#a staggering fucking amount of money.

[cesium-sheep]

the kirby dr moricky pillow in beige (the color I wanted cuz it has the drawing I didn't get on the mat I will eventually hang up or the storage case) is on sale for $10 rn. but I've already got 3 multi week purchases in the queue and buying that still sets everything back by another week even if I'm lucky and shipping is cheap. (preorder a lauraillustrates tapestry blanket ($140), buy the princess peach game ($67), buy The Rug for soon-to-be-just-my room ($300).) I got paid extra for the unicorn but that only means I can get the blanket first instead of having to push it to the very end of the preorder window.

decisions are hard and $40 a week is very very small even when someone else is taking care of the bills. (once my credit card is paid off I can raise my allowance because I actually get allotted now $300/mo but I put everything above the current allowance rate to the credit card, but that's still got $1330 left on it even with matt helping me out last week. originally once arin finally started getting paid in 2022 I negotiated $250/mo to cover 5 weeks of allowance (for the months that have 5 mondays), plus a minimum card payment of $50, but months that don't have 5 mondays I'd put the extra $40 on it too more often than not. and sometimes scraping some out of personal savings if it seems unlikely to be immediately necessary. (plus for a while the minimum payment was actually $60 but it's not like she was available for further negotiations.) mom's still a co-signer on that card and I really just need it fucking gone already, but it took a lot of hits getting through the past couple years.)

theoretically my disability compensation appeal is still in the queue somewhere. I'm sure they'll email me in a couple weeks with my quarterly reassurance that it is. maybe I'll be really, incredibly fortunate, and it'll get scheduled for after the immunologist tells me about a powerhouse treatment that'll turn my bones to dust but let me fucking live again, but before the treatment actually takes effect, so I'm still as pathetic as possible for the hearing but not quite so fuckin defeated. (as if I have been truly no-silver-linings fortunate even one time in this whole fucking travesty.)

#ask to tag #typing out numbers makes me feel better #kind of. #if I do get approved for compensation I'll get back pay all the way back to my original filing in 2020 #which if I get 100% which I damn well fucking should #is like. #we'll just call it $3k/mo even though the current rate with spouse is rapidly climbing towards $4k #and we're at 41 months and counting #so that's. #a staggering fucking amount of money. #*if* the judge believes me and/or takes pity on me. #(we're talking well over $100k backpay. borderline rest of my life type money *by itself* given my wife able to cover the bills.) #(*and* I'd still be getting monthly payments in perpetuity as long as I'm still demonstrably crippled. no means testing.) #(I would literally always have spare money for my friends.) #(and even if something happened to one or god forbid both partners) #(I would still be able to get by.) #(without literally killing myself by trying to work.)

[cal-flakes]

dying for something between a routledge!reader and deal dealer/mean!rafe if you have any ideas <3

╰┈➤ pining and punches

warnings: rafe being an ass, violence, swearing, mentions of blood.

summary: rafe’s nasty attitude tips y/n over the edge, and he feels guilty.

y/n huffed and puffed as she sauntered through the restaurant, cleaning empty glasses and left over plates from the tables she passed. it had only just quieted down from the dinner rush, and she was nearing the end of her tether.

coming back through the aisle of tables, she cursed mentally as usual trio of kooks burst through the door, laughing obnoxiously. anxiously, she picked up the pace towards the kitchen, mentally praying they hadn’t already seen her.

unfortunately, she was stopped in her tracks by none other than rafe cameron, smacking into his broad chest, knocking the numerous plates out of her hand in one fell swoop.

suddenly all eyes and ears were on the pair as the sound of a ceramic car crash rang throughout the restaurant, just about forcing everyone to look in their direction.

her now trembling mouth fell open as she stared at the pile of broken glass surrounding her feet, yet not moving an inch. “shit, sorry. didn’t see you there” rafe smirked, the usual hint of arrogance lingering on his tone.

his sly smile faltered slightly as her eyes glazed over, flitting between him and the mess. a wave of disorientation washed over her as her mind raced. she was so unbelievably tired of this shit, being treated like garbage everyday by those who deemed her less than them.

y/n woke up everyday, dreading her shifts at the island club. she only worked there because she and her brother desperately needed the money, especially since big john disappeared.

“you gonna..uhh..clean that up?” topper spat, gesturing to the pool of shards that certainly wasn’t getting any smaller. her attention was drawn back to the three boys around her, now staring at her expectantly.

hot tears began to roll down her face as she shook her head, reaching around to untie her work apron before folding it and shoving it aggressively into topper’s hands. “no, i’m not”

sighing, she turned on her heel, leaving through the door they’d just came through, ignoring the vast amount of eyes on her. hastily wiping a few tears away, she continued walking, walking away from the place that abused her for fun, picking on the rogue pogue for the hell of it.

“hey! routledge!” she heard rafe call, his footsteps hot on her tail. almost instantly, she halted, spinning around to face him before pulling her arm back, and quickly launching her fist across his jaw.

in shock, rafe stumbled back, holding his jaw in pain as he winced. staring at her with wide eyes, he pulled his hand away slowly, taking in the sight of the crimson liquid now trickling over his hand.

even she looked shocked, completely dumbfounded by her sudden ability to finally crack him one, hard enough to split the skin.

“what the fuck?” he yelled breathlessly, struggling to wipe away the flow of blood dribbling down his neck, soaking the collar of his navy polo.

“that’s what you get. do you want to explain to my brother why we don’t have enough money for rent this month? he sure as hell packs a harder punch than me!” she yelled back, stepping towards him threateningly.

staggering backwards, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the feeling of guilt now pooling in his stomach as he watched the tears cascading down her flushed cheeks.

lowering himself to the ground, he rested against the railing, watching her frame become smaller and smaller as she continued to walk away from him, making her way back to the cut on foot.

a couple of hours had passed, and y/n had managed to get home, cry to her brother, bandage her hand, have a shower, and get into bed when a loud knock echoed throughout the crowded chateau.

since their dad had disappeared, their home had become the hotspot for john b’s friends. not that she particularly minded, unless jj had gotten too wasted and claimed her bed for the night, leaving her to take comfort in the couch for the night.

y/n didn’t have time to get up and answer it, john b was already there, squaring up to the late night intruder who now stood in their porch.

“i don’t want any trouble man, i just came to drop something off..” she heard rafe’s raspy voice mutter. quickly slipping on some socks, she padded through the house quickly, curious to why rafe was wandering about the cut at this time of night.

“what happened there?” her teased, motioning to the purple black covering the underside of rafe’s jaw.

before rafe’s alter-ego could take over, y/n placed a gentle hand on john b’s shoulder, pulling him away from the older boy in the doorway. “its fine bird, seriously..” she uttered, attempting to soothe the protective glare on his face.

nodding, he backed away into the house, shushing the others as he sat at the table, trying to overhear the conversation.

“what are you doing here rafe?” she sighed, leaning against the doorframe as she wrapped her plush blanket further around her middle, protecting her from the harsh september breeze.

he held up a thick white envelope in offering, pushing it towards her. “i-uhh, i came to give you this..” he mumbled sheepishly, avoiding her gaze while she inspected the lasting mark she’d left on him.

prying it from his reluctant grip, already knowing what it was, she rolled her eyes once more for that day, quickly running her thumb along the green paper stuffed inside. “no, i’m not a charity case, take it back..”

rafe stepped away, shaking his head. “plea-please just take it, it’s the least i can do, alright?”

before she can get another word in, he’d slung a leg over his motorcycle, revving the engine as he clipped on his helmet, pulling away loudly.

she stood there, dumbfounded as she looked between the money and the place he just stood. y/n didn’t even want to count the cash in the envelope, something felt wrong about this.

and she also felt like that wouldn’t be the last time she’d be taking money from rafe cameron.

ok so i hate this but it’s late and i really wanted to post something for you guys before i went to sleep! love you all <3

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x fem!reader #outer banks #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron #obx #rafecameron #rafe obx #dom!rafe #soft!rafe cameron #mean!rafe #mean!rafe cameron #rafe x you #rafe fanfiction #rafe imagine #rafe x reader #rafe outer banks

[howlinchickhowl]

It's posting day for my @gallavichthings Gift Exchange gift! I got @rayrayor and I wrote a little something for their prompt about Mickey being a 'straight' patron of Ian's gay bar. Happy gift exchange, I hope you enjoy it!

(There's no warnings and it's fairly PG)

You're Like In Love With Me - a gallavich a.u. fiction 🫶

Someone at the brewery has it in for Ian, he’s decided. They’ve assigned him the world’s weediest delivery guy, who manages to shift one keg for every seven Ian hauls off his truck, and always gets to Ian ‘after lunch’, which, tends to be closer to dinner than lunch in Ian’s opinion, and leaves him very little time to get everything stocked and inventoried and get a break in before the evening rush starts.

He’s sweating buckets as he waves the guy off and staggers back out into the main bar for some ice water. He rounds the bar and snags a dishcloth from Joni who wrinkles their nose up at him as he swipes it over his forehead and the back of his neck.

Joni doesn’t sweat, it’s a point of pride for them. Ian isn’t sure if they actually aren’t capable of sweating, or if they just avoid any activity that could possibly cause them to perspire.  If he was at home with his siblings, Ian would shake his head like a wet dog, sending droplets flying all over every surface and into the faces of any person standing close enough. But last year when he took over from Gigi she made him sit through like thirty hours of online health and safety and food hygiene training, and there is an open container of cut limes on the back bar that he can’t in good conscience condemn with his bodily fluids. So he holds himself back and focuses on getting himself a drink and trying not to be too obvious about checking out his favorite regular.

Mickey Milkovich has been coming to The Scratching Post since before Ian’s time, before it was ever even a gay bar, according to the man himself. When he was a kid, before the neighborhood ‘went to shit’ – Mickey’s colorful way of saying got gentrified by the u-haul lesbians and professional gays – it was something of a slum. And Mickey grew up a regular little slumdog. Before The Scratching Post was The Scratching Post, it was The Alibi Room, and the way Mickey tells it, it was basically his dad’s office. He’s told Ian stories about how he used to sit in one of the booths and watch his dad take book or make deals, how he got his first tattoo from the owner’s cousin who was trying to rustle up enough bail money to get her boyfriend out of jail after he shot up their apartment during a bad trip. How his older brother lost his virginity in the upstairs room when it was a short-lived brothel. How the whole fabric of his life is tied up in this place, like he’s just as much a part of it as the stains on the carpet that they’ve never bothered to change.

So now that Mickey is out of prison (attempted murder, but according to Mickey it was a trumped up bullshit charge and if he wanted to murder someone he would fucking succeed) and back living in the house he grew up in, he likes to drink in his neighborhood bar, even if it’s turned into some sort of haven for the L-G-B-T-Q-Whatever (his words). It’s home.

Ian doesn’t mind. Mickey’s a fast drinker and he can hold a lot of booze, and it never hurts to get some steady business during the day. And he likes Mickey. Kind of really likes him, actually. Sort of wouldn’t mind licking the inside of his mouth or tasting the sweat on the back of his neck. And that’s where he gets into a certain amount of trouble. Because Mickey Milkovich? Is straight.

Straight as a ramrod. Straight as a ruler. Straight as the day is long. Capital S Straight. So Ian tries not to think too much about how soft his lips look or how good he smells, and he also tries to keep it under wraps exactly how much he likes to look at the guy. He’s not gonna not look at him. But he doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable in, from what Ian can gather, one of the only places he feels comfortable. And he also doesn’t want to get his ass kicked by a guy he has a crush on. He had enough of that kind of fun in high school.

So he grabs his pint of ice water and wipes his forehead with his stolen rag and he limits his glances to two seconds long with twenty second intervals. Or at least he thinks he does until Joni rolls their eyes at him and announces they are going on a smoke break, since he’s clearly gonna be there for a while anyway. He’d be annoyed but honestly, they’re right.

Mickey always sits in the same spot, on a high stool at the bar just where it’s curved around enough so that he can easily see the door but not so far that he can’t see who’s coming and going from the restroom or the back. His vigilance is quiet, but noticeable if you know what you’re looking for. Or if you just spend a lot of time looking.

He’s in his spot today, left hand curled loosely around his beer like he likes to be ready to drink at any moment, and he’s smiling down at his phone in a way that has Ian’s tummy start to fizz with little sparks of jealousy. What’s got him smiling like that? He’s desperate to know.

