#maybe she doesn't need to sell

[fazcinatingblog]

but what if her aim is to just make as many money as possible, as quick as possible, and then sell the business, let someone else deal with the mess of it, and just retire with her rental properties and money from selling the business and/or those townhouses and

[fitzrove]

can someone pay me 2000 euros a month to play the sims 2 rotationally for 8 hours a day 5 days a week. unfortunately i'm pulling rookie numbers with it rn (only about 2-3h/day, and it's cut out of my sleep time) due to things like w*rk and my m*ster's th*sis

[felixravinstills]

🔥 lucy gray !!

ask game

uhh, I think she genuinely did have feelings for Coriolanus is that unpopular? I don't think it is, but maybe to some people idk.

I guess additionally, I dislike that the movie gave her "I don't sing when I'm told, I sing when I have something to say," because it gives off the wrong impression (in my opinion) where she's trying to be this revolutionary instead of just trying to survive. For context, in the book (Ch. 6), she doesn't want to sing because there is no point, the drone/sponsor system hasn't been thought up yet.

I think that the line in the movie, theoretically makes sense, she is saying something with each song, but I dislike how some people seem to turn her saying that into a girlboss, she-isn't-a-sellout moment. I don't think that's what this is about.

[randomnameless]

The "i don't want to kill Edelgard" dialogue the game forces you to pick for Byleth in Verdant Wind is still one the funniest things in the game when you think about what that means in-universe; Byleth has had no issues killing people to get what they want all route-long, but the second Claude brings up killing the girl who started the war and is most at fault for everyone that died because of it, including her own soldiers, they say they don't want to, presumably just because they had such a deep bond with her during their time at Garreg Mach (even though it's perfectly possible to have Byleth spend all their time there never interacting with Edelgard once).

It's shit like that that makes me understand where the same-crest attraction people come from; that forced dialogue choice is at least understandable in Silver Snow, where Byleth is forced to teach Edelgard for a while and would have logicaly formed a bond with her because of that, but the only way that line makes any sense in VW is to assume that their crests made them feel a deeply-heightened and accelerated sense of attraction to each other, to the point that the few short and irrelevant interactions they had in their short time together at GM was enough for them to form a deep bond.

Anon,

If same crust attraction was a thing, do you really thing Billy would angst about Supreme Leader in VW, when Nemesis himself pops up at the end of the route???

I mean, between Supreme Leader and Nemesis, who are you going to simp for if you never talked to any of them, and both are leading a faction to destroy you and your allies?

Supreme Leader, or Nemesis??

All jokes aside,

There's, sadly, no Watsonian explanation for the very Doylist "but she lufs u!!! feel sad about her!!!" approach the devs wanted to hamfist in their game : Billy will feel bad for killing Supreme Leader, even if it doesn't make any sense for them to do so because that is why the devs designed FE16 to be : a story where the player will feel bad about killing the red emperor.

(or at least the player avatar, because damn if this completely missed the mark regarding some players lol)

Just like you feel super BaD for icing Randolph and Ferdie who still works with the Empire, fighting side by side with a Demonic Beast - when the game doesn't expect you to feel a thing when you kill the poor sod who was turned into a monster because the Imperial Army needs War Assets.

that's why some people really felt a bit disturbed by all this Supreme Pandering coming out of nowhere - same with Rhea in VW since her supports are optional, so if Billy is really a player avatar, why should they care about Rhea?

(granted, I'd say even if you only do the strict minimum, Billy still wants to help Rhea in the cinematic before falling in a ravine, so at least there's this sign that Billy cares about her - sure, Billy protected and saved Supreme Leader against Kostas, but after the Flamey reveal, we don't have anything to even remotely indicate Billy still cares specially about Supreme Leader : Billy's avatar status is the reason why they're written to care about Supreme Leader, and yet, Billy's character status explain why they care about Rhea - again, another example of the devs wanting to have their cake and eat it too!)

[khaoticqueer]

ive been wondering why ive been coughing and feeling shitty the past several days and worried I was sick. but I think it was my partner's laptop battery swelling and possibly releasing toxic gases or smth bc once we took it to be disposed of we both started feeling a lot better 💀

[plantenjoyer]

I SWEAR I KEEP TRYING TO DO ART BUT THEN SOMETHING GETS IN THE WAY AND THEN I PROCRASTINATE AND THEN SIX MONTHS PASS

[sufficientlylargen]

It always gets me that the name "Gandalf" literally just means "Wand-Elf" or "Stick-Elf". I'm imagining old Gondorians just being like:

Librarian: I saw that weird guy at the library again today.

Guard 1: What weird guy?

Librarian: The old guy with the beard? Kinda elfy-looking, apart from the beard?

Guard 1: Oh, with the big-ass stick?

Librarian: Yeah, looked like he was carrying an entire tree branch.

Guard 2: Yeah, that's the Stick Elf.

Guard 1: Hell yeah, I fuckin' love the Stick Elf.

Librarian: The "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: He comes by every few years, usually after some weird book or other.

Librarian: Oh. Yeah, he wanted a treatise on goblin breeding habits.

Guard 2: Like, how they have sex? We have books on that?

Librarian: Yeah, turns out we do. I was as surprised as you are.

Guard 1: What'd the Stick Elf need a fuckin' goblin-fuckin' book for?

Librarian: I didn't ask. So you just call him "Stick Elf"?

Guard 2: I mean, he looks kinda elfy and he always has that stick, so, like, yeah.

Guard 1: Dude also has some fuckin' dope pipeweed.

Guard 2: Oh yeah, his pipeweed is awesome.

Librarian: How long has he been coming here?

Guard 2: Oh, for decades. He's, like, super old.

Guard 1: More like fuckin' centuries. Dude's old as balls.

Guard 2: Wait, really?

Guard 1: Yeah, my gran-gran used to talk about him. She loved his pipeweed too.

Librarian: So he's… an immortal pipeweed dealer?

Guard 2: I think he's just, like, a connoisseur. He doesn't sell it or anything. He just always has some really top-notch pipeweed on him.

Archivist: Oh, are we talking about Stick Elf?

Guard 1: Hell yeah we are!

Librarian: You know about the Stick Elf, too?

Archivist: Oh, totally. Stick-Elf's a super chill dude. Gave me some awesome pipeweed when I was maybe 12, and tee-bee-aitch I think I'm still a little buzzed from it.

Guard 1: What'd I tell ya, fuckin' dope pipeweed!

Archivist: Also he's really old.

Guard 1: Old as balls.

Librarian: Yeah, so Éodan and Jenniforomir were telling me.

Archivist: My grandpa used to tell me stories - he said one time he saw Stick Elf enter a smoke-ring contest.

Guard 1: Ooh, I'll bet he kicked fuckin' ass.

Archivist: Apparently the guy made an entire warship out of smoke and it flew around shooting down the other rings.

Librarian: And how much of this "fuckin' dope" pipeweed had your grandfather had by this point?

