#checked real estate prices again and felt like shit

[54prowl]

this generation is not meant to become homeowners. we are meant to collect little trinkets and have snacky snacks and drinky drinks with our friends.

[diazsdimples]

I am just as devastated as the next person about Bobby and Athena’s house being burned down but think about the possibilities! Walk with me here. Bobby spending 90% of his time on Real Estate websites when he’s not plotting how to get the 118 back from Gerrard. Athena noticing that his searches get gradually further away from metropolitan LA until one day, Bobby very happily shoves the laptop in front of her face and there’s a listing for a very cute looking ranch-style property. “And it’s only an hours drive on the freeway, Athena!” Athena’s initially resistant because since when has Bobby ever expressed interest in living on a ranch and also she is a city girl through and through, but Bobby finally convinces her to come view the property with him and fuck, it’s actually kinda perfect. It’s in their price range, with a lovely big house that’s got 4 bedrooms (one for them, one for Harry, one for May, and a guest room/ office), the kitchen is massive and rustic and Bobby’s like a kid in a candy shop the whole time, just bouncing around this place like an energised toddler (“it has a walk in pantry, Athena!”) and Athena starts unconsciously planning the furniture layout and some renovations. And then, and then, Bobby takes her outside and the back yard is absolutely gorgeous; there’s a patio that’s got a barbecue, a stone pizza oven, a fire pit (one outside this time), there’s so much room and space and Athena can feel herself gradually falling in love. And it’s got TWO WHOLE PADDOCKS! The opportunities are endless! They go home and she tries to act indifferent but Bobby finds her looking at the listing again and going through their finances, scoping out the local area, checking her commute time into work. They talk about it a couple more times, during which Bobby mentions the fact that he’s always wanted to own horses and he misses having chickens like he did when he was little in Minnesota, and honestly it’s her husband’s insistence and pure joy that ends up convincing her. She’s got one condition though: she gets a bunny rabbit. It’s a non-negotiable. If Bobby wants the house, Athena gets a rabbit. Bobby agrees, so they end up putting in a tentative offer, slightly under what they think it could go for, but miracle upon miracles, it gets accepted!! They finally tell the 118 (who respond with a variety of reactions, most of which being “you bought a what??”) and a few weekends later, they’re moving in their few worldly possessions, as well as setting up all the furniture Bobby impulsively ordered one night when Buck was over and pulled up a few furniture stores. Athena starts building a rabbit hutch, which turns into something more like a rabbit castle cause she’ll only have the best for her baby, and she gets her rabbit, who she names Hercules. He spends a fair chunk of time inside, on her lap as she rubs his ears. Bobby ends up buying a whole flock of hens, and a rooster that he names Maurice (and he’s never seen Tommy back up quite as quickly as he did when Buck showed him the chickens with a shit eating grin on his face). Eddie and Buck help to build a massive vegetable garden which Bobby fills with herbs and vegetables and flowers. He wants a dog, but Athena won’t allow it cause 1. She’s allergic and 2. Hercules doesn’t like dogs apparently. So he gets two horses instead, a mare and a gentle old gelding and spends his days off riding the horses (he does hire someone to care for the horses when he can’t) and tending to his garden and cooking and he’s never felt quite so happy in his life. A lot of plaid begins to work it’s way into his wardrobe and when he gets the horses, Eddie brings him back a pair of cowboy boots and a Stetson from Texas, which he initially doesn’t wear but then Athena says he looks hot in them so he brings them out when he’s riding the horses. And no one minds the long drive to their new place cause it’s so perfect, they have the best cookout there and it’s clear that Athena and Bobby are the happiest they’ve been in years.

[kickthecan-revolution]

Done.

We officially terminated and signed the second offer, so we’re in contract. I couldn’t help myself and went and looked on the first buyers’ Facebook and they have two tiny kids - thinking of her diagnosis and what that means made me burst into tears. It’s just a deal that didn’t go through, they aren’t bad people. I’m sure they are going to be angry but they will also understand, given their realtor expertise. I found the property they have for sale and noted that they didn’t reduce the price until a week before their 45 day close date. That’s crazy. Seattle is the number one city for cooling real estate right now per the NYT, so they should have reduced earlier. I get it though it’s hard to make that call.

My sister and I talked and I said how I had such a weird day today and kind of lost my shit on my manager during my review (I haven’t written about that because I’m so mortified). I drove home and felt like I was going to have a panic attack.

We started to walk through the timeline of everything that happened, starting last June when our dad fell and then checked out of rehab after three days, and then he fell again and we forced him into assisted-living by lying and saying he was only going to be there for three weeks. All of his hallucinations and the extreme agitation and screaming at everyone and anyone who came into the room, getting out of bed and running down the hall chasing animals.

Then my sister breaking up with her partner and going through that crazy intense refinancing process in October.

Then my mom going into assisted living in December and all we had to do to make that happen and the sadness of that moment.

Then going to Seattle for Christmas and my niece got COVID so we cancelled the get together but I bought that Santa Suit and drive to deliver presents.

Then my Alki tenant moved out in January and I had so many false starts in finding a new renter. And my new boss started which was…..so horrible.

Then our mom fell in April and broke her pelvis. We also had the renter for the house and had 8 weeks to fix it and it was in such disrepair - then he left the first night they were there due to a car break in.

Then in May, assisted living told us they were kicking our dad out because he was so belligerent. The dozens of calls each week from him.

Then we put him on hospice to get drugs that calmed him. We asked them to stop feeding him as much which made them suspicious of us.

Then he died in June, right after a massive product launch. Then we had three weeks to get the house and yard ready for sale, the endless amount of people who had to be paid.

The arrangements, the urn, the closing of the accounts, obituary, contacting friends.

Then it sold. And we waited in limbo while we watched the real estate market crumble.

Then the call for the first extension on a Friday, she died that Sunday snd we were meant to close that next Thursday.

In shock and not caring, we signed it.

The arrangements, the urn, the closing of the accounts, obituary, contacting friends.

Then the next extension.

Two days after that, the second buyer.

Waiting these 72 hours.

Performance reviews.

And in between all of that, nightmares at work.

Woof.

[trillian-anders]

four christmases

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

warnings:  slight violence, angst, fluff, smut && SPOILERS

word count: 16k

description: part 2 of 5. CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS, PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED THE FILM. you’ve been working for the thrombeys for four years now,the last three years of your service being a glorified babysitter to the most annoying, self-absorbed, dickhead hugh ransom drysdale. These are the four christmases you’ve spent with the thrombey/drysdale clan during your times of service. 

a/n: this story is brought to you by season 4 of schitt’s creek and maybe 12 cups of coffee. it felt like it took forever to write, but i’m happy to bring it to you. this is the follow up for my other ransom one-shot ‘the assistant’. i hope you guys like it! 

2018

What a fucking asshole. 

“You have to be there, it’s your job.” Ransom huffed indignantly. You rolled your eyes from the passenger seat of his beamer, tablet open in your lap as you scrolled through your sister’s amazon wishlist. 

“I have a family too Ransom. I can’t just abandon my own family on Christmas just because you can’t get along with yours.” His knuckles turned white against the gear shift. Nothing else mattered, only him it seemed, and his whining Mommy complex. 

“You were hired to assist me,” Ransom pulled into the drive of his house, tires crunching on the gavel, “So assist.” What a fucking tool. He quickly exited the car not looking behind him to see if you were following into the house, but leaving the front door wide open with the expectation that you were coming right behind. 

You had just hopped onto this assistant gig a few months ago. There you were minding your own business as fall began, working for a temp agency, when Linda Drysdale rang you up and asked you to come work for the family again. You had recently been tutoring one of the youngest of the clan, Meg, with her English coursework for her last school year. The pay was good and you were kind of let down when they opted not to keep you on after summer concluded. 

Babysitting Ransom paid well, better than it had been to help Meg out, but was it really worth the price? Ransom was a fucking child. You cooked his meals, washed his laundry, and were forced to tail him as he went about whatever business he deemed worthy of his days. Just until 9 pm, that’s all you had to do. Twelve hours a day, five days a week. Off Sundays and Mondays. 

It felt like too much and not worth the paycheck. Even if the trust-fund asshole spent his days flirting around from one party to the next. More often than not he found himself a body to bring home leaving you to get an uber back to his place just so you could get your car to go home, or worse yet having you sit awkwardly in the backseat of the car as whoever was in the passenger seat desperately tried to give him road head. 

He loved it. You know he did. Eyes flitting to yours in the rear-view mirror as a girl ten years younger than him fumbled with his belt. A fucking smirk on his face. You wanted to punch him, but your sister’s private school tuition held you back. 

You followed him into the house, one you had just spent the entire morning cleaning as Ransom slept off his hangover. The prick had dropped his coat on the floor adjacent to the coat hook, shoes haphazardly kicked off beside it, glaring at him as you picked them up while he drank orange juice straight from the carton. 

“I’ll pay you time and a half if you come.” He bartered. 

“You don’t pay me anything,” You scoffed. “Your Mom pays me.” 

“Exactly.” He tossed the carton back in the fridge, coming around the counter to get closer to you. He dropped his voice in what he probably thought was a seductive whisper. The fire it lit in your core would lead you to believe that it actually was a seductive whisper and you just fucking hated him. “I’ll make it worth your while.” He drug a finger down your cheek softly. It only caused you to roll your eyes, batting his finger away and stripping yourself of your coat you turned back to him, 

“I want triple.” 

Your sister was going to be pissed, but she’ll survive once she realizes you were able to get her a new laptop for school. A compromise. 

She cried. 

The Thrombey’s were probably the worst people you’ve ever met in your entire life. Harlan was prideful, pompous. He cared about his family, to an extent. He created them after all, his monsters. 

Linda was okay, but she was a lot like her father. She felt as though she was better than everyone else simply because she ‘built herself from the ground up’ yeah, if the ground was a million dollars gifted from Daddy. Her husband, Richard, was a glorified sugar baby, you were sure at one point he was a real estate broker, but Linda had the business, he just rode on her coattails. 

Walt was a whiny bastard. He was meek. He walked around with a cane and you weren’t sure he even needed it. It could totally be a ploy to try and gain more sympathy from his father. His wife was a drunk, you couldn’t remember her name, but it didn’t matter because she wouldn’t talk to you anyway. You can’t talk if you always have your mouth wrapped around the lip of a martini glass. Their son, Jacob, was a little alt-right shit. Every comment that came out of his mouth was a dig on some less privileged 99% and if you didn’t need this job you’d shove his head in the toilet yourself.

That leads you to Joni and Meg. Joni and Ransom had both been given an allowance every month. That’s the way they were mostly the same. How they differed was that Joni was at least attempting to have some sort of entrepreneur business where she gained some income, but not enough to live the lifestyle she was accustomed to. She had Meg in this expensive ass private school that cost more than your salary a month and Meg found this group of liberal women and now she was becoming the extreme opposite of Jacob. They often bumped heads, with Meg slowly giving in. She always gave in. This was her family and as much as she wanted to fight for the 99% she never actually wanted to be one. 

But it was fine. 

It didn’t really matter. 

You just wanted to go home. 

Ransom hasn’t had an empty hand all day thanks to you. “If I’m ever without a drink,” He said on the way over, “You’re walking home.” So this is where you’re standing, with Marta and Fran, you sipping on a weak mimosa that Marta had compromised on, waiting for the day to be over. 

Ransom’s eyes met yours from across the room, hand raising his glass, the last little mouthful swishing against its side. You sighed and rolled your eyes, turning to grab the decanter behind you, walking over to fill his glass. “So I told him to shove it up his ass,” Linda was telling Harlan a story, “If you think for one moment I would give in to anything less than market price you’re out of your mind.” Please love me, she was saying, please see that I’m the best child you have. Harlan’s eyes were dazed, not looking at hers. Thinking. He was always thinking. 

The only time Ransom didn’t need you was when he disappeared into his Grandfather’s office. Presents were handed out just before, new iphones, apple watches, macbooks, cartier bracelets, rolexes, a couple of little bonus checks to their allowances, the spirit of Christmas was definitely lost on this family. 

It doesn’t matter. 

You had just filled Ransom’s glass before he entered the study and you knew he wouldn’t need you until some kind of argument broke out with his Grandfather and you had to be ready to leave the house at a moment’s notice. 

“How’s it goin’ kid?” Richard always kind of made you uncomfortable. He seemed normal, but you were uncomfortable in a ‘this is a rich older white man who liked to corner you alone’ kind of way. For the most part he’s been harmless. 

One time, this was early on when you first started to tutor Meg, he found you in a similar way. Alone, in the kitchen. This was one of the first times he had met you and he was sure to let you know, “You’ve got a really pretty face, you know that?” Ew. Thanks? He had gotten close, too close. “How’d a pretty girl like you end up as a tutor?” That’s worse. And cheesy. This looked like one of those times, except he’d been drinking since 8 am. 

“I’m fine thanks.” You had been trying to find a minute of peace. There was always someone talking in this house, during ‘debates’ there were usually three or four. This was supposed to be a break. Ransom having been passed off to another wet nurse he could suck off of while you got some rest, and maybe sneak a couple of those expensive chocolate artisanal cookies for good measure. Richard grinned at you, not in the way Ransom would when he was fucking with you, but something more predatory. He was feeling ambitious. 

“I just wanted to give you this,” He slipped an envelope across the counter to you, hand resting on it, waiting for you to take it. As your hand met the envelope, he did the fucking worst thing he could possibly do in this moment, and took your hand. Your heart was racing and you felt wildly uncomfortable. He held your hand, taking a step into your space, body crowding yours against the counter. You stared him down, please just let me go. Please just fucking let me go. “How’s my son treating you?” He asked. What exactly did he think you were doing for his son?

“Fine.” You swallowed harshly. Please just let me go. You could smell the whiskey on his breath, face coming closer to yours. 

“If you ever need anything…” Closer and closer. You wished you could pull back completely, get out of this situation, but the vice grip he currently had on your hand was making it difficult. 

“Y/N.” Your eyes snapped over to the doorway, Ransom. His jaw was clenched, face flushed from what you were sure was an argument with Harlan. “We’re leaving.” Richard turned and smiled at his son, releasing your hand. You quietly slipped the envelope into your jeans pocket, backing yourself away from him, and joining Ransom across the room where his eyes hadn’t yet left his father. It wasn’t until you made it to the front door, grabbing your coat from the coat rack did he stomp his way out of the house, digging his car keys from his pockets. 

“Ransom I don’t think you should be driving-” You started, but he turned to you, eyes wild. This scared you. 

“Get in the car.” He demanded. Fuck, he’s drunk.

“Ransom you’re drunk, you can’t drive right now.” His eyes looked behind you and you turned to look at his family, peeking out through the curtains to watch the show. He quickly grabbed your arm, tugging you to the passenger seat, wrenching the door open and shoving you in, slamming the door behind you to circle around to the drivers side. “Just let me drive.” You pleaded. He slammed his own car door, revving the engine and quickly whipping the car out of the driveway. 

He wasn’t saying anything and Ransom always had something to say. 

“Ransom-”

“Shut the fuck up.” His knuckles were white against the wheel, eyes staring straight ahead as he began gaining speed. 

60 mph,

65 mph,

70…

“Slow down!” He was scaring you, these roads were winding and dark, his high beams only did so much and you weren’t sure how many deer you’d be seeing tonight. His foot was heavy on the accelerator. 

75

80

85

“Ransom please!” You cried. His breathing was heavy. His eyes were moving wildly left to right as he moved the wheel to turn.

90

95

100

You were going to die. This was it, this was the end. The car hit the open road, the interstate, and to the left of the on ramp you had just flew through was a cop. Their lights started flashing, red and blue filling the car as Ransom kept accelerating. It wasn’t late at night, probably around nine or so. There were other cars here as Ransom kept gaining speed, swerving in and out of traffic. “You’ve got to pull over!” You yelled at him.

105

110

115

“Ransom for the love of god, fucking stop!” His eyes looked in the rearview, two cops now. It was then he began to slow down, moving over to the side of the road, your heart still racing in your chest. You relax your fingers which you didn’t even realize was gripping Ransom’s bicep in a steel grip. Both of you breathing heavily inside the car. It wasn’t until the cop heavily banged on the window that either of you even moved. 

“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.” A bright flashlight in your face as you dug around for his registration and insurance in the glove box. Exiting the car and circling to the trunk as Ransom was handing the four cops bills from his money clip. Why the fuck did Ransom have a money clip full of hundreds? Ransom’s eyes met yours as he stuffed his money clip back in his coat pocket before tossing you the keys which you caught awkwardly. 

“Take me home.” 

You looked over at the cops who were getting back in their squad cars before quietly getting in the driver's seat and shutting the door. Your heart was still pounding and as the adrenaline began wearing off you suddenly grew very tired. 

“Drive.” You didn’t want to hear his voice. You never wanted to see his face again. You never even wanted to hear his name again. 

“You’re the fucking worst.” You could feel yourself crying. That was the most terrifying experience you’ve ever had in your life. 

“Well you’re fucking my father so,” He sunk down in his seat. “I think I have some competition.”

“I’m not fucking your father!” You exclaimed, hand hitting the steering wheel. You hear him scoff from the passenger seat.

“Not today since I walked in on you. Which is funny, you put on this whole show about not wanting to be around my family and what was it all for? A fucking ploy so I didn’t know.” Ransom didn’t fucking know how much of a goddamn idiot he was being right now. 

As the gravel crunched beneath the tires of the beamer, your argument continued. “I’m not fucking your father, I’ve never fucked your father, and I never will fuck your father.” He wasn’t hearing you. 

“Is this why Linda pays you so much?” He scoffed, exiting the car. He looked at you from over the roof and continued, “So you keep Richard out of her bed?” You hadn’t stopped crying. Still half going from fear and the other half from frustration. It was so goddamn cold out that the tears were freezing against your cheeks. 

“Ransom, I am not fucking your father!” You yelled, “The reason she pays me what she does is because the exact fucking thing you’re doing right now.” He rolled his eyes, walking up to the front door of his house, 

“Give me my keys.” 

“No.” You were still standing by the car, keys fisted in your hand. “You’re being a fucking asshole right now.” 

He clenched his fist, slamming it into the front door before turning back to you and yelling, “Give me my fucking keys Y/N.” You both looked at one another for a moment. 

You took a deep breath. “I have nothing to do with your father Ransom. My only job is to wait on you like a fucking servant and that is what I get paid to do. Not be your fucking punching bag when your family turns out to be a bunch of dicks-”

“Give me-”

“I’m not finished!” You screamed. Tears were still streaming heavily down your face and Ransom stood five feet away from you awkwardly letting you continue. “I don’t deserve this Ransom. I really fucking don’t. You literally almost just fucking killed me. So you’re going to say you’re sorry, you’re going to go into your fucking house, you’re going to give me what you promised me for even having to deal with this shit tonight, and you’re going to give me the rest of the week off.” 

It was silent for a moment. The two of you standing in the cold Massachusetts air in silence. Your face was starting to burn and as the silence stretched on you began to doubt everything you just said. Fuck this could cost you the job. The envelope Richard had handed you weighed heavily in your pocket. Hopefully it would be enough to hold you over until you could get back to the temp agency. 

Ransom let out a breath he had been holding, turning fully to you, and walking down the two steps of his porch. You flinched back away from him, looking at his knuckles that were split and bleeding from punching the door. His eyes met yours and he looked like he was debating something. 

“I’m sorry.” His words were soft and whispered, hand coming forward with an open palm, waiting for his keys. You gently gave them back to him. That soft, whispered, ‘I’m sorry’ stunned you. You didn’t expect your yelling to actually work. You expected to be fired. His keys jingled as he reached in his pocket and brought that money clip back out, extracting a bundle of hundreds and holding them out to you between two fingers. “Go home.” 

That was never spoken of again. The thing with Richard in the kitchen, being pulled over on 95, the screaming match that ensued, and nothing was ever said about the solid gold, $6,500 cartier bracelet that was by no doubt wrapped at the store that was waiting for you when you arrived back at work five days later. 

2019

“What did he do?” You were sweating. It was so fucking hot in here, but you were afraid to take off your coat. The fanfare in which the detectives had pulled up to your apartment complex was embarrassing, quickly bringing you down to the police station and shoving you in an interrogation room. 

“What did who do?” The man who had introduced himself as Lieutenant Elliot asked you. Shit. What the fuck did Ransom do? The death of Harlan Thrombey was sudden, right after his birthday just two weeks ago. It was unsettling, the suicide. The funeral was uncomfortable to say the least. Ransom told you to go and then didn’t go himself so you stood there like some weird interloper on the tails of everyone’s grief. 

You were going to throw up, you’ve never so much as gotten a speeding ticket but suddenly you had a kilo of coke on you and an unlicensed gun. “Where were you the night Harlan Thrombey committed suicide?” You picked at your fingernails. 

“I was at the party,” Your throat was so dry, you were afraid to touch the glass of water they had set before you, “I always feel strange around the family so unless Ransom needs me I try to hide out in the kitchen.” 

“You’re his assistant?” Elliot asked, “He doesn’t have a job, so what exactly do you assist with?”

“I’m pretty much his babysitter.” You explained, “I make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble…” It’s ironic right? You bit your bottom lip. “Why am I here exactly?” The other man in the room, Wagner, spoke up, 

“Hugh Drysdale has been arrested in the murder of Harlan Thrombey’s housekeeper.” Elliot gave him a dirty look. 

“Fran’s dead?” The shock was evident on your face. You leaned back in the uncomfortable metal chair, discarding your coat and scarf and taking a large mouthful of water. 

“You seemed surprisingly absent from Hugh’s side throughout the aftermath of Harlan’s suicide, why is that?” The third man spoke up from his spot sitting in the corner of the room, the thick southern accent was almost comical. 

“Ransom gave me time off,” You recalled, voice trailing off as you finish your sentence, “He said I could go to my sister’s cello recital…”  Did he really kill her? “Why would he kill Fran?” It made no sense. “I mean, he’s an asshole, but murder?”

They played a recording. Ransom in his own, self-righteous, pompous voice. Fuck me. What a fucking idiot. “So tell us where you were on the dates in question, spare no details.”

You had thought it strange, Ransom had left you stranded at the Thrombey house and you were forced to find your own way back to his house to get your car. It wasn’t at all strange that when you got to his house his car wasn’t there. You’d just assumed he’d gone out. It wasn’t uncommon for him to go out after finding arguments with his family. But the next day when he suggested that you take the week off, spend time with your sister, go to that recital you didn’t know he knew about, you checked his forehead with your wrist.

“Are you sick?” You had asked. He gently pushed your wrist off of his forehead, giving you a terse look. 

“Harlan committed suicide last night, the funeral is tomorrow, but after that you should take some time. I need some time.” Your heart broke a bit. Yeah Ransom and Harlan butt heads all the time, but they were practically the same person so it made sense to you that they would fight. Both prideful assholes. 

“I’m so sorry Ransom.” Should you hug him? You didn’t know. You two didn’t have any physical contact really. You’d never seen him hug anyone. So no, no hugs. “Is there anything I can do for you?” You opted to just gently lay your hand on his wrist. His eyes met yours for a moment, silence. 

“Just come to the funeral.” With that he stood up and walked away. 

That’s why it was so off-putting when the bastard didn’t even show up to the funeral and as you stood there with his sobbing family you figured next time you saw him you were going to spit in his coffee. 

“I haven’t seen him since the day before the funeral.” You admitted to the officers. “He asked me to go, and didn’t even show up.” 

“If we have any other questions we’ll let you know.” And you were released from questioning, but you had so many questions yourself. Arson? Fran? He attempted to murder Marta. Was this worth it? The fucking asshole never had to work for anything in his life, and even now as you stood in the courtroom waiting to see what bail would be set as so you could relay to Linda, you wanted to smack his pretty little face for being such a fucking idiot. 

A bailiff read out the case number and in walked Ransom. You’d never seen him in any outfit that cost less than your rent and here the bastard was, walking in with a black and white striped jumpsuit, the county jail logo stamped in red on the back.  You were the only person that showed up for him. Linda was half waiting for you to text her a dollar amount so she could pay his bail, the other half of her was debating on whether to leave him there or not. At least, that’s what she told you anyway. 

You could only imagine what you looked like to him. Your eyes were puffy and red from just crying in the parking lot for an hour in between getting questioned and coming to his hearing. Before that the detectives had taken you practically from your bed. But you were here, in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, coat pulled over the ratty thing, and snow boots on your feet. It started snowing this morning. 

His eyes caught yours as soon as he entered, but he quickly looked away. It was like a goddamn movie, his wrists cuffed to his waist, a chain leading down to the cuffs around his ankles. 

Ransom Drysdale murdered someone. 

