#like yeah working at this company sucks but I would have exactly this same problem ANYWHERE
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whining to myself for choosing this good for nothing profession and being incapable of doing anything else, LETS GO!
#my graphic designer's lament#like yeah working at this company sucks but I would have exactly this same problem ANYWHERE#OH YOU WANT YOUR BRAND COLOURS AND YOUR LOGO AND YOUR FUCKING BOXES ON YOUR PDF OKAY SEND 'EM
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Hey there. I absurdly love your blog and your writing style, it’s amazing. I wanted to ask I I could perhaps request a Raphael x reader where it’s kind of an enemies to lovers. Reader and Raphael don’t get along at first because of their similar personalities but after a while they realize that they overplayed their feelings for each other with hate.
I’m not sure if this made any sense at all ;-;
ABSOLUTELY MADE SENSE ANON!!!!
You didn’t request a spef Raph, so I’m going with 07 I hope that’s okay ❤️
Stupid idiot.
Annoying prick.
Hotheaded jerk.
You had a few more insults for the red clad turtle but you’re sure if you kept thinking about it, you’d accidentally say them out loud.
Not that it would matter, it’s not like your distaste for him was a secret. Just like his wasn’t hidden from you.
It’s like two bulls in a China shop whenever you two are together, always butting heads and arguing opinions over the simplest things that can be easily discussed over a cup of tea. But not you two, you two would rather point fingers and get into petty arguments like 5 year olds.
You’re not sure what exactly caused you dislike Raphael, but you’re more than certain that it was him who started it. Probably countered an opinion you had about something so minuscule that you honestly would have let it go if it weren’t for the smug and cocky attitude he was displaying.
Thus, your rivalry with the turtle started.
Raph feels the exact same way about you; complaining that your temper is too short, you can’t take or follow direction and all he gets are snorts and fake shock from his brothers and Splinter.
“Really?”
“You don’t say?”
“That is so funny that you feel that way.”
And all Raphael can do is scoff and roll his eyes because he’s not stupid, he knows you’re similar to him. Maybe that’s why you clash, because he’s never had someone to combat his bonehead personality besides Leo and Casey but even then he was used to it, he’s known them forever.
Now you, having just met you a few months ago because April insisted that you, her friend, and he would get along splendidly.
Clearly she was wrong.
Currently you were over for a game night, sitting in between Don and Mikey while he and Leo sat across. April and Casey temporarily stepped out to grab food for everyone, leaving you with the mutant turtles. But you were having a wonderful time; good games, good vibes, good company…
Almost.
You roll your eyes when you catch Raph scoffing to himself after your turn, crossing his arms and grumbling to himself.
“Problem, Raph?” You ask, painting an innocent vibe as you lean back in your seat to glare at him. He looks at you with a bored expression, shrugging and then gesturing towards the game board with his chin.
“Dumb move, should’ve gone left instead of right.”
You can see from your peripheral how Don shakes his head and how Mikey tenses in the slightest. Leo rubs at his forehead, knowing what was coming.
“Yeah that’s why you got sent back to the start of the board right?”
“Maybe so, but I’m winning with the most money.”
“Doesn’t matter numb nuts, now you have to go past the scammer and pay the debt—“
“Oh I got more than enough, sweetheart—“
“Okay you know what—“
“Enough!” Leo shouts, standing up and looking back and forth between the two of you. “You two, get out. You’re banned from the rest of the game.”
Your mouth drops open in shock and Raph and scoffs again but harder, slapping his palms on his lap.
“She started it!”
“You should’ve just shut the fuck up!”
“Out!” He says again, pointing his finger towards the entrance of the Lair.
You suck your teeth and stand up, walking past Don in sheer annoyance. Raphael isn’t far behind you, muttering under his breath and kicking at Mikey’s skateboard which earns him an irritated ‘hey!’.
You step outside the Lair, wishing you could slam the door in Raph’s face but the entrance unfortunately didn’t work like that. With a heavy sigh you lean against the wall, digging into your pocket to grab your phone only to realize you left it inside. You suck your teeth, ready to head back in when Raph suddenly tosses you something. You catch it, clutching it close to your chest and when you look down you realize it’s your phone.
“…Thanks.”
He only grunts in response, leaning on the opposite wall and crossing his arms over his plastron. You look down at your phone to check the time and any notifications, about to just waste time on social media before deciding otherwise. You shove it into your pocket, pursing your lips a bit and look at Raph.
“…So you think I should’ve gone left?” You mumble, feeling oddly anxious to see if he’d respond.
He raises an eye ridge at you, an insult ready on his tongue before he drops it and decides it’s not worth it, especially considering you two just got kicked out of game night.
“Woulda been better. Cuz now you gotta go the long way to get to the end.”
“Yeah but this route has better chances of getting a treasure chest.” You try to keep your voice calm, surprised at how… quiet, your conversation was so far.
He shrugs and straightens his posture a bit. “Jus’ tryin to help.”
You can’t help but laugh, bewildered that he just say that.
“By calling it a dumb move?” You huff and roll your eyes, feeling that faint flicker of anger start in your chest.
“Well. It was.” He retorts but there’s no hint of hatred whatsoever.
There’s a silence between the two of you now, Raph avoiding your gaze but you looking at him straight on.
“You know, you’re somewhat pleasant to talk to when you aren’t being a dick.”
Now he laughs, shaking his head a bit and finally making eye contact with you.
“Yeah well, you ain’t so half bad when you’re not being crazy.”
“I am not—“ You catch yourself, taking a moment to breathe in. “I am not crazy. You bring out my crazy.”
“Only because you bring out mine!”
You bite your tongue, trying really hard to not fight because it’ll always end in the same way; the both of you repeating yourselves, throwing insults, and then ruining everyone else’s good time. Well, that last part seemed to have already happened.
“You don’t hate me as much as you make it out to be, right?” You couldn’t help but ask, seizing the opportunity to test if there was something more that just this supposed hatred.
He sighs heavily, reaching to scratch the back of his neck and awkwardly shift around. He sucks his teeth and lets out a huff before finally answering you.
“Nah, I don’t. Jus’ hate that there’s someone who’s too much like me.”
You squint at him, a confused smile crossing your lips.
“You mean hotheaded, short tempered, argumentative—“
He waves you off with an exasperated groan but nods.
“Now I see why my brothers are always gettin’ pissed at me.” He chuckles quietly.
You smile, finding his laughter a bit endearing and with the way it warms your chest, you know you want to hear it more. Especially if you can be the one to cause it.
Another silence follows. Raph fidgets with one of his arm bands as a sort of distraction.
“Hope that means you don’t actually hate me that much either…” He murmurs under his breath.
“Well, you get on my nerves and sometimes I wanna pop your head off but, no, I don’t actually hate you…that much.”
He smirks at you and extends his hand out.
“Start over?”
You smile back and clasp his hand, giving a gentle squeeze.
“Start over.”
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I work for health insurance (A venting rant)
And never in my life have I had a job where I dread going to work more. And i've had some pretty terrible jobs. I've worked in the medical field. I worked in education. I've worked in retail. Literally nothing.And I mean, nothing is worse than this.Then I worked at Victoria's Secret we're dealing with sexual harassment by creepy balding, older men who were trying to buy lingerie for their mistresses on the daily was an average thing. I can genuinely say I would prefer dealing with Larry and his pervy attempts to use my breasts to measure what size bra he needed to buy for his "wife" any day of the week rather than do what I'm doing currently.
The amount of heartbreaking stories that I hear on a daily basis mixed with screaming medical staff and members is so emotionally and mentally taxing that I literally can barely sleep Sunday nights before work. And before I get on calls, I literally have the shakes.
And I don't even blame the members for the things that they say and how upset they are and yelling, because if it was me and their shoes and my insurance was pulling the crap that I see pulled on members, I would be doing the same thing.
Literally can genuinely say from my core- in a completely unironic and one hundred percent genuine way and not in the i'm venting because of my job sucks today, but in like it sucks the soul from my very being and leaves me a dry husk of a human being- that I hate this job. The minute that anything else gives me an offer. I'm so out of here. It's not even funny.
What sucks even more is that there are so many fake job postings out there that companies are putting out because if they show that they are actively hiring, they get more tax breaks. So they're posting these jobs for positions that aren't even open. And I know that because the company that I work for is doing exactly the same thing. And they flat out, tell us, "Hey, if you see this job opening for this position, it's not actually open and it's just there as a placeholder." Which in business speak means it's there for the public perception to see it and say, "yeah, they're actively hiring", "oh yeah, look at all of these jobs, people just aren't wanting to work". Even crazier still is that that is then used and political arguments here in the u. S during election time to say, "Oh yeah, there is all these jobs openings, and people are just lazy and wanting to live off Welfare, and that's why they're not applying to these jobs."
The jobs don't exist!
That's what the problem is.
And the wealthy politicians out there who are also business owners are in the pockets of all of these CEOs out there freaking know this. The media knows this because their corporations are owned by the wealthy elite that owns all of these businesses that are putting out all of these fake ads. Everybody knows this except for the public.
When, in reality, the position doesn't even exist. And the company is getting tax breaks for having it posted faking that it exists.
So then you have people that are stuck in jobs that they absolutely despise, and they're wasting their time applying for positions that don't even exist.
I am so over all of it.
Anyway, that concludes my rant for today. I had to vent somewhere. And unfortunately, my family follows my other social media platforms, and I can't vent there because then it becomes a whole thing. And I don't feel like dealing with stupid. I just want to talk into ether and let it out.
End. Rant.
Ughhhh
#moony vents#moony yapping#insurance#medical insurance#The United States medical system is screwed up#politics
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I loved your posts about how seasons and expansion story being interconnected now is a feature (that the community F*CKING asked for), not a bug. Something that is going to come up, if it hasn’t already, is whining about how Season of the Seraph should have set up Lightfall lore better, and I just want everyone to remember: in MMOs, expansions are points when the company hopes to pull in new players. New players wouldn’t HAVE access to any Witness/Veil/whatever lore teed up in Seraph, because it GOES AWAY. Removing content sucks donkey balls (and complaining to Bungie about THAT might be worthwhile, who knows), but given this paradigm, what exactly do people expect the writers to do? Threading an expansion’s story through that year’s seasons (aka forward) is the only way to connect them, because an expansion can’t connect BACK to seasons that aren’t in the game anymore. >:| Anyway keep up the good work.
Thanks!
Also yeah, a really good point. Luckily, they're no longer sunsetting any big releases, but that raises a good counter-point to connected seasons: now if most of Lightfall's answers are going to be in the seasons, what about those answers when seasons leave? It's a downside to super important narratives in seasons.
Mentioning sunsetting also reminded me that people tend to ignore that players constantly want a lot of new and diverse activities to do, but that just means they're impossible to maintain in bulk. Meaning that the gameplay portion of the game is the first limitation to what the story can do and how it can connect. If the game has too many separate playlists, you cannot populate them. This has been a huge problem pre-BL vaulting. There were playlists out there that people were no longer playing anymore that had no population. I would routinely spend 30-60 minutes completely alone in Reckoning. I loaded into hundreds of Forges alone. I wandered the empty Mars patrol zone for hours trying to do Escalations.
So if we would like to preserve seasons, we would have to limit the amount of new activities or they would all have to follow the same formula and then be put into a single playlist. Releasing fewer activities and making them all the same would, of course, cause outrage. But if every season has a completely different activity and they're mixing it in with the open world, then you can't preserve them. They can't be in a single playlist; Containments from Haunted and Ketchcrash from Plunder can't share a playlist. But if you separate them, you're creating two player pools that will eventually run empty and therefore be unplayable.
And if you tell players "This year we'll have two new activities only and they will be the same formula, BUT they will stay in the game forever," you'd have fans with pitchforks outside of Bungie's offices. Sunsetting absolutely sucks, I miss a lot of really good seasonal content and really good seasonal stories that I'd like to be able to replay and for new players to see. I would also personally be totally fine with only 1 new activity type for the year, but the seasons staying. But a LOT of players wouldn't.
So ultimately we're left with a problem that can't be solved easily. Especially when we start thinking about how to merge the story with these gameplay issues. The situation is way more complex than people give it credit for. But if we're already in a situation where people want new activities and brand new content each season, then might as well make those seasons worth it for the story as well.
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On Bragi, Mara, and the AroAce Experience
Bragi and Mara’s friendship is really important to me, especially from an ace perspective. It takes a lot of those familiar YA romance tropes (tropes that Mara is initially actively trying to enforce) and ends up subverting them. She went into this wanting to fix him, to teach a brooding boy how to love (even if it’s just her), and she learns the hard way how much that actually sucks.
Bragi was genuinely really fucking mean to her. And it’s not because he was hiding any feelings for her, it’s just because he was a jerk. Like yeah, he had to wrestle with admitting he wants to be friends, but he wasn’t really hiding that so much as he was completely unaware that’s how he felt. But when he does finally have to admit that, he becomes possessive, and it’s not in that sort of dominant, romantic way, he literally thought he owned her and he was not about to share. And that possessiveness gives way to obsessiveness. Because he does enjoy her company so much, he wants it all the time, and so she doesn’t really get a whole lot of space (which is honestly still a bit of a problem, even if it’s now more out of a sense of not understanding proper boundaries rather than a sense of ownership).
Mara, to her credit, did realize pretty quickly that having an emotionally stunted boy be obsessed with and dependent on you and only you was not nearly as romantic as her novels made it sound, and whatever romantic feelings she had for him quickly went out the window. Unfortunately, she was kind of stuck at this point, partially out of a sense of pity, and partially because she does have a high tolerance for mean bullshit because her parents treated her the same way. And I mean they did actually have a lot in common despite them both not being like other girls-- So she stayed.
Were Mara real, I would absolutely have told her to run.
It was foolish, but she got really lucky and it paid off. She got him to open up a little and even let other people in. While she did have a positive influence on him and eventually got him to see and understand the impact of his own behavior, he’s the one that ultimately chose to make a change for the better. She didn’t “fix” him (even if he sincerely credits her for that), she was simply honest about how she felt and let him know she wanted him to make better choices. He might’ve absolutely sucked at showing it, and it hurt to hear, but by then he really did respect her opinions enough that he wanted to sincerely put in the work to do exactly that, and it's only then that they become a lot closer for it.
But not romantically.
Bragi does not, has not, and will not ever have romantic feelings toward Mara (or anyone, for that matter). He loves her dearly (even if he can be a little tsundere about actually expressing it), he’s utterly devoted to her, and the two are practically joined at the hip and are pretty physically affectionate with each other, but it’s all platonic. They are best friends. They are like siblings. But people tend to mistake them for being a couple and it drives them mad for different reasons. For Mara, it’s a reminder of that horribly misplaced crush she wants to forget forever, and for Bragi, it’s a blatant mischaracterization of their friendship. He doesn’t understand why society insists on viewing things through a romantic lens. Why can’t a boy and a girl just be friends without any ulterior motives?
Joke’s on him though, he’s experiencing the phenomenon known as Being AroAce. And he gets it from me. I went through a lot of similar things, where parents and friends would accuse me of having a crush on every boy I ever even mentioned in passing. I never understood why my friend’s mom insisted he leave his bedroom door open when I came over. I had no intention of making a move on him. Why would I? Why would he? We were just playing Pokemon. Was it not enough to just hang out? To vibe?
I dated a lot to try and fit in because I felt like that was what I was “supposed” to do, but dating just felt exactly like friendship with extra steps. And when I learned the term “asexual,” I went “Oh, that explains everything,” and I literally never worried about it again (except when people would accuse me of being into people I only loved platonically) lmao
And then I gave those frustrations to Bragi, who does not quite have that same luxury I did. He doesn’t understand “asexual” outside of a purely biological sense, and he’s going to think you meant “aromatic” instead of “aromantic.” Nobody told him that was even an option. He just knows that the concept of romance is stupid to him and he wants no part of it. Why do people awkwardly dance around the fact they have feelings for each other? Why not just say it outright and get it out of the way? Why do people make such a big deal out of it and insist that they need a romantic partner in their life to be fulfilled? Sure, he understands that some of it comes down to it all being a vehicle towards procreation and the continued existence of their respective species, but why do people insist on also pushing that onto other people to whom it doesn’t apply? It’s stupid, it’s frustrating, and he doesn’t get it.
But deep down, a part of him wonders if he’s actually missing out on something big. Everyone keeps talking about it like it’s the most important part of being alive. It makes you whole, it’s what separates you from a mere animal. And so sometimes he asks himself why he can’t relate. Why doesn’t he feel inclined to agree? Has he simply not met the right person? But he tries to imagine the ideal person to spend his life with, and he’s still turned off by the idea of being romantically involved with them. Is it because he’s still too young? But everyone his age or equivalent seems to have someone they love, or are at least attracted to. Some might mistakenly believe it’s a characteristic of his species, since they’re born from fruit and don’t need to reproduce, but even they fall in love. Is there something wrong with him? Is he simply incapable of love? But then he remembers he does in fact love his friends quite a bit. He loves lots of people and places and things. He’s actually pretty fulfilled in that aspect now. So like, what the hell?
I asked a lot of these questions and went through a lot of these frustrations too (though I never really thought I was broken or anything, I just went “Am I weird? No, it’s society that is wrong.” lmao), so Bragi being the way he is, and his friendship with Mara mean a lot to me. Like they go through this whole character journey together, becoming better people and bringing out the best in each other. They sincerely love each other, and in other media, their expressions of that, as well as their journey to get to that point, could and likely would be read as romantic, but here, they’re just good friends, and any denial of being anything more is just an honest statement. It’s sweet, but it’s also a bit of vindication for me on multiple levels, both in terms of real life experience as well as the sort of relationships I wanted to see more of in media. "Boy and Girl are Just Friends" is not exactly revolutionary, but it's just nice personally to take what would typically be the start of a romantic storyline and go "lol nope."
#meta#bragi#didn't realize it was aro awareness week so this is fantastic timing#i just happened to be having a discussion about being aroace the other day and ended up thinking about them
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I'm just gonna vent for a bit because I'm absolutely tired.
Putting it behind a break because I may go kinda unhinged in this. It's a mental health thing. Scroll on by if you don't want to read it. I won't be offended. Promise.
I am just so tired of the internet feeling like it's just getting ever shittier and there's just nowhere to run anymore. I mean, there's here, now that here is owned by a company that actually gives a damn. But I'm just tired of these dumb billionaires just buying their way into relevance and then absolutely tanking the thing they've been charged with running.
Hell, one of my favorite artists released a new album very recently, and the chorus of one of the songs on said album resonate hard with how I'm feeling right now:
Passions rise and a voice cries out inside When what I know and love is gone Where should I go, where should I run? The flag I carried, I held high… …over earth and under sky When what I know and love is gone Where should I go, where should I run?
First, it was Twitter. You can feel however you want about Twitter, but what I really liked about it was that it was really the melting pot of the internet. It was also where everyone played. Friends? Yeah. Companies? Yeah. Twitter was just as useful for posting random stuff as it was for hailing companies to get through customer service hell when you really didn't want to place a phone call.
Sure, there were some shitty people on there, all platforms have that. But for my time there? I didn't really run into anyone truly shitty.
Twitter was just a dumb site up until 2022, when I started getting deeper into retro tech and actually built up a really healthy following. The momentum was awesome, and it was nice to just throw some random crap out there and have someone actually like it.
