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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months

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How finfluencers destroyed the housing and lives of thousands of people

For the rest of May, my bestselling solarpunk utopian novel THE LOST CAUSE (2023) is available as a $2.99, DRM-free ebook!

The crash of 2008 imparted many lessons to those of us who were only dimly aware of finance, especially the problems of complexity as a way of disguising fraud and recklessness. That was really the first lesson of 2008: "financial engineering" is mostly a way of obscuring crime behind a screen of technical jargon.

This is a vital principle to keep in mind, because obscenely well-resourced "financial engineers" are on a tireless, perennial search for opportunities to disguise fraud as innovation. As Riley Quinn says, "Any time you hear 'fintech,' substitute 'unlicensed bank'":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/01/usury/#tech-exceptionalism

But there's another important lesson to learn from the 2008 disaster, a lesson that's as old as the South Seas Bubble: "leverage" (that is, debt) is a force multiplier for fraud. Easy credit for financial speculation turns local scams into regional crime waves; it turns regional crime into national crises; it turns national crises into destabilizing global meltdowns.

When financial speculators have easy access to credit, they "lever up" their wagers. A speculator buys your house and uses it for collateral for a loan to buy another house, then they make a bet using that house as collateral and buy a third house, and so on. This is an obviously terrible practice and lenders who extend credit on this basis end up riddling the real economy with rot – a single default in the chain can ripple up and down it and take down a whole neighborhood, town or city. Any time you see this behavior in debt markets, you should batten your hatches for the coming collapse. Unsurprisingly, this is very common in crypto speculation, where it's obscured behind the bland, unpronounceable euphemism of "re-hypothecation":

https://www.coindesk.com/consensus-magazine/2023/05/10/rehypothecation-may-be-common-in-traditional-finance-but-it-will-never-work-with-bitcoin/

Loose credit markets often originate with central banks. The dogma that holds that the only role the government has to play in tuning the economy is in setting interest rates at the Fed means the answer to a cooling economy is cranking down the prime rate, meaning that everyone earns less money on their savings and are therefore incentivized to go and risk their retirement playing at Wall Street's casino.

The "zero interest rate policy" shows what happens when this tactic is carried out for long enough. When the economy is built upon mountains of low-interest debt, when every business, every stick of physical plant, every car and every home is leveraged to the brim and cross-collateralized with one another, central bankers have to keep interest rates low. Raising them, even a little, could trigger waves of defaults and blow up the whole economy.

Holding interest rates at zero – or even flipping them to negative, so that your savings lose value every day you refuse to flush them into the finance casino – results in still more reckless betting, and that results in even more risk, which makes it even harder to put interest rates back up again.

This is a morally and economically complicated phenomenon. On the one hand, when the government provides risk-free bonds to investors (that is, when the Fed rate is over 0%), they're providing "universal basic income for people with money." If you have money, you can park it in T-Bills (Treasury bonds) and the US government will give you more money:

https://realprogressives.org/mmp-blog-34-responses/

On the other hand, while T-Bills exist and are foundational to the borrowing picture for speculators, ZIRP creates free debt for people with money – it allows for ever-greater, ever-deadlier forms of leverage, with ever-worsening consequences for turning off the tap. As 2008 forcibly reminded us, the vast mountains of complex derivatives and other forms of exotic debt only seems like an abstraction. In reality, these exotic financial instruments are directly tethered to real things in the real economy, and when the faery gold disappears, it takes down your home, your job, your community center, your schools, and your whole country's access to cancer medication:

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2012/jun/08/greek-drug-shortage-worsens

Being a billionaire automatically lowers your IQ by 30 points, as you are insulated from the consequences of your follies, lapses, prejudices and superstitions. As @[email protected] says, Elon Musk is what Howard Hughes would have turned into if he hadn't been a recluse:

https://mamot.fr/@[email protected]/112457199729198644

The same goes for financiers during periods of loose credit. Loose Fed money created an "everything bubble" that saw the prices of every asset explode, from housing to stocks, from wine to baseball cards. When every bet pays off, you win the game by betting on everything:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Everything_bubble

That meant that the ZIRPocene was an era in which ever-stupider people were given ever-larger sums of money to gamble with. This was the golden age of the "finfluencer" – a Tiktok dolt with a surefire way for you to get rich by making reckless bets that endanger the livelihoods, homes and wellbeing of your neighbors.

Finfluencers are dolts, but they're also dangerous. Writing for The American Prospect, the always-amazing Maureen Tkacik describes how a small clutch of passive-income-brainworm gurus created a financial weapon of mass destruction, buying swathes of apartment buildings and then destroying them, ruining the lives of their tenants, and their investors:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2024-05-22-hell-underwater-landlord/

Tcacik's main characters are Matt Picheny, Brent Ritchie and Koteswar “Jay” Gajavelli, who ran a scheme to flip apartment buildings, primarily in Houston, America's fastest growing metro, which also boasts some of America's weakest protections for tenants. These finance bros worked through Gajavelli's company Applesway Investment Group, which levered up his investors' money with massive loans from Arbor Realty Trust, who also originated loans to many other speculators and flippers.

For investors, the scheme was a classic heads-I-win/tails-you-lose: Gajavelli paid himself a percentage of the price of every building he bought, a percentage of monthly rental income, and a percentage of the resale price. This is typical of the "syndicating" sector, which raised $111 billion on this basis:

https://www.wsj.com/articles/a-housing-bust-comes-for-thousands-of-small-time-investors-3934beb3

Gajavelli and co bought up whole swathes of Houston and other cities, apartment blocks both modest and luxurious, including buildings that had already been looted by previous speculators. As interest rates crept up and the payments for the adjustable-rate loans supporting these investments exploded, Gajavell's Applesway and its subsidiary LLCs started to stiff their suppliers. Garbage collection dwindled, then ceased. Water outages became common – first weekly, then daily. Community rooms and pools shuttered. Lawns grew to waist-high gardens of weeds, fouled with mounds of fossil dogshit. Crime ran rampant, including murders. Buildings filled with rats and bedbugs. Ceilings caved in. Toilets backed up. Hallways filled with raw sewage:

https://pluralistic.net/timberridge

Meanwhile, the value of these buildings was plummeting, and not just because of their terrible condition – the whole market was cooling off, in part thanks to those same interest-rate hikes. Because the loans were daisy-chained, problems with a single building threatened every building in the portfolio – and there were problems with a lot more than one building.

This ruination wasn't limited to Gajavelli's holdings. Arbor lent to multiple finfluencer grifters, providing the leverage for every Tiktok dolt to ruin a neighborhood of their choosing. Arbor's founder, the "flamboyant" Ivan Kaufman, is associated with a long list of bizarre pop-culture and financial freak incidents. These have somehow eclipsed his scandals, involving – you guessed it – buying up apartment buildings and turning them into dangerous slums. Two of his buildings in Hyattsville, MD accumulated 2,162 violations in less than three years.

Arbor graduated from owning slums to creating them, lending out money to grifters via a "crowdfunding" platform that rooked retail investors into the scam, taking advantage of Obama-era deregulation of "qualified investor" restrictions to sucker unsophisticated savers into handing over money that was funneled to dolts like Gajavelli. Arbor ran the loosest book in town, originating mortgages that wouldn't pass the (relatively lax) criteria of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. This created an ever-enlarging pool of apartments run by dolts, without the benefit of federal insurance. As one short-seller's report on Arbor put it, they were the origin of an epidemic of "Slumlord Millionaires":

https://viceroyresearch.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/11/Arbor-Slumlord-Millionaires-Jan-8-2023.pdf

The private equity grift is hard to understand from the outside, because it appears that a bunch of sober-sided, responsible institutions lose out big when PE firms default on their loans. But the story of the Slumlord Millionaires shows how such a scam could be durable over such long timescales: remember that the "syndicating" sector pays itself giant amounts of money whether it wins or loses. The consider that they finance this with investor capital from "crowdfunding" platforms that rope in naive investors. The owners of these crowdfunding platforms are conduits for the money to make the loans to make the bets – but it's not their money. Quite the contrary: they get a fee on every loan they originate, and a share of the interest payments, but they're not on the hook for loans that default. Heads they win, tails we lose.

In other words, these crooks are intermediaries – they're platforms. When you're on the customer side of the platform, it's easy to think that your misery benefits the sellers on the platform's other side. For example, it's easy to believe that as your Facebook feed becomes enshittified with ads, that advertisers are the beneficiaries of this enshittification.

But the reason you're seeing so many ads in your feed is that Facebook is also ripping off advertisers: charging them more, spending less to police ad-fraud, being sloppier with ad-targeting. If you're not paying for the product, you're the product. But if you are paying for the product? You're still the product:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/04/how-to-truth/#adfraud

In the same way: the private equity slumlord who raises your rent, loads up on junk fees, and lets your building disintegrate into a crime-riddled, sewage-tainted, rat-infested literal pile of garbage is absolutely fucking you over. But they're also fucking over their investors. They didn't buy the building with their own money, so they're not on the hook when it's condemned or when there's a forced sale. They got a share of the initial sale price, they get a percentage of your rental payments, so any upside they miss out on from a successful sale is just a little extra they're not getting. If they squeeze you hard enough, they can probably make up the difference.

The fact that this criminal playbook has wormed its way into every corner of the housing market makes it especially urgent and visible. Housing – shelter – is a human right, and no person can thrive without a stable home. The conversion of housing, from human right to speculative asset, has been a catastrophe:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/06/the-rents-too-damned-high/

Of course, that's not the only "asset class" that has been enshittified by private equity looters. They love any kind of business that you must patronize. Capitalists hate capitalism, so they love a captive audience, which is why PE took over your local nursing home and murdered your gran:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/23/acceptable-losses/#disposable-olds

Homes are the last asset of the middle class, and the grifter class know it, so they're coming for your house. Willie Sutton robbed banks because "that's where the money is" and We Buy Ugly Houses defrauds your parents out of their family home because that's where their money is:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/11/ugly-houses-ugly-truth/#homevestor

The plague of housing speculation isn't a US-only phenomenon. We have allies in Spain who are fighting our Wall Street landlords:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/24/no-puedo-pagar-no-pagara/#fuckin-aardvarks

Also in Berlin:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/08/16/die-miete-ist-zu-hoch/#assets-v-human-rights

The fight for decent housing is the fight for a decent world. That's why unions have joined the fight for better, de-financialized housing. When a union member spends two hours commuting every day from a black-mold-filled apartment that costs 50% of their paycheck, they suffer just as surely as if their boss cut their wage:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/13/i-want-a-roof-over-my-head/#and-bread-on-the-table

The solutions to our housing crises aren't all that complicated – they just run counter to the interests of speculators and the ruling class. Rent control, which neoliberal economists have long dismissed as an impossible, inevitable disaster, actually works very well:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/16/mortgages-are-rent-control/#housing-is-a-human-right-not-an-asset

As does public housing:

https://jacobin.com/2023/10/red-vienna-public-affordable-housing-homelessness-matthew-yglesias

There are ways to have a decent home and a decent life without being burdened with debt, and without being a pawn in someone else's highly leveraged casino bet.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/22/koteswar-jay-gajavelli/#if-you-ever-go-to-houston

Image: Boy G/Google Maps (modified) https://pluralistic.net/timberridge

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pennylanewrites · 7 months

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thinking about boyf!reiner

a/n: i’ve been writing this for FIVE days. five days for half a page. fuck me. also, nsfw. minors dni.

new reiner piece // aot masterlist

reiner wants you sitting on his lap at all times. watching a movie, sitting on the beach, just hanging around the house. he has to have his arms around you and his chin resting on your shoulder, but it always leads to a painful hard-on. the only exception he has is around other people, because he’s not sure if he can contain himself from ripping your clothes off right then and there.

it’s game night at yours and reiner’s apartment, and you are beyond bored. lain on the couch, you watched as your boyfriend lost more and more money to porco. you walked up to the table and leaned against reiner’s broad shoulders, bringing your hands over his chest.