Guard 1: No no, that's totally plausible. Dude's got weird elf powers and shit for sure.

Archivist: He brought fireworks for the king's birthday one year, too.

Guard 1: Oh fuck, I forgot about those! Fuckin' incredible fireworks! Dragons and knights and glowy trees and shit! I was fuckin' 6 years old or something, they totally blew my mind. Hey Éodan, did you see that shit?

Guard 2: No, I think that's before I lived in Gondor.

Guard 1: Wait, you're not from here?

Guard 2: Oh, no, I grew up in Rohan. We moved here when I was, like, thirteen because my uncle Éojeff said he could get my dad a sweet job. And also that there were houses that didn't smell like horseshit.

Guard 1: Oh shit, are you related to Éojeff and Éosteve who run that æbleskiver stand on Norndîl St?

Guard 2: Yeah, they're my uncles!

Guard 1: Shit, they cook a fuckin' great æbleskiver!

Librarian: Ok, hold up a sec, "Stick Elf" can't possibly be his real name.

Guard 1: Why not?

Librarian: What? You think his parents named him in the hopes that he would carry around a fucking tree when he got older?

Guard 2: Maybe they gave him the tree when he was born!

Archivist: I don't think a baby could carry that stick.

Guard 1: You ever seen a baby hanging onto something? They're hella strong.

Archivist: It's not a strength thing, their hands are tiny. That staff is enormous!

Guard 1: My halberd's bigger 'n I am, I can hold it just fine.

Archivist: You're not a baby.

Librarian: Also why would elf parents name their kid "stick ELF"?! Presumably they know that their kid's going to be an elf!

Archivist: Is he actually an elf? I didn't think they grew beards.

Guard 1: How'd he get old as balls if he's not an elf?

Guard 2: His ears aren't that pointy. Maybe he's just a really old guy? Like, a Numémoriam or something?

Guard 1: Did you just say "Numémoriam"?

Guard 2: Nûnenorman? Munimõrbitan? Y'know, those guys like the king that can get super old.

Guard 1: You mean the fuckin' Númenóreans?

Guard 2: Yeah, the Númenóreums.

Archivist: Even the Númenóreans don't live THAT long.

Guard 1: Plus he carries that fuckin' stick around.

Guard 2: Wait, what does the stick have to do with it?

Guard 1: That's an elf thing. Y'know, trees and shit? Very elfy.

Librarian: Ok, look, but his parents naming him "Stick Elf" would be weird whether or not he's an elf. In fact, it's even weirder if he's not - what human names their kid "elf"?

Archivist: Huh. Yeah, you're right, he probably does have another name.

Guard 2: Yeah, I guess so.

Librarian: He's been coming here for decades and nobody's ever asked his real name?

Archivist: I dunno what to tell you, he's Stick Elf. Even his library card just says 'Stick Elf'.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah, the Stick Elf!

Guard 2: Maybe we could, like, ask him his name sometime?

Guard 1: Hey, look, Elrond's over there. He's old as balls too, maybe he knows?

Guard 2: Oh, we shouldn't interru-

Guard 1: HEY ELROND, YOU'RE OLD AS BALLS, RIGHT? WHAT'S THAT OLD ELF WITH THE STICK'S NAME?

Elrond (coming over): Do you mean an old man cloaked all in grey and blue, leaning on a rough-cut staff, who came to the great library this day?

Guard 1: Yeah, the Stick-Elf!

Guard 2: (Sorry to bother you, sir...)

Librarian: He's got to have a real name besides 'the Stick Elf', right?

Elrond: Indeed, for no elf is he. You speak of the wizard Olórin, wisest of the Maiar, older even than Eä itself. Many are his names in many countries: Tharkûn among the Dwarves; Incánus to the south; Mithrandir he is called among my people, the Grey Pilgrim.

Librarian: Oh.

Elrond: And here in the North he is called Stick-Elf.

Librarian: Oh.

Guard 1: Fuck yeah!

[vitiateoriginator]

I've been going thru a major creative block recently and I'm really depressed over it

[hemipenal-system]

working on a farm and going to a secondhand equipment auction to try to find a part you need replaced on one of your machines, and some guy has a combat drone all folded up in the back of his truck

it's powered off, of course. the guy says he doesn't even know how to fix it, says it just crashed in his backyard during the war, what, 40-odd years ago? and he just threw it in storage and hasn't touched it since, and his wife says he has to get rid of it, so he'll sell it for cheap if you're interested.

you figure, what the hell, you need a side project, and it might be interesting to refurbish it or whatever, so you buy it, lugging the heavy fucker into your own vehicle

you throw it up on a hoist and manage to power it on, half scared it'll try to kill you, but it just hangs there, limp except for its head turning to create a 3d model of your face to recognize you by. it looks almost... human, in a way. its head is a mess of sensors where its face should be, all wired down to its torso where it keeps its processor, and the stabilizers on its feet that prevent recoil from a heavy weapon knocking it over resemble claws, but it otherwise resembles a tall, lanky human to an eerie degree. it doesn't speak. you figure something in it must be busted. it doesn't move at all as you take it off the hoist and lay it down on the ground.

you leave it in the barn when you go to bed. it'd be preposterous for a machine to sleep in the house, even if it is a moderately human-shaped one. it'll be fine out there.

when you come back the next morning, you're surprised to see it curled up, not sleeping but emulating it, in a pile of hay it must have brought down from the loft. strange, since it shouldn't have any necessity for more comfort than the cold concrete floor would provide. it powers on when you approach, turning to look at you but otherwise not moving.

it doesn't talk for a week.

when it does, it's one word. you have it open on a workbench, arm buried deep in its mechanical guts. its speakers crackle to life just for the one word and then shut off again, startling you enough that you jump and then swear as your hand slams into the metal frame, cutting a knuckle open - then you process what it just said.

it was a name.

you ask if she wants to sleep in the house after that. she doesn't answer, but follows obediently like a trained dog, up the stairs and into your bedroom, mimicking your motions as you lay down in bed and she lays down next to you. you flick the light off, worried about the non-zero possibility that you've fucked up and her programming will reset when she wakes up and immediately target you as a threat. then you fall asleep.

you wake up with the combat drone pressed into you, cool metal arms wrapped around your torso, sensor array pressed into your shoulder. she doesn't snore, but her cooling system whirs quietly and you realize your body is warming her own.

you don't know what makes you kiss her forehead. you just sort of do it. but she makes a cute humming noise so maybe it was an okay thing to do.

[fishofthewoods]

I see a lot of people clowning on the people of Pelican Town for not repairing the community center themselves or clowning on Lewis for embezzling and. like. Those criticisms aren't entirely unfair. But I think instead of coming at it from a perspective of "why can't the townspeople do this" we should be asking "why and how can the farmer do this?"

Like. Think about it. The farmer arrives in Stardew Valley on the first day of spring. By the first day they're obviously different. By day five the spirits of the forest who haven't been seen by the townsfolk in years or generations are speaking to them. By the second week they've developed a rapport with the wizard that lives outside town.

