no. I just did what I was supposed to do.”

“You never thought to ask?”

“No.”

Sooyoung smirks, ��Interesting how everyone around the Kim’s just accepts things at face value. Their co-workers, drivers, bodyguards, even their housekeeper just does what their told. You weren’t even a little bit curious as to how they could possibly afford the lifestyle they have?”

“Curiosity killed the cat.” YN’s arms were clenching around the chair, trying to hold herself back from reacting negatively to the hassling.

“But we aren’t cats.” Sooyoung remarks and for a second YN feels like she’s lost a battle. Jisoo points to the picture in the center, it's a beautiful young woman with flowy hair and a bright smile. Her delicate features give away her omega nature. Though the closer YN inspects the picture, they’re bags under her eyes, permanent frown lines etched onto her face, a hollowness to her eyes. She looks somewhere between life and death. “Do you recognize this woman? You lingered on her a bit longer than the rest of them.”

The longer YN stares at her the more she starts to piece things together, but it still feels like she’s missing something. So she gives a generic answer. “She looks kind of familiar. Has that kind of face.”

“What kind of face?” Jisoo questions.

“Like…pretty, popular, all over billboards kind of face.”

It's enough to satisfy them for now. They slowly start removing all the pictures while leaving only the woman’s, the longer YN sees it the more unnerved she becomes. Her head begins to hurt as another migraine begins to pound at her temples. Creating a sort of hazy fog over YN’s mind. Both officers’ then hold up the picture and flip it revealing a picture of the same woman holding a young child wrapped in blankets. She looks so much happier, so full of life. Instantly YN places her, recognizing the toddler wrapped in blue velvet.

“This is Hyunwoo’s mother. The last time anyone saw her alive was three weeks ago when she just so happened to be having dinner with your employers.” Fuck.

Present

           YN’s phone dings as another text from Mark appears on her screen: ‘boss wants to know when you’ll start paying?’ She groans exhaustedly, responding with ‘I have been paying. He gets half my salary every week.’ Which hasn’t made living very comfortable for YN, but she makes do with what she can.

           Mark: It’s not enough princess, not with the way daddy’s been spending money.

           Me: What am I supposed to do if you keep giving him money?!

           Mark: That’s not up to me. So, the money?

           Me: I’m looking for a second job. One that pays better.

           Mark: Just go sell your eggs or something. Not like you have any use for them.

           “Asshole.” YN muttered, muting her notifications. She looked up to the entrance of the fertility clinic debating whether or not to go in. It wasn’t like she had much of an option; she needed the money and fertility clinics were the only ones willing to provide big sums of money fast. Not to mention she had missed a day of work to make the appointment, which meant less money to give to Mark. I hate this. I hate this so much. YN was about to walk away, leave everything when she spotted a black BMW parked on the curve. Its driver observing her intensely. She knew what it meant.

           Mark was getting pushy. Meaning his boss was getting pushy and YN didn’t need to be on the bad side of some loan shark – not again. So, she mustered up the courage and opened the glass doors, being hit with the smell of lavender and pheromones. It reeks. Nonetheless, she forced a smile on her face and walked towards the front desk. “Hello, I have an appointment with Dr. Sihyuk.”

 “Unfortunately, there is a limit to how many eggs we can safely remove from you. Betas aren’t like omegas, you have a set number of eggs. Removing the majority of them would leave you infertile. We’d also be unsure of whether the eggs are useful or not without running the proper examinations which can take weeks.” Dr. Sihyuk explained as he went over YN’s medical file, each sentence uttered destroying her hope little by little.

“I understand but I am quite fertile. I carry a recessive gene from my father who is an omega. Not to mention I’m not interested in having children so I would have no use for my eggs,” she could sense the doctor’s hesitation, “unlike someone who might benefit from them.” I just really need the money.

“Oh, I know, you betas are lucky in that sense. Don’t have to worry about population growth.” Though it was said jokingly it still made YN uncomfortable, let her know he wasn’t buying her bullshit. The doctor closed the file, “Why exactly are you interested in donating your eggs? Is it for the money?” He saw right through her.  At her silence the doctor sighs, “We get one of you every once in a while. Always wrapped up in some business started by a family member or mistakes you’ve made.” Sihyuk opens a file cabinet beside him and shoves her file in there, “Unfortunately for you there’s no market for beta eggs.”

YN sags exhaustion and fear taking over her, “I –” Sihyuk takes a small white business card out of the cabinet holding it out towards her. “Fortunately for you, I happen to know someone hiring. They specified only betas applied.” Hesitantly YN takes the card, “What kind of job?” Though she knows one should never look a gift horse in the mouth it feels to good to be true. “A housekeeper for an alpha couple. They’re long-time associates of mine. Give them a call you won’t regret it.”

 Evening of June 20th, 2021

           Hyunwoo wouldn’t stop crying. YN truly regretted feeding him chocolate before bed, he had nightmares that had not let the three-year-old rest. Though YN had time and time again reassured them there were no monsters under his bed or strange men coming to take him at night, he wouldn’t hear of it. Insisted she had stayed in bed with him and when that didn’t work cried out for his daddies. The issue being his daddies were currently busy, in the middle of their ruts with their weekly guests. Thankfully, their bedroom was across the apartment from Hyunwoo’s, or else she’d have to explain to the child that the screams being heard didn’t belong to ghost.

