#I feel like I’d make more money working at a place that specializes in things specially estie centric

[tariah23]

I can’t wait to start estie school wha

[vanessagillings]

I’m posting the ever-so-rare photo of myself alongside one of my characters based on my childhood because today is World Autism Acceptance Day, and I wanted to show my little corner of the internet who this particular autistic person is:  

I was officially diagnosed in February, at age 38 (I’m now 39). A lot of people thought I couldn’t be autistic.  Some people who know me in real life still don’t.  And until around 10 years ago, I didn’t think I could be either, because I was nothing like the stereotype media portrays. I was told that autistics lacked empathy (untrue), and never played make-believe (also often untrue) and only enjoyed STEM.  I was — and am — an empathetic artist -- and make believe?  I can spend days sketching finely bedecked bears brewing tea or carefully choosing the right words to weave tapestries of fiction — though perhaps my hyper focus was a bit of a red flag.  Even so, how could autism describe me?  I was a good student.  I got straight A's. I didn’t act out in class.  I can make eye contact…if I must.  And lots of girls hate having their hair brushed with an unholy passion, right?  Clearly I swim in sarcasm like a fish, so autism couldn't be why I was so anxious all the time, could it?

If someone had told me when I was younger what autism ACTUALLY is — instead of the nonsense I’d seen on screens — I would have seen myself in it.  I didn’t hear that autistics have sensory issues until I was in my mid-twenties, which is when I first began to really research autism symptoms, and I had almost all of them:  sensitivity to light, smells, fabrics, temperatures, textures, and certain touches, all of which make me feel anxious, I fidget (stim), I never know what the hell to do with my hands or where to look, I talk too little or too much, I have special interests, I have entire animated movies memorized shot-by-shot and can remember the first time and place I saw every movie I've ever seen but I often forget what I'm trying to say mid-sentence, I echo movies and tv shows (my husband and I have a whole repertoire of shared echolalias, making up about 20% of our conversations), I was in speech therapy as a kid, I have issues with dysnomia and verbal fluency, I toe-walk, I can't multitask to save my life, I like things just-so, I’m deeply introverted but not shy, I need to recover from all social interaction — even social interaction I enjoy — and I find stupid, every day things like grocery shopping, driving and making appointments overwhelming and intensely stressful, sometimes to the point where I struggle to speak.  It turns out, I am definitely autistic. My results weren't borderline. Not even close. And while these aren’t all of my challenges, and not everyone with these symptoms is autistic, it’s definitely something to look into if you present with all of these things at once. 

So why did it take me so long to get diagnosed? The same bias that exists in media threads through the medical community as well, and because I'm a woman who can discuss the weather while smiling on cue, few people thought I was worth looking into. Even after I was fairly certain I was autistic, receiving an official diagnosis in the US is unnecessarily difficult and expensive, and in my case, completely uncovered by my insurance.  It cost me over $4000, and I could only afford it because my husband makes more money than I do as a freelance illustrator — a job I fell into largely because it didn’t require in-person work; like many autists, I have been chronically underemployed and underpaid, in part due to physical illness in my twenties, which is a topic for another day.  But it shouldn’t be like this.  It shouldn’t be so hard for adults to receive diagnoses and it shouldn’t be so hard for people to see themselves in this condition to begin with due to misinformation and stereotypes. Like many issues in America, these barriers are even higher for marginalized groups with multiple intersectionalities. 

It’s commonly said that if you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person.  This is why it’s called a spectrum, not because there’s a linear progression of severity (someone who appears to have low support needs like myself might need more than it seems, and vice versa), but because every autistic person has their own strengths and weaknesses, challenges and experiences, opinions and needs.  No two people on the spectrum present in the same way.  And that’s a good thing!  No way of being autistic is inherently any better than any other, and even if someone on the spectrum struggles with things I don’t — or can do things I can’t — doesn’t make them more or less deserving of respect and human dignity.

But speaking solely for myself, the more I learn about autism, the happier I am to be autistic.  I struggle to find words and exert fine motor control, but my deep passion and fixation has made me good at art and storytelling anyway.  I find more joy watching dogs and studying leaf shapes on my walks than most people do in an entire day.  More often than not, the barriers I’ve faced weren’t due to my autism directly, but due to society being overly rigid about what it considers a valid way of existing.  My hope in writing this today is that maybe one person will realize that autism isn’t what they thought — and that being different is not the same as being less than. My hope with my fiction is to give autistic children mirrors with which to see themselves, and everyone else windows through which to see us as we actually are.

If you’re interested in learning more about autism or think you might be autistic, too, I recommend the Autism Self Advocacy Network  autisticadvocacy.org and the following books:

What I Mean When I Say I’m Autistic by Annie Kotowicz

We're Not Broken by Eric Garcia

Knowing Why edited by Elizabeth Bartmess

Unmasking Autism by Devon Price, PhD

Loud Hands edited by Julia Bascom

Neurotribes by Steve Silberman

(trigger warning: the last two contain quite a lot of upsetting material involving institutionalized child abuse, but I think it’s important for people to know how often autistic children were — and are — abused simply for being neurodivergent).

Thanks for reading 💛

[talkdutchtome]

Do you know this tiktok trend where girls tell guys about paying at the mechanic's for premium air for their cars 😭 could you write a fic where y/n does that prank to Max?

"Premium Air?" - Max Verstappen

pairing . . . max verstappen x reader )

genre . . . fluff )

wc . . . 825 words )

read my other work . . . here )

request something . . . here )

“Oh Maxy, I was supposed to mention, I took your car to be serviced. I know you’ve been so busy lately I thought I’d do that and give you one less thing to worry about” You said to your boyfriend, trying your hardest to suppress any giggles that wanted to escape. Your phone sat propped up on the bookshelf, strategically hidden so Max didn't notice.  

You had been seeing so many videos on TikTok where girls would prank their boyfriends or husbands by convincing them that they had bought “premium air” for the tires of their cars; and you decided that since so much of Max’s life revolved around cars, it would be the perfect way to prank him. 

“Oh, thank you very much baby, that’s kind of you, everything okay with it?” he said, never lifting his head up from his phone. 

“You’re welcome, yeah everything was okay they just said something about low tire pressure or something? I don’t really remember but I sorted it.” You said, fighting the mischievous grin that is trying to take its place on your face. At your words Max finally lifts his head up and looked at you, his brows furrowed. 

“Really are you sure? They seemed to be fine last time I drove it” his voice has a hint of concern lacing though it, clearly unsure where this is leading.  

“I’m not sure, that’s what the man said anyway. But I got it sorted. I even sprung for the premium air for you!” Your excitement was clear and the second the words left your lips, Max put his phone down, his full attention now on you. Confusion was etched on his face, his brows furrowed, and his lips pressed tightly in a fine line.  

“Premium air?” he questioned 

You nod enthusiastically, maintaining your poker face. "Yeah! It's the latest thing. It makes your car run smoother, improves fuel efficiency, and who knows, maybe it even adds a few extra horsepower."  

Max looks at you like you’ve got two heads and you come so close to ruining the whole prank and bursting out laughing.  

“Premium air?” he asked again, like he couldn’t find any other words to respond to your ridiculousness. “How much did this premium air cost you?” he asked with a bemused smile, that smile however, dropped as soon as you answered his question. 

“Oh, it was a steal! Like €150 a tire.”  

His eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "€150 per tire? Are you serious Y/N? There's no such thing as premium air!" 

You feign innocence, "Oh, come on, Maxy, it's a special service they offered. You can't put a price on a smooth ride” Max sighs, a mix of frustration and amusement on his face.  

"Baby, I think you’ve been scammed. There's no such thing as premium air. Next time, let me know before you spend money on something like this." 

You play dumb, widening your eyes in mock surprise. "Scammed? But how could I buy it if it doesn't exist?" 

Max laughs, shaking his head. "You're too precious. Next time, let me come with you to the garage, okay? I'll make sure you don't fall for any tricks." 

You're left feeling a bit confused. Most of the prank videos you’ve seen end with frustration or annoyance, but Max seems more amused than anything else. 

As you sit there, still feeling a bit bewildered by Max's surprisingly lighthearted reaction, you gather the courage to ask him the burning question. "Hey, Max," you begin cautiously, "why aren't you mad at me?" 

He looks at you with genuine confusion. "Mad? What do you mean?" 

You take a deep breath and decide it's time to come clean. "The whole premium air thing—it was a prank," you admit, pointing discreetly at the camera you had strategically placed in the room to capture his reaction. 

Max's eyes widen in realization, and he breaks into a hearty laugh. "You got me!" he exclaims, playfully pushing you. 

You can't help but smile at his reaction, relieved that he found it amusing. "Seriously, though, why aren't you mad? Everyone else in those prank videos gets upset." 

Max wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer. "I didn't want to make you feel bad," he confesses. "You were just trying to do something nice for me, and I didn't want to ruin that by getting angry over a harmless mistake” You look up at him, touched by his understanding and kindness. "But I wasted money on something that doesn't exist. You could have been really mad." He leans down, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Money comes and goes, but you trying to make me happy means the world to me.” 

"I love you," you say, a mixture of gratitude and affection in your voice. 

Max smiles, his eyes filled with warmth. "I love you too, baby. Just remember, next time you decide to prank me, I'll be one step ahead." 

[idlesuperstar]

Donald was the best partner in movies I ever had. We were brothers and we loved each other. We had such a deep, sublime chemistry. There was nothing intellectual about it, just this amazing natural harmony. I first met him in the commissary at 20th Century Fox when Robert Altman told us to have lunch together after I’d been cast in M*A*S*H. At first I thought: I don’t think this guy likes me. But it was just the opposite. The thing was: we were such opposites. I’m a Jew from Brooklyn and he was a Canadian from Nova Scotia. But it was perfection: never any conflict, just bread and butter – a relationship that felt like a miracle. Making M*A*S*H made us immediately close because while everyone else was working with Bob Altman, we worked for Bob Altman. He kept us a little segregated. We were both really unsure about the improvisation, the direction of the movie and Bob’s approach in general. Donald was hired well before me, but once I signed on we had the same deal: no less than second billing, and the same money. Later in production, Richard Zanuck, who was at that time running 20th Century Fox, said they wanted to give me first billing. I thought: “Oh that’s a nice honour. But Donald is my friend! I’m not going to be opportunistic – he was here first and should have first billing and I’ll stay in second place.” That’s what Donald meant to me. I never told him about that. A few years later, I turned down the screenplay for the movie that became S*P*Y*S, about two bumbling CIA agents. Then Donald called and said: “Would you do it with me?” And I said: “Oh that’s a different story. Of course!” On the first day of shooting in London, we drove to work together and he said: “What do you think of the script?” I rolled the window down, threw it out and said: “It’s a piece of junk. The only way this will work is if we swap parts.” But the producers could not digest that, so we just did the picture. Yet we did bring some of our own ideas to the table. There wasn’t an ending, for instance - so Donald and I agreed that we would just walk up the road with our backs to the camera and sing Side By Side. We worked together and we succeeded together, but we didn’t socialise very much – though having the opportunity to develop a relationship with some of his family was a total joy. Once, Donald was making a movie in the Bahamas and I came to visit because I had a week off from making The Long Goodbye and was interested in his leading lady, Jennifer O’Neill. Kiefer, his son, was five or six and Donald introduced us. Kiefer wanted me to stay, so when I said goodbye, I said: “Kiss me, Kiefer.” He had an ice cream cone in his hand and put it on my face – he kissed me with his cone. Donald was a true human being – and not all of us are. He could identify with any of us. His presence and his nature, his life and his mind are an asset for everyone. We all come and go physically, but as a being, he was really special and unique. I don’t put anything in the past. With me, it’s all in the present. My feeling is that for as long as I am living, Donald will be with me. I have no doubt about that, and I’m not being sentimental. I can see Donald now. I will see Donald for ever.

Elliot Gould - Donald Sutherland remembered by Keira Knightley, Elliott Gould, Ralph Fiennes and more in The Guardian

[fear-is-truth]

void. ── patrick bateman x reader

⟢ WARNINGS: fantasying about violence, sex & murder ・ foul language・sexism・ reader discretion is advised .ᐟ

⟢ TAGS: bateman’s pov・fem!secretary!reader ・“y/n” used i’m so sorry

⟢ WORD COUNT: 1,875

a/n: english is not my first language, but i loved the book & movie sm (might write a part two.)

