#it's true though you can't even live here unless you're middle class.

[mvimes]

I guess I already knew this, but the other day I asked my coworkers (mostly from South America) how they were dealing with the US so far. Most patients in clinic here are dealing with a number of social and mental issues in addition to the physical.

My coworkers said "the US is a terrible place to be poor in," basically - in a poor country it's still possible to exist, but in the US, everything's catered to at least a middle class. You can't live anywhere, food is expensive, you need to support the costs of a car (in 95% of cases), sudden medical costs will bankrupt you, you can't pay for college, etc. At least in their countries you can afford to live, even if you can't live an amazing lifestyle

[olderthannetfic]

if you don't mind me sending yet another personal questions on anon... i'm in my mid-20s, single, and pro-abortion because i'd rather fetuses not be born rather than abandoned or died of hunger or stunted from malnutrition. i'm from a third-world country so it's very common here and it's very sad to me. i'm not exactly poor though, more like middle class, i guess?

recently my coworkers talked about getting married and having children. one of them said "i've seen old people without children and no one takes care of them. also, an old person's happiness is mostly from watching their children grow up. that can never be replaced with anything." it sounds a little bit weird to me, but i'm not sure if it's because i'm single and have never looked up about parenting and children before, so i asked "but isn't it selfish to give life to children because you want someone to take care of you/you don't want to die alone? and aren't there other sources of happiness?" they reiterated that watching your children grow up is a different kind of happiness and that "having someone to take care of you is not the main goal, but it's gained anyways" but the way they said it sounds like it's the main goal to me because they don't state any other goals like "i want a footballer kid" or "i want a kid to take them on trips" or even "to continue the bloodline in the name of evolution". i honestly don't really get it.

i mean, they're free to think whatever they want as long as they don't abandon their children, but it brings me to a dilemma. i'm scared of dying alone and missing out on watching my own children grow up. but also, i don't think i'm ready to have children due to my mental capacity and lack of parenting skills. i'm scared of being selfish; what if my child turns out unhappy and depressed like me? what even is MY main goal? i have so many that i want to do, like travelling around the world, but eventually all my goals will be fulfilled and i'll have spare money, but i'll be less mobile when i grow up, and being pregnant is more dangerous as you grow older.

i'm still single so i think i have time to think about it, but it creeps on me like a ticking timer. since you and some of your readers are older and have probably went through this dilemma, what do you think? what even brought you to the point where you're set on having/not having children?

--

Yes, people are absolute morons about children.

In the context of the US, we have shit health care and a shameful dearth of ways to care for our elderly, disabled, or terminally ill. Most of the work falls to family. It is absolutely true that people with kids have a better shot of reasonable end of life care...

However, that's going to depend on where you live, and you could easily end up estranged from your kids or your kid could get hit by a bus or something. Treating something as major as parenthood as a guarantee of in-home nursing is fucking stupid in any country.

Different kind of happiness, my ass.

I'm happy I managed to have a kid after leaving it pretty late. My baby is delightful. I still don't see how this is that different from a best friend or a hobby. I think a lot of people are just boring and have no idea how to be rabidly passionate about their hobbies. They also have no idea how to build emotional intimacy. If they can't make a bff who'd nurse them through cancer, they probably can't instill those feelings in their kid either.

Most people find conception just fine up through the mid 30s. Late 30s even. I had to do IVF because I waited into my 40s. The pregnancy was still fine. The birth sucked because I didn't yell at the hospital staff forcefully enough or have a good enough advocate with me, but it still turned out okay. The medical part should be a relatively small part of your calculation unless you have reason to think the local medical system will make pregnancy particularly dangerous.

--

For me... I'd always assumed I'd have one. I didn't find the right partner, but I did run out of time. I pictured what my life would look like in five years with a kid. What would we be doing together? And I liked that picture, so I went for it.

One thing that helped a lot was that my mother was perpetually too busy running a business but did genuinely care. She left me alone to pursue my own hobbies a lot and did not hover because she was always doing ten thousand things, including her own stack of hobbies.

Most parenting content is about as pleasant as cleaning out a latrine. It's all full of "Do these seventy-two things every single morning or you're a Bad Mother™" and pretending like kids need your overbearing personality squashing them 24/7.

I like to joke "Well, you have to know which end goes up, and you have to feed them occasionally."

Thousands of years of imperfect people did manage not to drop the baby on its head. We even have vaccines now. You would be fine.

Also, my mother absolutely did drag me around the world when I was little. She got a chance to go visit Indonesia with a gamelan she used to play with when I was four and a half, so off we went. I had to completely change how I ate because it was all random homestays in the mid 80s, and the food they had was the food they had. Mom didn't think twice about this.

The biggest parenting error people make—not just personal happiness error but child emotional health error—is stopping living their lives because kids somehow need some bullshit normie fantasy of staying home forever and doing nothing interesting. You need to make a lot of time to do things with the kid, but those can be the things you actually like, not shit from a canned list of child appropriate activities.

If you are never "selfish", you will only teach your child that they cannot have both a kid of their own and a life.

Children need consistency, but that consistency is you caring about them and being around, not you giving up ever having personal time or interests.

[sunriseverse]

soooo how DO u write fem aus that don't feel stilted and ooc? :O

hello anon i owe you my LIFE thank you for asking <3 this is a topic i have a lot of feelings on. i'm not like, the One True Fem AU Rules Maker, obviously, but i think that having a multitude of fem au fics and getting praised on my ability to write canon male characters in character in fem aus gives me the right to have some thoughts on the topic.

okay, to start with: my complaints on things that i've spent over a decade running into. historically, i've found that fem aus tend to have a couple persistent problems across fandoms (and i do mean across fandoms—i've seen these in everything from massive fandoms like marvel, middling ones like pacrim, and tiny cnovels). in my experience, usually they boil down into two flavours: "that's not [xyz character], that's a female oc with his name slapped on" and "oh, you just have no idea how most real sapphics live, do you?". oftentimes these two are entwined; it makes for an off-putting, often cringe-inducing experience as a lesbian trying to read something that's supposedly meant to speak to my experiences—and this is a shame, because often the concept of whatever the fic's plot is is pretty interesting!

(i should specify that i have no experience with het shipping for fem aus—when i say “fem au” i mean all parties romantically and/or sexually involved are women* and that the dynamic is a sapphic and/or lesbian one. also i haven’t seen (much) het shipping with r63 since i started to aggressively curate my online experience—though i remember when i was younger it was often a way for fanfic authors to get around the squeamishness of shipping two men.)

the "that's an oc with a canon name" problem: this is the one i see the most often. for reasons i cannot fathom (i can. it's misogyny), a lot of people writing fem aus come off as, rather than writing "what if these men were women", instead writing the idea of male characters as Women, since, as we all know, Those Soft Pink Women are an entirely different class than Big Strong Men. it's gender essentialism, to be blunt—sure, not an insidious manifestation of it, but one which reinforces misogynistic, sexist stereotypes nonetheless. instead of considering ways a character's traits would remain as a woman, they're reduced to Idea Of Woman. i should specify—i'm not saying that men and women don't often have different lived experiences, especially when it comes to gendered social expectations and what's permitted/not permitted by society. but what often gets missed is that a lot of things can remain the same. you've met a gnc woman, haven't you? i'm not going to get into specific things like "should you change a character's name in a fem au?" because i think that in a lot of cases you can make arguments either way; my point is that, if a character is stubborn and argumentative as a man, why can't they be as a woman? if they're toxic as a man, or passive-aggressive, or intensely emotional, what stops a female version of them being like that?

