#and appreciating each other at the same time

[brightlotusmoon]

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When Wallace Shawn first read the script for "The Princess Bride," he paused over a single word that would later define his character, Vizzini. The line simply read: “Inconceivable!” with no instruction on delivery or emphasis. In an interview with "Entertainment Weekly," Shawn recalled sitting alone in his apartment, repeating the word again and again into a tape recorder. He felt that a straightforward reading would flatten Vizzini’s absurd confidence. He wanted to infuse the exclamation with a rhythm that matched the character’s inflated sense of superiority.

He began experimenting with dozens of pronunciations, from a drawn-out lament to a quick bark. Finally, he settled on a clipped, high-pitched version that turned the word into a sneering challenge. He explained that he aimed to create the impression Vizzini believed he was the only intelligent person in any conversation. Shawn described this process as a kind of “private laboratory,” where he tried to craft something that sounded musical and sharp without losing the comedic edge.

During the filming of "The Princess Bride" in 1987, he quickly learned his instincts had struck a chord. Mandy Patinkin and Cary Elwes often repeated “Inconceivable!” in the same singsong tone during breaks. At first, Shawn worried they were mocking him. He admitted in a conversation with the "New York Times" that he would return to his trailer feeling uneasy about whether the cast respected his performance. However, Patinkin later assured him they repeated the word because it had become an instant favorite.

Shawn also revealed that the director, Rob Reiner, encouraged him to keep pushing the exaggeration further. Reiner wanted Vizzini to feel like a man so certain of his brilliance that even obvious contradictions never shook his faith in his own conclusions. Shawn credited this encouragement for giving him the freedom to take the line to its most ridiculous extreme.

During one of the early table reads, Reiner had asked Shawn to deliver the line in as many different ways as possible, just to hear how far they could stretch its comedic potential. Shawn later shared with "Variety" that this exercise led to some hilariously overblown attempts, including one where he nearly lost his voice from shouting “Inconceivable!” across the rehearsal hall. Though many of these takes never made it to set, they helped him discover the precise delivery that would define Vizzini’s character.

Cast members were not the only ones fascinated by Shawn’s performance. Crew members began joking that no one could pronounce the word the same way twice once they had heard his version. During an interview with "The A.V. Club," Cary Elwes remembered that whenever Shawn stepped into a scene, everyone braced themselves for the moment he would declare something “Inconceivable!” and break the tension with laughter.

Shawn found the attention both flattering and bewildering. He said he never imagined a single word could eclipse everything else he had done in the film. Yet over time, he accepted that it was this very fixation that proved how effective the choice had been.

He also shared that he kept a small notebook from that period where he wrote different ways to say the word, each one labeled with a description like “arrogant,” “smug,” or “singing.” That notebook remains one of his favorite mementos from the production, a record of the painstaking, almost obsessive process of turning a simple line into a cultural phenomenon.

He explained that even decades later, strangers would approach him with wide grins and deliver their own interpretations of “Inconceivable!” Some would lean in close, lowering their voices to a conspiratorial whisper, while others would shout it across a crowded street. Shawn often responded by nodding appreciatively and thinking back to those early days in his apartment, alone with his tape recorder, determined to find the version that would sound just right.

Shawn’s careful crafting of Vizzini’s signature cry proves that even a single word can become unforgettable when an actor is willing to explore every possibility until the perfect sound emerges.

[spikedfearn]

Heavy Lies The Crown

Chapter II

Sir Jimmy Crystal x fem!reader

summary: Decades after the Rage Virus devastated the UK, the infected have thinned but the world remains lawless and brutal. You’ve been surviving on your own until you’re captured by patrols from a notorious compound hidden in the Scottish Highlands: Eden. Its soldiers are strange—clad in random mismatched tracksuits, long blonde hair hanging tangled and wild like heathen halos, each armed with beautifully maintained bows. Silent. Precise. Unsmiling.

And then there’s their leader. Sir Jimmy Crystal. A gold-chained, tiara-wearing, crushed velvet zip-up psycho with a God complex thicker than his drawl. He doesn’t want to kill you. He intends to keep you.

wc: 11.2k

a/n: wasn’t expecting the Jimmy fic to get so much hate, but honestly? It just made me wanna make him extra gross and grimy. So here you go—extra unhinged, extra filthy, and extra long 😘!! big thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for beta reading, you're the backbone of the Jack O'Connell fandom on tumblr!!

warnings: dark!romance, dead dove: do not eat, post-apocalyptic setting, cult dynamics, abduction, captivity, forced proximity, authoritarian/power dynamics, God complex, psychological manipulation, ritualistic obedience, choking, breath play, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, cumplay, spit kink, overstimulation, corruption arc, sexual tension, graphic violence, intimidation, d/s dynamics, forced bathing, worship themes, verbal degradation, possessive behavior, cult themes, brainwashing, forced religious imagery, indoctrination, twisted morality, stockholm syndrome, dubcon, escape attempt, childhood trauma, trauma bonding, power imbalance, manipulative affection, non-traditional grooming

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Chapter II: My King, Glory Onto Thee

The first thing you notice is the warmth.

A hearth burning low. The crackle of wood being eaten slowly by flame. The sting of moss and woodsmoke curling deep into your nose. You draw a breath before you open your eyes, and when you do, the world swims slowly into focus.

You’re in a room that doesn’t match the ruins you passed through the night before. Not the crumbling chapel. Not the moss-slick corridors. This space feels kept. Not grand, not orderly, but loved in its own strange way—every surface cluttered with relics of a long-dead world.

The walls are patched stone, lined with warped shelves and crooked cabinets. Upon them, a trove of forgotten toys rests like sacred idols. A Power Rangers action figure, scuffed and chipped but still standing proud. A Teletubbies lamp—long extinguished—grinning its eerie smile from a shadowed corner. A Barney the Dinosaur plush, faintly torn and patched with thread, resting beside a Digimon figurine with its tail snapped off. A Pokemon lunchbox, its paint faded but still hopeful, tucked between a stack of brittle comic books and a metal tin adorned with neon spaceships.

The floor is layered with faded rugs and long-stitched pelts, old and threadbare but softened by time. The air hums faintly with dust and dried flowers. The ceiling beams are adorned with ropes and dried herbs that twist like old vines. Against one wall rests a long, low pallet—not a bed, not a cot, but a nest of patched blankets and animal hides. The one you’ve just woken upon.

You shift, brushing a hand across the threads. The room doesn’t just hold you. It keeps you.

The sound of movement draws your attention sharply. The door creaks open.

Two figures slip inside. The same two that had stood witness as Sir Jimmy Crystal announced your name the night before. The same hands that tightened the rope around your wrists now bear a chipped bowl and a tin cup. One is wearing a red Adidas tracksuit patched with old flannel, the other blue Nike replaced by crude stitching, both made of nylon fabric. Their long blonde hair hangs in tangles down their backs.

They don’t scowl. They don’t sneer. They bow their heads as they cross the threshold, brushing their hands to their chests before looking at you. Not like a prisoner anymore. Not like a thing. But like someone. Someone special.

Holy.

“Petal,” the one in red breathes, voice soft-boiled out of childlike awe. Not ‘you.’ Not ‘her.’

“He said you’d be awake soon.”

The other gestures to the tin cup, setting it down beside you. The water is lukewarm, faintly smelling of boiled metal and woodsmoke.

“We’re to bathe you,” she adds quietly, brushing long strands of hair from her own sharp, too-thin face. “To make you clean. As He commanded.”

Through the open door, the hallway beyond is faintly illuminated by a guttering lamp. The walls out there bear the same strange, shrine-like clutter: a shelf lined with broken action figures and figurines, torn comic book pages plastered like holy scripture, a long-abandoned Game Boy wedged between chipped jars. The air hums with old memories and fresh obedience.

Here, surrounded by relics of a boyhood long ago lost, by threads and scraps of a world gone quiet, you understand:

This room doesn’t just belong to Him.

It’s a piece of the man he used to be, pressed and dried between the pages of decay—a relic. A treasure. A warning.

And, as the two draw closer, reaching for your hands, brushing hair from your face with practiced care, you can only wonder:

What will Eden ask of its newest seedling?

What will He make of its newest flower?

But when one of them gestures for you to rise, to disrobe, to walk with them to the wash basin—something in you snaps. You draw yourself up sharply and fix them both with a stare that burns.

“I can wash myself,” you bite, “if He’s so desperate for obedience, maybe He needs a bath first.”

They hesitate. Just long enough for you to register the shock that blazes across their faces, making the room seem suddenly too quiet.

The two women glance at each other—quick, sharp. Not afraid of you, precisely, but wary of making a wrong move. They wait until you stand, taking your sweet time, brushing the dust from your grimy attire. Not like one of theirs. Not like some feral thing to be scrubbed and collared. But like someone making a statement with every breath.

Then one of them gestures, slow and cautious, toward a long, shallow basin set upon a low table in the corner. The water within is faintly steaming, laced with dried petals and faint traces of moss. It doesn’t smell like any luxury you remember from before. The world doesn’t have luxuries anymore. But it’s clean. Careful. An offering.

“He said you were to be bathed,” the woman whispers, voice soft as freshly fallen snow, “to be made clean. We’ll help if you need it.”

You draw closer, the pads of your fingers skimming across the surface of the water. The warmth bleeds into your skin—sudden and soothing. The petals shift under your hand. The faint crackle of dried moss reminds you of the earth itself. The air here is thick. Not like the cold mist of the woods, but like a room that knows it has a purpose.

Behind you, the second woman shifts the door shut, the sound swallowing itself quickly. The room narrows to this moment: you and the two women, bathed in faint lamp glow. You don’t ask for help. You don’t need help. Not anymore.

With slow, deliberate precision, you shrug free of the threadbare shirt that has felt like a second skin. The air tightens. The two women glance down instantly, the threads of their tracksuits shifting as if some celestial weight rests upon their shoulders. Not because you’ve exposed skin. Not because you’ve undressed. But because you chose it.

Willingly.

In a place where obedience is enforced, where silence is holy, choice is an alien concept.

One of them exhales sharply as you step into the shallow basin. The water embraces your legs, rising higher as you sink to your knees. The petals shift, brushing your skin like ghostly fingers. The other woman kneels beside the basin, hand hovering over the surface of the water, unable to touch until granted permission.

“He said you were special,” she murmurs, voice low. “That you weren’t like the rest of us.”

You flinch, just a little, not because you disagree, but because of the terror in how she says them. Not suspicion. Not disdain.

Reverence.

The other woman returns with a cloth—torn from a long-ago bed sheet, worn smooth. You don’t ask for it, don’t accept it. You raise a hand sharply, brushing wet tendrils of hair from your neck, reaching for the cloth. The woman freezes, then bows her head and hands it to you.

You wash yourself.

Each stroke of the cloth is deliberate, every bead of water on your skin illuminated in the faint glow. The room doesn’t breathe until you’ve rinsed your arms, your throat, your hands. Until the threads of dried moss and petals cling to your knees. Until the air tastes of alga and charcoal.

Beads of water cling to your skin, cutting lazy wet trails from your shoulders down the length of your back. The room holds its breath, silent and careful.

Then, from the doorway—a soft sound.

Footsteps.

Not quiet, but not loud either. Leisurely. Certain. Purposeful.

You feel the shift before you see him, the subtle tightening of the two women, their posture rigid with nervous reverence. Neither lifts their eyes from the stone floor as the footsteps approach, then stop. Right there. At the threshold.

He doesn’t speak immediately, doesn’t announce himself. He simply fills the doorway with his presence, radiating all the authority of a leader. It spills through the space, trickling along your spine, making every nerve tense.

You don’t turn to look. You don’t have to. You can feel his gaze on your back—intense, patient, deeply amused.

The silence thickens, stretching, becoming uncomfortable. Until finally, his voice fills the quiet, velvet and whiskey-soft.

“Petal. Ye look good like that. Clean suits ye.”

He steps fully into the room then, black sneakers scuffing lightly against worn stone, closing the distance one easy, slow step at a time. He carries the scent of smoke and something faintly sweet, old wood and dried herbs clinging to him like a shroud. He pauses, eyes flicking briefly to the two women posted on either side of the door. He nods once, short and sharp.

They stand instantly. Quietly. Without argument, without hesitation. They exit the room like ghosts, door whispering shut behind them.

And then it’s just you and him.

Jimmy shifts his weight, leaning back against a cluttered shelf crowded with those childish relics, arms folded casually across his chest. You can hear the scrape of fabric, the gentle tap of a ring against wood.

“Had a chance tae settle in, have ye?”

His tone is conversational, almost playful—but there’s something buried beneath it, a quiet warning that runs like wire through silk.

You glance over your shoulder, deliberately slow. Defiant. Careful. You don’t speak. Not yet.

He grins when your eyes meet his, that charismatic, unsettling smile sliding across his face—warm, boyish, deeply unsettling in its innocence.

He shifts closer, pausing to pluck something from the shelf—a small, faded Pokémon figurine, its paint chipped, its eyes hollow. He turns it slowly between his fingers, gaze fixed on it, momentarily childlike.

“Funny, innit? How things from before…” he trails off, rubbing a thumb over the worn plastic. “We still cling to ‘em, don’t we? Like they’re special. Precious. Even after they’ve broken.”

His eyes flicker back to yours—sharp, intense, strangely vulnerable beneath the twisted humor.

“But even broken things have their place, Petal. Don’t they?”

Your chest tightens. You don’t answer—not immediately. Instead, you lift your chin just slightly, meeting his gaze head-on.

He chuckles softly at your quiet defiance, setting the figurine carefully back onto the shelf.

“Ah, quiet today, aren’t ye?” He shakes his head slightly, hair falling messily across his eyes. “Gotta say, I’m surprised. Thought ye’d be mouthin’ off again by now. Guess the water washed away more than just dirt, huh?”

That does it. You narrow your eyes, feeling the words sharpen on your tongue. You know better than to bait him, but something in you can’t resist. Can’t help testing the wire between you, feeling how much pressure it takes before it snaps.

“Maybe I just didn’t have anything to say to a grown man playing with his toys.”

His eyebrows lift, slow and deliberate. Not anger—interest. Delight.

“Oh,” he breathes, soft and dangerously amused. “There ye are.”

He pushes off the shelf, slowly stepping toward you, the worn soles of his shoes echoing softly against the floor. His eyes never leave yours, locked in, hungry with a child’s selfish need to own, to possess, to conquer. He stops close—too close, the heat of him pressing against the cool, damp air around you.

“I was worried I’d lost ye already. Thought I’d have tae work harder tae coax that bratty wee tongue out.”

His voice drops lower, nearly a whisper now.

“But we’ve plenty o’ time for that, don’t we, Petal?”

He’s still standing so close—close enough that you can feel the heat of him radiating into your chilled skin. Close enough that each breath feels like borrowed air. His eyes roam deliberately, openly, tracing the droplets that linger across your collarbone, sliding down your throat and pooling at your chest before your body disappears beneath the water.

Slowly, he reaches out.

You stiffen instinctively, but his fingertips just brush your shoulder—featherlight, tracing the path of water droplets downward. It’s barely a touch, but it ignites something low and dangerous in your blood.

“Look at ye, Petal,” he murmurs, voice rich and low as honey poured over gravel. “All sharp edges and attitude, thinkin’ ye’re safe as long as ye bite.”

His hand trails lower, thumb catching a droplet just above your collarbone. Your breath catches, your heart hammering traitorously in your chest. You tilt your chin up, defiant even as heat floods beneath your skin.

He notices. Of course he does.

“There she is,” he whispers, voice thickening with amusement, his thumb brushing slowly along your collarbone. “I knew ye couldn’t stay hidden long. It’s alright tae want tae fight me. Makes it sweeter when ye give in.”

Your teeth grit, words spilling out before you can bite them back. “And if I don’t?”

His grin broadens, darker now, a shadow creeping across the corners of his eyes. He leans closer, lips hovering just near your ear.

“Ye think it matters what ye say, love?” he whispers, voice velvet-edged with warning. “In here, what matters is who owns the room. And we both know it ain’t ye.”

He draws back slowly, gaze locked on yours, fingers curling just enough to make his touch possessive. A shiver ripples down your spine, betraying you.

“I might be king round here,” he continues, softer now, gaze heavy with something dark and patient, “but I’m still just a man beneath the crown. A man with needs, Petal.”

He dips his head, his voice dropping even lower, rougher, the heat of his breath grazing your cheek.

“And my patience is wearin’ thin.”

Your heart thuds painfully in your chest. The air between you thickens, electric and raw, your breathing uneven, heavy. You feel the space narrowing, closing tighter around you both.

He pulls back just enough to see your face, studying you, savoring your silent defiance.

“How long do ye think I’ll hold back, hm?” he murmurs, lips curving slowly. “Ye’ve got fire in ye, Petal, but keep burnin’ too hot and I’ll have tae snuff it out. And believe me, sweet thing…”

His thumb slowly drags over your lower lip, parting it slightly, eyes darkening when your breath trembles against his touch.

“When I do, ye’ll thank me for it.”

He drops his hand slowly, leaving your lips cold in the absence of his heat, stepping back just enough to let you breathe again. But the room still pulses with the threat, the promise, the dark, tangled desire beneath his warning.

He smiles again, boyish and warm and utterly terrifying in how deeply you already feel yourself falling into it.

“So watch that pretty mouth,” he says, voice sliding back into a mock-innocent lilt. “Or next time, I won’t be askin’ so nicely.”

The water laps gently at your shoulders, lukewarm now, liquid tendrils slowly pruning your flesh. It offers no protection—not from him, not from his gaze that slips effortlessly over you, unapologetic and hungry. You feel exposed, vulnerable beneath that stare, but something inside you refuses to back down.

Jimmy tilts his head slightly, gaze never wavering from yours, a slow smirk spreading across his mouth

“Awful quiet now, Petal,” he murmurs softly, deliberately. "Did I manage tae tame that sharp tongue already? I expected better.”

He kneels slowly beside the basin, his presence crowding you, leaning closer until he's nearly breathing your air. You can see every tiny detail now—the tangled blonde strands of hair that fall over his forehead, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hint of boyish mischief that makes him as dangerously charming as he is unsettling.

But you refuse to wilt beneath it like a flower that's given up.

Instead, you glare up at him, raising your chin defiantly, your words steeped in venom. “Maybe I’m just waiting to see if you're brave enough to actually do something about it.”

His smile sharpens, something hot and bright glittering behind his eyes like fire under ice.

“Oh, brave enough?” He chuckles softly, low and rich, cocking his head in amusement, his breath ghosting across your cheek. “Careful what ye ask for, love.”

He reaches out slowly, fingers tracing over the surface of the water, deliberately close to where your skin hides beneath it, yet never quite touching—teasing you, testing you, daring you to move away first.

“Ye think ye're strong enough tae handle me?” he whispers, dangerously close now, voice heavy with implication. “Because once I start, Petal, I won’t be stoppin’ just because ye ask nicely.”

You feel your heartbeat quicken, betraying you again, as your pulse races against your skin. Your breath catches, voice sharpened with defiance.

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

Jimmy's lips twitch upward again, his gaze dark and possessive. He leans closer, eyes locked with yours, every word a deliberate caress against your ear.

“No. It’s supposed tae warn ye.”

Without warning, his hand dips beneath the surface, catching your jaw firmly—not harsh, but commanding, thumb brushing against your lower lip with quiet intent. Your pulse jumps at his touch, your breathing uneven and shallow, betraying a heat you want desperately to deny.

“That defiant wee mouth of yours is askin' tae be disciplined,” he whispers, close enough to feel his hot breath fan across your side profile, his voice coarse and possessive. “I’m tryin’ tae be patient, Petal. I’m tryin’ tae give ye a chance tae be good for me. But ye keep testin’ me, and soon I’m not gonna hold back.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough for you to see the raw hunger in his eyes, the thin thread of control fraying dangerously.

“I’ll take ye apart, piece by piece,” he murmurs, low and rough-edged with promise. “And trust me, ye'll love every fuckin’ minute of it.”

His calloused thumb drags slowly across your lip again, gaze heavy and unblinking, daring you—begging you—to provoke him just a little further.

And despite yourself, you feel the urge to do exactly that.

You hate the way your breath trembles.

Hate that the heat lingering on your lips is his. Hate that he looks at you like he already knows you’ll break—that you’ll thank him for it. That you’ll beg.

So you speak. Not because it’s smart. Not because it’s safe. But because it’s you.

“You talk a lot for someone who says he doesn’t ask nicely.”

Your voice isn’t as strong as you want it to be. It wavers. It cracks. But the words come out anyway—sharp and proud, as if your spine hasn’t started to shake beneath the surface.

For one perfect moment, there’s nothing.

Just stillness.

Then the air snaps like a struck match.

He moves—fast.

His hand grips your wrist, hard enough to startle but not enough to bruise. The water splashes as he pulls you upright, the warmth cascading off your skin in quick, shivering rivulets. You stumble forward out of instinct, out of balance—and suddenly his body is flush with yours.

His chest, warm and solid, pins you back against the edge of the basin. The crushed velvet texture of his deep purple tracksuit presses to your skin, the soaked fabric clinging where you’re still dripping. His other hand braces beside your head on the stone wall, caging you in.

You can feel the tension in him, taut like a wire stretched too far.

“That’s the trouble with mouths like yours,” he breathes, his forehead hovering near yours, not touching—but close. “They never know when tae stop.”

Your pulse slams in your throat. The stone is cool at your back, but his presence is scorching—full-body heat, as if every part of him is coiled with restraint he’s barely holding onto.

“Think you’ve got me on some leash, do ye?” he murmurs, voice thick, edged with something feral. “Think just ‘cause I’ve waited this long, I’ll keep waitin’?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not with the air knocked clean from your lungs.

He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face, taking in your parted lips, the flicker in your eyes, the twitch of your jaw as you try not to flinch.

“That’s what I like about ye, Petal,” he says, softer now, almost reverent. “That fight in ye. But don’t mistake my patience for mercy. Not in Eden. Not with me.”

Your breath comes shallow. His body still hasn’t moved. You can feel his heartbeat now—pounding in time with yours.

“Ye think this is about breakin’ ye?” he murmurs. “It’s not. It’s about proving you belong here. That ye were made for it.”

His voice is low, dangerous, and laced with something that sounds almost tender—if tenderness could be twisted, distorted, fed on worship and want.

Then he shifts, leaning closer, mouth beside your ear now.

“But keep mouthing off like that, love…” A soft chuckle. “And I’ll have tae do somethin’ about it.”

He doesn’t kiss you.

He just lingers—letting you feel the threat of it, the inevitability of it, hanging there like a promise too heavy to hold.

Then, finally, he steps back.

The cold hits you like a slap, your wet skin suddenly bare again without the heat of him. He lets your wrist go last—slowly, deliberately, fingers dragging away like a man not finished, just… pausing.

“Dry off,” he says, voice cool again, distant. “Then we’ll talk about that mouth.”

And with that, he turns and leaves—door swinging shut behind him like the closing of a trap.

The door shuts with a finality that echoes.

Not loud. Not slamming. But loud enough. Enough to leave its shape pressed into the walls of the room like a bruise.

You don’t move for a long time.

The water clings to your skin in thin, shivering trails. Your heart drums like it’s trying to claw its way up your throat. The place where his hand had closed around your wrist still tingles, phantom-like. Not pain. Not pleasure. Just presence.

You should be angry.

You are angry. The burn in your chest confirms it. Fury, sharp and bitter, swirls with something else—something you don’t want to name. Not heat. Not hunger.

Something worse: curiosity.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the basin, nails biting stone. You breathe through your nose, hard. Once. Twice.

You dress with shaking hands—snatching up the fabric laid out for you, something soft and far too clean for a place like this. As if someone knew you’d belong here before you ever did.

And just as you knot the thin cloth at your waist, the door creaks open again.

It’s not Jimmy.

Two of his flock—Jimmy Ink and Jimmima, you think you overhead before, though you’re not sure who’s who—stand in the doorway. Same long, matted blond hair. In their frayed, mismatched tracksuits, Same sun-dazed, glassy-eyed calm.

And, up close, you can see the red, puckered scar tissue of an inverted cross that had long since been carved into the flesh of their foreheads.

Their gazes flicker differently when they look at you.

Not curious.

Reverent.

Like you're no longer just a stranger plucked from the woods.

Like you're something claimed.

Neither of them speaks. They don’t need to. One simply gestures, head bowed. The other carries something in their arms: a towel, neatly folded, and a small object cradled carefully in their palms.

A plush rabbit.

Old. Patchy. Once white, now yellowed with age. One button eye missing.

Childhood.

Your stomach turns.

“He said you were to be shown your place,” one of them murmurs, voice hushed like they’re in a church mid-sermon.

The towel is offered to you, and without waiting for a response, they guide you from the room.

The path is narrow. Winding. The walls of Eden are damp in places, lined with ivy that’s been permitted to grow wild and tangled, like the hair of its people. There’s no hum of electricity. No modern sound at all. Just dripping water, footsteps on stone, the rustle of branches far above.

Until the air changes again. Warmer. Close.

They lead you to a door. Carved crudely but sturdy. You notice marks seared into the wood like runes—a sunburst of some kind. Radiating lines. A crown. An inverted cross. Seven x’s.

They open it for you.

The scent hits first.

Not rot. Not damp. Not the sweat and woodsmoke that saturate the rest of Eden.

This room smells of plastic. Dust. Paperbacks. Old glue. Something sweet and artificial—nostalgia embalmed.

It’s his room.

Or no—not quite. His sanctum. His retreat.

Toys line the shelves. Plastic bins overflow with battered VHS tapes. Piles of old teen magazines curl on the floor near a bunk fitted with a faded Blue’s Clues comforter. A cracked CRT television sits proudly on a table like an altar, surrounded by sticker-covered remotes and tamagotchis with dead screens.

You step inside before you realize what you’re doing.

“This is where He keeps His most precious things,” the girl says, almost dreamily.

“You’ll sleep here now,” the other adds.

There's a stretch of unsettling silence, both of them blinking at you once—twice, before they shut the door behind you.

And for the first time since arriving in Eden, you’re alone—but not free.

Not even close.

You quietly slip out of Jimmy’s sanctum not long after being left alone, the heat of being half-bathed and half-dressed clinging to your skin. You step into the corridor, bare feet pressing against cold, uneven stone, and the air embraces you—a far cry from the overwhelming warmth of his room.

The hallway is empty, silent, but the walls hum with something old: echoes of laughter too long gone, of toys peeled open, hearts carved out and replaced by faith. You move forward, tracing your fingers along rough-hewn stone, each dip and crack a story of survival, ritual, decay.

The hallway opens to the central courtyard—but even before you fully emerge, you’re hit by its effect: seven figures moving in choreographed harmony. Not dozens. Not a mob. Just seven. Seven who belong to Eden.

They’re working: carrying water, stacking wood, sharpening arrows. Their bows lean against the courtyard’s mossy bench, waiting. Their tracksuits? Clashing. Electric—neon orange next to forest green, blood red next to midnight blue. Loud in this drab world.

Their hair—shoulder-length gold, tangled and greasy, stuck to their necks and backs with sweat. Their skin sun-worn, marked with scars and theology—scratches forming crosses on necks, wrists, even the backs of hands.

They work in eerie silence—or quiet so deep it hums in your bones.

Then—

Jimmy steps into the courtyard.

They all still immediately. Heads bow. Knees bend. The air slackens as though the world itself tips toward him.

He advances, tracksuit hanging open over his chest scars, chestnut-blond hair over his shoulders, eyes sharp as cracked glass. He breathes in once and the courtyard leans forward with him.

“Mornin’, me beautiful bastards,” he sings out, voice warm and brittle like aged whiskey. “D’you pray this mornin’, or think I’m sleepin’ in, eh?”

Their voices ring collectively:

“Sir Jimmy.”

“Sir!”

“Blessed be!”

Their tone is worshipful—shook off mundane life, baptized in his godhood.

He twirls on dusty stone, raising arms wide—as if the world is made of nothing but his command.

Your throat tightens. You step back, weaving along the shadow of a broken pillar. You know they’ll obey. All seven of them. You also know the intimacy here is exclusive—and you’re watching a private performance.

You shift, cloth clinging to damp skin. Your stomach clenches when they approach: one of them glances, steps forward to interrupt—bows—but another stops them with a single sharp noise. The seven freeze again. Even their bowls of water suspended in mid-air.

Jimmy’s eyes sweep the courtyard, hunting. When they land on you—quiet in the shadows—something changes. Not his voice. Not his posture. Something softer, hungrier.

He inclines his head.

And they all part instinctively, like reeds in water.

“There she is,” he announces quietly, pacing toward you in three light strides. “My bloom in the wild, eh?”

Your heart hammers. The sun cuts lines across your damp pants, lines cutting you into pieces—and he loves every one.

None of them speak. Not even Jimmy.

The silence curdles. Heavy and ardent. Their gazes crawl over you—no lust, no violence, just…awe. Pure and raw and enduring, like they’ve been starving for a myth and you’ve stepped right out of it.

You shift your weight. You don’t dare break the tension, but you don’t want to hold it either. It feels like you’re inside something ritualistic—some old pageant you were never meant to see, let alone star in.

Around you, Eden breathes in muted ritual: a carved stone basin hewn into the courtyard’s perimeter, stained with moss and dark rituals; bows and quivers hung at precise intervals along weathered pillars like offerings on an altar; a circle of smooth river stones at the courtyard's center where the cult often gathers for silent communion at sunrise—praying in silence before daybreak, and giving thanks in whispers to Jimmy’s name.

The cultists don’t blink. They don’t look away. They don’t whisper. But something changes in them. A new current. Where before they looked through you, now they see something in you. A shape that belongs. A prophecy confirmed.

And Jimmy?

He walks past them like parting a curtain.

You don’t move, but he moves around you, slow and casual, like he’s testing the air between you. The heat of his body hovers inches from yours. His presence is a weight against your spine, and you feel the power in his posture: unholy and absolute. He stops behind you, close enough to whisper soured warmth into your ear.

“They’re not used tae change,” he says softly, just for you. “Not unless I say so.”

His tone drips with quiet triumph. You can practically feel the cult shifting behind you, the air distorted by devotion.

“Ye’ll get used tae the starin’. Or ye won’t. Won’t matter.”

You can hear the grin in his voice. You don’t hear apology.

Then, still behind you, voice dropped low enough it barely cuts the air:

“Petal suits ye, I think.”

He trails his fingers down the column of your throat—barely—but enough to burn.

“Ye’re soft around the edges. Not so soft in the middle.”

His words rasp across your skin like a blade. The intention is erotic, possessive, menacing.