“royal flush.” reiner threw his cards on the wooden surface, earning groans from the rest as they tossed their money at him.

“maybe you should stay here, y/n.” zeke chuckled, the smoke blowing from his mouth obscuring your view. “that’s his first win.”

“guess i’m your lucky charm.” you leaned forward to leave a kiss on reiner’s cheek, smiling against it.

it was zeke’s move and he always took his time deciding, making everyone around the table agitated. you guessed it was his tactic.

you headed for the kitchen, getting the whiskey bottle to refill your boyfriend’s drink. after you did, you pushed his torso back and sat on his extended leg. out of habit, he wrapped his big arm around your stomach, bringing you flush to his chest.

you shuffled on reiner’s lap until you settled against his confined cock. his hands tightening around your waist made you squirm, earning a low grunt against your ear.

“i know what you’re doing.” he whispered.

“i’m supporting my boyfriend.” you turned to smile innocently at him, pressing your ass against his cock until you felt it respond.

“i’ll fuck you right on this table if you don’t stop.” his cheeks were turning red and his knuckles white as he gripped your hips.

you didn’t stop.

your back arched off the wooden surface, the plastic casino chips stabbing into your bare skin as reiner fucked into you roughly.

“rei, slower!” you whined, struggling to take his girthy cock. he leaned down, caging you between his muscly arms.

“you wanted to play games in front of my friends, didn’t you?” he pushed your head to the side, biting the soft skin of your neck. “embarrassing me.” his words were accentuated with rough thrusts, pushing you further against the table.

“i’m sorry!” you cried out. you looked down to where your bodies met, the imprint of his cockhead rhythmic against your stomach like a heartbeat. “reiner, please.” you whined, another orgasm escaping you, painting his cock white. he pulled out, eyes growing wide at the creamy ring around the base of his shaft.

“just like that, baby.” his voice strained, and he lifted your body up. you wrapped your legs and arms around his torso, and he settled his hands under your thighs, lifting you off the table. the veins on his arms flashed under the low light as he bounced you on his cock.

“rei rei,” you whined, a tear escaping your eye. your moans filled the empty apartment, and reiner had to slap a hand against your mouth.

“you asked for this, didn’t you?” you nodded frantically. “so take it.”

#aot x reader #aot smut #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader smut #attack on titan smut #reiner braun x reader #reiner braun x reader smut #reiner x reader smut #reiner x reader #reiner smut #reiner braun smut #not sfw #shingeki no kyojin x reader #shingeki no kyojin smut #snk smut #snk x reader smut

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green-eyedfirework · 6 months

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There were few places Slade hated as much as the Upper Eastern Seaboard. New York City, Bludhaven, and Gotham—all stinking cesspits of cities, all with too many heroes to be healthy, and, most unfortunately, all thriving with crime.

Once, just once, couldn’t someone pay him to murder someone in Hawaii? A nice, easy vacation in the middle of the Pacific, some actual fucking sunshine, air that doesn’t smell like a rotting dumpster… But no. Instead, Slade gets the scent of decomposed fish over brine, neon, garish lights, and the shallow, glitzy, faded glamor of Bludhaven.

Party cities are the fucking worst.

Not for his job, no, it makes his job very easy as he tracks down a Mr. Winston Cokewell to the Palais, a mid-range casino and hotel that is definitely owned by someone on the wrong side of the law, if the guards and their nonstandard guns are any indication.

Slade cases the building, noting multiple entry points but also multiple guards—Cokewell isn’t major enough a player to have his own security, and given his client’s discretion, is probably unaware that there’s a contract on his head. But Slade has no doubt that the moment he steps into that casino, every criminal in this city is going to know that Deathstroke’s here.

People tend to get a bit twitchy when he shows up. Can’t imagine why.

Luckily for him, there isn’t a business in this city without fingers in multiple pies, and it was easy enough to rustle up an invitation to the underground auction taking place the floor below the casino. Slade casts a glance across the rooftops on habit, making sure there’s no costumed hero trying to sneak up on him, and descends to the alleyway behind the casino.

As predicted, the guards freeze at the sight of him. One grabs his gun, wide-eyed, the other just looks terrified as he stalks towards the back entrance. “I believe I’m on the guest list,” Slade said, fully suited up and mask on. If he was in charge of security, he’d never let someone in without confirming their identity, but the two guards look relieved that they don’t have to stop him and just wave him inside.

Amateurs. Slade reminds himself that it makes his job easier, and lets it go.

The stairs leading down would be dark to a normal human’s eyes, and the corridor he emerges in shadowed and gloomy. There’s several people standing there—his target is nowhere to be seen, but half of Bludhaven’s underworld is milling around in tight-knit groups.

“Mr. Deathstroke!” the host exclaims, placing himself into Slade’s path, “I wasn’t—we didn’t know if you were going to make it—this truly is a wonderful surprise—we’re so very honored—”

Slade can recognize a stalling tactic when he sees one. “What happened,” he growls flatly.

“Ah, we’re just—just slightly behind time—nothing to worry about—we’ll be underway soon—”

Slade makes a clipped, unamused sound to cut him off. The host looks ready to disappear through the floor. “I don’t appreciate people wasting my time,” Slade says shortly.

“Of—of course, Mr. Deathstroke—we’re really very sorry—if there’s anything we can get for you while you wait—”

“I’ll find something to amuse myself with,” Slade strides past him, ignoring his spluttering to duck down a side corridor. Like he cares whether this auction is delayed or not. This is a great opportunity to eliminate his target, and Slade efficiently slips out of his Deathstroke gear and into a more conventional suit, slipping on a pair of sunglasses before he heads up to the casino.

It’s laughably easy to complete his contract.

Cokewell is drunk, the casino security is clearly more focused on what’s happening below him, and it’s child’s play to crack Cokewell’s head against the bathroom counter and leave the mess behind for the next guest to find. His contract specified a natural-looking death, with his involvement as hidden as possible.

One drunk guy slipping and hitting his head in the bathroom, done and done. Slade retreating back downstairs, avoiding security cameras, getting back in his Deathstroke armor and creeping through now-empty corridors to reach the auction room, also done. He’ll stick around as long as it takes to establish his alibi, and then he’s out of here.

The auction’s already begun, and Slade’s distaste for this garbage fire of a city sinks even deeper as he realizes just what they’re selling. Or who. Human trafficking, how very original. Slade suppresses his groan and slinks deeper into the shadows. If this night was interrupted by a Bat or two, he’d call it an improvement.

Though, come to think of it, it is surprising that he’s seen neither hide nor hair of the little bluebird tonight.

~#~

Everything feels…woozy. Like he’s underwater, blinking and blinking and never able to clear his eyes. The floor sways underneath him, rumbling with the voice of too many people, and he can’t help the stifled shriek as the red-tinged darkness is yanked away, leaving him under the harsh glare of stage lights.

“And now, my fellow compatriots, the item you’ve all been waiting for…the thorn in all our sides…our very own little Bat, Nightwing!”

No, no, no. He’s not a Bat, not anymore, Robin, Robin and Batman, the great partnership that ended, and any hope Dick had that he could go back was dashed by the photos of the new black-haired, blue-eyed child trotting at Bruce’s side.

He’s not a Bat. He’s a bird, and he’s been caught, and he’s staring out through cage bars at a blurry, seething audience of people yelling out crude insults.

Something in his stomach churns unpleasantly.

“Let’s start the bidding at a hundred thousand.”

Oh, fuck.

This isn’t the first time he’s been captured, or the first time he’s been drugged with something that makes him feel like a limp, overcooked noodle, or the first time he’s listened to people haggling over him like he’s a thing and not a person.

It’s the first time he’s been alone, though.

No Batgirl to give him the intel that the traffickers had cottoned onto him and had laid a trap. No Agent A tracking his location and vitals. No Batman speeding through the Batmobile for a rescue. No, Dick’s alone and no one is coming.

“Do I hear five hundred thousand? Five hundred thousand for Nightwing!”

#my snippets #sladick #auction #slade picks up a souvenir on his trip

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absolute-flaming-trash · 1 year

Note

A date with Chrollo in the casino sounds awful, please write it hahaha

Heheheh as you wish, I love this concept.

Warnings: Implied forced relationship, Implied future robbery, Chrollo being a condescending ass.

Word Count: 407

You knew with Chrollo nothing was truly what it seemed.

Nothing was surface level. Ever. So when he handed you the dress that was undoubtedly tailor-made and told you to get ready for the evening, you immediately knew whatever he had in mind wasn’t just for the sake of a night out.

“Normally I’d say you’re not one for subtlety, but here you’re outdoing yourself.”

Looking at Chrollo from the corner of your eye, you could see his lips quirk up for a moment. He kept his hand on the small of your back as he led you further into the building.

“What makes you say that?”

“A casino, Chrollo? Really?”

“What about it?”

You shook your head and looked around the open space, noting the layout of tables and slot machines, knowing Chrollo was doing the same. You hummed lowly. “Never took you as one for gambling.”

“Not so much gambling when you know the skill involved in it.

You sighed. For the love of god…

“Many of these machines are designed to give people false hope that their next bet will win them the big jackpot they’re so desperate for, when really the best hope for such an outcome lies in the table games.”

“Any fool with chips knows that much, Chrollo.”

He glanced at you from the side. “Yes, however most still believe that their hands are blind luck rather than tactics.”

