#kind of like how everyone should work a customer service job so you know not to be an asshole?

[carcarrot]

ok thats it i literally need a new job now .

[farfromstrange]

Customer Service | Matt Murdock

Pairing: Matt Murdock x afab!reader

Summary: After a particularly rough week, all you want to do is cry. It has you on edge and makes you say things you don’t mean. After letting out your anger on your boyfriend, he makes it his mission to take care of you for a change.

Warnings: SMUT, 18+ MINORS DNI, oral (f receiving), Matt Murdock eats pussy like a champ, fingering, squirting (I feel filthy), emotional hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, no pronouns, reader has female body parts, 1st person pov (?)

a/n: As someone who quit their job in customer service for the exact same reasons I have stated in this fic, this is very personal to me and self-indulgent, again. I wrote this after a particularly bad day. Sometimes I wish Matt were real so he could actually do this to me.

There is nothing in all of existence that I loathe more than people. Why I chose to work in customer service in the first place has become more and more of a mystery to me. I could have quit after the first week, I should have, but whenever the thought crosses my mind, I tell myself: ‘It’s going to get better. You will get used to it.’ I did not, in fact, get used to it. Or, I did, I just started to hate myself even more. Every day I get home from an eight-hour shift, I’m tired, I’m exhausted and I feel the desperate need to throw myself off a cliff. 

There are days when it’s easier. The elderly couple who comes in every Sunday, for example, to drink their coffee and have a lengthy conversation over a piece of cake, never fails to make me smile. They’re always kind, and forthcoming and they tip, even though I know they don’t have the money to.

Or the woman who likes to pick up lunch for her husband, she always calls me sweetheart, and she’s never bothered if her order takes just a little too long. The regulars chat me up and I like it because it makes me feel less alone behind the counter, as life passes me by and I can’t help to stare at the clock every five minutes to calculate how many hours of the day are left. They make it easier to forget about the overtime I inevitably have to put in every night. They know I don’t eat enough or smile enough or drink enough, and so they make me smile because they’re good people. 

But some continuously want to tell me how to do my job, the one I’ve given blood and sweat for to master down to the smallest detail, and those who treat me like I’m responsible for their bad days and those who don’t care that I’m human, I just have to serve.

It’s so exhausting that some people don’t care about the workers behind the counter. I hate that my boss doesn’t seem to care either, that we don’t get paid enough, and that I’m expected to jump whenever they want me to. I got a life too, but that doesn’t matter because I’m cheap and they love to use those who never learned how to say no.

I physically can’t tell them I can’t work whenever I’m asked to pick up an extra shift, or when I’m sick or have to do anything else. It’s not even my main occupation and yet, here I am! Every day, I tell myself, I should just quit. It’s not my responsibility if they can’t treat their employees right. It’s not my responsibility they’re understaffed. I’m a student, I go to college, and I’m working hard on my degree - why should I prioritize my job over the thing that will determine the rest of my life? 

And yet, every day, I go back. I go back and I work until my feet hurt and I’m sick and I’m tired and all I want to do is just cry. I go back because I, for the life of me, can’t say no. I can’t quit. I want to, but I can’t, and it’s killing me inside that I can’t talk about it the way I want to. In the end, I will always feel like everything is my fault and that I messed up, even though all I did was show up to work and turn into everyone’s punching bag. 

My stupidity is what got me here. Usually, I would be home now, studying, but they asked me to pick up a late shift at the cafè again, and I worked for seven hours with only a fifteen-minute break in between - I look horrible, I smell of coffee and cake, and my body is hurting in all the wrong places. The weight is heavy in my stomach. I’m nauseous. I ate, but not enough. I’m hungry. I feel sick. Even the smallest sounds make me want to jump up the wall, kill someone, or perhaps even both. I’m angry, and I don’t even fucking know why because nothing happened. Other than a rather messy day with too much to do and too few people to do the work, the people weren’t even rude and I’ve had worse days - still, I feel everything at once and it’s ridiculous, really, because I’m an adult and I should know better than to let a rough day affect me. I don’t. 

When he called and asked if I wanted to come over, I said yes. I didn’t want to, but saying no? Not something I would do, especially not to him. I walked into his apartment with a lump already in my stomach. The door creaked - God, I told him to oil it - and that was the first strike. I tossed my key into the bowl and it promptly fell back out. Second strike. My coat slipped from the hanger the second I hung it up. Third strike. I breathed, I had to, then went to the kitchen to make some dinner. Cooking usually works, usually, but the day must have gotten to me because the fourth strike - the fucking milk being expired - happened way too soon and it hit me, hard. After that, I was pretty much done for, and I knew, I just chose to ignore it. 

Of course, I should have known I would screw up everything else, too.

“Hey, sweetheart,” his voice is kind and soft in my ear as he presses a kiss to my cheek. His stubble has never been something to bother me before until that very moment. I flinch away, not sure why. If he realized it - which I’m sure he did - he doesn’t show. 

“Smells good,” he says. 

I put the garlic into the pan. It smells too much like garlic and I hate it. 

“What you making?”

“Pasta,” I tell him. 

He kisses me again. “Mh-hm. How was your day?” the question is stupid, but it’s normal and he always asks. He gets himself a beer - only himself - removes the cap with his mouth and then leans against the counter. 

He shouldn’t infuriate me. He shouldn’t make me angry just by standing there and asking me questions couples ask themselves, but inevitably, he does. And I hate myself all the more for the way my voice sounds when I answer him. 

“Fine,” I say. 

“Fine?” he asks. “How was work?” I feel like he’s getting suspicious. “You only had two lectures today, right? English lit and what was the other one?”

“Linguistics.”

“Ah, yes. Your least favorite.”

Perhaps that’s why I’m angry. 

“You know,” he says and the tangent he goes on after revolves around him and only him, and while I don’t like talking about myself, that doesn’t mean he has to unload all of his stress on me - I don’t know why I think that way and it’s scaring me because I don’t actually feel that way, but at that moment I do and it’s all very confusing.

I just want to lock myself in his bedroom and cry. He looks so good with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. He’s wearing his glasses, still, but his tie is loosened and he smiles because he knows I love that smile. I should love it. I should love the way his muscles tense underneath his shirt or the way his dress pants hang impossibly low on his hips, but for the first time, I don’t. I don’t love anything, I just feel anger, which makes me hate everything, but mostly myself. 

I must have zoned out. Suddenly, he’s calling my name and he’s calling me sweetheart and he’s poking me with his hands - no, he’s stroking my hips, hugging me from behind, and it’s all too much. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I lie. He knows I’m lying. He can hear it in my heartbeat. He can feel it in the way I move away from him to rinse the now-empty pan in the sink. 

How is the food already finished?

“You didn’t listen to a word I just said,” he dares to sound offended. 

“No, I did.”

“Really, what did I say?”

“You and Foggy had a case, didn’t go well, bla bla bla. Same as every day.”

He sets the bottle down. “Alright, sweetheart, what’s wrong? I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Oh, so just because I don’t care about hearing the same story repeat itself every day and you whining about it means there’s something wrong with me?”

He’s taken aback. Quite frankly, I’ve never snapped at him before, not like this, not out of nowhere, and we’ve been dating for over a year. With his super senses, there is little that eludes the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, especially when it comes to his girlfriend. I hate that it’s like this. I hate not having any privacy, even when I try to. But I don’t want to be alone, I don’t want privacy. Or, I think. I don’t even know what I want. I know I want to be around him, but at the same time, it hurts because the anger is too damn hot to swallow, and his concern doesn’t make it any better. It should be, but it’s not. I’m a lost cause. 

“I was just telling you about my day,” he says. I would yell back at myself if I were him, but he knows me. He knows yelling doesn’t help. He knows I’d cry, but maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I want him to yell just so I have a valid reason to cry, to be angry. 

I want him to hate me the way I hate myself. 

That’s why I can’t help it anymore. “Maybe I don’t want to hear about your day.”

“What?”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Matthew!”

He’s confused. I don’t blame him. The second the words left my mouth, I regret them. They make me sound like the most selfish person on the whole planet. I can’t take them back though. If I did, he’d know something is wrong and then he’d worry, he’d pity me and no, I don’t want that. I want to rile him up. I’m not sure why, but it makes me so angry that he’s so calm and I’m… well, I’m me, but I’m also not me. I’m a stranger in my own body. 

I put the pasta in a bowl. It stinks of alcohol and tomatoes and garlic, too much of it. I wonder how anyone could eat that. 

“Here,” I shove it into his hand, “You’ve been served. I’m gonna take a shower.”

I’m a bad person. I’m pretty sure I am. Who yells at their boyfriend because they can’t deal with their own problems? Who makes the person they love more than life itself feel like shit on purpose for no reason whatsoever? A sane person wouldn’t. We have never been a normal couple, Matthew and I, but we’re trying. Turns out, I suck much more than I thought I would.

It’s not the age gap, I’m sure of it. I’m in my last year as an English Major and he’s a defense attorney. Somehow, we make it work. He loves me, I know he does. He’s afraid of rejection - he thinks everyone he loves will leave him, which is why it took us a while to find together. I should have known my words were going to hurt him unimaginably. He thinks he did something wrong, but it’s not him. It’s never him. He’s damaged, but he’s nothing if not perfect to me, most of the time. 

I’m heavily crying at this point, trying to conceal my sobs, but it’s not working. The water is loud, not loud enough to fool Matt’s hearing, but even if he were to hear it, he knows better than to provoke me any further. He doesn’t know what’s going on and neither do I, so it’s just the two of us silently waiting for the other to come around. He shouldn’t have to feel that way. And so I cry more because God, I do not deserve that man. I don’t deserve his kindness or his love. I don’t. I really, really don’t. 

And once I’m out of the bathroom, I remember why I don’t deserve him. 

The table is set for two. Candles substitute for the harsh ceiling light. He knows it gives me headaches sometimes. He put a bowl out for me and a glass of wine. White wine. The sweet kind. The kind he hates but keeps around in case I ever need a glass. He’s drinking red wine. It’s cheap, but it looks expensive and he likes to feel special from time to time. 

I hug my arms around my body. He has his back turned to me, fixing a salad in the kitchen - I must have forgotten it. The way he moves is almost angelic. He moves as if nothing happened, as if I didn’t just treat him like a bitch. He’s singing my favorite song or humming it, anyway. The room smells of him and me and the food I loathed before, but watching him do all of this for me, even now, is sucking the air out of my lungs and suddenly, I don’t mind the thought of eating with him.

I only want one thing. I don’t want to ask for it and he’s not going to do anything unless I talk. We agreed on that from the beginning, no matter what kind of intimacy it involves. Without consent or a proper conversation, nothing will happen. And I curse myself for not being able to speak without the tears blocking my view again. 

“There’s a sweater on the couch,” he states. He knows I’m cold. “And some fuzzy socks, if you want.”

The clothes smell like him. 

“I put some more salt in the pasta. I think you forgot to salt the water, so I took it upon myself. I hope you don’t mind. Also, I tried to make your favorite salad dressing, but I’m not sure if I managed to get it right this time.”

He smiles and then his glasses are gone and he has an apron on and he looks like he loves me, really loves me, and that’s it. I pull my legs up to my chest, falling deep into the couch and I cry. All the pain just comes exploding out of me like an active volcano. 

The leather dents next to me. “Comfort or solution?” he asks. It’s so casual, I get the feeling he’s not mad at me. 

“I don’t know,” it sounds so broken.

His arm finds around my shoulder. “Is this okay?” I can only nod. Yes.

He moves me gently so I’m in his lap and he can rock me like a baby. It feels good to be loved like this, but it’s also suffocating. Still, I can’t help but fall deeper into his hold because this is, in fact, all I needed. Too stubborn to ask for it, I almost ruined something good. I know I did. He knows, too, but unlike me, he knows the difference between me being mad at him and being mad at the world. He knows I don’t mean what I say unless we’re fighting, and this isn’t it. We’re not fighting. I’m just angry and I want to cry, even while crying, and that makes me cry even more. 

“You want to talk about it?” he asks once I can finally breathe again. 

I blow my nose like a disgusting person and say, “Yes. No. I don’t know. Maybe.” And that about sums up all of my life. 

“Is it school?”

I shake my head. If it’s not school, it can only be one other thing. 

“Work?”

I nod. 

“Anything happen or just a bad day?”

“Bad day.”

“That’s why you yelled at me? I didn’t do anything wrong?”

“No,” I say truthfully for the first time. “I’m just angry. I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Maybe next time try telling me though. I was actually scared I did something until I heard you cry in the shower.”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me and I tell him that, to which he only chuckles. 

“You know how many times I acted hostile towards you after a long day?” he says. “It happens. It’s okay.”

“I just… I’m so stressed all the time. I hate work and I hate people and I hate not getting paid enough or on time, but I can’t quit because you know, I’m me and they know that, so they take advantage of my inability to say no, and it sucks because I’m so tired of working more than I go to school, but I need the money, and so I can’t leave until I’ve found another job, but no one else wants me, so now I’m here, trying to see the good in this stupid job, but I don’t. I can’t. I hate it. I hate everything and everyone and I hate myself and I think I’ll get my period soon because this should not be upsetting me this much.”

His hand on my back manages to soothe me. 

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it.

He smiles down at me, all loopy, and his sightless eyes are focused somewhere on my forehead, which makes everything so much better. 

“I love you.”

And yes, I love him too. I love him so fucking much, it hurts. 

“I love you too, Matty.”

As soon as I say his name, he knows what I want. He knows I need to destress. He knows I can’t eat until I can forget. 

“Is there something I can do?” he asks, but damn him, he already knows. 

“Can you…” no, I can’t ask him for that.

“Yes?”

“Matt, can…” No. “You know what, never mind.”

“No, sweetheart. Tell me. What do you need?”

“I just…” my chest heaves a frustrated groan. “IneedyoutoeatmeoutuntilIcantremembermyname.”

He enjoys it. He gets off on it, my desperation. “Sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t think I did. Can you repeat that?”

“God.” My face is burning. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just, this is the first time you actually asked me and I love hearing you ask for the things you want. It’s sexy.” 

Somehow, that’s even worse. My thighs clench like I’m some pathetic little schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher. 

“You know, maybe you can ask for a raise tomorrow, or quit altogether,” he says. “But for that to work, you have to tell me what you want right now.”

“I asked you to eat me out until I can’t remember my fucking name!”

“Thank you. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

If there is one thing Matt Murdock is incredibly skilled with, it’s his mouth. And I don’t just mean the words that come out. Essentially, it’s all in his tongue. He’s managed to render me speechless on more than one occasion, and he knows. He knows I love when he touches me, but there are times when it has to be about me, and only me, and he’d gladly suffocate between my thighs. He’s told me that time and time again.

He keeps telling me to ask him if I want something. I never do. I hate asking for it because it’s embarrassing. It’s good that he knows what he’s doing, that bastard because if he didn’t, I wouldn’t be cumming and I wouldn’t tell him. Somehow he always gets the job done, no matter how stressed I am. 

That’s why I need it so badly. I need him to take care of me, no matter how long it takes. I know it might take a while because I’m tense and he knows too. He reads my body like an open book. That’s how he knows I’m horny before I even do. 

He doesn’t move for another minute. He just stares at me. “You want me to take care of you?” he asks.

“Please,” I beg. 

“Guess I’ll have dessert before dinner today then.”

He lifts my head and then he’s suddenly on top of me. He’s sliding me up the couch so he can fit in between my legs. I’m dressed in shorts, a t-shirt, and his sweater and for a second I wonder if it’s even worth it. I’m ovulating, I’m bloated. I feel like shit. My hormones are all messed up. I can feel the weight of my boobs tear on my back and I’m pretty sure the hairs on my legs prickle his cheek as he kisses them. It’s making me want to take back everything I asked of him. 

My confidence has taken a low blow this past week. 

Though Matt doesn’t care, he never does. He digs his nose between my thighs and takes the longest whiff I’ve seen him take in a while. To be fair, the last time we saw each other, he was busy with work. We didn’t have time for intimacy, which hardly ever happens. He moans. 

Smug bastard.

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells me. It melts my heart. The compliment means so much more knowing he can’t physically see me. To him, I’m beautiful. He couldn’t care less about what I looked like. Although sometimes I wonder what picture he has made up of me in his mind. 

His lips are on mine fast. I can’t help but sigh. They’re so soft. He doesn’t rush, he just kisses me and then kisses me some more. I tangle my hands in his hair. I’m sure, this is what heaven must be like.

