#getting assaulted by five different fish | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ctrlsatoru · 1 year ago

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DIABLO - TOJI FUSHIGURO

content: techbro billionare!toji, reader is gojo's little sister, age gap (toji's in his mid 30s, reader in mid 20s) kind of ooc toji, suggestive themes, no smut yet. warnings: 18+ only. suggestive themes. explicit language, references to sexual assault. toji having no sense of decorum. reader is engaged so, cheating? but not really and not yet. minors do not interact. pairing: toji fushiguro x afab gojo!reader word count: 8k a/n: i was listening to diablo by lexie liu and the rest was herstory. started as porn without plot but things escalated. will proofread this later. summary: Toji Fushiguro looks like a problem, and you know better than to let curiosity get the best of you, until boredom strikes.

There was a time when you speed-walked through this very same building with the drive that only a determined intern could contain. Six days a week, from busy mornings to late nights, you embraced every task they tossed your way, seamlessly transitioning between the demands of different editors.

In the midst of it, one newly appointed creative director saw your efforts and took you under her wing. What began as a professional mentorship soon evolved into an enduring friendship that extended well beyond your time at the magazine.

Utahime Iori, a guiding presence in your life, became one of your favorite people in the world—a friend with whom you shared an unspoken understanding, effortlessly reading each other's thoughts with a single exchange of glances across the room.

Fast-forward five years, and the abrupt, intrusive ring of your phone tucked under the pillow shook you awake. It was Iori on the line, her voice laden with urgency and distress. She was stuck in Kyoto, needing you to do her a solid one. Her father’s condition had worsened overnight, and she wouldn’t be able to make it back to Tokyo for a critical photoshoot.

And so, here you stand, back at the bustling headquarters of the technology and culture magazine where you started your career. Despite your throbbing headache and the relentless fatigue that clings to your tired eyelids, you refuse to let your friend down.

Today's mission: capturing profile photos for an enigmatic tech mogul, a figure so elusive that no magazine has ever managed to secure an interview or collaboration. Probably some Zuckerberg from shein with an amped-up eccentric, incel overlord edge.

Iori had shared the name and a brief overview of the assignment during her desperate call, but the details had slipped through your grasp in the haze of your concern for her.

If you remember correctly, the concept is something corny along the lines of Diablo.

“Ok,” you breathe after the third scalding gulp of coffee that someone thrust in your hand the second you arrived.

Utahime's assistant, a young girl with striking blue hair and asymmetrical bangs named Miwa, looks up from her phone at you with bright eyes, relieved that you’re finally showing signs of life.

“Uh, who the fuck is this guy again?”

You’re momentarily distracted by how cold this place is. A shiver cuts a straight line up your spine. July in Tokyo is no justification for keeping the set at industrial fridge temperature, you think. For some reason, Miwa’s opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of the water. You know Utahime can make any seasoned truck driver sound graceful when she’s under enough pressure, so it can’t be your choice of words.

You fail to notice your surroundings coming to a stop, or the shadow towering over you.

“Toji. Toji Fushiguro.”

Oh.

That's one way to sober you up.

You’re definitely awake after hearing the deep yet smooth rumble behind you. Everyone within earshot gets ready for what’ll happen next as that oh shit realization settles on your shoulders.

But you’re no longer the eager intern who hid in the bathroom to cry after a rookie mistake. Nothing in your face gives away your heart threatening to crawl out of your ribcage. You turn around bravely and face a soft, dark blue surface.

No choice left but to look up… and up again, until he’s framed inside the thin silver structure of your glasses.

Your first impression of him is simple: no one this tall should stand at this close of a distance. There should be two, or three meters between you to make up for the lack of an acceptable height.

Toji Fushiguro -the name does stick this time- tilts his head to the side and gives you what might be the most shameless once-over. His eyes feel like a dark green horizontal light scanning you from head to toe. It ends with a quizzical expression on his face. The irk is triggered within the second.

“Who are you?”

That same question pops into your mind.

The hair team probably spent twice the time it took you to get here on LA traffic to arrange his inky black hair in the perfect unbothered way. There’s a healthy glow on the sharp edges of his face that can only be the result of seamless natural makeup, enhancing his ruggedly handsome looks.

You’re thinking that by too big, Iori meant that he’s massive. Literally. Wide shoulders block the tungsten spotlight behind him, casting a shadow on you and drawing a luminous halo around his silhouette.

Nothing’s angelic about him. You can tell just by looking. It’s a family gift. You may not have your brother’s electric baby blues, but you have the sight, as he calls it, and the alarms in your head are off.

Miwa shifts her gaze between you like she’s about to shit herself when Choso, the head photographer and a good friend of yours, cuts through the tense atmosphere with admirable ease. He rests a warning hand on your shoulder and takes it upon himself to introduce you.

"She'll be our director today, stepping in for Utahime."

Toji Fushiguro turns to Choso, his eyes never leaving you, observing.

“Why? What happened to Utahime?”

"She had an unexpected family emergency and asked her to fill in. She's worked with us before, and she's excellent at what she does. You're in capable hands today."

What a star, Choso. A beacon of diplomacy. The world would be a much more peaceful place and the arms industry would collapse if he got into politics, you’re sure.

Still under his scrutiny, your expression remained composed. You knew his steely smile would fade soon, and—

“Well, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” Toji concludes breezily, extending his hand toward you.

You reciprocate. Unlike him, you don’t even look down to see how his palm engulfs yours. You just know it will. He on the other hand lifts both eyebrows at your firm handshake.

“I look forward to working with you, Gojo.”

Two hours in, it occurs to you that it might be the case that everyone on set is under some kind of horny spell.

Him nearly walking through the backdrop five minutes in and laughing it off with a cocky comment and a devilish grin sets the entire set on edge from the get-go.

Apparently there’s something about an overwhelmingly tall, ripped, attractive grown man pouting like an iPad kid when his tiny but scary female assistant comes in between breaks to confiscate his phone. There’s a brutish charm about him that makes people act like Victorian gentlemen glimpsing an ankle for the first time in their lives.

The wardrobe assistants are in a heated discussion about how many hands it would take to wholly grasp his bulging biceps.

You, however, remain the skeptic, observing from the fringes. Though if you took any part in the conversation, you’d point out how fucking thick his neck is. Does he lift weights with that thing? What does he need all that for?

When the makeup artist approaches him for touch-ups, he widens the distance between his feet until his face reaches a comfortable height for her to work away. The behind-the-scenes team gobbles it up like ravenous piranhas, and you expect to see this doing numbers on the magazine’s YouTube channel.

Done with feeling out of the loop and not satisfied with what you catch from the set gossip, you take a bathroom break and allow curiosity to get the best of you. You lock the stall door, sit on the lid, and google him.

His name auto-completes after just three letters. You stare at the Toj on the search bar before digging in.

Techbro, self-made, controversial, messy family background. He was the mastermind behind the acclaimed video game, Diablo, which exploded in popularity during the early 2000s. For years, he's faced criticism in several countries for glorifying violence, gang activity and accusations of satanism. You have to chuckle at that. Nonetheless, Diablo hit it off big and he went on to found a videogame and software company under the same name. He's been steadily encroaching on giants like Tencent after repeatedly refusing buyout offers.

Buzzfeed has a trove of ridiculous articles filled with GIFs of him looking scary and hot at the same time, of him looking like the bodyguard of everyone’s dreams, of him taking no shit from the press. Of him looking like a character out of his videogame. You get the idea.

But something else in the personal life section draws your attention.

He’s a Zenin. And not a distant one. He’s Naobito Zenin’s very own nephew.

According to a twitter thread, he severed ties with his fucked up dynasty of a family when he was younger and paved his own way under his late wife’s last name. The reasons for the fallout are unknown to the public, but theories are abundant in the replies. You bookmark that for later.

You can't help but wonder if your brother knows him.

With all this newfound context, you’re almost disappointed that he showed no offense to your frankly rude introduction. After all, you’re a Gojo, the impulse to antagonize a Zenin runs through your veins. And if it’s not an inherited impulse, Satoru personally taught you how to handle them. One of your favorite early teen memories of your brother is watching him reduce Naoya Zenin to tears.

The handshake felt layered, like a declaration of war tucked behind a steely smile. There’s a glint in his eyes when he catches you looking that contradicts the unbothered, enigmatic persona people are simping for religiously online. It’s there and it’s gone, but you’re fast enough. It tells you that he’s playing nice as a temporary measure. If you have to guess, he’s planning to make his team bring up your misstep up to the magazine higher-ups.

You're torn between concern for Utahime and a deep-seated desire to see him try.

The day unfolds smoothly with minimal intervention on your part. You stay behind the monitor and let the crew do their job. Your role mainly involves offering insights when requested by the wardrobe team and flagging promising shots with Choso.

Seeing him go through different stages of boredom and despite his not-so-wide variety of facial expressions, you note the camera doesn’t hate him. It's a unanimous consensus that, in another life, he could have pursued a career in modeling, or perhaps even acting. When someone inquires about your opinion on the matter, you become the focal point of a few discreet side-eyed glances. Your response is a non-committal hum.

Your attention is currently fixated on the last sequence of preview shots displayed on the screen, there’s a very specific detail that you just can’t let pass.

“Can we take a quick break? I wanna try something.”

Choso, taken aback by your sudden initiative, responds, “Yeah, of course, take your time.”

Toji’s face drops from the draw of his eyebrows as you approach him.

“Hi,” he says with that off-putting lift of the corners of his mouth that is supposed to be a smile. He’s probably thinking that your stalling is only prolonging what he wants to be over with.

“Hi,” you catch his inquisitive glance at the objects in your hand. “Is it okay with you if I wipe off your scar?”

His eyes snap down at yours as he thinks it over, squinting for a bit. You’re certain he’s about to tell you to fuck off when he nods briskly, opening his palms as if beckoning you closer.

“Go ahead.”

It's a polite, seemingly harmless green light, yet it feels like you're a bird about to peck at grains of rice beneath a box suspended by a stick.

“Can you—”

He reads your hesitation and does the same thing you’ve seen several times today. He opens the distance between his feet, clasping his hands behind his back. You, for some reason, wait until he looks up at the ceiling like people on the makeup chair usually do out of instict, but he stares at you instead.

Taking a Q-tip soaked in micellar water, you start working away the thin but high coverage layer of foundation, careful not to overdo the edges. A few swipes in and the natural rosy hue of scarred tissue appears, a few shades darker than the color of his lips. It’s a slender, vertical ridge that cuts across his lips, about an inch long. A feature too distinct to waste.

You pull back and he takes the brief chance to run his tongue across the scar, pulling a face at the taste he finds.

Unfazed, you wipe away any excess micellar water and—well, his saliva, you assume—with the dry side of the cotton swab. Once you’re done with that you pat away with a disposable puff dipped in translucent power, just to get rid of any unnecessary shine.

“All good? You satisfied?”

“Yes.”

“Cause you don’t look satisfied.”

You’re happy with the outcome of your tweaking, yes. The overall shooting? Well, you’re not in love with it, but you don’t have to be. This whole thing has Utahime’s and the magazine’s aesthetic written all over it, harsh contrasts, blunt shadow.

“This is Utahime’s concept, I’m going with the brief,” You answer, taking a step back to get an overall look and consider any further touch-ups, stopping him when he starts to go up again. “No. Stay right there.”

“What concept would you go for?” he asks, complying pointedly.

“Like I said, I’m going with the brief I was given.”

“But if you were the original director?”

You wouldn't even be assigned to the task. You left the magazine shortly after you finished your internship and never looked back, even though you liked it here and were being given a much nicer offer than you were expecting. The reason for it being that you found out that your brother had been wining and dining members of the home editorial, showing interest in negotiating for the magazine.

It was a no-brainer for you to part ways and find another way. These days, you work with brands and entertainment agencies that allow for more creative freedom, usually sought out for your particular aesthetic.

“I wouldn’t be so heavy on making the tech oligarch look human.”

You reply more out of impulse than calculation, the same way you touch a cat’s tail knowing there will be consequences.

“You suggesting I don’t look human?” He flashes a cold grin at you, kind of like a warning. it’s gone as soon as you blink at him.

The novelty has worn off. Most of the crew are busy doing their own thing, discussing lunch and stretching to alleviate the fatigue of a long day. A few lingering glances remain trained on you— Miwa, Choso, his soldier of an assistant. Toji doesn’t wait for your answer.

“So, what do I look like, then?”

Like a shark, you think. Don’t ever grin at me again, creep.

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”You tug lightly at the neckline of his shirt, just a pinch of the fabric, barely touching him at all. "Maybe that should be included in the profile."

He hums. “I do get bored easily.”

You conclude the brief interaction and walk away, acknowledging Choso with a nod, all the while ignoring the way Toji’s amused eyes linger on you.

Like you’re just postponing the inevitable. Whatever that might be.

He finds you later that day, after you’ve wrapped up.

He enters the room with the unspoken confidence of someone who believes he owns not just the studio, but the entire building. Like he's just acquired the magazine and now feels entitled to disrupt your peace with a shitty opening sentence.

“Your work.”

You look up from your phone and find him in the mirror in front of you. The hair and makeup team packed their stuff a while ago, all the stations are clean and deserted, and only the lights remain on.

“It’s… interesting. The butterflies, are they alive?”

You look up from your phone and find him in the mirror in front of you. The hair and makeup team packed their stuff a while ago, all the stations are clean and empty, and only the lights remain on.

“Sorry?” You’re unable to hide your annoyance at the unexpected interruption.

“I googled you. Your work. It’s eye-catching, quite… I guess eccentric’s a good way to describe it. Very edgy.”

You’ve heard your fair share of similar comments in the past, but he pouts and frowns with the last two words and irritation pulls at you. You let your hands drop to your lap.

He leans nonchalantly against the door frame, arms crossed, undeterred by your silence and your less-than-friendly attitude.

“I was wondering, are the butterflies real or is it CGI?”

You can’t for the life of you decide if he’s being serious, or decipher his intentions. “Neither. They’re props.”

“They look very realistic.”

“They do,” you agree. “That’s the intention.”

“And the flowers?”

“Those are real. For the most part.”

“I see. So how would you have me?”

“Excuse me?”

He visibly fights back a smile, and you wonder if this one would’ve reached his eyes, but seeing how you’re going back and forth like you can’t let the other get the last word, you doubt it. You doubt that he’s capable of such a human thing. Smiling warmly. Honestly.

“You said not so heavy on the looking human earlier, so what concept would you go for if we worked together?”

Because he won't leave you alone to discuss dinner plans with Satoru and Suguru, you stand up from your seat and turn around to rest against the floating station. Facing him like this feels a lot safer than speaking to him through the mirror while giving him your back.

He’s dressed in his own clothes, a basic light gray t-shirt several tighter than the soft material the stylist put on him and a pair of dark jeans. His phone is, as usual, attached to his hand, constantly lighting up with notifications.

“I don’t know. It usually takes me a week to get a feel of the concept.”

“I saw the tank pictures,” he replies a bit too quickly as if he didn't care for your answer. You’re certain that you don’t like this man. You don’t like how bluntly he describes your work, or that you immediately know what he’s talking about.

Knowing how things went on that particular set and from the way he looked absolutely done in the most basic environment without having to do much work, that would be a disaster.

“I wouldn’t put you in a tank,” You snort dismissively, and he tilts his head curiously.

“So?”

A string of visual prompts runs through your mind. You’d submerge half of his face in black tinted water, or have his head resting on a white surface, make blood spill from his eyes. Perhaps you'd drown him in smoke or apply early 2000s mechanical prosthetics to his face and neck. You’d make his skin flush like rubies as if it were burning to the touch. In every single one of them, his scar is left untouched.

“Nothing you’d be comfortable with.”

“You see, I think we could meet in the middle.” he reasons, very eloquently, like he knows just what to say to negotiate with you. You imagine that this is the same voice he uses with his board members to bend them his way. “Can’t say I’d be down for the body-pilling thing or the full-body suits, but I’m sure we could come up with something that leaves us both satisfied.”

“Are you trying to hire me right now?” You’re genuinely confused. And hungry, and tired, and nursing a lingering hungover.

“No,” he chuckles, like the notion is absurd “but you looked bored on set today, and I think I could live up to your vision, is that the word?”

“Right, uh huh.” you nod, very condescendingly, remembering that you’re no longer filling up for anyone or hold any professional responsibility. This is just some man wasting your time. “So what is this? You got a praising kink or something?”

He’s unbothered by your dig. “Not that I know of. Can I be honest?”

You lift your shoulder in a half-hearted gesture. It's not as though he cares about seeking permission anyway.

He lets his eyes drop to the floor and looks back up at you with a bashful little grin.

“I’ve just always wanted to fuck a married woman.”

You’re not as surprised as you are relieved that he’s cut to the chase. He’s not the first man to detest you and want you at the same time. Men often blur the lines between disdain and sex. It’s only fun when they don’t get too comfortable or want to only deliver and fold when it’s their turn to take.

The situation settles on you. The room seems smaller now, and the distant sounds of people outside have all but faded away. He's blocking your only exit, put you in this tight spot intentionally.

There’s a possibility that he’s some exception to the norm, that he can take as much as you suspect he can give, but you’re not going to find out.

“Too honest?” He's devoid of any shame or attempts to sound apologetic. Instead, he's assessing you closely, monitoring you for any reaction.

You know men like him. He has to be used to people eagerly dropping to their knees with just a tilt of his chin. Most of the people you worked with today would do so without hesitation. But Toji Fushiguro, with his insincere smile and unflinching demeanor, harbors far more selfish and hostile motives than bending you over the same chair you were sitting in and making you watch in the spotless mirrors.

“Should’ve kept my intentions to myself?”

A corner of your lips lifts, and he zeroes in on it.

“Didn’t scare ya, did I? You’re a big girl, you're not gonna run.”

He’s daring you now. Fully predatory, like he’ll do something at the slightest indication. Shark. You picture him stalking his way into this secluded space that only the crew knows about after finishing recording videos for the magazine’s social media accounts, his shadow looming across the narrow corridor.

Fear and power. That’s his deal. He either wants to witness a furious flush down your neck, your throat bob in trepidation and your hand look for your phone–

“And do what?” You cross your arms, refusing to cower. ��MeToo you? Expose Japan’s mysterious self-made billionaire hellboy? Reddit would riot.”

–Or he wants you to bite back.

“I mean, considering the way you were eyefucking me I think I could probably pull the reverse MeToo card on you.”

Your chin drops, your eyebrows go up, and your head leans back at the accusation. Were you? Eyefucking him? Maybe.

But so was the whole room.

And nothing’s stopping you from bullshitting. “Someone’s optimistic.”

“Is that it?” he smiles, tantalizing. “Do you always just take on the job of the make-up kids out of the goodness of your heart?”

You're not going to indulge him with an answer to that. It's not uncommon for you to take on various roles and responsibilities during your projects. There was a time at the beginning of your career when you engaged in every aspect of your work, from styling and set design to prop work, editing, and even makeup.

“Right. You go ahead. Tell Instagram that I sexually assaulted you with a cotton swab.”

“It’d be just another Monday for Gojo’s PR mercenaries, right?” he pushes you further, casually dropping the G-word as a last resort.

“Everyone likes to look at pretty things, don’t be cocky, old man.” He starts blinking real fast like he’s never been called old to his own face. “Earlier, you asked me what you look like.”

The scrunch of his nose indicates that he wants to say something before the subject changes, but ends up only squinting at you.

“I did ask you that.”

“You look like a problem,” you let your words hang in the air for a moment. “And not the kind I have fun dealing with, no offense.”

Finally, he grins again, tongue coming out to just graze the edge of his canines. Something inside your belly moves as you follow the movement.

“And I’m not married yet, so– you might want to take your intentions somewhere else.”

He nods thoughtfully, then he buries his hands in the pockets of his jeans and lifts his shoulders, taking in a deep breath. The motion reveals a thin line of hard skin under his shirt and just the edge of his underwear.

Water under the bridge.

“Well, no harm in putting it on the table, right?”

Your phone buzzes. Your car is waiting for you outside. You move like he’s not standing by the doorway and blocking your only way out.

“Have a pleasant day, Fushiguro. It was nice to meet you.”

It’s Friday when you see him again at your friend’s birthday party.

He’s lurking his way through the party, nursing a drink with his eyes attached to the screen on his hand until the birthday boy himself hunts him down. Haibara, producer and pitchfork sweetheart whose debut album cover art you worked on earlier in the year.

It’s a funny sight, it would be almost endearing if it weren't for the fact that it's him. The sunshine main character dragging the hunched, brooding giant along with him. Toji looks like he’s trying his best to keep up, half-amused, half-annoyed, nodding as Haibara rambles away. You wonder how the two even fit inside the same room, Haibara being so charming and Toji, a walking threat.

Then you remember Haibara mentioning that he's been working on the soundtrack for a video game.

Your friends’ conversation mingles with the music and flows around you. Someone’s getting married to his ex-husband’s father. Yuki’s about to open her third concept store somewhere in Europe. You can’t be bothered to focus too much on catching up, but you do meet Shoko’s eyes across the room when Mei Mei says something particularly questionable.

You see a hint of longing in her eyes, a shared sense of missing Iori, just as you do. On a brighter note, her father's health is finally starting to improve.

A hand wraps around yours, and another settles on your shoulder. The cold press of a ring on your skin brings you back to the present. You look at your fiancé and get the dreaded feeling that you’re an impostor pretending to know what to do with a man so devastatingly beautiful.

Hiroki leans over your shoulder. “Car’s here.”

His hand feels hot and clammy on yours as he leads you out of your friend's sight, turning back occasionally to make sure he hasn't lost you in the crowd. He won't stop until you're both outside, standing by the side of the street.

“Call me when you land?”

Of course, he will. Nothing has changed. He’s starting a new project in some small town in the middle of nowhere in Europe in 24 hours. You won’t ask him to stay. Six months will pass, and nothing will change, you’ve both done this before.

But you stall. He always calls a car with this in mind. You kiss by the sidewalk, he squeezes you in his arms until your bones fight back. You’ve done this before. It’ll happen again, considering how his acting career is taking off overseas. You’ll do it time and time again until–

“You taste like pennies,” he tells you, and you can't help but laugh softly into his mouth. Your finger traces the barely there curve of his thick, straight eyebrows.

“Make sure to take an aspirin.”

He nods, always sweet and obedient when you’re nagging. You tuck a strand of hair away from his eyes so that people don't fall too hard for him on his flight. His hair has grown longer in recent months, part of his preparation for a role.

Back inside, Yuki makes room for you by moving her legs off the couch. She asks if everything is okay, and you pull her legs onto your lap, rolling your eyes. She knows you too well.

“Don’t gaslight me. Something was off.”

“Do I look like something’s off?”

“No, but you’re a fucking oyster. Hiroki’s not that good with his face for an actor. He kept looking at you like he was afraid you’d disappear.”

Choso chimes in, draping his arm around her shoulders. "They're getting married. I don't want to jump to conclusions, but I think he might like her, and he might enjoy looking at her."

Looking out of the window, your gaze naturally drifts toward a figure seated by Haibara’s covered dock. Earlier, it was adorned with twinkling lights, but now, even in the dark, you can discern a solitary silhouette in the middle of the glittery ocean.

Mei Mei taps her cigarette, fixing her eyes on you from the other side of the couch.

“Does it have something to do with Toji Fushiguro asking about you, by any chance?”

Your stomach drops. Your group of friends reacts quickly.

“Huh?”

“What does Toji want with you?” Yuki asks, face snapping at you. “Is he trying to get to Gojo through you?”

“We worked on a shooting with him a few days ago.” Choso calmly explains before she can come up with any conspiracy. “She was covering for Iori. Made quite the impression on him, I think.”

“Oh, Satoru’s gonna fucking hate that.” Shoko laughs, unexpectedly loud in her inebriated state. “Please, please fuck him. He’ll be so pissed if you fuck him. It’ll be hilarious.”

“No respect or regard for Hiroki.” Choso shakes his head, and it looks like he’s laughing from the way his shoulders move up and down. “Poor bastard.”

“Yeah, well.” Shoko shrugs, not bothering to hide her dislike for your fiancé.

You shake your head and roll your eyes. “He’s just pissy because I was not— exactly professional. I think the asshole might try to get me blacklisted.”

Choso makes a noise of disagreement. Yuki frowns in concern. “Shit. What did you do?”

“She showed up hungover, asked who the fuck he was when he was standing behind her, and traumatized Miwa.”

“Not Miwa. She's an angel.”

“Whatever you did, he’s asking around…” Mei Mei adds with a sick barely there smile, finger on her chin. You don’t like how well she knows you. She makes you feel like she knows exactly what went down that day.

You wonder how well she knows Toji, and how much he told her.

What exactly he asked.

“...and let’s just say that he’s not the curious type, so make your assumptions, everyone.”

You tap Yuki’s thigh without thinking twice and push yourself off the couch. A string of accusations about scaring you off follow, and Mei Mei teases you about not meaning to do that.

“Fuck off, I just need some fresh air.”

“But you’re gonna consider it, right? For me? Come on, it’ll cheer Iori up.”

“I’m not gonna fuck some random man just because you think it’d be funny, Shoko.”

And you’re pretty sure Iori would be the first to tell you to stay away from him. Shoko sags against the back of the couch like a puppy you stepped on.

You step out of the house, past the pool, the limestone steps, and stop only to take off your sandals. The sand is cold and yielding, no traces of the warmth of the slow Atami day left, soft grains clinging to the soles of your bare feet.

Haibara’s dock stretches out into the ocean, endless until you reach the far end and leave behind the sound of laughter and music. It’s him, like you suspected, sitting on the edge, his legs hanging over the sea.

With one elbow resting on his thigh and a phone in hand, his other palm supports his face. You sweep a strand of hair over your shoulder and inhale the salty breeze, opting to linger a while before revealing your presence.

“I think I got it.”

He looks up at you, momentarily caught off guard, allowing you to take a triumphant sip from your glass, the alcohol causing a painful sting inside your cheek. He's still engrossed in the medieval game he was playing from days prior, his commitment minimal, his thumb hovering over the screen.

You leave some distance between you as you take a seat, your glass resting between you. It’s a high drop from here, the water looks as if it could freeze you instantly.

“Hand-held CCTV cameras aimed at your face. Like guns. Point blank.” you finally elaborate, once you’ve found a comfortable position, demonstrating with your hand.

“Sounds fuckin�� uncomfortable.” he remarks, eyeing your demonstrative fingers. You wonder if he’s drunk and how much alcohol it would take to get him there.

You drop your hand, and he follows the movement. “I warned you.”

“So I don’t get flowers? No butterflies?”

“Nah.”

He lifts his gaze from where it had settled on your thighs, and you absentmindedly tap your ring finger against the bare skin out of habit.

“Thought I was pretty.”

You snort in response. Tonight, the moon shines particularly bright, illuminating the dock lounge. It's a serene spot to catch a break from the lively party.

“I changed my mind.”

He sucks on his teeth. “You can’t take a man’s virginity for being called pretty and then take it back.”

“If it helps, you’re still objectively nice to look at.” You say behind your glass. No point in lying, he’s hot. And self-aware. And you’re not blind or ashamed to admit it.

“Objectively nice to look at.” he repeats, like he’s getting a feel of it, or memorizing it for future use. “What about the fiance, then? ‘s he pretty? Enough for flowers and butterflies and shit?”

“I met him working for an editorial. He did get flowers.”

“Ah, I see. So, does he do that often?”

You let another sip wash down your throat, this time tilting your head to the side to avoid the sting.

He returns to his game, and you trace the profile of his nose while the screen highlights the hollows beneath his eyes and the fine lines around his mouth. If you were a bit more intoxicated, you might be tempted to snatch his phone and toss it into the water, anything to halt the conversation about Hiroki. It would force him to look at you instead.

“Leave you alone at parties.” he adds.

You've momentarily forgotten the initial question. “He’s my fiance, not my babysitter. I can take care of myself.”

“Never suggested otherwise, did I?” he sniffs, and a part of you, the sensible one, contemplates returning to your friends and disregarding whatever pulled you out here. Leave him be to enjoy his game and stay away from the one brewing between the two of you.

“What about your entourage? Are they comfortable leaving you out of their sight?”

“I can fend for myself too,” he says, eyes set on his phone. He seems to like to add your name at the end of his sentences.

“Can I play for a bit?” you ask, extending your hand. He hesitates, briefly glancing at you as if to confirm you're not taking the piss, down at his phone, and back at you.

His phone is big enough to feel like a console, and there's a very on-brand crack on the left corner that he warns can cut you. It gets him a side eye that he reacts to with a careless shrug.

You haven’t played any games in years or downloaded any since the younger members of your family grew out of the age where they came as useful, but you recognize this one from ads you’ve seen on Instagram.

It doesn’t take any experience to figure out that you’re supposed to manage some kind of orthogonal kingdom. There’s a castle and a medieval-style village surrounded by a tall wall, with full crops around. You tap around, collect coins here and there, zoom in and zoom out under his close watch. Every time you tap a building without a full green bar, a few options show up, you bite your lip to hold back a smile and hit the red X on the right corner of what looks like a church.

“Hey–”

He’s snatching his phone out of your hands before you can pretend to be sorry.

“Fuck you’d do that for?”

You don’t know why, but his annoyance hits you as the most entertaining thing you’ve seen or heard tonight. A grown-ass man next to you sulking because you deleted his little 2D church on his phone. Shoko might think you fucking him would be hilarious, but this, to you, is real comedy.

“What? You religious or something?” You doubt he is, given his controversies and taunting the satanic-panic crowd. He also happens to look like god left the room the moment he was born.

Toji shakes his head, not as an answer but to reiterate that you’ve pissed him off. A laugh full of mirth bubbles out of you. He’s tapping aggressively, filling up the blank spot with a smaller version of the building, and sucks on his teeth again, disappointed at how pathetic it looks around all his leveled-up properties.

“Did something happen to you as a child, maybe?” You inquire.

“What?” he gruffly responds, offering you an irritated glance. He’s kind of cute like this, frustration looks like a foreign emotion for a man like him.

“Are you diagnosed?”

He does a double-take again.

“Is that offensive to you?” you tease, struggling to contain your amusement at the situation. "Sorry, I know your generation isn't that comfortable discussing mental health."

“See, I might be socially stunted, yeah–” he gruffs after staying quiet for a bit, finally putting his phone inside his back pocket. You lift your eyebrows, eager to see where he’s going with this. “I can agree with that. But you rich kids–”

“Oh, us rich kids?” you gasp softly, not expecting that turn, you bite your lower lip to stop yourself from laughing out loud as he’s not done with his sudden rant. You’re fucking tickled.

He shakes a thick finger in your direction. “–You’re fucking uncomfortable to be around, you know? It makes you think that maybe bullying exists for a reason. They don’t rough the bunch of you nearly enough at those expensive private schools, do they?”

“Dude, I hate to break it to you, but you are a rich kid inside a grown man’s body.” He rolls his green eyes at you until all you see is white, thick eyelashes fluttering.

“Oh, I see. No, I get it. You’re self-made and I’m nepo trash. A spoiled little bitch with a bad attitude who’s never been taught a lesson, is that it?”

Animosity radiates out of him. He flattens his palms on the wood surface behind him and clenches his jaw, shaking his head like he’s not even going to try to reason with you.

“You wanted to hatefuck her but then she ruined your game and made you feel uncomfortable, and now the chase isn’t fun anymore.”

“Nah, you’ve got it wrong there, sweetheart. I don’t put people in such one-dimensional boxes.”

“No?”

He scratches the side of his nose before elaborating.

“Spoiled little bitch, yeah. But you’re a hard worker. And stubborn, too. You’ve been paving your own way, working real hard to traumatize daddy back, haven’t you? You run on pure spite, eh?”

“Fuck off.” you scoff, throwing back what’s left of your drink.

“And– get this,” eyes now glazed with a cruel glint, he leans in closer like he's about to share a secret, and peers down at your chest when you do the same “He’s the crowned king of our country’s conservative media, he’s also old as fuck, so that can only mean that he’s a raging homophobe on top of, you know? Violently misogynistic. You and your brother got your therapist's pockets nice and full, paid off a few nice vacations to hawaii, probably bought a big beach house for her.”

He stops and cocks his head, like realization just landed on him.