“Spoken like a true gambler.”

That earned a small chuckle as he led you in the direction of the tables he spoke of. You clicked your tongue when you saw the game he intended for you to play.

“Not sure if I should be insulted or amused.”

“Oh?” The hand on the small of your back wrapped around your waist and pulled you closer to him. “In what way?”

“Blackjack is the easiest of the table games out there, anybody with half a brain could understand it.” The words left you before you could stop yourself when you looked back up at him. “You’re going to get a better idea of where the money lies in this place if you have me play Texas Hold-Em.”

You arched a brow. “Or do you truly consider me that much of a novice?”

His was expression was blank for a moment - a fleeting display where his true, calculating self peaked through the public facade.

Then, he smiled again.

“Spoken like a true gambler, my dear.”

#riri writes #900 followers event #Chrollo x Reader #Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader #Chrollo #Chrollo Lucilfer #Hunter x Hunter #HxH #tw forced relationship

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amywritesthings · 2 years

Text

about you. (cassian x you)

Pairing: Cassian Andor x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.6K

Summary: You are a rebel spy working as an escort at Canto Bight's cliffside casino. When Luthen cannot meet you for an intel exchange on New Year's Eve, he sends his best asset. Never in your wildest dreams did you think that meant you'd reunite with your former childhood best friend, Cassian Andor.

Warnings: New Year's Eve, Spy Thriller, Escort Service, Romantic Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Reunions, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Mentions of Sex Work, Wall Pinning, New Year's Eve Kiss

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! I had a fun holiday one shot idea and wanted to try my hand at writing Cassian Andor. I am wishing you all a happy & healthy new year, and I can't wait to continue writing in 2023.

( Read on AO3 )

Canto Bight is always bustling at New Year’s Eve.

It’s why Luthen Rael has shown up on your doorstep for the first time in months. In his not-so subtle way, the man requests (see: demands) that you float back to your old haunt, the one within the glittering halls of their monument cliffside casino, and do what you do you best: entertain as a partner experience escort for the rich and powerful.

The partner experience operation has been your designation from the very beginning of this rebellious calling. Your contribution to the rebellion, as he claims, is valuable — because the whispers in the night by decorated Imperials that feel safe in your company are priceless.

Whispers bring intel, and not even gold is as priceless as Imperial intel.

Luthen claims he knew of your potential the moment he laid eyes on you in a seedy dive bar on an Outer Rim moon. The little lamb far from her home planet Ferrix, looking fearful yet enraged all the same; starved, but most importantly willing to do anything to take down the Empire one domino at a time.

It was the type of spunk the older man needed in a claustrophobic world.

So you struck a deal: under trained supervision, you would run the casino circuits and red districts — never quite getting close enough to sleeping with the enemy (who knew the Empire thrived on humiliation and edging?) but enough to drug them, learn from them, then report back to him for the next move.

Rinse and repeat for six successful years.

And right now, you were supposed to be done. Find a small shack in the middle of nowhere knowing you did your part in the small but mighty agenda. Perhaps, eventually, you would find a way to make peace with your past and your present.

Then Luthen fucking Rael shows up at the stoop of said shack only six months later with a new opportunity.

A new strategy on the chess board.

(The rebellion, as he so candidly puts it, is never final.)

“Did you hear about what’s going on with Life Day this year on Canto Bight?” Luthen grunts, opting to stand by the doorway rather than a seat at your makeshift kitchen table.

You drop down unceremoniously with your arms at your sides. You know — and you know he knows — there is a blaster taped on the belly of the steel table should this be an unpleasant visit.

“You mean the Wookie holiday?”

“Hmm,” Luthen sounds, caught between a yes and a no. “Supposed to be the Wookie holiday, but it seems the Empire has allowed the casino a profitable chance to participate until the new year.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” you muse in return, surveying him. “When you say profitable, you mean—”

“Everyone who is anyone will be visiting.” Luthen never makes any sudden movements; always trapped sounding bored with this life he leads. It’s also a tactic not to play his cards too far from his chest. “They’ll be running the gambit for paid time off.”

Smile bland, you nod once. “Which is code for… you need someone on the inside.”

“For the season,” he agrees, shifting his weight. “A gift to the faces who may have missed you.”

“Missed me?”

“I hear about the Diamond quite a lot.”

Their precious Diamond.

Maker, that nickname always made your skin crawl.

You huff, rubbing your nose with the back of your thumb. “Flattery gets you nowhere with me, Luthen, you know that.”

He takes a pause, small eyes observing everything that you do. Updating a mental database logging your quirks and your discomfort to cipher for a later date — that’s all he’s ever done, study and download people, and he’s done so without error yet.

(It’s why he’s never been caught.)

“It isn’t flattery,” he finally says. “It’s an opportunity.”

To do everything we couldn’t the first time, is what he really implies.

It’s feeding an addiction no amount of dead fascists will be able to quench.

“And how do I tell them why I want the job back after I quit?”

“Your mother was very ill. You needed to help with her expenses,” Luthen fabricates from thin air. “It was easiest to part ways without the low note on your record. But the credits have dried up, and their clientele will be thankful of the casino’s decision to allow you back on the floor.”

It’s your turn to pause — to study. He gives away nothing. You lean forward to rest your elbows on the tops of your thighs.

“You think that’ll work?”

“You’ll sell it,” is all he gives back like you’ve already said yes.

You’re supposed to be out.

(Do you want to be out?)

No.

No, you don’t.

Getting the job back at the casino as a specialized escort is easy. The difficulty lies in remembering how to fall into old, subtle habits when all you want to do is cause chaos. Staying engaged while chatting up Imperial scum as they spittle in their expensive liquors and moan about the woes of their occupations and agenda can only go on for so long.

Yet you laugh with the rest of them once they’re kissing your feet and your hands, because everyone in this rebellion has a part to play.

(Our loveliest of diamonds, back to see us once again.)

Luthen, of course, never leaves you to your own devices for long. Gifting a hefty sum of credits and a bag of dissolvable sedatives every time he passes through Canto Bight as his alter ego is about as noble as the illusive man gets.

You fill small briefcases with voice memos and holovideos of nightly conversations, drunken manifestos and slippery plans.

It works.

By some miracle, you have never been caught.

New Year’s Eve is filled to the brim with Imperial guards enjoying time off from their grueling schedules. Some of the higher commanding officers already have their arms draped over people inviting them to a great time. Others chase after the debauchery promised by scantily clad creatures inviting them into the halls and out of their money.

You? Have a booking in advance: a high-ranking officer, but not within the Inner Circle.

According to Luther, he’s a valuable asset double-crossing their superiors.

A plant.

You are to deliver the intel to him under Luthen’s command and trust.

(Ironic. You always believed Luthen trusted no one.)

At the final half hour of the year’s end, you round the corner from the main entertainment room and down the hallway towards the private event spaces. A multitude of sounds are muffled by the doors — some good, some not so. Your focus is set on the twelfth door where your officer awaits, and suddenly you feel nervous all over again.

Meeting one of Luthen’s other operatives feels all too daunting.

After a moment, you place your code into the code box by the door and wait for the durasteel to slide, revealing the plush crimson meeting space. It's staged with a convenient king-sized bed and a vanity for refreshment, inviting comfort and suggesting the obvious.

What greets you as the door opens — a silhouette at the edge of the bed, dressed in Imperial formals — is not what you envisioned.

The man’s hair is what you notice first: disheveled brown locks are combed back neatly, smoothed by gel to keep the unruliness at bay. The jacket’s shoulders are a little too pointed, as if he’s not grown into his uniform quite yet — or like he’d stolen it on his way into the venue. The lines on his faces aren’t new, but aren’t old. He’s tired — so fucking tired, but he sits taller the second the door opens.

The blank expression on his face is purposeful, almost doe-eyed, with a feigned, smug-like innocence only an Imperial officer would wear.

Then his gaze travels from your open-toed shoes, up your bodysuit dress of sequins, and locks onto your face.

Just like that, the façade is broken.

What once was blank now hardens, wholly confused, before the lines on his prominent brow smooth with recognition.

Cassian.

Of all the idiots in all the galaxy, Cassian Andor is dressed as an Imp in your meeting space on the eve of the new year.

And you thought, with this rebellion, that you’d seen everything.

While the officer in disguise is much older than what your memory recalls, you could never forget that face even if the Empire tried. The feeling of dirt under your fingernails, the scent of rubber burning, the spark of an electric charge from a stolen piece of property — it all floods back in a tidal wave, almost knocking you a step back into the hallway.

On Ferrix, Cassian Andor always ran around with different people — sometimes it was Bix when she wasn’t punished for entertaining teen scoundrels; sometimes it was other boys in scrappy brawls and mended machinery; most of the time, however, it was you.

Hand and hand, causing mayhem in the bright suns and the full moons. He'd shown you what it meant to stand up for yourself. To want what you want and not apologize for it. To be bold, even at the expense of disruption.

And then he’d pummel whatever wayward eye looked at you the wrong way.

Trouble.

Cassian Andor was so much trouble, and you were mad for it.

Your last memory of him is as vivid as the neon lights lining the ceiling: you're both sixteen years old and shoulder-to-shoulder on an inclined metal slab, staring up at the stars. He's wearing that jacket from his father and hasn't combed his hair in days. You're lost in telling him about your dreams of a better tomorrow, of one day leaving Ferrix for good and making a difference in the vastness of the galaxy despite how small you feel. He laughs, a hum more than anything else, and takes your hand in his.

You're too afraid to squeeze back.

Having Cassian poke fun of the idea of doing much of anything in the galaxy never felt like he mocked you for wanting to try. More than anything, his laugh was one of envy: he couldn’t afford dreams, so you dreamt for the both of you. He couldn’t handle intimacy, so you were satisfied with resting your hand in his the entire night.

Nothing was said. Nothing had changed.

He gave what he could, and you understood.

Childhood friendship has a funny way of feeling that simple.

Cassian, however, never truly chose to change with you. He never truly chose anyone, not really, not when he had so much to give — to his mother, to his scrapyard confidantes, to Bix.

You fit somewhere in the chapters of his life, but Cassian Andor could never tell you which ones. He could not, and would not, promise someone tomorrow.

An unfinished book.

You never did tell him where you were going after hitching a ride on that stock transport to get the hell out of Ferrix for good. Not a single holocard or a note.

Just… gone, into the galaxy, to dream.

Now he sits in front of you at the edge of your meeting space bed, threatening to ruin your calculated cover in one-fell swoop.

Before Cassian can implode your operation, you turn on the mask: with a bright smile and squared shoulders, you gesture to the plush furniture of the room. “Is it to your liking, Mr. —?”