He doesn’t always talk to Mickey every time he comes in, he tries to show a respectful level of interest, though if you polled his employees they would probably say he fails at that. He does some quick math in his head while grabbing another rag and starting to wipe down the bar top, making his way down toward Mickey’s end. Today is Wednesday, Mickey didn’t come in yesterday, on Monday Ian kept his distance, and he hadn’t worked Sunday. That meant that their last interaction had been Saturday. Four days. That’s a decent interval, he figures, and he carries on wiping over the bar, trying to come up with a subtle way to find out what has made Mickey smile.

“That your girl?” Is what he’s got by the time he’s stood in front of Mickey, and it may not be subtle but it’s all he could think of.

“Huh?” Mickey asks, looking up.

“You uh, you look like something in your phone is making you real happy, I thought maybe it was a girl.”

“Oh, Uh.” Mickey looks down at his phone and then back up at Ian, his lips tugging down into a half frown. “No.”

He closes his phone and shoves it in his back pocket, eyes shifting around the room as he takes a sip of his beer. There’s something kind of shifty about it, like Ian’s made him uncomfortable somehow, and if Ian had more self-control he’d call this one a loss and find an excuse to leave him be. But his discipline only extends to his exercise regime and diet apparently because he finds himself unable to walk away, quietly desperate to know what Mickey had been looking at.

“So what d’you win a bet?”

Mickey huffs a laugh and sticks hi phone in his back pocket, Ian wipes a spot on the bar that he’s already wiped clean three times.

“Naw man, just a picture of my sister looking fuckin’ dumb in a squirrel hat.”

Ok. Not what Ian had been expecting.

“A…squirrel? Hat?”

“Yeah it’s for her job or whatever, she looks like a fuckin’ idiot.”

His words are harsh, but the smile that’s spreading over his lips is kind of soft, like he is actually kind of fond of his sister. Ian’s never seen him smile like that before. His smile is always kind of dirty, or wry, or sometimes bordering on a grimace, this is different, and Ian feels like he’s unlocked a new Mickey nugget. He wonders if he can get some more.

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Two brothers, one sister.” He takes a gulp of his beer and then does a thoughtful little shrug. “That I know of. The way my dad was though, wouldn’t be too shocked if I got a bunch more I don’t know about.”

There’s that wry smile that Ian’s used to, with a half an eye roll that belies a lifetime of dealing with a parent who never stops disappointing you. It’s an eyeroll Ian has performed many a time himself.

“God yeah me too. I got at least one half-sister who showed up out of the blue a few years back, but I could be related to half the city for all I know.”

“Half the redheads at least.” And there’s the dirty smile. He’s mentioned Ian’s hair a few times, most people tease him about it a little, it’s no big deal. He imagines Mickey would have terrorized him if they’d known each other as kids, chasing him around calling him Carrot Top or Little Orphan Annie. This is kind of a gentle tease though, something warm, accompanied with a squint that could almost be a wink, if Mickey Milkovich was the kind of guy who winked, and it spurs Ian on.

“I knew this girl in high school, her dad had so many kids running around that she had to ask people for their family tree before she would hook up with them.”

Mickey almost chokes on his beer.

“Fuck me, should I be doing that?”

“I don’t know. She had a close call once, and her dad literally had like, thirty kids.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah, so, next time you’re lookin’ to hook up with someone, just, ask for a DNA screening first I guess.”

Mickey nods, and then the air sort of drops out of the conversation, like it has nowhere left to go. Mickey gulps the last of his beer in one huge mouthful that puffs his cheeks out and sort of makes him look like he’s chewing it, and the only thing Ian can think to say is to ask him if he wants another.

“Nah I’m good, gotta get back.” He throws some cash down on the bar to cover his tab and is out the door with his arms still shoving into his jacket before Ian can even say syanora.

And then he doesn’t come back for three weeks.

It’s not like Ian’s moping, Joni can fuck off for implying that. The bar is busy and he has a lot to do and employees to manage and siblings to deal with. But in the afternoons sometimes he’ll find himself staring at the empty space where Mickey would normally be and wondering, kind of forlornly, if the guy is ever coming back. Trying to figure out what he did or said in that last conversation that pissed him off so bad he would forsake his childhood bar.

Ian misses him. His expressive face and his disgusting sense of humour, and the way he makes Ian feel, like on edge and at ease at the same time. It just sucks, not seeing him, and not knowing why.

And then one day, three weeks and four days since The Scratching Post had last seen hide or hair of him, he’s back, sitting on his regular stool when Ian gets done mopping the bathrooms.

It gives him a jolt, a little shiver of excitement running down his spine as he shoves the mop in the corner and rounds the bar.

“Haven’t seen you around here lately.” He greets Mickey, as casually as he can, and Mickey looks up, kind of startled, and then looks down at the bar. Or. There’s a white envelope sitting there, and he seems fixated on it.  

“Everything ok Mick?”

Mickey nods, a quick little jerk of a thing, eyes fixed on the envelope. He doesn’t even have a drink in front of him.

“You want a beer?”

He shakes his head, brings his right hand up to lay his fingertips over the envelope and slide it across the bar toward Ian.

“What’s this?” Ian picks it up, there’s no name on it, no details, it’s not sealed but he’s still not sure if he should open it. Mickey’s looking up at him when he’s done inspecting it.

“It’s uh.” His bright blue eyes flick away and then back again, are they wetter than usual? They seem so shiny when they finally rest back on Ian. “It’s a DNA test.”

“A DNA test?”

“Yeah. We um. We ain’t related. So.”

He raps his knuckles on the bar a couple of times in a short sharp knock that he must think serves as a suitable stop to this most bizarre of conversations, and clambers off his stool, heading for the door.

“Wait Mickey—What?!”

“Just. Read it.”

The door has barely had time to swing shut before Ian is practically tearing the envelope in his haste to look at the paper inside. It’s exactly what Mickey said, a DNA test, comparing Mickey’s DNA to his own, which, he’s gonna have to talk to him about where he got a sample of Ian’s DNA from, and confirming that there’s no overlap. In the top right corner, in a chicken scratch of a hand, Mickey has scrawled the words ‘just in case’ and then a phone number, and Ian almost drops his phone in the ice trough in his rush to pull it out of his pocket and send a text.

[2:34pm]         I thought you were straight?

The reply buzzes through almost immediately, like maybe Mickey’s stood outside looking at his phone waiting to see what happens.

[2:34pm]         Good.

It’s a very Mickey text, and something about it makes Ian feel warm, like he’s being trusted with something Mickey doesn’t trust a lot of people with.

[2:35pm]         Where did you get a sample of my DNA??

[2:35pm]         That really what you wanna be asking me right now?

[2:35pm]         I’ve got a lot of things I want to ask you.

[2:36pm]         So come outside, I don’t got all day.

It’s possible that Ian knocks over a stool and drops his dishcloth on the floor, he’s got bigger fish to fry.

#gallavich fic #ian x mickey #fic #GGE2024

[tocomplainfriend]

It feels less like you want to address a real life problem to characters, but more like you want to have another of your characters you constantly baby and want others to fangirl over.

TW: Rape, SA, Racism, Stereotyping, Homophobia, Acephobia, Arophobia.

The representations of topics in media DOES affect real people.

Fiction can affect reality.

Let's start easy, Jaws. This goes back to Hazbin I promise.

"Since the release of Jaws in 1975, the world has witnessed a staggering decline of 71% in shark and ray populations, and around 100 million sharks are killed each year." (including multiple practices of mass hunting sharks in competition)

Both Steven Spielberg and the original writer Peter Benchley regret the movie and book. It's a big reason of the shark treatment, when it started by old fishermen worrying about shark biting people in the beaches they made money of.

Even if you aren't a shark killer yourself, a lot of things you believe of sharks are untrue myths that come from making sharks "evil" human killer animals. Sharks cannot smell blood from miles away, that's not even how water works, the particles of blood need to enter their nostrils. Sharks are not man eaters, they attack other prey animals before human. Shark attacks are extremely rare, even if they happen they are not justifiable to kill all sharks.

Sharks actually have personalities they can fit in, they are smart and recognize people and boats- and form positive relationships with people. They can even like getting pet by people.

Other level to represent other thing sin media that affects reality we can address Queer, representation as a topic.

I hope it is not a surprise for you... possible non-straight, non-cis person reading this. That the constant representation of gay man as kid predator is a problem. They used old commercial (PSA) to spread negative views of gay man. Media is used to spread messages and affect its viewer. This is, there are cartoons created by Jehovah witness (or similar religions) to spread their beliefs and teach to their children in an easy, digestible way.

Same with the amount of straight woman that went off to read shitty yaoi manga and fetishy gay wattpad stories, and went to sexualize and diminish queer men. Constantly making gay man's personality into bottom or top (uke and seme shit). I witness this irl, others have too.

Same with shitty men that view Lesbians as a porn machine for men, cause "monkey brain like woman, lesbian = two women". Which happens in general and adult media. All of these are EASY examples.

Another one which turns out many people don't think about. Having your representation of an AroAce character (on purpose or not) be the psychopath with no feelings. Associating the not being romantically or sexually to means you have no heart, to be abnormal, by then a psychopath. An abuse or serial killer.

Fiction does affect reality-

A racist film, 'Birth of the nation' Revived the KKK and let to all the discrimination, and the homicide of black people of centuries ahead.

-

Coming back around, how you treat the topic of SA, and r-pe- affects the real world. You would think someone who wrote that, had in mind on how that affects people in real life. Didn't you want to represent victims of SA/R-pe that are sex workers and male?

Reducing the r-pist, pimp, trafficker character to an air head to treat as silly is crazy to do. Specially as... oh idk... the creator? Both this and the tweet of the voice actor calling Val "Bubbles Coded" is so crazy. The character is also not deep enough by itself, it's pretty much Stupid and a R-pist sex trafficker. The tweet below Viv's fucking kills me too.

The fact Val is shown to be air head stupid doesn't delete he backed Angel (and by being a sex trafficker and a pimp, and him licking charlie that means he has multiple victims) into a corner and under his control. Too then abuse of him in many different ways. Manipulations are not only done by Super mastermind people, and representing it in such way diminished, affects people who have being manipulated and actually try to question if they have being or not. Manipulators can be normal, average people, they usually are not obvious. Even if Val is openly a shitty person that's really obvious, it doesn't detract from him being manipulative to people. The scene where Val threatens him in chains that is manipulation, his text messages are manipulation (even if you think it is too obvious to be successful).

How you represent SA/R-PE, and its perpetrators, do affect real life.

Going around and having your "serious R-pe episode", to then go in other episodes or the other series you are writing to make r-pe/sa jokes is terrible. For the person that directed the whole scene of poison to NOT be r-pe/sa victim (said by themselves) with a r-pe fetish with this character's in specific, to directed in the most graphic way possible is awful. To go around babying your r-pist character is crazy.

Hope you understand that this doesn't mean not treating any topic at all. Creators should be awere on how they treat topics and the scenarios they create with them, too. People and viewers need to also put their brain to understand the media they consume. But you can't always put all blame only on the viewers of a series, if media is messy is a fault of the media. You can criticize both.

You need to acknowledge Valentino is indeed a terrible person, You don't need to delete his actions or the weight of them.

I also just know that a lot of Val fans just like him to draw him in r-pe art and get their fetishized gay ship. Cause that's what they are into. You won't even do that with a woman, because you are into your fucked up fetishized gay porn from wattpad you never left behind.

If you like him, FUCK IT, just please take his abuse seriously. Don't default your entire usage, and view of the character to be 'uwufied' fandom stuff, please.

I hate how the topic has being treated, in and out of the show. I'm a victim, and I'm hurt by how these things are treated and knowing how it affects others. Even in things I haven't watched! Don't make the argument don't like it? Just don't watch it. The movies from the video of SA of men being a joke, many I haven't watch- that still affects over all. It's still a problem and it's disheartening.

Also have this:

#hazbin critical #hazbin hotel criticism #hazbin hotel critical #hazbin hotel critique #vivziepop critical #vivziepop criticism #vivziepop critique #tw sa #tw rape #tw homophobia #tw racsim #tw acephobia #tw arophobia

[cactusringed]

You know, whilst obviously a cushy ass job, I don't think many people appreciate how difficult and stressful content creation is. Humans were never meant to have millions of eyes on them and especially people in their 20s or lower are never going to be the perfect emotionless content creating machine

Idk, it's just the way I see some people talk about CCs is kind of painful. Maybe I'm being a bit parasocial, but a few are around my age, or even younger, and I can't help but wonder how horrifically choking it must be to have to continuously entertain millions of people. I know it's easy to forget just how much that is. But even one million is a staggering amount of people. Many of them have over 5+ million subscribers.

