#are going to cost AT LEAST A HUNDRED DOLLARS

[oscargender]

I don’t know shit about harps

[cetoddle-archive]

i start my new job monday and haven't fixed my sleep schedule at all. yippee

[eugeniedanglars]

*emerges from the amtrak ticket buying experience shaking and covered in blood* actually i think i’ll fly. fuck the environment

[suncaptor]

I am a bitch (just accused my apartment complex of being predatory and unethical for denying me several kinds of renter's rights and charging me hundreds of dollars unfairly while I'm still living there)

[samwisefamgee]

why does everything in the universe cost so much

[iamsecretlyabagel]

I get that they have to pay the instructors but why is it costing me almost $110 to get CPR certified

[phantomrose96]

I've mentioned this thing in tags before but I've decided fuck it, it should be its own post.

I've seen this sentiment lumped into Eat the Rich posts which goes like "if you're worth more than $1 million I think you should die" and I think tumblr users need to know this is not the Eat the Rich statement they think it is.

Someone being worth $1 million doesn't mean what you think it means.

A 71-year-old widow who bought a single-family 2,000 sqft home in Somerville Massachusetts with her husband 40 years ago to raise their family in, who now lives in this home all alone because her children are grown and her husband is dead, is--without a shadow of a doubt--worth more than $1 million. Maybe even $1.5 or $2 million. And it's because of her home equity, because that's what single family homes go for these days in that area.

The 71-year-old widow may be living pension check to pension check, because her millionaire status can only be dipped into if she's removed from her home and sells it. And if it's the home she's loved for 40 years, where she simply wants to live out the rest of her time peacefully in, I wouldn't put her to the guillotine for that.

Maybe that comes off as an extreme example, like that's just an outlier of the "we hate millionaires" agenda. But I don't think it truly is. I'll scale back and tell you the median U.S. home price right now is about $430,000. And that's just median. Half of them are more expensive than that.

The statement "I think people should be able to afford to buy and own the homes they live in" is, I would desperately hope, not a radical statement to anyone on Tumblr. I think that's a pretty well-received idea. So someone who's done that, who's bought their home and worked many years to pay off the mortgage and now owns it fully, is worth close to half a million dollars on average. Many of them more than that, as many areas rapidly gentrify and drive up housing worth.

Statement 2: "I think people deserve to have a retirement fund which would comfortably support them through end of life." Too radical for anyone? I hope not. And I won't pretend to be an expert on how much retirement money is ideal. I'm sure it varies with cost of living in places. But considering this is money which, ideally, should support someone for the remaining 10-20 years of life (money which may be necessary to cover the absolutely crippling medical costs of end-of-life treatment) I'd bet it's well into the many hundreds of thousands. Even if someone was simply living off $30k/year of take home money and just making that work, then 15 years of retirement, costing $30k/year, plus maybe $50k+ of end-of-life medical costs... That's at least $500k.

Which is all to say, if you show me someone approaching retirement age who's "worth" $1 million dollars, my hope would be that their house is paid off and their retirement fund is comfortable. I'd be happy for them. I would want this for them.

Even that may not be true, though. Someone "worth" $1 million maybe owns a paid-off house which has rapidly appreciated to being worth $900k, and their $100k in retirement is something they're trying to stretch through end of life. Maybe someone worth $1 million owns a house which has ballooned to $1.1 million, and they're in fact $100k in debt.

And the fact that SO many Americans will never even meet this bar is significantly more appalling to me than the existence of people worth more than $1 million. "I own my home and can retire comfortably" is a bar we want every American to meet. I want more millionaires who are millionaires because they meet these criteria.

If Nana Somerville's house burns down tomorrow, she'll have lost everything. If a billionaire were to similarly lose $1 million of worth, he would not feel it. That's a fickle day at the stock market. That's Tuesday. That's the rich which desperately needs to be eaten.

[cy-cyborg]

Tips for wring amputees: its ok if your amputee can't repair their own prosthetics

There's a trope in fiction for amputees to always be these mechanical geniuses who can make and repair their own prosthetics, endlessly tinkering away and improving them. This isn't a particularly trope, and i dont think its harmful or anything, but in reality, prosthetics are REALLY, REALLY complicated, and a lot of amputees cant do their own repairs. And thats ok. Like, prosthetic creation and repair is way, way harder than I think people expect. Well outside the skillset of your standard mechanic, handy man or craftsperson.

People who make and repair prosthetics are called prosthetists. To become a prosthetist, most countries around the world today require you to have completed a bachelor's degree in specifically in prosthetics and orthotics, which covers not only how to make a prosthetics (and orthodics) but a great deal of medical knowledge, physics, how different forces impact "non-standard" bodies, the additional biological wear-and-tear that comes with being an amputee and so much more. This will qualify you to do the job of fitting/making the prosthetic socket (the part that attaches to your body) and putting premade components together to make a functioning device. On top of this, many prosthetists are also expected to have artistic skills, sewing skills, good physical strength and dexterity, IT skills, and more recently, knowledge of 3D modelling and printing.

You want to make all the high-tech components the prosthetists put together to make the full prosthetic? The requirements for that vary country to country, but most will require at least some level study in the field of engineering and/or medicine, on top of what was already required for the prosthetics course.

The reason for all this is because even "basic" prosthetics are extremely finicky, and messing up one thing will have a domino effect on the rest of the body, especially in more complicated prosthetics. It can also result in people getting severally injured if anything is even slightly off. many leg amputees for example end up with spinal issues due to extremely minor issues with their prosthetic that weren't caught until years later, and by then the damage had been done.

Some amputees do learn to do basic repairs. This is most common in places like the US, where a visit to the prosthetist can cost hundred to thousands of dollars (depending on your insurance), but it's also quite common in rural parts of countries like Australia, where cost isn't an issue but access is due to vast distances between major cities. I was personally in this category; as a kid, my nearest prosthetist was 6 hours away. My prosthetist was able to teach my dad, who later taught me, how to do some of the simple repairs, but we still needed to go in every few weeks for the more complex stuff (Kids prosthetic need more adjusting than adults because they're still growing. Also I was rough on my prosthetics and broke them a lot lol).

But even after being taught how to do repairs and having my prosthetics for 20+ years, I only ever did these sorts of repairs to my below-knee prosthetic. I will not do any repairs of any kind to my above knee leg, which is much more technologically complex. Every time I tried, I made it worse to the point where the leg was unusable. I just leave those repairs to the guy who went to university to learn how to do it, and sometimes even he needs to send it off to someone with even more specialist knowledge when it's really badly messed up lol. Last time that happened Australia post lost the package. Not really relevant to this post, I just find the idea of it being sent to the wrong place by accident hilarious, it was one of my more realistic legs too so someone probably had a heart attack when they opened that package lmao.

Anyway, back on track lol.

This isn't even touching on the fact that on some more advanced prosthetics, many features are actually locked behind a security barrier only prosthetists can access. My prosthetic knee has an app on my phone I can pair it to, that allows me to change certain settings and swap between certain modes for different activities that tell the leg to change its behaviour depending on what I'm doing (e.g. a mode for running, a mode for cycling etc). but most of the more in-depth settings I can't access, only my prosthetist can, and he can only gain access to those settings with a security key given to him by the manufacturing company that requires him to provide proof of his credentials to receive it. I don't really agree with this btw, something about being locked out of my own leg's settings makes me feel a bit of an ick, but it's set up like this because people used to be able to access these settings and they would mess with things to the point their leg was virtually unusable. Because altering one setting had a domino effect on all the others, and a lot of folks weren't really paying attention to what they were messing with, all their prosthetists could do was factory reset the whole leg, which causes some issues too. Prosthetic arms are often similarly complex, as I understand it and have similar security barriers in place for more advanced arms. I don't know for sure though, so take that with a grain of salt.

All this to say these are incredibly delicate, finicky and complex pieces of equipment. There's nothing wrong with having a techy amputee character who can do their own repairs, but in reality, that is pretty rare, and its ok to have your character need to see a prosthetist or someone more knowledgeable than them. It's a part of the amputee experience I don't see reflected very often in media. In fact, the only examples I can think of in fiction (meaning not stories based on real people) where this is reflected are Full metal alchemist.

technically I think Subnautica Below Zero also mentions prosthetists are a thing in that world, but its a very "blink and you'll miss it" kind of thing...in fact I did miss it until my last playthrough lol.

