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counterturn · 1 year ago

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Boy am I glad to see this.

Because there is something particularly wicked about the process of advertising. As a system, advertising seeks to pull something from you that is more valuable than money, and that is attention. Marketing is a field of study dedicated to best determining the most effective methods of invading the human mind.

This is fucking heinous. I would rather receive a literal electric shock in place of seeing an ad. The body is made to interact with the world and bear the scars of the days we live within it. You shock me and I will heal.

The mind is sacred. SACRED. More sacred than any earthy temple of wood and stone and glass. It is the place that fire does not reach.

To attack my mind (as indeed, an advertisement is a deliberate attack upon the psyche meant to procure an otherwise-unthought-of action) is a personal violation of my humanity.

The most fundamental freedom a person has in this world is the choice over the object of their focus. Every day and every second of every day you select the things that you want to exist in your conscious experience; if you are seeing these words right now it is because you are choosing to read them. You could stop if you wanted to. If you didn’t care or were no longer interested, or even for no reason at all. What occurs within your mind and your experience is determined by you.

Advertising opposes this. It seeks to deliberately insert into your experience something unwanted and irrelevant and, most insultingly of all, it does so in a way that is deliberately designed to be as pernicious as possible.

Frosted flakes, they’re mooooooooore than good. THEY’RE GREAT.

That exists within my mind. Since I was a child, it was planted there against my will and I have no means or methods with which to remove it. How dare you. How absolutely fucking dare you violate the sanctity of my mind with your inane corporate bullshit. This is my space.

Advertising says it is not. Advertising says it belongs to McDonald’s and you’re loving it. You’re loving it forever for the rest of your life. Your mind belongs to Mentos, which is the freshmaker. I don’t even know what that means. I haven’t even seen a mentos in God knows how many years. Your mind belongs to Kit Kat. Give me a fucking break. But the rule of advertising is that if you pay some unholy-combination-of-mediocre-artist-and-devilish-mind-controller enough money you are allowed to take a shit in my mind where I can never clean it out. I revile you personally.

I have more ads in my head than I have childhood memories.

And all for what? Is there a return for this unholy assault? Only for the corporations. For me, the return is another slap in the face. My reward for your bullshit is that you interrupt my experience. My shows. My youtube videos. My social media. My google searches, seriously? My MUSIC?! How dare you. How incredibly dare you interrupt my experience of art with your evil concoctions. “Pay me and I’ll stop showing them to you,” you say. Never. I will not play your wretched games.

Fuck you. My attention does not belong to you. You do not have a right to a single second of it. Fuck your algorithms. You don’t know me and I’m not even talking to you. Get the fuck out of my face. Fuck your recommendations. If I want your opinion I will fucking ask for it. You have engineered an unkillable psychic mosquito that doesn’t even have the grace to just leech from you. Instead it injects you with its filth and you have to live with it forever.

This is a crime against humanity.

Every billboard a gallows.

one day not too far in the future, i hope, people who work in advertising will be viewed like pirates once were, as enemies of the whole of mankind. except advertisers are worse. at least pirates confined themselves to the sea, raiding merchant shipping and the spoils being sent back to europe from the new world. advertisers insinuate themselves in every corner of human life an existence, seeking to sap your time and attention and thought fifteen seconds at a time.

in seeking to grab your attention, they are brash and annoying, and thus prey on taste; in seeking to interrupt and co-opt your thoughts, they prey on the fabric of a peaceful and contemplative life. in their inability to understand the human condition, except as it pertains to commerce and the commercialization of all things, they are a cultural rot which destroys uniqueness, identity, difference, and delight. if they had their way they would commandeer every screen, every surface, every moment of quiet in existence, until the world was nothing but a gore of color and noise, to be sold in the vain hope some good somewhere might see a fraction of a percent increase in sales.

no, compared to the ad man, a buccaneer is an honorable figure--at least he has a degree of martial virtue, a certain vitality of body and spirit, and charming irreverence for conventional behavior. and he will not try to convince you of the utility of his profession, or try to cast it in benign terms. he needs no such excuses; he will simply kill you and move on. neither he, nor the arsonist, the highwayman, the bank robber, or the plunderer of graves have all together done one tenth the harm to civilization that madison avenue has. the sooner we realize this, the better.

we are not powerless before these barbaric hordes. jurisdictions all over the world have already begun to outlaw outdoor advertising, as a blight on the landscape. why stop there? ban indoor advertising, too. ban it in newspapers and on television. ban it from the internet. ban it from the radio. send an international force of marines to london and new york to arrest each and every one of those bastards. try them before the courts of the hague. spare no pity for them; they have spared none for you.

#ads #one day we will be free of them #I know it

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aramblingjay · 3 years ago

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Through fresh eyes, Part II

Alternatively titled: How Gary goes from looking at Jamie like he wants to kill him to looking at Jamie like arguing football with him is the highlight of his week (and the greatest honor of his life)

Aka: I somehow started writing an indifferent-coworkers-to-best-friends carraville origin story fic?

Part 1

Gary doesn’t normally make a habit of reading the papers, knows better than most just how much of it is exaggerated nonsense, but he types mnf into the search bar the morning after, ready to skim the results through half-lidded eyes. It’s the negative comments that stick with you, and he wants to close out of the tab quickly if it seems to be going in that direction.

The first one reads: Gary Neville and Jamie Carragher, the perfect TV double.

He slams his laptop shut like the words have physically burned his eyes.

It’s been one day. (Well, a few weeks, actually, but only one day that’s been properly aired on TV, only one day that the viewers have actually seen of him and Carragher together). Just one day, and he’s already been reduced to a double act with Carragher? He’s been here for two years, helped bring this show to where it is—just because Carragher doesn’t seem like an outright failure, and has a bit of fire in him that Gary likes, doesn’t mean suddenly they’re going to be some new buddy-buddy double act taking the punditry world by storm.

He is his own damn person, and certainly his own damn pundit—to hell with Carragher.

Only several hours later, after he’s looked through no less than twenty-three inane stories about the transfer window to cleanse his mind, does Gary let himself actually read the rest of the article.

And suddenly, impulsively, finds himself sending it to Carragher before he can think twice. Ridiculous and premature or not, it isn’t every day they’re going to hear positive things about their punditry—most of the time it’s nothing but vitriol on Twitter and a passing mention in the papers. Better to enjoy it while it lasts.

Carragher replies instantly, too fast for him to have read and comprehended the article, unless he already saw it before Gary’s message. Something about that gives Gary pause. He’s been in this business long enough to know how to handle googling himself, but Carragher is new, and the thick skin he’ll have developed as a football player isn’t quite built right for the mud-slinging in punditry.

It’s different, when they’re attacking your words and opinions and beliefs rather than just your performance on the pitch, far more personal, prone to slipping behind your carefully-crafted defenses and hitting you where it hurts. Punditry is a performance, an art, a very delicate balance between revealing enough of yourself to be genuine and not quite so much to leave yourself vulnerable, and Carragher hasn’t learned it yet. Barely even realizes what there is to learn, beyond turning up with his encyclopedic brain (because it is, Gary is man enough to admit that) and saying what he feels about the game he loves.

He looks at Carragher’s message again, equal parts encouraging and damning in its simple honestly. Not a bad way to start, that.

There’s also something very earnest about it, and maybe that’s why some Liverpudlian spirit possesses his fingers and types out Scoring on your debut, seems to be a habit of yours (spiritual possession is the only explanation for that message, Gary decides later, because there’s no way he consciously, in full possession of all his mental faculties, sent that himself)

The response is, of course, a video of said debut goal from all those years ago.

The following day, he wakes up to a lengthy message from Carragher on United’s attack, along with a clip he wants to analyze next Monday before the game. Gary’s halfway through typing a retort when he notices the time stamp.

The fuck were you doing awake at 4am? he sends instead.

ASA were playing ABC, is the reply. Immediate, as always.

Gary tries to remember if he’s ever heard of such teams, in or out of football. What sport is that?

Carragher sends back a laughing emoji, and Gary scoffs. He decides it says much more about Carragher that he knows who those teams are, never mind bothers to watch them, than that Gary has never even heard of them before.

Serie B

Italy?

Brazil, lad

Gary is thrown off enough that he nearly doesn’t notice he’s been called lad, like he’s some thirteen-year-old kid from Liverpool.

Thinking of joining the Brazilian league? Might be a little too fast for you

How would you know, you’ve never seen a game

And Gary has to admit, he’s got him there.

Despite having gotten a lot better at it over the years, Gary still hates the public speaking appearances with a passion. It’s different sitting in a studio with the cameras, where the audience at home is literally at home, out of sight and therefore mostly out of mind, to sitting on stage and being able to actually see the people spread out in a sea of faces before him.

So Gary thought on it and thought on it—the Edinburgh Television Festival wasn’t something to be sniffed at, he knew it was an honor to be invited—and ended up saying yes when they offered to have Ed be the one interviewing him.

Which is how they’re now here, just three days off the back of the first MNF of the season, talking more football in front of a slightly different set of bright blue screens.

Overall, it isn’t bad. The questions are decent, and football is one of the few things in the world he can talk about forever, especially when it’s with someone he knows and trusts like Ed.

A little over halfway through, they get to the Carragher question. It isn’t a surprise, exactly, but (in what he’ll later accept was probably a bit of an oversight) he didn’t prepare anything of what he was going to say regarding his new co-pundit. Which means he’s caught slightly off-guard when Ed asks, “What’s it like working with Jamie Carragher, you enjoying it?”, and the response is more instinctive than anything else.

“Yeah,” he says instantly, before he has time to think, and knows that it’s true. They’ve only done one full show together, but he did enjoy it, and to say anything else would be unfair to Carragher and to himself. “I think he’s done incredibly well,” he continues, his own first television appearance coming back to him with, as usual, the emotional equivalent of a pained wince. “I think it worked well between the three of us—it’ll get better, of course it will, but it was a good start.”

Not a bad way to start, that, rings in his ears, and yeah, alright, maybe that was the very best way of putting it after all.

He plans to stop there. It’s a good answer, succinct, measured, complimentary and self-critical all at once. But he’s also aware that in all the pundits he’s worked with over his two years at Sky, last Monday was the first time he could fathom seeing one of them sat beside him on MNF long-term. Not because Carragher knew how to talk, like so many of the others who’ve had a go and not been quite right, but because he knew what to say. There isn’t much he or anyone can determine about Carragher as a pundit yet, that’ll take time to develop and time to judge, but one thing is utterly, utterly clear. And it deserves a mention.

So he goes on.

“He’s incredibly knowledgeable about football. I mean, he’s—” Gary pauses, letting out a breath that’s more for emphasis than because Carragher’s intelligence has reduced him to speechlessness.

“He’s an encyclopedia, isn’t he?” Ed chimes in.

“Yeah, he is an encyclopedia about football.”

“He watches everything,” Ed continues.

“He watches ev—I mean, I watch a lot of football. But he watches everything.” There are a few chuckles from the crowd, but Gary doesn’t join in. It is funny, sure, until Carragher pulls out some obscure fact about Pablo Osvaldo from his fucking Huracan days, and it turns out to be true. Then it’s just impressive, and maybe a little scary.

Gary thinks back to their conversation just two days ago. “I mean, Brazil second division at three o’clock in the morning on channel 458, he’ll be there, watching it. I mean, it’s like—unbelievable.”

Ed goes into the Pablo Osvaldo story, tying a nice bow on all things Carragher before moving smoothly into the next question. But Gary finds himself thinking about it later that day, later that week, all the way up to the next MNF—he’s a student of the game, someone said to him before it all began, and it’s looking more and more like they might be right.

Watching games with Carragher is different. Ed doesn’t tend to have a lot of opinions during matches, at least not ones that he voices—his job is to remain somewhat neutral throughout the show, guide it along and steer Gary towards opportunities to voice his opinions, and that means Ed very rarely contributes to the in-game atmosphere.

Carragher is decidedly not shy about voicing his opinion. Despite having minimal personal investment in most of the games they watch together, his emotions are always running hot, and he seems to spend more of the game jumping out of his seat or gesticulating at the players or squeaking about something than actually watching. He was fairly quiet, Gary remembers, when they watched Chelsea batter Hull on the opening weekend of the season, and again when City thrashed Newcastle on the first MNF, almost as though scoping out how much of a reaction he was allowed to give.

But it seems the first show loosened his tongue, or maybe just emboldened his nerve, because Carragher doesn’t hold back at all the next week.

