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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months ago

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Ideas Lying Around

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in DC TOMORROW (Mar 4), and in RICHMOND on WEDNESDAY (Mar 5). More tour dates here. Mail-order signed copies from LA's Diesel Books.

I get a special pleasure from citing Milton Friedman. I like to imagine that as I do, he groans around the red-hot spit protruding from his jaws, prompting howls of laughter from the demons who pelt him with molten faeces for all eternity.

If you're lucky enough not to know about Friedman, here's the short version. Friedman was a kind of court sorcerer to Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, Augusto Pinochet, and other assorted authoritarian, hard-right leaders who set us on the path to the hellscape we inhabit today. But before Friedman rose to prominence and influence, he was a crank. Specifically, he was a crank who dedicated his life to rolling back all the progress of the New Deal and re-establishing the Gilded Age:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/06/the-end-of-the-road-to-serfdom/

In his crank days, people were justifiably skeptical of this project. "Milton," they'd say, "people like New Deal programs. They like the minimum wage, the 40-hour work-week, and the assurance that they won't be maimed, poisoned, burned alive, or otherwise killed on the job. They relish a dignified retirement, quality education for their children, and the assurance that no one is starving to death in their country's borders. People like national parks! They like Medicare! They like libraries, museums, and reliable weather forecasts! How, Milton, do you propose to convince the vast majority of people that they should settle for being forelock-tugging plebs, groveling before their social betters for the chance to scrub their toilets?"

Friedman had an answer: "In times of crisis, ideas can move from the fringe to the center in an eyeblink. Our job is to keep good ideas lying around, in anticipation of that crisis."

When the oil crisis hit, when prices spiked in the USA and abroad, Friedman seized his opportunity. The years following the oil crisis saw a violent political revolution in which organized labor, social justice movements, and the political opposition to oligarchy were crushed under police batons and the guns of Pinochet's thugs. The world was transformed. Left parties like UK Labour were remade as austerity-pilled neoliberals (not for nothing did Margaret Thatcher call Tony Blair "her greatest accomplishment," and it took Bill Clinton to pass a welfare "reform" bill that was too extreme even for Reagan to get through Congress).

Friedman was a monster.

But.

He had a hell of a theory of change.

When prices spiral, when people can't pay their bills anymore, when their retirement savings are wiped out, anything is possible. The oil crisis wasn't Jimmy Carter's fault, but the voters still delivered a Ba'ath Party-style Republican majority in 1980. The covid shocks weren't the fault of the world governments that presided over pandemic inflation, but they were creamed in the ensuing elections.

Let's talk about Trump's tariffs here. Trump's goal is to force a re-shoring of the American industrial capacity that was shipped to low-wage, low-regulation corporate havens around the world after the Reagan revolution. The pandemic provided a vivid lesson about the problems with long, brittle supply chains where all the slack has been extracted and converted to dividends and stock buybacks. That kind of system may work well – at least to the extent that it keeps Walmart's shelves full of cheap goods – but holy shit did it ever fail badly. Re-shoring is a good idea, as are other forms of pro-resiliency industrial policy.

But re-shoring doesn't happen overnight. As we saw during China's covid lockdowns, when one supplier ceases to ship goods, other suppliers can't spring up overnight to take up the slack. China itself became a manufacturing powerhouse thanks to extensive state support and planning, and it took decades. That kind of patient, long-run, planned process is the best-case scenario (and it still caused wrenching dislocations to Chinese society). Simply throwing up tariff walls and demanding that industry figure it out – amid the resulting economic chaos and the political instability it brings – isn't a plan, it's a disaster.

Redistributing the means of production around the world is a necessary and urgent project, but it won't be advanced through Trump's rapid, unscheduled mid-air disassembly of the global system of trade. Tariffs will cause breakdowns in neoliberalism's fragile supply chains, and the ensuing chaos – mass unemployment, shortages, political rage – will make it even harder for countries (including the USA) to rebuild the productive capacity vaporized by 40 years of neoliberalism.

This is our oil crisis, in other worlds: a moment in which a belligerent superpower's ill-considered monkeying with the underpinnings of global production will cause chaos, the crisis in which "ideas can move from the periphery to the center" in an eyeblink. If Steve Bannon can call himself a Leninist, then leftists can call themselves Friedmanites. This is our opportunity.

Or rather, it's our opportunity to seize – or lose. Governments are defaulting to retaliatory tariffs as the best response to Trump's tariffs. This is political poison: making everything your country imports from the USA more expensive is a very weird way to punish America for its trade war. Remember the glaring lesson of pandemic inflation: a government that presides over rising prices will be destroyed by the electorate.

There's a much better alternative, one that strikes at the very roots of American oligarchy, whose extreme wealth and corrosive political influence comes from its holdings in rent-extracting monopolies, especially Big Tech monopolies.

Tech giants are the major factor in US economic health. Take Big Tech stocks out of the S&P 500 and you've got a stagnant market punctuated by periods of decline. Superficially, US tech companies have different sources of extraordinary profit, but a closer look reveals that they all share the same foundation: Big Tech makes the bulk of its money in the form of monopoly rents, backstopped by global IP treaties.

Apple and Google take a 30% cut of every dollar spent in an app, and it's a felony to jailbreak a phone to make a new app store with the industry standard 1-3% transaction fees. Google and Meta take 51% out of every ad dollar, and publishers and advertisers are locked into their ecosystems by abusive contracts and technological countermeasures. HP charges $10,000/gallon for the colored water you put in your printer, and third-party ink and refills violate the anti-circumvention laws the US has crammed down the throats of every country's legislature. Tesla makes its fattest margins by renting you features that are installed in your car at the factory, from autopilot to the ability to use your battery's whole charge, raking in monthly fees from you and anyone you sell your car to – and the reason your mechanic can't just permanently unlock all that DLC for $50 is the IP laws that your country agreed to enforce in order to trade with the USA. Mechanics pay $10k/year per manufacturer for the tools to interpret the error codes generated by your car, and the only reason no one is selling a $50/month universal diagnostic service is – once again – US-originated IP laws that came in a parcel with trade agreements that gave your country's exporters access to US markets. Farmers pay John Deere $200 every time they fix their own tractors, because the repairs won't work until a technician comes out and types an unlock code into the tractor's keyboard – and bypassing that unlock code is a crime under the laws passed to comply with international treaties.

These aren't profits – they're rents. It's money Big Tech gets from owning a factor of production, not money it gets from actually making something. The app maker takes all the risks, but Apple and Google cream off 30% of their gross income. Big Tech's profits are almost an afterthought when compared to its rents, the junk-fee platform fees and farcically expensive consumables. For tech firms, capitalism was a transitional phase between feudalism…and technofeudalism:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/28/cloudalists/#cloud-capital

America's robust GDP figures are a mirage, artificially buoyed up by the monopoly rents extracted by US Big Tech, who prey on Americans and foreigners:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/18/pikettys-productivity/#reaganomics-revenge

But foreigners don't have to tolerate this nonsense. Governments around the world signed up to protect giant American companies from small domestic competitors (from local app stores – for phones, games consoles, and IoT gadgets – to local printer cartridge remanufacturers) on the promise of tariff-free access to US markets. With Trump imposing tariffs will-ye or nill-ye on America's trading partners large and small, there is no reason to go on delivering rents to US Big Tech.

The first country or bloc (hi there, EU!) to do this will have a giant first-mover advantage, and could become a global export powerhouse, dominating the lucrative markets for tools that strike at the highest-margin lines of business of the most profitable companies in the history of the human race. Like Jeff Bezos told the publishers: "your margin is my opportunity":

https://www.marketplacepulse.com/articles/the-cost-of-your-margin-is-my-opportunity

In times of crisis, ideas can move from the periphery to the center in an eyeblink. Many of us have spent decades organizing and mobilizing against these extractive, dangerous, destabilizing abuses of technology, where the computer-powered devices we rely on for everything are designed to serve their manufacturers' shareholders, at our expense. And yet, these technologies have only proliferated, infecting everything from insulin pumps and ventilators to coffee makers and "smart" TVs.

It's time for a global race to the top – for countries to compete with one another to see who will capture US Big Tech's margins the fastest and most aggressively. Not only will this make things cheaper for everyone else in the world – it'll also make things cheaper for Americans, because once there is a global, profitable trade in software that jailbreaks your Big Tech devices and services, it will surely leak across the US border. Canada doesn't have to confine itself to selling reasonably priced pharmaceuticals to beleaguered Americans – it can also set up a brisk trade in the tools of technological self-determination and liberation from Big Tech bondage.

Taking the margins for Big Tech's most profitable enterprises to zero, globally, will strike at the very heart of American oligarchy, and the hundreds of millions tech giants flushed into the political system to put Trump into office again. A race to the top for technological liberation benefits everyone – including Americans.

Truly, it would be a rising tide that lifted all boats (except for oligarchs' superyachts - those, it will swamp and sink).

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/03/03/friedmanite/#oil-crisis-two-point-oh

#pluralistic #ideas lying around #milton friedman #global trade #trade #tariffs #oil crisis #theories of change #trumpism #anticircumvention #dmca 1201 #gatt #wto #isds #investor state dispute settlement

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whowrotethenote · 4 months ago

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𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲

A/N // This is a short story (not short at all lol) from the universe of Biggest Fan. It takes place right before Pt 3 All We Do. If you choose not to read this you’re not missing anything significant within the plot. Just more insight to the characters and their relationships.

Warnings // Minor smut // Consumption of alcohol // Profanity // Adultery // Age gap // Angst // Brief grief

Word count // 8k

Inspo // Company by Trey Songz

Disclaimer // Part Three // Biggest Fan Masterlist // Roman Reigns Masterlist // Join My Taglist // Main Masterlist

Tuesday, March 19, 2024

“Alright, bitches! At midnight our babygirl will officially be twenty-two,” Anthony announces from the front seat. Earning a round of hoots around the black Suburban. Heat rises to my cheekbones. A product of the two shots taken at the hotel, combined with the attention received since our plane landed last night. “First time in Miami. Let’s make it a memorable one. My mission this weekend is simple. Our girl is already paid. So, let’s work on getting her laid!”

“Anthony!” I tug at his wrist, watching the amusement on the face of our Uber, Byron, through the rearview. An older, but definitely not frail, Caribbean man—who if I have to guess is anywhere between sixty and seventy—and to my fascination is seemingly unfazed by the car full of obviously tipsy young tourists. He speeds through the vibrant and crowded streets of Miami, filled with palm trees and half naked pedestrians, without batting an eye.

“Girl, this is Miami. He’s witnessed and heard far worse in this car. Right Byron?” Anthony asks like he’s known Byron his whole life. The older man offers a hearty laugh following a nod. “See.”

At midnight I shed skin. Twenty-one has been without a doubt, a fucking rollercoaster ride. Twenty-two please be good to me.

Birthdays and I have a funny relationship. It was only two weeks before I turned fourteen, that they sat us down to divulge the worst news a daddy’s girl could hear.

“Daddy’s really sick…they’ve caught it early, but if he has any chance they have to act fast and aggressively.”

His own body was betraying him. Cancer cells growing like weeds. Almost too fast to contain and keep the garden pretty. And it wasn’t in his leg, his testicles, his kidneys, or his colon—or some other part where they could just cut it out. His fucking brain. He was literally at war with his own mind. A battle he won, but ended up losing much more in the end.

Nevertheless, the birthday party I spent hours planning with my mom—I ended up just canceling. It didn’t feel right celebrating life when the ghost of death had swept through our household like a plague. Nothing felt the same. My world went from bustling pastels to black and white.

And it stayed that way every year after. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen and then nineteen. He officially rang the bell that year. But I had already grown accustomed to the colorless motion picture of my own life.

Demi always went out of her way to make birthdays special for me. Freshman year, she set up a picnic for us and the fleeting crew of girls we came in with. With only fifty dollars to work with, she snagged a cake from Walmart, supplies and decorations from Family Dollar, and made the pit on the south of campus look like a tourist attraction.

Sophomore year, she convinced the older quarterback who had access to the Sports Center on campus, to let her hold the key to the pool for a night. It was supposed to be just a mere twenty people, two bottles of cheap vodka and wine coolers. Before midnight even struck and I officially turned twenty, the pool was packed wall to wall. There were empty bottles everywhere, and a fight even broke out between two girls—who discovered they were both fucking the quarterback who gave us the key in the first place. Heads still gone from all the alcohol, we laughed all night long until our stomachs went tender, about pulling the girls apart from damn near killing each other, when Demi was in fact fucking him too.

Last year, we kept it simple. Twenty-one meant no more fake ID. So, I proudly barged into our nearest liquor store to purchase the biggest bottle of Don Julio they had, with my very legit ID. Demi and I barely put a dent in the liter bottle before we went drunk bowling—mostly falling and barely earning spares—before we had to make a swift exit due to me throwing up in the arcade section.

This year I vow to put the fate of my birthday being special in my own hands. With everything that’s happened since my last one, I've developed a new attitude toward my colorless life. It's starting to feel warm again—the color gradually filling back in.

So, in the heat of the moment I booked myself, Demi, Anthony, his twin girl cousins— Indiya and Asia, and my biology lab partner—Aaliyah, tickets to Miami. Seventy-two hours. That’s how long we have to usher in another year of my life, get white-girl wasted, stand on couches in a club section, and potentially get laid as Anthony so scandalously declared.

Three shots each, taken at the grossly expensive W hotel, was definitely setting the tone for the rest of the trip. We exit the Uber—already tipsy and pumped up, singing “get it sexy,” the entire walk down the dock to meet Shiloh—our rented yacht’s captain. Rays from the son maximizing the color of our stringy bikinis and glistening skin. Designer slides scraping over the wood is music to my ears.

I spot the Azimut yacht with the words Dream Chaser emblemed on her side, just as Shiloh described on the phone earlier this morning. Leading the buzzing group, I start to reach in my purse for the money I promised to grant him upon our arrival, when he jumps down with a heavy thud—sweating with sunblock splattered on his nose.

“Sorry ladies! There’s been a change in schedule. A very high-profile regular has requested the boat. And since you all booked just this morning, I’m afraid I can’t hold it for you all.”

All excitement is vacuumed right out and a ripple of shock cascades through the group, as we all blurt out individual confusion.

“Wait, what?” My arms drop at my sides.

“To be fair there was no deposit sent.”

“Yeah, cause I told you I had cash. Remember our phone call?” I protest, but it’s meaningless against the persistent shake of his head. I purposely emptied out a cool five thousand dollars cash—courtesy of my Tribal Chief. I did not plan on swiping my card on this vacation. Too much scamming goes on in cities like Miami.

“I know, but the man has already paid in full. Again, I am really sorry.” I fold my arms across my chest, mouth catching flies, in disbelief still. I thought money could solve all my problems. Now, I know. Money grants access, but only connections can cast you before the next person, who also has a handful of cash. “I have a slot for nine tonight, if you are interested?” He bargains.

“That won’t do. We have reservations for Nobu at nine. Then, it's straight to the section in LIV. I reserved it for eleven.” Anthony reads off the mental itinerary he so graciously made for us on such short notice.

“Maybe he can recommend another boat?” Asia suggests.

“We checked late last night. Everything is all booked up. It's still spring break season,” Anthony informs.

“I told you we should’ve looked beforehand. Like, last week.” I raise my brows at Demi, who since we met, has always been content with just crossing the bridge when we get there. The bridge is usually closed by the time our unconventional asses arrive.

“There’s gotta be something.” Aaliyah pulls her phone.

“We could always just get drunk on the beach,” Indiya proposes.

Amidst the dysfunction and throwing of ideas of how to pass the time, Demi leans into me. “This might be a reach—but I know he has to have a boat out here.”

“No.” I block her shot of a suggestion immediately, upon realizing exactly the he she refers to. “No,” I repeat. Ignoring her poking bottom lip. “I cannot ask that.”

“Oh—but it's okay for him to call in the middle of the week for your company and services?”

With a shake of my head, the bitter taste of the truth she speaks resonates on my tongue. As of late, the texts from Paul have been more frequent and sporadic. It's hardly ever just a weekend anymore. Weekends and day trips have turned into weekdays and flights at the most unimaginable times. I’m fortunate to have such an amicable relationship with my supervisors and professors; otherwise my ass would be failing and jobless.

“Just ask, Lana. The worst he can say is no.”

“You know I don’t communicate with him directly unless I see him in person.”

“So, call the Wise Man and ask for the Big Man.” She speaks low through tights lips, as to not alert the rest of the group. I survey them—all on their phones, brainstorming and scouring the web for an alternative that didn’t exist. My eyes drift back to Demi, awaiting my next move.

“Fine.” I give in.

Byron is gracious enough to have been watching the whole ordeal play out with the Captain who never was. He says he didn’t want to pull off until he knew we were safe and situated, as he’s seen young girls from all over come to this city and get taken advantage of.

I gave him the bizarre task of taking me to the nearest payphone. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but they’ve done away with most of the pay-phones in the city.” His eyes flicker to the phone planted in my grip. “Everyone has a mobile phone now. There might be one in the train station.”

“And where is that?” I inquire, not remembering seeing one on our way to the beach.

“Maybe twenty minutes. It's in Brickell.”

I huff. “Oh, no. That’s damn near an hour to get there and get back.”

“I don't get this whole pay-phone situation anyway.” Demi blurts. “I mean, maybe in the beginning—but it's been a year now.” A dent forms between her brows. “It’s one thing to not be able to get to him. But you can’t just call Paul?”

Another gram of salt on my tongue, courtesy of my outspoken and strongly opinionated best friend. The pay-phone mess is and has always been a pain in my ass. Especially right now, when I just need a quick yes or no.

“I’m calling,” I declare, before I overthink myself into doing nothing. The phone rings in my ear as I watch Demi’s small figure descend back to the group by the dock. Pacing, I hang up mid ring and call again.

“Lana, I hope this is an emergency.”

“Define emergency.”

“A call from a reporter—or TMZ. Pregnancy. A near death situation.” My lips twist as he lists off all the things that are definitely not in relation to why I am calling.

“I need to talk to him.”

“About?”

“I just have to ask him something.”

“Is it in relation to your current arrangement?”

