#and i like not having to waste a whole paycheck on rent .... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lacheri · 3 years ago

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|| moon river. || part iv. ||

|| masterpost || taglist form || part iii. || part v. ||

pairing: Levi x fem bodied reader

chapter content: modern au, neighbors au, coworkers au, running away from home, alcohol mentions, depictions of sadness/loneliness, mild emotional angst (reader reflecting on her past), Petra being an absolute angel, reader deems herself a loving plant mother, minors DO NOT INTERACT

summary: in which you have your first day off, and receive your first paycheck. first bills, then, time for new shoes.

wc: 5.4k

a/n: not a whole lot of Levi in the part, but I make up for it with Petra <3 hope u enjoy reader's boredom

You’ve finally named your plant after two weeks. Two grueling weeks of job searching, finding employment, and working hard at the bar. You’re finally adjusted to this new schedule, and though your legs ache most days when you return to your humble apartment, you’ve been paying extra attention to your begonia.

Jeremy. You’ve named the spotted leafy boy Jeremy. And he’s got a temper.

If you don’t feed him as soon as you wake up, he slumps over, dull and lifeless, as if he’s throwing a tantrum. The second the glass of cold water tilts in his direction, he’s fine. By the time you go to water him again, he’s perky and alert. You don’t know why you name him Jeremy, or why you decided he’s male. It’s just a vibe.

Just a small town girl moving to the big city to provide for her adored boy. You’ve deemed yourself a wonderful plant mother, and you’re even thinking about adding another leafy life to your family. If you can handle things as they are for another week, that is.

You think you didn’t get enough sleep last night, and that’s why you’re out on your balcony cooing to Jeremy like he’s an actual baby.

“Sun’s out today, Jer,” you affectionately stroke one of the begonia’s leaves in one hand, holding a half filled coffee mug in the other. “You’ll be happy about it, I’m sure.”

With the season’s change, warm weather is fleeting and very much appreciated. Not a cloud in the sky, the wind blows through like gentle kisses on your cheeks. Below your balcony, the streets are lined with people basking in the sun’s rays outside the cafe. Their chatter hums in your ears and you’re tempted to join them. You could use another coffee, anyways.

But you have responsibilities and priorities, so you don’t. With a sad sigh, you will yourself back inside your apartment. You leave the doors open, letting that breeze float throughout your space. All your windows are open, and you even found an old candle earlier in your closet that smells like fresh linens. It sits in your open bathroom and carries the scent with the wind.

On your coffee table in the barely decorated living room lies a check, probably the most important piece of paper you have ever seen. You learned from Levi that you get paid every week working at the bar. You couldn’t find any reason to complain about this.

A week’s worth of hard work sits in pretty lettering, the paper is thin but it holds more value than it shows. You honestly expected your payment to be held back a week, to ensure you wouldn’t quit, but Hange doesn’t run her business like that. Again, you don’t complain.

Thank God for online banking. You don’t even have to make a trip to the bank to cash this in. Your checking account looks wonderful after you scan in the codes.

Now, to take care of that pesky rent.

The morning flies by suspiciously too fast after you deliver a check of your own to the apartment number shown on that pretty piece of paper that says ‘due’, the only word in English. The building owner, an older man with a kind smile, doesn’t speak it either. You sheepishly grin in the form of an apology, you’re not late but you’re definitely not early, and he wishes you an “au revoir” before sending you off.

What to do now?

You could paint. Although you don’t feel particularly creative right at this very moment, you could waste away some daylight hours doing so. You could clean, but that doesn’t particularly strike your fancy either. Besides, you’ve been actually pretty tidy with your space since landing yourself a job. Something dealing with feelings of pride, or whatever.

The shoelace on your right sneaker snags on an uplifted nail on the staircase as you plan to head back upstairs, and your mind is made up. A shopping adventure it is.

About six blocks away, there’s a quaint shopping center. Affordable store fronts line the street, accompanied by a string of cafes and eateries. You haven’t had the luxury to really subject yourself to being a customer at these establishments yet, and with some money in your pocket, you’re ready to transform into an everyday consumer.

It’s a small feat for most, even you at certain parts in your life — money doesn’t buy happiness, but it sure can buy you a fresh new pair of sneakers.

Your left big toe is ready to bust through the sole any second, so worn down from years worth of walking, running, working. You’re reminded of their age as you navigate the city streets, on route to your destination.

Crossing through the entry doors of a retail clothing chain that’s recognizable enough, you’re hit with nostalgia. The only other job you had worked was in a bookstore, and while books aren’t clothes and the connection is hardly there, you still remember the times fondly. It’s how you had met Armin. Wispy blonde hairs lingering in his glittering ocean eyes, a kind smile on his lips, he taught you how to stock the books and how to approach customers with a smile. You had been eighteen then, fresh out of the trials and tribulations of modern day high school, a bit apathetic and resentful towards the world.

Seeing the youthful scowl of the girl behind the cash register reminds you of those times. Customers suck. Retail sucks. Getting older and more aware sucks. It’s a vicious endless cycle of paying taxes and earning enough cash to not send yourself into a hole of ever threatening debt. You struggled with existentialism a bit earlier than most, but maybe that was the artist in you. You remember one of your art teachers in school telling you that an artist without pain is like an ocean without water. Suffering fuels creativity.

Armin taught you that there’s beauty in the mundane, in the power of a polite conversation with a stranger. Kindness lurks around every corner, and who were you to cast it out? The least you could do as a human being stuck on this materialistic plain was to smile, and share your existence alongside others in the same, sometimes shitty, world.

“A smile goes a long way,” he had told you on your very first day at the bookstore. “You never know what someone else is dealing with. It’s important to treat people the way you want to be treated.”

If you ever get the chance, you’ll have to thank him for that. If and when you ever see him again. Those words are glued to your DNA permanently. You couldn’t forget them if you tried.

At the back of the store, stout shelving lines a fragment of the wall to your left. Two rows of women’s sneakers and work out shoes, three rows of various ones — boots, heels, sandals. It’s a miracle they all fit on the shelves.

A new pair of everyday walking shoes isn’t hard to find. You pick out the least offensive pair, and tuck them under your arm to bring up to the poor girl at the register. What is hard about the choices presented in front of you though is the suddenly pressing fact that you don’t own one good pair of going out shoes. Not one. The busted soles that currently grace your feet are your only pair. You didn’t think you’d need heels to run away to some far away city when you had initially packed your shit.

Since the leaves are turning yellow, you grab a nice pair of high heeled boots. You’ll worry about the price later.

You’re tempted to scan over the racks of clothes scattered about the store, the fluorescent lighting only fueling your desire to indulge yourself in a new outfit. Maybe next paycheck, you urge yourself to keep a handle on self control. Standing in the line up to the register locks you in perseverance, even if one of the shirts on a mannequin nearby looks really cute.

Looking it up on your phone, you tell the cashier your shoe size for the two pairs in your arms. She weakly smiles and wordlessly disappears to grab the boxes, returning in record timing. Your debit card slides through the machine, a receipt is dropped into a large paper bag along with your new shoes, and you thank her in French before bolting out of the store before you can really lose to your temptations. A new wardrobe sounds really, really good.

You do succumb to your vices though in a more affordable way — a hot coffee and a scone to go from one of the cafes. You add “hot coffee” to the ever growing terminology you now know. It’s scolding hot in your palm as you make your trip back to your apartment, and thankfully the brisk winds cool down the cup in the time it takes for you to slam your apartment door shut. You drop the shopping bag to the floor, and kick off your worn sneakers. You won’t throw them out, just in case. Besides, they’re sort of sentimental to you now.

The blueberry flavoring of the scone matches in harmony alongside your coffee, slightly bitter and full of espresso. You didn’t order it this way, but hey, it’s coffee.

As you milk the last bit of your drink, you go about collecting your art supplies, deciding you’ll force yourself to be creative. You set them out on your balcony, the space a little tight but there’s enough room to move your arm around. You don’t know what you’re painting yet, flickering your attention between Jeremy and the city street below. You ultimately decide on Jeremy, who’s looking very handsome after his morning water.

Your coffee cup is reused to hold water for your brushes, and you find it within yourself to dig out a naked canvas. It’s small, maybe a bit bigger than a sheet of paper, and it’s the only other canvas you had brought with you alongside the one you always cover up. Your walls are bare, and you want to add a little piece of yourself to your apartment. You hope you like the piece enough to hang it up when you’re done.

You would’ve already decorated your home in photos, had you had any good ones. Or memories worth remembering.

Using the metal chair belonging to the mezzanine, you prop the canvas up, sitting yourself on the cold metal of the balcony. You’ll need an easel and more supplies soon, but you’ll work with this for now.

Jeremy is the perfect model — spotted dark green leaves fluttering oh so softly in the wind, leaning so beautifully against the railing. You mix a selection of colors on a plastic palette, coating your canvas with precise brush strokes. You almost pick up your coffee cup and drink from it as the water muddies an embarrassing amount of times. You chuckle to yourself every time, but press on.

You think you like the painting when you’re over halfway through, but there’s a pressure to make it perfect if it may take up space on a wall in your home. You take your time with every brush stroke, every color is intentional and as spot on as possible. Your eyes constantly flicker between the canvas and the begonia, noticing little details about the sweet boy you hadn’t before. Like how his white spots are actually a cream color, and each one is unique like a birthmark. His stems are thick and sturdy, and the pot he sits in is a glazed terracotta. Tapping a curious nail to it, you think maybe you should paint the pot one day, and give it some character.

The rumbling of your now empty stomach and the setting of the sun is what ultimately pulls you away from your painting. With a quick white highlight to the railing in the background, you deem the piece finished. You tuck your hair behind your ears, forgetting your fingers are probably covered in acrylic, and smile.

You do like it. It’ll look really cute hanging up somewhere.

Out of the corner of your left eye, a flash of light disturbs you. It’s quick, no longer than a millisecond. You turn your head quickly to search for the source. Nothing. Just Levi’s empty balcony. His curtains are even drawn on his doors. Must’ve been the reflection off of a car or something. You forget about it almost as quickly as it happened.

You leave the canvas to dry on the chair, checking the weather on your phone to be sure it won’t rain, and start collecting your supplies. A few trips from your balcony to your kitchen later, your brushes washed and drying in the sink, you fiddle with your fingers. You don’t really know what to do now.

You could bake those cupcakes, maybe. But with the reminder of your growling stomach, you know it’s probably not a good idea to start the desserts before you figure out dinner. Besides, Levi hasn’t returned your plate yet, and you assume it’s because he hasn’t made his way through the first batch yet. Your other neighbor gave you back your plate the very next day, leaving it outside your door with a sticky note attached — a smiley face drawn. You’ll have to remember to make her a plate too whenever you get around to baking again.

You open and close your refrigerator several times, peaking in the freezer to see if there was something simple you could make. Just ingredients, nothing of actual sustenance. You reheated all your leftovers over the week, so you’re sort of fucked in that department.

