#and it isn’t worth the paycheck honestly

[jeanmoreaue]

i have been trying to convince myself to like my new job for two months now and i’m finally admitting to myself that i just can’t stand it 😭 i should love it, the pay is great, it’s for a big university healthcare system which is like renown for treating its employees well, the benefits are great, but i am not only extremely bored at the work all day, but i literally cannot fathom why we have to go in office especially given that everyone commutes 1-2 hours. and im just so bored and unenthused and ive been trying to lie to myself so that i don’t have to job search again bc ik it’ll look bad on my resume but i just finally am like this isn’t a good fit, i don’t like this job, and even tho ive only been here a couple months i just can’t do it anymore im job hunting

[scoonsaliciousupdates]

3.2 Major

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Lily McIntyre, trainer for new SHIELD recruits at the Avengers Tower, has been in love with her best friend, Bucky Barnes, from the moment she met him. She's been content with her role of the #1 girl in Bucky's life, even if it means she has to sabotage a romantic relationship or two. It'll be worth it when he realizes that they're meant for each other, right? There's just one small problem: Lily McIntire never expected Bucky Barnes to fall for You.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, mentions of sex, Bucky's past, people judging Bucky based on said past.

Word Count: 1.2k

Previously On...: Lily and Bucky went out to brunch, and she made her feelings about you known.

A/N: Eh, another part. Why not?

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

You dragged yourself into the WarZone’s flagship storefront in Midtown a few hours later than normal for a Saturday, but you’d wanted to get a couple of extra hours of sleep after Bucky had left this morning. You honestly couldn’t believe you had been up all night having mind blowing sex with a man you had just met. 

Your first thought upon waking up that morning was that he had left in the early pre-dawn hours, but those fears were cast aside as soon as you registered the weight of his arm around your midsection, tucking you against him. Then, you were hit with the concern that he was going to think you were just an easy lay and decide he never wanted to see you again, but to your immense surprise, he’d asked you to have dinner with him that same night. You’d have to be a fucking idiot to have said no.

“Uh oh, someone’s tardy,” said your office assistant, Zadie, as you finally made your way into work. “You’re lucky the boss isn’t here to see you show up late, Major.” She grinned at you, and you stuck your tongue out at her. “Ha, ha. Very funny, Zade,” you said, picking up the pile of mail that had been placed on your desk and beginning to sort through it. “Good thing the boss and I are tight; I think she’ll let it slide.”

“Oh, look who decided to finally show up,” came the voice of the location’s manager, Rand, as he came out of one of the rage rooms. He turned to Zadie. “Either you or I had the audacity to come in three hours late, we wouldn’t hear the end of it.”

You rolled your eyes at your friend and longtime employee. “Yeah, well, come back at me when it’s your name signing the paychecks, okay, Rand?”

“Relax,” he said, “we’re just giving you shit for the fun of it. So what’s the deal? You have a hot date last night or something?”

“I thought you said you were going out to get drinks with Natasha?” Zadie asked.

You slid down into your desk chair, wiggling your mouse to wake up your computer. “I did,” you told her. “Wait,” said Rand, coming over to sit on the edge of your desk. “Like, Natasha Romanoff, our hottest customer? That Natasha?”

“That would be her,” you said, not really paying him much attention as you navigated to your work emails and took a sip of the coffee you’d brought with you to keep yourself awake.

“Oh. My. God,” Rand said, beaming at you. “Major, did you hook up with an Avenger last night?!”

You choked on the sip you’d just taken. “How in the hell did you figure that out, Rand?!” you asked, astonished.

“You had sex with the Black Widow?!” Zadie exclaimed. “Major, that is amazing! How was she? Oh my god, I bet she was fantastic!” Your friend sighed. “She looks like she knows what to do with her tongue.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you tried to get a word in edgewise. “I did not have sex with Natasha,” you clarified when the two finally let you talk. They looked at you expectantly. “I had sex with Bucky Barnes,” you confessed, hiding your face in your hands to hide your grin and your blush.

Zadie and Rand stared at you silently, their mouths hanging open in disbelief. “What?” you asked them, 

after the silence had stretched on a little too long.

“You fucked the Winter Soldier?” Rand asked eventually in a monotone. “Do you have a death wish, or are you fucking insane?”

“Major, did you not follow his trial?” Zadie asked you. “It was all over the news, like, four and a half years ago.”

You swallowed and shook your head. You most certainly had not followed his trial; you’d been a little preoccupied getting divorced and hadn’t been in a frame of mind to be paying much attention to the media.

“He was convicted for, like, a bunch of murders and crimes against humanity and shit,” Zadie said. 

You felt your heart plunge into your stomach. Of course, the first guy you really connected with since your divorce, who had blown your mind with his bedroom skills, was a convicted murderer. Of fucking course.

But then a thought hit you– “If he was convicted for all that,” you said, thinking it over, “how is he not in prison? I mean, he’s a friend of Nat’s; fuck, he’s best buddies with Captain Freaking America; and Steve Rogers doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to just casually chill with serial killers.”

“He got a Presidential pardon,” Rand explained. “There were supposedly extenuating circumstances. But, I mean, it was just sex. It’s not like you’re gonna start dating the man or anything, right?”

You stayed silent, avoiding looking Rand in the eye.

“Right, Major?” he asked you pointedly. “Just say ‘Of course I would not date the convicted felon, Rand. I value the preservation of my life’.”

“You said there were extenuating circumstances,” you responded. “What were they?”

“What, is his dick, like, magic or something?” Zadie asked, eyeing you suspiciously. 

“Among other things,” you answered sheepishly.

Rand threw his hands up in the air. “For fuck’s sake,” he shouted. “It’s like she wants to be a Dateline episode!”

“I just don’t want to pass judgment without knowing all the facts,” you told him. “Or giving him a chance to explain himself.” They both looked at you skeptically. “Guys, he just… He just doesn’t seem like that kind of person! He’s an Avenger, for crying out loud! Tasked with saving the world! Do you really think they’d let him join them if he was a dangerous criminal? Seriously?”

Zadie and Rand exchanged a glance, as if silently communicating that you’d lost your mind.

“You know what?” you asked, exasperated. “It’s my life. If I want to go out with him, I’m gonna go out with him, and you guys just have to accept that.”

“We’re just tryna look out for you, boss,” Zadie said softly. “It worries us.”

You felt your annoyance with them dampen somewhat. “I appreciate that, guys. But I’m a grown ass adult with combat training. I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, but he’s–” Rand began, but you interrupted him. “I’m done talking about it, Rand,” you said pointedly. “Now, Zadie, I need you to contact the Queens branch and tell them to add the name ‘Peter Parker’ to our VIP list, no charge.”

Zadie nodded and moved to pick up the phone.

“And Rand,” you said, turning back to face him, “if I do decide that I want to start dating Bucky, that’ll mean you might see him around here. You don’t have to go out of your way to be friends with him, or even be around him, but if your paths do cross, I ask that you remain civil, please.”

Rand nodded. “If you can guarantee he won’t murder me,” he said.

You rolled your eyes and shook your head dismissively. You were going to have to dig in to Bucky’s history to find out exactly what he’d been convicted for, and what, exactly, these “mitigating circumstances” had been.

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

[tickle-bugs]

Chase the Memory of it Still

Summary: Clark is deeply, madly, head-over-heels in love with the one person he can't have. What happens when he can have him, if only for a little while? Fake dating friends to lovers superbat hehe

this one's for @fickle-tiction as payment for being a goblin in her dms LOL love ya!! the sequel to this is in progress >:) also it literally doesn't matter but vicki has a jersey shore/boston accent to me. i won't justify it.

Edit: now with a sequel, But You Were Mine

Clark has never really cared much about his paycheck—not in the grand scheme of things, anyway—but fuck he really doesn’t get paid enough. 

“Sorry, Mr…Kent, but no press is allowed at the event. You’re more than welcome to wait outside with everyone else.” One of the guards—a bald fella who looks way too excited to turn him away—crosses his arms. 

“…in the freezing rain.” Clark attempts to wipe his glasses on a dry part of his outfit. All he does is push the water around on the lenses. His suit’s about three shades darker from the storm. Why didn’t he wear his coat? 

“You all seem quite dedicated. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” The guard smiles at him and shifts his weight, looking straight ahead as if all six feet of dripping Kryptonian have just vanished. The doorman reopens the door and shows Clark his people—a swarming mob of reporters hunched behind metal barriers in windbreakers, using plastic bags to keep their livelihoods safe. 

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Clark clenches his fist until it shakes. Inhale, hold…exhale. He came all the way out to cold, rainy Gotham—wait. Gotham.

He glances past the guards and sifts through the noise of the gala until he finds the one heartbeat he knows better than anything. He smiles. 

“Oh, my mistake. I thought he hadn’t shown up. My partner is right there.” Clark points. They both turn to look—would’ve been an excellent time to subdue them if he was feeling more brash—as he waves across the floor at Bruce. 

He looks spectacular, honestly. His hair is doing that ‘I woke up this perfect’ messy thing, his shoulders are unfairly crisp under a three piece suit that’s probably worth more than Clark’s rent, and he just…glows. He’s chatting with a young woman who looks more than happy to fawn over him. Clark’s no longer staring but gazing, he feels it, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do. Maybe Bruce should stop being so…distracting. 

He sees the surprise and hears the murmured ‘Clark?’ under Bruce’s breath. He thankfully doesn’t say anything else as he approaches, just glides over with a glass of champagne. 

It’s at this moment that what he’s done, what he’s implied really sinks in, but it’s too late to turn back now. 

“Hey, I left my invite at your place and these…upstanding citizens can’t find room in their heart to let me by. That’s what I get for showing up to support my partner, huh?” He hopes his emphasis isn’t too much, but he really, really doesn’t want to stand outside after all of this effort. 

Bruce’s expression lands somewhere between pleasure and disbelief, minute and restrained as always. It’s only the uptick of his eyebrow and the slight narrowing of his eyes that gives him away. Bordering on amusement, but not quite. 

“That’s unfortunate. What seems to be the problem?” Bruce sips. The guards shift uncomfortably. Clark tries to quell his shit-eating grin. 

“I guess they think you’re outta my league.” Clark can’t help but snort a little. Bruce rolls his eyes. 

“Mr. Wayne, can we see your invitation please?” Baldy clears his throat and plays official, knowing damn well it won’t make a difference. Bruce hands it over without a second glance.  

“You look handsome.” Clark winks at him. He could smell Bruce’s cologne before he even walked over. At this proximity, he’s starting to get a little weak in the knees. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” Bruce reaches past and adjusts Clark’s tie. Nice touch. 

“Alright, Mr. Kent, you can enter.” The guards shuffle aside. Just to be an asshole, Clark shakes all the water off his form like a dog, splattering both the guards with the rainwater they tried to keep him in. Their shouts of confusion and disgust are the perfect soundtrack to his entry. 

Bruce offers an arm as if he hadn’t seen a thing and leads him over to the coat check, as if he would have a coat to check. He takes Clark’s glasses off his nose, dries them with his kerchief, and puts them back. Clark wrinkles his nose at the gesture—it’s so Bruce to just…do it himself. 

“Thank you. I’m so sorry,” Clark sighs. The lenses are terribly smudged. He plans for a headache.

“You owe me. Boyfriend? Really?” Bruce passes him a glass of champagne. 

“I know, I know. I tried to get by as press and when I saw you, I panicked. Lex is here and Lois and I have been trying to corner the bastard for weeks—“ 

“Hold my hand.” Bruce extends a palm. Clark chokes on his drink. If champagne wasn’t trying to migrate into his lungs, he would’ve taken a serious crack at x-raying and double-checking it was really his Bruce. 

“Clearly you’ve never done this before,” he murmurs, the very same palm sliding down Clark’s back. “Casual affection is key. We’re being watched.”

Bruce subtly laces their fingers together as they walk through the crowd. Clark tries to appear as put-together and boyfriendy as possible, but when he looks around, every single eye in the place is on him and Bruce. He starts to sweat and doesn't take another breath until they arrive at a little private corner on the far side of the room. 

“So, you were saying about Lex?” Bruce leans against the wall, scanning the room over the rim of his glass. His eyes catch back on Clark, warm and intense. 

“I, uh…he’s here.” Clark swallows. He’s starting to feel dizzy. This is a lot. He’s used to the grit of Batman or the gentle gruffness of Bruce. Bruce Wayne is a whole different creature. 

“Mhm. He’s looking for R&D investments again. I was told it’d be rude for me not to attend.” A wry smile crosses Bruce’s features. He breaks eye contact to scan and it gives Clark the wherewithal to finish his thought. 

“Lex is pulling his whole ‘get rid of anyone with superpowers’ shtick again. Really mad at me specifically, as usual. I’d bet you ten bucks he has a Kryptonite ray upstairs. He’s probably in the process of building more…or something worse.”

“You have a plan?” 

“I was going to go up there and, yknow—“ he mimes smashing something— “but I can hear about twenty people whispering about us and I don’t want to make you look bad. Not that you look bad, you look great! I just know your reputation is important and I put you in a weird spot and I’m sorry—“ 

Bruce shushes him. Clark blinks and splutters, because who shushes people, but suddenly Bruce is so close that he can’t think. He can see the tiny scar on Bruce’s lip, the one he lies and says was from a household accident. Clark wants to brush his thumb over it. 