“…No,” I hesitate. I’m sure Paul’s been given his own special course of action to follow, when being contacted by one of his regulars. The man is always moving about for work matters and if he’s not, he has a full house to tend to, that I’d rather pretend doesn’t exist. However, that harsh reality is nearly impossible to be stricken out. A very ugly stain on a pristinely white dress shirt. A huge pimple on an otherwise glass-skin adorned face. Or maybe it is me that is the stain—the pimple. The ugly dot on his perfect life that he pretends for majority of his days, doesn’t exist. Then again, if his life is so perfect and intact—what was the need for me?

“It's a simple and quick question that requires a simple and quick answer. How is it that he can always get through to me and I can’t ever get through to him?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

The high of vacationing in another city and the thrill of taking on another year begins to dwindle, as thoughts I constantly have to force into a deep pit inside my psyche assault me. Paul’s latest comment—another blow to it.

It seems it's so obvious to everyone that what’s happening here is wrong. Yet and still, it remains. Every encounter making it more intricate.

“Can you just get me him. Please?” I ask in a flat tone. An uneasy feeling resting inside of my throat.

He releases a deep breath after a beat. “I’m only doing this because I think I like you.” Not entirely confident that I’ve been paid a compliment, I don’t bothering extending gratitude.

My leg bounces frantically to the sound of the ringer. I can’t go back to the group with nothing in my hands—not even the answer of no.

“Paul!” His voice—abundant with charm and the comfort of a man at home. Sucking in a sharp breath, the butterflies invade my stomach, but quickly transform to dust, hearing tiny high-pitch screams out of recreation, or whatever other reason a little one would scream. “What’s going on, man?”

“Eh—you might want to get alone.”

Sounds and artifacts of a full house seem to get louder for a second, before fading and dispersing altogether. I breathe again.

“Everything okay?”

“Joey, I have Alana on the line…”

In between making out his background, getting lost in the warmth that is his voice and picturing what he looks like in the light of day—I don’t realize that might’ve been my cue to talk, until there’s nothing to listen to for a while.

“—Hi,” I blurt into the silence of the call.

“Did something happen? What’s going on?”

“No—no. Nothing’s wrong.” I rush to disarm him. Your secret thing on the side, calling midday is grounds for immediate anxiety. “I just really need to ask you something, that’s all.”

“…Okay.”

“It’s—and you can say no.” I offer a disclaimer, but no, is not something I need to hear right now. “It’s my birthday and—”

“Happy birthday.” His deep voice intercepts.

“Thank you…It’s tomorrow—but still, thank you.” The clearing of Paul’s throat, magnifies just how awkward and abnormal this whole exchange is. “Uh, we booked a boat. But when we got here, the captain told us he gave our slot away to someone else, since they already paid a-and they’re a regular customer of his.” Get to the point, Lana. “I guess I’m just—I don’t know—maybe you have a boat or something that we could use?” I wince at the deafening silence. Preparing myself to hear the word—

“No captain? Just the boat?”

There’s an underlying amusement in his tone— a resemblance to the man I’ve spent countless erotic nights with, lying in an unnecessarily large bed, pillow talking.

“Yeah, I would need a captain too.” I bite my lip in an effort to not laugh.

“Right. Where are you?”

“…Miami…South Beach…”

All the times he’s requested my presence, it’s never been this close. I’ve never been this close. We don’t touch Florida. No—Florida is where Joe, happily married with five kids lives.

“You’re in Miami? Right now?”

“Yes,” I reveal—holding my breath in angst for whatever comes next.

“…Alright…I got it. I’ll make something happen.”

If Paul were in front of me, I’d stick my tongue out like I used to when my brother painted me as a villain, just for my dad to wave a hand at any wrong doing from his only daughter.

“Thank you—”

“There is one condition,” he adds.

“Yeah?”

“You’ll come see me later?”

A familiar tingling invades my core and my face grows hot at him doing this in front of Paul. “Where?”

“Not too far from you. Reach out to Paul when you’re ready.”

“Okay—and Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

I stroll back to the group with good news and better plans than we originally had. We wait—and wait—and wait. Buzz from the alcohol and meter of excitement plummeting with every fifteen minute interval that passes us by. We walk down to the beach to get our feet wet and pass the time. To escape the raft of the Florida sun—we all bunch together under a palm tree for a while, before walking back to the deck where I assume whatever captain he sends will meet us.

The time on my phone reads 10:51 A.M. An entire hour and a half past the time we arrived. Releasing all the air in my lungs, I uncross my arms and turn to face the ocean. Demi leans on the rail bars beside me with the rest of our group beside her. Everyone on their phones, heads hanging to the side in defeat. Anthony sits on the cooler we brought, filled with two bottles of 1942, most likely floating in water in place of the ice now.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Naive. And more importantly, delusional. If in their heads they all judge me in this moment, it's well deserved. Expectation invites disappointment. This is not us. It's not apart of this thing we have. Favors, promises and whatnot. I don't know what I was thinking even asking that of him.

A low snicker beside me, pulls me from my dispirited thoughts. Raising a brow, I turn my head at Demi, whose shoulders are shaking in laughter.

“You know when people call their life a movie?” I frown awaiting for her conclusion. “Ours must be a fucking Telenovela.” She nods to the pathway we had to walk to get down here.

The sight that greets me as I turn around has my jaw hitting me the floor. “What the fuck?”

“Hello, ladies!” He beams before he even reaches us. “And gent. My name is Paul Heyman.” He places spread fingers over his chest. Sun reflecting off the brown tinted sunglasses adorning his face. Linen short set flapping from the breeze of the salty Atlantic not far from where we stand. “And I will be your humble captain aboard today.” Clasping both hands togethers he scans the young faces pointing back at him. Not a Telenovela, but a fucking horror movie.

I stare at him. A cloud of angst looming over me hoping—no praying, that no one here has watched WWE within the last decade.

Cutting the lingering silence like a butcher knife, Anthony stands. “Well, it's about time Mr. Heyman. I have a tan and I haven’t shook my ass once. Something is wrong with that picture.”

“It’s shot o’clock bitches!” One of the twins announces, sparking life back into the group. I can breathe again.

We follow Paul down the other end of the dock. The boats growing bigger in size the further we walk. When he stops—holding his hand out like he’s showcasing an antique car for sale—all of our necks crane up to view the masterpiece that makes Shiloh’ s boat look like a canoe. The Last Laugh.

“Oh, this is my kind of carrying on!” Aaliyah cheeses.

My eyes immediately find Demi’s. “A generous Tribal Chief,” she mouths.

Paul lays down the rules of the day. The basics. No jumping overboard when the yacht is in motion, responsible drinking, no items thrown overboard, and life jackets on when he says so.

One by one they file up to the flybridge area. I stay behind and wait until I can only hear the distant hum of their voices, to speak. I clear my throat dramatically to steal his attention.

“What?” He asks with a look of genuine confusion. “All the captains I know were booked and busy. Apparently it's still spring break season.” He moves about gathering things while I stand here dumfounded.

Don't get me wrong, I’m appreciate as fuck, but how is this happening right now? Who even knew he could drive a boat?

He stops his pursuit once he realizes I haven’t moved yet.

“Consider it a birthday gift—”

“From my Tribal Chief. I know.”

“Oh, no.” He places a chubby hand to his chest with that smile that usually predates mischief on television. “This one’s all me.”

“Thank you, Paul.” The gratitude is deeper than anything that’s transpired today. Although, a hassle and a piece of work in his own right—Paul has served as the glue to this whole arrangement. Seemingly, going unnoticed since he is not the object of my affection.

“Don’t mention it.” I nod, turning away to join everybody else upstairs. “No seriously. Don’t mention it. He’d die if he knew I came myself.” Lovely. No one told me adulthood is just burying yourself in endless secrets, until you’ve curated a web so intricate and endless you get tangled and stuck in it.

Reaching the top of the steps, the fever of Miami greets me along with a bottle of 1942. Anthony holds it up with a hand under my chin. “Let's go, bitch. We running behind!”

The wait for our mystery captain was worth every sun soaking minute. From the very second he revs up the engine and leads us into the unforgivable blue Atlantic, the spirit of vacation hits us hard.

Cover-ups go flying off, more than enough drinks are distributed, while hips sway in hypnotic motions and ass shakes to the ongoing rotation of Sexyy Red, Bossman D Low, and any other artist who gets us in that mode. We bring the club to the boat, and even sneak a piece of that relentless east coast swag onboard, as the powerful beat of Jadakiss’ Knock Yourself Out, derives from the speaker.

“And, yeah, here go a blank check, rock yourself out! But in the mean time, girl, knock yourself out!” Demi and I scream the lyrics in each other’s faces, hand going, while liquid spills from the full cups in our other. I have officially reached that pinnacle in my twenties where I can relate to the lyrics of the music I fill my head with. Artists painting pictures of luxury, celebration, wealth and nights to remember. It’s times like these I remind myself just how blessed I am, and I swell with gratitude.

“Oh, you modeling, momma?!” Anthony—the missing piece to our chaotic puzzle—joins in matching our energy. Vintage VHS Camcorder glued to his hand, to ensure this moment lasts longer than us.

When Paul comes up to inform the party that we’ve stopped and can swim, it's game over. Bright bathing suits on brown skin, jumping into the glistening blue waters from both sides of the sea-ridden vessel.

The whole scene is something from a 2000’s R&B music video. It’s young, it's wild, it’s reckless, it's free.

My heart nearly snaps in half as we dock back where we started at South Beach. We arrive earlier than expected. Not quite ready to head back to the hotel to get ready for our next venture. So, we decide to explore South Beach to kill the time.

The alcohol and excitement still lingering on us. Aaliyah finds somewhat of a gym on the beach. Swinging on bars and allowing a man built like an action figure to assist her in pull-ups by pushing from her round ass. Anthony and the twins play volleyball with a group of fine ass women in G-string bikinis, and even finer men with six, seven, and eight packs.

In between it all, Demi and I find a hammock to unwind on. Enjoying the afternoon breeze and magnetic view of the cerulean sea kissing the clear sky. It's a sight. Being by the ocean always feels so liberating. The freedom in the waves swishing and dancing whichever way they please, a reminder to human life that we can always change and we have free will.

When my dad’s cancer progressed and he found himself more depleted and sicker than he had ever been, he’d pack me and my brother up and drive all the way to the shore in Jersey City. He never went in the water, for his body was too weak. He’d watch us. And for hours he’d study the ocean. Ogling at the waves—mighty and unforgiving, but also majestic and seductive in a way. As a teenager I didn’t really understand. But right now…I get it. In this moment—Daddy I get it.

We lay in serenity. The seagulls singing to us combining with the crashing of waves, and hum of activity further down the beach where the bigger crowd is.

Demi begins to twist and play with the costume heart-shaped ring on her finger. A footprint of her late sister’s brief life. The fiddling of it, an indication—that I've picked up on over the years—that something is weighing on her.

“What’s wrong, Demi?”

"Nothing just…thinking about how much things are gonna change after graduation. How much things have already changed…”

“What do you mean?”

“Our lives are just gonna look different is all.” She shrugs. Her jaw flexes a bit as I focus on the side of her face I can see. “I'm just—I don’t know.” Witnessing the single tear slide down her cheek has a storm brewing inside of me now. “I don’t know if I'm ready for this next phase. I just really like the way things are now. We're all together. We're young. Everyone's healthy—and happy…and I just know that won't always be the case, you know?” Too scared to interrupt up her—I just listen a little harder. “The day—” Her voice cracks so she clears her throat. “The day I lost them—things were just like this. And then it just all went to shit so quick.”

“Demi.” I pull her closer as a river flows from her eyes. The tragedy that came of her father and little sister, lives in that same box I’ve housed my father’s battle with cancer. We’ve pushed that box in the attic and put a bolt lock on it together.

Demi has always been the stronger of us. Unfortunately, a side effect of always appearing strong, means a lot of things get barricaded inside, until it becomes too much and you're left with no choice but to release. The sight before me is devastating. It's my turn to stand firm so she can lean on me as I do her.

“Look at me,” I instruct. Our teary eyes meet. “I'm not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever. Things aren't going to change. They're just going to get better. We're getting older—we’ll find better ways to live life, is all.” I knock her apprehensions down even though mine build a house and grow comfortable in my own head.

Time is a scary concept. The future is just so unclear. No one really knows. We can only hope. I don’t have a crystal ball. I can only pray that the words I speak align with what’s to come.

Timestamps and transitions from one destination to the next, seem to blur as the day progresses. The frequency of the continuous alcohol casts a shield around us to keep us lively and afloat. The Liquid IV’s we’ve consumed before leaving the hotel this morning, working double time to keep us up.

Walking through the doors of club LIV was like entering a portal to a different world. One where everybody’s religion was euphoria, and alcohol is the holy water to ascend us. The atmosphere is charged and intoxicating. Miami nightlife is top two and it is not number two.

Florescent beaming lights switching from red to blue to purple and beyond, blind me. We sit high up at a table overlooking the rest of the club. Bottles of overpriced tequila and chasers making their way back and forth, spilling with every song that gets us up out of our seats. Confetti falls and covers everybody like snow, creating a dream-like effect.

Letting the liquor possess me, I swirl my hips, shut my eyes, and shake my head side to side to match the nostalgic beat. Hair swaying with my cup held high, I get lost in the moment. Forgetting everything for just a minute. Syllabi, bills, the haunting future, and whatever else bullshit awaits me back at home—all forgotten. It doesn’t exist here.

At some point in the night I find myself venturing off to release the barrier that is my bladder. Sneaking off and subtly stumbling away, I zero in on the lit sign sticking out with the little female cartoon, indicating the girl’s restroom. I look down and realize I still have a cup in my hand. Drunk shit.

With liquid pushing on my bladder, my steps become more frantic in the Tom Ford heels, knocking me off balance for a quick second.

“Woah, woah!” A deep voice emerges amidst the pumping bass. I collide into a hard chest as strong arms brace my shoulders, preventing me from falling any further.

“Oh my god!” The stain of liquid on his crisp white tee can’t be missed, even under the blue light we stand in. “I’m sorry—I am so sorry—”

I snatch my eyes from the stain to acknowledge the stranger that just saved me. His sharp jaw flexes as he looks down at his white tee, fingering the wet spot. He shakes a hand out beside him to remove the excess liquid on it, still holding onto me with his other.

When his eyes meet mine, they almost look translucent in this light, but it's only me who feels sheer. They’re hypnotic, like he can read my mind and bend it to his will. My gaze jumps to his mouth. Pink and plump, with a sharp outline of hair over his top lip, connecting to a goatee. The light hits him at a different angle and something in his ear flashes like a camera. I squint at the 23 earring.

I clear my throat, snapping back to reality. Stop staring, Lana.

Like he actually can read my thoughts, he flashes a sparkling smile, revealing two picture perfect rows of teeth. It's then, I begin to drink him in, in his entirety. Goddamn.

“You keep moving like that, I might have to recommend you to my coach.”

My own smile cracks through. “I was just trying to get to the bathroom.” I explain. An infestation of intrigue of the fine ass mystery in front of me, replacing the urge to pee. "I'm sorry," I repeat.

“Don't be.” In the smoothest fashion and still with only one hand to himself, he reaches behind to remove the tarnished tee up and off his body, showcasing a row of keen defined abs covered in graphic ink—just as his solid arms are. “You got us both.” He nods down to my white tank. A splash of liquid covering the left side. The thin fabric soaking, giving full view of my erect nipple. Oh god. I rush to cover it, pulling a laugh from him. He nods in the direction of my original pursuit. “Why don’t you go ‘head. Meet me back out here. I think I got something for that.”

After handling my business, he leads me to the entrance of the club. The cloudy and intoxicating atmosphere dispersing as we enter into the fresh night air.

His bare back is strong and I take advantage of being able to watch without disturbance, while he looks through the glove compartment of his matte black Mercedes AMG. He just reeks of new money. Probably newly drafted or something.

He turns, undoing the plastic of a brand new pack of white undershirts. He takes one for himself and then holds another out.

“You keep an extra pack of undershirts with you?” I eye him crossing my arms.

“Yeah. For when pretty girls get too drunk in the club and start spilling shit.”

“I’m not drunk.” My tongue rests on the inside of my cheek, fighting back the smile as I take the crisp white undershirt. “Thank you.”

We switch places. I sit in the passenger as he stands in front of me, scanning my entire body. I make wide eyes and twirl my finger.

“Girl.” He sucks his teeth chuckling, but still turning away. His large frame shielding me from the crowd not too far from us on the sidewalk. I remove the soiled tank and replace it, tying a knot in the back to maintain the cropped look.

“I know you ain't traveling solo?”

“Nope.”

“Where is he?”

I smirk to myself, picking up what he puts down. “They are inside. Probably going crazy, thinking I got snatched up.” I adjust the top of the tank so the right amount of cleavage is exposed. “Good now.” I inform him.

“Well, did I?” He turns in place, dangerously close to my face.

“Did you what?” My eyes bounce back and forth between his tranquil eyes and those lips.

“Snatch you up? I mean you tried to tackle me a few minutes ago. So, I think that’s a fair trade.”

A giggle escapes me as I return his intense stare. The alcohol giving me a much needed boost. “Is that what you do for a living? Tackle people?”

“Yes ma’am.” He confirms. “Number twenty-three.” He angles his head to the side to flash the earring I caught in the club earlier. “Green Bay. You into football?” I shake my head.

“I don't know the first thing. My best friend is a die hard Bird though.”

“All them Eagles fans are die hard. She must be intense.”

“That she is.” I grin.

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You seem pretty chill.”

“Frick and frat. We balance each other out, I think.”

“Is that what you do for a living? Balance people out? Cause you didn’t have much balance back in there.” He chuckles pointing behind.

I playfully nudge his arm. “Oh shut up. And no, I’m in school.”

“For?”

“I’m a Bio major. I wanna be a neuro-oncologist.”

“Damn. So, you like real smart, huh?”

“I do alright.”

“Beauty and brains? Where you been hiding all my life?”

We do this dance with our eyes. Lips twitching in threatening smiles. The world fades away for a bit. I snap out of the trance and slide down and off the leather seat, landing right in his space.

We spin, trading places as I make my way back to the entrance. If anyone is witnessing this, they’d probably think we were shooting a damn music video.

“Wait—that’s it?” I raise a brow. “I stop you from busting up that pretty face—pretty knees unscathed. Gave you a fresh one and that’s all I get?”

