#1k likes and less than 50 followers what- | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

joelscruff · 1 year

Text

feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART ONE

"trying to play it coy, trying to make it disappear"

⚠️ new series alert! ⚠️ and also my 1k follower celebration!!! (altho it might as well be the 2k celebration now considering how fast my following has grown. thank you ;-;) i polled my followers a little while ago to choose between 3 different fic premises and this one was the winner! it was originally meant to be a stand alone but i'm actually more interested in making it a brand new series, so i hope you guys enjoy! i'm not exactly sure how many parts this will be yet, i'll let you know when i do. title and lyrics are from 'bad liar' by selena gomez.

summary: you're back from college for the summer, staying with your devout catholic parents in your childhood home while they order you around and try to keep authority over you. as an act of rebellion you ask your new neighbor mr. miller to teach you how to play guitar, but it turns out there's a lot more he wants to teach you. (no outbreak, no use of y/n) rating: 18+ explicit (minors, do not interact) warnings: (for this fic in general) age difference (reader is in her 20s, joel in his 50s), innocent/inexperienced reader, dirty old man joel, corruption (but it's consensual), praise kink, dirty talk, general smut, mentions of religion (reader's family are very catholic) -- (for this chapter) wet dreams, mentions of masturbation. word count: 5k ao3

The sun is warm and pleasant on your bare skin as you lay out in the freshly mown grass of your backyard, absorbing the heat and smiling languidly despite the humidity. You're grateful for your family's wealth on days like today, knowing that at any moment you could take a few steps and dive headfirst into the cool water of your pool, fresh and inviting. It's been about a month since you returned and you've spent almost every day outside among the green grass, the chlorinated water, the burning Texas sun. It's been heaven.

The backdoor suddenly swings open and your father's voice booms out into the backyard, "Family meeting," he states, loud and serious, "Five minutes."

Or hell.

With a groan you slowly sit up, hands digging into the thin towel laid out beneath you. You know better than to ignore an order like that. Being back from college for the summer has certainly had it's perks; no annoying roommates, no loud parties, a large backyard and pool to yourself, but having to deal with your parents again certainly isn't one of them. You'd thought coming back after three years might have softened them a bit, lowered their guard, made them less strict. Instead, it's almost had the opposite effect.

You slide into your flip flops and walk begrudgingly inside the house, making note of your mother standing anxiously by the stove with her arms crossed. What's the issue now? At least once a week your father calls these "family meetings", which always pertain to you and only you, seeing as you're their only child. Last week they'd spent half an hour berating you about forgetting to put the garbage out, the week before they'd tried to explain the importance of an early bed time to you, like you were seven.

You're a grown woman, a full fledged adult. Sure, you're only twenty one, you're unemployed, you're currently in the process of obtaining an arts degree that probably won't secure you anything tangible in the real world, but you're an adult nonetheless. You only have one year left of school before you can leave all this behind and start fresh somewhere else. You'd thought coming back home for one more summer would bring nostalgia and happiness, a few months of normality before life exploded in front of you.

Turns out your parents had pictured something different.

Your father gestures toward the kitchen table, urging for you to sit. You hate when they do this, make you feel small and childish while they both stand above you and reiterate rules they've had your whole life, rules that apparently you'll never grow out of. You wonder what rule you've broken now.

"We've noticed that you barely leave the house," your father begins, voice deep and authoritative, "We were under the impression that when you came home you'd be spending time with old friends, doing some volunteering again."

"Going to church," your mother adds beside him, a frown permanently etched on her face, "You've only gone twice since you've been here."

Call the cops, you think to yourself, forcibly holding back an eyeroll. Ironically your father is a police officer, and you highly doubt he'd ever come if you called.

"Instead, you just spend all your time in that backyard," he continues, nodding along with your mother, "We didn't invite you back to simply laze around all summer, there have been clear expectations you're not meeting."

You take a deep breath, feeling a hint of anger and stubbornness burning in the pit of your stomach. You shove it down, back to that secret hiding place you've cultivated throughout all these years of having to deal with them.

"I'm sorry, dad," you say, trying to sound as earnest as possible as you look to him and then your mother, "Sorry, mom."

"Sorry doesn't cut it, we need to see action," your father replies quickly, brow furrowed, "No more lounging around in the backyard on weekdays, that's a weekend activity from now on, we clear?"

You nod, "Clear."

"We want you to get involved in something," your mom takes a step forward, places her hand awkwardly on your shoulder, "Why don't you call Bethany? She's always looking for more helpers at Sunday School, or maybe Alice? I hear she's been volunteering at the soup kitchen for the summer."

You haven't spoken to either Bethany or Alice since you left for university three years ago. The thought of calling them, let alone having to work with them in either setting, makes you feel ill. You nod again, pretending to agree.

"That sounds good, I'll call them tomorrow morning," Both of your parents smile, appeased, "I think I'll go for a walk now, if that's okay. Clear my head, think about things I can do to improve."

"That's the spirit," your dad says, wrapping an arm around your mother, "Remember, be back before dinner or the door will be locked."

"I know," you nod, forcing a smile, "I won't forget."

Well, that's it, then. You'll have to leave.

It sounds dramatic to say that your parents telling you to get off your ass is enough to send you packing, but it goes so much deeper than that. You've spent your entire life doing everything these people say, nodding and smiling when you're meant to, apologizing for everything, doing anything you can to appease and impress them. You'd spent your high school years in youth choir, church group, organizing fundraisers, studying your ass off, tutoring, joining as many extracurriculars as possible until you had no free time. And even then, nothing ever seemed to be enough for them.

When you'd left for college they'd both cried at the airport, held you in their arms and told you with sincerity that they'd miss you so much. Your mother had kissed your face and held your hands and your father had hugged you for the first time since you were eleven years old. And because of their sudden burst of emotions, of affection, you'd actually missed them once you left. You remember you'd cried on the plane, scrolling through pictures of them on your phone until the battery died, thinking to yourself that maybe they weren't the horrible, authoritarian people you thought they were.

They called you once a week while you were at college, asking for updates, telling you they missed you, giving you neighborhood gossip that made you laugh and feel nostalgic for home. Being away from them, it was like they suddenly became two entirely new people, bonded together by their suddenly empty nest and seemingly trying to do right by you now, even if it felt a little too late. You'd thought about coming home a few times for a visit, but the memories that triggered the anger in the pit of your stomach kept you from doing so. You'd kept them at arm's length until you felt ready to come back.

And now you're back, and nothing has changed. They're the same people they always were, expecting too much of you, thinking they can control you, never quite believing that you're trying your best. You'd told them before you came that you just wanted to relax this summer, spend some time at home, maybe meet up with some old friends - keyword being maybe - and they'd seemed totally on board with the idea. There had been no mentions of keeping busy, no mentions of Sunday School or soup kitchens or rules. Then you'd arrived and realized how stupid you'd been to believe that they could ever change.

Your entire life you've been their perfect girl, their A+ student who volunteered and read bible verses and tutored the neighborhood kids, sacrificed your happiness more times than you can count for the sake of keeping them satisfied. But that's the thing: they're not satisfied, and they never will be.

Your flip flops smack against the concrete of your suburban street, sun beginning to set in the distance as you think about how exactly you're going to escape this hell. Yeah, you could just walk out the front door without a word, but it's not like you have anywhere to go or the money to do it. You have your plane ticket for your return flight back to school, but it's not 'til September and it's under your father's name. Your family might be wealthy but none of that wealth has ever gone directly into your pocket, and you doubt it ever will if you just bail on them in the middle of the night with no warning.

Your thoughts scatter when you hear someone call out your name nearby. Your head swivels and you see one of your neighbors, Mrs. Lillard, waving from her front porch. You wave back, give her a small smile.

"How's college treatin' ya?" she calls to you, taking a sip from a bottle of beer, "Got a boyfriend?"

Your cheeks warm immediately and shake your head, "Not yet!" you call back.

"I bet you're battin' 'em all away," her voice is slurred and you're sure that's probably not her first beer of the day, "Nobody's good enough for ya, huh?"

"I guess," you say awkwardly, continuing to walk and hoping she won't ask you to join her for a beer, "How's your husband?"

"Pain in my ass," she responds with a grunt and takes another swig, "Bet you can't wait to have your own white picket fence, perfect as you are."

Her words make you uncomfortable but you just give her your signature fake laugh and flip your hair, waving again, "Bye, Mrs. Lillard."

Your face falls as soon as you turn around, anger burning again. You've spent so much of your life being the picture perfect little suburban girl, doing everything your parents say, saying your prayers and reading to the elderly, killing yourself to get straight A's and only speaking when spoken to. Your reputation is widely known around the neighborhood; the sweet little girl, the pure and innocent God fearing angel. You've portrayed yourself as that girl for so long that you almost don't know which part of you is real anymore.

You keep walking down the street, eyeing the sunset as you go and wondering what would happen if you just didn't go back home tonight. As your father had said, he locks the door every night after dinner; you don't have a key, you've never had a key. You're only allowed into your house on the basis of trust and good merit. If you just refused to go back tonight, how would they react? The thought of doing something like that sends a warm flush of rebellion across your skin, eyes bright with intrigue. But where would you go?

You turn the corner and your nose is suddenly hit with the delectable scent of a barbecue, smokey and delicious. You slow a bit, closing your eyes and breathing in the warm air, stomach growling. You suddenly realize that if you don't go home tonight you'll also miss dinner. Another rule broken. You keep walking, trying to follow the scent like some kind of bloodhound. Maybe you know whoever's cooking and they'll invite you to eat with them.

A few houses down you start to hear the sound of music. There must be a party going on, a birthday or some other special occasion. It's only as you get closer to the sound that you realize it's not being played from a speaker or stereo, but from someone's front porch; a real guitar, live and acoustic.

You approach the house in question and see a man sitting on his front step, guitar in hand as he strums a steady tune. He's looking down, watching his fingers, monitoring his movements, but you see dark brown curls with hints of grey peppered throughout, a stubbled jaw line and curved nose. You slow your speed, furrowing your brow as you try to place him. You're not sure you've ever seen him before.

His music is calm and inviting, a plucky sounding tune that seems vaguely familiar. You're suddenly filled with intrigue, trying to place the song and slowing to a complete stop in front of the house without meaning to. You watch the man's callused fingers pick away at the strings, fast and professional, like he's been doing this for years. He probably has.

You're still trying to place the song, biting your lip and swiping through songs in your mind like an invisible rolodex. Johnny Cash? Bob Dylan? It sounds like one of those songs your parents would forbid you to listen to as a kid, the ones with devil worship in their lyrics, sung by bad men who didn't believe in God. You'd always questioned this logic, wondered how songs about living out in the country or falling in love could be inherently against your religion. They didn't even listen to it, just blindly told you it was against the rules.

Suddenly the man stops playing and you realize the song has come to an end. He looks up then, notices you standing there at the end of his walk with your furrowed brow and flip flops. His eyes are brown, expression startled at first but then fading into something softer as he gives you a small smile.

"Been there long?" he asks, voice crackling slightly, like he hasn't spoken much today.

You shake your head quickly, "I'm sorry, I heard you playing and I-"

"S'alright," he replies strumming his guitar absentmindedly and giving you a shrug, "I don't mind an audience."