He watches the entire United-Chelsea game on their second-ever MNF with a scowl every time United are on the ball, like the fact that they haven’t hit relegation form without Sir Alex is a personal affront. When Gary calls him on it, he merely responds with a bashful grin, but then proceeds to be effusive in his praise of Wazza after the final whistle anyways.

Liverpool sneak a 1-0 win past United the following week, and there’s a series of messages waiting for him after the game, a very biased cold commentary bookended on either side with clips of Anfield belting out that wretched song. Gary’s only saving grace is that at least they aren’t on MNF, meaning he doesn’t have to see Carragher’s reactions live.

When they are back on their next MNF, Carragher’s barely in his seat before he’s out again as Swansea hold Liverpool to their first draw of the season, and Gary forgives it only because he’s equally as honest about Liverpool’s frailty as a team and luck in having been gifted the point.

It’s the honesty that Gary likes most. Carragher is honest about his emotions, honest about his opinions, honest about his roots, honest about the fact that he’s a big fucking Scouser who played for Liverpool his whole career, and it’s refreshing, in an industry built on sanitized answers and double-talk and carefully staged drama, to be around someone as averse to bullshit as he is.

It’s also what scares him most, because it’s the honest ones who get chewed up and spit out first. Wearing your heart on your sleeve is one thing on the pitch, but it’s different in a studio, where you have to be clever with your eyes and your words and your suit, where deflecting is an art form and being interesting can be even more important than being right.

For the moment though, being right is mostly enough to make him interesting.

And doesn’t that just say something about the state of English punditry?

The first and last time Carragher asks his permission before an analysis, Gary’s both shocked out of his chair and strangely touched.

Mostly, he just stares at Carragher without knowing what to say. “You don’t need my permission to say something on air, you know,” Gary huffs finally. “Whether complimentary or not.”

They’re the only ones in the briefing room this early, everyone else having enough self-preservation to eke out a few more minutes of sleep before the day gets rolling. Gary doesn’t like to be still for too long, and Carragher seems determined to always get here before he does, so it’s become something of a habit of theirs. Usually, the time is spent exhausting the more uninteresting, juvenile remarks about the weekend’s results they’ve been holding on to, so that the real discussion can begin unimpeded after the rest of the team arrive, but today Carragher’s been worrying over something since the moment Gary walked in.

Apparently, it’s this.

There’s a pinched sort of half-scowl on his face, like the very idea of having to ask something like this tastes sour, but Carragher soldiers forward. “We’ve had some spirited debates—banter, if you like. But this is live TV, it’s not a dressing room, so I want to be sure I’m not crossing the line.”

Gary stares a little bit more. The explanation is as strangely touching as the initial question (Would you be okay with me taking the piss out of you tonight on the show?), because despite their so-far-successful efforts at some light-hearted banter, they aren’t mates, and what starts as a joke can quite easily turn into something a lot sharper. Especially when it’s going out to millions of people who can fashion any little dig into a stick and beat you with it for the rest of your life.

But. There are things he cares about a lot more than a few nasty Twitter mentions, and MNF is right up there.

“I think we’ve had a good energy on the show recently, where we can say what we’re really thinking and not have to worry about always playing nice,” Gary says, raising his eyebrows to turn the statement into a half-question.

“Absolutely,” Carragher agrees. “It’s genuine and free-flowing. No manufacturing.”

“Right. And I care a hell of a lot more about that continuing than I do about looking stupid for a few minutes. So take the piss all you want, as long as it’s constructive, as long as it adds to the show.”

Something seems to relax in the lines of Carragher’s face, and he leans back in his chair. The shift from serious to teasing is subtle, but Gary catches it instantly, and tries not to think about what that says. “Entertainment value adds to the show, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Gary accepts. He really hopes he isn’t going to regret this later.

“Great.” Carragher glances back down at his notes, seemingly content to let the conversation end there, but something about it doesn’t sit right with Gary.

“Listen, we’re equals on this show.” Carragher looks up so fast Gary’s surprised his neck doesn’t crick. “I meant it when I said you don’t have to get my approval to say something on air. Scott, maybe, if it’s something really out on a limb—but certainly not me. Same way I don’t plan to ask you first if I decide to lay into Liverpool tonight. As long as we stick to some ground rules—don’t slag off my family, don’t ever bring my kids into it, basic stuff—we’ll be good.”

It’s strange, seeing Carragher speechless. He doesn’t even react to the Liverpool mention, just sort of stares at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Gary can’t help but feel smug, and equally a tiny bit worried that he’s broken the man. He supposes it not every day your once-hated rival gives you a blank check to insult him on television.

Several long seconds later, Carragher finally blinks. “Okay. Agreed. Same here then—don’t mention me family, but anything else is fair game.” Then the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “And don’t shit on Stevie.”

Which is how, of course, they end up debating Gerrard, Lampard, and Scholes that evening. (The loyalty isn’t surprising, and if anything it’s nice, looking across the table and seeing his own ferocity reflected right back, knowing there’ll be times when they won’t nail their colors to the mast but this absolutely isn’t one of them. There wasn’t a Scouser’s chance in Manchester that Carragher wouldn’t defend Gerrard to his last breath or that Gary wouldn’t wax lyrical about Scholesy, and it’s as close to a pub debate as they’re willing to get)

But first—

Fifty-three minutes later, as they’re going over topics for the first part of the show, Carragher says casually, “I’m thinking of doing a section on fullbacks. How it’s a makeshift position, and everyone who ends up there is either a failed centreback or a failed winger. After all”—Carragher gestures toward him, that glint in his eye, and Gary has just enough time to think oh here it comes—“no one wants to grow up and be a Gary Neville.”

The room erupts. Gary laughs just as hard as the rest and knows they’re going to keep that no matter what else they get to during the show. He’s absolutely certain that rehearsed and delivered right, that line is going to be iconic one day.

Would you be okay with me taking the piss out of you tonight?

As the laughter tails off, Gary says out loud, “You were worried about that? I’ve heard a lot worse, I guarantee you”, and Carragher spreads his hands as if to say yeah, alright, just wanted to be sure. They play it off, and the discussion moves on.

But Gary also gives him a subtle nod when Carragher meets his eyes, an acknowledgement mixed with a little sliver of gratitude. That Carragher was willing to check where the line was before coming within a yard of it—it’s a sign of respect he wasn’t expecting, especially not from England’s most passionate Scouser.

Gary is aware that he has a micromanaging streak a mile wide. He’s also aware that most everybody working on MNF does, too, and the only reason they all manage to make it work is because they micromanage different aspects of the production to make sure the show on Monday night is the best football content out there. Now two years in, Gary can mostly let Scott and Duncan and Ed and all the rest do their jobs without feeling that itch at the bottom of his spine, like it won’t be right unless he checks it over himself first.

Carragher is a new unknown into that mix. He’s not a micromanager by any stretch of the imagination, shows minimal interest in any part of the production that isn’t the actual talking about football bit, but when it does come to the football, he’s as stubborn as anyone Gary’s ever known. Maybe as stubborn as Gary himself.

So it’s with a vague notion of good intentions, but mostly just trying to figure out if Carragher is going to be able to cope with his exacting standards, that Gary finally messages him to arrange a somewhat overdue one-on-one meeting. Nothing too formal, just a pint after we get in on Sunday evening? he writes.

Not even two minutes later, the response comes back: Sure.

Gary picks one of the smaller, more secluded pubs in London, far enough outside of Osterley that there’s very little risk they’ll run into anyone else from Sky. He can’t quite explain why that’s important, but it feels like it is. Neither of them can afford to get anywhere close to pissed with a show tomorrow, so the fact that this particular place serves half-decent food is also a plus.

Carragher comes in a few minutes after he does, and slides neatly into the seat on the opposite side of the table. “Evening, Gary.”

It’s quite possibly the first time Carragher has greeted him with an actual, proper salutation rather than a football question, and it catches him more by surprise than if he’d opened with can’t believe youse lost to West Brom yesterday.

Luckily—“Evening. You alright?” comes out before he really even needs to think about it, those well-drilled manners at work once again.

They each order food, and a drink that’s more water than alcohol, before Carragher broaches the elephant in the room.

“So what’re we doing today, Gary? Right now, it’s looking an awful lot like you’re trying to go steady with me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Gary retorts, but grins. The papers would be tripping over themselves to cover that story, he’s sure. Tale of two reds: the remarkable journey from rivals to lovers. “The missus would probably have something to say about that, to be fair.”

“She’d probably be pleased! I know mine would be. Rid of me at last.” There’s a glint in Carragher’s eye that he’s familiar with now, an edge that says he’s not only expecting a dig but actually hoping for one.

Gary is drawn into the banter despite himself, and it’s another ten minutes, knee-deep into a conversation about their worst-ever haircuts (Gary picks his middle-part floppy mop from back in the day, while Carragher admits, “All of mine were shite, really”), that he remembers they have actual business to discuss.

“Right. Coming back to the point then. How’ve the first few weeks been for you?”

“Good. Yeah. An adjustment, of course, but it’s been good.”

“Great.” Gary pauses, debating how to frame this conversation, and Carragher’s eyes narrow.

“I’ve been in a dressing room long enough to know what this is. Go on, Gary, me skin’s thick enough.”

“Okay.” He takes a breath. What did he wish someone would’ve told him at the start, no coddling, no bullshitting? “Punditry isn’t just about talking football. I think you already know that. It’s as ruthless a business as football, maybe more, because there’s only—what, ten, maybe fifteen pundits on TV regularly? You’re one of them at this moment in time, but they’ll sack you tomorrow if they think there’s someone who could do it better.”

Carragher’s gaze holds his steadily, sharp and attentive, and it emboldens Gary to keep going.

“I can tell you know your football. Your preparation’s good, though I’m sure it’ll get better, and you remember shit most mothers would’ve forgotten about their own kids’ games, which is a nice bonus.”

Carragher smiles. Gary exaggerates rolling his eyes.

“But what I’m trying to say is, just the football isn’t enough. You’re not in the results business anymore. You’re in the entertainment business. The score at the end of a show matters a lot less than how well you played to get there.” It’s not the cleanest way he can think to make the point, but Carragher nods immediately.

“I get that. I’m a football man, not a TV personality.” He runs a hand through his hair, which sits a bit mussed and scraggly on top of his head, as if to illustrate the point. There’ll be product in that tomorrow night, and almost certainly a comb, and Carragher seems to know it. Nobody cared what his hair looked like on the pitch, but a large part of entertainment is all about glamour. “Can’t change who I am, or the way I talk”—there’s the faintest tinge of anger in his voice, and Gary files that away to ask about later—“but I get it.”

“I made sure they didn’t give you a light gray suit, so you should be alright, really,” Gary says lightly, offering him an out, because he knows Carragher watches everything, reads everything, is across everything, and won’t miss the reference.

Sure enough, Carragher laughs. But he then levels Gary with a look far too serious to be about suits and horrible style. “I do know you’ve been looking out for me since I come to Sky. You didn’t have to do that after”—Carragher waves his arms in a way that’s clearly meant to capture their whole twisted history to this point, between United and Liverpool and England—“well, everything.”

“If you’re about to thank me—”

“If that’s what you’re expecting, you’re about to be very disappointed,” Carragher cuts back, but he looks relieved. The unsaid thank you is still in his eyes, in his fiddling hands, in the way he will pick up their tab later that night and put them both in a taxi to the hotel, but it’s better left unsaid.

Gary takes a sip of his drink, groaning when it tastes like slightly-sweetened ice water. He says, “I wanted to make sure you had a smooth start. MNF means a lot to me. To Sky, too, but to me personally. Regardless of who’s on, it needs to be the best show out there week after week.” He takes another sip. The flavor, if it could even be called that, is growing on him. “But moving forward, the training wheels come off. And the expectations are only going to rise. Are you prepared for that?”

“I never moved club, so I haven’t been on the receiving end of this conversation before. But I’ve given it many times. This is one of the biggest football clubs in the world. When you walk through those doors, be willing to work harder than you ever have before. We play to win every game. Don’t ever let your standards drop.” Carragher shakes his head, as if clearing away loose memories. “I know what it means to strive for perfection every week.”

A pause. Carragher blinks, long and slow.

“Sky are my team now,” Carragher says, and Gary takes a minute to parse that.

He thinks of how Carragher played for Liverpool when Liverpool were his team, last-ditch tackles and ceaseless shouting and that final in Istanbul, and simply goes, “Yeah, alright.”