You wish you had friends here to go out to dinner with. You could ask Levi, but it’s his day off too, so you don’t want to bother him. You could figure out a way to get ahold of Petra or Hange, but you worry they might find that weird. Besides, since you’re off along with Levi, they’re more than likely working. It’s a small bar with a small staff, there’s only two people employed there you’ve had yet to introduce yourself to due to spread out scheduling. Shifts hardly overlap, especially during the week. You’re kind of sad to think they’ll be a point when you’re no longer shadowing Levi, and you’ll have to spend a night behind the bar by yourself. You guys make quite the dynamic duo, if you say so yourself.

Would it be sad to go out to dinner by yourself? Do you even care what others will think? Plenty of people go out to eat by themselves. They look sort of cool when they do, too. Would you look cool if you went out alone?

You can stand in the middle of your kitchen pondering all you want, but all it does is prolong the fact that you’re really hungry, and you don’t have any casual friends to hang out with. Not even an acquaintance you could call up. You’re starting to question why you even have a cellphone in the first place.

Your cellphone. How could you be so foolish?

You whip the electronic out of your back pocket at lightning speed, rushing to open up a food delivery app. The amount of fees to have it delivered to your door is asinine, but you rarely use the service, so fuck it. You place an order for a nice dinner at home, and start pacing around your apartment.

Why are you so bored?

Back at home, you’d celebrate a day off with a hefty glass of wine and a nice bubble bath. However, you haven’t learned where the closest liquor store is yet, and you have a standing shower stall. A quick google search could fix the first problem, but you have no solutions to the latter.

Your clock is ticking obnoxiously loud on your wall. Would you get fined if you ripped it off? You’re almost willing to find out. You’re tired of it chirping every day, announcing when it’s noon or whatever hour like you can’t simply just check your phone. It’s a testament to how old the building is, basically an artifact. It’s a wall clock. Who would miss it? You? Yeah, right. You’d commemorate its disappearance, throw a party with your no friends.

Wait no, you’d bring Jeremy inside. Maybe even throw a party hat on the plant. You snort to yourself. Maybe Levi’s right, you should be a comedian. After you become a demolition worker and take down that fucking clock, of course.

You place yourself on your couch, overlap your ankles, and watch in distracting interest as your delivery driver navigates the streets that the map on your phone presents to you. They should be here any moment, dropping it off outside your door. You debate waiting by it so you have a reason to communicate with another human being today, but the driver probably has other orders to take care of, and more than likely won’t have enough time to deal with you and your blabbering mouth.

You zone out, vision blurry and unfocused on your phone as your mind goes blank. A song you heard earlier is stuck in your head, and without really intending to, you’re suddenly playing it from start to finish. You jump when a knock breaks through the middle of the song, and you push yourself up to your door. The delivery person is heading down your stairwell when you swing your door open, so you frown and reach down to pick up your bagged dinner. You rate the driver five stars on the app.

You eat your delicious dinner, spending the rest of the evening distracting yourself with a show streamed on your phone, deciding where exactly you should hang your drying painting. The hallway between the bedroom, living room, and kitchen is especially bare. It could probably use a little spice of art.

You spend a little extra attention washing your fork and coffee mug from this morning after you finish eating, prolonging the pressing boredom you’ve been struck with. You start to wonder what Levi’s doing right now, and if he gets just as bored on days off. Does he have any hobbies? Any interests? Does he have friends he spends time with outside of work? And if not, does he feel as lonely as you do right now?

The thought saddens you. Although the ravenette has a smart mouth, he really is kind. In his own way, of course. He’s funny, uniquely charismatic. Even though he acts like he might hate a person, you’ve had yet to meet someone who’s harbored ill feelings towards Levi. In fact, he seems adored. Petra always smiles in his direction, and even though you’ve seen Hange a handful of times, they swing their arm around his shoulders and playfully chide him. If you didn’t know these people, you’d be easily able to see how much they care for the man. You’ve grown a soft spot for him yourself. There’s just something about Levi, something that makes you want to be his friend, something that makes you like him.

You mean yeah, he’s hot, but there’s more to it. He’s a breath of fresh air in some ways. Genuine, honest, hard working — what’s there not to like about him?

You’ve been scrubbing your fork for fifteen minutes. You didn’t buy it this clean.

The rooms darken one by one in your apartment as you flick the light switches off, intending to call it a night. Discarding yourself of your clothing, swapping them for a nice pair of pajamas, you climb into bed with a shutter. You’ll have to figure out how to work the thermostat soon with the cooling weather.

You dream about a never ending shift, filling glasses and waiting tables in the packed bar, completely by yourself.

It’s unusually barren at the bar tonight. The regular old gentlemen aren’t even here taking up quiet space at the barstools lining the counter. You don’t know why Hange scheduled three of you during a weeknight — Levi, Petra, and you. You’re thankful though, finding an opportunity to finally get to know the pretty strawberry blonde more.

Levi’s in the office, taking care of bills or whatever he does, while you and Petra hang out at the bar counter. There hasn’t been a single customer in over an hour, all the glasses are clean, all the surfaces are wiped, and neither of you have anything to do at all.

Petra’s scrolling through her phone, lounging in one of the emptied barstools, elbows placed on the counter. You’re fidgeting about, trying to find something to strike up a conversation about. What’s there to talk about when you have next to nothing to say?

Thankfully, she breaks the silence first. A grimace on her face, her eyes floating up from her illuminated screen, she says, “I’m bored.”

“Same,” you sigh. “When is it ever dead in here?”

“Right!” she exclaims, dropping her phone to the counter, throwing her arms up. “I’ve been working here for like, two years, and it’s never like this. Not even that old man Claude is in here!”

“Claude?” you tilt your head with a smile.

“The one with the really curly mustache,” Petra’s fingers twist at an imaginary mustache. “I swear he uses wax. There’s no way it’s naturally like that.”

“Maybe he’s just got good genes,” you giggle.

“Good genes my ass,” she huffs. “I asked him one time how he gets it so swirly, told me it’s a secret. Like, what am I gonna do? Tell everyone in the bar he owns mustache cream? Grow up. It’s literally the only conversation I’ve ever had with him, aside from when he orders his usual. Who the fuck drinks vodka straight?”

You’re familiar with the man she’s talking about. He really does just ask for vodka in a glass, no ice or anything to chase it with. He’ll milk it the entire time he’s at the bar too. At least now you have a name for the strange man, “Claude’s a different breed.”

“Please tell me you’re not a Claude sympathizer and drink vodka straight by choice.”

You laugh at this, “No, absolutely not. Unless it’s in a shot, but that’s different. I’ve been a beer girl, as far as I know. I’ve never really explored the options, my friends at home usually ordered my drinks for me. I just went along with it.”

Petra raises her eyebrows in surprise, “Really? I pegged you for a tequila girl. You seem like you like to have a good time.”

“I guess,” you chuckle, shrugging your shoulders. “I’ve never really been drunk before, so I don’t know what kind of drunk I am.”

“No fucking way,” she stands abruptly from the stool, circling the bar to grab your hands. “Never?”

You shake your head, “Never.”

“Oh you sweet girl,” she pouts. “We gotta corrupt you. How are you supposed to work at a bar if you haven’t experienced the wonders of a black out?”

“It’s really unacceptable,” your lips feel like they’re stuck in a permanent smile. “I’m ashamed of it myself.”

“You know,” Petra smirks, reaching for her discarded phone. “I can ask Hange to swap a few shifts so Levi works tomorrow instead of either one of us.”

“Oh, really?” you like Petra’s mind and the way it works.

“Mhm,” she’s already typing at light speed. “Would you look at that! Hange already responded. Looks like we’re suddenly off tomorrow. What ever should we do?”

“Beats me,” you feign a look of contemplation, index finger to your chin.

“Seems like you’re getting drunk with me tomorrow.”

“It does seem like that, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, yes it does.”

The two of you share a look of seriousness before bursting out into a fit of laughter. Your heart feels swollen in your chest. You can’t contain the beam of your smile.

“Here!” you whip your phone out of your pocket, handing it over to Petra. “Send yourself a text from my phone, and we’ll figure out a time!”

Petra’s eyes glimmer, a sweet grin on her lips, “Really? You want to hang out tomorrow?”

It feels like you should be the one asking her that, “Of course! I’ve been actually wanting to get to know you better. I don’t really know anyone around here and I don’t have any friends, and well, you’ve been so nice to me every time we’ve been around each other and-”

She holds a palm up to silence you, and you hear a chime from your phone. She passes it back to you, and on the screen reads a text, “Hey, this is Petra! Tomorrow at 6? (:”.

“You’re going to make me cry, you are the sweetest thing I swear,” her bottom lip protrudes, her eyebrows curved downwards. “I’m not from around here either, so I feel your pain completely. It’s hard making friends in the city. It took like three months before I landed this job, and now, Hange and Levi are my friends. Just like we’re all yours. So no more of that no friend talk, because we’re friends, got it?”

Words can’t express how much her empathy means to you, so instead, you shorten the distance between the two of you and wrap your arms around her. Petra welcomes you with a palm to your back, rubbing gently between your shoulder blades, and presses her head against your shoulder. You’re nearly certain that the pretty girl knows how much you need this hug, how touch starved you’ve been. Her nails scratch along the surface of your shirt, and with a final squeeze, she lets you go.

“Thank you,” it’s all you can manage to say without crying.

“I can’t wait to see you obliterated and talk about everything under the sun,” Petra giggles, her own eyes glossy. “I’m really happy you started working here.”

“Same,” you hum. “I should probably go thank Levi a thousand times again.”

“Don’t give him too much credit,” she tilts her head back and laughs. “His ego is already big enough. I can’t wait to talk so much shit about him tomorrow. You’re neighbors right? I bet you have some good info.”

You purse your lips, “Actually no, not much. He pretty much keeps to himself most of the time. We hardly ever run into each other.”

Except that one time.

“Probably too busy working on his portfolio that he never shows anyone,” Petra rolls her eyes playfully.

“Portfolio?”

“Yeah! Levi does photography on the side!” she grins. “He’s pretty good at it. We have him take photos for the bar’s social media all the time. The office is covered in his pictures if you ever wanted to take a look! There’s this really funny one of Hange at the Christmas night we had last year, absolutely wasted and dancing on the bar.”

“Huh,” your eyebrows scrunch together. “That’s pretty cool, actually. Good to know he has a hobby.”

Seems like you learn something new about the ravenette every day.

“Like I said, he’s really good,” Petra’s genuine smile quickly turns to a mischievous smirk. “Maybe you can pose for him sometime.”

You blink rapidly, feeling blood rush to your face and ears, “What makes you say that?”

“You’re cute,” she pokes your shoulder, wagging her eyebrows. “I see the way you look at him.”

“No, no!” you wave your hands defensively. “It’s not like that! He’s just been the first person who’s been nice to me, in his own special way. I like Levi, just, not like that.”

An eyebrow raises on her forehead, “You’re a terrible liar, you know that right?”

You worry your bottom lip with your teeth, discarding your gaze to the floor as you mumble, “Yeah, I know.”