VOID

I flip through the pages of GQ, my attention divided between an article on the season’s latest must-have suits and the image that keeps surfacing in my mind.

Paul Allen’s assistant. She started working here a few weeks ago, and ever since, I can’t seem to get her out of my head. It’s irritating as hell. She’s not like the women I usually deal with—clones of one another, in varying shades of blonde. This new girl is different.

It’s not like she’s anything special—at least not in the usual sense. I remember watching her, studying the way she fumbles with a stack of papers, fingers trembling slightly. I wonder how they’d feel like wrapped around my cock.

She’s not like the others. Not like Evelyn, with her relentless neediness, or even Jean, who’s dependable but she is, well, Jean. Reliable, dependable, and utterly forgettable.. y/n—there’s something about her that feels different. Unspoiled. Innocent in a way that’s almost laughable in this city, like a virgin lamb wandering into a den of wolves, completely unaware of the danger that surrounds her. And it makes me want to ruin her.

It’s intriguing. It’s also fucking annoying.

I toss the magazine aside, the pages crumpling as they hit the sleek surface of the desk. My eyes drift to the window, where I can see the city stretching out below, a concrete jungle full of meaningless, vapid people.

My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored wall, and I adjust the knot of my Charvet tie, admiring how it complements my gray wool suit by Cerruti 1881. Everything is meticulously in place: my Valentino loafers shine under the soft glow of the overhead lights, and my skin is flawless, practically glowing from the morning routine of an intense workout and the application of a moisturising mask from Jean Paul Gaultier. I run a hand through my slicked-back hair, appreciating the perfection I’ve crafted.

I feel a pang of something—sadness? Anger? No, it’s more like emptiness. A void that no amount of money, no designer suit, no fucking (and later slaughtering) prostitutes can fill. I’ve been feeling it more often lately, especially when I’m alone with my secretary who’s in love with me. She’s always there, always willing to please, but she doesn’t challenge me. She doesn’t excite me. She’s just… there. I pity her, in a way, though I doubt she even realises it.

“Van Patten,” I reply coolly, leaning back in my chair. I feel the leather creak beneath me, a sound that irritates me more than it should.

“Going to Harry’s Bar later?” he asks, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Typical. I stare at him, considering the offer. Harry’s is fine, but the thought of spending the evening listening to these idiots prattle on about which bar serves the coldest martinis or which girl they’re planning to fuck next, makes me want to drive a nail through my skull. Still, there’s a game to be played.

“No,” I say finally, my voice flat. “I have plans.”

Van Patten shrugs, clearly not giving a shit, and turns to leave. But then he stops, his gaze shifting to the hallway behind him. I follow his eyes, and there she is—her, holding a stack of files that looks too heavy for her.

“Oh, by the way, have you seen Allen’s new assistant? McDermott’s been talking about wanting to fuck her her non-stop. I’d like to fuck that pretty little thing too.”

I don’t react outwardly, but inside, I feel a flicker of something—anger, perhaps. Not for her, but for myself. For the fact that I’m letting this get to me. Because I too want to fuck her. “McDermott’s an idiot,” I say coolly, eyes narrowing slightly. “She’s not his type.”

He snorts. “She’s not anyone’s type. Too shy, too pure. She looks like she’d freak out if you even touched her. You know how some guys love that innocent act. Wouldn’t last a day with someone like Bryce or Preston. They’d eat her alive.”

“Get out, Van Patten,”

My thoughts drift to Allen’s last dinner reservation—Dorsia, of course. Bastard. I can’t even get a table there without months of planning, but Paul Allen—stupid, oblivious Paul Allen—walks in like it’s nothing. It makes me want to crush him, to take everything from him. Including her.

Once he’s gone, I stand up and adjust my suit jacket, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles. I step out of my office, my eyes scanning the hallway until I find her.

She is standing near the copier, a stack of files in her arms, her head tilted slightly as she tries to figure out the machine. She isn’t flaunting anything, and yet, she still manages to catch my eye. The black dress she’s wearing is Donna Karan, I’m almost sure, though the cut is a bit too conservative for my taste. It clings to her figure, revealing just enough to pique my interest but not enough to satisfy it. Her shoes, I note with some disappointment, are Manolo Blahnik. Not quite as stylish as something from, say, Azzedine Alaïa— not predictable choice, though not without merit. The impression of someone trying to fit into a world she doesn’t fully understand. Cute.

“y/n,” I say, my voice cutting through the hum of the copier. She jumps slightly, looking up with wide eyes that are both fearful and curious. Interesting.

“Mr. Bateman,” There’s no coyness in her voice, no flirtation. Just that same goddamn innocence. My mind wanders, imagining what it would be like to run a blade across her soft, supple flesh and watch the light fade from those innocent eyes Her skin parting under the sharp edge of a knife, the warmth of her blood spilling out, the sound she would make. But as quickly as the thought comes, it dissipates, leaving me with a hollow emptiness that I can’t quite explain. It’s a thought that would normally excite me, but with her, it feels… wrong. Unnecessary. Maybe even wasteful.

I realise I don’t really want to hurt her. At least not in the way I’ve hurt others. Quite unsettling, I feel… disappointed in myself, as if I’m losing my edge.

“Call me Patrick, or Pat.”

I correct, though I don’t know why. I’ve never cared about what people call me before. I glance down at the papers she’s holding.

“Your boss is not in yet?” I ask, knowing full well he isn’t.

“No, he’s not,” her voice is breathless, carrying a slight tremor—I wonder how my name would sound on her tongue when I’m fucking her. I also wonder what sounds she’d make. Soft kittenish noises, maybe. Doesn’t seem like the type to spew profanity, but one can really tell.

“I’m just trying to get these copies done before he arrives.”

I nod, pretending to care.

“He’s lucky to have an assistant like you,”

A blush spreads across her cheeks, and she stammers out an thank-you, though I barely register it. My focus shifts to the gold chain around her neck—Tiffany. Cheap, sentimental. It doesn't belong here, but it suits her somehow, in that unsophisticated way.

“Though, if I were you, I’d be careful. He’s not exactly known for his discretion.”

“I’m…sorry?”

I smile, she’s taken the bait. “Paul’s habits aren’t exactly… discreet. Let’s just say he’s not very particular about who he spends his nights with. Or what he picks up from them.”

She blinks, the implication sinking in, and I see a flash of something in her eyes—concern, maybe disgust. Good. Let her think about that. It’s too easy to manipulate her, to plant seeds of doubt in that pretty little head of hers. I flash her a smile, one I’ve perfected over years of dealing with people who are far beneath me.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors,” I continue casually, “about what’s going around these days. AIDS is a nasty business. You can never be too careful.”

“But don’t worry,” I add quickly, my tone lighter. “You seem like someone who’s smart enough to avoid trouble.”

She doesn’t respond, just nods slightly, still processing what I’ve said. I can see the effect my words have had on her.

“Did you know,” I say, shifting to something more conversational, “that Ted Bundy once worked at a crisis hotline? Spent his days talking people out of killing themselves. Ironic, isn’t it?”

I don’t expect her to catch the reference—most people don’t. It’s just another way to distance myself from them, to prove my superiority. But then, she surprises me.

“Yes, I read about that,” she says quietly, looking up at me with a mixture of curiosity and something else—understanding, perhaps?

“It’s strange, how someone can seem so… normal, but be so twisted underneath the mask of sanity.”

I pause, taken aback by her response. She got it. She actually understood. For a moment, I feel a flicker of something—something almost like respect. But it’s very fleeting, quickly replaced by the familiar emptiness.

“Exactly,” I reply, my voice smooth as glass. “People are rarely what they seem.”

There’s a brief silence, and I let it linger, watching her as she processes our exchange. I’ve rattled her, but I’ve also piqued her interest. It’s a dangerous combination, one that I’ll need to manage carefully. But I’m feeling bold.

“By the way,” I continue, “I was planning on having dinner at Dorsia tonight. Why don’t you join me?”

She looks up at me, confused, unsure, and I feel a twinge of satisfaction. She’s still trying to figure me out, to understand what I want. It’s amusing, really, how little she knows.

“I don’t know, Mr. Bate– Patrick,” she says, her voice faltering. Her innocence, her reluctance—it’s intoxicating like pure, uncut cocaine.

I smile again, this time more warmly, but it’s just a mask. “Come on, doll. It’s just dinner. Besides, it’s not like your boss will miss you for one night.”

“Okay,” she agrees quietly. There’s that softness in her voice again, that genuine gratitude that I don’t understand.

“Excellent,” I say, satisfied. I turn to leave, but not before giving her one last look. She’s already turned back to the copier, but I know that she’s not thinking about the papers anymore.

She makes me feel… something, though I’m not sure what. It’s frustrating, maddening even. But it also gives me hope. Maybe she’s the key to filling that void. Or maybe she’ll be another disappointment, like the rest. But tonight, at least, she’ll be mine to toy with.

Hopefully that will be enough to stave off the void for a little while longer.

read part ll here

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[brownsugar-dreams]

Another Approach To Online Sugaring

Recently I took a break from dating. The dating apps can get exhausting and sometimes you’re just not in a place where you have the physical/emotional energy to get dressed up and go out. I didn’t want the money to stop, so I decided to start camming again but only for online sugar dating(OSD)/girlfriend experience (GFE). It’s been such a success I decided to make a post about it.

When I reactivated my no face cam accounts, I started casually talking to users in my chat rooms. There were a good share of users who just want to chat. If you have an outgoing personality, this is really easy and comes natural. We would talk about all sorts of things from what they do for work/fun, casual interests, kinks. I’d tell them stories, my POVs on pop culture topics, fantasies, made up stuff. At this point I noticed specific users were tipping in the general chat. I focused on those users and made sure to show them the most attention and they continued to tip. They’d often initiate a private session (more $ per min) and we’d continue chatting.

If you’re consistent with signing in at least 1-2x a week, it’s easy to find someone who adores you. I created a Snapchat (SC) profile and advertised it on my cam site as a way for users to connect with me 1:1. Set it up so they have to pay to get the username. Using SC, I posted no face pics with a link to my wishlist/cashapp and sparingly answered messages (mostly messages inquiring about pricing/services never free endless chatting). Later I created a price menu for services offered and shared that from time to time on my story. Once a relationship is established, it’s super easy to straight up ask for money. Since they met you on a paid cam site they already know what’s up so don’t let anyone pretend to be naive or use your time for free.

Overall this has been a flexible way to earn money that is relatively easy and low maintenance. Most of these clients are lonely and desperate for female attention so making each feel special is the key.

Things to Note/Logistics

I personally don’t show my face by having the cam positioned from the neck down. But other no face cam girls have talked about using full or half face masks to conceal their identity. Given the nature of “professionalism” in our fields I can understand a lot of us wanting to preserve our identities. But do what you’re comfy with! I’d suggest no nudity in free chat otherwise users will be less likely to pay for private.

Each cam site is different and pays differently. Most let you adjust your price settings as you like. I researched the sites with the most consistent/quickest payout schedule and reputation by searching Reddit posts and cam girl forums. I picked my favorite sites shared below.

To maximize earnings, I stream multiple sites at a time by opening tabs. Some use OBS software but I haven’t had the time to figure out how to incorporate that yet.

I changed the settings to allow only users with money to participate in chat. This helps reduce hecklers and incels looking for a free show.

Sites have varying popularity during different times/day. Keep that in mind when starting out so that you can develop a schedule. We’re busy professionals irl so making sure to cam on days/nights that have the most earning potential saves a lot of time.

Different clients have different needs so it’s important to be flexible and only take on clients you’d be comfortable with. I have clients that want me to be bossy and mean while others want a more traditional GFE where they’re the caretaker (think MTS “daddy am I your baby” type of thing lol).

Tips to Earn More

Share your wishlist in your bio across platforms. I like to use throne.

Create a links page and share to let your big spenders get notified when you’re online. I use beacons

I use sextpanther to supplement on weeks that are too busy to cam. I love the convenience of texting and it yields good money.

If you want to incorporate toys in your private shows when you’re starting out, use Aliexpress to order cheap toys. Eventually when you gain a consistent following, I suggest making the guys pay for anything they’d like to see you use and of course non sexual gifts for you too!