[tvseries-writings]

Elevators are deadly traps

Wandanat x reader

Plot: You and your girlfriends get trapped in the elevator but the heat makes you faint and Wanda is not the biggest fan of small, enclosed spaces.

TW: fainting, panic attack

You never believed that drinking water was so necessary; you were never a big drinker and although Wanda always told you, nay, begged you, to drink at least the necessary amount you never listened to her but maybe you should have today.

You watch the busy streets of New York, listening to Natasha and Wanda talk while your eyes don't leave for a moment the view that lurks outside the window of the expensive car that only the black widow, of the three of you, dares to drive; you've never even been a great driver...Let alone drive a car that costs two hundred thousand dollars in the busiest city in the world.

The 93 F makes the asphalt scorching, much more than usual; it is so hot that the air ripples from the heat, distorting the images that pass before your eyes.

Natasha turns right and the Avengers tower enters your view, towering over all the buildings around it. It is not the most beautiful building in New York, contrary to what Tony likes to think, but it is definitely the one that makes you feel the safest.

“Is everything okay malyshka?” Natasha looks at you from the mirror, raising her sunglasses for a few seconds to get a better look at you.

“Yes Nat.”

You lean forward, ending up between the two seats and leaving a kiss on the cheek first to the former spy and then to the Sokovian who turns around at the exact moment you turn toward her to receive a real kiss.

“Hey, that's not fair. Next time one of you will drive.”

Natasha moans, giving you a weak elbow in the side that makes you and Wanda pull away.

“Oh come on Nat, you'll be rewarded” Wanda smiles mischievously, letting her hand slide down the blonde's thigh.

You sit back down, giving them an amused look but as you do so, dizziness makes you close your eyes for a few seconds. Apparently the heat has affected you more than you thought since you've risen just a couple of inches.

“Detka?”

Wanda turns to you, her head tilted slightly to the side as she is wont to do when the Sokovian is angry or worried.

“Yes?”

You open your eyes, smiling as if the nausea isn't wearing you down and the dizziness isn't making you sway even while sitting up.

“Are you okay?”

The car stops, you have probably entered the tower garage but you are so focused on not letting her notice that you are sick that you are not completely sure.

“Yes, of course, why?”

Wanda looks at you as if the answer is obvious but before she has a chance to retort, the driver's side door is thrown open by a rather pissed off Iron Man.

“Natasha, I've told you a million times not to take this car, it costs a fortune.”

“I know, Stark, but I remind you that I always told you I'd keep taking it since you bought it. Although I must admit, I'd like to find the keys in the car already and not have to bypass your office's fallacious security system to get them.”

Natasha smiles, stepping out of the car and tossing the keys toward the multimillionaire; the man rolls his eyes, stuffing the keys in his pocket before walking away at a brisk pace, muttering something about “having to implement anti-widow security systems.”

“You're terrible Nat, you'll drive him crazy.”

You say with a smirk, opening the door in turn; you just sit there, still not trusting your body to keep you stable.

Wanda comes around the car and quickly joins you.

Although you are inside the garage, the temperature is just below that outside and certainly much higher than it was inside the car.

“Are you sure you're okay y/n? You're a little pale” Natasha places a hand on your right cheek and you lean into her touch, turning a reassuring smile to her.

“I'm fine Nat, let's go home. If I'm not mistaken, someone needs to be compensated for her chauffeuring services.”

Your joke seems to make her relax a little, and that gives you the confidence to finally put one foot on the ground. You get up and despite the dizziness that hits you as soon as you do, you manage to hide it masterfully, heading toward the elevator with your girls. Although it is only a few meters, when you enter inside it feels like you have traveled at least twenty kilometers.

“J.A.R.V.I.S. take us to the forty-seventh floor please.”

“Right away Ms. Romanoff.”

As soon as the elevator doors close, you lean against the handrail placed on the wall behind you praying that your condition will not worsen. You observe Wanda out of the corner of your eye; the Sokovian hates elevators but is well aware that she cannot climb forty-seven flights of stairs therefore, after an animated conversation about why she could not use her powers to do so, you had convinced her to use that “infernal contraption”-as she likes to call it-to reach your floor.

A loud roar diverts your attention away from the girl, and before you can figure out what's going on, the elevator suddenly stops; if it weren't for Natasha's lightning-fast reflexes, your face would surely be splattered on the floor or the metal wall in front of you, considering the gigantic size of the elevator. Big Tower big elevator, as Tony likes to say.

“Are you all right?”

Natasha watches you both, helps you to your feet and then draws Wanda into a hug.

“Honey, it's okay, the elevator will probably start working again in a few seconds.”

Wanda nods and does not even give you a glance; she is totally focused on not panicking completely. She hates elevators and now she is hating you too since you forced her into them.

Ten minutes pass and you are still stuck inside the elevator. The temperature, which was previously kept under control by the air conditioning, has risen considerably and the dizziness is only getting worse so, although you are the only one, you decide to sit down in the hope that this will help.

The former spy's phone that suddenly and, when Natasha answers, Tony's voice rings out in the metal box you are stuck in.

“Hey Nat, there you see, there's a little problem, I may have knocked out the power to like well...all of Manhattan so you're going to be there for a while but I'm working on it okay? All right, see you later.”

Natasha is not in time to insult him that Tony ends the call. Natasha mumbles something in Russian and although you know few words of her native tongue, you are pretty sure they are not compliments she is paying him.

Wanda's hand is clasped between yours and you speak words of comfort to her as sweat beads your foreheads. You and Natasha take turns, trying to keep her breathing under control; the Sokovian has had panic attacks before and the last thing you need is for her to have one right now.

“Because I let you talk me into it,” Wanda whines, squeezing your hand before standing up abruptly, starting to pace back and forth in the elevator as her breathing quickens.

“Wanda, love, it will be okay, I know you hate elevators but-”

Natasha gets up to join her and you do the same but realize the shit you've done too late; in fact, it takes less than ten seconds for your body to fall to the floor with a thud.

“Y/N!”

Both Natasha and Wanda scream in shock.

“Honey, open your eyes malyshka come on.”

Natasha falls to her knees beside you, placing your head on top of her legs and shaking your sweat-soaked hair from your forehead.

“D-detka open your eyes.”

Wanda caresses your cheeks and although she is still in a panic, she makes an effort to keep herself lucid for at least a few more seconds.

You blink a few times, and when you open your eyes, the metal of the ceiling reminds you where you are.

“Hey, take it easy, Wands do you have any water?”

Natasha whispers, continuing to caress your face as Wanda frantically searches through her bag before shaking her head. Her breathing is quickening again and she is far too quiet to be Wanda.

“I'm fine,” you whisper and then give the blonde a look that admits no reply as you wave her over to your girlfriend.

“You're not fine, you just fainted, you're probably dehydrated, and we're going to be stuck here for who knows how much longer.”

Natasha regrets what she said as soon as she hears a whimper coming from the sokovian before the latter falls to the floor, burying her head between her knees as you clearly hear her breathing shorten alarmingly. Natasha quickly removes her shirt and rests it under your head before moving toward Wanda.

“Don't try to get up y/n, just stand there, I got this.”

You watch her walk over to the sorceress and gently touch her arm.

“Wands, hey, it's me. You have to breathe love, I know it's hard but you have to do it.”

Natasha strokes her back and Wanda's breathing seems to calm slightly as she lifts her head to look at you.

“There you are, good girl, now follow my breathing. In and out, in and out. So good.”

As Natasha focuses on Wanda, you quickly assess your condition before sitting up and trudging toward them.

“I told you not to get up.”

“I'm sitting up and feeling better Nat.”

You whisper, holding Wanda tightly in a hug and letting her listen to your heart beat at a steady pace.

“You are so stubborn, you-”

Another roar brings her to a halt and then, to your relief, the elevator starts up again. In two minutes, the elevator arrives on your floor and when the doors open, Natasha gives you a worried look-Wanda is massaging her chest while you are still sitting on the floor with a complexion so pale as to make the dead envious.

“Wands, do you feel up to walking?”