He's southern, definitely a Texan, but you're sure you've never met him before. His face and voice are unfamiliar to you, but certainly not unwelcome. He's older, probably in his 40s or even 50s, but he's handsome and slightly boyish in a way despite his greying hair and freckled skin. He reminds you of one of those men on album covers your father had slammed down one day in the record store when you were nine, yelled at you in front of everyone that the men who made that music were filthy sinners. It hadn't stopped you from listening to them, though, curiosity getting the better of you.

Is that who you're looking at now? A filthy sinner?

"You okay?" he asks slowly, tilting his head. You realize you're just staring at him, gathering your thoughts.

You shake your head again quickly, feeling yourself blush under his gaze, "Sorry," you repeat, "I'm uh, I was just passing by and I heard you playing that song. It sounded really familiar."

He gives you a crooked smile and a nod, "Tangled Up in Blue, Bob Dylan."

"I knew it was Bob Dylan," you say, a satisfied smile spreading across your face. That song was from one of the albums you'd listened to in secret, one of the only times you'd had to delete your browser history. You feel pride swell in your chest at the smile you elicit from the man in response, like he's recognizing a fellow music lover.

"Good ear," he continues to lightly pluck at the strings of his guitar, "You play?"

"Um, not really." It's a half truth but mainly a lie, you've never played in your life. You feel slightly disappointed in yourself and you're not sure why; it's not like you've ever felt any kind of urge to learn, especially considering your parents would've made sure you only learned appropriate songs. When would you have even found the time between all your extracurriculars?

"Well, it ain't difficult," he starts playing the song again, slower this time, "Pretty repetitive chord progression, room for some adlibbin' here and there once you get the hang of it."

You nod like you understand what he's talking about, suddenly lost in the way his fingers pull at the strings, make the music come to life out of nothing. His hands are big, fingers long and thick as they curve back and forth, up and down. It's hypnotic to watch. He stops again and looks up, catches you staring.

"How old are you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You swallow, unsure what exactly the right answer is. Part of you wants to lie, tell him you're older than you actually are so he doesn't just see you as some bright eyed kid. This is the first person you've encountered since coming back who doesn't know who you are, doesn't know about your reputation. You could tell him anything, be anyone, and he'd take it at face value.

"I'm twenty five," you lie, but it sounds unnatural in your mouth.

He looks you up and down, eyes raking your body in a way you're unfamiliar with. Like a man. Like the way your roommates back in college get looked at, sensually and flirtatiously, being eyed up by drunk guys at the bar who only have one thing on their mind. You feel your heart begin to thrum quicker in your chest; is that really how this man is looking at you? This grown man, not a high school crush or a college fratboy, a real man?

"Sweetheart, we both know that's a lie," he says with a chuckle, eyes coming back to rest on your face, "I'd guess twenty."

You make a face, "I'm twenty one, actually."

He laughs again, putting his hands up in surrender, "My bad, twenty one."

You watch as he starts to strum once again, something new and unfamiliar. You listen for a few moments, eyes trained back on his fingers, watching him play.

"You wanna come in for a bit?" he asks, voice nonchalant, like he's asking you something completely casual.

And maybe he is, but the words make your eyes widen, your breath catching in your throat. The way he'd looked at you just then, laughed at your words, wanted to know your age... now he's inviting you into his house? You've never actually been flirted with before, not when it mattered, and you're not entirely sure if that's what's happening. But it feels like it, even though you can't imagine how someone like him could see anything sexy about a girl like you.

"...Why?" you ask quietly.

He looks up at you with another smile, still plucking the strings, "If you need to ask then maybe I read you wrong," he chuckles again, eyes trailing down your legs and taking in your short dress, the way it stops at your knees, "Now that I really look at you, maybe I'm talkin' to a good Christian girl."

"You're not," you say it too quickly, "I mean, I'm not. I'm not a good Christian girl."

"No?" he smirks, "Don't have a good southern daddy waitin' for you to come home? Momma waitin' with a pie in the oven?" he's not being serious but you feel your skin flush at the accuracy of his words.

"Maybe," you mutter, hand going down to touch your dress nervously, "But maybe I don't wanna go home."

He nods and stops plucking, licking his lips and thinking to himself. You have to admit, there's something about him that draws you to him, something masculine and new. He's much, much older than you but not in a way that creeps you out or makes you want to run away. You find yourself hoping he'll ask you to come inside again so this time you can give him the right answer, the one he wants to hear.

"You probably should," he finally says, then stands up on his porch steps and slips his guitar onto his back. The strap digs into his broad shoulders, accentuating his size as he suddenly towers over you on the step.

"Sh-should what?" you ask breathlessly, and you wonder if he can tell your heart race has picked up, see the thumping of your pulse in your exposed neck.

"Go back home," he says with a shrug, "I mean, if they're waitin' for you..."

"They're not," you say it with firm finality, shaking your head, "I'm twenty one, I do what I like."

He walks down the steps then, getting closer and closer to you until he's suddenly standing directly in front of you. His eyes cast downward, assessing your expression; you swear he looks at your lips and licks his own again.

"So would you like to come inside?" he asks again, peering down at you with a dark sense of desire that makes you swallow roughly, feel a light and steady thrum between your legs, "Let me teach you how to play that song?"

Here's your chance. Just say yes.

"N-no," you gasp, taking a step back from him, "Um, n-not today."

He smirks, almost like he knew that would be your response. He hitches his guitar up his shoulder and gives you one last smile before turning around and walking back up his steps.

"Well, I'm here if you change your mind," he calls back to you, reaching for the doorknob on his front door and peering at you with another side glance, still assessing you, "Would love to teach a pretty thing like you how to use her fingers."

You feel your lips part in surprise, an unfamiliar tingling sensation flooding your body as he gives you a wink and walks into his house, shutting the door behind him. You've still got that steady throbbing feeling in your underwear, something you've only felt a handful of times. You know what it is, you're not completely clueless, but you can't remember the last time it happened.

You take another step back slowly, heart still pounding in your chest as you stare at his closed door. Then you turn on your heel and speed walk back the way you came, flip flops slapping against the ground aggressively. You revel in the way your thighs rub together as you walk, soothing that ache.

Any thoughts of not going home have gone from your mind. You need to ask your parents who this man is. As soon as possible.

You get home right before dinner, giving yourself just enough time to formulate exactly how to ask your parents about the man with the guitar. You're slightly afraid that you might seem too eager, too curious, and that they'll see right through you; you can't imagine how they'd react to knowing their perfect little girl is getting butterflies over a middle aged man.

But that's what you have: butterflies. In your tummy, all over your skin, between your legs. Being talked to the way he did, being looked at the way he did, it's making you feel hot all over, itchy and uncomfortable but in a good way.

The last time you felt this way was during your first week of college, at a party you'd gone to with your roommate. You'd seen him across the room, tall and blonde, watched as he licked his lips and looked you up and down. He was gorgeous, an angel you were convinced God had placed at this party just for you. You felt that tingle between your legs, swallowed down the nervous lump in your throat and imagined what it would be like to be kissed by him.

Then he'd approached and you realized he'd been looking at your roommate the entire time.

Your mother is just beginning to plate the meal when you slip into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table beside your father. She serves you both with a smile and sits, then extends her hands to both of you.

"Bless us, O Lord, for these, Thy gifts," she begins quietly, and you quickly hang your head and close your eyes as she continues, "which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen."

"Amen," you and your dad echo, then begin your meal. Just the same as always.

"How was your walk?" your father asks.

Here goes nothing.

"It was nice," you say, nodding thoughtfully to yourself and hoping you sound nonchalant, "I said hi to Mrs. Lillard."

"We've been praying for her," your mom interjects immediately, "She's an alcoholic, you know."

Your mom stays on top of all the neighborhood gossip, part of the reason you feel she might know something about the mysterious man. With a nod of your head you continue, "And then I saw someone else, a man playing guitar on his front porch, but I've never seen him before."

"Oh, him" your mom rolls her eyes, "Mr. Miller. Piece of work."

Bingo.

Your eyebrows raise, intrigued, "How so?"

"Kindness, dear," your father says with a disapproving nod to your mother, "He's done nothing to us."

She sighs and shakes her head, "You're right, I'm sorry."

The conversation is definitely going somewhere but it's already taking a turn into dangerous territory; you're not one to question, to interfere or interject. Pressing them further might make them suspicious, but you have to know.

"What did he do?" you ask, trying your best to sound casual, "If you don't mind me asking?"

Your mother is about to speak but your father gives her a look, almost a warning. She closes her mouth and sits back in her chair, waiting for him to answer you instead.

"He didn't do anything," your father explains, "Your mother invited him for dinner and he declined, that's all."

"It's the way he declined," your mother sits forward again, voice curt and irritated, "He was very rude."

"Rude?" You can tell your mom wants to talk about it, dredge up something she hasn't been able to discuss for a while; you're surprised she hadn't already told you over the phone while you were at college.

"This isn't appropriate conversation for the dinner table," your father says sternly, and you're not sure if he's talking more-so to you or your mother, "End of discussion." As usual your mother folds in on herself, picking up her fork and starting to eat again.

"Your father's right," she says, though you know she doesn't really believe that, "Let's just eat."

You wonder what the man - Mr. Miller - could have said to make your mother react this way. It's not unusual for her to get stiff and bothered by people - it's pretty easy to push her buttons, actually, but the list of things that offend her is long and detailed. He could have said pretty much anything to set her off. The specifics are lost on you.

You resign yourself to defeat and eat your dinner, sincerely glad that the tingling sensations in your body have subsided. You do not need to be feeling like that with your parents in the room.

You dream about him.

It's muddled and confusing, taking place simultaneously back at college and in your childhood bedroom, but he's there. In both places, somehow. You're back at that first week of college party, but instead of the blonde boy it's him standing across the room, eyeing you up and down. But this time he doesn't go for your roommate, he walks over to you and looks deeply into your eyes, gives you that delicious smirk and brings his hands down to touch your waist. He's so big compared to you, so much older. He pulls you in with a strong grasp and holds you to his broad chest, runs his hands down your back.

Then you're both transported from the college party to your parent's house. You're on your bed, sitting next to him atop the covers and watching him play guitar. You watch his fingers, long and thick, hypnotizing you with their movements. He stops playing and brings one to your chin, tilts your head up to look into your eyes again.

"You're not a good Christian girl," he whispers in that southern drawl, breath ghosting across your face, inching closer and closer, "You're all mine, aren't you?"

You wake up with a start and immediately feel the dampness in your underwear, the butterflies back again with a vengeance as your pussy throbs and pulses. You've never felt anything like this before, grasping your chest and reaching for your bedside lamp in the darkness. You sit there in bed for a few moments, catching your breath and waiting for the feelings to vanish again, for your aching core to stop reminding you that it's never been touched, not once, even though you know it's absolutely begging for it.

With shaky hands you reach down and run a finger through your wet folds, shivering at the soft touch. You've never masturbated before, never had sex or anything else you've learned about from your friends at college. They'd looked at you with disbelief when you'd told them you'd never even had an orgasm; one of them had gone so far as to ask if she could give you one.

"No," you'd said curtly, "No thank you."

