#depreciation calculator

[moderncalculators]

Depreciation Calculator- Depreciation Formula Calculator – Depreciation Calculation Methods

Depreciation is a critical concept in accounting and finance. It refers to the decline in the value of an asset over time due to wear and tear, obsolescence, or other factors. Depreciation is essential for businesses to track their asset values accurately and calculate their taxable income. If you own a business or are involved in accounting or finance, it is essential to understand depreciation and how it affects your company's finances. Fortunately, there are many tools available to help you calculate depreciation, including a depreciation calculator, a depreciation formula calculator, and various depreciation calculation methods.

Depreciation Calculator

A depreciation calculator is an online tool that allows you to calculate the depreciation of an asset over a specific period. It is a handy tool for businesses to use when determining the depreciation expense for their financial statements or tax returns. To use a depreciation calculator, you need to enter the initial cost of the asset, its useful life, and its salvage value. The calculator will then use this information to calculate the depreciation expense for each year of the asset's useful life.

The main advantage of using a depreciation calculator is that it is a quick and easy way to calculate depreciation accurately. Additionally, it helps to eliminate errors that can occur when performing manual calculations. Many websites offer free online depreciation calculators, making it easy for businesses of all sizes to access this valuable tool.

Depreciation Formula Calculator

If you prefer to calculate depreciation manually, you can use a depreciation formula calculator. The formula for calculating depreciation is relatively simple: (Cost of Asset - Salvage Value) / Useful Life = Depreciation Expense. However, depending on the depreciation method used, the formula can be more complicated. For example, the double-declining balance method uses the formula (2 / Useful Life) * (Cost of Asset - Accumulated Depreciation) = Depreciation Expense.

A depreciation formula calculator can help you calculate depreciation accurately and efficiently. You simply enter the necessary information into the calculator, and it will provide you with the depreciation expense for each year of the asset's useful life.

Depreciation Calculation Methods

There are several depreciation calculation methods that businesses can use. The most common methods include straight-line depreciation, double-declining balance depreciation, and sum-of-the-years' digits depreciation.

Straight-Line Depreciation

The straight-line depreciation method is the simplest and most commonly used depreciation method. It involves dividing the cost of the asset by its useful life and depreciating it by the same amount each year. For example, if an asset costs $10,000 and has a useful life of 5 years, the depreciation expense would be $2,000 per year ($10,000 / 5 years).

Double-Declining Balance Depreciation

The double-declining balance depreciation method is an accelerated depreciation method. It involves applying a depreciation rate that is double the straight-line rate to the asset's beginning-of-year book value. For example, if an asset costs $10,000, has a useful life of 5 years, and a salvage value of $1,000, the double-declining balance rate would be 40% ($2,000 / $10,000). The depreciation expense for the first year would be $4,000 (40% * $10,000), and the book value at the end of the first year would be $6,000 ($10,000 - $4,000). The double-declining balance rate would then be applied to the $6,000 beginning-of-year book value to calculate the depreciation expense for the second year.

Sum-of-the-Years' Digits Depreciation

The sum-of-the-years' digits depreciation method is another accelerated depreciation method.

In conclusion, calculating depreciation is essential for businesses to determine the value of their assets over time. It is important to choose the right depreciation method based on the asset's expected lifespan, expected residual value, and other relevant factors.

Using a depreciation calculator can help businesses streamline the calculation process and ensure accuracy in their financial statements. A depreciation formula calculator is also a useful tool for those who want to understand how depreciation is calculated.

By understanding the different depreciation calculation methods and using the appropriate tools, businesses can make informed decisions about their assets and ensure their financial statements are accurate and compliant with accounting standards.

Overall, the proper calculation of depreciation can help businesses make informed decisions about asset management and financial planning. It is an important aspect of accounting that should not be overlooked.

[expertcostseg-us]

The primary means of “determining the proper recovery period” is by conducting a cost segregation study. https://www.costsegregationirs.com/

[p-oconnor]

https://www.bonusdepreciationcalculator.com/

The bonus depreciation calculator is on the right side of the page. It is free to use, requires only a minute or two and is relatively accurate. Bonus depreciation has different meanings to different people. https://www.bonusdepreciationcalculator.com/

[triplemfinance]

Mortgage Rates For Investment Property Home Loans

Mortgage rates for investment property loans are higher than for owner-occupied properties. This is because investment property home loans can carry more risk for lenders, due to things like vacancies, costly repairs, bad tenants and other factors that can affect income. However, there are steps borrowers can take to mitigate some of these risks and ensure they are well-positioned to qualify for the best mortgage rates on investment property.

First, borrowers should identify lenders that offer investment property mortgage programs. While most banks and credit unions have loan specialists that can help, borrowers may find better options with local lenders or regional lenders that specialize in real estate lending. These lenders may have more flexibility in qualifying borrowers and can also provide guidance on a range of investment property financing options.

Next, borrowers should prepare for the application process by gathering all necessary documentation. This will include financial statements, tax returns and proof of income. Borrowers should also be prepared to show assets that can cover six to 12 months of mortgage payments in the event of a financial emergency or loss of rental income. This requirement can vary by lender and loan program, but is generally more stringent for investment property loans due to the additional risk involved.

Finally, borrowers should improve their own credit scores and reduce debt, as this can increase their eligibility for competitive rates. A borrower’s credit score, or FICO score, is an important factor in determining mortgage rates, and the best investment property mortgage rates are offered to those with scores of 740 or more. Lenders will also consider a borrower’s current debt-to-income (DTI) ratio, which should not exceed 43% of their monthly gross income in order to qualify for the best rate.

Other factors that may impact mortgage rates for investment properties include the location and condition of the property, the borrower’s experience as a landlord and the property’s expected income generation. The latter is often determined through a calculation known as the debt service coverage ratio, which evaluates the property’s rental income against its mortgage payment to determine if it can generate enough cash flow to pay for itself and provide a profit.

Investors can work with loan officers to develop a strategy that helps them secure the best mortgage rates on investment property home loans. While the requirements can be more stringent than for owner-occupied loans, there are ways borrowers can position themselves to qualify for the best rates, such as making a larger down payment or improving their credit. With these strategies, borrowers can be ready to purchase their investment property and start earning passive income from rents and other rental activities.

At Triple M Finance, our experience and a wealth of industry connections allow us to assist you with your application from start to finish and make the process simple. We take the time to get to know each and every client’s indvidual needs and circumstances to ensure we provide you with your ideal financial solution.

[marketingcontentpro]

How to Calculate the Truck Depreciation Rate in India?

Are you Searching for a way to calculate Truck Depreciation Rate? Well, you’ve come to the right place! We will guide you through the process of calculating depreciation rates for your truck in a simple and easy-to-understand manner. In this blog, I will show you an example of a 32 feet multi-axle truck.

Click Continue to Read More about this blog...

[danyllura]

Honestly Katniss and Snow are so funny as enemies when you consider how they both think and the contrast of how they likely observed their interactions. Like Katniss is the most self depreciating person to exist and she’s absolutely oblivious about everything around her. Meanwhile Snow is the biggest narcissist who’s so calculated it’s a detriment as he over analyzes peoples actions in a negative light. Like I’ve never needed or cared for a Snow PoV in the trilogy time line- but I do think his POV in moments like Katniss singing the meadow song or the hanging tree would be the absolute funniest, most unhinged, diabolical, pieces of writing ever mustered.

[cosmicbucky]

A chubby reader who's super self conscious of her belly and bust? Like she's strong and stuff, comes with the higher weight, but just....

Cant really wear anything unless it's sweats and a sweater, or a t-shirt. Almost never goes out.

And one day Bucky comes to the compound. Reader immediately gets a crush, and has major anxiety over it, like "leaving the room when he comes near" anxiety. Bucky thinks it's his fault, that he's done something wrong and talks to you about it.

He decides to talk to you about it, crying ensues because insecurities, and then the fluff.

Sorry this ask is so long, I'm kinda scrambled XP

hi, lovely! 💫

first of all, don't apologize for bringing this beautiful request into my world! i was beyond excited to have the chance to bring this idea to life, and i hope the direction i took with it does justice to what you had in mind!

second of all, i am so sorry this took me so long to put out, this request is so lovely and i really wanted to make it the best i could.

i hope you enjoy!

matches

pairing: bucky barnes x midsize!reader

word count: 3974

warnings: insecurities and self consciousness, mild body image issues, brief self depreciating thoughts, angst, mutual pining, fluff, swearing, allusions to mature themes, let me know if i missed anything!

please do not read this if you're not comfortable with any of the above topics. while they are not heavily focused on, they are the main theme of this fic

a/n: big thanks to @buckylattes for reading this and catching some of the dumb ass mistakes i made lmao

《《《《 ♡ 》》》》

Being part of the Rescue and Reconnaissance division of Stark Industries wasn't the most glamorous job, but you loved it. You got to work nearly hand in hand with field agents every day, formulating plans for raids, rescues, infiltrations, or general takedown missions to make sure all those involved worked as safely and efficiently as possible. 

You were the one they turned to when a new plan was needed; when they were at risk. There were a few agents who refused to listen to anyone other than you when it came to these times - specifically asking for you to help them through. 

Agent Barnes was one of these people, and though you could never voice it, he was your favourite to deal with. He was always kind and courteous, understanding in the fact that despite not being in the same rankings as him, you damn well knew what you were doing. And, well, it didn't hurt that he always found a moment to be a charming little flirt. 

You have no idea why he had such faith in you. Maybe it was because you always took what he suggested into consideration when calculating next steps. Maybe it was because your ideas were as crazy as his sometimes. Maybe it was simply because he liked the sound of your voice. 

You never knew. 

You never actually met him.

All your dealings with field agents were done from the safety of your control room. You never minded it, though. It was nice, in a way. You absolutely loved doing what you do, but you would never be able to handle being around field agents all the time. Not when they look the way they do, and you…. well, you're you. 

Your thighs touch when you walk, your belly shakes when you laugh, your arms jiggle when you move. You have to painstakingly pick out the right kinds of shirts, otherwise your chest will make it seem like you're three times as big as you really are. 

You were the chubby girl who always hid in the shadows, too afraid to let the world see how bright you truly shine - you were a flame ready to ignite, but no one around you ever offered you a match. 

You were used to it. You made peace with it a long time ago, finding solace in your own company instead of relying on other people to enjoy your time with. It still bothered you from time to time, and you let yourself have days where you wallowed in it, wishing things were different, wishing you looked different. Though, for the most part, it stopped bothering you so much the older you got. 

Until the day you finally met Bucky. 

It was a strange day, being sent to the compound. You've never been sent anywhere before, always planted in your seat while talking to field agents across the world. Yet here you were, being requested by Tony Stark himself. 

You must have spent hours trying to find the right outfit. One that showed off your curves without accentuating the extra pudge around your middle. One that complimented your chest without highlighting the size. One that showed off your ass without making it look massive. One that carefully hid your arms. One that you felt comfortable in. 

It felt like your heart was in your throat the whole time. The butterflies in your stomach turned into a full on frenzy, and you had to take deep breaths every few seconds to stay calm; and to not throw up. 

You barely heard it when Tony said he wanted you working under him. You could hardly process it when he said he created a job just for you. You didn't quite understand it when he told you there was space for you at the compound, and he wanted you here full time. 

All you could do was dumbly nod your head, trying to focus on what he was saying instead of the fact that Bucky Barnes was just outside the conference room. 

By the time the meeting was over, you felt lightheaded. You clutched the contract you were given against your chest and took a final deep breath before leaving the room, hoping to get by unnoticed. It's not like he even knew who you really were, right? 

A gentle calling of your name told you that you were very, very wrong. 

Your feet became rooted in place as you squeezed your eyes shut, focusing all you could on calming your nerves before turning around. And jesus christ, nothing could have prepared you for how beautiful this man actually was in person. 

"Hi," you breathed out, a tiny shy smile gracing your lips. 

"Hi," he said, unintentionally mimicking you. 

His eyes travelled over your face before taking their time roaming your body; you shifted uncomfortably and clutched the contract a little tighter as he stayed fixed on you. A smirk graced his lips, but it was gone before you could really focus on it. 

"It's, uh-... it's nice to finally meet you, Agent Barnes," you muttered sheepishly, hesitantly offering him your hand. 

"You can call me Bucky," he said, smiling warmly as he took your hand in his, sending fire throughout your whole body. "I'd like to say thank you for saving my ass as often as you do, but thank you doesn't seem like enough."

You chuckled, feeling your face flush under his gaze. "'Thank you' suffices just fine, Bucky. I've only been doing my job."

"Speaking of," he started, tilting his head a little as he eyed the contract you held. "You gonna take it?" he asked curiously, his eyes snapping back to yours. 

"What?" you asked, caught off guard by his question.

"The job," he said, gesturing between the contract in your hands and the conference room you just occupied. "You gonna say yes?" 

"How do you know about that?" you asked curiously.

"I know things," he said passively, shrugging his shoulders. "How 'bout I show you around? You can see the place before you decide anything."

You wanted to say no. You wanted to run away and retreat into yourself once more. Though something about the way he was looking at you made it hard to do so. 

So, you agreed. 

And that's how everything started. 

You took the job, moving into the compound a few days after that. You quickly made friends with the girls, and they became your support group; they would help you when it came to shopping for clothes or finding the right outfit for events. They offered to go for walks with you or do yoga - anything you felt like doing, really. You still felt inferior to them from time to time, but not because they made you feel that way; no one at the compound did. 

Only yourself. 

When it came to the boys, it was more or less the same thing. You felt comfortable around them, and you never minded close contact or them seeing you in tighter fitting clothes. 

Everyone was family, and it never felt awkward or uncomfortable around them. 

Except for when it came to Bucky. 

You still grew closer to him over the months of you living at the compound so far, but it hasn't been easy. It was a constant challenge, and it grew harder for you day after day.

When it came to you working alongside him on his missions, everything was great. Nothing with him changed, aside from him throwing out a few more flirty comments. And, since you still had the safety net of being behind comms, you threw some right back at him. 

Once the missions were over, though, it was hard to be around him. You wanted to be around him, but it was nearly impossible. Your feelings for him grew, and the stronger your feelings were, the more distant you became. 