“But you, you’re weaponizing the fuck out of him. Christmas at the Gojos's a fucking nightmare for your poor little fiance, but you have your fun, don’t you?”

Just a few minutes ago, you’d been savoring the signs of irritation in his body language, mind running wild with all the ways you could make him tick, but now you want to punch him in the throat. Just bury your fist right there in that v-shaped Adam's apple of his.

“You’re cold-hearted for that, sweets. You know you are.” he accuses half-heartedly, the wicked glint in his eyes hinting that he's trying to strike a chord. “Tell me, does he prepare his social justice speeches beforehand or does he just sit there next to you, quiet and pretty and eats his dessert?”

“Don’t talk about my family, asshole.” You lick the inside of your cheek, but you know the strung tone of your voice will only egg him on.

“Why not? You’re on the news every day. Everyone talks about you.”

Usually, when it comes to your family, you’ve got thick fucking skin. You’re aware of the stain and privilege of your last name. The advantages you’ve had and people claim you don’t deserve. The fact that you’re the living consequence of your father cheating on Satoru’s mother.

Most of the things they say about your father and his monster of a corporation you can agree with, but you keep your head high and your thoughts to yourself and stick to sharing looks with Suguru when it gets particularly nasty between your brother and your father in family gatherings.

“He’s been causing quite the stir, hasn’t he? Your brother. If Alzheimer’s doesn’t do it, he might be the one to finally send your old man to the grave.”

But you don’t fuck around when it comes to Satoru.

You’re propping yourself up on your wrist and lifting your leg when his hand comes to your bare knee, stopping you from attempting to stand up and walk away. His grip is surprisingly gentle, though the tips of his fingers touching the back of your knees do send the message. It’s like he can’t let you forget how much smaller you are in comparison to him.

“Whoa, easy. I’m just playing with you.”

You blink down at him, face set, hoping to deliver the message that you might push him into the water if he fucks around any further.

“I have plenty of family baggage for you to hit me back with, have at it.” he adds, almost kindly.

You remember Naoya Zenin with tears running down his face. If you had to bet on it, you’d say that making Toji Fushiguro cry would single-handedly give you bragging rights over Satoru for the rest of your lives.

He hums when you sit again. “Go on, get as creative as you want.”

“I doubt you even have a family.” you bite “God knows what Zenin lab near Fukushima you escaped from."

“Weak but creative, I’ll give a tick for that. So, what I’m getting here is that you get along with him, then.”

You frown, confused.

“You couldn’t pretend to give a shit when I mentioned the fiancé, but you looked like you would’ve blown my brains if you had a gun on you the second I brought your brother up.”

He sounds suspiciously genuine. You don’t feel like elaborating.

“I know him,” he mentions offhandedly, leaning back. “Flashy cottonhead prick, doesn’t like me very much.”

“Can’t imagine why, enchanting as you are.”

“Probably gonna like me a lot less after this.” he reasons, more to himself.

He turns to you before you can dwell on what he means by that. “So, you’re two peas in a pod then? You and him?”

“I don’t see him that often.” you think out loud, your dinner plans fell through after a sudden change in his schedule. “He’s on some getaway in Osaka, performing some corporate sacrificial ritual.”

“And you’re too cool to involve yourself in such bland, boring affairs.”

You’ve had a bad feeling since your father announced he’ll be stepping down from his position. With the board and investors spiraling and Satoru suspiciously playing your father’s game, you see havoc brewing in the future; your father closing his fist around his leashes, children crying, kittens separated from their mothers and blood spilled on the floor.

And you want none of it.

“I’m an outsider. You don’t need me to explain how it goes, do you?”

He nods at you like he’d tip his drink at you if he had one, deep in thought.

You prop yourself up on your wrist and bring a leg up to rest your feet on the rough wood, inadvertently knocking over your empty glass. You both watch as it tumbles, rolling in a circular path until it meets the edge and drops out of sight, vanishing beneath in the inky water, as if it never existed.

“Water looks nice.” he says.

You hum uncommittedly.

“Wanna take a dip?”

His eyes are already on you when you look up at him. There’s not nearly enough alcohol in you to ignore the distance between you, or the lecherous dip under the friendly, harmless veneer. You wonder what triggered this change so abruptly.

You gaze down at your attire, a deconstructed, stretchy fabric ensemble unsuitable for water activities.

"No, but you can go ahead. I'll watch from here and look the other way if you start to drown."

He dips his head slightly, his frown implying you're a buzzkill. "Come on. You've never gone skinny-dipping?"

“That’s a very lame attempt to get me naked.”

He points at the party with a tilt of his head

“No one’s gonna see you. I will, but I’ll behave, 'cause you’ve had a rough night” The vague fucker carries on again before you can ask what he means by that. “I didn’t think you’d be this shy.”

“And I don’t think Haibara knows he’s friends with an old man that likes to creep on girls a decade younger.” you retort.

He's momentarily silent, and you believe he's finally relented.

Yet, he hooks a finger beneath a thin strap of your top that slipped down your shoulder at some point, deftly guiding it back into place. His nail barely grazes your skin, causing a shiver to course through you. He grins wolfishly, his eyes locked onto yours, darkness flickering from beneath his lowered lashes, tantalizing.

“Like you’re some innocent little lamb who doesn’t know better? I don’t buy it.” he mocks you, voice dangerously dropping. “Your cover’s blown, sweets. I see you. You’re a lot darker than you look.”

“You think so?”

“Mhm. You’re a little fucked up, ain’t ya? Got some real violent impulses tucked in there.”

That’s rich, coming from him.

"So perhaps you should tread lightly around me."

“I don’t mind.” he says succinctly like you didn’t just witness the black completely eclipsing the green of his eyes. “Tell you what, you’re more than welcome not to hold back around me. Consider me your safe space. Let it all out, you sure look like you need it.”

“How kind of you.” you croon, he blinks, slow and warm for you, lashes coming to rest on the sinking blue-tinted skin of his under eyes.

“You wanna go back and do drugs, Toji?”

The sea roars, a particularly violent wave crashing under you. He looks over his shoulder like he’s thinking of it.

“With your friends?” His tone is derogatory at the last word, unaffected, but you have a theory that if you were to put your hand on his chest, the rhythm of his heart would tell a different tale.

Cute. He’s cute. You want to chew him up.

He hit the spot about you not being the lamb, but another thing entirely. The thought makes you want to laugh in his face, but instead, you smile and pop a dimple, swinging your feet and imagining yourself dropping a handful of rice in front of him.

“No. Just you and me.”

#toji fanfiction #toji x reader #toji smut #fushiguro toji x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #jjk fanfiction #toji fushiguro

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a-yellow-van · 6 months ago

Text

Wish You Were Here | Part 1

We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year. Running over the same old ground, what have we found? The same old fears. Wish you were here.

20 years after the outbreak, you’re a stable, well established member in the community of Jackson, Wyoming. You have been for a long time now, the horrors, the brutality of survival buried deep inside, leaving place to the safe simplicity of routine. You didn’t think there’s anything that could disturb that, after all you’ve been through. That is, until you meet Joel Miller, and a drunken choice leads to…much more. Set in between Part I and Part II. Canon compliant (I'm breaking my own heart)

Series masterlist

Pairing: Joel x f!reader

Fanfic tags : canon compliant, slow burn, romance, eventual smut, angst, hurt/comfort, joel and the reader are terrible at feelings, female reader, no use of y/n, reader is in early 30s, past relationships, trauma/PTSD, grief, loss, post-apocalypse, joel is a good parent to ellie, major character death, original characters, queer characters, bisexual main character, age difference, canon-typical violence

WC for Part 1 : 4.5 k

Warnings for Part 1 : drinking, swearing, implied sexual content

New Year’s Eve 2034. Jackson’s tavern is packed to the brim, people in every corner of the room, almost shoulder to shoulder. It’s hot and humid inside; layers have been shed, revealing patches of sticky skin. A musky, sickly sweet smell assaults your nose : a mix of sweat, booze and dust, making you nostalgic for a time you never knew, before the world fell apart. The windows are fogged up, blocking out the view of snow falling peacefully, coating the street. You’ve rarely seen anything like it. Nearly every adult survivor in the community has seemingly decided to come out tonight, and the fact that Eugene has finally dipped into his batch of mead, home brewed by the barrel, is most certainly to blame. Maria, Jackson’s leader, doesn’t exactly approve, but she’s making an exception. Just for the holiday. You spot her at the back; she’s holding hands with Tommy, her husband, protectively watching over the crowd. Eugene’s feeling particularly generous this evening; he offers a hefty bottle to whoever asks, reminding each lucky recipient to “savour ‘cause she’s been fermenting since July!” You must have heard that sentence a good twenty five times since you got your own bottle, the words getting progressively less intelligible as Eugene indulges in his creation. You’re still not certain why he refers to his mead like it is a woman, and frankly, you’re afraid to find out. One thing’s for sure, the beverage is incredibly strong, has a horrid taste, burning your throat like acid with every drop. It’s questionably safe for consumption, but the occasions to get shitfaced in the midst of an apocalypse are quite limited, so you endure. Even Jackson’s most reclusive members agree with that notion. Including him. Joel Miller. He’s nursing a drink at a table near the bar, opposite to the one you’re sharing with your usual group. You wouldn’t exactly call them friends, but they’re fellow patrollers, close to you in age, so, naturally, you’ve grown familiar.

“What are you looking at?” Max, the one you’ve known the longest, nudges you with their elbow.

Your gaze quickly snaps back to meet theirs. You realise you’ve been staring at the older man. Noticeably. You don’t quite know why. Maybe he intrigues you, all quiet and pensive in the middle of a rowdy celebration. His expression is hard to read, but there’s a hint of…sadness? You get a hold of yourself and brush off the thought.

“Nothing,” you lie. Max cocks an eyebrow, a little grin forms on their lips, freckled cheeks dimple.

“Uh-huh.” There’s a glint of malice in their green eyes. “You sure? No one particular caught your attention?”

You don’t let their teasing get to you. “Nah. Just checking at Seth trying to hit on Leanne,” you reply without missing a beat, “for the millionth time.” This one isn’t a lie, as the scene really is unfolding a few metres away. You blink at Max, feigning innocence. They narrow their eyes, not buying it.

“Man, when is he gonna get the hint?” Fred chips in, breaking the unspoken exchange between you and Max. She quickly peeks in the direction of the duo, a muscly arm propped on the back of her chair, long cornrows draped across the other shoulder. She scoffs, and takes a swig of her drink. “She looks like she’s seconds away from kicking him in the balls.”

“Don’t know how she hasn’t done that, like, years ago.” It’s Astrid’s turn to talk. She sighs, shaking her head, her wavy golden blonde hair rustling with the movement.

“Maybe you should go beat him up for her, A,” Fred jokingly suggests. “Bet she’d like that.”

“Don’t give me ideas,” Astrid responds, seriously. “I’d have him in a wheelchair for the rest of his days.”

“Oh, yeah. And then you and Leanne would run off into the sunset,” Max adds, taking their attention off you, finally. They start screeching in a horrible, high-pitched voice. “Oh, Astrid! Oh, thank you! You saved me from the big, bad man! I lo-”

“Shut the fuck up.” Astrid cuts them off, cheeks reddening.

“Hmm. I think they hit a little nerve there, A,” Fred continues, laughing, moving her arm to playfully put it around a flustered Astrid. She’s too easy, you think. It’s pretty endearing.

“Who are you kidding,” you join in Astrid’s torment. “You can’t even say hi to Leanne without stuttering.” The woman gets even redder, the angry tint reaching her pale neck. Fred and Max giggle. “You’re such a teenager,” Max strikes.

“Just fucking drink.” Astrid commands the three of you, pouring the group another round.

“Fair enough,” Max says, before clinking glasses with Fred in front of them. Astrid finishes hers in one gulp, which makes her cough, while you sip slowly. The buzz is setting in. It’s nice. It eases the burden on your aching shoulders.

You let your companions carry the conversation as the night progresses, occasionally humming or laughing at a remark. You’re not exactly concentrating. You keep getting drawn back to Joel Miller, for some reason. He arrived in Jackson last summer, about six months ago. Him and a kid, a girl, around fourteen or fifteen. You assumed that was his daughter, but soon learned that you were wrong. People talk, especially in such a small community. Something about Joel smuggling her across the country for the fireflies? A failed operation, clearly. You heard the organisation disbanded since then. It was about time. You’re surprised they lasted that long in the first place. He’s Tommy’s older brother. There’s history there, you know some of it; Joel already had a bit of a reputation before ever passing through Jackson’s gates. He hasn’t done much to help it since then; he barely interacts with anyone besides Tommy and Ellie, the girl. He keeps to himself, brooding, silently observing, tough, cold, detached. That’s how Joel’s treated you on the few patrols you’ve had to go on together these past months. He usually works with Tommy, you usually work with Max, but Maria likes to switch around the schedule occasionally to test out different pairings. You and Joel have done a very efficient job, only speaking when absolutely necessary, technical terms only, mumbling salutations. However, on the last patrol, in early December, you made a great shot at a stalker, and you could have sworn Joel’s mouth twitched in approval. It was so short it might have been a product of your imagination, but then, after coming back to Jackson and bringing your horses to the stable, he mumbled your last name instead of his usual grunt goodbye. It’s fair to assume there’s mutual respect for each other’s skill there. Nothing else. So then, why does your gaze keep returning to his tousled, greying curls, scruffy beard, piercing brown eyes, and the scar on his left temple? Maybe it’s the alcohol. Yeah, that must be it-

Joel’s eyes suddenly lock with yours. Your heart skips a beat, making you choke on your drink. Shit. What the hell was that? Fred immediately interrupts the story she’s telling and you feel three pairs of eyes on you. You clear your throat, looking down at the table.

“Sorry. Went down the wrong pipe,” you mutter. They keep staring. “Uh, Fred, what were you-”

And then, as if the universe takes pity on you, Mike, Jackson’s butcher, jovial fellow in his early sixties (but barely a wrinkle creasing his dark skin) claps loudly and calls out over the incessant chatter.

“How about some music, huh?” A few supporters acclaim him. He pushes through the crowd, reaching the old console piano standing at the south wall, underneath a window. Around, some tables have been stored away, allowing some space for dancing. The instrument is in poor shape, the keys are yellowed, a pedal has fallen off. Mike sits on the worn piano bench. Most survivors in the tavern have momentarily lowered their volume, following the man’s moves. He tries a little riff. Not as bad as was expected, just slightly off tune. You know he’ll make it work. “Alright. Get ready to groove, everyone!” He plays the intro to Johnny B. Goode by Chuck Berry perfectly, earning cheers and applause. Chair legs scrape on the ground, glasses and bottles are snatched up as the crowd converge around Mike.

“Woo! Come on!” Fred exclaims. She stands and takes Astrid’s arm, forcing her patrol partner up. Astrid resists, but just for the principle, a beaming smile on her face. The pair leaves, already bobbing their heads to the rhythm. Max takes another shot before shuffling away from the table on legs rendered wobbly by the booze. They hold their hand out to you, but you don’t take it yet. You dare look over at a certain someone again, who is grounded in his seat, indifferent to the change of mood. Max wiggles their fingers impatiently.

“I’ll, uh- I’ll join you later,” you say, averting their eyes.

“Ugh. Fine. You suck,” they reply.

You raise your middle finger in response. They turn away abruptly, flashing the back of their frayed jean vest, the sleeves cut off by hand. Max catches up with Astrid and Joey, and you watch as they start dancing, snorting at how uncoordinated the three are. You’ve downed a good five drinks now. One more won’t do any harm, right? You fill up your glass with the last drops of mead from the current bottle. Warmth spreads through your veins, making your head throb in a pleasant way. Your eyelids are heavy, your surroundings blurred. Something is clear, though. You and Joel are amongst the very few survivors that aren’t taking part in the fun. Hell, even Maria’s letting her husband spin her around.

And then it happens again. Joel meets your gaze. But this time, he holds it for a couple of seconds, before looking to the side and rubbing his chin. Almost like he’s doing it on purpose. You must be drunker than you thought, because that makes no fucking sense. And what your clouded brain makes you do next is even less logical. Slowly, you rise, and walk unsteadily to the now deserted bar, heading towards Joel. Your heart picks up its pace. This is so stupid . You sit down at one of the stools, just a few feet away from him. You lean over the counter, resting your head in your hand, staring straight ahead at the row of vintage bottles aligned on a shelf behind the bar. On the piano, Mike has moved on to I’m Still Standing by Elton John, his voice strong, smooth. You catch a glimpse of Joel in your peripheral. He’s tensed up ever so slightly, his back straightened. He’s aware of your presence. This is so stupid.

“Hey, Miller,” you hear yourself speak, still looking ahead, but loud enough he can hear you.

He sighs. That’s something. He hasn’t gotten up and walked away, he hasn’t told you to get lost. He’s acknowledged you. It’s full of irritation, sure, but it gives you enough motivation to keep going.

“Not a fan of the music?” You attempt a sultry tone and make yourself cringe. Great start. Joel grunts, takes a swig of mead and crosses a leg over the other, nonchalant.

“Yeah, I didn’t exactly peg this as your scene,” you continue, gesturing vaguely at the crowd. The booze has taken the reins, and you can’t hold your tongue.

A full minute passes in silence. You’re about to give up. And then Joel talks, gruff, sarcastic, the inebriation accentuating the southern drawl in his voice. “Right. And like you’d know, of all people.”

A sentence. Joel Miller just spoke a full sentence to you. You’re stunned.

“Fair point,” you recover after a few seconds. “You just, uh, don’t really seem like the social type.” A pause. You feel Joel’s gaze burning the back of your neck. “No offence,” you add.

“None taken.” Joel downs the rest of his drink, exhales. “You’re not dancin’ either,” he observes.

“Perceptive,” you retort. You spin on your stool, now facing him. A corner of his mouth curves upwards almost imperceptibly. It goes back down immediately, but you caught it. And it gives you a boost of confidence. You’ve made the grumpy bastard smile, or, well, the closest to it he can probably manage.

“Why not?” he questions. “Your friends looks like they’re havin’ fun.” He nods his chin over at Max, who’s gone up to the piano and is belting the lyrics to the song, stomping their feet, while Mike plays the melody. Two things : first, Joel knows who you hang out with, which means he’s not completely oblivious to who you are, and second, he’s making conversation with you. Astonishing.

“Guess I’d rather be bothering you.” You shrug, trying to suppress a smile. “Thought you’d have cursed me out by now, if I’m honest.”

Joel scratches his forehead. “Dunno why I haven’t,” he mumbles.

“Maybe you should.” Did you really just say that? Did you just try to flirt with him? And why did his gaze flicker to your lips?

He looks back up and narrows his eyes at you. “Nah. You don’t want that.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Hey, I could take it.” You’re maintaining eye contact from your seat at the bar. “I’m tough.” Well, this is happening. Damn Eugene and his mead .

The ever-so-subtle smirk passes over Joel’s face for the second time. He shakes his head. “Don’t wanna make you cry.”

“Hm. How considerate,” you reply, unable to fight a little smile. Joel emits a short, low, rumbling sound.

“Was that a laugh?” You ask, the smile growing larger.

“Hm. No.” He goes right back to irritation. But still, he’s not pushing you away. So, in your drunken state, you decide to test the limits. You slip off the stool and take a step towards Joel. He furrows his brows, but doesn’t say anything. You take another step, and then another, until you reach his table. There’s no going back now.

“Uhm, mind- mind if I sit?”

“Are you really gonna leave if I say no?” He asks, rhetorically. He’s challenging you. You feel your cheeks heat up and your stomach drop. You pull the chair out and settle on it. You’re suddenly very conscious of your near proximity to Joel. The courage you had mere minutes ago is disappearing; you have to fuel it up. You grab an empty, upside-down glass sitting near two bottles of mead, one empty, one half full. Joel is acting quite coherent for a man who’s had that much. You tilt your head in request.

Joel scoffs. “Go ahead.”

You pour yourself a seventh drink, knowing perfectly well that it is an absolutely terrible idea. You down most of it in one gulp, wincing, before putting the glass back down with a thud.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” Joel asks, the nickname dripping with irony. Still, your stomach does another flip. “Can’t hold your liquor?” He mocks. He leans back in his chair, legs open, right hand on his knee, left hand palm down on the table. Your gaze travels from his face, down his neck, to his broad chest where the small unbuttoned portion of his flannel reveals a few dark hairs. What the hell are you doing? Your eyes snap back up

“Fuck off,” you mutter under your breath. Joel looks pleased with himself. You finish your drink, looking straight at him, taunting.

“What was that?” he asks, even though he heard you perfectly. His smug smirk is assured now. You don’t answer. Joel fills up his glass. You take it as a sign that he intends to see this interaction through. Fine by you. You search the depths of your sluggish brain to find something witty to say.

“So, Miller. What’s with the accent?” This is the best you can come up with. The words are slurred.

He scoffs again. “Don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout,” he says, pointedly adding your last name. He’s playing you.

“Ah, come on, cowboy ” you continue, impressed by your own audacity, “Where you from?”

Tommy has mentioned this to you before. Definitely somewhere south, but you can’t recall in your current state. And you want to hear Joel say it.

He rolls his eyes at the nickname, but he doesn’t stop smirking. “Texas. Austin.” He takes a sip. “You?”

Texas. Right. Makes sense. In a way, you feel proud to have gotten this minimal piece of information out of him. You didn’t think you’d ever witness Joel Miller opening up to you, not even a tiny crack. But here you are.

“Washington. Seattle.” You copy the structure of his answer; Joel nods, casual. “Uh, you’re a long way from home,” you add.

“Yup.” He doesn’t elaborate. Takes yet another sip. “Seattle, huh?” His gaze pierces through you, eyebrows knitted in reflection. “Born and raised?”

“Yeah…” You’re not certain what he’s getting at.

“There’s a QZ, right?” A pause. “D’you end up in it?” he questions.

The words are like a slap in the face, sobering you up a little. You don’t want to think of that right now. Not at all. You look down, fidgeting with your empty glass.

“Hmm,” you confirm.

“Damn. Heard things got pretty bad up there,” Joel says. You wish he’d just shut up. You don’t like this turn the conversation took.

“Yeah, well, I left, so.” The sentence comes out harsher than you had planned. Joel understands the message; he raises his hands up in defence.

“Got it. Sorry I asked.” The guy doesn’t look one bit apologetic. It frustrates you, and yet…You’re enjoying this little game.

“Yeah, watch it, Miller,” you warn, but your tone has gone back to being playful. Joel relaxes in his seat. He rests an elbow on his denim-encased thigh, shifting his weight.

You proceed. “So what’d you do? In Texas?”

“Hm. Contractor.” He really is a man of few words. His past occupation suits him like a glove.

“Fitting.” You give him an unimpressed pout; he stays unbothered.

“Yeah, yeah. What’d you do, then?” He asks.

It makes you chuckle. “Uh, middle school student. 6th grade sucked ass.”

Joel takes a second to register. Something quickly washes over his face, an emotion you can’t quite discern, before vanishing. You’re too drunk to analyse it.

“Huh. I would have guessed elementary,” he states.

“Aw. Don’t flatter me,” you reply, dryly.

“I’m not. Just sayin’ you don’t seem like you’ve learned much past fourth grade,” Joel says with a shit-eating grin.

Wow. You’re speechless. And then you burst out laughing. And, miraculously, Joel starts chuckling with you, the corner of his eyes crinkling. The sound is hearty, surprisingly warm. It’s the kind of laughter that you would try your hardest to hear as often as possible. That could make you all fuzzy inside, if you’d let it. And just like that, the tension that had been building between the two of you breaks. It’s comfortable, you’re at ease. The moment stretches out; you feel a strange connection with Joel, and you wonder if it’s mutual, or if you’re going completely insane. It’s probably the second option. You manage to utter a few profanities, between two breaths. Joel watches, amused, waiting for you to calm down.

“Alright, you’ve got me there,” you concede, a smile lingering on your lips.

Joel’s expression has softened. He looks younger, somehow, like a few years of constant stress have been erased just by talking with you.

“I may not be the brightest, but at least I can take a joke.”

“You’re not wrong there.” Joel fills your glass with the remnants of the mead, while you push a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to conceal a blush. “You deserve it,” he explains, “if you can take another round.”

“You keep underestimating me.” You raise your glass up in the air.

Joel imitates you. “No hard feelings?” He suggests.

“Deal.” You clink Joel’s glass with your own, and tilt your head back to swallow the foul liquid as quickly as you can, your gut churning in protest. You groan.

“Think my estimation was correct, actually,” Joel quips. You look over at him. Besides a slight glaze over his eyes, he appears unaffected by the alcohol.

“How are you doing this?” You ask, baffled.

He shrugs. “You’ll get there eventually.”

“And by there, you mean kidney disease?” You naively bat your eyelashes at him.

“I’ve survived worse,” he remarks. It’s lighthearted, but it hides a bleak truth you know all too well. You ignore it.

“Yeah. It shows.” You tease, giving him a scrutinising up-and-down.

“Hm. Funny. You didn’t seem to mind it that much when you were starin’ earlier.”

Jesus Christ.

Game over. Joel wins, one million to zero. You want to bash your head against the table, or run very far away, preferably out of Wyoming. And get torn apart by clickers. Instead, you stay right where you are, mouth agape, cartoonish. Fucking idiot. Are you twelve?

“That’s not- I- I- wasn’t-”

Joel is delighted by your reaction.

You wisely decide to shut up and quit stuttering. As if on cue, Mike hits the iconic intro to Don’t Stop Me Now. Max starts singing dramatically, in an offensively bad Freddie Mercury impression. Some survivors join in, not a single one on key, resulting in a cacophony. You take it as an opportunity to get out of the situation. You scramble off the chair and start walking away, stumbling and catching yourself on a nearby table.

“Where you goin’? We weren’t done.” Joel calls after you. You turn around.

“Me? Oh just stretching my legs.” You start stepping side to side and swaying your shoulders, following the rhythm. “Showing some love to the artists.” You shoot two fingers at him, moving your arms to the music. Joel shakes his head, chuckling. “You’re terrible.”

“Well then why don’t come here and try to do better!” You shout back, doing a ridiculous twirl as the sheer quantity of mead you ingested finally hits you. The room spins, transforming into blobs of colour. So, you close your eyes, and you flail around carelessly, your mind too foggy to worry. The tempo of the song increases.

I'm burning through the sky, yeah! Two hundred degrees, that's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit-

Suddenly, there’s a presence next to you. You crack your eyes open, checking on who’s intruding. Joel is standing about three feet away from you, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets. His left heel is tapping the beat.

“S’a good song,” he mumbles.

Joel Miller, nervous to dance with you? Anything truly is possible tonight. You approach him, not interrupting your dance. He stays put. You two are away from the crowd, and it feels like you’re alone in the tavern with him, like no one can see you.

I'm travelling at the speed of light, I wanna make a supersonic man outta you!

As Max puts all of his might into the chorus, you get closer to Joel, because he lets you, close enough that you could reach out and take his hands if you wanted to. And you do, but they’re hidden in his pockets. So you keep dancing, wiggling your hips, jumping up and down. Joel still isn’t budging, but you feel his gaze on you, eyeing your bare arms, the tattoo right under your left clavicle, and going lower down your chest…You take a step towards the man.

“Who’s staring now?” You hadn’t planned to say that out loud, but it’s too late. You take another step, now inches from Joel’s chest, which is rising and falling faster than before. His lips are parted, his eyes intense. It’s now or never. Fuck it.

Your right hand moves up to rest on Joel’s shoulder, causing him to tense up. His expression goes stern, serious, like he’s fighting an internal conflict, debating whether he should pull away. Yet, he remains still. So your left hand goes to his other shoulder, looking up at him through your lashes. He holds your gaze, then inhales like he’s about to say something.

A clunking noise interrupts him, shattering the moment. Your arms fall back to your sides and you glance over Joel’s shoulder, searching for the source of the disturbance. You find it easily. Astrid is standing near the table your group had claimed before, her hair thrown in a ponytail, face glistening with sweat, the sleeves of her sweater pushed up. Her water gourd lays on the ground, its content spilled. Her eyes are wide with surprise, jumping between you and Joel. Her mouth contorts in a silent, one worded question.

That’s bad. That is very bad.

Joel notices the shift in your attitude and whips his head around, as a snickering Astrid jogs up to the crowd, merging into it again, certainly to tell Fred about what she just stumbled upon. Joel turns back and leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers:

“Outside. Now.”

His breath tickles your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. Something stirs in your lower abdomen; a longing, a desire that demands to be dealt with, urgently.

Joel snatches his coat from the back of the chair he sat in, before striding towards the exit. You follow behind, docile, not bothering to retrieve your own jacket. Once you’re out of the tavern, the freezing wind barely even pinches your skin. You’re too preoccupied with another feeling that’s dangerously rising up inside. You need his touch. And you get what you want. Joel grabs your forearm, and drags you to the alleyway at the side of the building, lit up by a single, flickering street lamp. In a second, your back is pressed against the logs, Joel’s face taking up your entire field of vision. He’s seething with anger. His pointed finger digs into your sternum.

“You- you- ” he growls. You look back at him like a deer in headlights.

And then he kisses you. Hard. His lips crash onto yours and you let out a startled yelp, jerking your head to the side. Joel stares, anticipating your reaction. You don’t let him wait for long before you kiss back. His hands glide down to your waist, gripping it, while yours go to the nape of his neck. You pull each other in and a burning heat spreads between your bodies. Time seems to slow down as you part your lips to deepen the kiss, letting his tongue in. He tastes bittersweet like the mead. Your heart races. An ache forms where your thighs meet.

Just as suddenly as he came in, Joel shoves you away roughly. Your head bounces on the tavern’s facade. He storms out of the alley without another word, leaving you alone in the cold, panting, riled up, confused.

What the fuck just happened?

Next chapter

To read on AO3

#the last of us #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel tlou

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spamano-fanfiction-recs · 1 year ago

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Fish and Ships – The Sea

Spamano is a ship that abounds with plenty of adventures at sea – mermaids, pirates, sailors, sea witches, sirens, and so many kidnappings! Here's some of my favourite stories of adventures on the high seas.

To note: anything written in red contains smut, anything written in green contains content warnings, but not smut. Do note that a lot of these stories contain underage characters and especially teen and adult (sexual) relationships, due to the time period the stories are set in. Age gaps can be seen in the individual fanfic recommendation. If a given age gap makes you uncomfortable, click one of the stories without that. Only finished fics are recommended here. Always check the tags and description on the individual fic, don't read anything just to criticise the author, and I hope you have a good reading!

Pirates:

Hoist the Colors High by Elemental Fantasy 13: Lady Lovina is kidnapped by the infamous Captain, Antonio, and he's infamous for some very good reasons! He's not the only pirate kidnapping ladies, however. Other pairings include USUK and PruCan. Contains threats of sexual assault and very minor character deaths (it's a pirate story).

Spanish Gold by Shadowcatxx: Antonio was taken in by the Vargas family as a kid, and when he is old enough, he leaves on a ship. Twelve year old Lovino won't have it though, and stows away on the ship. They are foster brothers and there is an age gap (they are ten years apart, and know each other from Lovino is a baby). Content warnings for one sexual assault scene with underage Lovino (not spamano), slight gore and torture, and implied sex between 16 year old Lovino and 26 year old Antonio. I wish it wasn't so, but the story is good, I promise.

Under Appreciated by Abby Keeper: Lovino and Feliciano stow away on a pirate ship. Fairly sweet. There is an age gap here as well (Lovino is 15, Antonio is 23).

Unexpected Consequences by Avalon's Moon: Lovino the cabin boy wants some respect from Captain Antonio, but things escalate. This is underage smut, since Lovino is 16 and Antonio is 20, but their actual ages don't have a big impact on the story. There's also light BDSM.

Dangerous Waters by BlueFlamePy: Antonio's a pirate captain who catches a thief who's wanted but has no bounty. Said thief later comes aboard his ship. Content warning for violence and minor character death.

Ojalá by The_Cilantro_Family: Antonio was taken prisoner by his enemies, Lovino managed to free him. Note the time jumps back and forward in the story. There's a five year age gap, they meet when Lovino is 12, but years pass before they fall in love.

