#I think it’s kind of refreshing to see a white man die to prop up a moc’s story after it’s been vice versa for so long

[sylvies-chen]

and what’s so tragic about izzy’s death is exactly what makes it make sense to me which is that izzy was never going to be anything other than a symbol.

so much of izzy’s journey hasn’t even been about himself, especially in season 1. season 2 made him branch out, have to figure out who he is a little bit, but so much of what he does is reactionary and all symbolic of blackbeard.

izzy is at his most frustrated in season 1 because ed is at his most emotionally frustrated as well (i.e. he’s bored, feeling restless, and that rubs off on izzy). he reacts to ed’s crush on stede poorly, tries to destroy their relationship because he sees it as a threat to the persona that they crafted together. in season 2, when ed’s at his lowest point and suicidal, so is izzy. when ed starts to heal, so does izzy. and season 2 lets that be about izzy too, and his own journey, but it is still so unbelievably tethered to ed. in season 1 especially, I read izzy almost as a physical manifestation of ed’s self-loathing or intrusive thoughts.

izzy says it best in the end: “blackbeard was us. you and me.” izzy was a permanent fixture of blackbeard. he was instrumental to what ed was trying to construct, and izzy himself built it too. encouraged it. was the foundational pillar of blackbeard. that identity had higher meaning to him. except then ed didn’t want to be blackbeard anymore, and izzy was the only symbol of that life left. killing him off was, symbolically, killing blackbeard off.

and it sucks because izzy was his own person, he was growing to thrive as his own entity and learning to accept who he was, but he also spent so long being part of someone else’s person. I don’t think he regrets that. I think he quite enjoyed it, in some weird way, for a long time. izzy died before he could really even begin to fathom what he wanted for himself. besides, all he really wanted to be was a pirate.

and it’s a cautionary tale for how it’s so hard to come back from losing yourself in your own idea of somebody else, but it’s also just really sad that his death cements him as someone like that, someone who lived and breathed for other people, who spent so long being invested in a collective and the power structures that enabled it that he never got the chance to discover and embrace the kind of person he was outside of all that. briefly, a glimpse of it, with la vie en rose, but only ever an echo.

like it or not, izzy was a very inherently symbolic character. he was never going to be anything other than a symbol. he died a representation which furthered ed’s story and his journey. I think it’s devastating, I think it makes a lot of sense for ed and for izzy both as individuals and as a duo, and I think it’s the only way izzy ever would have wanted to die anyway.

[turtle-steverogers]

Fugitives- chap 10

AAAAAAND WE’RE BACK! WELCOME TO ‘SHIT GOES DOWN’ THE CHAPTER.  THIS is major fucking plot so bare the fuck with me, chiefs.  IT GETS INTENSE heres chapter nine if you need a refresher

most of the chaps are on #masterlist and ALL of them are somewhere under #fugitives lol,,, its also now on ao3 if that’s easier

thank you as always to my fugitive ;) in crime @technically-whizzy for helping me raise this fucking awful baby of ours

OKAY LETS GET ON WITH IT ship: eventual ralbert

warnings: gunshots, blood, violence, drugging, cursing, the fucking works, death, yeah its not pretty now and it will never ne

word count: 6792 OHMYGOD

editing: a little bit, actually.  i gave it some lov

He pulled his hood up further, bowing his head to the cold Winter air.  His hand grasped the rubber handle of his crutch tightly, palm slipping as it shifted under him.  He watched his feet, waiting until the road slanted upward, a familiar bridge slipping into view.

Another hooded figure was waiting by the railing at the start of the bridge, the bold tattoo that was brandished on his bicep glinting in the moonlight.  Crutchie’s eyes scanned the familiar symbol, the sharp lines of the tattooed bridge almost exactly replicating the real thing behind them.  

The other figure looked up, hood falling off his head as he stepped forward, beckoning for Crutchie to join him.

Crutchie reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.  He silently handed one to the shorter man, offering his lighter as well.  They leaned against the railing, watching the view of Brooklyn in the distance.  The city at night was an eerie kind of beautiful.  The sky was still bright from light reflecting off the buildings, the water underneath the bridge flowed ominously, the black, inky waves threatening to engulf one’s mind.  The sounds of the city could still be heard at full volume, only barely masking the horrifying secrets it also held.

“Did you hurt him bad?” Crutchie asked, smoke blowing out of his mouth and getting caught in the cold, Winter air.

“Mmm, only as much as necessary.” The other man said.

“What should we do about it?”

The man twitched the cigarette between his fingers, “I think we need to do it.  Tonight.”

Crutchie nodded, “Okay.  I’m on it,” He stubbed out his cigarette on the railing, tossing it over the side and watching as it was drowned in the darkness.  He pushed off the railing, adjusting his crutch back underneath his armpit, “Take care of yourself, Conlon.”

Spot saluted, placing the cigarette back into his mouth, “M’counting on you, Charlie.”

Earlier

“I want in.”

Albert forced himself not to look away from Spot’s intense glare.  He could feel the handle of his switchblade pressing against the small of his back and his arms ached to reach back and grab it- arm himself in some way.  But it didn’t seem like any sudden movement from him would work in his favor as far as Spot went.

Spot hadn’t moved, his eyes trained solely on Albert’s.  Albert resisted the urge to shrink in on himself.  He had to maintain his act.  He couldn’t crack now, but Spot looked like he was reading him like a book.

Could he see through him?  Did he know?

Suddenly, Spot took a step forward into Albert’s space, eyes squinting further as his gaze flicked to Albert’s hair.  Albert clenched his jaw, trying not to shiver as Spot observed him.

“Higgins.” Spot muttered, only barely audible.

Albert’s eyes widened for a moment as cold fear shot through his entire body, “What?”

His answer was a fist to the temple.  The world seemed to silence for a moment and he was barely able to recover before he was hit again.  Then, everything went black.

XXX

Sounds returned first.  Voices echoed somewhere close to him, making his head throb more intensely than it had before.

He lifted his head, wincing as a stinging pain traveled through his temple to the rest of his head.  It felt like someone was poking his nerves with a white hot rod.  He groaned, fighting the urge to be sick as pain moved through him in waves, making his muscles ache.

He was definitely concussed.  Brilliant.

He cracked open his eyes, only to find it didn’t make a difference.  It was pitch fucking black.  He assessed himself, taking note that his hands were bound behind him and his ankles were tied together.

His back was against a wall.  Or what he assumed was a wall.  He couldn’t really tell what anything was.

His face felt sticky and he licked his lips, blood seeping onto his tongue.  He gagged and spit aimlessly, trying to rid his mouth of the metallic taste.  Apparently, his nose was bleeding.  What the fuck happened?

Light flooded whatever room he was in and he flinched, turning his head away from the source.  Footsteps approached him and he folded in on himself as his arms started to tremor.  He was going to die.  He was literally going to die.

The person crouched in front of him and Albert could feel their eyes boring into his being.  He whimpered involuntarily as cold fingers made contact with his jaw, turning his head to face his captor.

“Open your eyes, bitch.”  Spot’s unmistakable Brooklyn accent sent shockwaves of pain through his head.

Albert shook his head, “Fuck you.”

His cheek stung as Spot slapped him and he cried out, his headache intensifying almost impossibly.

“Do as I say.” Spot growled, tugging the hair on the back of Albert’s head sharply, making him hiss in pain.

Albert forced a chuckle, gritting his teeth, “Getting kinky on me, huh, Conlon?” he managed, his voice sounding strained.

His neck cricked as he was jolted forward, the cool metal of what Albert presumed was a gun handle pressed to the back of his head.  He fought the urge to vomit as waves of excruciating nausea rolled through his body.  

“Who are you.” It was a demand, not a question, whispered close to his ear.  Spot’s breath was hot and smelled distinctly like cigarettes and Albert winced, scrunching his nose involuntarily.  

“Mmmm, your mom,” Albert said, his words looping together groggily.

There was no reply for a moment, then Albert heard Spot growl, the noise sending chills up his spine.  He tried to maintain eye contact as Spot forced him to his feet, watching him with a wolflike stare briefly, before sticking his gun between his teeth and placing his hands on Albert’s biceps.  Albert held his breath, not daring to move as Spot began to pat him down.  He felt down his arms, then moved his hands to Albert’s chest, patting vigorously.  Albert bit his tongue, refraining from making a crude, biting comment about their current closeness.  He had a feeling it wouldn’t be well received.

Spot turned him around slowly, starting the process over at his shoulder-blades.  With a jolt, the presence of his switchblade at the small of his back returned to his cognizance and he fought the urge to tense up.  Spot was going to find it and take it and then he’d have lost his last bit of security.  The one thing linking him to safety.

Spot’s hand landed on the handle of the blade and he let out a small, triumphant, ‘aha’.  Albert squeezed his eyes shut as Spot lifted his shirt and took the blade out, his cold hands ghosting horribly against his skin.

“Jesus Christ,” Spot muttered and Albert couldn’t help but turn around.  Instead of pocketing the knife as Albert had expected, Spot was squinting at the blade where Albert’s name was engraved.  He held it closer to his face, recognition flitting through his eyes.  Albert watched him, confused.

“Where’d you get this,” Spot demanded, suddenly, “Who made this?”

Albert shook his head, “I-I-”

“Nevermind,” Spot spat, “I know what I need to know.”

A moment later, a crack echoed through his brain as Spot slammed the hilt of the gun into his head and once again, the world darkened.  

Time passed at an indiscernable pace.  Albert felt himself shifting unsteadily in and out of consciousness.  People were discussing him nearby and he could make out bits and pieces of hushed conversation, but none of it made much sense.  

At one point, he found himself able to stay awake for longer than a few harried seconds.  He kept his eyes closed, the pain from his evident concussion making it difficult to do much besides sit solemnly and pray for his rescue.  Oh well, at least he wasn’t dead.  

People were speaking hurriedly now- desperately.  Albert could make out Spot’s angry voice, rising above the rest.  It sounded as if he were organizing something, spitting demands from person to person and only being answered by mumbles of ‘yes, boss’ or ‘you got it’.  