“But even the thickest of blooms can be pressed flat.”

There’s a wetness in your mouth—fear, desire, adrenaline. The word “pressed” tastes like warning and promise.

“If someone wanted tae keep 'em.”

The words hang there, sharp and cloying as heat and honey. Your breath catches. Behind you, you sense the cultists waiting like wolves suppressed by a leash only he holds.

You don’t dare turn. Not with the flock still watching like statues—blond hair catching the morning's chill light, bows slung across backs like extensions of their bodies. Their faces are blank, worshiping in an almost mechanical devotion.

You’re no longer prey. You’re purpose.

He laughs quietly once, and it rings hollow and shattered.

“So when ye’re ready tae kneel…remember who taught ye the posture.”

He back steps, not breaking contact but ending it. The loss of his warmth feels like falling.

But he doesn’t leave.

Instead he steps into the center of the courtyard, and the cultist archers follow him, forming a semi-circle around you, wreathed in morning mist. The stone altar lies between.

He lifts his voice, not to shout but to preach gospel.

“Watch closely, me beautiful bastards…”

And the edges of the gathering tilt forward as he begins—words rumbling under his breath, drawing in the cult. He’s speaking about you, about her destiny, about the seed he’s chosen. You stand there as the heart of an impromptu ritual, the world narrowing to him and the seven believers leaning into his voice.

Jimmy's voice resonates across the crumbled ruins of the clearing, weaving through the morning haze. Each syllable hangs, delivered with uncanny precision—the cadence of a preacher, the magnetism of a high-wire showman.

“Wundrous—ain’t it? A single bloom pushin’ through cracked stone,” he says, his tone light until it lands like a hammer. "Petal is a miracle, aye? A spark o’ life in Eden’s wrecked creation."

He sweeps his arm toward you, fingers spread wide as though presenting the sun itself. The cultists lean forward ever so slightly, bows held loosely at their sides, eyes locked on his every movement. They drink him in the way parched lips taste water.

“Did ye come from the wild, filthy world beyond our gates?” he murmurs, stepping forward. His trainers crush the morning dew, the gentle hiss and crunch echoing like a heartbeat. “Did ye crawl through ash and corpse and cold just tae find this?”

He pauses, scanning each face. The cultists are every bit his choir—bright eyes, drawn skin, the type of devotion that's loud in the silence. He lets it swell, hold steady, then resumes, voice richer now:

“Because that’s what Eden is, my sweet Petal,” he breathes, and the word sweet fills the courtyard like warm honey. “A shelter made by hands cracked with grief. A cradle built outta crucifixion.”

He leans close, stepping past you so his chest brushes yours, voice smooth yet blistering like whisky over firewood.

“And ye—“ His gaze drops to your chest, then lifts, unwavering. “Ye carry something within ye.” He breathes out, slow, deliberate. “Potential.”

You feel the quiet thrum under his words—like the air itself vibrates, ready to burst.

"A seed,” he whispers. “Not just o’ flesh. O’ hope. O’ dominion. O’ a world remade. And that’s why they follow me.”

The cultists shift at the word hope, an almost imperceptible exhale. A silent murmur of consent, reverence, fear.

"Aye, they followed me when I stood in empty ruins. When I spoke of the world we’d wrested from plague and horror.” He raises his voice, rich and cracking all at once. “And now—now—they follow her.”

He steps back. The courtyard smells of damp wood, moss, sweat—blended with his cologne: rosewater, stale whisky, ash.

"Look at them,” he says, nodding at the cultists. “Blinded by purpose. They bow for me, but they breathe for you. Because you are what comes next.”

His voice becomes intimate, low. So soft you hear the scrape of leather where his breastbone meets his tracksuit.

"Imagine this,” he urges, eyes burning in the mist. “A child not of plague. But of paradise. Born here, in Eden. With a father—” He glances at you— “—who farms devotion as carefully as soil, who tills the land with conviction, who gathers the faithful and raises them like trees.”

You taste copper fear on your tongue. His words aren't just praise—they're promise.

"I built this kingdom one sword, one prayer, one body at a time,” he whispers, stepping close again. You feel the shudder in your bones, as though something beneath the earth recognized itself. “And now…you will bear the first fruit.”

The words echo like a pulse, making the quiet seem loud.

He holds your gaze then, alone—though he’s surrounded by seven souls, all wide-eyed, faces pale in the morning glow. You’re at the center of something terrifying, sacred, and utterly intoxicating.

He finally releases you from his stare, opening his arms—an invitation, a declaration, a warning.

“Raise your eyes with me,” he commands gently, and the cultists raise their heads in unison. “Look at what destiny has offered us.”

They watch you. They watch him. And you realize: this sermon isn’t just words.

It’s construction.

A ritual built from desire and power, forging a bond you can’t unfeel.

And Eden trembles with it.

Jimmy’s voice rises and falls, a hypnotic wave that pulses through Eden’s silent courtyard. The morning mist glistens around you and the cultists, sounding like breathing. His gaze never shifts—he’s entirely focused on you, only you, as if no one else exists in this sacred moment.

“Picture it,” he begins, voice low and deliberate, yet tethered to a spark of manic fever. “Your womb—my crucible. Our blood the water that bathes this garden anew.”

You feel the cultists lean in, as though the air itself has condensed, forming a hushed audience to a revelation. Their bows drop into their grips like promises unspoken, hands tensed, waiting.

Jimmy steps closer, his breath brushing your collarbone.

“We’ll plant seeds not just in soil, but in flesh. We’ll carve out a lineage o’ Eden’s bairns, born o’ passion and promise, raised on devotion and steel.”

The words settle into your bones; you can almost see the flicker of unborn life taking root inside you. Part of you recoils—this is monstrous. And yet you find yourself swallowing, moved by the pulsing conviction in his tone.

He glances at the cult with a lordly smile.

“They’re ready,” he says with absolute certainty. “Ready to follow your bairns as they’ll follow ye.” He returns his gaze to you—hungry, demanding. “And ye, Petal…will be the mither o’ this resurrection.”

Your breath hitches. It’s like standing beneath a waterfall of power—relentless, overwhelming, impossible to resist.

Jimmy lifts his chin, chest swelling as though he’s already stepped into his throne.

“I’m no longer just Jimmy Crystal,” he continues, voice rising with cold exaltation. “I’m the flame that ignites Eden’s rebirth. The architect o’ our new covenant.”

He raises one arm, palm open to the sky. The cultists mirror him, hands lifted in solemn unity.

“And ye,” he says, voice like fire, like the crack of dawn after endless night, “ye're the catalyst.”

Then he pauses.

A weighty moment.

Every breath tastes like sacrament.

You find yourself nodding—softly, unconsciously. You are drawn in. You are buying into it, even as your mind screams to run.

“I can't stay,” you murmur, voice trembling but clear. “This…this is too much.”

His gift is patience. He tilts his head slightly, steps closer—closer than you’ve ever let him.

“Aye, ye cannot stay,” he agrees, tone gentle as a vice. “Not when this garden needs plantin’.”

Pain. Excitement. Fear. Heat.

You inhale sharply, mouth going dry.

His hand hovers at the small of your back. The cultists stand still, witnessing the exchange but frozen in silent obedience.

“But ye will stay,” he says, voice as tender as a threat. “Not because I keep ye here.”

He lets the words hang. Then:

“Because ye’ll want tae.”

He leans forward, brushing his lips against your ear as though kissing a sin.

“Because Eden needs ye. Because I need ye.”

Your knees buckle, but he catches you, anchoring you to the courtyard stone. A spark of dizzy devotion rises in your chest.

The cultists echo his sentiment with a soft, singular murmur—“Amen.” It’s barely audible, but enough.

You’re too far gone now.

Caught in his sermon, in his fervor, in the promise of becoming something both holy and damned. The courtyard spins with electric devotion.

His voice lowers again, a dark lullaby.

“So stay,” he breathes. “Stay with me in Eden’s breakin’. Stay and grow what only we can birth.”

The mist curls around your ankles, hiding your tears—tears of something you barely recognize. Something between surrender and conviction.

Jimmy’s breath settles into a slow rhythm as the final echoes of his voice drift across the courtyard. His eyes remain locked on yours, offering devotion and dominion in equal measure. Around you, the mist curls and settles, as if Eden itself is breathing—you, the epicenter of its pulse.

He lifts a finger to his lips, a silent command that hushes the cultists. One by one, they lower their bowed heads, hands unclenching from their bows, posture easing but never truly relaxing. They’re anchored in worship, unable to simply walk away.

Jimmy steps closer, hand extending toward you—not in salvation, but in signing a contract no one sane would sign under this sky.

Instead of speaking, he places his palm over your heart, the fabric of his tracksuit warm and tight against your chest. A tremor passes through you. The world narrows to his touch, his gaze, his vow—yet he keeps that final note of tension alive.

He leans forward, voice hushed yet fierce:

“By this moment, you’re bound to Eden. To me. But damn me…I’ll hold you to it.”

He brushes his lips to your forehead, a soft and sacred seal. An obsession swaddled in devotion. A betrayal wrapped in devotion. Your knees threaten to buckle, but he steadies you—silent and immovable.

He steps back, the gravity lifted, yet still heavy in the air. Eyes never lowering, he inclines his head once. The cultists rise as one and fall into formation, bows back on shoulders, ritual complete. They disperse in perfect symmetry, leaving you and him in the echoing hush.

For a moment, nothing moves but his chest—rising, falling, storming with unspoken promise. Then he turns, voice void of warmth but brimming with ownership:

“Come.”

He leads you across the courtyard—slowly, deliberately. His grip is suggesting, guiding. His eyes are unwavering: a beacon and a warning.

You follow because something in your chest—a mix of fear, yearning, dread—won’t let you do anything else. You’re caught, spinning—but not yet still.

The seven cultists melt into Eden’s edges, returning to their daily worship. But now, you carry the memory of Jimmy’s reclaimed sermon, his seal, his kiss—a wound and a mark you’ll never wash away.

As you cross the threshold back into his sanctum, you lean into the wall, bare shoulder pressing against cold stone. Behind you, the door shuts with quiet finality.

You are alone. But moved.

You are bound. But not broken.

Yet.

You stand in the dim glow of Jimmy’s sanctum, every breath rattling between conditioned compliance and primal fear. The sanctity of his relics—tattered VHS tapes, faded childhood plushies, inverted crosses—presses in too tight, like a coffin you didn't ask for.

Your heart pounds. Your palms sweat. You taste cold metal on your tongue. This isn’t tenderness. It's poisoning.

Memories flicker—his sermon, the kiss upon your forehead, the stretching hush as seven marked bodies watched you be claimed. It wasn’t devotion. It was possession.

You step back, pressing your shoulder against the stone wall beneath the crooked coat hook. Your gaze flicks to the door as if praying for escape.

A whisper inside you rising—urgent, insistent:

Get out. Now.

This place was built by a broken god. His rituals are chains spun of charm and terror. And you…you’re supposed to be the seed.

The incubator.

You ball your fingers, nails biting into your palms until they bleed. That burst of pain clears your mind.

You tiptoe toward the door, careful not to disturb the dusty relics scattered across wooden shelves: a broken Game Boy with chipped cartoon buttons, a child's drawing pinned beneath a cracked frame, a lone Teletubby plush—the purple Tinky Winky—perched on a dresser like an accusation.

Each relic mocks you.

You slip your hand to the latch. It gives. Because Eden isn’t built of steel.

Just ritual. Just false worship.

The corridor beyond yawns into darkness. You don’t hesitate.

A single step into the hallway. Shadows swallow you. Your damp clothes cling, dragging. But you're moving—one foot, then the next, tense and determined.

A noise jumps from behind—wood creaking, breath soft on stone. Your heart stutters. You whirl, pressed against the rough wall, knife-edge panic cutting through the haze.

But it's just a single track-suited cultist rounding the corner—wrenching muddy-blond hair away from their face, eyes blank.

They don’t betray you. Instead, they stop.

You hold your breath.

They gape for a moment—then step aside. The faintest nod. Almost reverent. Then they turn away, leaving you to the corridor that stretches beyond Eden’s heart.

No chase. No command. Just silence.

Your fingers tremble at the door latch. One final breath. You lift the latch.

You slip from the sanctum like a shadow dislodged from the wall—silent, shaken, desperate. The air outside his room tastes colder, more real. The scent of mildew and old stone clings to every breath, grounding you. Each step feels like breaking glass underfoot, too loud, too obvious—but still, you move. You don’t know the layout of Eden, not really, but something primal propels you forward.

Your pulse is a roar in your ears. Each footstep is measured, careful, a prayer under your breath: Not yet. Not yet.

Behind you, the hush of distant chanting glimmers—half-remembered prayers spilled into morning mist. You don't stop. You can’t.

Pass by a toppled shelf, scattered VHS tapes underfoot. You step around them, boots thickening with dust. A snapped doll arm curls in your path, and you pause—heart rattling—then push on.

At the junction, you hesitate. Two directions. The left path slopes downward, lined with rusted iron bars—cells, maybe, or storage. The ceiling drips cold water in rhythmic plinks. The right path climbs toward dim daylight, pale beams cutting through cobwebbed arches.

You move toward light, urgency lending grace to your limbs.

A breeze tickles your damp hair as you push the next door. It resists, hinges groaning like a protest, then gives. You burst through into the ruins beyond—a half-collapsed hall once grand, now claimed by sky. Vines strangle stone, and damp air tastes like wild freedom.

Your stomach lurches with hope.

You sprint, more instinct than plan. Each breath screams. Heart rattles ribs like a drum of panic.

Ahead: an arched doorway opening into sunlit debris—broken benches, fallen statues, a shattered stained-glass window where primordial light filters through shards of color.

You’re almost there.

Vines tug at your shirt as you duck through the lintel. The scent of summer outside—wildflowers, dead leaves, fresh rain—hits your lungs. Freedom buzzes across your skin.

But Eden stalks.

A distant thunk: soles on stone.

Another.

Another.

You break into a sprint across rubble, feet pounding cracked marble, vines tangling in your ankles. You hear your breath, like glass breaking.

Then:

A hand clamps over your mouth, fingers digging in, scent of firewood and coarse earth pressing against your spine.

Steel at your back—a bow? A spear? Doesn’t matter. You twist with all you’ve got, muscles screaming.

Enough to see him:

Sir Jimmy Crystal. Tracksuit damp with mist, his face smooth but fierce, eyes blazing with uncanny devotion. He smirks.

He doesn’t need to speak.

He holds you like an answer.

Your palms scrape stone as he guides you back, every crack and echo mocking the triumph you felt.

He pins you flat against a collapsed statue, vines scraping your arms as he presses his weight behind you. His breath is hot, his presence absolute.

One thick hand knots into the back of your shirt, twisting the fabric until it bites your ribs, the other clamping around your wrist, grinding bone to bone. You twist, you shove at him, thrash like a caged thing—but it doesn’t matter. Jimmy’s stronger. Broader. Hungrier.

You spit—hot and defiant, slicking his cheek, warm and wet, and yet he moans like you kissed him. Low and guttural, like something feral caught between pleasure and violence.

The moonlight dances across the carved altar behind him—stone cold and bathed in silver, the centerpiece of this sanctified hell he’s dragged you into. And you? You're no longer walking. You're being hauled.

He throws open the heavy wooden door to the sanctum like it’s nothing. It groans against its hinges, spilling in warm amber candlelight, and the stench of smoke, old incense, sweat, and something feral. The room feels alive, like it's holding its breath for what comes next.

“Aye,” he growls, dragging you over the threshold, “ye had yer chance tae repent, Petal. Now ye’ll bleed faith.”

You stumble, crash to your knees. The floor bruises you instantly, but Jimmy’s already behind you, a fist curling into your hair and yanking your head back so hard your throat arches for him. He crouches low beside you, licking your spit off his cheek, his grin grotesque and glowing in the lowlight.

“Ye taste like defiance,” he breathes into your ear. “Sweet, stupid defiance. But ye’ll be beggin’ tae taste me before this night’s done.”

You try to jerk away—he only laughs, full-bellied and victorious. Then you’re lifted again. Thrown.

Your back hits something flat and cold. The altar. Stone or marble, it doesn't matter. It steals the breath from your lungs as he pins you there with one hand spread across your chest, not even flinching when you claw at his wrist. His coat peels off in one movement, tossed somewhere behind him. He straddles you fully clothed, bearing down, dirty from the day’s sweat, smoke staining the collar of his shirt. You catch the scent of blood—not yours—and it’s on his skin like cologne.

"Been patient," he mutters, biting the words into your neck. “Waited, starved, listened tae yer preachin’, yer threats, yer screams. But this? This is mine now.”

You open your mouth to scream—his palm slams over it.

“Shhh,” he breathes, dragging his face close to yours, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ll make ye cry soon enough, pet. Screamin’s sacred, remember?”

With one hand, he wrenches your legs apart, his thigh wedging between them with obscene ease. He grinds forward, not even bothering to unfasten his belt yet, just letting you feel the weight of his cock against you through the cloth. Hard. Thick. Twitching.

“You feel that?” he hisses, voice dark with glee. “That’s a sermon, Petal. That’s holy.”

He spits directly into your mouth with a practiced snap of his tongue, slick and filthy, watching your eyes go wide as you choke and sputter. He grins down at you with sick satisfaction, rubbing his spit into your tongue with two fingers.

“Swalla it,” he says. “Show me ye can behave like a proper wee Eve. Go on, now. Tha’s a good lass…”

You do. You don’t know why—whether it’s fear or something darker—but you do.

Jimmy makes a noise that sounds like praise.

“Fuckin’ precious,” he says thickly. “Gonna breed the rebellion right outta ye.”

And then he pulls the knot loose on the drawstring holding his trackies up. You feel it first—hot, already leaking, heavy against your inner thigh. He palms his cock and groans at the contact, eyes fluttering shut like he's touching the divine. When they open again, they're locked on you.

“Ye’re gonna take every fuckin’ inch, lass,” he says. “Every. Inch. And when I fill ye, when I spill inside that wee, tight, wicked cunt, ye’ll thank me.”

He pushes your track pants down past your hips with rough, unsteady hands, breathing harder now, feverish, until the fabric pools around your ankles. His fingers curl between your thighs, dragging through your folds.

"Shite," he whispers, aroused and earnest. "Already wet. Oh, Petal...ye were made for this."

He lines up. One hand fists in your hair again, forcing you to watch his face as he begins to press in—thick, unrelenting. It’s stretching, burning, brutal.

And he just grins as you cry out, lips curling back to bare teeth.

“That’s it,” he pants, driving deeper. “Cry fer me, Petal. Let th’ angels hear.”

The sound he makes as he bottoms out is obscene. A guttural, low, trembling moan that rolls straight from his chest like thunder cracking through stained glass. His cock is buried so deep inside you, you feel it in your lungs—stuffed full, your cunt stretched open around his filthy, leaking length, already pulsing with the promise of what he plans to leave inside you.

“Fuckin’—Christ, yer tight,” he growls into your throat, hips flush to yours, not moving, just throbbing. “Like a virgin altar, aye? Like ye were carvin’ yerself out fer me. Say it. Say ye were waitin’ fer me tae come ruin this wee cunt.”

You shake your head—because you weren’t. Because you aren’t. But your mouth opens anyway, and all that comes out is a gasp that melts into a moan as he starts to move.

Not gentle. Not slow.

Jimmy fucks like a man possessed.

His hips snap back and slam forward, the sound of skin-on-skin violent, loud enough to bounce off the carved walls of the sanctum. He grunts every time he drives into you, grinding deep like he’s trying to knock the fight out of you one brutal thrust at a time.

Your back arches hard against the stone as he slams into your cervix again and again, his pace merciless, his cock hitting places you didn’t know existed, splitting you open and making a mess of your insides.

“Aye, there she is—clenchin’ on me like she needs it. Like her filthy little hole knows what it’s for.” He leans over you, his sweat dripping onto your chest, mouth dragging against your jaw. “Ye were starvin’ for this, weren’t ye, pet? Wanted tae act so holy, so pure. But look at ye now.”

He rears back, spits down between your bodies, watches it land where you’re joined—stringy and slick, glistening as it coats your pussy lips and makes everything louder, wetter.

Then he spits again, this time straight into your open mouth just as you're panting out a plea you didn't mean to say.

“Swalla,” he orders, grinning like the devil in a cathedral. “It’s communion, Eve. Holy water right from the source.”

He thrusts harder. Faster. You’re being fucked, not made love to—bred, taken, used. Your thighs tremble around his waist, your fingers scrape at the stone for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing. Nothing except Jimmy. Jimmy and the altar. Jimmy and his cock, pistoning into you with purpose.

Your cunt squelches lewdly with every slap of his hips, a symphony of filth and friction and possession. And fuck, he loves it.

“That sound,” he pants, voice thick and ragged. “Listen tae it. That’s yer body beggin’ me tae fill it. Soaked, stretchin’, flutterin’ round me like a fuckin’ halo. But yer no angel, are ye, wee thing?”

He grabs your jaw, forces your eyes open, his stare blown-wide and wild.

“No. Yer a sinner. My sinner. My Eve. And I’ll fuckin’ ruin ye fer anyone else.”

He slams in so deep you see stars. Your legs jerk—your body trying to run even though it’s already too late.

“Where d’ye think yer gonna go?” he snarls, voice cracked and raw with ecstasy. “I’m inside ye, lass. Deep enough tae leave a mark. Every time ye close yer legs from now on, ye’ll feel me leakin’ outta ye. That’s my fuckin’ prayer.”

Then his voice drops low, almost reverent.

“I’m gonna fill ye up, pretty thing. I’m gonna fuck ye so deep yer womb won’t dare reject me. I’ll breed ye full. Again. And again. And again. Til ye’re heavy with my sacrament. Til ye glow with me.”

Your cunt tightens involuntarily around him and he feels it.

“Ohhh, aye,” he hisses, bucking even harder now, fucking through your resistance like he’s conquering land. “There she fuckin’ is. Squeezin’ on me like she wants it. Like her body’s acceptin’ the gospel. That’s my good wee girl.”

Your climax blindsides you—rips through your spine and into your fingertips. It shatters you. Your cry rips out from your throat raw and hoarse, and Jimmy howls like something ancient and holy just bared itself before him.

“Fuuuuuck—ye’re milkin’ me, Eve. Ye want it, aye? Want yer belly heavy with my sin?”

He fucks through your orgasm, driving through your spasming walls until he can’t hold it back anymore. He slams in one last time, his cock buried so deep it feels like it’ll never come out—and then he spills.

Hot. Endless. Violent.

He moans, breathless and broken, rutting through the creampie like he’s trying to breed it in deeper, the warmth of it thick between your thighs, leaking down onto the altar as he rocks against you.

“There,” he groans, forehead pressing to yours, sweat dripping into your hair. “Took it all. So fuckin’ good for me. Yer mine now. Marked. Claimed.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he licks the tear off your cheek.

It’s hot in the sanctum now—too hot. Your legs are trembling, your whole body humming from the aftershocks, and your cunt? Raw, used, filled. You feel it leaking already, thick and warm and wrong, smeared between your thighs and pooling under your ass on the altar stone. Sticky. Sacred. A baptism you never asked for.

Jimmy’s still inside you. Still hard. Still twitching like his cock isn’t satisfied yet, like he’s waiting for another wave. He huffs out a slow, shuddering breath as he shifts his hips forward in a lazy thrust, grinding the base of his cock deeper—too deep—and watching your face as you flinch.

“Still flutterin’ round me, Petal,” he murmurs, voice soaked with pride. “So greedy. So fuckin’ needy. One load’s not enough for a hungry little hole like this, is it?”

He pulls out slow. Deliberately. Your walls cling, trying to keep him, and when he finally slips free, it’s wet and filthy—his cum oozing out in long, viscous strands, streaking your thighs, the altar, and the floor beneath.

Jimmy moans at the sight.

“Look at that,” he pants, eyes black with lust. “Wasted. Precious fuckin’ seed drippin’ out like yer tryin’ tae defy me again.”

You’re too dazed to move. He grabs your thighs—spreads them wider—and spits right onto your exposed cunt. Then again. Each glob warm, messy, coating your slit with his saliva until it’s glistening with a mixture of spit and cum and sweat and whatever dignity you had left.

“Don’t ye dare let it go tae waste.”

He pushes two thick fingers into you with no warning, shoving his cum back inside. You gasp, buck, instinctively trying to close your legs, but he’s stronger. Always stronger.

“Shhh, shhh. Gotta make sure it takes,” he croons like it’s tenderness. Like this is love. His fingers curl inside you, slow and cruel, making you feel every inch. “Gotta keep it in, aye? Let it take root.”

You squirm. He leans down and licks your breast—filthy, wet, teeth grazing your nipple—and groans like a starving man.

“Ye’ll carry me,” he whispers. “Ye’ll grow with me inside ye. My seed. My heir. My Eve.”

He presses another kiss to your thigh. Another to your navel. And then—mouth hovering just above your still-pulsing cunt—he spits again, slow and thick, watching it mix with the rest.

“Yer no virgin sacrifice now,” he mutters. “Yer mine. Bred. Blessed.”

Your body jerks as he gives one final pump with his fingers, and that’s when you realize—

He’s still hard.

You blink up at him, dazed, hoarse, your voice a scrape across your throat: “Jimmy…”

He smirks. His hand comes up to stroke his cock—coated in both your slick and his spend, still flushed and angry and aching.

“Thought we were done?” he says, soft and cruel. “Oh no, lass. No, no.”

He climbs back over you. The tip of his cock notches at your abused entrance again, already slipping back inside with ease. Slick with the mess he made of you.

“We keep goin’,” he breathes into your hair. “We go til it takes. Til I’ve fucked the rebellion right outta ye. Til yer beggin’ me tae give ye more."

And then he starts again—slow, deep, grinding thrusts that punch the air from your lungs, making you whimper, your body too overstimulated to bear it but too ruined to stop.

“Ye’ll take every fuckin’ drop,” he growls, “and ye’ll thank me for the honor.”

Your body shakes beneath him. Every inch of you raw and humming, fucked beyond what you thought was possible, already stretched open and leaking, your cunt too swollen, too sore—but it doesn’t matter. Not to Jimmy. Not to the beast bearing down on you like you’re still fresh and untouched.

He’s sliding back in, slow now, cruel in the way he presses inch after inch into the mess he made. There’s no resistance—just slick, ruined heat—and still, you gasp like he’s splitting you apart all over again.

“Tha’s it,” he groans, rolling his hips once he bottoms out, keeping his cock deep, grinding against your cervix like he owns it. “Just like that, pet. Yer wee cunt was made tae be fucked twice over. Look at ye—still open for me.”

You try to turn your head, to look away, but he grabs your jaw and makes you meet his eyes.

“No hidin’ now,” he murmurs, voice low, almost gentle—almost. “Want tae see the moment ye break, Petal. Want tae watch ye shatter.”

Then he moves.

Slow. Deep. Each thrust deliberate, dragging the head of his cock against your overstimulated walls until your thighs shake and your breath comes in hitched sobs. You’re too sensitive, too raw, but he doesn’t care. If anything, he’s savoring it—this second round meant to punish, to claim, to seal the desecration.

“Shhh,” he croons, his body heavy and hot above you, his breath fogging against your cheek. “Ye can take it. Ye will take it. Yer body knows me now. It wants this.”

You whimper, your hands fluttering against his chest, pushing weakly—but Jimmy just catches your wrists and pins them above your head, locking them there with one hand while the other snakes between your bodies and grabs your thigh, hiking it up over his hip to fuck you deeper.

“There we are,” he mutters, almost lovingly. “Open wide for me, lass. Let the holy spirit in.”

He spits on your mouth again. It drips down your cheek this time, and he groans like he’s watching something divine. His hand shifts from your thigh to your belly, pressing down—hard—so you feel every thrust even more.

“Feel that?” he growls. “That’s me settin’ up camp inside ye. That’s me claimin’ what’s mine. My cock in yer cunt, my cum in yer womb, my fuckin’ name etched into yer spine.”

You arch up and scream when he hits a tender spot, your body locking up—overwhelmed, overstimulated, broken. Your cunt spasms around him, and he feels it, groans deep and primal as your walls milk him for more.

“Ohh fuck—yes, yes, fuckin’ yes, there she is,” he pants, slamming into you now, pace picking up, rougher, faster, like the slow torture was just a prelude. “That’s what I wanted, pet. Wanted tae hear ye break. Wanted tae feel this wicked little pussy beg me without words.”

You’re crying again—pleasure and pain and pressure spiraling into something helpless and filthy. You can’t stop clenching around him, your body greedy even when your mind is gone.

And he loves it. Drinks it down like wine at a sacrament.

“Ye’ll remember this every fuckin’ time ye walk,” he snarls. “Ye’ll feel me leakin’ down yer thighs and know yer nothin’ but mine. A vessel. A holy hole.”

He starts to shake—his pace desperate, his cock twitching—and you know he’s close. His moans turn to groans, then to growls, animalistic and unhinged.

“Gonna fill ye again,” he hisses, teeth dragging against your throat. “Gonna fuckin’ breed ye full, Petal. Til yer belly swells. Til they all know who owns ye.”

And when he cums, it’s even more than before.

A violent, endless spill that chokes a moan from his chest and a cry from your lips as he grinds into you, trying to bury it deeper, trying to fuck his seed into your womb and seal it there.

His cock throbs inside you as he ruts through the aftershocks, his breath catching in stutters, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Took it all,” he whispers, dazed and reverent. “So fuckin’ good fer me. That’s my girl. My Eve.”

His hand finds your thigh again and rubs small, gentle circles—tender, even as you're shaking beneath him, used, ruined, full of his cum and too wrecked to speak.

“You did so good, pet,” he murmurs, kissing your temple with a reverence that shouldn’t feel soft—but it does. “Yer gonna make me a God, y'know that?”

Your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

You’re limp on the altar, splayed and trembling, sweat cooling sticky against your chest, your thighs sticky with everything—his spit, your slick, his cum, leaking out of you slow and thick and obscene. Your pulse flutters in your throat. Your nipples ache. Your cunt twitches around the phantom of him.

And Jimmy is still there. Still over you, half-draped, his cock softening but glistening with the slick sheen of everything he just put inside you. His hand strokes down your belly, worshipful, thumb rubbing in slow circles like he’s blessing it.

“Gonna grow round with me, pet,” he murmurs, voice rough but warm. “Ye don’t even fuckin’ know it yet, but yer already carryin’ me. Felt it when ye came round me—took me. Held me. Yer wee womb’s just waitin’.”

He sounds in awe of it. Of you. Like you’re not a girl he just fucked raw on an altar—but something sacred. Something chosen.