A Pirate's Life for Me by pilindiel: Antonio and Lovino are getting handsy with each other, but pirate ships are really crowded. They don't actually get anywhere, since they get interrupted.

tormentas by orphan_account: Short fanfic about the dreaded pirate captain Antonio being comforted by Lorenzo during a storm.

El Corazón del Pirata by adropofstarlight: Captain Antonio kidnaps the young nobleman Lovino, but after an assassination attempt, the two grow closer. But were they strangers in the first place? Contains minor character death.

Dead Man's Prayer by grimwoode: Lovino is bored of his life and joins a pirate crew for an adventure, but it's a lot more than he bargained for. For once, Antonio isn't the captain. Content warnings for major character death, violence, child abuse, suicide, prostitution, implied underage prostitution, slavery, cheating, and tragedy.

Pirates and Royalty:

Of Pirates and CrossDressing Runaways by doiteain: Lovina and Feliciana are royalty on the run from being married off to some princes. They disguise themselves as men and join Captain Antonio's pirate crew. There is also GerIta and PruCan.

Pirates of the Pomodoro by RandomWriter57: This one is a little different, because for once, Lovino is the pirate, and Antonio is the prince! After a botched assassination turned into kidnapping, Crown Prince Antonio finds himself as a prisoner on a pirate ship. Contains character death. There is also a sequel to it.

How The Turntables... by LimitlessReach (orphan_account): This is smut happening in a public place.

A Pirate's Pet by LimitlessReach (orphan_account): Bondage smut!

gatito by orphan_account: More bondage smut!

Pirates by LimitlessReach (orphan_account): You'll never guess... This is more smut. And another one taking place in public.

Merpeople:

Scavenger of the Sea by Black_Rose_Authoress: The Bad Friends Trio and Ludwig find a mermaid on the beach. Antonio falls in love with her, and she's interested in him. The language barrier is the biggest obstacle.

Part of your world by kyootness: A sweet loose retelling of Disney's The Little Mermaid with Spamano.

Love of the Sea by anchorise: Short story about a merman and his sailor confessing their love.

Not The Only First by DasGrossartigeIch: Lovino and Antonio's first time together, started by Antonio's merman heat.

Scalier by Ronni_Rotten (orphan_account): Antonio dreams of becoming one with the ocean, and is captured by Arthur. He shares a cell with the siren prince of merpeople, Lovino, and they plan a daring escape. I really like the world building in this one. Contains minor character death.

Ashes by lorenzodelcielo: A siren prince has been once betrayed, and learns to trust again. Contains abusive relationships, nondescript sexual abuse (neither is Spamano), trauma, and character death.

Underwater Land by satsukiarisa: Antonio is a merman, Lovino is a human deadly afraid of the water. He also suffers from amnesia for plot related reasons. Past Prumano. It's a little suggestive at times and contains violence, trauma, and assault.

Pirates and Merpeople:

The Pirate's Treasure by chibi-excel: Captain Antonio has caught a merman – a prince at that, and as a royal, his merman can make jewels. Since Lovino isn't used to human languages, he occasionally uses the wrong words, which is very cute. Smut is in chapter 19 and 21, but many of the earlier chapters are also dealing with sexual themes.

A treasure unlike any other. by Karliah: After a battle at sea, a merman rescues the deaf captain Antonio.

siren's call by orphan_account: Antonio is a pirate who's washed up on a shore. Lovino is a siren calling to him. Smut.

Exploration of a Dream by ofdogsandwriting: Antonio and Lovino are mermen in an established relationship. Curious about the human world, they go above the surface and join a pirate crew.

Listen to the Call by animerockchic: Captain Antonio is called by a siren to fetch something important.

Sailors and the Sea:

Captain's Log by LadyLisa: Antonio returns from the sea, home to his Romano. Domestic fluff.

Hymn to the Sea by laconicGhost: Two men from different worlds find themselves to be falling in love on the Titanic. Contains character death and attempted suicide.

come home to me by Treta_Aysel: Lovino is in love with a sailor, and that's not easy, because the sea is fickle. Extremely mild smut.

with you i'm home by Treta_Aysel: Sequel to come home to me. Lovino and Antonio go sailing to help Antonio deal with what happened.

The Beachcomber's Windowsill by LadyLisa: It is the 1920s, and Antonio is visiting an old friend by the ocean. Chapter 7 contains mild smut.

Nationverse:

A Few Days Late by lovelesslybeloved: Little Lovino goes out to the docks to look for the sails signaling Antonio's return. Not a ship-fic.

Wish Upon A Star by Kaffee und Sahne: Lovino wishes to know whether his boyfriend has some brains or not, and is then brought back to when Antonio was a pirate. There's extremely mild smut and a few offensive word choices.

Losing Touch by rinkaku: Romano has a quiet moment to ponder Antonio's past as a conquistador.

To Get a Message of Pain by organization MA: Spain tells Romano that if he writes his troubles down and put them in a bottle he sends to sea, he can get rid of them. It doesn't quite work out. Not a ship-fic. Content warning for one offensive word choice.

Dehydration by writingandchocolatemilk: Spain has been hunting England for months without going home to see Romano. Now he's half dead and hallucinating on a beach.

Lovino of the Silver Tongue by orphan_account and Tassledown: Antonio got caught stealing. Good thing he has a great liar for a henchman. Lovino is headcanoned to be older than Antonio in this fanfic, and has an adult body.

It's Upon Boss to Teach You Some Manners by ArceeGeorgia: Seeing Antonio's old clothes made Lovino fantasise a bit. Antonio's ready to fulfill those fantasies.

Just Add One Mermaid's Tear by Samstar1990: Two representations of South Italy is too much, and the one for Sicily desires to be as great an empire as her grandfather. She has a wicked plan, but she needs a merman and the cooperation of the nation who raised her and her brother. At times, this fanfic has some grammar issues, but the premise and story is so interesting and original that I don't mind. Contains character death.

Pirates and the Supernatural:

Initiation by Karuka Ikashi: Lovino is a dragon cursed to bear the body of a human, and is about to go through the initiation ceremony on Captain Antonio's pirate ship – if nothing else just so the crew won't think of him as a goddamned pet.

The Contract by BlueFlamePy (repeat recommendation): Captain Antonio has picked up a demon, and wants this demon to help him gain glory and immortality.

The Greatest Treasure, You Idiot! by Kitty-Kat Allie: A pirate seeks a treasure, the greatest treasure of them all. The beautiful siren Lovino shows him the way, but will Antonio fail when it matters the most? This one legitimately made me cry.

#spamano #fanfiction #fanfiction rec list #fanfiction recommendation #aph romano #aph spain #hws romano #aph south italy #hws south italy #hws spain #pirates #mermaids #oh god there's so many

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therealvinelle · 1 year ago

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I'm not going to read Writhing Coils bc the tags = nah for me to read in detail but after the last ask I would be FASCINATED to get a summary if you're willing to do so (especially re: had sex wirh what he thought was carslisle in front of Bella???)

PFFFFFT.

Scared of the tentacle sex and hentai tags I see, oh anon you are a coward. I appreciate the honesty. There is something Shakespearean about you.

Look, @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin, anon is an honest coward!

Anon is referring to this fic, and since I spoil the first five chapters under the cut I'm readmoreing this post.

To summarise:

Edward backs out of the wedding night at the last minute on Isle Esme, too scared to hurt Bella. Bella, wanting to be alone and have a good cry, goes swimming on her own where she finds Edward who is suddenly willing again. And my god, turns out he had tentacles down there.

This, Bella decides, explains a lot in retrospect.

Because she loves Edward more than the world itself she assures him that she accepts him, the tentacles don't make a difference to her just as the vampirism didn't. They make love and it's beautiful albeit tentacle-y.

Bella returns to the house, where Edward is pretending it didn't happen and only gives her funny looks when she insists it did. Alright, you had a weird dream, Bella, I won't judge you.

"I really don't have tentacles, though."

Bella, now furious with him, can't believe his audacity when the next time she sees him in the water he's asking for sex again.

Then she sees Edward, who is on land, very much not tentacled, and looks back at her tentacle man and... oh no.

Through an unholy mix of wanting to justify herself because she definitely didn't cheat on her husband and being very taken in by the tentacle person's story (he's just trying to save his species!) Bella decides to take him with her to Forks, to introduce to the Cullens who surely will want to help.

She names him Heathcliff, puts him in a bowl, and tells Edward she caught a tropical fish.

Fast forward to Bella deciding it's best Heathcliff explain himself to Edward because somehow the Cullens just think she's had a nervous breakdown, and Heathcliff turns into Carlisle and is able to seduce Edward.

Edward, on realising after the deed is done that this wasn't Carlisle at all but a tentacle creature that raped his wife first and now just raped him, can either admit to Bella and himself that he would cheat on her with his father, or he can play along with her fiction that he only slept with Heathcliff to support her.

Really, though, he got raped and he proceeds to have a car ride where she's justifying pimping out his family as well. How's that marriage working out, Edward?

This all leads to them getting off the road to have a proper talk with Heathcliff in a motel, where Edward tries to kill him only to get overpowered and sexually assaulted again. Bella, through a massive show of cognitive dissonance, focused only on the part where Edward gives in and says "Oh no... he's gay."

Truly a fic of all time, I can't blame you not wanting to read it but I do consider those strong enough to stomach it true troopers.

#rape mention #my fic #the carnivorous muffin #the carnivorous muffin fic #dark fantasies/writhing coils

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hxlbrook · 1 year ago

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my thoughts after watching Doctor Who vs Women

Okay, so I just finished watching the amazing video essay Doctor Who vs Women by verilybitchie on YouTube and it made me realise two things that I just wanted to get out :)

The first thing is how I look at fictional characters.

When you ask me who my favourite doctor is I can't just give you an answer right away. I always have to clarify some things first and the essay by verilybitchie kind of highlighted this in my mind, which I find funny.

I first have to state that my favourite era is RTD's era, because it's the best written one. Then I have to state that David Tennant is one of my favourite actors (because I'm silly and feel like I betray him otherwise). And then it comes out that 11 is my favourite Doctor. But why is that? One of my favourite parts about the Doctor is that he's such an asexual being. But the eleventh doctor suddenly is sexually attracted to women. How is 11 then my favourite? This brings me to how I look at characters. This isn't the first time that I adore a character but am appalled by the uncharacteristic thing he does.

A very simple example of this is Luke Danes from Gilmore Girls. In season 1 he says something about golf being bad for the environment. I'm a biologist so I loved him for that comment. But later it's written that his hobby is fishing, which to me makes zero sense if you care about the environment. In my mind I just put it in my "no" box and I decide for myself that it's not him.

I create a version of the character in my mind who I think they are. If the writer makes the character do something that I think is uncharacteristic I just don't really view it as cannon. I just say that it's the writers fault and not the character's.

Anyway, that's on how I look at fictional characters, which I think is funny and a bit silly and I know lots of people don't agree with it. But that doesn't matter, cause it makes my own viewing experience better haha. All in all, I think Matt Smith played the doctor very well, but Moffat made some choices for the character that I very much not agree with and I realise I'm very capable of ignoring that.

The second thing I want to talk about is more tied to the actual essay of verilybitchie.

So, yes, I think we can all agree that Moffat writes women and couple dynamics to feed his own fetish. It's not even hidden in his seasons. But I don't like how Amy is always given as THE example of this, as if she is the most 2d character ever. When I watched it I definitely didn't experience her that way (I experienced River much more so). Looking back at her, yes, she was very much written to fullfill Moffat's own fantasy and I very much view her as waisted potential.

The way she acts makes a lot of sense for a girl who didn't have a nice home life and then met a very magical man that then left her again while promising he'd be back in five minutes. She has abandonment issues and is insecure in her relationship with Rory because of it. I also don't like it when people say she didn't love Rory. The whole arc is that she shows love differently than he does. She starts out as someone who is troubled and childish because of her childhood. Over the seasons she grows up.

Yes, the sexual assault of the doctor was very weird and bad and incredibly awful to watch (I physically cringe away from my screen every time I watch it), especially since it was just brushed over. Again, I view this very much as a writer's mistake and not as Amy's mistake, but that's my way of looking at fictional characters xD and I completely understand if you hold her accountable for it.

But now I wonder if the complexity I see in Amy is just something that I see in her and wasn't something that was intended by the writers. Not that it matters, cause it's art and art is about how the viewer interprets it, right?

What I hate the most is how I feel like out of all the companions she is put through the most. Her memory of people she loved is wiped multiple times. She gave birth in the most ffed up circumstances and then lost her child and then realised she grew up with the child! (God, I hate that story line). This is all a lot, but there are no signs that she's actually mentally messed up about it, which makes absolutely no sense. She (and Rory too btw) just take the information as it is and continue their lives. This all really irritated me about that era.

Ironically, I also love this era even though it has so many faults. The little family the doctor created for himself with Amy and Rory is so incredibly special to me. The dynamic the doctor had with that couple definitely comes second place for me when it comes to doctor companion dynamics (Rose and the Doctor on number 1). Rory is also my favourite companion and my favourite Doctor Who episode is Dinosaurs on a spaceship. [I mainly love the episode cause it's just really funny and fun, very much a comfort episode]

So yeah, even though I think Moffat made some very(!) bad writing choices, he did give me my favourite companion and episode. Who would have guessed there is nuance to almost everything?

#doctor who #matt smith #karen gillan #eleventh doctor #amy pond #steven moffat

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edietello · 2 years ago

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Full name: Edith Ellen Tello

Nicknames: Edie, Ed, Eddie

Age: 26

Star sign: Aries (April 2nd)

Hometown: Aurora Bay, California

Occupation: Student at Aurora Bay College (Law), Barista at Driftwood Coffee

Pronouns/Gender: She/her, cis female

Time in town: 26 years (in and out for undergraduate)

@aurorabayaesthetic

tw for cancer, parental death, assault

TL;DR local girl who thought her brain was gonna get her out of town, and it did for a minute, but her dad got sick and she came home and has found herself stuck here ever since -- works to save for eventual law school and help her mom make ends meet

THE RUNDOWN

-Edith Ellen Tello was born the youngest child and only daughter to Marigold and Javier Tello; she has two older brothers

-the tello's have been fishing in aurora bay for several generations since immigrating to the us from argentina in the 1930s to escape political conflict following a failed revolution. her parents met while her mother, a foreign exchange student from spain, was attending aurora bay college for a semester.

-grew up in Aurora Bay; the Tello’s are known for their fresh and locally caught fish that is supplied to many area restaurants

- always a spitfire, edie had her fair share of trouble in school discipline wise – often sassing at teachers and getting into scuffles in the hallway – but no one could ever say she was a bad student. she often tested at the top of her class and maintained a 4.0 average and graduated valedictorian. as a result, she recieved a full academic scholarship to UC Berkley with plans to study pre-law.

- towards the end of her senior year of college, edith’s father was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. upon graduation, edie put off her plans to apply to law school in favor of staying in aurora bay to help care for her ailing father. even after several surgeries and dependent on an oxygen tank, her father fought stubbornly for five years and tended to his boat and nets religiously until his passing three months ago.

-after spending nearly a lifetime turning down his advances and flirtation, edie began to see ulysses flynn in a different light when she came home from college. after a month or two of fucking in secret, edie ended up breaking her biggest personal rule: never fall for a local. it was big time love, and the two of them were well-matched and content for a few years, until uly ended up in jail for assaulting a man who had attacked edie while she was walking home from the bar one night. they came to an impasse over the future of their relationship in the prison visiting room, and have not spoken since.

- edie has worked as a barista at driftwood coffee for the last three years; while sometimes still taking trips out on her father's boat with her brothers to try and get a decent catch. she’s very serious about her occupation and using her money wisely and making as much as she possibly can while she attempts to help pay off her father’s funeral expenses while also trying to save for law school

-she is currently taking online classes in law, hoping to catch up on some credits and go back to school full time eventually

FUN FACTS

-drives a 1971 baby blue Ford Bronco

-drink of choice is a tequlia sunrise, followed by whiskey gingers

-if she has a day to herself she likes to go to the county courthouse and sit in on cases to watch real lawyers in action. doesn’t even matter if it’s just traffic court, she’ll sit and take notes

-karaoke song of choice is ‘breathe’ by faith hill

-occasionally smokes in situations of high stress constantly these days

-always has her nails done and she's partial to a deep red color

-has been taking self defense classes at the gym for the last year

PERSONALITY

*Important to note that Edie is on the autism spectrum and is written accordingly

- smart cookie, good at faking interest to someone's face, always has an escape plan, very brash if she has Had It, will call people out on bullshit, difficult to trick, can and will lie to your face without blinking, does let her feelings complicate her life

CONNECTIONS

-ex-girlfriend of @ulyflynn

-friends/business partner in the sale of feet pics @jordanmitchell

-pointless arch-nemisis since childhood @mackmontgomery

-friends with @wesxevans

-goddaughter of @santiagodeleons

-former hook up of @buddywellls

WANTED CONNECTIONS

- friendships! people she has known since childhood, cradle to grave besties, high school friends, and friends from work!

-fellow students! people she shares classes with or tutors!

-family! i would love for her to have aunts, uncles, and cousins in town!

-romantic! she probably has a couple exes from high school and has done a bit of dating/hooking up in the last year to varying degrees of seriousness

#aurorabay.intro #intro.#parental death tw #cancer tw #assault tw

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an-aussie-button-masher · 2 years ago

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Locked, Loaded, Ludicrous: Five Games with the Craziest Guns

Shooters seem to make up a significant portion of video games these days, don’t they? A lot of them try to be super-realistic, with real-world guns that act exactly like they do in, well, the real world. Then there are these games. Realism? Never heard of it. Cranking up the absurdity to 11 with guns that break all sorts of physics in increasingly hilarious ways, these games throw sensibility aside in favour of the most bizarre, overpowered, or downright silly firearms ever fired. Hope you’ve got an itchy trigger finger!

Enter the Gungeon What happens when you take a dungeon-crawling roguelike and turn everything into some kind of gun? You get Enter the Gungeon. The enemies are bullets, the shopkeepers have guns, the walls have guns, the guns have guns! With over 200 firearms that the player can use, the Gungeon is locked and loaded with the strongest and goofiest weapons in gaming. Most of the guns are also based on puns or references - do you want to carry Judge Dredd’s handgun or Megaman’s blaster? Or perhaps you’d rather be shooting fish out of a barrel, or launching bee-filled rockets with the Stinger? In the Gungeon, even the strangest vaguely-gun-related concepts can be weaponised. For example, you know how a lower case “r” looks somewhat like a little gun? Well, now it is, and it shoots letters that spell out “B U L L E T”. Alternatively, you could use the Bullet, which is a large bullet that fires entire guns that themselves fire bullets. Need I go on?

Ratchet & Clank Few game series embody trigger-happy chaos like Ratchet & Clank does. The first game alone even had an ad campaign focused on how impossibly over-the-top the guns would be in real life. “36 weapons and gadgets not fit for this world” proclaimed the ads, and the games only grew more crazy from there. From the Sonic Eruptor (a frog-like creature with shatteringly loud burps) to the Rift Inducers (tiny little pistols that generate massive black holes), Ratchet & Clank is the king of awesomely bizarre blasters. Of course, let’s not forget the highlight of each game’s weapon wheel: The RYNO (Rip Ya a New One), the strongest gun in the original game with increasingly destructive successors in almost every following game. The RYNO went from a rapid-fire missile rack to screen-annihilating laser cannons and orchestral-music-blasting missile-launching machine guns, culminating in the RYNO 8 which was powerful enough to rip through space-time and drop enemies from entirely different games on your foes. “Not fit for this world” indeed!

Borderlands The Borderlands series features billions of unique guns - and no, that’s not even a marketing exaggeration. The series even earned the Guiness world record for the most guns in a video game! Naturally, there’s plenty of “normal” guns, but that’s not why people play Borderlands; it’s the countless physics-defying chaos-inducing firearms that sell the games. The guns are all built by various in-universe manufacturers that each specialise in their own brand of mayhem: Jakobs gives us hand-cranked assault rifles and snipers that ricochet bullets from headshot to headshot, Maliwan features sci-fi-style laser beams with elemental effects, Vladof boasts the highest-firerate weapons described as “bullet hoses”, and then there’s Torgue. Each Torgue gun features explosive bullets, and special mention goes to the SWORDSPLOSION!!! Yes, the gun’s name is always written in all-caps with several exclamation points. That’s what you get from a rocket launcher that fires giant flaming swords that explode into more swords. TORGUE!

Sunset Overdrive As the team behind Ratchet & Clank, Insomniac Games certainly seem to have a knack for absurd guns, so it’s no surprise that Sunset Overdrive takes their talents for destruction to a new level. Locked in a city swarming with energy drink zombies, the residents of Sunset City have had to get creative when it comes to defending themselves. Who knew lawn sprinklers and vinyl record players made such great zombie-hunting tools? A large majority of the strange guns at your disposal are built from various mundane objects, like propane tanks turned into oversized bombs, or even a weaponised bowling ball return machine. Some weapons are also a bit more absurd; who thinks of stuffing a teddy bear full of dynamite and using it as ammo? The inventor of the TNTeddy, that’s who. While there’s a small number of “normal” guns, like a revolver dubbed the Dirty Harry, it’s the crazy stuff like a makeshift harpoon gun or a liquid nitrogen bomb launcher that really puts the apocalypse in the player’s own hands.

MOTHERGUNSHIP Okay, I might be cheating a little by including this game. Unlike the other games in this article, MOTHERGUNSHIP doesn’t have a set selection of crazy guns - the player creates the crazy guns. This breakneck-speed roguelike shooter has the player collect more and more gun parts over the course of a run, slapping together barrels, connectors and modifiers to design your own death machine. While you might only start off with a pair of rapid-fire shotguns, by the end of a good run you could end up with a forty-barrelled rocket-launching laser-spewing screen-obscuring chaingun that obliterates entire rooms and sends the player flying backwards from the sheer recoil. The options are practically endless too; besides the standard shotguns and lasers, you could also include sawblade launchers, firework launchers, flamethrowers and the explosive Barrel Barrel in your weapon of choice, plus countless more over-the-top parts to slap together, building the ultimate death-dealing tool of destruction with nigh-infinite possible combinations.

Realism is all very well and good, but these games and more demonstrate that sometimes, it’s good to throw reality out the window in favour of fun. Are there any other games that fit this list? Let me know! Reblogs and likes are much appreciated, and thank you for reading!

#gaming #article #guns #enter the gungeon #etg #ratchet and clank #rac #insomniac games #borderlands #sunset overdrive #mothergunship

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zero-insignificance · 7 months ago

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DND Recap: Is it Hot in Here or is it Just Hell?

Cast includes: Rose the DM, Alfie (yours truly), Truk, Rayna, Patrick and Quinn

We open up in the Finkelberg Tavern.

Valentino shows up in the tavern. Alfie gets bad vibes and drags him out of the tavern by his stupid moth collar as soon as he opens his perverted creepy mouth and says "There's a kink for everything." The party hears pained cries and the sounds of violence outside the tavern. Just the sound of a fist colliding with flesh. Even after the cries stop the assault goes on for another minute before Alfie walks back in with fresh blood on his hands. Truk: Is that your blood? Alfie: No. *wipes his hands clean and sits at the table*

Truk and Alfie are chatting at the table.

Alfie: So... How old were you when your parents died? Truk: I was five... Alfie: I was 4 when my parents died.

Truk starts trauma dumping.

When Truk was a kid the kingdom of Russia was attacked by an eldritch entity by the name of Betty White. His parents were slain in front of him and then Brick appeared and killed Betty White sending her to the planet Earth to atone for what she did and live a mortal life.

Truk: I don't even know if I can go home... Alfie: I can't go home either. It's gone. My home is gone. Truk: Maybe I can go back. Give whoever is in charge the right to rule. Alfie: If that's what you really want, I'll go with you.

Bob appears and says that it was quite the tragic story.

Alfie: Bob would you also like to trauma dump? Bob: Sure, why not? I don't really know my mother. She isn't in my life anymore. Alfie: Betty White? Bob: Yes. Truk gets very angry. "That woman is the reason I lost everything."

Alfie sets a hand on Truk and he goes quiet.

At some point Alfie says that he wants Bob to set up boundaries with him and Bob doesn't really know what boundaries are or what their purpose is or why he's supposed to set them and Truk and Alfie are like "Oh gods he's a people pleaser."

Bob: Alfie you can summon things, right? Alfie: Yes, I can. Bob: Good. I need Baja Blast. *collapses to the ground* Alfie: *sighs* You need to go to rehab... *summons a can of Baja Blast* Quinn: What the-? Rose: Be careful. He might bite your hand off. Truk: *tosses Bob the can* Rose: Bob inhales the can. Alfie: Bob did you go to the ER? Bob: No. Alfie: WHY. Bob: It's expensive... Alfie: You just got paid and are now on health insurance. Bob: Oh yeah... Alfie: Bob if you don't go to the ER, I will drag you there myself. Bob: Do they have baja blast there? Alfie: *snaps his fingers* They do now. Me: There is now a bottle of baja blast at the ER. It has a sticky note that says, "For Bob" Rose: Bob doesn't know that you know his real name Alfie: I know your name by the way. Bob: *dread* What? Alfie: Calm down. Bob: Does anyone else know? Alfie: Mark, Gorg and Patrick were there but I don't know if Pat remembers. NOW GO TO THE ER.

At the ER it is revealed that Bob has 14 different health conditions, and they are all related to caffeine except for the broken arm and ribs. He has enough kidney stones to fill a fish tank.

Doctor: You need to stop drinking baja blast. Bob: *goes to leave* Nurse: Hey, we haven't discharged you yet! Bob: I'm leaving. Doctor: Sir, please sit down don't make us call security. Bob: Alfie Alfie Alfie! Alfie: What the fuck? Bob: I want to go home. I don't like hospitals. Alfie: *sighs* Okay let's make a deal. If you are to leave this hospital you will be under my care. That includes a decrease in baja blast. Rehab and therapy. Bob: Okay deal! I just want to go home... Alfie: *turns to the medical staff* He is under my care. I will make sure he takes it easy and adheres to the treatment plan. The medical staff gives Alfie a thumbs up and Alfie and Bob teleport back to the Inn.

Alfie: So, less Baja Blast. Bob: But why? Alfie: Bob, you are incredibly dehydrated. You need electrolytes. Baja Blast may have electrolytes but the citric acid and sugar zeros it out. Nay it negatives it out. Bob: Do you have anything that tastes like baja blast? Alfie: *summons a bunch of electrolyte drink mix flavors and sports drinks* I wouldn't recommend the passion fruit one. Actually, you know what? *snaps fingers and the passion fruit one bursts into flames* Bob: What is a gay-tor-ade? Does it have alligator in it? Alfie: Unfortunately, no. That's a bit of false advertising. It's commonly drunk before or after strenuous workouts. Bob: *tries some of the Gatorade* Damn that's good! Can I have more? Alfie: On one condition. Bob: *perks up* Alfie: You have to drink more water. Bob: I will drink a liter of water a day. Alfie: Okay. Me: Alfie summons an infinite Gatorade dispenser. It has a limiter on it. Rose: Bob goes to touch the limiter Me: It burns him. Bob: OW! Alfie: Everything in moderation. Bob: Alright. No more baja blast. *goes to leave* Alfie: Cold turkey on caffeine? You are in for a surprise. Bob: *takes two steps and passes out* Rose: He is fast asleep. Alfie: Looks like I'm carrying you to your house again. *Picks him up bridal style and takes him to his house* Rose: You enter his house and see that all of the Mountain Dew stuff is replaced with Gatorade stuff. Me: I tuck him into bed, give him a pat on the head and go to leave a bottle of Gatorade on the nightstand when I see the owlbear sculpture I gave him before the MLP arc. Alfie: Aww he cares... He actually looks kind of cute asleep. Bob: *asleep but mutters* I'm not cute... Alfie: *walks off* definitely cute.

Alfie reenters the tavern and sees Fluffy Scruffington in the corner waiting for him. Rayna is flirting with her wife at the bar.

Truk goes to the study and finds paper and crayons and he sits down and starts coloring.

Alfie sits down at the standing piano and starts to play. What comes out of it is a Bard core version of Rap God. Rose rolls performance for Fluffy to sing along and gets a natural 20. Fluffy is now the newest rap god having dethroned Eminem who descends from the rafters saying thank you and that he can finally go home. Fluffy does not gain immortality for the sake of creation.

Quinn is at the bar drunkenly singing and Alfie requests a glass of the strongest alcohol in the Tavern because he's an eldritch entity that wants to get drunk. Alfie gets a glass of Polish rectified spirit which is 96% alcohol.

Alfie: *downs the entire glass and feels nothing* Truk: *comes out of the study* What are you doing? Alfie: Getting drunk. Truk: Can I have a shot of that? Brick: Yes. Alfie: I don't think you're ready for this. Quinn: *drunk* I'll get the same. Lu: *slides a shot to Truk and Quinn* Alfie: *downs a second glass and feels a bit warm and fuzzy* Quinn: *has a drop and passes out* Truk: *downs the shot and starts drunk laughing* Can I have another? Alfie: Slow down, tiger. That hangover would be WILD. Lu: *slides a shot of water to Truk and winks at Alfie* Here you go, this is the good stuff. Alfie: *winks back*

Before Truk can even pick up the shot glass he passes out. Rose: Would Alfie like another glass right now? Me: Alfie's the dad friend. He's going to carry Truk and Quinn to their rooms. Alfie: *picks up Truk bridal style* Let's get you to bed. Fluffy: I'm going to marry that. Part of the way up the stairs Truk stirs. Truk: Where am I? Alfie: The inn. I'm taking you to bed. Truk: *drunkenly* noooooo... Alfie: *summons Truk's giant teddy bear* You want your bear? Truk: *clings on to the bear and falls back asleep* Alfie tucks Truk in and leaves a glass of water and some pain killers on the nightstand and does the same thing with Quinn.

Back downstairs Alfie sees another placard that shows Bob's record for number of shots taken. 80 shots. Alfie and Fluffy attempt it. Alfie could definitely break that record but stops himself about 10 shots in because he has the self-awareness to know that there should be at least one person in the party that isn't hung over and that he could relapse into alcoholism. On a scale of 1 to 10 Alfie is at a 5. Fluffy has broken the scale. They can't even form words.

Alfie: You wanna go upstairs and cuddle? Fluffy: *lets out a jumbled slur of drunken noises* Alfie: just nod or shake your head no... Fluffy: *nods with their entire body*

So, Alfie and Fluffy head up to Alfie's room and fall asleep.

The next day Truk and Quinn wake up in their separate rooms to the sound of rustling in the tavern.

Truk goes to investigate first and sees Alfie stress cooking. He has truesight so he just sees a hulking black many eyed vaguely avian eldritch horror making breakfast for everyone. And this is the first time the party hears Alfie's morning voice.

Truk: *hung over* Good morning, Alfie. Alfie: *deep voice* Mornin' Truk Truk: *freezes* What the fuck is wrong with your voice? The Swear jar appears in front of Truk. He puts one gold piece in. Quinn: *also hungover* Oooh waffles! Alfie: What are you talking about? Truk: Your voice is wrong. Alfie: Ah. You haven't heard me first thing in the morning. Bob: *walks into the tavern* Good morning everyone! Oo breakfast. Alfie: Mornin' Bob. Bob: *backs into a wall* WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT DID YOU DO WITH ALFIE? Alfie: *tired* Bob, it's me. My voice is just deeper in the morning. Someone forgot to refill the coffee maker. Is Cafae Latte open? Bob: *still shaken up* Yes. Alfie: Can you get some coffees that won't curse us? Bob: Of course, it's on the house. *comes back with coffee for the party* Coffees for everyone and 14 shots of eldritch blood in espresso for you. Alfie: Much appreciated *grabs cup and starts drinking* Truk: *grabs a coffee* I feel terrible. Quinn: *also grabs a coffee* can I have peanut butter on my waffles? Alfie: Ahhh... Much better. *gives Quinn a jar of peanut butter* Bob: Can I have some french toast? Alfie: Of course! *starts cracking eggs* You look rough, Truk. Truk: Hang on. *starts smashing his head into a wooden beam in an attempt to cure his hangover* Rose: Roll for damage. Truk: *rolls* Rose: The beam is bent out of shape. Bob: You're going to have to pay for that... Truk: I can fix it. Alfie: Truk! Catch! Me: He tosses Truk a bottle of Gatorade. Rose: What flavor? Me: Cherry. Bob: *hisses at the bottle* Truk: *catches the bottle but it falls out of his hands cuz he forgot to close them* Alfie: What do you want for breakfast? Truk: 3 pounds of sausage. *downs the bottle of Gatorade* Alfie: *opens a portal to the sausage dimension* Rose: You should keep Truk away from that. The portal closes right when 3 pounds of sausage are dispensed, and Alfie puts them on the griddle right next to the french toasts.