But the most gut clenching, perhaps, was a command, hissed in a harsh, yet loud whisper sending jolts of cold fear through Albert’s body.

“Get Crutchie over here, I need to speak with him.”

Albert swallowed, trying not to panic as the possibilities of what Crutchie had to do with this wormed into his brain and seized hold of his lungs.  He had to warn someone, he had to-

Ow.

He clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay awake and think of an escape.  But it seemed as if fate had other plans as he was pulled under once more.

12 hours later

Jack sat with his legs propped up, absentmindedly cleaning his gun as he sat in the rec room, watching the local news.  Davey was upstairs, taking a nap and Race had gone out to meet Albert to discuss any further Prospect information he might have gained, so Jack found himself alone in his relaxation.  A luxury that was rare to find in Empire.

“Mind if I join you?” Jack looked up to see Les stroll in and take a seat in one of the chairs next to him, propping his legs up to mirror him.

Jack chuckled, “I guess not,” he said, placing his gun down on the table in front of him and picking up a pack of cards that lay nearby, “Gin rummy?”

Les shrugged, “Sure.”

Jack dealt out the cards, mentally preparing to be beaten by Les, who was scarily good at most card games.  He’d gone on a rampage a few years back, claiming that he was going to beat Race in every card game known to man at least once, and in his endeavors, he’d gained great skill.

“How’s Albert?” Les asked, accepting his pile of cards and looking up at Jack.

Jack took his own pile and hummed noncommittally, “dunno, Racer’s out checking on him right now.”

“You think he got into Prospect alright?”

Jack sighed, making a questioning gesture with his hands, “We can hope so.”

“Jack, I need to talk to you,” Jack and Les glanced over to see a breathless Race, standing in the doorway to the rec room, bouncing nervously on his toes, “Now.”

Jack pursed, setting down his cards, “What’s wrong?”

Race’s gaze passed over Les briefly, “Alone.”

Jack twitched his nose and placed down his cards, standing, “Alright, one sec squirt,” he said, ruffling Les’ hair.

Les squawked indignantly, “Stop calling me squirt!”

Race led him out of the room and a couple paces down the hallway until they were right in front of the drug storage room.  He turned towards Jack, the worry in his eyes evident up close.

“Something didn’t go right with Al,” he said, the words coming out rushed.

Jack’s stomach dropped, “What? What do you mean? How do you know?”

Race ran an anxious hand through his hair, blowing out a breath.  It was obvious that he was fighting the urge to work himself up.

“I, uh, I went to where me and Al planned to meet up, over on Frankfort Street by the bridge and he wasn’t there-”

“Okay, don’t panic yet, maybe-”

“Let me finish,” Race continued, “he wasn’t there, so I decided to wait for a bit, because, you know, sometimes shit takes time, but it was getting a lot later than when we had planned so I decided to look around a bit and I found another one.”

Jack cocked his head, “Another one what?”

Race let out a frustrated noise, “Another ‘Less is More’ thing! It was fresh, too.”

Jack’s eyes widened, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Race grimaced, “Seemed a little too coincidental that a new one popped up right where I was supposed to see him.”

Jack leaned against the wall, overwhelmed, “We gotta tell Davey,” he said after a moment.

Race nodded, breathing out a sigh, “I’m scared for him, I-” he clicked his tongue, looking at Jack, “Prospect can get real bad...Spot can get real bad,” he averted his gaze, trailing off.

Jack examined him for a moment, concern pooling in his stomach, “Hey, we’ll get Al out, okay?” Race didn’t answer, haunted eyes trained on the ground.  Jack reached forward, tapping his chin.

“Okay?” He repeated once Race met his gaze.

Race shifted his jaw, “Okay.”

XXX

Albert stared at his feet, scuffing his shoes across the carpet underneath him.  Sometime in his unconsciousness, he had been moved to what appeared to be Spot’s office.  His wrists, ankles, and torso were bound tightly, holding him to a small wooden chair.  Upon waking, he’d tried for a few feeble minutes to free himself, but to no avail.  Whoever had tied the rope knew what they were doing.

The office was small and neat and somehow nothing and exactly like what Albert had expected.  There was a singular mahogany table in the middle of the room, a tall, leather office chair pushed neatly in behind it.

Everything in the room was carefully placed, as though Spot had put a lot of thought into the layout of his room.  Nothing was out of line.  Pencils were pristinely sharpened and placed eraser-up in a shiny, glass pencil holder.  The rug was dust free and perfectly centered.  The two bookshelves that stood opposite each other at one end of the room were stacked end to end with books, which seemed to fit almost too well on the shelves themselves.

The meticulousness of the room seemed almost out of character for Spot, not that Albert would know.  But he wouldn’t have pegged him for a neat-freak kind of guy.  The obvious attention to detail sent a shiver down Albert’s spine.

He scanned the room, unsure exactly what he was searching for.  Something out of order, perhaps.  Something to clue him into the enigma that was Spot and Prospect.

However, nothing caught his eye.  The room was too damn cookie-cutter to hold any glaring secrets.  Which, admittedly, was a clever strategy.  Anything that could be of importance was hiding in plain sight.

But Albert was in too much pain to look too hard.  He sighed loudly, allowing his head to drop lazily to the side, pain surging through his temples once more.  

He was about to close his eyes briefly when a small glint of polished wood on Spot’s desk perked his attention.

A wave of cold washed down his legs as he realized that it was his switchblade, perfectly unbroken.  Something was propped haphazardly next to it, the only visible attribute of the unknown object being a large crack in its glossy, dark green exterior.   

He squinted, trying to get a better look.  He could see something etched into the side of the other item, but its distance from him made it impossible to make out.

He blew out a breath, steeling himself for a moment before bracing his feet on the floor.  With a grunt, he shifted his body weight forward, using the momentum to move the chair a few inches towards the desk.  The wooden legs scraped the ground loudly and Albert winced, holding still

for a moment before heading another few inches forward onto the carpet.

Albert hummed triumphantly, pleased with himself.  His view of the desk was unobscured now and he leaned forward, curiosity peaking when he realized that the object next to his knife was a lighter.  As his eyes focused, Albert realized that the etching on the handle was a faded ‘R’.  The curve of the lettering was oddly familiar and as his gaze shifted sideways onto his knife, a small gasp left him.

The lettering style was the exact same.

He frowned, his bottom lip worrying its way between his teeth as he tried to work out why that was unsettling.  He blinked a few times, lips parted slightly as he continued to inspect the lighter.  The damage was clearer up close, showing that the crack on the handle stemmed from a large chip out of the metal where the green plastic met the metal lighting mechanism.  It looked like someone had hit the lighter against something hard.  Or thrown the damn thing.  

A pair of footsteps echoed outside the door and Albert tore his gaze away from the lighter, wishing for a moment that his hands were free so that he could grab his knife.  Briefly, he considered hopping his chair back to where he’d been left in case Spot grew suspicious as to why he’d moved, but the thought left him as the door to Spot’s office opened.

Albert winced, bracing himself.  Though, he was unsure as to what exactly he was bracing himself for.  Spot soaking him again, probably.

“Ah, so you’re the brat who tried ta trick us.”

A voice Albert didn’t recognize rang out and he opened his eyes.  Across the room from him stood two men, both sporting sleeveless henleys.  The Prospect branding was visible on each of their biceps, tattooed non-discreetly into the skin facing outwards.  The one on the right looked to be around Albert’s height with longer, brown hair that curved at the nape of his neck.  He had a wide face, a permanent scowl set on his features.  Albert wrinkled his nose, feeling slightly intimidated by his piercing stare.  The other guy stood a fair few inches taller than the first, muscles bulging through his shirt.  He had tan skin, his beady eyes glaring at Albert.  His hair was jet black and looked a good bit greasier than the other guy’s, giving him a rat-like composure.

Albert’s gaze traveled from the first guy to the second, hesitating a moment before flashing a smile, “Hey there, gents.”

Neither looked amused.

“I can’t fuckin’- ugh, why’d Boss nail us with the annoyin’ one?” The first guy complained.

“Dunno Bumlets, but I already wanna punch him,” The second guy said, eyes shifting between Albert’s, “Whatever, he’ll be outta commission soon.”

Albert’s smile faltered, uneasiness leaving a vile taste in his mouth.  He vaguely recognized his voice and with a jolt he realized that this was the guy Spot had been with when he and Race had gone to Queens.  He didn’t look anything like Albert had expected.

Bumlets strode over to him, pulling a knife from his boot and bending down.  Albert sucked in a breath as the ropes that previously bound him down were swiftly cut away, allowing blood to flow normally through his body.  He wiggled his fingers, willing the tingling feeling to go away.

Bumlets grasped the back of his collar, yanking him to his feet, “Got the cuffs, Hotshot?”

Hotshot grunted, producing a rusty pair of handcuffs from the inside of his jacket.

“Right ‘ere,” He said as Bumlets pushed Albert forward.  

Hotshot grabbed hold of Albert’s bicep easily, keeping one hand firmly on his arm as he secured the handcuffs around his wrists, locking them tightly.  Albert tried to jerk away, hissing when the sharp metal cut into his skin.

“No use in fightin’ too hard,” Bumlets sneered, pushing past Albert and Hotshot towards the door, “You’re outnumbered.”

Albert swallowed, jaw shifting as he was lead out of the room, Hotshot still holding him firmly, “Is there any point in asking where you’re taking me?”

Both men ignored him, pushing him through the dark building and down several flights of stairs.  As they ventured on, Albert looked around, noting the dinginess of the place.  It was significantly grimier than the Bowery, the damp, cool air giving it a dirty feel.  The ground was coated in dust and grit, and there were several places in which Albert swore he saw bloodstains.  It smelled of mildew, causing Albert to gag if he breathed in too deep.  As they ventured to the main level, the corridors seemed to darken even more and Albert ground his teeth, trying in vain to remain calm.

“Did boss leave the truck ‘round back?” Hotshot asked, coming to an abrupt halt near a door.

Bumlets nodded, fishing what looked to be a car key out of his pocket, “All parked an’ ready for us to ride.”

Hotshot hummed, jerking open the door and thrusting Albert into the night.  For a moment, the grip on Albert’s arm vanished, but before he could make a move, a bag was being placed over his head.  He tried to duck away, only for his hair to be yanked harshly underneath the bag.