A chill went down your spine, “Bail set at a million dollars.” And a gavel. Cameras clicking behind you. Thirty minutes later you were waiting for his release. You handed a dry cleaning bag with clothes to the officer at the front desk. 

Ransom Drysdale murdered someone. 

It wasn’t long before the secure, thick, metal door behind the metal detectors opened and Ransom was walking through it back to you. He wouldn’t meet your eyes, quickly circling to the desk to get his phone, wallet, and keys back. The garment bag was shoved back in your hands containing the clothes he was wearing when he was arrested, and then he was out the doors of the county jail, speed walking to your car. His was taken in as evidence. 

You used your key fob to unlock the car, Ransom wordlessly climbing in the passenger seat and slamming the door behind him as you settled in the driver’s. This was uncomfortable. You drove in silence for a minute, awkwardly leaning over to turn on the radio. The song only played for a second before Ransom leaned over, smacking the button to turn it off again. 

“Just say it.” He spat out at you. Your hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. 

“Say what, Ransom?” You were scared of him now and he could tell. He breathed harshly through his nose. You could feel his eyes on you. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I did it? Why I did it? Yell at me for being a fucking idiot?” He threw his hands up in frustration. There was a beat of silence more, “Say something.” 

“I don’t know what to say!” You really didn’t. What do you even say? You’ve been cursing him for a while. In your head. Cursing him since you left the interrogation earlier. You didn’t know what any of this meant for your job, if you’ll be able to keep your sister in school, if you’ll be able to even afford the apartment you two live in right now. And all because Ransom wasn’t getting anymore fucking money from his Grandfather the fucking prick. 

“Anything. Fucking say…” He leaned over in his seat, growing close to you. “Are you scared of me?” He smirked. Not in his, I’m playing with you and getting my way, smirk. And not in his, I’m making you weirdly uncomfortable and it really gets me off, smirk. But some sick sinister type of smirk that made your stomach roll. 

“You fucking murdered someone Ransom.” You said between clenched teeth. He studied you for a minute before settling back in his seat. Silence took over until you made it to the front door of his house. Lawyers should be coming by in about an hour to start working on his case, his parents should be here soon as well seeing as they were backing all of this. 

“You think I would hurt you?” Ransom asked as he stripped himself of his coat, purposefully letting it fall to the floor just so you’d have to pick it up. You left it there. He turned to look at you, still in the doorway of his house. “I killed Fran because I had to.” He spat. “It was for the bigger fucking picture. You want to be paid don’t you? You like having money right?”

“Your Mom pays me Ransom.” You stated calmly. His voice was escalating in volume as he continued.

“So fucking what? Who bought you that fucking coat, huh?” He was talking about the expensive wool coat you are currently wearing. He bought it for you after seeing that your old bubble coat had stuffing pouring out of the right pocket. You didn’t ask for it. “Who pays for your fucking phone, huh?” You had a month-by-month plan before. Ransom gifted you and your sister iphones sometime in the spring, saying that he needed to be able to reach you without having every call get dropped due to bad reception. Your sister’s was just because they were buy-one-get-one, or so he said. You didn’t ask for it. “And that fucking bracelet on your wrist too? Is my Mom buying you jewelry? Or just me and my fucking Dad?” He was still under the impression that something had gone on between you and his father apparently. 

“That’s it! I’m done.” You yelled back at him. “I fucking quit.”  You stripped the coat off your shoulders and tossed  it on the floor beside his watching his mouth snap shut. You wiggled the bracelet off your wrist and threw that down on top of it before slipping your phone out of the side pocket of your yoga pants and throwing that on the pile. “I’ll mail Julia’s phone back to you.” You still hadn’t stepped foot inside the house, turning to walk back to your car when Ransom’s thundering footsteps could be heard behind you. 

Fuck he was going to kill you. 

It had continued to snow throughout the morning, the soft white stuff still falling heavily from the sky as you rushed to your car, you had to get away. You didn’t make it far before Ransom’s arms wrapped around your body from behind, tugging you tightly to his chest. You let out a loud scream before he covered your mouth with his hand. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He whispered quickly into your ear. “Please stop, I’m sorry.” His large body was bent over your back as you were crouched over trying to get him to release you, both of you breathing heavily as you settled against him. “Y/N I’m sorry.” He slowly started walking the two of you back toward the house, “I’m not gonna hurt you!” He shouted as you tried to bite his hand. He uncovered your mouth, arms loosening. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” He repeated a little more calmly. 

He brought you back into the house, shutting the door softly behind him. You wanted to leave, eyes tearing up. What the fuck were you supposed to do now? Ransom stood for a moment with his back against the door before peeling the wet socks off of his feet. You hadn’t realized that he took his shoes off when he originally came in. His feet were bright red from the cold. You glanced to your left at the knife block there, slowly backing away. 

“No, no, no, I’m not going to hurt you.” He sunk down to his knees. He looked like a fucking idiot, face flushed from the cold, kneeling in front of the door. He slowly made his way over to you, not rising from his knees, shuffling forward with his hands open and facing you. Your heart was racing as he stopped at your feet, slowly moving his arms to wrap around your waist, burying his face in your ratty old college sweatshirt. 

He was hugging you. Actually hugging you, on his knees, face turned into your belly. You could have sworn he whispered, “Please don’t go.” But you couldn’t be sure. 

A pot of coffee was made, coats picked up, and floor mopped before the lawyers and his parents arrived. The only evidence of your earlier fight was the absence of the cartier bracelet you refused to put back on. It sat heavily in Ransom’s pants pocket. Their discussion was loud in the living room and no one looked up as you lay the coffee and finger foods on the coffee table, Ransom’s cup unmade for him out of spite. As you turned to make your way back to the kitchen, Richard’s hand shot out to grab you harm, halting your movements, 

“Grab me some Macallan for me, would you sweetheart?” Your eyes flit over to Ransom, who’s jaw twitched, sharing a look with you before looking back to his lawyers and mother. 

This was none of your business, but you needed to know what your future was going to look like. Were you out of a job? If Ransom went to prison there would be no one to babysit. So yeah, you would be. He admitted on tape to arson and murder. Pre-meditated arson was minimum of 10 years, Murder was 30 years. He’s looking at at least 40 years in prison. He would be an old man before he was even allowed parole. 

The group grew silent, or you couldn’t hear them as you started dinner for that evening. You were sure the four of them would be staying. “Y’N, would you come here please?” That was Linda. 

You made your way over to the group, shuffling nervously in your wool socks. “Yes Mrs. Drysdale?” Linda smiled, 

“It’s back to Thrombey now, but that’s another issue.” Hmmm. “If I was willing to pay you…. Say four times what you’re making now, would you take Ransom’s house arrest? That is, if we are able to work the judge down to that.” 

“House arrest?” You looked to Ransom confused, he wasn’t meeting your eyes. “Murder and Arson-”

“The only proof they have is the recording, the only thing they’re going to be able to pin on Mr. Drysdale here would be the attempted murder of the nurse.” A chill went down your spine, 

“You tried to kill Marta too?” You asked Ransom, incredulously. He didn’t respond, popping a cube of cheese into his mouth. His lawyers made you uncomfortable, they were definitely sleazy and you knew money could get you far in the justice system. If that recording was 75% of the evidence against Ransom and it was suddenly and accidentally destroyed, they would only have what was actually witnessed. 

“Well, would you?” Linda asked again. 

“I uhm… I have a sister who lives with me, I can’t just-”

“I’m sure there’s someone else who can take care of her. How long would it be for?” She looked to the lawyers, “Two or three years?” This was impossible. You couldn’t. Linda looked back at you. “How about this…” She leaned over and clasped your hands softly. “We will pay for your sister’s school, her housing, everything she needs while you’re doing this for us, and you’ll still get paid what I originally offered.”

“If Ransom gets house arrest?” You asked. 

“Yes ‘if’.” She was selling it hard. Julia could stay with your aunt. She didn’t live far from where the two of you currently reside. The majority of your income went to her school, books, clothes, rent, and groceries. Having all of that taken care of would mean you’d be getting four times your current salary and not having to spend any of it. Just for a couple years. 

“If Ransom gets house arrest,” you looked over at him, his eyes briefly meeting yours, studying you it felt like, “If he does, I will do what you need me to do. But I don’t even know how-” Linda’s hands quickly released yours. 

“We will figure that out when the time comes,” Linda has a shit eating grin on her face, “Write up a contract.” Directed at the lawyers, “Now, how are we going to get our hands on that recording?” That’s it. You were dismissed until they needed you again. 

“Why would you do that?” Ransom asked you. Everyone had left a little bit ago, you were busy washing the dishes, knowing as soon as this task was finished you’d be able to go home and this day from hell would be over. 

“Do what?” There was a piece of cheese melted on the side of the casserole dish that wouldn’t fucking come off. 

“Agree to take my punishment?” You paused in your scrubbing, 

“That’s if they actually settle on house arrest.” You finally unwedged the cheese, rinsing off the casserole dish and placing it in the dishwasher. 

“Hmpf.” Ransom had been cold and distant since he burrowed his head into your belly. Has to make up for his extreme weakness then. “But why?” He asked again.

You turned to him, eyes staring directly into his. You watched him fiddling with the gold bracelet you had taken off earlier, it was in his hand down by his side. “It’s what you said earlier right?” You scoffed, removing the rubber gloves from your hands and throwing them in the sink. You walked closer to him, not breaking eye contact. “Because I need the fucking money.” 

The two of you didn’t talk for the rest of the weekend. Usually there was texting here and there, ‘Where are my grey socks, the ones I usually wear with the navy Ralph Lauren slacks?’ or ‘Next week when you meal prep for my weekend can you make me this?’ with a link to a recipe. ‘Pick me up a pack of magnums on your way in.’ Fuck you. 

You got him regular Trojans. 

Monday was Christmas luckily enough, and you knew you weren’t going in. Ransom didn’t even text you to see where you were. His account was rapidly depleting funds, you checked every once in a while. 

234.72 ETRN-STD

523.50 DRNK

435.62 HAWTHNE

The list went on. Multiple spots a day over the weekend. That’s who he was going to be now, the old fucking white dude who sits at a bar all day hitting on girls uncomfortably too young. How many giggling 18 year olds would you kick out crying and screaming the next day? Disgusting.  

“Do you have them?” Them meaning the cookies that were currently at the bottom of your reusable Aldi bag. Your sister, Julia, was off to your right, setting a pot with water on the stove to boil. It was Christmas, just the two of you, and with the aftermath of everything that was going on with the Thrombey/Drysdale clan, you were happy to get some time off to relax. You might even push it so that you wouldn’t have to work tomorrow. We’ll see if Ransom texts you. 

“Of course I do.” This bag has been in your closet all weekend. There’s a bakery near your apartment that your Mom would take you to all the time, every time you got an A, won a game, gotten an award. Everything they made reminded you of her, and it was something you craved more than anything. Every Christmas they would make these fresh baked cookie packs with all kinds, chocolate chip, double chocolate chunk, snicker doodle, gingerbread, white chocolate macadamia, chocolate and peanut butter. 

Every Christmas, after dinner, you and your sister would slouch in front of the TV with scalding hot cups of hot chocolate and devour almost the whole box. Every year except last year when at the time your sister was home alone watching The Grinch you were in a car with Ransom going over a hundred miles an hour and scared for your life. This Christmas, Ransom would not be getting between the two of you, food was cooking, lights in the living room were dimmed. The tree was all lit up and the presents you had exchanged earlier that morning sat unwrapped beneath it. 

Christmas music was playing softly on the tv as you heard someone knock on your front door. 

“Coming!” You yelled. It wasn’t uncommon for a neighbor to have forgotten something, sugar, butter, milk, that they needed for dinner. It wasn’t uncommon for you to answer your door without looking through the peephole. What was uncommon was Ransom Drysdale standing sheepishly on the other side. His cheeks, nose, and eyes were red. The cheeks and nose from the cold, the eyes probably from the alcohol you could smell on him. You sighed heavily, feeling a headache coming on, “What are you doing here?” 

“Bar called me an uber and I didn’t want to go home.” He explained quickly, words slurring slightly. 

“Your parents-”

“Fuck my parents!” He yelled, you quickly shushed him, looking down the halls to see if anyone was peeking out into the hallway. “Fuck my parents.” He said quietly. 

“Ransom…” You sighed, stepping out into the hall, closing the door softly behind you. “What do you want?” His eyes were glazed, he shrugged dumbly, swaying forward. “Okay big guy,” I guess this is happening, “Come on.” You quietly ushered him inside, shutting the door softly behind you. 

“Who is it? Oh, woah.” Julia’s eyes bugged out of her head, shifting over to you. ‘Murderer’ she mouthed. 

“Go set the table.” You ushered Ransom over to the small table that could barely seat the two of you let alone a third, quickly brewing a pot of coffee and keeping an eye on your sister who was scared to get to close to him. “He’s harmless Julia.” You reassured her, or were you reassuring yourself so that you didn’t feel like such a bad guardian, letting a murderer into your home. He was past angry drunk Ransom, which is probably why the bar kicked him out, he was sad Ransom right now. You’d never seen him cry but this was probably the closest you were going to get to it. He was quiet, sat in the chair just staring as you and your sister finished dinner. 

You poured him a cup of coffee and a glass of water, hoping to sober him up enough that you could safely send him home later on. The three of you sat down to eat. Ransom staring listlessly out the window. You made him a plate and told him to eat. And he did. You told him to finish his water. And he did. You told him to finish his coffee. And he did. This was almost terrifying. He hadn’t said anything since ‘fuck my parents’, and he looked dead on his feet. 

“Send him home,” Your sister pleaded. The man hadn’t moved. Cleanup had already started and finished, he was still nursing the third glass of water you’d given him. Cookies were warming in the oven. His eyes were less glassy now. He was slowly sobering up. The large helping of mashed potatoes and three bread rolls he ate didn’t hurt either. 

“He’s my boss, I can’t really kick him out.” You explained, “Let me get him sober enough that I know he’s okay and then he’ll go home.” She rolled her eyes at you, stirring the pot of hot chocolate on the stove, adding more chunks of chocolate to melt. Ransom, still unspeaking, didn’t protest when you moved him into the living room, setting him up in the recliner with his own cup of hot chocolate and three cookies, before snuggling down with your sister and watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas. You moved only once when he tapped the mug against your arm. 

More.

“I’ve never done anything.” He said. “Never went to college, barely graduated high school.” He was rambling to himself, maybe to you? “I’ve spent the entirety of my adult years inside someone’s cunt.” 

“Alright, Julia. Time for bed.” You ignored her whining protests. The movie wasn’t over yet. “Please?” You begged her. She hated Ransom. You knew this. She knows you know this. ‘All he does is take you from me.’ is what she once said to you. Just to treat you like shit. 

“I have no money.” Ransom’s eyes met yours. “None.” 

“I know Ransom.” He scoffed. 

“I’m no better off than you now.” 

“You still have your house. I’d say you are still better off.” You started cleaning up around him, letting the asshole sit in his self-pity. 

“C’mere.” It was a quiet request. The Grinch was packing up his sleigh in the background. You dropped the two mugs you were holding onto the counter, circling back to the recliner. Ransom’s hand came out soft, wrapping around your forearm and gently guiding you to sit in his lap.

“Ransom, I don’t think this is appropriate.” You tried to pull away, heartbeat beginning to pick up. His still bloodshot eyes raised to meet yours. 

“Please hold me.” Fuck. What were you supposed to do with that? Heart melting you sunk into his lap, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him in tight. It was quiet for a while. Sitting with the credits rolling, Ransom’s arms wrapped around your waist while yours were wrapped around his shoulders. Comforting him from whatever crisis he was currently going through. 

“Marta ruined everything” He whispered into your neck. 

“No Ransom, you did.” 

2020

The trial, fuck me, the trial. The whole fucking family showed to watch Ransom crash and burn and get exactly what he deserved. Well that and to stare down Marta Cabrera who sat with the prosecution in some shiny new digs, a stunning gold cartier bracelet on her wrist. That was familiar. Ransom’s cheap bought apology. There was a tension there, you knew. He always had a thing for ‘the help’. You wondered if that’s where he had been this past week. But it’s strange isn’t it? This whole situation. It was unsettling and for some reason you felt irreversibly used.  

“I knew the knife was a prop.” And that was that. Audio recording gone, attempted murder charge whittled down to aggravated assault. A slap on the wrist. Two years of house arrest. And here you were, in Ransom’s home with a fucking house arrest bracelet making your ankle itch. Unfucking believable. Ransom had sat in the courtroom, head raised, armani suit, legs crossed and body relaxed. He knew he was getting out of this from the minute he walked in. 

The Thrombey trial that was supposedly going to last three months only lasted a week. You still had a job, and in a remarkable turn of events Linda Drysdale and their legal team got exactly what they predicted. 

“I’m going out.” Was the first thing Ransom told you as you unpacked your clothes. He had half thought to buy you a bed and a small dresser that he haphazardly got someone to shove between his Pam Anderson Baywatch poster and the unplugged Space Invaders original arcade console. This was a 90s teenage boy’s dream bedroom. And now it was yours. He didn’t give you much time to respond and he was gone. 

They say that you never really know someone until you live with them. And you’ve never felt that saying more true. Ransom was a fucking asshole. 

During your previous employment schedule you would come in at 9 am with breakfast and let him know of anything he needed to do that day, if his Mom needed him for whatever reason, events his was scheduled to go to, dates he promised he’d keep. He’d let you know what to cancel and what he would get ready for, and then you were off. Cleaning and maintaining the home to the best of your ability, binge watching tv shows, trying new recipes from pinterest. 

Ransom was disgusting. 

Clothes discarded all over his floor, bedroom, living room, hallways. Beard trimmings all over the sink and what you would hopefully assume were more beard trimmings lining the bottom of his shower. You really didn’t want to think about Ransom’s pubic hair situation. He would do things like take his coffee mugs into his room or into the study and leave like a sip left in each one, letting it sit there until the milk began to curdle. Wet towels shoved into corners and every morning when you went in to make his bed it was like he was running in his sleep, loose and fitted scrunched in the corner of the foot board, duvet thrown off and pillows with half off shams. 

He was doing this shit on purpose. 

And you hated him for it. 

It wasn’t long after the trial that he began a steady routine. Gym, breakfast, some puttering around the house, making plans and then he would go out. And that’s when we come to this, 

“He said he would be back and we would have breakfast together.” The girl was pretty, but her voice was annoying. 

“I’m one hundred percent sure he did not say that.” You stood with arms crossed in the doorway, watching her fix her face in the mirror propped against his bedroom wall. An old antique thing that didn’t match with the decor of the house at all. 

“Hmpf.” She glared at you, “Fine, when he gets back, we’ll see who is right.” This was before you became practiced at this kind of thing. 

You felt your phone buzz in the pocket of your jeans, 

Is she gone yet? 

Fucking prick. 

“I’ll have him call you when he gets in,” You explained, “He has a lot to do today, I’m sure if he said you’ll go out for breakfast it’ll probably be another day.” 

“I said.” She stepped up to you, “I’m staying.” Fuck. You rolled your eyes and walked past her into the room, 

Not leaving, come deal with her yourself

He had been waiting down the street like a psycho, waiting to see her leave so he can come back home, but it’s not really working out in his favor. You could feel her eyes on you as you made the bed and picked his laundry up from the floor, tossing them two feet away into the laundry basket you left in his bathroom in hopes he would actually use it. The socks left discarded beside it was a clear message of disregard, a ‘fuck you’ from a petulant child. 

You could hear the door slam downstairs. Great, you looked at the girl who was scrolling through her phone curled up in the reading chair in the corner of his room, he’s pissed. You could hear his stomping feet climb the stairs and the girl looked up from her phone hopeful towards the door. 

“Alright, time to go.” He huffed, coming into view. The girl stood from the chair, shifting over towards him and trying to wrap her arms around his neck. “Nope. Let’s go, your uber is here.” 

“But, I-” She began, you could see tears welling up in her eyes and you began to feel bad for her. 

You were never one to have one night stands. You had one serious boyfriend when you were in college, but when your Mom got sick you had ended it and moved back home. You hadn’t dated or been with anyone else since. You just didn’t have the time. That being said, this girl honestly thought Ransom had a heart. She was naive and young, younger than you. Your heart hurt for her, but honestly, no one should be with Ransom anyway. 

His birthday dinner had soon come and gone. Linda and Richard sat around the dinner table eating Ransom’s favorite foods you’d spent the day cooking for him. Drinking whiskey and wine, Ransom’s glass never empty. You’d had a few glasses yourself with the tapas style dinner you’d put together. A beautifully iced spice cake sitting on the counter with unlit candles for dessert. 

This was the night that Ransom blew up on you for the last time. The night he cried into your neck, drunk and unstable. Clutching desperately at your body for comfort, burying himself against you all touch starved and needy. This was more intense than last Christmas where his dry eyed stare begged you to hold him in an uncommon moment of weakness. 

He was so hard to read sometimes and you were never quite sure where you stood. You knew you really hated him sometimes, other times… not so much. The more you knew his parents, the more you understood why Ransom was an ungrateful shit to begin with. You almost couldn’t blame him for how he turned out.

Almost. 

“Help me with this.” He stood in the doorway to the small office he never used. It was pretty much just for show. A large wooden ornate desk, his macbook, and a bookshelf full of books you know he probably never read. Including the ones penned by his own Grandfather. 

There were beginnings here. Multi-colored post its lined the desk, laptop left on the seat of one of the chairs in the room. 

“What is this?” You asked him, fingers plucking a post-it from the desk,

Crime of Passion?

He had been watching a lot of true crime documentaries lately. It didn’t help but creep you out. This man, a murderer, suddenly extremely into serial killers and murder itself. 

“I’m going to write a book.” He explained. His face was in a grin, almost giddy. 

“A book.” You looked at him incredulously. Your eyes drifted over to Harlan’s novels sitting stacked on another chair, spines finally cracked and pages thumbed through, sticky tabs stuck throughout the pages. You pointed to them, “A book?”

“Yeah,” He gestured around to the post-its, “What do you think?” It’ll keep him busy that’s for sure. You sighed, sticking the post-it back on the desk and looked at him. He was waiting, expectantly, why did he care what you thought about this?

“Is it gonna be about Fran?” You asked awkwardly, he scoffed,

“No, I’m gonna write books like my Grandfather wrote,” He plucked a post-it from the desk, showing you,

Wife murders husband?

“I’m gonna write a mystery novel.” 

He was good. You couldn’t lie about that. And you wouldn’t. This was a strange thing. The routine changed. Gym, breakfast, writing, lunch, writing, dinner, and then he would go out. His mind was moving faster than his fingers could and you were left reading a new chapter or two every night. You’d once loved Harlan’s novels. Your Mother was obsessed with them. It was partially why you had even taken the job tutoring Meg in the first place, but you know what they say. Never meet your heroes. 

Harlan was kind in some ways, funny, but proud. His pride is what eventually killed him you’ve found out. The medicine Ransom had switched wasn’t his cause of death, his refusal for help was. 

Ransom was as good as he was, better even. 

“He’s got a lot of me in him,” Harlan said to you once, “He could have everything I’ve ever had if he would pull his head out of his ass.” 

This was promising. 

You were honestly afraid when Ransom first said he would be writing a novel. What if he wasn’t a good writer? Could you really lie and try to support him even though it was absolute garbage? You supposed you would have to. You were relieved to find out that it was unnecessary. 

He slipped a red pen into your hand when handing you this last chapter, the book almost finished. “I want to see how you react to everything,” He explained, the book was coming to the climax, you were a chapter away from the big reveal and the aftermath, his hands gently massaged your shoulders before he bent at the waist, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you sat on the sofa. “Do you like it?” His hot breath brushed against your ear, a tingle went down your spine. 

“Ransom,” Your hand came up to lay over his forearm, brushing the skin with your thumb, “It’s amazing.” You could almost feel the grin that stretched across his face, he turned, pressing his face into your hair where you could swear he laid a soft kiss before releasing you. 

“Of course it is,” Here we go, “I’m a fucking Thrombey.” His fucking smirk. That's what he left you with, returning to his office to pound out the last two chapters. 

It was a process. The editing, printing, shipping off to multiple publishers. He got replies after a month. 

Eager replies. 

Whatever Ransom wanted, Ransom got. The lucky bastard stayed lucky.

“Look Babe.” Ransom dropped a heavy box on the table in front of you, “Look at this shit.” He grabs a knife from the block on the counter, slipping it under the packing tape to open the box revealing glossy black covers. He first fucking novel. There. Printed. A picture of a fireplace, chair facing it, empty. A blood soaked carpet. He picked one from the box, opening it. And there in the forward, the dedication, Harlan’s name…

...and yours. 

