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okay-j-hannah · 3 months ago

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The Kickstart | Smosh 💛

Smosh : Multishot

Spencer Agnew x Reader

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: slow burn, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, Spencer pining, reader is struggling in LA, not a lot of money, multiple jobs, poor studio apartment, inconsiderate boyfriend, lots of musical theatre talk, reader insert but a few things are already decided (last name is Bennett, favorite drink is Diet Coke, love the colors blue and green, artist, theatre nerd, etc.)

Request: This just came from my own head 😊

A/N: I haven't written for Smosh in years... but the current cast and crew has me sucked back into the fandom. And I am sorely in need of more Spencer content 😭

I was initially inspired by this incredibly well done fic "Late Night" by @simpingsavant Please give it a read because it's a masterpiece.

Part 1: The Kickstart {You Are Here}

Part 2: Mama Bear

It was nearly three in the morning. The witching hour, you think with a smile. There was a light flickering near the fountain drinks. You lean against the checkout counter, thumbing through an aged script.

You memorize the cue lines that signal when quick changes are supposed to happen between scenes. The current musical you are working on is Hairspray.

Going through the script and your production notes really help pass the time.

The small rinky-dink gas station you manage is your reluctant home most nights. It wasn’t your favorite place, but it helped with the bills. Trying to make a living on production design for musicals isn’t the money maker you hoped it would be in LA.

You barely made anything doing hair and makeup for the community theatre. But it was something you loved.

And wouldn’t you rather be doing something you love than being miserable in a high paying corporate job?

Sure, you think.

It had been nearly eight months since you started working at this gas station. The owner was as rinky-dink as the store itself, speaking in short, to the point sentences and avoiding eye contact. There were only two gas pumps out front that rarely attracted customers.

The biggest commodity are the cheap drinks and snacks inside. Many stop by for something quick on their way to and from work.

Normally working the night shifts from 10pm to 6am, you are quick to notice any regulars. Not many people are awake at this time of night, let alone on their way to the gas station for a drink.

The bell sounds above the door as a familiar face enters. It was Glasses.

That’s what you called him after seeing him for the third time in a week, back when you first started working here.

He usually came in late like this, looking exhausted. He has curly dark hair, gold rimmed glasses, and some scruff. Today he’s dressed in jeans rolled up at the cuffs, brown boots, and a gray sweatshirt.

He gives you an awkward, close-lipped smile as he passes. You watch him go for the drink fridges. Energy drinks are his specialty, maybe the occasional coffee or breakfast sandwich. He always bought them two at a time, taking the slight discount for buying a duo instead of a single.

About every other week he’s there three to four of those days. You’ve always wondered why – especially when he always looked so tired when he came in.

But you’ve never had a conversation that’s lasted longer than the cordial exchanges.

“Hello,” you say.

“Hello,” he replies with his awkward smile.

You scan his drinks, Mountain Dew Kickstarts like always. “Find everything you need?”

“Yep.”

The computer beeps. “That’ll be $8.56.”

“All right.” He taps his card on the machine in front of him.

“Would you like your receipt?”

“No thanks.” He grabs his two cans.

“Have a nice night.”

“You too.”

It had been like that for maybe six of those eight months. After that, your curiosity began to plague you. The next time he came in, you watch him browse for a Kickstart and a breakfast muffin.

Saying hello to him had felt routine. But it was clear that you both recognized each other. So you decide to say something a little more than usual.

“Getting breakfast a little early?” you joke in your quiet voice.

He smiles, pulling out his wallet. “I just haven’t eaten anything all night.”

“Sounds like a rough night. That’s $9.34.”

He scans his card. “It has been.”

With him looking down at the keypad, you take the time to look at the circles under his eyes. “You should try the croissant sandwiches. Much better than stale muffins.”

He nods his head, “Next time. Thanks.”

You watch him walk away, still at a loss as to why he’s always in there this late at night.

A couple days later he’s walking in and giving you a wave. You smile at him as he makes for the drinks again.

He’s dressed in those same jeans and combat boots. Now he wears a t-shirt with a denim jacket. If you had friends to talk to, you’d want to tell them how Glasses loves to wear the same jeans and jackets all the time.

He comes to the counter and clears his throat.

You scan his drinks and a breakfast sandwich. A croissant sandwich.

You chuckle, “You won’t be disappointed.”

“I’m counting on it,” he says, tapping his card against his hand while he waits.

“Haven’t eaten anything all night again?”

He hums, shrugging his shoulders, “Felt peckish.”

“Do you want your receipt?”

“No, that’s fine. Have a good night.”

You throw the balled up receipt into the garbage bin beside you. “You too.”

You’d love to tell a friend that Glasses seems shy. He seems nice.

A few weeks later, you’re drawing sketches for costume designs. You were doing Shrek The Musical at the community theatre. Papers were full of drawings depicting a white rabbit, a wicked witch, a wolf in granny clothes, and fairies with colorful makeup.

You were humming one of the songs when Glasses came in with a yawn. His eyes search for you and he waves, “Good evening.”

“Good night,” you say sarcastically.

He grabs his drinks and comes to the counter with wandering eyes. You try to move your sketches and pencils out of the way.

“Sorry,” you say, “That’ll be $8.56.”

He scans his card, but keeps looking at your art. “You draw those?”

“Yeah,” you say, abashedly. “Little project.”

“They’re really good,” he pops open one of the drinks and takes a sip. “Are they just for fun, or…?”

You shyly pull out a drawing of a person in a dragon scale costume. “They’re for the musical I’m a part of. Down at the local theatre.”

“That’s cool,” his face lights up.

Something warm tickles your stomach. You were actually having a normal conversation with Glasses.

“Are you the costume designer?”

“Assistant,” you bow your head. “I’m head of hair and makeup.”

He nods, clearly interested. “Have you been a part of production teams much?”

“For years,” you smile, “I love theatre. I’ve done almost everything. Acting, costumes, set design, lighting – you name it.”

He pockets the other energy drink in his jacket pocket. “Sounds like fun. Have a nice rest of your night.”

“Thank you, you too.”

If you had friends, maybe you’d tell them that Glasses might become a friend. The only person you have to text is your new boyfriend Aaron. But he wasn’t a fan of nonsense texts – texts that were unnecessary.

A few weeks go by, now seven months into your job at the gas station. Glasses was still making his almost daily visits. You caught him standing outside the window for a minute before coming in.

You have confusion in your face, but a smile on your lips. “You okay there?”

He raises his eyebrows and talks as he walks to the fridges. “What do you mean?”

“Was there something on that window or were you just making sure you weren’t a vampire?” At his knitted brows, you continue, “You know… checking that you still had a reflection.”

Heat floods your face at the poor attempt at a joke, but Glasses laughs, nonetheless. “I might be nocturnal, but no, I’m not a vampire.”

You smile, admiring him walking towards you. His fluffy curls were sticking out from beneath a green hat. In white embroidery it says, Smosh.

“How were auditions?” he asks, getting his card ready.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Good. I think we’ll have a good cast.” Earlier that week he asked about the latest Hairspray script that was on your counter. “The quick changes will be fun.”

He clears his throat, having paid but still standing at the register.

“I’m sorry, did you want your receipt?” you ask suddenly. “Normally you don’t so I stopped asking.”

“No, no – sorry. I’ve been trying to find some clever segway to introduce myself. But we’ve been seeing each other for months and it feels strange to do it now.” He rubs his forehead, struggling to maintain eye contact with you while he talks. “I mean, it’s not like I have a nametag like you.”

You look down at your chest to see (Y/N) printed on the laminated tag. “That’s true.”

He takes a deep breath and extends his hand. “I’m Spencer.”

You take his hand. It was very warm. “(Y/N).”

He smiles, “Nice to officially meet you.”

Maybe you’ll tell Aaron that Glasses has a new name now. Spencer.

One night at two in the morning, you were asked to do inventory while another employee managed the registers. It was strange to have a coworker with you on night shifts, but when things need to be restocked, it took a team.

You use a box cutter to break through packages, pulling out chip bags and candies. You roll them out on a dolly. Plastic wrappers crinkling as you restock shelves, you don’t notice who Eric at the counter is talking to.

But then a pair of glasses peek around the corner. “Hey!”

You smile wide, “Spencer!”

He smiles back, “I was worried when I didn’t see you at the registers.”

“Yeah, they need two of us here when we do inventory,” you shake a bag of doritos before putting it on the shelf. “How was your day?”

He sighs, opening his drink, “Long. Shooting weeks always are.” He tells you about the online comedy group he’s a part of. It was called Smosh.

“Oh, you’ve worn some merch that has that logo on it,” you say, moving a box out of the way.

Spencer nods, “Gotta promote whenever we can.”

“How large is the group?”

“Well, it’s more of an entertainment company. We have a huge production team and a cast. We film content for four different channels.”

“That’s impressive.”

He suddenly dips down to help hand you boxes of candy. “I guess. I think most of LA are internet personalities in one way or another.”

“I’m not,” you say quietly. “It is impressive.”

You learn about his directorial position on one of the channels. Being a head producer, he has a lot of sway on that content. You commend him on the responsibility, and he seems pleased, if not a little embarrassed.

He excuses himself not long after that.

You head towards the registers to restock the candy on the counters. Eric is there giving you a telling smile.

“What are you looking at?” you ask.

The middle-aged man scoffs, “That guy came in with the biggest smile on his face, but then he realized I was the one standing at the counter and he looked so disappointed.”

“I’m sure he was just in need of an energy drink.”

Eric shakes his head, “It wasn’t me that he wanted to see.”

Now in the present, you stand at the counter while Spencer leans against the other side. You had just revealed the fact that you have a boyfriend.

“H-How long have you been together?” he asks with much more nervousness than before.

You scrunch your nose in thought, “About two months. It’s been great though. He gives me rides to work and everything.”

“You don’t have a car?” Spencer asks, paying for his snacks.

You throw the receipt away, “No. I was taking the bus before I met him.” Noticing the awkwardness enter Spencer’s face, you say, “Rough I know. But I manage.”

“It’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, especially because I don’t really make enough to get a car right now.”

“Isn’t that why you have this job on top of the musical theatre stuff?” he offers you a package of your favorite candy.

It makes you smile, “Sure. But rent isn’t helping with my savings. Living paycheck to paycheck.”

“Does Aaron drive you to theatre too?”

Your gaze falls from Spencer’s, eating a piece of candy to give you some time before answering. “No, he’s not a big fan of musicals.”

Spencer scrunches his brow. Unsure of what was stepping over the line with this new friend of his, he tiptoes. “He won’t drive you because he doesn’t like theatre?”

“It’s kind of inconvenient asking him to come get me late after rehearsals. I shouldn’t ask for so much, he’ll think I’m dating him just to have a cab driver.” You snicker at your joke, but Spencer doesn’t seem to think it’s very funny.

He drinks from his can when another customer enters the store. That always meant he would excuse himself so you could get back to your job.

You start to expect Spencer each week. You wait for when you know a filming week was at Smosh. During that time, Spencer would visit for his necessary caffeine. He always stops to talk to you for a few minutes before leaving.

You always feel bad since he normally came in exhausted from work. He denies himself sleep just to spend a few more minutes with you.

It takes a couple more weeks, but he starts to stay even when more customers come in. He just steps to the side and waits for you to ring the customer up.

Then he comes back to continue your conversation.

“So do you prefer acting or production?”

You share the snacks that he’s purchased. “Production, for sure. I kind of developed stage fright a couple years ago. But I do miss being on stage sometimes.”

He looks at you while you talk. He’s an active listener. He zeros in on your face while you speak, ensuring he doesn’t miss anything.

But when he speaks, he tends to look elsewhere. “Did something happen?”

You shrug, “I just get nervous being in the spotlight now. I don’t like the attention much.”

“I get that. I haven’t always loved being on camera. It’s taken finding the right company to do it.”

You nod, “That sounds nice. To be so comfortable in the workplace. And to have everyone there as friends.”

He agrees, “Though a lot of them like to crack jokes about not seeing each other outside of work.” He chuckles as he remembers something. “It’s great being a part of a company where the goal is comedy content. You get to have fun with your friends every day.”

