#he was never ugly! he was never a bad character!! I don’t fuck with that line of thinking!!

[creamflix]

GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN ZAZA ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief your college banned weed, your grades are hanging by a thread, and you definitely did not plan on making your plug your most consistent situationship. w.c 9.8k

risk assessment lots of weed usage and references (this is not based off of #experience for the most part, please be safe & check your sources xx), crack & fluff, female reader, university au, meet-ugly, somewhat ooc characters, misogyny, poor queer assumptions, breaking the 4th wall, city-girl reader, opposites attract, depictions of social anxiety, legally blonde and 2010's anime references, uraume cameo ft! naoya, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna, gojo

a/n the whole concept of a plug romance was ib by my baby @lacyblades's plug gojo series, make sure to check it outt ヾ( ˃ᴗ˂ )◞ • *✰

☆ NAOYA ZENIN

You weren’t expecting much when you decided to message a guy called Naoya Zenin for a dime bag — just some weed, maybe a weird vibe, and a quick escape. But you should’ve known something was off when everyone who smoked weed gave you that same look.

That solemn, pitying, godspeed-soldier look.

One girl even muttered “I'll pray for you” under her breath, which was a bit dramatic. You were getting dope, not going to war. But then again, they all said the same thing: Naoya’s shit is gas, but he’s the worst fucking person you’ll ever meet. You figured they were exaggerating. You’ve dealt with weirdos before. How bad could he be?

Well.

You found out the moment he opened the door with his stupid bleached-blonde hair, gold chain, and a shirt that had “NO SIMPING ZONE” printed on it like a threat. The hallway already reeked of superiority complex and a mango vape pod. “Who's it for?” he asked, not even a hello. 

You blinked. “What?”

“The weed,” he said, waving the baggie like it was a cursed object. “Your boyfriend? Roomie?”

“Uh. Me?” you said slowly. “It’s… for me?”

And it was like you had kicked his ego right in the crotch.

“You smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you smoke weed?”

“…yes.”

“Like, by yourself?”

“What the fuck is this, a survey?”

He squinted at you like you just told him women had human rights. His face pinched, his lip curled, and you could practically hear the internal misogyny revving like a chainsaw. “Look,” he said, setting the baggie down like it was contaminated, “I'm just saying, it’s kinda unattractive. Like, girls who do drugs? Yikes.” 

You stared. “You sell drugs.”

“Yeah, to guys,” he said, like that was the natural order of things. “Or like, chill chicks. Not…” he gestured vaguely at you.

“Not what?”

“Not, you know. Girls.”

It took everything in you to not put him through a wall. You had come into this with the utmost neutrality. A plug is a person, you told yourself. We don’t judge. But here he was, looking like if insecurity were personified by an anime villain with frat boy vibes, actually trying to cancel the deal because you dared to have a uterus and smoke up. “I don't think I'm comfortable selling to you,” he said, arms crossed like he was laying down some moral high ground. “It's just not feminine.”

“Oh no,” you deadpanned. “What if I stop being feminine and grow chest hair. Will my boobs fall off too?” 

Naoya did not laugh. He looked offended on behalf of the concept of gender. 

You stood there for a moment, blinking slowly at this man who would probably cry if a woman outsmoked him, wondering if it was too late to just start growing your own goddamn weed. Or if the hallway cameras would catch you if you kicked him in the shin and ran. 

“I'm not selling to you,” he said again, arms folded. 

“Cool,” you said, turning around. “Then I'm telling every girl on campus to never buy from you again.” 

His eyes bugged. “Wait, what—”

You didn’t wait. Naoya Zenin could keep his opinions and his za. You’d rather go sober than fund his self-inflicted sexism. Besides, rumor had it a guy took gacha bribes, and he didn’t mind if your pronouns were she/her/hitting-that-shit.

—

The house party was loud in that way only bad parties are — bass thumping through your knees, a fog machine making the entire room smell like burnt plastic, and some poor girl crying in the bathroom over a man who probably owned Yeezys. You weren’t even sure why you came. Boredom, maybe. You hadn’t seen anyone you liked in the first ten minutes, and you were seconds from leaving when the crowd split like the red sea and in walked… him.

Naoya Zenin. But not the "no simping zone" shirt Naoya. This was party Naoya. His hair was slicked back, jaw sharp under dim strobe lights, silver chain glinting under a jacket that suspiciously looked like real leather. He smelled like something expensive and infuriating — like pepper and pine and generational wealth. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve said he looked good. If you really didn’t know better, you might’ve said he looked hot. 

But you did know better, so you stood very still and hoped he didn’t see you. Spoiler: he did. He made a beeline straight to you, sauntering like he owned the party, the house, and every sad soul on the aux. “Hey,” he said, voice practically smirking. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me I'm suddenly woman enough to sell weed to.” He chuckled like you were being so dramatic. “Nah, not for sale.” He pulled a sleek, perfectly rolled doobie from behind his ear.

“This batch is just for testing.”

Testing.

You glanced down at it. It was beautiful. Thick, crisp, neat. Probably rolled with tweezers in a windless room while a choir sang in the background. The DJ switched tracks to something that sounded like a washing machine being sacrificed. You felt your brain scream a little. “Testing?” you echoed.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer. You could smell his cologne now — rich boy cinnamon and something spicy enough to hurt your feelings. “Gotta know if it’s worth selling to, you know, guys. Not girls.” He smirked like he was being cute. You wanted to set him on fire.

And yet.

The blunt in his fingers was practically glistening. You were two shots of pineapple vodka in, and the DJ just played the third remix of “Mr. Brightside.” 

Fuck it. You took it from him, muttering a bored “light it.” 

Two hits in and you knew you were screwed. It was good. Like, ruin your night and make you vulnerable to a Zenin good.

And he was watching you far too closely. Like a cat watching a mouse. Or a man who knew he had something you wanted, and was way too smug about it. “So?” he asked, leaning in. His voice was smug, sweetened with that particular brand of you should be lucky i’m even offering you this. “Good enough for the boys?”

You exhaled slowly. You could lie and say it sucked, but your lungs were singing and your brain was on vacation. You knew it. He knew it.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned back, arms crossed, pleased like a cat who caught a bird with one paw. “I knew it,” he said, low. “I saved this batch for you, y’know.” 

You blinked. “You what?”

“Yeah. Thought you’d show up.” he shrugged, too casual, too cocky. “Guess it’s your lucky night.”

You blinked again. Once. Twice. The music in the background dropped and the beat switched again. Someone screamed “this is my song!” when it absolutely wasn’t. You were high, annoyed, and mildly impressed. 

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, passing the blunt back. He grinned. “But I'm hot.”

…Unfortunately, he was. Even more unfortunate — he knew it. And worst of all? You were definitely getting high off his stash again.

What happened over the next few months could only be described as a slow descent into the most bizarre relationship dynamic you’ve ever had with a dealer. And not relationship like that — God no. Naoya Zenin was still the same infuriating, misogyny-scented man you had ever met. He still made comments like “Women shouldn’t be smoking blunts this fat” and “You’ll ruin your lungs, babe, you should stick to edibles like the other girls.” But you? You were different. Or at least that’s what he decided in whatever part of his ego that functioned as a moral compass.

You were his little test subject. His “control group.” 

“I just need someone dumb enough to be honest,” he’d say, handing you a fresh joint before anyone else got their hands on the batch. 

And somehow, that translated to: you always got the first roll. You always got the stronger shit. You always got the nice papers, the flavored ones, the ones with little sparkles or kittens on them.

Hello Kitty rolling papers. You held up the pack once, squinting at it. “You bought this ironically?” He didn’t even look at you, just shrugged from his desk, hoodie pulled over his hair like he wasn’t in his own damn dorm room. “Females like you go feral over that stuff,” he muttered. Then, quieter: 

“I saw it in your story once. The pink ones. Said they were cute.”

You blinked. “You saw my story?”

“No.”

You nodded, lips twitching. “Right.” 

He kept pretending to scroll on his phone, even though you saw the screen was just his locked home page. Meanwhile, you were curled up in the middle of his very expensive mattress — firm, clean, annoyingly good quality — exhaling smoke toward the ceiling while some painfully curated “chill” playlist stumbled through a loop of Kendrick, Yeat, and occasional anime lofi covers that you knew weren’t there when you first met him. “Did you just shuffle a Youtube lo-fi mix into this?” you asked once, high and curious.

“No. It's just…Japanese trap.”

“It's literally the Yarichin Bitch Club—”

“Shut up.”

He never sat on the bed. Always lurked in the corner, leaned on his stupid ergonomic chair like he didn’t wanna be caught enjoying your company. And every time you asked him why he was standing like an NPC, he grumbled some shit about “Not getting comfortable around girls.” But you never caught the subtext.

Naoya Zenin, feminist icon? Absolutely not. Naoya Zenin, a man whose internalized sexism was now actively fighting his deeply repressed crush on you? Every single day.

“I'm not doing this because I like you,” he reminded you once, voice clipped, as he passed you a custom pre-roll sealed in a Hello Kitty ziplock. 

You didn’t even look up from your phone. “Who said you did?”

He opened his mouth. Shut it. 

"You females are so confusing,” he muttered.

You snorted. “Good thing I’m just your lab rat then.”

His jaw clicked. You didn’t notice — because, as always, you had no idea. But Naoya? Naoya was drowning in the best strain of delusion you’d ever smoked.

☆ GETO SUGURU

The first thing you noticed when you met Geto was his hair.

Thick, dark, and pulled into a glossy, mid-back bun that would put half your Pinterest saves to shame. It shimmered under the light, almost too good to be real — like someone had digitally rendered it for an ad campaign about hair-care. 

You’d walked into his place half-prepared to meet a woman. 

Blame the name. Suguru sounded soft to your tired brain, and when your friend said “bro’s got that gas, you’ll know by the hair,” you assumed a goddess of a plug — tall, mysterious, beautiful — would be waiting to bless you with carefully grown hydro and no small amount of mommy energy.

So when you entered, saw the figure from behind — tall, yes. Beautiful, obviously. Long hair, swinging as he reached for something on the table — you went, “Oh my god, your hair is gorgeous, girl.”

And then he turned around.

Oh.

Purple eyes. A sharp jawline that made your heart do unspeakable things. Black tunnel plugs in his ears — big ones, glossy, catching the light just right. He blinked, paused, and then smiled slowly. Warmly. 

“Thank you,” he said, voice low and silken and not at all belonging to the she/her you’d crafted in your head. “But I'm not a girl.”

You wanted to die, like right there. Crawl under the nearest coffee table and remain a fossil. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you blurted, heat rushing to your ears. “I didn’t — I mean — your hair — I wasn’t trying to be weird, I just thought —” He laughed, full and rich, head tipping back as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Nah, you’re good,” he said. “That's a new one, though.”

You were not good. You were actively malfunctioning, trying to recalibrate from cool girl buying weed to accidental misgenderer who couldn’t shut up.

“I mean, like, plugs — you’ve got plugs and you’re the plug? Kinda poetic,” you tried, grasping for levity, for a joke, anything to move past your humiliation. 

That got another laugh. You could’ve sworn the floor dipped under you. 

“Yeah?” he mused. “Maybe I'm just really committed to the brand.” You nodded too fast, clearing your throat as you pulled out your phone like it would protect you. 

He handed you the bag — neatly sealed, vacuum-tight, labeled with a tiny sticker that said “pink runtz” in his neat handwriting. Everything about it was extremely polite. Even the way he held it out to you, like you were at a boutique counter and he was passing over perfume samples. “Here you go,” he said. “Enjoy.” 

You took it with both hands. (Why both hands? What were you, receiving a family heirloom??) “Thank you,” you mumbled. “And again, uh… sorry for the whole…” you gestured vaguely to his entire existence.

“No problem,” he said easily. “See you later, girl.”

You blinked. Did a little double-take.

…Girl? 

Wait. Was he gay?

He had to be, right? The energy was just too smooth, too non-threatening, too effortless. Plus, the hair, the plugs, the smile, the way he said girl — it all fit. Yeah. Definitely gay. Sweet, gorgeous, gay plug.

…Right?

Meanwhile, Geto watched you leave, eyes still soft at the corners, thumb brushing idly across his palm where your fingers had almost grazed his. “Cute,” he murmured to himself. Then added, under his breath, “Wish she’d called me babe instead.”

But there’s always next time.

But the next time you dropped by Geto’s, you didn’t come alone. You brought Uraume.

They were tall, pale in that “Victorian ghost but hot” way, and wore a structured, monochrome fit that made you feel underdressed even though you were just here for a refill. Uraume moved like they were born inside an art gallery — all grace and precision and a deep-rooted meh to the chaos of the world. You’d known them since undergrad and always thought they and Geto would hit it off. Same aura, same cool, collected, possibly-haunt-their-own-loft-in-Berlin energy. 

“You’ll love him,” you said on the walk over. “Gorgeous, chill, and he called me girl unironically.” 

Uraume gave you a side-eye that could shear bone. “You’re trying to set me up with your plug?”

“Not set up — just, like, meet. He's gay. I think. You’ll see.”

Uraume didn’t respond, but their silence was pointed.

Geto was expecting you. Well — you and “someone else,” though the someone was vague enough that he’d let himself entertain the delusion that it might be a cousin. a roommate. A dog. 

But then the door opened, and there you were. Smiling wide, eyes bright, excitement making your voice bubble up like soda. “Hey!” you chirped. “Brought a friend!” Behind you, Uraume stepped in, immediately scanning the apartment with an expression that could only be described as polite suspicion. 

Geto stood, blinking once. He recognized beauty when he saw it — Uraume was undeniably attractive, angular in a sharp, clean way that made his chest instinctively straighten. But that was about it. No spark, no interest, no gravity. His attention flicked back to you, as it always did. You were laughing at something stupid. You always laughed at something stupid. God, it was going to kill him. 

Small talk ensued. You made introductions, Uraume kept their hands folded like they were here for a health inspection. Finally, they turned to you with a very pointed question.

“…Where’s the gay?”

Geto froze mid-baggie. You looked confused.

“What?”

“The plug,” Uraume clarified, gesturing vaguely to Geto. “You said he was gay.”

You blinked. Turned to Geto. He blinked. Then said, very calmly, very apologetically:

“I'm not.”

Silence. 

Like full, sitcom-record-scratch silence. 

Uraume’s brow twitched. Geto cleared his throat. 

You… looked like someone had just pulled the rug out from under your brain.

“But — the ‘see you later, girl’ — the hair — the —”

Geto held up a hand, trying not to laugh. “Okay, first of all, I say that to people. Second of all…”

He paused, looking at you. And for one millisecond, the air changed.

“…I don’t really talk like that to anyone else.”

You stared. Uraume stared. Geto stared right at you.

Oh.

You wanted to rewind the whole interaction. Crawl backward out the door. Instead, you made a high-pitched noise that sounded like a mouse being stepped on. Uraume, bless their elegant heart, sighed deeply. “So you weren’t trying to set me up?”

“I mean… i was,” you said weakly. “But—”

“With a man who’s been undressing you with his eyes since we walked in.”

You almost choked. Geto made a sound that could’ve been a cough, a laugh, or help.

“I — I haven’t —”

“You have,” Uraume replied, adjusting their collar with zero chill. “It's fine. I get it. I'm attractive, but unfortunately I have no tits. Tragic, really.” Geto finally let out a small, helpless laugh. “You’re very attractive,” he said. “Just not really my type.”

“Yeah,” Uraume said, smirking a little now. “Your type’s clearly flustered and wearing mismatched socks.” 

You looked down. Kill me. 

Uraume turned toward the door. “I'll wait outside before I see something traumatic. Thanks for the entertainment.” And just like that, they ghosted out, as elegantly as they’d entered. Leaving you and Geto alone. You opened your mouth to apologize. Or clarify. Or die. But Geto just smiled. Soft. A little amused, a little not.

“…For the record,” he said, walking over to hand you the refill — perfectly packed, like always — “I liked the idea of a refill. Not the setup.” 

Your fingers brushed. 

“But,” he added, leaning just a little closer, “If you ever wanna set yourself up instead…”

You blinked. He winked. You may never recover.

☆ NANAMI KENTO

You’d been waiting under the ugly stone archway behind the Humanities building for nearly twenty minutes, pacing and checking your phone like a teenager abandoned after a school dance. Your guy — well, your friend’s guy who swore the plug was “chill, reliable, and hot if you’re into geeks” — was supposed to meet you here. Codeword: blue eyes hypnotize.

Very subtle. Very anonymous. Very fucking annoying.

So when a man in a tailored suit walked up the steps with a suitcase, you automatically moved out of his way. He didn’t look like someone who was here to facilitate illicit extracurriculars. He looked like a tax auditor. A hitman. The guy who gently but firmly fires you with a severance packet. “Excuse me,” he said, voice precise and polite. “Are you here for the… meetup?” 

You blinked. “The what?” 

He glanced at your shoes, then at your phone, then back at you like he was mentally cross-referencing a checklist. 

“…Blue eyes hypnotize?” he said, like it physically pained him. 

