#called the blood of the exploited working class

[estavionpira]

fellas, im starting to think that the world is screaming "kiss me, son of god" but im not sure can anyone back me up on this?

[regretevator-headcanonss]

fleshcousin has an atrocious sense of rhythm, but a near-perfect pitch. they love human music and incorporate lyrics from songs they like into their speech all the time

FLESHCOUSIN LISTENS TO THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS!!!!

[woagwaowandeverythinginbetween]

I rlly like making patches 4 bands that r not traditionally punk. I made this TMBG patch 4 a friend a few months ago

[kingofdandelions]

Did i listen to that song for literal hours i strekk? Did i write the lyrics in multiple alphabets such as two ive made up, minecraft enchanting table and ender? Did I hum or whistle or sing it a lot at home?

Perchance.

[wisecura]

'Hate' Is A Strong Word

Izuku Midoriya x f!reader 5k

summary: for some reason, you've never liked Izuku Midoriya. call it bad vibes, a deep seated irritation, or just plain off-putting, you two just never connected. and even now as pro heroes you haven't uttered a single word to each other since high school. yet, you find yourself badly injured at his doorstep.

warnings: might be repetitive, gaslighting, manipulation, non-canon, dark fic, some blood, belittling, confinement, please don't read if you are sensitive to bad things happening to reader,

an: I haven't kept up with this fandom much but I still enjoy it. i've been busy with work and school. sadly, not fully proofread, but thank you for reading

You never quite took to Izuku Midoriya, even from the start. 

There was something about him. A nagging feeling that buzzed in the back of your mind whenever he was near.

He was the kind of guy everyone liked—or at least, no one dared to openly dislike. Shy, awkward, but undeniably kind, Izuku was the sort who'd go out of his way to help a stranger. Always pushing for justice, always the hero in waiting, the kind of well-rounded individual you'd expect to be universally admired. 

And yet, something about him set off alarms in your gut from the very first day you met. It was your first year in high school, you'd arrived at UA high, thrilled to be accepted into the hero course.

This is when you saw him.

He'd been introducing himself to other classmates, nothing different from the norm. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when they caught yours. The way he shyly moved over to greet you. Maybe it was the way he seemed to interrogate question you on your quirk, and from your understanding he kept tabs on everyone. It could've been the way his eyes seemed to trail you when you evaded his conversation, feeling odd at the line of questioning. You had no idea why every instinct tell you to keep your distance.

You did attempt friendship in those early years, especially when you noticed how easily he drew people in. Once all was settled in, he seemed to be a magnet, attracting the class in with his friendliness. Maybe that initial encounter had been a fluke? You thought that just maybe you were being overly dramatic—after all, Izuku was the epitome of harmlessness, always eager to lend a hand. No one else seemed to have an issue with him, even with his more...odd habits.

But despite your efforts, you just couldn't shake it off. Those creepy vibes you got. So you chalked it up to not meshing well. But you always watched from a distance, and continued your years making friends and overall enjoying the coursework.

Years passed, and both of you rose through the ranks to become pro heroes. 

Izuku, now known universally as Deku, consistently ranked in the top five—a celebrity in the world of pro heroes. Meanwhile, you held a respectable nineteenth place, not one for popularity races, and never quite as concerned with fame as you were with making tangible changes in the world. Not that he wasn't doing his part-

Deku was a household name, his exploits and acts of heroism the stuff of daily newsfeeds. The latest articles highlighted not just his achievements but his physical transformation too—he was now a striking 6’1", his features having matured into what many would consider handsome, listing out other measurements you hadn’t bothered to read about.

Yet, reading about him, seeing his photos splashed across the media, always stirred an inexplicable twist in your stomach. You had no logical reason to feel this way, yet the discomfort was undeniable. You still didn't like the dude.

Your interactions had been minimal since high school, limited to brief exchanges during professional gatherings. You weren’t friends, not really. But he was always friends of a friend with you. It was always weird to hear about him, and you tried to never ask-to never listen in when your friends talked about him.

And, now, as you scrolled through your phone, one hand pressed against your bleeding side, the irony of the situation didn't escape you.

This part of town was supposed to be safe, but here you were. Far from home and in trouble, late at night.

You needed to find somewhere to go—someone to plug this shit up. Your manager had recently updated your contacts with a list of “reliable partners” for emergencies—pretty handy timing, considering the mess you were in now. All listed with safe houses should you need it—your managers words echoing in the back of your mind: 'you'd better not be seen by anyone from the public'.

You had been on a secret mission, something big, something not everyone could handle. But your quirk was a perfect fit—or so you thought until things went south.

The leader of the crime ring turned out to be a lot tougher than the brief said, and instead of nabbing him quietly, you got roughed up pretty bad.

Glancing at your phone, the recommended safe locations popped up. And just your luck—it had to be him.

You frowned at the screen—thumb brushing down the refresh button desperately, but no other options seemed to be loading. There had to be someone else, but why wasn’t the stupid app showing anything?

Of course. Of-fucking-course. Whatever, beggars can’t be choosers, right?

Better not to bleed out on the pavement. You were sure your manager would kill you if this wound up in the newspapers.

Gritting your teeth, you pushed through the pain, straightening up as best you could. You tried to walk confidently into the lobby of a ridiculously upscale apartment building. It was way fancier than necessary, making you feel all the more out of place.

You barely reached the counter when the man behind it did a double-take. “Miss—““—I’m here to see Izuku Midoriya, please,” you cut him off before he could delve into questions you had no energy to answer.

He looked surprised for a moment, then turned his back to you to make the call. You could hear his hushed tones, and an even softer voice through the other end of the intercom. You couldn't make out what they were saying—maybe it was the blood loss affecting your concentration.

“Top floor, Miss—““—Thanks.” You turn away quickly, unable to keep a slight wobble from your steps. You hadn’t meant to be rude. You just really needed to sit down. 

You were a vision of resilience and grace as you press the elevator button, smearing the elevator door button in your own blood. The ride up feels like a century, each ding reminding you of the ticking clock against your injuries. You had time to turn back. To not face whatever was beyond the elevator doors. Did he open his home as a safe location often? What were you thinking—this was Deku—of course he did—

As the doors finally open, you're met with the minimalist, yet luxurious hallway leading to the penthouse suite—his suite.

It's been years since you've last even spoke to Izuku Midoriya, and now, under these circumstances, you're about to see him again.

Funny how fate plays its cruel games, huh?

Stepping out, you hesitate for just a moment before your survival instincts push you forward. Your fist meets the door, the knock more feeble than you intended. It's only a matter of seconds before the door swings open, revealing Izuku Midoriya in person.

He's taller, broader, and his eyes—those damn eyes—haven't changed a bit. He's definitely lost that baby face, his features much more defined, almost handsome. The sight of him makes your heart race for reasons you can't even begin to pin down before that deep voice reaches your ears.

"Shit, you look like hell," wide eyed, he blurts out. "What happened?"

You try to muster a smile, but all you manage is a grimace. "Got into a bit of trouble. Mind if I come in? Kinda bleeding out here," you quip, half-joking, but entirely serious.

He doesn't hesitate, grabbing your arm, gently but firmly, as he helps you inside. "Of course, come in. What are friends for?" he says, though you both know the term 'friends' might be a stretch, you sure as hell weren't gonna comment on it now.

Oddly enough, he doesn't press you for more details, instead guiding you to the sofa. "Let me look at that wound," he says, already moving to fetch a first aid kit and a towel. You feel somewhat guilty at your thoughts as you watch him, his movements efficient and practiced. What if you bled out onto his couch? And now that'll be the first thing on his mind when he sees it? what're you even thinking?