“Let’s take this off.” His sweater joins my shorts on the floor. “May I?” He hooks his fingers underneath the waistband of my panties. “Or do you want me to keep them on?”

I have no doubt he could do it with five layers in between and still make me cum.

“Off,” I say. I want this. I have to remind myself that my insecurities mean nothing – he loves me. He wants to do this for me. He wants to do this because he likes it, or else he would say it. 

Matt is vocal, but I’m not. If he doesn’t want to do something, he’ll say. Can’t say the same about me, which is why he asks repeatedly, even after I already told him it’s okay. He wants to make sure I’m on board, that I don’t feel pressured and can pull out any time I want, but I don’t, because the second the cold air hits my bare cunt, all I want is him. 

I can feel his eyes searching for me. “Hey,” he says my name. “We’re not playing this time, okay? You can cum when you need to and how many times you want to. You just have to lay back and relax. I’ll take care of you.” 

He intertwines our fingers on either side of my spread thighs before he dives into me. It’s slow and steady. He doesn’t care about fucking me with his tongue like he usually does. He licks and bites, but mostly, his tongue and lips stay around my clit and they suck. They suck so good, I see stars behind my eyes. His touch sends shocks down my spine. My sensitive walls clench around thin air, but his head is so far between my thighs, I still manage to feel full. 

But no matter how hard I try, I can’t focus. It feels so good, way too good, and on any other day, I would’ve come by now. His beard burns into the inside of my thigh as I rock against him. I try to, but it’s exhausting. I can feel the coil in my lower belly clear as day, and yet it’s too far out of reach. I need it, I crave it. 

I can hear myself saying, “This could take a while.” And he laughs because he finds it funny. It’s not funny though, it’s serious. I hate the fact that he makes me feel so good and I can’t find it in myself to enjoy. 

“Close your eyes,” his breath fans hot against my folds. “And just stop thinking.” 

He makes it his mission to ruin me. I close my eyes and as soon as I do, he’s on me. It’s not just his mouth. One of our joined hands reaches up to touch my breast – he twists my nipple through the shirt until it’s hard and has his attention. The other reaches behind me and lifts my hips. The next thing I know, he has me propped up on a pillow. The muscles in my lower back relax. I sigh. It’s so good. 

He’s given up on slow and steady. His head moves in circles as he abuses – I don’t have another word for it – my clit and eats the rest of me like a man starved. I realize I need it fast and I need it hard. He knows it before I do. His tongue expertly parts my wet folds, a mix of arousal and spit trickling down my thighs, but I could care less. He’s inside of me and then his thumb is there and it’s rubbing and rubbing and rubbing and I’m so fucking close, the knot in my stomach feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and it’s applying sweet, sweet pressure on cunt. 

“Fuck!” I throw my head back into the leather. My back arches impossibly high, and his head squished tightly between my thighs. I need him closer. His hair is so soft, it makes me want to cry, and I do. I cry, but not in a sad way. I cry out because yes, God yes! and then I’m cumming, suddenly and without warning, hard, all over his face, and it doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop.

The growl is animalistic. It vibrates perfectly through my pussy and I can’t help it – it barely takes two minutes until his lips start hurting so good as they keep sucking my clit, a series of ‘one more’ leaves his lips in a plea, and I’m rocking against him hard. I’m begging him, “Matt,” but I’m not sure what for. 

“C’mon,” he says, “you can give me one more.”

He’s right. God, I hate when he’s right. My toes curl and I push his face so deep into me, I’m convinced he’s running out of air, but that’s what makes him moan and it sends me over the edge.

I’m pretty sure I passed out. The pleasure is so intense, my stomach feels like it’s being torn apart and then put back together. The world is dark and for the first time today, quiet. 

Something nudges my cheek softly. It’s his hand. Matt kisses me and I can taste myself on his lips. “Hey,” he coaxes me back into lucidity. “There you are. Are you okay?”

I nod.

“You need anything?”

It’s a reflex, reaching for him. He gasps slightly when my hand touches between his thighs, expecting to find a visible bulge, but there is none. I’m not sure if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but there is a visible wet spot where his dick is supposed to be. 

“Did you-“ I finally open my eyes. He looks so drunk in the candlelight. I realize then that he is drunk on me. 

He buries his head in my neck. “You’re not the only one who’s been worked up all week,” he says. 

“You just- oh, my God.” I never thought it possible that it could be enough for him. “Thank you.” 

“No, thank you. You’re always so good to me. Good girl. But I think-“ his finger steals my breath as it circles my entrance and promptly slips it inside of me. “You can cum for me again.” 

I arch into him. My chest brushes against his. Our shirts suddenly feel like too much clothing and I’m desperate, so I tear at the buttons until they come apart. He has his arm back underneath me, holding me flush against him as if he’s afraid I might slip away. 

A wanton moan escapes me. “That’s it,” and his praise is even better. “Think you can take another one?”

He adds a second finger. It burns but only because even after a year, I’m still struggling to take any part of him. His fingers are thick and they’re rough and they’re scratching my inside walls just right. They massage the flesh. He’s pumping his fingers in and out and in and out, and he adds his thumb back on my clit because he knows I won’t be able to cum without it.

All of the stress falls off my shoulders. I feel him everywhere, his kisses, his touch, his hard nipples against mine. He’s hard again, poking against my thigh. I reach for him and he whines, he whines into my mouth. I’m not sure which one of us will come first. I suppose it’s me, it’s always me. He makes sure it will be me.

He hits as deep as he possibly could. His fingers curl inside of me and then, “There it is!” Is so victorious, it makes my eyes roll back. He keeps hitting that particular spot over and over again. My hand clutches his shoulder. I want to scream, but all that comes out is a series of whined and pathetic moans. I can’t help it, my muscles contract around him. 

“Damn, you’re gonna break my fingers,” he says. His chuckle is breathless. “You close?”

I hum.

“Do me a favor,” and I expect him to tell me anything but what he requests, “Don’t cum.” 

It’s rude. It’s cruel and it’s vile and I want to murder him because just as he says it, the coil tightens impossibly tight and I need to let go. It’s painful to hold it in, especially now. But I do as he tells me nonetheless. I want to please him. 

“Matt,” I moan. He’s so unfair and he knows it.

He smirks. “Just hold on a little longer.”

“I can’t!”

“Yes, you can. I know you can.”

“St- oh, fuck!” He hits my sweet spot with twice the intensity. I almost cum, but only almost. I keep it together, no matter how much it hurts, and it’s making tears prick at my eyes. “Please, just let me cum,” I hate begging him. “Please, Matty.”

“Shhh. We’re almost there.”

His thumb speeds up. I can see heaven. God is reaching his hand out for me. My stomach is in a tight knot, so tight, the silk might rip any second. The pressure is unreal. My muscles have been trained by him, I admit, but nothing can prepare you for this. Nothing can prepare you for the times when Matt has his mind set on something and he’s going to take it. He’s going to take you. 

I can’t think. It’s too much. I know I’m going to disappoint him. The animal inside of me is beyond satisfied and she wants out. She wants to let go. She loves the feeling of his fingers buried to the hilt inside of her. She loves him, and loving him tends to turn into sweet, sweet torture.

I moan his name again. His cock twitches underneath his dress pants, hot against my fingertips. 

“Almost,” he promises. “I just want to try something.”

What could he possibly want to-

“Cum.”

I’m flying. My back lifts off the couch and if it wasn’t for him, I would be dead by now. My body is shaking. It’s earth-shattering and it’s wet and it’s everywhere. I can feel the orgasm tearing me apart from the inside, blood rushing in my ears. My senses go black. I can’t see, feel or breathe. Everything is too much. It’s burning, it’s heavy, but it’s amazing.

His fingers don’t stop until he has milked the last drop of me until even the last ounce of stress has left my body and I’m limp. I’m a corpse. I’m barely breathing, a wet sack of potatoes in his arms. 

God, the look on his face. He’s cumming too. The wet patch on his pants has doubled. It’s not from me, although I’m suddenly very aware of the fact of what he just made me do.

“Oh.”

“Fuck,” he growls. “That was amazing.”

I never expected to have it in myself. “Oh, Jesus.” My words are highly blasphemous but I don’t care. I’m not even sure how to feel. The blush creeps up my cheeks and I close my legs a little. Everything is so wet. It’s all me and some of him, but mostly me. Just spurts of cum all over his hand and his couch.

He clicks his tongue, shoving my thighs apart. “Don’t go shy on me now,” he says.

“No, it’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing? Sweetheart, I’ve never felt more proud of myself.”

“I just- your couch. Oh, God.”

“I’m pretty sure the couch will survive it. Leather is easier to clean. How do you feel?”

I sigh, snuggling against his chest. “Better,” I have to admit. “Much, much better.”

“Good.” He kisses my neck. “Can I have my fingers back now?”

“No.” I like the feeling of him inside of me, even if it’s just his fingers. It makes me feel complete, almost. 

“Okay.” 

“Just gonna rest my eyes now.”

“You do that, sweetie. I’ll be here.” 

And he is. He always is. I wake up, and he’s there, and he always will be because he promised me this is forever. Us. Me and him. And I realize then that I’ve never been more in love with another person than I am in love with Matt Murdock.

[localgremlinboy]

I have been sitting on these for a long time because I wanted to have some more varied stuff but I haven't had time to write anything! So here's what I've got! Honestly these are some of my favorites

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6]

- Whenever he's kicked out of an area or event, Oswald proceeds to start shoving anything not taped down into his pockets. He doesn't need the stuff, he just likes to be petty and ruin it for everyone else

- Bane has done a series of infomercials for various products & services that only air on late night product channels. Alfred is the only batfamily member who knows, he was doing laundry late one night and nearly lost it

- Mr Freeze writes restaurants/companies when they wrong him. Like nice formal letters, signing them and everything

- The Joker has an imdb page. Actually a lot of the villains do but like the Joker has one he updates with fun facts. Who says they're accurate but they sure are fun

- Riddler freaking hates puppets. Their soulless eyes say it all. He refuses to or "work" with puppets. That being said, Scarecrow has chased him around with Scarface once or twice "for science"

- Scarecrow has and still does write letters of recommendation for his ex students. He freaking still has Gotham University letterhead paper and everything. Honestly some of his students have gotten the job from his letter alone (maybe it's out of fear but like it's still a win), and they 100% send Jonathan thank you gifts in Arkham. He's got one of those dorky teacher scrapbooks where he keeps the thank you letters. One of his students even crocheted him a little plush scarecrow. It's like, they don't love his crimes but you know that was ol kooky professor Crane for ya

- Harvey kind of has a soft spot for sitcoms, he used to watch them with his mom growing up. One of their favorites, ironically, was night court

- Bane has a famous chili recipe and he makes one batch a year. It's fucking delicious! He makes an edition with meat and a vegetarian version too. Of course consults Ivy for home grown excellent quality vegetables and she gets first dibs in return

- the Joker has not one but TWO released albums. One is essentially a mash up of all the serenades he's made Batman listen to over the years and the other one is called "The Holidays with the Joker: Christmas selects edition"

- Scarecrow's car is a mess. He's got a work truck of course but his main car is like a wood panel sedan that he's been driving since he was a professor and refuses to get a new one. It's a fucking mess, he has like clothes, papers, garbage all over the place. He still has term papers he forgot to grade under the seats. Riddler HATES his car, with a passion

- Riddler has gone through the pain and suffering to teach all the rogues how to use discord, he had once hoped it would make their crimes more efficient. They have a group chat but it's mostly suffering on his end as all chaos ensues

- Scarecrow owns a Halloween train village he has set up in one of his lairs. It plays instrumental versions of Halloween songs as it goes around the track

- Joker will push open cups off of tables because he can. He's got the chaotic energy of a cat awake at 3 am

- Riddler and Scarecrow's friendship starts like super formal and co worker like but after like a year and a half, evolves into a weird symbiosis. Jonathan points at random ass objects or books and goes "you" when he's with Edward. Eddie has a habit of fixing or picking debris of Jonathan, usually when they're crimeing. Also one time, they were both startled so bad by Batman that Scarecrow jumped into riddler's arms like Scooby & shaggy, except they both held onto each other for a second before toppling over. Robin then unmasked them like scooby doo

- Harley & Ivy are frequent Panera customers and often get pick up orders there under "codenames" given by Harley. All the workers know who "Plantmamma" and "the quinnanator" are but like they tip great and everyone should get to enjoy soup

- Bane has one CD in his car, it's a 2010 greatest hits CD that someone accidentally left in there. Who you ask? He has no idea

- Harley has a getaway playlist preloaded in her phone for car chases

- Riddler and Scarecrow watch reality tv/game shows together. They binged all of survivor and the amazing race in a year. It was a joke at first but they both got really into the shows. They have both applied to be on amazing race together and unfortunately haven't been called back

- Joker still uses cassettes (and vinyls probably) except he mixes them himself and labels them all stupid titles like "Birthday bash #9", "Baty's mix", "what's the deal with airplane food?", "etc". But he also has a tape recorder and makes notes to himself and labels those ones too, so he gets his personal notes mixed up with his music jams all the time. He goes to put on some epic clown music and instead it's a twenty minute recording he made of himself eating fruit loops

[deuxcherise]

Collar Crimes: Red Letter

C/w: Unhealthy behavior, yandere OC, yandere male, Eris being Eris, gender neutral reader, reader has more personality in this one, comfort, fluff, angst (?), mentions violent action (such as plucking out eyes), flashback scene, may include annoying use of "my" a lot, includes a picture of a simple sponge cake (because why not? You'll see~) A/n: So I happened to come across those Chad skits from SNL (yeah, I know I'm late to the party) and I was also thinking of how Eris met the reader. So this is kind of a prequel to Weasel In, I guess? I highly suggest reading Part 1 before this, but do as you like. Enjoy~ Masterlist | Part 0 (you're here!), Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (1/2)

There were many times in your life when you had almost regretted taking on this 9-to-5 customer service job.

Briiing! Briiing! Tch.

“Hello~ This is Lychee speaking~ How may I sweeten up your day today? Or is there something on your mind today that you'd like to share with me, my dear?” 

Huh... Hah... Huh... Hah...

Accompanied by some strange heavy breathing, you hear a growling male voice say, “Are you home alone–”

You immediately hang up.

No, you definitely regret taking this job, but unfortunately it pays too well for you to just up and quit. As a result, it's been a good five years since you started, and you've gotten quite good at your job.

Briiing! Briiing! Tch.

“Hello~ This is Lychee speaking~ How may I sweeten up your day today? Or is there something on your mind today that you'd like to share with me, my dear?” 

It has been a while since you've questioned your work name, but you have long since accepted it. Your company, Fruity Friends, was created by some closeted man (he has long since went public with his sexuality and is married to his highschool sweetheart. Good for him!)

He felt that people needed someone, a stranger, who they could talk to without the fear of being outed for anything. A noble endeavor, no doubt, but you believe he might've failed to account for the most… unscrupulous individuals who should be going into proper therapy instead of taking advantage of a nice-sounding voice.

Then again, being an anonymous voice on the other side of the line was far better than your last job, where you had to wait tables for the mafioso in a very, very scandalously short waitress outfit. You were quite popular because of your unintentional moe gap where you would say some of the cringiest lines in history in a cutesy voice while wearing the stiffest expression. You couldn't help how blank your face tends to be. 

You were glad that everyone else, including Remy, the most buffest chef you have ever met who worked there, were forced to share the same outfit, but you were sure that sooner or later you'd be kidnapped by one of those criminals if you continued to work there.

…..

Of course, it wasn't easy. This was the mafia after all. It could be debated whether or not you were a good person, but you had successfully manipulated one of those dogs into letting you leave scot-free. The particular tactic you used? Uh… yeah, that's another story.

“A-ah… um… h-hi there… I'm… Eris… um…”

Some of your clientele have been nervous wrecks, so you have quite a few scripted lines to choose from. This one chose the most basic package, but you always bring your best.

“Hello Eris~ What a lovely name. A pleasure to meet you! How are you?”

You hear him mumbling to himself on the line before he comes back. “Um… is this… really confidential?”

Ah… you hope this isn't one of those perverted bastards like the one earlier. This one sounds too cute, it would be such a shame…

“Why yes, of course, my dear Eris! Everything you say here is completely safe with me. And if you don't believe me, then believe in the contract that had brought us together. There is nothing you say that can be taken as evidence! Rest assured, you are safe here with me, here at Fruity Friends.”