A warmth spreads inside me. His amusement contagious. Then his face clouds my mind and I’m reminded of my night’s premeditated destination.

My shoulders go up and then down, not being able to muster the words no to combat his persistence. “Alright look.” He leans up and off the car, reaching inside again for a moment. He backs out with a pen and paper in his hand, scribbling something while taking the necessary steps to me. “How about I give you my number.” He holds the paper out for me. “That way the ball is in your court. No pressure lil’ mama.” No pressure? There’s nothing but pressure building up in my chest at the sight of you.

My eyes flicker down to the paper. I weigh my options. Brain still cloudy from tequila and the thrill of the night’s festivities—I accept it. “I’m Jaire by the way.” I’ve never met this man before and somehow the way he speaks his own name to me is familiar. Comforting. Like a hug from a distant relative you see on Thanksgiving that you used to be thicker than thieves with when younger.

“Alana.”

“Alana,” he repeats. Something deep lurches within me like it's reaching for him. I nod taking a deep breath. We both just stand in each other’s space for what feels like forever. I’m the first to step back. “Thank you, again.”

He watches me struggle to backpedal toward the building. “You be careful. Alana.”

Lights. Thirty years from now, when my kids ask me what I remember from partying in Miami for my twenty-second birthday— that’s what I'll tell them. I remember the lights. Neon, flashing and oh so bright. And the palm trees. They're everywhere.

They cascade upon the window I have half-way rolled down in the back of this black suburban. It's three in the morning and the city is still as awake as it was when we docked from the boat. The wind and humidity hitting me all at once. My gaze training on the groups of pedestrians. Women in high heels and cut out dresses. Men in the kind of cars you only see in music videos. I could get used to this.

“Here you are, miss.” The driver drops me in front of a condo building I can’t even see the top of, even if I crane my neck all the way up. Just the outside looks like they’d charge me to do a walk-through. The colorful sports cars lining the round drive way serve as a testament to this theory.

My heels clack slow against the marble floors. Completely out of place, eyeing the businessmen in suits and women with evening attire— I make way to what looks like the elevators, like Paul instructed. I stand and wait until I hear the ding. The steel doors open and my breath is stolen. Dressing in only a fitted tank and black basketball shorts, he looks superior to all the men I just passed.

The ride up is silent, but stimulating. Every time I’m in his space, it feels like the first time. A tornado brewing in my stomach mixing with the flirtatious acts of a first date. Subtle touches—like his pinky grazing against mine. Shifty eyes—like how ours snag every once in a while and I have to prevent myself from jumping right on him in the enclosed space. The alcohol now settling in more sensitive areas. The hand he places on the small of my back to guide me around isn’t helping.

“Let me show you around.” He maneuvers his large frame ahead of me, holding a hand back for me to take. My stomach does summersaults once we connect.

I don't know if it's the alcohol, but the condo feels like a palace. He leads me further and further, exposing a different room, a different space, so extensive almost like it shouldn’t fit. Everything pristine and cream colored. Appliances either a white marble or steel so sleek, I can see my reflection in the dark. The blue lights from the pool, glow through the sliding door that leads to the balcony. He drags me out and the view looks like a piece of heaven. The whole skyline is lit up. I can see everything from up here, almost like I’m on top of the world, mirroring the feeling in the center of my chest when I feel him staring. The wind blows my hair in my face slightly as I turn to meet him.

“What?”

He shakes his head. Those big eyes sparkling. “You straightened your hair again?”

“I did.” I run a hand through it. “You don’t like it?”

“It's perfect.” Heat ensues as we stay focused on one another. “How was the boat?” He inquires, leading us to the cream chaise lounge chairs set up.

“The boat—” I have to take pause, remembering the Captain Who Wasn’t Supposed To Be. “Um, it was amazing. Thank you, again. I know it was real short notice.”

“Captain was alright? Treated you good?” I move to sit on the one next to him, but he pulls me into his warm lap instead.

“Mmhmm.” I hum. He nods while, leaving a trail of goosebumps where his slightly rough hand rubs my bare thigh.

“That’s good. It's past midnight. Officially twenty-two?”

“Yup. I don’t feel any different yet. What did you feel at twenty-two?”

He blows a big breath past those luscious lips, raising his brows. “Shit. That was a lifetime ago. I wouldn’t even recognize a twenty-two year old Joe if he walked up on me.”

“I feel the same way about my teenage self. I guess that feeling never goes away then?”

“Not really. Time is…”

“Scary,” I finish for him. Just this time last year, we were the most unlikely pair. Me on one side of the map, him on this side. Me, completely enthralled by his character and even more captivated by the wee flashes of the man behind the pyro lights he chose to share with the world. “You ever—You ever feel like life is moving too fast? Like you almost can’t keep up?” The alcohol pushes me through translating my thoughts to my mouth. The conversation with Demi on the hammock has been poking at the back of my mind.

He takes awhile to answer. The pause makes me feel uneasy. Have I said something wrong? I should’ve just kept my drunk thoughts to myse—

“All the time,” he whispers just inches from my face. I hone in on the distant look in his eyes. I’ve never wanted to get inside of another person’s brain so bad. He has his own thoughts—his own internal strife that he’ll probably never share with me. It's unfortunate, because I’ve come to adore him so much, that I’d hold his hand the whole way as he tackles them.

His eyes switch to mine and instead of shying away like I usually would, I fall deeper into him. I don’t know how it happens. I don’t know who leans in first. Our lips crash into one another’s. This kiss is passionate. Lustful, with a hint of something else lingering. It accelerates like a glass rolling down the steps. Breath hitching and faces meshing into one another. It's all a blur, but the feeling is distinct. Pleasure. Bliss.

I rise slightly to straddle him. My sequin skirt rising, granting him the opportunity to grab two handfuls of ass. “I could kiss you all day,” he mumbles after nipping my bottom lip.

A smirk plasters my face as his comment ignites something in me. My mouth finds his again and then his thick neck, ready to come undone for him.

“Not while you’re drunk. Okay?” He puts a big red stop sign up.

“I’m not drunk. I swear.” I try to muster up the most convincing tone possible. “I can walk in a straight line. Look.”

I rise in the six inch Tom Ford heels. His eyes following my every movement as I put one foot in front of the other. That unnatural, warping focus only alcohol can bring takes over me and on the fourth step, my ankle almost gives out. He rises in my peripheral and is at my side in a flash.

“Let's—let's just take it easy. Okay?” I don’t miss the smirk pulling at his lips.

He guides me back to the seat by my hips. Crouching down and undoing the strap of my heels one at a time. “Thank you.” He nods.

“The last thing I need is you falling in the pool, babygirl.”

“It's the heels, I swear.”

“Of course it is.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, accessorizing the grin covering the bottom half of his face. He has the prettiest smile. I love how it always reaches his eyes.

“What?”

“Your eyes…”

“What about them?” His lips twitch almost in a smirk. They’re fucking beautiful. But there’s no way he doesn’t know that. Years of being hassled by erratic fans and almost a decade of marriage. He’s probably been paid every compliment there is. So, instead of answering what he must already know, I lean in again. Pressing my lips to his. Softly as first, but the more our lips meet the more urgent it becomes. Tongues colliding and hands gripping. And somehow I end up on top of him again. I feel his member jump under me, and I slip a hand down to show it attention, earning something between a growl and a groan from him.

“Lana.” He strains, breathless, breaking the kiss. A firm hand gripping my wrist. So much for birthday sex. Anthony will not be happy to hear that his mission has failed.

“What’s next for you?” I swirl my feet in the cool water of the infinity pool, creating ripples. “I see you took a step back.”

“Can’t tell you that. Then you wouldn’t watch when it's time.” He sits next to me on the edge of the pool.

“That’s not true. I watch even when The Tribal Chief is not in attendance. Of course you’re the main reason I watch. The Bloodline story really is a sight to see. Y’all really came a long way. Especially you.”

“What do you think my best match was?”

“Mm,” I hum. Eyes rolling up to rake through my brain. “Probably you and Brock. Wrestle-mania 38.”

“Really?” His face twists.

I nod. “You don’t think so?”

“I mean—I’ve had better.”

“That was Brock Lesnar. And you literally buried that man. Everybody likes to talk shit about how you didn’t do it yourself. How the Usos helped. But I think that’s the whole point of the Bloodline story. Y’all do what y’all love and you always do it together. Always show up for each other.”

“I never looked at it like that.”

“What do you think your best match is?”

“Honestly— I don’t think I have one.”

“Awe come on. There has to be at least one. One that you always think about?”

“Hell In A Cell. Me and Josh. It was like a rebirth. It was the match that really jumpstarted this whole Bloodline thing…”

In the wake of diving into the topic of his career, his eyes light up—like a child recapping their favorite animated movie. A writer describing their favorite novel. An artist letting you hear their favorite artists’ catalogue.

Seldom. When most people are probed about their career path, there is a subtle dread that spells I didn’t choose this—it just happened. A more than unfortunate symptom of adulthood. Choosing the path you had to, not the one you wanted.

Not him. No— he loves what he does. He’s one of the lucky few. Watching his eyes sparkle, I almost lose sight of the words coming out of his mouth. Too busy admiring him, I have to force myself to pay attention as I catch the last bit of his words.

“It was a crazy time, really. So much was happening even behind the scenes.” His eyes reach mine. “I wish we could’ve me—”

His words trail off and silence controls him like he’s possessed. “What?” My eyebrows dent.

He shakes his head. The energy that was previously lighthearted and carefree feels heavy. I develop chills even though it's humid as fuck out here.

The sound of the water is loud as he rises from the edge. “I think I’m gonna call it a night.” He holds a hand out.

“Um…I think I’m gonna stay out here for a little bit longer…”

He looks like he doesn’t want to leave, but something is pulling him. And I don’t believe it's sleep. “Alright,” he finally says. “You can come in when you’re ready.” I lean back on my palms, admiring the scenery. “Don’t drown please.”

I laugh to myself. “Are you gonna take your shirt off and come save me?” I tease with one eyebrow raising, looking back at him. He flashes that Colgate commercial smile before disappearing inside.

It seems the better it gets—the more experiences we convey to each other—the deeper into each other’s minds we dig—the darker the end seems. The more severe the unorthodox circumstances surrounding this thing seems.

But I can’t worry about that shit right now. Not when I’m sitting on the twenty-seventh floor, of a Downtown Miami condo, overlooking the skyline of one of the most lively cities ever, at just twenty-two. Bank account ornate with commas. A drop-dead gorgeous superstar in the bed waiting for me.

Happy birthday to me.

A/N // I thought I’d share this. Y’all deserved it. 250+ followers is crazy considering I just started posting my work. Forever grateful and I appreciate every single one of you! (Also, I heard that allegedly Papa will be at work for two more weeks so I got a little excited)

I realized by doing so many time jumps, I kind of robbed you all of seeing the little moments and progression of the characters and their relationships. With that being said, this most likely won't be the last short I post. I'll try to actually keep them short lol

- What are your thoughts on the relationship between Paul and Lana?

- Any extra thoughts about Jaire and Lana now that you see how they met?

- Any thoughts about the conversation between Demi and Lana on the hammock? Do you agree with her perspective?

- What do you think Joe was about to say before he stopped himself?

As always, if you read it or even just a portion, I am forever grateful and appreciative.

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rootedinrevisions · 28 days ago

Text

Slow Dance In a Parking Lot

Summary: It’s your first wedding anniversary, and instead of the dinner you had planned, you’re in a storm worn motel room alone while Tyler chases down another tornado. But when he returns he whisks you away, determined to make things right. Sometimes love doesn’t look like candlelight and fine dining. Sometimes, it looks like slow dancing barefoot beneath a flickering sign, wrapped in the arms of the man who always comes back to you.

Warnings: Very slight angst at the beginning, but other than that none really.

Word Count: 3,390

The storm had rolled in just before sunset. A dark line of clouds across the sky that swallowed the horizon in shades of steel grey. From the window of the motel room, you could see the wind picking up in the parking lot. Flags were snapping in the wind, trees were starting to shake. The TV on the dresser flickered with an update from the local news station. Warnings in red scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

Somewhere out there was Tyler and his team. Chasing the very cell the news was tracking.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your phone in hand, the lock screen lit up with the last message he had sent you almost an hour ago.

TYLER: Sorry darlin. This one’s a big one. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I love you.

Your eyes read the message again. You could picture him in the field. His worn boots sunk into wet dirt, ballcap sitting backwards on his head, eyes locked on the horizon as the wind whipped around him. Doing what he loved.

The motel room was nothing special. Beige walls. A creaky air conditioner. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow over the little table you’d set for two. A paper bag of takeout from the only decent restaurant in town according Google reviews sat untouched, the food now cold. You’d even stepped by the Walmart to grab a couple battery operated candles to add a little romance.

This wasn’t how your first anniversary was supposed to go.

You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as you settled back into the pillows. Tyler had promised no chases this weekend. Just the two of you. Dinner, maybe a cheap bottle of wine, maybe dancing barefoot in the living room if the mood struck.

But the storms didn’t care about promises. And Tyler couldn’t ignore the call in his bones when the sky started to turn.

You didn’t blame him. Not really. You loved that about him—his need to be out there, his reverence for something as wild and unpredictable as the wind. It was one of the things that made you fall for him in the first place. But tonight, it was hard not to feel like you came second to the sky.

Still, you waited. That’s what loving Tyler Owens was sometimes.

You slipped one of his old flannels on. The faded fabric was soft and worn, smelling faintly of rain and his cedarwood cologne. You then curled onto his side of the bed. You left the lamp on. Just in case he came in and you were already asleep.

Another minute passed. Then the distant crunch of tires on gravel pulling into the parking lot.

You sat up, heart flipping in your chest.

A few minutes later the door creaked open, and there he was. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends and dripping onto his forehead. His cheeks were raw from the wind, the skin chapped pink and flushed from adrenaline and cold air. Mud streaked up the legs of his jeans, and his boots were caked with red dirt that flaked onto the carpet as he shut the door behind him.

But his eyes, those sage green eyes you had fallen in love the night you met, softened the second they landed on you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and hoarse from yelling over the wind all night. He ran a hand through his wet hair and exhaled slowly. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” You said as you sat up, letting your legs dangle over the edge of the bed, flannel sleeves pushed over your knuckles. “But you’re late.”

He smiled, boyish and apologetic, like he knew exactly how much he deserved that.

“I know,” he said. “It moved fast. We caught it near Elk Ridge, but it split. One went north, one wrapped back around toward the river. We thought it was done. It wasn’t. Town of about three thousand got hit. Felt wrong not to stop and try to help however we could.”

Your eyes searched his face, checking for signs of anything more than windburn. Things like bruises, scrapes, or that all too familiar glaze in his eyes when a storm rattled him just a little too much.

But he just looked tired. Tired and guilty.

He stepped out of his boots near the door, kicked them aside, and crossed to you in socked feet, leaving a trail of dirt behind him. When he reached you, he crouched down, arms resting on your knees, and looked up.

“I’m sorry, darlin’,” he said, quiet now. “I really thought we’d be back by seven. I had that dinner in my head all damn day. But…well. You know how it goes.”

You nodded, trying for a small smile. “Storms don’t care about dinner reservations.”

He tilted his head. “You doin’ okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly—too quickly. You glanced away, then back. “Just… missed you.”

Tyler leaned forward and pressed his forehead to your knee for a beat, his breath warm through the fabric of your leggings.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured. “Let me wash this storm off.”

You watched him disappear into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him and the sound of water rushing through old pipes filling the space. You lay back against the pillows, heart aching a little.

A few minutes later, the door opened again. Tyler stepped out in clean jeans and a soft black t-shirt you recognized as one of your favorites on him. His hair was damp but combed back, and his skin looked pink and fresh from the hot water. He smelled like cedar soap and rain and him.

He paused when he saw you still curled on the bed.

“I know I missed dinner,” he said, walking over and slipping his hands into his back pockets, “but it’s only…” he glanced at the clock glowing on the nightstand “10:02. Which means I’ve got…one hour and fifty-eight minutes to make this anniversary not totally suck.”

You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “You have a plan?”

“Put your shoes on. Or don’t. Honestly, I don’t care if you walk out barefoot. Just come with me.” He said, grinning now as he reached for your hand and gently tugged you upright.

You blinked, still trying to catch up. “Tyler, it’s past ten. Everything in this town’s closed.”

“Not everything,” he said, already grabbing your sneakers from where they were near the door. “And besides, I know one place that always has your favorite candy, snacks, and weirdly specific lip balm.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. “Walmart?”

“The very one,” he said, holding your shoes out to you like a peace offering. “Romantic, I know.”

You laughed despite yourself and slid them on. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” He cupped your cheek with one hand, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “You sat in this room all night waiting for me, wearing my hoodie, trying to pretend you weren’t disappointed. I’m not lettin’ our anniversary end like that.”

You followed him out into the night, the air still warm and heavy from the earlier storm, the ground damp under your feet as you climbed into his truck. The seat creaked beneath you, the old leather familiar and worn, and when Tyler turned the ignition, the dashboard lights glowed soft gold.

He glanced over at you as the engine rumbled to life, and that same look you’d seen on your wedding day flickered behind his eyes. It was the look that made you feel like you were the best decision he’d ever made.

“Ready?” he asked, reaching for your hand.

You nodded, your fingers slipping easily into his. “Let’s go.”

* * * * *

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as the sliding glass doors parted with a tired whoosh. The air inside was over chilled, and faintly smelled of popcorn, floor wax, and the strange mix of bargain shampoo and produce from the front aisles. The store was nearly empty, just a few night shift stockers moving boxes and one older man leaning over a scratch off ticket at the customer service counter.

You looked around with a soft huff of a laugh. “I can’t believe you brought me to Walmart for our anniversary.”

Tyler gave your hand a squeeze. “Hey, don’t knock it. This is where dreams are made. Or at least where snacks live.”

He released your hand to grab a cart, the wheels squealing in protest as he forced it to roll straight. “Pick a direction, darlin’. Tonight’s all about you.”

You smirked and steered the cart toward the candy aisle, your fingers trailing along the edges of endcap displays as you walked. The sound of your sneakers squeaking against the polished floor echoed faintly in the emptiness, and the overhead lights cast long shadows in the aisles.