Keep a list/diary of users to keep track across platforms. Make note of their interests/kinks/imp things they’ve shared so you can refer to it during sessions.

Successful Cam Sites: CB CS

Keep working towards your goals!😘❤️✨

[genericpuff]

omg can i just say i love your work so much!! it’s so fun to read this i’m over the moon

anyways, i’m aiming to get an art degree! i’m so inspired by your work. is this just a hobby or is it a job? i’d love to make art my full time job when i’m older, tho it’s not known for being very sustainable. how do you make it work??

ALSO your expressions, the anatomy, the faces, the colors, all of it!!! i aspire to draw like you one day!!!!

thank youuu!!

also whoof as for advice... well, for starters, it depends on what specifically you're wanting to pursue. Is it a specialized diploma / degree in a specific trade like animation/illustration/graphic design? Or is it more like a university BA? I ask this not because one is better than the other, more so because different schooling is tailored to different aspects of the overall "arts" industry and whatever you're currently studying (or planning on studying) is gonna be up to you and what you're planning on doing, whether it's being a freelancer or going into a specific industry! (or doing a mix of both!)

So all that said, take my advice with mountains of salt!!! What worked (and didn't work) for me may not apply to you! But I hope in sharing my own experience that it might resonate with you or at least give you an experience to relate to in your present and future endeavors :>

For full transparency though (and this will be a bit of a personal anecdote so bear with me): I am absolutely 100% not making a living off Rekindled, more so that it's just a side thing that I do that's supplemented by my actual job, which is tattooing. So by definition, Rekindled is a hobby! (and one that I very much enjoy doing and keeping as a hobby!)

But tattooing is also pretty rough right now, when I'm making money the money is great, but when I'm not, it feels like the same grind that every artist is on, trying desperately to get people to notice me and buy my work haha

I wish I could say that there's a moment where it all just "clicks" and everything falls into place, but it's more like... you just learn to take the good with the bad, and most importantly, you learn how to prepare for the bad so it's a little less bad the second and third and tenth time around. I know that sounds super bleak, but that's just the cycle of life in general - things aren't always good, we just do what we can to work through the bad times so we can find those good times and come out stronger each and every time.

I'm currently in one of those bad times, and I have been pretty much this entire year. The slow season that I thought would end around March... didn't. So with the slow season now turning into a slow year, it finally happened - a couple months ago, I picked up a retail job. It sucked to have to do because I quit retail YEARS ago in the hopes that I'd never have to return to it and that tattooing would always provide for me, but life has changed since then.

Despite this, I am in a very unique and privileged situation where I can "afford" to have slow seasons at work, but I'm also like... well aware that that can't last forever so I'm doing what I can now to slow the decay until it hopefully picks up again. I'm doing what I can, but ultimately, I know a lot of the circumstances of the past year have been due to the state of the world in general, which is far outside of my control. So I do what I can within my control instead, and that eventually included having to go back to retail.

Thankfully the retail job I work is great and I get to work with really cool people, so it's not all bad! But it definitely felt bad in the beginning because of the internalized shame I had towards going back to retail. Almost felt like I was proving to everyone else - especially within the tattoo industry - that I wasn't "cut out" for it.

But now that I'm doing it... I know that that's not true, and I frankly don't care what opinions people could have about it, because at the end of the day, the economy is shit right now and we all gotta do what we gotta do to survive. And having those couple shifts a week in retail means I can continue to keep doing what I do through both tattooing and making comics, because now I have more income coming in. And that is, overall, a good thing :)

Working retail to help make ends meet doesn't make me any less of an artist. It's just that making a living at this is difficult and isn't guaranteed to be a "happily ever after" type thing where you just "find a job" and the rest sorts itself out later. This is also something that applies to any field / career in general, life happens and things can change a LOT so on the one hand, that can be a hopeful blessing because it means you never have to be stuck where you are right now, you CAN keep moving forward towards the things that you're hoping for; but also, it can suck ass because it means even when the going is good, it's never forever.

When it comes to the art world specifically... regardless of whether or not the going's good, the important thing is to keep creating and keep moving forward.

Buuuut I guess if I had any real advice to offer beyond waxing poetic about my personal experiences, especially to those seeking an art degree - learn the business side too. Because in reality, there's a lot more to doing art as your job than just drawing. In fact, I would say that once you start doing art as your job, the actual creating is often forced to take a backseat to the things you have to do to make your art profitable in the first place - like marketing/networking, attending art markets, collaborating with other artists, running an online shop, building a clientele, etc.

So if you have the opportunity to do a class or two in marketing or event coordinating or anything under the umbrella of "business" that could supplement your art degree, please consider it! The art world is competitive, but that doesn't mean you can't give yourself a competitive edge by arming yourself with skills that others may not consider; and I do find a lot of people entering these fields tend to just completely forget or overlook the fact that doing art as a job means turning it into a business, which means you're gonna have to sharpen the business-adjacent skill sets alongside your art.

And I say this from experience, I SUCK at doing the business side of things because a lot of it I'm either really bored by or really bad at. Marketing myself on social media feels like an exercise in futility. Filing my taxes is torture. But those are still skills that are often necessary that I'm pushing myself to get better at - it's just often really hard to learn it through trial and error so taking classes would have probably helped me out a lot LMAO

It can be boring and it's not art, but it's still worth learning. Learn how to apply to art markets, learn how to file taxes as a self-employed individual, learn how to create a CV and portfolio for the industry you're interested in, learn how to decipher your metrics and statistics, learn how to offer quality customer service. These are all things that are, again, extremely worth learning, but also often overlooked when we think of "making a living off art", especially when it comes to freelancing.

That's pretty much the extent of the advice I can offer, at least in terms of the broad subject matter of "getting an art degree" and "making a living at art". I'm ironically sorta the worst person to ask when it comes to that, though, because there are times - like right now - when I'm very much not making that living! And it's requiring that I change my game plan so that I can continue to live - it doesn't mean I've given up on my art, it just means that right now my art can't pay my bills so I have to find another way to get by until they can again.

And of course, it cannot be understated that the circumstances in which I exist are different from yours. It's kinda like asking a Youtuber "how to get famous on Youtube", because the circumstances that made a Youtuber famous will vary widely from other Youtubers. For some people it was years of hard work and slowly building up an audience, others may have been an overnight sensation, and for anyone the ability to make videos on Youtube at all is dependent on what else is going on in their lives that allows them the time and energy and resources to do so. Sure, we kinda know what the end result "looks like", but how you get to that point is largely influenced by other factors and can't be summarized in some "how to" video beyond the general advice of "here's how to make a video for Youtube" "here's how to make an appealing thumbnail" and "here's how to engage with your community". Many of those famous Youtubers are following the exact same formulas as the smaller Youtubers, they just had other factors influencing their career path that got them to fame first / faster / etc.

I can create Rekindled the way I do now because I have a decade of experience already creating multi-panel comics with longform storytelling on a deadline, but someone who's just starting out in webcomics probably wouldn't be able to do exactly what I'm doing; just like how I can't ever perfectly replicate the look and vibe of Rachel's original work, because her work exists through the experiences and circumstances of her life which I could never copy because they're unique from my own.

When I am making good money again, it will still be influenced by other factors - some within my control, some purely circumstantial - that are unique to me that can't be summed up for the benefit of other artists.

If I were to hypothetically write you a guide on "how to make a living at art" based purely on my own life experiences, it would go something like:

Step 1: Spend your whole childhood drawing weeb anime art and writing Legend of Zelda fanfiction

Step 2: Get a diploma in 2D Animation from a for-profit school that puts you $25k in the hole

Step 3: Work at Starbucks for half a decade and then on your days off work on a really long comic series that you plan to spend the rest of your life making

Step 4: Get hired to do a tattoo apprenticeship with a shitty mentor who treats you like shit

Step 5: Work a bunch of other retail jobs while trying to survive your apprenticeship and then eventually find a job in a basement shop that happens to have a spare bed

Step 6: Survive COVID on savings, root beer, and that really long comic series that you're still working on but isn't getting read by more than 10 people

Step 7: Get really obsessed with an online webtoon that you love; then get really mad about it when that online webtoon turns to shit which motivates you to create an entire blog just to talk shit about it and make a fan comic rewrite about it

Step 8: Get a really cool readerbase from that fan comic through the pre-existing community of shit-talkers that you joined who now ask you questions like "how to make a living at art" which you're not even sure how to answer because you don't know if what you do can even be called a "living"

Step 9: ???

Step 10: Profit ?? Sometimes??

Yeah, not very helpful to literally anyone but myself (and not even myself because if past me was asking present me this question, they'd probably be very confused by my answer LOL)

That was a lot of words, but I hope at least a few of them help arm you with the confidence to pursue your goals!! A lot of it might also sound scary, but remember that the path is long and the scary times don't last forever. That path will often take turns you couldn't have anticipated, but that's okay! Ride along with it and see where it takes you - there's always joy to be found in this line of work so long as you keep moving forward and keep your eyes open for it <3

[kaunis-sielu]

Dangerous Places: 10

He slowly builds your trust over the next few weeks. It really is the little things, him noticing when you need something, like an ingredient or snack that you like. He’s already proven that he watches your numbers and has brought you several more records to play so it’s not so quiet in the house. The first time he gently touches your waist and you don’t flinch he hums softly,

“You’re getting more comfortable with me. ” He purrs into your hair and it makes your heart pound in the best way, “Good girl.”

“Thank you.” You don’t know how to handle the praise so this seems to be the best response.

“What are you making?”

“Peppermint truffles.”

“You sure love your sweets don’t you Bunny?”

“Yea, I like the challenge that they provide too.” You tell him as you work, Steve stays standing behind you. Previously this would have been far too close for your comfort but now you find you don’t really mind.

“I’m thinking this’ll be over in a month.” He says and you glance behind you at him.

“Really?” You don’t want to get too hopeful because it’ll hurt so much worse if you can’t disappear then.

“Yea, and I found someone who can take care of your brand. A friend of Bruce’s has some experience with burns, he’s going to come take a look later.”

“Will you be here?”

“No.”

“I’d like someone else here.”

“I’ll get someone,” he promises, “so good Bunny.” Steve says and it takes every ounce of self control you have to not preen.

The doctor that Steve had promised comes later that night. Carol is with you, of all the women that Steve could’ve asked you’re glad he picked her.

He walks you through the procedure, and while it sounds painful and scary you don’t care. You want the brand off.

“When can you do it?” You ask and he looks thoughtful,

“Right now.”

“Let’s do it.” You tell him and Carol looks surprised,

“You want to do this now?” She asks and you nod. There’s nothing you would like more than having the brand removed. “I’m going to call Steve while he gets set up.” She says and you shrug, she can do whatever she needs to.

When he’s ready you sit in a chair and he starts his work. The pain is indescribable, you can’t believe you’d gone through this once before.

“If you need to pass out just do it.” The Doctor says and you nod. Carol is watching and looks horrified, you can’t look. If you look you’re going to throw up, then pass out. You’ve got your eyes closed and you’re taking slow, deep breaths but the pain is too much and like the Doctor said, you pass out.

When you come to arms are around you and your arm feels like it’s on fire.

“How long?” Steve’s voice is right behind you, he must be the one holding you. He wouldn’t let anyone else.

“Maybe an hour?” Carol says and you blink your eyes open. “She’s awake.”

“Hey Bunny. How you feeling?”

“My arm is on fire.” You tell him going to touch it but he catches your hand with his before you can.

“You’re not supposed to touch it Bunny.” He says gently, “We have to put a cream on it and redress it tomorrow but leave it for now.”

“Hurts.” You whimper and he shushes you gently as Carol leaves the little house.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He soothes, for a powerful man he’s so gentle with you. It’s like he knows what you need, that quiet strength. “I’m proud of you though Bunny, you did a real brave thing.”

“I couldn’t look at it anymore.” You whisper and he hums, you’re pretty sure that he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m sorry it took so long. We can do something special when it heals.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll take you out, on a proper date.” He says softly, “if that’s okay with you.” You stare at where his hands are resting on your legs holding you gently to him,

“Yea I think that’d be okay.”

“Good. I have some work to do, you can come with me if you want.”

“What kind of work?”

“Paperwork. For my business.”