In the spring they go foraging and find more than even Linus, who's spent so many years learning the ways of the valley. Maybe he knows, when he sees them walking back home. Maybe he looks at them and understands that they're different, chosen somehow.

In the summer they fish in the lakes and the ocean for hours on end, catching fish that even Willy's only ever heard of, fish that he thought were the stuff of legend. They pull up giants from the deep and mutated monstrosities from the sewers.

In the fall, their crops grow incredibly immense; pumpkins twice as tall as a person, big enough that someone could live inside. The farmer cuts it down with an axe without even batting an eye. Does Lewis wonder, when he checks the collection bin that night and finds it full to the brim with pumpkin flesh? What does he think? Does he even leave the money? Does he have the funds to pay the farmer millions of dollars for the massive amounts of wine they sell? Or is it someone--something--else entirely?

In the winter, the farmer delves into the mines. No one in Pelican Town has been down there in decades. No one in living memory has been to the bottom. The farmer gets there within the season. They return to the surface with stories of dwarven ruins and shadow people, stories they only tell to Vincent and Jas, whose retellings will be dismissed by the adults as flights of fancy. People walking by the entrance to the mines sometimes hear the farmer in there, speaking in a language no one can understand. Something speaks back.

The farmer speaks to the the wizard. They speak to the spirit of a bear inside a centuries-old stone. They speak to the shadow people and the dwarves, ancient enemies, and they try to mend the rift. They speak to the Junimos, ancient spirits of the forest and the river and the mountain. They taste the nectar of the stardrops and speak to the valley itself. They change Pelican Town, and they change the valley. Things are waking up.

And what does Evelyn think? She's the oldest person in the valley; she was here when the farmer's grandfather was young. (How old *is* she, anyway? She never seems to age. She doesn't remember the year she was born.) Does she see the farmer and think of their grandfather? Does she try to remember if he was like this too, strange and wild and given the gifts of the forest?

And does their grandfather haunt the valley? He haunts the farm, still there even after his death; his body died somewhere else, but his spirit could never stay away for long. Does Abigail, using her ouija board on a stormy night, almost drop the planchette when she realizes it's moving on its own? Does Shane, walking to work long before anyone else leaves their house, catch glimpses of a wispy figure floating through the town? Does the farmer know their grandfather came back to the place they both love so much?

Mr. Qi takes interest in the farmer. He's different, too; in a different way, maybe, but the principles are the same. They're both exceptional, and no matter what Qi says about it being hard work and dedication, they both know the truth: the world bends around the both of them, changing to fit their needs. Most people aren't visited by fairies or witches. Most people don't have meteorites crash in their yard. Most people couldn't chop down trees all day without a break or speak to bears and mice and frogs.

The farmer is different. The rules of the world don't work for them the way they work for everyone else. The farmer goes fishing and finds the stuff of fairy tales. The farmer goes mining and fights shadow beasts and flying snakes. The farmer looks at paths the townspeople walk every day and finds buried in the dirt relics of lost civilizations.

The farmer is a violent, irrepressible miracle, chosen by the valley and destined to return to it someday. Even if they'd never received the letter, they would've come home.

They always come home eventually.

[archangeldyke-all]

reader being jealous bc girls where hitting on plug sev at the house party

maybe some jealous sex?!

oh fuck yes

men and minors dni

it's hard for plugs to compete with dispensaries nowadays. so, since you've started dating her, you've started helping her add a little extra flare to her buisness.

you buy her cute little baggies to make deliveries in, tying ribbons around the top just for some extra fun.

you make delicious edibles, batch after batch of gooey brownies and cinnamon rolls coming out of your oven (you wearing a flouncy little pink apron sevika bought for you.)

and you always accompany sevika on her longer deliveries, keeping her company and making sure she's getting all her money.

sevika makes good money, but with your help, she's making great money.

and now it's the holidays-- the busiest time of the year for a dealer. people are desperate to relax amidst all the seasonal stress and extended family time.

sevika's been making bank.

today, the two of you were invited to an old friend's holiday party to sell. which is how you find yourself hauling crates of christmas ribbon wrapped dime bags, batches of laced christmas cookies, and a variety of chirstmas themed glass pipes into a mansion on a cold december evening.

"baby, you're gonna break one of your nails!" sevika gasps when she sees you, snatching the trays of cookies out of your hands. you chuckle.

"i'm jus' tryna help you unload."

"you don't need to help me do anything, doll. you just gotta sit inside and look pretty-- lure some customers over for us." she says with a wink. you laugh and elbow your girlfriend.

"how much are we trying to make tonight?" you ask.

sevika shrugs. "i'd be happy with a thousand." you scoff. sevika looks over at you with a smirk. "what?"

"baby, we're making more than a thousand."

"what makes you so sure?"

"have you tried my cookies?!"

sevika cackles and pulls you in for a kiss with her free arm.

as much as you love an excuse to dress up-- you hate parties. so does sevika. so, you guys set up in a dark little corner and have a few drinks while you wait for guests to arrive. sevika rolls joints and has you lick them shut. you elbow her when she starts to give you bedroom eyes. "the dj isn't even here yet, sev, you're gonna have to wait."

"i'm just lookin' at you! i can look at you as much as i want, you're my girlfriend." she says with a grin. you giggle and kiss her cheek.

sevika eats one of your cookies and moans obscenely. you roll your eyes, but your cunt throbs. she shoves half the cookie in your mouth before you can refuse. you giggle around crumbs.

by the time guests start to arrive, you're feeling ready for social interaction. you're loose on the spiked eggnog, giggly from sevika's flirtations, and your edible's just starting to kick in, making you feel chatty and sociable.

so, when a girl approaches sevika with a friendly smile and a lingering glance, it takes you a little longer than it usually would for you to realize that this bitch is flirting with sevika.

at least, you're 80% sure.

she's licked her lips like twelve times since she's come over, she's been talking to sevika for ten minutes, and she hasn't looked at you once. but you can't freak out yet, because she hasn't done anything really wrong... yet.

"so... are you interested in buying anything?" you ask.

the girl blinks over at you, then laughs and looks back at sevika. "no... but i might need a dealer in the future. could i get your number, just in case, sev?" she asks, reaching across the table and touching sevika's bicep.

your stomach lurches, and your nostrils flare. "oh, fuck no." you grumble.

sevika reaches out and clamps a strong arm around your waist, keeping you pinned to your seat. you growl. the woman across your table doesn't even notice. "'m afraid i only give my number to repeat customers. 's just a matter of security." she says.

"mmm. well maybe i could get it for a different reason?"

you might go to jail tonight.

sevika pinches your hip, and she speaks. "no, you can't. you can fuck off, actually. you've wasted my time and disrespected my girlfriend."