It’s sickening how transparent you are. You’d be a complete and utter fool not to have a little crush on Levi. It’s small. You just think he’s kind and really attractive. You get crushes on people all the time, it’s human nature. You think the guy who delivers packages to your apartment is cute, and the barista at the cafe across the street has gorgeous eyelashes and her smile is stunning. Besides, crush is a weighty word, you just can find the appeal of your grumpy neighbor. Nothing more than that.

So why do Petra’s words make your heart beat rapidly? The blood is thunderous in your ears, pumping wildly in a steady rhythm. You can feel your palms start to sweat, and you’re uncomfortable in the way Petra can see right through you. It’s just a silly, innocent fondness of Levi. That’s it.

Petra’s chuckle breaks through your internal deflection, “No but seriously, when you get a chance, go check them out. They’re really nice. Levi won’t admit it but he loves when people compliment his pictures.”

Noted.

After that, the two of you fall into bursts of chatter. The night moves on slowly, and not once do you see Levi make an appearance out of the office. As closing time nears and passes, he still doesn’t make any indication that he plans to leave the room. Petra goes and checks in on him while you collect your belongings and turn off the main lights, and she returns quickly.

“He said he’ll lock up, and we can go home,” she shrugs on a light jacket, navy green in color. “Also told me to take you home so you don’t get lost. Says he doesn’t trust you.”

You roll your eyes, scoffing, “Jerk. How are you gonna get home though?”

“Oh, I drive,” Petra grins, dangling a pair of keys retrieved from her pocket. “No walking tonight! You live at Levi’s place, right?”

Well, that’s one way to put it, “Yeah, same building.”

“Cool, I know exactly where that is. Follow me, sweetheart. I’m gonna take you on the best five minute drive of your life.”

You don’t realize how close you live to the bar until it takes Petra all of three minutes to take you home. The walk is usually about fifteen, give or take. You’ll have to figure out how to get your license and a car soon. Your usual commute is laughable.

But at least this way Levi gets to walk you to and from the bar. Maybe whenever you get that car and driver’s license, you’ll offer him rides. As a way to say thank you, of course.

Petra confirms the time for tomorrow before you say your goodbyes, thanking her for the ride. You watch as she peels away from the sidewalk, disappearing as she turns at a distant intersection. You hurry inside before the frigid night air soaks deeper into your bones.

Getting ready for bed, you start to feel bad for leaving Levi completely by himself at the bar. Your hand reaches for your phone, going to his contact name, and hovering over the message icon.

You sigh, placing your phone on your nightstand while you crawl under your comforter. You stare at the illuminated screen from the corner of your eye, biting down on your lip. He had only given you his number so he could send you pictures of the schedule, Levi doesn’t even text you when he’s heading over to your apartment to collect you for your shift. You had yet to send him a text yourself.

Fuck it.

Your nails tap against the glass as you type, trying not to overthink about what you’re saying. You do though, reading the message over and over in your head, your thumb frozen over the send button. The digit brushes it before you can stop, and the message is sent.

“Thanks for letting us leave early! Don’t stay up all night paying bills, you’ll get lost on your way home.”

Blinking bubbles indicate Levi’s response. Your grip tightens on your phone.

“I won’t. I’m not you. Go to bed. We go in at noon tomorrow.”

You hold back a smirk as you type, “Actually, you go in at noon tomorrow. Hange switched us around so me and Petra are off.”

“Lucky you. Go to sleep, idiot.”

“Get home safe. Goodnight! (:”

Levi doesn’t respond. You’re already knocked out with a smile on your face to even check if he did.

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bogkeep · 3 years ago

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way to break my own heart #194; thinking about how i did essentially get to do my Dream Job by illustrating two whole children's books about dragons and faeries, but the only payment i ever got for it to this day is less than a day's pay as a hotel receptionist. i spent months and days and hours working on those and i'm so proud of my work, and the contract i signed was industry standard, but here we are!! i know my work is good, i work well with a client, i am good with deadlines, i WISH that was my day job, i WISH i could do that for a living. if i did not have a full time job i'm sure i could figure out a way to get patreon going, or i could try my hand at freelancing, but here's the thing - i LIKE the security of a full time job. it's SO NICE to not have to worry about the next paycheck, because i know what it's gonna be and when. it's not glamorous or creative. it's not my ~*Dream*~. it pays my rent and my groceries and even some nice little treats for myself. i have some plans for where i want to go next with my life, and *i'm* excited about it, but then telling people who go "whaat but you're so GOOD at art and being creative it would be a WASTE to do ANYTHING ELSE" and... well YOU find me jobs, then. YOU find me the full time in-house illustrator jobs where i don't have to worry about my sheer survival for the next couple years. i can't live off of love and pride. i can't trade my time and skill for air. it really does frustrate me, that a job that more than anything else, just requires me to Be There for eight hours at a time, pays me so much more securely than the unique and specialized skill of my art that i have honed for years and years. i know my worth, but the society we live in doesn't. and don't get me wrong, they SHOULD pay for my time. my time is precious. but i spent a lot of that time reading and rereading webcomics last year, y'know? ugh. i know i'll find something more, someday. it's not too late for me to ~*Live My Dreams*~ if i find a way to. but it sucks that it is like this.

#this is a personal post please don't reblog

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mysteriouspercentage · 3 years ago

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since someone wanted to question me on it and then straight block me, yeah, my whole blog rn is trying to raise money. that's called being fucking poor lmaoo. if u go back even just to the beginning of this year it didn't used to be like this, but like many ppl in this pandemic, i went v quickly from being kinda okay to living paycheck to paycheck. i haven't been able to afford a regular grocery run in over 5 months, just abt.

and for the record, the act of being poor itself costs money. i rack up interest on my credit card when i use it bc i can't pay it back. automatic payments on necessary bills hit at bad times and run me into the red, which costs me, at minimum, $35 a day. so before u go treating me and other low income poc on this app like scammers for asking for help, consider shutting the fuck up and minding ur business. u don't know me and u don't know my circumstances. u aren't here for the mental breakdowns over having $10 my name. u aren't here for me stretching every single gallon of gas that i pay for, $10 at a time bc it's all i can afford, and running my car till it's practically empty stretching $50 of gas over a week and a half. u aren't here for collections threatening to take me to court.

and now my roommate and i are gonna have to somehow pull roughly $700 out of our newly employed asses probably by the 15th at latest to pay back the rent we couldn't make this month, and we're frankly lucky that we can even do that. so if u aren't gonna help me, then just shut the fuck up and get out. i don't have time or energy to waste on this anymore.

#and ftr im not v active on this app outside of mutual aid anymore bc it is genuinely painful to see everyone struggling all the time #knowing that im barely surviving myself. this time 2 years ago i was giving hundreds of dollars in mutual aid every month #and now when everyone most needs it i can't help at all. so yeah im inactive. go fuck urself and fuck ur ugly furry icon.#text #original

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littlesmartart · 4 years ago

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Going off of Jin House: Home of Designer Kids - in the Jiang household, you were lucky if a kid was still wearing pants before they jumped into the lotus pond. Again. Children were well dressed when they had to be, but what's the point of spending the extra money if it's just going to ripped off and tossed into a bush at the first opportunity?

yeah Yanli just don’t really.................. get the designer thing (the Jiang family all do care a lot about their clothes! they just don’t mind what the label is so long as it looks good. Jiang Cheng probably spends the most money on his wardrobe but that’s just because he really likes properly tailored shirts), but they have enough kids that no clothes really go to waste, they can just get passed around, and their whole friendship group sort of starts picking up kids at pretty much the same time so she either passes them on to their friends, or asks JGY for the best place to donate them :)

anonymous said: modern!JZX has a Moment of Realization when he finds out that JGY (who has been added to the family business once it comes out that he's one of JGS' bastards) has been donating most of his (large) paycheck on stuff like women's shelters, food pantries, resources for poor students etc. This contributes to his re-evaluation of his life choices and also he starts donating to good causes as well.

JZX: oh god we barely contribute to society at all! we’re leeches! leeches! right, okay, we’re- we’re gonna fix that, we’re gonna fix so much - A-Yao, you used to be poor, what do poor people need? cars? another library? I’ve got my chequebook ready, what do the poor people need?

JGY, who regularly has “meetings” with up and coming political candidates, and somehow they always leave those “meetings” considerably more pro-sex workers, and queer kids, and ready to donate to community projects that benefit the poorest areas: ...it’s okay Zixuan-ge, I’ll... [pinching the bridge of his nose] I’ll draw you up a list, hmm?

anonymous said: JYL makes a Rule in the Jin household that for every dollar JZX spends on fancy brand name products, he has to make an equal donation to a charitable cause. He decides he wants to give himself a fancy-ass car for his birthday and Planned Parenthood gets one of those enormous PR cheques and some breathing room.

JZX: also A-Yao, this is what I’m spending on A-Li’s birthday present this year, and you know the rule...

JGY, who does half of their accounting because he’s a control freak who’s bad at delegating: ...............I’ll contact the mayor and tell him that the city can afford to revamp the tube system this year after all, shall I?

anonymous said: wwx buys Jin Ling a pair of tiny converses. they're probably knock-offs because baby.

anonymous said: WWX is just covered in tiny Jin babies in Gucci and he's all :/ I could sell this child's outfit for a month's worth of rent money...

sdslgdkjslk WWX talks a lot of talk about that sort of thing and then he gets a sugar daddy starts dating Wangji...

more modern AU

#tumodernau #the untamed #YOU GUYS ALL GOT IT THIS IS GREAT #optionalwarninglabels #ask

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helly-watermelonsmellinfellon · 3 years ago

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Hi, I just want to tell you that I've been following your tumblr for a short time since I love your fanfiction, and let me tell you that if I could help you in any way, I would do that in a second. But, & I hope you don't take this the wrong way, since you started posting about not having enough money & your stepdad not being able to work because of his injury & everything else, I wanted to ask you If you have a job? Or if you are looking for one? (Unless there is a reason why you can't work).

Mom is disabled. I'm the one who had to clean the house and cook while step-dad and step-bro's wife went to work. The problem, is that step bro lived with us but refused to help with the rent or bills and he wasn't kicked out because of his baby. He's done the whole moving out and then moving back in thing 6 times already since he was 17. That's 8 years of this behavior, but this time he didn't have a job and had a newborn. His wife was the one working, but they weren't saving money or trying to plan. They just lived with us for free and spent everything on name brand candy.

(That tilts me btw because at least they could have saved cash by getting off brand candy at cheaper prices.)

Finally, the one time he was told he had to start helping out and stop wasting his wife's paycheck on candy, he threw a fit and hauled his family back to PA to live with her parents. BUT they made him get a job and he caved within a month and moved them somewhere else. He still has to have a job cuz they're expecting another kid now and his wife can't work as a result. Boo hoo for him.

When we got told the landlady was evicting us(illegally) I started the Ko-Fi account. Mom started the gofundme. I've been writing for people(fics and homework) on top of doing what I was already doing because, now that step-dad is unable to work, we have no real ways of making money but he can't help much around the house because he can barely move. Getting stuff in the storage unit was hell enough and he fell several times, lost his grip on things because he can't feel sensations anymore, and nearly passed out from the pain in his knee.