“Oh my god.” you took an instinctive step back. “You’re the plug?”

He sighed, like he’d been asked to commit a crime against his will. “No. I’m not the —” he paused, clearly wrestling with something deep and moral. “I'm… covering for someone.” You stared. He didn’t elaborate. He was wearing an ID card around his neck that read Nanami Kento, Head Delegate – UN Model Council. 

So he’d just come back from MUN. You felt like you’d stumbled into a BBC drama where the intern accidentally does espionage. 

“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” you asked. “Because I was told blue eyes —”

“Couldn’t make it today,” Nanami cut in. “He said — and allow me to quote — ‘Lol can u pass it to the hot girl, she’ll know, just say the code thing xoxo.’”

You winced. “That tracks.” 

He nodded, grim. “I debated ignoring both of you.”

Then, without further preamble, he knelt down, set his suitcase on the grimy pavement, popped it open like he was about to give a TED talk — and began removing documents. Notebooks. Binders. Printed policy drafts. A laminated flowchart titled Conflict Resolution and Drug Decriminalization in East Asia. You stared in silence as he pulled out a sealed envelope marked “last will & testament” and tucked it under his arm like it was a receipt.

Finally, from somewhere beneath the bureaucratic detritus, he extracted a moderately crumpled ziplock bag. It looked wildly out of place in the otherwise pristine, corporate-ass briefcase. He carefully dusted it off with a cloth (a cloth) before handing it to you like he was passing off a court summons. A homemade QR code was slapped on the back, printed on sticker paper. “You can scan here,” he said. “Please include the transaction ID in the note.” 

You took it slowly. Reverently. 

“…Thanks?”

“Don’t thank me,” he said flatly. “I had a debate round scheduled for now. Instead I'm standing here, holding someone else’s will, handing you illicit substances in front of a garbage bin.”

“You… seem very responsible for someone who knows a guy like blue eyes.”

He scoffed. “I wouldn't say I know him. We’re roommates, unfortunately. He once tried to convince our landlord that the leak in our ceiling was a portal to the astral plane. She gave us a three-day notice.”

“And you’re covering for him?”

He looked like he wanted to die. 

“He told me you looked ‘docile and non-threatening.’ I assumed that meant you wouldn’t stab me.”

“Docile?” you echoed. “What, did he send a photo?” 

He didn’t answer, which was, in itself, an answer. 

A long pause. Both of you just kind of standing there. Neither one of you exactly thrilled about the situation. Finally, you shifted. 

“Well. I guess this is… it.”

“Mm.”

“You gonna do this again?”

“Absolutely not.”

You nodded. Respectable. As you turned to leave, Nanami called out:

“He'll be back next time. I sincerely hope.” 

You raised a hand. “Thanks again… delegate Nanami.”

He exhaled like it physically hurt to hear that out loud. Behind you, his voice trailed faintly into the air:

“…I really need new roommates.”

—

But really, you weren’t expecting him again. Not the man in the wrinkled button-down and loosened tie, sleeves shoved up like he’d been mid-negotiation or a breakdown — same difference — and somehow still smelling like freshly baked cookies and weed. It took you a second to register. The flour-dusted briefcase. The weary expression. The gold name badge peeking out of his chest pocket like it had been forgotten there weeks ago. “Delegate Nanami?” you said, bewildered.

He flinched like you’d thrown a dart into his spine. “Not… officially,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes scanning the small courtyard like he was checking for witnesses. “This is strictly a freelance appearance.”

You blinked, then looked down. In his hands: a small, clear plastic box tied with a ridiculous pink ribbon. Inside it, two types of cookies — one set perfectly shaped and golden, the other darker, denser, with a suspiciously herbal aroma even through the box. Your brows lifted. “You baked these?”

“Unfortunately,” he said. “A last-minute request.”

You took them gently, inspecting the sticker on the side — a wonky heart with love n’ nip, xoxo scrawled in a handwriting you’d never seen before. You turned the box over and saw the same homemade QR sticker from last time, this one stuck crookedly, like it had been applied mid-crisis. 

“These from… ‘blue eyes hypnotize’?” you asked, voice skeptical. 

Nanami closed his eyes like you’d recited a slur. “Yes. He thought it would be a good ‘seasonal campaign.’ He said it was ‘low effort, high whimsy.’ Then he went to get his hair frosted and asked me to ‘deliver the goods with love and mystery.’” 

You blinked again. “I thought you were just filling in last time?” 

Nanami opened his eyes. They were bloodshot in the way that suggested not smoking but being around too much smoke.

“…I got roped into baking. He said people were more likely to buy it if it was homemade and ethically sourced.”

You stifled a laugh, then paused. Then looked at the box again. “…Wait, these are two different batches?” He tensed. Subtly, barely perceptible. But you caught it. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “One is… catnip. The other’s regular.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“In case…” he cleared his throat. “You didn’t want the first kind. Or wanted both. Variety is important.” 

You stared. “Did you bake two types for everyone?”

He didn’t answer, which was an answer. 

Your lips parted just slightly, breath caught between amusement and something warmer. You noticed the way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes, how he kept smoothing his hand over the lid of the briefcase, the tension in his shoulders rigid like he was balancing a full tray on his back. He hadn’t shaved. There was flour in his hair, and one of his shirt buttons was mismatched. 

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” you said softly. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I've had worse Thursdays.”

You held the box up between you. “These are really cute. And they smell amazing.” 

Nanami looked like he was torn between relief and abject embarrassment. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “It was mostly Gojo’s idea.”

“Who?”

He blinked. “Blue eyes.”

Oh. You stared a second longer. 

“So… he has a name?”

Nanami didn’t even flinch this time. “Unfortunately.”

You smiled, crooked and fond. “Well,” you said, “You’re a much better cupid.”

He looked at you like you’d cursed him. Then immediately broke eye contact to pretend to re-check the payment QR code, even though nothing had changed. You watched the way his fingers fiddled with the sticker again, then stopped, pressing the corner down like it mattered. “…If you ever want non-catnip cookies,” he said, carefully, like testing the edge of a knife, “I have a standing recipe. No obligation. No… ribbons.” 

Your eyes widened slightly. Was that an invitation? Or a bakery recommendation? But he wouldn’t look up. Instead, he gave you a brisk nod, already turning away like he hadn’t just panic-confessed a crush via cookie code. You stood there, cookies in hand, heart full of sugar and smoke, watching him retreat like a man fleeing the scene of a very gentle crime.

It took you a full minute before you laughed to yourself. 

Then you texted your friend.

you [2:39pm]: blue eyes is not the hot one. it’s his roommate. holy shit.

☆ CHOSO KAMO

You were all for supporting local businesses — especially if they bloomed out of someone’s dorm bathroom and gave you a ten-minute high from a single puff.

You’d heard of him before. The plant guy. New transfer. Lowkey, didn’t talk much, wore hoodies with the sleeves chewed through, never made eye contact during attendance. Kamo, someone said. Or maybe that was just the name listed on the label of the ziplock bags he apparently sold. A friend of a friend vouched for him — said he grew it himself, only used filtered water, and played classical music near the pots “because it helps the terpenes flourish.” You didn’t know what that meant, you just knew that when this mutual passed you a single gram with the warning “this shit might make you see your own birth,” you paid attention.

So when the same friend texted you a barely readable address, you expected to meet some scrawny countryside kid with glasses and dirt under his nails. You even rehearsed your polite city-slicker voice. “Thank you, this is so fresh,” and all that. What you didn’t expect was for the door to swing open and reveal a man who looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of some indie underground zine titled ‘men who could ruin your life and forget your name.’

Tall, built like he’d been carved by someone clinically horny, shirt hanging off one shoulder like it had given up, collarbone pierced — pierced, — with a silver barbell that glinted when he moved. He had a black tattoo running sideways down his nose, and those lips. Full, slightly chapped, plush enough to be distracting. Soft brown eyes that barely blinked, droopy and disinterested under a smudge of lavender eyeshadow, like he’d done his makeup in the dark and didn’t care to fix it. He blinked once. 

“Hey.” His voice was low, like a gravel path after rain. 

You opened your mouth and forgot the words. 

He stepped aside to let you in, and you caught a whiff of something — clean laundry, basil, and just the faintest trace of lemon body wash. No way, you thought. No fucking way this is Kamo. 

“You want water or somethin’?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck, head tilting a little. “I made banana bread this morning. There’s still a slice left, I think.”  You stared. Banana bread? He blinked again, slightly slower this time. “You okay?”

You walked in like you were sleepwalking.

His dorm was not what you imagined a weed grower’s to be, not even close. No Bob Marley posters, no messy ashtrays, no vape clouds. Instead, the place was warm, cozy, with sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains that made everything look soft. His desk was cluttered with seed packets, plant cuttings in glasses of water, a very worn-out book called “Cannabis for dummies” and another called “The botany of desire.” And from the bathroom, you could faintly see green. Actual green, like a jungle was growing in his bathtub. 

“The temp in there’s perfect,” he said casually, catching your line of sight. “Humidity’s the trickiest part. But once I got the cycle right, everything started thriving.” 

And then — as if he hadn’t just committed several crimes with that body and this voice — he leaned over the mini fridge and pulled out a ziplock, weighed it with one hand, and passed it to you. 

“This one’s blueberry kush, real sweet. Might make your ears ring a little.” 

You didn’t know whether to thank him or to cry. He looked at you again, head slightly cocked. “You good?”

You nodded slowly. Because here he was — this beautiful, pierced, sleepy-eyed plant nerd who baked banana bread, listened to ABBA (You swear ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’ was playing faintly from his bluetooth speaker), and handed you weed like it was homemade granola. None of the rumors did him justice.

He didn’t flirt, didn’t brag, didn’t even seem to know what he looked like. And that made it all ten times worse. Because what were you supposed to do with a plug who looked like temptation and acted like a librarian? You clutched the baggie like it was fragile glass and said the only thing your brain could conjure.

“…This smells amazing.”

He smiled — smiled, like the sun peeking through a lazy sky. “Thanks. I can text you when I got more.” You nodded, then tripped over the doorway on your way out. ABBA played on —

And Choso squeaked.

An actual, involuntary, horrifically real squeak the second you closed his door and your footsteps padded down the hall, fading like the last four minutes of an ABBA song that’d just ruined his life. And he stood there, in his socks — the ones with holes in them — baggie still dangling from one hand, half-eaten banana bread slice in the other, mind replaying everything he’d just said like it was being beamed through his skull with a megaphone labeled you fucking blew it.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to just freeze and panic and act like the most boring man to ever walk the earth. He was supposed to be cool. Show you his homemade record shelf and his boots — his boots, god, the fifteen different pairs of heavy, clunky, beautiful black boots all the way from his hometown. He even dusted them this morning. He wanted to explain how each one had its own story: market day boots, rainy day boots, festival boots. One pair still had a faint smudge of dried mud from a music fair he went to at fifteen. He wanted to offer you tea, tell you about the dried hibiscus he had steeping in a jar in the corner, and how his mum used to say it’d make your cheeks glow. But what had he said instead?

“Do you want banana bread?”

Fucking banana bread, like the most basic thing in the world. In his hometown, every lad could make banana bread blindfolded and drunk. It was the first thing boys learned to make when they had their first real crush. 

And now you probably thought he was just like every other wide-eyed, weed-growing loser in the city, trying to butter up his buyers with carbs and eye contact. 

Choso sank onto his bed, face in his hands. His sheets still smelled like lemongrass detergent, and the faintest whiff of you clung to the air — perfume, shampoo, city.

Because you. You, with your soft voice and effortless smile. You who had saved him from a capitalism-induced crisis four months ago when he was standing in a café, overwhelmed by a chalkboard menu that listed a drink called "dirty chai" that cost more than his weekly groceries. Back home, tea was just tea. Simple, warm, honest. But he had been cold. He had been lost. 

And then — then you’d appeared behind him like some ethereal campus fairy, leaned in and said, “If you like green tea, maybe try the matcha? It’s less confusing than it sounds.”

And then you were gone.

You didn’t even stay to see how red he turned, or how he repeated that order in a near-whisper and clutched the paper cup like a relic. He'd gone home and told his brother that someone helped him, a girl, a kind one. He never caught your name, but your smile — your voice — that stuck. 

Matcha. That was what you gave him. That was what he ordered every time he came to that café, even though he could steep better tea with his eyes closed at home. Just in case he ran into you again. But you never showed up.

Until today.

You — you, the girl who made him believe the city might have good people after all — had walked into his room asking for zaza. His zaza. And you smiled at him like you remembered none of that and everything all at once. So casually. Like you hadn’t tilted his entire axis four months ago and then reappeared, smelling like laundry and looking like a dream. And now you were gone again, and he didn’t even tell you about the purple rice he was growing in his windowsill or the wild strawberries in a shoebox under the sink. 

He flopped backwards on the bed, groaning into the sheets.

“Stupid. Stupid.”

Well. Maybe next time, he’d get it right. He’d make you real tea, show you the boots, maybe play you something on his clunky little record player. He didn’t know much about city girls. But he knew he liked this one. And he’d do better. Just wait.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

You were sent as bait.

Not in so many words, but you knew. You knew from the way they all nudged each other and giggled like hyenas when you agreed to “do the pickup this time.” You knew from the way someone said, “Toji only deals with girls, haha,” and you really knew when another added, “Just act pretty and you’ll be fine.”

Gross, objectively. And also a very bold assumption about your gender identity, frankly, but you were too bored and too curious to turn it down. 

Which is why you were now sitting on a faded public park bench with peeling red paint and disturbing Mickey Mouse graffiti — eyes darting toward every approaching silhouette like prey — waiting for what your friend described as “the guy who looks like he could eat a helicopter.” You later realize that he does not look like he could eat a helicopter. He looks like he already did, and is now looking for dessert.

Toji Fushiguro approaches like a goddamn myth in motion. Tall, built like someone who’s been bench pressing prison inmates, dressed in head-to-toe black like he’d gotten lost on the way to a mob funeral, with scars you didn’t want to imagine the origin of. He had the sort of face that could terrify a priest and seduce a nun. And you? You just sat there, fully convinced you were about to die. But then—

“Are those… purple?” he asked, pointing at your nails. 

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Not gravelly, not sultry — awkward. Almost bashful. 

You blinked. He blinked back. He sat down, and the bench groaned like it was filing a complaint with god. You watched him fumble with something in his massive hands, and you noticed the way he didn’t look at you — not really. More like next to you. His eyes darted everywhere else. The grass, the paint peeling on the bench, the weird drawing of Mickey Mouse’s warped little face near your thigh. He cleared his throat. 

“Uh, suits you,” he said, nodding vaguely in your direction. “The purple. It's nice.”

Okay. What.

This was the guy who was supposedly a womanizer? This was the plug people were too scared to deal with unless they were certified bombshells? This man who looked like a live-action anime villain and moved like he could break your ribs with a hug was out here complimenting your nails like he was mustering every ounce of courage he had not to combust? He finally handed you the goods — in iridescent, pearlescent, holographic wrapping. Something that looked like it was bought from a dollar store for birthday party favors. 

You blinked again. 

“Uh, sorry about the, uh—” he gestured at the bag vaguely. “Didn’t have tape. So I just, you know. Wrapped it.” 

You held it like it was a gift, because it was. Because Toji had just handed you a space cake wrapped like a birthday present and was now standing up, brushing nonexistent dust from his pants like he’d just had a tea party and wasn’t quite sure what came next. 

“Okay, uh. Thanks for coming. Sorry if that was — um. I mean, enjoy,” he stammered, and then—

He bowed. 

Full, chest-folded, bowed. And then walked away like he’d just embarrassed himself in front of royalty. 

You just sat there, high on confusion. Maybe he really had never seen a woman before. Or maybe — more likely — the stares and the glares and the resting murder face was just a cover. Because the truth was… Toji couldn’t smile without looking like he was trying to stop one from happening. And if he did, it’d probably scare someone anyway. So he’d rather not. But he tried. He tried. He asked about your nails, and you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe you’d volunteer to do the pickups more often. You had a nail appointment next week, after all.

But before all of this, Toji was in a jungle gym. Let’s just get that part out of the way.

He was crouched awkwardly between two plastic slides, head ducked under a bar that was clearly not meant for full-grown adult men, let alone him, all six-foot-something of pure ex-hitman-turned-therapy-fundraiser bulk. His knees were digging into damp, sand-caked rubber flooring, and he was trying — trying — not to hyperventilate while giving himself a pep talk. 

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Just… be normal. Be casual. Ask how she is. Don’t stare. Don’t say anything about her eyes. Or her hands. Or her voice. Or anything.

Toji squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck. it was happening again. His mind flung itself back into the past — high school, senior year, school corridors lit with the aggressive hum of fluorescent lighting and the nervous tap-tap-tap of his big-ass converse against linoleum floors. He'd had a plan, dammit. A plan. Talk to girls, practice conversations, get better at the social thing, and finally approach Sydney, the sunny blonde in his homeroom with that annoying little sparkle in her eyes that made him feel like a dumbass every time she said hi.

Except.

Except, hormones are a bitch.