If he brings even half that intensity to this job at Sky, Gary decides, his exacting standards and Carragher will probably get along just fine.

Carragher smiles, and raises his glass. “Cheers, Gary.”

He hesitates for one, two, three heartbeats, then follows suit. “Cheers, Jamie.”

Something flashes across Jamie’s face, there and gone before Gary can figure out exactly what it is, but he knows what it’s in response to.

Jamie still tastes new in his mouth when he isn’t saying it in front of the cameras, but it’s right. A month is long enough to dwell on past conflict, and they’ve now broken bread together in the only way that matters to gruff ex-footballers above thirty—sharing a drink, reaching a tentative understanding, and nearly slipping into a moment of genuine emotional vulnerability. It’s enough.

(He did use to be Jamie before, those few times they were on the pitch bleeding for the same shirt, because Carragher is a real mouthful to shout when you’re running back toward your own goal with an entire forward line breathing down your neck. But they’re relearning each other now, and this is another of the many things Gary finds is easier this second time around)

#carraville #gary neville #jamie carragher #*fic #*writing

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kirieshhhka003 · 3 years ago

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may i have yandere yasuho headcanons? i'd prefer both sfw and nsfw but i get it if you don't wanna do nsfw for her

I love this girl SO MUCH!!! Thank you for your request, my dear anon💚

Warnings: yandere behavior, possessiveness, stalking, blackmailing, manipulation, NSFW

Yandere! Yasuho Hirose headcanons

If Yasuho falls - she falls hard. I think even canon Yasuho has some yandere tendencies, she acts like a total lovestruck bimbo around her darling, it’s not a secret to anyone that pink-haired has at very least deep affection for darling

Even if she wants to kidnap darling, keeping them away from everything and everyone, having them just for herself, Yasuho won’t do that. Firstly, she doesn’t have enough resources to provide darling with everything they need - Hirose can’t just lock them up in her house, her mother would be a big threat. Secondly, even if she does abduct her darling and captivate them - she’ll destroy every kind of bonds that exists between them. Would someone love their captor? Of course not, so girl spends a few weeks trying to make another, not that harmful for darling plan

So, Hirose’s plan is to make darling fall for her, make them crave for her attention and love. She’s a sweet pretty girl, it wouldn’t be a big problem to charm darling and make them grow liking her. The main problem is her feeling for them - Yasuho wants to look cool and collected around darling, but how the hell is she supposed to act so indifferent when her biggest crush is in one meter away from her, looking her straight in the eyes and giggling at her inane jokes??

Yasuho is the type of girl to get along with all of darling’s friends, so that she can easily join all their parties and hang outs, absolutely not being suspicious and keeping an eye on her beloved one. “Oh, you guys are going to the cinema? I’ve been waiting for this movie to be finally released for so long, can I please join you?”

Yasuho will use Paisley Park on her darling without any hesitation. Scour their phone and laptop, reading all their chats and having full access to all information about their private life. It also applies to all darling’s close friends and relatives - she does it not only to have control over their interactions with darling, but also to research them and their behavior, so that Hirose can understand what she should expect from those people

If darling are already in relationships with someone else - well, all I can do is to with them luck because oh lord, how much Yasuho hates them. She’ll roam all their chats, all gadgets, just to find literally anything that can be harmful and provocative. And hell yes, does Hirose find it! Once pink-haired girl has compromising evidences like suggestive chats with others than darling, or nudes - she’ll blackmail darling’s partner until one: they break up with darling and leave Morioh, two: end their life. And yes, Yasuho is not opposed to bringing someone to suicide, if it gives her chances to win darling - she’ll do it without any hesitations

Pink-haired also uses her stand to get to know darling better. Music they listen to, games they play, manga/movies/tv-shows they search for in Google - she looks through ALL their search history, keeping every smallest detail about her beloved in her mental journal, so that approaching darling would be way easier

It’s most likely that darling will end up in relationships with Yasuho. This girl is persistent, especially when it comes to her love interest, so she won’t give up even when her beloved rejects her feelings. Of course darling’s refusal would fully devastate pink-haired, but some time later she comes to terms with this situation and makes a new plan of winning their heart

NSFW

Remember when I told that Yasuho rummages darling’s search history? Yes, she uses it to ascertain what porn darling prefers, and be sure that pink-haired has watched every single video. She does it to find out what kinks her beloved darling are into, what they like and what they don’t

Yasuho would be the best sex partner darling ever had in their life. I mean, she knows all of their kinks, and she’s also a switch. If darling wants to be dom - pink-haired gladly can be the bottom one and vice versa

Soft dom energy!!!! Hirose has problems with keeping her composure, so when it comes to sex girl just lets her emotions go. She whispers praises into darling’s ears all while worshipping every inch of their body, littering soft kisses all over their skin. It doesn’t matter for her if darling are tall or short, chubby or thin - they’re perfect and Yasuho won’t ever get tired of saying it again and again

Masterlist | Smut Masterlist

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domesticadventures · 4 years ago

Text

as free as it wants to be. deancas, 1.7k. (ao3)

There’s something Dean’s missing.

He feels like he does sometimes when there’s a word on the tip of his tongue, when a smell calls up a memory he can’t quite place, when he sees a familiar-looking side character in a genre show and has to stop to find out what else the actor has been in on IMDB. He feels like that, but like it matters. Like he’s missing something important. He thinks that if he could just have a minute to sit still and think about it, if the end of the world could stop happening for one goddamn minute, he might be able to figure out what it is.

They’re home just for a night—tomorrow they’ll need to be back on the road, chasing down another lead. He’ll barely have time to rest, let alone think. He tells himself it’ll have to wait.

He stops in his room just long enough to change into his around-the-house clothes, but as he slips out of his flannel, something on his shelf catches his eye and everything clicks into place.

A lot of things in his life have been manufactured by an asshole God, current apocalypse included, and now he’s gonna manufacture a little scenario of his own.

He waits until they get through dinner, until Sam and Jack have cleared their plates and wandered off to turn in for the night. He moves to stand and Cas starts to open his mouth, probably to say something about how he’ll let Dean go, he must be tired.

Instead, Dean cuts him short. He nods at Cas’ empty bottle and says, “Another round while I bounce something off you?”

Cas’ aborted excuse turns into a small smile—puzzled, but not unpleasantly so. “Sure.”

“You know,” Dean says as he grabs a couple beers from the fridge, “back during the first apocalypse, when Chuck was still pretending he was just a prophet and not the literal actual God, I had this conversation with him, right?” Cas shifts in his seat, sits a little straighter, while Dean opens the bottles and slides one over to him. “I don’t remember all of it, but the part that matters is he said how the latest stuff he wrote about us got weird, like, Vonnegut weird. And I asked him, Cat’s Cradle Vonnegut or Slaughterhouse-Five Vonnegut? And he says, Kilgore Trout Vonnegut. He was talking about writing himself into the story. But I think he was really dodging the question.”

“Oh?” Cas says, as though only politely interested, as though the quiet, intent way he looks at Dean hasn’t always given him away.

“Yeah.” Dean pulls a book from the pocket of his robe—already old and worn when he got it from the library sale with some pocket change, now nearly falling apart at the spine from his own reading and rereading. He sets it on the table between them, taps a finger on the cover. “It’s Sirens of Titan Vonnegut.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Okay, well, did you get this one when Metatron dumped all that media on you?”

“Yes.”

“So you remember what happens in it?”

“As I recall, humanity’s entire existence was manufactured for the sole purpose of completing an inane task in service of more powerful beings.” Cas sighs, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “So I guess I see what you’re saying.”

“No, no. Well, I mean, yes. That’s what the book is about. But it’s not the point.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “So what’s the point, then?”

“Well,” Dean says, picking at the label of his beer bottle, “a lot of people like to quote that one line about loving whoever is around to be loved, but even that always seemed pretty cynical to me. It’s still about the lack of free will, about just taking whatever life throws in your path and making the best of it. But I think that kind of misses the mark. And you know, it’s really frustrating, actually, because you’d think you could just search for it. You’d think you could Google ‘Sirens of Titan quotes’ and it would pop right up, but it doesn’t. The whole goddamn point of the book and nobody seems to have bothered to put it up on Goodreads or whatever—”

“Dean,” Cas says. He sounds exasperated, but his small, indulgent smile says otherwise. “The point?”

“Right. So. I had to get my book down off the shelf and search for it.” He wipes his hands on his jeans, picks up the book and opens it to the page he’s dog-eared, clears his throat, and reads:

“‘I would be the last to deny,’” said Beatrice, reading her own work out loud, “‘that the forces of Tralfamadore have had something to do with the affairs of Earth. However, those persons who have served the interests of Tralfamadore have served them in such highly personalized ways that Tralfamadore can be said to have had practically nothing to do with the case.’”

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat again as he closes the book, “when I was, uh. When I was wondering what was real. You said we are. You said it like you had never been more sure of anything.”

He glances up at Cas just in time to see his expression shift. Cas has always seemed interested in whatever he has to say, even on the many occasions he’s chosen to be intentionally ridiculous—but there’s something different there now, something beyond his usual care and curiosity. There’s something else there that Dean recognizes, and he tries not to shy away from it like he always has.

“Yes,” Cas says. “I did.”

“I think maybe you’re right,” Dean says. He takes a steadying breath, reaches for his beer and rolls the damp bottle between his hands. “I’m not saying that whatever God threw at us, all the big beats of the story, I’m not saying that didn’t impact our lives. But the whole point is for him to be entertained. If it was a hundred percent scripted, he wouldn’t have been interested. He’ll put a gun in my hand and give me every reason to use it, but he won’t actually make me pull the trigger. He’s reacting to our choices just as much as we’re reacting to his. We figure one thing out and he’s right there to throw another wrench in the plan. Anything he can do to draw out the tension and keep the story going.”

“Sure,” Cas says, “that makes sense.”

“Right, so. I’ve kind of—I’ve just been going back over everything, our whole history, and looking at it in a new way, I guess. Not as someone living a life but as an author writing a story, or—or—a screenplay. You read enough books and watch enough movies and you get a feel for how things are supposed to go, you know? And there are just—there are so many times when we—I dunno. Like when—when you let all those souls go, right, or when you got your memories back after—after everything with Sam, or when you came back from Purgatory, or when you were human for the first time and here in the bunker.”

He can picture it, even now, the way Cas looked each of those times—his earnest contrition, his regret. His quiet joy. And he remembers, too, what he had felt, all those times where it seemed like they were on the edge of something, where he had that sense he gets sometimes when he watches a movie or a show or a book, something where he recognizes the beats, where he can say, all right, the characters have been through enough hardship, now, and here comes the climax and the resolution. Here’s the payoff.

“All those times,” he says, “I just—it felt like we were right there, you know? Like maybe we were about to turn a corner. Like maybe everything was finally going to be okay, and we could just…” He raises a hand in a helpless gesture, lets it fall to the table with a thunk.

“But there was always something,” Cas says. “Leviathan, Sam’s memories, Naomi, Gadreel and his ultimatum.”

“Exactly. There was always some shit that seemed to come out of nowhere to fuck things up again.” There was always something stepping in, he knows now, to deny them their denouement, no matter what they might have done on our own. “You ever—you ever think about how things might have been different?”

“I did,” Cas says. After a moment, he amends, “I do.”

“There are so many times I thought we had, I dunno, come to some sort of understanding. So many times where if we could just have had time to breathe, maybe instead of being trapped in whatever fucked up cycle of pain and betrayal and reconciliation Chuck wanted to see, maybe—maybe whatever is this is”—he gestures between them—“maybe it could have—” He looks at Cas, pleading, willing him to understand.

Quietly, Cas says, “Maybe it’s happened anyway, in spite of that.”

“Yeah?” And there it is, that same feeling he’s grown so used to: the hope that wells up in his chest, imagining how things might go, picturing the next step in the story.

“Yeah.”

Dean steels himself—lets himself be steeled by Cas’ certainty, now and always. He presses his palms to the table. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think God is the biggest fucking cockblock imaginable.”

A slow smile spreads across Cas’ face, amused and hopeful. “Oh?”

“Yeah. And I’m done with it.” Dean slides his beer and book out of the way, starts to lean forward—

“Wait,” Cas says, stopping him with a hand held up between them. He looks up and away from Dean, squinting as though he’s trying to see straight through the bunker to the world outside. “Let’s give it a second to see if Chuck is going to bring the bunker down on top of us—No?—Okay, then.”