Living in the middle of nowhere and the nearest place you could apply for a job being 25 miles away, isn't good on a beat up van that doesn't work. My sister wanted a job for months and it took her that long to finally find a small pizza place that would hire her. Everywhere else had stiff requirement that no one could fulfill, especially when we didn't have guaranteed transportation. My sister had to shell out half her weekly paycheck just because step-dad had to drive 27 miles 4 times a day, and then more sometimes for anti-freeze.

Mom and I settled my position in the house years ago. I was like 18 or around there. I was being ragged on for having no job but also not being in college. 'Just being lazy'. And I pointed out that I was the one taking care of the house and if I didn't do anything they'd all die in filth without me.

We put it to a test. I did no housework for a week and nothing was clean. People were changing in the living room and leaving their dirty clothes everywhere. No clean clothes to wear. All garbage was left around the house instead of taken into the kitchen, so there were cans, bottles, wrappers, boxes, etc... lying everywhere. We got ants. The floors were covered in sticky red shit, the dishes were never clean and just piled up beside the sink, and finally, there was a gross black ring in the tub.

People had spent that whole time complaining about me having no job and being useless to the family. The amount of complaints about my lack of effort during that week quintupled and I was very pleased with myself at the end with all this proof around me. People more willing to wash a pot that's been in the cupboard for 3 years over washing a pot in the sink, and then adding that dirty pot to the sink/washer/dryer stack of dishes.

So mom took my side and told me that so long as I continue doing what I'm doing, since no one else will have the time or will to do it, then I can stay just fine. I get her food. I clean her room. I'm her legs because hers don't work anymore.

Maybe having a stable job would help us right now, if we factor out costs of gas in a place where it's almost $4, but with both of them incapable of functioning without me here to fetch shit for them and clean up after them, what's gonna happen? Bethy isn't here. Step-bro fucked us over. I'm it right now.

#tbh i'm unsure about the whole job thing too #i've only ever had 1 job and it was a church pianist and i was never paid #but i was expected to be at every service regardless of my health or familial concerns

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optimistic-dinosaur-nacho · 4 years ago

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Ransom Drysdale x Reader (Dad!AU)

Summary: Ransom Drysdale, a man who didn’t make wise decisions in his teens. Wasting three years of his life in jail, he takes his freedom for another two. Little did he know, a woman he long ago had a thing for, ends up leaving him with a 16-year-old for the holidays. Hazel Rose Drysdale. His daughter.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

This takes place after Knives Out. Family will be mentioned, there will be minor spoilers for Knives Out.

Warnings: Bad parenting, swearing, Ransom being an asshole, minor spoilers for Knives Out, angst, mentions of murder/jail, minor mental abuse, mentions of abortion/pregnancy, Mentions of suicide

I do not consent to have my work hosted on any second party app or site. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but tumblr, it has been reposted without my permission.

There’s a Hamilton reference in here and I couldn’t help but throw it in there.

You always thought San Francisco was a horrible place to be on your own for. Having a job there, you’d be an hour late if you lived outside the city. This year had been tough on you. You felt like your rent was going up or that your job was getting lower paychecks. Your head was spinning every day that you could barely answer anyone’s questions. The lack of sleep you get every night, especially having to wake up every day at six.

You fix yourself a coffee but then end up at a nearby Starbucks to grab one. They always had better coffee for your energy gain. You weren’t really a money maker, you drove a very old red Honda. You have bills coming in through the mail slot that it has you wanting to burn them to ashes. You couldn’t handle enough stress, especially having a 16-year-old daughter.

At that age that’s when you had your only precious little girl, Hazel. You always made sure she never met any boy that could have her end up like you long ago. Being a teen mom wasn’t easy. Even lying to your daughter was something you couldn’t bear to keep from. It was only to protect her.

Hazel never spoke once about who her father was. As a child, she had dolls and those dolls were a family. One mother, one daughter and a father. Hazel made them the happiest dolls in her mind. She never asked anything related to her family’s relations or where they lived.

She was home schooled since, you were too afraid to have her at school and be bullied by boys or girls. It was something you dealt with and you didn’t want that to happen to her. You didn’t have the money for her too. Gas money, bills, dinner and rent were your only priorities. To have a roof over Hazel’s head, to drive her to the library or stores to get new outfits, feed her every morning, afternoon and night. Like you said, it wasn’t easy.

Your parents live up in Oregon for a while now and you would sometimes visit them over the holidays. Their reactions to your pregnancy, it didn’t end well. The few weeks of being pregnant, they were disappointed. The father’s side of the family had been one of the most entitled families in town. You grew up in Massachusetts and when you got pregnant, your parents moved to Oregon after you had Hazel.

And Hazel’s father abandoned you. Being 17 and 16, you were the one scared while he watched you in disgust and asked to abort your child. That decision was one of the hardest decisions of your life. Either live with the pain of delivering your baby girl or painfully lay on your bed thinking you could’ve had a good life with your daughter.

And you did have a good life whether you struggled to keep her happy. You hope no boy or man could ruin her reputation and lose hope in the world to make someone happy. “Miss L/N.” The dark velvet voice made you lose your trance and your eyes darted over to your boss. Or someone who is your guide for three years.

Mr. Charles Leyman. His blonde hair was combed to the side, his piercing blue eyes could have any office women get lost in. His suits were always made fine by a professional and his watches always came in different colors. Surely, they were over a thousand dollars. Charles had been your guide since you joined the large business in San Francisco. He was very kind, charming and he always knew personal space.

He always had a circle around him and it’d smell like his expensive cologne. Out of the cologne you’ve known, this one smelled like Guilty Intense. The Italian lemon, patchouli, amber, mandarin, and orange flower topping aroma was always attracting women. You wondered if he was a mama’s boy just on how much of a gentleman he was.

You saw his side grin creep up to his face, “You must be preoccupied in your own mind palace,” He mentioned towards you. Your hand reaches up to the small strand of hair and you pull it back. “Sorry.” Charles folds his hands in each other and leans on his desk. The man was in his thirties, a couple more years older than you.

“You know, you don’t always have to apologize for everything you do that is no harm. I just didn’t want you to be stuck in your head, Miss L/N.” Your head lifts up to him. He softly grins, “I wanted to discuss your recent report on the Berkeley College. Something about the Science and Technology Event on October 28th.”

You gently tilted your head, “What about it?” Charles lifted the print of the page and scanned through as if he wasn’t sure himself what the problem was. He clicks his tongue, “You kind of repeated yourself in a couple paragraphs. Even spelling errors. Have you been using-”

You nod, eyes closing slowly out of embarrassment, “Yes, I was. But I think our internet was shut off due to th-”

“That forum doesn’t need the internet to correct your mistakes. It corrects off Wi-Fi.” You sighed softly, turning your gaze away from him and he lowers the paper down to look at you, solemnly. “Look, Miss L/N. I’m not here to criticize you, I’m here to help you. And I know you have a 16-year-old at home and the father’s passing, you-”

“I will say this once and I hope you take it as it is. I’m fine.” Charles leans back a little to your response. Watching you closely to see your hands fidget in your lap. He almost felt like a brother to you, but there were moments where he offered you to dinner and almost walked you over to your car. It was embarrassing to see him and his silver Audi. You were sure he had a Tesla. The invites to his home were always nice. Charles knew your daughter well.

They got along well and never heard a single bad thing from Hazel, saying she had a good time with Charles. Hazel always told you how much fun she had with anything, she walks over to the public library, tells you about a book she read. You know she went to the library when she texted you earlier this morning.

That day, you relaxed at your desk and looked over the recent drafts of your future reports to go on the papers. You feel your phone ring and your hand picks it up from the desk.

Incoming call from Hazel-Bear

You picked up the phone and held it up to your ear, “Hey, baby.”

“Hey, mom. Can you pick me up?” You look over to the wall with the clock, showing the time. You were only a few ways away. “Can you wait for 10 minutes?” You hear Hazel hum in a yes, “Yeah. I’m just sitting in the library.” You began to close your computer and logged off. “Okay, honey. I’ll text you when I get there.” You started to put your papers in your bag and slipped in your laptop. “Okay. Bye, mom! Love you.”

“Love you, too. I’ll see you.”

Hazel was always the type to listen. As a child, she wasn’t spoiled as much because of what you had as a teenager. You were glad she didn’t end up like her father. She was sweet. Her smiles always made everyone welcomed in her space. Gatherings and meetings, your co-workers and friends always chatted about your daughter. Hazel would always keep a conversation lit up and she’d make every interesting comment. Being a book-worm, she would go on and on like a Stephen King book or become William Shakespeare and her words were strong.

You’d do anything for her, no matter what. Picking her up at the library was always a doing for you. The distance wasn’t long but you enjoyed picking her up there.

You pull up to the front of the library and see your daughter come up to the side of the door and jump in. “Thank you, mom,” She says, you greet her with a smile and watch her hold a book in her hand. “You’re welcome, honey. Did you return Hesse?”

Hazel nods and looks over to you, “Yeah. And I found this interesting book called Vulcan’s Den. Everyone’s been reading the author’s books since he died 5 years ago.” You glance over to her, seeing her eyes read the story in her hands. She looked like she was through 10 chapters already. “Hm. Who’s the author?”

“Harlan Thrombey.”

Your face froze into a fit of shock. Your fists twist around the wheel and Hazel spoke the whole time but then realized you had been temporarily deaf. “...he committed suicide.”

You look up to see the red light and you step on the break causing the car to jerk forward a bit. Your eyes lower to your hands on the wheel, “What, sweetheart?” Hazel turns and gently closes her book. “I said, he was found dead in his home. Committed suicide.” Hazel turns back to her book with a grin. “He was a really good author. I’ve been thinking about writing stories, too! He always knew how to make crime and mysteries such a good genre.”

Your eyes stare in front like you just ran over someone but all you could do is nod and say, “That’s... tragic, sweetheart. I’m sure he would’ve loved to hear your stories.” And your way back home was silent for the next 10 minutes. The only name coming to flood your mind like a banshee. Screaming internally, your heart felt like pin needles were jabbing into it and your breathing somewhat became more quite. As if you died in your seat but your mind kept going on.

Harlan Thrombey.

A man who writes like he’s running out of time.

That night, you had just made dinner and sat in the small living room watching television as usual. Glancing over to the kitchen sharing with the dining room, you see Hazel at the table, eating and reading the book she got today. You couldn’t help but grin at her read the book with such concentration.

You turn your gaze over to the TV but you didn’t pay mind to it. The sounds of your neighbors playing music or their dogs barking above you. Hazel closes her book and sighs softly. “Oh mom?” She asks, you turn to her, raising your brows up. “Hm?”

Her hand rests on the table as she turns her body towards you, “There’s this musical coming into Oakland in December and I was thinking we can get tickets? I don’t know if you’re familiar with Hamilton.” You tried not to give Hazel the look of ‘I’m sorry’, you just stared at her blankly, trying to sound less of a bad mother. Sure the tickets were a bit over 50 dollars. You couldn’t even nod as you sighed, “We’ll see, sweetheart.”