What started as “just practice” spiraled very quickly into a bizarre PR nightmare where Toji found himself talking to literally every girl but Sydney. Out of anxiety. Out of panic. Out of a weird, rabid need to rehearse and re-rehearse and never get to the main act.

By graduation, Sydney was dating someone named Nate, and Toji was The Guy Who Hits On Everyone But Doesn’t Know How To Finish A Sentence. 

A womanizer, a creep, someone no guy would leave their sister alone with — not because he did anything wrong, but because he was too awkward to do anything right. 

The social anxiety diagnosis came a year later and the therapy bills came after. Then came the dealing, and then came the reputation. The funny thing? 

He never liked dealing. 

He hated being seen, hated having to look people in the eye, hated the goddamn small talk. He tried to automate it, for god’s sake — had a spreadsheet, QR codes, fucking inventory notes on his phone — anything to avoid actual human connection. And now here he was, hiding in a goddamn jungle gym because you’re too fucking pretty. His pulse thudded in his ears. He was clutching the baggie like it was a ring box, knees shaking. 

You hadn’t even done anything. Hadn’t flirted, hadn’t asked, hadn’t even looked at him too long. Just sat on that bench like you were built from sun and honey and a little bit of whatever God put into women he wanted men to lose their entire minds over.

He tried to regulate his breathing.

Breathe in for four. Hold. Out for eight. Do not throw up. Do not ask her about her zodiac sign. Do not speak unless spoken to.

Toji crouch-shuffled out of the jungle gym like a grown man doing the walk of shame, palms sweaty, jaw clenched. You were still there, reading something on your phone, bag slung lazily over your shoulder, legs crossed just enough to be intimidating without meaning to. Your nails were painted. Purple.

He short-circuited a little. 

“Uh, nice nails,” he blurted, voice gravelled and quiet and too fast. You looked up, startled. He froze. 

Smooth.

His fingers twitched. Maybe he should just hand you the ziploc and run like usual. Say nothing, keep it clean, keep it simple. That's what everyone else got. The runners. The girlfriends. The random brave strangers who’d come up all smiles and try to flirt — not because they liked him, but because they thought it’d get them an extra gram. But you… you asked him how he was. Just once. 

How are you, Toji? 

Like it mattered. Like he mattered.

He cleared his throat and sat beside you like the world might split open and swallow him whole. The bench creaked like it was offended by his weight. 

He hated this. Hated being in his own skin, hated how his resting face looked like he was glaring, when really, he was just trying to think of something polite to say that didn’t involve complimenting your entire genetic lineage.

“Uh, I wrapped it,” he muttered, handing you the baggie with the iridescent paper. “Didn’t have… tape. So. Yeah.” 

You took it like it was a birthday present. Smiled at him. And for a second, the social noise inside his head dimmed.

Toji stood up. His palms were sweaty again.

He bowed. Bowed, like you were royalty. Like that was the only socially acceptable thing he could think of to do. And when he turned and walked away — stiffly, hurriedly, like he was being chased by a ghost — he swore he’d never let anyone send someone else in his place again.

Not when you were the one showing up.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA

The sun was a bitch today. You knew that because your thighs were sticking to the plastic bus stop bench, your pits were questioning their loyalty to your deodorant, and your brother had sent you to do his dirty work like this was the goddamn hunger games. 

“Just go, it’s been paid for. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t say thank you.”

Oh sure. Easy. Send your sister out into the world of mysterious substance exchange like you’re not the one who watched her cry over the scrapped ending of Legally Blonde less than two hours ago. 

So here you were. Sweaty, confused, a little delirious from secondhand heatstroke. And then you saw him. Which is to say, him.

Tattoos snaking up both arms and his face — his fucking face — like he had crawled out of a graphic novel and got bored halfway through. Piercings glinting in the sunlight, bleached hair pulled back in a way that was supposed to look effortless but very much screamed intentional. Shirt unbuttoned halfway like it was doing him a favor. That’s not a dealer, you thought. That's a Greek god in cargo pants. But no, that’s exactly who he was. “Yo,” he said, already digging into the backpack slung across one shoulder. 

“Your brother told me indica, but like — he said nighttime indica, not couchlock, which’s basically the same thing, but it depends if he meant something like the pink runtz or more like a platinum OG — wait, do you know if he likes purple terps? ‘Cause I have this one that tastes like fucking grape medicine but in a good way. Or, like, there’s one that hits you with dry mouth fast but it’s good for sleep—”

He kept going. And going, listing things like you were supposed to understand the periodic table of weed strains. You nodded, lips parted slightly in what you thought was a neutral expression but was probably closer to early-onset panic. You could feel your heart pulsing in your neck. Your mouth was dry. Or wet? Both? You couldn’t tell. Everything was damp and hot and stressful. Finally, after what felt like three hours but was probably three minutes, you swallowed and said—

“I don't know.” 

Barely a whisper. Shaky, a little croaky, possibly traumatized. “I don't… I don't know what kind. I wasn't told.”

Sukuna — you didn’t know that was his name yet, but it was giving Sukuna — stopped. His eyes twitched. As a matter of fact, his whole body twitched. He stared at you like he’d just been hit by a midsummer tax audit. 

And then he let out the loudest, most visceral groan of human exhaustion ever recorded. Head tilted back, hands shoved through his hair, a full-body sigh that made birds scatter and God turn the sun up just to be petty.

“Bro, what the fuck.” he muttered, pacing. “I’ve got six more stops, two of them in the fucking dorms — do you know how long it takes to get past security there? Do you even know what a hybrid is? Do you know why we don’t say thank you?”

You blinked. Sukuna blinked. 

Silence.

And Sukuna knew today was going to be bullshit the second he saw your face instead of your brother’s. Your brother, who was usually all business. No stalling, no “wait I forgot the cash” antics. Just a head nod and a quick exit. Dependable, dry, vaguely annoying. 

You, however, were neither dry nor dependable. 

You were currently hyperventilating under a Jacaranda tree and babbling something about Harvard law school. He watched you for a moment, expression somewhere between a squint and a grimace, hands on his hips like he was preparing to build a shed or bury a body.

“…Are you quoting Legally Blonde right now?”

You paused mid-rant, sniffling. “I was watching it, like, two hours ago, and now I'm here. And I don’t even smoke, my brother just said go get the thing, and then you started talking about…couch-something? And I’m not even wearing proper shoes for this—”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, not because he didn’t care, but because that was his only way to delay a full-blown fuck me moment. He had heard of you before — vague mentions during other deals. Always framed around inconvenience:

“Can’t leave her alone too long,”

“Nah, she’s at home today, can’t risk the smell,”

“My sister's around, so not now.”

He expected a brat. A teen. Someone with a 100k Snapscore, a rhinestone phone case and a visible need for supervision. He did not expect someone basically his age, sitting in a puddle of heat and anxiety, with the kind of eyes that made you look twice and a mouth that couldn’t stop moving even if it wanted to. 

And for reasons he did not care to investigate, Sukuna found himself…listening. Not fake listening, actually listening.

Like when you started monologuing about how Elle Woods was judged just for wearing pink, and how your brother was now pulling the same kind of injustice by sending you into the unknown like a sacrifice to the zaza gods. “He said don’t say thank you, like that’s normal,” you sniffed, pacing now. “Am I supposed to just grab the bag and go? What if it’s the wrong one? Is this a test?”

“It's not a test,” Sukuna muttered, arms crossed, watching you with a half-lidded stare.

“I can't fail.”

“I'm not grading you.”

“But you could.”

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face, eyes twitching when you hiccuped in the middle of your next word. This was a nightmare. He checked his phone. Four missed deliveries. Fuck. “Call him again,” he barked, jutting his chin toward your phone.

“He’s not picking uppp,” you wailed, already dialing anyway. “And when he does, I'm gonna commit fratricide. That’s legal, right?” 

Then — like divine intervention — your brother answered. And immediately, your hand flew to your chest, your lip trembled, and your voice cracked like a war orphan on the verge of a ballad. “I don't know what to ask for, I didn't ask to be born into this family—!”

Sukuna winced as your voice pitched three octaves higher.

The call was short. Some loud cursing, some laughter, a few insults, and a loud “Stop fucking crying, Jesus, just get the platinum—” and that was that. You hung up and slumped like your skeleton gave out. “Here.” Sukuna shoved the baggie toward you. “Platinum OG. Sleep strain, nice body high. Pairs well with girl tears and whatever the hell you got going on in there.”

You didn’t even look up, just took it. And used the corner of his shirt — his shirt — to dab your damp lashes. He stared at you, down at your hand, then back at you.

“…Are you crying into my clothes right now?”

You nodded. “They’re cotton.” 

His jaw clicked. He wanted to groan. He wanted to throw his phone in a lake. Instead, he let out a long, nasal exhale. You looked up at him finally, cheeks flushed, eyelashes stuck together, still holding the damn bag in one hand like it might bite you. “Thank you,” you whispered, despite your brother’s explicit instructions. 

“You’re not supposed to say that,” he grunted. You smiled, faint and ruined and puffy. “I'll say sorry, too, if you stick around.”

And something in him — something warped and inconvenient — twitched. Because he could see it now. That part of him that usually wanted to sprint the fuck out of social interactions? Quiet. His eyes lingered on your face, your lashes, the smudge of stress-sweat and heat that made you glow. 

He sighed again. He could speedrun those other deliveries. Maybe swing by later. 

For fraternal check-ins, obviously. Not for you. Not because he liked you or anything.

☆ GOJO SATORU

You didn’t know what was more devastating — the fact that you spent nearly two hundred grand clawing away at an arcade machine for a limited edition Albedo figurine, or that the guy who actually wanted her didn’t even leave his house. No, he just bribed you into doing it for him. “Blue eyes hypnotise,” he called himself. Like a joke. Like a threat. Like a man who didn’t have any shame.

You only got his real name — Gojo Satoru — when he turned around and you caught a flash of his university ID tag, half-tucked behind a plushie keychain shaped like a pudding. He was apparently from the Engineering department, which was either a lie or an actual war crime, because nothing about the way he looked or acted said science. But there he was, in a dorm room that smelled like strawberry soda and fabric softener, crouched on the floor like a grown man summoning a demon from a display box. 

“Look at her,” he cooed, setting the Albedo figurine gently — tenderly — into her glass shrine. “She’s so misunderstood. Nobody gets her like I do.” You blinked at him from the edge of his futon, arms still sore from wrangling that claw machine like it owed you rent. 

“So…can I get the stuff now?”

He barely looked up, just pointed vaguely at the corner of his room — where Hatsune Miku was standing on a glass shelf in all her twin-tailed glory. But instead of a mic, she held a tiny bag of very clearly illegal herb in one plastic hand. You stared back at him, then back at Miku.

“Is this — is this some kind of themed display?” you asked. Gojo just beamed, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Yeah! I’ve got Rin holding a grinder, Nezuko’s the designated lighter girl, and Saber — oh wait, lemme show you—”

He moved across the room, the wooden floors creaking under the weight of his sins and merch, to open another glass cabinet filled with boxed Nendoroids, switch cartridges, and an entire row of perfume bottles that you knew were only bought because they were collaboration exclusives. And the worst part? He was hot.

Glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, oversized shirt that said “science is sexy” in pixel font, hair pulled back in a loose bun with a Hello Kitty clip. And those stupid, stupid blue eyes twinkling at you like a paywall.

“So. Ya like claw machines?”

“No,” you deadpan. “I like weed.”

He laughed — giggled, actually — like that was the most charming thing he’d heard all week. 

“We should hang out more,” he said, reaching for a heart-shaped tin box that he cracked open to reveal little wrapped edibles shaped like stars. “I trade limiteds for labor. Win me figures, get high for free. It’s a perfect ecosystem.”

You took the bag from Miku, still watching him with a healthy mix of horror and fascination. His room looked less like a place someone lived in and more like a walking otaku’s dreamscape. Frames on the wall — real glass, not Ikea — with signed prints. A projector setup. A heated kotatsu. Not even a fake one, actual imported goods. You spotted a collectors-only Hatsune Miku ita-bag on his chair and realized with chilling clarity—

This man was loaded. And somehow, dealing was just a hobby. “So you're rich,” you muttered, half to yourself. 

“No, I'm emotionally compensating,” he chirped, handing you a cola-flavored edible. “And high-key, Miku funds half my lifestyle. God bless licensing.” 

You didn’t even know what to say anymore. The za was yours, technically. but your soul? Your soul had been mortgaged. As you left, he waved from the door with his fingers wiggling, still barefoot, still smiling. 

“Bring me that Rem-Ram plush next time and I'll give you a freebie!”

You didn’t answer, just turned away clutching the Miku za, feeling thoroughly hypnotized.

Fucking nerd.

And as you left, Gojo Satoru is starting to spiral. 

Not in the tragic, tortured anime boy way (although he could do that too, he has the bone structure for it), but in the what if I am God’s strongest soldier but also emotionally constipated kind of way. Which, to be fair, is on brand. He's from the Engineering department, not Psychology — he doesn’t need therapy, he needs more shelf space for his waifus. Except now he’s wondering if he should detour to the Psych wing after all, because he’s not normal about you. Like, at all.

You showed up at his dorm with the Albedo figurine — the grail, the myth, the she who watches over the za with her plastic rack — and Gojo knew. He knew this was destiny. He didn’t talk to you directly, oh no, that would be too sane. 

He talked to Albedo instead. 

“Thank you for returning to me, my queen,” he whispered to her lovingly while unboxing, carefully peeling the protective plastic like he was unwrapping life itself. You were just… sitting on his futon, watching this happen. Watching this man ignore you in favor of a busty demon lady. And the worst part? You looked annoyed, which meant he was winning. 

“She's perfect,” he sighed dramatically, lifting the figure to the light like she was about to be baptized in his otaku holiness. “Better than any real girl.” 

You scoffed, and he heard it. Oh, he heard it all right. Success, he thought, the cogs in his brain wheezing like a dial-up modem. She's jealous. She’s spiraling. She wants to be my real girl now.

He had charisma. Not rizz — that word made his gums itch — but presence. Aura. The kind of deeply concerning magnetism that made people lose brain cells around him. He had a theme. Nezuko with the lighter, Rin with the grinder… even his plushies had roles. He wasn't like other dealers — he was aesthetic. 

You didn’t stand a chance.

Maybe you were his Zero Two. No, wait. Too pink. His Hori? No, that pairing was mid. Maybe you were his Faye Valentine, all mystery and menace and weird snack orders. Or maybe — maybe MAPPA would make an anime about the two of you. A rom-com, but the kind where the guy’s so stupid it becomes a tragedy. 

He could see the promo now: “The strongest dealer meets the one girl who got him to shut up.”  Bonus points if they animated his sparkly glasses glint just right. 

Maybe he could pull a few strings, call in a favor. Not that he was from an anime or anything, haha. Definitely not from that one. No, no. He's real. He's totally real.

You asked him if he had more edibles and he accidentally said, “Only if you say you love me,” before immediately covering it with a fake cough that sounded like a dying sim.  

“What?” you frowned. 

“Nothing,” he said, nearly choking. “I said… they’re gummy. Fruity. Ha-ha.”

Smooth. Like butter.

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t leave. You stayed, kicked your shoes off, asked if he had wi-fi. And Gojo, who had a literal shrine of waifus across from his bed, thought to himself: Damn. Maybe I need to start making room on that shelf for a new figure called: the girl who brought me Albedo and accidentally stole my heart. Definitely not for dramatic reasons. Definitely not because he was projecting. 

Definitely not because, if he was from an anime, he’d want you in every single ending theme.

a/n sukuna's part is based off of a true story except my experience did not end in romance. i hope you enjoyed reading tho :P if you have any silly weed experiences please drop a confession in da ask-box 🫣 and yes, blue eyes hypnotize is a yo yo honey singh reference...

[sad-endings-suck]

this man!! this man right here…

got fifty times hotter, when his life fell apart

[lunarcowgirl]

lean with me | two

yeah yeah i wrote another part for my fuckass jack abbot x f!doctor!reader fic <3

read part one here and part three here

not my gif! but i do feel crazy about it!!!!!

~

jack abbot made a damn fool of himself in front of the one person he desperately wants to rely on him, now he's got to hope you'll let him fix it.

~

from the office of the author: damn! ya’ll got me feeling some kind of way in the comments and reblogs, I didn’t look at tumblr all day after part one scared it would have no notes 🥹 thank you so so much for your kind words!!!!! ideas for these two are currently eating out my brain like a terrible infectious disease, so expect more soon xoxoxoxo

also, if by chance you have requests/ideas/thoughts drop me an ask, you’d warm the freezing cockles of my heart <3

warnings: age gap of 10+ years, old man is a goose, the weather is shit in pittsburgh but i am from the southern hemisphere so i don’t understand how real winter works pls forgive me, #rollins apologist behaviour from the author, characters stand close to the edge of buildings but they don’t have any plans for leaving said building, bad grammar, bit o’ angst, bit of fluff (as a treat)

word count: 1.6k

Dr Abbot thought he was doing a rather terrible job at feeling anything other than pathetic thank you very much. The final 30 minutes of the shift dragged into eternity, and you were never close enough. You quietly extracted yourself from every scenario in which Jack might touch you or say your name. Hands quick, words gentle, you continued to heal your patients, but the wound between you and Jack remained gaping.