Dean is still in the middle of rolling his eyes when Cas leans the rest of the way across the table and kisses him.

#spn #deancas #destiel #my fic

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rayveewrites · 3 years ago

Note

What did tumblr do? - Ying Yang

Something very, very stupid. So this is actually probably Apple's fault, not Tumblr's, but it's a Thing either way and a complete pain in the ass. If you use the IOS app, specifically the IOS app, posts tagged with certain words/acronyms WILL NOT SHOW UP on neither search nor dashboard. The result of this, of course, is that this discourages people from using said tags, including SEVERAL MAJOR TRIGGER TAGS. We don't have an exhaustive list, but @bannedtags (who has been shadowbanned, unfortunately) has compiled a list of known tags affected by this. How stupid are these, you ask? Well. Here are some highlights.

-Ask to tag

-anxiety

-Alice Lightwood (idk who that is, but Google says he's a fictional character?)

-beads

-bimbo

-CW (you know, as in CONTENT WARNING)

-Eros (as in the greek god of love ?!)

flashing/flashing lights (you know, the tag to help people with EPILEPSY.)

-fuck

-girl

-high heels

-long post (??????)

-Paint mixing

-queue/queued

-scar/scars (which will affect the GTWscar too, I imagine)

-self reblog

-single dad/single mom/single parent (idk about the nonamerican spelling for mum but this is so dumb either way)

-stim/stimboard

-submission

-suicide prevention

-Tony the Tiger (why)

-trigger warning (for some inane reason)

-trypophobia (a very common phobia that needs to be tagged ffs)

-various hair colours, including blonde, brunette, and redhead.

-various discrimination-related terms, including antisemitism, racism, homophobia, biphobia, and lesbophobia

-THIS BS:

(also mine and me)

-and an awful lot of common triggers, mental illnesses and sexual phrases.

Again. THIS DISSUADES PEOPLE FROM USING THESE TAGS. THIS WILL AFFECT PEOPLE WHO FILTER THESE TAGS. TUMBLR WHAT THE FUCK.

#there are workarounds for ios users because Tumblr's really incompetently made but this ids so dumb #i'm gonna stab someone #and again #the list i linked isn't all of them #just the ones we know about #ask #yin yang anon #blog maintenance #kinda

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deschroyer · 3 years ago

Text

Troy's whole attention was on the Twatter post as he sat idle outside of the hunting store.

@DawnHearte Grognak did a quiz, I'm just sharing it for them lolz

1. How do they react when you look at them? He smiles, and kinda blushes a little. 2. How much time do the two of you spend together? We always spend time together. He's like the best person ever. 3. Have you broken the touch barrier? Yes. 4. How do you hug him? Just a regular hug. 5. Does he take time out to talk to you when you're not around? Sometimes, depends on who's busy or not. 6. Does he often take advice from you? Yes. 7. Has he ever spoken about the future to you? He mentions it, but gets cautious. 8. How is his reaction when you speak to other guys or if someone starts flirting with you? They don't seem to care much, just as long as I'm okay. 9. What do you think is your place in his life? We'll be cool forever.

TOTALLY MORE

You and your friend are so meant to be more. If you haven't spoken up, do so. NOW. Don't wait until your moment's up, because you only get one shot at things like this. Trust me, I know. Make the best of your friendship, and turn into something more. *link*

When he is through reading the whole quiz, Troy sits there stunned. He's ... just floored. He shakes his head roughly, trying his best to make sense of what he has just read.

Did ... did Grognak take a relationship quiz - about them?!

So many thoughts cross his mind, some he dismisses right away, others he lingers on with wishful thinking. If Grognak had actually filled out this quiz, he would be the ONLY one all of the questions and answers could pertain to, right? Troy lifts one hand to his chin in thought as he mulls over the Twatter post. It was from Dawn's Twatter after all, and not Grognak's own. And who could forget the last time Dawn was involved in anything to do with him and Grognak...

The front passenger door is abruptly thrown open, and Troy is so deep in thought about the twat that he nearly jumps out of his skin.

With her valley girl drawl and an annoying chuckle, the brunette clumsily seats herself in the Komoda with her bags of purchases. "All done! I know I took a little long, I'll compensate you at the docks," and she once again giggles inanely.

Troy's mind is in too much of a tizzy to notice.

***

He's been busy for the past few hours taxiing others around the city, but throughout the whole night he was distracted.

Countless times he'd missed a turn and had to pull a quick (albeit sick and skillful) u-turn to get back on track. If he thought about it, he could hardly remember what his passengers had even been going on about as he skidded throughout the city. By the time he had pulled to a stop outside of the apartments once again, his fingers were twitching - aching to pick up his phone and complete the quiz himself.

He scrolls back down to Dawn's twat, takes one calming breath, and clicks the link.

1. How does she react when you look at her? ... She doesn't mind much, and acts cool. Accurate enough.

2. How much time do the two of you spend together? Troy frowns with contempt. Through all his attempts to spend time with just Grognak, it never ends that way. Enough, we're never alone.

3. Have you broken the touch barrier? Sometimes, not really.

4. How do you hug her? A casual bear hug.

There is a sudden knock on his window that nearly sends him into cardiac arrest. Rolling down his window and powering down his phone screen, Troy whirls on the man standing outside his vehicle.

"For goodness sakes, what?!" His voice is more shrill than he means it to be, from the shock he tells himself.

"Whoa, chill dude, just wonderin' if you were Django's ride; lookin' for 'im," a younger man wearing a green jumpsuit holds his hands up briefly in surrender.

Sizing him up in a Los Santos minute, Troy waves his hand dismissively at the lad. By the time the young man has rounded the front of his car and turned to climb the steps, Troy’s let his head thump back against the headrest. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears and it isn't just because he's had a slight fright.

He sits like this for a moment, the cool air wafting in from the open window.

When he feels ready... he powers his phone screen back on.

5. Does she take time out to talk to you when you're not around? She doesn't call much or talk but tells me things that she feels I should know.

6. Does she often take advice from you? She takes my advice seriously, and gets really happy or whatever when I give it.

7. Has she ever spoken about the future to you? She changes the subject.

There's little you can hold against someone who cannot remember their past in full. What kind of gentleman would he be if he held her inability to make concrete plans against her?

8. How is her reaction when you speak to other girls/guys or if some other person starts flirting with you? They'll make an excuse to pop up and scoop me away.

Troy snickers to himself. Who would even be able to snatch his attention away?

9. What do you think is your place in her life? I don't know anymore.

JUST FRIENDS

You're in the friend zone. Whether you wanna be or not. Whatever you had felt for your friend was never heard, unless it was only in "friend" terms. Being in the friend zone can be total torture, or totally awesome, depending on you and your friend. Don't hurt yourself, make sure you are happy. If it wasn't meant to be, then don't ruin the goodness of solid friendship, because not a lot of people appreciate this.

The words seem to blur together the more he reads on; cognitive reasoning has shut down, comprehension has moved to a snails pace.

Just friends ... Friend zone ...

Friend, friend, friend.....

He drops the hand holding his cell phone to his lap slowly, robotically.

What in the hell is he supposed to think?

Did a quick google search for "are they my bf/gf", and Toni Santiago's was the first that I tried and I was pleased. So thank you to her https://www.quotev.com/quiz/1626110/Is-SheHe-A-Friend-Or-A-GirlfriendBoyfriend/result - Toni Santiago.

#trognak #troy the hero and his feelings #otp feels

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fandomsandfears · 4 years ago

Photo

BOYS NIGHT BOYS NIGHT

I had a rlly long plot hc things for non despair au as ya do with the lads having a boys night in Leon’s dorm

Notes:

It’s Leon’s room, so there's some band poster's

Ibuki Mioda, the icon she is

She signed it for him

Shooting Stars is the fanon name I'm using for Sayaka’s girl group

and Teen Age Wolves are from Digimon 02 I just couldn't resist and am now horrified at the crossover I’ve created

Byakuya is reading “Witness For the Prosecution” by Agatha Christie. It’s a courtroom murder mystery ;)

Mondo, Taka, Hiro, and Makoto are playing Clue ;)

Byakuya’s technically not playing, but he’s paying attention and is basically acting as a team with Makoto

Leon and Hifumi are playing Mario Kart

Hifumi is winning

Leon is wearing a “Shooting Stars/ Sayaker” shirt

Hifumi is supposed to be wearing a Luna onesie (the cat from sailor moon?) but google image search for such an item gave me a purple thing and I didn't want to put the hood up so uh, whoops

Chihiro isn’t here because I hc her as a transwoman or a feminine aligned nonbinary person. I don’t care how you hc her, I’m not here to tell you what to think or hc. I Hope you’ll do the same and not comment on it. If I do a “Girls Night” piece she’ll be included there :)

Below is the inane ramblings from my discord where the idea first occurred!

in my fanon timeline it'd be like, 2nd year where the relationships have been able to develop enough to where Byakuya's willing to hang out with them if not tentatively, and Mondo and Taka are buddies and Leon's like

"hey guys here's an idea"

and is prepared to host a boys night in his dorm and everyone's psyched and Makotos like

"I wanna invite Byakuya!" and they're all like

"hmm, r u sure?"

because yeah he’s getting better but like,,, its really just not going out of his way to be a dick. if you try to engage with him he's still pretty standoffish except Makoto laser eyes him and is forcing him to do personal growth so Makoto’s like "plz" and the other lads are like "okay fine but he's got to be cool" so now Makoto’s on 'recruit Byakuya and make sure he chills out this is boys night and we're gonna have fun goddammit' duty.

but then Hiro or someone like "oh Taka will not let us hang out in each others dorms past curfew or sneak around how do we sneak around him" and Mondo’s like

"I'm inviting him wdym" and the lads are like

"we love taka he’s great but are you sure because he will rat us out" and Mondo's like "no I got this"

and low and behold he comes back hours later with Taka in tow looking very uncomfortable but is like

"I understand that you are all,, breaking curfew,,, and having a 'boys night' as Mondo has called it... As much as it pains me to concede I will not be reporting you to the faculty. Just do not be too loud or I will be forced to come and shut it down the disturbance of peace since I and other students will be sleeping" and they're like

"omfg Taka your so cool thanks!" and also "Taka you know your invited??? You are coming??? To the boys night??" and he's like "Are you sure? I figured you wouldn't want the hall monitor at your rule breaking sleepover?" and its like "Taka your coming its boys night and your gonna have fun goddamit"

so ofc Boys night comes around and they're all meeting up in Leon’s room. Makoto goes and knocks on Byakuyas dorm room and mans opens it in like, y’know silk ass pajamas what do you take him for and Makoto's like "hey!!" and he’s like "hi???" and then its like

"I told you we were having a boys night!"

"... I thought you were joking. Why would I want to waste time I could be reading or resting, with those fools?" and Makoto just gives him the look and he's like "... merde fine," and follows Makoto to Leon’s dorm with a book underarm trying to look unaffected

but he's also kinda nervous like "how the fuck do normal teenagers act oh god" and they get there and the lads are all vibing. Taka is there sticking very close to Mondo and just generally speaking looking kinda nervous because his brains just like "this is illegal this is illegal this is illegal-"

and Mondo and Hiro are trying to get him to join them in whatever conversation they're having and generally speaking trying to get him to chill out since they have bf and brother energies respectively and would like Taka to vibe and have fun. Leon and Hifumi are doing something else, rocking out to anime theme songs like dorks maybe and Byakuya’s looking at this like "this is weird and i have no idea what to do here" and honestly ends up just kinda reading his book near Taka and the lads, Makoto probably sitting with him and jumping between conversations

some point early in the eve Hiro's like "oh we should have grabbed snacks! ugh!" and Makoto and Leon laser eye each other like "lets go get snacks" and Mondo kind of realizes what their planning and is like "oh fuck yeah sure!" followed by Hiro but Hifumi, Taka, and Byakuya have no idea what’s going on till these idiots are putting coats on over their pajamas and shoving shoes ontheirr feet, dragging the oblivious lads into the same. Some of the lads make quick stops at their dorms, Byakuya's only idea of what’s going on is Makoto telling him to grab his wallet. Byakuya has shoes from crossing the hall but ends up in Makotos sweater somehow as Leon Makoto and Mondo lead these disaster children out of the dorm site and Taka nerves just shoot up again because he’s caught between

"this is bad im breaking the rules-" and "my friends are having fun and want me to have fun with them"

but basically they walk the street outside the school till they find a 14/7 convenience store dealio and they get inside and now there’s 7 teenaged ultimate boys loose in a convenience store at like midnight and the only prompting for Byakuya and Taka now is seeing their classmates just fuckin bolt into the store, wallets in hand, for the candy, drinks ,and chips sections

Mondo and Hiro have Taka under wraps eventually realizing they left him in tehri excitement to the candy isle and basically spend the entire time convincing Taka to get some bags of candy he likes, the boys have him covered.