"you have a girlfriend?"

you have to laugh.

you rip yourself out of sevika's grip, grab one of the fat pre-rolls on the table and storm off to the patio, trying to convince yourself not to go back and do something that will get you arrested. this is a rich neighborhood. the cops will be called even if you only pull a little bit of her hair out. or bite her just a bit. or scratch her eyes with your fresh christmas themed stiletto set.

"fucking bitch!" you scream, kicking over a garden gnome. you pout a bit when his head comes off. "sorry." you say, bending over to pick him up and put his head back on. "sorry."

you get about halfway through your calm-down joint before sevika finds you.

"what're you doing out here?"

"i had ran watch the table for me."

"no, i mean, shouldn't you be with your new girlfriend?" you ask. sevika chuckles and you glare at her.

"baby." she reaches out and grabs your wrist. you let her tug you into her chest, groaning as she does. "do you really think i'd cheat on you? or are you just possessive?" she asks. you glare up at her, then pout. she grins and nods. "possessive." she decides. "i can work with that."

before you can respond, sevika's plucking the joint out of your hands, stubbing it out and pocketing it, and tugging you into the shrubbery beside the patio.

sevika pins you to a cold dark brick wall, and she shoves her mouth against yours before you can gasp. oh fuck. sevika's kissing you like she's gonna fuck you; her tongue sliding against yours, her moans low and emphatic. her hands are shoving your clothes up, the night air making you shiver and jump, her warm fingers making you melt in her hold.

"mmmph... seb--" you mumble against her. she pulls back to start sucking hickeys on your throat, her hands fondling your tits. "sevika!"

"you wan' me to stop?" she asks.

you consider the question. it's quiet out-- just the sound of your heaving breaths, some crickets, and the bushes rustling as sevika moves against you. your cunt's throbbing. before you can answer, sevika speaks again.

"i don't think you do. i think you're so fuckin' needy for me that you get stupid. you forget, don't you? forget how good i am to you? forget that i worship you?"

"i-i get jealous..." you whine.

sevika laughs and shoves a thigh between yours. "i know baby. i think it's cute. need me to remind you how much i love you?" she asks, her hand trailing up your thigh and ducking under your skirt. she fiddles with the thin band of your panties. you whimper.

"y-yes please." you whine. sevika grins, and then she shoves her hand down your panties. "f-fuck! your fingers are so big." you whine as she shoves her pointer finger inside you. she chuckles.

"you're so fuckin' wet, fuck, i love this pussy. i love you. so fuckin' cute tonight in your little christmas sweater-- y' look like a gingerbread house."

you giggle at your girlfriend's rambling, then sneak your hands up under her shirt and start scratching her back. sevika growls and bites your neck again. "fuck!" you squeak.

"shush!" sevika giggles. "fuck. can't wait to get home. gonna eat you up, my gingerbread girl."

you groan. "corny!"

sevika giggles. "whatever. i'll sit on your face, than."

"yes please." you whine.

sevika starts to work another finger inside of you, and you cum, shivering in her arms as she kisses you to muffle your moans.

"you're so fuckin' hot, baby, oh my god." sevika whines. "fuck, fuck i'm gonna be wet all fuckin' night."

"i'll take care of you, sev."

"now?" she asks, hopefully.

you giggle and kiss her. "after you make your thousand." you promise.

sevika groans and smacks your ass.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

@strawberrykidneystone @sevikasfan @fict1onallyobsessed @dvrkhcld @sweetybuzz25

@sluttysierraaa @snake-in-a-flower-crown @ruiwonderz @littlemisszaunite @biblicalcrybaby

@blackgaladriel

[nightingale-prompts]

Babysitting Batboy

First | Previous | Next

"Why cant i go out?" Danny whined rolling on the couch.

"Sorry, Dicky said you were sneaking out. If you weren't caught at Batburger with Red Robin this wouldn't have happened." Barbara laughed from the kitchen.

"What is his problem anyways? Why would it matter if I spent time with Red?"

"You'll understand one day."

"Also why does Bruce Wayne keep sending these boxes to our house?"

"Just leave them until Dick sends them back."

"Is this a drug thing? Does Bruce Wayne sell drugs?" Danny gasped "Is my new grandfather the head of a drug cartel? Is that why Dick doesn't want to visit anymore?"

"You wish. Then he'd actually be interesting." Barbara laughed.

Barbara is currently the only one to know both of Danny's identities but Danny was still in the dark about everyone else's besides Dick. (DC/DP face blindness is a serious condition)

Danny was reading his zoology textbook and attempting some new transformations. Maybe a cat would be easy to tackle next.

"Danny, I need to get some curry powder. I'll be right back." Barbara said coming back to the living room to grab her purse. "No running off. I swear I will snitch if I come back and your not here."

"K, Jazz." Danny said studying the bine structure of a cat's tail.

"...Okay, Danny." Barbara left and sent a quick text to Dick.

Barbara sighed. They both had been looking for Danny's family. No data had been found.

When Barbara returned with the curry powder for the curry and fish she was making he was horrified by what she found. Danny had disappeared and the fish she was prepping was ripped to shreds and spread across the kitchen floor.

Barbara frantically searched the area for the teen. Perhaps she underestimated Danny's drive to see Red Robin, like some kind of starcrossed lovers.

But Danny hadn't left the house. Barbara found him in the pantry eating the remnants of the fish like a feral animal.

His green eyes stared into Barbara.

Barbara closed the door.

[bisexualbaker]

Why do people keep recommending Dreamwidth as a Tumblr alternative, when Dreamwidth and Tumblr are so different?

To be flat-out honest, it's because Dreamwidth has so many things that Tumblr users say they want, even if it's also lacking a lot of features that Tumblr users have come to love:

Dreamwidth has incredibly lax content hosting rules. I'd say that it's slightly more restrictive than AO3, but only just slightly, and only because AO3's abuse team has been so overwhelmed and over-worked. Otherwise, the hosting policies are pretty similar. You want to go nuts, show nuts? You can do that on Dreamwidth.

In fact, Dreamwidth is so serious about "go nuts, show nuts", it gave up the ability to accept transactions through PayPal in 2009 to protect our ability to do that. (It's also one reason why Dreamwidth doesn't have an app: Dreamwidth will never be beholden to Apple's content rules this way.)

Dreamwidth cares about your privacy; it doesn't sell your data, and barely collects any to begin with. As far as I'm aware, it only collects what it needs to run the site. The owners have also spoken out on behalf of internet privacy many times, and are prepared to put their money where their mouth is.

No ads. Ever. Period. They mean it. Dreamwidth is entirely user funded.

Posts viewed in reverse chronological order; no algorithm, opt-in or otherwise. No algorithm at all. No "For You" or "Suggested" page. You still entirely create and curate your own experience.

The ability to make posts that only your "mutuals", or even only a specific subset of your "mutuals", can see. Want to make a post that's only open to Bonnie, Clyde, Butch, and Cassidy? You can do that! Want to make a post that's only open to Bonnie and Butch, but Clyde and Cassidy can't see shit? You can do that, too!

