#i sincerely wished this had happened in the comics or show

[fanfic-writer-and-rambler]

Robin (Damian Wayne) walks over to Victor Freeze.

Damian: Excuse me sir.

Victor readies his freeze gun and sharply turns ready to shoot, but sees a child.

Victor: You are a little kid. You're the youngest Robin, you are adorable.

Robin (twitching eye brow): I'm 12 and I am handsome! That's not the point, you froze some men I know and I want them back.

Victor scoffs with a chuckle.

Victor: Please, I will not release the frozen Robin's, they will be used as statues to mock the Batman!

Robin taps his chin then stands straight ready for his proposal.

Damian: Victor, was it?

Victor (surprised the kid knows his first name): Yes.

Damian: I am aware your wife, Nora has a disease that has her placed in liquid cryostasis to prevent the disease from spreading. How far is she with the disease?

Victor (sad): Stage 4, there's no cure at that point... I tried to cure her, but-

Damian (handing Victor a business card): Here you go.

Victor: What is this?

Damian: Ra Al Ghul's contact information. He should be able to help with curing your wife.

Victor (paranoid): Oh no, not the Lazarus pit. I do not trust it.

Damian (nodding in agreement): Honestly besides g- Ra, no one does, but he won't use that. I made sure to explicitly tell him not to. He's contacting medical professionals and scientists as we speak to aid you. He's simply waiting for you to call and discuss any further details.

Victor (doubtful): I- This is a trick! Get out of here kid. I don't freeze children... Anymore!

Damian (crossing her arms): I appreciate that, but I am telling you the truth. It took a lot of convincing, but he is going to help you. Obviously he has ulterior motives and will want to recruit you, but I made it incredibly clear that he will help cure Nora or you'd freeze him and smash his body into a million tiny pieces. Yeah after that he relented. Call him and let me take my brothers. No tricks, schemes or jokes.

Victor (surprised): Why are you doing this for me?

Damian (earnestly): I read your story and I feel bad for you. You and Nora were dealt a bad hand and I want to rectify it. Batman isn't even aware I'm here and I'll tell him you got away.

Victor (unsure how to react, but believing the Robin): Um... you can take them.

Damian (in German): Vielen Dank.

Damian walks past Victor Freeze as the man calls the number on the card. He finds Red Hood, Nightwing and Red Robin frozen separately.

Damian (tapping his foot): All right... I hope this heat gun works.

Damian pulls out a small blow dryer designed gun and aims it at Tim

Damian: Father said it was a prototype. Something about it can unfreeze people, but they'll be weak and might catch on fire.

Damian mulls this over a second then shrugs.

Damian: If it sets them on fire we're surrounded by ice.

Resolute he fired the heat rays from the gun at each of his brothers, quickly unfreezing him. The men fall to the ground, shivering but okay.

Damian: No fire... Kind of wanted to see that. You guys okay?

Nightwing (shivering on the ground): I really have to make a thermal hero suit.

Hood (stammering): I ha- ha- hate that fucking freeze ray.

Damian: Uh huh, come on Freeze said I could take you and he's calling my grandfather.

RR (weakly): I- I can't feel my legs.

Damian sighs exhausted with Red Robin once again. He grabs the frost bitten man's arm and drags him out of Victor's lair.

Damian (in German): Wünsche dir viel Glück.

Victor (while on the phone): Danke.

Red Robin moans in pain.

Damian: Oh shut up.

Red Hood reluctantly helps Nightwing with walking out of the lair, but they're both confused.

Victor (to Nightwing and Hood): If that kleiner junge helps me save my wife I might give up villainy.

Victor jolts hearing Ra shout on the phone.

Victor: I said might!

Nightwing (groggy): Awesome. We're going outside where it's warm.

Hood (when they're out of earshot of Victor): What if-

Nightwing: Let's not put that possibility into the air.

Hood (shivering): Agreed.

[theemporium]

click 'here' to unlock the other boyfriends!

.

You had thought you were perfectly content with love being expressed silently until you met Nico Hischier.

For you, love and silence had always been interchangeable throughout your entire life. You weren’t sure when it clicked, when the realisation had been set in stone in your head and never to be argued with. You just knew that silence usually meant good things, that it meant positive feelings. At least, you liked to assume.

When it came to your parents, the silence meant there was no scolding or nitpicking. They were never shy at the way they pointed out your flaws, your mistakes, your errors. It was hidden under concerns and wishes for you to thrive, but the pressure just felt as suffocating and overbearing as them. The silence was a relief from the constant remarks. 

In school, it was like the teachers and professors just expected you to do well. They saw a bright child, so the second the grades started to matter, the assumption was made that you would just thrive. That pressure returned, and you hated the disappointing and disapproving talks you would get if you did badly. Once again, the silence was a relief, it meant they left you alone and that was what you wanted.

It followed as the same in almost every aspect in your life: in your friendships, in your relationships, in your careers, in your achievements. Silence had become so intertwined with love, success and praise in your life that you knew nothing but. 

Until Nico Hischier. 

Maybe it was the captain in him, or maybe it was just the kind of guy Nico was. It was almost comical to think back upon the early stages of your relationship, when everything was so new and his words left you overwhelmed—but in a good way, in a way you didn’t think was possible.

“You didn’t have to wake up with me,” Nico said as he wandered into the kitchen. 

Unlike you who was still in your pyjamas, he was dressed in some sweatpants and a hoodie—the Devils logo and his number standing out on both. His gym bag was dropped at his feet before he wandered over to where you stood by the stove. 

It was early. Dreadfully early, in fact. And despite every cell in your body screaming for you to stay in your warm, cosy bed when Nico’s alarm blared for his early morning practice, you wanted to do a little something for him for once.

“I wanted to make you a proper breakfast,” you shrugged, letting out a soft sigh as he wound his arms around your waist, his chest pressed into your back as the warmth of him washed over you. “An apple and a protein shake isn’t enough.” 

“It’s worked alright so far,” Nico grumbled, his head dropped to your shoulder as he watched you cook. “But thank you. You’re amazing, schätzi.” 

You snorted. “You mean having a proper breakfast is amazing.”

“No,” he said, his voice firm but sincere. “I mean you are amazing. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

And maybe there was still a part of you that wasn’t used to Nico’s constant praise and affection. You could do hugs and kind acts and thoughtful gifts but, fuck, the words really got to you.

It just baffled you how easily the words could pass his lips. It came so naturally to him, so fucking easily that it made you question how you went your whole life having people struggle to even give you basic appreciation but this boy seemed to be able to praise you for something as simple as making him a meal. But it went beyond that.

 Nico did it with everything. 

You look gorgeous, baby, that dress was made for you.

Fuck, schätzi, doing so good f’me. Just like that.

I’m so proud of you.

You’re doing the best you can, baby, you’re so strong.

He wasn’t shy about his appreciation for you. He showed his love in so many different ways that made him the absolute perfect boyfriend, but the words that left his lips were the most consistent and—though you didn’t have the courage to say it yet—your favourite.

“You’re a sap in the mornings,” you commented, because whilst you were used to hearing them, it would still take time to fully accept them and not deflect instantly. 

He knew that. If anything, he thought it was adorable. It prompted him to do it more often just to see how flushed you got, just to see the way you were somehow caught off-guard every single time.

“Maybe you should wake up with me more often,” Nico retorted, swaying your bodies together in the chilly kitchen. “I could use a shower buddy.”

You snorted. “You would never make it to practise on time.”

“That is a sacrifice I’m willing to make,” Nico shrugged, but you could hear the grin in his voice even if you couldn’t see it.

“You’re gonna set a bad influence, captain,” you teased, shaking your head.

Nico let out a low groan. “Don’t start calling me captain, I have to leave in fifteen.”

“Think of it as motivation to do well,” you countered as you plated up your breakfasts and lightly nudged him so he would allow you to place them on the breakfast bar. “I’ll be in bed waiting for you.”

Nico shot you a look. “You’re a temptress.”

You grinned back.

“A gorgeous, sexy temptress that I can’t wait to come back home too,” Nico continued, pleased at the way your face flushed in response. 

“Dick,” you grumbled but you happily accepted the kiss he placed on your cheek as he thanked you for the breakfast.

And, much to his delight, you were in bed waiting for him after he had come home from practice, eager to climb in with you.

.

[jevilowo]

Not sure if ive already done this. But.

Predictions for COMIC 7

CHARLES DARLING WILL BE THE FINAL ENEMY besides Helen. Trust me on this one I swear they wouldn't have brought him in if they didn't have plans. ALSO the mother of the Mann triplets (Bette Mann neé Darling) was RELATED TO HIM HE'S RELEVANT. I'm so convinced he's the one Helen made a deal with and he's going to make a grab for Mann Co.

We'll get to see Bilious Hale in a flashback and find out what happened to him. Bilious Hale, oh guy who punched coal out of mines and sat on John Wilkes Booth while other people shot at him, my beloved. I hope they don't reveal he was a bad father or anything.

A woman is nice to Ms Pauling for once and she gets a smooch. She deserves it. Hopefully it won't be a smooch from Helen (DAMN YOU 4CHAN LEAKS), the old lady's had her hired since Pauling was in her mid teens.

WE GET HORSEMANN LORE! this is just wishful thinking on my part the Horsemann makes me insane. Shout out to Silas Mann fr. If he doesn't show up, I hope they at least acknowledge or reference him. I swear they had plans for him back in 2010. Which they then immediately abandoned in favour of developing Mann vs Machine.

Spydad reveal. Pretty much a given. No need to elaborate. I hope Scout’s mother shows up I love her.

Demo gets something important to do! He's only been there for comedic bits so far really, so I think he deserves some Serious Plot Stuff.

Build up to and cop out on Pyro face reveal. The whole thing of Pyro's character is the mystery, so I think the funniest way to go about a face reveal would be for us to only see the team's reactions and have them all react very differently e.g. Scout vomits, Demo gives them the thumbs up, Spy starts taking horrified notes, Engie looks vaguely lovestruck, Saxton Hale expresses annoyance that they aren't actually *insert obsucure species of something here* like he thought.

CONAGHER LORE!! By which I mean Engie shows up and has a chat with Fred about Radigan and immortality and whatnot. Fred has to have been spared from the bloodshed for a reason, right?

Classic Medic shows up! Or they confirm he is dead. Or they confirm he is Pyro which is a funny theory I read once but sincerely doubt. Maybe they'll pull a Bea and have him have been a girl the whole time.

I have a crackpot theory that Helen/Elizabeth is actually Bette Mann (again, mother of the Mann triplets), and while it's unlikely to be true, it would genuinely be so funny if I'm right so WATCH THIS SPACE. My main reasoning is Helen started her Australium search the year the triplets were born, aka the year Bette DIED, and also Bette is a nickname for Elizabeth. Also also it adds to my theory that she will team up with Charles Darling, who is, as I've already said, related to Bette.

Olivia gets to do something important also. Saying this bc she's mostly been a prop so far. I'm manifesting a sideplot where she summons the Horsemann to beat up Charles Darling for her.

Merasmus returns! Last we saw he was arrested, but Jay Pinkerton really likes his Soldier/Merasmus interactions so chances of him coming back are high.

There will be a joke like "geez it feels like it's been seven years since we beat grey mann" and a panel where everyone just lets that process before going back to plot stuff

Chances are, a new comic after so many years means there will be new writers, and the fandom has changed quite a bit since the last one. There will be SUBLIMINAL SPEEDING BULLET SHIPPING. There will be MORE FOCUS THAN IS REALLY NECESSARY on Scout. SOMEONE WILL THEY/THEM PYRO which sounds great actually you know what I forgot where I was going with this godspeed.

ZHANNASOLDIER WEDDING FINALE!!!

[melonteee]

I've seen many people complain that Oda in Post Time skip One Piece spends a lot of time worldbuilding and making up side characters on every island that distract from the main ones and the plot. While I can see where some people are coming from, as someone who reads comics from Marvel, I WISH the wordbuilding and side characters were that developed because most of the time, unless it's about space or magic or directly related to the plot, the world feels genuinely dead. Even the main setting of a story sometimes feels so dead, like for comparison

Around 2 years ago, they had an event where, at some point, an inhabited island got pretty much nuked. We spent 3 real life years on that island and the writers really couldn't make any readers care less about all the civilians (men, women, children and babies) dying as they wrote them as a single minded entity who didn't mind that fate if their government told them to do it so they used two of the "main characters" (the most selfish pricks imaginable who never even cared about the island and the people there as they are long-established villains + due to plot, were made part of the people who rule over the place and get the most privilege and best life there compared to everyone else), to pull the heartstrings of fans on how terrible it is for them to die this way and how tragic that these two had to die in this event... All because the plot hyperfocused on the island's government (not even interesting to read and full of what felt like highschool drama) instead of the people the government looks after and who would be the greatest casualty here. All of this didn't matter either because everyone on that island was brought back to life (that plot device was present even before the event so caring about anything was going to be hard from the get go) including the "main characters" that died.. Guess who got to come back to life first while many others were on a waiting list years down the line still ?