How often has he done this? You mind briefly flashes back to a news report you'd seen recently, of him saving a group of people from a hostage situation turned deadly. And despite your reservations about him, you can't help but feel a reluctant admiration stirring within you. That and this. He really wasn't a bad dude. Maybe a bit awkward, but who wasn't?

You raise your shirt slightly, exposing the expanse of your stomach, an audible sigh from him before his hands find their way to clean the area, surprisingly gentle.

It's a strange intimacy, one you make damn sure to ignore. In other situations you may have blushed, leading with a 'buy me drinks first' joke but you really didn't want to add to the moment.

"Do I want to ask how the other guy looks?" Izuku teases lightly, a break from his jaw tensing, a small smile playing on his lips. Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—bitter but genuine.

"Yeah, I may have gotten the short end here," you reply, meeting his gaze. There’s a warmth there that wasn’t present in your school days, a maturity that seems to fit him well. It annoys you, seeing how much he's grown into himself, into the hero everyone expected him to be. Was it jealousy? No, that couldn’t be it.

Sitting there, letting Izuku tend to your wounds, you can’t help but feel a twist in your stomach that’s not from the injury. It’s from the sheer absurdity of the situation—seeking help from someone you’ve always distrusted, yet here he is, proving to be the hero he always aimed to be. Not asking for anything in return, always helpful, always willing.

And, yes, that bugged the shit out of you. You were wrong.

"Aren't you going to ask what happened?" His eyes flick back over to you, stilling your breath. He lets out another sigh, unwrapping the bandage from his kit.

"The Gokudo Group, right?" You look away, refusing to meet his heavy gaze. He didn't seem entirely happy with the direction of the conversation—

"How do you know about that?" The question sounded silly the second it left your mouth. A top pro hero knowing about a mission so close to his residence? It'd be stranger if he hadn't heard about it. He lets out another soft chuckle, and you feel yourself blush at the way it seemed to lick up your spine.

"Let's call it a guess." As he finishes bandaging your wound, his touch lingers a moment on your side, reminding you of his closeness.

"You should rest," he suggests, his voice soft, almost nonchalant. He seems to see no issue with the idea. A man. A woman. Alone in a pent house sweet. "Stay here tonight. It's late, and you're not in any condition to go anywhere."

You want to protest, to assert your independence, but the room tilts slightly as you try to sit up straighter, his grip tightening on your waist as you let out a small painful whimper. He doesn’t seem too put off by the idea of you staying, and realistically, blood loss was indeed a bitch.

"I guess...I don't have much choice," the words tasting sour on your tongue. For a fleeting moment, Izuku's seems like he wants to say something, fighting with his inner voice, before settling on something else.

"...Of course, you're always welcome here," he assures you, his tone dripping with a sincerity that feels too thick, too heavy. He stands, pressing a button on the wall to adjust the blinds, casting the room into a dim glow. He stands illuminated in a warm glow by the lamp in the corner. Your heart continues its gymnastics, flipping in ways you can't fucking believe.

"Let me get you some water, maybe something for the pain." As he disappears into the kitchen, you try to relax against the plush cushions of his sofa, feeling much more guilty at the thoughts you'd had not even thirty minute prior. This wasn't how you imagined your evening would end, and his kindness seemed to eat away at you by the second.

Your gaze drifts around the neatly kept space, landing on small, personal touches that seem innocuously domestic. Photographs of smiling faces, trophies from his hero work, books on strategy and quirk development. It's all so…Midoriya.

When he returns, he hands you a glass of water and a pill, his smile reassuring. "This will help with the pain," he says, and you take the small tablet from him, your fingers brushing against his, the contact somewhat nerve-wracking.

"Thanks," you whisper, downing the medicine without a second thought. He watched you closely for a second, another thought on the tip of his tongue before he decides to just sit down next to you. Not close enough to warrant a side glance, but close enough that you can smell his smooth cologne, a soothing fragrance that lingers in the back of your throat. A smell that was distinct, unforgettable.

"You know," hesitating, "...I always...hoped we'd get a chance to catch up," his voice a soft murmur blending into the backdrop of the city's faint sounds filtering through the window. You would've sworn he hadn't said anything if it wasn't for your good hearing. "...I've followed your career, you know. You're doing amazing things."

His words sound like a compliment, but you can't help but think: just how closely has he been watching me? The tension in the room was so fucking awkward....

And the comment was innocent enough, so you push the feeling aside, chalking it up to paranoia. He's being nice. He's being nice.

You literally have no reason to doubt him.

Whatever. You can't shake that nag, you're fighting with yourself just to lean into the small comfort he provided, but that itch keeps coming back the more he talks. Just keep your distance, like always, and make your exit in the morning before he wakes up. Maybe send a fruit basket when you get back home as a parting 'thank you' gift.

"Yeah, well, we've both been busy, I guess," He watches you a moment, his expression unreadable before offering a gentle smile. You let out a small yawn, scooting further into the couch. Further away from his spreading legs, hoping to convey your sleepiness.

"Very busy," he agrees, as he stands to grab a blanket from a nearby closet. Thankful for the space, you breath a sigh of relief. You jump when he comes back, yet his voice is gentle, and his movements are tender, almost loving, as he drapes the blanket over you.

You notice his hands tremble slightly—a nervous energy you remember all too well from your high school days. He's nervous. And it sets you on edge even more, despite the fact that he couldn't be more welcoming to you in this moment—a pillar of comfort and support. The blanket he brought was so fuzzy and warm. Your favorite color too.

"Looks like we finally get that catch-up session, huh?" he chuckles easily. You half-expected him to retreat to his room once you were settled, but here he was, still the same Midoriya, despite looking so incredibly different. Never fully catching that hint. You manage a weary smile, feeling the weight of your eyelids, barely still able to converse.

"Yeah, it's been a while. Life as a pro hero doesn't exactly leave much free time for reunions," Izuku nods enthusiastically, sliding a bit closer to you on the sofa until you can feel the warmth radiating from his leg just inches away. You subtly scoot away, maintaining a polite distance, his eyes wide, as he enthusiastically regals your most recent mission.

"That rescue mission form last week was just spectacular, the way you dove right in, you were just perfect, and those people you saved--" He stops himself, realizing he was about to go into a whirlwind. He lets out a nervous laugh, "Sorry,"

But you give him the best smile you can muster up with the gaping wound in your side. And subtly, almost unconsciously, his leg inches even closer to yours, again. You try to dismiss it, reminding yourself of how he always a little closer with his friends—maybe this is just another subconscious thing he did?

"Thanks, Midoriya. You’ve not done too badly yourself," you reply, trying to lighten the mood with a bit of humor. "Top five, right? I always knew you’d shoot up."

He absorbs your compliment, his face lighting up from the small bit of praise you've given him. His gaze narrows in, almost studying you, as if he’s trying to memorize your every expression.

When he speaks again, there's a hint of shyness in his voice, a subtle clinginess that feels slightly misplaced. "You know, I always thought maybe we’d end up working together, you know? Side by side." His voice dips a bit at the end, his eyes are earnest, almost pleading, as they search yours for a reaction.

"That’s...a....nice thought," deliberately avoiding his gaze, though the idea of being this close to him in any capacity would be too much, too soon.

Izuku’s expression momentarily falters, resembling a dejected puppy, and he quickly tries to mask his disappointment, shifting his demeanor to regain some of his earlier lightness. “But hey, we’re here now, right? Maybe it’s fate or something,” he jokes weakly, forcing another lighthearted laugh.