“Behave,” Bumlets snarled, knotting the bag in the back to keep it in place.

“Mmm, but that’s boring,” Albert said, aiming for a cocky tone, but wincing when his voice cracked slightly.  Why couldn’t he have Race’s poker face?  

His heart twanged briefly as he thought of the other boy.  It had only been a day, but already the plan was going to complete shit.  His fingers itched for his switchblade, the one thing meant to ground him to some semblance of security.  A vague part of him longed for the night previous, when he and Race had shared that moment on his cot- when things were still safe and calm.  

He felt himself being dragged again, trying his best not to trip as they descended down a small slope.  Albert felt the ground under him turn to pavement and a moment later, the sound of a car door opening came from beside him.  He tensed his shoulders, sensing what was about to happen.

“Behave.” Bumlets repeated, roughly shoving him against the car.  

Albert grunted as his shin made hard contact with the metal step that led to the backseat.  He stayed still, knowing that he wasn’t going to get out of this, but still refusing to make it easy on his captors.

“Climb in the goddamn car,” Hotshot snapped, stomping harshly on his heels.

Albert grimaced, “Can’t climb anywhere while my hands are cuffed behind me.  Is everyone in Prospect so damn kinky?  Ya know earlier, Spot-”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Bumlets cursed, gripping him by the elbow and boosting him upwards.

Albert smirked to himself as he settled into the backseat.  As screwed as he was, he was getting a rise out of them.  And that felt pretty damn good.

He heard the door slam next to him and he rested his head against the headrest behind him, trying not to let the claustrophobic feeling of the bag suffocating him consume him.  He stretched his neck, wincing when he felt the joints crack.

The car started and Albert frowned, “Y’all better be buckled up there.  Someone in this car has got to conform to the New York safety measures and I sure ain’t.”

Hotshot sighed, “Why can’t we shoot him now again?”

“Because Conlon’ll kill us if we get his car bloody,” Bumlets grumbled, “Usin’ his car at all has got us on thin ice.”

The rest of the drive was spent in silence, save for the staticky hum of the radio playing old rock music.  They drove for what could have been hours and as time stretched on, Albert grew more anxious.  He’d known their intentions from the start, but the reality of the situation seemed to settle on him in sickening waves.  He wasn’t going to make it out of this alive.  

Last time ever driving through New York and I can’t even enjoy the view, he thought cynically, huffing a laugh, although his heart was in his throat.

The truck screeched to a halt and Albert held his breath as Hotshot and Bumlets exited.  Cold, night air gusted at him as his door was opened and he was pulled out.  He was guided on numb legs for a few minutes, only noting the change in the ground underneath his feet when his shoes began to echo on concrete.  They walked for a few more feet before he was shoved downwards, knees hitting the ground roughly. The bag was yanked off his head and he involuntarily whimpered as his eyes crossed, focusing on the barrel of a gun that hovered directly in front of him.  Out of his peripheral, he could see mass amounts of scaffolding that seemed to climb to a high ceiling.  Machines protruded from the wall in front of him, but they looked worn and broken.  It was unclear exactly what kind of establishment he’d been brought to, but it seemed to be out of use.

The smell was awful, as if something were rotting in the walls and Albert shivered, feeling strangely uncleansed.

“So, we’re gonna kill ya obviously,” Hotshot said, his voice low and unnerving, “But there’s shit we gotta know from you first.”

XXX

Race sat on the floor of the rec room, leaning against a leg of one of the card tables.  His arms were draped lazily around his knees as he tilted his head back, allowing it to thud into the cheap plastic tabletop.  

He was mad at himself, angry that he’d allow someone else to slip from between his fingers.  Guilt pooled in his stomach, threatening to choke him.  Every time he had something good, it fucked him in the face, usually resulting in people getting hurt or killed.  Or both.  Usually both.  

He blew out a breath, head rolling to the side to look towards the ratty book cabinet placed awkwardly in the corner.  On the bottom shelf, stacks of old, dusty newspapers lay unceremoniously, rarely to be touched by anyone in the gang.  

It had been awhile since he’d sifted through it, only venturing to that dark corner when he needed a reminder of...who he was, but now seemed good a time as any.

He scooted out from the card table, standing on sluggish limbs and crossing blindly to the bookshelf.  He knelt down, tremoring hands reaching forward to extract a worn, obviously used newspaper article from the bottom of one of the piles.

Swallowing, he unfolded it, blinking a few times as he scanned over the head of the article.

Bombing at the Rockefeller Center Leaves 12 Dead.  Culprit Still Unidentified.

He breezed through the article, eventually focusing his gaze on the blurry picture on the bottom of the page, showcasing the damage.  His eyes bore into the image, lips parting slightly as shouts echoed through his memories.  

He stayed frozen, losing himself in the picture until the shaking in his hands became too much and he closed his eyes, anxiety rising in his throat and slowly morphing to panic.  He jerked, anticipation shooting through his arms as he crumpled the newspaper in both fists, feeling the wrinkled paper rip underneath his fingers.

“Antonio?” Race opened his eyes, becoming acutely aware of himself once more, but failing to drop his tense position, “Are you alright?”

Race rolled his shoulders, taking a measured breath before calmly dropping his arms to his sides, tossing the newspaper in a nearby trash can.  He turned around, putting on a tight smile as he faced Davey.

“M’great,” He said, knowing full well that neither of them were convinced.

Davey eyed him warily, “Well, I’m ready to go when you are,” he busied himself in unbuttoning his his dress shirt sleeve and expertly folding it up, “Romeo is going to join us.”

Race nodded, “Perfect, yeah, okay.”

Davey studied him for another moment before briskly turning, “I’ll be by the stagedoor, be hasty.”

Race watched him leave, taking another moment to compose himself before hurrying out of the room.  He froze in the hallway, running a mental checklist of things he might need while retrieving Albert from whatever hot shit he was in.  His knife was in his boot and his gun was resting snugly against the small of his back, held in place by the waistband of his jeans.  His jacket was in the entrance hall and he’d stuck an extra pack of cigarettes in the inside pocket of that earlier.  He was set.

He nodded once to himself, erasing the last holds of unsteadiness from his mind as he crossed to the stage door, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on along the way.

Davey, as promised, was standing just beside it, hands clasped behind his back.  Romeo stood adjacent to him, fingers curled gingerly around his vape.

He perked up when Race walked in, “Heya Higgins, want a hit?” He held up his vape, wiggling it in front of Race’s face.

Race flinched, rearing back a little, “Mm, don’t do that and no, I’m good.”

Romeo shrugged, “More for me,” he took a long drag, looking expectantly from Race to Davey, “Soooo, where’re we headed, boys?”

“Excellent question,” He said, looking towards Race, “Race?”

Race mulled it over for a moment, realizing that he hadn’t given this any actual thought.  The prospects of Albert still being at The Refuge were slim, but that didn’t mean it was entirely off the table.  He could still be in one of the holding rooms, but Spot never allowed the dirty work to be done directly in the building.  It was his policy: never spill blood where you sleep.  That didn’t lead to any clear answers, however.  Spot had three designated execution spots, but they were well spread out between Queens and Brooklyn.  If they tried to check all of them, it would be impossible to reach Albert in time.  If there was even time left.  Albert could already be dead.

He shook his head, not allowing himself to go there yet.  He had to stay focused.

“Antonio…” Davey sounded like he was going to get impatient and Race shushed him.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” he ran his tongue over his lower lip, trying to think of each of the locations of each spot.  

There was the Bergen Street platform, although Race doubted Spot’d chosen that spot.  It was hard to access most of the time and he saved that area for more intense matters, ones that involved several people.

The New York State Pavilion was the closest to The Refuge in relation to the others, but it was the most open of all of them.  It was mainly used when someone needed to be taken care of quickly and Race doubted that they’d let Albert off without questioning.

That left the Jumping Jack Powerplant.  It was well secluded and a healthy distance from The Refuge- the perfect candidate for their predicted intentions with Albert.  

“I, uh,” Race ran a hand through his curls, “I think I have an idea, but it’s a bit of a drive,” he continued when Davey and Romeo raised their eyebrows, “It’s called the Jumping Jack Power Plant?  I think that’s probably where Spot would want to take him.”

Davey nodded slowly, no doubt trying to map out where that was in his head, “I think I know where you speak of.  We can take the van,” he opened the door, ushering the other two out first, “Quickly, quickly.”

“Shotgun!” Romeo called, hurrying towards where the van was parked in the back of the alley.

Race glanced towards the skyscrapers in the distance, his heart thudding with anticipation, “M’coming Al.  M’not gonna letcha down, too.”

XXX

Albert allowed a whine to escape his throat, “Is there, like, a world record or something for the most times a guy has had a gun pointed at his face in a short amount of time?  ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I could qualify.”

Bumlets growled, rolling his eyes as he pressed the muzzle of his gun to his forehead, “Do ya ever shut up?”

“Ya know?  I get that a lot,” Albert said, tilting his head as he feigned deep thought, “I wonder if that’s, like, a social cue or something to reassess myself and change my ways.”

Bumlets expression turned somehow more exasperated, “Can I please blow his brains out now?”

“I fuckin’ wish,” Hotshot sighed, “But no.”

“Mmm sadly,” Bumlets said, “Alright,” he dropped the gun momentarily and stepped behind Albert, pressing it to his neck instead, “I’ll start with the easy questions.  What’s your name?”

“Jennifer, Jen for short,” Albert said, keeping his tone light, “Though if we’re really close, or like, fucking or something, I’ll let you call me Jenny.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hotshot groaned, stepping forward and slapping Albert across the face, “Your real name, smartass.”

“Eat my ass,” Albert said lowly, squinting his eyes.

Accepting the fact that they weren’t going to get a proper name out of him, Bumlets pressed on, raising the next question, “Are you associated at all with Empire?”

Albert worked to keep the recognition from his eyes, “Your fuckin’ rival gang or whatever? No, my balls haven’t dropped enough for that yet.”

