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jamdoughnutmagician · 3 months ago

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Tiny Match-maker:Prince Charming

Bucky Barnes x Single mom!Reader Fluff

Here it is! It may have taken 6 months to finish, but it's finally here! A part 2 to Tiny-Match maker

Hopefully next time I write something with them, it won't take as long!

Word Count:2,285

Masterlist // Bucky Barnes Masterlist

“Hey Tin-man, can you focus a little more over here?” Sam grumbled quietly from beside him. They were meant to be staking out this run-down warehouse where there had been whisperings of underground groups dealing in un-tested batches of super soldier serum, but Bucky’s attention had entirely been diverted down to the mobile phone in his hands.

Bucky:Hey, sorry things have been a little busy for me lately, but I’d love to take you out for coffee sometime, say maybe this Sunday?”

“What are you even doing anyway?” Sam questions, trying to lean over Bucky’s shoulder to look at the phone screen.

You:Sunday sounds perfect, I can ask Amanda to watch Lottie for me, so whatever time works best for you.

Amanda was the mom who lived in the apartment opposite yours, and very kindly offered to look after Lottie for you when you needed to do stuff alone. It also helped that Lottie was very good friends with her son, Mason, so you had no worries about leaving your daughter in Amanda’s safety.

Bucky:How about the little coffee shop on Fifth Avenue? Maybe at 2.00?

You:Honestly, you had me at coffee shop.

“Dude, put your phone away! You’re supposed to be keeping watch!” Sam grumbled quietly, shaking his head at him.

You make your way across the hall to knock on Amanda’s door, and sure enough she greets you with that warming smile.

“Hey, I was wondering if you might be able to look after Lottie for me this weekend, like this Sunday?” you asked hopefully.

“Sure! We’d love to have Lottie come round, wouldn’t we Mase?” she smiles down at her son who was peeking his head out from behind her legs to see what all the fuss was about.

Mason frantically nods his head at hearing that his best friend was coming over for a visit.

“I’m gonna show her my transformers!” he giggles excitedly before running off.

“So, what is it? You’ve got a hot date with some hunky guy or something?” Amanda laughs.

You can’t stop the burning flush that rises to your cheeks.

“Oh so it is a hunky guy.” Amada says, raising a dark, arched brow in your direction.

“It’s just a quiet cup of coffee, and we’ll see how it goes from there.”

“Well, I hope you have fun darling. You deserve it.”

“Thanks Mandy, you’re a life-saver!”

With Lottie being the curious and excitable young girl that she was, it didn’t leave a lot of time to meet potential romantic connections.

But chance, and maybe your very own tiny little match-maker, had pushed you towards Bucky and for the first time in a long time you were excited to go on a date.

Once you had dropped off Lottie at Amanda’s place you busied yourself with tidying up before deciding to get ready. Setting about finding the perfect outfits to wear you figured that a comfortable casual dress and leggings would be the perfect thing to wear. Hoping that your choice of clothing didn't seem too dressed up for what was probably going to be a casual date.

You took the time to yourself to apply a light dusting of makeup, just enough to enhance your features.

With a final dab of lipgloss and a ruffle of your hair you throw on your coat and grab your purse and make your way out of your apartment, leaving plenty of time to walk into the city to meet up with Bucky.

The crisp golden orange leaves crunched underneath as you walked down the street, nearing closer to the coffee shop that you had agreed to meet up at. As you got closer the more nervous you got. This was the first date you'd been on in a long long time, what were you even going to talk about? What if Bucky decides he doesn't actually like you? Were you actually just making a fool of yourself? All of the worst case scenarios scan through your brain at a hundred miles an hour.

“Hey, there you are!” Bucky smiles jogging to meet you. “Guess we showed up at the same time. You wanna head inside?”

Bucky holds the door open, the bell above tinkling as he does. The quiet murmur of chatter fills the coffee shop.

You wait beside him as you line up to make your order. Your eyes cast downwards for a brief moment, and when they do, you can’t help but notice the way his hand hesitates next to yours. Almost like he wants to hold your hand, but he isn’t quite sure if making a move like that might be considered too forward. It’s sweet to see how adorably shy and nervous he is, and it does wonders to settle your own nerves to see that you were both in the same boat together.

Taking it upon yourself you slyly slip your hand in his, lacing your fingers between his.

His cheeks heat up with a lovable pinkish glow, as he squeezes your hand with gentle pulse.

You reach the front of the line and both bucky and you place your orders.

“One black coffee for me please.” Bucky says. “And a…” he trails off for you to give your order.

“A pumpkin spice latte for me please.”

“Is that for here or to-go?” The batista behind the counter asks.

“To-go please.” Bucky smiles.

“I thought we were staying here?” You ask curiously, turning to him with your eyebrows drawn together.

“Actually I had a little something in mind for us, if you'll indulge me?” He says with his soft smile quirking into a cheeky grin.

The batista behind the counter hands both of you your respective drinks, and Bucky pays for them. Before you can protest he's there with that charming smile once more.

“Come on now, it’s my treat”

You link your arm with his, turning to him with a smile of your own.

“Okay then Sergeant Barnes, lead the way.”

He walks with you through the busy city streets, his hand still holding yours as you sip your coffees.

“Y’know, I didn’t have you down as a pumpkin spice kind of person.” Bucky says, taking a sip from his own coffee cup.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to judge me, Mr. “One Black Coffee”.” you laugh at him. “I always treat myself to a pumpkin spice latte this time of year, it’s one of the little things that I look forward to.” you smile. “So where are we headed?”

“I just think if you’re going to go for a date in the city, you should probably see it the way it should be seen.” Bucky said with a smile as he led you by the hand through the park’s gate.

“Oh, so this is a date, is it?” you ask playfully.

“Well, I hope so at least.” he flushes with an adorable pink blush before coughing to cover the slight nervous crack in his voice. “Central park is at its peak in the fall, and it’s hands-down the best view of the city all year.”

You walk around the park hand in hand, and you have to admit he's right, the beautiful wash of burnt orange, rusted red and golden leaves clinging to the branches of trees lining the pathway. The chill of the crisp autumn air whipping through you in a refreshing breeze and the tempting scent of warm cinnamon floats from a nearby doughnut vendor, beckoning you to indulge in his sweet treats. This certainly was the right way to see the city.

“So, tell me more about you?” he asks with a soft voice.

“What’s there to tell? I’m not all that interesting, I promise you.” you brush off.

“Nonsense. I wanna hear everything.”

“Okay, well Lottie and I moved to the city not too long ago, my relationship with her dad gradually came to an end when I found out I was pregnant with her. I was excited, and I thought he was too, y’know? But a few weeks down the line we started fighting a lot more, and one night he just decided that being a parent, being a father, wasn’t something that he wanted, and that was that.”

“Well, if you ask me, he’s missing out big time. Lottie seems like a great kid.” Bucky says with no hint of irony or sarcasm in his voice whatsoever.

“She sure is.” you smile at his kind words. “So I moved to the city to get away from him, to start fresh. It definitely wasn’t easy at first, being a single mother in a new city but things are good now and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“That’s such a great attitude to have, I admire that.”

“Anyway, enough about me, what about you huh? I feel like I see you almost all the time splashed across the newspapers or on my television screen, but I guess that’s not how you want to be known.”

“Well the media likes to try to pin me down as one thing, which I guess is a fair assumption, I’ve done bad things, my life is full of danger and chaos, but I don’t want to be known for that. I just want an easy life. I just want to slow down and take my time to enjoy the things that make me happy.”

“..and what is it that makes you happy?” you ask softly as you chance to look at him.

“Right now, this,” he smiles, gently swinging your hand in his. “..is making me happy.”

You both finish up your coffees before throwing them in the trash can, continuing on your trail through the crisp autumnal landscape of central park.

You continue talking with him about everything and anything. Conversation with Bucky felt so easy. He listened to you, he never made you feel silly, and everything about being with him just felt right.

As you round a corner a gentle melody fills the air, and as you turn around you see the brightly coloured lights and gentle whir of a carousel. You looked at the ride with a fondness, it was something that you had loved as a little girl, a ride that you had endlessly begged your parents to go on time and time again.

“Do you wanna go on it?” Bucky asks, when he sees how your eyes light up at the attraction.

“No, no, I think I’m a bit too old for carousel rides.”

“Come on, we can go on it together. It’ll be fun I promise.” he says, holding out his hand for you to take.

He hands over the money for the tickets, and holds your hand as you swing your leg over the horse.

“M’lady.”

He lifted himself onto the horse beside you, and soon the ride whirls into life. The warm sparkle of the lights bounce off the mirrors, and the music bounces along in time with the rise and fall of the carousel horses.

You can’t help but smile, bright laughter bubbling from you at being able to enjoy yourself like this, completely free of judgement. Bucky gives you a soft smile and warm laugh of his own in return, and in this moment you knew that saying yes to this date was the right thing for you.

The ride slows to a stop and Bucky is there to help you as you come down off your horse, one gentle hand on the small of your back the other holding your hand.

“I told you it’d be fun.” he says smugly.

“Yeah it was pretty fun. I haven’t done anything like that since I was a kid.”

The glow of the carousel’s light sparkles in his steely blue eyes, and it’s only then that you realise that his hand is still resting on your back, almost curving along the curve of your hip.

His hand quickly pulls away when he realises, trying to hide his blooming blush with his hand moving to scratch the back of his neck. His nervous energy around you just makes him all the more cute in your eyes.

“Shall we?” you offer your arm for him to take, looping your arm with his as you walk around the rest of central park.

Bucky walks with you back to your apartment block, pausing outside your building with you.

“Thanks for agreeing to go out with me, I had a great time with you.” he smiles.

“I had a great time with you. It was easily one of the better dates I’ve been on in a while.”

“I hope that means that you might be interested in doing this again some time?” Bucky asks you hopefully.

Feeling bold you rise up on your tip-toes to meet him, and place a kiss to his cheek.

“I certainly would be interested in doing this again some time.” you flush. “Thank you for today, Bucky, it’s been wonderful.”

Once you're back at your apartment, with Lottie picked up from Amada’s place, you’re sitting on the couch curled up next to her, Cinderella playing on the tv. Her eyes wide in awe as the pretty princess whirls around the dancefloor with her Prince Charming

“Did you meet a prince today, mommy?” she asks, turning her face away from the screen.

She catches you off guard with her question, so you fire back a question of your own.

“What makes you say that, baby?”

“You were wearing a pretty dress today and your hair was done all pretty too.” her wide smile was too adorable. “So did you meet a prince?”

“You know what Lottie? I might have just found myself my very own Prince Charming.”

@penguinsandpotterheads @ghoul-friendz

@honeyglee @myfavbuckyfics @buckgasms

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x reader fluff #bucky x reader fluff

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aziraphales-library · 6 months ago

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Hi, just wondering if you have any fics were Crowley and Aziraphale text frequently? AU's are fine 😊

Thank you!!

We have some texting fics here and you may enjoy fics on our #social media tag, which will include fics with online messaging. Here are more fics with texting...

Short Message Service by squiddz (E)

He got halfway down the page before the phone flashed with a notification again. Another message from Crowley. It took all of three seconds for Aziraphale to fold and pick up the phone. Crowley: so Crowley: what are you wearing Aziraphale: What kind of question is that? You know exactly what I'm wearing. --- In which Crowley gives Aziraphale a mobile phone, and then tries his level best to sext with him.

just friends (he's too important) by Narwhalhavingsomuchfun (T)

Biology student Anthony Crowley can't afford to fail his gen ed history class at Tadfield University. But luckily he's found a someone willing to tutor him in history. 3 guesses as to who that may be *** Crowley POV Strangers to friends to best friends to lovers texting fic

Play The Game by ffonippop (M)

Aziraphale was a university student on his last grueling year of pursuing a joint-honors Bachelors degree in Biology and Theology. His favorite day of the week was Sunday, because on Sunday, he could forget about the lab and leave behind the library to gather with his friends and play a competitive game of trivia— Quiz Bowl. He liked Quiz Bowl because it was a brain game, it was engaging, and it promoted teamwork. But most of all, he liked Quiz Bowl because he was the best at it. Until Crowley, the arrogant bastard with a swagger in his saunter, started showing up.

Dim the Lights and Sing You Songs by Polaris (E)

A few months prior to leaving the Dowling household, Crowley had downloaded Grindr for the sole purpose of catfishing randy morons. He was not expecting a paragraph that began with: ‘hello. I hope you don’t think this is too forward, but I couldn’t help but notice you have the most lovely nipples.’ Crowley keeps trying to meet his Grindr fuckbuddy. Aziraphale keeps showing up at all his meeting spots. This is terrible.

Readings From the Books of Ashtoreth by Quefish (E)

Vicar Aziraphale Bookman has a comfortable life. He lives in and serves the small village community of Tadfield. He enjoys contributing to local businesses, taking walks, and of course reading. His 'guilty pleasure', which gives him no guilt and all pleasure, is a series of novels by one AJ Ashtoreth. But what happens when he reaches out with an innocent bit of fanmail?

What We Make of It (Shotgun Wedding) by charlottemadison (E)

The important thing, Crowley tells himself -- the most important thing -- is Adam, his brilliant, creative, empathetic nephew. Being fourteen's hard enough; the kid didn't ask to deal with the weight of the world on top of it. And if taking care of Adam means Crowley has to tough it out at a job he can’t stand, so be it. And if Crowley's job means that Adam’s charming English teacher is NOT a romantic possibility, well, that's just how things go. But the occasional drink with Aziraphale proves hard to resist. They frequent the same pub, so who can object to them saying hello? Briefly sharing a table? Perhaps a little conversation? The painful knowledge that it can’t be anything more -- not without somebody getting fired or sued or both -- well, that can't be helped. Until Crowley stumbles onto a terribly reckless idea...

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #adult omens #texting #human au #mod d

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sirowsky-stories · 6 months ago

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Forward Luxation

Summary: You're recovering from a dislocated shoulder and have to go to a physical therapist. But getting there, you find nothing at all is what you'd expected, least of all the man in charge of your training.