Tyler trailed behind, one hand lazily resting on the cart handle, watching you more than where he was going.

“So what’ll it be first?” he asked, scanning the shelves. “Chocolate? Sour? Something that turns your mouth blue?”

You grabbed a bag of sour gummy worms and dropped them into the cart. “Obviously. If my tongue isn’t an unnatural color by the end of the night, I don’t wanna be here.”

He chuckled, tossing in a king size chocolate bar next. “You always go for the worms first. Ever since that first road trip with the busted A/C. You had 'em hanging out of your mouth like you were tryin’ to scare me off.”

You shot him a grin. “And yet here you are. Married to the gummy worm queen.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He leaned over to snag a pack of Reese’s from a shelf behind you, brushing your shoulder gently as he passed. It was casual, easy, the kind of touch you didn’t even think about anymore. But it still made warmth bloom in your chest. You didn’t need candlelight dinners and fancy folded linen napkins to feel loved. Sometimes it was just the way he remembered the exact kind of candy you always got on road trips.

In the next aisle, he detoured to the refrigerated drinks and grabbed two bottles of your favorite one, tucking them into the basket of the cart like it was an afterthought. But you knew better. Tyler noticed everything—your favorites, your tells, the little shifts in your mood when you were trying to pretend you were fine.

You drifted through the store like you had nowhere else to be—because tonight, you didn’t. He let you wander, occasionally grabbing something off the shelf that made him think of you: a new bottle of your favorite body wash, a pair of fuzzy socks printed with tiny lightning bolts, a cheap daisy wrapped bouquet from the floral section.

He held the flowers up with both hands, a hopeful little smile on his face. “I know they’re not roses, but they felt like you. Bright. Kinda wild. A little scrappy.”

You took them from him and tucked your face into the blooms, the faint scent of cheap florals and plastic wrap making your nose crinkle. “I love them.”

You meant it.

You reached for his hand again, interlacing your fingers as he steered the cart one-handed. It squeaked rhythmically as you walked, echoing through the empty aisles. You could feel your tension fading, your disappointment about the night slipping into something softer. Simpler.

It wasn’t what you planned. But maybe it was better.

You shook your head, laughing, and leaned into him. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s perfect,” he murmured, kissing the top of your head. “You’re smiling again.”

And you were. You hadn’t even realized how much until he said it.

After a few more aisles and an unplanned detour to the clearance shelf (where Tyler found a T-shirt that said Tornadoes Blow Me Away and insisted on holding it up like a prize), you finally made your way to the checkout.

The cashier was young and half-asleep, barely blinking as Tyler unloaded the cart and you helped bag your random treasures. The bouquet sat on top of the last bag like a final, quiet promise that tonight had still been worth it.

Outside, the air was still warm and heavy, carrying the leftover hum of the storm. The parking lot was quiet except for a distant semi rumbling down the highway and the chirp of a single late night cricket in the grass beyond the lot.

Tyler opened the passenger door for you, then circled around to the driver’s side, sliding into his seat and starting the engine. The truck rumbled to life, headlights casting twin beams across the dark stretch of asphalt. He turned the radio dial low, then paused like he was looking for something.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

His fingers skimmed over his phone as he seemed to search for a song on his Spotify. Then he landed on one and hit play.

The opening notes of your wedding song filled the cab. The song was soft and slow, the kind of melody that always made your chest ache a little in the best way.

Tyler glanced over, lips twitching into a smile. Before you could ask what he was up to, he rolled the windows down, and opened his door. The music spilled out into the warm air, echoing off the side of the building.

He came around to your side, opened your door, and held out his hand.

"May I have this dance, Mrs. Owens?"

“You’re serious?” you asked, even as your hand slid into his without much resistance.

“I’m always serious about you,” he said, that easy smile tugging at his lips. “Now come on. Music’s playin’, and we’ve got a perfectly good parking lot all to ourselves.”

The song’s melody floated out of the truck’s speakers, familiar chords wrapping around you like a slow tide.

You stepped out and felt the soft warmth of his palm close around yours as he helped you down from the truck. The pavement beneath your feet was still slightly damp from earlier rain, and the thick summer air clung to your skin. It was warm, humid, and heavy with the scent of asphalt and ozone.

The Walmart sign overhead flickered gently, casting short bursts of cool white light across the empty parking lot. The only other movement came from a stray shopping cart drifting lazily in the wind at the far end of the lot and the soft, steady glow of the truck’s headlights stretching across the painted white lines.

Tyler pulled you close with practiced ease, one hand on your waist, the other still laced with yours. “You remember dancing to this song a year ago?” he asked softly.

You nodded, smile tugging at your lips. “You mean the part of our wedding where I nearly tripped over your boots in front of your entire family?”

He chuckled, the sound low and fond in his chest. “That’s the one.”

The song played on, crackling softly from the speakers.

Tyler moved first, slow and certain. Always leading. Always steady. His hand pressed gently at the small of your back, guiding you into a gentle sway. You tried to follow his rhythm, your steps a beat behind, too stiff at first. He noticed of course, he always noticed, and leaned in close enough for his breath to brush your ear.

“Relax, darlin’. It’s just me.”

You let out a quiet laugh, breathless, and let yourself fall into him. Into the comfort of his arms, the strength of his frame, the steadiness that always anchored you.

His voice hummed along with the lyrics, almost absentmindedly, the way he did when his heart was full but his mouth couldn’t quite find the words. You leaned your cheek against his chest, eyes slipping shut as you felt the rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of him grounding you.

After a minute, you glanced down, noticing your own awkward footwork. You kept bumping into his boots, nearly stepping on his toes.

With a soft curse under your breath, you slipped off your shoes and stepped up onto his boots instead, arms winding around his neck for balance.

“There,” you said, grinning. “Now you have full control.”

Tyler looked down at you, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Should’ve had you do this on our wedding day.”

“Would’ve saved me some embarrassment.”

He chuckled and shifted slightly, adjusting for your added weight on his feet. And then he moved again. It was slower this time, smoother. You let him guide you, swaying in the wide empty space between the truck and the store’s flickering sign.

The truck headlights painted your makeshift dance floor in long golden streaks. Every once in a while, the light caught the sheen of moisture on the pavement, making it shimmer. The air was thick with humidity, still heavy from the storm that had passed, but the heat didn’t bother you anymore.

Not when Tyler was holding you like this. He dipped his head until his nose brushed against your temple.

“You look real pretty under Walmart lighting,” he teased, voice warm.

You snorted. “That is the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I mean it,” he murmured, tightening his hold just slightly. “I’d slow dance with you anywhere. But this…this is gonna be hard to beat.”

You looked up at him, and your heart clenched. His cheeks were still a little wind chapped, his hair still a little damp from the earlier shower, and there was a tiny smudge of dirt on the underside of his jaw he must have missed. He was a little rough around the edges, a little worn from the day, but so achingly and perfectly yours.

Even now, on a night that hadn’t gone to plan, he was making it special.

You weren’t back home at his farm in Arkansas like you had been a year ago. There were no string lights. No friends or family. There was just the faint hum of the highway in the distance, the flickering neon of a small town Walmart, and your husband looking at you like you were everything he’d ever want to come home to.

“I love you,” you said, quietly but firmly.

“I love you more,” he whispered back, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Every single day.”

Then he spun you slowly under his arm, his fingers brushing against your waist as he pulled you back in. You squeaked at the movement, nearly losing your balance, but he caught you easily, laughing into your hair.

“Show off,” you muttered, breathless.

“Gotta keep the romance alive.”

The song began to fade into the next one. But even once the beginning tracks of the next song started, your arms stayed around his neck. His hands never left your waist. The world outside your little bubble might as well have stopped spinning. Cause for both of you, it was just each other in that moment.

He looked down at you after a long moment, thumb brushing just beneath your chin. “You happy?”

You nodded, eyes warm and full. “Right now? More than ever.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. “I know I missed dinner. And I know it wasn’t the night we planned…”

“But it was us,” you said, finishing the thought for him.

He smiled then. It was a soft, real kind of smile that started slow and spread until it touched every part of his face. The one he saved for you.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and certain, in the middle of the parking lot beneath a flickering sign and the heavy night sky. No audience. No spotlight. Just two people who had made a life out of chasing storms, and still found each other in the calm after.

And just like that, the storm didn’t matter anymore. Nor did the ruined dinner reservations or the muddy clothes left by the door. Not the motel room waiting just down the road, or the long drive home ahead in the morning. All that mattered was the way he held you steady, like home wasn’t a place you went back to, but a person who always came back for you.

#Tyler Owens #Tyler Owens x Reader #Tyler Owens x You #Twisters #Twisters Fanfiction #Tyler Owens Fanfiction #Glen Powell #Glen Powell Fanfiction

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sourinartt · 2 months ago

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Now it's Boruto fans who annoy sns fans because they have free time. They actually compete against NH and SS fans to see who's the most annoying

" They say Borusara is a heterosexual version of their gay relationship. Why is it? It's a cheap shipp taken from Walmart of sns

It's not like Kishimoto didn't call Sarada "Female version of Sasuke" and she doesn't have any traits from her mother, just like Boruto is called a second Naruto and compared to him and likewise he has nothing of his mother

Naruto and Sasuke connect because they both don't have parents, Sarada and Boruto connect because they both suffer from the abandonment of their parents

It was played with that Boruto and Sarada are a kind of "rivals" in the anime, There was also a kiss scene that if I'm not mistaken didn't happen because Sarada stopped Boruto, right?

In the manga, Boruto supports Sarada's wishes to be Hokage and then it is obvious that he will become a shadow hokage like Sasuke lol

" They say that if Sasuke were a woman, they would both end up together" and that's how it is lol, not for nothing for years these men loved the fantasy that Sasuke was a woman and Naruto would end up with her, There are fanarts, and romantic tropes from social media are used for heterosexual couples because they can't stand two men using it

I agree that Borusara is not the same as sns in some parts, for example on Boruto's part there is not much that is genuine beyond protecting Sarada because I don't know, is she his friend?

Sarada, every time they say that if she likes some form of Boruto, she gets upset because until now there was no more beyond, But well, there are some blushes that can easily be due to embarrassment

Unlike sns, Sarada does call Boruto brother, she is described as a female Sasuke, but we never saw Sasuke call Naruto brother

if for these guys Naruto/Sasuke are brothers because of the Martians who marked their paths, then it makes Sarada/Boruto distant cousins

If the Borusara relationship progresses, why would that be? I already know, because they steal the tropes from sns

Sarada wants to be Hokage, and as a savior she won't kill her childhood best friend even if he is a traitor to the world, because she loves him

boruto automatically becomes a Sasuke 2.0 and is a traitor, but he continues to be attentive to his best friend and trusts her after many years of not seeing her, and now, even though he's a rival to everyone, he protects Konoha, holy god, isn't this a sasuke?

All this shit has already been done and that's why borusara is boring because they have to steal from sns to be something

"While Sasuke and Naruto were rivals who wanted to kill each other" Naruto didn't want to kill Sasuke, he wanted to protect him and get them out of the darkness. You see how they don't even know how to read the manga but they still want to have an opinion?

Sasuke wanted to kill Naruto because he was the only person he had left who gave him love besides Itachi, his one and only, the only one who didn't leave him alone Sasuke couldn't bear those feelings and to become "stronger" he had to kill him. But, ask, is that achieved? Nah, in the end, Sasuke can't kill him because he loves Naruto and would suffer all his life without its existence

Naruto and Sasuke were also childhood best friends, they both loved each other and showed mutual support for each other, their separations are due to third parties and among them villains who played with sasuke's mental health

something that is almost similar to what Boruto was having, he is separated by third parties from his friends and specifically from Sarada

"I can see the similarities" if that's why you put together a straight couple that steals the tropes of a gay couple and you support their ass just because they're straight even though it's a boring ship, and no, we didn't change anything, it was kishimoto who made sarada a "female sasuke" with naruto ideals and boruto a "second Naruto" but with sasuke ideals and dressed like him

denying that even now straight couples use sns as a trope is crazy because then you shouldn't be pairing matsuri/konohamaru

you can lump Borusara all you want, but get sns out of your homophobic mouth.

#sns #pro naruto #pro narusasu #pro sasunaru #narusasu #sasunaru #narutoxsasuke #naruto #anti boruto blue vortex #anti borusara #borusara #anti boruto #anti boruto fandom #naruto ramblings #manga #anti naruto ending #naruto manga #boruto

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witcheshollow · 10 months ago

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My collection of tips for people who are just now developing a chronic illness or just now realizing they have one. ((As someone who has only been struggling with mine for a little over a year))

-dont blame yourself for not being able to do what you used to. Your body used to do its job to a better degree than it does now. You are not lazy bc your taking more breaks or bc you cant get out of bed. Your taking care of yourself. I struggle with this all the time. Especially considering my living situation. Shit doesnt get done when I dont do it but I simply cant sometimes.

-that leads me into my next point. Take advantage of your good days, but dont overwork yourself just bc your "not feeling chronically ill." When you have the energy, start the laundry, do the dishes, take out the trash, but still take breaks as needed

-keep a set of your meds literally everywhere. I have a pill box I specifically keep in my car with a weeks worth of my morning meds. I have a three sets of my most important meds in my bag at all times. I have pain meds stashed in every crevasse they could be stashed. Trust me, when your running late and you get half way to work before you realize you havent taken your meds your gonna want to be able to reach into your glove box and take them rq

-buy the mobility aid. You think you need a brace bc a specific joint hurts like hell and wont stay in place?? Get it. You cant walk for long periods of time and think a cane would help?? Get it. You think a shower chair would do you good so you dont pass out with shampoo in your eyes and naked?? Get it. Just get it. Walmart sells canes for under ten bucks and they work really well. They also have extra tips in a two back for 2.50. Dollar tree has braces and like 12 different pain creams. Five below also has some braces and quite a few pain relief options. You can also get them cheap on sites like shein or Amazon and sometimes depop. ((I know I know, dont support those sites but a bitch is broke and two bucks for compression socks is a fucking steal)) You can also sometimes find wheelchairs and canes and crutches at goodwill. It isnt a guarantee but its a good option if you need smt cheap. ((Be careful and check that their not broken before you buy))

-take the pain meds. Put on the pain cream. Ice that joint. You dont get brownie points for toughing it out and it will help your health in the long run. If someone looks at you like your weak for taking smt to help with your pain, their the problem, not you.

-create a good support system. Find the people who will drop their brand new iced coffee to stop you from slamming your head into the ground during a fainting spell. They are out there. Find them and hold onto them for dear fucking life

-try to make the best of what you can do every day. Put on cute earrings. Buy cute compression socks. Get braces that fit your vibe. Put stickers on your mobility aids. Put pins on your bag. Carry a cute weighted stuffie for when you need some extra comfort. Make the most of what you are capable of doing.

#chronically ill #chronic illness #chronic pain #chronic fatigue #a lot of pain meds #pain disorder #pots #potsie #pots syndrome #pots tips #chronic illness tips #pcos

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bellaxgiornata · 1 year ago

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You're Safe With Me [Chapter Seven]

Pairing: Frank Castle x Fem!Reader Word Count: 6.1k [Series Masterlist]

a/n: It's been so long since this series got a much needed update, but here y'all go. Enjoy... Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Tag list: @lunaticgurly @allaboardthereadingrailroad @linamarr @hollandorks @sleeperthelazy @marcysbear @mattmurdocksstarlight @xxdrixx @v4leoftears @aoi-targaryen @danzer8705 @anon-cat-posts @heimtathurs @kmc1989 @thepunisherfrankcastle @agirlcandream84 @americaarse @desert-fern @youmakelovinfun @callmebrooklynbabes @jooheoniesdimples @wkndwlff @midnightramble @ingstadstarlight @pone21 @kezibear @gamingfeline

Surrounded by darkness, it took a moment for your tired eyes to adjust to the dim light of the motel room. Blinking slowly as you lay along the stiff, uncomfortable mattress, you noticed a few streaks of moonlight pouring inside from behind the thin curtains that covered the window across the room. The pale light mixed with the faint red from the motel's sign outside, the slight neon glow that seeped its way inside once more drawing forth that uneasy feeling in your gut. The one you hadn't been able to shake ever since you and Frank had finished your greasy dinner before falling asleep.

Something just felt wrong.

Judging by how quiet and dark it currently was, you knew it was either still quite late or very early considering the sun hadn't risen yet. You wished you could see the alarm clock from where you lay on the bed, curious as to what time it actually was. But Frank had gone to sleep last night insisting that he place himself on the bed between you and the door across the room in the event something happened–which you'd been more than happy to agree to when he'd phrased it like that. Though that meant his large body was currently blocking the single alarm clock on the nightstand along the opposite side of the bed, making it impossible for you to know what time it was.

You knew he'd wanted to get an early start this morning, wanting to hit the road again and put even more distance between you both and this area as soon as the sun rose. But there was a large part of you–the part feeling that uneasiness in your stomach–that wished you could just wake him and leave right now. You were eager to go somewhere else that made you feel less on edge. Somewhere farther away from obvious Patriot Militia activity. You weren't sure if it was just in your head, but you’d felt like something was about to go wrong ever since Frank had stopped the van at that Walmart yesterday.

Shifting a bit along the mattress and readjusting your position, you were abruptly hit with the sudden urge to relieve your bladder, the feeling causing you to quickly realize why you'd woken in the first place. Drawing your attention away from the window, your eyes fell on Frank beside you in the dark. He was laying with his back towards you on the bed looking exactly as he had when you’d first fallen asleep together. Judging by the faint rise and fall of his broad shoulder peeking out from beneath the sheets, you assumed he was still currently asleep.

Admittedly it had taken you a while to fall asleep after you'd both eaten your dinner last night. Once you'd finally stopped focusing on that lingering feeling of dread, the feeling only calmed slightly by Frank's oddly comforting presence in the bed with you, you'd soon found it hard to ignore him . The way his body weight dipped the mattress had your own body struggling not to roll right into his solid back. For a long time you'd laid there being overly aware of where you placed your legs or your arms as you'd tried to get comfortable in the small bed. You were terrified of accidentally touching him and risking him turning around and shooting you one of his disapproving, surly looks. Or even worse–being scolded by him.