Hotshot held eye contact for a moment before directing his stare at Bumlets.  He suddenly looked down at Albert, something mischievous glinting in his eyes, like a kid who knew he was about to win Monopoly.

“How about Antonio Higgins?”

The gasp that left Albert’s lips was nearly inaudible, but Hotshot caught it.  He leaned down, levelling himself with Albert.

“Gotcha,” He grinned, hot breath blowing into Albert’s face, making him wince.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it was rude to talk about people behind their backs?”

Albert could have started crying as a familiar voice rang across the room.  Hotshot’s face contorted into one of confusion and his head snapped to the side.  The gun that had still been pressed to the back of Albert’s neck was removed and Albert managed to duck out of the way as the first round of shots were fired.

He rolled backwards, eventually steadying himself and crawling on his hands and knees until he reached the far wall.  Once he was out of the line of fire, he peered backwards, heart leaping into his chest as he watched Romeo shoot a bullet at Bumlets, hitting him square in the forehead.  He recoiled and shut his eyes tight, covering his ears with his hands until the sounds of gunshots stopped.

He opened his eyes again, avoiding looking at where Bumlets now lay and instead fixating on where Race was shoving Hotshot into the ground, knocking him out.

“Motherfucker,” Race spat, “Never liked you.”

He directed his attention towards Albert, chest heaving as the adrenaline drained from the room.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Albert panted, “That was the most badass thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Race grinned, jogging over to him and helping him up.  Before Albert could say anything else, he was being pulled into a bone-crushing hug.

“Whoa, hey,” Albert floundered for a moment before wrapping his arms around Race’s torso, “Hey, buddy.”

“Thank fuck you’re alive,” Race mumbled into his neck, “I don’t know what I woulda….just, thank fuck.”

“Thank god you should up when you did,” Albert said, the reality of what almost happened hitting him full-force, “My god, I- wow.”

“This is all very touching,” they broke apart at Davey’s voice, “But we really must get back to Empire.”

“Right, right of course.”

Race and Albert pulled away from one another, readjusting themselves and following Romeo and Davey out of the warehouse.

XXX

Jack ventured into the kitchen, crossing to the fridge and humming when nothing worthwhile sparked his appetite.  

“Hiya Jackie, you hungry?”

Jack startled, turning on his heel, “Crutchie!” He exclaimed, taking in the sight of his best friend seated at the kitchen counter, mug in hand, “I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly,” Crutchie scoffed, gesturing to the seat next to him, “Care for tea?”

Jack considered, “Yeah, actually, tea sounds good.”

He padded around the counter, grabbing a spare mug along the way and perching himself next to Crutchie, gratefully accepting the tea he offered to pour for him.

“So, where have you been?” Jack asked, warming his hands on the sides of the mug while he waited for his drink to cool down, “I haven’t seen you, like, all day.”

Crutchie shrugged, “I’ve been out,” he reached out, grabbing the sugar bowl and offering it to Jack, “Sugar?” Jack shrugged, “Sure,” he agreed, spooning a fair amount into his tea and stirring.

They sat in silence as Jack blew on his drink, taking a small sip and grimacing at it’s oddly bitter taste.  He wrinkled his nose and took another sip before reaching for the sugar again.

“Does this tea taste weird to you?” He asked, spooning a little more sugar into his mug.  He became acutely away of the sluggishness of his movements as he reached for another spoonful.  All at once, his eyes turned foggy and suddenly, he couldn’t focus past the heaviness in his head.

Crutchie gently reached out, coaxing the sugar spoon away from Jack’s grip, “Don’t take too much sugar, Jackie-boy.” Jack turned a horrified eye towards him, fighting to stay conscious.

Crutchie’s face contorted into a cheshire-like grin, “After all, less is more.”

Then, everything went black.

XXX

The drive back to The Bowery was spent in relieved silence, save for the pleasant thrum of Race’s ‘Relaxation n’ Stuff’ playlist.  The city was oddly quiet, making the ride quick and painless.  They pulled into the alleyway next to the theatre, parking the van towards the back.  It was a bit tight climbing out of the car, but eventually, they were all trekking back towards the stage door.

“Holy shit,” Romeo stopped abruptly, fixated on something on the wall opposite the stage door.  

Albert turned as well, gaze landing on a freshly spray painted message, scrawled largely across the brick.

Les is More

“What the fuck,” Race said, voice frantic, “Why is it missing an S, what?”

“My lord,” Davey had gone a sickly shade of pale, mouth slightly agape as he swayed on the spot.

All at once, the puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place and Romeo cursed, “Davey, where was Les before we went to get Albert?”

“Asleep,” Davey said, looking at them dazedly, “In his cot.”

There was a moment’s hesitation where the air seemed to gain several pounds.  Then, Davey cursed, turning to run inside.

The others were on his heels as they hurdled up the stairs, rushing onto the stage.  Other gang members were sitting up in their cots, watching the four of them in sleepy confusion.

Albert made it to Les’ section first, blood draining from his face as he took in the scene.  The sheets from Les’ cot were strewn across the floor, tangled in a way that indicated a struggle.  His pillows were chucked aimlessly around the room, small stains of what looked like blood dotting them.

Davey pushed past Albert, skidding to his knees in front of one of the pillows, shoving it aside as if Les would materialize from under it.  

He let out a colorful stream of curses and stood again, “Jack!” He called madly, rushing to his own section.  Jack’s bed was vacant as well, although it didn’t look like it had been slept in at all.  

They all stood still, completely at a loss of what to do- shock coursing through each of their veins.  

“Wait, the kitchen light’s on,” Race said, already speeding towards the doorway that led to it.  He disappeared for a moment before they heard a curse sound from the other room.

Race peeked his head back out, eyes wide, “I found Jack.”

By now, the other gang members were out of their beds, murmuring to one another.  A small crowd moved towards the kitchen and Albert pushed through to the front, sick fear pooling in his stomach as he took in Jack, unconscious on the kitchen counter.

Race bit down harshly on his lip, shaking Jack vigorously to no avail.  He was completely out.  Race huffed out a breath, bracing himself before hoisting Jack out of his chair and lowering him to the ground.  He carefully lifted his legs, resting them on the chair above them to kickstart his blood-flow again.

“He was drugged I think,” He said distractedly, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Move,” Davey demanded, “Finch, get the counter-shot.”

Finch nodded once, sprinting out of the room towards the drug inventory.  A tense minute later, he returned, long needle in hand.  He carefully passed it to Davey, who lifted Jack’s arm, feeling around for a vein before injecting the medicine with a surprisingly steady hand.

“That should get his blood pressure up,” Davey muttered, propping back onto his heels and taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, “Give it a minute.”

With an overcompensating gasp, Jack awoke several minutes later, dazed eyes blinking towards the ceiling.

“Jack,” Race said immediately, “Les is gone.”

Jack shook his head, defeat and something deeper dancing across his face, “Shit,” he said, sitting up, lowering his legs from the chair.  

He looked directly at Davey, “So’s Crutchie.”

-

it’s 1 am i have no excuse

who hates me for making crutchie how i did? 

ANYWAY YEAH HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEH WE OUT HERE AT MILESTONES

fuck ok ok

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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[psycho-slytherin]

Strangers ch. 11

When you fall ill, your cute coworker helps you. Plus, Yoongi reaches out in the only way he can.

Pairing: Yoongi x (female) Reader

Word count: 2.8k

Genre: Fluffy floof

|mlist|

<–– Prev   Next ––>

“Y/n! Y/n, for fuck’s sake– slow down!”

You screech to a halt, a meter from the door. The pain in your cut-up feet feels irrelevant compared to your constricted chest, and the whirling thoughts striking your vulnerable mind were jumping from conclusion to conclusion and giving you no room to breathe... your headache isn’t helping either.

He used me he used me he used me–

That was my poem–

Why didn’t he ask?

Why wouldn’t he apologize?

Why did he use me?

You turn to stare at Yoongi, and you haven’t the faintest idea why it hurts so much. To think that the lines in their new song– lines that he claimed credit for– were stolen practically word-for-word from the poem you recited for them...

It hurts and you don’t know why.

“Y/n,” Yoongi says, approaching you cautiously. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think–”

You whip around. “You didn’t think?” you hiss, stalking towards him. “When didn’t you think, Min Yoongi? When you were writing the lyrics? During recording? Through production?” you don’t know if you’re more furious or saddened. “When, in the month since you heard my oh-so-humble quatrain, did you think that maybe you should ask for permission?”

“We stopped talking,” Yoongi says. “I didn’t figure I’d see you again. I didn’t figure–”

“That I’d care?” you feel tears well up and force them to retreat; you won’t cry about Min Yoongi. Not now, not ever. “I didn’t write that poem for your fangirls, Yoongi. I wrote it for you.”

Yes, that was it: by making the lines less personal, he cheapened them, made them worthless. You were writing about your midnight rendezvous by the lamppost, and he turned them into– what, some mindless bop?

“I’m sorry, okay?” Yoongi says loudly. “What do you want me to do, name you as a producer? Scrap the whole damn thing?”

You rub your temples to quell your pounding head; it’s hurting so bad that it’s hard to see straight. In fact, the whole world is tilting sideways– or is it just you?

“Y/n!” And it’s Yoongi’s voice, but it’s muffled, as though he’s speaking underwater, and black spots cloud your vision... a lot of black spots, and–

“Unhf,” you squint at the sudden bright light, smacking your lips a few times. Your mouth feels so dry, and your feet feel like you’ve been dancing on razor blades, and your head...

“Y/n? Thank goodness you’re awake!” Lisa’s voice floats above you, and you feel a hand squeeze yours. “How are you feeling?”

“Hot. And cold.” you sneeze. “Everything hurts.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” she says. “You’ve got a fever, and there are some cuts on your feet that– I don’t know how this happened–  got infected, and the doctor says you’re fatigued. Basically,” Lisa summarizes, “everything that could go wrong did.”

You groan, propping yourself up on your elbows. “How did you know I was hurt?”

“Some lady named Irene called me, since I’m your emergency contact,” Lisa says, holding up your phone. “She said you’d been brought to the hospital. The doctor said you’ll be good as new in a few days.”