Now you sit on your childhood bed with your legs open and a finger pressed lightly against you within your underwear. You're not even sure what to do, where exactly to touch, how to bring yourself to completion. You're twenty one years old but you've spent your entire life being the good, pure, God fearing girl waiting for marriage like her parents taught her.

"Enough," you whisper into the darkness, "I'm done waiting."

You yank your finger out of your panties and lay back on the bed, switching off the lamp and closing your eyes again. You've already decided before you drift off that you'll be paying Mr. Miller another visit tomorrow, as soon as possible.

He told you he wanted to teach you how to use your fingers; you intend to make sure he does.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #pedro pascal fic #tlou fic #*#fic: feelings on fire

3K notes · View notes

felixstudios · 9 months

Text

Playground Swap AU!

This is an AU that swaps out which playgrounds the 16 managers from 1.3 reside in as well as trying to strike a balance between their own personality and the personality of the Cog they're swapping places with. Additionally, "gimmicks" {usually the cheat or power the manager is most known for} are swapped. Some job titles are swapped, while some are not- and that one was completely random just to add to the chaos of this AU.

Credit to the creation of this AU belongs in part to @peachymunmagenta for giving me the initial idea and I basically took it and ran off with it. They also came up with the TTC/AA swap!

This post is considered the "master list" of this AU. That means over time I will edit it to include links of extra information/lore made in other posts.

31. August, 2023

New Management Changes - Effective Immediately!

It has come to our attention that our newly hired managers have not had the expected outcome of getting rid of the Toons. While progress has been made in slowing them down, that isn't enough. We will be experimenting with new corporate structures that will move some of you to different districts to see if this helps the Toon problem. Some of you have also changed departments- if that is the case, contact your new boss for your new uniform within 24 hours of receiving this notice or else YOU'RE FIRED.

The new assignments are as follows:

1. Toontown Central & Acorn Acres

Swapped pairs: Buck/Chip and Spruce/Brian

Buck Ruffler, Acorn Acres Kudos Manager

Duck Shuffler, level 50 Cashbot

Fight concept

-Gains an override so that his last minute changes to projects become efficient and more beneficial to the company

-A little more serious, but he's still pretty out there.

-Buck's override is triggered if he spins his slots and rolls 777 {and will deactivate with another 777}. Additionally, his other slot outcomes have been changed while the printing stays the same.

-During an override, Buck would be very similar to Chip in canon in that he'd be monotone and incredibly hostile to Toons {but his speech impediment would still be there lol}. I feel like in a battle this would be reflected by Buck doing more damage, his slot outcomes changing to things that are way more negative for Toons {but also WAY more random}, the inability to receive a 'bust' outcome, and/or getting more slot rolls per turn.

Chip Revvington, Toontown Central Street Manager

Chainsaw Consultant, Level 5 Bossbot

-He leaves firing employees more up to chance than anything

-Despite being such a low level, since he's a manager he can fire any non-manager Cog. He just couldn't fire any managers that are above him, which is fine for the company since they don't want layoffs that high up their management chain

-Without his override anymore and also some of Buck's personality, he becomes quite friendly and even slightly outgoing. He even jokes about his chainsaw and how scary it looks when he's nothing like that

-Has WAY less cheats since he's literally the first manager now. It would still operate based on an RPM meter, but it'd be WAY more straightforward and forgiving... Something like +1K/turn regardless of what attacks are used, cheats draining all his RPM regardless of when it was used or how much he has, only having 2-3 cheats {and just one RPM meter}, and each cheat's trigger is easy to figure out or is literally said to players.

Spruce Campbell, Toontown Central Kudos Manager

Treekiller, Level 12 Cashbot

-He strategically steals paper and logs {along with other resources} from the Toons

-Although he still SEEMS to talk and act exactly the same as in canon, this is now just an act he puts on for the Toons so they don't realize how genius he actually is

-Becomes a little full of himself, but not to unreasonable standards. He just likes to boast about himself a lot

-In battle, his cheats would both be annoying like Brian's and use some of the resources he's been stealing

Brian {no last name}, Acorn Acres Street Manager

Prethinker, Level 24 Sellbot

-He just works on more projects than before but becomes a bit more outspoken

-Is now okay with admitting he made mistakes and doesn't hold it against himself very much

-His cheats now reflect the resources around him and have an underlying theme of wood and acorns

-Since he's also later in the game, his cheats are more complex and allow for his strategic prowess to truly shine

-A bit bolder than before, which sometimes backfires on him. This is especially true if he accidentally makes a miscalculation

2. Barnacle Boatyard & Ye Olde Toontowne

Swapped pairs: Misty/Prester and Mary/Holly

Misty Monsoon, Ye Olde Toontown Kudos Manager

Witch Hunter, Level 20 Lawbot

-She convinces large groups of people to have class action lawsuits

-Will send out anonymous letters to Cogs in an attempt to get them riled up against Toons and start a witch hunt against specific Toons {usually whichever one hurt her the most that week}

-Still very quiet, but now it's because she's incredibly bitter and jaded towards everyone and doesn't wanna talk to anyone

-Still has self esteem issues, but she buries this really deep so that way nobody knows about it

-If she does speak, it's usually something really vague. She prefers to do her mob collecting from the shadows so as not to trace it back to her

Prester Virgil, Barnacle Boatyard Kudos Manager

Rainmaker, Level 16 Lawbot

-He gains weather changing abilities, which he uses to cause disasters and convince the company they need to make insurance claims {or sometimes normal Cogs}

-Doesn't use... as many big words

-A bit more soft spoken, but still pretty obnoxious about things

Mary Anna, Ye Olde Toontowne Street Manager

Deep Diver, Level 10 Boardbot

-She's put her defenses up and does her deep searches with more bias and sass

-With bias now comes sometimes overlooking things or having a confirmation bias where things might not get as thoroughly checked

-Mary is now also a perfectionist trying to work through this flaw in her performance because it's causing her a lot of stress

Holly Grayelle, Barnacle Boatyard Street Manager

Gatekeeper, Level 7 Boardbot

-Does extensive research into pretty much anyone she or the company wants to interact with, hire, ETC. to determine if they're allowed to or not

-A little more mellowed out and not so bad of a perfectionist anymore, but she hasn't completely toned it down

-Quieter, but it's because instead of talking so much she's observing. This will inform future judgements she makes about others, for better or for worse

3. Daffodil Gardens & The Brrrgh

Swapped Pairs: Cathal/Flint and Ben/Cosmo

Cathal Bravecog, The Brrrgh Street Manager

Firestarter, Level 20 Bossbot

-He tries to help out his dad from The Brrrgh, but he just seems to always cause problems

-Very chill and laid back manager who outwardly doesn't show much reaction to his mistakes... at first.

-Over time {and in battle this would be reflected by entering different phases}, he becomes more and more insecure about it until he's clearly pretty anxious and worried. This results in more severe mistakes being made and so the cycle goes on and on

-Tries to get praise from his dad, but he's pretty sneaky around the subject

-He will gain Flint's fire abilities, and it does NOT mix well with his anatomy that's not built to take the heat

Flint Bonpyre, Daffodil Gardens Kudos Manager

Multislacker, Level 24 Sellbot

-Flint is 'burnt out' and doesn't have the emotional capacity to do much work. This would be literally represented by the flame on his head always being very weak

-Very quiet since he just doesn't have the energy to speak much

-Spends most of his time kinda staring off into space or only putting in just enough effort to not get fired

Benjamin Biggs, The Brrrgh Kudos Manager

Bellringer, Level 38 Sellbot

-He gets to have a mafia of his own and they go around "convincing" people to buy from COGS, Inc.

-Uses gossip and blackmail to control everything, basically

-Not really much for getting himself into trouble anymore and is WAY more interested on just finding dirt on anyone and everyone in case he encounters them at some point and needs to "persuade" them

-Instead of Satellite Investors, he has Bell Boys... lol

Cosmo Kupier, Daffodil Gardens Street Manager

Plutocrat, Level 13 Cashbot

-He uses the power of his money to create quite a bit of gossip. Money talks for him a lot

-Whether it's starting fake rumors, starting true rumors, or hearing gossip about somebody, he's paying for it

-While they no longer appear in battle, his Satellite Investors still help him out with a lot of stuff

-His cheats would still be ice themed, but they wouldn't be as extreme both due to not having a frozen office and for being earlier in the line

4. Mezzo Melodyland & Drowsy Dreamland

Swapped pairs: Belle/Tawney and Dave/Graham

Belle Dama, Drowsy Dreamland Street Manager

-She delegates her work to other Cogs and has to frequently nap due to her age

Mouthpiece, Level 30 Lawbot

Design concept

-One of her cheats would literally be not attacking for like 2-3 turns but in return she gains like 50-60% of her health back

-But even though she's old and a bit more frail, she's still got hands to throw. AKA she can do a lot of damage!

Tawney Esta, Mezzo Melodyland Street Manager:

Featherbedder, Level 16 Bossbot

-They do their work with less napping and delegation basically I guess

-Maybe more social

-I really didn't know what else to put here

Dave Brubot, Drowsy Dreamland Kudos Manager

Pacesetter, Level 66 Sellbot

-He basically does his show but like... really fast

-As a star performer, he sets ALL the trends, babe! Both in the company and even on social media!

-You thought he didn't slow dance before? Well now he REALLY doesn't slow dance

-Becomes more self-absorbed, leading to a lot of posters of himself being hung up around his lobby and his stage

Graham Payser, Mezzo Melodyland Kudos Manager

Major Player, Level 28 Bossbot

-He's slowed down a bit and replaced it with more drama!

-Think you can take on someone as beautiful, stunning, and perfect as him? Think again!

-Even without his signature speed to help him, he's still quite the formidable opponent who will use his strength and ranking in the company to his advantage

-Also WAY more into performing and showing off. Somehow. Because he wasn't already maxed out here.

#toontown #ttcc #corporate clash #toontown corporate clash #ttcc au #playground swap au

34 notes · View notes

diorstarr · 1 year

Note

Lack of interaction is a massive issue for every writer right now and I've been through it myself. I've had fics with 1k notes that have less than 100 reblogs. So less than 10%. And I reckon about 50% of those reblogs are my own when I've reblogged comments or for timezones etc. Then I get about 10 comments from my mutuals being kind.

I have a good group of mutuals around me who support my writing but sometimes it does feel like I'm living in an echo chamber.

I see random people follow me, like everything in my masterlist and then disappear into the sunset never to be seen ever again. I wonder did they actually even read it? Or just bookmark it for later then never come back?

It takes a lot of time and effort to write something. It takes a lot to post it out there on the internet for everyone to read. I think people forget that. Those 5k words I just posted are my inner most thoughts and feelings. They are a part of me.

yeah, ive definitely noticed this is something every writer is struggling w rn. ill read a fic and see it has so many notes then look at the like to reblog ratio and its utter garbage. not to mention if there are reblogs, they are mostly empty.

and for sureeeee most of those reblog are from mutuals or just comment reblogs from the op! which is so sad bc i wanna hear what other ppl have to say abt the fic!! esp if ur liking it im ~assuming that you enjoyed some of it.