As 7am dawned, black and cold, Jack found himself to be in an entirely black and cold mood. And Robby’s aggravating cheerfulness upon arrival certainly did little to help.

“Brother,” The new father chirped across the desk, “How’d it go last night?”

“Sparkly.” Jack deadpanned, nearly tearing through the paper under his hands with the scratch of his pen. The computer you’d spent so much time hunched over this shift was now dark and quiet.

Usually you would wait to say goodbye before leaving, punching him lightly on the arm, cracking something wise-ass about putting his compression sock on right when he got home, letting his body rest.

“Don’t want the old legs given out on us now do we?”

You’d smile a smile that would tear right through him, making him feel young, like he could run on those old, broken and missing legs forever and ever. Every time it was a battle to not chase after you, to catch you at your car, to ask if you’d smile at him somewhere other than a place that always stunk of pain. That smile was no where to be seen. He tried his best to ignore the sensation of panic sitting near his heart.

“That bad huh?” Robby frowned, looking across one of the calmest Pitts they’d had in months.

“How is it at Casa Robinavitch?” Jack asked, putting down his instrument of destruction to look up at his friend. Robby looked 20 years younger, almost *glowing—*the freak.

“Baby slept 12 hours,” He declared throwing his hands up in delight. “Heather is perfect, and she is all mine tonight,” He added, only marginally quieter, eyebrows dancing.

In the wake of PittFest and all its rotting, rubbing, terror and ugliness, Robby and Heather deserved some goodness. But so much of it, right in front of Jack, was not kind on the stomach in this particular moment.

“Godspeed brother.” Jack laughed, rising from the desk and grabbing his friend’s shoulder for a quick squeeze. “Don’t fuck it up please?”

Robby nodded, smile unmoved, “I won’t. Now can you get your ugly mug out of my face please, I have work to do.”

“Yeah, yeah, have a good shift.”

Standing in front of his locker, the prospect of returning to a freezing, empty house for the next few days held no sense pleasure for Jack. What were the chances that if he wished hard enough, when the door clicked open you would be sitting on his couch in that ratty Penguins jersey you so adored, arms open and waiting for him? Slim, he decided. The usual low growl of the shift’s repressed hardship echoed through his head, waiting to eat away at him in the silence outside the ER. A quick trip to the roof, a few minutes in the freezing cold, would steady him enough to face it…and the absence of you.

The echo of your words seemed to bounce off the concrete walls of the stairs as he ascended.

What right do you have? Like it’s me that’s hurting you*?!*

He sped up; as if he’d ever been able to escape your voice. How was he going to explain his regret, his apology to you? Every last combination of words he tried felt shallow and inadequate. You deserved so much more than cello-taped sentences of shame.

Exploding out into sub-zero was euphoric. For just a moment, the world was in sharp focus, the blur of the past several hours evaporating into nothing but white. Pittsburgh peered down at him, the concrete offering its own disapproving look, the glass its own sting, the barren trees their own answer. Someone else was peering back at it, standing on the other side of the rail, leaning against the freezing metal.

That puffer.

You’d bought it on the very first day of Summer, parading it around the sweltering heat of a Pitt with aircon on the fritz.

“It cost me barely anything,” You told anyone who would listen, “Guess how much!”

You’d twisted back and forth, ensuring everyone got a good angle of the quality, nearly taking out Whittaker in your enthusiasm. Eventually you’d spun around to face Jack.

“Go on Cap, guess!”

He’d said something, a number plucked from obscurity. He couldn’t remember it now, or wether he’d been right. All he was thinking, now and then, was that it exactly matched the colour of your eyes.

He didn’t approach quietly, not wanting to startle you. Each crunch of snow felt like a choice being made, a door fast approaching, a step towards an abyss. You spoke without turning.

“I thought you’d come up here.”

Your words settled; a stone in a pool, ripples dancing out, brushing gently against his heart.

“I can leave if you want.” Jack said, hoping against all hope you would shake off the offer.

Your eyes turned to him, even brighter against the snow. You sighed, dusting off a patch of metal beside you and patting it firmly, “Lean with me.”

Jack only just managed to steady himself in his haste to join you, head nearly colliding with the steel as he ducked between the rails. For a moment you and him leant in breathless, anticipatory silence, looking out at the city that you had sweated and fought and cried for all night long.

It was you that first spoke into the void, “I’ve applied for the new Emergency Pedes Fellowship at PTMC, or have you forgotten that residents do have to find another job after the program ends?”

Jack’s eyes snapped to your face. He remembered Robby mentioning the opening position weeks and weeks ago, just in passing. But all the times you had mentioned your interest in Emergency Pedes medicine, every case you had jumped on to heal a little body, to calm a little mind, to soothe a little heart…he should have put the pieces together.

Without thinking he blurted, “You’ve been the only one ever any good with parents,” The internal wince at his messy attempt at soothing was immediate. Good with parents—what?

Your voice was small now, a tear soaked laugh just perceptible in it, “I didn’t want to tell you until I’d heard either way. I didn’t—” You did laugh now, “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Jack turned out to the city, the biting January air far, far easier to face. What an utter fool he was.

“I’m sorry.” He said, shaking his head. You didn’t say a word, just let the wind blow right through the both of you.

Jack returned his gaze to you, letting his eyes have their fill. Taking in each and every line and crease and feature. His favourite face in the whole world.

“I’m sorry,” Your name so soft and reverent on his lips, “It was incredibly…asshole of me.”

Your face scrunched at the words, rallying against a growing desire to laugh, “It was asshole indeed.”

The smallest of smiles. Your proximity. Your endless well of warmth and hope and joy. It made him want to be brave.

“I don’t quite understand it yet, but I feel very strongly about you. You are the first and last person I think about everyday. Yours is the face I picture when its all too much. Your voice is what I hear when I’m afraid. Your laugh is what stills me, calms me.”

Your mouth parted, just a bit, eyes becoming endless, swallowing him whole.

“When I thought that you might leave, perhaps that you would go overseas again, I was struck with fear I haven’t felt in a long, long time.” He took a long, stuttering breath.

“I don’t ever want to lose you.”

You surrendered, moving towards him, hand outstretched.

“It’s not an excuse,” he said, the words coming like a released river now, an outpouring of everything gathering dust within him, “I was selfish and I shouldn’t have done that, it’s not fair—”

Your arms enveloped him, face burying deep into his neck, hands curling into his hair. Everything you had wanted to do from the very first moment your eyes found his. He melted into your embrace, strong arms banding around your body, face pressing into the softest skin between your collarbone and shoulder. You cried into his scrubs, your relief and disbelief and joy bleeding out onto him—this man who had just given you a gift you had never even hoped could be yours.

Jack mumbled into your skin, “Baby, my baby.”

You pulled back, just enough to send your lips flying across his skin, every last bit you could reach. He accepted them gladly, so malleable and giving in your hands. Finally, finally, you found his mouth, crashing home with delight. For one precious eternity you simply remained pressed together, as if somehow endosymbiosis will begin. When you released each other, there was shared breath to relish in, and the feeling of foreheads connected, hands twined together. Could it have possibly been winter? Spring had come to a hospital rooftop in Pittsburgh. Something entirely new had bloomed. Jack gently released you to capture your face in his hands, with one thumb he carefully smoothed the skin between your brows, banishing for now any hint of a crease. There was no confusion, no frustration, no fear here.

“Are you working tonight?” You asked, words too full of smile to really parse.

“No, I’m off for the weekend,” His lips were in your hair.

You kissed him again, more desperate this time, seeking something more. His hands drifted south, smoothing over your shoulders, finding your hips, the tips of his fingers just grazing your ass.