“Ugh.” you flop back on the pillow, feeling like absolute death. And where’s Yoongi gone? Not that it matters, you remind yourself furiously. Stealing your lines without permission... better a liar than a thief, you decide with a sneeze.

The thing is, you’d be ecstatic if he’d asked. But he’d just assumed that you’d be okay with him taking credit for your personal effort, and it makes your heart ache. 

A knock at the door, and it swings open to reveal Xiumin.

“Hey,” he holds up a box bearing the mark of the cafe. “I brought pastries. How are you feeling?”

You smile at your coworker’s thoughtfulness. “I’m doing okay, thanks.”

“I’m gonna talk to the doctor,” Lisa says, standing. “I called your mom, but she’s on a business trip in America–”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I don’t want to bother her,” you tell your friend as she leaves the room, and you’re left alone with Xiumin.

“So...” he says. “Any idea why I found a soaked dress in the corner of the storage room when I opened up the cafe this morning?”

You cough. “It’s a long story.”

“And the bloody footprints?”

“That’s an even longer story.”

Xiumin shrugs. “So long as you didn’t murder anyone. I cleaned up, don’t worry, and the manager won’t know anything.”

“Ah, you’re the best,” you rasp, accepting the muffin he hands you. When his finger brushes yours, he knits his brows.

“Your hand is so warm, y/n,” he says, and presses a palm to your forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Don’t touch me, I might be contagious,” you warn him, sneezing again.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says before leaving the room and returning with a wet towel, using it to wipe your flushed face.

You sigh contentedly; Xiumin’s hands are gentle, and the cool cloth is refreshing against your fevered skin.

“You didn’t have to come,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

“Ah, morning shifts on the weekends are always slow without you there,” Xiumin replies cheerfully. “Besides, once Lisa told me you couldn’t make it because you were in the hospital, I figured you might need a pick-me-up.”

You take a bite into the muffin he’d given you; the familiar taste is comforting, although it does nothing to sooth your sore throat. Seriously, did everything have to go wrong? You feel like you’re a robot, and you’ve broken down.

He used me.

You wince at the thought, and your heart and mind are suddenly at odds: part of you is grateful for Xiumin’s presence, but another part wishes that it was a different man that had walked through the door. Although, of course Yoongi wouldn’t be seen here: a hospital is so public, and a celebrity of his caliber couldn’t make it through the front door without being swarmed.

That’s what made your night meetings special. There were no cameras trained on that tiny street, which was always deserted by midnight. Yoongi must’ve felt it too, right? That freedom to walk and chat freely under the stars, where the only noise came from your heart hammering in your chest– you relished in it. You had so much fun with Yoongi, even with the liar’s guilt weighing you down.

And you could tell that Yoongi also enjoyed your company. No matter how many lies you had to tell, you wanted to be there for him.

“Y/n?”

The summons frees you from your thoughts. “Hm?”

Lisa stands in the doorway, holding a small box and a card. “Someone left this for you.”

Xiumin takes Lisa’s appearance as his cue. “I’ll be off. Feel better, y/n.” he smiles warmly. “Can’t wait to see you back at the cafe.”

“Bye, Xiumin,” you reply, before a coughing fit overtakes you. When you look up again with watering eyes, the card and box are on your lap and Lisa’s smirking at you.

“So, Xiumin?”

“What about him?”

Lisa rolls her eyes. “Are you actually blind? The boy’s so into you.”

“We’re coworkers, he was just being nice,” you say.

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, girlfriend.” She motions to the box. “Gonna open it?”

You sigh, carefully opening the box and emptying its contents into your palm. A chain falls out and pools in your hand, attached to a heavy glass bead the size of quarter, painted with a familiar-looking scene. You’ve been to your fair share of museums, so of course you’d know the replicated painting anywhere: Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

Your breath catches. It’s a simple necklace, surely inexpensive, but the swirling colors and dotted stars– that light in the darkness feels so familiar.

You rip open the envelope to reveal a plain white card, upon which you see three words written in a familiar scrawl:

I’m sorry.

-Agust

“Who’s Agust?” Lisa asks, leaning over to peer at the card. “Girl, like Agust D? I was listening to Tony Montana, you know, the version with Jimin in it? Ugh, Jimin is so beautiful that I literally cannot. I think I would, like, actually give both my kidneys to meet him. Or like, any of BTS. And I wouldn’t have to meet them, just be within like, ten meters? I might actually die if I ever got that close to them. They’re just the most amazing people that have ever existed, I swear.”

Lisa sighs wistfully to conclude her monologue before turning her attention back to you. “So, who’s Agust?”

“Er– just a classmate,” you lie. Again. You adore Lisa, but she’s more of a fangirl than you’ll ever be. You’re worried that if she ever finds out you’re personal friends with Yoongi and the others, she really would have a heart attack... or twelve.

Are you and Yoongi still friends? You look at the necklace, the glass cool against your palm.

You’re not ready to forgive him yet, you decide as you fasten the thin chain around your neck. But this is certainly a good place to start.

You spend the next several days resting and recovering from your cold. The cuts on your feet heal well and soon enough you can hold an entire conversation without a single coughing fit.

But the hospital... you’re not looking forward to receiving the bill for your day and a half stay. Even with all the extra shifts you were taking, and the check for your work on the music video, you figure that you’ll be living off of cheap ramen for at least a month.

Xiumin’s been amazing, you realize as you ready yourself for your first shift at the cafe since before the music video. He’s visited every day, usually with muffins, and you’re certain that his kindness has helped you recover.

Although, you admit to yourself, you’re seeing Lisa’s point. Xiumin definitely seems interested in you. But perhaps that’s a good thing? His attention may help distract you from your completely nonexistent non-feelings for a certain rapper.

You get in just as Xiumin’s hanging up his apron. “Hi, y/n! How are you feeling?”

“Good, thanks,” you reply with a smile.

“Cool, cool.” Xiumin pauses for a second, fidgeting. “Hey, I was wondering... would you want to go out sometime? With me?”

“Sure,” you say readily. What harm was there in a date?

“What? Really?” A grin spreads across Xiumin’s face.

“Did you think I’d say no?” you tease.

“I mean... lately you’ve been acting like... and your ring...”

You roll your eyes. Has everyone in the country noticed your stupid, fake engagement ring? Why did one tiny piece of jewelry carry so much weight?

"I’m very single,” you assure him.

“Can’t say I’m not relieved,” Xiumin says. “So... are you free Saturday? I’d say that we can get coffee, but...” he waves his hands around at the cafe.

You laugh. “Saturday’s fine.”

“I’ll pick you up at three, then?”

“Sounds good.”

He leaves and you’re left alone to handle the late shift. It’s a quiet evening, and the cafe is emptier than usual by the time you close up shop.

You shiver as you make your way home. You know you really should just invest in a car, but you can’t help feeling drawn to the cool night air, the puffs of vapor escaping you with every breath. The world feels more beautiful, awash as it is in darkness.

You turn onto the street and blink a few times: your lamppost isn’t lit. Has the bulb gone out?

You pull out your phone to turn on the flashlight before sighing tiredly. You were in classes all day before rushing straight to work, and your phone is completely dead. You begin walking again, albeit much slower to avoid tripping in the total darkness.

By your estimate, you’re just nearing your lamppost when you bump into something solid. Huh? Did you miscalculate and run right into the lamppost?

No, wait. Lampposts don’t wear jackets. Or have arms, shoulders...

“Woah!” you jump backwards, cursing your own stupidity. “I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

“Hey, breathe! It’s me,” a familiar voice floats through the darkness and you feel a strong hand on your shoulder.

“Y-Yoongi?” You open your eyes wide to catch his silhouette. “Sorry, I can’t see you.”

“Yeah, that was sort of my doing,” Yoongi says quietly.

“What? Wait, you put the streetlight out?” A thousand questions are whirling about in your head, but you hold your tongue, waiting for him to speak.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Yoongi says, “and you seem more open when you can’t see me.”

“I–”

“In the car, when the divider was up,” Yoongi says quickly, as if desperate to prove his point. “And last week, in the cafe. You feel safer in the dark, don’t you?”

You open and close your mouth like a fish. “H-how...” he couldn’t be more right. Since childhood, you’ve loved dark spaces. Your mother called you catlike; Lisa said you had opposite-claustrophobia. How could you feel anything less than at home, swaddled by a natural blanket of darkness? But still... “How did you know?”

There’s a pause, and you reach out blindly to grasp his sleeve, to have some sort of physical proof that he’s really there.

“I’m the same way,” he whispers, and in the silence his words seem to echo. “I’m good at darkness. I’m good at sleep. And while I love the guys, I’m good at being alone.” you feel his sleeve rise and lower in what must be a shrug.

“I was twenty when we debuted,” he continues. “Before then I was a trainee, and I worked, and school... I never got a chance to make friends outside of a dog-eat-dog world. So, around you... I don’t know how to act, y/n, because I’m so scared of losing you.”

“Just be yourself,” you tell him, your voice near breaking. “Be Min Yoongi, the man that I–” Stop. What are you doing? The darkness is doing it again, lending you confidence.

You swallow. “The man that I... became friends with. Be him.”

Yoongi chuckles humorlessly. “Being myself... every day, that feels a bit harder. Oh!” he seizes your hands, damn near giving you a heart attack. “Did you get the necklace?”

Wordlessly you guide his hand towards you, so that he can feel the glass bead nestled against the hollow of your throat. Improper, perhaps. But it got your message across.

Yoongi sighs with relief. “Thank goodness. I screwed up. I really screwed up, and I’m beyond sorry. So, late as it may be...” he takes a deep breath, and you can hear a smile in his words. “Y/n... may I please have your permission to use and modify the quatrain you recited?”

You sigh dramatically, drawing it out for a good fifteen seconds. “I mean, I guess... You owe me though,” you add, blindly reaching for and then poking his arm.

“Well, it just so happens that since the music video is done filming, we get a few days off,” Yoongi says, grasping your hand where you poked his arm. “So I was wondering if you wanted to hang out? We can chill at the apartment, maybe watch a movie. Definitely eat snacks. I dunno which of the guys will be there, but it’ll be fun.”