You trail off on your question to give him a chance to speak.

Cassian blinks a few times, only to remember himself.

“Raoul,” he blurts without dismissing his accent, eyes widening with an unspoken question: what are you doing here? “Sargeant Murl Raoul.”

Maker, you haven’t heard that voice in so long.

It’s deeper now. Rusty. Scratched.

“Sargeant,” you correct pleasantly, taking a step into the bedroom to toe the perimeter. Cassian pulls the geometric gray hat clear from his head, balling it in his fist, but you raise a palm at the hip when his mouth opens: don’t.

He listens, pressing his lips together with purpose.

“I asked if this room was to your liking," you repeat.

Cassian struggles with an answer, studying you with concern. You hate it. You hated it back on Ferrix when he tried to play protector, and a decade and a half apart doesn’t dilute the emotion.

Your brows rise, and he clears his throat. “I— yes, I am quite comfortable.”

“Good,” you conclude with a small nod. “Now before I join you and get more comfortable, do you have any questions for me?”

“More comfortable?” he asks a little too fast, so you recover with a glide of your hand along your sparkling thigh.

“Can’t do much when I’m in this old thing,” you coo, that stage performer voice now sounding so phony to your ears with a known audience. “Shouldn’t take long.”

Cassian runs the tip of his tongue along the seam off his lips, shifting his seat on the mattress. “I suppose I could ask how… uh, how long have you been doing… this?”

You don’t know if he’s asking about the escort arrangement or the Informant position, which further complicates the game. The odds of Cassian showing up on Canto Bight should be slim. Cassian wearing an Imperial outfit on his own ought to be slim to none.

But appearing in your private meeting space, fake alias and all?

Your blood runs cold with truth between the lines.

(Luthen never does anything by accident.)

This meeting — reuniting Cassian and yourself — is his test, a judgment call, but you refuse to let Luthen win the game with this surprise hand.

“Years,” you answer honestly, to both.

You continue to face him as you skirt around the left side of the sparkling vanity, not taking any chances with your former friend. Your manicured fingers glide along the mirror’s back, searching for the planted Imperial wire.

(Not only are they cruel, but perverted in their efforts to catch spies.)

“So then you are... experienced?” The question comes out rougher than you believe he intends. Gruff, like he’s embarrassed to even ask.

(The question almost — almost — makes your face burn.)

“If you’re worried that you won’t have a good time, Sergeant, then I promise they sent you to me for a reason. I’m going to take great care of you.”

Cassian’s expression darkens at this as he rises to his feet with purpose.

You rip the microphone from the back of the mirror, holding the device between your index and middle finger for show.

This stops him from moving ahead, eyes locked on the microphone before flickering back to you. You shake your head.

I said don’t.

He nods once, and you take the microphone between your hands. With two clicks, the wire cover pops open, displaying a multitude of tiny wires. You fidget between two, pulling, until the red eye at the center of the device dissolves into black.

The room is blanketed with silence.

Now it’s just you and a ghost here.

“We’re clear,” you tell him after another beat, dropping the seductive aloofness in your tone.

Cassian’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. “That was fast.”

Your brow picks up that fraction, raising high. “You have to dismantle them fast."

“Let me take a look at it,” Cassian replies, tossing the hat twisted in his hands to the mattress. "Are you certain it's off?"

“Positive,” you say, sheltering the item closer to your chest. “You don't need to look at it. Easy to disable and reassemble at a moment’s notice, so I’ll turn it back on when you depart.”

“What about lost footage?”

“Chalk it up as faulty equipment they’re too stubborn to replace in a shithole like this.”

Cassian mulls over your answer, taking a cautious few steps forward to observe the small device in your hand. “Imperial-grade wires are tough to work with. A five-second warning doesn’t give many people time to disable the alarm,” he informs in a whispered afterthought. “Where did you learn to do that?”

In your bones, you know it’s a trick question.

Fifteen-something years of reuniting in a moment like this comes with immense drawbacks. When he asks, it is not out of curiosity — it is out of the desire to see if you are truly you.

(Because he remembers your face, too.)

“On Ferrix,” you reply.

He gives no reaction, continuing to deadpan. “Where on Ferrix?”

“You want me to remember from that long ago?” you laugh, placing the microphone on the vanity’s surface and following up with a thick blue cloth to drape over top of it.

“Humor me,” he reasons, flexing his leather-clad fingers at his sides. Now that he doesn’t have a distraction, Cassian doesn’t stop looking at your face.

(The same intensity as the boy without dreams.)

“The old Slavyard. There was that one incredibly rainy month when those prim and proper freaks—”

“—installed the spyware on the back door in the middle of the night,” he interrupts, finishing the story with a misplaced awe under his breath. “You played lookout while I disabled the devices.”

You don’t answer, not really, as you offer a half-hearted smile. “Say what you want about that place, but you learn a lot of things when you watch restless boys who never know when to stop getting in trouble.”

The return smile is small and fleeting, but the corner of Cassian’s lip upticks. His brows knit together, contemplating before a huff of a laugh exits. “Not a very good lookout, then, if you were so busy watching me.”

“You never got caught, though, did you?” you joke.

You swear he almost laughs.

The silence settles at your ankles and rises with each passing second, encompassing you both in a shroud of possibilities: pleasantries are nice, but the popping of bottles and shouts of celebration passing by your room brings you both back to a reality where you’re playing pretend.

Cassian huffs once more, running a hand down his face and around his neck before dropping it in a gesture towards you. “He cannot be serious.”

He.

You catch that pronoun with intrigue and tilt your chin.

“Serious about what? Who’s ‘he’?”

His voice softens, shrinking in size, as he nears half a step closer and into your bubble. “Don’t tell me it’s you.” You maintain eye contact — maintain dominance of this situation — and stay in place. “When he said to wait…”

“...for the Informer, you didn’t think you’d run into a ghost?” you finish, and he’s polite enough not to nod. “He only told me the person he was sending in his stead was one of his best assets. This reunion isn’t my doing.”

“No,” Cassian agrees, low and certain. “It isn’t.”

Because Luthen knows.

Luthen knows, and that’s dangerous in and of itself: his little lamb on Ferrix knew his most trusted asset long before the mastermind was in the picture, and this sabotage is meant to figure you out.

(To figure you both out for his own gain: to make sure you were both up for the task, history aside.)

Your jaw clenches as you nod with assertion, mindful of the train of your body-tight dress when you shift around Cassian to create some space. He turns his torso, following.

“Did he force you to do this?” When you pause in your steps to quirk a brow, he struggles with verbalizing what this means. “Entertaining these low lives while they piss their credits away.”

“Very strong words for someone dressed as an Imp.”

He completely ignores you, hyper in his budding rage. “Because if anyone has touched you—”

“No one’s forcing me to do anything, Cass,” you reply, hateful that the former nickname leaves your lips so fluidly; as if no time has passed. “We’re all cogs working for the same machine.”

“That doesn’t mean he should be having you do this on your own,” the man argues. “He’s not even on the planet, for fuck’s sake. This is dangerous work.”

“You keep saying this or that, but you’re not really asking the real question.” Your nose scrunches, maliciously playful. “I don’t fuck them. It’s pretend, Cassian. My honor is intact.”

Cassian squints with a scoff. “That isn’t what I meant—”

“It isn’t?” you challenge.

“No,” he responds just as fast and just as intense. A smirk plays on your lips, slow and growing. “Fuck whoever you’d like to fuck. One or a dozen, I don’t care, but not them. They don’t deserve you.”

“And who does?”

“I don’t know, but not Luthen or the pieces of shit out there or anyone on this planet.”

“Not even you, right?”

He stares down at you, hard. You snort in disbelief.

“I never thought I’d see the day where Cassian Andor is jealous of a body count, but I guess stranger things have happened for both of us.”

Cassian’s jaw sets, nostrils flaring with an anger he refuses to bury completely. He searches your face, lost on a response, before sharply inhaling through his nose.

“I need information on your regulars.”

Ah.

No more games.

You roll your eyes, absently waving him off as you turn to walk towards the crate-like nightstand. “I have the files on a drive.”

No more games, or so you thought — Cassian follows close behind. “Drives are easily corruptible or lost or stolen. You could just tell me.”

Your hand hovers on the drawer when you turn your chin to look at him. “Yeah, sure, let me just… tell you about a mission I’ve spent years finessing so you can get the details wrong when you relay with Luthen.”

“Do you think so little of my memory skills?” he says and it’s a joke, but it teeters on the edge of an argument.

Just like old times.

You don’t need this type of deja vu before the new year.

“Whisper down the lane only goes so far,” you answer, turning back to the drawer in front of you. Your hand lifts the edge of the bottom plate, removing a small box from the center of the hidden compartment.

You only pause when you feel his presence right behind you as soft puffs of air tickle the back of your exposed neck.

He says nothing, not at first, in this proximity. Then a syllable sounds:

“Why?”

The question is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it whisper. His voice flutters along your skin, causing a shiver down your spine. Deep down you know he’s not asking about the drive or your distaste for his preferred method of relay. Why — the one word you hoped to never face.

If you concentrate hard enough, you can smell the scent of his cologne.

It smells nothing like Cassian.

You stay focused on a miniscule dot on the wall, too afraid to turn around.

“We can’t do this here,” you murmur, barely audible in return.

“I paid for the hour,” he replies. “If I were to leave ten minutes into your company, then there would be questions.”

(He’s right. As much as you hate it, your former friend is right.)

You raise your chin to the ceiling, closing your eyes. Contemplating. Seeking anything, everything, to say to avoid what’s to come.

You open your mouth to speak, but Cassian gets there first.

“I looked for you.” A vulnerable statement from an impenetrable man. His chin leans forward, the warmth of him spreading to your aura. “In dozens of quadrants—”

“Cassian.”

“—and about a hundred planets—”

“Stop.”

“—but you left nothing.” The final word emphasizes with raw emotion, causing your throat to swell. His gloved hand rests on your tricep, but you turn to finally face him. The closeness of him is a surprise — piercing brown eyes meet yours with mere centimeters between noses. “No note, no goodbye, no telling where you might have headed. Nothing.”

Frowning, you don’t realize that you’re shaking your head. The lines on his face are too distracting. He is distracting.

“You were never supposed to see me again.”

“And I never understood why.” He steps forward. You step back. When you think he won’t advance, he continues to step once, twice, until the third lands your back to the corner of the room. “So I am asking — now — while I can still have you: why?”

While I can still have you. You know the implication isn’t there, not truly, but your heart aches for it. The tension makes you feel so small, as if you’re eighteen and flying all over again.

You’re supposed to be over this; over him.