And worse yet is that they have to balance their genuine friendships and emotions with what will be considered entertaining to an audience. It's easy as scarian girlies to be upset when Grian avoids Scar so much in the life series since third life, but I think that annoyance is a bit misplaced both because 1. They still interact quite a bit and their interaction are always full of joy and radiate with their friendship even when they play enemies, and 2. In the grand scheme of things, we remain a minority within the 8 million people who are subscribed to Grian. Many more would be annoyed to get the same storyline over and over.

There is an unfortunate pragmatism that content creators in such series have to employ. They need to juggle between their friendships, the people they tend to hover around, and the idea of what would make good content. As much as scarian girlies would eat up 5 seasons of scarian alliance, the nature of their natural friend dynamic as well as the series in general would lead to it being repetitive. It would lead to decreased viewer satisfaction. Decreased viewership. Decreased money. They're in the unfortunate position of monetizing their friendships. Who they ally themselves with is not just a matter of who they like most, but it's also a business decision. None of us are in the position to fully appreciate that, unless there are content creators with millions of followers in the midst of mcyt fans ig.

Idk. Idk. Maybe I'm too protective of CCs or whatever. But I've seen too many folks completely dehumanise them and fully forget that they're just dudes playing Minecraft for a living with their friends in front of million of people. A lot of these dudes are in their 20s or 30s. Hell, even those in their 40s have a right to struggle with shit as well. That level of attention on you can be terrifying. They reserve the right to do what they fucking want, and furthermore reserve the right to offer the kind of content they want. And maybe that includes not exploring a storyline or trope or character the fandom is hyped about because they got spooked by the attention, or flat out aren't comfortable with it. Maybe it's trying to be aware of how often they magnetize towards their closer friends, and thus avoiding making all of their videos about them, because they want to ensure the amusement of the million of people who watch them.

Idk. Idk. There's a level of entitlement we can sometimes feel towards the CCs that we as a fanbase - that we as individual people - need to be aware of and question. These are people. They're professional but not in the same sense that film actors are professionals. The majority of them completely stumbled into their popularity and their spontaneity ends up weighed down by that awareness of an audience. Idk. Grian won't read your posts about him but that doesn't mean you shouldn't be kind

[rayshippouuchiha]

Concept, Skull gets hella drunk one night, and the others are doing general drinking games/teasing type of stuff. They decide to crack on Skull cause he's the youngest and so he's probably not got much experience. Cue Skull whipping out an unnecessarily erotic comparison between what he's like as a sex partner and his abilities with a motorcycle.

Reborn refuses to let Skull get on a motorcycle around him ever again, he can't embarrass himself with his thirst like that in front of others.

So I, of course, had to tweak it just a bit:

The thing is, Skull's never been much of a drinker.

And, despite what Reborn and Colonnello like to say, it's not because he's a lightweight.

No, it's always been the opposite problem with Skull.

It takes a staggering amount of dangerously high-proof alcohol to get him actually drunk.

So much so that Skull had only ever been actually and fully drunk once in his life. He'd never bothered again because, well, most bars wouldn't serve that amount of alcohol to a single person and, most importantly of all, it was an outrageously expensive ordeal.

He'd always had better things to spend whatever money he might have on than trying to get wasted.

Skull's long suspected some kind of Flame fuckery at work but hasn't bothered to really look into it.

Still, whenever drinking had come up with the Arcobaleno before the curse Skull either hadn't bothered to drink at all or had gone for the kind of fruit-filled or extravagant cocktail that always got him a lot of ribbing.

Because if he wasn't going to be able to get drunk but they weren't going to let him leave, then he should at least be able to drink something interesting that doesn't taste like actual paint thinner.

But now? After a handful of decades in the Mafia and with all of the money he's actually managed to accumulate plus an entire case of the specially formulated liquor Verde had cooked up?

Now Skull is well and truly on his way to being wasted.

Which is the perfect time for Skull to remember that, unlike what most would probably think, he's not the loud and overly obnoxious or casually violent type of drunk.

No, that's Colonnello and Fon in order.

Instead, Drunk Skull tends to be way more honest and mouthy than Sober Skull.

"Boo," Colonnello tosses a handful of pretzels in Skull's direction even as he folds yet another hand of cards to Reborn. "You suck Skull, thought you'd be more interesting than this when we finally got you wasted. Come on, be entertaining."

Skull's not sure why anyone's willing to play poker, even Mafia Poker, with Reborn when the fucker so obviously counts cards no matter how many decks are used.

"Save the pigtail pulling for Lal, okay Nello?" Skull finds himself saying, eyes on his own game of Mafia Solitaire and one hand playing with his glittery purple crazy straw. His tall glass of violently green alcohol is a little less than half full and Skull is feeling more than a bit loose. "I'm not gonna fuck you no matter how drunk I get, you're not really my type."

"Hey!" Colonnello squawks, the beer bottle in his hand suddenly hurtling in Skull's direction. "My heart and body belong to Lal alone, asshole."

Skull catches the bottle and then casually tosses it toward the recycling bin that's just visible in the kitchen from where he's sitting. It goes in of course, Skull hadn't filled in for the knife-throwing act as a teenager more than once without learning how to aim his projectiles.

"I've seen your dick, Nello," Skull can't help but tease as he lays down an Ace Of Knives, "that's not as much of a flex as you think it is. Be happy to give you some tips though if you're ready to stop disappointing Lal."

Colonnello looks appropriately scandalized, Reborn's sporting that little smirk of his that's basically a laugh, and beside Colonnello Lal Mirch just snorts into her whiskey tumbler, obviously amused.

Which is both true and false. Skull's absolutely seen Colonnello's dick enough to last him a lifetime but he's not actually as tragic as Skull's making him out to be. Not that Skull will ever admit that.

If there's one thing he's good at after all it's committing to The Bit.

"Brave talk from the group baby," Colonnello cuts back. "Bet you've never even touched a woman, and no your mom doesn't count."

There's a round of immature snickers around the table that Skull honestly can't find fault in since even Verde, Viper, and Fon had joined in.

But, for once, Skull is nowhere near ready to back down.

"Well if my mom doesn't count, then your mom probably doesn't either huh?" Skull bats his lashes at Colonello. "If so then you should probably tell her to stop calling me."

He gets a fist full of peanuts thrown at him this time.

"You know, Skull," Reborn practically slinks his way into the conversation, voice sly, "if you're interested in getting some actual experience I'm sure I know a few ways to help you out."

And as is so often the case with Reborn, Skull's not sure if that's an offer or a threat.

Probably both if he's being honest.

Either way it's also a taunt Skull just can't let stand like he normally would.

"Yelena and Drago Marckovich," Skull lets his tongue wrap around the names.

"Oh?" Reborn's attention is, as always, like being put underneath a combination spotlight/microscope. "And who, pray tell, are they?"

Skull leans back in his chair, aware of how he's somehow gathered everyone in the room's attention.

Which, to be fair, is what he does best.

"They were fraternal twins whose parents ran our high wire act," Skull tells them all. "Drago was one of the group's apprentice mechanics and Yelena was a contortionist."

Skull takes a sip of his drink.

"They were eighteen, gorgeous, and never did anything apart. They're the ones who helped me put my first bike together from the ground up too." Skull can't help the happy little sigh he huffs out. Those really had been an excellent six months. "Couldn't have picked a better pair to lose my virginity to. Taught me how to do all kinds of tricks, both on and off the bike."

There's a moment's silence.

"Bullshit," Colonnello barks out, one hand slapping down onto the tabletop. "No way in hell you bagged twins."

"Absolutely not," Skull agrees readily only to cut Colonnello's smug look off at the knees. "I was sixteen and had no idea what I was doing. They bagged me. Wasn't like I was going to say no."

Across the table, Lal actually hoots with laughter.

"They taught me the foundation for everything I know," Skull keeps going. "Yelena? Now she was all about taking those curves and corners you know? Girl could get in and out of the tightest spaces, taught me how to do the same."

Lal is outright giggling now and Colonnello's all flush faced with his mouth hanging open.

"And Drago?" Skull pauses, flicks his tongue out to play with his lip ring. Cuts his eyes just a bit in Reborn's direction. "Well let's just say he really lived up to his name. He helped me with my stamina. Helped me learn how to really ride."

The twins had been kind and fun and when their arrangement had run its course they'd parted as friends which is something Skull will always be thankful for.

"Of course," Skull waves his straw carelessly through the air around him, "when I left to strike out on my own I had to refine my technique on my own, develop my own skills and tricks, that kind of thing. Luckily there was never a shortage of eager and willing volunteers to work with. I learn better by doing and I've always been good with my hands anyways so it was fun, finding new bodies to work with and figuring out all the ways to lay each one of them out and make them purr."

Skull tosses back the rest of his drink and pushes himself up onto his feet.

"I grew up in the circus and had my own traveling stunt show by 19," Skull tells them all, more than a bit amused by the turn the evening had taken. "I've fucked my way across six continents, various oceans, and a wide variety of islands."

Skull shoves his hands into the pockets of his low-hanging sweatpants and ambles towards the veranda door.

The cool grass, wide open sky, and quiet of the garden out back are practically calling his name by this point.

There's a moment's silence and then he hears a chair scrape across the floor loudly behind him.

Skull keeps walking, doesn't bother to look back.

The fedora that drops down on top of his head isn't as much of a surprise to Skull as it might have been five or so bottles ago.

"I could stand to hear a bit more about your ,,, unexpected expertise," Reborn practically purrs from Skull's side, one large, warm hand splaying itself possessively across the small of Skull's back.

"Jealous?" Skull can't help but snip back.

"Oh no," Reborn's grin is more than a bit dark and his eyes are a hawkish sort of golden. "Jealousy implies a lack of skill. And trust me, bellissimo, that's one thing you'll never have to worry about with me."

#RayRambles #KHR #Katekyo Hitman Reborn #KHR Skull #RebornSkull #KHR Drabble

[averagewriter777]

Ghost and Doc (Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader)

Masterlist

(Chapter Thirteen)

TW: Child trafficking

(141’s POV)

Ghost slammed his fist on the building, then hopped down from it, rolling to break his fall. When he stood up, Alejandro, Soap and Gaz were waiting with very stressed looks on their faces. Price had the tracking handled, so they were just waiting for him to get back to them about a possible location.

“That entire party was full of women who were being prepared for that trafficking business,” Soap muttered while rubbing his wrist. “The people seemed to be sponsors or some shit for it. The women attending as guests are victims.”

Alejandro nodded grimly. “They handed me a stack of pesos while talking to the sergeant.” He squared his shoulders while sighing. “I saw it happen a lot. The money was around 10,000 United States dollars for the sergeant, 194,667 pesos. Different people received different amounts based on the woman.”

Holy shit. Ghost shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Soap made a disgusted face and spit at the ground. Gaz let out a shaky sigh, despite having watched everything. “More of the reason to get her back. I think that was the highest amount paid for somebody,” Soap grumbled.

“If you girls are done talking, I have Sergeant (L/n)‘s final location.” Price’s voice through the static filled the area, and everyone shut up to listen intently. “An abandoned warehouse on the coast. Be prepared for anything. Remember that we need the target alive, everyone else you have permission to kill, copy?”

Everyone repeated ‘copy’ back and the mission was set to go. Ghost lifted a tablet that was given- in case this happened- and pointed at the location sent by Price. “I know where that is. I’d suggest we all change into gear, hermanos. I didn’t make our suits bulletproof.”

-

When you woke up in your position, your head was pounding and your mouth was dryer than the Sahara Desert. You’d been in a sitting position up against a cold, metal wall. Despite the amount of pain that was everywhere in your body, you did your best to stand up, holding onto the bars around you for support.

“It’s no use you know,” a petite, hoarse voice said from under you. You looked down, your breath hitching in your throat. “We’ve… We’ve tried everything.” She was young, probably around thirteen or fourteen, and she looked beaten.

Instead of continuing to stand, you dropped down to a crouch- very slowly and examined her. “I’m here to help, I promise.” You didn’t reach for her, or touch her, because only God knows what this kid has been through. “Do you have a name?”

“Kensie,” she mumbled, not meeting your eyes. The girl curled up into a ball and stared at the stone floor. You took it as she didn’t want to talk anymore, and went back to figuring out how the hell you were going to get out of this inhumane cage.