Now compare this to Oda and what he did with Lulusia. All things related to this island were mostly cover stories, many cuts back and forth in a "meanwhile in...", ... But once Chapter 1060 hits, we feel the tragedy and horror, we are at awe at how much destruction was unleashed on these people. That scene was made even more horrifying and sad when it was animated in Episode 1089...and then we learn the reason the island was obliterated had nothing to do with Sabo being there. Any island we knew who partook in a revolution could have been a target. We find out that even that was an excuse because the main goal was to test a weapon and nothing more. Oda is using a tool here called "less is more" for this island and it was sincerely enough for me to care A WHOLE LOT about Lulusia even if the main characters never set a single foot there and it wasn't part of the main plot. There wasn't even a main character who "died" there either to pull on our heart strings. We just saw these people triumphantly come out of a political crisis and enjoy their first hours of freedom after lord knows how long and then

They were all gone. Erased. And even if they didn't all see what was about to happen to them, they felt it. They died in fear

Oda is very very good at his world building, because he makes sure these islands are LIVED in, not just that they EXIST. It's all well and good to wipe out an island to show the political and immoral powers that be, but we don't feel the impact unless we SEE the people and culture existing on the island.

It's why now, with Vegapunk explaining the state of the world, we are getting reactions from EVERY corner of the globe. We are being reminded how big this world is, how lived in this world is, and how many people are suffering under the world gov. We CARE about this world, we care about the PEOPLE in this world, and Oda's spent years building his world up for THIS moment. It's really spectacular.

[therese-lokidottir]

This whole “Deadpool is our replacement Loki!” thing I’ve seen fans spout on here confuses and annoys me. They take scenes like “I AM THE MCUS JESUS” (I’m a god dull creature!) and Deadpool getting his mouth stitched (which only happened in myth, mind you) as “proof”. Same with the palling around with the Time fasci- I mean- “badass and funny TVA” It tells me some things- a lot of these people were only Loki fans for the humor part of it (aka the show), and the more annoying and loud series fans whom the tame ones don’t want to be associated with hopefully moved on to Deadpool, proving all it needed was the next big thing.

Also Deadpool and Loki are nothing alike, at all. Not even TVA Loki was like Deadpool in season 1. The comparisons make zero sense to me. People can do what they wish but…..I don’t get it.

I've said this before even if Deadpool is pan in the comic the movies have never seriously touched on his sexuality and only bring up his attraction to men in jokey thus why so many dudebros like him. Deadpool is everything the MCU wants in a popular character, he has the audience the MCU wants.

Loki was popular and properly had one of the strongest fanbases of the MCU. Still, that fanbase was primarily women and not one exclusive, especially when it related to action and comic book, respect.

Deadpool is straight passing, he makes constant jokes, which is great for the MCU and their bathos and fear of sincerity, and he has a carelessness that means the MCU thinks the story doesn't have to think too hard about the story. They don't want to take themselves too seriously, they want to make fun of certain story beats and point out tropes so people think they're clever and people don't do it to them.

None of this is to criticize Deadpool, but I do want to make the point that Deadpool does attract the audience the MCU wants and his humor is more what the MCU wants. The MCU doesn't want to tell stories with overt queer-coded characters and have complex ideas. It's not that Deadpool can't be well-written, but the MCU clearly just views him as popular and thinks having him is all they need.

Because it's Deadpool, because it's comedic and the sense of morals is deliberately not thought about too much, the story can kind of distract from how evil the TVA still is. They left people in the void to rot with no plans to help. The TVA still doesn't care about the harm it's done and they still use people. But because it's a comedic story, focus is not put on it, thought is not put on it, and because the characters don't care neither does the audience. So again the MCU gets everything it wants out of Deadpool

[icedragonlizard]

How I can see Galacta Knight interacting with Kirby and some of the dream friends

I've recently developed a self-indulgent headcanon that sometime after the events of Heroes in Another Dimension, Hyness becomes generous enough to finally let Galacta Knight be free from the crystal he's been trapped inside of for so long. About time that he was let out!

I have some interpretations for dynamics that he could have with Kirby and some of the dream friends. Do note I said some of them, because as of right now I don't have ideas for how he'd interact with all the dream friends, but I'm glad to share the ideas that I do have!

Anyways, let's go over them.

Kirby: I can easily see a friendship here, as Kirby always tries to be everybody's friend! While I imagine Galacta Knight would be very irritable and temperamental as a result of traumatization from being trapped in crystal for eons, he'd most likely take well to Kirby a lot sooner than most others. The fellow younger pink puffball is hard to resist. And because Kirby is compassionate and empathetic, he'd feel terrible for what Galacta Knight has been through and would give him a very much needed hug that he's been so incredibly deprived of.

Meta Knight: Even though I don't commonly factor in extra mode content in my headcanons, I do canonize Meta Knight summoning a clockwork star and make a wish to fight Galacta Knight as something that happens in my verse. And that's exactly why I don't see these two getting along. Galacta was already messed up from being eternally stuck in crystal by that point, he's not happy that Meta just summoned him, beat him up, and left. He kind of holds a grudge against him for it. He'd most likely want to fight Meta for revenge if they encountered again, and it wouldn't help that Meta would just gladly take the challenge as an excuse for another fight. It'd take quite a while for these two to warm up to each other, as Galacta would certainly need some time to get over his bitterness for Meta.

Dark Meta Knight: This one is pretty interesting to think about. I think there's an actual, sincere possibility that Galacta and DMK could get along over them both sharing a distaste for Meta Knight. But... despite this possibility, I think the most likely outcome of this dynamic is that they'd both just fight and try to kick each other's asses. They're both temperamental assholes that easily lash out. DMK is largely stand-offish and rather bad at making friends, and I imagine that Galacta would probably distrust other knights in general because his encounter with Meta Knight left a foul taste in his mouth. If they were to see eye-to-eye, I think it'd take a while for it to happen.

Magolor: I actually headcanon that Magolor knows about Galacta Knight's existence because the Lor Starcutter has information on him. Galacta was in Halcandra before, allowing the Lor to detect him and store him into her memory, and that's what made it possible to make a mask based on him in Merry Magoland. Anyways, I believe that Magolor would be giddy and excited to meet Galacta in person. He'd love to learn more about him and show all his merch to him. I feel like Galacta would be weirded out by Magolor at first due to his over-the-top eagerness to know him, but I could see him eventually coming around and even taking well to the wizard's whimsical nature. Magolor could also amaze Galacta with his comically big ultra sword.

Susie: I've noticed that Galacta Knight and Susie have many things in common: being largely pink, both have had extremely long-term trauma (Susie stuck in Another Dimension, Galacta stuck in a crystal prison) and they've both got a large knack for violence. I think it's very possible they could bond or at least get along over these things. Pink bitches named breakfast! I believe that much like Magolor, Susie would also be very excited to meet Galacta. She'd find him to be even cooler than Meta Knight, especially delighted that he's pink! Galacta would probably be quite off-put by her at first, but I could see him coming around to like her for a mutual love of pink and also liking all the tech stuff she does. I hc Susie is past mechanizing people, so no worries about Galacta being a robot here. I think they could get on!

Marx: When Marx first learned about the Meta Knight vs. Galacta Knight incident and that it involved a clockwork star to let the fight happen, it caught his attention. He pestered Meta about the details as he was curious to meet Galacta himself, which he'd then have the chance to do so after Galacta is free from crystal post-HiAD. Anyways, I imagine the dynamic between Marx and Galacta to be rather complicated. It'd likely be tense at first, since Marx might be insufferable enough to ask a bunch of obnoxious questions in regards to the allegations of "greatest warrior of the galaxy", which would prompt Galacta to skewer him on the spot. I know I said that Galacta could maybe come around to Magolor for being whimsical, but Marx is a bigger handful by comparison that'd be harder to warm up to. I think it's not impossible for Galacta to eventually come to like Marx, but it'd take a long time to get there, and would hate him at first.

Ribbon: Ribbon would most likely be mind-blown by Galacta Knight. I'm not sure there's much else to say in that regard. This knight is pink just like Kirby, and look at that weaponry and armor! She'd compliment him like nuts. I think Ribbon is someone that Galacta could come to like faster than many others. She's very nice, compassionate and loves pink! Galacta might have difficulties in getting along with people in general right after being freed of crystal because he needs time to recuperate and heal, but he could warm up to Ribbon a lot quicker than he could to most other dream friends.

The Mage Sisters: Considering that I headcanon Hyness freeing Galacta Knight, I imagine that made the cult leader's daughters become interested in meeting him shortly after. I think the first impressions wouldn't be great as Galacta would want some time to himself initially, but I think he'd probably be able to come around to find these women to be alright. Zan Partizanne and Flamberge might be a little obnoxious with how much they'd like to spar with him, but otherwise I think he'd come to take a liking to their fighting spirits and capacity to cause extreme chaos and violence. He's known Hyness for a long time, so he'd be able to reveal a lot of stuff to them.

Those are all the dream friends that I got stuff for in terms of interacting with Galacta Knight. Sorry I couldn't do them all as of this time. I currently can't think up stuff for how the heck he'd interact with King Dedede, Bandana Waddle Dee, Taranza, Daroach, Adeleine, Gooey and the animal friends. But hope you enjoy what I do have here!

Like stated above in the stuff I put forward, the idea of both Magolor and Susie having a big fascination for Galacta Knight is pretty humorous. Heheheheheheheh.

[balanceoflightanddark]

I saw your earlier post about live action Azula and a few thoughts came to mind.

I know a lot of people are (rightfully)worried about the live action. I understand that they have cause to be wary.

As for me, I’m just hoping we get to see Azula kick the Zuko’s + the Gaangs (including Aang and Katara) collective asses! She got jipped quite a few times in the Og show regarding PIS and her mental breakdown.

And who knows? Maybe Netflix will make big changes and we’ll get to see an Azula redemption.

They also have an opportunity for epic trolling by having either Azulaang become canon (in the netverse anyway) Or having Katara fall for Zuko’s little sister instead of him. If nothing else, it would be good for a laugh.

I doubt any of these things will happen. But a person can dream, no?

In a similar vein to myself, do you have anything you wish to see in regards to Azula’s character?

How do you think Azula will be handled on Netflix?

Thank you for the ask anon.

I think one of my biggest fears is that they're going to play up her insanity and her breakdown. Unfortunately, her entire character has been colored by that breakdown both by the fandom and the franchise. Almost all of her post-canon work focuses on her mental instability to the point she's portrayed as a rabid animal in that awful Legacy of Fire book. Sure, we've had some more nuanced portrayals of her in recent years (Azula in the Spirit Temple comes to mind), but that's over a decade of her being portrayed at her worst moment.

And that's not even getting into how she's been demoted into little more than a glorified punching bag for Zuko and the Gaang in the Yang Comics.

So, yeah. I'm right with you about being apprehensive about Netflix's portrayal. If the creators can't get what made her character special, I don't exactly have confidence in a company who's had a pretty spotty track record when it comes to live-action adaptations (One Piece being the exception from what I've heard).

The other thing I'm a bit concerned about is...well, I don't think they're going for a redemption. With how modern media is like, I doubt they're going to stray too far away from the original series. Especially with Azula since her breakdown is iconic for all the wrong reasons. I mean, I'd like to hope for a redemption, but considering how Bryke and almost all the creative team keeps shying away from the possibility, I sincerely doubt Netflix is going to do better. Kind of frustrating when they've been leaving us up in the air for years at this point.

Now for what I'm hoping...I want Azula to get more sympathy. Basically, bust as many bad faith interpretations as possible. Don't tie in her story so closely to Zuko. Let her be a badass. And maybe leave her story on a positive note unlike the series. She seems to be getting a bit more focus, so I'm hopeful this might be true. Though it's all up to the writing team at this point.

I'll be honest, it's going to take a lot to convince me they have a handle on Azula's character. I mean, all respect for her actress and I'll be rooting for her. It's just...well, like I said in my previous post, over a decade of toxicity towards Azula and wishing the worst for her with creators that keep feeding that attitude has left me a little estranged. A part of me is hopeful, but until I see otherwise, I'm going to be skeptical.

Feel free to leave your thoughts.