“And you’ve been there for so long,” you say, “You’ve definitely earned your place.”

“Thank you,” he feels warm around the collar, “It’s been hard at times, but well worth it now.”

You suddenly feel a warmth in your cheeks. “You know, um… my show opens next week. If – If you’re interested in seeing it. I’ll be there every night.”

“Helping Edna quick change into her fancy 60s outfit,” he smiles kindly. His eyes are soft and considerate as he watches your nervous gesture. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

You brighten, “Great!”

A week later you’re in the wings of the stage, sweaty with the heat the spotlights generate. A headset adorns your head, microphone near your mouth. You’re readjusting a costume onto a rack from the last quick change.

The last number of the show was currently playing: You Can’t Stop the Beat. You whisper the lyrics and subtly follow along with the choreography.

It was safe to do so with the curtains hiding you from the audience.

You listen to the applause as the cast bows. You imagine them gesturing to the tech booth, acknowledging the production team behind the scenes. You give a little imaginary bow to the audience.

Waiting in the dressing rooms, you help organize the costumes and clean up the makeup counters. Cast members thank you for your help, carrying massive bouquets and presents from the crowd.

You compliment the flowers and give your praise to their performances. It’s forty minutes later, having put the makeup and hairspray away, preening the wigs, and spraying down the character shoes, that you find your purse and head towards the front doors.

Outside on the sidewalk you’re met with an unexpected surprise.

Spencer.

He stands under the white lights of the theatre logo. He adorns his usual rolled up jeans and band t-shirt, denim jacket over it. His curls look extra defined tonight and in his hand are three colorful carnation flowers.

“Spencer? What are you…? I didn’t know you were coming tonight!” You walk towards him and for the first time since meeting him – you hug him.

Arms around his shoulders, smelling his clean, fresh scent. He seems timid to hug you back.

“Well… I did say I would come see the show.”

You shake your head. “I would have come out sooner if I knew you’d be here. I’m so sorry to keep you so long.”

“It’s no problem,” he offers the flowers. “Worth the wait.”

You give a smile, but your face is still regretful, “You shouldn’t have. I wasn’t even on stage.”

“Of course you were,” he says, “Your costumes and wigs and makeup were there.”

You hold the few flowers, completely endeared by him. “Thank you. This is really kind of you. You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, shoving his empty hands into his pockets. “It’s kind of weird seeing you out of uniform. I’ve never seen you out of that polo and black pants.”

“Well, stage crew attire isn’t much different,” you laugh, gesturing to the long sleeve black shirt and leggings. “What did you think of the show?”

“It was excellent,” he says, “It’s such a fun show. I bet you loved teasing those wigs and picking out costumes with those crazy patterns.”

“And the quick changes?”

“I counted like 38 seconds,” he laughs, “That’s super impressive.”

You smile warmly, though the night air had a chill to it. “Thank you for coming, Spencer. It means a lot.”

“Of course,” he steps away, “I’ll see you later.”

You start to walk down the sidewalk, opposite the parking lot. Spencer suddenly has a thought. He runs up to you.

“Wait, how are you getting home?”

“Oh, I walk to the bus stop and take that.”

He looks down at your crossed arms trying to keep you warm. “Aaron really won’t come get you?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience him.” You wave away the look of worry in his face. “I do this every night, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Yeah, but… you shouldn’t have to.”

“Have a good night, Spence.”

You’ve never used a nickname with him before. He huffs a little before following your retreating figure, “Then let me give you a ride.”

You keep walking, “Really, Spence – I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, “But let me help. I want to give you a ride. It’s cold.”

Your fingers feel like ice against your arms. You look in the direction of the bus stop before looking at the pleading in Spencer’s face.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

Relief floods his expression, “Great, this way.”

He guides you to his car and even opens the passenger door for you. It’s a kind gesture that you aren’t used to. He turns on the heater and your seat warmer before exiting the parking lot.

You direct him to your poor excuse of a studio apartment. The pair of you speak pleasantries the entire way. The lighting design of the musical, the strategic sets that move quickly, the realistic prop hairspray, and things like that.

He didn’t notice how you cower in the seat. He thinks it’s just because you’re still cold.

“Is the gas station good about changing your schedule so you can be there on show nights?”

“Yes, they’re so kind about it,” you say, playing with your fingers. It was a nervous habit of yours – pinching, rubbing, and picking at them. “I switch with a usual day shifter.”

Spencer nods, “I – I’ve missed seeing you at our usual time.”

“Our usual time?” you laugh, like your gas station hangouts were scheduled playdates.

He smiles, embarrassed, “Yeah, I mean… your customer service is so excellent. How am I supposed to get a Kickstart when you’re not there?”

“You know there are dozens of other gas stations and convenience stores around here.”

“Yeah, but they don’t have you.”

Something beats loudly in your chest. It sends a waterfall of warm, fizzing fireworks into your stomach.

Your apartment building is in a scary part of LA – but it’s what you can afford. Aaron was hinting at moving in together just for the ease of splitting the rent. It did sound appealing when you could actually save a little for a car.

“Thanks again for the ride,” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.

He looks nervous again, “Anytime. And… maybe we could exchange numbers – in case you need another ride from the theatre?”

You look at him warmly, “I’m not going to ask you to come grab me when you could be in a filming week.”

He shrugs his shoulders, “I would still come.”

With a small smile, you take out your phone and open a new contact. In the name slot you put ‘Glasses.’ Spencer switches your phones and puts his number in.

You smile wider as you put your name in the contact and put a little theatre emoji after it.

“Glasses?” he asks, handing you back your phone.

“Yeah, that’s…” you brush warm fingers with him as you accept your phone. “That’s what I called you when I noticed you as a regular at the gas station. I didn’t know your name, so I gave you one in my head.”

He seems overly please about that. He has to look away from you and smile. “That’s funny, I like it. What would you do if you saw me without glasses? It would be a whole new identify to you.”

“Very Clark Kent of you,” you laugh.

He suddenly removes his gold rimmed glasses and looks at you all serious. “You’re right, during the day I’m fighting crime with the Justice League and at night I refuel at the gas station.”

“Superman refuels with energy drinks?” you laugh, causally reaching over to snatch his glasses. “I don’t know if Krypton would approve.”

“No, no – Kryptonians thrive off extra energy. Sun energy and now caffeine energy.”

His eyes are a dark green-gray color. Maybe that’s just because it’s dark outside. But you can’t decide what color they actually are. They’re definitely not brown.

You raise the glasses to your eyes and look at him. “I didn’t realize Superman was so blind.”

“It’s not that bad,” Spencer laughs, looking at you fondly.

You return the glasses, “Drive safe. Thanks again for the ride. Text me when you get home safely.”

He waves you off, waiting until you’re able to unlock your door before driving away.

Inside your apartment, you look at the chipped walls and cracked ceiling. The musty, uncomfortable couch in front of the small tv atop a table you got free off a lawn. To the right is the tiny kitchen with only one counter and no dining table.

Rummaging through a cabinet, you find a tall plastic cup to put your carnation flowers into.

The bathroom is straight ahead, where you go into to get ready for bed.

The porcelain of the tub and sink have rust stains around the handles. The tile of the floor is broken in places and the dim light above is giving off an ugly yellow glow.

You open the mirror cabinet to grab what you need to brush your teeth. Brand names are all obscure as you did get the supplies from a dollar store down the street.

If you had a little more money, you would buy a face wash and face towels. But the essentials were good enough.

You cross the hall to get to your bed. Being a studio apartment, there isn’t a separate room for your bed. It lies on the floor behind the tv stand and in front of the only window in the whole place.

The queen mattress was the one thing you spent a little more money on. It doesn’t have a headboard or support to keep it off the ground, but it was comfortable and had nice periwinkle blue sheets.

You change into sage green pajamas with little daisies on them, climbing into your bed and fumbling for the phone charger next to the mattress.

As you plug your phone in, a text message comes in from Glasses.

“Just got home. You did amazing tonight! See you later this week.”

You heart his message and give him a thank you in reply.

~~~

The end of the week is approaching and you’re at the theatre again. Headset on, you hang in the tech booth, grabbing a few more safety pins, mic tape, and alcohol wipes.

The oversized fanny pack you love to wear across your chest is open and full of supplies. You stuff the microphone items inside, watching the stage from the view of the booth.

Tracy was beginning the song Welcome to the 60s. You turn on the microphone by your mouth.

“Head to the wings for quick change pretty please.”

A muffled reply comes through the headset, “On the way, (Y/N).”

You leave the tech booth and walk out of the audience room to the side entrance of the wings. Waiting on stage right, you hold Edna’s new dress for the song. Two stage crew members help by holding accessories and waiting to take off Edna’s current costume.

“Go mama, go, go go!”

Edna comes running off to stage right, tossing their purse to the stage crew member. They wiggle out of their simple purple plaid dress and step right into the sparkly pink dress you have waiting open on the floor.

You pull up the fabric as you hear the lyrics continue on stage.

“Don’t let nobody try to steal your fun, ‘cause a little touch of lipstick never hurt no one.

The future’s got a million roads for you to choose, but you’ll walk a little taller in some high-heeled shoes.”

You zip up the dress and readjust the mic pack on the suit strap beneath. Stage crew throws a new necklace on and a sparkle to the lip makeup. The other stage crew snugs a fuller wig onto the actor, starting to pin it down onto the wig cap. You hand a feather boa to the actor and help pin the new wig in.

“Come on out, hear us shout. Mama, that’s your cue!”

Just in time, you think, sending the actor back onto stage. It always felt like a close call, but the audience shouting their surprise and praise always felt like a reward.

You smile at the stage crew members and wave them off to help with set pieces. You then take the old purple plaid costume to the rack to keep it from wrinkling on the floor.

While in the dressing rooms you meet the actress playing Penny Pingleton, “Hey, sis – I noticed your mic tape not sitting so good on your cheek.”

She smiles worriedly, the action making the mic tape unstick from her face and the microphone dangle from her ear. “Just a little.”

You pull out an alcohol wipe and roll of tape from your pack. “There might just be too much makeup in the way.” You wipe the spot where the microphone sits on her cheek, fanning your hand to make the alcohol dry.

Cutting two pieces of tape, you line the microphone and stick it in place. The actress keeps her face straight, letting it adhere.

“Thanks, (Y/N).”

“Anytime.” You leave the dressing room to find the man playing Seaweed. His mic belt kept twisting beneath his costume.

You track him down and use safety pins to secure the mic belt to his undershirt. Now as he dances and changes, the mic pack will stay in place. He shares his gratitude and runs off to the next scene.

The rest of the show goes without a hitch. The audience claps during the bows, and you give your imaginary bow to the curtains.

You begin to clean the dressing rooms when you get a text. From Glasses.

“Hey, I’m at the entrance by the concessions when you’re done in the back.”

A smile creeps onto your face. He saw the show a second time? You text back, “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

You’re quick to clean up and organize the costumes before heading out. The front was still packed with audience members trying to talk and take pictures with the cast members. You push your way towards the concessions table to see Spencer there.

He was wearing a black Creed t-shirt, arms full of silly tattoos on total display. Instead of holding flowers, he’s holding a Diet Coke from the concessions. You grin, falling out of the crowd and into him for a hug.

He catches you and hugs you back. You feel the cold soda against your shirt.

“I can’t believe you came again!” You pull away, eyes shining. You’ve never had someone to meet outside the theatre after a show before.

He extends the drink he got for you. “I told you it was an excellent show. And I wanted to bring a friend to see it too.”

A woman stands beside him, “And he misses seeing you at the gas station every day.”

You miss how Spencer nudges the woman with his elbow. You were too busy recognizing her face.

“Oh my god – oh my fucking god,” you accidentally shake the soda as you wave your hands. “You’re Angela Giarratana!”

Her brown eyes widen ridiculously, “Um… yeah, I am.”

“You were on Nerdy Prudes Must Die!”

A smile replaces the surprise on her face, “Oh, yes! I was in that show last year. You really scared me there for a second.”

Spencer licks his lips, watching the excitement on your face. “I wondered if you’d seen anything from StarKid.”

“Well, I’m a theatre kid, aren’t I?” you say, “I literally have a Hatchetfield Nighthawks letterman jacket. It’s so nice to meet you, Angela. I’m (Y/N).” You lean into a hug and Angela returns it kindly.

“I know, Spencer’s talked about you.” She steps away and compliments the show, “You did a great job with the costume design. Spencer and I were timing the quick changes.”

“I am very proud of those,” you say excitedly. “I’m sorry, I can’t stop smiling. Thank you for coming to our show. How do you know Spencer?”

Angela smacks Spencer’s arm, “We work together. He’s more behind the scenes and I’m more on camera.”

“At Smosh? That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, it’s all right,” she says, looking to Spencer and then laughing. “I gotta be careful or Spencer won’t put me in any of the videos on Games.”

You open your soda, drinking it like you were parched all night. “Are you working on any more theatre projects?”

“Eh, not at the moment,” Angela says, folding her arms. “I’m spending most of my time on Smosh sets.” She eyes you for a second before saying, “Do you have a portfolio by chance?”

“A portfolio?” you ask, wiping your lip of soda. “Of what?”

Angela rubs at her chin, “Sketches of your costume designs or makeup aesthetics. Maybe a performing arts resume. Pictures of your work on stage.”

“Um…” you pull awkwardly on the edge of your shirt. “No, not formally. But I could pull something together.”

“That’d be great. I’d love to see more of your work.”

Spencer looks incredibly pleased with himself, biting on his lips. “Would you let me give you a ride home?”

Your eyes are still shining, flitting your gaze between the two friends. “Um… yeah – that’d be great.”

All of you walk outside the theatre and towards the parking lot. Spencer is quick to open the passenger door for you and you give an awkward thank you.

Angela rolls her eyes and climbs into the back. “He’s such a doofus.” You watch Spencer walk around the hood of the car to get into the drivers side.

“A what?” you laugh.

“Just watch him – you’ll notice sooner or later.”

He climbs in and uses the seatbelt, “Watch who?”

You clear your throat, “Joey Richter. He’s another actor on StarKid Productions. He’s super talented.”

Angela snickers in the back. “What was the first thing you watched on StarKid?”

“A Very Potter Musical,” you laugh, “Way back in the day.”

“Classic,” Angela says, folding her arms and slumping into the seat. “What brought you to LA?”

You play with your fingers. “I wanted to move out of my home state. And I wanted to get more into the arts. But it’s been hard to find stable work.”

“You’re telling me. That’s the life of an actor – just jumping from one gig to another.”

“It would be the dream,” you sigh, “To do this full time. I just wish I had a little more security with it. A stable income. Not to be afraid with how I’ll afford food every month.” You awkwardly laugh as you realize you might’ve said too much. “But I’m doing all right.”

Angela agrees, “It’s hard to do well in the arts.”

“Hard to be recognized,” Spencer says. “(Y/N) already does well in the arts.”

You smile, your cheeks warm. “When is your next filming week?”

“Next week,” Angela sighs, yawning big. “Which reminds me – I gotta pick up that new pair of glasses for the office.”

“Angela is super blind and never wears her glasses during shoots,” Spencer explains. “Especially on the games channel. She’s always squinting super bad at the tv whenever we’re playing a game.”

“And I’ve been doing just fine!” Angela says loudly, “I’ve been training my eyes to see that far.”

Spencer scoffs, “Yeah, and the compilations of you squinting are growing at an exponential rate because of it.”

“Shut up!” Angela yells.

You laugh at their antics. “Are you allowed to yell at your boss like that?”

Spencer looks in the rearview mirror, “Yeah, Angela. As your superior you need to treat me with a high level of respect. I expect a full written apology and a certain amount of groveling before you’re allowed back on the Games set.” His tone was serious, but by the wide comical look in his eye, you know he’s using hyperbole as a joke.

“The heads of Smosh are actually Ian and Anthony, so don’t you even pull that superiority card!”

You keep giggling at this funnier, more outspoken Spencer. Proof that he was very comfortable with this coworker and their workplace.

It sounds nice.