While you waited for the next round of guards to walk towards the cage, you formed a half-assed plan in your head. In this situation, and in a fucking mermaid dress no less, it would be the best you could do. When you saw one man carrying a very nice AK-47, you whistled to call him over. “Hey, guapo!” He turned his head and started his walk towards you, lowering his weapon just a little bit. When he got close enough to the cage, you reached out to grab the collar of his shirt and slammed his head against the metal bar. Instead of staggering back, you turned his body around and put him into a chokehold, snapping his neck when given the opportunity. 

You bent down and picked up the gun, making sure it had plenty of ammo in it. “Alright, assholes… c’mon…” The dead body was picked up again, sort of as a cover just in case- and it looked suspicious enough for someone to approach. What you had to watch out for, however, was the fucking man in the white suit who’d you’d talked to at the party. Can’t shoot him- as much as you want to.

“¿Has oído algo junto a las jaulas?” Several footsteps started to approach the side of the room. You made sure your finger hovered over the trigger and looked over the dead man’s shoulder. “Alex, ¿todo bien?”

Your finger pressed the trigger of the gun after aiming for their heads. The volume of the weapon was something you hated, but there was nothing else available around for you- and quite frankly, you were pissed off.  “Karma’s a bitch, pendejos.”

There were sounds of gunfire all throughout the building, but you were more worried about getting out of this cage. You reached into the pocket of the body you’d used as a shield and tried four keys before the fifth finally unlocked the cage. As the door opened and you were reloading the gun, and picking up a knife from a body, you turned to face Kensie, who was rocking back and forth. “C’mon, I told you I was here to help. We’re getting out of here.”

Kensie couldn’t move from her spot, so you took her hands, despite the poor girl flinching, and helped her up. “I want you to stay behind me, okay? If I tell you to stop, you stop. And if I tell you to hide, please hide, okay?” You squeezed her hands reassuringly and then started to walk forward, the girl trails behind.

(Part Fourteen)

#mwii #ghost mw2 #john soap mactavish #ghost x female reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #simon riley x reader #captain price

[beautifulpersonpeach]

You haven't answered my other V ask so you might be wanting to move on from this topic but I just have to ask. Don't you find 10 million USD on album sales excessive?? I'm talking about V's fanbase by the way. Isn't that money amount obscene to believe? Not to sound too conspiracy minded Peachy, but how can a kpop fanbase raise that amount of money? Can they do that through legal means or should sane people be worried? Also don't you think armys are acting irresponsible wasting that money on albums that they don't use when they could be using it for charity instead? I really respect your thoughts so I'm hoping to read your reply. Thank you in advance Peachy.

***

So... you're asking me how a fandom that raised $1 million USD in 24 hours for a Black Lives Matter charity with zero notice btw, how the fandom that raised $100,000 USD in hours for charity in Megan Thee Stallion's name, can raise $10 million USD over a three-year period for albums?

It's basic arithmetic, is it not?

I guess it seems like a lot of money for someone uninformed on just how big the k-pop market is and on how much k-pop fans typically spend on comebacks (note: solo fanbase funds for Seventeen and Stray Kids easily exceeded $15 million USD this year, and it's reflected in their album sales). Also, I'm not sure how long you've been following me Anon, but when I talk about the size of ARMY fandom in absolute numbers, when we discuss things like fandom dynamics that replicate those seen in political systems, or insane ticketing rituals that are more complicated than those used by the Bey-hive, and merch prices etc, what scale exactly, are you picturing when I mention these things?

ARMYs are a lot of people. Lol I'm not sure you understand. And many ARMYs in my circle are working professionals and audiophiles who didn't blink when it came up in conversation that I've spent > $45,000 on speakers. Not trying to be a bitch, but I do think it's important context to know the demographics of the fandom, and to know most ARMYs just buy one or a few albums for themselves. Those with the means carry the bulk of the donations, however ARMYs huge absolute numbers also mean even micro-transactions or donations from people who perhaps cannot afford more, are several magnitudes more than in other k-pop fandoms. The ARMY fandom is literally constantly growing, and that's why BigHit can realistically stagger seven solo debuts in a one-year period and all seven artists will still outperform active k-pop groups.

"Also don't you think armys are acting irresponsible wasting that money on albums that they don't use when they could be using it for charity instead?"

I'm not sure I like your tone here. (1) Because it's pretty clear ARMYs can damn well do what they want with their money. It's incredibly patronizing to presume to know what other fans individually value or to dictate how you think other people should spend their own money, to presume nobody here can think for themselves to know what and how best to spend their earned income. We're in a hobby space, anyone who's already opened a fan account/blog is already in too deep no point sugarcoating it. We're here because we want to be and are getting something we still deem worthwhile for our own pleasure. So what if we spend whatever the fuck we want on our hobbies as within what we deem as appropriate? And (2) ARMYs already and comfortably do both. There's no k-pop fandom that's as heavily involved in charitable causes as ARMY. Take it from someone who's been around. Do you think mobilizing a fandom of hundreds of thousands of people to raise $1 million in 24 hours would be possible if that culture and the fundraising channels didn't already exist?

And this was before Dynamite. Before 60% of the fandom that's already here, joined.

The only place I agree with you, is in that a solo fanbase was so involved and could raise that amount of money in the first place. Because giving influence to solos is just a recipe for disaster. In my experience, akgaes are just fundamentally less intelligent people. Akgaes and solo stans or people who lean towards solo stanning (not including casual fans), are also more reactionary and impulsive, verbally/emotionally abusive, paranoid and prone to conspiratorial thinking. These are people with nearly zero ordered thinking skills and unwavering tunnel vision. They won't think twice about applying blatantly illegal methods or acting rashly if it means getting the result they want. If there's ever a massive scandal on the fandom or BTS, I can almost guarantee you it will be because an akgae fucked up or went too far. Also, I'm actually not certain all the funds raised by Taehyung's fanbase did so through legal means. That's what I mean about solo stans. Too many of them are literally just that stupid. And I mean, just by virtue of being a C-bar, it's fairly common for some bars to be linked to members of wealthy/political families in China and SEA. There's only ever been rumours, but it wouldn't surprise if it were true that some money involved was made by illegal means.

Which is one reason I hold on to my hope that people will refrain from partnering with solos, regardless of how things evolve for BTS, but given the way things are going, by 2026 the fandom will likely be a 65 : 35 ARMY : solo ratio, from what I assume to be 90 : 10 now. It's kinda bleak actually. But it is what it is.

Jikook will still be jikooking anyway and the music will still be dope. So BTS and HYBE will keep getting my money.

#also what v ask did you send earlier? #I got many asks about him and his fanbase that I haven't replied to #Pls indicate which one you sent or resend it #Also that $10M amount isn't actually confirmed for Vbar #bts #jikook #jimin #jungkook #taehyung #bts army #bts fandom #bts solo stans #bts chapter 2 #fandom behaviour #bts maknae line

[xoxoauntscripty]

*tw for cannibalism, mass starvation*

So if you've ever wondered, "who has saved the most human lives in the history of ever?"

There are a few people who vie for the spot

But the one you don't expect

is Herbert Fucking Hoover

You know.... One of those old timey U.S. presidents who doesn't seem like he did a fuck of a lot? For whom things like Hoovervilles™ are named?

But Herbert Fucking Hoover

Organized the biggest relief mission in history to that point (maybe ever?)

Saved at least 10 million people

And probably accidentally propped up the Bolsheviks and whoopsies, allowed the USSR to become one of the worst slave states in human history

All before he ever became President

So early Soviet Russia was a giant fucking shit show.

In 1917 you have the people topple the tsarist government, pull Russia out of World War I under some pretty fucking atrocious terms, and basically immediately descend into civil war

(which is a "civil war" in name only, because literally dozens of countries sent troops to fight on one side or another, and is in and of itself an entirely confusing and fucked up time frame I don't understand completely)

And while those two wars are finally over by the end of 1920, the Soviet economy is in shambles

Basically all the grain being grown by peasants was being conscripted by the larger government, in part to feed troops, in part to feed "important people" in the government, in part because that's not your grain, it's the people's grain, and by the people the government generally means "whoever we need favors from at the moment"

There are entire train graveyards because of all the trains that have been blown up or sabotaged across 6+ years of war

Rural people are basically wearing rags, living in shacks, and are Poor As Dirt, except they can't get to the dirt for most of the year because of all the fucking snow

The people producing the food are the people who are already underfed

And then in 1920... The fucking wheat harvest fails

Drought and blight basically fuck an entire seasons harvest all across Russia

And you IMMEDIATELY have a humanitarian crisis on your hands

Hard winter + living in rags + already underfed + crop failure = LOTS of people dying

As in, 10,000 to 100,000 people dying each and every week from starvation

If you look at photos, especially of orphanages, it will make you want to fucking cry, because these kids are walking skeletons

By March 1921 you have tens of thousands of cases of cannibalism, mostly unreported

At least 10 butchers shops have to be closed for selling human meat

Kids are literally afraid to go out alone because bands of roving cannibals are especially prizing the meat of children

And all the while, Herbert Hoover has been sitting on the sidelines practically BEGGING Lenin to let foreign relief in, as long as he can make sure the food is actually being distributed equally among the communities

And in March 1921 Lenin finally cracks and gives the go ahead

Now Hoover was the founder and head of the American Relief Administration, which was a US government relief agency

Keep in mind, 1920 is kind of at the height of the first Red Scare

The pinnacle of pre-McCarthy / pre-Cold-War anticommunist thought

There are leftist strikes all over the place. Coal strikes, steel strikes, even the Boston police go on strike around this time

Conservative/wealthy/powerful Americans are shit scared of the left, especially of socialists

And a good number of people just want to let the communists starve

And even though Hoover is staunchly anticommunist himself, he says fuck that noise, people are dying , and talks Congress into giving a whopping $20M in aid ($307 billion fucking dollars in 2023 money), plus $8M from the US military, along with tons of private donations. Altogether Hoover raises over $78M ($1.2 trillion in 2023) and immediately Gets The Fuck to Work.

And he sends in an absolutely staggering amount of support.

200 American ARA leaders hire 125-150,000 Russians on the ground

Commandeers (basically) over 200 ships

Sends over 912,000 tons of food

Sends over 7,500 tons of medical equipment and supplies

At one point has to convince Russia to unfuck its own railroad system and pay their workers so the grain can actually get anywhere

But it works

They set up twenty thousand kitchens

They start feeding 6 million kids and 4 million adults a day

The supplies help 16,000 hospitals and treat a million patients a day

Ten million fucking people don't starve who absolutely would have without aid

Now. We have to acknowledge that this isn't Hoover alone. Obviously it takes a fucking village to save a nation.

But he was the one who fought for it. He spearheaded it, and organized it.

He was also the one that insisted that along with edible food (mostly corn), the aid package include the wheat seeds to plant for next year's harvest, so this wouldn't be a Permanent Problem.

And lo and fucking behold, by autumn 1922, Russia starts to stabilize its food supply

And the famine begins to end

The wild part of this is that if Hoover, an ardent anticommunist, hadn't spearheaded this, the Bolshevik government probably would have fallen

But he cared more about feeding people than he did toppling a government he hated.

If you combine the 10M people he fed in Russia

The 3.1M children he fed in postwar Finland, Latvia, Poland, Estonia, etc

Sources

Herbert Fucking Hoover may have been (arguably) the person most responsible for saving the most lives in history.

Then afuckinggain

When he oversaw the federal response to the stock market crash of 29 and the start of the Great Depression (as President)

He basically thought that poverty relief would keep people from seeking work?

And thought that monetary and housing relief efforts were the responsibilities of the states, not the federal government?

And so basically his response to "help the banking and economic system is collapsing" was to make sure there were plenty of farm plans available and to try to stabilize businesses, not people? And ignored the fact that the people in charge of those loans were conservative dickheads?

So like. Not Perfect. None of them are.

But 13,000,000 people probably care less about that than about the fact that they lived.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_famine_of_1921

https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/films/famine/

(Note: Herbert Hoover is not the same guy, nor AFAIK even related to, J Edgar Hoover.

That guy was a massive piece of shit.

But that's a story for another day.)

#tw cannibalism #tw starvation #history #humanitarianism

[glaciertea]

Masterlist here

Tales the Songs Weave

Chapter 18: To Bring You to that Other Place

Word count: 3.4k

Your eyes shoot open as you examine the still room with the occasional muffled car horn blares or morning chirps from birds draping in. Dimly rays of golden yellow filled the parts of the area, leaving gorgeous streak patterns on your walls and furniture.

You groaned out from the achy, tender stings flooding all over and rolled over to an empty, torn bed. 

“Miggy?” Your voice was very gravelly. He really did a number last night.