Bob: You seem stressed. Alfie: That's because I am! Bob: Can I ask why? Alfie: *multitasking* I have no memory of my biological parents due to a concussion and I'm going to meet them today. Of course I'm stressed! How could I not be stressed? Truk, order up! *flips the sausage links into a bowl with a fork* Truk: *takes the bowl and starts eating the sausages like spaghetti* Alfie: And here is your french toast! Do you want some syrup? Bob: Don't be mad *pulls out a bottle of baja blast syrup* Alfie: That's fine it's caffeine free. Quinn did you get breakfast? Yes you already have breakfast I'm the only one who hasn't eaten breakfast...

Bob drowns his french toast with syrup, unhinges his jaw and eats it all at once. Alfie gets down on the ground pulls out a cartoonishly large chunk of meat on a bone and starts tearing into it. It's like watching a dog with a chew toy. "You must've been really hungry." Bob says as Alfie makes quick work on the meat. "I try to be vegetarian, but I do have to eat meat. Don't know if it's a miscellaneous bird thing or an eldritch thing or both." he responds before biting off the end of the bone and scooping the marrow out with his long tongue before eating the bone itself.

At some point Alfie is looking at Truk and quietly says Alfie: You're autistic, aren't you? Brick: *appears behind Alfie* THANK YOU. One of the reasons Brick brought Truk to the party is because he has been trying to get Truk an autism diagnosis and every psychiatrist he has taken Truk to hasn't connected those dots and most of the party is autistic. Truk gets diagnosed via peer review,

Alfie gave Bob more smoke bombs. Bob used one and we saw him slowly walking out of the tavern as the smoke cleared.

Alfie has to stop at Sh'am and trade his Cape of the Mountebank since he doesn't need it anymore. So, Alfie leaves the Tavern and heads over there with Truk and Quinn. Fluffy is still in Alfie's room regretting their existence.

Alfie: Hello! I would like to make a sale or exchange. Sh'am Guy: Oh hello! Would you like a pet or some more pokéballs? Alfie: I have a Paul *lets Paul out of the pokéball* Paul: Moo. Sh'am Guy: Would you like more pokéballs? Me: Alfie thinks really hard about summoning a pokéball and snaps his fingers. Rose: Alfie successfully summons a pokéball. Alfie: No. Sh'am Guy: Would you like to look at the pets? The party: Why not? Paul: *looks annoyed* Rose: He thinks you're going to trade him in. Alfie: *cups the sides of Paul's face* I would never trade you. Paul: Moo!

Rose: The Shopkeeper takes you to the pets and the first things you see are these:

Quinn takes a Gooze, Truk takes the three Jungle Chompers, and Alfie watches the animals to see how they interact with Paul. The Fungus-Furred Flounder Ferret gives Paul a sniff and seems to like them. Alfie gets down on the floor and extends a hand to let the ferret sniff him. The ferret flinches before taking its time smelling him and nuzzles into his hand. "I'll take her." Alfie now has two therapy animals, one for compression and the other for grounding. Rayna joins us in the shop and adopts the Sword Sword.

Truk is surrounded by some very excited Jungle Chompers and remembers to ask Alfie a question. "Alfie, Mordecai told me something about my sword. Do you know how to remove a curse from something?" "It's not something I know now but I can learn it. What kind of curse?" "I'm not quite sure but when I use it... It tells me to do things. Bad things. It wants to make me do them. Make me want to do them."

Alfie freezes upon hearing that. "No... no no... no no nono nononono..." He starts shaking and backing away from Truk. He's looking at him like an animal that could go rabid at any moment frantically muttering "No no no no I can't do that again not again." Truk can see that Alfie isn't present. He isn't quite there anymore, and his eyes are glazed over as he backs away.

He approaches Alfie and places a hand on his shoulder at which Alfie flinches. "You're alright. I won't hurt you. I will not hurt you..." and he pulls Alfie close. Alfie's entire body shakes as he lets out a shuddering sob and presses his head into Truk's chest. They stay like that for a minute before Alfie pulls away and wipes the tears from his face.

"I should probably tell you about my trauma..." "I would prefer to know so I don't trigger that again." Alfie sighs before beginning. "So, you know I died and that I'm from a different world. I had a party there. They... didn't treat me well. In fact, most of them hated me but I stuck around for the ones who didn't." He laughs before continuing. "I guess part of me didn't feel like I deserved better. We weren't good people. We traveled around earning status for the sake of a rebellion. A king threw a ball in our honor, and I knew something was off about him. I tried to tell them, but my opinion didn't matter. I was just the chicken who couldn't do anything right in their eyes... At that ball the king revealed himself to be Ascian. God of that world. The Story Writer, he called himself. He made Boriel turn into a monster. Even those he liked or even tolerated were killed. He didn't recognize any of us. I watched my party members die around me in cold blood. And even so Ascian killed Boriel for fun. There wasn't much I could do. I knew it wasn't a battle we could win. So, I asked for death. And I regret that so much. Turns out that power word kill is not a peaceful way to go. But it's not like people know that. It's not like there's survivors." "I know." "You know what? That's what I'm going to do with my life. I'm going to make sure that spell gets banned."

We're quiet for a moment before Truk breaks the silence, "Do you want another hug?" Alfie laughs and says "You know what? Yeah, I would."

And they hug. Alfie hears a sniffle come from Truk and he looks up seeing tears forming at the corners of his eyes, so he hugs Truk tighter. Truk is touch starved. He hasn't gotten a hug since before his parents died and he starts crying. We've been hugging for 5 minutes, neither of us want to let go and Bob is confused and weirded out and a bit jealous cuz Bob is also touch starved. Bob doesn't know how to ask for a hug. "You're still hugging? You can let go any time now." A hand darts out and Bob is pulled into the hug. "NO NO- LET ME GO-" he says as he struggles in our grip letting out sounds of protest. Then Bob's brain short circuits and he goes slack, his eyes glaze over. Rose: It's just like that one scene in Stayed Gone. "I'm afraid you've lost your signal."

We stay like that for 2 more minutes before letting go. Bob falls to the ground and doesn't move. Rayna: Did you kill him? Alfie: Oh shit. I think we just made him blue screen. Sh'am Guy: This gives me ideas on how to screw him over. Alfie: You do realize he's under my protection, right? *Eldritch magic flashes in his eyes* Sh'am Guy: Of course! Alfie: Good, now I would like to trade this or sell it *pulls out his Cape of the Mountebank* Sh'am Guy: Do you have a receipt? Alfie: I'm pretty sure I got this gambling when I relapsed 7 years ago. Sh'am Guy: I'll give you 500 gold. Me: Depending on the source a Cape of the Mountebank can go from 8000 to 10,800 gold Alfie: *raises an eyebrow* Really? Sh'am Guy: I'll have to call my cloak guy. *ducks under the counter and pops back up in a hat, sunglasses and a fake moustache* Sh'am Cloak Guy: A Cape of the Mountebank? These things go for 8,000 gold! *ducks back under the counter* Sh'am Guy: I'll give you 5000 gold for the cloak. Alfie: *levels a stare at the shop keeper* Me: Alfie rolls to intimidate him. Rayna's player: Oh no Me: *rolls* 19. Sh'am guy: *starts sweating* 7000? Alfie: *smiles* you have a deal! Rose: He slides you a bag with 7000 gold pieces in it. Alfie: Pleasure doing business with you. Sh'am Guy: Could you tell your other friends to adopt some pets? I don't have the room to store or properly feed them. Alfie: *snaps his fingers and a pet store appears next door* There we go! Sh'am Guy: Thank you! Alfie: People really have to stop saying that in the fey wilds. Sh'am Guy: I'm not fey born. Alfie: I have three debts from Bob alone. Sh'am Guy: He says it a lot. I have 57 from him. Alfie: Have you used any? Sh'am Guy: Gods no. I'm saving them. Alfie: Have a nice day! Let's go!

Truk questions how we get to hell and Alfie says there's a painting portal there. Truk is concerned so he calls his parent, Brick. Truk: How do we get to Hell? Is Alfie right? Brick: There are several ways. The Painting portal in the museum. Alfie can open a portal to Hell with his book. Alfie: I'm not using the book. I only have to ingredients to cast it 3 times. Brick: Or... You could die. Which is off the table. Truk: Painting portal it is.

Alfie: You're autistic. Truk: No, the doctors said no. Me: An official autism card appears in front of you. It is rainbow and has your name on it. Truk: What the-? Alfie: You've been diagnosed via peer review. Truk: Oh. *takes the card and puts it in his wallet* Alfie: I have one and so does Bob. Me: It turns out that the official autism cards come from Alfie, but he doesn't know that.

We enter the museum and Alfie says hi to Dakota Jones and notices that the bathroom painting has a brand-new toilet in it. Alfie threw up in the old toilet and it dissolved due to the strength of his stomach acids. That was probably why the museum was closed for the last two days. The toilet is reinforced against acid damage.

We start scanning the museum for the painting to Hell. "Roll Perception" Alfie got a nat 1. He finds a red painting and is like oooo i think I found it and reads the placard. It is a portal to the surface of the sun. Truk got an 11 and is staring at a painting of a turkey sandwich. Rayna got a 22 and the painting to Hell is the one right next to the sun painting.

Then we have a moment with our pets and question what to name them.

Alfie: What do I name you? Rose: You don't speak animal, but you can tell that your ferret would be happy with any name you give her. Truk points to one Jungle Chomper and says "Ricky" then points at the next one and says, "Bob the second." and then glances at Alfie who is currently holding his ferret. He looks at the last Jungle Chomper and says, "Alfie the second." Rayna names the sword sword Flint. Alfie looks this little mossy green ferret in the eyes and smiles before saying "I'll name you Clementine." Clementine squeals in excitement at her new name.

Truk is a bit confused at the lack of gender of his Jungle Chompers. They are sexless and reproduce asexually. Truk: Are you a boy or girl? Bob II: rawr Truk: Ok. Rawr once for boy twice for girl *points at Bob II* Bob II: rawr Truk: *points to Alfie II* Alfie II: rawr Truk: *points to Ricky* Ricky: rawr rawr Truk: Okay.

Alfie hands out Pokeballs to Truk and Rayna and then turns to Clem and Paul. Alfie: Do you guys want to go in the pokeballs or stay out? Rose: They would like to go in the pokeballs. Everyone's animals willingly go in the pokeballs.

And so, we enter the painting to Hell. We are greeted to a long highway and a song plays in the distance. "YOU'RE ON A HIGHWAY TO HELL~ HIGHWAY TO HELL!" Next to us we see a 1967 Chevrolet Impala. There isn't anyone in the driver's seat and Truk's eyes light up. The keys are still in the ignition. Truk has his driver's license. He gets in the driver's seat and there is a sticky note on the dash. "Shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Rayna gets in the passenger seat and Alfie is in the backseat cuz wings and it's the safest place in the car. Alfie is very tense right now and is gripping onto his seatbelt and Truk guns it.

Alfie: It's okay it's okay they're under my protection they will be OKAY. Truk: *laughing maniacally* Rayna: WOOOOO Rayna's Player: She starts raging. Rose: You see a giant wall approaching. Roll performance. Truk's player: *rolls* fuck. 6. Rose: You slow down to 30 mph. You still crash into the wall. Everyone takes 30 points of bludgeoning damage. Alfie: *shakily pulls out a health potion* I don't feel safe anymore. *drinks the health potion and exits the car* Rose: You hear a cry of devastation. Dean Winchester: NO, MY BABY. WHY DID YOU STEAL MY CAR? Alfie: Honestly, it's your fault. You left it on the side of the highway with the keys in the ignition. Dean: My brother and I had to do things! Alfie: *snaps his fingers so the car is back to normal* Calm down. Have some pie. *gives Dean a cherry pie* Hang on you seem familiar. Dean: What? Alfie: AH! We met in a dream. Something about "first time dying?" Dean: I would've remembered that. Alfie: Maybe that hasn't happened to you yet.

Rose: you see two guards. "One of us tells lies the other tells the truth." Alfie: What's 2+2? Guards: We don't know how to do math... Alfie: hmm... Am I an eldritch entity? Guards: How are we supposed to know? Truk: Am I a half orc? Guard 2: I'm an optimist so I think you're a full orc. Truk: *stabs guard* Are you injured? Rose: The stab wound heals up Rayna and Truk go to chop one of the guards head off in sync. Alfie: Guys? Nothing happens. They try again and roll to hit better. Rose: Nothing happens Dean: *face down in the cherry pie* Alfie: GUYS! *clears throat and points at Dean* Is he eating a cherry pie? Guard 1: Yes. Alfie: There we go, Guard 2 is the liar. Guard 2: Unfortunately, we have to wait for the King of Hell to let you in. This was for fun. Alfie: *groans* I'm here on business. Guard 1: Are you here to beat up Valentino? Alfie: No, I already did that last night. Guards: That was you? Alfie: Yeah, and I'd do it again. Guards: Nice. Alfie: *pokes head into the nap sack* Hey Patrick? Patrick: hm? Alfie: Can I have Lucifer's soul for a moment? I'll give it right back. Patrick: *gives Alfie Lucifer's soul* Alfie: *squeaks the rubber ducky soul* Nothing happens. Dean: That's just a rubber ducky. Alfie: Hang on, can angels be summoned like Gods? Rose: Give it a try. Alfie: Lucifer Lucifer Lucifer. Lucifer: Hi! Alfie: We need to get into Hell. Lucifer: Oh, is this to kick Valentino's ass? There's a wait list. Alfie: No, I already did that. I'm here for my parents. Lucifer: Oh okay. Do stop by my daughter, Charlie's hotel. Don't tell Patrick that the ducky isn't my soul. It would crush him. And stay away from the deer fucker. Alfie: Elaborate. That could mean so many things. Lucifer: He looks like a deer. Alfie: *pokes head into the Nap Sack* thanks Pat! *returns the ducky* Hang on before we enter does anyone else want a mark of eldritch protection? Rayna: Sure. Alfie: What's your favorite color? Rayna: Emerald green. Me: an emerald green friendship bracelet jumps out at you and coils itself around your wrist. Alfie: Truk, do you want one? Truk: I wouldn't mind double protection. Alfie: Brick are you okay with that? Rose: An image of a thumbs up appears in your mind. Alfie: Favorite color? Truk: Pink. Me: a pink friendship bracelet jumps out and coils around your wrist.

Truk has given a holy symbol to each of the party members as a mark of protection.

And we enter Hell. A photo appears in Truk and Rayna's hand. "These are my parents. Keep an eye out for them. And a gnome. Stay away from the gnome. He's a dick."

We each roll an individual perception check.

Rayna rolls and sees a black and white cat with wings drinking his feelings away in a bar. Husker. She and Husker get along famously.

Truk rolls and meets Nifty. Nifty: Are you a bad boy? Truk: Do not call me a bad boy.

Alfie rolls and meets Joe Rogan who walks up to Alfie Joe Rogan: I WANT TO TALK TO YOU Alfie: *slowly drawing his starscourge dagger* About what? Joe Rogan: ABOUT THE CHEMICALS THEY'RE PUTTIN' IN THE WATER. Alfie: The chemicals? That make the frogs gay? Joe Rogan: YES. Alfie: *fakes dread* I'm afraid I've got terrible news... Joe Rogan: WHAT IS IT? Alfie: I'm afraid the chemicals are turning the birds gay too! Joe Rogan: OH FUCK. Alfie: *lurches foreword* RUN! IT'S CONTAGIOUS!

Joe Rogan runs and trips like he's in a horror movie. Once he's out of earshot Alfie bursts into laughter.

"It's funny seeing you here!" Alfie freezes and his head swivels to look at the voice. "Oh. It's you. You have A LOT of nerve approaching me." "Don't worry there isn't much I can do here." "Frankly you're lucky that I have more important things to do." "Tell Mark I say hi."

We are asked to do a group perception check.

Alfie sees two birds across the park talking with a tall lanky red demon. His eyes light up and he teleports behind them.

"Hey."

They turn around confused. "I'm sorry do we know you-" and their eyes soften. "Alfie?" he smiles. "Hi..." "You're all grown up!" says his dad. "It has been 24 years..." His mother squeals "And you're coming into your eldritch powers! I take it Azathoth spoke with you?" "He did." "But I don't understand, how are you here? The deal should've kept you safe!" They wrap Alfie in a tight embrace. Alfie tenses up. They pull away "Sorry..." "It did to an extent. I came for you." They're both confused. "How would you like a second chance?" "We can't." "I beg to differ."

Then the tall red demon speaks. Alastor: I'm afraid their souls don't belong to them. Alfie: Oh, you're that deer fucker Luci mentioned. Alastor: Oh, so you've met Short Stack! Alfie: I'm not making a deal with you. Alastor: Oh, why not? Alfie: I just got my soul back from Bob. Alastor: Bob? Alfie: I do know his real name, but he is Fey. Alastor: Oh, you mean my dear friend D'Avariss? Alfie: You know him? Alastor: Of course, we're good friends. Is he still addicted to that Baja Blast? Alfie: No, we have this deal he made with me where he is under my care that way he didn't stay overnight in the hospital. That includes rehab and therapy. Alastor: I've been trying for years! But why not strike a deal with me?

Alfie shifts revealing the protective symbols on him and Rayna. They light up and eldritch magic flashes in his eyes. "You really don't want to."

Something clicks in Alfie's brain about Alastor. Just the way he stands and the way he carries himself. "You're on a leash, aren't you?" Alastor freezes and his smile falters a bit. "What did you say?" "I've lost my soul before. I know the way it sits in the heart." Alastor's demon form leaks out as he shakes "If you mention that to anyone ever again, I will kill you." "Good luck with that. You can relax. I'm good at keeping secrets."

Cut back to Nifty and Truk. Truk shows Nifty the photo Alfie gave him. "I'm looking for these guys. Not the baby, I'm friends with the baby. He's not a baby anymore." Nifty has not seen them before and recommends he try the hotel. Nifty is very eager and Truk is just like "Give me one reason why I should trust you." She plops a crown on Truk's head. "I hereby dub thee KING ROACH." Truk panics and rips the crown off of him cuz roaches. This makes Nifty cry.

Back with the others: Alastor: So, what can I do for a servant of Brick? Alfie: I wouldn't say servant. More like family friend? I would like you to release their souls back to them. And because I don't feel comfortable asking you a thing like that for nothing in exchange, I will cook you and your friends an excellent feast. Alastor: You're a chef? Alfie: I am a bird of many talents.

From the corner of Alfie's eye, he sees an amorphous blob with many eyes. "Betty White?

A look of pure rage fills Truk's face and he charges at Betty White and swings at her.

"YOU."

He misses and he tries again. And she turns into her human form. "Please. Let's just talk!" "There is nothing to talk about." Truk is shaking. "You took everything from me." "I know." "YOU KILLED THEM. YOU DESTROYED MY KINGDOM."

And Truk collapses to the ground and sobs and feels a wing wrap around him. Alfie is by his side with a hand on his arm.

"I spent my time on Earth atoning for what I did to you." "I will never forgive you." "I don't expect you to." "I'm going to kill you." She looks sad. "I can't die here. You'll need angelic steel."

Alfie wraps his arms around Truk and squeezes. And then a tall blonde woman rushes over. "NO VIOLENCE NO MURDER."

It is Charlie Morningstar. Alfie: Are you Charlie Morningstar? Charlie: Yes? Alfie: You should call your dad he misses you. Charlie: He hasn't been present in my life. Alfie: He would not shut up about you. Just give him a call. *turns to Truk* are you good to walk? Truk nods and he stands up. Charlie: I see you met my friend. Alfie: Who? Charlie: *points at Alastor* Alfie: *cups his hand around his mouth* HEY RED GUY! WHAT'S YOUR NAME? Alastor: Alastor, the Radio Demon? Pleasure to meet you. Alfie: Never heard of you. Alastor: The rumors haven't made it to the mortal realm? Alfie: Nope. Charlie: Why don't you all come up to my hotel, you can kick back and relax. Alfie: I'm cooking. Charlie: I'll help you in the kitchen.

On the way to the hotel Alfie strikes up conversation with Charlie learning that she has mommy and daddy issues, the recent extermination attempt on the hotel and the death of Adam.

Patrick: It would be really ironic if that Adam guy was down here. Adam comes crashing down on the path.

Adam: Ugh who gave me a Hot Topic makeover? Patrick: What's a Hot Topic? Alfie: My best guess is a restaurant. Adam: No, you dip shits, it's a clothing store on Earth. Alfie: How are we supposed to know? We're from different universes, Adam: What are you weirdos talking about? There's only one universe. The best universe with that blue disk! Alfie: *stops letting gravity affect him and draws his sword* Bold words to a God for a bitch stuck on the ground. I would kill you right now if you were worth it. Alfie's parents gasp. "Adult language?!" completely ignoring that Alfie is 28. The swear jar appears in front of Alfie and he is told to put a gold piece into the jar. Rayna is confused because we have all sworn before and the swear jar moves to each party member. Everyone must put some gold in the swear jar.

It turns out Adam is a flat earther and doesn't know what gravity is and we keep heading to the hotel.

We enter and see Vaggie, Angel Dust, Cherry Bomb and Husker who is at the bar. Alfie: Thank the gods I don't have to bartend tonight. Husker: What? You wanna have a bar-off? Alfie: Not really. I have my hands full with feeding you tonight. Charlie: Kitchen is in there. Alfie stops to talk to Angel Dust and Vaggie

Angel: Hey toots. Alfie: Did you just call me "toots"? Angel: yeah. Alfie: Who are you? Angel: Angel Dust. Like the drug. Alfie: I like the stripes *Points to Vaggie* and you? Vaggie: Vaggie. I know. Unfortunate name. Alfie: *confused*

Alfie looks around and notices Truk zoned out sitting in the corner. "We'll have to postpone making dinner for a moment." And he walks over to Truk and sits down next to him. Truk flinches and Rosie walks up to us and asks if we would like any chamomile tea for Truk. Alfie says yes and asks Truk a few questions. "Do you want to be left alone, a hug or physical contact or something to do with your hands?" Truk immediately pulls Alfie into a hug and Alfie wraps his arms and wings around him making gravity affect him more to act like a weighted blanket. "I won't let her hurt you."

We stay like that for a while until Truk can form sentences and comes back to reality.

Alfie cups his face and asks him if he'll be okay by himself and if he wants to let out his jungle chompers. Truk says yes to both, and Alfie gets up and gives him another squeeze before heading to the kitchen. Charlie follows him and the other party members notice Adam try to head into the hotel but be stopped by an invisible wall. Nifty is in pursuit and every 60 seconds they see Adam running past the hotel's front door and Nifty following with a knife.

Then they see some imps in the hotel: Blitzo, Milly, Moxie and Fizzarolli. Blitzo asks if anyone there has someone they want taken out.

Truk asks if they can kill a God, but they do not have the equipment to do so. The magic of eldritch entities predates the existence of time and the multiverse themselves. One of the only things that can kill eldritch entities is pure matter which can only be found in heaven.

Meanwhile in the kitchen Alfie is whipping up jambalaya, gumbo, collard greens, mac and cheese, cornbread, red rice and biscuits. For dessert there's sweet potato pie and bananas foster.

At some point a bunch of the party shape shifts into Blitzo and Rayna wonders if she can shoot Adam in the leg with her sniper rifle.

Nat 20. She waits at the window and fires hitting Adam in the leg. He goes down and Nifty starts stabbing him in the leg with a knife. She is still in Blitzo's form and has given Blitzo credit for the kill. He is now a celebrity.

Alfie steps out of the kitchen to check on Truk and he thinks he heard Adam in the hotel. "KEEP STIRRING CHARLIE! You sound like Adam, but you have better fashion sense." "I get that a lot." "How are you doing, Truk?" "I'm fine." Alfie heads back to the kitchen.

The smell of delicious jambalaya wafts through the air and Alastor perks up. He goes to the kitchen and has a taste test and asks if he can make some modifications. Alfie says yes and Alastor starts adding a bunch of spices to the pot. Alfie is taking the pie out of the oven and is curious.

Alastor offers Alfie a scorpion pepper. Alfie has a good spice tolerance and takes the pepper and eats it. "Roll constitution" "19." "That has a nice kick to it. Lovely flavor."

Alastor is impressed. He only knows 4 others who can take those levels of spice.

All the food is set out on the table and Alfie questions if we should invite Bob. Alastor summons Bob. Alastor: Alfie wanted to invite you to dinner. Bob: That is very kind of you. Patrick: How do you know each other? Bob and Alastor: We both get confused for each other a lot. They have an 11-inch height difference. Alfie: You look nothing alike. Is it the jambalaya thing? Alastor: Probably. Alfie: Damn. You might want to add me to that list. Patrick: *currently can't tell Alfie and Alastor apart from each other* Oh god which one is Alfie? Bob: You couldn't even tell the difference between him and an actual chicken. Truk: We met your mother. Bob: You met my mother? Maybe I shouldn't stay afterall. Alfie: At least take some to go. And Bob gets a to-go plate and teleports off. Bob can teleport but he prefers smoke bombs.

"Alright! Dig in!"

Patrick pulls out several shovels. "Which one?" Alfie just hands him a spoon that looks like a shovel. Everyone goes for the jambalaya. Everyone rolls for constitution, and it is delicious. Truk has a spoonful and says that it's delicious but then the heat kicks in. His chair falls backwards and Alfie winces. "Sometimes I forget that most people can't handle the heat." and he give Truk a carton of milk.

Everyone has a lovely time with food and company. Alfie winds up befriending pretty much everyone especially Angel who dotes over Paul and Clementine.

Eventually it is time for bed and we each get a room in the hotel except for Patrick who decides to sleep on the radio tower.

Alastor: Would you like to make a deal? You've lost your memories, and I can give them back. Patrick: I have my memories, but I don't have them if that makes sense. Alfie: *appears behind Alastor* He lost his deal making privileges, plus his brain would probably explode. Now I held up my end of the bargain. Give my parents their souls back. Alastor: Alright. And now they have their souls.

Before bed Truk is talking with Brick who warns Truk that if he tries to fight Betty now, he will die. He isn't ready to take her down and Alfie teleports off to talk to Vaggie.

Alfie: Is that an angelic spear? Vaggie: Yes? Alfie: Where can we get one? Vaggie: You can only get them from heaven. Alfie: You fought off an extermination and you expect me to believe that you did that with one spear? Vaggie: Fine. You can get some from Carmilla Carmine. Alfie: Thanks!

Alfie teleports back and relays this message to Truk. Truk: I could sell my soul to her for one. Alfie: Brick would probably kill me if I let that happen.

#dnd #dungeons and dumbasses #dungeons and dragons

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thanidiel · 11 months ago

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Second-Guess

TW: predatory behavior, vague description of nonpenetrative sexual assault.

There are some things that you only realize well into one’s adulthood. Past the dozen-or-so pats on the back where you tell yourself, yes, you’ve certainly made it, and, yes, you are certainly stronger than you were just a year ago (now imagine twenty years ago). And, honestly, the more people I talk to - the more I realize that there’s a generous slice of that pie of whom only pick up the extracurriculars when they’re silver, and therefore forcibly alone.

Maybe there’s something good to my mix of forced-and-chosen aloneness in that. I have a whole lot of time to myself and my own thoughts that not many people get the privilege of having, at least without the underlying and ever-present dread that there’s something better they could be doing with their time. That doesn’t exist after you’ve walked back and forth for the last tick of the clock, plus those three and a half laps before mealtime, looking for something to do until you, or rather I, must surrender to the fact that there is really nothing else to earn my keep with so I really ought to just sit down on my ass and read my books.

I think the biggest breakthrough I’ve come upon through that came about five, maybe six, years ago. And it wasn’t very dramatic, nor as heady as those less hefty gates I was opening across the timespan of a foot to my height and several lines to my face. Honestly, it came on a little mutedly, like I caught it one day looking over from where I was sipping my morning tea. And instead of having this tumultuous leap of joy for myself like it were some signifier of my completeness; I felt tired. What did it matter for me to realize that now I know what a healthy life looks like, and feels like? Where was that wisdom when I was younger? I’m not a regretter (though I must admit that I live in the past in spite of all of my work to play the romantic), and I don’t agonize over my mistakes and what things could have been if they were not made - but I do wish that I dealt with certain people less.

I wish I dealt with Captain much less. I wish I had the sense to have told Bogrum and Khargol what happened. If there were anyone upon the Dunehound, after Erissalie who was dead at that point, who could easily throw social covenant to the very winds in the name of justice, then look no further than the Tumnosh twins. Not even Sai, sadly, I think would have found much to do about it aside from reminding me to not be alone with men. She knows the world, frankly, as disappointing. So how else is the world to behave aside from just that? We women have never been the best about that sort of thing; too pragmatic to go further past your collective sigh.

Of course, that wouldn’t have been an easy lesson for me to learn anyway as a child - that you aren’t supposed to be uncomfortable around anyone. Shy, yes. Awkward, to this day. Uncertain, certainly. But, uncomfortable? No, never. A child does not have much of a refined palate at all for the distinct notes of all of these different emotions; silly, silly, me, I should have paid more attention when Hakeesh was seasoning the fish heads.

But it is nice to occasionally indulge oneself in fantasy. I tend to flavor things that way whenever Captain breaches my thoughts, it’s a little less depressing when I can interrupt my morbid rumination of how lifelong and daily that business must have simmered with the image of a little girl, or a cockeyed teenager, or a young woman, all depending, possessing the power to walk away decisively. It’s nice to take those old memories and conjecture to what they could have been, if I did not have that back-and-forth constantly with myself.

And it really was constant. Every single moment that I spent with him - constant. There are no memories betwixt us in which I was not uncomfortable, in which I am not uncomfortable. Every laugh I gave, every ‘permission’ I readily revised to be as much - I was uncomfortable. But, worse than being uncomfortable, I told myself that it wasn’t that I was uncomfortable at all.

Instead, I was ‘nervous’, I so-labeled. I just didn’t understand his allure, which he clearly had in order to captain such a loyal crew (if not outright kine… perhaps in both meanings of the word in retrospect). I didn’t appreciate his spirit as I ought to; all of my friends respected him. Jhareem and him were so close, why was it that I was the only one who seemed to find some sort of fault in the man? Why was I the only one that innately, so quietly, crumpled at the very consideration of being alone with him, or having his eye upon me?

It must have meant that I was the one in the wrong, of course. Tale as old as time, sex, and power dynamics. The one with the more outward flaws, such as the unreliable narrative of a young girl with no life experience to her name, is the person at fault. Clearly, I was only so ‘nervous’ that even the most mundane of situations made me feel besieged and boarded. And because I was so wrong in my ‘nervousness’, I wanted to love him like everyone else too. I wanted to be grateful such an esteemed gentleman would ever care to check in on me at all.

So I accepted all of the little talks he’d catch me out in the open for (I could not justify not being able to offer just a handful of seconds), the touches that I told myself were similar to how he and Jhareem interacted (how many times could I see his hand on another’s shoulder?). And it would have been nice for me if the little daydreams of walking right past him, staring dead into his eyes when his palm cupped my skin with a firm jaw, set teeth, and a firm spirit, of knowing better than to have come to him that last night, were the truth of the matter.

Alas, fantasies are fantasies, wishes are poppy, and I never threw a good punch in those years anyway. Maybe if things went that way I’d be Verita the Toothless, instead of just Verita. I think I like the level of hospitality I receive by pure virtue of my looks, as it were.

In exchange, I suppose I must admit that there is a silent little roar of anger if you sift just right and just deep enough past my breast. I don’t often say that, it’s crude and a little pointless (multiplied by the time and distance of those times now), but there it is. I’m not fond that, twelve years later, my heart seems to deflate with paper-thin, transparent and slick, walls with the thought of him; the background of his heat running up my stomach like smith’s steel, the obligatory, numb, rolling of my wrist that seemed to last that entire night.