Then Musk happened. I had hopes that he would have actually pulled out of buying Twitter, but nope. Twitter's shareholders all wanted their payday so they pursued Musk and made him hold up his promise (because he wanted to overpay grossly for it, so shareholders got a nice payday for it, fuck the long term health of the platform am I right?!) and now Twitter is circling the toilet.
This meant trying to find refuge on another twitter-alike site, of which there were a few. I tried to settle on Mastodon at first, but the instance I joined didn't really fit me as well as I thought it would, and I got discouraged. Tried another and fared much better off, though rebuilding my following has been slow progress.
As much as this all sucked, at least it was only Twitter, right? Nahhhh.
Not sure how you could see what Musk is doing to Twitter and think "golly gee, that sounds like a good idea", but that's exactly what reddit is doing as we speak, and that just...launched me down a depressive hate spiral that I'm currently stuck in.
It's playing out almost exactly like Twitter is. Some rich asshole (or set of assholes) is mad that they're not making enough money even though they have enough money in the bank to arguably be set for life, so to make even MORE money they're going to go run off and tank a service that they're in charge of.
Or--because we live in this capitalist hellscape--it's considered a bad thing when you're making just enough money to pay your bills, pay your employees, and just exist, comfortably, as a company. No, you must always be growing, or you're a failure. Approaching saturation? We don't care, fuck over your current customers to extract more dollars from them, too!
sigh.
Because Twitter making sudden changes at the snap of Musk's fingers is working out so well for them, reddit's CEO decided he was going to wake up, choose violence, and do the same thing. Despite reddit telling developers of 3rd party apps that hey, everything's cool, we're not charging for our API within the next year...one day they did a complete 180 on that and are now saying "pay up".
Which in and of itself is not the problem: Developers are more than happy to pay into this! But reddit is asking far, far too much, on a way too aggressive timeline. You could say this is intended to just outright kill 3rd party apps without explicitly saying so, and you'd very likely be right.
Reddit's mobile presence was built on these apps. Hell, reddit themselves bought out Alien Blue to use as a base for their own app, so spez's charge that "reddit was never intended for 3rd party apps" is an outright lie.
(Isn't even the worst lie he's spouted. When Christian Selig--the dev behind Apollo--brought out receipts to call out reddit's admins claiming he was blackmailing them, he doubled down and tried to play the victim and continue to say that he was extorted.)
We're now at the point where reddit's many communities protested this, and reddit went union-busting to break up said protest. The whole thing is absolutely wack. They're actually threatening to replace mod teams to force subreddits that went dark back open.
Given how vehemently they're burning their bridges, I don't anticipate they're going to back off and reddit is in the same state that twitter is in: It may live on despite billionaires and venture capitalists trying to kill it, but the soul is gone. There's no joy in using it anymore.
And all of this started because spez saw what Musk did and thought "damn, that's a good idea!" As if that wasn't bad enough, we have some small side things happening, too. Like the Apple Card launching a cruise missile right at me (and people like me). If you want to finance an iPhone (which is really--sadly--the way to go these days, phones are NOT cheap) you have to do it via the Apple Card if you're not on the big 3 carriers.
Not anymore! Apple's removing the financing option for Apple Card users on MVNOs, so you have to be on one of the big 3 carriers with a postpaid plan to finance an iPhone via the Apple Card.
Yes. The Apple Card. A line of credit that I qualified for outside of any kind of carrier bullshit.
This almost feels like Apple feeding into this trope that MVNO users are all broke and don't deserve nice things, but the fact is that if you're a single person who only wants a single line plan, MVNOs are really the way to go. You're getting absolutely ripped off for a single-line plan on postpaid carriers. It's ridiculous.
(But yes, I know, this is likely the carriers themselves pushing Apple to make this change. Still. Sigh.)
I'm sure there are other things going shitty too (like uh, Discord's username changes) but in interest of keeping this post somewhat shorter I won't launch into those. I'm just tired because it feels like we're in that period where like, everyone knows we're headed for a recession and they're trying to squeeze as hard as they possibly can before we physically can't give anymore.
Probably a majority of the reason why I suffer with executive dysfunction as of late and just don't want to get out of bed. Why do so when everything outside your door sucks ass?
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We are incorporating Le kart into VistaFraiche and that's the new company. We're going to introduce it with it and it's going to be very nice it's going to sound like madness and most of the cars have a different symbol than the Pendragon coat of arms it's going to be a French symbol and it will be French Canadian and it's like the banana and it's an honor of his mom and dad a little bit for doing the job but nobody else could or would and she likes it she wants the full line and we're going to make the military vehicles too and we're sending her something she's going to get it in a few days and it's will pour in there but the Maxwell too. This is crazy their asses kicked it's created a hubbub up north
Frank Castle hardcastle
With some of the most frustrating people to talk to no you have to make this thing work so you don't look bad but we're going on to other things no if you look at the coat of arms it shows us when is yellow and one is red and that's Darth maul and me Savage and it is because those are colors and those are our characters and we wear them with pride and they did that and it shows that it comes from them you're going to be amazed what it looks like and it is a new coat of arms and they've been working on it for a long time and our family name is what you see there it's exactly what her name is
Savage in my wife oppress and of course she is from a different clan and different family line completely different to prevent retardation and or sickness or both
We hold you in contempt no this is a big pain and did nothing for us we're going to ruin ourselves with this if you don't stop it and we're trying to and we're making progress and today we did a lot of stuff and tonight we have to be ready and I mean it everybody does
Mac daddy I appreciate your effort and I do understand something we're having a problem with both of these idiots and they all suck and they're the same and they grew and stuff we can't afford to be ruined it's way too dangerous what they're doing and we need vehicles they're going to buy a ton of them they're going to take it from them because of what it means it is very potent and it's very powerful and it's partly from our code but it's their code they say and it is deep but boy what wonderful vehicles and they're putting other vehicles in there like the car I thought I'd never see it it's the cart and yeah it's annoying he's got to get some sleep it's so damned tough but boy there's some nice cars and he wants to roll the high performance vehicle into it and it's going to be great it will probably have a dealership down here sometime soon and they'll be rumors that there is one cuz they'll be selling it and it's kind of like a he says to be okay connection to another website and you have to look for it and stuff like that very high-end stuff that other vehicles very high end it's very fast and the smaller ones can race it actually they have all the classes except the big one but they're all for sale and the light cycle company might be Canadian too and it has other electric motorcycles in it and regular motorcycles so you might call it something else
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I’m going to skim respond bcuz there was a lot but really it’s just me responding but I may not hit every thing. Anyways! I read everything and I’ll try to respond as I scroll thru what you said. Mainly to start. Yoh talked about what happened recently. Where you cleaned bong and he got upset even tho you did it bcuz you were waiting. How can everything be a problem. Lkke you said. All he had to do if he truly wanted your company was find you and say join me babe. But instead he’s like. You should’ve already been here? Like what’s uo his ass. I dont get treating people short and rude all the time. It’s exactly what you don’t deserve. Hmph. Like your right someone saying something shouldn’t affect your whole day. But when your already a depressed person and your partner is giving you little care or thought then it makes sense how you feel! Maybe you should be less sensitive? But no he needs to be like 2x more thoughtful about emotions. I mean! Whether he thinks it’s dumb or not he’s your partner. Either adapt or work with it. Don’t just get mad or cause problems for no reason. He makes it seem like you cause problems. But really he’s causing problems but it’s not problems to him bcuz it’s not affecting him it affects you. So when you (as a healthy relationship should be) try to talk to him and he’s like. This shouldn’t be a problem that’s fucked!
And it’s like gifts aren’t required but I’m sure you wouldn’t be saying that If he complimented or made time to hang out. Like. Since you moved with him. He should be trying to take you out with his friends or coworkers. Not really but like. For me. Even if the boys didn’t want to hang. I’d try to at least have us all do stuff every once and a while idk. Like it shouldn’t be that way but it’s real life sims! We like interaction and groups!
And yeah that’s what sucks. When people barely congratulate but always judge harshly when things are wrong. That is frustrating grr. I hope you find another job soon princess. Maybe one that’s from home again or a job that’s easily transferable? I just mean that for a worst. Case. If you ever wanted to go elseware that way you’d at least have a job. Anyways. That’s hypothetical and far away. I just want you to have your own cushions to fall back onto if you ever need to.
I just.. I hate how manipulative and toxic masculinity sounding he is.. Im sorry I know I shouldnt say but like. Barely talking to you or secluding self. Like. Alone time is one thing but like cmon! Live in same house interact! I know you do but just off of what you say. Like. Talk when you have nothing to say?! That’s small talk! To fill silence and he says he doesn’t have anything to say? Then shut uo and listen to your rambles! I’d listen to gibberish rather than silence tf. Grr I’m sorry getting riled trying not to.
Why does it matter where you watch stuff! Like if he wasn’t using office who cares! You say he eats fruit and watches YouTube alone. Why can’t you! If he’s not gonna make you smile fuck off! Rawr!
Princess this is the thing I’ve wanted you to always understand and I’m saying this bcuz you said “am I crazy” no! Your not. Everything you’ve written and shared. If any unbiased parted read this would feel the same (someone with our care and morals) like it’s almost your bday and he’s still treating you normal. Like no one’s needs a birth week but cmon. Like oooh babyyyy almost bday. Any things you wanna do? Plans? Maybe he’ll surprise you but idk. You could tell yourself it’s selfish to want gifts but it’s not. It doesn’t have to be a diamond ring. I’d get you those lil toys we used to get (not really but getting that over nothing or something with no thought is different than just getting something expensive. I wish I could go to the mall with you. Give you a price limit and spoil you for a day. Or ask for ideas and wrap them and wake you with breakfast n gifts
Like. Obviously we dated early and younger. And our living arrangements were all over the place. But I just can’t believe how much home work you do. Like. Old timey woman cooks n cleans and he still finds ways to get upset. Grr. If I came home and didn’t have to worry about cleaning I’d be so at peace. Like living with me n 2 bois! Always dishes and I’m doing them the most! (I use the most but still! They use stuff too!)
And back to the locked door and tasks. Like. Cmon. Your partners. No one should be. Punishing anyone. Your not dealing with kids. You talk out problems. Not yell or put down. Yelling happens. But this isn’t normal arguments. This is mind games and lack of care. Not really.. I should stop. I dont want to sway your mind. I’m just responding to what you say. I want you to know your thoughts are valid. Not crazy. Your smart and kind. But to get this to the end. Like what! He forgets his own tasks so it’s like oh you could’ve forgot that. Or if you forgot then he’d notice. Punk 😤 hypocrite. Narcissist, more. Rawr!
Anyways this responds to the longer cont. 1 n 2 next will be most recent. You’re strong and brave. I hope you can find a path that leads you to fun and relaxation soon
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And I’d expect people who have followed my blog to understand my POV on art more since I talk about it quite regularly and yet here we are!
I don't think I've ever followed your blog. I remember interacting positively with you in the past, but I don't follow many people.
-I- don’t just replicate and vomit it back up. And I do art that is freakin derivative as HELL and can STILL explain all sorts of symbolism and choices made to create it the way it was created. assuming that’s “all” artist do that is not only disrespectful to artist but to art as a whole. If some artist do nothing but replicate…that’s on them, but with respect to the artist of that comic, if all they are bringing to their art is copying maybe they SHOULD be navel gazing about what they bring that an AI doesn’t. Mosy artist stop being replicate machines once they learn the technical skills and start using then to SAY something.
I didn't say anything about artists being replication machines who don't have distinct symbolism and choices they can explain. My point is that beneath those choices, there's so much more you're taking for granted. Can you name every piece of art that might have had the tiniest subconscious influence on your choices of symbolism, or on developing your understanding of art to think to use symbolism the way you do in the first place?
When I write a scene, my idea of what that scene might consist of is shaped by any number of my previous experiences with media, to teach me about elements a scene can have and how they can impact it. When I write a sentence - even one outside of a story, like this one - I come up with a concept for what the sentence is meant to accomplish, and rely on subconscious parts of my brain to fill in gaps as needed, extrapolating from its existing information to come up with words likely to meet the criteria. That is exactly the same as the process of prompting an AI.
Does your art not SAY something? Are you not DOING something with all those references and skills? Why do you think all art is summed up only by the technical skills used to create it?
In order: of course it does, of course I am, and I don't think any such thing. I'm not sure what prompted any of these questions, but they seem to be a response to a thing I didn't say.
UBI is great, AI is effecting my rent now. I’m not living in a perfected future, I’m living here and now. How does UBI fix the issue happening currently? would YOU like to call my mortgage company and explain I won’t be paying my bills because UBI is the most ethical system? i’ll DM you their number, I’m sure they’ll take philosophical possibilities for my rent payment.
My condolences.
Also, gimme a break about “taking it personal” when you’re talking about my profession AND passion. This isn’t theoretical, you are talking about ME when you talk about artist and AI art. i’m sorry your uncomfortable that you were talking down about a skill and profession and didn’t expect someone from that profession to react. But that’s what happens when you put out negative opinions publicly. The weird “Oh you’re getting too personal~” tactic isn’t going to work cause yeah ofc this is personal. I am very passionate about art and paying my bills.
If this topic stresses you out that much, I would not recommend reading my posts on the matter. Have you considered blacklisting relevant tags?
Everyone uses or is gonna use AI. It’s inevitable. It sucks. You won’t have much of a choice anyway. Much like fast fashion. But just admit you want the pretty pictures and don’t want to pay to commission them and/or work to learn how to make them yourself.
I want to use AI to more conveniently complete projects that I probably could not feasibly bring into reality any other way. I have no problem acknowledging this. But I was advocating for AI art well before I became interested in actually using it myself, not for that reason at all.
@sailor-kaiju if you're that interested in having this argument, fine, let's go.
You dismiss the comic I brought up and its subsequent discussion as meaningless insecurities, but they are nothing of the sort. The artist is absolutely correct - not just about his own art, but about how art works in general. Your art has just as much reason to be considered "stealing" from whatever you take inspiration from, as does my writing. Recognizing that fact is something all artists should do, and I see plenty who do so. Your lack of that self-awareness does not make you any better than those of us who have it.
Meanwhile, I'm surprised you see the idea of UBI as unrealistic Marxism. It's a lofty goal, but trying to put a stop to the use of an effective piece of technology is even less practical. I've been saying for years that it's the real answer to concerns around automation, as have many others - starting long before generative AI got as big as it is now.
If you're not convinced by those arguments, good news - I have plenty more of them! Multiple tags' worth, even. It's a common topic on this blog, one where I've said and shared all sorts of things I don't feel the need to reiterate. I'd expect people who've been following me for a while to be familiar with them by now, unless they're avoiding engaging with the topics entirely.
Whatever is the case, I would recommend against perceiving someone posting things on their own blog as them coming into your house and spitting in your face. Doesn't seem like a healthy perspective.
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Rooftop Conversations (Wanda Maximoff/ Reader/ Yelena Belova)
Hi everyone!
This is a little shorter, but hope you all enjoy!
Summary: Reader shares a complicated history with Wanda. What will happen when Natasha introduces her sister to the problem? Who will reader end up with?
“Y/n.”
The closer you got the tower you called home; the more anxiety began to bubble in your chest. You had been away for over three months now and the entire time you were away Yelena refused to accept any of your calls. Admittedly they were few and far between due to circumstances, but the rare instances when you were able to get your hands on a phone, the other woman would always be miraculously busy.
You didn’t blame her.
Not in the slightest. Still, with every flimsy excuse Natasha gave you whenever you asked to speak to Yelena, you couldn’t help but feel that you were losing a part of yourself. Yelena was woven into your being and being shut off from her was something that was… entirely your fault.
It always made your heart ache though. To know she didn't want to even speak to you. To be away from her. There was so much about her you missed. Like her voice, her laugh, her jokes…
You just missed her.
“Y/n!” You jumped slightly and turned your attention to Steve who was glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Everything okay?”
All you managed was a weak nod as you focused back on the world around you. It was something you had to do often over the last few months. “Fine.” You replied, turning to face him as you awaited whatever it was he wanted to say.
“You can stop fidgeting with your necklace. We shut down all the bases. That’s all we could do.” He eventually said.
It wasn’t until Steve pointed it out that you realized that your fingers were fiddling absently with the charm that was hanging from the necklace Wanda had given you before you left. “What are you talking about?” you questioned, your brows furrowed in confusion.
Steve gestured broadly in your general area with one hand, while the other hand remained on the controls of the quinjet. “Whenever you get nervous you start fiddling with the necklace.” His hands returned to the controls as he shifted his attention. “Like a safety blanket.”
Grumbling absently, you folded your hands and looked out the window like a child who had just been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to. “Says the one with the pocket watch.”
In response, Steve shrugged. “Touché.”
You smirked and leaned back in your chair. “That’s what I thought." He chuckled. "Besides, I know we did all we could on the mission. I’ve come to terms with Dr. Wilkerson getting away, without his bases of support though he’s nothing.”
“Is that not what you were nervous about?” Steve prodded.
You shook your head. “I’m worried Yelena is going to hate me forever.” You admitted, your hand once again flying up to fiddle with the charm on your necklace.
Steve whistled lowly. “Still no word from her?” You shook your head again. “All you can do is be honest, kid. Earn her forgiveness. While you may have had good intentions, you lied. Even if it was to protect her. She reserves the right to be angry about it.”
“I know.” You replied. “I agree entirely, but… I don’t want to lose her. I can’t lose her. She-… She means… Everything to me.”
There was a moment of silence. “Do you love her?”
It had been months since you had allowed yourself time to think about the inner workings of your heart, yet the answer remained the same and came with no hesitation. “Yes.”
Steve nodded. “Does that mean you’re over Wanda then?”
The question took you by surprise and suddenly the pendant burned under your touch, like every nerve ending in your body went haywire. Overwhelmed with the thought of the two women that unabashedly occupied your heart. You feebly let your hand fall back to your lap.
Again, silence hovered in the air until, “No.” You replied softly, knowing it was the truth. Knowing you had no reason to lie to Steve.
Again, there was no hesitation in your answer.
“Sounds like you still have a lot to figure out then, kid.” Steve reached over and pat your shoulder sympathetically, “Between you and me though, I always thought you and Wanda would find your way back to each other. You’ve always been like magnets you two.” He admitted. “Natasha disagrees with me. She seems to think that you and Yelena are the most irritatingly perfect match. Her words not mine.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You and Romanoff better not be placing bets on my love life again. You remember what happened last time, Rogers.” You warned with a point of your finger.
Steve chuckled and raised his hands innocently. “No bets were made. I’m just telling you the information.” He paused slightly. “Though I will say if it was a bet, I'd probably win since I did say Wanda would be the one to ask you out originally because you’d be too nervous to even get a word out. You won me fifty bucks that day.”
You punched his shoulder. “I can’t stand any of you.”
“That’s what families do.” You rolled your eyes and chose not to respond as you both distracted yourselves with your own tasks.
Just over an hour later Steve spoke again. “Hope you got enough thinking done because we’re touching down at the compound in five minutes.”
You sucked in a breath as the clouds opened up and the sharp points of the familiar building filled the sky before you.
Suddenly it was as if you blinked, and Steve was lowering the quinjet onto the waiting platform. “It’s good to be home.” You mumbled as you gathered what little you had and walked off the jet with Steve.
Before you could get far, you were met with an armful of someone else causing you to drop everything in your arms to catch the other person.