The word 'fate' hangs between you, heavy and foreboding. “Maybe,” you echo, not quite sharing in his forced cheer. The conversation pauses, leaving you acutely aware of the rapid beating of your own heart in the silence that follows.

"Yeah–heh–it’s been quite the journey," he admits, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "But....enough about me. Tell me about you. How have things been...really?"

You shift under the blanket, feeling a bit unnerved by his continued presence. Why didn't he just go to bed? You hadn't even talked much about him in the first place. Was he fishing for something?

"Busy, eventful, and endlessly tiring," you answer truthfully, hoping your frankness might send a subtle hint, topping it off with another yawn.

He nods, mouth quirking up in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "I can imagine. It must be hard, always being on the move—never able to find time for yourself, never able to catch up. Always the playing the 'hero'."

The way he says 'hero'—with a trace of something like displeasure—makes you pause, almost surprised. "...Well, someone's gotta do it, right?"

"Right, right," Izuku agrees, though his voice trails off, leaving a lingering question in the air. He seems to gather his thoughts, his eyes meeting yours.

"You know, I've always wondered..." his tone shifts slightly, becoming more contemplative, "why we never got along better. I mean, we were always in the same circles, kind of."

You feel a slight tightening in your chest as the topic veers dangerously close to the unease you've always felt around him. "Yeah, I guess we just had different…interests," you hedge, trying to keep the conversation light and steer away from deeper waters that you’d prefer not to navigate.

How exactly could you explain to him that you found him incredibly fucking creepy until now? And even now.....

Izuku's response is slow, thoughtful. "Maybe,"

He concedes, his tone reflecting a tinge of dissatisfaction, voice more probing and less subtle than you've ever heard it before. "But I've always respected you, you know? Always thought highly of your abilities."

"Thanks, Midoriya. That means a lot," you reply, not sure how to respond, not used to the praises from someone like him.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is... I've always wanted to be...closer. To understand you better. I felt like we never really got the chance."

His words hang in the air, and you're hit by the raw honesty in his voice—an honesty that's bordering on confrontation or confession—you aren't sure. You scramble for a diplomatic response, your mind racing. You didn't want to upset him here, but you sure as hell weren't looking to become best buds.

"Midoriya, it’s not that we didn't get a chance. We just...didn’t.....vibe that way. It happens."

"But why?" His frustration is more evident this time, his voice tense, losing that more playful tone. "I’ve seen how you are with others—laughing, sharing. I just don't get why I never got that side of you."

"It’s nothing personal, Midoriya. I’ve always been more introverted....Maybe our timing was just....off or something."

But he just can't seem to let this go. He's always liked you, but you've always seemed to avoid him. He's never been able to figure it out.

"...I mean, it's not like I haven't tried, right?" he starts again, his tone becoming harsher, a drastic shift from his usual soft charisma. His fingers tap rhythmically against his knee, a clear sign of his restlessness. "I always asked about you, you know. Whenever I ran into someone who knew you, I made sure to find out how you were doing." The revelation sends a chill down your spine.

This could have been sweet—checking in on a friend—but his words sound creepier, like he was stalking you or something, and his intense gaze makes you recoil slightly.

"I just...I've always liked you. A lot, actually," he continues, his tone bordering on accusatory. "And I don't think you ever noticed. Or maybe you did and just didn't care."

"That’s…that's a lot to take in," you respond cautiously, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Yeah, well, it's been a lot for me too, watching from the sidelines. Always the hero everyone loves, except for the one person I actually wanted to impress," his voice rising slightly with frustration.

He continues rambling, each sentence more unsettling than the last. "I've kept tabs on you. I know it might sound weird, but I had to know. I thought if I knew more about what you liked, what you did, maybe I could find a way to be part of that." His confession sends a cold shiver down your spine.

"Isn't that just ridiculous?" he laughs, the sound hollow—bitter, filling the increasingly claustrophobic room. His eyes become distant and slightly frantic. He couldn’t stop himself.

"Midoriya, I think you’re reading too much into this—” you start, trying to defuse the tension, but he cuts you off. "No, I don't think so. I think you've always known how I felt. And you used it against me. Kept me at arm's length on purpose," he accuses, his voice turning harsh.

Witnessing Izuku transform from the awkward, 'lovable' hero you once knew into this intense, confirmed everything that nagged in the back of your head before. An anger issue? Ego problems?

"Everyone else always sees the best in me. Why couldn’t you? What made you so different?" he demands, his voice laden with a toxic mix of longing and bitterness. Finding yourself speechless, the situation spirals beyond your control. "Midoriya, please, this isn’t healthy. We should—”

"Healthy?" scoffing. "What do you know about healthy? You've barely even looked at me all these years. And now, you show up only when you need something? That's a bit contradictory, don't you think?"

The realization that you are alone with him, caught in this escalating situation, keeps you mind spiraling into a semi state of panic. Your sense heighted—fight or flight.

"You know, it's always been more than just platonic for me," his gaze cutting through the dimly lit room, locking onto you with an unsettling earnestness. He too close, too close, "I've cared about you in ways I probably shouldn't have. And I've waited...waited for you to see that."

"Midoriya, maybe we can talk about this tomorrow? It's been a long day, and I really think I should head home and rest," you suggest, reaching for your phone to call an Uber.

"You said you'd stay the night," he reminds you, snatching the phone quickly from your hands. "Are you really going to go back on your word now? After I've opened my home to you, treated your wounds?"

Caught off guard by his overt pushiness and blatant aggression, you stammer, "Hey—Midoriya, I didn't mean—"

"No, you never mean to, do you?" he cuts in, his tone increasingly harsh. "You come here, into my home, ask for my help, reject my friendship—once again, and now you want to leave just like that? It’s always the same with you. You take what you need and then you're gone."

"That's not fair, Midoriya. I appreciate everything you've done tonight, but I'm really not feeling well, and this conversation is a lot to process," you explain, trying to maintain your composure under his scrutinizing gaze.

Izuku's tone shifts, blending accusation with a hint of hurt, his face morphing into that lovable sad expression he wore on occasion. Much like a kicked puppy. "That isn't right. I thought you were a good person. I'm just trying to understand your problem with me. What's wrong with that?"

You take a deep breath, trying to center yourself amidst the emotional whirlwind he's creating. "Midoriya, trying to understand each other isn't the problem," you begin cautiously, "but the way you're going about it—it's overwhelming. It feels like you're not just asking for understanding—you're demanding a specific response from me, one that I'm not prepared to give."

His brow furrows, and his stance becomes defensive. "So, you're saying I'm overwhelming you? I'm some evil guy? Me? A top pro hero? After all these years of keeping my distance, the moment I try to be honest about my feelings, I'm suddenly too much?"

"No, that's not what I mean, Midoriya—please—"

Izuku’s question slices through the tense air, unexpected and jarring. “Do you have a boyfriend?” His tone holds an edge of possessiveness that makes you uneasy. The query, seemingly out of nowhere, is clearly aimed at gauging your 'availability'—challenging it.

“No, but that’s not the point,” but Izuku scoots in closer, his larger frame hovering over your laid back one. Yes, he was much bigger than he was in high school. And yes his broad shoulders stood out 3 inches past your own. You couldn't stop your panicked breathing, the situation too unbelievable.

As Izuku inches closer, his large frame overshadows you, physically cornering you against the back of the sofa. The space feels oppressively small, his presence suffocating. His voice carries a chilling mix of sweetness and venom that you've never heard before, unsettlingly different from the hero you thought you knew.