“Don’t get all big headed about it kid.” He smirked. Your heart was racing in your chest. 

“Why would you…” Your fingers gently traced the letters of your name, there in print, as it would be on every copy sold. 

“Wouldn’t have been able to write it without you being chained to my house, only seems fair.” He shrugged. “We can call it even.” You scoffed,

“Dedicating your book to me hardly makes my doing your house arrest for you even Ransom.” He smirked again, flipping through the pages, seeing his words in bold print. 

“I think it’s plenty fair,” Okay, now you wanted to smack him, “You live here for free, you eat here for free, and you get paid pretty well to do so.” His devilish eyes met yours over the top of the book he was still thumbing through. “If anything you’re still ahead because you’re the kept woman of a bestselling author.” 

“A kept woman?” You dropped the book onto the table. “I’m not your fucking whore Ransom.” 

“Not yet.” Audibly you made noise of protest, internally your core thrummed with heat. 

“Never.” You packed up your tablet and the new book, attempting to walk around him to go sit out by the fire pit for a while. His large hand gently grabbed your upper arm, tugging you into his body, wrapping his arms around your shoulders, your arms trapped between you.

“Tell me you’re proud of me.” He whispered into your hair, his voice suddenly soft, heartbreaking. 

“I am proud of you Ransom.” You shifted your belongings to your left hand, tugging your right from against his chest to wrap around his torso. “I’m very proud of you.” 

Book published, royalties rolling in, Ransom was making his own money now. He was more cocky than ever. Proud. The, I-don’t-need-you-anymore-mom, attitude. But can you still pay my babysitter? The girls came more easily than ever before, not that they didn’t come easy before the bestseller. 

Every. Night. 

Sometimes two girls were leaving in the morning, gently ushered out the door with promises of a phone call and a, “I’ll let him know.” It made you feel dirty, betraying almost. Like you were supposed to be on these girl’s side instead of cleaning up after Ransom’s mess. 

You could gag. The milky condoms, two of them, tossed haphazardly aside on the hardwood floor of Ransom’s bedroom. Disgusting. You could hear him laughing at you now. 

“It could be you,” He says, “Just say the word.” If you weren’t so irritated with Ransom for this very thing your panties would be dripping with the thought. 

He’s sitting at the kitchen island forking soft scrambled eggs into his mouth, cheesy with peppers and onions, the way he likes them, the way you made them, when you come downstairs. “You could at least throw the condoms in the fucking trash Ransom.” He looked up from his eggs to you, peeling off the latex gloves you’d just used, smirking. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Asshole. 

“You’re disgusting.” You begin on the dishes, taking a sip of your now lukewarm coffee. You hear the stool scoot back against the floor, “That wasn’t an invitation.” You said, hearing his approach. His arms wrapped around your middle as you began to scrub. His head rested on your shoulder. 

“You love me.” He slowly rocked your body side to side, “You love how disgusting I am.” You tried to shrug him off of you, but he held you tighter. Since last Christmas when you curled up in his lap and held him for two hours until he was sober enough to leave you he’d been slowly getting more and more affectionate with you. He was touch starved, hungry for it. The intimacy of holding and being held. 

You didn’t picture Linda as much of a hugger.

The house was decorated. It was the least he could do for you really. This was the first Christmas since your Mother died that you and your sister wouldn’t be completing your tradition, but you tried not to think about it. Ransom humored you just after Thanksgiving, bringing home a fake Christmas tree, ornaments and lights. You’d ordered a couple of extras online and three stockings were on the mantle, Christmas lights lined the windows giving the house a warm glow. 

“I’m sending everyone in my family a copy.” He told you, “a signed copy.” Of his book. Rubbing their noses in it. The book has firmly held the number one spot on the New York Times Bestseller List for weeks. Already over a million copies have been sold. Whether its due to the fame of the not-murder trial or Harlan’s legacy you couldn’t be sure, but even without those things the book was incredibly good. 

Ransom could have made it on his own, a long time ago. 

“You don’t think that’s a little crass?” He released you long enough for you to finish loading the dishwasher, watching you place the pod of soap and shut it like he didn’t realize that’s actually what you’re supposed to do. 

“Fuck them,” He scoffed, “They’ve always hated me.” 

“To be fair,” You turned to the soft sweater clad man leaning against the kitchen island, “You’re an asshole.” 

He smirked, “Yeah, but that’s why I’m so charming.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. 

It could almost be domestic. The way things were now. So different from before. Yeah Ransom was still bringing a new girl home almost every night and sure you could hear them fuck from your bed on the other side of the wall, but for the most part it was always just the two of you. 

His parents never ventured out here much anymore, since his book was published he had a deadline for the next book that needed to be completed so he wrote almost every day now, sometimes for hours. You made his every meal, on the odd occasion you’d order out. Sometimes when he needed a break he would come sit on the sofa with you as you watched whatever show you were currently obsessed with. One time you walked in on him watching Love Island by himself and you hadn’t let him live it down yet, maybe not ever. 

He grew soft, sweet almost. A kiss against your palm. Hugs from behind as you worked at the stove. A snuggle of feet under his thigh as you watched Miracle on 34th Street by a crackling fire. Wordlessly anticipating each others needs. It spoke to a high level of intimacy. Something you both chose to ignore. 

It was nice. 

He didn’t go out on Christmas Eve. Not only because his usual bar was closing earlier than normal because of the holiday, he assured you, but because he wanted to stay in. Snow was falling thick outside, a foot of it already blanketed on the ground. To tell the truth you didn’t want him to go out in this weather anyway. You knew he was willing to drive a little drunk and he didn’t exactly obey speed limits. It was safer here. 

You were still reeling from the argument you had with your sister earlier in the night. You called her to see what she was doing, but she was at a friends house and wanted nothing to do with you. Since the house arrest you haven’t exactly been on speaking terms. She wasn’t Ransom’s biggest fan and didn’t really understand why you needed to do this. You could kind of blame it on yourself for her having no idea how much money you needed to keep her in school, her cello and lessons weren’t cheap and nor are the electronics she seemed so attached to. This two year sentence you were playing out for Ransom would put you in the green, far in the green, so far in the green that you were willing to put up with all his petty bullshit and be okay with your sister hating you if it meant your futures were secure. 

After all this was over, you might just be able to go back to school. 

“Are you hungry?” You removed your feet from their spot beneath his thigh, grabbing both of your now empty mugs, padding over to the kitchen. Your stomach had just begun to growl. The stew you had simmering on the stove was ready to eat. 

“Yeah,” Ransom replied, not turning away from the television. Santa’s trial had just began. It was a strange thing, having him watch classic Christmas movies, soft in sweats and a comical christmas sweater you jokingly bought him. “I look good in anything.” He said. He wasn’t lying. 

You poured two bowls full, bringing over a plate with some crusty bread he was kind enough to go out and grab for you earlier in the day. “Thank you,” He said softly as he took the bowl from your hands, eyes still not moving from the screen. He quickly spooned some into his mouth, 

“It’s hot.” You said, his only reaction being trying to rapidly cool it in his mouth, his tongue probably burned. He gave you a glare, before resting the bowl on the coffee table. This could almost be a relationship. The two of you together. In this oddly domestic moment. He was the only man in your life right now, it wasn’t like you had many options for seeking others. 

That’s why you would get so hot and bothered with him. And that’s the only reason. 

He had never seen A Miracle on 34th Street before. You’d think with how old fashioned Harlan was he would have at least seen it once or twice, but then again, any time spent together as a family was always strained and argumentative. 

Even when he was a kid though? He was the first grandchild. His mother was the first child of Harlan. You were sure when he was a child he was spoiled rotten, more toys than he could play with, never wanting for anything. But that wasn’t exactly true. The touch starved trust-fund baby didn’t get the one thing kids need the most, more than presents, toys, electronics. Real genuine love. 

His Mother loved him to an extent. It’s why you were the one on house arrest instead of him, but she thought loving him meant giving him whatever he wants. When we all know that’s not what kids want. They want to be told no, given structure, rules. How many times have you gotten into arguments with your sister because you didn’t allow her to go roam the streets at night without supervision or give her money for some stupid thing she wouldn’t be even bothered with in two weeks?

But you could also see how no one really knows how to raise a child and you just try your best. Having Harlan for a Father couldn’t have been easy. 

Under the tree that you’d decorated and in the stockings you’d hung were presents. Ransom had everything he’d ever wanted, but you couldn’t help but want him to have something to open tomorrow morning. Granted it wouldn’t be much, but it’s the thought that counts. In the fridge you already have most of what will go into tomorrow’s dinner made. Hopefully your sister thinks about your extended invitation and Ransom can go pick her up at some point tomorrow. You missed her, a lot. Your heart ached with wishes that she was here right now. 

Ransom’s eyes had gotten shifty. The movie was coming to an end and his bowl was empty. “Did you want more?” You asked him, thinking that would be the cause of his shiftiness, maybe indecisive? 

“No.” He cleared his throat, “I’m not going to be home for dinner tomorrow.” You weren’t sure you heard that properly.

“You’re not going to be home….” You started, picking his bowl up from the coffee table and standing, “For dinner on Christmas?” 

He was scared to tell you, that’s cute. Your body was bristling with anger as you took the stew off the stove to cool before you could properly store it. He didn’t move from his spot on the couch. 

“My Mother wants me to go to this dinner with-” 

“So every other time your Mother wants you to do something it’s ‘fuck you’ and ‘eat shit’, but when we’ve already made plans for tomorrow and my sister-” You felt tears prickle in your eyes. “What the fuck Ransom?” His face was stoic from the couch. 

“Why does it matter?” He asked, “I stayed home tonight!”

“And that makes up for it?” You stood at the kitchen counter, staring across the room at him. “I already started on dinner, Ransom. You couldn’t have maybe said something while I was prepping all of this?” You gestured to the fridge. He shrugged. 

“I didn’t know that was all for tomorrow.” His face still betrayed no expression. 

“She can come here,” You offered, “We can have dinner here.” His eyes shifted away from yours to watch the rolling credits. 

“She doesn’t want to.” He stood from the couch, rounding towards the tree slowly, searching. 

“Why not?” He was being shady about this, the whole situation was strange. “I already have all of this food prepared and I can’t pick up Julia myself… Ransom?” 

“She doesn’t like being around you.” He stated honestly, he picked a box out among the presents under the tree, eyes meeting yours as he fumbled with it. 

“What?” You get it. She’s technically your employer. But she’s never had any issue dropping in for dinner or putting you to work on some task for herself. 

“Listen,” He came closer to where you still stood, your chest tightening. “Y/N, I hate my family-”

“Then why are you going to-”

“I have to do this.” His cheeks were flushed, you could tell he was uncomfortable. “My therapist… I don’t want to do this.” He slid the box across the counter top. “I don’t want to go, but I have to.” 

“Is this supposed to make me feel better about it?” You scoffed, picking up the gold wrapped box. His mouth opened and then quickly shut without speaking. You sighed heavily, a headache coming on. “I’ve got nothing, Ransom. All I wanted to do tomorrow was spend some time with my family and if you’re not going to be around…” 

“I know, I can maybe go pick your sister up in the morning?” He offered. Your eyes watery, staring at him. He doesn’t get it. Your heart was aching a bit. 

“You’re such an asshole.” You spat, leaving the present still wrapped in front of you, thumbing the thick wrapping paper. 

“I know.” He swallowed. 

“What does your therapist want you to do?” You never talked about what went on in his therapy sessions. He was too closed off after them, drank too heavily, lashed out too easily. You’d let him slowly work through his refractory period and let him cozy up to you once he was feeling better. 

Ransom felt awkward, you could feel it. He was uncomfortable. 

“Why does this matter so much to you?” He asked. He was turning. He got too emotional. “It doesn’t matter what I have to do or where I have to do it. I said I would go pick Julia up, I’m giving you what you want.” 

“Fine.” You were staring each other down. “I’ll let her know you’ll be there to get her around noon and then you can go have dinner with the people you hate.” He rolled his eyes, 

“I don’t know what you think this is, Y/N.” He scoffed, “You still work for me, we’re not playing house here.” 

“Then stop making me.” You spat back at him, both of you in a similar stance, hands gripping the edge of the stone counter top. 

“I’m not making you do anything.” There was a rage growing in his eyes. 

“You are, Ransom. I take care of you like you’re my own fucking child. I clean up all of your messes, I cook all of your fucking food, I do everything for you.” 

“I don’t ask you to.”

“You don’t have to! You literally just expect it of me.” You yelled. 

“Because it’s your job.” He laughed, throwing his hands into the air. “I have no loyalty to you Y/N. None.” Fine.

Fine.

You hated him. You fucking hated him. You were doing all of this for him. And you’ve never felt more dumb in your life. The house arrest bracelet on your ankle felt heavier than ever. It itches like mad. 

“Fuck you Ransom.” You rounded the counter, moving towards the stairs when he grabbed your arm. 

“Take the gift.” He slapped the box into your hand. 

“I don’t want the fucking gift, Hugh.” He looked taken aback for a moment.

“Don’t call me that.” His hand fell from your arm, stepping closer to you. 

“That’s what you want, right?” You asked, “You want me to do all of these things for you and take care of you and fucking hold you when you need comfort but when I’m fucking trying to make things easier for you, you’re all the sudden ‘I have no loyalty to you.” 

“Wait a fucking minute,” He growled, “I take care of you too. Who the fuck buys all the shit you want on a fucking whim? You’re in the mood for curry, I get you curry. You make a comment about how you really want to decorate for Christmas and who fucking gets you everything you need to do that? You say that you really want to get into fucking knitting and who gets you all the fucking shit you need to fucking knit?” 

“Buying me things doesn’t mean you care about me Ransom.” You shook the box in your hand for emphasis. “All I wanted to know is what your therapist wants you to do tomorrow, you can go have dinner with your Mother. It’s fine. I just wanted you to fucking open up to me.” 

“I am open with you!” He yells, “You know more about me than anyone else in my fucking life, it’s hard for me okay? I can never escape you, you’re always fucking there. I don’t get to fucking-” He placed his hands on his hips, turning from you. He let out a heavy, slow breath. Calming himself down. “I don’t want to go tomorrow, trust me Y/N, I really don’t, but I have to.” His eyes met yours, softer this time. 

You felt like some part of you was being irrational. This dinner might help his growth. Whatever milestone he was reaching with his therapist, this could be really good for him. But you also felt a little selfish, you wanted him here, with you. You felt more like his family than anyone else. Or at least, he felt more like your family and he should be here to spend Christmas with his family. You knew he felt at least somewhat the same, if the gifts addressed to Julia under the tree from him were anything to go by. You wanted him here, but he wasn’t yours. 

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, the tears that were once threatening to spill, now did. “It’s fine.” Your head was pounding. “It’s fine.” 

“I know it’s not,” He said softly. “But we can maybe do presents and lunch before I go,” He gestured towards the tree. “I should be back in time for the Grinch.” You were shaking a bit as he approached you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tightly against his body. “I’m sorry baby.” He was so warm, a little sweaty from arguing, but warm. “I’ll make it up to you.” A soft whisper into your hair. 

The little gold box was soon opened, a new rose gold cartier bracelet slipped onto your wrist and Ransom left you and your sister the next day wearing the sweater you had so carefully knit for him. 

2021

Your breath hitched in your throat, back arching, a loud moan breaking from your lungs. How was he so good at this? Ransom’s tongue was at work between your thighs, large hands cradling your hips, burying his face in your moist heat. You were so close to cumming. And he knew it. 

“Oh god,” you moaned, bucking your hips into his face as you rode your orgasm until your body was too sensitive to continue, Ransom moving his attentions to press his lips sloppily against your thighs before making his way up your body. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he lamented as he pressed his lips to your flushed cheeks and panting mouth, parting your thighs fully around his hips to tease your opening with the blunt head of his cock. “So fucking beautiful.” He moaned into your open mouth as he breeches you. 

He felt so fucking good. You’d never get over it, you were sure. Ransom was patient, biding his time. He wasn’t that guy who had to be as deep inside you as possible, chasing his orgasm by stabbing your cervix. Over time he mapped out the location of your g-spot, shifting his hips and cock to brush against the spot with every thrust, working you up and making your eyes roll back in your head. 

Those girls screamed with good reason. Just as you did now. Gushing wet around him as you came for the second time, looking up wantonly into his flushed face, lips swollen from first kissing and then pulling you apart with his tongue. Your fingers curled in his chest hair as he picked up pace, chasing his own release now, your hips lifting off the bed to aid him.

“So fucking good baby,” His eyes screwed shut as he moans, arms trembling, “You fuck me so good baby.” He sat back on his haunches, pulling your hips roughly to his, your sensitive clit grinding against his pubic bone almost bringing you over again as he cums. Hips stuttering into yours as you feel him empty himself into you. 

His head tilted towards the ceiling, eyes dropping to find you, hands still gripping your hips and as much of your ass as he can manage. “I love you.” 

It never gets old. 

He said those words to you ever chance he got. It was as if he was trying to make up for a lifetime without it. Love. 

Early morning sleepy soft kisses, I love you.

Silent breakfast with your feet in his lap, I love you.

Scratching his back as you peered over his shoulder while he was writing, I love you. 

Feet stuffed under his thigh watching Outlander and drinking hot tea, I love you.

Buried deep inside you, panting mouths a breath apart, bodies flushed and sweaty, sheets damp with cum, I love you.

“I think you’re the only person I’ve ever loved.” 

It was intense. His love for you.

He tried hard. He didn’t know how it was supposed to work. A real relationship, a real honest to god loving relationship. But he was trying. 

The first few months of the relationship you gained a lot of new jewelry, a new iPad, clothes, shoes. “You don’t have to buy me things to prove that you love me, Ransom.” 

Then came flowers and lots of them. Sometimes just one, sometimes a bouquet. Regardless there were multiple vases that stayed filled throughout the house, always with fresh flowers never given time to fully wilt. 

After that was the touching. Always some sort of physical contact. Whether you were cuddling on the couch or a blink away from sleep with his ankle wrapped around yours, if you were in a room together there was always some sort of contact. 

Your house arrest bracelet was removed, and a gold anklet replaced it. You were free to leave, live on your own. Move out and back into that shitty apartment with your sister, but this was early days in the newfound relationship with Ransom. 

He’d bought you a house. 

He’s paying for your sisters school.

He’s paying you to still work for him.

It was a Victorian. The house. Not at all like his contemporary cube he knew you despised. A rich dark brown with a large porch. Much too big for just you and your sister, so 6 months after the two of you moved in, Ransom sold his house and moved in too. 

Julia was warming up to him. At first she wasn’t a fan. It took a long time, many dinners with Ransom, ‘family outings’, you hoped she could see the way he treated you now. The way he’s kind of always treated you. Her love was easily bought with the new house, her latest generation iPhone and the fact that she now had a monthly allowance. It didn’t stop you from making her get an after school job at the school library though. 

Now with a house of your own, you were doing something you’d always dreamed of. Watching Ransom try to hang Christmas lights. 

“I’ll just pay someone to do it,” He offered, looking skeptically at the boxes you had placed on the dining room table, “I’m not going up there to do it.” 

But there he was, up there doing it while you looked up at him from the bottom of the ladder. “This is the fucking worst.” He exclaimed, taking the light clips and attaching them to the roof. “Why are we doing this?” 

“Because you love me and you want to make me happy.” You laughed. He rolled his eyes, squinting against the sun. 

“I’m not so sure,” He attached a few more clips within reach before steadily climbing down the ladder. “I think you’re trying to kill me.” 

“I’m the beneficiary on your life insurance right?” You jokingly asked as his feet hit the ground. He laughed at your bad joke, 

“I think that’s in pretty poor taste, but…” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, “Yes.” 

“Julia should be home soon and then we can decorate the tree,” You wrapped your arms around his middle, capturing his lips with your own, “And make some cookies,” You kissed him again, 

“And have a drink.” He smirked against your lips. 

“You have a therapy appointment today,” You walked over to the steps, “You’re not having anything to drink.” He rolled his eyes at you once more, shooing you into the house as he re-positioned the ladder to go back up and finish stringing the lights. 

You had to be proud of him. Court mandated therapy ended when your house arrest did, but he still went every week. At first it was due to a little pushing by you, but eventually he made the appointments on his own. He was getting better. Still a dick, but that was his nature. He wasn’t quick to anger anymore, his emotions took a more level head. And he was now publishing books twice a year. He’s got five books out now, and almost 100 million copies sold. Which is incredible. 

You started back to school, Ransom wanting to start his own publishing company, “I’m paying for you to go to business school as an investment in our future.” He claimed. Once you were done with school your job would be to then help him open his own publishing company where you’d overlook everything. A daunting task, but it was hard not to believe in yourself when Ransom made himself your own personal cheerleader. “You’re brilliant,” He would say, “You’re so smart, you’ve just been dealt a bad hand until now.” 

And now he was stacking that hand to the best of his ability. 

Finals had been last week and you still marveled at the fact that as you poured over your last assignments and studying, Ransom would make you coffee and massage your shoulders whereas you would usually do the same for him as he was finishing a book. 

You’d gone to a couple therapy sessions with him, the first time he’d invited you was strange and you didn’t know what would even be discussed, but as you sat in the session and he was finally completely bare to you, you couldn’t help but feel like it was his idea and not his therapist’s. 

That session changed the dynamic between the two of you for sure. 

After the dam broke, the two of you having sex for the first time and Ransom’s admission of love it wasn’t easy. He was still an asshole and as someone who had never been in a relationship before, this first real relationship, he didn’t really know how to behave. 

You had one session a month together and it was probably one of the best ideas Ransom ever had. 

He was a little sullen when he came home later that night, coming to curl himself around you as you placed the cookies you and Julia had baked earlier into the decorative metal tins you had just bought. 

Sometimes it was like this, sadness. His lips gently pressing themselves against your cheek, his body tightly pressed against yours trying to pull as much comfort as he possibly could. “I don’t want to talk about it,” He whispered softly, “Not yet.” 

“Okay.” You knew what he needed and what he needed was a little bit of time. You offered him a cookie, chocolate and peanut butter, still warm. He took it gently from your fingers, pulling away to go to his study, but not before pulling you into a soft lingering kiss. An apology for what you knew would be a distant night. A ‘I don’t know when I’ll be coming to bed’ night. You were sure you’d have three new chapters to go over in the morning.

You loved the snow. Almost a foot of it had fallen overnight, frosting the windows and giving your home a beautiful Christmas glow. It made your home feel cozy and well slept as you stretched your limbs out, hand coming to run across Ransom’s back. So he did come to bed after all. You rolled over to face him, laying on his belly, arms folded under his pillow facing you. 

God he is beautiful. 

You hated it about him. So handsome. You brushed his fallen hair out of his face, pressing a kiss to his scrunched brow. He was letting his beard grow out for the winter. It made him even more attractive, the bastard. 

Julia was just getting up for school, standing in the kitchen in her uniform, eating toast and facetiming a friend. She was in a carpool, this house you lived in, while comfortably distanced from others, was in a neighborhood of other kids that went to her same school. Something you’re sure Ransom took into account when buying this house in the first place. You drove the kids to school on Friday when you didn’t have any classes. Today was a different parent’s turn. 

“Can I take some of these to school?” She asked, picking up a tin of cookies. 

“Yeah, but take the red one.” You popped a k-cup into the keurig. “Those haven’t touched any nuts.” 

“Mila’s Mom said we can go to the mall after school to go get presents for the pollyanna our class is having, is that okay?” She was such a good kid. Getting older now, she was almost ready to learn how to drive, something you’d been dreading, but for whatever reason Ransom was really looking forward to. 

“You have money still?” You asked, preparing a second cup of coffee for the sleeping bear upstairs. 

“I mean,” She smirked, “Unless you want to give me more…?” You rolled your eyes, turning towards your younger sibling. 

“What time will you be home?” The car had just pulled up outside, horn letting out a quick ‘honk’ to let her know they were here. 

Julia shrugged, hugging you, “We might get dinner, but probably no later than 8. I’ll text you.” She shrugged her coat on, opening the front door as you called behind her, 

“Text me when you get to the mall and when you’re on your way home!” 

“Okay!” She yelled back, trudging through the snow to the car.

“Keep your location on!” You could almost feel her roll her eyes at you, 

“Okay!” Annoyed this time.

“I love you!” You shouted as she got in the car, slamming the door behind her. Your phone chimed with reply, 

love you too

With that you went to rouse the sleeping man upstairs. 

He groaned unhappily when you woke him up, but it was quickly soothed by the coffee you’d supplied him with. 

Christmas was quickly approaching. The first Christmas you’d be spending together as a real, honest to god, family. In your own home, ready to begin your own traditions. The house was beautifully decorated and almost always smelled like cookies and a Christmas movie or music was always playing in the background. 