He feels entirely normal about Bruce Wayne. 

“Stop overthinking. You’ll hurt yourself.” Bruce roughly pats Clark’s cheek. Clark has to actively shift his focus from the calloused warmth of Bruce’s hands to his eyes.

“Okay, ouch.” Clark rolls his eyes. “I’m just…this is your element. I’m not good at this.” 

“If you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to stay.” Bruce tilts Clark’s chin down. Brushes some schmutz off his face. 

“I got us into this. It’s alright.” Clark can’t look him in the eye. He’s so painfully aware of all the ways Bruce is touching. A perfectly choreographed performance for the outside eye. An act.

For a moment, he indulges himself, allows his mind to wander to a different world where Bruce might do this for him anyway. Somewhere so gently domestic that their rituals of touch are sacred. He wonders what it might be like to have a Bruce that’d dote on him like this, even while fussing at him. 

Of course he has it now, but it’s not the same. Not when the eyes of hungry spectators cling to them from every shadow. 

“I’ll arrange for someone to pick you up.” He already has his phone out and is halfway through dialing by the time Clark can grab him. Bruce spins out of the hold and starts walking away, still dialing. 

“Bruce.” Clark yanks him back by the bicep. “I can survive mingling for a few hours. It’s no different than using a cover. What do I need to know?” Clark releases him only when it’s clear his stubborn streak is done rearing its head. Bruce works his jaw for a while and then sighs. 

“When you’re talking to these people, they’re going to try and get to the center of you. Try not to lie. The truth will always be easier to remember. Just repackage it.” Bruce adjusts the clean lines of Clark’s suit with his fingertips, procedural and routine. Clark wonders briefly how many times he’s done this. 

“Makes sense. Anything else?” Clark takes a measured breath. 

“We have to sell this. People need to see easy affection before they believe that we’re…doing okay. Now, imagine someone’s watching us—“

“Are they?” Clark tries very hard not to scan the room. He starts to sweat. 

“Shh. Someone’s watching us and you notice. They’re definitely gossiping. What do you do?” Bruce raises an eyebrow. The light of the obnoxious chandelier on the ceiling gives him a gentle glow. His eyes crinkle at the corners just slightly, even without a smile, and it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. The surge of emotion in Clark’s chest knocks him off balance. 

“Well, staring isn’t—“ 

Clark kisses him breathless. 

Bruce leans into it, one hand cupping the back of Clark’s neck. There’s a perfect sunburst of giddy adrenaline—his hands find Bruce’s hips and pull them closer. Bruce’s heart thunders in his chest yet his hands are steady as they brace against Clark’s back. Clark cups Bruce’s jaw and brushes his fingers through the gentle stubble there, lets it tickle at his fingers. 

Clark breaks them apart with a quiet, triumphant chuckle—years worth of watching, waiting, and yearning all cresting towards this one moment. He can hear their comfortable status quo shatter as he does, but it’s worth it. It has to be. 

“Wow.” Bruce smooths his hands down Clark’s chest. He can’t tell anymore if the heartbeat thundering in his ears is Bruce’s or his own but he doesn’t care to know—if it’s the former, he’ll combust. Or faint. Somewhere in there. 

“How’d I do?” Clark manages to adjust his glasses without snapping them clean in half. 

“I might have a few pointers,” Bruce clears his throat and looks away. 

“We have plenty of time.” Clark steals another kiss and thanks the universe that Lois isn’t here to talk some sense into him.

……..

“So, you and Mr. Wayne, hm?” A blonde woman with a massive fur shawl wound through her arms sidles up with a glass of champagne. Clark freezes at the snack table. 

“Hm?” He hides the multiple horderves in his hand behind his back. He’s very acutely aware that he shouldn’t be unsupervised right now, but Bruce is being flocked by investors with no hope for escape. He sneaks a pleading glance in Bruce’s direction.

They do lock eyes above the crowd, but the horde encircling him has the tenacity of seagulls on the boardwalk. Bruce apologizes with his eyes. Clark resigns himself to perish. 

“Phyllis Hough, a pleasure.” She extends her hand to him and he takes it out of practice, kissing the knuckles. Her skin is so dry and clammy that he has to bite back the urge to gag. 

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” He presses his lips into something like a smile. 

“Forgive me for intruding, but you’ve been the talk of the party since you arrived. How did you and Bruce meet?” She sidles too close, like they’re sharing a secret about someone else. Her demeanor reminds him too much of the foxes that used to terrorize his chicken coop growing up. 

The truth is always easier to remember. Just repackage it. 

“Well, he…needed my help. We met through work. We realized we worked well together and after that, everything sort of fell in place.” Clark shrugs. 

“That’s just darling. My husband and I met on a mission trip to Ghana.” She points to a deflated puddle of a man who’s leaned up on the bar, looking like he’d rather disappear than be here.

“A mission trip? That’s so…necessary.” Clark smiles and tries not to throw up in his mouth.

“I adore helping the less fortunate. It’s a hobby dear to my heart.” She places a hand on her chest, showing off the obnoxious diamonds on her bony fingers. Diamonds likely stolen from the same places she claims to ‘help’. 

“Ah, Mrs. Hough. Looking lovely as always. Do you mind if I steal Clark from you?” Oh thank god.

Bruce gives her a quick spin, using the move to squeeze closer to Clark’s side. He winds an arm around Bruce’s waist. Bruce rests his hand overtop Clark’s and he can’t help but grin like an idiot. He’ll never get over the little zing of his nerves every time they brush hands. 

“So soon? We were just getting to know one another.” Mrs. Hough tries to slide back into their space. Bruce stares her down, but not unkindly—just a blank, mannequin-like stare and a smile that almost looks real. 

A tense silence blooms between them. Clark’s sure if he listens just a bit harder, he’ll hear Bruce cursing this woman to high-heaven in his head. The silence stretches on.

“Forgive us. We haven’t spent much time together this week. I’ll admit I’m a little clingy. I never like to be far from him.” He cups Bruce’s cheek and gives him a quick, chaste kiss. Bruce chases his lips and lingers longer. Clark actually gets a little lost in it until a feeble cough splits them apart. 

“Well, who am I to interrupt love?” She strains the word strangely. “I best take my leave. I’ll see you around, gentlemen.” She waves over her shoulder and traipses back into the crowd. As soon as she leaves, Clark heaves a deep, weathered sigh. 

“How do you do this? I’d rather chew off my own fingers than rub elbows with these people.” Clark takes Bruce’s glass from his hand and downs it. The fizz is nice, but it might as well be water. He starts munching on his poached horderves. 

“Trust me, it’s not fun for me either.” Bruce grumbles, plucking a cracker with crab dip from Clark’s little stash. 

“Why do it then? Why pretend?” 

“It’s part of the job. You know that better than anyone.” There’s something so very tired in Bruce’s eyes. Even as he smiles, it’s empty and rueful—the light doesn’t make it to his eyes. 

“You don’t have to do that with me.” Clark squeezes his shoulder. Bruce’s gaze drops to the floor and his shoulder sag minutely, the tiniest give in his guard that Clark’s privileged enough to see. For a moment, he’s not Bruce Wayne but Bruce. 

He doesn’t lean to catch Bruce’s eye—he knows he hates that—so he just stands there and rubs circles into his shoulder. 

“I like who you are under the mask.” Clark offers him another cracker. Bruce takes it and taps it against Clark’s last ones, as if they’re holding glasses, and pops it in his mouth. Clark snickers. Only Bruce could make something so dorky look so charming. 

“Am I dreaming, or is that you, Bruce?” A feminine voice cuts through the din with ease. Clark catches the moment that Bruce’s muscles lock up and the eyeroll before he turns around. Just like that, Bruce Wayne returns. 

A woman in a long green gown slinks across the floor. Her posture sets her aside from everyone else in the room—her stance is powerful and lithe. 

“Vicki. It’s been a while.” Bruce gives her that practiced smile he’s been wearing most of the evening. His posture is so unnecessarily rigid that Clark rubs his back before he can think better of it.

“How’ve you been, Brucie? Hear you’re gettin’ into some interesting trouble. Speaking of trouble—“ 

“Vicki Vale, Gotham Gazette.” She sticks out her hand to shake. Tall, blonde, terrifying eyes—yeah, he could see how she would be Bruce’s type. Definitely an ex. 

“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” He shakes her hand. “I thought press weren’t allowed in.” 

“I have my ways. So do you, it seems.” She winks and passes him a flute of champagne. He graciously accepts. 

“Ah, well. Perks of being around this guy I suppose.” Clark bumps Bruce’s hip a little. Bruce looks so startled by the motion that Clark can’t help but laugh a little. 

“Listen, Clark, I’ve been with Bruce before and—“ she leans in close but doesn’t whisper, like she’s giving the world’s most public secret— “He’s honestly a softie under all the suits and cars.”

“I am not a softie. I can hear you.” Bruce shoves his hands into his pockets. Even though he’s turtling, there’s a levity to it. 

“He has a thing for stubborn asses who get into trouble, ‘cause he is one. If that’s anything like you, you’ve got a good thing going here.” She smacks Clark’s chest with the back of her hand. Her honesty is…jarring, but not unfun. 

“Oh, do you now?” Clark raises an eyebrow at Bruce over the rim of his glass. 

“It’s not a thing. I don’t have a thing.” Bruce grumbles, the faintest hint of pink tinging his cheeks. 

“Kinda sounds like you have a thing, Brucie.” Clark grins. Bruce scowls. He might be pushing his luck but it’s the only fun he’s really had all night. 

“You two been together long?“ Vicki snatches a fresh glass from a passing waiter like a viper. 

“Few months. Feels like longer.” Bruce doesn’t skip a beat. Clark hopes his smile makes Bruce’s tone sound less under duress. 

“Wow, that’s pretty serious. Congrats.” She raises her glass in salute. Clark wants to cut in—that absolutely felt sarcastic—but Bruce gives his hand a squeeze. 

“Can’t imagine life without him.” Bruce gives him such an earnest look that Clark has to avert his eyes before he gets too hopeful. His stomach twists. Play the part. 

“Do you got somethin’ you like most about him?” Vicki locks onto Clark and he jumps a little. She dissects him with her gaze in that way only journalists can. He does his best not to shuffle under her scrutiny. 

“Vicki, I hope this isn’t an interview.” Clark gives her his best stern stare. 

“If it was, you botched it.” She bumps shoulders with him. “I’m kidding. Off the record. I haven’t seen Bruce glow like this, ever. Just lookin’ for your secret.“ 

That sends a sweet, traitorous flutter through his ribcage. 

“Do you want to dance?” Bruce abruptly turns on his heel and shoves his hand into Clark’s personal space. 

“Do…you want to dance?” Clark furrows his brow. Bruce looks like he might explode. 

“Come on.” Bruce pulls Clark onto the dance floor. 

“Bye, Vicki!” Clark calls over his shoulder, but Bruce is spinning him into the gentle embrace of violin song faster than he can resist. They glide far, far away from that corner of the room, losing her verdant silhouette in the crowd.

“Be honest. Did you just run from your ex?” Clark laughs, trying to keep in time with Bruce’s steps. He’s always had two left feet, but Lois had forced him to go to ballroom dancing classes with her enough times for him to pick up some semblance of rhythm.

“No.” Bruce leads just a little too fast for the music at hand. Clark drags his feet in an effort to slow them down. 

“I don’t buy it. You would’ve been happier to see Harley than Vicki.” Clark almost dips Bruce on autopilot. He course-corrects pretty quickly and pulls a tight-lipped Bruce close instead. Nearly cheek-to-cheek, Clark takes the lead as easy as breathing. 

Clark isn’t sure when he started humming, but he lets the music take them both. Bruce allows him to maintain the lead, surprisingly, and he guides them languidly around the dance floor. He even twirls Bruce, shocked he gets away with it, but he’s too wrapped up in whatever this is to question anything.

When Clark pulls back a bit to tease, Bruce is staring at him with those wide, pretty eyes. 

“What?” Clark can hear the gears in Bruce’s head turning, even when there’s nothing to say. A remarkable talent.

“I…didn’t know you could dance.” Bruce shifts his hand from Clark’s shoulder to his back. 

“I’m full of surprises.” Clark grins. Their form slowly morphs from proper ballroom to a casual, dance-in-the-kitchen kind of waltz--Clark links his fingers with Bruce’s and leads them by the hands, they somehow find a way to get closer to one another, and they end up in a slow, gentle sway. 

“We should dance more.” Clark spins Bruce again and they end up back-to-chest, arms crossed over Bruce’s torso. 

“You can’t be serious.” Bruce’s ears are adorably rosy. Clark chooses to remain alive and not comment on it. 

“It’s good for you, Bruce! Lord knows you could use the smiles.” Clark spins them again, back to proper form. Bruce’s whole face scrunches and he stops in his tracks. A tinnitus-like sound ringing gently from Bruce’s ear and into their personal space makes Clark wince a little.