[johaerys-writes]

Follow up then So, maybe a fic from Patrochilles kid days in Phthia and their shenanigans. I like to think they were quite the pest. Maybe the time when they truly exaggerated and got Phoenix and Peleus sincerely angry because they did something dangerous I'm thinking explosions maybe. Like, it's a normal lazy day at the palace, everything is quiet ... too quiet

Something like that

Thank you for this prompt! You asked for explosions, so explosions it is :D Here's Achilles and Pat being their goofiest, most naughtiest selves. ENJOY!! <3

(~2k, fluff, humour, Gen)

****

The merchant that showed up at Phthia’s gates that day is an interesting fellow. 

His long flowy robes are in the brightest shades of red and blue Patroclus has ever seen, and the golden chains stacked around his neck in an extravagant display of wealth rattle when he moves. The stiff, circular cap he’s wearing gives him an almost comical appearance, but the man’s dark eyes are earnest and his smile is broad; he even greets Patroclus with it and pats him on the head when he and Achilles are summoned to the throne room to meet him.

“He comes from Babylon,” Phoenix tells them later, after they’ve all taken their seats at the table in the large hall. “His ship just docked this morning. The biggest vessel the port has seen in months.”

“What’s he doing all the way here?” Achilles asks, his eyes drifting every so often to the merchant seated by his father’s side on the table. The two men are talking animatedly, Peleus filling and refilling their cups. 

“He has an interesting proposition for your father, no doubt. His wares are quite… unusual.” 

Naphtha, Patroclus overhears as the men talk. Liquid fire, they say, granted to the Babylonians by one of their strange gods: a thick water-like substance that bursts into flames when the sun touches it. Volatile and destructive, it has turned the tide in many battles ever since the tribes in the desert there started using it against each other. 

Patroclus doesn’t regard the merchant with the same appreciation after learning this. 

“Why would your father even want such a thing?” he asks Achilles as they head towards their room, after the feast is over. “It sounds… dangerous.”

Achilles shrugs. “He said it’s for defence. There are always wars breaking left and right; if your enemy thinks you have some hidden trick, they’re less likely to attack you.”

Patroclus isn’t quite sure it’s that simple, but he trusts Peleus’ judgement. If anything, his unusual tactics have managed to keep the peace between Phthia and its neighbouring kingdoms for years. 

Sleep comes easy for Patroclus after a busy day. He’s dosing, half-caught in a dream, when he’s roused by a poke at his shoulder. 

“Patroclus. Wake up.”

He grumbles and opens his eyes, blinking blearily. Achilles is looming over him, the moonlight that’s slithering through the open window a pale halo about his head. 

“What happened?”

“Get up. Come with me.” 

“Where are we going?” Patroclus asks, shifting at the edge of his pallet to put on his sandals. When he fumbles sleepily with them for more than two seconds, Achilles impatiently kneels down beside him and helps him put them on. 

“The armoury.” 

Patroclus feels like he’s sleeping still— Achilles isn’t making any sense. “And why are we going there?” 

“Hush, someone might hear us,” Achilles whispers crisply. He hurries ahead and Patroclus can do nothing but follow him through the castle’s dark and silent corridors, groggy and quite befuddled. He just wishes he was back in bed.

They cross the empty inner yard to reach the armoury. It’s a place that Patroclus very rarely visits: the large room filled with swords, spears, shields and arrows is reserved for the soldiers, guards and squires in the palace. Ever since starting training with Achilles, Patroclus hasn’t had a reason to come this way. Achilles glances left and right to make sure they’re alone before lifting the heavy bolt that holds the door shut. 

“Will you finally tell me what we’re doing here?” Patroclus asks once the door closes behind them. He listens as Achilles fiddles with his flint and a torch; soon, the oiled cloth catches fire, illuminating the space. 

Achilles turns to him then, and gives him a wide, fiendish grin. The torch’s trembling light dances in the golden flecks of his eyes. “To see that liquid fire for ourselves, of course.”

Patroclus gapes at him, lost for words. Fear creeps up his stomach, but also alongside it a sort of dreadful excitement. “Please tell me you’re joking,” he says, but by the way Achilles spins on his heel and marches towards the far corner of the room makes it clear that he isn’t. 

“Peleus will string us up by the ankles if he finds out, “ Patroclus hisses under his breath, hurrying to catch up with Achilles. His friend only laughs. 

“When have you ever known my father to do this?” He stops short in between two long racks of swords; after a moment’s contemplation he turns the corner and strides to the end of the rack, where the large crates filled with round stones for the hunters’ slings lie. 

Patroclus swallows thickly. There’s really nothing he can say to change Achilles’ mind once it’s set on something, he knows this well; besides, Patroclus can’t deny that there’s some sort of morbid curiosity stirring inside him at the thought of seeing this curious liquid with his own eyes as well. 

“Aha! Found it. I think.” Achilles stands over a large crate. It is firmly sealed, and the sturdy make and unusual shape of it is very much unlike the rest of the crates in the room. “Hold this.”

Patroclus obediently holds the torch while Achilles tugs at the lip of the crate’s seal with a wrench, huffing and puffing. Eventually, with Patroclus’ help, the seal finally yields, and they slide it off together. 

They both stare down at the crate’s contents. There’s a handful of clay balls with delicately carved shapes on their surface, nestled amidst the straw. No burning, lethal liquid that Patroclus can see. 

“What even is this?” Achilles asks, picking one of the clay balls. He inspects it dubiously, tilting it this way and that. 

“Are you sure this is it? Maybe there’s another crate somewhere.”

“No, this is the one. I heard my father speaking with Phoenix.” He brings the artefact under the torch’s glow to look at it more closely. “What is this?” he asks, holding out the short wick dangling from the bottom of the ball. 

Before Patroclus can respond, the fabric on the torch sputters softly. A spark lands on the wick. It starts burning. 

Achilles and Patroclus look at each other for a moment before realisation dawns on them both. Achilles’ eyes widen in horror. 

“Go, go, go!” he shouts, tossing the clay ball back in the crate and pushing Patroclus summarily towards the armoury door.

*****

Peleus is winding down in his council room, having a quick drink with Phoenix before retreating to his bedroom, when a loud, booming crash echoes through the palace. The stones beneath his feet tremble with its force. 

Phoenix is up and on his feet even before Peleus is, running to the door. There are soldiers and servants already rushing about, roused by the alarm that the guards on duty raised. 

“Was there an attack?” Peleus asks a passing guard. “Is the palace under enemy fire? Report, man!”

The guard snaps at attention, setting down the bucket he was holding. “Not that we know of, my king. There was an explosion in the armoury, and that whole section is on fire; that’s all we know.” 

Peleus lets the man go and joins the crowd towards the armoury, Phoenix in tow. 

It takes a while to get the fire under control and prevent it from spreading to the rest of the palace. The sky is pink and gold with early dawn by the time he retreats, exhausted and smelling of smoke from head to foot, to his rooms. He is halfway there when he remembers his son. 

“Where is Achilles?” he asks Phoenix. “Did you see him anywhere?”

His old friend shakes his head. They turn around and head towards the prince’s quarters. The door of the room cracks open just a bit at the sound of their footsteps when they draw near, and Patroclus’ tousled dark head peeks out. 

“King— King Peleus,” the boy mutters. He opens the door and just stands there, his big dark eyes somewhat fearful. 

“Where is Achilles? Is he with you?”

“Yes. But— um.” He glances over his shoulder, then bites his lip. “It isn’t as bad as it looks, I swear.”

Peleus follows his gaze into the room, where Achilles is sitting on the bed. His chiton is darkened by smoke and dirt, and his knees are scraped and bloody. A bandage is wrapped around his head, and there’s still blood along one side of his face. The ends of his hair look singed. 

The boy just waves and smiles at them. “Hello.”

Peleus rushes into the room and kneels before him. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

“Yes, about that…” Patroclus shifts from foot to foot, his cheeks flaming dark pink. 

“We set fire to the armoury,” Achilles says. “Sorry, father.”

“You did— what?” Peleus stares from his son to his therapon and back. “How did you— what?”

“We had to see the naphtha. It sounded… interesting,” Achilles explains, smiling awkwardly. “But we didn’t expect it to be— well, quite like it was.” 

“Oh, gods.” Peleus presses his palm over his face, letting out a groan. “So you just had to sneak into the armoury and examine it for yourselves. I see now.” 

And, oh, does Peleus see. Dozens of bags of gold tossed uselessly into the bottom of the sea, as well as a wrecked armoury out of which very few weapons will be salvaged. The damages and costs make Peleus’ head swim just with a quick, rough calculation, and his temper flares. 

The anger dies down almost instantly, though, when he looks up and sees the apologetic look on both of the boys’ faces. They both look like guilty and drenched cats, their tails between their legs. 

“At least you’re both safe,” he says. “You could have been gravely injured— you could have died. You know that, yes?”

Achilles nods. “Yes, Father.” 

“I don’t want you anywhere near the armoury again, understood?”

The boys nod again, more eagerly this time. “Understood.”

Peleus pushes himself up and turns to Patroclus. “Keep an eye on him for the rest of the day,” he says. “That head wound looks nasty. If he starts feeling drowsy or nauseous, take him to the healer straight away.” 

“Yes, sir,” Patroclus says, standing protectively over Achilles.

“And you.” Peleus glares at Achilles. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this so easily. Something tells me it was your idea.” 

His son —his brazen, wild, beyond foolish son— must have realised by now that Peleus would never mete out a harsh punishment, no matter the crime. He grins. “It was wicked, though,” he says. “You should have been there.”

Peleus lets out a long, long-suffering sigh. 

“Don’t even say it,” he grumbles at Phoenix once they’re out of Achilles’ room and walking down the long corridor. 

“Say what?”

“You know what,” Peleus says with a sharp wave of his hand. Smoke is still rising towards the sky from the wrecked armoury building. “I can hear you thinking it.”

His old friend’s lips widen in a crooked smile beneath his beard. “That boy,” he starts merrily, linking his hands behind his back, “does remind me of someone I know.”

“I said, don’t say it,” Peleus groans, though he can’t stop the smile from creeping into his voice as well. He’s exhausted and frustrated and more than a little worried about all the repairs he’ll have to fund, but pride still has its way of sneaking in. 

“He’s as wild as they come, isn’t he,” he chuckles, shaking his head. They’re finally inside the king’s quarters; Peleus doesn’t even ask Phoenix before pouring a cup of wine for them both. “He’ll drive me crazy one of these days. Will probably find himself in big trouble one day, too.”

“You’ll have an easier time taming thunder than bringing him to heel.” Phoenix grins, accepting the cup. “I wonder who he took after.”

“Ah, yes, something something the apple under the tree, something, something,” Peleus says with a bored wave. “Close enough, I suppose. But, just for the record, I have never almost burnt down a palace.”

“Not one of your own, certainly. Others’ palaces? Not so lucky.”

Peleus laughs and downs his wine. It’s strong and heady, just the way he likes it. He closes his eyes and rubs at his pounding temples. “I’m too old for this, Phoenix.” 

“Nonsense. Spring chickens, both of us.” Phoenix follows Peleus’ example and tosses his wine back, then stands up. “Now get some rest. You sorely need it.”

“Yes, yes. Sleep nurtures children as the sun does oxen, I know.” 

On his way out, Phoenix sets his hand on Peleus’ shoulder. “He’ll be alright,” he says softly. “And thank the gods he has that boy by his side.”

“Patroclus?”

“Mhm. Never far from him, that lad. Reminds you a bit of the two of us, doesn’t it?” He’s smiling, Peleus can hear it in his voice. “He’ll watch over him. As I have you.”

The words warm him. Peleus touches Phoenix’s hand where it rests upon his shoulder. They stay there in silence for a bit, watching the sun rise through the window.  

His old friend has it right, Peleus thinks. They’ll be alright, all of them. 

****

Thank you so much for reading!! If you enjoyed, give this a like and reblog, it really means a lot &lt;3

[sapphicstone]

𝒟𝒜𝑀𝒩 𝒮𝒯𝑅𝐼𝒫𝒫𝐸𝑅 / BASEketball.

Fandom: BASEketball (1998)

Parings: Doug Remer x Stripper!Reader ; Joe Cooper x Stripper!Reader

Summary: You lead a double life. By day, you are a tactical analysis specialist for the Beers baseketball team. But at night, that's when everything really happens.

You are a stripper.

NOTES: I have to be honest with you all, I've never seen any fanfic of Remer and Cooper with the Reader Stripper... Anyway, the idea came up after reading some interview with Trey Parker about him liking strippers.

By day, you are a tactical analysis specialist. What exactly do you do? Well, you study games, analyze the opposing team, suggest strategies, evaluate player performance, and so on. It's kind of a fun job.