+heavyyyyyy on the random ppl following you LMAO. and not a single comment or interaction. its so disheartening to see!

and literally regardless if its a plot heavy fic or something thats literally just smut (which is so hard to write sometimes, my god) it takes time and effort! this is something i enjoy doing and make time in my very busy schedule to get done. and to have no one say nothing???? im just like…..ok……why am i doing this then. (and pls. if u use the argument 'you should do it for yourself' im gonna find u and live in ur walls. im not playing.)

and ppl get sooooooo defensive and there so many different ways to interact w writers!! like sure u might not want to reblog for whatever reason but what abt comments? asks? making a sideblog?

idk im just very tired at this point lol

#asks #anon #INTERACTION LITERALLY SAVES WRITERS #IF YOU LIKE SOMETHING SAY SOMETHING AND THAT PERSON (more often than not) WILL CONTINUE WRITING WHAT U LIKE

86 notes · View notes

maaarijaaa · 2 years

Text

You Belong To Me ❀ Part Six

Ransom Drysdale x Wife!reader

Summary: Ransom Drysdale grew up in a dysfunctional family full of heartless people. The only family member who understood and supported him was his grandfather, Harlan. He never knew how it feels to be loved, until he met you.

Disclaimer: I do not allow for my work to be posted somewhere else or translated. English is not my first language so let me know if I made any mistakes.

A/N: Hey everyone, I have not posted anything from this story since Match because I have been focused on other stories but here we are. We are almost hitting 300 followers🫶🏻

Words count: 1k

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Part Five<

Today was your doctor's appointment.

Ransom was nervous to say at least. He said that he did not care about the gender and that he was happy as long as the baby was healthy, but deep down you knew he wanted a boy.

That was one of the first things he told you about when you decided to start trying for a baby, but he also told you that he would be happy if the baby turned out to be a girl.

The baby is not even born, yet Ransom decided to buy matching sweaters. You did not know how but he found the exact copy of his favorite sweater for the baby. Your due date was during the summertime and Boston can get really hot, but yet again, Ransom did not care.

On the other hand you were excited. Even after everything that happened with your and Ransom's parents, your baby was your number one priority. You still refused to talk to your parents. You did not open their letters or answered their phone calls.

Driving to the clinic was awkward. Ransom told you about the idea for the new book. He even told you about writing a book about the baby. That made you fall in love with him even more.

You got out of the car and made your way to the doctors office, hand in hand.

You did not wait long before the doctor called your name.

“Okay let’s see what do we have here. Do you guys have any guesses?” the doctor asked.

“As long as the baby is healthy, we are happy.” Ransom said.

You looked at each other before the doctor spoke again.

“Here is your baby!” Doctor said as he pointed on the screen. There was your little bundle of joy.

“And you are having a…”

Doctor looks closely at the screen before speaking again.

“A little boy!”

Ransom let go off your hand and began jumping out of joy. He was going to have a son.

The doctor printed some pictures and left the room so you and Ransom could talk.

“We are having a boy! A little boy!” Ransom said as tears began to form into his eyes.

“A mini Ransom!” you said as you held your husband’s hand.

“I hope they look much like you actually.” Ransom said.

After talking for a few minutes the doctor came back in and told you that the baby is healthy and told you to make sure to take your daily vitamins.

After leaving the doctors office, Ransom drove straight to the baby shop. That little boy is not even born yet, and he still has a huge closet full of baby clothes, and matching sweaters of course.

As you walked around for a bit, you stopped when you saw that something was off with Ransom.

“Is everything alright baby?”

“Yea it’s nothing”

“Ransom I can see in your face that something is off.”

“Do you think I am capable of being a father?”

“Why are you even asking me that?”

“I grew up in a family full of idiots, and I never knew what a true family is like. I did not have a really good father figure nor a mother that really was there for me. I just don’t want our little boy to go through that.”

You almost began crying. He was scared of hurting his little boy.

“Ransom, you are going to be the best father our son could ask for. How do I know? Well you are constantly worrying about him which shows that you care for him. We are in this together and I am going to help you if you ever think like that, okay?

“Okay” “Do you know how much I love you?”

“Well you have told me 50 times since this morning, which is 50 less than usual!”

You both stood there laughing

“I love you”

“I love you too Ransom”

Tag list: @marvelwasmadeforthebis @ellerosie2332 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @charmingprincess

#chris evans imagines #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale imagine #ransom drysdale smut #ransom drysdale wife #ransom drysdale series #chris evans smut #henry cavill #chris evans

147 notes · View notes

antimony-medusa · 7 months

Note

hey, medusa!!! i’m wanting to run an exchange, but i’ve never done so before. do you have a guide or some tips?

Okay. Oh boy. I do not have a formal guide. What I know off the top of my head (this is a bit fragmented cause I've been at a wedding all weekend) is this.

If you are running an exchange, it is orders of magnitude easier to do it on Ao3 rather than using a google form and hand-matching. This is for two reasons. One is the aforementioned hand-matching— it's more complicated to get people to sign up on Ao3, but you can make guides for it, and matching through Ao3 is a like 90 minute process including checking for people who've made Do Not Match requests, and hand-matching if you have more than like 9 people is a multi-day process. I think it took me four day to match the holiday exchange last time, and I had an insane spreadsheet about it. The other aspect is communication— through Ao3 you just press a button and everyone gets their assignment emailed to them. If you're using a google form, you have to fall back on either having a discord you get everyone to join (which you then have to moderate, and then send individual messages) or using tumblr messaging (and if you send more than 50 messages to people a day it caps you, and if you do that three days running, you get shadow banned).

It is vitally important that you allow a space for people to put down their Do Not Wants, to avoid people getting fics or art they hate or are actively triggered by. But it really helps if you can emphasize that your Do Not Want needs to be neutral and polite, cause who knows who is gonna get your request, cause otherwise you do have people signing up with things like "no dark fic or creepy stuff" and not only is that rude to people who like dark fic, that's REALLY hard to moderate— what's "creepy stuff"? Who decides?

If you are having an exchange that's over a month long, it's really helpful to have a check-in to make sure everybody is still working on the gift and to remind people that the deadline is coming. You'll always get defaults around check-in time as people go OH SHIT.

Expect that about 20% of your exchange will either default (communicating this with you) or just no-show at the deadline. Do not assume that someone who missed a deadline is going to get it in soon, you need to follow up with them IMMEDIATELY and start saying things like "if I haven't heard from you in 8 hours I'm going to assume you've defaulted and send this to pinch hits", or things will stretch on for WEEKS. You'll need pinch hitters for these people who didn't get their gift done— and like, this isn't a thing to be mad at— people get sick, computers blow up, people leave the fandom, internet goes out, life happens— and you'll need a plan in place to get assignments to the pinch hitters, and a timeline for them to get their gift done. I've had people noshow because they left the fandom and they didn't think to tell anyone, and I've had people noshow because they were in intensive care. You get the whole spectrum. Remember that when you're communicating with someone, you COULD be talking to the intensive care person, so be direct and actionable (I need to hear from you within x timeframe or I'm gonna assume you're unable to get your gift done) but still be polite. With a 1k assignment minimum, most pinch-hitters can get a gift done in a week or less.

Spend some time thinking about your content rules and how you'll enforce them. The point of moderation is not to provide a value judgement for anything, no matter your personal opinions, you're there to be an impartial enforcer of the rules— rules that were clear enough to start with that everyone had a reasonable understanding of them when they entered the space, so that they could make an informed decision about the space and if they would be comfortable there. So a rule like "no e-rated fics" is fine and enforceable, and if you have an exchange with minors that's a reasonable idea, but a rule like "no dark content" becomes very hard to enforce, because who's defining that? Does dark humour count? How dark can angst-with-a-happy-ending get before it counts? If there's torture in your source material, can it be used in work? Major Character Death? And so on. You need to look at your rules and go "how would someone who doesn't know me interpret that" if at all possible, and try and think of worst case scenarios, and try and make things clear and understandable and enforceable.

Within MCYT spaces, if you're doing anything multifandom/anything that goes outside of your circle of friends, I'd really recommend not trying to enforce streamer boundaries, because every different social circle has a different understanding of what those boundaries are. Trying to make a set of rules that includes both hermitfandom and lifesteal fandom and dsmp fandom, while including boundaries, is a screaming nightmare. Plus you start having to run down clips for things instead of actually running your exchange, and it is flat out impossible to find recent and fully informed clips that can't be misinterpreted, for a startling variety of streamers who you'd think (from your social circle) was settled known fact where we had a powerpoint presentation from the streamer. In my opinion running an exchange as Don't Like: Don't Read, maybe with major content warning rules (enforcable and clear!), and then making sure to match carefully is the only way forward.

As a mod, you become basically a non-judgemental customer service guy for a month. You are non-partisan. I've had this happen, and it is REALLY demoralizing to have a mod go "lol that's weird" or "this segment of the fandom is kind of funny" or "we don't want any of those guys" in a space that's theoretically supposed to be welcoming, so if you have said things like "everyone is welome" you have to mean it. There is nothing someone can bring you that makes you go "that's weird" for the duration of the exchange, even if you personally are absolutely not vibing with a person's ships or prompts or aus, or their reason for not getting their fic done seems flimsy, or whatever else. Your entire job is to be non-judgemental supportive helpful rules person, and that's it. You will answer questions already answered in the FAQ a lot.

That's all I can think of, if you have futher questions ask away. :D

#x-ca1iber #ask #fic exchange

9 notes · View notes

therhythmafterthesummer · 10 months

Note

I've come to ask something from you bc I kinda see you as a mom on Tumblr (and I mean that in the most respectful, honorable way) just bc your fics are top tier quality and I just think you're so fucking cool.

I'm a writer myself, I have over 1k followers (I know it's not much) my top post has almost 2k notes, I have more than I think 3 posts over 1k notes (not boasting this is genuinely with a purpose) but all my latest fics don't go over say like 200 notes. I've tried softer fics, more smutty fics, more thorough, less thorough, I've changed the way I write and still nothing gets me as many likes as I used to get before. So now I'm thinking I was just a one hit wonder?

I even stopped posting and only dropped fics every now and then bc I thought I was annoying people and that's why my likes dropped? But I gain like over 10 followers a day so I really don't understand.

Basically what I'm saying is, I've been considering leaving Tumblr bc of this, because I just feel like I've gotten too greedy and 200 notes isn't enough, I want more like I used to get. I've even become fearful of requests bc I constantly think is this one even gonna make it. I'm talking about spending 7 hours on a fic just for it to get like 50 likes, that's devastating and fucking heart wrecking. I have writers block because I just repeat to myself that it won't even make it so what's the point.

So I've come to ask for your advice, to ask if you think I should push through, or leave, or what should I do bc I just don't know anymore. I'm sorry for the lengthy message I've just been needing advice and I couldn't think of a better person to ask than you.