(and to go on a tangent, of course, if you keep these "unfeminine" traits, you instantly have the opportunity to do some really fun exploration—if this character is one who actively tries to conform to their gender as a man, how do they handle this? how do the people around them treat them differently (or not!) for being "unfeminine" in personality? assuming, of course, that those traits are even considered unfeminine; it's very cultural.)

a note i'd like to add here is that, if you want to keep a character from being ooc as a woman, it's a good idea to keep their dynamic(s) with key characters in canon as canon-typical as possible. of course, this isn't always going to be possible; sometimes, dynamics are a certain way because of gendered presuppositions/assumptions, but that, too, can be something that makes it feel more real! however, i should say that, generally, if you're making a slash ship femslash, unless there's a very compelling reason (and i've almost never run into one), keeping their canon dynamic as best as possible will make not only their relationship, but the characters themselves feel more in character.

the "have you ever met an actual sapphic" problem: this one, i'll emphasise, isn't restricted to any type of person—i hate to break this stunning news, but even if someone isn't straight, this doesn't exclude them from writing something worthy of showing up on what i've personally dubbed "r/straightpeoplewritingsapphics" (and, i should be upfront, some of my early femslash aus suffer from this as well, because i hadn't really ever met any other sapphics, so all i had to go off of was stereotypes around sapphics and sapphic relationships). but i think this stems largely from the fact that fem aus almost never get much traction—so they aren't discussed in wider fanon, so there aren't examinations of dynamics happening the way they do for slash, so writers aren't prompted to critically analyse their depictions, so the depictions tend to be one dimensional or skewed or just badly ooc and feeling unrealistic, et cetera, and into infinity.

however, i think another problem is that, similar to the problem i raised earlier with writing what feels like ocs, is that instead of writing about sapphics, people are writing about the Idea Of Sapphics. i see people go into long internet research rabbitholes to make slash ships make sense for the time period, or culture, read and watch and investigate personal accounts by lgbt men about their lives and relationships, etc—and yet, i don't see people doing the same for female characters as often, let alone sapphics and sapphic relationships for fem aus. and i don't mean that you have to read critical feminist theory and writings about lesbian eroticism if you want to write a 3k oneshot fem au; i just mean that the experiences of sapphics, especially lesbians, are not given importance, even when it comes to portraying us. if you were writing about firefighters, wouldn't you consider how their lives might be different from, say, a doctor? and yet, often, fem aus feel like two (or more) straight women who kiss each other and maybe have sex—hyperfeminine, highly gender conforming, without any connection to other sapphics, sapphic culture, sapphic history, sapphic experiences. you've seen the complaints about two actresses giving the most pursed-lip kiss when they're supposed to be romantically and sexually involved—this is, in my opinion, the fanfic version of that. if you want to portray sapphics and sapphic relationships better—don't make assumptions! read posts or watch videos or read novels or watch films or read manhwa etc etc by and about sapphics and sapphic experiences. if you're not sapphic, it'll help give you a better idea of portraying sapphics; if you are sapphic, you'll probably learn new things and find a greater sense of community! (this is what happened to me—being a lesbian who loves and is friends with and spends time in lesbian spaces is so much better than being an isolated lesbian as a young teen!)

however, i'll leave on a bright note! i've found that, historically, for danmei novels, fem aus tend to be more in character and realistic feeling—hualesbians, for one, and shl fem au fics, for another. i think this has a bit to do with the fact that danmei novel fans tend to be more likely to be sapphic, or at least spend time around sapphics, and fem aus are just more common to start with.

anyway, thank you for the ask!

[oasis-makcr]

Yeah! Honestly, I was homeschooled before I got to enroll at Night Raven College... well. Maybe homeschooled isn't the right word, my parents weren't that involved in it. I had a lot of tutors for all kinds of things and I sat in on what my dad does because I'm going to take his place one day?

Oh! No, Jamil doesn't have a blog. I don't know if it would actually be something he would want to do or not? I should say it's not like I'm hiding this from him, I don't think he'd have a problem with that. I think he'd just be annoyed to know that sometimes I'm just blogging in the middle of class.

Yeah, I think that's why it's called what it is! Granted, you don't actually ooze ink until you've already overblotted, so there's that.. I guess I've never thought about where magic came from! There are fae that attend school here, too, and I know how long-lived they can be... and I know that while the fae have significantly greater magic reserves because of being fae, they can still overblot...

I... huh. Yeah. I think that sounds about right. I was going to say maybe it has something to do with the magic burnt away, but... non-mages don't have to worry about that? I think you might be onto something there.

Oh, that's-- that's something that you've seen happen? That does sound pretty close, I just... never would've thought that would be a thing! That sounds kind of scary!

Yeah, a magestone can be reused! Blot can go away even if you've used magic without a magestone - the main thing is mostly that magestones give a good visual indicator of how you're doing, and you have to be extremely careful about casting magic without one. I mean... you're still aware that you're generating blot, it's... something you can feel? It leaves you feeling really unwell, if you aren't careful enough... but unless you know your limits REALLY well, you don't know when exactly you'll reach the breaking point.

Yeah. I mean.. I don't think my magic is weak by any means! I'm pretty good at it! I think my signature spell is... not always the most obviously useful, but it's a lot more versatile than some of the signature spells I've seen! I can't, say... take control of someone's body, or make a deal with someone to make their wish come true while also taking a skill or something of theirs, or nullify someone's magic entirely, but I can summon a lot of water without much effort! Besides, I'm happy with having a spell that most people find pretty unassuming. Working on everything else is a lot more important, I think.

Oh, no! I'm using a regular laptop that I brought with me from home. It's starting to die on me a little, though. We do have a version of the internet! I'm pretty sure both magic and nonmagical devices access the same internet. It's not really my area of expertise, so I can't say for sure!

And mostly housewarden meetings just consist of keeping things organized! Most of the housewarden meetings I've been to have all been about some school event or another, like organizing the Spelldrive tournament, figuring out what to do about a Fairy Gala that decided to take place on campus without warning, Halloween week events... that sort of thing where all seven dorms are setting things up and getting involved! I try my best to stay on top of things, but... well. Luckily that's what having a vice housewarden is for! Just in case you end up forgetting something and need someone else's help, because there's usually a lot of things that we have to handle looking after the students in our dorm!

Yeah... I think it's also... the unfortunate side effect of the founding families having their own entire families of servants working for them without allowing them to leave. Nobody wants to think about how life would change if we made things better because it might not benefit them.

Uh-huh! The Great Seven are mages from all over the world! There's the Queen of Hearts, who brought order to a chaotic land; the King of Beasts, who overthrew a regime that considered some animals less equal than others, and sought out equality at any cost; the Sea Witch, who compassionately helped merfolk who asked for her help; the Sorcerer of the Sands, who saved the sultanate from a conman who was trying to trick the Princess and ruin the country; the Fairest Queen, who used her magic to improve herself and tirelessly pursue her goals; the King of the Underworld, who was great at persuading people to his side and handled his job of taking care of the dead with care and diligence; and the Thorn Fairy, who was the most powerful mage of all and led the fae with great elegance and dignity!

So really, I think the reason why the Sorcerer of the Sands overshadows everyone else is because, well... the Sultan and the Princess were having the wool pulled over their eyes, and the Sorcerer did everything in his power to make them realize what was going on. As for the Djinni... I think that's another unfortunate side effect of being someone the people view as a servant. I'd love to know if there was more to the story, you know?

That's good. An education is important, even if it does get boring at times. I remember being back in school, though the subjects I learned were a lot more mundane than that - and I was more self-taught. Oh, your friend has a blog too? Could you both see each other blogs if you post?

Interesting. I guess it's called Blot because of the side effects of using, caustic ink coming out of one's body is pretty dramatic. The fact that accumulating an excess of Blot somehow enhances the potency of one's magic and causes physical changes to one's body is rather fascinating. I'd be pretty interested in your world's theories of where magic comes from - because I myself would theorize just from what you've told me that the ability to wield magic perhaps is alien in origin.

And I guess Blotting would be just transforming the body into something more suited to handle the magic you're channeling. Problem is the physical body is not suited for channeling that extra magic, so it breaks down and dies.

I'm basing this mostly on my own worldly experiences: there used to be a phenomenon in my world where if an Angel sealed into a human vessel purposely released its "limiters" aka fighting with its full power - the resulting Divinity would eventually disintegrate the human shell, because it simply doesn't have the physicality to hold it.

Can a magestone be reused? Like does Blot go away if you don't have a magestone.

Ahhh, sounds like you're surrounded by mountains if everyone you've been around has been strong by magic. Hopefully, your perspective on your power hasn't been too altered: hard to realize how high you are if all you've been living around are peaks.

Magitek really does sound fascinating. Are you using accessing this website using a Magitek device then? Do you have your own version of the internet? And what do housewarden meetings entail?

Troubled times are ahead when compassion is seen as dangerous. Hrm.

And also that's fair. You don't quite get history unless you're living in that time. I'm guessing the Great Seven must be a group of exceptionally powerful mages in your world - what makes the Sorcerer of the Sands more popular than the others you mentioned?

[johnsamericano]

𝓓𝓪𝔂 7:

тєи ℓєє

23 days of NCT masterlist.

taglist: @notbeforelong @curieouscapt @whathamelon @unknown5tar @ajhdr @silent-potato

warnings: the reader is soon-to-be engaged to someone 12 years older, virginity loss, extreme lack of experience from the reader, dirty talk, Ten’s a sweetheart 😭

“He’s here!” Your mother clapped her hands excitedly, asking the butler to answer the door.