There was a truly sweet moment you’d wanted to commit to memory for the rest of your life. Julia rolling out cookie dough, Christmas music blaring obnoxiously loud and Ransom coming out from his study yelling, 

“I can’t write anything in a house this loud!” Walking over to the sound system and turning it down to a soft ambling. Your sister and you looking at him and laughing, the red faced lumberjack quickly losing steam as he realized he was wearing the hideous Christmas sweater you’d jokingly bought him last year. “It’s the warmest sweater I own.” He claimed. Sure. Sure it is. 

He turned the music back up a little louder, coming to a happy medium. His embarrassment waning as he looked at the two of you in the kitchen. A family that didn’t argue with every other word. People who genuinely loved each other. Something he never knew he wanted or needed. He came over to you, gently clasping your hands before tugging you into his body to ridiculously dance around to Jingle Bell Rock. The three of you peeling with laughter. Was this even real life anymore? With a soft parting kiss and a peak over your sisters shoulder to steal some cookie dough he was reluctantly walking back to his study, coming to join you twenty minutes later after finishing the chapter he’d been working on all day. 

The three of you spent the rest of the night in the living room, watching the cheesy A Christmas Prince series on Netflix and eating what was sure your body weight in popcorn. Cozy with your little family. 

“Do you think she’d like a puppy?” Ransom whispered into your neck one night. 

“Do not.” You were close to sleep, just about to drift off, when his question stirred you awake. 

“I always wanted a puppy when I was a kid.” He pressed a kiss against your neck, fingers gently tugging your nipple. 

“I’ll be the one taking care of it,” You whimpered as his other hand sunk between your thighs, “Do not get her a puppy.” His lips met your shoulder and you turned in his arms, thighs parting as he lightly stroked your clit. 

“You’ll get there.” He pressed his lips against yours, teasing your entrance with his fingers, his now hard cock nudging against your thigh. “You’ll warm up to the idea.” 

“No…” You whined, his fingers beginning to stroke your g-spot, his body coming to lay over yours, his eyes half lidded and lips wet and red came to meet yours as he removed his fingers and replaced them with his cock. “Fuck.” His fingers laced themselves through yours, pressing your hands against the sheets as he began to rock his hips slowly into yours. 

“You’re so sweet on me baby,” He mouthed against your lips, “So sweet on us.” He moaned. Your hips ground against his with every thrust. This slow love making that was making you gush around him, pussy making obscene sounds with every tilt of his hips, gently brushing the parts of you that make your legs shake. He chest close to yours, the begging in his eyes, 

“You’ll be such a good mother,” His hips met yours a little harder on that one causing you to gasp, pussy clenching around him. “Gonna give me what I want for Christmas?” He asked. He did this sometimes, knowing you were still on birth control and the actual relationship was still relatively new, the two of you had been together for almost a year now, you knew that he’d been toying with the idea of having a baby. You’d talked about it in therapy recently. 

“I love you,” He moaned, his hips build up a little speed as your legs came to wrap high around his waist. “I can’t wait,” He groaned, “So good to me.” His lips capturing yours passionately as his hips stalled, grinding himself against your g-spot, pubic bone rubbing your clit as you found your orgasm, pussy gushing wet dripping down his thighs onto the bed as you moaned into his mouth. 

“You’ll be such a good mother baby, such a good fucking mother.” His hips picked back up in pace, “I’d do anything for you baby. Anything.” He was chasing his release now, thrusting against your sensitive clit making you reel again before releasing your hands and grabbing your thighs, pushing them back high against the bed, just making you take it. You both had to try to be quiet here, your sister on the floor above you, your hand covered your mouth as you tried to muffle the loud obnoxious squealing that came uncontrollably as his hips slapped against your ass in this position. Sweat forming on his brow and head thrown back as he groans through his teeth, feeling him empty his seed deep against your cervix. 

In all the years you’d known him Ransom was never a kid person. He didn’t like small children, but he also didn’t come into contact with them often which is why it was so strange two months ago when he originally brought up the idea. “I think we would make pretty okay parents,” He said, “Better than mine definitely.” It made your heart flutter, thinking of a life with him. Knowing that he was also thinking about a life with you, but it’s just not the right time. 

What wasn’t surprising about any of this was on Christmas morning, after breakfast and the exchanging of handmade sweaters, new books to read, a couple new apple watches, and your sister and you receiving matching earrings, a gorgeous little blue nose pit bull puppy, one that reminded you of your childhood dog was brought out with a little pink bow around its neck. Ransom ignored your glare as he handed the sweet little thing to your sister, who was crying in happiness. 

He would remind you later on that he found you cooing to the sweet little thing only a few minutes after that, the puppy curled up in your arms, licking your fingers in earnest. 

“Don’t you have something else?” Julia asked him. 

“Julia this is plenty,” You scolded, “He’s gotten you enough.” She rolled her eyes. 

“It’s not for me.” She laughed. The little puppy sleeping in her arms and you scratched it behind it’s ears, turning to Ransom who shifted nervously to one knee, a ring box open in his hand. 

“Stop it.” Came out from a very watery smile. He licked his lips, tugging his bottom one between his teeth before starting, 

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.” 

.

.

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TAGLIST //

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[paullicino]

Ten Years

Taken from my Patreon.

Ten years is a long time. It’s long enough for many things to change, but also long enough for everything to remain the same.

I remember ten years ago as if it were yesterday, as if it passed by in the blink of an eye, with light and shadow, textures and taste all as familiar as ever.

A morning after. Shocked faces. A phone call. Events barely believable, yet all too real.

Ten years ago, my then partner and I were living in a top floor flat off Tottenham High Road. It was sweltering in the summer and the downstairs neighbours played dance music at four in the morning. But the views out the back bedroom window were of valleys of rooftops, sprouting television aerials and summited in the winter by the briefest dustings of snow.

The sun was for the front of the flat. The moon shone into our bedroom.

I remember that sunlight in the afternoon, sparkling through the shifting foliage of the tall trees outside. And I remember summer most of all. August.

We had a tap. A faucet. A great, overwrought thing that our landlady was obsessed with. It was the best tap ever, she said. It was large, curved and heavy, the pharaonic headdress worn atop a newly-fitted kitchen of which she was so proud. Wasn’t it exciting that we had such a good tap?

We just wanted our bed repaired. Our home wasn’t finished when we moved in and we slept on the sofa for weeks. When the mighty tap was finally installed, it was too heavy for its fitting. It teetered. Along with poorly-mounted cupboard doors with handles that prevented other cupboards from opening, its practicality was an afterthought.

The walk up Tottenham High Road took me to the only two locations I ever really visited, the supermarket and the job centre. The supermarket provided us with affordable food (though I’d watched the price of many staples almost double over five years) and the job centre provided me, an unemployed person, the money with which to buy that food.

The job centre, which was now extra special and had been rebranded Job Centre Plus, did not provide anyone the means with which they could get a job. It spent almost all of its time providing people with unemployment benefits. Most of the thousands of Tottenham residents who poured through its doors would’ve taken a job if they could’ve found one, but the listings at the centre itself were usually out of date, irrelevant or in some other way misfiled. Most employers don’t want to list their vacancies at the Job Centre Plus because they don’t want to employ the kind of people who go there.

Out of the Job Centre Plus and the supermarket, which one do you think burned that August?

I have written before about my strongest memory of the Job Centre Plus, but here it is again. It was of an old foreign woman and her daughter trying to speak to a clerk. The old woman didn’t speak English, so her daughter was attempting to explain that the woman was looking for work and thus registering as unemployed to gain unemployment benefit. The clerk was trying to explain that the woman was too old to work and should also be on disability benefit. The daughter was trying to explain that they had tried to navigate those systems and that they were obtuse and broken. Her mother just needed money. To live.

(Ten years before, in the summer of 2001, I’d first looked at the cost of moving out. I looked at rents around my Hampshire town, at the cost of housing and at the wages I needed to earn. England was expensive, I decided. It sure cost a lot just to live.)

Everyone was trying to explain everything. The job centre mostly wanted to give people their money and get rid of them, because there were many more lined up behind.

My strongest memory of the supermarket was of the man outside with no legs. He sat there panhandling in his wheelchair almost every day of the year. Britain had just launched its latest Astute-class nuclear submarine, each of which costs over one and a half billion pounds, but it was still a country where a man with no legs had to beg outside a shop.

I thought about that man long after I left Tottenham. I think about him here, now, ten years on.

My partner went abroad to see family and I spent some of the summer restarting my career as a freelance writer. I was fortunate with the connections and opportunities that I had, none of which would ever be found at a job centre, and I spent a lot of my time writing either to find work or simply for practice. I was writing on the night my street burned.

It began before dusk and I came home to find enormous police vehicles parked outside, the sort that are mobile command headquarters. Chains of armoured riot vans surged north. I heard there’d been a protest outside the police station and that a car or two had been burned. I checked the news occasionally. It didn’t have much to add.

Police vans kept coming, though all other traffic had stopped. The roads were closed, blocked by the police, and the latest news told me that petrol bombs had been thrown and a bus set alight. The reports were sparse.

The police in England are really good at responding to riots. They turn up in great swathes, on horses, in vans, or on foot and armed with batons and shields. They have all kinds of exciting equipment to help them. A year before, they’d kettled schoolchildren protesting the huge increase in university tuition fees, surrounding and slowly crushing hundreds of them in Trafalgar Square and on Westminster Bridge. Footage emerged of them beating the shit out of kids or dragging people out of wheelchairs. Here they were now in Tottenham, ready for more.

I kept trying to find news. The police had cordoned off most of the High Road, which meant the journalists that were arriving had no ability to find what was happening inside the riot. Distant footage of fires was the best most of them could provide. As I remember it now, the BBC had one van inside of the police cordon and couldn’t broadcast out because its dish had been damaged. I also have memories of a single journalist, almost in the thick of a mob, asking rioters to give them a moment to explain why they were protesting, or wondering why on earth they might want to block a BBC camera crew who were trying to film them.

What an inane question.

I found the news I wanted. I found it via Twitter and social media. And it was terrifying.

Broadcast news had described a riot not unlike any other. But the still relatively new sphere of social media was overflowing with witness statements, photographs and the kind of low-quality video that phones captured back then. People across Tottenham were panicking as they described growing crowds on the High Road burning not only vehicles, but also shops and businesses. They were breaking into commercial properties. They were looting. They were starting more fires. This had begun half a mile away from my home and it was spreading outward. The post office burned. Landmark businesses burned. Local shops burned and, with them, the flats and homes located above.

The updates kept coming and it’s almost impossible for me now to try to describe to you not only the sheer volume of panic and distress that waterfalled down my feed, but also the sense of utter hopelessness that came with it. People beyond the High Road described not just the violence spilling into their streets, the fights and the hundreds of looters, the fires and the damage, but also how there was no one who could stop this. No emergency services responded. Their phones went unanswered or the lines were jammed.

I read update after update that echoed the same, basic fact, something which I still struggle to comprehend even now, something I’d describe as barely believable: No help was coming.

But the social media updates kept coming. Looters were turning up with empty vans and loading them up with everything they could take. Buildings were being destroyed. A whole estate was being evacuated.

The news provided by the BBC and its peers remained limp and languid, so I spent all night reading these updates, discovering more nearby shops were being gutted, or how the retail park near me was looted to the point of emptiness, and I watched as even my own view out the window became broiling crowds of countless restless and angry people. I remember one man walking off into the darkness with brand new flatscreen televisions under each arm, the police vans now long gone. The night was regularly punctuated by shouts, screams, thumps and sometimes what might have been explosions. The sirens were always distant. The helicopters came and went.

I don’t know where the police cordon had gone. It felt almost as if they had given up and let Tottenham run rampant.

The sun came up and from that back bedroom window I saw smoke rising. I hadn’t slept. The news was full of irrelevant speculation and so, at five-thirty, I put on my shoes and walked the High Road. What I saw was barely believable. Sometimes I met the stunned gazes of other people doing the same, sometimes I avoided any eye contact. I have kept a diary for a long time now and this is what I recorded (slightly edited):

“This morning at about 5:30, as the sun rose, I tried to wander through Tottenham to take some pictures. It became one of the scariest walks I've ever taken.

The atmosphere was tense and unpleasant. Columns of smoke snaked upwards and the High Road and several other streets were blocked off or packed with police vehicles, many more of which were endlessly arriving, some from as far away as Kent.

The nearby retail park was littered with debris and many of its shopfronts were smashed. Groups of people, perhaps gangs, loitered everywhere. While some areas were busy with police officers, others were neglected and patrolled by hostile looking young men.

I didn't end up taking many pictures. I kept moving. Depending upon where you walk, Tottenham looks like a cross between a blitz bomb site and the mess after a chaotic festival.

Something still feels very different. Tottenham has hardly been rosy at the best of times, but today the sunshine can't seem to dispel a strange chill in the air. I myself can't stop thinking of all the homes that burned last night. It might not be immediately obvious to many people, but above a great deal of those shops set ablaze were flats, often family homes for very poor people. Many of those who had little now have less.”

A day after those first riots hit Tottenham, they went nationwide. London wasn’t done and, for a week, many major cities in England played host to their own riots. Tottenham was totally locked down, but it was far too late. The disorder had moved elsewhere.

I remember telling a colleague I worked with that I wouldn’t be finishing something that weekend. He laughed at the news and imagined it would all blow over. He was from a much wealthier background.

Then, everyone started trying to explain everything.

The BBC caught up with events the way a great-grandparent catches up with technology, fumbling and frowning. Goodness me, they said, in their middle class, broadcast-trained voices, and they joined in with the three broad lines of discussion that emerged. One asked how this could happen, one asked why this had happened, and one was about how this would never happen again, because the law would be firmer than ever, the punishments and prosecutions authoritative and absolute. The police were ready for more. They were going to get water cannons. I imagine those work particularly well on kids and wheelchairs.

There was a lot of talk about punishment, including from the Prime Minister, who decided to stop being on holiday in Tuscany only after England’s third night of rioting. I wonder if he had imagined it would all blow over.

Sometimes there was talk involving the people of Tottenham themselves, but it was more likely to be talk about them. A lot of people in Tottenham are Black and have families that trace back to the very first Windrush immigrants of the late 1940s. One Black Labour MP said it was important to talk about their experiences in London, their economic situation and their history of treatment by the police. After all, the spark that had set these riots alight was a protest outside the police headquarters, subsequent to the suspicious shooting of Mark Duggan, a Black man, something that called to mind a similarly suspicious death of a Black woman that also precipitated Tottenham’s 1985 riots.

For some people, the discussion became about how Black people had started the riots and been the chief participants. This wasn’t reflected in anything I saw either on social media or with my own eyes, in person, on the night. But nobody was stopping to ask me what I thought or what I saw.

Not long after that first riot, my partner called me to check I was okay and to ask if those barely believable things she’d seen on the news were really as bad as they seemed. They were. I rode the bus up the High Road on my way to Wood Green, then later to Walthamstow, both of which offered me temporary job centres that took the overspill from ours, thoroughly gutted by fire and then looted of all of its copper piping. The bus crept past burned-out shops and homes. I don’t know where those people have gone.

Later that year, my partner and I discovered that our income was low enough that we were eligible for housing benefit. It took us so long to try to apply for it that we moved home before any progress was made. When I found enough work to support myself, I visited the job centre to sign off, as we called it, to close my file. I asked a woman at reception what I needed to do. “Nothing,” she said, as the line behind me wound down several stories of stairs and out into the grey autumn street. “Just stop coming. Stop coming.”

Winter came and things rustled in the walls. There was a long, tall hedge along the High Road and I would look out the window to see men using it as a urinal. I only had to live in Tottenham for around a year and a half and I have good memories from that flat, but I also remember a stifling and sad place to live, from which I was lucky to move on. Tottenham was never my home and I never had to stay there, but I certainly feel that I came to get a sense of the place.

After moving out, our ex-landlady complained that we hadn’t left the oven as clean as she would’ve liked. She hiked the rent 9% while we were staying there. She never fixed anything that broke and provided excuses instead of solutions.

I found more work. I taught games and narrative for a semester at a small institution in East London. One of the things I asked my students to consider was the stories and the experiences of people who weren’t like them. I asked them to share how often they had been stopped and randomly searched by airport security. “Not just at the airport,” one student reminded me. “On the tube. On the street.”

My life continued to improve in many ways, but I still remembered the man in the wheelchair. The BBC and many other media outlets continued to talk about poverty and race, but not always to poor people or to people who weren’t white. In 2014 I wrote On Poverty and one of the most surprising responses I repeatedly received from people was “I had no idea that it was like this.” A friend of mine tried to apply for support for chronic health problems and documented her many struggles, including being required to explain exactly how many times a week she suffered from migraines (“You said it was two or three times a week. Well, is it two, or is it three?”). The news regularly reported growing homelessness, rising use of food banks and the inevitable deaths of people who weren’t just failed by broken systems, apathy and a lack of understanding, but also simply too poor to be alive.

I feel like some of the people I knew didn’t like how I kept returning to these topics. I feel, even more, that they didn’t at all understand. I remember some of these people waiving off the Brexit referendum as it approached, certain the country wouldn’t vote to amputate itself from the European Union. I don’t think they understood and I don’t think they’d seen the unhappy England that I had, both as a child and as an adult. I think they’d only seen, and been, very comfortable people.

I think these people would call themselves open-minded, progressive and keen to make the world better. I’m sure they could explain those views. At length.

If I think of those people now, I’m quite sure they are all still very comfortable, ten years on. I also think there is still a good chance that man is sat in that wheelchair outside of that supermarket, though he could also be dead by now, again simply too poor to be alive. No longer able to watch the sun sparkle through tall trees, see roofs dusted with snow or catch the moon peeping through his bedroom window.

Such things aren’t for poor people. We still get frustrated when we give them benefits or find out they own mobile phones.

---

Ten years on, Tottenham is almost a dream, a memory where the details have faded and the edges have softened. I have moved countries, had the privilege of travelling through work, enjoyed many different creative opportunities and benefited from free healthcare that has addressed difficult, long-term health issues. I have rationed my life according to a tight budget, but I’ve never had to face the overwhelming, unending hardships of others that I’ve shared neighbourhoods and postcodes with. I cannot ignore these people because they have so often been one street away, visiting the same shop or riding the same train. They are not an abstraction, they are right there, ready to tell us all about their lives.

Ten years on, Tottenham has one of the UK’s fastest-growing rates of unemployment, the latest statistic in the region’s long history of joblessness and poverty. Many of its residents, like poor people across the country, live paycheck to paycheck, at risk of financial ruin should they experience a single upheaval. Ten years on, the most reliable predictor of success and financial stability in the UK (as in many developed countries) is now considered to be the circumstances of your birth. The idea of social mobility is more irrelevant than ever, with much of your destiny decided before you are even born. Ten years on, almost a quarter of the population of the UK lives in poverty.

Ten years on, continued austerity, government apathy and cuts to social services has meant that, yes, ten years really is enough time for everything to stay the same. Without change, the problems people face become generational, systemic. Some people tell me that the 1980s were like this for certain families, regions, populations. I didn’t know. We were doing okay. Perhaps I didn’t get it, didn’t notice it, didn’t want to think about it.

Ten years on, Mark Duggan’s family filed a civil claim against the Metropolitan Police and were awarded an undisclosed sum, after his death was officially ruled a lawful killing in 2014. Lawyers for the Duggan claim commissioned this in-depth report on the shooting, which illustrated many problems with the official police version of events.

Ten years on, the UK government is trying to curtain the right to protest. It commissioned a review that concluded that the country has no systemic racism. It wants to limit the powers of the Electoral Commission and has considered conflating the concepts of whistleblowing and leaking with spying, meaning those who leak information could be treated as criminals. It is increasingly intent on punishing those who might express dissatisfaction.

And ten years on, as we all know, wages have not risen to match the rising costs of rent, food, utilities or transport. It sure costs a lot just to live.

Finally, in 2018, the UN Special Rapporteur on Poverty and Human Rights visited the United Kingdom and did speak with many of its poor. The resulting exhaustive and damning report concluded that “statistics alone cannot capture the full picture of poverty in the United Kingdom” and that “much of the glue that has held British society together since the Second World War has been deliberately removed and replaced with a harsh and uncaring ethos.” It described harsh, ill-conceived and out-of-touch support systems devised and doubled down on by a government that not only failed to understand poverty, but that couldn’t even measure it accurately. It also predicted that these things would only get worse, and without any consideration of the effect of extraordinary events, such as a global pandemic.

The government described the report as “barely believable.”

I don’t think any help is coming.

---

There’s a question that sometimes bounces around social media and it asks people this: “What radicalised you?” As if there was some moment that changed a person’s political beliefs and rearranged their perspective on the world.

Here’s the thing. I feel like my perspective is from the floor, skewed and sore after I fell between two stools, always unable to find an identity amongst wider British culture. I grew up too comfortable, too spoiled and too well-spoken to call myself working class, but I was easily alienated by schoolfriends with multiple bathrooms and university-educated parents. My interests and my sentiments aren’t supposed to be working class, but many of my life experiences and even philosophies are. I know what it’s like to memorise Shakespeare and to explain themes in Romantic-era art, as much as I know what it’s like to fight government systems that are ostensibly supposed to help, to be unable to afford your own home, to walk into a supermarket and look at staple foods you still can’t afford. You think about Descartes and then you think about which dinner provides the cheapest way to keep your body alive.

When I was a kid I remember going to friend’s houses where they were too poor to clean the carpet, or seeing them lose a parent to lung cancer, or the time someone showed me a gun hidden in their brother’s car. As an adult I wrote to my politicians to ask them what they were doing about poverty, about education, about the cost of living. I went to protests and signed petitions and supported charities both practically and financially. I suppose I was trying to articulate some of the skills I’d learned from in some situations to articulate the experiences I’d had in others. Surely you have to do something.

I both resent and appreciate aspects of both classes and I imagine I’ll never work out who I am or what I’m supposed to call myself. But I do know there are vastly different worlds and vastly different experiences within British culture and that many continue to be overlooked even when in plain sight. And it’s what I find most frustrating.

If there was one thing I learned, if not one thing that radicalised me, it wasn’t simply that poverty never goes away, it’s that it always needs to be explained. There are always, always people who don’t get it, who don’t notice it, who don’t want to think about it or who will puzzle over it from a distance as if it were some transient mirage they can never hope to touch. Those in power will continue to make decisions about poverty that they do not experience, in spite of the fact that making financially comfortable people the authority on money is like making able-bodied people the authority on wheelchair access, like making men the authority on women’s bodies, like making white people the authority on racism.

And so, ten years on, here I am again, writing about Tottenham, about class, about poverty and about ignorance, and only from a slightly different angle. I will write about these things more, not least because I’ve already started another work on these themes, but mostly because I will always need to. I don’t imagine that, during my lifetime, the explaining will ever stop. I don’t imagine that our societies will give up on punishing people for being poor in a world where it is so often simply too expensive to be alive. And I don’t imagine I will have any more patience for people who imagine it will all blow over.

I refuse to let you middle-class your way out of this.

I don’t have any solutions to these enormous and complex problems. I don’t have exhaustive lists of who exactly to blame or where precisely everything has gone wrong. But here’s what I believe: If we don’t talk about poverty, and if we don’t listen to those caught inside of it, it will never go away, and there will be infinitely more Tottenhams.

[desparikon]

MacGyver fanfic misfire #7

Written for @pridewrite2021, pw15 Polyamory & pw alt3 Angst

Of course I had to do something for my absolute favorite MacGyver pairing, Bozer/Murdoc/Mac! I’m just sorry it had to be so heavy.

(Spoilers for 5x05) Mac's grief is breaking him down, and turning him into a different person. He’s an outsider in his own life.

Murdoc was going to die on this job.

Tonight had been too comfortable, too routine. Too quiet. Quiet was a luxury Mac would suffer, his life indebted at a price too expensive to be borne alone.

Yes, Murdoc was going to die on this job, and Mac would regret not spending their last evening together.

Even though Mac would’ve ruined it. That’s what his presence did anymore. Ruin other people’s good time, dampen their good spirits.

They never know what to say. He was unable to move on, broken beyond repair. Everything hurt, and he was exhausted, and life was colorless. It hurt to move, to breathe, to exist. His breaking point inched closer.

He got attached too quickly, gave too much, loved too deep, in a world that endlessly took. His love hadn’t protected Jack. And now he was gone. Forever. All eternity, to time’s end.

It was brutal, and unfair, and irrational.

Death didn’t need to steal when Mac was right! there! He’d gladly offer all of himself! More! Why wasn’t his love valuable enough to pay the debt?

The opportunity would never come again.