“I had to start new,” you answer after a considerable pause, forcing yourself to look him in the eye in what little space is held between you. “I was always going to leave Ferrix.”

“I knew that,” he argues softly. “I was never going to deter you from—”

“No. No, you were never going to,” you agree, nodding. “But you were always off and on the planet, doing what you had to for everyone else. If I didn’t cut Ferrix out of my life, then I wonder if I would have had the same fate as my parents or my friends: getting stuck there. And not just getting stuck, but waiting.”

“Waiting?” Cassian asks with confusion, brows knit.

You relax against the wall with a humorless laugh. “How did you not see it? The way I always waited for you.” Anxious, you turn your cheek to check the main door as you mull over your next few words. “I would have waited my whole life for you.”

The air in the room shifts.

Although he remains in your peripheral vision, the man stays staring at you without a discernible expression. The gravity of what you’re admitting drags lower, lower, until he says something that forces you to look at him head-on:

“I thought you were indifferent to me.”

Your eyes widen. “Indifferent?”

Cassian nods, short and quick. “You had all these big plans. I listened for hours. Not one of them involved me.”

“Because I didn’t think you’d want to be a part of those plans.”

“Maybe I didn’t think I couldn’t make a difference, not in a… rebellion, though the irony is not lost on me now,” he admits with a huff of a laugh, “but I wanted to be a part of you. I didn’t care what it was, so long as I still had you.”

You stare at him as he stares back at you, totally dumbfounded with this brand new information. Cassian swallows thickly, shifting his weight yet again from one leg to another. The loud party continues outside of your room, drowning these confessions in the excitement for a nearing midnight.

You had all these big plans.

Memories warp at a second’s notice as your brain tries to understand what he’s laid at your altar.

Not one of them involved me.

He shouldn’t be saying this.

He shouldn’t be saying any of this.

Closing your eyes to find a pause in your racing thoughts, you try — try to find where perhaps this is fabricated, designed to see if you’re easily swayed by the past that you so desperately let die in this rebellion.

Slowly, your eyelids flutter open. Cassian is watching with something close to concern.

(Something, maybe, closer to fear.)

You gently shake your head. “This is a test.”

“I know.”

“Luthen did this—”

“Fuck Luthen,” he breathes out, eyes dropping to stare at your lips, and your heartbeat quickens.

His brows meet in the middle, concentrated yet lost — as if he’s back on Ferrix, scrawny and scrappy and calculating the gravity of the risk should he decide to steal or trespass —

Or do something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Cassian.”

Your voice is gentle with a warning. His eyes do not raise, but he does answer.

“What?”

“You have that look on your face.”

“I have a look?”

“When you’re contemplating doing something stupid? Yes.”

He snorts, amused. “You remember what that looks like after fifteen years?”

“It's very hard to forget it.”

He mulls the moment over, flickering his attention back up to your eyes and nodding.

“You’re right. I am thinking of doing something stupid.”

“How stupid?”

“Incredibly.”

A beat passes.

Finally he blinks up to your eyes, searching for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked yet. You wait, just as you’ve always waited, to hear his voice.

“It’s almost midnight,” he says, flexing the leather gloved hand at his side. “I should go.”

Everything sinks.

The crowd outside grows louder as people depart from their private rooms to celebrate in the middle of the casino. Everyone begins the unison countdown of the final minute until the new year rings out.

The device in your hand grows heavy — a reminder of why he’s here in the first place, what Luthen will be looking for, yet your arm cannot rise to give it over.

(A few more minutes and he’ll be gone.)

To find a reason to keep him here with you would be selfish.

Instead of protesting, you nod.

“Yeah. You should go.”

He nods, too, and his throat bobs with a swallow.

Outside your door, their laughter and shouts reach a collective ten, nine, eight, seven…

Yet he doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Six, five, four, three…

“Cass?”

Two.

Cassian speaks with broken finality, rushed and wanting. “I can't go without—”

You beat him to it.

Canto Bight’s cliffside casino roars with excitement of the new year while you grab the lapel of his Imperial uniform, dragging him in as he simultaneously launches his lips to yours.

The force of him smacks your head into the wall, but the stars behind your eyes aren’t from impact. It’s from the way he presses his mouth to yours, desperate to pour years of frustration and wonder into a long-awaited kiss. You whimper into it, eager to dissolve any space between you.

Cassian Andor cages your head into the palms of his gloved hands, holding you with a tenderness and strength only he can have. He groans into your mouth when he tastes you, tongue dragging along your lower lip — the neediness of it is enough to make your knees give out.

Except he drops his hands to your shoulders and spins you, pressing your chest into the wall. Using your hands to balance yourself, Cassian wastes not a second more to place his hands over yours, pinning you in place.

“We should have — opened with a fight,” he murmurs breathlessly into your ear, kissing your earlobe before bringing it into his mouth.

You bite back a moan, dropping your forehead to the wall. “If I'd known you wanted to kiss me after all this time, Cass, then I would have — gone straight past a fight and went for it.”

He chuckles behind you, letting go of your earlobe to travel kisses down the side of your neck.

“There is a lot I wanted to do back then, but I was too chickenshit to try it.”

The imagery of a lot burns into the back of your skull.

“And now?” you ask, but it’s wavered.

Cassian slows down, but his lips remain against the crook of your neck. You mourn the loss of speed, pushing your hips back to connect with his.

A hand shoots down to still your waist as his thumb runs soothing strokes into the skintight dress.

“Not here,” he decides, but it isn’t regretful. It’s determined. “When I see you again—”

“When?” you interrupt.

“When,” he enforces, squeezing your waist, “I see you again, I’ll do what I’ve been too chickenshit to do and it won’t be under a watchful eye.”

When I see you again.

You smile small, delirious in the haze of him.

“Is that a promise?”

“As good as I can make one,” he responds in earnest, turning to leave a small kiss on your cheek. “You’re not losing me so easily this time.”

And you believe him.

Misunderstandings, miscommunications — all of that hardship to end up here, of all places.

You have so much to learn.

(He has so much to hear.)

Even if this was Luthen’s doing, even if this was a test of faith, you cannot find a reason to care. Not when your lips still tingle with the kiss you’d only dreamt about your entire life.

Reaching for his arm, you gently bring his free hand to yours and place the small drive in the middle of his palm. Cassian’s chin drops to observe the tiny metal, jaw setting to its unreadable clench.

Because at the end of the night, you both still have jobs to do.

A new year.

(A new horizon.)

“Until next time,” you say, removing your hand from his.

Cassian curls his fingers over the drive, shoving the small device in his coat pocket. He flexes and raises his hand to bring it up to your cheek, cradling your face once more as he leans in for one final kiss. This time it’s softer. Timid.

The closest Cassian Andor can ever get to a promise.

He pulls away, nose to nose, and mirrors in reply.

“Until next time.”

#andor #cassian andor #cassian andor x reader #cassian andor x you #cassian andor x female reader #cassian andor x f!reader #andor tv #andor tv series #star wars fanfic #star wars fanfiction #star wars #andor fanfiction #cassian andor fanfiction #luthen rael #female reader #reader insert #new years eve #about you #amywritesthings

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swaps55 · 7 months

Text

Dark Star

Ao3

Unlike most of the soirees Garrus has been to lately, the food is actually good. The Citadel’s superior supply lines aside, maybe it’s a good sign that all the times he’s stuffed himself into dress robes to put on a show for diplomats and, as Shepard likes to describe it, ‘bludgeon his way through bureaucracy,’ is actually accomplishing something.

Some days, putting a galaxy back together feels a lot harder than saving it in the first place.

Tonight’s party, thrown by the volus as a welcome mat for what is sure to be three days of grueling negotiations over how to prioritize who gets the new – and extremely limited – soil reclamation technology developed by the salarians, is actually more tolerable than most, if only for the company. The humans tapped Shepard to be the figurehead of their delegation. When Garrus asked him about humanity’s position on who deserved the higher share of devices fine-tuned to isolate and neutralize contaminants left behind by reaper corpses, he’d just laughed.

“Did you even know what this whole conference was about?” Garrus asks, handing him a fresh whiskey and Alenko a beer. The key to these events is to hit the bar hard and fast while the stocks hold out, and right now there is a lot of turian brandy. He’s not getting enough credit for juggling three drinks through a crowd without an incident.

“I think Ambassador Cartwright was trying to explain it to me, but I wasn’t paying attention,” Shepard replies, taking a sip of his drink. The band is loud – most everything at these receptions are a little over the top, as if they can force the galaxy back together if they’re cheerful enough – but the elcor singing backup vocals is surprisingly good.

Alenko snorts, but before he can elaborate on his disdain, another uniformed human puts a hand on Shepard’s arm and asks to speak with him about the keynote address he’s supposed to give in the morning and probably plans to make up as he goes.

Shepard gives Alenko a save me look before allowing himself to be towed to a quieter corner of the Silver Coast Casino, which doesn’t really exist.

“He wasn’t listening because he was thinking about all the ways he could incapacitate the guy,” Alenko says, never one to let a good dig go, even if the recipient is no longer within ear shot.

“Of course he was,” Garrus replies, tugging on his sleeve. He’s not sold the yellow stripes were a good choice, here. “That’s why I’ve learned not to stand near windows around him.”

A puzzled look passes briefly across Alenko’s face before he laughs it off. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Garrus flicks a mandible. Jack had brought up Shepard’s one-size-fits-all tactic of booting uncooperative mercs out skyscraper windows every chance she got on the Normandy. It hadn’t exactly been funny at the time, but then again, nothing was, and when there’s nothing good to laugh at you stretch the boundaries of what’s funny until something qualifies. Dark, maybe, but it had been a running joke for so long it had just become part of Shepard’s zeitgeist. Sure Alenko hadn’t been there, but it’s hard to believe that no one had told him that particular story. Especially Shepard. They talked about everything. As Shepard liked to confess, repeatedly and insistently, when he was drunk.

Hm.

Read the rest on Ao3

#mass effect #mshenko #kaidan alenko #garrus vakarian #this conversation hit me in the face while i was driving home from work #i blinked and suddenly there was a 2k story #¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos · 8 months

Note

What I wouldn't give to play strip poker with the Cross Guild 😩😩😩

Oh dear gods how dare you put this in my head at this hour

I cannot handle it it's beautiful I

I'm going to DIE

Like Buggy would be all for it, it was probably his idea in the first place. He does not care, first loss and his pants are already gone. He may have even worn breakaways and a leopard-print g-string specifically for the occasion. He's got the shittiest poker-face in known existence, but the Flashy Fool is not above using distraction as a tactic to bend the odds in his favor. It probably won't work considering who his opponents are, but the poor drama-bb gets an E for Effort.