Thank you for taking the time 💕

not you calling me a mum and cool, pls skdjfskdfjhsfd i'm warm.

okay, first of, i'd like to say 1k followers is a lot ! at least in my perspective. when you imagine how 1k people look like in a room it's certainly a lot hahah. if it eases your mind, i'll tell you that our numbers are pretty similar, at least the ones you described.

with that being said... here's what i think, and it might not really be what you want to hear. mind you, this is 100% just my opinion, and how i personally view this hobby of writing fanfiction. other people might have different opinions to mine, yourself included, and that's fine...

if you're writing with numbers in mind, you'll never be satisfied with anything you do. whenever you set a target audience for your writing that isn't yourself, you start losing the joy. it all becomes a spiral of 'is this good enough?' 'what if this doesn't gather an XYZ amount of notes?' rather than what the story really is about.

notes never ever determine how good a story is. i've seen stories with notes around the five digits that i personally didn't find particularly enjoyable, whereas stories i absolutely adored and made me feel a plethora of emotions still sit within the three digits. it's all subjective, and also a bit of luck. sometimes all it takes is a blog with a moderately sized following to reblog your story on main for that story to blow up, really.

if you're writing solely for the validation that notes can bring you, that's valid, it's fine, but it's, in my opinion, something that is bound to make you question your own passion (like it seems to be happening to you right now). it's a completely volatile and unreliable source of energy, and the moment it starts wavering, it all feels worthless (even when it isn't).

which is why i, personally, write because i just... feel like it. i want to read the stories that pop up in my head, it's why i always mention the 'little lizard' in my brain, because i genuinely just work on what i want to work on and that's it. it's also why my creative process doesn't work for "requests". if someone requests something that doesn't immediately spark my interest, i won't be able to fulfil it, so i'll be both bummed out by that fact, and the fact that i can't give the person what they requested in the first place.

ultimately, i'll write stories even if i don't post them, because i enjoy them. i enjoy doing this. i choose to share them with the world, and if there's people out there that enjoy them, too, that's great, it's amazing! and if a story isn't particularly popular, that's okay, too. it was written for me, and i loved it, so i already feel accomplished.

all this to say, my advice to you is that you sit back and start thinking about why you're doing this.

writing takes time, takes energy, and if you're doing it for anything other than the pleasure of writing and reading the story yourself, it's gonna weigh heavily on you. creativity isn't something that can be forced. so, if you force yourself to write something just because of the numbers it might bring, you're already setting yourself for heartbreak when the engagement you receive isn't the one you expected (because it's never enough. when you spend hours working on something you feel like you deserve a million notes, and you do, but it's not how this platform works, unfortunately). you'll end up just resenting the hobby in general, and burning yourself out because you're forcing yourself to write even if you don't feel like it, just because you want to see the numbers grow.

whenever i feel too tired, too overwhelmed, and too insecure about my work, i try to take a step back and give myself grace. i went on hiatus a while ago because i was starting to obsess over the numbers too much, and that time away made me realise all the things i said above. numbers aren't a direct reflection of your work, nor your worthiness as a writer, you know?

i'm not sure if this will be helpful to you or not, i genuinely hope it is. just know that if you feel like it, my DMs are open if you want to talk about this further (:

#this is so fucking long i'm so sorry #anon #ask

12 notes · View notes

drarrily-we-row-along · 8 months

Note

Hello, I've been a big fan of your blog for at least three years now but I wanted to ask what you recommend to people thinking about posting their writing/art online?. I'm a poet and I really want to post my work online but I'm terrified for a number of reasons. Mainly, about not being able to grasp people's attention. (And my work being stolen/ reblogged w/ credit but yk). I love your work and would really like to get your opinion on this.

Hi there lovely!

Thanks so much for the ask, I'm genuinely honored to be sent an ask of this nature; I'll do my best to give you my thoughts on the subject. <3 (I got a little long-winded, I'm really passionate about this. tldr; sharing a piece of yourself in your writing is absolutely terrifying but you should do it anyway.)

When I first started posting my writing (7 years ago?!) in the Sherlock fandom, I was so afraid that people were going to be mean. Literally the only way I could start posting was by telling myself that if everyone hated it, I could just delete it and pretend it had never happened. And I was terrified when I started posting drarry stuff on this blog and I told myself that if even 10 people liked it, that would be enough (I couldn't have imagined how many people would engage with this blog and my fics). Over 350 stories (ranging from 50-100k words) later, I still regularly get nervous about posting things.

I don't know how to get people not to steal other peoples' work. I don't know how to stop ai bots from consuming writing/art and popping out soulless shit because of what it consumed. There are no answers that I can give you on this front.

And if I'm being honest, I don't have the foggiest clue how to grasp peoples' attention. The follows this blog gets and the posts that get attention continue to be a mystery to me; I can't ever guess which things will gain traction and which stories will go dark (and sometimes I get pissy about it- my fic on AO3 with the most kudos is a stupid 1k story that I wrote in 30 minutes while stories that I've spent literal years writing do half as well, but I digress). And there are stories that I see other people writing that I'm obsessed with- their prose, their imagery, their crafting- that don't receive anywhere near as much love as they should and I can't understand that either. It often seems like there is no rhyme or reason to what "does well" and what doesn't.

Which is why I can't let myself get caught up in which stories are well received and which aren't. For me, writing and sharing things can't be about what will get the most reach because I can't base the story's worth (or my own worth) off of that or I'd never post anything at all. Don't get me wrong, I love for my fics to receive kudos/likes, comments, and reblogs- it's a euphoric high. But in the end writing has been about giving myself permission to be free to be an entire person without the constraints I put on myself day in and day out. It's been about putting into words all of my darkness, my fears, my failings, my desires, my wants and needs along with all of my beauty, and strength, and joy, and hope. It's been putting my heart down on a page and believing that the response I receive is less important than the process of self discovery. Over and over, I've written myself the life I want to have; I've written the type of partner I want to have, the type of partner I want to be; I've written about healing and self discovery. Writing for me has been a way to fall in love with myself over and over again, to heal woundedness, to offer myself some hope, some comfort, a dose of encouragement and bravery, a little bit of tenderness when it was scarce.

Reading fanfiction when I was in my early twenties saved my life. I'm not saying this to be dramatic, it is actually true. Reading fanfiction saved me from an abusive relationship and helped to keep me from going back. Reading fanfiction taught me what it meant to be loved well and it changed my standards for myself forever. Part of my desire to pour back into this community stems from that. If there is even one person whose life can be touched in that way, who can realize how lovable they are, who can see how they deserve to be treated and loved, my time was well spent.

I'm not saying that has to be your reason for sharing the gift of yourself. We all write and create for different reasons. But I do believe that all humans were made to create and we were all made to share ourselves in what we make. Share your words for you. Share them as an act of rebellion. Share them as an act of war or change. Share them as a way to express the deepest emotions of your being. Share them because they are a part of your own soul. Share them as an act of self-love and a way of honoring the unrepeatable, beautiful person that you are. Whatever your reason for sharing your words, make it a reason that is about you. You deserve to be seen and loved, to be known in a way that can only happen when you give yourself permission to be vulnerable. There are, in my humble opinion, few things that bare your soul the way that sharing something you've created does. Love yourself enough to give yourself away.

#i hope this helps!#you're beautiful #share your story #create #asks #writer ramblings #c rambles #i love writing

10 notes · View notes

moodr1ng · 1 year

Text

listen im not talking about the One Kid Whos Cringe About It specifically bc who cares but in a more general way whats going on w the brazen entitlement to getting interaction with your art on tumblr.. ive been sharing art on my art blog for 8 years, never got to 1k followers, vast majority of my art gets less than 50 notes and frankly a lot of it doesnt get to 10 notes. i dont throw a fit abt it lol.. part of it is luck (and having more popular mutuals/followers) part of it is the effort i put into properly marketing my art (which is.. not much) part of it is just im not making stuff that a lot of people are interested in. sure it gets depressing sometimes but also the earlier one can accept that sometimes no one but you is gonna give a shit and youre still gonna put in the work because YOU give a shit the earlier you can move on from paralyzing angst about not getting enough attention and just make the art you wanna make yknow?

ig what rly scares me abt that attitude is the "i didnt spend (x amount of time/effort) on this for (x subpar amount of notes)!!" cause like. ideally you wouldnt be making art FOR notes on tumblr in the first place?

#97 #sometimes its also crazy to me to see artists whine about 'only' getting the amount of notes that id usually consider a win #(eg: if i get more than 25 notes lol)#it makes me think abt.. how when you do get social media engagement and you rly rly care abt that it becomes kind of a vicious cycle?#bc the numbers youre used to getting become 'normal' and less than that becomes like a betrayal from others not giving you enough etc #im here like well alright my piece got 7 likes. taking the l moving on yknow.#and part of that ik from personal experience bc i did fanart as a teen #and fanart always always always does way better than original art #so i was used to hundreds or thousands of notes and my stuff being reposted on pinterest ifunny etc etc #i was used to attention! and it did not feel special at all.#today when my oc art gets like 200 notes im so amazed but it was v routine to me 10 years ago when i made fanart.#the numbers are never enough! start loving your art for itself!!

13 notes · View notes

nelapanela94 · 2 years

Text

EVENT'S MASTERLIST

⭐ You're safe with me - Only your eyes are made to read Levi's soul, only you can soothe the storm within him. TW: Fluff, a bit of angst. [WC: 1360]

⭐ Much better - While stargazing, ethanol clouds your judgment, and you and Levi end up saying things you might regret later. TW: Fuff. [WC: 1k]

⭐ You know where to find me - TW: Angst, Modern AU [WC: 2.5k]

⭐ Our names carved in the ring - TW: SMUT, MDNI. Soft, mawkish smut Oral(Fem!Receiving). Mentions of abusive relationship. [WC: 6K]

⭐It'd be a waste of good tea - TW: Fluff, depiction of injuries. [WC: 1500K]

⭐ Why do you keep pushing people away? - You had misunderstood him, or so you believed. But you can't no longer avoid him, Levi is impeled to face his own feelings and confess. - TW: Angst, hurt confort [ W.C: 1.2k]

⭐ A weak linger of chocolate - You can't see his face painted on the wall, but not because you hate him; you hate you can't drown the feelings you hold for him. But one day the wrangle is sealed in the tenderness of a kiss. TW: Enemies to lovers, fluff [W.C: 1.3k]

OMG you lovely apple pies!!! Thank you so much for this :') you guys spike the motivación I need to keep writing. This wouldn't be possible without you.

And...

in celebration of this blog reaching 1k followers, I'm holding a milestone event!!! (My very first event, indeed :3) So, from the list below, you'll pick and send me a prompt and I'll give them back in the form of drabbles.

Please, read the guidelines before sending a request.

I only write for Levi Ackerman since he's the only character I feel comfortable writing for;

You may choose maximum 2 prompts from the list, and they can either be from the same category or a mix. (e.g.: 1 + 10 or 42 + 50)

The drabbles will be up to 1000 words, though they could be longer if I'm riding an inspo wave;

You must be 18+ to send a prompt from the S.M.U.T list, and that being the case, I will not answer this kind of requests sent by anons or from ageless blogs.

The event is open until October 4th 2022

FLUFF

"Are you blushing? Disgusting"

"Is he really just a friend?" "Are you jealous?"

“I can't think straight with you!"

"Can I hug you?"

"Dance with me."

"You know I'm not like that."

“You shouldn’t hide that dimple.”

“Because of people like you shampoo bottles come with instructions.”

“Get your filthy hands off me!”

“Sometimes I wonder if you graduated kindergarten.”

“I don’t know whether to hit you or to kiss you.”

"Have you seen my hoodie?"

“I’d build you a palace.”

“I don’t bite. Not too much.”

“What I fear the most is to close my eyes and never see you again.”

“I can’t believe I’m in love with you.”