“What kind of mob does paperwork?” You ask and he chuckles softly,

“No Bunny, my legit business. Being in the mob doesn’t make that much money. I’m the CEO of my family’s insurance company.”

“Oh.” You’re surprised by this, all Crossbones had done was mob business. “What about Bucky?”

“What about him?” Steve seems

“Does he have another job?”

“He’s my head of security.” That makes sense, “you wanna come with?”

“What would I be doing?”

“Just keeping me company.” He offers and you close your eyes for a second, you’re content sitting here with him but he’s allowing you to leave the house. Even if it is with him.

“Do I need to look nice?”

“You do look nice.” He says and you look down at yourself. You’re in a black hoodie and a pair of black athletic pants.

“I think you and I have different ideas of nice.” You tell him and he laughs softly, “I’ll come with but I want to put on some jeans at least.”

“I can wait Bunny.” He helps ease you up off the couch and you go back to your bedroom and change into a black tee and a pair of jeans before putting on the brand new black tennis shoes Natasha brought you the first week.

When you go back out into the main part of the house Steve is standing by the front door. When he looks up at you his eyes travel the length of your body and it makes butterflies dance in your stomach.

“You ready?”

“To leave? Hell yes.” You tell him and he laughs softly.

“Okay, if anything goes down you listen.”

“I will.” At this point you’d probably agree to just about anything, he’s letting you leave your cage. Steve offers you his hand and when you take it he looks pleased, then leads you out of the front door and back into the warehouse. You’re fairly certain it’s night out but really you can’t be positive, it’s hard for time to exist when you don’t see the sun.

When you get outside you see you were right, the sky is dark and the air is crisp and you stop walking, you have no idea how long you’ve been in there but the fresh air smells so good. You close your eyes and breathe it in and Steve doesn’t try to get you to move.

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly, when you look over at him he looks ashamed of himself, “I should’ve let you come outside. I’ve been abusing you.” You’re not going to argue with him, it’s been absolute shit being stuck inside for so long. “I’ll do better.” You won’t get your hopes up, then again he usually makes good on his promises. The only one he hasn’t kept yet is letting you go.

“Can we ride with the windows down?”

“No, it’s not safe.” He says and you sigh softly but understand. You start walking and he joins you, as if he wanted to wait to make sure that you were ready to go before he brought you to the car.

“What is your family company name?”

“Shield Insurance.” He says pulling open the door in the back of the car.

“Is that home or car? What kind of insurance?”

“Mostly business.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s not like my dream job but it’s fine.” He says sliding into the back with you. It’s then you realize Bucky is in the driver’s seat.

“What would your dream job be?” You ask as the car starts moving and Steve looks thoughtful.

“Artist.” Bucky’s voice chimes in from the driver’s seat, “he’d be an artist.” You’re surprised by this answer but Steve doesn’t argue, he gives a little shrug.

“Yea probably.”

“What kind of art?”

“I like to draw, I’ve started to get into painting lately which has been fun.” This is an interesting, and soft, side to the mob boss. “I like to do people the most.”

“From memory or do you have people sit for you?”

“Are you offering?” He flirts and you grimace causing him to laugh. You like being the cause for that sound more than you should. He’s a mob boss after all, you can’t get too attached, you swore you’d never get burnt again.

Tag list:

@andahugaroundtheneck @connie326 @also-fangirlinsweden @lumar014 @loving-life-my-way @pagina16ps @emdying @dumblani @valsworldofcreativity @blackwidownat2814 @vicmc624 @abschaffer2 @patzammit @inkedaztec @sophham

[clone-anon-after-dark]

Just As You Are (Wolffe x GN!Asexual!Aromantic!Reader)

Word count: 2047

Warnings: I’ll say NSFW for mention of having sex to make past partners happy, mention of masturbation, minors DNI

A/N: This is my first time writing Reader who is strictly aroace so I hope I did it some kind of justice. I know not all aroace people express themselves in the same way, so this is just one version I had in my mind. I believe what I write is referred to as a queerplatonic relationship? No pronouns are used for Reader.  There is cuddling, bedsharing, and some sweetness, but not romance in the way a lot of people think about it. I think that touch is great and can be a wonderful way of communicating in all relationships, including platonic relationships, so there are some quick kisses, hugs, hand holding, etc.

You'd first met him when helping Rex with some clones who escaped The Empire. They were all stressed and in need of serious help. You ran into him and Gregor on the lower levels of Coruscant. You were selling some speeder parts to another vendor and they were looking for some specific ship parts. One thing led to another and Wolffe's visits to your shop became more frequent. You liked him. He was quick-witted and kind. You weren't sure exactly what you thought about him, just that he had a special place in your heart. Sex wasn't for you. Romance wasn't for you either, but you loved his company. 

Sometimes he would sit with you while you tinkered in the shop, trying to fix something for him while he waited.  You didn’t give too much away at first, but as you got to know each other, you opened up more and so did he.  Like his brothers, he had been through a lot in the war.  You thought he was brave and thoughtful and still managed to keep a sense of humor after all that.  

Wolffe was there the day you broke down and admitted you needed a fresh start and had decided to sell your shop and find some other place in the galaxy. You apologized, knowing they depended on you, but knew life on Coruscant was getting too dangerous to stay.

"Come with us," he said. "There's room for you and we could use your skills. Besides, I'd miss you if I didn’t get to see you again."

You were shocked at first, but within a week a half dozen clones scoured what supplies and parts you had left in your little workshop. You told them to take what was needed and were able to sell the shop and what was left as-is. Wolffe helped you carry your few personal belongings to the ship he now lived on with some of his brothers. You walked away, at least grateful to have someone who cared.

“Everything will work out,” he said.  You smiled up at him and nodded.  You hoped so.

Wolffe helped you get settled in your own bunk on the ship.  Room was rather scarce, but there was some space for each of you.  You traveled with them, helping other clones escape, but found yourself helping the most with everyday tasks.  Cooking, fixing clothes, knowing when to barter, trade, or flat out buy something, and how to fix items.  These were all things they had never had to worry about before. Food was in the mess, they dropped off their blacks to get fixed if they ripped, and they never worried about money or buying supplies during the war.  The GAR took care of it, even if the food wasn’t particularly delicious or plentiful.

One night, as you sat in the cockpit together, keeping an eye out for any problems on the backwater planet you’d settled on for the night, Wolffe decided to make his feelings known.  He turned to you and rubbed the back of his head before taking a deep breath.

“I care about you, you know.”

You looked at him and smiled. “I know. And I care about you.”

“I mean, I think I am in love with you,” he replied.

You felt butterflies in your stomach.  Somehow you knew he felt this way and you worried that if he knew the truth about how attraction worked for you, he wouldn’t want anything to do with you and you’d lose your dearest friend.

“Wolffe, I…” you thought about where to start, but it was clear his heart was sinking with worry that you didn’t think about him the same way.  You reached out and held his hand.  He slowly let his fingers close around yours as you continued.

“I don’t experience romantic attraction. I also don’t like sex. I have never wanted to have sex.  It’s not you.  I actually… I love you too… just maybe in a different way.”

He let a cautious smile spread across his face.  You were in it now and he hadn’t rejected you yet.  You might as well lay it all out.  As if he knew you needed another bit of strength, Wolffe squeezed your hand a little, reminding you that he was still there with you and wanted to hear what you had to say.

“I may not be attracted to people in those ways, but I definitely have feelings for you, Wolffe.  More so than Rex or Gregor or my other friends and certainly more than I did for my family.  But I understand if that’s not enough.  It’s never been enough for anyone else.”

He held your hand and reached out to caress your cheek with his thumb. “Is this okay,” he asked, pausing just before touching your face, and wanting to be near you but not wanting to overstep.  You nodded and smiled, somewhat surprised by his reaction to what you just said.

“It’s more than enough for me and it’s more than okay,” he said.  “And if you don’t believe me, let me show you.  Give me a chance to love you how you want to be loved.”

You leaned into the hand still holding your cheek.  You relaxed a little, trying to not let old worries bother you.  Right now, you felt understood and embraced for who you were.

It took a little time, but you both slowly had conversations about where the boundaries were.  You loved cuddling and Wolffe was all too happy to welcome you into his bunk. He swapped sheets and blankets with your old bunk so that you could be comfortable with what was familiar, but the temperature on the side of the ship with his bunk was more to your liking, so you moved your stuff over.  

The first night together started a little awkwardly, but you felt so safe when he put his arm around your waist and asked, “Is this okay?”  You assured him it was.  Wolffe was normally so sure of himself and confident in combat, but with you he was only confident when he was sure you were on the same page.  He wanted to get it right.

“Can I kiss your cheek,” he asked.  You nodded.  

“Do you like kisses, Wolffe?”

“Yes.”

You kissed his cheek in return and rested against him.  It felt so right.  You fell asleep together and got some of the best rest of your life.  Wolffe’s presence felt like a weighted blanket - not controlling or restricting, but calming.

A few mornings later he woke up before you and as soon as he realized his morning wood was against your leg, he pulled away.  You woke up from the sudden movement and asked what was wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I didn’t want you to think I…”  He looked down and wasn’t sure what to do.

“It’s okay,” you said.  You rubbed your eyes and laid back down, unsure of what else to say.

“I never want to pressure you,” he said.  “I didn’t want you to think I was.”

“You haven’t.”  You smiled, picked up his hand, and kissed the back of it.  You got up to use the refresher and you both went about your day.  Later in the evening, you found some time together.  Wolffe sat next to you and held your hand. It was becoming one of your favorite things.  Gregor joked that you were attached at the hands instead of at the hips before he got up and walked toward the cockpit for his watch.  You loved that.  Wolffe’s hands were somehow hard and soft at the same time, like him. It felt grounding.

Once you were alone, you brought up his earlier reaction to his body functioning normally and promised him you didn’t mind.  You knew he couldn’t control what his body did while he slept.  At the same time, it felt like you should bring up the topic of intimacy.  You asked if he was really okay with being with you and not having sex.

He scoffed and replied, “My hand and a couple toys have always been enough for me.”

You laughed a little at his honesty, but loved it.  He leaned toward you and rested his forehead against yours.  “We’re close in other ways.”  

“Yes, we are,” you replied with a warm smile.

After a few minutes, Wolffe tentatively asked something that had been on his mind.

“You said before that having a relationship like this has never been enough,” he said slowly.  “What happened? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m just curious.”

You bit your lip and moved to lean on his shoulder, still holding his hand.  He gave it a little squeeze.  

“I was with couple other people at different times.  Tried the relationship thing. Someone would get to know me, wanted to date, romance, sex, the whole usual thing people normally do.  When I told them I’m not interested in that kind of love and didn’t feel like having sex with them, they would say they understood and it was fine, but eventually it wasn’t enough.  Especially the last person.  He really pressured me.  At that point, I cared about him and yeah, loved him in my own way, and I had sex with him to make him happy.  It didn’t feel right, though, and the relationship didn’t last.”

Wolffe’s breathing got heavier and you glanced up to see anger on his face.  You pulled away, unsure, and his expression immediately softened to one of care and protection.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said, seeing your uncertainty.  “Far from it.  I’m sorry you felt like you had to do that.  It’s not right.”  He put an arm around you and pulled you close, placing a chaste kiss on the top of your head.  You let out breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

“I want to make you happy,” you said.

“You do,” he answered with a broad smile and another kiss to your head.  “You make me so kriffing happy.  You’re enough as you are.”

You only became more inseparable as the years went on.  You came to depend on each other. If anyone asked he would say “we’re together” or “that’s my partner.”  You said the same of him.  He always made you feel special just as you were.  Each night you got into bed together and talked about your day.  You helped each other unwind simply by offering each other comfortable familiarity.  Some night you’d read a holonovel together and discovered you both liked science fiction.

You saw each other through some challenging times, too.  When you were in the Outer Rim and Wolffe’s cybernetic eye stopped working at the end of a mission, he was terrified he lost his sight for good.  You held his hand and ran him back to the ship, reminding him that his other eye was working and he would be okay.  As Gregor and Rex took off, looking for the nearest doctor who could help, you sat with him.  It was clear he was having flashbacks to the war and when he first lost his eye.

“I’m here,” you reminded him.  “I promise it will be okay.  You’re on our ship, Wolffe.  Rex and Gregor are here and we’re going to get you help.”

