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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 years ago

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Comet Donati [Chapter 1: History]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+) and drugs, alcohol, smoking, astronomy, mental health struggles, Missouri.

Selected Chapter Quote: “You’re gonna love Aemond. He’s so fucked up. He’s like Disney World for therapists.”

Word count: 4.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

* * * I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world. 🥰😘 * * *

@borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @randomdragonfires @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @libroparaiso @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain @darkenchantress @doingfondue @atherverybest @namelesslosers @skythighs @moonlightfoxx @partypoison00 @bellameshipper @coffedraven @greenowlfactif @catalina-howard @babyblue711 @marvelescvpe @heimtathurs @ammo23

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! 💜

“You are a professional,” you tell your reflection threateningly, like it owes you money. Your hair is painstakingly tidy, your makeup neat, subdued, businesslike. You are wearing a black blazer, a white blouse, and Cookie Monster pajama pants. You are in your one-bedroom apartment in Kansas City, Missouri: grey, thunderous, humid as hell, June raindrops on the windows. “You have a master’s degree and hundreds of clinical hours and you are not afraid of clients. Not at all! Not even a little bit!”

You check your phone. 2:55 p.m.

“Oh God,” you whine to the checkered tiles of the bathroom floor, to the floral wallpaper. You clutch the cold porcelain of the sink: rose-pink, 1950s, diners and Thunderbirds, housewives and Valium. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t do this. Oh my God.”

But there is no escape! You hurry, sweating profusely, to your laptop. You start the Zoom meeting and wait for your client to arrive, chewing your thumbnail until it bleeds, a scarlet semicircle of dull warm pain, a crescent moon like spilled merlot. You glance at your notepad again. David Mills, 25, married, anxiety upon relocating to a new city and beginning employment there.

Wait.

You confirm with a quick Google search in a new tab. David Mills was the protagonist in Se7en.

You sit back in your swivel chair, eyes narrowed with suspicion. The blue-white luminance of the screen glows on your face like moonlight. Your client is either a coincidence or a liar.

So what? People lie. People lie about therapy especially. So he wants some anonymity. Big deal.

“Strange,” you murmur to yourself.

You have no further opportunity to mull it over. A gratingly cheerful ding announces your client’s arrival in the Zoom meeting waiting room. No avatar, name still listed as David Mills.

“Okay. Okay. It’s fine. Here we go.”

You shake the tremors out of your hands and admit him. He pops onto the screen like a bloom of ironweed, like fireworks on the Fourth of July. It’s nighttime wherever he is. The background is dark and indistinct, shadowy; lamplight cascades across his face, topaz and fool’s gold. You are startled to realize that you already know him. And his name is definitely not David Mills.

“…Aegon?!”

He grins, sly and cocky but never cruel. “Hey.”

“Aegon Targaryen??!!”

“That’s me!” he concurs brightly. “What’s up, Stargirl?”

And instantly, you are transported back to almost exactly one year ago: a rooftop bar downtown, neon signs coiled in shades of violet and rhodonite and sapphire, night wind, constellations, ice clinking in misty glasses, locks of his hair skating between your fingers, the sting of his teeth on your throat, the Weeknd. “Hey,” you say softly. And then again, with more enthusiasm: “Hey! I saw you on Good Morning America last week!”

“Yeah? Was I good?”

“Jace was good. You were slightly offkey.”

“Aw shit. I usually am.”

“That’s okay. You’re the hot loser, right? That’s your character?”

“That’s me, baby. That’s why it works so well.”

It’s impossible: time has passed, thousands of miles have opened up between you, and yet it’s like he’s right here in the room, he never arrived, he never left, he’s always been here for life to grow up around like the framework of a house, a trellis, a skeleton. “How did you find me?”

“I couldn’t remember your name, but I figured you must have finished school by now. So I Googled therapists in Kansas City. Do you know how many there are?”

“500,” you guess.

“712,” Aegon says. “At least, that’s how many I scrolled through before I found your photo.”

“Wow.” You’re smiling; you can’t take your eyes off him. A lot of girls have that problem. That’s why he’s worth $100 million. “Couldn’t remember my name, huh? I guess I didn’t make much of an impression.”

He chuckles, a little bashfully, sweeping his blond hair off his face. “No. No, you definitely made an impression.”

So did he. In the downstairs bathroom of the bar, tucked beneath a staircase, stark white florescent lights and red walls, lip biting and ripped seams on your dress. He’d finished in approximately thirty seconds—which, oddly, felt more like a compliment than anything else—and then promptly snapped off the condom, dropped to his knees, and went down on you until you came not once but twice, a rarity for you. But that wasn’t the best part. Afterwards you’d gone back up to the roof together, sat in a quiet corner booth until the bar closed, talked about anything and everything with your bodies folded unconsciously into each other, origami, blended watercolors, whispers and murmurs, your palm on his thigh, his fingertips ghosting the underside of your wrist.

“So,” Aegon says through the laptop screen. “Are you, like, kind of unemployed currently?”

“No,” you reply, palpably defensive. Embarrassing! “I’m clearly working right now. You literally made a virtual appointment with me. I’m just…getting my practice off the ground.”

“Yeah but you seem lowkey unemployed.”

“You are so fucking rude.” But you’re laughing.

“I’m just saying, you had a lot of appointment times available. A lot.”

“I’m recruiting clients!” you exclaim. “I’m not like you. I can’t simulate sex with microphone stands to sell tickets.”

“That was one time!”

You smirk at him, eyebrows raised.

“That was…four times. That I recall.”

“I’m a professional. A serious, grown-up, certified professional.”

“You’re a glorified hobo, admit it.”

“You’re a dollar store Harry Styles.”

“Fuck,” he sighs, clutching his chest. “Okay you win.”

“Why did you do this? Why did you track me down in order to make some fraudulent therapy appointment?”

Now Aegon is something you’ve never seen from him before. He’s nervous. “I, uh…I need your help.”

“Really?”

“Well, not me specifically,” he amends. “We need your help. Comet does.”

Comet. What he means—what screaming fans all over the world mean when they drop this name in Reddit threads or Twitter hashtags or Tumblr gifsets—is the boy band Comet Donati. Three albums, five members: Aegon, Jace, Luke, Cregan, Daeron. The lineup has changed recently. Everyone knows why. “Help with what?”

“I mean…I’m sure you heard about what happened.”

“Yeah,” you say, somber now. Six months ago a piece of rigging collapsed during soundcheck at the Nippon Budokan in Tokyo. It hit Aemond, costing him six inches of flesh on the left side of his face, his sight in one eye, and his position as the undisputed, archetypal fearless leader of Comet. The celebrity gossip sites had reported that he was taking time off to recover, and then that his younger brother Daeron would be filling in for him at a few shows, and then suddenly Daeron was the fifth member of the band, and everyone was so charmed by his distinctly buoyant, sunshine-and-rainbows quality that Aemond faded from the discourse almost entirely, a ghost, a phantom, an antiquated word like telegraph or courtship or laudanum.

“So things are different now,” Aegon continues. “Things are…not always easy. And I think it might be a good idea to have you around.”

“Look, I’m not…like…” How can you put this? It’s something you have difficulty admitting out loud. “I’m not a real therapist, you know? You’re right, Aegon. I’m basically unemployed. I’m fresh out of my master’s program, I don’t have anywhere near the kind of experience that someone would need to adequately help Comet. So, maybe I could recommend some people to you, but other than that I don’t think I can—”

“It has to be you,” Aegon says.

You shake your head, gazing through the screen at him, through the space and the time. “Why?”

“When Comet performed in Kansas City…when we met at the bar that night…” He is hushed, meditative. “I don’t really remember what we talked about. But I remember exactly how you made me feel.” He smiles, the sort of smile you didn’t know he had in him: soft, pure, nostalgic, without edges. “I think Aemond could use some of that.”

The walls fall down around you, this apartment, this city, this life. “Where are you right now?”

“Capri.”

“Where?”

“Capri,” he says again, amused. “But we’ll be in Rome tomorrow. You can meet us there.”

“In Rome,” you repeat, like it’s Mars or one of Jupiter’s moons.

“Catch the next flight out. The band can reimburse you. We’ll get you a contract of some sort. Nothing too long-term, so you won’t be locked in or anything. A few months. Then we can reassess.”

“Okay, but…I don’t feel comfortable serving as an official therapist to you or anyone else in Comet, Aegon. The circumstances are less than orthodox. And not just because of the…um…bar bathroom situation.”

“Fine, whatever.” He’s high on the victory; the details don’t matter so much.

“Okay,” you say. And then again, giggling wildly at the ludicrousness of it all: “Okay! I guess I’ll see you in Rome tomorrow!”

“Cool. Let me give you my WhatsApp.” You exchange information, and then he grins at you, crafty and radiant through the screen. “You’re gonna love Aemond. He’s so fucked up. He’s like Disney World for therapists.”

“We’ll see,” you reply distractedly, already opening Expedia in a new tab.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Midwest, the East Coast, the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean Sea, Southern Europe, green to blue and then green again as the plane descends into the Leonardo da Vinci Airport of Rome. You roll your single carry-on bag through the corridors, peering out the windows at cloudless cerulean skies and towering stone pines. Aegon meets you at the bottom of an escalator. He’s wearing cargo shorts, a neon green tank top, and matching Crocs. He’s slightly chubbier than you remember, just as beautiful, just as chaotically charismatic, the sun made flesh. He’s standing with a man you don’t recognize.

“Benvenuta, bella!” Aegon proclaims, nearly tackling you with a hug before taking your bag. He smells like beer, sunscreen, Axe body spray, summer air that unfurls warm and golden in the lungs.

“Oh, thank God,” the other man—possibly Italian, definitely gorgeous—exhales with great relief. “Aegon said he needed to meet someone at the airport and I was 90% sure that you would be a drug dealer. But you do not look like a drug dealer. You’re not a…are you a…?”

“No, I’m definitely not a drug dealer.”

“Okay. Great. Hello.” He extends a hand, tan and muscley. “I’m Criston, I’m the tour manager. It is my job to keep everyone alive and uninjured.”

“Four out of five isn’t bad,” Aegon says. And then, when Criston is clearly distressed by it: “Uh, anyway, there’s an Escalade waiting outside.”

The SUV is massive and black with tinted windows. As you follow Aegon into the backseat, several paparazzi appear on the sidewalk and begin snapping photos, calling out to you and expelling rapid-fire white flashes like lightning. Aegon ignores them. You’ve been travelling all day, and the sun is setting now in Rome. The sky is the color of embers, autumn leaves, Saturn. Criston climbs into the passenger seat and gives instructions to the driver. The Escalade wheels out of Arrivals, paparazzi sprinting down the sidewalk after it to take a few final pictures.

“So,” Aegon says, smiling. He pops open the mini fridge and hands you an ice-cold can of San Pellegrino. “Do you have a boyfriend back in Kansas? Or, maybe, boyfriends?”

“Missouri,” you correct him automatically. “And no. None worth mentioning.” A guy you’ve had lunch with twice, a guy you made out with at an Olive Garden, a guy you hooked up with back at UChicago who you’re still texting, guys who flit in and out of your mind like birds through the sky, impermanent, inconsequential.

“You still on the pill?”

“Yes.” You’re not offended. Aegon is teasing, and so are you. It occurs to you that talking to Aegon is a bit like talking to yourself; there are no awkward lulls, and he rarely says anything that shocks you. “But that’s not why I came to Rome.”