“Come here.”

“You’re safe with me.”

"Is it a date?" "If you want it to be a date."

“Tell me a story.”

“You’re like a bad case of lice. I can’t get you out of my head.”

“I don’t want us to be that mawkish couple.” “I think we are already.”

“The blankets aren’t just yours!”

“I’m cold.”

“Do you even know how to do laundry?”

“We could go together… I mean, only if you want to.”

“When you're with me you don’t have to pretend.”

"When will you shut up and kiss me?"

ANGST

29. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.” 30. "I know you still love me." 31. "Not everyone is going to hurt you." 32. "You deserve more." 33. "What do you mean by that?" 34. “Why do you keep pushing people away?”. 35. “No one deserves to be that lonely.” 36. "Don’t go. Don’t you dare leave me.�� 37. “You broke my heart and all you can say is ‘I’m sorry’?” 38. “Mom asked about you again.” 39. “There was never an us.” 40. “He/she is using you. You can’t be that blind.” 41. “Make up your mind.” 42. “I’m getting married.” 43. “I thought I could get over you. You just prove me wrong.” 44. "You are more than one night stand."

SMUT

45.“The only way you’re getting off tonight is on my thigh.” 46. “You make a sound and it’s all over.” 47. “You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?” 48. “Can he make you feel this good?” 49. “You deserve no less than this.” 50. “Leave before we wake up regretting this.” 51. “Don’t pull away.” 52. "I didn't know you were so sensitive?" 53. "Don't leave any marks."

Once again, thank you so much!!!!!!🥹

#Levi ackerman #Milestone event

22 notes · View notes

protagonistheavy · 10 months

Text

I know we all know the blue checkmark system on twitter is shit but I have to point out a specific layer of stupid behind it.

You seen an art from a decently popular artist. At 18 hours it has 60 replies, 1k retweets, 7k likes. What's the first reply? What's the first reply to a post of moderate popularity? What's the first thing you see by default just for clicking on the tweet?

A dumbass comment that adds nothing of value, posted by a blue checkmark with ~50 followers, with 0 replies, 0 retweets, and 0 likes....................... but thousands of views! It is clearly a reply that NO ONE cares about, even when it's put at the very top of a popular post's reply section -- and the only reason it's at the top, is because this asshole pays for exactly that, just to have their stupid comment at the top of a popular post, leaching views off the OP. Because it's not like they have thousands of views because people are racing to go see what they had to say, no one sees a blue checkmark comment and thinks "oh this is a high-quality comment I have to read," it has thousands of views because duh, the post itself has thousands of views! And anyone who clicks on the original tweet is just defaulted to seeing this stupid comment!

And this dumbass is gonna resubscribe for his stupid checkmark because he genuinely thinks he's getting ~engagement~. "Look at all these views I have as a blue checkmark compared to when I wasn't!" he tells himself, in an attempt to convince himself this was $8 well spent. $8 to provide less value to a comment section than the guy who replies "first".

2 notes · View notes

with-love-from-hell · 2 years

Text

Blog Changes as of 5/16/2022

Hey everyone!!

First off, I want to thank you all for following. I recently hit 800 followers, which is so huge for me. I have been writing for less than a year, and to have that many people decide that they love my work enough to follow is amazing to me. Whether you’ve been following for 6 months or for 6 days, I love all of you and I am looking forward to continue to give you all some great content.

As stated in my previous post, my blog will be undergoing some changes. I will still be writing, but there will still be less content weekly, as I’ve stated before. The main change though, is that I am going to be changing how I do requests. Specifically, I am going to *try* to start charging for some content.

Before you run for the hills, let me explain:

I have been needing to pull more hours at work in order to pay down my debt in preparations for student loans coming due in August (my only hope is they get postponed longer, because Grad school put me in DEEP) and to be able to afford things for my wedding next year (because jesus this shit is expensive). Because of this, my time to dedicate to writing is...minimal, unfortunately. I am finding it hard to pull one substantial piece per week, whereas before I was able to put out at least two, and some other content as well.

In order to maintain my income at work, I am needing to see about 33-35 clients per week, which doesn’t seem like a lot for a 40 hour work week, but those other 5-7 hours are reserved for meetings, charting, preparation for session, tracking my hours for licensure, and training. For reference, the average therapist sees between 23 and 28 clients per week in order to manage this in a 40-hour work week. So I am needing to be at work for at least 45-50 hours- which is super draining and definitely feeding my depression. What also doesn’t help, is that I am salaried, so I am stuck with the same income weekly- though I am fortunate enough to work at a place that offers quarterly bonuses for any client numbers consistently over the weekly quota of 28 people, but those bonuses only come out once every 4-5 months- which means I have to wait. I am also really thin on PTO due to all of the physical health bullshit I deal with that requires me to take off of work, which I wont get into here, but adds another barrier.

The reason I am doing this is because I want to dedicate more time to writing if I can. I like to write; it makes me happy. It was never something I wanted to commodify, but given how shitty capitalism is, I am kind of left with no other choice unless I only do headcanons until I somehow manage to reduce my hours at work, which wouldn’t happen for at LEAST one year. And that’s not something I want to do.

So, the way I will be changing things is that I will still have content free to be requested, but others will cost some money. Small drabbles (e.g. anything under 1k words) and headcanon requests WILL STILL BE FREE, though I am limiting how many of them I can get in a certain time frame due to the issues stated above. The time frame on these will basically be whenever I have some time to get to them. I started a Ko-Fi- which I will link at the bottom of this post- for the cost for “commissioned” works. I tried to make them affordable while also not minimizing the time it takes me to do them. All of my commissions will be based on word count.

Here is the tentative basic spread of what I will be offering here:

Free tier: Drabble requests (about 1k words) and Headcanon requests

$4 tier: Short fic (e.g. between 1.5k and 3k words)

$8 tier: Medium-length fic (e.g. between 3.5k and 5k words)

$13 tier: Long fic (e.g. between 5.5k and 7k words)

$24 tier: Fic series (e.g. 3parts that have a total of between 12k and 15k words)

With all of this said, I will still be working on the stuff I have currently going (like Melancholia and the Fortification Series) and the requests that are for more longer things I am taking out of my inbox or reworking into drabble/headcanons instead of original plans. If I do a follower event in the future (which I have been thinking about doing for 999 followers), the stuff I do there will all be free. If you submitted a request and want to rework it, you are more than welcome to!

I hope this goes over well so I can reduce my workload a bit and focus on writing, because that’s what the purpose of opening these commissions is. My Ko-Fi also has tips set up, so even if you don’t want to request anything specific you can donate there (obviously you don’t have to, but anything is appreciated). Shit sucks right now for a lot of people who are financially screwed, so I never want you to feel like you can’t engage with my content. Everything I create will still be able to be read for free, I wont hide any of that behind a paywall. It’s just specific requests.

If you have any thoughts about this, let me know. I always welcome feedback!

Here’s the link to my Ko-Fi (which is also in my blog bio). Stay tuned for an updated masterlist, and updated pin post for my blog rules!

Thank you all again for being so wonderful and enjoying my work!

#obey me #stormy speaks #blog rules

18 notes · View notes

reidyoulikeabook · 3 years

Note

24 + 50 from the touch prompt list plz

Ship: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Word count: 1.6k

Prompts: #24 - whispering in the others ear, lips touching the skin

#50 - putting a hand over the other’s mouth to shut them up.

A/N: I tend to keep my non-series related posts to my sideblog @switchspencer so check out over there for general discussion of NSFW stuff, but this was for my 1k celebration so ... here we are. The warnings are the very first thing under the cut! I wrote this in literally 20 mins and haven’t proofread so ... oops?

18+, minors dni.

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, soft/medium!dom Spencer (it’s definitely not hard dom but i don’t know what i’d class it as), use of 'good girl', hand over mouth while having sex, (i don't know what the official term for that is), sucking on fingers, swearing, sex when you’ve just woken up, but that's everything!

You tend to keep to yourselves on cases. But last night you couldn’t help sneaking into his room after it was dark and everyone else had fallen asleep, using the spare keycard he’d given you for emergencies and tucking yourself up next to him. He was already asleep when you got there, his only acknowledgement being a grunt and to throw his arm over your hip when you clambered in next to him.

It’s early when you wake up. The light streaming through the terrible motel blinds. Annoyingly it still does him justice. It was your dream that woke you up. Far earlier than your alarm would have, but you feel quite motivated to stay awake, considering.

His mouth kissing up to the apex of your thigh, hands on your hips holding you in place on the counter. Your fingers tangled in his hair. Yanking on it to pull him up to you. A moan rumbling through his throat, an incredibly smug smirk as he continued to tease you, slowly bringing his kisses closer and closer and closer to where you wanted them and then.

You were awake. Pressing your thighs together. It’s almost a bit embarrassing, the effect he can have on you. Without even layiny a finger on you.

Your movements are, apparently, less than subtle, and you feel him move. Rolling over, his tight grip on you meaning that you’re pulled with him. You make it easier on him, and end up with your head pressed against his neck. Heart thrumming in your chest. You’re practically buzzing with want, and you’re sure he has some kind of detector for sensing when you’re horny because without you saying anything, his hand moves towards your ass, grabbing it.

Letting out a squeaky exhale, you feel the bob of his Adam’s apple as he chuckles, voice deep and rough with sleep, “It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

“I know.”

You don’t need to see his face to know he’s smirking. He uses his hands as leverage to bring you towards him, his hips rolling against yours and letting you feel how he’s hard already. Without even meaning to, you let out a breathy gasp, automatically moving to seek out the friction you so badly want.

He tsks you, “I thought we agreed no sex on cases.”

“We did,” You acknowledge, adopting your most seductive tone, “But I had a dream about you.”

Previously, his eyes hadn’t been properly open, only squinting at you. That though? That sentence seems to be the magic trick, they’re open properly, and he’s shuffling so that you’re face to face. Unfortunately that means his crotch is removed from yours, and you bite your lip to contain your protest at the loss of contact.

“Tell me about it,” He says, as simple as if he’s asking the weather forecast, but his eyes are a different story: hardly any pupil remains visible, and you don’t think that’s just down to the dim lighting.

You feel a bit embarrassed, and he senses it, dropping his hand from your ass and moving it around to the apex of your thigh, running his fingers lazily over you through your pyjama shorts. Unintentionally, you wiggle, searching for more. And he stops, “Tell me what your dream was about, and I might.”

“We were in the kitchen,” You start, voice becoming more breathy as you continue, his fingers inching past the drawstring of your pants and dipping inside your pyjama shorts, “At home. Y-you were kissing up my thighs.”

He hums. As if amused. His fingers finally breach the last barrier, and he runs his fingers over your core, grinning, “You’re wet.”

“Yes.”

That’s all he needs. He shifts, letting you fall to your back, and leans up. With one deft movement, he tugs off his flannel pyjama pants and boxers, leaving himself exposed to you. You follow his leave, shedding your own undergarments as quickly as possible. It’s lucky they’re soft, or else you’d probably get some kind of rope burn. Your eagerness has him feeling cocky, and you can’t have him getting too sure of himself. So, you reach out, taking his length in your hand, admiring how his eyes squeeze shut, a low moan rumbling in his throat.

His hand catches your wrist, eyes burning into yours, “M’close.”