You enjoy working with Cooper and Remer, the main stars of basketball. They put a lot of effort into coming up with distractions so that everyone can score in the game. But it's not like Joe and Doug really need it; after all, one of the things you like about them is their charisma and sense of humor.

"Good job, guys," you said as you watched them enter the players' prep room.

"Thanks to you," Cooper replied, pointing his finger in your direction with a sincere smile on his face. Your cheeks flushed at Joe's compliment.

"But you guys need to work on your strategies," you pointed out as you approached the guys. Doug frowned as he downed a bottle of water.

After you finished your shift, you said goodbye to each of the guys individually and wished them a good night. They said goodbye back and you hurried to your second job.

''Black Flamingo.''

That was the name of the place where, from the moment you walked in, you peacefully bid farewell to the tactical analysis specialist working for the Beers team and said a rough "hello" to the club's most sought-after stripper.

JOE COOPER

Cooper doesn't usually go to these places, even though it goes against his personality. But Squeak and Remer convinced him to go.

He hesitated a lot, but finally went.

When he arrived, he felt at home. And even though the bright lights hurt his eyes, Cooper couldn't help but look at the stage filled with scantily clad strippers, sensually making every subtle move. It instantly soothed his eyes.

Cooper wasn't sure if he should focus on the other ladies who worked there, serving drinks and dancing on the laps of the guys who accepted the drinks, or on the dancers on the stage.

He accepted a drink and was excited when the waitress in black, low-cut clothing blew him a kiss in the air. He took a sip of the drink and things started to heat up when they announced the show for the night.

Cooper started to get excited.

The one who doesn't sleep with any of her clients. The one who steals the attention of both men and women. The golden goose of the Black Flamingo...

...You

Your steps were mesmerizing; you definitely knew what you were doing and were fully aware of the power you had over those drooling men. The lace mask covering your face was the main attraction. Who could this bitch be? No one would have the privilege to find out.

"Holy shit, man…" Cooper muttered to himself as he watched you slowly fiddle with your own clothes.

Remer and Squeak watched in fascination. Cooper screamed and, with the effect of alcohol on his brain, started throwing some dollars on the stage.

But even as professional as you were, you couldn't help but miss a step when you saw Joe Cooper in the audience.

''What the fuck is he doing here?'' You tought.

DOUG REMER

"Shall we go to the 'Black Flamingo?"

"Right away," he said.

Remer definitely can't keep his dick in his pants.

The ladies are all around him, serving drinks, but he doesn't even wait for them to offer. He gives them a comically sensual wink and turns his eyes back to the stage. He enjoys tucking dollars into the ladies' cleavage, smiling as their breasts sway to and fro.

Remer doesn't drink too much because he wants to enjoy the situation sober. He doesn't want to forget this day.

Remer feels confident in this club with all these hot women around him. "There's a little bit of Remer for everyone" he says, as if they really want him, but they are just doing their damn jobs.

But after the announcement of the night's show, one person in particular catches his attention.

The stripper who took the stage was different. It wasn't just the lace mask covering her face; all of her subtle and well-crafted movements justified why she was in such high demand.

She was radiant, gorgeous and most of all: very hot. Dollars rained down on the stage as the damn stripper began to strip. One by one.

Remer found himself mesmerized by the sequence of lace falling onto that stage, he was thirsty for more.

Soon he was screaming for you along with the desperate crowd and managed to find a place on the edge of the stage to get closer to you, even though he knew you were the Untouchable Stripper.

But he didn't care.

His eyes quickly fell on the red-haired guy in the audience. ''It had to be a joke.''

You knew that Doug Remer was willing to get the attention of many girls, never wanting just one. But you felt happy when you realized he was just staring at you.

Please excuse my poor English and any other mistakes i made. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!

byee

[leejeann]

This was literally the first thought in my head when I woke up today for some reason, but one thing I love about Heartstopper season 2 is the running theme of not having to forgive someone just because they apologize for hurting you. Like no matter how genuine the sincere they are, you aren't required to welcome them back into your life.

(Spoilers obviously, also rambling lol)

Like the biggest example is that scene with Ben and Charlie after the art show.

(Disclaimer: I have not read the books/comics and I know Ben does some other stuff in them, but for clarification I am talking based specifically on Ben's depiction so far in the show).

I've seen people say Ben is solely trying to manipulate Charlie into forgiving him, but I think it's more complicated than that. I think at least some of what Ben said was sincere. Maybe he does wish he could be more honest about who he is, but is too afraid of being rejected by family or friends. Maybe he does like Charlie to some degree (even if he's pretty bad at taking Charlie's feelings into account for like, anything). And maybe there is some manipulation undertone to it, thinking if he sounds sweet and kind enough that Charlie will forgive him easier or even take him back.

But what he definitely does there is view the apology as transactional. Which is incredibly common in real life too, unfortunately. He admits he was wrong, explains the insecurities he has, apologizes for hurting Charlie and swears he's changing, etc, and has therefore done his half of the transaction. Now Charlie has to finish the transaction by saying "Since you really mean it, I forgive you and you can be in my life again."

Except Charlie doesn't do that, nor should he have to. He's basically like "I hope you're being honest and you're a better person, but I don't have to stick around to watch you prove it." And like, that's such a good lesson to learn. It's one I've had to learn myself in the past, and I've seen it happen with high school friends who've gone no contact with a family member, only to have other family members try to guilt them into accepting the apology because the no-contact person feels remorse or because "they're your family", etc., etc..

If someone hurts you, no matter how sincerely they regret it later or how much they've changed for the better, you're not required to let them immediately, or ever, be close to you again to prove it. And that doesn't mean you can't feel forgiveness toward them either! Forgiveness and letting someone back into your life don't always have to coincide. Of course you can let them in if you want to, but it's ultimately up to you and no one else.

[alwida10]

What does Bob Iger‘s return mean for the MCU?

Everyone who thought that perhaps the recent decrease of quality in the MCU might be Chapek’s fault, and now things will get better… sorry - that won’t happen.

Iger was in charge while the MCU made Disney bigger and bigger. Under his lead the company showed an outstanding growth. And for some reason, he left the company right when the first news of Corona indicated it would be something Big. In February 2020.

Interestingly, there had been several people discussed as possible successors, and everyone was surprised it was chapek. He had a reputation for being less liked and being not creative but more business-orientated. His most important flaw was he did not have Iger‘s talent for socializing and making friends. A bad trait for a ceo, but a wonderful trait for a scapegoat (Disclaimer: I have no intention to indicate Chapek would be nice or redeemable. even bad people can be used as scapegoats.)

Just look at the timing! The Corona stock market crash was on 20. February 2022, and Bob Iger left Disney on the 25.February 2022.

Chapek had to deal with the stock market crash, the following lock downs, and the massive bad news on how Disney treated its employees. All things Iger would have had to deal with if he had been CEO. But he wasn’t. Chapek took all the blame.

And now, coincidentally, when Corona has more or less stared to become endemic, and the risk for further lock downs is low, Iger is back in charge „saving“ the company. 🙃

The downfall of quality in the MCU is another topic, which escalated in 2014, when Feige and Perlmutter had a fallout, where Feige threatened to leave if no way was found he could make decisions without Perlmutter interfering. Iger supposedly tried to find a diplomatic solution, but after that didn’t work, he took marvel studios (the part of marvel that produces the movies) and ripped it out of the rest of the Marvel-company. Disney had bought Marvel in 2008, but allowed them to keep their company structure until then. In this old structure a creative committee had to approve all movies. The writers and directors often bemoaned not having the creative freedom they wished for. HOWEVER, this process ensured the movies would have less consistency errors and the moral messages stayed in line with the comics. Perlmutter was kept in charge of marvel comics, while Feige took over the MCU, henceforth unregulated by the former creative committee which consisted of comic book authors, and Perlmutter.

Feige established a new creative committee consisting of marketing specialists etc, who started their work by approving infinity war and endgame.

To understand the development, you need to understand what both of them brought to the mix. Feige‘s talent and curse is the same. He takes big risks. Superhero movies were not considered „good“ enough for the normal cinema, before he changed that. It was a Genre people looked down upon. His vision, which he followed since he was an intern at marvel, was to make the genre big.

Perlmutter, as a grumpy old man including all the pros and cons that come with that, managed to add to the mixture by giving the sincerity and respectability, the first movies needed to be taken seriously. (Just picture them like Odin and Thor in the Bifrost-scene, only that in this case Odin/Perlmutter was banished.)

And Feige brought all the glory people wanted, and since a lot of the old crew was still there the movies in the time of the restructuring kept a bit of the „old“ flair. Age of Ultron was the last movie the old creative committee approved. The movies after that (Dr. Strange, and Antman) were a bit more funny, but they did not fall out of the old trails entirely. but then Thor Ragnarok came, convincing everyone that being weird and colorful was something all MCU movies should be, instead only the Guardians. Before this was the signature of the Guardians of the Galaxy, making them stand out. Like the Thor movies‘ signature was to be a drama, resembling Shakespeare, and the Captain America movies were war-movies. All sub-franchises had a signature. Until TR broke it up.

IW was written and planned quickly after TR and perhaps they didn’t have time to adapt to the „new“ taika style there. But endgame definitely went much further in the direction of TR with all its depression jokes and big scenery.

That is the style Feige inspires - creative freedom without any regulation. Perhaps best shown in the Loki series and She-hulk. Can good things come from that? Definitely! Black Panther is an example for that. But good things should pass quality control all the same. The bad things should be filtered out.

[kevin-day-is-bi]

Embarking on watching all the Batman movies pt 8: Superman vs. Batman: Dawn of Justice (2016):

I actually really liked this one.

In terms of plot, it’s structured very much like a comic book, and there are a lot of shorter plot points feeding into an overall plot. While I personally really loved it, it didn’t work as well as I think they hoped it would. It was also fairly long (I watched the extended version which was 3hrs), and while I didn’t get the feeling of “ugh they could’ve cut this out” that I usually do in long movies, it still dragged on in a couple places.

When it came to acting, everyone did a good job. Henry Cavill plays Superman a little more on the serious side, which is rarer to see so I enjoyed that. Ben Affleck does a really nice the-cowl-is-barely-off Bruce, and it was fun to see the detective side come through. Obviously Gal Gadot is perfect in every way. Amy Adams does a great job of showing Lois’s sincerity. The younger, slightly more psychotic Lex was really fun, and it makes the timeline make more sense with this being a Batman Year Two and Superman still being fairly new on scene.

The movie opens with Bruce comforting a newly orphaned child, and I super loved that, because I feel like that aspect is missing from all the live action Batman movies thus far. A lot of the scenes were set up in a way that made them look very comic book esque, and that was super fun. I think this was a much more effective Batman Year Two than Dark Knight for a couple reasons, mostly because we actually see him go to the brink of killing someone several times, and we get to see him decide to back away from that path. He looks scary when he’s Batman, he’s still mostly urban legend, and he’s pretty awkward in almost every non-Batman interaction we see him in.

This movie also bucks the trend which all of the others followed, and has an exactly equal main woman to main man ratio. We have Batman, Superman, Lois, Diana, Lex, and the Senator. It made me able to stop feeling like I was watching a male power play for a bit and therefore I enjoyed it a little more. Lois had agency and ultimately furthered the plot more than either Clark or Bruce, which I loved because in the comics, the big three (Clark, Bruce, and Diana) are almost solely used as symbols for most of the time (especially 90s-2010s) and their side characters drive much of the story.

My biggest overall issue is that we don’t have any of the Gotham Rogues. All the villains are Superman’s, which was definitely interesting, but I feel like with the time they were given, they could’ve fleshed out the Gotham aspect as well as the Metropolis one. However, I loved the hints we got to the Justice League (and I do like the Justice League movie), and I liked that we got hints of the Lex/Kryptonian cloning process. With that being hinted at, and Cyborg being created, it felt like it was being structured very similarly to how a Batman/Superman Year Two comic would be structured, with hints of the next generation happening very early on.

My two personal favourite parts of this were that A, all the women had agency (and there were multiple women!) and B, it felt like they put a lot of thought into the timeline and any repercussions of the changes they made. I didn’t at any point go “this doesn’t make any sense!”, or feel as though they had done something that made another future canon thing impossible.

In terms of personal enjoyment, I’m going to give this a 6.5/10. Just like Batman 1989, this type of comic isn’t usually my favourite to read, but the way they adapted it was mostly good. As always, I wish we had more Batman side characters, but it was absolutely a step in the right direction. I got chills when we heard the Wonder Woman theme, and I clapped when she saved Bruce.