~~~

Angela sits in the passenger seat now, slumped into the door and leaning her forehead against the window.

“She’s really nice.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says quietly, thoughts still lingering on you.

Angela looks over at him and smirks. “You like her so fucking much. I knew you did when you wouldn’t shut up about her at the office, but damn – seeing you with her was nearly painful.”

“What are you talking about? I’m so subtle about it.”

“So you don’t deny it!” she sits up stick straight, so fast that the seatbelt locks into place and stops her from moving anymore.

Spencer flounders, “I – what – no, that’s not what I said!”

“You totally did you little fucker! You like her so much it hurts. You like her so much your cheeks are going to burst into flames. You like her so much you can’t get a full sentence out.”

“Angela, shut the fuck up – you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

She bounces in her seat, “I’m so subtle about it. I can’t believe you. You’ve been talking about this girl for almost a year. Of course you have a crush on her!”

“Angela, I swear to god, don’t ruin this for me.”

“How would I ruin this? I want my little Spencey to have true love. You have to ask her out.”

“Yeah, genius – you’re forgetting about a teensy little detail. She has a fucking boyfriend.”

Angela freezes, sitting back. “Right.” She bites her lip, “Should have made your shot earlier.”

“And risk looking like a creep asking a girl out at a gas station? No thank you.”

“Is you considering her for the production team on Smosh an elaborate way to play the long game with her?”

“No!” Spencer grips the steering wheel, sounding like a bickering sibling. “She has real talent, and I think she deserves the position.”

Angela holds up her hands, “All right, okay.” She side eyes him with raised brows, “… but you wouldn’t be upset if she suddenly became available and you could ask her out?”

He refuses to meet Angela’s eyes. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction by answering that question.”

“You basically just answered it,” she folds her arms, “You know… I can’t promise I can keep this from Amanda. Or Shayne.”

Spencer puts his elbow against the window and holds his temple.

“Or Chanse.”

“I figured.”

Angela gave him a sympathetic smile. “For what it’s worth – I think she has a real shot. We should get her portfolio to Ian and Anthony asap.”

~~~

You’re cleaning the counters at the gas station. It’s nearing the end of your shift, almost 6am. And Spencer hadn’t visited you like he usually did. It was actually making you worried.

You had spent the last few days collecting every piece of art and experience you had to compile a portfolio. It didn’t feel like a very thick folder, but it had every ounce of hard work from the last few years.

It sits within a blue cover under the registers, waiting for Spencer to come.

“Hey!” there he comes through the door. “I’m so sorry, we had an overnight shoot, and I forgot to tell you.”

You look confused, “Spence, you didn’t have any obligation to be here. We didn’t make any plans.”

“I know, but I usually…” he looks flustered and upset. “You know, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

You smile kindly, “It’s okay. I’m not angry.”

He runs a hand through his curly hair, his eyes considering you as you clean. “This early in the morning, we both look exhausted now.”

“Aw, we have matching dark circles under our eyes!” You go under the counter to grab the blue folder. “Here’s that portfolio Angela was asking about. I wasn’t sure how to get it to her, so maybe you could take it to work?”

“Um… yeah, for sure. Thanks.”

The bell above the door rings, signaling the appearance of a new customer. Usually at this point in the mornings, customers would come in for their sustenance before work. You’re focused on Spencer, unaware of the person walking towards you.

“(Y/N), let’s go.”

You turn your eyes around and see Aaron beelining for your counter.

“Oh, hey,” you say quietly, “You’re twenty minutes early.”

“And?”

This man was over six foot, broad shouldered, and unkempt. His eyes are lazy and hard pressed, his jaw tense as you contradict him.

You wring your hands, “I’m not allowed to leave until six.”

“Well, I’m here now. Let’s go.”

“That’s…” you suck in a breath. He smells like stale beer. “Let me clock out and tell my boss.” You round the counter and are quick to enter the back rooms.

Spencer stays where he is, holding the blue portfolio, and looking at Aaron with an air of disdain. It was not the first impression he was expecting when picturing your boyfriend.

“You waiting to buy something?” Aaron asks, frowning at the way Spencer’s looking at him.

“No, I was just…” he swallows. “I was just talking with (Y/N).”

Aaron squints his eyes, hands moving to his hips. “And you know her because?”

“Because we’re friends.”

“(Y/N) doesn’t have any friends.”

“Untrue, because I’m standing right here.”

Aaron flexes his jaw, “She hasn’t mentioned you before.”

“Yes, I have,” you reappear without your nametag and your purse now around your shoulder. “I’ve talked about him a couple times.” You stand beside Spencer and instantly feel the tension.

Aaron extends his hand like he wants to take yours. “If you did talk about him, I would have remembered. We’re leaving.”

You go to hold his hand, but he moves his to grab your arm, pulling you towards the door. You turn your head to mouth, “Sorry,” towards Spencer.

Spencer waves at you, his face placid and upset. He watches out the windows to see Aaron let you go on the sidewalk to get into the car yourself. He slams the car shut, neglecting his seatbelt, and squealing out of the parking lot.

Still upset, Spencer gets into his car and contemplates his next move. His instincts told him that you weren’t completely safe. He wonders if you and Aaron have moved in together yet – he was trying to pull the ‘cheaper rent’ card on that account.

It was blatantly clear that Aaron was gaslighting you. Within three minutes, he was pegged as an asshole.

Spencer pulls out his phone and sends you a text. “Nice seeing you today, hope you get some good sleep.”

He rubs hard at his face before driving off. He plans to show your portfolio to Ian and Anthony tomorrow.

~~~

You’re sitting on the couch, playing on your PlayStation, when someone knocks on the door. Enjoying the day off, you wonder what door-to-door salesman is at your house.

You open the door and a giant smile envelopes your face, “Spencer! You didn’t tell me you were going to visit.”

He take a breath, “Um… yeah, I wanted to ask you something and I couldn’t wait until you were on shift.”

You lean against the doorframe, biting your lip. “Well, I would invite you inside, but I have to warn you… it’s not very nice.”

“I don’t care,” he says matter-of-factly. “I just want to talk.”

“All right,” you say shyly, opening the door wide. You watch his reaction, already feeling embarrassment brewing in your stomach.

Spencer looks around for a second, taking in the minimal furniture and all around lackluster state of the structure. He zeros in on the old tv displaying your video game.

“Are you playing Red Dead Redemption 2?”

“Uh… yeah,” you say quietly, holding yourself and you walk into the living room. “It’s one of my favorites.”

Spencer smiles, finding it amazing to learn something new about you that he loves. “Nice horse.”

You laugh, sitting on the couch and grabbing your controller. Your cowboy character was riding a white horse in the middle of a river. “It’s the White Arabian you have to tame by Lake Isabella.”

“Is that… like the best horse or something?” Spencer comes to sit beside you, sinking into the musty couch.

“It’s the only elite Arabian horse that you can find in the wild.”

Spencer leans against the couch arm, resting his face in one hand. “I didn’t realize you were a gamer.”

“The more you know me, the more of a nerd I become.”

“Nothing wrong with that, you big nerd.”

You giggle, “What did you want to talk about?’

Spencer clears his throat. “I uh… I took your portfolio to work.”

“What did Angela think?”

“She thought it was all great. But um… a few others got a look at it too.” He shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “There’s this job opening on the production team, specifically on the Smosh main channel. But they would help with all the channels.”

You pause the game again and really look at him. “What is the position?”

“An assistant art coordinator. They help the art directors with creating sets, costumes, and character looks.”

“And what are the responsibilities?”

“They’re looking for someone to manage hair and makeup for Smosh skits and any character work on other channels. Most of the cast do it themselves, but we do need someone who specializes in prosthetics makeup. And you seem to have done that a lot in theatre. We also need someone to manage costume work – the upkeep of them.”

You swallow hard, arms slowly moving to hold yourself. “Do you know what the salary is?”

“I think it’s around 50k-60k. You’ll make between $24 - $28 an hour.”

You bite your cheek. “That’s great.” You look at your surroundings. This new job would be paying you over $10 more than you’re getting now. “Are you saying Smosh is interested in interviewing me for assistant art coordinator?”