The Old Mac was gone. Dead. Like Jack. A part of himself had been ripped out; no going back. He had nothing to offer anymore, no brainpower, no energy, and no reliability, oscillating between distant and clingy, flat and short-tempered, cold and emotional.

The New Mac was ugly.

Manipulative. Volatile. Dangerous.

He didn’t understand why everyone still reached out, or tried to spend time with him. Why Bozer and Murdoc kept him? Their unconventional relationship would benefit, subtracting one. Didn’t they see their lives were better without him?

All his chances to re-earn trust, experience kindness, receive help? Wasted. Used up.

(He always longed for one more chance anyway.)

“Mac, you’ve barely eaten in days. I can make something, or we can order food, or ask Murdoc to pick some up on the way over. Anything. Please.”

“That’s OK, Boz, I’m not hungry. My stomach hurts, so I’m probably just coming down with something.”

His eyelids fluttered shut as Bozer’s fingers gently pushed his bangs to the side so he could feel Mac’s forehead for fever.

“I should really take you somewhere, get you checked out.”

Boz called his bluff.

It hurt to pull away.

“I’ll be fine.”

Why did they try so hard to reach him?

“Angus!”

He nearly cried, hearing Murdoc call his name with such concern, his strong arms catching Mac before he fell to the floor.

“Are you alright?”

Do Not bluff Murdoc.

“I’m just tired.”

Murdoc gently held his chin, slowly rubbing his thumb along Mac’s jaw.

“After all the energy drinks I’ve seen you pound back in the short time I’ve been here?”

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t redeveloped a slight fear of Murdoc.

Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

“Pretty good for a first attempt.” Murdoc presented his origami shark.

“He’s cute!” Bozer took it, bobbing it, imitating swimming, “I think he’s missing something though.”

Murdoc paused before taking it back, and drawing angry eyebrows on its face. “Much better! Looks just like me!”

“I meant company.” He held up his own creations: a giraffe and a lion. “Look Mac, I made us!”

(Careful, careful! Don’t poison the household mood!)

(Did he smile back?)

Murdoc tapped his shark’s snoot to both figures’, earning cheerful eye rolls from both Cassian and Bozer.

“Big flirt.” Bozer put their figures down, into the growing paper zoo, before scooting closer, and snugging into Murdoc. He closed his eyes and bumped their foreheads together.

The affection between Murdoc and Bozer was one of the only things that still made Mac’s broken brain feel good. It wasn’t immune to their cuteness. Especially not when they did...

Murdoc’s palm found a particularly sensitive spot on Bozer’s chest, causing him to squirm, and press against Murdoc’s hand.

THAT.

Their Thing. Boz loved it. Something about warm, gentle pressure over his heart, and Murdoc being able to feel his heartbeat, and tingling, both relaxing and ticklish.

(Maybe Murdoc could try that on him?)

Selfish, thinking about diverting their attention from each other.

It wouldn’t matter after tonight, when Murdoc died.

Losing another loved one...Mac would simply have to leave.

Bozer would lose both partners in close succession, but he was strong. Stronger than Mac. He’d be fine. He’d still have Cassian, their friends, his family. He’d get the house. Absolute financial security, thanks to Murdoc.

Maybe he’d leave Phoenix to pursue creative endeavors. Or move closer to home, so Cassian could have the same positive influences Mac had been so lucky to have. Maybe--

Bozer’s phone chimed, the alarm resuming time and life’s passing.

“Gotta go catch your flight, huh?”

“’Fraid so.”

Mac escaped into the front hallway. The goodbyes. He hated them. How to explain what Murdoc meant to him, and summarize their entire history and relationship, while simultaneously apologizing and begging him to stay, all in one neat goodbye? Because with Murdoc, it always felt like they were unknowingly parting for the final time.

Working a more stable schedule meant Bozer stayed at Phoenix headquarters. He was safe there, and Mac could visit, on one of his better days. He never knew with Murdoc, and that’d been the point when they’d first gotten together; keep his criminal activities private, give Bozer and Mac a better chance if they were discovered.

No location. No details. Nothing but a faked, vaguely 9-5, job in a broad, monotonous field: stock market, real estate, business. The stability, and increased time with his dad, eased Cassian’s anxiety and separation issues, but the facade made Mac’s worse.

What had Murdoc done on any given day? Had he been careful to remain invisible? Had he taken a smaller, closer job? Had he made plans for a bigger, more dangerous job? Minor cuts and bruises were the only, albeit unreliable, hints.

“Take it easy these next few days, OK?”

Mac jumped, the startle, and careless suggestion, converting his anxieties to anger. Take it easy?! While Murdoc threw his life away, recklessly risking everything for nothing?!

“Mind your own business!” Mac snapped, Murdoc’s surprise pissing him off even more. “What! What’re you staring at?!”

At least arguing with Murdoc might keep him from leaving. Negative attention is still attention.

Murdoc didn’t take the bait. He sighed quietly, and went out, Mac following closely behind. The door clicking shut behind them signaled the monster’s release.

“Why do you keep doing this to us?! You don’t need the money! What is it about torturing people you just can’t give up, huh??” He didn’t give Murdoc a chance to respond. “Grow up, Murdoc! New hobby! You’re not the badass shadowy assassin anymore!”

“I—”

“Or maybe the real reason is because you don’t want to admit you’ve been domesticated. You’re a tamed Murdoc now!”

Mac regretted it before it’d finished leaving his mouth. Murdoc’s wild streak was one of the traits he most admired. Unapologetic, and self-confident, in ways he couldn’t be.

“I’m sorry!” Mac whispered, pulling his arms across himself, “I’m sorry! God, Murdoc, I swear, I didn’t mean it like that.”

He shied away as Murdoc attempted to physically comfort him. This isn’t how you treat loved ones.

He wished Murdoc would just put him down.

“What??”

Shit, had he said that aloud?

“No, no, it’s fine, I was joking!” He carefully avoided looking at Murdoc, not wanting him to see the few stray tears that’d fallen. “I just thought it’d be funny because that’s how we used to be, and you know what? I’m an asshole tonight. I’ll be better when you get back. I’ll make it up to you!”

Mac retreated inside, silently pleading Murdoc not to follow.

Please let Murdoc forget. Please don’t let him text Boz. Please don’t try to corner him in his own house--

”Mac?” Bozer called from the living room.

“Yeah, be there in a minute.” Mac’s shoulders slumped.

Three days to come up with a plan to fix this.

He needed to be alone.

[tundrainafrica]

Title: Division of Labor (3/?)

Summary:  

“The past years, we have noticed a lot of our fresh high school graduates knew nothing about responsibilities that await them outside high school and even college. Many students do not master budgeting, taxes, household planning, loans and we hope to raise a generation who can navigate the adult world without the consequences of bad decisions they are bound to make going in blindly…”

Paradis High school starts a program incorporating adulting into their curriculum and Hange and Levi are paired together.

Note: From request of @a-golden-hearted-snk-fan. See this link for the request

Other Chapters: 1 2

Link to cross-postings: AO3

It turned out Hange did think the housing plan through.  

"It's a rent to own contract...so after paying this certain amount of rent… within a number of years… we can own the house basically," Hange explained. Her preparation was evident in the wad of papers she had carelessly spread out on the table in front of Levi.

At first glance, Levi could not make sense of what those papers were. Eventually, by carefully scanning through the therefore, herewiths, in the events, the interest rates and percentages, Levi figured out they were contracts and manuals full of buying and renting policies of one particular real estate company.

Levi looked out the glass window of the booth of the quiet diner they had chosen to work in. He had tried to use the mechanical movements of the crowds on a commute home to at least help clear his mind enough to make sense of how exactly a rent-to-own contract worked. Levi was sure Hange was at least attempting to explain everything about the buying policies of the real estate company in layman's terms. Although Levi was somewhat impressed by the dedication Hange put into it, as soon as she started to talk about the policies and agreements beyond ‘we get to own the house after a while,’ Levi ended up spacing out. The prospect of spending, even if it was fake money, caused him enough unnecessary stress.  

He turned his attention to the two flour sacks who were propped by the window of the diner booth they occupied. He had purposefully turned their ugly faces towards the window at the small possibility that Shadis, Erwin or even Zeke were amongst the crowds of people walking through the crowds and into the subway station. A testament to their determination not to waste any unnecessary funds or worse, flunk the program

"If we catch you in public not holding your baby, you pay babysitting dues or you fail." Shadis had said in homeroom class that morning.

After some discussion as a class and with some confirmation from Erwin, the whole class came to the understanding that if they went out separately, they were in no obligation to take their babies with them. It could always be assumed after all, that their partner had their baby with them. Being in public with their partner meant someone had to have the baby with them or they risk pay necessary dues. At any rate, they found solace in the fact that if they were going to look like idiots holding brown sacks with shabbily drawn faces on them, they at least had someone to look like an idiot with.

Levi looked back at  Hange to see that she had not stopped talking. Levi was not too surprised, having the disinterested equivalent of a resting bitch face, he had to master the art of looking like he cared to get past most classes.  

“Where did you get these anyway?” Levi asked, interrupting the tirade of his partner. The answer to that question would at least be something he would be able to understand.

“The procedures manual and their company policies are available online.” Hange answered matter-of-factly. Levi noted how quickly she recovered from having her explanation of policy and business jargon interrupted.

As Levi looked once again through highlighted lines and messy scrawls, he felt embarrassed that he was not even halfway done with the design they had discussed the night before. He slowly brought out his folder where he had at least begun to draw the floor plan from the link Hange had sent him the night before.

“How has the floor plan been Levi?” Hange cocked her head to one side. Levi could not tell if she was provoking him or if she was genuinely curious about the progress of his work. Regardless, the way that she sifted through the papers under her, while looking pointedly at the roughly drawn floor plan on his hands had Levi self conscious.

It was Tuesday afternoon, less than 24 hours since she had bombarded him with messages. Less than 24 hours since she dropped a pdf file of the floor plan and went MIA, Levi guessed it was to prepare all the documents which Hange had just laid out in front of him that morning. As he compared his own progress to hers, he also became aware of one more reality, their first outputs were due tomorrow. Begrudgingly Levi had to admit, despite her naivete and overenthusiasm, Hange had a better sense of urgency than he did.

“I planned everything out already. I just need to outline it.” Levi said, trying at least not to sound as defensive as he felt.

“But can you do it alone? I didn’t sleep at all last night to get this done.” Hange looked more concerned than anything else.”

As Levi looked back at a skeleton of a housing plan that lay in front of him, he started to understand her concern. The house they had selected was huge and designing would take hours if he actually wanted to put thought into it.

“I mean even if we take out the 1800 from our budget of 3600 dollars a month, we still have to consider furniture and it might take you a while to come out with the pricing right? I guess we could leave out 1000 dollars for that….”

Furniture? Levi had stopped listening at ‘furniture.’ Somehow Levi had assumed that it would have been fully furnished when they bought it and they just had to rearrange furniture. “We’re buying an unfurnished house?” Levi had hoped Hange was pulling his leg.

Hange knitted her brows in confusion. “Did I say anything about a furnished house?”

                                         Division of Labor

“There are two methods of accounting used in modern day society: cost accounting and accrual accounting or as I’d like to call them: an idiot’s sorry excuse for accounting and actual accounting.” Zeke wrote the two terms on the board and plopped himself on the teacher’s desk. “Really though, why the hell do people still use cost accounting in modern society, it’s fucking stupid, barbaric, might as well go back to bartering…”

Levi had no idea what either of them were. As he looked around at his classmates, they looked as lost as he was about the mini rant that Zeke gave about the two accounting methods he had failed to define.

After a few minutes of ranting, Zeke finally noticed the blank faces of his students. “Okay Social Experiment.” Zeke cocked his head to the side. “Actually, let’s call it an IQ Test.  Jean stand up.”

“Yes sir!” Jean followed way too enthusiastically.

“You got the investment banker occupation so ideally you should be the most knowledgeable on money among everyone in the room,” Zeke continued. “You have zero dollars and I gave you 100 dollars right now. How much do you have?”

“100 dollars sir,” Jean answered.

“That’s a smart boy.” Zeke slapped his desk so hard, Armin and Eren jumped, having sat so close to the teacher’s desk. “Okay, so if I lent you 100 dollars, how much do you have?”

“100 dollars.”

“So, you’re gonna run away with my money? No plans of paying me back?”

Jean tensed up in confusion. “No sir. I’ll be paying you back.”

“Then is it your money?"

“It’s with me sir… So I think…” Jean paused for a second. “So it’s your money sir?”

“Tell me. The money is with you after all. Is it your money or my money?”

“It’s my money sir!” Jean answered too quickly, probably without even thinking.

“I lent you the money. I expect it back so it’s mine. Calling my money your money is practically stealing Kirschtein. I can call a lawyer on you.” Zeke narrowed his eyes at Jean for a few seconds before shrugging in defeat. “But you’re not a criminal. You’re just an idiot who relies on outdated accounting methods. Don’t take that with you when you become an actual financial advisor. Sit down. I’m calling someone else.” Zeke turned back to the class list on the teacher’s table. “Okay, anyone in this list with a finance related position...” Zeke’s eyes widened in surprise as he looked through the list. He looked at the class with a cat-like grin, his eyes focusing on one boy in the front row. “In my almost sixteen years of knowing you, I did not expect you to be suitable but it looks like you’re the only one in this list other than Jean with an accounting related occupation.”

“Really? It’s accounting related?” Eren had never been one to be good at Math. Everyone in the class agreed and as their professor hinted at his assigned occupation, many began to whisper, possibly theorizing as to what Eren had gotten.

They did not have to theorize for long though, within seconds, Zeke continued to discuss. “Okay Eren, let’s discuss your field of expertise --- insurance.”

Eren slowly nodded in return. It was a nod which everyone in the room had understood at first glance. Insurance was not Eren’s field of expertise.

Zeke did not seem to care though. “Case study time! I have 3000 dollars. Eren the insurance salesman sells me $200 dollars a month worth of insurance and I buy one years worth of prepaid insurance. By the end of this month, how much worth of assets do I have left?”

“By assets, you mean money?”

“Check a fucking dictionary.”

Eren sat down for a second. From his seat, Levi could hear some whispers from Mikasa and some clicks of a digital keyboard, or possibly a calculator.

“600 dollars.”

“Final answer?”

“Yes. Final Answer.” Eren seemed so sure of his answer.

From seeing Zeke’s face at the answer, Levi could not help but think, maybe phrasing it as a question was the better option for Eren.

“This is why your generation is so shit at saving. With this type of attitude, you‘re all gonna get into some shity Ponzi scheme with yourself and some sad saps who actually pitied you enough to lend you money without assessing your credit rating that’s just gonna continue riding on some endless cycle until you all go to jail or declare bankruptcy.” Zeke ranted again as he punched the buttons of the projector, turning it on. “ Scratch that. At this rate, none of you would probably even know how to declare bankruptcy.”

Accounting 101 . Those two words flashed on the screen, the contrast of black words in a default font to the white background of a hastily made powerpoint only getting clearer as the projector whirred to life.

“The amount of debt you can get into in the real world will fuck up your life. So to simulate the real world consequences of unpaid debt, we decided to make your fake debt by the end of the year one of the main determinants of your final grade. And we will be using real accounting to determine your debt. Any questions before we start?”

It was Sasha who raised her hand from the back of the classroom.

“Yes?” Zeke asked with shoddily hidden annoyance.

“So which one is cost and which one is accrual again, Sir?”

                                      Division of Labor

"I told you. I'll handle the accounting," Hange said. "We can make this work." Her words were not at all assuring.

It was Wednesday afternoon. They had submitted their selection for their house that afternoon in class so that meant no more takebacks. Their house plans were due midnight and Levi was not even halfway done. To add insult to injury, Levi was still reeling from Zeke’s lecture just a few hours ago.

Initially, Hange had suggested they buy the furniture in installments. The prospect of buying in installments though became all the more terrifying with the accounting system Zeke had introduced to them that day and the weight of a negative balance sheet on their grades.

As soon as you buy something and enter into debt, the money owed is not yours anymore. Levi shuddered as those words echoed in his head. He narrowed his eyes at Hange. "Really Hange? Can we? After deciding to spend half your salary each month on an unfinished 3 bedroom house?" Levi asked as he gestured to their next tall order that stretched over two aisles. They were in the baby's section in the supermarket.

It was their third round around that aisle, trying to look for a brand of diaper and a brand of formula that would not cost them a total of 400 dollars a month.

“I mean, we still have 800 dollars on groceries if we put our furniture installments budget at 1000 dollars a month,” Hange explained. “So if we spend 400 dollars on baby stuff, we should have 400 left.”

“400 dollars for a month’s worth of meals for a family of four.” Levi clarified. “There must be something here we could choose not to spend on.” Or maybe we could find a cheaper place to buy things in. Levi thought back to the supermarket nearer to his house and made a mental note to check it. The output was due on Friday anyway.

"Hey, Armin and Annie are here too!" Hange said enthusiastically.

Too enthusiastically. Levi clarified to himself. That was not at all good news. If other groups were going to that supermarket, that must mean they think they have the financial leeway to spend there, That could also possibly mean he and Hange had somehow fucked up financially as a pair, struggling to make ends meet. Armin was a studious student with a good head on his shoulders and he chose to shop in a more expensive supermarket. Are we spending too much?

"Let's ask Armin…" Levi did not need to finish his sentence. By the time, he looked to his side, where Hange stood or at least was supposed to be standing, the latter was already on her way to the blond boy..

Levi did not waste anytime. As Hange chatted up Armin, Levi made a few rounds through the two aisles again, his phone calculator on hand.

Just in case. Levi told himself. Just in case they had miscalculated the minimum expense of 400 dollars.

                                      Division of Labor

Hange had a long talk with Armin. By that point, Levi had lost count of the number of rounds he had made around the aisle. He had stopped counting at five. He had done his research on discounts and made some fake accounts and the expense still clocked at $390 dollars.

By the time he and Hange called it quits, the sun was setting. Hange seemed lost in thought and she had been that way since she had finished her conversation with Armin. Levi decided to take over keeping both sacks for the night. He made a small detour to the grocery store nearest to his flat. It was smaller, a little dirtier but it meant a little more room for spending and a bigger chance of saving his grade and graduating. Begrudgingly, sanitation became the least of Levi's issues.

He wrote out all the prices of the important items they had seen in the grocery store. When he got home, he made sure to write them all on a google sheet complete with weight, quantity and prices and sent the link to Hange through an instant message. For some reason, he felt a twinge of disappointment when all he received was a heart react in return.

Of course, Hange still had a lot of things to calculate. Even as they separated less than an hour ago, she had seemed distracted. Levi guessed Armin had told her something game breaking about the accounting process.

What did Armin tell you? You need any help?

Will explain soon. Send the meal plan and house design by 9 pls.

Levi managed to submit the meal plan by nine. He had copied and pasted from some random family cooking website, changing a few ingredients to fit what he thought would be cheaper options. He did not need to think too much of it either. He lived a life many would consider the complete opposite of excess and as a result, had mastered the art of improvisation when it came to food.

His main problem lay with the floor plan of the house. Hange had agreed to handle worrying about the expenses. That was one problem out of his plate.

Even with the money problem out of his hands, Levi found himself working until late anyway. Or not working… Levi was only reminded of his lack of productivity when his phone lit up with a notification.

11:00pm

Hange Zoe

Where??????

Levi only realized then that he had gotten a little carried away with the problem of where to put the washing machine.

                                 Division of Labor

It was a genius idea.

That Wednesday night, only a few hours before the house plan was due, Levi had had fifty tabs open from German and Japanese house designers showing bathrooms and laundry room designs highlighting the novelty and practicality of putting the washing machine in the bathroom. Levi had spent hours pondering the logistics of making it work for the house design Hange had sent him only for her to shoot down the idea an hour before the housing plan was due.

They rented an American style house with a bathroom in every bedroom and the impracticality had dawned on him particularly when it was fifteen minutes to 12am and they were still arguing in chat over how to design the house. In the end, Hange had gotten her way, having brought up the issue of accounting furniture and the fact that they probably did not even have the financial leeway to pay for a washing machine anyway.

Having to deal with the disappointment of losing the opportunity to design the house the way he wanted to and having his unfinished design shipped off to Erwin’s email, with little regard for the effort he had put into the intricacy of both the toilets and the laundry room, Levi was a little pissed. He also considered the fact that he had respected the effort and detail Hange had put into choosing a house and had allowed her to submit a potentially overpriced and unfurnished house as their final product.

And she could not even reciprocate the respect for his whims.

Levi decided then to take a break from it all. It was a silent agreement on both ends. Or there was no need for an agreement anyway. They had finished their deliverables for the week by Thursday.

Everyone had ended up cramming theirs anyway and Levi found himself walking home alone and spending his time outside school hours bingeing whatever was new on Netflix.

By Monday, Levi had not expected to do much. Their breakdown of responsibilities was due Friday, 12am on Thursday to be exact according to the file that Erwin had sent. It was a one page paper with a few questions that just needed answering. They could easily start on Tuesday or Wednesday.

Levi wanted to spend at least just his Monday, peacefully, not considering the program which has been plaguing the start of their junior year since Shadis’ announcement just a week ago. He allowed himself to clear his mind, making sure to just note on his phone to start on the next output by Wednesday. Hange would probably remind him anyway.

He had deluded himself well into thinking the adulting program was limited to those once a week outputs. An announcement was made to meet in the kitchen after lunch for home economics class. His mood that Monday had him living in complete denial of what could actually go on in a school kitchen and for some reason, Levi imagined having a lecture in the kitchen was a completely normal expectation, even with the reminder to bring aprons and gloves. Maybe we just need to put them in lockers or something.

As the students filed in though, some of them panicked and that was when Levi figured out that something was not right. The counters were all lined up with ingredients. Some of the students had recognized the ingredients. Levi looked to Hange to see that she was blank on what the hell the pattern was behind the types of ingredients set out.

There were the essentials--- flour, sugar, eggs. There were exotic ingredients Levi could not even name or pronounce.

“Cardamom, Star Anise, Rose water. What the hell?” It was Jean speaking from behind Levi.

“I’m glad you see the pattern. I’m assuming that means you’ll all do well?” Erwin waited while the rest of the class filed into the room before he raised his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Today we’ll be having a pop quiz just to make sure you all know what you’re writing when you make the meal plans. In the tables assigned to you, you will see the ingredients for one of the meals you put in your meal plan. Please use them accordingly to make a full course meal from what you had submitted.”

Levi could not remember for the life of him what the hell he had put in that meal plan a week back

[yandere-daydreams]

i request of u... some supernatural dabi... i am parched.. thank you

There’s a serious version of this out there, I promise, but this isn’t it. And for the sake of clarification, this is a no-quirks/paranormal AU. I’m not getting paid enough to balance superheroes *and* an afterlife.

TW: Mentions of Graphic Violence, Mentions of Murder, Burns, and Ghost-Fucker Rights.

~

Your house was haunted. You had never been in denial about that.

Not a day went by when you weren’t reassured of that fact, whether your reminder came in the form of a new burn-mark on your sheets or a pile of ashes scattered across your floor or a strange, shadowy figure standing outside your shower’s curtain, simply… watching, staring, disappearing when you finally gave in and checked. Today was no different, your first signal of his presence appearing in your tea. The kettle always heated up much too quickly when he was around, threatening to bubble over, even after you’d taken it off the burner.

The second came in the form of a long, slender hand running along your thigh, only stopping once it reached your hip.

You grit your teeth, glaring at the counter in front of you, your last conscious action before the familiar, suffocating paralysis took over. It was hard to breathe, let alone move, your fist still clamped around the pot’s smoldering handle, the heated metal threatening to melt in your hold. But, you didn’t have much of a choice, taking reprieve in the palm pressed against your countertop, the feeling of cool marble serving as a small reward. He didn’t seem to like the idea of a distraction as much as you did, though, sharpened fingernails drumming again your skin, phantom bursts of white, burning pain burrowing itself into your flesh every time they made contact.

“Fucking bastard-” You spat, put off by the sudden stiffness in your mouth, no doubt a new trick he’d learned since your last encounter. Anything above your neck had usually remained under your control, and yet, you were forced to retain your profanity as something unnaturally warm pressed against your back, threatening to singe at your clothes has his arms encircled your waist. There was no real weight, no strain, his body more similar to an awareness of what should be, rather than a confirmation of what is.

“You're supposed to call me Dabi, we’ve been over this,” He sighed, chin resting on your shoulder. His voice was distant, quiet despite its venom. It used to remind you of smoke in the wind, the glimpse of something terrible that you couldn't quite grasp. That was early on in your relationship. You wouldn’t attribute anything that poetic to him, these days. “I have a name, and I’d appreciate if you used it. Unless you want to end up like the last people to live with me.”