Heart beating wildly, hot skin on hot skin, you took a dive, “Have breakfast with me.”

~~~~~~~~

There is fluff and hope for them in the sunrise people! Thank you for reading, these two will be back very very soon xo

previous | next

[gyllenhaalstuff]

^ྀིMissed out -

Donnie Darko

~

Summary: You and your best friend share a joint. Turns out all you needed was some extra courage.

Warnings: Actually kinda cute, weed, asshole ex, subby!Donnie, he really likes your tits, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, piv sex, protected sex.

Word count: 2177

Notes: This isn’t proofread cause it’s almost 5am and I’m tired. This a bit filthy, like always. And all characters aged up to 18+.

────୨ৎ────

“C’mon I wanna try” Donnie whined. You blew out the smoke away from his face, looking at him with a questioning face. “I thought mixing weed with your meds was bad” you pointed out. Your window was open, but the room was still foggy with smoke. Your parents weren’t home for the rest of the week, so why not have a joint in bed? And why not invite your best friend? You hung out all the time anyway, or at least used to.

“You just want it to yourself i guess” Donnie said, faking a frown to make you give in. You took a drag and looked at him and sighed. “Oh fine, since you’re so annoying” you responded and passed the joint. Donnie accepted it and placed the joint to his lips, inhaling and holding it. 1, 2, 3. Before blowing it out and watching it fade away.

Donnie took another drag and relaxed into the pillows beneath him. He looked over at you, already looking a bit droopy. “How haven’t I done this before” He said and laughed, his eyes squinting into thin lines. You laughed back and took the joint from him. “You’re already off your fucking head” you said and smiled lazily as you smoked. “Well, probably cause there is more smoke than air in here” Donnie joked, looking up at the foggy ceiling. You two finished the joint before stomping it out in your ashtray.

“Can I tell you something?” He asked suddenly, probably because he finally had the courage to. You nodded in response. “I feel like you’re always ditching me for other people” he confessed. His eyes were still heavy from his high and his face turned to yours. “Well, now I have more time for you.” you paused before continuing, “I broke things off with Blake.” Your ex took up a lot of your time, a lot of time you could’ve spent with Donnie. “I’m sorry about that”, Donnie responded. He sat up against the bed frame, stretched his neck and looked down on you. “Nah it’s fine. He was an asshole” You said and sat up as well. “Why?” Donnie asked, furrowing his brows as he did. You laughed as you thought back on your ex. “Do you want me to be honest?” You asked raising your brows at your friend. “Why would I want you to lie?” He asked and you shrugged. “The sex was really bad” You said quietly before laughing at yourself and the memories.

Donnie swallowed. “Ohh, yeah.” He said and seemed to get lost in his own thoughts for a second. You looked over and saw Donnie’s gaze drift off. “Oh fuck off, you’re imagining it” you jokingly accused him. “Oh I’m not!” He defended himself, but he still looked flustered to you. You kept quiet, to keep him talking. Curious about how he would try to save the situation. “Okay, maybe I did. But only cause you mentioned it!” He said raising his arms as if he was being held at gunpoint. “Was it a nice view?” You teased him while snickering at him, watching his face turn maroon. “Oh! Who wants to imagine Blake naked?” He said with a disgusted look, eyebrows knit together and his nose scrunched. “And what? The rest of the view was good?” You said still joking and laughing about. But Donnie’s eyes widened slightly, “Uh no-“ he stammered, “I mean you’re not ugly. Or I don’t think you are. Or I mean I don’t know what you look like-“ He got cut off by you. “Hey, it’s alright. I’m not accusing you of anything it’s all a joke” but when Donnie didn’t respond, you understood that it wasn’t all a joke.

You had never thought about it. All your boyfriends had been certified assholes, but Donnie was actually really sweet. You always knew he looked good, but it never went further than that. Those thoughts always got pushed to the side. But they always resurfaced, night after night.

The high surging through Donnie was making him brave. “I’ve thought about it a lot. Not you and Blake of course, just you” he confessed while fidgeting with his nails. You caught yourself smiling but couldn’t make it go away. “I won’t resist anything” you said, feeling like it was the easiest way to say ‘me too’, without actually saying it.

You sat up against the bed frame, looking at Donnie. Then, he leaned in and kissed you. It was shy at first, soft as he entered new territory. You were the one who licked against his bottom lip, trying to deepen the kiss. And he complied. His hand came up to cup your cheek and his tongue entered your mouth. You moaned against him and his other hand clawed against his jeans, trying to remain unaffected by you.

His breathing got heavier and you couldn’t watch him suffer, watch him try to hold back. “You can touch me” you whispered to him. You grabbed one of his hand and placed on one of your tits. He watched his hand holding it, groping it. “Do you wanna take it off?” You asked, inching up the hem of your short. Donnie nodded and swallowed. He had never been this scared or turned on ever in his life.

You took your t-shirt off, leaving you in your bra. You sat up next to Donnie and looked at him as his other hand made its way to your tits too, groping you once again. He looked up at you, “can we take this off too?” he asked nervously. “yeah” you said with a smile, leaned down to kiss him and unclasped you bra. When you sat back up you let the straps fall off your shoulders before removing your bra completely.

Donnie looked up at you, wanting to make sure that you weren’t uncomfortable. But when you smiled down at him all flustered, he felt more confident. “Come closer” he said, still sounding a bit nervous, but more needy than anything. You climbed over his lap and sat on top of him. His callused thumbs went over your nipples, and you inhaled sharply as they did. “You’re so pretty” He said, still looking at your tits, before leaning in and putting his mouth around one of your nipples. You hissed as his teeth grazed it, nipped at it and his hand pinched the other. You hummed at the stimulation and ground down against him. He moaned against your skin and his hand seemed to squeeze your breast harder.

You grabbed Donnie’s hair, tilted his face up and kissed his swollen lips. You laid him down before kissing and biting at his neck, which made him buck his hips against yours. As you reached his collarbones your hands grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it off. Your hands grazed his pale skin and you leaned down to kiss down his stomach. Occasionally looking up at him to see him struggle, his mouth agape and eyelids heavy, looking down at you. When your mouth reached his happy trail your hands began to fiddle with his belt. “Yeah?” you asked him, holding eye contact. “Yeah” he confirmed and bucked against you.

You smiled, unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants. He raised his hips and you pulled his pants and underwear off, throwing them somewhere on the floor. You hummed as you saw his leaking cock against his stomach. You wrapped your hand around it and Donnie’s breath turned shaky. You stroked him, lingering at his tip each time. His thighs tensed as you ran your thumb over his tip, smearing his precum around.

You looked up at him as you laid your tongue flat against his head, licking over his tip. A low moan escaped his lips as your mouth enveloped him. You hollowed your cheeks as you lowered yourself down on him, grabbing onto his thighs to help yourself from gagging. Donnie breathed in whimpers as your tongue massaged his dick. His hand grabbed your hair and pulled you off of him. “Don’t wanna cum like this” he panted. A string of saliva connected your mouth to his tip and his cock couldn’t help but twitch when he noticed.

“You wanna fuck me instead?” you asked, still hovering above his crotch. “Don’t you want anything?” Donnie asked, cocking his head. You sat up and looked confused. “I could go down on you?” Donnie continued. “You want to?” You asked, surprised at his proposal. “Blake didn’t?” He asked back. You avoided the question. “Do what you want” you shrugged. Donnie pat the spot behind him, telling you to lay down. You obeyed and laid your head on one of the pillows. Now you were the nervous one. “Can I?” Donnie asked, hovering his hands above the button of your jeans. You nodded and he quickly undid them and pulled them down with your underwear.

Donnie perched himself on one of his elbows, letting his other hand graze your wet folds. His fingers found your clit and rubbed light circles on it as his mouth went to your thighs. His kisses started making their way up, occasionally stopping to bite down and then kiss it better. When he reached your cunt he removed his fingers and licked a slow, long stripe from your slit to the abandoned bundle of nerves. “He fucking missed out” He mumbled against your clit, making you grind against his face. His arms sneaked around your thighs before he placed his tongue back on your clit. Your hands tugged at his hair as the tip of his tongue flicked at you. Your thighs hugged the sides of his face, but he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, his tongue went and dipped into your hole. He moaned as he did, which flattered you more than he could imagine. His tongue fucked into you while his nose nudged at your clit. Your head spun as you writhed beneath Donnie. You never knew it could feel this good.

Donnie removed his tongue, placing it back onto your clit and pushed two fingers inside you. You hissed at the intrusion, but then he curled his fingers and began to move them in and out of you. The feeling made you shake like a leaf and you cried out with each flick of his tongue. “Gonna cum” you warned him, not wanting to catch him off guard. He mumbled a “please” against your clit, before sucking harshly on it. Your legs clamped down on him and you grabbed onto your sheets as the pressure threatened to spill over. And when it did, you moaned loudly and ground against Donnie’s mouth.

When he raised his head, his chin was covered in slick. He crawled up to your face and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “You don’t know how fucking hard that made me” he whispered between deep breaths. You blushed at his words. “I’ve never came from that before” You responded making him moan and kiss you again.

Donnie rutted against your thigh as you made out. “Please” he whimpered in between two kisses, “wanna be inside you.” You kissed him one last time before reaching over to open the drawer beside your bed. You grabbed a condom and ripped it open. Donnie stood up on his knees, offering you to put it on. You rolled the condom onto him before he pushed you back against the covers.

He lined himself up, looked at you for confirmation and when you nodded he slowly pushed himself into you, holding hard onto your waist as he did. He groaned as he bottomed out. “Can I move?” he asked once he felt you relax, desperate to finally cum. “Go on” you answered and wrapped your legs around him.

He started slowly, not wanting to cum within three seconds. With each thrust he brushed against your g-spot, making you dig your nails into his shoulders. When he got more comfortable, he started moving faster. He placed his arms on either side of you, holding himself up as he fucked you. Your hand grabbed the nape of his neck and pulled him in for an open-mouthed kiss. Your tongues collided and feverishly explored each other. As your breaths ran out, Donnie pulled away and laid his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. His thrusts were getting sloppy as he neared his climax. “Touch me” you breathed out and Donnie’s hand sneaked between your bodies, finding your clit with ease.

He sat back on his heels, now fucking up into you, making him slam against your g-spot every time. He twitched inside you as he watched himself fuck you, his cock covered in your wetness. You both were getting close, both encouraged by the other’s moans and whimpers. Donnie didn’t last much longer before he stalled and dug his nails into your hip as he came. You followed soon after, pulsing around him. His fingers slowed down against your sensitive clit.

Donnie laid down on top of you while catching his breath. “You can’t keep dating assholes” he pointed out, “you’re too good for that.” You smiled at his words, kissed his cheek and responded “I won’t.”

[futuremrscameron]

foxy!reader

content warnings: micro aggressions, mention of poverty, grief, drug abuse, sexual harassment, threats of violence, morally grey characters, sexual tension, guilt, manipulation (up to interpretation), daddy issues, implied stalking, misogyny, classism

foxy!reader is a prodigy. the first of her family to “make it out” feeds her ambition and drive to keep thriving so she can make her family proud and prove all her doubters wrong

no nonsense girl that is constantly on top of shit; it’s why ward hired her fresh out of law school

started as his intern, then became his personal assistant and finally his lawyer after she gave him better advice than his lawyer on how to handle a potential lawsuit with a client

her relationship with ward is the topic of many discussions and arguments in the cameron house. rose believes they’re too close and suspects that she’s trying to seduce ward, and rafe is jealous. of her or his father, no one knows

“i don’t want her knowing every single thing about the business.”

“she’s my lawyer, rose; it’s her job.”

“is it her job to cling to you like a stray cat?"

"she's a good kid, you know she's had a rough life. she didn't grow up with her father."

"i don't think it's a father she wants."

"i won't entertain your insecurities rose. drop it."

rafe’s constantly flirting with her, ignoring her blatant disinterest/annoyance that borders on disgust and loathing

he stops in his tracks, confusing kelce and topper before they follow his line of sight. “well, what have we here?” she’s on the patio, typing away on a laptop, most likely completing a task for his father.

topper shakes his head softly, “come on, man, leave her alone; she looks busy.”

“why don’t you focus on making sure your girlfriend doesn't get herself killed?” rafe waves him off as he confidently walks over to his prey.

he shuts her laptop. “hey foxy.”

she looks up from her laptop and glares, “fuck off, cameron.”

he smirks as she stomps away, laptop in hand. he confidently saunters back over to his friends. “she wants me so bad.” kelce chuckles, and topper shakes his head, fighting an amused smile.

rafe came up with the nickname foxy mostly because of her looks but her soft but raspy voice and sly tricks she uses to get ward (and his family) out of trouble plays a large role

isn’t afraid to tell rafe off even if he is her boss’s son not because she doesn’t care for her job but because she hates men like rafe and refuses to let him walk all over her. it’s the why he’s so enamored with her

foxy!reader is a thorn in the pogues’ side because she’s always three steps ahead of them. pope and her intellectually spar via chess when they’re not busy finding loopholes in the justice system or treasure hunting

has a mentor/mentee relationship with ward; he thinks she has a promising future and she wants to be a charismatic yet cutthroat professional like him, it’s why he anonymously paid for her schooling when she decided to get her master’s

she was livid when she found out and debated quitting, believing that her success was now tainted by blood money and wasn’t fully her own. it’s a whole thing that never truly gets resolved because ward dies

she’s crushed when ward dies, pissed that he’s just gone after literally changing her life for better and worse

tries to get ward’s affairs in order, as mentioned in his will, which rose finds suspicious, believing that she's trying to take their money or the gold for herself

rose has never liked foxy!reader, not in any stage of her time with ward. she’s supposed to believe that this pretty young thing hasn’t been squirming her way into her husband’s life? it doesn’t help that he seems to trust her with more information

rose paces back and forth as she rants, “i don’t like how she looks at him, and did you see the way she clung to his arm?”

“green is an ugly color on you, rose.” he mumbles into his third drink, poorly hiding his smirk.

very perceptive. the first one to realize ward’s faked his death after finding his first clue in his video will to his family

“how many times are you gonna watch that shit?” rafe’s slurred words snap her out of her daze. he’s poured himself another drink, you note.

she pauses the video to give him a once-over before turning back to her notes, “how many drinks have you had?”

“only five, mom.” he giggles at his crass joke and swallows down the rest of his whiskey.

“i’m surprised you haven’t started nursing the bottle.”

he frowns. “oh my bad is- is my grief not very convenient for you? huh?” he pokes at her face.

she slaps his hand away and stands up. “you’re pathetic. your father is dead, and you’re acting like a child.”

“and how should i be acting? huh? like you!?” he drunkenly points at the computer screen, “looking for proof of life? searching for clues? huh, nancy drew!?” she doesn’t answer, just glares.

he scoffs, “and i’m pathetic. okay.” he shoulder-checks her on his way out, most likely headed back to the wine cellar, she notes.

foxy!reader quit smoking before the events of season 1 and eats a lot of gum and sweets to satiate her cravings. she picks it up again when ward fakes his death due to a combination of stress, grief, and hopelessness

she had considered the repercussions of falling back into the comforting arms of her former vice. truly. lungs deterioration, increased anxiety, all the hard work she put into ruined in a second, all the progress they made down the drain.

they? there’s no ‘they’ anymore, just her.

“sorry, ward.” she clicks the lighter, and like one last practical joke from the big man, nothing comes out.

she tries again; there’s barely a spark.

again. nothing.

again. still nothing

again and again and again and again and- “fuck!”

“thought you quit smoking.”

she doesn’t even have to turn around to know he’s sporting his signature lopsided smirk. “yeah.”

rafe raises an eyebrow, shocked and amused at her muted reaction. “yeah? that’s it? no snide remark or telling me to fuck off?”

“wouldn’t be very gauche of me to in your time of grief.”

he looks at her for a beat, searching for what she doesn't know. he sighs defeatedly and begins to dig around in his pockets. he stops after a couple seconds and pulls out a lighter cased in gold with a familiar engraving, 'W.C.' it makes her naseous.

"already staking your claims?" he follows her line of sight and chuckles, "the only thing of his that fits me."

he stares down at her beckoning her closer with his eyes. she complies and he lights her cigarette.

"thanks."

he shrugs, "you looked like you needed it."

everything comes to a head when she follows rose to the shipyard, where she finds ward hiding out. confronts him for lying to her and making her solve riddles just to find out he’s alive

rose whips her head around to see what’s soured ward’s expression. she glares when she finds the source, “did you follow me!?”

the younger woman's slow claps only infuriate her. “wow, beauty and brains.”

ward holds his hand up, stopping his wife from continuing the exchange, his eyes never once leaving the young girl. “please. just let me explain.”

“what’s there to explain? it was a 'need to know basis' and i didn’t need to know. i’m not family, right?” she hates how her voice breaks on the last word, giving the man a window into her emotional state.

his gaze softens, “that’s not true. i left clues i knew you would fine and you're here so i'm guessing you found them."

"oh of course, how could i forget the great case of the exploding millionaire." she dryly chuckles, "don't act like you did that for me. you just wanted me to get your shit ready for your third act reveal."

he says nothing, avoiding her eyes like a cheating parent caught in the act by their child. it's worse than a slap in the face. rage boils up in her stomach; how could she be so blind? so stupid? he doesn't owe her anything.

"rafe was right." this makes him look up. "you don't care about anyone but yourself."

"what are you gonna do?" it's so quiet she almost thinks she imagined it. it's so pathetic, so unlike him.

"you mean am i going to report you?" she catches rose's glare but behind the fury in her eyes there's fear. "don't worry i won't break up this happy home. i'll get your shit in order but after that i'm done."

"wait-"

"no. i'm done, i mean it."

"okay."

after quitting and creates a private practice and uses the money she gets from kooks to finance her pro-bono work for pogues. she helps out the pogues sometimes by giving them legal advice or acting as their lawyer when they’re arrested because she feels bad for the part she’s played in fucking them over

is less than thrilled when rafe returns to obx and wants nothing to do with him. rafe tells her she owes his father for everything he’s done for her which leads to a fight where he calls her a ‘traitor’ and she calls him an 'insecure little bitch'

foxy!reader says she’s only helping rafe out because she owes his father but rafe’s not buying it

“tell yourself whatever you want.”

“you’re unbearable.”

“let’s be honest, you’re not doing this out of some imaginary debt to my dad. you wanna help me.”

“you think i’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart?”

“something like that.” he smirks. “come on, foxy, admit it, you like me.”

“do you actually have a business proposition, or did you invite me out here just so no one can hear my screams?”

he chuckles, “there's that charm i missed so much."

rejects rafe's business proposition because stealing form his own father is "the stupidest idea he's ever had after framing john b"

safe to say she's surprised when barry is actually able to steal the cross. and impressed that his plan worked but she would never tell him that

refuses to help rafe burn the cross of saint domingo and tells him she will never help him again if he does

rafe moves past her as he adds more covering to their makeshift furnace. “you know this high and mighty act of yours is getting real fucking old.” he gives her two piece suit a once-over, "you look good though. but next time i wouldn't wear that to this shithole, it screams "mug me."

"don't remember asking for fashion advice." she looks over his shoulder, meeting barry's eyes, "you okay with this?"

he raises his hands defensively, "i'm just tryna get paid."

“oh i'm sure. and let me guess you don't give a fuck who you hurt in the process?"