You were careful to only wear sweaters or loose tees paired with sweatpants around him, making sure he would never catch sight of the extra weight you carried around. You quit eating around him; it's not like you had bad eating habits, but you couldn't shake the panic that he would somehow be disgusted, that he would think the reason you're so chubby was because of your diet. You stopped sitting near him during movie nights, and you never hugged him. No matter how much you itched to wrap your arms around him when he came home safe from missions, you couldn't risk him feeling the rolls your body carried, or how soft and pudgy you were. 

It was driving Bucky crazy.

From the minute he finally set his eyes on you, he couldn't get you out of his head. He was beyond thrilled when you agreed to Stark's offer, and he couldn't wait to take the opportunity to get to know you - which was a massive step for him. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling he did something to upset you. 

He grew more confused every day. When it came to conversing over the comms during missions, you two were like a well oiled machine; giggles and flirting and jokes of previous missions. No one would ever know something was amiss. 

Yet when everyone would return home, it was like a switch was flipped. You greeted everyone with hugs and smiles and affection, and Bucky always waited patiently for his turn: but it never came. Instead, you turned to him with an awkward smile and shining eyes and gave him the traditional "welcome home, soldier" that, despite everything, always pulled a smile from his lips. 

He racked his brain every night trying to figure out if he did something, if he said something, but he could never come up with anything. He could never find a reason for the way you would some days leave the room as soon as he entered, for why you always hid away from him when he would catch you off guard in workout clothes or formal attire. He could never come up with an explanation and it was eating him alive. 

The final straw came for him on the night of Pepper’s birthday party. 

He didn’t want to go, he never wanted to go to these things, but ever since you came around he found himself more willing to at least make an appearance; if only to see you. However, he wasn’t even positive if you were going to show up this time, given the way you’ve been so distant lately - and that made him not want to go at all. So he was biding his time, sitting in the kitchen and emptying a bottle of whiskey, trying to not make it obvious that he was waiting to see if you’d wander out of your room before he slipped away to the party.

You stood in front of your mirror for what felt like hours, never before feeling more diffident as you assessed your reflection. You’ve been to some of Tony’s parties before, but this was for Pepper - it was the most grandiose one you’ve attended to date. You weren’t left much choice but to dress your fanciest, and you felt so unfamiliar with your own body as your hands trailed down the fabric of your dress. It was form fitting, hugging every curve you had and accentuating your figure in a way you weren’t used to seeing. The straps were small and the cut was low, it travelled midcalf and had a small slit up the side, showing way more of your leg than you wanted. You had a burning desire to change, but Nat insisted you looked incredible, and Wanda already applied a touch of makeup to match the dress - not to mention you were already running late as it was. 

With one last heavy sigh, you steeled yourself before slipping on your heels and marching out of your room. You thought of anything and everything you could as you marched down the hall, doing your best to pay no mind to the way you felt the fabric clinging to your body with every move you made. God, you really should have put on shapewear. 

Bucky heard you before he saw you, your footfalls echoing through the floor in the same pattern he came to memorize in the months you’ve been here. He took a deep breath, prepared for the fact that you would most likely brush him off once more. He was not prepared, though, for the sight of you as you rounded the corner. 

You were not prepared to see him sitting there, clad in a pressed suit, or for him to quite literally choke on the drink he was nursing as he took in your presence. 

“Jesus, Bucky. Are you alright?” you inquired, conflicted between staying where you stood and approaching him. 

A dismissive wave of his hand had you staying in place, your arms wrapping around your middle as you began to feel exposed to him. 

“I’m fine, I’m good,” he coughed out, refilling his glass as if nothing happened. 

You stood there quietly, completely unsure of what to do next. The silence was becoming louder and louder but you didn’t want to draw his attention to you. Not when you were looking like this. Not when he’d be able to see every curve and divot of your body, the protrusion of your stomach, the ample raise of your chest. You were really starting to regret not changing. 

“Are you gonna stand there and stare all night or head to the party?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the glass before him. His tone was playful, but his voice had a rasp to it that sent a shiver down your spine. 

“Oh, uh - sorry,” you muttered, clearing your throat as you slowly advanced in his direction. “Are, um-… are you gonna join the party?” 

He huffed a small laugh, his eyes finally raising to meet yours only to find that you were looking almost everywhere but at him, effectively wiping the small smile from his face. 

“I’m not so sure,” he said lowly, downing the contents of his glass as he kept his eyes on you. 

You hummed, looking down at your hands before chancing a glance at him; his gaze on you so intense that you immediately looked away again. 

“Well, I- I hope to see you there,” you said sincerely, wringing your fingers together. “You look really nice, Buck” you added quietly, looking up at him just long enough to flash him a warm smile before continuing through the kitchen. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he called after you, the hurt in his voice impossible to miss. 

“What?” you asked in confusion, turning to glance in his direction. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he repeated, leaning back in his chair. “Because ever since you moved in here, it’s like you can’t stand the sight of me.” 

You couldn’t help the nervous chuckle that left you, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s not true.” 

“No?” he asked, his tone taking on a new edge. “Are you sure? ‘Cause you can’t even fucking look at me right now. You practically run from me when I enter the same room, you do everything you can to avoid me, and let’s not forget the fact that I’m the only one around here who you don’t hug after getting back from missions.”

“Bucky-” you tried to explain, but the lump forming in your throat stopped you short. 

“I just wanna know what I did,” he carried on, voice softer this time. “I don’t know if you’re angry with me or- or if you’re scared of me-” 

“I am not scared of you,” you interrupted, finally meeting his gaze. “Please don’t think that.”

“What else am I supposed to think?” he asked quietly. “Everything is fine when I’m out on the field, we- I get along with you better than anyone. But then I come home, and it’s not the same.”

“It’s not-... it’s not like that, Bucky,” you whispered sadly, unintentionally looking away from him again. 

“Yeah, if you say so,” he said curtly, sighing in defeat as he filled his glass again. “Just enjoy the party, okay?”

“You’re not coming?” you asked, unable to keep the disappointment from your voice. 

“Well, you’re just gonna avoid me anyway. Might as well make it easier for you and stay here,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the twirling glass in his hands. 

“I don’t want you to think like that,” you admitted softly. “I- I don’t mean to do the things I do.”

“Then why do they happen?” he inquired, his eyes meeting yours and displaying a painful mix of hurt and confusion. 

“Because,” you started, feeling your bottom lip quiver. “I mean, look at me, Buck,” you finished, as if that was explanation enough. 

“Believe me, I’m looking,” he said gently. “And you look-... well, I wanna say you look beautiful, but that implies you don’t always look beautiful, so, I- I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” he added, his voice so low he may as well have been speaking to himself, but you heard every word he muttered. 

“...What?” you breathed out, staring over at him. 

“What?” he questioned, glancing up to catch your eye.

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat but it just kept on growing, forcing you to choke on your words. 

“Hey, wait, don’t-... okay, now I really said something wrong, right?” he asked quickly, starting to panic as he watched your eyes fill with tears. 

Shaking your head vehemently, you delicately wiped your eyes, hoping not to smudge the work that Wanda did for you. “No, you- I just didn’t expect you to say that. I-... I'm not used to hearing that." 

"You're not?" he asked, genuinely surprised. 

You almost laughed, and you probably would have if it wasn't such an embarrassing thing to admit. "No. I'm… guys don't really call girls who look like me beautiful." 

He fell silent for a minute, eyeing you carefully before shifting in his seat, resting his arms on the table.

"You know, I've been alive for a pretty long time now," he said conversationally, as if you weren't on the cusp of a breakdown. "And I've also been quite literally around the whole world in that time. Some of it I remember, some of it… not so much. But even so, do you know what the one thing I can say with complete certainty is?" 

You waited for him to go on for a moment before realizing he was actually looking for an answer. "No, what?" you manage to croak out. 

He smiled softly, relaxing in his seat again. "I have, quite literally, never met anyone as beautiful as you. And I mean in both appearance and personality." 

"But I- I'm not… I don't have the kind of body like the other women around here," you murmured, casting your gaze downwards as if you were ashamed of your words. 

"So?" he asked incredulously. "Do you seriously think that you're automatically not beautiful just because you aren't the same size as them?" 

"No, it- you can't- I'm not-" you tried to argue, but all you could get out were a few utterances before you had to choke back a sob, completely lost on how to express yourself. 

"Is this why you've been avoiding me? Have I done something to make you uncomfortable?" he asked anxiously, fighting the urge to approach you. 

"Yes. I mean no, I-" you cut yourself off with a sigh, taking a moment to consider your answer. "I've been too embarrassed to be around you. I-... I was afraid you'd be repulsed by me and that I'd lose you." 

"Repulsed by you? A woman who puts fucking goddesses to shame?" he asked in disbelief. "Did me choking on my drink earlier not prove how taken by you I am?" 

"Is that what that was?" you wondered, letting out a watery laugh. 

"Yeah, that's what that was," he confirmed with a soft chuckle. "A guy does a real life spit take when he sees the girl of his dreams looking like the focus of a goddamn renaissance painting and she doesn't even realize it," he mumbled in exasperation, yet his eyes carried a playful sparkle. 

"The girl of your dreams?" you repeated in shock, your voice a nervous whisper. 

"Was that too cliché?" he questioned, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

"Maybe a little," you said playfully, sniffling quietly. 

"I know how it feels, you know," he said softly. "To feel uncomfortable in your own body. But if you'd let me, I'll spend every day proving to you that I see you as nothing short of perfect." 

You could only nod, giving him a weak smile as you fought back a wave of tears. "Yeah, I-... I could do that, too," you agreed quietly. 

He grinned softly, greedily taking in your appearance once more before tearing his eyes away. "Come on," he urged, downing his drink before standing up. "You owe me about seven dances." 

"Where does that number come from?" you asked with a laugh, watching as he approached you. 

"For how many parties you snubbed me at so far," he replied casually, stopping as he stood before you. 

"I never snubbed you," you grumbled, peering up at him. 

"Sure you didn't," he teased, carefully wiping the tears from your face. 

"Do I still look okay?" you asked nervously, fidgiting slightly under his touch. 

"Gorgeous as ever," he replied sincerely. 

You couldn't help but grin, laughing a little anxiously. "Okay. Come on, or else we won't have enough time for all those dances." 

Bucky laughed happily, taking your hand and rushing to join the party, having you giggling in his wake as you did your best to keep up. 

You let him whisk you away for the rest of the night, leading you through all the dances you owed him; and a few more, for good measure, as Bucky put it. 

He stayed true to his word, and there wasn't a second that you spent with him where you didn't feel like the most ravishing woman to walk the earth.

Especially when he took his precious time in the dark of the night to memorize and worship every inch of your body over and over again.

So as you sat here now, watching from across the room as he danced with the crowd, you couldn't help but feel foolish. Foolish for letting your thoughts take away the extra time you could have had with him, foolish for ever thinking this incredible man would ever judge you for something so trivial. Foolish, foolish, foolish. 

"Penny for your thoughts?" you heard from beside you, ripping you from your reverie.  

You turned your head, grinning as you saw the very man himself had taken up the seat to your left. "What, get tired of dancing already, old man?" 

He gasped, feigning offense as he took in your words. "I'd watch who you're calling old, sweetheart," he warned playfully. 

"I'd watch who you're calling sweetheart. I happen to be a married woman now, you know," you replied jovially.

"Married, huh? Should've known I didn't stand a chance," he lamented, shaking his head. "How about a pity dance?" he suggested with a grin, holding his hand out to you. 

You giggled softly, taking his hand with a grin of your own. "Lead the way, Mr. Barnes." 

"Anything for you, Mrs. Barnes," he replied with a wink, leading you to the dance floor. 

And just like he did three years ago, he whisked you away and led you through a whole seven dances; and a few more, for good measure. 

You were a flame, finally ignited, and Bucky was your match.

[nxzz-skz]

Bound by contract (a bangchan x reader series)

Chapter 7

ᯓ★arranged marriage between nonidol!bangchan and fem!reader

ᯓ★ warnings: fluff

ᯓ★ note: send an ask or comment to be added to my taglist!

chapter 6 - masterlist - chapter 8

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

The night you caught Minho was meant to be a victory.

Chan came home late, but this time, he wasn't distant. He wasn't cold. The moment he walked through the door, his gaze landed on yours. No brief glance. No disinterested nod. His gaze was focused, sharp - as if you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

"You did it," he said, his voice low and deliberate.

"i did," you replied, still seated at the dining table, laptop and documents in front of you. The message you intercepted from Minho was in bold on the screen like a trophy. "Now what?"

Chan took off his coat, draping it over the chair next to yours. He rolled up his sleeves slowly, eyes never leaving yours. You felt a shift in the air - heavier, thicker.

"Now," he said, stepping closer, his dark eyes unreadable, "We end it."

His words sent a shiver down your spine.

The silence hung in the air between you, filling the air with things left unsaid. He stood just inches away, his scent - cedarwood and something sharp - wrapping around you like a fog.

"I owe you an apology," he said, his eyes softer now. His jaw clenched, like he was struggling to get the words out. "I should have believed you the first time."

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed over your chest. "Yeah, you're right. You should have."

The corner of his lips quirked, a small, self-depreciating smile. "You're not gonna make this much easier for me, are you?"

"Why should I?" you shot back, tilting your head. "Do you have any idea how I felt, Chan? Knowing that you saw me as a threat instead of your-" You bit your tongue before you could finish. Instead of your wife.

His gaze sharpened. He caught what you didn't say.

"I was wrong," he said, his voice firmer now. "And I'm done being wrong."

He reached for your hand. It wasn't fast, wasn't rushed. He gave you a chance to pull away, but you didn't. When his fingers brushed yours, you felt his warmth seeping into your skin, grounding you in place.

"I need you with me, Y/N," he said softly. His eyes held yours, unwavering. "Not just for this. For everything."

For everything.

Your breath hitched. You didn't know if it was how honest he sounded or the heat in his gaze, but something inside you shifted. This wasn't the man who ignored you at dinners or dismissed your every word. This was someone else entirely.

And it scared you.

But you didn't pull your hand away.