Hazel turns away and picks up her book to head over to her room and you tried not to think about Harlan.

Yes, he was familiar to you. A famous author who published hundreds of books based on mysteries and murder. You weren’t there when Harlan was killed. But you knew someone at work who actually wrote the report about him. Police finding out about not only his suicide but his oldest grandchild was in jail for murder and arson.

You didn’t know much but you’ve read the report so many times. Harlan was a good author and you were happy to see your daughter read a book from someone who was related to her. Hazel never knew much about her father’s side of the family. You tried your best to keep her silent about it and she never asked once.

You remembered you had things that could make her brighten up. You stood up from your spot and made your way into your bedroom. You walked over to your closet and turned on the light to look up. Seeing a dark box written ‘Books’ on the side, you reach up and slid it off the edge and into your arms. You placed it on your bed and reached in for the book collection with Harlan’s name printed on every book.

You opened one and saw a small message written in cursive with his name at the end. Harlan always gave you the first copy and made sure you gotten them. His books made it into films and he gave you the movies and that’s where these old films laid in. Hazel will like to watch these over and over. “Ro, baby,” You call out.

You hear her call back and made her search around the apartment and met you in the bedroom. You turned and sat on the edge of your bed. “You love books, right?” You asked. Hazel nods questionably, “Yeah?” You placed your hand on the edge of the box, “These are special and old. It might not sound real to you but these are all first copies.” Hazel makes her way over and slightly gasps.

“They’re... Harlan books?” She pulls them out and opens the first book, “And he signed them!” Hazel looks up to you with a smile. Shockingly, it made you smile, “I want you to take care of these really good for me, okay? You can take them to your room and read them.” Hazel slams herself into your chest and hugs you tightly.

“Thank you, mom.”

You wrap your arms around her and held her there, placing a kiss on her head. “I love you, too, sweetheart.” Hazel wasted no time into bringing the books into her room. Her eyes scanned every letter written in the books by the author, himself. He kept calling you, sweetheart. Hazel wondered if you knew him really well. You collected every book from him and they were all first copies. The films were never used and they were amazing. Hazel began to pull each of them out on her bed and reached for the last book that was wider than the others.

Hazel lifts it up and sees the cute designs.

Memories.

Hazel turns around to sit on her bed as her fingers graze over the small stickers that were worn out. She read your name on the front of the cover and flipped the page over. Photos of her grandparents, your mom and dad taking you out to the lake. A couple pictures of you reading books. Your 15th birthday photo was very old and you looked just like her. Hazel flipped the next pages and the photos gotten bigger. And the months grew further on.

Pictures of you in a dress. Your junior year in a blue silk dress, your hair was perfectly done with a bit of makeup. Hazel had not seen you so beautiful with makeup on. With a small grin, she flips the page and there’s a photo of you again at what looked like your prom dance. Her grin slowly freezes when she sees someone stand next to you with a small grin.

His hair was slick back, his tuxedo was a matching blue and his bow tie was black. His jaw was sharp enough to cut paper. Hazel knew you had her at the age of 16, the date takes back a few months before your birthday. Hazel had to think he was someone you were with. A picture of carved initials with a heart around them.

The ‘R’ was carved along with your initial and in between your initials was a plus sign. Hazel grew more into the photos and kept going over the pages. The next photos never had the boy in the photos any more. But you had your hands on your stomach with a grin. You had to be about one month pregnant. But the boy you had in the other photos never appeared in these.

Then you happened to be in Oregon. You said you were born in Oregon and lived there since you were born. Where were you before? Hazel flipped a couple more and her photos came into view. Her baby pictures were old and very nicely situated. Hazel grins softly at the photos and opened the last page to have things slip out.

Hazel catches the piece of paper and small patch from a high school logo. She looks over the patch that must’ve came from a private school. She flipped it over and read it.

Hugh D. MA, Boston

Hazel furrowed her brows at the name. Hugh must’ve been a different boy you dated. She reaches for the paper that was partially ripped in half and placed the two together like a puzzle.

Ransom (xxx) xxx - xxxx

She read the letter and saw the added heart to his name. Ransom. Who was Ransom and Hugh?

“Honey! Did you want to finish your show?” You called out to Hazel. The teenager puts the things back in the book and puts it back in the box. “Uh... Yeah! I’m coming!” And she covered it up with the others and made her way out of her room into the living room. Hazel couldn’t help but think about who her dad was.

The next morning, you made breakfast and Hazel began to eat what you’ve made. Bacon, eggs and some toast. You poured her some juice and began to clean up your mess on the counter and placed a couple dishes into the dish washer. The sounds of Hazel’s utensils scrapping against the plate, she glanced up at you and saw your calm content face doing normal chores.

“Who’s my dad?”

You drop a plate from your hands and it falls into the sink once again and shatters in pieces causing Hazel to painfully watch and you turn to her. It was bound to happen, but you didn’t expect it this soon. You did you? “What?”

Hazel nibbles on her bottom lip and gently puts her fork down and pulls her hand to her lap. “I... I want to know who dad was.” You cross your arms and reached to grab your grin and rub the sides. Hazel lowers her gaze, “I saw two names in this photo book. Hugh and Ransom. I want to know who they were. And did my father actually die in an accident?”

It was like your worst fear and the countless nightmares were coming to life. Hazel sat there for answers now. You needed to give her small details in order for her to freak out less. You never wanted to upset Hazel. Just like you didn’t want to upset her father when you first told him the news.

“But I knew Harlan very well. I met him as a kid and he gave almost every first copy of his books. I knew him because I met his oldest grandson at the age of 15. His name was Hugh.”

“So is Ransom my biological father? And Hugh was just-” Hazel noticed the shook of your head, your lips pierced together as if you tried not to spill everything towards her. The fear to see her get scared of the truth. “Those names are from one person, sweetheart. He was complicated between his first and middle name. Hugh Ransom Drysdale. He was just a year older than me.” Hazel turns her head and whispers.

“Hazel Rose Drysdale.”

You hum in response, furrowing your brows. “Is he alive?” She asked, you instantly stand up, pushing yourself off the counter, “Honey, please. Finish eating.”

“I want to know, mom. Don’t I get to say anything about him-?”

“Hazel, please. Eat your food, I’m not in the mood now to discuss your family relations-”

“You’ve lied and I need to know what else you’ve been keeping away from me.” You turn away from her and finished off the last Tupperware and sighed. It was gonna take a while for her to lose the thoughts to go away and have her continue on something else. “Mom-”

“Hazel, please! I can’t discuss this now!” You snapped. Hazel’s fingers curl into her palm and she fidgeted her thumb under them. Her feet kick herself back and she stood up. “Thank you for dinner,” she muttered, leaving her plate on the table while making her way into her room. You sighed out of regret and turned to the window.

You couldn’t tell if Hazel was crying or playing music to calm herself. You never outburst on her like that. Never in your days you’d shout at her. The mention of her father had to come out sooner or later. The truth never made its way over to you. Hazel wasn’t ready to find out. You weren’t ready to give it to her. Maybe never.

You just cleaned up her plate and put the leftovers in the fridge in case she wanted more since she barely ate thinking too much about her father.

You got a shower going and left the house, leaving a note on Hazel’s door. Your drive to work was a bit long but you managed to get there in time. Taking the elevator to the office floor, you set up your stuff on your desk and began to go through your recent reports.

Checking every wording and errors you can spot.

A soft knock hits your wall and a woman peaks over. Your office neighbor. “Morning, babes. How you doing?”

You let out a soft sigh, “Morning, Ciara.” Your fingers worked against the keyboard, writing away till someone takes your chair and spun you around. The red-head lightly glares in your eyes. You turn your head, “What?” You asked, Ciara squints her eyes. “What happened?” She replies with the same questionable tone. All you did was shake your head and Ciara pouts at you. She was never going to let you get away that easily.

“She knows about her dad?”

You nod towards her, raising your mug up to your lips to regain your energy. Ciara pinches her chin to be in a thinking stance and her brows bounce up, “Well, shit.” You look over to her and she lightly laughs. “What am I going to do?” You ask.

Ciara thinks, “Well... I don’t think you can keep her away forever.”

“What do you mean?” You ask once more, Ciara tilts her head at you and that made your heart drop. “No. No! I cannot do that-” Ciara drops her arms from the crossing and sighs. “Y/N, you really messed up the pooch here. If my mom lied about my dad being dead, I would’ve wanted to meet him.”

“You don’t know what he’s like,” You said, “He’s arrogant. A complete asshole-”

“Okay! Okay... but your daughter would have to at least get to know him. Give her a few days. Weeks. Who knows? Maybe he’ll come around. Hazel needs a father figure in her life and every kid would want to have their parents together.” You shook your head softly and raised your glass back up to your lips and took a large sip.

You wouldn’t trust Ransom being with Hazel for who knows how long. You couldn’t trust yourself to stay a day there. You wouldn’t last a minute to be in the same room with him. But you thought about Hazel. You felt more selfish for yourself than for Hazel. You had your dad but she never got to see him once. You kept him under a rock that Hazel couldn’t lift up and now she found his photo.

She found you and him together.

There can’t be a way to change her mind. Unless she stays with him. The holidays were coming up. Thanksgiving was only a few weeks away. Maybe you’d give her that much time with him. Ciara’s face leans down to look at you in the eye. For some kind of response for her to agree or to push.

Your mug lowers from your face and you two just shared looks.

That day, you made your way back home after your work was finished. You felt like you swallowed bees. You didn’t bother to text Hazel you were coming home or that you were going to talk to her. You just needed to be home right away to talk to her. To tell her everything.

You were afraid to give her everything about him. You needed to take it slow every now and then.

The moment you stepped into your apartment you dropped your bag and opened Hazel’s bedroom, seeing her on her bed with her laptop on her lap. “Hey, mom,” She says.

You grin softly, “Can I talk to you?” Hazel did not refuse and she watches you sit on the edge of her bed. Hazel knew this certain stance of a parent. “I know this morning was not my morning. But... I want you to know that I love you very much. And that I did not mean to yell. But I am willing... to tell you about your father. He didn’t die in an accident.”

Hazel closes her laptop and gently pulls her knees to cross in front of her. You did it yourself, crossing your leg over the other. “What do you want to know?” You ask in a calm voice. Hazel lowers her gaze to think about the millions of questions already scrambling through her head like a roller coaster.

She finally caught one, “What was dad like?” She says, shyly. This was the question you didn’t want to hear from her. But you had to anyway, “He was... difficult to work with in school. His family was rich and so anything he could do wouldn’t be a problem. He was kind in some moments, I remembered his father always fought with him.”

“Did he leave when... you were?”

Hazel noticed your soft nod and your head lowers, picking at your nails like you were a little girl again. How much you blushed when he came toward you like you saw him for the first time. The way he pulled a strand behind your ear. He never complimented much nor did he say ‘I love you’.