The Sokovian nods but Natasha equally encircles her hips with her arm before ushering her toward your bedroom but not before issuing you a warning.

“Don't try to move, don't even think about it.”

You watch them walk to the end of the hallway and extend your leg to block the elevator door sensor. As soon as you see them disappear from your sight, you close your eyes and lean your head against the wall behind you, trying to counteract the dizziness and nausea.

After a few minutes you hear hurried footsteps and then a glass is pressed to your lips.

“Drink malyshka,” Natasha whispers, tilting the glass and helping you drink the water inside. When you finish it, Natasha sets the glass on the floor before taking your face in her hands; you stay like this for a few minutes before she speaks.

“Can you get up?”

You nod to her, and after a few seconds, the Russian encircles your sides with her arms and lifts you off the floor, checking you during every step you take to your bedroom.

“How about I call Bruce? At least he'll take a look at you...”

You shake your head and in doing so lean even more against Natasha.

“No, I'm fine Nat. I just drank a little water, that's all.”

Natasha sighs yet does not retort, helping you sit down next to Wanda.

Although you are still lightheaded and dizzy, your stomach twists as you see how much Wanda is still shaken by what has happened.

“Hey love, how are you feeling?”

You reach out to her, taking her hand and intertwining your fingers. Wanda turns to you as soon as she hears your voice and hides her head in the crook of your neck; you leave a few kisses in her hair before the Sokovian speaks.

“I'm fine, I'm sorry for-”

“No, hey, you don't have to apologize, you know it's not something we control. Neither Tasha nor I do, did you ever tell us to apologize for that?”

Wanda shakes her head and both you and Natasha nod.

“That's right honey, so never apologize for that okay?”

Natasha sits on Wanda's other side as Wanda pulls away from you and lies down on the bed, motioning for you to get on her side. You are about to do so but a sharp dizziness causes you to desist and swing dangerously to the side; Wanda's grip on your shirt prevents a disastrous fall.

“Hey y/n, hey!...Nat, did you give her sugar?”

Wanda sits up to support you better as she watches Natasha shake her head.

“No, I...I just gave her water, now I'm going to get it.”

You want to protest but you can't, you can't even keep your eyes open.

“Detka, honey drink this. It will help you.”

Natasha hands Wanda the glass with water and sugar and the Sokovian places it on your lips helping you drink every last sip; after a few minutes the sugar finally takes effect.

“Do you feel better?”

Wanda whispers, drawing small circles on your back as you open your eyes. You nod slowly, resting your head on Natasha's shoulder and turning a small smile to the Sokovian.

“I really think we should all get some rest, and we'll call Bruce later.”

Natasha leaves a kiss on your temple, giving you a look that clearly indicates how much you cannot retort at the moment. From the look on Wanda's face, she agrees too so you surrender to your girls, letting them tuck you in before hugging you on both sides.

“Rest, I love you,” Natasha lets you both have a kiss before lying down and closing your eyes. You reciprocate her “I love you” before following suit.

You three may be a mess but you are definitely a good trio.

Thank you for reading! This piece sucks but I wanted to write something and will probably delete it later anyway...thanks and have a great day!

Support me on ko-fi

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[incorrectdccomicquotes]

Scarecrow: *evil laughter*

Robin: Congratulations on taking over the US healthcare system, doctor.

Scarecrow: All it took was a little elbow grease, and a comically large space laser.

Robin: So what’s your plan now?

Scarecrow: I’ll do what I do best: I’m going to make it evil! I’ll start by squeezing cash out of the chronically sick by charging exorbitant prices for their medicine. Diabetics will have to pay me a hundred - no - two hundred dollars for their insulin! *more evil laughter*

Robin: They… already do that.

Scarecrow: What?

Robin: Insulin already costs at least that much.

Scarecrow: Really? Two hundred dollars?

Batman: It’s closer to three hundred.

Scarecrow: Wow, okay. Diabolical. Guess the US beat me to the punch there.

Robin: They certainly beat you to punching diabetics.

Scarecrow: It’s fine. I have plenty of other great, evil ideas. Next, I’ll make treatment impossible to access by ensuring the hospitals are understaffed. And I’ll do this by limiting the number of people who are even allowed to become doctors! *even more evil laughter*

Robin: They do that, too.

Scarecrow: What? There’s no way.

Robin: Do you remember having to do a residency to become a doctor?

Scarecrow: Well, I’m not a medical doctor, exactly. I have a PhD in women’s studies…

Robin: Women’s studies?

Scarecrow: Being an evil dictator doesn’t exclude me from being a feminist, Boy Wonder.

Robin: Right… Well, you have to complete a residency at a hospital to become a physician. But the funds for hiring residents are provided by the US government. So the number of available resident programs (thus doctors) is decided by the Congress’ budget.

Scarecrow: So not only did they only do my evil thing, they did it in a more sinister and more subtle way.

Robin: Basically.

Scarecrow: I’m not sure if I should be proud of my country or disgusted by it.

Robin: Maybe both.

Scarecrow: Seems as though I’ll have to do something truly despicable to defeat the US government. In that case, I’ll make sure that the only people who can even afford healthcare are the ones who work for companies that benefit my economic interests!

Batman: That’s called insurance.

Scarecrow: Uhh, and I’ll let the hospitals deny treatment entirely to those who don’t have the correct insurance!

Robin: …

Scarecrow: No!

Robin: Yep.

Scarecrow: Oh my god.

Batman: You have some tough competition.

Scarecrow: They’ve already done every evil thing. Next, you’re going to tell me the hospitals are straight up racist.

Robin: Funny you should say that. According to recent research -

Scarecrow: Stop! I don’t wanna know! Ugh, all this information is making me feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack!

Robin: Should I call an ambulance?

Scarecrow: No, it’ll cost too much! Screw this, I can’t be more cartoonishly evil than the United States healthcare system. And I am literally a villain!

Robin: So what will you do?

Scarecrow: I’m just gonna take over something pure and free of corruption. Like uh, the US educational system!

Batman: Oh, boy.

[queenofthearchipelago]

Long Rant about the Watcher Thing

The thing about what's happening with Watcher is that I'm a musician. I understand deeply the difficulties that come with an artist making their art and needing money and the relationship with the people that art is for. So I understand that Watcher needs money to pay their employees and maintain their business.

That said, they revealed that they have 25 employees (half of which are nepotism hires and friends from BuzzFeed) and that one episode of Ghost Files costs "hundreds of thousands of dollars." (Ghost Files being their most expensive show by bar, not their average spending habits per Watcher episode)

I understand from a few people I've seen who are in their Patreon that they make at least 100k per month from the patreon. And then there's the money they get from youtube itself from the views. And then there's the money they get from the ads.

Now I understand that Ryan said this decision came down to primarily 2 things: the ad companies were making them feel stifled with what they could do (which they don't explain how), and they want more money to be able to keep up a higher production quality.

I'm going to skip past the thing about the ads. They never specified how the ad companies were making them change their content in a way that made them feel unsatisfied. I can't speak or provide any opinions on why they want so badly to escape needing ad deals.

But I can talk about the higher production quality they speak of and that's specifically because Ryan said that they wanted to pay for a higher production quality FOR US. "For you guys."

We... we didn't ask for higher production. This is NOT a decision they need to make on our account. I understand and respect if they aren't creating on they level they want. But it's odd that they're speaking towards not being able to afford their current spending habits, as if this is something we asked them to do.

I've read a lot of comments about this and I agree with a lot of you that it's odd that this decision to switch to streaming coincides with the return of Worth It, a show that when produced by Steven, seems like it could easily cost just as much as Ghost Files to produce.

I understand why it feels like this is all Steven's fault. His vibes in the video today, compared to Ryan and Shane, made it seem like he was the most excited about it. It's Steven that has been highlighted multiple times as the business man, the one who makes the financial decisions. It's Steven's shows on Watcher that get canceled after one or two seasons, meanwhile Ryan and Shane's shows just keep going to 5 seasons and beyond.

Shane even said it explicitly, that there are "shows that didn't do as well on youtube, that might do better on a streaming service."

But most of the fans DO watch Watcher for Ryan and Shane, they always have. Steven's shows don't do as well. When Watcher brings in a new host and makes a new show for them, those shows do even worse.