Not this time.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

The plan was simple. Get Minho to meet with his offshore "client" one last time. Only, the client would be Chan in disguise. The messages you intercepted were used as bait, and Minho took it.

He was too cocky to see the trap.

The meeting was held at an upscale hotel bar, all glitz and gold, dimly lit with velvet booths that smelled of whiskey and wealth. You weren’t supposed to be there. It wasn’t part of the plan.

But you came anyway.

You sat at the far end of the bar, your eyes tracking every move Minho made. He was sharp, but not sharp enough. He didn’t notice you tucked in the shadows, dressed in black, hair swept back to stay inconspicuous.

Chan was already seated in the booth when Minho arrived. His suit was crisp, his posture calm but powerful. He played the role perfectly — just another businessman in a world of wolves.

Their conversation started casually, but you could see the shift the moment Chan leaned forward, his smile gone. His voice dropped into something lethal, and even from across the room, you knew what he was saying.

“Did you really think you’d get away with it?”

Minho’s face shifted into something cold and calculating. He leaned back, eyes narrowing. His hand hovered near his jacket pocket.

You knew that movement. You’d seen it in movies, in every story about men like him.

He’s armed.

Panic filled your chest. You reached for your phone, your fingers fumbling as you typed out a message to Chan. He has a weapon. Do not push him.

You watched Chan’s phone vibrate on the table. He glanced down, his eyes flickering briefly toward you. It was subtle. So subtle that Minho didn’t notice.

Please, Chan, please don’t do anything reckless.

But Chan didn’t move. His hands stayed on the table, his eyes locked on Minho.

“You’re done,” Chan said, voice smooth as silk. “I’ve got the receipts. Every offshore deal. Every stolen dollar.” He leaned forward, eyes like steel. “You’re finished, Minho.”

The silence after those words was deadly.

Minho’s fingers twitched near his pocket.

No. No. No.

Your heart pounded, breath caught in your throat. Time moved slower than it should have. You saw his hand shift, the flash of metal.

“CHAN!” you shouted before you even realized you’d done it.

It happened in a blur.

Minho lunged, his hand pulling the weapon free, but Chan was faster. He grabbed Minho’s wrist with a strength that didn’t match his calm demeanor. There was a struggle, a sharp crack of impact, and the gun clattered to the floor.

Security swarmed in seconds. Minho was dragged to the ground, his face shoved into the carpet as his hands were pinned behind his back.

You stood frozen, your pulse wild in your chest. You barely registered the voices around you. All you could see was Chan, breathing hard, eyes locked on Minho like he was deciding whether or not to end him himself.

“Chan,” you said, voice trembling.

His head whipped toward you, his eyes softening immediately. He shook off the guards, brushing himself off as he approached you.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he muttered, reaching for you. His hands landed on your shoulders, firm but gentle, scanning you for any signs of harm.

“I wasn’t going to stay home and wait,” you said, breathless. “I’m not someone you can keep on the sidelines, remember?”

A short laugh escaped him, his eyes filled with something you hadn’t seen before. Relief.

“I remember,” he murmured.

You blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Are you okay?”

And that was it.

The floodgates broke.

You surged forward, crashing into his chest, gripping his shirt like he’d disappear if you let go. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you in so tight you could barely breathe. But you didn’t care. It was safe here, in the circle of his arms, with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear.

“I thought he was going to—” You couldn’t finish the sentence. The words tangled in your throat.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I know.”

You pulled back just far enough to see his face. His eyes were softer now, filled with something deeper, something vulnerable. And before you could think twice, you spoke the words that had been sitting on the edge of your heart for far too long.

“Don’t ever shut me out again, Chan.”

He nodded, slow and sure.

“I won’t,” he promised, his gaze steady, unwavering. “I’m done running from you.”

Your breath caught. For the first time, you believed him.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

With Minho in custody, the world quieted. But quiet didn’t mean peace.

There were still loose ends to tie, press releases to handle, and damage control to manage. Chan was busier than ever, but something had changed.

He came home every night.

He didn’t just come home — he came to you. Sitting next to you on the couch, his arm thrown casually over your shoulders like it had been natural all along. He stole bites of your food. He pulled you into his lap when you pretended to be annoyed with him.

One night, you asked, “What happens now?”

He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering longer than usual.

“Now,” he said, his breath warm against your skin, “we finally stop pretending.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, slow and heavy.

“Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time?” you whispered. “Pretending?”

His eyes met yours. He smiled, soft and sure.

“Not anymore,” he said.

๋࣭⭑────୨ৎ────⭑๋࣭

ᯓ★ Reblogs appreciated!

ᯓ★ taglist:

ᯓ★ perm taglist: @cafffeineconnoisseur @skzbiasot8 @candyquokka @idiotmaterial @backseat-serenade-dizzyhurricane

[bucknastysbabe]

Sleepover Challenge - C.Cole

Prompts

20: “take off your clothes” 77: “want help with that”

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Criston likes to make his insane Targ gf jealous, toxic couple, jealousy, self depreciation, couple’s spats as foreplay, world building, au Criston ditches to Essos with a diff Targ, pnv!sex, rough sex, degredation kink, erotic choking, talkin bout FEELINGS, fluffy toward the end

A/N: I used an OC (random timing I know) but she’s Aemond’s twin. To make a long mf story short: they ditched the war and went to Essos to start a mercenary company. If you enjoy two toxic insane people there’s more of them on my page xoxo

Taglist: @bambitas @valeskafics @fairysluna @arcielee @aemonds-holy-milk @lovelykhaleesiii @starogeorgina @targaryenbarbie @sugarpoppss2

Thanks and shoutout to @targaryen-dynasty ❣️

The princess narrowed her eyes, calculating how many ways she could kill her other half. Skysinger flew overhead, blending in with the clouds. Valaerys knew they would have to take shit jobs to build a credible reputation. Currently their company ranks included Criston, a Qohorik bowman, a pair of exiled Northern hedge knights, and the once enslaved pit fighter from Astapor. Not a bad crew. Especially when one has a dragon.

This particular entourage was idiotic. She could’ve hoisted the Volantene quim onto the dragon and be done with it. There, the dainty little thing was dropped off in in Braavos. But no. Criston insisted on the gold they would get protecting the passage of Volantene Triarch’s daughter as she traveled to Braavos to meet a sea-lord’s son.

Valaerys Targaryen didn’t like the girl at all. She was vapid and moony eyed for her lover. Criston, the cunt, seemed to enjoy the attentions— smiling and regaling the girl’s questions in fine Valyrian. He picked up the language quite well, surprisingly. Bastard Valyrian dialects weren’t so stiff on pronunciations.

The travel was long and agitating, boring truly. Criston and Valaerys’ small company only slaughtered some weak bandits near old Rhoynar ruins. They traveled on the black Valyrian roads, all on horses. The way the triarch’s daughter clung to Criston and thanked him with big lavender eyes after they killed the bandits made the former princess see red. She needed to punch something. Quick.

Their protected charge was too pretty. Jealousy burned within the Targaryen’s chest as she stewed on it. The girl was all delicate features and soft curves, utterly gorgeous. Nothing like Valaerys lanky frame, long nose, and boring straight hair. Merlot colored eyes stared into the campfire, pouty lips downturned.

Criston sidled up to his princess, nosing playfully at her cheek with a kiss. She glared and pointedly ignored the knight. Morak— the pit fighter— began to grin at the pair of them. He continued to eat and chuckle. Criston murmured lowly “What’s gotten stuck into your craw?” He settled his warm hand high up on her thigh, sliding inwards teasingly.

Valaerys grumbled absently while chewing on rations, keeping her face forward, focusing on not shivering from Criston’s big hand on her thigh. So close to where she wanted his irritating smiley face. Instead she hissed right back at him. “Don’t you need to go watch over the doll in her fancy tent? Make sure she doesn’t have any nightmares?”

The knight’s thoughts went two different ways. His pride puffed with Val’s obvious jealousy, seeking to push her a bit farther, she was something else when angered. Criston’s other side grew annoyed at her bratty behavior. He was merely being chivalrous with the noble girl, practicing his conversational Valyrian more than anything.

The Essosi girl definitely wanted a piece of him, Criston was not that dumb, but he was dumb enough to enjoy stoking his true love’s fiery temper. He rolled dark eyes at Morak, turning back to invade his pretty girl’s space. She scooted farther away, brows furrowing.

“You’re really this upset? We’re doing a job, I’m merely providing good service so we gain notoriety. You could stand to be a bit kinder,” he said. Cole’s lips grazed her ear as he admonished the angry woman. She flushed and eyed him, whispering back angrily, “Good service is coddling and carrying the mewling kitten around? She’s pretty, I get it.”

The princess slapped his big hand away from her thigh, stomping off to go see what Skysinger was up to. Criston called once, “Valaerys! Get back here!” Val was too pissed off to deal with him. Unfortunately there were familiar footsteps catching up, the knight snatching her around the midsection, pulling up close.

He rumbled, “You’re being fucking dramatic, when have I ever strayed from you?”

Valaerys wanted to sink into his body, relax and kiss those soft lips of his, catch the warm gleam in dark eyes. But she was horribly set in her head, properly offended. Criston pinched at her hip, seeking an answer.

“You’ve been by her side the entire time, maybe I could ride with the girl for once? Put the two Barrowton idiots beside her horse. You like the new cunt? Younger and richer? More power?”

Criston’s own temper flared, quickly stepping back to point a finger at the prickly blonde as he raved, “Fine then. Ride with the girl! Maybe you’ll learn some manners after all this godsdamn time! She sure has them.”

“Oh fuck you Criston!”

“If I did would you stop being such a venomous bitch?” He retorted right back, smug at her reddened face under the moonlight. Valaerys scoffed, lips trembling before continuing her quest to visit her winged beast. The ex-hand was going to show her what she thought was occurring. He stood with clenched fists, turning on his foot to sit back at the fire.

He stopped one more time, debating on whether to try again. The brunette shook his head— no, the princess wouldn’t change her mind after this spat.

Loroi was quiet, like most Qohorik. He had a fox-like face and gleaming dark eyes. Criston sat back onto the ground, angrily slugging some fermented shite from the wineskin. Loroi asked in poor common tongue “You two are…heated this trip?” Morak laughed brashly, explaining in his bastard Valyrian, “You’ve never seen a lover’s spat bowman?”

Ser Garett snorted, “They just find ways to be mad so,” his friend Ser Kendal finished, “So to spice up the fuckin’.”

Then they all burst into laughter. Criston grimaced. His princess was indeed quite angry. Not the fun way the men were mentioning either. Maybe once she rode with the fellow Valyrian things would ease up. He really didn’t enjoy seeing the princess so angered she wasn’t ready to fuck, that’s how it always went with them.

Ser Cole sighed as the Triarch’s daughter fought with the horse’s saddle. Yesterday’s ride did not go as he preferred. Valaerys made an effort to speak to the fellow blonde. Which was quite the effort considering how she already perceived the girl— a threat. The Volantene noble seemed dismissive of the dragonrider, pointedly talking to him instead.

His Val didn’t speak a word afterward and for the rest of the night beside dropping acrid backhanded insults.

Ser Criston Cole was laying it on thick in the meantime, drawing on that easy charm he held when prancing around tourneys in King’s Landing. Cole practically cooed, “Need help with that my lady?” The spoilt child seemed to enjoy Westerosi customs. She nodded eagerly, blushing, lilac eyes shiny with awe. Leaning over and straightening out the straps with a quick snap, Cole’s hand grazedacross her soft arm in the process.

Valaerys immediately slowed her horse’s gait, lips downturned as she rode in stride with Loroi. He could feel the heat on the back of his head. Hell, she might call Skysinger down. The Volantene babbled as they neared Braavos, the giant statue appearing on the horizon.

Criston helped her down the horse, kissing her ringed hand, leading the blonde to the manse of the Sealord. He was on an ego trip, his contemptuous lover growing more agitated by the second. The ex-princess completed the transaction, gaining extra gold for ‘the knight’. Valaerys stormed out when the Triarch’s daughter laid her plush lips on Criston’s stubbled cheek.

The Targaryen was planning murder. The rest focused to find a nice inn and rest for a night or two before returning to home base in Qohor. They managed to find a nice one, a bustling bar covered in colorful streamers on the street level.

Val ordered for three rooms. Criston relaxed a bit— worried he may have gone too far to fuck with her.

They drank, Cole making multiple attempts to talk to his lover. Valaerys narrowed her dark eyes at him, a bit drunker than he expected, cheeks prettily flushed. She bit out sourly “Do you find yourself enamored with every bitch with blonde hair and purple eyes on the planet?” Gritting her sharp jaw she shoved at Criston, eyes calculating.

He couldn’t help but grin at her behavior. Sometimes Criston smiled when he was agitated, heated for a fight. He snatched the leggy blonde over and pressed his face close to hers, laughing, “You truly are envious! We left our old lives together, you’re smarter than that, girl.”

She bit his bottom lip, rasping, “Flirty asshole, smiling and playing Ser Cole, fuck you,” her hands gripped at his waist while kissing him roughly, “Get your ass to the room.” Criston took his ass up to the room, the princess close behind, lobbing insults.

As soon as the door closed and locked behind them, Valaerys shoved the knight into the wall, cursing. “Take your clothes off. Fucking prick. You think it’s so funny to play with me like that? Made me feel like a godsdamn ninny, moping over how pretty she was.”

Val stepped back to shuck off her boots. Criston felt a bit afraid for what was to come but his cock was harder than the Smith’s hammer. He loved his princess like this, still grinning as he divested his armor and clothes.

“Why the fuck are you smiling? You’re lucky!”

The former Kingsguard was used to a little manhandling from his lover but she was raw aggression, shoving him flat onto the bed and crawling atop, slapping his cheek and barking, “Shit-stirrer. You knew I was upset!” He’d be lying if he said he didn’t whimper a bit.

“I should just get myself off on your thigh and leave you dry,” she hissed.

Criston tried to grovel a bit, his hands batted away from those gorgeous thighs. He pled, “Val, come on, I was merely playing to piss you off. That child was a babbling idiot.” Her dark wine colored eyes softened a hair— face turning back to anger.