You hear him gasp. “O-oh…okay… Um… I-I'm… your dear Eris?”

Aww, how cute! You hope this customer becomes one of your loyal clientele. Still keeping up your cutesy persona, you answer, “Why yes. And I am your Lychee~”

“O-oh… M'kay… my Lychee…”

From then on, Eris would call for you every single day for months, except for the weekends. Calls could only last about an hour, as per the package deal, since that was the company policy to accommodate multiple customers per day–unless they were willing to pay multiple times. 

On the following Mondays, he'd call in to check up on you and pout about how much he missed you and wished you could talk to you all day every day. And you, in your persona, would reply that you wished you could talk to him all day too. 

Lychee is a cute person, someone who likes to hang out with their friends, who likes to party all day and all night, who likes to share the most scandalous gossip from their supposed life. Lychee is someone who wants everyone to like them, always doing their best to fix their reputation should they ever mess up.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about all of that. Who has time to party and hang out with friends and share other people's business when you have no safety net to fall back on if you were ever to go jobless? Forget about reputation, you were already used to people making assumptions based on your appearance.

That being said, you quite enjoyed your conversations with Eris once he became more comfortable. Most of your topics ranged from philosophical takes such as:

“Which is better to eat first first? Steak or salad?”

“Depeeeends! I heard Americans usually eat salads before steaks and the French eat steak before salad. So it's up to you, really, ya know?”

“I see! … Hey, do you think graham crackers are cookies or crackers? I think they are crackers, but what does my Lychee think?”

To things that happened to him recently:

“LyCheeEeeEe!” he whines on the other side of the phone, voice clearly indicating he's been crying. “My LycheEee.”

You play along. “WhaAaaAt, my dear ErIsssSss?”

“T-there…” he sniffs. “There was-was this guy…”

“Awww, noo! What did this mean guy do, my dear Eris? Tell your Lychee.”

Once a week, Eris would encounter some mean dude who'd insult him and then he'd come to you for comfort. How he always ends up in such situations is beyond you.

And he's always… always does something about it a week later.

“My LycheEeeE.”

“YeeSsss, my dear Erisss?

“You know that one guy… you know the one I told you last week who I keep meeting in the subway, the one who kept saying I keep looking at him funny and keeps shoving me?”

“Yeaaaah?”

“I finally ripped his eyeballs out! So he can't tell who's looking at him wrong or right anymore! Isn't that great??”

Due to the confidentiality clause, unfortunately, whatever a customer says is not liable to use as evidence. Even if it means letting a serial killer loose.

“That's greeaaaat! You feel better now, don't you, my dear Eris?”

“I do, I do! Hehe~”

Such a troubling life… You'd never admit this to anyone but sometimes… listening to him makes you feel better about your uneventful life, only having to worry about keeping your job, keeping a roof over your head, and keeping your belly full.

Besides, what's there to worry about? Your identity is unknown and your persona is too friendly to get on anyone's nerve.

“LYchEeeeE! My LyCheeEee.”

“YeeEeesss, my dear Eris? What's wrong? Tell your Lychee.”

You listen to him bawl his eyes, cooing and offer your sympathies, like a mother to a child.

“M-my best friend… he said…  he said… 

Oh, his best friend. Eris has never revealed his friend's name, but based on the description he gives you, sometimes you wonder why someone sweet and innocent like Eris was friends with someone like that.

“Aww, no! Was he being a meanie again? What did he say?”

“He said… that I should get a life and stop talking to you.”

You feel your heart drop. “R-really? He said that?”

Ah… well. It isn't the first time a customer has left you, or rather left Lychee. Lychee’s job was to help people get through difficult times, but in the end, Lychee wasn't a real person. Lychee couldn't leave their job to hang out with friends. Lychee couldn't attend parties and weddings. Lychee couldn't fall in love. Lychee was just a faceless voice who only spoke once you paid the price, and even then only for an hour or two out of the entire day.

That being said, it wasn't like it didn't hurt when your customers got on with their lives. It was just… inevitable, and you had long since accepted that. Perhaps, this was a sign that it was time for Lychee's Eris to move on. He's spent over thousands of dollars just to speak to you over several hours per day over a span of four months already, single handedly paying your entire rent. As a fellow human who has to work their ass off in order to live, you can't bear to become the reason he goes broke.

“Yeah… but I don't want to! I love talking to you, my Lychee! And you love talking to me too, right? So I don't see why he’s telling me to have a life. I am living! Ugh, stupid…”

You mull over all kinds of lines but in the end, you whisper, “... Maybe, he's right.”

….. 

“What?”

“Listen, Eris-”

“Your Eris. I'm your dear Eris, my Lychee.”

His voice sounds sharp and metallic… you've ‘slipped’ up a few times, and he'd always softly correct you with his usual whiny voice. Not like this.

You cough, getting back into character. “Yesss, you’re absolutely right! My dear Eris. Sorry~ LiSteeEeen. As much as I love talking to you, I think that you're spending way too much money on me! I feel flattered and all, but you're going to go bankrupt at some point!”

Silence on the phone… until you hear him laugh loudly like you had just told him the funniest joke ever. Moments later you hear him again. “Aha… ah… Is that what you were worried about, my Lychee? Aww, you're the best~ That's why I… But don't worRrrRry~ As the eldest son in my family, I inherited everything after my parents died. Enough to last me years to the point I don’t even need to work. Money isn't an issue at all, my Lychee.”

You feel a sharp pang in your chest. “Bas-” You clear your throat, the curse word almost slipped from under your persona. “Bestieee, even if money isn't the issue, your mental health must be taking a toll. Besides your best friend and of course me, your Lychee, do you talk to anyone else?”

“... Why should I? I only need you, don't I? Also, I'm not your ‘bestieee’, I'm your Eris.”

“R-Right, my dear Eris~ I'm just saying. One day you'll want to… you know? Hug someone, hold hands, kiss, or even just… be next to someone. In person. We both know, I can’t do that for you. Don't you want a more… authentic relationship or friendship with someone? Besides your best friend. Besides me.”

A pause. “... Is this part of your character?”

You blink. “What do you mean, my dear Eris? What character?”

“... Huh… Come to think of it… I’ve never thought about it before, but is Lychee’s not your real name, right?”

“Ehhh? But it is! I wouldn't lie to you, my dear Eris.”

Another pause. “… This line is confidential, right?”

“Mmhm! Always have been!”

“Then what’s your real name?”

You pause, your eyebrows scrunched together as you hold the phone against your ear. “I… My dear Eris, I told you. It’s Lychee. Your Lychee!”

You hear him sigh, before he suddenly hangs up. You look at your phone, very confused and worried. He has never hung up on you before. Did he just… leave?

After several weeks, you figure he did just leave. Fortunately, there are always new callers on the line along with some really loyal customers who've been patiently waiting for you to pay them some attention. Still, it bothered you… but at the same time, it relieved you. He must be finally living his life now instead of spending it all on you.

It’s a shame though… He was such a charming fellow, so open with his emotions and sweet with his words. It just wasn’t the same with your other customers, which the number of clientele were going for some reason…

You finished your 9-5 job, dragged yourself out of the office to the bus stop, waited for the bus, got on the bus, waited until your stop, got off your stop, dragged yourself home, entered your home, locked your door, and collapsed on your couch, still in your work uniform. Same as usual. Why your company felt it was necessary to have a uniform when your job only requires your voice is beyond you.

You close your eyes and let yourself be whisked away to dreamland… 

…..

…..

…..

Shick shick shick shick!

You wake up at 3AM, according to a glance at your clock, to the odd sound of… whisking? You slowly sit up, get off the couch, walk to the source of the noise, and find a handsome man wearing your apron, standing in the kitchen and whisking away at some white fluff in a bowl.

You rub your eyes. What the heck are you looking at?

The man stops whisking open looking at you. He smiles bashfully. “My Lychee-”

WOW! Has it really happened? You’ve finally reached the point you’ve overworking your mind and body to exhaustion! And now you’re either hallucinating things at 3AM or you’re in the middle of a nightmare! There’s only one person in the world who calls you that and there is no way in hell Eris would be in your kitchen at 3AM, covered in flour, and smiling at you like this is all normal! WOW!

You slap your cheeks with both hands. Hard.

Eris gasps, dropping the bowl of whipped cream on the counter. He grabs onto your hands and inspects your face with a worried expression. “Lychee! Are you okay? Why did you slap yourself?”

His hands feel oddly very real and your cheeks oddly hurt really bad… but there's absolutely no way Eris is actually in your home, right? Why aren’t you waking up?

“Lych–No, I should say (Y/n), right? I would call you my (Y/n), but you're already mine, so–”

Oh heck no.

You take your hands back and head out of the kitchen, take out your phone from your pocket, and quickly tap on the screen.

Briiing. Briiing. Tch!

“Local Police Department, how may we–”

Your phone is suddenly snatched from your hand. Eris looks at the phone before he hangs it up and throws it out of reach. He moves so quickly you don't have time to react once he's wrapped you in his arms. He places his head on your shoulder, his lips tickling your neck. “(Y/n)... Don’t do that. I missed you… so much… ”

You could only stand there, hands awkwardly hanging there at your sides, trying to absorb the bizarreness of this situation. “W-why are you here? How’d you get in?”

“Never mind that, your dear Eris is here now.”

You take deep breaths. “Eris…”

“That's me~ I'm your Eris~”

“Right… Uh, could you… let me go?”

“I don’t wannaaaa.”

You clear your throat, collecting yourself. “Okay, fine. Listen. I think… I get why you’re here. It’s because you like Lychee, right? Well, sorry, but the bad news is I'm not anything like Lychee. Lychee is just a character.”

“I know.”

“Okay… so that means you don’t know me!”

“Okay.”

“Wha– What part of ‘you don’t know me’ don’t you understand? We’re strangers! You have no reason to be here.”

“Mm, sure.”

“What?” You give a heavy sigh.

“It’s not like you’re a complete stranger to me,” he starts off. “You're (Y/n). You like (favorite animal), (favorite fruit), (favorite TV show), (favorite dish), (favorite pos–)”

You begin to sweat as you listen to him list of all of your favorite items, before moving on places you’ve ordered food from, to private details, such as your age, your highschool, your address, your family home address, even your Social Security number–Who the heck is this man and how did he find these things out?

“–and that’s all I have so far. What do you think, (Y/n)?”

“Get. Out!”

“Nooooooooo!”

He squeezes you harder, to emphasize the point that he’s not going anymore. You try to twist and turn your way out, but you find his grasp to be extremely difficult to get out of, despite how gentle he’s being with you.

“(Y/n)... You know…” he mumbles, making you still. “For the last few days, I finally realized what you meant the last time we talked. It’s true. One day, I will want to be with someone. In person. Hold hands with them. Hug them. Kiss them…”

He leans into your ear and whispers. “But I have also realized that I would only want that… with you. Only you. I love you, (Y/n).”

…..

“I’m… sorry. I don’t…”

 “Oh, that’s okay!” He releases you and steps back, interlocking his fingers with yours instead. A blush appears across his cheeks as he bashfully looks at you with his head tilted down shyly. “We can start over. Today can be our Day 1?”

His fingers have incredible strength, you unable to escape their gentle grip. “What? Day 1 of what?”

“Oh? You don’t know?” he says, softly swinging your hands side to side. “Day 1. Dating.”

…..

“Who says we’re dating?” you screech, wanting so badly to rip your hands away from this deranged man.

“Eh?? What do you… Ohhh! I haven't asked you properly yet, huh? Sorry, love. Will you date me?”

“No, we've just met.”

“Oh.” You can see the cogs turning in his head, before he tilts his head and giggles. “But that’s exactly why we should date. People date to get to know each other more. Silly, (Y/n). But if you need further convincing: as you can see I’m handsome, and I have money! Lots of it! You’ll never have to work a day in your life. I’ll be the best boyfriend for you.”

Tempting as that sounds, the idea of placing your life into the hands of someone else just like that? Hah! No thanks. “No.”

The cogs are turning again before he reaches another answer in his head. “Ohhh, I get it! I'm so dumb! It took me so long to realize… You haven’t realized you love me too, right? That's okay. I can wait. Hehe~”

You stare at him incredulously, speechless. What the he-

Ding!

“Oh!” He drags you back into the kitchen before letting your hands go to don your oven mitts and take out a freshly baked cake to flip it over a rack. “Ta da~! Mmm, sorry. I was hoping to decorate it before you woke up but… well, who needs frosting anyway, right?”

“What… Why?”

His eyes widen in surprise. “Eh? Did you forget? Oh, love. It’s your birthday today. Happy birthday, (Y/n)!”

-----

“Happy birthday to you~ Happy birthday to you~ Happy birthday, dear (Y/n)~ Happy birthday to you~ Now, make a wish!”

You closed your eyes, made your wish, and then blew all the candles out in one go, ensuring your wish would come true as it always does every year.

You received two presents to open. One from your Mom and one from your Dad. That’s how it always was on your birthday, or your Mom or Dad's birthdays. Just the three of you. No one else. Even now in your teens, your birthday party had only three members and that was all you wanted.

The day after your birthday, they went grocery shopping.

It was a normal day. They let you sleep in, since it was a Saturday.

You had woken up to heavy knocking on the door. The police? They came bearing heavy news.

There was a drunk driver on the road.

Your birthday was the last time you ever saw them.

Your wish didn't come true. It didn’t the year after that. And the year after that. And the year after that. It would never, ever come true ever again…

-----

“(Y-Y/n)? Do you not like it? I’m s-sorry…”

Your vision turns blurry as memories flood into your mind. Your eyes fill with hot tears to the point it flows down your cheeks. Your face twists in agony as you try to stop the dam from breaking in front of a stranger but your knees give out instead.

Eris catches you and you both slowly sink to the ground. He holds your head gently against his shoulder, letting you cry out years worth of contained sorrows and to your heart's content as he pats you on the head, cooing at you and offering you words of comfort. He doesn’t understand, but at least you aren’t pushing him away.

Once you've run out of tears to cry, you whisper with a broken voice, “Thank… you… for the cake.”

“Anytime, my love, anytime.”

“... I'm not your love.”

“Shh, shh… Take it easy… I'm here for you…”

“Idiot… Just leave me alone…”

“M’kay.”

…..

“I said leave me alone. Why are you still here?”

“Mm… because I don't think you want me to leave you alone right now.”

"I..." You sigh, giving up completely.

…..

Grumble...

“(Y/n), before I go, would you like to eat some cake?”

“... No thanks.”

“Oh… Okay. Well, I also got a present for you too.”

“Don't want it.”

“Can't return it, I'm afraid,” he sighs dramatically. “It costed so much too…”

“... Fine. I'll take your stupid gift and eat your stupid cake.”

“Yay~”

[wraithchic]

Rogue Roses

Word Count: 3k+

Ship: Valeria Garza x reader

My past is behind me, finally. Now I own a bar called "Velvet," a name that came to me easily after renovating the interior. I chose a rich red velvet for the seats at the tables. I used to think it was way too luxorious for a bar de mala muerte, my opinion changed when a customer came in and told me it made him feel like royalty, and there and then I felt like I had made the right decision. That comment made me get an uniform, which wasn’t really one, as I was the only person working here at the time, I chose a red velvet low-cut square-neck shirt and black flared pants, which made me feel like a slutty Mrs. Claus and way too navideña all year round, but the uniform makes me confident, and most importantly, brings in tips.

I’m used to dangerous people coming into Velvet, most of the customers are, but the bar isn’t my first time dealing with them. I sometimes feel like I’m the only person with morals inside this place, well, *now* I have some morals.

There’s one server at the bar tonight, his name is Constantino. He was the only person to hand in his resume when I was hiring, but he is the best waiter/bartender/bouncer on the bar, besides me, that is. And although he is a young soul, his body is around fifty-five years old, he also is fucking scary looking, he stands at almost two meters tall and ex-militia, so he is also the security at this place. -I should look into hiring some more help.- I tried to make-up for that scariness by giving him an uniform, just like mine, just that his was a red dress-shirt. We look like a Christmas gone-wrong movie, which wasn’t what I intended but, hey! We look good, I think.

Usually Constantino tends to tables while I work as a bartender, serving everyone who sits at the bar counter. And tonight, that’s the case, but we always take turns on the different jobs.