I know this upsets Ryan, he's been very vocal about wanting Watcher to expand beyond himself and Shane. He wants his company to be successful regardless of whether he's in front of the camera or not.

But I feel like this step is trying to force it. Right now, this is still Ryan and Shane's channel. This is why we're here. The people haven't latched onto Steven as much, and the attempts to bring in new hosts have been unsuccessful.

There are lots of comments floating around about why Watcher didn't do what Rhett and Link did and open up youtube membership. Or why didn't they host more live events. Or why didn't they do more livestreams. These all could have been fantastic ideas that wouldn't betray the fans.

Because I do think they forgot that their fanbase is largely women in their 20s. People are right in bringing up the cost of living crisis, in bringing up how many subscription services we're already subscribed to. And my heart goes out to the international viewers who can't access the website at all in their country and the ones who can't afford it because Watcher forgot to consider the currency difference.

I feel that they have betrayed their fanbase. I remember when Watcher started and Ryan admitted he was scared no one would watch. And then we showed up for them because we loved them and what they did.

But now most of the fans can't or won't follow them where they're going. And I think Ryan might know this too from the way he said If this is goodbye, it's been fun.

I wish they would have tried other things before hard launching a streaming service. I wish they would have had a long game plan to get to the place they wanted to be as a company and as creatives.

I feel betrayed but I also don't want this company going bankrupt. If they go bankrupt, then we truly have lost them forever. I hope they take a look at the overwhelming backlash, at their falling subscriber numbers, and I hope they reconsider doing this.

[jarofstyles]

Lush

Hello my ducklings! Since we have been getting a lot of questions about our Patreon and what is included, we decided to give you guys peeks into the series we have exclusively on there. This is Lush, escort y/n x dark businessman H. There will be some twists and turns in this one, hot smut, a fake relationship and a possessive and slightly obsessive dark H- our favorite. This series will only be on Patreon but this is the first part to give you a taste!

Check out our Patreon for access to Lush and our other exclusive series + 100+ exclusive writings.

Warnings- escorting, mention of homelessness and money struggles, daddy kink etc

WC- 2.9k

-----

Y/N knew her job, and she did it well.

Sit still, look pretty. Perched on her favorite client’s lap, his strong thigh covered in a trouser that matched the blazer that probably cost more than she’d made in the last 3 months, she sipped her champagne quietly and ‘let the men talk.’

Harry Styles was an enigma. He had popped up a few weeks ago, bringing her to a dinner after a debriefing in a lux hotel in one of the bigger hotels on the Vegas strip. The window had overlooked it all, a penthouse that seemed to be used quite frequently considering the fridge had been stocked and he had socks stuffed in a drawer that she’d used later that night.

“I need you to sit on my lap, keep me company.” He had said plainly. The man was intimidating. Broad and tall, soft brown hair swept back and off his forehead. Stubble shadowing his face and over his lip, his features were sharp and his eyes a little harsh, but she could whole heartedly admit that he was the most attractive client she’d ever had. Being a year in after escaping a situation that was still haunting her nightmares, she had been eager to accept the higher paying and well vetted job she had, thank god, stumbled into. It wasn’t conventional, no, but nothing really was in Vegas.

“I can do that.” She replied, hands folded in her lap. He stood before her as she had sat on the couch, looking up at him as he spoke. “Is that all we’re doing in our time together?” To put it in a nicer way of asking. She could have bluntly asked if he was going to want sex, but she did try to at least have a little decorum- until the situation granted the freedom of it. It wasn’t uncommon for her and she was safe, tested, and generally did enjoy sex- but it was a job. This time, however, would probably be enjoyed more than she had in the past. A real attraction to the man would be helpful in many parts of making this more enjoyable.

“Who said that?” He rose a brow, looking down at her. It was a smoldering look but she couldn’t find it in herself to look away as he got closer and tilted her chin up. “I intend to take everything you’ll offer. I’d suggest canceling your plans for tomorrow.” She didn’t have to ask why. It was clear this man intended to fuck her, and fuck her well.

Spoiler- he did.  Harry had, for all intents and purposes, rocked her shit. So when she found his name on her books twice the next week, she hadn’t complained. She’d been excited, actually, considering she’d been able to feel the sting of her ass when she’d sat in the Lyft the next morning to take her to her apartment. Another good thing about him, she found as she looked in her purse, was that he tipped extremely well. More than was deserved, if she was being honest, but the one time the girl brought it up he had shoved another hundred dollar bill into the waistband of her sleep shorts and sent her on her way.

It had become known to her that he specifically requested her. If she wasn’t available, he’d offer more money than the other client was paying- and her Madam had no problem with that, considering it upped her cut. She found herself with him 3 times this week, frequenting clubs and drowning out business talk as his large hand splayed across her waist and the other hand held a sweaty amber colored liquor on the rocks. Much to many of her friends and client’s surprise, Y/N didn’t drink much. She stuck to lighter things, champagne and rosé, and kept to a one to two drink maximum. She preferred keeping a clear head when on the job and honestly? Drinking wasn’t her thing. A buzz was nice, but anything past that meant a headache in the morning. She wasn’t a morning person to begin with.

This meeting was going past its normal time, making her wonder what was being said. If she was being frank- Y/N didn’t do much listening in his meetings. It felt like they were talking in code, another language, and she couldn’t be assed to listen about imports and exports and blah, blah, blah. Her brain was happy to sit and be warm on a handsome man’s lap, observing the dance floor. Dancing used to be so fun, something she’d always loved to do as a child. Now she didn’t get to do as much, even though she’d wished she could. Club dancing was far different than her normal type but if she was on the balcony of the most VIP of the VIP sections, she was going to take her people watching to the next level.

“Y’alright?” His raspy voice breathed over her ear, not taking his eyes off the men who were talking amongst themselves. “I know it’s late. We can go back soon.” While Harry wasn’t the most warm and fuzzy person, he did respect her time. He was a little scary, truthfully, and she didn’t want to upset him. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was respectful and kind to her, he spoiled her with tips and orgasms, and she had no complaints. If staying out a bit later than he had said was the least of her worries besides his scowling, she was golden.

“I’m okay.” She smiled. “People watching. Sorry, I’m not paying attention. Dunno what half of the stuff you’re talking about means.”

Y/N had no reality of what he did. No clue. She was too afraid to google him. To ruin the illusion she had of him in her head. He passed the background test and signed the heavy contract that came with hiring her, so he wasn’t about to harm her or anything- and from what she’s learned in Vegas, sometimes you’re better off not knowing. There was a lot of shady business practices that went on. It was legitimately upset her if he was a bad person outside of the law, so she decided not to go searching for answers she possibly didn’t want to find.

“That’s good.” He murmured, pressing a private kiss underneath her ear. “Don’t worry about it. S’nothing interesting anyways. Got t’keep up appearances.” His voice dropped. “Would much rather be between your thighs. Missed this body while I was away.”

And, Oh. It made her hot, a nervous giggle leaving her throat as the words tickled against her ear. Harry had gone away on a business trip, he’d prefaced it because he had been gone 4 day. He’d prescheduled to meet her on the day he came back. Her stomach did a swoop in her body as the cool hand that held his glass deposited it on the table, finding her thigh and squeezing over it. “You did?”

She had to wonder if he was buttering her up, but the thought was dispelled because Harry didn’t need to do that. He had always been a bit blunt and she liked that about him. Less sweet talk that he didn’t mean. What he said made sense- complimenting her body and her mouth and appearance, what she did for him, but he never went too far and said things he didn’t mean. So she believed him when he nodded, slipping his hand further up her dress and making her swallow thickly. He’d given her pretty lingerie he’d bought from wherever he went, the buttery silk laying against her body under the dress that hugged her figure. Red, he said, because she was a little devil between the sheets. “I did. Got t’bring you with me next time.”

Some girls did that. Y/N wasn’t even sure what the rate would be for a trip, but the idea appealed to her. “You sure you can afford it?” She whispered back, a playful tilt to her lips. Obviously he could. He was by far the wealthiest man she had in her books, evident by the liquor he ordered, the watches he wore and the cars the drove in. It was arousing to her, if she was being honest. When she settled down one day, the one thing she really wanted was financial stability. Maybe that sounded shallow, but with her history with no money and being a little jaded, it made sense to her.