rafe grunts as he sets down another large scrap of metal. "you don't have to answer that barry."

"wasn't gonna." she looks between the two men appalled at their lack of care.

“i actually thought you changed.”

“so did i, but you're the same frigid bitch that walked around tanneyhill like it was yours".

barry frowns, "come on man."

"no she needs to hear this." he closes the distance, almost making her trip in her 4-inch pumps as she backs up. "still ungreatful, even after everything we’ve done for you."

"we? there was no 'we' rafe, it was all your father. he's the only one i owe anything to."

"yeah except you don't." he closes the distance between them. "still can't be honest even after months. can't say i'm surprised, the best lawyers can convince themselves of anything."

"tell me, when did you pick up this moral code was it before or after you quit? climb off that high horse of yours and be honest with yourself for once. you’re doing this for that pogue aren't you?”

there's a tingling sensation down her spine at the mention of pope. she knew. she knew that something was off all those times she gave those ragtag group of kids legal advice while in town. the feeling of eyes watching her that she dismissed as general anxiety from being in a public space, the sounds of camera clicks she reasoned as people taking picture of their surroundings, some sligthly moved office items she decided her assitant had forgot to move abck after using them. his total disregard for her privacy boils her blood.

"you've been fucking following me!?"

barry stands up from his seat. “woah."

rafe doesn't even look at her. "you think helping them out is gonna make them forgive you? forget everything you've done? you're the smartest person i know, don't be an idiot.”

her throat feels tight, as she wills herself not to cry over this stupid boy. “if you do this, we’re done.”

he stares her down, “there's no 'we'. remember?" he throws the lit match, setting the gold and its surorundings ablaze.

she doesn't stick around to watch his face glow under the fire's light.

tries her best to avoid rafe on the island and besides a few incidents she does. until ward's death which makes them find comfort in each other (as friends) and reconsider a business partnership

[mochinomnoms]

Hiii! For the Hanahaki event can I request Vil (romantic) with prompt #7? A gender neutral reader would be appreciated, thanks!!

Also if youre up for it maybe prompt #12 with Ace (Platonic) with the reader’s object of affection still being Vil? This prompt with Ace is too funny for me to ignore I just HAVE to sneak him in 😭😭

vil schoenheit, platonic!ace trappola x gn!reader [tags] – fluff, humor, semi enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, sickenly sweet [wc} – 3,458 prompt 7: “I've heard of wearing your heart on your sleeve, but wearing petals in your hair is a whole new level of fashion statement.” prompt 12: "No, I haven't been growing marigolds out of my ass. Why would you even ask that?!” note - writing this was surprisingly hard. but i got it and i think it's very cute, i just hope Vil is mostly in character :skull: also i don't know german so idk if the nickname is an accurate translation! comments loved and appreciated! a floral inconvenience

Marigold: often used during festivals like Diwali and Navratri, marigolds symbolize purity, auspiciousness, and the divine.

You were going to murder him. 

“Heyyyyyy Prefect!” Ace gave you a cheeky grin as he held your glass bottle of very expensive salicylic acid serum, balancing it precariously between his fingers. “What about this? Can I take this—whoops!”

“ACE!”

You shrieked as the bottle slipped from his fingers, only to be caught by his other hand, an infuriating grin still on his hand. 

“Hehe, relax! I’m just messing around—oh shit!” The bottle slipped again from his fingers as a now panicked Ace scrambled to capture it. “Oop. Got it. It’s fine.”

“Oh my gooooooooood, Ace, I’m going to fucking kill you, give that back!” You snatched the bottle from his hands, giving him a good kick behind the knees as you walked past him. 

“Owwwww, Prefect, why are you so mean to me?” Ace pouted as you put your serum back on your desk with the rest of the skincare Vil had gifted everyone at the start of the SDC training. Ace continued whining as he packed his bags to go back to Heartslabyul, being left behind by Deuce who went to get snacks from Sam’s with Epel. 

He felt bad that all the food you had was cursed by Vil at the beginning. 

“It’s almost like you want me out of your dorm, kinda rude, you know.”

“You know what’s rude?” You smacked down the pillow Ace threw your way as you huffed, “Your face. Ugly ass, you know you had a room next door, how’d all your stuff end up in my room?”

Ace shrugged as he shoved his wrapped up sweater into the now bulky backpack he’d brought over, throwing himself onto your bed and grunting as he bounced on the squeaky frame. 

“I don’t know, how’d you burn the Queen of Hearts’s statue—”

“That was you—”

“—the world will never know.” 

You rolled you eyes as you laid on your stomach next to him, hugging a spare pillow to your face. Closing your eyes, you sighed as the events of the last few weeks replayed in your head. Between acting as manager for the SDC group, to barely keeping up with classes, to Vil’s overblot, you were utterly exhausted. Speaking of Vil…

“Ah, that’s right, I should check on Vil before he leaves. I wonder if he’s doing okay?”

“With you at his beck and call? Perfectly fine, I guarantee you.” Ace yelped as you smacked his side, giving him a red-faced glare. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ace turned on his side with a teasing smirk. The kind of smirk he gave you whenever he wanted to fluster and embarrass you in front of your friends and teachers. 

“It means whatever you want it to mean. Maybe someone should consider not acting like a little kid with a crush whenever they’re around Vil—owowowowowow—stop hitting me!”

You pounded your fists onto Ace’s sides and back as he tried to roll away from your reach, arms cradling his head in meek protection. He managed to roll off the bed, turning over to look at you briefly to stick his tongue out and politely flip you off. Ace let out a small shriek as you launched off the bed after him, running out of the room into the hall and turning into a goosechase. You could practically hear the yakety sax song playing in your head as the two of you pushed past Jamil and Kalim, the former crying out at you in annoyance. 

“Watch it!”

Ace practically threw himself down the stairs, jumping past four whole steps, using the banister to whip him around into the main hallway where he ran into the living room. Finally catching up to him, Ace positioned the coffee table between you two as he continued egging you on. 

“Ayeeeeeee, embarrassed Prefect? Gonna throw a fit?” Ace let out a low cackle as you both shifted around the table. 

“Gonna throw your ass into the fucking sun, little bitch ass! You got something to say then fucking say it!” 

Ace snorted as he pointed behind you. “You’re one to talk, you wanna talk about the marigolds coming from behind you? It’s like you’re growing a garden out of your ass, wanna talk about that?”

“The fuck? I haven't been growing marigolds out of my ass. The hell you’re talking about,” You turned your head to look behind you, still growling at him now with confusion. “Why would you even ask that—WHAT THE FUCK!?”

You hissed as you jumped backwards into the table, the edges jamming into your skin. Behind you had been a long trail of beautiful, shimmering orange flowers. Upon closer inspection, you were pretty sure they were marigolds. 

“...Ace, this is your fault.” 

“What! Nuh-uh, I’m not the only with flower sickness—”

“The fuck is flower sickness?”

“You know, hanahaki? The love disease? How do you not know what flower sickness is, it’s like basic 8th grade bio—”

“I didn’t go to school here, dumbass!”

Ace’s mouth formed an ‘oh’ shape as he remembered. “Oooooh yeah, I forgot.”

“Forgot what? You little potatoes are acting awfully rowdy so early in the morning.”

You looked up to see Vil standing in the hallway, a bemused Rook behind him inspecting the flowers on the ground. Vil briefly made eye contact with you, both of your sharing a small smile before an irritating, itchy feeling made its way in your throat. 

You felt a hand pack your back as you started roughly coughing up several bunches of marigolds into your hands as Ace grimaced. 

“I forgot that they’re not from here, so they got no clue about hanahaki…or any other illness…huh it’s kinda a miracle they haven’t gotten sick from something else yet.” Ace hummed, as he leaned down to look at your face. 

You made eye contact with your peripheral vision, motioning Ace to lean closer into you and horasely whispered, “Come… closer…”

Confused, Ace obliged, ear up to your lips, giving you the perfect opportunity to sock him straight in the gut. Your dear, beloved friend gagged from the pressure, hands cradling his stomach as he fell to his knees, groaning in pain. 

“Y/N…” Vil sighed in exasperation, walking over to give you a gentle flick in your forehead as he chastised you. 

“It’s unbecoming of a friend of mine to be so belligerent, do you really have to be so crass with all your friends?”

You clicked your tongue, licking the spit from your lips. “I’m not with you, besides Ace deserves it, you know how he is.”

“Mm-hmm, and how long have you been coughing out the flowers, meine Süße?”

A pleasant warmth flooded your cheeks at the nickname. You choose to ignore the tickling sensation of marigolds growing from the tops of your head, which instead formed into sneezing fits. 

“I've heard of wearing your heart on your sleeve, but wearing petals in your hair is a whole new level of fashion statement.” He remarked, leaning down to observe the blooms. “Now, answer my question, meine Süße.”

“Achooo! Ugh,” You sniffled as you replied, “Um, not that long—achoo!—ago, ugh. Just today—”

“Ah! The little trickster started expelling the belles fleurs approximately a month and a half ago!” Rook chirped, a little too happily for your tastes. “Two weeks after we began training for the SDC.” 

Vil let out another sigh as you whipped your head to glare at Rook, hissing out, “What. The. Fuck.”

“Excuse me?! Language Y/N!” Vil barked at you, making you flinch and burst into another coughing fit. Noticing this, he softened his voice, though the blonde still sounded angry.

“That’s nearly two months with the flower sickness, have you been taking potions to help with the symptoms?” 

You shook your head, clearing your throat. “Ahem, no, uh. I didn’t know that there was medicine for this kinda thing, haaaaa I just figured I was being pranked by someone.”

You heard a snort behind you as Ace stood back up, grumbling, “Of course you would, dumbass.” 

“I will actually kill you—”

“You will actually not.” Vil placed a gentle hand on your upper back, guiding you to the front door. “Rook, ensure everyone packs up and cleans their mess by the time we get back, I believe Kalim may still need help packing up.”

“Oui! How kind of you Vil to escort our lovely Trickster to get them a remedy for their affliction!” 

Rolling your eyes, you let Vil guide you out of the dorm, calling out to Ace, “Don’t forget to grab the rest of your stuff, it’s still in my room!” 

“Okayyy!” 

With that, the door shut behind you two as you began a pleasant walk over to what you assumed would be Sam’s shop. A pregnant silence fell over you two as you walked down the pathway leading to main street, having to maneuver past the alchemy building and botanical gardens. You were hyper conscious about his hand that remained on your back, which is when you started another coughing fit. 

“Oh you poor dear, did you really have no clue what was going on all this time?” Vil spoke to you in that soft tone that he’d been reserving for you since you first became friends, a few months ago. You’d gone into the Film Research Club interested in working as a stagehand, plus you had a good working knowledge costume design and general clothes repair, which was sorely needed. 

It’d been an incredibly rocky acquaintanceship at first, as Vil made subtle, snide remarks on your disheveled appearance, while you shot back with loud, brass comments on his ‘Regina George wannabe’ act. Now, he didn’t know who Regina George was back then, but took offense that a ‘dirty, lumpy potato would have the audacity to insult him’. 

He only kept you on in the club because no one ever willingly signed up for backstage work, and you only requested free access to spare cloth and sewing materials to fix your clothes. Vil was also more than happy to point out how scruffy the patches all over your uniforms made you look: 

“You certainly fix the part of the ramshackle Prefect, now don’t you?”

Though, looking back on it now, you’re pretty sure he wasn’t aware that everything of yours was either found in Ramshackle’s attic or bought with the meager allowance Crowley gave you. Shortly before finals, Vil found you crying in an isolated part of backstage because another first-year permanently bleached your only jacket during a botched potions class.

“What’s going on back here, practice your scenes upfront with the rest of us, I don’t care how ugly you look crying—Prefect?”

You jumped, scrambling to get back up from the dusty corner you’d shoved yourself into. You awkwardly wiped the tears from your face, wrapping your arms around yourself as you gave Vil a feeble glare.

“What do you want Vil, I already told the others that their costumes wouldn’t be ready yet, if you want me to get stuff done, you gotta stop annoying me—”

“You’ve been crying.” His simple statement shut you up, as he approached you with a firm look on his face.

“…Yeah, stating the obvious much?” you muttered back, finding the scuff marks on the ground very interesting. Vil let out a sigh, reaching into his jacket to take out an off-white, embroidered handkerchief.

“I’m trying to be sympathetic. Ugh, you’re all red and puffy, let me see.” Vil tipped your chin up with his fingertips, gently patting at the tear streaks on your cheeks. “You look worse than normal…is the red bleach stain on your uniform meant to be a fashion statement?”

Pausing at the stuttering breath you took, sniffling, you answered, “No, some dumba—”

“Language”

“—Some jerk,” you drawled, “from my last class messed up his potion, and it got all over me. Stained my only jacket, right when it starts snowing, too.”

Vil raised a brow at you, leaning back once he was satisfied with your dried cheek.

“Only one? Even Ruggie has a few spare uniform jackets from Leona, did you seriously not think ahead to purchase a spare?”

You half-laughed, half-scoffed at his statement.

“You think Crowley gives me enough money to buy another jacket for his bougie ass—I mean, fancy, school? I barely have enough to feed myself and Grim between the roof caving in and the water pipes breaking. The bathroom flooded again last week.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples as you felt a migraine coming in, unaware of Vil’s growing horror.

“I was lucky enough to find my uniform in the attic, it waaay too big and makes me look homeless, but at least it keeps me warm…now it just looks even more like shit.”

You finally looked up at the blonde, expecting him to lecture you on your foul language. Instead, you were surprised to see Vil’s horrified expression.

“What do you mean, you barely have enough for food?”

It was then that you discovered that no one outside your group of friends were really aware that you were stuck on campus, victim to Crowley’s whims and needs. You know the others in Heartslabyul were faintly aware of your predicament, being from another world and stuck until Crowley found you a way home. Ace and Deuce did their best to help repair things around the dorm, but could only do so much. Savanaclaw and Octavinelle knew of the disarray of your dorm, but based on comments from Leona and Floyd, weren’t aware of just how much you were struggling just to eat and sleep. 

Ruggie definitely was, seeing as he occasionally slipped you a spare meat bun or snack that he happened to buy extra of when running errands for Leona. Ruggie was a real one, as long as you didn’t point it out. 

Since that day, Vil had sort of taken you under his wing, along with Epel who you hadn’t met yet at the time. You had to give him credit, he wasn’t the villain you’d made him out to be in your head. And Vil admitted, he enjoyed that you were quick on your feet and enjoyed your banter, as long as it was unique to him. 

He spared you his previous uniforms that he’d grown out of his freshman and sophomore year, minus the band and vest, watching as you mended the waist and ends to fix your stature. More often than not, especially after hearing that you’d be stuck by yourself during winter break, Vil was sending you care packages with personal hygiene products from brand deals he never took. He’d send fabrics and sewing supplies with sewing patterns. Vil even started buying you breakfast and lunch once back to school, though you refrained from joining him for dinner in Pomefiore. 

In exchange, you managed to replicate, with his help, some of the scripts for the more famous musicals from your world. You even told him who Regina George was! He still wasn't fond of the comparison, but did find the musical intriguing. Vil was fascinated by the works of art your world produced, and just slightly enamored in the way you described them with glee and fondness. Still, the exchanges still felt a bit uneven.

You’d once made the joke that he was practically a sugar daddy, just without the sugar. He snapped back, “Well, I’m not stopping you, now am I? I’ve never had a sweet tooth, but you’re more than welcome to give me thanks, meine Süße.” 

(You spent that night screaming into your pillow with a red-hot blush while Grim looked on with concern.)

Truly, you two had developed an unlikely friendship, one where you both spoke your minds to the other with no hesitation or fear. Which is why the lack of conversation at the moment was slowly driving you insane. 

You sneaked a peek at Vil, taking a sharp breath as your eyes met his own. It seemed that he was watching you with his very lovely, sharp purple eyes. The thought sent a hot flash through you as you sneezed a flurry of petals and pollen. 

“Ooof, ugh, this is gonna make my allergies go haywire.”

“Sam will have some potions that will help with the symptoms, though you will have to confront the root of the cause.” Vil slid his hand down to rest in your mid-back, rubbing his thumb against you in a soothing motion, though it cause you to shiver and flush. 

“Yeah, okay.” you managed to squeak out, groaning as you felt the tickle of glowing marigolds pop up on your skin and in your hair. “Ummmm, so how do you get rid of, uh, Ace called it hanahaki?”

Vil nodded and opened his mouth to speak before being interrupted by the faint screaming of your name. Both of you looked down the path, where you saw Deuce running over to you two, followed by a confused Epel chasing after him. 

“PREFECT! PREFECTPREFECTPREFECTPREFECT—” 

Yelping as Deuce skidded to a half and grabbed you by your arms, shaking you with intense concern, you managed to reply a stuttered, “W-w-what?” 

Deuce paused his shaking to give you a concerned lecture, “You didn’t tell us you had the flower sickness!? Why didn’t you say something, you’ve been running around for SDC all this time—”

“You too—”

“But I’m not sick!” Deuce dug through the paperbag you’d just notice he was holding and shoved a pale pink potion in your hands. “Here! Take this!”

Before you could even touch the bottle, Vil plucked it from a confused Deuce’s hands, studying it with scrutiny. 

“Hmm…This is an average allergy relief potion for hay fever, did you actually ask Sam for a hanahaki symptom relief potion, or did you just grab the first thing you saw off the shelf?”

Deuce visibly deflated, opening his mouth to sheepishly reply before Epel interrupted him with a harsh, “I told him to ask, but he got all riled up and started yammerin’—I mean, uh, talking about getting the Prefect help immediately.”

Vil sighed, handing Deuce the potion back and shooed the two away with a wave of his hand. 

“Just go back, I’ll handle it, just make sure your messes are all cleaned up before we get back.”

The two replied, “Yes sir!” and continued on their path, waving goodbye to you. Though you could hear Epel mumble to Deuce, “Those are marigolds, right? I think Vil’s favorite flowers are those, you don’t think…”

You slowed down to ponder Epel’s words, remembering what Ace initially called the illness. 

“Vil…Ace called it a love sickness…would these flowers related toooo, I don’t know, a hypothetical crush somehow?” 

Vil briefly opened his mouth, closing it as he hesitated to speak. You think you could make out a soft blush on his cheeks. 

“Yes. Your hypothetical crush must favor marigolds. Can’t say I blame him, I’m fond of them myself…” 

The two of you made eye contact, a knowing look in his eye and tone making your heart skip a beat and you look down in embarrassment. 

“Oh…I see…” You coughed awkwardly, a few petals flying from your mouth. “So you said there was a way to get to the root cause?”

Vil hummed, stopping at the entrance of Sam’s shop to turn to you with an unreadable expression. 

“Yes, as an illness based on love, appropriately the cure is to confess your feelings to the one you’ve found yourself fancying.”

A cold flash went through your body as your stomach dropped. Again. “Oh.” The thought of confessing to Vil made you sick, like you could puke at a drop of a coin at any moment.

“I wish you’d mentioned something sooner, I could’ve helped you…ease into it.” Vil murmured,  his hand moving to cradle your cheek. He squished your cheek with a fond look in his eye. 

“I know it’s a daunting task…I won’t rush you into it.” Vil moved his hand to brush your hair away, leaning down to place a soft kiss on your forehead. “When you’re ready to say something, just let me know.”

Leaning back, VIl covered his mouth to hide his amused smirk. Your face was a blazing red as the marigolds grew a trail down your neck and chest. He motioned for you to follow him into the shop, holding the door open as he held a hand out to you. At the moment, you’re having a hard time imagining why he’d only ever been typecast in villain roles, he looked more like an enchanting love interest catered for you specifically. 

“For now, I’ll be by your side. I will wait for you, meine Süße.”

[maxwell-grant]

The Penguin Episode 4: Cent'anni Breakdown

She goes through all these different levels of all these different personas: excellent daughter, overachiever, and this horrific feral state in Arkham. And it's not until the yellow dress that she finds the one that fits.

Kind of like sharks can't stop moving or they sink. It's that relentless pursuit of justice.

This changes her forever. She never comes back. Something so much bigger than her takes over in order to survive - Cristin Milioti