Of course he’s wearing comms. 

“Diana’s got Lex cornered upstairs.” Bruce leans in and murmurs low in Clark’s ear. He fights tooth and nail against a full body shiver. 

“Diana’s here? You called for backup?” Clark adjusts his glasses.

“If anything we’re her backup.” Bruce scoffs. “We need people to see us disappear so we have an alibi. Act natural.” 

Clark walks away. Bruce yanks him back by the bicep and leans in close. 

“Flirt with me. No, no—Clark, like you mean it.” Bruce compensates for the awkwardness by messing with Clark’s tie, but it starts to look like a tic more than anything else. Clark caresses Bruce’s cheek but it looks more like he’s wiping something off his face. 

“I’m trying!” He huffs. “This isn’t exactly my skillset.” 

“You had all of…that a minute ago—“ Bruce gestures at him— “where’d it go?” 

Clark tries to summon ‘that’,  whatever that means. The best he can do is scowl uncertainly and lead them back into an awkward sway. 

“You could at least pretend like you like me,” Bruce huffs, uncharacteristically petulant. Clark almost gives himself away then and there.

“I’m not good at this.” He swallows and averts his eyes.

“Come on, American Pie. You’ve gotta be working with more than those doe eyes.” Bruce’s devilish smirk genuinely tears the breath from Clark’s lungs. He takes a ridiculous inhale to buy him time until—yep, there it is, the smirk disappears. 

“Nope. This pie is fresh outta doe…eyes…that was going to be a dough joke but I think I should let it die.” Clark lets his forehead collide with Bruce’s shoulder as they sway, relishing in the comforting pat on the back that he gets. 

“That would be merciful.” Bruce laughs. 

“Did you just laugh?” Clark perks up. 

“No.” Bruce’s jaw tightens. He can’t kill the sparkle in his eye though, no matter how hard he tries. It’s there and it's stunning, like the cosmos in its depths. 

“You actually think I’m funny. You laughed at my joke!” Clark doesn’t realize that he’s dipped Bruce until they’re nose to nose, sharing the space of a breath. He quickly pulls him back up. 

Enough dancing. Clearly he can’t handle that. 

“I think you are…moderately amusing.” Bruce rolls his eyes. Clark squints.

“I think you are super…man.” Clark drags out the pause. Bruce all-but-scoffs. 

“Seriously?” He shoves Clark’s chest. There’s a fondness to the gesture that makes his heart ache. 

“You wanna laugh. I see it in your eyes, you do this squint—“ Clark pokes Bruce’s nose, mostly because he can’t do anything about it.  

“I don’t want to laugh. I want to punch you.” Bruce gives his best scowl. Clark’s finger on his nose cuts most of the threatening aura. 

“You’re smiling though. You are!” Clark scritches beneath Bruce’s chin as a fond gesture, something Lois often does to him. 

Bruce squeaks.

“You are beyond immature,” Bruce huffs, jerking away from the touch. Clark’s brain struggles to reconcile what he just heard with what he’s seeing, as a suddenly perfectly-stoic Bruce adjusts his suit jacket. 

Clark reaches out to do it again and Bruce latches onto both of his arms to push him away. Clark pushes back with no strain, as if the grown man clinging to his wrists weighs no more than bracelets, and repeats the gentle tickle. 

Bruce smashes his chin down to his chest as a couple of scratchy snickers force their way free. 

“No way.” Clark beams. 

“Don’t you dare. Do not. Clark—Clark.” Bruce starts to back away. Clark snakes an arm around his waist and holds him tight. 

“What? I’m flirting.” Clark presses his fingers into the curve of Bruce’s waist and it earns him a headbutt—thankfully avoiding the glasses. He finds a spot beneath Bruce’s ribs that gets a snort. 

“You’re so cute. I wish you’d smile more.” Clark worms his fingers beneath the curve of Bruce’s jaw, chasing that squeak that opened up such beautiful horizons. 

“I am not cute, you dick.” Bruce tries to bite at Clark’s fingers. 

“Mmm, I disagree.”

“I’m going to bury you in the shallowest of graves.” Bruce grits out, curling into Clark’s shoulder. A strangled squeal flies out upon contact with his ears and Clark stays there, fascinated by the degree of squirming happening in his immovable arms. 

“I’m sure you will.” He persists until finally, finally, a choked giggle emerges. It’s quiet enough to float beneath the ambient noise of the gala, but it rings loud and clear in Clark’s ear. 

“Are you coming? Otherwise, I’m taking him to Arkham myself. He’s…irritating.” Diana’s voice is a tinny pinprick in Bruce’s ear, but Clark still picks up on her message. He stills his fingers.

“On our way,” Bruce murmurs. As soon as the connection is severed, Clark steals one more squeeze at his side before they vanish to the service corridors to meet Diana. 

…

“Boys. You’re late.” Diana looks up from where she’s been braiding the Lasso of Hestia. On the other end, Lex Luthor hums an irritating tune. 

“Busy day,” Batman grouses, flexing his fingers. He makes his way over to the contraption in the corner and starts picking at the wires. 

“Whatcha got over there?”

“A highly concentrated laser stocked with a rainbow of Kryptonite strands. We were right on time.” Batman dislodges something with a mighty crack. In his hands, a glass capsule full of suspended Kryptonite crystals glitters in the light. The lenses on the cowl flick blue as he analyzes them further. 

“Well, Lex, you’ve just made me ten dollars richer.” Superman puts his hands on his hips. He can feel the faint, crawling fatigue starting to burrow into him from the proximity of the Kryptonite, but he resists it. He yanks a handful of wires free from the machine, crushes the focus, and kicks the motherboard hard enough to disintegrate it. 

“I hope your investors don’t hear about this,” he tuts, crossing his arms. “I’d hate for Wayne Enterprises to leave you in the dust for the…what, sixth year in a row?”

“We’ll see who’s laughing soon, Man of Steel. Your supposed altruism is nothing but your own selfish desire, fueled by greed—“

Superman knocks him out before he can finish.

…

“What the hell do you gel your hair with? Cement?” Bruce ruffles Clark’s hair again with a scowl. It doesn’t move. 

”Mrs. Duvet’s Quick-Dry Iron Hold gel. Otherwise it gets super obvious when I’ve been out flying.” Clark carefully starts pulling strands to the front, mimicking Bruce’s helmet hair. 

“Of course you do.” Bruce continues carefully messing with his hair. Clark shivers at the fingers on his scalp. 

“I can just wet it and shake it out real quick?” Clark grabs for the sink handle and starts sizing up how to fit his head into the basin. 

“I’d rather not leave a soaking wet bathroom for the custodians.” Bruce runs his hands beneath the tap, then holds them towards Clark. “May I?”

He nods numbly. Bruce runs his hands through Clark’s hair and he utterly melts into it. Oh, it’s a crime this won’t last.

“Looking like, uh, we had sex is a lot harder than I thought it would be.” Clark starts fiddling with his tie. He can feel his face heating up at the idea of it. 

“There is an art to it. Here, let me.” Bruce takes the ends of the tie and gives it a quick full Windsor with practiced hands. Then he loosens it just right. 

“Honestly, Bruce, no one will notice if I sneak out. I’m just some reporter they’ve never heard of.” Clark’s eyes dart to Bruce’s lips for a moment. 

“These people have nothing but time and wealth—they’re always looking for gossip. We disappear and you don’t come back? In two days, someone will find you and hunt you down for the exclusive on our ‘tumultuous relationship’.” Bruce fiddles with Clark’s shirt collar. Undoes a button. 

“So I’ll tell them we went our separate ways. Big deal.” Clark clears his throat. 

“Vicki and I broke up eight years ago. To this day, she still gets harassed by paparazzi on her way to work. Maybe that doesn’t bother you, but what are you going to do when people with cameras and time start realizing how much you disappear from the Daily Planet?” Bruce makes an exasperated hand gesture that seems to lack a target. 

“Fair enough.” Perry and Lois can only protect him so much. Bruce, regrettably, has a point. 

“We’re playing a part. After this, you won’t have to worry. I’ll give a statement that we quietly split and in a week or two, you’ll be left alone. Let’s focus on getting out of here.” Bruce returns to fiddling with Clark’s hair. 

Clark takes Bruce’s hands in his own. His breathing stutters a bit.

“Can I kiss you, Bruce?” Never has a question felt so heavy, so precarious. 

“Is there someone in here?” Bruce’s voice drops low, eyes darting to the stalls. 

“No! No, I just thought it’d be easier to…y’know…rather than faking it.” He can’t bring himself to look Bruce in the eye. He loses track of whose heartbeat is thundering in his ears. He feels like he’s back in high school and fumbling his way through practicing in the mirror. 

“What?” No going back now. 

“It would just be for a minute or two. It might be more effective than pretending. We could kiss a little. It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Clark shrugs. Yeah. Logic is good. This is strictly a business arrangement. Friends kiss sometimes. They’ve been through hell and high water together, this should be easy. 

Bruce stares at him for a long while, long enough to make him sweat, to make him sick. Years of friendship and trust suddenly hang in the balance and he’s not ready for that. He’s not ready to lose that. What the fuck has he done? 

“I—“

“Are you…reasoning your way through making out with me?” Bruce puts his hands on his hips, expression utterly unreadable. 

“Maybe?” Clark swallows. 

Silence envelops the bathroom. Clark starts running through ways to retcon the worst mistake of his life—passing it off as a joke? Yeah, that might work. He starts to fumble his way through the syllables of an apology, when—

Bruce laughs. Hand on the wall, shoulders shaking, laughs. He tips his head back as the last snickers float and echo. He looks at Clark down the length of his nose, still beaming. It’s the rarest thing he’ll ever see and he commits every detail to memory. 

“I don’t think anyone’s asked so nicely before. Is this how they do it in Kansas?” Bruce unravels Clark’s tie in seconds. He wraps both ends around his knuckles idly, hanging his wrists off of Clark’s shoulders. 

Clark grabs both sides of Bruce’s head and kisses him deeply to shut him up. Bruce tilts his head and pulls Clark roughly forward, slamming them both into the wall. He lets out a beautiful little noise as his hands slide beneath Clark’s jacket and absolutely ruin the clean press of his shirt. Clark has half a mind to hoist Bruce onto one of the sinks, but he resists. 

He’s beautiful. It’s the only clear thought that runs through Clark’s head as he starts unbuttoning the buttons of Bruce’s shirt. He tilts Bruce’s jaw up and presses tender, lingering kisses down the column of his throat. Bruce pulls at Clark’s hair, forcing his head up, and catches his lips with a growl. 

“That’s how we do it in Kansas.” Clark breathes, hovering in Bruce’s personal space. His glasses are fogged and smudged but he can still see the tantalizing tilt of Bruce’s lips. 

“Again, I have a few pointers—“

This time Clark does pick him up. Bruce’s eyes go wide. 

“Nevermind.” Bruce pulls him back in with a forearm around the neck. Clark surges forward and mouths beneath Bruce’s jaw. He can feel Bruce’s heartbeat nearby and he hunts for it, spurred on by the storm of his own want. When he finds it, he sucks slow and steady against his warm, soft skin until he’s sure it’ll bruise. Bruce lets out a keening whine that stutters into a gasp, gripping Clark’s shoulders. His thighs clench around Clark’s waist. 

Clark’s better judgment grabs him and he breaks them apart. Bruce doesn’t move away and that lights his brain up like a Christmas tree. He hovers there for far too long, fighting tooth and nail against the urge to chase the adrenaline. Bruce looks utterly sinful in his grip, flushed in a way Clark hasn’t ever seen. 

The concept of self-control comes to him in a whisper like it’s foreign. He remembers himself. 

“Are we…good?” Clark vaguely realizes he’s still holding Bruce and sets him down. He’s buzzing from head-to-toe, like he’s just taken a full day’s nap in the sunlight. He’s not entirely certain he can feel his face. He touches his own lips reverently. 

“What? Oh. Yeah, c’mon.” Bruce grabs him and leads them through the venue. 

When Bruce pulls him through the party and towards the front doors, he doesn’t even process the prying eyes and whispers. All that matters is Bruce’s hand gripping his own. 

Clark’s determined to catch this shooting star in his hand, even if it doesn’t last. Even if it burns him down the line. 

[never-not-ever]

First Week Outpatient

August 1st-7th

So I discharged around 1pm on that Thursday. For weeks prior I had been taking useless junk home so that on my day of discharge I wouldn’t be walking the hall with ten thousand bags drawing attention to me. I just wanted to leave quietly and not make a big deal about it.

I had to stop at my PACT teams office for my meds. I have a therapist, psychiatrist, case manager and a nurse on my team there. My nurse packs my meds for me in a weekly pill organizer. I’ve always told my IP doctor to not discharge me with a months supply of meds and it just so happened to work out that with PACT they offer the weekly medication pickup. So I went straight there and then headed home because I had a virtual appointment with my therapist at 4.