“That’s fine. That’s not why I invited you.”

As the Escalade zooms by iconic landmarks—the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, the Piazza del Popolo—you ask Aegon about them. He has no idea; he makes things up instead.

“That’s the duck waterpark,” he says as you pass a fountain that’s over 1,000 years old. Then he points to a naked statue of an extremely buff Mercury. “That’s me before I started eating carbs again.” His only snippet of accurate trivia comes as you drive by the twilight-lit Colosseum. “Holy shit, that’s where Taylor Swift made out with Tom Hiddleston!”

“Surely more important things have happened there at some point in the past two millennia.”

“I doubt it,” Aegon replies, frowning out the Escalade window, taciturn. “I wish I got to make out with Taylor Swift in the Colosseum.”

Comet Donati is staying at the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel, which closely resembles a palace. When the Escalade stops at the front doors, you drag your luggage out onto the cobblestones.

“No no no,” Criston says, grabbing the rolling suitcase from you. He gives it to a white-gloved butler along with a room number and then escorts you and Aegon to the top floor. It’s not until the three of you are in the elevator that you realize you are still wearing your highly unsophisticated travel-day attire: yoga pants, flip flops, a tie-dye hoodie with Louis Tomlinson’s face on it that you purchased from Etsy last winter. Aegon catches you scrutinizing your reflection in the mirrors that line the inside of the elevator.

“Traitor,” he says with a grin, massaging your shoulders. His eyes lock with yours in the mirror. His touch is—just as it was a year ago at that bar in Kansas City when you were home from school on break and he was a transient visitor, fleeting like a rainstorm—familiar somehow, pleasant and comforting but not profound, welcome without being necessary.

“Don’t hate him ‘cause you ain’t him. When was the last time you wrote a #1 hit single?”

“Never,” Aegon readily admits. “Although I got into the Top 5 in Norway once.” No, everyone knows that Aemond was Comet’s Louis Tomlinson: their best songwriter, their relatively unproblematic and grounded team captain, their protector, their compass. And now he has no official place in the band at all.

When the elevator doors open, Criston leads you and Aegon down the hallway to a bustling suite. Inside there are white leather couches and gold-colored lounge chairs, a bar, a staircase that leads up to the loft bedroom, people wandering in and out of air that is hazy with whispers and cigarette smoke. There are men in suits, women in short tight dresses, leather and velvet and sequins. You are woefully underdressed. Fortunately, so is Aegon. He is greeted with a dizzying array of cheers, waves, and toasts. Someone shoves an emerald green bottle of Peroni into his grasp. Kesha’s Your Love Is My Drug is vibrating through the speakers mounted on the wall: “What you’ve got, boy, is hard to find, I think about it all the time…”

“Hey, hey, listen up!” Aegon shouts, stepping on top of an ottoman, and the chatter lowers in volume like a radio being turned down.

You scan the smokey room until you’ve located all five current Comet Donati members: Aegon the disaster playboy, Luke the sensitive and kindhearted one, Daeron the energetic ray of sunshine, Jace the heir apparent in the power vacuum created by Aemond’s departure, Cregan the brooding, mysterious, sexy Northern Englishman. You know them, and yet you don’t. You know the characters they play, their reputations, their public personas…but that doesn’t mean you know them. Aegon is the only man you spoke to at the rooftop bar that night in Kansas City a year ago. So far, the mythical version of him seems quite consistent with reality.

Cregan is slumped at one end of the couch by the window and knocking back shots of what appears to be straight vodka. In the night sky beyond the glass, you can see stars and the illuminated Rome skyline: modern skyscrapers, ancient rubble. At the other end of the couch is Aemond. He’s smoking, drinking something iced and bloody pink, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, all in black like he’s trying to disappear. His left eye, the blind one, is an ethereal cloudy blue that reminds you of renderings you’ve seen of Neptune, Uranus, exoplanets, the Earth from space. He glances up at you and holds your gaze for just a few seconds too long. Then he looks away, bewildered, taking a drag off his cigarette.

Aegon introduces you to the room as you stand beside the ottoman, awkward and ashamed in your Louis Tomlinson hoodie. “She’s a friend,” Aegon says. “And she’s also a therapist.”

“Good, you need one!” Jace shouts through cupped hands, and there are tipsy titters and guffaws.

“Not for me,” Aegon snaps. “For you deranged bitches.”

As Aegon descends from the ottoman—klutzily, stumbling, clutching onto Criston like a baby lemur to its mother—Luke approaches to present himself. He has a mess of dark curly hair that falls over his face and large, honest eyes. There’s a black spiral notebook and a white gel pen in his left hand. He offers you his right. “Hi! I’m Luke Velaryon.”

“Yeah, I know. I spend a lot of time on Comet’s Spotify page.”

He groans. “I look so bad in that header photo.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s the nose. I have a pug nose. The label has been trying to convince me to get it fixed for years.” He turns to a girl who is practically hiding behind him: arrestingly beautiful in a fragile sort of way, gentle like a doe. “Maybe you can help Rhaena talk to people.”

“I have social anxiety,” she explains apologetically. Her voice is very quiet yet lyrical. There are weights tied to her confession, years of shame and despair. Luke throws an arm across her shoulders and hugs her to him, touching his forehead briefly to hers.

“That’s okay.” You give Rhaena a reassuring smile. “It’s super common, and there are a lot of strategies you can try that might make it more manageable.”

“It wasn’t a big deal at first, you know?” Rhaena says. It comes out in a rush like water through a cracked dam. Luke looks astonished but pleased. You have been known to have this effect upon people, a compulsive sort of disclosure that drains, empties, unburdens. Aegon is watching from several feet away, beaming between swigs of Peroni. “Luke and I met before he got famous and we could just hang out around the neighborhood. Ice cream, public parks, Pret a Manger, riding the Tube together. But now…now he’s always meeting new people and there are all these events I’m supposed to go to with him, and I can’t sleep properly for days leading up to each one, and half the time I end up hiding in the bathroom or being too nauseous to eat anything, and…”

Jace is at the bar and slurping a vesper: shoulder-length curls, flashy blazer with nothing underneath it, a contemplative appraisal of you. There’s a stunning girl sitting beside him that he’s not listening to.

As you are explaining the potential benefits of exposure therapy to Rhaena and Luke, Daeron bursts through the crowd to greet you. He’s their Niall Horan: warm, uncomplicated, disarmingly friendly, beachy blond hair, a golden retriever on two legs. He hugs you—spiritedly, like Aegon did—and then compliments your flip flops.

“So you’re our new therapist?” Daeron says eagerly, like this is something he knows they’ve needed.

“Well, I’m a therapist, but I’m not really your therapist. Because I can’t hang out with you guys all the time and also be your therapist. It’s unethical. But Aegon thought I might have some good ideas, I guess. In a strictly unofficial capacity.”

“Okay! Cool! And you and Aegon are…friends?”

“Um…yeah. Sort of.”

“Remember that show in Kansas City last summer?” Aegon tells Daeron. He’s supernaturally gifted at making everything sound blissfully casual, like there couldn’t possibly be more to the story. “I met her at the bar we went to afterwards.”

“Totally,” Daeron says. “Great city. Awesome barbeque.”

Criston asks him: “So, uh, how’s your mom doing?”

Daeron is puzzled. “Fine…?”

“Criston, please stop asking about my mom,” Aegon says. “It’s getting weird. It’s been weird. It was weird four years ago and it’s weird now. She has a husband.”

“Yeah, but is that…you know…is that still going well?”

“Yes, Criston.”

“Fantastic,” Criston mutters, pouring himself a Scotch. He uses the glass to gesture to you. “So what the hell am I supposed to bill her as? Aegon’s friend?”

“She’s a…” Aegon considers this, waving his Peroni around in the air. “Human resources mental health consultant.”

“She’s a what?”

“She helps resolve both intra and interpersonal conflict.”

“That sounds imaginary.”

“Well then you figure something out!” Aegon says, exasperated. “Isn’t this what you get paid for? To make problems go away? To keep us happy? To stop us from killing each other? You figure it out.” He saunters off to grace the drunken masses with his presence. Criston sighs and goes to stand by the wall with a herd of stone-faced businessmen in suits, record label guys, guys who only know how to see the world in terms of contract clauses and account balances.

Rhaena goes to stand by Jace’s companion, who—as you conjure up vague recollections of celebrity gossip sites—is named something like Bella or Bailey. Daeron is commandeered by a gaggle of adoring Italian women. Luke is showing Aemond something in his notebook: black pages, sparkly white ink. Aemond is nodding and giving critique, not that saccharine, generic, brainless kind of praise but authentic encouragement: try to think of a more specific word here, move that line up to the first verse, I love the use of this metaphor. Aemond’s voice dredges up memories you didn’t know you had of him on talk shows, in YouTube compilations, in songs you’ve been streaming on Spotify for years. Smoke drifts from his lips. Ice jangles in his organ-pink cocktail. And again, he looks up at you, inhaling poison as Luke makes his opal-ink edits.

“What’s that drink called?” you ask the bartender, and he squints across the room to where Aemond is seated on the snow-colored leather couch to discern it.

“A Bramble,” he says. “It’s named after blackberry bushes.”

“Can I get one?”

“Sure.”

You procure your drink and when Luke leaves the couch, you whizz past him like a meteor as you walk towards it.

“Hey,” Cregan flings impassively, not knowing why you’re here, not caring either.

“Hey,” you return.

And then you sit down next to Aemond, deliberately on his blind side. He glances over at you, his brow crinkling with confusion. Because—surely, undoubtedly—no one ever speaks about his injury, but it’s veined through everything they do, it’s a perpetual undercurrent that steers his life and yet cannot be voiced without breaching those vigilantly constructed levees of propriety. It’s the elephant in every room. It’s a ghost rattling doorknobs and tapping on windows. And sometimes the only way to free yourself of something is to throw the cage door wide open and set it loose.

“I accidentally wore your competitor’s merch,” you say. “I didn’t want you to have a good view.”

Aemond laughs, and the strangest thing happens: everyone in the room turns to look. On their faces are expressions of shock, bafflement, relief, wonder. Aemond shifts so he’s facing you, one elbow propped on the back of the couch. He sips the Bramble in his right hand, puffs on the cigarette in his left. And there it is, what people like to call a spark, but it’s something deeper than that: organic chemistry, neurotransmitter plumes, wells of marrow that sing to each other from beneath the darkness.

You nod to his cigarette, Benson & Hedges according to the shimmery gold pack that lays open on the glass coffee table. “You think that makes you cool?”

“I know it does,” he says. His gaze flicks down to your Louis Tomlinson hoodie…or what’s under it, perhaps. “Wouldn’t work on you though. Too far gone.”

You hold out your hand. After a few seconds, Aemond passes you his cigarette. You—very stoically, very nonchalantly—take a single drag and then erupt into a coughing fit, eyes watering, lungs gasping, surrendering the cigarette emphatically. Humiliating! Irredeemable!

“Told you,” Aemond notes. But he’s rubbing your back with a hand that is large and strong and yet careful. You smile at him. Aemond smiles too.

Criston pulls one of the suit guys aside and says: “Get her on the payroll.”

#aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x you #aegon x y/n #hotd fanfic #hotd

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suraemoon · 7 months ago

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Dad!John Egan Headcanons

🧡: Here are a bunch of thoughts about Bucky as a father (Specifically to a bunch of girls because this man gives me major girl dad vibes and that’s what I was most inspired by) My inbox is always open for requests.