When the familiar floral scent invaded your senses, you quickly relaxed and held on tighter, relishing in the moment. The comfort that you hadn’t felt in months. “I missed you too, Wanda.” You whispered into her ear as you tucked your chin over her shoulder.
“You have no idea.” Wanda replied as you both held tightly to each other. You faintly heard Steve mumble how he would take your things inside for you, but his words barely registered as you familiarized yourself with the touch you hadn’t felt in months.
Suddenly, it felt like you were grounded again. Like you had been drifting freely and now, being back by her side you felt anchored again. Connected to the world in a way that mattered again.
Sure, you had managed to speak to Wanda briefly a handful of times over the course of your mission, but those sparse minutes were nothing compared to the sensation of actually being in her arms once again.
“It’s good to see you again.” You said leaning back slightly and taking in her every feature, every speck of color in her eyes. This was the longest you had gone without seeing her since the day you both met. “How did you know we were coming back? We wrapped up a few days early, I thought it would fly under the radar.”
Wanda smiled sheepishly back at you, and you couldn’t help the way your own lips pulled up endearingly at the sight. “I may have convinced Tony to program a new feature to FRIDAY that would let me know when you landed.”
A small chuckle of amusement slipped pat your lips. “Yeah? How did you manage that?”
“I may have pulled the Stark missile card.” Wanda answered with a small shrug.
“Didn’t know you couldn’t be so devious, Maximoff.” You teased as Wanda playfully dusted the invisible dirt off her shoulders.
That was when another voice interrupted the moment. “Really? You didn’t?” You turned your head to find the source of the interruption, though from the voice you knew exactly who it was. “I’ve known for a while now.”
Wanda pulled away from you and looked away, rubbing her own arm uncomfortably. “Nat,” You warned. “I just got back; can we not fight first thing?”
Natasha looked between you and Wanda for another moment as if she was contemplating her choices before opening her arms in silent invitation. “Fine, I’ll play nice. Sorry Maximoff.” Wanda nodded in acknowledgment. You suspected she was still terrified of the other woman.
You glanced at Wanda to be sure she was okay before walking over to your best friend and embracing her just as tightly, finding comfort in her embrace. Comfort in knowing that they were all okay while you were gone. That was all you could have wanted. You missed this. All of it.
Regardless of how chaotic it could be at times.
“I assume you didn’t manage to play nice while I was gone. No wonder I stayed away so long.” You said playfully as Natasha pinched you side. You swatted her hand and pulled away in protest. “Is this how you show how much you miss me?”
Natasha rolled her eyes, “Miss you being an idiot? Sure.” She nudged you playfully. “It’ll be nice to have you back though, the compound hasn’t felt the same without you.”
“It really hasn’t.” Wanda agreed, wincing when she saw the blank look Natasha gave her.
You shook your head, “Nothing has changed.” You lightly rested your forehead on Natasha’s, so she could focus on you, so she could hear the sincerity of your next words. “I did miss you, you know? No need to be snappy.”
Natasha finally cracked a smile. “I know, I missed you too.” She lightly nudged your nose with her own before pulling away and ruffling your hair.
You smiled back at her but couldn’t help but look over Natasha’s shoulder a moment later. If Natasha knew you were back, then it was only safe to assume that… “Is- Is Yelena in her room?”
Amusement began shining in Natasha’s eyes. “Couldn’t even go ten minutes without asking about her, could you?” Heat quickly rushed into your cheeks. “She’s on a mission with Clint, should be back later today. Just light recon about a minor disturbance a few cities over.”
“Surprised you let her go without you.” You mumbled, already anticipating the moment of Yelena's return, mentally preparing all the ways you could earn her forgiveness.
“Tony had me on a separate assignment until this morning.” Natasha explained. “Besides, she’s with Barton, they’re both in good company. Safe.”
You nodded, if Natasha wasn’t worried then you had no reason to either. “I-” You lowered your voice. “Will you let me know when she’s back? Don’t tell her I’m here until I get a chance to talk to her, please, I don’t want her to avoid me anymore. I want to apologize. To make it up to her.”
Natasha analyzed you for a moment, analyzed your pleading tone before nodding. “I’ll give you this one shot because I know you only did what you did to protect her... I would have done the same.” She looked over your shoulder before looking back at you. “Now, I think I’ll head inside. We can catch up later. Don’t do anything that will make me have to kick your ass.” She warned.
Before you could utter a reply, your best friend had disappeared into the compound. “She actually talked to me once while you were gone. It was about a mission report, but still, she’s not ignoring me anymore.” You heard Wanda say from behind you.
You chuckled slightly as you turned to face her again, gesturing for her to follow behind you. “That’s actually great news to hear. I miss being able to spend time with both of you.” You leaned against the railing of the landing pad and let the wind traveling through the air be the only sound for a moment.
Wanda mimicked your position, her arms brushing yours, your own pinky shifting slightly to be in contact with hers.
It was like Steve said, there was something magnetic about you both and it felt even stronger after the separation. You couldn’t help but feel like you wanted to be closer. Your free hand raised to fidget with the charm on the necklace nervously.
“Still wearing the necklace, I see.” Wanda noted, her eyes shining happily in the light of day.
A faint blush quickly spread over your cheeks, and you managed a weak nod, your hand once again falling from the charm. “Steve says it’s my safety blanket.”
Wanda’s smile widened. “I didn’t know if you’d even use it since you had given it back to me after we broke up.”
You shrugged halfheartedly. “We’re past that. It represents more now. It represents you.” The sound of Wanda’s breath hitching caught your attention and you couldn’t help but feel your heart hammer in your chest. You just hoped she would change the subject, the vulnerability felt all too much in that moment. "It was nice to have on the mission."
“How did the mission go? I assume well since both you and Steve are back in one piece.” Wanda eventually asked, breaking the charged silence much to your relief. She always was good at reading your wants.
You nodded faintly, eagerly responding to the change of topic. “It did. We shut down every base we set out to, which was all of them.” You could see the happy smile form on Wanda’s lips, and you continued. “We did everything we set out to do except catch Dr. Wilkerson.”
Wanda’s smile fell almost immediately. She knew Dr. Wilkerson was your greatest enemy, your greatest fear. “Are you okay?” As the last word fell from her lips, her pinky moved to rest over yours, as if she herself wanted to be closer. To comfort you.
In response you turned you hand over in silent invitation and Wanda accept the offer immediately, her fingers tangling naturally with your own. “I feel okay, Steve still thinks we can catch him. He won’t get too far… I know he wants to take me back.” Wanda’s fingers tightened against yours. “Don’t worry, without the bases, without his minions? He’s nothing. Powerless. It’s only a matter of time.”
“The day he tries to come after you will be his last.” Wanda said seriously, her eyes darkening at the mere thought. “He won’t hurt you again, Y/n.”
You squeezed her hand, you knew Wanda would never hurt anyone, but her protective nature may change that. You’d never want to put her in that position. “I know, Wands. Don’t worry, Steve and I will find him. I’ll be okay.”
Her lips turned up faintly. “I know, I’ll be here to make sure of it. I’ll protect you, Y/n.”
“And even though you're infinitely stronger than me, I will protect you.” Wanda giggled slightly and you smiled back at her.
For a moment you both just stared at one another, allowing yourselves to get lost in the moment, moving closer and closer until you could feel her breath fan across your lips. You quickly looked away. Not ready to take that step. Not ready to ruin the leaps and bounds of progress you had made with her.
“Now fill me in on what I missed while I was gone.” You said in hopes of brushing over the minor traces of awkwardness that lingered in the air.
That was how both you and Wanda spent the remainder of the day, catching up on everything that had happened in the last few months, the hours slipping away with ease. There was only one thing that could ruin a relaxing evening like that.
And it was the sight of a smaller quinjet landing a few feet away. Your heart began hammering in your chest because the only other ones out on a mission were Yelena and Clint.
The woman that had occupied your mind so deeply was now just seconds away from you.
Except when the doors to the quinjet opened and Clint was the only one to step out, looking battered and bruised. Your stomach dropped at the sight.
You ran over, Wanda following closely behind. “Clint, where is Yelena?”
It was like Clint had just seen a ghost, his eyes widening even more than they already were. “Where is Natasha?”
“Whe-”
“WHERE IS NATASHA!” He yelled, his voice reverberating in the air around you.
Bile climbed up your throat in tandem with the panic you felt squeeze at your chest as the three of you ran into the compound in search of the other woman.
A few moments later you found her lounging in the main room of the compound with a notebook in her hands. Natasha immediately looked up when she heard the sound of panicked footsteps enter the room. “Clint, what-”
Clint quickly interrupted her, his panicked expression making you sick as you anticipated his next words.
“They took her. They took Yelena.”
And just like that, the world stopped.
And that's all folks! This chapter was more of a set-up for the unraveling of the remainder of this story which I now know will be 12 parts total. Sorry for no Yelena in this part. As always, thoughts and comments are always welcome!
Previous part: "Necessary Lies"
Masterlist: "Omen"
Tag list:
@abimess // @helloalycia // @imapotatao // @madamevirgo // @magicallymaximoff // @women-am-i-right @myfavoriteficss // @spicysashimi // @olsensnpm // @natasha-danvers // @xxxtwilightaxelxxx // @7thavenger // @aimezvousbrahms // @yourtaletotell // @purplemeetsblue // @b0mbdotc0m // @cristin-rjd // @trikruismybitch // @hopelesslyfallenninlove // @when-wolves-howl // @b-5by5 // @mionemymind
@sighsam // @simonsbluee // @pxterstrk // @heyyoweveryone // @euphoriaszn2 // @nosense-blog // @stressed-but-a-mess // @tomy5girls // @prentisshoe // @ghostyfacey // @imasimpfornatashamaximoff // @3and30aresoultwins // @gayarchnemessis // @https-sunshine // @donnietarantino // @lezzzbehonesthere // @chaekhan // @cxld-blood // @loomontoia // @ouat2017 // @anxiousgoldengirl // @lostandsearching //@liladoesfanfics // @just-a-normalpersons // @wandamaximoffsrings // @marvelwomen-simp // @hopemikaelslay // @im-in-lesbians-with-u // @paumxmff // @hitchgoonie // @yelenabelovasgf // @psychadelichues // @amourtentiaa // @yeeterthekeeper // @daniescady // @iliketozoneout // @megsi98 // @cyberbonesworld // @liver-casserole // @Andy-aj-rose // @chonisbestmistake // @gaylor-okay // @rwritesstuff // @ithrewmypieforglee //
#wanda maximoff#wanda#wanda maximoff fic#wanda maximoff x y/n#wanda marvel#wanda maximoff x you#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda x you#wanda x reader#wanda x y/n#yelena belova x you#yelena belova x reader
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Invitation
Alfie Solomons X Reader
Drabble
She leans against the doorframe, hair resting on her shoulders as she plays with her dress. Fuck, she’s proper lovely. Her smile follows the lines of her delicate features and he swears he sucks in a breath while waiting for the lad to get his papers in hand.
“You can come in for a bite, you know?”
Oh, he’d like to.
Her voice is soft, playful almost and Alfie images her writhing underneath him like he’s done a dozen times before but reminds himself that there are rules, invisible ones that are formed by the moral compass of the person.
He doesn’t have one.
She plays with the ends of her hair as he looks down at her small form, she gets lovelier by the day, he swears. A soft smile finds his lips and he shakes his head, making a curious noise leave her lips at the act. His eyes meet hers once more and he considers, fucking thinks about going in his employee’s house to have dinner with his housemate.
“‘m good, lass.” he speaks, choking out the words when she starts walking towards him.
Her movements are slow, clearly calculated as she strides towards him. He sucks in a breath and his eyes don’t leave hers. She has her smile on the entire time. She knows the affect she has on the baker all too well, as he’s not the most subtle of admirers but she decides she’ll give him a chance, she wants to after all.
“Have you had dinner, Mr. Solomons?” she whispers and he loses it for a second, mouth agape for a solid second before he gathers himself to look at the devilish eyes of the lass before her.
She says his name in a way that makes him swear there are gods, good ones too. They have given him the gift of her, or more so the gift of getting to ogle her every morning he has the chance to come by. His employee lives with her, a bloke named Ishmael and he makes the lad swear that he’ll take care of the girl.
Although he’d much rather do it himself.
“Nah, I haven’t.” he mutters, no energy left to curse in his system with her so close by.
He sees her face closer this way, even more gorgeous than he’d thought before. He takes his time, too. Eyes her eyelashes under the evening light as she stares up at him, marvels at his bulky form while he eye-fucks the girl. She doesn’t mind it, enjoys it if anything.
“Come on, then.” she says and he can’t find in himself to say no, he can’t even shake his head but to follow the lass.
He shakes his head while walking inside the house, following her like her tail and she smiles at the act. Alfie doesn’t seem like the rough type to her, although she’s sure he’d love to act like it. She doesn’t know enough about him to make conclusions but the more things she hears, the more curious she is about the nature of the gangster.
She sits him down then, on the large table in the dining room with no one but her and him. He figures Ishmael is inside the apartment somewhere still looking for the papers Alfie had asked for and he prays to his gods that the lad can’t find them. The lass pours Alfie a cup of water before filling his plate with warm food.
Fuck, it had been a long time since he’d had warm food at the table.
At any table, he reminds himself and catches the eyes of the lass he’s so fond of. She fills her plate as well, leaves Ishmael’s place empty and sits in front of Alfie before eating. Alfie watches her for a while, a slurty look in her eyes as she takes small bites from her filled spoon.
He then digs in, swearing under his breath as he realizes that this was just what he needed. “Fuck.”
She smiles at the word, also because just a small plate of warm food was enough to untie the knots he’s keen on carrying. She watches him devour the food before him, the papers he came around for long forgotten as he casts her a peculiar glance every other minute. She eats slower, watches him under a curious gaze and settles that she likes him.
“Another one?” she asks, sweet this time once he’s done but he shakes his head. He’s full and hungry for something else now that his belly was full.
“Nah, pet. Good fuckin’ food it ‘s, though, yeah.” he says, appreciating home cooked foods more than ever now that she’s made some for him.
Ishmael finds the papers in the meantime, realizes his boss is having a meal with the girl he lives with and settles that it’ll be best to just wait in the car. He knows that the boss is fond of the lass, although he doesn’t know her well and he’s interested to say the least so he steers clear, away from the dining room.
“Well....that’s kind.” she speaks after his last words and he realizes he wants something else.
“It’s the fuckin’ truth, innit.” he speaks under heavy eyes. Not because he’s sleepy but because he wants her.
“Tell me something else that’s true.” she says, elbows on the table once she’s finished. He smirks at her, laughs almost at the request.
“Where’s the lad?” he asks, knowing he’s playing with fire now and tries to steer clear from fucking a lass a decade younger than him.
But she doesn’t seem to mind. It seems like it’s quite the opposite, actually. She wants it, he can see but she’s not the one to beg for it. He just thinks she’s not properly worked up yet, once she has her panting it’s over. But he knows the blurry lines formed by what’s proper and what’s not.
The way she’s looking at him is definitely not.
“I told him to stay away.” she says, as a matter of fact about the time she’d warned him off about keeping clear if they were ever to be in the same room.
“And he fuckin’ listened?” he asks, chuckling while muttering out the sentence. His own lad who doesn’t always listen to him is whipped by a young thing like her.
He doesn’t blame him. He’d do anything she says without questions, too.
“What do you think?” she whispers, voice breathy and she smiles when he gulps.
He’s in the wolf’s cave as a lone bear.
She can’t tear him up, not yet but she has the capacity. He knows she does from the way she walked towards him outside. She plays with her knife, putting the sharp part against her tongue and he inhales sharply. She’s done this before, he can see but he wonders who was the other player, the unlucky bastard.
“Why haven’t you come inside the house before?” she asks, curious eyes lingering on his lips before landing on his eyes.
“Didn’t have a good enough fuckin’ reason, did I?” he speaks but it’s a lie, they both know it.
“Is me waiting for you not good enough?” she counters the words with another questions and he loses his breath for a second before sucking in a sharp breath of air.
And he knows she’d been waiting but not how.
She’d been waiting with a smile on her face, hands exploring her inner thighs with the visions of him. She was impatient, that was easy to see and he’d die to see her chest heaving the way it had a couple days ago with the thought of his head between her legs. He sees the want, the need in her eyes, mirrored fiercely in his.
“I know you have places to be..” she starts speaking and he knows he’s fucked, she doesn’t need to finish the sentence. “...I’d be willing to keep you company, if you’d like that is.” she speaks and he knows it to be true.
“How old are ya’, lass?” he asks and she retreats for a second. He sees her hesitate, not because she cares about the age difference but because she doesn’t.
She doesn’t give a single damn about how he’s much older than she is or that he’s got blood in her hands. This is mostly due to the many lads she’d been around who were seemingly appropriate, some would even say a catch, for her but they were boring chaps who just wanted a kiss from a pretty girl.
She needs a man, and reckons he’s exactly that.
“I think you already know the answer.” she bites back this time, almost aggressive and he revels at that, marvels at her angry orbs for a second before he realizes he’s been staring at her like his last meal.
“Ya’ know how old I fuckin’ am, hm?” he asks and she chuckles, smiles at his act. She’s lovely, he catches himself thinking as he watches her and she nods.
She fucking nods.
And then she speaks, but with more poise and anger this time. She’s managing her rage well, he can see because he has the exact same one swimming in his very own orbs. He watches her entire demeanor change and she talks without breaking eye-contact, making him shift in his pants.
“I know age doesn’t matter to you....nor me being Ishmael’s housemate. You either want this..” she gestures to herself before putting her elbows on the surface, eyes stern. “...or you don’t. There’s plenty of fish in the sea and I have no problem with hunting some down.” she finishes and he needs an entire moment to gather himself.
He watches her chest heave, a million visions fills his head before he has to shake them out. His pants are tight now, too tight as he groans while adjusting the fabric. She sees the frustration, months of him wanting to make her his and now she’s presenting him with the opportunity but it’s not like what he’s imagined.
Oh, it’s much better.
“What if I, yeah, do fuckin’ want it? What happens then, hm?” he asks, hand tugging at his beard as he watches her delve from confusion to confidence all in a second. She smiles at him, and he swears he’s about to fuck her on the dining table but she speaks before he can do that.
“Do you always ask questions that you know the answers to? Or is it only with me?” she says and he raises his eyebrows at that.
He does know what this entails.
Sleepless nights in his office, him fucking her against the desk and her getting bruises for it. He knows she’ll spend the weekends if he asks but he also sees the other side of the coin, the one with no fucking and a whole lot of blood. He sees the danger and a flick in his heart tells him to keep the angel before him out of it but he’s selfish.
“Do ya’ know the answer then?” Alfie asks and this is a warning of sorts, telling her that once she’s in, there’s no way out.
She nods, not bothered or threatened but simply knowing. He watches her smile, a wide grin on her pretty lips as she speaks.
“I’m not scared of a little blood, if that’s what you’re asking.” she speaks and he knows she’s not a woman to be toyed with. Sure, she’s young. Much younger than anyone he’s ever been with but he sees the fire in her eyes, the same he’s had since he became a young man. He knows she’s been through less than he, he can see it in her delicate hands compared to his calloused ones but he finds that he doesn’t care.
“‘m a dangerous fuckin’ man, luv.” he says and the pet name makes her smile in a way that makes him lose his breath. It’s so easy for her, he thinks and she knows, she drags the smile because of it.
“A dangerous man wouldn’t warn me off.” she says with a wicked smile.