Then he shifts.

Sits back on his heels between your legs and grabs the base of his softening cock—still filthy, still dripping. You twitch as you watch him. You want to look away. You can’t.

“Ye made a right mess,” he mutters, smiling like it’s your greatest accomplishment. “Look at that. My cock’s still soaked in ye.”

He strokes himself lazily. Then he points the tip at your mouth.

“Clean it,” he says softly. No malice. No command barked with cruelty—just an invitation. A test. A reward.

When you don’t move fast enough, he leans forward and taps the head against your bottom lip. Smears his mess there. You flinch—and that’s all the opening he needs.

His fingers slip into your hair, grip your scalp, and he presses forward until the weeping crown of his cock breaches your mouth.

“There she is,” he purrs. “Open nice ‘n wide now. Ye took it in yer cunt like a blessed thing—ye’ll suck it like a devout one.”

You gag a little when he pushes in deeper, but he’s not even trying to fuck your throat. Not yet. He’s just feeding it to you, inch by inch, making you taste yourself and him, watching the filth coat your tongue.

“Tha’s right,” he breathes. “Good wee mouth on ye. Meant tae worship, weren’t ye? Not just made tae take cock—made tae honor it. Keep suckin’.”

You swirl your tongue around the head, and he groans, his hips twitching forward once, twice. Then he pulls out with a pop and slaps the tip across your cheek.

“Fuckin’ angelic,” he mutters, looking at you like you’ve been crowned.

Then his hand goes back to your belly, pressing gently.

“Ye’ll swell,” he says dreamily. “Ye’ll show. And when ye do, I’ll fuck ye every day of it. Keep ye full. Keep ye obedient.”

His palm spreads across the soft plane of your stomach, smearing the sweat, rubbing it in slow.

“Yer not yers anymore, Petal,” he says, quiet now. “Ye’re mine. My vessel. My church. My fuckin’ salvation."

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your navel. Another to your cunt—just a filthy brush of his tongue, like he’s sealing you. Then up to your sternum. Your throat. Your lips.

His breath is warm. Heavy. Honest in its delusion.

“We’ll do this again soon,” he whispers. “Won’t stop ‘til yer swollen and shinin’.”

And then—he gathers you.

Lifts you from the altar like you’re weightless, your limbs slack, your mind fogged, and carries you back into the depths of his sanctum. Not a prison, now—a cradle. A shrine. He tucks you beneath furs that smell like smoke and cedar and sex, and he curls around you like a wolf protecting its mate.

One hand on your belly. Always on your belly.

Murmuring prayers in the dark.

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

"Act of desperation" is maybe a little strong, but otherwise, this! Hunting through the bookmarks, even as someone who's only ever got one needlessly unhelpful bookmark in all my time writing, is an active chore - either going through every fic manually (at this point I have the bookmark count of my last ten or-so fics memorised...), or having to do an elaborate search with the extended search filters.

I'm not complaining because that's more work for me! But the fact that this takes so many more steps for the author to even see makes it feel like this wasn't for them. It's that same weird phenomenon of fans talking to each other on social media about a fic, but never leaving a comment. To some extent, even the thing where you make a post advertising your fic on tumblr or elsewhere and someone reblogs it saying "oh this is my favourite I read it all the time!!", but they never left a comment on the fic itself.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still happy to hear I made someone happy with my writing - but comments aren't payment for a fic. If they were, it would all be equal, right, bookmark comment, regular comment, kudos, recs, discord convo... Butt they're not payment. I want to have conversations with my readers about the thing we're both passionate about! And all these options - comments in bookmarks, discord conversations, fic recs - specifically put extra steps between yourself and the author. They do something else really nice for a fic, because they get the word out and might bring more people to it! But there's some odd implicit rejection of the author in choosing all those options before leaving a comment that the author can reply to. Especially with bookmarks! I've had some people leave incredibly sweet bookmarks on my biggest fic. I'm very emotionally invested in that work and every kind word on it means the world to me, and I can never thank these people! Because you can't message people on Ao3, you can only reply to comments, and they never left one.

Again, I really appreciate a bookmark, or kudos - but it doesn't change the fact that there's a weird trend of isolating the author from the conversation around their work. This would be normal if this were a published work of writing - if everyone who read Suzanne Collins's books or Stephen King's books sent them individual reactions, they would drown in mail (though I'm willing to bet they would still appreciate the gesture a little bit even as their inboxes crash).

But Ao3 writers aren't on the New York Times Bestseller list! This etiquette of how to engage with published art does not apply to us! We are not too far above you to hear your "trivial" opinion you share with your friends - we want to hear them too! We want to also talk about our fic! Fic writing, to most of us, is literally back to sitting around a campfire and sharing a story. I want to look up and see your faces, and talk to you about how scary that last part was, and wasn't that a fun idea to have the power come back on in that moment, and what do you think would be a cool idea for next time! I don't want to look up to ten people staring at their phone as they text their friends about the cool story I just told them, or blankly look at me until I send around a link to a recording of me telling the story so they can send that to their friends or give a little thumbs-up emoji on it.

Again, I don't mean to say that I don't appreciate these other forms of engagement and feedback. It's still way nicer than sitting at the campfire alone. But again, I'm not Stephen King hitting send on an email to his publisher. I'm looking up from the campfire, and I want to see your faces.

Comments versus Bookmarks on AO3

A few people seemed appreciative of my post about how to use AO3's Marked for Later feature, so I thought I'd follow up with another tip about comments versus bookmarks. As part of the amazing @justleaveacommentfest I noticed a few people mentioned leaving nice comments in bookmarks, and I thought it might help to have a little info about how comments are different from bookmarks, and why it's better to send a comment if you want to make an author happy or make fandom friends or have an interesting discussion.

Bookmarks *are* viewable by everyone, unless you make them private. If you plan to say anything negative in your bookmark, please make it private. It's not really the flip side, however, that leaving positive statements in your bookmarks will reach the author, though.

Most authors are alerted when they get new comments, either through their dashboard or via email if they choose, or both. Yay! Serotonin boost, and also the ability to reply back and start a conversation! Plus, readers can have great discussions with each *other* in the comments section of a fic! If you're super into a fic you can read comments on the chapter even years later, and sometimes find the author adding additional thoughts or discussing their thought process while writing! It's like DVD extras for fanfic! (Do kids these days know what DVD extras are any more? Damned if I know).

You don't really know, as an author, when someone bookmarks one of your fics. Some authors, particularly when they are feeling low (cough cough) may also look at bookmarks to see if there are nice things there. This would basically just involve clicking on the bookmarks for each of your fics individually to see if there's anything a.) new and b.) nice in them.

This is an act of desperation. It's not really a wise thing to do, as 99% of bookmarks have no comments, or just list the title and author in fear of the fic being deleted some day and not knowing what you're missing. Even worse, if you, as an author, get desperate enough to cruise your bookmarks, you are as likely to see someone say something like "Meh" or "This got boring so I stopped reading at Chapter 5" or "Too many werewolves 3/10" in a werewolf fic than you are to see a nice compliment.

So, if you loved a fic and want to memorialize your love in a bookmark, be an extra super-duper sweetheart and cut and paste that into a comment for the author! Make the AO3 environment enriching for both authors and fellow readers in the comments section, and protect your friendly local author by not providing intermittent positive reinforcement for the negative behavior of scrolling through bookmarks!

I still recommend bookmarking fics. Bookmark those favorite fics you want to come back and read later, or use bookmarks to leave yourself little reminders if they are nice or in private bookmarks if they are not nice. Bookmark good resources, like how to code things in html or how to use AO3 filters most effectively. Find awesome new things to read by looking through the bookmarks of your favorite authors, because if you vibe with someone's writing you may also vibe with their favorite fics to read!

[unsolicited-opinions]

hi! I'm deeply thankful I found your blog because it's such a breath of fresh air to find someone with articulate, sensible thinking on this hellsite. i was formerly very pro free palestine but blogs such as yours helped me open my eyes. with that being said, I ask this in good faith, because you've been really respectful and sensible in your other asks: what about activists killed by the IDF, such as Rachel Corrie? Again, I ask this in good faith, I'm very interested to hear your thoughts on it

Thanks for the kind words, Anon.

I'll get lots of Anon Hate for this, but I so appreciate your open mind and your good faith question, so I'd feel like an asshole if I didn't try to answer it in the same good faith.

All I can offer are my own (unquestionably biased) thoughts from what I've read. I have no more access to objective truth than anyone else ~6,000 miles and ~22 years removed from the events we're discussing.

I think this is one of those awful cases where a tragic death was turned into a political football...which is still being kicked around decades later.

The Basic Facts (upon which most seem to agree)

Rachel Corrie was a 23 year old college student from Washington State who joined the International Solidarity Movement (ISM) and went to Gaza in 2003 and was killed while standing in front of an IDF bulldozer in Rafah.

It's a media-ready story. A young, idealistic woman trying to stand up for people she believed were being oppressed, and then dying violently. That should disturb people. It should make us ask questions.

When we ask those questions, we must also be willing to look at all the answers, not just the ones which flatter our instincts or fit our preferred existing narrative.

What actually happened?

In March 2003, Rachel Corrie was trying to stop IDF bulldozers from demolishing homes in southern Gaza, near the border with Egypt.

Why was the IDF demolishing homes?

The area, Rafah, was at the time a hotbed of militant activity. It was riddled with tunnels used to smuggle weapons and explosives into Gaza. These tunnels were often dug directly under civilian homes, and the IDF was using armored bulldozers to demolish structures suspected of being part of that infrastructure.

Corrie, with other ISM activists, placed herself in front of one of these bulldozers to block it. She was struck and fatally injured.

I believe that everyone agrees on that much.

Accounts diverge from there.

Some witnesses from ISM claimed she was clearly visible to the operator of the bulldozer and that she was deliberately run over. Other ISM witnesses disagree and have said the operator could not see her.

The IDF said the driver couldn't see her.

An internal IDF investigation concluded it was an accident, not a deliberate killing.

Corrie's parents filed a wrongful death lawsuit in Israeli court, and in 2012, a judge ruled that the military was not liable because Corrie had voluntarily entered a closed military zone and her death occurred during an active military operation.

It's entirely legitimate to disagree with the ruling, but the legal process did not seem to reveal a cover-up by the IDF and does not appear to have been a sham legal process.

The Bulldozer Issue: Framing in Western Media

One reason this case still circulates with so much distortion is because of the images attached to it. If you Google Rachel Corrie today, you'll probably find photos of her standing in front of a yellow bulldozer, holding a megaphone.

Western news outlets used this pair of photos from the ISM to portray Corrie as standing very visibly in front of the bulldozer which fatally injured her.

You see what pairing these photos implies, right? One moment Corrie is standing in front of the bulldozer with a megaphone, the next she's injured on the ground.

Our brains fill in the blanks like these are two panels of a comic and conclude the bulldozer operator saw her standing there and deliberately plowed into her.

Look carefully at the bulldozer in each photo.

They're not the same machine. Look at the background. It's not the same place. It's not the same time.

The bulldozer in the top photo is a civilian Caterpillar bulldozer.

The bulldozer involved in Corrie's death (in the second photo) was an IDF armored D9, modified for combat conditions. It's massive, encased in steel armor, and built to operate in environments where there's a real threat of gunfire, explosives, or ambushes. Consequently, visibility from inside the cab is extremely limited. Drivers rely on spotters and cameras...but human error is very possible, especially when the scene is chaotic and high-risk...like in the combat settings where it is deployed.

Not the same machine, not the same location, not the same time.

Presenting these photos together is at least misinformation if not disinformation. It serves a narrative, not the truth, by suggesting that the second photo took place immediately after the first and that Corrie was fully visible to the operator of the bulldozer.

The IDF's position (and that of the Israeli courts and the US State Department) is that Rachel Corrie didn't die in a peaceful standoff with a malicious construction vehicle. She died in a war zone, in front of a combat bulldozer, during an active military operation, in an area where armed groups were explicitly attempting to kill Israeli soldiers...because she was put in harm's way by ISM for the explicit purpose of risking her life.

In my view, Corrie never should have been in this active combat zone.

None of this makes her death any less tragic.

What is the International Solidarity Movement and what exactly was Corrie doing there?

The ISM was not just some loose collection of Quaker-style peace advocates. It styled itself as nonviolent, but it took a deliberately confrontational approach. It inserted young, usually Western activists into active conflict zones, telling them to stand between the IDF and Palestinian militants or infrastructure.

Their theory of change was that Israel wouldn't risk bad PR from killing an American or European. It was a gamble. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. Either way, ISM was using Corrie as a human shield. The whole point of ISM's tactics is to put people in harm's way.

ISM activists were injured or killed in multiple cases. Others were detained for coordinating with militants or knowingly entering combat areas. Even left-leaning Western journalists have criticized the group for being reckless and manipulative in using under-informed idealists as cannon fodder for political theater.

It's also worth asking why ISM wasn't doing this sort of thing in areas where Palestinian militants were putting civilians at risk. If they were non-partisan peace activists, why weren't they forming human chains to prevent rocket launches from schoolyards, hospitals, or mosques? Why weren’t they protesting the use of children as shields?

You can't claim to be a non-partisan, anti-war organization while assisting one of two sides in its war efforts.

Was Rachel Corrie murdered? Was she deliberately killed?

As far as I can tell, no.

I haven't been able to find any evidence that the IDF targeted Corrie deliberately. The legal case didn't find such evidence. The US State Department didn’t find such evidence. Even some ISM members admitted Corrie may not have been visible to the driver.

I also struggle to imagine what plausible motive the IDF would have to deliberately kill an American. That would obviously bring all kinds of international trouble from the US...and that was the ISM's whole reason for putting Corrie in harm's way. Killing Corrie deliberately would be giving them exactly what they wanted. Why would the IDF do that on purpose?

What happened to Corrie was preventable (and that was the basis of the negligence claim her family made in court), but preventable is not the same as criminal or liable.

In the long term, the tragedy lies not just in Corrie's tragic death, but in how eager people were to risk it and exploit it.

Corrie's face has been painted on walls and printed on protest signs for more than 20 years. This isn't because anyone seriously studied the facts of her death, but because she became a useful symbol. A martyr. A weapon.

Her story has been flattened, turned into a cartoon of noble activist vs evil bulldozer, figuratively and literally:

What would accountability for Corrie's death look like?

If people really want accountability for Rachel Corrie's death, they might consider starting with the ISM. They put untrained American college students in front of armored military vehicles in war zones.

They took advantage of people who wanted to make a difference, and they fed them a script designed for media consumption, not for survival.

Or maybe ask why Hamas and Islamic Jihad were building weapons tunnels under civilian homes in the first place. That's why bulldozers were there. That's what made the area a war zone. That's what put civilians and foreign activists in danger.

Decades later, what do we now know about Hamas' tunnels?

Most people don't want real accountability. They want a nice clean story which serves their preferred narrative. Wherever context and nuance gets in the way of the narrative, they cut it out.

Rachel Corrie's death should make us ask serious questions about:

How propaganda works

How war zones get whitewashed for the comfort of Western audiences

What happens when idealism is used as a propaganda tool instead of as a principle

As always, I welcome anyone to take issue with my reading of these events. If you do, please bring support for your assertions.

Here's where I'll annoy some of Israel's defenders:

While we likely agree on much about the Western "Free Palestine" movement, Anon, I hope we also agree that Palestinians in Gaza and (particularly in Area C of) the West Bank need real help and Israel must do more.

The "good guy vs bad guy" framing by anyone on either side is bullshit. There's plenty of failure to go around, even if it is unevenly distributed.

The settler violence in the West Bank is committed by a tiny minority, but it's still terrorism...and Itamar Ben-Gvir fails to make a good faith effort to end it. I hope the universe brings Ben-Gvir the justice he richly deserves.

Set aside the international law question of whether the West Bank is occupied for a minute. Palestinians in Area C have little to no say in their own governance.That's obviously wrong and needs to change.

I hope the rumors that Egypt and the UAE will get deeply involved in the rebuilding of Gaza are true. When/if that happens, I urge you to support those efforts any way you can.

A prosperous Gaza at peace with its neighbors becomes possible with both regional and international support after Hamas is gone.

Thanks for the Ask, Anon. I'd welcome any others you may care to submit.

[harrington-stevie]

Hello! I wanted to request an angst-to-fluff fic with Steve Harrington and reader?

Maybe something along the lines of Steve's father saying something horrible about him that stays with him, and because he's struggling with his father's words, he becomes cruel to reader without realising it, taking out his anger at her, etc.. She lets it pass multiple times because she loves him. Until one day, he says something mean when she's just asking him for some of his time, and reader finally breaks and they have an argument that lets Steve realise how much he's been hurting her.

I love lots of angst as long as it is a happy ending!! my poor heart can't take sad endings. Lots of grovelling too!!!

Also i love your work, you write so well, and its so detailed. It makes my heart ache(in a good way) . ANYWAYS LOVE YOU

Hi!! Thank you so much for the compliment, I'm really glad you like my work and I appreciate it a lot!! 💖💖 Love that idea, it goes with the idea I've had recently, but I love the angst toward reader tbh.

Steve Harrington x f!reader

Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

Word count: 5k

-

Steve and you had been friends for as long as you could remember. You always did everything together; he would hold your hand whenever you hung out, whether it was at the cafeteria, bowling, or even when he walked you home. It was his love language, until he realized he was in love with you. It felt wrong, because what if it didn’t work? What if he broke your heart, or you broke his? He wouldn’t want to force anything.

He had thought about kissing you multiple times. Your eyes crinkle when you laugh too hard, and he can’t stop staring at your lips. Steve loves the way you are so carefree, how you treat your friends well and how you help everyone around you. He worships you in a way that’s almost unhealthy for him. His fingertips almost tingle when he touches you, his heart skips a beat, and his ears buzz. 

He loves you in more ways that he can actually explain. Steve doesn’t know you feel the same aggravating affection for him, but he started to become distant somehow. 

He had never been mean to you before. At least not in a serious way, only playfully. But he started giving you short answers, cold responses, eye rolls that you wouldn't notice. You two were close to each other ever since primary school, that's why you're always together.

He’s closer to you more than with anyone else. Even with Robin being his best friend as well. Whenever you would ask something, he would shrug and just say “yes” or “no”. It was weird for you, he was acting weird.

Steve punched his bedroom wall once after a call with his father. He completely forgot you were supposed to meet at his house to make pizza. You find him in the kitchen, holding his bleeding hand with his jaw tightened. The phone is still dangling off the hook, and you can see a small hole in the drywall.

Your eyebrows furrow. You blink once, twice, trying to take it all in, how shallow his breathing is. The way his fist is trembling even though it already made contact with something it shouldn’t have. 

“Steve?” Your voice is careful and soft. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t flinch an inch.

You step forward slowly. “Hey. What happened?”

He scoffs under his breath, short and bitter “What do you think?”

You glance at his hand, his knuckles are a little scrapped with a red smear along the skin of two fingers that are already swelling. You grab a towel, dampen it, and step beside him, not touching him yet.

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine” he mutters.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I said I’m fine.”

You don’t listen. You reach out gently, carefully wrapping the cloth around his hand. The moment you touch him, he stiffens.

Your voice stays steady “Was it your dad?”

There’s silence, a pause that stretches and it’s uncomfortable.

Then a hiss of breath through his teeth “Doesn’t matter.”

You look up at him, but he doesn’t want to meet your eyes, he’s somewhere else. As if he’s in a daze and his mind is stuck on the previous words he heard through the phone. Something he didn’t deserve, something that has been said way too many times for his liking. He knows he shouldn’t care, he knows it’s not true. But he hears them so much, he’s starting to believe he’s not special.

“You’re not special, Steve” His dad had said “You’re a disappointment with good hair. That’s all people ever see.”

You hold his hand a little firmer, cleaning the blood from his knuckles “It matters to me.”

That’s when it breaks. He laughs sharply, it's as sharp as a knife.

“What, so you can feel bad for me?” He snaps, yanking his hand away “So you can play nurse and patch me up like I’m a little broken kid?”

Your hands still and you freeze, your mouth parting, but nothing comes out. He glares at you and his shoulders heave, Steve’s chest is tight with something he doesn’t know what to call. 

“You always do this. You always hover. Like you’re waiting for me to fall apart so you can swoop in and fix it.”

Your throat tightens “Steve–”

“I don’t need you to fix me!”

The silence that follows is loud and immediate. It buzzes in your ears like a slap.

Your voice comes out quiet. Hurt. “I’m not trying to fix you.”

He falters, and his face shifts for a second. There’s regret flashing like a crack of light through a storm, but it’s too late now. The damage is already there.

You take a step back “I just didn’t want you to bleed alone.”

His jaw tightens again.You nod slowly, heart squeezing in your chest “But if that’s how you see me... I’ll go.”

You turn, taking two steps forward when you hear him. It’s barely there, a whisper of him asking you to stay. 

You don’t turn around, even though you have stopped. “Don’t. I didn’t mean it. I just... I’m mad. And I don’t know where to put it. And it keeps coming back to me, and then to you, and I hate that I do this to you.”

His voice barely holds itself. You stay quiet, and he sighs “I called him. I thought maybe it’d be different this time. Maybe he’d say something, I don’t know, like he’s proud or he’s glad I’m okay. But he just said I’m still a waste of space.”

You feel the pain coming through his voice, your chest mourning for him. When he turns to look at you, his eyes are already red. His tone is shaking “I hit the wall because I couldn’t hit him. And you walked in and you’re just... you, and I panicked. I thought, ‘Why are you still here?’ Because if I were you, I’d have walked away already.”

You take a breath, walking right up to him, taking his injured hand again gently, as though it’s made of glass. You dab his skin carefully with the towel. 

“I’m here, Steve. Not because you’re perfect. Not because I want to fix you” You glance up at him and meet his eyes “I’m here because I love you. And that means staying when it’s hard. Not just when you’re charming, or sweet, or making pancakes at midnight.”

He swallows harshly “You shouldn’t have to stay when I’m like this.”

You smile sadly “Then stop giving me reasons to leave.”

And that’s when he almost breaks down. He presses his forehead to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“I’m sorry” He breathes. “For what I said. For pushing you. For being so scared all the time.”

You squeeze his hand, bruised and broken and still worth holding.

“I know,” You whisper. “Me too.”

It started slowly, when his dad showed up, he stopped meeting your eyes when you made sure he's okay. He just says he is okay and kisses your forehead, and you let it go. You thought things wouldn’t be so difficult, not when he apologized and seemed to be so regretful after that day. But you were wrong.

He cancelled plans with no explanation. Not just with you, but he knows it's harder if it's you, because you ask questions. Eddie doesn't. Not that he doesn't care, he fucking loves Steve. He just knows he needs some boundaries, so he lets it go.

It gets worse once. You've planned a picnic, you pack his favorite snacks, you borrow his mother's old blanket. It's how he feels closer to her sometimes. But he didn't seem to remember to have had plans with you, because he never showed up. You waited and waited. You called him when you got home and he never answered. You broke down after finishing brushing your teeth, when you finally laid in bed.

He was drinking with Jonathan, Eddie and Argyle. He wanted to distract himself from his issues and apparently, from you. He dodged questions when Eddie asked about you. He didn't even notice he was supposed to meet you earlier that day. While you're crying in bed, he's drowning his sorrows with alcohol.

He clenches his jaw when you're excited about something small, like a new song or a movie you want to watch with him. He tries to go out of his way to make it less bothering, but he can't. Steve feels pressured, he feels like he can't stay normal around you. Whenever he raises his voice at you, he startles you. 

You had called out his name and he snapped, like you were interrupting something important.

"What?" He asks, his tone is sharp and his jawline is clicked.

You had wanted to ask him if he wanted to grab milkshakes, but immediately regretted even thinking about it. You look down at your feet, he doesn't notice your sadness. You gave him some excuse to leave, to which he didn't wonder if it was true or not.

You still love him, though. So you stay. You hold onto the Steve who sang loudly in your car, the Steve who brought flowers to your job even though they were half-wilted, the Steve who kissed your knuckles as if he was a knight in shining armor. But even though he's been acting like an asshole, you know he's still in there.

His father's words etched in his head. And it stuck. Those words became something dark inside him. So when you reached out to him, for his time, for his attention, for his love– he heard accusation. Expectation. Pressure. He mistook your softness for judgment. And he lashed out.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the carpet of his living room, flipping through one of his old yearbooks while he sits on the couch, eyes glued to a TV he isn’t watching.

“Hey” You say gently, “can we do something together this weekend? Maybe just hang out? I feel like we haven’t really talked in a while.”

He doesn’t look at you.

You try again “Even just a walk? Or–”

“God” He says sharply all of a sudden “You’re always asking for something.”

Your heart drops, blinking “I’m sorry?”

He scoffs like it’s obvious “I’m tired, okay? I don’t need you clinging to me every second. I don’t have time to entertain every little mood you’re in.”

You freeze. You’re not sure what hurts more. His words, or the way he says them. Like you’re a burden. Like your love is annoying. He still doesn’t look at you.

You swallow, hard. There's a forming lump in your throat and you try to push it down “I’m not asking you to entertain me. I’m asking you to spend time with me. Because I miss you. Because I love you.”

That gets his attention. His eyes flicker to yours and he realizes something’s wrong. But it’s too late. You’re already standing.

“I let so many things slide, Steve. I let you ignore me. I let you snap at me. I told myself you were tired, or upset, or going through something. And I gave you space because I care about you.”

He opens his mouth, but you keep going.

“But I can’t keep loving someone who makes me feel like I’m a burden just for wanting to be around them.”

You wait for a response, but he doesn't say anything. He feels the pressure inside his chest, something tightening and a nauseating feeling of guilt.

You nod slowly "Okay, whatever. I guess that's it, right?"

You get up and grab your purse, looking over your shoulder for a second before leaving. The door closes harshly behind you, and it makes him flinch at the sound. Steve immediately gets up from the couch and flips the coffee table from his living room. This is not just his dad's fault. It's his fault as well. He's letting his words get into his head and he's losing his mind. The anger doesn't sip away, it stays there during the night.

Robin feels like she's in the middle of a crossed fire. She hears your complaints about him, she listens to his complaints about his father. She knows you're hurt, she knows he's hurt, and she doesn't know what to do. She tries to talk him into apologizing to you, but you have decided to give him the cold shoulder.

She ends up telling you what his father told him. She rambles so much, she always says something she shouldn't have. But maybe it was for the best. Because then you finally knew why he was being mean to you. You know how much of an asshole his father is. You feel bad for him, you feel sorry for him, and now you realize why he acted the way he did.

He had distanced himself from you and from his friends, despite all he wanted was some company. In frustration, he began to lash out at his father whenever he had the chance. One day, they got into a heated argument when his dad came home, and in a moment of anger, he punched his father. His dad landed a punch that split the skin on his cheek slightly. 

Steve was furious, because how would he hide that from anyone? He couldn't just say he fell. At Jonathan's birthday party, they all ask him what happened to his cheek and he finds an excuse no one actually suspects.

You sit on the couch with the girls. You're all gathered around Nancy, who just got the perfect gift for her boyfriend and she's so happy about it. You're happy for her. You're so happy, you're almost jealous. You've wanted that with Steve, you wanted to have something like that with him, but maybe you had misread something. Because if he truly wanted to date you, he wouldn't have treated you that way. No one would be bold enough to do that.

And he looks at you from across the kitchen while Eddie talks out of his mind. He's like a submachine gun of words. The other guys laugh and tap each other's chest when they agree with something. He's just standing there, sipping on his lukewarm beer like it's the most boring thing. Steve keeps drinking as if that would solve any problem in his life. 

He becomes short fused out of nowhere, because he starts thinking about things that make no sense. Nancy's father would never say she's a failure. Eddie's uncle is proud of him, even though he failed school and has his name stained. Jonathan's stepfather– Hopper, doesn't care he gets stoned and doesn't have the perfect job.

He looks down at his drink too many times, he stops listening to the chatting around him. He starts giving short answers to everyone, including Dustin, who's so dear to him. You meet his eyes a few times, he doesn't look like he's okay. He doesn't seem to be interested in being there. He doesn't know how to shut it all out. He gets drunk. Worse than that, he gets bored drunk. He sits on the kitchen island and stares at his drink. Steve doesn't even know what he's drinking anymore. Is it beer? Is it whiskey? Is it vodka?

You don't enjoy the party that much. You can't. Your eyes can't stop being pulled like a magnet at him. His eyes lack confidence, happiness. All because of his father. You follow him when you notice he left the kitchen. You find him sitting on the bench in the backyard, his head thrown back and his eyes shut. You sit beside him and he doesn't shift, he doesn't move. He knows it's you because of your smell, because of your calm presence.

“You okay?” You ask, even though you know he's not.

“Do you ever stop?” His voice comes out slurred, his cup is filled with margarita. Well, half of it. He's drank the first half in one swig.

You blink, confused “What?”

“You always need something. Always pushing, always wanting. It’s exhausting.”

The words don’t register at first. Your brain fumbles them. You look at him confused, your heartbeat skipping.

“I’m... asking to see you, Steve.”

“I’m tired” He snaps “I don’t need to be your entertainment every time you get bored or lonely.”

And there it is. That’s what breaks you, you look at him for a long second. Your mouth is parted, and your breath is caught in your throat.

“That’s what you think I am?” You whisper “A bored girl looking for a distraction?”

He exhales, already regretting it, but not enough to take it back.

You nod slowly “Wow.”

“I didn’t mean–”

“Yes, you did.” Your voice cracks, but you straighten your back “You’ve been meaning all of it, haven’t you? Every eye roll. Every cold shoulder. Every time I ask if you’re okay and you look at me like I’m annoying.”

He falls silent.

You keep going, and now your voice is shaking. “I let it slide because I thought you were hurting. Because I know you’ve got things buried deep. But this? This isn’t just a bad mood anymore, Steve. This is you making me feel like loving you is a burden”

His mouth opens slightly, like he’s going to speak, but there’s nothing. Just guilt. Just stunned silence.

You take a shaky breath. “All I ever wanted was time with you. I’m not asking for flowers. Or grand gestures. Just... you. And you treat me like I’m clingy. Like I’m too much.”

You turn, wiping a tear as it falls “Maybe I am. Too much. For you.”

You don’t expect him to stop you. So when his hand catches your wrist as you turn to leave, you flinch.

“I’m sorry” His voice cracks when he speaks and it makes you freeze.

“I didn’t mean it” He says again “I didn’t– God, I didn’t mean any of it.”

You stay still, not facing him. He steps in front of you, forcing you to see his face. Bloodshot eyes, which you don’t know if it’s from the drink or for suppressing his tears back.