“So, let’s get this straight....again.,” you avoid his gaze, near impossible from how close he is, “You’ve never had time for me, always brushed off my attempts to be close, and now here you are, in my home, accepting my help after all these years. And you think you can just leave after that, like nothing happened?”

You feel a bit embarrassed when he puts it like that.

“Izuku, I just came here because I needed help, I never meant to—”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it? You needed help, and I was convenient for you,” he cuts you off, his voice soft but laced with a sharp edge. “Isn’t it funny how after all these years of avoiding me, suddenly I’m the one you run to when you’re vulnerable? Does that seem fair to you?”

“I’ve always cared about you, more than you know,” his voice lowering to a whisper. “I’ve watched you from afar, always hoping you’d look back. But you didn’t. And now here you are, finally seeing me, but only because you need something. Don’t you owe it to me to stay? After everything?”

His question hangs heavily in the air, charged with expectations you never consented to. Flustered and trying to maintain some sense of normalcy, you start to respond. “I-I’m sorry, Midoriya—”“—Izuku. Please, after all this time, don't you think you could call me by my first name? It’s like you’re still trying to keep me at arm’s length, even now,” The hurt very clear in his voice.

As you struggle to find the right words, trying to navigate the complex emotional minefield he specifically laid out, his next action catches you completely off guard. Without waiting for your consent, he suddenly shoots up, his arms scooping you up in a princess-style carry, far too easily, but expected from a bulky pro hero. The suddenness leaves you flabbergasted and flushing bright red.

"I-Izuku," you stammer, your voice tinged with shock and a hint of protest. "Ah, much better," he responds with a pleased smile. The smile he gives you is something else—wide and triumphant, as he carries you to another room.

The large room he brings you into is softly lit, the bed neatly made. You noticed a vanity on the side wall, feminine products lining the small shelf—eerily similar to the products you have in your cabinet at home. The room was set to your exact style, items you had at home—in your online wish list—were all here.

He sets you down gently on the bed, and the reality of the situation sinks in deeper. He observes you for a moment, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as if amused by your discomfort. As if he's observing a cute puppy, learning to walk on its own.

"Time for bed. I'll be back tomorrow." He turns to leave, and you reach out for him. "Izuku, wait—" voice laden with a plea for some semblance of normalcy—some answer to the questions you refused to voice, the room you were actively refusing to acknowledge.

"What's wrong?" he interjects with a grin, his tone cooing, demeaning, belittling. "You’re not going to ask me to tuck you in or stay the night, are you?" You could hear the underlying challenge. The jest sent to provoke something from you. "No, that’s not—I just think we need to talk about tonight," You're voice stead, yet you're on the brink of tears, the fear creeping up the back of your neck. A pro hero, a pro hero, he's a pro hero—

Izuku's face hardens at your words, his posture stiffening as he sits on the edge of the bed. "Talk? We’ve been talking all night. You said you wanted rest right?" he retorts defensively. "You’re safe here, aren’t you? I’m taking care of you, after all. What’s there to complain about?"

You know something isn’t right, but his aggressive pushback and the veiled mockery in his tone make you second-guess your instincts to speak up.

"Yeah, I...Thank you...Izuku," you find yourself saying, the words heavy on your tongue. The unease churns in your stomach, but the mean look in his eyes silences the protests forming in your mind. You lie back on the bed, covering yourself quickly, still in your street attire.

Izuku nods, seemingly satisfied with your subdued response. "See? That’s better. Just relax, I’ve got everything under control," he says, his tone soothing yet laced with a possessiveness that doesn’t escape you.

As he turns off the light and exits the room, leaving you in the dim glow of the nightlight, you're left to grapple with the unsettling blend of guilt and apprehension, too nervous now to challenge the dynamic he’s forcefully set.

Would you be allowed to leave tomorrow?

come home

[sorrelpaws]

i built a little empire out of some crazy garbage called the blood of the exploited working class

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Housing is a labor issue

There's a reason Reagan declared war on unions before he declared war on everything else – environmental protection, health care, consumer rights, financial regulation. Unions are how working people fight for a better world for all of us. They're how everyday people come together to resist oligarchy, extraction and exploitation.

Take the 2019 LA teachers' strike. As Jane McAlevey writes in A Collective Bargain, the LA teachers didn't just win higher pay for their members! They also demanded (and got) an end to immigration sweeps of parents waiting for their kids at the school gate; a guarantee of green space near every public school in the city; and on-site immigration counselors in LA schools:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

Unionization is enjoying an historic renaissance. The Hot Labor Summer transitioned to an Eternal Labor September, and it's still going strong, with UAW president Shawn Fain celebrating his members victory over the Big Three automakers by calling for a 2028 general strike:

https://www.teenvogue.com/story/uaw-general-strike-no-class

The rising labor movement has powerful allies in the Biden Administration. NLRB general counsel Jennifer Abruzzo is systematically gutting the "union avoidance" playbook. She's banned the use of temp-work app blacklists that force workers to cross picket lines:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/30/computer-says-scab/#instawork

She's changed the penalty for bosses who violate labor law during union drives. It used to be the boss would pay a fine, which was an easy price to pay in exchange for killing your workers' union. Now, the penalty is automatic recognition of the union:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

And while the law doesn't allow Abruzzo to impose a contract on companies that refuse to bargain their unions, she's set to force those companies to honor other employers' union contracts until they agree to a contract with their own workers:

https://onlabor.org/gc-abruzzo-just-asked-the-nlrb-to-overturn-ex-cell-o-heres-why-that-matters/

She's also nuking TRAPs, the deals that force workers to repay their employers for their "training expenses" if they have the audacity to quit and get a better job somewhere else:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/14/prop-22-never-again/#norms-code-laws-markets

(As with every aspect of the Biden White House, its labor policy is contradictory and self-defeating, with other Biden appointees working to smash worker power, including when Biden broke the railworkers' strike:)

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/18/co-determination/#now-make-me-do-it

A surging labor movement opens up all kinds of possibilities for a better world. Writing for the Law and Political Economy Project, UNITE Here attorney Zoe Tucker makes the case for unions as a way out of America's brutal housing crisis:

https://lpeproject.org/blog/why-unions-should-join-the-housing-fight/

She describes how low-waged LA hotel workers have been pushed out of neighborhoods close to their jobs, with UNITE Here members commuting three hours in each direction, starting their work-days at 3AM in order to clock in on time:

https://twitter.com/MorePerfectUS/status/1669088899769987079

UNITE Here members are striking against 50 hotels in LA and Orange County, and their demands include significant cost-of-living raises. But more money won't give them back the time they give up to those bruising daily commutes. For that, unions need to make housing itself a demand.

As Tucker writes, most workers are tenants and vice-versa. What's more, bad landlords are apt to be bad bosses, too. Stepan Kazaryan, the same guy who owns the strip club whose conditions were so bad that it prompted the creation of Equity Strippers NoHo, the first strippers' union in a generation, is also a shitty landlord whose tenants went on a rent-strike:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/20/the-missing-links/#plunderphonics

So it was only natural that Kazaryan's tenants walked the picket line with the Equity Stripper Noho workers:

https://twitter.com/glendaletenants/status/1733290276599570736?s=46

While scumbag bosses/evil landlords like Kazaryan deal out misery retail, one apartment building at a time, the wholesale destruction of workers' lives comes from private equity giants who are the most prolific source of TRAPs, robo-scabbing apps, illegal union busting, and indefinite contract delays – and these are the very same PE firms that are buying up millions of single-family homes and turning them into slums:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/08/wall-street-landlords/#the-new-slumlords

Tucker's point is that when a worker clocks out of their bad job, commutes home for three hours, and gets back to their black-mold-saturated, overpriced apartment to find a notice of a new junk fee (like a surcharge for paying your rent in cash, by check, or by direct payment), they're fighting the very same corporations.