He looked like a terrified cadet, crying as you held him.  You walked him back to your shared bunk once you were in hyperspace, hoping the familiar sights, smells, and textures would help.

“Please don’t leave,” he asked through tears. 

“I never will.”

Everything turned out okay.  He needed an adjustment to his cybernetic, but was assured it should still last the rest of his lifetime and then some.  That night, you held him, letting him rest his face in the crook of your neck, while you rubbed his back.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said.  “I don’t know why I broke down when I could see out of my good eye just fine.”

“It’s okay,” you replied.  “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve gone through a lot.  I love you just as you are.”

“And I love you too,” he said, “just as you are too.”

Tagging: @kixs-husband @staycalmandhugaclone

[fandomwritingbit]

🔪Hallowe'en Special🔪

William the Ripper.

William Afton x female sex worker reader

Synopsis: You’re a harlot prowling the streets of London in 1891, looking for patronage. And you unknowingly become ensnared by a very dark man. 

A/n: This isn’t anything like what I usually put on here, it's somewhat inspired by real life events aka the Whitechapel Murders, so this is your warning that it might not be for you. I’d also like to say I’m in no way making light of this, yes it was a long time ago, but I still think all victims should be treated with respect. However, this is fictional and I hope you enjoy it, even after all that.

Warnings: sex-work/Victorian prostitution, violence, hints at sexual assault and rape, murder, this is really dark folks.

Image above is of Dorset Street, London, taken in the late 1800s. Just for a little scene setting.

This night felt off from the start. There was a brutal chill to the air, the penetrating kind that made your joints sore just from enduring it. And the depressing rain fell to the ground in a quickly succeeding tap-tap, tap-tap… so rhythmic that your pace matched it instinctively, making you walk hastily through the quiet streets.

The weather made business achingly slow and you clutch the sixpence in your pocket that little bit harder, resigning yourself to the fate that tonight that was all you were going to get. The knowledge that you would have to return tomorrow night is daunting, though if you tried to find more custom now, in this weather, you’ll only fall ill, and that is one of the worst things that could happen to you.

You begin to move faster, turning on your heel and nearly throwing yourself down alley after alley, you’re damp to the bone, your skirts clinging together to form restrictive and heavy baggage that only makes you more desperate to escape the night air. You pass an inn where the water runs fast from the swinging sign, dripping painfully cold down your back, reminding you of how little clothes your line of work calls for. And it only became more apparent as patrons step out of the inn, calling after you. You should stop, they look like sailors and God knows sailors are a reliable custom, but something stops you, some forbidden instinct or knowledge that motivates you to keep going. Something that felt dangerous. 

Fear lessens when you stumble out onto Dorset Street, the familiar sight of other midnight women a comforting sign, you’re not far now. Not much longer until you’re back in the cramped rooms you share with girls who’d fallen on similar hard times, girls who bind together, who made you feel as safe as you could be here, with nothing but a fucking sixpence to tide you over. 

You exchange a nod with a girl whose name escapes you, jealous of her shawl and good boots that were going to allow her to stay out tonight and earn enough to buy herself breakfast in the morning. Very much unlike yourself. You enter the last cut before your accommodation, shivering from both the cold and the lack of visibility that makes unease rest around your shoulders. It was so dark you could hardly see your boots hitting the cobbles below you, let alone any sight of the end of the alley, all you have for confirmation that you’re moving is the sound of you walking, step, step, step, step… not loud but the disconcerting stillness echoing it around you. You’re somewhat glad it's so silent, it means you’re astutely aware of your surroundings, almost too aware, so aware that it doesn’t take you long to clock the dull thud of steps behind you. 

Your head turns without any consultation from your mind, like a rabbit who’s nose twitched at the mere thought of a predator. It’s then it dawns on you how dangerous this really is. 

Not far from your trembling form is a figure, a gentleman, the hat and cloak kind of man who clearly had some money. At first you panic for a different reason, thinking it could be a peeler and being overcome with images of the constabulary, a place you never wanted to return to. But a copper wouldn’t follow you down here, what with your lack of punter, what would he have to take you in for after all. But if it’s not the police…

You turn fully, stopping still and trying to hide any wobble from your voice. “I’m not working. F-find someone else!” You call out, the fear is evident despite your efforts and so potent you nearly cry. The cloaked form stops in turn, the short distance of a road between the two of you, yet still you can’t see anything of him, other than the menacing figure of a man much taller than yourself. 

In the silence that follows, the figure raises a hand up in a slow and patronising wave, almost making you think you had it right, just a john who’d take your words as rejection. You breathe deeply in an attempt to steady yourself, turning your back on the gentleman and resuming your walk, your pace now quickened with a primal urge to see yourself protected by the eyes of others. 

Step, step, thud, step, thud, step- 

You whimper, movement nearly faltering with the realisation that the man behind you was still mirroring your pace, each sound of his feet hitting the ground making you flinch. Reeling, you walk faster and it quickly becomes a run as the desperate need to get out of the alley floods through your veins.

A bend in the path sees your body hit the wall, your hands scrambling along the wet bricks to try and navigate the turn, the darkness so suffocating your touch is all you have to see. A gloved hand grabs your arm with such force you instantly cry out, fear repelling you away, a new-found power in your pulling which allows you to free yourself. 

You try to run from the man again, tears warm as they stream down your face. Your feet hit the cobbles loudly and messily, the rain making it hard to keep your balance as your cheap boots lack the necessary grip. Stumbling, you lose your footing, sliding before wrenching your ankle in between the stones. The sudden bleaching pain makes you scream and as you fall to the ground, the pain in your ankle is soon joined by a dull ache in your whole body from the force of the fall. Knowing the figure is still pursuing you, you try again to crawl to your feet, but such a scorching grasp on your arm drains the will from you. 

You’re pulled forwards before the man’s other hand strikes you across the face, the bright agony knocking you senseless. He again grabs you, tilting your face to him and in the almost pitch black you can see him smiling. A foul grin slashed into his face, so sinister you go completely still, stunned into submission. 

“Maybe you should have been working, whore.” He spits, the venom of the words like an ice-cold grip on your heart. You sob, lacking the strength to pull your face from his hold, a despondent futility settling over you, and you only hope he’ll take what he wants from you and leave you to drag yourself home. But whispered rumours of much worse things happening to other girls blur in the back of your mind.

“Please, sir. I-” the sound of your voice sounds foreign and you hardly recognise the shrill desperate noise.

He wrenches you up closer to him, his grip settling under your jaw, making it hard to breathe. “Go on.” You open your mouth but the words turn to shuddering breath when you hear a light click followed by the sensation of cold metal against your throat. “Beg.” His voice isn’t human, it’s void of anything and just looking at his eyes you see an absence of life. 

This was it. The face other's saw before meeting their most grisly end. You'd heard all about it, girls who disappeared and were found days later with their throats cut. Butchered by Leather Apron. Mutilated by the Whitechapel Murderer. Taken apart by the Ripper. Whatever the papers would take to calling him this week.

And strangely, it occurs to you how unremarkable this man looks. Not some self-loathing creature or deprived streetwalker. A gentleman. A handsome one that many ladies would happily take on as a john.

The silence rings out and, for just a moment, all you hear is the rain and the sound of your own heart. The monster chuckles darkly, pressing the knife hard against your throat.

He sighs, “What a shame.”

A/n: And that's me done! Happy Hallowe'en, folks! Thanks so much for reading and I hope you have a spooky one this year. X

[coltrainbat]

Can you something about our boy, chris evans being wanting to get married and have kids but he feels uncommitted. He dates a few women in the past and has done fake relationships. One day, Chris met reader at a party, he asked her out but reader straight out says no

Yes, No, Maybe...

A/N: I had this in my drafts! Like this exact thing! Omg did you hack my computer? I fixed it up and made it all good but thank you great request. 💕

Disclaimer: All characters and events written, even those based on real people are entirely fictional and are no representation or comment of said characters in real life.

You readjusted your dress in the mirror, fiddling with the fabric stretched over your boobs. There was no way to make your cleavage less prominent, so you decided to embrace it, avoiding any nip slips in the process. Turning to the side you were able to appreciate the curve of your body, your natural hourglass extenuated by the bodycon dress. You weren’t skinny by any means, but you loved how your curves filled out dresses. 

Your friend had given you a VIP access ticket to the Premiere afterparty for the new Barbie movie – it was the perfect event to bring out the pink bodycon midi dress that lived in the back of your closet. 

  Doing a final swipe of gloss over your lips, you exited the washroom and made your way to the bar hoping to find a familiar face. 

  “Hey stranger” you whistled at the bartender. Danny was one of your friends’ older brothers and before he was making you cocktails on nights out; he was buying you 6 packs of white claws when you were 15. 

  “Y/N! Where have you been girl?”

  “Working. How’s the fam?” 

  “Good, mom asks about you all the time... I’ll tell her you’re staying out of trouble.”

  “Please do, it’s been years since she had to pick me up from a house party gone wrong.”

  “Hope you haven’t gone boring on us… do you want your special drink to loosen you up?” 

  Your special drink. Danny had a talent of making you a drink that was sweet enough you couldn’t taste the alcohol but strong enough to make you pass out on the road after 5. And right now, seemed like the perfect time for your special drink.

  As Danny made your drink, you finally got a chance to look at your surroundings; music played in the background of the dimly lit room. Extravagant flower arrangements towered over tables; you made a note to steal one before you left for the night. Groups of influencers, movie stars and A-Listers hung around their respective friend groups. You felt a little uncomfortable, not a single person here looked like you. 

  “One special drink for one special girl.” 

  “Too good to me.” You leaned over the bar to kiss your old friend on the cheek as he placed the pink concoction on the table. 

  “More where that came from just ask.” He smiled and went back to cleaning glasses as you sipped the familiar drink and tried to get comfortable on the bar stool that had the area of cheese slice. Your thighs sat half on, half off the stool and you’d stand if your feet weren’t hurting from the heels you had on. 

  The bar was conveniently empty of patrons meaning you had time to play your sudoku and figure out how long you had until you could go home and put on your PJs. Uninterrupted. Until…

    CHRIS’S POV

  Another afterparty. It’s not like I hated them or anything but after the 5th or 6th they all seemed the same. Sure, they’d be in different cities, different venues but all the people were the same. 

  Same old brown nosing from people who think that because your whole life is on Wikipedia, they can act chummy with you after 5 minutes. 

  Same old C-List actress and their terrible attempt at flirting. God if I had a dollar for every girl who said they needed saving by Captain America I’d have the same amount of money I got from the whole series. They all looked the same as well – blonde, skinny, flat ass. First couple of times, sure, I’d try to get to know them, but they had the same amount of substance as white bread, and my acting skills only stretch so far in trying to seem interested. 

  I did a silent prayer that I didn’t have to bring along a date. I couldn’t go another night having to be paired with some questionable wannabe actress/model/influencer hybrid who couldn’t hold a conversation that wasn’t about how much free shit she got or her willingness to do absolutely anything for a role with a wink. Shuddering at the thought. 

  A good thing about afterparties was the booze. Free, unlimited, delicious booze. 

  “Maybe you’ll find her tonight ya never know.” I was pulled out of my train of thought by a harsh slap on the back from my buddy, Zach.

  “I can promise you bro the love of my life is not here, drunk as a skunk in a push up bra begging for a minor role to some sleezy director but thanks for thinking of me.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers my man, but if you’re going to be ungrateful about the number of women who would trip over themselves to breathe the same air as you the least you could do is play wingman.”

  “Whatever you say, I’m getting a beer.”

  As I tried to slip through the crowd of people and avoid getting stopped for photos. Throwing in a couple of “Heyyyy’s” “How are ya’s” and “Good to see you’s” “Yeah of course we’ll chat just need a drink” I finally arrived at the bar which was conveniently off in a semi quiet corner.

  Waiters were walking around with champagne glasses and bottle service which was great for three reasons; it occupied the masses, meant the bar was empty and more beer for me.

  I waved down the bartender and settled myself on the all too small barstool. 

  “Can I please get a corona?” 

  “Of course, sir. Y/N you need another?” The bartender looked towards the girl next to me. 

  Holy shit. Y/N. 

  There she sat in all her glory; she looked out of place in the best way possible. The pink drink in front of her barely full. Her ass could barely fit on the child size barstool. The light casted a soft shadow on her cleavage. She was gorgeous. 

