#she set a price because she wanted people to be able to afford it and tm really said ‘dyn/amic pricing isnt something they can contest to!’

[mushroomjar]

I'd like to draw your attention to @mohammedalkhliliy1 and his fundraiser. He is currently displaced in Gaza with his family. They now live in a tent that can't properly protect them from the weather conditions such as the oncoming harsh winter. They lost their house, and Mohammed's brother, Sami, lost his job, his only source of income, because of the bombings

Their mother's health has taken a toll since their displacement. She's in urgent need of surgery and medication, but the prices are very high and they cannot afford it, and her condition is deteriorating daily

Despite all the challenges and pain they've been facing, they still want to recover, and go back to the normal, happy lives they had before the war. They want dignity, education, safety and proper healthcare

That's why a gofundme was set up, to help them cover the costs of rebuilding a life away from all the pain and suffering they've been experiencing. The fundraiser was started on august, and so far, it's raised €1,525/€30,000. Donations have been slowing down, so please help by sharing their story, and donating to the campaign if you are able to. Anything you can do to help is appreciated, even the tiniest thing is very helpful. I believe it's our duty as human beings to help other people, and right now, Mohammed, Sami and the rest of their family are part of those people that need our help

This campaign has been verified in line 21 of gazavetters' google doc

[ms-demeanor]

I've been following what's been going on with Belphie the kitten and his person, Greer Stothers, has just mentioned pet insurance in a tag on a post and I wanted to give an example from my life backing up why pet insurance can be a good idea and why I think it is worthwhile.

Two years ago my sister's dog had bloat while she was on vacation. The kennel he was staying at recognized symptoms and called my sister to clear them to take him to the emergency vet. My sister is very financially secure and this dog is an enormous part of her life, so she said yes with barely a moment of hesitation. That ended up being about twelve thousand dollars of emergency surgery.

Large Bastard and I got pet insurance for Tiny Bastard the same week because we realized that if someone had presented that option to us, we would have had no choice but to have Tiny Bastard put down, and we didn't want to be put in that position.

I did a lot of research about different kinds of pet insurance and different levels of coverage and annual maximums and deductibles and so on and so forth. Tiny Bastard is a senior dog, so this was going to be expensive no matter what options we went with, so I chose a moderately priced plan with a $500 annual deductible, unlimited annual coverage, that pays 80% of the bills incurred annually below the maximum. What that means is that we pay the first $500 of care totally out of pocket, after which point we are reimbursed 80% of any vet bills for care covered by the plan.

The first year we had this plan I was kind of iffy about it. It's a noticeable monthly expense and we didn't even spend the deductible in vet bills the first year. Except that a month before the policy was set to renew, Tiny Bastard got diagnosed with diabetes. We now have monthly insulin costs and syringe costs; there are tests she has to have regularly to monitor her overall condition and we need to do more frequent vet visits to track symptoms.

Suddenly the insulin alone means that the insurance is break-even within six months and the additional visits and tests are something we can afford instead of something we'd have to put on credit.

Our plan (through ManyPets) covers medication, surgery, diagnostics, medical equipment, and euthanasia and cremation. It doesn't cover pre-existing conditions, joint conditions for dogs who were signed up over a certain age, dental care, spay/neuter, vaccinations, or prescription food but honestly all of that makes me just kind of wish we'd signed her up earlier - her knee problems *would* be covered if we'd had her signed up as a puppy, and the monthly cost would have been lower if we'd signed her up then. And there are at least a few emergency vet bills that I wouldn't still be paying off on my credit card. Hell, I've probably paid more in interest on some bruising she got in a fight three years ago than I have for this policy as a whole.

I am glad that Greer is able to take care of Belphie. I am glad that my sister was able to take care of her dog. But I'm also really, really glad that for a relatively low cost, I would be able to take care of Tiny Bastard if she were catastrophically injured, or if she needed emergency surgery. I'm glad that I'm able to take care of her now with her medications and her additional vet visits.

There are a lot of people who say that pet insurance isn't worth it, especially not for young animals. But if your young animal gets very sick, or gets badly injured, or eats a hairband and needs an emergency endoscopy, then it will probably be VERY worth it. It's a risk/reward question. You feel like you're wasting money if you're paying for a policy that you never use, but honestly that just means you're lucky to have a healthy pet.

I'm lucky that Tiny Bastard was relatively healthy before I got the insurance; I'm also lucky that she was insured when she was diagnosed with a chronic illness that will need lifelong care. This enables me to provide care for her that would otherwise be financially unmanageable, and that makes the insurance *extremely worth it* from my perspective.

And Belphie is a good example of why it's a good idea to get coverage even for very young pets. Greer is recommending it because this kitten has required a tremendous amount of care during a period in his life when it's generally taken for granted that a cat will be healthy. (And Greer is not stupid for forgoing pet insurance - pet insurance is still a relatively new concept and there are lots of people who are leery of it for a number of good reasons)

So I'd say that if you've got a pet or are getting a pet it is very worthwhile to find a pet insurance plan that fits in your budget. There are a variety of plans out there and some are very inexpensive. Check coverage levels (you can even get some with wellness plans that include dental care and vaccinations) and see if there's something that works for you.

I personally don't think I'm ever going to own another pet without having pet insurance. It's ridiculous how much easier it is for me to say yes to diagnostic tests or different treatments than it was before because I know I'm going to be able to fit Tiny Bastard's care into our budget.

[javier-pena]

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Word Count: 5.8k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You've been estranged from your husband for years. When you finally track him down to make him sign the divorce papers, you get what you want and what you need - but it comes at a price.

Warnings: divorce | angst | alcohol consumption | masturbation (f) | fingering (f) | pussy pronouns | multiple orgasms | oral (f receiving) | (protected) p in v sex | some butt stuff 🤭 (but in a blink and you'll miss it kind of way) | to no one’s surprise there’s some stuff with hands and fingers too

Notes: Do you guys remember my 10k follower celebration I started about a year ago? I'm still working on all your prompts, I promise!! This one goes out to @milla-frenchy who requested "My tongue still remembers the way you taste.", "I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me, I fucking tried.", and "Don't make me jealous." with Javi P, so naturally I had to make this about estranged married people who have a lot of history. This is set during S3E6 ('Best Laid Plans') btw because I couldn't stop thinking about Curaçao (the pink shirt doesn't make an appearance though 😔). As always, huge thanks to Dani @alexturner who not only came up with the divorce plot but also with the ending, and yet she still said this fic is one of her favorite things I've ever written like 🤯 and the truth is, I really really like it too 🤭

The heat is oppressive, even during the evenings and nights when the sun is taking a break. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it, not even after the three years you now have been living on Curaçao. Your dress sticks to your back and your whole body sticks to the leather chair you’re sitting in, while your palms are slick with sweat. That, at least, you can’t blame on the heat.

You take a sip from your strong cocktail and resume your vigilant watch of the hotel lobby that you can make out perfectly through an open doorway. Despite the late hour, people are still checking in – old men with young women on their arms, families with children sleeping in strollers or in their mothers’ arms; young couples who can’t keep their hands off each other, even when the receptionist looks like she’s about to despair at the line forming behind them.

You were like them once, you and Javi. Not that you would have been able to afford a place like this for your honeymoon. But you remember the feeling of being newly-weds, the way you couldn’t let each other out of sight, how it felt like you were the only two people in the world, and nothing else mattered. You despise them, all the young people who arrive. You want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them. Wake up, it’s all a lie, leave right now and save yourselves the heartbreak. You don’t do it, of course. Instead, you take another sip of your cocktail, the cool glass moist with perspiration, and straighten the envelope that is lying on the table in front of you.

A man approaches you, asking if you need company. You touch your neck self-consciously, wishing there was a way to soothe your burning nerves. “I’m waiting for someone, I’m sorry,” you tell him with a sweet smile. You truly are sorry; any other night, you would have said yes, despite the cruel streak around his mouth. Loneliness doesn’t ask questions.

The man accepts your rejection with a shrug, but his eyes linger on you, even when he has retreated to the bar to order himself another beer. For the first time in an hour, you turn your attention away from that familiar doorway and watch as his thick fingers grab the bottleneck tightly. Heat rises into your cheeks and you shift in your chair, tired and frustrated and sore.

“Hi.”

Your head snaps back toward the doorway, but he’s already standing right in front of you. You knew this moment was coming, had two whole days to prepare for it, yet the sight of him makes you lose what little composure you had left as you sharply suck in air, your heart leaping into your throat.

“Sorry I’m late,” Javi goes on when you don’t acknowledge his greeting. “I – give me a minute.”

He too moves away toward the bar, then leans on it right next to the man and his already empty beer bottle. You use the moment to gain back some control, straighten your back, calm your nerves with another sip that turns into a gulp. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, his sudden appearance wasn’t supposed to rattle you so. But it’s been so long since you were in the same room together, so long since the thought of him didn’t feel like a knife being plunged into your heart, that you have completely forgotten how to be around him without it feeling like you’re dying.

He lets himself fall into the chair opposite yours, groaning with relief as he sinks into it. In his hand, he holds a glass of whiskey, neat, and in his expression he holds nothing but exhaustion.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Long day?” you ask, unable to kill off that instinct that makes you want to take care of him.

He snorts. “You could say that.” Then he empties his glass with one big gulp.

You watch his throat work, follow it down to where his light blue shirt is undone one button too many. How often did you kiss his neck until he was complaining about your tickling breath? You stop yourself before you can think about it for too long. Nothing good can come from going down that particular path.

“It’s about these.” You pick up the envelope and open it. Your hands are steady after having practiced this moment over and over again. Now you’re supposed to say, “It’s only three signatures,” but he’s already holding out his hand, waiting for you to give him the papers.

It’s with a creased brow that he looks at them, eyes skimming from the header (“Divorce Agreement”) all the way down to the bottom where he has to place his first signature. You feel compelled to justify it, even after years of living apart and not being faithful to each other, but you hold your tongue. You owe him nothing, and he knows that.

Finally, he says, “And you’re sure about this?”

You laugh. “When was the last time we acted like husband and wife?”

“It’s not about that …,” he says slowly.

“I don’t care what this is about,” you snap, nerves frayed from the heat and the tension of the evening. “I’m not leaving until you sign these.” You rummage around in your bag, pull out a heavy, silver fountain pen, and hold it out to him.

He accepts it but doesn’t make any move to use it. “Beatriz tells me you live here now.”

You lean back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest. “I do,” you confirm.

“Do you like it?” Immediately after he’s said it, he pulls a grimace.

“You were never good at small talk.” There’s no malice in your voice, but you speak those words so softly you’re not sure he catches them. “No, I don’t,” you answer honestly. “I hate the heat and the tourists. But the money is good.”

He nods as if he knows exactly what you’re talking about. Then he places the pen and the papers on the low table between you. “Do you want another drink?”

You glance at your cocktail, the glass still almost full. “Javi, please –,” you start, but he stands abruptly.

“Be right back.”

You sigh, watching him head back to the bar. Months of trying to chase him down, months of your lawyer trying to get him on the phone … you should have known this wouldn’t be easy. But there is no reason for him to make this quite so hard.

“Tell you what,” he says as he lets himself fall back into his chair, another glass of whiskey in his hand, “tell me how you’ve been and I’ll sign those papers.”

“Don’t act as if you care.” The words are out before you can stop them, years of hurt erupting violently like a geyser.

His lips thin into a straight line. “I don’t care what you think of me, but I’ll always care about you.”

You know there is some truth in that, or at least you want there to be. Your eyes move back to the bar and land on the man who approached you earlier. He’s with a young woman now, the cleavage of her dress cut so low there isn’t much left to the imagination. Still, his eyes keep searching for yours, and a strange heat begins to simmer in the pit of your stomach. There was a time the man sitting opposite you desired you like that, and you miss that feeling like a former junkie misses the high.

“He just wants to fuck you,” Javi interrupts your thoughts, still the observant cop you’ve known him to be.

You hate the crude way he talks to you and you want to make him hurt. “Maybe that’s what I want.”