And the longer you laid beside him in the bed, unable to fall asleep, you’d noticed how he smelled like gasoline and cheap motel soap. Two scents that probably shouldn’t have mixed together but somehow felt just as oddly reassuring as the weight of him in the bed beside you. You’d laid awake staring at the back of him for far longer than you cared to admit just letting the scent fill your nose and taking further comfort in it.

But as you lay there staring at his back in the dark once more, his soft and steady exhales just loud enough for you to hear over the faint sounds of traffic on the nearby interstate, your bladder's need to be emptied grew more persistent. Biting your lip, you very slowly pulled the motel’s scratchy sheet and comforter off of yourself. You tried to move carefully as you uncovered yourself, not wanting to disturb Frank's sleeping form beside you. You figured he could use all the sleep he could get considering he was the one doing all of the driving and protecting. You knew he was exhausted, though you also feared how much grumpier he might be without a good rest.

The unforgiving chill of the motel room hit you the moment you’d removed the blankets, the loss of warmth from Frank's body heat becoming impossible to ignore. He was certainly like a furnace beneath the sheets–another thing you’d found strangely comforting about sharing the bed with him. But as you pushed yourself upright on the mattress slowly, your eyes on his back as you gnawed your bottom lip, you gradually sat upright and shoved those strange thoughts from your mind. Right now you just wanted to take a piss without incurring the wrath of accidentally waking the Punisher.

Moving one leg at a time, you gently lowered your right foot to the floor before your left one followed after it. Silently, you slid along the mattress before rising to your feet, your eyes focused on the bathroom door situated across the room and by the sink. Taking a quiet step in that direction through the dark, your mind entirely focused on your very full bladder, you were surprised when something abruptly caught your left wrist.

Startling in the darkness, you gasped audibly in surprise as your head darted over your shoulder. Frank was lying awake in the bed now, having somehow rolled noiselessly onto his other side towards you. In the dim light filtering past the motel curtains behind him, you could see his eyes were open and focused on where you stood beside the bed. Your own eyes soon dropped down to where his large hand was still holding onto you, the feel of his calloused and warm fingers lightly gripping your wrist causing goosebumps to raise along your bare forearms. Something strange stirred within you under his touch, especially with the look of concern written in his eyes and the slight furrow between his brows. But the deep and tired timbre of his voice breaking through the silence quickly distracted you from the strangely pleasant sensation that you’d felt at his touch.

“What’re you doin’?” he asked.

Swallowing hard, aware of his grip still on your left wrist, you gestured over your shoulder with your right hand. “I need to use the bathroom,” you told him awkwardly. “Was trying not to bother you. Figured you'd be…upset if I did.”

Frank's gaze held yours as he silently stared at you, his eyes narrowing a little. In the seconds that followed, you found yourself becoming increasingly aware of each of his individual fingers on your skin. Trying to steady your breathing, you attempted to shoot him a small smile while you simultaneously hoped that he couldn’t somehow feel the slight uptick in your pulse beneath the pads of his fingers.

“Trust me, I wasn't about to disappear,” you assured him. A sheepish smile slipped onto your mouth as you quietly added, “I sort of need you and all. Not exactly inclined to run from you anymore.”

His expression softened at your words, his hand gradually releasing its hold on your wrist before it fell back to the bed. Frank gave you a single, wordless nod in response. For a second more you watched as he began to settle back down on the mattress, tugging the sheets up and over himself before he rolled over onto his side with his back once more facing you. The moment he’d laid down, the desperate urge to relieve your bladder once more overtook you and you hurried towards the bathroom.

Stepping inside, you flipped on the light and shut the door softly behind yourself. You side-eyed the couple of dead moths laying on the floor beside the shower as you cautiously made your way over to the toilet. Half-awake you hurried to do your business in the bathroom, not wanting to run into any living insects–especially not after how Frank had reacted to you screaming over a spider in the previous motel.

When you left the bathroom, turning off the light and navigating your way to the nearby sink just outside, you were once more thrown into the darkness of the room. Your eyes took a minute to adjust as you felt your way to the sink, but once they did, you caught sight of Frank through the mirror. Turning on the faucet and beginning to wash your hands, you curiously eyed his reflection. He was sitting upright in the bed, his posture rigid and completely still. He looked anything but relaxed and ready to fall back asleep. A cold chill spread through you as you watched him, quickly feeling like his current alertness had nothing to do with you waking to use the bathroom.

After drying your hands on the towel, you set it back on the counter before nervously turning towards him. He sat still alert on the bed, his gaze fixed straight ahead and focused on the wallpapered wall across from him. Hesitantly you took a step towards him, nerves twisting in your stomach.

“What is it?” you whispered. “What's–”

Frank held up a hand immediately, cutting you clear off. Biting the inside of your cheek, you watched as he tilted his head towards the motel door as if he was focused hard on listening to something outside. Eyes narrowing, you practically held your breath as you tried to pick up on whatever it was that he had.

At first you didn't hear anything besides the distant sound of cars and trucks speeding past the motel parking lot, the noise a constant since you'd both shown up earlier. But then you thought you caught the faint sound of voices. Voices that were speaking in the slightest of hushed whispers. And it sounded like it was coming from just outside, not that far from your motel room.

You felt your heart jump into your throat, that nagging feeling of unease and dread washing back over you instantly. Frank's head spun towards you moments later, his hard gaze causing your palms to sweat as fear gripped you in a firm hold. You knew what he was about to say before he even said the words.

“Get under the bed,” he ordered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Stay there.”

Without a word you nodded, already obediently hurrying over towards the side of the bed. Frank rose from the mattress before you'd even lowered your knees to the dirty motel floor, and as you steadied your hands against the side of the bed, not even remotely thinking about how disgusting and unclean the floor that you were about to get quite intimate with certainly was, you watched as Frank grabbed the handgun from the nightstand beside where he'd been sleeping. Breath coming in sharper, the last thing you saw before laying down along the floor was Frank’s back as he quietly paced his way to the motel door.

With a racing heart, you shimmied your way beneath the bed frame, grateful that it was just wide enough to actually fit you beneath it. Though it was a tight fit, one that was quite uncomfortable and only adding to your increasingly terrified state. The tight, enclosed space was threatening to push you straight into a panic attack as you lay there attempting to remain calm. When you heard the door of your motel room open, you squeezed your eyes shut and held your breath.

The memory of the last time you’d hidden under the bed not that long ago was scratching at the surface of your memory. The gunshots and tang of coppery blood hanging in the air pushed at the edges of your mind as you did your best to fend them off. Though that became less of a difficult task the moment you heard the distinct shriek of a woman coming from what sounded like the room right next door.

Eyes flying wide open at the scream, you swore your heart stopped beating entirely at the sound. It wasn’t long before you heard the neighboring motel door fly open, slamming into the wall with such force that it caused the adjoining wall to shake. You assumed that had been Frank bursting into the room, probably driven even further into that protective mode of his due to the horrified scream.

Your mind was already racing as you lay beneath the bed, your heart now thudding so hard you could feel your pulse hammering away in your throat. Was it the Patriot Militia in the room next door? Had they just somehow gotten the wrong room and thought you had been staying in that one? Were they about to attack an innocent person? The thought of something horrible happening to someone else because of you had your stomach knotting and coiling with guilt.

But you didn’t have long to lay beneath the dusty bed frame worrying because the sound of a fight soon grew unmistakeable next door and you couldn’t focus on anything else. You heard loud crashes, the sound of glass shattering–the mirror above the sink possibly–and the occasional sharp bang of a gun firing which had you wincing every single time it went off. Every once and awhile the noises were accentuated by a feminine scream or something that sounded like Frank’s deep rumbling voice, but it was so muffled by the other sounds that you had no idea what he was saying.

Hands curling into fists at your sides, they ached from the tension of how tight you’d balled them. Your nails were digging into your palms while your teeth dug so hard into your bottom lip to keep you from violently shaking beneath the bed that you figured there’d soon be blood in your mouth. Part of you wanted to block out the sounds of the fight from next door, but another part of you was trying hard to decipher what the voices were saying above all the noise. And every time you heard Frank’s deadly tone making its way through the thin walls you felt a sense of comfort. It at least meant he was still alive.

You weren’t sure how long you’d laid on the floor beneath that bed while trying hard to keep your breath steady before the sound of the fight had finally died down. You figured that meant Frank had dealt with the neighboring intruders the only way you expected from the Punisher. Though you could hear him talking once more, his voice still too low and muffled for you to make out the words no matter how hard you strained to listen. The voice responding to him sounded male, though. Nothing at all like the initial screaming that had sounded like it had come from a woman. You found yourself hoping she was alright.

Curiosity eventually won out as you lay there in the cramped, tight space. Raising your head a fraction from off the floor, you craned your neck and tried hard to understand what was being said in the next room. There were two male voices, one distinctly that of Frank’s, but no matter how hard you strained to listen, you couldn’t quite make out the words. And then the sound of a loud thwap startled you seconds later before a very solid thump met your ears. The next thing you picked up on was a protesting, feminine voice that was quickly growing louder as it neared your room. Brows knitting together in confusion, you lowered your head back to the floor before rolling it towards what you could see of the motel door from beneath the bed. It soon burst loudly open seconds later, startling you at the abruptness. A set of shoes you didn’t recognize practically stumbled into the room before you spotted Frank’s familiar black boots following right behind.

“I don’t know who they were!” the unknown voice protested. “I swear! They just showed up when I was asleep right before you did!”

“Not buyin’ it, kid,” Frank’s familiar tone replied.

From beneath the bed you pulled a face at his words. Kid? What did he mean by kid ? Especially after all the violent noises you'd just overheard coming from the room over. And why had he brought them with him?

Frank called your name and you immediately stiffened under the bed, your thoughts entirely interrupted at the note of urgency in his voice. You focused back on the two sets of feet that were making their way further into the room, the motel door slamming closed a little harder than necessary.

“You can come out now,” Frank continued. “We gotta go. Grab your bag and get in the van.”

It took you a minute to uncomfortably squeeze your way out from beneath the bed frame. Gritting your teeth together, you tried to maneuver your way out but inevitably ended up hitting your shoulder on the frame as you did, grimacing slightly at the pain that shot through your arm as you finished crawling out from beneath the bed. You squinted when your eyes were hit with the light from the motel room that Frank must have turned on. Your back ached as you pulled yourself up from off of the floor, eyes adjusting to the brightness. On the opposite side of the bed you spotted Frank, one hand haphazardly swinging his bag onto his shoulder, the other roughly holding onto the back of a young woman’s sweatshirt.

“Frank, what’re you doing?” you asked, eyeing the young woman who you quickly recognized from the motel lobby when you’d arrived last night. “Why is she here?”

“Because she ain’t who she’s sayin’ she is, that’s why,” Frank snapped. “Look, we gotta go and she's gotta come with us. I can explain everything in the van when we're outta here. Alright?”

You shook your head immediately, the young girl now turning her terrified eyes on you. There was blood splattered along her face and bits of it in her blonde hair, though not remotely as much blood as what was currently covering Frank’s face. You tried to ignore the way your stomach lurched at the reason as to why they most likely had blood on themselves and why it was suddenly so quiet in the room next door.

“You–you can’t just kidnap a teenage girl from a motel, Frank,” you shot back, throwing a hand at the girl. “What about the father that she’s traveling with? You don’t think he’s going to file a police report when he sees she's missing? Have them looking for us nationwide?”

Frank rolled his eyes impatiently, his hold not letting up on the back of the girl’s pink sweatshirt. “She was lying. She isn’t here with her father. She's staying in that room alone. I'm not remotely buyin’ her innocent act and neither should you.”

“No, my–my dad just ran out for a bit,” the young blonde said, her voice wavering as her terrified eyes remained fixed on you, wide and pleading as they filled with tears. “He’s going to be back any minute and if he sees me missing he is going to freak out. Please, you have to let me go. I don’t know what’s going on! I swear!”

Your eyes darted to Frank at her side, her pleas and the tears in her eyes making you feel uneasy. Shaking your head gently at him, you said, “This isn’t what we do. We aren't going to kidnap people. They probably just had the wrong room, Frank. Mixed her up while looking for me. Just let her go and let’s get out of here.”

Frank shot you a look of disbelief, his head canting roughly to the side as his eyes narrowed at you. “Oh come on, are you really buyin’ this bullshit innocent act?” he retorted. “Only one bed was messed. There were no other bags but her backpack. No trace of anyone else in the room. And the asshole I questioned seemed pretty damn surprised when he saw me ‘cause he didn't realize you were here. The facts are in front of your face, Spunky,” he continued sharply. “Whatever the hell is goin’ on, she stepped into the same pile of shit you did. They’re after her, too. It's plain as day.”

Your eyes flew to the young woman who was still shooting you a pleading look, tears welling in her eyes as a couple slipped down her cheek. Uncertainty filled you as you studied her. She looked like she was barely even eighteen, how could the Patriot Militia have possibly been after her as well? What could they have wanted with her? The very idea of the terrorist organization targeting her seemed utterly ridiculous. It seemed more likely that she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, staying in a motel room that was neighboring yours and causing them to mistake her for you.

But yet, as you thought about it for a moment, you realized that her age alone should've been a complete giveaway to these people that they had the wrong person. If they'd thought she was the news reporter they were chasing down, seeing her should have made it quite obvious that she was far too young to even be a news reporter.

“Please,” the girl begged you. “ Please . I just want to go home. That’s all. I don’t know what’s going on or who those people are, I swear. I promise I won’t even tell the cops about either of you. Just let me go!”

“You either trust me or you don’t, Spunky,” Frank said, his impatience clear in his tone. “Cops are gonna be here any minute. We need to go. And I ain’t risking leaving her behind. So either you fall for her bullshit and we end up targets in a jail cell, or you grab your goddamn bag and we get the hell outta here. I need to call Madani.”

Inhaling a shuddering breath in, you couldn’t believe what you were about to do. Slowly you nodded at Frank, your stomach twisting as you headed over to the footboard of the bed and bent down to grab your bag from off of the floor. You shouldered the strap of it, your eyes meeting Frank’s as you straightened. A look of relief immediately washed over his face.

“Only because I…somehow trust you,” you told him softly. “Though, this seriously doesn’t feel right. She's just a kid.”

“I can see that,” Frank agreed, gesturing his head towards the door. “But we gotta go.”

With nerves and that sense of unease flooding your body, you walked past him, wincing as the young girl began sniffling softly behind you. It didn’t feel right dragging her along with the pair of you even if Frank seemed to believe she was somehow in danger herself. And you couldn't help but feel empathetic to her current situation, especially since only days ago Frank had practically kidnapped you, too.

Making your way out of the motel room, you couldn't resist shooting a glance at the room to your right. The room Frank and the girl had just come from. Thankfully the door was shut, blocking your view of whatever lay behind it. The thought of what it was hiding had your blood running cold, a shiver racing down your spine. The scent of gunpowder and the coppery tang of blood from what had happened in the motel just days ago filled your nose, the memory causing you to feel sick.

Forcing your attention to the parking lot ahead of you and tearing it away from the door, you focused your eyes on Frank's van as your feet led you towards it. You weren't going to think about what had happened in either of those motel rooms. Not right now, not if you didn't want to lose your shit in the motel parking lot. Because Frank was right, you needed to get out of here before the police appeared, and truthfully, you were grateful that you were still breathing.

As you approached the van, you could hear the young girl struggling against Frank's grip just behind you. Of course Frank remained silent despite her continued pleas, not remotely engaging with her now. That only seemed to upset her further, which in turn only increased your feeling of guilt for what you were both doing to her.

Opening the passenger door, you began to climb into the front of the van. You heard Frank leading the young woman around to the back of it before he roughly opened the doors. Cringing as you settled into the front seat, your arms hugging your little duffle bag to your chest, you heard the distinct sound of a zip tie tightening. Turning around in your seat, you frowned at the sight of one of the zip ties already secured around her right wrist.

“Please, don't,” the girl pleaded with Frank as he grabbed her other wrist. “Please don’t do this.”

“That's not necessary, is it?” you called back to Frank.

Frank's stern gaze shifted from the blonde to you, his hand still firmly gripping her wrist as he paused. In the distance your ears picked up on the sound of police sirens, the noise immediately increasing your panic. They were most certainly on their way here and you were both quickly running out of time. No doubt Frank knew that, too.

“We don’t know her,” Frank shot back, his head gesturing to the blonde. “You really want to leave her loose back here? Hands free so she can attack us?”

Your gaze shifted uneasily to the girl beside him. “You don’t really think a teenage girl is capable of that, do you?” you questioned back.

“I don’t know who the damn hell she is, Spunky,” Frank growled. “And personally, I’d rather not risk finding out. You get me?”

Eyelids slowly lowering, you nodded in defeat. Turning back around in your seat, you felt sick to your stomach as you heard him finish securing her wrists before hefting her into the back of the van. Rather roughly he slammed the back doors shut before appearing at the driver’s side of the vehicle seconds later. He opened the door and climbed in, tossing his duffle bag down on the floor beside your feet before shoving the key into the ignition and starting the van. You shot him a questioning look, your feet shifting away from the bag.

“You want her sitting back there with the guns?” he snapped.

“No,” you admitted quietly.

Frank let out a grunt in response before he put the car in drive. As he began to peel out of the motel’s parking lot, he started shifting in the driver’s seat, one hand searching the pocket of his pants. Your head turned slightly over your shoulder, shamefully eyeing the young woman in the back. She was sitting on the floor of the van hunched over, her face buried in her hands. You’d been about to open your mouth to say something, but Frank had roughly bumped something against your arm to get your attention. Gaze returning back to him beside you, the sound of sirens growing even louder, you frowned at the phone in his hand.

“I’m gonna need you to call Madani,” he told you. “Put her on speakerphone. I need to focus on driving if you wanna get outta here.”

Wordlessly you accepted the phone from his hand and pulled up the contact list. The only other number saved in the phone that wasn’t your new burner phone was that of a Dinah Madani. Hitting the call button, you watched the phone screen change before you pressed the button to place it on speakerphone. The sound of the dial tone cut through the tension filling the van as you sat there quietly. The phone rang four times before she finally answered.

“What is it now, Castle?” Madani’s tired and irritated voice greeted from over the line. “It’s almost three in the morning.”

“We got another problem, Madani,” Frank answered, his eyes focused straight ahead. “Need you to clean up another mess for us.”