Spencer nods his head. “That is basically what I’m saying.”

“Did you show your bosses my portfolio on purpose?” You lower your eyes but look at him through your lashes.

He takes a deep breath, stretching out on the couch. “Maybe. Maybe I thought you deserved a chance.” He looks at you seriously, “I think you’ve got some real talent, (Y/N). You should go for an interview.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll do it.”

You look at him, “I’m suddenly super nervous.” A laugh escapes you, “I… I have to talk to Aaron about it.”

“Okay,” Spencer says with an edge. He tries to be respectful. “Have you two…”

“We’ve moved in together,” you say softly. “To make bills a little easier. And… and as a trial run, I guess. I’ll be able to save up for a car now.”

Spencer has a finger on the corner of his mouth. “Do you think you could make an interview this Thursday?”

You think for a second, “I’m sure Aaron would be okay with that. I’ll just talk to him about it tonight.”

He doesn’t seem happy about that statement. But instead of saying something he might regret, he points to the PlayStation. “Have you completed this game before?”

“Oh, yeah – maybe three times,” you pick up the controller again. “This time I’m trying to complete all of the side quests before finishing the main story.”

“You should be wearing a cowboy hat while playing.”

“That would be awesome,” you laugh. You look at him with sincerity, “Thank you for looking out for me, Spence. I appreciate the chance.”