He paused, playing with the idea of pulling you closer, but resigning himself to a chuckle, small puffs of steam hitting your neck. There would be blisters there tomorrow, if you weren't lucky. “I could gut you, like my sister, or beat you to death with the lamp that bitch didn’t even bother to replace. And Daddy was so difficult, are you going to be like him? I could break your legs, too, before I bother to finish you off.” Again, he stopped, the hint of something warm and wet running over your skin. “Or, I could cover you in gasoline and find a lighter, wouldn’t that be fun? We’d match! Don’t you think you’d be pretty, all scarred up and screaming-”

At the memory, his control slipped, Dabi stumbling through your form and your paralysis faltering, failing, leaving you free to back away from the counter and flee to your sink. You let cold water run over your scalding hand, but the faux injury was gone in a moment, the kettle’s heat little more than something Dabi wanted you to see. Calling it an ‘illusion’ would be a disrespect to proper spirits. The burns on your neck were real enough, but they could wait until later.

Your first priority was retrieving the small, plastic squirt-gun you kept near you at all times, the toy sitting innocently on the kitchen’s island. Dabi was disabled with one dose of the holy-water kept inside of it, cursing you out with two, and on the floor and whining by the time you felt safe enough to stop. He was less visual, in his weakened state, flickering in-and-out of the living world, but he’d always been stubborn. You didn’t really need to worry about getting rid of him, not permanently.

“How did you get out of your salt circle?” You asked, keeping your tone even. You’d learned that he wouldn’t take you seriously unless you sounded like a scolding parent. It was ironic, considering the bits and pieces you’d been given about his life. “You promised to stay, this time. And I put you in the basement, you love the basement. Do you know how hard it is to clean that shit up after you mess with it?”

He smirked, pulling himself into a more dignified position. That is, if sitting cross-legged on your floor could be called ‘dignified’. “I’m talented, baby, you’d be dead if you weren’t so fun to…” You lifted the toy gun, waving it slightly before pointing it back at him. “Put that thing down or I swear- Fine! Your dog wanted to go out and she realized I’ll open the door if she breaks the perimeter.” He crossed his arms, pouting, not meeting your eyes. “I could’ve done it myself, if I wanted to.”

“I don’t have time for this, Dabi.” You couldn’t stop yourself from groaning, rubbing at your temples as you lowered the weapon. Taking the opportunity, he dissolved, appearing at your side in the blink of an eye and remaining on your heels while you left the room. The kitchen was the only part of your home you really liked, everything else feeling too big, too old, too luxurious, especially considering the price you’d paid for it.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected from the well-known, infamous Todoroki Estate, honestly. The building’s body-count alone was enough to keep potential buyers away, until someone too desperate to refuse the offer came along.

Or the friends of someone desperate, ready to see the sight of a homicide in its hidden, undisguisable glory.

As if on cue, there was a knock at your door, the sound hardly traveling past the first of many, many hallways. Dabi caught on quickly, reaching for your hand, nearly growling when you evaded his touch. “You’re having people over?” He was angry, and he didn’t try to hide it. “You know how I feel about guests. I don’t like having to watch you-”

“Having to watch me spend time with other people, I know. You tried to burn down the house the first time you saw a mailman.” You shook your head, if only to further shame him. “Are you going to behave? I could put you in the closet again, if you want.”

There was a laugh, loud and throaty and dramatic, Dabi attempting to throw his arm over your shoulders before falling through, recovering poorly as he jogged to get ahead of you. “I’m charming and you know it, your buddies would love me meet me. But, I’ll stay out of sight, as long as you promise not to throw a fit.” Your frown deepened, but Dabi’s grin only grew, stretching too wide to be human.

“Don’t worry so much, dollface. I plan on spending lots of time with you, when we’re alone.”

[transrightsjimin]

more ranting abt welfare benefits hell

sorry for whining so much abt income on here, i know it should just be easy nd solveable by applying more for jobs, but the literal issue is that i have no skills or confidence (latter is according to my friend, but the way i cant envision handling any jobs well is jst the truth??) nd still havent gotten any help from the municipality w getting consulted by someone w more knowledge on the job market nd maybe being pushed to take on shitty jobs that at least perhaps pay better than mail delivery. it’s jst so frustrating how i requested welfare benefits over 4 months ago but it only counted since 3 months ago bc they kept fucking up w the requests, promised a payback for the lost month, but didnt, i believe?? now december we got nothing nd probably also january bc our ‘income was too high‘ for the minimum.

uh i side tracked nd forgot where i was going before, but i meant to say tht HALF A YEAR AGO i also requested help w getting help w jobs but bc bureaucratic bullshit it took until DECEMBER to get the help approved. and they would get me a contact person ‘surely before christmas, don’t worry!‘ and then they didn’t and replied they hadn’t forgotten about me and will surely help soon and i’m just. so fucking anxious about this all??

my parents help me financially w cash they gave (nd some of which came from my grandmas) (nd no im not happy w that bc one of them is doing worse financially but still wants to give it away, nd the other is dead nd my uncle gave her left over money to family which feels ironic bc hes a millionaire but only gives a bit from his dead mom??) so that i can buy groceries bc me and my friend’s paychecks + welfare benefits can only cover rent + food and so not also other bills such as for healthcare that i have to make payment plans for. and even w help w groceries i still end up in the negatives, especially last month bc we ‘made too much‘ to receive something. i dont even dare to sell clothing or anything online for money bc that’d only mean ‘income from hobbies’ they could see i have and thus more reason to get stripped from this too.

and that is just the whole issue!! the municipality runs all these checks and forms and calls and appointments and documents you need to hand in, but there is NO calculation determining what you actually need. instead, based on the type of household, we were categorized as fiscal partners without children who receive the benefits together and thus we receive benefits (in the months that we do) to add it up to the ‘living minimum‘ €1500 in total. this amount does not cover our actual expenses, nor does this match inflation or how social housing has been broken down as a system and that real estate owners can increase rent prices as much as they want. there is a monthly grant that tenants could receive for renting a home, but only if it is an apartment AND below 752,33 euros per month (which is when it is considered social housing, above that it’s the ‘free market‘), and that is just virtually impossible?? but we were not once asked if we can actually pay anything and the people meant to help us w benefits just don’t fucking get flex work contracts or how our income over a certain month is received way later in the month after that. like they have a stable job and just dont fucking get that it is not designed well for us.

i think my anxiety over this issue has gotten worse ever since the news came out that a dutch woman on benefits got a €7000 fine because her mom did groceries for her and that’s considered fraud??!! she couldn’t afford food so her mom bought groceries for her but that is also considered financial compensation and thus she got this huge fine, which she probably cannot afford and the fucked up thing w fines from institutions is that they ask interest over it if you don’t pay it in time or enough of it, and give more fines and even charge fees for something like you receiving a letter and they’re just free to pull this shit bc it’s a for-profit business. and that’s how ppl end up w debt and huge loans. it’s just so infuriating nd i really dont want a fine or lose the right to benefits. even though i prob wont get it for a while bc of my friend’s job that tends to make our incomes together reach just the ‘living minimum‘. i have this bill of €250 for adhd diagnosis, then monthly bills for meds that are €76 of which i can receive most back and ‘only’ need to pay €25 from it, then theres an orthodentist bill of around €92 bc i forget this insurance company still counts from back when i was w it the first time nd orthodontist stuff gets insured up to €1000 and that amount was used up like 10 years ago nd they still count like that despite me having had a different insurer in between.

i just need a stupid fcking job nd i hate to whine abt this bc theres so many ppl in much worse situations who ‘take initiative‘ nd start looking for jobs, but AGAIN  i have no ‘basic’ skills like being able to listen and understand words well nd fast or show the right facial expressions or have good memory or dexterity or be able to answer difficult questions or focus on reading etc etc, nor do i i have an idea what job i should or could do.like i fcking need an income, moreover i need a break, im in this fcking burnout since like 2013 and in depression since at least 2004 lmfao but it’s never been recognized as bad enough by specialists bc im not suicidal, but it’s also not good to the point where i ever know if i felt ok. also just. i feel like i did use to have a bit more confidence in myself in high school but it all got sucked out of me in art college (bc horribly bigoted teachers + students and being taught that drawing well is in fact not at all important in the domestic market but rather being INNOVATIVE and NETWORKING and also COPYING is the way to success!! like not kidding, thats what teachers told us) nd by my parents (bc i became older nd didnt spontaneously do all these chores or jobs despite having no fcking clue how bc they never taught stuff). like i just dont know how ppl live comfortably w themselves and know what its like to be themselves nd not feel bad nd anxious abt everything

[dollydeez]

Chapter One Sneak Peek

I’m currently rewriting the ending and haven’t done final edits yet, but I thought I’d go ahead and post the first chapter of Lesbian Robots From Space to give people an idea of what I’m going for with this project. So here it is, Chapter One: Get Lost!

I spent most of my free time wandering around the space station. There wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen, but I’m well known enough in this sector that I pick up just as much business wandering around as sitting in my office. It’s a rough part of the galaxy, so it’s not uncommon for your affairs to get FUBAR. There’s four levels to the thing, going from the hangar at the gravitational bottom to the flats at the top, with a shopping centre and office section respectively in between. I don’t know why old space movies liked spherical buildings, can you imagine how annoying that’d be? Use a cube like a thinking being and maximize your available space. If my flat had a curved ceiling I’d start a riot. And having the hangar in the middle, I mean I guess for military constructions but what the fat cats want for their civilian developments is for people to have to walk through as much commercial space as possible.

My favourite part was checking out the hangar, and not just because it was a hotspot for people on the run. So many ships, from all over, docked here. Swear to god, I saw one that looked exactly like a pickle. Funniest shit I’ve ever seen. I mean, until the crew started spilling out and medics had to be called. People don’t land here because they want to check it out, they land here because they are out of options. We are the Saint Jude of scum. The regular clientele had an effect on the shops offered. Shite specific for those living here were automated, usually owned by the station. Stuff like furniture stores, clothes shops and the grocer’s. There were a couple people trying to hack out a living with their cooking, but… let’s just say if they were good they’d be elsewhere. Hell do I know, I never went into any of those disease factories. Most of the other shops sold guns, parts and medical supplies. It wasn’t the worst place in the world to poke around, it was always entertaining to see some lost yokel argue with someone, who’s surrounded by guns mind you, seemingly unaware that this is absolutely the place your annoying corpse would be chucked into space. I was good friends with Doc, the lad who ran the station’s main medical bay. He was a good kid, just made some mistakes early on and had to move his practice off world. Well, he wasn’t bad. Every so often he’d get bored doing his work. You’d know when to keep your issues to yourself when you saw some poor bastard limping around the food court with the wrong number of limbs, or the right number but on the wrong side. He usually stayed up in his office, however, across from mine. We were friendly enough, and he told his staff to let me wander around the wards.

The limited number of staff made this an absolutely desperate place to seek medical attention. If you weren’t of the species represented in the OR, you might have to cling to life as some doofus flips through a book trying to figure out what the hell you are. So, why not have a little conversation? I’d swoop in, say something about how they seemed to be in some heap of trouble, and most of the time I’d get a job. Money up front of course, and if they argued this point I’d make sure they were clear on how friendly I was with the medic bay. This tactic meant that sometimes they’d take my card and never be heard from again. Which is fine, credits spend the same, but it doesn’t do much for word of mouth. I knew I’d hit the jackpot when someone, gushing blood, would look up with wide eyes and ask if I was Lisa Dean. Why yes, and your price just doubled. Hey, if they know my track record I can put it up front rather than racking up bullshit expenses. If they argue about the rate their buddy got, I’d tell them that if I wasn’t worth it I wouldn’t get recommended. Here I hand them my card, because if they’re bleeding there’s someone who caused that blood and they can get looked for somewhere else. But if they approach me as I’m wandering the rest of the station, I’d invite them up to my office.

I’m still proud of how well I fixed up the place; when I moved in it was little more than a ratty little hole in the wall, wallpaper peeling, lightbulb flickering, dark and damp, reeking of mold, somehow there was a leak from the flats upstairs despite the fact this is a space station and, well, that feels concerning. But I’d moved in with plenty of disposable income and plenty of time, so I made use of the automated stores down stairs. I thought it’d be neat to get some wood inside there, so there was a jarring feeling when you walk in from the outside. Most of the station is boring polished steel, blinking lights, then you enter my office and it’s wood. Getting books for the shelf was a pain, it’s the one thing the station doesn’t sell, so for a while I looked like a real cunt with plenty of shelf space and a handful of books. People would ask about it, which was annoying but, alright, it was a compounding factor on how shady it all seemed, and I’d tell them I’d lost most of my books in the move and was waiting for them to arrive. Which was true enough, at least enough to shut them up about it. But they’d sit across from my desk and tell me the details of their woes, then I’d tell them how I’d solve it for them. It was a pretty good system. Sometimes, I’d have to get them back into the office to go over some details or expenses. I started out my practice letting the expenses slide in exchange for a favour, which people are usually grateful enough to accept, so at this point it was generally understood that you should pay your expenses when I tell you to. When I wanted to get out of the flat but didn’t want to wander around the station, I’d hang out in my office. People coming in at these times were the most annoying, because usually if I don’t want to do a job I can get out of it easily. In the medbay, they’re dying so they’re not in the position to chase after me. Elsewhere, I can either pretend they’ve got the wrong person or give some extravagant price that they won’t concede to. Every so often, I got roped into a job I don’t want to do and I resent it. I even resent it when people come into my office uninvited and put me in the awkward position of turning them away. Usually if I’m upfront about how I find their case boring or trivial, they’ll get all offended and leave. Some require more pushing.

The day began normally. I got up, got ready, and headed out into the world. I didn’t have much going on, and was on the edge of liking it that way. The station was pretty dead for once, with the usually chaotic and filled hangar being nearly empty. I think the only ships there might have belonged to the few residents that owned one. I felt sorry, and still do, for the poor fuckers stuck on that hellhole. Usually what happened was that someone, not knowing better, would land from a nearby planet with little more than a dream and an idea of the cheap real estate. Then they’d chop their ship at one of the shops upstairs, grab a place and a store front, and slowly regret their decision. It was cheap real estate, almost offensively so, but that was because no one in their right mind would show up unless under duress. Sure, Doc might get a poor family that’d gained just enough capital to get up there for his skills, but with orderlies mostly running the OR they usually were disappointed. Then they’d have a “well, we’re here, sad and hungry” meal from one of the subpar restaurants before heading back to their planet. So those who sold their way off to settle here were more or less stuck in relative poverty. Don’t get me wrong, I’d be happy if a legitimately talented chef or whatever risked everything to set up shop here and succeeded their way back off, but I’ve never seen it happen. Even when someone has been somewhat of a draw, it was never enough to get a ship and enough money to set up somewhere nicer. The only one I’ve seen get close is Synthia Gray, who garnered good reviews and quite a few people going out of their way to try her food. But the area’s too dangerous for anyone who could have a real impact, or the masses that might do the same, to come by. I just remember them packing up all her stuff one day, saying it’d been auctioned off. Turns out she decided to try her luck leaving the station, only without a ship or a suit. Sweet girl, I was always sorry it happened to her, but it was inevitable as soon as she stepped foot here. People don’t leave, not when they’re attached to it financially.

My theory is that the owners rig the price just so in order to attract desperate people. Those people pay rent, usually two forms of rent, while buying all their goods from the company and paying “taxes” on all the money they make. It’s an absolute racket, designed to keep this sorry excuse of a space station staffed enough to keep it used and profitable. Most people end up going into debt after settling. If the company had a heart, they’d offer some sort of way off when people go broke, but instead they allow people to run up the score. It’s indentured servitude to make the station seem full and welcoming to anyone willing to put money into a bad investment.

In any case, I was one of the few fortunate enough to have a ship still in the hangar. Which was good news for both me and the station itself, as I needed it to work. Can’t quite look into things if I’m stuck on a hunk of metal orbiting aimlessly around some nothing gas giant. I like to keep it tuned up, making sure it’s ready to go at a moment’s notice and taking it for a short spin every so often to make sure it can, in fact, work. I love my ship, but I feel like other people feel that on an entirely different level. It’s a reliable and necessary tool, but I don’t see much need in worrying about it being clean or looking nice or whatever. I’ll get a Wash Me on the window if I haven’t taken it out in too long, but I’ll just scrub it off. As long as it gets me from point A to point B I’m happy with it. After I gave it a good look over, because what the fuck else was I going to do, I headed up to the shopping area to wander around for a little bit. It was boring. Even Doc’s was mostly empty, with the one person being looked after having cut himself deeply out of sheer clumsiness. I wasn’t quite ready to go back to the flat, I wanted to keep it a space I felt good in, so I headed back to my office. And there was someone waiting for me. I did not like this, and I’m still not super happy about it.

She was sat in my office chair, usually reserved for active clients, and dressed in all black. Even when I walked in, she continued boohooing into her snot rag, you know how these mucus gremlins are, with loud and halting cries. I could see flakes of red hair poking out of her garish black hat, complete with a little veil in front of her face. I cleared my throat and she finally turned around.

“Are you Lisa Dean?”

“That’s what it says on the door.”

I made my way to my desk, and she looked up at me from her hunched posture with wet eyes. I had to awkwardly shimmy between the close wall and my desk, an act I don’t like doing in front of people who might be deciding to pay me, before sitting down. She could hardly put words together and babbled incoherently.

“I’m guessing someone’s dead?”

Mistake. This set her off with a loud wail and I had to wait it out. I flipped through an old magazine on my desk and cursed myself for not picking up a newspaper. Apparently those skis were still available with an exclusive discount. Eventually her sobs started to stabilize and it seemed as though she were about to speak, so I tilted the magazine down.

“My wife… she’s gone!”

This had my attention. A lover, possibly murdered, possibly missing, but either way a mystery? Grand, sounds to be quite the adventure.

“So, in your words, what’s happened?”

She sniffled a bit, then took a few deep breaths to collect herself.

“I woke up one day and she was gone, with a note left saying she’d left and her ship was gone. But I know she would have never done something like that!”

“I’m not saying I won’t take the case, but given the evidence she just left don’t you think this getup is a bit much?”

“She would never! She would never do such a thing, the possibility wouldn’t even be in her programming it’s so antithetical-”

“Whoa, stop right there. Her programming?”

“She was a robot, but what we had was so real.”

“Buy another.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your bot babe was defective. Buy. Another.”

I brought the magazine back up to my face and let her spit and sputter. She seemed the type to have always gotten her way, daddy’s favourite, and I’ll be honest I took some joy in saying no. She composed herself and stood, placing a calling card on my desk.

“Regardless, I’ve heard you’re the best. If you change your mind, please give me a call.”

“Mkay.”

She kept standing there, looming over me, until I placed the square into my desk drawer. Who even does that? A square card? Where is that meant to go? A purse I suppose, so I’ll respect the specificity of use, but if she was married it was an oversight to not update it for easier storage. That said, I’m probably over analysing it and should concentrate on telling the story. That’s what’s important, the story, not any of these bullshit details. In all honesty, I might just be bored and pointing out shite like this for the drama. In any case, she took her leave and I went back to reading my magazine. Halfway into an article on exercise routines, for whatever reason, I put it down to go buy a paper because if I had to keep reading this sports magazine I’d punch a hole in the station wall.

I was sitting in the local saloon, watching Doc get absolutely hammered. From that and the blood drenching his coat, you’d assume he’d had a rough day and was having to work through some heavy shite. You would be wrong. Not to suggest he is drenched in blood on a daily basis, although it isn’t an unusual occurrence, but he did enjoy drinking until he had to be carried back upstairs. It was a bad idea to say it, or even imply it, but there was a common understanding that this habit most likely landed him on the station. It was generally accepted that you do not want to piss off the person who has a say in you getting patched up, and if you’re going to be doing something especially dangerous, do it early to be on the safe side. So he’s leaning on the bar, gripping his beer as if it was about to float away, and grimacing. The poor busboy was holding his mop by the tip of the handle to mop up the pool of blood slowly forming underneath Doc’s stool and holding his breath in an effort not to be noticed. I wouldn’t call Doc a mean drunk, as that would imply he was different the rest of the time. Bless him, he was a bastard but wholly honest about it. I leaned forward as he started mumbling, the reek of beer and whisky pouring from his mouth more freely than from the taps, just in case he was trying to talk to me. He bolted upright and grabbed me by the lapel, pulling me close and forcing eye contact.

“No one here today! Only the cunts showed! Cunts, all of them, screaming and bleeding and all but pissing themselves, whining for their mammies!”

He slumped back against the bar and placed his face into his arms, and Frankie, our bartender, looked over to me. I nodded, resenting the fact I’d need a wash after taking him to his place. He turned his head, ear now pressed firmly against the bar and seemed like he was looking for a response.

“Yeah, Doc, absolutely awful. Only job offer I got was to locate a missing bot, wasn’t about to take a salvage job.”

He pushed himself up, working his way into a maniacal laugh, and I had to put a hand on his back to keep him from going arse over teakettle.

“What’s her name?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I have her card upstairs, she wouldn’t leave until I took it.”

“She fit?”

“Not your type, I don’t think.”

“Certainly ways to change that. ‘Not my type’, feh! Insult my skills.”

Knocking my arm away, he took another swig of beer and lied back down on the counter. He should have been cut off hours ago, but Frankie was in the odd position of having to poison the man who might save her life, or he might not out of spite. Well, if you were lucky he’d leave it at that. Most of the time, the blood was from boredom more than altruism. If you made the mistake of causing a ruckus in his med bay, well let’s just say that being handed over to Doc to be handled personally usually was a bad sign. He did personally take care of station residents, at least the ones whose death would be inconvenient for him, but, again, that was only a good thing at the right time of day. Stubborn as a mule, if he wanted to be hands on begod no one would stop him. Which is unfortunate for everyone, including Doc. That’s how Frankie got her job, and it took him almost a year to adjust.

Luckily, Doc wouldn’t argue against the saloon closing and would allow himself to be walked home, usually with a takeaway cup in tow. As the clock struck three, I picked him up and half dragged him away from the bar. He woke up enough to start struggling, reaching toward where he had been with both arms extended.

“Drink!”

“Alright, give me a second.”

I sat him back down on his stool and leaned him on his arm so he’d stay upright. Frankie, who always waited and watched to make sure Doc left without a fuss, already had his cup ready and mouthed a thank you. When I handed him the paper cup, he took a few sips from his straw, readied himself and nodded. He could almost stand, so I had to prop him up by the armpit and lead him to the elevator.

“Real sorry situation.”

“Mhm.”

It was hard to make out the words, but regardless of what he was talking about I was not about to treat it as anything but gospel. He was slumped in the corner of the elevator, barely supporting himself on the banister. The one advantage of helping Doc home is that, despite how busy it is at this time of night, we’d get an elevator to ourselves for a quick trip home. It was a quieter trip than most nights, as he was just staring down at his cup. The ones where he was overly rowdy were definitely worse, but I enjoyed hearing him drunkenly ramble about some random topic. I don’t know if him being a doctor made it more or less weird, but he was well read on the most obscure topics. He once described, in detail, the history of the human homeworld, but with a topic like that it was equally plausible he was making up most of it. Either way was entertaining. But this, this was just sad. The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and I helped him out into the hallway.

“Right, so how far do you need?”

“Bed.”

His flat was fairly close to the elevator, either by planning on his part or coincidence, so it wasn’t too much trouble. I tried to prop him up against the wall to search him for his keys, but he just slid down it. He slapped my hand away when I tried to get to his pockets anyway.

“Leave here.”

“You know you’ll be furious tomorrow if I do.”

“Fair.”

Pawing at his pants, he managed to drop the keys onto the floor. I unlocked the door, then got him up and into the apartment. Ratty is the best way to describe it. I am fully aware we are off-planet, but you could easily convince me there’s any number of vermin among the wreckage. Due to his importance to the maintenance of the place, I’m pretty sure he’s paid more than anyone here, especially since most people don’t get paid at all, but you couldn’t tell from the state of his flat. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the brokest of all of us, but I don’t think that even matters to him. This wasn’t the first time I had to take him inside, but I always had to adjust to the absolute squalor. It never fully sunk in, the way he lived, if you want to call it that.

There was a relatively clean recliner in the telly area, so I left him there while I got his bed ready. I set up a glass of water and some paracetamol for him in the morning, then brought him over to tuck him in. He kicked off his shoes and curled up in the middle of the mattress, so I put the duvet over him. We were close, but it was well established that he’d rather sleep fully clothed than go through the further indignity of being stripped. The one time I tried, he fought back with tears in his eyes. I didn’t see much, but I remember a large scar across his middle. I’m happy not knowing.