In terms of comic accuracy, I’m gonna give this an 8/10. I literally cannot think of a single thing that they changed that they did not work to ensure it would still work in-universe, and the plot was accurate (sometimes to its detriment, as it didn’t always adapt to the screen well). I especially loved the allusions to Death of Superman towards the end.

[ladyyatexel]

@bmouse tagged me in the little "Get To Know You" meme, so here are my very long winded answers!

Last Song: 'Huhhahhei' - Käärijä Yet more music I can't just fucking Buy here, they want me to stream everything, fuck that shit. I listen to it on YouTube hahaha. I'm happy to follow Käärijä's nonsense regardless. He's so fucking silly and this song is doing the same 'dark and silly' combo that his Cha Cha Cha onward songs have had.

I like Käärijä so much, but not in the aggressively sexual way that everyone else still excited about him after Eurovision seems to. I feel like I really love him in like a 'fellow struggling artist' way and in a character design way? Something about him just makes me smile and kind of pokes me in the heart and yells, "Tag! You're it!" I'm proud of him, and he makes me smile and laugh and I love what he makes. I hope for such good things for him, and that he takes care of himself!

Currently Watching: Old Robert Stack episodes of Unsolved Mysteries. This happens to me periodically. It was a favorite show to watch with my mom when I was a kid/teen, and so it has a weird combo of spooky and warmly nostalgic.

It is nice to see so many more updates than I used to, and interesting to see how my tastes have changed. As a kid, I hoped every single one would be ghosts or aliens, and as an adult, I groan and skip these kinds of stories. I am surprised by how Christian the show was. I didn't notice it when I was younger because I was comfortably indifferent about Christianity, I guess. Would tell people I believed in God if asked because it seemed as default to me. It was a few years until I realized how much of it didn't line up with me or itself. Now, firmly an atheist, the show's assumption of Christianity clangs badly for me

Current Obsession: A strange patchwork of things! Juuzou and Hanbee from Tokyo Ghoul, definitely. I'm so into everything about them, they just wove their way into everything, I am fascinated, enchanted, and, as my phone desperately wants to type instead, vaccinated. I can't help but notice how much I love pairs that involve one person demonstrating extreme devotion to the other one, where the other is strange, unique, viewed as weird by others. These are frequently kind of asexually shaped, too, so I can't help but think this dynamic is a certain strong personal connection or longing.

Also, drawing and the potential of doing video! Streaming traditional art or making an art video channel is so interesting to me. Markers, G Pen nibs, capturing something I can't explain in words.

I also recently watched an 80 part documentary about Chris-chan. I have a tendency to become interested in something in a very neutral way? As in, I just want to know all this information so that I know it, but not necessarily because I love the topic. I have a real interest in the adjacent topic of people who make very sincere comics or related things. It reminds me so much of when I was making tons of them as a kid. I have historically been interested a lot in the work of people who are just trying to do their little thing, and often used to look at Encyclopedia Dramatica like 15 years ago. I didn't like the language they used, the things they did to people, any of it, but the people they were targeting fascinated me in some familiar way. I don't know what it is. I have never wished them any more trouble, and often just sincerely looked at the work they made and Thought about it, but I don't know What the thinking was. Trying to learn to not be Target like them? Interested as someone who also could get absorbed in their own things super deeply? I don't know.

Regardless, what happened to Chris-chan is sad. She has been a completely horrible person, especially lately, like, I'm not defending any of this shit, but wow, it didn't have to be this bad. People did so much damage. This never should have been like this.

So yeah, a weird combo of things! But this is some real "get to know you" junk, isn't it?

I know @sturionic likes to talk also. I think I'll put @propheticfire and @raemanzu in there too. I'd also like to know what @anthropwashere and @kiranerys are up to!

[noodelak]

I know you've probably gotten this a lot since you posted that comic/personal art about struggling to be an artist but I gotta say,

I relate sooo hard to that comic and it sucks :/ And you are way ahead of me in many ways so I feel even worse. Idk, I guess it just blows me away whenever I see people who I perceive to be better than me also struggling with similar insecurities.

It sucks so bad and I feel for you immensely. I’ve thought about writing another comic all about my complex feeling surrounding comparing myself with other artists. It’s such a complicated set of feelings I have struggled with trying to make anything even mildly coherent about the topic. I have friends who have industry jobs that have described feeling this exact same way, to which I also then feel blown away because from where I’m standing I want to shout, “But look at how far you have made it in your journey!!”

Since I don’t know you or how old you are or what your art looks like I don’t know how relevant this may or may not be. But I just turned 28 last week and this Fall marks 10 years since I started pursuing art as a career. I attended my first semester of art school in 2012, I hadn’t even turned 18 yet. I have a very distinct memory of sitting around with my classmates doing a homework assignment, we were drawing self portraits and my new friend showed me their work and I had this deep horrible pit in my stomach because they were so much better than me. I excused myself from the table and cried in the bathroom. I felt so embarrassed, I cried off my makeup and had to go back out to that room full of new friends and acquaintances looking like I’d just cried and making up the excuse that I had allergies and it made my eyes water. I’d never felt that inadequate in my life, it was the first time I really sincerely thought that maybe I should just give up. I’m grateful that I didn’t, and worse things happened in the years after that and I still never quit. While I’ve failed to meet my expectations of myself many times, I’ve found that with each passing year it’s a little easier to forgive myself. Shit is so hard and if you are surviving and managing to create anything you are winning half the battle already. You have time, I have time!! Hell I had a professor who told me he didn’t start drawing until his 30s, I’m guessing he was probably in his 50s early 60s when he was my teacher and his art rocked! I hope that this doesn’t come across overly preachy. I was just really struck by what you said and it really made me want to share this story. I wish you the best on your journey anon <3 here’s a picture of my dog on his blankie

[after-witch]

Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Title: Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Synopsis: You’ve broken up with Ransom Drysdale, and you mean it this time. But the freedom that comes with the breakup leads to a series of unexpected coincidences that leave you wondering: was it worth the price?

Word Count: 8955

notes: yandere, mentions of physical abuse, financial abuse, comfort sweaters

Nothing lasts forever. Not even relationships--and certainly not love. What might start off as an intense, passionate relationship can (and did, in your case) eventually fizzle; things that you were willing to overlook when you were absolutely besotted would wear down with time, and eventually they became too much to ignore.

That’s what you tell yourself, what you remind yourself, in the moment after you tell him:

“It’s over, Ransom. We’re done. I’m leaving.”

It couldn’t last forever. Not with his inability to stay sober, not with his tendency to cheat on you with meaningless flings that somehow hurt more than any steamy single-minded affair. Not with his flare-ups of controlling tendencies that left you in tears on the bathroom floor as he asked you to please stop dressing like a slut in front of his family, is that too hard to ask?

You’d asked him to change. He swore he would; he never did. You forgave him, more than once, more times than you could count. But enough was enough. Maybe he thought you were too weak to leave him, especially three years into your relationship, when your lives were becoming so integrated, pushing you towards a potential permanent future. It was a future that left you feeling numb and anxious. Stuck in a marriage with someone who wanted to stay with you but treated you horribly, all the same. And that wasn’t even getting into the family dynamics that left your head spinning.

He stares at you now, and his mouth opens just a little bit in what you know is going to be a barrage of questions, insults, maybe even threats spurred on by your words. But instead he closes his mouth and shakes his head, letting out a soft, bitter chuckle.

“Well, damn. This sucks.” You can see the indent of his tongue in his cheek before he clicks and shrugs. “Guess that’s it then. Need help packing your shit or what?”

His response is so blasé that you’re genuinely shocked and, you must admit, a little hurt. He didn’t even ask for a second chance or beg you to stay or argue with you about your terrible timing because our-vacation-to-Hawaii-is-coming-up. So it’s your turn to look surprised, and you shake your head.

“No, I… already took care of it. It’s at a storage locker.” You didn’t have family left, and your close friends had pulled away from you one by one once you stayed with Ransom time and time again--so you’d had to pay movers to help you pack and transport everything to storage over the weekend, while Ransom was away and you were free to make a clean breakup.

He nods, sticks his hand inside his jacket pockets. He’s looking around the room, avoiding direct eye contact in a clear show of his discomfort. It’s weird seeing Ransom like this--the normally self-assured, cocky Ransom, looking for any excuse not to look at you.

“So… see ya around?” His tone is sincere, if still confused. The idea of you leaving must have really never crossed his mind. The look on his face when he finally faces you again appears genuinely puzzled.

He sticks out his hand and it feels almost comical for things to end this way, particularly considering the nights you’d spent imagining some big blow up, some big fight with Ransom screaming and you firing off the many reasons why it had to end no matter what he said.

But it didn’t go the way you expected at all. It was calm. Easy. A clean break-up.

So you shake his hand and grab your purse and the small roller-suitcase and give a half-hearted wave as you walk out the door; the taxi you’d hired to pick you up is waiting, car running, meter going. You would be staying at a hotel for two weeks, which would hopefully be enough time to find a semi-decent apartment; your credit score had improved so much since Ransom added you to his cards, to a shared checking account, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to get approved.

A new life, one where you could focus on yourself for once, was just around the corner.

**

"I'm sorry, miss, but it's definitely not the reader. The card is declined."

You've had this nightmare before. No, you've lived this nightmare before--years ago when your credit was shit and you ran up your cards and had to face the music in a publicly humiliating display with the longest checkout line you'd ever seen behind you. Only that was years ago, in a little grocery store, and since getting together with Ransom you never had to worry about problems like this. You never had to worry about the shame of not having enough, not being enough.

But this? This was happening now. In an upscale hotel. With your nice purse (a Christmas present) and designer clothes (casual, comfortable) and your cheeks flushed undeniably warm.

The hotel clerk has a tight, sympathetic smile on her face. A coworker who walks behind her glances at you, judging, and you just know he's going to head into some break room and tell everyone but yet another piece of discarded army candy with a declined credit card. You wish you'd kept your sunglasses on.

"Did it, um, say why? I don't--" you plaster a smile on your face, hating the way this all feels familiar, like a part of your past coming back to haunt you. "I don't understand, the card is good."

The clerk's smile flickers, just a bit.

"It says there's a fraud alert on this card. Perhaps you'd better call the company. Or would you like me to call them?"

Fucking. Ransom.

"Oh, oh no, don’t worry about it. I’ll call them myself. I'm so sorry about this." You turn away from the clerk as quickly as possible and step away from the counter, away from the person waiting behind you who will surely have no trouble with their card, away from the clerks giving you a passive side-eye. You lean against a cool cement pillar in the lobby and you know what you have to do.

You have to call Ransom.

You haven't deleted his number yet--you'd planned on calling him today or tomorrow to figure out how to split up your shared finances--so it's easy enough to find the number. It's not so easy to tap his contact, but you have to, so you force yourself to do it and stare at his photo as the call rings. And rings. And rings. “Hello?” Your breath catches but in an instant, when the message continues, you feel stupid. It’s his voicemail. Fuck.

You text him, instead. Emergency. Call right away. And of course: He leaves you on read. Fuck.

You call him again. And again. He picks up on the sixth call, but your heart is racing too hard and sweat is beading down your forehead and it takes you a moment to confirm that the "Hello?" wasn't part of the voicemail message this time. Fuck.

"Um. Hey," you say, keeping your voice as un-royally-pissed-off as possible, because if he did put in a fraud alert then you don't want to risk any additional asshole moves. "So there's something wrong with the card? The one that ends in 8921? The hotel said there was a fraud alert and--"

"Did you really think I'm going to keep paying for your shit if we're over?"

His voice is quick, biting--exactly what you'd expected from him earlier. Somehow it stings even harsher over the phone, where you feel more helpless, unable to avoid his words.

"I thought..." you wet your lips, trying to maintain your cool. "Look, my name is on them, so I thought send you my part of the payments until I can get cards in my own name."

He chuckles, low and short. "Yeah? What, you want to create a payment schedule or something?"

You fight back the annoyance in your tone. You hate having to be the bigger person, but your finances--your life--is on the line. "Yeah, actually, that'd be perfect. It wouldn't be for long. You know I'll pay them on time, I'm not looking to screw you over."

"You're going too pay me on time? For all the stuff you've bought, the stuff I’ve bought for you, this hotel room and god knows what else? How are you going to afford all that?"

He knows you recently earned a promotion at your work. He knows this, because you were so excited about it, and his half-assed congratulations over lukewarm leftovers left you feeling bitter and sad and useless. So you can't help it when bitterness seeps into your voice with your answer. "You know I just got a promotion."

"Did you?" It's said in such a casual tone that it gives you pause, but a moment later he simply hangs up on you.

Fucking. Ransom.