After that me and my Nana drove my nephew back home in NH cause he had been staying at my Nana’s. On the way back home I stopped to get groceries and was panicking so much in the store. I still remember what stoplight we were at when it became 8:00. Staring at the time I kept thinking I should be back at McLean, this is the latest time you have to return from a pass. This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be outside right now. It’s too dark. That day felt like a pass. I remember freaking out in my kitchen that night, hyperventilating and trying to calm myself down saying “you’re going to be back on the campus tomorrow, less than 24 hours, it’s going to be okay, it's going to be okay”.

Anyways, Jesus, if I write so much nonsense these updates are going to be essays. Stick to the important stuff!! Okay so I started PHP the next day on Friday. I’ll add these in the tags but I’ll post a warning here too. There’s going to be talk of drinking and self harm and restricting. So partial was Friday and then Saturday night I got drunk and self harmed for the first time in over 6 weeks. I bought a 6 pack of White Claw and the whole 6 was just the right amount to get blissfully drunk and escape for a bit. Alcohol affects me differently after having weight loss surgery so I honestly don't know if 6 is the standard or way too much?

Monday I told my program psychiatrist and she wanted to look at my arm but I didn’t have extra bandaids so she told me to bring some the next day. I also met with my program therapist and we talked about starting a diary card and what to track. I told her how since I’ve been home I’m not hungry/eating and I’m not complaining. Saturday when I got drunk all I had that day was applesauce around lunchtime. So I mentioned the word “restricting” and tried to give the short version of my fucked up body image, losing (necessary) weight, losing it in a healthy way and also unhealthy ways at times, that I’ve never been diagnosed with an eating disorder but I know I have a fucked up relationship with food and my body….

So later that evening I got a phone call from disability. I should have applied back in September but instead I didn’t apply until April. They said it could take 6 months before I get a decision on my application. For months I kept checking online to see how much of my application had been looked at it. I needed money and felt like such a financial burden on my Nana. I had just borrowed money from her to pay my phone bill and an hour later disability called asking more questions that I’ve already answered in the past. She said she was the final person to review my application and that she’d be making a decision soon. If my application gets approved then I could be seeing a check within the next 4 weeks...

The following morning I checked my bank account and saw an ungodly amount of money, like two months worth of paychecks from my old job. I could actually pay my Nana back for all the money she’s given me while inpatient and afford to buy stuff to redo my apartment. And after seeing this money in my account I cried, not tears of joy but because I realized that even with this financial issue being lifted it still didn’t change how badly I wanted to end my life. Obviously money doesn’t buy happiness but like that money lifted a huge weight off my chest and it still didn’t matter. My passive SI, self harm urges and depression was shit when I discharged and it was just slowly getting worse.

So back to the timeline. So that "money thing" happened Tuesday morning. I brought bandaids to PHP and mind you I didn’t know what my arm looked like. I didn’t know if it was bad, I just slapped bandaids on it Saturday night and never looked at it again until that day when my doctor looked at it. It was so triggering seeing it. I'm going to get real descriptive here but I've never been able to cut over scars before. Maybe it's what I use but still I've basically run out of room on my go to arm. But drunk I was able to do it and deep. Two cuts, and obviously too much time had passed for me to get stitches but she still wanted me to go to Urgent Care after the program just to make sure it wasn’t infected. I felt like I was wasting their time. Going 3 days later just to get it re-bandaged… the nurse was so nice but the doctor seemed irritated. I think I spent almost 2 hours there, so pointless. They gave me a prescription for an ointment for my arm and they put in my chart that it “could have used stitches”. I never picked up the ointment.

Wednesday when I met with my psychiatrist she brought that up and said that if it happened again she wanted me to get seen right away.

11:19am Wed “I feel strange today. Maybe strange is the wrong word, disconnected? Empty, low, low energy. I can stare at the floor and get lost in my head.”

I started “seeing” my new therapist in the beginning of July but it was always virtual until that day. At 4 I had my first in person appointment and after the day being weird and shitty I was looking forward to it. But it was horrible.

So on the way home I went shopping. Dropped a couple hundred at Aerie and American Eagle and this was the start to my spending sprees. I FaceTimed with that friend I texted and it was a nice ending to the crappy day.

[lemonmoxy]

Ok just to preface this. I am not a fan of AI. For labor reasons, for quality reasons, for the selfish reason of when I’m looking for art I don’t want it clogged down with just objectively bad art (like the hands are fucked up and extra feet).

I do think the primary problem isn’t AI itself but unregulated capitalism that doesn’t care about quality, only lowering costs and the lack of safety nets for people who are ejected to cut costs. It’s bad that the companies do that. It’s bad that there are no safety nets. The problem isn’t really AI BUT until we fix those problems we should regulate the thing directly causing harm.

But some of you anti-AI people have lost your fucking minds.

So. A lot of you are crying about stolen commissions. I promise you, most of the people using AI to generate pictures of their OCs were never going to pay you. They cannot afford to pay you. Or that’s a luxury expense that just isn’t going to happen. I am paycheck to paycheck and I’m never going to spend a whole video game’s worth of money on a picture of my little goblin. Your art IS worth that much, I promise you, I’m not telling you to lower your rates. But I do not have that kind of money for that sort of indulgence. I’m sorry but you peddle luxury, there’s a reason why we had art patrons back in the day.

Some of my friends use AI for their OCs for table top games. I don’t. Because honestly sitting there fucking with it sounds tedious and frustrating to me and the results are always mid at best. But y’all also get mad about people “taking” your art to use for their OCs and maybe editing it to fit the character they have in mind. Which is WILD. I’ll agree, people who do that shouldn’t post it, but if you’re so mad at what people are doing in the privacy of their non published casual dnd sessions, maybe chill the fuck out? Being you sounds exhausting. I also see some of you get mad at people tagging things as inspiration. So what? You want people to pay the poor tax of using piccrew? Even though the results are samey and kinda bad? Idk y’all just are tripping on something.

I’m starting to wonder just what people think inspiration and brainstorming are. People have been pretending to be baffled about why people might use AI to brainstorm. “Use your own brain”. What the fuck do you think brainstorming is? You do not brainstorm by sitting in your room thinking. I mean maybe YOU do. But like you get inspiration from the world around you guys, be for real. A conversation you overheard. An outfit you saw at a crosswalk. The set of the brow of someone on your bus route. A funny post you saw on tumblr. A generative AI like chat GPT is taking things found online and showing them to you. Unless you’re uncritically using it to write a story (and if so that’s bad. Lack of effort and a bad product is bad obviously) you ARE using your brain. We draw inspiration from the world around us, just like the AI does. I know it sucks to feel unoriginal but you just are, sorry. That’s not bad even if it might feel like it. It just is. Even if you sit in a little box and don’t look at the world while you think, you’re thinking about the things you’ve seen and reconfiguring them. Sorry to be the one to break it to you?

Also, you know what chatGPT is good for? Anything an intern could do. You wanna organize your schedule? It’s good at that. You want a grocery list? It’s good at that. You want a menu based of what you got? It’s good at that. Not perfect. Don’t fucking trust a machine without quality checking it, we know that, you guys know that, corporations know that too they just don’t CARE. I don’t know why they’re pretending not to know, money, I don’t know why you guys started pretending.

I saw someone complaining like an old person about spell check and grammar check and how their kid didn’t know that it could be wrong. A ten year old. As if that isn’t normal and explaining to kids how the world works is dystopian. Nah man it’s not a mystery why the kid who still has spelling tests as a part of their everyday school lesions might not know that machines are fallible yet. Probably just how he hasn’t quite learned that adults are idiots too. This person was acting like spell check was some moral sin, some hallmark of the end. Ok grandpa, do you think we should give up the pencil too because writing things down is rotting our brains?

Just like writing things down isn’t an evil action of destroying your memory. I really do not see the difference between me googling for recipes with my ingredients and chatGPT doing it for me. Frankly I’m just as likely to forget I don’t have coriander. But it takes longer for me to do it and sucks.

[shadowfromthestarlight]

i really hate income taxes, i’ve been thinking about the concept a lot because i’ve been looking into what salary increase would be “worth it” to me based on how much additional income i’d have per month after tax. and honestly it is so ridiculous. my salary currently is something that sounds like “a lot” but i actually net about $30,000 less per year than my salary, the majority of the difference being due to the federal income tax.

i really hate how taxes can actually disincentivize earning more money. and it makes it hard for employers to work with their employees to negotiate raises because the increase has to be drastic in order to make a noticeable difference in someone’s paycheck. 

and as if trying to track every transaction over $600 isn’t enough, now i’m hearing that the IRS is trying to track how much servers are making in tips and it just sends me over the edge. truly, income tax is theft and it is punishment for trying to increase your wealth, punishment for hard work, punishment for trying to improve your standard of living. 

i sometimes idly think of different ways to make a bit of money on the side, like babysitting, renting my red light panel to neighbors, etc. and now i realize i need to do it just to spite the government. i’m going to start being one of those people who writes “taxation is theft” on the receipt when i leave cash tips and i’m going to pay my cat sitter in cash from now on. it’s not much but whatever i’ll do my part where i can. 

[mcnuggyy]

I am truly not made for a 6 day work week… day 5 and I’ve been thinking about death and money non stop like I haven’t been this existential since college, and it was BAD, back then, just weeks of all nighters and self destruction at the hands of my school and crying in my car and anxiety attacks and addiction… this feels just like that again honestly… I can’t tell if it’s because it’s nonstop night shifts or because I end up having no energy when I get home but I have all this shit to do as soon as I get back like walk and feed a dog that isn’t mine and take care and feed a rabbit that also isn’t mine and then cook for myself (which is somehow now the most relaxing part of my day) and do the dishes and keep the house clean and do things for my dad and sister </3 i think I am slowly losing my mind… like the only thing keeping me going right now is a paycheck that won’t even be that big and watching shows on dropout… I haven’t even drawn for myself in 7 days or drawn at all except for one commission I finished 5 days ago… I am an empty shell of a person <3 anyways all this to say I hate capitalism I hate being poor and I hope its all worth it teehee 🙃

[medicaldoctordana]

Dad, I'm Dating Superman

no one said my writing was good, but that's not going to stop me from doing it anyway... Read on ao3

She didn’t ask for this assignment. In fact, this assignment would have been the last thing she would have asked for. Especially now. Lois had this nagging feeling that Clark was going to propose soon, and the last place she wanted to be right before that happened was a dangerous war zone. There was a small chance she may not come back from this assignment.

Perry White wanted his best reporter out there. An anonymous donor offered to fund her trip and at the behest of finding out why, The Planet couldn’t refuse such a generous offer. Plus, questions needed to be asked, answers needed to be got and there was no better person for the job than intrepid reporter Lois Lane. Even if she was a woman– and a white woman at that; she was small and non-threatening. Surrounded and protected by the United States Army, Lois Lane could gain access to the spaces she needed and ask the questions that required answers.

The only downside to the assignment was that Clark Kent would be stuck at home covering her beat while she was gone.

“You okay, Lois?” Clark asked as Lois stormed out of their boss’s office and back to her desk.

“No,” came her curt reply. “I’m fine. I’m stoked! I’m pissed, I’m fine.” She enunciated each emotion with a different tone.

“Those sound kind of contradictory, Lois. What happened?” Clark had a sympathetic look on his face. He smoothed down his tie and scooted in closer to her on his rolling chair.

Lois glared at Clark, “What, you didn’t use your super hearing to listen in?” She whispered the superpower, not wanting the entire office to know his secret.

Clark spun out in his chair. He thought they were done with this fight. He’d spent two week’s worth of paychecks on flowers just to get her to speak to him again. He resettled his glasses on his face and took a deep calming breath in. “No, Lois. I made a promise to you and I intend to keep that promise.” He spoke sincerely and mentally put ‘flowers’ on his shopping list again.

“Sorry,” She bowed her head in shame. “That– That wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just– Perry’s putting me on a plane tonight to go off to work with my dad .” Lois rolled her eyes and slumped in her chair.

Not many people were privy to the location of a four-star general. But from the information shared in the briefing she just received, the mission was headed by General Lane and whoever was sponsoring her plane ride seemed to ignore the conflict of interest by picking the only Daily Planet reporter related to the head of the special unit of the Department of Defense.

It was just her luck, honestly. Right as things were going incredibly well in her personal life, her work life had to drop the story of the century in her lap and take her away from it all. She was not looking forward to all that dust in her hair. But she was looking forward to the possibility of the Pulitzer nomination if things went her way. In the most humble of ways, of course.

“Your dad? Isn’t he in–?” Clark asked.

Lois looked at him wide-eyed and serious. “Yeah,” she nodded open-mouthed. The most fucking dangerous part of the world right now.

“Lois!” Clark acted all surprised. Mostly that Perry would send anyone to cover that story so early in the fighting. There was likely no information to gather as very few pieces on the table even existed, let alone were moving with a plan in mind. It seemed reckless and premature in Clark’s mind.

“I know!” Lois responded with equal enthusiasm. “Some unknown billionaire is paying for the flight and protection and the Planet could really use the good press and the money. You know things have been tense ever since Bush took office.” So much for working for a non-partisan, unbiased paper.

“I know, I know. But Lois, it’s–” Clark widened his eyes and raised his eyebrows like he was afraid to put a name to where she was headed.