And he’s sold.
He can’t argue with that logic, he thinks and it brings a low chuckle to his lips. She’s right, in some sick and twisted way and it makes him smile. He wants to take her home, kiss her real good and then explore every inch of her soft skin she’s graciously exposing to him. He wants to mark her and for people to see it. It’s primitive, but primitive can be good.
“When do ya’ have to be fuckin’ home?” he asks, like she’s a school girl or if her parents will check the bedroom in case of a missing daughter at night case.
So she chuckles at the words, shakes her head and offers the gangster the kindest smile she can muster. He wants her to ruin him, to make him beg on his knees and he’s willing to do so, every step of the way if he needs to but she’s taking a step back each time he tries to catch her in his strong arms. It’s frustrating but he’s close, too close to pass up the opportunity.
“Whenever we’re done.” she says, almost in a whisper this time and it makes Alfie get up almost abruptly.
He feels like a young man inside, how he felt before the war as he walks out of the dining room but not before stopping in front of the lass to mutter some words.
“Go on, then.” he says, against her face and she can feel the goosebumps on her skin. It makes her excited, that she finally has the chance to have a go at the scary man and Alfie watches her get her coat and offer her hand.
He takes it.
Her hand is much smaller, softer too and not roughened by the world’s many troubles. He plans to keep them that way, to make sure there’s not a scratch on her in his time of being around promises himself that it will be the case as long as she keeps him around.
Just before she’s about to hop into the car, holding onto his hand, she plants a kiss on the side of his mouth.
And he’s gone.
Because it’s soft, far too good for a criminal like him but he can’t bring himself to say that she should be wary of him. He wants her, like a little kid wants candy and he cannot keep denying himself, he knows this. He also knows she may come out of a bit more mature so sees it as a gain and gain situation.
Then he barks at the driver to take them to his place and feels her hand clasp his. A low fuck leaves his lips and he knows he’s in for trouble.
---
Tagging: @clairecrive @parkbearum @sourirez @vetseras @mollybegger-blog @babylooneytoonz @peakascum
A/n: This happened and i hope you liked it? Let me knowww and also if you’d like to be tagged.
#alfie imagine#alfie solomons imagine#alfie solomons smut#alfie solomons scenario#alfie solomons series#alfie solomons fluff#alfie solomons fanfic#alfie solomons fanfiction#alfie solomons x reader#alfie solomons x shelby!reader#alfie solomons x oc#alfie solomons fic#Peaky Blinders#alfie solomons peaky blinders#peaky blinder imagine#peaky blinder fanfic#peaky blinders smut#peaky blinders scene#peaky blinders imagine#peaky blinders fluff#peaky blinders fanfic#peaky blinders fiction#peaky blinders x reader#peaky blinders alfie#tom hardy x reader
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Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]
Title: Hook Line and Sinker [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]
Synopsis: You’ve broken up with Ransom Drysdale, and you mean it this time. But the freedom that comes with the breakup leads to a series of unexpected coincidences that leave you wondering: was it worth the price?
Word Count: 8955
notes: yandere, mentions of physical abuse, financial abuse, comfort sweaters
Nothing lasts forever. Not even relationships--and certainly not love. What might start off as an intense, passionate relationship can (and did, in your case) eventually fizzle; things that you were willing to overlook when you were absolutely besotted would wear down with time, and eventually they became too much to ignore.
That’s what you tell yourself, what you remind yourself, in the moment after you tell him:
“It’s over, Ransom. We’re done. I’m leaving.”
It couldn’t last forever. Not with his inability to stay sober, not with his tendency to cheat on you with meaningless flings that somehow hurt more than any steamy single-minded affair. Not with his flare-ups of controlling tendencies that left you in tears on the bathroom floor as he asked you to please stop dressing like a slut in front of his family, is that too hard to ask?
You’d asked him to change. He swore he would; he never did. You forgave him, more than once, more times than you could count. But enough was enough. Maybe he thought you were too weak to leave him, especially three years into your relationship, when your lives were becoming so integrated, pushing you towards a potential permanent future. It was a future that left you feeling numb and anxious. Stuck in a marriage with someone who wanted to stay with you but treated you horribly, all the same. And that wasn’t even getting into the family dynamics that left your head spinning.
He stares at you now, and his mouth opens just a little bit in what you know is going to be a barrage of questions, insults, maybe even threats spurred on by your words. But instead he closes his mouth and shakes his head, letting out a soft, bitter chuckle.
“Well, damn. This sucks.” You can see the indent of his tongue in his cheek before he clicks and shrugs. “Guess that’s it then. Need help packing your shit or what?”
His response is so blasé that you’re genuinely shocked and, you must admit, a little hurt. He didn’t even ask for a second chance or beg you to stay or argue with you about your terrible timing because our-vacation-to-Hawaii-is-coming-up. So it’s your turn to look surprised, and you shake your head.
“No, I… already took care of it. It’s at a storage locker.” You didn’t have family left, and your close friends had pulled away from you one by one once you stayed with Ransom time and time again--so you’d had to pay movers to help you pack and transport everything to storage over the weekend, while Ransom was away and you were free to make a clean breakup.
He nods, sticks his hand inside his jacket pockets. He’s looking around the room, avoiding direct eye contact in a clear show of his discomfort. It’s weird seeing Ransom like this--the normally self-assured, cocky Ransom, looking for any excuse not to look at you.
“So… see ya around?” His tone is sincere, if still confused. The idea of you leaving must have really never crossed his mind. The look on his face when he finally faces you again appears genuinely puzzled.
He sticks out his hand and it feels almost comical for things to end this way, particularly considering the nights you’d spent imagining some big blow up, some big fight with Ransom screaming and you firing off the many reasons why it had to end no matter what he said.
But it didn’t go the way you expected at all. It was calm. Easy. A clean break-up.
So you shake his hand and grab your purse and the small roller-suitcase and give a half-hearted wave as you walk out the door; the taxi you’d hired to pick you up is waiting, car running, meter going. You would be staying at a hotel for two weeks, which would hopefully be enough time to find a semi-decent apartment; your credit score had improved so much since Ransom added you to his cards, to a shared checking account, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to get approved.
A new life, one where you could focus on yourself for once, was just around the corner.
**
"I'm sorry, miss, but it's definitely not the reader. The card is declined."
You've had this nightmare before. No, you've lived this nightmare before--years ago when your credit was shit and you ran up your cards and had to face the music in a publicly humiliating display with the longest checkout line you'd ever seen behind you. Only that was years ago, in a little grocery store, and since getting together with Ransom you never had to worry about problems like this. You never had to worry about the shame of not having enough, not being enough.
But this? This was happening now. In an upscale hotel. With your nice purse (a Christmas present) and designer clothes (casual, comfortable) and your cheeks flushed undeniably warm.
The hotel clerk has a tight, sympathetic smile on her face. A coworker who walks behind her glances at you, judging, and you just know he's going to head into some break room and tell everyone but yet another piece of discarded army candy with a declined credit card. You wish you'd kept your sunglasses on.
"Did it, um, say why? I don't--" you plaster a smile on your face, hating the way this all feels familiar, like a part of your past coming back to haunt you. "I don't understand, the card is good."
The clerk's smile flickers, just a bit.
"It says there's a fraud alert on this card. Perhaps you'd better call the company. Or would you like me to call them?"
Fucking. Ransom.
"Oh, oh no, don’t worry about it. I’ll call them myself. I'm so sorry about this." You turn away from the clerk as quickly as possible and step away from the counter, away from the person waiting behind you who will surely have no trouble with their card, away from the clerks giving you a passive side-eye. You lean against a cool cement pillar in the lobby and you know what you have to do.
You have to call Ransom.
You haven't deleted his number yet--you'd planned on calling him today or tomorrow to figure out how to split up your shared finances--so it's easy enough to find the number. It's not so easy to tap his contact, but you have to, so you force yourself to do it and stare at his photo as the call rings. And rings. And rings. “Hello?” Your breath catches but in an instant, when the message continues, you feel stupid. It’s his voicemail. Fuck.
You text him, instead. Emergency. Call right away. And of course: He leaves you on read. Fuck.
You call him again. And again. He picks up on the sixth call, but your heart is racing too hard and sweat is beading down your forehead and it takes you a moment to confirm that the "Hello?" wasn't part of the voicemail message this time. Fuck.
"Um. Hey," you say, keeping your voice as un-royally-pissed-off as possible, because if he did put in a fraud alert then you don't want to risk any additional asshole moves. "So there's something wrong with the card? The one that ends in 8921? The hotel said there was a fraud alert and--"
"Did you really think I'm going to keep paying for your shit if we're over?"
His voice is quick, biting--exactly what you'd expected from him earlier. Somehow it stings even harsher over the phone, where you feel more helpless, unable to avoid his words.
"I thought..." you wet your lips, trying to maintain your cool. "Look, my name is on them, so I thought send you my part of the payments until I can get cards in my own name."
He chuckles, low and short. "Yeah? What, you want to create a payment schedule or something?"
You fight back the annoyance in your tone. You hate having to be the bigger person, but your finances--your life--is on the line. "Yeah, actually, that'd be perfect. It wouldn't be for long. You know I'll pay them on time, I'm not looking to screw you over."
"You're going too pay me on time? For all the stuff you've bought, the stuff I’ve bought for you, this hotel room and god knows what else? How are you going to afford all that?"
He knows you recently earned a promotion at your work. He knows this, because you were so excited about it, and his half-assed congratulations over lukewarm leftovers left you feeling bitter and sad and useless. So you can't help it when bitterness seeps into your voice with your answer. "You know I just got a promotion."
"Did you?" It's said in such a casual tone that it gives you pause, but a moment later he simply hangs up on you.
Fucking. Ransom.
You shove your phone back into your purse, and the clerks at the counter are staring at you. Sweat has trickled down your back and your shirt sticks to your skin ever-so-slightly as you pull away from the pillar and approach the counter, awkward smile and cheeks hot.
"There is an issue with the card, they're working on it, so I’ll just call for a new reservation when it's fixed. I'm so sorry for the mix up!" Your voice is so peppy and high-pitched and fake and you feel like you’re back at your old job, feet aching with falling apart shoes, forced to deal with people returning old toasters laden with crumbs, calming they’d “just bought it the day before and it didn’t work.”
"Of course," the clerk says, and you know this is hotel clerk code for "You're a shitty liar."
You roll your suitcase out of the lobby with tears in your eyes and you shove your sunglasses on as soon as you've cleared the building. You feel exhausted, drained--so you use what little energy you have left to start googling for cheap motels.
**
The room smells musty. You pin the plastic sheet you’d snagged at a dollar store over the comforter and pray it will be enough to protect you from whatever is on the likely unwashed fabric. The TV is broken, there’s no WIFi, and there’s a few suspicious stains on the floor that make you wonder if this hotel has ever been featured in a porno, true crime show, or both.
But it’s all you could afford with the cash in your wallet. You only had enough cash on hand for 2 nights at a ragtag hotel that offers nightly and hourly rates. You didn’t dare use your debit card or any credit cards with Ransom’s name or information on them.
You just need some sleep. A good night’s sleep to feel renewed and ready to tackle retaking your life, bit by bit. In the morning, you need to go to the bank and withdraw your money from the joint bank account. Then you can reopen an account in your name, get a new debit card, and apply for a few credit cards afterwards.
Sure, it would have been nicer to do this without Ransom being an asshole. But deep down, you suspected he wouldn’t let you have a clean, lets-still-be-friends type of break. Not after all the times he’d pressured you into staying, manipulating you with words and gifts and promises, promises. Promises that were worth shit.
The sheet crinkles underneath you as you scroll through your messages. You’d texted a few formerly close friends about the breakup earlier, hoping that they’d maybe want to reconnect. So far, you’d been left on read, blocked, and received only one response: “New number, who is this?”
So much for that. Not that you can blame them. There are only so many times they can rush over for a late night intervention in which you tell them every horrible thing Ransom does (he’s controlling, he doesn’t want me to meet with friends without permission, he tells me what I can and can’t wear, he cheats, he lies, he pushed me--)--before they get tired of you returning to him, again and again and again.
The only one who’d been texting you recently--okay, for the past year--had been Ransom. Mostly dick pics. And demands for you to send him something back, which you always did after a while, because you didn’t want to deal annoyed texts or voice messages accusing you of clearly cheating on him or hating him because why else wouldn’t you be willing to send him so much as a sexy selfie to your boyfriend?
But in between those, there were conversations. Sometimes sweet ones, sometimes thoughtful ones that always made you remember why you fell hard for him in the first place. Late night conversations from when he was off on trips. You try not to wonder if he was fucking someone on each of these trips, if while you were sending him a late night ramble about a TV show and he was humoring you with jokes and quips, he was actually snuggled up with someone else. Laying in bed, naked, laughing at your dumb ass waiting at home.
The not-so-sweet conversations were ones that you had screenshotted and sent to your friends more than once, before they pulled themselves away. Texts asking where you were. Asking who you ate lunch with, and whether or not you were fucking them. Asking why your new office was connected to a certain co-worker’s, and how many blowjobs you had to give to get said new office because you didn’t tell him about the new office until after you were moved in, so you were clearly hiding him. Asking you to send him outfit pics so he could approve them or make you change if they were too slutty or not slutty enough or if you were only clearly wearing that halter dress to try to get with the bartender.
Yet your mind had always returned to the nice Ransom, the Ransom who made you laugh and squeezed you hard when had a shitty day of work and let you bury your face in his sweater as you snuggled on the couch. Maybe that’s why it took so long to leave. You were waiting for him to stop being Ransom and start being the fantasy of Ransom you’d conjured in your head.
Your eyes feel heavy so you plug in your phone, turn the sound off, and lay down on the uncomfortable plastic sheet that crinkled over the pillows. It feels strange to lay on a lumpy mattress covered in plastic, after years of custom-made beds and memory foam pillows and all the other luxuries that Ransom was able to provide.
You try not to think about it too much. While you won’t exactly be indulging in all the luxuries you had with Ransom, but your job pays you well, and you won’t ever have to go back to living hand-to-mouth like you did before. You won’t have to worry about late bills and debt collectors and landlords who come late at night and demand inspections while you’re in your pajamas.
You have work in the morning. You have to get to the bank in the morning. Your thoughts are still buzzing with anxiety as you fall into an uneasy slumber.
**
“I’m sorry, but the account has been closed.”
You feel years of customer service training cracking underneath your skin. You can’t freak out. If you freak out, they won’t feel inclined to go the extra mile. You know this, from firsthand experience.
So you take a shaky breath. “Um, this just--it isn’t possible. It’s a joint account. I’m on the account. There was money in there, you can check--”
“I’m sorry, but the funds were transferred and account has been closed by the other account holder. There’s nothing I can do. I suggest contacting the other party in the account.”
You swallow and nod and walk away, this time having been smart enough to keep your sunglasses on to hide your humiliated expression. Why didn’t you insist on having your own account? Ransom said it was better to keep it joint, so you could just buy stuff whenever you wanted. You’d agreed because it was so generous, something you’d never thought possible at the time, when you were used to having to pay overdraft fees and cringing whenever you checked your balance.
Your fingers tremble as you bring up his contact on your phone. You tap. No answer.
You don’t have time to call him two, three, ten times--you have to get to work. So you steady your nerves. You breathe in, you breathe out. You get in your car and plug your phone in and decide to contact your lawyer. Fuck--your lawyer was Ransom's lawyer. But the anxiety eases when you remember that you’d paid him a retainer fee months ago, and Ransom couldn’t do anything about that. You could at least get a basic consult out of the retainer.
The call ringing sounds muffled through your car’s speaker but it isn’t long before someone answers, and you’re transferred to the lawyer Ransom insisted you have--gotta have a lawyer when you have money, babe--and that you hadn’t spoken to in ages.
“Hi,” you say, voice artificially bright, “this is--”
You don’t get a chance to finish.
“I know who this is.” The lawyer sounds tired, and his tone is curt and clipped. “I’m sorry. I’m no longer able to provide you with any legal counsel.”
You almost miss a red light and regret calling the office while you were driving.
“Is this about the debit card? Because I paid the retainer months ago--”
“The retainer has been refunded into the connected checking account.”
Your voice looses its artificial cheeriness and you stumble over your words in frustration. “That’s--it’s--it was a joint account, which is why I called, Ransom drained it and took everything. Isn’t there something we can do, because that was my money too and--”
“I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel.”
You want to cry. You hate crying, as an adult. It makes you feel weak. Especially on the phone.
“I don’t understand. Why was the retainer refunded? Did--did someone call you?”
He clears his throat into the phone. “I am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel. Goodbye.”
He hangs up. Your hands shake.
You pull into the parking lot of your work and park the car and as soon as you do, you hunch yourself over the steering wheel and simply shake in frustration.
You have no bank account. Ransom drained it. You have no credit cards. Ransom blocked them. You couldn’t even talk to a lawyer, because--shock--Ransom made sure you couldn’t. Everything was in Ransom’s name. He insisted on adding you to his accounts, closing out your own paltry ones; insisted that he pay off your credit card debt, and making you close those, too, instead adding you to his cards. It was all to help you out, he said, at the time.
Wasn’t it? He was shockingly not judgmental about the state of your finances, and while you’d put up some protest, you didn’t exactly argue with him when he suggested wiping your debts clean and getting your credit back up. And considering that he wasn’t immune to needing a bail-out now and then (late night calls to his grandfather, snarky comments at his parent’s dinner table, come to mind) maybe he could sympathize with being in over your head. Even if your issues were rooted in poverty and shitty jobs and his were rooted in a total lack of financial discipline and, as you’d later found out, a drug addiction.
Still. He helped you before. He would help you now, once he realized how serious it was. For now he was just--reacting like an asshole, acting childish and ridiculous. He was an asshole. You know this. You’ve known this. You need to call him and meet with him and make him realize how ridiculous he’s being, and he’ll sigh and snark but he’ll agree to stop acting like such an ass.
But first you have to work. Life goes on. Even without Ransom--even with Ransom, screwing you over out of pettiness.
The air conditioning in the lobby is on blast, and the familiar smell of clean furniture and floor cleaner from the late-night cleaning crew is surprisingly comforting. Here, you can forget about Ransom--forget about the cards and the lawyer and the fact that your life has been upended in mere hours. If only until your lunch break, at least.
Anthony is working the front desk and you give him a a soft, if strained smile. There’s something in the smile that he gives you in return that reminds you of the hotel clerk. Sympathetic and judgmental.
Ah. You probably look like--well, less than your best, you realize. You did pack some toiletries in your suitcase but the water in the motel had streaks of brown and you didn’t shower, opting instead to rinse your face with what was left of a water bottle you’d bought earlier and layering on more deodorant to make up for the lack of a proper scrub. You probably looked a bit tired, haggard, not unlike some of the employees who got stuck with big clients the night before their paperwork was due.
Still. Nothing that freshening up in your private bathroom--thank god for the new office--can’t help. So you hit the button on the elevator and take deep breaths as you ride up, intent on working as productively as possible. The doors open and you navigate the familiar maze of open-plan desks for the lower-tier workers, desks surrounded by half-walls that always kept you staring straight ahead, lest you accidentally glance over and see a co-worker picking their nose.
Yet as you weave in-and-out of the familiar rows, heading towards the back of the room where the real offices, the ones with full walls and doors and privacy glass lay, you can’t help but feel that something is… off.