Crocodile wouldn't have many objections. The man did own a casino, he knows cards. Still the most likely to cheat, which could result in violence at some point. Also the most likely to be cheeky when he does lose a hand, just remove one of his rings and drop it on the table, glare around like he's silently daring anyone to say anything about it.

Mihawk might take convincing, but if you assure him there will be wine and play on his superiority complex ("You're just afraid you'll lose") then he'll be at the table before anyone else. Definitely the best poker face of the three, being that his default facial expression is I'm bored and surrounded by idiots...though he may slip up with a smug smirk or two if he's on a winning streak.

Whatever the case, it's going to devolve into a fight between three half-naked (probably fully naked in Buggy's case) grown men while you get to sit off to the side and enjoy the show.

Actually Mihawk may be sitting off to the side as well, perhaps sans his coat and boots but otherwise not much worse for the wear, sipping wine and sighing in vague disinterest as Buggy dodges being sandblasted into oblivion because Crocodile caught him cheating.

Mihawk: *calling over* Do be careful not to kill the clown, he still holds value as a scapegoat.

Crocodile: Oh, I'm not going to kill him. I'm just going to make the idiot wish he was dead.

Buggy: *screaming, just a swirl of limbs in a miniature sandstorm* OH GOD MAKE IT STOP PLEASE THAT'S NOT A GOOD PLACE FOR SAND—

#cross guild #cross guild one piece #one piece #buggy #buggy the clown #crocodile #sir crocodile #mihawk #dracule mihawk #headcanons #cross guild x reader #one piece headcanon #asks

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yorutsuki · 3 months

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「 ✦ Lucky Play ✦ 」

↳ Neon lights, crowded spaces and noise—perfect casino night with your gambler boyfriend. But what happens when he makes a deal with his over confidence.

Tags:

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"Well look at that, a royal flush~!"

Adventurine had the honor to win his third round of poker, you sitting right beside him with a cheeky grin by his on going streak.

The man across from him sighed before grumbling as he skimmed over his losing cards.

"You want to give it a shot darling?" Adventurine hummed sweetly in amusement, gesturing to the table in front. You shook your head, you had little interest playing yourself, "I'm good, watching you is much better." You smiled, tilting your head upon your hand which rested on the chair's armrest.

The blonde gambler gave a soft chuckle.

"Not for long."

You both turned your heads towards the additional voice. The newly seated man was dressed semi-formaly. His hair slicked back with a few strands hanging in front. He wore a wine red vest over a black button-up shirt and embodied designed pants and shiny sleek shoes.

"You seem quite the player, hm?" The man smiled, his eyes dimmed.

Both you and your boyfriend could sense his off-ness, his intentions no other than greed.

Adventurine, annoyed, only gave a airy chuckle with an amuse nod. "And you are?"

The man cleared his throat "Ah yes, where are my manners..Name's Capilo Katano, and you must be the famous gambler, Adventurine." He smirked as Adventurine hummed with a nod. "Seems your familiar then." He brought his chair closer to the table, "This shall be fun then...friend"

...

Lost..

Again.

You both couldn't understand. That was 4 rounds in a row Adventurine had lost.

"Well then, it seems like the tables have turned. Do you want to try another round?" Capilo smiled, his legs crossed as he tilted his head, his hand twirling around a coin.

Adventurine furrowed his brows before sighing as one of the workers reseted the cards. Your brows nit together with confusion as you studied the scene. Something felt too off.

Capilo chuckled, "Very well then. Though, I do want to add.." The blonde gambler raised his brow in anticipation. "The stakes; If I win, I get the night with the girl, if—" A slam on the table following a loud screech interrupted the man's talking. Adventurine was glaring daggers at the slicked man as he stood tall before him, overshadowing him. You grimaced at the man's bet, disgusted.

"Well..I think that's hardly fair, and not only, completely off the table." He seethed, a strained smile plastered. The man before him only seemed to smirk, seeming to have enjoyed the reaction.

"Now, now, there's hardly a reason to have such a reaction. I wouldn't want this to reach the IPC, do we?" He smiled, gesturing towards you.

You swiftly glared at the man. Adventurine had told you the many things the IPC, or more specifically, Jade, has done. He had confide his feelings and secrets of the IPC to you..and they weren't pleasant. You were disgusted, assuming since the man brought up the organization currently, he probably already knows background of your boyfriend and were using them against him.

Just before Adventurine could sit down, you pulled up a chair in his place before taking a seat on it.

Your boyfriend looked at you puzzled while Capilo looked amused at the situation. "What are you planning?" He hissed, placing a hand on your chair. You only smiled with a reassuring glance.

"This wasn't in the b-"

"I don't recall caring. Besides, aren't you bored of the same tactics?" You hummed with a bitter sweet tone, wanting to get this over with.

The man rose a brow before letting a airy chuckle.

The two of you played silently as tension was in the air. Your mind worked furiously, calculating the chances and different strategies at play. The other players, especially your boyfriend, watched with anticipation. the table watched in anticipation, sensing the tension building between you two.

The final round approached, and you glanced at your cards—2 of clubs and 7 of hearts, one of the weakest starting hands possible. Adventurines heart sank, repeatedly going over your cards in hopes his eyes were deceiving him. Hell, he'd kill that man within a heart beat if he so touched a hair folicol on your head.

Capilo on the other hand, revealed a pair of kings with a smug smile, expecting an easy win.

But luck seemed to be on your side as you only smirked as the community cards were laid down—3 of diamonds, 4 of spades, 5 of hearts, 6 of clubs, and finally, 8 of diamonds. Her weak hand, the 2-7 offsuit, had miraculously formed a straight, one of the most unexpected outcomes.

"But..but how!?" The man's chair echoed behind him against the tiled floor as he glared with fire in his eyes, you returned the look. "It was in the shuffling. You payed off the worker to shuffle for your win."

Adventurine looked towards the man and then to the worker, appalled and disgusted, mostly annoyed.

Capilo's teeth grinded against each other in rage at his loss. "A filthy wretch like you has no place to be accusing a higher up." He mumbled under his breath. "Well then-" Without allowing him to continue, you dragged Adventurine out with you.

"What the hell was that?" He asked, his eyes widened at the show. "I thought you said you weren't good?"

You rolled your eyes before letting out a small snicker, "Lucky play? I have been dating one of the luckiest anyways." You smirked with a shrug.

Adventurine's cheeks hued a light pink. Albeit he wouldn't admit it out loud, but he thought that was one of the many hottest stunts you've pulled so far. "Let's just..get to the room, i'm quite drowsy after that." He huffed yawning sarcastically.

Right, did I forget that once your were in bed, assured a peaceful rest, he made the guy pay hell for the snide comment? No? Well now you know!

A/N: I hated that, that was a 30 minute fanfic and it's the first one of Adventurine. 😔 Might redo another one, idk..

#scenerios #x reader #oneshot #gender neutral reader #gender neutral y/n #hsr #adventurine x y/n #adventurine x reader #adventurine hsr #adventurine #honaki star rail

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smok3r7 · 3 months

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One Door Closes & Another One Opens

Joel x OFC!Divorce Lawyer

Explicit, 18+

Wolf vs Bear

Main MasterList & Series Masterlist - My AO3

Summary: She’s a divorce attorney and he’s a husband looking for help to save his daughter, and himself, from his gambling addict wife. Renae Russo is a woman who fights for her clients and wins. She’s satisfied with her life and what she does - but she wishes she could have a little more. What happens when Joel Miller becomes her client and an old flame of Renae’s reignites in the same breath?

Chapter Summary: Things get nasty in court and Renae realizes she has to let go of what could’ve been.

Word count: 5.3k

—

Annie has always been known for her determination and resilience, qualities that she lost due to her inability to stay sober or away from casinos. But now she’s trying to gain them back, or at least look like she is, with the help of divorce lawyer Garcia Cole.

She’s driven by a single motive - vengeance. She’s ready to fight tooth and nail for what she believes is rightfully hers, and she’s not going to let Joel take Sarah away. But it’s not even about her wanting to be a mother because, well, she really doesn’t… At the end of the day, it is all about having control over Joel.

Her persona as a doting mother was just a facade she believed everyone bought into, but the truth was far from that. The only thing that consumes her is when she can escape to the casino again and have a drink. The flashing lights and the sound of slot machines call out to her, offering a temporary escape from her mundane reality of having a child and being a wife. When she sits at the poker table, her mind drifts away into nothingness.

Her whole life keeping up appearances to others outside of her family was burned into her by her mother and she did not break that habit, transforming into a desperation for society to perceive her as the innocent victim in a crumbling marriage, all of it out of her control.

When she decided to fight Joel back in the divorce, she reveled in the thought of outsmarting him, her manipulative tactics hidden beneath a blanket of maternal devotion. However, she was not good at keeping her ideas to herself, because she wouldn’t stop calling him, leaving voicemails, and texts going into detail about how she thought she was going to crush him.

She simply couldn’t help herself.

Joel, on the other hand, understands the true gravity of the situation. He knows that Annie is not going to back down easily; it’s always a fight with her. Just like in the beginning when he would ask repeatedly if she was drunk, and she would deny, but Joel could tell. So he would try to simply talk to her and then she would play the guilt trip and whole victim act; I just want to have fun, we don’t have fun anymore, Joel. I’m not the same person anymore and I miss who I used to be…I just need to find myself again. What…I can’t go out anymore? Is that what you’re saying?

This divorce is going to be no different. Annie's stubbornness and denial of it all only fuels his determination more. Despite the emotional turmoil, Joel remains firm in his decision, ready to face the challenges that come with ending a once loving partnership. He knows that this separation is necessary, even if it means navigating through rough waters ahead.

He braces himself for the battle on the other side of the wooden doors, determined to do whatever it takes to ensure that his daughter remains with him. But also knowing that Renae has his and Sarah’s best interests in mind, eases his panic just enough.

“We got this, ‘kay?” Renae nudges Joel’s shoulder with hers, causing him to turn to her and he’s met with a small genuine smile. Her arms are folded across her chest, supported by stacks of papers and Manila envelopes filled with evidence to bolster Joel's claims.

The weight of the overwhelming evidence hits him like a ton of bricks, shaking him to his core. He’s struggling to come to terms with the reality that he finds himself in, unable to fathom the amount of proof backing him. This isn’t how marriages are supposed to be or even end.

His marriage to Annie had once been full of laughter and love, but now it seemed like a distant memory. The once vibrant woman he had fallen in love with was now a shadow of her former self, lost in a sea of her own demons.