“We were around your age when I found out about you. After I told him, his parents flipped. And after a few days, he yelled and left. That’s when I moved to Oregon with your grandma and grandpa.” You reach for her hair and pushed it behind her ear. Just like he did to you.

Your hand rests on the sheets and you softly sighed. Regretting these words slip out like a load of cash falling out of an ATM. “If I trust you... to call me everyday, every night. I might consider something.”

“Consider what?” She asks, you don’t respond to her and that made her eyes slowly go wide. “To visit him?” You take her hand and gently grasped it. “I am sending you to Boston.”

“You can’t come?” She asked. You shook your head and reached up for her cheek. “I think it’s best to stay here and keep going to work. I have a project and I hate to leave you, but I really want you to call me. I love hearing your voice.” Hazel grins and nods. “Thank you, mom.”

You smile at her and pulled her to your chest. Placing a kiss on her forehead, you trusted her more now. The least of trust was from her father. The most scary thing to do was to call him. Hazel pulls away and she slips something into your hand. “What’s this?” You asked.

You opened the small note and read the similar number with his name written nicely in. “In case you didn’t have it.” You held the paper tight in your hand and turned to Hazel one last time before standing up. “Dinner will be ready in a couple minutes.” Hazel nods and went back to her own things as you left her room and went into yours.

You pulled out your phone and stared at the keypad. His number sitting on the paper, urging you to not call. 16 years apart, you never thought it’d come to this day. His daughter to stay with him for a while. What if he was still in jail? He could be with another woman and it’d be too late for Hazel to be with a man who’s married to another woman.

It’d be awkward.

Your thumb automatically pushes the numbers and your thumb hovers over the call button. Your breath began to get caught in your throat. Your eyes began to water and your fingers shook. You clicked the button and heard it buzz in your ear.

The ring went off.

You waited.

It rung again.

You swallowed hard. “Hello?”

“Hugh.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Y/N.”

There was a long pause.

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timelordthirteen · 4 years ago

Text

Desperate Souls 1/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit

Summary: A broke and heartbroken Belle French comes to an agreement with Mr. Gold to do a little modeling, just for him, in exchange for the money she desperately needs, but it isn't long before they both realize they've made a deal they didn't understand. Based on this prompt.

Chapter Summary: Belle makes a depressing discovery and considers her options.

Notes: OKAY. Here we go. Chapter 2 is almost done, but everything was getting stupid long and in spite of my plan I had to break it up. The entire story is all fully outlined now, but I make zero promises about my ability to keep it updated because I'm the worst. In total it will be anywhere from 10 to 15 chapters.

[AO3]

Belle stared at the paper in her hands.

$37.23

That was all that was left in the account. She staggered and then dropped down onto the old sofa. Her heart was thumping in her chest, her face felt hot, and her vision blurred. The page fluttered away, sliding over the coffee table to fall off the edge and onto the floor on the other side. The corner of the paper fluttered in the air from a heating vent in the floor, and she watched it for a long moment before her head dropped to her hands, palms pressed to her face as tears stung her eyes.

Her heart, her hopes, her money; Garrett Gaston had taken everything.

Well, almost everything. Apparently, she still had thirty-seven fucking dollars and change left. She shook her head and laid back against the cushions, breathing slowly. Calming down was step one, step two was figuring out a logical plan to fix things. Most of the regular monthly bills: car payment, cell phone, and utilities, had already been deducted before Garrett had a chance to clean out their shared account. That left whatever was on the credit card and the rent to pay. She let out a short, humorless laugh, and sat up. There wasn’t much on her Visa, some books she ordered from Amazon last month and her Netflix subscription. Even if there was more she could get away with making minimum payments if she had to and eat the interest until she got back on her feet. The rent was a whole other story.

Mr. Gold didn’t do minimum payments, but he did do late fees and interest.

There was also her promise to her father. Moe French was always just barely making ends meet, and she had agreed to loan him some money to buy extra stock for the flower shop ahead of Valentine’s Day, something she had done last year as well. That holiday always put the shop in the black for a while, and she hadn’t been concerned that she wouldn’t get her money back. Now she was wondering if she would also need a loan of some kind just to keep a roof over her head.

Maybe she’d even have to move back in with her father.

Belle blinked, letting the tears roll down her cheeks, leaving trails through her makeup. Living with Moe was not an option, not if she wanted to maintain any semblance of a relationship with him, which left her with few choices. She pushed to her feet, wiping at her face with her hand as she crossed the small living room to pick up the bank statement. Her eyes immediately went to the top of the page.

Beginning balance…$4,737.23

The statement crumpled in her hand, her fingers squeezing it into a tight ball, digging the sharp edges of the folded paper into her palm before she spun on her heel and threw it across the space. It smacked against the door to the bathroom. She followed it up by yanking the ring off her left hand and flinging it in the same direction. It made a satisfying ping as it careened off the doorknob and rattled to the floor.

Rage fueled her as she stomped through the apartment, snatching up the handful of things her now very ex-fiance had left behind before he fucked off to Mexico with a woman who wasn’t her, taking all of her money with him. She felt like an idiot for agreeing to sign Garrett onto her account before they were married, but in the moment it had made sense to pool their funds. They were starting their new life together, supposedly, and he made a point of saying he wanted to help pay for the wedding.

Belle and her father didn’t have much, and from the outside it seemed like Garrett was far better off financially. He had a decent job selling insurance, a nice car, nice clothes, and his parents were very well off real estate agents in Boston. Or at least that was what he had told her. She had never met them, and that, combined with the fact that he had yet to make any deposits into their now shared account, told her all she needed to know. Garrett Gaston was a lying asshole, and for all she knew his parents could be dead or have disowned him. It was clear he had used her, though she wasn’t sure the year long charade was worth the four thousand-seven hundred dollars he’d stolen from her.

She let out a ragged breath and ran her hands through her hair. A hooded sweatshirt with a rip in the front pocket, a paint splattered t-shirt, a pair of work boots that had seen better days, a phone charger, and a mismatched pair of socks lay in a pile on the sofa. Everything else he’d taken with him, including half the hangers in the closet. He must have crammed it all into the same large suitcase and duffle bag he’d used to move in just three months ago. She wondered if he’d had it all planned before then, or if it was a spur of the moment decision. When had he met this other woman? Had he cared about her at all, ever?

Belle sniffed loudly and rubbed her nose. She refused to shed any more tears over Garrett, and looked around the room for anything she might have missed. A thought hit her then, and she hurried into the kitchen, took one of the chairs from the small table by the window, and used it to reach up on top of the fridge. Her heart sank when she felt nothing but dust. He’d even taken her emergency fund, mostly made up of spare change and small bills shoved into an old jar. She wasn’t sure how much was in it, but it had to be a couple hundred dollars. That brought the total to almost five thousand.

Deflated and exhausted, she climbed down off the chair, and placed it back at the table. Then she walked back into the living room and briefly contemplated setting Garrett’s things on fire. There was a burn barrel in her father’s backyard that he used for yard waste. Maybe she could invite Ruby and Ashely over for a bonfire, and roast marshmallows that they imagined were ex-boyfriends.

That thought made her smile, but a few seconds later, she sighed and reluctantly went to pick up the bank statement and engagement ring. Being angry might make her feel better temporarily, but it wouldn’t solve any of her current problems. Unfortunately, neither would anything Garrett left behind, which were clearly items he no longer cared about and which had no value. At least she’d been wearing the ring when he packed up and left, or he likely would have taken that as well.

She went into the bedroom and sank down on the end of the bed. The mattress dipped and the frame creaked, yet another reminder of her less than stellar financial state. A couple of weeks ago, they’d talked about getting new furniture after they were married, in particular, a bed, and Belle rolled her eyes at the memory. She put the engagement ring back in its box on her dresser, and decided to take a shower. As the hot water ran down over her neck and shoulders, she made a mental list of what she needed to do, and felt calmer after she was done.

After drying off and changing into some comfortable clothes, she shoved Garrett’s belongings into a trash bag and set it by the door to take down to the dumpster in the morning. Then she sat down with the little notebook she kept in her purse and a pen, and started writing out her expenses for the next month. By the time she was done, and after considering the amount of her usual paycheck, the total she would at the end of next month was...fifty four dollars.

She fell back against the sofa and blew out a breath. There was no way to make the math come out any better. Rent included the usual utilities, but there was food, her cellphone, car insurance, and those incidental costs of existing like laundry detergent and toilet paper and probably a hundred things she’d end up running out of next week. It felt like life was out to spite her. The cushion she had worked so hard to build up was gone, as was the paycheck that had just deposited. Garrett probably waited until Thursday just for that reason, to squeeze just a little bit more out of her and make her ruin complete.

She got up and went back into the bedroom. The ring box seemed to be mocking her as she reached for it, and she flipped it open and scowled down at the princess cut diamond. It was about one carat in size, flanked by two smaller diamonds, which gave the ring a total weight of about one and half carats. It was huge as far as engagement rings went, and she supposed that was more of Garrett showing off money he didn’t actually have. The truth was she didn’t care for it at all, the squared off princess cut being her least favorite, and the set of three gems gave it a bulk and gaudiness that wasn’t her style. But it was what he had picked out and proposed with, and because of that she made herself like it. The band was rose gold, her favorite, which was at least one thing he managed to remember about her.

Belle snapped the box shut and shook her head. The ring had to be worth something, and though there was only one place in town she could take it she was confident that Mr. Gold would give her a fair price. He had always been fair, even if he often came off as cold and eccentric. She’d never had a problem with Gold, though she didn’t really know him that well either. A few times she had gone out of her way to try to be nice and talk to him, but he seemed annoyed and eventually she gave up. She was friendly and polite when she saw him, not just because he was her landlord, or because we wielded some strange power over most of the citizens of Storybrooke, but because she sensed he was someone who didn’t have a lot of kindness in his life.

She set the ring down and yanked open the bottom dresser drawer. Inside was a small collection of what could only be described as ugly Christmas sweaters, leftover from the annual holiday parties that Granny would throw at the diner. Those were taken out and set aside. Beneath them was something that made Belle frown all over again, a pile of silk and lace, with a few price tags caught up on each other. It was the pile of lingerie that she’d been reserving for her wedding and honeymoon.

The sting of tears made her blink and she felt her earlier anger bubbling up again. She knelt down in front of the drawer and pulled all of it out, throwing it behind her on the bed. Then she set about separating it, untangling tags and eye hooks, and pairing up the things that went together. She hadn’t worn any of it yet, but the items with tags had been purchased too long ago to return, never mind that she had probably thrown out the receipts weeks ago. It wasn’t designer stuff or anything, but it had to be worth something, so she folded it all into a neat stack and placed it on top of the dresser. Then she set the ring box on top and resolved to take all of it to Gold’s shop tomorrow.

None of it would be missed.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #belle x mr. gold #lemon fic #;)#my rumbelle fic #fic #deals and debts #desperate souls

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platypanthewriter · 4 years ago

Text

Hiding a Multitude of Sins

Prompt day 13: hidden injury

Billy accepted Steve’s bat, tossing his cigarette into the road, and holding his shoulders square. He wished he hadn’t been such a fucking cunt the night before, asking his dad favors when he knew better.