           “I want papa! I want daddy!” Hyunwoo shrieked, snot and tears dribbling down his face. At this rate, he’d get himself sick if he didn’t permanently injure his vocal cords – or her hearing.

           “I know. I know, but they’re busy right now. I can go get them later.” When their guests are gone and they’ve cleaned their bedroom. YN never quite knew how they manage to sneak them out and clean up so fast, but she didn’t question it. Less work for me.

           “NO! I want them now!” Hyunwoo bolted towards the door, his little legs running as fast as they could. Though they couldn’t compare to YN’s.

           She hugged the toddler, “Alright. I’ll go get your daddies but you have to promise me you’ll wait in bed.” Hyunwoo began to shake his head, “Come on Woowoo, imagine what they’ll say if they hear you threw a tantrum. What would daddies say?”

           That seemed to sober him up a bit, “They would be disappointed.”

           “Exactly,” YN led him back to bed, gently tucking him in. “I’ll be right back with them soon, okay?”

             The hallway felt eerily long as YN struggled with how to politely interrupt without being subjected to the alpha’s rages. Ruts were an especially tricky time and there would be very little she could do to protect herself if it took a turn for the worse. Not to mention she was breaking one of the very few rules set by them: no bothering us after nine pm. YN glanced at her watch, it was currently 11:43 pm. I am so going to lose my job. But Hyunwoo needed his parents, and she didn’t want to risk the toddler running into their bedroom and being witness to something that would certainly cause trauma. Not to mention I might get sent his therapy bills. More debt. YN reached their bedroom doors. A light red hue leaking from the bottom, she willed all her courage and knocked.

           “Come in, darling.” Jimin spoke, his dulcet tone sounding a little rougher than normal. Surprisingly the door was unlocked, so YN opened it. At first, she saw nothing out of the ordinary, just Kim Namjoon and Park Jimin laying in their bed. The red silk sheets, she so often had to wash, concealing their more intimate parts. It wasn’t until YN noticed the stains covering their bodies and the walls. It caused her eyes to dance around the room until she landed on what had caused such a mess: the two dismembered bodies lying on the floor. The red lighting of the room serving to conceal what the stains truly were: blood.

           Namjoon beckoned her inside with a wave of his hand and YN felt obliged to obey. She could still smell the pheromones in their air, still feel their rut. Not to mention, Hyunwoo might have been following her. She locked the door behind her.

           “To what do we owe the pleasure?” Namjoon spoke, smirking and showing off his blood-stained pearly teeth.

[sluttbuttsstuff]

Silver Chariot Agency: An Introduction

This is the first chapter/prologue to my jjba sugar daddy au.  To clarify, it’s modern day, with reader x various Jojo characters, all of which are of age, and “sugar daddies”.  I’m hoping to have several options/outcomes for various characters, kind of like a chose you own adventure story, or a dating visual novel.  As a note, this story may contain some dark themes and content, including drug use, yandere, sex scenes, and other things I haven’t currently planned out.

TLDR: this is the story about Y/N, who starts working at Polnareff’s sugar daddy agency and meets lots of hot jojo guys

ENJOY!!!

“Mr. Polnareff is ready to see you now!”  The cheerful secretary (Suzy, you think)  calls out, breaking you from your stupor and ushering you behind large, intimidating doors.   You grew up with dreams bigger than this, having a good career, doing something important with your life, but life had other plans.  You’ve been unemployed for nearly a year, and despite all the classes you’ve taken, interviews you’ve aced, and concessions to pay and pride just to be considered, you still had no job, and your unemployment had finally run out.  Long story short, you were desperate.  That’s when you first heard about the Agency.

You had noticed an email from the Silver Chariot Agency buried between job applications and rejection letters, and confusing it for a job offer, had opened it to read.  According to the email, you had been “scouted” as someone with the qualifications to apply for what appeared to be a Sugar Daddy, or Escort, service.    The email was polite, open and honest, but you couldn’t help but be a bit skeptical, if not mildly offended. There’s nothing wrong with sex work, mind you, but it wasn’t something you had any interest in if you could avoid it. You weren’t interested in selling yourself, and even if you weren’t wealthy, you weren’t ready to auction off your time to creepy old perverts just yet.  Not to mention, how safe were these agencies?  Still, the email had an open doors policy for any questions, as well as a phone number and email to direct all your questions.  You were going to delete the email, but somehow you couldn’t bring yourself to.  You saved it in your folder, and forgot about it for a few months.

Cut to today:  you couldn’t cover your rent, your auto bill, and your credit cards were maxed out.  After sending an email, and talking on the phone to a cheerful woman, she convinced you to visit their offices and talk to their C.E.O,  who was visiting your nearest location on business.  Surprised by their openness, and relieved not to have a door slammed in your face for once, you made an appointment and were now following Suzy through an impressive office space.  Silver Chariot had its own expensive looking building, with high ceilings, metal tones and spotlessly clean wall to wall windows and mirrors.  The place reeked of elegance, intimidatingly so, and you regretted your outfit choice for this interview.  