Leon's going a little apeshit picking out energy drinks and pops/sodas in the back, followed by Hifumi who knows what he’s getting and is just trying to corral Leon. Makoto was also going a little bonkers with Leon but then remembered he left Byakuya standing confused in his hoodie and some pajamas at the front of the store. So he wanders back sheepishly where Byakuya’s like:

'wtf is going on where am i, i have literally never been anywhere like this in my life what is happening what are we doing" and Makoto kind explains and tells him and offers to get Byakuya something if he wants and Kuya's like "I could buy out your life with how rich I am, I don't need your money" and Makoto’s like "well yeah, but its just like chips n stuff its not much-' and Kuyas just "its literally such a waste of money for you, how do you function with such poor finance handling" and the n proceeds to buy literally anything Makoto even mildly looks at while walking through the isles with him.

basically the lads all get back to Leon’s dorm with just, bags and bags of snacks. Pops, energy drinks, candy, chips, just loaded in Leon's room. Mondo and Hiro managed to make Taka pick something idk if they have them or an equivalent in japan but i always think of these when i play through this part of the plot in my head

but yeah taka gets these specifically don't ask me why it was just the vibe I got. He like the strawberry marshmallow candy.

Leon has too many soda/energy drinks for one teenaged boy to have at any given moment and the other s cannot stop him. Byakuya has basically funded the snack department since he just bought like anything Makoto looked at and its not like he was planning on really having any so all the lads get free reign of the snacks he bought and then promptly are like

"hey Kuya you’re chill when you want to be" and he’s like "shut up" and Makoto's just "well at least have some, you bought like most of it"

"I don't know what any of these are i just got them for you." which basically destroys any peace Byakuya was hoping on that evening and the lads lose their mind's over how he 'doesn't know what any of the candies are' and proceed to make him try like, everything they've got.

So Byakuya spends the night taste testing a bunch of corner store candy at the other amusement. They probably end up playing all kinds of board games/card games (mostly at request of Hiro, taka, Byakuya), they've got like a switch or some ds depending on when you wanna place this era wise but the more modern the funnier it is too me so Leon and Hifumi are probably losing their shit over Mario Kart. Taka is kind of worried because they are super into it and Mondo keeps laughing and messing with them so they cant drive y’know all kinds of sleepover esk shenanigan's. they at least had the forethought to do this on a weekend so when they all pass out in various parts of Leon’s room its not a scramble for class later lol

i expect these dumbasses to be doing karaoke at 3am and Byakuya has never been more thankful for the sound proof rooms in his life as he is forced to sing to one of Sayaka's songs. The lads agree what happens at boys night stays at boys night but like,, they all know Togami can belt now. Hifumi probably kills it at Karaoke that's another vibe I'm getting

Byakuya gets a gold star from Makoto for managing to not start a single long lasting fight the entire night and the lads proceeds to bring this up for weeks on end whenever he says anything mildly mean their like "oop! broke your streak!" and Byakuya wants to be mad but he’s probably more scared realizing just how soft he's gotten for these dumbasses in the 2 years he's been forced to live near them and he’s both terrified of what that means for him and who he is and who he's supposed to be but also kinda vibes just because, idk he’s still this teenaged boy and he's making connections with his classmates and kinda being friendly. he’s allowed to be a little excited about it even if he wont tell a living soul ever.

he kind of came to terms with the fact that Makoto by himself is easy to be kind of civil-friendly with. Friendly for Byakuya at least, i imagine no matter what he's just terrible with his phrasing so when he’s trying to be nice sometimes he'll just phrase it awfully but anyways. Makoto and to an extent Taka being the only two of the lads who he had come to terms with his respect and friendliness for. It's when he catches himself actually listening to Hiro rambling about a vision he's had or shrugs off Leon after the guy all but barrels into him in the hallways that he’s like "oh god oh no this is going to far"

---

There’s a girls night organized at the same night the boys weren’t aware of but the girls ofc knew what the boys were doing and also know they snuck out for snacks so Sayaka and Maybe Kyoko or Celeste go over to barter with the boys to hand over like 1 of their pop bottles and chip bags that is all

The girls have a pillow fort and when Makoto hears about it from Aoi the next day he’s so offended that he didn’t think to do that he and Aoi have a sleepover (I love Makoto/Aoi being best friends y’all) just for pillow fort shenanigan's

#danganronpa #dr1 #trigger happy havoc #thh #makoto naegi #leon kuwata #mondo oowada #hifumi yamada #kiyotaka ishimaru #yasuhiro hagakure #byakuya togami #fandomsandfearsart #fandomsandfears

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roguish-gallery · 5 years ago

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Rogues + Internet/Social Media HCs!

Hello!!! this was requested by @geniusbee I struggled a bit with the initial prompt, so I kinda broadened the question, I hope you don’t mind! Once I got the ball rolling with this one, it was super fun to work on! Thank you again for your request!

If anyone wants to, feel free to send me send me more requests! I’d love to do more of these!

Everything is under the Read More bc this got LONG AS FUCK. (Slight TW for sexual references!)

Bane:

Doesn’t use social media. point blank

He’ll surf the web mostly for research or for communication purposes, but that’s mostly it... That being said sometimes he DOES look up stuff for fun because he’s a naturally curious guy who had limited access to education for the first 20-ish years of his life. It sends him down a rabbit hole of researching weird shit and sometimes you’ll catch him up at 4:00 am looking up how bread was made in Ancient Rome or what Cock and Ball Torture is bc he heard Joker say it once and he’s never EVER fucking heard of those words strung together like that before

Also… his fingers are simply too beefy for most keyboards. Dude tryna sit down and send Scandal Savage some fun cookie recipes she could try with her GF like

Catwoman:

Not a lot to say here but tbh she probably has the most normal internet habits of everyone. Helps to promote cat shelter’s web pages, and will use some light hacking to find the locations of fur factories and animal abusers but that’s mostly it?

If she isn’t already an influencer, she has definitely considered it. Will sometimes post selfies of her wearing stolen jewelry just to flex. Has a legion of simps.

Clayface

Unknowingly gets into kin drama without trying to

He has... so many theather blogs, musical blogs, and obscure film blogs... someone help him... somehow he regularly adds shit to ALL OF THEM.

He’s that one bitch who hoards all the canon URLs and there’s nothing you can fucking do to stop him.

Harley Quinn:

Her computer is slow and buggy as shit because she’s got so many viruses from trying to download flash games. Edward refuses to fix her computers at this point because he knows it’s a lost cause.

She vlogs sometimes, actually! And she’ll drag her hyenas or any of the rogues/batfam/GCPD she’s hanging out with atm into it.

She likes to go onto anxiety or depression forums and anonymously leave nice, helpful advice :)

Joker:

Mostly on the dark web, doing… things that you do on the dark web...

If he’s ever on the clean web I promise it’s only to start kin drama or to dm fucked up shit to random people he finds.

Has been known to catfish when the mood strikes him

Also? He jumps onto RP forums and either plays the SHITTIEST Batman, or an eerily accurate Batman.

Killer Croc:

He likes looking up funny videos online!!! Also! Art tutorials!!

He likes to post his artwork online under a pseudonym. He doesn’t expect anyone to really pay attention to his work, but it’s always a very pleasant surprise when someone likes or leaves a nice comment on his art.

He genuinely cherishes all of his followers and the kind interactions he shares with them.

Mad Hatter:

It’s just hat porn and hentai. I’m sorry.

Mr. Freeze:

Normal internet habits tbh. Doesn’t really go on the internet that often because he doesn’t particularly care about keeping up to date with what’s happening.

He used to have a Facebook where he’d post pictures of himself and Nora, but he can’t really do that anymore due to obvious reasons.

Penguin:

Lightly dabbles in dark web shit (for business purposes) but otherwise he’s like an old man on the internet. Checks the stock market and shit. Responds to his emails in a timely manner. He keeps track of everyone’s internet presence but that’s mostly because he enjoys drama and he doesn’t want to be out of the loop in case Eddie starts something again and he needs to know WHY Jervis and Pamela can’t be in the Iceberg at the same time without trying to kill each other.

He REFUSES to make a social media account for the Iceberg Lounge!!!! It is too classy for that!!!

Other than that, though… don’t tell anyone… but he keeps some tabs open on some 🥺🥺🥺 some bird forums and uh 🥺🥺🥺 m🥺🥺🥺 maybe some blogs he has that are all about Jane Austen and Star Trek: The Next Generation 🥺🥺🥺🥺 n-not like he LIKES Star Trek, though!!

Also in Batman #448 it shows that him and Batman canonically play chess with each other online and you know what? That’s cute as hell so I’m gonna say that they still do that.

Poison Ivy:

Surprising no one… she mostly blogs about botany

Will ONLY go onto other parts of the internet to like and share Harley, Selina, or Waylon’s posts and THAT'S IT!!!!

She is not above getting petty in the comment section!! If she finds a video of some clown over-watering their ferns she will absolutely let them know and she will not be polite about it.

Riddler:

Canonically has the best hookup and 100% is the most active online. Like yeah he does a lot of hacking shit but he uses the internet for legit stuff too.

PURPOSEFULLY looks himself up and will argue with anyone who talks smack about him on literally any of the search results. He WILL remember your username and he WILL publicly mock you for it when he freezes your laptop or when he takes over the broadcasting waves in Gotham again.

You KNOW he has a social media account for everything. He WILL talk about how smart and sexy he is and he WILL get around any attempts made to get him blocked, suspended, or banned.

“You fool… I have 70 A L T E R N A T I V E A C C O U N T S”

He is the self-proclaimed tech-guru of the Rogues. He WILL harass you if you are using the wrong web browser or if you have TOO MANY FUCKING TABS OPEN FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.

He calms down somewhat once he becomes a P.I. He’ll take selfies at crime scenes and livestream himself when he’s finding clues or chasing someone down! He’s absolutely obsessed with it and he gets super popular. He knows that he shouldn’t broadcast himself solving crimes... but... the clicks... the views... his stans...

Enjoys gaming and modding whenever he has free time.

Scarecrow:

He hasn’t been in a classroom in years but if you looked at his internet habits you would think he’s still teaching psychology at Gotham U. Responds to emails responsibly (but NOT on weekends or after 10 pm!!)

Probably wouldn’t blog these days, but when he was younger he had a page where he would discuss his psychology work.

He mostly uses the internet for research or to order chemicals but he’ll often get swept up in some inane message chain with Harley and Eddie and he HATES IT.

He has like two dozen tabs open on his computer because he forgets about them and even though some of the tabs have been there for so long that he GENUINELY can’t remember why they were there, he keeps them because it makes Edward break into hives every time he tries to watch what he’s doing online. Giving Edward Nygma anxiety sweats is easy and free and should be done often.

Two-Face:

He uses incognito mode… whenever he needs to google embarrassing questions…

He likes to peruse the dark web but sometimes he enjoys hopping onto r/legaladvice and r/relationships and reads that shit like it's the Sunday paper.

If he’s bored or is having a bad mental day, he likes to look up all the Google doodle games that Google keeps archived. they’re all really cute and are a lot of fun to goof around with whenever he’s wanting to play something light and quick!

#headcanons #rogue gallery #Edward Nygma #Harley Quinn #Jonathan Crane #Oswald Cobblepot #Bane #Selina Kyle #Basil Karlo #Harvey Dent #Waylon Jones #Pamela Isley #Victor Fries #Jervis Tetch #the joker #dc comics #dc headcanon

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slightlyrebelliouswriter23 · 5 years ago

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We’re All Mad Here | Jurdan College AU

Summary: Tenacious student, Jude Duarte, discovers a dark underworld in the very heart of RGU. It’s all just a game of Russian Roulette. Harmless, as long as you’re the one holding the gun.

Content Warning: Cursing, mild mention of panic attack (to skip, stop reading between the ~~~~~)

Part II | Masterlist | AO3

Part I- Slow Burn

I, Jude Duarte, third year at Royal Greenbriar University and soon-to-be reigning Top Scholar, am in a hurry.