Requested by @bilibiche

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Warnings: Marcus Moreno x female reader, reader is not described at all, and yes, we're taking liberties with the fact that any visit to an expert in human functionality requires one to take their clothes off. Lots of sexual tension here. Word Count: 2750

The waiting room is surprisingly cozy for a physical therapist’s office. Although you’ve never been to one before, so you don’t really have anything to compare it to. You’d just sort of imagined it being a bit like a dentist’s office, with the cheap magazines, plastic plants, beige curtains which haven’t been changed in five years, uncomfortable chairs and squeaky linoleum floors. But this is nothing like that.

You’re sitting in one of the four available really nice armchairs, each with a little coffee-table to the side, on top of which are no magazines but instead a selection of pamphlets with useful information about the most common muscle injuries and treatments, and phone numbers and websites to other reputable establishments where people can find help for all manner of problems, from yoga studios to psychologists.

The wallpaper is cream white with a discreet floral pattern in the same color, but glossy against the matte base, and the curtains are a deep green which together with the wallpaper somehow gives the impression that you’re sitting in a park. Especially since the chairs have exposed wood along with the soft cushions, which are the same color green, with embroidered flowers in pale yellow. And you’re pretty sure they’re made entirely of silk.

Even the coffee is fucking excellent.

If not for the fact that you had to sign in at the front desk, confirming your appointment and even having to show your ID, before being shown in here, you would’ve thought for sure you were in the wrong place. This all seems so much more expensive than what you could ever afford. You’re here courtesy of your insurance, so you don’t need to worry about the cost, but it still feels way too fancy for you.

“Good morning,” a soft and pleasant voice interrupts your thoughts, and you turn your head to find a tall, fit, brown-eyed, ridiculously gorgeous man smiling at you.

“Uh… g-good morning,” is all you manage in response, because he’s literally taken your breath away by just standing there.

“My name’s Marcus, welcome to my rehabilitation center. If you’ll please follow me, we’ll get started with a quick exam,” he continues, giving no indication he’s noticed your flustered reaction as he politely steps to the side to indicate which direction you’ll be heading.

Air floods back into your lungs when you start to move, getting up from the chair and falling in behind him, at which point, your brain starts working again.

“You own this place?” you ask, jumping at the first topic to come to mind.

“I do. I started this business eight years ago,” he replies, before reaching a room with a door already standing open, where he stops just outside and beckons for you to enter. “Does that surprise you?”

“Well, no. I’m just a bit confused overall,” you admit.

“Oh? How come?”

“It’s just… My insurance company made it seem like it was a big deal to even get a spot here. That this is like, the best physical rehab center in the country. And then I get here and the only person I’ve seen is the receptionist.”

“I see. You thought that such a prestigious establishment would have thirty employees and patients constantly coming and going?” he guesses, and you nod, feeling slightly embarrassed.

But he’s smiling when he gestures for you to take a seat on the large examination table in the middle of the room, while he closes the door and then takes a seat on a mobile stool in front of you. You note that the temperature in here is higher, and a moment later you realize that it’s probably because people need to undress for him to examine them properly, and suddenly you’re flustered again.

“The reason why we’re considered one of the best, is precisely because we don’t take on more patients than what we can effectively handle, both from a managerial standpoint, and from a practical one. Since it’s just me and David here, that means our slots are usually limited to five people per day. Obviously, I’m in charge of the actual therapy, while David handles the charts, bookings, contact with hospitals, insurance and so on. These limitations enable us to work entirely stress-free with our patients, allowing each session to take almost however much time it requires, whether due to physical restrictions, or mental ones.”

“Mental ones?” you repeat, getting slightly caught on the notion, since it seems misplaced to you.

This is physical therapy, not psychological, right?

“Bodily injuries often result in emotional distress, most of which only comes out when people are confronted with the consequences, which is essentially the heart of what we do here.”

“So, you’re like a jack-of-all-trades kind of therapist, then?”

“I suppose I am,” he agrees with a small chuckle. “Now, if you’re satisfied with our business model, we should get started.”

“Sure,” you say entirely without confidence, feeling the hairs on your arms prickle with nervousness at the mere thought of potentially having to undress in front of this man.

“Dislocated right shoulder. Forward luxation, if I remember correctly,” he recalls without looking at any charts or notes. “May I ask how it happened?”

“Oh, I have horses,” you sigh, knowing he’s probably not gonna need much more explanation than that.

And sure enough, he mirrors your sigh.

“Ah, yes. That’ll do it. So, how long did you wait before calling for help?” he asks, crossing his arms over his waist with a knowing, although friendly, glare in his eyes.

“About an hour.”

His eyebrows shoot up at that, but he can’t seem to find the words at first. And as always, the moment you feel the slightest bit judged for your passion for horses, you get defensive.

“I couldn’t just drop everything, I had two horses who were panicking because of a fucking snake, I had to get them into the stables.”

“Yeah, okay, fair enough. How long did that take?” he prods, and you hesitate.

Because you’ve had both of your horses since they were foals and you’ve trained them well enough that they always trust you, even when they’re scared, which is why it had only taken you a couple of minutes to get them into the stables that day.

“I don’t have anyone who can help me,” you quietly explain. “I had to make sure they’d be okay if I had to be in hospital for a few days.”

His expression softens then, but he’s not done investigating.

“So, you went around hauling hay, probably some buckets of water, checking fences and gates… I assume you also made sure to get rid of the snake, only calling for help once you’d double-checked that you hadn’t missed anything.”

“I didn’t call. I drove myself to the hospital,” you conclude, at which point Marcus seems to give up any notion that you’re a reasonable human being.

“As impressive as it is that you were able to endure that kind of pain for so long, you do realize by delaying getting this injury corrected, you probably added another month to the rehab you’re gonna need? Which is only gonna keep you from working with your horses that much longer,” he admonishes, but he sounds concerned more than anything, which tugs at your heart because no one ever concerns themselves about you.

“I know, but I was… scared,” you admit, surprising yourself, since you haven’t even admitted this to yourself yet. “I’ve never been seriously injured before, and I hate hospitals. I knew I had to go, I just… had to convince myself of it.”

Unexpectedly, he smiles at you then.

“Thank you. For being honest with me. That’s always a good start.” He looks so grateful and earnest as he meets your gaze, you struggle not to look away.

“I know it might not seem like it, but I do want help. I’m just really crappy at asking for it or accepting it.”

“Well then, you’ll be happy to know I’m stubborn as hell, and I don’t take no for an answer when I know I’m right. Chances are, you’re gonna get amazingly irritated and sick of me before we’re done, but if you can trust me despite all that, I’ll get you well again,” he offers, and you struggle to believe you could ever get sick of such a wonderful person.

“I’m not great with trusting people. But I’ll try.”

“That’s all I can ask for. Now, I’m gonna need you to take your shirt off so I can assess the mobility of your shoulder.”

Well, that went from sweet to nerve-wracking in one fucking sentence… Suddenly your pulse is pounding in your ears, but it’s not like you can refuse. At least, not if you want to regain full mobility. Internally cursing yourself for wearing a t-shirt and not a top with thin straps of some sort, you start fumbling with the fabric, trying to get it off without causing yourself too much pain.

He notices that you’re having a bit of trouble and steps around behind you to lift the shirt at the back, which is nice of him. Except that when his warm fingers brush against the bare skin of your neck, you involuntarily shiver, which he of course also notices.

“Is it too cold in here?” he wonders. “I try to keep it warmer than the rest of the building, but if you need me to turn it up further-…”

“No, no, I’m fine,” you interrupt him, feeling absolutely ridiculous at how strongly his mere presence affects you.

“Alright, but just so you know, it’s no trouble. If there’s anything I can do to make this more comfortable for you, don’t hesitate to tell me,” he says, as he carefully starts to prod and examine your shoulder now that the shirt is off, and you’re abruptly having trouble breathing again with the sensation of his skin exploring yours.

“Oh, you don’t want me to do that…” you think to yourself, while doing your best not to be self-conscious about your choice of bra for the day.

“Why is that?”

His mildly bemused and curious question makes you freeze, and as the realization hits you that you’d actually spoken out loud just now, panic floods your every cell in no time flat. Wishing the ground would open and swallow you, or that lightning would hit you right now, you let your torso fall forwards and then brace your good elbow against your knee so that your hand can catch your head as it drops so heavily into your open palm that it feels like you’ve just slapped yourself.

“I am so sorry,” you mumble, seriously wondering what the fuck is wrong with you, you don’t even know if the man’s single. “Please ignore me, I don’t get out much.”

He’s quiet for a moment then, and in that short space of time, you manage to imagine several scenarios for how he’s probably about to scold you for behaving inappropriately.

“Ah… You didn’t mean to say that out loud, did you?” he finally replies, and he still sounds only bemused, but it does nothing to rid you of your shame.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say, because that’s how you feel.

“Hey, don’t feel bad, you haven’t done anything wrong. You’re allowed to think whatever you want.”

“Even if it’s totally objectifying and unethical?” you counter, and there’s another pause before you hear a low chuckle behind you.

“Okay, now I’m really curious. What were you thinking?”

“Never mind, just… continue your exam,” you hurriedly try to deflect, even more mortified by the prospect of having to own up to your completely premature infatuation with him.

But instead of leaving it alone, he rounds the table until he’s in front of you again, taking a seat on his stool so he’s at your eye-level.

“As previously discussed, I’ve got time. So, please, do tell me what you think would make you feel the most comfortable with me,” he grins, clearly fully aware that it’s gonna be something juicy, and almost childishly excited to know what it is.

For the most part, humiliation runs off you relatively easily. But that’s also because you rarely stray out of your comfort zone, which revolves around horses, dogs, driving tractors and using power tools. Still, on the rare occasions when you do manage to get yourself cornered, you generally suffer for a minute and then you find a way to shake it off.

And on the super-rare occasions, such as this one, when you’re so far beyond mortified that you don’t even know how to get out of it, something else happens. You become kinda angry and a bit feral. The last time it had happened you’d ended up spending a night in jail, and you hadn’t even been drunk.

You can feel that anger take control of your brain and you know you’re about to say something ill-advised, but there’s no stopping it. Raising your head, you lock gazes with him and see him flinch at the abrupt shift in your expression.

“Basically any scenario in which you’re butt naked and in my bed,” you hear yourself almost snarl, and somehow, there’s no shame accompanying the words.

As crude and inappropriate as they are, it’s the truth, and it wipes the sweetly crooked little smile off his face in a hurry. Although his eyes remain alight and curious.

“Somehow that’s not what I was expecting you to say,” he slowly observes, and you can’t help how your face falls, hearing that.

“You and me both, darlin’,” you exhale, feeling the anger fade as the air leaves your lungs, and in its wake, only regret remains. “Maybe I should just go.”

Standing, you reach for your shirt at the top of the table, but he stops you with a hand on yours, and when you turn to see what he’s doing, he’s suddenly very close.

“I told you that if you can trust me, I’ll help you. It might’ve been unintentional, but you were honest with me just now, even though you didn’t want to be, which is a good sign.”

“Not really,” you protest, starting to feel smaller against his large frame, “I get like that sometimes, when I’m overwhelmed. I blurt things out with no filter, it’s not a choice.”

“It was still the truth, wasn’t it?” he persists, and you can’t deny it, so you nod. “Okay then, we have a baseline, so let’s build on it rather than abandon it. I suggest we start with today’s session, and when we’re done, we make dinner reservations for this weekend.”

You’re so unprepared for that last part, your mouth falls open and your mind goes completely blank for way too long. Like a damned fish, you just stand there, staring at him while his hand still holds yours, gently prying your shirt from it before he motions for you to take your seat again. Grateful to be guided, since you still can’t think for yourself, you follow his directions and before long, the exam is done and he’s helping you get dressed.

From there, he shows you out into the gym where he meticulously instructs you on which exercises to do and how often, making you swear not to overdo them. And you might be imagining it, but you feel like he jumps on any excuse to touch you, holding your waist to make sure your core musculature doesn’t move when it’s not supposed to, or physically redirecting your hips when you’ve unknowingly turned them, even though he could’ve just told you to correct it yourself.

When you’re done for the day, he takes you back to the exam room where he makes a few notes about how the session went and what you’ve agreed on.

“Again, no lifting hay, grain, or heavy buckets,” he reiterates for what has to be the tenth time, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at him.

“I heard you the first nine times.”

“And you’re still not gonna listen to me, are you?”

“I live alone with two horses and two dogs, I make no promises, one way or the other.”

“I’m just gonna have to tie you to the bed then,” he says without a hint of a joke in his voice, before he reaches for a calendar on his desk. “But, dinner first. How does six o’clock on Friday sound?”

THE END

#sirowsky's birthday writing challenge 2024 #happy birthday to me #marcus moreno fanfiction #marcus moreno x female reader #marcus moreno x reader #we can be heroes fanfiction #we can be heroes au #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #sirowsky stories

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russellius · 2 years ago

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THE TIMES: The Formula One driver and his father, Steve, on failed driving tests and sleeping in horseboxes

George

My earliest memories are of living in a mobile home while my parents built a house in a field in the middle of nowhere, near Wisbech in Cambridgeshire. I rode a pedal tractor around the site, hurtling through corners and reversing with a trailer.

At 25 I am the youngest of three. Cara is 37 and works as my personal assistant. Benjy is 36 and caught the karting bug when he was just 11. He was a brilliant driver, becoming a national and world karting champion. Unfortunately, even starting at such a young age, it was already too late for him to have a professional career. I took up karting when I was six and he helped me a lot. Benjy was like a mentor. He eventually gave up racing at university, so Dad’s focus was on me.

I didn’t see much of Dad during the week. He got up early and came home late running a business selling seeds and pulses. As a kid you miss having your father around, but it’s only now that I appreciate he was doing it so I could race at the weekend. Dad didn’t come from a lot and did well to create a successful business. We weren’t poor but we weren’t wealthy like the families of some F1 racing drivers now.