No one calls out to greet you, though that can be easily attributed to the jealousy over your promotion. You’d been working there for far less than most of the lower level workers--Ransom got you the job, with his connections and a hefty revision of your resume and, you assume, some personal phone calls--and you’d already been promoted to senior management. That wasn’t technically Ransom’s work, though. That was all your own effort, your own blood, sweat, tears and intense devotion to each project that came your way. Sure, the connections he helped you make, the dinner parties, all that helped--but if it weren’t for your skills, the connections wouldn’t have made a difference. Right?
Still, whatever bitterness existed in the people hunch in open-air cubicles, the receptionists always greeted you. But today they caught your eye then awkwardly glanced down, or pretended to be looking for something in their drawers. It was odd. Did you look that bad? That out of sorts?
You shake off the heavy feeling in your stomach and for once, you shut the door to your office instead of keeping it open for passers-by or people needing approval for this-and-that. It feels good to lean against the solid wood door and take a breath, a deep one, invigorating and calming.
A quick trip to the bathroom has you staring at yourself from all angles. You don’t look that bad, you reason. Just tired. But who wouldn’t be, sleeping on a plastic sheet in the shittiest motel in the area? You take a quick sniff under your arms but even that reveals nothing much but a faint hint of sweat and powdery deodorant.
There’s a firm knock at your office door and you glance at the mirror for a final once over before opening it up. It’s your boss. Did you have a meeting? You try to do a mental scan of something you’ve missed, but nothing comes to mind.
“Hi,” you say, wavering with uncertainty at the threshold. Should you invite him in? “What can I do for you? We didn’t have a meeting, did we?” You let yourself chuckle, dry and quick. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit scattered this morning.”
Your boss doesn’t return your chuckle, which immediately raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Something was wrong. Shit--you were working on a major project for a seriously important client. The type of client that could genuinely make or break a company, if you got on their bad side. You press your lips together and make a silent vow to keep it serious.
“I’d like to keep this conversation private.” His tone is low and serious and you invite him in without a second thought, shutting the thick door behind you, trying to ignore the way everyone was shooting glances as it closed. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your thoughts race--no wonder everyone was giving you the stink eye. Something was wrong with the client, and you were the one making primary contact with them.
Your boss takes a seat on the leather sofa pushed up against the wall and you immediately set yourself down behind your desk.
He sighs. Short. Frustrated. Annoyed.
“We have to let you go.”
The words don’t register.
“Go where?”
It’s only after you say it that you realize what he said, what it meant, and you feel like a colossal moron in every respect.
“It’s not working out,” he continues, staring at your desk and not at your face. “Since you’ve only been in this position for a month, you don’t quality for senior severance. The best we can do is to pay you what you’ve earned this week.”
Your mouth is so dry that you don’t know if you can talk. Your hand fumbles on your desk for a water bottle you’d left overnight, and that’s when you see it--the photo frame. You keep a photo of yourself and Ransom, cuddled together for a selfie, on your desk. The photo was lying on your desk, frameless, ripped in half--leaving only your vacantly smiling face staring up at you.
Ransom was here.
“Did he put you up to this?” You whisper. “Did Ransom tell you to fire me?”
You know he won’t answer. But you stare at him so fervently that he can’t help but look up at you, and you see it all in his eyes, in the subtle, embarrassed expression of his face.
You can imagine Ransom strolling in--maybe he called first--and settling in for a private audience with your boss in his office. He’d probably pull the chair up to the desk and put his feet on it, just to be an ass. Then he’d bring up… you. And why you had to be let go. Did he give a reason, did he tell your boss why a respected employee who he once secured a position for, who shot up the ranks through intense effort and work, needed to be fired? Did he even need to give a reason?
“This is absolute bullshit,” you say, finally, voice dry and hoarse and bitter. You want to say you’ll be contacting a lawyer. That this won’t stand. But you know--and he knows--that there’s nothing you can do.
Your boss stands, slow, and sighs again. “I’m sorry it had to end this way. Pack up your things as quickly as possible.”
He leaves, and you keep your eyes trained on the ripped photograph to avoid seeing the expressions of the people in the doorway before your boss mercifully shuts the door.
It takes all of your effort not to cry.
You don’t have much effort left.
**
Your things consisted of a handful of personal items, little touches you’d brought in to make your office feel more like “you.” A nice picture print. A pastel afghan to drape over the couch. A stapler with a floral design. You have the strong urge to dump them in a trash can, but that’s quickly quelled by the realization that you can’t afford to buy new things, or any things, at this point.
You don’t care if wearing your sunglasses as you power walk to the elevators makes you look stupid. You know someone, somewhere in this office is filming you and probably captioning it with something stupid to post to their Reels or TikTok, and it just makes you leave faster. A few people murmur comments your way, sympathetic in tone, but you’re not really listening. None of their platitudes matter, because Ransom was here, in your workplace, in your office, and he stole the thing you were most proud of from under your feet.
To his credit, when you reach the bottom floor, Anthony practically fumbles out from behind his desk and holds the door open for you. He mouths a “Sorry” and he probably is, but he’s probably used to dealing with rich assholes like Ransom who get what they want, when they want it; even when what they want is to fire a good employee on demand for very personal reasons.
The sun is beating down hard, even for the morning, and the stress of your situation makes you blast the air conditioning as soon as you get in the car. God, the car--how are you going to afford the payments? You wish you could call your mom. You wish your friends--are they even your friends, anymore?--would call you back.
You grab your phone from your purse and stare at the black screen. Maybe you should call the friend who didn’t block you. She would answer, if you called, because she knew you didn’t make calls unless it was serious. She might not rush to your side, but maybe she can offer you a place to stay, a couch, some advice. A kind word would do, right now, with how much anxiety and frustration has been packed into the last 12 hours.
But when you unlock your screen, your gut sinks. Five missed calls. From the storage company. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You tap their number and bring the phone to your ear and pretend that your hands aren’t shaking.
The man who answers is the same one you talked to on the phone before, when setting up your move. “Hello, Move’nSecure Storage Company. This is Steve speaking. How many I help you?”
“Hi Steve!” You hate how chipper you sound. “I actually just got a few missed calls from you guys, I’m sorry, I was in the office and--”
“Oh.” His voice is surprisingly flat, suddenly flat, losing its customer service inflection in an instant before picking it back up. “Yes. We’ve been trying to reach you. For confirmation, the storage locker your purchased is A443, correct?”
You fumble in your purse for the receipt and confirm the little numbers printed neatly on the paper. “Yes, A443. Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s not.” You’re grateful that you didn’t have much for breakfast because you know it would be clawing its way back up at this point. “The card you gave us for the storage fee was declined.”
The debit card. You’d paid in cash for the move, and paid for 1 month of storage with the card. The card that was now useless, connected to an empty and closed bank account.
“Is there another card you can give us?”
“No, but...” You say, because no, there is not. There is not a card. There is not a job. There is nothing. “But if you could just hold my stuff, I’ll be there in less than a hour to get it.”
“We don’t hold items,” Steve tells you, a rehearsed banality to his tone. “Your items are currently outside the unit.”
You instinctively want to yell at Steve but, fuck fuck fuck, you’ve been there, behind the counter, dealing with people who couldn’t pay for shit and then had the nerve to get upset with you. “All of it?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly.
“Yes.”
You hang up, and toss your phone onto the passenger seat. The quicker you get there, the less chance that something will get broken or stolen or who knows what else.
The trip to the storage unit seems to take forever, and when you arrive you don’t even take a second to lock your car doors. Instead you sprint inside, startling Steve--looking at his phone, then at you, then at the sign plastered up on the wall leading to the storage locker floors. He points. Row A, separated into 100s, 200s, 300s, and--your number--400s.
You don’t remember if you say ‘thank you,’ because you’re speed-walking down the hallway and following the signs and it isn’t long before you see it: a storage locker with tons of stuff piled up, dumped, outside the now-empty unit where it was supposed to be safe and sound. Waiting for you to get an apartment and pick it back up and rearrange it into your new life, your new “you.”
The problem is immediate: You can’t fit all this in your car. You don’t know anyone who could take the stuff for you. You mind reels for options and the only thing you can come up with is ferrying your belongings to and from the hotel. You can pay for a few more days once you cash your partial paycheck. After that… you don’t know.
Pawn your things? Yeah. That might work. You can get enough cash by pawning most of your stuff, the good stuff. Enough money to get you into a shitty apartment with leaks and a bad landlord. Then you can a job that barely pays rent and you’ll be right back where you started, before you met Ransom. Before you thought leaking ceilings and $20 paychecks after taxes were a thing of the past.
You ignore the humiliation that makes your stomach curl as you take your things out to the car, handful by handful. Steve doesn’t bother holding the door open for you. You mention that you’re going to be back on your way out, and he offers a non-committal hum.
At least when you get to the hotel, the owner sees you fumbling with boxes and offers to help you out. It takes less time with two hands to get everything in the room, and once it’s locked up you head back out to the storage units.
You keep your sunglasses on for the second trip into the storage unit, even though you don’t know Steve or care what he thinks. He doesn’t look up when you walk in and it’s just as well, since you’re only heading back to the A-400s and don’t need his non-existent help.
But the sight that greets you when you round the corner to your unpaid-for storage locker makes your blood run cold.
Your stuff is gone. All of it.
You rush back to the desk, where Steve does look up, startled by your urgency.
“My stuff,” you spit out, “My stuff is gone! Someone took it!”
Steve shrugs. “Sorry.” He points to a sign behind him: “We are not responsible for the loss of items inside or outside storage lockers.”
“Are you fucking kidding?” You can’t the anger in your voice this time. “You just watched someone walk off with my stuff and didn’t say anything?”
Steve raises his eyebrows. “If it was that important, you shouldn’t have left it here. Or you should have given us another card.”
You feel like throwing your hands up but you just clench your fist and storm out the door, huffing as you reach your car. The anger melts into the sense of loss, the realization that you only have a few meager items that you’d managed to collect; you picked the lightest stuff, first. And in retrospect it was things that didn’t matter much at all. Clothes. Hair supplies. Makeup. You should have grabbed the box with your USB sticks, your memory cards, your photo albums; your personal mementos and sentimental shit. Instead you grabbed the box with your shampoo.
At least the clothes might get something in a pawnshop. The makeup, too, on Facebook or Depop or Instagram. But it wouldn’t be enough to put you up in an apartment. You’ll have to live in your car. Until they repossess it for lack of payment.
You don’t have your bank account, your credit cards, your job, a place to stay, or your personal possessions. And soon, you won’t have your car.
You have no friends. No boyfriend. No family.
All you have $20 left in your wallet and well, fuck it. You grab some McDonalds on the way home because, fuck it, and eat all the fries before you make it to the motel. The thought of eating in your dirty room makes your stomach turn and you decide to eat everything else you bought, the burger and the shake and the chicken nuggets too, tossing the wrappers on the floor. It feels like deja vu--getting cheap fast food to make you feel full, tossing trash on the floor of the passenger seat, all bringing back the way you used to when you’d grab something from the dollar menu on your way to work at the call center.
You almost wish you could stay at this hotel, brown water and all. The owner is decently nice. He smiles at you when you enter and doesn’t bring up that you didn’t come back with more boxes, like you said you would.
You’re surprised at how grateful you feel for the dingy hotel room now that you won’t be able to stay here more than another day. Now that the alternative is sleeping in your car, then sleeping on the street, if you were lucky.
Your phone feels heavy when you set it on the table and stare at the home screen. Another photo of you and Ransom stares back up at you. You haven’t had time to change it up yet. He’s grinning. You’re smiling. It’s a good photo. You try to place it in your memory, try to remember what beach that was, but your trips blur together and you can’t.
Should you call him? If it was just the cards, just him being petty over credit and finances, it was one thing. You could try to placate him with returning gifts, just asking him to give you what you put in from your own paychecks. But making you lose your job? It was too far, too fucking far. And there was no going back from that. Fuck, someone was probably moving into your office as you sat in this dimly lit room mourning the loss of your entire life.
For a brief, very fleeting moment, you consider calling Harlan. You weren’t exceptionally close, but he seemed to like you well enough. He’d even asked you once, puling you aside at a tension-filled family party, if Ransom treated you right, told you to tell him if he ever got to be too much. Harlan felt like Ransom’s keeper--in more ways than one. You could never tell Harlan about the shouts or the occasional bruises from when Ransom really, really lost his temper--it’s not like you could prove them, anyway, as Ransom made sure to keep you away from his family when he lost control like that. No need for excuses about running into doors when he made sure you looked your best at family functions.
But the thought of breaking the uneasy stasis that Ransom had with the most significant member of his family made you want to vomit. There would be no coming back from that, and you knew better than to cross any line involving the great Harlan Thrombey.
You could call your friend--ex-friend? The one who didn’t block you or forget your number. You should. No, you will. Because what else do you have to lose.
But before you can bring up her number, you get a text--Ransom. It’s a photo and your curiosity gets the better of you as you click the notification.
“What the fuck?”
He’s sent you a photo of his car, trunk open. It’s filled with boxes, odds-and-ends. It’s filled with your stuff.
You text him: What??
He texts back: Hey. I’m in front of the hotel. Come out? Bring your suitcase. :P
It’s your stuff. It’s his car. He’s here. All reason is thrown aside as you grab your suitcase and purse and rush down the hallway, ignoring the owner’s confused response from behind his desk as you push open the front doors and look around the parking lot.
His car is parked to the side, not in front of the hotel’s glass double doors. He’s standing outside his car, leaning against it. He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them in his pocket when he sees you approaching, face confused and fuming all at once.
“What the fuck, Ransom, what the fuck is your problem--”
“Hey, hey,” he says, hands up in defense, “You’re not even going to thank me for picking up your stuff?”
You feel suddenly, impossibly rooted to the spot.
“What do you--what? You took my stuff?”
He shrugs. “C’mon, did you really think I’d just leave your stuff in some shitty storage unit? Someone would’ve taken it if I didn’t get there first.”
You swallow. “Why?” You ask, because Ransom never does anything for no reason. Or so you’ve learned.
His expression loses a bit of its cocky casualness. He tilts his head a bit, looking at you as if you’ve asked a particularly offensive question.
“Why do you think?”
To lord it over you? To make you think your stuff was gone and make you worried, sick, crazy?
“I don’t know,” is what you settle for in the end. “I really, really don’t. You--” You lick your lips, and try to calm down, calm the pitter-patter of your heart, and think before you speak. “You’ve done some pretty messed up stuff today. My job?” The last question comes out soft and pained, and you know your eyes are starting to tear up.
“Hey.” His voice is soft and placating and it makes your stomach flip as he approaches you, standing there on the sidewalk with your purse and suitcase. “Hey, c’mon. Don’t cry on me.”
You know this Ransom. The Ransom that holds you and pets your hair and offers to get Thai food delivered even though he doesn’t like it just to make you happy.
He puts his hand on your shoulder and you jerk it away. “Don’t.” That Ransom is a fantasy. Or an incomplete version, the version that pretends he doesn’t lie and cheat and hurt you in more ways than one. “Don’t you fucking dare, especially not after what you pulled today. My job? My job, Ransom? You’re a--a fucking asshole.”
He puts his hands up again, defensive, and takes a step back. But he doesn’t return to his car, and stays just a few steps in front of you.
“Look. Call me an asshole. Sure, fine, I can admit that. But do you know what else I am?”
He waits a beat, waits for you to look at him, before he continues. “I’m a realist. I like facts. And the fact is? You aren’t much without me. No job, no credit cards, no bank account. Without me, you’re just some broke chick scrambling to get an apartment in the shittiest part of town, working a dead-end job that don’t pay shit. With me though…. “
He leaves the words unfinished, but you know what he means. Flashes of your life, cocktails and smart business outfits and dinners at restaurants you didn’t even dream about attending before you met him. Phone calls with shakers in the industry and social media requests from people you’d never dream you’d meet. Connections that meant something, a career path, dinner parties with people who could offer tangible benefits to your career and your life.
It wasn’t that he spoiled you. He wasn’t a sugar daddy. You weren’t getting gifts for blowjobs. It was that his presence in your life boosted you, socially, financially, mentally, physically, in every which way possible.
His presence got you a job that you loved, which meant you weren’t burnt out when you came home, which meant that you had the time and energy to spend hours catching up on books or redecorating the house or watching movies. Good money meant you could order in whenever you felt like it, meant you didn’t have to worry if you burned dinner because you could just buy new steaks or order-in or go out, last minute, and still get a great table. It meant you had all the clothes you wanted, stylish and personally tailored; it meant you had easy access to a gym and exercise equipment and an indoor pool to keep you healthy. It meant you had a life that provided comfort in every way possible.
Being with Ransom Drysdale was like… like a little shot of privilege directly into your arm.
Privilege that he took away just as easily as he gave it. Just as easily as you took it. Just as easily as you took it and eagerly ignored the dark side underneath. Or maybe you didn’t ignore it. Maybe you liked it, maybe it reminded you of who you were underneath the designer clothes and expensive dinners.
Maybe you wanted to fix him, like he fixed you? He wasn’t totally bad, after all, he did make sure no one took your belongings. Maybe it was your presence that gave him the idea for that touch of sympathy, maybe with Ransom change was slow and muddled, not picture-perfect sweeping changes like the kind in movies.
“So?” Ransom’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “Are you going to come home or,” he waves his hands around dismissively, at the hotel, at you.
You feel very, very less-than right now. You look awful, your hair mussy and your makeup mostly melted off with sweat and sun. You probably smell more than you normally do, thanks to the lack of a shower. Your muscles, sore from the motel bed, ache for the large spa bathtub that Ransom had installed in the master bathroom just for you, stocked with bubbles and salts and overpriced bath bombs that were $10 a pop.
But your muscles had hurt before, when he pushed you against the dresser.
You have nothing, and no one. Except Ransom. Ransom who didn’t judge you when you instinctively saved plastic bottles and boxes, but merely nudged you towards recycling and took you out to splurge on a reusable water bottle and proper storage containers the next day. Ransom who asked you what sort of job you wanted, really wanted, and made it happen for you. Ransom who shrugged and wiped away your credit card debt without making you feel like shit.
Ransom who didn’t let you leave the house if your wrists were sporting fingerprint shaped bruises. Ransom who argued with you about talking to men, even men at work. Ransom who held you tight at night and said he never wanted to let you go, and wouldn’t you just make a fine-ass addition his crazy family. Ransom who took care of you, now that you had no one else.
“What do you want me to do?” The words feel slow, sluggish. Like they wanted to stick to the roof of your mouth and it took everything in you to get them out.
His voice turns low and serious as he stares at you with an characteristic expression. “Well, the first thing is to get down on your knees…”
You feel your eyes practically bugging out.
“What the fuck, Ransom?”
He laughs. He always did have a nice laugh.
“I’m just messing with you, Jesus. Take a chi-I-il pill. Just grab your purse and come sit your sweet ass in the front seat. Let’s go get some burgers, I’m starving.”
Your legs feel like jelly when you take that first step, and the sound of your roller suitcase as you pull it along seems louder than ever. Ransom pops the truck and you just manage to fit it inside with the handle closed, jamming it in between some boxes at an odd angle. The handle of the passenger side is familiar, warm from the sun.
You open the door and practically shove yourself into the seat, closing the door as fast as possible. You can’t do more than glance at him as humiliation and anxiety and just the smallest bit of relief washes over you. It’s been less than 24 hours since you broke up, and here you are--again.