🧸 Inaccuracy warning: I mention pregnancy tests and a quick google search has informed me that pregnancy tests did not exist in the forties. I’m not gonna make the reader pee on a frog (yes that was an actual method back then) so I’m simply gonna keep that part in. Please forgive me in advance.

————————————————————————

You, the newly wedded wife of Major John Egan, found out you were pregnant on a warm July evening

After a few days of extreme nausea and bedridden reflection over the wild memories of a thoroughly exciting and all fulfilling honeymoon, you had rising suspicions over the cause of your ailment

A concerned John Egan simply could not stop himself pacing around any room you were in, always on standby for when his wife might need him

Bucky did not want to automatically assume you were pregnant

Despite having to wake up frequently throughout the night to become a designated hair holder while you vomited into the nearest toilet

For your husband simply didn’t know if it’d be considered rude or not to assume

So he rode out the waves with his dear wife, whispering reassurance while all the food emptied her stomach, offering a firm arm to hold onto when she stood up too fast and needed to be steadied

Finally, you decided to take a test; wanting to give all these internal questions a confirmed answer

There was also a desire to put your poor husband at ease by uttering the not-at-all-anxiety inducing words, “Don’t worry, Bucky. I’m not dying. I’m pregnant.”

And pregnant you were

Shaky hands held a positive pregnancy test on a scene that, even decades later, you can never fail to recall; a few moments of silence ensued as you stared at the test, making sure that your eyes were not deceiving you and the world indeed wasn’t playing on of it’s trick.

Meanwhile, Bucky was keeping himself occupied by walking back and forth on the stone path that ran through the front lawn

His hands were in his pockets, waiting patiently for you to finish your business and come out of the house

The two of you take daily walks, a designated time for watching the glistening sun start to rest in it’s cozy blanket that is the night sky

Strolling down the concrete sidewalk hand-in-hand while calmly reflecting on the events of each day

Your mind was thoroughly racing in that bathroom, filled with a gallery of intense thoughts

But the moment you exited through the front door and ran into Bucky’s arms, clutching a pregnancy test close to your chest, all words seemed to escape you

You nervously handed it to him and watched how his eyes widened at the sight of the two lines, his signature smile tugged at his lips until he was grinning ear to ear

“This is real, baby? You ain’t joking with me? Oh my God…”

Immediately, he picked you up and span you around in excitement as you giggled in his arms

Once he put you, the sunshine of his life, back down on the ground after your miniature orbit, his soft lips made themselves a home and kissed all over your darling face

“Ever since I met you, you’ve made me the happiest, luckiest man in the world.”

As long as he has you, he has everything he ever needs

And now you two get to bring a new blessing into the world

A perfect little darling who is half you, half Bucky

Created by the fruition of pure love and raised by a couple who possess hearts full of adoration from the moment they discover the existence of their creation

Every evening from that day forward, he covers every square inch of your growing belly with kisses

He whispers to his little one between pecks with his lips against the soft skin of your belly

“We’ve got a little ball player in there, hm? Gonna be a Yankees infielder one day?”

He’d lay down beneath you with his head against your belly

Purposefully trying to make you laugh, just to see the funny but beautiful jiggle of your stomach

Praising you for how amazing you are, just to see your pretty face light up at all of the compliments

“You’re growing a whole life in ya. Nothing I’ve done is as brave as that. The strongest girl I know, my girl. Mine, mine, mine.”

Bucky is such a girl dad and all of his girls are daddy’s girls through and through

You give birth to your first little one and she’s so tiny swaddled in his arms, the sun shining softly through the hospital room windows.

A little while later, newly acquainted father and daughter are in complete bliss while relaxing in the lounge chair at the corner of the hospital room

He’s shirtless and she’s laying on his chest

He’s adoringly whispering to her but it’s in an octave so soft that only him and his little girl can hear. The most beautiful little secrets that will stay between them forever.

You get a lot of attention post birth too. He’s thanking you, telling you how strong you are, how you’ve changed his life forever, you’re the love of his life, he loves you, he loves you, oh how he loves you.

The second baby comes not too soon after the first and it’s another little girl

Baby number three is another girl

The fourth little darling has plenty of bright eyed big sisters waiting for her at home

There’s a drawer full of hand-me-downs but there is also an array of brand new stuff because every baby is her own person. They all get the same amount of preparation, dedication, love, and care.

Did he used to dream about having a son? Sure.

But girls make amazing little baseball players

And dads make amazing fairy princesses

Bucky becomes very accustomed to tea parties, glitter, sparkles, and having his nails sloppy painted

Pigmented eyeshadow used as blush, contour, and foundation all in one

Some days he gets weird looks when walking around in public, unaware to the fact that his nails are still messily painted in various shades of purple from last night’s beauty salon shenanigans

Handing the cashier some money at the grocery store (his wallet has a photo of all of his girls) and for some reason the rest of the line has gone quiet. “What? I’m not the first person to pay for food here, right?”

Little does he know that him and the lady standing line behind him have matching manicures

You help him rub it off with some rubbing alcohol later that day, knowing it is most likely going to be replaced in a bright, sparkling new color sooner than later

Once you two start having children, it’s hard to get a night alone

As the moonlight hours go on, the bed indents frequently throughout the AMs as more and more little Egans climb into you and Bucky’s bed

Blankies and stuffed animals grasped in their little hands as they gravitate towards the body of warmth that is their peacefully sleeping father

The next morning, when the sun’s warm light starts to flood through the windows and the birds outside have started to chirp a morning’s greeting into the blue sky, you wake up to a family reunion

There is a little girl snoring with her head on Bucky’s chest, they have matching pair of parted mouths and a father-daughter set of similar sounding snores

A dark haired toddler is curled like a kitten at the foot of the bed, her white nightgown resembling the soft baby blanket she was first swaddled in as a newborn all those years ago

You can hardly sit up to see where the rest of the Egans have ended up because John has a strong arm around your waist, he’s been petting your silk nightie ever since you first put it on last evening

As you look at the clock on the nightstand to see what time it is, for some reason there is a three year old curled up on the floor, sleeping under her baby blanket. Who knows how that happened.

On the days where your blue birds don’t wander into your comfy nest at night but instead manage to stay fast asleep in their own beds, expect a stampede in the morning

Their adamant on doing anything to wake Bucky up

One is pulling the sock off of his foot, another is brushing a finger through his eyelashes

His pink cheek gets poked, his eyes get prodded at, and the bed turns underneath turns into a trampoline

But John does not wake up angry, it is quite the opposite

He has his signature cheeky smile, pulling the kids in for morning kisses and hugs as they giggle in his strong hold

He reaches over the Egan pile to give you a kiss on the lips with a soft “good morning, honey” in the raspy morning voice that makes you swoon every time

The Egan girls do not stay asleep for long, they are full of energy and ambition, creativity and fun

There’s been countless instances where Bucky has been the number one victim…I mean, playmate for their shenanigans

He puts on a silly British accent, one that he had to have learned back in the pub at Thorpe Abbots, and is always dedicated to whatever role the girls have given him to play

“Care for some tea, m’lady?” as his oversized hand holds onto a tiny porcelain teapot, pouring some air flavored tea into miniature pink teacups

The Egan house is full of tutus and dresses, teddy bears and baby dolls

A kindergartner tries her hardest to put an earring in his ear, unaware of the fact that his earlobes are indeed not pierced

“Owww. At this point ya might as well get a needle and poke a real hole in it, that’s what this feels like. The jabbing hurts, dolly.”

“A needle? That’s how ya do it?”

“No, no. Wait-”

“You're gonna look soooo pretty, daddy.” She runs as fast as her little legs will take her.

Don’t worry, she does not manage to get her hand on one of your sewing needles. Those are kept up high, away from the tiny little fingers. Bucky’s virgin earlobes manage to live another day.

Picture the image of him laying down on the living room lounge chair with a pile of little Egan girls on top of him, sleeping peacefully like cute kittens.

He smooths their dark hair, and whispers just like he did when each of them were growing in your womb, just like he did when each of them were swaddled little newborns fresh from the hospital

He doesn’t tolerate anyone who makes a backhanded comment about his girls

When you have a car full of little girls, people feel the need to put in their two cents about your family

When you were pregnant with your second? “Let’s hope it’s a little boy. A girl and a boy would be perfect for you two.’

A few years later, you’re strolling down the street with a little girl holding each hand and a swollen pregnant belly displayed by your pretty maternity dress when you receive the backhanded comment by a passerby: “Is the little boy cooking right now? You want someone to pass the last name onto, don’t ya?”

It’s when you have three or more that the “I’m so sorry”s and “You must be disappointed”s start rolling in.

One day, you got back from taking the kids to the grocery store

The moment you see Bucky, all of the Egan girls run to hug him

It’s not long before he has a little girl clinging to one of his legs, one with her arms around his neck, another holding his hand with no intent of letting go

You quietly recounted to him later in the day how the grocery store cashier remarked upon glancing at all the pink, “Your poor husband. You refuse to give him a boy, huh?”

Bucky was ready to drive to the grocery store and give that worker a piece of his mind

He has healthy, happy kids. What’s there to be poor about?

Bucky is protective of his family, even before little Egan’s got added to the family, he’s always been protective of you

If someone ever bothers you, makes you uncomfortable or says something bad about you, he has to confront them

even though if you insist over and over again that it’s no big deal

You two have always served as an inspiration to your girls, a model of a healthy and happy couple

They grew up with a father who is wholeheartedly enamored with the woman he loves

They mature into women who were raised to expect nothing less in their own men

And if they ever forget their worth, they have Bucky Egan right there to remind him

“Don’t waste your tears over him, dolly. You’ve always been a strong, beautiful girl. Ain’t no dumbass highschooler is gonna change that.”

John Egan is the comfiest, more secure shoulder to cry on

He wipes his little girl’s tears and smooths her hair while she cries

He tries to make her laugh with a dumb joke or two

“I knew just by the way that kid walked that that fool was no good. Strolled around with his nose in the air like a…I don't know, a cockatiel? Mhm, a cockatiel. Had his hair done up like one too.”

“Daddd. What’s that even supposed to mean?” Her voice is still shaky and her hold on him is still tight.

“That he aint good enough for my daughter, that’s what.”

Seeing his children sad is one of the things that absolutely breaks him, he’ll mope around the house worried sick until he knows that they’re feeling better

Let’s just say that the next time John Egan comes across the boy who made his daughter cry, that kid does not have the nerve to come near her ever again

That kid shivers when he hears the name “Egan” because of the stern talking to he had after school that one day

“You’re lucky that you’re a dumbass child. But kid or not, that bullshit won’t fly. Ever. Hurt my daughter again, utter her name even, and you’re getting punched in the fucking mouth. That’s a promise, not a threat. Trust me.”

He’d implore the newspaper boy to do it

And the kid would

Because it’s Bucky Egan

The cool dad everyone wishes they had

And someone managed to get on his bad side? They deserve what is coming.

If his daughter is a little older and it’s an actual grown man that breaks her heart? Yeah, that dude actually gets the pleasure of being sucker punched across the face by John Egan himself.