You sat with both hands squeezed on your lap. You’d never seen a male tailor, let alone be dressed by one. Would it be uncomfortable? Just as your mind was about to drift away, a man with at least four rolls of fabric entered the room.

“Good evening, my lady.” Was he even real? He looked straight out of a painting, just like the ones hanging on your wall.

“Good evening, sir.” You bowed your head gracefully, just like you'd been taught to do.

“There’s no need to be so formal.” He smiled cheekily, his eyes disappearing just the slightest and making your heart flutter with excitement. “Let us have a seat and chat a little about what kind of dress you'd like.”

Everything went so naturally with him, from sitting down and talking about the event you'd be wearing the dress to, to his hands surrounding your waist, taking your measurements.

“I was thinking of something white, my lady. After all, the goal is to get a certain gentleman to ask for your hand, isn't it?”

“How did you...?”

“Your mother is quite a chatty lady.” You sighed. She certainly had trouble keeping things a secret, the whole town probably already knew by now.

“Then I guess you already know we've known each other since we were kids, well, since I was a kid. He's twelve years older.” You sounded so excited talking about that guy that it made him smile. “Are you married, sir?”

“God, no!” He was quick to explain. “I want to devote myself to work, that's what makes me happy.”

“But imagine yourself, waiting for your beautiful bride at the church, ready to join your lives for what is left of them. Just to think about it gives me goosebumps.” To him, what you'd just said sounded like agony. Dedicating himself to another person for the rest of his life? He’d rather jump off a cliff.

“I just don't think I'm good husband material, that's all.”

As the days passed by, you got to know him better. He’d often tell you about his job, how many dresses he'd confectioned that week, how much money he'd earned, every single little detail of it. He made it sound like a dream, he spoke so passionately about it that you wondered whether you'd ever find something that would make you feel that same way.

“Good morning, my lady.” He kissed your knuckles, a devilish grin extending through his lips as he admired your flustered face. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He extended a big, white box with a red velvety ribbon keeping it closed.

“That was fast!” You opened it to reveal a pretty, lacy dress. It was exactly what you’d asked for, but then why did you feel so sad?

“What is it, my lady? Do you not like the dress?”

“No! I love it.” He smiled, pulling out the dress from it’s confinement to let you have a better look at it. It was, indeed, beautiful.

“Would you like to try it on?”

You soon found yourself behind a room divider, slipping the soft dress on. The texture was marvelous, like wearing a cloud. It would definitely draw Johnny’s attention, that’s for sure.

“How do I look?” You stepped out, spinning around to let his critic eyes have a look at his masterpiece. He squinted his eyes as if he wasn’t pleased. “What is it?”

“Your corset.”

“Huh?”

“Truth to be told, I knew this dress wouldn’t work with a traditional corset, so I might have made a special one for the occasion.” You walked to the full body mirror, taking a look at yourself.

“It looks fine to me.”

“You look too innocent, my lady.” You furrowed your eyebrows, eyes connecting with his through your reflections. “This dress wasn’t made to make you look innocent, but to make you look like a sophisticated, upper class woman.”

You went through your options and finally decided to listen to the expert.

“Do you happen to have that corset at the moment?”

“Yes, but the problem is, only I know the right way to adjust it. Would you be okay with me doing that?” You could feel cold sweat running down the back of your neck.

Only your mother and some servants had seen you naked, but never a man. It wasn’t supposed to happen unless the couple was married. However, you felt the urge to accept his proposition.

“A-alright.” He nodded, keeping a straight face as he started undressing you.

He slowly started undoing the ribbon that kept your corset in place. Still in front of the mirror, you could see his concentrated features, not looking at anything but your back. Your mounds were finally liberated, and for a split second, you could see the tailor’s eyes staring at them.

“Raise your arms please.” Was he really not going to do anything? This was the part when the two main characters exchanged a heated session of kisses according to the novels you'd read. But he kept the same stoic face all the time.

“Ten?” This was the very first time you'd called him by his real name, well, his nickname.

He didn't seem bothered by it, concentrated on adjusting your corset.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Am I not attractive?” His hands accidentally tightened the ribbons too much, making you wince.

“Sorry.” He apologized, loosening the piece of clothing. “But why are you asking me this?”

“Well...” You were ashamed to admit it, but your curiosity got the best of you. “Aren’t men supposed to go wild over breasts? At least that's what I heard.” Ten would've never expected such an inappropriate comment from you, though he couldn't say he didn't like that new boldness of yours.

“I guess so.”

“Then why didn't you go wild over mine?”

The room was filled with nothing but silence for a couple of seconds before he finally found an appropriate answer for your question.

“I’ll ask you something first.” you nodded. “If you knew men had a thing for breasts, then why did you let me do this?” You would've liked to say that it was because you deeply trusted him, but you both knew that deep down, it wasn't completely true.

“I don't know.”

“Did you want to seduce me or something like that?” You were about to reply, but his deep laugh interrupted you. “Well, since you answered my question, I shall answer yours.” he finally finished adjusting your corset, placing his hands above the curves of your waist and leaning down to whisper something. “You have the most beautiful breasts I've ever seen. They look round and soft, the perfect size to hold them with my hand. But I can't allow myself to go wild over you, not when you're about to get engaged to someone else.” So the things wrote in novels weren't entirely fantasy, things like that did happen in real life. “Trust me, I wish nothing but to pinch those pretty, perky nipples and have you begging for more. But we can't.”

“Yes, we can.” With a newly found courage, you guided his hands up until they reached your mounds. They did, in fact, fit perfectly between his hands.

“My lady-”

“Y/n.” You held his hands against your warm body. “Please, my name is y/n.”

“Stop playing with fire.” His voice had become lower, hands shaking the slightest under yours.

“I want you to play with me, Ten. Use me, do whatever you want with my body. Alleviate the ache I'm feeling between my legs.” That was his breaking point.

His expert fingers quickly undid the knots, allowing his hungry eyes to have a look at your naked torso.

“Touch me.” he turned you around, so you were directly facing him.

“So greedy.” His hands covered your chest once again, this time with no fabric in between. His palms felt so warm against your skin, you couldn’t help but sight. “Tell me, how does your little cunt feel?”

“I-I’m sorry?” His right hand went down, rubbing circles over your undergarments. Immediate relief washed over your body.

“Do you know what an orgasm is?” You shook your head, gasping as his fingers pinched your hard nub. “It’s the only way to relief the ache you feel here.” He tapped your entrance with his middle finger, feeling your wetness under his digits.

“How can I have one?”

“You’ll have to trust me, alright?” His dominant demeanor had changed to a softer one, kissing your jawline as hands sneaked inside the fabric, a new, pleasant feeling making your legs shake. “How does this feel?”

“Nice.” He retrieved his hand, you whined at the loss of contact. “Hey!”

“Jump.” He instructed, lifting you up with both of his hands below your thighs. He guided you all the way to the nearest wall, your back pressed against the concrete surface. “Sorry for this.” He muttered before ripping your undergarments apart.

Skillfully, he lowered his pants, his hard member springing up. The moment his tip started slipping into your whole, an immense amount of pain made you scream.

“Stop!” Ten frowned, pulling away but still holding you against the wall.

“Have you changed your mind about this?” There was a hint of pain peeking through his voice.

“It hurts a lot.” As if to back up your words, a small tear rolled down your cheek.

“I know, sweetheart. But that's the way it's supposed to be.” If it hurt so much, then why did people do it so often? “You just need to get used to it and it'll start feeling better, I promise.”

“Really?” For you, it didn't make any sense.

“We can stop whenever you want, just give it a try.” You hesitantly nodded, letting him align with your entrance once again. “Deep breaths, darling.”

It was the worst pain you'd ever felt, even worse than that time when you fell off a horse. But just like the tailor had said, that unpleasant feeling was soon replaced with something else...something that made your tummy feel warm.

“You're doing so well.” He praised as if he wasn't the one doing all the hard work while you held onto his shoulders. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I need to pee.” You gasped, letting your head rest against the wall.

“Don't hold it back, darling. It means you're close.” His large hands caressed your sides, holding you tightly.

“Ten...” You whimpered, biting his clothed shoulder to stop yourself from screaming in pleasure. Something inside you exploded, making your body shake in ecstasy.

“Y/n.” You both whispered your names, pleasure taking over your minds.

“May I kiss you?” There was no response from him, his length still pulsating inside you. “If you don't want to that's-”

“Kiss me.” Your lips came closer to each other, barely millimeters away when a loud knock abruptly interrupted the moment.

“Miss y/n, Mr. Seo is here to see you.” Johnny, you'd completely forgotten about him.