The owners have forsworn NFTs and the blockchain in general. Not as big a worry now as it was even a year ago, but still good to know!

We are explicitly the customers of Dreamwidth. Dreamwidth wants to make us happy, so any changes they make (and they do make changes) are made with us in mind, and after exploring as many possibilities as they can.

Dreamwidth is very transparent about their policies and changes. If you want to know why they're making a specific change, or keeping or getting rid of a feature, they will tell you. You don't have to find out ten months later that they're locked into a contract to keep it for a year (cough cough Tumblr Live cough cough).

So those are some things that Tumblr users would probably love about Dreamwidth.

Another reason Dreamwidth keeps being recommended is that a significant portion of the Age 30+ crowd spent a lot of earlier fandom years on a site known as LiveJournal. Dreamwidth may not be much like Tumblr, but it it started out as a code fork of LiveJournal, so it will be very familiar to anyone who spent any time there. Except better.

Finally, we're recommending Dreamwidth because some of the things that Tumblr users want are just... not going to happen on the web as it is now. Image hosting is the big one for this. Maybe in the future, the price of data will be much cheaper, and Dreamwidth will be able to host as much as we all want for a pittance that a fraction of the userbase will happily pay for everyone, but right now that's just not possible.

Everywhere you want to go that hosts a lot of images will either be running lots of ads, selling your data, or both.

Dreamwidth knows how much it costs to host your data, and has budgeted for that. They are hosting within their means, within our means.

Dreamwidth is the closest thing we may ever get to AO3 as a social media platform. One of the co-owners is from, and still in, fandom; she knows our values, because they are also her values. It may as well be the Blogsite Of Our Own.

[thebearme]

Hopefully this will be a good masterpost for Dogman's parents-

Joe is to the right, the brown and black shepherd. While Maggie is to the left, the mountain dog with the furry flopping ears- Remember that now!

They work with their owner Moe in his retirement home for restless sheep. Where sheep can live it rough outside in the mountains without the worry of getting eaten ... or overheating in their coats.

There was a routine, Wooly eye Moe will feed and shave the sheeps. Maggie will walk and watch them around the hills in the day, while Joe gets the night shift. It was a pretty steady routine that they followed...

Until they become parents-

They were okay with the pups until the responsibly of rising these pups began to show a negligence in caring for the sheep. So this later led to putting them for adoption,

Funny enough, that was the day Chief's mom drove him and Knight to the ranch. She came there for the extra wooly yarn that Moe was selling but Knight and Chief had different plans!

Once they made it to the back where they found the puppie adopt. And no worries, they aren't just 'giving em away' but YOU will be evaluated by the pups to see if they would to go with you. Then Maggie vibe checks you and then you need a parent's permission, luckily Knight made it past all the steps- with alil help from Chief's mom. But for some reason it seems like Greg and Knight were connected to each other in first sight, like long lost brothers.

And start that day the became inseparable.

Now let me quickly get into the siblings-

Donut! (one anon named him that and i kept it) He's the silly brother and was about by Dippy. No a surprise his name is Donut now huh?

Coco is pretty normal, she was adopted by a farmer so she is still pretty country. But TRYS to pretend that she's not and that she actually came from a long trip in paris but she's not fooling anyone... except maybe Lil Petey. But you can't blame him, he doesn't even know what the Eiffel Tower looks like.

Swoopy, if you thought Dogman was mute then you don't know Swoopy. He's silent always, and he doesn't even sign to communicate to anyone. He just stands there... but somehow he always gets his points across. But sometimes he's abit of a silent menace.

To answer the BURNING QUESTION yes, they do love and support Dogman. Explaining the situation to all of them was scary for Dogman but fortunately he was swarm with unconditional love from his siblings.

No matter their differences and how long it's been since they've seen each other, they're still family. Not because their blood dictates that but because they CHOOSE too.

[ducktoo]

Again

IVE’s Jang Wonyoung x M!Reader

Note: I have resorted to the sacred prompt list by Anon again….this helped me so much frrr. Hope you will post your first ever fic here so I can tagged you!!

This concludes the unofficial (or official ig) IZ*ONE marathon. @hyeyulenjoyer hope this was a fun ride for you. And thank you everyone for enjoying these fics as well! Also appreciate IVE for paying respect to the recent tragedy. All the dumb haters who find ways to hate them again....just touch grass pls.

(this was the perfect picture for this fic lol)

The tickets sit on your desk, undisturbed, their glossy surface catching the dim glow of your bedside lamp. You don’t even need to read the text printed on them anymore. The details are already burned into your brain.

A fan sign.

It was supposed to be special. The kind of thing you looked forward to for weeks, marked on your calendar with a little star. You were supposed to show up, tease her about messing up choreography, make her laugh in the middle of a serious performance, see that look in her eyes that was just for you.

Now, the tickets feel like a joke.

Your phone is face-down beside them, dark screen hiding the messages you haven't opened yet—the well-meaning texts from friends, the casual work notifications. All messages except from her.

Wonyoung.

You close your eyes, but it doesn't help. The memory of your last call with her is still fresh, the words playing over and over like a song stuck on repeat.

"I just don’t have time for this anymore."

"For us, you mean?"

"Mhm."

The way she said it—calm, measured, like it was just another item to tick off on her to-do list—had made something inside you crack. There had been no anger in her voice. No hesitation.

That…hurt more than anything.

You had wanted to say something, anything to make her stop. To remind her of the nights spent whispering over the phone until she fell asleep, of the rare moments when she let herself be vulnerable with you, of the way she would light up the second she saw you waiting for her backstage to take her to eat a whole cow together.

But you couldn't mutter a voice.

You had just sat there, phone pressed to your ear, fingers gripping the fabric of your hoodie so tightly it threatened to tear.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

It was three days ago.

Three days of checking your phone too often. Three days of convincing yourself you were fine. Three days of staring at these damn tickets on the desk and trying to figure out why you hadn’t just thrown them away. You should sell them. Give them to someone who’d actually enjoy them.

But something stops you.

Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s stubbornness. Maybe it’s the stupid, lingering part of you that refuses to admit that she’s really gone. Whatever the reason, you find yourself gripping them tighter instead of throwing them away.

You decided that you will go.

Not for her. Not to see her.

Just so you don’t have to sit in this room, drowning in thoughts of what used to be.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

-

The venue is packed.

Fans shuffle forward in line, their chatter buzzing in the air like static. Excited whispers, rustling light sticks, the occasional squeal when a favourite member’s name is mentioned.

Your fingers tighten around the album in your hands. (Ironically you still hold onto her album)

This is normal for them. For the fans around you, this is just another fan sign. A chance to meet their idols, to share fleeting moments, to walk away with a signature and a memory they’ll cherish for years.

You should feel the same. Instead, you’re just… tired. Who could blame you, you’re about to come face-to-face with your ex-girlfriend.

And she has no idea you’re here.