You shove your phone back into your purse, and the clerks at the counter are staring at you. Sweat has trickled down your back and your shirt sticks to your skin ever-so-slightly as you pull away from the pillar and approach the counter, awkward smile and cheeks hot.

"There is an issue with the card, they're working on it, so I’ll just call for a new reservation when it's fixed. I'm so sorry for the mix up!" Your voice is so peppy and high-pitched and fake and you feel like you’re back at your old job, feet aching with falling apart shoes, forced to deal with people returning old toasters laden with crumbs, calming they’d “just bought it the day before and it didn’t work.”

"Of course," the clerk says, and you know this is hotel clerk code for "You're a shitty liar."

You roll your suitcase out of the lobby with tears in your eyes and you shove your sunglasses on as soon as you've cleared the building. You feel exhausted, drained--so you use what little energy you have left to start googling for cheap motels.

**

The room smells musty. You pin the plastic sheet you’d snagged at a dollar store over the comforter and pray it will be enough to protect you from whatever is on the likely unwashed fabric. The TV is broken, there’s no WIFi, and there’s a few suspicious stains on the floor that make you wonder if this hotel has ever been featured in a porno, true crime show, or both.

But it’s all you could afford with the cash in your wallet. You only had enough cash on hand for 2 nights at a ragtag hotel that offers nightly and hourly rates. You didn’t dare use your debit card or any credit cards with Ransom’s name or information on them.

You just need some sleep. A good night’s sleep to feel renewed and ready to tackle retaking your life, bit by bit. In the morning, you need to go to the bank and withdraw your money from the joint bank account. Then you can reopen an account in your name, get a new debit card, and apply for a few credit cards afterwards.

Sure, it would have been nicer to do this without Ransom being an asshole. But deep down, you suspected he wouldn’t let you have a clean, lets-still-be-friends type of break. Not after all the times he’d pressured you into staying, manipulating you with words and gifts and promises, promises. Promises that were worth shit. 

The sheet crinkles underneath you as you scroll through your messages. You’d texted a few formerly close friends about the breakup earlier, hoping that they’d maybe want to reconnect. So far, you’d been left on read, blocked, and received only one response: “New number, who is this?”

So much for that. Not that you can blame them. There are only so many times they can rush over for a late night intervention in which you tell them every horrible thing Ransom does (he’s controlling, he doesn’t want me to meet with friends without permission, he tells me what I can and can’t wear, he cheats, he lies, he pushed me--)--before they get tired of you returning to him, again and again and again.

The only one who’d been texting you recently--okay, for the past year--had been Ransom. Mostly dick pics. And demands for you to send him something back, which you always did after a while, because you didn’t want to deal annoyed texts or voice messages accusing you of clearly cheating on him or hating him because why else wouldn’t you be willing to send him so much as a sexy selfie to your boyfriend? 

But in between those, there were conversations. Sometimes sweet ones, sometimes thoughtful ones that always made you remember why you fell hard for him in the first place. Late night conversations from when he was off on trips. You try not to wonder if he was fucking someone on each of these trips, if while you were sending him a late night ramble about a TV show and he was humoring you with jokes and quips, he was actually snuggled up with someone else. Laying in bed, naked, laughing at your dumb ass waiting at home.

The not-so-sweet conversations were ones that you had screenshotted and sent to your friends more than once, before they pulled themselves away. Texts asking where you were. Asking who you ate lunch with, and whether or not you were fucking them. Asking why your new office was connected to a certain co-worker’s, and how many blowjobs you had to give to get said new office because you didn’t tell him about the new office until after you were moved in, so you were clearly hiding him. Asking you to send him outfit pics so he could approve them or make you change if they were too slutty or not slutty enough or if you were only clearly wearing that halter dress to try to get with the bartender.

Yet your mind had always returned to the nice Ransom, the Ransom who made you laugh and squeezed you hard when had a shitty day of work and let you bury your face in his sweater as you snuggled on the couch. Maybe that’s why it took so long to leave.  You were waiting for him to stop being Ransom and start being the fantasy of Ransom you’d conjured in your head.

Your eyes feel heavy so you plug in your phone, turn the sound off, and lay down on the uncomfortable plastic sheet that crinkled over the pillows. It feels strange to lay on a lumpy mattress covered in plastic, after years of custom-made beds and memory foam pillows and all the other luxuries that Ransom was able to provide.

You try not to think about it too much. While you won’t exactly be indulging in all the luxuries you had with Ransom, but your job pays you well, and you won’t ever have to go back to living hand-to-mouth like you did before. You won’t have to worry about late bills and debt collectors and landlords who come late at night and demand inspections while you’re in your pajamas.

You have work in the morning. You have to get to the bank in the morning. Your thoughts are still buzzing with anxiety as you fall into an uneasy slumber.

**

“I’m sorry, but the account has been closed.”

You feel years of customer service training cracking underneath your skin. You can’t freak out. If you freak out, they won’t feel inclined to go the extra mile. You know this, from firsthand experience.

So you take a shaky breath. “Um, this just--it isn’t possible. It’s a joint account. I’m on the account. There was money in there, you can check--”

“I’m sorry, but the funds were transferred and account has been closed by the other account holder. There’s nothing I can do. I suggest contacting the other party in the account.”

You swallow and nod and walk away, this time having been smart enough to keep your sunglasses on to hide your humiliated expression. Why didn’t you insist on having your own account? Ransom said it was better to keep it joint, so you could just buy stuff whenever you wanted. You’d agreed because it was so generous, something you’d never thought possible at the time, when you were used to having to pay overdraft fees and cringing whenever you checked your balance.

Your fingers tremble as you bring up his contact on your phone. You tap. No answer.

You don’t have time to call him two, three, ten times--you have to get to work. So you steady your nerves. You breathe in, you breathe out. You get in your car and plug your phone in and decide to contact your lawyer. Fuck--your lawyer was Ransom's lawyer. But the anxiety eases when you remember that you’d paid him a retainer fee months ago, and Ransom couldn’t do anything about that. You could at least get a basic consult out of the retainer.

The call ringing sounds muffled through your car’s speaker but it isn’t long before someone answers, and you’re transferred to the lawyer Ransom insisted you have--gotta have a lawyer when you have money, babe--and that you hadn’t spoken to in ages.

“Hi,” you say, voice artificially bright, “this is--”

You don’t get a chance to finish.

“I know who this is.” The lawyer sounds tired, and his tone is curt and clipped. “I’m sorry. I’m no longer able to provide you with any legal counsel.”

You almost miss a red light and regret calling the office while you were driving.

“Is this about the debit card? Because I paid the retainer months ago--”

“The retainer has been refunded into the connected checking account.”

Your voice looses its artificial cheeriness and you stumble over your words in frustration. “That’s--it’s--it was a joint account, which is why I called, Ransom drained it and took everything. Isn’t there something we can do, because that was my money too and--”

“I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel.”

You want to cry. You hate crying, as an adult. It makes you feel weak. Especially on the phone.

“I don’t understand. Why was the retainer refunded? Did--did someone call you?”

He clears his throat into the phone. “I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel. Goodbye.”

He hangs up. Your hands shake.

You pull into the parking lot of your work and park the car and as soon as you do, you hunch yourself over the steering wheel and simply shake in frustration.

You have no bank account. Ransom drained it. You have no credit cards. Ransom blocked them. You couldn’t even talk to a lawyer, because--shock--Ransom made sure you couldn’t. Everything was in Ransom’s name. He insisted on adding you to his accounts, closing out your own paltry ones; insisted that he pay off your credit card debt, and making you close those, too, instead adding you to his cards. It was all to help you out, he said, at the time.

Wasn’t it? He was shockingly not judgmental about the state of your finances, and while you’d put up some protest, you didn’t exactly argue with him when he suggested wiping your debts clean and getting your credit back up. And considering that he wasn’t immune to needing a bail-out now and then (late night calls to his grandfather, snarky comments at his parent’s dinner table, come to mind) maybe he could sympathize with being in over your head. Even if your issues were rooted in poverty and shitty jobs and his were rooted in a total lack of financial discipline and, as you’d later found out, a drug addiction.

Still. He helped you before. He would help you now, once he realized how serious it was. For now he was just--reacting like an asshole, acting childish and ridiculous. He was an asshole. You know this. You’ve known this. You need to call him and meet with him and make him realize how ridiculous he’s being, and he’ll sigh and snark but he’ll agree to stop acting like such an ass.

But first you have to work. Life goes on. Even without Ransom--even with Ransom, screwing you over out of pettiness.

The air conditioning in the lobby is on blast, and the familiar smell of clean furniture and floor cleaner from the late-night cleaning crew is surprisingly comforting. Here, you can forget about Ransom--forget about the cards and the lawyer and the fact that your life has been upended in mere hours. If only until your lunch break, at least.

Anthony is working the front desk and you give him a a soft, if strained smile. There’s something in the smile that he gives you in return that reminds you of the hotel clerk. Sympathetic and judgmental.

Ah. You probably look like--well, less than your best, you realize. You did pack some toiletries in your suitcase but the water in the motel had streaks of brown and you didn’t shower, opting instead to rinse your face with what was left of a water bottle you’d bought earlier and layering on more deodorant to make up for the lack of a proper scrub. You probably looked a bit tired, haggard, not unlike some of the employees who got stuck with big clients the night before their paperwork was due.

Still. Nothing that freshening up in your private bathroom--thank god for the new office--can’t help. So you hit the button on the elevator and take deep breaths as you ride up, intent on working as productively as possible. The doors open and you navigate the familiar maze of open-plan desks for the lower-tier workers, desks surrounded by half-walls that always kept you staring straight ahead, lest you accidentally glance over and see a co-worker picking their nose.

Yet as you weave in-and-out of the familiar rows, heading towards the back of the room where the real offices, the ones with full walls and doors and privacy glass lay, you can’t help but feel that something is… off. 

No one calls out to greet you, though that can be easily attributed to the jealousy over your promotion. You’d been working there for far less than most of the lower level workers--Ransom got you the job, with his connections and a hefty revision of your resume and, you assume, some personal phone calls--and you’d already been promoted to senior management. That wasn’t technically Ransom’s work, though. That was all your own effort, your own blood, sweat, tears and intense devotion to each project that came your way. Sure, the connections he helped you make, the dinner parties, all that helped--but if it weren’t for your skills, the connections wouldn’t have made a difference. Right? 

Still, whatever bitterness existed in the people hunch in open-air cubicles, the receptionists always greeted you. But today they caught your eye then awkwardly glanced down, or pretended to be looking for something in their drawers. It was odd. Did you look that bad? That out of sorts?

You shake off the heavy feeling in your stomach and for once, you shut the door to your office instead of keeping it open for passers-by or people needing approval for this-and-that. It feels good to lean against the solid wood door and take a breath, a deep one, invigorating and calming.

A quick trip to the bathroom has you staring at yourself from all angles. You don’t look that bad, you reason. Just tired. But who wouldn’t be, sleeping on a plastic sheet in the shittiest motel in the area? You take a quick sniff under your arms but even that reveals nothing much but a faint hint of sweat and powdery deodorant.

There’s a firm knock at your office door and you glance at the mirror for a final once over before opening it up. It’s your boss. Did you have a meeting? You try to do a mental scan of something you’ve missed, but nothing comes to mind.

“Hi,” you say, wavering with uncertainty at the threshold. Should you invite him in? “What can I do for you? We didn’t have a meeting, did we?” You let yourself chuckle, dry and quick. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit scattered this morning.”

Your boss doesn’t return your chuckle, which immediately raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Something was wrong. Shit--you were working on a major project for a seriously important client. The type of client that could genuinely make or break a company, if you got on their bad side. You press your lips together and make a silent vow to keep it serious.

“I’d like to keep this conversation private.” His tone is low and serious and you invite him in without a second thought, shutting the thick door behind you, trying to ignore the way everyone was shooting glances as it closed. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your thoughts race--no wonder everyone was giving you the stink eye. Something was wrong with the client, and you were the one making primary contact with them.

Your boss takes a seat on the leather sofa pushed up against the wall and you immediately set yourself down behind your desk.

He sighs. Short. Frustrated. Annoyed.

“We have to let you go.”

The words don’t register.

“Go where?”

It’s only after you say it that you realize what he said, what it meant, and you feel like a colossal moron in every respect.

“It’s not working out,” he continues, staring at your desk and not at your face. “Since you’ve only been in this position for a month, you don’t quality for senior severance. The best we can do is to pay you what you’ve earned this week.”

Your mouth is so dry that you don’t know if you can talk. Your hand fumbles on your desk for a water bottle you’d left overnight, and that’s when you see it--the photo frame. You keep a photo of yourself and Ransom, cuddled together for a selfie, on your desk. The photo was lying on your desk, frameless, ripped in half--leaving only your vacantly smiling face staring up at you.