My shift begins with the usual crowd: drunks and football enthusiasts, we have two TVs at the top of the far right and far left wall, there’s some seats at the bar with no visibility of the TVs so they are empty most of the time. Today is a slow day, just the alcoholics that come here every day, the ones I serve despite the voice in the back of my mind telling me not to; so after a couple of hours, when the door opens and a woman walks in I can’t help but turn in her direction.

She’s wearing a black turtle neck shirt, cargo pants, combat boots, and a knife strapped to her leg, I can tell she’s one of the dangerous people. I don’t want to throw flowers my way, but since owning the bar I’ve gotten really good at profiling. I look at her second too long, but I avert my gaze to the cups I’m washing. The last thing I see about her is she sitting down at one of the almost-always-empty seats.

“One rum shot, linda.” I hear her say. She has an accent, that combined with the very obvious usage of Spanish tells me that she’s probably from Las Almas. Her voice is silky but somehow rough, I wonder how she would sound when she’s eating m… I need to stop that train of thought, I can afford an affair right now. “Yes, coming right up!” I shoot a smile her way as I dry my hands on my apron. As I pour her shot, her eyes never leave me, I feel her gaze burn on my face, I wonder what she’s thinking.

When I give it to her she takes a moment to sip it, savoring the taste before setting the shot glass down. I don’t really take pride in my shots though, a couple years back I leaned to mix drinks so the other beverages I serve are way better. I leave after handing her her drink to tend to other clients, although I would stay just to admire her gorgeous face… Oh Gods, stop it Y/N, you can’t get involved with a customer you don’t even know.

The woman’s gaze follows me around, it’s kind of creepy how focused she gets while I work. I try to ignore her, just looking in her general location every now and then. After debating for some minutes I decide to come up to her, that’s what good customer service is all about after all.

“Would you like anything else? To drink of course.” I smirk and can feel myself slightly blushing. I’m not one to flirt often so my skills are quite rusty and I don’t even know if it came across as a flirtatious joke. The woman smiles softly at me, her fingers idly tapping on the bar.

“For now, mi amor, just you. But I’m always open to suggestions.” I pout, as a sarcastic joke of course. “I’m afraid I’m not on the menu, corazón. But hey! This next drink is on the house, choose whatever me want.” The woman grins, her eyes sparkling with an intention I remember quite vividly from my late life, mischief. It can’t mean anything good. “Maybe you should be. But for now… two shots of rum, please. I’ll pay for the extra one.” She raises her empty shot glass in a silent toast to me while she smiles.

I carefully pour her drink and decide to ask something that’s been lingering on my mind. “What’s your name? Every good-looking woman has one.” I feel like my face is going to fall off, I can’t believe I just said that. My mouth is running faster than my head. “My name is Valeria, my love. And you are…” She leans in closer and speaks before I can answer, her voice a seductive whisper.

“Just the type of girl I’ve been looking for.” I audibly laugh “We’ll see about that.” I wink at her, badly, I was never one to control my facial muscles very well, besides, the last time I flirted was back in High School, before life carried me away from any sort of love life and work took over everything. “Name’s Y/N. Not fitting though, you can call me yours... “

I walk away to serve other drunks before she can answer. I need time away from her to gather my racing thoughts and (presumably) high blood pressure. I walk over to Constantino, who already has a shit-eating grin on his face. “She hasn’t taken her eyes off you, miss.” I hate it when he calls me that and he knows it, he is trying to get on my nerves.

“I know, Tino, I can feel it. Now get back to work, you have a family to feed.” We always joke like that, he’s like a father to me, a father away from home. After hiring him I met his husband and their two kids. “Okay boss, but, hear me, you’ve been alone for way too long and, by the look in your eyes, she’s a commitment you’re willing to pursue.” He raises his eyebrows as he walks away to talk to customers.

When I look back at Valeria she takes her drink, sets the shot glass down and leans back on the bar. I come back and serve her the third shot of the night. “Just so you know, the shots are ninety pesos each. Call me if you need anything else.” I say and leave after giving her a last glance. That’s the least sexy thing I’ve ever said. I know the shots I sell were pricey for such a simple drink but they were quality, and Velvet was the only bar in a couple of kilometers to serve 1800’s aged tequila. “Oh, be certain I will, preciosa.” She chuckled, it was like music to my ears.

As closing time approaches everyone starts to leave so I have time to talk to Valeria, I approach her “Oh Gods, today’s been exhausting. There was this guy who was trying to flirt with me, but I couldn’t get him to understand that he wasn’t my type” I laugh at my bad joke.

Valeria chuckles softly, her eyes never leaving mine. “I can imagine. Some men can be quite persistent. Was it the older one with the red shirt?” I lightly laugh at her assumption. “Oh hell no, that’s my employee, and he’s married.” “Sorry about that… So tell me, what is my type?” She makes an emphasis on the last part, I guess she’s trying to get me to say I’m attracted to her. “That’s a pretty easy guess, isn’t it? You tell me” And it is, I’m not super picky with my women. Any of her guesses would be pretty much correct.

“I’m guessing someone strong, confident, and not afraid to take charge... and a bit rough around the edges." Her voice is low and teasing. “You’re right, but what about physically? That’s a pretty easy guess too” I smile and she smirks. “Oh... someone with dark short hair and beautiful with toned muscles and sharp features. Am I close?” Her eyes flicker down to my neck, if I didn’t know any better I would think she’s a vampire. I can tell by her tone that she is still teasing me. Two can play that game.

“Oh now you’re just describing yourself but I’d say you’re pretty damn close. This is a fun game. I’ll guess your type now.” I lean on the counter, giving Val a full view of my cleavage. I know full well that I should change my work clothes to something less Christmasy but that shirt brought more clients than the drinks I served ever would. Her eyes flicker down to my chest and back up to her face, a predatory grin spreading across her face “My type?”

“Oh yeah.” I start describing myself. All I wanted to know is if she is as attracted to me. “And you like playing hard to get, don’t you, princesa?” Her voice is a low growl and her face is twisted in a cynical smile, her fingers now trailing lightly down my arm. “Ahora dime, vida mía, why are you single? I’m guessing you are." “Tell me how you know I’m single and I’ll tell you the reason.” Her knowing I’m single is kind of creepy and my curious mind needs to know. Curiosity killed the cat, after all.

“Well, you haven’t looked at your phone since I’m here, so no one is texting you or if they are, they can wait. And there’s no tan line on your ring finger, so you’re not married.” She says it as if she had been waiting for someone to ask about it. But certainly, satisfaction brought him back.

“Wow, you’re quite observant. So, in this business it’s better if men find me attractive and think they have a chance with me, then they don’t mind the high prices.” I say with a big smile on my face. “For example, you didn’t question the price of my shots even before looking down at my cleavage, and you’re not a man.” I chuckle and walk back to lean on the wall.

She smirks. “Touché. You’re quite the tease. But remember, I’m always in control, even when it comes to my little games.” Valeria’s gaze never leaving my body. “I don’t think so… you haven’t looked away from me since you walked in. You would love it if I just got on my knees and praised me like a God, wouldn’t you?” That’s what I wanted to do, I just needed her to tell me to do it.

Her eyes flash with amusement and desire as she watches my face. “Oh preciosa, you have no idea what I’d really like to do with you. But for now, let’s focus on business.” My playful facial expression dropped to a serious one fearing what she might mean. I ran away, far enough for no one to know me, how could she? “What business are you talking about?” She smirks, her fingers tracing along the countertop “I’m interested in purchasing some of your... unique items.”

My last romantic affair took an unexpected turn during my final year of high school when my then-partner led me down the path of shady business dealings. What initially began as a seemingly harmless and exhilarating escapade soon transformed into a serious occupation after I decided to part ways with her. I used to be an exceptional artifact smuggler, no police, national or international, could ever catch me. I had stolen and sold more than three thousand different artifacts from all around the world, from emeralds to clothes and paintings, I had swiped it all in almost seven years. Roughly five

years ago I stopped. Morals were threatening to catch up to me and so was the CIA, they had never been so close to finding me, so I changed almost everything about myself. I got a new hairstyle, threw away my cell phone, moved to Mexico, decided to never visit again the countries I swiped from and the most painful decision I ever took, never going back to my homeland. I formed a new life in Las Almas, bought a bar and a small house with the leftover money from my past deals and burned the rest. But now all of my efforts se fueron al carajo, she knew who I was.

I walked over to her and whispered “I stopped selling contraband historical items, preciosa, find another place to buy it from.” I haven’t been this serious all night and in general, it’s quite rare for me to be. I can feel the scowl on my face. Vale’s finger traces along the counter, brushing against my hand, “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.” Her voice is honey-sweet, her dark eyes burning.

“No voy a aceptar incluso si ofreces acostarte conmigo. Won’t happen, although, sí aceptaría lo segundo but no more contrabando from me. I left that world long ago” And I wasn’t lying, even before the CIA came close to me, I was planning on starting a new life with the money I had earned. “Eres astuta, aren’t ya? Hazlo por mí, one last time. I could pay me whatever you’d want”

“In this business, you need to be. I’ll close the bar and then I’ll see what I can do. Don’t worry about paying it’s all on me” I don’t know what came over me but I remembered that I had some leftover items I brought with me as a reminder of my past life, but also because I fled Spain, the country I was at at the time I heard that the C.I.A. was soon to catch me, so fast I couldn’t really decide what things to pack and what to leave behind. This was an opportunity to truly become someone new.

I go over and close all the tabs, then kick out some of the leftover drunk men, the bar had closed half an hour ago after all. Constantino was long gone by now. I come back to talk to Vale but she speaks first. Chuckling softly, Valeria leans against the counter, her body language inviting yet, not completely “That’s quite the generous offer, linda. But perhaps we can strike a deal where you help me find what I’m looking for, and I’ll… well, help you.” Now she´s got my attention “Tell me about it, Vale.” I am quite curious about this deal. Her lips curl into a seductive smile, her gaze holding an unspoken promise, which I can’t really pinpoint.

“I’m looking for some rather... unique items. Something that would pique the curiosity of a collector, perhaps something with a dark or mysterious history. And in exchange, I’ll give you protection and perhaps, some security for this place.” Having security for Velvet didn’t sound half bad. “I have some leftover items in my house, if you want those I’ll give them to you free of charge.”

Her eyes twinkle with interest as she considers my offer “Oh, really? Now that’s intriguing. I’d love to take a look at these leftover items, mi amor. They might just be what I’m looking for. But tell me, vida mía, what are they?” “They are a piece of the Koh-I-Noor Diamond, an original Picasso, and the Nebra Sky Disk… Just let me finish everything here and go home to bring me the things.” Valeria’s gaze flickers between me and the door, her mind clearly racing with excitement “I’d be delighted to see them, preciosa. You’re sure you don’t mind parting with them?”

“I really don’t, I’ve been trying to forget about them for a long time and didn’t know how. Is this a deal then?” I extend my hand for her to shake it, and when she does a shiver runs down my spine, I’m not sure why but ever since I saw her sitting at my bar a couple of hours earlier, I’ve needed to touch her, but not the lingering touch like the lines she’s been tracing on my arm but a whole touch, like this. Now, if this was her effect on me with only a handshake, what would happen when she touches my… Oh Gods, I stop my mind from going in that direction before I blush even more.

Valeria’s gaze is intense as she grips my hand in a firm handshake. “Yes, this is a deal.” I bring Valeria’s hand to my mouth and kiss the top like the true gentlewoman my mami raised me to be, I truly miss her. “I’ll be right back” I go out the door and hop on my motorcycle to get to my residence, it’s a small house a couple of minutes away from the bar. It’s my house, not my home. My home is in another country, with my family and the last bit of my innocence. When I got there I looked for the goods and my gun, I’m not that dumb, for all I know that woman could be part of the C.I.A., and I’m not going to take that risk. I pack the items, put them on a backpack, and head back to my bar.

I open the door to find the bar empty until I feel my chest hit the wall, knocking the air out of me. She was right behind me, breathing on my neck. So now, I’m not breathing properly for two reasons and I feel the wetness slit. She growled. “You left the door unlocked, anyone could’ve come in at any time. You’re lucky I was here to protect my place.” I left it unlocked because she was here, but I’m not about to say that. She backs away and I turn around.

“And you’re lucky I had the backpack in my hand, if I hadn’t you would’ve broken the things.” I huff and place the backpack on the counter. “Take a look, they’re inside” I step back and place my hand inside of my pocket, taking the safety out of my gun. I’m not sure if she heard it but better safe than sorry.

Valeria opens the backpack, her eyes never leaving the items in question “They’re beautiful.” She runs her hands over the crown and disk, her fingertips tracing the intricate details “And the painting... it’s stunning.” “Son todos tuyos, I don’t want to be associated with that part of my life anymore… How did you know where to find me?” I am partly relieved that the contraband is no longer mine but on the other hand, I need to find out if I need to take Valeria out.

“Tengo a mis informantes, and I’m not with the feds, sé que eso es lo que te preocupa. Now leave the gun alone. I’m not a threat to you.” “That still doesn’t relieve me.” I say. “If I were an undercover cop, would I have flirted with you all night before even trying to buy from you? Aparte, los policías son pendejos y jamás te habrían encontrado. I’m not a cop, I’m quite the opposite, actually.” She answered while continuing to carefully pack the items again. Meanwhile, I sit at a bar stool, it’s not quite comfortable but that’s the goal, making already drunk people want to leave and sober people want to drink to forget about it, drinking. “So you are dangerous, huh?” “Of course I am.” She smiles at me, it’s charming. “I think I saw my mouth water at that.” Now she’s laughing at me.

I blush but decide to change the subject. “I never get to sit on this side of the bar, it’s quite refreshing.” Valeria glances over at me once again, having finished packing, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “It’s always refreshing to see someone enjoying themselves, mi amor.” I chuckle “Why are you calling me “mi amor”, huh?” I’m teasing her again. “I knew you were into me but not to that level.” Valeria’s smirk grows as she leans on a table. “Oh, but I am, amor mío. You’re irresistible, you know that? And the way you blush so beautifully… it’s quite captivating.” I blush even more at her words. “I don’t blush! It’s the way I did my make-up.” How can she get me so flustered with such simple words?

Laughter bubbles up from Valeria’s chest, a light and airy sound that fills the room. “Ah, you flatter yourself. It’s adorable.” I decide to look in the other direction to avoid looking into her eyes. “I’m not doing that, pesada.” “If you’re not then I will. you’re beautiful, talented, and absolutely irresistible.” I feel a surge of braveness across me and decide to flatter her too. “Well, you’re not bad off yourself. Creative, dominant, and fucking gorgeous.” Valeria’s eyes widen in surprise, her smirk growing. “Oh, you think so?” She steps closer to me. “And I forgot to mention, that gloss you’re wearing looks like it tastes fucking delightful.” I really don’t know where I got this boldness from but I’m speaking my truth.

Valeria’s smirk turns predatory. “And what makes you say that, mi amor?” She glided her fingertips along my jaw, her lips were mere inches from mine. “Out of pure curiosity, nothing else.” I smirk. Vale chuckles softly at that as she leans in even closer. “Curiosity killed the cat but it certainly doesn’t deter me.” After saying that she finally kisses me. I’ve been wating for this all night and its even better than I thought. Valeria’s hands roams up my body, one stops at my hip and the other takes my gun out of my pocket. “Wouldn’t want you to shoot me, mi vida...”

[cnwolf-brainrot]

Teenage Mutant Ninja Minimum Wage Turtles

So just a little headcanon/theory I have about the Mutant Mayhem turtles is that they eventually get jobs, because they're teens who are actually getting the chance to assimilate into society so yeah, I think they'd eventually get their own little customer service jobs!

Mikey is actually the first to bring it up because he and his improv group end up frequenting McDonalds after school and he quickly realizes that he doesn't have money to pay for it and now that they're out in the open it's a lot harder to justify not paying for things (and harder to get away with not paying for things too). He's also the bravest of the four when it comes to human interaction so he's the first to actually get a job, which ends up being a food service position (probably at the McDonalds his improv group visits). He's not the absolute best at his job and he spends a lot of time goofing off and definitely gives free food to friends, but he's FANTASTIC at talking to customers and distracting angry Karens so everyone loves him.