Your grip on the album tightens as the line inches forward. The first few members greet you with polite smiles, their voices light and bubbly. You do your best to respond normally, but your mind is elsewhere, trapped in the inevitable moment that keeps creeping closer and closer.

You don’t need to look up to know she’s at the end of the table. You can feel her presence.

And then, suddenly, there’s no more time left.

Your album slides across the table. Long, slender fingers stop it in place.

There’s a small pause—so brief that no one else seems to notice—but you do. You feel it in the slight delay before she looks up, in the way her fingers tighten just a fraction around the album’s edge.

And then her eyes meet yours.

She looks the same. Flawless, as always. Every strand of hair perfectly in place, makeup soft and ethereal under the bright overhead lights. And those sparkly eyes that you often got lost in.

But…she’s not yours anymore. Not at all.

There was a flicker of something—recognition, surprise, something deeper—crosses her face. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by a carefully neutral expression.

Her lips part slightly, but no words come out at first. Then…

“Hey.”

It’s awkward. Too awkward. You can feel the tension hanging between you, thick and suffocating.

You swallow, trying to ignore the way your chest tightens. “Hey.”

For a split second, she looks like she wants to say something else. Like she wants to break the script, ignore the rehearsed greetings and practiced smiles.

But then—

She doesn’t.

Instead, she picks up her pen, the mask slipping back into place. Her expression evens out, and in a voice so perfectly professional it almost stings, she says,

“Thanks for coming.”

Just like she would to any other fan. That made your stomach twists.

You should’ve known. Of course, she wouldn't acknowledge it. Not here. Not in front of all these people.

Still, it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Yeah. Would’ve been a waste of money if I didn’t.”

Something flickers across her face, but it’s gone before you can catch it. She presses her lips together, nodding slightly. “Right. Can’t have that.”

She signs her name, her handwriting as neat and practiced as always. But there’s a hesitance in the way she moves, a slight delay before she lifts the pen from the page.

When she finally pushes the album back toward you, her fingers linger just a second longer than necessary.

Then, in a voice so quiet that only you can hear…

“Take care, okay?”

She’s looking at you now. Really looking at you.

And for a moment, just one fleeting moment, she’s not the Jang Wonyoung, the IT girl, the global superstar.

She’s just…Wonyoung.

The girl who used to call you late at night just to hear your voice.

The girl who used to lace her fingers through yours under the table when no one was looking.

The girl who told you she didn’t have time for you anymore.

You stare at her.

The words stick to your throat. You genuinely don’t trust yourself to say anything.

So you just…don’t.

You just take the album, stand up, and walk away. And even as you disappear into the crowd, you can still feel her eyes on you.

-

You’ve been doing fine.

Or at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

It’s been a few days since the fan sign, and you’ve buried yourself in anything that keeps your mind occupied—work, games, mindless scrolling through your phone. Anything to keep yourself from replaying the look on Wonyoung’s face at the fansign. From remembering the way she hesitated before handing your album back. From thinking about the way her gaze kept flickering toward you as you walk away, as if she was looking for something.

Or someone.

But that’s not your problem anymore. You told yourself that the moment you left the venue.

Which is why, when your phone starts ringing at an ungodly hour, you almost don’t check the caller ID. Almost.

The second you see her name flashing on the screen, your stomach twists.

Jang Wonyoung.

The ringing continues, each second stretching unbearably. You should let it go. Turn off your phone. Pretend you never saw it.

But you don’t. Because deep down, you know you still want to hear her voice. So you answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s silence on the other end for a moment, followed by a soft giggle—breathy and drawn out, the kind that used to slip past her lips whenever she was feeling particularly affectionate.

"Dummmyy!" she hums, stretching your nickname like it’s some sweet, familiar melody.

“Wonyo. Are you drunk?” You sigh, ignoring the way your nickname for her easily rolled out of your tongue.

She giggles again, the sound loose and unguarded. "Mmm… maybe."

"Goddamn it." You rub your temples. "Where are you?"

A rustling noise filters through the receiver, followed by the distant hum of traffic. "Somewhere," she mumbles. "Some bar, I think. The girls took me out."

Figures.

You shift in bed, propping yourself up against the headboard. “It’s late.”

“I know,” she says, not sounding the least bit apologetic. “But I wanted to call you.”

You close your eyes, exhaling through your nose. “Why?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, there’s a soft exhale, the kind she lets out when she’s gathering her thoughts. Then, quieter…

“Because I miss you.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone.

"Don’t do that," you say quietly.

"Do what?"

"Say things you don’t mean."

Another pause. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier. "But I do mean it. I do miss you."

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady. "Well, that’s not my problem anymore, is it?"

She goes quiet.

For a moment, all you hear is the faint sound of music in the background, the distant chatter of people. She’s probably in the back of some high-end bar or a private lounge that someone of her status often went. You can picture it too easily—her long hair falling over her shoulders, her lips painted red, the glow of the city lights reflecting in her eyes.

Your heart beat rapidly at the image.

"You came to the fansign," she says suddenly, cutting into your thoughts.

You rub at your temple. "Mhm."

"Why?"

"You already know why."

"Say it anyway."

You sigh. "Because I had the tickets. It would’ve been a waste."

She lets out a humourless laugh. "Right. Can’t have that."

Something about the way she repeats your words from that day makes your stomach twist.

There’s another long pause. Then, almost hesitantly.

"Did you feel anything?"

Your eyes widened. "Feel what?"

"When you saw me again." Her voice is quieter now. "Did you feel anything?"

Your jaw clenches. You want to lie. Want to say no, not at all. That it didn’t matter. That she doesn’t matter. But you can’t.

Because the truth is, you felt everything.

The way your heart clenched when she looked at you. The way your stomach twisted when her fingers hesitated over your name. The way your mind screamed at you to move on, to stop letting her affect you, to stop caring.

But you don’t tell her any of that.

Instead, you settle for, "Who cares anyway."

"Why not?"

"Because we’re done, Jang Wonyoung."

She sucks in a sharp breath, and for a second, you wonder if she’s about to cry.

"You-" She stops, swallows. When she speaks again, her voice is unsteady. "You didn’t even try to fight for me."

Your grip tightens around the phone, knuckles turning white. "You were the one who ended things. On the phone, may I remind you."

"I know," she whispers. "And I thought it was the right choice. But now I just—" She breaks off, voice cracking slightly. "I don’t know anymore."

You shut your eyes.

It would be so easy to give in. To tell her that you don’t know either, that you still think about her, that you still wonder if maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t supposed to end like this.

But what’s the point?

She made her choice.

And you’re tired of being the one left picking up the pieces.

"You’re drunk, Jang Wonyoung," you say, voice carefully even. "Go home and go to sleep."

"Wait—"

"Goodnight."

And then, before she can say another word, you hang up.

The silence that follows is deafening.

And yet, for the first time in days, you finally let yourself breathe.

-

Or at least, it should be.