That’s hot.

You’d ask if it was already, but then you recall how he was already hard when he woke up. Maybe he was having a similar dream. The thought makes you wetter, if that’s even possible. He dips his fingers at your entrance, collecting the wetness there, and then pressing two fingers inside you. There’s a burning sensation as he stretches you out, but it’s quickly replaced by pleasure when his thumb nudges against your clit.

Even though your mouth is clamped shut, you can’t help but let out a litany of small gasps, tiny moans that breach past the fortress of your mouth and teeth. He leans down to kiss you, hard, missing the usual softness that comes with morning wake-up kisses. This is all tongues, teeth, urgency. He nips at your lower lip and you let his tongue inside your mouth, laving over it with yours, hungry for more, more more. You can’t bare not to have him inside you for a moment longer, so you grab at his hips, pulling him towards you.

“Do you want me?” He murmurs.

“Please,” You do. You want him so badly, and you sound frankly quite pathetic admitting it, but you can’t bring yourself to care one jot, “Please.”

“Okay,” He murmurs, trailing wet kisses along the column of your throat, until he reaches the spot under the shell of your ear that tickles, his lips brushing against it featherlight as he whispers, “I think you need some help staying quiet.”

Nodding, you look up at him. He takes a long hard look at you, desperate and wanting for him, your mouth kiss swollen.

And just like that, he’s pressing into you. One hand supporting your hip, and the other coming to clamp down over your mouth as he presses inside of you. It’s a good call on his part, his hand helps to absorb some of the surprised squeal that escapes you. He starts to move, slowly, surely, bringing his hand from your hips to your clit. But keeping the other firmly over your mouth.

You gasp against it. Writhing under him. The feeling is a lot, all at once, the burn and stretch and weight of his digits on your most sensitive spot. He’s buried to the hilt, thrusting slowly, and your breaths are hot and wanton against his hand.

He’s starting to work up a little bit of a sweat already. His chest gleans with it, just the tiniest, bit, and you whine again.

His mouth returns to your neck, peppering it with kisses that won’t leave marks and let the team know what you’ve been up to, once again coming to the spot that makes your toes curl. His lips rub teasingly over it, not quite giving you what you want, and he whispers, voice rough and raspy, “You’re such a good girl. Taking me like this.”

If you could, you’d say thank you. But you can’t, not quite, instead choosing to focus on the sheer pleasure pulsing through your body. His thrusts are measured, perfectly in time with the movement of his hand, and if you’re honest you were close when you woke up.

One of your arms loops around his back to bring you closer, press him more into you, allow him deeper inside. He thrusts, harder, getting the idea, and your legs clench around him. He moans, directly into your ear, a quiet ‘fuck’ breathily leaving his mouth. You’re close, so close, and you don’t trust that even his hand will be able to keep you quiet. The idea comes to you quickly.

You bring your other hand to where his covers yours, and he looks confused for a moment, until you grab a hold of it. Bringing his fingers inside your mouth. You suck on them, as if they’re his dick, and it’s this simple action of keeping your mouth filled that ensures you don’t wake up your teammates as your orgasm hits you. Hard.

Not out of nowhere, certainly, but hard. Spencer looks beautiful, all sleepy, there’s a stream of constant moans against your ear, and his rhythm hasn’t faltered once. It courses through you, a stream of pleasure and warmth, and you suck on his index finger hard. Clenching around him. Your moans die in your throat, but your fingernails sink deep into his back, undoubtedly leaving several crescent moon marks that he’ll admire in the mirror later. The idea of that, the ownership of him, is what helps you to milk out the last few moments of it.

The sight of you, falling apart beneath him, cumming on his cock, is all he needs to bring himself over the edge. For the first time, his thrusts become sloppy.

“Fuck. You feel so good,” He groans against your ear, “Fuck, ____.”

It’s with a rasp of your name that he empties himself inside of you, thrusting more and more shallowly as he works himself through his orgasm, his fingers still inside of your mouth.

When he’s finally finished, you collapse next to each other. Overcome by the post-orgasm daze.

“That was really hot,” You tell him.

“Yeah?” He asks, suddenly all shy again, rolling over on his side to face you.

“Yeah,” You nod, pecking him on the lips, “If that’s what case sex gets me, I think we should do that more often.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #not sfw #minors dni #reid x reader

527 notes · View notes

scribblingfangirl · 3 years

Text

WITH LOVE, THE GOSTS | Julie and The Phantoms - Part Three

.•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•.

Author’s Note: I decided that this fic trilogy occurs a year after the season one final, making Julie and Y/N almost (or already) 17. Also… this part turned out waaay longer than expected. Which is why there is going to be a fourth part because I have one last idea but didn’t want to rush to write it. And to think this all started because of a rushed (haha) 1k Oneshot. I should really start to write more spontaneously, it seems like good things come out of it. Anyway, Enjoy! :D

word count: ~ 3.9k

summary: Even after meeting the boys they still aren’t tired of helping you out and they each have their own little ways to do it.

warnings: // (english is not my first language, not beta-read)

| PART ONE | PART TWO |

.•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•.

Knowing that ghosts existed was an absurd feeling (even though you had always believed or hoped that there was more out there than just this world, especially with all those planets that had been discovered by NASA), but knowing that there were three certain ghosts that liked you enough to kindly haunt you, well… that was just plain unimaginable somehow. Yet, still less anxiety awakening than you expected.

After Julie let you meet the guys for the first time you thought you were prepared to accept that you would not be able to talk to them unless they played something (after all, you had Flynn to groan about that), but the occasional giggle from Julie and her glances into nothing still sent chills down your spine.

So you started to always look around very suspiciously whenever you were over at her house and make obscene hand movements just to be sure that the boys would move before you walked somewhere or sat down (which just earned chuckles from Flynn and annoyed sighs from Julie - “Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they can’t see you. They know where you are, so please stop, or else my dad will call your parents and send you to Dr Turner as well.” The boys found it hilarious and liked to imitate you whenever they came too close to you.)

The boys also still kept doing little things for you, just not so in secret anymore (though… Reggie was never one for subtlety). Whenever you seemed to have had a bad day (or whenever they just wanted to make you smile) you knew you could count on them having something prepared for you.

You soon discovered that anything related to food (which sometimes were extremely odd and bizarre combinations) was Luke’s doing (except for pizza and meatballs, according to Julie that was always Reggie). And you knew it was Alex whenever it was something more calm and soothing, yet sometimes a little bit clumsy. And whenever it was blatantly obvious and/or slightly weird (in a good way!) it was Reggie.

Well, no. Not always in a good way. One time you came back from school and your whole room was filled with glitter and butterflies and a small note with a little ‘Sorry!’ on it was pinned to your desk - cleaning that had been a pain in the a-. But you couldn’t be angry at Reggie, even though you weren’t quite sure what his ultimate goal would have been.

Speaking of REGGIE...

All those helpful little deeds and nice gestures were always done within the limits of your house (mostly room) or Julie’s house and the studio, which is why you almost let out a loud yelp when suddenly during a math test your pen started to move on his own, filling out the empty space (because yes, you hadn’t been doing very much other than staring helplessly at the paper in front of you). Quickly you grabbed the pen as well (loosely and while trying to ignore the fact that you were practically holding hands with one of the guys) so that nobody would see a floating pen as you did a few weeks ago at Christmas.

From the corners of your eyes, you saw Julie slightly move her head towards you, as if she was listening to you - or rather someone right beside or behind you. ‘Of course. I can’t see them, so the only way to help me is by physically grabbing the pen, but Julie can hear and see them, so they (whoever this is - because let’s be honest, none of the guys really looks like a math genius) only have to tell her the corrects solutions and how to get there. My money’s on Alex.’

You were kind of shocked, and weirdly proud when Julie came up to you after class and said: “Reggie’s not so questionable after all, huh?” (Though… you should’ve guessed it, you did say subtlety wasn’t Reggie’s strong suit.) So you just giggled and shook your head while leaving some of your books in your locker (alongside the fact that Reggie was probably almost (if not!) hugging you from behind - you shuddered at that thought, it’s not like you were already awkward around living boys your age, no need to add ghosts to that list!)

A week later you and Julie entered the studio with blank faces and hanging shoulders. Julie threw a weak little wave towards the piano and sighed while you threw the blankets and snacks you were holding carelessly on the ground and let yourself fall face-first onto the couch, not being able to hide your smile anymore.

“We got our math exams back… yes the one Reggie helped us with.”

You couldn’t see what Julie was doing, but you heard her gasp and whisper “No! Reggie…” after a while. Then she was standing beside you, nudging your shoulder and willing you to sit up, but you didn’t bulge, needing a few more seconds to wipe the smile off your face again.

Faking to disgruntledly accept defeat as Julie’s nudges got stronger (the couch was really comfortable, you totally understood Luke now) you sat up and looked at Julie. “Who’s going to tell them?” you said with a heavy voice and felt how the couch dipped beside you. Raising your eyebrows you quickly glanced to the side (obviously not seeing anybody or anything) and looked back at Julie questioningly.

She nodded, telling you that it was indeed Reggie and gave you the okay to drop the bomb.

You sighed as you turned back around, facing the wall on the other side of the studio and hoped that Reggie would ignore the fact that you were probably talking to his ear or something. “So Reggie… the help you gave us on the math final? Well…,” you couldn’t keep your face straight any longer and jumped onto the couch, “WE ACED IT! I WOULD HUG YOU IF YOU WEREN’T MADE OUT OF CUTE AIR!” (Okay… maybe there was a little bit too much serotonin involved.)

Julie added smiling, “And I’m happy to announce that due to my good grades my father allowed Julie and The Phantoms to play at the upcoming Summer Music Festival!”

A guitar riff filled the studio, followed by a short drum intro and with a ‘puff!’ the boys appeared in front of you, beaming and glowing at the news. Reggie even threw a wink at you when you smiled back and said: “Thank you!”

Don't look down 'Cause we're still rising Up right now And even if we hit the ground We'll still fly Keep dreaming like we'll live forever But live it like it's now or never!

This allowed LUKE…

The music festival was an experience you would never forget. You were very happy Ray managed to persuade your parents to let you accompany Julie (sadly Flynn had no such luck). Not only did you turn 17 and the boys made sure to have the whole crowd sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you (as soon as you were back home you would add an extra point to your to-do: ‘find out how to kill ghosts a second time’), but the boys rocked the stage and Julie stood up taller and shined brighter than ever before.

Gone (yet not forgotten) were the painful shocks and the fear of never performing again and the serenity of the guys was visible.

It was the last night of the music festival when Julie got the phone call from her father. He would come by to get her the next morning and they would drive directly to visit other family members and spend the rest of the summer holidays there.

Of course, Julie was excited to see her cousins and aunts and uncles again, but she also felt bad to leave you to drive back alone (you had come with your car jam-packed with all the necessary equipment you needed and that wasn’t provided by the festival).

“Don’t worry! It’s only a four-hour drive! I’ve got good music, podcasts and audiobooks to keep me company and back home Flynn will be waiting. It sadly looks like I’m going to survive without you.”

Early the next morning Julie and some newfound fans of Julie and The Phantoms helped you load the equipment into your car and you said goodbye to Julie. Expecting the boys to just directly puff back to Los Feliz you didn’t waste any time and entered your car, connected your phone with the stereo and started to blast your favourite Broadway musicals.