“Can afford that, and a shopping spree for you while I do business.” He brushed his cool fingertips against her slightly damp panties. Harry didn’t smile often, but when he did? It was a smirk. A hot, arrogant little smirk that she should probably be annoyed by, but wasn’t. “Need to get you out of here, though. Have something I want to talk to you about before I sink you down on my cock.” His fingers retreated after a gentle brush to find them wet, moving to her leg as he began to wrap up the meeting. People would listen, even if they weren’t finished- he just had that way about him.

—--

Y/N had no clue what, exactly, he wanted to talk to her about. They’d had some nice conversations so far about a plethora of things. Movies, books, restaurants, some morals. But it wasn’t too deep. Both of them had seen it for what it was, even if they had impeccable sexual chemistry. She didn’t know the man all that well, only what was told to her and what he had divulged- and knowing the man had a sweet tooth didn’t account for much. So it was slightly intimidating when he asked her to meet him in the living room of the suite as he put away his watch and jacket.

What could he possibly have to talk to her about? Her brain was coming up with nothing.

“C’mere.” He sat himself down on the couch, offering his lap back up to her. It wasn’t something she did in private unless his hands were down her panties or she was riding him, but she decided to go for it. Her heels kicked off to the side, she sat herself back in the familiar way. It had taken her off guard, but his hand took her own and she watched as he flipped it over, thumbing over her ring finger. “I need to ask you a favor. A proposition.” He murmured, calculating eyes going back to her face. “And you can say no, if you want. I’ll understand.” Of course, this made her alarm bells ring but there was little time to panic. Considering he was a very get to the point man, he did exactly that. “I’d like for you to quit your current job and pretend to be my fiance.”

The bomb was dropped. Why, exactly, a man of his caliber needed a fake fiance? She had not a fucking clue. Harry continued, her face slack in shock. He took that into account, it seemed. “I like you. You’re polite, know how to behave in public. Gorgeous little thing. You’re intelligent, you’re quick, and you understand how to keep to yourself. That’s a very valuable thing to me.” His thumb resumed rubbing her ring finger. “We have incredible sex. You fulfill and exceed my needs, and I’m satisfied with sex for once in my life.” Y/N let him do whatever he wanted and thoroughly enjoyed it. There was no faking it with them. Their chemistry crackled in the air when it shifted. There was no doubting that. “My family has been pressuring me to settle down. I have no time to properly date, nor the desire to.” He sure as fuck wasn’t the type to go on dating apps, and the dating pool he was around was a lot of vapid people with money hungry libidos. At least he would know Y/N was there for money and there would be no confusion between them. “I enjoy your company. It isn’t traditional nor conventional, but I’d provide for you. I will deposit your average monthly income in your own bank account and give you a card to my own. I’d pay for your rent while you stay with me, and you’d have free time to do as you please. Whatever hobbies you’d like. Horse riding, art, reading, I don’t care what it is if you like it.”

Her head was swimming. What the fuck? She’d heard of men falling in love with escorts, sure, but this seemed… More transactional. For some reason, it made her feel a little more comfortable. He wasn’t proclaiming love after barely knowing her. He knew how it went and that she needed to be provided for. “Like a sugar baby?” She blurted out.

“Not particularly. My fiance in title. You’ve been introduced as my girl to everyone already, so it isn’t a difficult sell to anyone but my family. We’d announce our engagement, I’ll bring you to London to meet them, let it run it’s course.” His eyes bore into hers. “I don’t want you with anyone else while you’re mine. I’ll be the only one you sleep with, and vice versa. I don’t want you to split your time between me and anyone else. I’m asking for devotion, which is a lot. But I’d like it to be you.”

“Why?” Y/N knew he had explained it but it was still confusing. “I know what you’ve said but… surely theres other people that you’d want to ask? I’m just an escort you’ve been seeing for a little while. I mean.. The sex is great, don’t get me wrong.” And she was extremely attracted to him and his energy, but… “I’m not in my escort mode all the time. I don’t want to be working 24/7. I’m not as docile while off the clock.” She wasn’t about to get put into 24/7 smile and nod territory. It was fine when it was an outing, or even a night, but she did have a personality she quite liked outside of it.

“I wouldn’t expect you to be agreeable all the time. In fact, I’d like to see you fight me a little.” Harry’s smirk returned. “Makes the sex hotter. But…” he returned to his business face. “I chose you because we get along. I don’t like a lot of people. I may pretend I do, but it’s difficult for me to find people who don’t make me irritated. You’re… interesting to me.” It wasn’t the answer she expected, no, but still. She had more questions.

“So what about after it’s all done and over with? I’ll end up on the streets, homeless again because I know Madam isn’t going to just let me back on her lists.” She crossed her arms, not realizing what she’d said. Harry caught it, pocketing it for later. It didn’t sit right that she had been on the streets at all, but that wasn’t a topic he could broach right now. He didn’t have the right to ask yet.

“I will make sure you’re set after this is done.” He promised. “I will have all of your expenses covered while you’re with me. Nails, hair, food, clothing, hobbies. You’ll be making your pay and then some every week and not touching it. And if it ends early, I will payout an extra mil. Does that sound reasonable?” He rose an eyebrow. “I’ve got the paperwork with me, but you can sit on it if you want.”

“How long can I sit on it for?” It took everything in her to not bite at her nails. The one thing the acrylics were good for was curbing that habit. “It’s not a no, but I’d like to look at the contract and have a lawyer look over it before I agree to anything.” As young as she may seem, she wasn’t stupid. This would be a perfect way to take advantage of her. While she didn't have that feeling from him, she’d be dumb not to protect herself.

She didn’t expect the smile from him, but it made her heart beat a bit faster as he brought her hand up to kiss it. “Smart fuckin’ girl you are.” He laughed. “Good. That works with me. I hope you do sign it, though.” His eyes darkened a bit. Harry wasn’t good at sharing and the idea of this pretty thing belonging to him, in essence, made his dick twitch. “I’d love to take you with me to Italy and see you on my yacht. Maybe fuck you on it. Think you’d really love that.”

Y/N had a feeling she would, too. The idea of being with one man, a man she so far enjoyed despite a bit of arrogance and intimidation, was appealing after a year here. But she needed to cover her own ass before sinking into something too good to be true. “I would.” Her nails moved from his hand to card through his soft hair. “I’d love that. But I think you should focus on tonight, hm?” Her legs opened a little, and she guided his hand back to where it had been previously. “Take a look at the pretty things you’ve already got, Daddy.”

[allywthsr]

WRAPPING HIS PRESENTS | (l.norris)

summary: you wrap Lando’s presents

wordcount: 1.1k words

pairing: landonorris x fem!reader

warnings: like two sexual things, but nothing graphic

notes: what are we thinking?

advent calendar

You sat on the floor in the living room, Lando was currently in the gym, training for the next two hours. It was time to wrap his presents, the rest of the presents, for the other people of your family, were already wrapped and stored away in a closet in the guest room. Now the only things that were missing, were his presents, in front of you laid multiple things you bought for Lando, grabbing the red wrapping paper with little Santa’s and reindeer on it. You took the scissors and cut off a piece of the paper, grabbing the first present, a new hoodie from his favorite brand. You saw him check it out online and you could not not buy it for him, he almost bought it himself, but you could convince him, that you shouldn’t buy yourself things right before Christmas, so he didn’t.

Closing the wrapping paper with a few strips of tape, you took a sticker where you could write his name on it, and wrote ‘Lan’ in your best handwriting, even adding a small bow you bought in a little corner shop.

The next present was a bit more cheesy, it was a keyring for his keychain, made out of glass with his favorite picture of you two put in there, you knew he loved small things like that. It was small, but it meant something to him, and that’s most important.

You grabbed a different wrapping paper, now you had a dark blue one in your hand, and it was covered with golden stars. You didn’t want to go too overboard with his presents, but you knew he would, so you tried to give him something back, even tho you knew you didn’t have to. He was happy if you would give him a kiss on Christmas morning, but you weren’t satisfied with that, you tried to go bigger every year.