You did the right thing, you tell yourself—cut it off before it could spiral any further. Before you let yourself believe, even for a second, that anything has changed.

But still, the weight in your chest lingers.

The room feels too quiet now, the kind of silence that presses in from all sides, making it impossible to ignore the thoughts creeping into your head. You lie back down, throwing an arm over your eyes, willing yourself to sleep.

You don’t know how much time passes before you hear it.

A knock.

You freeze.

At first, you think you’re imagining it. Sleep-deprived, emotionally drained, and still reeling from that damn phone call, your brain must be conjuring things that aren’t real. But then, the knocking got more insistent. Erratic, yet insistent.

Your brows furrow. You sit up, straining your ears.

"Who the hell…?"

It’s almost 3 AM. No one in their right mind would be visiting you at this hour. Then again, you just got a call from a drunk girl not in their right mind.

Knock, knock, knock.

It’s louder this time, clumsy and uncoordinated, like whoever’s on the other side can barely keep their balance. A sinking feeling settles in your stomach.

You begrudingly throw off your blankets and push yourself up, padding toward the door. Your hand hovers over the handle for a second before you sigh and pull it open.

And there she is.

Wonyoung.

She’s standing there in the dim, flickering hallway light, wrapped in a thin coat that does nothing to protect her from the cold. Her long hair is slightly tousled, the glossy perfection from the concert gone, strands falling loosely over her shoulders. She sways just the slightest, a delicate wobble on unsteady feet. Her lips are slightly parted, eyes glassy—not just from the alcohol but from something else. Something unreadable.

You blink.

She blinks back, like she’s just now processing that you’re standing in front of her.

Then, with absolutely no warning, she wobbles forward, collapsing against your chest.

You barely manage to catch her. “Jesus—Wonyo.” You gently hold her arms, steadying her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

"Surprise," she breathes, half-laughing, half-sniffling.

You let out a sharp breath. “Surprise? You’re seriously—” You stop yourself, jaw clenching. “How did you even get here?”

"I took a taxi," she announces, like that explains anything. Like that justifies her showing up at your door past midnight after breaking up with you.

You stare at her. “Alone?”

“Mmhmm.”

Your stomach twists. “Wonyoung, do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

She just hums, leaning more of her weight onto you. Her forehead presses against your shoulder, and you can feel the slight tremble in her body.

You sigh, tightening your grip. “You’re freezing.”

“I was walking.”

“Walking where?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she tilts her head back to look at you properly. Her lips part slightly, like she’s about to say something—something serious, something she’s probably been holding in for too long. But then, she hiccups.

You close your eyes, exhaling sharply through your nose. “You’re unbelievable.”

She smiles lazily, like she didn’t just show up at your door dead drunk in the middle of the night after breaking up with you.

"You hung up on me," she murmurs.

You pull back slightly, just enough to see her properly. “Yeah. I did.”

"That was mean," she says, pouting. "I was talking."

"You were drunk."

"Still talking."

You shake your head, adjusting your grip on her. “Come on. You need water. And sleep.”

She hums, letting you guide her inside. “Only if you let me stay.”

You pause.

For a brief second, something in her voice sounds painfully sober.

But then she giggles again, burying her face in your chest, and you decide that you’ll deal with that in the morning.

For now, you just hold her close.

You sigh, pressing your lips into a thin line as you shift your grip on her. She’s barely standing at this point, practically melting into you like she has no bones in her body.

"Alright, come on," you mutter, wrapping an arm around her waist and leading her inside.

She stumbles slightly, her fingers gripping at your shirt as she giggles under her breath. "You smell nice," she mumbles.

You ignore that.

You close the door behind you with your foot, guiding her toward the couch. She flops onto it with zero resistance, her coat slipping off her shoulders. The moment she’s down, she tilts her head back, blinking up at you like she’s expecting something.

She doesn’t hesitate. Stumble inside like she belongs here.

And maybe that’s the problem. She did belong here.

And now? Now you don’t know.

Her eyes lazily drift across the apartment, lingering on the things she still remembers—the half-empty cup of coffee on your desk, the hoodie she used to steal draped over the chair, the faint indent in the couch where she used to curl up next to you.

Then she noticed your desk, the same desk where the fansign ticket sat just days ago. The same one she saw in your hands at the fansign days ago.

"You really came," she murmurs, not looking at you. "I didn’t think you actually would."

You shrug. "Like I said. Would’ve been a waste."

She flinches. Just the tiniest bit. But you catch it.

She exhales slowly, arms wrapping around herself. "It was weird."

"What was?"

"Seeing you there. But not... There, you know?" She fully looks at you now, and there's something raw in her expression. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to face. "You didn’t smile. You didn’t tease me like you usually do. You barely even looked at me."

"What did you expect?" you ask quietly. "You dumped me, Wonyoung. You can’t just expect me to act like nothing happened."

She presses her lips together, fingers gripping the hem of her sleeve. "I know."

You wait. Give her the space to say what she came here to say.

But she doesn’t. Not right away.

She defeatedly sighed, tucking her knees under her chin, looking smaller than she ever has before. She stares at her hands for a long moment before mumbling, "I don’t know why I came here."

You scoff. "Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you drunk-called your ex, then showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night without a plan."

She frowns. "I do have a plan."

You raise an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

She huffs. "Step one: get inside. Step two..." She falters, looking away. "...I didn’t think that far."

You shake your head. "Unbelievable."

Silence stretches between you, heavy and unspoken.

Then, barely above a whisper, "Do you hate me?"

You freeze.

Your first instinct is to say no. Because of course you don’t hate her. You never could.

But that’s not the right answer, is it?

So instead, you tell the truth.

"I don’t know," you admit. "I want to. But I can't."

She looks up at you then, eyes searching. Hopeful and afraid all at once. "I messed up, didn’t I?"

You let out a hollow laugh. "Yea. Big time."

She swallows. Lowers her gaze again. "I thought breaking up would make things easier. For you…for both of us."

"Did it?"

She shakes her head. "No."

You run a hand through your hair, exhaling. "Then why did you do it?"

"I was scared," she says, and her voice is so small, so unlike the confident idol the world knows, that it almost hurts to hear. "I thought I was being selfish, holding onto you when I barely had time to see you. I thought you deserved more than stolen moments and rushed phone calls."

Your jaw clenches. "You didn’t even ask me what I wanted."

"I know," she whispers. "I thought I was making the right choice."

You sit down across from her, legs spread, elbows on your knees. "And now?"

She meets your gaze, vulnerability laid bare. "Now... I just miss you."

Your heart leaped a mile. This was the Wonyoung you always see. Not the glamorous and model-esque Jang Wonyoung everyone always see on TV. Not the well-spoken and powerful public figure everyone knows. Just…a gentle yet bubbly girl who snuggled up next to you on the couch at the end of the day.

But your brain should tell her to leave. To sleep it off, to sober up and think about this when her mind is clearer.

Then she reaches out—just the slightest, her fingers brushing against yours on the couch. And you don’t pull away.