Lois recoiled. “My dad will be there along with way too many military personnel and I bet they’ve got the tents and camp on high-security alert. There will be armed transports with a convoy of at least five tanks. Plus with all the extra padding from the mysterious benefactor, I’m less worried about my physical safety and more concerned about my mental safety. I mean, Clark. It’s my father. You know how he is about me and dangerous situations. I bet they haven’t even told him who they’re sending in.” Lois wished for anything that she could call him up and warn him about her arrival. He might have been able to get her out of this if it weren’t for the haste in getting her there. It was too late to do anything now but show up unexpectedly.

“Do you– Do you want me to come with you?” Clark asked hesitantly. They were still working on their dance of partnership. He still wasn’t sure when to implicitly step in and when to let her figure things out on her own. He was getting better at it but it had only gotten harder since he revealed his identity to her.

“No, Clark. You need to stay home. Perry needs you to cover my stories here.” Lois brushed him off and played with the loose strands of her sweater. She wanted nothing more than her big, buff boyfriend to follow her everywhere and support her. But she was also Lois Lane and fearless in the face of danger. She could handle herself on a little makeshift army base and didn’t need any man watching out for her. However, Lois was secure enough to admit to herself that it was okay to want him there.

“That’s not what I meant, Lois,” he used that tone with her, shifted his voice low, and inched ever so slightly into her personal space.

Lois felt her cheeks heat and she smiled shyly as if she just remembered her boyfriend was also Superman. “No, Clark. I don’t need Superman coming to the rescue to shield me from my dad. I’ll be fine.”

Sam Lane liked Clark well enough, but he hated Superman. Something, something, Clark was a bumbling idiot and she could do better but at least he was safe. And Superman. God, Sam Lane hated how he refused to pledge allegiance to the American Flag and its people.

“Whatever you say, Lois.” Clark scooted back with a playful smile. “The offer still stands, just call my name and I’ll be there.”

Lois’s lips turned up and she leaned in to give him a quick peck on the side of his mouth. “Thank you, Clark.” She whispered her admission then stood up and gathered her bag. “I have to get home. My flight leaves in three hours. Come with me and help me pack?” Lois reached her hand out and felt warmth radiate through her body at his touch. He would follow her anywhere.

XXXXX

An unmarked car picked her up at her apartment at the exact time noted on the itinerary Perry had given her at their late meeting. It drove her to a private airfield and dropped her off outside an unmarked jet. The entire way there, she didn’t interact with a single person. There weren’t even people on the tarmac. Lois’s investigative reporter senses were on high alert. A sinister feeling was brewing in the air and for once, she couldn’t wait to see her father– if only to provide a touchstone of safety and familiarity.

She took her own bag with her up the stairs to the plane and wished she had Clark’s x-ray vision to check for bombs. Lois took a seat overlooking the right engine and wing and buckled her seatbelt. 

An automated voice came over the intercom system and welcomed her to her flight. It announced the newly established safety protocols and gave an estimated time of arrival for her destination. The stairs automatically pulled up and it was final. The engines started and the plane began its drive down the runway.

Lois was locked into staying on this flight until it landed or crashed. She wasn’t sure which was more likely.

Immediately, Lois took out her notebook and started jotting down notes. She had a list of questions storming in her head from the second the car arrived outside her apartment and Clark kissed her goodbye. 

They were simple questions at first, Who? Where? Why? But with each passing moment, they grew more complex. More suspicious. Who would go through all this effort? Where were the people orchestrating this from? Why me?

As she was writing her second page of thoughts, a person finally emerged from the cockpit. He was a tall and stocky man. A blonde-red hair covered his head and face. He looked familiar but Lois couldn’t quite put her finger on how she knew him.

Lois scrutinized the man in front of her further. He wore a black button-down with slacks. She suspected he wasn’t a pilot, but perhaps was the man behind this all. He had a look of privilege and evil in his eye and she couldn’t quite shake the bad feeling she got from him.

“Miss Lane. Glad you could make it on such short notice. I’m Aaron Dexter Hull and I’ll be your cruise director for this trip. I’m sure you have many questions and I promise we’ll get to those in due time. Please, feel free to stretch your legs once we hit our altitude and grab any refreshments from the bar in the back. Enjoy the flight.” His voice was scratchy and weathered.

She wrote down his name in her little notebook before reaming him with her questions and demanding he give her answers.

[disco-tea]

You know what would actually be a really good, legitimate job for Spike? Cemetery groundskeeper. Like he already lives in a cemetery, he’s got no problem working night “graveyard” shifts. And honestly the department that manages the upkeep of the cemeteries is probably really grateful to have him because every other groundskeeper so far has either mysteriously disappeared or ended up buried at the workplace. His job is to maintain the grass/shrubbery/trees and dig graves and the sort. But in the job description there are also these unspoken but heavily implied duties such as re-covering disturbed graves and stopping anything from getting out. And every other applicant was always a little confused by that part but obviously Spike isn’t even fazed; he’s been basically doing the latter for years anyway. The department doesn’t bother him too much and they pay him well, more than what is probably the standard, because he actually does a good job and they’re well aware that they don’t have anybody else willing to do the job, or that really can do the job without getting killed.

And you just know he’s absolutely insufferable when Buffy stops by for patrol. Because yeah it’s her town but this is his cemetery and he’s going to use that for all it’s worth. He’s like “do NOT break any headstones, Slayer, that comes out of MY paycheck.” And “DONT TEAR UP THE SODDING SHRUBBERY I SPENT ALL DAY TRIMMING IT DO I COME TO YOUR HOUSE AND BREAK YOUR STAKES?”

Just groundskeeper Spike.

[blainesebastian]

coffee cart girl

words: 2,424 ship: austin x female reader  summary: you’re the coffee runner on the set of Elvis. Coffee deliveries run pretty easy, until Austin accidently spills coffee on you.  notes: just for fun, couldn’t get it out of my head warnings: none 

It’s one of those things where you can’t remember how the whole thing started. One moment you’re attempting to finish a script, get noticed, have someone other than your sister read what you’ve written to see if it actually makes sense, if it’s worth fighting for—and the next? You’re the coffee runner on studio lots, visiting trailer to trailer, getting orders and bringing them back. Celebrities, stars, directors, producers, writers, the whole world opens up to you. A friend of a friend, their aunt, got you the job—honestly you’re not overthinking it. This is your chance to make something of yourself, to put your foot in the door, to feel seen.

Except it never quite happens that way.

There’s the exact opposite effect, no one notices you. You blend into the background, become another body on a busy set, but hey—at least you can tell yourself, ‘one of these days I’ll actually show my work to someone’. Just a page, just pitch an idea. Go from there. And every day, you walk onto the same set of the movie you’re currently assisting on and do what you do best: grab coffee orders.

“Maybe this is actually my secret calling.” You grin, pushing your hair over you shoulder as you wave your ID badge to the security box entrance. They buzz you in and you wander on, seven AM, far too early for anything to be enjoyable.

Jillian, a beautiful redhead with tight curls and hazel eyes rolls them in your direction. She’s been working just as long as you have but with a very different job—hair and makeup. “Oh please Y/N, you just need to give yourself a chance. Let someone in? I’m sure you’ve got great ideas.”

You purse your lips, comfortable in a pair of black mom jeans and a white t-shirt today, simple. “How do you know? I could have some awful ideas. Hollywood’s full of ‘em.”

She snickers, “I dated an actor once, he thought he was God’s gift to film—trust me, I know a tacky personality when I meet one. And that’s not you.” She gently taps the tip of your nose, making you crinkle it, before hurrying off towards the hair and makeup trailer.

“Y/N.”

You sigh, head tipping back slightly to the sky as a resounding voice makes it to your eardrums. That’s Sal, an older woman who’s wrinkles remind you of crunched up old velvet and has a smoker voice to somehow match. She runs the show around here…quite literally other than Baz, who deals with everything that’s not the day-to-day small jobs. Sal’s job is to make sure everyone is on time, that trailers don’t need anything…that writes her paycheck.

You turn with a smile that somehow hurts your teeth, “Mornin’ Sal.”

“You gonna grab people’s coffee today or just stand there?” She asks, moving to hand over a slip, “Already did your job to grab the few orders of the people who are here already. Think you can handle the rest?”

You hum—kill her with kindness. “Absolutely, thank you.”

Your eyes run down the order list—mostly for hair and makeup, wardrobe, and then you catch a particular name towards the bottom—

Butler – black, two sugars.

Your eyebrows crinkle together before wandering towards the coffee cart. Sometimes people request Starbuck runs but it seems like today isn’t that day. Robotically, you begin filling coffee orders but the bottom name has you a bit stumped. Today is not the first day you’ve brought Austin Butler coffee and it won’t be the last, least until they’re done shooting Elvis. But you feel like you’ve got a pretty good memory when it comes to orders…and he does not do sugar. Sometimes it’s a treat with a splash of milk, but not sugar.

You make a judgement call, pouring the splash of milk and loading up the drink holder to make your rounds. Sal, ironically, is not the most detail-oriented person. This whole sugar thing has got to be wrong.

As you make your way around set to drop off coffees, you find yourself contemplating on the fact that coffee really is an all-day thing—whether it’s this early morning set call, late at night shoots or middle of the day cravings, nearly someone almost every two hours is requesting some sort of pick-me-up.

“Thanks Y/N.” One of the other makeup artist smiles at you, tipping the cup in a cheers motion and you wink back.

Two deliveries left…

Turning a corner around the trailer, you make a beeline for Austin’s, because odds are he has to be in front of a camera soon. Or at least to another trailer to get hair and makeup or wardrobe, whichever. No sooner do you walk up the steps to knock on the door, it opens, almost hitting you square in the face. Luckily—luckily? It hits your hands instead.

A sharp gasp leaves your mouth as hot coffee spills all over the front of you, but it’s not so much the noise you make in pain but moreso surprise. Your mouth opens, blinking once, twice, because—really?

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Austin says quickly, clearly rattled by the set of five shared moments. “I usually open the door a lot slower, I’m late.” He’s got that Elvis drawl—you’ve heard it a few times on set when you linger close to scenes taking place just to get a glimpse of how the written work becomes an actual picture.

Could really be you someday, your written words leaving an actor’s mouth. Not really feelin’ like today however with a very large coffee stain down your front.

“No, it’s—” You let out a soft laugh as he reaches for the coffee tray, your eyes flickering up—he’s not dressed as Elvis, not yet, hasn’t even been to hair and makeup yet because his hair is untamed, a soft black with iridescent hues hanging in a few strands over his forehead.

“I usually start the day like this, with coffee.”

He blinks, seeming to process that what you’ve said is a joke before a shy laugh tumbles out of his chest. “Right.” It’s an attractive sound, and maybe if you weren’t so flustered, you’d let yourself enjoy it. “Least lemme help you clean up or…get another coffee.”

“I think that’s my job.” You smile, but the offer is nice. Most of the time, or at least some celebrities you’ve come into contact with, kinda sweep interactions under the rug, make mistakes your problem, are too busy to even apologize. Which whatever, you’re not gonna hold that against them, you got more important things to worry about.

But the fact that Austin offers, even is willing to grab other coffees when he’s the star running late…it means something. A twisting in your stomach spreading heat like vines wrapping around a house, definitely something you’ll end up thinking about later.

“I got this, you’re late right? I can bring it to you wherever you’re going.”

He takes a step past you, still holding onto the coffee carrier because apparently he’s gonna throw that away. “Hair and makeup,” He runs a hand through his hair, as if on emphasis. And then his eyes flicker towards your chest and a small wince crinkles his nose, “What about a shirt?”

A laugh escapes your lips, almost can’t help it, “You wanna give me a shirt.” It is not a question.

Austin smiles, amused but seemingly a bit more comfortable than he was before. He knows how to hold your gaze when he speaks to you—nervous when he spilt the coffee but almost confident now. He’s got this particular look about him that he leads with his eyes, it’s in interviews when he’s speaking to someone (not that you have totally binged those on a YouTube, a black hole kinda night, or anything). But he’s capable of making you feel, no matter who you are, that you’ve got something important to add the conversation too. That it’s not just one sided.

That’s a typical Leo man, if someone were to ask you.

“I got spare t-shirts in my trailer.” He says and—Austin Butler is offering you a t-shirt to wear so you don’t have to deal with this stained one all day. And for whatever reason, you find yourself nodding, because what else are you supposed to do?

Totally doesn’t matter that you’ve got a sweater in your car that you could cover it up with. Austin is quick, moving back into his trailer because he’s still late and Sal will be on your ass in a minute if you’re not doing something productive. He comes back out with a simple white t-shirt, folded, and passes it into your hands before walking down the steps.

He turns at the bottom, “I just realized I don’t know your name—you bring me coffee every day, I’ve been meanin’ to ask.”

“Y/N.” You offer a small smile, motioning to the shirt in silent thanks, “Hair and makeup?” You ask to confirm, before, “Black with a splash of milk, right?”

He smiles, nodding, holding your gaze as he walks backwards, “Right.”

You hum in satisfaction—you knew Sal’s scribblings were wrong.