“Well you’ve succeeded in pissing me off, Cole. Slut. You’re a slut. No better than the whores flashing their tits on the Street of Silk for a little coin.”

She plastered her pale body against his tanned, wet cunt sliding over his poor cock. Criston choked on his breath, eyes flashing in excitement. He breathed, “It excites me when you get angry my love, I went too far. Quit, let’s fuck it out.”

She slapped him again, lips crashing against his own, pussy grinding against him as she rocked her hips. Criston groaned and Valaerys’ tongue slid right in, twisting with his own, the pair in a frenzy. The tip of his cock kept catching against her slick opening, begging, “C’mon— Valaerys, please, I- ah- apologize. You’re the love of my life!”

She whined softly, demanding afterward, “Keep talking, oh gods, keep fucking talking.”

Criston was going to lose his mind, his soaked cock half-enveloped in her warmth but not sunken in that tight cunt. He panted and writhed, fisting his hands in the sheets. The knight knew he sounded embarrassingly needy as he kept apologizing.

“Pretty baby, fucking shit, you’re so gorgeous. Those legs, pretty lips, how your cute little tits f-feel on me— that other slut wouldn’t stand ahhaaah- chance! Lemme touch you, need it.”

Valaerys cried out and grabbed his bigger hands to massage at her tits, rutting her pussy frantically across Criston’s swollen cock. She placed both hands on his shoulders for balance, cursing and trembling as she grew closer. He always knew her signs.

“M’gonna cum on your filthy cock, you attention whore,” she groaned throatily.

“Please, please, please,” Criston panted.

Tweaking at her nipples had the angered dragon fall apart babbling and clenching. His own release was closer than expected— but Criston wanted her cunt so bad. He begged, “Mm, Val, sweetling, my favorite girl, let me fuck you, I’ll do whatever you want, just!” He whined sharply, frustration clouding coherency.

The blonde smiled teasingly, blissed out and fuck drunk. She patted Criston’s cheek to jape “That’s right, remember whose pussy this is?” She moved upward, muscles flexing in her thighs. Taking ahold of the knight’s prick she continued, “Whose cock it’s only fit for. Don’t do it again or I ought to make you a eunuch.”

Criston’s eyes rolled up when she enveloped his aching cock— groaning pitiful and high. Valaerys rasped his name, hands locking around the tender skin of his throat. He saw the twisted look in her eyes, possessive and eager. The knight knew he was getting used. Thoroughly.

All the brunette did was hold onto her hips as he gasped and threw his head back, quiet sounds slipping out. Val’s strong thighs flexed as she rode him roughly, a moan pushed out on every wet slap of their skin— sweat and release.

“You like that Criston? You wanted me to be mad, fuck you into the bed?” She managed, blonde hair falling from a once meticulous braid. Criston whimpered when she tightened her hands, nodding a yes. Her sweet pussy pulled and massaged his cock, the quick movements bringing him closer and closer.

She leaned down to his gaping mouth, spitting into it with a pleased look. Criston swallowed, almost choking because of her hands. Val exclaimed, slapping his tanned flank with a praise, throwing her head back. He was twitching and trying his best to fuck back against swift movements, drinking in her exposed neck and pretty tits.

She tightened harder, gritting out, “You’re fucking mine, best heed that, Ser Cole.”

The knight’s mouth hung open as she placed pressure on the sides of tender throat, sending his head into a tizzy. His hips helplessly stuttered as he tensed, lips stretched around a silent cry, Criston came so hard his vision went blank. Floating in rapture before coming back still in the throes.

Valaerys let go and came right along as his pumps of hot seed coated her tight cunt. Criston sucked in a breath before exhaling out a sob, then a slurry of moans and whines— stimulated and assaulted by utter ecstasy. He wrapped his arms around her pale waist and yanked the Princess against him, riding out his orgasm, panting wetly against her pulsing neck.

She curled a hand in his dark hair, breathing rapid from her exertions. Criston’s cock gave a last pitiful jerk, the pair both whining. Silence enveloped the room besides breath and the occasional soft sound. The knight knew he needed to say something. Stagnancy filled the room as quickly as the pleasure settled down.

He rolled them to the side, cock sliding out in the process, Criston’s chest swelling at the ruined mess of his love’s cunt. Dark eyes met the familiar grape-like color. He cradled her face, stroking a sharp cheekbone. Her lashes fluttered, arm tightening around his torso.

“Valaerys,” he paused to swallow, “I apologize for upsetting you…behaving childishly. But do know you’re the only one who holds my heart, my soul, the one who holds me together. I should not have made you feel otherwise, my love.”

Val’s face twisted a little, emotions welling up. She was terrible with expressing them; always disliked tears from anyone. She murmured, “She was beautiful. You were being the gallant knight and I wondered— I wondered what it was like to be pretty for you.” She sniffed and rolled her eyes, “That was fucking stupid, I didn’t feel secure. I know I’m a bitch and look like my damn brother, no curves either. Then she comes along and reminds me of it.”

Criston frowned, finding himself chiding her like he did back in Westeros, “I don’t give a rats ass about that or the idiot child, I like you the way you are. You’re beautiful to me covered in ash and dirt, blood, still banging your fists on the training post and yelling at Aegon. In leggings and chain mail.”

She smiled a bit, getting clingier, how he knew Val was feeling loved. He hummed, kissing her soft lips gentle. The princess sniffled, “I love you. So much.”

Criston replied, “And I love you, stubborn wench. Forgot to include that trait of your twin, Targaryen. I’m yours.” Besides, she handled jealousy much better than he did. A dead body or two might be lain around Essos from staring too long, or that one making her laugh with a jape. Oh, such was the nature of their love.

[shywhumpauthor]

Distant

Cw: past and present torture, scar/body shaming, self depreciation, isolation, all hurt/no comfort, creepy whumper, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, noncon touching, extremely vague implications of potential non-con relationship

They separated themself because of their work. That’s what Leader told themself. Getting caught up in the dynamics of the team would only ever be a distraction from the job they had to focus on.

They put distance for a reason. They only interacted the others during meetings or missions. They ate, slept, and planned in their own chambers, far away from the common area that the team shared. They didn’t talk with them, only giving orders when necessary. They led the team, strong even from afar. They were efficient and calculated with everything they did. It wasn’t isolation, it was tactic.

Any personal connections would only distract them, cloud their work and blur the lines between strictly coworkers and the strong familial bond that the others seemed to share. Sometimes Leader would walk by, only reason they were outside their own room being some sort of necessity, and see them. All of five of them, huddled on a couch barely big enough to fit three people, laughing and fooling around as some movie droned on the television. A few plush throw blankets shared among the group. A bowl of popcorn balanced in Teammate’s lap, while Youngest reached over Medic to grab a handful. A loud, shared laugh when that popcorn flew a moment later and smacked Hero in the face.

Leader had walked in and snatched the remote, clicking the TV off.

“We leave at five tomorrow,” they snapped, their lips pressing together as they fixed a glare across the team. Watching as each of their eyes dropped in turn.

“Sorry, Leader,” Right Hand muttered, their posture straightening as they sat up and pushed the blanket off their legs.

Words rested heavy on Leader’s tongue, but they clenched their jaw and swallowed them back. They set the remote down none too gently on the end table, the plastic hitting loud against the wood. Stalked out of the room a moment later, pausing just outside the hall when they heard Youngest’s voice.

“What’s their problem?” The newest teammate whispered, sound carrying just enough so Leader could hear. Something in their chest tightened, a cold emotion seeping through their gut.

“Don’t mind them,” Right Hand mumbled back, words obscured slightly by a shuffle of movement. “They’ve always had a stick up their ass. It’s not personal.”

Leader quickly walked away.

They couldn’t get close. The walls were there for a reason. The team might not necessarily like them, or even respect them, but they listen, and that’s all Leader needs them to do. They weren’t there to be friends with anyone. They were there to lead.

That’s what they did. They led mission after mission, never ending with anything other than overall success. Sure, sometimes there were hiccups, bumps in the plan but success was success, even if hard earned. If they all came back to base, intact and breathing with whatever supplies they had been sent to collect or whatever villain they had been ordered to defeat conquered, it was a success.

Success. They had destroyed the weapon Whumper was building. That’s what the plan had been. Capturing the criminal would have been a nice bonus, but it wasn’t the plan. The plan that was successful. The ride to return to base, the six of them packed in the open back of a military grade Jeep, there was an air of pride that settled across the team. Exhausted, worn, but well-earned satisfaction.

Right Hand sat with one arm around Youngest’s shoulders, holding them against them as the vehicle rocked over the uneven roads. The kid was out cold, dead tired. They had done well, Leader had been watching. They did everything right, just the way they had learned in training. Fought back three henchmen at once, helped hold the line of defense while Leader went to complete the mission. If anyone earned rest, it really was them. A bruise bloomed across their jaw, a small split tearing their eyebrow, but they seemed to have avoided any serious blows.

Teammate sat to their other side, looking dead tired but smiling softly. One hand fooled with Youngest’s hair, the other resting close to their chest wound in gauzy white bandages.

Hero and Medic sat close, against the wall that separated the body of the vehicle from the canvas tarp section the team sat in. The former was bandaging Hero’s leg, which had a nasty looking slit running down nearly the entire length of their thigh to their knee, speaking to them quietly.

Leader sat separate from them all, by the back door where the tarp would flip up and the gate would open when it was time for them to exit. A low ringing buzzed in their ears as they focused on a flickering spot of light, one that just managed to filter through a gap in the canvas. Nausea clawed at their stomach and crept up their throat, the sting of bile making their eyes burn as they forced their breathing to remain steady. They clutched their jacket tightly around them, the thick fabric doing nothing to soothe the continuous chills that raked up their spine. One arm wrapped around their abdomen, holding the coat closed over them while their other hand was stuck through the open zipper, palm pressing firm against their side.

They didn’t think it was bleeding too badly, but their dark jacket would turn bloodstains invisible so they had nothing to go off of but the warm, sticky liquid spilling past their fingers. It had definitely slowed in the past half hour, which they knew was a good sign. Pain painted darkness around the corners of their vision, but they were able to blink back the clarity. That was also a good sign.

Only a few more minutes until they were back to base. Until they could slip out of the truck and away to their chambers. Medic would take care of the rest of the teams’ injuries, they didn’t have to worry about them. Right Hand would give the orders for the night, though there wasn’t much to do other than rest and recuperate. It would all be taken care of. If Youngest were to question where they were, Hero would roll their eyes and say something like “they’re mad we didn’t catch Whumper. Just let them sulk,” and that would be the end of it. They doubted they would ask though. It was clear the newest teammate didn’t like Leader, which was fair enough. They were just the asshole who ordered the rest of them around, the obnoxious commander that no one liked but they were too scared of to not follow orders.

A long time ago, long before Youngest joined the team, before Medic and Hero were ever officially assigned to their squad, they had tried. They had tried to form the kind of bond they saw across the team. Before they were Leader, back when they were under Mentor’s command. They had never quite fit in to the dynamic. Leader had been painfully aware. They tried not to notice the way the atmosphere would change when they entered a room, the way their team would address them politely but the tension beneath was clear. The unease, unsettlement.

Leader didn’t blame them. Back then, they hadn’t bothered to hide. They would walk into training with a tank top and shorts, scars and mangled flesh practically on display. When they bore Whumper’s marks not with shame but anger, a drive for revenge they dreamed about enacting.

The first time they had heard Mentor talking to Commander, they hadn’t really been surprised. More hurt than anything, quiet voices floating through the hall after combat training. The pitying words laced with a disgust only Leader could hear. “What happened to them?” But concern was the last thing in their tone. That was the first time, hearing how clearly they spoke behind Leader’s back, they realized just how warily the others acted around them. How they walked on eggshells whenever Leader entered a room. They didn’t think anyone really noticed—or cared—when they pulled away after that. When they retreated to their chambers, started eating meals in their room. Opting to train alone rather than with the group. Wearing thick long sleeved shirts whenever they went anywhere outside the privacy of their own room. And then even when they were alone. The ugly, uneven, raised scars only ever seemed to mock them, until they couldn’t bear to look at them.

Leader squeezed their eyes shut with a shudder, pain rippling across their side.

The mission had been a success. They destroyed the weapon.

All because Whumper had let them.

The villain had intercepted them the moment Leader had split off from the group to fulfill their part. Had wrapped their hands around their throat and shoved them against the wall with enough force to knock the breath out of them.

“Oh Leader, it’s so good to see you again.” Whumper grinned, their thumbs digging against Leader’s throat hard enough to make them gag. Only laughing as they scrambled to claw at the grip restraining them. “You really should come visit more often. I was starting to miss you.”

It still hurt to take a deep breath. The hood of their jacket pulled up and their chin tucked down, the bruises that were still settling into an angry red obscured. They couldn’t imagine swallowing.

“How badly do you want this, Leader? What would you do to make sure your team leaves here alive?” Whumper had asked.

“Anything. Please.”

Anything was a very broad category. Leader had meant it. Anything. Whatever you want. Just let them leave. Leader’s head throbbed as they leaned it back against the canvas. They had to be almost home.

“They don’t know, do they?” Whumper asked, a blade dancing between their fingers as Leader stripped off their jacket, then their shirt. Folded them with trembling hands and set them aside.

“No.” Leader answered, truth weighing heavy on their voice. Whumper only tipped their chin, a silent order that rang loud through the room. The back room, the very weapon that Leader was supposed to destroy constructed right in the center of the lab. They lowered themself to their knees besides it, letting their head dip in submission.

Their back ached. The rail dug into their spine, sending a small jolt down their back at every bump in the road. They would be back soon. Deep breaths. Slow inhale, slow exhale. Only a few more minutes until they’d be able to retreat to the only haven they had.

“You haven’t forgotten, have you, Leader?” Whumper crouched in front of them, dragging the flat of the blade down Leader’s cheek. Twisting it so the tip traced across their bottom lip, barely scratching the skin as they dragged it down their chin, their neck.

“No.” Leader responded quietly, fighting to remain still as the blade traced an old scar down their sternum. Drawing a faint line of red over the raised skin. “No sir.”