He pauses, and when he speaks again the words are laden with hope. “So, what do you say?”

“Sounds fun,” you tell him, although your mind is racing. It’s not a date it’s not a date it’s not a date.

“Great. Does Saturday work for you? We’ve got a tiny bit of publicity to do in the morning, so how about three o’clock?”

“Sure.” It’s not a date it’s not a date it’s not a date.

“Good.” You hear Yoongi’s feet shuffle from side. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” you blurt out. "I’m glad you came to talk. Wait,” you cock your head, although he can’t see it. “How did you know I’d be working tonight?”

Yoongi laughs, embarrassed. “Well... I knew you’d start soon. I’ve actually been waiting here every night, these last few days.”

Your jaw drops. “Yoongi, you need sleep!”

“I could say the same to you. Hey, our ride’s here,” Yoongi announces, gesturing at the black car that pulls up out of nowhere– again.

You shake your head as you slide into the backseat. “You’re such a dork.”

“Whatever you say, y/n.”

[zaraegis]

Come At The King| Part 3| T

Fandom: Cuphead

Pairings: Ride or Die QPP Wheezy & Dice

TW: haha, blood, violence, descriptions of injuries, unhealthy alcoholism, underage drinking

Notes: Female pronouns are used for Dice in flashbacks before transitioning, just to be clear.

prev|next

/Casino King

So what he may have forgotten to tell Wheezy, was that he wasn't just going to challenge the Casino employees. But that he was going to sell his soul to the Devil to do have a fair chance to do it.

It seems like the most straightforward way. He wants his reputation to be ironclad, and his title to be unwinnable until they've paid the price he had. Also, if the Devil holds his soul contract, then he's automatically off open season for any Tom, Dick or Harry who wants his head.

It'd be nice to live without the crushing paranoia he's had for the past ten years after his "retirement".

So that leads him to here, in his new white shoes and slacks, all carefully padded so nothing clinks and all ten decks are well hidden within the finely tailored suit. Lucky purple bow tie in place and all. Waiting.

In the Devil's Casino. For his appointment.

He sits still enough that wandering denizens of hell, do a double take at the sight of him. He's kept the full force on his smile on the skeleton across from him for the past half hour and hasn't batted one perfectly lined eyelid.

The skeleton shifts the slightest bit and he can feel his smile turn mean, thankful Wheezy isn't here to try to save the hapless victim-

"Sir? Your appointment?"

He looks at the skeleton secretary. He nods to her and pretends not to notice the rattling of the skeleton in the other waiting chair. It's Polite not to call attention to other's fear responses.

"Thank you, I'll make my own way up, don't trouble yourself."

"Oh!" The skeleton flutters before smiling and waving at him. He doesn't know if skeletons can do anything else but smile, really. Well, he hums as he enters the ornate elevator that will take him to the owner, he knows they also shake in fear like everyone else.

What a fun trip it's been so far.

-

"You...made an appointment." The Devil repeats incredulously. The Devil was...fuzzier than Dice was led to believe. The horns are cool though. So is the trident propped up behind his ornate desk.

"Yes. I didn't want to trouble you unduly. So it seemed like the thing to do." King Dice feels like Wheezy would be proud of him at this moment. Not the selling the soul bit oh no- he's going to be furious about that. But look at him, being a law abiding member of society and all that jazz. Making appointments and being an adult. Someday he might even go to a doctor instead of stitching up his own wounds. Wild.

He might be a touch too giddy. But lifelong dreams and all that.

The Devil rubs a clawed hand over his face. The cigar in his mouth puffing wildly. "This is so weird." he can hear him mutter. Inhaling loudly the Devil looks back up and tries to explain:

"Usually, people burst in dramatically, or summon me, or play in the casino and then we make a deal."

Dice blinks two perfectly lined eyes."Well, I didn't want to get a leg up on the competition beforehand. It's not sporting."

The Devil is temporarily distracted. This whole situation was throwing him off. Time to get back to familiar ground.

"So what do you want in exchange for your immortal soul?"

The lights in the office flicker omniously, there's a darkening in the colors of the room, like something Dice couldn't see was weighing everything down.

Dice places his terms in front of The Devil. The dramatic lighting cuts short and The Devil grumbles loudly, "Don't tell me you're a lawyer."

Biting back an undignified laugh, Dice shakes his head.

The Devil reads the paper, and looks back up with a raised eyebrow. "You don't just want me to make you king of all games or something?"

King Dice smiles. It seems like he'll never stop having to say it to people. "I'm already King. I just want to prove it once and for all."

"You might not even get the title kid, and then you'd have sold your soul for nothing."

"Are all the casino employees the best in their field or not?" King Dice asks sharply, leaning forward.

The Devil frowns at his taunting, "They are." He growls.

"Then that's all that matters to me. Winning. It's not a game if there's no risk." He doesn't remember standing up to try to loom over someone who probably invented looming. "A chance. That's all I need. And I'm willing to pay my soul for it."

He hold his gloved hand out for a shake. "Deal?"

The Devil shoots out an unnaturally strong hand to grip his in a handshake that feels like liquid fire.

"Deal."

-

He and his small luggage are taken to a guest suite that looks like a bigger nicer version of his own apartment. Sans the tipsy hothead on his sofa.

He hopes the bar is doing well. He's never been away so long before.

A knock on his door moves him from his absent gazing out the window into what is most certainly Hell. He opens the door to a beautiful elegant woman who inclines her head at him. "King Dice?"

"Ma'am." He bows slightly and lets her in.

"You are the one who wishes to challenge?" She perches daintily on the pure white sofa. Dice is kind of afraid he'll stain the sofa if he so much as breathes near it.

"Yes, you must be Pirouletta. It is an honor to meet you."

She smiles and arranges her checkered skirt, "You have manners, how... refreshing."

They make chit-chat. The exact kind that grates on his nerves but he's still giddy from everything so he serves her tea and finds some cookies to plate up. While they nibble on snacks she gives him his 'schedule' for the upcoming week.

"You'll fight each of us everyday this week. Pip and Dot always fight together so 8 challengers in 7 days. It's the only way we can continue to run the Casino while this is going on and bring in a good crowd. You understand."

Dice nods, and before he can stop it, laughs out of sheer excitement. Pirouletta pauses in the act of bringing her cup up to sip.

"What a lovely smile, dear. I hope you survive the week."

-

The first fight takes place in the Casino, strangely enough. There's a pool table that the Devil shrinks them for, so that every curious casino goer could see the fight. Dice looks down at himself, now the size of a hand, and feels something welling up in his throat.

Looking up at the Devil, who's lounging at the other end of the table amongst cheering demons, ghosts and skeletons he wonders if it's fear.

When he sees his opponent squaring up, Mangosteen, now many many times smaller and only a head (presumably his arms would get in the way?) he feels his heart racing and smiles.

"A good day for a swell battle!" He hears over the noise of everything. "You're UP!"

Then he laughs, an eerie sound that seems to cut through the crowd's cheers. He doesn't pay attention to how the crowd quiets at that for a bit, everyone strangely unsettled. The Devil keeps his grin in place, eyes focused on the white-suited challenger.

Finally, minutes later and with Mangosteen worryingly vomiting up what seems to be his guts, Dice realizes what he's been feeling.

Excitement.

-

Wheezy sighs at finally reaching Inkwell Hell. He's dusty, tired and still vaguely nauseous from the boatride but dammit he's going to watch his best friend beat the Devil's Casino no matter what.

It's emptier than he thought it'd be.

He makes his way to the bar, something soothingly familiar. A short man in a server uniform is on a stool, standing to try to see over what seems to be a crowd but sounds like a boxing match. The lady nods at him and quirks a brow at his suitcase.

"What'll ya have darlin'?"

"A glass of water ma'am."

There's a guy as big as he is who frowns at him, "You a teetotaler or somethin'?" Wheezy laughs at that.

"Naw, just celebrating something. Do you know where I could find someone called King Dice?"

As the man sets his drink down in front of him, the gal jabs one finely painted nail to the middle of the screaming crowd.

Wheezy sighs into his water, "Figures" he mutters before he knocks it back.

-

He makes his way through the crowd, thankful of his bulk. He didn't have Dice's pointy elbows or his willingness to use them to make a path.

He ends up in what seems to be a domino table. Except, there's a grinding wall of spikes on one end of a conveyor belt. That his friend is running on.

He rubs his eyes.

Dice is...like five inches tall. What the hell...

On the other side of the conveyor belt are two dominoes swinging with the meanest grins he's ever seen. Dice is dodging strange winged creatures and seems to be shooting...cards.

Oh god I hope he's not using the deck with the sharp edges.

He'd seen Dice slice a block of wood in half with one well flicked card, it was kind of horrifying.

The two swinging split open and spit out a bright pink many sided die. Ooo, bad move.

Dice bounces himself off the spike wall and just...punches the dice back at them. Wheezy is pretty sure his brass knuckles are under those suspicious gloves now that he thinks about it.

A loud bell announces the end of the match, the vicious lower domino kicks the upper one in an impressive show of flexibility and rage. But Wheezy only has eyes for the tiny white-suited figure of his friend.

Without thinking he reaches in and picks up the small Dice. Dice whirls around with one of those terrifying sneers, still panting from presumably running nonstop the whole battle. But he perks up right quick when he sees Wheezy.

"WHEEZE!" His voice is TINY. Wheezy is going to die because he cooed at Dice and got his fool self murdered. "HOW ARE YOU HERE??"

He seems to be unaware he's shouting, although that might be the only way to get heard over this crowd. Dice collapses back on his open palm as Wheezy raises him up to eye-level.

"I couldn't miss this. You've only been talking about it for the past eight years Dice."

Out of nowhere Dice grows a couple of feet and Wheezy is left holding him up until he fills out completely. Luckily, he's as bafflingly light as ever.

Dice thanks him but Wheezy catches the annoyed flicker of an eye towards a corner. He casually glances that way and sees what could only be the casino owner.

The Devil.

He's ...fuzzier than Wheezy thought he'd be. He's also got one of those terrifying smiles in their direction.

Distracted with that, Dice steals his handkerchief from the inside of his coat, to pat at the sweat on his face before it stains his clothes. Wheezy tries to put that unsettling yellow and red stare out of his mind.