It’s rush hour. The pavement is slick with sleet and packed with important people in fancy suits. They brave sheets of freezing rain that lash down from the angry October skies with an unending canopy of black umbrellas.

I don’t carry my own. Umbrellas aggravate the chaos of mornings in Insmire, and I don’t need to add another to the mix.

Luckily, I am short. Manoeuvring through gaps in elbows and shoulders does not take much effort on my part. It’s the briefcases and patches of ice which make running a bit of a challenge this morning—but then, I have always enjoyed a challenge.

As I tear through the crowded streets of Insmire, I only know one thing: No amount of wind or hail or people can stop me. And if anyone gets bludgeoned with my thirty-pound backpack as I weave through the throng, well, that’s on them.

Cold air slices through me with every heave of my lungs, every pounding thud of my boots on the sidewalk. My legs are sore from yesterday’s fencing practice, but I savour the sweet ache and forge on.

I am used to this rushing, for I am always in a hurry. It sometimes feels like I’ve been in a hurry from my very first breath. As if I’m constantly trying to catch up to something just out of my grasp.

My twin sister, Taryn, and I were born in a hurry.

So excited were we to join the ranks of men, we surprised our mother half to death by wandering into the world nearly four weeks early.

As a result, we spent the next several weeks of our lives as tiny things in incubators—a little sickly and terribly jaundiced. This was how our mother always used to describe it, at least.

Ever since then, I have been invariably late to everything. Mostly, I blame it on the incubators. And the jaundice.

If I’m being honest with myself, though, being always late is a trait I can only attribute to who I am as a person. It is as much a part of me as the tip of my left ring finger is not.

I sometimes wonder if that’s exactly the crux of it; that just like my fingertip, my punctuality has somehow been taken from me, too.

I have heard of twins absorbing their siblings in the womb. I can’t see why personality traits should be any different. Especially since Taryn and I had to spread them so thinly between two of us.

And Taryn is always perfectly on time.

I risk a glance at my watch. A tiny crack runs up the glass. It’s been there for ages, but I am still nettled by the sight of it and the unbidden memory it stirs.

It’s because of this tiny crack that the watch’s face is now fogged up from the inside. I can barely make out the three little golden hands racing each other toward my tardiness.

Seven minutes past eight.

I am really very late. Or, I know I will be, at least.

Technically, if I go straight to the Silhouette Gazette now, I will be right on time for my interview.

But I can’t go straight there. Not when I haven’t had coffee.

Without my fix, I won’t be able to string together even one sentence. Much less make it through an entire interview with enough charisma to snag the internship position I so desperately need. Since I am not very charismatic to begin with, I’ll need all the help I can get.

Everything depends on my getting this internship. If I don’t, there’s no way I’ll maintain my near-perfect GPA, no way I’ll graduate summa cum laude or Valedictorian of my class.

And then I’ll have to go into something boring. Like publishing. A shudder runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

I shove between two men wearing long coats and flat caps. They grunt in shock and disapproval. I hardly feel the zing of pain as my shin collides with something hard.

A briefcase flies out of its owner’s grip, crashing onto the pavement a few yards away. I don’t stop to apologise.

“Bitch!” One of the flat caps shouts after me.

Yes, I agree silently, hopping over the felled bag. I am very much that.

If I had the time and breath to tell the men just the same, I would. Instead, I flip them a rude gesture over my shoulder and don’t turn around.

I’m already ten paces away when a dull throbbing starts on my leg. It radiates from where I know there’ll be an unsightly bruise tomorrow. But bruises are a thing for future Jude to handle.

There is no way I will let what happened last year happen again. Second-year was a fluke. A one-time thing.

I will get this internship, take back my rightful title of Top Scholar, and keep it until I graduate—just like my mother did. I absolutely refuse to be beaten out by some preppy moneybags prick.

Or a bit of hail.

Before flying out the door of my flat this morning, I did a quick search on Google Maps, the results of which yielded the quirky little coffee shop I now see in my line of vision.

The White Rabbit sits mercifully in all its three-story glory right across the street from the newspaper’s office building. If luck is on my side, if I hurry, I should have just enough time to grab a cup to-go and make it with a minute or two to spare.

My thoughts are all jumbled as I barrel through the glass doors.

A white-haired barista stands behind the counter at the back of the shop, taking a customer’s order with an unbearable amount of cheer for a Monday morning.

The queue isn’t too bad, maybe three people long. I send up a quick thanks to whatever power of the universe might be in charge of coffee queues.

It smells miraculous in here—freshly ground coffee and something buttered and flakey. Suddenly, I am too warm.

I make a beeline for the back of the queue, shucking off my hat and gloves as I go. I’m unzipping my coat, a difficult task with hands full of knitted things, when a wall of black blurs into my periphery.

I don’t have a second to react before that wall smacks me right in the forehead. And collides everywhere else.

A scalding liquid sloshes down the front of my shirt. I stumble backwards, gasping at the pain.

There is a very loud “Fuck” followed by an equally as loud “Shit!”

I am not sure which curse fell from my lips, but I know it was one of them. All I can feel is this dreadful sting. It spreads like a wildfire across my chest.

Perhaps, I’d cursed both words. The pain certainly warrants it.

“Are you alright, dear?” a dark, silken voice asks. A pair of beringed hands steady me, grasping my shoulders with the barest of touches. As quickly as they appeared, like that they are gone. And then they are handing me a wad of brown paper napkins.

“Here,” the voice says.

I snatch the proffered napkins and look up at my assailant.

Perfect. Just perfect, I think with a scowl. Of course the person who spills their drink down my blouse has to be stupidly attractive.

The man before me is so beautiful it’s almost cruel.

A crown of crow dark curls circles his head, framing his oil slick eyes and sharp cheekbones. His is an unnecessary sort of perfection that sets my teeth grinding.

He’s clad in all black, save for his coat—a beaded brocade of black and crimson silk with quilted red lapels. From the breast pocket, a beaded scarlet brooch in the shape of a dahlia dangles in ostentatious splendour.

There is something familiar about him I can’t quite grasp.

For some inexplicable reason I amount to probable insanity, I cannot stop my gaze from flitting to his mouth.

Bad idea. Very bad idea.

His lips look like two full flower petals. I’m plagued by the inane thought that they might feel just as soft. If I can only reach out and—

I shake my head.

Concern creases the man’s brow now. To my horror, I realise I haven’t responded to his question. I’ve just stood here, dripping and sticky, for who knows how long. Staring. Like an idiot.

“I’m fine,” I grit out through barred teeth and my own mortification. I pat at the stain hastily with the wad of napkins. “I’m just great.”

It’s useless, of course.

The stain isn’t coming out, I’m late to my life-altering interview, and to make matters worse, I still haven’t had coffee. Not to mention, my chest burns in a way that makes me tempted to scrap everything in favour of a doctor’s office.

~~~~~

That’s when panic seizes hold.

A strand of pearls tightening around my throat. I am sure it means to strangle me because I cannot breathe.

My heart takes flight, battering my ribcage as if it intends to escape entirely. A trail of sweat trickles down my forehead.

I am going to be late. I am going to have this horrid stain on my shirt. I am going to fail this interview. I am going to fail this year and myself and my family.

There’s something heavy sitting on my lungs. I am both hot and cold, here and not.

Tears prick my eyes. I will them not to spill over, but of course, my body betrays me. I swipe furiously at my cheeks.

Everyone in the coffee shop plus one unfortunately attractive dude must be staring, watching as I teeter on the edge of full-blown hysterics.

“Hey,” Unfortunately Attractive Dude croons, but I don’t see him.

I try to draw even breaths. And fail. And fail again.

~~~~~

I’m barely aware of the hand that guides me to a corner of the coffee shop. It’s darker here. A bit quieter, too. I notice a large bookshelf obscuring the alcove from the main seating area. Away from prying eyes.

“Just relax,” the man says. “It’s going to be okay. Are you hurt?” He looks inclined to place his hand on my shoulder again but thinks better of it when he sees my expression.

I want to punch him in his stupid face. Maybe I should. It’s only fair, given the circumstances.

“Relax?” I scoff, hating the way my voice cracks. “Don’t tell me to relax. I’ve got an interview in ten minutes and I’m fairly certain my would-be boss won’t appreciate my being late. Or this sort of oversharing.”

I make a wild gesture at the stain on my chest, ignoring the slight tremor in my hands. I am acutely aware of the fabric’s transparency there. Today was not the day to wear a bright purple bra.

A moment passes before a smirk slips into place on Unfortunately Attractive Dude’s hateful mouth. He folds his arms across his chest, giving me a once over.

“You sure about that?” he drawls, and now I am positive I’m going to punch him. My hands curl into fists at my sides.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you, sunshine, are no longer having a panic attack.”

Indeed, the tightening in my throat has waned. But as keen an observation as it might be, I would first run my hand through with my fencing sabre than admit he is right.

“I wasn’t having a panic attack,” I say too quickly. He produces a smug expression that is just as bewitching as it is infuriating.

He knows what I’ve said is a lie. I know it’s a lie, too. Very deep down. In some dark forgotten place inside me where things that don’t want to be admitted go.

The man grins as if I should be grateful. I am decidedly not.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” I say, taking a step toward him. “But don’t pretend to know me. Because you don’t.”

He lifts a brow—the worst kind of dare. “Don’t I?”

“No,” I say. I hope I come off more menacing than I feel with my tearstained cheeks and conspicuous underthings on display for all the world to see.

“Pity,” he says, still wearing that stupid smile. “You seem delightful.”

My face grows hot. Blood pounds heavy in my ears, and I feel like I’m running anew. I’m so angry I cannot think.

And apparently, I don’t think—because I take another step closer.

The rest of the world slides away. It’s just me and this loathsome beautiful heinous man in a secluded corner of a strange coffee shop.

He towers over me, lithe and angled, face limned in shadow. He’s unflinching and returns my gaze with equal distaste.

My heart skitters wildly, stumbling one beat over the next like it knows it's been spotted by something with sharp claws and jagged teeth.

In the unclosed space between us, a glittery treacherous thing ripples.

I am suddenly very glad for bookshelves.

I should leave. I should go to my interview before I do something I will regret. Before I ruin everything. I should walk away.

Then, I do the opposite of that.

“I’m the farthest thing from delightful,” I tell him, shooting a dagger-filled glare from beneath the hood of my brow. “Which is why I’d strongly advise against getting in my way again. And don’t call me sunshine.”

Something smells familiar; like a forest in winter. Like cedarwood and myrrh. With a jolt, I realise it’s him and dig my nails into the meat of my palm.

He chuckles, raising his hands in defence. “Fine,” he says. “Won’t happen again. But at least come with me. I think I can help.” He juts his chin toward the back of the coffee shop, presumably towards the toilets.

I wrinkle my nose.

This can’t seriously be some kind of come-on. I don’t have time for unsolicited advances right now. I don’t even have time for solicited advances.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I spit, and he flinches. “First, you give me third-degree burns. What’s next? Chop me up in the alley out back?”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “As appealing as that sounds,” he says. “I’m shit with knives.”

“Oh, that’s a comfort.”

“Better with fabric, though.” He gives an unbothered shrug. “I was going to offer to get that out for you.” The man nods, seemingly unfazed, at my chest. Heat rises in my cheeks again.

“You’ve done enough already,” I snap.

Maybe I’ll just wear my winter coat through the whole cursed interview. Even that would be a better solution than this conversation.

I turn on my heel to leave, but the man catches my wrist.

Bad move, I think.

I’m contemplating dragging him out of this alcove by the ear so I can punch him in front of every customer in this coffee shop when, to my surprise, he lets go.

The man rakes a hand through his dark curls, heaving a great sigh.

“Wait. Just...” he starts. “Look, I feel bad enough as is. Let me make it up to you. It’ll take five minutes. You’ll only be a little late to your interview, and you won’t have to deal with a dry cleaner’s bill.”

I snort. I haven’t been able to afford dry cleaning since I stopped living in Madoc’s house two years ago. I will likely have to throw this shirt away if I can’t get the stain out with a good old-fashioned scrubbing.

“I’ll buy you a coffee for your troubles while we wait.”

I consider him for a moment. He seems sincere enough, though attractive people always seem sincere, even when they are truly not.

Now, though, I don’t really have much left in me to care.

I want the stain out of my blouse, a vat of coffee in my system, and a teleportation device that can transport me to the sixth floor of the Silhouette immediately.

If this man is a willing rung in the ladder to get me even two-thirds of those things, I will consider it a blessing.