He gives a close-lipped smile. “Always.”

~~~

You step off the bus and begin to walk down the street. Using your phone, you follow the directions that Spencer gave you.

The Smosh office was right around the corner.

You enter the building, pulling on the only pair of dress pants you own. You readjust the simple blouse to show off the single diamond necklace you wear around your neck. You hope it gives you a professional first impression.

The main entrance of the building shows a little receptionist desk and plush chairs to wait in. You advance the desk while noticing behind it are many tables and folding chairs – probably for lunches.

“Hello, how are you?” a nice lady at the desk says.

You wave shakily, “I’m good. I’m here for an interview with Mr. Hecox and Mr. Padilla.”

She seems to find you saying their surnames comical judging by the little smile on her face. But she gestures to the plush armchairs behind you. “Sure, just wait there and I’ll call them.”

You turn around and notice that behind the chairs is a large window showing a large kitchen. The lunch tables and folding chairs makes more sense.

“Thank you,” you say, looking down at the name plate, “Selina.” You sit down and holding your famously large fanny pack in your lap. It gives you something to hold with your fidgeting hands.

Now sitting, you can see the wide windows behind Selina’s desk. There’s a long conference table in there with a television and speakers on a stand. There’s a phone speaker in the middle of the table for any people that are being called in remotely.

Behind the conference table is a little sitting area with a couch and armchair. A couple tables and folding chairs are in the rest of the open space. It’s probably a big room for any meetings with teams or big groups of people.

“(Y/N) Bennett?” someone asks. You jump and stand to see two men coming around the corner.

One is taller with dark, wavy styled hair, a nose ring, and cool tattoos spidering up his neck. He has a great smile and just radiates a natural energy you like.

The other is slightly shorter with brown hair in a classic cut. He has a scruffy beard and black square glasses. He gives very much dad energy with how he’s dressed.

“Yes,” you say rather breathlessly. “I’m (Y/N) Bennett.”

“I’m Anthony,” the taller says, “And this is Ian.”

You shake hands with them, Ian gesturing to the conference room. “We’ll meet in here.”

The three of you walk into the room and take seats around the long table. “It’s nice to meet you,” you say quietly, “Thank you for offering me an interview.”

“For sure,” Anthony says, leaning forward in his chair. Ian sits and immediately starts spinning back and forth. “We saw your portfolio and were really impressed with your work.”

“Thank you,” you say eagerly.

Ian clears his throat, “Could you tell us a little bit about yourself?”

“Well, I’m living here with my boyfriend. I’ve lived here for about two years. Before that I was in Nevada, just outside of Vegas. My family is still there,” you say quietly. “I’ve been a theatre and fine arts student all my life. I’ve been doing community and school productions since second grade. I have experience in both stage acting and in tech behind the scenes.”

“Which do you prefer?” Anthony asks.

You hold onto your fanny pack, “Right now, probably tech. I really enjoy designing costumes and putting characters together. Sometimes I do miss acting though.”

“What do you enjoy about art design?” Ian questions.

You focus on his chair spinning back and forth. “I’m a fan of storytelling. I think one of the greatest talents a person can have is in telling a story, no matter the platform. If I can be a part of that process, I’d enjoy every second. I want to show the story in costumes, hair, and makeup. It’s the most expressive way to describe a person or character.”

“Well said,” Anthony nods. “How would you manage a set when coordinating those things?”

“I would need to see the costume closet to know how to care for it. Organization is key, ensuring you don’t lose any pieces. You’d need a costume rack on set and some essentials, like safety pins, apparel tape, a lint roller, things like that. Makeup vanities will need to be disinfected and cleaned after use, brushes clean and organized. Prosthetics and stage makeup would need to be cared for to make sure we don’t share any germs and possible infections. The same goes for any hair and wig essentials.”

Ian seems a little lost in your explanation, just impressed that you were on top of it. “You have a fine arts degree, is that right?”

You nod, voice still quiet with the nerves. “That’s right. I got a bachelor’s in fine arts at Utah Tech University in St. George, Utah.”

“Is that close to where you’re from in Nevada?” Anthony asks.

You smile, “Yeah, it’s just over an hour away. It has a well known outdoor theatre called the Tuacahn Amphitheatre. I helped with a few tech things during summer shows. And then I acted at the college.”

“What shows did you act in?” Anthony asks further.

You play with your fingers. “We did Footloose, Addams Family, The Drowsy Chaperone, Elf: The Musical, Measure for Measure, and Much Ado About Nothing.”

Anthony whistles, “You did Shakespeare?”

“I love Shakespeare,” you say. “Much Ado About Nothing is my favorite play.”

“You are a major theatre kid,” Ian says, “Why don’t you act anymore?”

You squeeze your fanny pack, “I’ve gotten a little camera shy the last couple years. I prefer helping with quick changes and fixing any mic tape mishaps.”

You take a turn asking some questions about their art department and typical filming schedule. You learn about their expectations for the job and what the salary would be. It was exactly as Spencer had said.

Ian and Anthony share a look with each other before leaning forward. Anthony looks at you kindly, “Would you mind if we conference for a minute? We want to give you an answer today.”

You widen your eyes, “Yeah, of course. Thank you.”

The pair stand and excuse themselves to discuss things outside the room. You’re left in the swivel chair, picking at your fingers and praying that the interview went well. It would be incredible to be given a job that grants you the security and stable income you wanted.

There was a chance to have friends here. Spencer and Angela would be here. You would be storytelling in little comedy sketches. You’d be a part of a team that designed characters. You’d be in charge of ensuring faces weren’t shiny on camera, hair was in place, and clothes looked good.

This could be a home for you.

It takes almost ten minutes for Ian and Anthony to return. They come back with two others that are introduced as Cassie and Erin. They are art director and assistant art director for all productions.

You would be working beneath them should you be offered the position.

More questions are asked by the newcomers, and you find them to be very kind and artistic like yourself. You agree on many fronts, having many things in common. You would be happy to be working in their department.

Ian and Anthony both have smiles on their faces when they say:

“(Y/N), we want to formally offer you the position of assistant art coordinator. Responsible for hair and makeup, and the costumes of the cast. You’ll be our main reference for any special effects makeup and prosthetics. And you’ll help coordinate for all four channels.”

Tears start to form in your eyes. “Really?”

Cassie and Erin had faces full of sympathy. Cassie was covering her face with her hands. Erin was folding their arms and smiling.

Ian was standing their awkwardly, looking at your emotional reaction, but Anthony was quicker to ask. “Is that a yes?”

You laugh tearily, “Yes! Yes, I’d love to take the position. Thank you guys so much. I’m so excited – I don’t know what to say other than thank you.”

They all clap momentarily, Ian announcing, “Then we should call everyone to the lunchroom and make introductions.”

“We’ll have Selina bring up contracts to sign,” Anthony says, gesturing to the door. “You want to follow us?”

You nod enthusiastically, shaking hands with everyone on the way out. There are lots of thank yous and congratulations.

Cassie, Erin, and Ian go to round up cast and crew to the lunch tables you spotted earlier. Anthony goes to speak with Selina at the receptionist desk.

You exit the conference room, wiping tears away and clutching your fanny pack.

Spencer was there, pacing by the plush armchairs you sat in earlier. He has his arms crossed, one hand at his mouth, tracing his lips in a nervous gesture.

At your arrival, his head whips to you, eyes wide at the tears running down your face. He looks so afraid, unsure of how the interview went. But he might’ve misinterpreted your tears.

“(Y/N),” he says softly, “What… what did they say?”

He didn’t even notice the other people gathering at the lunch tables.

You walk towards him, still trying to wipe at your face, “Spence.”

He wants to hug you desperately then. He wants to comfort you. And he wants to hurt whoever decided to make you cry.

You throw your arms around his neck, burying your face there. He holds you back, still at a loss as to what the final verdict was.

“(Y/N)!” you hear Anthony, “Get over here!”

Spencer still holds you as you whisper to him, “I got the job.”

He pulls away and holds your waist, “What?”

“I got the job,” you whisper more excitedly. “They’re about to announce it to everyone.” You flounce away to stand at a counter with a few mini fridges, addressing a group of cast and crew. You notice Angela standing in the crowd.

She gives you two thumbs up and you wave back.

Spencer walks over just as Ian begins to talk.

“Hey, guys! We wanted to introduce our newest member of Smosh. This is (Y/N) Bennett!”

Anthony continues, “She will be working in the art department as an assistant art coordinator. She’ll be our head of character design and management of costumes, hair, and makeup.”

The crowd begins clapping and shouting their congratulations. Spencer joins them, standing next to Angela and a few others.

Unbeknownst to the pair of you, some cast and crew were sharing looks. People you hadn’t met yet were winking at each other. They knew full well how much Spencer wanted you to get this job.

You wave at everyone, “Hello! I’m so excited to meet you all and start working on these projects.”

Everyone breaks apart to introduce themselves.

Angela brings over a number of people, “Hey, (Y/N).” She says, “Here are some of our castmates.”

A tall woman in a beautiful jumpsuit says, “I’m Amanda, welcome to the Smosh family.”

“I’m Shayne,” a fit blonde man shakes your hand, “And this is Courtney.”

“Hi,” a blonde woman then shakes your hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Angela sticks her head in, “Those two are married.”

You nod, giggling, “Wonderful.”

“I’m Chanse,” a curly haired man says, giving you a hug, “Welcome to the team.”

A tall man with a great mustache waves, “I’m Tommy!”

“Hi!” you say, “It might take me a while to remember all your names. Thank you for being so welcoming. I’m so excited to start.”

“Spencer’s told us a lot about you,” Amanda says with a cheeky smile.

You look toward Spencer’s rosy face. “All good things, I hope.”

“Oh, definitely,” Shayne laughs, “He has nothing but praise for you.”

Spencer ignores the immediate retort that the single worst thing about you is your boyfriend. “You guys need to calm down.”

“Can we give you a tour?” Amanda asks, taking your arm, “The office has a lot of sets and rooms.”

Courtney appears on your other side, “We can show you the art department and the costumes closet!”

“And the makeup vanities,” Chanse says, already leading the way, “There are a couple by the sets, but there is one in the green room where Angela takes her naps.”

“Hey!” Angela instantly retorts, “Hey, hey, hey… uncalled for!”

Amanda scoffs, “But true.”

Angela snorts, “Yeah, sure.”

You are dragged away by Amanda and Courtney, Chanse and Angela still bickering along the way.

Spencer stays where he is with Shayne. The latter having a very knowing smirk on his face. Spencer ignores him as long as he can.

“Have you ever been told that you shouldn’t make faces because you’ll be stuck that way?”

Shayne chortles, “I’m just curious how you feel about this.”

“Clearly you already have a theory.”

“I do, based purely on the last eleven months of you pining over this girl.”

“I am incapable of pining.”

Shayne wheezes, “Yeah, sure. What do you call bringing up (Y/N) whenever possible, talking through ways to introduce yourself to her, workshopping conversations with me to get to know her…”

“All of those things were in confidence.”

“And all blatant examples of pining over a woman you’ve grown attached to!”

Spencer licks his lips, watching you being dragged by Angela towards the pods of employee desks. “I don’t… I can’t do anything about it now.”

“I’ve never seen you like this, man,” Shayne chortles. “It’s kind of throwing me off right now. You don’t talk about girls much.”

“The dating apps have been seriously lacking the last year.”

“Because you’ve been talking up some chick at the gas station,” Shayne laughs again. “I have to commend you for playing the long game.”

Spencer shakes his head, “I have to be fine with being just friends.”

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to be your best friend.

#spencer agnew x reader #spencer agnew fanfiction #spencer agnew smosh #spencer agnew #spencer agnew imagine #smosh games #smosh fandom #smosh au #smosh x reader #smosh pit #smosh #okayjhannah #fandomfantasia

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hotcheetohatredwastaken · 11 months ago

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LU Headcanon #1

In Wild’s era, it is common etiquette to leave a bite of food on your plate to signal that you’re done and satisfied with your meal—if you finish your whole plate, you obviously are still hungry, and you need another serving. With a group of travelers around a cooking pot on the road (with many of them contributing to the pot as well), it makes sense that everyone should get as much as they want, because the cook will always make an effort to ensure there will be more to go around and lots of leftovers afterwards. The people of Wild’s era pride themselves on fiercely taking care of taking care of one another, even a stranger they’ll never meet again, and to do that they can ensure they have a full belly and a happy heart for the road ahead.

Some of the other heroes (Hyrule, Twilight maybe or Warrior or Wind) instead come from a culture where not finishing one’s plate is extremely, extremely rude and ungrateful. Food is a precious commodity, nevermind hot, just prepared food—to leave a single scrap of food on your plate for any other reason that it was poisoned would be a slap in the face to the cook that has spent so much time and effort to prepare the meal. To deny any offered food would amount to a similar crime.

Anyways. This is how I imagine their first few days going, before they realize they’re having a communication issue:

Wild, tapping away at his Slate: wow, these guys really are hungry! I better up the portions, I was hoping for leftovers but they’re eating enough to feed a group three times their size! I wonder if next time I should… Twilight: (slumped over) wow that new guy sure likes to cook, huh? Wind: Ough *burp* I’m so full.... Warrior: you don’t say? I feel like a pig fattened for the slaughter Hyrule: (face down on the ground in a food coma) ……. ……. …… Time: (hesitantly) you know, you boys can just say no when he offers you another serving… The others, in panicked unison: NO Warrior: (scoffing) Hylia, Time, who raised you?

Anyways. General hilarity ensues until they figure out the miscommunication that, no, an empty plate doesn't mean Wild should silently pile it with more food. Discuss.

#cheetotalks #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu #cheetowrites #lu headcanons #linked universe headcanons #Wild linked universe

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p0orbaby · 11 months ago

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Far Too Gone for a Tuesday

summary: maybe you like jealous leah

warnings: jealousy obvs, some steamy stuff but nothing graphic

a/n: all thanks to this request !

word count: 1.4k

The evening air bubbles with the hum of laughter and conversation, lights casting a warm glow across the garden where you stand, half-listening to someone drone on about their latest holiday. You’re at one of those events, the kind you attend out of obligation more than desire.

A sprawling affair hosted by someone with too much money and too little sense. The atmosphere is as bloated and gaudy as the host's ego, with silk-draped tables groaning under the weight of excessive floral arrangements and waitstaff circulating with trays of canapés so pretentious you can hardly even pronounce the ingredients.

Leah’s somewhere nearby, you know that much. You spotted her a few minutes ago, deep in conversation with a couple of her teammates. Your eyes flick over to her now and then, a subconscious tether that keeps pulling you back.

The sight of her, standing tall and confident, is a small comfort in the swirl of pretension and forced smiles. She’s laughing at something, her head tilted back slightly, the elegant line of her throat catching the light. It’s a beautiful sight, and you wish you were over there with her instead of enduring the banal chatter of your current company.