But eventually his little girl’s do find their soulmate, men who treat them right

Bucky can’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks as he walks one of his beloved children down the church aisle, processing the fact that his little girl isn’t so little anymore

He makes sure to keep a handkerchief on him because there is no doubt in his mind that it will be needed throughout the whole ceremony

It does not truly sink in for Bucky that his girls are growing up until he sees them dolled up in gorgeous white dresses, their faces radiating happiness and joy for the biggest day of their lives

Handing her over to her new husband while light shines through stained glass church windows, family and friends gathered in the pews

and her hand is just as delicate as it was all those years ago when a newborn baby first grasped her dad’s finger

And he promised to love her and protect her for eternity

Emotional father-daughter dances— holding her close while singing the lyrics to a sentimental song, the same one he used to sing to her as a bedtime lullaby all those years ago

He twirls his little angel, all dressed up in tulle and lace

The whole day is full of reminiscing to the past

“Remember how chaotic our house used to be, honey?” He’d whisper to you after the ceremony with a dry laugh and a shake of his head

And chaotic it was

You remember how Bucky would rangle them all up for bathtime, like an oversized border collie herding a pack of tiny lambs

When you try to help him by catching a running toddler in your arms, Bucky immediately puts his hand on your shoulder and stops you

Gently taking your hand in his and leading you to the nearest place to sit, “Sit back and relax, honey. You’ve been working around the house all day. Dad’s in charge of baths today, I promise. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, alright?”

After some reluctance, you ultimately agree to stay uninvolved, but even though you are sat down, you do not stay unentertained

You watch as Bucky holds a kid upside down in his left arm while scooping up another rowdy toddler in his right

Your middle child jumps on his back, holding onto his neck like Jack climbing the beanstalk

It’s moments like that, seeing your husband’s joyful smile while little ones cling onto him like rambunctious monkeys, that you remember why you made John Egan a father

Moments like that make you grateful that you had the privilege of helping him become a dad because...wow is he meant for it

He shines most when around your littles and it’s clear for anyone with eyes to notice that

After an hour, all the kids were bathed and powdered and dressed in comfy nightgowns

You couldn’t help yourself from giggling as John let himself fall back onto the couch with a drenched shirt and bubbles shining in his dark curls

That night you two took a well needed, candlelit bath of your own

It was nothing short of romantic. John rubbed your feet as compliments and praises started to fall from his lips

“I really don’t know how you manage to do all of that when I’m gone, sugar.”

You lean your head back against the tub while responding in a calm voice, “It’s a lot. That’s why I wanted to help you get ‘em in the bath. We’re a team. A unit.”

“Mhmm.” His hand leaves your foot and makes its way to your soft calf, lifting your leg out of the water. He gives the leg a resting place on his broad shoulder, turning his head in order to easily be able to leave a trail of deep kisses on your skin. The kisses stop when you hear a raspy whisper from his lips, “Just wanted to give you a break is all. You know, sometimes I wake up wondering where those kids get all that goddamn energy from.”

“Oh honey, I wonder who they get it from…”

It was years following the birth of your youngest girl—when all of the newborn clothes, blankets, and bibs were finally folded away into the attic with no little one to make use of them any more—that a surprise happens

All of the kids have started and settled into school at this point, leaving some extra freetime during the day…

It’s a boy

He’s the baby of the family

Waddling around in tiny blue overalls and muddied baseball jerseys

Smiling wide twin dimples adorning each of his rosy cheeks

On sunny days, he rides on his father’s shoulders in the backyard while Bucky makes airplane sounds with his mouth, pretending to be the B-17 that’s flying his little boy through the air

He grows up to be so similar to his father, it’s uncanny

The same characteristics, the same smile, the same sense of humor, the same bountiful heart, the same love for baseball

He is not given any favoritism for being the only boy

Every child is different and treated as their own unique human being, raised with the same love and core values no matter the gender

Another lucky girl gets to have her own Egan

And if all of those years spent raising your son into being the best human he can be did him any good, you couldn’t be happier for her

————————————————————————

Ahhhh, I hope you enjoyed. Finally, I’m writing again. I’ll admit that I’m a little rusty but that’s fine. I’m the only one who reads over this stuff, so sometimes I’m afraid that when I post my incomprehensible rambling…it looks like incomprehensible rambling. My inbox is open for requests, comments, and anything else you want to chat about! I like talking to people! :)

#john egan #bucky egan #masters of the air #mota #bucky egan x reader #john egan x reader #masters of the air fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction #mota blurbs #mota headcanons #mota fanfiction #mota fanfic #not proofread

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lfghughes · 1 year ago

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Can I request a Trevor fic where the reader is his personal trainer and he’s constantly “messing up” or finding excuses so that she will touch him to correct his form/get in his personal space? Lots of flirting and sexual tension would be greatly appreciated

a/n: as i wrote this i realized how little i know about working out and my google search is wild now

“Wait, hold on, Trevor.” You moved towards him as he stopped his current movements. “Let’s fix your form a little.” For the past few months you had been Trevors personal trainer and in general you were used to getting into a clients personal space but sometimes there was still some awkwardness in the beginning. Right now with you and Trevor, both of you were pretty comfortable. If you also had to guess sometimes he purposely would mess something up to get some help.

Your hand went to his back and without you even explaining it, his form started changing into a much better one which confirmed your suspicion. Not that you really minded having an excuse to be this close to him either. In recent weeks things had definitely gotten flirtier between the two of you and the days you worked together were slowly becoming your favorites because they were fun and you also enjoyed spending time with him.

“Remember also to breathe out when you’re lifting.” You reminded him, your hand gently moving across his abs and yes that was mostly for your own gain but you were physically helping him in a sense. This time his actions were a lot more ideal than the first attempt. “What would I do without you?” He asked, a small grin on his lips and now you definitely knew he had purposely messed up. “Probably actually focus on your workout.” You pointed out with your own quick remark which caused a laugh to leave his lips.

He grabbed a hold of his water bottle, taking a few sips from it. “Trust me I’m always focused and motivated around you. Plus we have fun and think of how much fun we could have if you finally said yes to those drinks with me.” There was also that. For a few weeks now Trevor has been trying to convince you to go out with him for drinks and as much as you wanted to you also didn’t want to cross that professional boundary. But every day that line got blurrier and blurrier. “Maybe sometime this week, if I have time.”

That was the closest he was getting to a yes and by the look on his face he didn’t seem to mind that at all. The first time he had asked you had told him you didn’t do dates with clients to which he had made it clear that it wasn’t a date, just friends hanging out. You knew though that the more time you spent together and the flirtier your conversations got that this wasn’t just a normal friendship.

“Alright, come on. Let’s do some stretching to end the day.” You diverted the conversation back to work. “Can you help?” He asked and you caught the mischievous look in his eye. Of course you would help because again both of you were pretty good at this whole lack of personal space thing now. As he laid down, one of your hands went to his hip as you helped him stretch. “You know, you do look good from this angle down here.” A laugh left your lips at his words as you playfully swatted him.

“I take back what I said about the drinks.” You teased him and his jaw fell slightly as he went along with your teasing. “Oh come on, I promise to be on my best behavior.” He told you and as you finished up the stretching he sat up to look at you. “I don’t think you even know what being on your best behavior means but don’t worry. How about drinks this Friday? I’ll double check if I have anything but I shouldn’t."

#trevor zegras imagine #trevor zegras x reader #trevor zegras #trevor zegras blurb

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tea-with-evan-and-me · 1 year ago

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well tweam, i never thought my life would come to this. but i am bringing you a conclusion to today's debacle, so read on if you've been following this.

evan peters, if you're out there reading, just know i really love you and care about your reputation because what i just had to do, as a lesbian, amounts to a hate crime.

with the diligent help of @evanboodaddy we have sourced all three of the explicit photos used in what we now know was a doctored image masquerading as a screenshot of frances' patreon page. i'm sparing you all but just know that i went to the trouble of creating a gif of the photos overlaid on top of each other to confirm this with certainty. hell, they're not even the same wiener in all 3 photos. my google image searches were a nightmare (photoshopper was lazy, if you google d pics and click a few ''related images'' you will immediately find two of them), but anyway, it's sufficiently proven that those images are not of evan.

now, let's get to the source. up to this point, i have not spoken with anyone who has openly claimed to, with their own eyes, have seen frances' posts on patreon and/or tumblr, except this user (24hrcunt) who messaged me this morning. what i have seen is numerous users who have viewed screenshots, which makes sense; we know it's been circulating in group chats because rosa is the one who brought it to light via twitter, and her photos are screenshots of the screenshots posted in a group chat she's in.

this person claims to have taken screenshots which she shared in an ask sent to me. you can see the timestamps on top from when i first viewed them, though they had likely been in my ask box for maybe 15-20 minutes at this point as i was busy. this user did not follow me on here. they wrote a longer message seen in the 2nd photo, claiming that they viewed a message from frances on her patreon accompanying the explicit photos, that they conveniently did not get a screenshot of.

as i started to get suspicious of this story (see time of 5:19pm est) i went back to this page and viewed their tumblr. they had multiple aesthetic type posts such as the one you can partially see in the third screenshot, however, upon checking the timestamps my suspicion was confirmed: all of their posts were from today. the first post on their blog was made at around 10am est and as you can see, these messages followed shortly after. if they had merely created a burner account to share information, they would have had no reason to not say as much, and they wouldn't have quickly reblogged a bunch of random shit to make their page look legitimate. they have since deleted their account. @evanboodaddy also brought to my attention that in the screenshot of the patreon page, the pop-up window showing you must join to unlock posts is rounded on the corners of the actual page. in the edited version showing the explicit photos, you can see that they weren't able to replicate this design.

so, to anyone who was worried, you can rest assured this story is completely falsified. the photos are not of evan, and frances never posted any of this to her patreon nor tumblr.

not the tweam investigative journalism post i wanted to bring to you, but.... it was necessary.

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a-study-in-sepia · 1 year ago

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Present Deductions 2023

I was very excited to see this guide from @studies-in-the-art-of-deduction come across my dashboard! The following contains a relatively casual series of observations and deductions pertaining to the Christmas gifts from my immediate family.

Present #1

The size, box structure (lid over base), weight, and movement suggest shoes.

Relatively heavy which suggests boots, possibly intended for our upcoming family trip. There is free movement within the box and I can hear the tissue paper.

The box lid extends over the primary container on 3 out of 4 sides.

My mother knows I like Doc Martens, a quick google shows the doc martens box has two holes on either side, which are present on this gift. Many shoe boxes have holes, but Doc Marten holes specifically extend over the edge onto the top of the box. Given the fact that I own multiple pairs of Doc Martens and have not outright asked for them this Christmas, my earlier theory of boots specifically for the upcoming trip (Christmas in New York) is looking more likely. I have no idea which direction my mother may have gone in terms of style, but I know she has an affinity for soft unstructured leather.

This being said, I have a few notes. Yesterday, my mother and I went out shopping, during this outing she purchased me a pair of loafers. It is possible that she reconciled the fact that loafers and boots are dissimilar, which both supports my boot theory and discredits the possibility of other styles, but this does make me slightly wary, especially because I pitched the loafers with the intention of using them on our trip.

The second issue is that there is the possibility of a box inside of the Doc Martens box. I am not overly concerned with this, as the presence of the Doc Martens box would suggest that she bought Doc Marten shoes recently, and I know that she did not buy them for herself.