“Fine,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ll take a large cappuccino. Extra shot of espresso. And a shot of caramel. To go.”

“Wonderful.” The dazzling man smiles his dazzling smile. “Follow me.” And with that, he leads the way out of the alcove, a gleeful bound in his step.

I already regret my decision.

☽☽☽☽☽

Part II

Masterlist

AO3

Tag List: @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte @velarhysismine @knifewifejude

AN: this was originally sent to me as a request for the prompt “I’m running late to an important interview/meeting and you accidentally spill your hot cocoa all over my outfit” from a winter prompt list. but it spiralled into several chapter outlines and an almost fully-fledged plot so i’m rolling with it.

anyway, thanks so much for reading! hope you enjoyed :) if you’d like to be tagged in future updates for this AU, feel free shoot me an ask/message.

a few disclaimers:

1. i don’t think publishing is boring! i’m technically trying to go into publishing for my career so really just poking fun at myself. but i do think jude would find publishing (or any other office job) incredibly boring.

2. the depiction of jude’s panic attack is provided by yours truly, though i do not claim to speak for everyone who gets them, and am aware that they differ in both manifestation and severity from person to person. this just pertains to my own experience.

3. i was definitely listening to slow burn by kacey musgraves while writing part of this lmao (hence the chapter name).

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kookitykook · 5 years ago

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Koya’s Used Bookstore (Namjoon x Reader)

Listen this is one of my favorite things I’ve ever written.

~genre: fluff, humor, sfw

~word count: 4.8k

~warnings: liberal use of the word ‘weasel,’ reference to a fuckboy named chad

~tags: bookstore owner!joon x angry at the patriarchy!you, featuring annoying employees! vmin lmao