Javi smirks. But by the way he knits his fingers together you can tell you’ve landed a blow. “Don’t make me jealous.”

“Tell me, how many women have you been with since you walked out on me?” You’re surprised at your own question, steeling yourself for an answer you never wanted to hear.

“It wasn’t about that, and you know it.” For a split second, Javi’s eyes drop to where the thin straps of your dress rest against your shoulders.

You sigh. “I know. But it still hurt.”

“And I’m sorry about that,” Javi says quickly as if trying to get out words that are threatening to choke him. “It’s who I am though. You knew that when you married me.”

For the first time since he sat down, you allow yourself to smile at him in soft familiarity. “I did. It’s why I found you so attractive, too.”

Javi returns your smile. “So how have you been?”

You laugh then. “Is that how you get your suspects to make a confession? Rile them up, pretend to lower your walls, and then go in for the kill?”

Javi just sips on his whiskey, waiting for you to answer his question.

“I’m okay,” you say after brief consideration. “I got a promotion at work. And I’m not seeing anyone, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“And how are you really?” Javi presses.

The smile vanishes from your face. “Lonely.”

He nods at the papers. “And you think that’ll change when I sign these?”

“The closure won’t hurt.”

“Neither will staying married if there isn’t anyone in the picture.”

You flex your hand in frustration. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

“Maybe I like hearing from you.” He empties his glass a second time. “Once I’ve signed these, you’ll be out of my life for good.”

“You’ll have to let me go eventually.” Your voice trembles slightly. “You can’t have your cake –”

“I know,” he interrupts you sharply. “But this,” a wave of his hand to encompass the two of you locked in your stand-off, “it reminds me of how good we were together.”

“We were,” you agree, “and I’d rather remember us that way than as the couple who dragged things out until they hated each other.”

“I could never hate you.” He says it quickly, and he doesn’t quite look at you.

You can’t make him that same promise in return. Right after he left, there was a time … hate might be too cruel of a word to describe what you felt then, but you cursed him every day for choosing his job over the perfect thing you two had. You would’ve gone anywhere in the world with him, just not straight to hell where all you could have done was sit at home and wait for that cautious knock at the door preceding the news that he had been killed. And he went anyway. You still can’t quite bring yourself to forgive him for that.

“You made your choice when you took that plane to Colombia.”

He looks at you, cheeks flushed, a sheen of sweat on his brow, pupils blown wide by the darkness of the bar and the alcohol in his blood. “Come up to my room. Just for a little while. Just to talk.”

You shake your head. “Why do you think I asked you to meet here instead of at my apartment?” He shakes his head too, acting as if he has no idea how to answer that question. “Please, just sign the papers.”

“Why did you want to meet here?”

This man sitting opposite you used to be your husband. Legally speaking, he still is. And even though you haven’t seen him in years, you still feel that same old pull tugging you toward him. “I’m not setting foot in a room with a bed. And I don’t think I need to explain why.”

He laughs, something he so seldomly does. “We don’t need a bed for that.”

It’s loud now in the bar, and the ice in your cocktail has melted. What was supposed to be a quick meeting has eaten away your entire evening. You blink fast, and let your gaze wander across the bar. The man who approached you is gone.

“Come up to my room with me,” Javi tries again. “Just for one drink. Then I’ll sign your papers.”

He’s an asshole, and you have every reason to hate him, set your lawyer on him, but he knows you won’t do that. You know it too.

“One drink,” you say emphatically. “That’s it. And then I’m gone.”

He nods, his face serious. But there is a sparkle in his eyes as he stands, victorious. He straightens the papers and picks them up, hands you back your pen. You take it and stand too, straightening your dress.

“I should warn you though,” Javi says as he offers you his arm, “there’s a bed in my room.”

You shake your head, your shoulders tight with determination. No matter how charming he is, no matter how much he tries, you won’t let him in. It’s just one drink, and then you can finally put this marriage behind you.

Javi leads you to a large elevator that opens just as you approach it. An old couple steps out; he’s walking a few paces in front of her, not checking if she can keep up, while she hobbles after him, braced on a cane. At least you didn’t stay married to Javi long enough he started to resent you, you think as he crowds you into the elevator and presses the button for the third floor.

He's standing too close to you – you can feel his hot skin right next to your own naked arm, making your heart do a little dance in your chest. It’s funny how the body remembers, and how much it craves things that are decidedly a bad idea. Javi shifts, and moves closer still, his eyes firmly fixed on the closed elevator doors. You’re alone, there’s no need for him to put on this little show, but it still feels like you’re being claimed.

Javi’s room feels small compared to the grand entrance hall and the broad hallways of the hotel. He opens the door and lets you in first, but he doesn’t turn on the ceiling light once you’re alone with him. Instead, he walks over to a desk in front of the window and switches on a small lamp.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestures at the bed, neatly made by the hotel staff.

You think about pushing past him to sit in the upholstered chair that comes with the desk, but he lets himself sink into it, crossing one leg over the other. The bed it is, then.

While you try to find a comfortable position to sit in, one that lets Javi know you’re not here to play, he opens a small door in the desk, and the minibar hidden behind it. “Vodka or whiskey?” he asks.

“Vodka,” you answer without thinking about it.

He shoots you a surprised look but hands you a small bottle without questioning your choice.

You unscrew the bottle, the seal breaking with a satisfying sound. “What do you want to talk about?”

Javi places his bottle of whiskey on the desk. “Nothing, really. I’m just not done being in your company.”

You laugh and take a sip. It tastes cheap. “Well, we should talk about something.”

“Or we could just enjoy each other’s company.”

“You were never good at that,” you remind him. “Always answering calls, always jumping when your pager went off. There were times I thought you’d do anything just so you wouldn’t have to be in my company.”

“I did make it feel like that, didn’t I?”

You’re caught off-guard by this rare moment of reflection. “I’m enjoying this, you know. I don’t think we ever spent this much time together when we were married.”

“We still are,” Javi reminds you.

You take another sip of your tiny bottle. There isn’t much left now.

“Ah,” Javi makes, “but I haven’t even opened mine yet.”

It shouldn’t catch you by surprise, the way he reads you so well. “You keep changing the rules of the arrangement.” An hour ago, you would have crossed your arms over your chest and glared at him. Now it’s a soft smile that accompanies your words.

“One drink,” Javi replies, one finger raised in reprimand. “I just never clarified when I would have mine.”

You like this. You shouldn’t, but you do. “Alright,” you say. “I’ll allow it.”

Javi huffs in satisfaction and leans back in his chair. “I always liked it when you were like that.”

“Like what?”

“So confident.”

Your face heats up. Standing up for yourself (in front of others but in front of Javi too) – that used to lead to … interesting consequences. “What else did you like?” you ask, the vodka warming your blood.

Javi runs the knuckle of his index finger over his lips. “Better not ask something you know you’re not gonna like the answer to.”

Your heart skips a beat. “How do you mean?”

“Baby …” That name, so familiar, sounds like a plea coming from his lips.

You inhale sharply. “Tell me, Javi.”

He shakes his head, lowers his eyes to the floor. The light from the single lamp casts soft shadows across his face. Maybe you overstepped a line you didn’t know was there. Or maybe you should push him just a little bit further.

“Tell me, Javi,” you repeat.

He remains seated in his chair, the perfect image of composure, wound tighter than a coil. “I liked watching you,” he answers finally, eyes still downcast, “when you knew I wanted you.”

You stop breathing as the memories wash over you. You, wearing that pretty red dress, Javi’s pupils blown wide when he sees you. You, lying on the bed, naked, Javi standing at its foot, tearing off the well-pressed shirt he was in the middle of buttoning up. That one night you danced for him in that shabby motel room, your hips stiff, your arms always awkwardly in the way, but when he palmed himself through those tight jeans all the shame and embarrassment evaporated. You miss them, all those little moments. And you miss how Javi made you feel beautiful, worthy, desired. You miss that most of all.

You try to play it all off by taking that final sip of your bottle. “Yeah,” you agree, “I liked being wanted by you.” Your voice is steady. Right?

Javi finally raises his eyes to look at you. “Do you think you’d show me? How much you liked it?”

The air in the room is thick now, like it is right before one of those tropical storms you’re used to by now. Your tongue is heavy when you reply, “I could do that.”

Javi nods, as if you’ve just come to an understanding about who is going to pay for dinner. He reaches for his bottle of whiskey, opens it, empties it with one big drag. You watch his throat work as he swallows, think you see the flutter of a nervous heartbeat at the base of it. He runs his tongue over his lips, chasing the taste, before giving you the smallest of nods.

You kick off your sandals slowly, your heart thundering in your chest. The wooden floor of the hotel room is pleasantly cool beneath your feet when you place them there, chasing something solid. Because you feel like you’re floating, high on the way Javi’s arms flex as he balls his hands into tight fists. The air is so thick now you can barely breathe.

Your dress is long, a light cotton blend, and it feels soft between your fingers as you bunch up the fabric and pull it up toward your hips. Javi’s eyes shoot to your legs as more and more skin is exposed – calves, knees, thighs. It’s as if he’s seeing you for the very first time, and he clears his throat almost bashfully as a light giggle escapes you. Both these things do nothing to ease the tension.

You manage to take off your panties without the dress falling down your legs, and Javi’s eyes shoot to where you drop them to the floor. He licks his lips again, a sight to which your body responds with a throbbing sensation at the base of your spine. It’s impossible to stop your hand from shaking as you lightly touch your thigh; it’s impossible to deny how much it affects you when Javi shifts in his chair in eager anticipation either. You shift too, spreading your legs a little further, but leaving the fabric of your dress draped over your thighs as it is – there is no point in giving it all away at once.

You’re soaked. It catches you by surprise, more so than the familiar touch of your fingers, made unfamiliar by the way Javi is watching you, both fists pressed tightly against his thighs, as if he’s trying to control himself. Your mouth forms a surprised O, a gasp escaping from it, as the tip of your index finger brushes your clit and your hips jerk forward, desperate for more. Javi’s mouth falls open too, his chest heaves with deep pants, his eyes now glued to where your hand vanishes beneath the hem of your dress. You push yourself into your touch, your fingers drawing tight little circles over that swollen bundle of nerves, while you clench around nothing, desperate to be filled.

You didn’t expect your body would remember so well.

“I’m so wet,” you breathe before you can stop yourself.

Javi groans in response and shifts in his chair, but his fists remain firmly planted against his thighs. That won’t do. You spread your legs even further and lean back on one elbow while moving your hand lower. You feel yourself flutter against your fingers, and it brings a smile to your face, one that makes Javi bite down on his bottom lip. Hard. Normally, you like to work yourself up to accommodate a bigger stretch, but tonight, two fingers glide into you with ease, and you moan at the sensation, nothing bashful about the way you throw back your head. You pump them out, then back in, once, twice, before you add a third finger, burying them three knuckles deep. Your entire body is shaking with arousal.

Your eyes land back on Javi, whose chest is heaving. “Guess how many fingers I have inside of me,” you challenge, your voice unsteady. You pull them out slowly, teasingly, the sensation making your head spin.

“Shit,” Javi groans, and now you notice the bulge straining against the fabric of his jeans. “Shit. I don’t know – two?”

“Three,” you correct him with a self-assured smile.

He breaks. One fist uncurls, and he palms himself, his hips jerking up into his touch. “Let me see her,” he rasps.

You’re not sure if you heard him correctly, but then he repeats the words with sharp command in his voice, that tone making you clench around your fingers. You fall back against the mattress and pull up your dress until it’s bunched against your stomach, leaving the bottom half of your body exposed. Javi’s chair creaks as if it’s about to break, but when you look at him, he has stopped touching himself. He has stopped breathing too as he takes in the sight before him, eyes impossibly dark.