Third, it is possible that this box design is common for other shoe brands, possibly one which she purchased recently for herself, which led her to repurposing the box. I searched a few major brands, and none of them had the unique extending holes. The only shoes my mother bought recently belong to a brand that does not sport any box holes. It is possible that this box inside a box phenomenon is due to the heavy soles of the boots hitting the sides of the box. Beyond this, my efforts would be distilled into aimless googling. Aimless googling is an option, but at this time my confidence in the answer is not outweighed by the suspicion that I’m wrong.

Present #2

The lack of movement in the box suggests something relatively fragile. The metallic cling is familiar to that of glass blown ornaments (confirmed by comparing the sound to other ornaments on our tree). My mother has a habit of buying both myself and my brother an ornament each year, it is highly likely that this box contains mine. Due to my interest in Sherlock Holmes and my recent excursions to various historical conventions, I believe this ornament is related to the canon Sherlock Holmes (combines Sherlock with my historical interest), or perhaps Victorian London.

Present #3

This particular present is rather tricky. The top of the box has been cut open and wrapping paper has been placed around it. The squishy feeling of the box is reminiscent of a crude cardboard, which suggests that this present was shipped. The packaging would not be opened if this were the box for the actual product. Given these facts, it can be inferred that my mother opened the box to check the contents when it arrived and wrapped it up. The box is light, and has very little movement within. The sound is very faint. My mother mentioned buying me a hat for our upcoming trip. I am guessing this present contains that hat, as there is no other box that suggests it, and the hat is unlikely to be a stocking stuffer.

Present #4

This present is from “my brother” - ie. a present from my mom that she put my brother's name on. Clearly a paperback book, given the size, lack of box, and bendability. 4 words show through the wrapping paper “serial killers” and “great cons”. The google search “serial killers + great cons + book” leads me to this amazon listing https://www.amazon.com/True-Crime-File-Kidnappings-Survivors-ebook/dp/B09F5JHK16

Cross-referenced with the font and we have a match.

Present #5

By far the trickiest present, this package once again falls into the shipping box category. The box is not light, but it’s also not overly heavy. It’s lighter than the shoe box (Present #1).

I believe there’s internal packaging, perhaps a bubble wrap of some kind. There’s almost definitely another box/container inside, but it’s either a flimsy package or is padded with packaging materials. I am rather excited to say that I have no idea what this present contains. I’m going to take an educated guess and say it might be a Victorian reenactment dress, given my recent increase in that specific interest and the general box size/weight, but I don’t declare that with any level of certainty.

I encourage you all to post your own present deductions, and to check out @studies-in-the-art-of-deduction's guide to inform your endeavors. I look forward to posting the answers to this particular set of gifts after Christmas.

My best wishes to you this Holiday Season!

#deduction #sherlock holmes #deductive reasoning #bbc sherlock #sherlock #christmas #christmas gift #studyblr #a study in sepia

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swaggypsyduck · 2 years ago

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i'm happy he is into f1, but devasted because he is besties with the wrong ferrari driver

what is it with ramos being besties with people i hate? 😭 selfies & gifts? imagine what we could have had, ramosita 💔 talk to him!

JDNAJDMSJD IM SORRY😭😭😭

so i have no idea who this man is but i have my suspicions to where he's from. ya after a quick google search i found out he's from madrid (suspicions confirmed). and if there's one thing ramos loves doing is supporting spanish athletes from madrid or seville.

ill try and convince him that leclerc is actually a long lost andalusian name and maybe that will get him to budge?? idk??

anyways since u dislike him so much i decided to fix ur pic!! (well one of them at least)

#tada!!#asks #moots🫶🏼#i apologize on ramos' behalf #i only know know lewis hamilton bc he's hot af and charels bc of u and tiktok #oh and the racist max #sorry again nikka but i hope the edit makes u laugh🫶🏼

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roleplayhonestybox · 14 days ago

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Was plotting with someone once and we got to the oc stage. (This is where I always get nervous yall, and this time rightfully so) for the plot we were talking about, we both expressed that we wanted our characters to be around 25 as is what seemed reasonable for the scenario. (Though I most times prefer to go a little older, it was fine with me)

They send the ocs bio, which says they’re somewhere between 18-22 (can’t remember exactly but it’s important to note they weren’t supposed to be a minor) but go “don’t worry, I’ll age them up” not entirely unheard of but was already raising my alarm bells. Upon further inspection I see the fc they’re using looks familiar, I recognize the actor they’re using. One google search later confirms my suspicion that this actor is still underage. They want to use the face claim of a minor, age them up not once but TWICE, and pair them against my inevitably NOT underage face claim. Immediate ghost cause that weirded me tf out 😭 call me dramatic or sensitive or whatever, but personally I wasn’t comfortable with that. It just felt strange for someone to do that because if you knew enough to add the persons irl name then you would HAVE to have at least a ballpark of their age.

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noctuadora · 1 month ago

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So. Today, my lovely friend Kiya made me take the Enneagram test and my results were: *drumroll* Type 5!

5w4 to be exact. The rarest of them all…

Cerebral, detached, and sober.

What an interesting way to describe me. I found it hilarious when I first read it, but now that I’ve settled down a bit, yeah, it’s accurate. (I wouldn’t say I’m very intelligent though—cuz it feels like I’m stroking my ego lol)

Since this whole thing is interesting to me, I’m gonna yap into oblivion and write down my thoughts as I read this document.

I’ve said this before here (#adorablog), but one of the things I like and hate about myself is the fact that I try to understand everything—and by that, I mean to really deep dive into topics and concepts and ideas—because I feel the need to know why things and people are just the way they are.

It’s already like clockwork for my mind to withdraw from reality whenever I idle or walk or work or feel as if everything’s stressful. It is like instinct to me now, and that’s what scares me the most. I turn quiet, and I usually either daydream or write my feelings down instead. Thankfully though, I have friends who are supportive and encourage me to talk my thoughts out loud. Seriously, I owe them a ton.

I’ve almost forgotten how much I actually love to learn. Ever since I was a child, I’ve spent most of my time in the library, reading books that piqued my interest. Even now, I think that trait still remains (like in something as trivial as learning more about the lore of my favorite video games, learning a language, trying to figure out techniques in drawing, etc.)

I am an emotional person, but nowadays I tend to take a step back and question why and how did I come to feel a certain way towards a certain thing. Like, for example (let’s go for something trivial): why do I feel uncomfortable when it comes to aeon? It’s not like me to feel so much dislike against something as shallow as a ship. I’m usually chill. When I decided to detach myself from my bias to analyze my feelings and circumstances, I got a clear answer: it’s because their relationship in RE2make inadvertently reminded me of a personal memory that still haunts me to this very day. Just like Leon, I trusted in someone—and that person betrayed my trust. I know the pain it brings. It’s personal. It’s something not everyone can understand and respect. (After that, it’s more on capcom’s rather shitty writing, but I’m not gonna talk about that here lol)

And so, I understood. Now, I always remind myself that whenever I get triggers, I don’t react this way simply because I just dislike them—I have my own reason. Does it sound like I just became my own therapist?

I wouldn’t say I’m the calmest person ever (I have repressed anger), but I was raised to refrain from expressing my true feelings, so I guess this part holds something true. I am naturally private, but I also desire to break out of that shell and try to be slightly open. Hence, why I’m yapping about this Enneagram stuff and posting it on my blog, where people can read. Hi, if someone’s actually taking the time to read this lol👋

And that’s where the free document ends. I was engrossed in this topic now, so I went to search more about my Enneagram type. Needless to say, I’m intrigued!

According to Google, Type 5 is the rarest and most unusual Enneagram of them all. Figures… I think I take solace in the fact that it kinda confirmed my suspicions that I am in fact, a weirdo. In a good way, maybe…? Eh, I’m making a super long ass post of me just yapping. And that’s weird. I’m proving my point. Oh god.

I saw this one talking about the dark side of Type 5s:

“Isolated, withdrawn, and disconnected from reality, they become obsessed and disturbed by their own thoughts. They may fall prey to phobias and paranoia, escalating to psychotic breaks with reality as their imaginary world takes over.”

Oh yeah, this is 100% true and has happened a number of times when I was still in high school. It was a rough time, so many lost opportunities. That’s why right now, I can proudly say I’ve learned and I’m slowly healing… I chide myself whenever I get lost daydreaming about Leon Kennedy or get caught up in what people say on Twitter. At least I’m aware. I am still quite the yumejoshi (dream-seeking girl) though, that hasn’t changed one bit.

And now that I feel sleepy... I’ll end this post with a realization of mine: I’m an INFJ-T (deep thinker, the advocate) and a Type 5w4 (the philosopher). That means there’s no escaping my thoughts. I am a thinker, a yapper, and a daydreaming person, and I need to embrace that fact even though it makes me look weird and embarrassing. Like now.

I LITERALLY CAN’T. STOP. THINKING. ABOUT. THINGS.

GOOD NIGHT!

#enneagram #jwu and uh kinda embarrassing i rambled like this bUT #i wanna keep and share my thoughts so im not gonna delet #adorablog

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sterkiherz · 3 months ago

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DISCORD SCAM ALERT!!

So, I am posting this since I see this is an ongoing scam on discord servers and wanted to share some experience I had, in case this helps somebody else I guess (don't worry I wasn't scammed myself, as I knew immediately what I was dealing with but PLEASE BE SAFE EVERYONE!)

So the scam goes something like this:

A user will randomly send you a message probably asking if you have anything to do with *a certain account* that's been related to scams/phishing. They might even share a FAKE screenshot with your SAME username (photoshopped, of course) on a random discord user account.

How do I know it's fake? Well, this can be answered very easily actually. First of all, if you do a quick google search asking "can two people have the same username on discord?" or something like that, you'll find the OFFICIAL DISCORD SUPPORT faq where the following is stated:

So short answer, 2 users CANNOT have the SAME USERNAME at THE SAME TIME. Which means, whatever screenshot they send you with a suspicious account that seems to have your exact same username is actually fake.

Next, they'll mention that they've accidentally reported YOUR account to discord, since it holds the same username (again, fake) and they thought that you had something to do with this 'scam' they talk about. Again, they might share ANOTHER FAKE screenshot claiming this, where it also says to contact THIS user [supposed username here] to CANCEL the report otherwise YOUR account would be CLOSED in 24hs. > This is so ridiculous I just can't-! So, first off, DO NOT CONTACT anybody claiming to be from the DISCORD SUPPORT team. And if you somehow do, NEVER SHARE ANY PERSONAL INFO. DO NOT send your emails, passwords, etc. NOTHING. NO SUPPORT/MOD WOULD ASK YOU FOR ANY PERSONAL INFO. They do this so they can gain access to YOUR ACCOUNT and repeat this cycle to all your contacts. > Also, again, do a quick google search WHENEVER something seems fishy! I just pasted the screenshot they sent me on google and BAM, reddit and other socials posts, alerting about THIS SCAM, appeared on the results!

Now, I'll just share some screenshots from a user (which seems to be a REAL user's account, who just got scammed).

Me, being an artist, I am on multiple art commissions servers on discord and this "user" belonged to one of this servers. I've checked their socials and it seems to be an actual artist too, they just got their dc account hacked! So I'll be hiding their name in these screenshots for obvious reasons.

So, here's the beginning of our conversation. I immediately knew something was off from the way they awkwardly started the conversation, just wanted to "ask me something". -Not saying this is bad in general, I'm just *too used* to seeing scams like these that at these point my intuition just goes "hey, this is sus".