Unions who defend their workers' right to shelter do every tenant a service. A coalition of LA unions succeeded in passing Measure ULA, which uses a surcharge on real estate transactions over $5m to fund "the largest municipal housing program in the country":

https://unitedtohousela.com/app/uploads/2022/05/LA_City_Affordable_Housing_Petition_H.pdf

LA unions are fighting for rules to limit Airbnbs and other platforms that transform the city's rental stock into illegal, unlicensed hotels:

https://upgo.lab.mcgill.ca/publication/strs-in-los-angeles-2022/Wachsmuth_LA_2022.pdf

And the hotel workers organized under UNITE Here are fighting their own employers: the hoteliers who are aggressively buying up residences, evicting their long-term tenants, tearing down the building and putting up a luxury hotel. They got LA council to pass a law requiring hotels to build new housing to replace any residences they displace:

https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2023-11-28/airbnb-operators-would-need-police-permit-in-l-a-under-proposed-law

UNITE Here is bargaining for a per-room hotel surcharge to fund housing specifically for hotel workers, so the people who change the sheets and clean the toilets don't have to waste six hours a day commuting to do so.

Labor unions and tenant unions have a long history of collaboration in the USA. NYC's first housing coop was midwifed by the Amalgamated Clothing Workers of America in 1927. The Penn South coop was created by the International Ladies Garment Workers’ Union. The 1949 Federal Housing Act passed after American unions pushed hard for it:

http://www.peterdreier.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/Labors-Love-Lost.pdf

It goes both ways. Strong unions can create sound housing – and precarious housing makes unions weaker. Remember during the Hollywood writers' strike, when an anonymous studio ghoul told the press the plans was to "allow things to drag on until union members start losing their apartments and losing their houses?"

Vienna has the most successful housing in any major city in the world. It's the city where people of every income and background live in comfort without being rent-burdened and without worry about eviction, mold, or leaks. That's the legacy of Red Vienna, the Austrian period of Social Democratic Workers' Party rule and built vast tracts of high-quality public housing. The system was so robust that it rebounded after World War II and continues to this day:

https://www.politico.eu/article/vienna-social-housing-architecture-austria-stigma/

Today, the rest of the world is mired in a terrible housing crisis. It's not merely that the rent's too damned high (though it is) – housing precarity is driving dangerous political instability:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/06/the-rents-too-damned-high/

Turning the human necessity of shelter into a market commodity is a failure. The economic orthodoxy that insists that public housing, rent control, and high-density zoning will lead to less housing has failed. rent control works:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/16/mortgages-are-rent-control/#housing-is-a-human-right-not-an-asset

Leaving housing to the market only produces losers. If you have the bad luck to invest everything you have into a home in a city that contracts, you're wiped out. If you have the bad luck into invest everything into a home in a "superstar city" where prices go up, you also lose, because your city becomes uninhabitable and your children can't afford to live there:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/27/lethal-dysfunction/#yimby

A strong labor movement is the best chance we have for breaking the housing deadlock. And housing is just for starters. Labor is the key to opening every frozen-in-place dysfunction. Take care work: the aging, increasingly chronically ill American population is being tortured and murdered by private equity hospices, long-term care facilities and health services that have been rolled up by the same private equity firms that destroyed work and housing:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/26/death-panels/#what-the-heck-is-going-on-with-CMS

In her interview with Capital & Main's Jessica Goodheart, National Domestic Workers Alliance president Ai-jen Poo describes how making things better for care workers will make things better for everyone:

https://prospect.org/labor/2023-12-13-labor-leader-ai-jen-poo-interview/

Care work is a "triple dignity investment": first, it makes life better for the worker (most often a woman of color), then, it allows family members of people who need care to move into higher paid work; and of course, it makes life better for people who need care: "It delivers human potential and agency. It delivers a future workforce. It delivers quality of life."

The failure to fund care work is a massive driver of inequality. America's sole federal public provision for care is Medicaid, which only kicks in after a family it totally impoverished. Funding care with tax increases polls high with both Democrats and Republicans, making it good politics:

https://www.dataforprogress.org/blog/2021/4/7/voters-support-investing-in-the-care-economy

Congress stripped many of the care provisions from Build Back Better, missing a chance for an "unprecedented, transformational investment in care." But the administrative agencies picked up where Congress failed, following a detailed executive order that identifies existing, previously unused powers to improve care in America. The EO "expands access to care, supports family caregivers and improves wages and conditions for the workforce":

https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/presidential-actions/2023/04/18/executive-order-on-increasing-access-to-high-quality-care-and-supporting-caregivers/

States are also filling the void. Washington just created a long-term care benefit:

https://apnews.com/article/washington-long-term-care-tax-disability-cb54b04b025223dbdba7199db1d254e4

New Mexicans passed a ballot initiative that establishes permanent funding for child care:

https://www.cwla.org/new-mexico-votes-for-child-care/

New York care workers won a $3/hour across the board raise:

https://inequality.org/great-divide/new-york-budget-fair-pay-home-care/

The fight is being led by women of color, and they're kicking ass – and they're doing it through their unions. Worker power is the foundation that we build a better world upon, and it's surging.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/13/i-want-a-roof-over-my-head/#and-bread-on-the-table

[crossfalconx5]

—————————————— ”I built a little empire out of some crazy garbage, called the blood of the exploited working class-.”

Yeah sorry, your boyfriend destroyed the bond of friendship and respect between the only people left who’d even look him in the eye. Yeah, now he’s laughing and making a fortune off the same ones that he tortured. Sorry.

[old-fandom]

HELLO! I HAVE AN ESTABLISHED TEEN STANCEST IDEA!

Idk what I would call this but basically, it's "Ford is part of a DD&MD group with a bunch of other asshole losers who basically use Ford for his basement and Stan is the stupid but hot twin brother that the guys all talk made shit about both sexually and bullying wise. Ford is pissed about it."

Basically, Ford is invited into a group at high school with a bunch of other outcast losers who decide to let Ford join because he has a basement they can use to play. They used the play at another guys house but their mom kicked them out after they broke one of her coffee tables wrestling over a dice roll. Ford, for the first time, finally has a group of guys that he could call his friends. These "friends" are assholes. They're comic book snobs and misogynistic white knights and anti-deodorant wearing teenager boys. Think incel but less "I want to kill women" and more "I am smarter than everyone here due to my impressive and ultra rare card binder and everyone else is a poser if you don't know this trivia fact!" But none the less, Ford is accepted into the fold. He's able to actually play the game, or at least, be DM, which he doesn't mind! In fact, he likes being in charge. He's still a little shy but he's slowly cracking out of his shell, being less cagey and more open with jabbing back at the others taunts and even being able to continue the flow of conversation effortlessly. He's able to be nerdly aggressive where his threats, his taunts, his nerdy accomplishments that aren't academic are recognized and envied over. It kind of works for the group and Ford is happy.

Except for one thing.

They all have a thing for Stanley.

And Ford hates that they have a thing for Stanley.

Stanley is perfectly happy with Ford having a friend group, especially one that lets him nerd out to the max. He usually doesn't bother them when they're over, either because he doesn't want to be around that much nerdiness or because the smell shuns him away. But this doesn't mean he hasn't gone down there before.