After long hours at work Dad drove us in a camper van to racetracks around the country. It was very much a family affair. Dad was the mechanic, Mum did the cooking and collected data on my driving. When I drove well, there were celebrations and the mood was great but because everyone was so emotionally and financially invested, when I suffered a poor weekend the mood was bad.

Dad has always been hard on the ones he loves. As a young kid, that was difficult to deal with. The pressure didn’t just filter down to me, it affected the whole family. I felt the weight of failure and expectation. If I made a silly mistake and spun off the track, I can now understand why Dad might have thought, “What the hell am I doing this for?” He had to work his arse off to support my racing, so if I didn’t put in enough effort, it must have been hard.

I now live in the world of F1, where tens of millions of pounds are spoken about like peanuts. Even in Formula Two or Three, every driver has to find huge amounts of money to get on the grid — it’s just crazy. When I was 16 and moving up through the ranks, I realised Dad didn’t have that sort of capital. I thought, “Oh shit, if I can’t find that sort of sponsorship or get picked by a team, my F1 dream is gone.”

Winning the F2 championship in 2018 was a big moment but I’ll never forget the day I signed for Williams F1 in September 2018. I was racing in F2 in Sochi, Russia, when Claire Williams, the deputy team principal at the time, called me in and offered a deal. Mum and Dad were the first people I told and they both cried. I told them to save their tears for when I won a race.

I joined Mercedes for the 2022 season, alongside Lewis Hamilton. It was a huge opportunity for me to learn and grow in F1, as well as show what I’m capable of. It was not an easy season for Mercedes but I feel very fortunate to be in this position, plus Lewis is such an incredible bloke on and off the track. He is so experienced, whereas I’m a 25-year-old who is just totally focused on trying to be the best F1 driver I can be. I’m pretty inspired by what he has achieved.

Dad is a strong character but he has become more emotional since his children have left home. He’s also friendlier now and doesn’t mind making a fool of himself from time to time. My only regret is that F1 doesn’t leave much free space to see each other but we do speak on the phone all the time.

Of course he still watches the pennies and will only fly economy — he won’t let me pay for their flights either. I know my parents can afford to fly business but it’s the principle for them. I want to make sure I reach a position with my racing where I can afford to give them the best in their retirement. They totally deserve it.

Steve

The F1 guys are OK on the racetrack but they are never as good as their dads on normal roads. George is always telling me to slow down as we approach a junction, though his mum thinks it’s fantastic when he takes her out and drives quickly.

There was just one occasion when George didn’t put the full effort in and it caused quite a commotion. He failed his first driving test at 17 because he thought that being a great driver on the track was good enough. He came home fuming that the examiner was wrong. We had to go back to the test centre in King’s Lynn so George could confront him. That didn’t go down well.

George was a cheeky little boy, a bit of a comedian. I worked a lot but it’s strange that I can only remember the racing side of his life, not watching him grow up at home. We enjoyed a nice life but had to work hard for it. I came from a family of farm workers with very little money and wanted to get away from agriculture and better myself but I ended up owning a wholesale seed business.

My wife, Alison, and I knew George was going to be a racing driver at the age of two. He was born on the track, coming to races to watch his brother and help out in the garage. He had a toy tractor that he rode around the pit lane and collected stickers from each race to stick on his “George Russell Racing” tractor.

As George progressed through the racing ranks it became more and more expensive. We invested in a motorhome to travel to races — before that I would sometimes sleep in a freezing horsebox. There were sacrifices. Alison and I didn’t go on our first holiday together until two years ago, on a trip to Lanzarote. By then we had been together for 38 years. People think that now George is in F1 we hang out with Lewis Hamilton and Toto Wolff, the Mercedes principal, every weekend in the sunshine, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Now Alison and I rarely go to races because we don’t want to interfere.

It was hard letting George fly the nest because we had been a close family, always doing our racing together. He is methodical and organised but his feet are firmly on the ground. There are plenty of people in the family to put him straight if needed.

There’s no magic wand to become an F1 driver — it takes hard work and dedication. It was only when I stood on the track with George before his first grand prix that I looked up at the enormous crowd and thought, “Oh my God, we’ve actually got here.”

#george russell #f1 #*m #q #23 #(oh brother)#:)#ch

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daisybianca · 2 years ago

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pairing: daniel ricciardo x femalereader

summary: being married to daniel ricciardo is probably the best things that has ever happened to you. even at times when you struggle with period cramps, he's just there to help his beloved wife.

warnings: pure fluff, tiny mentions of sex

THE STRIKING PAIN ceased you from your pleasant dreams, causing you to gasp aloud. Catching your breath, you looked over to your sleeping boyfriend. You were very much relieved to find that you hadn't woken him to be honest.

Daniel Ricciardo had been nothing but busy at work and constantly traveling around, and the idea of waking him up by accident simply because of late-night period pains just didn't sit right with you. But thank goodness that you hadn't accidentally woken him with your sudden consciousness. You couldn't stand the idea of being the reason for him possibly tired at the upcoming race tomorrow.

Slowly, you got out of bed and went into your bathroom. You gently closed the bathroom door and turned on the lights.

As you looked at yourself in the mirror, you thought that only one word could describe your appearance: tired.

At that moment, you couldn't help but wonder why you had to deal with this monthly pain. Nor did you understand why your medicine to relieve the pain hadn't started working?

Sighing at your reflection, you turned on the tap water and you splashed some of the liquid on your face, hoping it would ease some of your discomforts.

Much to your disappointment, it didn't. Releasing a deep breath once more, you decided it was best to make yourself some sleepy time tea and try to sleep through the pain.

You turned off the lights to the bathroom and looked across your darken bedroom to where your sleeping husband laid. Daniel looked angelic in his sleep, to say at least. His brown curls hugged his peaceful features. You adored every single part of him.

So far, it seemed that you hadn't woken him up, which pleased you. But here came the tricky part, which was going downstairs without causing any sound.

You doubted that Daniel would hear you go downstairs, but there were times where you had left the bed for five minutes in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and this action had stirred him awake.

You figured you had a 25% chance of not waking him up. And though the odds weren't the best, your cramps had convinced you otherwise. It was either your discomfort of hours or the 75% chance of waking your husband up, and you picked the former.

・❥・

Daniel woke up the second he heard the steps creaking. Instantly his protective instincts and kicked in. But as he turned toward where he thought you laid only to find you gone. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Daniel remembered something important. It was your time of the month again. Which meant your insomnia was back.

Daniel had insisted on letting him install the period-tracker app on his mobile phone too. He claimed that he wanted to be alarmed when that time of the month was just around the corner in order to buy you lots of chocolate bars and candies, which he knew you adored. He felt bad for you. That was the least he could do so as to help his wife.

Each month you had to go through this, and each month it affected you. He knew it was natural, but fuck... he wished he could take your pain away... Which he always did. If you wanted to have sex to relieve your cramps, he was always the one to suggest it, and he was all up for it.

If you need some chocolate or a heating pad, he would get it without asking twice. But there were times when he realized that you refused to disturb him, which is most likely the reason you had left him in bed tonight.

Quickly, but quietly Daniel got up from bed and put on an old university sweater so that he wouldn't be too cold in just his boxers as he searched for you.

He didn't want to alert you that he was awake. Yet because your house could be creepy sometimes because it always seemed that each step taken in the home would alert anyone of movements.

Thankfully, Daniel had the proper training to help him with his stealthy movements. He didn't know how... but as the years passed with him being in F1, his reflexes and elasticity were surprisingly excellent. So there was a chance that you wouldn't be able to detect him at all.

Your husband couldn't help but nearly snicker as he thought about all the times he had accidentally snuck up on you. You often had threatened him by stating you'd put a bell on him if he didn't stop scaring you. So far, you had yet to put a collar on him... Except for sexy times in the bedroom, that is.

As he made his way downstairs, he found you sitting at the kitchen table with a cup in hand. He gave you a weak smile, but the expression you gave him didn't seem as sweet. If anything, it was a look of confusion and perhaps regret.

"I woke you, didn't I?" You asked lightly, causing him to frown.

The way your voice broke, made him feel like he had done something wrong. It got worse when he watched as you covered your face in shame and started to cry.

"I'm sorry, darling. I just- It's that time of the month again. And I just feel terrible for waking you. Especially since you've had nothing but stress with your upcoming race."

Suddenly, Daniel rushed over to you as you finished your confession. Kneeling, he held your face between his hands and whipped away your tears as they dripped down your cheeks. Smiling kindly, he replied, "Mrs. (l/n)... you could never bother me with your problems. I don't know if you remember, but when we exchanged vows, we promised to love each other in sickness and health until death do us part, my sweet. I see your sickness as my own. I know we're newly married, but darling, I am so in love with you that I'd do anything you ask me to do. Whatever you desired, I shall fulfill it. Don't ever feel bad about your period, my heart."

"My sweet husband... I don't want to burden you with something as trivial as my period. You shouldn't feel like this routine thing is a priority."

"You're my priority, though. I know I'm a pain in the ass, but I'll stop at nothing to please and comfort you." With that, he kissed your forehead, and you knew no matter how much you tried to convince him, he'd refuse to let you be alone. Frankly, you refused to be away from him, so you saw no point in convincing him to leave you alone anyway.

●○•°•○●

requests are always open for my wags <3

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cocoa-rococo · 2 months ago

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miscellaneous things i think could be good (or just funny) in a modern freakazoid reboot

dexter has a small friend group he plays dnd and other games with (because help him, this boy needs some legitimate friends)

more of dexter and freakazoid interacting with each other, being able to see how their internal communication works. bonus if freak can just. pop up on dexter's computer or phone to chat with him

a new villain or plot device based on generative ai, messing with freakazoid's sense of what's true and false (possibly deadpan? the early villain in the s1 finale?)

an episode on just how exactly to do a freakazoid reboot. freak himself is in the studio trying to find the best pitch to turn into a show, and even in the writing room, telling people that no, actually, he'd never say that, have you even SEEN the original show --

a whole episode's running joke of being sponsored by an mmorpg (with 20% off if the viewer uses the code RPGFREAK20XX). freak goes after the game's creators near the episode's end when he gets sick of the interruptions

valerie returns with a bit of a larger role, being steph's friend and possibly becoming the previously cut-from-production witch girl (because we need more women in this show)

short joke of freakazoid stopping a fight to tell someone who's playing a video loudly without headphones to stop it, it is DRIVING him UP the WALL. GEEZ

fanboy makes a return, and introduces his little sister: a freakazoid fan who's a little too into him and her favorite fandom ships. freak wants nothing to do with her, her brother, and her "intense interest with cargo and freighters"

cobra queen has an online shop where she makes snake-themed jewelry and does makeup tutorials. freakazoid is happy to support small businesses. he is not happy when she still uses her massive pet serpents to break into stores to steal things

gutierrez, with the internet taking off, also deals in developing software at apex. the new social media app they make leeches info from others to sell, but its main use is to find, tag, and track freakazoid wherever he goes

one of the villain's plans involve those fridges that come with a touchscreen and built-in wifi. imagine their surprise when freak is able to zap inside. he's on one of the shelves eating food and asking for condiments

an episode where lobe's scheme is based on one of those viral, seemingly silly mobile games everyone plays (flappy bird, candy crush, cookie clicker, etc). even the show's staff are taken with it. the narrator interrupts the program at one point to mention that he will no longer be announcing things because he's too busy playing the game himself

freakazoid learns about vr being a thing, and becomes a cryptid by popping into random games and streams. there's a whole short done like a found footage film or documentary based on people's attempt to find him

freak does a parody of youtuber apology videos for a segment, saying sorry to the viewer. by the end, it's clear he's badly reading off a script, and admits he doesn't even know what he's apologizing for

cave guy's plan for an episode being intimidating various scholars, professors, and newspapers to hide articles and research behind a paywall (which goes directly to him, of course). freak learns about it because dexter needs to write a paper for class, and needs to race against the clock to get his sources unlocked before its due

a short based on dexter trying his hand at streaming games. he ends up temporarily famous for his really well-done "custom freakazoid vtuber model" (it's just freak himself)

a short based on longhorn trying to get into nashville by becoming a music influencer. he does not get far

you-know-who has happily settled into his role as an internet creepypasta. there's an episode where freakazoid needs to follow a string of disappearances, linked with a recent internet "challenge" and posts trailing off after saying candlejack, which is harder than it s --

#freakazoid #freakazoid series #freakazoid!#cocoapost #ever since i finished watching the show i have had. ideas #i'd love to see a modern reboot with how the internet is nowadays #is it likely? maybe not #but i can DREAM DARN IT ALL #anyways if y'all have thoughts i would love to hear them

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voidshrubsquared · 5 months ago

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Addi oc lore!!! For the only proper addi oc I have!!! She's a purple addi and her name is Mobi L. Addison (ahaha so creative I know-)

Putting a cut here cause this is. Long

As her name suggests, she does mobile game advertising! The really obnoxious and weird and annoying kind <3 Very energetic, playful and excitable before the Incident :)

Okok so. Lore. Mobi was part of a small department of 3 ads. Her, a pink and an orange. They did smaller scale campaigns and stuff like banners in less populated websites and such. One day their orange addi got a sweet deal from a big company that would have him work at a different part of town. It was a lot of cash, and the other two encouraged him to take it. With a bit of hesitation he did, and they had a celebration and everything. Big promotion day!!!