You press the fingers of your free hand against your clit, and your hips jerk upwards, a movement that Javi’s hips mirror. What you can see of his chest is flushed in a deep, dark red, and the sight spurs you on. There is nothing gentle or teasing about the way you’re pumping your fingers into yourself now, nothing gentle or teasing about the way you’re rubbing your clit. Javi ruts his hips in desperate little circles, but you’re not sure he’s aware of it at all, too busy drinking in the sight of you sprawled on the bed, too far gone to care about what you’re doing. Everything tightens, and suddenly your toes are pressing down against the hard floor as you push your hips up into your hand, shoving your fingers impossibly deep. Your cunt clenches around them eagerly as you come with a deep, drawn-out moan of “Yesyesyes!”, eyes closed now, completely lost in the sensation of one of the best orgasms you’ve had in years.

When you open your eyes, Javi is kneeling in front of you, unbuttoning his shirt deliberately. Everything still feels soft and hazy, so you don’t protest as he gently takes your wrist and pulls out your fingers. “She’s just as beautiful as I remember,” he whispers, his breath tickling your thigh.

You try to push your dress down to cover yourself, but he only tightens his hold on your wrist. “No, no, no.” He’s determined, the pleading from earlier having long since disappeared from his voice. “Can I taste you?” he asks.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want him to, but because this is so much more than that single drink you agreed to. You should tell him no, make him finally sign those papers and leave this godforsaken room that now smells of sex. But your body is still thrumming with arousal, and the way he’s kneeling between your legs, dark eyes looking up at you, makes it impossible to refuse him anything.

You nod.

You expect him to approach this cautiously, but he delves in like a man starved. You hiss from the overstimulation, but he strokes your thigh soothingly, and you let him lick a broad stripe from your opening all the way up to your clit. Both your moans, and the sounds of his wet tongue against your wet cunt – it’s lewd. It turns you on so much the way you clench around nothing is actually painful.

Javi pulls away, teases your folds with a curious, probing finger. His dark mustache glistens in the dim light as he looks up at you. “My tongue still remembers the way you taste,” he admits, slinging one of your legs over his shoulder, his biceps flexing with the movement. “Especially with your cum all over you.”

“God, Javi,” you groan and, unable to keep looking at him, you let yourself fall back into the mattress.

He kisses your clit, licks it, sucks it in between his lips. You squirm, but he holds you down tightly with both hands, making it clear who’s in charge. You inhale deeply, but there is no way you can hold on for much longer. When he moves lower, licks at the wetness he finds there, has the audacity to moan as if he’s tasting heaven, you break.

“Please, fuck me, Javi,” you groan, arm slung across your eyes so you don’t have to look at him.

He chuckles, and you can feel the sound vibrate all the way into your core. “Didn’t you say you wouldn’t fuck me?” he asks before rolling his tongue over your clit.

It presses all the air from your lungs. You raise your hips so your clit bumps against his nose. “You’re very confident for a man who just got hard from watching his ex-wife touch herself.”

With a growl, he lets go of you and your eyes fly open, worried you offended him. Instead, you’re greeted with the sight of him unbuckling his belt with shaking fingers before throwing his wallet down on the bed next to you. You think you hear him murmur, “You’re still my wife,” as he pushes down his jeans, but you could be mistaken because you’re busy pulling your dress over your head. Then you’re both naked, the air between you crackling with unspoken challenges.

Javi grabs his wallet and pulls out a condom. “Turn around,” he growls, before tearing the wrapper open with his teeth.

You’re too transfixed by the way he’s rolling it onto his thick length, hanging heavy between his thighs.

“Turn around,” he repeats sharply.

You snap to attention and do as you’re told. Lying flat on your stomach, breathing in the smell of the hotel’s detergent, you await the inevitable. The mattress beneath you dips as Javi climbs onto the bed behind you, pulling your hips up toward him. Then there’s a finger inside of you, and you flutter around it, eager for more. It’s replaced not by his cock but by his tongue, and you grab the duvet, pushing back with a loud moan. He curls it inside of you while spreading your ass cheeks with both hands, and before long, you feel another orgasm approaching.

“Javi,” you warn.

He pulls out and runs his tongue upward to where he’s spreading you open. With a strangled moan, you press your face into the duvet and push against him, chasing the crest of the wave that’s building inside of you. But instead of giving you the release you so desperately crave, he pulls away.

“No man’s fucking you like me.” It isn’t territorial possessiveness. It’s not even a question. It’s just a simple statement.

He pushes down your hips, the force of being pressed into the mattress knocking the wind out of you. One hand he braces right next to your head, the other he uses to guide himself into you, spreading you open so much wider than your three fingers ever could. Then both his arms are caging you in, and the weight of his chest against your back holds you right in place where he wants you.

It's a deep groan and the way his hips stutter that pull you back from the edge. You kiss his hand, then his arm, eyes half closed as your body adjusts to him.

“No other pussy feels as good as yours,” he mumbles into the sudden quietness.

That confession hits you like a bullet right to the heart. “You need to forget about me.”

He swears, but you don’t quite catch the word. “I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me, I fucking tried.”

You wish it were true. You need it to be true, actually. Because when Javi starts moving, you know you’ll never want another man in your life. He has ruined everyone else for you. And it doesn’t matter where he wants to live or what kind of criminals he wants to chase down – you’re prepared to follow him wherever he might go.

“Shhh,” he makes, and strokes your hair. “You’re thinking too loudly.”

You clear your throat and lift your hips slightly, his cock sliding in impossibly deeper. He grunts at the sensation.

“Wait,” he says, then pulls out and flips you over with ease.

It’s exactly like it was on your wedding night, when he fucked you just like this, telling you to keep your eyes on him. Now your eyes widen at the memory as he pushes back into you, chest pressed against hot chest. Then two of his fingers are resting against your lips and before he even tries to pry them open, your jaw goes slack. He pushes them inside and your eyes flutter close in utter bliss.

“Yeah,” he grunts, “I remember how much you like sucking on these while I fuck you.”

He starts to pump into you, as both your hands close around his wrist to keep his hand in place. His fingers lightly press against your tongue, rich with the salty taste of sweat and arousal, and you massage them, sloppy, wet, eager moans vibrating in your throat.

He’s fucking into you now, the sounds of skin slapping against skin echoing through the air around you. You’re dimly aware of slinging your legs around his hips to pull more of him into you, and of him kissing your neck, but you’re so fucked out of your mind you might be imagining these things. When he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, your eyes fly open in protest only to see him gaze at you as if you’re the prettiest thing he has ever seen.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says.

His tongue finds his way in between your parted lips, and then you’re returning the kiss, chasing the sensation of coming home. He must feel it too because his hips are moving faster, and the entire bed is shaking beneath you. You moan, sounds that start low in your throat and come out high and breathless. They make him shudder against you.

Javi breaks the kiss first. “I want you to come for me.”

You nod eagerly and push a hand between your bodies, brushing against his stomach. God, there is so much of him waiting to be rediscovered.

As soon as your fingers find your clit, you give him a clipped, “Javi,” as a warning. It feels like you’ve been right there on the edge for hours, and now that you’re about to break, you’re no longer in control of anything. He bites down on his lip in concentration and then in bliss as you wrap your free hand around his biceps and dig your nails into his skin.

He stills, and groans, and gives you another three desperate thrusts, pulling you over the edge with him. Your orgasm catches you by surprise, makes you cry out with the force of it, and he leans down to reclaim your mouth while he empties himself, engulfed by your hungrily clenching cunt.

*******

Soft morning light tickles you awake. You stretch your aching muscles, then breathe in deeply. The scent surrounding you is unfamiliar and yet familiar all the same. Then you remember.

Javi!

Your eyes fly open. He’s not lying in bed next to you or getting dressed, and you also don’t hear the shower running in the bathroom. Maybe he went out to get breakfast. Maybe he got called into work. All you know is that you were so tired you didn’t hear him leave.

You sit up and roll your stiff shoulders. Sometime during the night, Javi must have draped the blanket over you. The blanket that still smells of sex. Your face heats up.

The empty whiskey bottle is standing on the small desk, right where Javi left it. If he went out to get breakfast, you should clean the desk so you’ll have a place to eat. If he got called into work, you should still tidy up – you don’t want the hotel staff to gossip about him.

As you approach the desk, you notice the divorce papers spread out on top of it. It seems silly how you came here last night in an attempt to make him sign them. You make to push them into a pile when you spot it – a neat signature on a line right next to yours. “No,” you whisper, but there’s the second one, and the third.

Right there on the line where it says “husband”, his signature flashes up at you: Javier Peña.

If you enjoyed the fic, I’d love to hear from you 🥰 feel free to leave a comment or drop into my inbox anytime …

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[coyotelip]

jegulily waiting for a child microfic part 2! careful || part 1 || @taylorswiftmicrofic || wc: 812

“It's so small. Smaller than I expected,” James says in a whisper as he wraps his arms around Lily's five-months-pregnant bump.

“Can you grow a bigger one?” Lily replies with a laugh as she continues to carefully run the razor along James' jaw, shaving away the remnants of his morning stubble.

Five minutes ago, James was doing it on his own, looking at himself in the mirror with a frown. There was blood just under his lower lip where he hadn't been so careful with the razor. So when Lily walked into their bathroom in the morning, she couldn't ignore her husband's embarrassing suffering and set about helping him.

James now has his back to the mirror, leaning slightly so that she can work with his face at her height. His hands are on her round belly, stroking her bare skin, running his fingertips along the white stretch marks on her skin. Lily's hands gently circle his face and apply gentle pressure, shaving away the stubble along with the shaving foam that cools his skin.

“Oh, I wish I could,” James says, returning to the conversation, only half jokingly. That way he would be able to stay at home all the time as he wanted. James doesn't say it, but Lily's eyes meet his and flicker, noticing the sadness in her husband's gaze.

“I've been thinking about something…” she begins cautiously. James tilts his head slightly, but doesn't stop her from continuing to manipulate the razor. “You can raise your price list, right?”

“Why?” he asks, a little puzzled. James has been working as a massage therapist for eight years now and rents an office in the city center. And he'd be lying if he said he wasn't proud of his success - the best athletes and several celebrities in their city use his services, and some even invite him to their homes to give them private sessions. And of course, James charges a lot of money for this level of skills and experience.

“Oh, you know, your regular clients can afford it. I'm sure they'll stay with you even if the price doubles,” Lily picks up a damp towel to wipe James' face of the remaining shaving foam. Her voice trails off as she adds, “And you'll be able to afford to spend more time at home, right?”

Her green eyes look at James with hope. She knows how much James has been putting on himself these past few months. Of course she does. He doesn't even have to voice those thoughts and feelings, Lily and Regulus read his every thought in those moments when James comes home from work late at night and finds them on the couch wrapped in a blanket and covered in brownie crumbs. When he leaves for work early in the morning, sometimes while both of his partners are still in bed. When Regulus talks enthusiastically about something that happened during the day and about new information he found on the Internet about newborns.

James never says what is bothering him because of his particular and biggest fear. That they will stop sharing with him everything that happens in his absence so as not to hurt his feelings.

There are days when James wishes his job was as flexible as Regulus' and he could just work from home. Although their plans for the big house already include the idea of a separate office space for James for clients who are willing to travel out of town to visit him.

Putting down the towel, Lily cradles James' face in both hands, and he rubs lightly against her palms like a cat hungry for touch. The man has to cover his eyes to keep the tears from falling because of the flood of thoughts that has overwhelmed him. It seems that he is the one who has experienced all the emotionality that is typical during pregnancy.

All this time, James' hands remained on Lily's rounded pregnant bump - these days he tried to maintain physical contact with his wife whenever possible. Even when his profession required him to be skillful with touching other people, he had never been so careful and caring with anyone but his partners.

Lily gives him this time to think and gently strokes his cheeks. And James begins, “I think…” when something happens.

A light push coming from somewhere inside the woman's belly. A very light impact wave that James feels under his palm and makes two pairs of eyes look down.

James doesn't remove his hands, but instead spreads both palms to cover the entire surface of Lily's belly. And he feels it again - a kick. A small hand or foot that responds to the sound of his voice, to the warmth of his hands, and wants to say hello.

This time, James doesn't close his eyes, but lets the tears roll down his cheeks.