Suzy finally escorted you into a conference room, with an expansive metal table and tufted leather chairs that probably cost more than your car.  Then, at the end of the conference table, you saw a silver haired gentleman, who Suzy introduced as, “Mr. Polnareff, this is y/n, call me if you need anything!”  and with that, she left and closed the door.  You noticed  Mr.Polnareff didn’t stand up to greet you and shake your hand-not out of rudeness, but because he was in a wheelchair.  On top of that, he had an unusual looking eye patch, and despite clearly being too young to be considered elderly, had prematurely grey hair slicked back in an unusual pompadour.

He shook your hand firmly, and smiled at you as he greeted you, “It’s so lovely to meet you, y/n, I've been looking forward to seeing you in person.  Tell me, what brings you here today?”  He asked, sitting forward and listening intently.  You fiddled with your hands, trying to politely, but vaguely, explain your situation, without sounding too much like a sob story.  Polnareff listened without interrupting, merely nodding, as you explained what you’ve been through.

  “That sounds like a difficult situation- it is difficult in this day and age for young people to support themselves, even more so when they have no one to help them when needed.  I, myself, had to support not only myself, but my younger sister, Cherie, when I was your age.  It was difficult, to say the least, and I didn’t always handle it gracefully to be honest with you.  When my sister saw how much we were struggling, she decided to try helping herself and me by turning to sex work.”

You were shocked by his openness, telling so much of his personal story to a total stranger interviewing at his agency.  He continued,

“Back in my day, the streets of France were not a safe place to sex workers, least of all vulnerable women unable to defend themselves.  It was one of those nights, while my sister was working, that she was tragically attacked and killed.  She had no way of protecting herself, as I wasn’t with her, and the police were just as dangerous.  She died alone because no one was willing to help save her, myself included.  He paused, rubbing his temples as he remembered.

You tried to stop him, “Um, you don’t have to-”  you began, but he held up a hand and assured you,

 “I am fine, it is a painful, but old wound, and important you hear.  It was the most devastating event of my life, but it shaped me into the man I am today.  You see, because of what happened to my sister, I was determined to provide a safe place to any and all women and sex workers, no questions asked, to protect them from things that could happen to them.  Sex work is not something to be criminalized or judged; it is the oldest profession and a valuable work. So, The Silver Chariot Agency provides a safe way to support those in the industry.  That being said, working as an escort, or as it's sometimes called, ‘sugar baby’-”

 he punctuates the term with bunny ear fingers, “-Can be dangerous work.  There is always a risk of assault, and rape, however hard we may try to combat it, but our agency has extremely strict policies and protection plans to protect our workers in either case. I promise , should you decide to work here, that I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”  Polnareff grabs your hand, looking into your eyes, intensely.  

You know you’ve just met him, but you’re inclined to believe Polnareff.  He’s either an excellent liar, or simply cares deeply about his company and employees.  

“There are, of course, other things to consider before you decide to take this job.  It is  a job, and many of our clients aren’t looking for romance, but some are hoping to find love and a potential romantic partner via our agency.  Some are looking for purely sexual relationships, and some want nothing to do with sex.  Some of our clients are involved with...less than legal hobbies and activities, and we strongly caution you not to get involved, as our legal department and contracts can only protect you so far.  If you decide to engage, do so with caution. 

“ Lastly, you ultimately get to decide who you want to pick as your clients, so choose wisely.  I have Suzy-”  He gestures to the woman, presumably waiting down the hall to escort you when ready, “Write up summaries and information on every applicant who have expressed an interest in our agency.  Make sure to carefully review them, and choose the client you think will have the best relationship.”  He finishes, giving you a lot to think of.  He can see the gears turn in your mind, and gives you time.  “Please, don’t feel like you have to respond today. Or, if you try this out and don’t like it, you can leave the agency or specific clients, with no fear of repercussions.”  He Pulls away from the table, and turns towards the door, before pausing.

He seems to change his mind, shaking his head as Suzy gets the door for him.

“I look forward to seeing you again, regardless of your decision, mon amie.  I’ll let Suzy handle the rest for today, thank you.  If you decide to accept, just call Suzy and ask her to see some client applications to pick out who you’d like to work with. Au revoir.”  And with that, Mr. Polnareff disappears with surprising speed.  Any other questions and details are handled by Suzy, who cheerfully tells you about the position, average salaries, tax information, and your typical FAQ.  You listen mutely, occasionally nodding along,  but you’re still thinking about everything Polnareff told you.  You could not only support yourself with this  job, but make a killing, while still being safe and having a say in the relationships.  This could work. This could work…

Less than 24 hours later, Suzy gets another phone call at the office.  “Silver Chariot Agency, this is Suzy, how may I assist you today?”  She asks cheerily.  A familiar voice whispers on the other end, “Do you think I could see some of those client Applications, please?”