“My dad said... he told me I’m nothing. Just a pretty face people keep around until they get bored. That people only want me when I’m fun, or happy, or convenient.” His voice trembles. “And I started believing it. So when you loved me anyway, I got scared. I pushed. I made it hard to love me, just to see if you’d go.”

You stare at him, tears blurring the edges of your vision.

“You were trying to make me leave.”

“I know” He whispers “And I hate myself for it. I don’t want to lose you.”

You shake your head “You hurt me, Steve.”

“I know.”

“You made me feel small.”

He nods, with tears slipping down his cheek “And you made me feel seen. And I punished you for it.”

You don’t answer.

He swallows hard “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The silence stretches. A few minutes pass until he speaks up again, and this time it's like he wants to say it all out loud.

“I'm sorry” He says, a tear escaping his eyes that are closed “I'm so sorry if I'm such a fucking loser.”

You place a hand over his wrist, his knees keep bouncing as his head still falls back against the wall.

“Stevie” You say gently “You're not a loser. You're smart, you're gentle and caring. You work hard, you became better after school.”

You take the cup away from his hand and place it on the ground. You pull both his hands with yours and cradle his face, lowering his head. He doesn't open his eyes just yet, his brows crease when he tries to hold back his tears. But he just can't find strength to do that. He wants to cry, but he thinks he's just being weak.

He doesn't believe it, he never has. Because if that was true, his father wouldn't be so disappointed at him.“I'm sorry for acting like a total jackass with you. But I– My father keeps telling me I'm a fucking joke, he doesn't stop. We had a fight the other day, I threw a punch at him and he punched me back.”

“You're not even close to being anything he says you are. You are more than that, sunshine” He softens at the nickname. You have both called each other that ever since you made a deal when you were younger.

Your thumb brushes his skin gently and he leans into your touch “You have to stop listening to everything he says. He just wants to hurt you and you're giving him what he wants.”

Steve finally lets the tears roll. It falls easily, and you try to wipe them away, until he starts sobbing right in front of you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close to him in a tight hug. He keeps apologizing, hiccuping. His head digs into the crook of your neck and his crying comes out muffled. You stroke his hair and then let yourself cry as well. You have never seen him so broken before.

Finally, you speak.

“I don’t need perfect. I never did. But I need honesty. And I need someone who fights with me. Not against me.”

He nods pulling back just a little bit “Then let me fight for you. Let me earn back what I broke.”

You look at him, really look. He’s not perfect, he’s raw and flawed and scared. But this time, he’s trying.

You nod once, tears still falling “Then start now.”

He leans in, presses his forehead to yours, and breathes you in like you’re the only thing keeping him steady.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I promise.”

Steve starts taking you out. He holds your hand as if he’s afraid you’re going to disappear. He brings you your favorite snacks at work, he picks up movies for you both to watch. When he knows his father is around, he doesn’t stay home, he stays with you. He ignores his father’s call at all costs. His mother has to call Nancy’s mother so she can talk to him, and sometimes he can hear his father in the background. 

And this time, when he holds you, it feels like he means it.

It doesn’t reach him like it did before, it doesn’t do much damage like it would. He’s still angry sometimes, his temper would swing at times, and he would have to hold back at some moments. But when he sees you, when he knows you are not letting him go, he lays it all down. 

On his birthday, he goes to The Hideout.  He’s in the booth, half-smiling because Robin had forced him into wearing a party hat, it’s crooked and ridiculous. His arms are folded on the table, his shoulders feel relaxed like it hasn’t been in a while. His face light up when he watches as you enter the place and approach the table with a gift for him. 

You slide into the booth beside him, nudging your shoulder against his “Birthday boy.”

He huffs a laugh “That’s me.” 

He looks older, a little tired, maybe. It’s not easy to have parents who don’t give you enough of their love, who aren’t proud of who you are. Who aren’t there when you need them. They didn’t even call and he’s not even surprised, he thinks being with his friends is enough already.

“Are you having fun?” You ask him gently and he nods. 

“I am” He nudges your shoulder back and you nod. 

A few minutes pass with Robin drunkenly singing into a beer bottle like it’s a mic, Eddie yelling “encore!” way too loud, and Mike and Lucas arguing about something you don’t care to understand. 

And then you reach into your bag and pull out a small package in a brown paper. It doesn’t have a bow or anything fancy, just your handwriting on a folded scrap saying “for you”.

Steve raises an eyebrow “You got me something?”

“Obviously” You say, with a smile on your face that can make his days so much better “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”

He smiles, a little shy “The kind who’s already giving me way more than I deserve.”

You shake your head “Open it.”

He tries to ignore the way his heart thumps when you say “friend”, but you know it’s more than that. You just don’t have a title yet. 

He removes the paper carefully, not ripping it off, but he freezes when he sees what’s inside. 

A framed photo that looks a little blurry and kind of off-center. It’s you and him, on your back porch last fall. There are leaves everywhere and he laughs. He's literally cackling, and you’re squinting at him as you grin like a stupid 12 year old girl in love. Robin took it without either of you knowing.

There’s a handwritten note on the back of the frame, and he glances at you before opening. 

I know birthdays are hard sometimes. I know you still hear him sometimes. I just wanted you to have proof that you're loved. That you laugh like that. That you're someone people stay for. Especially me.

He swallows hard, his fingertips carefully grazing the edges of the picture. He’s quiet at first, they tighten around the frame and his eyes are locked on it, his jaw works a little and his breath trembles as he leans his head down. He presses it to your shoulder. 

“Thank you” He murmurs quietly “This… you didn’t have to…”

“I know. I wanted to.”

One of your hand tangles in his hair, the other one holds his hand under the table, your thumb brushes over his knuckles. He leans back and meets your eyes, smiling. A true smile, a kind one. 

Steve wanted to kiss you so bad that night, he longed for that. But he knew it wouldn't be the perfect timing, he wanted it to be good for both of you. Even though he can see how much you liked each other, and not just as friends.

“You make it easier. Being here, being myself.”

You rest your forehead against his “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

His heartbeat skyrockets when he kisses your cheek and places the photo back gently into the wrapping. Outside the booth, the band starts playing something truly awful. Someone throws a napkin. Dustin howls. Robin does a split that no one asked for. And Steve laughs, that same laugh from the photo. The one that makes your chest warm. It’s not a perfect night. But it’s a real one. And Steve, for once, lets it all in.

One night you were both sitting on the roof of his car, looking out at the vast starry sky. Airplanes passing by, trees rustling with the soft autumn wind. There's a blanket thrown over your shoulders, half for the breeze, half because he put it there without asking.

You haven’t spoken much tonight. And that’s okay. It’s not the kind of silence that feels like a wall anymore.

It’s the kind that feels like safety. The kind where you don’t need to fill the space to feel wanted. Steve's arm is resting behind you, long fingers tapping lightly against the metal of the car. You glance over at him, and he’s already looking at you. Not like he used to, not distracted or anxious or distant. Now he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

His eyes soften, and he swallows. And when he speaks, his voice is quieter than the wind.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since before I even deserved to be.”

You blink in surprise, your heart starts beating faster. He feels nervous, his hands shake and he’s not sure he’s doing the right thing. Because Steve broke you many times already, he can’t keep doing that anymore. 

“I just didn’t know how to say it before. Or maybe I was scared that if I said it, you’d see right through me. I was scared I would throw everything away, ruin everything we had.”

You don't respond right away. You let it land, let the words sink into your chest.

Then, gently, you ask “Do you mean it?”

He nods, just once. And then, he locks his eyes on yours, with a whirlwind in his head. But he’s sure of it, he knows.

“I love you.”

There’s no hesitation. No bitterness clinging to the edges like before. No fear behind his eyes. Just this raw, open truth he’s finally ready to give you. It’s not the same love he usually shared with you, this one is different.

Your chest aches in the best possible way.

“I love you, too” You whisper “Even when it was hard. Even when it hurt.”

His hand slides up to your cheek, gently and expectantly “I’m so sorry for the ways I hurt you.”

“I know” You say, your lips curl and you lean into his touch “You’ve been showing me.”

There’s a pause there, you two are just breathing, feeling each other’s closeness. Steve sees how your face lights up when he strokes his thumb against your cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, suddenly.

It’s such a Steve thing to ask. Always gentle, careful, almost shy. And it’s the easiest answer you’ve ever given.

“Yes.”

He leans in, slow, like he’s still half afraid you’ll disappear. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb brushing just under your cheekbone, and when his lips meet yours, it’s soft, like he’s memorizing the shape of you before he ever dares deepen it. Your hands curl into his shirt without thinking. He kisses you like he’s been waiting months, even years, for permission.

Like he’s finally found something worth staying for. Like he means every word he’s ever said, and all the ones he couldn’t say until now. When you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I’ve wanted that since the day I met you” He murmurs “But this... now... it feels like the first time I’m really me. And I’m so glad it’s you.”

You smile. And this time, when you kiss him, it’s not cautious or heavy or full of everything unsaid. It’s warm and certain, your tongues collide and there’s a million fireworks bursting inside of him. Inside of you. 

Two people choosing each other, finally, completely.

No fear, no walls.

Just love.

[accio-victuuri]

June 2025 CPNs round-up ❤️💛💚

• dragonboat festival cpn crumbs: xzs/ybo posting time, same bgm again & wwx zongzi

• there’s been some talk of xz giving some small clues & candies to try and coax bobo because he (xz) had a kissing scene in legend of zanghai. i mean, everyone is free to believe what they want — and at the end of the day, it’s all clowning anyway. but i just don’t believe in this. xz is the type that drops bombs so this is not intentional on his end. and these two are serious actors. they know what the job entails. plus, xz has much more direct ways to coax yibo. he also doesn’t need to appease cpfs and give us candy because A.) we know dramas are fiction. kissing scenes are normal. B.) we are not a third party in their relationship. he doesn’t need to prove anything to us.

i love cpns as much as the next person, but it’s important to draw the line ✌🏼

• another BGM coincidence

• what 🙄🙄🙄 means

• in one of the legend of zanghai bts, xz was talking to zhang jingyi and he mentioned their age gap. which led to a whole trip down memory lane on the times wyb refused to make their gap a big deal 😌

• yibo posting selfies on the last day of LOZ airing

• “i’m here” cpn and then a day after this gets talked about in cpf circles, yibo-official shared a behind tbe scenes video of sorts of that song. 👀

• Crystal sky of Yesterday movie candy and it’s connection to devil timeline

• Why the number 8 is xiao zhan’s number in his early years

• there is this old fake rumor that mentioned they both want to see each other in high ponytails & curly hair. and now, i think xz got that wish cause wyb has his curly hair on 🫶🏼

• yibo had hotpot in san francisco

• hello to ren shaobai in a motorcycle

• rumor that xz asked leave from work/shooting his drama as soon as wyb was allegedly back from his US trip - as with all rumors like this, we will confirm this in our little way in months/years to come.

• a new bts released in 0627 of them holding hands

This year’s anniversary celebration of CQL is a success and why wouldn’t it be when it’s by people who genuinely love and care for the show? It could never fail. I’m still amazed by all the fan arts and edits that people share & all the offline gatherings. It’s all a labor of love and i’m sure XZ and WYB are thankful that there are people who still appreciate a drama that changed their lives. 💛💛💛

Even the Untamed IP weibo account posted. 📝

Six years, a long journey, but fortunately we are on the same journey. This summer is still hot because of you.

It also went on HS and there were new-ish BTS videos that came out. This is so inspiring. The level of dedication and support that the fandom has for both xz and wyb is unmatched. &&& this is why CPF circle is so strong after all these years! 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

• this fake repo/rumor is really cute. it’s not a secret in cpf circle that xz allegedly was visiting the set of Being A Hero. and we also saw that WYB was practicing calligraphy during this time.

I was chatting with my friend, and halfway through we talked about a very cute thing that was mentioned before. When Bobo was in Chen Yu, most of the actors in the group would take notes on their roles. Bobo saw that XZ’s handwriting was very beautiful, so he started practicing calligraphy again, but he stopped after practicing for a while.

XZ went to visit the set for a few days. Once, he (XZ) looked through his notes and praised him, "How come Yibo-laoshi’s handwriting has become so beautiful?" Bobo replied very calmly, "It's okay, there is no difference from before." XZ said, "No, you have improved a lot." Bobo was still very calm, "Maybe I practiced it a while ago." XZ continued to praise him for a few sentences, and then changed the subject. At the moment, Bobo didn't seem to have much of a ripple, but the next day he immediately picked up the calligraphy and continued to practice.

Oh, I still think he is so cute, the arrogant little Bo. On the surface, he is no longer the little boy who would give himself a thumbs up when he was praised a few words in 2018, but in his heart, he would still secretly wag his tail because of his wife's two words of praise. XZ is always the person who understands Xiaobo the best. Perhaps he knows from somewhere that Xiaobo doesn’t continue writing because he feels frustrated, so he finds a way to affirm Xiaobo’s every effort and always comforts Xiaobo with gentle love.

• another fake repo/rumor:

( this was is kinda embarrassing ) 🙈🙈🙈

I was inspired by his fans. Let me tell you another story. When he was filming Ace Troops in 2020, I found someone to enter the filming location and waited for Xiao Zhan to film next to a mobile home (I didn’t know it was Xiao Zhan in the car at the time). While waiting, I chatted with my CPF friends, including their (bjyx) life. Suddenly, someone got out of the car and told us that Xiao Zhan was reciting lines in the car and asked us to speak softly.

• this similarity, xz saying he would love to go outside when it’s raining and smell the air. same thing with bobo, he loves the smell of a rainy day.

that’s all for this month! i hope that July will be good to them & they will have more time to spend with each other. ❤️💛💚

<<< previous post

[mangaandanimeposts]

Right, that's why I don't appreciate the change in the live action plot, where Ariel saves herself. Even with her knowledge of the human world, Ariel is still a mermaid, while Eric has the knowledge of a trained sailor (who knows how many years he spent on ships), so he is more capable than Ariel in maneuvering a ship and also this serves to show Triton that not all humans are bad. This also brings us back to the issue of what ship is the one on which Eric performs this action movie maneuver (bro was even cooler there): I appreciate your idea, I really like the symbolism behind it (the fact that Eric saves Ariel from Ursula with the very ship where she found the fork, where we first saw her passion for the human world, which her father forced her to stay away from. However, I read somewhere (on Pinterest maybe?) that the ship on which Eric saves Ariel from Ursula who wants to kill her, is the same real ship on which he was celebrating his birthday at the beginning of the movie, the ship on which Ariel saw Eric for the first time, the ship that then exploded because of the fireworks, leading Ariel to save Eric in turn from the shipwreck, so they save each other thanks to the same ship, at the beginning and end of the movie respectively. Whichever way you look at it, there is always a romantic twist (I LOVE IT). Also, Eric's real ship had been wrecked by 2-3 days, while nothing is known about the wreck where Ariel finds the fork: if it had been wrecked for a long time, perhaps the hurricane caused by Ursula could have moved it from the seabed anyway, but it would also have been corroded by the water for much longer, so it would have had to be completely in pieces because of a hurricane like that, I don't know if it could have resisted to a situation like that.

Can we talk about the climax of The Little Mermaid?

I would like to point another thing out that I noticed on my rewatch.

The ship that Eric uses to shish-kebab Ursula IS the ship that Ariel is exploring in the beginning of the movie.

The ship that she explored instead of going to her musical celebration.

The ship that led her to go to the surface and get yelled at by her dad.

Her dad, who believes she should have let Eric drown because it would be "one less human (spineless savage harpooning fish-eater barbarians) to worry about."

Her dad, who understands at the end of the film that Ariel loves Eric, and was right to do so, because he just saw how Eric saved his daughter in the face of impossible odds and bear certain death, even though she's a mermaid.

It is very important that Eric save the day, USING the ship that symbolized Ariel's belief in the beauty of the human world and willingness to sacrifice and take risks to explore it.

Because it's Eric's heroism that convinces Triton that Ariel's love is as real as her beliefs about humanity. It's no longer a silly teenage girl who's lost her senses about a boy and is too naive to make the right decisions. It's a teenage girl who believed in the possibility that not all humans are barbarians, and some are worth loving--and she was right. And Triton needed to SEE THAT.

If Ariel saves herself, all that would prove to Triton is that she can handle the consequences of her own actions. But if Eric saves Ariel, it proves to Triton that humans can be good and Ariel's choice to love one was real and true.

That is very important. And a pretty amazing way to show it, having Eric stab Ursula with the shipwreck.

[kwnnies]

cafe rookie - 이찬

summary: you’re not exactly stoked after hearing about another new employee joining your cafe - but your feelings quickly change as you get to know chan and you don’t know how to feel about that.

words: 8.4k

warnings: female reader, a few swear words here and there, slightly suggestive at the end, mentions of alcohol, drunk chan, i don’t know anything about how college works, seungkwan compares reader to a chucky doll, mentions of kidneys (is that even a warning?? lmao)

a/n: this was really fun to write but also so tiring lord have mercy

‘there’ll be a new guy joining us tomorrow. i beg of you, be nice to him.’

you heard that particular sentence often; in fact, you heard it every time someone new was rumoured to be joining the humble team of the cafe you worked at. each time jeonghan would come up to you with his signature smirk plastered onto his face you knew exactly what news he was carrying.

and each and every time you couldn’t help the sigh leaving your lips.

you already knew the drill - you’ll be tasked with training the newcomer for the first week, explaining everything thoroughly only for them to resign in less than a month without a word. that was the standard: you didn’t even bother learning their names.

you plopped onto the stool behind the bar, pouring yourself a glass of cold water from the dispenser.

‘wow. you’re beaming with excitement even more than usual.’ seungkwan mumbled from behind you, busy cleaning the coffee machine.

seungkwan was the exception to the rule you had made in your head; he joined in at the same time as you and went through the training process by your side. at first the two of you didn’t see eye to eye, but you’ve grown to appreciate him over the last two years. it was nice having someone to gossip with during a slow day or meet up for drinks whenever the possibility occurred.

‘yeah. i’m definitely over the moon to train another person who’ll probably end up being a no-show within their first week.’ you stated, rubbing your temples. ‘why am i tasked with it anyways?’

‘i ask myself that same question every day.’ seungkwan’s voice was barely audible over the coffee machine’s loud noises as he turned it on. ‘but then again, i don’t blame them for not returning: you’re a total bitch.’

you laughed at seungkwan’s statement.

‘yeah, sure. i just don’t coddle them. it’s not like they’re kids or anything.’

it was still half an hour before opening; morning shifts weren’t your favorite, but you were glad you didn’t have to face the burden of cleaning everything up before customers come in by yourself. doing it with seungkwan was usually so time efficient that the two of you managed to finish everything within the first thirty minutes.

‘joshua told me he goes to our uni.’ seungkwan added, sitting on a stool next to you with his iced americano. ‘if i remember correctly, he’s a choreography major.’

‘well, i’m sure he’ll dance his way out of working here before i even try to remember that.’

you loved joshua - and to love your boss is something that happens so rarely there should be books written about it. he was a great guy, and it only helped that he wasn’t that much older than you. it kept the professional relationship between the boss and his subordinates pleasant, friendly even.

where you questioned his abilities, though, was in picking said subordinates.

he was in charge of reviewing the few job applications and choosing who will come for an in-person meeting to discuss their possible future employment. joshua wasn’t stupid; his judgement regarding other people was good, and he wasn't one to believe someone’s bullshit. you still didn’t fully understand why it was that most of the newcomers would dip after a few days.

joshua boiled it down to you being ‘too intimidating’.

‘you act like you’ll kill them if they don’t remember something after their first hour here.’ he said one time, leaning against the bar. ‘you should be a bit more understanding.’

despite that, joshua insisted that you should be the one to train them, preaching about how he wants all of his subordinates to get along with each other, and if you get along with them, then everyone will.

you appreciated the fact that he trusted you to this extent - but it still didn’t change your negative attitude towards the whole ordeal.

you glanced at your phone to check the time. only twenty minutes left before you open up the cafe. you exhaled deeply, standing up from the stool and stretching your arms.

in just a little under four hours you’ll have to deal with teaching another incompetent idiot the ins and outs of a place they’ll be out of within mere days.

the day was surprisingly busy, especially considering the early hours. usually, the rush would start much later; and you thanked the gods that you and seungkwan were joined by minghao, your barista. had he not been here, you would’ve probably died of exhaustion after the first hour. you almost managed to forget all about the newcomer.

that is, of course, until seungkwan decided to remind you.

you heard your name being called from behind you, turning around almost immediately only to be met with your friend’s vile smile, almost as if he was enjoying seeing you so miserable; and maybe he was, considering how last week you couldn’t contain your laughter when a customer spilled coffee on his new shirt , and you’ve learned that seungkwan is a man who likes to hold petty grudges like these. then, your eyes caught a glimpse of a guy standing right next to him, looking as puzzled as ever.

he was wearing a black sweater and blue jeans - appropriate for the job, unlike some hotshots who would wear the most obnoxious outfits when coming here. you still had no idea who exactly were they trying to impress. his blonde hair was a little messy but he looked presentable nonetheless.

not a bad start, you thought.

‘your new victim is here.’ seungkwan said, almost overly sweetly. you barely managed to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. the guy in question laughed awkwardly at the remark, not really knowing what to do in this rather uncomfortable situation. his eyes drifted to you as he took an unsure step forward.

‘i’m chan.’ he offered you a small smile as he reached out his hand, and you did everything in your power to shake off the grimace from your face, remembering joshua’s words about at least trying to be nice to the new guys.

trying must’ve been the keyword, because you were doing a poor job at covering your dissatisfaction, confirmed by seungkwan trying to contain his laughter while seeing the expression on your face.

‘come on, i’ll show you around.’ you mumbled, making your way through the kitchen and towards the employee room, where everyone kept their belongings. chan quickly followed behind you, almost as if he feared you would disappear if he didn’t.

you grabbed one of the free aprons and threw it towards the guy.

‘wear this for now. you don't want your sweater getting dirty.’ chan quickly obliged, putting the apron on and tying the strings behind his back, making sure it’s not too tight. ‘what position did you apply for?’

‘barista.’ he said and you couldn’t contain a sigh leaving your lips.

‘i won’t be of much help, then. but i still have to do this stupid training anyways, so that’s fun.’ you mumbled underneath your breath, so quietly you were sure chan didn’t hear you.

spoiler - he did.

‘aren’t you a barista too?’ he asked as you showed him around the kitchen facilities, where the bathroom is and where he can leave his belongings.

‘everyone has to learn to make all the drinks we serve at the beginning of their job here.’ you explained, moving through the towers of boxes to get back to the bar. ‘but i’m surely far from a barista, though. ask minghao; he probably has a list on him of all the reasons i’m not fit to stand behind the bar.’

‘that definitely did not stress me out.’ he mumbled, continuing his thought at the sight of your questioning look. ‘it’s kinda my, uh, first job, you know. don’t wanna make a bad impression.’

not like you’re gonna stay here long anyways, you thought.

‘understandable.’ you didn’t say anything more as the two of you walked back to the main part of the coffee shop. you reached for a pile of laminated papers laying behind the bar, organized neatly in alphabetical order. ‘make sure you learn all of this, then. fast. oh, and don’t forget the lunch menu, too. for emergency purposes.’

considering the sheer amount of papers, chan thought he was done for right then and there.

‘don’t scare another one off.’ minghao chuckled, swiftly opening up a new bag of coffee beans. ‘see? he looks pale as a ghost and he’s only been here for what, fifteen minutes?’

your turned your head towards the newcomer, a small smile tugging at your lips as you saw his slightly terrified expression.

‘all of these are available to you at all times, whether you forget how to make a certain drink or just want to make sure.’ minghao continued, working at the coffee machine to make another order. ‘no one’ll bite your head off if your memory fails from time to time.’

‘she kinda looks like she will.’ chan murmured ever so quietly, gaining a burst of laughter from minghao and a slightly shocked expression from you.

‘anyways.’ you said, deciding to steer the conversation away from the topic. ‘let me show you the things you have to check off during your shift. we also have special sheets for that, and there’s still a lot you need to get a hang of.’

taking a few steps to reach for the blue binder, you reached out to poke minghao in the side, the man flinching in response.

‘that’s for laughing at me.’

you and vernon had known each other ever since you were in kindergarten. and ever since then, he’s had to deal with your non-stop rambling about whatever it was that annoyed you at the moment.

he was your best friend and somehow life led you towards the same passions, same interests and, consequently, the same major in college.

‘it’s suspicious.’ you stated, taking a sip of your energy drink as the two of you walked to your last class of the day. ‘this dude’s been there for five days already and i haven’t seen a single sign of him wanting to leave. he also asks so many questions i’m not even sure i know the answer to all of them. he must be damn good at pretending.’

‘or he just plans on staying.’ vernon mumbled.

you rolled your eyes at your friend’s statement, plopping down on the chair.

chan has managed to, in this short amount of time, win over both seungkwan and minghao; which you’ve found oddly suspicious. that didn’t mean that you’ve warmed up to him, though. you didn’t want him to get too comfortable too quick - you only spoke to him when he was asking you a question, keeping your answers brief and only work related. why bother getting to know him? he was going to leave soon anyways. you were sure of it - although his engagement in the job was, indeed, quite weird.

‘yeah, right. we’re supposed to have a shift together after class; i can bet you five bucks he won’t show up.’

‘deal.’

you arrived at the cafe fifteen minutes before the start of your shift, just enough to get changed and chat with joshua, who sat at one of the tables with his laptop open, seemingly getting some formalities done.

‘i’ll be leaving in half an hour, but there’ll be a delivery later on that i need you to pay for.’ he stated, stopping typing for a second. ‘the money’s in the envelope behind the counter - it should have the exact amount needed inside.’

‘i’ll take care of it.’ you said, busy tying your apron. ‘do you know which delivery it is?’

‘i think it’s fruits and foods for the kitchen.’ his words didn’t seem to get a positive reaction out of you, rather the opposite - you groaned, already annoyed at the mere idea of having to carry all of it inside. ‘yeah, a lot of heavy boxes. you’re lucky you’ll have chan to help you.’

‘if he even shows up. it’s less than five minutes before our shift starts and i don’t see him anywhere.’

joshua sighed, a smile on his lips.

‘not everyone arrives as fashionably early as you. give him a chance.’

‘sure. i already bet five dollars that he won’t show up. i don’t even know whether i want to lose the money or have to carry all these boxes by myself.’

you bid goodbye to the two waiters who just finished their shift, walking behind the counter to pour yourself a glass of water. after that, you went straight to work; there were a few people waiting to be served, and you had no time to waste.

5 minutes.

10 minutes.

20 minutes.

30 goddamn minutes.

as you exhaled deeply, preparing another americano to go, you already planned to text vernon and ask for your money. of course you were right - chan didn’t show up, and probably won’t show up ever again, and you’ll be stuck having to manage this shift alone unless seungkwan agrees to come in at the last minute for some overtime.

you reached for your phone, ready to call your friend. your thumb was hovering right barely over the screen when you heard the door open rapidly.

chan stormed through the door and sprinted right through the room and into the kitchen - you barely even heard him say hi. he was out in no time, messy hair getting into his eyes as he exhaled deeply, like he just ran a marathon.

‘i am so so so so fucking sorry.’ he said, still out of breath as he reached to tie his apron. ‘you won’t even believe how sorry i am. seriously. i was supposed to be here like fourty minutes ago but then my friend’s car crashed and i had to walk-‘

‘it’s fine.’ you cut his rambling off, mid sentence. ‘get to work now and i’ll pretend that didn’t happen.’

‘i’m sorry either way. you must’ve thought that i left you alone with all this work.’

‘i did.’

he smiled awkwardly, checking which orders still need to be done.

‘i don’t blame you. seungkwan explained to me what it looked like with my predecessors i guess, so it’s entirely understandable.’

‘yeah, yeah. less talking and more working - get ready to carry multiple boxes of foods to restock.’ you murmured, noticing new customers coming in. ‘also, that strawberry iced matcha won’t make itself.’

chan sighed quietly at the mention of the heavy labor, opening one of the drawers to get the correct glass for the drink.

‘ready in a minute.’

as you turned to greet the new customers you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. had seungkwan seen you in that moment, he would probably never let you live it down.

immediately after writing the new orders down, you sent vernon five bucks.

‘do you guys also go to uni?’

chan asked once, during a particularly slow shift, both of you sitting on bar stools as you sipped the coffee you had made for yourself earlier. seungkwan stood on the other side of the bar, cleaning up the counter and humming a tune quietly.

‘yup.’ seungkwan answered immediately. ‘musical theatre major.’

‘woah, you must have strong lungs for that.’

‘and he chooses to use them to talk your ear off for hours on end.’ you mumbled, soon met with a kitchen cloth being thrown at your head. ‘what? i’m telling the truth.’

‘you dare complain and yet you love listening to me.’ your friend said, hand on his heart as if he was doing some dramatic monologue. ‘my heart is shattered at this betrayal. i shall never speak to you again.’

‘good.’

seungkwan pretended to be sulky, the entire interaction gaining a hearty laugh from chan who tried his best to keep it in.

‘i wanted to ask because i thought you might help me.’ he said after his laughter died down. ‘i need to find someone who’s good with, uh, camerawork.’

‘pornstar?’ seungkwan joked, and chan almost spat out his drink.

‘no! no! god no.’ he immediately defended himself, standing up from his seat. ‘not that i’m judging people who work in this field. i need it for a project. for one of my classes.’

you exchanged glances with your friend and by the look on his face you knew the exact words that were going to leave his mouth next.

‘well, you have someone perfect for this right here.’ seungkwan exclaimed with excitement, motioning to you with his hands, almost as if you were some valuable goods he tried to sell to chan. ‘she’s a cinematography major - trust me, you’ll get the best angles and everything.’

‘yeah. given that i agree.’ you mumbled, over the almost empty glass.

you took a glance towards the younger boy whose lips formed into a slight pout hearing your words. you exhaled sharply.

‘alright, i’ll help you. just text me the details.’

‘i don't have your number.’

you chuckled, hand motioning towards the inner side of the counter, where a few sticky notes were displayed for those working behind the bar. most of them were there solely for fun - a caricature of seungkwan that minghao drew on one of his shifts, a drawing of a cat with a cup of coffee. between these various doodles was a red note written in bold, black letters.

emergency contact!! (dial at your own risk).

chan quickly began writing the digits down on his phone, a smile tugging on his lips at the note.

‘you can go home earlier today. the shift is really slow, and i think me and seungkwan will manage on our own. just sign off on all the lists in the binder.’

the boy looked almost too excited to be off the job, immediately running out to the employee room after signing off and saying a quick goodbye.