"You're out of shape."

"Shut up." Dice beams. Jeez, he's positively giddy, Wheezy hasn't seen him be this chipper since the last time someone challenged him to darts. He's grabbed and dragged back to the bar to escape the pressing crowd that's slow to disperse.

"Wheezy, these are Ms.Martini, Mr.Whisky and Mr.Scotch." He introduces the three. Wheezy takes off his hat and shakes hands with everybody, kissing the back of Ms. Martini's hand to her delight.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all."

They make polite small talk while Dice drains three cups of water in rapid succession. They kind of watch him incredulously, but Wheezy has long grown used to Dice's ability to just...not need to breath for a long time.

"Three matches left my dear, how are you feeling?"

A beautiful lady in a roulette checkered dress glides towards them, she's got a sly smile on and Wheezy can barely keep her gaze. She moves like a dancer, he thinks.

"I'm feeling good. Ah, Pirouletta this is my good friend, Mr. Wheezy."

"It's an honor to meet you ma'am." Wow, he's never felt so grubby in his life. He forgot to shave this morning. Oh god, this is terrible-

"Another gentleman I see," She hold out her hand and curtsies shallowly as he places a kiss on the air above her knuckles. Dice is smiling widely at him, canines dangerously glinting in the casino light. He's never going to live this down, he knows.

"Will you be staying to support your friend, Mr.Wheezy?"

"Ah yes, I wouldn't miss it for the world." He puts an arm around Dice's shoulders, squeezing lightly. He thinks he can feel Dice vibrating in place.

"Will you be requiring a guest room? I can make sure you're accommodated." Was she the manager? She seemed like an important person if she could do something like that.

"Well, I-"

"He'll be staying with me." Dice interrupts, green eyes pale and smile still in place. Wheezy has half a mind to object out of fear of declining anything to the lady's face, but that was basically what he'd been hoping for as well.

Pirouetta raises one fine eyebrow and inclines her head with a smile. "Very well. I'll see you tomorrow then, King Dice. Mr.Wheezy."

She glides off and Wheezy is left feeling his cheeks redden. He looks down to see Dice's judging eyebrow. "Shut your gob. Take us to your rooms."

They waved to the bartenders, who had been busy filling out orders as patrons trickled back to all corners of the casino.

-

Wheezy stares. "It's..."

"Big, I know. I keep feeling like someone is hiding in it, it's so big."

He's set his dusty suitcase by the door, looking at the fancy white walls and white carpeting in trepidation. Then he sees the sofa.

"I'm kind of scared to go near it."

Dice laughs, carefully stripping off his suit and vest. Despite his words, he seems already used to the opulence of the room enough to mess it up with hangers everywhere and what seems to be three different decks splayed across the dining table.

"There's a table. How's it feel to be so fancy?" He ribs.

Dice snorts while unbuttoning his shirt. Everything is white except for the bow tie he'd bought Dice as a present. He makes his way over, suit jacket in hand to help Dice with his binder.

There's some slight bruising, and Dice probably hadn't been breathing well by the end of all that running with it on. Wheezy makes a protesting noise but Dice flaps his hand at him. "It's fine, those were just some hits that Chips Bettigan got in yesterday."

"Leave it off for a while," Dice opens his mouth, but Wheezy cuts him off, "I know- I know. Ruins the lines of your suits and all that. Just for tonight then. Give your ribs some rest."

Dice laughs and shoots off an insouciant "Yes, mother.". Wheezy slaps his ass in retaliation like some nickering horse at the races and has to duck the spray of harmless cards. He's never forgotten that poor block of wood.

"So, how long can you stay?" Dice asks, folding his pants up neatly and meandering towards the bathroom in nothing but his boxers and sock garters. He looks like some strange advert for menswear.

Wheezy shrugs, even though the other can't see, wandering the strange suite,"As long as it takes you to finish, I guess. I got two weeks off."

"Nice!" comes out muffled from the open bathroom. Steam is coming out from the fancy glass shower. There's a hot tub next to it. Wheezy is kind of insanely curious about it, but ducks back out and checks the next room. It's the bedroom.

Where the living room is all white, the bedroom is done in tasteful shades of black. The bed could fit five people comfortably and has what are probably silk sheets. It is of course, scarily neat and looks unlived in. Dice's work.

He goes back and is entranced by the fiery depths of hell out of the big windows until a freshly showered Dice throws a plush black towel at him.

"Go shower, you smell like a bar."

"Piss off."

Cackling, Dice dodges his halfhearted swipe and goes to the shiny black phone to order dinner for them both.

A while later he hears Wheezy shout from the bathroom, "There's fancy shaving cream in here!"

Dice snorts and shouts back, "It's to keep my mustache nice and groomed!"

There's a laugh before the clinking of bottles. "I'm going to use it!"

"It's too late, Pirouletta saw you with that scruff." Dice sing-songs back, rifling through Wheezy's stuff for a change of clothes he forgot to take with him. "She won't recognize you otherwise!"

There's a pause and then Wheezy sticks his head out of the bathroom, chin and cheeks lathered up with shaving cream. He points the straight razor at him. "You think you're funny, Dicey, but you're not."

"I think I'm hilarious."

They're interrupted by a soft knocking and Dice goes to take the platters from the server while Wheezy finishes beautifying.

-

After the fancy dinner, Wheezy will just call everything in this place fancy, they avoid the couch and decide to lounge around the bed. It's not as nerve wracking.

"Black hides the bloodstains best, didn't you say that?" Wheezy mumbles sleepily, victorious after gathering half the pillows around him to keep them from Dice's pillow thieving ways. There comes a sleepy affirmative from the other side of the bed, where Dice is curled up almost into a ball. They've made strange nests out of the exaggerated amount of pillows on the bed.

Who would ever use so many pillows?

They've shared a bed before, but it was Dice's small one. It was either curl up together or fall off. Dice didn't make much noise but woke up on a hair trigger and came up swinging. This huge bed would hopefully keep Wheezy out of punching range.

That was the last thought he had before he dozed off all the way.

[runesrule]

"Girls kick ass; says so on a t-shirt”: Feminism in James Cameron’s ‘Dark Angel’

Author’s note: goes without saying the following meta contains some spoilers, and language warning coz it’s me writing it. Now, read on. 

Recently, I have dived into a re-watch of James Cameron’s cyberpunk/biopunk scifi Dark Angel. The first time I watched Dark Angel was sometime around 2009-2010 mark, and a few things about it made a serious impact on my budding ideas of feminism. The series, which ran for two seasons from 2000-2002, is the story of Max, a genetically-engineered super-soldier (or ‘transgenic’) who escapes the top-secret government facility known as Manticore as a child. She, along with twelve of her ‘siblings’ split up in order to disappear into a ‘pseudo-post-apocalyptic police state’ AKA a United States of America where an Electromagnetic Pulse has wiped out most of the technology pre-2009. She eventually becomes entangled with Eyes Only, an idealistic hacker battling police corruption and the oppressive regime which controls Seattle, where most of the action in the series happens. Eyes Only AKA Logan Cale, is a cyberjournalist played by Michael Weatherby. 