He’s staring at you quietly, his expression difficult to place. He looks relieved. He looks annoyed. He looks like he wants to kiss you. He looks like he wants to slap you. Maybe he wants to do it all at once and can’t decide which to pick.
Instead, he puts his hand on your thigh. Gives it a squeeze. Hard, bordering on painful. He’s staring straight ahead, at the worn-out sign on the hotel’s front door, one hand gripping the flesh of your thigh. He looks good in profile. “Don’t ever try to pull something like that again. I mean it. I really mean it.”
You turn, glance out the window, familiar tears at the edge of your eyes.
“I won’t,” you whisper, dreaming of the tub and bubbles and how good a warm soak will feel on your back, on your thighs, on your soul.
“Good girl,” he says, patting your thigh firmly. He plucks his sunglasses out of pocket and puts them on in a smooth motion. The car starts smoothly, its fine-tuned and expensive engine a familiar sound, and your hands feel robotic as you pull the seatbelt over your chest and click it tight.
“Let’s get dinner and get home. You have some unpacking to do.”
#ransom drysdale x reader#yandere ransom drysdale#ransom drysdale#knives out#yandere x reader#afterwitch writes
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guess fucking what? my inbox is so fucking full right now i'm unloading all of this shit in one post.
For the 11th gotham memes: gothamites react to bruce being jacked in a tiktok he made with kids, like super yoked, ripped as hell
fucking hilarious thanks. i think i did it in one meme post, but i genuinely don't remember which one
i dunno which of the batfam would do this but one time i was sleeping over at a friends house and ended up on the floor bc the bed was so very small and i just stayed there because the rug was soft
that's a drunk jason move i don't know what to tell you
tim and jason are "i listen to pop punk" solidarity. whenever jason highjacks the batmobile theyll go on long ass car rides blaring mcr and paramore and then never talk about it again
as they should!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! tim: no jason it's my turn using the aux cord i gotta put on my jams jason: don't you dare put on weird shit tim: don't worry, you're gonna love this *plays fearless (taylor's version)
hear me out hear me out, red hood stans 🤝 nightwing stans t h i g h s
holy shit yes.
SNL au: Bruce breaks character when pretending to superman and says something like "I'm not superman! You've seen his gps!! It's from 2001!!!" @sabeanybabe
superman flies past the snl building the next day just to say 'actually it's from 2005, i'm not a heathen'
does your back hurt from carrying the batfam fandom
it hurts more from the exotic rock collection i keep in my backpack, but thanks for the concern.
I love your posts by why would you always leave the best parts in the tags?
as a treat for the people that check the tags ;) (and also because i'm committed to the short post aesthetic)
somehow your playlist was everything i never knew i needed. i mean it. this is my new favorite playlist.
and don't you dare get a new favourite playlist!
babe ur stoner tim playlist is exactly too perfect, earth is literally blessed by ur existence
babe thanks so much! i love my stoner tim playlist because it's just my usual playlist but people think it's an artistic choice that i put taylor swift and britney spears in there, when it's just what i unironically like listening to
JANDKSKDK BILLY RAY CYRUS ON THE STONER TIM PLAYLIST I LOVE IT IT
again it's not even an ironic choice, i know every single word and i genuinely like the song
The last chapter of Fundamentals of Casework has me crying at work. Thanks I love it @dudelookitsalesbian
oh babe, i'm sorry, but also, not sorry i love chapter 4 so much it's my lovechild with the 'mental illness' tag
soooo....stumbled on your tumblr by some stroke of fate??? read your DC fanfic first. which is PHENOMENAL btw. then found all the batmemes; the funniest thing EVER bc everyone forgets about regular old gothamites. kept scrolling and your blog pops up as recommended. clicked on the ao3 for shits and giggles and waddaya know?!?!? it's YOU!!! you're LEGEND!!!! ever seen that meme? it's a video of a cat that got into a baseball field and the two announcers get really invested in his escape attempt and start giving a play by play of the cat instead of the game. memeable moment: "GREAT stuff from the Cat!!!"
i seriously think about this ask every single day and it's so fucking funny to me that i've never seen the meme you're referencing, but i still find myself going 'GREAT stuff from the Cat!!!' whenever i see something funny. but wow i'm glad you liked this steaming pile of garbage
Fav dc character overall? And fav batfamily character?
don't ask me to pick between the loves of my life, but i can tell you i've cried about every single batfamily member and also wally west (my beloved)
What's your opinion on fans having a problem with batfam being "too big"? And some even claim that batfam is just "Bruce Alfred Dick Damian" and the rest of them are just "friends and allies" (source: reddit) Personally, I like batfam because of this reason but idk
stupid. a family can never be too big. i'm not that big a fan of like huge batfam stuff with everybody from every single universe, because as much as it's funny for bruce to have like 30 kids, it just feels a little too OOC for me.
This is the best tag I've seen involving the batfam, thanks for thinking of it
This is canon now @nctxrejects
lmao yeah i think at that point alfred has had to sit through like at least a dozen coming out talks and just has a pride flag collection in the attic that he pulls out whenever a kid comes out
idk why batfam hits different as compared to any other superhero family
bc it's found family and usually the other superhero families are almost all genetically related in one way or another
I don't know if you watch the umbrella academy but I saw your last post about batcest and saw the similarities. But the thing is (although I think it's weird) in TUA, they addressed it by saying "they were raised as weapons, not siblings" or something along those lines, which is simply not the case with batfam.
yeah i watched tua but i also thought it was ridiculous and they still treated each other as siblings so i didn't like the luthor/allison thing, and am glad they stopped doing that shit bc it fucking sucked.
Hot take: Batcest shippers are the same people who believe adopted siblings are not actual siblings
smoking hot take: batcest shippers are the people who watch 'my sister got stuck in the washing machine' porn
Duke was adopted by Bruce?
not technically no, but do i, tumblr user batarangsoundsdumb, look like i care?
True story but I had to change my freaking name because it used to be "Damien" and most people would go "OH LIKE DAMIAN WAYNE" like please I'm just tryna live
true story, but i don't actually think of damian when i hear the name damian, literally the first thing that pops up is damian darkh like bruh what?
apparently dc comics company supported comic stores by giving out new titles and stuff during the beginning of the pandemic to help them run and I just think that's wholesome
ah yeah that's so fucking cool, still don't like dc, the company, because this world is a capitalist hellhole and we're all owned by warner brothers or disney with no in between.
ayo looking at tumblr head canons and finding out bruce is actually a terrible father is a punch in the gut
lmao yes, in like 50% of comics bruce is a terrible father and it gives me whiplash
oooh I just saw the jason todd vs winter soldier post and the real question is: batman vs iron man
while iron man has like hundreds of cases of armor, batman could throw out an emp and have the guy dropping out of the sky in 2 seconds.
dickfast = fastdick = quickdick = quickie
magnum hot take
hey bata(?) just thought I'd let you know I have copied the obnoxious emoji and Billy Ray post for use on simping men going forth
thank you 😘🌷 (@spacebarsidecar)
why would you do that to your followers???? i get why i did it, but why would you???
what is scarecrow made the nightwing funko pop himself, like those diy-ers that paint over other ones
oh god no, horrible take, horrible take, that's a disgusting thought oh no
I see your HC that Bruce and Oliver fucked and raise you this: Dick and Roy ALSO fucked
yes they did and it was a horrible moment for jason to find out dick has fucked both of his best friends
"at this rate bruce adds like 1 child to his family every decade or so" Duke is introduced in 2013, Damian as Damian, not as an unnamed child, in 2006. And he is already 14 years old, Robins rarely remain Robins after 16 😬 It looks like a new Robin and Batkid will appear in a couple of years
i mean i can't wait? but somebody will probably die first tho, we're due for another major character death. my money's on either cass or duke this time.
BRO you're so right all of your Bruce's ex headcanons are amazing but they aren't ships, that's kinda wild. Like I don't want any peeks into how their relationship was I just want to see everyone make fun of them
lmao YES it's just i love bruce being a slut, like good for him.
I am in love with your posts your honour thank you
omg thanks are we like,, gonna kiss now?
The justice league needs to have a meeting to discuss how many of their members/partners have slept with bruce. Because through a combination of cannon & fannon (if DC wasn’t homophobic) we have AT LEAST: 1) clark 2) lois 3) oliver 4) dinah 5) john
Thats not counting villains or random civilians @dudelookitsalesbian
yes yes yes, they'll have a yearly meeting about how many of their collective exes could be out for revenge and batman's list just keeps getting longer.
tim was like "i'm drake now" and everyone was like ahh so your fursona is a dragon and tim was like pffffft no. ducks.
and what about it?
when steph's fighting livewire and she zaps her with lighting and nothing happens and then they both just. stand there awkwardly for a second and talk. yeah i couldn't stop laughing at that batgirl steph is the BEST
oh yeah that was fucking hilarious and i think it would be so cool and sexy of dc to give steph a little comic series,,, as a treat
Hi I absolutely adore all of yours "Bruce and Oliver very badly pretending they didn't fuck each other" memes
lmao i do too
I need you to know that “Bruce Wayne had frosted tips” is one of my favorite Bruce takes of all time it’s so galaxy brained. you’re right and you should say it
he also painted his hair blonde once when he was travelling and in conclusion, this is why he's being blackmailed by the gotham gazette.
you know my thing about gordon being branded as the only good cop in gotham is its a load of shit like arguably he's a good person and not working to screw people over or anything but the fact that he also works w. batman makes him a shit cop. like yea batman is better than the mob but its still illegal its still an abuse of power he just not making bank
babe, all cops are bad cops. (but yeah youre absolutely right, working with vigilantes makes you a shit cop, but also working against vigilantes just makes you an asshole cop yanno?)
ruh roh i think i’m about to add “so not yeehaw” every time i don’t like something
that's a very good vocabulary upgrade
somehow i feel like steph already knew. like babs obviously knew but i feel like bruce got high/drunk in front of steph and started telling his boarding school stories and steph was just like “oh you fucked up i’m never gonna forget this”
steph and bruce have weird uncle/rebellious niece dynamic and they just hang out sometimes and bruce will be like 'i once broke my arm when i tripped over a hedge when i was drunk so oliver drove me to the hospital on an electric scooter' and steph will just have to sit there with that knowledge in her head.
Hello I just wanted to tell you you are So right in all your steph opinions bc she is, in fact amazing and I think that's very sexy of you. Ps. Your Bruce/Oliver fic is hilarious
babe, thank you so much and yes steph is amazing and i love her and she deserves the world and she's the best member of the batfam hands down. also thanks
In Supersons we see a couple of kids that are implied to be Damian and Jon's children and the boy has laser eyes and can fly, so I asume he's not adopted. The girl, who calls Bruce grandpa, can also fly, btw. So it's canon (probably by accident) that Jon can have kids and he must have married one of Bruce's kids. (I'm hoping for Damian, mostly because any other of his children would be waaaaaaaaaaaaay too old.) @artemisa97
lmao that was probably an accident seeing as jon is a 17 year old superhero in the year 3000 (by the jonas brothers)
You know, I'm a die hard fan of your memes, but I gotta say one thing: if Gothamites actually took gas mask everywhere with them, then the Scarecrow would just be a weird dude in a weird costume, and not a villain oh so scary. DC really should just takes notes from you.
bold of you to assume there's no gothamite anti-maskers
How does it feel being the funniest person on this app?
horrible, next question.
I can't listen to Green Day or Billy Joel without thinking of your post about how Bruce got arrested at a Billy Joel concert @nightwings-kid
yeah that's your mistake, i on the other hand can't enjoy billy joel without thinking about the glee rendition of 'uptown girl'
I've FINALLY been watching the Batman animated series and I gotta say, after watching "the gray ghost" I am CONVINCED that Batman is a closeted super hero geek who was 100% freaking out the first time he met Superman and is just REALLY good at hiding it.
superman: so what do you do in your free time? batman, thinking about the superman fanfiction he's writing on the batcomputer: i have no free time
bruce and oliver be like boyfriends to co-workers 401k (do the justice leagues get 401ks??? not that bruce and ollie would need them, but-)
lmao yes just 400 thousand words of bruce realising 'oh dip oliver is such a fucking dumbass' (also i don't know what a 401 k is but i assume they don't?)
Gothamites would totally boo superman as he saves Gotham while batman is out. @meenje
he's like 'okay think about that next time you want to be saved from an alien octopus'
I just took long break from dc comics and I come back to see ric grayson ??
i think it's very cool and sexy of dc to see dick and just think 'you know what? let's just give him a traumatic brain injury' and then didn't develop his character in any real way
SPEAKING OF RIC GRAYSON, gothamites making confused memes out of ric grayson is much needed
'dick grayson is my taxi driver? can anyone explain what the fuck happened he looks like an italian plumber?'
i hate to say it but batfam are def "marvel characters" in that sense they are characters who are human but become superheroes unlike most dc characters who are gods trying to be human maybe this is why I like batfam
fair enough
#this is only like half of it#but at least you can get like a few answers#yanno fuck it#bataranswers#ask#asks#anon
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Honestly the hypocrisy regarding Sokolov and Jindosh has always made me go ???? Because “Jindosh assisted the coup, he’s made terrible inventions.” K…what exactly did Sokolov do that was so different?? He EXPERIMENTED on people.
Right! Like yes, Jindosh is bad and Sokolov is old enough to start having regrets and trying to correct himself (but he is ~20 years older than Jindosh) but he was also...bad. (I have to put it under the cut it got Long)
For the record Sokolov: - experimented on people (for the Plague sure, but that's what we know of and he wasn't exactly nice about it, he had them locked behind a wall of light) - did some kind of vague disgusting rituals to summon the Outsider - Delilah did not like the implied sexual relationship she had with him when she was 20 or so years younger and had no way to climb from her bad life but being his "apprentice". - drove Roseburrow to suicide after he turned his benign inventions that brought prosperity to the Empire into military grade weapons that were used to oppress the people. - those include the guns and weapons, walls of light, arc pylons, arc mines and tallboys. - invented an electric chair used to torture the workers at Rothwild Slaughterhouse so they won't form a union (and said electric chair is lethal too). - invented a machine to electrify the whales and keep them alive for long so their whale oil can be harvested (this whole whale thing is very much implied to be Bad for the overall world state in the first game). - is a master at whale vivisection, you know cutting them open alive. - did assist Hiram and sided with him until we literally had to threaten and bribe him to help us did everyone forget this? - did invent a lot of the useful whale oil systems that did help the Isles go into the new era of technology but the majority of those can be attributed to Roseburrow himself. - found the cure for the Plague with Piero.
And speaking of Natural Philosophers, there is also Piero who has a far smaller list of shit but he: - was generally a creep and was creeping and peeping on Callista who is like 20 years younger than him (not that her being older would make it better). - has this very interesting and not at all concerning and fucked up audiograph:
- found the cure for the Plague with Sokolov - made Corvo's mask and the Heart for what's worth.
On the other hand Jindosh has a very similar list because he:
- tried to do or did some experiment on his peers that almost landed him in jail. - uses prisoners the Duke gives him to test his Clockwork Soldiers. - has used his electroshock machine on some baker (can't defend you here king). - has let people die in his house, by his house but in his defense he does tell you at the door that you shouldn't go in or you will die, which goes for most houses of nobles and important people anyway. - has dissected those that have died or were nearly dead in his house. - killed a cat when he was a kid so he can dissect it (people are so touchy on this one, all Natural Philosophers dissect animals, it's not the serial killer material y'all thought it is but you tried). - did not invent any weapons but the Clockwork Soldiers, however improved Sokolov's military designs to give Karnaca and Serkonos their own walls of light, arc pylons, audiographs and other devices so they won't have to import from Gristol. - invented a lot of harmless and GOOD stuff like the silvergraph (he was gonna make movies! and just having photography available to everyone is such an improvement to society), the carriage system in Karnaca and also he uses hydraulic systems as in hydropower to power his house instead of whale oil which is pretty nice given the shortage and the cruel methods of producing it. Also I think his company makes a lot of heating/cooling and ventilation systems too. - has made a replica of the Heart at the Academy. - made a machine that drank sea water and made sounds that drove people to tears (in high chaos it's a toy made of cat bones that worked on whale oil but it drove a girl to madness). - was expelled from the Academy for undisclosed reasons that are described as "a little accident" in "The Return of Daud."
And also to add, dissection is like a perfectly normal thing at the Academy, at least in the first game. I don't know why dissection and animal dissection was made such a big deal in the world of Dishonored, like yeah its morbid for us, but we don't operate on the same in-world morality.
So like in conclusion from all I listed, Jindosh was just as bad as Sokolov, or rather Sokolov was just as bad as Jindosh. Piero is also a shithead but he decided to die so he isn't my problem now, but both are just...bad scientist men trope. They both suck. The only difference is that Dishonored 2 decided to go with the spin that old Sokolov realized he was bad and tried to run away from it and make up for his sins while Jindosh is the dangerous, mentally ill coded """psychopath""" who loves killing and will never change or become good just so Sokolov can get the moral high ground. And after making sure they drive the point home that Jindosh is mentally ill crazy and mad inventor with no empathy who will kill for fun, they then had us lobotomize him. And then despite the people working on his level asking for a 3rd option where we don't harm him, creative direction said no and they realized his non-lethal was just a bunch of shock value crap, so they made his "canonical" fate to die. And like...all of this could be avoided if they didn't use Jindosh as a leverage to try and retcon or sugarcoat Sokolov's crimes and acknowledged both suck but they are fun characters.
I am sorry this got long, I am very passionate on the subject because Jindosh's non-lethal is one of the few things in fiction that upset me and this is coming from someone who love Jindosh AND also likes Sokolov a lot as a character despite all of his flaws. So it's not just me hating on Sokolov, I wish this arc was written better between them because the potential was there. Jindosh had so much potential as a character and they just threw all that good voice acting and amazing level design for nothing.
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Cult Girl: Doctorate (Hannibal x Pregnant!Female!Reader) pt. 12
Cult girl deals with an unexpected and unwelcome guest.
@wisesandwichshark @pearlstiare
Trigger warnings: pregnancy, emotional manipulation, emotional abuse, infidelity, threats of violence
Step three: kill Anna
So maybe there was an understanding that the pregnancy was to be kept secret from Anna.
The withdrawal of Archie and Max from the picture left a hole in the plan. Just when it looked like you had secured that much-needed victory, it shriveled up and died right before your eyes. That much was certain. Everything else was a big question mark.
Ever since he felt the baby kicking, Hannibal became even more hopelessly enamored with the idea of being a father. He never mentioned it, of course, but it was there. It was there in the way he cooed at your stomach and how his hand lingered after he felt a kick. He was in heaven.
For a few days, it looked like the downward trajectory was beginning to flatten. Then you remembered your favorite line from Ryan Reynolds' Deadpool:
"Life is an endless series of trainwrecks with only brief, commercial-like breaks of happiness." You repeated to yourself as your phone flashed Theresa's call icon.
It took you a minute to remember that Theresa in your phone was actually Anna, because you hadn't bothered to change it. In a way, it was symbolic. Theresa was the head you cut off, and Anna sprouted up in her place. All in the pursuit of making your life unbearable.
You pulled the toothbrush from your mouth and placed it next to the sink. Lazily, you brought the phone to your ear. "What?"
"Hey pretty girl!" Anna said, using her most transparently fake cheery voice. "How's it going?"