And I’m not fond that, twelve years later, I stare at yet another letter penned by him that I, morbidly, cannot manage to simply leave in the rubbish. All these years later, the lessons learned that I needed to learn - and yet we’ve both also learned too keenly that I am nothing if not a second-guesser. I’m curious about his, their, plans as much as I want to find them absolutely dull. I’m still intimidated as much as I still want to know what Na’jhareem saw in him that I couldn’t, and I’m still held back by those revisions, those forced moments where I thought to write his actions kindly within those murky waters.

No one else hugged me after what happened, or had the time for me to cry. It counts, in this animal sort of way, as much as it also counts for absolutely nothing. I know that, so I know the answer needs to be— “No.”— just like that. And from there, I’ll just walk away and forget about it. Slippery slopes, and whatnot. A means to an end is still a pretty shitty ride, all in— “...not now. Not yet.”— all— Hey, not like that.

#verita #writing

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the-firebird69 · 1 year ago

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Couple concerns I keep having things come in here. One bug at a time oddly enough when just came by bothering him with it trying to break protection using it and using him and he catches at all time and it's very annoying, but we need to see what they're doing it because they keep saying and different bugs and the stupid things that are vastly annoying. It looks at the code today and I looked at reports and I found that they seemed different people said the same thing and I figured out why report says they're having him bitten by certain bugs and I love to die and I want to see why it doesn't say anything else no it was explained everything I said this we have to see exactly what they're doing with the information and why they're doing it and they figured out there and I figure out what I'm saying you can 100 miles for us all the time looking at stupid things and making dumb comments about what happened the other night and s*** like that we hv got a news for you we hate you and we're getting you

More news tomorrow it's getting late. Oh Stan lost another hundred million it's down to 150 million and we think The empire strikes back starts fairly soon. A New Hope begins soon but there's some things that the Battle of scarif is first he doesn't know who the fish people are though there's a huge battle coming up and is over an area in China it's between rebel forces and the smaller empire and yeah I guess Stan is going against everybody and that base has a few things in it it quite unique it's not massively powerful it's just an artifact that we want back and it's made out of jade it's the jade ship that our son saw. And we're going to have to fight for it but it's important he's threatening to destroy stuff like that and keep saying we're going to destroy you if you do if you harm our son we're going to destroy you he doesn't believe us but we will. But one of those movies starts it all off and we think our son and daughter are right it is Battle of scarif and rogue one reason being in the eastern hemisphere there are five large bases left and 10 medium half of which are almost destroyed the other half are in tax for the most part and that would include the one in India and it's really big is doing business with India and it has a lot of high-tech protections but just only four other large basis and three are under massive assault the one that's scarif maybe the last because they can't get to it and it has some kick ass AI and they want it and it keeps saying it there's a reason why this kicks off Star wars it is because Darth Vader goes and retrieves his backup force. It is another fleet and it's an empire fleet and it's all class A and it is only 50 million ships but they're hidden and he has to do some juggling during the juxtaposition of planets this fleet is extremely important each ship is about 20 miles and it is a vast fleet of Juggernaut class ships.

No kidding this is huge news and set set for an hour

Thor Freya

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incautiousdriver · 5 years ago

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home from zee

wrote a hurt/comfort somethin for my FL and SSea characters featuring gay zee captains, orchids, british cuisine and good ol fashioned Cannibalism Trauma. enjoy!

Maril knows Allison’s returned the moment her boat graces London’s waters - call it intuition, perhaps, or just blind luck, but when the Captain of the Orchid’s Lie steps onto shore, Maril is waiting at the docks with a bundle of the boat’s namesake. Well, glass replicas, but a nice gesture all the same.

Usually Allison would smile, zee-worn and shaken but happy all the same. She’d start across the pier at a jog and, once Maril had laid whatever present she’d brought down, collapse into her arms, and whisper pleasantries and milder zee-stories and whatever else came to mind. They’d go back to Maril’s home and catch up, and make up all the time lost to the zee, and love.

Today Allison does not run down the pier to her lover. She does not smile at the orchids, or at Maril. She doesn’t smile at all. Her walk is slow. She’s got a limp now, her left leg carried slightly above the ground and almost buckling whenever she has to bear weight with it.

When she gets to the end of the pier she still collapses in Maril’s arms, but she’s silent save for the sobs.

They leave the orchids by the docks - Allison protested for a moment, but Maril needs both arms to fully support her - and make their way home. She’d had no tissues, so on the way there Maril rips a small square of fabric from her dress and dries the tears (and the blood, she notices with a sharp sting of newfound concern) from her face. They don’t speak.

The couple reaches home a good 20 minutes later and by then Allison is practically being carried, near unconscious. They slump into the flat and Maril lays her on the sofa, gets that lovely flower shawl she crocheted a while ago and covers Allison with it. They’ll worry about changing clothes and getting out the smell of sweat and blood and fear later.

Only then, in a safe, controlled environment, does Maril speak.

“I’ll fix us up some dinner then. Expect you must be starving - two months on those dreadful cracker things and not a steak or salad in sight would fester anyone’s appetite.”

There’s no response from the bundle of blanket, and Maril doesn’t expect one. She busies herself with getting out pans and oil and a long, fat strip of meat from the pantry. Out comes the potatos and the peeler, the flour, milk and eggs. Luxuries. She doesn’t cook toad-in-the-hole often, and admittedly it isn’t a proper one without sausages, but it’s Allison’s favourite.

She feels eyes on her back and turns, smiles at two dull eyes watching from the dark of the blanket. Allison gets in these moods sometimes - when it’s all been a bit too much she quietens, preferring to sit in one place, watch Maril intently and fiddle with her hands, or flap them as if drying them. Maril doesn’t mind one bit.

Maril beats the eggs and the flour together, humming, and preheats the oven. Her home starts to warm, and she can hear her love’s breathing relax. She brings out a knife, her favourite one, and begins slicing the meat into shapes reminiscent of sausages.

Allison sobs, sharp and violent.

She’s over there in an instant, peeling back the blanket and drawing her close, muttering comforts.

For the first time in two months Allison speaks to her.

“The meat.” She tries to say more, but her voice is swallowed up by the wailing, and all Maril can make out are 5 words, over and over.

“The meat and the prophets, the meat and the prophets.”

Maril stays there, holding Allison close and muffling the desperate mutters.

Perhaps they’ll go vegetarian for tonight.

#sunless sea #fallen london #FallenLondonOC: Maril #SunlessSeaOC: Allison Graceful #insp by that one time in ss i had the journey of a fucking nightmare #feat: accidentally becoming a cannibal #getting assaulted by five different fish #and a lovely encounter with some terrible terrible blue prophets #also yes allison is autistic

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thewonandonly · 2 years ago

Text

save your tears — lee minho

bully!minho (stray kids) x afab!reader

genre ;; angst, fluff

word count ;; 13,375 words

warnings ;; high school!au, friends-to-enemies-to-lovers!au, cliché themes, strong language, slice of life(?), mentions of bullying (physical and emotional), ooc!chaeryeong, chaeryeong has a bit of ocd, anxiety mention, depersonalization, anaphylactic shock mention (fish), kick to the jaw (assault), reader has both parents, mother mention, principal/headmaster visit, tense family relationship.

playlist: spotify

Lee Minho. He’s the most popular boy in school: he’s as smart as a whip, as funny as a bumblebee and handsome as if Aphrodite sculpted him from clay herself. Minho had friends all over the school, in different grades and status. The teachers loved him, his peers loved him. Except one — except you. Minho and you have been in the same class since before you two could walk. Once upon a time, you used to be best friends, living in the same neighborhood and playing in the dirt while you chased him with a worm you plucked out. But his interests didn't align with your own anymore and you both drifted apart.

The geeky kid who used to wear thick framed glasses and was deathly afraid of worms and other insects didn't exist anymore. He switched to contacts, around middle school. and he could hold a ladybug, no problem, even chasing the other girls in the class with them. You still remember seeing that sight and feeling left out by him.

By the time the two of you were in high school, the wavelength was completely off — Minho hung out with a big, popular circle, the crowd everyone wanted to be apart of. and you hung out by yourself. With two or three of your friends you made in middle school. You missed him being your right-hand man and vice versa. But, what you missed even more than having him around, was him treating you like any normal person. When he saw you in the hallway, he’d either do three things: 1) he’d stare you down with the blandest look on his face until you got uncomfortable and stared down at your feet, this usually happens if he’s too far away to do anything physical. 2) he’d give you a flat tire, and watch you stumble at the pressure on the back of your shoe. This normally happens when there’s a lot of people around. He’d always give a half-assed smile and apology that you knew wasn’t real. 3) If it was just him and his friends in the hallway, he’d trip you, especially if you have books or you're looking down at your phone. It was something that always made him and a select few of his friends burst out laugh. Because of the stone glossed floor, you’d often get a friction burn, leaving you to return to the nurse’s office characteristically for the sixth time that week. How’d this happen, the male nurse would ask you as he applied anti-inflammatory cream to the burn, and there was always a voice in the back of your head, whispering, he’s only doing this to make his friend’s laugh. And, you believed it. And you’d come up with a totally unbelievable lie, such as “I tripped over my shoelace.” When the white shoelaces were completely clean, or “I tripped over air.” When clumsiness wasn’t something you were plagued with. And the nurse believed you.

You’d find yourself making up pathetic excuses for Minho, when you knew those weren’t the case. Minho would purposefully turn up the heat on your Bunsen burner, so the chemical goes spilling over, or he’s adding an extra five minutes to your egg timer in Home Ec, so the eggs burn. Or, he distracts the teacher to steal your scantron and throw your answers in the trash for a math test. You’d tell yourself, “I accidentally hit the valve,” or, “I accidentally turned up the timer,” or, “It must’ve slipped out.” You’d even relayed those excuses onto your teachers. Something inside you told you that if you keep making these excuses, maybe Minho would return to your side, he’d see how loyal you were and he’d be your best friend again.

The Winter Ball was approaching, and fast. On December 31, the ball would extend past midnight to New Years Day. It was a popular event at your school, one that your classmates prepared months before the day actually came. Girls would reserve their dresses, testing out different foundation and setting powder or spray for the longest wear time, that they could wear from 5:30pm to midnight. Boys reserved their tuxedos and made plans for transportation long before. Couples already decided the matching colors and the corsage and boutonniere to match one another, to recognize one another in a crowd. Single folks often attended, some even finding a date halfway through the night to share a New Year’s kiss. Couples were on the ballots for Winter Court, the equivalent of Prom Queen and Prom King, as well as a write-in area, where you can write in your friends name as a joke. You were excited, you already had a wonderful dress reserved just at the last minute, and your new driver’s license would come in handy at such a time.

Standing in the hallway, you pinned up a Winter Ball poster, smiling at it softly. Being in charge of Winter Ball preparations and advertisement definitely had it’s perks. Sitting on the collapsable chair, you placed out the clipboards with the ballots along them. Submitting your ballots was always encouraged, but they were still able to do it at the ball whenever they wanted, so long as it wasn’t past midnight.

You nodded, standing from the metal chair, “I thought doing something other than adding fake snow everywhere would be better for everyone.” You chuckled softly.

Chaeryeong was your friend that you met in middle school. You both bonded over how much you despised your math teacher that year, and instantly became friends. She was bubbly, and damn near perfect. It was amazing how she decided to go to Winter Ball alone despite all the others asking her out. If you recall, her response was, “I want to enjoy my night with my friend.” Before she connected her arm with yours and walked you both off to the gym where you, her and six others helped to raise the giant christmas tree you got.

“Need any help?” She grabbed a pen and began to scribble down a coiled mark next to a couple’s name, “I can flag people down here.” Placing the pen back in the holder, she folded the page and passed it to you.

“If you’d like to help, that would be appreciated.” You smiled, dropping the ballot into the giant red box beside your seat. “Heaven knows I need it.”

“I got you!” She wrapped her hands around her bags strap and dashed down the hallway, yelling something along the lines of, “Submit your ballots for Winter Ball by the North Entrance.”

Smiling softly, you silently wondered how she didn’t bite her tongue while running. Sitting back down on the seat, you greeted all who submitted a ballot, noticing some even voting for or writing in themself. And when they’d pass you the ballot to drop in the box, you’d pass them a candy cane, bidding them a good day, seeing them smile as they began to suck on it.

You sat there for the remainder of the morning, packing everything back up and hurrying to class once the warning bell rang. You pushed open the door and sat in the classroom for the next three hours, absorbing the information like a sponge.

Lunch arrived quickly. The hallway filled with students, many walking one way or the other.

“Chaeryeong!” You waved to your friend, who stopped in front of you with a bag thrown over her shoulder, “Ready for lunch?”

She nodded, “Yup.” Chaeryeong wrapped her arm with yours, “I hope we get there before the rush.”

“Me too. I really want some of that salad.” You rubbed your stomach, opening the cafeteria doors for your friend and yourself. There was a strong tension in the air — as there was every lunch. The “battlefield” was split in two: Popular folks on one end and the regular folks on the other.

Chaeryeong guided you over to a table by the doors, “What would you define as a popular person?” She mumbled, setting her bag on the table.

You sat there for a moment, digging through your bag to find your wallet, “Someone who's well known. Reputation doesn't matter. Bad publicity is still publicity.” The response was one you thought of a lot. “Although, I don't understand why someone would want to be popular in school. All of that falls away after graduation.” You shrugged, pulling the wallet out, “Found it.” You nodded to Chaeryeong and walked towards the line for lunch.

The doors opened beside your bag and Minho strolled in — Changbin, and Jisung in tow. It was like time stopped inside of the cafeteria while time continued to tick on the outside.

“Here comes those bastards.” Chaeryeong whispered, leaning against the wall as she picked at the chipped nail polish on her fingernails.

Nodding stiffly, you watched them as they walked across the room and sat at the table they regularly sat at. Minho sat beside Irene, his girlfriend for four months — who also happened to be one of your best friends in the past — and kissed her cheek, a goofy smile crossing his lips. And you couldn't help the small smile that stretched your lips once you saw his silly one, looking away.

Chaeryeong looked at you, “Are you okay? What are you smiling at?”

Really, there wasn't anything wrong with wanting your ex-best friend to be happy after your crazy adventures come to a stop, and you wanted to say so, but all that got past your lips was “Thought of something funny.” Chaeryeong and you grabbed your lunches, much to your dismay, the salads were all gone, so you grabbed something small — a chicken burger. When the lunch lady rang you up, and you both paid, you returned to your table, sitting down.

On what, you asked yourself. Standing up, you noticed the entire back of your skirt covered in chocolate, a crushed brownie on the seat. You went red in the cheeks, dizzy in the head.

“What? What’s wrong?” Chaeryeong leaned across and looked at the seat, gasping, “They put an entire lava cake brownie on your seat!”

You quaked, “Chaeryeong, do you have a coat I can borrow?” Your teeth were clenched.

As much as you made excuses for your former friend, it was nerve wracking for it to happen so often.

Chaeryeong pulled out a blue sweater, and you quickly tied it around your waist, “I’ll be back.” You mumbled and walked out of the cafeteria, your eyes glancing back at Minho across the room, watching everything happening.

You gave him a blunt smile, and stalked your way to the office. Pushing open the door, you shyly asked for a new skirt to replace the one you had on.

The receptionist was always kind, and she pulled out a replacement skirt, “What happened to the one you’re wearing now?” She asked sweetly.

No more excuses, you thought to yourself, It's time to stand up for yourself, clearing your throat, you shrugged, “Lee Minho. He’s been tormenting me for years.”

“Is that so? Lee Minho is always so sweet. It couldn't be him.” The receptionist shrugged as she typed away on the computer, “Are you sure it isn't someone else? You know, boys are mean to girls they like. It couldn't be Lee Minho, do you have any proof?”

You stood there, gaping: Proof? Other than the last four years of my life? Opening your wallet in a huff, you grumbled out a “how much is it?” Only for the receptionist to pass a receipt across the counter and advise you to visit the bookkeeper — who was all the way on the other side of campus.

Holding in a groan until you exit the office, you go to the restroom and quickly change your skirt, wincing at the brownie staining the fabric of your other. You take a look in the mirror, wetting a paper towel and clean off as much as you can of the brownie on the back of your thighs.

You took a moment to look yourself in the mirror. As much as you loved Minho, he was like a brother to you, this was a breach of your brother-from-another-mother, sister-from-another-mister contract. Sure, brothers prank their sisters, but was it really this bad? Wasn't this just hatred? You felt your eyes water as you looked at yourself deeper. There was cinched hair from the time Minho turned on the Bunsen burner without you knowing — that was a dark day. Emotional turmoil from all the teacher visits and calls, meaning your mother would corner you and ask why your grades were so bad. Your legs were bruised and tattered to how often you were tripped. You had stitches on your chin from the one time you busted said chin from being tripped. No one except Chaeryeong visited.

By the time you finished examining yourself in the mirror, you hated yourself too. The girl you knew would've been brave and told Minho what she actually thought, what she actually wanted to say. But, you’ve curled back into a shell, one you didn't know you had. Irene had left Chaeryeong and you, who’s to say Chaeryeong wouldn't leave you either?

Folding the skirt with a sniff and throwing the jacket over your arm, you headed towards the bookkeeper, paying the 15 dollars for the skirt and back to the cafeteria. There was a whisper among the air and you felt out of place.

Chaeryeong squatted on the ground, wiping the seat off with a napkin, “Welcome back.” She smiled.

“Hi.” You nodded, “I’ll wash this for you.” You lifted the coat, swinging it.

“Alright.” She hummed, “How much was the skirt?”

“15 dollars.” You sat on the seat beside the chocolate violated seat, digging in your backpack to pull out a piece of paper.

“That makes it one… hundred and 3 dollars, 65 cents.” She nodded.

Normally, keeping track of your expenses wasn't something you did — you didn't take money as seriously as you should — but the list you had was all from that month. With how often these pranks frequent, you decided to keep track of all the expenses that you spend and lose, considering you get paid once every two weeks. And when you and Minho get close again, you’d hang this debt over his head for however long it takes him to pay it off, either through payment or deeds.

“Do you know how much it would be as a total?” You tapped the pen against your chin.

Chaeryeong looked up, thinking for a moment. You could see the gears grind in her head as she calculated the difference, “In the last four years, five hundred 36 dollars and 12 cents.”

You clicked your tongue and scribbled the total. “He’s going over the average this month.” You clicked the pen closed and put the paper back into it’s safe space. “Ah, I don't even want to eat now. Who knows what they did while I was away?”

“They didn't do anything. You should eat.” She threw away the napkin, grabbed another and applied water to scrub it, “It's not like I’d let them do anything anyhow.”

“Thank you.” You ignored the feeling in your gut and pulled your tray towards yourself and began to eat the burger, a mouthful of seafood filling your nose. You spit the food out, and gaped, “There's fish in this.”

“Huh?”

“There's fish in my burger. My chicken burger.” You wiped your hands on your own napkin, “I thought you said they didn't do anything to my food.”

“They didn't.”

“How long have you been cleaning?” You looked at her, “Did you leave at all?” You questioned Chaeryeong, who sat on her knees as she began to scritch at the brownie in the crevices of the seat.

“Well,” she began, “Ever since you left the seat, I started cleaning it. And I only left to get napkins. But it's right there!” She defended herself, pointing at the despenser. “I didn't see them at all!”

“Chaeryeong.” You groaned, “Did you turn away from the table at any point?”

“Some of the napkins got stuck so I turned around for a second but I turned right back!”

You curled your fingers into your hair, pushing the meal away, “Great. Now my lunch is ruined, I lost 18 dollars today.” You grabbed the slip of paper again, scribbling down the added 3 dollars.

Chaeryeong looked down, “I’m sorry. I really tried to watch it.”

You turned towards her, shaking your head, “No. It's not your fault. If they just acted like decent people, this wouldn't have happened.” You patted her head, “I know how you get with cleaning.” You smiled at her, “I think the school should start paying you instead of the janitor.”

“They should, shouldn't they?”

The long, and very traumatic, lunch ended and you grabbed your bag, “Come on. Let's go to class.” You gripped the tray and threw the trash away. Your hands felt numb, so you buried them under your shirt, tugging at your collar, “It's hot.”

“Are you kidding? It's 32 degrees out.” She shivered, “How are you hot?” Chaeryeong looked over at you, “Hey, Y/N, you’re sweating like crazy. Are you okay?”

“Fine.” You wheezed, “I feel fine.”

Chaeryeong stood there for a second, before her face dropped, “Oh, shit.” She whispered.

It felt like air was becoming scarce. Like you have to be careful with every breath you take. You had cottonmouth, and it was hard to swallow. You felt dizzy.

“Shit!” Chaeryeong dragged you along to the nurse’s office, “Are you okay, Y/N? Do you have your EpiPen?”

You nodded, “In my bag.” You talked past your swelling tongue as she brought you into the nurse’s office.

“Why didn't you say she was allergic to seafood!” A voice whispered to Minho.

He looked at the two anxiously, “I didn't know!” He mumbled, “She didn't have that when we were kids.” He turned to Irene, “You should’ve told me.”

“I thought you knew!” She defended, “Why do you even bother bullying her anymore? It's no fun.” Irene grumbled, burying her face into the scarf.

Jisung’s hand clenched his hair, the beanie on his head flying up, “Oh, god. She’s gonna die and we’re gonna be murderers! She’s gonna die.”

“She’s not gonna die. You're so overdramatic.” Changbin mumbled, “They’re heading to the nurse's office now. They should be able to give her the EpiPen.”

“Let's just go.” Irene began to walk off, Changbin and Jisung following, Minho trailing on after a gaze at the two entering the office.

After the uncomfortable few moments where you couldn't breathe, talk or think, the swelling of your tongue was going down, your airways began to return to normal and the sweat disappeared. You laid on the bed in the nurse's office, staring at the ceiling.

Chaeryeong sat on a chair, looking at you, “I’m sorry.” She whispered.

“Not your fault.” You chuckled, “It's good to go into anaphylactic shock every once in a while. You know, for my immune system?”

Chaeryeong gave you a look, “This isn't time to be joking! Imagine what would've happened if you didn't have your EpiPen on you!”

“I always have my EpiPen on me.” You rolled your eyes, rolling onto your side, “You should get to class. I’ll be there soon.” You nodded at her.

“Are you sure?” She asked warily.

“Yes. Go.” You nodded.

Chaeryeong grabbed her bag at her side and zipped up her coat, “I’ll see you at Winter Ball prep.”

“Bye.” You waved, and returned to lay on your back.

Had it really been so long that Minho forgot about my seafood allergy, you questioned, It's only been 4 years.

The door was pushed open, and you lifted your head to glance at whoever walked inside.

But, when you speak of the devil, he shall appear. And the devil oddly looked like Minho. He nodded to the nurse and even held his stomach in faux pain, walking stiffly over to the bed next to you.

The nurse left the room not a second later. And Minho, who not even laid down an entire two seconds ago, sat up and walked around to your bed, sitting on the edge.

You had a certain anxiety boil in your chest as soon as he entered the room, and there was a settling tension that could easily be cut with a knife. You were sure something was coming, yet you weren't sure what.

“How ya feeling?” He asked softly, as if he wasn't the cause for the anaphylactic shock you experienced, probably the worst one of your life.

It came crashing over you like a wave: the anger, the frustration and the second pair of eyes you had on your back. Why you? Why were you his sole target? Why was he like this in the first place? What happened to him that made him a cruel, even bully?

Minho dedicated his four years of high school to making your life a living hell. What he didn't expect was you to retaliate. And he definitely didn't expect you to kick his ass.

After such a dumb and idiotic prank he pulled, you were in the nurse’s office, resting on the bed, and you knew, before Minho could even get comfortable and apologize for the torment he inflicted upon you, you met your foot to his face, sending him to the ground. The anxiety and panic you were plagued with seemed to leave your body the second you saw him.

You glared down at him, your eyes sharped and curled with your fists, “You messed with the wrong person, dickhead.” It slipped past your lips like velvet, and you didn't even recognize your own voice.

Minho rubbed his cheek where your foot met, and looked up at you, “What are you gonna do?”

“I don't know yet. But all I know is that I was made for this.” You leaned forward, your eyebrows creasing, “When i speak about everything you've done, you should know my words are true. The school, no — the world — will know of what you’ve done.”

Minho’s eyes narrowed, and he stood up. He was a bit taller than you, but you could still look him in the eyes, “You think just because one person says something they’ll believe it?”

“It's not one person. It's two — three if i can convince Irene.” You crossed your arms, “You aren't the only one who’s sly, Minho.”

Minho chuckled softly, his tongue prodding at his cheek, “Clearly.”

You noticed his cheek swelling as he ran his hand over it, “You’ve bullied me for the last time, Lee Minho.” The declaration was bold, strong and Minho clearly stood there, shook to his core.

You’ve always been one to avoid conflict, Minho noted, but this was an entirely new Y/N, one he has never seen. It confused him, on how the same girl at the beginning of their high school career who easily calmed down two boys before they threw fists at one another could have kicked him in the jaw just a second ago.

With your fists curled and Minho holding his swollen cheek, the sight before anyone could clearly show the relationship you had with the boy across from you.

“What is going on here?” The nurse called, his feet shoulder length apart, clearly upset and examining the situation, “Miss Y/N, did you injure Minho?” He approached and you stepped away, your anger settling as anxiety filled you. You stammered, trying to come up with a proper excuse, but all that could come out was a small “he started it.”

The nurse checked Minho’s cheek, giving the boy an ice pack, looking at you with shifty eyes, “This could get you in serious trouble, Miss Y/N.”

And it did. The nurse sent you to the office, making a call to the secretary, who called your own mother. Sitting in the office, bouncing your leg as you took in a deep breath, already holding back tears. You seriously messed up, you really, really, really, messed up. Being on thin ice with your parents was already dangerous, but when they find out you physically assaulted a boy — Not just any boy, your childhood friend and neighbor — You’d be in bigger trouble than you thought. You’d be dead. You shouldn’t be here in the office after 4 years of torment from Lee Minho, after 4 years of anxiety in your chest when you passed him in the hallway, and 4 years of absolute hatred. Your high school years were destroyed because of one person, the one person who knew all your weaknesses, the one person you trusted to keep those hidden. And yet, no one believed you enough to say whether or not he did destroy your highschool years.

The office door opened and your mother walked in, the lines already settling into her face as she looked over at you, disappointment evident in her eyes. You could feel it radiating off of her. Burying your head in your hands, you sighed, feeling tears well in your eyes.

“Mrs. L/N, thank you for coming.” The receptionist greeted, “Principal Jung will be right with you.” Looking over at you, the receptionist sighed, “This is the second time she’s been in here. She came in blathering about Lee Minho and him taunting her.”

Your mother didn't say anything, and turned to look at you as well.

You shifted uncomfortably in the chair feeling their eyes on you. Please, stop looking, you whined to yourself.

The receptionist continued, “I told her that's not possible. He's such a sweet student and he's so smart.”

Humming, your mother began to sign the visitor list, “Yes, I know. We've been close to the Lee family for years. It's hard to believe an absurd rumor like that.” She smiled stiffly at the receptionist, moving to sit beside you, her legs crossed and arms across her chest, “Get all your excuses out now.”

You looked at your mother, eyes red and your lips almost purple from the previous anaphylactic shock you went through, “Excuses?” You almost glared, “You think I’m lying about this? You think I’m lying?”

“What would Minho gain from taunting you?”

“He’s not just taunting me, Mom. He's tormenting me.” Your voice cracked, your emotions pulling through like sled dogs dragging a musher through the snow, “He has been for 4 years.”

“You didn't answer my question.”

“I don't know what he’d gain. But, whatever it is, he really wants it.” You crossed your arms, the anger bubbling with every second.

“Mrs. L/N, it's a pleasure to see you again. Although, we're here for an entirely different reason rather than a citizenship award.” Principal Jung greeted your mother, giving you a look, “Follow me along to my office.”

Throwing your bag over your shoulder, you followed behind both adults.

The principal's office was right behind the receptionist’s desk, two seats in front of her desk, “Now, let's get into the situation. Miss Y/N here assaulted Mr. Minho when he was visiting the nurse’s office for a stomach cramp.” She used the mouse to click on the computer, going through the emails from the nurse. “There are two sides of every story, and I’d love to hear Miss Y/N’s.”

You took in a deep breath, going over the last 4 years of your educational career: The physical abuse, the emotional torture. Spreading weird rumors about you, tripping you in the hall. Strategically hiding seafood in a chicken burger and causing you to go into the worst anaphylactic shock you’ve experienced. You even pulled out the 10 pages filled with wasted money and the exact cause behind them. Tattered skirt — Minho found a stray string and let you walk until the skirt was much shorter than the requirement in your second year. $15.25. School supplies — Minho and Changbin stole them and dumped them in the upstairs boy's bathroom, not only causing you to lose the Summer final study guide of your first year, but also causing a giant flooding to close off the bathroom, both upstairs and downstairs (due to water damage above a stall). $120, not including the fifty dollars of ink you had to buy to reprint the study guide. And you couldn't forget the unreplaceable earrings you received from Chaeryeong on your birthday that you wore to school, only for Minho to kick a soccer ball a bit too hard right into your face, the earring tearing through your lobe, leaving an unforgiving scar and bloody nose.

In every retelling, you could recall your mother's not so subtle eye roll or scoff. Although she didn't believe it, you could see the principal nod her head as she half-listened.

“Although, this may be true, we have zero tolerance for physical altercations. We have zero evidence that this may be true, but we have evidence that you did assault Minho.”

“What?”

“Due to this, we're going to place you on a two day suspension and your tickets to the Winter Ball be refused at the door. I’m afraid your citizenship award will also be revoked, due to this behavior.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Y/N, but you should've thought about this before you hurt one of your fellow classmates.” She typed away on the computer, “Unless you can gather witnesses, these are the terms.”

“Call in Lee Chaeryeong in class 4-C. She can vouch for me!” You looked at the woman across the desk, in disbelief this was happening.

Your mother scoffed, “Chaeryeong is your best friend, who’s to say that she won't cover for you?”

Your brows were frustratedly furrowed together, your anger seeping over, “This is ridiculous.” You sighed.

“If you had been tormented for so many years, why didn't you let someone know sooner?”

“Because my mother clearly doesn't believe me. Who knows what my dad thinks? This school is protecting him, and I, as the victim, get two day suspension and I’m unable to attend the Winter Ball.”

“I think that's all for now.” Your mother stood up, “Thank you for your time, Principal Jung. I apologize for my daughter's negligence.” She bowed deeply, “Let's go, Y/N.” She wandered over to the door and opened it for you.

You grabbed your bag, dragging it in your hand and out the office doors, stomping your way to the passenger door of the car.

You have never felt so… so angry, so disrespected and so abused.

You had every single right to be upset at your mother, at the school, and at Minho. None of this would have happened if the… fucker just told you what his issue was with you.

Every single memory in your mind of him suddenly burnt up in the fictional flame, his face scratched out like a lottery ticket and torn up like a cat using a scratching post. When your mother unlocked the door, you pulled open the passenger door with all your might, you were sure that the door was going to fly off.

She climbed in just after you, setting her purse on the jockey box, “I can't believe you would make up such a rumor like that.” She scolded, “And that fake list.”

“Make up? Rumor?” You had to pull back your voice, “You think I wanted to blow all my money on 16 different skirts in my school years? That I wanted to spend 536 dollars and 12 cents?I don't even get that much on my paycheck, Mom!”

“Cut the bullshit.” Her voice was different than when she was speaking to the Principal and the receptionist. No, she was furious, but her fury could never match yours, “When we get home, you’re going to apologize to the Lee family for what you did.”

“No. I’m not apologizing to him.” You glared, “I’m not. Why should I apologize for finally sticking up for myself? Why should I apologize for going into anaphylactic shock when they're the ones who put seafood in my chicken burger!”

“You are going to.” She turned on the car, pulling out of the parking spot, “Two day suspension. What would your father say?”

“Probably the same thing you did.” You mumbled, staring out the window with your hand against your head, “I should've never said anything.” You whispered more to yourself than anyone, but your mother still heard you, although not paying any mind.