There was a curse on the other end of the line before Madani let out a sigh.

“You know,” she began, the sleep slowly leaving her voice, “just because I gave you the clearance to protect someone by any means necessary, that doesn’t mean you need to keep dropping bodies.”

“Wasn’t tryin’ to,” Frank replied, glancing in the rearview mirror as he spoke. “But they went after someone in the motel room next to ours and–”

“So help me, Castle,” Madani immediately began, “if you got an innocent bystander killed, the deal will be off.”

“No, I didin’t,” he countered. “They were actually after this girl. Barely looks to be eighteen. Apparently didn’t even know we were right there, too. Which is either coincidental or somethin’ else, I don’t know. But either way, I wasn’t just gonna sit back and let them take her.”

There was a pause before Madani answered.

“So what happened? Is she okay?” she asked. “Is she with you? Why are they after her?”

Frank glanced over his shoulder at the girl, your own eyes following his gaze. Her attention was focused on the both of you, clearly listening in to the phone call. There was a hard to read expression on her face, but something about it made her seem a little less innocent as you eyed her.

“She’s alive,” Frank replied, focusing back on the road. “Brought her with us. But she’s refusing to say why they want her.”

“Well let me know whatever you find out,” Madani told him. “But just…no torturing her, okay? She’s just a kid so treat her like one.”

You saw the way the muscle twitched in Frank’s cheek at her words, his eyes narrowing at the road. She’d touched on a nerve with that comment, it was obvious.

“Wouldn’t do that, Madani,” Frank ground out. “That’s not what I do.”

A loud sigh came from the other end of the phone before you heard the click of a pen.

“So where is the mess I need to clean up?” Madani asked.

“Sunny Daze Motel,” Frank told her.

Your attention shifted to the side mirror on the van as Frank repeated the motel’s address to her. Some of your nerves were eased by the fact that you couldn’t hear the police sirens anymore and you definitely couldn’t see any flashing blue and red lights. And that seemed like a good thing. It meant that you both had once more managed to get away with your lives intact. And now Madani would clean up the mess Frank left behind and keep the cops off of your back again, which was a relief even if you still felt sick at the thought of the dead bodies you knew were laying back in that motel room.

“There uh, was something else, Madani.”

The sound of unease in Frank’s tone caught your attention instantly. Head darting over your shoulder, your eyes immediately narrowed at him curiously. What else could there have been besides the dead bodies and the mysterious girl?

“What, Castle?” Madani asked carefully.

You could see the way Frank hesitated, his eyes determinedly focused on the road ahead of him. The shift in his demeanor had you studying him closely as he spoke, paying close attention to every word.

“The guy I questioned back at the motel,” Frank began slowly, “he mentioned something. Something that seemed…concerning.”

He paused, his hands readjusting their position on the steering wheel. His grip seemed tighter than usual when he was driving, almost as if he was…uncomfortable. Or nervous.

“Yeah?” Madani pressed.

“Not sure how much clearance you’ve got at Homeland, but have you uh,” Frank asked carefully, his eyes still straight ahead, “you ever heard of something called Project Chimera?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Your eyes narrowed even further as you studied Frank, certain he was intentionally avoiding looking at you now. Whatever the hell that was didn’t sound good, that much you could gauge.

“No,” Madani answered slowly, dragging the word out. “Should I know what that is?”

“Heard it mentioned a long time ago. Back when I was still in that special forces group,” Frank continued, still very much ignoring the way your eyes were boring into the side of his face. “S’posed to be something that doesn’t exist even though it does. Top secret government shit, y’know? Something I remember being asked to join. But I said no ‘cause it seemed…not quite right.”

“You got more than that to go on?” Madani questioned.

Frank’s mouth set into a hard line, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight you saw his knuckles whiten now. He was definitely nervous and that had you terrified. What could possibly scare the Punisher?

“All I remember hearing ‘bout it after the fact,” Frank answered, “was that they were making enhanced soldiers. Not training them– making them.”

Your blood ran cold as you stiffened in the seat. You didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t sound like a good thing. Over the line, you heard Madani clear her throat and you waited with bated breath, hoping you’d get something more from either of them.

“So you…you’re telling me that there might be some sort of…bigger threat after her now?” Madani hesitantly asked. “Is that what you’re saying? That it’s not just assholes with guns anymore?”

“Dunno,” Frank replied. “Dickhead mentioned his superiors weren’t a fan of mine. Managed to mention Chimera. Our girl here told me some higher up government shitbags are behind all this mess with the militia. So my guess?” he continued on. “The dickhead must’ve meant some higher ranking officials have access to these soldiers. I must be making enough trouble for them to need to call in somethin’ more…reliable.”

“Wonderful,” Madani muttered. “Alright, well, I’ll deal with your motel problem now, then I’ll do my best to dig around and see what I can find on some secret, nonexistent government project. In the meantime, you find out what’s up with the other girl and keep your goddamn head’s down, okay? I don’t need any of you dying on me before I can get this shit dealt with.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank said. “That’s always the plan, ain’t it?”

The call ended abruptly and for a moment you just sat there with the phone in your hand, trying to process what you’d just overheard. Eventually you cautiously reached your hand out, giving the phone back to Frank when he briefly glanced at you. You watched as he pocketed it once more, his attention remaining focused on the road. But you couldn’t stop staring at him after what you’d just learned, fear once more enveloping you where you sat.

“Are we just…not going to talk about that?” you whispered, voice shaking.

“Talk ‘bout what?” Frank asked, eyes still on the road.

“The bigger threat?” you replied. “Enhanced soldiers? Whatever Project Chimera is?”

At the sound of your quiet, terrified voice, Frank’s gaze finally landed on you in the seat beside him. His expression softened, sympathy shining back at you in his dark eyes. At the moment, he looked far more compassionate than you’d ever seen him before.

“Hey, ‘s’alright,” he assured you. “You don’t need to worry about it. No one is gonna hurt you, okay? I made you a promise. And I’m a stubborn asshole, remember? Nothing is gonna happen to you.”

Feeling tears prick at your eyes, your attention switched to the road. Arms hugging your duffle bag tighter to your chest, you once more felt the weight of everything crashing down on you. Frank was good– really good–at fighting. But neither of you even knew what this Project Chimera was or what an enhanced soldier was even capable of.

“You don’t know that,” you whispered back, shaking your head lightly. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“You’re gonna be alright, you got that?” Frank stated firmly. “We’re gonna take these assholes down. And at the end of it, you’ll be just fine, Spunky.”

A tear snuck its way out of the corner of your eye, slipping its way down your cheek. You wanted to believe him, you really did. But right now you felt like the odds were quickly stacking against you both.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you whispered back.

#frank castle x reader #frank castle angst #frank castle x you #frank castle #the punisher

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wandaluvstacos · 9 months ago

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I am begging people to stop buying this damn sewing machine for anyone older than 12.

As a toy for children, it's acceptable. If you ACTUALLY want to sew something, do not get a cheap piece of crap from Walmart for $35!! You'll work on this thing for 15 minutes, it will suck, you will get frustrated, and then you'll tell yourself that you are simply incapable of sewing and that it's too complicated for you. But it's not your fault-- you are working with a child's toy. That's like giving up on driving a car because your Barbie Jeep's battery dies the first 5 minutes you're in it.

My two recommendations:

First and most recommended: You get a LIGHTLY USED modern plastic machine for cheap off Facebook Marketplace or your local sewing machine repair shop. I'm talking less than 10 years old. You ask the seller "do you use this regularly" or "has this been serviced". Try to buy from someone who has used the machine recently because they'll know its ins-and-outs. You can find a modern machine for like $30 on Facebook Marketplace from someone who has actually used it (I would not recommend Goodwill or anywhere you can't speak to the person who used it before you, if you are just starting out). One highly recommended modern machine for beginners is the Singer Heavy Duty.

It's $200 new but you can easily find one much cheaper used. It's simple to use and will hold up to basic sewing for the time it will take you to decide whether you want to sew or not. Other modern Singers suck ass; save yourself the trouble. Go with the Singer Heavy Duty or a Brother, or even a Janome if you can find one cheap enough. Stay away from anything that's not a time-trusted brand.

The Brother CS6000i is a decent beginner's machine.

Again, do not buy machines off eBay unless they make it CLEAR that it has been fully serviced and is in perfect working condition. They honestly aren't much cheaper used on eBay than they are new, so best to buy it from someone on Facebook Marketplace or at a sewing machine repair place.

Second recommendation: Buy a VINTAGE METAL machine that has been fully serviced or in perfect working condition. These are more difficult to find serviced, so I wouldn't recommend it unless you find one on FB Marketplace (though the one I got on eBay worked perfectly out of the box). There will be TONS of very cheap vintage machines on FB Marketplace, but the problem with these is that they've often been sitting in a cabinet for 20 years, unused. Not great for learning on. You can also buy one of these machines and have it serviced, but having a machine serviced will cost more than the machine is worth, more often than not.

There are benefits to a vintage metal machine over a modern plastic one. it will last your lifetime. It can sew through thick, difficult fabrics. They're much better looking imo. They likely won't break unless you drop them down a stairwell. However, the oldest ones only do a straight stitch, and speaking as someone who has vintage and a modern machine... the automatic buttonholer and overlock stitch are nice to have! But the vast majority of the stitching you will do will only be zig zag (for stretch knits/elastic) or straight stitch. The zig zag feature became available in most domestic sewing machines by the late 1950s.

Any vintage machine made before 1970 will be fine to sew with; everything was pretty good quality back then. 1970s era Kenmores are ugly and basic but they are cheap while also being excellent machines, and they're the "newest" domestic machine you can get that's still all metal.

Any Singer will have easy-to-replace parts, have easily findable user manuals, and every sewing machine repairman will be able to fix them. The uglier ones in the 1960s are dirt cheap, if you make sure it's not younger than the 628 or 337. Both of these machines are the cheapest vintage all-metal Singers you'll find and they work fine (and they do zig zag stitches).

Do NOT get a Touch n Sew or Stylist made in the late 1960s or later. Generally if it has plastic buttons, it's got something plastic inside (not always, but with Singers, often). These Golden Touch n Sews are in fact Touch n Throw (away).

Any old black machine will be fine and very simple to use, and I think they look gorgeous, but they only straight stitch, so you won't be able to sew your own leggings on them. If you only want to make curtains, quilts, or bags or something, they will work fantastic for that. Just make sure they're serviced, as these things usually are not.

I'm going to talk to my younger, beginner self: Just because it's a used, older machine does not make it worse!

Even used modern plastic machines can work fine. It's rare that people are selling a machine as WORKING when it doesn't work. People tend to be honest about it. Usually they are selling it because they lost interest, it was given to them by a family member, or they just don't use it enough to keep around. Buying used is almost always the best, cheapest option for a beginner. Stop buying these cheapo gadgets on Amazon! They will only make you hate sewing machines.

#sewing machines #passing on my knowledge learned over the past 8 years lol #sewing #beginner sewists

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b4by-bee · 6 months ago

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Your Pacifier and You

Hello, all! Whether you call them pacifiers, pacis, binkies, dummies, suckees, or anything else, a lot of regressors use them, and I know that sometimes, it's hard to find information about them and how to take care of them, disassemble them, etc etc. Most of the information I've found has been from confused people asking questions. So I thought, since I've had to learn this all by myself, I'd make a comprehensive guide to help out regressors and caregivers alike! Hopefully, someone finds this helpful!

What makes up a pacifier?

Let's start with the basics! A standard adult pacifier is made up of 4 parts; a shield, a button, a ring/handle, and a teat/nipple.

There's some unique designs out there, of course, but this is the typical one you'll find for sale.

The teat is the part that, since it goes into your mouth, will be worn out the fastest, so it's worth learning about it, in case you need to replace it. The one pictured here is a latex Nuk 5 (my mouth is a little smaller). TYPICALLY, you will receive a silicone Nuk 6. They come in many different sizes, and you can get some REALLY big ones! Between the two, silicone is more durable and lasts much longer, but latex is a bit softer, so neither is better, it's up to personal preference and what's available in the size you want! Obviously also be wary of latex allergies.

Where do I find one?

Unfortunately, these aren't usually something you'll find in a store. But fortunately, you'll find lots of places online selling them! My personal favorites are Etsy (all kinds of small business with something unique), My Inner Baby (good variety and actually has Nuk 5s for sale), and Pacifier Addict (good variety and almost exclusively pacifiers), but there's tons more websites online! Though, I always recommend to look at them when you aren't regressed, or getting someone else bigger to look for you if you can, because sometimes they have NSFW things, too. Always be careful! Most will have discreet shipping, but it's always worth a quick message or email to check if you're not sure!

I have my pacifier now! How do I take care of it?

Pacifiers are something that, to a regressor who uses them, are very special. And it's always good to take care of something you care about! The best ways (besides being careful with any paint or decorations) to take care of it are cleaning it, and storing it.

Ideally, you should clean it before and after you use it every time. Buuuuuut that's not always possible, and sometimes just tedious and boring. So, I would recommend getting some pacifier wipes, or even just baby wipes (just make sure they are fragrance free, and ideally without any lotions), giving it a quick wipe, and then using it, and just taking it apart to clean once a week or so, or if you drop it or notice it's really dirty. As long as you do that, and store it well when you aren't using it, you should be a-OK!

Alternatively, as long as there's no decorations held in place by glue, you CAN boil it. But that's not really necessary, just warm water and dish soap is enough!

How should I store it?

Storing a pacifier is important to keeping it safe when you aren't using it! There's lots of ways to do it, but I'll just share a few, as well as what's good and bad about them all!

1: Denture case. These are usually cheap and easy to find (I got mine at Walmart), and come with a little dunker that can make for easy cleaning! You can also paint them to look however you want, like I have here! (just make sure it's non-toxic paint and has some sort of clear coat to seal it if it'll get wet). The downside is that it's bulkier and less discreet, but can still be passed off as something to hold small trinkets

2. A commercial pacifier holder. You'll find this in the baby section of stores. This is helpful to clip on the outside of a bag. This one says it holds 2 pacifiers, and is juuuust big enough to hold 1 adult sized one. The downsides are that it'll bend the teat, making it wear out quicker, and isn't a great seal, so dust might still get in

3. Folding sunglasses case. I found this at Dollar Tree, and it's the perfect size! It zips completely closed, so no dust will get in. You will have to bend the teat, though, which wears it out faster.

4. Secret pocket in a stuffed animal. By far the cutest option, I've got Koibito-chan here modeling this option! This can be a fun way to hide one, and most people don't think to look in a stuffed animal, so it's the sneakiest! And you can make the pocket as big or small as you like, so no worries about bending anything! But you may need to use a mesh bag or something to prevent fibers and hairs from getting all over the teat, and it can be stressful to do surgery on a stuffed animal. But if this one appeals to you, I'll link a tutorial. I used velcro for the pocket on mine. Just be careful when sewing!

There's lots more ways to store them, but hopefully, this gives you a good idea of what to look for in a storage space. Some Etsy stores even offer to include a storage box with one!

I want to clean it/the teat deflated/I need to replace the teat, etc! How do I take it apart?

This is the one I've seen the most confusion on, but don't worry! It's got a trick to it, but once you know the trick, it's really easy to do! Generally, you'll only need to take it apart to clean or if the teat deflates (which happens sometimes!)

Step 1: Pull on where the ring connects to the button on one side, until it pulls free. BE GENTLE, there are very tiny plastic parts that can snap if you aren't

Step 2: Move it away from the hole, and now pull the OTHER side. BE GENTLE AGAIN, those little plastic tabs can snap, and they hold the whole thing together!

Step 3: Once the ring is free, pull on the button, and it should come right out.

Step 4: Pull the teat off the button. And now it's completely apart!

To reassemble, just follow the steps backwards! Putting the teat back on the button might give you a little trouble until you're used to it, but just use a long fingernail or a thin, blunt tool to push it into place, as long as it isn't sharp!

How to know when something needs to be replaced

Generally, the plastic parts of your pacifier should last you forever! Only replace those if something is broken on them. The teat, however, gets a LOT of use, especially if you use your pacifier often. If you use it every day, it's not a bad idea to plan to replace the teat every year. But regardless of timing, make sure to replace the teat if:

-You notice any discoloration

-There's a weird smell

-There's a weird taste

-There's a weird texture

-The shape doesn't seem right

For example, these are 3 of mine. The left is brand new latex, just came in today and hasn't even been used. Some are already cloudy, and some are clear, so just keep in mind what's normal for yours. The middle one is one I've had for a bit, so it's a little cloudy, but it's still fine, it just needs to be replaced soon, in the next month or two. And the right is an older latex one. It's a lot cloudier, and feels rough when I suck on it, so it needs to be replaced before I should use it again.

Anything else to keep in mind?

-If you fall asleep with yours, or drop it a lot, look into a pacifier clip! It'll keep it from falling on the ground and getting too dirty, and it looks cute!

-Be careful with any materials you use to decorate it, and then be careful with the decorations! Make sure it's non-toxic since it'll be close to your mouth, and don't use too much heat when cleaning it if there's glue!

-You can have as many or as few as you like. If you only want one (or none!), that's okay! If you want a new one every day, that's okay, too! There's no rules about it. Just make sure you take care of yourself before worrying about getting one! You don't wanna buy one and then not have enough money for yummy snacks!

-Be careful if you live with family, roommates, or anyone else who wouldn't approve or you just don't want to know. Make sure it's well hidden if you need to, or skip out on one until you live somewhere else if it wouldn't be safe. Worry about your safety first and foremost!

-You CAN use ones for actual babies, but it can hurt your teeth if you do, so I still recommend getting an adult sized one, or at least one you can swap the teat with.

That's all I have on a guide! Hope this was helpful, and I hope you have a good day today!

#agere blog #agere #age regressor #sfw agere #age regression #agere community #agere paci #agere pacifier

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totally-sick-blogger · 1 year ago

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5 low energy activities for when you're feeling too unwell to get up but don't want to be on your phone.

Hi lovies!

I think that the title pretty much explains it. Still, I wanted to share 5 low-energy activities today because I know it can be really hard to find something to do when you're not feeling well but you've already been scrolling on your phone for hours. All of these are things that you can do from your bed, the couch, etc. and they are all very affordable!