“-and the water was just so blue, you wouldn’t believe it,” the man in front of you says, leaning in closer. Too close. You can smell the faint trace of whiskey on his breath, mingling with a cologne that’s a bit too strong. His eyes are on you, intent, and there’s a smirk playing on his lips that makes your skin crawl.

He’s the type of man who thinks his wealth and status entitle him to anything, or anyone, he desires. His gaze is an inventory, cataloging parts of you as if you’re a commodity. Something he can pursue.

You laugh, a little too brightly, taking a half-step back. “Sounds amazing,” you say, hoping the conversation will fizzle out soon. But he doesn’t take the hint. His smirk widens, mistaking your politeness for interest.

“You know,” he says, lowering his voice, “I could take you there sometime. Show you the sights.” His hand hovers near your arm, fingers itching to close the gap, to claim territory he assumes is up for grabs. There’s a calculated sleaze in his tone, the kind that comes from too many years of getting what he wants.

You glance around, looking for an escape. And that’s when you see her. Leah’s eyes are on you, and there’s a hardness there that makes your breath catch. She’s seen the whole thing, and she’s not pleased. The muscles in her jaw are tight, and her posture has shifted, less casual now, coiled and ready.

Before you can react, she’s striding over, her movements purposeful and confident. The man is still talking, oblivious to the storm heading his way. Leah’s presence is practically a force field as she steps into the space between you and the man with a possessiveness that’s both protective and territorial.

“Hey,” Leah says, her voice cool but with an edge sharp enough to cut. She slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. Her touch is possessive, grounding. “Everything alright here?” Her eyes never leave the man’s face, daring him to challenge her claim.

The man blinks, taken aback. He looks between the two of you, a frown forming. “Yeah, we were just talking.” His bravado falters in the face of Leah’s unyielding stare.

Leah’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Were you?” she asks, her tone leaving no room for doubt about what she thinks of that. “Because it looked like you were doing more than just talking.” Her fingers press into your side, a silent reassurance and a clear signal of ownership.

There’s a moment of tense silence, and you can almost feel the heat of Leah’s anger radiating off her. The man finally seems to get the message, raising his hands in embarrassed surrender. “No harm meant,” he mutters before slinking away, his earlier confidence thoroughly deflated.

Leah’s arm stays around you, her grip firm. “Let’s get out of here,” she says, her voice softening only for you. You nod, relieved, and let her lead you through the crowd. As you walk away, you feel the weight of her possessiveness, a comforting anchor in the midst of the evening’s shallow frivolities.

The drive home is quiet, the air thick with unspoken tension. Leah’s fingers drum against the steering wheel, her jaw set. Her knuckles are white, gripping the wheel as if it’s the only thing keeping her from blowing her top. The dim glow of passing street lights illuminates her face in fleeting intervals, casting ridged shadows that highlight the building fire in her eyes.

You glance at her, a hefty combination of guilt and gratitude swirling in your chest. You didn’t ask for the attention, but you can’t deny that part of you is glad for Leah’s reaction. It’s a reminder of the intensity of her feelings for you, a silent declaration of how fiercely she cares.

Outside, the city slips by, a blur of lights and dark shapes. Inside the car, the silence is almost oppressive, filled with the things neither of you are saying. Leah’s jaw ticks, a muscle jumping in the tightness of her clenched teeth. Her eyes remain fixed on the road, but you can feel the storm brewing beneath her calm exterior. You reach out, a tentative touch on her arm, and she softens, just a fraction, a silent acknowledgment of your presence.

As soon as you’re inside, the door barely clicks shut before Leah’s on you, her hands cupping your face, her lips crashing onto yours with a desperate hunger. It’s a kiss that’s both an apology and a reminder, an outlet for the emotions she’s been holding back. You kiss back, matching her pace, your hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing to feel her against you.

“Mine,” she mutters against your lips, and it’s not a question. It’s a declaration, a statement of fact that brooks no argument. You nod, breathless, feeling the possessiveness in the way she touches you, the way she consumes you. Her kisses trail down your neck, teeth grazing your skin, marking you in a way that sends shivers down your spine. It’s primal, instinctual, a need to brand you as hers.

She pulls back, just enough to look into your eyes, her own dark with desire and something more primal. “You’re mine,” she repeats, her voice a low growl. You nod again, unable to form words, lost in the heat of her gaze. There’s a fierceness there, a raw intensity that both thrills and terrifies you.

The night becomes a blur of sensations, Leah’s hands and lips everywhere, a constant reminder of her claim on you. She’s relentless, her jealousy fueling a passion that leaves you breathless and wanting more. Every touch, every kiss is a promise, a reaffirmation of what you mean to her. Her hands are possessive, her touch demanding, and you respond in kind, giving yourself over to her completely.

She presses you against the wall, then a door, then the mattress. Her hands sliding under your shirt, fingertips skimming over your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You arch into her touch, needing more, needing her. Her lips find yours again, and it’s a clash of teeth and tongues, a desperate strife over authority that she wins effortlessly.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breathing heavy. Leah’s arms are around you, holding you close, as if she’s afraid to let go. You nestle into her, feeling the steady beat of her heart beneath your cheek. It’s a soothing rhythm, a reminder that she’s here, that she’s yours.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, her voice rough with emotion. “I just… I couldn’t stand seeing him all over you like that.” There’s vulnerability in her words, a raw honesty that makes your heart ache.

You lift your head to meet her eyes, your fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “Don’t be sorry,” you say softly. “I’m yours, Leah. Only yours.” You mean it, every word, and you hope she can see the truth in your eyes.

She nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Good,” she says, pulling you even closer. “Because I’m never letting you go.” There’s a promise in her words, a vow that you know she’ll keep.

And you believe her.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine

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reality-detective · 4 months ago

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POSSIBLE TIMING:

· In 2016 it was confirmed that the Military would be in charge of a transition from the privately owned by private bankers US Inc. to the Republic for the United States of America through passage of the Military Justice Act of 2016, which states: 1. Military law surpasses civilian. 2. President and Commander-in-Chief are separate. 3. Military rules above federal government. The military leads this transition.

· In 2020 President Trump had 650 plane loads of US Taxpayer’s owned gold removed from the Vatican. The 1871 Corporation Act (of the privately owned by foreign bankers US Inc.) was dissolved in 2020. The gold was not placed in the privately owned by foreign bankers US Inc. Treasury at Fort Knox, but President Trump had it taken to it’s rightful owners – the new Republic for the United States of America Treasury located on an Indian Reservation near Reno Nevada.

· In 2020 when Trump took over that gold and the Federal Reserve, it ended the power of Israel, Ukraine, and the Khazarian Mafia. Putin was also helping to end that power. Ukraine was the Khazarian Mafia’s base for child trafficking. Putin’s moves crushed their operations and saved hundreds of children.

· In 2020 Trump ended the Illuminati power by taking over the Fed.

· 31 Oct. 2023 marks the expiration of the State of Israel. Dual-citizen politicians lose power. The Rothschild Empire begins to collapse.

· “On Sun. 16 Feb. the Iraqi budget was ratified and was expected to be published in the Gazette on Mon. 17 Feb, along with Kurdistan resuming oil exports through Somo and Kash Patel becoming the 17th confirmation on a drop dead Q Drop Feb. 17 that has to be a blunt ‘Game Over’ Q Drop (3872).”

· On 31 Oct. 2024 the Charter for the State of Israel, the Cabal’s last holdout, expired and now faces collapse. Dual-citizen politicians of the US and Israel has lost their power. The foreign banker Rothschild control over the US Taxpayer Dollar has been shattered.

· Mon. 17 Feb. 2025: The Trial for the Crimes Against Humanity has begun. The experimental spike protein jab rollout is in violation of all 10 Sections of the Nuremberg Code.

· The Global Military Alliance has confirmed that Mass Arrests were in progress and Trump has given the Green Light for the Emergency Broadcast System to be activated.

· On Thurs. 30 Jan. 2025 the privately owned Fed and IRS officially dropped dead – when the US Treasury withdrew from the Cabal’s Bankrupt Central Banks across the World. President Trump has said he will replace the IRS with the ERS (External Revenue Service) where taxation on goods will replace taxation on The People and their income.

· Since Friday 3 Feb. 2025 all Basel 4 Compliant banks have gone public with the new Gold / Commodity-backed currency International Rates as required by the GESARA Law. This is the Re-evaluation of all the global currencies (meaning the global currency reset).

· Tues. 11 Feb. 2025 Official Notification: Leaders in the Global Currency Reset received signal payments authorized by the Quantum Network

· This week the Quantum Financial System was said to be fully operational for completion of that Global Currency Reset.

· The use of the FIAT US Dollar will be used for up to 90 days Feb. / March / April parallel with the new United States Note (USN), they may cut it off by April 30th or soon thereafter. 🤔

- Julian Assange

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nevadancitizen · 1 year ago

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-> CH. 1: A SILENT DOG & STILL WATERS

synopsis: the soviet union has been producing robots for a long time based on a miracle compound: polymer. but that was invented in 1941. the current year is 2038, and, due to rising tensions in the arctic, americans aren't as kind to soviets as they once were. it's too bad you're a russki, and it's really too bad that you work in cybersecurity. and honestly, with the case fowler has put you on, you're at risk of losing your job. it doesn't help that you're stuck with lieutenant hank anderson and some new android apparently called connor.

word count: 2.6k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: based on an au i literally had a dream about. it's basically d:bh with elements of atomic heart :P this ch. is half exposition and half hank being an alcoholic lolololol

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

The Soviet Union had always been very good at spying on and stealing American technology. They did so with the atomic bomb, the B-29 superfortress, and the space shuttle – with no lack of effort on America’s side of trying to keep them secret.

But one thing set the USSR above the rest: polymer. A miracle compound that formed the backbone for every technological evolution that came after. It mimics a human neuron, including its ability to interpret input signals. With tinkering from top Soviet scientists (and a whole lot of luck), a gigantic neural network was established, the maximum computing power of which was orders of magnitude higher than the power of a conventional network.

With polymer, the Soviets reigned supreme as the only real international superpower. The other countries could play at being powerful, but the USSR was top dog – and she wasn’t keen on letting the others forget.

But that was in the past. And the past is boring. That was in 1941, and something you learn about in history class. Polymer is now regularly sold and traded and built upon and shared. After the Cold War ended, it was expanded outwards and is no longer a precious commodity. It was even needed to build a modern technology – androids. Ones that could pass the Turing test, unlike the TER-A1 Tereshkova (which was a human-looking robot, sure, but one that had an unsettling, unmoving mask for a face).

And androids are simply better than Soviet bots. They’re versatile and able to be mass-produced without specialization development. They’re not big and clunky like the chimpanzee-esque MA-9 Belyash and can still accomplish the same installation, plumbing, and welding work. They can do the same agricultural work an ARU-31/6 Rotorobot can do without the risk of accidentally endangering humans while in use.

Again, they’re simply better. In the current year of 2038, American androids just trump similar Soviet tech in every way.

But that doesn’t mean that the Soviets aren’t still trying. They’ve invaded the Arctic with intent to claim the land, heavy with NA-T256 Natasha bots and the claim that the “heavy-duty ground-based loader bots can squeeze up to five liters of blood from a human body in under twenty seconds,” as a deterrent to American forces.

And this action has made your workplace a hell away from home.

Even though you immigrated from Chelomey, Russia to Detroit, Michigan in 2027, before all this business went down, people still eyed you warily – like you secretly enjoyed living under communism and the ever-watching eye of the Kremlin. Like you were just itching to get your grubby little paws on American secrets so you could report them to Comrade Molotov and a beautiful girl back home called Katya. Yeah, right.

These small, under-the-breath and glance-of-the-eye accusations weren’t helped by your current occupation: as a screen jockey for the Head of Cybersecurity of the Detroit Police. They acted like you hadn’t worked just as hard as everyone else for your position – for your polymer glove and the privileges that came with it.

Polymer gloves have come a long way from their prototype in 1955. They’re a single fingerless glove – one glove, as a person doesn’t need two – with an adjustable wrist strap. In the middle of the palm is a small silver star that can retract to expose prehensile, tentacle-like wires that can interface with terminals and other technology.

But it doesn’t stop there – with a single gesture (holding your hand out and making an “L” shape) the glove can scan the surroundings of the user. Paired with an artificial polymer retina, the user can have information about the environment that they otherwise wouldn’t have.

And, of course, you’re outfitted with the top versions of both – on the precinct’s credit card, obviously.

But, again, you’re just a screen jockey. One of the best, but still just a worker bee that reports to a higher-up. There’s little to no interaction with the other departments, as cybersecurity is mostly isolated without any related crimes. Maybe cyberterrorism, but cases of that are few and far between.

And you thought that’s all you’d ever be until you heard Fowler’s bellowing voice call your last name.

When you pop your head up from behind your terminal, you see him standing halfway through the glass door to his office. You swallow and trot over, a nervous idea tickling the back of your mind. Is he mad? Did you do something wrong? Shit… did you accidentally leak something?

You push open Fowler’s door and slowly shut it behind you. He’s sitting behind his desk, stark against the blue-grey backdrop of the wall behind him. His constantly furrowed brow and permanent frown lighten a little when he sees you.

You fold your hands behind your back politely. “Yes, sir?”

Fowler gestures to the seat in front of his desk. “Go ahead and take a seat.”

Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. You definitely did something wrong.

You walk over and sit in the chair. It screeches with a horrible sound.

You lean back in the chair and cross your arms. “What is this about, sir?”

Fowler leans back in his chair and drags a hand down his face. Immediately, the worst things pop into your head. You fight the urge to worry your bottom lip.

“You have experience with androids, yes?” Fowler asks, but it doesn’t sound like a question – rather, a statement.

“Yes, sir.” You nod.

“And you have experience with Lieutenant Hank Anderson?”

Your eyebrows furrow a little, but you still nod. “Yes, sir.”

Fowler turns to his terminal. “How do you feel about him?”

You bite your bottom lip as you think, then let it slip from your teeth. “I don’t know what you want me to say. He’s my friend. He is still a valuable member of the force, even if he has presented a few problems in the past couple of years.”

Fowler laughs. “A few?”

“Ah…” You smile, but it’s a bit forced. “More than a few. A lot. More problems than solutions, if I’m being honest.”