  “Gosh, yes please Danny.” She knew his name. Was he, her boyfriend? God, I hope not cause if so he just caught me blatantly staring at her. 

  He placed the cold beer in front of me with a wink. Gesturing for me to lean in close.

  “Good luck trying she doesn’t crack easily.” Ok great not her boyfriend. But also shit, he definitely saw me checking her out. 

  “I’ll do my best.” 

  I slide in the seat closest to her. She didn’t even look up from her phone. Sudoku. She was playing fucking Suduko in a club. Way to send a statement that you don’t give a fuck about the event at you’re at. 

  He placed a brand-new drink in front of her. 

  “What is that?” I gestured towards her drink.

  She locked her phone and looked up slightly dazed as she ran a hand through her volumed hair. 

  Y/N POV

  “It’s a secret.” Holy shit. I know who this is. I know. What’s his name… Brad? Sebastian? Holy shit how could I forget the sexiest man alive’s name. Why is he talking to me? Does he think I’m easy or something? 

  “May I?” Does he want to taste my drink? Like drink from the same glass as me? What the fuck?

  “Be my guest.”

  “Omg that’s delicious.”

  “That’s why it’s a secret.”

  “Chris.” He held out his hand. 

  Chris. Chris Evans. That’s it! 

  “Y/N.” You shook his hand to be nice. The man had a reputation though. You had read all the gossip forums; knew he was a serial dater. Surely, there’s a reason if you’re that good looking and successful you hadn’t settled down yet. 

  You studied his face, he was far from young, but he had aged well, he clearly wasn’t trying to hide the grey specks in his beard or the soft wrinkles of his forehead. He wasn’t as intimidatingly big as you expected but broad and solid none the less. He smelt clean and expensive, and you hoped to God your hand wasn’t sweaty. 

  “So, what brings you here to play Sudoku?” Omg did he look at my phone? Shit that’s embarrassing.

  You chuckled lightly, “Just came for a friend… and the drinks of course.” You took a long sip of the yummy cocktail. 

  CHRIS’S POV

  “So, what do you do?” Please don’t say actress. Please don’t say actress. Please don’t say actress. Please don’t say actress. Please don’t say actress.

  “I manage a (dream workplace).”

“Wow that’s awesome for a second there I thought you were going to say-”

  “Actress. Yeah no.”

  “God you’re quick” He chuckled nervously, unsure of how he was going to crack her. He didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the fact that at this fancy schmancy event she was playing Sudoku at bar or that regardless of whether she could properly fit in the seat she sat so gracefully and confidently. How her dress hugged her curves, how she got a special drink at the bar because she was just so goddamn special. How every movement was sexy and smooth like she knew exactly who she is and didn’t question herself it for a moment. All he knew is that he wanted to know everything about her and to study ever curve on her body. 

  Y/N POV

  Feeling confident after your 2nd incredibly potent drink, you thought you’d take the opportunity to have some fun with him

   “How often do you do this?” You quizzed.

  Do what? Go to after parties?” Chris replied puzzled.

   “No, go up to random women at a bar”

   “Not often”

   “Bullshit”

   “Why bullshit?”

  You gave him a knowing look

   “Oh so someone likes to read gossip magazines.” he smirked and leaned closer 

  You held your hand to your chest “It’s my god given right as a woman to read trashy magazines”

  “No fair enough but that doesn’t mean they’re true...”

  “Hard to believe you‘d complain about getting pictured with models.” You scoffed, taking a long sip. 

   “Could I prove you wrong?”

  “Doubt it I’m always right” you took another sip, smirking into your straw

   “Then let me take you out”

  You laughed at the suggestion 

  “Chris, I can call you Chris right?”

   “Sure”

  “You’re handsome, successful, clearly there is something going on up there and as much as I’d love to have you sweep me off my feet one night, I also love the fact that me doing the walk of shame has never been put on the front cover of TMZ. So thanks but no thanks.”

  You got up to leave until he grabbed your wrist firmly but softly pulling you to face him. 

  You stood over him, him never letting go of your wrist. 

  “You think I’m handsome?” He crocked his head to the side in a knowing smirk.

  “This is ridiculous.” you rolled your eyes dramatically 

  “How about no walk of shame instead…dinner, privately, no cameras, no photographers… your favourite restaurant brought to you… whatever you want”

  “Whatever I want?”

  “Whatever you want. If I don’t manage to sweep you off your feet, you can go to all the rag mags and tell them Chris Evans is a douchebag.”

  You went to answer until a man came up behind you

  “Brooo there you are where the hell have you been?”

  Chris’s hand fell from your wrist and went to pinch his eyebrow.

  “Hey Zach, this is Y/N” gesturing towards you 

  “Hi nice to meet you sorry I was just leaving.” You scooted past his friend.

  “Wait... Y/N… I..” you disappeared into the crowd before he could finish. No way were you going to embarrass him and in turn yourself in front of his friend.

  “Bro she was… wow… don’t tell me you dropped the ball on that one.”

  “I didn’t… until you showed up.” Chris rubbed his face in angst

  “Shit dude I’m sorry… hey go get her she’s probably still here.”

  “Yeah.. yeah fuck you’re right.” He jumped from his seat and gave his friend a quick tap on the shoulder as he ventured into the crowd towards the exit pushing past bodies.

    You had made it downstairs and walked down the road a little, resting your head against the cold tile wall outside the club. 

  Taking in a deep breathe. Great. You blew it. Maybe you misjudged him. God he was so good looking as well! And smart and funny and charming. You got caught up in his façade, why would he ever want to be with someone like you? He was drunk and clearly out of his mind so he wanted to mess with you. Lucky you got out before you well and tru-“

  “Why so quick to run off?” there he was, hands in his pant pockets leaning towards the wall. 

  You gave a defeated laugh “I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

  “What’s so embarrassing about you?” He said, his face not flinching, seriousness laid in his voice. He seemed genuinely confused at the suggestion. 

  “I don’t know maybe because I wasn’t like every other skinny blonde in there.”

  “You’re right you weren’t…” He took a step closer

  “You’re better. Zach was pretty impressed with you; I just came down to avoid the teasing I’d get for the rest of my life if I managed to let you go without at least one date.”

  You tried to hide you’re smile as you looked away from his intense gaze.

  “There’s nothing embarrassing about you and if you would let me, I would like to take you on that date. And before you ask, no, I don’t do this often.”

  You looked up at the night sky, considering whether you’re about to make the worst or the best choice of your life.

  “Yes”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, I’ll go on a date with you.”

  “Good.” He passed you his phone and you entered your number, giving it back to him he immediately dialled it and put it towards his ear.

  “Just to be sure” he smirked at you.

  Your phone rang and you held it up to him “I got it.”

  “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow then” He stepped close to you, you thought he was about to kiss you, so you stretched your neck out a little in anticipation towards his chin. 

  Bypassing your lips, he moved to your ear.

  “See you tomorrow” he kissed the skin between your ear and your cheekbone. Your body went hot at his touch.

  He walked backwards as you took a gulp at the sudden intimacy, trying to catch your breathe. 

  “Tomorrow”

  “Tomorrow”

  He fist pumped the air in a celebratory motion.

  You laughed at his gesture and gave him a little wave goodbye as you walked down the street to get a cab.

  “Tomorrow!” He screamed out at, drawing attention from loiters on the street. 

  God what have you gotten yourself into? 

[script-a-world]

Submitted via Google Form:

At what point would a world with flying cars need simulation lessons like an airplane? Or it depends on how sophisticated the software is or the only reason airplanes need simulations is because planes are so much more expensive and accidents more disasterous?

Tex: What does your world’s flying cars look like? Are they more Star Wars, where they look like a convertible sports car that conveniently doesn’t have wheels, or more like Stargate, where they look like a futuristic Winnebago and are capable of some slow interstellar travel?

Modern day vehicles already have a fair amount of electronics and also software applied to them, the most common and basic of which is the anti-lock braking system (ABS, Wikipedia), and depending on the country and driving school, they may in fact teach students about the particularities of various electronic systems found in the average vehicle.

Simulations for driving our current cadre of vehicles would be a good idea, though for a high degree of simulation on real-world mechanics and situations, a lot of money would need to be spent on equipment for each driving school. This would probably have unfortunate side effects, such as class-based segregation or drastically increasing the cost of educating oneself on how to drive a vehicle - much less how this would pan out to any vehicle capable of flying.

Wootzel: I’ll lead with a disclaimer that I’m not an aerospace engineer and I probably can’t represent all of the factors to you, but my impression of the difference is this: Our current flying vehicles (planes) need extensive training to operate because the physics involved in making them work are much more delicate. 

Planes fly by hurtling a vehicle with a very specialized shape through the atmosphere fast enough that the specialized shape allows it to generate lift. Planes are heavy! Accidents are disastrous, as you mentioned, but the finesse required to keep that thing in the air is much more complicated than driving a car. When a car stops, it rests on its wheels, just as it does when in motion. If a plane stops in mid-air, it falls out of the sky. Planes rely on the rapid flow of air over their airfoils at all times to have lift, so if anything screws that up, the plane is most likely going down.

Whether your flying cars are harder to drive than ground cars will most likely depend on what the technology is that makes them stay up. If they need velocity for lift like airplanes, they’re likely to need the same level of skill and finesse to fly (or some really, really sophisticated technology to auto-pilot safely). If they use some other form of lift, then maybe they’re no harder to drive than a wheeled car. If they are able and allowed go a lot faster than cars can, there might be some extra safety risks to consider there, just because a fast-moving heavy object is going to have really dangerous inertia. What kind of force allows these cars to fly will depend on what sort of tech you decide to put in--since we don’t have anything even close to this in the real world, just pick your favorite between propulsion systems or anti-gravity tech or whatever else you feel like using. I’d imagine that a propulsion based lift would be a little more finicky than anti-grav (and might require drivers being careful not to pass too close above someone else) but you can honestly handwave whatever you want when it comes to that kind of thing. Most flying cars aren’t explained in any detail, so don’t feel the need to over-justify how they work!

Addy: They covered a lot, so I’m just going to add a recommendation to look at helicopter training requirements. They’re about as close to a flying car as we’ve gotten. Helicopters are generally more difficult to operate than planes, since they have more spinny bits, but they have more maneuverability. Planes can’t turn all that quickly, while helicopters can just stay in one place and turn there. Planes have to keep moving. If you’re looking for a flying car analogy, look at helicopters.

[stitchdfox]

Eddie on tour pt 5

“Why is your tour so short?” Steve asks, curious.

Eddie walks down the street on the main drag in St. Louis. They have a rare day off before their show and he’s enjoying the strangely cool day.

“They only asked us on for the first leg of tour. Some other yahoos get to take our place opening on the second leg.” Eddie pulls his earbuds from his leather jacket pocket, tucking Steve’s voice into his ears.

“Hmm.” Steve takes a second to reply. “Is that good or bad?”

“Can it be both?” Eddie asks. “It’ll be nice to sleep in my own bed again. But the rush of playing in front of a crowd, in these beautiful venues, that I’ll miss.”

“You’ll book another tour soon. I’d put money on it.”

Eddie grins from ear to ear. “What makes you so sure?”

“Eds. I don’t listen to metal. Like. At all. But I enjoy the music you and the guys make. It feels very you and I love listening to… I’m an 80s pop guy! And I can’t get enough of Corroded Coffin.” He clears his throat, “for what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth a lot, sweetheart.” Eddie’s dimples grow deep as his smile widens.

“Enough about me. What trouble have you been getting into lately, big boy?” Eddie eggs him on.

“It’s so boring over here. Just trying to make it through summer classes.” Steve sighs.

“But what do you do for fun?” Eddie asks as he walks into a coffee shop. The music is low and he orders an Americano with room for milk.

“I don’t really. I mean, I used to swim but I haven’t since high school.” Steve’s voice goes low. “I’m nothing special.”

Eddie’s eyebrows furrow. “You take that back.”

“Huh?”

“You do not get to talk about my favorite person like that.” Eddie snarls to emphasize his point. “You’re incredibly caring, you’ve put a lot of work into figuring out who you want to be, and you’re going to be a councilor. Not because it’s easy but because you want to help people.”

“Okay, okay. Calm down, baby.” Steve sounds flushed.

“I will not.” He smiles at the kind barista as he picks up his drink. He adds milk and sugar, giving it a stir.