The next present was a small silly thing you found on Amazon while checking out, it was a scratch-off movie poster. The two of you could never decide what movie to watch, sometimes the planned movie night ended after one hour because you couldn’t find something to watch, either one of you has seen a film and the other hasn’t, or the genre wasn’t the right one, sometimes you just didn’t find one that fits in the mood and sometimes you couldn’t decide on one, because there are so many movies, you’ve watched together and all the good films have been watched by you two a hundred times. With that scratch-off poster, that problem would be solved and evenings that would be filled with looking through the whole Netflix catalog, while the other was also searching through different movie platforms, would be at least be over for a hundred days. He could just scratch off the material and each movie night, you wouldn’t have this discussion that annoyed both of you.

You, again, cut out a piece of paper and wrapped it around the rolled-up poster, sticking the sticker on it, and writing his name on it.

The next present was a silly present you found in a store, it was a small retro arcade machine, and he loved arcade games. It was a miniature arcade machine that he could take with him wherever he went if he was bored before a race. He would definitely play with it. It had games like Super Mario or Flappy Bird on it, perfect for Lando’s interest, he loved these old games he used to play as a kid. You put the batteries in the slot and wrapped the dark blue wrapping paper around it, closing it off with a few stripes of tape, writing his name on the sticker, and placing a bow on top of it as well, you bought a few bows in a dollar store, that would stick to the present without having to make the bow.

You went all out for presents this year, but you bought most of them on Black Friday, so the hundred and fifty pounds hoodie only cost ninety pounds, what a steal.

The next gift was more a fun gift than an actual useful gift, it was an indoor putting green, the long stripe of fake grass had a slight bend towards the end, so it wasn’t just a straight line that he had to play. He always told you that he hated it, when it rained and he wasn’t able to go golfing, he wanted to buy himself a putting green for the inside for a while now, yet, he never did. Lando could practice his putting skills and his swings, he would love it, it would annoy you for a few weeks, he sure would only do that for some days, but that’s fine. You took another roll of wrapping paper and cut off a piece, wrapping the edges around the box, sealing it with some tape, and sticking the sticker with his name on it.

The main present was a self-made one, a jar filled with three-hundred sixty-five little notes. He can pick one note every day for the next year, on the notes were little compliments, funny sayings, dirty talking, and declarations of love.

You worked on this for multiple days, cutting out three-hundred sixty-five colorful papers, was a task, that took you three days alone. Writing all the notes on the paper took you like a week and a half, it might sound like a lot, but you had to think about three-hundred sixty-five notes and write them on a small piece of paper while Lando does not notice you doing it. And since the winter break started, he was mostly home, so you had to do it when he was training or playing Fortnite or something.

Some examples of the notes are

⁃ thank you for you

⁃ I love you

⁃ I‘m glad my boyfriend has a big cock

⁃ I hope you have a good day

⁃ Thank you for every orgasm

It might be cheesy, but Lando and you are that couple that leaves little sticky notes around the house to make the other happy, the present was basically like the sticky notes but without sticking it somewhere.

You closed the lid from the jar and cut off a big piece of wrapping paper, wrapping it around the glass and closing the paper with tape, and sticking his name on top with it, just like a big bow.

You looked at the presents in front of you, you couldn’t wait for him to open all of them, you were sure he would be happy about every single one.

[howtofightwrite]

I’m not sure if this is off topic for your blog, but out of fear for my search history and the police, I wanted to ask if there is a means of someone producing a homemade bomb or something throwable that generates high levels of heat?

For context, the character I am writing is a lab intern that is secretly studying how to get rid of a parasite (think of something like Venom/Carnage) that can only be injured/destroyed with high levels of heat.

Two thoughts come to mind immediately, thermite and white phosphorous. So, in both cases, we're going to be setting metals on fire.

Thermite is more of a process than a specific chemical composition, which means getting the materials to make thermite explosives isn't that challenging. It involves getting a highly reactive metal, and then getting it to oxidize aggressively. Turns out, if you force aluminum to rust on the spot, it gets a bit warm. In some cases (such as with copper) the reaction is energetic enough to cause molten metal to splatter.

Because we're talking about different chemical mixtures, it's a bit hard to predict the exact tempreture, but most thermite reactions (at least, all of the ones I've ever looked up) will burn in excess of 2000K (3000F.)

Rigging thermite into a more portable form isn't that complicated, and crude pipe bomb-like containers should get the job done. Though, this would likely cause further problems.

The second option is white phosphorous. This burns at a lower temperature (around 800C), but this stuff ignites on contact with oxygen. Something you might be able to find in the air you're breathing. White phosphorous is a bit more tightly controlled, and is used in a wide variety of munitions. (In theory, it's used for tracers, as the phosphorous will ignite and glow while the round is traveling to its destination.) Because it will continue to burn in the wound, white phosphorous wounds are particularly horrific (as you'll see, if you ever visit the Wikipedia page.) However, it is already available as a payload for most military small arms cartridges.

A third option is classic napalm. This stuff tends to burn north of 800C. The actual material is a bit more disturbing than you might realize. Nalpalm isn't just a burning liquid, it's more like a burning goop, that sticks to whatever it hits... and continues to burn. Imagine a Vaseline sprayer (except, the Vaseline is ignited just after it leaves the nozzle.) Producing napalm in a modern chemlab, with a reasonable stockpile of ingredients shouldn't be too difficult, though it's unlikely the stockroom would have enough of the relevant chemicals to make much of the stuff. (Nalpalm flamethrowers go through a lot of fuel, so making the stuff on site might not be a great option.)

Using any of these methods will get a lot of attention on your character. While we tend to overestimate just how much casual searches for this kind of information are likely to land you on a watch list (this used to be more true than it is today), actually using them in the field will get an anti-terrorism taskforce crawling down around your character's ears. (Especially if they're making thermite loaded pipe bombs.)

Now, here's the funny thing about all of this: It's unnecessary.

You've got a monster that is vulnerable to flames. The simplest, and cheapest solution, is probably to go buy one of those orange, plastic, flare guns. This'll set you back less than $40 dollars (plus the cost of the included flares.) Then load up on extra flares, (at this moment, they're around $10 per flare.) (If you already have a 12 gauge shotgun, you can skip the flare gun entirely, and just buy 12ga flare shells.)

Those flares burn at similar temperatures to white phosphorous rounds, and are much, much, less regulated. (Though, if you're wandering out and buying up hundreds of flare shell rounds, that's likely to raise a few eyebrows.) (This is also true of normal emergency flares, similar temperatures, and they burn for much longer.)

This is without even thinking about Dragon's Breath shells, which will burn in the range of some of the hotter thermite reaction ranges. (To be honest, it probably is a thermite reaction, but I'd need to look into them a bit more to verify that.)

So, ultimately, the problem for a monster vulnerable to heat is that there are a lot of ways to throw burning metal at it, and let that cook it for you.

-Starke

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[crackedpumpkin]

ʙʟᴀɴᴋ ᴄᴀɴᴠᴀꜱ || ᴘᴛ. ᴏɴᴇ ||

[ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ] | [ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ]

“If there is a god out there, please make sure my order isn’t missing any pickles this time.”

“Here ya go, extra pickles on the side,” Mr. Perez, the store owner, grunts as he all but flings a wrapped sub into your hands from behind the counter. You grab it with relative ease, undeterred by how oddly soggy the parchment paper is. It’s a slow day in the sub shop, with many of its usual customers absent. 

“How much?” 

“Five bucks.”

“How’s Didi?” You ask, fishing out a crumpled five-dollar bill in your pocket and handing it to him. You drop another into the tip jar when his back is turned, humming innocently when he faces you with a bag of small cookies.

“The usual. Slightly less of the devil incarnate lately, though. I think it’s because you’re coming over to babysit more often.” You take the cookies gratefully, a small note written in the ten-year-old’s messy scrawl glued to the side. You stash it away in your backpack, ensuring it doesn’t get crushed behind your sketchbook and pencil case.

“Is that y/n?” You hear the clatter of plates being shoved aside, Didi peeking out from behind the blinds that separate the storefront from the stairs that lead upstairs to their house. You smile but realize she won’t be able to see it through your cloth mask.

“In the flesh,” You grin, scooping Didi into a tight hug. You prop her on your hip, transferring the sub to your free hand as she giggles. “Have you made any new friends in school?”