[whereispearlescentmoon]

Speak your mind on the permits and we shall listen

Buckle up for this. If you liked the permits do not read this post. It will make you upset. Don’t upset yourself for no reason. All of this is my opinion. I’m also going to be referring to some Hermits’ specific actions. This is me seeing them role playing and engaging with it as a story. If you can’t see it as that, also don’t read this. There is no hate to creators involved in this post at all.

Overall I thought the Exile storyline was fun and it’s definitely been the best thing to come out of the permits. My problem isn’t with the storyline it created eventually but with the permits themselves.

My main gripe was that people had to build shops for things no one wanted when everyone knew it was stuff no one wanted and some of them were such small categories of item that they in no way warranted a full shop. The whole popup vs actual shop thing bothered me too. Why should someone have to make an entire building dedicated to selling hay bales or saddles or ink sacs when a “pop up” works just fine? Why should Hermits who know they aren’t going to sell anything have to make seperate shops for every item, because that was also part of the rules, when they could make smaller builds and put their efforts elsewhere?

Maybe it’s just because Pearl, who is my main POV, was actually diligent about making shops and keeping them stocked, but to me it just felt like too much work pulling away from getting to do other stuff. She spent like an hour every week on stream just tending to her shops. And then to have that incident of Skizz coming in and buy out all of her blue dye and then sending her a warning to stock more or face consequences? It was a little annoying.

It also severely limited the amount of diamonds certain Hermits were able to earn. Sure, if you’re Cleo, who gets to sell S tier books, it’s fine. But someone like, say, Joel, gets screwed.

And then there’s the whole price thing. If only one person can sell an item, then they set the price. And some of the Hermits were selling things for frankly insane prices because like, it’s not like there’s competition? Not to mention, Doc choosing to sell everything for shulkers of sand because again, he’s the only one who can sell what he’s selling, and because he wants payback for the fact that he’s not allowed to sand dupe this season.

And since you’ve made it so only one person can sell every item and anything else has to be some kind of shady work around deal, combined with the fact that some Hermits aren’t earning anything from shops, we get things like Joel stealing from False’s shop because he doesn’t think the price is fair and he can’t afford it.

It also lowkey bothered me just how hypocritical Scar and Grian were being. Maybe it would be different if I was someone who watched the two of them but knowing both of them weren’t following the rules but were still going around and killing people for minor infractions (or even no infraction at all), when both of them had unused permits they hadn’t turned over either was annoying to me. Yeah corrupt power and all that but still, with how much they both insisted that if people just turned over permits it wouldn’t be issue, they would just turn over their permits or give them away if they didn’t want them.

[passthe5sos]

Rivalry is dedicated to Liam Payne. The boy who raised us all. The reminder to not wait too long because you never know when the last time will come.

ri•val•ry: competition for the same objective or for superiority in the same field.

"They say when you graduate high school, all the teenage drama is supposed to be forgotten. Your brain acclimates to a new setting; work, college, living alone. You begin finding out the new realities of what being an adult is supposed to mean, you mature. But apparently, the idea of maturing isn't apparent in the towns of Greensboro and Georgetown. Two neighboring towns, with the biggest college football rivalry. Greensboro, filled with the rich kids with the easy ins and outs, million dollar mansions, and Louis Vuitton purses. While Georgetown, had a little bit less. A community college rather than a University. A run down library, cracked sidewalks, and the people who live there always have to fight to live every day.

Hidden behind the football games, the game winning trophy the teams pass back and forth, and the laughter, hide lies secrets, and a bit of mystery. Neither schools football teams are all what they appear to be."

___________

He hadn't always lived in America.

From the time he was born, till about fifteen years old, he had lived in Redditch, England. His happy place, and although much hadn't ever happened in town, thing's happened in his home. His father tried to be the best father he could be, but working almost every single day for long, excruciating hours, and still not being able to make ends meet made him bitter. When the boys sister turned fourteen, she had gotten her first job at a library. The librarian who owned the place understood how hard it was for the family, and took pity on the girl, but she wouldn't hire the boy who was only eleven. He had to wait a while. It lasted until he was fifteen when places would finally hire him, and he landed his first and only real job in a bakery. He didn't know much about baking, but the owner let him steal bread and cakes that weren't quite right to take home, she understood his families issues too.

When the father decided to skip out on paying the rent that month, he hadn't known that the owner to his house was involved in something more sinister than he had ever thought. A gang. It was ruthless and pure evil.

When the leader of the gang realized that one of his renters hadn't payed their monthly fees, he had a fit. He had people to pay, drugs to buy, he didn't want to worry about some reckless family choosing not to pay, so instead he went to the home and told the father he had two options, give up his children, or he raises the rent fees. Of course he also said if he couldn't pay, and didn't want to give up his children, then he'd kick them all out. Of course the father couldn't do that, he wanted his family the have a house. But he also couldn't afford anymore prices being raised, or they'd end up on the street anyway. So, he did the only thing he could, let the man take his kids so he wouldn't have to continue paying for the house.

Before the boys sixteenth birthday, they had already been picked up and sent off to America where he was trained, and he and his sister attended school, college as well. She went to a rather beautiful and large campus, well known for the rich kids. Even when the boy graduated high school, he attended the gorgeous college.

Thing's were fine for a while, aside from the constant torture, being shipped off to other states and countries without being consulted, training and conditioning, fighting. But aside from that, thing's were fine, until they just weren't.

Now she on the other hand, had always lived in America. It had been her home for at least three generations. Her father had left when she was young, leaving the girl's mother to take care of her daughter all alone. The mother had grown up loving the movie The Sleeping Beauty, and admired the way the three fairies grouped together to take care of the princess, to keep her safe from the evil in the world. It helped her a lot to raise the daughter, admiring the three women. It takes a village to raise a baby. She also loved The Princess and the Frog, the way Tiana's mother was raising a child on her own, using her seamstress knowledge to sell dresses and fix clothing for others. She had been raising her daughter on food stamps and government money, until she too decided she needed to get up, stop moping, and raise her damn daughter. She began stitching clothes, hemming them for other people. Buying cloth and recycling clothing from thrift stores to resell. Everything in the little girls closet was always purchased from thrift stores or made just for her.

She hadn't had it easy growing up. While other poor kids had Walmart brand clothing, or even target if they were lucky, everything she owned had no label, was ripped here or there only to be sewn back together. She hadn't been bullied because of it, tons of the people in the town had clothes sewn by her mother, a lot of people actually thought it was kind of cool, having an entire closet of clothes made just for you. Kind of like a model, or a princess would have wardrobe made just to fit them.

Even with the money that her mother made, it still sometimes wasn't enough. Sometimes the mother would give random sales and cuts to her prices to make it more affordable for others. Sure, maybe they hadn't been able to eat dinner that night, but at least the mother could sleep easily knowing she made life easier for other people. And that's the way the girl grew up to be. Putting others before herself.

FIND OUT THE TRUTH IN RIVALRY (published now)

Wattpad: -Luvr_0f_Min3

Characters

Playlist

Catch

Smoke

House

Plan

Bar

Hallway

Lights

Party

Mustang

Stars

Class

Photography

Colors

Longing

Festival

Fight

Homecoming

Strip

[sno4wy]

Did you seriously drop that much money to try to make your awful ship more valid? Guess what? You didn't, hope you enjoyed wasting a ton of money. It doesn't matter how much money you pay, you and your lame friends will always be the only ones who prefer your fugly builder with Miguel. Just give it up and go jump off a bridge already.

Hey Anon, based on the three messages you sent me today, it seems that my sharing of my commission from Momodeary in the official Pathea Discord server really upset you. Your rage felt really familiar to me, and I thought about this a lot about why. I'm going to hazard a guess that you're lashing out at me more than usual because of the price aspect, especially for something that seems so frivolous. I get it -- I grew up in abject poverty, and I harbored a lot of rage about it both directly and indirectly for many years. It really sucks not having the money to do what you need, or even what you want, and it can feel like having salt rubbed into the wound when someone else shows off some pricey non-necessity that they got. Everyone deserves to get what brings them joy, as long as it isn't something that causes harm to others, and it sucks that capitalism/corporations/societal structure/etc make most people unable to attain that. I sincerely hope that things improve for you.

I'm fortunate now to do well enough for myself that I can afford a pricey commission like the one that I shared. I got the commission because I like Momodeary's art style, it's not a style that I see myself personally doing, and I'm making it up to myself now for all the things that I couldn't do in the past. I wouldn't be so presumptuous as to say it was to support the artist, as she has tons of clients and certainly didn't need my money, I'm really lucky to have been able to get a slot with her. If you have the means to do so and want to, I really suggest contacting her directly -- the worst thing she can say is no, but more likely is that she'll put you on an (admittedly long) waitlist. The point is, if you're upset about not being able to get a commission from her, don't write it off until you try. Worse comes to worst, she can't fit you in, but there are tons of skilled artists out there with similar styles that you can commission instead. It's ok though if you have your heart set on Momodeary, most artists are very accommodating as long as the client is understanding and willing to wait.

If your anger has to do with not being able to afford a commission from Momodeary, I'm really sorry about that. There are some ways that I can help, if not directly to get you a commission, but perhaps means to address the funds shortage issue. I managed to claw my way out of poverty, and in the process picked up more than a few ideas and tricks, however at the end of the day, there is no magical get rich quick scheme, and everything that you hear about how to find a job is sadly mostly true. For instance, a good resumé is an integral part to finding a job, and a big part of what makes a resumé good is proper formatting. Having gone from someone who sent out hundreds of resumés to someone who's had to review hundreds of resumés, I can tell you that so much of the time, it's a lot less about the contents of the resumé and more about its appearance. Countless qualified, heck, overqualified, people get turned down for positions because their resumés don't even get looked at. I'm happy to look over a resumé if you'd like, and of course I'd understand if you need to anonymize most of it before showing me. Please note that it is sadly the case that having a good resumé, or in many cases, all the correct qualifications, don't necessarily guarantee you a job. Connections are at least, if not more, important, so don't be shy about asking for help from friends and family in this aspect.

Finding and securing a job can be a long-term project though, so picking up some side hustles might be a good way to generate some income, especially as you can keep these side hustles after finding a job. A lot of people have even done so well with their side hustles that they were able to make them into their careers. I'm happy to make suggestions, but I'm afraid that my knowledge is chiefly confined to the US and my ideas may not be applicable or workable in other countries. I have found however that a fairly universal way to generate some income via a side hustle is through selling crocheted items. Crochet is very quick and easy to learn and master, and yarn is very cheap, especially if you get store brands like Joann's Big Twist. Red Heart Super Saver is also very cheap yarn that comes in a ton of colors. There are countless free patterns on the internet, and ones that aren't free tend to be pretty cheap, generally within the $5 range. It is totally legal to sell the stuff you make from purchased patterns; some patterns even explicitly state that this is the case. The best part about crochet is that you can do it while doing other stuff, like commuting to your job, watching a show, listening to music, etc. It's totally possible to churn out a ton of crochet animals (amigurumi) in one day. Dipping into fandom stuff by making characters from a certain franchise is a great way to sell crochet products. Another really cool thing is that there doesn't currently exist a way for crocheted items to be mass produced; while there are items that look crocheted, they're actually sewn together pieces and not true crochet. Machines can't currently make crocheted items. Buyers looking for real crochet products want something that only a human can make.

Online marketing tools are also pretty solid. Etsy is the way to go for handmade crafts, although they do take a pretty hefty fee (15%). You can try to cut down on that fee by listing on your own social media, in which case you'd still have to pay a 3-5% handling fee for payment processors, and it can be a pain trying to beat social media algorithms. If you're handy with TikTok, that's a great way to boost awareness of your brand, and you can use those same videos as Reels on Instagram and Facebook to get your accounts noticed faster.

If you're an artist, you could of course always try to go the commissions route, but I've found that this is a much harder uphill battle than trying to break into the scene marketing crochet goods. If you do decide to give crochet a shot, I really recommend investing in a quality hook -- Clover Armour is many crocheters' go-to. They are pricy, around $9 for a hook, but they last forever and they're super comfortable to use. You only need one to start -- I recommend the size G (4.0 mm) one, as that goes with the most common yarn weight for a lot of amigurumi. Big Twist and Red Heart Super Saver are also both Worsted weight yarn, for which you use a G hook. If this is something you really want to do but are really tight on funds, I'm happy to get one of those hooks for you, just tell me how to get it to you.