Their orange left, and for a while he'd send texts, emails, and his sum of money to take care of bills and pay off the house and such. Then... texts became scarce, he became busier, and the money trickled to a stop. He didn't come back for the vacation they had planned months in advance. He just. Left them. What a dick >:/

Realizing this, Mo and Locke (the pink, also nicknamed Lucky), both upset but not having a lot of time to process the abandonment, had to take extra work from wherever they could to keep the house, pay bills, and keep their sales up. It was very stressful, but they were able to stay afloat for a good while. They were able to keep positive about things and even grew closer together as friends! Locke was. Clearly interested in being more than friends, but Mo was very oblivious of her advances and only saw her as a friend (she didn't know until waaaaay later, but she's aroace). And things were good! Until the INCIDENT MWAHAHAHA

So one day, Mobi did her usual morning routine, said goodbye to Locke as they went their separate ways to work until sundown, and then when she came back, Lucky wasn't home yet. Which is weird!!! Because she comes home hours before Mo!!!! Mobi sends a few texts, no dice. She makes a few phone calls, straight to voice mail. Oh no.

Like how all missing persons' cases go, eventually there's a police search, posters go up, several restless nights... After long hours of waiting for something, anything, the only thing that is found is Lucky's car parked in the grass somewhere way out of the outskirts of the city. It seemed like she was planning to return to it, because she'd left it running, and they found it out of battery. That's all they know about her, and that's all Mobi will ever know about what happened to her. (Maybe. I might let her know in the future I'm not sure.)

But you get to know!!! Heck yeah!!!! So!!!

Lucky was trying her best to help Mo out and lighten the load a little, y'know? So she may or may not. Gotten into some. Reeeeally shady business. But!! It paid well!! It totally wasn't running errands and occasionally clesning up the dirty work of a company that may or may not maybe perhaps mayhaps. Abduct people to use as snuff film props. Ahaha. Noooo. Definitely not that. Uhm. Well anyways you can guess how that ended up for her. Once she made one too many mistakes and wasn't as useful as before, well!!

At least there's a tape with evidence of her on-camera death somewhere out there. Maybe that's how Mo finds out, actually!

Anyways. So obviously Locke's disappearance leaves Mobi incredibly devastated. She barely has any time to grieve though, first she has to move out of home into a smaller apartment, she can't pay everything off by herself now. For a while, she doesn't work, sales get low, and she just. Doesn't know how to cope with this at ALL.

So!! How DO you cope with this AND work to pay rent and keep yourself alive?? Simple! Work yourself to death!!!

Mobi very healthily decides she's going to keep her mind off things by working herself until her circuits fry off. Very normal. So she goes to this big video advertising megacorp, takes as many jobs and errands as possible, and works as much as she can until she passes out from exhaustion. She becomes a veey reliable asset to the company, at least...?

Her only sustenance is coffee, energy drinks, anything that can keep her awake for as long as possible. She doesn't take sick days, she doesn't take vacation days, only works. And she enjoys it, in a way! After a month or two of initial struggles, she finds her rhythm and doesn't stop. Eventually, she forgets Locke. But she doesn't stop working! And she stays like that. For like ten years. Super exhausting, she's NOTHING like the fun, excitable addi shw used to be. She got to work for a big shot for a little while at least! If you get to see one of his old commercials, you might see her as a background actor in a few! Nowadays she mostly does video advert work, graphic design, banners, all that good stuff everyone absolutely hates. (Fun fact she loves targeting Berdly, her ads annoy him so much)

So this cycle happens for ages until there's a new addition to the company that changes everything for her. See, Mobi doesn't have friends. She doesn't have time for friends! She just works!! And then this GOOF of a yellow ad joins and brightens up the place so much, that she can't help but look their way and smile. Videon the silly goof. The plinko. (Listen I was so deep into Bright's addi lore here, I couldn't help myself-) Fun fact I chose Vid specifically for this because canonically they take a job where they aren't as home as often after the whole Spamton disappearing thing. So yeah

Mobi likes this ad, they're loud and playful and love hanging out and goofing off on stage, off stage, mischievous little shit. And it... snaps Mo out of her routine little by little. She starts interacting with them, saying hi when they come in, laughing at their stupid jokes, thinking 'wait that'd be so funny' when they suggest they do something clearly dumb. Why do you want to dump all those pounds of glitter on the actors for this commercial. No, get away from the glitter, gET AWAY-

So Mo warms up to them, and she starts conversations with them!! They start out casual until Vid makes one of those suggestions, and Mo can't catch herself when she gets excited and adds onto it. And oh god suddenly they are friends. Oh god oh no. We are so doomed guys. The more she hangs out with Vid, the more that playfulness and energy returns to her. She starts dropping a few of her dozens of jobs to take WEEKENDS off. Dear god her co-workers look at each other like she grew a second head. But she loves it. She loves hanging out with this new friend, talking to them, doing dumb stuff like pour a bottle of bubble bath into a fountain and running away from a disaster that ends up on the newspaper the next day (they never got caught). She likes inviting them home! Crashing at their place and meeting their department! Accidentally thrashing the place with them! (They did get caught and had to do all house chores for the next month. Still worth it.)

Finally, they get to that level of friendship where you can open up to one another about Life and Philosophy and Problems and Stuff. So they do, and Mo remembers that 'oh yeah. I never really grieved my friend's disappearance. I'm gonna cry for an hour now.' And she does, and Vid does too, they bond over their lost friends, talk about them, reminisce about their happy memories turned sour. Vid gets to talk about Spamton without any BLUE GUMBALL BITCH BOYS SHUNNING THEM ABOUT IT ahem huh what what was that. Uh. And Mobi gets to remember her fun times with Lucky, and share how much she hates that orange addi that I never bothered to name! This is when she learns she's aroace also. And Vid informs her Lucky obviously had a huge crush on her. Oh! Welp! Something new to process, hopefully properly this time.

Okay this is getting real long. I don't have much after this, except for the idea that Vid could offer helping to find anything they can about Lucky, any info at all, just to try and help her get some closure. She offers the same for them and Spamton's missing case. They wouldn't find anything Spam related, but they would find a lead for Lucky. And it leads them to perhaps a dangerous ARG-type rabbit-hole where they find documents of Lucky's involvement with the snuff film company, a copy of the tape of the film involving her death, and maybe even enough evidence for the authorities to launch a big investigation that saves dozens of missing ads and bringd closure to hundreds more. I like that, I think I'll make it canon. Like a buddy-cop thriller type thing or something idk.

Ok wow that was a lot. That's all I have/remember of the Mobi lore!!! Thanks for reading all this way if you did!! Woah!!!! I'm starving I'm gonna go eat BYEEEE

OH AND I SHOULD ADD HER REF SHEET TOO LEMME JUST

There we go!

( @emiplayzmc @yanderespamton78 and why not, @turntableart @solalunar-eclipse I told you guys about this but I don't remember how much so uhhh ye :3)

#bush RAMBLES #text post #lore post #fun fact the snuff film thing is what inspired one of turn's many Big Bad OCs :3 Mammon dearest I want to crush him like a bug #I hope this all made sense ajfjakfjsf this is all from memory #and as always if you see typos anywhere!!! No you did not!!!!!!!!#long ass post

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sodacansculptures · 1 year ago

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I started following you on Facebook some years ago, and then apparently forgot all about your stuff. It just popped into my head randomly and I wanted to see if you're still active and if you're still making soda can sculptures?

Hi, I apologize, I have no idea when you sent this since Tumblr (at least mobile) doesn't have time stamps, and for whatever reason, I don't get notifications about messages. You're the first person I've heard who has migrated from my Facebook page to my Tumblr, so thank you for joining the blog! Way more commentary here than there where my mom can see.

To answer your question succinctly: I am alive, and that's about the best I can say I've been since covid.

(I have donation links at the bottom, if you feel moved to want to help me.)

The extended director's cut answer:

After I made the Eevee sculpture, grad school ramped up and I figured I'd return to sculpting after I got my degree and settled into a job. However, I graduated in Spring of 2020, so the job I had lined up was withdrawn, and with all the budget cuts and layoffs in my field, I was competing for jobs with people who were trying to reenter the field and had decades more experience than me.

I did 100+ applications (I lost count at 120-something), dozens of interviews (including getting to the final round of all that had such a format--which is a stupid format. You don't need to meet me in a formal pretense 3 times, ask me riddles, have me take multiple hour-long aptitude tests, plus make me travel on my own dime just to tell me "no" and not even send like a "2nd Place Loser" gift basket or accept my LinkedIn request or anything). I got super stressed and super depressed.

I was so busy with trying to find a job and trying to deal with the breakdowns of not finding one. I tried applying in all the fields I was capable of at all levels: executive, mid, and gruntwork. I was turned down from entry level, no-talent-necessary jobs because I was overqualified. I was turned away from the others because of the lack of experience and unprecedented level and caliber of competition.

I was (still am) unable to pay my bills and, when not having breakdowns, I was calling, emailing, filling out applications, etc. for any and all financial aid. It was very arduous work and tedious with all the documentation they wanted from me, hold times on the phone, etc.

I had a non-profit (ADVOCAP) laugh at me when I asked for rent help because apparently they were overwhelmed and I wasn't going to get anything as I didn't have a job or kids and was considered a non-priority. Later when I was working with the ADRC, I asked if my case manager (I applied for disability, but I'll explain in a bit) if she knew of any rent help. She basically scolded me for asking and told me that it was unethical of me to seek that because "that's for people who actually have a chance." People who have jobs, she means. She explained that that money wasn't meant for me, and that was a whole unexpected slap in the face with a bag of dogshit. Didn't realize we had devolved into a utilitarian society quite that quickly.

I started working with FSET (my state's employment training and search help program. I was literally trying everything. Like I had also called my college and emailed all my professors asking for job help, and they had no answers other than like, "look online"). After months of no luck, FSET eventually convinced me to sign with a temp agency.

I worked 2 temp jobs that treated me like garbage (worsening my depression) and also paid me as such. I had lost all my savings to trying to stay afloat and my free time was non-existent, unless you count the hours I'd spend in the middle of the night just walking around my neighborhood listening to music--in an attempt to stop what seemed like endless crying--while I cried.

I tried selling plasma but they rejected me because I couldn't ever get my heart rate low enough, as my antidepressants increase heart rate. I tried going off of them, but I was on them for a reason, so I need to go back on.

When I graduated, I had bought myself a PS4 as a graduation gift to myself. I could afford it and thought I earned it. All the atmosphere of rejection and failure the pandemic created for me and my link to survival (employment should not be tied to survival. I was doing everything right and the system was failing me direly while virtually no one else who shared my experiences understood why I couldn't get a job when "everywhere is hiring" and "nobody wants to work anymore") and I started to hate myself for stuff like gifting myself the PS4. I felt undeserving, like a waste of resources, etc. because those were the messages I was constantly receiving directly and indirectly.

I eventually landed a job in my field and was hired on the spot. I felt like I had hit the jackpot and finally was going to be okay. Surprisingly to everyone in my life, the job made my life even worse.

I signed an NDA due to being horribly abused for the 10 months I was there, so I can't say much more than I just barely paid off my credit card, still had no free time as I was salary and worked nights and weekends in addition to my scheduled hours because the real reason they hired me instantly was not because I impressed them but rather because they were collapsing and desperate for anyone with some level of responsibility and capability. I hated that job, was bullied and abused extremely badly by coworkers and bosses and HR was no help, and when my performance review came back with negative impressions of me when I was sacrificing so much to keep the employment entity alive and functional, I completely broke.

I ended up hospitalized for months for suicide, and part of the NDA included resigning. I never fully recovered and don't think I ever will. I think I've seen and experienced too much to return to the idea that I could be the trailblazer my professors projected me to be (I now think professors don't actually provide an accurate representation of the field and encourage with no basis for their optimism).

The human mind is very easy to manipulate with propaganda, and I didn't catch myself being in a sort of “main character syndrome” and thinking that because I was Valedictorian of my graduating class and that I had so many national and international recognitions, awards, accolades, and qualifications that I was, for lack of a better term, pulling myself up by the bootstraps and going to be rewarded with a promising future where success is not just viable but imminent. I knew the world wasn't fair and that some people could do all the prescribed “right” steps and fail, but the operating paradigm (that had been ingrained in me since childhood from teachers who saw me as bright) I had held told me that I was far too talented and hard-working to fail. I had very little doubt that I wouldn't be successful. I was an ideal, hypothetical model of a pre-successful American worker.

So anyway, I didn't expect to have all the trouble that I faced finding a good job. At the end of the first summer of covid with nothing but rejections and employers affirming to me that there was nothing I could have improved on to get the job other than have prior experience, I was a discouraged worker who didn't even try anymore.

That's when FSET convinced me to do the temp agencies (who dropped me because one employer who was inhumanely abusive and ironically an HR department) gave a bullshit reason about me violating a protocol so they wouldn't have to make good on their promise to hire me after the temp period.

(I had allergies and it was literally the exact week in September when allergies were at their worst. A coworker, who hated me for some reason I never figured out and can only assume was jealousy, reported me for having a runny nose and I was immediately escorted out for bringing covid symptoms into the building. If I didn't go to work any day I had a runny nose, I wouldn't go any day. I take allergy meds literally every day of my life. My parents kept me too clean as a baby or something and didn't let me eat enough dirt, so an allergy panel showed I was allergic to every single common indoor and outdoor allergen).

Back to my suicidal hospitalization: I could say so much on the inpatient part. Suffice it to say I was never given my meds and there were no groups because they were understaffed and constantly wound up/pissed because of the uncooperative patients, so it was like prison where you had to argue with staff to get your basic needs met, and no soft surface existed and the water was always freezing, so it genuinely felt like being locked in a concrete box with no sunlight, no one on your side (they lied and said they called my psychiatrist and therapist. They never did. They also lied about ordering my meds), and no contact with the outside world. It was like a cruelly-designed Mr. Beast challenge with no reward in the end.

My friends said I was messed up for 2 weeks after and scary af because I was in survival-fight mode that would not turn off. I also was too overwhelmed by the outside world when I got out and could only eat pre-packaged snacks for a while because that was all I was used to/comfortable with.

Part of the agreement to let me leave inpatient was to do an intensive all-day outpatient program. I was actually dropped from that by insurance because I had undiagnosed ADHD among all my other issues and couldn't show up on time or sometimes at all. I still don't have my ADHD figured out because I had to convince my psychiatrist to refer me to a neuropsych who booked out for months to test me. I did it and got “Yes, much ADHD. All of the ADHD. Very wow.” So my psychiatrist finally believed me and agreed to start me on ADHD meds.