“That’s just how it goes sometimes.” He shrugs and sighs. “Do you know about the new case he’s been assigned?”

“Yes, sir,” you say. “He won’t shut up about it.”

He hums and leans forward, resting his chin on folded hands. “Always one for discretion, that one.”

You duck your head, instead looking down at your lap. “Yeah. But I think he can do better – be the cop he was before.”

“An optimistic Soviet.” Fowler laughs lowly. “That’s a new one.”

You just clench your jaw and meet his eyes. “What is this about? If you’ve called me in just to poke fun at me and gossip about Hank, I’d like to go back to my desk. Uh, sir.”

“No, no.” He holds a hand up. “Tell me what you’ve heard about Hank’s case.”

You think for a second. “Deviant androids murdering their owners. It sounds like it would’ve been labeled self-defense if it was a human-on-human crime, but…” you shrug. “I’m not in Homicide. I’m in Cybersecurity.”

“Well, you’re getting some experience.” Fowler pulls a cord from his terminal, one you recognize as a port compatible with a polymer glove. “You’re on the case.”

“I’m on the case?!” You repeat in disbelief. “Sir, I – I don’t –”

He holds up a hand for the second time. “I don’t want to hear it. You’re the best screen jockey with the most field experience I can spare.”

He gestures with the cord still in his hand. “Now, c’mon. Jack in and download the files.”

You swallow your objections and outstretch your gloved left hand. The thin metal of the star retracts, and the prehensile wires extend towards the port, waving like blades of grass. The ends of all six find their homes in the port, still wiggling like black tapeworms.

Documents appear in the corner of your eye, one after another, like pop-up ads. You blink hard to dismiss them, then disconnect.

Fowler feeds the cord back into his terminal, then leans back in his chair.

He looks over at you. “What’s that one saying you Soviets say? Something about champagne.”

You look up at him, then down to your glove. The star retracts, then goes back to its original position, like it was winking at you. “He who doesn’t take risks won’t drink champagne.”

“Well, I hope you have a taste for harder liquor,” Fowler says. “Hank’s at having a drink somewhere nearby. Go find him.”

And Lord, did you know right where to find Hank.

On the door to Jimmy’s Bar is a firm warning, reading: NO ANDROIDS ALLOWED – OWNERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. You just hope that they don’t extend the same kindness to russkis.

When you open the door, everyone in the bar turns to look at you. You nod and, once they see who you are, turn back to their conversations or nursing their drinks.

You spot Hank at the bar with what looks like a Tennessee whiskey. You sidle up onto the barstool next to him, easing into the creaky seat. As you drape your rain-speckled coat on the back of the chair, you glance at the clock on the wall. It reads just before twenty past eleven.

“Bartender?” You call. Your thick accent immediately catches his attention, and so does the money you slide onto the bartop. “Vodka, please.”

The bartender, presumably Jimmy, picks up a bottle of Stolichnaya from the shelving behind him. “This good?”

You nod. “More than good.”

He pours vodka into a tumbler glass, then pushes it across the bar. You accept it readily, and the tiny sip you take gives your throat a nice burn on the way down.

“A Soviet and vodka,” Hank mumbles against the lip of his glass. “Like a moth to a flame.”

“It’s what my mother served with dinner,” you say. “I’m just glad Jimmy’s got enough sense not to keep us from his bar.”

Hank chuckles and raises his glass to that.

“Fowler’s gone beyond the pale.” You sip at your drink. “Have you heard?”

“Yup.” He sighs, setting his drink on the bartop harder than necessary. “Don’t know why a kid like you has business with an old timer like me.”

“Oh, believe me,” you say, your voice heavy with sarcasm. “It’s nice to visit, but it’s better to be home. I don’t know what he’s thinking. A Cybersecurity worker partnering up with someone in Homicide? Next, we’ll have androids doing our thinking and philosophy instead of our laundry and dishes.”

Hank snorts into his drink. “Hell, with all these runaways? They might as well be.”

“I mean, I can see his line of thinking.” You swirl the vodka in your glass, watching the way it catches and reflects the low light of the bar. “Cybersecurity, androids… makes sense, but me? A russki? With all that’s happening in the Arctic? If we don’t do well, my job is on the line.”

Hank sips his whiskey. “It really sounds like Fowler’s settin’ you up to fail.”

“Setting us both up to fail.” You correct and mirror him, sipping at your vodka.

The sound of the door opening and the rain outside cuts into your conversation. Nothing you’d usually take a glance at, but what puts you off is the sudden silence of the bar. Bars shouldn’t be silent – especially not Jimmy’s.

You look over your left shoulder and see a nice looking man that’s just walked through the door. He looks a bit dorky, sure, and a bit like a lost puppy dog, but that could look nice on certain guys. And the asymmetrical tuft of loose hair that’s escaped his hair gel looks –

There’s a blue triangle just above where his left breast pocket would be. On the other side of his blazer reads RK800 in even, white text. He’s an android, not a man. He meets your gaze and you inhale sharply.

Your eyes return to your drink, and so does Hank’s. This isn’t what you want to deal with right now – or ever, actually. It’s Jimmy’s establishment, so it’s Jimmy’s problem.

But still, as soon as the android saw you, he started making a beeline for you. His footsteps are quick, measured, and even.

“Excuse me,” he says, putting a hand on your shoulder. He addresses you by your title, and your gut clenches.

“No.” You try to wave him off. “No English. Sorry.”

“Officer, you passed each of your TestEaFL’s with flying colors,” he says, narrowing his eyes a little. “You can speak English perfectly fine.”

You cringe a little, but then a thought strikes you – how would this android have access to the scores of your Test of English as a Foreign Language? But before you can ask, he’s turned to Hank and started speaking.

“Oh, Lieutenant Anderson.” He moves so that he’s standing beside Hank. “Just the other person I was looking for.”

He glances between the two of you. “My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife. Captain Fowler said that you were both having a drink nearby. I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar.”

You snort and your eyebrows shoot up. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that there was a hint of… something other than monotone indifference in his voice.

“What do you want?” Hank grinds out.

“You were assigned a case early this evening. A homicide, involving a CyberLife android.” Connor glances at you, like he’s reminding you that you were also assigned this case. “In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators.”

“Well, I don’t need any assistance.” Hank jabs a thumb at you. “I’ve got all the unwanted assistance I need right here, and I don’t need any more. ‘Specially not from a plastic asshole like you. So just be a good lil’ robot and get the fuck outta here.”

“He’s right,” you chime. “And it doesn’t really look good to have androids investigating androids. What if you snap, too?”

“I will not.” Connor meets your eyes, and you can almost see the switch flick in that little android brain. Great, now it’s your turn to be grilled.

He circles so that he’s standing beside you and leans down a little, putting his hand on the bartop. You keep your eyes down, firmly on your drink.

“I’m sorry, Officer, Lieutenant, but I must insist,” he says. “My instructions stipulate that I have to accompany both of you.”

“You know where you can stick your instructions?” Hank chimes in with a throaty laugh.

You glance over at Connor, who looks thoroughly confused. You smile and bring the glass to your lips.

“No,” Connor says. “Where?”

Your throat seizes around the sip of vodka you were trying to take, causing you to cough it out as you try to suppress your laughter. You slam down the glass (effectively spilling most of it) and bring a hand to your chest, trying to ride it out as Hank pats your back.

“чёрт возьми!” You wheeze, your voice hoarse. Your chest burns. “Oh, fuck.”

You wipe your eyes as the burn dulls, still coughing slightly. Connor purses his lips before coming to a conclusion.

“You know what?” He offers. “I’ll buy you both one for the road.”

“You better,” you say. “You made me spill mine.”

“Bartender!” Connor calls, and slips money onto the bartop. “The same again, please.”

“See that, Jim?” Hank says. “Wonders of technology. Make it a double.”

Jimmy pours a healthy amount of Jack Daniels into Hank’s glass, and starts to pour Stolichnaya into yours. You cut him halfway with a raised hand and a “Someone’s gotta drive us home safe.”

You knock back your drink, then let out a low whistle at the nice burn. Hank follows soon after and sighs heavily.

He leans back and looks over at Connor. “Did you say homicide?”

#riptide writes 🌊#head of false security #dbh connor x reader #connor rk800 x reader #rk800 x reader #connor x reader #detroit become human #dbh connor #dbh rk800 #dbh x reader #detroit become human x reader #dbh connor x you #connor rk800 x you #rk800 x you #connor x you #dbh x you #detroit become human x you #connor rk800

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simplydnp · 8 months ago

Note

Hii as a passive fan looking in from sidelines, I read something along the lines that Dan and Phil did come out like few weeks apart but they haven’t confirmed or denied that they are in a relationship? I am confused as what is the official narrative from their side, can you clear this for me please.

I have no doubt of them being together just confused about official timeline, xx

dan and phil are embracing the ambiguity that is brought to them under the 'we know you know' mindset

you're correct in that they came out a few weeks apart (though, phil kind of did in his tweet supporting dan on the day dan came out)

it's funny you ask this, as we do have a recent answer to a reporter about their relationship:

this is the first time they've really been asked this since coming out, but it's important to note the context here: they're talking to a new zealand reporter, about their tour. to me, it reads as an aggressive fuck off signal to the media. ie, this topic is off-limits. so 'officially' their stance is that their lives are private.

unofficially? there's a year's worth of dapg videos that carry heavy implications. it's a lot of reading between the lines, it's a lot of interpreting jokes, it's a lot of paying attention to things both Said and not said. from explicit sex jokes to earnest moments to even specific games they've played, it's easy for an audience to pick up the clues because we're looking for them--cause dan and phil tend to put them there for us. it is important to note that there has been a significant change in tone of the gaming videos from the past vs the gaming videos now. while the language and the types of jokes have changed, so has the dynamic--in the best way possible. they're much more free and relaxed on camera now, both an intentional choice and the result of being out for 5 years.

they've got a mortgage together, alright?

in terms of them not directly commenting on it--at least at this point, it just makes things easier. they aren't usually on tour so reporters aren't usually asking them these questions, but even beyond that, they're incredibly internet famous. even they themselves were surprised about quote "how many people were horny for dan and phil in 2024". and sure, it isn't the same numbers as pre-hiatus, but there's definitely still a lot of people here. so while we champion for a hard-launch (since they keep moving closer) we also know that it's bigger than just saying it. it would be everywhere. everyone would have something to say. and then it's not about the content anymore, it's the relationship (though, one would argue their chemistry makes the content, but i would say their connection adds to it, but isn't the commodity they specifically sell)

in terms of the timeline in particular, we're days away from 15 years of dan and phil, in that they filmed and posted pinof 1 in 2009 at the end of this week. they've never intentionally specified any other anniversary, so we don't know (though we have suspicions), but it's unlikely it took That long to get there. coming out was the next Biggest step, one could argue, and you're right about the timeline of weeks between videos. what i reckon that's important to note is that dan 'appeared' in a phil video surprisingly soon after june, despite not having made any other videos since christmas of the year before. even though it was just his voice, it was enough. there were 4 ish years of limited joint content between them, but it did happen (mostly stories and podcast style things), up until the return of dapg last october. since then, there's been regular dapg uploads (crazy phrase) and dan's either been directly in or mentioned in every single amazingphil video since the return. it depends how much you think implications and indirect phrasing are evidence/signifiers, but there's been a Lot that's come out of gaming videos in particular that Mean Things to the fans, but aren't something able to be captured by the media and ran with (though, one article did see the 'dan and phil are getting divorced' title and reported on it as if it were true, despite it just being an 'it takes two' video)

#this got very long. but i hope i answered your question?#if you want a specific moment to point to about a change. it's the first proper revival video.#it starts off with a reference to the milk fic--a phanfic about them from like ten years ago. which is very explicit.#theres been lots more across the last year. honestly its harder to find a video where they Dont push the envelope than where they do #thats just where we're at now #dnp #c.text #dan and phil #phan #dnptit #answered

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thelostdreamsthings · 8 months ago

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"Putin is isolated."

BRICS, 50% of the World population is telling a big "fuck off" to the arrogant, declining and decadent G7 amounting to 10% of the World's population.

🇺🇳🇷🇺 UN Secretary General Guterres respectfully bows and shakes the hand of Putin in Russia’s Kazan at the BRICS summit.

A lot of people start crying and scream hysterically when they see this picture, for some reason.

[BRICS Currency Looms Large: Could This Be the Beginning of the End for U.S. Dollar Dominance?

For decades, the U.S. dollar has been weaponized as a tool of global dominance, wielded by the American empire to enforce its geopolitical will.

Through sanctions, coercive financial practices, and the threat of exclusion from the dollar-based system, the U.S. has effectively terrorized nations across the world.

The pretense of a “free market” economy has long been shattered by Washington's aggressive use of the dollar as a weapon to cripple economies, isolate adversaries, and exert control over global trade.

But the world is growing tired—sick and tired—of this financial tyranny. And now, with the rise of BRICS, we may be witnessing the beginning of the end for U.S. dollar supremacy.

BRICS—Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa—represent a bloc of nations that together account for nearly half of the global population and a significant chunk of the world’s GDP.

For years, these nations have been quietly collaborating to counterbalance the West's stranglehold over international finance, and now, they are inching closer to launching their own currency.

The creation of a BRICS currency signals an outright challenge to the dollar-dominated global economy, and it is nothing short of a revolt against American financial imperialism.

Why is this happening? The answer is simple: countries are fed up with being bullied. The U.S. has used its currency like a sledgehammer, smashing nations that dare to defy its hegemony.

Whether through sanctions on Iran, Venezuela, or Russia, or by financially suffocating smaller nations into submission, the dollar has become a tool of coercion rather than commerce.

Nations who once played by the rules of the so-called “global order” have found themselves punished, their economies crippled, and their people starved—merely for refusing to kowtow to Washington's dictates.

But BRICS is offering an alternative. The creation of a BRICS currency, backed by the economic strength of its member nations, offers the world a way out of the suffocating grip of the dollar.

This is not just about financial autonomy—it’s about reclaiming sovereignty, independence, and the right to conduct trade without the constant threat of U.S. interference.

Russia and China have been leading the charge in this effort, driven in part by the U.S. sanctions imposed on Moscow following the Ukraine conflict and the ongoing trade war with Beijing.

Both countries have moved aggressively to reduce their reliance on the U.S. dollar, increasing trade with each other and with other BRICS members in their local currencies.