Leo is the second to jump on the job train, but more for a "I feel morally guilty about stealing now that we're able to be a part of society" reason than Mikey's "I want pocket change" reason. Leo gets a job at Best Buy because honestly with his school look he looks like the kind of guy who would look at Best Buy. He invests himself WAY too much into his work, and his managers love him for it. He's given a leadership position way earlier than he probably should have been because of how dedicated he gets to the work, and while he takes it eagerly he definitely stresses himself out over it.

Raph was a bit more hesitant to get a job but he hated when Leo or Mikey would buy things for him, so he eventually caved. At first he got a job at a grocery store, but he absolutely HATED customer service and quit after like two weeks to keep himself from punching a Karen in the face. He waited a while before trying again, and this time got a job at a gym. This suited him much better because while its a lot of cleaning equipment and dealing with whiny gym jocks, if he got mad at any point during his shift he could just slip away to "clean" the punching bags... with his fists.

Donnie took one look at his brothers getting jobs and said "took you long enough". He's been running his own freelance coding business for the past four years and is already making BANK. His bros asked if he wanted to get a job where he'd actually get the chance to touch grass and his answer was "ask me again when your paycheck has three more zeroes at the end of it". Most of what he does is legal, but he has taken a few dark web hacking jobs before and loved them with zero remorse. None of the bros know exactly how much money Donnie has hidden away, but its enough for him to literally laugh at their paychecks.

Also none of the turtles really care about shoplifting/minor theft. They were raised on that, it's how they survived. Getting money and actually paying for things is just a luxury they have now, and they're trying to fit in so eh, might as well ¯_(ツ)_/¯

[hugmeimtouchdeprived]

Ghost!Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x fem!reader - Chapter 1

Here's the first chapter to my ghost!Johnny fic (still trying to come up with a proper title...)

Again, English isn't my first language and this is my first fic, but I'm learning :)

Original drabble | Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Your life isn’t what you’d consider spectacular. You have your routine that you follow, every day almost exactly the same and blending into each other.

At least you got a new job recently, at a small local bookstore. Your commute to work just about tripled, but the work itself is more enjoyable than your last job. And taking the train isn’t too bad, even when it’s full to the brim in the evenings when everyone is rushing to get home.

The bookstore itself is lovely. You frequented it before you even started working there, so when you noticed they were looking for new employees you didn’t hesitate to apply. And since the staff at least somewhat knew you already, you were welcomed on board just as quickly. Elphaba, the senior cat that lives in the store, didn’t seem to care one way or another. She doesn’t seem to care about much, other than the armchair in the corner she claimed as hers and the daily treats she gets from staff and customers.

The work is monotonous. And to your surprise, you kind of like that. Of course, you knew what to expect before starting there, working at a bookstore isn’t known to be the most thrilling job. It has that certain structure that you like oh so much. Stock the shelves and keep them organized, order new stock and unload it, keep up with paperwork. With customer service, majority of the time it’s like a script you follow in your head. Easy peasy. No surprises.

The commute to work is fine, although not your favourite. The underground train makes things a lot easier, and at least you can keep your current apartment instead of having to find one closer to the store. Dealing with the hassle that is moving almost across the city is definitely not something you’d want to deal with right now.

Your free time is taking it easy, most of the time. Doing chores, reading, maybe painting on occasion, going for coffee, and gossiping with friends, going on small trips across the country when you can to see old friends from school. Just keeping yourself busy with something, even the little things.

But it’s all so mundane. You like mundane, you tell yourself. There are no sudden, unpleasant surprises, nothing to throw off your entire day. You always have a plan, always prepared for anything.

Until it’s not. Dull and mundane, that is.

It’s just a shadow in the corner of your eye at first, just a trick of the light. That’s what you tell yourself, even when it occasionally moves closer. It disappears right when the train arrives. Sometimes you get a chance to glance at it before that, and it vanishes all the same. It still makes you anxious, paranoid even. As much as you stubbornly refuse to believe it could be anything more than that, it’s still there, every goddamn day. And only in the mornings. Or maybe you just don’t notice it after work; you don’t tend to hang around the station on your way home.

Then it grows darker, bigger, more intimidating. The thing, shadow, whatever, looks almost human, in both shape and size. Maybe you should be scared? But you’re not. Absolutely not. Because it’s not real. No matter how real in feels, and how you know you’re being watched every time you step foot on that platform, there’s still nobody there when you turn to look. Nor does there seem to be any place someone could slip in and hide, either. You can still feel uneasy about things you don’t believe in, right?

No one else seems to notice it, either. Or maybe it’s some common knowledge – that you just happen to not be aware of – that this station is haunted. (No, not haunted. You don’t believe in that stuff. Nope.) A friend of yours, coming to visit you and whom you go greet at the station, doesn’t see it either. You even ask her about it, point at the shadow and ask if she saw it too. She didn’t, of course not. Why would she? It’s not real. She asks if you’re okay, if you’re overworking yourself again. You swear to yourself you won’t bring it up after that, to anyone.

You’re just paranoid, or maybe you’ve watched Ghosts on CBS too many times. Or you’re just straight up losing your mind. That’s always an option.

And it doesn't stop at the station, oh no. Soon enough, you see the same shadow on the train. You assume it’s the same one, at least. Feel it following you around, eventually ending up watching you at work. You’re not sure how to react when Elphaba freaks out at the sight of your new shadow. You really, really don’t want any confirmation that it’s real, no thank you. But Elphaba is an old cat, her black and white fur greying before she even found herself at the bookstore. An old stray looking for shelter from the rain, the staff explained to you once.

Stubborn as she is, she refused to leave after realizing how warm the store is, with customers and staff alike bringing her treats. The owners, a middle-aged couple, decided to let her stay eventually. Named her, bought toys and scratching posts and food bowls and a few beds. She prefers the armchair in the corner of the shop, though.

Brings in customers, too. New customers are surprised to find a friendly feline greeting them with odd chirps, regulars heading straight to her chair to find her and sneak her treats. She’s gained quite a bit of weight after moving into the store, but nobody bats an eye. She’s old, at least over 12 years old for sure even if her exact age isn’t known, who would have the heart to deny her of her treats?

She’s always so calm and friendly to everyone. Doesn’t even mind kids all that much but has definitely learned to find a place to hide if some loud toddler tries to touch her with their grubby little hands. She can usually be found in the backroom then, her tail peeking out from under the couch or beneath the curtains. But still, much of her time is spent in that armchair. She likes the attention she gets there. If anyone else dares to sit in it, or God forbid some audacious customer shoos her away from it, she’ll go scream at the closest staff member until the injustice has been corrected.

With how calm and lazy Elphaba usually is, it’s quite shocking to see her freaking out when you arrive at work with an extra shadow in tow. She hisses at the dark corner it stands in before running away, hiding in your lap. Rinse and repeat every time she gains the confidence to approach the shadowy being, seemingly trying to intimidate it and failing miserably.

You try to calm her, tell her it’s okay, that there’s nothing there, but it’s hard when you’re not sure if you believe it yourself. Your coworkers laugh and say she must be seeing ghosts. You don’t find it funny, not with your current predicament, but laugh politely anyway. Elphaba ends up getting used to the shadow as the days pass, staring at it in silence from a distance before running off again. Or she’ll be lounging somewhere and suddenly bolt for seemingly no reason. Everyone else laughs, saying she must have been spooked by something. You see the shadow standing where she just laid.

And the thing is, after a few more weeks, it doesn’t disappear the moment you try to lay your eyes on it. It remains, at least for a few seconds, enough for you know you really did see it. The thing is getting bolder by the day, always surprising you with new things. It goes from creeping around to eventually throwing things around. Not aggressively, you don’t think. Tossing your pen under your desk, dropping books from the shelves. Some of Elphaba’s toys even get thrown in front of her face, as it this thing wants to play with her. She either runs off or ignores it.

The books feel like they have some significance, you just struggle to figure it out. It never seems to be just random books flying across the room; they’re all related to either the military or ghost stories. At first you judge the thing’s – you don’t know what else to call it besides a shadow or a thing – book preferences, until your brain starts to connect the dots.

It started with the few copies of Casper the Friendly ghost comics in the kids’ section. Then some more books about friendly ghosts, and some military history books. You try not to think too deeply about it. You’re not being haunted, after all, so why concern yourself with trying to solve a non-existent mystery like this? Someone just didn’t put the books properly back on their shelves, some military or ghost enthusiast. And poor little Elphaba hasn’t been herself recently anyway, she could be knocking them down too. Although it is odd how these things seem to happen only when you’re on shift.

You feel it’s presence stronger, too. It’s gaining strength, or maybe just becoming bolder around you. There’s barely a moment anymore where you don’t feel watched, where you don’t see it looking at you.

It’s looking more human, too. Shaped like a person, tall and strong, instead of just a dark shape in the corner of your eye.

You try asking it things. What or who it is, where it came from, why is it following you around. If it could leave you alone, please and thank you. (All this, and you still try to convince yourself it’s not real. Denial is bliss.) It never responds, and you can’t figure out if it’s because it can’t, or just doesn’t want to.

It’s getting to a point where even when you know the shadow is not there, while out running some errands or while out seeing friends, you almost miss it. And you know for certain that it isn’t following you, you don’t feel its heavy, overwhelming presence behind you, around you, right next to you. It’s weird getting accustomed to it as the weeks and months go by.

Your home isn’t safe anymore, either. It takes longer for the thing to follow you home than it did to follow you to work. You’d like to think it’s because it wanted to respect your privacy or whatever, but that, too, came to an end eventually. Or maybe you failed to notice it at first, maybe this isn’t the first time it’s inside your home.

Your already small apartment feels even more claustrophobic with it lurking around. It’s like having a roommate that has no respect for personal space, always feeling like someone is watching over your shoulder as you cook, or staring at you through the mirror when getting ready for the day or for bed.

It's almost like you can feel the weight of someone next to you on the couch while watching tv, and catch a glimpse of your shady roommate next to your once the screen turns black, arm behind your shoulder on the back of the couch for a brief moment before vanishing.

Not a damn moment of peace, even in your own home.

Thank you for reading! Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated!🌷

[temptingfatetakingnames]

The Last Steve Harrington Part 15

AO3 Part 1 Part 14

Steve woke up Friday morning feeling fully recovered. He had spent the last few days with aching muscles so it was a huge relief to get out of bed without pain. He was glad because they were having a barbecue tonight to send off Johnathan, Argyle and Nancy who were heading back to the city tomorrow. Nancy was out of school for the summer but Johnathan needed to get back to his business and Argyle only had so much time off from his job.

He and Johnathan hadn’t got too close while he was home. Steve was hesitant to reach out and the feeling seemed mutual. They talked a bit about his photography business and Steve told him about Family Video. Mostly they talked about how much customer service sucked and how crazy people’s demands were. Steve didn’t mind that they hadn’t managed to bridge the distance between them. He was still overwhelmed with the kids, Robin, Eddie, Hopper and Joyce. Him and Nancy were… okay – parting on good terms at the very least. They would have time to get to know each other better.  

Inhaling deep, he let the breath out slowly.

He had time.  

Joyce was already busy in the kitchen when Steve walked downstairs. Johnathan and Argyle were probably still sleeping and he figured Hopper had already left for work. Will and Eleven were eating cereal like little zombies at the table. They both looked up, cheeks full, and smiled as he sat down. He had been really excited to tell everyone about Stephanie and the parallel universe he had learned about but had promised Robin he wouldn’t say anything without her, so he had been waiting. Patiently. Very patiently waiting. He couldn’t wait to see Dustin and Eddie’s faces.

“Morning, Steve,” Joyce said as she turned around, wiping her hands on a towel. “How are you feeling?”

“Really good actually. All better.”

She came over and settled a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad! But take it easy still, hmm?”

Steve nodded and looked away from her kind eyes, reaching for the cereal box. She patted his shoulder and moved back to the kitchen counter where various vegetables were waiting to be chopped.

“What’re you two up to today?” Steve asked the kids.

“Shopping with Max. I want a new dress for the party tonight.”

“I’m helping Dustin with Cerebro.”

“Sounds fun,” he said and smiled at them.

They both nodded and went back to shoveling cereal into their faces as fast possible.

“Bye!” Eleven shouted as soon as she finished drinking the sweetened milk from her bowl.

“See ya later!” Will said as he scraped his chair back from the table and ran out.

Then it was just him and Joyce. He looked over at her furiously chopping vegetables and could tell that she was stressed. There was going to be a lot of people coming over and she probably had a lot she needed to get done before they arrived.

“I’m gunna shower and then I’ll help you get ready.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Oh, I’m fine! You should rest.”

“I’ve rested enough. Let me help, Joyce. Please.”

She set her knife down and turned fully towards him. Her hair was a little wild and her eyes were tired. She worked too hard. He didn’t know what she saw on his face that made her relent but she softened and said, “that would be great. Thank you.”  

He nodded and noticed a small smile on her face as she turned back to her vegetables.  

On his way to the bathroom, he grabbed a towel out of the linen closet. He hung it up and turned on the water before he looked at himself in the mirror, his good mood disappearing in a flash. He hated his reflection. It was difficult to meet his eyes, but he forced himself, bringing his face closer and closer to the glass until he could see every detail. He never knew how much people saw Steve or saw him. He hated it.

“Fuck you, Steve.”

Stepping back, he removed his clothes and took in the ruin of his chest next. His wounds had healed but it still hurt to look at them. He ran his fingers lightly over the raised and jagged marks on his side. Most of them looked better, whatever the doctors had done to clean them up had worked but… Not these. There had been nothing they could do for these. Too much had been bitten away… and too much time had passed.

A reminder that not everything could be made better or wiped clean. That some things just stayed…jagged. Broken. Ugly.

Turning away from the mirror, he quickly stepped into the shower, hoping the hot water would soothe away the awful pit in his stomach.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon were spent cooking with Joyce. He was quiet at first, still stewing in ugly thoughts, but she was slowly able to coax him out of it. She was just so damn happy, despite everything they had to get done and he found it hard to maintain his brooding in the face of her joy.

The kitchen was warm from the oven’s heat so they opened the windows to let in a lovely cross breeze. They talked a lot and laughed a little and moved around each other with a comfort that Steve had never experienced before. He and Max used to cook together sometimes, but her energy had been chaotic in the kitchen. She didn’t like to listen to instructions and Steve always had to clean up her messes, not that he had minded…much. He had missed cooking with someone else. He had missed cooking.

Johnathan and Argyle came down and had breakfast before they left as well, off to enjoy their last day in Hawkins.  

When they were finished making all the food that Joyce had planned Steve asked if it would be alright if he made chocolate chip cookies. He had perfected his recipe over the years and they were his favourite thing to bake.  

“Of course!” Joyce replied enthusiastically. “How did you learn to cook like this?”

As he gathered the necessary ingredients Steve explained, “my parents were gone a lot so I learned how when I was pretty young. Simple things at first, but I got better over the years.”

“What did you make?”

“So much pasta! Boil noodles and heat up some sauce? It was the easiest thing I could think of. It was a real game changer when I figured out the barbecue in high school.” Steve chuckled a little to himself. “I think I made burgers or hot dogs every meal for two weeks.”

Joyce didn’t laugh. “You were alone that much?” she asked instead.

He shrugged. “My dad was always gone on business trips and my mom went with him. I was fine, they always left plenty of money.”

As he started to whisk the dry ingredients together, he felt Joyce’s gentle touch on his shoulder.

“They shouldn’t have done that, Steve. I’m sorry you were alone.”

He blinked down at his bowl. It felt like such a long time ago now, living in that big empty house. He remembered the first time his parents left for a week at a time. He was thirteen and scared, but just like anything else – it got easier with time. And he wasn’t always alone. Freshman year, he met Nancy, Johnathan and Barb. Then the kids and Eddie and Wayne and Steve spent less and less time in that big empty house.

But… even with how full his life became with the family he chose there was still a hole in his heart from his parents. He didn’t think they were malicious or bad people… they just didn’t care. Too busy living their own lives to worry about his.

“No,” Steve agreed. “They shouldn’t have.”

Joyce gripped his shoulder tighter and he reached up to pat her hand.

After a moment, she slipped away and started tidying up the kitchen as Steve made his cookies, feeling that hole fill up a tiny bit more.

---

Max and Eleven came back first, but they disappeared upstairs with their bags after both exclaiming how delicious the house smelled. He and Joyce smiled at each other, nibbling on still warm cookies. Johnathan and Argyle arrived next, Nancy in tow. Joyce quickly put them to work setting up the tables and chairs outside. Hopper walked in the door with a loud exclamation of how long and tiring his day had been, leaving to shower just as Will called to say he was getting a ride with Dustin in a bit.