‘huh? you’d never let me leave early.’ seungkwan murmured quietly, walking to the coffee machine to make another iced americano for himself.

‘that’s because i would die of boredom without you, thomas the tank engine.’

seungkwan rolled his eyes theatrically at the nickname.

‘also, you’re being suspiciously…. nice. to chan. it’s unsettling.’ he stated, eyes narrowing as he stared you up and down. he looked downright comical.

‘what? no.’ your response was quick, almost too quick for seungkwan’s liking. ‘you kinda threw me under the bus so i had no choice but to agree to help.’

seungkwan took a step closer, eyes not leaving you for a second.

‘you let him leave early, you would never do that.’

‘it’s a slow day. the two of us are enough to manage all the nonexistent orders.’

‘i smell a love story brewing in real time here. hatred turned to love.’ seungkwan’s words echoed through the room, hands gesturing dramatically as he tried to imitate a movie trailer voice to add some tension to what he was saying.

‘don't even start.’

you gave seungkwan a look that he knew all too well; one more word from him and he would probably have to deal with a coffee stain on his freshly cleaned white t-shirt. seungkwan laughed at your reaction, deciding not to push any further as he saw your displeased face.

‘no love story here. is it really that surprising that i’m nice to someone?’ you asked, standing up from your seat to get some of the tasks for the day done.

‘yes. absolutely.’ seungkwan stated, ready to greet the two customers who just came in. ‘it’s like watching chucky be nice to someone. makes no sense.’

‘what makes no sense is that comparison.’

seungkwan laughed, shaking his head.

‘you just don’t wanna admit that it’s spot on. you also look like an ugly murderous doll who would probably jump me with a knife here if we were alone.’

‘whatever you say, guy who looks like an animated train.’ you mumbled, chuckling quietly. ‘get the orders before i steal all your tips and use them to pay someone to kidnap you.’

that very same day you agreed to help chan out with his project he texted you the details; a video of a self made choreography for his class that was due in a week’s time.

you were opposed to helping him - still a bit skeptical towards the guy - but you had no other choice at that point. it was three days before the deadline and it was much too late to flunk out and leave chan without any options and with a (probably) failed class. he did mention that it was worth a big chunk of his grade, after all.

so now here you were; pacing anxiously in front of some building you were supposed to meet chan at. by the looks of it it seemed to be a dance studio: you could tell by the posters on the inner side of the windows advertising dance classes in different styles and the few people walking past you to enter the building, either already appropriately dressed or carrying their clothes in sports bags.

you pulled out your phone to check the time: it was a quarter past five. the two of you agreed to meet up at five o’clock sharp. you looked around, one of your favorite tunes playing in your headphones. chan was still nowhere to be seen; not in the crowd of people leaving the underground metro station, not in the group of college kids walking by on the other side of the road.

being late must be chan’s shtick, you thought.

well, that was until someone tapped you on your shoulder.

‘hi.’ chan’s voice echoed from behind you and you quickly turned around to greet him. ‘why didn’t you come inside? i’ve been waiting there for the past fifteen minutes.’

oh.

‘sorry. i assumed you’ll be waiting outside the building.’

‘oh, right. i should’ve texted you to tell you that i’ll already be there.’ the boy mumbled, an awkward laugh leaving his lips.

‘it’s fine. let’s not waste any more time and get inside.’

chan seemed to agree with that statement, holding the door open for you to come in. once inside, he led you towards one of the empty rooms: the lights were dim and you noticed his things already laying in the corner of the room, right by the big mirror which took up one entire wall.

‘you rented out the whole room?’ you asked as you closed the door behind yourself, putting down your bags as you looked around. chan shook his head.

‘i didn’t have to. my dad owns this dance studio; he let me use it for a few hours before the senior belly dance class starts.’

you tilted your head, surprised at chan’s words - the second part, specifically.

‘senior belly dance class?’

‘yeah. it’s exactly what it sounds like. looks kind of uncanny, if i’m being honest.’

‘i’m surprised so many old women want to learn that.’ you mumbled as you sat down on the floor, legs crossed. ‘anyways, don’t you need to, like, stretch or anything? before i record the dance.’

‘oh yeah, you’re right. i should warm up.’

you stay on your phone as chan begins to stretch his limbs and replay parts of the choreography while either quietly humming the song under his breath or letting out a bunch of noises that you’ve once learned from your friend were called vocalisations: you still didn’t quite understand them, but you just decided you didn’t need to get deeper into that.

you’ve found yourself watching him closely as he went over the entire choreography a few times; how his body moved with fluidity and lightness, how he was capable of precisely hitting every beat with such ease that he made it look effortless. it was something truly astounding.

chan stopped in his movements, hand reaching up to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, shirt lifting up just the tiniest bit.

‘i’m gonna go change and wash up a bit and we can start, alright?’ he said, strands of hair sticking to his forehead. ‘it’ll take like, fifteen minutes. probably.’

you nodded, standing up to get your tools ready. a small chuckle escaped your lips as you noticed that you probably brought one too many reflectors than needed, but you wanted to be as prepared as possible. you gently set everything up, being extra careful with your camera - it wasn’t anything too fancy, but it was gifted to you before college started and you treated it with utmost love and care.

just as you finished setting everything up, making sure the tripod is steady, chan came back. you thought things would go swiftly from there on out; you record a few takes of the dance from different angles, in different ways and you’ll both be good to go for the evening. but one thing you forgot to add to the equation was that chan was a perfectionist - not only when making coffees he expected to be perfect at first try, but also in dance.

‘shit, that’s not it.’ he mumbled after the first two takes, walking towards his bag to grab a water bottle. ‘something feels off. i just can’t place it.’

a moment of silence took over the room, with both you and chan thinking of a possible way to fix it. you had no idea at all, and by the looks of it, he didn’t either.

‘maybe i should change up the choreo?’ he murmured quietly, seemingly talking to himself. ‘but then i’d make more mistakes while trying to remember the changes. no, that’s not it… maybe the problem’s not in the dance itself-

‘you should take your shirt off.’

‘excuse me?’

chan stared at you for a solid few seconds as his face heated up, completely dumbfounded by your sudden words. only then did you realize how it sounded.

‘no no not like that!’ you quickly jumped to defend yourself, cursing yourself out in your head for making a stupid comment like that. usually you weren’t one to do such things. ‘this dance is in a contemporary style, right? i’ve seen more contemporary dancers with their shirts off than on. but i’m not the expert here.’

‘we could try that.’ he said after a minute of thought, a smile on his face. ‘as long as you’re comfortable with it, obviously.’

‘whatever helps us finish this faster. it’s not like i’m going to ogle at you, chan.’

chan chuckled, reached to pull the shirt over his head and your breath hitched for a second, eyes skimming over his figure.

you’ve expected him to be in good shape, but he looked even better than you thought he would. his stomach was slightly toned; not too much but just enough to see his abs. arms , which were earlier covered by the long sleeves were now in full display and you caught yourself staring for a second too long. you looked away immediately.

‘let’s get this over with.’ you mumbled to yourself, adjusting the camera on the tripod.

the image of shirtless chan haunted you even while on the job. and it didn’t help that the culprit had the same shifts as you for the entire week.

your thoughts on him shifted slightly since that day; not only did you notice more and more of his positive qualities, you’ve also become painfully aware of just how attractive he was.

over the course of the past few days he’s been nothing but a gentleman. helping you wait tables on a particularly busy day, offering to carry all the boxes delivered during morning shifts, showing fifteen minutes earlier to his every shift, making you coffee under the excuse of practicing his latte art skills. hell, he even managed to steal the hearts of all the older ladies who frequented the cafe.

the fact that you’ve warmed up to him so quickly annoyed you to great extents.

the fact that each time your eyes landed on him they stayed there a bit too long annoyed you even more.

‘why do people keep ordering boring americanos?’ chan whined behind the bar, looking at another order you just received. ‘can’t they, i don’t know, be more creative? i’m bored of making the same thing over and over.’

‘still better than being asked about 7 different drinks only to write down ‘americano’ for the hundredth time.’ you stated, sitting down at the bar stool and waiting for chan to finish making the order.

‘let’s just erase it from the menu.’ he said, taking out two small plates for the coffee cups. you scoffed at his idea.

‘seungkwan would send a hitman after you for even suggesting that.’

chan laughed, pulling up the sleeves of his sweatshirt and consequently exposing his arms. he handed you the coffee carefully, making sure he won’t spill anything. you reached for it to place it down on the plates, fingers accidentally grazing against his for just a second.

you could still feel the faint remnants of his touch after you brought the coffee to the customers, even after you went to check the state of the bathrooms.

this isn’t good.

you ignored it to the best of your ability, trying to focus on the job and not chan’s stupidly nice looking arms, but it was difficult and you hated your mind for not letting you work in peace.

you pulled out your phone, shooting vernon a quick message.

‘takeout after work? gotta rant a bit.’

not even a minute passed before you got your answer.

‘sure. but you’re paying.’

‘when the fuck did you get a buzzcut?’ were the first words vernon heard as he opened the door for you, your face more shocked than if seungkwan were to tell you he’ll stop drinking americanos.

‘today. uh, surprise?’ he said as he let you inside, taking the bags of takeout from your hands and walking away to put them on the counter. ‘does it look bad?’

‘horrendous.’ you mumbled, laughing at your friend. ‘kidding. it’s great. the fact that you can pull that off is annoying, though.’

vernon chuckled, opening the boxes of fried chicken and digging in immediately.

‘not my fault i have better genes than you.’

‘i hope you choke on this chicken.’

you plopped down on the couch, a groan leaving your lips as vernon handed you the other box and utensils.

‘it’s so annoying. ever since i’ve helped chan with this choreography project it’s like he’s haunting me every living second.’ you stated, taking a bite out of your food. ‘every single time he comes to work with that dumb smile of his, i can’t shake off the image of his stupidly perfect body. i feel like i’m going insane.’

‘i’m sure you finding someone attractive is not the end of the world. give it a week or two and you’ll be back to usual.’

‘i hope so. i can’t just start malfunctioning every time he rolls up his sleeves.’

vernon thought for a second, finishing up his food - you still don’t know how he managed to gobble it up so quickly.

‘if it really bothers you, can't you just switch shifts with seungkwan?’

you sighed deeply, laying down with your head on the armrest.

‘nope. they’re curated according to our classes.’

‘alright. change of topic then.’ vernon murmured, reaching for the remote. ‘wanna watch a movie?’

your friend laughed immediately as he saw you shooting up at his words.

‘i’m surprised you even asked.’ your voice echoed through the room excitedly. ‘i still have a whole list of ones we haven’t yet reviewed on letterboxd.’

you loved vernon like a brother; you always cherished having a friend like him in your life, someone who you knew would always stay by your side and listen to everything you had to say. he absorbed your gossip, rants and nonsense talks like a sponge and, surprisingly, never complained. that being said, there was only one situation where vernon wouldn’t agree with you for his life: picking movies.

picking something to watch never stopped on the two of you agreeing on one film - it always turned into a conversation seungkwan once called a ‘battle of two pretentious young filmmakers whose favorite movie is a fifteen hour long french piece on a girl peeling fruit because it’s so revolutionary and different.’

he was, of course, right, which has been proven multiple times; one of them being tonight, as you and vernon went at it for two hours straight without being able to come to an agreement.

‘you say you have refined taste and you want to rewatch night at the museum for the hundredth time?’

‘it’s a classic!’ vernon exclaimed loudly, rubbing his temples. ‘as if you’re any better. one of your favorite movies is confessions of a shopaholic.’

‘say one bad thing about it and i’ll kick you out.

‘it’s literally my apartment.’

your phone started buzzing in your pocket all of a sudden, a dozen messages coming in at once.

‘jeez, turn that vibrator off.’ vernon mumbled, standing up from his seat to go throw out the empty fried chicken box.

you ignored his comment, opening up your phone to see the notifications.

all of the 13 unread messages were from chan.

‘holy shit’

‘hply SHIT’

‘yeah i just got my grade for the project esrlier today’

‘i passed (obvy)’

‘but!!!’

‘i got the HIGHEST VUCKING SCORE WTFFFFFF’

‘this is like so so so thsnks to you’

‘wow idk how to thank you diva what do i dooooo’

‘sr rambling a lil bit i’m drnk’

‘drunk’

‘idk how i’m gonna get back to my dorm lolz’

‘not bothering u anymore love ya’

‘wait not love ya but yk wait MORE SOJU OMG’

your brows furrowed as you looked through the texts, vernon’s eyes also scanning each of them over your shoulder. the boy huffed out a laugh.

‘well, he’ll surely feel embarrassed about that during your next shift.’

you reread the messages a few times. it wasn’t your obligation to make sure he didn’t get too wasted nor were you responsible for chan; he was an adult, after all. after reading the texts for the fifth time, though, your mind started to wander.

you called chan before you even processed all your thoughts. he picked up after a few seconds.

‘hello-‘

‘how drunk are you?’

you were met with a solid minute of silence on chan’s end, the only sounds heard on the other side of the phone being those of his friends arguing over who pays for the next round. a sigh left your lips.

‘i don’t know.’ he mumbled, words a little slurry. ‘pick me up, please.’

‘i can’t do that if i don’t know where you are.’

‘ugh, it’s the- uh, what is it called?’ you were surprised you could still understand chan’s words through the phone, a small smile tugging at your lips. ‘the bar. across our cafe. dunno the name.’

it made sense now. the bar chan was talking about was frequented by most students from your college; including you, occasionally. the alcohol was cheap and therefore not very good, but it didn’t stop the students from drinking there at any given occasion. you looked at the time, then at vernon, who was obviously listening to the whole conversation.

‘i’ll let you take my car.’ your friend murmured quietly, already handing you the keys. ‘just make sure he doesn’t throw up in there, or he’s paying for new upholstery.’

‘thank you.’ you mouthed back to vernon, walking towards the door to get your shoes. you then turned your attention back to the boy on the other side of the phone.

‘i’ll pick you up in five minutes. wait outside.’

by the time you got out of vernon’s car, chan was already outside, as he was supposed to be, sitting with his back against the wall. when his eyes found you his smile grew almost instantly, his energy back all of a sudden.

‘you’re here!’ he exclaimed, trying his best not to trip as he stood up, immediately making his way to throw his arms around you. you struggled not to fall back under his weight, somewhat surprised at his actions although knowing very well about his drunken state.

you helped him stand up straight, taking his arms off of you.

‘alright, let’s get you to the car.’ you mumbled quietly, opening the door on the passenger’s side. ‘unless you want to throw up. then i’m not letting you inside.’

chan blinked a few times, as if he needed more time to process your words, before shaking his head slowly as he headed towards the car, body swaying slightly.

‘all good.’

seeing him get inside, you quickly got to your side, making sure to fasten your seatbelt before you started the car. seeing how exhausted chan seemed to be before you appeared you expected him to fall asleep during the drive - but you were quickly proven wrong.

your eyes were focused on the road, one of vernon’s playlists playing quietly. fortunately for both you and chan, the dorms weren’t all that far from the bar - not only that, but at this hour of the night the streets were almost empty. your perfect driving conditions.

well, almost.

‘why don’t you like me?’ your eyes drifted to the side for just a split second, noticing chan’s sulky expression.

‘huh?’

‘you’re nice to everyone. you’re not nice to me.’ he mumbled, somehow sulking even more. ‘why don’t you like me?’

‘first of all, i’m not nice to everyone. i’m definitely not nice to seungkwan.’ you said, eyes back on the road. ‘second of all, it’s not that i don’t like you, chan. you’re alright, i guess.’

‘but seungkwan gets the mean but i actually like you and would give you my kidney if you needed it treatment and i get the mean because oooh look at me i’m so unattainable and won’t let you in treatment. maybe i also want your kidney!’

‘that comparison makes absolutely no sense.’ a small smile formed on your face, trying hard to hold back a laugh in case it’d upset chan. ‘besides, it’s a little too early for me to be giving you my kidneys.’

you parked the car, turning the engine off as you undid your seatbelt.

‘so you hate me and want me to die, huh?’

the laugh that left your lips was so sudden that even you were surprised.

‘didn’t know alcohol could make someone this dramatic.’ you said, walking out of the car to open the door on the passenger’s side, letting chan outside. ‘let’s get you to your dorm, alright? you’re speaking nonsense.’

‘no.’

‘and why is that?’

chan whined as he got out of the car, one arm resting on you to keep his balance.

‘because then you’ll leave and i’ll have to miss you until our next shift.’

you thanked the night sky for hiding the redness of your cheeks, the sudden heat hitting your face.

‘yup. enough nonsense, chan.’ you said quickly, one hand on his back as you guided him down the sidewalk.

‘but i love y-‘

‘not a word more or i’ll leave you to sleep in the bushes. we’ll talk about this another time.’

if he remembers anything he said, that is.

you were surprised to see him comply, letting you walk him back to his dorm in silence. you left him at the building entrance, turning back to get to the car the moment you saw the doors closing.

as you drove back to vernon’s to give him his car back, the words chan almost said clouded your every thought.

the next day, you called in sick. and the day after that, too.

you had to sit down with your thoughts for a bit. you’ve thrown yourself into your studies, phone on do not disturb and headphones on to turn off all the outside voices trying to creep their way into your thoughts - and yet, no matter how much you tried, chan has managed to find himself a temporary place in your brain.

what on earth was he thinking trying to confess to you while drunk? probably very little, considering the alcohol’s influence on his mind. the worst thing was that you were left with the knowledge of what his feelings are without even knowing if he’s aware that he’s stated them out loud.

you weren’t even sure you wanted to believe what he said. one side of you begged for it to be just a mistake - you wanted nothing more than to believe his words weren’t true, that all of it was just the alcohol playing tricks on his and, consequently, your mind.

but the other side, the one you tried your best to ignore, dared to wish these words to be true.

you weren’t sure whether you were ready to admit it yet - not to yourself, not to anyone - but somewhere between the lines the light in which you saw chan has shifted. your eyes, once wary and cautious, almost suspicious of the boy have now looked at him with something so scarily reminiscent of adoration you had to remind yourself to look away.

your plan was for you to just pretend it never happened and ignore the thoughts (and chan) to the best of your abilities. you knew it wouldn’t be easy, considering that the two of you were still working together. especially considering that today you were supposed to have a closing shift with him.

you never really liked closing shifts - too many people being too loud, too many mugs to wash before going home, too many tables to clean and crumbs of sweet treats and coffee stains to wipe off of the tables. it was all very mundane work and considering the hour and the lack of energy, it became even more draining.

you walked into the cafe five minutes before the start of your shift, greeting minghao and seungkwan who were busy with customers. the moment you put your apron on and reached to open the door to leave the employee room, you felt it being opened from the other side.

chan stood there as he took out his earphones, putting them in their little box as he stepped inside. you left the room without even saying hello and dipped to start your job and check the bathrooms for customers to see if anything needs restocking. not your favorite task, but at least you didn’t have to be interacting with the barista on duty.

you smiled at customers, writing down their orders and typing them into the system, mind focusing on each task as if you were a character in the sims - as if that was your only objective for the time given, only to be replaced with a new one the moment you finish doing the one before. you avoided staying behind the counter too long. you even cleaned some of the windows, even though you always complained about not reaching all the edges and having to crouch down to clean them in their entirety.

chan noticed.

he took the new batch of dirty mugs that you’ve carried from your hands, placing them down in the sink carefully before turning towards you to ask you a question, but you were already busy doing something entirely different. when he tried to strike up a conversation while handing you the drinks you were meant to serve, you only mumbled a quick ‘thanks’ before disappearing between customers.

you thanked the universe that it was a busy evening and that your hands were full of work that needed to be done. time passed by surprisingly fast when you were so engaged in your work - you didn’t even notice when the sun started to set and when the last customer left the place for the day, the kitchen clocking out just mere minutes later.

chan took that as his chance.

‘will you stop ignoring me now?’ he stood near the entrance to the bar, mop in one hand and a bucket in the other, watching as you wiped another table clean. ‘please.’

‘i have no idea what you’re talking about.’ you mumbled and you could clearly hear him let out a huff of air.

‘we both know that’s not true.’ he said, getting to his part of the job. ‘you didn’t even look at me all day.’ he then added, quietly, just barely audible.

the silence lingering between the two of you as you cleaned the cafe was almost sickening to chan.

‘i’m sorry if i said something that upset you while i was drunk.’ he broke the silence and you froze for a second after hearing his words. ‘that’s probably it, isn’t it? i must’ve said something really mean.’

you looked down at the table in front of you, a glimpse of your reflection in the freshly cleaned glass.

‘you said you loved me. i cut you off before you could finish because i know that’s nonsense.’

silence.

the lack of a verbal response made you look at him - for the first time that day - and as your eyes caught a glimpse of chan’s face, you were surprised to see him so… conflicted. chan’s eyes were focused on you, staring blankly at your face, and you couldn’t decipher the feelings hiding behind them.

he didn’t remember.

‘i’m sorry.’

‘you also talked about wanting to take my kidney.’

‘i- what now?’

you smiled for a brief second, lips curving up ever so slightly amidst his reaction. chan put the mop back, trying not to die from embarrassment as he stopped in front of the sink, letting the water run as he started cleaning the dirty mugs. you accompanied him in the task quietly, occupying the sink next to his as you got started on the same task.

he took a breath, as if to say something, but he hesitated for a second before actually letting any words leave his mouth.

‘it wasn’t nonsense, what i said that day. well, uh, maybe the kidney part was- yeah, it probably was, but i meant that other one.’

the truth hit you so hard you didn’t know what to do with it. you spent the last two days thinking about this - about the possible outcomes, the paths this relationship could take based on the answer given. your mind was processing it all over like a broken record player. this time, though, you had the answer right in front of you and yet you were still unsure.

‘i wanted to dislike you so much.’ you started quietly, hands reaching for the tall glass to clean it next. ‘but i can’t. i can’t bring myself to dislike you when all the feelings i bear for you have turned out to be the exact opposite of that. you have too good of a personality for anyone to ever dislike you.’

‘i don’t care about just anyone. right now i only care about what you think of me.’ chan’s words followed yours almost without a pause. ‘about- whether i actually have a chance.’

he was now facing you, hands wet as he awaited your response. you put down the now clean glass right next to the sink, turning towards chan as you wiped the excess water into the apron.

the small part of you that wished chan’s feelings towards you were true took over you entirely, kicking any future and previous possible doubts out the window - or maybe it was just you coming to terms with your feelings, finally embracing them fully. but one thing was certain: you now knew what you wanted to do.

‘i think there’s only one way to find out.’

his lips were on yours in no time, wet hands reaching to rest on both sides of your waist, leaving water stains on the sides of your clothes. the kiss, although having a sudden start, was soft and delicate; chan enjoyed every second of it, humming in satisfaction when he felt your hand rest upon his chest.

chan backed you up towards the inner part of the counter, lifting you up with ease to let you sit down as he stood between your legs, one of his hands toying with the hem of your shirt.

‘is that okay?’ he mumbled, lips not wanting to leave yours for too long as he waited for a response. hearing the quiet ‘mhm’ from your lips was enough of an indicator that you enjoyed yourself, too, and chan had to hold himself from smiling into the kiss too much.

you pulled him closer - if that was even possible at this point - noses bumping into each other as the kiss deepened, your arms thrown around his neck as one of his hands slid under your shirt, the faint touch just below your bra making you shiver.

you were the first one to pull away.

‘as nice as it is, i think we should get back to work.’ you mumbled, forehead resting on chan’s as he leaned in for another kiss, a quick peck to just feel your lips on his again. ‘you know, uh, we still have to close up the cafe.’

chan took a step back, helping you get off the counter.’

‘yeah. right. closing up the cafe.’ he mumbled, cheeks red as he turned to get back to his previous task. ‘will i get another kiss after that?’

you smiled, giving chan a kiss on the cheek.

‘however many you’d like.’

‘i am curious, though.’ chan added before going back to washing dishes. ‘why exactly was i talking about wanting your kidneys?’

‘beats me.’ you laughed, shrugging. ‘lets focus on the work now, though. the sooner we finish, the sooner you’ll get another kiss.’

next day joshua decided against bringing up what he saw on the camera footage from the closing shift - but he did make a mental footnote of bringing up ‘proper workplace etiquette’ at the next employee meeting.

[hatesaltrat]

Ya know, it’s funny how you have this little device that has nothing but electronic stuff moving around in it. You rarely meet the people who seemingly interact with you. It can be cold and incredibly impersonal most of the time. But then a mutual tags you on something and that’s when you know they care. Sometimes it’s a stranger that tags you or they just send a post via pm. Sometimes you get sent the same post 100x….. and each time it makes me smile. What a great thing for someone to see something and think to themselves “ya know who should see this? I bet they’d get a smile from looking at this” But what really makes me smile though isn’t the thing, it’s the fact that when y’all see something and tag me you thought of me when you saw it, it’s a real compliment that I appreciate deeply.

I am so bad at tagging people on posts like this because I hate leaving a friend out inadvertently but I’m gonna try to include the most recent folks who prompted this

@frithwontdie @orville-j-clutchpopper @bar-king-po-ny-too @usmcmax @kitty-batass @freedom-beard @bigredm38-6 @the-black-knight-ll @gowrontheterrible @inkandguns @riflebrass @uncle-beanbag-gaming @teamvoorhees3 @proba-meggy @goulashforce @keybumplumpy @mtncruzer @cantankeroussob @duncanhynes @returnofarmsnotsigns @return-of-the-blech @freetheshit-outofyou @seeking-pergamum @bombsheltersandbourbon @prodigalstranger @babe-allan-coe

and obviously all the other Tigers

You folks make me feel sunny inside, more than some people I know in real life.

Thank you.

[zyafics]

"Ahhh, now I get why you insisted on coming here, Country Club," Barry said with a fuckass grin as the bar’s wooden entrance door swung shut behind them

i knew by this very first line that this fic was going to be a BANGER and reason for it? immediately, instinctively, i clocked that these fic was going to remind me of all the fics i loved in the rafe fandom before… the nostalgia was already appearing!! (i just finished: i was right.)

The Bastard’s Lighter was packed with a mixed crowd of shitty people, the air thick with smoke and the sharp bite of cheap whiskey. Round tables glowed under soft golden lighting, casting gentle shadows over laughing assholes and clusters of sweet girls beneath them.

love the bar name—love the descriptions even more!! teach me!!

“Just keep count of your fucking drinks, yeah?”, Rafe said, brows furrowed as he held Barry's stupid grin. “You falling from the stool tonight, I’ll leave you there. I'm not dealing with the same shit as last time.”

dialogue so clean!! so entertaining!!

With a raised brow, you finally spared him a glance, that cheeky smile playing on your lips. “You sure? You two come in here every week, giggling like schoolgirls over god-knows-what, drinking the same kind of beer, and now you even got matching buzzcuts.” A chuckle escaped you. “Surprised you’re not wearing each other’s names around your wrists.”

oh i love her (me?) marry me (us?)

After Wheezie, you were probably the coolest girl Rafe had ever met. Always so unbothered, quick-witted, cheeky, and with the perfect flirt-to-roast ratio.

wheezie mentioned!!

Rafe let out a disbelieving scoff, raising his brows as he gestured toward the fucker's feet. "Socks matching the color of your cheap-ass suit. Lemme guess: trying to appear taller to compensate for your poor little ego and tiny cock. I mean, shit", Rafe ran a hand over his buzzed hair, grinning crookedly as his gaze zeroed in on the guy’s forehead, "Even your fucking hairline’s running away from the bullshit coming out of your mouth."

clock him king!!!

Rafe hadn't even noticed you coming up but now he felt like a fucking winner getting to put a fucker like that in his place in front of you AND getting that sweet sound out of you for the second time tonight.

he’s so down baddd i’m so obsessed w him it’s dangerous

Rafe almost let out a giggle. Instead, he just nodded, lips curled. “Looking forward to it. Be so kind and address it straight to Thornton LLP, yeah?” And on the bastard’s delightfully baffled expression, Rafe piled on: “A very busy man, but if he sees my name on the envelope, I’m sure you’ll get priority.”

i feel like those french girls from beauty and the beast

Fucking shit. What.

soooo down bad

ANYWAYS!! i have so much to say. first off, ADD ME TO YOUR TAGLIST!! how have i not known u before this? this is so devastating!! i’m blaming tumblr algorithms!! with the fic in itself, this was SUCH a fun read! it was so entertaining with rafe consistently calling barry a swamp rat, with rafe being soooo down baddd for reader to the point her smile and chuckle were his prizes, and it was so so funny! now, onto the writing? floored. amazed. devastating obsessed!! from ur descriptions that curated the setting so well, to the internal monologues that built rafe’s internal thoughts so smoothly, to the dialogues that bounced, that felt innovative and new with each additional line, that kept me LOCKED TF IN!! but truly, at the soul of it all? my main obsession with this fic was how much it reminded me i loved fanfics. this is the type of fics i spent hours scrolling through the tumblr tags for when i should’ve been studying for my exams. the type of fics that just boasted this sense of nostalgia i—and i believe so many others—have been craving from the fandom. it’s just something u knew instantly. on the first line. and u delivered exactly just that. i am so appreciative that someone like you have joined my lil campaign and ty so much for this beautiful artwork!! <e

the bastard & the clown

★ P A I R I N G ★ boxer!rafe cameron x witty!barkeeper!reader + some platonic barry x reader

★ S U M M A R Y ★ you’re working a regular shift at the bar you run when rafe and barry drop by for a chill night out. but when a pair of men at the counter start running their mouths, rafe puts one specific bastard politely in his place.

★ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ★ rafe's pov, cursing / strong language, mild suggestive language and themes, (verbal) themes of toxic masculinity/sexism/misogyny/domestic violence/tradwife, semi jealous!rafe, also flustered!rafe hihihi, physical violence (a punch) & mentions of blood

★ W O R D C O U N T ★ 6.4k+ (it was supposed to be 3k help)

★ A / N ★ been wanting to introduce this duo in a while now and thought they could fit @zyafics campaign. also, thought it'd be ironic if rafe got to put some asshole in his place who basically represents some of these twisted versions of him. a lot longer than intended but i got a little carried away. also only proofread twice so pls don't mind any context mistakes. anyway, hope you guys enjoy and lmk what you think <3

ps: idk if it gets clear throughout the fic (or the title hahahah) but each man at the counter is assigned a term. so don't get confused, 'clown' always refers to one guy and 'bastard' to the other.

xx ᓚᘏᗢ

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"Ahhh, now I get why you insisted on coming here, Country Club," Barry said with a fuckass grin as the bar’s wooden entrance door swung shut behind them.