The road changed from gravel to dirt beneath the tires and Leader almost cried with relief. A couple minutes. Only a few hundred more seconds until they could disappear. They watched as Teammate lightly shook Youngest’s shoulder, rousing them. As Medic began to pack their supplies back into their first aid duffel. Something twisted in their stomach.

“You were always so good for me,” Whumper whispered, the tip of the knife resting just above Leader’s naval. Their other hand raised to cup the hero’s cheek, thumb brushing over a faint scar that split their cheekbone. Their touch was so gentle, so caring Leader couldn’t help but lean into it. Shame and longing burning in their chest as Whumper smiled sadly at them.

“Oh you poor thing. Surrounded by your team but so, so alone.” They let the commander rest their head in their palm, watching the emotions dance behind Leader’s eyes. “I’ve never hurt you as bad as they’ve been, have I?” Their voice was barely audible, but the truth rang through the room. Tears stung Leader’s eyes, a single one slipping from the corner and trailing down their cheek. Whumper tenderly brushed it away.

They could still feel the hands against their skin. Phantoms of touch lingering over their face, brushing away the tears Leader fought back with every sliver of strength they could muster. Something was eating away at them from inside, tearing them apart piece by piece. They stumbled up as the truck finally stopped, not even waiting for the engine to turn off before they opened the back gate and climbed out, movements uneven and graceless.

“You really need a win, don’t you?” The words seemed to echo in Leader’s mind, leaving their ears ringing. They let their eyes slip shut, just for a moment. They could almost forget where they were. They could almost forget the tip of the knife resting against their abdomen. They were drowning in the touch, the care from hands that had only ever hurt them. They weren’t sure if they wanted to come up for air.

They nodded against Whumper’s hand, slowly opening their eyes once more.

They were in the base before any of their team got out of the truck. They moved through the halls in a daze, following a route in their mind that they weren’t quite paying attention to. Their hand shook as they typed the code to their room into the keypad by the door, legs wobbling beneath them as they stumbled inside.

They made a straight path for the bathroom, fumbling off their jacket as they went. Blood soaked their undershirt, plastering it to their side but they tugged it over their head, ignoring as it pulled at the wounds.

They snatched a hand towel from the rack it hung on, the white fibers turning red the moment they touched it. They pressed the linen to the wound, swallowing back a hiss. The cuts weren’t bad, but something about it made the gashes sting worse than they would if the towel was soaked in alcohol. They would throw it out later. Not worth trying to wash out. Same with their undershirt.

The mission had been a success. The weapon was destroyed. Gone, Whumper’s plans wrecked. But Leader had failed their assignment. They were supposed to be the one to destroy it, and they hadn’t. Villain had torn apart their own work. Ripped it to shreds right there and burned the remains. Set the whole damn room on fire. Leader could still feel the heat flush against their cheeks.

They let the team escape, though they had the forces to subdue them all. They let them walk away unscathed and celebrating a success that was given to them.

“Hold still for me, alright?” Whumper murmured against Leader’s ear, dragging their empty hand down Leader’s bare side. Feeling the goosebumps rise beneath their fingertips as they stopped along a familiar set of scars by the bottom of their ribcage. Let their palm rest over the marred skin for a few long moments before moving to grip the hero’s arm, holding it still as they raised the knife. Leader shuddered and bit their lip, letting their weight sink to rest on their heels. Their other hand clenched against their thigh, nails digging into their palm.

They couldn’t hold back a gasp as the tip of the blade plunged deep into their skin. The pain was sharp and bright, fire licking below their flesh as Whumper slowly twisted the knife downwards, following the path of a raised scar. Their other hand held Leader’s arm, just above their elbow for stability. Their grip firm, comforting as they hummed a quiet reassurance.

“You’re doing well, Leader.” Whumper said quietly, gaze focused where the knife split the skin, precise and dangerous. “Your team doesn’t recognize how hard you work. They’re fools. All of them.”

“I’ve always seen your dedication. Your strength. You can’t show them your pain or they’ll think you’re weak.”

Whumper’s hand moved up their arm, resting on their shoulder as they began the next deep line. Leader winced and Whumper hushed them.

“I’ve hurt you. I’ve pushed you past your limits, broken you. But I have never thought you were weak.”

Leader pulled the towel away from the wound, grimacing as they did so. They moved to the sink and fumbled with the faucet, putting a clean corner of the towel under the water. They leaned heavily against the counter, slowly bringing the cloth to dab away at some of the drying blood.

The knife dropped away from their skin as a bead of blood rolled down their torso. Whumper’s hand left their skin, pulling aside their own jacket’s hem so they could slip the blade back into its sheath. They shifted onto their knees, even with Leader’s height as they brought both of their hands to either side of their face. Cupping their cheeks with a care Leader had never felt before. Thumbs running soothingly over their cheekbones.

“Never forget who you belong to,” Whumper murmured quietly, pulling Leader’s face forwards so they could press a kiss to their forehead. Lips warm and possessive against their clammy skin, lingering for just a moment before pulling back.

Leader could still feel the heat against their forehead, sticking to their skin as they cleaned the area around the cuts. A small collection, maybe eight lines in total, neat and perfectly in line with the old scars below. Two letters, letters that had once been lost among the dozens of other marks and blemishes, now highlighted in red. Making sure they’d never forget.

They heard a small buzz, vision speckled as they looked down. Their communicator still clipped to their belt, the small screen on top lit dull green with a message. They could only make out the first few letters of the contact, but they knew who it was. Right Hand, probably to confirm they should take over the mission review. They’d take their answer whether Leader responded affirmative or not at all. They didn’t bother to reply.

[expertcostseg-us]

Cost segregation is a technical process where short-life items are separated from long life items. It typically doubles or triples depreciation during the first five years of ownership. https://www.whatiscostsegregation.com/

[p-oconnor]

https://www.bonusdepreciationcalculator.com/

Do you know how bonus depreciation calculator works? It is a proprietary software based on three primary components. Read here to know more https://www.bonusdepreciationcalculator.com/how-bonus-depreciation-works/

[mmoxie]

Cheeseburger Cost Too Much: Take 2

AN: Americans explaining economic hardship: "Imagine a hamburger."

Summary: Employee wages can double and the price of a meal can be halved and the company still turns a profit. But you already knew that. This is about going insane with a calculator.

A double cheeseburger meal* costs between $9.00 and $13.00 depending on which restaurant you're at. *That's two patties, any toppings you want, medium fries and drink.

That's an absurd amount of money.

It costs on average $3.00 for all the ingredients if they're just bought at the grocery store and not in bulk, y'know like restaurants do.

Of course, restaurants have to make a profit and pay their employees. They also have to pay to ship their ingredients and pay for utilities. Some restaurants don't even own the building they run out of, and instead lease it for cheaper.

Let's do some experiments based on this under the cut:

Suppose you have a typical 2000sqft burger franchise. Your lease, shipping, and utilities come out to $3500 a month. You have six employees- four of them make $15/hr and work 20 hours a week, two of them make $17/hr and work 40 hours a week. You're open 7 days a week, and are closed on Christmas.

Let's pay those employees first and foremost: $1200 for the part-timers, $1360 for the full-timers.

So as soon as you open the doors in the morning, you need to be able to pay out $6060/mo.

==========

You are a very simple burger franchise, with a single menu item- the Double Cheeseburger Combo. Comes with lettuce, onion, pickle, tomato, ketchup, mustard, and mayo, atop two 1/8lb all-beef patties with two slices of American cheese. This is served with a side of fries and a 16oz fountain beverage. Like the combo, you get one. It's Coke.

You make the best burger in town, and average 100 customers a day.

Your combo costs $10.99. So you make $1,099/day.

Now let's factor in the cost of ingredients. At $3.00/combo, you're actually making $7.99/combo, or $799/day.

In a month, you make $23,790 from sales after the cost of ingredients. You pay your bills, and you have $17,730 left over. This is what corporate keeps.

Let's say business is steady for a year. Your franchise makes $212,760 for corporate.

You are one of 21,000 franchises worldwide. They all do exactly as good as you. Your corporation has amassed $4,467,960,000. For brevity's sake, we'll just say $4.47Bn.

You've made this amount after accounting for wages, utilities, shipping, and leasing. Let's say you get a Superbowl ad, and run a healthy ad campaign to promote your combo all year. I'll be generous and say that the regular ad campaign is the same price as the Superbowl ad- so you're out $14 million dollars. Taking you down to $4.45Bn.

You pay your CEO 24 million dollars as a bonus. You have $4.3Bn.

What's left here is called EBITDA- Earnings Before Interest, Taxes, Depreciation, and Amortization.

Let's pay your taxes. It's about 23% of your income. $1,012,000,000. $1.01Bn- you have $3.44Bn left.

Throw all that in the bank. With a 7% interest rate, you'll have made an extra $241 million or so.

Leave it alone for five years, that's a cool billion you made doing nothing.

==========

I'm not gonna talk about stocks, shares, or "worth." This is about a sandwich and what it should cost. Suppose instead that it's $7.99. Let's see what happens to the company when I make it so!

You now make $499/day, $13,972/mo. Subtract your operating costs-you now earn $7,912/mo.

Every month. Every franchise. What has the company made after a year?

$1,993,824,000 - $1.99Bn.

Superbowl ad. Regular ad campaign. CEO bonus. Taxes. All at the same rate.

14 million dollars, 24 million dollars, and... 457.7 million dollars.

So what do we keep? $1,532,300,000. Or 1.53Bn.

So the company is still a billion dollar company. Just not a four billion dollar company. This is why I won't talk about stocks, shareholders, stuff like that- it's just scorekeeping. It's just making the number go up so that the fans at home can make a number go up for themselves- and it's all at the expense of the working poor.

You put 1.53Bn in the bank for 5 years at 7% interest, you're making 107 million additional dollars, by doing nothing.

After 10 years, that's a cool billion without any effort on your part.

==========

Let's see what we can do with just the interest.

107 million, split across 21,000 franchises, that's $509.50 you can pay out every year, to every franchise.

Doesn't sound like a lot, but two things- one, this is just interest, and two, you'd be surprised what a little pocket change can do for a restaurant. You can replace a heating element in a fryer. You can get the floors waxed. You can buy your staff concert tickets. If someone gets sick, you can help them out! On interest.

You haven't gone a penny under the 1.53Bn you put in the bank.

Suppose you did. Suppose you raised the minimum wage at all franchises to 20 dollars, with managers making 24 dollars.

$1600/mo for part-timers now, and $3840/mo for full-timers. You still have a staff of six and your shipping, utility, and lease haven't changed. Your new monthly total is $8940/mo.

And fuck it, a combo is $5.99 now. Ready for round 3?

$299/day -> $8970/mo.

Your franchise now makes 30 dollars a month for the company.

That's $630,000 a year when you multiply it across all franchises worldwide.

You can't pay your CEO a 24 million dollar bonus. You can't buy 14 million dollars worth of advertising. You make $44,100 a year in interest. You pay $144,900 in taxes.

You're a 486 thousand dollar company. You pay your CEO a 10,000 dollar bonus. You make it back fourfold in a year.

You can no longer give every store $509.50 extra a year. Heck, on the interest you're making, you can barely scratch $25 per store in terms of money you can give away every year. But that was always just bonus money. Playing with your interest.

You're half the size of McDonalds, feeding people all over the planet, reaching further than Burger King, and your company is valued at 413,000 times less than they are.

And you're still half a million dollars in profit that you don't have to spend on anything but paying your CEO- who makes $30 an hour, salaried to 45 hours a week. $64,800/yr for the special boy.

You've still got $420,000 in the bank, which, in a world where a combo meal costs $5.99, is the perfect amount.

This is as good as it gets in 2024. A time traveler from 1995 would laugh at us:

[ghostchamber]

a taste of rejection

octavinelle boys shoot their shot and miss horrifically (PLEASE twst fandom don’t eat me alive) this little post is very short and kinda angsty so beware. i cant write that well yet ok 😳

characters included: azul, floyd, jade.

azul ashengrotto

of course. he should’ve calculated this. what was he thinking? why’d he delude himself into believing that you’d love him back? he’s such a fool.

self depreciating thoughts like that filled his mind as you continuously apologised for the cold, straightforward rejection. azul can’t help but bite his lip, arms crossed tightly like he was trying to shield himself from you. it doesn’t take long for him to excuse himself, getting up from the arrangement he specially and meticulously prepared for this occasion.

please don’t look at him like that. don’t comfort him, especially after breaking him down. he doesn’t want you to see him. he doesn’t want to see you. despite the storm building up inside him, he can’t seem to stop himself from telling you that there were no hard feelings. he can’t bring himself to support that statement the next day however, when he practically gives you the cold shoulder and stays far, far away. whether or not he allowed himself to cry the night before, you wouldn’t know.

jade leech

ah. a fault on his part. apologies, he should’ve thought more thoroughly before asking something like that of you. to be his lover. …what a silly thing to think, indeed.

jade masks his hurt perfectly and swiftly. not a moment of shock and pain crosses his expression… half a second? that’s a different story. all he knows is that he will never be able to face you the way he used to ever again. his worst fear had come true. you had his unmasked self out on full display, and there was nothing you wanted in him. no qualities you saw in him befitting of a partner. he wonders, maybe you would like him better if he was… ah, no. he knows he mustn’t think like that.

you’ll find that he’s slightly more reserved the next day. he doesn’t even seem to see you as a friend, more an acquaintance. even he can’t hide the drastic change, relying on luck and hoping you wouldn’t corner him about it. jade hates lying to people he loves, so he’d simply have to tell the truth. but a part of him hopes that you care enough to attempt to maintain that special connection you had before. however, another part of him simply wants you gone. hm, he was never the best with emotions… maybe he’d just lie to himself and say that love for you didn’t exist.

floyd leech

…ugh. now he was really in a bad mood. … this wasn’t fair. how come he had to love you, but you saw him as some rowdy guy? this sucks. you suck. no way.. he wasn’t tearing up like some heartbroken fishy.

once again, floyd leech cannot seem to control his emotions. it has always been a… problem with him. everyone avoided him because of this factor, choosing to scramble back from the eel. but you… he thought you were different. you didn’t freak out and scatter like a sardine when he appeared in a hall, instead choosing to greet him if he struck up a conversation. he thought you loved him. or at the very least, liked him. wrong.

you got on well with everyone. of course he had to take that as a sign you were a friend. the cold and harsh rejection you served him was enough to prove he was an idiot, thanks. the emphasis on why he was unloveable was more than enough, thanks. …oh who is he kidding, he wouldn’t fall for someone like that. floyd had been a hopeless romantic ever since he saw that one movie about a couple. deep down inside, he hoped it would be just like that. too bad you knocked that dream out of him so fast, because it’d be a while since he’d call another his little shrimp. floyd doesn’t even leave his room for a while, opting to curl up on his bed and delete the hundreds of photos he took of him and his ‘shrimpy.’