They are laying the groundwork for a currency that could be based on a basket of commodities, potentially gold-backed, further weakening the grip of the U.S. dollar on the global market.

The U.S. has long prided itself on its role as the issuer of the world’s reserve currency, but this dominance was never guaranteed to last forever.

The BRICS currency threatens to dismantle the global financial architecture that has allowed the U.S. to live far beyond its means.

For decades, the U.S. has run massive deficits, printing money at will, secure in the knowledge that the world would continue to rely on the dollar.

But as BRICS nations move to establish their own currency, that privilege could evaporate overnight.

The implications for the U.S. are dire. If the dollar loses its status as the world’s reserve currency, the U.S. economy could face a severe reckoning.

The artificial demand for dollars that has kept interest rates low and allowed the U.S. to run massive debt could vanish, leading to inflation, higher borrowing costs, and potentially a fiscal crisis.

The American empire, propped up for so long by its control of global finance, could find itself in rapid decline.

For the rest of the world, however, the rise of a BRICS currency represents hope—a chance to escape the iron grip of U.S. financial imperialism. No longer will countries have to fear the punitive measures of the U.S. Treasury.

No longer will they have to worry about being cut off from the global financial system for standing up to American bullying.

The creation of a new currency could usher in a multipolar world, where nations are free to trade without being subject to the whims of a single superpower.

Of course, the U.S. will not go quietly. Washington will likely pull out all the stops to crush the BRICS currency before it can gain traction. The playbook will be the same: propaganda, financial sabotage, and even the threat of military intervention.

But this time, the world may not be so easily intimidated. The BRICS nations, backed by their vast resources and burgeoning economies, are prepared to stand their ground.

In the end, the creation of a BRICS currency is not just an economic development—it’s a revolutionary act. It’s a declaration that the age of American financial dominance is coming to an end, and that a new world is on the horizon.

The U.S. dollar, once seen as the bedrock of global stability, has become a symbol of oppression, and the world is ready to move on.

The question now is not whether the U.S. dollar will fall, but when. And as BRICS moves closer to launching its own currency, that day may be sooner than anyone expects.

The empire, long propped up by its financial manipulation, is facing a reckoning—one that could change the course of history.]

IMF Growth Forecast: 2024

🇮🇳India: 7.0% (BRICS)

🇨🇳China: 4.8% (BRICS)

🇷🇺Russia: 3.6% (BRICS)

🇧🇷Brazil: 3.0% (BRICS)

🇺🇸US: 2.8% (G7)

🇸🇦KSA: 1.5% (invited to BRICS)

🇨🇦Canada: 1.3% (G7)

🇿🇦RSA: 1.1% (BRICS)

🇬🇧UK: 1.1% (G7)

🇫🇷France: 1.1% (G7)

🇮🇹Italy: 0.7% (G7)

🇯🇵Japan: 0.3% (G7)

🇩🇪Germany: 0.0% (G7)

‼️ 159 out of 193 countries have signed up to use the new BRICS settlement system.

US and European Union will no longer be able to use economic sanctions as a weapon.

This system allows countries to settle trades and payments in their own currencies, reducing reliance on the U.S. dollar, which has long been the dominant global currency.

#brics 2024 #brics summit #brics #kazan #russia #kazan 2024

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fairyysoup · 2 years ago

Text

cowboy like me

pairing(s): wild west outlaw!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: A strange man stumbles into your hiding place, unfortunately, and brings his trouble with him.

cw: mature themes, cowboy/wild west au, slow burn, guns, implied outlaw!reader, death threats, gunshot wounds, blood, dramatic introductions, animal death mention, intimidation tactics

a/n: consider this me playing with barbies in real time. i've had this intro chapter written for a long time and it felt like a shame to just keep it in the drafts, but i don't have a set schedule and i'll be writing this as i go. I don't expect this to be a masterpiece or anything, but i wanted to just to keep my creative juices flowing.

THIS ENTIRE FIC IS EXPLICIT. ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

"Thou knowest how great is man, Thou knowest his imbecility; Yet learn thou what he is; Yet learn the lofty destiny Which restless Time prepares For every living soul." -Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab

The man didn’t hear you coming until the tip of your shotgun touched the back of his neck. To be fair, though, he’d made quite a bit of racket climbing through the window, and seems to be having trouble catching his breath.

At the feeling of the cold metal against his skin through the veil of his long, dark hair, he freezes. The sound of his noisy breathing cuts out for half a second, and then resumes with a shaky exhale. His hand comes up slowly to the side, the other obscured by the cabinet he’s crouched against.

“Put your arm down.” He halts, yanks his arm down quite suddenly. You know that it’s stupid to have him in such close range to the barrel of your gun; you simply needed him to know that you were armed and there. You back away a few steps, where he can’t snatch the gun from you. “Stand.”

“Look, lady, I’m not gonna hurt yo-”

“Stand.” He follows orders readily enough, but something in the way he sways with the movement has you worried. You refuse to lower the gun. “Who are you?”

“Nobody.”

“This isn’t the fuckin’ Odyssey. What’s your name?” There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that you don’t like.

“Eddie. Edward. ‘Cept my ma only called me that, when I was little.” He turns his head to the side, his back still towards you. He’s still holding his arms out away from his body, some approximation of the hands-up gesture he was pulling before, but the long, black coat he’s wearing covers whatever weapons he’s carrying, and so you still don’t trust him.

“Okay, Eddie. What’re you doing here?”

“Can I turn around, or…?”

“No.”

“I was in the area,” he tells you quickly. “Needed a place to hide. Thought this place looked abandoned enough.”

“Clearly, it’s not.” You move to the side, away from the door of the cottage you stand in. “Leave.”

“I don’t know which way the door is.”

“Jesus Chri- turn around.”

Eddie slowly pivots his body, his palms stretched out and upward. You falter at the sight of the big brown eyes that peer up at you beneath the rim of his hat, and the sheepish smile on full, flushed lips. He bats his eyelashes at you, a quick one-two-three that signals innocence. “M’just doing whatever you tell me to, princess.”

“You’re lucky I don’t blast you to kingdom come,” you retort. Your heel scrapes the wooden floor as you take a step backward, leading him toward the door with the point of your gun. To your irritation, he doesn’t move, his lips drawn tight in discomfort as he turns to stay facing you. “Why do you need a place to hide?”

“I’m a hot commodity ‘round here, I guess.” The hammer of your gun clicks loudly when you cock it. Eddie’s eyes go round as saucers. “Okay! Okay, I’m a wanted man. Y’happy?”

“Get. Out.” You leer at him, trying your best to appear intimidating. You figure the only intimidating thing about you is the gun. You can’t have him here. It’s too close for comfort, too inconvenient.

“And go where? There’s nothing here for miles, except hills and woods and more hills. Maybe a cliff or two so I can fall to my death. They’ll catch me in a minute.”

“Who’s they?”

Your answer comes as a hard rap at the cottage door. You both jump; you turn to glance at the door, and in the second that you do, Eddie lunges forward to grab the barrel of your gun. A gasp tears from your mouth as you feel yourself wheeled around, off-kilter, your hands on the hilt of the gun suddenly pinned to your body and your back to Eddie’s chest.

You hear his heavy breathing in your ear, the rim of his hat folding against the back of your head. He has you caged, using the gun as leverage. “You need to get rid of them.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“You’re the lady of the house, right?” You don’t say anything in return. It’s an easy assumption for him to make, considering the way you’d vehemently told him to leave. Considering how unassumingly you’re dressed, in a blue day dress. How you’re the only person around, apparently, for miles. “You send ‘em away, or I’ll have to do something nasty.”

“And if I don’t?” You’re stalling. “Y’gonna kill me, too?”

Eddie pauses, and you can feel him turn his head a bit toward you, the brim of his hat dragging through your hair. His nose just nudges the shell of your ear. “Don’t make me into something I’m not, sweetheart.”

He guides you toward the door by moving forward, pressing against your back and forcing you to move your feet or topple you both, and make a good amount of noise doing it. You trip over your toes, your heart jammed up in your throat by the way his body presses up against yours.

Within arm’s reach of the door, he lowers the shotgun away from your chest. The only thing caging you to him anymore is his hand, barely ghosting over the waistline of your dress. Still, the pit in your stomach anchors you to him. As another deafening knock sounds at the door, he leans ever closer to your ear.

“Be a good girl and send ‘em away. Can you do that f’me?” You nod, your face and chest burning so fiercely at the cadence of his voice in your ear that it’s giving you a headache. Eddie whispers, “Good,” and pulls away from you.

At least, you think he’s going to. But then he grabs you by the elbow, and hauls you the rest of the way toward the door before standing just beside it. He lifts the shotgun, and points it at the door.

The man on the other side of it is tall, blond, and obviously not a sheriff. He’s still well dressed, but he lacks the distinct badge of honor that a sheriff, or even a sheriff’s deputy, would carry. Four other men tarry behind him on horseback.

“Howdy, ma’am,” the man says, flashing you a grin that doesn’t meet his eyes. “Sorry to bother you. We’re out here lookin’ for a man- been lookin’ for some time now.”

“Well, as you can see, you haven’t found him.” You tilt your head, looking past him at his posse. “Where are you from?”

“Carmine, about four or five miles from here. Hiram Carver’s ranch. I’m Jason, his son.” He rests his hands on his hips, looking far too comfortable for his predicament; you will your eyes not to flick toward the loaded gun pointed at him through the flimsy board of the door. “See, we’re lookin’ for Eddie Munson. Y’heard that name?”

You shake your head ‘no,’ but of course you’ve heard the name. Everyone in the southwest has heard of Eddie Munson- highwayman, thief, gambler, and supposedly a murderer. According to the stories.

The stories, as you know, are rarely true.

Jason grunts, looking down at the toe of his boot as it twists back and forth on the wooden porch. “Eddie… he’s a dangerous man. And he hurt someone very close to me. It’s important that he sees justice for it.”

“Well, what did he do?” you prod mildly. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Jason gives you a reserved smile, like he was hoping you would ask but isn’t really willing to share. “Oh, he just took something that wasn’t his to take. Y’know, as thieves do.”

Jason takes a step forward, nearly crossing the threshold; you don’t move, hoping that he doesn’t try to shove his way past. You grab the back handle of the door, hoping to leverage yourself if he tries.

“You seen anyone come through here?”

You shake your head again. “We rarely get folks coming up to these parts.”

“We?”

You don’t like the suspicion in his tone. “My husband and I.”

“Your husband home?”

“No, sir,” you reply pointedly, trying not to clench your teeth. “He’s gone to town. He won’t be back ‘til nightfall.”

Jason nods, but he doesn’t look entirely convinced. “We chased Eddie up into these hills early this morning. He’s on foot, wounded. He couldn’t have gotten far. Which way did your husband go?”

“East. Toward Benton.” Your hand tightens on the doorknob. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Eddie’s head turn just slightly to look at it. “He’s armed, if you’re concerned your man might try to kill him.”

“He’s not our man,” Jason snaps, letting the fake pleasantries drop quite suddenly. “Not yet, anyway. May we come in, take a look around?”

“Is this an inquisition?”

Another smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “We’re just trying to be thorough.”

Your patience wearing thin, you take a step toward him. You feel Eddie’s warm hand gently clasp your stiff one, but you’re already saying, “I’m sure that while you’re trying to be thorough, the man you’re looking for is getting further awa-”

A deafening gunshot rings out, and you yelp, flinching backwards into the cottage on instinct. It takes you a moment to realize that the gunshot came from outside, echoing off of the hills, and not, as you had feared, from behind the door you stand beside.

Eddie’s hand squeezes yours, though you’re not sure if it’s for reassurance or to get you back on course. Jason has already stalked off of the porch, cursing, shouting at his men to follow the sound of the gunshots.

“Thanks for the help,” Jason calls to you as he mounts his horse, like an afterthought, and takes off without saying goodbye. You don’t mourn the loss.

By the time you close the door again, Eddie has already slumped against the wall beside it, looking pale.

“You’re wounded?”

“I told you to send them away.”

You take a deep breath, ignoring that he’d talked over you. “Where are you wounded?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Eddie pushes himself away from the wall, handing you the shotgun. “Your husband will be home soon, if that bullet wasn’t for him.”

“I don’t have a husband.” You take the gun from him, but give him an exasperated look. “You’re not very good at figuring out when people are lying.”

“Call me an optimist,” Eddie shrugs, his dark eyes following you as you set the shotgun aside. “I like seeing the good in people.”

“Yeah? How’s that working for you?” You shake your head, trying not to focus on the feeling of his eyes on you. “You’re also pretty stupid to have given this back to me.”

“I have others.”

You don’t like it. It’s too troublesome, too much of a mistake. He can’t afford to stay here, and you can’t afford to keep him around. Regardless, you look him up and down, then step forward and reach to undo his belt.

“Whoa- what’re you- easy there.” Eddie’s hand weakly grabs your wrist, and he winces. “I may be a good time guy and all, but this is a little fast, even for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him. “You want to stay here? I’m taking your weapons.”

He fixes you with a wide-eyed look. “I thought you didn’t want me to stay.”

You pause. “I don’t. But Jason and his men will probably be sticking around for a while, waiting to see if I was telling the truth. And you are wounded,” you say, turning your hand to grasp his wrist, but he just takes your hand in his. With a look at his face, you think it’s just an instinctual move. “And on foot, apparently.”

“They shot my horse,” he tells you quietly, his eyes cast down to the floor. “Shot me, too.”

You frown, lowering your voice to be as quiet as his. “Where?”

Finally, he gestures to his belt. You tentatively resume undoing it, and once it falls away, leaving you with two pistols and a whole lot of bullets, you pull the fabric of his coat aside.

You hadn’t noticed it before- the black coat hid the stain fairly well, upon first glance. But, on his wrinkled linen blouse, a bright crimson stain blooms against his hip.

Eddie grimaces, his knees starting to shake. “Can’t be that bad. Can hardly feel it.”

“You’ve gotta be the worst outlaw imaginable,” you tut, guiding him across the room, toward a dusty bed in the corner. “Can’t tell when others are lying. Can’t tell a lie, yourself.”

“I’ve done a lot of rotten things, but I’ve never been a liar,” he grunts.

“What can you do?”

“Play dice real good.” He hisses when he slumps onto the mattress, a cloud of dust springing up in the air after him. He sneezes, his hat toppling off his head and leaving a halo of dark, curly hair to hit the pillow. “You don’t actually live here, do you?”

You smile at him, trying to hold back a laugh. “No.”

“So, what are you doing here?”

You look up at him, and find his dark eyes trained on you as your fingers begin unbuttoning his blouse. “Same as you. Hiding.”

“From what?”

“Right now? Jason Carver.”

Eddie laughs, and it’s a hollow sounding thing, rasping in his throat. He’s going to pass out. “You and me both, sweetheart.” He pauses as you pull his blouse open, untucking the tails from his trousers. “I can’t stay here. S’not fair to you.”

“Where are you gonna go, honey?” You ask him mildly, not meaning to condescend but still managing to come off that way. “You’ve got no horse.”

“Yeah.” Eddie closes his eyes, sighing one more sad, shaky breath. “I fuckin’ loved that horse.”

After that, it’s all darkness for him.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #cowboy!eddie munson #outlaw!eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things #roses*

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