“I guess you better get dressed.” He pecked your cheek, setting a fire inside you.

“I'm sorry.” He helped you put on your dress again, smiling at the sight of you trying to stop your and his essence from dripping down your bare thighs.

“Don't be.” Ten fixed your hair, proceeding to gather his stuff before sending a wink in your direction. “I guess I'll see you in a week to help you get dressed...my lady.”

[liljungie]

$OLD | KIM TAEHYUNG one shot

Pairing: [mafia leader] taehyung × reader

Trigger warnings: mentions of drugs/guns/rape( but not really¿)/ dirty talk / psychotic taehyung.

Word count: 2144

> My writings Masterlist <

Requests are open ^_^

A/N: I swear I'm not a psychopath

_

Working late at night has it's perks or maybe just to you it was a blessing.

you didn't have to face a messed up step father when he's drunk, high on toxins and out of his mind, and you don't have to hear your mother yelling at him for harassing you, again.

Not like he would stop if she did, he didn't care, he would push your mother out of the room and he would come back to your bedroom and he would lock the door and continue to abuse you, hurt you, each time it was different depending on the day.

You never knew why he did what he did, so you just let him do what he wanted and walk out ,you learned the hard way that if you say or do something or push him away you'll end up with broken bones and a lot of bruises and scars, funny enough you rather have bruises and scars rather than having a broken limb.

broken limb meant no work and no work meant you're available to your messed up stepfather to do as he please 24/7 and that's the last thing you wanted to grant him.

Ever since your mother got married to that lunatic you never been the same you became weaker, sad as ever and lost all hope in life, you worked for the local bar as a bartender to pay for the small apartment you live in and to put food infront of

your mother,even though you're young you learned mixing drinks fast you knew which tastes better and which were too strong you had to try the drinks before you served any.

Which lead you to be drunk at the end of the day most times.

Most of your drunk nights ended up in

you being unconscious behind the building naked from the waist down sometimes fully naked depending on how shitty the guy you were with the night before.

Strangers having their way with you was a hell lot better than your stepfather.

__

One night a man walked through the doors like he owns the place, suite and tie,clean face long dark hair, basically the guy was drenched in money and glory, and not to mention awfully young around your age maybe a year or three older,he had two guards on each side of him as he walked through and took a seat right in front of the bar, where you were working.

You raised your brows questionly usually rich men would sit in the booths far away from the bar that was decorated with bright colored lights so they could deal and do their dirty work privately or it would definitely be evident to everyone and men like him usually have women around him to entertain them as they sip on beverages that makes them forget reality and do whatever they want without the mind controlling their movements, not to mention this part of town was poor as hell he definitely wouldn't get that type of luxury here, middle class men and under do come here drink what they ordered and go on with their lives.

Nonetheless a job is a job and you had to do as you're told.

"good evening" a fake smile was planted on your face as you greeted the man "what would you like to drink?" He smirks as he placed his hands on top of each other on the wooden surface as he looks at you, almost analyzing you, licking his lips then he spoke "vodka"

You smiled and turned your back to him you grabbed the vodka bottle and a glass then you placed the glass infront of him and poured the liquid in and placed a lime on top and moved the glass closer to the man's hands, still offering a smile.

You went back to wiping the table, still suspicious as to why he was sitting here, of all places..you shrugged it off and decided not to pay much attention to it anymore thinking nothing of it and pushed it to the side focusing on work instead then you heard him ask "you're Christopher's step daughter aren't you?" He glanced at you still the smirk was there mocking you.

You titled your head, your eyes were glossy the mention of your stepfather's name obviously terrified you but nonetheless you answered "yes I am" sadly you wanted to add, trying your hardest not to show how much you despised that man that was your stepfather.

a million questions raced through your mind after his abrupt question you never talked about him to anyone, you didn't even know anyone you could talk to, but you figured to start with the easy questions and work your way up, you stopped wiping the table and looked him in the eyes "and you are?" You thanked the gods that your voice came out strong and clear.

The man infront of you smiled then he downed the last bit of what was left in his glass "Taehyung" he smiled at you "Kim taehyung" he winked "what about you sweetface?"

"_____" you mutter and he smiled "beautiful name for a beautiful girl" he remarks as a red hue coverd your cheeks and you looked away, you weren't used to sweet talk..not from guys around your age at least.

Taehyung signaled for his guards at the snap of his fingers and they went away..slightly but it was enough space for him to talk to you without being interrupted.

knowing his guards they get a bit overprotective and he didn't want to scare you off knowing that you lived with someone like Christopher for years was enough for him to know that you were troubled, and you would be defensive and the talk he wants to have with you is going to trigger a reaction out of you that his guards would definitely point a gun or two at.

He sighed and leaned forward taking a better look at your face, you watched him with wary eyes, slightly afraid of how the hell did he know Christopher? Your stepfather was definitely not on this man's level, this man is everything your stepdouche wasn't; Young, rich and powerful.

Why would he stoop so low unless Christopher fucked up which appears in this case;he definitely has.

"You see,______ I run a business...some would say it's deadly, which it is, but not from my end" he smiles as he starts to sweet talk the clueless girl "I'm a mafia leader" as he said that you can't believe how nonchalnet he was speaking these words like he was talking about his favourite color, your eyes definitely popped out of their sockets if you were afraid before now you were terrified, slightly shaking in your cheap boots.

"Your stepfather took a little too much candy that he couldn't pay for..." you knew exactly what type of 'candy' taehyung was talking about drugs you saw it on the tables at home before you wiped them clean, you saw him line up the powder and stuffing it in his nostrils before he made his way to your bedroom,it made you sick.

But it's not like you could have stopped him or done something.

He spoke again breaking you away from your trance "He kept promising he would pay up but as you can see darling..he never did" he licked his lips "so instead I made a deal with him" he says way too cheerfully, adjusting his collar while he sent you a smirk.

Your body was shaking with anticipation? Nervousness? You wiped your hands on the back of your jeans you didn't realize you were sweating so much you placed your hair behind your ears as if somehow that will help you understand better, which was a habit of yours "what kind of deal?" You ask afraid of the answers yet you braced yourself to hear the worst.

And it definitely looks bad for you.

He chuckled "the stupidest one baby" he chuckled louder "your stepfather is so stupid" he shakes his head, you felt his gaze change to lust the seriousness in his eyes vanished completely, you swallowed as you feel your heart drop.

And the pet names he gave you weren't helping your fragile state, it almost lured you in but not quite.

There's no way you're letting your guard down "He is messed up but he's not stupid I know he isn't" you didn't know why you were defending him as if somehow that would scare the mafia boss off, hell to him it was so adorable and he's anything but scared of you, taehyung was amused at your response.

"Oh?"He laughed and stood up from the stool leaning closer to you the only thing that was separating you from him was this bar.

He bit his bottom lip as he looked up and down on you like you were a tasty dish that he couldn't wait to devour and boy he is starving "oh yeah?" He smirks "he sold you to me babygirl"

You stared at him astonished,'he's drunk' you thought 'he is not thinking straight..he's lying' deep down inside you knew it would take a lot more than one glass of vodka to get this man drunk out of his mind you're trying to convince yourself that it's not true that there's no way your stepfather would sell you to pay up his debts.

You didn't think he would be this fucked up

But then again Christopher didn't think it's messed up to try and sleep with you; his step daughter, so selling you definitely was okay to him, you felt disgusted by him you always been but this? It definitely takes the cake and was the cheery on top of it all.

"Babygirl why the long face hmm? I knew that pig has been hurting you, it was my idea that he sells you..to me" he chuckles, your insides went up in flames you were so embarrassed and hurt and terrified you never felt this way ever, every bad emotion you could ever feel was hitting and jabbing you at once "I'd treat you so much better angel" he purrs.

"You're no different you're just as mental as he is" you spit, tears slowly run on your face, taehyung killed and tortured many he ruined lives by selling drugs to men like Christopher and worse, and he won't ever stop, it's his job and if he's capable of doing all of that surely he is capable of making your life a miserable living hell when you leave with him tonight.

Taehyung's face softens and he reaches forward wiping away your tears pitying you almost, you turned your head pressing your lips in a line trying to ignore the taste of your tears,taehyung didn't know much about emotions so he couldn't understand why you were crying, he wasn't going to kill you! Not now at least.. he thought.

'she should be thankful that I didn't shoot her right then and there at least that counts for something' he thought he's sure you're a pleasure to your stepdad and there's nothing more he loved than riding people of what they loved the most. You shouldn't be afraid of him he thought to himself.