This was pointed out to me by my friend and, show of hands everyone, who else thinks it's unbelievably fucking sick that it is Sofia who gets to show up at the Falcone dinner table, wearing a thematically appropriate embodiment of her childhood trauma, and do a "None of you are safe" speech?

(Episode 1) (Episode 2) (Episode 3) (Episode 5) (Episode 6) (Episode 7) (Episode 8)

It probably felt odd to spend time with Sofia when we’re in a show called The Penguin. But I think it’s just as important so you can understand Oz psychologically. Even though I don’t view Oz as a hero or a villain, he is a greater villain in the show than anyone else. And for you to feel that way, I think you have to understand his primary antagonist more. And that’s Sofia.” - Lauren LeFranc

I gotta say I'm generally not enthusiastic about Penguin being depicted as overtly disgusting, like drooling and eating raw fish and all that Burton stuff (actually I do think the black bile is cool, but only so far as as that version goes), but for that opening scene, that was a spectacularly well-placed bit of grossness. Like this sheer craven animalistic ugliness of DeVito's Penguin descending for a second to show us how Sofia sees Oz, and even how right she is to do so at the moment because holy shit hahahahahaha

From what we can see of Sofia's pre-Arkham life, she was basically the Meadow Soprano of the family: The smart, overachieving golden child, whose social standing and eligitibility for leadership wouldn't even be up for debate if she was born a man like her loser brother (love AJ, relate uncomfortably to AJ, he's not at all morally comparable to Alberto, but he is very much a loser). Socially conscious and sticking up for victims but only if you don't poke too closely at her victim-generating family business, aware of some things but willfully blind to her own hypocrisy and insistent that daddy is still in average a good man who isn't as bad as people around her may say he is. I'd even say that the Sofia we see here is a more moral person than Meadow, although obviously being the daughter of Carmine Falcone is a much scarier, more isolating and horrific prospect than growing up the daughter of Tony Soprano (the ways in which the two Sopranos kids diverged and majorly prefigured American socio-political developments that kicked off after the show is a topic for another post).

(Also, I don't really want to bring up Sopranos comparisons because the shows are similar, they're really not, but I finished The Sopranos yesterday so they're gonna come up still)

I think Mark Strong does a really good job here filling in for John Turturro's role, even if he's not quite as good in it as Turturro. I think he plays the character differently in a way that works really well for this being a past version of Carmine, filtered through Sofia's vision. He is imposing and quiet and mighty, a lone titan of unquestionable power over the entire world, not even remotely someone to be defied or displeased. Turturro's Falcone was charismatic and affable and oozing with unspeakable yet casual cruelty, and I would have liked that here, but I like the idea that we're seeing a Carmine from before he was invincible, when he still needed Sofia to help him get Congressman Hill on the phone and still worried about the future of the family at Alberto's hands, a Carmine from when the Maronis were still around and he wasn't the sole ruling power in Gotham, who could still possibly lose even without vigilante intervention.

He is larger, more imposing, a stern and stoic father who had little use for pleasantries, and with no mirth to be had at the expense of the little people who think they can do anything against him that matters, even if he is getting there. I think the difference here adds a nice little arc to Carmine: there was a time where he needed to keep up appearences, there was a time where he raised his voice above a whisper to get things done, and there was a time where he wasn't the real mayor of Gotham. There was a time where he was a "proper" Don, when he acted like his comics counterpart, and none of that really became necessary over the following decade, when he grew more and more invincible and isolated and comfortable in this nightmare he made the city into.

They also confirm here that apparently the Iceberg Lounge/44 Below existed way back when Oz was just Sofia's driver, and it was already Carmine's prostitute slaughterhouse even then and Alberto knew about it. Possibly explains why Oz was handed the club in the first place, because the Falcones already called him Sofia's penguin and putting The Penguin in charge of the Iceberg Lounge would fit their idea of a laugh (and given how much Oz hates being called Penguin, he would hardly come up with the name himself)

Lmao, those dog comparisons I keep making really don't stop justifying themselves.

Credit again to Mike Marino and the prosthetics team for this younger Oz make-up, he strikes a very nice middleground between current Oz and the one we see as a kid.

Really like what we see of Sofia and Oz's dynamic here, again reinforcing that for all intents and purposes he was the sidekick in her HBO protagonist life. We see how Sofia likes his company and how she even kinda defends him from the family, but she really cannot bring herself to respect him very much and disdains him from the same very upper-class perspective the rest of the family does, she's just nicer about it. And in turn we see parts of where Oz's resentment to her comes from, and also the extent to which Oz was always lying in wait for an opportunity to get ahead regardless of her, his justified grievances as well as him being a conniving fuck. The really thin line this treads though, is that it establishes that neither of them were lying about how they meant something to each other, even if it doesn't help.

Sofia did have her life ruined partially because of Oz, she did endure horrific things while he got a promotion because he ratted her out to Carmine, and he very much did in part because he wanted to get ahead and saw an opportunity to do so. But also, Oz genuinely had no idea that this is what Carmine would do, and I think in large part this was also about keeping himself safe. It's not even that unbelievable that he was genuinely looking out for her, because holy shit you do not talk to the press about Carmine Falcone, daughter or not, and he tried warning her in the car before she rebuffed him and insulted him pretty deep for good measure. If Sofia talked to the press and would not stop talking (since he didn't know in the car that she rebuffed Gleeson) and shit started happening because of her snooping around, he would have absolutely gotten punished/murdered for it, it is not at all a stretch to assume that Carmine would have done something to Oz as punishment to Sofia.

Oz didn't plan any kind of misfortune, at no point did he mastermind her admission into Arkham (or even help keep her there with the letters, like the rest of the family), he just told Carmine something he shouldn't have, and neither of them expected anything too terrible was gonna come out of it. They both wildly underestimated what a complete scumbag Carmine is, but with Carmine (and the others) gone, there's nobody else to turn those grievances to.

Even if Oz could claim deniability for the Arkham thing, which he kinda can't but Sofia even tried to grant him anyway, he sure as shit can't for everything else he does in the opening minutes.

Oh hey it's Mr Mustache With The Broken Nose.

A thing that came to mind when I was watching the episode was the story of Rosemary Kennedy, JFK's sister whose father arranged for her to be institutionalized and lobotomized at age 23 as a reponse to "difficult" behavior. I'm not recounting it in more detail here because the rest of it is just too horrific, look it up yourself if you're curious. I remembered it because reading about Rosemary Kennedy ruined my fucking day and it still pumps up the breaks in my train of thought every now and then, so it came to mind watching this story about a young woman horrifically institutionalized and butchered for the sake of her wealthy family's image. Later I heard the podcast, and turns out that actually was exactly what Lauren LeFranc based Sofia's story on, which was nice. I'm glad it also fucks Lauren LeFranc up and that we both agree she should have gotten to wreak revenge on the entire family over it, thank you Penguin Show that continues to be made for me, this was nice.

Oh hey, Magpie. Just the name, yeah, but that was another nice surprise. I used to have a bit of a soft spot for Magpie, occasionally I thought there was something to get out of her and Penguin together, so a part of me likes that they put Magpie in The Penguin show even if just in name. Yes, she only exists to be annoying and die, but that's what she already tends to do anyway. And y'know, much as I may like her, she is still a John Byrne character, so she doesn't really deserve much more than that

Jesus Christ this episode gets uncomfortable.

I like that this establishes that Julian Rush kinda did make an effort to help her and kinda felt bad about it, but not nearly enough, and that he is very much a complicit contemptible creep who has it coming as much as any of the people who put Sofia in there.

Cannot state enough how much I appreciate that they didn't put any actual named Batman villains in the Arkham Asylum episode, guarantee a lot of creators would not resist the temptation. I mean okay I guess there is a Ventris already in Batman but, come on, you know who I mean. This did not need any references to like, Jeremiah Arkham or Jonathan Crane or Hugo Strange or any of that, and that's not a diss on any of those guys, it's just that unlike pretty much every other Batman story, this episode does not undercut it's point about the horrific institutional horrors dehumanizing and destroying Sofia by pinning it on a chief boogeyman supervillain that Batman is going to fight later. Dr. Ventris is not responsible for the systemic rot that got her there nor is he the sole orchestrator/perpetrator of the abuse it's inmates suffer, he simply answers to those, and thus perpetuates them, by doing his job in a mental institution.

I am still haunted by the inmate committing suicide with a fork. It is so fucked up that Sofia was tortured and goaded by the doctors into murdering another inmate, and when that failed, they tortured her again and again and again until she snapped. The whole point was to push Sofia beyond the breaking point to justify further incarceration. The doctors just standing there letting her kill Magpie.

I want Dr.Rush to die.

I have more thoughts on Arkham, but I'd call this the most horrific take on Arkham so far, because it is the most honest take on Arkham so far. Even at it's most run-down and monstrous, it is usually never at all into question that Arkham Asylum is necessary, because if it wasn't there, all the crazies would run rampant in Gotham. Over the years, it's monstrousness has always been tied directly and specifically to it's inmates, and whenever people have pointed out the shoddy conditions and inhospitable environment of Arkham as a factor for repeat offenders, it's pretty much always as a fandom joke outside of Batman stories proper, and if there is anything wrong with the way the Asylum works, it is always the fault of particularly evil villains attached. A Lock-Up, a Jeremiah Arkham, a Hugo Strange, etc. Arkham Asylum is in general a Batman concept that's raised a lot of discussions and calls for revision over the years, and a lot of the issues with it tie into larger issues around superhero depictions of the carceral system, that @artbyblastweave went into here.

Here, in large part because this is a realistic world and a Gotham without a rampaging supervillain contingent of repeat offenders who can magically break out constantly, it is never into question that the patients are the victims of this system, and if they are being turned into potential supervillains, it is because of Arkham inflicting this on them. This is an Arkham Asylum that remains a nightmarish, horrific force in this world, but not because it's Castle Dracula where all the crazy villains hang out, not even just because the rest of Gotham is hopelessly rotten and corrupt, but because it's a mental institution and depicted accordingly. It gets to dig into the real life horrors mental institutions inflict on it's patients without having to justify those measures as benign or necessary to keep crazy crimes from happening. Frankly, this take on Arkham Asylum has been long overdue.

In every form of Batman media, just about the worst thing that can happen at any given moment is Arkham Asylum falling and it's inmates escaping into the streets, that's generally what happens when Batman needs to deal with apocalyptic stakes (which is why of course it happens all the fucking time now). Here, that scenario would be regarded with cheer, because the worst thing that can happen in this universe is being sent to Arkham Asylum. It isn't just Batman's unofficial personal prison / punching gallery, if anything it massively raises the stakes on this Batman's next adventures, because now we know this is what's waiting for him if he gets caught and unmasked.

I like that Sofia and Oz are both trying to save/protect those they see as younger versions of themselves, while inflicting on them the kinds of tragedies that ultimately created them

Oz reached out to this poor disabled kid from the streets and is showing him the ropes, while also belittling him as a nobody and distorting his worldview and dragging him into life or death cornered scrapdog situations chipping away at his morals. Sofia saves her little niece who laughs at bad table manners and doesn't quite do what her family says, gently lulling her to sleep so she can kill her mom and her entire family.

Extremely important that Sofia Falcone makes her formal arrival as a villain by showing up dressed in a sexy yet fitting extension of her trauma / cultural reference (The Yellow Wallpaper / the walls in her mother's bedroom), before putting on a mask and enacting Gotham's first Mass Casualty Gas Attack, we love to see it.

I was frankly already calling Sofia one of my favorite Bat-villains even before this episode, I'm just glad everyone seems to be on the same page with me now. I'm seeing a lot of posts on Twitter and Instagram talking about how they're rooting for Sofia instead of Oz, that she deserves to win this war, and good, fucking amazing that they're doing this, again, this show is hitting home runs I could not have foreseen.

It is incredible what a character they've made out of Sofia, and the fact that we now see Oz as her antagonist as much as we see Sofia as his, and the fact that if Penguin wins, he will win this as a villain. He will steal a victory he does not deserve and rub it in your face and he will make the children of the world cry for it as any villain worth his name should be doing, and it frankly wouldn't be much of a fight if Sofia wasn't every bit the complicated, engaging protagonist he is. Lauren LeFranc claimed that she sees Sofia is the closest the show has to a hero even if she is not, and this is the episode that sold everyone on it.

Halfway through the show and it's only gotten better and better, can't wait for what's coming next.

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

Rebuild & Restore - Chapter 6

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Series Masterlist

Saturday Afternoon..

“This is so fucking stupid.” Joe mumbled to himself  as he drove down I-95. After another one of his text messages sent to Kiyana went unanswered. He was down bad. He just didn’t understand. Kiyana and Josh were divorced now, so there was nothing standing in the way of him and Kiyana being together now. The stupid part wasn’t even that he was driving to Pensacola because he could just play it off as wanting to see his parents, it’s that fact that this impromptu trip only took place because Kiyana was active on social media but not responding to his text messages.

6 hours down, 3 hours and 30 minutes to go.. 

“How did Josh take the news?” Samara asked as she and Kiyana walked around the mall looking for stores to go in. Samara narrowed her eyes at Kiyana when she didn't respond back.  “Kiyana Marie…” 

“I didn’t tell him yet.” Kiyana muttered as they walked into a store. She could feel the heat of Samara’s stare as she picked up a dress from the rack and held it up to her body. 

“That’s ugly, put it down.” Kiyana rolled her eyes and put the dress back. “Why the hell not?” Kiyana huffed as she started looking through another rack of dresses.

 “I just don’t wanna spring it on him Sam,” Kiyana huffed out. “We’ve only been divorced for like what? 2 weeks is that not too soon?” It took everything in Samara to not knock her best friend upside her head. 

“Key, y’all were married and he was sleeping with that girl, it’s no such thing as too soon when it comes to y’all.  You don’t owe him anything..”  Kiyana sucked her teeth, but she knew Samara was right, she didn’t owe Josh anything. “Fuck Josh.” 

“You’re right,” Kiyana muttered as her heart started to ache in her chest. She knew she needed to move on.. She had to move on for her own sanity. Josh had proven to her that he wasn’t the man she thought he was, it was time for her to move on. 

“I wasn’t expecting you back for another hour or two.” Josh stated as Kiyana walked into her living room. She eyed him, frowning her face up as he looked a little too comfortable in her living room, sprawled out on her couch. The boys weren’t used to him not being in the house yet, so he had been spending his days off at the house instead of his apartment. 

“I just wanted to pick a couple of things up from the mall.” She said and Josh nodded, his eyes peeking over at her bags, eyes narrowing as one of the names stuck out to him. 

“Damn, you got a date or something?” He jokingly asked, trying to peek into the lingerie store bag.  Now or never 

“Yeah,” She said, “I actually wanted to talk to you about that. I need you to take the boys tonight.” 

“Wait.” Josh chuckled, sitting up and grabbing the remote, turning the t.v off. “What the fuck is you telling me right now?” He asked, feeling his stomach tighten and his heart start to pound faster. A date? Nah, he must’ve heard her wrong. 

“You’re not seriously mad right now are you?” She asked and he scoffed 

“What the fuck - of course i’m mad Kiyana. I’m your husband -” 

“Ex-husband!” She cut him off. “You’re my ex-husband who decided that he no longer wanted to be faithful. ” 

Suddenly, Josh couldn’t breathe. He drowned out whatever else Kiyana was saying and just stared at her pretty face. This can not be happening right now. The thought of Kiyana being with someone else made him sick to his stomach. “I’m gonna go.” He said, not looking at her as he put his shoes on and started walking towards the door. 

“What about the boys? Can you take them tonight?” Josh scoffed and shook his head. 

“Nah, not tonight.” 

“Josh!” She called out, leaping up from the couch and following him out of the house. “You being deadass?” 

“You think imma sit in the fucking house, filled with memories of us while you out on a date? You got me fucked up.” Kiyana threw her hands up and let out a long sigh. 

“So don’t stay here. Go to your place.”   Oh this bitch, Josh thought, knowing better than to call her that out loud. 

“Bye Kiyana.” Her jaw dropped open as she turned his back to her and stomped towards his car. 

“Fuck you Josh!” She yelled at him, not caring about the neighbors, flipping  him off as he got in his car and drove away. 

Joe let out a sigh as he pulled up to his destination. Making sure he had his phone and wallet he exited his car and walked up to the front door, knocking three times. 

“Oh shit, big Uce! Whatchu’ doing here?” Jon said as he dapped up his older cousin. 

Joe smiled. “Just decided to take a drive and clear my head.” Joe lied and Jon furrowed his eyebrows. 

“From Miami?” He asked, moving to the side and letting Joe into his home. 

“Nah, I've been in town for a couple days.” He lied again. “Wanted to see my folks.”  Joe stated as he sat on the couch with Jon. “Decided to come and see what my favorite cousin has been up to.” 

“Now I know ya’ ass is lying.” Jon laughed. “Whatchu’ really doing here Uce?"

“Alright, Alright.” Joe muttered, wiping his hands on his gray sweatpants. “I know Josh is your brother and all but fuck, i’m here to see Kiyana.” Trinity, who just entered the living room, shared a look with her husband. “No. Don’t look at eachother like that. I just want to make sure she’s good. She hasn’t been answering my text or phone calls.” 

“I mean, can you blame her?” Trinity spoke up. “I’m pretty sure she is only still in contact with Josh because of their kids. Look,” Trinity sighed, sitting down next to Joe. “Josh is already making it hard for her, she doesn’t need you popping up and making it worse.” 

“How can I make it worse by checking up on my friend Trinity?”

“Y’all are not friends anymore Joe. The second y’all had sex, y’all stopped being friends.”  Joe opened his mouth to argue, but the sound of the front door opening and slamming caught their attention. 

“A fuckin' date! Divorced for 2 weeks and she has a fucking date!” Josh ranted as he stomped into the living room, stopping short at the sight of Joe sitting on the couch. Josh immediately jumped to conclusions, Kiyana had a date and Joe just so happened to be in Pensacola. “Imma kill you.” Josh muttered before lunging towards Joe. 

Luckily, Jon was quick and grabbed Josh before he could land a punch.  “Of fuck off!” Joe snorted standing up. “It was six months ago and y’all are divorced now. Get over it.” 

“Get over it?! You’re going on a date with my wife and you’re telling me to get over it!”

Oh my god.” Trinity muttered, rolling her eyes. “She’s not going on a date with Joe dummy. And even if she was, she’s a single woman now. You want her to be single the rest of her life? It’s stupid as hell. She’s allowed to move on Josh.” Josh sucked his teeth and pushed Jon off of him. 

“Whatever.” He muttered, throwing a glare at Joe  before stomping his way back out of the house, slamming the door behind him. 

“STOP SLAMMING MY DAMN DOOR!” 

Kiyana stared at herself in her bedroom mirror. “You can do this.” She whispered as she took a deep breath, smoothing down her dress. She was beyond nervous for her date with Eli. This was her first date with another guy in twenty-three years. Her stomach was already in knots. 

 Walking into the living room, she rolled her eyes as Samara catcalled at her. After Josh’s little tantrum earlier, Kiyana called her best friend who was more than happy to spend the evening with her nephews. 

“Good, it looks easy to take off.” Kiyana rolled her eyes again with a chuckle. 

“I’m not having sex with him.” 

“Booo!” Samara threw a couch pillow at Kiyana. “Why the hell not? Just get it over with.” 