[happyk44]

Look. I know that like. Pluto is not the god of business and that wealth is not equivalent to business but like 1) the meaning of wealth has changed over time and differs among people and I'm pretty sure now when you think of wealth and wealthy people, you think of people who own fortune 500 companies and know what stocks are, and 2) I love the concept of tired businessman Hades/Pluto who just wants to spend a quiet day with his spreadsheets and a pencil, and not have to deal with whatever nonsense is currently being drummed up by his employees

Anyway -- Nico's wealth being generational due to his grandfather (and I want to assume that politics was a family thing so likely also before him) vs Hazel's wealth being hard earned, which, at least in the current age, means business know-how and being able to file a tax report and reconcile a balance sheet sheet and understand excel (I might be slightly projecting here lol)

Hazel being almost an obsessive accountant, monitoring bills, income, every single expense and penny off the street vs Nico who knows the value of things, like antiques, stuff with history. He can do surveys of property, anything that has the potential to be passed on. He's good with valuing a will - splitting assets between family members. Or managing a trust, devising different funds for the future. I think he's probably very good at looking at the long-term. And thus pretty good at noticing when someone is scamming another person with the whole "it'll be cheaper in the long run" thing, or "it'll increase in worth over time".

And since generational wealth is mostly familial, I don't think all of it has to be specific to monetary value either. Emotional wealth, the value something carries emotionally, is also something he can sense. A cheap wedding ring passed down from generation to generation could be more valuable than a standard cut diamond bought today.

Like he could look at old vase on sale at Goodwill for $2 and know it's monetarily cheap, but emotionally it's valued in the thousands. I think it could be kind of cool for things that carry high emotional value and were a part of a family's lineage for generations, if he could touch them and see the history behind it - but that doesn't really fit in with the scope of his current powers or the general theme of the Underworld so :/

They're both good at investments as investing is kind of the core of wealth management and plays a big part in building generational wealth these days, although, I'd gather that Hazel is probably better at it.

Nico, however, is very good at being able to calculate future value of a long-term investment (at least 20+ years).

Hazel can calculate future value of any kind of investment - short term fixed deposits, long and short-term investments, property changes (she absolutely hates house flippers, especially when they change or cover all the older original work, because it cuts the value down so much more than they realize), other stuff that has slipped my mind because my brain is stalling, etc.

Hazel's your go-to for reviewing the split of assets during a divorce. She's extremely meticulous and can track down even the most hidden of accounts. She's also the one you want to talk to about getting the most out of filing your taxes. She will go through every single one of your purchases, no matter how minor, to find a loophole she can work with to shave even only a couple cents off.

(disclaimer: bermuda does not have income tax so i have no idea how filing taxes actually works, other than the two canadian tax classes i took over five years ago as part of my degree)

Hazel can also assess depreciation somewhat automatically. Someone trying to choose between types of equipment can go to her and be like "which one will depreciate in value faster if I do X with it" and she'll look and point and if you ask her why, she can sprout off some nonsense at the top of her head without thinking - like percy with sailing, or my hc about jason/thalia and their inherent diplomatic schmoozing skills.

However, unlike them, she maintains understanding of what she's said when she's exited the environment, either because the power just does that or because Hazel is an amazing busy lady. if you casually said "hey hazel, between X brand and Y brand, which will drop in value faster" she'd have to think about it because it's not really "business" related.

In that sense she's also REALLY good at noticing trends. most of it is subconscious - what brands are becoming more popular, what clothing styles are losing touch. I put this in a previous fic, but she's very receptive gemstone trends. She can tell which stones are moving up in popularity and which are going down. In my headcanon about her business with Walt, this is very useful.

Her ability to notice trends, especially from a monetary standpoint, also helps with her managing stocks, and allows her to invest in high interest but riskier equities with very minimal loss (trends aren't set in stone, you know? Sometimes things happen and everything sudsenly shifts)

Plus back to the whole wealth is conflated with succesful business these days concept, putting Hazel in charge for just a day can boost a business's ability to turn a profit. In just a few hours, she can have all major flaws analyzed.

In New Rome, if someone is opening up a shop or whatever, they'll ask Hazel to review their plans because she can immediately point out all the issues and devise a better way to go about things. A couple times she's just taken them gently by the shoulders and said in the kindest voice ever, "This is going to fail. Do not put money into this." Sometimes it's the business concept, sometimes it's the person behind the concept. They either listen or they don't and if they don't, Frank is there to listen to all her complaints about them going against her advice.

Also - as an U-turn back to the splitting assets in a divorce concept, I'm not sure about pre or post-nuptial agreements. I think pre-nuptials are pretty straightforward in a "this is what im bringing in and want to keep separate from marriage" kind of thing, which Hazel could handle easily. I know in both cases it's important to declare all assets - which again Hazel could easily handle.

Post-nuptials are probably more of Nico's thing because at that point the assets in question have become merged and become familial, and much of generational wealth is in the idea of building wealth to leave behind to your family so they may have a better opportunity to build wealth to leave behind, etc, etc. Especially since post-nuptials, I think, are typically created after children are born, and those are the people who wealth is supposed to be left behind to.

This also kind of plays with my idea that the underworld is inherently familial/communal - as a person cannot bury or perform the proper funeral rites on themselves. Plus the Cocytus is the river of lamentation (aka grief and sorrow) and I imagine some of that comes from the people left behind, crying over their lost loved ones.

Also I think the idea that children of Pluto are resistant/immune to monetary greed. Since Hades was never technically the god of wealth, and was only conflated with him over time (to which, I would imagine some things and behaviours began to pop up, like they'd always existed and then becoming Pluto in the Roman era just solidified that conflation), his kids don't really have this innate resilience, but their dad is also rich and loves them, so their ability to fall prey to it is lower.

Oh! Oh! And Hazel can inflict plutomania on people, which is a word I discovered just now that means "the excessive desire for wealth". I don't know how this would be helpful but idk - social wealth is something I found popping up a lot so maybe if Hazel needs information on something that a person won't give, she can utilize plutomania to inflict a desire for social wealth in the person to get them to spill the information

(Social Wealth is about connection and network, having a sense of belonging and trust essentially. Someone with a lot of social wealth will have a lot of connections versus someone with no social wealth)

(oh yeah in my hasty google search to fact check my understanding of generational wealth when I started this post yesterday, I discovered there are many types of wealth. The number kind of varies from result to result, but essentially the 4 mains ones are: Financial Wealth (obvi), Social Wealth, Time Wealth, and Health Wealth (haha, it rhymes). But anyway yeah. Not sure how it could all loop into her without making her too all powerful but like. Hazel is also super cool and deserves to be godlike in consideration so 🤷‍♂️)

I love that when I started this yesterday it was a lot more clear cut and then I came back to finish it and ended on a ramble 😂 I do not have the energy to go and tidy everything up into something more coherent and uniform so this is what it be 👍

Oh, also, Hazel is amazing at gambling and poker. Nico is also good at poker but that's because he's reading people's souls to figure out their tells. Hazel is good at it because she attracts cash money and therefore always wins. That's why whenever anyone plays poker or places a bet with her, money can't be involved.

[mariamariquinha]

Versos de Placer (Colonel Carrillo x f!reader) - Thirteen (Part 1)

(I don’t know if I’ve already used this gif... sorry :/)

Summary: Decisions were made.

Word count: 7.6k

Warnings: Bad words, violence, ~ daddy issues ~, mentions of brothels and prostitution, slight mentions of political conditions from the period, trauma, nightmares and people drinking alcohol 🤷‍♀️

Author’s Note: And yeah, I needed to split in two parts. There’s no huge cliffhanger here because I know how slow I can be while writing, so let’s just say that this is a... prelude.

I mentioned that before, but now it’s more than official. This story have 2/3 chapters left, which makes me sad-happy-satisfied-unsure. Let’s see where it goes from then on, huh? Love ya! 

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

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There was this boy with green eyes and good grades at school. He used to like History and Sociology, but everyone knew he had a tendency for something more than teaching. Without a mother, though, no one would be surprised if he turned into one of them.

Since his childhood, ‘them’ became a fear. ‘Them’ became easy money but almost a vow to a cause - the parents used to keep the kids at home after 10pm, turn off the TV when the news were too desperate or visceral. He might’ve even met Virginia Vallejo during his college years, after all the communist mess, and recognized her when Pablo turned into a thing. She was there. Always had been. Sometimes he wondered if her name would be marked on books like those he liked to read in school for choosing a side.

If he was an adult during the communism time, he would be one of them. His abuela talked about this a lot, but never in a depreciative tone. She knew better than to be on the side of the ones who took a lot from her. Because of this, everytime someone asked about Escobar or the gringos around the country, he never had an answer - because Pablo wasn’t a communist, but the other side wasn’t good either.

His abuela passed the year before; cancer. Being a doctor, he felt bad for not being able to help, for not doing enough to give her more time. There was nothing left.

That night, he did an exception to watch the TV. It wasn’t Virginia Vallejo nor any other journalist there. It was him. And he was angry because it was him. Him, with all the pomp and style and the face of someone he could recognize in the mirror, using such big words like ‘peace’ and ‘justice’ as if he knew a thing about honorable feelings or true promises.

At the end of three days in retreat, with resentment bubbling up inside him, he was in the supermarket when he saw her for the first time. Any detail that might have crossed his imagination didn't do this woman justice; he only knew her by a small fraction of guesswork and, in the end, by genetic bliss, she looked nothing like him. But he knew it was her. He fucking knew.

--------------------------

The decision came in a thoughtful, perhaps even calculated way. On the way, he had attended Comuna 1 and heard someone say that some time before, some American agents had passed by there and one of them almost died. A woman, strong enough to take the brunt, someone who became an exception - with all the lukewarm hope that existed during the days after that meeting in the supermarket, he felt afraid that she would become a target and lose everything again.

There, as he walked out with the lab coat and a suitcase of equipment, he looked up to see the armed kids on the rooftops, wielding weapons longer than their arms and staring blankly. He remembered his mother, when he found her after a long time in a corner of a border bordeaux to the point of overdose, and how he had left her so far away from himself as a way of forgetting that disturbing image.

He saw Escobar's painting on the wall. He saw the children again.

The letter would reach her in less than a day.

--------------------------

“You really are different from your father.”

The comment made you roll your eyes, but for some reason you didn’t engage in her provocation. Rejecting the cup of coffee was more of a personal preference than any judgemental decision - you already had the privilege of being able to talk with Noonan without so much bureaucracy.

Still, she didn’t take offense to the declination. She smiled, sat comfortably on her seat.

“I like to keep it all professional.”

“Doesn't the environment seem professional?”

“The office? Oh no, the office is really fine,” You nod your head, making a show of crossing your legs and faking interest. “I don’t want to elaborate and take more of your time but… The decoration is… neat.”

“Thank you.”

When she openly invited you to come by, you knew why. Perhaps dinner happened. A comment. She was informed about Juan Marcos, in that sarcastic voice your father had. Perhaps Noonan needed to be sure. You weren’t like him, of course, and certain things needed to be contained even if you knew the metrics and weren't childish enough to mourn so much about the systematics. What you could tell, for sure, was that your father always sold you low, so she decided to make her own assumptions.

“... Thinking about the politics of it all-”

“I’m not into it.”

“Diplomacy?”

“Yeah, those… big words you use sometimes. I’m an agent. It’s basically my job to be at least 60% dumb for that stuff.”

Noonan smiled at your sarcastic tone, watching the way you just kept that neutral expression with a voice full of venom. It was risky, but she wouldn’t go too far.

“I just need to be sure we’re on the same page. I’ve seen your last report and it honestly worried me.”

“It wasn’t my intention.”

Perhaps the words ‘sabotage’ and ‘murder’ were the ones way too big for someone like Noonan or the fucking government of United States of America, but you still couldn’t get the need of such inconvenience because of one report from one agent. Everyone knew the operation and you had the obvious perception that the USA agenda didn’t include explaining methods of persuasion during these types of… conflicts.

“What we are doing here, this… job by all means, it’s something delicate. We have a lot in the game, suddenly because there’s this inconvenience and we can’t get rid of it.”

You kept quiet. The lack of reaction made her blink a few times in expectation, then sigh in defeat as if you needed to say something.

“I think you should understand that this isn’t just a question of who should do what. We need to win. And to win, we need a firm team, one that can deal with everything with resilience.”

That was the first time you felt threatened by any of them. Your differences with Carrillo, the target you all had behind your backs, the situation with Juan Marcos… It all could take your job, but it didn’t. That moment, when Noonan got back to her professional stance (the one she liked to use with Peña more often than not), you felt the shiver of having someone stabbing you on the back.

And to know that this person was your father just made you more aware of your tense nerves.

So you did something worse.

You played the game.

With a subtle movement, you caught the cup of coffee between your fingers and took a small sip.

--------------------------

You felt suffocated. Disgusted. You got this bothering itch from the insides, like a weed that wouldn’t leave your skin. Between leaving the building and going back to Medellín, you tried to pull the nicotine patch out of your arm at least five or six times. It didn’t work, though. And you knew you would feel bad if you tried to pull the thing off again, so you decided to stay as still as possible.

Which wasn’t much.

And as the days passed, as the raids went on and things kept happening at full speed, you started to feel harsh, difficult to deal with. You tried to bury that conversation as much as you could, but with every body found, every lead to take one more person down, you couldn’t react anymore.

When your mother called, you told her - she deserved to know because she would understand you. Then she sighed, probably scratched the back of her neck, and said something that made you warm and cold all together.