All of the cooking was done so Steve went back to his room to change. Opening the middle drawer on his dresser, he stared at the options. Joyce had taken him shopping the first week he moved in, getting him everything he could possibly need. Most days he didn’t give a shit about what he looked like… but today felt different. He wanted to look good.

He grabbed out a pair of jeans and the collared button up shirt that Joyce had insisted she get for him. It was dark blue and made of a light material that felt amazing on his skin when he slipped it on over his head. He tucked it into his jeans and cinched his belt as he moved into the bathroom. His hair looked good and healthy but he hadn’t tried to style it since –

Well, since everything.

He grabbed the hairspray Dustin gave him and got to work, trying to remember just how he used to make it look so effortless. It took longer than he would like to admit and it wasn’t exactly how it used to be, but it was close enough. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back and couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

He looked like –

Himself.

His skin was tanned from spending more time outside. The shirt showed off his arms, and the jeans hugged him in all the right places, and his hair fell perfectly, curling just a little onto his forehead. He looked…good. For a brief moment he considered ruining it – messing up his hair and taking off the nice clothes.

“Hello, Steve,” he said instead.

Joyce was back in the kitchen, wearing a red sundress, when he went downstairs. She was mixing cut up fruit and sprite into a large pitcher.

“Would you get the ice trays out of the freezer?” she asked as she looked over her shoulder. Her eyes widened when she saw him and she froze.

Steve clenched his jaw as she walked over to him, emotion filling her eyes as she racked her gaze over every inch of him. Her hands patted his shoulders, smoothing the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, Steve,” she said with a watery smile. “You look great.”

The doorbell ringing saved him from having to respond, and he ducked out from beneath her hands and went to answer it.

Standing on the stoop was Robin and Eddie. He must have caught them having some kind of argument because Robin had her arm around Eddie’s neck and was in the process of hitting him in the stomach. They both froze as Steve opened the door and he fought back a sigh, taking in the two of them. Robin was wearing jean shorts, a nice summer blouse with a vest over top of it covered in buttons and a weird hat that was tilted sideways on her head. Eddie was decked in his usual attire of black jeans and a faded band t-shirt. Judas Priest, Steve could barely make out. They looked back at him, eyes wide and he hoped with his entire being that they wouldn’t comment on his appearance. He didn’t think he would survive the day if everyone looked at him like they had seen a ghost.

“Your hat looks funny.”

“It’s a beret, Steve.”

He blinked at her. “Your beret looks funny, Robs.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and released Eddie from her headlock.

“No Wayne?” Steve asked as they moved inside.

“He’ll be by in a bit. Wanted to drive himself so he didn’t have to wait for me and Robin.”

Steve nodded and they walked through the house to the back door. Johnathan, Nancy and Argyle had done a good job getting everything set up outside. Tables were lined up against the house, covered in the food that he and Joyce had spent the day cooking. A few umbrellas were scattered around with lawn chairs under them, offering a place to sit and hide from the sun and a stereo played music at a reasonable level.

Eleven came out of the back door in a light blue dress that ended just above her knees and had a white bow around the waist. It wasn’t what she usually wore, going for comfort and utility most days to keep up with the boys. Her hair was still short but she had curled it so it framed her face nicely and Steve could see a hint of makeup on her cheeks and lips. She was holding the pitcher of fruit punch, with Max just behind her holding the cups. She was wearing baggy shorts with a striped tank top. Her hair was long and wavy down her back and she had the same hint of makeup on as Eleven.

Everyone trickled in slowly over the next hour and the yard filled with the people who had been brought together by The Upside Down. There were a few awkward moments when he said hello and they took in his appearance for the first time, but they moved on quickly, probably noticing his discomfort. The gremlins fell on the food like ravenous little beasts, and conversations broke out in small groups. Hopper and Wayne were busy at the barbeque, talking about sports. Murray was with Joyce and Nancy, discussing his latest conspiracy theory. Eddie was trying (and failing) to convince Johnathan to change the music station. He was sitting with Robin under one of the umbrellas when Argyle came over.

“How are your feet, my dude?” he asked.

Robin quirked an eyebrow as a smile took over Steve’s face at the secret question.

“Still uncomfortable, but a little better every day.”

Argyle nodded and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Better every day is the best we could hope for.”

“You should get new shoes if they bother you that much,” Robin said looking at his very normal sneakers.

He and Argyle traded a glance before they burst out laughing.  

“You’re right, Robs,” Steve said, still smiling. “But they’re really not that bad.”

She pursed her lips at him but her eyes were soft. A large gust of wind blew through the backyard, causing laughter as paper plates were torn from unsuspecting hands, hair was whipped into faces and mouths, and hats were tossed off heads. Steve smiled, watching the pure chaos as everyone ran around trying to catch everything and put it back where it belonged.  

“That came out of nowhere! There hasn’t been any wind all day,” Robin said with a bit of laughter in her voice as she went to find her hat.

Sorry. Her beret.

Every time she got close, the wind would pick it up again and move it just beyond her reach. Steve watched her struggle for a moment before he went to help. The wind was still tossing things around and it proved especially difficult to pin down. After a few minutes, they were breathless and laughing as it continued to escape them. Robin had her hands on her knees, taking a rest as Steve ran half bent over so he could scoop it off the ground.

It came to a rest at Eddie’s feet and Steve skidded to a halt, falling back on his ass in an attempt not to tackle the other man. He looked up from his position on the ground to see Eddie haloed in sunlight and beaming a dimpled smile down at him, holding out a hand to help him up.

Pretty, Steve thought and felt his cheeks warm. He shook his head quickly and grabbed Eddie’s hand, letting him haul him back to his feet. Once he was up, Eddie bent back down to grab Robin’s beret and Steve rubbed at the back of his neck in embarrassment. Hoping Eddie didn’t notice the redness in his cheeks.

“I can understand Robin having a hard time catching this, but not you,” Eddie said to him with a smirk. “That was painful to watch.”

“I heard that!” Robin said as she came up on Steve’s side, reaching out to grab her beret out of Eddie’s hand and angrily positioning it back on her head.

“That was crazy, it felt like the wind was out to get us.”  

Eddie snorted and a targeted gust whipped his hair wildly into his face and he spluttered as a bunch of it went into his eyes and mouth. Steve and Robin laughed maniacally as he attempted to get it under control again.

“Told you!” Steve said, still chuckling.

Eddie squinted at them, holding all his hair in his hands. As suddenly as it came, the wind disappeared, creating a moment of stillness and silence. Johnathan, Nancy, and Argyle came over to chat about their trip back to the city and Steve settled back a little to listen. He could tell that they were all going to miss each other and that it had been a long time since they had all got together like this. Like a family.

He couldn’t help but wonder about the parallel universes out there – If they were all having a backyard good-bye party too – and if they were… how different it felt because he wasn’t there. Which brought his thoughts to the Eleven’s he had met and if they were just then telling everyone about him – passing on his message.

He couldn’t wait anymore. Robin was beside him and he gave her a little nudge and raised his eyebrow in question when she turned to look at him. She caught on to what he was asking and nodded excitedly.

“I had another Eleven visit,” he began, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Who told me about a very different universe from ours.” Conversations drifted off as they all came closer to listen.

“Most of the Eleven’s I’ve met have all been pretty similar, but this one – ” he trailed off, letting the suspense build.  “Well, he showed up at Family Video when me and Robin were working.”

“He?” Hopper asked with surprise.

Steve and Robin nodded and everyone’s eyes widened.

“And he wasn’t the only one who was different. Their Robin is a boy named Rob and their Steve was a girl named Stephanie.”

“Wait… so, we were all – ?” Dustin started and then coughed. “Opposite genders?”

“Yup!” Robin replied with a pop.

Their minds were as blown as Steve was expecting. They all started talking at once, asking about their alternate selves and their names. He and Robin made them guess, just like Eleven had. Most were easy – Max, Mike and Erica figured theirs out right away. Some took longer than others and by the end there were only three names they couldn’t figure out – Dustin, Wayne, and Eddie, as predicted.

“There is no female equivalent to Dustin! It has to be an entirely different name,” Dustin reasoned.

“Almost every name we’ve figured out has followed the same pattern. There must be a girl’s name starting with a D that we haven’t tried yet,” Will replied firmly.

“Argyle was Gayle though,” Nancy said. “Maybe there isn’t a pattern.”

“Daisy!” Joyce suddenly guessed.

“My alternate mom, or dad I guess, better not have named me Daisy…” Dustin muttered.

“Winnie!” Murray suddenly called out from the side, pointing at Wayne.

“Correct!” Robin yelled like they were playing a game show.

“Oh, Aunt Winnie!” Eddie said and draped himself across Wayne in a dramatic fall as his uncle rolled his eyes.

They all continued to guess girls’ names that started with D and E, but they were quickly running out of ideas.

“Dus-tin, Dus-tin,” Erica was quietly repeating to herself. “Tin. Tina. Tina?”

“Yes!” Steve exclaimed with a smile, only a little surprised that she had managed to figure it out.

“Tina!?” Dustin spluttered.

Lucas nudged him in the shoulder playfully and Mike bellowed out a laugh.

“Shut it, Michelle.”

“You shut it, Tina!”

Steve immediately regretted giving the kids this ammunition to use against each other. He knew that Michelle, Tina, Willa, and Laura were going to be hurled around as insults for the foreseeable future. They all quickly turned back to trying to guess Eddie’s name, going through all the same options as Steve and Robin had tried a week ago.

Robin looked over at him and he nodded, they weren’t going to get it. Even though Gayle and Tina didn’t follow the letter pattern, those names still had some connection to the originals. Lucy Munson just had to be different, just like Eddie Munson, Steve thought.

“It’s Lucy!” Robin exclaimed.

“Lucy!?” Dustin repeated. “That doesn’t make any sense at all!”

“That’s what we said,” Robin and Steve said at the same time.

Eddie had gone eerily quiet beside them. Steve hoped he wasn’t self-conscious about the name, Steve thought it was pretty.

“Who doesn’t love Lucy?” Eddie said with a sudden grin.

“Better than Tina,” Dustin muttered and everyone laughed.

---

The whole day had been so good.

The sun had shone brightly and there was delicious food and laughter and Steve joined in like he would have before and it was… good. Easy. He felt like himself again. When he finally went to bed that night, it was with a lingering smile on his face.

But –

He really should have known better.

Part 16

@just-a-tiny-void @mx-jinxous @child-of-cthulhu @awholedamnmesstbh @phoenix0bird @bookworm0690 @estrellami-1 @a-gae-af-racoon @nailbatandfreak @novelnovella @meela86 @lenathegay @vampireinthesun @penny00dreadful @questionablequeeries @espressopatronum454 @r0binscript @seths-rogens @fruity-nerd @sani-86 @n0-1-important @swimmingbirdrunningrock @ellietheasexylibrarian @manda-panda-monium @paintsplatteredandimperfect @viridianphtalo @goodolefashionedloverboi @13catastrophic-blues @newtstabber @queenie-ofthe-void @tinytalkingtina @hbyrde36 @whole-moods

- So sorry for the delay on this one! -Bit of cliffhanger here, I hope the next chapter wont take me as long - I do have a good portion of it written up already and HOOO BOY. -As always, please tell me your thoughts and feelings! I love hearing from you all!

[sagencelestient]

Hairdresser s/o!

Characters: Scaramouche (not Wanderer), and Albedo (Separate)

Genre: Fluff!

Warnings: annoying customers (smh)

Scaramouche

You were tired after a long day of work, and it was almost after your shift. It wasn't a great day per-se, there were more difficult customers than usual. Not only this, but a bunch of the staff called in sick, so it was just you and two other co-workers there. Luckily, the day was just about to end. There were only a few more minutes. You really couldn't wait to get back home, and back to your lovely boyfriend, Scaramouche's arms. You felt kind of burnt out right now, and you knew being with him would help you out a lot.

However, your excitement to go home was soon snuffed out, like an extinguished flame, by the sound of the door opening. It was another customer. You and your co-workers' heads turned as they entered, demanding that their hair be styled, cut, and dyed while getting furious after you told them that the shop was just about to close. No matter what you told said customer, they just wouldn't leave.

"Why don't we just play rock paper scissors?" One of your co-workers, named Childe, suggested, "I mean, I really have to go right now, so... we should just let one person take one for the team!"

And of course, you were that person. You sighed, as you start to think of things to say to this difficult customer to make them leave. Unluckily for you, you couldn't think of anything that would convince someone like them.

However, right as you were about to give up and try to push them out the door or something, a familiar man pushed the door open like he owned the establishment.

"Y/n?" he asked, "do you still have clients? The salon was supposed to close 5 minutes ago, you know."

It was Scaramouche, the boyfriend you couldn't wait to get back home to! But why was he here?

"Hm? Scara? Uh, well, this client over here..."

At that point, said client interrupted.

"You said closed?! Well, look here! Someone else that you seem willing to service! My Hoyobook page WILL hear about this, you hear me?!"

"I- uh, ma'am-" you stutter, trying to get her to calm down.

"Uh, ma'am?!" the client basically screamed, "honestly! you can't even form a proper sentence! What does that mean?! Just for this interaction alone, I demand a 30% discount!"

"What y/n means, is that if you don't get out of here, right fucking now, some haircut wouldn't even be a worry of yours very shortly. You can stay around if you'd like to see why, though." Scaramouche threatened, giving the customer a death stare.

"I- Your manager will hear about this!" the customer screamed, before taking off running.

"Oh, um, T- thanks, Scara!" you say, greatly relieved that that person was gone. You look at your savior, your boyfriend. He really did look hot right now.

"Jeez, she couldn't even take a few threats... what a waste of space," muttered Scaramouche under his breath.

"Anyways! Why are you here?" you question, changing the topic. After all, he usually didn't come to visit after work.

"I just wanted to come to see you right after work. You should be thankful, honestly. And don't worry, what I said won't get you fired, not that you even need a job to begin with..." Scaramouche muttered.

"Aww!" you squeal, hearing that and running into his arms, giving him a hug and a few kisses, "you really are so sweet!"

"..."

"Okay then, let's go home!" you cheer. Even just seeing Scaramouche lifted your spirits, and it seemed to do the same for him.

While you two walk home, you joke about how you should also visit him at his workplace sometime. You were obviously not going to do it, as he has explicitly told you that it wasn't that safe, obviously, being in a place where not many like him, and being in a place where pretty much everyone has weapons and such. However, you still did want to visit his office. Maybe someday you could convince him!

After about 10 minutes, you reach your shared house and pop open the door with the key. You then walk over to the couch and collapse onto it.

"Come lay down with me, Scara!" you call out.

He sighed. "Fine, just for a bit though."

He moved onto the couch, and then you moved on top of him, laying on his chest. He really was super cute when he got soft, and you were the only one to see this side of him! It made you feel special. Oh, how lucky you were to have him! You sneak a kiss onto his cheek and lie back down, and soon, fall asleep.

And even though Scaramouche said he would only lie with you for "just a bit", you two ended up falling asleep together on the couch for the rest of the day. In all truth, he didn't fall asleep by accident, he just didn't want to disturb you from your slumber by moving, and ended up falling asleep. But he'd take that secret to the grave.

Albedo

You owned a small hair salon in Mondsdat, and actually, one of the only ones there, which meant you had many customers every day. You loved your job, but it was getting more and more tiring day by day. Not only this, but your salon got a sudden influx in popularity, which meant you didn't really have enough employees to meet everyone's needs. Cutting people's hair, whilst searching for employees, and running the store was really becoming tiring, and you knew you just needed a break. You also knew who else needed one.

"Hey, Bedo!" you say, entering his office.

He looked up, smiling as he saw you. "Yes, y/n?" he asked.

"Weell..." you said, "we're both really busy, right? So I thought we could go on a vacation for a bit! Just me and you! I think we both need it, and we also can get to spend more time together!"

"Oh... well, I suppose a little break wouldn't hurt," Albedo answered, "I just need to tell Jean, and I'll probably be able to go. Do you have anywhere planned?"

"Well," you say, moving to sit on his lap, and giving him a kiss, "not really! We should pick a destination together!"

"Alright then. Let's look for somewhere good after I'm done work, alright?" he asked, holding him in your arms and giving you a kiss back.