After I got upstairs and cleaned myself up, I sat down on my couch. Any other day, a rejected case would be the last thing on my mind, but I couldn’t help thinking about the one I found in my office. If she wants to waste her money having someone turn up a lost appliance, I have no issue with it, but the gall of seeking me out and expecting me to waste my time with that nonsense was infuriating. But it was none of my business, I made that quite clear. I lied down on the couch and flipped on the telly, not ready to power down for the night. Nothing good was on, so I shuffled through the channels and watched the shadows dance on the wall. It would be a safety nightmare, but times like these I desperately wished we could have windows. There were a couple planets close enough to watch, sitting in a ship outside, and plenty of stars of course. I always loved the look of it, the majesty of the universe, but there was hardly an opportunity to enjoy it anymore. Well, if I wanted it I could have it, but there didn’t seem to be a point to it. I find work by being in the station, and that pays the bills. Plus, the stars just looked duller nowadays. Better off to stay at home and watch whatever brain drain they’re pumping out to the screens of the galaxy.

[fauvester]

thanks to @soundwavereporting for encouraging me to Write my Humankaiju Rodorah Truth

Rodan swam into the waking world way past when he usually got up for work. He had a moment of panic, thinking his alarm didn’t go off, but then he remembered – weekend, Saturday morning. He’d been out Friday night, a one-man celebration of finally getting his grades from his Master’s program back, finally.

Tasted sour. His mouth. Gross. He swallowed thickly and cracked his eyes open.

His studio was bleary and bright. Someone must have opened the shades; he had a new basement apartment and liked to keep them closed to deter anyone from looking in.  Hey, he’d gone home from MI with someone, hadn’t he?

Oh, yeah. That explained it. He rubbed his eyes vigorously and squinted, looking up. The other side of his bed was empty, but from behind the hastily erected folding screen that separated it from the living area he could hear someone moving around.

Last night – he’d gotten the email after almost six months of negotiating with the Dean’s office while he was still at work, checking his phone waiting on his COSY to autoresolve (old-ass software they were using. No manches.) He’d actually jumped up and whooped in excitement, which would have been embarrassing if anyone besides Ques was there.

He’d texted Goji and Mothra to see if they wanted to go get something to eat in celebration, but the latter said she had plans and the former rarely had her phone on her and didn’t respond. Anguirus was visiting family, and Rodan wouldn’t stoop to hanging out with Baragon if he was the last guy on Earth.  So he clocked out and went down the street to Monster Island Bar alone.

His lab building was only a couple miles from the center of Monsuta, on the other side of it from the beach. He could get everywhere on foot or on his motorbike.

So with an extra spring in his step he’d locked his bike underneath the streetlamp outside the bar and headed in for a drink. ��He hadn’t had a chance to go out since the incident with his old apartment; between the thrill and razor’s edge of fear watching the old place burn to the slow and excruciating process of getting arrested, thrown in a holding cell for a weekend and then told that he was getting let off, he’d been sort of on edge for the past few weeks.

“Relax, ‘dan,” Goji said when she picked him up from the Correctional Facility, clapping a broad hand on his shoulder. “You got off this time when you could’ve been in jail for the rest of your life. People like us don’t get chances like this. Enjoy it.”

He couldn’t, though.  He was still taut as a live wire. How did he slip through the cracks?  He’d had a lapse of judgment. The place he’d lived for years was being sold out from under him to some foreign developers who’d rip it up and turn it into luxury condos and price Monsutans out of it with impunity, and damn it, Rodan wasn’t going to let that happen.

Having access to the chemical components of any commonly used explosive substance was definitely a job bonus at his lab. Not like Ques cared enough to keep inventory of anything.  She was too busy being bitter and feeling sorry for herself.

So his old place had burned – exploded, actually – and Rodan was caught, of course, because who else, and then someone had decided to let him go.

He knew how things worked around here. Someone did him a favor, and now something was expected of him.  He owed someone a debt, someone powerful, and he didn’t like not knowing who it was, or what they might conceivably ask of him.

It just made him jumpy.

So anyways – he’d decided to go out that Friday to loosen up after a very confusing and challenging couple of weeks, throw down a few beers.

He’d got himself the cheapest bottle MI carried, his usual, and nursed it in the middle of the bar as the other patrons trickled in for their usual Friday libations. MI was what Mothra would call ‘homey’; there was pool, if you cared to challenge Battra; the tvs weren’t too loud that you couldn’t hear the 80s music channel; you could sit on the patio if you didn’t mind that the whole place was a wrought-iron tetanus ward waiting to be established.  When Rodan was alone he mostly liked to drink in silence and futz with the candles at the bar. His new basement apartment was an absolute dustpan and he wasn’t in any hurry to get back there.

The bartender’d tapped him on the shoulder and he’d spun around, thinking that he’d fucked something up, but she handed him a glass of something clear and beautifully garnished instead.

“From the guy at the end of the counter,” she said.  “It’s the best we have on shelf.”

He looked, not caring about subtlety. There was a guy at the end of the bar, ensconced in a corner and half in the shadow, leaning against the wall like a shadow himself. He had a phone in his hand, scrolling slowly, and he was looking over at Rodan with a practiced and incredibly precise casualness.  Damn, he was good looking. Not his usual type, given, but tall and sharp and sort of weird looking in the face but in a very Fancy Model way. In the warm electric lights Rodan saw his eyes glint.

And he was looking at Rodan.  With the slightest smile, an it’s-there-if-you-want-it-to-be smile, looking appraisingly, like he was evaluating Rodan and didn’t find him wanting.  He stopped scrolling, clicked off his phone, keeping their eyes locked, and cocked an eyebrow. Are you coming over?

Rodan took a sip.  Expensive tequila. So the guy didn’t just have good taste in clothes. The stranger watched him. Rodan licked his lips, tasting salt and mellow cool alcohol, and then brought the glass a half dozen seats over to sit next to the man who bought it for him.

Rodan, in the present, internally curled up and kicked his feet with glee at the memory. He’d picked up plenty of people at bars back in the day, but he was rusty in that department now. Besides, he was used to being the initiator in those relationships. It felt nice to be attended to, and the guy – Kevin, was it? Kyle? – had attended to him in every conceivable way that evening, and then later that night.

He was Scandanavian, here for work, he hadn’t had a chance to visit the famous beach yet but he was looking forward to it, he liked his drinks on the rocks. He had shoulder-length blond hair but he wore it up; his lips were a little too wide for his aristocratic face but that made it interesting enough to look at.  He had long, slender fingers and he knew how to use them. He had a tattoo of a dragon on his hip. He spoke Spanish, among other languages, and liked classic metal too.

Rodan, in the present, rolled up to sit. No hangover, thankfully, just tired. He reached under the bed and grabbed an undershirt, pulling it on as he stood up and knocked at the screen.  It felt silly, but he didn’t want to intrude if Kevin was still there. God, he hadn’t had a one night stand in a while, this was excrutiating.

“Hey, are you still there?”

A moment. “Your shower doesn’t have a curtain, you know this, yes?”

“Oh, yeah. Haven’t had time to unpack it. Sorry.”

A chuckle. “No, I’m sorry for waking you up so early. My body tells me I’m a morning person, my head doesn’t agree, though.”  God, that accent!  On the other side of the divider, Rodan found Kevin in his little kitchenette. To his embarrassment, his houseguest was washing his dishes, dressed only in Rodan’s almost knee-length sweatpants and his mother’s laundry apron.

“Oh shit, don’t worry about that! I swore I washed them yesterday, you really don’t have to, dude.”

“Not at all, I made pancakes and thought I should clean up afterwards. As a thanks for letting me stay over!” Kevin smiled brightly at him. God, he should really make sure his name was Kevin.

He looked damn good in just Rodan’s sweats and apron.

“Pancakes?”

“And coffee. Your machine was making noises – I found a press, though.”

“Where? Did you take apart my entire kitchen?”

“Ech, I’ve been up for a while. I didn’t want to leave you without seeing you though.  I thought it would be rude.”

“Most people would’ve left a note and dipped. I’m used to it.”

“Well, if you didn’t want to see me, at least now you have pancakes, so it is a net-gain, yes?”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Rodan assured him. “It’s nice, I mean. I’m glad you stayed. Just not used to decency, I guess. And thanks for the pancakes.”  Kevin dried his hands, finished, and Rodan pulled him against himself by the waistband of his pants. He barely came up to the man’s shoulders.

Rodan looked up and Kevin smiled down at him, then ducked down and gave him a quick, dry kiss that Rodan felt through his whole body like a little sparkly shockwave.  His body remembered last night.

Something on the other side of the room buzzed. Rodan smacked his own ass on instinct even though he wasn’t wearing pants with back pockets and Kevin pulled off his apron and scrambled around to the couch, where he’d left his coat the day before.

He fished his iphone out of his pocket and answered it in an unintelligible language. His tone started light and easy but went flat and businesslike as the conversation went on.  Rodan helped himself to some pancakes, deciding to eat them rolled up with his fingers and dipped in butter as he listened to the waterlike vowels and slurred consonants from the living room.

Kevin hung up, pursing his lips.  “That was my work partner.  I have a conference call in a little bit to prepare for, so I’m going to head out.”

“On a Saturday?”

“It’s still Friday over where those partners are.”

“Huh, wow. Your place is really global, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and growing bigger all the time.” He smiled beatifically and gestured to Rodan’s room.

“Yeah. What did you say you did again?” Rodan asked as Kevin pulled on his clothes.

The Scandanavian smiled at him, snapping his brilliant gold hair into a bun.  “Oh, it’s all very vague. Financial analytics, insurance. Some international shipping. Real estate.”

His tone was light and pleasant but something in the air between them felt suddenly strange and heavy. They looked at each other over the bar of Rodan’s kitchenette, the scientist and the stranger and the chemistry between them.

Kevin stood up, breaking the moment, and gently took Rodan around the waist. “I put my number on your bedside table,” he said.  “I will be here for a few weeks, perhaps; if you’d like to spend some time together, call me.  I’d love to.”

Rodan reached up and traced a thumb over his high cheekbones, the corner of his mouth. His washed-out-blue eyes followed, amused, and Rodan pulled him in for another deeper kiss.

“Okay, fine, I guess I can call you,” he said after they broke apart. “But you’ve set the bar pretty high this time.  I’m going to expect a continental breakfast.”

“Oh, no, next time we are staying with me, where there are shower curtains,” Kevin said, and kissed Rodan on the top of his mssed-up head.  “And I look forward to it.”

Later on, a few miles away, Sander calls his brother back.

“How long does it take to case a place so small?” Richard groans in Danish.

“I didn’t want to be rude,” San says, running his hand over his face where he swore he could still feel Rodan’s thumb. “Besides, he has just moved in, he doesn’t have any useful papers out.  I think Ni will have to find them online.”

“Mmh.” That was Niels, on the conference call.

“He’s an interesting one, though. I think he’ll be worth our time.”

“Ech, I don’t care about that, I just care about how much of a problem he’s going to be for us.”

“If the big construction worker won’t keep him in line, then I can keep him busy,” San responds.  “I think you’d like him. He’s fun.”

“Nobody fun lives in a ground floor apartment,” Ni again.

And then the line devolved into a discussion of the apartment complex on the street over from the one that Rodan had burnt down and San started the car again, heading back for their penthouse downtown.

He felt good about this city, this project.  The last few had left him cold. He wondered if he’d lost his spark for their game - it had felt scarily mechanical.  They’d been going through the motions, town after town, breaking down and rebuilding rotely while checking their watches. But this time…

He thought of the little firestarter, his bright dark eyes and his scarred hands, his quick confident tone and the quiet little noises he made.  Maybe he’d found his spark again.

[momtemplative]

One-Act Play

1.

It was the summer of 2004. I was living at 940 North Street in Boulder, in the strange kind of rental property you can only get away with in your twenties. It was dilapidated and half-swallowed by shrubbery, but also rustic and quaint, a slice of woods in the middle of town. (A raccoon had babies in my ski boots out back.) It was few blocks from the mountains and a few more blocks to Pearl Street. I used to ride a hand-me-down bike that was heavy as wrought-iron down to the Trident Coffee Shop on Pearl Street and pretend I was a “real” writer. 

(I parked and tripped over the very same bike during the very same summer to greet my buddy, Lisa, and her friend, Jesse, who were enjoying a drink at an outside table at the Corner Bar. That was the first time I met Jesse, and the summer of 2004 is when our romance began. But that story is for a different day.) 

I had just quit my job after a year of working as a receptionist at a chiropractic office. I’d had it with a passive-aggressive boss and no growth potential. I was living with my former African drum teacher and his girlfriend. They ascribed fully to the phrase you-only-live-once and they buzzed with a sort of free-spiritedness that would make my mom cringe. So when I quit my (responsible if people-pleasing and self-sacrificing) job, fate had it so I was living with them, with their input that said, Good Riddance. Now what do you really want to do?

In a bold act of maternal generosity, my mom wrote me a check that covered tuition for the entire month of the Summer Writing Program at Naropa’s Jack Karoac School of Disembodied Poetics. (Naropa, a Buddhist college in Boulder, CO.) I signed up for one week with artist /dancer, Michelle Ellsworth, and used the extra on rent and groceries. (I’d been in Colorado for all of two years and I was barely able to make ends meet even before my new status of being unemployed.)

I picked Michelle randomly;  I liked her picture in the brochure. I can envision her now, as clearly as if I had a Fotomatic print of her in my hands. Clear blue eyes like crystals you hang in the window to shoot rainbow-slivers into the space. A wide, shiny smile. She spoke to our crowded class with a quick, giggly cadence, like the tick of a wound-up clock. Any details blur into the oblivion of non-essential memory, but her imprint, like that of a fossilized leaf on a river stone, hasn’t faded in the slightest.

2.

Our assignment was to write a one-act play about anything.

940 North was entirely furnished in one afternoon from the Habitat for Humanity Thrift store, and its décor was mostly provided by an old lady’s estate sale. I had emptied out the closet in my bedroom to make a writing nook. I had an ancient laptop and a borrowed printer. We definitely did NOT have Internet; I had to use the computers at the college for that. This was still an era where Internet could be used intermittently and intentionally—for checking email and other specific to-dos that required only a finite amount of time. This was before Internet was available and necessary for us to receive continuously and at a heavy drip.

I had not slacked. I didn’t procrastinate. To the contrary—I cleared my calendar for this assignment, took it way too seriously and tried WAY too hard. I wanted so badly to be awesome at this, but after two complete afternoons, I could barely pinch out a coherent sentence.

On the due date, Michelle said, “Ok, let’s go around and have everyone tell us about their play.”

Bla, bla, bla, blur, blur, everyone did their assignment, no problem, until the spotlight landed on me with, it seemed, the sound of brakes coming to a screeching halt. I cleared my throat and shifted in my chair.

“I didn’t finish it.” I said. I felt a clenching desire to fold up and hide. The back of my skull droned like the sudden onset of a fever.

She smiled without a fleck of irony. “Then tell me what you did instead.”

Okay...? So many eyes on me...”Honestly? I re-organized my closet. Then I stared at a blank screen.  Then I ate a bunch of potato chips. Then I typed a few words and printed a page, tossed it into the trash, hung out with my roommates and cleaned my toilet. It went on like that for hours, two full afternoons.”

“Well then that’s your play,” Michelle said, giddy with the proposal. “Anyone want to help Heather out with this one?” Four hands from four complete strangers shot up.

3.

Low, behold, later that week, the five of us lined up on stage like human-cogs in the grand machine that was to be our performance.

I, PERSON ONE: typed furiously on a typewriter, then I pulled out the paper and handed it to the person to my left. Then I started again, and it went on like this.

PERSON TWO: crumbled up the paper and threw it into a bucket of water, then put a hand out my way for another paper to crumple and dunk. Our movements were stiff and mechanical.

PERSON THREE: pulled the paper out of the bucket, squeezed it then smoothed it flat on a towel. Then she looked up to pretend-talk to an invisible person, while pulling another paper from the water.

PERSON FOUR: grabbed the wet paper from the towel and handed it to the next person.  Then he shoved a handful of potato chips from a bag open directly in front of him into his mouth, before grabbing and passing another one.

PERSON FIVE: placed the wet paper overtop a balloon that was held steady onto a table with tape, and then another wet paper and another.  

It went like this, a factory line going going going through at least six cycles, each of us doing our part to assemble a visual-thought from beginning to end, without fighting or judging—just reporting.

When the last piece of paper whizzed out of my typewriter and was handed to the next person, I froze. Then, each of the four remaining performers did their respective actions and froze, until PERSON FIVE was the only one moving. He plastered the final wet paper to the balloon and held it up for observation. Then the scene went dark, and, applause.

The idea that there is information (dare I say wisdom, creativity) in the non-doing, the over-doing, and everything in between, shattered my archaic notions of black-and-white thinking. It created grand pockets of space for curiosity to germinate. Curiosity— the grand antidote to perfectionism.

4.

I could not undo this teaching even if I tried. 

I pull it out now as a sort of valuable overlay to everyday life. It breathes oxygen into the mundane moments, and works as sort of a salve when shit doesn’t go as planned, which is the New Normal. Let the record show, I’ve had young kids in my life for the passed decade-plus, so I’m accustomed to lack of control. And yet, I’ve always also had certain chunks of the day when I was guaranteed some sense of command over my own actions. While Ruth was in preschool, 12 hours a week, I worked and did adult life, making choices that actually happened. At a bare minimum, I had that.

Now we are dwelling in the land of a thousand distractions, with no reprieve. There is no boat off this island. No departures in the near future. It often feels like the how the day unfolds is entirely up to some larger sources that I have utterly no influence on. Is Ruth in the mood to play independently for any stretch of time today? Is she up for watching a TV show while I do a little writing? Will she spend more than five minutes on an art project without descending into coloring her eyeballs with face paint or covering an entire palm in glitter glue? One never knows. One can only pray.

Truth: It took me an hour to write and send a three-line email this morning. The staggering disruptions became almost comical. Ruth fell down FOUR separate times. This is an extreme example, almost as if her nervous system could sense my focus was elsewhere and ran a smear campaign against Mom Completing Any Singular Task. But, if perhaps a lighter version, this is a typical day.

Before Michelle, I may have regarded these off-script moments as those of non-doing, small fails to wrestle with until I can get my “actual shit done.” But today I can see there is so much more there. Choices, aggravation, empathy, my physical body, the body of my wild-puppy preschooler, suppressed laughter, expressed laughter, suppressed annoyance, expressed annoyance—all are contained in these moderately priced moments.

Then you add a blizzard. In the last four days, we’ve gotten multiple feet of snow. The world is covered in a suffocating wool blanket, itchy and hard to breathe underneath. The snow outside—higher than the dog’s belly!!—squeezes us between the walls of this house, everything inside seems tighter and louder because of the outside’s sound-deadening insulation.

So there’s my one-act play for today.

[lostandbrokenshell]

Darkest Before Dawn. Part 1

There will be bo pairing with reader and the seed family :) possibly someone else though I haven’t decided yet! Farcry 5 fanfic. Rated M for Mature language and sexual reference. No pairing or plans for smutt.

You took a deep breath in and as you pulled up to your new house. You technically haven’t seen it yet but since the price was so good you didn’t want to wait. The real estate lady was certainly nice, you got the idea she would be fun person to drink with on ladies night. The moving crew dropped everything off yesterday other than the clothes in the jeep with you. Grabbing your bag and putting your long red hair back you step out to get a better look. Its a small cabin with a little garden and shed, the shed had access to a bomb shelter fully stocked already.

“So this is home now.” You mumbled to yourself as she walked up and put your bag just inside the door. You wanted to check out the shelter, it felt weird being excited about it in a way but in another way its a great reason to buy more fun guns. Before you could finish your thought though someone stumbled from the bush he looked at you like a deer in head lights for a second.

“Hope you’re cool and not a narc, you didn’t see me!” He says as he ducks into your cabin moments before a cruiser pulls in.

“Evening, Joanne or Rookie” he said with a small chuckle as he got out “Wasn’t expecting to see you untill tomorrow but you wouldn’t of happen to see a man come through here? Wears a baseball cap and green hoodie?”

“Sounds serious Sheriff what he do?” You asked your curiosity was the worst, you should just tell him but you wanted to know first.

“Arson mostly, he’s known to make his own flamethrower and set things on fire.”

“No shit! He makes his own flamethrowers? Do they ever blow up or anything?” You asked, probably a little more excited than should be as the Sheriffs face shifted. “Sorry Sheriff, no, haven’t seen anyone yet your my first official visit. Sorry I couldn’t help more.”

“No problem, Welcome to Hope County Deputy Knight.” He said with a big smile he gave her a nod as he got back in and drove away.

“You are officially my favourite officer ever! Thanks for not narcing on me. The names Charlemagne Victor Bowshaw, but you can call me Sharky.” He said as he stuck his hand out. Smiling you take it.

“Cant do that all the time for ya, honestly it was the homemade flamethrower that won me into not giving you up. Joanne Hope Knight, you can call me Jojo.”

“Well your pretty fucking cool for the popo Jojo.” Sharky said with a big grin “I tell you what i will drop off a flamethrower for you! I got to get going though Sheriff left in that direction do im going in this one!” He said as he ran off into the bush as quick as he had appeared. You watched him in amusement hopining more of hope county was like this. Smiling you headed back inside and pulled up your bag the letter was poking out of the side pocked a little. Your smile dissapeared. For years you wondered, looked and now that you found them something wasnt right. You pick the letter up and look at it again.

Dearest Joanne,

We hope this finds you in good health. We have been looking for you for some time and we thank God that we have been able to find you. Our family is not complete without you, we hope you find your way into Hope County where we can meet in person as its been so long. We where just children when they split us up but we have been and always will be family. Its not to late Joanne, its never to late to start a new home to be with family.

Love Joseph Seed.

You dont remember your life much before adoption. You remember the farm a bit and the fire. John held you as you watched it burn and Jocob told you ‘They cant hurt you anymore’ and Joseph stood there with you all as it burned. After that you went through a few foster homes before being adopted they moved to Canada where you stayed. Even after your adoptive parents moved back, you even lived in Canada up until your adopted parents died. So you decided to move back and change carrer path try something new. Thats when Joseph started sending you letters, he probably couldn’t find you before because you where in Canada. You forgot about them in a way until that first letter and it felt weird being their because of it. The family you forgot, but never stopped loving. You didn’t tell Joseph you where in town, or that you where a new Deputy. You even took a blind leap of faith and did as little looking into the town as possible so you can experience it fresh and new. Sighing you look out the window it was getting dark and tomorrow was a big day so you decided to go to bed.

Pulling up to the station first day of duty, your stomach is in knotts, the uniform itched and it was hot. Taking a deep breath you rest your head on the steering wheel releasing your breath slowly you get and head to the door. The Sheriff was talking with a man in a Marshel vest and an older gentleman in a sweater vest.

“I want to move on this today, not tomorrow. We have the warrant, we know where he is lets move.”

“The Mayor and i agree, this is something that definitely needs to be delt with but its delicate. You need to...”

“Get your men, get in the chopper and lets move out.” The Marshal demanded angerly as he stormed past you out the door.

“Welcome to Hope County Sheriffs Department.” Whitehorse said with a big sigh and nodd to you. He rubbed his temples and looked you up and down for a second sizing you up. “Awe shit, i cant bring a shiny new rookie on this dammit. Spend the day inventoring learn where everything is, office and papper work is over there. Storage for guns and ammunition there anything else ask one of the other Deputies. Pratt, Hudson, Nancy lets go over the plan.” He said as he turned away and headed to the back room three deputies in tow all looking at each other. You don’t know how long they talked in there before leaving but after a few hours there was the sound of panic so you stopped inventorying the amo.

“Wow, usually this busy and chaotic? You ask as you head over to the radio where everyone was huddled.

“Lost contact with the sheriff, the long range radio is out it looks like Carl busted it before he took off for whatever reason.”

“He might of ran to look for his wife, Nancy you know? One of the Deputys that went with the Sheriff those peggies are scary shit alright?!”

“Well what the fuck can we do? Two, no three deputies but ones a shiny rook. What the fuck do we do?”

“Gentlemen geez.” You interupt annoyed “Give the shiny rookie a map with last know coordinates. You two hold the fort while the expendible checks it out, I’ll grab a short range radio and check in.” They stopped arguing and nodded.

“Sure you up for this?”

“Its part of the job someone needs to.” You reply as you turn to head to the storage to grab some gear. It didn’t take long for them to have map ready or for you to hit the road. It didn’t take long for you to see some smoke in the distance. You put your foot down a little harder something wasn’t sitting right. You where fairly close to the smoke billowing into the sky when you noticed a bunch of people on the side of the road. It wasn’t until you where to close that you noticed the guns, they opened fire and you swerved to try and get away. The Jeep stopped and you jump out on use it for cover and grab your weapon.