So from this point onwards I just continued our conversation casually so I could confirm this was actually a scam lol

In here, again, I'm just making it seem like *I'm falling for this* and being even worried about THEIR own safety, since they seem to claim they were being 'scammed' themselves by this so **malicious user**, oh no!

But they didn't want to WARN ME only, so they didn't actually end the conversation there (I was trying to end it here but...)

So YEAH, here's where the ACTUAL scam starts. This has confirmed all my suspicions by now... seriously, this is just so annoying!

So, they claim that **My account** is IN DANGER (oh noooo) and that I have to contact this "mr william" (really? lol) for this 'report cancellation' thing.

**Why do they do this?** Well, they want you to CONTACT this person, the scammer themselves, for 'further helping'. At this point I just didn't keep the conversation because I've already confirmed what I wanted so yeah haha last chat screenshot:

Now, I'll drop 2 more screenshots, the ones I've called Screenshot#1 and #2 in the chat for you to check out yourself:

This is supposed to be the 'user' they photoshopped my username into. It states this user has been a member since 2016. If this was true, when I created my account, I would have NOT been able to use that same username, since it should be *taken* - Again, according to OFFICIAL DISCORD SUPPORT faq page.

Next, the screenshot with the supposed "Discord Support Team member" I was meant to contact -Very poorly formatted, by the way lol

So yeah, again, STAY SAFE EVERYONE!

#scam alert #scam #discord server #dicord #artist #artists on tumblr

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slowtravelingcat · 11 months ago

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Goodbye Alaska

Monday, August 2, 2021

CAL - That time has come again. I knew it was coming when the large, bald one started cleaning our room in the middle of the week. She tried to act like nothing was going on, but I knew that meant it was moving time.

On Friday morning, Michele loaded the car as usual: all of our stuff, then me, and finally my litter box. Having spent so much time in the car on our way up to Alaska I had developed a newfound comfort in traveling in it.

We drove for most of the morning, stopping several times in the most interesting places. I lay as close to the back window as possible, watching a myriad of trees, birds, and other cars pass us by. It was only later in the day when we drove into a large, dark, densely packed parking lot that I began to get an inkling as to what would happen next. We were in a moving parking lot again! My suspicion was confirmed when the large, bald one carefully filled my food and water bowl and then left me alone in my private, car bubble. About 30 minutes later, the parking lot started to move. It was no big deal, after all, I am an expert now.

At first, I thought I was alone on the moving parking lot. I could see other cars, but they all appeared to be empty. However, as the evening progressed, I started to realize that I was not alone. In the car, to my left, I saw two very shy cats slowly peek their heads out of the passenger side window. Now, I generally do not get along with other cats, but something in my heart went out to these two. I could tell it was their first time on a moving parking lot.

I spent most of the evening pantomiming that everything would be okay for the new cats. It took a while, but I think that I was finally able to get through to them. As the veteran cat on this journey, it is my sacred duty to put others at ease. This is not a job that I take lightly.

MICHELE - It’s Monday evening and in true Alaska fashion, every time I thought I had my last amazing travel experience, another one popped up. It started with the drive to the ferry port in Whittier.

I left a little early to allow time to enjoy the day. The first stop was the Portage Glacier Visitor Center, which offers an amazing view of Portage Lake. Next, I backtracked to a quaint little campground just a few miles before the Visitor Center. I found a picnic table just a few feet from a blue and green lake at the foot of Explorer Glacier. As I slowly ate the last of my wild-caught, sockeye salmon I almost shed a tear as I silently said goodbye to this great state.

Upon arrival in Whittier, I still had an hour to kill, so I drove to the end of Shotgun Cove Road for an overlook of the water. I followed a little trail, bordered by all sorts of berries down to a rocky beach that featured some very usual rock formations, undoubtedly shaped by the aggressive tide. I explored the rocks and watched salmon jumping towards a small creek that ran across the shore until it was time to climb back up the trail and into the car. I was sure that my Alaskan adventure had come to an end as I fought back tears while checking into the ferry.

On Sunday morning the ferry arrived in Juneau where I needed to disembark for 6 hours and board a new boat for the rest of the ride to Seattle. When I first drove off the boat at the early hour of 6am, I immediately pulled into an empty parking lot for some cuddle time with Cal. After a full cup of coffee and a few Google searches on the area, I developed a plan for the day. First I drove to Mendenhall Glacier, which was a magnificent sight. The lake had several large icebergs and in the early morning, I had the entire view to myself.

On the way back to the car I took a peek at Mendenhall River and was delighted to see more salmon. I watched as several of them jumped over rocks and branches to get to their final destination, upstream.

After a quick brunch and a peek at the Macaulay Salmon Hatchery, I headed to the Shrine of Saint Teresa. A religious site, open to the public, just 10 miles north of town. Upon arrival, the site was silent and a few signs allowed me to explore in complete solitude. I started out by visiting a stunning chapel on a small island, passing several porcupines who almost seemed like guardians on the narrow pathway into the water. The site has a few short walking paths, all of which celebrate the amazing views of the bay and an array of carefully cultivated gardens.

By the time I got onto my new ferry boat I was sure that I had seen all there was to see in Alaska, but Monday morning featured one more stop in Ketchikan. I originally planned to stay on the boat during the 4-hour stopover, but the uncharacteristically beautiful weather forced me off of the boat and into the cab line. After several unsuccessful attempts in getting a cab (note to self - there are TWO ferry systems in Ketchikan - the airport ferry, also known as the “The Ferry” and the "Alaskan Marine Highway Ferry", which must be indicated as such when ordering cabs), I ended up walking the 2.3 miles into town.

The best place for walking in Ketchikan is definitely Creek Street, a quaint little area of shops lining a fairly large creek that runs down into the ocean. While most of the stores were closed for the day, I lucked out big time by catching the salmon run up the creek. I watched in awe as schools of salmon charged into the creek past a line of fisherman on a bridge, around a group of hungry river otters, and up a series of small waterfalls and rapids to their spawning grounds. In the game of salmon versus nature, I only saw only one salmon fall prey to an otter and none to human hands. I gained yet a new appreciation for Alaska and its beautiful salmon.

One cappuccino and croissant later, I successfully call a cab and make it back onto the ferry with plenty of time to spare. As the ferry leaves the port, we quickly cross the border into Canada. Now my Alaskan adventure has finally come to an end.

#cats #digital nomad #slow travel #travel

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smidgen-of-hotboy · 1 year ago

Note

Hello hello I'm back :) and uh- quick heads up, I have not listened to TMA (at least not past season 1). so any references you have been making up to this point, have flown way over my head. I am a-okay and very comfortable with spoilers tho.

You've built the mental image for me of Juno bringing someone to his apartment with the intention to get laid only for them to see Small Fry and be completely lost doting on her, going "Oh can I feed her pretty please?"

GOOD ON SMALL FRY THO- she knows trouble when it's staring her down across the room.

PETER, BAD FAE- PUT THAT RABBIT DOWN-

You've also now created the mental image of Ben looking into a mirror in Purgatory and he sees nothing. Juno looks into the same mirror and he sees Ben.

Juno will forever be haunted by the past. He carries it like a fault of his own. Like it's his mistake for not taking the bullet instead. Smth smth- survivors guilt, ptsd, it's all about perception.

*raises hand in confusion* what is "Not!Them"? Is this a reference to something? (Smth tells me it's a TMA reference... my quick Google search confirms my suspicion. Uhhh- refer to my message at the top lol, I am so sorry. Looking back now you've been making a lot of TMA references haven't you?)

I think I understand what you're getting at tho? Jack wanted what Sarah had so he took what was hers and basically "stole her soul". Effectively replacing her at NorthStar. Their roles/positions becoming swapped and now Sarah had nothing, making her paranoia and mental illness worse. Something like that?

Something about fears and beliefs creating monsters and Sarah creating Andromeda and all the monsters she battled. The number of children who watched Andromeda and feared the things she took on. Andromeda the hero. Andromeda to Juno Steel pipeline for real.

Juno's love for Ben is so special. I had to relisten to monsters reflection to write one of the fics I posted on ao3, and I WISH they explored more of their bond as siblings. Bc Sarah telling them that they "can't fight, you are all the other has out there in the big mean world, so you two can't fight" hurt me so much. Bc as much as Juno isn't fond of Sarah and isn't clingy to her, he still believed that. He still does. He feels incomplete and alone without Benten, he feels halved. Dare I say cleaved. (And as someone who has an older sibling and has openly talked to them about wanting to die and feeling depressed, I saw the pain and devastation in their eyes. And for a brief moment I knew they were trying to think of the last few years where I was gone- and it hurt. Because it doesn't seem plausible but it is.)(sorry that got too personal dnakxhsizo)

LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE mask imagery and usage MWAH chefs kiss

Doctor Soup.

Juno being in so much pain (agony even) that he doesn't care is on brand. Our lady has yet to hit character growth. He's yet to have a taste of power.

SACRIFICAL LAMB PETER NUREYEV!! everytime you talk about him like this the Hannibal fan in me does a happy little dance.

(My say is calling the CP a desert purely bc i like the idea of reversal. When you hear desert your brain jumps to dry lands and hot sun, not cold wasteland and toxins. That's just me tho)

PERCEPTION PERCEPTION PERCEPTION- I love it when characters can mimic others voices. (I have a character who is supposed to be a superhero of sorts, zey work on a team with others, and zir power is to manipulate zir voice. And it's cool. And it's freaky. And it's absolute torture when zey lose some friends and part of zir mind and imitate the voice of the team leader's girlfriend. Like I said- absolute torture.) What are Nureyev and Vespa's capabilities when they try to imitate something/someone? (Smth smth- it would be so fucked up if someone imitated Ben in front of Juno. So, incredibly fucked up)

Other Questions: I don't really have any past asking you what your TMA references were that I missed.

Hey! So, uh, I have some more stuff for the fae-hunter jupeter au, if you'd like to hear it? Regarding some more about the background and things and the other characters and also some intrusive thoughts Juno has regarding the cannibalism?

Oh fuck yeah babey lay it on me. This is the best Steel Twin Birthday Present and no other holiday or event going on irl I could've woken up to ever! And also does it mean anything if I say I have more thoughts on my monster hunter au bc I have a lot of new thoughts about it

#i feel so silly for not explaining that idk tma sooner #it is on my list to listen to. i wanna know the storyline.#im just not a big fan of the writing and Jon's voice is like white noise to me(?) im so sorry.#tma does interest me. i will listen to it someday (or maybe just read the hundreds of transcripts)#that aside: i am working on pulling stuff together for my monster hunter au i just dont know quite how Miasma and Juno faced each other down #spooky penumbra au #private eye's keys go jingle jangle

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heritageposts · 4 years ago

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the sad truth about oppa homeless style

and the unfathomable evil that is reddit

last year my followers and i began an investigation into the origin of oppa homeless style and we quickly discovered that there appears to only exists one single screenshot of the mythical tumblr post:

the screenshot was posted to imgur on the 1st of march, 2014, and appeared on /r/thatHappened/ in a thread titled ‘Fedora’d villain shames woman for giving to the homeless’

to further our investigation, @swordcats contacted the reddit user who had posted the thread. the user responded, saying they believe they “found it on 4chan”, adding that it was “probably fake”

we still had hope that it could be a real tumblr post, but this confirmed our suspicion that it was possible the story was never posted to tumblr to begin with.

we then tried everything we could think of to find any mention of oppa homeless style that predates the imgur upload, but nothing showed up

we even tried carbon dating the post by the shade of blue in the screenshot

this didn’t help us find oppa homeless style, but by comparing it to older posts we were at least able to determined that the screenshot could have been taken around the time of the imgur upload

an anon later messaged me and suggested we should take a look at the post history of reddit user MechaMew2

as the anon noted, they were a frequent contributor to /r/thatHappened/

here are some of the tumblr stories they’ve posted:

after posting 10 different MechaMew2 screenshots to my blog, i was contacted by fellow detective @bluesidefanclub who had done their own investigation

and the findings were devastating...