Her lips purse into a pout, fiddling with your hair with sulky eyes. “No…They’re all stinky. Except for Maribelle, because she likes pickles.”

“Does no one else like pickles, then?” You ask curiously, Didi shaking her head. 

“Tommy and Jam like them, but they’re boys,” She informs you in complete and utter seriousness. You’re so tempted to comment, but you know that if you did, she’d sulk for at least half an hour.

“Jam?”

“Yeah, Jam.”

“Are you sure that’s his name?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then,” You shrug, turning your head to the side so she can’t see the amused glint in your eyes. 

“Are you headed to the bank?” Mr. Perez asks offhandedly, cleaning one of his bread knives with a damp cloth.

“Gotta cash in the moolah,” You rub your fingers together in reference to the cheque that’s buried somewhere in the bottom of the heavy bag on your shoulders. You had recently finished a commission, and your client had tipped you generously, paying you an extra fifty bucks on top of the two hundred she was already paying. 

“Can I come? I wanna come. I’m going,” Didi demands as she braids a few strands of your hair. You look back at Mr. Perez for permission, the gruff man nodding in response. 

“Okay, but make sure you always stay with me, yeah?” Didi nods eagerly, kicking your side slightly as she points to the door. You leave the store with her in your arms, making your way to the bank. 

“Can we buy Legos?” You hum in thought, trying to decide how to reject Didi’s request without being too harsh. She tugs the beanie on your head, and it slides down to just above your eyes. You chuckle, using the back of your preoccupied sub-carrying hand to shift it back up slightly.

“Do you have enough money to buy some?”

“I got money!” Didi’s small hands search her pockets, patting down until she finds what she’s looking for. She pulls out a ten-dollar bill with a triumphant smile, eyes shining with anticipation as she looks at you. 

“Then we’ll buy some on the way back, yeah?” You offer, already seeing the money leave your wallet when you pay for the leftover cost of the Lego set.

“Hmm…Okay!” Didi agrees after a moment of thought, clapping her hands together and urging you to walk faster. You break into a slight jog just to tease her, soon reaching the doors of the large bank. 

You push past the huge glass doors with your shoulder, the sub still in your hands. You couldn’t put it in your bag, fearing it’d ruin your cherished sketchbook and, even worse, the crumpled cheque buried somewhere near it. 

You eye the long lines for each counter, groaning at the thought of a prolonged wait. You scan the hall, trying to find the shortest queue. 

There. You quickly join the line of people waiting, breathing a sigh of relief when you see a few more people join your queue right after you do. The bank is mostly quiet; the only sounds are fingers clacking away on keyboards and hushed conversations of bank account details. 

A trio of men wearing black cloth masks stand in a corner, furtively glancing around and having a hushed conversation amongst themselves. Two large bags are on the floor next to the shortest one, all three nodding at each other before the other two pick up the bags and head towards the door while the shortest approaches the information counter with another bag slung on his hip.

Huh. Maybe they have social anxiety. 

You watch them converse with the clerk, half your attention on Didi, who’s tugging on your hair while braiding it out of boredom. You spot the clerk smiling nervously in your peripheral, brushing it off as the usual horrible customer service interaction.

You focus on Didi instead, jostling her slightly in your arms. She yelps, lips pursing into a scowl when she’s disturbed from her concentrated braiding. You giggle, entertained by her reaction. You lean in, bumping your head against hers in a gentle tease.

The doors slam shut.

You flinch at the sudden sound, turning to see the two men from earlier at the entrance. Each stands in front of the doors, arms crossed with two large rifles in their hand as they quickly adorn ski masks. The man at the information counter now has a gun in their hands, pointing it up at the ceiling and firing a single shot.

The loud bang startles Didi, who instantly covers her ears, pushing her head against your shoulder with a small squeak. You protectively hold her close to you, ready to shield her body with your own in case anything happens. 

“Everyone drop everything, get down on the ground, and lift your hands now!”

You slowly sink to the ground, eyes never leaving the guns in their hands. This situation is the opposite of ideal. Being held hostage isn’t exactly part of your five-year plan for graduation. The doors are guarded by the guards, dark silhouettes blocking the sunlight.

“Hey! I said to drop everything and lift up your hands,” One of the robbers guarding the doors earlier points a gun straight at you with a glare. You look from the weapon to the sub in your hands, reluctant to let go. 

“I said, drop it!” 

You gingerly set it down with a defeated sigh. “You happy now?” You ask him with a scowl. He steps towards you, still aiming his gun at you as he picks up your sub and throws it to the side. It lands with a plop onto the dirty ground, now a ruined mess.

“Wha- My sub!” You complain with an offended gasp, now glaring at the man who just destroyed your dinner. You see the arch of his brow beneath his thin ski mask, exchanging a confused look with his accomplice.

“You do know this is loaded, right?” He questions with a wave of his gun.

“You just threw away a perfectly fine sub! It even had extra pickles!” You argue, still mourning the loss of your dinner. Setting down your sub you could deal with. But flinging it against the wall? That was absolutely uncalled for. “You’re a maniac,” You seethe, your jaw clenched as you shoot him the coldest glare you can muster.

You hear tiny sniffles and a loud hiccup from beside you, looking down to see Didi’s scrunched nose with snot dripping down it and tears streaming down her red cheeks. Her lips are pressed tightly together, but you know she’s about to start wailing.

“Hey, hey, Didi,” You call out to her gently, ignoring the robber that watches you intently. “Let’s play a game of patty cake, okay?” You offer, holding out your hands. She places her small ones in yours, and you curl your fingers to cover her own. 

“I’m scared,” She hiccups, her sniffles growing louder by the minute. You shush her with a reassuring smile, thinking of a way to soothe her. 

“Oi! You sure have a death wish, lil’ missy.” You hear the cock of a gun behind you, turning to see it being pointed straight at you. “I already said: hands up where I can see ‘em.” 

“Look, do you want to handle a wailing child that’s bound to attract attention? Or do you want me to calm her down so none of us get a headache?” 

After a moment of deliberation, he moves his gun down to his side. “I’m watching you,” He warns.

“Yeah, yeah, as if I’d forget.” You huff with a roll of your eyes, crossing your legs and sitting down with Didi in your lap. “Now, where were we?”

You continue playing patty cake with the trembling girl after coaxing her into removing her hands from her ears. The shortest robber, who seems to be the ringleader of the three, is preoccupied with getting the clerk to empty the enormous vault at the back, stuffing bundles of cash into the large duffel bags they had carried with them earlier.

It’s tense.

Everyone chooses to stay silent, their shaky hands and terrified eyes a pleasure to the thugs. You risk a quick glance around, wondering when the hell Spiderman would show up. Isn’t this in his job description? Was he even getting paid? 

Someone knocks on the door.

The two crooks guarding the doors turn instantly, pointing their guns at a familiar figure with their hands raised in surrender.

“Yo! I came here to negotiate, not to fight.”

They look to their ringleader for a response, the latter giving them a nod and gesturing to their guns warily. They nod at each other, hoisting their weapons closer to their chest and opening one of the doors. 

Before they can react, Spiderman drops to the floor, immediately kicking their guns out of their hands. They land on the floor with a clatter. “You should really think twice before opening the door for strangers,” He chides, nimbly avoiding a harsh blow from the two thugs surrounding him.

That’s a nice suit.

Your eyes automatically follow him as he swings, dodges, and takes out the robbers in mere minutes. He’s nimble, avoiding each blow and disarming the vicious crooks that threaten to fire. 

“One step closer, and she’s dead meat!” 

Didi’s body is grabbed from your arms, and you look up in horror as the robber that threatened you earlier holds his gun close to the small child. Tears are dribbling down her cheeks uncontrollably, choking on her stifled sniffles. 

“Woah, woah, woah,” The masked vigilante halts in his steps, hands raised up, “Threatening a kid? That’s not gonna look good on your record, man.”

“Then put your hands up, walk to the wall, and give up!” 

“Wait!” You scramble to your feet, freezing as soon as you do. The robber presses the gun barrel closer to Didi’s shoulder, an ice-cold grip of fear crawling down your spine at the sight. 

You can’t let her get hurt. You rack your brains, trying to figure out a good distraction for Spiderman to take action. “I-I’m pretty sure I’m gonna die, but I just have to say something.”