Then it clicked. You felt kind of stupid that you didn't see it coming. In the world of cults, this was known as 'lovebombing'; a manipulation tactic in which the cult leader showers their target with affection, compliments, validation or anything that would make them associate good feelings with the group. In any other context, it would be called 'ass-kissing'.
You narrowed your eyes in skepticism. "What do you want?"
"Jeez, who crapped in your corn flakes?" She scoffed. "Can't a girl just call her little sister to say hi?"
It would have been one thing to say 'cousin', which, despite your bad blood, would have been technically accurate. But 'sister' was crossing a line. The blood that binded you and Anna together was thinner than water.
"We're not sisters, Anna." You corrected. "Why are you calling?"
"I just wanted to let you know that all is forgiven." She said, slipping back into that phony cheerful tone. "That little fiasco at the funeral, it's water under the bridge."
What Anna didn't know was that the water under the bridge was never water, but gasoline. Every drop that flowed under that bridge only created a more dangerous blaze for when you finally burned it down.
"Awesome." You said, flatly.
"I also wanted to say, 'may the best woman win'." She jeered. "I don't want to alarm you, but Liam and I have been fucking like bunnies."
You gagged. "I'm not alarmed but I certainly didn't need to know that."
"I've been keeping track of my ovulation," She disregarded your objection and continued the conversation she wanted to have. "And I even put child locks on the computer so Liam can't watch porn. Can't spare even a drop, y'know. It's too crucial."
"I will literally let you have the entire inheritance if you please just shut up right now." You said through gritted teeth.
"Oh?" She perked up. "Come on, don't give up. Don't make it too easy. Winning is just more fun when someone else loses."
She was growing into her Theresa shoes quite well.
"Seriously, though," You raised your eyebrows. "If it means I never have to see you again, by all means. Take the damn money."
"You know I love you, right?" Anna blurted out, pretending to be offended. "You may not think so, but I love you like a sister."
Again, you fought the urge to feel bad for her. Her model of sisterly love was Theresa. She could use the word to invoke sympathy, but would never know what it meant. It hit your ear exactly the same as when fundamentalist christian strangers said they loved you and that's why they were harassing you. Just an empty annoyance.
You rolled your eyes. "Goodbye, Anna."
"Wait!" She shouted as if she was about to die.
You threw your head back in exasperation. "What?!"
"I wanted to give you a little good-luck gift." She said.
You were slightly interested. "Oh?"
"Yes." She answered. "Can I swing by and drop it off later?"
You sighed. "Whatever. As long as you make it fast."
You were most certainly noticeably pregnant, but a fluffy robe obscured any misplaced curves just enough. You just hoped she wouldn't ask why you were wearing a fluffy robe in July. Anna arrived at the house, with Liam, who was holding a small basket of colorful jars and bottles.
You waited a minute to see if she would just leave the basket on the porch, but she didn't. You resignedly opened the door.
"[F/N]!" She shouted with that hyper-enthusiastic smile. You cringed, trying not to let her presence trigger your morning sickness.
The smile disappeared from her face. "Jesus H, you look like hell."
You desperately wanted to inform her that it was the strain of growing a human inside your body, but you held your tongue and thought of an excuse.
"I'm hungover." You said. Yeah, that would work.
"The usual, I see." Anna snipped at you under her breath.
You eyed the basket. You didn't even bother to mask your disappointment when you realized it wasn't food. "What's this?"
"Oh, this?" Anna said as if she were starting a sales pitch. "This is my olive branch. My exclusive DoTERRA fertility rejuvenation kit."
Your brain refused to process that Anna had been sucked in to an MLM, as it was really only a matter of time. You just didn't think it would take this long.
"Dude, you're twenty-nine and I'm twenty-six." You narrowed your eyes at her. "What on earth are we rejuvenating?"
She pointed to a collection of little bottles. "So these are for the initial cleanse. Put a few drops of this in your food, and some of this in your bathwater-"
She rattled on with practiced certainty about the fictitious health benefits of thyme and geranium oils, how they promote fertility and whatnot.
"Thanks, Anna." You cut her off, reaching for the gift basket. You didn't intend to use any of it, but you could pawn it off on some struggling hunbot for less than they would buy it new.
Anna pulled the basket out of your reach. "Oh. I wasn't giving it to you."
Nothing surprised you anymore, and this was no exception. "I thought you said it was a gift?"
"Oh, god no." She shook her head. "This whole kit costs, like, five hundred dollars."
You grimaced. "So you came here to show me your snake oil collection?"
"I came here to tell you in person about this amazing business opportunity." She said, returning to her fake smile. "For just $1000, you can be part of this amazing company-"
"Anna, what am I studying right now?" You cut her off.
She looked at you with round, clueless eyes. She looked back at Liam for help. He tapped his head to give her a hint.
"I want to say..." her voice trailed off. "...brain surgery?"
You shook your head. "No. Liam?"
"Clinical psychology with a specialization in cults." He answered. "You want to be the next Steven Hassan."
Anna didn't deserve Liam.
"So you're saying you're too smart for me?" Anna said, crossing her arms. "You're too busy going to your fancy college, living with your fancy boyfriend to support your own sister's hustle?"
"I'm saying you're in a cult." You countered. "A pretty obvious one, at that."
"Oh, when your only solution is a hammer every problem looks like a nail." She scoffed. "You think everything is a cult. Why can't you just be happy for me?"
"I'll be happy for you when you accomplish something that isn't built off the backs of people you fucked over." You said, allowing yourself to finally snap.
Anna's jaw hung open. "Do I even need to gesture to this house? Those clothes? That degree? All paid for by your rich boyfriend."
It's time.
You stepped on to the porch and shut the door behind you. "Liam. I have something to tell you."
Liam handed the basket off to Anna and approached. "Alright."
"No she doesn't, Liam." Anna objected. "Don't listen to her. You know she's a liar."
"Liam." You said, looking into his eyes. "Do you remember Nathan Sparks?"
"Anna's ex from college?" Liam folded his arms and looked at his wife. "Vaguely."
Anna gritted her teeth at you. "I swear to fucking god, [F/N]-"
"Anna, stop." Liam cut her off. "Let her speak."
"Anna continued to see him for two years after you got together." You smirked.
Liam's dial-up internet brain sputtered to life.
"Oh my god." His mouth hung open. "...is he 'pineapple'?!"
"Nope." You said. "You are."
"Is this true, Anna?" Liam said, in the overlap between denial and anger. "Did you keep seeing Nathan after we got together?"
Anna threw the basket on the ground, jars shattering, releasing a noxious cloud of concentrated snake oil. She was too busy glaring daggers at you to answer her husband.
"Fine. Don't tell me." He spat, turning back to you. "I'll hear it from you, [F/N]. You're the only one in this family who's been honest with me."
"She only wanted to get with you because your uncle is CEO of that publishing house." You added. You felt bad for essentially rubbing salt in the wound, but he was right to assume he wouldn't hear it from anyone else.
He placed his hand over his head as if to nurse a migrane. "How could I be so stupid..."
"Liam-" Anna said, her voice jumping a few octaves.
Liam put up his hand. "I don't want to hear it."
"I'm sorry, Lee." You offered. Even though you loved seeing Anna caught, you felt bad for every person she victimized along the way. Liam was no exception.
He dropped his shoulders and sighed. "Thank you, [F/N]. I'll be out of your way, now. Anna--"
He stopped himself, presumably to avoid saying something he would regret. "...find your own way home."
He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away, leaving Anna with you.
"Thanks for coming." You sneered at her, feeling around behind you for the door handle. "I'd call an uber if I were you."
"You twisted bitch." She scowled, hands hovering in your direction. "You just get off on ruining people's lives, don't you?"
"Oof, that's some serious projection, Anna." You said, unconsciously untying the belt of your robe and pulling it off your shoulders.
"You're-" She sputtered, her eyes growing to the size of personal pizzas. "You're fucking pregnant?!"
Shit. You thought, cycling through whatever braincells you had left for an idea of how to play this off as if you meant to do it.
"Surprise." You shrugged. Yeah, that would work.
"That's impossible!" She stammered. "You're- you're not even married!"
"Grandma never said anything about marriage." You grinned.
Anna struggled to find her words. "That is unfair!"
"So now that you're not winning, the game is unfair?" You raised an eyebrow.
She pursed her lips and pointed at you. "You aren't going to get away with this."
"Just like you didn't get away with cheating on your husband?" You taunted.
"I'm serious, [F/N]." Anna said, backing down the porch steps. "I will destroy everything you love just like you did to me."
For a half a second, the voice in your head told you to beware, that the threat should be taken seriously. Upon remembering it was coming from Anna, you pushed the thought from your mind.
You shouldn't have.
#hannibal lecter#hannibal x you#hannibal x reader#hannibal nbc#hannibal lecter x reader#hannibal x pregnant reader#pregnancy#baby fever#cult girl#cult girl 2#cult girl doctorate
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Party Hard - Owen Joyner x Reader
JATP masterlist
Warnings: drinking, partying, intoxication, non sexual stripping, swearing probably,
Words: 6343 (which, if you know me, is a FUCK ton)
Summary: Going from tipsy to full on drunk is a terrible idea, but especially when you’ve got a secret to hide that could mean the difference between preserving and ruining your relationship with your best friend.
A/N: A couple items before we get started: I think I’m back on my bullshit? I mean I wrote this fic and it’s three times the length of my normal fics. Also I wrote this headassery as a literal self insert me(ace) x someone and so there are a couple flaws here and there that make this something I’m not 100% proud of. Owen picks the reader up a few times and I’m aware this kind of thing can really effect someone’s experience with this fic so I do apologize for the lack of inclusivity in regards to body type/ableism. I’m falling really behind on school work because I just can’t find the motivation which either means y’all will be seeing a lot more of me soon or absolutely nothing at all. Not sure which yet.
“You’ve got it so bad.” Charlie rests his left arm on his best friend’s shoulder, tipping back the half-full angry orchard bottle he’d been nursing for the better half of an hour. Owen’s stare is immediately broken and he crosses his arms defensively.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” Turning to meet his friend’s smug stare, Owen shoots Charlie a glare of annoyance before returning his attention to the girl on the dance floor. Surrounded by a gaggle of her closest friends, Y/n is dancing and singing her heart out to Fergalicious with Chelsea, Leila, Savannah, and Carolynn. The bunch of them share in sporadic laughs as they exchange ridiculous dance moves just to add to the fleeting moment’s laughter. An assortment of screeches and squawks blend together as they all prepare to sing the rap section of the song. Observing the level of excitement the girls have over the verse, Owen can’t help but laugh at the spectacle.
“Why don’t you just ask her out already?” Charlie inquires between sips of his cold drink.
“What?”
“Y/n. Why have you not asked her out.”
“We’re just friends.”
“Yeah. Because you haven’t asked her out.” Owen rolls his eyes before turning 90 degrees to fully face the smug guitarist. He turns about-face to prove a point, but another symphony of squeals at the next song choice drags his attention back to his other best friend on the dance floor. “You’re so whipped.”
“Am not.”
“Are too! Look, if you don’t ask her out tonight, I will.”
“You’re not even into her,” Owen protests unceremoniously. Setting the molasses colored bottle on the counter next to Owen, Charlie steps back and copies his position of crossed arms and a relaxed stance.
“You’re right, I’m not. But you are, and if that’s what it takes to light the fire under your ass then I’ll do it.”
“She wouldn’t say yes.”
“Are you sure? I mean, the only way to know for sure is to ask.” And with that, Charlie is off, speeding toward Y/n at a pace that launches Owen into an impulsive chase. To prevent his friend from doing something stupid, Owen shoves him in the opposite direction from the group of girls on the dance floor. What he hadn’t anticipated was Charlie moving so far so fast. Owen has longer legs, he’s supposed to be the faster one, not Charlie. That’s why he hadn’t anticipated turning away from his musical friend to come face to face with a very flushed Y/n. Her lip-gloss coated lips are parted as she catches her breath from all the dancing. They look so soft and inviting that Owen can’t help but stare, and doesn’t realize the several looks of confusion among the girls around him.
“Everything okay, Owen?” Snapping out of his hyper focused stare, Owen blinks a few times, trying to generate a reason for coming over.
“You’ve been dancing for a while.”
“...Yeah?”
“Let me fix you a drink?” His statement comes out as more of a question but the breathless girl agrees nonetheless. Owen extends his hand to her which she gladly accepts but not without a quick word to her friends.
“I’ll be right back, I’m getting a drink.”
Her friends aren’t stupid, quite the opposite actually. And they see right through Owen’s facade of fixing her a drink because she’d been ‘dancing a while’. Please. As if they didn’t know a desperate attempt at flirting when they saw it.
The pounding music from the backyard begins to fade and muffle once the pair step into the Shada’s beautiful kitchen space. Owen leads her to the kitchen island where he has her take a seat on one of the barstools in front of the high countertop. Stepping around the fixture, Owen busies himself with whipping up a drink for Y/n at the makeshift bar on the island. He doesn’t even have to ask what it is she wants. Ice, pink whitney, club soda, and a splash of lime juice mixed together in a red solo cup Owen had considerately written her name on before going all mixologist-mode.
“Your usual.”
“Thank you, sir. You know, I’ve only had a handful of barbecue chips since I got here, and I’m already tipsy, so this actually might get me completely drunk.” Taking a sip, Y/n hums out of pleasure, “Why do you make my favorite drink better than I make my favorite drink?”
“So you have a reason to keep me around.” At the sound of Y/n’s laugh, Owen cracks a smile in time with his favorite sound in the world. The blonde haired man leans forward to rest his weight on his left forearm. He stares at her with adoration seeping from his gaze, before lifting his own cup to drink with her.
“What is that?” she asks, sitting up taller to try and see into Owen’s cup over the island.
“Jack Daniels.”
“I want some.”
“No,” Owen answers swiftly albeit softly. Y/n, however, is not feeling as conciliatory.
“No?”
“Have you ever tried whiskey before?”
“Well, no-”
“You’re drinking a fruit flavored cocktail that’s like 30% nonalcoholic. A sip of this would knock you off your little ass.” Y/n frowns at his words and employs a fake pout of anger to guilt her now laughing friend. Despite her smile, she whines,
“You suck.” Owen merely shrugs unapologetically before sipping and wincing at his drink of choice. “So… how did your date go- with Amy?” And there it is. The question that’s been at the forefront of Y/n’s mind for the last 24 hours.
Owen met this girl Amy at a more professional house party type of event and they hit it off right away. They spent the night invested in conversation, sharing in a cacophony of laughter. Y/n had no right to be upset, but she was. Amy was drop dead gorgeous in that Mini length red, velvet dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. Her figure was snatched to the gods, and she was about 5’3”; a seemingly irrelevant thing to notice, but Y/n knew that was the height Owen loved in a partner. At least, based on all his previous flings. And not to mention, her beautiful golden blonde hair that extended all the way down her toned back. Amy was perfect to all standards including that of any straight man with eyes and undoubtedly Owen’s. They spent the entire night together, Y/n long forgotten despite having been Owen’s plus one.
Y/n on the other hand didn’t exactly view herself as the drop-dead gorgeous supermodel type. Seeing how Owen took an interest in her at that event, it was no wonder Y/n was jealous. In fact, she had been so jealous that she allowed their flirting to ruin her entire evening.
She had been invited platonically as Owen’s guest, but Owen didn’t feel guilty about leaving her alone once he saw Charlie was by her side the whole night. Little did he know Charlie was only there for her because Owen wasn’t. It was pity company. Pity company that she was grateful to have as she cried into a few gin and tonics. Y/n avoided telling Charlie about her feelings for the adorable drummer, but with the way events transpired, he had figured out what it was that had upset her.
Charlie so badly wanted to give Owen the guilt trip of a lifetime. And he did once he and Owen were alone, heading home in Charlie’s orange hatchback car. He did so by telling Owen about how his best friend had spent the entire evening crying into gin and tonics. ‘Y/n doesn’t even like gin and tonic’ was all Owen could come up with.
When he inquired about why his best friend was crying, Charlie said he didn’t know, but it may have had something to do with the fact that the person who invited her spent the whole night ignoring her; he left it at that, leaving Owen to connect the dots, sort of. Owen had come to the realization that Y/n must have been crying over him, but why? Unable to comprehend a reason, he pushed the situation to the back of his mind. So far back that when Amy texted him that same night, he immediately responded and eventually set up a date for them to get dinner alone Friday evening.
The date was fine. Objectively there was nothing wrong with it. But every time Amy took a sip of the gin and tonic she had ordered, he couldn’t help being reminded of Y/n that night. It took Owen a solid thirty minutes to finally conclude that maybe Y/n was... jealous? Of what? Of Amy? Quickly reviewing a long list of qualities, identical to the one that Y/n had thoroughly checked through when she first saw the blonde, Owen realized she was indeed jealous of Amy. But why? What did Amy have that Y/n didn’t?
Oh.
His initial conclusion in the car with Charlie had to be right. Y/n was crying over him, and seemingly jealous of Amy, all because Amy had his attention. Why was that a problem?
Oh… no. No, Y/n does not have feelings for him. Y/n is... well, Y/n. His best friend, his partner in crime, his confidant, there’s no way she’s in love with him. There’s a different reason as to why she’d been crying into drinks she didn’t like. And that different reason is why her text replies have been short and cold when he had asked for date night conversation pointers. And that different reason is why her smile kept faltering on FaceTime when he was asking for fashion advice for his date.
Y/n is not in love with her best friend.
Owen had spent the past year pushing down his feelings for the girl that threatened to bubble over the top. If Y/n was truly into him, he would’ve acted on them. But she isn’t, so he didn’t. At least, that’s what Owen told himself…
“It was alright,” he offers lamely as a reply to her inquiry. Y/n simply nods and takes another swig of her drink to dull the ache in the center of her chest.
“Just alright?”
“Okay, it was better than alright. She was great.” There’s a hole burning in the center of her heart, and against her better judgment, she expands the deficit by asking for more information.
“What does that mean- that she was ‘great’?”
“You know…” Owen trails off in search of the right words, some words, any words, but nothing comes to him. To sell her nonchalant demeanor, the hopelessly devoted girl is staring down into her cup as if it’s the most interesting thing in the room. She didn’t expect Owen’s eyes to be boring into hers when she looked back up, so she quickly musters a polite smile. Maybe the average onlooker couldn’t tell it was fake, but Owen knows something is off. He just knows. Because he knows her.
“How did those conversation pointers pan out?” She’s deflecting, he thinks.
“One of them worked.” I’m just feeding into it, he thinks.
“Only one of them?” He’s holding back something, she thinks.
“Well, yeah. We didn’t really do much talking if you get what I mean.” I don’t think I can handle this, she thinks.
“I see…” The pair stands together in a silence so tense they felt like strangers. It’s awful. Y/n and Owen hate every second of it, but what could they do? In a moment blinded by upset, Y/n reaches across the island to grab the newly opened bottle of grey goose and pours what must’ve been no less than three shots of liquid into her cup. No club soda or lemonade this time, she chugs down the rest of her drink in a flash; Owen stares at her in disbelief and shock.
Y/n hates being drunk, she likes being the designated driver, she’s never had straight up liquor in her life, and she’s a lightweight, that’s for damn sure. Owen knows all of these things and is even more surprised to see her reaching for an almost empty bottle of gin.
“Hey. Maybe you should take it easy, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a lightweight and you know it. Put the cup down.” When Y/n shakes her head no, something in Owen snaps and his desire to be gentle is long forgotten. “Y/n. Put the drink down.”