ALL of these screenshots are fake. all of the posts that arent a screenshotted reblog are his own posts, evidenced by the little x’s on the bottom of some of the screenshots, which used to be tumblrs old delete button. i looked through his ENTIRE post history and every single one of them that isnt a screenshot of a reblog has the delete button on them. none of the posts that are screenshots of reblogs have the x on the bottom, though, so i tried searching for them. ive been on tumblr since 2011 and never saw any of them, even the ones that seemed viral. i searched key phrases from every single one and wasnt able to find any of the originals, and the only images of them that come up are the ones that were posted to imgur and reddit. this especially makes no sense for the “AAAA IT BURNS IT BURNS” post because (according to the screenshot) it had at least 83k notes at the time of screenshotting. so he probably just edited those with inspect element.

MechaMew2 has also been a frequent submitter to r/fatlogic were they post similarly ridiculous stories intended to make fat people look bad:

Tumblrina gets triggered by nephew; Hides his homework under the couch so it can't hurt her anymore (3rd of october, 2014)

Fat-shaming Barbie gets told off at the gym (31st of october, 2014)

nowadays MechaMew2 is mostly fabricating fake facebook stories about pitbulls (they’re a frequent poster to r/banpitbulls)

Diapered pit bull named Naruto escapes through a window. Catch him and win dinner at Chili's. (3rd of november, 2020)

Family cancels their Christmas; Sends the money to Trump (30th of november, 2020)

of all the tumblr screenshots, @bluesidefanclub was only able to find one real post (which still showed the url of the person who reblogged it)

in a last ditch effort @bluesidefanclub:

searched for oppa homeless style on google, every major image hosting site (photobucket, flickr, imgur, etc) and also did reverse image lookup on about ten different sites, and each came back with the imgur result from march 2014 being the earliest upload. i searched every visible tag on the post up to the end and found nothing, and searched twitter for “oppa homeless style” pre-dating the imgur upload and couldn’t find anything explicitly pointing to the tumblr post.

so yes... i think we must finally accept that oppa homeless style was never a real tumblr post

oppa homeless style was made by a redditor whose passion in life is to make fake screenshots of fake tumblr stories for fake internet points

as connoisseur of fake tumblr story i expected to be devastated by this news, but really it has only made oppa homeless style even funnier

#oppa homeless style #the long awaited update #thanks to all the fellow detectives that helped solve the mystery

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tiannasfanfic · 2 years ago

Text

Gone Away

Billy Butcher x Reader (Angst)

Summary: Relocating to New York was supposed to be a fresh start after a supe related incident took everything from you. But now, you're just wasting away in a new city. Could a random job offer from a stranger be enough to save you? (Crossposted to AO3)

Rating: Teen and Up

Author Note: I listed this as angst since it has a dark theme. This is my first attempt writing from The Boys, so I focused mainly on the reader to ease into the tone of the setting and Billy’s way of speaking. He’s quite different to write than Adrian is, so it was fun branching out.

CW: Mentions of the family's death and how but no details, severe depression and grief, self destructive behavior, alcohol dependency, cussing, Butcher being Butcher.

Word Count: 1,470

Two years.

It had been two years since your life was destroyed. Your home, your family. All gone in the blink of an eye. Literally.

What happened?

Well, that you still didn’t like to think too much about. At least, not when you were out in public. That was just asking for a breakdown, panic attack, uncontrollable fit of screaming or all the above.

That was the whole reason you moved to New York last year. While you had wanted to since you were a kid, this was a good opportunity to get a fresh start. You couldn’t get away from what happened while still in your hometown. At least in New York, no one knew who you were. You could blend in again and people wouldn’t be staring at you with sympathetic looks. Or constantly asking how you were doing. Or offering their support then not being there when you actually needed them. Or any one of the million other things people did or said to make themselves feel like they were helping without actually having to help. You just wanted a normal life again.

The settlement from Vought paid for your relocation. In all honesty, losing everything due to the richest company in the world had taken care of the rest of your life. You were living off of the interest alone, and only a portion of the interest at that. You actually had more money now a year later when you made your decision than the check had been worth.

When you got to New York, however, you ended up getting one of the shittiest and cheapest apartments. It was a one room loft in a particularly low, low-income area. You could’ve gotten something better, but in your mind, what was the point? Depression and grief had a deep hold on you. Life had taken everything good from you, so in your mind, you didn’t deserve anything better. It would just be taken from you too, you thought.

For something to do, you ended up getting a retail job at a Walgreens. You were a standard floor associate, spending your days stocking and helping customers find stuff. It was mindless work. You could do it half asleep, hung over or high, and frequently did. You couldn’t sleep unless you self-medicating otherwise, you would just lay in bed, wondering why you were still here. That was becoming a problem too, but you didn’t want to think about that either.

In all fairness, you didn’t really think about much of anything anymore except for what you lost. You may have not died physically, much to your dismay, but there wasn’t any living left in your life. You were just going through the motions at that point. Nothing held your interest; nothing was fun anymore; it was all for nothing anyway.

It was your job that led you to being recognized. You helped a man who had a French accent in the first aid section find what he needed. He didn’t instantly know who you were but knew he recognized you from tv. Something about an incident involving a supe. It didn’t take but a quick Google search on his phone to confirm his suspicions. The incident that destroyed your home with your husband, three children, and pets inside had made quite a few national headlines.

Immediately after he left, the man informed his cohorts who he had identified at the store and pitched the idea that if anyone would want to join their cause, it was you. There was a fire in your eyes that he recognized. It was very, very dim, but Frenchie felt like if that fire could be stoked higher, you’d be one hell of an ally. After some debate, it was agreed on to at least talk to you about it.

Unfortunately, they made the mistake of sending Hughie.

In all fairness, it seemed like a good idea at the time. You both had a lot of common ground. He had lost the woman he loved to a supe in the blink of an eye, you had lost the family you loved to a supe in the blink of an eye. He could empathize with you and sway you to their side. How hard could it be?

No one counted on the fact that what passed for your personality these days was the exact opposite of Hughie’s. He said all the wrong things and you ended up having your manager throw him out.

A day later, Butcher stopped by himself to talk to you.

By that point, he was starting to wonder if this was all just one giant waste of time. They were doing fine; they didn’t need anyone else. They already had one person who lost everything, and he could be somewhat of a whinging cunt at times. Sure, Hughie was useful, but the last thing Butcher needed was two whinging cunts.

You were helping a customer shade match foundation when you noticed the big man wander over into the section. He was hard to miss, especially when he had a big energy about him that was a cross between a grizzled old sea captain and one of those Hollywood police detectives you see on network tv. He just had that sort of air of authority about him, which included a healthy dose of not giving a fuck. He stepped over to the Maybelline section and started browsing mascaras.

Once you finished with your customer and rang him out, you approached the man.

“You ever wonder why people put so much stock in all this shite?” he said in an accented voice, not taking his eyes off the display of eye makeup.

“Not much to wonder about,” you said, coming to stand next to him and looking at the wall of makeup yourself. “Initially it was men that invented and wore all this crap. Same with heels and hosiery and corsets. Then at some point they decided those were feminine things. What was considered masculine and good became feminine and bad. Fast forward a few hundred years and they still try to say it's the only way to be beautiful.”

“Oh yeah?” his eyes cut over to you, you nodded, and he looked back at the wall. “Well, that’s the biggest load of bollocks I ever heard. Women don’t need all that fucking shite to be beautiful.”

You chuckled. “Agreed. It is a fascinating history though.”

“I bet,” he said, then finally turned to you. “But I can’t say I came here for a history lesson.”

“I didn’t figure,” you said, chuckling and turning to him. “Looking for a new mascara then?”

“Eh?”

You shifted your gaze pointedly to the products he was standing in front of then back to him. He looked back at the wall then back at you.

“Course not. I don’t have the lashes for it, love,” he smirked.

You chuckled. “In that case, we have some pretty affordable selection of false lashes that might be better suited for you.”

That got an even bigger smirk out of the man.

“Tell me something, love. Would you wear those?”

“You want me to be honest?”

“Course.”

“Fuck no,” you said instantly. “I ain’t putting glue on my eyes, I don’t give a shit how safe they say it is.”

That got a laugh from him.

Butcher made a decision then. He had been doubtful about this whole thing, but now he saw the fire in your eyes that Frenchie was talking about. You’d be a good fit.

“I’ve actually got a job offer for you, if you’re interested,” he said.

“Pfft,” you should with a scoff, then you gestured around you. “And, what? Leave this fabulous career behind?”

Butcher chuckled. “Hear me out, at least. I think you’ll be interested.”

You studied him as you considered.

It couldn’t hurt.

“Alright,” you said. “I’m off in little under an hour. I usually go across the street for a drink after work to relax if you want to meet up there.”

At the bar, the introduced himself as Billy Butcher and you learned about his particular area of expertise. You found yourself listening to his explanation with rapt attention. For the first time in two years, you felt an interest in something. It probably wasn't the best of things to be interested in, admittedly, but something was better than nothing. You'd find out later that this man was absolute shit at pep talks, but something in his choice of words that day made you feel the fire in your blood that he saw ignited in your eyes. He wasn't even halfway through with his story when you told him you were in with absolutely no hesitation.

This is why you never send a Hughie to do a Butcher’s job.

#the boys #the boys fanfic #the boys billy butcher #the boys x reader #billy butcher #billy butcher imagine #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher x y/n #billy butcher x you #billy butcher fanfic

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fortuositywritings · 3 years ago

Text

Collide

Part 1 Wanda x Reader

Summary: You bump into Wanda Maximoff at a grocery store. Wouldn’t be a problem if either of you were anyone else but you two were no ordinary people.

You would think having the ability to take anyone’s power would be awesome. It’s not.

With a simple touch, you could take any person with special abilities’ special powers from them. You figured this out in grade school when you high-fived one of your friends for the first time. Suddenly you could see through walls. That same year, you figured out they could take those powers back.

A few years later you found out they could only take those powers back if they wanted them. You tried giving someone their invisibility back but they would not have it. Now you are stuck with it. You are stuck with a few others too, like walking through walls and mimicking voices. Those you got from random strangers on the street.

Obviously, you tried to give them back. You wouldn’t take what isn’t yours, but it was an impossible task. Finding a stranger you bumped into in New York is kind of hard.

You’ve tried passing off powers to other people but it never worked. You could only return them to the person who gave them to you. To give them back, all you had to do was touch them again and they had to want the powers back. It was that simple.

So when you bump into Wanda Maximoff at the grocery store, things get a little complicated.

You’ve made a friend recently who turns out to be Sokovian. Seeing as his birthday is coming up, you thought it would be cool to cook him a traditional Sokovian meal. A few searches on Google and you print out a list of what you need.