My psychiatrist and I are still working to find an ADHD med that would work for me. Vyvanse helped for a time, but my body metabolized it too quickly, leaving me with only around 6 functional hours in the day. I'm currently on extended-release Adderall, but so far not much help and there are too many other variables that could be fucking with it, like that my sleep-wake cycle is extremely unpredictable and I have a million appointments every day, so I am constantly sleep-deprived and am actually busier now than I was in grad school or any 8-hour job I worked.

The breakdown I had triggered me to develop fibromyalgia, so that has been a whole ordeal. I'm constantly in pain, it again took many months to see any doctor about it, and the meds take so long to start taking effect that we've been trying since June to find something that works.

The crucible that was my pandemic experience didn't refine me like fire refines gold or whatever the saying is but rather left me burnt, and not in the way that you can scrape the charred parts off of toast but like BURNT burnt (I can't think of an example. Maybe a popsicle. You're not getting that back once you take a flamethrower to it. Plus the stick would crumble into ash. RIP popsicle).

My life lately is a lot of appointments I often miss and have to reschedule, arguments with various agencies and even my doctors, breakdowns, and driving for Uber Eats because no one can fire me (but it pays beans and I get flack from restaurants and customers AND Uber because somehow the driver is the scapegoat for any issue that arises. I was so proud of my delivery aptitude and quality service until the tip-baiters and people being assholes for no reason started hitting me as common and daily occurrences).

A lot of people don't understand how UberEats works, but Uber doesn't even pay their driver enough to cover gas or depreciation on their vehicle for the mileage, much less the value of the driver's time and physical efforts. Tips are literally ⅔ of my income and my income does not cover my bills despite all the time I put in and algorithm I set up for myself that determines which trips to accept/reject for the most profit. It's a very toxic and unprotected form of employment. A lot of people lie that I didn't give them their food so that they can get a refund, but that comes back on me and risks my account being deactivated. It's virtually a fear-based system with some tricky artificial competition that Uber likes to throw in from time to time to convince us to drive for less and less pay.

I've looked into all the alternatives like GrubHub, Spark, DoorDash, etc. but I've been on their waiting lists for years, including GrubHub booting me off their list even though I was always quick to respond to their periodic question of if I still wanted to be on the list.

Between depression and ADHD, I can't work a normal job. I no longer have the capacity to keep a routine and can't show up to things with any level of reliability despite how badly I want to. I also don't have the spoons to deal with working with others or being accountable for tasks that feel--idk how to articulate it, but like--stupid to my autism. If something seems inefficient or not progressive (like not helpful to humanity) to me, I can't get my brain to do it. And with ADHD, if it's not interesting to me/something I am passionate about (I was extremely lucky that learning and receiving the praise from teachers I never got from my parents was my passion that got me so far and through multiple degrees), I can't get my brain to let me do it. Sometimes I just can't do anything, including things I want to do, and simply end up stuck. I wouldn't last in any job that wasn't self-directed and only happening when I have the spoons to be available. My options are very limited. And Uber can be slow. I've had times where I've waited 13 hours and not gotten a single request that wasn't going to cost me money to run.

Uber has some personal difficulties for me. In the summer, I found it a little bit fun, but now that it's cold, my Raynaud's is painful and I don't enjoy having to watch out for people who got their licenses from cereal boxes and don't know how to drive in the snow. It's an unpleasant sensory experience for me to work and honestly risky safety-wise. People don't turn on their porch lights for some reason (I have a headlamp now) and don't salt their walkways, and I'm uncoordinated because my dad didn't throw a ball at me enough as a kid probably, so there's ice, the treads on my boots are shot (and I can't afford to replace them), and I get banged up from falling on concrete.

I have a chiropractor and physical therapist, and they each said even before this that they could see me every day and still have something to work on with me. It's affirming, at least, to hear that professionals can physically feel how in pain my body is and that it's not just me being a baby. Part of it, I'm sure, is that I have PTSD (including from the traumas of my various pandemic experiences) and have horrible nightmares every night where I jerk around a lot in my sleep. I wake up every day feeling like I got hit by a bus, which is also partially why I don't get places on time.

On my own time, I'll spend 2 hours trying to get out of bed both overcoming the pain to move and convincing myself to get the willpower to. It's so much easier to just lie there and accept it, especially when I don't look forward to having to do another day. I don't feel rested because I spent the night working my body and brain, so I'm not sure I ever am rested. I need so much more sleep now, too, with fibromyalgia. This adds to my stress of outpacing my bills and just keeping up with the maintenance of myself and my apartment because that's less time I have to get things done.

I have 4 alarms (phone vibrating plus noise, an earthquake pillow one, my Fitbit vibrating on my wrist, and a Pavlok going all out screaming, vibrating, and shocking me with electricity), and it's still possible for me to sleep through all of them or somehow turn them off while half-asleep and go back to sleep. There are also times where I will be like, “Okay, getting up now,” and then I black out and it's 4 hours later and I missed 3 appointments that will take weeks to reschedule, if the clinic hasn't dropped me for the tardiness and absence. I'm running out of clinics to go to.

On a mental level, I am in a near-constant state of overwhelm that holds me inches from a full-blown, all-day breakdown at any given moment. Something about being so stressed with no relief for years on end has rewired my brain, I think, to make the adrenaline pathway so reinforced and the stress part of the brain overlit/overactive. I don't know how to relax. Doctors keep telling me I need to, especially with fibromyalgia, but I physically cannot seem to do it. I can't focus on anything like movies. Nothing is fun when I have always-present and terrorizing (by threatening my survival) pressure from all these stressors (mainly money. I'm in a constant race against my monthly bills, and each month, they creep closer and closer to outpacing me). I'm never happy to wake up and I'm always low-key scared. I'm desperate for security in any form.

I was so unable to do tasks after my suicidal breakdown that even though my psychiatrist, therapist, and general physician were begging me to apply for disability. I had hoped I just needed a few months of R&R and would be right back to being willing and able to work. That never happened, and it was extremely difficult for me to accept the fact that I was disabled. When I finally did, I begged for months for people to help me fill out all the forms (they were overwhelming me, which is, y'know, kind of a key feature of my disability) and no one did, so I lost months of time there. I eventually just had a moment of conviction or indignation or something that I was able to force myself to do them. I'm still kind of mad at everyone who didn't help.

My therapist actually did her best to help and, when the outpatient hospital ousted me because insurance refused to pay for it anymore, referred me to the county's CCS (Community Care Something-or-other) program. They gave me a worker who allegedly had some psychology- or human services-related degree who would help me function for 1 hour a week. I think the whole program is a farce and despite spending hours on this program, we accomplished absolutely nothing.

The first CCS worker I had was supposed to come over to my place (which had become a mess. I was a messy person before, as my apartment was a graveyard of unfinished projects due to my ADHD), but with my extended burnout, I wasn't cleaning and organizing on the level I used to. So I texted my CCS person a warning that my kitchen table was cluttered. I mean it to mean, “It will take me a minute to clear the table once you get here for your laptop for you to finish the unreasonably long entry paperwork on me, and I haven't gotten the energy to declutter it yet and won't until you get here because my ADHD needs a body double right now. She, for reasons I still don't understand, canceled the visit and never came. When I confronted her about what I meant, she was like…embarrassed to the point of not being willing to work with me anymore. There was a communication breakdown that I couldn't get her to communicate with me and she was somehow scared of how much and how articulated or something I communicated that she shut down.

I understand I “overcommunicate” from the perspective of allistics and neurotypicals [I had a bad childhood and was invalidated and wrongly blamed for things a lot, so I give as much explanation as possible to avoid any misunderstanding and articulate to the point that there won't be any ambiguities and thus can't be twisted into reason to punish me when I've done nothing to earn punishment. My caretakers as a child had their own mental issues that led them to being unreliable/unsafe to me and didn't offer me any feelings of security in relationships, perspective of reality (them taking their anger out on me and telling me everything, including their personal problems, was my fault), and ultimately everyone seems to say they want transparency and communication, but from my experiences and perspective, they don't want that. I have no idea what they really want. I give the level of communication I would want someone to give me and hope that they will just discard the parts they don't need/want, and apparently that's me being a burden or something and a “bad” quality.

Meanwhile, I WISH people would communicate and be transparent with me more. I think I am an understanding person who has done enough work on themselves to not repeat toxic patterns and be a healthy relationship to others. I don't listen to judge but to understand so I can work with the other person to fix any problems and work with what we got, not devalue them and distance myself or abandon them. Everyone on dating apps says they want this, but I've yet to meet someone who does. I think it's that people see this as an ideal but are unskilled at the time to play their role in the situation–both in offering and responding. I think I've put so many years of therapy and introspection into working on myself that others just haven't, so we're simply on different levels. I know I'm not alone in my experiences, but it's very isolating when you don't meet people who have done the same work.

Anyway, I got assigned a new CCS worker and she did not do all that work I described. When I was told I would be assigned to someone else, I specifically asked for one who has seen some shit and that nothing I do or say will move them. They did at least give me someone older with more experience, but she either over- or under-estimated me (I can't discern which). She, working in the same building as my therapist and being basically in at least a good bit of communication with her when I wasn't around, knew that I had a lot of crap going on that I needed more therapy/support/help unraveling and making sense of and peace with than the 45 min/week I got with my current therapist. So she offered to be like a second therapist and said I could tell her absolutely anything.

As the pattern of this narrative likely already cues, it turned out I could not tell her absolutely anything. I was a few months into my transition and no one prepares you for some of the changes. My endocrinologist had only told me, “You might go bald.” I thought my years of research and consulting with transmen in my life had encompassed all I needed to know. However, we sometimes do not know what we don't know and thus don't think to ask the questions we need to ask. As probably an autistic/abused person trait of mine, I speak very clinically and technically. At the time, I had recently been speaking with my therapist about anatomical changes that triggered emotions I was not prepared for. I attempted the same sort of conversation with my new CCS worker, but she yelled me for being inappropriate. Not just scolded but legit yelled, as if I wasn't a full grown adult capable of reason and discussion.

I was confused on what I did wrong, since I thought I was just taking her up on what she willingly offered. I am also a firm believer in the Mister Rogers quote about how anything that is mentionable is manageable (which goes back to why I don't listen to judge but rather to collaborate and also why I see disagreements as us vs. the problem rather than me vs. them. I do not feel the need to yell at someone unless it's like an emergency of some sort and there's a threat that yelling can somehow address and be beneficial to the situation).

From my perspective, I was being shut down and punished/shamed for asking for help with a problem that legit scared me and that I was willing to be vulnerable enough to share. I consider that sort of thing sacred and not something that can be trusted in everyone's hands. But the way she responded, to me, reinforced that I was a person unworthy of help: a message received from my childhood caretakers and all the people who were supposedly there to help me during my pandemic crises.

I couldn't bring myself to trust her anymore or even want to see her again. I'll admit that's a bit of my Emotional Dysregulation Disorder weighing in, but I didn't want her in any intimate spaces I'd need to let her into in order to serve me in her CCS capacity. I had had too many things go wrong lately in that time to not shut myself down to prevent more hurt by simply refusing any future opportunity for more hurt to occur. I was well beyond my limit and it took much convincing from my therapist for me to even give CCS a chance to help me.

Still, I asked to be reassigned to another CCS worker, this time knowing that I could not trust what they claim to offer and just keep the things we work on surface-level functioning--like cleaning my oven or going through the pile of mail I hadn't opened in weeks because their potential contents paralyzed me with fear.

I was denied my request and let go from the program as they felt I had burned through 2 workers and thus proven that I am not a good candidate for the program. I still don't agree with this and argued, but after weeks of (a reasonable number of) periodic emails and voicemails, I never got an email or call back. In hindsight, I maybe should have reported to the county what happened, but it's been like a year.

That mostly brings us back to the present. I have been back in FSET since Spring but just focusing on staying afloat with Uber/working on whatever I can handle. I had a whole researched and designed pitch asking them to fund the several hundred dollars it would be for me to become a mobile notary, but they denied my request as they lack the funds. They also denied my request for new boots for the Uber hazards because they felt it was a fashion thing and not a need. Agencies, or honestly anyone with any power over me, not understanding me even with my articulate, crystal-clear explanations isn't surprising to me anymore. And counterintuitively, more explanation (even from different approaches) does not help and just makes me think I'm weird, which somehow is taken as more cause to not grant whatever request it is I am making in the first place.

So I Uber, I argue with doctors and agencies to try to get my needs met, and I have breakdowns despite my efforts to not. I have always had a massive list of more sculptures I want to make. I do want to get to a point where I can make them someday. I've been waiting on disability for an answer for nearly a year and done all I can to bolster my case with getting doctor testimonies, giving my testimony, noting clinic visits so the person assigned to my case can view the findings of them, getting an ADRC contact to guide me (though looking back, she didn't help at all and it was me searching out and discovering everything on my own while all she did was forward what documentation I had to the state for me)... All I can do is try to survive until they say “yes,” but they usually say “no” first (which is why an alarming number of people file bankruptcy and/or die waiting for a disability decision), especially since mental health reasons are the hardest ones to get approved, and my ADRC contact has been using language such as, “This will make it easier for next time,” and I'm not prepared to hear her tell me she thinks we'll have to file another claim and wait another year, so I don't ask

I feel terrible that I've not been sculpting or posting. I miss engaging the Tumblr community and sharing my art with people who appreciate it (and not tell me it's garbage. Wtf, Grandma).