--

It’s a long day, and Jillian only asks about the t-shirt once because it’s obviously not what you were wearing this morning. Austin’s shirt is a little longer than yours, hanging on your body a bit loose. He’s skinny but taller. If Jillian puts it together as you bring Austin his coffee order when he’s getting his hair done, she doesn’t say a word.

But there’s this look in her eyes that tells you she knows. It makes you roll your own—not like anything will happen. You got a shirt because he was being nice, feeling responsible for the spilled coffee in the first place. There probably won’t even be another chance to talk to him at length like you did today and even that was quick—usually when you drop off his coffee he’s not even in his trailer.

It's towards the end of the night, most scenes wrapping up—you’re seventy percent sure there’s some Hanks shots being completed. Sitting on a picnic bench outside near the food tent, you scribble out a part in your script where the dialogue just doesn’t mesh. It doesn’t sound real, authentic—sometimes it’s hard to get out of your head and just let the characters speak to one another.

You let out a soft sigh, sticking the pen behind your ear…and blink when a coffee appears in your peripheral vision. And then if that’s not enough, it’s Austin. They must have been filming one of the earlier Elvis scenes because he’s in fifties get-up, a blue lace shirt that brings out his eyes in a ridiculous fashion. It’s unfair for him to approach you like this with no warning…and yet, you have a feeling he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Figured I’d pay you back for that coffee…then I realized I got no idea how you even take it.”

You smile, picking it up. It’s black, simple. You set the script down and blow on it—if Austin Butler brings you coffee, you drink it. “You don’t actually owe me anything, coffee was from set. And I like cream, sugar.”

He smiles a little, drawing his lower lip into his mouth for a moment, “Noted.”

“You done for the night?”

“Yeah, I gotta wash this gel outta my hair before I go. I learned the hard way that if I don’t, I won’t be able to get a brush through it in the mornin’.” You laugh slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling when he smiles, “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

Handsome and a sense of humor—boy, are you in trouble.

Austin motions to the script beside you with his chin, “You a writer?”

You slowly turn it upside down—not because you’re afraid he might read it, but moreso out-of sight-out-of-mind. “Sometimes I like to pretend I am.”

“You ever let anyone read it?”

You shift a little, wrapping your hands around the hot cup of coffee, the heat seeping into your palms as a welcome distraction. He asks the question as if he already knows the answer and maybe he does—it feels like as he looks at you, he’s peeling layers of your skin back, seeing inside, reading words imprinted on your skin that no one has ever seen before.

Might just be your imagination, him in this beautiful Elvis getup, the soft blues of the lace and the sharp edge of the blue in his eyes.

“My cat.”

He smirks, shaking his head as he looks away. “Bet they’re a harsh critic.”

“Oh he’s ruthless.” You smile but it’s warm and genuine, comfortable. You did not expect your day to end up like this. Looking down into the cup of coffee, you treat it like a Magic Eight ball, as if it’ll give you a hint of what you should say next.

Ask again later.

You look up, your eyes trailing over his form for a moment, soft edges somehow sharpened at the same time. Steel in velvet. “Maybe one day, need to get it perfect.”

Austin purses his lips, “Perfect doesn’t exist—besides, sometimes flaws are the most interestin’.”

“You talking about my coffee-stained shirt again?” You tease, drawing the attention away from your script. You’re afraid he might be right about the whole ‘perfection’ thing…but there has to be a better version than what you got now. Right?

“No,” He laughs softly. Austin backs up a step, eyes towards his trailer—you can tell he’s tired, spent from the day, but at the same time wants to remain lingering. Like he might have more to say, or wouldn’t mind the conversation shifting into another topic, “But maybe don’t let the whole spillin’ thing become a habit, I only got so many spare shirts you can have.”

You laugh, tugging on the fabric, “This was your fault. You want this one back?”

He debates, for a half a second, his eyes slightly lidded as he looks at the shirt and you realize that you could take it off. Right there, in a cheeky manner. Your cheeks flush the softest of pinks, splotching to the back of your neck.

“Nah you keep it.” And the moment passes. Austin offers a small smile, “See you around tomorrow Y/N.”

“Tomorrow.” You nod, watching him turn to walk back to his trailer.

--

Thanks for reading :) I dunno if anyone would be interested in  a part two, but I figured it never hurts just to put an idea out there! 

[copperbadge]

How did you get started with investing? I've seen you talk about it before and I know that's something I need to do, but I feel so lost in terms of which companies to invest in and how much money I should put in. I have retirement accounts but nothing outside of that. And really, I feel like I can't talk to anyone IRL about this because I'm too embarrassed - I'm literally a CPA and do corporate taxes for a living but still find investing to be so intimidating 😞.

I mean, when people say "you should be investing" often, until you reach a certain wealth level, they are actually referring to your 401K. This is more general advice for the readers, but don't feel bad if you're not investing outside of retirement, especially if you're early in your career or if you're in a job where you don't have much disposable income. Don't feel bad in general, honestly, even if you haven't got a retirement fund at all; life is hard and money is necessary but stupid.

I only really started to invest invest in the last two years and even then I'm pretty conservative about it. On the plus, as a CPA, you will probably have a leg up in terms of knowing a lot of financial terms and kind of...understanding how money works in at least some sense.

I actually got started studying investing with my retirement fund. I was young and broke and mad that a chunk of my paycheck was going into my 401K when I could use that money NOW (see Sam Vimes Boots Theory for more on why ready cash now can often beat more cash later). I didn't know much about finance but I knew that a) I was basically being forced to play the financial markets with that money and b) the fate of our country's economy is tied to the stock market which is a mood ring hooked up to a roulette wheel. Being the Oldest Living Millennial I also understood I might not actually ever get to retire, so I decided to treat my retirement fund like Monopoly money: real but meaningless. And so I thought, well, let's Learn About Investing with it.

When you invest with a 401K or IRA usually you're not buying straight stocks; you're buying some conglomeration of investments bundled together as a fund (this is not a technical term, fund has a specific meaning in the technical sense, but it's easier to just use fund as a shorthand so I'm gonna). These can include stocks, bonds, mutual funds, and other more esoteric vehicles. So I started looking into the funds available to me -- there's the "retire in this year" fund that most people just dump all their money into, but there were also ways to invest in small businesses abroad, in health care or in funds that are "socially responsible", ways to buy into funds that did nothing but attempt to keep up with inflation, and on and on.

I didn't know any of that, of course -- I just saw something like "International Explorer Fund" and decided it sounded interesting and I'd learn what it was and what it did, and when I was satisfied that the reward was worth the risk, I'd dump some cash from my 2045-Retirement investment into it. While "past performance is no indication of future success" past performance isn't a bad way to at least pick something to research, and usually there's an earnings graph on the fund's prospectus page. I'd start reading prospectuses and looking up every word I didn't know or felt had a specific context I was missing (mostly on Investopedia, a GREAT resource). I'd take the term, add it to a vocabulary list, and rewrite "what is this and what does it do" in my own words. Eventually I internalized a lot of the terminology but I still check my notes once in a while.

There are financial literacy courses you can take, of course, and I don't think you should be AT ALL ashamed about trying to find a good one (lots of scams out there) or asking colleagues about them. "Hey, I'm not comfortable with my level of literacy about investment vehicles; do you know of any good educational material or class that would fill in the gaps?" is a good way to go about it. Very few people know jack shit about investing and my level of knowledge is just BARELY above jack shit, to be honest, so no shame, my friend. It is also totally fine to find a financial planner or investment advisor outside of your work and have a sit-down with them to get advice, which is what my parents do. Many banks offer that kind of service, so check with wherever you do your banking, and almost any retirement fund administrator (like Vanguard or American Funds) will be happy to send someone to meet with you and advise you. I was never prouder of my financial self-education than the one time I met with a guy from Vanguard who said, "Basically, keep doing what you're doing, this is a model portfolio."

Once I was investing in my retirement funds more confidently, I got the RobinHood app and started studying stocks, which is really just like, "find a stock and do a book report on it". Look at past earnings, who the CEO of the company is, what their board makeup is like, what they're doing in the news. And of course the most important advice: Never, ever invest money in the stock market that you aren't prepared to lose.

Aside from my stock adventures on RobinHood, which is about five hundred dollars that I turned into a thousand dollars over a couple of years, I have money in a few savings accounts. I don't have CDs or money market accounts or any of that, because I still don't have quite enough cash to make it worth it. I just parked some in a credit union that pays 6% interest on the first $1K you put in, and the rest in Betterment, which had a 2% interest rate when I started but now is down to .3% which is a bummer. But I haven't found another vehicle like Betterment which allows you equally easy access to your money while having as intuitive and modular an online interface.

So overall, aside from retirement (which is at $116K, which seems impressive until you remember you're supposed to retire with 25x your yearly salary in your 401K) I have a grand in the stock market, a grand in a 6%-interest savings account with a credit union, a grand in an emergency-only savings account attached to my checking, and roughly five grand with Betterment. It's a fairly conservative setup but I'd like never to be poor ever again, so I'm hedging carefully :D

Some great resources that I've used include:

Investopedia

Planet Money podcast by NPR and its sister podcast, The Indicator

The Financial page of the newspaper (I used to read NYT, now I read Tribune)

Rankandfiled.com, a free stock filings resource site that basically scrapes the SEC for financial data -- this is for if you really want to do a deep dive once you've got more experience

Good luck! It's a slog at first, but eventually it gets kinda fun :)

[metalchickaf19]

The Bowers Gang: How the Guys Would React to Being in a Strip Club for the First Time

Belch:

Such a bean, and it shows

Feels awkward about even looking at the strippers 

Keeps accidentally making eye contact, then stopping immediately

Hockstetter buys him a lap dance for shits and giggles 

Like… honestly

Just because he knew Huggins wouldn’t be able to take it

Visibly shivers for the entire dance, and over-tips by like $100 dollars

Really easy to take advantage of

Totally the guy that thinks it’s not about money, and the strippers really like and care about him

Will literally pay hundreds just to talk, and support the stripper’s at-home lives (aka: sob stories)

In general, shouldn’t go to strip clubs unless he’s planning on draining his savings account

Henry:

Literally only came because Patrick insisted they go

Is so uncomfortable in this environment (because way too much touching going on for someone as guarded as Bowers)…

… until he gets a few drinks in him, of course 

Gets sloppy drunk, and grabs at the strippers as they pass by

Yells lewd things to the women on stage, etc.

Basically the creepy guy that thinks money should equal sex

Passes out early on in the night, and so can’t engage in any further sexual harassment (and we thank the lord for that blessing) 

Strip club ability: solid 2 out of 10

Patrick:

Brought $100 worth of ones, and fully plans on using them all

… How he got $100, nobody knows - but that’s a story for another day

Goes into the private room… and stays there 

Legit disappears for upwards of an hour

Comes back with spots of blood on his shirt, but hey - this is a “no questions asked” operation

Joins drunk Henry in feeling up/calling out to the strippers on-stage

Buys private dances for everyone, because, when Hockstetter goes out, he goes out hard

Actually spends some time at the bar (even though Patrick doesn’t usually drink)…

… and ends up becoming drunk enough to feel like he owns the world

Buys some action for himself (a handjob or a blowjob, at least), and proceeds to spend the rest of the night causing chaos on Derry, Maine’s main street

Do not run into him after 2 a.m.

Carnage will ensue

Victor:

Honestly, like… why am I here?

Isn’t into strip clubs at all (because Criss needs an emotional connection to get turned on), and so spends every second of his life hating the fact that he’s there 

Gets flirted with hard by the strippers (because oober cute), but never buys a dance

Does some light drinking, and tries to disassociate in his head

Winds up taking care of Henry and Belch all night - Belch, by not letting him spend his entire paycheck, and Henry by helping him out when he’s drunk

Overall, doesn’t even think of strip clubs as a fun place to be; just goes when Henry and Hockstetter get a hankering

Overall strip club ability: 3.5 out of 10

[sevlgi]

promises, promises

requested: yes

group: dreamcatcher

pairing: bora x fem!reader  (plus bora x siyeon)

genre: basically just angst

contents: established!relationship between bora and siyeon but they don’t love each other, coworker!au, y/n just pines alone lmfao, but there IS a happy ending

warnings: none

synopsis: Bora and Siyeon are so used to their relationship that it feels like they can’t ever change. But at this point, is continuing together really their best option?

a/n: afdfasfkasdn i hope y’all like this!!!

word count: 2.6k

“Hey, Bora, if you’re coming home tonight, can you bring some takeout?”

The word ‘if’ echoes in Bora’s headphones as she stares at her phone screen. Siyeon said the word so offhandedly in her message, obviously used to her girlfriend’s constant absent and apparently unfazed by it, but it stops Bora herself right in the middle of the road as she listens to the message.

Honestly, her situation with Siyeon is... difficult. They’ve lived together for years, so they’re both used to having schedules that never match. To an outsider, the minimal amount of time that they actually spend together would be nothing short of a red flag, but neither Bora nor Siyeon think much of it.

There’s a certain comfort of knowing what waits for you at home, even if it is figurative most of the time. Bora has had the same emergency contact for years, and she always knows who to call if she has left something at home. She never has to call a babysitter, and whenever she gets hit on, she can say that she has a girlfriend of 5 years.