The neighborhood you lived in wasn't as lively as it used to be. It became one that a lot of older people moved into due to the quiet nature and lack of foot traffic. Stray animals often wandered through to find comfort for the evening. Parking in the driveway, before your mother could even turn off the car, you exited the vehicle and entered the house, kicking off your shoes and stomped up to your room. You pushed open the door, throwing your bag onto the floor.

Your window was open, which ironically peered into Minho’s room.

Sitting on your bed, you recalled staying up way past your bedtime with him to communicate through stringed cups and drawings on your notepads. And up until 4 years ago, he used to throw rocks from his succulent planter at your window in the middle of the night if he was having a particular hard time sleeping. But now, you look at the window with anger, disdain. You hated it. You hated him.

Grabbing the string to the blinds, you gave one final look into the room, Minho asleep on his bed (as he got picked up early from school due to the situation) and shut the blinds, that your mother opened for an unknown reason.

Your phone chimed, and you glanced at it, seeing a text from Chaeryeong, asking what the verdict was. Giving a brief synopsis, you opened your laptop, and typed in the social media handle, his social media handle. You had followed him on social media up until this exact moment for the same reason you were unfollowing him: an impossible change of heart. You wanted to keep him on your close friends list in case he had come to the realization that you were a catch, that you were a good friend. But now, you know it wasn't possible.

You and Chaeryeong kept the text thread going up until it was time for her to give up her phone to her parents.

You leaned back in your desk chair, sighing softly.

Two day suspension, you thought, Couldn't be so bad. Sure, it goes on my record, but, it's like a break, isn't it? You nodded to yourself, already enjoying the time to yourself.

Who needs a shitty Winter Ball when I can have my own in my room?

The thoughts you had varied. You were home, alone, for 2 days. You were excited. Then you got upset as your suspension ended the day before the ball, and you already had everything you needed for the evening. Then angry again. And you could have had more time to gather your thoughts and emotions and really understand them, if it wasn't for the tapping on your window.

You jumped when you first heard it. And you even began to wonder if it was raining. Rolling your chair to the window, you opened the blinds.

The person you definitely didn't want to see even if the world was ending sat across from your window, his cheek significantly less swollen and dropped the rocks back into the planter. Grabbing the notepad beside him, he showed it to you.

“What happened? Like you care.” You scoffed to yourself, and grabbed your own to scribble down a straightforward message, tearing off a piece of tape to tape it onto the window.

Minho chuckled, “I hate you, huh? How cliché.”

You closed the blinds again, leaving the paper there before turning back to your laptop.

You’d be receiving work from your teacher's, and you were sure that the work sent would be harder, considering you're going to miss 2 days worth of lessons.

The world could send what it wanted at you, you were ready to look at the face of it all with unwavering strength. After all, if you learned anything in your mythology class, it's that Icarus laughed as he fell.

You slept in late the next morning, only for your mother to wake you up with the pull of the blinds string. You haven't spoken to her since you were in the car with her, so you just sat up without any repercussions.

Rubbing your eyes with your hand, you caught sight of the paper still taped to the window, chuckling to yourself.

Minho pulled on a sweater, still dressed in his pajamas, holding an ice pack against his cheek and eye with one hand as he scrolled through his phone with the other. You couldn't help but smile to yourself.

You remember that sweater — You had bought it for him in eighth grade. He was upset that everyone was getting something from the aquarium gift shop, so you decided to give it to him, yourself settling for a small plush of a penguin. He loved it when you gave it to him. He didn't take it off for a month.

You could see the imaginary torn, burned and scratched out memory reappear in your mind, and your smile was ripped away from your face.

No, no, you hate him, you shook your head, running your fingers through your hair.

A soft chime.

Minho: You’re staring.

The message was all you needed to stand up and close the blinds, making your way to the bathroom. There were three or four chimes from your phone and you noted to yourself that you’ll check them when you got back, at least one of them should be from Chaeryeong.

Drying your hands off after using the restroom and brushing your teeth, you tapped your phone screen, four obnoxious messages covering your screen, all from Minho.

Minho: Don't close the blinds.

Minho: I hope you know I’m sorry.

Minho: I really don't have an explanation for what I did.

Minho: What if I told you I could get you into the Winter Ball.

Now that sounded interesting.

Y/N: Tell me.

Minho: On one condition, you go with me like nothing happened.

You clicked your tongue, furrowing your brows and locked your phone.

Y/N: I’d rather be dragged through every layer of Dante’s Inferno and rot.

Typing in the password to your laptop, you opened your email, finding over 15 emails from your teachers — why they sent so many assignments, you’d never know.

Although you tried to ignore the devil next door, the text message showed up in the notification bar on your laptop.

Minho: Alright. You don't have to go with me. And you can still hold your grudge for me. You can hang it over my head for however many years.

Clicking the “x” hovering over the message, another one chimed through.

Minho: If you come to the gymnasium at 6:30, I’ll let you in through the back door.

“X”

Minho: You don't deserve to have your Winter Ball torn away from you because Principal Jung didn't believe you.

“X”

Minho: I’m sorry, for what it's worth. I hope we can be friends again.

That’s it, you clicked the message, typing out a long message as follows: “Your apology as it is now means jackshit to me. For the entirety of my high school year, I had to live in fear of you. Nothing can make up for that, except perhaps for the 530 dollars you owe me in expenses. Friendship comes at an expensive price with me, and you threw it away as if it was worthless. If you want me to forgive you, admitting to what you did and taking the proper punishment for it might fit well. Until you grow a pair, do not talk to me, do not text me, and definitely do not throw rocks at my window.”

You were pretty proud with the message, and you turned back to your work, thoughtlessly scribbling down the notes shared with you, and completed the online work assigned.

And when the 15 assignments of the day were finished, you settled down on your bed, your thoughts finally returning to your head. He wants to be friends again, you couldn't ignore the gentle smile crossing your lips, before you shook it off. That ship sailed just yesterday, you reminded yourself. But no matter how many times you shook it off, it kept returning to your face.

He really wants to be friends again.

It repeated in your head, and no matter how many you tried to make it stop, it wouldn't. It stuck to you like glue, and you rolled around onto your bed, burying your idiotic smile into the pillow, glancing at the window.

You waited 4 years for this, for him to finally admit that he wanted to be friends again. And although you were in the position you were in now, you felt like maybe that's what tipped the iceberg. Maybe he caused all these problems just for you to fight back, for you to prove yourself.

“Y/N, dinner's ready.” Your father knocked.

It was the only time he actually spoke to you since yesterday, and it was three words. Standing up from your bed, and headed down the stairs.

I wonder what's for dinner, you thought, Probably steak again. Dad always—

Getting pulled from your thoughts, you noticed three extra pairs of eyes on you: the Lee family.

Cursing to yourself, you rubbed your head, greeting the family, giving Minho a sideways glance.

“I considered since you weren't going to go over, I’d ask them to dinner here.” Your mother sat at the head of the table, your father at the other end. Minho and you were seated next to each other with his parents straight across from you two.

It was nerve wracking. Tension was high and clearly uncomfortable for everyone.

Despite you being dressed in your pajamas — short shorts and a sweater — you did assault the boy beside you, and his parents watched you like a hawk. Every move you made, they analyzed it and watched. Every bite into the food, every breath, or every shiver. You felt imprisoned in your own home.

Your mother set her chopsticks down, turning to look at you, “Don't you have something to say?” She picked up the wine glass, filled with what you assumed was chardonnay, and took a small sip.

You shrugged gently, “Are you going to believe it if I say it?”

“Depends on what you're going to say.”

You sighed, “Alright.” Setting your own chopsticks down, you smiled at the Lee family across from you, “Your son has been tormenting me for 4 years.” Looking at your mother, you pretended to feign innocence, “Is that all?”

“How dare you?” Your mother glared at you.

Minho cleared his throat, “If I may,” He smiled gently, wiping his face with his napkin, “Mrs. L/N, I appreciate the sentiment, but she isn't lying.” He mumbled.

The entire table's mouth gaped — including your mother's, who had a strong sense of pride in him being innocent. You began to pick around your food, eating whatever didn't seem too tough for you.

Minho began to explain, although you weren't really listening. And when he finished, he looked at you with his black and blue eye, almost as if he was asking for your opinion.

You shook your head, going right back to eating your meal.

“I think…” Your father started, “we own you an apology, Y/N.” He mumbled, so desperately upset he had even doubted your word.

Wiping your mouth, you stood up, “It's okay.” And left the table, walking back up the steps to your bedroom.

Minho thought this was his redemption arc, but you wanted the school to see him as he was. A conniving, self centered bully.

Pulling down the sheets to your bed, you shut your blinds and laid down to sleep the next day away.

Downstairs, your mother and father awkwardly excused the table, collecting the plates and seeing the family out. They entered the house doubting every word you said, only to leave doubting everything their own son said.

Their own son. The one they raised to be a perfect gentleman, the one they raised to treat everyone with respect no matter what.

When they arrived to the house next door, they sent the boy up to his room and informed him they’d be up there to talk to him in a moment. Obeying, Minho entered his bedroom, opening the window, only to see your blinds still closed, the reminder taped to your window.

I hate you, it read in your handwriting. And who was he to blame you? Because of what he did, he was facing the consequences. And he didn't realize how much he ruined the relationship you two had, all because he thought he was better than you.

The two of you were on the same level: academically and socially, once upon a time. And he was aware that every family compares the child to their friends, because they never see the real them.

But with his parents, it was the same conversation with everything: “Why can’t you be more like Y/N?” or “Why can't you do this like Y/N can?” They’d ask how you were doing before their own son. You were like their second child. They saw you in all your glory.

And he was sick of being compared to that glory. That's when he began to sneakily throw your test scantrons into the trash, or when he began to spread those disgusting rumors about you. He did all that out of envy. Of anger.

He understood the anger you felt when your parents wrongfully accused you of lying about what was happening. He wanted you to feel how he felt it.

But, with that, you had an award you worked hard for ripped from your grasp, suspension for assault listed on your permanent record, and of course, your Winter Ball stolen from you.

Sitting at his desk while his father scolded him, he noticed his mother taking his electronics: his cell phone and his gaming consoles. She left the laptop, but only after explaining that the only things open to him was school websites and everything was blocked.

They were disappointed in him once again.

He knew it wasn't enough for him to just admit it to his parents. He picked that up during dinner when you so much as gave him a glance. He’d have to do more. A lot more.

And he had just the plan.

The next day, despite your plan to sleep in, you woke up as if it was every other day and got to work on the assignment given by your teachers. It wasn't as bad as the day before, but it was still a lot. You went to bed without dinner that night.

You haven't spoken to Minho, however, you did relay his plan over to Chaeryeong, who agreed to help you. You both tried to come up with a convincing lie for your parents and you decided to say that Chaeryeong wasn't going, which leads to Chaeryeong sending you photos of her working on fake assignments, which makes you question what she's been doing for her having such good photos like those.

And when the Winter Ball D-Day arrived, you returned to school like it was nothing. The hallways were decorated with snowflakes and candy canes, groups chattering about how excited they were, what they were wearing and what they’d be arriving in. Although you were sneaking in, you felt left out. You didn't have anything exciting to converse with them.

“Vote for Winter Court! Last few hours before the box closes until this evening.” A voice called in the hallway, and you peeked down to see Irene waving the flyers around, stopping the passers to ask them to vote if they haven't.

Chaeryeong stopped beside you, “I didn't think I’d see that on the day of.” She held her bag straps, “Must be Winter Ball fever.”

Shrugging, you tightened your own bag straps, “Someone had to take over. I guess she was just the next best thing.”

“How do you like the decorations? I think we did a good job.”

Looking across the ceiling, you nodded, “It looks great.”

“I tried to stick as close to the plans as possible. And, I even volunteered to clean up after the ball ends.” She changed her shoes and followed you in, “Did you tell your parents what we decided on?”

“Yeah, they said it's fine.” You nodded, “They’ve been lenient since Minho fessed up.”

“I can't believe he did that.” Chaeryeong crossed her arms, pulling a face, “He should’ve done it sooner!” She threw her arms in the air, her brows furrowed.

Walking down the hall, Irene stopped you.

“Y/N.”

You jumped back, “Hi, Irene.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you're okay.” She hugged you tightly, smiling softly, “I didn't know how to react when you went into shock like that!”

You chuckled nervously, “Yeah…”

“Everyone's been talking about you!” Her eyes sparkled, “They're all happy someone finally stood up to Minho.”

“Alright. Back away from Y/N.” Chaeryeong had to lead her back to the table, “You can talk to her all you’d like after the Winter Ball.”

“Oh, did you vote, Chaeryeong? They added someone new onto the ballot.” Irene smiled.

“Yes, I did.” She patted the other girls head, “I’ll see you later.” Nodding to you, you both continued down the hallway until you reached the classroom.

“See you after school.” You and Chaeryeong shared your secret handshake before you both walked off to your respective classes.

It was so odd. When you sat down in class, everyone began to whisper, but it wasn't because of your tattered skirt, or the bandage around your head for the torn earlobe, or for your tear stained cheeks.

It was for how courageous you were to stand up to someone so cruel like Minho, how you were so brave.

Looking behind you, the small group of three: Minho, Jisung and Changbin — watched as the group gathered around your desk, as if you weren't invisible anymore. Awkwardly taking your seat, you smiled, the teacher stepping in just in time as you were getting claustrophobic.

And the entire day was like that. A relaxing class, a stressful passing period. Hell, they even gathered around you at lunch, while you ate the turkey sandwich your mother made you. They watched you like a hawk.

“So, are you going to the Winter Ball?” One of them asked.

You responded with a stiff, “No, I got banned.”

And then that gave the group something to chatter about: Banned? For kicking someone in the jaw? Banned? For sticking up for yourself? It looped around, making you question how the word got around school.

You finished your meal while they all questioned the school's moral compass, and you stood up to throw out the trash you collected from your box. And once the final bell rang, you sat back in your seat, cleaning up your desk to finish your studies for the day.

Dismissal from school was so much more odd: Some students decided to hang back in order to get ready, already finding themselves burrowing into the bathroom to stare into the mirror for the next 45 minutes while they patted on makeup and pulled on their dress.

Your two day suspension made you realize something. Teenagers hold physical experiences so much higher than the other kinds. They always think back to parties or dances and hold it up on a pedestal. Meanwhile, they have perfectly fun moments at home, yet they're decreased to nothing but a passing thought. If it wasn't for the 105 dollar collateral you placed on the dress for this evening, you would have to agree with your thoughts, but for now, you’d have to dance the night away like there was no tomorrow.

Chaeryeong stood beside your car, scrolling through her phone screen as she looked around for you. And when she saw you, she waved and smiled.

Unlocking the door, you sat down in the driver's seat with her in the passenger’s seat.

“So, good news.” She smiled, “Someone offered to help us tonight.”

“Who?” You started the car, buckling in your seatbelt.

“Let's just say that they're someone we haven't entirely enjoyed for the last 4 months, and that they just wanna make it up to us.”

You paused, turning to look at Chaeryeong. You would've been surprised at the girl who approached the window, if it would have been on your side, but instead, Irene gave a hearty “boo” through the window, Chaeryeong rolling down the window with narrowed eyes.

Irene pulled a face before she climbed into the backseat, “Hello.”

You smiled at her, “Finally joining the right side of history?”

“It's always good to do a little flip flopping now and then.” She shrugged, setting her bag down on the floor.

Chaeryeong looked at you, “Alright, so what's the plan?”

“You both walk in there like it's just you two, showing your tickets and everything. I’ll park my car at the park behind the school and sneak onto campus through the gate after 20 minutes, at 6:50. I’ll knock on the back door 5 times, and Chaeryeong, you open the door when you think the coast is clear.” Pulling out of the driveway, you drove towards Chaeryeong’s house, “That's pretty much it.”

“It feels like we're in a spy movie!”

Chaeryeong turned to look at the girl in the backseat, “What made you change your mind?”

“Well, I always knew Minho didn't like me around. And he just wanted to hit Y/N where it hurts.” She played with her fingernails, “I’m sorry I left you guys. If I’m being honest, spending time with those three is stressful! They're so dirty.”

You looked in the rearview mirror, smiling at Irene softly, “It's all cool, Irene. Everyone wants a taste of popular life.”

Pulling up to Chaeryeong’s house, the three of you grabbed your things and climbed out of the car. You had your dress thrown over your arm and your backpack hanging off your shoulder.

The scene of entering her home, too excited to greet her family and preparing for the night with gentle music in the background felt exactly like a 80’s movie. Scene-for-scene, Irene getting dressed in the closet as she chattered with Chaeryeong about what type of music she hoped they’d play and if she’d find the perfect person to dance to a slow song with. Chaeryeong pulled on her own dress, dusting a gentle blush on the apples of her cheeks and her nose, looking at you, who was nearly bending over backwards to tie the upper corset of the dress.

“Y/N, come sit down! Let me do your makeup!” She smiled, patting her bed, crossing her legs on the vanity chair.

“I don't know…” You mumble, “Last time you did my makeup for an outing, you made me look like that dragon from Shrek.” You laughed, teasing the girl.

Chaeryeong sputtered, “Fine, I promise I won't make you look like the dragon from Shrek, or any other freaky characters or whatever.” She patted the bed again.

You sat down, anxiously fidgeting with the skirt, going over the plan once more, including collateral damage in case a teacher is suspecting something, before you finally voiced your anxiety, “What if this is all a hoax?”

“What do you mean?” Irene swiped the lip gloss across her lips, popping them twice and cleaning the edge with her finger.

“With Minho.” You mumbled, “What if he tipped off the principal about what I’m doing?”

Chaeryeong shook her head, “We won't let that happen, Y/N.” She lined your lips slowly, “That's what Irene and I are here for.”

Irene settled behind you, gently brushing your hair back with her fingers, “I won't let Principal Jung get close to you.”

Chaeryeong smiled softly, “There. Makeup's all done. Irene’s doing your hair. And we still have 40 minutes left to spare. We can get pictures and everything done then.”

You smiled gently, “Even if I don't get to go in, I’m happy I could have this experience with you two again.”

“Principal Jung’s a jerk for taking away the Winter Ball for you. It's your last year at the school.” Irene mumbled.

Chaeryeong joined in, “And, you helped decorate. The least she could have done was let you go.”

You chuckled, “It was my own lack of judgement. When I saw his face, I wanted to do nothing but punch him.”

Irene pulled her hands away from your hair, smiling, “Picture time!” Before adding the final touch; a white feathered headband, clipping it into your hair.

The three of you all wandered down the steps, Chaeryeong’s parents at the bottom of the stairs, a camera in her dad’s hands and her mother gushing about how wonderful the three of you all looked. Guiding you all along to the area in front of their fire place, Chaeryeong stood in the middle, placing her hand on her hip and nodded to her father.

“Big smiles.” He chuckled, the shutter closing and capturing the photo. You all took a few more, taking joking pictures with one another, serious ones, and even having individual pictures taken of each of you, with one of the others holding you as if they were your date to the dance.

Chaeryeong's mother chuckle, "Okay, you three. You should head out before you waste the dance just taking pictures."

The three of you waddled to the front door, Chaeryeong's mother giving a peck to her head, and rubbing her cheeks, smiling softly.

Irene and yourself headed out to the car, climbing into the front seats.

And when Chaeryeong joined, she climbed into the backseat, "Why do you get shotgun, Irene! You just joined us again."

"Move your feet, lose your seat!" The two bickered back and forth.

You chuckled, turning down the music a bit to listen to their argument. It was like that the entire ride.

"The front seat is about loyalty, Irene! And you decided to not only be friends with Minho, but to date him!" Chaeryeong scolded.

Irene fired back, "He's the one who asked! I went in as a secret spy."

Pulling into the parking lot, you took your regular spot and shut off the car, "Okay, let's go over the plan one more time."

Chaeryeong groaned playful, "At 6:50, we open the back door of the gym to you, and then we party like we've never partied before."

"Yeah." Irene nodded.

You looked between the two, "What are you both going to do if a teacher comes and asks what you're doing?"

"I'll peek my head out and knock three times while you go run off to the girl's locker room and hide away in the shower stalls. And I'll tell the teacher I must've heard something." Chaeryeong responded plainly, already getting annoyed of the rehearsals.

Irene mumbled along.

You sent them a thumb's up, "See, was that so hard?" You laughed, "Alright, get up to the door and turn in your ticket. I'll be at the park behind the school until-"

"6:50 on the dot!" You all blurted out together, Chaeryeong and Irene giving each other an eye roll before they slammed the door and headed to the front doors, turning in their tickets to join the dance.

You pulled out from the spot and drove around the corner to the park, plopping down on a park bench, sifting through your bag. You mindlessly began to reorganize your bag, keeping your phone propped up to show the time.

"20 whole minutes." You sighed to yourself, tapping the items against the table, clicking your tongue.

You could see the gymnasium door just across the way, your eyes catching on the door, hopeful.

God, please let this work, you thought to yourself.

It never stuck with you just how screwed up this whole situation was: You lost a citizenship award you worked so hard for, you planted the trees just outside the baseball field for Arbor Day, for Christ sake. You donated approximately 6 pints of blood for blood drives. You volunteered at the hospital. You volunteered at the dentists. You volunteered at shelters, the same exact shelters Minho picked his three cats for adoption, it so happens. You didn't just lose your citizenship award, no, you lost all dignity in the eyes of your teachers, your supervisors. You felt so wronged because, what? You threw a little kick to the boy who has been taunting you?

You set up the entire Winter Ball. You were the one who introduced it to the council after it was pushed back for something else. You were the one who designed it. You were the one who made the ballots based on the students suggestions. You did this, all of it, aside from physically setting it up. You couldn't take credit from Chaeryeong and the others who worked so hard to make it a reality.

No, it wasn't just you who did all of it. It was plenty of others. It was the students who donated money to help make their dream a reality. It was the students who voted. It was the council for agreeing to it in the first place. It was your parents for getting you all those volunteering hours, it was your parents who gave you direction.

And, God, you didn't want to admit it, but it was also Minho. You could remember his voice as a child, saying, "If we ever have a dance, I'll take you as my date."

Maybe you haven't been completely honest to yourself. To anyone really.

You loved Minho, and maybe the whole reason you let him get away with everything before was because you couldn't blame him; you blamed something else. You blamed his parents for being more obsessed with you than him. You blamed media for telling people that if a boy is mean to you, he like-likes you.

And Minho, in all his bitter rage to his parents, you couldn't blame yourself for loving that smart-as-a-whip, as-funny-as-a-bumblebee and handsome-as-hell, Lee Minho.

The realization almost brought you to tears. But, leaning your head back just as the tears welled, you decided to sacrifice your confession, rather than your makeup.

You grabbed a tissue from your bag, holding the corner to your waterline and used it to soak up the tears in both eyes.

Fanning your face as you looked back at your phone, you realized the time, shoving everything back into your bag and stood up, nearly dashing to the back door of the gym, knocking 5 times.

Chaeryeong opened the door almost immediately, waving you along.

"We did it." She cheered, "We did the plan!" She smiled brightly.

You looked at Chaeryeong as you squeezed through the door, holding your clutch bag in your hand, "Where's Irene?"

Chaeryeong looked over her shoulder, "On the dance floor."

You looked at the girl dancing with someone, smiling to yourself, "She looks happy."

Chaeryeong nodded, "It's so fun in here." She smiled, bouncing on her toes, "Come on! Let's go!"

You followed her to where Irene was, dancing with her.

Minho stood off in the corner of the gym, his hands in his dress pockets.

The disco lights on top of the stage echoed off your vibrance. The white feather headband around your head shined just as bright as your smile. The white dress encasing you so brilliantly, he could almost think you were an angel.

The music echoed off the walls, Heaven by EXO played, Minho's thoughts echoing in the song, silently wishing that you picked up the message that he was telepathically sent you.

All he saw was you in the room, among all the bodies that danced, he was only focused on you.

Minho couldn't help the gentle smile crossing his lips as he saw you dancing with Chaeryeong and Irene, the laugh escaping your lungs at a joke one of the two said. The gentle reminder from his swollen cheek and black eye echoing in his head.

"Dude," Changbin nudged Minho's back with his elbow, "Go talk to her."

Minho shook his head, "She won't talk to me." He mumbled, kicking up an invisible piece of dirt with his shoe.

"Well, we're gonna go dance." Jisung mumbled, "If you wanna join, you know where to find us."

Changbin and Jisung began walking off before Minho stopped them with his hand, "Wait." He started, "You guys got all those ballots in, right?"

"Yes, dude. We put them in all around the school." Jisung shrugged, "Don't worry, Minho. She'll come around."

Minho looked over Jisung's shoulder, glancing at your figure, "Yeah, you're right."

Jisung scoffed, "Of course I am." He shrugged.

The two wandered back to their dates, grabbing their hands and leading them to the dance floor, not very far from where you three were.

Irene greeted the two, smiling softly and talking over the music. And it seems, as aware you've been in the past, that wherever those two were, Minho wasn't far behind. Turning your head over your shoulder, you saw Minho standing at the refreshments table, nodding his head to you.

And by some miracle, you nodded back, turning back to your friends, whispering to Chaeryeong about who knows what, and looked back at him, the well in your eyes clear under the fairy lights and led's.

He wanted you to have fun. And he was sure to let you have it, even if it meant destroying his own evening.

Chaeryeong rubbed your back as you whispered to her, "Hey, Y/N, you'll be okay." She calmed you down, "I understand the anxiety, but I promise you, I won't let anything happen to you here. Not tonight. Not after everything we all went through."

Your chest heaved, "Yeah, you're right." You nodded.

Who were you to let your anxiety settle in your stomach at the sight of your oh-so gracious enemy? That same enemy you've had feelings for ever since he first got scared by that worm you held out to him on a rainy day? That same enemy you've had so many movie nights with?

No, you weren't going to let him get the best of you, not tonight; Especially not when Jisung was dancing like an old grandpa at his granddaughter's wedding.

Minho peeked over his shoulder again as he walked to the entrance of the entire gym, swirling the fruit punch in his hand.

Suddenly, an idea popped in his head. Not one of malice, but rather a way to settle your anxiety a bit. Something that'll get the supervisors out of the way. So, they didn't notice you.

Clicking his tongue, he grabbed a lemon from the refreshments table, something that was used as decoration and immediately squeezed it in his drink. Looking around, he wandered back to his spot by the door, and took a sip.

He pulled a face, smacking his tongue in disgust, "Oh, yeah. That's the real deal." He gagged. Holding up the drink, he looked at the bottom, hoping a seed or nothing got into his drink, just to really hitch off his plan. Wandering over to a supervisor, he gagged again, "Excuse me." He started, and when they turned he began to pull off the lies he's become so good at, "This... This fruit punch, I think the supervisor there spiked it, or something. It tastes off." He shrugged.

The supervisor he told immediately looked at the refreshments table and furrowed his brows, "May I take a sip?"

Minho passed him the clear plastic cup, "All yours. I think I'm good for the night." He held his hands up, straighten his face.

The supervisor took a sip, their brows furrowing, "Oh, that's foul!" They complained, "Thank you for telling me, Minho. I'll get on that immediately." They threw the drink out and called the security over.

Minho walked off, laughing quietly to himself, stuffing his hands back in his pockets.

The supervisor asked the other to follow them out, and just like that, all the other's followed, wanting to see what was going on with the refreshments supervisor.

His eyes were captivated by you, leaning against the table of the unattended refreshments, letting out his own little laugh as Changbin and Jisung were dancing like idiots, his eyes stuck on you.

He couldn't get over how... beautiful you looked. Ethereal, even. Minho was shocked how no one else was looking at you, how no one was as captivated as he was.

And he would've mustered up the courage to walk up to you if it wasn't for the student announcer walking across the stage, clearing their throat and tapping on the microphone to get the attention of the student body.

"Attention all students!" They started, "Congratulations to all of you for joining us at this wonderful ball. None of this would've been accomplished if it wasn't for all your support and ideas. We appreciate it so, so much."

The crowd cheered, Jisung letting out a loud whoop at the thanks.

"This evening, in this envelope, I have the official results for our school wide ballot that will decide our Winter Ball Court for this event." They smiled as another eruption of cheers came out, "Now, please, join me in this wonderful reveal of our court."

Tearing open the envelope, Minho smiled to himself, looking up at you as he hoped you were just as excited for this reveal as he was.

"First, our Winter Ball Princess, is..." The anticipation built.

Jisung and Changbin obnoxiously hyped the crowd with what sounded like barks, and whoops, and cheers.

"Bae Joohyun, also known as, Irene!" The student announcer clapped.

"Oh my god, Irene!" Chaeryeong hugged her friend, a wide smile on her face, "You won Princess!"

"Congratulations, Irene!" You hugged her tightly, "Go up there and get your prize."

Irene smiled brightly, giving Jisung and Changbin and their dates their own hugs, as she walked up the stage, her dress glittering in the light.

"For our Winter Ball Princess this evening, we'll be gifting her not only a crown, but a $200 dollar gift certificate to our proud sponsor, Seoul Queen Spa!" The student announcer held up the certificate, passing it to Irene.

"Woo! Let's go, Irene!" Jisung cheered, clapping loudly, leading the entire crowd to follow.

Irene bowed deeply, giving her thanks.

"How wonderful!" The announcer clapped themselves, "Alright, who is our Winter Ball Prince?" They cleared their throat once again, "Our Winter Ball Prince will be getting a $150 gift certificate to, I'm sure, a school favorite bakery." They smiled, the crowd cheering, "Our Winter Ball Prince, is..." They drummed their hands on the podium, "Seo Changbin!"

"Let's go!" Jisung cheered, giving his friend a giant hug, patting his back with his hand, "Hey, man, get me one of those chocolate muffins at that bakery."

Changbin chuckled, pushing the younger's head playfully, giving a kiss to his date's cheek and walked up to the stage, just as everyone began to cheer loudly, a chorus of his name being chanted. Jokingly, Changbin waved his head, bowing and letting the announcer place the crown on his head.

"Now, for the moment you've all been waiting for. The Winter Ball King and Queen!"

Another cheer, Jisung making obnoxious noises just as it was announced, and Chaeryeong letting out her own cheer.

"Our Winter Ball King and Queen will not only be getting special gifts, our King and Queen will have a special date together, provided by our wonderful supervisors here this evening." The announcer smiled.

"Oh, this is so exciting!" Chaeryeong squealed, "So many weeks of getting people to vote! I wonder who won!"

"I know!" You both held each other's hands in anticipation.

Looking up just a bit, everything almost moving in slow motion, you caught eyes with Minho, feeling your heart pounding in your chest.

You could swear that the glimpse Minho sent to you had a smile across his face, a mischievous glint in his eyes, one with a bruise decorating his orbital. And when you met your unwavering eyes at him, he bit his bottom lip and turned his head away from you.

“And the Winter Ball Royal Court starts with...” the student announcer opened the envelope, a smile crossing their lips as the turned the card to the crowd, “Y/N!" They called.

"Y/N, you won!" Chaeryeong gasped, "Those write in ballots must've been the one's who elected you!"

"Huh, probably." You mumbled.

"Well, go! Go! Get your crown." Chaeryeong almost pushed you to the stairs.

You're eyes widened while looking at Minho, the fear and hyperawareness that this could become a Carrie situation.

“Come on up, Y/N.” The announcer called, holding a hand out to you, helping you up the steps. The anxiety that settled inside your chest drowned out the applause around you as you scanned the ceiling before you relaxed and accepted the crown to be placed on your head.

The announcer turned to the microphone, smiling, “The final winner for Winter Royal Court is... Lee Minho.” They clapped.

You froze, looking into the crowd as Minho pushed past some students, nodding to them in response to their congratulations. He bent down for the announcer to place the crown on his head, the crowd laughing with him just as he planted himself right beside you, scratching at the black eye, wincing just a bit at the bruising.

Minho looked at you, clearing his throat, “You look nice.” He whispered, fixing his suit.

“As do you.” You mumbled bluntly, taking a small step away from him, “So, how’d you win? We both weren’t on the ballot.”

“Jisung and Changbin dumped some faux write-in ballots in the box.” He nodded to his group of friends, giving a high five to Changbin, “Thought this would be the easiest way to talk to you without you physically assaulting me.”