“Get down on the floor!” The robber shouts harshly, fed up with the kids that keep bothering his easy getaway. You slowly kneel back down, never breaking eye contact with Didi, whose cheeks turn redder by the second. You spot Spiderman’s finger slowly moving to press his web shooter, eyes darting between him and Didi. An idea takes form in your mind, but it’s risky.

You pause, swallowing nervously. “Didi… I’m the one that broke BunBun.”

She screams. 

The ear-splitting sound makes the robber wince, dropping her to cover his ears. Spiderman seizes the opportunity, using his web fluid to grab his gun and toss it away in the far corner of the bank. He immediately gets to work through Didi’s screaming, effortlessly capturing the last robber and throwing him aside in a cocoon fashioned out of his web fluid. 

You grab Didi, scuttling back into your corner of safety and trying to placate her. You gently rock her in your arms, letting her cry into your shirt. The collar is now soaked with her tears, and you’re beginning to regret confessing to the crime of having accidentally broken one of her favourite plates. You’d blamed it on the passing wind, and she bought it.

“Hey guys, y’all are safe now.” You look back up at Spiderman, who leans against the wall near you, scanning the crowd of relieved people who cheer for his bravery. He chuckles, casually shrugging as he tries to brush off the praise. He double-checks if anyone is hurt, his gaze lingering on you for a split second.

He gives you a brief nod and a friendly two-fingered salute, and you tiredly reciprocate the gesture with a still-crying Didi in your arms. His head moves back slightly in a wince (well, you’re pretty sure it’s a wince. You can’t really tell with his mask and everything.), and for a moment, you feel as though he’s sympathizing with you. 

He takes his leave through the glass doors, Spiderman-style, with his web-slinging skills and whatnot. You’re left with the aftermath of the police finally showing up, the crying child deterring them from asking you any further questions besides a short testimony.

“Didi, it’s over now. We’re safe.” You try to soothe her by gently patting her head and hugging her tightly briefly. You’re sure your shirt is soaked by now. It baffles you how a child has so much water in their system that they still sob even after half an hour.

It took an apology, three Lego sets, and a future promise for another at Christmas to get her to stop crying.

— — — — — 

The bed creaks noisily when you collapse on it with an exhausted groan, the sound a subtle sign of the old bed frame threatening to break any day now. The glow-in-the-dark stars glued onto your ceiling shines softly, the chilly breeze of Brooklyn gusting through your open window. You’d dropped off Didi on your way home, reassuring Mr. Perez that she was unharmed.

You shiver, getting up to close the window before hanging your beanie on the clothing hooks behind your door. You turn on the switch to the lamp on your desk, the warm yellow light coating your room with a cozy atmosphere.

Your stomach growls, a reminder of your delicious dinner having been a victim in the whole hostage situation from earlier. You sigh. Whatever. You’d grab a bigger breakfast tomorrow instead. For now, though, a simple protein bar from your snack drawer would have to do. 

You unwrap it and bite down, munching hungrily while grabbing your sketchbook from your bag and laying it flat on your desk. You flip the pages, eyeing the empty pages with distaste. Page after page of drawings that didn’t meet your standards make your heart sink. 

You finally land on an empty page and grab a pencil with your free hand. You tap the end onto the blank paper impatiently, trying to think of more inspiration for your next work. You’d been in a slump lately, and while commissions did give you some extra pocket money to go cafe hopping, it didn’t help much with your lack of artistic creativity.

Your hands itch to sketch out an idea. Anything would do. The only problem is that your brain can’t provide even a smidgen of inspiration. You huff, leaning back in your chair.

You sit up straight and scooch closer to the paper, hoping that maybe that’d trigger some form of idea.

Nope. Nothing. Nothing hits you. 

Maybe it’s the happenings of today as well, what with a gun being pointed at you and helping your friendly neighbourhood Spiderman take down those thugs. You grin, recalling how Didi’s scream had impacted the poor goon, lips tugging down slightly at the reminder of your now empty wallet.

You’d have to find another commission soon. 

Maybe Spiderman would want one?

You begin to doodle absentmindedly, the scratching of lead against paper a soothing sound that practically lulls you into a trance. You recall the red spray paint of a jagged spider against the black suit, the design of it so simplistic and yet representing his personality so well. 

You remember his quick nod to you and silly salute, a chuckle slipping past your lips. How did he look like again? His elbow was bent, and two fingers were placed on his forehead as he leaned against the wall. He’s relatively lean, you recall, and probably taller than you too. It’s difficult to gauge since you were in a rather sticky situation that called for hunched shoulders and hesitant movements.

Your hand moves as if it’s got a mind of its own, recalling the webbed pattern on his suit. You draw and draw, adding shading after a basic outline is done. Your mind is foggy, no other thoughts remain except to transfer your memory onto paper. 

Wow.

You stare down at what you’ve just drawn, taking in the overall sketch with a shaky exhale. It’s the best you’ve done in a long while, with all the details contributing to the final product. 

It’s exactly as you remember, having drawn Spiderman giving you that silly salute while leaning against the tiled walls. You’d even shaded his suit perfectly.

You’re breathless. Is this really your work? From your own two hands, no less? It’s probably a one-off thing, but boy, does it feel good. Maybe thinking about Spiderman is the main reason why.

You giggle at the entertaining thought, shaking your head. 

It’s probably just the adrenaline.

[cameronspecial]

I Will Explode With Joy, Rafe

Pairing: Frat!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  N/A

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.6K

Summary: Rafe loves to make the Holiday season the best for his angel.

Masterlist

Rafe loves to go all out with presents during the Christmas season. He has to stop himself from filling the living room with presents from his angel. But this Christmas, he has found the perfect excuse that allows him to buy her a gift that costs at least two thousand dollars. The cost doesn’t phase him; his fiancée deserves the world with how hard she has been working on her Master’s. As soon as he feels her heavy breath meets the skin of his chest, he carefully untangles himself from her hold. He places a pillow with one of his shirts on it underneath her so she has something to cuddle. He heads down to the basement to start bringing up the things he needs for her gift. It takes him about three hours to get everything together, but it’s going to be worth it once he sees how excited she will be when she sees this gift. Because, of course, he will have more than this for her Christmas presents. The minimum he can spend on her is five thousand. He puts the final touches on the gift and makes his way back upstairs to bed with the woman he is going to marry. 

———

Y/N wakes up before Rafe does and she stays in bed until he does too. His eyes flutter open with a massive grin forming on his face at the same time. “Merry Christmas, Angel,” he whispers, kissing her nose. She matches his facial expression, “Merry Christmas to you too, Rafe.” His arms reach out to pull her closer to him. “Are you ready to go open presents?” he asks with excitement laced in his voice. Her lips pucker a little, “I am, but with how you are acting, I’m scared of finding out what you did this year.” Rafe chuckles and kisses her forehead. He gets out of bed, holding out his hand for her to take. He guides her downstairs and her eyes almost bulge out of her head at the sight of the most obvious gift.

It is a five-foot-tall Christmas tree made out of books, like the one she has seen on social media. The books overlap each other like bricks to make rows and rows of circles that meet at a point at the top. Ornaments rest on small book ledges alongside a light garland. At the very top, is a decorative book that has the pages forming a heart. It has to be at the very least one hundred books and she knows they are all new books because she recognizes some of the books from her to be bought list. She doesn’t walk further into the room; instead, she opts to stand in the doorway with her mouth agape. Her silence causes Rafe to panic. Did he get the wrong books? Did he go too far? Should he have made it taller? He knew he should’ve made it six feet. “Angel, do you like it?” he frets, placing a hand on her shoulder. Tears start to form in her eyes, “I don’t like it. I love it. I will explode with joy, Rafe. This is amazing.” She jumps into his arms, bringing warmth to his face by attacking him with her lips. Her legs wrap around him and he lets out a sigh of relief. “Good because I really wanted this to show you how much I love you,” he confesses. She gives him a final kiss on the lips, “You always show me how much I mean to you, but this really does take the cake. I love it and you, Rafe. Thank you.” Satisfied with her reaction, Rafe places her on the couch so that she can open her other presents. He’ll help her move all her new books into her library later today. She’ll probably need a new bookshelf too.

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @queen-shadow22 @victory-in-the-llama