The fact that I couldn't actually bring myself to commit suicide and still don't even though the extremely-difficult-to-survive--particularly with multiple debilitating ailments--and high cost I incur daily to myself trying to keep my head above water as long as I can, tells me that there is a life better than this that I want to live. I can't fathom for myself anything other than what is current, and I am putting all my chips into believing that I could be wrong and there's a chance all my striving will eventually meet stable ground to rest upon, where I can return to myself and make art again. I hate to think this wreck is who I really am and want to believe this is just who I am under a stupid-amount of pressure that no human should ever have to endure. A lot of people have been quick to point out all the resources, but I guarantee I've pursued all of them hard and received some help but not nearly enough. It's hard to wrestle with the feelings of not being enough to live or not being worthy of living because it's such a struggle for me to throw enough money at bills/expenses to allow me to live. It shouldn't cost someone all of themselves to try (and imminently fail) to earn the allowance to live.

Things like the ACP and student loan freeze (I owe $80,000+ because college is an overpromising, commercialized thing that is more gamble than guarantee) are ending soon (or maybe have ended and I just haven't opened my mail to know), and I'm deathly afraid. Uber isn't enough and on down-times with them and when my various ailments aren't being debilitating, I work on selling things to try to make enough for the month. Obviously I'm eventually going to run out of things to sell.

I'm also fearful that my estimated disability check, if I get one, is only going to be $900/month, because I didn't get enough work experience to be allowed more. I genuinely don't know that that's going to be enough, especially since the price of everything like rent is inflating. I don't know how long I can financially sustain my means of survival. But I'm still doing everything I can. It's jarring to go from decorated Valedictorian to…whatever exhausted mess this is.

My parents stopped asking me months ago how things are going because they know it's never good. They don't have the means to help me as my mom got laid off of work, my dad has dementia and doesn't work, and if I have to live with them again, I would essentially be signing off on my own death certificate because even spending a few hours in that home, with those people, is enough to completely drain me, trigger so much PTSD, grind my mental health down even more with whatever new dynamics and energies they decide to inject in our interactions. I wasn't free to fight the battles I needed to until I moved out into my own private space, and since it is the cheapest option in the entire city and so necessary of a component to my mental health, my therapist identified keeping my apartment as my number one priority. With my mental health, I wouldn't do well at all or be able to get back on my feet if I was homeless.

This turned into a lot more than I intended, but I'm really satisfied that it explains my situation and makes it known that you can do everything right and still lose. The system will cannibalize you if you don't have money to start with and don't have the means to keep it coming. Poverty charges interest and there are no days off, especially if you're disabled. There are no real safetynets and the ones that exist are overwhelmed, underfunded, underpowered, and essentially only serve to make the ones who don't need them feel satisfied (and aren't outraged and pushing for changes) being sold the lie that those who need help have it available to them. Having an inside view of what the experience is, I am apalled at how little systemic support or consideration there is for the disabled, especially since it is the largest minority group that anyone can join at any time.

Some days suck worse than others, like when the weather is so bad that I cannot Uber or when my pain or mental state has been aggravated and I haven't made enough time for self-care so it has decided for me when self-care must be attended to. I wish I could give myself the self-care my mind and body need so I can be healthier, more resilient to setbacks, and feel less pain, but honestly some nights I don't even go to bed because there isn't enough time/I can't afford to not be working or selling things. Society likes to frame self-care as a luxury and only recently (since covid attacked everyone's mental health) did self-care start to be widely accepted as a need. It's just too bad all that rhetoric amounted to is awareness without action. Capitalism still demands and glorifies the nonstop grind, even if it kills us.

Obviously some days are better than others and it feels incredible when I feel a genuine smile spread across my face. I wish it wasn't so foreign of a feeling, but the fact that it is makes it more impactful. I try to give my attention to hope, even if I have no practical basis to believe it exists.

Receiving this ask did ultimately bring a smile to my face because it means I'm still cared for in a world that kicks me to the ground daily and says I don't deserve care. It is so hard for me to even care about myself a lot of the time, with all the negative messages I've internalized from my dominatingly high ratio of experiences that are rejection or failure in some form. Ultimately, we all just want to be loved. Thank you so much for reminding me that pain isn't all there is for me (it's easy to get sucked into that mindset after years of nearly everything gutting me. I often fail to even notice myself falling into it and being consumed by it).

I know I don't owe anyone an explanation for my absence and that no one is mad at me or blaming me for it that I would need to provide some sort of justification. But I wanted to communicate with you all because I love you. I genuinely mean that.

I still think about this from time to time and I still want come back to making and sharing sculptures and just having fun hearing all the things you have to say about them and how delighting, inspiring, or entertaining you find them. I consider the ability to do that and this Tumblr page to be one of my greatest things I've made. I don't care about money and despise that money dictates virtually every aspect of my life in the worst way. Community, creativity, and self-improvement motivated by joy/love rather than profit/fear are of infinitely more value to me. I'm still pursuing that dynamic in the end through all of this.

By no means is anyone obligated to donate to me, but if you can afford to and want to, I'll post my payment platform things below (some may still have my birth name attached). Any amount helps and Lord knows I dove for a penny on the ground last week.

If you can't donate but still want to help, reblogging can help no matter how little reach you feel your blog has, and I also would appreciate words of encouragement or support. I also just want you to know that if you've been reading this far, I really appreciate that you care enough about me to do that.

All of my love,

Stan

(They/Them)

PayPal:

@Stanwagner09

Venmo:

@asclw7643

Zelle:

[email protected]

#Thank you everyone for your support #and thank you chronically-issy for checking in on me #chronically-issy

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casualfruit · 3 months ago

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If I’d checked the ratings before watching Wolverine: Origins, I probably would have skipped it, but I did get a kick out of how stupid it was so I can’t say I regretted it. It was So Aggressively Late 2000s in the best and worst ways.

The performances were so over-the-top campy that they were verging on self-aware parody, except the film was taking itself totally seriously, which made it even more ridiculous—but that’s exactly what I expected. Danny Huston, Hugh Jackman, and Liev Schreiber absolutely DEVOURED their roles and left NOT ONE SINGLE CRUMB. The only disappointment was Lynn Collins’s lackluster performance as Silver Fox, which was made even worse by being in a movie where everyone else was going for full action melodrama. I was also a bit let down by Gambit’s barely-there southern drawl, but he wasn’t in much of the movie so it wasn’t a huge deal. On the bright side, Will.I.Am and Dominic Monaghan were an unexpected delight.

I will say though, aside from the performances, my favorite part was Logan’s body hair. Especially the shot of his dog tags sitting on a bed of chest hair 🥴 I am a faggot with preferences and I demand that Hollywood stop waxing their male actors and just let them be HAIRY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST LET THEM BE HAIRY PLEASE I BEG YOU—

I really liked the scene where Logan is at the old couple’s house and sits on the motorcycle and it sinks down under his weight. The fact that his metal-coated skeleton is Heavy should be used more in movies. Also, the scene where Stryker says “your country (USA) needs you” and Logan responds “I’m Canadian” and drives away was so fucking iconic.

On the other hand…

The CGI was generally alright, but there were some points when it was straight up Bad. Mainly the adamantium claws, but especially the shot at the very end when the kids are running to Prof X. It was so painfully clear that they were being edited in. I don’t know why they couldn’t just have the kids run towards him for real.

I’m still not fully clear on what Zero’s motivation for being such a shithead was. I wasn’t on my phone half-watching, I was genuinely paying attention to the movie. I assume that he harbored some kind of resentment for Logan… but why? Fuck if I know. It’s not like it really mattered.

As disgusting and mean spirited as it was, the fatphobia with Fred Dukes was also very much of its time. I’m glad that it only lasted for one scene, and I am SO glad that it isn’t as prevalent as it used to be.

And Deadpool… oh god. I’d seen references to him in the DP movies and in videos about superhero movies, but I didn’t realize just how bad it truly was. His self-aware and irreverent humor is one of his defining characteristics; sealing his mouth shut turns him into a generic humanoid monster. And the sword arms were so phenomenally stupid I could barely believe what I was looking at. How the fuck could he move his elbows when the blades were fully retracted? Even if his wrists had mobility, the blades should have gone from the bottom of his forearm to like halfway thru his upper arm. The only good thing I have to say about third act DP is that the rest of his design looked kinda cool as generic humanoid monsters go, but honestly the Mannequin Soldiers from FMAB did it better.

The adamantium bullet memory wipe was such a bullshit cop out ending. Logan’s inability to recognize Kayla was supposed to be emotionally impactful, but I felt nothing because I was too busy being pissed off at how stupid the whole thing was. I think I hated this even more than what they did with DP.

All in all, I’d say this movie earned its Rotten Tomatoes score of 38%

#Wolverine #Wolverine Origins #X Men #casual convo #would I watch it again? no #would I recommend it even as a joke? no #do I regret it? also no

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preferredtelecom33 · 5 months ago

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Cheapest Business Phone Line | Best Business Mobile Deals

Discover the Cheapest Business Phone Line options and explore the best business mobile deals tailored to your needs. Get the most reliable communication solutions without breaking the bank, ensuring your business stays connected and efficient.

#cheapest business phone line #best business mobile deals

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crazyenthusiastkryptonite · 1 year ago

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Pay Once You Go Phones Enjoy Communication Round Time

youtube

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Late payment fees are costly - Typical late payment fees on credit cards can now top $39. If would you your unsecured debt late, it's like throwing $39 out the window.

Internet has developed into a part and parcel one's lives. We cannot even think of a day without the use of internet. Online connections are readily obtainable these days. Lots of mobile broadband companies have some easy deal.

Export Information - With online banking it makes tracking your money even more straight forward. With the mouse click your bookkeeper can now download transactions right in to the financial software.

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Once you're registered can certainly view your account statements online, make bill pay online payments, transfer funds or pay many online. All the things and more with extra convenience to be able to conduct this at any time on the bill pay online day, each day of all four.

Where do i find coverage at a particular price? You could always flip through the yellow pages and spend hours at a time calling on the different businesses that are offering coverage for vehicles. However, this can take a considerable time. The best strategy for finding coverage at a good price would be by checking out the Large web.

So how long will it take someone? We answer this question to claim that you could possibly all the info added with a Trackbooks system in 6 weeks by dividing the tasks into six groups. A person are spend time each weekend gathering almost all of your information and saving into your new tracking machine.

#bill organization #pay day loans #pay bills #online cash advance #Youtube

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wonder-in-wings · 1 year ago

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Hemophilia

TIMING: Present LOCATION: Natural History Museum PARTIES: Inge (@nightmaretist) and Parker (@wonder-in-wings) SUMMARY: Inge goes to the bug exhibit for inspiration on fear. When she gets a cut, however, Parker finds inspiration in her mare blood. CONTENT WARNINGS: None (It's glitter powder blood)

Though Inge certainly preferred museums of art (classical, modern, photography, whatever — no discrimination there), there was something to be said for these types of museums too. There was inspiration to be found here, on top of the information, though Inge cared little for the former. She wanted to see the bugs up close, their leathery wings and shiny scales and whatever teeth-like features they brandished. Google Images just wasn’t the same.

Maybe insects were a cheap trick, in the realm of professional-scare-inducers, but some nights required an easy meal. Humans ordered in when they were too lazy to cook and Inge? Well, she just went the basic route with nightmares sometimes. Hordes of flies. Beetles (insects) crawling over beetles (cars) and then over people. Swirling, squirming maggots. It was easy, effective and still allowed some creativity.

So here she was, at the beginning of the evening, parading the halls of the natural history museum. Inge didn’t read the plaques, most of the time, but she was interested in learning more. It was with that motivation that she approached one of the employees, offering a polite smile and reading his name on his name-plate. “Good evening … Parker, I’ve been really enjoying the things you have out here on display,” she said, waving her leaflet as she spoke. She hadn’t really cracked that open, either. She’d been busy taking close-up pictures. God bless the modern mobile phone camera and its zoom function! “I just had a silly little question, if you don’t mind?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Which of these little critters freaks people out most? Some of them are real-scary looking, so you know … Is it the spiders?” _____________ Parker checked his watch again - normally he had a rather high capacity for patience when it came to answering the same four questions about the same three species of insect people were either interested in or disgusted by (or at least that’s what he thought but then again, he was the curator so they had to deal with his quirks) but today he was eager to get home where a new acquisition to add to his collection was waiting for him to arrange fashionably in a display. He got them last night but was pressed for time, knowing he had another day at this place so he begrudgingly set what he wanted to do aside. Maybe he should get back into selling. He had an excess of certain pieces and it wasn’t particularly hard for him to obtain more - the idiots and the more affluent enjoyed his art and often paid a pretty penny for them. If he sold more, then he wouldn’t have to worry about this job. That was a question for future Parker, however, and today he stood diligently, having paused in front of one of the immaculately-displayed cases when he was approached by a woman. Usually questions were asked by children and sometimes by their parents if the child was too flustered or embarrassed to ask but he supposed it wasn’t out of the ordinary considering they were on the turn of the hour and fewer families came by the museum as the day drew to a close. So when she approached and he heard his strangely-millennial name come out of her mouth (he really did need to get an adjusted name tag that said “Mr. Wright”), Parker instinctively turned his head so he could hear her to the best of his ability. Ah, the tried-and-true question of ‘which one’s the scariest’. The man inhaled as he let the question sit for a few moments before he straightened up and glanced down to regard her with his blue-eyed stare. “Spiders are the most common fear, yes ma’am.” He placed his hands behind his back and he looked around slowly. “Arachnophobia is one of the more commonly known phobias, affecting anywhere from three to about 15 percent of the population.” He explained. “Half the time it’s because of the legs, the other half of the time it’s from the trauma of being bitten. “A less common and often-underrated one is the centipede.” Parker continued, nodding to a passing display that held several of the long, wormlike creatures. “There are ants, people are often afraid of the sting of a wasp or a bee. However,” He stopped in front of a large, glass tank that had very alive beetles in it that seemed to be tearing the flesh from a large bone that sat in the center of the tank. “Any insect in motion has the potential to frighten.” He looked sideways at her. “Dermestidae. Skin beetles.” _____________ There had been a time, once, where Inge had been afraid of spiders. She would screech her husband’s name and demand he show up with any kind of insect-proof weapon (magazine, broom, hoover, his broad hand). Hendrik had liked playing the savior, had liked his wife in a position where she needed her help and Inge? She had been so easily frightened then, as a mortal.