The announcer smiled, “Now, it’s time for the dance with the winter court! Everyone, grab a partner, and get ready to share the waltz with one another.”

The lights dimmed and the music began. Minho turned to you, settling one hand on your hip, and the other holding your hand. “I hope you know I don’t hate you.” he started, “They were just impractical jokes.”

You could remember vividly when you were imagining this as a kid; On The Snow by EXO would be playing, Minho holding your hand in his, and you both would share a meaningful moment.

And only two of those were true; On The Snow was definitely playing, and Minho was definitely holding your hand.

You furrowed your brows, “Impractical jokes? You gave me food poisoning on one occasion, and the flu on the other.” You glared at him, "I could've died a few days ago."

Minho sighed, "Listen, I'm sorry. Okay? I didn't mean to try to kill you." He sighed, "Isn't that what all boys do to their crush?"

“No.” you growled, “Normally, boys would just give their crush their jacket on a cold day, or flowers when they’re sad. What you did was just... cruel.” You looked away, feeling both embarrassed and upset.

Minho chuckled softly, shaking his head, “You're thinking of chick-flic endings.”

“There's nothing wrong with someone wanting to be treated correctly.” You squeezed his hand until your fingertips turned white, “Who knows? Maybe if you did treat me with an ounce of respect, I could’ve been your date tonight instead of you having to find a way to talk to me and ruin my winter ball.”

Minho looked at you softly, "Let's start from the beginning."

"What?"

"From the beginning. From that day I told you you'd be my date to something like this."

You looked away, "I can't forget what you did to me."

"I never said you did. I just said we can start from the beginning." He lifted your head with his finger, "You can hang all of those cruel things I did to you over my head."

Your heart thumped in your chest, "You owe me 536 dollars and 12 cents." You mumbled, "And, I get to choose the movies we watch for a month."

Minho smiled, "Deal." Using his fingers to brush an invisible strand of hair from your face, he held your face in your hand for a little bit, "Can I kiss you?"

You looked at him softly, "You haven't had any fish, have you?"

Minho chuckled, "No, I haven't. Not today, at least." He smiled, "Not tonight. I wouldn't have done that to you."

"Then, yes." You whispered.

All three came true, you thought to yourself, feeling your inner-child jumping with joy.

But before he could press his lips against yours, a loud booming voice stopped you both.

"Miss Y/N!"

"Oh, no." You turned to find the principal entering the gymnasium, "Gotta run." You whispered, lifting your dress so you didn't trip over it as you ran down the steps and out the back door, dashing to your car.

The principal and other supervisors stood at the exit and watched as you sat in your car, a giant smile across your face as you watched them right back.

Minho raised his arms in frustration, debating on what exactly to do in this situation.

Changbin chuckled, "Modern day Cinderella."

"But she didn't drop a shoe." Jisung shrugged, leaning against the edge of the stage, before gasping, "But she did leave that!" He pointed before grabbing the discarded item on the ground.

It was the white feathered headband, and Minho nearly snatched it from his hands, looking at the door you ran out.

Chaeryeong and Irene shared a look, before they ran out the door the supervisors returned through.

Chaeryeong paused, "We're really sorry, miss, but what you did was... incredibly wrong to do." She looked at the principal with anger in her eyes, "Sorry, again!"

Minho hurried down the stage and followed the two out the door, "Sorry, miss, but, maybe you should've listened to your number one citizen!" He shouted as he ran behind the two girls, following them to your parked car.

"Minho?!" Chaeryeong shouted behind her, "What are you doing?!"

"I'm not letting her think I don't care again." He chuckled, knocking at the window of your car, motioning for you to roll down the window.

And when you did, Minho popped his head through, kissing you in the lips, the headband forgotten in his hand.

You gasped softly, feeling all that anxiety you had melt away, holding his wrists as he kissed you before he pulled away to breathe.

Minho smiled softly, "I think I love you, Cinderella."

You chuckled softly, "Come over and we can talk more about it." You ran your thumb across his swollen cheek, and his bruised eye, a sad reminder of what the two of you experienced.

Minho laughed, setting the headband just the way it was on your head, "I'll see you then."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

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shipwreckedwithcaptainmarrow · 3 years ago

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On March 8th, supposedly, female pirate Ann Bonny (Ann McCormac) was born in Kinsale, County Cork, Ireland, in either 1697, 1700, or 1702.

While the year of her birth varies based on different sources, March the 8th is the supposed date as written by author Richard Pallardy of Brittanica. In any case, Anne was born reportedly as an illegitimate child between her father who was a lawyer, named William McCormac and one of his servants. Around age 10, her father would relocate their family to Carolina across the Atlantic, which usually meant “Charles Town”, which is where Anne Bonny is said to have continued growing up at. The family supposedly ditched the “Mc” prefix to help blend in more to the Charles Town citizenry. It was said due to her temper that she had stabbed a servant girl with a table knife at age 13, however there is no documentation of said incident.

Around age 15 she fell in love with a poor sailor named James Bonny who reportedly was interested in inheriting William’s estate, and when her father disapproved of their union, she was kicked out of the house. In search of better work, James took her to Nassau where they wedded, and where he got roped into piracy, which in turn would get herself roped into piracy later after meeting Jack Rackham.

In late August of 1720, she would abandon her husband and assist Rackham, a man who had formerly sailed under Captain Charles Vane, became a captain himself, and had since accepted the King’s Pardon, in stealing the sloop William from Nassau Harbor. Either assisting in the William’s capture, or quickly joining the crew from a Dutch ship at sea, female sailor Mary Read would serve alongside Bonny. For two months they sailed around Jamaica, assaulting several fishing vessels, before being captured in late October or early November of 1720.She is considered to have “dropped out of history” after her captivity, as she was not hanged for claiming to be pregnant from Rackham.

It is often speculated that she was bailed out by her father and that she came to reside back in Charles Town, marrying a man named Joseph Burleigh in 1721 the following year, having five children, dying on April 25th in 1782, and becoming buried “in a York County, Virginia, cemetery.” However, despite this ‘folklore’ there was a documented burial of a woman named “Ann Bonny” on December 29th, 1733, in a ledger for the same Jamaican town (Spanish Town) where she was tried for piracy and where Mary Read was buried. As for her name having the “e” added, her name later on became published as Anne after her lifetime and became the accepted spelling of her name which is still popularized to this day.

In 1725, an author suggested Bonny and Read were lesbian lovers, without any evidence, and in the 1960s his writings became “evidence” and the story of their love was pushed to the public. Similarly, John Carlova’s writings in the 1960s also became “facts” of Anne’s life, written as well without sources backing claims, in particular the myth/fact of her return, marriage, children, and burial in Virginia. His writings also became the basis of ‘fact’ and were continued by authors Tamara East, Constance Bond, and David Cordingly. Which has all led to a tangled web of speculation presented as facts about “Anne,” all making their way into the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Anne’s Wikipedia entry, and countless books and magazines including the Smithsonian Magazine. Ann Bonny’s life, from the get go, has been blown out of proportion for the purposes of media consumption since 1724, beginning with inconsistencies by Charles Johnson, to the statue established in 2021 in reverence to ‘her and Read’s love and breaking gender boundaries’.

But in any case, the general public has always been interested in the depiction of a feisty Irish female pirate, who’s life was poorly documented, and met a vague mysterious ending. Anne Bonny lives on in the form of various statues depicting her, Clara Paget's wonderful portrayal of her in Black Sails, another recent depiction in Netflix’s “The Lost Pirate Kingdom,” and remains in Charleston's memory here only in the name of the 'Anne Bonny's Lash & Skin Boutique' day spa.

(pictured is Anne Bonny as portrayed by Clara Paget in Black Sails, Charles Town as depicted in Black Sails, Anne’s depiction in the “Sisters of the Sea” bronze statue in the Bahamas, and the recently installed Anne Bonny & Mary Read statue at Execution Docks at London in 2021 by Amanda Cotton)

#Pirate #Pirates #Pirate History #Anne Bonny #Ann Bonny #18th century #piracy #lesbian #Nassau #Charleston #Jamaica #Statue #Black Sails #Lost Pirate Kingdom

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mochegato · 3 years ago

Text

Even the Losers

Chapter 15

Chapter 1 Chapter 14

Possible trigger warning. I mention that sexual assault and worse has happened during some akuma attacks. I don’t describe anything or say who it happened to (it didn’t happen to anyone we know) but wanted to warn readers that it is brought up.

This room really was a ridiculous room, Marinette decided. The dining table was large enough to seat twenty. Who needed a casual dining table that large? Honestly. Not to mention, a dining table that large meant there was more than enough room for Alfred to join them, but he never did.

And bringing the food out on silver trays. Did they do that just because she was here? She kind of hoped it was because the idea of doing it everyday… She looked over to Adrien to roll her eyes at the opulence, but he just went with it like it was completely expected. Marinette shook her head. Damn rich people. She looked up just in time to catch Duke’s eyes. He looked at the silver trays with a pointed look and rolled his eyes. Marinette giggled and nodded back.

“I forgot to ask the other day,” Dick started with a disarming smile. “How did you two meet and when?”

And there it was again. A perfectly normal question. A very common question. A question they would expect to be asked. But there was something off in the way he asked it. Something that just triggered her senses. She could feel a difference in it, like its very existence disrupted the peace of the dinner.

Adrien looked over at her with a broad smile and nodded to her, letting her know she was supposed to answer it. She plastered on a friendly smile. “We met in school, actually.”

“Oh? Maternelle or older?” Dick smiled again, his face perfectly emulating interest in his sister’s friend. Markov would never be able to tell the difference. But Marinette could. He was fishing. She just didn’t know what he was fishing for.

“Older,” she answered curtly.

Dick seemed to get the message that she was not happy and backed off, metaphorically and literally, leaning away from them in his chair. His smooth smile morphed into a mock frown. “Oh that’s a shame. I was hoping for stories or pictures of baby Marinette.”

“Oh, baby Mari was adorable,” Adrien gushed, with a teasing grin to Marinette.

Tim quirked his head to the side. “I thought you said you two didn’t meet until you were older.”

Adrien’s grin widened. “We didn’t. Not until we were in collège and she yelled at me for something I didn’t do.”

“I didn’t yell at you,” Marinette objected in mock offense, slapping his arm. “I informed you that you were a contemptible dirtbag in a harsh tone.”

Jason barked a laugh. “Right, big difference.”

Marinette whirled on him, her serious expression contradicted by her lips trying to quirk up at the corners at his teasing. “There is! It was a quietly harsh tone. There was no yelling.” She turned back to Adrien. “And I apologized for that.”

“Yeah, like years later and not because you wanted to,” he rolled his eyes.

“Only because I couldn’t really talk to you for, like, ever after that,” she groused playfully. She pushed her food around on her plate with a pout.

“Apologies are hard,” Cass nodded in agreement.

Marinette beamed at her. “Yes. Thank you, Cass. See,” she motioned to Cass so Adrien would look, “Cass has my back. She agrees.”

“With what?” Duke laughed.

“Your input is not needed!” Marinette chastised him, trying hard not to laugh. But when Duke cracked up and started laughing hard enough to have him gasping for breath, so did Marinette.

“Okay but…” Tim started after they’d had enough time to recover.

“Oh, right!” Adrien shook his head. “There was an akuma that de-aged people. A mom sad her son was going off to university, so her power was to turn everyone into toddlers again. Marinette got hit pushing me out of the way of the beam. She turned into the cutest, pudgiest, little toddler you’ve ever seen.”

Marinette batted his hands away when he leaned over to pinch her cheeks. He chuckled at Marinette’s pout. “I hated that one. I felt so helpless,” she moaned.

“I loved it,” Adrien smiled. “I got to see all of you guys as babies. Most of you guys knew each other since childhood so you knew what each other looked like. Alya and I were the odd ones out. Plus, no pain.” He looked back to the rest of the family. “That was rare; an akuma that didn’t cause massive amounts of pain or trauma.”

“Were they that bad?” Duke asked hesitantly, afraid of the answer he was going to get back. He had purposefully not looked too hard into akumas precisely because he was afraid of the answer.

Marinette stared intently at her plate in thought, trying to condense the experience into light, dinner topic worthy descriptions because she desperately did not want to discuss akumas tonight… or ever again. The very thought caused shivers down her spine. “They were… most weren’t… didn’t affect…” Her words got cut off as her body froze with realization. Her face scrunched up in pain and she gasped after not having breathed for the last few seconds. She suddenly pushed away from the table and stood up. “I think… I need to leave.”

Bruce stood up at the same time and reached out for her. “Marinette are you okay?” His concern amped up when Cass stood up as well and frowned with concern.

Adrien got to her quicker, gently laying his hands on her arms. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about it. We can talk about something else. You talked with M. Fox this morning, right? We can talk about that.”

Marinette shook her head. “I can’t…” she couldn’t finish her sentence, her breath was becoming more ragged the longer she stood there.

“Way to go, Timmy,” Jason groused.

“I didn’t do this!” Tim objected motioning toward Marinette and standing up too. He wasn’t exactly sure what standing up was supposed to accomplish. She didn’t know him and definitely wouldn’t be comfortable with him trying to comfort her. It was more of a show of support. Whatever was going on, he didn’t want to stay sitting like it was nothing.

She looked toward Bruce, her eyes slightly glazed over. “You… you knew. You knew about what happened when I was fourteen… and fifteen… and sixteen. You said you checked in on me frequently, so there’s no way you didn’t know. You knew and you just… rather than admit I was…” She looked down at the floor, her face scrunching further as she tried to reconcile the new information. She backed away more and shook her head, no longer really hearing anything in the room, including Adrien’s loud gasp of realization. “I… I can’t… be here. I have to… I need time to…”

She turned and rushed through the door before anyone could stop her. She could feel herself shutting down and she needed to stop it. She knew she needed to stop letting herself turn numb. She gritted her teeth as her frustration with herself increased. Why couldn’t she just react normally? Nobody else on her team did this. None of their friends reacted this way anymore. What was wrong with her that she did?

And she had to do it there, in front of everyone. She had to do it in front of him. Why couldn’t she hold it together for one freaking dinner? She’s gone through worse. Why couldn’t she just have DEALT with it, like an adult? Now she probably ruined the start of their relationship. He was probably going to hate her. He didn’t want to know about that stuff. He didn’t want to deal with those kinds of problems. Those were her issues, not his.

He wanted a daughter for the press, not a hot mess of insecurities and anxiety. He wanted a happy, light, cheery child. That’s why he sent her away, so that’s who she would become. That’s probably why Dick was trying to ask all those questions, so they could know just what kind of a broken, messed up, embarrassment of a disaster they were taking on with her. They needed to know what to prepare for when the press started getting involved.

Back in the dining room, Jason had gone from laughing, to confused, to concerned, to fucking pissed in a matter of seconds. “What did she go through?” Jason asked through gritted teeth.

Adrien glared at Bruce waiting for him to answer the question. Bruce looked down dejectedly and Adrien scoffed. He didn’t bother ripping his glare away from Bruce when he answered for him. “She means Hawkmoth. She means M. Wayne knew what Hawkmoth was doing and let her stay there when he could have pulled her out at any time. She means he let her stay and get tormented rather than admit she was his daughter.”

“That is not why I didn’t pull her out of Paris,” Bruce insisted weakly.

“I thought the damage done by Hawkmoth was all reversed,” Duke offered.

“Oh, the physical damage was reversed, but the psychological wasn’t. The memories weren’t. Hawkmoth used people’s negative emotions to turn them into monsters, AS YOU KNOW,” he snarled at Bruce. “For years, if you had a bad day, if you got sad, if you grieved, you could end up killing or torturing or raping someone, maybe someone you cared about, maybe someone you loved, maybe more than one.

“Didn’t even have to be something big it could just be… my best friend got akumatized because my father said he couldn’t throw me a party for my birthday. A kid Marinette babysat got akumatized because her mother took away a toy that wasn’t hers, it was Marinette’s actually, so she felt responsible for getting Manon akumatized. Marinette’s best friends, five of them at once, got akumatized because she didn’t want to tell them something private. Like that didn’t wrack her with guilt for years. It didn’t take much to turn you into a nightmare. In fact, one little kid got akumatized several times because he had a nightmare. All it took was one moment of feeling down. If you were lucky, really lucky, you just… stopped feeling… anything.”

Everyone was silent for a few minutes. Adrien’s glare never wavered the entire time. Finally Dick spoke up softly. “And was Marinette… lucky.”

Adrien sneered at Bruce, “Oh, Marinette was very lucky. She only got tortured a few times… per month. She only lost a few limbs. She only got targeted most of the time. She only died four or five times, that she remembers, the actual number is significantly higher. All despite my father targeting her specifically. You know, nothing worth too much concern. She only watched the people she loved get tortured, screaming for her in agony before they died painful deaths a handful of times. She only sometimes still goes completely numb rather than feel things. Not even just bad things, good things too. If it’s too much, she shuts down so she doesn’t expose herself, so Hawkmoth can’t get her, because we needed her. It’s automatic. It’s subconscious. It’s been five years and she still has to fight the instant reaction.”

Bruce finally spoke up apprehensively. God, he really, really didn’t want to know the answer to his next question, but at the same time, he needed to know. “You mentioned akumas could kill, torture, rape… You said Marinette had been tortured and killed. Was she ever…”

Adrien’s face scrunched up in anger and frustration. “You don’t get to ask that,” he screamed. “You didn’t care then, you don’t get to pretend like you care now. You want an answer to your question, you’ll have to ask her yourself, if you have the balls for it. Personally, I don’t think you do. So use your imagination. I guarantee anything you can imagine, can’t even come close to the things she had to live through.”

He looked down for a moment to try to collect himself. When he looked back up it was an icy, coldness that made Tim collapse back into his chair. “So now you need to stop lying to her that you always loved her, you cared at all.”

Damian growled and lunged forward in his chair. “You can’t tell him what he feels. You don’t get to say how he treats one of his children. You aren’t a part of this family.”

Adrien turned his icy glare to Damian. “And she is? Holding her at arm’s length? Keeping her at a distance? Not letting her get too close? Randomly freezing up around her. Keeping family secrets from her. Clamming up as soon as she’s nearby. Sending each other secret looks over her head when you think she won’t see. She’s not stupid. She sees what you’re doing, what you’re all doing, she’s just too nice to point it out, too hopeful you’ll actually accept her one day.” He turned to look at Damian with disgust. “I might not be a part of this thing you call a family, but I am a part of hers.” Damian only put up a semblance of a fight when Cass pulled him back down into his chair with a disappointed look.

“You kept in contact to make yourself feel better not because you cared. Because if you did? If you did, there’s no way you let her stay in Paris when it would have been so easy for you to do something. There’s no way you let her get hurt and killed over and over again just so you didn’t have to admit you were related to her. Nobody who gives even the slightest fuck about anybody, a stranger let alone family, your child, would willingly let them go through that. Lets them live knowing that crying about a stubbed toe could make them into a killer.

“You could have done something, anything and yet you did nothing. You didn’t even try. She wouldn’t have accepted. She… she was the only reason some of us survived and she knew that. She was our hope. She saved us and protected us. Repeatedly. At her own expense. Without her…” he looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was considerably quieter and colder.

“And she knew it. And she took it all on herself. She didn’t even tell most people, anyone but me and one other friend really, what she went through and not even all of it. There’s still things I know she saw but she won’t tell me about. Her own parents didn’t know because she didn’t want them to become akumas, which they’d done before over minor things. So she dealt with it on her own. My father barely ever let me out so I couldn’t be there for her almost ever. So she had nobody. She made sure she didn’t. Because she didn’t want to be the cause of more suffering.

“So she wouldn’t have taken you up on any offers anyway because she’d never abandon the people she cares about.” He looked back up to level Bruce with an icy glare that made him lose his breath. “Guess she gets that from her mother.”

He started to walk away but turned back to the family as he got to the door. “You know, Marinette and I are a lot alike. You can do anything you want to us and we’ll probably apologize to you for inconveniencing you. But you hurt someone we care about? Not even Hell is far enough away for you to hide in.

“So she’ll forgive you. That’s who she is. She will. Hell, she’ll probably come crawling back in a day or two to apologize to you for the scene she created. For making you feel uncomfortable. But I won’t ever forget what you did, what you didn’t do, what you subjected her to. No matter what else you ever do for her, you will not be forgiven.” He stepped closer to Bruce, the ice in his eyes turning darker. “And if you ever treat her like that again, they’ll never find your body.”

Damian scowled and jumped up. “Are you threatening my father?”

Adrien didn’t look at him when he responded, continuing to glare at Bruce with a dark, warped look that even made Damian raise an eyebrow. “I am.” He didn’t even bother slamming the door as he stormed out. As soon as he passed the threshold, he took off sprinting after Marinette. She didn’t have the car keys so she was walking… in Gotham… while she was a target. He cursed and picked up his speed to get to the car.

“B?” Dick asked cautiously.

“No. No, no, no.” He shook his head violently and looked down, trying to steady his ragged breathing. “I asked her parents. I checked. They said she was fine. They said it was okay.” He looked up at Dick with haunted eyes. “I checked. I made sure.”

“Well you didn’t fucking check well enough did you?” Jason growled. “You never asked her.” He threw his napkin on the table and stalked out after Adrien to help comfort Marinette. Duke looked between them for a moment before sprinting after Jason.

The rest of the family looked down at their plates, except Bruce who wasn’t looking at anything. He pushed away from the table and stumbled back to his room, a sudden wave of nausea slamming into his body. Dick opened his mouth a few times only to snap it shut again mutely. Cass frowned but continued eating slowly. This was new information, but it didn’t change who Marinette was to her. It was the same Marinette from earlier in the day. But now she knew more. Maybe they could bond over childhood trauma like she and Stephanie had.

Damian furrowed his brow and scowled at his food, unable to determine how to interpret the new information and blame Marinette for it. She had done it to herself, clearly. She had allowed herself to stay in that situation. Obviously it was her own fault she suffered through that… like he had. Not knowing who to be mad at, he shoved away from the table and went down to the cave to train.

Tim blankly watched him go. This… this was unsalvageable. This was… they’d let her down in so many ways. Him with the gala. Dick with the questioning Adrien. Damian with the accusing her and insulting Adrien. The entire family with the keeping secrets. And Bruce with the… everything. How were they supposed to bring this back? They were worse than his family, his previous family. The Drakes just ignored him. They were actively destroying her.

He took a deep breath and pushed away from the table too. He would go down to the cave but Damian was already there. He wanted to patrol, to actually protect someone, like he hadn’t protected her. He stood up and made his way to the grandfather clock. Fuck Demon Spawn. Let him try to fight him right now. Tim wasn’t in the mood and wouldn’t hold back. Heaven help any rogues out tonight.

Chapter 16

Tags:

@maribat-bdbwm @jayjayspixiepop @redscarlet95 @alice-hazelwood @deathssilentapproach-blog @unoriginalmess @alyssadeliv @emotionalsupportginger @frieddonutsweets @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks @toodaloo-kangaroo @colorfulmongerpsychicranch @iloontjeboontje @wolf-for-life @maribatserver @aespades @prettylittlebutterflie @imarivers8 @ certainmuffinbagelcalzone @ritacrow-blog @unoriginalmess @demonicbusiness @kking13 @lady-bee-fechin @blur-of-colours @kittenmywaythrulife @kashlyn @loysydark

#maribat #bio!dad bruce #bio dad bruce wayne #roynette #Even the Losers #mbdbwm2021 #prompt - deaged #Throws this at you then cowers in fear

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goldenraeofsun · 3 years ago

Note

A/b/o + celebrities and/or coffee shop 👀

Thanks so much for the prompt, Julesy, and I'm so sorry for the long wait! Part II should be up in the next few days, but hopefully this beginning 7k will satisfy for the time being 😘

Castiel is elbow-deep in suds when Jo plunks a medium to-go cup on the edge of the sink. “Thank you?” he says, bemused.

“It’s not for you, doofus,” Jo says, rolling her eyes. “There’s a customer out back,” she jerks her head towards the service exit that leads to the alley where they dump their trash and Ruby takes her furtive smoke breaks. “I need you to take this to him.”

“Out back?” Castiel repeats dubiously, craning his neck to catch sight of their on-site baker, Benny, who is busy kneading focaccia dough for tomorrow’s sandwiches. Benny, full of southern politeness, doesn’t give any indication he’s eavesdropping.

Jo gives Castiel a short nod, her alpha scent flaring with irritation. “I’d take it out there myself, but he always talks my ear off, and Kevin still can’t draw a latte art that doesn’t look like a dick, so…”

Castiel frowns but nods, and Jo’s expression eases once she doesn't hear a challenge to her request. Still, he has to ask, “But why doesn’t he order at the counter like a normal customer?”

Jo takes a step back towards the door. “You’ll see. Just… don’t make a big deal of it.”

“A big deal of what?” Castiel calls to her, but she’s already disappeared out to the front of the cafe.

Castiel sighs and wipes his hands on a dish towel. He picks up the drink, sniffing curiously.

He nearly gags at the strong aroma of brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and apples all on top of espresso and milk. They definitely don’t serve that on the menu. Admittedly, Castiel hasn’t memorized the list of hot drinks they serve at Hunter’s Cafe, but this is an assault on anyone with a nose. He’s been their busboy and dishwasher for six months since his second year as a graduate student began, and Jo has only let him mind the counter three times, all as far from peak time as she could get.

But a job is a job. Holding the drink, he shoulders open the back door.

“Hey - oh, you’re not Jo,” a familiar voice says.

Castiel stops dead in his tracks because, despite the sunglasses, the baseball hat, and hunched shoulders, Dean Winchester is unmistakable.

Away from the limelight, Dean apparently favors soft-looking flannels over worn tee shirts and jeans. In one hand, he holds a half depleted sheaf of french fries. Stunned, Castiel doesn't immediately hand over the reason for his appearance.

“Whatever, is that mine?” Dean demands, zeroing in on Castiel’s cup.

Still beyond speech, Castiel dumbly hands the affront to coffee over.

After a muttered thanks, Dean takes a long drink. “Christ, this tastes even better than normal.”

Castiel inhales a surreptitious breath. It’s not every day one gets to catch the scent of Hollywood’s omega darling.

Not that anyone would know Dean's secondary gender just by looking at him. Dean stands a few inches taller than the average male omega - he has nearly an inch of height on Castiel, and Castiel is the dictionary definition of standard alpha physique.

While Castiel might not be Dean’s most knowledgeable fan, he hasn’t been living under a rock for the past five years. It was all over the papers when Dean was cast in his first alpha role. Dean wasn’t the first omega actor to do so, but he was certainly the most prominent. Castiel’s sister, Anna, an actual fan, spent a memorable dinner ranting about how all the prejudiced reporters on the press tour. Apparently they only asked Dean about the diet and exercise routine that transform into a “real” alpha, while, in the next round, his alpha castmates fielded questions about their characters’ moral code and complex development.

But, in the alley behind Hunter’s Café, Castiel’s nose is completely overwhelmed by the fryers of the fast food restaurant next door, the set of dumpsters directly to his right, and the almost offensively apple coffee Dean is currently drinking like his life depends on it. Dean could smell like old gym socks for all Castiel can tell.

“Where’s Jo?” Dean asks once he resurfaces. He jams a few fries in his mouth. Before he's finished chewing, he sucks down some more latte in an unholy taste combination.

“Busy,” Castiel replies. “We have a new hire, and so far Kevin can only draw genitalia on lattes instead of flowers.”

Dean guffaws, nearly inhaling his drink. Swearing unrepentantly, he takes his sunglasses off and rubs at his temple with his free hand. “Christ, I’m too hungover to laugh like that.” He squints over at Castiek before sliding the sunglasses back on his face.

Castiel stares. “If you’re hungover, why are you here at -” he checks his watch “-seven in the morning?”

Dean slurps at his fruity latte before he answers. “Got a meeting at nine. This,” he says, brandishing his mostly empty cup, “and a large fries are the cure.” His hands occupied, Dean ducks his head to fish a single fry out and holds it like a cigarette between his lips.

“That sounds disgusting,” Castiel says, aghast.

Dean inches the rest of the fry into his mouth. “Don't knock it ‘til you try it,” he says with a wink.

Cas blushes.

“Hey,” Dean says, a new thought coming to him, “What’s your name?”

Taken aback by the question, he answers, “Castiel.”

Dean mouths his name once, his brow furrowing at the new syllables. With a small shrug of capitulation he says, “Well, Cas, thanks for the drink.” He toasts him one before tipping the cup all the way back, draining it.

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

Dean grins. “I couldn't tell if you recognized me or not.”

“I did,” Castiel says, clearly unnecessarily.

Amused, Dean throws him a long, considering look. “You’ve got one hell of a poker face.” He unceremoniously shovels the rest of the fries in his mouth and balls up the wrapper. He tosses it with practiced ease into the waiting dumpster.

“Thank you?” Cas says, nonplussed.

“Thank you,” Dean says, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “You’re the one who saved my hide.” He sidles forward and shoves a bill into Castiel’s slack hand. Without another word, he takes off out of the alley and onto the street.

Once he’s out of sight, Castiel unclenches his hand. Dean tipped him ten dollars.

* * *

“How is this even more pungent than last time?” Castiel demands, nose wrinkling as he sets a now clean muffin tin back on the shelf. It’s been a week since he met Dean Winchester, and hadn’t gotten so much as a whiff of apple pie since then.

He is alone with Jo in the kitchen, since Benny’s early morning shift ends at eleven.

“I added a caramel drizzle,” Jo says, her scent rising with her self-satisfaction.

Castiel stares at her in horror. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“’Cause I’m trying to see what his limit is, and so far - nothing,” Jo says, shrugging. “Get to it. He’s real grouchy if you make him wait too long.”

“And why aren’t you taking it to him?” Castiel says, eyebrows rising. “Kevin’s moved onto multiple hearts now. Admittedly, his first one looked like a labia, but he’s gotten much better.”

“But Ruby didn’t show up, so we’re short staffed,” Jo says shortly. Outside, Kevin yells something indistinguishable though the kitchen door, and Jo winces.

Castiel takes the latte.

Just like last time, Dean is waiting, wearing a different flannel but the same jeans with the hole above the left knee. He abandoned the sunglasses, since the clouds overhead cast the whole alley in shade. They’re hanging from the vee of his shirt collar, pulling the fabric down a tempting extra inch.

Unfortunately, the fast food restaurant next door must have just taken out the trash last night, since the alley reeks of stale bread and rotting fish patties.

Castiel lets the door slam behind him, unable to hold back his corresponding smile as Dean lights up as he sees him.

“Thank god,” Dean says as he reaches for the latte. “I was starting to think Jo was gonna stiff me.”

“We’re short staffed at the moment,” Castiel says apologetically, “so you got me again.”

Dean eyes him over the lid of his cup. “Not a downside from where I’m standin’,” he drawls.

Castiel has no idea how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. Dean can’t mean it like Castiel thinks he does. He’s an actor, feeding people lines is the dictionary definition of his job. Instead Castiel asks, “No french fries this time?” because he’s not nearly ready to leave yet.

“Already ate ’em, while I was waiting,” Dean says dismissively.

Castiel shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry.”

“No harm, no foul,” Dean says with a little grin. “I got my caffeine fix eventually, and that’s what I really care about.”

“You look remarkably more put together than last time,” Castiel says as he leans against the doorway, watching Dean sip at his drink.

“Didn’t drink as much,” Dean says with a grin. He tips back his cup and takes a long pull. “Fries can only get you halfway there. Christ, that’s the stuff.”

Castiel can’t help but make a face. The latte smells horrendous; it can’t taste that much better.

“What?” Dean asks, eyes narrowing.

Castiel probably shouldn’t tell Dean what is exactly on his mind. Castiel has found very few people appreciate his default brand of honesty - Hunter’s Café customers, especially. But Dean isn’t technically his customer - he’s Jo’s - and Castiel has reached the point in his life where he doesn’t need to hang onto people who don’t like him and vice versa. Dean isn’t even providing extra publicity for the establishment, since he’s getting serviced in the alley behind the kitchen.

Technically, Castiel needs a celebrity acquaintance as much as he needs a free bag of cat food (he doesn’t have a cat).

But he does like having one.

A celebrity acquaintance, that is. Cats are inherently suspicious.