Joel feels like a failure, as a husband and a father. He should’ve been able to see the signs of Annie falling off the deep end but he didn’t. He had ignored the late nights, the empty bottles, and the distant gaze in her eyes, hoping it was just a phase she would outgrow.

He can’t help but wonder where it had all gone wrong. Was there anything he could have done differently to save their marriage? Or was this the inevitable outcome of a love that had faded away?

He knows he’s in incredible hands but that doesn’t mean he isn’t terrified of what’s to come. Gazing into Renae’s beautiful forest green eyes, he sees true determination and care in her, and he smiles back at her. I know, he whispers, truly meaning each word. Despite the chaos swirling around his mind, he finds comfort in Renae's presence, something about her calms his whirling thoughts. With her by his side, he feels a flicker of hope amidst the uncertainty.

As they prepare to face the challenges ahead, he draws strength from Renae's unwavering support and her belief in a better tomorrow. In her eyes, he sees not only a formidable advocate but also a compassionate ally in this insane journey towards a new beginning.

Possibly even one with Renae.

—

Glancing over to Annie, Joel takes in her appearance; her blonde hair neatly pulled back into a tight bun, her makeup soft and light, but underneath he can see the faint bruise around her right eye. He assumes it’s from Maria two weeks ago when she served Annie, and he can’t help but chuckle internally.

Coming into this, he had expected to feel angry or frustrated, but to his surprise, he feels nothing. He can’t pinpoint his emotions, which is something he didn’t think was going to happen. Annie catches his gaze and gives him a cocky smile, unaware of the turmoil in Joel's mind. As they sit on separate sides of the courtroom, a sense of uneasiness lingers between them, making Joel question everything he thought he knew about their relationship.

Despite her trying her best to have this put-together appearance, only Joel can sense that she isn’t quite sober either. There’s a certain aura about her, a subtle hint of her struggles with casinos and drinking. After being with her for twenty years, Joel just knows.

Her clothes hang loosely on her small, skinny frame, but tight enough to think they’re just old clothes, if you don’t know her. Joel has always been attuned to Annie's moods, able to see through her facade and into the depths of her struggles. As he watches her from across the room, he knows that despite her best efforts to hide it, she’s still caught in the spiral of addiction, unable to break free from its grasp.

But he doesn’t feel bad, not in the slightest.

As the courtroom falls silent, Renae stands confidently before Judge Mark, ready to defend Joel. "Good morning, your honor," she speaks with a warm smile, earning a nod of acknowledgment from the judge. "We're here today because Mr. Miller filed for divorce and is trying to get full custody of his ten-year-old daughter."

Renae's heart races as she gives a brief introduction of the reasons why Sarah’s best interest is remaining with her father full time. “Mrs.Miller is an addict in more ways than one,” Renae says, and grabs photos and screenshots showcasing Annie's reckless behavior - drinking to the point of blackout, sneaking out in the dead of night, and gambling away her and Joel’s savings at the casinos.

“Here are some photos and screenshots of how frequent these kinds of things happen, your honor.” The judge studies the evidence with a grave expression, realizing the extent of the situation. “It’s clear that Mrs. Miller's addiction is spiraling out of control, affecting not just herself but everyone around her.”

However, Garcia Cole doesn’t waste any time before he’s arguing his side, or Annie’s side, of things. “That may be true before Mr. Miller filed,” Cole announces, “But Mrs. Miller has turned a new leaf. She’s been attending AA meetings for the past two months and plans on continuing going.”

He stands up as he stares between Renae and the Judge, “Casinos have been off limits to her also, same as alcohol. Here are the signed slips from each one, your honor.” Walking up the bench, he hands over the stack of papers as he says, “She’s ready to take care of her daughter.”

Renae's eyes widen in disbelief as Cole presents the evidence of Mrs. Miller's newfound commitment to sobriety and her daughter's well-being, though Renae knows, is all a facade and nothing but bullshit.

The Judge observes the sincerity in Cole's voice and the determination in Mrs. Miller's eyes.

After a moment of silence, the Judge nods, acknowledging the transformation that has taken place. Renae feels a small punch in the gut, but she knows this is only the start of things.

But then Cole drops the hammer and goes for it.

“Mrs. Miller requests physical and sole custody of Sarah Miller because she feels Mr.Miller is not safe for their daughter to be around.” He states as he addresses Judge Mark, Renae, and Joel in one swoop.

Renae senses Joel's protective aura and her own rising anger. She couldn't fathom Sarah being safer with anyone else but Joel. Annie's motives were suddenly suspect to Renae, and she impulsively, but smartly, demanded evidence to back Mrs. Miller's and Cole’s claims.

As Cole confidently approached the Judge's bench, Renae leaped up to join him, her heart racing with anticipation. "I was not aware of this, your honor. If anything, it's prejudice," she declared, trying to make sense of the unexplained picture of minor bruises on Annie’s biceps, looking like finger impressions.

Renae is enraged about Joel not telling her about this incident, whatever it is. She had explicitly asked him if Annie would have any evidence of things like this, to specifically make him look bad. In which he told her that Annie wouldn’t.

With a dismissive snort, Cole turns to Renae then to Judge Mark, his expression intense. "C’mon Russo… You really think this doesn’t hold weight? It's more probative than prejudice, your honor. My client fears for her daughter's safety if this is how he treats her. What will he do to their daughter?"

The tension in the courtroom was palpable as the judge pondered the weight of Cole's words, and Renae anxiously awaits his answer.

“I’ll allow it,” Judge Mark sighs, “Mr. Miller, can you explain these?” He shows the pictures to Joel, whose ears are flaming red. But his eyes adjust to the lights and the small ten by ten picture and Renae she’s something in his eyes click just then, like he instantly remembers the incident.

“I do your honor,” he clears his throat, “That was the night she was blackout drunk and came at me with a knife, while Sarah was home, might I add.“

“He’s lying!”

“Mrs. Miller,” Judge Mark scolds her and then tells Joel to continue, folding his hands underneath his chin.

“Well, I managed to get the knife outta her hand and had to hold her down, which is where those marks are.” Joel gestures towards the pictures that Judge Mark has, “She managed to get out of my grip and so I had to put her arm behind her back and hold her there until she calmed down.”

“Do you have proof of this incident?”

“I’m sure I have texts to my brother about it, if you can give me some time to look.”

Judge Mark glances at the clock on the wall to his left and sits in silence for just a few seconds, fifteen minute recess, he announces as he slams his gavel loudly, you’re adjourned.

—

Renae storms into the small office she has at the courthouse, her eyes blazing with fury. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" she demands, slamming the picture on the maple wood table, "I explicitly asked you if Annie would have any evidence to make you look bad!"

Joel looks sheepish, avoiding her gaze. "I didn't think it was relevant," he mumbles, “Or at least… I burned it from my memory. The one and only time I had to put my hands on her.” He flips the picture over so he doesn’t have to look at it again, clearly ashamed of it.

Renae clenches her fists, trying to control her anger. She knows Joel isn’t a violent person, but the judge doesn’t know that for sure. This incident could ruin everything they had been working for.

“Joel. Everything is relevant right now, you know this.” She scolds, taking a deep breath after. “Like your texts to Tommy, can you find them, please.” She can’t sit down, she’s too on edge to even think about sitting. Renae hasn’t been beaten like this in court since she started her career and it was against Garcia Cole.

It’s like some sort of crazy deja vu and she’s not liking it at all.

"Yeah, gimme about five minutes to find it,” Joel tries to calm Renae down as he scrolls on his phone through his and Tommy’s texts. Renae scoffs to herself, she almost feels played by Joel, she can’t believe that he forgot to tell her this. This kind of thing is so important for an attorney to know and that fact that she didn’t, makes her work look lazy.

As she paces back and forth in the dimly lit room, her heels click on the hardwood floor and her mind races with all the possible implications of Joel's forgetfulness. How could he have missed such a crucial detail? Is he trying to hide something? What’s the benefit from doing that? There really is none. Renae's frustration simmers beneath the surface, stopping from threatening to boil over at any moment.

She knows she needs to confront Joel about this, but for now, she'll bide her time and wait for him to find the information she needs. There’s no point in blowing up on him for this now, now when this is all over, that’s another story.

"Aha, I found it!” Joel exclaims, with his phone in both hands he stands up from his seat causing the wood to scrape against the floor.

“Let me see,” Renae turns around from the window, she snatches it out of his hands and reads his short message to his brother.

Can Sarah and I come over for the night? Annie and I just got into it…she tried to stab me man. Nobody’s hurt but I gotta get out of here before somethin happens.

Renae stands there, her heart heavy with the weight of regret. The fury that once consumed her has now dissipated, leaving behind a deep sense of sympathy for Joel. His warm eyes hold a mixture of pain, but also a glimmer of forgiveness and hope that surprises her. As he slowly reaches out to touch her, he half expects her to recoil after learning this information, but instead, she stands still, letting his hands rest on her biceps.

“I’m- Joel… I’m sorry-“ she tries to convey her remorse before Joel's soft voice interrupts her, calming her inner turmoil.

"Don't, Rae... It's okay," he says gently, his gaze unwavering. And in that moment, Renae realizes that despite the small indiscretions, there is still a bond between them – a connection that goes past the brief anger and frustration.

—

Renae sits quietly in the courtroom as Judge Mark meticulously reads through the print out of the text exchange between Joel and his brother. Her stomach twists and her mouth is dry, she’s not sure how the Judge is going to react to this. Even though it’s all in Joel’s favor, the ultimate decision is up to the Judge and only him.

She carefully observes the expressions on the Judge's face, noticing the subtle shifts from surprise to empathy. As the message is scrutinized, Renae feels a small sense of assurance growing within her.

She knows that Judge Mark is starting to comprehend the complex web of circumstances that had led Joel to take drastic actions. She sees the wheels turning in his head that this is all a lie from Annie and a ploy to try to sway his decision.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the Judge looks up, locking eyes with Renae. In that moment, she senses a shared understanding between them. Despite the gravity of the situation, Renae feels a glimmer of hope that justice would prevail.

"Mrs. Miller, is there anything else you would like to provide?" Judge Mark asks into the courtroom, but mainly to his left.

“She has a two-bedroom condo that includes a room just for Sarah, and she started her job at her salon shop again.” Cole rolls off his tongue, but Renae senses the tone of defeat in his voice. “But other than that, we rest, your honor.”

Annie shakes her head in defeat, then turns towards Joel with a sad expression. Her eyes plead with him, silently begging for forgiveness or even a bit of leniency in this whole situation.

But Joel looks away, unable to meet her gaze, his heart heavy from the fact this even had to happen, even though he feels relaxed that it’s over. The air in the courtroom feels thick and sticky, suffocating him with its heaviness, and Joel longs to escape and never look back.