“Mi Estrella?” No response.

It wasn't bizarre for him to be gone before you awoke at times, but when it comes to an extreme moment similar to last night, he normally waits to check if everything's fully okay with you. It was odd that he rearranged your guts and then dipped. Even more so, as you wanted to express your concerns about his new out-of-the-blue habits. 

Deciding to strain yourself, you reached over for your phone when an excess amount of medicated pain pill bottles, your heating pad, and a glass of condensed water sat on the bedside dresser. 

Snatching the phone up, you began to scroll through the texts he sent before the crack of dawn. “That’s odd. Why so early?”

‘Morning. Sorry for leaving before you woke up. Work needed me.’

‘I left some pain relievers and other things. I also put money in your bank account to cover the deliveries for breakfast and lunch. If you need extra for dinner, let me know.’

‘And I’ll replace the sheets and mattress again.’

‘Enjoy your day off.’

You sat up quickly, flinching at the sharpness from your hips downward. Pulling the covers back, you staggered at the many welts and blemishes. He enjoys leaving markings on you to boost his ego and self-pride, but not to this degree. Furrowing your eyebrows together, you reread the messages, and ran your hand through your hair in complete and utter disbelief and bewilderment.

There is something going on, and he’s trying to run from it.

All day, you've been messaging him, only to be met with lackluster responses or barely any. You tried to get a hold of Ronnie, but she was too distracted by the business to give any sort of feedback besides, ‘I’m here for you, remember that.’

You refused to believe what your boss was implying. Simply denying it all. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Overworked and spent, obviously. That was the only explanation that made the most sense.

It couldn’t have been anything else.

Yet, as two days passed, nothing changed. Miguel still answered with those lifeless replies, and the scarce times he did visit your place and job, you were met with forlorn stares and that freezing embitterment.

You and Ronnie conversed during the slow hours of work, as Ronnie did everything in her power to not drive to the point that Miguel was maybe trying to wedge himself from you on purpose. 

It did, however, go south when he showed up Sunday with a box of gears he wanted to return while you were out on break. Ronnie nearly wrung him a new one, spouting how dare he try to pull a stunt like this while you weren't here.

“I don’t fucking know what the hell your problem is, but whatever it is, you need to get it fixed and not bring my girl down in your sinking ship.”

She rejected the tools, spitefully mocking him, saying that she had no room to store those supplies and that he ‘better’ keep them. So he snatched them back up and left without speaking another word. Even at your job, he couldn't escape the boorish judgment.

Miguel was catching flak on both ends. Peter was pleading and bargaining not to call it quits with you, to objectively take a peek into the others to find out if he was missing something. Jess was back on his ass, wondering if he had broken it off, in which case he would furiously dismiss them.

No matter what happened, it was destined for failure. He couldn't make anyone pleased. 

And the one he wanted to please was originating destruction upon the world.

The more he isolated himself, the more you would communicate. He was stuck. He struggled to keep away so he could figure out what to do, but you always made it so difficult with that magnetized, gravitational pull you held.

It's hard to keep pretending not to want to be near someone you want to be around. Especially in his case. 

He hated this. He hated himself. He hated this whole thing.

Trapped in this cell. A bandage he didn't want to rip because he knows that wound will never heal; it'll only sit there bloodied and pained—an unsettling integrity. 

When he left the shop, he went back into his office and on his platform. He yelled and catapulted the pack of trinkets everywhere, letting them shower all over the cold, metal flooring.

“You know you don't have to do this. There could still be time to fix this-”

“I'm ending it when she doesn't have to work the next day. It makes things easier. Now leave, Peter.”

“Miguel, things like that don't magically become easy. I would know. You would know.” 

Peter began to clean up the tiny cogs, placing them back into the box. He wanted to try one last, final time to steer him away from this decision that may impair him even more than he already is.

“Nothing can be done, Peter.” 

He could hear the cracks in Miguel's heart.

And that's when he understood his friend was set in stone. Sacrificing that slice of what everyone else gets to have because that's how it goes. They have to listen to this entity that predetermines their lives.

Peter once again has to merely sit back and watch Miguel's world slip through his fingers. He is the hourglass that holds the sands and can only watch the particles trickle beneath his feet before being swept away by the winds.

“I'll… I'll alert Jess about it.” Peter turned his back. Reeling his head to his depressed friend, he opened his mouth, but immediately closed it and gripped his empty chest, silently leaving him to his own devices.

Miguel waited until the sounds of Peter's footsteps faded away. He was alone. How it's truly supposed to be.

All he could see were the twines of enshrouding twilight. No light, not even his own, could be seen by him.

You glanced over your phone for the millionth time today. Miguel hasn't texted a word all day. Which didn't help with your anxiety because he somewhat chatted with you the last few days. But today, you didn't even receive a ‘good morning’ or a ‘how are you?’ 

Your mind went down a rabbit hole of scenarios about his job—that something drastic happened to him, and he's gravely injured somewhere out there in the billions of universes. Or, a better option, that work was crazy today and he had to haul around non-stop. 

You endured to keep your thought process on the second path.

Checking the time, you typed a few messages, hoping to get something from him. “If he doesn't respond by eleven, I'll give another call. Yeah, that's reasonable.”

It was less than five minutes away, so you put on a song and slumped on the couch. Closing your eyes, you allowed the notes to flow over your anxious body, soothing your jittery knee and overloaded conscience from indulging in any more negative notions.

Inhaling and exhaling out, you were beginning to find that inner peace when a knock snapped you out of it.

Fluttering your eyes open, it took a second to regain your bearings when the rapping at the door got louder. You didn't order in and weren't expecting any guests to come over. Stumbling off the couch, you looked out the peephole and nearly gasped.

It was strange for him to be out this late today, but you chalked it up to him coming over to clarify why he couldn't respond. Clumsily opening the door, you beamed at the giant man.

“Miggy! I was just about to call you! Come on, don't be shy now.” You sang out and teetered out of the way with an arm outstretched.

Miguel nodded and slogged in; the heavy weight on his shoulders seemed to only worsen. He barely had any sleep, going over a script on how this would go and how fast he wanted to get this over with.

He scanned your place, and the memories of laughter and admiration directly flooded on him, which wasn't helping with the tons of grief and weariness settled upon.

“I was so worried about you, you know?” You locked the door and gave him a warm hug from behind, triggering him to stiffen immensely. “I thought something bad had happened. I wanted to keep other options on the table, of course, but your line of work makes it kinda tough.

“And I can't believe you used the door. You didn't use your key, but hey, this is a step in the right direction!” You snorted and giggled, then abruptly paused, noticing the melancholy on his face and in the air.

“Mi Estrella? Everything okay?” You pulled away and seated yourself back on the couch. “Is it time to talk about what's been going on in your mind?”

He didn't sit down along with you; he only towered in the middle of the apartment, feeble and inconsolable. Everything he practiced went out of the window. He couldn't explain this to you; he couldn't do this to you.

And yet, he had to. He had to be one to turn this wrong into a right. The wound is there; it's hidden under that patch. Does he rip it away painfully quick or tenderly slow? Either way, the damage will still be in the open.

You firmly tightened your lips into a thin line. Your heart suddenly began to race, nerves were blasting off all over, and your body began to burn up.

“Mi-Miguel? What's… what's going on? Is everything alright? You know we can discuss it at your own pac-”

“We need to break up.”

Quick and painful won the round.

You blanked. There was not a single noise. Not even from the outside. Maybe you misunderstood him. That had to be it.

“I-I'm sorry, I don't think that I- maybe I misheard what you sa-”

“You heard it.” He didn't mean for it to come out brashly. “We… we can't be together anymore. Lo siento mucho.”

Miguel glazed down on the floor as you remained motionless. Your brain was trying to comprehend where this surfaced. It could explain the weird detaching, but it still makes no sense.

“I-I know it's coming out of nowhere, but there's multiple affirmations behind it. They may not make sense in the beginning, but the logic and justifications when I explain down the line are all there.”

You didn't know rather to hear him out, dissociate, or evaporate into thin air. You picked the first and second options.

He has disdain for this, but even when he's the one creating pain, you are still willing to be patient and listen. 

He was certain he didn't deserve you to begin with.

“Okay. You know that there are infinite universes. I told you that, and I don't think I need to go over that again. Right? Right, no. No. I don't think so. Yeah, I think.” 

He was off to a horrible start.

“Remember that day you wanted to know about how you and I were in other universes? Wait, no, that's—that's too early, I think.”

His thoughts jumbled as you stared at him to continue.

“The night we met, I went to the park, but when I did, I didn't go out the back; I went out the front. You may not see it as nothing, but it isn't. That isn't like me going out where I can be seen in this sort of manner. It isn't a canon thing for me to do.”

“Canon?” You held some sincerity, but mostly hesitancy.

“Yes, canon. I remember the night when you told me you lov-” he choked before clearing his throat. “You looked into the idea that life doesn't have a road and that it can take you anywhere. But, from what I've learned, life is predetermined no matter what. There's a reason behind everything you do. Like a beautiful web.”

You didn't say a word.

“And my canon got knocked off track when I walked out those doors. Now, you're thinking, what does that mean? Why is that a big deal?”

You only nodded.

He took in a huge gulp and exhaled loudly. “It's a huge deal because... because this... because this world is... it's unraveling. It's being destroyed as we speak.”

Your eyes broadened and your throat parched as you clenched onto the sofa until your knuckles turned white. 

“Yes, it is a terrifying thing to think about. One moment everyone is here and the next,” his eyes glassed thinking about Gabi. “The next... they're simply gone.”

“And that's why we have canon events to make sure things like that won't ever happen. To prevent a catastrophic devastation such as that.” He balled his hands up.

“Is there a way to stop it?” You whispered, eyeballing the floor.

Miguel bit his tongue to hold back the tears. “Yes. My canon shows a major flaw in this world. There's a flaw that's detrimental to us all... and that's us being together.”

Your shoulders slumped down as you tried to retain all this new, strange information.

“We aren't meant to be together. Remember when you asked me to check out the other versions of our relationship? Well, each and everyone I saw, you were either with someone else, we didn't know each other, or we did date... but none ended well.”

Words got caught in your throat. What if you never made that request? Would things have been okay? Would the world still have been destroyed?

“And that's when I realized it was happening again... You loving me was wrong to begin with.”

Your head snapped up, accidentally pulling a muscle, but you didn't care. You leered at him bug-eyed, as he was alienating his brain to wanting to end this as swiftly and fluidly as possible.

“When I walked out and met you, that's when the world started to glitch. The new waves of anomalies, this strange gut feeling, and how things were seemingly going too well. The world was knocked out of place, confused about what was going on.”

He shook his head and wiped away the threatening tears that wanted to leak down. “We shouldn't have ever met. We shouldn't be together. And the only way to stop this universe from being consumed is for us to stop... to stop what we have going on.”

He turned to you with that stupid pouty face—the face you grew to admire and fawn for. The face that showed you true love.

“So... what I'm hearing is that what we did was for naught? What we had was all just… nothing?”

“In a way. No, wait, not like that. Yes, but no. Mi Lu- look, ever since that night, I've been doing things I would never do in a million years. Yes, I have things I enjoy, but this,” he gestured at everything between you two, “This isn't me. This was never me.”

“Are you serious?” Your voice full of disbelief, trying to hold back a scoff.

“I'm not joking; this is all serious. Our world is dying because you wanted to become attached–” 

Miguel dug his talons into the side of his hip. You gawked over that incriminating stance, nausea taking over your stomach.

“I shouldn't have said it like that. I-I didn't mean for it to come out that way.” He roughly ran his claws through his curls.

No response.

“Look, just listen; if you didn't—if I didn't—if you didn't cause me to step out, we wouldn't be in this danger. We wouldn't–”

Crickets.

This isn't how it was supposed to go. There was supposed to be a back-and-forth conversation where he could steer it in a way that it could've gone through effortlessly. But you weren't saying anything; you barely spoke a word. 

You barely even expressed any emotions, unless he somehow missed them. But he has to keep going. He has to shove all that guilt aside for your protection… And for the others.

“Please say something… I know–I know it's hard, but it has to be this way. It has to. I have to—I need to protect you. And I know my Spider-Man work was always confusing, but please just... please give me something.”

Hushed. A blank glaze.

“Don't—don't make this more difficult than it already is. I know it's so sudden; that's why I tried to distance myself, trying to give you the last few good moments together. I know, it's hard, but for the canon's sake, we have to go through with this.”