“Why do you care, Owen?” In taking time to respond, Owen sees the opportunity and goes for it, taking the cup from her loose grasp and splashing it down the drain of the vegetable sink. “What the fuck?!”
“I think you’ve had enough to drink. Come on.” It’s only a matter of time until Y/n becomes an incoherent human being that’s impossible to wrangle, so Owen is very aware he’s on the clock. Snagging two Arrowhead water bottles in one hand, he takes Y/n’s hand in the other and brings her into the Shada’s den. There are only a few other people in the room, one is a couple and the other a pair of pining idiots, to which Owen becomes slightly wary. Not that the dynamic would change much. He and Y/n are practically a couple according to everyone around them.
Chelsea and Charlie are sitting fairly close together for just friends, on the chocolate brown loveseat facing the couch that Owen has plopped his increasingly intoxicated friend onto; Leila is sitting in a single armchair that a very tipsy Taylor is hanging over the back of to hug her shoulders. Upon seeing Y/n’s pouting expression Chelsea seeks more information,
“You good, fam?”
“He threw it down the sink!” She’s fading faster than Owen had hoped.
“I did. I poured what would’ve been her fifth and sixth shots down the sink.”
“Jesus, Y/n, are you trying to kill yourself?”
“What are you, a cop?” Even tipsy she’s still sharp as a tack. If Owen wasn’t frustrated with her at the moment, he would’ve probably laughed. But he is, so he didn’t. Slipping back into caretaker mode, he hands her one of the water bottles he snagged from the cooler on the way out. In her typical stubborn and petulant fashion, Y/n weakly throws the unopened bottle onto the couch cushion next to her. All their friends laugh but Owen isn’t having it.
“Y/n.” And it only takes a firm call of her name for the slumped over lightweight to glare at him but oblige. She retrieves the bottle and sticks her arm out straight toward Owen’s still standing figure.
“I can’t open it.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this fucked up,” Leila comments.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you fucked up period,” Chelsea adds on. Charlie laughs lightly before resuming whatever conversation the four of them had going pre-Owen and Y/n’s entrance.
Satisfied with the small sips she’s taking of her water, Owen relaxes and takes a seat next to her on the couch. The temporary break in her temper tantrum allows Owen to save his breath; he opens his own water bottle, taking a few drinks which ended up being half the bottle. He’s given her a good bit of room on the couch but it isn’t good enough for Y/n. It takes her a few failed attempts to screw on the cap of her water but once it’s properly sealed, she moves closer to her best friend. The water has acted like some magical temperament cure as Y/n’s previously permanent pout has disappeared.
Owen knows he and Y/n are close enough to where cuddling wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. But the way she’s burrowed into his side, picking up his seemingly ‘heavy’ arm to place it around her own inebriated frame, laying her head high up on his chest, and unintentionally resting her hand on his lower abdomen, something feels off. Her hand isn’t dangerously low, but low enough that the side of her limp palm has met the waistband of his jeans. Owen can’t help but feel his skin tingle and burn under her touch. Why is he so affected by her touch all of a sudden?
Owen is pulled from his snowballing thoughts by the sound of Y/n’s muffled voice against his chest. He leans down as far as he can which places his head on top of hers gently.
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Hey, you don’t need to be sorry,” he whispers just loud enough for her to hear. A tiny drop of warmth on his shirt under her head triggers Owen’s memory: Y/n’s an emotional drunk. She doesn’t get drunk often but when she does, she goes all in and becomes somewhat manic as a result. That accounts for her previous anger. Now it’s sadness, so in about ten minutes, she’ll be easily excitable and bouncing off the walls.
Y/n had carpooled with Leila and Chelsea to the party, and though Owen was upset about her not picking him up like they’d briefly talked about at first, he’s suddenly thankful for the arrangement.
“Let’s get you home, yeah?”
“Unhhh.” The lack of a coherent response is enough for Owen, and after finishing the rest of his water, he sits up on the couch.
“Where’s your house key? Hm?” The prospect of losing her key is absolutely devastating to Y/n as she begins to weep. Her imminent distress in response to Owen’s question has all their friends laughing once more; Leila speaks up,
“Check the left chest pocket of her jacket.”
Owen nods, noting the directions, and gently rolls his friend over on her back. Deciding against using her strength, Y/n flops over onto her other side which still allows Owen access to her pocket. His long fingers dwarf the button fastener on her jacket that she often struggles to open, and sure enough her sky blue house key is in her pocket just as Leila said.
“Thanks,” he acknowledges Leila before taking Y/n’s cold hands in his own larger ones to help her stand. It’s a bit of a struggle to stand and as a result, the fading girl leans a bit of her weight into Owen’s side. “You gonna say bye to our friends?”
Y/n nods a goodbye to each person in the room, moving from left to right naming Leila, Taylor, Chelsea, and then Charlie. Upon saying bye to Charlie the small girl starts to cry again, harder this time, much to everyone’s confusion.
“What’s wrong?”
“Charlie looked a-at me like he didn’t l-like me.” The entire room bursts out laughing, Owen included this time, but she’s still crying. “It’s no-not funny.”
“I know. You’re right, it’s not funny.” Owen’s exaggerated sympathy goes undetected by the very emotional Y/n as she presses her face into his grey long sleeve shirt. She reaches up to hug her arms around Owen’s neck for stability as she adds more tears to the tiny spot from before. “Can you walk?” He asks genuinely as more of her weight leans into him. The only response Owen gets is a few soft sobs, and in reaction to her messy state, lets out a subtle eye roll. He shakes his head before bending down to place one arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulder blades, sweeping her off the ground before she can protest.
“Would you guys tell Jer thanks and that I had to take her home?” A symphony of affirmations and goodbyes usher him out of the house, and once outside Y/n’s crying diminuendos into short sniffles and the occasional sigh.
“Here, be careful,” Owen panics as his friend nearly bangs the front of her head against the roof of his car. Once he cautiously places all her limbs in the passenger side, Owen shuts the door and hurries over to the driver’s side as if Y/n could hurt herself in the next five seconds. He places the key in the ignition but before he even touches the gear shift, he turns and looks quizzically at his best friend. The sniffling and sighs coming from her puffy face have lulled her into an almost unconscious state; Owen puffs out a frustrated sigh as he reaches across the entire car to grab Y/n’s seatbelt for her.
Another thing about drunk Y/n is that her emotional state makes her more likely to give in to physical impulses. So after she registers Owen leaning across her lap for the seatbelt, she grabs his shoulder so he doesn’t move away. The action surprises Owen and he turns his face to look into her half-lidded eyes. He’s trying to make sense of the action but his trailing thoughts are interrupted when the girl in the passenger’s seat leans forward slightly to put her face against Owen’s neck.
“I like your smell.” Owen tries so hard not to laugh in fear of upsetting her again, but he can’t conceal the smile growing on his face. He then gently pulls away from her grasp in order to actually start driving,
“Okay. Thank you.”
The car ride is composed of mostly comfortable silence with the occasional inebriated comment or nonsensical sound from the girl in the passenger seat; Owen had been so captivated by Y/n’s uncharacteristically relaxed state, he’d been driving on autopilot and instead of turning left to get on the highway that runs south to where her apartment is, he’d gone north to go to his own place. No big deal, Owen didn’t plan on leaving her intoxicated and alone, and she’s stayed the night plenty of times before now. What’s one more night? It isn’t until he puts the car in park and helps her out of the vehicle that Y/n clocks her surroundings.
“I don’t live here.”
“You don’t, no, but I do,” Owen replies simply before he slides out of the car. Y/n stays in the car as if Owen told her not to move, and looks up at him confusedly when he opens her door. In her tipsy state, she is able to recognize what Owen is doing and smugly places her hand over the buckle of her seatbelt. With her tiny palm over the red button, she begins giggling maniacally.
“What are you doing?” Owen asks with a frustrated sigh although he can’t help the small smile overtaking his features at the sound of her growing laughter. He doesn’t get a response, just more giggling which lets him know he’s going to have to do things the hard way now that she’s in a lifted mood. “Kid, you have to get out of the car.”
“You can’t make me.”
Owen takes a step back from the open door to reevaluate. Y/n always tells him to work smarter, not harder. Another one of her many bouts of wisdom is that you can keep the attention of children and adults alike with a vastly dynamic change in volume. The question is will she notice Owen using this tactic on her in her drunken state?
“Hey, Y/n/n,” his speech drops to a low whisper. “I’m sad, can you hold my hand?” The change in volume works exactly as described; completely convinced by the sincerity of his whispering, Y/n gives him her right hand. “Can I have the other one?”
When she nods a small ‘yes’ and gives him both of her hands, Owen finds himself fighting the urge to laugh at how easy that was. He takes both of her cool hands in his larger left one to reach across her body and release her seatbelt with a swift CLICK.
Luckily Y/n didn’t tangle herself up in the seatbelt, but she had other ideas for causing trouble. Owen helped her out of the car but once she was standing on her own two feet, she began running away from him. With a slam of the car door and a string of breathy curses later, he chases after his best friend before she can hurt herself on literally anything in the parking garage. The sound of Y/n’s laughter carries through the vacant space, and despite all her best efforts, Owen quickly catches up to her. Her giddy intoxication allowed for the suspension of disbelief that she could outrun the much taller Owen Joyner, but she’s sorely mistaken when his strong arms wrap around her waist and lift her feet off the ground. Y/n’s bouts of laughter are contagious; Owen finds himself laughing alongside his best friend. Setting her feet back on the ground he asks,
“Are you going to run away again if I let go of you?”
“Yeah,” she chokes out through the tail end of her laughing fit. The candidness of her reply prompts Owen to throw his head back, shaking it as if in disagreement with the universe itself,
“I appreciate your honesty.” And with that, Y/n screeches in glee as her best friend maneuvers her body in his grip to lift her over his right shoulder.
“Owen!”
“You did this to yourself, kid.”
The silent elevator ride up to his flat is comfortable relative to the current position they’re in. Y/n’s no longer fighting being carried but instead entertains herself by tapping out an intricate beat on the surface of Owen’s back.
“Guess what song this is.”
The beat she’s playing is close to incoherent and Owen tries to stifle his full laugh in fear of making her cry again. He’s been successful so far, but now having Y/n over his shoulder, she can feel the movement of his abdomen that was unintelligible by sight alone.
“Your favorite song,” he guesses insincerely.
“No, my favorite song doesn’t sound like that. It was sicko mode.”
“That was not sicko mode.”
“Owen, how come you don’t wear a badge?”
“What?”
“Because you’re the song police?” Owen can’t help but snort out a laugh even though the comment was made at his expense. Still sharp as a tack.
Once the pair reach the front door of Owen’s ‘bachelorette pad’ as Y/n liked to call it, he sets her back on the ground albeit reluctantly as he recalls why he was carrying her in the first place. Thinking quickly on his feet, Owen forms a plan that’s more likely than not foolproof.
“Hey, Y/n/n?”
“Yeah?” Her voice is still right behind him thankfully.
“Can I have a hug?” After a few seconds of silence in the hall, Owen begins to doubt his plan until he feels the weight of his best friend leaning on his toned back. With her cheek pressed against the middle of his spine, Y/n brings her arms around his waist, clasping her hands tightly together. Her semi-public display of affection allows Owen some time to unlock his front door. Once he props the door open, Owen realizes that Y/n probably isn’t going to let go any time soon and opts to waddle through the threshold with her still attached to him. He’s able to turn around and lock them back in for the night which makes the girl begin to laugh.
“Was this your plan all along? To get me drunk so you could lock me in your apartment and hold me prisoner for the rest of my life?”
“And I would’ve gotten away with it, too...”
“If it weren’t for those meddling kids and their dog.”
True to his imagination that Y/n wasn’t letting go any time soon, Owen swivels her around his torso so that he could hold her to his side rather than support her with his back. He now has his right arm over both of her shoulders as she continues to hug her best friend. The way she leans her head onto his chest makes Owen’s heartbeat the tiniest bit faster. ‘She’s drunk, she doesn’t know what this does to you’ is the mantra blaring through Owen’s subconscious. Shaking any and all sort of romantic thoughts out of his head, he begins to lead her back to his bedroom.
Flicking the lights on proves to be a mistake once Y/n starts groaning miserably, and Owen decides the floor lamp is a better option than the overheads. Much to Owen’s surprise and relief, Y/n moves to sit on the edge of his bed on her own volition. She’s not upright for long as she collapses into the sheets of his unmade bed that contemplated neatening before leaving the house; hindsight is 20/20.
“Hmm. I like your smell,” Y/n parrots despite already bringing up the topic on the ride home.
“This is the same cologne I always use.”
“No. I like your natural smell.”
“What?”
“I was reading up about pheromones the other day. And there was this thing that said when couples like each others’ scent, it’s like a primal way of seeing if you’re immuno-compatible with someone so your offspring have the best chance for survival. It’s an evolutionary thing for the survival of our species. Ants have pheromones, too.”
Sometimes she has trouble remembering to feed herself, but leave it to Y/n to remember extensive information about pheromones whilst intoxicated. The concept is intriguing to Owen, so he proceeds to ask questions, ignoring the tug on his heart he felt after hearing her say the word ‘couples’.
“So, if I like your scent, we’re immuno-?”
“Compatible, yeah. But it’s mostly me because you can sniff out my period.”
“I can what?”
“I read that men can tell when a woman is at her most fertile because that’s when they like her smell the best. They did a study where a bunch of men were introduced to a few different scents, and without fail, the one they liked the most or would describe as ‘sexy’ or ‘attractive’ was the scent they took from the woman who was ovulating.”
Y/n continues talking about what she learned about pheromones as Owen picks up a bit of the mess around his room. She returns to the topic of ant pheromones as he digs through his surprisingly large closet for something for his friend to sleep in. His temporarily bubbly best friend also notes that he should ‘sniff her now because she’s ovulating and he would like that’ which makes him laugh into the drawers of his waist-height dresser. Returning to find her still slumped over on the bed, he pats her leg and beckons her to sit up. After Y/n’s upright again, Owen hands her his classic black ‘BEANS’ t-shirt and a pair of briefs that won’t properly fit her but will fit better than a pair of his actual pants.
“Can you put these on for me?”
“Yeah.” Owen’s conflicted with both wanting to respect Y/n’s privacy by leaving the room, and prioritizing her safety, and not leaving her unattended at any moment. He comes to a compromise which is staying by her side but turning a full 180 to face the wall of his bedroom. A couple of moments pass until Y/n begins whining frustratedly.
“Owen.”
“Huh?”
“I can’t ubns-” her words become incomprehensible as she begins to cry again and Owen turns around to find her struggling with the buttons on her shirt, her jacket long discarded on the bedroom floor. This shirt: her white, cap-sleeve crop top with a peter pan collar that she wore for anything mildly significant, this was her favorite. Owen remembers her fussing about how she ruined it only to find that she just forgot to steam it one day. So with a little heat and water, Owen had fixed the shirt like nothing ever happened, and he’d do it a million times over again if it meant he got to relive seeing the smile that graced her face for the first time again.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do the buttons.” She runs the back of her right hand against her tired eyes to wipe away her tears and Owen internally curses himself for the way the small action makes his heart flutter.
“Do you need help?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen to me, you are okay,” he sinks to kneel in front of Y/n as she sits tiredly on the edge of the bed. Owen doesn’t miss the slight tremble of his hands as he reaches up to unbutton her shirt, but he prays that she will. Through tiny sniffles and teary eyes, she watches his hands effortlessly work down the length of her shirt, each button modestly dancing between his fingertips. Once the short top is fully unbuttoned, Owen returns to his normal standing height and Y/n attempts to shrug the fabric off her body. She struggles lightly and knowing her frustration is imminent, Owen reaches down to gingerly push the sleeves off her shoulders. The light graze of his rough, calloused skin against her own skin sends electric-like shocks through the both of them; yet neither of them believed the other felt it too.
Owen hastily withdraws his hands and, without warning, Y/n quickly removes the bralette she was wearing. Owen’s eyes widen slightly at her lack of inhibition. He does his best to be a gentleman and swiftly redirects his gaze to the white ceiling fan that has all of a sudden become the most intriguing object in the universe. His lower peripheral vision indicates that she’s finally slipped the black tee over her head, but she begins sniffling more fiercely as she struggles with taking off her jeans. Owen sighs and drops to his knees once more in spite of himself, and aids his best friend in slipping the material over the length of her calves and off the tips of her toes. Hoping to speed up the process, he grabs the briefs he had brought her and unfolds them in preparation for helping her into them. His efforts are all for naught as Y/n forgoes the need for any more clothing and slides under the covers of his unmade bed. Owen then turns to leave the bedroom, opting to set up on the couch for the night before Y/n’s small voice is cutting through the comfortable silence.
“Where are you going?” He sighs,
“I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll get you some water and Advil for when you wake up tomorrow.” Y/n then nods acceptingly and allows her eyes to flutter closed as he leaves the room. Despite how tired she feels, Y/n won’t quite yet let herself sleep--not ‘til Owen is beside her. When he returns he sets the ibuprofen bottle on the nightstand before uncapping the Kirkland brand water bottle he had in the fridge. He coaxes her into sitting up just one more time so she can drink some of the water before falling asleep. She sits and rubs her tired eyes as she drinks and Owen has to physically force himself to look away from the adorable sight. He just wants to take care of her forever but things have always been strictly platonic between them.
The risk of making their friendship weird or awkward was just too great.
“Goodnight kid, I’ll be right outside if you need me.” Owen leaves without awaiting a response and lets out an annoyed sigh before setting himself up on the couch in his living room. He was so focused on getting Y/n to bed safely that he forgot to grab clothes for himself. Not a big deal. He simply strips down to just his underwear and climbs underneath the thick Pottery Barn throw blanket Y/n had gifted him as a housewarming gift. That and a fire extinguisher because ‘you don’t notice its absence until you need it’ she claimed. The memory makes Owen smile and he allows his eyes to close after a long day.
A long day that was about to get longer. Owen finds himself sinking further and further into sleep until he hears the padding of footsteps that are now in his living room. He’s too tired to open his eyes, and it’s not like he doesn’t already know who it is. What does surprise him, however, is the feeling of the familiar weight squeezing between the couch and his turned back.
“What are you doing?” He half mumbles into the night.
“You’re warm.”
“That was not the question, Y/n/n.” After not receiving a reply, Owen turns as best as he can to look at his friend who’s nestling her way into his sleeping arrangement for the night. “Kid-”
“I just wanna be with you.”
“Alright,” Owen sighs out of irritation, exhaustion, and a sliver of adoration before sitting up on the couch, “Come on.”
He stands up, fully expecting to have to drag her back to the bedroom, but finds relief in seeing her struggle her way off the couch. Slipping her tired hand into his unexpecting, larger one, Y/n allows her friend to lead her into the bedroom for the second time that night.
Owen considerately lifts the covers for her to climb back into before getting into the other side of the bed.
“Owen.”
“Hm?”
“Guess what.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too, kid.”
“No,” Y/n speaks in a casual tone as if she’s not divulging into her biggest emotional trepidation to date. “I love you, Owen.”
Owen can’t help the way his heart seemingly stops. The way the butterflies in his stomach are going wild. The way he wants to smile like he’s the biggest lovestruck idiot on planet Earth.
She’s drunk. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She won’t remember this tomorrow.
“I’m in love with you, Y/n.”
She won’t remember that tomorrow.
***
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