“Hope County Deputy Knight, put your weapons down.” You yell and they replied with more bullets just white truck sped off of the side road and and hit the group of people and stopped. You look over the Jeep to see the Marshal in the truck.

“Get in the fucking truck these people are crazy.” He yelled at you, you didn’t need much more motivation you seen two more trucks speeding towards you. You ran to the passenger side and jumped in. “They brought the helicopter down, fucking Nancy was one of them, fuck these people are fucked.” You where sure there was probably more to that but the sounds of bullets hitting the back of the truck. It looked like he was going to yell at you to shoot back but you where already leaning out the window.

“Holly fuck, do they have air support?” You yell as you pull back in as a plan also followed in behind the trucks and opened fire.

“This is fucked up, this is FUCKED UP!” He yelled as he swerved onto a different road and you try to lean out to shoot at the trucks still following. But the where putting distance between you.

“Their pulling back.” You yell.

“Hold on, theres a road block by they bridge, shoot em!” You turn forward and start clearing apath to push through. The second you cleared it you heard the plane come in from behind you and you get back into the cab.

“What the fuck is goi...” you never got to finish the scentace the road before you exploded. There was cheers from the people as the truck fell towards the water. You don’t remember hitting the water or the stuggle to get out, but you heard the marshal as you laid on the shore as the darkness crept up over you. He was yelling at them to let him go and you fell into the pitch black.

[bringmetolife-pwff]

Part 1 : Chapter Nineteen - Moving Out

Evelyn had been looking for a place to live on her own for months now.  She didn't want to buy just to buy or feel pressured to move out of her sisters place.  But she needed her own place to live.  Besides, she hardly saw her sister anymore if she were honest.  Since Vivienne got the job at the hospital she's spent more time there then at home as she was also on-call.  

Vivienne felt bad but Evelyn understood as she also had her own business to work with.  

Evelyn was used to living on her own for so long then she moved in with Liam and she had gotten used to that.  Never in a million years did she believe she would be put in the situation that she was put in.  She saw the death threats that Blair received and the hate comments Liam received after news was broken out that he had been cheating on Evelyn for months.  

Today, Evelyn would not be going into work as she was meeting with her real estate agent.  So far she had shown her six apartments, not loving any of them.  Evelyn decided to wear pants and a light pink peplum blouse as her blonde hair was up in a high bun.  A nude colour painted on her nails as she wore high heels.

Her real estate agent, Michael, was already standing in front of the apartment complex with a smile and some papers in his grasp.  

"Hi Eve, how're you today?" Michael asked.

His hair was short and he was wearing slacks as well as a nice button down shirt.  

"I'm well, thank you.  And you?" she asked politely and shook his hand.

"I'm doing quite well also.  You ready to see this place?"

"Yes," she exclaimed excitedly.

"This one is on the twenty-ninth floor and has two private terraces and access to a thirty-second level sky lounge.  It has three bedrooms and two bathrooms, one being the master bath, in case you have any guests or family members who will be staying with you.  It has a breathtaking view of Central London and a twenty-four hour concierge."

Evelyn nodded her head at the information.

"Couldn't have found a higher apartment room building?" she joked back earning a laugh from Michael.

"It's a lot but they have elevators so that helps," he shrugs his shoulders.

"What's the asking price?" She asked as they rode up the elevator which was playing music.

"2,370,000 euros."

Evelyn nodded her head thinking it wasn't bad.  Yes, it was a lot, especially for an apartment; but money was never an issue to her.  She had made millions from her clothing line alone.  She was no longer relying her father's money to get her places as she had never done that.  They were now in the apartment and she loved how open it was and clean.  But if she didn't absolutely love the apartment.  If she couldn't see herself living here for possibly long-term - then she wouldn't buy it.  

The elevator dinged, opening the doors and Michael allowed Evelyn to walk first.  Michael pulled out the key and unlocked the door allowing Evelyn to walk in.  Eve looked around the place.  It was modern - yet, it still felt like home.  Sometimes Eve felt as though if a place was too modern it seemed cold, unfriendly and a place that she couldn't stand.  This was the exact opposite.  The kitchen was pretty large and inviting being an open kitchen, having a table in the center that was the peninsula that had a white marble countertop with gold and black specks and the table was made of a light brown mahogany wood.  The kitchen cabinets were white and the flooring was wood making it easier in case there was a spill of any kind and had brown leather stools for an eating area.

The living room was large and open as well, having a sectional brown leather sectional couch that was facing right and had linear seating as well as soft backrest cushions to guarantee maximum comfort.  Evelyn loved the apartment and the scenery outside the wide open windows.  She could see herself living here.  It was big but not too big for one person.  There wasn't a telly, but she didn't mind having to buy one.  

"Beautiful view," Evelyn told him as she looked out at the city.  

"Now, the bedrooms," Michael told his client.  "This is the first one," he signaled to Evelyn as he pointed at the room.  It was smaller and cosy for a guest bedroom, which would be perfect for when one of her family members or friends would come to stay with her.  She chose not to have a roommate as she had been let down in the past by not having good roommates.  The ceilings were pretty high for an apartment and Eve loved that.  She didn't like the idea of small ceilings and the fact that she could sometimes feel claustrophobic with them.  

Next, was the bathroom.  There were two.  One was a smaller one in the hallway in between the two bedrooms.  She envisioned one of the bedrooms to be a walk-in closet for all of her clothes, makeup and jewelry.  She loved how she felt in this apartment when Michael gave her the tour.  It wasn't too rich feeling to where it felt cold and lonely.  

"Finally, the master bedroom and bathroom," Michael said after he showed her two other bedrooms and Evelyn let out a content sigh as she saw the room.  There were wide, open windows from top to bottom that gave Evelyn the most beautiful scenic view.  She walked up to the windows and put her hands on the glass as she let out another sigh.

"It's beautiful," she murmured.

Eve loved that the master bedroom wasn't long and narrow like most that she had seen were.  She knew that she was picky but this would be a place that she hoped she would live at for a while.  She didn't want to live just anywhere.  Her dad always taught her when looking for a home or an apartment that it's okay to be picky and if you don't really love it and can't envision yourself living there - don't give it another thought.

"If you think this is beautiful wait until you see the master bathroom," he commented and she was oddly excited about it, following behind him into the large master bathroom.

"Oh wow," Eve said in amazement and wonder as her eyes widened.

Eve was sold on this place.  The master bathroom was quite large, especially for being in an apartment.  It was all white with pearlescent counter tops and two sinks that could almost be a his and hers.  She wouldn't use both of them but the thought was nice touch.  It also had a claw bathtub and a separate area for showers.  

"That's the end of the tour," Michael told her.  "I'll give you some time to decide and take around again if you'd like."

"I don't need time," she shook her head, confident of her answer.  "I'll take it."

She had been in a meeting with Michael for the last hour going over the paperwork that she needed to sign.  Discussing things such as how long the lease is, what was included in the rent, when rent money is due - all of the important questions you should ask before signing a lease.  Evelyn signed the papers and Michael handed the her key to her new apartment.  Evelyn was so excited that she finally found a place that she loved that she could call her own.  This was the place where she would be living for however long she desired.  

As she finished the meeting and signing the papers, she made her way to her car with the biggest smile on her face.  She did a little squeal of excitement and unlocked her car getting her mobile out of her purse.  Frowning, she noticed a missed call with a voice mail.

Shit.  Shit.  Shit.

She knew immediately that it was William.  He was back with the military as it was a month later.  She hit her head against the headrest frustrated with herself that she had her mobile on silent not wanting to be disturbed during the meeting.  Now, she regretted it.  Evelyn knew she wouldn't be able to call that number back. Pressing play on the voice mail, she listened to it.

"Hey Eve, I know you're probably busy," she heard the mobile static sightly due to bad connection but she could still understand him.  "Just wanted to check in to see how you were doing.  I miss you.  Today's been rough," she heard him let out an exhausted sigh.  "I hope its been better for you.  Sorry I missed you.  I don't know when or if the next time I'll be able to talk to you will be."

William and Evelyn had been dating for technically for two months, but if you asked them they had been dating since July, making it four months.  It was now November and Evelyn couldn't believe how fast the year was going.  She loved November especially because it was always one of the rainiest times of the year.  Eve loved everything about the rain and felt it was therapeutic in a way.  

Even though she was happy that she had finally found an apartment for her to live, it came at the expense of missing a phone call from her boyfriend.

***

Evelyn woke up feeling as though her nose was stuffy that morning and her throat hurt to swallow and talk.  She was constantly blowing her nose and felt as though she had used half of the tissues from the kleenex box.  Her hair was up in a messy bun on the top of her head as she sucked on a cough drop after she gargled with salt water.  

She was in no shape to go into work today and left Sam in charge asking her to email her all of the updates.  Thankfully, it wasn't a busy day at the office so she wasn't missing anything.  She had the fall line out and it received loads of praise.  She was still wearing her pyjamas from when she slept the night before but now also had a grey cardigan wrapped around her to keep her warm.

It was a week after she signed the papers to her new apartment and she was officially all moved in.  Evelyn's mobile rang and she tried finding it but having had to have night nyquil for the night due to having a coughing fit - she was filling a bit out of it.  

"Hello," she spoke into her mobile as her voice sounded raspy and she coughed again before finding a cough drop to suck on.

"Oh Eve, you sound miserable," Will spoke into the phone with sympathy in his tone.

"Thanks," she replied sarcastically, laughed and breathed in wrong as she got into a coughing fit again.  After calming down, she spoke.  "How've you been?  I miss you."

"I miss you too, darling," he sighed into the phone.  "I've been alright.  They're having us busy out in the field.  Did you find a place?" he asked wanting to get the attention off of him.

"I did," she exclaims with her voice hoarse.  "It's so beautiful and just peaceful.  I can't wait for you to see it."

"I'm looking forward to seeing it.  I got your parcel," he informed her.  "I loved all the bits and bobs you put in it and I'll make sure I write you back a letter as well."

Eve had sent her boyfriend a care parcel of all his favourite things and some pictures of the two of them that their friends had taken over the months that they had gotten together.  She loved being able to put it together and wrote him a letter as well, even though they were able to talk on the mobile.

"You don't have to," she waved a hand even though he couldn't see her.  "I did it because I wanted you to be able to read it in your down time and that you'll have some part of me even if they are just words on a paper," she laughed lightly, coughing again.

"They aren't though," he frowned at her words knowing that she was only just trying to down play her letter.  "They mean more to me more than you'll ever know."

It was true.  Kate never had done anything like this for him since he had joined the military and had seen the differences between the two.  He would always wish every ounce of happiness towards his ex but what he felt for Eve was different.  Even though it had only been a few months - what he felt for Eve was something more than what he felt for Kate.  He knew that he needed to take it slow with Eve though otherwise if he didn't, he was afraid he might lose her.  He needed to go slow not just for her sake but his as well.

"Is there anything new with you?" Wills asked Eve.

"Well when I get to feeling better, which will hopefully be soon, Chelsy and I talked about taking a holiday to South Africa and show me her hometown."

Over the time that William and Evelyn have been dating, the two women have grown close as well.  The two brothers were grateful for that, knowing that Eve would soon be going through the spotlight soon as the prince's girlfriend and was glad that she would have someone other than Wills to lean on.  Someone outside the Royal family who knew how to handle it and how to act.

"That's fantastic," he exclaimed.  

He was relieved that she was keeping herself busy and wasn't down on herself because he wasn't there.  They both knew that even though they loved being around each other that they also needed space from each other too in order for their relationship to be successful and work.  She needed to be able to have a good head on her shoulders and Wills was thankful that she does, especially before they go public.

[theninjasanctuary]

The usual year-in-review post. Putting it behind a break because it is long and pretty boring.

Conflicted about giving a verdict, because obviously this year has been shit in so many respects even if I personally really didn’t suffer much beyond minor inconveniences and some anxiety and stress and an unsurprising death in the family. Yet in other respects, ngl, this has still been a better year than I’ve had in a while. It boils down to being in a relatively safe corner of the world and now being paid enough to make ends meet, basically, because I got a new job in a more or less secure field. (I was doing ok-ish last year as well, considering, but it was at the expense of taking on too much extra work, in hindsight I’ve no idea how I even managed teaching 3 classes last autumn semester.) I started it in a half-time capacity, but then switched to full-time in September when we found a replacement for my previous half-time position. I’m making local medium wage now and probably will for the next 4 years, and thus a massive source of stress in my life is just gone for the time being. I’m not buying-cars-or-real-estate rich, but I can afford not to worry, and let me tell you, that is so fucking nice. 

No, I haven’t been particularly smart about it. Yes, I did sort out the situation with my retirement savings plans at the end of December, and increased monthly contributions, but throughout the year, I’ve been spending furiously and, disregarding minor charitable donations, pretty selfishly. I’ve done a lot, A LOT of shopping, mostly online. Some of it was warranted to make up for all the lean years - it was not too soon to get new sheets, the old ones were literally becoming threadbare, the rug was looking miserable, the sofa was de facto broken, the hallway was depressing, etc. I don’t regret any expenses on nesting, including furniture and reno (with the possible exception of a pendant light I changed my mind about when it was too late to return it, but I still kind of like it and will find a use for it eventually). There’s an underlying pessimism, leading to a sense of urgency to check these things off the list before the good times run out again. As I’ve said before, I feel it’ll be easier to cope with precarity when I’ve established a baseline of relative comfort.

But there’s also no point in denying that a considerable chunk of the expenses this year built up from just comfort shopping out of anxiety and boredom. It’s not even a good self-soothing tactic, is it. Yet here we are, and the wardrobe has been upgraded and then some, again, but at least nearly all of it was either second-hand or reasonably priced. Too many favourites to list, but finding the perfect jeans (and getting 2 pairs) seems like an achievement worth noting. (I also had 2 pairs of my previous favourites, Uniqlo denim joggers from... 2017?, but my thighs destroyed them both by late last year. The new ones are lasting better in comparison.) Of course there was fairly little chance to wear all of these nice things, with the exception of loungewear. I last wore a dress in August. Hopefully things will eventually improve in this respect.

Bought lots of skincare, too. I am habitually mindful of getting the best value for money, but have definitely splurged on things here and there, and tried new stuff more than I used to. There are vague thoughts on perhaps simplifying the routines. Also, there’s been a shift towards stuff I can easily get in Europe, because there were issues with getting things from Korea or Japan, and I guess the novelty has worn off a bit, I can’t be bothered to sheet mask more than twice a month, max, and things I like keep getting discontinued.   

In contrast to all of the above, saved on travel, obviously. Due to all plans getting cancelled from March onwards, only left the country once this year, to Paris around Valentine’s day (it was mostly excellent and done in a budget-conscious manner). It is odd that I don’t really miss travel all that much either. Low-key dreading the next opportunity because it seems like a major source of anxiety after a long break. There were a few local day trips with friends or family over the summer and autumn, which I cherished, as well as the too-few chances to go out somewhere and see people (amid second-wave hindsight, wish I’d done it more during the summer). Even my introverted ass misses socializing by this point, despite also feeling that I’ve become really bad at it. As anyone ought to have realized after reading this far, I’m probably more boring than ever, too.     

Regrets also involve not getting out more and not getting enough exercise. Yes, even considering I’ve been going to weekly workouts with a physiotherapist/private trainer since June (using a compensation scheme paid for by work, but that covers about half of it) that has mostly fixed the issues I was having with my shoulders and clearly upped my general fitness level. The problem is, the workouts at home were on the easy and occasional side, and I have only gone on a handful of long walks all year. Part of it is scheduling, part of it is route issues and wanting to avoid public transportation because of the pandemic, and part of it was my tendency to get blisters for no good reason, but I fixed that with another late-in-the-year purchase of cold-weather-appropriate Skechers.       

In surprise achievements during this year: for the first time since actively having an ED, I have become mostly ok with weighing myself like a rational adult (no more than once a month though, and I take care to do it at a time where I’m not bloated, so the ‘rational’ part remains arguable). I didn’t really think this would ever happen, but it’s a side effect of the physio sessions. It feels a bigger achievement than the 5 or so kg of actual weight I’ve lost - I felt fat af in the late spring, and ngl, cookies and ice cream featured heavily on the lockdown menu. I also cut all the way back on sugar since May until late November or so, and intend to keep it up once sugar-binge-season is over.  

Ceiling-to-floor reno of a complicated hallway space on top of everything else that’s been going on is also a fucking achievement, even if it took too long and the guy is coming to put up 2 more lights next week.

I’ve been reading more just for recreation. Not ‘enough’, whatever that means, and not always or even mostly at reasonable times, but it counts and has made this year more tolerable.    

Items still on the to-do-list for next year: getting glasses, ffs. I have had the prescription since June. I want to go with the boyf and make him get new ones too, but zero fucking progress, and the environment isn’t helping, hard to shop for glasses with a mask on. Same goes for driving school, can’t do all of it online, but it needs to get done. Also, kitchen reno, even though at the moment that feels like too much, but I ought to make plans and order the supplies during winter and spring, and then hire the same guy to get it done quickly in the summer.

Resolutions: I guess my last remaining grandparent dying has contributed to feeling I’m sick and tired of kidulting. I want to get a fucking grip, get my finances in order, set adult goals and muster the will to work towards them. And I want to continue working on my fitness level. That’s about it.

[thelouisianauproar]

Louisiana Uproar - Chapter 14

Summary: Mortimer, the new finance capo, is introduced; Dottie has an idea for legit business; The team gets made.

In the next week, we host the three men in New Bordeaux. It’s not safe for them all to be staying at the Royal Hotel, not with us expecting retaliation.

We booked each person to stay in their respect districts. My replacement, Mortimer Briganti, would stay in River Row with me. Betty and I worked tirelessly, but it finally felt like I had my shit together.

“Hello.” I open my door. Emmanuel comes in. “So, tomorrow is the day?” I’m not sure why he makes it sound like that. He won’t be reporting to any one new.

“It is. Have a seat, we’re waiting for Nick and Alma.” I gesture to the office. “When do they come in?” “Three in the afternoon.” I check my watch My door opens, it’s Alma and Nicki. “Good morning.” I greet them.

“The meeting before the big meeting.” Nicki nods and takes a seat. “That is exactly what this is.” I say, “How’s everyone feeling?” “How the fuck do you think I feel?” Alma says, she’s ready to say. “Like I don’t have a choice.” “You’ve been here before, fre.” Emmanuel speaks up. “It’s business, Alma.”

“There were decisions that Cassandra made---like working with Lincoln Clay Then me and my men made a lot of money.” Really? “I’m down for more cash.” Nick shrugs.

“I...didn’t say I’m not part of it.” Alma relaxes. “I just don’t like the idea of it.” “It’s a new normal.” I agree with a nod. “You all have received the schedule. Dinner tonight in the French Ward.” I say, “Tomorrow, we will have a series of meetings at the Royal Hotel. Talk about each racket and what not. The day after will be the tour.” I say, “I know we will have differences and different personalities but let's do our best to put our best foot forward.” I look at everyone.”Do I have your word?” They are silent.

“I do.” Alma chimes in, again. “How are you doing, assistant underboss?”

“I’m adjusting.” “Does it burn you inside?” Alma starts another cigarette.

“...Sometimes.”

After meeting with the bosses, I am on my way to the next meeting with Jimmy Cavar.

“Jimmy. Good to see you, again.” I shake his hand. “Hey, good to see you, too. Thanks for being willing to meet here me.” “I wanted to see the new project.”

“Ah, it’s almost done.” He gestures for me to follow him. “Ya like it?” “It’s got a great location. Say, what are you making this for?” “The company?” He pauses. “Some real estate investment office.’ “Yeah?” “New company, too. Called Frazier Real Estate & Investment.” “Interesting.” I pull a notepad from my purse to write the name. “Who runs it?” “Kid named Travis Cole.” I should introduce myself to Mr. Cole.

“Building was being created for Marcano, but that fell through.” Clearly. “He bought it cheap.” “That’ll do.” I say. “Thanks.”

“You don’t want to talk about the Ristorante?” “Not now, I’m a little pressed for time.” I’m not pressed for time. I needed to come up with a business to launder Danna’s money. This could be a good lead.

---

I have some work to do: specifically on this real estate business, and preparing finance documents for Mortimer. We split it, Betty does the field research on Frazier. I am organizing documents for Mortimer to view. This is tiring work.

“Good morning, Betty.” I watch her take a seat at my booth of the diner. She’s brought files.

“Mornin’.”

“I haven’t ordered, yet. They should bring coffee soon.” “Good, because I am tired.” “I know you are.” I push my cigarette carton to her. “How’s your sons?” “Well, I can’t believe my oldest will be driving son.” She’s been saving to buy him a car. “I’ll never see him again.” She laughs. “But I do have some things to show ya’.”

“Certainly.”

Betty runs through the details of the Frazier company, it’s leader, how much it makes, etc.

“You work magic, Betty.” I say putting these documents to my side. “My pleasure.” She starts. “If you will schedule a meeting. That Travis Cole fellow is rather attractive-”

“So I should have him call you?” I tease. “Or call you.” She jokes. “There is one more thing. With my sons getting older..things can get busy for me. Could you consider hiring some help?” “I’m sure there is room in the budget.” She makes a good point. “I will see you tonight?” Ray wants everybody, who is anybody, there.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

I arrive late to the bar in the French Ward. I pay the price, parking is horrendous. “Hello.” I run my hands across Ray’s shoulder. “Dottie.” He stands to kiss my hand. “Welcome back.” “Thank you.” He starts. “You’re late and there are plenty of people for you to meet.’ “Sorry about that.”

“Enzo!” Ray’s italian accent is stronger. “Enzo. Welcome to the team, buddy. I’m sure you’ve met Dottie.” “Just over the phone.” We shake hands.

“It’s a pleasure. Really looking forward to getting to work.”

It’s really a great night. Getting the chance to break the ice. Everyone is catering to me like I’m Danna or Ray.

“Hey, Alma.” I pat her back. She’s in a circle with Better, and some guys. I see Pat is there, too.” “Hey.” She stops and offers her joint. With a shrug, I take a few tokes.

“Thanks.” I nod. Man, what was in that? I can’t feel my face anymore. I walk past the bathroom and the door opens. It catches me off guard and it’s Emmanuel. “Hey you!” I say, “Where have you been all night?” “Around, free. Ray wants all the bosses downstairs.” He looks around. “You should go. Where’s Alma?” “I just left her.” I gesture behind me. “Where’s downstairs again?” “I’ll take you.” He finds Alma and we head to the very bottom of the bar.

“Shit does this place end?” Alma comments. Nicki’s here. She’s chatting with her new boss, in the corner.

“There are some drugs you just can’t do without it sticking to ya!” I hear Ray say. Danna’s down here. I wonder how comfortable he is in all of this.

“Hey.” Nicki takes my hand so I see her. Her thumb rubs me.

“Hi.” Nicki let’s go of my hand and holds my face in her hands. I wonder if she had the same joint that I just had. She kisses the corner of my mouth. Not wasting time, but we’re not alone. “Come find me later.”

The night progresses and we’re talking about the Marcano’s and the bosses who came before us.

“Excuse me. I noticed you from a distance.” A man says,

“Nicki told me that you’re Dottie. May I call you that?” Damn’t weed. Wear off. “Certainly.” “I’m Mortimer---call me Morty.”

“Great to meet you, in person.” “Same here. My interview with Danna and he went on and on about you. You are an extraordinary woman.” I note the difference in us. Morty’s wearing a suit---his tie is now undone and his shirt is unbuttoned. I am in ripped jeans, and my blouse is half done.

“Welcome to the New Bordeaux heat.” I chuckle, nervously. I make eye contact with Nick again. God, she looks good. “Excuse me.” I try to walk to her, but Ray intercepts.

“Let’s have a toast!” He announces. “To new partnerships, new business, and new adventures!” We all take a drink. “With that, let’s get a few words from Don Danna.” This is all too exciting.

“Thank you, thank you. Everyone now that we are a fully merged business. People will be looking to us for leadership---for jobs.” He says, “It is important that we work together. Know, this family of ours, in this very room, is a secret. You are entering a society of the chosen----a society that does not exist to the rest of the world. Our family, from now on, means more to you that you own family, god, or your country.” 

Wow. 

“If I ask you to kill your own brother, you must do it.” 

We’re all silent. This is real. “Repeat after me----If I were to betray the secret of our way of life.” We repeat as Ray takes a picture of the virgin Mary.

 “May my soul burn in hell...Just like this saint.” Ray puts the picture into the fire pit. Bad time, but I wonder how many us believe in god. I watch Alma, Nicki, and Emmanuel as we repeat him.

 “Amicos Nostro.”