Four decades of undead life had passed, though, and she’d been haunted by nightmares and plagued others with them in return. She had steeled herself, had made herself a creature that didn’t feel afraid any more out of sheer determination to not be afraid. Desentization was easy when you could create terrifying visions beyond most people’s imaginations. Insects were nothing but friendly creatures that crawled and creeped. Mosquitos didn’t even bite her any more these days.

She wondered if he was bored of the questions. Inge didn’t think herself a boring person but maybe there was something dull about fearing insects. Why fear something smaller than you, after all? Still, she couldn’t judge too harshly: she had certainly left a few people with arachnophobia in her insect-era. These days she preferred haunting people with birds, but maybe for nostalgia’s sake this trip could inspire her to return to some of her more vintage dreams. “Such a large percentage for such harmless creatures, don’t you think?”

She hummed in thought, staring at the multi-legged critters with great interest. The way they moved was a bit trippy, wasn’t it? Of course, these dead ones left little to the imagination. But then there were these beetles, eating the flesh off a bone. Inge leaned closer. “Dermestidae …” The term felt a little foreign in her mouth, and the name skin beetles was certainly one she appreciated more. “They eat flesh?” Now that was inspirational. She narrowed her eyes a little, taking in the display, the meal shared between a bunch of tiny creatures. Something about it was quite beautiful. “Gorgeous.” She stepped back, opening her pamphlet to try and find the creatures in there. Lost in thought, she forgot to be careful about it and as she flipped through, the palm of her hand slid over the paper. Surprisingly sharp, it cut down, producing a minor wound that did not produce red blood, but rather a glint of powdery glitter. _____________ “They do.” Parker replied first as he leaned in. “Dead flesh.” He normally included that part in his initial explanation but since she was looking for creepy crawlies, he opted to leave it ambiguous for a moment. “They’re used in forensic entomology and taxidermy since they’re so proficient at cleaning bones. We have them here for taxidermy.” He explained as he continued to stare at the horde of beetles, unaware that they were being admired for something that was programmed into them; it was just nature, fascinating in its simplicity. To have such a purpose and be recognized for it, but not with pride, instead simply because it’s what you do. It took him perhaps a little longer than the average person to consider that usually fully grown women didn’t appreciate things like spiders and flesh-eating beetles and Parker straightened up once more, wrenching his gaze off the beetles and looking over to her when he caught something shimmering in her hand. He raised an eyebrow, his face unamused. “What happened, did you spill your lip gloss?” He asked dryly, assuming she opened something and got the material on her palm. Nonetheless, he sighed and reached into his back pocket, pulling out an embroidered handkerchief and offering it to her. “I don’t recommend getting whatever it is on my display, if you please.”

Only dead flesh. A mild disappointment, but Inge wasn’t bound by the limits of the natural world when she was moving things around in people’s dreams. She didn’t comment on it though, too occupied with the newly gained cut on her hand and the liability her lack of blood was. It was so easy to pass as human most of the time, especially with her memory of being a mere mortal so fresh in her mind. But her flesh split as easily and the glittering substance that pushed through her veins spilled just the same. She clutched her hand close, wincing at the pressure.

“No,” she muttered, feeling the bits of energy push against her fingers. Why she didn’t say yes at his question was beyond her, as it could be a good excuse — but this was a strange moment, and his tone grated her. As if she’d be fixing her lipgloss right here and now, as ants devoured the flesh of a bone! She had more depth than that. “Oh, don’t worry. Nothing to spill or stain anything here. You must’ve just caught a glance of my nailpolish.” Her nails were painted a dark blue, with not a glitter in sight. Inge looked at the handkerchief and she shook her head as she kept her hand tightly wrapped close, “No need, really! Very kind of you though.” _____________ She didn’t take his offer. Parker’s brow furrowed as he tilted his head slightly to examine her nails, which were indeed dark blue and non-glittery. He wasn’t COMPLETELY ignorant to body language, however, and her facial expression mixed with how she kept her hand closed, he wondered if, for a moment, she had accidentally shattered something in her hand. “Did you hurt yourself?” He asked, his tone lacking empathy or even curiosity and it gave the impression that Parker asked out of obligation instead of intrigue. “If you got glass in your skin, you obviously know that’s not good. Let me see.” It was less of an offer and more of an instruction as he held his own hand out to take hers in it after he stowed the handkerchief back in its familiar pocket. _____________ She was usually more careful, but who could have anticipated that a stupid museum pamphlet could have done this kind of damage? It wasn’t a large wound, but it was one all the same and if Inge was to spread her fingers this Parker would see not a mess of blood but something else instead. She looked at him, trying to gauge his tone and how strange it would be for her to simply walk off, turn a corner or two and escape onto the plane.

“No, I’m fine.” His tone was insistent, though, and Inge curled her hand tighter, some bits of glitter spilling through. She pulled it to her chest, where it rested with its knuckles facing him. Curious people were so very annoying sometimes. “Why would there be glass in my skin? Continue telling me about the bugs, please.” _____________ It wasn’t relegated to her hand anymore as he noticed some more of the fine glittery substance sparkling in the light of the display as it floated to the ground. His furrow increased and he found himself starting to get irritated with her display of coyness - either she was trying to elicit further curiosity from him about what she was insistent on hiding away from view or downplaying the severity of something that suddenly transpired when he wasn’t looking. “I don’t know why there’d be glass in your skin unless you did something to warrant glass in your skin.” Parker replied curtly, the answer seeming obvious. He even pushed aside her wanting him to tell her more about his beloved specimens; if she wanted curiosity, he would oblige. Without asking again or for permission and in a highly controlled movement, Parker’s hand reached her arm and his fingers wrapped themselves around her thin wrist. As he did so, he heard his mother scolding him in his head, about how he shouldn’t ever lay his hands on a woman but that’s all it was, a voice in his head. She was hiding something from him and getting glitter on his floor and while it wasn’t his intention to hurt her, his drive for answers (and possibly to override her passing off a potentially serious injury) overrode his chivalry. Firmly but not roughly, he both pulled her hand to him and took a step to close the space between them and his blue eyes scanned her fingers, his other hand gently starting to force the balled fist to open up. “What… is this?” He breathed as her hand was unclenched and he saw a thin line in her flesh where it seemed as though she acquired a laceration of some sort but there wasn’t any blood. Instead was more of the fine, glittery powder that positively covered her hand as though it were blood. Parker stared at the stuff, his expression softening as it was clear that it went from irritated to intrigued, almost enamored. “What is this?” He repeated his question as his eyes danced on her hand. _____________ This took her by surprise. Ingeborg had expected that social rules and conventions would simply keep Parker from pushing further. If she didn’t want to show her hand (both literally and figuratively), he’d surely let it be — that was what normal people did, after all. But here he was, skillfully taking her wrist and pulling her close. She protested, “Hey, what the fuck,” and her eyes widened as she tugged without avail. Not that she tugged especially hard, not wanting to kickstart a fight with a man who was quite obviously stronger than her. Inge fought best by manipulation, putting people to sleep and not-fighting.

“Stop that,” she said, voice as firm as her touch, but he was pigheaded and determined. A typical man, she thought, and she struggled with her blue nails against his own presumably dry fingers. He probably didn’t even moisturize. Despite her resistance her fingers were forced open, the cut on her hand apparent as well as the glitter that fell to the floor. Inge let her hand grow slack and watched his facial expression change. He didn’t respond as a slayer might (which had somewhat become a nagging background fear of hers, the other’s insistence ringing paranoid bells) which was good, but it was strange. Off-putting, if she wasn’t the type to be intrigued by strange things too.

As he stared at her hand, she pulled it from his grasp, pushing forward and pressing her index finger against his chest. “That was very rude,” she snapped, glittery powder sticking to his clothing. “And not at all how one is supposed to treat their patrons.” With that out of the way, Inge considered his question and what answer to give. Most people wouldn’t believe him if she told the truth and any lie would be obvious. She went for condescension and blame, “This is the result of the paper choice of your pamphlets. You need softer paper.” _____________ He had gotten a nice, solid look at whatever it was on the woman’s hand before she pulled away, predictably upset though he didn’t exactly come out of the exchange without some latent annoyance of his own as he glanced down and saw some of the shimmery residue on his neat outfit when she pushed him back, looking like an obnoxious child approached him and rubbed a birthday card across his stomach. “It’s not my choice of paper for the pamphlet.” Parker replied simply, now holding up one of his own hands that had some of the stuff on it, his brow furrowed with questions. “You know what else is rude?” Parker’s gaze snapped back to her, or rather, her hand. “Getting whatever this is on me.” He glanced up at the camera that lingered in the corner of the room for a moment before he casually and expertly took a few steps over so that he was obstructing her from its view. “If you aren’t going to bleed normally, nonhuman, I recommend exercising caution when you do things.” He whispered, his head turning slightly as he spoke to anticipate her response in equal measure of tone. “That’s what this is, right?” He took a guess, considering she had an obvious cut on her palm but if it WAS blood, it was certainly nonstandard and she didn’t seem like a magician, otherwise she would’ve been more showy with her performance. _____________ This was disastrous, but certainly not the most disastrous situation Inge had gotten herself into. As life was lived with whimsy and little consideration for consequence, it happened more often than she liked to admit that she got in some kind of trouble. She’d feed off hunters, mess with people’s dreams so much that they’d figure out who she was in the waking world, show up to a funeral with all her family present without looking like she’d aged a day since her divorce three decades ago. Subtlety was an art for cowards, she found. Besides, most of the time humans were stupid enough to believe that they had misread a situation or seen something wrong — their denial of anything supernatural existing was stronger than some of the proof they were faced with. Not in this case, though, which was disconcerting. Intriguing, if not unsettling.

“It wouldn’t be on you if you hadn’t manhandled me like that,” she bristled in return, not bothering too much now with trying to stop the bleeding. The cut wasn’t too deep, and she was much more focused on this very strange individual. She groaned, clearly annoyed, “Gee thanks, old man. Your obvious advice will be taken into account. Most people would just have left me to my devices, so I was perfectly cautious. I didn’t expect this museum’s staff to be so very inconsiderate of normal human boundaries.” Inge narrowed her eyes, considering her options. “I take offense to you not calling my bleeding normal. But sure. Nonhuman. Sure.” What was he, though, to know that there was even such a thing as nonhuman-yet-human-appearing creatures out there? Inge wasn’t an insect, so she was hardly his field of study. _____________ “You didn’t just show me.” Parker replied, his tone taking that familiar hint of irritability to it, almost as though they were bickering about whose job it was to do the dishes and they weren’t complete strangers, one of which was bleeding glitter and the other admittedly broke the rules and placed his hands on a museum-goer. “If you had just shown me, we might not be in this situation.” He cast a brief glance to the floor. “You’re getting glitter everywhere.” He stared at her once more, his gaze narrowing and he had a thought that went through his mind. He ignored her comments about being old, as well as the comment about his nonstandard treatment of her. “Okay so if it’s normal bleeding then what are you.” Parker rubbed two of his fingers together, feeling the powdery texture of the shimmery solid. He wanted to smell it but even he knew better and instead just examined it closely. “You aren’t fae, that’s for sure. “Actually… I don’t need to know. You don’t have to tell me, though I’d like to know.” He looked down at her past his hand. “I’m willing to compensate you for a vial of this.” It was true; he’d never seen it before but it fascinated him, as did most things he didn’t know about involving the supernatural. Was she one-of-a-kind? She mentioned that it wasn’t abnormal so perhaps it was common with whatever species she was. Either way, he was willing to pay her to obtain some. _____________ “You should really be better at respecting someone’s personal boundaries. Especially when you’re at work. It’s very concerning, you know? What if I went to your manager about it?” She wouldn’t, considering she had just had something exposed herself that she’d rather keep somewhat quiet. Inge glanced down at the steady drizzle of glitter on the floor. She made a point of flexing her fingers so the cut widened, making more glitter drop down. It clearly bothered him and he bothered her, so it seemed only fair. “Oops.”

She wondered what this Parker was, with his seemingly shallow knowledge of the supernatural and his incessant, annoying curiosity. She grimaced at his questions, sending it right back at him, “What are you?” Maybe he was a spellcaster. Ingeborg had encountered one before, who’d been after her blood. But there had been no show of magic, nothing to insinuate that he had any supernatural power to wield over her.

But he was a collector. She looked at him with confused intrigue, raising an eyebrow. “You just want me to give you my blood for money? Sketchy. Really fucking sketchy.” She wasn’t sure if mareblood contained DNA, but if it did she wasn’t going to give it to a stranger. Never mind that she was dripping it all over the floor of the museum he worked at and that if he was really desperate, he could try and sweep it up. Inge pressed the palm of her hand against her side, refusing to offer any more of her blood. “Why? What will you do with it? No, really, what are you?” _____________ She certainly wasn’t afraid of him, despite her empty threats about going to his manager and he pursed his lips as her miniature shower of powder sprinkled down from her hand, like the dust from pixies he’d encountered on more than one occasion before. Mischievous. Messy. She did it to bother him. “I’m a collector,” Parker replied simply at first, now trying to distract himself by looking down at the powder on his jacket once more, studying it, trying to get a feel for its consistency and how difficult it would be to remove from it. The hunter knew that that wasn’t what she was asking though. Her skin wasn’t warm but her existence didn’t instinctively turn his blood over in his veins so either she was incredibly skilled at hiding her being a fae or, the much more likely option, she wasn’t a fae as he initially surmised. Parker then wondered, as he picked flecks of powder off him with a measure of futility though the repetitive action gave him a semblance of control, if he should tell the woman what he was aside from a collector. “I’m a Warden.” He ultimately decided that he wasn’t afraid of her, nor were either of them in a position to make a scene. “And I have no interest in doing anything with your blood aside from putting it in an aesthetically-pleasing bottle and setting it on my shelf.” He raised an eyebrow and slowly looked at her again with his blue-eyed stare. “I understand my request is unusual but I hold respect and admiration for beautiful things and this…” Parker stooped slightly, cupping his hand just under hers and catching some of the glimmery powder in his palm. “Is beautiful.” _____________ A collector. She wanted to open her mouth, ask for more details, but it seemed he was coming to a point. As if the truth was something valuable to give away — and it often was, wasn’t it? It was in this shadowy side of the world, anyway, where people who looked like human weren’t that and had to omit parts of their identities. When the shoe fell and he revealed himself to be a warden, Inge fought the urge to take a step back. Wardens weren’t slayers, but they were hunters all the same. And though she hadn’t deep ties to fae community, there was still the principle of it all. “A fucking hunter.” There were too many here.