You must’ve been on the road for half an hour when suddenly the playlist stopped and ‘Wake Up’ started to play.

So wake that spirit, spirit!

Confused you scrunched up your nose and touched the touch screen displaying the music system, trying to change it back to your playlist. But instead, the music changed yet again.

(Don't stop me now) 'Cause I'm having a good time (Don't stop me now) Yes, I'm havin' a good time I don't want to stop at all

“What the hell?” you muttered, staring at your stereo for a quick second before focusing back on the road, “Why you always going crazy on me dude?”

Once again the music switched.

Why you gotta be so rude? Don't you know I'm human too?

It took you a hot minute to understand what was going on and then you couldn’t stop laughing.

Don't laugh at me, don't call me names Don't get your pleasure from my pain

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said mockingly, looking at the empty passenger seat, guessing that that’s where your invisible friend was sitting. “Your pain? I’m not the one who is able to puff wherever and whenever their heart desires and who sneaks up on innocent people.”

Silence.

“For what it’s worth. I’m sorry. I really am. It’s not like you choose this life, you deserved better than this. But I’m really glad I was able to get to know you. I’m really thankful for the light and happiness you brought back into Julie’s life.”

Don't you worry 'bout a thing

But I'm still learnin' to

using technology

You laughed. “Impressive skills nevertheless. Knowing three fitting songs and then changing them at the right time? Let me guess, Luke? Because I don’t think all of you three would fit into my tiny car full of musical equipment.”

At first, there was no music yet again, but then the slow melody of a (for you) well-known song flooded your car. It was the one Trevor Wilson song you never understood until you met the boys, the one song that was so totally different to his usual rock sound (except for the refrains, which, as you later would find out, were parts of the original lyrics Luke wrote for his version of the song).

I sing to remember the stories that used to be But I don’t write to create what could have been And as I scream words into the darkness around me They come out like a dying whisper

The kindest thing to do is to silence them and let them die To unleash my heartfelt sorrow into the sky And diminish the will to fight That pulses like fire and screams with pain through my veins

But life’s not always beautiful, it’s rare So I’mma chase it, watch you make it

Don’t need to introduce himself You will want to know his name Pushing your foundations down He is here to stay

Don’t call him a breeze when he’s a hurricane Don’t call him a tremble when he’s an earthquake Don’t call him an inconvenience Please just say his name

Leaving lyrics in my hands That I swallow like pills Like hurtful words, they rip and claw And press painfully against my chest

But no matter how painful they are I will soak them up, thinking of our hopes and wishes And as each word pushes a new pulse through my veins I keep staring out on the grave of our shared space of mind

Life’s not always beautiful, but it’s rare So I’mma chase it, watch you make it

Don’t need to introduce himself You will want to know his name Pushing your foundations down He is here to stay

Don’t call him a spark when he’s a lightning bolt Don’t call him a flicker when he’s a raging flame Don’t you dare to underestimate him Please just say his name

But even when the word flood finally comes to an end Fidgeting hands remind me of music never played

I owe him my voice I owe him my sound

So I give him this time I give him this space To sing it out loud To let him declare And let me be proud

What’s his name? (His name is Luke!) What’s his name? (His name is Luke!) What’s his name? (His name is Luke!)

How long do we say his name? (Until we explode!)

My name is Luke! (Tell your friends!)

Tears were rolling down your cheeks, the song now more emotional than ever before. You couldn’t imagine how this song must affect Luke. Thinking that his bandmate abandoned him (which honestly… he kind of did, only mentioning him in one song, not giving any money to their parents and so on) up until he heard the song for the first time.

“Luke…”

Forget about it Let's forget about it

The ensuing silence wasn’t awkward. You hummed along to the music Luke selected, sometimes it were old classics (probably his favourites), other times it seemed to be random newer hits he probably never heard before mixed with some songs from your favourite playlists.

It was nearing midday and your stomach made itself known. As if on cue a road sign hinted at a diner just up ahead. Setting the blinker you pulled into the parking lot a few moments later.

“I hope you don’t mind. I know home’s only like an hour away, but...” you began to trail off, not knowing where to look at and your stomach finished your sentence. And before you were able to grab the door handle it sprung wide open.

“Uh, what a gentleman. Thank you very much.”

The meal was over in a flash and once more you realised how much the boys actually knew about you without having actually interacted with you (perks of seeing other people without being seen themselves?).

It’s like Luke could read your wishes just from your facial expressions. Whenever you needed salt or pepper they were right there. Whenever something was too salty or had too much pepper on your drink was being pushed closer to your side. And when you accidentally spilt something and needed more napkins they magically appeared.

When you then spotted a cute little guitar keychain that reminded you of Luke that was being sold as a souvenir at the check-out it was suddenly safely tucked into your back pocket (though that was really really risky, and while you did not condone it you couldn’t really stop a ghost).

Back in your car, you didn’t even bother to turn on the stereo, knowing that Luke would take over as soon as your hands were on the steering wheel again.

However, a glance to your right presented you with a map of your surroundings, a big x hastily drawn over the Silverwood Lake in San Bernardino, which was basically just around the corner.

“You want to go swimming? We- I just ate! And my bathing suit is somewhere under that mountain of equipment on the backseat.”

Let's just get naked, just for a laugh Let's just get naked It's a trip and a half

You laughed at that, rolling your eyes and shaking your head, before stowing the map away and turning on the car. “I guess catching Reggie in the shower isn’t enough anymore?”

Hey!

“You started making it weird buddy.”

It had started to rain when you finally pulled up in your driveway, but you couldn’t be bothered to rush inside, enjoying the feeling of the cooling wetness on your skin.

“Look at that,” you said to nobody in particular, not knowing if Luke was still around or if he puffed back to the garage, “I didn’t even need to go swimming after all.”

He was. Sitting in the passenger seat, face on his arms while he leaned on the open car window, he watched you dance in the rain with a smile on his face. He was glad he decided to stick around and keep you company on that road trip. You gave him the courage to listen to My Name Is Luke for the first time (and getting to see you smile while showing off his impressive music knowledge was a bonus too). Because without knowing, you were doing little deeds for the boys too.

And made ALEX…

Whoever wrote that “Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning how to dance in the rain”-quote totally forgot to mention how dangerous small summer storms can be.

Well sure, it might have been your fault for staying out for too long and deciding to let the sun that came out a little bit later dry you instead of changing into fresh and dry clothes, but whatever happened happened and you got sick. (It’s not like you had anything better to do during the last few days of your summer holidays, right?)

Flynn had been a great friend and hung out almost daily at your house, playing board games, watching movies or tv or even just discussing upcoming Julie and The Phantoms possibilities with you. But your dearest little helper had been Alex.

The blond drummer had turned into the tall brother you never had but always wanted (focus on tall because the age thing with ghosts is seriously confusing) even if he was invisible to you 100% of the time. You had the same interests and were able to bond without actually having to say any words, little gestures and reciprocations on your side were more than enough.

Julie had come up with an easy solution and had bought you some of those sound buzzers (like the ones that dogs and cats use to communicate with their owners) and recorded some simple words and phrases the boys liked to use on them. Now the boys just had to press them to be able to communicate with you without having to use pen and paper or Julie herself (sure your parents were a little bit weary and confused, but you said it was for a longer school research project and that shut them up).

Now, feeling way better than during the last few days, but still very tired, you were sitting in your bed, not really focused on the tv show (or was it a movie?) that was playing on your computer. You had been contemplating and mentally preparing yourself to get something to eat and to drink for the past 15 minutes, but the thoughts alone were exhausting and binding you to the bed. Just then a tray with a water bottle, meds and a fruit bowl floated into your room.

Suddenly wide awake and full of energy you clumsily jumped out of your bed and grabbed the tray, throwing a quick glance out of the door to see if your parents were around and slammed the door shut, wincing at the loud sound and hoping that Alex had walked out of the way (not that it would have hurt him, but you know - rude).

“Rude.”

See? He thought the same. (Julie had to specifically add this word for Alex.)

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. But I would like not to get murdered or have Sam and Dean Winchester on my back because my parents think I’m possessed and need to be exorcised.”

“Me.”

“You what?”

“Me.”

“Alex… I need more context.”

“I do. Me.”

You just blinked blankly at the sound buzzers, trying to piece together what Alex was trying to say.

“Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. M-”

“THAT’S ENOUGH Y/N! WHATEVER THAT SCHOOL PROJECT IS, TELL IT I HEARD IT AND I DON’T CARE WHAT IT WANTS!” you heard your father's scream come muffled through the door.

The audience laughter from sitcoms filled your room and you groaned, grabbing a pillow and smashing it against your face.

Faintly you heard the telltale sound of a pen scribbling something on paper and when you peeked from behind the pillow a note was floating in the air in front of you. “You mean exorcise ME! You would be the one surviving!”

“What? Oh my god… yeah okay, YOU get exorcised… same thing. Both aren’t allowed to happen. Forgive my fever brain.”

“No.”

“Fork you, Alex.”

“No.”

“I have Carlos on speed-dial, I’m sure he already came up with other methods to get rid of ghosts other than the salt thing. He already told me that he’s sorry and that he thinks I might get haunted by you too with the amount of time I spend at their house.”

“No. Food.”

Confused at that topic change it took you a few seconds to answer. “What?” Looking around your gaze landed on the tray that you had deposited on your desk. “Oh right! Boy, I completely forgot how thirsty and hungry I am. Did I say thank you? Fang u!” you mumbled with your mouth full of fruit.

“No. Food.”

You swallowed down your food and took a big gulp of water. “Yes Alex, thank you. I am eating. You see? Here I am, here’s the food. The food is here and now whoops - ifs gan!”

You could basically feel the annoyance radiating from the ghost and weren’t really shocked when the pen started to scribble something down again.

“No! Argh!” He really wrote Argh… that dork really wrote Argh! “You can be worse than Reggie sometimes, but you do it on purpose and I’m just sorry for Reggie. A) Carlos thinks he got rid of us by making a french dip and B) You’re awfully lively for a supposedly sick person. I might need to use the buzzers more and see what other reactions I can provoke from your parents.”

Crumbling the note in your hands you thought ‘Challenge accepted’. “You know what? I think I’mma go back on Reggie’s offer and actually let him introduce me to Wilbur. He might know some stuff I could use to blackmail you. And you’re right! I feel much better, just very tired, but that’s nothing a little bit of fresh air can’t fix! Toodles!”

You left your room, leaving a flabbergasted ghost behind who had lost his snapback with the number of times he had been combing through his hair with his hands. And while angrily pressing a pink buzzer, the buzzer wasn't the only thing that screamed “WILLIAM!” after the girl. (That was another important sound Alex wanted to have recorded.)

.•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•..•´¯`•.

Taglist: @sunsetcurvej @ifilwtmfc

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #jatp x reader #julie and the phantoms x reader #luke patterson x reader #reggie peters x reader #alex mercer x reader #jatp imagine #julie and the phantoms imagine #jatp fanfiction #julie and the phantoms fanfiction #jatp one shot #jatp oneshot #julie and the phantoms oneshot #julie and the phantoms one shot #my writing #viascribbles

255 notes · View notes