You crossed your arms and stared ahead. This was all too much to take in. Many questions scrambled in your head. Why was his work unexpectedly a huge interference in this relationship? Why is he haphazardly saying something about this to you now? Why is he making this decision for the both of you?

But you kept listening to this whole nonsensical, pious conception.

Miguel paced, anticipating something, anything. The only sentences that are repeating in his head are his own, and they aren't clear-cut winners.  

“¡Por favor! Please! Say something! Anything!”

Not a single peep.

“Look! I know it's hard! You don't think this is hard for me?! Knowing that the person who I lov- the person who got attached to me—shouldn't even be here? Shouldn't even be with me?!” His eyes were blurry as droplets of tears and snot dripped onto the wooden floor.

“Excuse… excuse me?” You straightened up your back. “What… wha-what did you just say?”

Miguel recoiled, agitated, and vexed with himself. Regretting this whole affair that he still wants.

“I shouldn't be here? I shouldn't be here?”

Your words were low but penetrated deeply. Miguel's own heart pounded in his ears at that.

“I… I'm the one who shouldn't be with you? Not you. No, no. Me. Only me.”

“I- you…” He trailed off, his voice inaudible.

“What?” Your tone slightly increased.

“You shouldn't… shouldn't-” 

“Huh?! I can't—I can't hear you!”

“You–you…”

“Speak. Up. Speak. Up!” You tried to control your rage, but it faintly seeped out. 

“YOU SHOULDN'T EXIST!” He roared out, grasping his skull to prevent himself from breaking something in your apartment.

“You—you don't belong! You don't—you don't belong in this universe!”

He was losing his mind but managed to lower his voice, yet he still had it marginally booming. “You... you shouldn't have fallen in love with me! It's wrong! It's all wrong!”

He plopped down on his knees, rocking and shaking as you mournfully gazed at an empty rift.

“You're an anomaly in this world! The others... the others didn't fall in love…”

He stained your dusty, wooden floors as he strangled those wails he didn't deserve. This isn't what he imagined. He thought more words were going to be shed, but he only heard his.

His vile words that he stormed onto you.

You were ready to flatline. There was too much given, and there was no way to properly handle it. You didn't want to cry. You don't want to shout anymore. You didn't want to do anything. You wanted to daze ahead in a white space for hours.

“Please... please just say something.” His whimpers were pathetic and he knew it.

Your head turned down as the shriveled, broken man curled up. His eyes are red, either from sobbing or whatever his spider condition is. It took you a minute—a good, long minute—as Miguel dreadfully sat still, forced to endure this pitiless, silent void, but you did find the right words.

“I have work in the morning. There's the door.” You spoke in a scathing, withdrawn way, standing up to open the exit.

He froze at the mistake he had caused. Not knowing what to do anymore, he obeyed, stood up, and lumbered out the door, capturing the jaded fuzziness plastered all over you.

“I'm so sorry…”

“Yeah.”

And that was it.

You closed the door on his face and instantly collapsed onto the ground, scorching, broken tears now flowing down your face.

The light will shine no more. The dark side of the moon and burnt-out stars form nothing in the damaged skies.

Both now completely bound by the twines of endless heartache.

Ch.17<< >>Ch.19

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@ella-janehaven @prozacgooble @sanguwuxyoonbummy

#tales the songs weave #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #miguel x y/n #miguel x you #atsv miguel #miguel fanfic #miguel spiderverse #miguel x fem!reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #atsv

[backtothefanfiction]

The Brutal Hearts Club | Agent Whiskey Imagine

Based on the song Use Me by Diplo, Dove Cameron and Sturgill Simpson…

Word Count: 3.9K

Summary: Jack drinks his sorrows between missions at The Brutal Hearts Club. Birdie works at the Brutal Hearts Club. They become unlikely allies when it comes to letting off steam and scratching that itch. OVER 18s ONLY!

Warnings: drinking, pole dancing, smut, a little fighting, booty call, angst

A/N- I adore this song so much right now and with its slight country flair, whilst very much being a club song, I really wanted to use it to write a little imagine and the perfect character was our favourite cowboy himself. Also if you are under 18 and you decide to keep reading and it lands me in trouble I will take it very personally!

ps. I know I teased this a while back, I got busy.

Are you the brutal heart? Are you the brutal heart that I've been lookin' for? 'Cause if you're lookin' for love, you can look through that door

Everyone thinks it’s Friday and Saturday nights that are the big money nights. The nights of the weekend, where the old and young alike walk through the doors of clubs across the country, ordering drinks and dancing until 3 am. Staggering home with cooling sweat on their body that has no effect due to the copious amounts of alcohol flowing through their veins. But not The Brutal Hearts. Thursday nights, that evening just before the masses have time off for the weekend, when moral is low and the hope of days off are so close, yet still so far, that those most desperate say fuck it and walk beneath the big blue neon sign into the depths made for those with brutal hearts.

It’s the perfect place for a man like Jack who gave up on love a long time ago to shake off the jitters left from his last mission. A place he can block out the images of dead bodies he’s left in his wake over the years and be surrounded by those of the living. Those with hearts that beat strong and fearless, forever guarded and living for each moment like it could be their last (and the way he’s seen certain people do coke in the bathroom, it could be).

There’s four levels of the Brutal Hearts Club. There’s the main club room and bar. Neon signs, disco balls, an old light up dancefloor that looks like something from saturday night fever. This was, as the sign above the bar stated, simply for those who only had lonely hearts. Those who drank through their heartache and needed somewhere to just dance it off for the evening. Maybe try their luck and meet a partner to go home with. Where you can find all the popular tracks of the moment played by a DJ with his own lonely heart, still trying to chase Ibiza dreams at 40 something years old.

Jack bypassed this room headed straight for the big red leather coated doors in the back. For the rooms that weren’t just for the hearts temporarily chipped or lonely, but altogether broken and missing.

He reached a set of stairs, both adorned with light up arrows pointing up and down. The up arrow was placed next to another neon depicting a hand of cards, an ace of hearts clearly displayed. Jack didn’t like playing games. He was a simple man, always had been, always will be. He’s fast talking, fast shooting and prefers to just get a task done. It’s got him in plenty of hot water with his boss over the years, but he wouldn’t have become the head of the New York office if he hadn’t been willing to do the things no one else would. The things only one with a brutal heart would do.

Jack headed downstairs instead. Where the shadows grew longer and the hearts felt more hopeless. As he reached the final steps to yet another set of double doors, adorned with cracked red leather, he felt the bass grow stronger, like a defibrillator attempting to shock a heart back to life, the bass making the beating in his chest thump harder, trying to restart something that’s been long dead.

As his still chapped and scraped hands pushed open the door and his eyes instinctively gazed towards the lit stage in the middle of the room, he knew this was going to be no ordinary visit to the Brutal Hearts Club.

Hearts Hearts that break the night in two And arms that can hold you, that's true

“Break a leg out there tonight girl!” the tanned beauty behind her, smiled at her through the mirror as she fixed the fringe on her bubblegum pink wig. 

“Thanks Angel, you too.” she called back over her shoulder as the woman adorned in red lingerie with legs for days, made her way over to the dressing room door and out towards the main floor.

Robyn stared at her stage name, scrawled on her mirror in hot pink lipstick so it sat just above her reflection in the mirror, reminding her of who she was here. Where her place was. They didn’t use real names at the brutal hearts. That’s how you got hurt. But she always wondered, ‘how can you break something when it’s already broken?’

“Hey, Birdie!” a voice called into the dressing room, “You’ve got 2 minutes.” Liam, the 30 year old stage hand said as he turned the clipboard in his hand to check his watch. He didn’t wait to escort her, or even make sure she was ready to go, she was always punctual and professional. 

She kicked off her fluffy bunny slippers under her dressing table, reaching for the knee high pink boots that complimented her wig and slid her legs into them. Her satin robe hung loose over her silver bodysuit she wore over a pair of fishnet stockings and as she reached the dressing room door, she pulled a bejewelled cowboy hat off of a hat stand.

She stepped up behind the curtain towards the back of the stage as she handed her robe over to Liam who was in turn holding out a coiled length of rope to her. She nervously ran her fingers along the length of it as she readied herself. She looked to the floor as she let out a large breath as she heard the music shift, a short transition track mixed with the sounds of bird song. “AND NOW!” A voice called over the speakers and she clicked her heels together three times, a pre-show habit for luck she had gotten into. The music lowered, “WELCOME TO THE STAGE, YOU CAN’T KEEP THIS LITTLE CANARY IN A CAGE, IT’S BIRDIE!”

The curtain raised as her track began and she slowly stepped forward, her head low, hat covering her face to keep that tension for the Thursday night crowd, just that little bit longer, the coiled rope tapping on her hip. Thursdays at The Brutal Hearts was big show day. All the girls gave their best, most exclusive performance for the highest bidders. The biggest rollers. The broken bankers and card players who had gotten lucky upstairs and made their way down to their level to spend their winnings on some lucky lady. To throw it away again as quickly as they had earned it. Silly 20 something year old white boys who had more money than sense for their age and couldn’t get a girl to look at them unless they paid for it. Or older divorcees looking for a sugar baby now their Mrs has up and left them for being too much of a workaholic. And if that didn’t work and they felt drunk and invincible enough they’d head down yet another flight of stairs to either compete or just bet on the final fights of the night in the underground ring.

She slid down onto her knees, as she began to gyrate her body in time with the beat, across the stage floor. The younger guys whistled and hollered as they sat in the front row and threw ten and twenty dollar bills onto the stage. She twirled her legs around, before rolling onto her back, stretching her legs up in the air before splitting them wide. She focused on her reflection in the mirrored ceiling above her. If she caught a glimpse of herself enough to remind her how sexy and empowered moving like this really made her feel, she could ignore all the eyes on her who merely only saw her as an object to throw money at. A temporary high.

She stood and strutted her way to a pole at the front of the stage, she did a little dip of her knees before gripping the pole hard and twisting herself up onto it, her head tilting to keep her hat on. The aim with pole dancing is to make as many angled lines as possible. To flex and elongate your body, to create curves in places you didn’t realise could be curves. Occasionally you could hold things very straight for a show of power and strength but otherwise, you want to keep that essence of a moving wave as it rolls into the shore, graceful yet powerful. She twisted herself up towards the top of the pole, curling herself into a ball before dropping her whole body down the pole for dramatic effect, tightening her muscles and catching herself again at the last minute. She continued to spin low as she unfurled her limbs like petals of a flower, allowing her a small window in which to survey her crowd and pick her unsuspecting victim. That’s when she locked eyes with him. His sunglasses sat on the bridge of his aquiline nose, cowboy hat dipped low, his hand reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket as he made his way towards the stage.

She rolled herself off of the pole and onto her knees at the edge of the stage before him. She watched as he took off his own hat, placing a few hundreds into the band around it. He then reached out and took her hat off of her head and replaced it with his own, staking his claim, before walking away and taking a seat in a single, crackled leather armchair two rows back from the stage. He placed her bejewelled hat upon his knee before holding two fingers up to usher over a waitress to take his drink order as he waited.

So use me

Birdie finished up her set before making her way back to the dressing room to change. She carefully took her mystery stranger’s hat off of her head, placing the money that was tucked into the hat into a jar full of nicknacks and brightly coloured hair scrunchies on her dressing table. She then pulled off her wig, before releasing her long dark tresses from the wig cap that had been underneath. She shook out her hair before prying off her boots and changing into a dark purple, strapped bodice two piece. She then slipped her legs into a pair of black knee high boots and was ready to get back out on the floor. She grabbed her mystery cowboy’s hat, as she headed out the door, placing it back on her head so he would recognise her without the pink wig on.

As she scanned the crowd, she saw him standing at the bar ordering another drink, her bejewelled hat hanging off his fingers.

“I believe you have something of mine.” she said, announcing her presence.

His eyes looked her up and down as his glass of whiskey was placed on the bar top. 

“You give me mine, I’ll give you yours.” he played along with her, confidence times a million.

She leaned into him, observing the deep brown of his eyes, before trailing her eyes down his nose, then taking in his moustache. She couldn’t help but lick her own lips as her eyes finally gazed on his plush lower lip.

Her hand reached up to take his hat off of her head and place it gently back on his. He took a sip of his whiskey before he lifted her hat up and balanced it on her head. “This colour suits you better.” he says quietly as his fingers catch a few strands of her hair.

“Hey Sweetheart.” a young 20 something practically shouts as he sidles up on the other side of her. She aims to ignore him, keeping her attention on her mystery stranger but the sudden feeling of the guy’s hands on her ass changes everything. “Any chance of getting a private dance, beautiful?” his voice lilts along with his body. His eyes are glassy, he’s clearly drunk.