The two of them just came back from a boxing session, freshly showered, and now in need of some time out.

Rafe followed that idiot's gaze, a scowl already forming on his face.

The Bastard’s Lighter was packed with a mixed crowd of shitty people, the air thick with smoke and the sharp bite of cheap whiskey. Round tables glowed under soft golden lighting, casting gentle shadows over laughing assholes and clusters of sweet girls beneath them.

Some of those girls had even turned their heads when the two of them walked in, flashing Rafe pretty smiles and giggles in their cute little summer dresses (god, how he loved this season for exactly that). They were probably hoping he’d come over and talk to one of them.

But he didn't give a shit about them.

Why should he? Because at the far end of the room, the bar awaited—a silver-lit, crescent-shaped counter with high stools offering seats with the view on the best part of this entire place.

You.

The hot bartender with the cheeky laugh and teasing smiles, the one who could outdrink any bastard who dared challenge you.

Or better: the girl Rafe had come here for tonight.

That scowl threatening to creep onto his face quickly disappeared, replaced by a faint smile and softened gaze.

"Come on, loverboy," Barry chuckled, clapping a hand on Rafe’s shoulder and nudging him forward. "Don’t wanna keep your lady waiting. Might be some other slick bastard trying his luck.”

And the scowl was right back.

Rafe turned around with a tilt of his head, eyes squinted, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he tapped Barry’s chest. “You fucker behave tonight, alright?”

“Me?” Barry raised his brows in mock innocence, shaking his head with an amused snort. “Dunno what you’re trynna tell me here, big boy, but I’m just here to drink and enjoy your delightful company. I ain’t ever—“

“Just keep count of your fucking drinks, yeah?”, Rafe said, brows furrowed as he held Barry's stupid grin. “You falling from the stool tonight, I’ll leave you there. I'm not dealing with the same shit as last time.”

Shit, Rafe had been so close to getting your number—hell, you’d already pulled out your cute little notepad and pen, that teasing glint in your eyes, the first two digits already written down—and then swamp rat Barry ruined this one-in-a-million chance by almost throwing up on the counter.

Idiot hadn't just embarrassed himself, trying to drink a dockworker the size of a bear under the table, but Rafe as well. And right in front of you on top of that.

Barry was lucky Rafe had even let him tag along tonight. He would’ve preferred bringing Kelce this time—that idiot at least knew how to be a decent wingman—but he was on some kind of detox bullshit and wouldn’t go near fast food or booze right now.

Barry let out a lazy chuckle. “Not my fault for—“

“I don’t give a shit”, Rafe cut him off, passive-aggressively fixing the crease he’d caused on Barry's tank top with a one-sided smile. “Don’t act like a clown, and I won’t treat you like one. Can’t be that hard, right?”

For a moment Barry just eyed him, mouth tugged into a downward smile, then he raised his hands in surrender. “A’right, a’right, Country Club. Relax your balls.” He nodded toward the bar. “Now get ya fancy ass movin', ya girl's been eyeing the wrong guy the past five minutes.”

Shit, what.

Rafe’s head snapped around.

Aw, hell no, fuck that.

There you were, a few meters down, chatting with some greasy fucker in his late forties, dressed in a cheap-ass Suitsupply suit (yeah, Rafe could smell that offense from across the room). And it wasn’t just one bastard you were serving with that practiced little smile—knowing full well they were disgusting pricks but also well aware you could squeeze some good profit out of them—but another one of this breed sat right beside him.

Rafe only saw the backs of their heads in those terrible excuses for suits, but he could still make out the balding patches from over here (not to mention the probably receding hairlines). He didn’t need to see their faces to know exactly how they were looking at you—lecherous grins and eyes creeping over places they had no business looking.

He knew their type. He'd seen men like these at business events of his dad.

Middle-class managers leading some irrelevant departments at some irrelevant company selling irrelevant shit. And when they weren’t sitting in their sad little three-square-meter offices, drinking bad coffee and pretending their phone calls were presidential briefings, they hit up country clubs and bars, puffing cigars and sipping whiskey, trying to make up for their miserable little lives by gathering in their self-proclaimed alpha circles.

And the worst part? They probably had a sweet wife and kids waiting at home, but instead chose to sit at a bar ogling the boobs and butt of a bartender in her twenties.

Pathetic losers.

Rafe's fingers were already twitching as he followed after Barry. And of course, as lucky as he was, only three stools left at the bar. Right next to those wannabe CEOs.

Fucking great.

Barry plopped down next to some sweet girl while Rafe had no choice but to sit down beside one of the pricks—at least one stool of space between them.

He would’ve loved nothing more than to just chase them off, but he didn’t wanna cause a scene in front of you. And, judging by the stack of glasses in front of them, you were at least making decent money off these pricks.

Besides, he knew you could handle yourself if you needed to. No reason to question that.

“Be right with you, boys,” you said with a cheeky grin, not even looking up as you mixed one of the losers a Jack & Coke (a pathetic drink for a pathetic clown).

God, but the way you worked the bottles so smoothly, not spilling a single drop. Rafe could watch you behind the bar for hours, soaking up your energy and that laugh.

“No worries, Boss,” Barry called back, matching your grin and already reaching for a peanut bowl next to him. “Got allll the time in the world.”

That stupid-ass nickname of his even made you laugh, making a soft smile creep onto Rafe’s face too.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” the clown next to Rafe slurred, voice already half gone, as you slid the glass toward him (Rafe could feel his blood pressure spike the second that fucker tried sneaking a look down your top).

You let out a light breath, pulling the drink back with a raised brow. “Aww, didn’t you see? ‘Sweetheart’ isn’t on the menu. Unless you’re cool with paying ten bucks for it every time.”

The clown had the audacity to gasp. “What? No way. Not happening.”

“Shame,” you said, pretending to pout. “You looked like a guy who could afford it.” You shrugged and started pulling the drink back again. “But I guess I was wrong—”

“I am!” the guy cut in, nodding like a maniac. “CEO of Bulk & Bloom. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Rafe almost burst out laughing. That fuckass health/gym/whatever store Kelce swore by? That's what he was CEO of? Most embarrassing shit Rafe had heard all month.

You tilted your head with a pondering expression, face all scrunched up like you were desperately trying to remember the sad little company he worked at (god, the way you played that clown, milking him for cash—shit was so fucking hot).

"Oh, yeah, I remember now," you finally said, fluttering your lashes at the stupid fucker (Rafe knew it was all an act, but that little gesture still stirred something vile in him). "Then I’m all the more confident that a man in such an important position won't mind coughing up a few extra bucks, right?" Without waiting for that pathetic clown's response, you slid the drink across the counter toward him, your voice slipping back into your true tone. "Just leave it on the bill later, sweetheart."

As soon as you turned to face Rafe and Barry, Rafe straightened up, unable to hide a smile as your pretty eyes landed on him for a second—

—before your gaze fell on swamp rat Barry.

“B!” A wide grin spread across your face as you leaned against the lower bar with one hand, the other resting on your hip. “Good to see you. You recovered from last time? Looked pretty rough.”

Acting as if Rafe wasn't here. Ha. Funny. Fucking hilarious.

Barry nodded, swallowing a handful of peanuts. “Sure as hell did, Boss. Shouldn’t have mixed my drinks so heavy.”

You chuckled, a sweet sound Rafe wished had been directed at him. "Nah, you shouldn't have participated in a drinking game with Big Ol' Hank."

“Could’ve warned me about the guy’s skills. Man’s a bear,” Barry said, shaking his head with a lopsided smile.

You turned and pointed toward a portrait on the wall behind you—a big, grumpy-looking dude. Below him, a golden plaque read: Keeper of the Lighter since 1977. His fire never died, and neither did his thirst.

“I’m pretty sure that should've been warning enough,” you replied, amused, as you turned back to them, nodding toward Rafe. “Lucky your boyfriend walked you home that night. Would’ve been a real shame to find you washed up dead on the shore the next morning.”

"Fucker's not my boyfriend", Rafe said.

With a raised brow, you finally spared him a glance, that cheeky smile playing on your lips. “You sure? You two come in here every week, giggling like schoolgirls over god-knows-what, drinking the same kind of beer, and now you even got matching buzzcuts.” A chuckle escaped you. “Surprised you’re not wearing each other’s names around your wrists.”

Fuck that.

Rafe had the buzzcut first and a week later fucking Barry decided to chop off his hair too, for whatever fucking reason.

The worst part? You might actually believe Rafe was taken now.

“Boy’s lips probably taste like shit from kissing his daddy’s ass,” Barry said before Rafe could reply, and the fucker was lucky Rafe didn’t deck him right then and there. "Ain't wanna get involved with that mess."

Not a wingman. A fucking clipman, cutting off any chance Rafe might’ve had with you.

“I’m not—” Rafe started with a deep frown, but shut his mouth when some girl at the far end of the bar called your name.

“Coming!” you called back, then turned to Rafe with a teasing little smile in your eyes. “Sorry, Ralph, no time for—”

"Rafe."

“Right. Anyway,” you said, grabbing your notepad and pen from your waist. “The usual, I assume? Two Modelos?”

Barry nodded and motioned to the empty peanut bowl. “And refill this, would you?”

“For you, always,” you said grinning, scribbling something down, then looked up at Rafe with an expectant expression. “And you, handsome?”

Rafe blinked.

Wait, what.

Shit, why the fuck did he feel his cheeks heat up and why the fuck did you eye him like that? Like you were staring straight into his damn soul.

Rafe let out a baffled chuckle, scratching his jaw with furrowed brows. "Uh, PBR this time."

“Oh, feeling adventurous today, I see,” you teased with a grin, jotting it down. You quickly refilled Barry’s snack bowl and left with a “Be right back.”

Rafe’s eyes trailed after you, drinking up the way your hips swayed as you walked—sweet yet confident. That whole attitude of yours… shit was driving him absolutely crazy.

After Wheezie, you were probably the coolest girl Rafe had ever met. Always so unbothered, quick-witted, cheeky, and with the perfect flirt-to-roast ratio.

And Rafe still hadn't bagged you. Shit was starting to get embarrassing.

"Boy's in love."

Rafe’s gaze snapped to Barry, who was watching him with a way too shit-eating grin for someone who’d just narrowly avoided a punch to the face.

“You know if you’re trying to get your ass beat tonight, you’re on the right track,” Rafe said, tilting his head with a crooked smile.

Barry just chuckled and reached for another peanut, but Rafe grabbed the shitty-ass bowl and moved it out of reach.

“I’m serious, dude,” he said, gesturing to his chest with both hands. “Told you not to clown around tonight, and you go spouting bullshit like I’m not right here.”

Like, what the fuck was that ass-kissing comment about? Seriously.

“What?” Barry raised a brow, grinning as he leaned on the counter. “Don’t tell me Country Club’s scared I’ll shoo away his girl.”

More like cockblocking Rafe but yeah, same fucking thing.

“All I’m fucking saying is—” Rafe started, but Barry waved him off before he could finish.

"You’ve already almost won the race, bro, a’right," he said with that fuckass smile, jerking his thumb back toward where you were chatting with some other chick. "You think Little Miss Bar Queen would bother exchanging more than just your order with you if she didn’t already consider you rocking her world, at least a little?"

For a second, Rafe just stared at the idiot.

Could that be true? Were you actually interested in Rafe? Sure, you’d been cool enough to (almost) give him your number last time, but not even remembering his fucking name now… that shit felt like a punch straight to the gut.

Okay, shit, yeah, of course, you served all kinds of people every day, some shittier than others, and of course, there were guys in the mix who liked you just as much as Rafe did. A blind man could see how fucking gorgeous you were.

And of fucking course you'd flirt back. That’s just how you were. And as much as it gnawed at Rafe’s chest, as much as it stirred something deep and ugly in his gut, it wasn’t all that unlikely that you gave your number out to other guys too.

But swamp rat Barry claiming Rafe actually had a shot with you? That shit lit something in him. A wave of energy crashing through him, almost feeling as good as snorting a line (yeah yeah, Rafe was clean now, but the comparison still fit).

Shit, okay, so maybe he needed a new approach. Maybe he just had to—

"--beat up my wife if she'd dared talk to me like that", the bastard beside the clown said loud enough for Rafe to hear.

Shit, what the fuck?

"I'm serious," the bastard continued his bullshit, talking to the clown. "You let every woman talk to you like that, and pretty soon they start thinking they own you. When in reality, it's the other way around, ain't it?"

The clown nodded, letting out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah I guess you’re right, Tommy, I just—“

“What’s with the scowl, bro?” Barry said, ripping Rafe out of the retarded convo next to him. “Tried cheering your sulky ass up and here you are—“

Rafe shushed him with a wave, brows deeply furrowed. “Shut the fuck up for one second.”

"Man, am I glad I'm not your boyfriend," Barry muttered, reaching over to pull his snack bowl back and skimming the menu.

Fuckass.

“—that’s why it’s important to put them in their place, alright?”, the bastard continued preaching. “Women want someone they can follow. It’s natural they seek a man who protects them and cares for them.” He tapped the counter aggressively. “Wonder why there are no female presidents yet? Exactly! We are born leaders.”

Oh, Rafe was this close to getting up and smashing that fucker in the face, knocking a few teeth out, and giving him a pretty little black eye to match. His knuckles were still warm from earlier, would be a shame not to put that last burst of energy to use.

But nah.

He held himself back. Now he was curious. Let that asshole keep talking. Maybe he was witnessing the dumbest fucker in world history present himself right here, and Rafe wasn’t about to miss that celebration.

"Guess that makes sense," the clown slurred, swirling his half-empty Jack & Coke. "Harris is always bitching about me getting home late and not helping with the chores. I think I just gotta remind her of her role in this family, right?"

The bastard knocked on the wooden counter, a filthy chuckle escaping his lips. "You get it, man! She's working remote, right? So what's she complaining about? Got all the time in the world to prep the house for when you get home."

Rafe's blood boiled just beneath the surface. He hadn't heard this level of fucked-up nonsense in a LONG time. Last time, some cocky little shit at the boxing club thought he had a chance against Rafe. Like, was there something in the air lately making people extra fucking stupid?

The clown sighed, staring into his drink. "I just don't know how to—"

"Okay, beautifuls, sorry it took so long." The sweet sound of your voice yanked Rafe out of this retard bubble. "Former high school friend decided to say hi."

With a soft thud, you placed two bottles of beer in front of the guys. The Modelo you slid over to Barry. "Here you go, B." And the PBR to Rafe, a bolt of lightning surging through him as you winked at him. "And this one for his cute boyfriend." You leaned back, drying your hands on the rag at your hip. "Anything else?"

Rafe blinked.

Cute!

Shit, why did that make the funniest feeling arise in his chest? He felt like some schoolgirl going insane over her crush.

Get a fucking grip, dude. Jesus.

"Get his fancy ass some ice," Barry mumbled, mouth full of peanuts, thumbing toward Rafe. "Boy decided to go gloveless at training today. Now he's hurting but too proud to admit it."

Rafe was gonna kill Barry the moment they stepped outside. Sure, his knuckles were still throbbing, but he wasn't hurt. What the fuck was that swamp rat even on?

Your soft chuckle melted Rafe's scowl, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah? Wanna let me take a closer look when I'm done here? I'm sure you could use someone to tape that up after such a session."

Oh?

A breathy laugh escaped Rafe as he raised a brow, nerves buzzing under his skin. "What, you some kind of part-time sports therapist or some shit?"

"No, but my aunt is," you said with a grin, tilting your head. "Picked up a few things from her. And I'm guessing it's real tough to reach your back on your own."

Fuck yeah. Now Rafe had officially been allowed in the ring.

"Alright," he said, smiling crookedly, fingers picking at the beer label. "When's your shift over?"

"As soon as the place closes down," you replied, grinning. "Guess you'll have to stick around for a few more hours."

Oh, you could bet your sweet little ass he would.

Rafe shrugged, corners of his mouth tugging down as he shook his head lightly. "I'm free." Then mirrored your grin. "Seats here are kinda shit, but I guess the view makes up for it."

And the genuine laugh that escaped your usually bold mouth felt like snorting three lines in a row (nah, fr, Rafe was clean, alright).

"Okay, then," you said, nodding at the beers. "If you need anything else, just holler. Got other customers to tend to."

With that, you spun your cheeky ass around and walked down to the other side of the bar where some old ladies were sitting.

"Shiiit, dude," Barry said with the biggest grin ever, gulping down a sip of his shitty-ass Modelo. "I think I just third-wheeled some telepathic sex right here. Might as well thank me for giving ya the nudge."

Rafe scoffed with a shake of his head, taking a sip of his PBR and immediately regretting his choice of beer. "You can thank me for not beating the shit out of you later."

A giggle left Barry's lips and whatever smart-ass reply he threw back, Rafe didn't register, because right next to him, three seats down, he caught the bastard tossing another comment to his clown friend.

"See, Frank, and that girl right there?" Oh, that fucker meant you, huh. "Pitiful. Probably no man at home to teach her not to swing her ass around other men in public. Sad what girls are turning into."

"Say that again." Rafe had now fully turned toward the two sorry-ass losers, head leaning forward, eyes locked on the bastard behind the clown.

Both looked up. The clown blinked, confused. The bastard raised a brow like he couldn’t believe someone had just interrupted their little alpha circle jerk.

"Sorry?" the bastard said, eyeing Rafe up and down like he was sizing up if the boy in a polo and shorts deserved to be taken seriously.

Rafe nodded, letting out a sharp scoff. "Yeah, you're gonna be sorry if you open that fucking mouth of yours one more time."

The bastard's face scrunched up and in that moment he seemed to decide Rafe was beneath him. "Boy, best not get involved in things that don't concern you."

That’s when Rafe knew for sure: this asshole was getting punched tonight. Just a matter of when.

"Bullshit’s spilling out of you like this place is a fucking stable," Rafe replied with a crooked smile. "So yeah, it does concern me when your shit's reeking all the way to my seat."

The clown was already sinking into his stool, but the bastard apparently thought Rafe was the joke here. He let out a disbelieving breath, not even looking at Rafe anymore as he turned to the clown, gesturing in Rafe’s direction. “See that, Frank? That’s what happens when a father doesn’t raise his son right. His mother was probably—”

“Finish that sentence, and your loser friend can go ahead and reserve you a hospital bed.” Rafe’s voice had dropped to a low edge, his expression far too calm for how close he was to dragging that fucker’s face across the counter.

The fucking audacity—not just dragging you and his dad through the mud, but now even throwing Rafe’s dead mother in too?

“Rafe, bro, come on,” Barry said from behind. “Idiots like him ain’t worth it.”

But Rafe spared him no mind, gaze fixed on the bastard three seats down.

The clown of the duo just looked between them, then down at his sad little Jack & Coke like he hadn’t just sat in the middle of all this shit, like he hadn’t co-signed every word his bastard friend had said. (Don’t worry—Rafe would deal with his sorry ass later.)

“I know your type, boy,” the bastard went on, eyeing Rafe’s clothes again (if only he knew Rafe owned socks that cost more than his entire outfit). “Dropped out of school, probably had some rebellious phase, and of course no real man around to beat you into shape. What a shame. Society’s raised nothing but soft little men these days.”

Rafe tilted his head slightly, brows raised in mock confusion. “Funny hearing that from a pathetic loser like you. Talking about ‘real men’ like you even qualify.”

As soon as the bastard started laughing, Rafe was on his feet, brushing off Barry's hand as he stepped around the clown. He let out an amused breath and rubbed his jaw with a shake of his head as he came to a stop in front of the bastard. "Not sure what's so funny about that."

The drunk clown nearly tripped over himself pushing himself off the stool, mumbling something about needing to piss as he staggered away. The bastard only furrowed his brow, watching his loser friend stumble off.

“What do you know about being a man?” he spat, turning back to Rafe, the wrinkles in his face bunching up like worn-out leather. He nodded toward Barry. “Your friend’s a pogue by the looks of it, and you...” His eyes dropped to Rafe’s sneakers. “Either the same breed or some kook who lost his crown.”

What the actual fuck was even going on in this fucker's brain? Fucking apes had more relevant shit to say than him.

"Yeah, talking reaal big for a guy with a knockoff Armani suit two sizes too big for a small fucker like you," Rafe snorted, eyeing the bastard down for a second. "Suit's fake, Rolex fake, shoes look like you got 'em from TKMinimum, and what's that?"

Rafe let out a disbelieving scoff, raising his brows as he gestured toward the fucker's feet. "Socks matching the color of your cheap-ass suit. Lemme guess: trying to appear taller to compensate for your poor little ego and tiny cock. I mean, shit", Rafe ran a hand over his buzzed hair, grinning crookedly as his gaze zeroed in on the guy’s forehead, "Even your fucking hairline’s running away from the bullshit coming out of your mouth."

Sure, Rafe could've given him some preaching about how to treat women and how fucking stupid his fuckass worldview was but that idiot was too far gone already and the only way to put him in his place was to question his entire appearance.

That's what guys like him actually cared about. Not morals, not decency, just how they appeared in public and whether everyone saw just how glorious and wealthy they were.

And the way that pathetic loser looked at Rafe now? Worth more than all the silver, gold, or diamonds in the entire damn world.

And then the cherry on top: your chuckle from behind the bastard—light and effortless, like the ring of a bell announcing Rafe's victory after a boxing match.

Rafe hadn't even noticed you coming up but now he felt like a fucking winner getting to put a fucker like that in his place in front of you AND getting that sweet sound out of you for the second time tonight.

And then, that bastard made the biggest fucking mistake of his entire pitiful life.

He turned his head back, eyes daring to look you over as he let out a disdainful scoff. When he made a hushing motion with his hand, he said "Do me a favor, woman, and--"

Rafe’s fist collided with the asshole’s face, a sickening crack echoing through the air—nearly as satisfying as your chuckle just right now.

The guy let out a sharp gasp as he stumbled back from his stool, hands flying up to his broken nose just in time to catch the blood now spilling over his fingers and lips. He crashed chest-first onto the seat next to him, bleeding all over the supposedly precious leather cushion.

The area around the bar went dead silent, except for a group of girls giggling about something in the back and fucking Nickelback playing on the speakers.

Rafe quietly met your gaze as he rubbed at his throbbing knuckles, while the bastard on the floor dramatically moaned like he’d been shot instead of just having his nose broken.

And you cheeky little thing only raised your eyebrows at Rafe, the faintest smile playing on your lips. “I’m pretty sure the house rules say no fights.”

Oh, how much Rafe loved that glimmer in your eyes.

"And I'm pretty sure it needs two for a fight", Rafe replied with a scoff and gestured to the sorry-ass loser clutching onto the stool. "Bastard's nowhere near to even be considered a walking vendor for a match, let alone a contestant."

“Shit, Country Club, this ain’t no damn boxing ring,” Barry chimed in with a chuckle, tossing the bleeding bastard a wad of tissues onto the stool beside him. “Bro, you’re staining the seats.”

The groaning bastard finally pushed himself up and knocked the tissues off the stool, one hand clutched to his nose, blood running through his fingers and dripping onto his knockoff suit and cheap-ass shoes.

Aww, and even a bloodshot eye—how unfortunate.

Now that was a picture worthy of being framed behind the bar. Gold plaque underneath: Biggest Retard in the Universe (since birth probably).

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, you little shit,” the bastard groaned, eyes watery from the punch, glaring at Rafe with a face so twisted, he looked like he was mid-way through busting the world’s saddest nut.

Rafe almost let out a giggle. Instead, he just nodded, lips curled. “Looking forward to it. Be so kind and address it straight to Thornton LLP, yeah?” And on the bastard’s delightfully baffled expression, Rafe piled on: “A very busy man, but if he sees my name on the envelope, I’m sure you’ll get priority.”

The bastard’s jaw clenched, and he let out another theatrical groan. “And that would be?”

“Rafe Cameron.”

Boom.

That was when it finally clicked in that baboon brain of his. Face pale, eyes wide as he realized just how far beneath Rafe he actually was in this little imaginary hierarchy of his. Fucker looked close to either pissing himself or throwing up just thinking about how expensive his own lawyer would be if he actually pulled through with his complaint.

A crooked smile played on Rafe’s lips as he raised his brows. “Need me to write it down for you?”

The bastard just stared blankly at him, and shit, even had the nerve to look over Rafe’s clothes again, like he couldn’t believe some dude in a basic polo and shorts was the CEO of Cameron Estates and Ward Cameron’s son.

“A'right, my guy,” Barry said, pushing off from his stool and grabbing the bastard’s shoulder. “Guess that was ya cue to leave. Pretty sure ya got plenty of paperwork waiting back at home now.”

“Get your filthy hands off me,” the bastard spat, shoving Barry’s hand away—and that alone nearly made Rafe punch him again, give him a matching bruise on the other side. “Fucking pogue. Thinks he has any say around here.”

“No, but I do.” Your voice rang out from behind the bar, hands braced on the lower ledge, an amused smile on your face. “Looks like you should call it a night, mister.” Grin deepening. “Not before you pay, though. For you and your sweetheart of a husband, of course.”

Barry said something like “I’ll get him, Boss,” and strolled off toward the restrooms.

The bastard’s chest rose and fell, face as red as the blood on it. “Back in my day, a bitch like you—”

“Shiiit, man,” Rafe chuckled low, grabbing the fucker by the shoulder and patting his chest. “You’re really asking for it right now, huh?”

Oh, and Rafe drank in that anger and fear in the guy’s eyes up like liquid coke, too scared to shove Rafe off.

Rafe nodded toward you with a crooked grin. “You’re gonna apologize to the nice lady now, pay for the drinks you and your loser buddy have downed, and then get your pathetic asses outta here.” He raised his brows with a smile. “Sound good?”

Bastard already opened his mouth but Rafe shook his head, tapping his chest with a finger, grip on his shoulder getting just a little firmer. “You’re lucky if all that bullshit earlier was just talk. Otherwise, I’m sure the cops would love a chat with that wife you bragged about beating.”

That silenced that fucker very quickly.

Rafe raised his eyebrows, waiting. “I mean, unless you need a second reminder—”

“I-I’m sorry”, the bastard blurted out.

“Nah,” Rafe said with a shake of his head, gesturing from himself to you. “Don’t tell me that shit. Apologize to her.”

A chuckle escaped your lips as the bastard finally met your gaze, brows scrunched into a pained grimace. “I’m sorry.”

Rafe let out an amused breath, clapping the bastard’s chest. “Shit, see? Easy. Now you do the same shit at home and question your morals and maybe hell’s promoting your room just a level.”

And the fact that that was apparently the scariest idea to this asshole? Not surprising. Guys like him always preached about God and then used it as an excuse for all the shit they did.

“There ya go,” Barry said as he came back in, dragging the drunk clown from earlier along. By the looks and stench of him, he’d just thrown up. “Now go over there and give the lady a generous tip, a’right?”

He did. Both of these fuckers, as a matter of fact.

Rafe and Barry both watched over their shoulders as each of the two reluctantly pulled out a $200 bill (surprised they even had those—then again, probably received them at some sad little business anniversary).

You flashed a big smile as you accepted that 60% tip. “Thanks, dearies. Hope you had a fun night.”

Rafe didn’t even let them respond, just politely kicked the bastard toward the door while Barry dragged the clown along after him.

Outside, the same clown stumbled forward and hit the pavement, landing on hands and knees in a puddle after Barry gave him a friendly shove. “Shit, bro, nobody told you the South Side ain’t no place for suits?”

“Don't think those cheap-ass knockoffs even deserve that term,” Rafe scoffed, then nodded at Barry to head back in. He didn’t want to spend another second around these losers.

Shit felt like a stain on Rafe’s evening.

Back at the bar, they were greeted by a bucket of soapy water, a pair of old gloves, and a sponge. The vibe in the place? Completely back to normal.

“You made the mess, you clean it,” you said firmly with your arms crossed—very clearly talking to Rafe only. Then, with that familiar amusement back in your voice, you added, “Want me to grab you an apron too?”

Rafe chuckled, mouth twitching into a downward grin. “You’d love that, huh?”

Oh, and that cheeky little laugh you let out? Priceless.

You tossed the rag in your hand over your shoulder, shrugging. “Nothing hotter than watching a man do chores.”

Honestly? For you, he’d probably even get on his knees and scrub the floor in an apron if you asked for it.

Fucking shit. What.

Alright, Barry had definitely hit Rafe too hard in today’s training. Now it was catching up to him, frying his brain into thinking shit like that.

“Yeah, nah,” Rafe said with a strained chuckle, running a hand over his buzzed hair. “I got this.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, nodding. “Alright. You two enjoy the rest of your night. I’ve got guests to take care of.”

“Wait!” Rafe called after you just as you were turning to leave. “Your offer—it still stands, right?”

Geez, what the fuck was up with his voice? Suddenly almost desperate. Even fucking Barry chuckled beside him.

And you? You just shot Rafe that signature teasing smile of yours, flashing your white teeth as a chuckle escaped you that made Rafe’s stomach tingle in all the right ways.

“The stool won’t clean itself, boxer boy,” you said, then turned that sweet ass of yours around and walked over to some new guests at a table in the back.

Was that a yes?

Shit, that had to be a yes. Otherwise, you’d have said No, right? Right???

"A'right bro, you have fun cleaning that shit up", Barry said as he patted Rafe's shoulder. "I'll go have a chit chat with the lady that's been eyeing me the whole night."

Rafe grimaced. "That just some bullshit excuse to dip?"

As much as Barry pissed him off, he did fuck with his ass. And now he wanted to bail after Rafe had allowed him to come along? The fuck was that.

Barry chuckled. “Ain’t goin’ far, Country Club. See,” he pointed toward a smiley redhead near the entrance—one of the girls who had turned around earlier. “I’ll be just around the corner. No need to panic about being orphaned." He smiled lazily. "Besides, I’ve had enough of third-wheeling ya and Little Miss Bar Queen eye-fucking each other.”

Fuckass.

Fine. Let him dip.

Rafe furrowed his brows and waved Barry off with a flick of his hand. “Aight. Go do your thing, then.”

After the swamp rat called Barry had strutted off, Rafe eyed the cleaning supplies on the bar with a deep frown. Never in his life had he cleaned up after anyone, let alone himself. Probably would’ve been easier to just buy a brand new damn barstool and maybe some new floor panels than to stand here looking like a damn idiot.

He could already picture the headlines if anyone actually cared enough to report it:

Rafe Cameron, CEO of Cameron Estates and local boxing champ, ready to start a new career path as cleaning lady? Inquiries welcome.

Yeah, whatever.

A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

And right now? That meant cleaning up the mess he’d made in your bar.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he walked up to the counter, stepping around the small crusted pool of blood on the floor (the bastard had bled like a goddamn pig for someone with just a broken nose).