The first time he went down there, it was to tell Ford that Ma wanted him to take a look at the telephone before he went to bed. She thinks one of the wires is loose again and he might need to fix it. Ford says he will and Stan leaves. That's when the comments start up.

They start jaunting about his wit, asking Ford what it's like to have a dumb jock for a brother. Ford defends Stan, saying he's more than just a dumb jock. In fact, he's not really a jock at all, he just likes boxing. But it doesn't stop the conversation. They start sharing stories about Stans exploits around school, whether it be one of his infamous fights with the Cramplter gang or him being so atrociously stupid in class that the teacher walked out. It finally breaks off once someone rolls a Nat 20 and the campaign continues.

But it doesn't stop completely.

Every time Stanly comes down for something, either to tell Ford something, bring the group snacks that their Ma made for them (swiping one for himself), grabbing something for his Pa to sell, or really anything, the group always starts talking about Stanley. And it makes Ford blood boil. He'll defend him alright, and he'll make their campaign a fucking nightmare for everything they've said, but he's scared to really do something. This is the first friend group he's ever had and he doesn't wanna lose it, even though something in him tells him that he'd be better off without them talking shit about Stanley every time he comes down.

Then the faithful day happens when Stan comes down after a shower, no shirt on, hair wet, wearing a part of dolphin shorts as it's the middle of summer. He's down there grabbing a drink from Ford's DD&MD group snack tray. They took the last of the Pit Cola and he'd be damned if he didn't get one. So he does and leaves without really saying anything, unaware of the eyes staring at him all the way.

Ford braces himself for the onslaught of his brother but nothing. The group continues the game like nothing happened. And Ford is excited because maybe they've finally gotten it together, seen that Stan really isn't just those things, he is so much more. He's kind hearted and compassionate, he's artistic and business smart, he's hands on and crafty, he's strong and hunky and good looking and so so sexy and - Ford has to shake his head. Now is not the time to get a boner.

Ford's Ma calls him in the middle of the game for something and he has to leave them for a second. When he comes back and over hears the group talking about Stan but it's not about how stupid he looks - it's about how slutty he is. He stops on the stairs and listens in.

He hears them make incredibly inappropriate remarks about his brother, about what he must look like on his knees, wishing that they put the drinks on the ground so he would have to bend all the way over in those shorts to get it, that if it weren't for his body, he'd be a waste of air. They joke about having sex with them, calling him slurs, doing things to him that Ford knows first hand Stan does not like to do. They talk about his chub, how they mock him for being fat, but hey, at least he has nice tits. They go on and on about it, unaware of the simmering Ford up the stairs. After hearing enough, Ford finally comes down, making them all unaware that he had been listening in on them for 10 minutes.

That session becomes the hardest, most brutal session, where Ford successfully kills all of their characters off. The guys get pissed at Ford, saying he did that shit on purpose, and Ford answers back that they're lucky it was only their characters he killed off and not the real people behind them, especially after those comments. They get into a fight, the guys saying that Ford shouldn't be wasting his time defending a stupid whore like Stanley, he'd only leave and hold back Ford. Ford finally snaps when one the guys mentions how easy it would be to get with Stanley, no matter what.

Ford ends up fist fighting the guys, beating the shit out of each other, breaking and ruining their game, destroying their papers and character sheets and models. His Pa ends up coming down stairs after hearing the commotion and kicks the guys out, telling them they aren't welcome back until they can pay for the broken table. They scramble and Ford is given a talking to about picking better people to hangout with and to clean up the mess.

Ford goes down stairs to find Stan already down there, going over the mess, still in his shorts and no shirt. Ford, still high on adrenaline, runs smack dab into Stanley, pushing him up against the wall and making out with him. Stan has no idea what spurred him on though he does have an inkling. He pushes Ford back just enough to ask him about the fight, seeing how Ford does have bruises on his knuckles.

Ford tells him it wasn't important, that they weren't all that much fun anyway, he'd rather spend his time with Stanley anyway. Stanley doesn't protest too much, and they end up having sex in the basement before cleaning up the mess.

Later that night, Ford does properly take Stan to bed, making love to him and showering him in praise and acceptance. Stan lets him.

He knew going down their in those shorts would cause a stir, he just didn't know it would go so far into his favor.

[the-aftonsparv]

do you like my little empire :] yeah!! i built it out of some crazy garbage lol. it’s called “the blood of the exploited working class” or something? i dunno. wait- why are you screaming?

[dairyfaerie]

Taming of the Shrewd

Starring!!: Rich Heir! Satoru Gojo × Black Cowgirl! Reader (Slow-burn, enemies to lovers)

Warnings!!:16 and UP!! I'll add '🔞🌶️🔥' FOR SMUT CHAPTER SO MDNI!!!! This story will contain mature and explicit content that will possibly be: Graphic smut (oral, vaginal, and rough sex), Mutual masturbation, fingering, dry humping, Intense enemies-to-lovers tension, Power struggles and possessiveness, Sexual tension in hostile situations, Race- and class-based microaggressions and trauma, Discussions of systemic racism, sexism, and exploitation (e.g., Wild West-style sharecropping), Foul language (BUT NEVER SLURS GUYS NEVER!!!!), violence, drinking, Dubious morals, consensual intimacy, Consent emphasized in all sexual acts, happy ending after a lot of tension and drama (cus we deserve it damn it)

ACT I

Part 1: Blood n Water

The dawn was still a soft whisper of light when you were already up, working. The air was cool, and crisp with fresh earth and the faintest hint of dew. The sky stretched out in hues of purple and orange, a reminder that the world was just beginning to stir and awaken. You could hear the hum of life on the ranch—hooves stamping on the dirt, the low rumble of cattle, and the occasional sharp whistle of your father calling out orders.

"Get that feed to the west pasture, will ya, girl?" Your daddy’s voice was a steady presence like the sun rising each day. He always had something for you to do, and you didn’t mind. The work had been your life as long as you could remember, and you loved every minute of it.

Your mama, as always, was bustling in the kitchen, the familiar sounds of her humming while stirring something in the cast-iron pot bringing a sense of comfort you couldn’t quite put into words. She was a strong woman—worn from the years but never weakened by them. She worked beside your father, never asking for help, always getting things done with a smile.

"Come on, now, sweet pea," your mama called to you as you finished putting the hay down for the horses. "I’ve got a basket ready for you and your daddy for when y’all leave."

You jogged toward the porch, the smell of fresh cornbread, fried chicken, and seasoned greens wafting from inside. You could already feel your stomach rumbling, and the thought of that warm meal made the early hours of work worthwhile. You weren’t a stranger to long days, but this was a small reward.

“Don’t forget your hat,” she added, handing it to you as you came to the door.

You took it and slipped it on, adjusting the brim to shield your face from the sun. “Thanks, Mama.”

Your daddy appeared from around the corner of the barn, brushing his hands together, wiping off the dirt from his work. He took the basket from your mama with a quick nod, his expression serious.

“Got word from town,” he said, a little edge in his voice that made you pause. “The big folks called for me. Said they got some matters to discuss.”

Your brow furrowed. You hadn’t heard anything about that. The 'big folks'—the so-called important people in the area—rarely came calling, and when they did, it was usually for something you didn’t want to be involved in. You knew your daddy didn’t like dealing with them, but sometimes there wasn’t a choice. They controlled things in ways that didn’t sit right, but it was hard to make a living out here without their attention.