Just walking to Steve’s car had him breathless as he tried to force his lungs to expand—the pain didn’t even register right anymore. It felt like the shock of cold water, when he slid off his surf board straight down into the Pacific—even when he swam back up, his whole body seized up against his commands to breathe, breathe, jesus, you’re gonna pass out.

He tried to hold his ribs expanded, keep his breaths short and shallow. His vision blurred, a little. He waited until Steve wasn’t looking to try and open the car door awkwardly with his left hand, so he didn’t have to shift his right side at all. Even that motion torqued his ribs, and he made a weird gaspy noise, and Steve looked up.

“...I told you, you don’t haveta come,” he grinned. “I know not everybody can handle monsters.”

“I’m coming,” Billy managed, turning to drop his ass in the passenger seat, and nearly puking out the door. His eyes stung with tears, and he closed them, cursing himself for arguing. He coulda just gone to bed last night, and actually been useful somehow today, but he’d been a whiny fucking bitch instead. “S’why I told you to pick me up, I’m not...not leaving your royal ass to get...eaten, your Kingship.”

“Hargrove,” Steve said, sounding concerned, and Billy sucked it the fuck up and swung his legs inside, yanked the door shut, and sat there trying to swallow back acid, looking at a field of rainbowy colors he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to see.

“M’fine,” Billy said, and he didn’t grunt at the sensation of his ribs contracting with his exhalation, and he didn’t blink, knowing his blurry eyes would just spill over, and Harrington would notice he was a fucking weak link.

“...Billy,” Steve said, reaching over, and Billy’s breath caught in his throat. Steve yanked his hand back, biting his lip.

The asphalt behind the nail salon was bumpy, and Billy kept his eyes fixed on the windshield as the jarring bumps rattled through him. He fixed his eyes on the overflowing dumpster as he swung his legs out and pushed himself upright, but when Harrington got out he slammed the door hard.

He stalked around to grab Billy by the collar of his shirt, hissing “Hargrove.” Steve slid his other hand under Billy’s shirt, and yanked it up, and Billy made some kind of little pussy groan in his throat as Harrington stared at the bruises and bloody scrapes all down his side.

“Jesus hell,” he bit out, and Billy laughed, and regretted it.

“I can still help,” he bit out, “I’m not a broken doll, Harrington, get off me—”

“You can’t help like this,” Harrington said, yanking his hand back, and grabbing the bat. “I shoulda grabbed Max, jesus. Get the fuck back in the car.”

“I’m not fucking useless,” Billy yelled back, and Harrington pushed him, not hard, but hard enough that he cried out and set his jaw, clenching his eyes shut.

“Just get back in the car,” Steve hissed. “We don’t have time for this, Hargrove—”

Billy felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks, and hated them, and his lungs chose that moment to rebel and make this retarded—accordion noise—and Harrington squeezed his shoulder, hard.

“Get back in the car, Billy,” he said flatly, and Billy bit his lips and swallowed hard, nodding. He waited until Harrington had stalked off to open his eyes, wondering whether he’d even come back, whether Billy’s dumb shit backtalk to his dad the night before was gonna get King Steve Harrington killed.

Billy sat very slowly, catching his breath, and braced himself, taking shallow breaths. There was yelling from Steve and the kids, and loud metallic thuds Billy thought—vaguely��might be something hitting the dumpster. He bit his lip, hard, and turned his body to get his legs back in the car, trying at least to be ready. He could at least not slow Harrington down trying to escape, the way he’d already wasted time not telling Harrington to leave him home. That he was useless.

He swung his legs inside the car with a shuddery gasp, and swallowed, and swallowed, his stomach ready to empty all of the nothing he’d eaten all over Steve’s dashboard. He went to lift his wrist and check his watch, and that hurt too, which was funny, in a way, and he was laughing, tears dripping off his chin, when Steve suddenly leaned in the door.

Billy couldn’t even remember whether it had been open, and he stared back into warm brown eyes, waiting.

“...jesus, Billy,” Steve hissed, and Billy laughed jerkily again, covering his mouth in case he puked.

“...Harrington,” Billy whispered, and Steve sighed, leaning his head against the car door.

“Come on,” Steve said, slamming the door again, and he walked around and dropped into the driver’s seat, and backed out.

Billy wondered hazily where the bat was, and how long it had been, but focused on breathing, and digging his fingers into his thigh, because it drew his brain off his stomach roiling—until Steve pulled into the hospital, and Billy slowly turned to look at him. “You—you got hurt, shit,” he said, looking Steve over. He had bloody knuckles, and Billy grabbed them as Steve turned the car off.

“I’m fine,” Steve said shortly, then sighed. “I’m okay. Billy.”

Billy stared at the blood on Steve’s hand, but let go when Steve tugged his hand back.

He got out and went in, and Billy watched him go. It was too much effort to ask further, so he just sat there, breathing, until Steve came back and made him get out of the car and into a wheelchair, like he was actually really hurt. Billy snickered, shaking his head, and Steve pushed it away and leaned in the car again.

“Get in the chair,” he said, “—or—or I’ll just—shit,” he sighed, and Billy grinned at him, letting his eyes drift closed. “Billy,” Steve said. “Billy.”

It was getting harder to breathe, Billy thought, like his lungs didn’t have enough room in them, and he coughed.

“Billy,” Steve shouted, his fingers gentle on Billy’s face, and then Billy vaguely remembered being half-lifted out of the car, and wheeled through corridors and hallways.

He awoke in a bed, and stared at the ceiling. Everything felt a little numb, and he breathed, slowly, relishing the ease of his lungs filling.

“Don’t go back to sleep, Billy,” came Steve’s voice, and Billy rolled his head to see him, and squinted.

Steve looked like he’d been fighting monsters—which figured, he guessed, groggily. He had circles under his eyes, and his hair stuck out at weird angles, and Billy felt guilt burning through him again.

“...sorry I was useless as shit,” he whispered, coughing, and Steve’s eyes widened. He held a straw to Billy’s lips, and squeezed his hand as Billy drank warm, plastic-flavored water.

“Jesus, Billy,” Steve sighed. “...you know you can just...ask me for help. You didn’t need to pretend you’d help fight monsters to get me to—”

“M’ sorry, jesus,” Billy interrupted, his eyes stinging. “I’m a waste of fucking time.”

“That’s not—” Steve groaned, resting his head on the hand holding Billy’s, and Billy’s eyes widened at the sensation. “...that’s not what I’m saying, Hargrove.” He pressed a kiss to Billy’s knuckles, and Billy giggled, too much, and he realized he was full of drugs.

Steve sighed. “You can just call me. You coughed blood everywhere,” he said, running his nails through his hair again, his eyes kinda...haunted, and Billy grimaced. “Fucking—punctured lung.”

“...’m fucking useless,” Billy told Steve’s fingers, watching them squeeze his own, and Steve took a slow, shaky breath, and squeezed harder.

“What happened,” he whispered, and Billy blinked at him.

“How the fuck would I know?” he asked, registering that he was slurring, a little. “I was in—in the...car.”

“What happened to you,” Steve bit out, and Billy blinked at him.

“...fell down the...stairs?” he offered, and Steve nodded, closing his eyes. Billy cleared his dry throat, and Steve picked up the empty cup of water, and glared at it before getting up and dropping Billy’s hand. He returned with cold water, and Billy drank gratefully, feeling it spread through his body.

“You had three broken ribs,” Steve told him. “And a concussion.”

“Shit,” Billy sighed.

“I’m gonna get a job,” Steve said, out of the blue, and Billy blinked at him. “Hopper said he has somewhere we can rent. We’re moving.”

“What,” Billy croaked.

“He said I can start paying him when I have a paycheck,” Steve said. “It’s just got the one bedroom.”

“What,” Billy whispered.

“Tell me it’s fine I moved your shit,” Steve told him, and Billy nodded, blinking wide eyes. “There’s no stairs, either,” Steve said vindictively, and Billy snorted a laugh, and winced.

Billy didn’t say anything for a long moment, watching Steve’s tired face, as he fidgeted with the straw in the now-empty cup.

“...I know this isn’t what you wanted,” Steve said. “You can get a job yourself and move out or whatever.”

“...what,” Billy asked again, and Steve grimaced.

“Kissed you like twice and then I just...kidnapped you,” he muttered, and Billy tried to get his brain to engage, and not just...think about kissing Steve. He hadn’t really expected it to happen again, especially not after he’d fucked up so bad Steve had to fight a demogorgon with help from some middle school kids.

“...okay,” Billy told him, and then, when Steve frowned over, gave him a thumbs-up.

“...you’re loaded,” Steve told him, laughing, and Billy gave an amiable snort.

“...why d’you want me in a house,” he asked, still trying to wrap his drugged brain around the weird shit Steve was saying. Steve groaned, squeezing his hand again. “...why’re you still here?” Billy asked, lifting his head to see better. “You hurt? Ha...Harrington?”

“I’m adopting you,” Steve sighed. “Like a pound dog.”

“...okay,” Billy said, letting his head thump back on the pillow. “I don...don’t play too well with others.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve nodded, smiling tiredly. “Everybody knows you bite, Hargrove.”

“Only ’f you ask nicely,” Billy told him, winking, and Steve started snickering, leaning his face on his hand again, and squeezing Billy’s fingers.

“...we’re moving,” Billy repeated, and Steve nodded. “Two’ve...us. ...in...together?” Billy asked, to clarify, pretty sure he was missing a loophole.

“Yeah,” Steve grimaced, and Billy bit his lips together, nodding. “It’s, uh, it’s really small. But…” he trailed off, glancing from the floor back to Billy’s face, and then setting his jaw. “...I’ll help you figure shit out, uh, from there.”

“...what—what partic’lar shit,” Billy asked, aware how much there was.

“Um, not living with me forever, in somebody’s old hunting cabin,” Steve laughed, sighing, and Billy shook his head, flapping his other hand towards Steve until he smiled, and grabbed it.

“Don’t want to fix that shit,” Billy mumbled, and Steve laughed again, but his smile looked brighter. “I got—there’s—worse shit to fix, Harrington, you adopt dogs, you keep ‘em—”

“Okay, okay,” Steve told him, beaming. “I’ll...I’m gonna ask you when you’re sober, though, okay?”

“No,” Billy told him firmly, and Steve leaned in and kissed him a third time, despite Billy’s hospital-and-probably-puke-breath.

“Okay,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get you a license, asshole. Buy you a collar. You’re stuck now.”

“I’ll fucking wear it,” Billy hissed, shaking his hand loose from Steve’s to yank him closer, into a kiss.

#febuwhump 2021 #Febuwhump #Harringrove #Hidden injury #platypan #It's 2k #I wrote something SHORT guys! WOW #Praise me XD

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chocoluckchipz · 4 years ago

Text

The Other You - 7

Read it on A03, FF.net, WattPad

< Previous

Chapter by Maerynn

The first morning Marinette woke up in Chat Noir's mother's apartment, the most accurate word to describe how she was feeling would be "awkward".