And when Rafe stretched his fingers out to pull the gloves on, his heart skipped a beat as he spotted a little note. Torn straight from your notepad, by the looks of it.

He expected to find some numbers written on them but this was even better.

Rafe stared at the note for a solid minute, eyes locked on your pretty handwriting, lingering on the way you’d written his name.

Then, carefully, he folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket.

And just like that, the biggest motherfucking grin spread across his lips, feeling like he’d won the second round tonight.

If he played the cards right, the third was just right around the corner—set on a private stage reserved for just the two of you.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒂𝒕 ᨐฅ 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M

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[weirdcat1213]

Alright it's time for the moment maybe 2 of you were waiting for

It's time for my favorite kyrie moments in the dmc 4 novels because yes this poor girl is under developed as hell BUT there are still moments in the novels that make me go "kyrie :333" so here, take them.

I really really like kyrie reading nero like this. Of course she knows nero needs to feel helpful or he'll die and she notices how hard nero tries so yeah, really nice of her.

Kyrie taking children places is nice already, but kyrie being the kind of person who invites you places even if you say no most of the time just so you Know you're always included and welcome god this girl I love her

Ik we are all bothered by kyrie not being that active in the story but I do like this type of strength for her. The order does seem sexist as hell so of course she isn't as prepared as nero for a fight, but she still has enough courage to try and save others. Of course she doesn't want to die but from the books it seems like her body acts before she can think about it and that's neat as hell

Idc how many knights were injured I just know she insisted to do it herself because 1) she wanted to try and help nero directly, 2) she probably didn't want to bother other wounded/scared staff and 3) she wants to prove herself she's not that useless but more on this one later

Same thing as before but this only shows this girl has not learned shit lmao

She went through the rubble and the chaos to find the gift :3 just like nero wants to express he doesn't take her for granted, kyrie wants to show all the things he does for her, no matter how little, are appreciated it. Plus I like that she likes it even if it's not that sparda related. It's a normal necklace that anyone would like.

THIS FUCKING HITS MAN. I know in the game she says "thank you" BUT THIS IS WAY MORE INTERESTING TO ME. She knows she can't fight, she knows that every time she tries to help she puts herself in danger and it's a reminder of how weak she is but it also put nero in danger. Nero is part of the 2 people she cherishes the most and seeing him in trouble because he tried to save her must have made her feel guilty af. It really shows kyrie being aware of her recklessness, so she apologizes for being useless. Also it's a nice way for her to let Nero know they're in good terms, like "yeah i though you were going to kill my brother so I got scared but of course you wouldn't, you are still you. You came to save me and now we're both trapped and I'm sorry" AND SHE TRIES TO PUT ON A BRAVE SMILE GIRL YOU NEED HELP. I NEED HELP-

I love kyrie putting all her trust in nero SPECIALLY considering the last time she took a good look at nero it did seem like he was going to kill credo. No words, all trust. She doesn't know the plan but she's looking forward to see the pope blow up. It's also faint enough so sanctus doesn't suspect anything. Nice

More of kyrie taking the initiativeeeeeee. She doesn't even know what's up with the arm or how/when nero became part demon but she really doesn't care. She also doesn't want to be lied to anymore. Now they can both be completely honest with each other.

She wants to encourage him to stop hiding his arm ahhhh. I'll be honest the next line is like "I thought you wanted to stop hiding your arm" but I love how casual she is about it. Also nero looking at his arm instead of saying anything is cute as hell like dude she's onto you, you can't hide

We love an unbothered queen.

Kyrie not only thinking of how nero was as a kid (and how far he has come) but also cheering him up with Abel as an example of other people accepting him (which has some weight considering that he got bullied by other kids in the past. She's kinda reminding him that the past won't repeat again. He is stronger, he isn't alone and people are accepting of him now)

[mikodrawnnarratives]

kpop demon hunters spoilers

theres one scene in the whole movie that really just strikes out to me in my memory and it's one close to the end

When they are all at the bathhouse and getting to relax and it's Rumi's FIRST TIME! And it's making this running joke(joke/also part of rumi's serious hiding secrets) come full circle and after those comments of like "WE TOLD YOU ITS GREAT"

it opens up to they are so GLAD their friend didn't die like-

IT FEELS SO REAL!! THE CARE THEY ALL HAVE FOR EACH OTHER FEELS SO REAL! It felt real previously in the movie OF COURSE but it just stands out to me in this scene

and it's delivered in a way that feels natural too!

"Rumi I'm so glad you didn't like.. die"

"wow zoey way to be super literal, but same. :)"

The expressions are awesome in communicating things too

Look at her processing! Those wide eyes like "Holy shit we could have lost each other actually" and the awkward way of bringing it up because how else are you going to bring up something so serious

And it devolves into everyone falling apart in a really humorous way that's completely fitting to their characters

Zoey getting emotional gets to everyone else and it's REALLY FUNNY as much as it's like Yeah! THat's how it'd play out jklfdskjlsfd it is! Made even better by seeing how Mira also falls apart at Zoey's emotions like, That's how it'd play out! One persons tears really making everyone else feel emotional too!! It's real and doesn't need to be super serious LMAO and I'm glad its there

And it immediately smash cuts to them being okay and together as normal, chanting "Couch couch couch!" now processed everything

and they be okay

and it's like man they love each other so muchhh, made all the better that Rumi's patterns are completely not hidden at ALL

I think one of the reasons it sticks out to me in my head is I don't think I can name much stuff that has an aftermath scene like this? Like I think I'd more likely find this kind of scene in fanfiction dealing with processing the aftermath and being glad things went well, rather than in the actual media the fanfic would be based off of.

I dont know how often we really see characters getting to cry from relief and "Oh My God I'm so glad everyone is okay I love you guys so much" I mean, it's not a moment that'd fit EVERY kind of character, but it's nice

It's very much a comedic scene but I appreciate how it also feels so real, they get to just cry and relieve the stress of what's happened and then everythings okay! it's awesome

[dailydelulu]

"Unspoken"

Pairing - Bucky x fem! reader - reader is a former HYDRA experiment/ assassin as well- traumatized but still badass fem!

Context: You haven't left your new room in days or spoken to anyone after being saved from a lab in HYDRA and taken to the Avengers Tower. So, your new companion, Bucky, thinks it's time to break the silence on this unspoken connection you have

( Bucky does not like pineapple on pizza)

CW: Themes of PTSD, trauma, healing

Fluff/ Hurt and Comfort/ Lots of Angst

Part of a larger work, but can work as a oneshot

link to full fic: In Your Eyes - Chapter 1 - daily_delulu - Marvel Cinematic Universe [Archive of Our Own]

A few days had passed since you had been brought to the tower, leaving unspoken scars behind. Bucky wasn’t exactly sure what to say or do about any of it. Ever since you had been released from the med wing, you had settled into the quarters Tony had prepared for you, conveniently placed a few doors down from his own. A precaution in case you tried to attack again, or a small mercy granted to keep you within reach if needed. Either way, it made him a bit more at ease knowing you were close by if anything went wrong. He hadn’t seen you leave your room only a few times to grab some snacks or look around the lounge area for the team. You hadn’t left the tower to go outside even once, so cooped up that even Tony had expressed a few concerns to the others despite his distrust towards you. A heavy silence hung in the air, as you barely spoke unless anyone asked you a direct question. Quiet, too quiet for Bucky’s liking. Usually, he preferred the silence. The less noise, the better for him, unless it was some of the music he listened to while on rides. Now he craved even a whisper more than anything, if it meant you were okay. 

Healing took time; old wounds close slowly. Bucky knew that, so he wasn’t expecting a sudden recovery or anything. Only when he looked at you did he see a shell of a person sitting on the same spot on the bed you always occupied. 

Afternoon Sunlight shimmered off the sea of buildings outside the window, reflecting off the windows holding so many souls inside. Vast and endless, it all seemed, as if the city would never end. At night, lights would flicker to life, making the city look like stars twinkling on the ground. Each light would eventually turn off as people went to sleep, returning to normal dreams with normal lives waiting for them in the morning. 

Sometimes, you were jealous of how people walked around blissfully unaware of how lucky they were to have such lives. Other times, you wondered if the lives HYDRA forced you to take had families, friends, or jobs waiting for them back at home. 

Over the past few days, you had fallen into a dismal routine. Eat, shower, stay quietly in your room for hours, and repeat. Sleep didn’t come easily these days, unless it was from pure exhaustion of your injuries. Nightmares had wrecked your mind every night. At least the room was nice, much nicer than anything you had ever had before. Piles of shopping bags lay in the corner, left untouched. Pepper Potts, or Miss Potts as Stark’s AI Jarvis always called her, had insisted on helping you out once she heard about your whole ordeal. She was motherly in a way that made you uncomfortable. People like you, people who had killed other people, didn’t deserve the kind words or tea she had brought you while telling you trivial details of running the company. Most of the names on the tags were designer as far as you could tell, only making you feel more out of place. Not that you weren’t appreciative, just another reminder of the reality you were now literally surrounded by billionaires, soldiers, and some of the best fighters on Earth—a reality you didn’t deserve. 

Bucky found you sitting by the window on your bed, staring wistfully outside as if you were lost in another time or place, like always. Usually, he would leave you alone, but right now, he needed to make sure you were okay. 

How did you even start a conversation like this? If Steve had been here, he would have known what to say. Moments like these were when he wished he could bring back the old Bucky, the Brooklyn man who could charm anyone in a few words, flirty even. That man was dead and had been for a long time. Maybe he could muster a little bit of what was left of him, buried deep beneath the layers of pain and bloodshed.

The clicking of his tactical gear being removed snapped you out of your focus on the window, as you turned to see Bucky standing there, leaning against the doorframe. Gunpowder and a hint of dust filled the air. 

“How was the mission?” you asked, scanning him for any other details. Bucky had noticed how your eyes always looked around, analyzing, always on guard as if needing to be constantly aware of your surroundings. Old habits died hard, especially with HYDRA. 

“How did you know?”

“The gear was enough of a tip,” you continued, “I can also smell the residue of the powder, and there’s a fresh cut on your upper right eyebrow.”

“Observant,” he looked around the room, “How are you doing?” 

“How do you think?!” you snapped. 

Great, this conversation is already off to a good start. So much for first impressions, Buck.

“Fair enough,” Bucky scratched the back of his neck nervously, “I should have guessed as much.”

Looking away, you mumbled some sort of apology for snapping.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he said before trying to change the conversation, “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes,” you admitted, bringing your knees closer to your chest. A defensive gesture, he recognized, signaling you were scared. At least you were talking, which was a small step. “The room is nice. Mr. Stark was kind enough to take me in.”

“One way of putt’n it,” Bucky scoffed, “Tony does most things as a way of bragging about himself one way or another. Once this goes public, he’ll be seen as a philanthropist. He’ll use any chance to show off his money.” 

Disappointment almost crossed your face, even if you had already considered there could be ulterior motives for keeping you here outside of the pureness of his heart, “I guessed as much. Keeping an assassin from HYDRA could raise suspicion.” 

Bucky sighed, “You’re not going back there, okay? Nobody will make you. Even if Stark has his personal reasons for concern, he won’t send you back.”

“I can see the way they look at me,” you said, staring ahead at nothing in particular. All of them are scared of me. They try to hide it, but I can still see it.”

He slowly took a few steps closer before stopping when you flinched. Trust didn’t come easily after surviving HYDRA. He would have to do this slowly. 

“Easy,” he held his hands up, “I’m not here to hurt you. I only wanted to talk.”

“About what? Is this a test?”

“No, not tests,” he clenched his hands at his side, holding his breath as he remembered his own.”There are no tests here, no experiments, no orders. I promised.” 

Sheets bunched in your fist as you took deep breaths; you’re safe, you’re safe. 

“Take deep breaths,” a shadow passed over you as he finally stood before you, “That’s it.”

Bucky was sure his presence wasn’t the most comforting thing. An imposing former assassin with a metal arm stood there as still as a statue. 

“I was there for years,” the words hardly a whisper, unsure why they tumbled out, “I had to go through all these tests, and I-”

“You don't have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he assured you, taking a small step closer. Getting a closer look, he could see the remaining scars in a ring around the neck of the collar he’d torn off days before. Dark shadows grew under your eyes; nightmares, like his own.  Those wouldn’t go away anytime soon. Every night, he still had them even after all this time. A small, twisted patch of skin snaked with lines left from a burn peeked out from your hoodie’s sleeve. Whether the burn was from HYDRA or another part of your life, he wasn’t sure. The only thing he knew was that the strange hint of white tucked in your hair was too unnatural not to be from those monsters. 

“No, you don’t understand,” you choked out, “I killed people, they forced me.”

Ironic, here you were confessing to murder in front of one of HYDRA’s most infamous killers. Anger rose within him, threatening to spill out right now. For you, for his past, for HYDRA’s very existence. Bucky had seen the monsters, been at their hands, and nearly became one himself. Yet, looking at the near-broken person in front of him, it was as if he could truly see what monsters were for the very first time. 

“I did too, we both did,” Bucky saw the way your eyes turned to disbelief, “For years, decades. It’s a long story.”

“You did?” The puzzle pieces fell into place. The strange, unspoken connection you shared now had meaning. “I don’t understand, you’re so… nice.”

Bucky nearly gave an inappropriate laugh for the serious moment, “Nice? I think that’s the first time anyone’s called me that. Murderer, scary, terrorist. Never nice.”

“But you got me out of there, and when I nearly tried to,” you hesitated, “Kill you, you didn’t take your opening.”

What had they done to you to make you think not taking an open shot the moment he had it was nice? He had forgotten how much damage HYDRA could do to your sense of basic humanity. 

“None of that was your fault,” he lowered himself to your eye level, making sure to keep distance as he repeated, “None of it was your fault.” 

Finally able to look him in the eyes, his gaze was evidence enough he was telling the truth- the story written in the ache in the tormented stare. 

“I should have remembered you, I should have,” you let out a shuddering breath. “You weren’t the enemy. HYDRA told me.”

“Lies,” he interrupted, “Everything they tell you is lies. Whatever they said to you, forget it. Now.” 

Weak. Useless. Stupid. So it was all lies? 

Bucky went on, “We both survived stuff nobody should. Lived through torture, manipulation…it’s all manipulation. Some twisted game of theirs. None of it was our fault.”

Maybe he was reminding himself of that, too. 

“How long do the nightmares keep you up?” he asked. 

“How did you know?” 

“Observant,” his mouth quirked up to a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I’m an assassin, remember?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Only for a few hours, I’ll survive.”

Bucky got up and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms as he stole a glance at a slice of pizza far past being cold, sitting on a plate at your bedside table.

“Are you eating enough?” he raised an eyebrow, as if challenging you to argue on this. Good thing one of your best skills was winning an argument. 

“I’m suited to go days without food,” you replied, “Eating it would be a waste of supplies.”

Wow, he really had forgotten how bad the conditioning was. 

“It won’t be a waste, and you’re not some machine anymore,” he said, “You have to eat.” 

“No, I don’t. I still have at least 42 hours before I need to eat again,” you insisted. 

Nope, Bucky couldn’t sit back and watch you suffer any longer. The shallowness of your cheeks was enough to indicate the lab had been starving you for a while. Probably some test of endurance. 

He picked up the plate and shoved it into your hands. “Eat. Now.” 

“Orders? I thought I didn’t take any orders here?”

“I’m not ordering you,” he ran a hand through his brown hair in frustration, “Nobody will order you here, but I can’t sit back and watch you starve.” 

A small, perfectly timed growl came from your stomach. Great, thanks for betraying me. 

Typically, in the lab, Handler would have slapped you across the face by now for a show of weakness. Anything human seemed to be a weakness there. Instead, Bucky sat down on the edge of the bed, causing the mattress to sink a bit with his weight, keeping a distance between the two of you. 

“I’m not ordering you, and I’m not asking either,” Bucky assured, “I’m just concerned, doll.” The nickname rolled off his tongue before he could even think. An old-timey one, Sam had warned him a few times in the past, may not be as well received in the 21st century. Back in the day, he probably would have used it with a girl he had gone on a few good dates with, so why would he use it now? At least you didn’t seem to mind as far as he could tell, or you hadn’t noticed it. 

Concern wasn’t something you had received in a long time, considering such a thing didn’t exist in HYDRA’s vocabulary. After living so long without kindness, would you know how to take it? 

“Do you not like pizza?” Bucky asked tentatively. “I don’t know,” you admitted. He had forgotten those days, days full of not knowing your name, how to pick your clothes, or something as basic as picking what food you liked. 

‘Maybe you can find out,” he suggested, looking over at you. Taking one step away from the programming, away from orders to make your own choice for once, felt exciting. Nights alone in your cell had been filled with dreams of such things. Visions of freedom, running far away from the lab where nobody could tell you what to do, and nothing could stop you from touching the stars if you wanted. Those nights had kept you alive while pain from unknown injections had filled your veins with fire, as you tossed and turned, trying to keep the orders out of your head, scratching at the fresh cuts from "training" all day. A small light in a world made of darkness. Now, you weren’t sure if you could make a choice. 

“I guess so.” Unsure, you took a small nibble of the slice, testing the waters. Then another, and another, and another. How hungry had you been? “Good,” Bucky wanted to give you a small pat on the back before thinking better of it, unless he wanted a quick elbow to the rib. 

“Do they still put pineapple on pizza?” you asked suddenly. A lot may have changed while you were at HYDRA. 

“Yes,” Bucky nearly grimaced, “Worst invention I’ve seen yet in this century.”

“Seriously? Pineapple isn’t that bad on pizza,” you protested, “It’s creative.”

“It’s an abomination,” Bucky smirked, unable to drop the subject suddenly, glad to have a normal conversation with you for a change. 

“You’re impossible,” you mumbled, already reaching for another slice from the box Happy had left at your door hours before. The action warmed his heart a bit, even if it were small, it was a sign of improvement. How could a random stranger like you have managed to make him feel so many things he hadn’t in years in only a few days?

 Feel things he thought froze in the ice along with him. Now, the cold was melting away, bit by bit. 

[xelasrecords]

No One Is Mad Here

Sylus x MC

MC goes to the Onychinus base for her very tall, very missing hat, the said base explodes, then Sylus suspects her as the culprit while Luke and Kieran are left unsupervised.

Don’t worry, they’re all having fun. No one is mad here.

Tags: found family, banter, fluff, teasing, minor grief discussion, comfort, hijinks & shenanigans, pre-relationship, verbal sparring as a love language

A/N: This is the most fun I’ve ever had while writing a fic. Enjoy!

Words: 4.9k

Masterlist | Read on AO3

It was a fine night to stroll up to the Onychinus base. No stars glittered across the sky, courtesy of the pollution—light, air, and noise, because why stop at one when you could collect them all?—and synthetic withering leaves rustled by their tree branches. Someone was committed to the Gothic atmosphere. She would have appreciated the taste had the metallic stench of blood not been this pungent. It made her feel as if she was still at work.

There were many other such fine nights, but she saw no use to delay her arrival. And frankly, the jitters that kept her pacing around her apartment like a mad detective should be put to rest.

She rang the doorbell, but her plan to preen herself was ruined when not one second later, two identical men hurled themselves at her with utmost enthusiasm, their long-beaked masks tangling with her hair.

“Boss has been waiting for you!” exclaimed Luke.

“We have been waiting for you too,” said Kieran.

She patted their backs and retreated, smoothing out her hair. “Pleased to hear I’ve been missed.” And the absence of one pesky, squawking mechanical crow was certainly a plus.

Luke shook his head grievously. “It was no fun without you. No fun at all.”

“Now, don’t lie. I’m sure you have kept yourselves busy with pranks and murders.”

Kieran tipped his head and she could hear his grin. “Sometimes both at the same time.”

As if on command, a loud, resounding boom reverberated from somewhere inside the base. It rattled her bones and the ground shook.

She gripped the doorframe and watched the twins with suspicion. “Was that a prank or a murder?”

She thought she glimpsed Luke’s eyes glinting in the dark. “Sounds like an explosion!” he said with a little too much eagerness for her liking.

“Fun!” they announced.

“Wait.” Kieran placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It came from the house.”

Humour melted from their voices and their shoulders slumped. “Not fun.”

Their relatively calm reaction told her it wasn’t an attack from the outside, so she invited herself into the base and folded her arms.

“Did Sylus set off a bombastic welcome for me?”

Black-red mist swirled around her, leaving a light caress against her cheek before skating down her arms. She sensed the familiar pulsing greed from the mist, a tug around her spine that lured her into giving herself over.

She felt him before she registered what it was.

Sylus, with his penchant for a dramatic entrance, had materialised in front of her. His black suit jacket, draped around his shoulders, billowed in the wind that he likely created himself. He had his hands on his hips and casually relaxed a leg forward. He must believe he was posing for a high-end editorial shoot, what with the cocky smirk that he loved to flaunt around his enemies and her. Didn’t feel much like a special treatment, that.

But the jitters had amped up to wild thrashing in her ribcage. Fear and excitement mirrored each other, and right now, she couldn’t tell one from the other.

Sylus tapped the side of his forehead. “It’s not every day I see someone repaying my hospitality by creating an explosion in my residence.”

“Bombastic accusation,” she muttered. “Why would I do that when you’re still holding my hat captive?” She jabbed a finger into his chest. It was rock-hard. It was fantastic.

“That’s not Boss’s?” asked Kieran, staring at Sylus a moment too long.

Sylus scoffed. “Name one reason I’d wear that abomination.”

“You’re very adventurous, Boss,” said Luke generously.

She couldn’t believe what she was witnessing. The residents of the Onychinus base seemed to have a poor sense of fashion.

She flailed her arms to shush them. “It’s not an abomination! It’s just a very tall hat.”

“You wouldn’t be able to go through the cat door without slicing it off, sweetie.”

Sylus was always toeing the line between being shot again and being kissed. Tonight, she was struggling to fight the temptation of choosing the former.

“Explain why I should go through a deadly cat door when there is a normal-sized door to use,” she demanded.

“Ah, but I built it for you.”

“Explain why,” she gritted through her teeth.

“I have my hobbies, though my creation is nowhere as outrageous as your tower of a hat.” Sylus poked her nose. She got a distinct feeling that from his perspective, she was a stray cat and he had done her a favour by making her integration into his life easier. “The feathers on that thing. I thought you skinned a peacock for it.” He shuddered.

She tried to clamp her jaw on his calloused finger, but he was quicker in retracting his hand.

She wouldn’t be goaded. Sylus was not winning tonight. She shrugged and tossed her hair over her shoulders with indifference. “Isn’t it amazing? Artificial manufacturing has taken great strides in the fashion industry.”

A smile crept up the edge of his lips. “Mad Hatter’s protégé, you must be proud.”

A loud crack in the background brought her focus back to the smoke that was starting to assault her senses. Another evidence that the N109 Zone was brimming with unlimited sources of pollution.

She nodded to the space behind Sylus. “And you must be happy someone has probably blown a hole in your home.”

Sylus sighed and gestured at her and the twins to follow him. Not one to turn a blind eye to disasters, she happily flounced after him.

They went down the winding hall and its high ceiling, passing through onyx pillars and endless locked doors. She knew they were getting closer as her skin became moist from the thin layer of sweat and the air got so thick she could feel it on her tongue.

It was the kitchen. The kitchen was on fire. The heat smacked into her face and she saw her childhood house blowing up again. It was Grandma, it was Caleb, it was a lifetime of her memories and the past that she would never be able to return to.

Sylus put himself into motion while the twins scattered out of the room to find something to extinguish the flames. From his outstretched hand, jets of dark mist shot out and crowded the fire, containing it to the burning microwave and the countertops surrounding it. It shrank in size, the reflected light dimming from Sylus’s face, and was crushed into black dust that floated in the air. No heat, no more danger.

She was still holding her breath.

In her periphery, the tall windows flung open and a cool gust of wind blasted into the kitchen. She should breathe, she was safe, the crisis was already averted.

How different things would have been if Sylus had been there when her childhood house blew up.

She could have borrowed his Evol and kept everyone alive. She wouldn’t need to learn what grieving was so soon. Wouldn’t need to know how wrong her younger self had been when she stormed out of the house thinking nobody was on her side. She didn’t know how loved she was until she was left alone to remember their love.

She was aware of Sylus’s attention on her. She tried to put on a blasé attitude, but her voice came out reedy. “Your Evol is very effective.”

Sylus turned her by the shoulders towards him. “Are you all right?”

It was strange to hear the question from him. Stranger still to detect the gentleness beneath it. She couldn’t be hallucinating; his narrowed gaze didn’t waver. She waited for his right pupil to glow red, to read her mind the longer she stretched the silence, but there was no prodding sensation in her head.

Sylus simply waited for her. She had never seen him practice so much patience with anyone.

For this, she could mete out some truth in return. “It reminded me of my old house. You should know. I attempted to kill you over it.”

“How could I forget?” Sylus’s tone was lighter, but it didn’t sound like he was teasing her. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he had fond memories of it. “You were a woman set on vengeance’s path.”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She took a deep breath, but the rod up her spine wouldn’t budge. “It’s over.”

“It’s fine if it isn’t. Some things stay alive in us long after the event has passed. Nothing you feel can be wrong.” He paused, studying her. “What would you gain from denying yourself the right to grieve?”

She huffed out a chuckle because if she didn’t laugh, tears would spill and she was not about to turn into another spectacle in his place. “You shouldn’t see this side of me. You shouldn’t concern yourself over this.”

“Shouldn’t.” Sylus looked deep in thought. “Nevertheless, I do. I would have been wasting away by now if I abode by your haphazard rules.”

“Must be tough. We barely know each other.”

“Interesting observation. I can only imagine how much tougher it is for you.”

A lump formed in her throat and she looked away. She squeezed his hand on her shoulder, the weight of it grounding her. She had been alone and now she wasn’t. The universe was still kind to her. Sylus was still kind to her for reasons she couldn’t decipher.

He seemed as if he wanted to do something more, to get nearer to her, but Luke and Kieran had scurried back with fire extinguishers on their shoulders. She cleared her throat and schooled her expression into complacency. Sylus’s hand lingered for a moment before he buried it in his pocket.

“Where’s the fire?” asked Luke, though he and Kieran deflated with relief at the sight of the charred wall and nothing else.

“I can start it again,” she proposed, making herself sound jovial.

Kieran let the extinguisher fall with a loud clatter and tugged her arm. “Boss would roast you next.”

“Boss would roast the original arsonist before he touched Miss Hunter.” One sharp glare from Sylus put Luke and Kieran in a hunched pose, their hands clasped demurely in front of them. “Who blew up the microwave? And do not think of lying your way out of this.”

A nervous laugh came from Luke. “The cereal did.”

“Did the cereal have the arms or brainpower required to set off the microwave?”

“Yes.” At Sylus’s suffocating silence, he quickly added, “It was human-shaped.”

Kieran thwacked Luke’s forehead. “What did you bring them to life for?”

Luke yelped and rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t even know that could happen! I just wanted to try microwaved cereal with eggs.” He fidgeted with his fingers. “Maybe I shouldn’t have set it to thirty minutes.”

That earned him another smack behind his head.

Sylus was pinching the bridge of his nose and probably questioning his decision to take them in, so she steered the conversation to a more pressing matter. “Does this mean all of you don’t have dinner?”

“They don’t have dinner. I don’t have a kitchen,” Sylus pointed out.

That man had the tendency to be right. She patted his jacked arm to console him. “Good thing you’re loaded and have sparkling connections. I’m sure you can get it furnished soon.”

“It better be.” Sylus turned to the twins. “Arrange it by tomorrow.”

Kieran mustered up the courage to talk. “Me too? But I didn’t do anything.”

“Exactly.” Luke slid his arm around Kieran’s. “You could have stopped me and you didn’t.”

Inside Kieran’s gasp was the raging soul of the betrayed. He drove his knuckle to Luke’s head and put him in a headlock. It was a mystery whether Luke would retain a hundred per cent of his intelligence tomorrow.

Soon enough, the one-sided attack was descending into a brawl as they descended onto the floor, punches and kicks flying around. Sylus pulled her back until they were safely tucked behind the entrance line that separated the kitchen from the hallway.

“You see what I have to deal with every day,” Sylus said.

“No wonder your hair has greyed out.”

“You think you’re so funny.” Sylus sighed, but his mouth twitched. “Leave them. I have better use of our time than this.”

She didn’t have time to ponder the meaning of our time before Kieran sprang away from Luke’s clutch and slid to the spot before her feet.

“A little birdie told me Boss-man has a new collection of hats,” he said with giddiness.

Luke perked up from the floor. “Teacup hats.”

“He’s followed up on the Mad Hatter’s lessons, missus,” said Kieran.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Sylus crossed his arms, eyes decidedly not looking anywhere around her vicinity, and she nudged him with her elbow.

“Didn’t know you were into abominations,” she teased.

Finally, Sylus shifted his attention back to her. “I knew.” Not only did he love theatrical entrances, he also had a soft spot for dramatic pauses. “And yet I fell prey to them.”

His admittance didn’t sound like a defeat. If anything, it was as if he was confessing a secret.

“What are we waiting for then? Aren’t you going to show them to me?”

Sylus raised his brows, but she wasn’t breaking eye contact. In the end, he gave in to her. She could tell before he even spoke. Their unstated tally was working in her favour lately.

“Come.” Sylus swivelled and sauntered towards the direction of the master bedroom. Immediately Luke and Kieran were wrestling again. Before they made a turn, Sylus called out to them, “Get your dinner before you fix the kitchen. I won’t have my henchmen dying for foolish reasons.”

There was a pause from the scuffling noises. Then came a chorus of “Got it, Boss!”

Without breaking his leisurely pace, Sylus raised his hand and counted down from three to one with his fingers.

The commotion restarted.

Sylus shared a look with her and she snorted.

———

If someone had told her that someday she would gain access to Sylus’s walk-in closet, she would have believed them. Her moral virtues weren’t beyond breaking into areas forbidden to her. His impeccable taste was simply too tempting.

She could hardly believe the reality was handed to her through entirely ethical means.

Rows and rows of dark-coloured clothes lined up the wall, ranging from black to red hues. Some were bespoke designs, some were exclusives from the upcoming season that weren’t yet available to the public. They were arranged by occasion and she found herself imagining things like riding a bike with Sylus and racing against the wind, to having his hands snug on her waist as they spun in ballrooms, this time without a surprise bombing from him.

It took everything in her not to lay her hands on the clothes, feel the fabric gliding across her skin, and wrap them around her. She was still within the normal scope of obsession with clothing and Sylus and Sylus’s clothing.