Reluctantly, Castiel says, “I can’t imagine that latte tastes very good.”

To his surprise, instead of demanding Jo bring him his coffee from now on, Dean laughs. “Not a fan of apple pie?”

“Not in my coffee.”

Dean takes an obnoxiously loud slurp. “I think it’s delicious.”

“I think your taste buds must be severely incapacitated.”

Dean waggles the near empty cup in front of Castiel’s face in what must be an enticing manner to someone with no sense of smell or taste. “Wanna try?”

Castiel valiantly holds back his recoil. “No, thank you.”

But Dean’s genial expression doesn’t waver. “‘M feeling pretty much human again, so it’s up for grabs.”

“I’d sooner lick the dumpster,” Castiel blurts before he can filter himself.

Dean whistles, rocking back on his heels. “Harsh.”

Castiel sighs. Honesty was a mistake. He mutters, embarrassed, “I’m just not a very big fan of sweets.”

“No?”

“I’ve been living with my cousin while in graduate school at Columbia,” he explains, his tone apologetic for his earlier comment, “and he has a horrendous sweet tooth. I don’t think he’s ever seen a carrot that wasn’t in a cake first.”

A wide grin splits Dean’s face. He laughs.

What Castiel wouldn’t give to scent Dean’s joy for himself. “He would probably love that latte,” Castiel continues wryly.

“Probably,” Dean agrees. He taps his fingers against the sides of the cup as he asks, “So you’re in school? For what?”

“Do you really want to know?” Castiel asks seriously. He’s had too many conversations with strangers and casual friends who have asked the exact same question and regretted asking it almost immediately.

Dean ducks his head. “I don’t know any graduate students, and I,” he breaks off, his cheeks going pink, “I never went to college, so I have no idea what it means.” He sucks on the dregs of his latte, gaze dropping to the vicinity of Castiel’s knees.

“Oh,” Castiel says, feeling lighter. “In that case, I’m studying ethnomusicology.”

Dean’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Are you fucking with me? That doesn’t sound real.”

“It’s a legitimate area of study,” Castiel assures him. “I research music as it pertains to culture and diverse elements of social life. Ethnomusicology focuses not only on the music itself, but music as a social process, as a medium for humans to relate to each other. In short, it examines how music functions in a particular society.”

To Castiel’s surprise, Dean doesn’t get the glazed-over look most people do when he explains his field of study. “So what kind of music are you talking about?”

Now it’s Castiel’s turn to flush. His colleagues, while they respect his academic reputation, have nearly all looked down on his chosen object of study. “One of the main tenets of ethnomusicology is a global perspective on music-”

“What, like Tibetan throat-singing?” Dean interrupts. At Castiels’ stare, he explains quickly, “Sammy had a phase.”

Castiel chuckles. “Yes, I do know a professor at Cornell who is studying just that. But my focus is much closer to home. I study,” he inhales a small breath, “tribute bands.”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “What.”

“Tribute bands offer a fascinating definition of the nature of performance, the difference between authenticity and identity,” Castiel says, already on the defensive. He can already hear his voice trying to fall into his usual academic patterns, and tries to rein himself in, “and historical consciousness in popular music. Here -” He pulls out his phone.

Dean listens in complete silence to Yellow Dubmarine’s cover of I Want You.

“Anyway,” Castiel coughs, embarrassed he made Dean sit through all that, “I also teach Rock and Roll from the 1950s to 1980s. There is a great deal of crossover with my specialty since most tribute bands recreate acts from the 60s to the 80s.”

“Dude,” Dean says in a rush, “if you think that makes you less interesting, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Castiel blinks.

“What bands are we talkin’ about?” he asks eagerly. “More Beatles? The Stones? The Who?”

Castiel nods. “I’m hoping to go to a Lez Zeppelin concert next month.”

“Led Zeppelin?”

“Lez,” Castiel says, emphasizing the ‘z’, “an all-female Led Zeppelin tribute band.”

Dean frowns. “They have a gimmick?”

Castiel shakes his head. “They’re completely sincere, I assure you.” He smiles wryly. “I interviewed Misstallica for a paper I’m writing on diverse, for lack of a better word, musicians in the tribute world, and they felt right at home with the long hair and tight pants. I’ve never met people who more adore the songs they perform.”

“Huh,” Dean says, rubbing his chin.

“Except maybe Air-O-Smith,” Castiel adds, “an American all-omega tribute band of Aerosmith.”

Dean’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

“My favorite all-omega tribute band, though, is Omega You Eight One Two,” Castiel muses, “a Van Halen cover band.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean says faintly.

“Their lead guitarist, as you can imagine, is phenomenal.”

Dean shakes his head, his expression going slack. “Wait, seriously? That’s a thing? All omega acts?”

“Of course,” Castiel says. “That’s one of the most compelling aspects of tribute bands, when they flip the traditional male-alpha dynamic of the original, and how they translate that into their own act while keeping the whole performance authentic to the creators. It’s a fascinating process to watch and study.”

“I bet,” Dean says fervently. “Hey, d’you think-”

The back door opens before Dean can finish his sentence.

Jo pokes her head out, looking askance at the pair of them. “Are you still out here?” She glares at Dean. “Stop complaining about your diet, and let Castiel come back to work.”

Castiel’s mouth purses. “You’re on a diet?”

“Not on cheat day,” Dean tells him, lifting his empty cup. He turns to Jo. “And I wasn’t complaining at all. Cas was actually telling me about tribute bands.”

“Really?” Jo asks, her nose wrinkling.

Dean tosses his trash in the dumpsters. “They sound awesome.”

“I like them,” Castiel says lamely, off-footed now the conversation is clearly wrapping up.

Jo rolls her eyes, alpha irritation practically radiating off her. “Good for you.”

“Alright, well, I’ll let you deal with Joanna Beth on your own,” Dean says as he pulls out his wallet and hands Castiel a folded bill. He gives a mocking salute as he takes a step back, “Good luck, dude.”

“Thank you?”

“Come on, fanboy,” Jo growls once Dean’s disappeared from view, “back to work.”

* * *

“Can’t you take it?” Castiel asks, his tone verging on pleading, as Jo follows him back into the kitchen. It’s too early in the morning for another meeting, closer to first time Castiel met Dean at seven am compared to their last meeting at a little before eleven.

This past weekend, Castiel went down a spiral of Dean Winchester content. He read up on all of Dean’s recent projects, scanned headlines about rumors of his next film - some action thriller that Castiel presumes is the reason for Dean’s diet, and watched interview after interview. Dean on Stephen Colbert. Dean on Good Morning America. Dean on some very confusing show where they forced him to eat spicy chicken wings, which just seemed like an exercise in pepper-based sadism.

Castiel didn’t really understand the Saturday Night Live skit where Dean played one half of a demon-hunting brother duo, but the live studio audience laughed uproariously at multiple points.

Jo all but slams Dean’s latte on the ledge above the sink. “You know the health inspector is here. I can’t let Ruby near the guy, and you know how Kevin gets around figures of authority.”

Castiel sets down his tub of dirty dishes. “He nearly peed himself when he had to tell you he dropped a tray of scones over the floor last week,” he says flatly.

“Exactly,” Jo says. “Benny is busy,” she says, tipping her head to where Benny is adding more flour to a huge bowl.

“Cheers, darlin’.”

She turns back to Castiel. “So, you’re it today, champ.”

“Great,” Castiel grumbles.

“What?” Jo asks, her hands on her hips. “You seemed to get along with Dean. I actually didn’t know you could talk that much before I sent you back there.”

Castiel carefully transfers the dirty plates to the sink. “Getting along with him isn’t the problem,” he says darkly.

“Getting along with him too well is the issue?” Jo asks, her eyebrows rising.

Castiel scowls at her observation. Her emotional intuition is what makes her an excellent café manager, so he can hardly fault her for that. He doesn’t respond to her question.

“Take it to him,” Jo says, her tone softening. “He likes you.”

Castiel raises his head to stare at her. “How do you know that?”

Jo pulls her phone from her back pocket and waves it in his face. “We talk,” she says. “How do you think he orders every time? He’s not getting those lattes for free, not after I spent so much time getting them exactly right.”

Castiel can’t hold back his grimace. The latte still smells awful, like a vat of boiled candied apples.

“Look,” Jo says, lowering her voice, “Dean’s famous, sure, but he’s actually a very private person. He runs his mouth to anyone who’ll listen, but he never really says anything important. So he doesn’t really connect with a lot of people. If he says he likes you, I’m gonna say that’s a good thing - if you tell him I said this, I’ll kick your ass - and make you his designated errand boy.”

Castiel bites his lip. “But I don’t -”

“Dude, don’t make me pull the boss card,” Jo says, just the barest hint of threat in her words.

“Fine.” Castiel snatches the latte off the counter. “But I want a raise.”

“You can get a free sandwich.”

Castiel glares daggers as he shoulders open the back door.

But the alley is empty.

Castiel breathes through his mouth as he steps out. The overflowing dumpsters carry the odor of moldering cheese and more rancid fish, and the fryers next door are still going strong. He doesn’t find Dean lurking behind the trash for some strange reason, and he’s about to head back in and dump Dean’s latte down the sink when a shout makes him turn around.

“Hey, Cas!” Dean calls, jogging in from the brightly lit street.

“Hello, Dean.” He hands over the latte.

“Thanks - sorry.” Dean rubs the back of his neck with his other hand. “Some fans caught me sneaking in here, and wanted a selfie.”

“Oh,” Castiel says for lack of anything better to say.

Dean tips back his cup, his expression falling into pure bliss. “Christ, that’s so much better when I’m not hungover.”

Castiel stares. “You’re drinking that with all your capacities intact?”

“Ain’t no better way to enjoy pie,” Dean says, grinning widely.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “That’s not pie.”

“It’s as close as I’m gonna get at eight in the morning on a Thursday,” Dean says with a shrug.

Silence falls between them, and Castiel can’t help glancing over Dean’s shoulder, tentatively scanning for the people who caught his attention earlier. Plenty more would have approached Dean if he didn’t have Jo’s latte waiting for him; Castiel would bet his job on it.

Dean is a celebrity.

Castiel is a grad student who can’t even afford to support a guinea pig on his stipend and café salary.

After a long beat, Dean asks, a touch hesitantly, “So, what’ve you been up to?”

Stalking you on the internet.

“Nothing,” Castiel lies. At the slight fall in Dean’s expression, he adds, “I cleaned my kitchen over the weekend.”

Dean chuckles. “You’re a weird dude, you know that?”

Hurt, Castiel takes a step back. Jo probably needs him for… something.

“Not in a bad way!” Dean says quickly. “Shit,” he swears under his breath, “please don’t stop giving me coffee.”

Castiel hesitates. “Why is it weird that I cleaned my kitchen?” He frowns. “I suppose you employ someone to do that for you.”

Dean seesaws his free hand back and forth as he sips at his latte. “Not always,” he lowers his voice, “I actually like cleaning - it helps me relax and shit. There’s nothing like blasting some tunes and scrubbing out that stain on the counter that’s been annoying you forever.”

Castiel lowers his voice too. “Is this a secret?”

Dean grimaces. “Not really. But, you know, it’s one of those omega things.”

Castiel doesn’t know. Well, he knows it is a stereotypical omega trait to like housework, but he has no idea why Dean would whisper it in a back alley like he’s confessing to defrauding an elderly relative. “And that is bad because…?”

Dean takes a long pull from his cup. “I don’t want to hammer the omega thing home too hard, alright?”

“But you are an omega,” Castiel says, feeling a little stupid for saying it out loud.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, “but if I lean into it, I’ll stop getting alpha roles.”

“You only want to play alphas?” Castiel asks curiously.

Dean’s mouth twists. “They’re the better parts. Omegas are always the damsels in distress or get killed off first for the plot.”

“I’m sure not all films are like that,” Castiel says. God knows, Anna made him sit through enough films with an omega protagonist that did not fit the typical romantic comedy restrictions.

“Most.”

“The last movie I saw,” Castiel says, hesitant because Dean must know more about this than him, “my sister recommended it, it had an omega lead who led a team of paranormal investigators. A sort of horror-comedy.”

Dean’s face loses some of its hostility. Almost intrigued, he asks gruffly, “D’you know who wrote it?”

“Not off the top of my head.” Castiel pulls out his phone to look it up. He reads aloud, “Ghostfacers, directed by Ed Zeddmore, written by Harry Spangler. Starred Maggie Zeddmore and Alan Corbett.” He pauses, trying to remember the details. “I think they both were omegas. I’m sure there are more films like Ghostfacers out there for you to make.”

Dean sips at his latte. “A few. None with big enough names attached to really get on my radar.”

“Well, if you signed on, wouldn’t there be a big name attached?”

“Yeah,” Dean says in a tone that clearly conveys he’s thought of this possibility before. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s just - what if I take one of these roles, and it gets all this attention just ’cause I’m in it, and it flops?”

Castiel tilts his head. “That would hardly be your fault. Most failed films are hardly the work of one person. Usually, it’s a combination of a bad story, bad production, and bad acting.” He levels Dean an appraising look. “Right off the bat, you control two of those elements - pick a good script and act as well as you always have.”

Dean blinks. “You’ve seen my stuff?”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “I thought I already said I knew who you were?”

“Yeah, but,” Dean says, his voice petering off with embarrassment, “that didn’t mean you liked my movies.”

“The majority of America liked your last movie, Dean,” Castiel says dryly. “Either that, or you have a very hardworking and wealthy mother who poured a hundred million dollars into ticket sales.”

“I mean, Mom’s a fan, but not that big of a fan,” Dean says, chuckling. “I’m pretty sure she’d rather get a twenty-minute call from yours truly than sit through a two-hour flick with my name on the poster.”

Castiel hands over his phone. “Here,” he says, tilting it so Dean can see the summary of Ghostfacers.

Dean brightens as he reads through it. “The Alpha dies first?”

“He thought he could deal with the ghost on his own.”

“Typical alpha macho,” Dean snorts. His head snaps up as he gives the phone back. “No offense.”

“No offense taken,” Castiel says easily. “With my lifestyle, posturing is a waste of time. I’ve long ago resigned myself to not being the primary breadwinner in any future household.”

“Really?”

Castiel throws him a look. “I’m in academia, Dean. Tenure is hardly a guarantee. Even so, there isn’t a wealth of money out there for ethnomusicology grants.”

Dean tips his head in acknowledgement. “It’s awful big of you.”

“Just logical,” Castiel says evenly. “It shrinks my dating pool considerably, but I’d rather do what I love than compromise that much for any potential partner.”

Dean inhales a deep breath, his eyes unfathomable. “I get that.”

“If it means I can’t afford to mate a house-omega, I’ll just have to keep cleaning my kitchen myself,” Castiel finishes with a shrug.

Dean grins. “I mean, if you spot me a six pack and don’t tell my trainer about it, I’ll clean your kitchen.”

Castiel turns bright red. He can’t bring himself to respond to that offer, so he changes the subject.

* * *

Castiel doesn’t even bother pretending to protest as Jo barges into the kitchen, the telltale scent of sugary apples wafting around her like a palpable shield. Castiel already set himself for heartbreak where Dean Winchester is concerned. He might as well take advantage of every interaction he has left.

He went to sleep late last night, watching one of Dean’s earlier movies. He was slimmer and younger, but he still shone with his signature charisma and talent. For the first time since Castiel started the morning shift at Hunter’s Café, he snoozed his alarm.

Hurrying through his morning routine, Castiel couldn’t help resenting Dean just a little. If only Dean hadn’t chosen a profession where his literal job is to be whatever his audience wants him to be.

As Castiel pushes open the door, Dean is waiting outside. Dark sunglasses shield his green eyes, and a violet bruise blooms over his left eyebrow. As the door slams shut behind Castiel, Dean winces. His left hand holds a half-empty paper container of french fries.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. “You don’t look good.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean says darkly. “Gimme.”

Castiel pauses. “Did your hangover eliminate your manners?”

Dean flushes bright red. “No,” he mutters. “Sorry, Cas. I just feel like shit.”

“You look like shit,” Castiel says frankly as he hands it over.

“Thanks,” Deans says, his voice sour as old lemons. “I told Charlie tequila shots before Monopoly was a bad idea, but did anyone listen to me?” He gestures to his face. “Next thing I know, Jo’s throwing Charlie’s bag of DnD dice at my head.”

“You got that playing Monopoly? Wait, Jo did this to you?” he demands, gesturing to the cafe behind him. “Jo Harvelle?”

Dean just glares over the rim of his coffee cup. “Yeah, Katniss got me good.”

“God, why?”

One corner of Dean’s mouth lifts in a distinctly smug smirk. “’Cause she was going bankrupt, and she had to sell her last property to me.”

“So this was because of Monopoly,” Castiel says dubiously. In his experience, a board game has never led to actual violence.

Dean shrugs. “Game nights get intense. Why do you think I’m always bangin’ down your door the morning after?”

Castiel can’t believe it. “You’ve been getting this drunk at a game night? Every time?”

“So what?” Dean shoves four french fries in his mouth. “Whaddya think I was doin’?”

“Partying?” he suggests.

Dean snorts. “Maybe six years ago when I was doing B-level flicks and trying to meet as many people as I could. Now I have a back-to-back shooting schedule and hangovers if I don’t pace myself.”

Castiel watches Dean polish off his fries at a truly impressive and horrifying speed. He can’t help asking, “Why was Jo at your game night?”

“’Cause she’s a menace who knows how to pick locks?” Dean heaves a weighty sigh. “I’ve known Jo since we were kids. She and her mom - who started Hunter’s Café - were my neighbors.”

“I had no idea.”

Dean gestures to the alley with a wry hand. “Jo likes to keep it under wraps.”

“I see why Jo keeps making those drinks for you,” Castiel says, nodding at the half-finished latte in Dean’s hand.

“You didn’t make it?” Dean says, and does he sound almost disappointed?

Castiel shakes his head. “Jo is keeping the recipe close to the chest.”

“Probably worried everyone’ll want one if they get the taste.” Dean tips the cup back.

Castiel can’t help his noise of disgust. At Dean’s sharp look, he says aloud, “She’s probably worried everyone will never come back if they try it.”

Dean’s laugh cuts off with a wince. He raises a hand to his head. “Christ, last night was a mistake.”

Castiel surreptitiously scents the air for a better gauge of how discomfited Dean really is, but, as always, all he gets is trash and fryer oil. “How are you doing? Apart from the injury, headache, and general hangover-related malaise.”

“Oh, apart from that?” Dean echoes mockingly, but his words lack any heat. He crams a few fries into his mouth. “I asked my agent to send me a few more scripts with omega roles,” he mutters.

Castiel smiles. “That’s great.”

Dean hums his agreement. “Hopefully, she’ll pick out a decent one, and I can get something set up for after Two for the Show wraps.”

“Is Two for the Show the reason for your diet?”

Dean huffs. “Yeah. I have a bunch of shirtless scenes, so that means three months with the diet coach from hell.”

Castiel makes a noise of sympathy. After a moment, he asks, “Is it worth it?”

Dean chews a fry, scowling between bites. “Not really,” he says in a low voice. “Sammy’s the farmers market maniac in the family.” Wistfully, he continues, “Give me a good cheeseburger deluxe every day for the rest of my life with a side of pie, and I’ll die a happy man.”

“I didn’t think apple pie came as a side.”

“Not for you, maybe,” Dean says with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his latte.

Castiel doesn’t bother holding back his smile.

Dean sighs, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. “It’s just like, I don’t look like a traditional omega, so I figured I might as well try for the alpha roles.” He swallows. “’S a win-win situation. I look the part and the characters are better - what’s the downside?”

Castiel cocks his head. “Other than your restricted diet and inadvisable levels of drinking?”

A humorless smile pulls at Dean's mouth. “Not pullin’ the punches this morning, huh?”

Castiel colors, his face heating with shame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well.” An inadequate excuse, but it’s not like he can tell Dean the real reason for his more uncharitable thoughts.

Castiel has never been one to lean into his alpha instincts. Possessiveness, aggression, arrogance - Castiel has had his (mostly regrettable) moments, but they hardly define his character. But over these past few weeks, he’s had to repeatedly tell himself that he can’t solve Dean’s problems. Dean is a wildly successful adult with millions of fans, while Castiel can’t even handle Hunter Cafe's front counter during the morning rush.

Dean would hardly welcome a nobody little alpha telling him to just… do what he wants and damn the consequences because he deserves to be happy with his life and his work.

Dean plucks out the rest of his fries and balls the wrapper against his hip. He lobs it in the dumpster. “No, I get it. I’m complaining about things that most people would kill to have.” He glances towards the mouth of the alley, his mouth set in a thin line.

But before Dean can leave, Castiel says quickly, “That’s not the way I see it. Your specific frustrations aren’t universal, but hardly anyone’s are. Society is inherently unfair, and it’s understandable to be angry about it.”

God knows Castiel railed enough about the unfairness of Dean Winchester to Gabriel enough over the past few weeks.

Even now, hungover and bruised, Dean is beautiful.

Castiel steels himself. “And, for what it’s worth, I don’t think not looking like a typical omega is a bad thing.”

Dean turns to him in surprise, and Castiel would give up that free sandwich Jo offered him to be able to scent what exactly Dean is feeling. But, after a second that stretches into an eternity, all Dean gives him is a quiet, “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel nods, chastised by Dean’s reaction. “I should get back to work,” he says awkwardly.

Dean mutters something that might be a swear underneath his breath. Raising his voice, he says, his tone apologetic, “’Course. Sorry for keeping you.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It’s alright. I,” he pauses, “always enjoy talking to you.”

Dean’s mouth lifts into a small smile, and it’s like the sun rising through the early morning fog. “You too, man.”

* * *

After his next shift, Castiel asks Jo to show him how to make Dean’s apple pie latte.

Castiel’s first attempt is a disaster. He burns the espresso and adds too much nutmeg. Jo makes him try it anyway, as a non-monetary payment for her time. As Castiel gags, a smirking Jo dumps the bitter, weirdly savory mess down the sink.

“Passable,” Jo declares at Castiel’s second try. “You need more of the apple concentrate, though.”

“It’ll be too strong,” Castiel protests even as he shakes more powder in and gives it a stir. He hands it back to Jo for evaluation.

“You could barely taste it!” Jo says. She raises it to her lips. “Mm, that’s the stuff.”

“It is?” Castiel asks hopefully.

Jo nods and pushes the cup towards him. “That’s what it’s supposed to taste like.”

Castiel frowns as the overly sweet apples hit his tongue. He can barely taste the coffee underneath all the other layers.

“Trust me,” Jo says, flipping her hair behind her shoulder as she sets Castiel up for a third cup. “Your scent’s getting in the way, but it tastes exactly like an apple pie.”

“My scent?” Castiel echoes, baffled.

Jo throws him a look as she pushes a clean coffee cup into his hands. “Yeah, you already smell, I dunno, crisp but sweet? A little like apples. Makes you think the latte dials it up to eleven when it’s more like a nine for everyone else.”

Castiel hadn’t thought to put those pieces together, but it makes an astonishing amount of sense.

He brings his last apple pie latte home to Gabriel, and his cousin makes him write down, step by step, how to make it. In between actual licks into the cup to get the dregs, Gabriel swears to visit him at Hunter’s Café more often.

When Jo next ducks her head into the kitchen to tell Castiel that Dean will swing by in fifteen minutes, Castiel gets to work. He awkwardly sidles behind the front counter and maneuvers around Ruby and Kevin, nearly knocking Kevin’s elbow as Kevin attempts some elaborate leaf pattern.

Castiel draws a rudimentary apple on top of Dean’s latte, and if it looks more like a misshapen mango, nobody will see it but Dean.

For the first time, Castiel heads out to wait for Dean at the mouth of the alley.

Dean doesn’t keep him in suspense for long. He makes his way down the street, shoulders hunched, and head bowed. Gaze fixed on the dirty sidewalk, Dean doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as he turns the corner.

Dean isn’t even wearing sunglasses or a hat to hide his face, but everyone walks straight past him.

It’s the most riveting performance Castiel has ever seen.

A few steps away, Dean catches sight of him, and it’s like some magic switch is flipped on, and he is Dean Winchester again.

Smiling brightly, he jogs the rest of the distance and follows Castiel as he slinks further back into the alley. Dean wrinkles his nose as they get closer to the dumpsters and the smell of an entire rancid fast food menu hits him. “Hey, Cas,” he says as he takes his latte. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Castiel says, tipping his head.

Dean stares down oddly at the demented pear and takes a sip. Face going slack with a bliss Castiel doesn’t even need to smell, Dean groans.

Castiel freezes and sends up a silent prayer of thanks for the apron covering his lower half over his pants. “It’s good?” he tries futilely because Dean is clearly beyond speech.

Dean just gives him a thumbs up as he lowers the cup. He licks his lips, chasing the taste, and Castiel has seen pornography less graphic.

“I might have to tip Jo this time too,” Dean says, staring at the latte in his hand in wonder.

Castiel coughs. “I - I made this one, actually.”

Dean chokes on his next mouthful. “Are you serious?”

Castiel nods because if he opens his mouth he’s not sure what exactly will come out. Probably something highly embarrassing.

“This is the best one I’ve ever had,” Dean swears.

Castiel’s whole body heats with the force of his blush. “Thank you. I asked Jo how to make it, since it seems like I’ve taken over your delivery duties.”

Dean grins. “You’re a lot more fun than Jo,” he says lightly, “so I’m not complainin’.”

Castiel didn’t think he could get any redder, but here he is.

After an awkward beat, Dean says, “I think I found my next movie.”

“Really?”

Dean shrugs, but his eyes glimmer with anticipation. “It’s a World War II biopic about an omega who sneaks into the army, disguises himself as an alpha, and rescues a unit trapped behind enemy lines.” He taps his fingers against the side of his half-empty cup. “A little on the nose, but the script is good.”

“It sounds very promising,” Castiel agrees.

“Their biggest problem was the budget - historical pics aren’t cheap. But they think if I sign on early, they can leverage my name with the studio.” He smiles shyly. “Get the movie done right.”

“That’s fantastic,” Castiel says, a delightful warmth filling his chest - still a pale reflection of Dean’s excitement.

“Thanks to you.”

Castiel’s eyes widen in surprise. “Me?”

Dean throws him a funny look. “Yeah, you. You told me to get my head outta my ass and movies I actually like doing-”

“Not in so many words-” Castiel interjects, alarmed.

“’Cause the whole point of doing these stupid macho alpha flicks was so I could get the clout and money to do the stuff I actually liked,” Dean continues. “And I kept thinking, can’t do it yet, not there yet, until some rando tells me, fuck yeah you can.”

“I definitely didn’t say that-”

“It was implied,” Dean says blithely, waving off his protests. “So I figured, if this dude who doesn’t know me from Adam-”

“I’ve seen several of your films.”

“- tells me to go for it - it being something I’d thought of doing for years - is there any real reason why I shouldn’t?”

Castiel just stares at him, stunned.

Dean beams. “I’ve got a meeting with the director next week.”

“That’s wonderful,” Castiel says sincerely.

“Anyway, yeah, it’s partially thanks to you,” Dean says, tipping his latte in Castiel’s direction. “I also want to talk about romantic B-plot since I think it’s stupid.” He shakes his head, scoffing. “True mates, bullshit.”

“You think true mates are bullshit?”

As far as Castiel saw online, Dean’s never spoken on the record about true mates or any mates at all. Entertainment news sources reported rumors about him and a one-named alpha singer, Amara, early in his career, which he denounced thoroughly. A few months later, someone published revealing photos of him and an older alpha actor, Fergus Crowley. When asked about it, Dean refused to give details.

Dean makes a face. After a pause, he says, “My parents said they were true mates, but it wasn’t… pretty. No Hollywood romance between them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“’S fine,” Dean says in a tone that clearly says it isn’t. “Whenever Dad took off for a few days, I’d get to watch as many movies as I wanted, and - well, the rest is history.”

“I don’t know anyone who’s found their true mate,” Castiel says. His parents had a cold, distant marriage. A few times over the years, he wasn’t sure his mother even liked his father’s scent. Anna happily mated another omega last year, and Gabriel avoids all romantic entanglements like the black plague.

Castiel’s dating history can best be described as dismal. During his last visit to his pediatrician, his doctor called him a “late bloomer” which Castiel eventually realized just meant socially awkward. In the decade since, Castiel’s slept with a grand total of three people. And, to his supreme regret, none of them managed to bring his rusty people skills up to par.

But, in college, Castiel found music and his calling. And all his faults didn’t matter nearly as much.

In the crowd of a concert, people are so far outside the ordinary conditions of life, and so conscious of the fact, that they free themselves from individual concerns and devote themselves wholly to the collective. All their fury, their joy, their hunger for what they can’t have, is sublimated into the music.

Castiel has never felt more connected to humanity than in the middle of a crowd.

Truthfully, none of his past relationships ever measured up. None of his past partners ever managed to get Castiel out of his own head - not like the music.

Castiel shakes his head ruefully. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a true mate even if I had one.”

“Have a lot of super sappy sex with the lights on?” Dean offers, laughing.

Castiel frowns. “I wasn’t aware that kind of intercourse was restricted to true mates. I’ve done that in the past since I've always shared an emotional connection with the people I've slept with.”

“Oh,” Dean says, reddening. “Were you mated? Jo didn’t say.”

Inordinately pleased that Dean had asked Jo about him, Castiel shakes his head. “No, I’ve never been mated.”

Dean drains his latte. Swallowing, he says, “Me neither.” He throws the cup in the open dumpster and turns back to Castiel. “I haven’t dated in a while, actually,” he says in a low voice. “Couldn’t risk being seen with an alpha and remind everyone of what I’m not.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Surely people can’t be that close-minded.”

“’Course they can. Most are,” Dean says, his voice full of assurance.

Castiel’s mouth twists. “That sounds like a negativity bias to me.”

“Huh?”

“Negative information sticks with us longer and more strongly than any positive counterpart,” Castiel says with a shrug. “It’s something I always keep in mind when reading my course reviews after the semester is over.”

“So," Dean says, eyes dancing, "you can take the nerd out of the classroom, but you can’t take the classroom out of the nerd, huh?”

Castiel smiles wryly. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Dean laughs. “Look,” he starts, his expression turning a fraction more serious. “I might be fucking up a good thing here, but do you want to go to a Lez Zeppelin show next week?”

Castiel’s mouth falls open as Dean reaches out and pulls out his phone to show him a ticket confirmation email.

“It’s no big if you don’t want to,” Dean says awkwardly into the silence.

“I - I do,” Castiel says, stumbling over the words. “You do?”

“Uh,” Dean throws him a bemused look, “Yeah? I bought the tickets, dude.”

“I’m just surprised,” Castiel says honestly.

Dean stares at him. “This is seriously comin’ out of nowhere for you?”

“A little,” Castiel says defensively.

“Seriously?”

Castiel shrugs helplessly. “You’re … you. You’re famous. Why would you ask me?”

“Because I like you?” Dean says, nonplussed. “You’re nice in a way a lot of the alphas I know aren’t, and,” he breaks off, reddening, “you said you didn’t mind that I didn’t fit in with other omegas, looks-wise-”

“I don’t,” Castiel interrupts. “I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

Dean gapes. “Did you seriously -” he breaks off, apparently unable to voice the rest of his thought. His face turns an impressive shade of crimson.

Castiel shoves his hands in his pockets. “Should I not have said that?” he asks, brow furrowing. This can’t be the first time Dean has been complimented on his looks. As Castiel understands, good looks are one of the main precursors to acceptance in Hollywood.

“No - I mean, maybe - never mind,” Dean fumbles, more out of sorts than Castiel has ever seen him. “It’s that nobody just out and says that, even to me.”

“I just did.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean says, but he’s smiling. “You should look in the mirror sometime, though.” He winks, and Castiel’s brain nearly fritzes out. “So that’s a yes?”

Castiel nods, an all-encompassing warmth filling his chest and exploding out to the tips of his fingers and toes. “I’d love to.”

“It’s a date.”

Read Part II here!

#destiel fanfic #fanfic #destiel #profoundnet #rae writes fic #alpha castiel #omega dean winchester #alpha beta omega dynamics #celebrity dean winchester #barista castiel #professor castiel #the original apple pie latte

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