Jack watches as her face changes, her body turning towards him. He senses her rage.

“Sorry bud, she’s taken.” Jack proudly says, strutting forward to stand between the drunken douchebag and his new acquaintance. 

“Ahhh come on man. Surely we can come to an arrangement. How much do you want?” The drunk propositions.

Jack just stares at him as if to say ‘are you serious?’

“Or we can go halves? Make it a cheaper night for yo-” he doesn’t even finish his sentence before Jack is punching him square in the face.

“Oh shit.” Robyn murrmers.

“Come on Birdie.” Jack says, taking her hand with the same one he had just used to punch the guy in front of them in the face, pulling her towards the back.

She took a brief look over her shoulder to see the guy, bent over the bar top, his hand holding his nose wailing. 

Use me.

It may have been Birdie’s first time seeing him here, but it was clear it was not his first time. He pulled her closer to the back rooms before encouraging her to pick one of the empty ones for them to slip into.

“That was pretty heroic.” she cooed as she began to pace around him when they got into the room.

He quickly made himself comfortable on the red velvet sofa placed in the middle of the room. He watched as she crossed over to a panel on the wall, picking her personal private playlist and hitting shuffle. “With a punch like that, are you a full time cowboy?” she asked as she slid down the wall onto all fours and began stalking like a cat across the floor before him.

Jack couldn’t help but feel his pants begin to grow tight as he watched her ass cheeks sway back and forth as she grew ever closer to him. 

“Something like that.” he teased back as she came to a stop at his ankles. Her fingers ghosting up his legs before she split his knees, perching herself back on her heels as she sat between them looking up at him.

“You know they’re probably gonna come find you and kick you out for punching that guy.”

“Let’s just hope we both get what we want before that happens then.”

“What we want? I thought the whole point of this game is that you get what you want.”

“Come on Birdie,” he said, hooking his finger under her chin, his thumb turning to brush up her jaw, “you telling me there’s nothing you want from me?”

I don’t mind at all I don’t mind that you only call me when you want And I’m just glad you want me at all

She had let him book them into a hotel. She had broken her one rule ‘don’t sleep with the customer’ but Jack wasn’t a customer. Not anymore. Was he ever? He was enchanting and charming and there had been something familiar about him from the get go. “Use me.” he had said as he lay back amidst the pillows, his fingers only ghosting her skin as she rode him.

That was 5 days ago. He had made her put his number in her phone. For whenever she wanted to ‘use him again’ he had said. She swore to herself she wouldn’t, it was one night, but now she was sitting on her sofa, an uncontrollable need between her legs and the memory of a man she so wanted between them. The phone was in her hand, an eggplant and peach emoji sent over before she realised she had done it.

She was left waiting for a minute, watching the dots on the screen when an address came through.

And hearts Hearts that break the night in two And arms that can hold you, that’s true

To her surprise the building wasn’t a hotel, it was an apartment building. His apartment building.

The doorman let her in and she took the elevator up to the 15th floor. He had the door open the moment the elevator bell went ding. He was standing leaning against the door frame, arms folded, shirt sleeves rolled up. Neither of them said anything as she made her way into the apartment. She stood frozen in the entryway as he closed the door behind her. 

She waited in anticipation as she felt his chest press into her back. His fingers grazed the sides of her coat, his head dipping to nuzzle into the scent of her neck. He felt her gasp and her body relax as his lips brushed the skin of her neck. “What do you want, Birdie?”

“Use me.”

So use me, So use me,

His hands suddenly became fierce and firm, ripping her coat off exposing, to his delight, she was only wearing lingerie underneath. It made him groan as he turned her, his arms wrapping around her, his face getting buried in her breasts, as he kissed and licked at them. He lifted her with one hand, the other continuing to paw at her chest as she wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms braced tightly around his neck, keeping his lips close to her skin. She felt like she was on fire.

He swiftly carried her to his bedroom, dropping her onto the bed. She lay back, propping herself up on her elbows as he began to strip down. The sound of his belt unbuckling and being ripped from his belt loops only made the ache between her legs worse and he couldn’t help but smirk as he noticed how she began to rub her thighs together with need, her lips pulling between her teeth as she sized up her meal.

“Fuck.” he groaned as he raced forward grabbing the sides of her face and smashing his lips into hers. She playfully nipped at his lower lip and it made him grow hungrier still. She was being cheeky, she wanted to be punished, she wanted to be used.

His hands reached down for her thighs, his lips breaking away from hers at the last second as he flipped her over. His hands reached  for her ass, positioning it up high in the air as he let his hand come down on her right cheek with a loud crack.

“Mmm” she moaned as she rocked back and forth slightly before turning her head to fix her eyes on him. Those angel eyes, those butter wouldn’t melt eyes only 5 days ago, now her gaze was replaced with something else.

“God, you’re something else.” he professed as he leant a knee on the edge of the bed, grabbing her face and smashing his lips to hers once more.

“Fuck me, Jack.” she cooed as she began to pull her face away. For a moment he thought he saw something else in her eyes. It was quick like a flash, one second there and then gone again, just like that. But Jack was no fool, he would know that look anywhere.

Are we brutal hearts? Are we brutal hearts that break the night in two? 'Cause I just want this night with you I don't like the man (no, I don't like the man) I don't like the man that I am (you are) 'Cause I just want this night with you So let's take this night from black to blue So let's take this night from black to blue

He shook off the look. That reminder of the lonely heart within him. His own brutal heart, desperate to be used. Maybe that’s why they had both been drawn to the club in the first place.

He let his hand run down the length of her sides, fingers savouring the feeling of her soft skin beneath his fingertips until he reached her panties. He ran his fingers along the wet seam as she squirmed under his touch. He continued to tease her entrance as he freed himself from his pants, his hand giving his length a few pumps for good measure. He then reached out to pull her underwear down her legs, her head turning back to watch with her wanting, desperate look again.

He placed one finger into her heat, stretching her out and then another and her head hung in satisfaction as she let out a long slow gasp. He pumped his fingers inside her once, twice before pulling out. She let out a little whine at the loss, her head turning, eyes searching for him once more when he suddenly lined himself up and thrust himself deep inside her in one smooth motion. She gasped louder with the feeling. He slowly began to rock inside her as the flat of his hand palmed her ass before sliding up her back, his fingers hooking around the clasp of her bra as he pulled her up to meet him, his lips hungry for her moans. His hand clasped gently around her throat as he thrust up into her, she was so tight in this position.

“Fuck, baby.” he moaned into her mouth, her arm reaching behind her to wrap around the back of his neck in an attempt to keep him close, desperate for that human connection, desperate to feel something, desperate to be loved.

So use me So use me Hey

He nipped at her neck, his fingers teasing her sensitive clit as he thrust deep inside her. She met him with every thrust, grinding back on him as he pounded into her faster and hard. He could feel her growing tighter, her climax building, muscles squeezing around him. “Give it to me baby.” he commanded, his fingers applying even more pressure to her sensitive nub. 

“Oh fuck!” she cried as her high took over, he released her body from its hold, her hands coming down on the bed to brace herself. His thrusts slowed as she continued to slowly grind back against him, riding out her high.

When he felt her stop, he pulled out, his hands reaching for her hips rolling her over, encouraging her onto her back. He leant over the bed as she began to quickly shuffle up towards the headboard to allow him room and he spread her legs before reaching down to run his tongue up the length of her sex, collecting as much of her slick into his mouth as he could.

At seeing him do this her hunger returned. He positioned himself back between her legs and her hands wrapped around his back, fingernails grazing his skin as he thrust back inside her again. She was still so sensitive and it wasn’t long before she began to feel her next climax beginning to build.

“Come on baby, one more.” Jack almost snarled as his own hunger took over, his body leaning over her tightly, his fingers wrapping around her neck once more as he continued to pound her into the mattress.

“Uh fuck. Jack, JACK!” she cried.

“That’s it baby, say my name.”

They both came within quick succession of each other, she felt him move to pull out but she held him tighter, forcing him to finish inside her, after all she was on the pill she didn’t have to worry about a baby after this, she just needed to feel him. His chest on hers, his heartbeat, beating with hers, the pulsing of his cock in her pussy. It was almost a tender moment, but as Jack leaned back to look at her face he saw it again, that flash of pain. He couldn’t help but meet it with his own this time. Any other time it could have been a sweet moment, but this wasn’t that moment. This wasn’t that kind of sex. It was just two brutal hearts, looking to be used.

Use me. Use me.

————-/-//——-///———

Sorry it’s so late…

@musesofthenight @love-affair-with-fandoms @rav3n-pascal22

#agent jack whiskey daniels #agent whiskey #smut #song prompt #Pedro pascal #original female character #reader insert #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey imagine

[1-million-interests]

the tower

I had another nightmare recently,

In this one I was a beautiful young princess.

My hair was long and slippery,

Great amounts of fabric drifted down my shoulders and hips,

And my head felt light,

Without the weight of a crown.

I was stranded,

Atop of a very tall tower,

Locked away by an unknown force,

With only the raging seas below me,

My only escape.

Atop this very tall tower,

The wind pushed against the stone,

And I swayed with it,

How thin its structure was,

A crooked spine.

I was told in a vision,

By a woman who felt to me like she could be my mother,

(yet her eyes were far too foreign),

She could be my captor,

(yet her hands were far too soft in mine),

That if I were to throw myself into the sea,

If I were to allow the foam to enter my lungs and eyes,

I would be rescued by a knight of the sea,

Taken into the care of a faraway kingdom,

And meet the prince of said kingdom.

We would then be wed,

And live happily ever after.

This vision also warned me,

That this was merely one possibility out of many,

That could come from tossing myself into the ocean,

However I had few options,

And I knew that the only thing by my side at the top of that tower,

Was boredom and doom,

For its erosion would eat at the base of the stone,

The wind would shatter its spine,

And regardless I would belong to the murky deep.

You see,

The prospect of eternal happiness and eternal warmth,

The possibility of standing on stationary ground,

After swaying in the sky for so long,

Was too great to ignore.

So I stepped off the tower.

I gave myself to the wind,

Which lifted my hair to its face,

Pulled tightly at my gown,

And handed me over to the sea.

I drowned.

The salt scratched at my lungs,

My eyes.

My hands were claimed by sharks.

And yet I awoke,

Not in my bed,

But still in my dream,

Staggering at the top of that tower,

Hair caught in my mouth,

Scratching at my tongue.

Again and again I threw myself from that stone pillar,

Once a sailor saved me,

Raped me,

And gave me back to the sea.

Once a band of pirates took me aboard,

Gave me a new name,

A new face,

And allowed me to rob and fuck alongside them,

Until I grew old and my legs were claimed by leprosy.

Once,

And only once,

Was I rescued by the royal navy,

Pulled from the salt by my hair,

Shaking and clawing at my own eyes,

Stripped naked and given the finest of garments,

And presented in front of a young prince,

Who saw beauty in my bluish tinge,

My wrinkled fingertips,

And took my hand in marriage.

He gave me a wedding,

A throne,

Children,

Until we grew old and died hating our spawn,

For wearing our crowns,

And counting our money,

As we took our last breaths.

All of these endings,

Always the same beginning,

Myself stood atop that trembling tower,

The memories of each possibility above me,

Egress seemingly beneath me,

And in between the heavens and the sea I stood,

Head bent,

Knees weak,

Certain that no matter the outcome,

I could not continue shivering there,

Atop that tower.

#writing #original story #creative writing #amwriting #poetry #original poetry #fiction #poets on tumblr #my poetry #poems and poetry #poetrycommunity

[mariaofdoranelle]

Golden Tattoo — How They Met (Part 0?)

Rowaelin Month 2022 — Day 6: College/University AU

Parts 1-4 in my RM22 masterlist!

I have a fun story to distract you from the fact that part 4 is only coming out tomorrow. I’m posting this from my phone because I saw a scary lizard in my kitchen and ran for my life. Now I’m at my grandma’s gossiping at 1 am because we’re both insomniac girls, so I hope you don’t mind my poor editing of this draft.

Warnings: language, weed cookies, pizza mugger

Word count: 1,7k

. * ･ ｡ﾟ, (੭˘͈ᵕ˘͈)੭ <%) (%> ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶ . * ･ ｡ﾟ,

Aelin was having a staring contest with her cookies, trying to decide which one was higher.

Physically, it was her. The cookies were an inch tall. Aelin was lots of inches tall.