Although firing his gun was a pleasure he didn't feel elsewhere and something he won't ever give up,his guns were everything to him,

Watching the life leave his opponent eyes was euphoric it made him feel like a hero almost.

"Don't cry babydoll" he coos as you close your eyes defeated,his hand creassing your cheek softly he kept smiling to reassure you that everything will be fine but that's so far from reality.

God the fun he's going to have with you is making him hard and he barely touched you, he can't imagine how you're going to feel around his dick or how sweet you taste.

He thinks to himself you're the overly sensitive type which turned him on massively, he wanted you to save those tears for when he's deep in you moving slowly in and out savoring every second he spends inside you stretching you out, feeling every inch of you, hitting your soft spot again and again until you're full of his cum he's sure all the dicks you had before don't compare to his and he can't wait to go home and play with you until you beg him to stop which of course he won't.

He loves his new dolls the most, you're not the first and definitely won't be the last.

"You're all mine now" he whispers sounding sweeter than honey, just like that you were wrapped around his long,gorgeous fingers.

And just like that Taehyung strikes again.

[sequel]

[raindrop-on-a-spiderweb]

There's Just Something About The Neighbors

Requested AU--if Leonardo's father had been alive during the story.

***

Flora Haywood liked her new neighbors.

The last ones had been a pain, acting as though the fact that they had moved into a middle-class neighborhood gave them special privileges. They stayed up and partied til the dawn, laughing and hollering until she couldn't sleep any longer. When they moved out, it was a enormous relief. They hoped the newer neighbors were quieter.

They were.

It was a married couple and the husband's father. They moved in quietly one day, not a peep. She stopped by to take some cookies to her new neighbors and the wife thanked her wanly but never invited her inside. She was a pale little thing with long, straight brown hair. She kept tugging her sleeves over the bruises on her wrists ("got them while moving boxes"). 

Flora never saw them outside much. Occasionally the father or husband she would see walking to work, or the wife would be doing yardwork, but other than that, they kept themselves away from the other neighbors. The husband was a handsome blond man who always tipped his hat to her when he saw her on the street. Flora wasn't sure what his job was--she thought he was employed by his father in his business, although she never did find out what business it was. The son had mentioned it was something to do with clothing, possible a factory or high-quality tailor store. 

The only time she had seen the husband's father was when he turned up on her doorstep to inform her that her lawn was becoming too overgrown, and told her to mow it. Didn't ask. Told. That one meeting was enough for her, and she would be glad if she never had to see him again. 

She was surprised to see that apparently the couple had children, as she had never seen them outside. At the grocery store she had run into the wife, sporting a fresh bruise on her cheek and a split lip, and more concerningly, a baby bump and a two-year-old. The child had a chubby round face and thick black hair--recessive genes?

When Flora greeted the wife, she looked panicked and refused to answer any questions about her child. She left the store soon after. From then on, whenever the wife saw Flora outside her home, she ducked inside.

Flora's musings about the neighbors were pushed to the back of her mind when her daughter Caroline came back from college, reeking of pot and dressed like a beatnik. She was taking a semester off to work and raise money for a trip to California. She took odd jobs babysitting around the neighborhood, even for the Borgheses, which did not last long.

"That family is fucking creepy," Caroline told her mother. "Mr. Borghese's father is always staring at me. I'm pretty sure he wants to fuck me. And I think someone is beating those kids. They always have bloody noses and the husband won't let me give them baths; I think they're bruised. Someone should call the cops on them."

Flora was tempted. A couple times, when the sounds of an argument or children crying wafted over to her side of the street, she nearly did. But then she thought of the dark cars that occasionally would be parked in their driveway at night. Of the shady men who were always in and out of their house. And their Italian last name. And she thought better of it.

***

One day when Flora went out to get the mail the wife was sitting on the doorstep crying. One of her younger children, a little blonde girl who looked all of three, was trying to comfort her, but kept looking lost and crying as well. Flora went across the street. "Are you all right, Mrs. Borghese? What's the matter?"

Mrs. Borghese looked thinner than she ever had. Her eyes were holes in her face as she looked up at Flora. "My baby's dead."

"What?" Flora was shocked. "What happened?"

"He... I just... I went in and...his body..." she was talking wildly, seeming desperate to tell her but unwilling to admit to something.

The husband came outside and ushered her in, then picked up his daughter. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Haywood," he said coolly. "My wife has been dealing with a lot over the past few days. We've just had a family tragedy."

"I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can--"

"No, no. But thank you. We just need to deal with this as it comes." He entered the house again and closed the door after him. Flora craned her neck to try and see through the window in the door, but like most things in the Borghese family's life, it was covered tightly by a curtain.

***

Caroline was due for her trip to California, and was waiting outside for her friends to pick her up. Every time she looked over at the Borghese's house across the street she got a little more agitated. "I never saw no funeral for that kid."

"They probably held one privately. They're a private family."

"Too private. They're hiding something. It's fishy that half of those kids got black hair. Either she's screwing around on him or she's getting some on the side from dad-in-law."

Flora was horrified. "Caroline!"

"I'm not saying it was of her own will. That woman looks like a beaten dog half the time. The way the father in law treated her was weird, too. Always shouting at her and giving her orders. And her husband would just stand by and look on. Something fucked up is going on in that household! PROMISE me you'll call the police after we leave? Those poor kids don't deserve to live like that."

"I will," promised Flora, having no intention of doing so.

As she watched her daughter leave, speeding off in a dented Buick with her hippie friends, she looked across the street at the Borghese's house again. The father-in-law was on the porch, watching her. She wasn't close enough to discern his features, but his posture suggested something ominous, and she went inside quickly. The Borgheses were not neighbors you wanted angry.

***

Pippy, her Staffordshire terrier, had taken off across the street in pursuit of a squirrel. Flora was tromping around in her neighbor's backyards, yelling his name. She heard distant crying and snatches of conversation, and followed it out of curosity. After brushing aside a bush, she came to a tall wooden fence--the Borghese's garden, heavily fortified just like everything else about their house. She peered through a slat.

She had never seen their garden before--it was clean and well-kept, just like every other middle class garden. Neatly trimmed lawn, and a white porch swing hanging between two trees. From her vantage point, she was behind the porch swing, looking at the backs of Mr. and Mrs. Borghese as they say side by side on the swing.

The faint sobs that drifted through the air were punctuated with his gentle, soothing remarks. 

"Calm down, dolcezza. I'll kiss you, there. I'll make it all better..."

"Get off me. It needs to stop. You need to do something. You've done nothing in this marriage! You've been no help! You men, all you want is a warm hole to stick it in."

"That not true. I love you."

"If you really loved me you'd do something about this! He'll want to do it with me when you're in the room! And when the children are in the room! How can you let this happen? You call yourself a husband and a father?"

"Patience, we're talking about my father. My father. You are asking the impossible of me. It would be easier to flee to the moon than to go against my father."

"I'll kill myself! I'll kill myself and take every last one of our children with me! I can't live like this!"

"Patience--"

"I will never forgive you for what you did to my parents," she said, and her voice suddenly became icy. "But if you want the slightest, smallest glimmer of my gratitude--if you want me to give you the smallest modicum of respect as my husband and father of my children--the ones which are yours, anyway--"

Flora could not believe her ears. Her knees were hurting from crouching, and her lungs were screaming for air from holding her breath. The details--the unfurling tapestry of horror in front of her very eyes--were so unbelieveable she wondered if she were dreaming. Her daughter had been right. Caroline had been right all along. There was something very wrong with the Borgheses.

"There is nothing I can do. Patience, there is nothing. You're not the only victim here, Patience. How do you think it feels to me, having to watch this happen to you and the children? Do you know the last time I stood up to him? I was eight. Do you know what he did to me? He stomped my head into the floor until blood squirted from my nose. There is nothing I can do." He paused, and his voice became quieter. "Unless..."

The silence that followed was as tense as a bowstring, and Mrs. Borghese finally said, "No. What you're suggesting--it could go wrong. It WILL. He'll know. He'll know--"

The plank Flora had been leaning on shifted, the fence post moaning. The two whipped around, their conversation ceasing, and the minute before Flora turned away, she saw a huge, purpling bruise on the side of her face. Flora acted quickly, hurrying away into the treeline. When she was out of sight she let out a shaky sigh, leaning against a tree. Her legs were shaking, her heart pumping. She suddenly felt a sickening sense of danger. She was not supposed to hear that. 