But maybe saying it like that sounds too much like a business contract.

The harsh reality is that the rare time she does spend with Siyeon is almost always filled with stilted silence, made awkward by two people both too exhausted to put effort into their relationship. And when it isn’t that suffocating silence between them, it’s anger, arguments that can be brought on by the most marginal mistaken word.

All of that culminates into the fact that Bora doesn’t really go home. Neither of them have the energy to actually talk things through, but neither of them want to let go of that familiar stability either. So they’re girlfriends by name, and nothing else in their hearts.

Bora supposes that it’s as much her fault as it is Siyeon’s.

“Yo, Bora!”

A smile prods the corner of her mouth up, and she pockets the phone. “Wassup, bro?” she calls sarcastically, accepting the overly enthusiastic fist-bump from you anyway. “Since when do you greet me with ‘yo’, especially when you’re about to ask for a ride home?”

You pout. “Is it that obvious?”

“You never come after me after work ends for any other reason, so, yes.” Bora opens the passenger side of her car for you anyway, spinning her keys around her index finger. There’s a hammered silver heart hanging off the other side with her and Siyeon’s initials. 

“If you wanted my company more often, all you had to do is say so,” you sigh. As always, you reach for the aux and plug it into your phone. “Are we making any pit stops along the way? Because I’ll shoot you a coffee as payment if you want it.”

“Actually, I’m gonna pick up some takeout for me and Siyeon.”

“Oh. Cool.” You pick some song that you’ve played at least 10 times in the past week, but Bora doesn’t comment on it.

She can’t help but notice that her passenger’s seat bears more evidence of you sitting there than anyone else. The seat itself is adjusted to the way you like it, and you have a habit of leaving your phone in the exact same place on the dashboard, the only rectangle that isn’t covered in dust. 

Bora isn’t actually sure about how Siyeon would adjust her seat, actually. Before she can stop herself, she asks you, “Hey, Y/N. What would you say is strictly necessary for a relationship to work?”

You glance at her, surprised. “Uh. Are you forgetting that I’m single?”

“I’m taking that as a sign that the date from last night didn’t go well?” When you shake your head, Bora sighs, “Sorry to bring it up, then.”

“No, no, it’s fine. We only went out like three times.” You lean back to think about the question, biting on your bottom lip as you do. It’s endearing. “I think... sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice? What, like Simba’s dad sacrifice?” Bora tries to joke. 

You roll your eyes, “You watch too much Disney, dumbass. I mean like... taking pictures together because one person likes to, even if the other doesn’t. Alternating your favorite pastas, taking like one hour of work off each to have a date night. That kind of sacrifice.”

“Oh. I get it, I think.” Bora does understand it; she thinks about how often Yoohyeon misses a day of work, because she claims that one paycheck isn’t worth a missed anniversary. She thinks about how JiU does the pasta thing despite not really liking Yoohyeon’s favorite, and she thinks about how she and Siyeon never do that anymore. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Bora gets out of the car to get takeout at one point, but she’s deep in thought for the rest of the ride home, even when you wave her goodbye at your own place. Sacrifice, huh?

She thinks that the only thing she sacrifices is her wallet.

Siyeon opens the door for her with a small smile, though, which makes Bora happy enough. Her girlfriend says, “I’m gonna guess you got Chinese?”

“Thai,” Bora shakes her head. The apartment is cold because Siyeon read somewhere that it helps you fall asleep faster, but Bora herself hates it. “I don’t eat Chinese food much anymore, remember?”

“Since when?” Siyeon frowns, locking the door behind her. “Last I remembered, your favorite food was those dumb little dumplings from the place down the street.”

“Last year, yeah. It doesn’t matter, though, let’s eat. What did you do today?”

It’s a boring question, but the other woman accepts it gratefully. “Uh, went to work early, but I got lunch with my mom.”

“Oh? How is she?” Bora questions, already spreading the takeout boxes all over the table. She hasn’t seen Siyeon’s mom in a while, but she misses the motherly figure. 

Siyeon shrugs and reaches for her chopsticks. “She’s fine. She wants to know when we’re getting married.”

Bora’s heart stops, and not in the good way. She and Siyeon have talked about marriage before, but it was all in the honeymoon stage, when they first started dating years ago. “Oh? What did you tell her?”

Her girlfriend raises an eyebrow. “That we aren’t even engaged, obviously. Unless I missed an important conversation?”

“N- yeah.” Bora stuffs a shrimp in her mouth to quiet herself, at least for a little bit. It’s not that she doesn’t want to get married-- she just doesn’t want anything to change. 

Of course, Siyeon doesn’t let her shock at the question go. “What?” she prods. “Is getting married that scary?”

“I mean... do you want us to get married?”

Siyeon hesitates at that. Eventually, she shakes her head in silence, and that’s enough of an answer.

There’s really nothing wrong with their relationship. But as Siyeon bids goodnight right after she finishes eating, and Bora remains in the living room, she thinks that there might not be anything right anymore either.

Bora asks about the closest engagement ring store before she can stop herself, and you stare at her. “Are you two getting engaged?”

“No. Well, it’s complicated,” Bora sighs, turning right when her phone tells her to. “Siyeon’s mother wants us to get married, and I was thinking about what you were saying. It’s time to make some sacrifices.”

You stammer, “Th- that’s not really what I meant? I meant, like, take a day or two off work and get a vacation together, maybe talk things out for more than a minute? Not... proposing. Bora, I don’t...”

“Well, what would you do if you were in my shoes? Or, better yet--” Bora holds up a hand-- “what would you do if you were Siyeon? How would you deal with me, your girlfriend of 5 years?”

Suddenly, you feel like it’s 500 degrees in the car. But you answer, “I’d... I’d plan a trip. One of those cruises that offer dinners, and then I’d just try and talk with you. Bora, do you really think you’re in the right state to get married?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Bora questions. “We’re comfortable, you know. Siyeon got promoted a month ago, we make more than enough money to afford a wedding, and we’ve been together for so long, I don’t know anything without her.”

“I don’t mean financially,” you sigh. “I mean... do you think she’d say yes? Are you happy?”

‘Do you think she’d say yes?’ To be completely honest, Bora doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know what kind of a ring Siyeon would want, though she does know her ring size. She answers forcefully, “She will. I know it.”

“Okay.” You lean back, thumbs fiddling with your phone. “Bora? Would you mind dropping me off at work first? I don’t think I’ll be much help if I go with you.”

Bora nods. “Sure.”

She ends up buying a simple ring with a blue stone, something that won’t really make a dent in either of their bank accounts, but will still be enough for Siyeon to show off. The box is a heavy weight in Bora’s pocket as she arrives home, quite a bit earlier than she normally does.

“Siyeon-ah?” she asks, rapping on the door as she pushes it open.

“Bora? You’re home early,” her girlfriend replies, turning from where she is at the sink. For some reason, Bora’s relieved that it’s all Siyeon does at home when she’s alone, though there’s no reason for her to suspect anything else. “Did you get off work early?”

“Uh, I took time off.” Bora sets her bag down and takes her jacket off, watching Siyeon open the fridge for something else. “I... remember when your mom asked when we’d get married?”

“Yeah. I remember that, why?” Siyeon silently hands her a glass of water.

Instead of saying anything else, Bora takes the box out of her pocket and pops it open before sliding it over the counter. Blue glints brilliantly under the kitchen’s lights, but even to her, it looks dull.

Siyeon glances at her in surprise, saying softly, “Bora... that’s not what I meant when I told you what she said.”

“Then what did you mean?”

The younger woman sighs, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. “I. Look, aren’t we happy just as we are?”

A little bit of anger fires up in the pit of Bora’s stomach. It isn’t that she seriously wants to get married, or that it matters all that much that Siyeon doesn’t seem to, but she put in the effort. Like you had told her to, she made a sacrifice, and it hurts a bit that it doesn’t have the effect she wishes it did. “You tell me, Siyeon. Didn’t you tell me when we started dating that getting married was your goal?” Bora demands.

“I did, and that was 5 years ago,” Siyeon snaps back. “Why are you so hellbent on this, anyway? I thought you never wanted to get married.”

Bora hesitates, but she still ends up being honest. She answers quietly, “To make a relationship work, we have to make sacrifices.”

“Don’t--”

“Siyeon. Do you still love me?”

“Obviously! What kind of a question even is that?” Siyeon bites back, anger starting to furrow her eyebrows. Bora wishes she could say that it’s an unfamiliar sight, but it isn’t anymore. “Who told you all that sacrifice bullshit anyway?”

“Y/N, not that it matters.” Bora’s hands clutching tightly in her hair, she sighs, “Look, I got it wrong, okay? I’ll return the ring--”

Siyeon interrupts, “Bora, do you know why Y/N told you sacrifices make relationships work?”

When the older woman doesn’t respond, Siyeon just continues, “It’s because she’s the one making sacrifices. She understands what ‘sacrifices’ should be in a relationship, and it isn’t you buying an engagement ring when neither of us want to get married at all.”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?” Bora snatches the box up from the counter and grabs her keys again. “I’m going out.”

“What, to talk to Y/N?” Bora turns to stare at Siyeon, who only stands there with crossed arms and the air that says she knows she’s right.

Bora doesn’t respond, but she does slam the front door after her a little too hard.

Whenever she needs to talk to you, Bora takes advantage of the fact that you can always be found in one corner of the office. Unlike all your other coworkers, who like to roam and chat, you’re always in the same space, unless Bora drags you out.

And she does, slamming her palms down on either side of your desk. You don’t flinch, and she says lowly, “I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, but did you have to mess up my sticky notes?” you attempt to joke. Bora just grabs your wrist to tug you out of the office, leading you straight to her car without a word to anyone else. “Bora. Bora, what is this about?”

She takes a breath as soon as the two of you are sitting down, your eyes completely trained on her as she says, “Siyeon said something.”

“Oh. I’m assuming you aren’t engaged, then?”

“What- no. No, nothing close,” Bora sighs. “I tried making a sacrifice like you told me to, because I thought she wanted to get married. Spoiler, she doesn’t.”

You groan, placing your head in your hands. “Bora, that isn’t what I meant.”

Siyeon’s words about you understanding ‘sacrifice’ ring in the other woman’s head, but Bora stays silent and lets you continue, “Look, sacrifice in a relationship doesn’t mean literally sacrificing your own wants and stuff. It means accommodating the person you love, going out of your way to do nice things without doing damage to yourself.”

“Like you do?” Bora’s voice is soft, almost too soft for you to catch, but you do hear it. 

And instead of an adverse reaction, instead of denying it, you nod. “Yeah.”

Silence fills the car, and you don’t dare to raise your head. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I don’t think I ever knew.”

“No, I know you didn’t.” You sigh and reach over to fiddle with the keychain you left on the passenger door handle. “I mean, you were so in love when we met. And now...”

“I’m not,” she finishes.

You shrug, “Well, that’s up to you to figure out. You’ve figured me out, anyway. And I’ve waited this long, I won’t blame you for whatever decision you do make.”

“What if you didn’t have to wait?”

Bora suddenly remembers the box sitting in her pocket, and digs it out. She doesn’t know if it’ll fit your finger, or if you’ll even like it, but it’s spontaneous, and Bora thinks it’s the way that things should be. “Take it,” she offers, “as a promise. I know what I have to do, but I want to promise to you that... I’ll come back to you. And I think I should promise that I’ll start loving you the way you’ve loved me.”

You take the box gently, and as light as it is, Bora feels a weight taken away. You’ve always had that effect on her, after all. “Okay. I accept your promise, and I’ll wait. For you.”

The ring is a little tight, and you put it on your pinky instead of the normal fingers, but it feels secure. It feels like Bora will keep her promise this time, to both her and you.

[daisiesonafield-blog]

That Vogue article is so over the top. Look I liked Booksmart, I’ve seen it several times but I’d hardly call it a total triumph. It did well critically, but it was definitely a box office dud. I think Olivia picks a lot of really cool projects and How It Ends looks interesting too. I like Zoe Lister Jones & its smart for Olivia to be working with other female writer/directors, so I am still just struggling to understand why this stunt seemed like the only way to go. It just seems like the complete opposite vibe of the serious indie filmaker she seems to want no matter how dire the situation the industry is in.

I haven’t seen Booksmart, and I honestly didn’t even know she had switched to directing until DWD came into the fandom’s radar. But yeah, I’ve read Booksmart was well received but didn’t do that well $$ wise:

Nonetheless I think the thing to get from Booksmart is that she was able to establish herself as a filmmaker and director.

And as for Olivia trying to establish herself as an indie filmmaker - I disagree. She only had 1 project under her directing belt, and Don’t Worry Darling doesn’t strike me as an indie film. It very much strikes me as a blockbuster psychological thriller, similar to Gone Girl or The Girl on the Train or Get Out. 

All those movies had a comparatively small budget but did very well in the box office, and were very well received by critics (though ‘The girl on the train’ got some mixed reviews).

Gone Girl:

The girl on the train:

Get Out:

Don’t Worry Darling was a coveted project, and they got a “small budget” compared to two of the above, but they are definitely hoping for a similar return. Their budget is ~$20 million dollars. This isn’t indie film realm. This is Blockbuster realm.