“Good thing you’re not like him or me. You’re a third thing.” She commented. “God knows that if I was in your place, I would have made his life hell and I wouldn’t regret it.”

Your sleep schedule became worse. Almost every night, you saw Juan Marcos dead, then him coming at you ready to take your life, then that Montoya boy and the expression of fear on his face. Sometimes, it was Pablo. The bodies on that grave. Images of Peña, Steve and… Fuck, and Carrillo… All of them died. You would wake up crying. In the morning, you would sigh in relief to see all of them there, in one piece, alive.

But when it was your father, there wasn’t much to see.

That was something you’d never told her. That if you ever pictured your father being a fatality, you couldn’t have a proper reaction.

You woke up with a gasp, seated on the bed and sweating. The curtains hid nothing of the light coming from the outside, with a freezing breeze coming from it. You noticed, then, that what woke you physically was the sound of festive crackles from the street. There were laughs, kids giggling - it didn't take long for someone to scream at them and the noises ceased.

You still had your jeans on, unbuttoned and gripping your legs. That made you groan, passing your fingers through your hair and rubbing your eyes in frustration. On the clock, four in the fucking morning. You knew you wouldn’t sleep after this.

Defeated, you got up from the bed and made a beeline to the kitchen, where you grabbed a jar of water. Hands shaking, you didn’t dare to have your way with a cup - you drank right from the fucking jar. Then you gulped, gulped, gulped… Until it burned your throat and lungs. Until you coughed because some of the liquid spilled over your nose and chest, almost drowning you.

The floor was wet. From the water or your spit, you couldn’t tell, perhaps both. You didn’t know why you stared at it for so long, but that was it: you in the middle of your kitchen watching the water spot wetting your feet.

Your hands were still shaking.

--------------------------

You felt the ground first - the stiffness of the floor, the dirt from the road, the burning sensation from abrupt contact.

In the end, when they took you to the hospital, there wasn’t much to see. You left with a bruise on your forehead, another on your cheek, then some on the body and the shame of having been hurt by falling from a roof. At least with Juan Marcos you had the thrill of a good hand-to-hand combat story.

How stupid of you, having made a mistake and found the concrete alone, out of pure distraction.

Carrillo sent you small glances during the whole process - always checking, always aware of his surroundings. He didn’t come closer, though. He didn’t even ask. You felt stupid again, because you wanted him to have a reaction, at least one with just enough warmth as the first time you got injured.

“You know-”

“No, I don’t know. And for the sake of my job, I would rather not know.”

You didn’t raise your eyes from the letters and envelopes in your hands to give your father the satisfaction of a glance. He was there, standing in front of your desk, both hands inside his pants pockets and probably a smirk on his face. Again, you didn’t try a chance to look at him more than at his pristine shoes.

A letter from your mother. You could read at home.

“I think you have a dead wish.”

“Got this job, what can I say?”

FBI Report 1 on Cartel Activities in the States. You dropped the others on the desk to open this one, noticing how he started to look around the office nonchalantly. While he was distracted, you did give him a single side eye before going back to the paper.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Back to business.

A call-up from Messina. She could’ve just asked for her secretary to call and…

“Noonan told me you two talked.”

“Mm.”

“Using your privileges?”

“Well, it could be a privilege if I was the president’s daughter. You’re just a friend who might’ve fucked her once.”

Jorge Pérez. You frowned at that one, raising it closer to your face to get a better look on the handwriting. With a high level of importance, it said. Jorge…

“Since you’re good to use that smart mouth of yours,” The sudden proximity made you jump, but before you could react, he took the envelope from your hands, threw it on the desk and grabbed your arm harshly. “We better talk like in the old times.”

And it still hurted, the arm and the whole left side of your body. It hurted because you fucking fell from that fucking roof and he knew that, but since he was on the ‘old times’ side, there wasn’t a single care on his features or an hesitance to do worst with you. He was mad. From the grip he had on your arm, a touch violent.

When your body was pressed against your desk with force (because he pushed you), you hid your hiss of pain for the sake of raising your guard. You couldn’t do that during the old times, which was something he noticed - perhaps. There wasn’t the height difference, you weren’t looking at him from below and he wasn’t staring down at you even if he tried to. Eye to eye, with more than a scary face to stare back at him.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” He asked through gritted teeth, close enough to make himself heard without raising his voice.

“... You need to be more specific.”

“You fucking know exactly what I’m talking about, girl, you better be careful with your next choice of words.”

“Or what? You’re gonna ground me?” The teasing made him take a deep and warning breath. “I could use some days without going out with my friends, you know?”

“I was cleaning the mess of this stupid country before you could even clean your shit dirty ass, so you better know what you’re getting here,” He pressed, getting even closer to put a finger on your face. “Think you can be that person? To play dirty behind my back and thinking I wouldn’t know?”

“Was trying my best to be like you.”

He didn’t answer. You licked your lips, nodded. The guy was fucking desperate and taken aback.

You smiled.

“What? She took your toys away?” Again, silence. “I bet she said you’re here like a second chance. I even risk saying that the big guys needed a dog to do the dirty work and keep all the blame. You’re good at it, aren’t you? Being incompetent but leaving that good trail of blood behind your back? Doing that shit they’ll all deny or say it was a ‘collateral effect’?”

And then you said something you didn’t dare to comment on for years. Years.

“Or fucking whores around the country and having bastard kids with them?”

He reacted to that - of course he would. In the blink of an eye, he grabbed your jaw and pressed his fingers on the meat of your face, growling at the implication of such a harsh truth.

“You don’t want to do that…” A threat. “Being my daughter or not, I can fucking destroy your career piece by piece and take any remote chance of you to have a reputation, enough to make you spend the rest of your life cleaning bathrooms for a meal. Do you hear me?”

This time, you didn’t answer. He took that as indifference.

“I’ll do better. I’ll take Peña away, because I can do that. Perhaps they’ll like to know about Los Pepes and all of the other shit your partner is involved in. Maybe even Carrillo can go back to Madrid or whatever the fuck they decided to, since you’d been grown so fond of him recently.”

You couldn’t hide your surprise at the sudden revelation, which brought a devious smile on that face. His fingers flexed against your jaw and when you made the mistake of holding his wrist to stop the touch, he saw all the confirmation he needed to know, if he really needed one.

“Honestly, it took me a while to notice. But there’s the thing with him, maybe he thinks you’re worth the waste of time. You always proved yourself to be a very good warm hole for men in general, maybe that’s your best feature.”

Just then, after saying what probably had been stuck on his throat, he distanced himself. You didn’t move a finger to massage the area, watching him take a handkerchief from inside his pocket and wiping his fingers as if you had somehow soiled him.

“I killed Juan Marcos for you. I did it. You can just imagine my surprise to know that my own daughter, the one I killed for, decided to fight against me…” He said it without looking at you, still brushing his stupid fingers. “But I’ll take it, you know? You’re emotional like your mother and it disappointed me a lot.”

When he raised his eyes to you again, he measured your stance, the way your fists were clenched and your breathing intense. If you could, you would kill him right there, would… Fuck, you would make him swallow all of that humiliation. The rage was bubbling in your insides, ready to snap against him in a second.

Perhaps he expected you to. He wanted that excuse. And when you gave him nothing, he scoffed, putting his hands inside the pockets again and he sighed.

“Look at the bright side of things, sweetheart, we can have some similarities. These people, these… latinos… They can have you by the neck, anyone would fall for it and you wouldn’t be different. This we have in common. Just don’t be stupid enough to get pregnant or whatever, they don’t pay much for these guys around here.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe until he left the room, unsure if what that could do to your sanity such was the tension and hatred he has instilled in you. When he did leave, not giving you a single glance back, the same clenched fists were raised to your eyes where you brushed them in hopes to prevent any tears from spilling out. Your heart was beating so fast, so incessantly, that you didn’t move a finger until you could collect yourself.

It was too overwhelming, too much, too much, too much…

You crouched down on the desk, hidden from whoever might be there so early in the day, and put your palms against your mouth. Eyes tightly closed, you stifled a sob as you felt the wetness of tears between your fingers. Any curse word that was on the tip of his tongue, any… unbridled urge to retort, it was all stuck inside your mind and in no time, during that breakdown, you thought the response would be as passive as your reaction.

But you were passive.

More than that, you let yourself be carried away by resentment and anger, thinking that you would be superior if you just kept quiet.

He did it, you thought. The asshole broke you.

--------------------------

One of the things about Carrillo was that he always made himself… present. After a considerable amount of time under him, on top of him or close enough to him, you could recognize scents, things intrinsic to what he was and wore and did and knew how to be.

You were virtually dating an almost full glass of lemon vodka when you smelled the perfume. At first, you thought it was some kind of hallucination, like your abused and lost mind trying to find traces of comfort (even if lying, even if cruel or momentary) to keep you going. After all this time, it was an automatic escape mechanism - if you were more politicized about it, you'd have a box of pills by your bed instead of your badge and your gun.

Just after a moment, when you felt someone sitting beside you and you could see his wrist watch there, your body reacted. You didn’t know if it was for resentment or just all the shit you’d been through with your father, but for a moment you wanted to avoid everyone - including him. Especially him.

Which was a fucking hypocrisy, given the place you were at.

“Did your father talk to you?”

And he didn’t ask in a inquisitive tone, like he was demanding for you to say the truth, but you felt taken aback by the neutral curiosity that filled his question and was splayed all over his face. With your silence, Horacio raised his eyebrows and got a good look at your confused expression.

“I heard he's been speculating about your physical state since the incident earlier today.”

“Just him?”

He tilted his head to the side, hiding a small smile.

“We all know you’re tough,” A shrug. “But I’m happy to know that you came back in one piece.”

“Happy is a big word, don’t you think?” You frowned, taking a sip on your drink while watching him raise a hand to the bartender.

“What would you rather me say?”

“Relieved.”

“That was quite fast.”

“I'm just saying I saved you a lot of red tape and paperwork.”

“What you're telling me is that your conversation with your father was much more intense than I thought.”

It made you lose what little humor you had left, enough for your face to visibly stiffen at the insinuation. Still, Carrillo was unaffected, but understood that maybe it wasn't the time. Rather than speculating further, he settled back on the stool when the whiskey arrived in front of him on the counter and didn't look at you for a while, as if he was just there to keep you company. This breath gave you time to observe him calmly.

He wasn't in uniform, but you doubted he'd just left the house to be right there, judging by the obvious sweat and dull expression. From what you heard, he's been in negotiation meetings with other minor sicarios who've been arrested, probably even Los Pepes if you pushed hard enough, but that was the kind of context you really liked to stay out of.

He certainly wasn't satisfied; sure enough, for one plus one, Carrillo was just frustrated by the way things had turned out and he could suddenly use alcohol. It was an ordinary bar, you were there when you decided to have good sex that would become delicately complicated. The difference was that there was less wear and tear, less fatigue. You two certainly weren't fresh for the job anymore.

And even so, Horacio continued to have this brusque, striking and not very delicate beauty. Unlike Javier or Steve, he hasn't lost any weight, and perhaps made good use of homemade meals to gain a little more physical mass. A very discreet bulge poked out on his belly, but that only meant he was healthy.

There was a soft smirk on his face, almost imperceptible, when you raised your eyes - he caught you staring. You noticed, of course, because you still were stupid enough to keep notes on him. It was inevitable, the way you and him stared at each other. Lights low, soft music, a ton of feelings all over the place - you couldn’t ride any other way.

“... Why are you here?” The question came in a low tone, breaking that spell for a moment. You blinked a few times, self aware of your body language, and gestured with the cup.

“Different motives, similar interests, I guess.”

“How do you know my motives?”

“Consider this my intuition.”

He nodded, not defeated but understanding. A silence hung in the air, more comfortable and cozy; it was easy to be more abrupt in your next comment, like a revelation suddenly caught in your throat by an instant memory of what had happened earlier that day.

“Did you know?” Like a spilled thought, you asked as if he would know what you were referring to. When nothing but a frown appeared on his face, you clarified with simplicity. “That we fucked. You knew my father knew about it?”

You could expect a lot of things, because Carrillo was very intuitive and certainly wouldn't run away from a confrontation if that were the case, just like your father wouldn't either. So when he looked even more confused and taken aback by the question, you reconsidered your position for a moment and turned your eyes to the drink in your hands, not knowing what to say next.

Horacio shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable.

“What did he tell you?” He asked then, more inquisitive this time.

“Nothing I didn’t deal with before. It's just… Sounded like something he could have guessed, like it was simple. I don’t remember a moment where we showed we were explicitly involved. Like the way we were, I mean.”

Casting a glance in his direction, you saw his jaw clench, then his face averting your gaze. Carrillo looked… angry?

“You know I don't have any hierarchical ties with him, right?”

“I do.”

“So why don't you tell me exactly what he told you?”

“Because it's complicated!” You bit back with exasperation. “Look, there was a reason why I’ve been so reticent about him being here. It’s not just his past or whatever the fuck he did here, we didn’t talk for years! Years, Horacio. And there’s a reason why it happened and it’s nothing like you can simply do something about. Honestly, I think it would be better if you didn't get involved.”

“It doesn't make any difference now.”

“Yes! I-” You stopped your own rambling and took a deep breath. “I know it. That’s the fucking problem.”

More silence. That made you aware of your tone, your mood, the way you’d been holding your shit together in such a pathetic way.

“I’m tired,” Your fingers massaged the bridge of your nose, elbow on the counter and a defeated sigh falling from your lips. “Don’t tell this to anyone, tho. I would like to finish my fucking job without people feeling pity of me.”

“But you’re telling me.”

“... Yeah. Well, last time you decided to pick my pieces we ended up making out. It’s better than whatever Peña would have in the cards for me.”

He smiled - no, you would rather say he just scoffed and took a long sip of his drink, as if it was the closest you could get in a good mood.

“Peña.” Carrillo repeated, head shaking. “What would he offer to you? Mm?”

The question made you frown but, again, you weren’t in the mood to read between the lines and he probably didn’t want to make his intentions a secret. There was a hint of jealousy there, a resentment.

“You know we don’t-”

“I know.”

You hummed, eyeing the drink in front of you to consider the situation. That could make you smile a little, even for a second, knowing that Carrillo couldn’t hide the stupidness of it all.