You leave to the nearest store that would have all you need. You check off your list, heading toward the aisle of spices. You finally find the one the recipe calls for and lucky for you, it’s the last one. You reach for it but you feel someone else’s hand touching yours, reaching for the same thing.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. You look at the woman who is standing really close to you for a stranger. She has intense green eyes, you notice. She pulls her hand away.

“It’s alright,” you say.

“Was that the last one?” she asks, awkwardly.

“It seems so,” you confirm. “But we can ask an employee if they have more somewhere?”

You flag down an employee two aisles down and ask. They shake their head and then tell you they won’t be getting more until next week. The woman with the green eyes sighs.

“We can split it,” you suggest. “I don’t need the whole thing. At least I don’t think so? I just need it to make a Sokovian dish that calls for it. I probably won’t be using it for anything else.”

“I don’t know. Sokovian food is delicious if I may say so. You’ll get a taste and might regret sharing this with a stranger,” she teases.

You smile and ask, “Oh, are you Sokovian?”

She nods and you add, “Well, then I insist on sharing it with you. Maybe you can actually give me a few tips on this recipe?”

“What are you making?” she asks you. You show her the recipe on your phone and she kindly shares some of her expertise which you’re grateful for. She follows you around the store making conversation as you grab the rest of what you need. Technically, you follow her around as she suggests you other stuff to add to the recipe.

You add a mini mason jar to your cart. You both head to pay and outside pour some of the spice into your mason jar and give her the rest of the bottle. You thank her for all the help and wish her a great day.

Wanda gets back to the tower in a positive mood. Everyone notices and asks her what happened. She replies that she just had a nice interaction with a stranger and it made her day.

Though her day was made, the rest of her week was hell. She doesn’t know what is wrong with her. Her powers have been failing her. She doesn’t understand. At first she thinks it’s just the more difficult things she can’t do but then she notices how no one’s thoughts appear in her head. It’s quiet. She only hears her own.

Something was definitely wrong.

You thought you were imagining things but after guessing what your friends’ were thinking for the umpteenth time, you knew you had taken someone else’s power.

You don’t think it’s too bad at first. Only your friends’ heavy thoughts made their way into your head. Unfortunately, some of those thoughts you can never unhear again.

The problem comes when you go to the library for the first time with this new power. The library is hell. It’s full of people who are just thinking loudly. See in public, there are people who are thinking loudly of course, but there are more people distracted and speaking without thinking, which you never thought you would be so grateful for.

You don’t last in the library for very long. So libraries are on your list of places to avoid. Soon, movie theaters are also on that list and then so are museums. Any place where people are meant to be quiet is where it’s loudest in your head.

You wish you knew who you touched to get these powers. You begin to think back at everyone the past few weeks that you might have had direct contact with. A hand you shook or an arm you bumped into. You’ve always been cautious about your surroundings so these things wouldn’t happen.

Everyone you greeted at your Sokovian friend’s party you’ve greeted before. No one was new there. The Sokovian at the store!

Damn it. You never got her name or anything. Maybe you’ll encounter her at the store again. The next few days, you spend hours at the same store. People begin to think you’re an employee and you almost feel like one, knowing exactly where everything is from spending so much time there.

You’ve even made plans with one employee to go hangout. But no green eyed Sokovian makes an appearance.

Three weeks you have this power when you find that not only can you read people’s thoughts, but you hold things without actually touching them. It happens when you drop something in the kitchen. You reach for it to catch it before it hits the floor but it’s nowhere near your grasp. However, it never hits the floor.

You then notice a red mist-like substance coming from your hands floating in the direction of the object. You see that it’s holding it up. After that, you start practicing with random things around your apartment. You begin with lighter things, thinking you would only be able to hold weight that you could in your actual arms, but it is not so.

You work your way up to lifting your car in the air and in that same moment you learn you could do multiple things like lifting your car and replacing the flat tire.

Two months with these abilities and you feel you start getting the hang of it. You still can’t go to the library. You’ve tried again but the voices are too loud. You still go to the store where you met the woman that unintentionally gifted you these powers to try and return them. She seemed like a decent person and you don’t know what she used these powers for. Maybe she needs them.

You still have yet to find her.

Wanda hasn’t been on a mission in three months. Instead, Bruce has been poking and prodding her with needles and running countless tests trying to figure out what happened with her powers. Three weeks ago she began to go to a therapist because Steve thought it might be a mental block of some sort that she had to work through.

Though therapy was doing wonders for her, they weren’t getting her anywhere near having her powers back. Bruce’s tests weren’t helpful either. She’s been stuck in the tower for three months and her days have never felt so repetitive until now- train, go to therapy, undergo tests. Rinse and repeat.

The media had begun to notice as well. She turns to another TV channel where the news anchor asks “Where is Wanda Maximoff?” as if she’s disappeared from the face of the earth. In a way she has.

Fortunately for her, you are watching that same channel. You are cooking dinner and have the television channel on for background noise. You hear them talking about the Avengers. They’ve never been of much interest to you, although they should be seeing as though you live in the same city and something is always going down here because of that reason.

“For those who have been living under a rock,” the new anchor starts, “Wanda Maximoff is one of the newer additions to the Avengers.”

“She’s the one with the red magic, isn’t she?” the co-anchor asks. That grabs your attention. You turn to look at the screen. “That’s right. She joined about a year ago after the fall of Sokovia.”

That had to be a coincidence, right?

“She hasn’t been reported to be on any missions the last three months,” the reporter continues. That definitely couldn’t be a coincidence, you think, counting back the time you’ve attained these powers.

“Here is a clip of Maximoff using her magic to save diplomats at the embassy five months ago when…” You don’t hear the rest as you watch the clip play.

It’s the green eyed Sokovian who helped you out at the market. Your suspicions about it being her who had these powers were correct. You just didn’t think you took powers from an Avenger. Someone who definitely needs these powers to do her job and save people like the clip shows. Shit.

You smell the food you’re cooking burning.

“Shit!”

Wanda pounds her hand on the mat. Sweat clings onto her shirt. She’s tired and out of breath.

“Again,” Nat commands. Wanda huffs and stands up, getting back into her fighting pose. She takes a swing that the Black Widow easily dodges. Not two moves later, she hits the mat again.

“Again,” Nat repeats.

“Natasha, give the kid a break,” Steve says, watching from the side.

“It’s okay,” Wanda assures him.

Natasha explains, “If therapy and tests aren’t working, maybe self defense will.”

Steve seems doubtful but allows it. They really need Wanda to work through whatever is blocking her from using her powers. He winces seeing Wanda hit the mat.

“Again.”

“I’ve told you for the millionth time. My name is Y/N L/N and I need to speak to Wanda Maximoff. Or any of the Avengers, really. Or even one of their assistants or something. It’s vital,” you try helplessly.

“Unless you have clearance, I can’t let you up,” the guy at the desk says to you for what feels like the hundredth time. You’ve been coming in the past few days trying to get someone to let you see Wanda.

“Look, it’s really important. Can’t you, like, give her a message or something?” You’re desperate at this point. He laughs.

“Ah, yes, let me just text her real quick. ‘hey Wanda. It’s that one guy you said hello to once downstairs. There’s some girl here that needs to talk to you’,” he acts out sarcastically, which you do not find amusing.

“Listen, buddy. If you do me this favor and get your boss or whoever can give me clearance to see her, I promise she’ll be so grateful for you helping me get to her that she’ll come and thank you herself,” you vow.

“I can’t help you, Miss. Now please go or I’ll have to call security,” he warns.

You rub your temple in frustration. “Fine. There’s no need for that...Michael,” you read his name. “I’m going.”

You turn around as if to head for the door but then do a 180 and sprint past a security guard who shouts at you to stop. You make your way for the elevators as the security guard runs after you. You press the button for the elevators but you notice they’re nowhere near the ground floor.

The security catches up to you and in panic, you push him away with Wanda’s powers. He goes sliding across the floor and you bolt for the stairs.

You don’t even know which floor you would find Wanda in but you assume it would be somewhere up top. You begin your ascend. You reach the fourth floor and realize you should start using the StairMaster at the gym. You hear multiple security guards quickly making their way to you. You panic and walk through the wall, not knowing what was on the other side.

You’re in some kind of engineering lab. You don’t think anyone saw you walk through the wall, so you try to act casual and stroll through the lab trying to find an exit. Then you hear someone call you. “Hey, you.”

You ignore them and act like you didn’t hear. They tell you to stop walking, loud enough that you can’t ignore it. You turn around to see a woman in a lab coat. She asks, “You’re not allowed on this floor. Who let you up here?”

“Oh, uh. Michael sent me,” you lie. “Sorry, I’m new. I must have gotten off on the wrong floor. Maybe you could help me find my way?”

“Where are you meant to be working?” she inquires and you’re stuck not knowing anything about the Stark Tower or Avengers Tower, whatever it’s called.

“The lab,” you say. Your vague answer obviously creates another question. “What lab?”

“They haven’t told me yet? I’m not actually working in the labs. I’m doing more secretarial duties, taking notes and scheduling stuff.”

“For whom?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at you. You can feel her catching onto you and it’s the only reason why you try this.

“For the big guy, obviously,” you say and then focus really hard trying to read her mind, hoping that a name will pop up in her head. Did Bruce get an assistant? You smile. “Bruce.”

“Well then you are way off. He’s usually working on the 87th floor,” she tells you.

“Well, thank god there’s an elevator,” you chuckle nervously, pointing behind you. “Well, I should get going before I’m any later. You turn around confidently but as you walk away she stops you once more. You think you got caught but she says, “Elevators are that way.”

She points to the opposite way you came from. You laugh to play off your mistake, “Duh. Sorry, the lab is so big. Thanks.”

You head the right way. You speed walk to the elevators and then jog when you hear a rougher voice telling you to stop. “She’s on the fourth floor.”

You assume they spoke into their walkie, and you know you don't have much time before they catch you. You think quickly. You can’t make your way to the elevator because then obviously they’ll just stop the elevators. You don’t want to walk through a wall; the dangers of that are extreme given this is Stark Tower. You could accidentally walk into an ongoing experiment.

You had to hide. And suddenly, you had the perfect plan.

The security guard runs to you. He thinks you’re running for the elevator but then you turn before you get there. He sees you dive behind some clunky machine, presumably to hide behind. You clearly never have won a game of hide and seek in your life, he thinks as he goes around the machine to catch you.

He’s left utterly confused when you aren’t there. The only trace of you are your clothes down to underwear on the floor. Four other guards make it to the floor. One asks him, “Where is she?”

He doesn’t know how to answer. “She was right here. Search the floor. She’s hiding and I think she’s naked.”

They disperse taking your clothes with them. You let out a breath of relief at not getting caught but then mentally curse that they took your clothes. You still haven’t learned how to make other things invisible yet. You never really used this power. Maybe you should start practicing.

You hustle your naked ass to the elevators, feeling incredibly exposed even though you know no one can actually see you. You press the elevator button and wait impatiently. It dings and opens.

“The elevators!” You hear one of the guards yell. Two run your way as you step into the car. You put all your energy into staying invisible. It would be really awkward if you were suddenly exposed. You hold your breath when one of them looks in the elevator. You keep yourself in the corner furthest away from them. In their eyes, there is no one in the elevator.

“She’s not here.” They leave and the doors close. You click the button for the 87th floor.

____________________________________________________

This will probably have 3 parts.

#wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you

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