Ransom was here.

“Did he put you up to this?” You whisper. “Did Ransom tell you to fire me?”

You know he won’t answer. But you stare at him so fervently that he can’t help but look up at you, and you see it all in his eyes, in the subtle, embarrassed expression of his face.

You can imagine Ransom strolling in--maybe he called first--and settling in for a private audience with your boss in his office. He’d probably pull the chair up to the desk and put his feet on it, just to be an ass. Then he’d bring up… you. And why you had to be let go. Did he give a reason, did he tell your boss why a respected employee who he once secured a position for, who shot up the ranks through intense effort and work, needed to be fired? Did he even need to give a reason?

“This is absolute bullshit,” you say, finally, voice dry and hoarse and bitter. You want to say you’ll be contacting a lawyer. That this won’t stand. But you know--and he knows--that there’s nothing you can do.

Your boss stands, slow, and sighs again. “I’m sorry it had to end this way. Pack up your things as quickly as possible.”

He leaves, and you keep your eyes trained on the ripped photograph to avoid seeing the expressions of the people in the doorway before your boss mercifully shuts the door.

It takes all of your effort not to cry.

You don’t have much effort left.

**

Your things consisted of a handful of personal items, little touches you’d brought in to make your office feel more like “you.” A nice picture print. A pastel afghan to drape over the couch. A stapler with a floral design. You have the strong urge to dump them in a trash can, but that’s quickly quelled by the realization that you can’t afford to buy new things, or any things, at this point.

You don’t care if wearing your sunglasses as you power walk to the elevators makes you look stupid. You know someone, somewhere in this office is filming you and probably captioning it with something stupid to post to their Reels or TikTok, and it just makes you leave faster. A few people murmur comments your way, sympathetic in tone, but you’re not really listening. None of their platitudes matter, because Ransom was here, in your workplace, in your office, and he stole the thing you were most proud of from under your feet.

To his credit, when you reach the bottom floor, Anthony practically fumbles out from behind his desk and holds the door open for you. He mouths a “Sorry” and he probably is, but he’s probably used to dealing with rich assholes like Ransom who get what they want, when they want it; even when what they want is to fire a good employee on demand for very personal reasons.

The sun is beating down hard, even for the morning, and the stress of your situation makes you blast the air conditioning as soon as you get in the car. God, the car--how are you going to afford the payments? You wish you could call your mom. You wish your friends--are they even your friends, anymore?--would call you back.

You grab your phone from your purse and stare at the black screen. Maybe you should call the friend who didn’t block you. She would answer, if you called, because she knew you didn’t make calls unless it was serious. She might not rush to your side, but maybe she can offer you a place to stay, a couch, some advice. A kind word would do, right now, with how much anxiety and frustration has been packed into the last 12 hours.

But when you unlock your screen, your gut sinks. Five missed calls. From the storage company. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You tap their number and bring the phone to your ear and pretend that your hands aren’t shaking.

The man who answers is the same one you talked to on the phone before, when setting up your move. “Hello, Move’nSecure Storage Company. This is Steve speaking. How many I help you?”

“Hi Steve!” You hate how chipper you sound. “I actually just got a few missed calls from you guys, I’m sorry, I was in the office and--”

“Oh.” His voice is surprisingly flat, suddenly flat, losing its customer service inflection in an instant before picking it back up. “Yes. We’ve been trying to reach you. For confirmation, the storage locker your purchased is A443, correct?”

You fumble in your purse for the receipt and confirm the little numbers printed neatly on the paper. “Yes, A443. Is everything okay?”

“No, it’s not.” You’re grateful that you didn’t have much for breakfast because you know it would be clawing its way back up at this point. “The card you gave us for the storage fee was declined.”

The debit card. You’d paid in cash for the move, and paid for 1 month of storage with the card. The card that was now useless, connected to an empty and closed bank account.

“Is there another card you can give us?”

“No, but...” You say, because no, there is not. There is not a card. There is not a job. There is nothing. “But if you could just hold my stuff, I’ll be there in less than a hour to get it.”

“We don’t hold items,” Steve tells you, a rehearsed banality to his tone. “Your items are currently outside the unit.”

You instinctively want to yell at Steve but, fuck fuck fuck, you’ve been there, behind the counter, dealing with people who couldn’t pay for shit and then had the nerve to get upset with you. “All of it?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly.

“Yes.”

You hang up, and toss your phone onto the passenger seat. The quicker you get there, the less chance that something will get broken or stolen or who knows what else.

The trip to the storage unit seems to take forever, and when you arrive you don’t even take a second to lock your car doors. Instead you sprint inside, startling Steve--looking at his phone, then at you, then at the sign plastered up on the wall leading to the storage locker floors. He points. Row A, separated into 100s, 200s, 300s, and--your number--400s.

You don’t remember if you say ‘thank you,’ because you’re speed-walking down the hallway and following the signs and it isn’t long before you see it: a storage locker with tons of stuff piled up, dumped, outside the now-empty unit where it was supposed to be safe and sound. Waiting for you to get an apartment and pick it back up and rearrange it into your new life, your new “you.”

The problem is immediate: You can’t fit all this in your car. You don’t know anyone who could take the stuff for you. You mind reels for options and the only thing you can come up with is ferrying your belongings to and from the hotel. You can pay for a few more days once you cash your partial paycheck. After that… you don’t know.

Pawn your things? Yeah. That might work. You can get enough cash by pawning most of your stuff, the good stuff. Enough money to get you into a shitty apartment with leaks and a bad landlord. Then you can a job that barely pays rent and you’ll be right back where you started, before you met Ransom. Before you thought leaking ceilings and $20 paychecks after taxes were a thing of the past.

You ignore the humiliation that makes your stomach curl as you take your things out to the car, handful by handful. Steve doesn’t bother holding the door open for you. You mention that you’re going to be back on your way out, and he offers a non-committal hum.

At least when you get to the hotel, the owner sees you fumbling with boxes and offers to help you out. It takes less time with two hands to get everything in the room, and once it’s locked up you head back out to the storage units.

You keep your sunglasses on for the second trip into the storage unit, even though you don’t know Steve or care what he thinks. He doesn’t look up when you walk in and it’s just as well, since you’re only heading back to the A-400s and don’t need his non-existent help.

But the sight that greets you when you round the corner to your unpaid-for storage locker makes your blood run cold.

Your stuff is gone. All of it.

You rush back to the desk, where Steve does look up, startled by your urgency.

“My stuff,” you spit out, “My stuff is gone! Someone took it!”

Steve shrugs. “Sorry.” He points to a sign behind him: “We are not responsible for the loss of items inside or outside storage lockers.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” You can’t the anger in your voice this time. “You just watched someone walk off with my stuff and didn’t say anything?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “If it was that important, you shouldn’t have left it here. Or you should have given us another card.”

You feel like throwing your hands up but you just clench your fist and storm out the door, huffing as you reach your car. The anger melts into the sense of loss, the realization that you only have a few meager items that you’d managed to collect; you picked the lightest stuff, first. And in retrospect it was things that didn’t matter much at all. Clothes. Hair supplies. Makeup. You should have grabbed the box with your USB sticks, your memory cards, your photo albums; your personal mementos and sentimental shit. Instead you grabbed the box with your shampoo.

At least the clothes might get something in a pawnshop. The makeup, too, on Facebook or Depop or Instagram. But it wouldn’t be enough to put you up in an apartment. You’ll have to live in your car. Until they repossess it for lack of payment.

You don’t have your bank account, your credit cards, your job, a place to stay, or your personal possessions. And soon, you won’t have your car.

You have no friends. No boyfriend. No family.

All you have $20 left in your wallet and well, fuck it. You grab some McDonalds on the way home because, fuck it, and eat all the fries before you make it to the motel. The thought of eating in your dirty room makes your stomach turn and you decide to eat everything else you bought, the burger and the shake and the chicken nuggets too, tossing the wrappers on the floor. It feels like deja vu--getting cheap fast food to make you feel full, tossing trash on the floor of the passenger seat, all bringing back the way you used to when you’d grab something from the dollar menu on your way to work at the call center.

You almost wish you could stay at this hotel, brown water and all. The owner is decently nice. He smiles at you when you enter and doesn’t bring up that you didn’t come back with more boxes, like you said you would.  

You’re surprised at how grateful you feel for the dingy hotel room now that you won’t be able to stay here more than another day. Now that the alternative is sleeping in your car, then sleeping on the street, if you were lucky.

Your phone feels heavy when you set it on the table and stare at the home screen. Another photo of you and Ransom stares back up at you. You haven’t had time to change it up yet. He’s grinning. You’re smiling. It’s a good photo. You try to place it in your memory, try to remember what beach that was, but your trips blur together and you can’t.

Should you call him? If it was just the cards, just him being petty over credit and finances, it was one thing. You could try to placate him with returning gifts, just asking him to give you what you put in from your own paychecks. But making you lose your job? It was too far, too fucking far. And there was no going back from that. Fuck, someone was probably moving into your office as you sat in this dimly lit room mourning the loss of your entire life.

For a brief, very fleeting moment, you consider calling Harlan. You weren’t exceptionally close, but he seemed to like you well enough. He’d even asked you once, puling you aside at a tension-filled family party, if Ransom treated you right, told you to tell him if he ever got to be too much. Harlan felt like Ransom’s keeper--in more ways than one. You could never tell Harlan about the shouts or the occasional bruises from when Ransom really, really lost his temper--it’s not like you could prove them, anyway, as Ransom made sure to keep you away from his family when he lost control like that. No need for excuses about running into doors when he made sure you looked your best at family functions.

But the thought of breaking the uneasy stasis that Ransom had with the most significant member of his family made you want to vomit. There would be no coming back from that, and you knew better than to cross any line involving the great Harlan Thrombey.

You could call your friend--ex-friend? The one who didn’t block you or forget your number. You should. No, you will. Because what else do you have to lose.

But before you can bring up her number, you get a text--Ransom. It’s a photo and your curiosity gets the better of you as you click the notification.

“What the fuck?”

He’s sent you a photo of his car, trunk open. It’s filled with boxes, odds-and-ends. It’s filled with your stuff.

You text him: What??

He texts back: Hey. I’m in front of the hotel. Come out? Bring your suitcase. :P

It’s your stuff. It’s his car. He’s here. All reason is thrown aside as you grab your suitcase and purse and rush down the hallway, ignoring the owner’s confused response from behind his desk as you push open the front doors and look around the parking lot.

His car is parked to the side, not in front of the hotel’s glass double doors. He’s standing outside his car, leaning against it. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them in his pocket when he sees you approaching, face confused and fuming all at once.

“What the fuck, Ransom, what the fuck is your problem--”

“Hey, hey,” he says, hands up in defense, “You’re not even going to thank me for picking up your stuff?”

You feel suddenly, impossibly rooted to the spot.

“What do you--what? You took my stuff?”

He shrugs. “C’mon, did you really think I’d just leave your stuff in some shitty storage unit? Someone would’ve taken it if I didn’t get there first.”

You swallow. “Why?” You ask, because Ransom never does anything for no reason. Or so you’ve learned.

His expression loses a bit of its cocky casualness. He tilts his head a bit, looking at you as if you’ve asked a particularly offensive question.

“Why do you think?”

To lord it over you? To make you think your stuff was gone and make you worried, sick, crazy?

“I don’t know,” is what you settle for in the end. “I really, really don’t. You--” You lick your lips, and try to calm down, calm the pitter-patter of your heart, and think before you speak. “You’ve done some pretty messed up stuff today. My job?” The last question comes out soft and pained, and you know your eyes are starting to tear up.

“Hey.” His voice is soft and placating and it makes your stomach flip as he approaches you, standing there on the sidewalk with your purse and suitcase. “Hey, c’mon. Don’t cry on me.”

You know this Ransom. The Ransom that holds you and pets your hair and offers to get Thai food delivered even though he doesn’t like it just to make you happy.

He puts his hand on your shoulder and you jerk it away. “Don’t.” That Ransom is a fantasy. Or an incomplete version, the version that pretends he doesn’t lie and cheat and hurt you in more ways than one. “Don’t you fucking dare, especially not after what you pulled today. My job? My job, Ransom? You’re a--a fucking asshole.”

He puts his hands up again, defensive, and takes a step back. But he doesn’t return to his car, and stays just a few steps in front of you.

“Look. Call me an asshole. Sure, fine, I can admit that. But do you know what else I am?”