Tip: If you're doing these in your bed (or somewhere else that doesn't have a good flat surface) you can use a cookie sheet/baking tray. If you don't already own a cookie sheet you can find them for really cheap at the dollar store or a second-hand store

colouring - this one is probably pretty obvious but I think it's a good one because it's pretty customizable. You can buy a colouring book from the dollar store or amazon or Walmart or wherever else. you could even find free printable colouring pages online. the same thing applies to markers/crayons etc. you probably already have some and if not you can get super cheap ones or super fancy ones.

2. crossword puzzles/word searches - I know these aren't for everyone but I love them and they're another thing that you can find paper copies of or online and you can buy a book of them or print them out yourself.

3. reading - This is another one that has lots of options for different price ranges and affordability. you can buy new books, or used books, borrow from a library, or do audiobooks or Ebooks instead. I know that some libraries have apps you can download with Ebooks and audiobooks that you can borrow as long as you have a library card.

4. bead crafts - I love making things with beads (particularly bracelets) because it's, easy, and requires no brain power. I'd also like to mention that if you have poor dexterity or fine motor skills (or want avoid eye strain) I recommend using pipe cleaners instead of string and using larger beads that are easier to pick up.

5. card games - If you have a friend, family member, or caregiver around you can play card games! they're fun, easy, you can do it laying down and there's tons of different games out there.

Bonus

6. This is bonus activity because it takes a bit more energy than the others but I always recommend finding a video essay or documentary on an interesting topic and taking notes and doing a deep dive on the subject!

that's all for today lovies, as always I hope this helps at least one person!

#chronic illness #disability #disabled #chronicillnessawareness #disabled community #spoonie #totally sick blog #accessibility #flare up #thingstodowhenyourebored

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20dollarlolita · 2 years ago

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If anyone is wondering, this tutorial to make this skirt is still a method that works. Both those links are from wayback machine captures from a time before Photobucket betraying us all and deleting pictures.

Yes, I'm still mad about that.

Anyway, in the spirit of seeing if budget lolita was still doable in 2023, here we go with a cost breakdown:

>Main skirt fabric was a $10 walmart 4-yard precut; enough fabric to make waist ties not pictured here >Skirt is fully lined with a polyester bedsheet I got for $1 at a surplus store >The bow lace was part of a bulk purchase, ended up costing 21cents a yard. Skirt probably has 6-8 yards of lace on it. The little vertical strips were scraps from another project. Back shirring on skirt is 1/4" elastic, which covid conveniently made super cheap. >I didn't have the zipper on hand, so I had to buy one for $1 at walmart. As anyone who has been on Wawak knows, that's massively overpaying for zippers.

This skirt is 3" longer and a few sizes larger than the one in the post. I had to make a new cutting layout for the skirt, and it took a fair bit of additional fabric. In addition, to save on fabric width, the "side seams" on this are actually a little bit farther back than the side of the skirt. I cut the back of the skirt to full fabric width, and then added the adjustment for the fullness into the side front pieces. Clarice, who wrote the original tutorial, mentions that the person she made it for was very small, so I sized it up a little bit.

I make sketches like this as I go for personal reference, but maybe it'll be helpful.

In the spirit of livejournal, I "clarified" my sketch by making it more confusing in GIMP. (Your pieces you need to cut will be back: 44"x19.5", cut 1. Side Front, 22"x19.5", cut 2. Center Front, 15"x25.5", cut 1. Frills, 5.5"x44", cut 9 or 10).

So, when we get into it, yeah, if you have a good design (or can copy a good design) and you're willing to put some time into it, you can still do a budget lolita skirt for under $20 of materials, if you're careful. I'm mostly making this post to save which archive.org captures are the ones with working pictures.

(It also helps if you don't mess up on the waistband so many times that it slowly shrinks into a 1" waistband.)

Fun fact: the trim on the ends of the waist ties may or may not be because I hemmed them sloppily and the hem came up bubbly, and zigzagging some lace onto the bottom handily covered up the bubbling. One of the advantages about knowing a decent amount about lolita fashion is that you can look at things and go, "Yeah, if I added x here, it'd be fine," and knowing enough about sewing to go, "yeah, if I do x cheat here, it'll look better" and being able to put the two together and go, "hey, if I cheat here, it'll still look lolita!" It's a good feeling.

Anyway, if anyone else has ever used Clarice's tutorial to make a skirt, I'd love to see it! This is my second time using it, but the last time was almost a decade ago at this point, and I think I've improved a lot since then.

#20dollarlolita #lolita fashion #budget lolita #diy lolita #handmade lolita

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ratlikeclown · 11 months ago

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WIP Wolverine x femReader 18+

“God, do you ever suck on anything other than Wade’s dick and cheap cigars?”

He leaned in close to your ear and growled,

“Ya lookin to find out Princess?”

x Deadpool kinda eventually lmfaoooo

FemY/n is mid 20’s - early 30’s

Tw for depression and like drug use mentions ig

🌶️🫵

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hello 👋 This is the first fanfic that I have written in over 10 years the brain rot is so unbelievably real for wolverine and deadpool rn

its a little embarrassing tbh lmfaoo

—————————

I’m not really sure how to tag this tbh. I’ve never posted on tumblr. . It’s a little spicy and will get more interesting later. I just wanted to toss this small part out for readers to test the waters. Anyway um I’m not experienced writing y/n pov so please be nice.

Your friend, Wade Wilson, couldn’t take no for an answer. You knew that and yet you still had the audacity to tell him ‘no’ three times tonight. And about thirty minutes after you ignored his last phone call there he was, practically knocking down your door. It wasn’t like he couldn’t actually kick in your door, he was just being polite.

The apartment buzzer went off. You sat up from your position on the couch, hoping he’d just give up and leave if you didn’t acknowledge him. Like a stray cat. Or a crackhead.

“Knock knock~” you heard his voice through the door. “I smell Hot Pockets and sadness I know you’re in there”

Gripping the arm of the sofa you waited hoping he’d have the common courtesy fuck off .You heard the door knob rattle. Dumbass.

With a click of the lock, your door swung open revealing Wade, grinning as he shoved his Baby Knife back into his coat.

“Wade, what the fuck? I told you-“

He clapped his hands loudly, interrupting you.

“Let’s go Funshine Bear, the nights young and I’m not going anywhere without you” Wade marched past you, straight to your bedroom humming to himself.

“You look awful by the way, we’ll fix you up though.” He clicked his tongue and crooked a finger in your direction. You huffed angrily, sliding off the couch to follow him.

You stopped in the doorway, almost refusing to step inside. He was elbows deep in your closet drawers, throwing clothes onto your bed, muttering his disapproval at every item he tossed.

You crossed your arms as you watched him.

“Do you have anything that doesn’t look like you took it from the Walmart dumpster?” He pulled a drawer out from the dresser and dumped it on the floor. “You know the one I’m talking about, right? Where all the coke addicted bronies go to have a bone sess before band practice.”

You crossed your arms as you watched him. “Wade, I’m not in the mood to go out.”

You heard him sigh, but continued to riffle through your things.

“That’s nonsense, the plot can’t continue with out you. Annnd we made these plans last week.”

He peeked at you from behind the open closet door. “I’m a little worried about you. You aren’t your chipper self lately”

“I’m just tired” You replied dismissively.

It wasn’t like Wade hasn’t been trying to cheer you up in his own way. For the last few weeks he’d text you obscure and quite frankly disturbing memes at 3 AM. Excitedly offer you drugs that he’s pilfered from the his blind roommate- (he knows you don’t do drugs, he just wanted to brag about stealing coke from Blind Al)

He’s also been sending you the strangest X-Men fan fiction. (His favorites were ‘old man yaoi’ including Professor Xavier and Magneto) Usually you eat that kind of stuff up, finding it funny that you knew some of the people that the fanfiction was written about, like a private joke between you and Deadpool. But worst thing he’s done has beencalling you almost every day and attempting to make plans with you, but you always seem to cancel last minute. So yeah, he has been trying. It just.. didn’t help.

Your eyes flickered to your wall of photos next to the closet door. Pictures of your closest friends and family. Their arms around you laughing, smiling. Pictures of trips and silly outings that meant the world to you. You felt so much guilt and regret looking at them.

Depression was a bitch. It was like a rabid dog that wouldn’t let you get back on your feet. You felt it gnawing at you, causing you to lose interest in everyone and everything. You felt alone. Your eyes fell back to Wade, you watched your friend hard at work trying to match your shoes with a dress he had found. He was clueless. You couldn’t tell him any of this though, it would just make him worry more.

There was someone you did want to talk to though. To tell everything to. Someone that you had grown so close to the last few months.

You missed Logan.

This realization caused your face to heat and anxiety weld up in your chest. You balled your hands into fits thinking about that arrogant jerk. You’ve tried to be a friend to Wolverine. After all this wasn’t his reality. He was your timeline’s replacement. (Idk you should go watch the movie. I’m not explaining it.) and for a while, you thought you were friends.

Lately, if he wasn’t drunk and depressingly moody, he was angry and a massive dick.

“Y/N? Look a little pink at the cheeks are you feeling OK?” Wade was now standing less than a foot from you, his brows furrowed. You hadn’t noticed him move.

Snapping back from your thoughts by Wades voice, you ran hands over your face as you turn towards the attached bathroom.

“Dude, I told you I’m just not feeling good-” You stepped into the bathroom and turned on the faucet “I don’t wanna hang out with-“

“Logan?”

“Your friends.” You finished. You felt your face flush deeper at his name being mentioned.

“That’s what I said” Wade followed you to the bathroom, but thankfully didn’t come in. He stood outside while you closed the door.

“Trust me honey, I know he’s the embodiment of a sentient happiness starved cactus whose father never loved him but-“

You groaned, trying to avoid Wades ramblings you turned the water on full blast, drowning out the remainder of his sentence. You splashed water on your face and ran a comb through your hair. You heard Wade continue talking, almost to himself while also sounding like he was talking to someone else in the room as well. Someone you couldn’t see. He did that often. It was creepy.

You swung the door open frowning.

“-sometimes he stabs me through the face to shut me up, but I know he does it because he’s not good with words.”

Wade smile faded when he saw your face.

“It’s kinda hot”

“I don’t want to talk about it Wade.” You sat down onto your bed with a huff despite the pile of clothes and plastic hangers. You stared at your hands. You felt the overwhelming weight of your anxiety in your chest and stomach. Maybe you should go out. Maybe he won’t show up tonight. Maybe-

“You look like you wanna talk about it Friendo.”

Wade joined you by dramatically pushing all the clothes off the bed, making an even bigger mess of your room. He flopped down onto your bed stomach first, propping himself up by his elbows. He kicked his feet and smiled at you.

“I’m all ears.”

“I don’t know how to start” You admitted.

“Start with an ‘I feel’ statement”

Another sigh escaped your mouth. How did you feel? It felt complicated. You met him a few months ago. At first he was rude and closed off. Then he slowly began to open up, sure you still bickered and fought like cats, but it had playful undertones. (‘Sexy undertones’ Wade had joked) When he was being genuine and open, it felt like you could talk to him for hours. Though he never spoke for too long, he would to listen to you earnestly. Up until a few weeks ago, that is.

“I feel like Logan hates me. I feel like he would rather huff paint thinner than have a decent conversation with me.”

Wade laughed. “Well that’s not true, I can’t get him to huff anything.”

You shot him a look.

“Listen, I invite Mr. Grumpy out every time. But he’s too busy sulking to get fucked up with us. He would rather get drunk and pass out in the floor of the apartment. He probably won’t even show up.” Wade gave you a reassuring look.

“If he does you’re gonna be there with me. We’ll leave if you feel uncomfortable at all.”

He rolled over and sat up, putting an arm around you.

“I’ve just noticed your mood lately I need you to know that I love you.” He gave your shoulder a squeeze. “-and I miss getting fucked up with you.”

“Will you stab him for me if he’s mean?”

“Of course. I always have Baby Knife on me.”

“Fine. Let me get ready”

He jumped off the bed excitedly.

You pushed Wade out the door to get dressed, pausing in the doorway. “Wade?”

“Yes Friendo?” He turned on his heel

“I love you too bud”

He squealed as you closed the door.

~~~

You never understood why Wade wouldn’t just buy a car. He makes decent money (he doesn’t) and could probably afford a nice one. (He couldn’t) At one point you recall him having a weird hyperfixation with the Honda Odyssey (he fucked Wolverine in one) (allegedly)

Instead, you were climbing into the back of a dirty beat up taxi cab that his friend, Dopinder, drove for a living. At least you didn’t have to walk. Dopinder was a sweet guy, if not a little unhinged every once in a while.

“You look quite beautiful tonight Miss Y/N” He complimented you as you settled in the back seat. You smiled at him, appreciating the comment. Wade had picked out your dress and you felt a little exposed and out of your element in it. It wasn’t anything crazy, just a slick black dress with a low neck line. The dress was short, ending a little above the knee. The problem was the slit up the side. You wanted to wear tights under the outfit but Wade insisted on fishnets. ‘You look like a goth baddie’ he had assured you, ‘Like a Hot Topic clearance rack version of Morticia Addams.’

Wade hopped in the front and immediately started to flip through the radio channels. Dopinder usually had on pleasant sounding Indian pop music but Wade settled on some heavily censored 90’s hip hop.

The drive was rocky. Wade, who almost never kept his hands to himself, would grab poor Dopinder while dancing along to the music causing the cab to swerve. A lot.

Having made it to the bar in one piece, you quickly scrambled out of the back, thanking the young man for the ride.

Wade waited for you at the door.

~~~

The bar was loud and dark. One of those typical bars you see in movies, filled with moving bodies and cigarette smoke. Music pumped through the speakers with some people lingering near the bar while others swayed on the dance floor. Wade bounced through the crowd pulling you along towards the bar, where his group of friends took up half the bar area. You scanned the crowd nervously. No Logan. Your muscles relaxed, and you moved with a little more energy.

Wade greeted his friends with various enthusiastic greetings and crude gestures. You smiled in greeting and waved at a friend you recognized but sat down on a stool next to where Wade stood, him blocking you from most of the other bar patrons. There was a part of you that was a little disappointed that Logan wasn’t here. It made sense if he didn’t show up here, this bar was honestly more like a club, upbeat and energetic. He’s used to dark depressing dive bars, places you can drink yourself into a coma and not be bothered. But the few times he had shown up here you had thought that he enjoyed your company, for a little while at least. During times when the others were off doing dubious shit somewhere, he’d sit with you at the bar. You even managed to get him to dance with you once. That all changed recently. Something happened that caused him to be distant and often rude for seemingly no reason.

Everyone seems to be so happy to see Wade and he, them. You didn’t really know why you were here. It already felt overwhelming. You used to love coming here. Drinking and dancing, playing pool badly and belting out shitty country music karaoke with everyone. Lately, things have felt different. You’ve lost interest in a lot of the things you use to enjoy, spending your days just working and rotting in your apartment. This was too much.

Wade touched your shoulder causing you to jump.

“Hey we’re off to play some darts you in?”

You smiled at your friend. “You really wouldn’t want me to play, you’d end up as the dart board.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time Sweetheart” Wade laughed, “we’ll be over there if you change your mind.” He made a heart with his hands and turned toward the group already making their way to the play area.

You sat quietly at the counter with a glass of something sweet and strong. You wanted to feel a buzz but you needed it to taste good. Your eyes scanned the crowd, people watching. You watched people dance and sway to the newest Kesha song blaring through the speakers. You witnessed a near fight over a pool game. You heard Wade’s laughter from across the room, his friends echoing along. You felt alone. It was your fault you told yourself. If you wanted to feel better you would’ve gotten up and joined your friends. But here you sat, being miserable on purpose.

“Hey beautiful, mind if I joined you?” Your head snapped up meeting the face of someone you didn’t recognize. He was good looking, in a vanilla frat boy kinda way. With his backwards hat, sleeveless tank, skinny jeans and all.

But he smiled like a wolf.

“I’m sorry.” You tried to smile politely, but you had a twinge of anxiety growing in your chest. “I’m not really in the mood for company”

The man smiled motioning to the bartender for a drink. “Can’t I just buy you a drink? “

“Really, I’m fine” You turned back to your drink, your eyes unfocused, hoping that if you just ignored him he’d leave. Your gut flipped when you heard him pull out the stool next to you. He wasn’t leaving.

“Come on babe, I can show you a good time”

“She said she ain’t looking for company bub.” A low voice growled behind you. A beer bottle came down heavily in between you and the creep. Your eyes trailed the hairy but beautifully sculpted arm to its owner, though you already knew who it belonged to. Logan. Even in this lighting you could see his rugged face. His hair was styled in its iconic cat ear shape. His beard was trimmed nicely combined with his thick muttonchops. His eyes were a little hazy but beautiful and dark. You met those eyes for a brief moment, he smirked at you before his gaze flickered to the other man.

“Well?” He rumbled, barring his teeth.

“Naw, I was here first grandpa, you fuck off.” The frat guy stood up straight, trying to look intimidating.

“Trust me” Logan chuckled. He straightened cracking his knuckles before raising his fists and extending three razor sharp Adamantium claws from each hand.