But he went on to talk, did not produce a knife or an ax or anything else sharp enough to undo her head from her shoulders. No salt, either. He was so calm, so intrigued, and though Ingeborg would not be caught undead trusting a hunter there seemed to be little maliciousness here. He didn’t even touch her to keep her grounded, an escape route still at her disposal if she wanted to take the coward’s way out. The threat wasn’t high yet. No blades were drawn, and as the papercut on her hand continued to drizzle he just cupped his hand. Called it beautiful.

What a strange man. Inge hadn’t many individuals who considered the nature of a mare beautiful. Sanne and her had reveled in it, watching their skin shine under the bright summer sun, staring in each other’s red glowing eyes, meeting each other in the plane before landing. She thought it beautiful, what she was, but so many disagreed — from the cowering mortals to all those other hunters, the ones with knives and axes and whatnot. “Why collect? I understand the appreciation, but it doesn’t befit a hunter.” Now she was interested too, looking down at the stooping hunter. “I agree. It’s beautiful, but your ilk? Your kind? They’d prefer to spill as much of this as possible. Not put it on their personal display.” Her hand retracted. “So, what’s your deal?” _____________ It was Parker’s turn not to display his fear of her, not knowing what she was but having enough confidence in his own skills that he could probably stave her off if she wanted to attack as he placed himself in a vulnerable position before her. He figured that his behavior was passive enough that she would get the impression that he didn’t want to fight, which wasn’t untrue; indeed, no matter where he went and evidently how he asked for the acquisition of materials and collectibles, he gave people the impression that he was a murderer. “I’d prefer not to be painted with the same brush as other hunters.” He explained as he straightened back up when she pulled her hand away. “I collect because I hold appreciation for beauty.” Parker repeated, answering the question as though it were obvious. He looked down at the powder in his hand, moving lightly as though it were liquid but it was solid and still glittering in the light. It seemed almost as though it were the smoke from liquid nitrogen. “I’ve never encountered someone like you before and you aren’t actively hurting anyone so I’ve no need to stop you.” He tilted his head ever-so-slightly, his blue eyes dancing on the glinting in his palm. “Fighting and violence tend to lessen the quality of the body and its properties.” He paused. “And it’s a waste of blood.” He looked at her again. “And most importantly, I don’t make deals.” He made sure to emphasize this as he finished his miniature explanation. Though he wouldn’t say it and it wasn’t any of his business at the moment, he also hoped she didn’t say that often with other people; deals were dangerous, though she probably didn’t know that. _____________ Why should she extend that kind of courtesy to a hunter when they never did to those they hunted? They got out their weapons and committed their violence compulsively, as if they had nothing else to do in their boring, shitty lives. As Inge stared at the hunter and laughed at his stupid demand, she wondered where she should go next. This town was getting ridiculous. Too many God damned hunters, and here was one more who knew her face. “I hope you get how ironic that request is,” she said, head shaking as if she was amused. She wasn’t, though: she was just really bitter.

While some of the things he was saying were intriguing, there was that typical hunter entitlement — she wasn’t hurting anyone so he didn’t have to hurt her. They, and their damned monopoly on violence! Ingeborg rolled her eyes. “How lucky I am, that you’re not stopping me.” But the fact that he didn’t know what she was might be a good sign, as she thought it lowered the risk he posed. She had no intention of letting him in on what she actually was.

Her head turned, taking him in. A strange little man, but intriguing. “What else do you collect?” He was a warden, so were his shelves lined with the blood of fae? Inge could understand an appreciation for beauty with her background in art. What was beautiful to her was ugly to plenty of others, though, but she had a feeling Parker's tastes weren't conventional either. ”Will you show me? If I'm going to offer my blood to you then I want to know what collection I'll be a part of.” _____________ The woman laughed. He didn’t blame her; he couldn’t hear some of the things she said very well but he could recognize the sense of superiority in her tone - so many of them, especially fae, felt as though they were above humans because of their abilities, their natures, their extended lifespans and habits. The woman who stood before him, bleeding glitter from her palm, didn’t seem to be an exception the way she bristled at his inquiries, refusing to answer his question about what she was even though he said she didn’t have to answer. Parker supposed that was a good thing, that way he was already accustomed to the disappointment of beating around the bush. But her derogatory comments, while not explicitly bothering him, did have him asking questions that he would evidently have to find answers for elsewhere. When she had asked about what else Parker collected, the taller man looked behind him briefly at the camera once more before turning to regard her once more. He inhaled through his nose, deeply, calmly, his unwavering gaze on her as once more he weighed the positives and negatives of being forward with her. He had been so far and the most retaliation he got was comments about hunters as a whole, not him specifically. “I can show you, if you’d like.” He replied first. It was a gamble and he wasn’t sure if he was willing to take the risk but he could certainly go halfway and show her some of his more specific specimens if she was curious. He had photos. “Tell me what you are and I’ll tell you what I collect.” Parker decided that he couldn’t risk that information, not there, not at that moment in time. His assortment of beautifully-arranged fae wings was truly precious to him and he had long since gotten used to the looks of disgust his fascination earned him, whether it was bugs or fae wings or any other strange thing he acquired from the supernatural. “...It’s not bodies.” _____________ “I thought you said you didn’t make deals,” Inge pointed out calmly, raising her eyebrows. “This sounds an awful lot like a deal.” It wasn’t one she wanted to make, at least not on his terms and with his demands. If a hunter didn’t know anything about mares it ought to remain that way, didn’t it? She could already count two hunters in town who did know, one of which had left a nasty incision on her upper arm which was obstructed from view by her summer dress. If she was to remain in Wicked’s Rest for a while longer, then she would prefer that this Parker wasn’t in the know about her nature.

Because if he knew, perhaps he would decide that she was actively hurting people. And though Ingeborg didn’t like to think of the things she did to others as hurting, she recognized the way it looked to others. Small-minded mortals would never quite be able to grasp it though, wouldn’t they? It wasn’t worth explaining. It would be a waste of breath, even if she was a creature that didn’t require breath.

Luckily her nature didn’t keep her from lying. “But fine. You’ve piqued my curiosity.” The corners of her lips twitched as he said it wasn’t bodies he collected. Inge didn’t think he’d be able to kill her anyway, so it wasn’t her prime concern. They probably had their respective body count, though, but it wasn’t worth discussing. “I’m a kind of succubus. There aren’t a lot of us, as far as I’m aware. I don’t age.” Best not to deny the immortality bit. Inge was already wondering if she ought to have opted for something else, but she was fanciful and thought there was something fun about this one. “Have you ever met a demon before, Parker?” _____________ “I don’t.” He replied quickly and with the same level of assertion that he had used before. “I’m proposing an exchange.” Parker didn’t expect that this non-fae would be able to recognize the difference, even if the difference was literal wording. The fae played games, assumed people were too stupid to know better and, of course, tended to take things very literally. Fae word games were never one of Parker’s weaknesses, as he also tended to take things very literally. That was neither here nor there though and as the curator kept glancing down at the powder in his hand when, at long last, she answered his question. Parker’s blue eyes flickered to her face, dancing over her features as though trying to see if there was a nonverbal indicator that she was lying - it had gotten easier over the years to tell when a fae was, as their reactions were immediate and often instinctual. She wasn’t a fae, obviously, but his habit of observation was just that. “I have now.” He wondered if succubus blood was worth the effort he was going through right now. He also wondered if she was benefiting from their interaction right now - as far as meeting any potential demons went, Parker certainly could’ve met a worse vice or sin. “You don’t age. How old are you?” _____________

Inge wasn’t very familiar with fae magic, though she had picked up some things here and there. One of her aliases had been lost at the hands of a clever-tongued creature a decade or two back. No matter. She’d changed it to something else before changing it again, never sticking with one name or town for too long. Parker had to be more of an expert, considering the type of creatures he went after and that had to be what he was getting at. To Inge, in this moment, it mattered little. She wasn’t fae and neither was he.

And he was gullible, because he took her at her word. Fair enough, she supposed: succubi were actually discussed among humans, whereas the existence of mares wasn’t as well-known. Unlike vampires and zombies, they didn’t have a large amount of pop culture ruining their reputation either, unless one was to consider that Sandman something of a mare. Inge hadn’t watched the show out of principle. “Honored to be the first one,” she said, the lie so easily told. Life for Inge was constant fabrication, the same way dreams were.

Her head shook. “No, I’ve looked like this for quite some time.” Now the question was how far she should take this lie. Inge knew a thing or two of the history before her time, but hardly in the same way immortals who had lived through it had. “That’s such a delightfully human question. My body is thirty three years old, and my spirit?” She shrugged. “It feels infinite. But some centuries old. I’ve not always existed on this plane, though.” Inge narrowed her eyes a little. “Your collection?” _____________ Parker would’ve crossed his arms had he not been holding some of the glimmering blood in his hands still; her story was outlandish and while he didn’t exactly find the supposed knowledge that demons existed, the way she spoke definitely had this air of mystique about it. Perhaps she was foolishly proud of what she was but as far as he could tell or care, the only remarkable thing about her was her blood. And she said there weren’t many succubi around so that only increased his desire for it. If she was so old, what was a little blood loss to her? Surely she could simply possess another vessel once hers expired, wasn’t that how demons worked? At least, wasn’t that how they worked according to the books he’d read? He had questions but none of them were questions that burned with such intensity that he was willing to maintain conversation for too much longer. “Specifically, fae wings.” He placed one of his hands behind his back; he would’ve done both of them but at this point, he wasn’t sure if she was going to be giving him any more of the fine shimmery powder so he didn’t want to carelessly dump it onto the ground. “Non-lethally, preferably. As I said, fighting and violence lessen the quality of them.” Parker regarded the succubus with a rather mild expression. “I’d show you but if this is all I’m being offered, I’d rather get it into a bottle.” _____________ She took in the information offered as if it was something precious, considering each and every side of it. Inge had never seen a fae in their true form and it was something that intrigued her. And though she had some principles and a hunter getting wings off creatures that most likely favored them went against them, she had become the type of person who let her personal whims take hold over whatever morals still resided. Besides, she was hardly aiding and abetting whatever fucked up hobbies he had if she were to see it.

Inge was always looking for inspiration after all, as her art imitated life and thus life was lived in the name of art. This could prove to be a bountiful excursion. She wondered what instruments he used to sever the wings off the fae he found. “Is it fair to presume that they don’t often give them to you willingly?” There was no judgment in her tone even if she felt it somewhere deep within her being.

She opened her hand, leveled it between them and watched the not-blood for a moment. It didn’t really tend to scab, but it seemed to have grown a little harder. “Alright. Parker-who-makes-no-deals, you have a deal. When you give me the address of where your collection is, as I assume it’s not here, then I’ll fill a nice, small bottle with my blood for you. Consider the bits I spilled a freebie.” She smiled and extended her bloody hand. “And my name is Inge, for the record.” _____________ He hadn’t realized that he was a little stiffer than he originally thought as he waited for her response. “Sometimes they do.” Parker replied formally not untruthfully - while he had the ability to lie, he oftentimes didn’t, finding some unfortunate similarities with fae in that he simply left information out for the purposes of easing through a conversation. Curiously, he didn’t hear dismissal or judgment in her voice, though from her other behaviors displayed so far he’d have thought that she would’ve been a little more reactionary to the information he just shared with her. Observant blue eyes kept themselves on her figure, especially her hand and he didn’t look back at her face until she held it out for him to shake. Naturally, Parker hesitated at first - with her throwing around words like ‘deal’ and give’, his brain quickly ran through the list of prerequisites and stipulations that had been hammered into him from a young age. She wasn’t fae, he had to keep reminding himself of that so words were just words when it came to exchanges between them. She could hold him to words but she had no power to control him, succubus or no. Eventually though, he did turn the hand that had the blood on it sideways, the dust sprinkling onto the ground like the particles in a shaken snowglobe, and took the woman’s hand. “I shall notify you of the address when I organize the space.” Parker gave a small nod. “I still suggest you not make deals though, Ms. Inge.” He left the advice as it was, his brain now buzzing with new prospects - he would need to allocate a spot for her blood, wondering where he should put it, which specimens to ferret away and wondering if perhaps he should have a gallery on the side specifically for this purpose, if only so he didn’t introduce people to his home or the Bunker. “How else may I assist you today?” _____________ There were plenty of things distasteful about the other, Inge thought, but he offered her something not many others could. Something that might shake her a little, grant her a feeling of horror. Not many things did these days, and though the fear of others was intoxicating she sometimes longed to feel it for herself. And thus, it was easy to overlook his status as hunter, his potentially sadistic methods and even his rude behavior in favor of a shake of their hands. Besides, she was no saint either.

“Sounds good with me. I can be found online,” she said, nodding in return. “In my years I’ve learned a few things about fae, though, but thank you all the same.” Those dangerous words were marked with a wink but Inge was quick to shake her head in dismissal after. “No, I think I’ve got everything I came here for. I’ll want to look after this anyway.” She lifted her marred hand slightly. “But I’ll see you later.” And with that, she turned on her heel, making her way through the halls of the museum and feeling some kind of exhilaration burst through the usual veil of numbness.

#wickedswriting #writing: Hemophilia #writing with // Inge #The Collector // writing

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