"Okay!" you smile, excited about where you were going to go. After all, it wasn't often that you two got much quality time together, and the vacation would be where you could cuddle with him all day and pepper him with kisses. You were already thinking of places you two could go as you walked out of his office. "See you at home, Bedo!"

END!

--------

Haha, can you tell who the favorite is? Can you? Can you?

-Celestient

(sorry the Albedo part is so short I just... well I have no excuses)

[ryuichirou]

Hey ryuichi, as an artist, how do you feel about Ai art? Do you think that Ai is going to replace artists? Do you think that Ai artists are real artists?

I'm curious to know your opinion on this matter.

Sorry for the late reply, Anon! I wanted to give you a more or less nuanced reply, so it took me some time to think about this topic.

I’ll start with the easy one: no, AI art isn’t going to replace all artists and it’s not going to completely eradicate art as we know it, because art doesn’t exist solely for the practical purposes. As long as people enjoy and feel passionate about making art, art is going to exist in one form or another. But that’s just stating the obvious.

And while there are people who are better or worse at coming up with prompts for the AI, as long as they don’t do any additional work based on the AI-generated image, I don’t consider it being art. I think art is about skill, taste and personality, and this simply isn’t it.

Are people going to lose jobs because of AI art? Unfortunately, it already happens, but it also doesn’t mean that artists are doomed and this is some kind of apocalypse. It’s very important to consider the scale of things, the possible developments, etc. Here are some points to consider…

First of all, if we’re talking about personal commissions and clients that opt to use AI instead of commissioning an artist for their project (or personal use), I wouldn’t say that it’s too much of a loss. I feel like this is exactly the type of clients who don’t tend to appreciate artists’ work and pay them fairly anyway, otherwise they wouldn’t even consider AI as an option. Many of these “clients” would never commission an artist anyway, so they’re not even a part of this client pool. I know that money is money, and some artists would gladly take even a low-paying job from a customer that often doesn’t treat them well (I’ve been there and speak from my personal experience back when I started to offer my commission services), but I am an idealist and think that we shouldn’t spend our time and energy on someone who doesn’t see any value in our work anyway. Not everyone has the luxury of throwing away people who pay you at least something, of course, these artists still need to eat, so that last statement remains an idealistic take from me, keep that in mind.

And if we’re talking about corporations that use AI instead of hiring artists, while it is a problem, I also feel like it’s going to backfire somehow – it kinda does already. Not necessarily in terms of the company getting backlash, but in terms of the lack of quality control over the AI art (if you don’t have any actual artists on board, how are you going to know if the art works or not?) and some other unexpected reasons that are definitely going to pop up.

AI is definitely going to transform the way we think about art and art-related jobs in general. Some jobs might get lost forever, but it happens all the time – there are other brand-new types of art-jobs that are going to start emerging out of thin air. Just like photography and Photoshop influenced the market and art in general, AI is going to do just that.

I’ll note that I don’t think companies are going to stop using AI altogether at any point of the near future though; it’s a very powerful and cost-effective tool, there is no way they are letting it go. AI is absolutely here to stay, and it’s going to evolve and become better and better, scarily better. But this is how I think we should approach it:

People whose work is used for the AI’s learning pool should abso-fucking-lutely give their consent to their work being used, or even better, be compensated for their participation. If there is a new AI that makes a point out of the participation in the learning process being voluntary and well-paid, I think it’d change the dynamic between artists and AI – so far it’s just stealing from them.

Ideally, AI should be used as a base and not the final product. Actual artists could get inspired by it during the brainstorming stage or work over it.

Whoever posts, produces or distributes content that was created with the help of an AI, should absolutely mark it accordingly. In my perfect world, there’re going to be laws about this lol In general, the whole thing needs to be reflected in law, so far it’s way too easy to abuse.

Not only marked, AI generated images should be banned from being sold lol You can press that button and type all the key words all you want, but the result is just a free image that anyone can use and cannot be monetized. I believe this final point would make the majority of AI users just abandon their desire to use it in general – if there’s no profit for them, they’ll drop out, and AI art can be used as a tool like it’s supposed to be.

As you can see, I have avoided saying that people who use AI art are “artists” because I don’t consider them artists. If they don’t transform anything and don’t bring anything new to the table, I, the most important person on this planet, will refuse to give them that title lol

As far as I know, actors and writers have achieved some guarantees against the use of AI during their strike..? I haven’t looked into it, so I don’t know. Also please, keep in mind that I’m mostly talking about illustrations, because this is what I do. AI affects other types of art too, and there might be nuance there that I’m not mentioning here.

In general, I don’t want to demonize AI, because I feel like it’s not a problem on itself, it’s the way people use it that’s brings problems for all of us. This is a very new technology, and we don’t know how to handle it just yet mostly because for the lack of the law system regulating it, this is why there are so many opportunities to abuse it.

Also also, when the novelty of the AI art wears off, we might end up with the resurgence of appreciation for “real human art” or something. We are waaaaay too prone to nostalgia not to go “god I miss it when actual people designed logos” one day, and believe me, whenever it happens, the companies are going to market their stuff as the REAL HUMAN ART by the REAL HUMAN PEOPLE so much that we’re going to get sick of it in 5 minutes lol. But hey, maybe it’ll end up being a reason to pay artists more.

Thank you for reading such a long reply! I don’t want for my blog to turn into a discussion board, so sorry in advance if you address this topic in future asks to give me links or examples and I won’t reply to you, but it depends on the number of asks. I’ll look through everything on my own.

[copperbadge]

Hi, Sam! Hoping for some insight as an adult-y, job-experience-having person. Do you think it's possible to get a job as a front desk receptionist with zero real work experience, other than some art commissions in the past, and some time in college but no degree? Or am I better off setting my sights on entry level food/retail jobs to start off with?

So much of it depends on what experience you do have and what you're willing to put on your resume or like...I don't want to say lie, but let's say...gently obfuscate about.

But also, por que no los dos? You can apply for both at the same time. I used to apply for a variety of jobs, and I just had a set resume and a form letter of interest that I'd slightly alter based on what was requested in the job listing.

The real question is whether you have the skillset to work front desk, and whether you can demonstrate somehow on paper that you do. Do you have experience answering phones, working in a call center? Do you know your way around Office suite? (You don't have to prove how, you just have to say you do and then have the most basic of chops to back it up.) Do you have customer service experience? Etc. etc. etc.

Most front desk positions require a college degree, which is frankly ludicrous, so you may find yourself facing a lot of applications that want you to list your degree information. If you can get through with just listing your college experience, I'd do that. But remember, apply for any job where you have even a hope of getting to the interview stage. If you have 60% of what they're asking for, I'd apply.

So here are some questions to ask when building up a resume and a portfolio of your skill sets for any job: Have you ever worked a volunteer job? (You don't have to mark it as volunteer on your resume.) Did you do any kind of workstudy job while you were in college? (This is real work and really counts!) Ever worked for a family business, or done work for a friend, or have you done reasonably extensive beta-reading/editing for fanfic? That's freelance, baby!

So more important than "should I apply to this" is "How do I apply to this reasonably". Applying for any single specific job once you've found one shouldn't take that long, an hour at most; I've got more about that here under the "cover letters and resumes" section. Especially for jobs like front desk, a good cover letter is super important; it's basically a writing sample that tells them a lot about your ability to communicate, your drive, and your intelligence, whether or not that's fair. Remember to emphasize your skills and never, ever mention or excuse your deficiencies; you want to tell them why you're good for the job, not pre-emptively argue with them about why you're not.

I do also recommend, if at all possible, you sit down with your college transcripts and work out how many credits you have. College credits are usually pretty transferrable, and it's worth your time, if you're able, to find a way to complete a degree -- an Associate's degree, particularly through an accredited community or online college, often only takes two years and if you come in with existing credits, probably even less. Studies indicate that having any degree of any kind increases your chances of being hired and also of earning more over your lifetime. I know not everyone has the ability to attend or complete college, and I don't think everyone should, but if you can, even if it's just one course a semester and the degree's a long way off, do consider it.

Good luck, Anon! And hey, if you do end up finding that retail/food customer service is where you're getting offers, there's no shame in that, that's good solid skilled work that will give you more to put on your resume when you're ready to move on.

[drill-teeth]

To every company saying or has said “people just don’t want to work”, go fuck yourselves.

Plenty of people do want to work. I believe people by nature are social and kind. And people who can’t or don’t want to do physical labor aren’t lazy. They’re not bad people. They’re not “not contributing to society”.

This society fucking sucks especially when it comes to work. Especially low wage work. Companies will make candidates go through a cumbersome application process, once you get hired you usually have to have a shit ton of availability and agree to lots of hours (and do overtime more than you think so many places are understaffed), the conditions at most low wage jobs are exhausting and demanding mentally and physically, and then you finally get to your pay period and the amount you earned isn’t enough to make a single rent payment. It’s bullshit.

So many low wage jobs are essential by the way. It’s fast food work. Retail work. Grocery store work. Etc etc etc. Services people rely on every day and take for granted. Low wage employees are treated like shit by entitled customers and entitled management and are expected to give up so much of their mental and physical health for their job and aren’t given enough money to take care of themselves in return.

And you can say “well if you get some roommates you can find a place and make it work if everyone has a job” all you want, but that’s not the point. The point is that this society loves to say “you can achieve your dreams if you just work hard and earn it”. And that’s a lie. People are manipulated into believing the value of their life is tied to their ability to work. It almost doesn’t matter if you have a roommate if you still have to work a 40 hour work week plus overtime at a job that is so exhausting on your mind and body that you go to bed in pain and cry in the morning before work.

Plenty of people want to work. They just also want to live. They don’t want their job to kill them.

And I know sometimes you gotta play the capitalist game. I know sometimes you have to suck it up and go to work to take care of your loved ones because that’s how this society operates. I know sometimes you just have to.

But the point is that you shouldn’t have to. This society could be better. Treat its workers better. Not kill them. And we should put the pressure on companies as much as possible for a better future because THEY need US. Not the other way around.

[princeblack]

It’s one of the worst days at work he’s had in awhile, causing him to actually contemplate quitting his job to move across the state to live with Sirius. But he doesn’t want to give up on school and he needs the money for housing, since he had to cut his parents off to pursue his dream. It hasn’t been easy, going from being spoiled in a mansion to living in a cramped one-bedroom that isn’t worth what he’s paying for it. But Regulus can handle the lifestyle change, struggling but still learning how to cook and do his own chores, juggling everything on top of classes and his job.

But what’s harder to deal with are some of his clients, like the older woman (she calls herself Tammy) who visits him for a private session every Friday. He tries to be professional and fake his way through it, swaying in her lap and allowing her to touch him for the extra hundred dollars. She isn’t allowed to touch his cock, but she’s given permission for her hands to roam elsewhere. Regulus hates it, but he’s good at convincing her otherwise. Maybe a little too good, because she causes some trouble when he ends the session for tonight, trying to touch on him and ask him to stay even when their time is up.

He takes a break after finally shaking her off, getting some water and contemplating his life decisions when his boss reminds him of the scheduled Bachelorette party tonight that starts in five. “You’re one of my only dancers who makes me any money, Black. So get out there before those girls come in.” She pats him on the back before walking off, leaving him there contemplating how he can possibly survive the rest of the night. Barely having time to refresh himself, he leaves the locker room again, moving back out into the club. 

He probably still looks good, but his red curls are disheveled and there’s light sweat on his body from how warm the building is. He’s been wearing the heavy jewelry for so long that he barely notices the weight of it anymore, hanging from his shoulders and neck. During his first week at the job, it was strange walking around in just a mens’ thong and jewelry, his body out on display for everyone, showing everything from his ass to his nipple piercings. But now it’s just his usual, Regulus not even batting an eye as he walks across the floor and eyes are drawn to him.

But then he feels someone touch his arm, causing him to turn, his blood running cold when he sees her face. It’s Tammy from earlier, who already has her wallet out as if that would appease him this time around. “Hey, you’re back– uh, I know I probably wasn't very clear earlier, but I’ll pay three hundred for another hour?” she asks, her voice as eager as her intense blue eyes.

“Can’t,” Regulus lies easily. “I’m reserved for a bachelorette party, which is starting any second now.” Truthfully, this woman is becoming addicted and should probably spend her money elsewhere instead of being a regular for a stripper half her age. But it’s not his place to judge, so usually he tries not to. That is, until the woman can’t take a hint and won’t stop putting her hands all over him even when he’s not giving her a dance.

“I’ll double whatever they’re paying you,” she offers stubbornly, smiling at him in a way that sends a chill down his spine. It’s as if she didn’t hear what he said, instead more concerned with the services he offered, as if he were some kind of machine.

“Not how this works– I’m already booked. Besides, I’m sure you have responsibilities. Go get some rest, okay?” It’s the ‘nicest’ way he could possibly tell her to get a life, but what else was he supposed to do? Let her think it was okay to continue harassing him like this after he already said no? “Have a good night, Tammy.” What he really wants to do is tell her to go to hell for touching him outside of the private room, as if she was in a hurry to get whatever she wanted from him with no regard for his boundaries.

But he doesn’t, because that would cost his boss a customer and a regular. Luckily something else catches his attention, his green eyes drawing away from the older client to look at the one approaching them. She’s the most gorgeous woman he’s ever seen, wearing a lacy black bra and a tiny cardigan, barely covering any of her skin. Her stomach is perfect, but so are all her curves, including the cleavage at the top of her chest. But most perfect of all is her pretty face with big blue eyes and full lips; the prettiest facial structure he’s ever seen on another person. He can’t help the way his eyes rake her body, even before she reaches them. She must be one of the girls from the bachelorette party, because he definitely would’ve noticed her if she were here earlier. / @ghstdoll

[iamnotawomanimagod]

also I'm going out of town on Monday for a work thing

a bit nervous, a bit excited.

I'm gonna have to be around a lot of people for the first time in awhile. Got my booster shot and plan on masking. (CDC doesn't currently recommend masking if you aren't actively sick but like....... I don't trust that everyone has gotten their boosters.)

I'm mostly anxious about the interacting. On the bright side, most of the event is just different meetings and presentations. So I should be just kind of sitting there, for the most part.

We've got a stupid department hike on Wednesday though. I voted for Wine and Painting but noooooo. Gotta walk around in the sun in the middle of the day with a bunch of people I barely know, lmao. Still thinking of ways I can wiggle out of it. I'm a goddamn grownup, if I don't want to be somewhere, I don't have to be.

Other than that, I'm kind of looking forward to it. My best friend will be there, we're sharing an AirBnB away from the rest of the company. It's got a hot tub and a nice kitchen and generally looks quite pretty and relaxing. And it's all on the company's dime!

Working at an office is so dumb, lol. It's such a fake job. It's such nonsense work. I'm very lucky to have the job that I do because I don't know if I could hold down a "regular" job (not work from home,) but man. It's really hard to take it seriously sometimes. Like I'm going on a little paid roadtrip to go hang out with my best friend and my job is so fucking easy and then I look at people who have to work horrible customer service positions with stupidly stringent rules about how they behave and I'm like

this is all so fake and made up, I shouldn't be the only one with such an easy job.

I'm very privileged and got very lucky. I don't understand why it can't be this way for everyone.

Anyway. Other than having to have my people face on for a full 40 hours, I think it'll be a good experience.

[purlturtle]

Bering and Wells Advent Calendar, Day 15

Never Get Involved With Your Flatmate, a collaborative writing event: everyone writes one chapter of a loosely connected getting together AU!

Here's my contribution for Day 15:

#15: never listen in on Helena talking on the phone

Not only is it rude, but one might overhear things - but oh, how hard that is, when the listened-in-on person has such a pretty voice!

(fic is under the readmore, or on AO3 if you want! The whole AO3 collection is here!)

Myka tries to never listen in on people. It is rude, and whatever they are talking about is none of her business.

However.

When someone talks, somewhere where you can hear it, and there’s no other sound to focus on instead – what are you going to do? Plugging your ears is a childish gesture, turning on your own noise is impolite – so you just pretend, right? Do your best not to imply what is being said on the other side of the phone call, the one you can’t hear; do your best not to judge what you do hear.

Anyone who works in the hospitality industry has their experience with that.

Anyone who works out of an office that has very thin walls, and other offices on the other sides of those walls, has their experiences with that.

It’s been two weeks now, and Myka really should say something.