You watched as your father set the basket aside, rolling his shoulders before looking back at you. “Listen here, girl. I need you to be on your best behavior. Don’t go stirrin’ no trouble with these folks. They ain’t like us—they don’t respect what we do here.” He paused, his voice dropping lower. “You know what I mean.”

You nodded. You understood. Your daddy had always been clear about the boundaries with the people who thought they owned the land, with their fancy hats and their fancy talk. People like that never understood the hard work it took to keep this place running. They looked at you like you were just a thing—a lesser thing—and your daddy never wanted you caught up in their games.

“And if they give you trouble,” he continued, “don’t engage. Just stay in the cart until I get done talking. Keep your head down and your mouth closed… You hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” you replied, swallowing the lump in your throat. You weren’t afraid of those people, but you knew that your father’s rules weren’t just about making you a good daughter. They were about protecting you from a world that didn’t know how to value you.

With one last glance at the ranch, your father clapped you on the shoulder, a brief moment of pride in his eyes. “You’re strong, girl. Don’t forget that.”

You gave him a quick nod, trying to hide the bubbling anxiety in your chest. You weren’t afraid of those people, but you knew better than to make a scene.

By the time you arrived in town, the sun was higher in the sky, scorching the earth beneath. The road was long and dusty, and your father’s old wagon creaked under the weight of both your bodies and the goods you brought with you. Your mama’s cornbread and fried chicken smelled as good as they always did, and it felt like home, but the moment you entered the town’s limits, you could feel it—the stares, the murmurs behind backs, the whispers of disapproval. You were never fully welcome here, not because you were a woman, but because of your 'background'.

You were black. And in a town like this, that came with all the labels, all the judgment, that people couldn't seem to shake. They made their opinions known by the way they looked at you, the way they made space for your presence but never quite welcomed it. You hated it, but you knew better than to make a scene.

Your father gave you one final look before he walked into the town hall, a place that smelled of cigar smoke and oil—a place that didn’t know the first thing about true labor.

"Stay in the back, girl. You know the drill."

Did you listen? No. You watched him disappear into the building, then made your way to the edge of the town square a little ways away, looking for a place to wait. It was hot, the air sticky and thick, and you found yourself leaning against a post near the saloon, wishing for a cooler breeze.

And that’s when it happened.

A group of rowdy men stumbled out of the saloon, drunk off their minds, laughing too loud and too cruel. They didn’t see you right away, but when they did you could feel their eyes roving over you as they got closer. You straightened up, the familiar feeling of unwanted attention creeping up your spine.

One of them, a man with a dirty, unshaven face, staggered forward. "Well, well," he slurred, giving you a once-over. “What we got here? A pretty, dark angel walkin’ ‘round town, all fine like that… Where's yer husband?”

The others laughed, their voices getting louder, more vulgar. Another man, with his shirt hanging out and his belt barely holding up his pants, grinned. "She ain’t no angel—she’s more like a wild beast, ain't she? Bet she's got that fire down there," he chuckled, winking in your direction. You scowled in disgust, tipping your hat to hide your face as the heat of anger began to rise in your chest. The words were crude, the tone dripping with disgust, but you’d heard it all before. The men surrounded you, crowding you in like cattle ready for slaughter.

"Think you can handle us, little missy?" The first man, now leering at you, came closer, his breath stinking of cheap whiskey. "You ain't too tough, are you? Too pretty to be out here, in the dirt and dust like this."

His hand shot out toward you, reaching for your arm. You jolted and tried to move away but the cretin pulled you closer to him, his hot breath fanning over you. "How about I take ya home and show you what it's like to be handled by a REAL man…It's the closest thing to heaven a monkey like you will ever get to experience, hehe.."

That was it.

You pivoted on your heel, slapping his hand away before sending your fist into his jaw with a satisfying crack. He stumbled back, cursing under his breath as the others laughed, thinking it was some kind of joke.

“Damn, you are a savage, huh?” one of them spat, and before you knew it, another drunken fool lunged forward, swinging a lazy punch.

You blocked it easily, your feet steady as you delivered a quick jab to his gut, knocking the wind out of him. The man grunted in surprise, but you weren’t done.

“Try touching me again and I'll shove my foot so far up your arse your eyes will pop out like posies,” you snarled, stepping forward as they began to regroup. “I don’t give a damn about what you think of me, but I’ll make you regret living! ”

Just then, a sharp whistle rang through the air, catching everyone’s attention. The group of men turned their heads, and you did too, only to find a man standing there—dressed in a white suit, pristine and clearly out of place. His hair was white, and his posture screamed arrogance. Golden spangles, a white cowboy hat with a matching gold belt. Ugh, a prissy rich boy.

You narrowed your eyes, taking in the sight of him as he clapped his hands together with a mocking chuckle. “Well, well. Looks like I showed up just in time.”

His voice was smooth, dripping with superiority. “Such fine company, all gathered ‘round. I had no idea the Wild West was this… entertaining.”

The men backed off, giving him space. They seemed almost… intimidated. But you didn’t care about him, not yet. Your focus was still on the idiot who’d tried to grab you. But he didn't glance in your direction just yet. Instead, he pushed his hat up and lifted his head ever so slightly.. revealing the most startingly, beautiful eyes you had ever seen in your life. The same sight you were seeing seemed to scare the drunkards so badly that they took off, kicking up dust and dirt. You didn't know why but it somehow felt like your white-clad savior was less of a savior and more of an asshole, especially with the smirk lodged on his face. You scowled and folded your arms under your chest. "And What do you want, Mister?"

He grinned wider, unfazed by your sassy attitude. “Nothing, nothing at all. I was just…enjoying the show…Is that a problem, Ms. Cowgirl?” He tilted his head, eyes scanning you up and down with that insufferable smirk still plastered across his face. "Or should I say… Ms. Savage-?"

You didn’t hesitate, your patience was gone from the moments before. Your fist flew at his face before he could finish speaking, the impact knocking the smirk right off his (pretty, pink) lips.

He staggered back, eyes wide, and for a brief moment, you thought you saw something like surprise flicker across his expression, but then he composed himself.

“Hell of a punch, cowgirl,” he said, rubbing his chin and chuckling softly, though the warm sound didn't reach his ethereal, piercing blue eyes. “I like that. But you’re gonna regret it, trust me.” He took a step towards you and your body tensed.

The sound of the saloon door creaking open cut through the tension, and there he was—your daddy, stepping out into the sun, his face serious as he walked toward the group of men who had been watching you with growing apprehension.

Behind him, a few other men appeared, the ones you had seen in town, the ones your daddy had warned you about. The big names. And standing at the forefront, next to them, was another man in a white suit like the boy in front of you… Only this man looked much older, wiser…Colder. His confident stance made it clear that he wasn’t just some fool passing through as he calmly walked beside your father and glowered at you and the boy. A chill went down your spine and for the first time in your life, you felt something akin to true dread build in your body. Why? Because you saw the emblem on his belt buckle and it read , in plain English might I add, 'GOJO'.

Your eyes widened in realization. The boy who’d called you a savage—he wasn’t just any rich boy. He was Satoru Gojo, the son of the richest family in the west. The most powerful family in all of this dusty land. You should've immediately realized who he was by his white hair and blue eyes! Only one family has such traits…

And you had just punched the living daylights out of him. Good job.<3

Your daddy’s hand on your shoulder tightened slightly, but his face was unreadable, the calm before the storm. The others in the crowd, those that had witnessed your exchange with Gojo, seemed to back off, sensing the shift in tension. The rowdy group had lost their audience, and with that, they began to meander away toward the saloon, muttering amongst themselves.