“... It would be less complicated,” The confession was uncomfortable, too realistic, enough to make you embarrassed. “Sounds like a convenient statement, in fact. Peña doesn’t have an accent, he doesn't have both feet and heart in this country either.”

He considered.

“Am I not American enough for him?” Carrillo asked with a discreet frown.

“Nn-nn.”

“Gracias a Dios.” Thank God, he murmured against his cup, which almost brought another considerate smile to your lips.

“I tend to be controversial, it gets me into trouble occasionally,” Your hand unconsciously massaged your chin, as if sensing other fingers pressing the skin there. It brought a lot of discomfort - enough to make you clear your throat to prevent any intrusive memory.

But that was the crux of the matter, what put you on your toes about Horacio Carrillo in the first place: he was so observant. And he noticed the way you caressed that area for a nanosecond too long, which made him shift in his seat to get closer, just a little longer, just to get a better look in the dim light.

First it was his fingers gripping your jaw, bringing your face up to his watchful gaze. Then, carefully, those same fingers descended on your skin, on the sensitive part, and you didn't hesitate to hiss in slight pain. When you averted the touch with a tilt of your head, looking around suspiciously, he became stern - serious. Mad.

“All this secrecy, this… Fear that people would find out about us. Now it all seems truly in vain.”

“It was the best for everyone. If Noonan or Messina find out, I-”

“They weren't there when he touched you.”

“We both know it doesn't matter here. Not with people like us.”

“Offenders?”

“Disposable.” You took his hand on yours, taking his touch away even if not in a harsh way. He was still mad, you could sense, but it was like Carrillo turned into a preoccupied mess.

“... If he ever touches you again, you will tell me.” An order, one you resisted the urge to roll your eyes for. “That's what a disposable person does, isn't it? A good one-on-one with a gringo would do justice to the title.”

That made you smile - truly smile. At the genuine tone, at the perseverance of his intentions. A surprisingly astute man with wills that went beyond the position he had and he was there, cutting the caress of your body for the discreet touch of your hand, watching your reactions with such attention.

You observed him in silence, elbow on the counter, hand supporting your head while taking the guy in. He was so stunning, you couldn’t quite catch which detail of his physiognomy you liked best. And there were other attributes on him, like his body and capacity, but maybe… The mouth? Chin? Cheeks? Brows? Hair? Eyes?

Looking in retrospect, it made some sense. The attraction, the bickering. Carrillo was made like that, built to be exactly the way he was, ready to accept the fate of his messy world with strong hands and the perseverance of someone who always tried hard enough until he didn’t need it anymore.

“You know what I need right now?”

He shook his head.

“I’ve been through hell since I woke up, my body is tired and… I need a shower. A good, warm shower, yeah? And then a decent night's sleep, which I haven't had in weeks.”

There was another beat of silent consideration from him, a peaceful and relaxed one.

“... I have a warm shower.” His voice came in a teasing tone.

“You do?”

“Mm-hm.”

You bit your lip, mouth hidden behind your fingers.

“Okay.”

--------------------------

His house seemed more receptive, perhaps because of the circumstances or your condition. You looked around the place that remained the same, with different furniture here or there, something that reminded you of someone passing by to clean or organize. Juliana, maybe.

The thought made you frown, even if that detail (or that piece of memory) didn’t make the place look less… homemade. You were unsure, however. Even if some part of you knew what you should be doing now while Horacio made sure all the windows and doors were still locked, you couldn’t move from your spot in the middle of the living room, arms hanging on your sides while you felt lost, even a touch numb.

“Hey.”

Carrillo was standing in front of you, searching for you even if you were there, not so focused, not deciding if he should get closer or not. You blinked a few times, suddenly aware of your recent marks and physical pains. He didn’t try to poke through it, tho - he gave you his hand, palm open to your eyes.

That touch meant more, like the first deep breath of fresh air.

There were the stairs, then the corridor. You prevented yourself from saying out loud about your legs or feet; a few grunts followed the way, but he decided not to comment as well. Horacio just kept going, assured the steps of someone who knew the place well. When you reached the room (his bedroom), there wasn’t time to observe the details of that place you knew from the past experience, because he took you to the other door, one you didn’t notice at first.

The bathroom was considerably huge, made for two and with some space for more. Wife, perhaps kids. You also tried not to imagine this life, this possibility that seemed real for him before you and probably before Escobar. Standing still, your mind tried to make you feel more pathetic when you didn’t move to undress, but again, Carrillo didn’t ask.

He opened button by button, careful with his moves and the fabric of your shirt, which wasn’t so clean and had seen better days. You observed his movements, stoic and precise as always, and when the shirt was finally off, he stopped. Of course you were aware of the bruises, the not-so-sexy bra and even less sexier shape of your boobs.

No, that wasn’t the reason why he stopped. You knew it wasn’t. And you felt so embarrassed all of the sudden.

“No, no-” His hand covered yours before you could hide something. “Puede que no seamos los mismos de antes, pero tú sigues siendo tú. Y lo quiero todo de todos modos.” We may not be the same as before, but you are still you. And I want it all anyway.

“... It's not what I look like that worries me,” You said. “It just seems unfair that every time we're together, there's some shadow of what we do. I don't want you to look at me and think about it.”

“But it's what we do.”

“And are you by any chance proud of every part of this?”

“Huh,” He scoffed, but not in mockery, tilting his head to the side and going back to his small mission, this time going to your belt. “Sería estúpido no arrepentirse de algunas cosas en el camino, ¿no crees?” It would be stupid not to regret some things along the way, don't you think?

“¿Siempre cambias al español cuando hablas de cosas difíciles?” Do you always switch to Spanish when talking about difficult things?

“Recuerdo haber dicho que me gustabas en inglés.” I remember saying I liked you in English.

And he did stop again, your belt and the button of your jeans opened. Carrillo did that to look at your face, observe any reaction from you, and all you could give back was the same taken aback expression you had earlier that night. Saying it in front of you, like that, mentioning that he simply liked you… It still sounded easier, but it also sounded safe.

“... Will it be a lonely bath? Or do you intend to accompany me?”

He tilted his head to the side again, shrugged, then decided to go back to his work with your pants.

“I’m not fragile, you know?” You said in a low tone.

“What I know is that there’s too many people aware of that information.” Carrillo didn’t look at you, but honestly it wasn’t necessary. He said what he said, so you wouldn’t try to bite back.

The silence, though, made him frown and finally raise his eyes to you. Just then, with his attention and heavy gaze, you noticed your own eyes were wet. You blinked a few times, shook your head. For some reason, or maybe for obvious ones, there was a big cloud of resentment surrounding you two all of the sudden - of bad decisions or just a touch of cowardness from your part. Horacio was hot headed, sometimes too impulsive for his own good; your father, quite the opposite, patiently waiting for the right opportunity to make what he thought was best.

“... I’ll take the guest bathroom. There’s probably something you can borrow from my wardrobe too.”

“Okay.”

“If you need anything-”

“Mm-hm. I know.”

He placed a gentle kiss on your temple - right above the bandage still hanging for dear life there. Took you a lot to move from there, to shake the warm touches from your body and mind, and a few minutes after he left, you rubbed your eyes with the palms of your hands to keep any emotions from spilling over and finished taking off your clothes.

The water was hot, but not hot enough to be uncomfortable. You felt each drop washing your pores as if it were taking away pieces of your skin, as if all the dirt of the day had not been washed away enough even though this was your second shower of the day.

The skin on your jaw was irritated by how hard you rubbed it, trying to get something out that might not be coming off any time soon.

--------------------------

“... He said something.”

Carrillo raised his eyes from the small patterns he was tracing on your skin with his finger, observing you with curiosity. He had these comfy pants, the flip-flops laying on the floor, the basic shirt - it was like entering another world, seeing someone else instead of… him. But it was him, indeed. Domestic him. And after the dinner (the one he promised a lifetime before), he took you to his bed and made more compliments about you wearing one of his shirts.

Honestly, you didn’t want to bring it at that moment. You didn’t even want to make this a conversation with him, to remember whatever happened that led to that specific space of time where you found comfort in his arms, but that thing entered your mind like a plague and you couldn’t shake it out of your mind.

“‘Said he killed Juan Marcos for me.”

He didn’t react - not for the first few seconds. In the middle of that half-dark, warm room, with you two between his comfy sheets, Horacio let the information sink in, averting your gaze to watch his movements on the skin peaking through the collar of that old shirt. For a moment you even thought he wouldn’t say anything; for what felt like ages, Horacio Carrillo didn’t move.

You stared at the ceiling, then, that thought burning your insides like a fucking infection. That made you press, just a little, just to… feel something.

“Would you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Kill for anyone.”

Carrillo sighed.

“I’ve been doing that for a living,” He argumented. “But that’s not the question, right?”

“No,” You shook your head. “I wouldn’t ask you to, though. Nor Javi or Steve or… him.”

“Well, I think we all know that too,” With a grunt, he adjusted his body to eye you from above, leaning on his elbow. “Killing in someone's name can be a lot if we weren't who we are, at least. In this kind of life, this is just a consequence or a detail that bumps into our routine.”

His words made you consider.

“Sicarios kill for loyalty and money, we kill for a solution... A father kills for his daughter for love and protection.” You pointed out, more like a reflection than a proper opinion. When you looked at him again, he waited for that conclusion with patience. “He didn't want to protect me, Horacio. He never did this, why would he do it now? To get some kind of leverage when he found out I put Noonan against him?”

“What?”

The realization on his face made you feel ashamed, as if all the days you've been beating yourself up about it materialized right there, in front of you, in the form of the disappointment that would stamp his face when he owned up to what you'd done. You waited, waited, waited… And when nothing came, you distanced yourself physically by sitting up on the bed, fingers playing with itselves while he just kept staring.

With a deep breath and a lot to say, you confirmed.

“She was always my father's friend, probably since I can remember. When she called me into a meeting, I figured he might have said something to arouse suspicion, to make her suspicious of my ability to do my job. I knew he was planting something there, waiting for the right chance to take me out of the picture. Not for protection, just… Perhaps he saw me as a problem, perhaps I am a problem.”

Carrillo listened with a neutral expression, which started to make you feel even more tense.

“I struggled a lot to do that, to have the least amount of respect without being in his shadow. Every day, in every single thing I've done since I chose this career, I've always been sure I wanted to be better than him. Realizing that he throws every shovel possible into our relationship has me panicking, especially since he's my father and he's trying to sabotage me for his own benefit.”

It's been a long time since you've done this - venting your frustrations. For some reason, you knew Carrillo wouldn't do anything with that information, at least nothing other than keeping it to himself. Being there with him, in that private universe, you were free to get it all out there, to expose an unspoken truth of hardship and cruelty. Of course, given the circumstances, that comfort would just be another unspoken truth between the two of you. A secret magnetism that made sense, as long as it wasn't said to the four winds, because you were never exceptionally good at it and it was evident.

You sighed in defeat, unsure of what that silence meant - condescendence, weighting, reticence. There was a vision of you before your confession and there was certainly another after it - it wasn't like you could justify yourself.

All that considered, it was a surprise when he reached over and kissed your cheek, subtly, just to get your attention. When you looked up, Horacio cupped your face in one hand and looked into your eyes, using the gentlest of caresses to gaze at you with a certain amount of admiration and affection. You probably had that same expression at the moment, because he couldn’t stop staring.

“I couldn’t judge him if his intentions were true,” He mumbled. “But mine are. Sometimes, my respect can blind me and I can be… obnoxious towards my feelings for you, almost… dumb. Perhaps. Perhaps you don’t even want to know that now, being here and going through this, but I would kill for you. Viviría por ti.”

I would live for you.

You looked into his eyes and felt a courage you only felt at the sight of a gun, or the sight of your father's eyes. It wasn't usual, it felt very uncomfortable, but accept the reality that he only considered it all a passing fever of passion rather than something that really had consistency.

There was no consistency in that life, nor in the fact that you met, crossed paths and exchanged a single word to each other - because no minimally consistent relationship could come from that reality.

“This can’t be,” You said, holding his hand with your palm. “You can’t do this to me, Horacio.”

“You didn't have that right either. Don't believe for a second I didn't think this was all crazy, all... una gran mierda,” His last words came as a whisper, as if he just confessed something serious enough to make him grab all of the circumstances inside his head.

Carrillo sighed.

“Juliana had never confronted me this way, she had never told me what she felt with such certainty. I spent a lot of time blaming her for this, but the truth is, being with me hurts. I'm a ticking time bomb, a static creature that lives by rules that I don't always believe in but that make me who I am. I'm a big bunch of beliefs that don't take me anywhere.”

“... But I did.”

He let the silence linger, your other hand passing through his face while he nodded.

“Yeah,” You could see, deep down, that he was on the verge of crying. Carrillo. Crying. Suddenly, he was that boy, pristine and full of feelings he couldn’t spill out for the sake of being well-behaved, of not building any more problems for his mama.

You never thought you'd witness it - or find sense in a man like that looking so torn apart for so long.

“And I honestly don't know what to make of it all.”

Ultimately, you realized as you took the initiative to give him a subtle kiss on the mouth, discreet enough to hear him sigh in relief, that it felt right because Carrillo lived in absolutes. Life or death. Right or wrong. To shoot or not to shoot. There was a weight there, a responsibility; all of a sudden, if you could, you'd take it all away from him because you… you needed it. From him? From his company? Of the feelings he caused? You couldn't tell, even while kissing him.

What you could say, for sure, was that a mess encounter led you to a difficult realization: that you loved him.

And you were afraid of it.

--------------------------

Next part’s snippet:

“What?”

He asked with a confused expression, but you couldn’t quite catch his question right away. With a hand in front of your mouth, you swallowed a sob and held that letter with a firm grip, afraid of it all being a lie or an illusion or… A trick. A fucking universe trick for your mind and soul.

You raised your eyes to Carrillo, gulping again to prevent any big emotion from spreading all over the place.

“... It’s… It’s Jorge.”

“And who is it?”

The words almost didn’t leave your mouth, as if you were scared of the consequences of just… saying it.

“My brother.”

------------------------------------

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