***

Pippy came back home the next week, muddy and tail wagging, and resumed chasing Mickey, her gray tabby. Flora breathed a sigh of relief. She had barely ventured out of her house since that day, save for groceries, and refused to even look in the direction of the Borghese house. She agonized over whether to call the police. The only thing that stopped her was the fear that Silvio Borghese would find out--and what he would do to her, and, god forbid, Caroline if he did. The sickening knowledge of what was going on in that house made her want to retch. Every time she caught a glance of the children in the yard she wanted to rush over and rescue them. 

That day, the only member of the Borghese house outside was one of the daughters, a young girl with coke-bottle glasses and her thick black hair in pigtails. She was riding her trike down the sidewalk, glancing back at her house every few pedals. She never went past the perimeter of the house, and when she reached the end, turned and pedaled back to the other end. She was so preoccupied with not going past the invisible line that when she craned her neck back to look at the house she lost control and crashed to the ground.

Maternal instincts activating, Flora rushed out and over to the child, picking her up and cradling her. "Oh, my god! You poor thing, are you hurt? Come on, let me look at you."

***

The girl was nervous at being in Flora's home, she could tell. She sat ramrod-straight, her knees pulled together as Flora rummaged around in her bathroom cabinet looking for cotton and rubbing alcohol. 

As soon as Flora applied it, the girl's face went ashen. Tears streamed down her face and her jaw wobbled, but she didn't utter a peel.

It was very odd to Flora, who knew children cried at the smallest things. And this was a deep wound, too--she had skinned her knee. "You can cry, honey. It's okay."

The girl's words escaped in a shaky whisper. "Nonno hates it when we cry."

She said nothing else, and when Flora sent her home with a bandaged knee, the girl went up to the front door, dawdled a bit, looked back, and then finally, reluctantly, pulled the door open and was immediately yanked inside.

***

It had been a few years since the Borghese family moved in across the street. Their children were mostly old enough to go to school, and every day they slogged their way down the sidewalk to Catholic School in their little uniforms, the older ones holding the hands of the younger ones. She never saw them with friends from school or the neighborhood. The Borghese children kept to themselves. They were polite to Flora when they saw her, and spoke mostly in Italian amongst themselves. The only trouble she'd ever had with them was with the oldest son, a hulking child with blue eyes and two front teeth missing. She had found him torturing Pippy while he was tied up in her front yard. He had been beyond the fence, holding a sharp stick and trying to poke his eyes out. Flora had yelled at him, and he had smiled blankly at her with his gap-toothed grin, then turned and trudged back to his house. 

Mrs. Borghese was pregnant again. She was always pregnant. Flora had no idea what the household must have been like with so many children crammed in a medium-sized home, but she rarely heard any racket from the children. There was always an eerie silence from the other side of the street.

Only the sounds of an occasional argument between adults, which were few--at least until now--would sometimes pierce the silence. And it was becoming more common. She could discern the shrill, high voice of the wife, and then the booming, thunderous voice of the father-in-law. Sometimes she even heard one of the children, either crying or adding their voices to the fray. 

One evening when she was pruning her water lilies the wife came to her yard, wringing her hands and asking if she could borrow some peroxide and bandages. Her whole manner was nervy, and she kept stuttering. She wore a yellow gingham dress, but the apron was smudged with dirty fingerprints and the skirt had been ripped and badly mended.

Flora took her inside immediately. As she bent down to rifle through her products under the sink, Mrs. Borghese closed the curtains over the kitchen. As soon as the door had snapped shut, her manner had become more panicked. Mrs. Borghese turned to Flora. 

"Can you do something for me? Please?"

The woman looked so young. Battered and tired, but young. 

"Of course, honey."

"Can you drive me to a hotel? Just, any hotel. I need to--I just--please?"

"Alone? What about your husband? Will you be taking your children?"

She looked stressed. "No. Not them. None of them. I need to be alone. I need to get out of--"

Her rantings were cut short by a soft knock on the door. "Pazienza? What are you doing here? Please come home."

"No!" She cried. She was shaking. "I will not. Leonardo, go away. Leave me be. I won't go back to that house--and that man. You can't make me!"

"Che ne sarà dai bambini?" his voice had softened into barely legible Italian. "Li lascerete in pace?"

Mrs. Borghese fell silent. Her face held a rapidly crumbling resolve. Flora met her gaze and shook her head firmly. Mrs. Borghese's eyes hardened. "This thing has to end. Leonardo, for the good of our children, too. Call--call the police, call Sawyer, hell, you can call the federal fucking authorities if you want to go that route! But I'm not coming back, Leonardo! Not if you drag me kicking and screaming! None of you care about me, how I feel, if I'm tired, and the children, god, the children..."

"Pazienza," he said quietly. "Allora faremo."

She was quiet again. Her face was turned away from Flora, but her shoulders were stiff. On the nape of her neck, half-covered by her hair, Flora saw a thick white scar indented with looked like teeth prints. "Che succederà se falliamo?" She whispered.

"Non lo faremo. Lo faremo insieme. Lo faremo stasera. Stasera. Vieni fuori, dolcezza."

Whatever he said made her reach her breaking point, and she slowly reached out to unlatch the door. Mr. Borghese was standing outside, hair slicked from rain and his suit damp. His face was gentle, but froze minutely when he saw Flora. He probably had hoped she hadn't been listening in. He offered Flora a vague apology and led his wife back across the street, arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The streetlamp light glinted coldly off his golden curls.

Flora lay awake in bed, waiting for the argument to begin, the shouting between father-in-law and daughter-in-law. But she heard nothing. It was a quiet night in the sleepy suburb of Dearborne Heights. 

***

Flora was awoken by the scream of an ambulance. Fearing the worst, she threw off her covers and ran out onto the doorstep. 

There were police cars and an ambulance outside the Borghese house. Other neighbors were milling around--police cars were a rare sight in Dearborne Heights.

A policeman went over to push back against the nosy neighbors. "What happened?" Said Flora. "Was someone hurt? Did something happen to the children?"

"Reported suicide. Keep back, keep back."

Her worry broke when she saw the Borghese family huddled near the house, talking to another officer. Mr. Borghese looked calm as he gave his statement, but Mrs. Borghese looked shaken, clutching her many children close to her. Most of the children were crying, some of them looked to be in shock. But some of them had a carefully schooled look on their face similiar to their father's.

Eventually the family separated and got into police cars, and the crowd dispersed, as did the police cars themselves. Flora went back inside, her mind whirring. The whole situation seemed like a dream. The death, the couple, the conversation she had overheard--nothing added up.

Actually, she thought, everything DID add up. Just to a different answer.

***

The next morning Flora heard a knock at her door. She debated whether to answer it, hand hovering near the doorknob, until another, more irate knock sounded at the door.

Flora opened it hesitantly, and a man wearing a broad fedora barged in. He was dressed in a black suit; dark-haired, with wire-rimmed glasses that glinted coldly as he eyed her. "Flora Haywood?"

Flora nodded.

"Mind if I sit down?" He punctuated his words by pulling out a chair from her kitchen table and sitting down anyway. "I'm sure you've heard about the... unfortunate incident at 34 Knight Street, just across from you."

"...Yes... it was Mr. Borghese, Senior, am I correct?"

"I'm afraid so. Silvio Borghese. Single gunshot to the temple, self-inflicted. Horrible, horrible. I understand you knew the Borgheses personally."

"They're my neighbors, but I don't know them well."

His voice was as cold as his eyes. "So if, for example, someone from the police stopped by, and asked you some questions, what would you tell them?"

"Wh-what kind of questions?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Whether you heard anything that night. Whether there had been any... discord in the Borghese household as of late. Simple things, routine things the police tend to ask."

She felt a chill come down her back. "Who are you?"

"A friend of Mr. Borghese, junior. Leonardo." He smiled and got up, perusing her keepsakes neatly lined up on the mantlespiece. To her horror, he picked up a photo of Caroline. "Your granddaughter?"

She swallowed a lump. "Daughter."

"Lovely woman. She looks about the age of my wife. Truly in the prime of her life. A young woman with her whole life ahead of her."

Flora would have done anything he had asked of her in that moment. "I don't know anything about the Borghese family. I heard nothing last night. I don't know a thing. The family keeps to themselves."

His eyes flicked up to meet hers. "And that's what you'll tell the police?"

"Yes, yes, that's what I'll tell the police! I don't know anything! Please, I have laundry to do. I can't sit around and talk all day!"

He smiled as he left, a smug secret smile that told her he had accomplished exactly he had come to accomplish. She locked the door, latched the windows, and immediately called Caroline. She sounded woozy on the other end and the sounds of partying were in the background, but she was safe. Flora cautioned her to be careful, and Caroline agreed in that sure-mom-I-promise tone that teenagers took when they had no intention of listening to their parents. After wrangling more promises out of her to call every day, Flora hung up and spent the rest of the day peering out the window, watching every car parked on the sidewalk and every passerby.