The thought of ever returning to this place makes his stomach churn with unease, a deep sense of discomfort settles in. Joel closes his eyes, trying to push away the feeling of sickness that threatens to engulf him, longing for the moment when he can walk out of that courtroom and leave this all behind him.

The Judge clears his throat, breaking the momentary stillness. "Very well. In light of the evidence presented, I have reached a decision."

Renae's trembling hand motions for Joel to silently stand by her side as Judge Mark prepares to deliver his decision. Garcia Cole does the same with Annie, common court courtesy. Renae's heart races in anticipation. Her mind spins with desperate pleas for Joel to be granted custody of his daughter, the one bright light in Sarah’s tumultuous lives.

Joel's eyes meet hers, filled with a mix of hope and fear, mirroring the emotions swirling within Renae. Then swiftly focus back on the deep voice that determines Joel's life in front of him.

As Judge Mark begins to speak, every word feels like an eternity, hanging in the air, heavy with implications. And then, finally, the words that they had been praying for.

“I grant Joel Miller sole legal and physical custody of Sarah Miller.”

Tears of relief and gratitude fill Renae's eyes as she squeezes Joel's hand, knowing that Joel got what he wished for, and rightfully deserved.

Joel can’t believe his ears as the Judge pronounces the decision in his favor, granting him sole legal and physical custody of Sarah. It’s the outcome he has hoped for, and the result of countless nights of worry and stress over the last four months has finally paid off. But the Judge's next words catch Joel off guard.

"However, I also grant Annie visitation every other weekend."

Joel's heart sinks at the mention of his ex-wife's name. The memories flood back - the good times, the bad times, and everything in between. Despite the mixed emotions swirling inside him, he knows that it’s the right thing for Sarah to have a relationship with her mother. Sarah deserves to know her roots, her history, her mother.

So, with a heavy heart and a mind full of conflicting thoughts, Joel makes the decision to just accept this and move on. The arrangement is set - pickups early Saturday mornings and drop-offs by Sunday evening, no later than eight pm.

As Joel looks into Renae’s eyes, he knows that despite the challenges ahead, he’ll navigate this new chapter to the best of his ability.

—

Standing in the parking lot, Renae leaning on her car and Joel doing the same, but on his truck. Side by side with one another, Renae doesn’t want to leave. The cool evening breeze sweeps through the small empty space between them, carrying the faint scent of pine trees. Renae's heart feels heavy as she looks up at the dusky pink sky, knowing that this moment might be the last time she sees Joel.

Joel senses Renae's hesitation and reaches out to gently touch her hand. Her forest eyes and his whiskey ones meet, sparking a silent conversation that speaks volumes. Time seems to stand still as they stand there, unwilling to look away. She knows she has to go, but something holds her back.

Maybe it’s the way Joel looks at her with his soft brown orbs, or it’s the memories of their minuscule time together flooding back. Renae doesn’t want to leave, and doesn't want to say goodbye to what could have been or could be.

As the sun rests above the courthouse, Joel pulls Renae close, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon him. They stand in the quiet embrace, both reluctant to let go of the memories they shared these past four months.

Joel can feel the tears welling up in his eyes, but he blinks them away, not wanting to show his vulnerability. Letting go of Renae was proving to be harder than he thought. He never expected to become so attached. This woman has rescued him and his daughter from his toxic ex-wife, and for the first time in years, he feels truly understood by a woman. Renae looks up at him, still in his arms, her eyes reflecting a mixture of sadness and gratitude.

"Thank you for everything, Rae," Joel murmurs to Renae, his voice barely above a whisper. “But ya’ know this means we can now, maybe… Get serious.”

Butterflies flutter in her stomach but instantly die. She reluctantly slides out of his warm embrace and takes a small step away from him.

There’s no way that can happen right now, Joel needs time with his daughter and needs to figure out his life as a single dad.

She doesn’t feel it’s fair for him to jump right into the next relationship, especially that he has a daughter at a highly impressionable age.

She smiles softly, her right hand reaching up to cup his cheek, her acrylics softly scratch his deep brown beard, and her eyes glisten with unshed tears. "Don't thank me, Joel," she whispers, her voice barely audible, purposefully avoiding the last part of his sentence, "I did what I had to do.”

Joel takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. His left hand raises to where Renae rests on him, the touch gentle yet filled with longing. "You saved me," he says, his voice breaking with emotion. "I woulda’ been lost without you. You saved me ‘n my daughter, that’s all I coulda’ asked for."

“As much as I want to be with you… Joel,” she sighs into his gentle touch, “It just can’t happen right now, you just divorced and have a ten year old girl who loves you and needs you. I can’t get in between that. It’s not fair to her, you, or me.”

Renae's heart aches as she looks into Joel's eyes, feeling the pull of their connection. Despite the yearning for him swirling within her, she knows that the timing is all wrong. She can’t bring herself to disrupt the fragile balance of his newly divorced life and his daughter's need for stability. The love between them was undeniable, but yet their circumstances make it impossible for them to be together.

Joel's touch holds a mixture of longing and understanding as he whispers softly, "I know it's complicated ‘n all, but my feelings for you are real, Rae and I won’t deny that. When the time is right, we’ll find a way to make it work."

Renae forces a bittersweet smile, touched by his sincerity. With a heavy heart, she pulls away from his cheek, knowing that for now, they have to part ways to do what is best for everyone involved.

Renae's eyes meet him again, a mixture of sorrow and love shining battling for the throne. "But… We saved each other," she replies softly.

"We'll always have these moments, Joel. No matter where life takes us," Renae whispers back, her voice filled with love and understanding. Joel softly chuckles and a warm smile grows on his lips, and then it’s like time stands still.

Finally, Renae breaks the silence, her voice barely a whisper, "I don't wanna say goodbye." Joel's gaze softens, and he pulls her into one more tight embrace.

The world seems to fade away once again as they hold each other, savoring the moment before they have to part ways. The memories of their time together flood back to both of them, filling their hearts with a bittersweet ache that they can both feel through one another.

For Renae, leaving was inevitable, yet she can’t bear the thought of being separated from Joel. Their love, even though they haven’t told each other, has blossomed unexpectedly, catching them both by surprise. As they stand there, wrapped in each other's arms, they know that this goodbye was not the end, but possibly a new beginning.

Just not together, at least right now.

As Renae reluctantly lets go of Joel, she softly sighs, I gotta get home. He nods his head and takes a small step back to give her space, drive safely, text me when you’re home please. She smiles and tells him she will.

Hesitantly, Renae hops into her car and starts it, she looks to her left one more time and sees Joel, still out of his truck, already looking at her. She gives a hopeful smile and a small wave, which he returns. She tells herself to pull away, just drive off, and somehow she does.

Renae can’t shake off the bittersweet feeling as she drives away. Her heart feels heavy, but she knows it’s the right decision and the only decision. As the distance between her and Joel grows, she can’t help but replay the moment in her mind.

The hopeful smile on his face lingers in her thoughts, filling her with conflicting emotions. A part of her wants to turn back, to stay and see where things could lead, but another part knows it’s time to move on. She keeps driving, the road stretching out ahead of her like a blank canvas. With each passing mile, she feels a sense of freedom and a twinge of sadness.

Why does the world need to be so cruel?

—

With every passing day, it seems Joel has an incredibly difficult time letting go of Renae. The last thing he ever expected was becoming attached to his divorce attorney. It’s only been three weeks since the last time they've seen each other, and a couple days that they stopped calling one another, but he’s found himself unable to stop thinking about her.

Her laughter echoes in his mind, her smile still lighting up his world. They had shared intimate conversations and created unforgettable memories together in the short four months, so how could he ever just let her go?

Before court started, Joel knew he would have to leave her but he didn’t think he would’ve struggled with the idea of saying goodbye. When he watched her drive away, leaving him in the parking lot to go home, Joel realized that sometimes, the hardest part of love is knowing when to set it free.

Now, on a warm sunny Saturday, Joel sits at the park watching Sarah play with Ellie on the monkey bars, feeling the weight of his responsibilities as a single dad. Renae's words echo in his mind, that he needs time to adjust to his new life as a single dad. Her words sting since he’s pretty much been one for the last four-five years anyways.

As he sits on one of the many park benches and stares off into space and he wonders why she really didn’t want to be with him, Sarah tugs at his sleeve, a wide grin on her face. In her innocent eyes, he finds the strength to push aside his doubts and focus on what truly matters - his daughter's happiness. Joel knows he needs to navigate this new chapter with care and consideration, not just for himself but for her.

Although, Renae's words linger, a reminder of the delicate balance between his own desires and his daughter's well-being. As he holds Sarah’s hand, Joel makes a silent promise to tread carefully, embracing the uncertainty of this new journey as a true single father. Not a husband who does everything.

As they walk towards Joel's truck, Sarah can’t shake off the feeling that something’s wrong with her dad. She glances at him, his face etched with lines that she hasn’t noticed in a long time.

"You alright, dad?" she asks, tightening her grip on his hand. Ellie senses the tension, and gives Sarah a reassuring smile.

Joel pauses and looks at her, his eyes reflecting a mixture of emotions. "I'm fine, sweetie," he finally replies, forcing a smile. But Sarah can tell he’s hiding something. As Joel opens the truck door and lets the girls climb in, buckling themselves up before he shuts the door and walks over to the driver side. His mind is racing, how can Sarah tell? How can his ten-year-old daughter know that something is wrong? He thought he was better at hiding his emotions.

As he drives down the road, Joel steals glances at Sarah and Ellie through the rearview mirror. They're both laughing about something on the playground they saw, and Joel smiles. The sun is setting, casting a warm glow on their faces, and Joel feels a surge of love for his daughter and her best friend. He remembers the struggles they've been through, the joys they've shared, and the bond that holds them together.

Sarah looks up and catches Joel's eye in the mirror. She gives him a wide grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Ellie chimes in, asking if they can stop for McDonald’s, even though Joel hates when they eat junk food, he figures today will be okay and that it won’t hurt them. They deserve a small treat, he reasons.

As Ellie's persistent cravings for McDonald's reach its peak, Joel finally surrenders with a defeated chuckle. "Alright, we can stop," he concedes, knowing there’s no way around it. Ellie and Sarah’s eyes light up with excitement as they pull into the drive-thru, both their mouths already watering at the thought of their favorite fast food place.

Joel can’t help but smile at their enthusiasm, realizing that sometimes giving in to simple pleasures is what makes life all the more enjoyable. As they sit in the car waiting for their order, Joel can’t help but be grateful for these ordinary moments that bring him and his daughter, and Ellie, closer together since the divorce.

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