I have a lot of other ideas for possible side gigs, which all will require a lot of work, but will return income. However, I'd just be spitballing, so hit me up if you want to talk shop. You know where to find me. ;P

[monsterfucker-lisa-swallows]

newest roommate drama under the cut for if anyone wants the tea. posting this here because reddit seemed to treat me mainly as the problem (just because i'm 30??? like okay it's becoming less and less feasible to find a place that's affordable to live without getting roommates.) so i want to know if anyone on tumblr thinks this is as insane as i do. TLDR: roommate is insanely extroverted, won't leave me alone, and wakes the whole house up every morning

I have extremely low income because I grew up in an abusive household and I'm disabled. As such, I've never been able to afford to live on my own (I'm trying to change that by getting on benefits but it's going to take a while). I advertised for a roommate last month after emotionally abusive roommates kicked me out and ended up finding someone who was willing to look at stuff in my price range, which was admittedly low. I was unsure about her from the beginning, but every other option looked worse or unworkable. For starters, she insisted on sharing a room. It ended up being that we couldn't afford a place anyway without sharing a room, but I find it odd that her preference is to share a room as an adult. I shared a room with my sister growing up and had college roommates and work roommates and even had someone crash in my room once when she needed a place to stay. Even the best of those situations was unideal for me. But I acquiesced. I also was hesitant because of her age. She's only 22. I'm 30. I'd prefer to room with someone my age or older because I don't have time for roommate drama and I've found that younger roommates want to party or don't clean up after themselves. I find people in my own generation have more in common with me generally and in terms of values. This is not always true, but it is something I looked at.

Anyway, we've now been living together for 2 weeks. We have a year lease so I can put up with her that long, but I need to set some boundaries. She claims to be introverted, but every time she's home she wants to talk to me. Not just talk, but monologue. For hours. I'm very introverted as well as autistic and chronically ill. I don't want to talk every waking minute of every day. She barges in when I'm watching something or reading a book and is like "hey can we talk right now" and because I'm polite I'll say sure but she'll hold me hostage with a monologue about something boring (or sometimes insulting but I'll get to that later). She gets visibly irritated when I don't want to turn off my show or put down my book to talk. She's even annoyed if I respond to a quick text while still being attentive to her. I'd get it if it was a planned hang out, but this is my room and I feel I'm entitled to enjoy my activities. But she doesn't seem to have any hobbies or friends and she goes on tangents about how bad TV is for you and how you should be present and not "distracted by corporations" while I'm actively trying to enjoy my downtime.

She has no social skills either. Speaking as an autistic who had to learn them the hard way. I can never get a word in edgewise. If I interject to add something to the conversation, she goes "can I get back to what I was saying" and when I've said she doesn't have to ask permission she says "well when people interrupt it's usually because they want to change the subject." That's not true at all, particularly since when I speak it's to add some context or ask a clarifying question. But I had a situation with her the other day where I mentioned that I hate the R word and she said she didn't think it was bad and I tried to explain it had been used to hate crime me. She said it was just bullying and not a hate crime which felt dismissive so I had to explain that I've been physically attacked. I was going to explain a little about how bullying should be taken more seriously as a form of emotional (and often physical) abuse that causes psychological damage and how hate crimes against the disabled are constantly minimized and how using that word is insulting because it's throwing the developmentally disabled under the bus, but she cut me off before I could say anything. Since she says interrupting is an attempt to end the conversation, I can only assume she doesn't care about what I have to say.

She also is constantly like "can I make a dirty joke". Like those exact words. She won't just say anything that's on her mind without asking permission, but she's not even good at dirty jokes and it's just awkward.

She was raised rich and is constantly asking invasive questions about how I can survive on so little money (she's baffled I have clothes and makeup). At least once a day she tries to spring an outing on me too. "Hey do you want to go for a drive?" "Hey do you want to go for a walk?" And is visibly annoyed when I say no. She's said it's impossible to plan anything with me when she never plans, she just springs it on me. And I never want to do spontaneous hangouts. And she's usually asking while I'm in the middle of watching Yellowjackets or something. She also doesn't seem to hear what I say. The other day I mentioned that I wanted to go to the grocery store and she offered to take me since I don't have a car. I said I'd like to go in the afternoon before I go to work and if that didn't work then I could still go by myself. She said that's fine. I woke up at 8AM the next day (a Saturday) and she saw me wake up and was like "are you ready to go?" Bitch I'm in bed. I said to wait til later. I woke up at 10:30 and at 11 she was asking me if I was ready. I said to wait til later so I had time to eat and make sure it settled so I won't get motion sick in the car. She said "can you be ready in half an hour?" I said no, I already told you I prefer to do this in the afternoon before work. If you need to run errands, I can go by myself. I wanted to wait until 3 since I work at 4, but since she kept asking I tried to compromise and say we could leave at 2. Starting at 1, she'd come around every 15 minutes asking if I was ready to go. And she insists on going to places like Whole Foods where I can't actually afford to shop there while making critical comments about my diet.

She's also constantly giving health advice and sending me videos about how bad specific food things are claiming that's the root of all my illnesses. Those claims have been thoroughly debunked but she doesn't believe in science evidently. Just because they worked for her with her severe allergies doesn't mean it would solve an illness I was literally born with and I find it insulting. She assumes that since I have chips in the house it means I eat unhealthily, when most of the time I'm eating soup or salad or sandwiches. All she eats is bone marrow and kale.

Several times a week I wake up to her alarm blaring at 5:30/6:00 in the morning. It wouldn't be a problem if she immediately turned it off, but she lets it keep going for 45 minutes. I've now learned she sets 4 alarms and lets them bleed into each other. The first alarm is a normal ring. The second one is too. The third one is some obnoxious song I had to google that is apparently by someone named Benson Boone who I now wish to kill on sight because I have to hear him screech every day at 6AM while she refuses to turn it off (it's a loop of a chorus, not even the full song). The 4th alarm is a ring but a voice over it will say "It's 6:41AM". It keeps telling the time til she turns it off. Which she doesn't. I've started telling her to turn it off if any alarm goes past 3 loops because I know she's waking up the other two housemates too. The weird thing is, when I speak she always hears me the first time. If you were actually sleeping through you alarm, you'd think I'd have to throw something at you to get you to hear me, right? I'm forced to think she either likes the sound of her alarm or is trying to force us all to wake up and talk to her. I get horrible migraines if my sleep is continually interrupted and she doesn't seem to respect that at all. If her alarm went off once and she got up, the inertia would carry me back to sleep. But this is excessive.

I'm so ready to just say hey, you seem sweet, but I'm significantly older than you, way more introverted, and have my own hobbies and friend group. I'm happy to share a room with you, but I don't want to be your BFF. I think you'd be happier if you got a hobby and starting hanging out with extroverts of your own age who have more in common with you. I'm not going to invite you to hang out with my friends because we are all much older than you, very introverted, and do not have interests in common so hanging out would just be a miserable experience for us. (This last bit in response to her overhearing that my best friend dyes my hair for me so she tried to invite herself to this woman's house despite never having met her or talked to her in any capacity, which I just feel is rude.)

[matsunoso]

because you’re also Irish and an Osomatsu fan and idk if anyone else in the fandom would get this I want to share my Osomatsu-san if it was set in Ireland headcanons -

- Karamatsu: talks with a fake D4 accent, idolises Ross O’Carroll Kelly, wears chinos and brown brogues, drinks Bulmers

- Osomatsu: big Guinness fan naturally propping up the pub maybe like half doing a crossword and eating a pack of peanuts

- Choromatsu: wanted to get into TCD to live his Normal People lifestyle but ummm didn’t, claims he’s a fluent gaeilgeoir but only knows how to ask to the toilet in Irish

- Ichimatsu: hung out at central bank in the day

- Jyushimatsu: massively into hurling, wears a Kilkenny jersey a lot but isn’t from there

- Todomatsu: also wanted to get into TCD but didn’t basically lives at Brown Thomas

- Chibita: has a strong cork accent, works in a deli in centra/spar/mace

- Todoko: did Irish dancing as a kid but now is an aspiring influencer

hope you enjoy and sorry

OH THIS IS INCREDIBLE literally never in a million years expected to get an ask like this but i loveeeee it. you're so enlightened like this is genuinely magical i wouldn't change a thing.. love cork chibita love ichimatsu at the central bank GAA JYUSHIMATSU SPEAKS TO ME DEEEEEEEPLYYYY

not a concept i ever pondered myself but thinking about it so much now... influencer wannabe todoko doing hauls from dealz and home savers and mr price (cus she usually can't afford hauls from anywhere else) maybe getting to do one of those ads for swappie just once

in the same vein as choromatsu claiming to be a gaeilgeoir but not actually being able to speak it i imagine like. how karamatsu says random words in english to seem #worldly. he does that with irish instead or like deep cut irish slang/phrases that he would not have grown up with at all and gets them wrong half the time.

choromatsu is definitely in forbidden planet like weekly if not daily. goes in there and then brings whatever manga he bought to that clockwork door place up the road and hopes someone asks him what he's reading

struggling to decide who would be a bigger fiend for elfbars out of osomatsu and karamatsu so i'll just leave that thought there

i want one of them to be obsessed with mooju. i don't know which. all of them probably. especially osomatsu and jyushimatsu i think. they could get the strawberry and banana flavours to match their colours.. imagine.. i think ichimatsu likes the cookies and cream flavour but secretly

thinking about jyushimatsu so hard man like the rest probably stick to dublin/whatever suburb of it they live in just cus they seem the sort to not afford to live in the city centre LMAOOO not in a house with 6 adult kids..... but i know jyushimatsu does be getting on the bus/train every week and just disappearing off all over the country for funsies (he's the only one with an autism diagnosis so he's got that sweet sweet free travel card.) like you know how you get those dubliners that are fucking terrified to leave the county or even just the city because "scary culchies ewww boggers" or whatever. todomatsu is definitely one of those maybe choromatsu too (he pretends not to be scared but he is). osomatsu jokes but doesn't actually care. karamatsu pretends to be #cultured and not scared as well but the furthest he's been is like... skerries. nowhere further than the dart or dublin bus goes. ichimatsu is scared even just in dublin and thinks he's gonna get stabbed like all the time so it's all the same to him

BUT YEAH jyushimatsu goes literally everywhere cities towns parishes villages you name it. maybe brings ichimatsu along with him sometimes cus ichi does wanna go & i bet loves the countryside but is too scared by himself and needs someone to hide behind. jyushi goes to sooooo many GAA matches gaelic footballs ok but as you said MASSIVELY INTO HURLING!!!! one of those lads you see walking around with a hurl in hand nearly everywhere he goes.. got that o'neills mála scoile... i know you said he wears a kilkenny jersey a lot which is another INSPIRED idea but i feel in my heart that he has a galway one too just because he loves supermacs. they all love supermacs. i'm projecting now. also jyushi definitely tears up those greenways he'll do the royal canal one and then detour from mullingar to athlone and at the end still be like when are they gonna finish connecting this up to galway :/

sorry i didn't expect to write this long of a reply you've ignited something evil within me i'm going to be thinking about this forever. thank you SO much you have such a wonderful wonderful brain

[kariachi]

Oh look, more Jones stuff. First meeting between the grandparents.

~~

Ethan Jones would like to say he was not the sort of man to push his luck. That he had learned from his dad’s early death to take small bites.

He was twenty-three, two train robberies deep, and silently promising to make sure whoever’d snitched never spoke again if Carlos and Ramon didn’t get to them first as he did his best to play cool slipping into a bustling diner.

With any luck small town cops were stupid and he’d properly lost them in back in that library, but that was no reason not to try to blend in. So, he kept it casual, just another joe coming in on his lunch break, or stopping as he passed through, nobody worth looking at or remembering. Threw a little thank you upstairs when he noticed an empty booth- all the better for not being noticed. Didn’t look at anybody, didn’t say anything, just headed straight over and got himself settled into a seat.