***

The police never came, thank god, and Flora assumed the whole situation was over and done for when the large Borghese family, sans the grandfather, moved back into their tan suburban house across from her.

It was as if a shadow had lifted from Knight Street. Within a week the high fence around their property had been knocked down. Flora saw Mr. Borghese building a treehouse with his sons in the large oak tree in their backyard. The Borghese children were out and about more, and they seemed to be making friends, for the first time, around the neighborhood. Mrs. Borghese saw Flora outside in the garden and smiled and waved, something she had never done before. She looked vibrant, healthy, with no bruises. She gave birth several months later to a baby girl, who she dropped off at Flora's sometimes to be babysat. Leonardo even held a block party, with his smiling, beautiful wife and their newborn the centerpiece.

In the blink of an eye it seemed that years had passed since then and the eldest son was going to high school. But Flora never lost that sense of unease. The neighbors were outwardly affluent, popular people...

But sometimes Mrs. Borghese would get a look on her face, and Flora knew what lurked under the surface was never far from bubbling over, and that the secrets Flora had touched on were too deep and numerous for her to understand.

Not that she had any desire to.

[pochapal]

Hello Pochapal. Can you decide for me whether I should go to Manchester uni or York uni in September. I am stuck and cannot decide. For more information I will be doing politics and international relations either one I go to.

hello anon i can't decide this for you. all i can say is factor it based on which place/uni is better suited to your mode of being (ie affordability levels of comfort whether or not you're living in the city or commuting there etc etc). i did both my undergrad and postgrad degrees in york so like. i know that york's vibes are middle of the road tolerable versus manchester which for me in the times i went there was too loud too big and too much for me who originated from semirural nowhereland but this may be different if you're more used to living in a more populated area! of course everything i know relates to how these cities were pre-pandemic so all my knowledge may be outdated and useless now even though i only graduated 12 months ago lmfao.

as to your course...idk?? i guess it depends on which uni's course style is more appealing (if there are notable differences between them). i don't know much about that area of study but i guess also look into which uni has better library access or whatever teachers and tutors tend to drill into you. one thing that mattered to me when looking into this stuff was uni size/course size because being in large massive classes/courses was never gonna be the move unless the opposite is true for you.

i dunno i'm really the worst person to ask about uni i just did a course which was a continuation of my natural talents and also never engaged with any aspect of uni life outside of the mandatory required timetabled classes (and also was very mentally ill first year but that's neither here nor there). like i really was a bare minimum bitch didn't even attend tutorials or the careers events or even set foot inside the student union i was in uni for 5 years and never engaged in a single thing i didn't absolutely have to!

anyway in a nutshell focus on the kind of city you'd be better suited to existing in and also which course's layout and structure would work better for you. fuck academic usefulness and opportunities and viability for your future go for whatever'll induce the least amount of mental illness in you.

[goodlucktai]

If you're looking for kitanishi prompts, how about Natsume thought they were dating and gets worried he's wrong because he thinks he can't understand social cues. Cue kitsnishi pairing realizing they kind of were dating lol

It starts with an invitation.

One of Satoru’s classmates at cram school invites him to go outwith her and a few of her friends over the coming weekend—and sincesome of them would have dates with them, he’s more than welcome tobring his girlfriend along!

The problem:

Satoru doesn’t have a girlfriend. Satoru is terminallysingle.

He could cancel, but he wants to go. He couldshow up alone, but that would be all kinds of awkward—especially ifhe was the odd man out, especially if they wereexpecting him to have a date.

So he puts his brilliant mind to work in coming up with asolution.

“Natsumeee, what do I do?” Satoru is sprawledpiteously across Natsume’s desk. “I need your advice, man.”

“Go by yourself?”

“Natsume! I need better advice!”

Natsume eyes the book he was reading, trapped under Satoru’s arms,and visibly gives up on the idea of extracting it before the idea caneven half form in his eyes. Instead he sighs and leans back in hischair, accepting Satoru’s dilemma as his own. They’ve come a long wayas friends.

“Honestly, Nishimura, why ask me?” the heartthrob of year twoasks obliviously, pushing dusty blond hair out of his eyes. “I haveliterally no experience when it comes to this. I’venever been on a date.”

Satoru narrows his eyes at him. Somehow it’s even more annoyingthat Natsume is so sincerely clueless about how stupidly popular heis. Satoru has no idea how to verbalize this, so he settles forglaring quietly.

“Besides,” Natsume adds, unmoved by Satoru’s expression, “Ifigured you’d just go with Kitamoto.”

Satoru sits up slowly, staring. “Uh. Why would I go withKitamoto?”

Natsume looks uncertainly back at him. “Because you’re datinghim?”

“What.”

There’s an impasse of stark misunderstanding opening between themlike a yawning chasm, and Natsume visibly retreatsback into his little socially awkward shell like some kind of giantskittish hermit crab. Satoru watches him go, totally bemused.

His face is red, hands tangled anxiously together in his lap, eyecontact a thing of the past.

“I just assumed—I’m so sorry—”

“Dude, it’s okay, I just—have no idea where that came from?”

“I’m really, really sorry—”

“Natsume, seriously. Stop apologizing or Tsuji’s gonna think I’mbullying you—oh, great, here he comes now.”

Satoru leans back in his chair when Tsuji stops by the desk, andwatches Natsume’s face as the pale boy hurriedly assures their classrep that all’s well. Natsume was wrong, obviously,but it’s not like Satoru's mad about it. Natsumedoesn’t have much experience in being sociable or having friends(which is an ugly thought, and Satoru hates that it’s true) so itmakes sense that he sort of read the cues wrong. It’s no bigdeal, not even worth thinking about.

But he’s thinking about it. Tuning out the conversation going onright beside him and staring without seeing out the window.

Thinking about what cues Natsume read, and how hepossibly could have read them wrong.

“You’re not wrong,” Tsuji is saying calmly, in stark defianceof Satoru’s innermost thoughts. He tunes back into the conversationsharply, watching Tsuji pat Natsume’s shoulder comfortingly. “Youpicked up on the same cues everyone else did.”

Wait, what?

“Wait, what?” Satoru sits up straight, more than a littlegobsmacked, and stares at Tsuji, who stares right back. Natsume is a shade of pink Satoru has never seen on him before, but it doesn’t look like he’s about to die of humiliation or try to crawl under a rock or something. Compared to the Natsume they started with, this is progress.

“Nishimura, come on,” Tsuji says. “It’s obvious.”

Outraged, Satoru squawks, “No it’s not! What are we even talkingabout!”

Tsuji gives him literally the dryest look ever. Honestly, Satoruhas seen his own mother look more enthusiastic thanTsuji does right now. He’d be impressed, if he wasn’t so busy beingoffended. 

“You, my friend,” Tsuji says kindly, even leaning over to puta caring hand on Satoru’s arm, “are an idiot.”

“Sorry for intruding!” Satoru says cheerfully as he steps intoKitamoto’s little apartment. Kitamoto’s mom is at work, but his dadand little sister greet him warmly from the living area as he followshis friend to his bedroom. “Hey, you’re sure it’s cool if I stayfor dinner?”

“'Course I am,” Kitamoto replies easily, setting his bag down.“You know you’re welcome whenever. My parents pretty much consideryou one of theirs.”

It warms Satoru up from the bottom of his heart to the top, and hebeams widely as he sinks onto Kitamoto’s bed. For all that his ownfamily hardly has time for him, he’s never felt unwanted here. 

“So what’d you wanna talk about?” Kitamoto asks, climbingonto the bed beside him. Satoru can think of probably a hundred othertimes they’ve sat just like this, in the comfortable dim of thefading daylight as it reaches through the bedroom window. “And doesit have anything to do with why Natsume couldn’t look me in the eyeafter school?”

“Oh, jeez, I told him it was fine.�� Rolling hiseyes, Satoru settles into storytelling mode. “I told him about howI needed a date for this weekend, and he told me thathe thought you’d be my date.”

Kitamoto goes still. His expression doesn’t change, not really,but his smile is a little fixed. And maybe it’s the weird lighting inhis room, but Satoru suddenly doesn’t recognize the look in his eyes.

“Oh yeah?” his friend says, sounding completely normal.“Where’d he get that idea?”

Satoru blinks at him. There’s no way to brush the weirdness off,pretend he didn’t see it. Kitamoto, and every tinyunacknowledged thing about him, all those little facets of hischaracter that no one else would notice missing if they were gone—allof those things are the most familiar things to Satoru in theentire world. He knows it, Kitamoto knows it.