Then again, it’s not really her office, not as such; just a room equipped with a desk and a generic computer that plenty of people use when they need to, such as her when she plans the menu, or checks on contracts with service providers, or sends out orders to purveyors. (She’s good at this, too. Before she began working here, doing this was “kind of everyone’s job”, as Artie had mumbled when he’d hired her, and “kind of everyone’s job” always meant “nobody’s doing it because everybody thinks someone else has already done it”, and god, it was a mess, but she has cleaned that up now and it is running so smoothly, if she says so herself.)

Anyway, office. She uses it, like, maybe an hour or two every day. Helena uses hers, next door, far more – not the entire day; she spends plenty of time outside of it, but it is accurate to call it “Helena’s office” in a way that it would never be accurate to call this one “Myka’s office”. This office is empty plenty of times, and Myka always makes sure to look in on Helena, say hello when she comes to use it, so that Helena will know someone is next door. So it’s not like she’s setting Helena up for being listened in on. And she’s had phone calls come in when Helena was next door; Helena has to know how thin these walls are, and how sound carries.

And she tries, she really does, but—

But Helena’s voice is just so pretty.

And there are so many variants of it.

There’s her “customer service voice” – well, they all have that, but then there’s also her “extra super British voice” when someone American gets on her nerves, her “talking to Artie” voice, her “talking to the IT guy” voice (and jargon), her “talking to hotel staff voice” (it’s way less formal, and way less British, and, to her credit, in no way patronizing). And at home, she talks differently yet again, just in general, and then on top of that there’s how she speaks with Steve and Leena: calm and friendly, Claudia: excited and tech-y, Pete: chummy but surprisingly stern sometimes, and… well, and Myka hasn’t exactly figured out whether Helena talks differently to her, and if so, how. It’s not like she, maybe, potentially, has already been analyzing this far too much already.

Except—

Myka knows, now how Helena’s voice sounds when it’s reading poetry out loud. She knows, now, the range Helena’s voice truly has. And at first she wondered, if… if, when Helena reads poetry, she always sounds like that, or… or only if she reads poetry to Myka. There’s no way of telling, really, seeing as she only has that one example to go off of. What wouldn’t she give, to hear Helena read again—

No. No, she has made a rule about that. No more poetry, no more reading out loud to her. She won’t survive it, and that’s that.

The truth of the matter is, though, that she has learned to tell, just from hearing Helena’s half of the conversation, who might be on the other end of the phone line.

And she should be embarrassed about that, really she should, but it is also so incredibly fascinating.

She likes it best when Helena talks to the IT guy, because apparently Helena isn’t just a genius with old heaters and modern DVD players, but also with the hotel’s idiosyncratic computer system. Those calls went from initial curiosity to disbelief to a brief period of despair and truly impressive cursing, to – as of the beginning of this week – exchanges that are so rapid-fire and cut-off sentences and delighted laughter that you might believe that Helena and the IT guy share a brainwave. If you were listening in.

And that is…

Nobody understands Hugo, okay?

Not even Artie understands Hugo, and they have worked together longest. Claudia has long given up on understanding Hugo, saying it’s like Python versus Java, and while Myka knows enough to know that Claudia isn’t talking about snakes and coffee, that’s about the extent of her knowledge, so she has even less hope of understanding Hugo.

And here’s Helena, faced with Hugo and Artie and their byzantine computer system for all of two weeks, and delighted laughter is happening when she talks to Hugo. Granted, not when she talks to Artie, but then Artie isn’t “just” the IT guy, Artie is the manager, and has way different stakes in the whole thing than Hugo does – Myka isn’t even sure that Hugo knows he’s working for a hotel. It’s magic – Myka doesn’t know if it’s the accent, or Helena’s voice, or the way she says things, but she understands Hugo and Hugo understands her.

It is magic.

Myka doesn’t have to talk to Hugo often, but the few times she’s done so, she came away not sure if he actually understood a single thing she told him, or vice versa. So, maybe, listening to Helena talk to him isn’t all that bad? It’s practically research!

So when Helena’s phone rings, on the other side of the thin office wall, on this gray, sleet-filled Friday afternoon, Myka saves the document she’s been working on, and tilts her head to the side.

“Charles! You rotten old muffler; about time I heard from you!”

Oh, that is new. That is new. That is not the IT guy greeting. That’s not even Helena’s usual English.

“Oh dreadful, darling, simply awful. Not even a good proper rain, but this truly exasperating mix of rain and snow and ice; good thing I live right next door – yeah, didn’t I tell you? Extremely handy, and such lovely people—”

Myka almost loses her balance on her chair – whoever Helena is talking to (whoever she is calling “darling” like that, part of her mind adds darkly), whoever this Charles is to her, she’s about to tell him about Myka. Well, about everyone who she lives with, of course, but Myka is among that number, and she really really shouldn’t be listening in.

“Wha—?”

Apparently, Helena was interrupted; there’s a lengthy pause only filled by a few “oh dear”s and “goodness”es and such. And then when Helena goes on, she’s commiserating with whatever this Charles has told her just now, consoling – and thoroughly tearing into some “James” and “Marcus” characters that apparently did this Charles wrong somehow. And she sounds… different. Myka has no idea of different English accents and dialects beyond knowing that they exist, just as Texan American is different from Coloradoan. But this must be one of them, and now Myka wonders where in England Helena is from, and if everybody there sounds like that, and how come Helena doesn’t sound like that at other times, and—

Helena’s vowels and consonants, the entire melody of her words has entirely changed; her diction is softer on some sounds, even more crisp on others, stringing her words together with barely a breath in between, drawing out a sound here and swallowing one there, it is… it is fascinating, and Myka can’t help but think that this is Helena at her least guarded, and that she really, really, really should stop listening in.

It is… it sounds… it’s intimate, is the word Myka’s brain lands on, and she winces. It is, though. She would swear that this is a voice of Helena’s that few get to hear, only someone really close to her. Like her poetry voice, her brain pipes up, and she winces again, and wonders who else ever got to hear that, and why she’s feeling so oddly possessive all of a sudden, wanting the answer to be “only Myka Bering”. She wonders if there will ever be a time when Helena will talk to her the way she talks to this Charles, and then does her best to wipe that thought from her mind, because there is no way that anything good will come from that. She will stick to her rules, and she will stop listening in, and—

“What about me?” Helena asks, as if she’s repeating a question this Charles has just put to her. There’s a laugh in there, somewhere – all of her interaction with this Charles, so far, speak of great familiarity. And as Helena launches into a description of what her job is here in the hotel, Myka’s stomach plummets – what if this Charles is Helena’s partner, boyfriend, significant other? Sure, she’s not wearing a ring, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s single, does it?

But then… but she did look at Myka’s lips, the other day, after that second poem. She did; Myka remembers that. (It totally hasn’t burned itself into her retinas, that glance, no, nah, haha no, just… just a memory. Like anyone might have. Very mundane and normal.) That’s not… looking at someone’s lips like that is not what someone does who has someone else on the other side of the Atlantic waiting for them. Or is it? No, Helena wouldn’t. Would she? The simple truth is, Myka doesn’t know. The simple truth is, there are more “darling”s being dropped in this phone call she’s listening to, and either that’s what Helena calls everyone and Myka isn’t special (and oh, how she hates that idea), or this Charles and Myka are on an equal tier of special, and Myka wants to know what that tier is, burns to know what that tier is, but she can’t go and ask, can she, not without revealing that she listened in, and that will lead to Helena knowing that Myka can always listen in if she hasn’t realized it yet, and—

“Do stop, Charles – yes, alright, fine, yes, there is someone who— No, I’m not going to tell you more, you sordid vulture. There isn’t anything to tell, all right? … Oh you and I both know that my approach is—” There is a very indelicate snort, and then, “But quantity isn’t quality, dearest brother,” and Myka can suddenly breathe so much more easily, it’s remarkable, really.

Brother.

He’s Helena’s brother.

“No, Charles,” and that is very stern, and Myka wonders if Helena is the older or the younger of the two; she would definitely talk to Tracy this way, but then Tracy would also definitely try to talk to Myka this way. “I am not going t— Yes, all right, I am interested, but— No, you are not going to get a picture of—”

Yeah, okay, that withering scorn, that is siblings talking, Myka can hear it now. Charles is teasing Helena, and Helena isn’t having it. She can also tell that the more indignant Helena gets, the more… proper her pronunciation sounds again. The thing is… it sounds very much as if Charles is teasing Helena about… someone. Someone that Helena is interested in.

Myka’s heart is beating in her throat. Could it be—?

But perhaps it isn’t. Perhaps she’s imagining things. Misunderstanding that half-heard conversation.

Mustn’t do that.

Myka’s phone rings.

She stares at it, and in the silence right after the ring, she can… she can hear Helena winding up her phone call to Charles.

That’s a coincidence, right?

It can’t be that…

That Helena—

That Helena wants to listen to Myka, can it?

No, probably – probably Helena wants to end her call so she can, she can leave her office and give Myka some privacy, just like Myka should have done ten minutes ago. Damn.

Her phone rings again, and Myka scrambles for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Myka?”

Tracy. Now that is the weirdest coincidence, seriously. “Yes, Tracy,” Myka sighs, propping her head into her palm.

“Yes, hi, insert two small talk questions here; Myka, I am going to kill our mother.”

Myka bites back a snort. “You volunteered to spend Christmas with them, Trace.”

“Oh spare me the ‘you only have yourself to blame’ litany, little Miss Airfares Are Too Expensive Around The Holidays.” Tracy groans, long and pitiful. “Can you call Mom and tell her to just stick with a Christmas dinner list already? I swear this is the fifth time that she’s sent me a recipe that ‘sounds so amazing for Christmas, don’t you think, Tracy?!’” Her imitation of Jeannie Bering is spot-on, if a little cruel. “I don’t care! I cannot begin to describe how little I care! I just want a shopping list, ideally with a four-day lead-up to be able to pre-order that shit, and not go anywhere near any store after the twenty-third. I’m eight months pregnant, for chrissakes!”

“I know, Trace,” Myka says, not unkindly, though she does bite back a comment about how Tracy is just as pregnant as she needs to be to get out of shit she doesn’t want to do. “And you know I’d come, but it’s not just the airfares, it’s our busiest time too. I’ll be there for New Year’s, remember?”

“And what a coincidence that New Year’s dinner is just a bunch of buffalo wings,” Tracy says acerbically.

“Exactly.” Myka isn’t going to get into this with Tracy; they’ve been having this conversation for years, ever since Myka started working here. “And I make a damn good satay sauce for them, if I say so myself.” Every year the same one, too; she knows that that shopping list is magnet-tacked to her parents’ fridge, and sits in her sister’s inbox too.

Tracy groans again. “My phone just dinged again. Myka, I swear to god, if this is another recipe—”

“You’ll be fine, Tracy,” Myka tells her. “Just tell her about the twenty-third deadline, and stick with it.” She doesn’t add “for once”; if Tracy doesn’t know by now how to set a boundary, Myka sees dark times ahead of her for motherhood. Speaking of: “How’s the baby-baking going?”

“Ugh,” Tracy groans, yet again. “I feel like a zeppelin. Like the fucking Marshmallow Man. Kevin has been taking everything off every countertop and side table and even the center of the dinner table; I hate him. Might kill him too. And Dad, completionism and all that.”

“Don’t kill family at Christmas, Trace; think of the police officers who want to be home with their families, not investigating murders.”

Tracy blows a raspberry. “Fuck ‘em,” she says brightly.

Myka swallows a guffaw; Tracy has enthusiastically embraced the “all cops are bastards” mindset –mostly because Tracy hates following rules, though, and consequently also hates the enforcers of said rules. “Give Kevin my best,” Myka says solemnly, “and tell him to hide the knives and the rat poison.”

Tracy scoffs. “As if I’d resort to that.” Then she huffs a theatrical breath. “Anyway, call Mom.”

“Anyway, call her yourself,” Myka replies. “I’m staying out of that. You’re an adult, Trace, remember?” Oh, how Tracy had thrown that argument around after her eighteenth birthday.

Tracy’s reply is another raspberry. “Gotta pee,” she says then, “see you soon.”

“Bye, Trace,” Myka says, but the line is already dead.

She wonders what Helena might have gleaned from this, if she really did listen in. There’s only silence in the office on the other side of the wall; she can’t even hear Helena type (yes, the walls are that thin). Maybe Helena did leave, to give Myka some privacy? Should she, Myka, do that too? (Yes, she should have done it fifteen minutes ago, but she can’t very well change the past now, can she?)

And then she hears Helena’s chair creak and knows that no, Helena is still there, just quiet. She must have heard Myka talk about family killings and knives and rat poison.

Myka blushes, fiercely. No more listening to phone calls, she tells herself. Maybe karma will help, if she stops listening to Helena’s phone calls, that Helena will also not happen to overhear Myka talking to her little sister about familicide.

She wonders if her own voice sounded different, talking to her sister.

She wonders if Helena wonders whether Myka will ever talk to her, Helena, the way she just talked to her sister. Then she realizes that from her, Myka’s, half of the conversation, Helena has no way of knowing that Myka was talking to her sister. And then she makes a firm mental note not to let slip that she now knows that Helena has a brother called Charles.

And then she makes another firm note, to stop listening in to those phone calls. Maybe get some earplugs. Or put her headphones in and listen to music while she works. Or just leave the office and find something else to do.

She shushes the part of her mind that says she’ll miss Helena’s voice. She’ll still hear it in the evenings, and mornings too. It’ll be fine.

[revvnant]

some movie mike headcanons.

first and foremost, yes, his actual surname is afton; however, he is living under the name 'mike schmidt' ( mother's surname ) for the time being. his siblings' names are also evan and elizabeth. but--

he suffers from dissociative amnesia after the triple punch of '83, the mci, and william disappearing / being taken by cps ( i haven't decided yet; one way or another, the children are separated from william and michael ends up as the sole provider, compounding his stress and causing a rapid unraveling ).

this works backwards and forwards. he perceives his life as one long day starting around age sixteen, and can't discern between 'yesterday' 'today' and 'tomorrow'. he's unable to conceptualise the future. it's also not that he struggles to remember his past and can't -- it's that he doesn't think of it at all. it slides from his brain. it doesn't feel like a loss to him, it simply does not exist.

elizabeth was so young when he started acting as her guardian that she doesn't even know her name isn't abby. mike cannot recall that her full name is elizabeth and the papers he acquired for them do say 'abigail schmidt'.

the 'who the fuck is garrett' fandom reaction is also the reaction of anyone who knew the aftons before william vanished. there was never a garrett. mike cannot perceive this though. he's censored it out. you could sit in front of him saying 'evan' and he would hear garrett every time.

last psychological point, regarding the above, in addition to the psychosis he may have b(orderline)pd. he has an incredibly unstable self-image, is terrified of losing what little he has left to the point of irrationality, quickly becomes attached to people he meets whom he thinks could be friends ( and support systems, he is desperate for some support ), exhibits mood swings, and feels emotions so intensely that it becomes difficult for him to control. all of this is caused and worsened by his living situation.

moving away from his mental health, he lives alone with his sister and he works. he has trouble holding a job due to paranoia, outbursts, and dissociation. despite being relatively smart, he lacks a high school diploma and thus can only really get minimum wage work. he rotates jobs every three to nine months or thereabouts.

he knows he's an unfit parent and not what abby needs, but he doesn't want to give her up. even if he understands that it would be better for her in the long run, he just can't bring himself to do it. she's all he has and he's desperate to keep her.

his knowledge of freddy's is hazy at best. sometimes an offhand mention may prompt him to say that he's been there before or that he used to like it, but he can never summon up a concrete memory.

'doesn't steve raglan look like his dad' no first of all everyone looks like steve his friend steve. the employment officer and the auto guy and the lawyer and the therapist all look exactly the same it's just one of those faces. also steve doesn't look like his dad his dad looks like [stock image of a customer service representative his brain autofills into any memory of william].

he still knows how to do some fun mechanical shit! he just doesn't usually offer it up because it doesn't come to mind. if you put a machine in front of him and told him to fix it he'd probably do it without thinking, but since it's not something that often occurs to him, he can find himself stumped by his own appliance problem. you very much have to distract him and then slide the pieces into his hands at which point he'll just take over.

fun tidbit: he can kind of roller skate.

fun tidbit: his japanese and russian are intermediate, he learned from past coworkers. normal shelf stocking activity and i'm not joking he was killing time. this should make him more employable. it does not.

fun tidbit: he's a very good artist!