The place had to be well staffed or run like a machine because he’d swear not sooner had he let himself breathe than there was a waitress setting a menu down in front of him.

“Welcome, how you doing today?” And what a waitress. Young woman had to be at least as tall as him, broad and fat, tan skin, black hair in a ponytail. He couldn’t have kept himself from smiling if he’d wanted to.

“Better now I’m here,�� he said, and it hadn’t been a lie even before he’d seen her. There was security in a crowd, and lunch crowds were distracted crowds at that. Fuck, there’d been a year he’d been able to buy Spenc a store cake like he liked for his birthday, though he’d told Ma he’d got the money helping the old man down the street, like she hadn’t known he was lying, just off pickpocketing crowds like this. “Think you could start me off with a coffee? Been a long morning.”

“Of course.” She’d smiled back at him as she left, one he let himself think might not just be polite, and he turned to the menu. Reasonable prices, as to be expected for a rural area that needed to be affordable to the blue-collar folks that ate there. The idea of a vegetable sandwich costing the same as a sausage sandwich caught him a moment, but it was the same as all the standard ones, so he at least had to commend the consistency. Already planning to drive himself across state lines that afternoon, probably have to steal a new car or at least a set of plates, Ethan made sure to order a solid meal when she came back. Hamburger deluxe, fries, slice of pie, and a can of pineapple juice since he'd never had pineapple before and she seemed like the sort of classy lady who expected a man to know his way around fruit. Or at least deserved a man who did.

Wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it, even with most of his cut stashed away, and enough sent to his mom and sister, he had enough to cover him for the next while dotted around.

He was thinking about that, what stashes he was going to dig into and which direction to go, alongside the continuous flipping through names for just who he would be hunting down, when the door opened and the volume in the diner dropped. Not a lot, but enough for him to know that whoever had walked in had at least some people’s attention. With a deep breath, he very carefully didn’t turn to look, shuffling as inconspicuously as he could to the side. Shoulda grabbed a fucking paper or something, another layer to hide behind…

The waitress made for the door at an easy pace. Ethan was going to have to remember to swing back around once the heat died down, it kept feeling like his heart was tipping on it’s side.

“Is there a reason you’re blocking the door?”

“Afternoon to you too, Wari. We’re looking for a man, little shorter than you, black hair, wearing jeans, a red shirt, blue jacket?”

“Why don’t you describe the other half of the county while you’re here.”

“Wari.”

“Ronnie. You know I’m right, that could be anybody.”

“Someone new, an out-of-towner.”

“… No. If he’s come in here, he wasn’t at my tables, it’s been regulars the last hour.” This woman was a gift.

“And the other girls?”

“Patty! You seen any out-of-towners this rush, black hair, red shirt?” One other waitress? The place was a well-oiled machine.

“Nope! I’ll tell you if I do!”

“Thank you, ladies. We do appreciate the help.”

“Glad to give it, but next time this needs to happen away from the door.”

“Yeah yeah.”

The door opened again. The door closed. Ethan did not leave his spot. Leaving would be suspicious. Instead he just sat there, drinking his coffee and wishing he had something to read, until his food arrived. He flashed Wari (what a wonderful name) a rakish grin.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, a stern look trying and mostly succeeding to stay on her face. Mostly. “Next time, think you could not bring the cops along? Had enough of Ronnie in school.” He grinned wider (‘next time’) and lifted his coffee in a toast.

“Anything for you, beautiful.” Her cheeks colored as she rolled her eyes, his heart doing a little jig.

“Enjoy your meal, and shout if you need anything.” He needed a lot of things, but those could wait. She just got a nod as she turned and went back to work, the grin still on his face as he watched her go.

If she wasn’t a Jones by the end of the year he was going to cry.

~~

She did become a Jones, it just took three years and giving up the criminal career he’d been working on since he was twelve.

It was an easy exchange.

[star-going-supernova]

Prompt: it Aint a Glamorous Life, but it will keep you out of jail!

This is tumblr generated prompt number 62! This one had me stumped for a bit, so I tried to go in a really unexpected direction. It’s shorter than my usual, but I’m pleased with how it came out! As you may have noticed with one of my other ficlets, I chose King as Cassie’s last name because I think Cassie King sounds really cool and I haven’t seen any commonly used one, lol.

Blood Money

There was nothing in the world Theodore King wouldn’t do for his daughter. She was all he had after Bridget left. So he’d worked hard, taken any job he could just to stay afloat, and when he discovered his current place of employment was far from clean…

He’d taken the bribe. 

Fazbear Entertainment’s history was stained to begin with, so he hadn’t quite been surprised, exactly. Not about that. How well they’d been hiding it—that’d been the surprising part. 

It wasn’t often, but every now and then, someone got a little nosey. They snooped around and saw something they shouldn’t have. And those sorts of things were secrets that FE really couldn’t afford to let become common knowledge.

Maybe they could’ve been bribed too, except the nosey ones were usually the suspicious ones, the conspiracy theorists, the whistleblowers. They didn’t accidentally stumble on this stuff like Theodore did. They went looking to prove their theories, and they wanted to share their findings. 

And how defiant and proud they were to have been proven right. But only up until they realized they’d doomed themselves. 

Theodore didn’t relish this rare aspect of his job, when code zero came through on his pager. If his fellows thought anything odd about the code that only he ever received, and that he immediately set aside his other work for, they never spoke up about it. Perhaps they, too, had found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, only unlike Theodore, they swore only their silence. 

Theodore, rather, had found his silence and cooperation could be bought—at a high price, but one his superiors were willing to pay. Employees like him were hard to come by, apparently. 

There was mutually assured destruction in it now, he knew. If any of this side of FE got out, he’d be arrested as surely as his bosses. His fellows, with their carefully averted eyes, would have no charges brought against them. 

Theodore was the only one who dragged the snoopers down to the rancid trash heap with its hungry dwellers. The pits of bright-eyed, sharp-fingered, “defective” bots. They were like pigs; there was never any evidence left by the time they were through with their victims. 

Rare as it was, it did happen, and it had happened enough times since Theodore got involved that he felt only mild pity and an apathy where once there had been guilt.

In truth, Theodore thought these people to be foolish. Yes, very foolish indeed. They came to the pizzaplex and went digging for bloody secrets. And they found them. Yet they never seemed to consider that an already bloody company would be willing to do bloody things to keep those secrets quiet. 

He took his blood money without remorse. It was hard, being a single father. He needed flexible hours to take care of his young daughter and actually be in her life, and all the high-paying jobs were the sort that demanded twenty-five hours of your day, eight days a week and on Christmas to boot. Before this… arrangement, he’d barely been making ends meet, having to work another job on top of the one at the pizzaplex. 

But doing his superiors’ dirty work payed well. Well enough that he and Cassie lived in a house now, with a backyard and nice neighbors and a bedroom just for Cassie. Well enough that he’d been able to quit the other job and be there for Cassie more. Well enough that Cassie no longer had to worry about kids making fun of her secondhand clothes and worn-out shoes, and could instead feel excited-nervous butterflies about going to camp this summer. 

Theodore King would do anything for his daughter. That included sending people to their deaths at another’s order. He didn’t know if that made him a bad man or not. 

But according to Cassie, he was the world’s best dad. 

He supposed that wasn’t a bad trade off. 

[xxrainshadowsxx]

Interpersonal Chapter 6

Girls like Shakespeare, right?

It wasn’t an easy thing to come down from such an insane weekend back to the mundane world of work. Of course, people started whispering the second you walked through the doors on Tuesday (you’d mercifully been giving Monday off to recover), but you’d thought ahead and prepared a response. You simply smile at them all and say “Tabloids delight in spreading lies. Mr. Onceler won’t be happy if he learns you’ve been promoting unfounded rumors.” Most of the people you run into on the way to your office have the decency to look abashed.

You only wish you were as calm as you appeared. In truth, you were dreading today because it was filled with the unknown, and because you were all too aware of the fact that something did happen on that trip, a something that you weren’t able to come back from. The first two “incidents” you could brush off as mistakes. They weren’t intentional. Awkward as all hell, yes. Avoidable, absolutely. But not intentional.

Not even you could deny that him kissing you wasn’t intentional. And you couldn’t take the moral high ground either; the second his lips met yours, you were kissing him back like your life had depended on it.

And that meant you had no clue what it was going to be like going to your office today. There were a few options that you’d been mulling over in your head, and you couldn’t for the life of you decide which one was worse.

It could just be that things are awkward for an indefinite amount of time. This wouldn’t be too bad if you weren’t in a work setting; you could simply avoid him. That’s not an option for you here, and you definitely don’t want any awkward feelings to affect your job performance.

Or he could read your very enthusiastic response as a sign that you wanted to continue things. You couldn’t deny that a part of you did, but the consequences would be astronomical. If the two of you were caught, his reputation could probably survive the hit. Yours would not. You could not afford the price of being caught, and that was final.

Of course, there was always the third option, where he actually successfully pretended like it never happened. Logically, you knew this was the best possible solution, but your pride lashed out violently any time you thought about it. It would make you feel as though you were nothing more than a game, a cheap conquest, and would more than likely actually cause you to be the one to bring it up first.

But whatever happened next, the very first thing you’d have to do was walk through the door. And seeing as you’d been standing in front of it for a solid ten minutes already, that was proving easier said than done.

The issue stemmed from the fact that you knew he was in there. It was only a gut feeling, but you just knew you weren’t going to get lucky and he’d be at a meeting today. He was 100% on the other side of that intimidating oak door, probably wondering why you hadn’t shown up yet.

You could always hit what you liked to call your Emergency Button, that being, send a text to your sister saying that she needed to call you faking some kind of family emergency. That would at least allow you to get to your office unbothered. She would do it for you, you’d done it countless times for each other, but she would demand to know why it was necessary. And you didn’t think you could handle her teasing or her proclaiming “I knew it” when she inevitably wrested the truth from you.

There was no other way around this. You were going to have to walk in and let the dice fall where they may. You did this to yourself. And now you had to suffer the fallout.

You push open the doors and slip through them as quietly as you possibly can, trying to make yourself scarce. It’s a noble but futile effort of course; he looks up the second you enter the room and a heat rises to his face the next second. Looks like it was going to be awkward. Alrighty then.

“Hi,” you murmur as you get close enough for him to hear you.

“Hi,” he says back. Oh dear Lord, this was insufferable. You berate yourself for your inability to speak like a normal human being to this man. Pull yourself together. 

“So, do you have anything urgent for me before I get to my regular work?” There, that was good, right? Sure, except for the breathy tone you can’t get your voice to switch out of.

“I don’t have anything yet, but I’ll let you know if something comes up.” He’s speaking in the same way–his words are normal, but his tone is just a bit huskier than usual, and by God if it didn’t make you feel something. You’re not sure what it was, but it was definitely something, and it wasn’t something you should be feeling for your boss. 

“Okay. Sounds good. You know where to find me,” you respond with a small smile, because fuck it, why not at this point. At least he wasn’t trying to make any moves on you. At least, not yet.

For the next couple of weeks, things remained mostly the same. There was awkward politeness for the most part, and when it was just the two of you, there were certainly some moments that might fall under the category of flirting. But you were staying within your boundaries, for once. There was absolutely no physical contact, because you’d proven you couldn’t be trusted not to take it too far when that was an option.

Until one night when you were almost ready to leave. By the way he comes bounding into your office, you just know he’s going to put your newfound restraint to the test. “Do you have a car?” he asks with zero buildup.

“Um, no.” What, was he going to ask you to buy a car now like he wanted you to get a thneed? It was going to take divine intervention to convince you that you needed a car for your work.

He looks confused. “How do you get here then? Do you pay for a ride share everyday?”

“I take the bus, dipshit.” The words are out of your mouth before you know what you’re saying, and you immediately blanche when you realize what you said and, more importantly, who you said it to. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” you apologize, trying to do what damage control you can.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I like it when you don’t control your mouth around me,” he brushes off. That was another slightly sexual comment that made you raise your eyebrows, but you decided not to press the issue.