She scanned the room for her majestic peacock hat.

“You’re salivating.” A grumbling chuckle came from Sylus’s direction. “Look around as you wish.”

“Faith brought me here. I could live in here forever.” Her voice floated dreamily as she pulled out a drawer from the glass island. Gold and silver watches were organised neatly, some studded with diamonds. Most of the clockwork had a mechanism that prevented them from stopping to tick. Time forever marching forward.

“Worshipping me now?” Amusement was apparent on Sylus’s smug face.

She decided to ignore the push towards some obscure revelation about her feelings and jumped onto what she definitely knew she loved. “My hat. Where is it?”

“Patience, kitten.” Sylus took out a wooden box with intricate engraving and unlatched it with a click. A marvellous layered hat sprang out to its highest glory, the blue-green feathers around it swaying like an invitation.

One of them drifted its way into Sylus’s hair. She beckoned him to lower his bloody long torso, which he complied by levelling his face at the same height as hers, and plucked the soft feather out, which he allowed by tucking his chin slightly.

Who knew Sylus could be so pliant? And could hum a low, affirming growl that sent a pleasurable shiver down her body?

His crimson gaze snapped up at her, waiting for her next move, observing every little tic in her facial muscles. She almost couldn’t bring her hand back to her side.

What if it were her fingers that were nestled in his hair? Would he pull her closer or swat her hand away?

She rationed her exhale so her chest wouldn’t shake and tore her eyes away from the taunting smile that was damning her.

Clear expression, impenetrable mind.

The win was his this round and he knew it.

Sylus swept the hat from her hands and put it on her, elongating the rest of the creased layers so it surpassed his height.

She grazed a finger along the black brim and tipped the hat with a coy smile. “All eyes would be on me if I wear this out.”

“I would be surprised if they were not.”

“Because I’d inevitably make a fool out of myself and have to live down the rest of my life with shame?”

Sylus scoffed, offended. “As if. People would make a fool out of themselves to merely be in the same vicinity as you.”

She strode to one of the mirrors and examined herself. “I am a treasure.”

Sylus appeared behind her. He smoothed the feathers out of his face and trailed his fingers from her chin to her jaw. “I have never seen one so rare and precious.”

She froze, her heart drumming while she waited for a taunt that would sour his words. Something had changed without her noticing. He had gone from insulting her left and right to being blunt with his appreciation. She wondered if it was him or her or their growing rapport.

She whirled on Sylus. Her hat swung precariously and slapped him across his nose. She rubbed it and apologised before resting her hand on her hip. “It’s time to show me your creation. I know you fixed my hat—it bounces less now—but where are yours?”

“None to be found.” Sylus clicked his tongue. “Don’t look too disappointed. The twins were exaggerating.”

She harrumphed and cast a quick surveillance around the area. She was positive Luke and Kieran were as honest as they could be in pushing their boss into her arms. She even had a fleeting suspicion that the microwave explosion was one of their ploys to get her into an enclosed space with Sylus.

Halfway through circling the room, her eyes snagged on an opaque cabinet that reached up to her waist, almost disappearing from view due to the dress robes hanging over it. There was a piece of gossamer cloth stuck between the doors.

One glance at Sylus told her everything she needed to know.

She broke into a dash and tried to yank the cloth out, but Sylus threw himself bodily over the doors. She was a strong hunter, but Sylus had his Evol and underground boxing experience to his advantage.

When brute force wouldn’t cut it, one must resort to underhanded tricks. She launched the thick robes to his face and poked his sides until he was spluttering broken laughter.

She threw her body sideways to shove him and it caught Sylus by surprise. He slipped on the robes and toppled down the marble floor, leaving an opening for her. She didn’t waste a minute before pulling the doors open and then she was sent tumbling down by the barrage of gigantic, colourful hats, some of which could move on their own.

Her vision momentarily went dark, but she picked up the hat covering her face and waved it at the lump of body near her. Luke was right. The mini teacups were strung together with a wire that looped around the purple hat. They could even slide up and down the spiral.

She could always count on Sylus’s atrocious luck.

“Oh, I am not disappointed.” Her grin was stretching her mouth so broad that her cheeks hurt. This was the best thing that had graced her week. “Sylus! Won’t you look at this?”

There was no movement from the giant heap. After she yelled his name a few more times, she clambered on top of it and cleared out the robes until a red eye, rather sharp and accusing, came to the surface.

“Hello there, welcome to the new world. This is a world where Sylus Qin collects fun hats.”

Wisps of shadow curled around the robes and hats to disperse them. It provided ample space for Sylus’s resurrection.

He rose to a sitting position, disgruntled. “That is still my old world.”

“It’s also where this competent hunter has discovered Sylus’s top secret,” she added proudly. “Did you make these on your own? I’ve never seen them in the market.”

“You can’t tell from the fine craftsmanship?”

She looked at the other hats. They were in various colours and shapes—two of them had crows wearing crowns and flapping their wings at intervals. In fact, all of them came in pairs. She smiled to herself. Sylus was more transparent than he thought.

But she couldn’t tell if the delicate work was done by Sylus or a skilled milliner. Sylus tinkered with weapons and an omniscient crow with a murderous function in mind, nothing this whimsical.

She hazarded a guess, “Did you hire someone to make them?”

Sylus seemed insulted by her innocent suggestion. “Feel free to make the wrong assumption.”

She clapped her hands. “So you did learn hat-making for me! I’m so proud of you.” She clutched one hand to her chest and nodded seriously. “As a reward, you should wear this for me.”

Sylus didn’t bother glancing at the hat she was offering with humility. “It’s not for me.”

“You don’t have an image to keep up here.” She rolled her eyes and fitted the hat on him. It was too tight for his large head, but it would stay in place as long as he didn’t make sudden movements. “Have you ever noticed how big your head is? It’s quite bulbous.”

“Please.” He motioned with a laid-back flick of his hand. “Continue to show your gratitude by insulting me. I’m enjoying this so much.”

She gave him a lofty bow. “My gratitude ends there.”

Much to her shock, Sylus straightened the hat that she knocked askew by accident and crossed his legs. For all his effort in prohibiting her from finding out, he was contented to be her model.

All for her. Sylus was withstanding the desecration of his intimidating image for her.

He tilted his head up at her, challenging her to make the next move.

“You look good.” She poked at a dangling teacup.

Sylus rested his hands on the floor and leaned back. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Even when my mind was clouded by hatred, I thought you looked good.” She crawled towards him, her legs deliberately brushing against his. She didn’t miss the way he shifted to be closer to her. “That night, blood was pounding in my ears when you pinned me down on your bed. I was so nervous that I can barely recall much of it now.”

“Need a reminder?” Sylus looped his arm around her waist and flipped their positions so she was beneath him. The landing was gentle, cushioned by the velvety robes, and he slid his fingers up her wrist before gripping it tightly.

She remembered being held down in this position. It was the highlight of the night. It was a shame that wrist-holding was the highlight of her first night spent in Sylus’s bedroom.

“I think you were fussing with my clothes too,” she said.

“You’re right. You’re missing a pin here.” Sylus toyed with the buttons on her top, but his fingers never slipped into the opening where he could touch her skin. “Your memory is not so impaired after all.”

She was about to urge him to explore further when she spotted a red button on his hat. A firm believer that buttons should not exist without being pressed, she did it with her free hand without a second thought.

Sylus realised it when he was too late. “Wait—”

The crown of the hat erupted and Sylus was transformed into a fountain of confetti.

She watched the rain of festivity around them in awe. “You’re more committed to reenact that night than I am!” She couldn’t contain the laughter bubbling inside her.

She might have just ruined the mood, but it was worth it.

Sylus hung his head, which could very well be in defeat or frustration. She understood. It was an uncanny coincidence to experience two explosions in a few hours. She considered hers as superior though for the colours she had inspired in his life. Bless Sylus for having confetti ready for her celebration.

She cupped his jaw and met him with a wide grin. “Don’t you think I’ve changed your life for the better? Not even Luke or Kieran could make you do these things.”

There was a hint of warning in Sylus’s smile. “We have yet to see if this is a gift or a curse.”

“A gift. Always a gift.”

Sylus chuckled and caressed the corner of her eye that had a piece of confetti stuck to it. He seemed to be weighing something before leaning down to blow the metallic paper away.

She shut her eyes by instinct, but she could feel the ghost of his lips, the static electricity of him being so near to her. Sylus’s thumb lingered on her cheekbone, and she caught her mind straying to the possibility of him landing a kiss on her.

This was expected. Attraction had always been crackling between them. What she didn’t expect was to desire him as more than a short-lived thrill.

Deeper feelings were always buried. She thought that was their game, to take their time in case they sacrificed their pawns prematurely. In case things developed too fast and one of them bolted.

But now, she wanted Sylus to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her because although it might be too soon to name her feelings as what they were, she wanted him to remain in her life.

Why else had she come to his place if not to enrich her life with his illustrious company? Sylus made explosions fun, and when they reminded her of the ghosts that wouldn’t stay in her past, he helped her get acquainted with them so they couldn’t overtake her.

When her eyes fluttered open, her lips trembling slightly, Sylus was watching her with a kind of fondness as he would a long-lost treasure. There was a naked longing that she had never witnessed in him. It was so unnatural that her chest tightened from her own blooming affection for him.

“I have lived a long life, and there has never been a creature as enchanting as you,” Sylus murmured. “The universe would bow down to you if only you let it.”

She fought to hide the smile that threatened to break through. He was all about worshipping her today. “A creature,” she repeated.

“A gremlin that has encroached every corner of my life.” Sylus nodded and the teacups swayed on the coiling.

“I’d only let it if the universe included you.”

“What makes you think that it hasn’t?”

“I never said that,” she said. “You’re not the only one with mind-reading abilities.”

Sylus let out a rich laugh. He sounded so alive, and right then and there, she made a pact with herself to coax many more of that laughter.

Sylus bent down again, grazing his nose on the underside of her jaw. She had a wild anticipation that he was about to snuggle against her or nip at her skin. But no, he liked to withhold pleasure as long as he could. Revenge perhaps, for what she did earlier.

“Luke and Kieran would get the wrong idea if they heard the noises we have been making,” he whispered into her ear. His breath tickled and she could feel a hot blush forming at the tip.

“What noises, honestly? I was tame, but something tells me they would get the right idea regardless.” She thought back to their barely disguised attempts and she snickered.

Sylus arched a brow. “Is there a collusion I’m not aware of?”

“They have betrayed you for me.” She raised her head and spoke into his ear. Let him feel how much it could drive a person mad. “Watch out. I’m taking everything you own.”

“Be my guest.” Sylus’s hand glided down the side of her neck and stopped at the junction of her collarbones. “Just make sure you can pay for it.”

His heart. His love. Those were everything. The most precious things were the hardest to win. She would take them and give hers in exchange. It would be a fair trade. No deal existed that she was more willing to pay for than this.

“You better guard them well,” she said, pulling back.

“I know you too, sweetie.” The Aether Core in his eye didn’t activate, but it seemed to flash dangerously. He twirled her hair in his finger, a crooked smile on his face. “And I don’t even have to read your mind.”

Footnotes:

The confetti scene reminded Sylus of sorceress MC placing datura in his hair.

I wanted to challenge myself by throwing the crow family and MC into absurd situations and turning it into something fun. I did plan it to be light, but grief just had to say a quick hello. It all worked out though.

Never thought I’d sexualise some intangible mist but here we are.

I rewatched Nightplumes to get the early pre-relationship Sylus characterisation right and discovered that he really is a loser trapped in a hot body. I love him.

Because Sylus’s wardrobe canonically only gets lighter after his relationship with MC deepens, I thought it was a good way to subtly signify the early stage of their relationship by having his clothes still in dark colours.

My first obsession is books. My second obsession is gorgeous gorgeous clothes.

Special thanks to @evilldentists! You hyping my fic Touch My Soul motivated me to write banter again.

Caleb deserves this kind of happy fic too I should give him that someday.

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[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

I absolutely can't stop thinking about the Legend of Fiddleford AU. It's amazing. The way it gets so very messed up. Stanley taking the curse in every lifetime to save Ford. To give him the ability to win. They love each other so much and the sacrifices that the brothers and Fiddleford are put through every new cycle are so much. I would absolutely appreciate and love more. I'm also reading the 'Eat Your Feelings' AU. That one is also making me scream with glee. I can't wait to read the next chapter. Thank you for doing all this.

Glad to spread the worms! Love infecting others with the ideas that torment me constantly, spread the love as it were. Here's some more.

In this shoot off Legend of Zelda au, instead of a messed up timeline due to time warping shenanigans its from Stan striking Bill down. Before Stan came into the picture it was a regular cycle, the two Fords and Bill fighting each other over and over again (was Stan there also? who knows! If he was he never made it to legend or became anything more than a common soul). The pommel of his sword (which has a different name in every timeline lol) is a 'Symbol of Fortune' that Fiddleford added as a goodluck charm, since Stan's just a guy going up against a demon thats been fighting his and Fords reincarnations since time began. Its an eight ball, and when Stan sinks his sword into Bill's chest and kills him it decides whatever fate Stan gets. Since he's not The Hero Stan can't truly kill Bill, but he can seal Bill into himself so Ford can kill him, or delay Bill, or whatever Fate decrees. So far we've got 'Stan seals Bill in himself and his sword forever, tying his soul to Bill's and reincarnating with him, using it to give Ford a better chance in slaying Bill the next time they reincarnate', 'Stan seals Bill in himself and his sword, but the Fords manage to untangle their souls and push Bill into the sword' (which might affect Stan in future incarnations? Who knows) 'Makes Stan disappear for ten years then he reappears an amnesiac' and 'turns Stan into a dragon'.

But the possibilities are endless. Maybe Stan shoves the sword in, and Stan just straight up dies. Maybe it destroys his arms, he can never wield a sword again. Maybe it destroys Bill, then shoves Stan out of his body a la spirit tracks and Bill snatches Stan's, then Stan's coming along on Fords journey as a spirit, trying to rescue his body from the demon. Maybe Stan gets turned into a dog.

Endless possibilities.

In the version where Stan's tied to the cycle of reincarnation though, which is endlessly angsty due to the infinite ways Stan's gonna get Ford to kill him, they're always born as twins (although not always raised together, the same gender, older or younger), and Stan always starts remembering around when they hit around thirteen. Bill, until he gets the sword, has no sway over Stan's body, but can sometimes convince younger Stan to do Evil. Stan's got his own legend as Evils Vessel here, where legend says there's a Hero, a Prince (or princess), and a Demon, there's also the Vessel, who will spread evil and works to bring the Demon back. Stan encourages this, as if Ford thinks he's evil then he has an easier time doing the deed. Then Stan shatters this belief the last second every time by using his last breathe to tell Ford he knew he could do it, and that Stan's proud of him, and letting Ford run him through without a fight.

Then Stan dies, and he never gets to see how devastated this makes Ford every time to realize Stan sacrificed himself to hold the demon back. Stan can't stop the cycle, its something put forth by gods and he's one mortal spirit tied to a demon, but over the cycles he learned he can mitigate the damage by using his meager pre Bill takeover abilities to control where the demon hoards go, when they attack, and how vicious they are. Basically playing bad guy with Bill's demon hoard to fulfill the demon uprising while the least amount of people are injured.

In any cycle where Ford fails to kill Stan in the instance Stan gives him, Stan gets soul shoved, stuck in the depths of Bills soul while the demon rampages as he pleases. Bill can't destroy Stan's spirit, because they're so intertwined killing Stan will kill him and restart the cycle, so every time Bill gets time to destroy things and rampage he takes extra delight in torturing Stan while he can. Then it becomes very obvious that Stan was not actually threatening anyone as Bill massacres towns, slaughters people, burns homes and forests to the ground, etc. Spends the whole time taunting the current Ford, about how Stan gave him so many chances and Ford blew it and now Stan's gone forever (until next time).

I think this will eventually drive him insane though. At some point the endless cycles with Bill being the only constant is gonna be more than he can handle. Fords only his brother for so long, and every time he's a new, fresh person. Stan's only fresh until he starts remembering and remembering, every instance Ford killed him, every time he failed and his spirit got tortured for it, all of Bill's whispered taunting and company. Stan's not a reincarnated god or spirit, he's a regular dude who chose to be a hero in one cycle because the Hero of his cycle got tricked early, and Stan couldn't sit around waiting for him to rescue himself.

So one cycle Fords gonna wake up and Stan's just gonna start bringing up jokes they've never made, talk about places they've never been to, and promises they never swore. Everyone gets very concerned, and then Stan disappears, all thirteen years old and just wanting to get the show on the road. The faster he starts Bill's comeback, the faster Ford will kill him, the faster he can rest for a few thousand years before he reincarnates again. Everyone's freaking out, Ford because his brother has suddenly awoken as the Vessel of Evil (and this Ford is now convinced its possessing his brother), Fiddleford because he's thirteen and not ready to fight a demon, the people because demons are amassing and they gotta defend themselves pronto, and Bill because Stan's soul is becoming unstable and if Stan bites the dust so does he. Bill's been very careful to make sure when he tortures Stan not to drive it to this point, because he likes actually being alive and causing destruction, he does not need that cut short because one tiny soul couldn't handle a few thousand reincarnations. (he is delighted about finally driving Stan insane though, loves watching this kid speed go through the motions to start the demon takeover)

(The angsiest reason i can think of Stan finally loosing his will to hold on is having Ford kill him, then actually lingering long enough to see the aftermath. Ford in the previous cycle missed the heart but got the chest and Stan's dying but its not quick and he says his spiel and then Ford yells about how he doesn't want Stan to be proud of him! He's a murderer! He just killed his best friend! Who would ever be proud of that! How could Stan make him do that, make him make that choice! What kind of brother can be so selfish to leave his twin behind like this!

And Stan, who's done this a thousand times, gets a peek into how all those Fords felt about it. And his will cracks, then crumbles as a he sees the next few Fords devastated faces and he realizes he's so, so tired of doing the same thing over and over, new setting but same characters. Human souls aren't meant to handle all the memories and feelings of a few thousand lifetimes. Ford and Fiddleford get mind wiped for a reason after all, and its because it sucks doing this a million times)

Then Stan stays insane, endlessly reincarnating as an unstable soul that starts the cycle at thirteen and doesn't care about the damage or who gets in his way, just getting Ford ready, getting the Monster Sword, and getting Ford to kill him so he can stop existing for a while. He's tired, he wants to rest, he doesn't want to hear Bill cackling in his ear all the time.

Although there could be a fun story line here about Ford failing to kill Stan, Bill get released, then Bill holds up a T and says 'hey before we do this can we look into getting this guy out of my soul? It was fun at first and still kinda is but last time his soul destabilized before we even got the show on the road and its a theme i don't want to continue' then awkward team up of the Fords and Bill raiding temples and such trying to find a way to get Stan's soul unstuck so it can reincarnate properly and forget his thousands of lifetimes. Just the awkwardness of thirteen year old Fords with thirteen year old shaped demon Bill and Bills an immortal demon but still more immature then they are.

Anyway thats what i got on that for now! Glad you liked Eating you Feelings! I had a lot of fun with it, and I'm pretty excited to get into more horror with it!

[midnight1nk]

So, this week's episode...

[spoilers below cut]

Another week has passed and a brand new episode's out YESSS!!! Yall already know I'm always up for my Saturday Morning Cartoon (TM). Let's see what we got this time—

*dramatic gasp*

......chat, is it arc time? Has the math finally come to this?? (moot, you might've actually called it fr)

(the following is my live reaction:)

That's-a so nice! haha, how can I not love the intro :)

OH Meggy, you good? I certainly didn't expect it to start like this

it kinda reminds me the start of "Enough is Enough" ngl (let's just hope nothing terrible happened)

wait, was the last episode the actual start? Or is it this one? 🤔 Well, either way that was pretty good to bring her job searching back. And seamless from the silly episodes if this one was the start

ah yes, experience.... *job war flashbacks*

"lab rat assistant" and that's the lesson for the day, folks: always read the fine print

LOBOTOMIES?! 😦 we already had one of the Crew go through that, Meggy. Let's not.... we gotta go.... *tiptoe toward the exit*

when I said I love found family, I didn't expect this. welp, E Gadd's her grandpa now 👍

good question :) (<- also said by E Gadd, most likely)

also also *WHEEZE* I shouldn't be laughing and that bit shouldn't be as funny as it should be, but it got me. Dementia -> forget what the test was for, that was good

an awfully large remote, that is

HUH???!?!?

wha... how... huh???? I mean, I know it's E Gadd's inventions and all, but can they actually co-exist?

aw Leggy misses Puzzles, huh

🫵 WOTFI '24 AND MEMEWAVE FLASHBACK

huh? why can't she stand up?

Leggy's stronger?! well, didn't expect that tbh

EMERGENCY MEETING 🚨

ay, the star trio's here!!!

can we just take a second to appreciate this? :)

and it certainly reminds me of a certain AU hmmm

Mario: "That was easy!" You can say that again, dude

4, hun, love you and you're one of my fave characters however uh. you haven't exactly been gentle with Leggy, given the previous times. With kids, oh yeah dad mode. With Leggy, wellll *shrug*

THAT POV THO *WHEEZE*

I'm making a gif outta that

aw 4, you tried

dang, that was pretty good, 3

weakness, huh? *sees the ramen* fair enough (<- is broke college student)

this frame means everything to me:

also the fact 4 does the bare minimum taking care of himself but more concerned for his friends instead......

those handcuffs aren't gonna work, bro

oh hey, Bob! any crimes today :D

she pulled off a Snoopy haha

Mario spacing out for a sec is such a mood

BOOPKIN'S OLD MODEL

waitwaitwait, hang on a second....

purple subtitles? *looks at you* purple?

(eh, I'm sure that's an editing mistake but. purple? 👀)

wha. Puzzles?

DANG 4, that was a pretty good voice impression ngl

alright first off, to get this out of the way: two sides, same coin

and two: very interesting that each 4 and Puzzles have a black and white view of the other, when they're said coin. They share many parallels and probably if circumstances align, they would've come to an understanding. Would they tho? As things stand now, not likely

Honestly, that's reasonable and I love that we're getting to address this for her

a tv station? you don't say 👀

that door's familiar (no, not the boarded-up one in the Castle. From WOTFI '24 arc)

Meggy: "I don't plan on fighting. But I have to do this." Nah, she's right! Leggy's a part of her, she has to deal with this herself

that little animation bit of the star trio taking a step back, it's so silly to me :)

well, same dartboard where Puzzles last left it, just less sharp things

👏👏👏

This, right there, I love it!! Things aren't as black and white, things are left unaddressed. Just as the rest of the Crew has, Meggy went through so much and isn't able to acknowledge it, accept it. Whether the circumstances didn't let her or did it herself intentionally, she's suppressing it. Like she said, this isn't a fight. And I find it interesting that this conversation feels like an adult explaining thing to their child. Not saying that it is, Meggy and Leggy are one of the same, but it is bringing terms into an understanding. Especially with our own conflicts, I'd say this is pretty natural. (<- I'll talk about this more)

🫵 LAWYER MEGGY MENTION (sorry, ace attorney brain go brrrr)

Hmmm, okay. I can already sense a bad feeling about this. She did say she'll consider it tho, that doesn't automatically mean she's all onboard

She's whole again, YAY!!

ofc 4's freaking out about this deal

I feel like this convo is gonna come back somehow

:O This screenshot says a lot

"Fruity personality" Alright, how many of you posted this? Also, the one in the Team who decided to add this, c'mon 'fess up too. Either way, glad we're on the same page and by the end of pride month no less. I mean, it was pretty obvious

also I'm going to be analytical about these charges there in a second

Hold on, is it just me or is Meggy's gasps a bit pitched up like Leggy's? They're the same person, yes, but I still got questions

Wait, did Meggy not know? Definitely knows that Puzzles' in jail but not the sentencing?

And that cut to black is how y'know it's an arc

Congrats to MovArtss for your art being featured at the end credits 🎉 look at the Crew :D

.・-: ✧ :--: ✧ :-・.

Well, chat, looks like we're officially entering an arc! Y'know what that means :) a bunch of teasers, theories, and ofc bingo AAAAAAA I'm so hyped!! This was a really episode and while it was short, I very much enjoyed it. Team, as always, incredible work. The writing, dude, oh that was great.

Now, yall remember when I said I had a bad feeling? I could sense that the fandom would have mixed reactions about the end there. It's only natural that I would be aware of it, being my role and all, and I thought I should give my two-cents:

Some aren't happy at the fact that Meggy's getting another arc, others more so at the fact that she would agree to do the deal. I could sense the torches and pitchforks coming for me, but I'll say it: I think this arc is necessary for Meggy.

And some of you might be thinking, "didn't Meggy say in WOTFI '24 that Leggy's gone? Why did they have to bring her back?"

Well, I can only explain it in the only way I know how, through my terms: If you think about it, this is the goop!4 but for Meggy.

Just as 4 has the goo, Leggy never truly left. Leggy is the physical manifestation of her flaw: seeing the good in people and bringing justice. She always had this flaw but it has a form now. While the flaw itself is not a bad thing, it doesn't necessarily mean it's good either. It's learning how to manage it, know when it's right to act upon it. For Meggy tho, this would be the challenge for her. Follow my train of thought here:

(1) Leggy is a side of Meggy she's yet to connect with. The previous times, Meggy and Leggy exactly don't correlate with the other. Meggy's only been able to see some of Leggy's memories, but not the other way around. The switch up between forms only really happens through force, never voluntarily.

(2) According to this episode, only the Meggy part of the whole experienced the harsh stuff and therefore she can't fully move on without Leggy. Like I said before, Meggy's suppressing her trauma whether she does it intentionally or circumstances aren't letting her process it. If her suppression is influencing her flaw to the decisions she makes, Leggy would naturally refuse to accept that Puzzles isn't as good as he seems. Again, Leggy doesn't see Meggy's memories. In order for Meggy as whole to move on, she would have to process her trauma -> challenges her flaw/accept the truth -> Can finally move on. It's why I thought it was good to have a scene of Meggy trying to explain things with Leggy.

(3) Meggy's reaction to Puzzles' sentencing is very interesting to me bc how much did she know before? The basic level is that she knew he was in jail and hoped he would get some help, but to what extent was she aware of the conditions he was in? Did any of the Crew know? That's the question isn't it, huh.

(4, and let's just hope tumblr doesn't shut this post down) Speaking of sentences, I'm assuming the list of charges at the ending were the ones Puzzles was convicted of, as in guilty. Legally, I have to say that I am not a criminal justice lawyer and whatever I say isn't 100% correct. That being said, I'm gonna overanalyze a cartoon when it's absolutely not necessary :D

if my observation isn't correct, a few charges were left out such as kidnapping and second-degree murder. It could be that the court has decided to not go along with these charges due to the lack of evidence or word of the jury. As for the sentencing itself, I truly can't give a number as it depends on factors such as: on the country these crimes were committed, severity of each charge, court proceedings, and the judge themselves. And ofc, no one knows Mushroom Kingdom law (in a digital world where death isn't the same as ours, mind you), so I wouldn't pass by them to give Puzzles in death row. At the very least, he's sentenced to "life in prison".

As silly as the SMG4 universe is, the justice system's pretty iffy (terrible even). Ace Attorney, is that you? No law is perfect but it's really telling that Meggy, someone who learned from said system to become a lawyer, to be shocked at Puzzles sentence. Well, for all we know, her reaction could be that the sentencing doesn't line up with the charges, or she didn't know about the conditions itself. And what exactly happened in the beginning of this episode? She didn't read the fine print. Hmm, it's too early to jump to conclusions.

(5) Meggy, and by extension the Crew, doesn't know what we know. Hell, we don't even know what the Team plans. The Crew doesn't know Puzzles recruited WPNZ and plans to break out in order to execute his revenge plan. We don't even know if Puzzles is in his cell rn. And this is definitely going to be brought back somehow.

Hopefully my train of thought made sense. Now, does her reaction automatically mean Meggy forgives Puzzles? No. Does it mean Puzzles would redeem himself? Not now, at least. I could sense that this arc would touch upon the redemption topic, just as I talked about it in previous posts. Meggy already tried persuading Puzzles to redeem in WOTFI, he refused. It's gonna happen again but with some major consequences.

If I could imagine a scene, here's how I see it: as part of the deal, Lawyer Meggy would meet up with Puzzles. Naturally, he's not going to be happy to see her, WOTFI '24 being some sort of betrayal, and might even be confused why she's here if the Crew seems overjoyed leaving him here. She might explain what her reaction was all about and why she's here with him. This time, there's no WOTFI or super abilities. Face to face, just as civilized and ordinary they can be. Besides, she would have questions of her own and there's no point in fighting to hide the truth now, is there? At a certain time, she might propose a deal that she would review his case in exchange for something from him in return. Perhaps some form of jail therapy or something, whatever it may be that Puzzles wouldn't go after the Crew again. Puzzles could outright refuse but it would be interesting to see him contemplate it and stay silent. Maybe Meggy would ask lastly before leaving, if he had any regrets, and even then he wouldn't answer. Leggy, perhaps optimistic as a voice inside her head, might think Puzzles would accept bc he's good. But they don't know what we know, that Puzzles recruited WPNZ and is all set on revenge. After all, it's on thing to receive help, it's another to accept it. "I have to change" versus "I want to change". He'll break out, his way of refusal, and Meggy might take his decision as final bc it's not like she can force him. Even if she knew what Puzzles went through. Who am I to say? I simply could see this prison breakout being a major turning point for Meggy and confront her trauma. Also having potential to explore more of Puzzles' past.

In short, for the regulars here, this is if redemption talk was explored in an arc, which I'm all for it.

Anyway, all this is why it took a while to get this review out there. Was any of this what the writers intended? Probably not. But I wanted to be careful how to word what I wanted to express, so I hope what I said is understandable. I might talk more about redemption in another post. Regardless, I know not everyone's satisfied with this but please don't go after the writers/Team. The arc just started after all, have a bit of grace for them. As I like to say, LET THEM COOK!! Anyway, that's all from me. I'll see you all on the next one and remember: numbers always go first!!

Welp, looks like writer me got carried away again. Whoops. But wouldn't y'know it? LAWYER MEGGY IS BACK YESSS!! I wished for that to come back for so long 😭 Also unlike Meggy, 4 isn't as willing to face his problems. He ain't even looking at them. As evident, goop!4. His turn will come, I'm sure. Hmm, but now that I think about it. The Crew now knows about Puzzles' hideout, he might need to find a new one if he's gonna be careful with his revenge plan. New building perhaps.....

Really tho, purple subtitles? 🤔