Chat had carefully wiped the apartment of any hints of his mother's identity before bringing her here, but Marinette still felt as if she was invading this faceless woman's privacy. Sleeping in her sheets, showering in her bathroom, cooking with her appliances, leafing through her books. And yet, she couldn't help but love it. Marinette knew it was wrong, that she was playing with fire and jeopardizing her own identity, but by living in his late mother's apartment, she felt closer to her partner.

Laying on her back in that wide bed, Marinette found herself wondering what kind of child her partner had been. Had he crawled into his mother's bed at night, claiming to have nightmares to be allowed to sleep in that very same bed? Was he a picky eater, forcing his mother to deploy ingenuity to have him eat his broccoli? Was he the kind of little boy to get into trouble every day or, on the contrary, was he a little angel?

As she stretched out on the comfortable mattress, his ridiculous rent fee came back to her mind—a meal. It was kind of cute, in a way. Yet that obnoxious kitty had to go and ask for the single thing she didn't have to spare: time. Luckily though, being a daughter of two bakers, Marinette had a few quick but tasty recipes up her sleeve, and would probably be able to cater to her partner's culinary needs.

Reluctantly tearing herself from the sheets, she ventured into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Chat Noir was definitely a really thoughtful man. Even though the apartment hadn't been inhabited for the past few years, the fridge was fully stocked with everything she could ever possibly need to cook delicious meals for both of them. Various fresh meat and fish, vegetables, multiple kinds of fruit, and seasonings were waiting for her. The pantry hadn't been forgotten, bursting with spices, crackers, and every possible type of oil, flour, and sugar she would ever wish to use.

With a fond smile dancing on her lips, Marinette wrote a quick list of the supplies she would need to feed her silly kitty over the course of the next week, marveling once again at the apparent infinite kindness of her partner. Why would he go out of his way like this for a girl he hadn't seen in years?

The idea that he was ready to go to such lengths for a long-lost friend made her heart clench painfully in her chest out of longing. Because if she was entirely honest with herself, Marinette wanted more out of their relationship. Way more. She was done hiding behind masks, done playing games. Yet, this recent development had thrown some sand in the gears. How could she reveal herself to him now? He would know what a complete failure she was, would know she had kissed him out of sheer selfishness, would know she had been on the receiving end of his kindness without offering anything back.

No. Keeping her identity to herself, at least up until she could manage to look in the mirror again, was a safer bargain.

She was almost done with her grocery list when her phone chimed on the countertop beside her.

Alya: Please. Let's just talk. Nothing else, I promise. No questions. I just need to see you to make sure you're alright.

Marinette groaned. One would think that if someone wasn't answering your calls and texts for a week, one would give up until that person is ready to reach back. Not Alya. She kept trying, again and again, all while Marinette hesitated. On one hand, she really wanted to avoid revisiting all the issues they had, much less having to explain her new living arrangement. But another part of her, the one that was currently lonely and lost, wanted her best friend back, no matter the cost.

So she shook her head and grabbed her phone before she could change her mind.

Marinette: I'm free around noon.

Alya: Works for me. Usual spot?

That was how Marinette found herself sitting in the café they liked to frequent, nervously sipping on a vanilla latte.

Alya came in right on time, taking a seat in front of her best friend without even bothering to order a drink but not before wrapping her arms around Marinette in a tight hug.

"Okay," Alya said in a soft voice, "I know we have a bunch of things to talk through, and we'll come to it, but first I wanna know if you're safe. A little birdie told me you were sleeping in your office, and I won't let—"

"I was," Marinette cut her rambling short. She knew she had worried Alya sick, that her famous mama bear instincts had kicked in the second Marinette had walked out the apartment. "But I'm not anymore."

"What?" Alya squealed. "Are you homeless? Where is all your stuff? Hang on, I'm going to call Nino and—"

"Alya, stop." Marinette smiled softly to herself, her heart warming up despite herself thinking of her current living arrangements. "I'm staying at a friend's place, that's all you need to know for the time being."

Her best friend eyed her critically, from head to toe. "Who? I know for a fact that you aren't staying with Rose and Juleka or Mylene. Who else could you stay with?"

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you more than that right now," Marinette sighed. "But it's not someone you know personally, and I really can't say anything."

"Are you sure you can trust this new roommate of yours? How come I have never heard of them before? This whole 'can't tell' sounds a bit fishy, don't you think?"

Marinette sipped on her latte, a fond smile spread on her lips. "I trust him with my life, Al. And he's not living with me, he just lent me somewhere to stay until I get back on my feet."

"So this mysterious friend is a he. Mari, you can't possibly be that naive. He'll expect something in return."

"No. Don't worry, Alya. Not him. He already has someone in his life, anyway."

Marinette could almost picture Tikki rolling her eyes in her purse upon hearing those words, and she had to repress a giggle. In front of her, Alya merely frowned, looking at her friend intently.

At last, seemingly reaching a decision, Alya sighed, "Look, I'm sorry, Mari. I should've realized you were stressed out much more than you let on, and instead of supporting you like a best friend should, I just yelled at you and kept putting pressure on you."

"You've had stuff going on too, with the wedding and everything," Marinette said softly.

Her best friend huffed, looking down at her clasped hands in her lap. "That's no excuse. You clearly needed someone to lean on, and I failed you. Marinette, please come back to the apartment, it's yours as much as it's mine."

The young woman couldn't help the smile that spread on her lips. This was the Alya she knew and loved. The one taking charge of everything, making sure everything was alright, caring for her friends more than herself.

"I can't, Al. You and Nino are gonna be married in a few months, I'm not gonna third-wheel you guys forever. I'm going to be fine."

The frown still lingering on Alya's face was eloquent on its own. She was still worried sick about her friend, worries that had been growing for quite a long time now. "Why don't you quit that sinking job then? Everyone's quitting; it's all over the newspapers."

"I can't quit." Marinette tried to ignore the knot tying her throat up, focusing on explaining herself, at last giving some sort of sense to her actions. "I didn't complete my degree at ESMOD, if you recall. Gabriel pulled me out of school midway, said it was a waste of time and money, that he'd show me everything I'd need to know. And without a degree, I don't really have a bright future unless I prove myself with this new collection—"

"And with him gone that's your only option," Alya ended for her. "Okay. So there's a dude at work that owes me a big favour for conveniently forgetting to mention to his wife he lost his wedding band. I might be able to score you a four-page spread covering the next Gabriel fashion show. Do you think there might be a way to have the months you spent working for Gabriel recognized by ESMOD? I mean, you have paychecks to prove your experience, and definitely the skills to own up to it. Whose ass do I have to kick or kiss to get you your degree?"

Marinette lifted wet eyes toward her friend. Alya had always had her back, through thick and thin, and for a minute, she wondered how she could have let herself forget that. At a loss for words, she ultimately mumbled weakly, "Why would you even help me?"

Alya scoffed, looking at her best friend disbelievingly. "You're my best friend, Mari, and I love you to pieces. Obviously I'm gonna help you tear yourself out of that dump."

***

That same day Marinette stood outside of Adrien's office, sighing softly to herself.

After her talk with Alya, she had devised a bunch of things she had to take care of right away to salvage what was left of her name.

And Gabriel's women's line was among them.

Clutching the heavy folder to her chest, Marinette raised her fist and landed two sharp knocks on the door, her heart beating heavily within her ribcage.

"Come in," Adrien's familiar voice compelled her, tossing all of her worries aside. No matter how she felt, no matter how hurt and lost she was, Gabriel Agreste was gone and there was no one who could help her right now but herself. She had to carry on his legacy and in the process help herself even if it meant dealing with a man she'd rather not even see right now. All that was needed was to be a professional, and that she was.

Taking in a hefty breath, she pushed the heavy door. "Good evening, M Agreste."

"Marinette?" Adrien blinked. He seemed a bit tired. "What can I help you with?"

"I have a favour to ask of you."

Adrien straightened up in his chair, staring at her curiously. He seemed to search his words for a few seconds, before replying disbelievingly, "A favour from me?"

If they were still friends Marinette would almost certainly have giggled, seeing his dumbstruck face, how his hand was still clutching the pen that had halted its course on the paper. But as of now, they weren't, so her face remained emotionless. Yet, for the first time since crossing paths with him again, she really paid attention to him. Saw the dark circles underlining his familiar green eyes behind his glasses. Saw how his hair was wildly swept back, sticking out in every direction. Saw how wrinkled his shirt was, saw how poorly his tie knot had been done.

He looked exhausted, at his wits' end.

He looked broken. Just like her.

Immediately Marinette shook those thoughts away. She was here on a mission, and couldn't let wandering thoughts distract her.

"I need some papers from your father's office in order to proceed with some of the designs. Would you be kind enough to retrieve them for me?"

If he looked surprised a minute before, now Adrien was looking completely dumbfounded. "You have full access to his office at any given time, why would you need me for something like this?"

Shaking her head, Marinette pushed the heavy file on his desk. She couldn't help but notice physics exams scattered through legal documents in front of him. "The designs I need are most likely kept in his personal office at the mansion. I scoured his entire office here without any success."

"The mansion?" Adrien's eyes widened. For a moment he remained silent before quietly adding. "I'm sorry, Marinette, ask me anything but this. I haven't been there since I moved out."

"Maybe you could send someone trustworthy on your behalf then?" She sighed. This conversation wasn't going in the direction she would've liked. "Listen, I understand that going back there might be hard for you emotionally, but those last few designs were the best pieces of the line. If I want to succeed, I need them."

Adrien stared at her for what felt like an eternity. "You need them that much?"

"Desperately."

Raking his hands through his hair, Adrien dropped his pen on the desk beside him and pulled the file she had given him closer. "So, those are the designs you need?" he asked quietly, the traces of uncertainty still lingering in his eyes.

"Yes, those are only preliminary sketches I drew for him in a creative meeting. He should have the final designs with all the specs in his personal files. If I want to meet the deadlines, I need those files. I can't start over from scratch on time."

"Alright," Adrien sighed softly, "I'll get them for you. If they're really in that office, you'll have your designs first thing Monday morning."

A sigh of relief escaped Marinette's lips as his lips twitched into a tiny smile. At that moment she clearly understood that this was an olive branch, offered to her to try and make peace between them after years of a feud that had lasted way too long. She wasn't sure, though, if she was ready to accept it yet.

As she reached forward, shaking his hand firmly while thanking him as professionally as she could, Marinette couldn't help but suddenly wonder if a teenager's mistake was worth ostracizing an adult who had just suffered the loss of his last relative and had had a withering fashion empire thrust upon him without warning, an empire he neither asked for nor wanted to deal with. Walking out of that office, she also found herself thinking that even if she wasn't quite ready to forgive him his past cruel actions, maybe, just maybe, Adrien Agreste wasn't as horrible as she thought he was.

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#miraculous ladybug #adrienette #marichat #aged up #ml fanfiction #the other you #myart #my art

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