~summary: When you show up to Koya's Used Bookstore for the first time with red eyes, a rant about the patriarchy in hand, and a visceral reaction to Jimin's suggestion of Ernest Hemingway, the store owner, Kim Namjoon, can't help but want to know what details lie in your story ... he’s also a little afraid of you, but that’s expected.

~~~~~~~

“Hyung!”

Namjoon jumped at the sound of Jimin’s voice. He looked up from his paperwork, glasses teetering dangerously at the tip of his nose as he saw his employee looking into the office with oddly wide eyes.

“What is it?” he asked. “Did Tae spill coffee on one of the books again? I swear if that kid—”

“No, no,” Jimin said quickly, glancing quickly behind him before leaning further through the doorframe. “There’s a customer that you really need to come talk to,” he whispered.

Namjoon cocked his head to the side, straightening his glasses as he stood up. He didn’t mind talking with customers, it was actually one of his favorite parts of running his used bookstore. Jimin’s expression was filling him with worry though.

“Why? What’s the problem?” It was odd that Jimin felt compelled to come to his boss over customer service. Jimin was better with customers than him or his other employee Taehyung.

“Uh … well … she’s a bit feisty …”

“Feisty?”

“Yeah, feisty. I don’t know, I can’t put a word to it. I tried to help her but I think I ended up just making her angry.”

Namjoon laughed. “You? You made a customer angry?”

“I don’t know!” Jimin tossed his hands up in the air with exasperation, still whispering as if in fear of the customer overhearing. “She asked for a book recommendation then practically blew her top when I said Hemingway!”

“Jimin,” Namjoon sighed, running a hand through his hair and taking a deep breath. “Why do I have an inkling there’s more to the story?”

“Namjoon I swear, I—”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll go talk to the customer. Can you point her out to me?”

Jimin hesitated, but nodded all the same and Namjoon followed him out of the office and into the bookstore proper.

Koya’s Used Books was Namjoon’s pride and joy. He had opened it up with his best friend and business partner Seokjin when they were fresh out of college. They had spent the four years of their undergrad pinching every penny they could, working multiple jobs and barely keeping their heads afloat in their classes just so this dream could become a reality. That had been three years ago, and the bookstore had absolutely flourished.

Well, it had flourished at first. Jin had always been the unreasonably beautiful face of the store with a keen eye for marketing, while Namjoon preferred to be behind the scenes focusing on the books and the paperwork. And that business plan had worked for them — perfectly.

But then Jin had to move back to his hometown when his father got sick. That had been just over a year ago, and while Namjoon didn’t blame his friend whatsoever, it was clear that Koya’s Used Books needed real help in Jin’s absence. Namjoon already had to let two employees go just to keep paying the rent on the place, leaving the store with him as manager, Jimin running cashier and stocking, and Taehyung as their only barista for the cafe in the back of the store.

And yet even though the store was on hard times, Namjoon still had love for his job. Even then, walking out to talk to an apparently disgruntled customer, he couldn’t help the swell of fondness in his chest as he smelled the books and coffee, saw a few regulars browsing the fantasy section and a university student on their laptop on one of the beanbags. Koya’s was his pride and joy.

“That’s her.”

Jimin’s whisper cut through Namjoon’s thoughts and he blinked himself back to the task at hand. Following Jimin’s pointer finger, he looked over to see what he assumed was a young woman with her back to the two of them, her shoulders hunched and hands shoved into the pocket of a gray hoodie with the hood drawn up. He could practically feel their tension from across the room.

“That’s the girl that just yelled at Jimin.”

Namjoon yelped and whirled to look at Taehyung, who was staring at the young woman while munching on a piece of banana bread, oblivious to the fact that he’d just scared Namjoon.

“How the hell do you always do that?” Namjoon mumbled under his breath, facing you again.

“She didn’t yell at me,” Jimin hissed. “She was just …”

“Plotting your death?” Taehyung suggested.

“Slightly irritated with my presence.” Jimin said pointedly. “Which I don’t understand because I am very likable.”

Namjoon could tell Jimin was genuinely perturbed by this situation. He’d yet to meet a single person that wasn’t instantly enamored with his young employee, and with good reason, considering Jimin was one of the most polite, well-mannered people he’d ever met.

Taehyung on the other hand …

“She was kind of bitchy about it,” Taehyung mumbled through a mouth full of food. “Not sure why she’s got a stick up her ass, but I’d be careful with that one, hyung.” He took another bite, crumbs littering the corners of his mouth. “If she bites your head off I’m out of a job.”

Namjoon swiped the rest of the banana bread from Taehyung’s hand, ignoring the barista’s whine as he handed off the food to Jimin, who smiled delightedly.

“You’ll be out of a job sooner than that if you keep taking food without logging it in your daily pastry allowance. You two get back to work, I’ll go talk to her.”

“Guard your balls, hyung,” Tae mumbled, which was promptly followed by Jimin smacking him in the back of the head and leading him back to the coffee bar.

Namjoon took a deep breath, drawing up his best smile and channeling his inner Seokjin as he approached you.

“Um, excuse me? Hi, my name is Namjoon, I’m the owner of …”

Namjoon trailed off as you turned to face him. You were … striking. Utterly striking, that was the only way he could describe you. Sharp features, bright eyes, and thick long hair framing your face beneath the hood of your sweatshirt.

And you also looked mad as hell. Your eyes were rimmed with red as though you’d been crying, but your tears were clearly dried up and replaced with an expression that said you were thoroughly pissed off.

Namjoon cleared his throat. “I’m the owner of the store.” He cursed himself for the crack in his voice. “Jimin said you were looking for some recommendations?”

Your cleared your throat and straightened your shoulders, meeting his gaze head on. Namjoon couldn’t help but feel overwhelmingly intimidated.

“Yes,” you said simply. “I know I could just go on Google and search for book recommendations, but quite frankly I think that’s too easy of a route.”

The corner of Namjoon’s mouth quirked up. He felt the same way, books were supposed to be about discussion, and while the internet was useful for sure, there was something beautiful about the community of book sharing and recommending. It was one of his favorite parts of running Koya’s in particular.

“Well you’re in the right place,” Namjoon said with a more genuine smile — one that was definitely not returned. “What are you looking for? A certain author? Genre? Emotion?”

“That one,” you said quickly, pointing right in Namjoon’s face. “That last one. Emotion.”

Namjoon chuckled, but his heart wasn’t really in it. “Okay. Any … particular emotion, ma’am?”

“Anger.” The answer was so blunt that Namjoon could only blink behind his thick framed glasses. “Rage. Think Hulk level pissed off.”

Namjoon swallowed, willing away the urge to pull at the collar of his shirt. “O-Okay … sure thing. Uh, if you don’t mind, who is this book for? W-What I mean to ask is, who’s angry?”

“I am.”

“Oh. Right.” Namjoon did pull at his collar then, but you were unfazed. “Got it. Um … angry at who, if I may ask?”

“The patriarchy.”

“Ah.” Namjoon’s voice had gone up an octave at that and he could practically feel himself withering under your steely gaze. Was he sweating? He felt like he was sweating. “T-The patriarchy?”

“Yepp.” You made a popping noise with your lips on the ‘p’ sound. Your eye contact was intense and Namjoon was genuinely afraid to look away. “Dudes. Men. The male gender. I am seriously pissed at you all as a whole at the moment, but quite frankly I am tiny, and even if I wasn’t tiny, the violence I want to enact would actually be detrimental to my cause. So as you can see, I don’t really have any options for catharsis presently, so I’m hoping to release my frustrations upon this stupid, inane aspect of society by reading a book that hopefully agrees with all of my current anti-men sentiments. Do you have any recommendations for that sort of thing …” You squinted at his name tag. “Namjoon?”

Namjoon couldn’t decide whether he should correct you on the pronunciation of his name or run away with his tail between his legs. You were staring him right in the eyes and he had no shame in admitting he was scared shitless.

“I take it this is the reason you weren’t too happy with Jimin recommending Hemingway?”

He didn’t think it was possible, but somehow your eyes burned with even more rage at the mere mention of the author in question.

“Ernest fucking Hemingway was incapable of portraying women as anything other than nagging, inadequate, and selfish, and that is a sick narrative that I am tired of dumb dudes getting published and I will not stand here and let yet another penis-driven specimen tell me Hemingway was a master of words — not even if he is cute and polite!”

In the back of the store, Namjoon clearly heard Taehyung say, “hey did you hear that? She thinks you’re cute!” followed by a distinct slapping sound.

You took a deep breath, your shoulders rising and falling with the movement as your eyes fluttered shut. Namjoon on the other hand couldn’t quite find his breath. He also couldn’t stop noticing how pretty your were — despite the fact that the rising blush on your cheeks was definitely from rage at his entire gender and ogling your was only going to add to the list of reasons your were mad at at the moment.

“Sorry,” you said through gritted teeth, surprising him. “I’m … a little on edge right now.”

“No shit.”

“Shut up, Tae!”

“Ouch! Stop hitting me!”

Namjoon chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry about them,” he mumbled, swallowing thickly. “And sorry about … men?” You just blinked at him. “Uh … I wish I had a female employee I could direct you to for this … n-not that I’m against having a female employee,” he said hurriedly. “I actually did have a female employee up until a few weeks ago, but I had to let her go. But not because she was a female! She was a lazy worker to be honest and — not that I think women are lazy! Women are — they’re hard working and capable and — and she was given the same pay as my male employees. Not that that makes me noble or anything, that should just be standard, you know? I mean I am a proud feminist and — wait, fuck, that’s not something I should be saying right now because then it seems like I’m—”

“Fucking hell Namjoon, stop talking!”

Namjoon flinched almost violently as Tae shouted across the shop. It was only then that he realized the other few customers were all listening and watching in amusement, as were Jimin and Taehyung, the former of which was staring with his mouth open and the latter looking at him like he was the world’s biggest idiot. An accurate assessment, honestly.

With a sigh and what he knew was probably the reddest cheeks on the planet, Namjoon finally looked back at you. He was fully expecting a hand reared back ready to slap him or cut off his dick or something along those lines.

What he didn’t expect though, was an open-mouthed dopey smile and adorably crinkled eyes.

“Oh my gosh,” you murmured. “You’re adorable. It’s like all my rage at men just flew out the window.”

“Really?”

“I mean no, I definitely still hate men and they exhaust me, but you might be an exception!”

“Baby youuuuu areeeee the only exception.”

“Tae nobody listens to Paramore anymore.”

“Fuck you!”

Namjoon laughed in exasperation, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. When he looked back up at you, you were still smiling at him.

“You have a really pretty smile,” he found himself saying. His eyes widened a fraction of a second later. “N-Not that I think you should smile! You don’t have to smile for anyone you know, you can smile for who you want a-and when you want, you know?”

“This is painful. I’m in physical pain.”

“Hyung for crying out loud just recommend her the books and walk away!”

With a huff and a whirl, you spun on your heel to stare down Jimin and Tae on the opposite side of the shop behind the cafe counter.

“Would you two weasels shut the fuck up!”

Jimin froze, his hand shaking with the coffee halfway to his lips. Taehyung’s eyes went wide as he sunk behind the counter and out of sight without another word.

Namjoon stared with an appreciative smile on his face as you turned back to him as if nothing of importance had happened.

“Woah,” was all he could say. Eloquent, Namjoon, you truly have a way with words, he thought to himself. “Uh … thanks for that?”

“Anytime,” you remarked offhandedly, pushing her hair over her shoulder. While turning to tell off the boys, your hood had fallen back and now Namjoon could really appreciate your face.

Shit, stop appreciating her face and talk to her, you moron! he thought to himself.

“Um, so about those books,” Namjoon said after clearing his throat and toeing the floor with his shoe to look away from your stunning eyes, “I actually have a section on female empowerment and feminism — w-well I don’t have a section, the store does, but I own the store so—”

“Really?” you cut him off — and thank goodness for that. “That’s perfect. Can you show me? This is my first time here.”

“Y-Yeah of course, follow me. Or just come with me, not follow me, I guess? I mean — ah, fuck it.”

You laughed out loud at that, and it was absolutely adorable and Namjoon was absolutely screwed.

Nonetheless, you did follow his stride to the other side of the store to the ‘on female empowerment and feminism’ section — which just so happened to be right beside the coffee bar where Jimin and Taehyung still were.

“Boys,” Namjoon nodded at them, Jimin wide-eyed and gulping as he promptly looked back into his cup of coffee, and Taehyung literally still crouched behind the counter.

When Tae’s crouched form was in view, you looked over at him and cocked an eyebrow. “Where’s all that bark from earlier?” You asked. “Oh no, did you forget to guard your balls?”

Taehyung chuckled nervously, but his cheeks flamed red as you repeated the words he had said to Namjoon just before he had approached you.

“I just uh, I’ve got to go check on the … the pastries,” he murmured, standing up from his crouch and all but running to the back room.

When it was only Jimin at the counter, he looked over at you and Namjoon and blinked rapidly.

“I should go help him!” And with that, the two boys had scattered.

You chuckled. “Didn’t mean to scare them so bad.” Namjoon looked down at you with a cocked eyebrow. “Okay, maybe I did. Sorry about that, they seem like nice kids. Still stupid boys of course, but nice. Like I said … rough day.”

Namjoon swallowed, gathering his courage to lean his shoulder against the shelf and face tyou head on. “If you don’t mind me asking … what exactly spurred on this extra hatred for the patriarchy today? No judgment, just …”

“For the book recommendation?” you asked, her lips turned upwards slightly in a way that he knew you were teasing. He found himself smiling back.

“Yes. For the recommendation.”

You took a deep breath, focusing on the worn out book spines in front of you, trailing a finger over Virginia Woolf’s name.

“I quit my job today,” you said suddenly. It was as if a weight fell off of your shoulders just at the admission. “I’ve been gearing for a promotion for the past year and a half, I’m insanely qualified for it and honestly a shoo-in for the position. And I’m not just saying that, it’s one-hundred percent true. So when my boss called me in for a special meeting this morning, I’m ready to go, right? All my hard work is finally going to be paid off, I’m going to get the position I’ve been heading towards since I started there. But then …”

You let out a deep breath, laughing humorlessly as you looked down at you shoes. “But then he told me that I was in fact not getting the promotion, but my coworker Chad was. Fucking Chad. The frat boy from hell itself that had been working there for barely even three months and still couldn’t even fill out expense reports for crying out loud! He got the promotion I rightfully deserved because apparently the position requires ‘being able to exude a certain level of authority that the fairer sex simply can’t produce in the necessary fashion.’”

Namjoon sucked in a sharp breath. You looked up at him with wide eyes. “Right?” You shouted in exasperation. “Can you believe that? He literally called me the fairer sex! Like buddy, that’s not a fucking compliment. I don’t how you get off to talking down to me when if it wasn’t for me, your firm would’ve already gone down the drain. Gah, the nerve! I tried to keep my cool, but it was like all of this repressed anger just came surging up and I flipped my lid. I mean I really flew off the handle, I completely lost it. They almost had to call security, all of my coworkers saw it go down, it was … mortifying, but I was so pissed off I didn’t care. I finally yelled out that I quit and stormed out. I started to go to the gym to punch something, but that was definitely only going to make me more angry, and my mom used to say that reading a book always helped with whatever you were feeling so … I saw your place while driving and now I’m here. A crazy, angry lady scaring off you and your employees.”

You trailed off, staring holes into the bookshelf before you. Namjoon didn’t know what to say — he didn’t know what he should say. He wasn’t good with comforting, he didn’t know how to say the right words in the right way to make you feel better.

But he did know books.

“Fed Up.”

You looked up at him. “Pardon?”

“Fed Up,” he repeated, reaching over and pulling the book in question off the shelf. “Fed Up by Gemma Hartley. It’s her first book, and it just came out last November. Really good though.”

He handed the book to you, who accepted it with surprise. “Oh. Th-Thanks.”

“Rage Becomes Her, by Soraya Chemaly — not sure I’m pronouncing that name right, to be honest, and I haven’t read it, but the reviews have been good. The Power, by Naomi Alderman, it’s fiction, and if you like The Handmaid’s Tale you’ll love that one. Oh! Sister Outsider, by Audre Lorde. The essays cover a whole bunch of topics, so it’s super well-rounded.”

With each recommendation, Namjoon handed you the book in question, and soon you had a stack of four in your hands, looking up at him in shock and surprise. The pleasant kind of surprise, he noticed. He hoped.

“And of course,” he continued, reaching over your head (your really were tiny, like you had said earlier in your rant), “you can’t leave here without A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf. I won’t allow it.”

You grinned, absolutely delighted with this turn of events. “Oh you won’t allow it?” you smarted back. “Will you use your big scary man powers and keep me here?”

“No, but I might send Jimin over here to tell you how much he loves Hemingway.”

“Namjoon!” Jimin shrieked from the back room, clearly listening to the conversation.

You burst into laughter, throwing your head back as the sound filled the shop. Namjoon’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

“I know you know this, but I feel like I have to say this,” Namjoon said as you tamped down on her laughter. “Your old boss was a cowardly dickwad. And fucking Chad is going to suck at that job, and probably get fired or quit, and then go running back to his old money family and never have any real dreams or passion because at heart he’s a fucking loser. You exude a shit ton of authority and they were idiots not to promote you.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, letting it out slowly with a small, shy smile as you looked down at the books in your hands. Your duality was going to send Namjoon to the grave.

“Namjoon,” you said, finally looking back up at him.

“I … yes, that’s my name,” he said in confusion.

You laughed, shaking your head. “I mispronounced it earlier when I read your name tag. Your weasly employees have said your name a couple times now and I realized I said it wrong. Sorry about that.”

Namjoon only laughed. “It’s fine. You’d be surprised how often that happens.”

“Seriously though, Namjoon … thanks. I was a real bitch before and that was all really nice of you to say. I appreciate it.”

Namjoon’s chest tightened at your words. “You’re welcome. And I meant every word of it. Fuck Chad.”

“Fuck Chad,” you affirmed with a nod.

“Yeah fuck Chad!” Taehyung’s voice echoed from the back room. “Actually don’t fuck Chad, he seems like a real douchebag. Or do fuck him if you want. Your body is your body and you can fuck whoever you want and — ouch! Stop hitting me! I’m being nice now, what the hell?!”

You laughed yet again at that while Namjoon sighed in exasperation.

“I’m so sorry,” he said suddenly. “I haven’t even asked your name.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you chuckled, shifting the books in you arms. “I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N,” Namjoon repeated, smiling to himself. “I’m sorry such a bad day brought you here, but … quite frankly this has been the most entertaining thing to happen at Koya’s for a while.”

“That’s the truth.”

“Shut up!” Namjoon yelled over his shoulder before turning back to you with a sheepish smile.

“Business been a little slow lately?” At the question, Namjoon’s cheeks flushed bright red. “I didn’t mean that as an insult! I just … I remember hearing a lot about this place a couple years ago when it opened, in the papers and stuff. And with what your employee just said and earlier you mentioned you had to let some other workers go and—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Namjoon reassured you, chuckling and scratching the back of his head — you were beginning to notice that he did that when he was nervous. “Yeah, things have been slow. My business partner had to leave about a year ago and Koya’s has been … on a bit of a decline since then.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Namjoon waved you off. “It’s fine, this stuff happens in business. We’ll get through it. Hey are you satisfied with those book choices? Did you want to look around some more or…?”

“No these are great!” You assured him, smiling widely. How on earth had you been so rude to this guy earlier?

“Okay great, I can check you out over at the cash register.”

“Yeah you can, Joonie — hey, ouch!”

Tell-tale sounds of a scuffle broke out in the back room.

“Uh, should you check that out?” You asked as a loud metal clanging and a few more choice curse words rang out.

Namjoon pondered on it for about two seconds. “No, they’re fine. Come with me.”

Walking to the cash register, you took a closer look at the bookshop. When you first came in you were still simmering with rage over stupid fucking Chad so you hadn’t looked at the place proper.

It was cute, albeit small, in an old building that you were sure had seen better days. It looked like there was an upstairs, but it was closed off. The decorations were pretty sparse (okay there weren’t really any decorations, at least not very good ones), and quite frankly the piano instrumental playlist over the speakers was boring as hell — even for a bookstore.

“She’s not much,” Namjoon commented, watching your gaze. “But this place is my pride and joy.”

“It’s great,” you admitted. And it was, even if your overly critical eye was looking at areas that could use improvement. “Really. And you didn’t even kick out the psycho woman who came in shouting about the patriarchy. You actually managed to calm me down and honestly that’s a feat in and of itself.”

Namjoon laughed at that, looking up at your from underneath his long eyelashes with a dopey grin. Damn he was adorable.

“My business partner Seokjin, the one who left a year ago, he would have handled it better than me. He was always better with customers.”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, leaning over the counter and grinning up at him, “I think you did pretty good, Namjoon.”

It gave you quite the ego boost to see the shy smile and the heat in Namjoon’s cheeks at your words. Doesn’t exude authority my ass, you thought to yourself.

“Seokjin he was uh, he—” Namjoon cleared his throat, working to focus on his task at hand as you flirted. You decided to show him mercy and stand back up to your full height, leaning away from the counter. “He was great at customer service and the marketing side of everything. Don’t get me wrong, I like working with customers, but honestly I … I’m here for the books more than the people sometimes. I think that’s one of the reasons business has declined since he left.”

You were quiet at that, and Namjoon looked up to see you staring at a spot on the counter in what appeared to be deep thought. He cleared his throat and finished bagging your books, reading off the total. Honestly he didn’t want to charge you for the books because of the crap day you’d had, but he also needed to pay Jimin and Taehyung that month.

“Oh, right,” you said, pulling your phone out of your pocket and opening up Apple pay. As the transaction processed, you suddenly took a deep breath and looked up at Namjoon. “Did I happen to mention what kind of a company I was working for before I, you know, became a public nuisance and flipped a table in rage before quitting my job?”

“You flipped a table?” Namjoon asked incredulously.

“Not important,” you said with a wave of your hand. “But really, did I mention where I worked?”

“No, no you didn’t.”

You smiled, wide and unrestrained and Namjoon felt like you had punched him in the gut.

“I worked for Atlas Marketing.” At the name of one of the biggest companies in the city, Namjoon’s eyes almost bugged out. “As of yesterday I was the youngest and most promising marketer in our branch. But as of today,” you dragged out the word and smiled even bigger, “I am currently unemployed, with plenty of money in my savings account to work for a few months on a meager salary, and ready to start a new project … if you get what I’m saying.”

Namjoon stared at you slack-jawed. Your old boss actually had the nerve to say that you didn’t exude authority? He’d known your for maybe fifteen minutes and you’d exuded more confidence and authority than anyone he’d ever met.

And he wasn’t ashamed to say he liked it.

He really liked it.

He also was fully aware that you were exactly what Koya’s Used Books needed.

“Y/N,” he said, “how would you like a job?”

“Sweet, we’ve got a pretty girl working with us now.”

“Tae, you can’t just say things like that!”

“What! I’m showing equaility! Isn’t that what — ouch!”

#bts fanfiction #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #namjoon scenario #vmin #my writing

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