He waits a beat, waits for you to look at him, before he continues. “I’m a realist. I like facts. And the fact is? You aren’t much without me. No job, no credit cards, no bank account. Without me, you’re just some broke chick scrambling to get an apartment in the shittiest part of town, working a dead-end job that don’t pay shit. With me though…. “

He leaves the words unfinished, but you know what he means. Flashes of your life, cocktails and smart business outfits and dinners at restaurants you didn’t even dream about attending before you met him. Phone calls with shakers in the industry and social media requests from people you’d never dream you’d meet. Connections that meant something, a career path, dinner parties with people who could offer tangible benefits to your career and your life.

It wasn’t that he spoiled you. He wasn’t a sugar daddy. You weren’t getting gifts for blowjobs. It was that his presence in your life boosted you, socially, financially, mentally, physically, in every which way possible.

His presence got you a job that you loved, which meant you weren’t burnt out when you came home, which meant that you had the time and energy to spend hours catching up on books or redecorating the house or watching movies. Good money meant you could order in whenever you felt like it, meant you didn’t have to worry if you burned dinner because you could just buy new steaks or order-in or go out, last minute, and still get a great table. It meant you had all the clothes you wanted, stylish and personally tailored; it meant you had easy access to a gym and exercise equipment and an indoor pool to keep you healthy. It meant you had a life that provided comfort in every way possible.

Being with Ransom Drysdale was like… like a little shot of privilege directly into your arm.

Privilege that he took away just as easily as he gave it. Just as easily as you took it. Just as easily as you took it and eagerly ignored the dark side underneath. Or maybe you didn’t ignore it. Maybe you liked it, maybe it reminded you of who you were underneath the designer clothes and expensive dinners.

Maybe you wanted to fix him, like he fixed you? He wasn’t totally bad, after all, he did make sure no one took your belongings. Maybe it was your presence that gave him the idea for that touch of sympathy, maybe with Ransom change was slow and muddled, not picture-perfect sweeping changes like the kind in movies.

“So?” Ransom’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Are you going to come home or,” he waves his hands around dismissively, at the hotel, at you.

You feel very, very less-than right now. You look awful, your hair mussy and your makeup mostly melted off with sweat and sun. You probably smell more than you normally do, thanks to the lack of a shower. Your muscles, sore from the motel bed, ache for the large spa bathtub that Ransom had installed in the master bathroom just for you, stocked with bubbles and salts and overpriced bath bombs that were $10 a pop.

But your muscles had hurt before, when he pushed you against the dresser.

You have nothing, and no one. Except Ransom. Ransom who didn’t judge you when you instinctively saved plastic bottles and boxes, but merely nudged you towards recycling and took you out to splurge on a reusable water bottle and proper storage containers the next day. Ransom who asked you what sort of job you wanted, really wanted, and made it happen for you. Ransom who shrugged and wiped away your credit card debt without making you feel like shit.

Ransom who didn’t let you leave the house if your wrists were sporting fingerprint shaped bruises. Ransom who argued with you about talking to men, even men at work. Ransom who held you tight at night and said he never wanted to let you go, and wouldn’t you just make a fine-ass addition his crazy family. Ransom who took care of you, now that you had no one else.

“What do you want me to do?” The words feel slow, sluggish. Like they wanted to stick to the roof of your mouth and it took everything in you to get them out.

His voice turns low and serious as he stares at you with an characteristic expression. “Well, the first thing is to get down on your knees…”

You feel your eyes practically bugging out.

“What the fuck, Ransom?”

He laughs. He always did have a nice laugh.

“I’m just messing with you, Jesus. Take a chi-I-il pill. Just grab your purse and come sit your sweet ass in the front seat. Let’s go get some burgers, I’m starving.”

Your legs feel like jelly when you take that first step, and the sound of your roller suitcase as you pull it along seems louder than ever. Ransom pops the truck and you just manage to fit it inside with the handle closed, jamming it in between some boxes at an odd angle. The handle of the passenger side is familiar, warm from the sun.

You open the door and practically shove yourself into the seat, closing the door as fast as possible. You can’t do more than glance at him as humiliation and anxiety and just the smallest bit of relief washes over you. It’s been less than 24 hours since you broke up, and here you are--again.

He’s staring at you quietly, his expression difficult to place. He looks relieved. He looks annoyed. He looks like he wants to kiss you. He looks like he wants to slap you. Maybe he wants to do it all at once and can’t decide which to pick.

Instead, he puts his hand on your thigh. Gives it a squeeze. Hard, bordering on painful.  He’s staring straight ahead, at the worn-out sign on the hotel’s front door, one hand gripping the flesh of your thigh. He looks good in profile. “Don’t ever try to pull something like that again. I mean it. I really mean it.”

You turn, glance out the window, familiar tears at the edge of your eyes.

“I won’t,” you whisper, dreaming of the tub and bubbles and how good a warm soak will feel on your back, on your thighs, on your soul.

“Good girl,” he says, patting your thigh firmly. He plucks his sunglasses out of pocket and puts them on in a smooth motion. The car starts smoothly, its fine-tuned and expensive engine a familiar sound, and your hands feel robotic as you pull the seatbelt over your chest and click it tight.

“Let’s get dinner and get home. You have some unpacking to do.”

[kimistorm]

Did you just ask me out on live stream? [Yang Jeongin]

Fandom: Stray Kids

Pairing: [Jeongin x GN! Reader]

Warnings: none!

Requested by: @stupendousfriendcalzonehands Thanks for the request! Let me know what you think~

Prompts: "After how many ½ inches does it become a date?” “Did you say you knew how to do this?”

It started as a bet. You and Jeongin couldn’t keep up a weekly podcast for more than 2 months. The way Han phrased it, you could just do it on YouTube and in your dorms, but no, you were fueled by spite and somehow convinced your professor to allow you, Jeongin, and Hyunjin to live stream from the university’s audio studio.

Two months later and you had a small following, so you just continued. Much to Han’s shock.

“On to the final part of the show,” you spoke into your microphone as you scrolled through the outline, “answering your questions!” you let out a snort, “I don’t know why you guys keep asking us for advice. The other day Jeongin tried to joust Seungmin with an icicle.”

“And I won!” your partner declared gleefully with a wide grin.

“Mmm, debatable,” you teased, much to Jeongin’s chagrin, effectively wiping his face of the smile. “He only claims he won because Seungmin’s icicle broke first.”

“Yeah! That’s how it works!”

“But he hit you with it before you broke it!”

Jeongin threw his arms up in frustration, “this isn’t fencing!” From beyond the glass, you saw Hyunjin shaking his head in tired resignation as the two of you deviated from the script yet again and couldn’t help but giggle. “Deal with it Hyunjin,” Jeongin whispered into the mic when he saw what you were giggling at, causing your laughs to escalate. Hyunjin glared at the two of you and Jeongin put his hands up in surrender, “okay okay, actually onto the questions now. Which were chosen by our dear Hyunjin," he mocked with faux sincerity before an evil grin grew on his face, "so if this becomes boring blame him.”

Hyunjin looked like he was going to enter the recording booth and whack the two of you over the head with the rolled-up outline in his hand as his mouth was open in a muffled yell.

“Before Hyunjin takes us off the air, let’s answer some of your questions!” for the third time you tried to continue with what you were supposed to be doing. “This one’s from John. Hey (y/n) and Jeongin! There’s someone who I really like and I want to ask them out on a date. We’ve been getting dinner together, but I don’t think either of us really classify it as a date. It’s mostly been under the pretense of ‘I’m starving, you’re here, let’s go.’ How can I make that leap into asking them on a date versus a friendly get-together? Thanks for the help!” there was a pause of silence as the two of you tried to think of a response, “no offense John, but you’re asking the wrong people. I’ve never been on a date,” you side-eyed Hyunjin for him letting this question pass, “and Jeongin-”

“I’ve been in the same position.”

“What?” you shrieked and the three of you winced as you heard your loud voice through your headphones.

“Warning for headphone users.” Your dark-haired friend mumbled under his breath and took off his headphones to rub at his ear.

“Hold up, when was this?” you looked at Jeongin in bewilderment. The two of you were best friends, and this was a new development for you. You had never heard of Jeongin crushing after someone. Granted, you had only known each other for about 3 years, since the two of you started university, but with the number of late-night ramblings and how often the two of you are together, it could’ve come up.

Jeongin merely shrugged. “I totally understand you, John, it’s difficult, but here’s what I did.” You nodded your head to allow Jeongin to continue, seeing as you had no way to help. “It’s hard to tell from your letter, but how close are the two of you? I got closer and closer to the person who I liked. It developed from ‘hey you’re in the same class as me,’ to something more. It became late-night shenanigans, staying up late talking about anything and everything, watching movies, and of course, doing homework together. Though, to be real, we suck at doing homework when we’re together.” He added with a laugh.

There was a pleasant smile on his face as he reminisced this person, he looked genuinely at peace, and it surprised you. Whoever this person was, they made a big impact on Jeongin’s life. It was strange that you never heard of this person, besides, Jeongin seemed to have had some closure with this person. Did it end badly? Is that why you never knew of this enigma? But he looked so happy? It kind of hurt. This person was so pivotal in his life and yet he hid it all from you. Maybe you weren’t as close as you thought. “Half inch by half inch, we became closer.” There was a definitive look on his face as he gave a nod, seemingly happy with his answer.

You, on the other hand, were a little more unconvinced. That couldn’t be the end of the story. Maybe you were a little more miffed because this was news to you, or maybe the reporter in you was finally coming out and wanting to know the conclusion. Either way, there was a bit of an edge to your voice as you asked, “okay, so after how many ½ inches does it become a date?” you turned the conversation back to John’s question, “John seems to already be friends, he just wants to take this person on a date.”

Jeongin let out a scoff and rolled his eyes at you, “it’s not linear.”

There was a pause and when it seemed like Jeongin wasn’t going to speak up again, you continued your dubious proddings, “did you say you knew how to do this?” there was an offended shout from Jeongin and he kicked you from under the table to elicit a startled yelp from you.

“I hope none of our listeners are using headphones.” Jeongin shook his head in empathy, “because my ears burn.”

“You’re the one who kicked me!”

Jeongin childishly stuck his tongue out at you, “things will work out John. I’m sure the more you get to know them the more things will fall into place.” He reassured, though you weren’t feeling reassured, and you figured John probably wasn’t either.

“Did you ever ask your person out on a date?” you asked, still wanting to get closure for your story, seeing as Jeongin wasn’t keen on providing it.

His face reddened and you resisted the urge to crow teasingly at him, “not yet.” He mumbled into the mic, but it was loud enough for you to hear with your headphones.

You leaned back in your chair to get away from the mic and let out a screech, “you don’t know what you’re talking about either!”

“You were just going to write off John’s letter! I couldn’t let you do that.” He protested with his face still red and his gaze averted.

“Ask them out John!” you took matters into your hands seeing as Jeongin was clumsier with love than you were. Hyunjin sure picked the wrong question this time. “There’s no time like the present. Don’t twist one of your normal dinners into a date, specifically plan it. Ask them if they want to go on a date at some other time than what the two of you normally do. The worst that could happen is they say no.”

“That’s mortifying! I could never do that!” the aghast look on Jeongin’s face did little to make you feel guilty.

“That’s why you never asked out your person on a date.” The hurt look that fell on his face did though. “Oh no, I’m sorry.” The chaotic atmosphere that filled the recording booth stilled and you went over to hug your friend, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“No, you’re right.” He continued in a quiet voice, “I guess I got too scared to do anything, so I decided things were perfectly all right the way they were, even if I wish it was different.”

You smoothed his hair down absentmindedly from your awkward standing position and his sitting position, “relationships are scary. I think you, and John, are valid to be scared.”

“But you’re also right, there’s no time like the present.”

You let out a quiet laugh, “and in the end, neither of us was able to help John.”

“Maybe this will,” you pulled away from Jeongin in confusion so you could look at his face. There was a nervous look settled on his face and he refused to look anywhere close to you, “do you want to go on a date later?”

Your jaw probably dropped comically as you looked at him in bewilderment, “wait-are you-did you-?” did he ask what you think he did? Did he just ask you out? On-air? Was that buzzing in your ear from your headphones? Was this a setup from Hyunjin? Was Jeongin John? Somehow, even as your mind was racing a hundred miles a minute, the terrified look on Jeongin’s face was able to clear through the mess and register in your mind. You took a deep breath to stop your word vomit, “yeah.” You smiled, “let’s go on a date. Maybe a dinner date?”

The terrified look immediately washed away and was replaced with a relieved look, “that sounds great.”

Hyunjin’s yelling was so loud that the two of you could faintly hear him screaming, “finally!”

Masterlist

Context bonus: "After how many ½ inches does it become a date?” One of my female friends was trying to describe to one of my male friends dating, but none of us know how to date.