Chemically, it was the cookies. A weed cookie was 100% weed cookie. But when she ate them, she was only Aelin divided by cookies high.

A cookie could only contain a cookie. But Aelin? She could contain a multitude of cookies.

And pizza, she giggled at the thought.

As she opened the box containing the frozen pizza, Aelin noticed something incredibly odd.

Why in hell was the pizza green?

Aelin snapped a photo and sent to Elide, always the voice of reason

Aelin: It’s ruined

Aelin: I’m ruined

Ellie: Isn’t this the blue cheese?

Aelin: Ellie.

Aelin: This looks BAD

Ellie: Looks like blue cheese

Aelin: Looks like FUNGUS

Ellie: That’s the point of blue cheese

Tired of putting reason into Elide’s head, she packed the rotten pizza to return at the supermarket and left, only grabbing a small amount of money and another herb cookie on her way.

The closest supermarket wasn’t exactly close, but Aelin was glad she came by foot, even if it was already late. She loved to walk and see the traffic, street vendors, Doranelle’s awfully polluted river. Oh, the wonders of living in a big city.

Just like she watched the traffic lights reflect on a man’s red hair. God, why was his hair so shiny? And he was kinda hot too. Aelin tried not to stare, but it was a bit hard.

Hot Ginger approached, running to talk to her, and Aelin straightened her posture. She wished she didn’t leave the house in her pajamas now.

“Give me your phone. Now!”

He had the most mesmerizing gray eyes, so Aelin licked her lips and told him her phone number.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouted and grabbed a pocket knife.

Was Hot Ginger mugging her?

Before any of them could react, Aelin saw a frozen whole chicken flying through the air and hitting Hot Ginger’s head. The assailant staggered, but Aelin’s eyes didn’t notice it because she was too busy laughing and trying to figure out where that chicken had come from.

That’s when she noticed a smoking hot silver-haired man coming her way.

Dear Mala.

Was she a damsel in distress?

In the meanwhile, Hot Ginger took advantage of her distraction and snatched the bag with the pizza, running away immediately after.

Panting, the silver-haired guy asked, “Are you alright?”

“He stole my pizza,” Aelin mumbled, gaping the way the thief went.

He frowned and gently held her elbow, taking her somewhere safer. It turns out they were incredibly close to the supermarket, so it didn’t take long for them to find a safe bench to sit.

Aelin’s postured was slumped as she stared into the void. God, she missed the light weight of that rotten pizza in her hand.

“You’re really upset over that pizza, aren’t you?” A deep voice interrupted her thoughts.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah, and it was your fault.”

The stranger’s green eyes went wide. “Excuse me?”

“Well...” she trailed.

“Rowan.”

“Rowan. If you didn’t come all oh-look-how-good-I-am-at-chicken-throwing, I would have my pizza by now,” she slurred.

He ran a hand through his hair and muttered something to himself. And then sighed. “Could’ve been a lot worse.”

If she thought about it, he was actually right. Nodding, Aelin said, “Maybe. I don’t have my phone, but he could’ve taken my cookie.”

The stranger’s lips tightened to suppress a smile. “You’re walking around the city with just a frozen pizza and one single cookie?

Just like that, the mood shifted into something lighter. Aelin lifted her index finger. “A rotten pizza that I came to exchange, a magic cookie, and a bit of cash.”

He shook his head in either denial or amusement and laughed. “Are those a modern version of magic beans?”

She giggled, “No, it’s a pot cookie.”

Rowan’s eyes bulged. “Like in weed? You’re carrying weed around town?” he hurriedly whispered.

Grabbing the napkin-wrapped cookie from her pocket, she handed it to Rowan. She knew she’d need it sometime. Stoned Aelin always knew better. Getting down on one knee, she offered with both hands, “You shall eat my pot cookie, Hot Stranger.”

Rowan looked awfully cute with flushed cheeks, or so Aelin thought as he quickly looked around and hid the cookie in his pocket. “I thought you were mad at me for helping with the thief.”

She sat back and shrugged. “You’re taking this too seriously.” Why did he seem so nervous? Aelin tilted her head, trying to figure him out. “It’s safe, Ellie bought the good shit.”

He frowned. “You’re stoned now, aren’t you?”

Aelin’s huge grin was her only response. She didn’t know exactly what happened, but something about her face made Rowan’s expression soften. Probably the messy hair, but her mood had brightened enough for her to not care.

Chuckling a little, he eyed the cookie. “I can’t. I had plans to drop you off safely—“

“I got here by myself, didn’t I?”

“And nearly got killed—“

“Oh, come on! It’ll be fine. You’ve never done it before?”

Rowan sighed. “I smoked it once at a party. Nearly choked to death and gave up altogether.”

“The cookie takes at least one hour to hit. We’ll have enough time to buy the pizza and cook it.” She stood up and mentioned for him tag along.

He eyed her warily, but followed her lead. “You’re way too trusting. I could be an axe murderer.”

“Are you an axe murderer?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No,” he blurted with widened eyes.

“Then relax, Buzzard,” Aelin slurred.

Chuckling at the nickname, he just twirled the cookie around his fingers, studying it, and took a bite. His face was unreadable, but then hummed in approval as he chewed. “This is really good. Tastes a bit bitter.”

Enveloping his elbow with one hand, she led him to the frozen food section. “Come on, I have a very bad case of the munchies.”

~~~~

Turns out there wasn’t enough time. They got to know each other a little at the supermarket — Rowan was a student from the same university as Aelin, and the frozen chicken was meant to be for a dinner with his parents in two days. But by the time they reached the subway, Rowan started laughing at the station’s mice, and the conversation became about the pros and cons of time traveling. According to him, riding the subway feels like going inside a time machine.

At her apartment, Aelin left Rowan completely horrified when he discovered she cooks in the microwave, so she sat on the counter while he dealt with the pizza.

After putting it in the oven, he laid on the kitchen floor and sighed. Aelin sat on his side, and they made deep, meaningful conversation while waiting for the pizza to cook.

“Are you a Cancer?”

“No, but I have anxiety.”

“I’m a Taurus.”

He frowned. “No, you’re Alien.”

“What?”

“What ‘what’?”

“You called me an E.T.” she pointed out, amused.

“I called you by your name.”

Aelin smiled. “Yeah, that’s a great movie.”

“We should watch a movie after the pizza.”

“Fuck yeah, you have the best ideas.”

The timer pinged, and Aelin decided to at least retrieve the pizza after Rowan did the hard job of putting their ready-to-go dinner in the oven. However, she underestimated the metal tray’s heat by wrapping her hand in a thin towel to retrieve it.

Aelin ran to the counter screaming curses, but her effort wasn’t enough. Her reflexes were stronger than her desire to keep the pizza safe.

Everything was in slow motion when the baking tray fell, Aelin’s heart beating so hard she felt it inside her throat. A loud clunk sealed their fate. The pizza was smashed on her kitchen floor, the toppings completely messy.

Trying to appease a petrified Rowan, she said, “Don’t worry, I cleaned the floor, like, this week.”

He slowly lift his head to her with widened eyes. “Was that supposed to soothe me?”

Aelin started laughing. It was hard not to when he looked this horrified. Sitting beside the crumbled pizza, she cheered, “Come on! Before it gets cold.”

That was enough to snap Rowan out of his shock. “By your reaction, I don’t think it’ll get cold anytime soon,” he teased.

They ate their slightly ruined pizza off the kitchen floor, sometimes humming between bites because even if it didn’t look good, the taste was amazing.

Too lazy to get up and walk the few steps to the couch, they decided to watch the movie on Aelin’s phone.

“I’m kinda going through an Anne Hathaway phase,” Aelin said when they were deciding what to watch.

Rowan rubbed his chin, considering his options. “I like The Intern.”

Aelin wrinkled her nose, disapproving.

“You don’t like cute old widowers?” he asked, a bit foggy.

She shook her head. “There’s very little romance, and it’s bad.” Rowan seemed deep in thought for a moment, but then something clicked and he nodded. “One Day?” she suggested.

Now it was his time to turn the offer down. “That movie is so bad.”

Aelin’s eyes went wide. “Explain yourself.”

“So.” Rowan straightened on his seat. “The guy meets the love of his life and spends years sitting around doing nothing.” He put a hand on his mouth, stifling a giggle. “It’s so stupid.”

Aelin raised her eyebrows. “Is that so, loverboy?”

He tsked, shaking his head. “Not loverboy yet.” Rowan pointed his index finger up for emphasis. “But when I become loverboy, I’ll loverboy the hell out of lovergirl.” Then he frowned and added, “Or loverboy #2, we never know.”

Aelin giggled. “Okay, then. What about The Princess Diaries?”

Rowan’s eye’s lit up. “Absolutely.”

The sight of that hunk of a man getting excited to see a teenage princess movie made Aelin laugh harder, and Rowan followed suit even though he probably didn’t know what she was laughing at.

When their mood subsided, they improvised something to hold the phone without getting up. Aelin rested her head on his shoulder without further notice, but Rowan didn’t bulge. He just drew a silly smile and pressed play.

TAG LIST

@autumnbabylon

@courtofjurdan

@elentiyawhitethorn

@leiawritesstories

@rowanaelinn

@thegreyj

#rowaelin #rowaelin month #rowaelinmonth #throne of glass #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #golden tattoo

[bluest-planet]

Currently annoyed with the lower turnouts for protests where I live, like, i guess some folks got scared bc two got arrested but things turned out fine and having more bodies, safety in numbers, is literally the point.

And side eyeing the fact the local land back/indigenous groups that were working with us wont show up bc they dont want to jeopardize the funding they get from the city. Like. Isn't this literally the whole point? Of course, get the coin you need, but isn't it like shooting yourself in the foot by standing aside?

I swear, most americans cannot fathom the amount of violence happening with their money, i get that its a big beast, and we all have lives to worry about but we're trying to change that and be seen and support Palestine with everything we can spare.

I know people are doing their damnest out there, but the apathy or hostility here is staggering, tourist really are a plague bc they hate people protesting a genocide for ruining their precious vacations-- which makes it worse and more dangerous for us locals due to how much this fucking city prioritizes them over us.

But I don't care how few numbers there is, or how tired i am, or what supplies i have to use, I'm still going to as many protests as i can and doing my part even if it gets me or my sibling arrested like, this is my Salvadoran/Mexican solidarity peaking through right now, from Palestine to Mexico, no more borders shall keep us apart and from supporting one another.

#palestine #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #free palestine #blue speaks

[scum-belina]

Yesterday I was at my maternal grandma's spending the whole day there just visiting and cleaning up her house and my aunt called and was telling my grandma about how she's spending $40,000 to throw some big party for her office. She mentioned the party would have car prizes and that some people were in line to get $100,000 bonuses. She said this like it was nothing. Like this was just some chore.

My grandma kept talking about it to me and I had to tell her at one point that hearing about my aunt spending $40,000 -- which is an almost impossible amount of money to me with how my life has been- makes me want to throw up and die. Fucking hell. These are the same people that let me starve and belittled me when my dad was dying and I had nowhere to go I was literally trapped in my grandparents home for 2 years barely alive. I know I shouldn't be surprised but the way they talk about money is just staggering to me. Tremendous!!!

#they know how much I'm struggling and they like to rub it in all the more #it's not that i envy them bc despite the money they're all miserable and arrogant ppl #but the fact they piss away money like it's nothing while Im trying to get by on less than minimum wage makes me *🚨 GUNSHOTS MONKEY NOISES* #I had to go outside and cry at one point life has been so bad and getting worse #and hearing about this just set me off

[orlaite]

Sony's strategy with their old classics just makes absolutely no fucking sense to me. They keep pumping out these Columbia Classics box-sets with the most random mix of titles per box and barely any (if any?) of the titles get standalone, standard 4K releases. These boxes go for insane amounts of $$ to begin with but are then sold for MORBID amounts of money on the 2nd-hand market because people are desperate for that 1 title that's super popular and acclaimed and has a gorgeus transfer (ahem LOA) but people can't get it as a standalone disc. They get no revenue from the insane cash that's circulating in the 2nd-hand market! And the same thing with the LoA steelbook: they released it as limited edition, scalpers sold them for insane prices on 2nd-hand sites and created a huge demand and interest in the title because it was so rare and expensive, so when they did a soft, staggered re-release of it this fall it was obviously hugely successfull and r/4Kbluray basically became r/IJustBoughtLoAon4K. AND THEY STILL AREN'T GIVING IT A WIDE RE-RELEASE OR STANDARD RELEASE. PEOPLE WANT TO GIVE YOU MONEY SONY. GOD.