Gojo, however, didn’t move at first. He was still standing there with that damnable smirk on his face, his eyes narrowed at you as if weighing something in his mind. As if he was expecting you to be put in your place….But then, his father’s, you automatically assumed now, voice sliced through the air, deep and authoritative, shutting everything down in a heartbeat.

“Satoru!” The voice came like a whip crack, and the next thing you knew, Satoru's father was taking long strides toward him, a large, imposing figure that practically radiated power. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his fine clothes making him look every bit the part of the aristocrat he was. There was no mistaking it—this man, as much as Gojo might’ve pranced around acting cocky, was the true force in the room.

Gojo’s father reached out, his hand connecting sharply with the back of his son’s head, knocking his head forward with a loud thunk.

“Stop acting like an idiot,” he snapped, his voice low but full of simmering anger that brooked no argument.

Gojo staggered slightly, but he didn’t protest. His eyes flashed with surprise, but then a trace of regret flashed across his features as if realizing the gravity of what had just happened. The smirk faded, replaced by something a bit more humble, though still laced with pride.

“Sorry, Father,” Gojo muttered, rubbing the back of his head. He shot a glance at you, but there was something more reluctant in his gaze now, something akin to a hint of guilt. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Shut up,” his father interrupted, voice hard as stone. “You’ll speak when spoken to, Satoru. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Gojo replied, straightening his posture, though there was a small hint of frustration in his voice, tempered by the discipline his father demanded.

The older man turned his steely gaze back to your father, the tension crackling in the air like the calm before a storm. “We’re here for business. You’ve got it, we’ve got it, so let’s get to it.”

Your daddy didn’t flinch. He just gave a curt nod, adjusting his worn hat as he turned to walk toward the saloon. The group of men followed, some with a little more haste than others, eager to get this whole ordeal over with.

You stayed behind for a moment, your fists still clenched, your breath slow and even. The anger hadn't quite dissipated, but you had enough sense to know when to hold your ground and when to pull back. But as you turned to follow your father, you glanced over your shoulder, catching one last look at Gojo.

His gaze was fixed on you, no longer full of cocky amusement, but a strange mixture of curiosity and maybe a hint of something deeper—something you couldn’t quite name. You wanted to punch that look right off his face, but you also knew it wasn’t over.

As you stepped toward the saloon, your daddy’s voice drifted back to you, steady as always.

“Don’t pay no mind to them, folks, girl. They’re not worth your time. But mark my words, those Gojo men are dangerous. They got power in ways we’ll never understand. Watch yourself around ‘em.”

You nodded, but the weight of your daddy’s words hung heavy in the air. It wasn’t just about the Gojo family’s wealth and influence. It was something else—a quiet, unspoken truth that seeped into the fabric of the West like dust on the wind.

Inside the saloon, the Gojo men were already seated, their voices low and serious as they began discussing business. Your father exchanged a few words with them, but you stayed back, lingering near the bar, trying to seem inconspicuous while the adults took care of things.

Satoru, though, stayed near the front, exchanging words with his father and the other businessmen. Every once in a while, his gaze would flicker over to you, and you’d catch that glint in his eyes—the one that made you feel like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve, a challenge he couldn’t quite crack. You hated the feeling.

But you couldn’t ignore it.

As the meeting stretched on, you found yourself restless, tapping your fingers against the table, the murmurs of conversation swirling around you. Eventually, Gojo’s father stood up, signaling that the meeting was coming to a close. His eyes swept over the room, and without a word, he turned to his son.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, his voice brokering no argument.

Gojo stood, slowly, still casting glances in your direction. When he reached the door, he paused, his smirk coming back for just a second. “I suppose I’ll see you again, cowgirl,” he said, his voice dripping with that same arrogance you had quickly come to resent.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you watched him disappear into the sunlight, the heavy doors of the saloon swinging shut behind him. But as soon as he was gone, the air around you seemed to settle. You didn’t feel any better, but you could breathe again.

Your daddy was already walking toward the exit, the business meeting having wrapped up quickly enough, his steps slow and deliberate as he made his way out into the open air. But before he could leave, he paused and looked back at you.

“You’re still gonna stick around here for a while…?” he asked, his tone more neutral than usual. He was asking because he and your Mama knew you'd wanted to start traveling when you'd turned 21. “I can’t say I trust them folks, girl. Gojo’s family’s trouble, no doubt about it.”

“I’ll stay,” you said, your voice firm. No way would you let these rich folk try to do anything while you were around. “I’m not gonna abandon you and Mama now, Daddy.”

He nodded, though his expression remained guarded. “ Just… remember what I said. When the Gojo’s come around, they don’t do it for nothing. It’s never just business with them.”

You watched your daddy walk off, and for a brief moment, your gaze flickered toward the horizon where the Gojo family had ridden off, disappearing into the distance.

The trouble wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. You could feel it in your bones.

dividers by @strangergraphics !!! They're so pretty!!

Lmk if you'd like to be tagged!

[weaponsofclairvoyance]

these pages are making me so crazy!!

shoko has lived her life wading through the gore and horror of a society that has so much of it they don't even hold funerals anymore and she's done it alone.. She was the only girl at the technical school and getou & gojo - the only people she called friends - were too obsessed with each other to give her any real attention or intimacy, her underclassmen were also boys who were mostly just friends with each other, and she couldn't even join any of them on the field because she's too valuable to lose, so their lives were completely different. She had utahime who was a little older so she wasn't actually in her class, and while I'm sure they're still friends I don't think we ever even see them interact as adults. She has no life outside jujutsu society but she's not really IN it either because she's treated as a get out of [death] free card instead of a real person, and her medical license isn't even authentic so it's not like she could really go anywhere else. Her addiction is bad enough that it's kind of an in-joke among staff and students that she's always drunk, even while performing surgery. Her role in jujutsu society is kind of like gojo’s rct constantly refreshing his brain - it allows sorcerers to keep working and keep being abused, eliminates the need for rest because it doesnt matter if you are healthy as long as you are alive (which is why it doesn't matter that she cheated thru med school), because if you are alive you can be exploited. You can actually be exploited even if you aren't.

She's neglected and permanently dissociated and her oldest friend (who's still more like a lifelong acquaintance because theyre both so closed off and he's so myopic and self-absorbed) just got cut in half and she's expected to scoop the brain out of his still-warm corpse so a suicidal teenager she's also in charge of can puppeteer his mutilated body & she does it because there's never been room for her to feel anything. so she doesn't. And it makes me want to throw up blood

[supernatural-bias]

I BUILT!!!! A LITTLE EMPIRE!!!! OUT OF SOME CRAZY GARBAGE CALLED THE BLOOD OF THE EXPLOITED WORKING CLASS!!!!!

[piratestent]

I built a little empire out of some crazy garage (called it the blood of the exploited working class)

TROY LOUGFERD TRANS FIC ANDD

I wanna be alright, but all these thoughts are hurting my head

KIAN STONE SELF HATE FIC!!! WOAHAHSHHSHS

TWO FICS??? IN 24 HOURS?? WOAH

[tumbleinthenet]

i built a little empire out of some crazy garbage called the blood of the exploited working class, but they've overcome their shyness, now they're calling me your highness, and the world screams, "kiss me, son of god!"

i am not a gristol malik stan. however, who am i to deny the pull of they might be giants. i guess you could call this a sequel to the ana ng one i just posted! a spiritual successor, at least. and i might keep making more for as long as i can think of they might be giants songs to fit with psychonauts characters.

[fangs-4-fags]

bro do you want to build a little empire out of some crazy garbage called the blood of the exploited working class together later