“Eddie.”

“Now that we have that out of the way, what do you do for fun?” Eddie’s voice is more even and soothing.

“Mmm. I do like to draw. I have a few sketch books here and I don’t really show anyone what I work on.” Steve pauses. “I think I’d like to try painting.”

“That’s a brilliant idea.” Eddie walks out of the coffee shop and perches on a bench near by.

“Question,” Steve prompts.

“Hmm?” Eddie sips his coffee.

“Am I really your favorite person?” His voice cracks.

“Uh… yeah. Yes. Please don’t tell Jeff.”

“That’s the first thing I’m telling him when I meet him.” Steve laughs.

There’s a comfortable silence between them now. Eddie breathes in deep as he looks at the sky. He hasn’t shared a quiet moment like this with anyone before. He always feels the need to fill the silence. Worried for some reason or another that the person is bored or bothered or annoyed. But with Steve, with this man on the other end of the line, he feels content. His anxiety wasn’t buzzing around like bees in his head. It was just the two of the here in this moment, miles apart, but together.

“Hey Eddie?”

Steve’s soft tone feels like flowers blooming in Eddie’s chest.

“Yeah?”

Steve clicks his tongue. “Never mind.”

“Okay.” Eddie fiddles with his rings. He hums a tune that’s been stuck in his head.

“Don’t you want to know?” Steve pries.

“Of course! You changed your mind though so I’m not gonna push it. I’ll be here if you change your mind again.” Eddie’s lips purse as he reassure the other man. He whistles.

“Okay,” Steve’s next words rush together. “I was wondering if you were staying in a hotel room tonight and if you’d be alone and if you’d be interested in maybe talking like um, more intimately and I don’t want to assume anything. I just can’t stop thinking about you and I don’t know if I can wait until I meet you or even if you’d want to go any further and I feel like a weirdo asking—“

“We are treating ourselves to a hotel tonight,” Eddie cuts him off.

“Does that mean… is that a yes?” Steve’s pitch raises with his question.

“Can I admit something?” Eddie asks.

Steve swallows, “of course.”

“I haven’t had phone sex before.” His face turns red and even though Steve can’t see him he pulls a bit of hair to cover his mouth. Embarrassed.

“Me either!” Steve shouts and then goes shy. “Think, uh, think you’d like to give it a try?”

Eddie hums playfully.

“I do like telling stories,” he muses. “And I’ll have to tell Jeff to get lost for a while tonight. He will definitely give me shit for that.”

Steve is quiet.

“You know what?” Eddie throws his free hand in the air. “For you, sweetheart, I’m in.”

“You’re sure?” Steve whispers.

“Mhmm. As long as you don’t get jealous of my sweet, sweet story telling skills.” Eddie says breathy.

“It’s not like bed time stories, you know that, right?” Steve questions.

“You haven’t been to one of my D&D sessions yet. You don’t know what you’re in for.” He gloats.

“Clearly.” Steve chuckles again. “Well, I gotta head out. I’m having lunch with Robin in a bit.”

“Tell her I said hi and I can’t wait to meet her backstage.” Eddie grins.

“What do you… seriously? She’s gonna flip. You’re so wonderful.”

“VIP badges will be at will call just for you two.” Eddie bites his lip. “Talk to you later, Steve.”

“Can’t wait.”

Eddie ends the call and texts Jeff.

/Eddie/: I’m gonna need the room for a while tonight. No questions asked.

He sips the last of his coffee. His phone chimes.

/Jeff/: youre gross. I’ll just cuddle up with GareBear tonight.

/Jeff/: I don’t gotta know what you’re getting into but I feel like I should congratulate you or something.

/Eddie/: I’ll accept my medal at breakfast tomorrow.

/Jeff/: Seriously. You’re gross. 😜

Totally worth the endless teasing ahead. Now what was he going to do with the rest of his day? He spots a small artsy store front across the way. He crosses the street and bobs in.

——

I love them, your honor. Prepare for smut in pt 6. 🫣

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 6 coming soon with the promise of smut!

Follow me on Twitter if you’d like!

[asordinaryppl]

A3! Performance Event - Winter Troupe's Tenth Play: Nomadic Bartender - Episode 4

Guy: “Could you let me make you a cocktail now, at the end of my employment, Gin-san?”

Guy: “I’d like to cast a special spell on you.”

Guy: (I’ll try showing some more emotion here…)

Tasuku: Are you practicing by yourself? I will join you.

Guy: Thank you. I’m still working out the last scene.

Tasuku: Ahh, that part’s open to interpretation, so it makes things difficult, huh.

Guy: I understand that Whizz has made up his mind to erase Gin’s memories, but I cannot seem to act it out properly.

Guy: … In their world, associating with wizards brings nothing but trouble.

Guy: I believe Whizz has erased the memories of multiple people he has worked with.

Guy: But…

Tasuku: You may understand that in your mind, but something is keeping your body from moving. Isn’t that because of how you personally feel, Guy-san?

Tasuku: Mikage seemed to have the same problem as well.

Tasuku: If you two sit down and have a proper discussion, you might be able to resolve your issues and reach a conclusion.

Guy: You’re right… Thank you.

Tasuku: Also, we have a special practice room for our performance this time, don’t we?

Tasuku: You’d get a similar feel to the real thing if you practice at your bar, so why not give it a try?

Guy: I see. I will try inviting Mikage as well.

-

Hisoka: … I’ll go put up the signboard now.

Guy: Yeah. I will leave that to you.

-

Tooru: …

Hisoka: ?

Tooru: Ah—

Hisoka: … Come in.

Tooru: Ah, ummm…

Hisoka: We’re already open, so…

Tooru: Excuse me, then…

Hisoka: … Were you not planning on coming in?

Tooru:  Ah, no, I was. I wanted to drink the owner’s cocktail again, but I just couldn’t find the courage to come in by myself…

Tooru: Thank you for reaching out.

Hisoka: … You’re free to come in any time you’d like.

Tooru: Thank you for saying that.

-

[Door jingling]

Tooru: … Good evening.

Guy: — Welcome. Nice to see you again.

Guy: What would you like to drink?

Tooru: Let’s see… Perhaps the same as last time, what was it called again…

Guy: Moscow Mule it is.

Tooru: Thank you very much…

Guy: Were you on your way home from work?

Tooru: I had the day off from work today and happened to be in the area checking out some fishing equipment. I noticed it’s about time you opened shop, so I was thinking of stopping by before going home.

Guy: You have my thanks. Do you like fishing?

Tooru: I do. I go to fishing ponds quite often, too.

Guy: Truth be told, I enjoy fishing as well… I don’t often have time to go very far, so fishing ponds are quite convenient.

Tooru: Is that so!

Tooru: Honestly, I would love to fish in the sea, but it’s been tough to get out… Flatfish and rockfish are great catches.

Guy: There’s no feeling quite like cooking the fish you caught yourself.

Tooru: Ohhh, so you also cook, how nice!

Guy: My apologies for making you wait.

Tooru: Thank you.

Tooru: … Whew. I’m sure your personality also plays a part, but the atmosphere in this bar is quite relaxing.

Tooru: Bars have always been sort of intimidating to me, but I’m glad Syu-san brought me here.

Guy: I’m very happy to hear that.

Tooru: I have a stable job as a director nowadays, but back when I was an actor, I was very poor…

Tooru: Even though I enjoyed drinking, I didn’t drink much in order to save money.

Tooru: My ex-wife also left due to our financial struggles…

Tooru: Truth be told, my ex-wife is Zahran, so I felt a certain connection to this place.

Tooru: My son from my previous marriage also lives in Zahra.

Guy: ——

Tooru: Sir? Um…?

Hisoka: … This is on the house.

Tooru: Oh? Are you sure?

Guy: Ah, yes. This is a Zahran recipe, please help yourself.

Tooru: Thank you very much.

Guy: Is your son still in Zahra…?

Tooru: Yes… I had planned to go get him, but in the end we remained separated.

Tooru: My ex-wife told me not to try to get in contact with him, because he’s happy there with her, and that was it. … I must sound pretty pathetic, huh.

Tooru: All I wanted was to make my son and ex-wife happy.

Guy: … I am certain your son does not hold it against you.

Tooru: … I really hope that is the case.

Tooru: I apologize, I ended up talking about something strange. I wasn’t planning to stay long, so I’ll take my leave now.

Tooru: I’ll come again when I find the time.

Guy: Um, if I may ask, what is your last name?

Tooru: … It’s Nishiki.

Tooru: What about– no, never mind. Excuse me.

Guy: Thank you for your patronage…

[Door jingling]

Guy: …

Hisoka: Guy, could that person be…

Guy: … He is my father. Of that, I have no doubt.

Hisoka: Shouldn’t you have told him so…?

Guy: I think it’s best I do not.

Guy: He has a family of his own now. If I tell him, I will cause him nothing but trouble.

Hisoka: …

Guy: I will, however, find the opportunity to tell Citronia and the Winter Troupe that I have found my father.

Hisoka: Okay…

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[lilacliquors]

day eight: all i want for christmas is you

pairing: matt murdock x reader

word count: 614

notes: here's day eight! it's short and out incredibly late because things have been crazy lately, but i wanted to get this out because writing fluff kind of helps. anyways, as always, reblogs, comments, and asks are highly recommended, and likes are appreciated. enjoy <3

christmas in new york was a special time of year. bright lights were strung up around your apartment building, and snow drifted through the air as bundled up new yorkers hurried along the sidewalks. there was just one thing missing, and that was your boyfriend, matt murdock. he’d gone off to the west coast for another high profile case, and even when he left, he wasn’t sure if he would be back in time for the holidays. flights this time of year were difficult to get, and while he did make sure you call you as often as he could, you knew he was busy, and these west coast cases were good money for him, especially when he did so much pro bono work back home.

as the countdown to christmas got shorter and shorter, and matt still wasn’t sure if he’d be home on time, you decided to busy yourself by decorating the apartment you shared. and for company, you gave foggy a call, and he was more than happy to stop by. so you two began to decorate your apartment, with cheerful holiday music on in the background.

“oh, there she is,” he said as the next song started up. mariah carey, the queen of christmas, had finally popped up on the playlist. you didn’t mind the song, but for some reason, it made you think of matt. because he was all you wanted for christmas. you wanted him all to yourself, with no work to distract him. there was nothing else that would make you happier.

“you okay over there?” foggy asked, snapping his fingers at you. “you’re zoned out.”

“yeah, just missing matt, that’s all,” you said.

“me too. feels weird with him gone,” he agreed.

“super weird.”

that night, you sat in the now warm glow of the lights hung in your apartment, listening to the sound of kids laughing as they played out in the snow. you smiled and sipped your hot cocoa, when all of a sudden, you heard keys jingling in the doorway. your ears perked up, you set your mug down, and you adjusted in your seat to watch the door swing open.

“i’m home,” matt said, and you could just hear the smile in his voice. you got up from your chair and made your way over, holding out your hand for him to feel before you hugged him tightly. he wrapped his arms around you and held you close, and you felt warm all over.

“i’m so glad you made it,” you said, and he kissed the top of your head.

“well, all i wanted for christmas was to come be with you, and a few friends made it possible. and they don’t need me back out there until after the new year anyways, so what luck, huh?” he chuckled, and you leaned up to kiss his cheek.

“what luck indeed. come on, i’ll make you some hot cocoa and you can tell me about california,” you said, going to grab his bag from the hall.

“i’d love nothing more. and … it feels different in here. like, it feels off.”

“oh, foggy and i decorated the place. it was gloomy without you here.”

“i’m sure you guys did a great job. it’ll take some getting used to, i can hear the hum of the lights, but it’s only for a short while,” he said.

“yeah, but if they bother you, just let me know and i’ll fix it up somehow.”

“it’s fine, i promise. because all i want for christmas, now, is for you to be happy.”

“well, i am. because now you’re home. and all i wanted for christmas was you.”

[lewhis]

Now I Realize

pairing: louis x reader (she/her)

rating: M

warnings: self-esteem issues

summary: An invitation to a party in LA forces you to revisit a chapter of your life that you thought you'd left behind. You struggle to reconcile who you used to be with who you have become - and are they truly separate entities?

A story of what it is to be young and in love, followed by what it is to be a little older, a little wiser, and still maybe, hypothetically, still a little in love.