“You don’t want none of this”

~~~

“You didn’t have to do that” you looked down at your glass avoiding Logan’s gaze. You heard him land heavily in the bar stool next to you. He tapped the counter signaling the bartender who was very clearly avoiding your side of the bar.

“I wasn’t going to have some limp dick creeping on you.”

“I was handling it”

“You didn’t seem like you were handling anything Princess.” He scoffed.

You shot him a look. He smirked as he chugged his remaining beer, you couldn’t help watch his throat bob as he drank. He finished and loudly set the bottle down. He met your eyes and you looked away feeling your face heat violently.

“You thirsty princess?” He asked as the bartender set down two shots of something before scurrying away. He slid one glass your way.

“No thank you. I have my own drink”

You pushed the glass back his way. He eyed your almost empty cocktail and shrugged.

“Suit yourself” he took the glasses and knocked back both shots simultaneously slamming the glasses back down. After a few moments of silence, where you clearly felt Logan eyeing you the entire time, you sighed.

“I didn’t think I’d see you tonight Logan.” You admitted. Another beer had appeared in front of him, he took a swig. He eyed you, his eyes slowly trailing from your face down your body. They rested at the slit in your dress, exposing most of your fishnet covered thigh. You felt a ping in your lower belly, causing you to cross your legs uncomfortably. His eyes followed to movement. He licked his lips and met your eyes again smirking.

“Why didja miss me?”

You looked down at the growing piles of shredded napkins you had been anxiously ripping apart.

“Yes” you said at last. There was no point in lying. You did miss him. Even seeing him now, clearly drinking away his problems, you couldn’t help but feel glad he was there with you. You were glad he scared away that creep, despite his now passive aggressive demeanor. You met his eyes again.

He snorted and tipped the beer to his lips.“You’re a fucking liar”

You felt your gut squeeze with anger. Why was he treating you this way? You didn’t ask him to step in to a play hero. You didn’t ask him for anything. You just wanted to get out of your shitty apartment for one goddamn night. You balled your fists and spun to face him fully.

“What. The. Fuck.” You clenched your teeth annunciating each word bitterly. “Is. YOUR PROBLEM”

“My PROBLEM,” he practically spat the word,

”is that I have to deal with your moody ass attracting the eye of every fucking creep in this place when you very fucking clearly don’t want to be here.”

You threw your hands up angrily and gestured around the bar.

“I didn’t want to deal with any of this Logan. I just wanted to go out with my FRIENDS, which I used to think you were one. I don’t fucking know what prick you had up your ass lately, but you sure as hell don’t act like you like me. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”

He was silent for a moment, studying your face, making it turn even redder. Then he laughed. He shook his head laughing and sloppily chugged his second beer.

You had enough. You needed to get away from him. You shoved yourself back, tipping the stool over in the process.

“Come find me when you figure out what you want.” You turned to leave. You made it a few steps before you heard Logan’s voice call mockingly.

“Nice dress by the way”

You didn’t turn to look at him.

“Fuck you, Logan”

~~~

You ran your hands under cold water, leaning over the sink you splashed the water into your face and sighed. You looked into your mirrored face. This was a disaster.

Maybe if you just stayed in the bathroom you can avoid everyone until Wade was ready to leave. You felt bad that you ran off instead of finding him. You would’ve felt safe with Wade.

Your head was swimming, from the alcohol or the interaction with Logan you couldn’t tell.

The speaker above you crackled playing the opening notes to ‘Dirty Diana’, a favorite of yours. A banger Wade would say.

Without warning the door sung open and Logan stumbled in.

“You’re in the wrong bathroom you drunk asshole” you snapped. His eyes met yours from a brief moment before he swayed slightly and took a step forward.

He pushed past you wordlessly and began kicking open the bathroom stalls. They were all empty.

“Dude get out” You gripped the sink behind you, watching Logan warily. You knew deep down he wouldn’t hurt you but you obviously didn’t want him in here with you. He turned to you, taking a step forward.

”I needed to talk to you”

“Yeah, you could have waited til I got out of the ladies room??”

“No.” he growled before in one swift movement he was in front of you, his arms on either side of the sink trapping you between them. Your breath came out in a shudder and your knees wobbled. This honestly was a thing out of a fantasy, something that you were embarrassed to admit you’ve thought about. You had been fighting your feelings for this big stupid man, stuck between thoughts of friendship and lust. God, he wasn’t helping with the latter.

“Logan”

“I’m sorry” he said looking as remorseful as he could under the circumstances.

“What did you need to talk about that couldn’t wait Lo?” You swallowed, gently lifting your hand and placing it on his chest, pushing lightly. His hands moved to your legs keeping you from pushing him further.

“Ya told me to find you when I figured out what I wanted”

“Yeah” You scoffed. “Enlighten me”

~~~

“I want you”

Logan leaned over you, his hands sliding up your thighs to rest on your hips. His fingers dug in lightly, the movement making your legs feel like jelly. You gripped his shoulders to steady yourself. He was so firm and warm under your hands.

His face was inches from yours, his expression unreadable in the low lighting. You smelled the smoke and alcohol on his breath.

“God, do you ever suck on anything other than Wade’s dick and cheap cigars?”

He leaned in close to your ear and growled,

“Ya looking to find out princess?”

You felt a ping of desire sink into your lower belly as his hand moved from your waist.

Shivers went down your spine as his hands slid up your torso coming to a stop right below your breasts. One of his thumbs brushed upwards lightly, teasingly.

You sucked in a breath as he lowered his face to your neck and brushed a kiss to the sensitive skin. His facial hair tickling your jaw.

“Logan, you’re drunk.” You croaked out, pulling away slightly, your hands sliding from his shoulders. He moved with you.

You felt his lips brush your skin again, another kiss, before his thumb slid upward against your breast. Fuck. The wet heat between your legs was unbearable. You needed some sort of friction. You definitely noticed the pressure from his pants pressed against your stomach. So close, you just needed anything. You bucked your hips against his, almost involuntarily, causing a rumble to escape his throat. His thumb stroked again.

“That’s a good girl” His head bobbed lower dragging his tongue down as he kissed your neck. You could feel him smile as he sucked the skin of your collar bone in a way that would definitely leave a mark. Holy Hell. What was happening.

You were sick of your neck getting all the attention as you reached up to take his face in your hand. He practically melted at your touch, his breath hitching as you stroked his cheek with your thumb. You wanted him, needed his mouth on yours. You pulled his face up, a little roughly, to meet your gaze. You thought you heard him let out a little surprised chuckle from the movement. His eyes were half lidded as he met yours. He was drunk, and you realized, so were you. You leaned in, your lips feather light against his-

You jumped at Wade’s voice from the other side of the door, calling for you.

Shit. You dropped your hand away from his face.

Logan growled, low and angry. He abruptly took his hot hands from your body and leaned his head to your ear, you felt his lips against your skin.

“Some other time then, darlin’.” He pulled away from you swaying slightly, before grabbing his beer from the counter and yanking open the bathroom door.

~~~

Anyway, thanks for reading. I guess I don’t know if this is any good and I will be posting the rest on Ao3 eventually

#deadpool and wolverine #wolverine x reader #reader x character #logan howlett #wade wilson

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magnuficentwo · 5 months ago

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Fuck it. Food Headcanons from each Borderlands corporation

DAHL

- Dahl is all about Militaristic Seriousness to comical degrees, so it shouldn't surprise you that most of what they have to offer is Rations. Canned food, nutrition packets and weird astronaut looking pastes, all packaged up in neat browns and greens to match with the very boring aesthetic of the Rest of their products. Everything is neatly separated and easily accessible in Dahl settlements. One bonus of it is that it never expires, so if you're hungry and need a snack, just find an old military base and that should have you pretty much covered for a few weeks.

- "But Magnus, what's in the packs?" I hear you ask, and not to worry my situational friend, I've done Way Too Much research on this and can absolutely tell you ! Again, its all very shelf stable and nutritional, so it ranges from cereal bars, dried up meats and nuts, protein powders and pastes (usually peanut butter), some mildly flavoured crackers, a variety of canned foods (including but not limited to: "Spaghetti", """beans""", soups and veggies. These are meant to be complimentary, not really eaten on their own), and ready-made "pop it in a fire for a few seconds" sustenance providers like curries. It's good enough to eat ! Hopefully.

- ...It does Not. Taste like the best thing in the world usually. If you're desperate enough you won't notice it at first, but these things are meant for soldiers who haven't dreamed of a non-dehydrated vegetable in 10 years, so it's tough to swallow once you're not suffering from all the malnutrition ailments. It's very barely seasoned to account for the vast majority, and it's probably not a good investment to waste spices on any of it either. You could still reasonably throw a meal together with the pastes plus the canned stuff and (if you get lucky) have a chocolate cake for dessert though, even if it does taste like a biting an old boot.

[Rest under cut]

TEDIORE

- Tediore is, by all lore definitions, a 'budgetarian' company. They appeal HARD to the aesthetic of the common person, and that their main demographic are consumers who are just looking for something quick and reliable, knowing people will more often than not only use it because they have no other choice, so it shouldn't surprise you that their business model for selling food is basically the same as Walmart's. In my mind they mostly sell quick snack food you'd usually see in a convenience store– Likely not the best choice as far as nutritional value goes, but it's tasty, affordable and it hits the spot when you're in a pinch or when you're starving after a long day of Torment Nexus'ing around the six galaxies. so you really can't afford to be picky most of the time. Sometimes Pretty Literally.

- The food itself is, again, just about everything you'd find in a convenience store in the middle of nowhere after a long roadtrip and are so hungry you can't see straight: Isles upon isles of chips, cereals and cookies, pre-made lunchable type meals in refrigerated containers, soda that is Technically brand name, but is still so obscure you have to look up if its even real later. It's the perfect combination of accessible, cheap and edible enough to grab the attention of people. The packaging in general tends to vary between shades of gray plus some extra shines to be recognized as food and not bagged motor oil, plus varied mascots to differ each product from one another as though they're from separate entities and not just Tediore All Over Again.

- How does it taste though ? Well, the answer is that it's good, even though it probably Will give you either a headache or a stomachache later. Like all hyperprocessed food, Tediore knows that the secret to making stuff taste good is to just either put a Lot of Salt or a Lot of Sugar in it, and that's really the whole secret. Let's say you get a nice Cheese Flavour snack bag from the local bodega: You eat 5 chips and think "Oh, that's really good!", completely oblivious to the fact you will regret this decision, and eventually eat the whole bag. Hard cut to you on the couch sluggish and weird, unsure to what caused it, but it was 100% the amount of sodium you consumed just being so high your body thinks you're sick. Or something like that. I'm not speaking from experience here.

MALIWAN

- Now, let's get this out of the way: Maliwan is as much a corporation as it is a cult. Its corporate identity as "hip" and cool and sleek and transhumanist and beautiful is all a facade for what they're really trying to sell you, which is an insecurity they can profit off of. They approach people who are already very lost, exhausted and burdened by the world and promise them a place to belong, to become something More, and if they need to manufacture your burdens, they will. All of this is to say, they're social media influencers creating problems you didn't know existed so they can sell you More Things, so obviously they're the "organic"/diet product food sellers of this world. They're like if an MLM had WAY too much credibility and power and people just had to live with it.

- You know the kinds of products I'm talking about. It's stuff that comes bragging about how it's "from the farm to your door!" even though it has gone through the same industrialization as everything else that is mass produced and meant to be sold. It's your diet versions of products, yogurts and teas and protein milks and "healthy" snacks, despite the fact they're the same composition-wide and just marked Way Up. They'd probably sell a lot of very niche products too though, all with the same promises for health benefits and what have you, but that at least have the decency to be interesting or *a little* flavorful. For one I think Maliwan branded gum would be really good, and they'd probably make some really good flavour blocks for putting in soup and stuff. That's their forté to me.

- Most of the food just tastes really bland and has kind of a chemical aftertaste, and the textures tend to vary between "Really airy and light, kind of like a foam or shaving cream" to "Unbearable combination of crunchy and soft that makes you confused on what you're even supposed to be tasting". It's a very high chance to be hit or miss depending on what you try, and since it's so expensive it's usually not worth it unless you're using these products for really specific dietary goals. Also most of the time isn't actually as healthy as advertised, and that's on purpose too.

HYPERION

- Hyperion to me is complicated to say on what they'd offer as far as food goes. On the cafeteria area in TPS you only really see fast food, so I imagine that the conglomerate would own most of a food court in your average shopping mall. All the name brands are owned by Hyperion and your variety is manufactured to look like you're spoiled for all the choices when, really, you're just going to give them money either way. The food is all pretty consistently good, even though the sourcing for it is questionable and it's always plated the same everytime, which makes you think all the ingredients just go through moulds before they plop it into your plate, and it's probably the closest thing it'll get to something like homemade food from the corporations.

- Again, variety is their main selling point, so as far as food goes, you'll find a little bit of everything. Pizza, hamburgers, hotdogs, food that's been genetically modified or has poison in it, tacos– really, the world is your oyster ! They probably have that on the menu too if you look ! Its all about the flashiness and the exclusivety and the way its presented and sold that really gets peoples gears turning. They're not bound just by ONE thing, they have ALL the things you could possibly ask for right here !

- ...But does it taste good ? Ehhh, that's more of a complicated issue. Again, because of all the variety and the way everything is synthesized and made based on the standards for the company, it'll always just taste Good (as in, You bite into it and say "Yeah, that's pretty good"), and after a while of eating Just Good food, you'll already have built a tolerance to it and it'll just taste mid after a while... and that is when they start advertising to you Bigger and Better foods, stuff that's been made in a lab to taste as good to human beings as possible, something so unbelievable your tastebuds might explode ! And then they do. Because it was an experiment and they were using you as a guinea pig. But hey, all in the name of progress, right ?

ATLAS

- Atlas is full of scientists who are trying to one up each other and convince everyone that They are the smartiest fanciest pants around, so you can bet your hats they're doing some molecular experimenting with the bases of every food in their market. The meat? Grown in a lab, synthesized from fibers they made themselves using only a rare type of algae that grows in like 2 moons in some distant system out there. The cheese? Not actually milk, because that is too big a luxury, no no– We used our new patented technology to create cheese out of a bunch of soft rocks we found. So on, so forth. They also probably sell all manners of artificial flavors and dyes. This trend continues with Rhys in control of Atlas, but much like everything in the company at this point it's all mostly prototypes that haven't been super well tested yet, so they're going through a... let's call it, break period in their own food industry, because they need to make sure that the things that are meant to be edible don't just explode when you try to bite into them.

- How do you sell things you know aren't exactly what you're advertising ? By lying, obviously ! The majority of their packaging isn't direct at all about what kind of food it is, it's just this halfway minimalist picture of something that looks delicious and the phrase "new formula!" plastered on the sides, vaguely indicating there Have been changes, but they never tell you about them. You'd have to skip over a hundred words of legal jargon in the back of the packet to find the ingredient list, which is entirely translated into science terms only, to figure out that this beef you're eating is actually some obscure combination of vegetables and a molecule of radiation that has never been used before. And you'll still probably eat it.

- The taste is Good, but I mean that in a "barely misses the mark to be Great" kind of good. The artificial flavoring really comes through when you take bigger bites of your portions, and you can't help but think you could probably make something better had you the means to, you know, find a cow somewhere in this universe. But you very much can't, so you'll settle for rice that vaguely tastes like carbon sometimes.

JAKOBS (Thank you Sir Nikolai for helping with this one <3)

- Jakobs prides themselves in tradition, in the planet-grown, in being quality first Always, and that reflects in the kinds of products they sell. Nearly all ingredients used in Jakobs consumables is directly sourced from the edenian moons themselves, and what isn't has to go through some strict processing to even be allowed in their formulas. As a result, Jakobs is the freshest as it gets in terms of Corporation Food, especially given they're probably using actual spices for flavoring as well. Their export game is also the strongest of any corporation, as they possess much of the staples as far as whats edible goes: Rice, beans, flour, coffee, sugar, liquor, you get it. Aside from that though, I can see them selling a variety of things, particularly old school candies like licorice, marshmallows (because you know. The Marsh planet), caramel and marmalades, as well as canned goods or preserves. Not the Dahl kind though– these are good.

- Jakobs doesn't advertise their food stuff much, but then again, they don't need to, given their monopoly over that particular market anyway and how most of their products are the staples. The packaging was designed like 200 years ago and has gone through a single redesign for the Jakobs logo to be more apparent, so as you can imagine the designs are pretty set in stone: You have the classic Jakobs aesthetics with the art nouveau-like swirls and brown/gold colors, the name of the product and the variety, and that's it. What you see is exactly what you get.

- I am a firm believer that Jakobs food is the greatest tasting one out of all the corporations, and that's because of one trick up their sleeves: They're too stubborn to adapt their recipes into something that is easier to produce. They know how hard it is to make liquor from scratch and age it accordingly and go about the fermentations processes meticulousy, and they are never going to change it because their model of business has been the same for like 300 years and clearly it isn't broken, so there's no need for fixing. Unlike other corporations which, in their search for absolute health conscience, have completely disregarded the substance of what makes food taste good, Jakobs will put actual sugar and fat and salt into their stuff, and if you don't like it you can take your ass back to Maliwan Delectable Treats (a bunch of freeze dried "strawberry" flavoured pebbles with nothing else added, which are neither delectable nor suitable treats for humans).

TORGUE

- Torgue used to be a very "Manly Place For Menly Men Only (Girls Not Allowed)" corporation for a long time, so as you might guess, they don't sell food so much as they sell you workout regiments and the kinds of diet you're supposed to follow to get a body "Just Like Torgue's". Variety is not their forté at all, as they only offer the same kinds of meal plans for everyone as a standardized measure, so you can mostly expect a lot of protein heavy, low fat and high fiber kinds of products. It's reliable if a little stale. Where they REALLY excell however is hot sauces, which helps add the kick their food requires back into it... for a hefty fee, obviously, but unless you have the sauce you might as well not eat any of it.

- It's all branded in comically gendered ways, but both male and female versions have explosions on the cover, varying only in color and the kind of model used on the cover. Previously, on the "women's" packaging, it was branded with the exclusive character "Torguina" on the cover plus pink bows around all objects, but since the recent change, they completely erased the existence of the "female" variations. It was only ever a cosmetic change either way. They use the same aesthetic from their guns to their food. They sell feastables that are shaped like little guns and grenades with cheese inside.

- Eating Torgue food is a bizarre experience, because by all means, it's just pretty normal food... until the aftertaste kicks in. It's like someone blew gunpowder directly into your mouth, and it probably says something about the corporation's standards for food that they make edible things the same way they make Bombs, but it only affects the food as much as you let it. The texture is good enough, and the initial bite is good, but the lingering aftertaste just makes it hard to get through a whole meal. And that's where all the (separately sold) additional flavorings kick in ! To make eating a better, more fun experience, you can get Torgue branded flavour packets to enhance the food, and they sure are bombastic !! As in, your stomach WILL explode if you put too much in from the unsafely measured spice, but it'll make everything taste at least good.

#Magoriginals #txt #Borderlands #Borderlands headcanons #if you think you've seen this before. no you haven't. ok <- I posted it in an alt acc of mine and got Nervous so I deleted it #my writing #my headcanons #see also: Anshin and Pangolin dont make food they're focused exclusively on shields. if they do its probably hospital food #Vladof is the same case as Dahl but theirs is Communist Themed (except not actually communist in practice)#And unless you eat bullets S&S munitions dont got anything for you

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