“Anyway, why do you need me to have a car? I really hope this isn’t another requirement for work,” you say, trying to change the subject to a more appropriate topic. 

“No, no, of course not. I just wanted to go for a drive,” he explains, but if anything, that just makes you more confused.

“Do you not have a car?” you ask.

“Of course I do. I have eight. I just don’t have any here because I usually have my driver take me.” He gives his usual dramatic sigh. “But sometimes I just wanna get on some backroads and forget about things, you know?”

Oh yes, you knew that feeling. Everyone needed to escape their responsibilities once and a while, and even more so in his case since his job was so demanding and high pressure. Still, he seems to be missing an obvious solution. “Why don’t you just have your driver take you home so you can get one of your cars?” you point out.

“I could, but that would mean having to go alone,” he pouts before hitting you with a pleading look. “I don’t want to go alone.”

On no. No, no, no, no, no. That was a terrible idea. Making slightly suggestive comments to each other at work was one thing. Being alone with him, especially outside of a professional setting, was another thing entirely. You could not be trusted. You’d mess up. You'd do something that you wouldn’t be able to come back from and you’d never be able to recover…

“Ah, what the hell. I could use a good mind-clearing drive,” you hear yourself say. What? Bad! You know this is going to lead to bad ideas.

You’re just about to rescind your offer, but the look of sheer delight on his face makes you hesitate. This man is still so lonely. At first it made you pity him, but now�� well, you weren’t sure how he made you feel now.

The only thing you were sure of anymore was that you adored seeing him smile, and loved it even more when you were the reason behind it.

And you were proving over and over again that you’d risk everything just to be the reason he smiled for a moment. 

“You’re the best. Let’s go!” He grabs your hand and you allow him to lead you out of the building.

There’s a nondescript black car waiting for you, and he quickly opens the backdoor and ushers you inside before sliding in after you. If you’re expecting a long awkward silence, you’re disappointed; the drive barely lasts five minutes. Before you leave the car, you give him an odd look. “You live this close? Why don’t you just walk to work then?”

“It’s faster to drive,” he replies like it’s obvious.

“Not by much,” you refute. “And it’s better for the environment anyway. That’s part of the reason I take the bus instead of bothering with my own car.”

“Anyway, are you going to come with me or just sit here and lecture me?” he asks, changing the subject abruptly. You pretend to think it over for a moment, but before long you unbuckle your seatbelt and follow him out.

And once outside, you’re greeted by the sight of the largest house you’ve ever seen. Its massive size is almost intimidating to you, even though, logically, you knew Mr. Onceler would have an enormous house. You expect nothing less at this point.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand again. “My own cars are just in the garage.” He types a code on the side of said garage, and the door swings open. It reveals a pristinely neat room, which you would not have expected of a single man in his twenties who lived alone, and sure enough, no less than eight sports cars are lined up in a row.

“I’m feeling the Lambo,” he decides. He goes over to a wall of keys hanging by the door, pulls one off the ring, and uses the fob to unlock a green convertible. He swings himself into the driver’s seat without even opening the door. “Hop in!” he calls, clearly excited. 

You roll your eyes, but can’t help but laugh at his joy. It’s nice to spend time with him outside work and just have fun for a change instead of flirting with each other. As soon as you’re in the car, he rolls out of the garage, pausing just long enough to close the door behind him, and then he’s tearing down the streets like a maniac. 

“Fuck!” you cry out as you’re slammed back against the seat. “You do have a license, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he claims, but he’s also going twenty above the speed limit and only gaining.

“Maybe lay off the gas a little,” you suggest, gripping the seats tightly. His driving was nearly as bad as flying.

He glances over at you and his eyes go wide. He slows to a much more comfortable speed. “Sorry. I should have known better than to do that with you in the car, considering what happened to your parents,” he mutters.

You stare at him in shock. For him to not only remember that, but to assume that’s why you didn’t like speeding was surprisingly highly emotionally intuitive… and sweet. “It’s not that, you just startled me is all,” you explain gently. “But thank you. It means a lot that you remembered that.”

He takes his eyes off the road for a moment to smile at you, and it’s one he’s never given you before. It’s both soft and warm at the same time, and you can’t quite read it. But if his other smiles had given you butterflies before, this one sends those butterflies soaring, filling your whole body with something that felt a whole lot like a desperate yearning for the man beside you. Any thoughts of consequences had absolutely fled from your mind–all you could think about was kissing him again, properly this time. Getting your arms around his neck, him roaming his hands up and down your body…

“How about a compromise?” His voice startles you out of your daydreams and back to reality. “I’ll drive the speed limit, but get us on some backroads so we can go faster? That okay?”

"Yeah, that works," you say, but your mind isn't on the drive at all anymore. You're far more focused on how you can get him back to his house as quickly as possible to see if he's as interested in kissing you again as you are.

Most of the drive is spent in comfortable silence, the only noise being the soft radio and the wind ringing through your ears. You pull your ponytail loose since he seems to like you with your hair down. He does appear to glance at you a bit more often with your hair undone, which is more than worth the price of it blowing in your face.

Finally, after the sky is well and truly dark, he speaks up. "Do you want to give it a go?" 

"That would be a very bad idea," you tell him idly. "I don't have a license, I'd probably crash this thing in a second." That's not a lie, but you also don't want to prolong this drive any longer.

"Do you want me to take you home then?" he asks. You start. No. No, you do not want that at all! Before you can protest, however, he asks another question very hesitatingly. "Or, if you want, you can come back to my place for a while… we can have a drink or something." He's biting his lip like he's expecting you to turn him down.

Instead, you smile at him. "I'd like that," you say in a soft voice, putting your hand on his knee briefly.

"Really?" He's completely lit up now, body language a total 180 from just a moment ago. "Uh, I mean, great. That should be, uh, nice. Yeah. Nice." It takes every ounce of your willpower not to laugh again. He was such a dork when he was excited about something, but you'd learned to find it endearing.

He started heading back to his house, going just a little above the speed limit, but you were fine with a little speeding now. Your own heart rate was speeding up in anticipation as well. Something big was building and you wanted nothing more than a chance to explore it, especially since the part of your brain that usually advised caution seemed to be taking a vacation at the moment.

The second you pulled into his garage you unbuckled yourself, and were out of the car before he'd even finished parking. You only wait for him to actually lead you into the gargantuan house. Even with all your haste, you recognize it's rude to go in alone. 

He takes a different key off the ring and shoves it into the door, gesturing for you to go inside first. You head in, looking around curiously. The first thing that hits you is the silence. It's dark and quiet in here, almost like a crypt. But in a way, it fits him. It's a lonely place, just like him.

"Come on, I have a bar just through here," he murmurs. He leads you into a giant kitchen and through an offshoot to what is indeed clearly a well-stocked but underused bar.

"Don't you ever have anyone over?" you ask as he flips on a lightswitch and ducks behind the bar to search for what he wants.

"Not since I kicked my family out," he says in a muffled voice. "Aha!" He pulls out two large margarita glasses. You raise your eyebrows at him, and he answers your question before you can ask it. "No, I'm not making you a marg. I'm not that good of a mixologist. I might be able to make your blue shit, though."

That makes you laugh. At the gala, you'd ordered your favorite drink on his dime, which happened to be blue colored. He'd taken a sip and declared it to be the most disgusting drink in the world for being too sour. To you, it tasted like boozy lemonade. "It's just vodka, blue curaçao, and a splash of lemon juice. Is that too hard for you?" you tease.

He narrows his eyes at your challenge and makes your drink with careful precision, then watches you closely as you judge it. "Perfect," you praise. Relief that he tries to pass off as smugness washes through him as he pours himself a gin and tonic.

"So, you haven't had anyone in here since your family?" you ask after half your drink is gone.

"Nope," he shrugs as he comes around to join you on the other side of the bar. "You're the only person I feel comfortable bringing here." His voice has gotten that husky edge to it again, stirring up even more feelings from deep within your core. Was he finally going to make a move? "Of course, you also make me more uncomfortable than anyone else ever has at the same time," he admits.

Now you're confused. "Why?"

He grabs one of your hands. "Because when I look at you, I burn, I pine, I perish."

…what in the motherfuck did he just say?

You blink at him a few times. "D-did you just quote Shakespeare at me?" you ask in disbelief.

He cocks his head to the side. "What? I thought girls liked Shakespeare," he mutters, clearly thinking he had fucked this whole thing up beyond repair. He very nearly had. He was lucky he was so damn cute…

"Maybe some, but most aren't going to recognize it," you explain slowly, utterly flummoxed. Why did he think that was a good idea? "And even if they do know it, I don't think most girls are going to like having Taming of the Shrew quoted at them…"

"You recognized it. And you're my only target audience," he points out, some hope flaring up in him again. You let out an annoyed huff.

"Number one, I only know it from 10 Things I Hate About You. Number two, I fall under the category of girls who don't like having Taming of the fucking Shrew quoted at them," you glower.

"Fine, I get the point. Can I get a second try?" he asks hopefully. 

You ponder his request for a moment. "I can give you a 'I'll pretend I didn't hear it.' That's the best you're getting," you decide as you pull your chapstick from your purse.

He frowns at the small tube. "That's not fair. How am I supposed to concentrate when the whole place now smells like cherries?" he grumbles.

"I still don't understand your issue with it," you comment lightly as you apply a thin layer on your lips.

"I told you before, it distracts me," he huffs. He eyes it maliciously before locking eyes with you, looking determined about something. "Does it taste like cherries too?" he asks.

You snort. "You wish you knew."

He doesn't break the eye contact. "Yes. I really do," he says, his voice returning to that same husky quality it had earlier.

Now maintaining the eye contact on your end as well, you slowly reach up, offering the tube of chapstick to him so he could find out if it indeed tasted like cherries. He pushes your hand to the side impatiently. 

"That's not what I meant and you fucking know it," he growls, standing up so that he towers over you now. Your breath catches and you feel your heart pounding in your chest as he slowly moves closer to you, becoming more and more emboldened when you make no effort to move away.

"Tell me you want this," he whispers when his face is but an inch away from yours.

"God yes. Please," you breathe.

And with that, he takes your face between his hands, pressing his lips hungrily against yours, as though he could never get enough.

[occult-rh]

Royale High Dolls

This is a little different from the usual content I post here, but I wanted to talk about the situation with the new toys coming into Royale High.

This is coming from someone who can afford all of the toys and therefore all of the items and has genuinely considered buying them. But now, as I'll explain below, I refuse to.

๋࣭ ⭑⚝๋࣭⭑👽๋࣭ ⭑⚝⋆

It's incredibly frustrating to have very few sets in the last couple of years. (Only NINE in the past 3 years, since June 2021) Out of these nine sets I've mentioned, only two of them (Peppermint Princess and TTYL) have been under 100k. The next cheapest of these sets is surprisingly, Opposites Attract (Released 2022) followed by Summer Fantasy (2021). At the time of release, both of these sets were considered to be unreasonably expensive. The cheapest set in the past 2 years is very surprisingly, Snow Swan (2023). It's coming in at a whopping 154k, followed by Whimsy Witch (2022) at 183k! The point I'm trying to make here is that before the Summer Fantasy set was released, the most expensive set was Princess Starfrost at only 125.5k. The average price for sets was 110k-120k. What on earth happened?

I find this inflation to be completely unnecessary and ridiculous, seeing as this game is tailored towards KIDS. Kids do not have hours upon hours to spend farming for diamonds because they have school and extracurriculars to worry about. And it is almost impossible to farm the required amount of diamonds for any of the more recent sets only on weekends, even with multipliers. You would have to spend an unhealthy amount of time playing every single day to be able to afford anything. And in my opinion, that isn't the way to make a sustainable game.

The new sets are simply an extension of this inflation. How can you release one of the largest updates ever, which introduces more new items in a single update than the entire year combined, and make it inaccessible to most people? As I stated before, this game is tailored toward KIDS. They do not have hundreds of dollars to spend on toys, and if their parents are reasonable, they definitely won't let them. I cannot understand why someone would do this other than blatant greed.