What is more: Olivia and the producers stand to get 50% of the movie profits after it breaks even:

The movie has 5 producers, so assuming those are all the people in the back-end deal, 50% of the money after the first $20M earned goes to them.

So taking ‘The girl in the train’ as an example since it got the lowest box office of the 3:

They got ~$173M in the box office, take the $20M investment off, then 50% of the remainder is $76.5M. Split equally between the 5 producers, it’s $15.3 MILLION DOLLARS. That’s how much Olivia would earn from the movie taking ‘The girl in the train’ as an example.

That’s a shit ton of money. For comparison, Olivia’s current net worth is estimated to be around $20M. And net worth is not the same as the money in her bank/at her disposal. So she stands to earn just as much as she is currently worth, potentially ‘doubling her wealth’ in one paycheck. 

If the movie does even better, they all stand to earn even more millions of dollars.

And money aside, this is their careers too. Booksmart was a relatively small project, but it got Olivia on the map with acclaim. Don’t Worry Darling is the project she hopes will launch her directing career into ‘stardom’ if you will, and place her alongside big directing names. She has a lot invested in this project too.

And all of this doesn’t even account for the studio yet. They have A LOT riding on this movie. They NEED it to do well, so they will make sure it does. They invested $20M, so they need a good profit from it. And since the film industry is suffering right now, they will do anything and everything to ensure they maximize their profit.

Hollywood has lost BILLIONS of dollars. BILLIONS, so they’re scrambling to make sure they start making a real profit off of upcoming movies. 

[2020 had] the lowest showing since the early 1980s, if not the late 1970s, and that's before adjusting for inflation:

In the grand scheme of things this movie and its promotion don’t hurt Olivia and her brand or career. Her brand is bold, independent, adventurous and, as she put it, “bad ass woman”. And with her move toward directing, she set out as someone wanting to put women on the same table as the big Hollywood directors and players, as someone paving the way for women in that area. So this movie doing well will only help her get there. So she will make sure the movie does well for this reason too.

And even with all the hype and anticipation this movie was getting, with Olivia carrying the woman-director torch, the praise about the script, the unheard of deal DWD got - breaking records, and the cast with great recognizable names, THEY STILL NEED TO GET THE PUBLIC INVESTED AND PROMO THE SHIT OUT OF THIS MOVIE.

PROMO IS NECESSARY. It’s standard. They aren’t reinventing the wheel with this stunt. This is the big guns here. There’s no half-assing the potential success of this film. And promo like this is publicity gold. And that’s what Hollywood needs right now.

[sylviapak]

Hello hi hey it’s Melissa again :’ ) and here is Sylvia Pak aka Silver. 

Bio bits, kinda long so I bolded for the TL;DR version: 

Granny’s a banshee

Mom’s a dentist for vampires — sometimes Sylvia helps out (mostly cleaning) when staff’s short even though the practice belongs to some real piece of work assholes, Doctors Roth and Vernon Nice, with their UV white grins and tight pockets. Sylvia can’t remember the last time her mom took a day off (her father too for that matter), not that you’d be able to tell it from their humble abode in Wailing Waters. 

Dad’s a self-proclaimed “Trash Pirate” aka he works for the city’s waste management, mostly clearing out houses and apartments where tenants have been evicted or have died. Occasionally he’ll get lucky and they’ll be clearing out an estate. As a kid Sylvia always begged to come along on those days, but of course he never allowed it. Growing up, instead they’d spend weekends together selling some of the more useful junk (or, rarely, something of actual worth) from their stall at the outdoor marketplace. Every week it feels harder to make the time now. She hasn’t been in a while.

Her older brother, Kai, worked in the mines until he was caught in a random search with pocketed ethereum and sent to prison; she doesn’t understand how a city with a murder rate as high as its humidity can justify prison for a first time thieving offense, but that’s capitalism baby. The worst part? He was stealing it for Granny. Who in her early years surrounded herself with friends, and now finds her late years full of deaths as a consequence. Deaths she’d rather not foretell with a wail at every card game or bingo night. 

She never could have anticipated that the @silverscream account would grow the way it did when she first tapped her credentials in on a tempered glass screen without a care. She was depressed then. Her brother, and best friend in many regards, was in the Bloodhearth Penitentiary; her parents worked to exhaustion daily; she ate crap food from crap vendors if she remembered to eat at all. Sylvia felt so dull. So she gave herself a little polish. A mask, maybe. A persona. She called it: Silver. 

At first she was posting video game streams and rants that no one gave a shit about, and she was having fun because she liked both of those things and she was good at them. But it’s just a few months later and suddenly she has #sponsored paychecks depositing to her previously overdrafted account, and her inbox is full of invites to parties Sylvia thought only existed in the movies. And for what? Copying a few goofy dances wearing a shitty brand’s freebies, playing a video game she’s honestly so sick of, and misleadingly citing her banshee Granny to validate totally bogus fortune readings sent out via algorithm to whomever is most susceptible to believing the nonsense. #fairfortunefriday! 

She’s not complaining—who could when brands are sending free shit to your door, that’s right your door, not your parents door but your door—it just isn’t the life she saw for herself, content as she was to sit next to her dad under a popup and resell one man’s trash as another’s treasure. The account was intended as an anonymous escape, but Silver doesn’t feel very anonymous anymore. Silver, who is always glued to her phone and engaging at peak hours, posing and posturing for the optimal angle on anything, whatever brings in a few more paychecks and keeps the rent covered on her tiny apartment with #views… located directly above the Obsidian City fishmonger. At least it’s picture perfect (and it isn’t the family home in Wailing Waters). At least she can put money on Kai’s books and know he’s got a fighting chance of making it to the other side of his sentence at Bloodhearth Penitentiary.

[whew-oh-em-gee]

The green-eyed monster

Warnings: the green eyed monster, of course! Implied smut and a couple of swear words. Oh! And me attempting to put in song references.

Jake Gyllenhaal x Fem!reader

I hope you enjoy it!

Jealousy, also referred to by many as the green-eyed monster, is the act of feeling or showing a resentful suspicion that one's partner is attracted to or involved with someone else.

You had never really been the jealous type. Never. However, something about this situation was very different. Could it be because this was not an event you were familiar with? Could it be because the lady affectionately laughing while placing her hand on your boyfriend’s chest, was capable of buying most of your possessions, if not all of them, with half of her paycheck? Or could it be because your insecurities about how you looked, despite being told you looked gorgeous by your boyfriend, suddenly decided to make themselves known?

Whatever the reason was, you were jealous. And that was that.

Now the question is, how did you get here in the first place?

4 hours ago

“Don’t fret. You look gorgeous, honey! “ you boyfriend exclaimed, finally exhausted by the number of questions you asked about how you looked, while you were having a mini freak out in front of the full body length mirror in your shared bedroom. Jake genuinely thought you looked amazing in anything you wore and it irks him whenever you don’t acknowledge that as well.

Noticing the hint of expiration in his tone, you apologized.

“I’m sorry. I just...” you paused, sighing, as you tried to find the right words. “I just don’t want to let you down. There are going to be a lot of extremely beautiful women there and I don’t want to stick out like a sore thumb. Especially since this is going to be the first event we’re going to together.”

With a light chuckle, Jake pressed his lips to your forehead.

“You worry too much. You look wonderful and I don’t care about all the other women because you are the only beautiful woman I’ll see.” He said, cupping your face his big hands and stroking your cheeks with his thumbs.

You smiled and tried your best not to cry because of how sweet Jake was being. You weren’t ready to mess up your make up because it was time consuming and quite expensive.

“I love you.” You finally uttered after a moment of silence, consisting of you two staring into each other’s eyes.

“I love you too, baby. Now come on. We’re gonna be late.” Jake murmured before taking your hand and tugging you out of the room and out of your shared apartment towards the rented car that was waiting for you outside.

Half an hour later, you both found yourself in the midst of many well-known actors, directors and producers. Jake pulled you along as he greeted the people he recognized and introduced you to them, if they hadn’t met you already.

“Hubby!” you heard a familiar voice call out, over the loud party music that was playing. You knew that voice quite well. Maybe too well.

Tom Holland that proud owner of the voice, accompanied by Zendaya, made his way to you and Jake.

“Well, well, well isn’t it my prodigal husband.” Jake joked as he embraced to in a side hug. Meanwhile you and Zendaya, who has become close friends the moment you met each other some time ago, smothered each other with kisses as you giggled in unison.

The four of you spent the next hour cracking jokes, while catching up with each other’s lives. That was until you were interrupted

“Jacob,” a feminine voice purred “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

All the attention moved to where the voice came from.

“Joey! Hi! It has been a while.” Jake responded, hugging her.

Zendaya looked at you with a raised eyebrow as ‘Jo’, as Jake affectionately called her started conversing with him.

You shrugged in response, answering her silent question. You had no idea who this newcomer was.

“Oh how could I forget?! Tom, Z, Y/N, this is Jolene, an old friend.” Jake introduced.

Jolene? How fitting. You suddenly felt Dolly Parton’s pain when she sang her song with the same title as this lady’s name.

Jolene giggled. “Old friend? Is that what you call all your exes now?”

“You knew what I meant, Jo.” Jake rolled his eyes playfully.

She let out more giggles.

You opened your mouth to say ‘hi’ but you were interrupted by Jolene talking again.

“Oh my god, Jacob! You absolutely have to meet someone.” She pulled Jake away from your group and towards whoever she wanted him to meet.

You blinked rapidly, trying to process what just happened.

“That was…interesting.” Tom deadpanned, earning an elbow to the ribs from Z. “Hey!” he protested rubbing the spot he was hit.

You raised your head, looking up at the ceiling. “Y/N, what are you doing?” Z asked in confusion.

“I wanna cry but my foundation cost me thirty-five dollars.” You muttered, trying to blink away the tears that were forming.

Not today, Satan, not today.

Tom’s snort quickly morphed into another exclamation of pain when he got elbowed at the same spot again by the same person.

“Aww hun, you don’t need to cry. It’s not worth it?” Z asked rubbing your back soothingly.

“His ex does seem kinda bossy, to be honest.”

Z gasped, “Thomas Stanley Holland, the next time you do something that will make the situation worse, I. Will. End. You.”

“It’s alright, Z” you sighed, as you fished through your purse to find anything to help you with keeping the tears as bay, “He’s right.”

“I think I’m going to talk to him.” Tom said, leaving before any of you could react.

Z turned to you “Y/N-“

“No, no.” you butted in “It’s okay! I’m okay! I’m just going to head home.”

Oh boy, were you lying.

Who were you kidding? She was beautiful! All Jake’s exes probably were the same. What did he see in you anyway? Why did you decide to come here at all? Ugh! Jolene, please don’t take my man.

Finally, bringing your head down to its original position, you dubbed your eyes gently and put your brave face on and made your way to the exit.

You were not going to cry here. You were not going to cry here. You were not going to cry-

“Y/N!” You heard you boyfriend’s voice shout from afar.

You stood still, taking a deep breath.

You can do this Y/N. Elsa was able to do it. Don’t forget. Conceal, don’t feel. Don’t let him know.

“Y/N.” you heard him again, only closer this time.

You opened your eyes and there he stood, right in front of you, in all his handsome glory.

“Where are you going, love?” Jake asked with a slight tilt of his head.

“You seemed very much occupied with that Jolene of yours so I decided to head home.”

Jake raised an eyebrow.

And now he knows. Fuck.

“Really? That sounds like-“

“Yes, Jacob. I am jealous because she’s extremely pretty and you are probably still attracted to her.”

Let it goooo, let it goooo. Can’t hold it back anymore. Damn, you feel so much like Elsa right now. Why on earth were you thinking about Frozen anyway?!

“Babe!” he laughed, stunned at your revelation. “What did I tell you before we left the apartment?”

You sighed.

“I know it’s just… I don’t feel like I’m enough for you sometimes and coming here just makes me feel like I’m not enough for you all the time.”

Jake shook his head, sighing, and pulled out his phone without a word.

“What are you doing?” you asked, curious.

“I’m getting us an Uber.”

“Why?”

“It looks like someone has to have all her insecurities fucked out of her.”

You blanched and looked around.

“Jacob!” you whisper-yelled between clenched teeth looking around to check if anyone had heard what he said.

He placed a hand on each of your shoulders. “I love you so, so, so much. Please don’t let anyone including yourself make you think otherwise. You won my heart fair and square and you own it, baby. Besides, Jolene is married anyway. ”

“What?! Really?”

“Yeah. “He chuckled.

“She took me to meet her wife. Honestly, it was quite boring. I felt like I was third wheeling. I’m glad Tom saved me.”

“I’m sorry.” You pouted.

“It’s alright, babe.” He said offering his hand which you took “Come on, let’s get of here.”

 ……………………………………………………………………………………………

Bonus

“So…your inner green-monster came out, huh.” Your boyfriend whispered as you two cuddled in bed, in your pajamas.

“Jacob, it is 2 am .Why are you thinking about THAT at 2 am?”

    Author’s note: I really don't know what to feel about this. I loved writing it, though! I would love to hear from you! What do you think about it?