The forced smile fades. Kitamoto looks away, facing the rest ofthe room, and rubs a hand through his short hair.

They’re close enough that their shoulders bump, that they’d benose to nose if they turned towards each other. Instead they sitquietly, side by side. Like two parallel lines, always on the samepage, always in perfect tandem, and somehow, somehow, nevermeeting in the middle.

Satoru’s heart is beating a little harder. He faces the room, too.

He celebrated his thirteenth birthday right here.

Kitamoto’s mom made a cake, and Kitamoto and Mana both helped. Itwas lopsided and the frosting was grainy with a little too much sugarand the strawberries mysteriously disappeared before they could haveanything to do with the decoration, and to this day Satoru wouldswear in front of god and everybody that it was the best birthdaycake in the world. He and Kitamoto took their slices back to hisbedroom and ate them right where they’re sitting right now,cross-legged on the bed and grinning with their mouths full and beinggenerally loud and teenage boy and stupid, and Satoru felt so fulland so loved that he didn’t want to go home that night.

He never wants to go home from here. Not evennow, when something uncomfortable fills the familiar air between themfor the first time that Satoru can remember. But—

“Maybe you shouldn’t stay for dinner,” Kitamoto offers, in asmall voice. It sounds like an out, but Satoru can’t tell who for,and he’s stunned by it either way.

“You want me to leave?”

The silence that eats up the seconds after that is bleak anddisarming, and he’s frozen in some terrible combination of shock andhurt and shame. He wants, for a moment, to ask what he did wrong. Themoment comes and goes before he can work up the nerve, so he doesn’task.

Moving mechanically, Satoru stands up and stoops to pick his bagoff the floor without another word, heading towards the door.Kitamoto catches his eye as he closes it behind him, and somethingawful happens to his expression the second he sees whatever Satoru’s facelooks like.

“Oh, wait. Satchan, wait.”

He doesn’t wait.

He hears Mana’s alarmed “Satoru-nii? What happened?” as hegrabs his shoes and all but falls out the front door, but he doesn’tturn around. Doesn’t even stop to pull his sneakers on. Just takesthe stairs three at at time and sprints down the street, because he’sabout three, maybe four seconds away from totally dissolving intostupid tears, and he needs to get gone before that happens.

Touko looks ready to cry at the sight of him. She takes theawkward bundle of jacket, shoes, and bookbag out of his arms, andhurries to get him house slippers while he waits in the genkan,calling up the stairs for Natsume as she goes.

He tries to apologize precisely one time for showing up soabruptly this late in the evening, and Touko hushes him soundly.

“You’re welcome anytime,” she says, tone firm, and Satoruswallows a lump in throat.

Thumping footsteps on the stairs announce Natsume, and Tanumaright behind him. Natsume’s eyes are bright with worry already and hereaches out to Satoru as carefully as he always does, testing thewaters inch by inch. He’s so much like Touko that she could haveraised him herself, the way he’s so thoughtful and earnest ineverything he does, and Satoru saves that thought to smile at later.

For now he blurts, “Don’t look at me like that unless you wantme to start bawling, okay, I swear.”

Tanuma follows Touko into the kitchen to make tea. Natsume takesSatoru’s hand to lead him upstairs, even though he’s been here amillion times and knows the way just fine. 

But he takes Natsume’s hand when it’s offered, and allows himselfto be drawn inside. In Natsume’s room, with a fat cat purring in hislap and Tanuma’s hoodie forced over his head, Satoru squares hisshoulders, takes a deep breath, and says, “It was obvious toeverybody but me.”

It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Natsume to parsethat statement and find the meaning behind it. His eyes widen andthen go soft, all liquid sympathy and understanding and fondness.

Which turns out to be all it takes for Satoru to finally crumple,and he does; burying his face in his hands and giving into loud, uglytears. 

He doesn’t know how to be stoic and level-headed and calm, likeTanuma and Taki and Kitamoto. He doesn’t how to make thishurt lesser. 

“Tsuji was right,” he sobs, rubbing his eyes with the trailingends of Tanuma’s sleeves. “It was so obvious, and everybody knewbefore me, and I hurt Kitamoto, ‘cause I’m an idiot.”

Natsume moves closer, and puts an arm around his shoulders. Heisn’t one to initiate contact, not really, and all the hugsSatoru’s ever got from him have been on his own terms. But Natsumeholds him tight, and presses his cheek against Satoru’s hair.

“Tsuji didn’t mean it,” he says gently. “You know that. Andwhatever happened with Kitamoto—it’s fixable, I promise.”

“But how do you know?You don’t even know what happened. For all you know, I ruinedeverything, forever.”

Natsume hesitates to answer rightaway, because for all his earnest and caring he’s still brand new atthis; then the bedroom door slides open and the answer comes in theform of Tanuma, stepping through quietly with a tray of teacups.  

“You have company,” he saysvaguely, which is an odd thing to say—Natsume knows he has company,Satoru is his companyand he’s sitting right here?

And then at the same time Satorurealizes Tanuma was talking to him, Kitamotostaggers into the room right behind him.

Satoru freezes. Natsume exhalessoftly, and draws away; lingering long enough to take Nyanko-senseiout of Satoru’s lap, he offers Satoru a warm smile and moves to joinTanuma beside his desk on the other side of the small room. Satorufeels distinctly abandoned, even though they’re hardly more than anarm’s length away. And it’s not like they left him to fend off abear. Just his wheezing best friend, whose doubled over with hishands braced on his knees, like he sprinted twice the length of townin the last twenty minutes.

“Went to your house first,”Kitamoto pants. “That was stupid.”

“Well, yeah,” Satoru says.

Kitamoto straightens when he’smore or less caught his breath, and for a moment that something awfulflits through his expression again when he looks across the room atSatoru, the same way it did before. And sure, Satoru probably lookspretty pathetic, since he just got done crying like a four year oldand his eyes are puffy and gross and he’s in a hoodie two sizes toobig, but that doesn’t mean Kitamoto has to look athim like that.

Then the painful expressionshifts into pure, stark irritation, and he jabs an accusing finger atSatoru in a way he’s entirely unprepared for.

“Why the hell did you run offlike that?” Kitamoto snaps. Natsume and Tanuma are watching the exchange with wide eyes. “Dad thought we had a fight andlectured me for five mintues about how I should treat my friends.”

Affronted, Satoru surges to his feet.“What do you—you kicked me out!”

“Um, I seem to recall giving you anoption of staying or going,” Kitamoto bites out furiously.He seems more frustrated than truly angry, and more frustrated athimself than Satoru, but it’s all coming out in a fuming tirade. “As ifI’d ever kick you out, come on.”

“Okay, listen, when your choices areA: Something you obviously want, and B: Something you obviouslydon’t, it’s not a choice, it’s a trap.” Satoru canfeel his eyes burning again just remembering that alien feeling ofunwelcome, and he ignores them; doing his best to glower asforcefully as Taki when she catches him stealing out of Natsume’slunch. “So when I obviously want to stay, but you tell me Ishould go, I’m supposed to, what? Read between the lines?”

Kitamoto throws his hands up. “Yes!”

“That was a rhetorical question! Youknow I can’t do that!”

They glare at each other some more. There’s maybe four feet between them. Distantly, Satoru is aware of Natsume all but dragging Tanuma out of the room. 

Kitamoto says, “Come here.” 

Satoru crosses his arms, to better pretend his hands aren’t shaking. “No. You come here.”

In two quick strides, he does.

It’s kind of weird, standing there in Natsume’s bedroom, in Tanuma’s hoodie, kissing Kitamoto, who he had never imagined kissing before today. 

It stops being weird somewhere between the third and fourth gentle press of his best friend’s mouth against his own. And whatever Satoru had imagined before, in lieu of this, absolutely pales in comparison.

“So,” Satoru says lamely, swinging their joined hands a bit as they walk, “Some friends invited me out this weekend. Said I could bring a date. Wanna come with?”

Kitamoto gives him a dry look. Satoru offers his most winning smile. 

“I should say no,” Kitamoto says, deadpan, “just to make sure you learn something from all this.”

“Acchan!” Satoru squawks. “Dude, come on! As my boyfriend, you’re like, obligated to do all the date stuff with me so I don’t have to do it alone! That’s one of the perks!”

They bicker most of the way back to Kitamoto’s house, but his hand is warm where it’s wrapped around Satoru’s. And his smile is even warmer, somehow, each time he pauses to lean down and kiss the indignation off Satoru’s face.