***

I hadn’t thought about him in years.

Okay, that wasn’t true. Of course, I thought about him. He was a central fixture of my life for a long-ass time. Not thinking about him would be like not thinking about your stint in high school, or your first apartment, or your first job. I didn’t think about him all the time, but he was bound to come up every now and again, tied to the tail-end of some other memory to which he was inextricably linked. He popped up from time to time, but I wasn’t actively digging him up. Not anymore.

There was a time when I thought about him every day. That’s almost a post-breakup requirement, isn’t it? The pining. The moping. The late-night subtweeting, hoping against hope he might see me on his feed and think, “You know what? I’m a moron. And an asshole. I miss her.” It was all pretty pathetic. Exactly the sort of shit he would have teased me for, had we still been friends. But we weren’t friends. Not anymore. And there was no one around to witness my shame except for me.

But, as I said, that was years ago. I shed my tears, felt my feelings, drank a lot of wine, and I got the fuck over it.

Left to my own devices, I would have continued not thinking about him for many months more to come, until finally his prominence in my memories would fade completely into the background, and I’d be truly free to live my new, Louis-free life – a life which I had just begun to truly accept.

But that didn’t happen. Because Niall Horan is a fucking liar.

September, 2020.

I’d been living in my hometown again since the breakup. Got myself a, eh, decent one-bedroom apartment just outside the city and managed to drum up a more or less steady income doing special effects work for a few local film companies. (All the money that I didn’t spend on a nicer apartment went toward the monthly rental of my studio space.) Most recently, I’d been in talks with some folks putting together the pilot episode of a horror series. They were looking to pitch it to Netflix as soon as possible, and the producers assured me my monster makeup would be the ticket to winning them over.

I wouldn’t lie: the money wasn’t, like, a lot, or anything – certainly nowhere close to what I’d been pulling in my former life – but it was livable. I was making it work. And besides, I was never cut out for all the high-stakes glamour and fame, not even as a tangential player. I didn’t have to worry about behind-the-scenes staff photogs snapping my picture while I was trying to work, and I didn’t have to live with the knowledge that millions of seething, rabid, hormonal fans would later dissect every single frame for signs that I was infringing on their imagined territory. Yikes. My 550 square-foot sweatbox of a studio on the least-scary scary side of town was way better, by comparison.

The me who went to all those places and did all those things was an entirely separate person. Aside from a few reoccurring stress dreams and a modest nest egg in my savings account, I hadn’t come away from that time with anything tangible, anything lasting.

Well, unless you counted Niall.

We didn’t talk all the time. Not even every day, or every week. But I could count on Niall for a meme in my inbox now and again. I’d get a “whats the craic” and a sunglasses emoji at least once a month, and we’d chat for a little while if we had the time. We bantered, mostly. Kept it light – and we never talked about love-lives, as a rule.

I was elbows-deep (literally) in a ten-hour sculpting session for the pilot project when my phone rang. The only calls I ever got in the middle of the day were spam, so I was primed to hit decline out of habit alone, at least until I saw NIALLER splashed across the screen above a backstage selfie of us from Way-Back-When. He’d lost some stupid bet to Liam that night and, as punishment, had to go on stage with his hair (temporarily) dyed bright orange. It looked horrifying. After I’d finished the dye job for him, he said we should get a picture together, “seein’ as we’re both in the ginger club now.” (That, a reference to the fact that, although I frequently liked to change up my hair, I was a decided redhead for most of that tour.)

This – the call itself – was a total breach in protocol; Niall never called. Firstly, because he was always travelling and could never be assed to keep the time differences straight, and he never wanted to wake me up in the middle of the night if it wasn’t an emergency. Second, Niall was more of a FaceTime kind of guy, just in general. He (and others) had tried many times in the past to cajole me into switching to an iPhone, but I was a lifelong Android girlie; it just wasn’t happening. So, we defaulted to texting.

With both of these factors in mind – thinking this was either an emergency call or a butt-dial – I scrambled to wipe a palm full of clay slurry on the front of my overalls. I still wound up with a quarter-sized smear on my phone screen. Oh, well. Wouldn’t be the first time. Quickly, I jabbed at the screen a second time and switched it to speaker mode.

“Niall? Hey, can you hear me?”

“Y/N!” was his response, sung in vibrato. It certainly didn’t sound like he was having an emergency, nor did he sound surprised to be hearing my voice. So, probably not a butt-dial.

“Niall!” I said again. “Um. Just-- Hang on a second—” Holding my hands up like I was scrubbing in for surgery, I maneuvered my way around to a basket full of scrub cloths in the corner.

“Why d’you sound like you’re in a metal bucket?”

“Because I basically am!” I called from across the room. “Sorry, I’m in the studio. Gimme a second to wash up.” My phone was a good six feet away, on a table amidst various sculpting tools. In between that table and the clean-up area were four tables the size of barstools, placed around the room in such a way that a me-sized person could still manage to maneuver around and between them. On each stool were four sculpts at various stages of completion.

(Would it have made more sense to work on one sculpt at a time before beginning a second, a third, or a fourth? Maybe. But this was my process.)

Any response that Niall might have made was lost to the sound of running water gurgling out of the wash sink. The solidified clay coating all sides of my hands soon liquified under the spray and then went spiraling down the drain. I dried my hands on another rag and made my way back to my phone.

“Almost there,” I said, a little strained as I picked around the various delicate obstacles. “It’s a maze in here right now. I’m doing, like, four monster suits for this guy’s Netflix pilot. The script isn’t great, but these masks are gonna be—Shit.” My breath caught in my throat. There was a brief moment of panic when I thought I elbowed a Mothman sculpt in the face, but I’d only managed to catch the cement shoulder of the cast underneath.

Niall let out a laugh, which crackled through the speakers of my weathered phone. “You good?”

“Yeah.” My hands hovered around Mothman’s head, ready to catch him if he toppled over. “Yes? Yes. Okay, yeah! He’s good. I might have overestimated the size of my space when I took this job.” Finally, I made it to the desk with clean hands and no toppled monster heads. I seized my phone, switched off of speaker phone, and brought it to my ear.

“Hi,” I said resolutely, then laughed. “Sorry. You caught me on, like…” –I glanced at the clock— “Hour ten and a half of my workday. Woof. I might be a little delirious.”

Niall, in his jolly way, responded with another laugh. “You’re crazy, woman. Sounds like you’ve earned a break, then, yeah? Got a second to chat?”

Now that my momentum had been disrupted, I could feel how well and truly drained I was. My back ached from stooping over the sculpts. My head was fuzzy as if I’d just sat for the SAT, and there was an ominous tingling sensation in my right wrist that said I’d probably overdone it on all the fine detail work. I made a mental note to sleep with my wrist brace on that night.

“Yeah, I think I’m done for the day.” I pulled a folding chair out from under the desk and slumped into it. “What’s up? Is everything okay? I was surprised to see your call.”

“It’s all good,” he assured me. “Just didn’t feel like bangin’ out a text. You’ll be gettin’ an invite in the mail, anyway, but I wanted to invite ya personally.”

“An invite for what?”

“I’m havin’ a party!” I could hear his smile over the phone. “For my birthday. Also, just ‘cause parties are awesome. You in?”

I hated myself at that moment because my mind only went to one place. I knew instantly that Niall had heard my hesitation, and he knew the cause.

“Louis won’t be there.” He said it casually. Not a bribe or a placation, just a fact. “Talked to him already. He’s got something goin’ in San Diego that same night.”

“Oh, I see. So, I’m getting the invite because he won’t be there. Wow, Niall. I thought I got you in the divorce.”

“Sorry, love. Gotta split custody.” He cracked a laugh. “And don’t gimme none of that. You would’a gotten an invite no matter what. Just, now you’ve got no excuse not to come!”

He had me there. Niall might not seem it, but he was always an organized guy. Good at planning things. As of that phone call, I’d have over a month to get my shit together and carve out a few days to fly cross-country for his party. Even with the upcoming pilot project, I knew I’d be able to swing it.

“Alright, fine,” I said, putting on airs like he was really twisting my arm. In reality, I was smiling. “Where’s the party at?”

“My place in LA. Got a load of people comin’. There’s gonna be food, music, a ton of drinkin’, all that shite. And I’ve got extra rooms, so you can stay with me!”

I could already feel a bit of that old excitement coming back. The kind of giddiness that my old self used to feel when there was some big red-carpet event on the horizon. Not that a birthday party at Niall’s (albeit enormous) house was anything overly glamorous, but it was the closest I’d been to that world since I was unceremoniously booted out. It’d be fun, I thought, to dip my toes back in for a few days.

We talked for another thirty minutes. Niall asked for some pics of the sculpting I’d done today. He name-dropped a few other people on the guest list (none of The Lads, he told me [and it was always said that way, with the implied proper nouns – The Lads] would be able to make the party.) I asked if he’d been working on any new music lately, and if he’d ever fixed the warped neck of his favorite acoustic guitar. Then, we fell into the usual banter and jokes until, finally, it was time to hang up.

“I’m really glad you’re gonna be there, Y/N.” It was said so sincerely, and I felt my chest tighten with affection for my friend. Never once – not before, not then, nor any moment since – did I think that Niall harbored anything but completely platonic affection for me, and that was perfectly alright; it was a mutual feeling.

“Me too, Niall. I’ll talk to you soon, yeah?”

“Cheers.”

As I pulled the phone away from my ear to end the call, that picture of Niall with his stupid orange hair and me, with orange dye staining the very same hand that was raised in a peace sign, flashed up on the screen again. It stayed for a moment before defaulting to my home screen. Without questioning myself, I pulled up Niall’s contact info, then tapped his profile photo. It expanded to full size, even larger than it had been on the call screen.

It had been a long time since I actually looked at that picture. We were younger, then – God, how had I not realized at the time how young I was? – and it was obvious that we were tired. That show would’ve been during the middle of the tour, when most of the shows felt like fever dreams interspersed between long stints on the tour buses or – if we were lucky – crammed into airplane seats. We were stressed – me, because I had to get back to makeup if there was any hope of their opener being on time; Niall, because, well, duh, it was his show, and he was scheduled for a phone interview right before they went on. Despite all that – and maybe because we were so young and so full of an energy that I could no longer hope to fathom – despite all the stress and the shit, we had fun during those days.

Somewhere between that selfie and that present moment in my sweaty little studio, I’d gotten older. Old enough to have sympathy for that girl in the picture who thought that just because all her friends were pop stars and she was just the help, she mattered less, somehow.

And we were friends, back then. All of us. Me and Liam would bond over video games. Harry would let me raid his closet or style his hair and we’d talk for ages, without self-consciousness. Zayn and I liked to hide out on the bus or in someone’s hotel room, and we’d spend a few hours in almost total silence except for the few words it took to ask the other person to pass the drawing pencils, or to look over a sketch. I didn’t actually see a lot of Niall, back then. Not one-on-one. His girlfriend (now his ex; and in many ways, she was my ex, too) was never happy unless one or both of us gave her our complete, undivided attention. Niall and I didn’t truly start to bond until After (again, always a proper noun), because it was only After that we realized we could bond over a truly shared experience.

Only one person left off that mental rollcall (well, two, really.) I felt myself wanting to slam the gate shut, as I had so many times before. No more memory lane today! Road’s closed! Because again, I didn’t think about him anymore, remember? But I looked back down at that very young, very happy, very weary girl in the photo, and I realized that, for her sake, I shouldn’t try to block those memories out. Because she was me. I was her. Try as I might to draw a line between the two, there was no “this life” and “old life.” There was no pretending that those hard, scary times had never happened. And there was no point, either, in acting like those hard, scary times hadn’t come with more than their fair share of happy times, too.

And not just happy: the happiest.

Is that why I felt that rock in my gut every time I started to think about Way-Back-When? Was I afraid, somewhere deep down inside, even though I was a grown woman now, far removed from that very young, very scared girl that I’d been then – was I afraid that the happiest days of my life had already come and gone?

Yes, I was. I knew that I was. I could feel that fear settling into my toes and oozing up my spine.

Because no matter how many happy memories I had in my head, no matter how many days I spent feeling so grateful that I’d found people who knew me and loved me and wanted me to stick around—where was I now?

We were friends, back then. All of us. But we weren’t anymore.

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