My biggest reason for not buying the set is simply because it makes me very upset to be paying money to a person who pretends not to be focused on the monetary. Royale High was recently described as a "Passion Project" by Beaplays. (Don't quote me on this, this is from memory.) A Passion Project is something that allows an individual to pursue and present something they enjoy to other people. If RH was a true passion project, why would Barbie need to attach steep prices and hold sets back for what I assume months or even years instead of just releasing them to the public? I understand that Barbie needs to make a living, but she doesn't need the excess money she's making off of these dolls. It's quite simply the fattest and most obvious cash grab I've ever seen in my life, and I refuse to play into it.

As well as this, unfortunately, the company that produced the dolls very loudly supports Israel. It is important to note that it was NOT ROYALE HIGH'S CHOICE to use this company, but rather Roblox's. Allegedly, Royale High was not aware of this until after they signed the contract. If you'd like to buy any of the dolls yourself, it's best to do so through a reseller. (Or steal from Walmart, it's not like they need the money. /hj)

๋࣭ ⭑⚝๋࣭⭑👽๋࣭ ⭑⚝⋆

The entire situation makes my blood boil. I haven't played RH in the past two weeks even before the update. I'll still try to make some posts occassionally, but to be quite honest all my motivation and love for this game has been put on the back burner. It's so disheartening to see a game you've loved and have been playing for the past 6 years succumb to terrible greed.

[just-emis-blog]

OC Interview Tag~

Thank you to @agirlandherquill @leahnardo-da-veggieand @drchenquill for the triple threat tag! ✨🌻

I'll be using Cai Park (the youngest [but biggest] brother of Bernard) from Artificial Bonds

Were you named after anyone?

During the process of adopting us, mother encouraged us to choose names for ourselves, since we were going by serial numbers at the time. My siblings were enthused, but I thought the entire endeavor tedious and unnecessary, so in an effort to be done with it faster I spat out the first couple of letters from one of the objects in my line of vision. Mother was pleased, but Lysander and Bernard knew exactly what I had done and were disappointed and moronically amused respectively. Lysander, being the most sensible of the two as usual, convinced me to change the spelling and pronunciation as an exercise in expressing my opinion and creativity. To this day, however, Bernard still calls me "Cayenne Pepper" whenever he wants to get a rise out of me. It works.

When was the last time you cried?

I do not engage in such frivolous activities.

[It was when a mother duck was ushering one of her lagging babies across a busy highway]

Do you have any kids?

I do have one child. There are those who might mistakenly call her a pet, simply because of the unimportant fact that she is a Komodo Dragon named Jessica. But let me ask you this; would a mere pet have access to three floors of the apartment building that you own? Of course not. Now, I know some might have opinions about parents who provide housing or other monetary aid for their adult children. But to them I say the job market is not nearly as lucrative nor secure as it was for previous generations. Basic needs like gas and rusa deer are already set at astronomical prices! Are we expect our youth to be able to afford their own housing as well? There is no shame in supporting your kids until they can stand on their own feet.

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

I see no point in playing verbal games. So what you mean, or rot.

What is the first thing you notice about people?

Their readiness for battle. Mind, your average person does not display the typical tells of being an experienced fighter or if their armed, but it is the first thing I check for during any interaction.

What is your eye color?

Dark brown. Nothing to write home about.

Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy endings. They seem to be a prevalent theme in all of the Barbie and Magical Girl OVAs that I watch, and I enjoy those.

Any special talents?

I do...many of which I am not very proud of. The one talent I have cultivated outside of my...time...before I was adopted, is building miniature dollhouses and furniture. It is a both lucrative and enjoyable practice, and necessitates little to no violence.

Where were you born?

Born is the incorrect term. Regardless, I do not know the location. That time in my life is...blurry.

Do you have any pets?

No. But I do have a child. Please see the above question pertaining to children.

What sort of sports do you play?

Contact sports were too risky to indulge in, but I was on our school's competitive Hula Hooping team. We won two years in a row and during my last year of school we competed in the National Hula League. I am certain that it was due to all of our team's efforts, but my colleague's are convinced that we made it so far due to me being the first human being to ever look intimidating while hula hooping.

How tall are you?

6'4". A perfectly respectful, not comparable to any of the AoT Titans, height. Bernard.

What was your favorite subject in school?

Art class, specifically ceramics.

What is your dream job?

My dream job was anything as separated from fighting as physically possible. Not because I fear I will be overcome with a thirst for violence, or that I have no control over myself. If I or my loved ones are threatened I will act accordingly.

In the past I was told that fighting was all I would be capable of doing. So, I suppose I have always wanted my career to be the exact opposite of that out of spite.

And I cannot think of anything more opposite than selling a multitude of tiny wares specifically for hamsters on Etsy. Nor more satisfying.

Tagging for funsies: @dyrewrites @the-golden-comet @the-ellia-west @mr-orion

[theworldsafuckingslaughterhouse]

Here is a rant I wrote

The other day I found this angry rant on my laptop I must have written a few years ago, so here it is. (*It's written as though it was being said on stage in much the way a standup comedian might perform it)

Hello yes hi how are we all?

You’re out! In the real world. Experiencing a real thing. Not watching the coloured box of death. The little metal shouty thing that’s invaded all our lives!

I can’t even watch Television anymore, it’s become too out of touch. It’s insane the things they think we should be watching. You see it with marketing you know, these adverts. Once upon a time, advertisements made sense. They were straight forward, using logical people to sell you useful things. You’d be sitting there covered in fresh blood and a woman with big hair would say, “Get the stains out in 2 hours with minimal scrubbing! Ajax” or whatever. So you’d buy the thing. Because it made sense and you needed it anyway and you didn’t feel tricked.

Now they approach it in a different way. It’s much more aggressive and manipulative. You have a woman doing the dishes and then the husband comes home from work or school or wherever they go and he says, “Beverly I don’t love you anymore.” And she turns, this image of Mary Berry in a polka dot dress and says, “I’m sleeping with your father. Hahahaha.” And shoots him in the head. And then it goes, “Ajax, because you deserve better” or something like that and it feels a little… detached from reality. They stopped selling us products and started selling us these dreams of what they think we want. I remember when cooking shows made sense. A woman would come out and show you how to set the timer on your microwave so the chicken didn’t dry out too much or come alive or something. Now they’ve fetishized the baked beans to such an extent that kids turn to their parents at dinner time and say, “Is it fried in truffle oil? No? Then I’m not having it. Would you at least making a fucking effort Mother.”

And all this fetishized nonsense has pushed the price up. I remember when you didn’t need a second mortgage just to afford a bag of onions. I remember when I could by onions and tomatoes in the same month. And they didn’t have to be organic! You used to be able to choose. You could choose between buying organic or not starving, and it was a decision we all got to make each week.

Then there’s these home living shows, do you ever try to watch these? The young couple who had a significant family member die, inherited a few million and decided to convert an abandoned petrol station into a 2 bedroom bungalow with a chocolate swimming pool and walk in freezer. Again, we fetishized houses so the market went crazy and now you have to be a lawyer-prostitute to afford one.

So what do they do to help us deal with the disappointment? Drugs! “Do you ever get thirsty?” a man in a white coat who looks vaguely like the eldest child from Home Improvement asks. Looking up from your jug of rum you say, “Yes! Yes I do.”

Well you might have OLDD or Oral Liquid Digesting Dysfunction.

Shit, you think, what can I do about it?

Next comes a lovely image of a man taking his shoes off at the beach and the voice over goes, “For just the price of a small corvette each year, we can help you feel like this guy with sand between his toes.” And your drunken self struggles with this notion. But meanwhile you’re already signing up to a 12 year subscription and purchasing the loose-your-pills insurance plan at the same time.

So this idea of tv aspirations just isn’t sustainable. You can’t be gods like the presenters you watch. You can never purchase enough shit to be king. And if you try and set your aspirations where they want you to, you’ll end up a withered corpse gripping a box of golden cornflakes in a public bathroom being eaten alive by wolves.

Thank you very much.

[jeanjauthor]

Fun fact about the table-flipping scene. If Jesus had been an ordinary person, he would have been arrested for causing a ruckus in the Temple grounds.

He was not.

We know this, because the Pharisees (priest-clan) were LIVID about the fact they could not legally arrest him. The Romans were the law, and they refused to arrest him at that point in time, because he was following the law. (Jesus only gets arrested when other people claim he is the King of the Jews...which went against Roman policy of them appointing who the King of the Hebrews should be...and even then, they couldn't really hold him for long; the Pharisees had to plant a few ringers in the crowd to insist on getting him crucified.)

Anyway, do you know who could flip tables and cast out overpricing jerks? Priests. Duly ordained and annointed priests.

Now why did Jesus (literally) flip out? These jerks were seriously overcharging for the cost of sacrificial animals meant for the Temple altars--the prices were set in law, and these jerks were literally jacking it up and pocketing the difference. LIke, 2 shekels for a dove was costing smething like 5 shekels. By law, it was 2 shekels. (I may be wrong on the exact monetary units since it's been a decade and a half, but it's close enough for an example.)

Yes, there were some money changers because there were 4 types of coins floating around, but most of the beef he had was with the sellers of sacrificial animals

You see, a dove was the cheapest sacrifice you could make, but it was a sacrifice half of the population had to make. Why? Because sacrificing a simple pigeon (they're doves, folks) allowed a woman to stop being considered "ritually unclean" simply because she menstruated. You were ostracized during your menses, and you couldn't participate fully in all social activities if you were ritually unclean. Roughly half the adult population in Jerusalem--where following the rules was socially quite strict; this was the holy city, after all--was being heavily price-gouged.

By the rules of Judaism--which could only be changed by a majority of the priesthood agreeing to that change--the doves could only cost 2 shekels. And you were being charged the cost of two and a half birds. Imagine how badly that wrecks a household budget over time. Plus if you only got paid in Roman coin, and you realized you needed to pay in shekels or whatever, you had to be able to exchange one money type for the other...and if the money changer overcharged his transaction fee, there went even more money out of your budget.

Not a single one of the priests in power had a problem with this usury. Which was strictly forbidden by Hebrew Law. So Jesus--a priest who could do something about it--actually DID something about it.

And because he was working strictly within the law, the Pharisees couldn't do a damned thing about it, because the only people who could arrest him were the Romans...and the Romans followed the law.

Also, note: To BE a priest, Jesus HAD to be married. It was one of the last steps of official ordination; if you weren't married, you couldn't be a priest. And to preach in public as a known Hebrew national, you had to be a priest. The Wedding at Canaa had the identities of the bride & groom erased, because Paul hated marriage & women and wanted the leaders of his Church to be single misogynists like himself.

But we still know Jesus was the groom, because in Hebrew custom at that time, only the groom could provide any wine for the wedding feast. It was a way to showcase his ability to provide for his wife, by proving he was wealthy enough to afford a lot of wine. When Mary goes to Jesus to say, "We're out of wine, you have to do something about it!" she is going to the GROOM. Absolutely nobody else would have helped the groom, because it was solely the groom's responsibility...and again Jesus preached openly & publicly for years without getting arrested. Which the Romans would have done the moment the Pharisees complained about it.

So Jesus flipping tables? Absolutely ANGRY about overpriced goods. Absolutely ANGRY about money being stolen out of the pockets of hardworking commoners. Absolutely ANGRY about the Pink Tax, which is literally Biblical, that's how long this shit has been happening to women.

And abso-fucking-lutely, Jesus would have given speedrunning tips for the pacifist route!

flipping the tables at the temple is a crucial part of the run, but obviously every npc in the area will aggro on you as soon as you do it, which is a problem because the crucifixion exploit only works on a pacifist run. that's why we picked up those cords from the leatherworker earlier in the chapter. we can craft those into a whip and drive out the merchants, as long as we don't accidentally kill one of them. this is the only weapon in the game that doesn't proc the "violence" effect due to an oversight in the code, so this will essentially allow us to complete the tableflip glitch without breaking our pacifist run. once every table is flipped, the physics engine won't know how to handle it and some key values will be altered that will later allow us to clip through golgotha directly into hell-