James Cameron has said that Max is medium of bringing back the ‘tough, female warrior’ to our TV screens, and for most part, he succeeded. The character, played by Jessica Alba, poses an interesting question in regards to feminism. On one hand, Max AKA X5-452, is undoubtedly a warrior; a bad-ass, ass-kicker with a banging bod, who oozes female sexuality and doesn’t back down from a fight. However, it really isn’t Max’s downright lethal fighting skills, or her sharp, scalding wit that make her memorable to me. It’s her relationships throughout the series with other women that always attracted me to the series, and to the character herself. In the first season is Max’s roommate, the perky, blonde Kendra as well as the wonderful series regular, Original Cindy, a black, gay woman who is Max’s best friend, as well as Asha, the idealistic crusader against government corruption. Asha’s one of those characters who gets dismissed as the unwanted third point on the inevitable love triangle. She’s introduced as a further complication in Max and Logan’s heart-wrenching love story in the second season (Uh, geez, Cliffnotes version: Max gets injected with a virus that’s targeted directly for Logan’s DNA sequence, when Manticore discovers his secret identity as Eyes Only). The thing is, Asha is so much damn more than simply a love interest. She’s a fighter for the S1W, a group of activists working with Eyes Only to fight the good fight, a great friend to Logan, and a genuinely decent human being. Ultimately, despite her position as the ‘other woman’ in the narrative, she and Max not only find common ground, but on more than one occasion, the two of them actively display mutual respect for one another. As rare and uncommon as that is in the love triangle trope, it’s the fact that despite initial hostilities between them—to be fair, Max is basically hostile to everyone she doesn’t know and love—they manage to move beyond the romantic entanglements. It’s a refreshing example of women supporting women, despite the narrative having every opportunity to pit them against one another in a bikini-wearing, wet t-shirt catfight to the death. It might be my lifetime membership to the SHARON CARTER IS NOT HERE TO BE STEVE ROGERS’ GODDAMN LOVE INTEREST club, but I really, really adore Asha and Max’s relationship. Next up to the discussion booth is the one, the only, the incredible Cynthia McEachin AKA ‘Original Cindy’. Hit me up: how many black, gay women who wear their natural hair, are nurturing and kind as well as sassy and unafraid to throw a few punches are actually represented in today’s media? Right?? Anyway, Original Cindy is Max’s best friend. She’s sex-positive as hell and multi-faceted. She’s also a normal-sized human, which is a nice element to have when Jessica Alba is running around being lithe and tiny and fit as hell. I am one thousand percent here for more Original Cindy’s in popular culture. Firstly, she has an understandable what the actual fuck reaction to finding out that her best friend is a genetically engineered super-soldier on the run from shady Men In Black types who will kill and maim whoever they have to in order to get their hands on her. Then, when she’s processed, she stands by Max, unhesitatingly. At one point, she literally puts herself between Max and a sniper’s rifle while pretending to be Max’s hostage. (However, she’s also biphobic as hell, uses some fairly transphobic language at one point in Season One and the one time Cindy gets a grounded, well-rounded love interest, Diamond gets stuck in the ‘bury your gays’ plot. Horrifically.) Of course, no discussion of feminism is complete without addressing our transwomen. I guess the fact that there is actually something to discuss gives the show props? I’m cisgender, so I’m not qualified to write from any platform of authority. The facts are this: Louise is a transwoman (who, by the way, is played by a transwoman Jessica Crockett) and lesbian who dates our heroine’s hard-to-like boss Normal before realising she’s gay. I would love to hear from any transwomen who might have watched Dark Angel, and what they think of Louise. As I said, a lot of the language surrounding Louise’s split second feature in a S1 filler ep is problematic and dated. She’s kind of outed against her will when Original Cindy rifles through her purse in order to find out what kind of woman would go out with Normal at all. The thing that always stuck in my mind is that Normal doesn’t give a shit that she’s trans, and it’s only the fact that she likes women that stops him from pursuing her romantically. To continue on the ‘Your favs are problematic’ roll I’ve got going now, let’s talk about Annie. Annie is introduced in Season 2 as a love interest for Joshua, a Manticore experiment who has ‘dog in his cocktail’ resulting in some altered facial features and super senses, as well as truly abominable table manners. She’s a black, blind woman who receives a grand total of three episodes before being unceremoniously murdered by Season 2’s antagonist Ames White. Her death facilitates Joshua moving to Terminal City, where the grand finale of the series goes down. Phew, boy. It’s telling that I completely forgot about Annie’s existence until this recent re-watch. The thing that drives me completely mad is that narratively there were ways around this. Sure, there always is, but sometimes character deaths are the most straight-forward, least convulated way to move a plot forward. I’m a writer, I get that. Sometimes it sucks, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Annie’s death did not have to happen. Sure, her murder by White shocks the audience into realising that Ames is indeed a monster (There were some episodes preceeding this one where his attitude towards his Murder All The Non-Humans deal seems to be softening slightly), and forces Joshua to move to Terminal City, where they find the rest of the Manticore transgenics and stage a last stand. But… Annie’s murder takes place during a chase to find Joshua in the labryth-like setting of the sewers under the city. Another series regular, Max’s workmate and friend the dorky, lovable Sketchy, is also in the sewers, chasing the story for his beloved gossip rag. He emerges, unscathed from the battle, while Annie is left behind to die at Ames’ hands. Now, Sketchy has had a heap of close calls: he’s been kidnapped by the government goons chasing Max and released on the assumption that he’s a bumbling idiot (Spoiler alert: he’s actually not) He’s also been knocked out by Max on more than one occasion and nearly beaten to death by a bunch of ‘steel-heads’: cybernetically enhanced punks. Sketchy is comic relief. He’s the jester of the court; you want to wound our heroes and shock the audience? Take him out. This is a character we’ve been rolling our eyes and laughing at for two straight seasons, and he would have died before we saw his redemption from hating the transgenics to realising that he’s best friends with two of them in Alec and Max. How is that not just as tragic as Annie’s death? I suppose because Sketchy is a loud, skinny white boy not a gentle, helpless blind woman whom Joshua loves, because as always Man Pain™ must win out. (I mean no disrespect to Joshua; Joshua is a golden retriever human and must be protected at all costs) See, Sketchy dies in the sewers, our heroes are collectively enraged and heart-broken, and Joshua still moves to Terminal City because it could have been Annie who died, I must protect her, whine-whine, howl at the moon, love sucks. See? We get to keep Annie and her guide dog Billie alive, and the plot continues in the exact same way, Man Pain™ included. 

So I don’t mean to try and make out that ‘Dark Angel’ is a bad show. It may fall victim a little to the our strong female lead is strong because she can kill twenty grown men with her little finger while wearing booty shorts and a bikini top type of thinking, but it is genuinely a really cool, female-led scifi with a unique idea and really cool, edgy world-building. 

Max is one of those heroes that sticks around in your head, and despite the unsatisfactory finale, ‘Dark Angel’ is a show seriously worth the watch. 

[mysoftboybensolo]

Short story, I loved Beauty and the Beast remake, and instead of doing a review, I am just going to write stuff that I either noticed and/or liked. 

There will be spoilers, so that is why I am writing them beneath the line. 

1) I am so glad they corrected the whole 21st birthday thing as well as to why the villagers did not know about the castle. 

2) I really enjoyed the intro, some people didn’t, but I loved that we really got to see just how the Prince really acted, and he was so gaudy as fuck. And the imagery of the one dark figure among the many figures of white, really symbolic. 

3) That transformation looked really painful. 

4) I love that they kept that transition from “Who could ever learn to love a beast?” and then into the title and then to Belle’s house, just like the cartoon.

5) There is an actual reason as to why people think she is odd, before it was just like, kind of implied, but here, it really was clear. They think it is weird that a woman wants to read, and that makes you really become more on Belle and Maurice’s side. 

6) Jean and Pere Robert are great side characters, and I love that Pere Robert really seemed to have been the only one to truly care for her and Maurice. 

7) “Will you jave dinner with me?” “Oh, sorry, but I am busy.” “Seeing someone?” “No.”

8) Lefou being goofy but not a goofy cartoon like character. 

9) Maurice’s and Belle’s relationship, you can really tell they love each other. 

10) Belle is an inventor, and she wanted to help teach girls, even if it meant one girl at a time, but those damn villagers. 

11) “Mama said I wasn’t supposed to move. Sorry.” “That’s alright.” Quickly gets up to run away. 

12) Kevin Kline was just so awesome as Maurice, let’s be real.

13) I like that we see Belle do some house work; not that I mean she has to be a simple housewife, but it was worrisome to me that in the cartoon that all that it seemed she did was read. At least here we see she does do some dirty work. 

14) They re-wrote the prison scene, but I really liked it. Even though Maurice picked a rose, the Beast wasn’t being a loser that’s like “how dare you?”. It still was about him trespassing, but it also added a level of bitterness that he had, when he said, paraphrasing here, that why should he be the only one to suffer because a rose?

15) Belle being a boss ass bitch and switching her place with Maurice. So awesome. 

16) Lumiere and Cogsworth are pretty much as awesome as the original cartoon. Plumette and his relationship was so cute, and it was so endearing/heartbreaking with Cadenza and Madame Garderobe. Plus, they were both two interracial couples! I personally like the designs of Mrs. Potts and Chip, I thought they were adorable. 

17) Hearing the notes to “Home” when Belle is presented to her room. 

18) The song Gaston was so fun and I think Josh Gad was perfect to lead the song. Plus, love the additional lyrics. 

19) Be Our Guest was so colorful. And I am so proud of Ewan Mcgregor for doing a great job of it!

20) I loved the addition of that whenever a petal falls, a part of the castle breaks apart. And also, I love that Belle really got an image or seen what the Prince looks like as a human man, but a child, meaning that she could really love him as he is, and not know that underneath it all is the handsome Dan Stevens. 

21) When they quote Shakespeare together it was so cute, and when he is like “Romeo and Juliet? Girl, you need to read more, here.” The adorableness of their scene in the library, when he makes a joke and her squeal of joy. 

22) Her reading a poem to him, their snowball fight and the soup scene. These adorable babies!

23) “Maybe we could run away.” AAAAAAWWWWW! :) “Whenever I enter a room, laughter dies away.” aaaawwwww :””””(

24) Gaston is such a dick ass, leaving Maurice to die, hoping to pressure Belle into marrying him. But Agatha comes to save him, and she proves to be a guardian angel to the both of Maurice and Belle. 

25) That scene with the magic book and finding out Belle’s past was sad, but it was so sweet when she said “Let’s go home” and he looks happy, because she thinks of the castle as home. 

26) Getting the Beast prepared and there is references to the stage show. I love Belle’s dress, I love that it was original and it felt like it was made specifically for her. The dance was just so beautiful, and that moment when he dips her and then lifts her with all those lights, gah! So magical!

27) Her pain when she is leaving the Beast. Sure, she has to go and save her father, but you could see that it does hurt her to leave the Beast too. 

28) I loved that the Beast told everyone that he was sorry for not saving them, and it really shows just how sorry he is for how he had acted. And shut up Cogsworth! Him blabbering on about how Belle clearly doesn’t love the Beast RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM!

28)  We may not have gotten that painful, heartbreaking moment when the Beast says he let Belle go because he loved her, but Evermore was a wonderful replacement. It broke my heart to watch him keep climbing up to watch her leave, as if he has to see her until the very end, and the fact that he stayed up there the whole time, even when the mob comes in, because he is just hoping, with every fiber within him, that she would come back.

29) That fight scene was both awesome and humorous. I was so glad Lefou got the chance to be a good character rather than a stock villainous character. Also, let’s give props to the added line, “There’s a beast, running wild, there’s no question, but I fear the wrong monster’s released.” Like DAMN!

30) “Did you honestly think she’d want you?” And that is why your arrows were taken away Gaston. And that is also why you got a pretty awesome death scene.

31) The Beast when he yelled “Belle” and I honestly loved it when he told her that she should stay there, that he will come to her. The Beast had been shot at, no doubt in pain and is so far away from her, and yet he is willing to risk it in order to be with her. And that line, “I am not a beast”, so badass and wonderful. And still, his insistence to get to Belle, ugh, what a pull at the heartstrings. 

32)  "You came back." “Of course I did. I'll never leave you again.” “I'm afraid it's my turn to leave." “But we're together now, everything will be fine.” “At least I got to see you one last time..” Ouch!

33) Watching the staff slowly become objects was so heartbreaking, especially when Garderobe and Cadenza finally got to see each other and they lose each other. 

34) I love that there were no words for the Transformation scene, that everything we need to know what they are feeling is read in their faces and how lovely their kiss was. How adorable it was to see the staff returning to their human selves and reuniting with their loved ones. 

35) “What is it”  “How do you feel about a beard?” (this is said jokingly people, calm it the fuck down) *gives one damn sexy growl*

Overall, I loved the movie and I definitely want to see it again. The music was beautiful, even the new songs, the costumes were familiar and yet refreshing, and it was beautifully acted. Next time, I will post some headcanons I have of the Beast/Prince’s backstory.