"You’re drunk," you remind her, though your voice lacks conviction.

She smiles faintly. "Thanks…Mr. Obvious."

Silence. Then, tentatively, "Can I sleep here tonight?"

Another hesitation.

But just like before, you already know your answer.

You sigh. Your hand intertwined with hers.

"Go get a blanket. Wonyo."

She doesn’t move right away. Just watches you, like she’s memorizing you all over again.

Then, with a small, almost relieved nod, she gets up and stumbled into your bedroom as she dragged you along—the same bedroom she used to slip into after long schedules, the same one she used to call hers.

And just like that, the distance you tried so hard to create crumbles.

Again.

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

THIS WAS A PRANK?!

drew starkey x fem!reader

(mood board does NOT depict readers’ appearance !!)

SUMMARY: y/n pulls her family into a trending prank where you pretend to embarrass your partner in front of your family…i wonder how drew reacts?

based on this ask!! i really hope you enjoy this @xoxosblogsblog , and i hope it’s what you asked for <3

WARNINGS: i think maybe one curse word?, just pure fluff really, me crying because i used ‘mom’ instead of mum because they’re american </3 (lmk if i missed anything!)

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

SECOND PERSON +

Drew always tried his best to make a good impression on your parents. Even after three years of dating you, meeting them countless times, and attending every family barbecue or holiday dinner you invited him to, Drew still got a little nervous around them. You found it sweet, honestly—how this confident, charming actor, adored by fans worldwide, could still feel the need to impress your mom and dad.

You were currently spending the week at your parents' house, a cozy rural home in Vermont that felt like a world away from the bustling chaos of Los Angeles where you and Drew lived.

Drew had taken the week off from filming to join you, and so far, everything had been going smoothly. That was, until you saw a TikTok prank trend earlier that morning.

The prank was simple: embarrass your partner in front of your family by saying outrageous things and watch them squirm. You couldn't resist. Drew had pulled plenty of pranks on you in the past, and this felt like the perfect opportunity for some playful payback.

While Drew was in the shower, you shared your plan with your parents.

"Are you sure he's going to find it funny?" your mom asked, trying not to laugh.

"Oh, he will," you grinned. "Eventually. After he panics a little bit."

Your dad chuckled. "I'm in. But I'm not holding back—I'll really sell it."

Your mom rolled her eyes fondly. "You two are terrible."

"We'll keep it harmless," you promised.

By the time Drew emerged from the shower, fresh and smiling in a casual hoodie and jeans, you were ready to set your plan in motion.

The four of you were gathered around the dining table, enjoying your mom's homemade lasagna—a dish Drew had raved about during every visit. You decided to start small.

"You know," you said casually, "Drew actually told me he doesn't like your cooking, Mom. He says it's too... plain."

Your mom froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. "Really?" she asked, her tone clipped.

Drew's head whipped toward you so fast you thought he might get whiplash. His eyes widened. "What? No! That's not true at all! I love your cooking!"

"Hmm," your mom said, narrowing her eyes. "That's funny, because you always seem to clean your plate."

"Exactly!" Drew said quickly, holding up his hands. "I do, because it's amazing! I don't know what Y/N's talking about. I would never say that!"

You bit back a grin and focused on your lasagna, mumbling, "If you say so."

Drew shot you a bewildered look, his brow furrowing. You could tell he wanted to press you on it, but he let it go—for now.

Later that evening, the four of you were in the living room watching a football game. Your dad had always been a big fan, and Drew had made it a point to bond with him over it.

"He doesn't actually like football, Dad," you said offhandedly during a commercial break. "He told me it's boring."

The room went silent.

"What?" your dad asked, turning to Drew with a stern expression.

"No, no, no!" Drew stammered, his cheeks flushing. "I never said that! I love football! We've watched games together! We’re both huge fans of the Kansas City Chiefs!"

"You mean the team you pretended to like just to get on my good side?" your dad said, raising an eyebrow.

Drew looked like a deer caught in headlights. "No, I swear, I really like them! I even looked up their stats before we came here so I could keep up!"

Your dad folded his arms, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "I thought we had something, Drew."

"I—Mr. Y/L/N—I mean, sir—I promise, I'm not lying!" Drew's voice grew more frantic, and you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

When your dad turned back to the game with a dramatic sigh, Drew leaned over to you. "What's going on?" he whispered.

You shrugged innocently. "I don't know what you mean."

The final straw came later that night when you were all sitting around the kitchen island, enjoying dessert.

"Mom," you said with a sigh, "Drew said he's still hungry. He wants you to make him something else."

Drew nearly choked on his forkful of pie. "What?! No, I didn't!"

Your mom gave him a sweet but pointed smile. "Well, Drew, if you don't like the pie, I suppose I could whip something else up for you."

"I love the pie!" Drew insisted, looking panicked. "I never said that! Y/N, why are you doing this?"

You shrugged again, fighting the urge to burst out laughing.

When your parents finally went their separate ways—your dad retreating to the living room and your mom heading upstairs to fold laundry—Drew cornered you in the kitchen.

"Okay," he said, crossing his arms. "What is going on?"

"What do you mean?" you asked, feigning innocence.

"Don't give me that," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You've been throwing me under the bus all day. First the cooking thing, then football, now this? I swear I didn't say any of those things!"

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Hmm, maybe you did, and you just don't remember."

"Y/N," Drew said firmly, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice now. "Are you messing with me?"

Before you could answer, your parents reappeared in the doorway, both looking serious.

"We need to talk," your dad said, crossing his arms.

Drew paled. "About what?"

"About all these things Y/N's been saying," your mom added. "We just want to know if there's something you need to get off your chest."

"I—I don't know what she's talking about!" Drew stammered, his hands flailing as he tried to explain himself. "I love your cooking, Ms. Y/L/N and sir, I love football, and I would never ask you to make me more food! I swear!"

That was it. You couldn't hold it in any longer. You burst out laughing, doubling over as tears streamed down your face. Your mom quickly followed, and even your dad cracked a smile.

Drew stared at you all, realisation dawning on his face. "Wait... this was a prank?!"

"It was a TikTok trend!" you gasped, clutching your stomach. "I had to try it!"

Your mom patted Drew on the shoulder. "We're sorry, Drew. It was all in good fun."

He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "I can't believe you all ganged up on me."

"You've pulled worse pranks on me," you reminded him, wiping your eyes.

"Fair point," he admitted, pulling you into a playful headlock. "But don't think you're getting away with this. I'm going to get you back."

"I'd like to see you try," you teased, grinning up at him.

As Drew laughed along with your parents, you couldn't help but think how lucky you were to have someone who fit so seamlessly into your family—even if he was already plotting his revenge.

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was such an adorable one :’)) i really hope you enjoyed it my lovely !!

i’m still trying to figure out a master list, so fingers crossed i’ll have it up tonight !! but for now, you can click on my personalised tags to access my fics <3

likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated !! <3