“Because it’s our first date Samara.” Kiyana laughed as she walked over to the bar cart to pour herself a shot of Hennessy. “I don’t want him to think I'm easy.” 

Before Samara could respond there was a knock on her front door, causing the both of them to look at each other in confusion. 

“I thought you said eight.” Samara said, looking at the clock on her phone. 

“He’s early,” Kiyana responded, before walking over to the font door and opening it, her heart rate picking up when she saw who was standing on the other side. 

“Joe?” Kiyana whispered, shocked that he was standing in front of her. 

“JOE?!” She heard Samara yell out. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Joe shrugged and placed his hands in the pockets of his gray sweats, “I came to see if you were alright. You haven’t been responding to my texts.” 

“I’ve been busy.” Was all Kiyana said and Joe narrowed his eyes at her. 

“Kiyana -”  He was cut off by the sound of someone’s car tires screeching to a stop in front of her house. 

“You can’t go on the date.” Joe called out as he exited his car and made his way up to the house, standing right next to Joe. Kiyana looked between the two men with wide eyes. 

“Excuse me?” She asked and by now Samara had made her way to the foyer and was watching the mess unfold. 

“Uh, Is everything okay Kiyana?”  Oh what the fuck Kiyana thought as Joe and Josh turned to look at Eli who was walking up to them holding a bouquet of red roses. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Joe and Josh asked at the same time. 

“Elijah, who the fuck are y’all?”  Kiyana turned to glare at Samara when she started laughing. 

“I can’t do this.” Kiyana muttered, as she started to rub her temples.  This could not be happening to her right now. What were the odds of all three of them showing up at the same time tonight?!

LMAO. I would probably just turn around and go back in the house if I was Kiyana 😭

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[booksandabeer]

Thunderbolts Ramblings

Hi hey hello, I am back after a short self-imposed hiatus. Can I interest you in 2500 words of chaotic ramblings about the Thunderbolts movie? Fair warning: I only just saw it for the first time last night, so I'm still sorting through all my many, many thoughts. This is not a review or meta or anything really. I guess this is what people call A Reaction Post? Ew.

Maybe it's a little bit of everything.

First things first: I really enjoyed watching this movie. Yes, it is flawed. Yes, there are things that I would change, but it is a coherent and cohesive creative work that actually has ideas, features great performances, and that was obviously made with love and care—and that alone makes it easily the best thing the MCU has put out in years, and I'm glad I decided to go and see it in theaters.

(I will put the rest under a 'keep reading' for length and spoiler reasons)

TB is a good, very competently made movie that manages to be incredibly entertaining and funny, and at the same time takes its themes and characters seriously. It has great pacing and momentum, is tightly plotted (a lean 2 hours runtime; imagine that!), finds smart and organic ways to deliver exposition, and all the actors have great chemistry with each other. The score by Son Lux fucking slaps! Practical effects and stunts! Real locations! No 30-minute CGI slop battle at the end where the majority of the audience checks out after ten minutes and starts looking at their phones!

I have to say that for all the promo noise that was made in advance about how the movie was basically made by an all-star team of A24 below-the-line people, it is not able to shake the ugly-ass Marvel “house style” completely, but we get a sleeker, more stylish version of that dreaded flat grey aesthetic and it does actually work here because it makes sense within the context of the film’s plot and more importantly as a visual representation of its themes. The effect of the void looks extremely cool and scary—people actually gasped out loud in my theater when it took the little girl. (Honestly this was horrifying in the very best way because it interrupts a scene at the exact moment when I started to roll my eyes at the cheesiness of it all…and then it did THAT and HOLY SHIT.)   

Like I said above, this is a very funny film. It’s also a very sad one. It’s about sad, broken, lonely people and it deals with depression, isolation, and suicidal ideation in a way that is surprisingly nuanced. Could it be more nuanced? Of course. Is it at all subtle about its central metaphor? Absolutely not. But maybe let’s all calm the fuck down for a second here and remember that this is still a superhero movie in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and there are limits to what they can and are allowed to do within the narrative and commercial restraints of that world.

And honestly? The world is on fire right now and we are going through a real bleak fucking moment in time (to put it mildly), so I cannot find it in me to be a cynical asshole about a movie in which the Power of Friendship saves the day and evil is defeated via the most dramatic group hug in the history of ever. That said, while I loved this as the climax of the movie and the solution to the Bob/Void conflict, I wasn’t fully convinced as to how all of the characters actually got there. Yelena, sure. But that’s because they did some excellent character work to establish her connection with Bob, and it’s similarly very understandable why Alexei would follow her into the void immediately. But Ava? Walker?? And least of all, Bucky who has never even met Bob and just knows him as that weird Sentry dude with a bad bleach job and a suit that even Homelander would deem too tacky, and who, oh yeah, almost killed him literally five minutes ago? I don’t buy it.

And speaking of my pal, my buddy, my Bucky…I don’t really know what to say here, so let’s just get it over with. He’s barely in the movie. Seriously, it’s a CA:CW situation all over again. If you’ve watched the trailers then you’ve already seen 95% of his scenes. The remaining 5% of his screen time he pretty much spends standing around in the background making reaction faces. Look, I had no great hopes or expectations, so I’m not mad or even surprised at all, but I am still a little disappointed and, frankly, just confused as to what the thought process is here. I simply don’t understand what’s the deal with Mr. Baseball Cap and his Marvel Parliament (cannot believe I just typed that out, what a truly ridiculous & self-important name) continuing to refuse to give Bucky anything of substance to do in these projects. Just…why? You have this widely beloved character with so much juicy narrative potential, so much fascinating backstory to explore, whose own harrowingly traumatic journey makes him uniquely suited to the very story you’re trying to tell with this movie, AND you have a very popular and incredibly charismatic performer playing him who also just so happens to be riding an absolute career high at the moment…and you give him almost nothing meaningful to say or do? Why???

That said, every time he shows up and he actually gets A Moment? He’s fucking electric. I of all people shouldn’t be surprised by Sebastian Stan anymore and admittedly I am very biased—I’m not that far gone down the fangirl rabbit hole not to realize that—but it is truly wild how every time the camera is actually on him it’s like oh ok, hello, the movie star is here now, everybody else can shut up and melt into the background please. Every other actor just looks small by comparison (with Pugh being the only real exception). He brings both a razzle-dazzle and a gravitas to the role that feels completely at odds with the ridiculously little narrative weight that is afforded to his character. What a waste. No wonder Sebastian has seemed monosyllabic and quiet at best and listless and lowkey shady at worst during interviews. Because what really is there to talk about for him? Not much, really.

Let's just run through the other characters quickly because this already getting so long.

Yelena: Florence Pugh is the undisputed lead, and Yelena the beating heart of the movie. I love that she got such a central role here and got to show so many different facets of her character. She’s on fire. I don’t care how fucking cool and how checked out of the MCU you are (while simultaneously talking about nothing else and seeing this on opening weekend, lol), but if you seriously want to tell me that you don’t feel anything at all when she says “But I have so many [regrets]!” in a devastatingly tear-choked voice, then I think you’re either a liar or dead inside. I would also like to once again express my gratitude that they are dressing her in clothes that she can actually move and breathe and fight in. And guess what? She still looks unbelievably fucking hot. 

Ava: I’m not a big Ant-Man person (I’ve only seen the first two movies once and the little interest I had in the third one died the moment I saw that disastrous trailer), so I barely remembered her and therefore had no great expectations, but I liked her, I thought she was really interesting and a great counterweight to the more impulsive and abrasive Yelena. Hannah John-Kamen seems to be a graduate of that very particularly British School of Jaw-Acting. You know that kind of jaw-forward type of performing…very jaw-y…jaw-based? See also: Keira K., Hayley A., etc., you know the exact type of actress that people on this website keep insisting is somehow both uniquely and universally appealing to all bisexual women…and I just cannot confirm that. Sorry. Anyway, H J-K is good in the movie, I look forward to seeing her again and also congratulations to her agent for negotiating that special “with” billing in the end credits because…what. How? But hey, good for her.    

Bob: This is maybe unfair to the character, which is quite well-written, and to Lewis Pullman, who does a great job portraying the wildly different personalities (?) of Bob/Sentry/The Void and yet manages to hold on to an emotional throughline AND be endearingly funny at the same time, but all I could think about while watching this was that this guy is tailor-made (or, you know, genetically engineered…ha!) for the tumblr/AO3 whump girlies. The fanfic is going to be wild. Good character, good performance, GREAT decision to immediately depower him and therefore set him up for an “learning to control/balance your abilities with the darkness inside of you” arc in the next movie(s). Still, I will always wonder about what could've been if my beloved Steven Yeun hadn't had to drop out of the role.  

Alexei: I have very complicated feelings about this character. Objectively, he is an awful, awful person who has done terrible things to people—including the ones that he claims to love. Thanks to David Harbour, he’s also got a big boisterous personality, a striking physicality, and he’s legitimately and wildly hilarious. He made me laugh out loud multiple times! And yet, I cannot help but be very skeptical about this #GirlDadification of a character that literally trafficked human beings and was ultimately fine with handing his “daughters” over to an organization that enslaved them, mentally and physically abused them, groomed them to be child soldiers, forcibly sterilized them, and had them kill other little girls when, again, they were still children themselves. Idk, kind of makes the bile rise up in your throat while you’re still laughing at cute jokes about Wheaties boxes and pee wee soccer teams.      

Walker: Speaking of complicated characters…I have to say, I enjoyed him immensely in this movie. Which, mind you, is very much not the same as liking him. There’s already a lot of heated discourse about the character and if he deserves a redemption arc and whether or not he’s actually given one in this movie. I honestly neither understand the Walker stans who truly think he’s a poor little meow meow with a heart of gold and is really just misunderstood good guy nor his haters who are up in arms because they seem to think that the movie also genuinely believes that and portrays him as such. I think they’re both wrong and that the movie actually does a great job of showing that he’s a pathetic little asshole who blames everybody but himself for his failures and takes out his insecurities on other people that he perceives as weaker than him, while also not forgetting that he is still a human being worthy of some empathy. And bless Wyatt Russell for leaving behind any vanity and throwing himself into portraying this character as a deeply, deeply unpleasant person. Even his fighting style is ugly—all brute force and no finesse. The fact that any of the team members can stand to be in a room with this insufferable man for even just a few minutes without throwing a punch at him says much more about their humanity and innate goodness than it says about him and his supposed redeemability.        

Valentina: I realize that I’m probably the only person in the world who thinks so, but both Valentina as a character and Julia Louis-Dreyfus, as an actor, were the weak links for me in this movie. Despite having seen her appear in one tv show and two movies now, I still do not understand Valentina’s motivations in the slightest—there’s never any explanation given for why she does what she does or what she ultimately hopes to achieve with it (see also her assistant Mel, a complete non-character, whose reasons for working for her evil boss—and continuing to work for her even after she clearly recognizes her as evil and sort of kind of but not really "betrays" her to Bucky et al—are even more opaque). Valentina's shame-room scene only makes her less legible as a person and a villain, and except for one brief moment, she herself doesn’t seem to be bothered or affected by it at all, so I don’t even know why it was included. JLD did not work for me here, not because she isn’t a very talented actress, but because she’s simply miscast and/or misdirected. She clearly has a lot of fun dialing it up to eleven playing the hubristic comic book villain, but since all the other actors give performances that are at least to a certain degree grounded in an approximation of realism, she just comes across as tonally off and like she’s in a different movie than everyone else.    

Sidenote: I have to say that it did amuse me endlessly to see this awful woman who carelessly uses and abuses enhanced humans like they are little more than glorified dolls for her to play with under the guise of wanting to “protect the world” (lol) standing behind the bar of Avengers Tower pouring herself champagne in the very spot where a certain someone mixed his cocktails and monologued about his own greatness. Was this intentional? Honest-to-god lèse-majesté in an MCU movie? Please be serious, that’s never going to happen. But my god, did it make me cackle with glee!

Stray thoughts because omg this is so long:

If I was a Taskmaster/Antonia fan, I would be rioting in the streets right now. Why even bring her back if this is what you're going to do with her? I know the MCU iteration of the character wasn't exactly popular, but wow, to give her such an unceremonious and meaningless death was just mean, bordering on cruelty.

I was pleasantly surprised that aside from the dishwasher joke, the "disarming" Bucky scenes were handled sensitively and seriously. Yeah, sorry I just do not find disability jokes funny. Bonus points to Ava for immediately picking up Bucky's arm to return it to him.

I'm not going to touch the final end credits scene with a ten foot pole because the discourse about what happens in it and how a certain character is referenced/talked about is already absolutely bonkers unhinged in many different ways and I have no desire to wade into that. Folks are being real normal about it, that's for sure, and I would remind them that these are fictional characters, who cannot be blamed for stupid things they say or do or don't say or do. Blame the writers, directors, producers, executives, who are the ones who actually have agency and authority over what is shown and said on screen.

Ok, one thing about that scene because I was so distracted by it that I almost missed everything else: WHAT in the everloving 90s bodice ripper cover model hell is THAT HAIR??? I mean he looks good, because he always looks good, but wow. Yes, yes, I know most of you like that hair. It's fine. The new suit is badass though.

I have so many more things to say, but I will stop now. I'm not even sure if anybody will read this far, but hey thanks if you did and let me know what you thought of the movie.

Just to reiterate, in case this wasn't clear: I liked the movie. I liked it a lot, even. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to go shout from the rooftops that Marvel is so back!!! or something like that. But. This is a giant step in the right direction. More of this please.

[youareatragedy]

hello— this has been nagging at me for a while but why does feyre suck at being a high lady? i get that sjm probably did it to make it some sort of feminist power move— but she really only handles surface level stuff. she may be powerful and have small drops of each high lord but does she do well enough in running an entire court and overseeing their entire lives? she’s only in her twenties and is in charge of everyone. i’m ngl i’d be hella pissed if i was living in velaris and had to watch a young woman who is illiterate be crowned as MY high lady? after all that she’s done? or *after the shit she’s pulled?* yeah, she broke the curse and saved everyone in prythian— but girly your actions after that are questionable🤨 destroying of the spring court, stealing the book of breathings from tarquin which i’m pretty sure was a very important artefact— like they couldn’t have just asked him instead? and then she’s giving HIM orders, in HIS house? and then her overgrown bat of a husband claims “she’s the high lady of the night court, she can do what she wishes” mr riceman, this isn’t the fucking night court. i swear feyre is such a wack narrator— because all she cares about is rhys and the IC. never mind the people dying around them as she did what she did in the tent, or never mind the women suffering in illyria of having their wings clipped as they watch as she flies around, *or* when they decided to have s*x in the sky. where the poor citizens of velaris could have seen that. like how inconsiderate can you even be atp— smh. it’s so funny— she’s titled the high lady of the night court yet she can barely read or has any experience in running a court💀💀💀 i wonder if she knows her precious inner circle will only heed rhys’ orders and not hers and if they do follow her orders it’s because they don’t want to suffer the wrath of rhys😭💀

feyre is… a questionable character. i liked her more in the first book. but when she became high fae— girl wtf happened to you😭😭 she became riceman’s trophy wife. i just know that sjm will make them high queen and high king (totally undeserved btw) and everyone will eat it up.

i’m sorry for this rant btw— i sound like such a feyre hater. 😭😭 nesta’s book slays as always, because at least we get a perspective on someone that isn’t so biased.

Anon, let me hug you. I think you answered your own question lol. But I'd like to add that she sucks at a job that is just a fake title anyway, so I bet all of Prythian knows no one should rely on her to do anything important and still asks Rhys for serious matters. And I think they do, because after ACOWAR, what she did as a High Lady was write correspondence (maybe Rhys gave her that task so she could practice what must be her ugly penmanship), visibly look uncomfortable when visiting a dive bar (she already forgot she lived in a hovel a year ago), and create an art studio that she will use anyway but in the name of "look at this thing you will all benefit from but it will be mine to do as I please."

Most of all, I think it's selfish for both her and Rhys to have a death pact. It's not romantic it's stupid as all fuck to do that when they're supposed to govern. The chaos that would ensue if NC lost both their highest ranked leaders in the same minute? Feysand do not care about their court. Assuming Nyx would be the next HL, what would happen to him if he's only four years old when his parents die (because remember there's still a war coming soon)? Who will take care of him and the NC for him when he's still a toddler? How is that fair for the caretaker? And not to mention how easy it would be for someone like Keir to just kill Nyx. There might be a coup. Chaos. Death.

So Feysand are just bad leaders and bad parents because they selfishly think they can fuck, breed, and orphan their child because they're entitled and assume someone will step up and be Nyx's parents. And the thing is, they did it without agreement from anyone in the IC (the people who will have to take care and protect Nyx).

So Feyre is a bad High Lady, Rhys is a bad High Lord who thinks it's fine to let his wife believe she's in charge when she's actually a tradwife who will not have time to use all that power she has anymore because she's too busy being a mom and painter, and I'm sure there are things we've missed regarding how bad she is as a High Lady. But everything you said is the answer. I would not want a war criminal to lead me, but I guess her stans think it's cute that a barely literate female who doesn’t understand fae and fae laws at all can be a girlboss "first High Lady ever" (again.. fake High Lady), as long as they can have fanart of her wearing gowns, tiara and cool tattoos.

[bomberqueen17]

liveblogging the aubreyad 1: Master & Commander

ok so. i'm going to liveblog my reread of the Patrick O'Brian Jack Aubrey series of books, in potentially more or less detail, because it's something to do and it's funny. Starting with book 1, Master & Commander, copyright date 1969, which I definitely first read in like 1991 when I was waaaaay too young to understand approximately half the references. There will be spoilers. There may or may not be an accurate representation of the entire contents of the series. We'll see how long I keep this up. I wish I could write it in the entertaining style of my Wee Precious Flower Prince Geralt Witcher 3 playthroughs of yore but those were written under 1) quarantine confinement, 2) incredible amounts of gin, 3) after collaborative sessions, and I just can't make that happen solo.

But I will do my poor, reduced, older and more sedate best. I promise that while these books are not quite as dramatically crack-addled as Witcher 3, they are weirder than you think, which is critical.

OK so. We start off swinging with the meet-ugly. In fair Port Mahon we lay our scene, in the year 1800 (or 1801?? we also start off swinging with never quite having the tiny details quite laid down), we meet our fair hero Jack Aubrey, a six-foot, well-built, yellow-haired lieutenant in the Royal Navy, a cheerful high-spirited cove who immediately pisses off the unpleasant little man sitting next to him at this chamber music concert by singing along to the music. Relatable reaction by the unpleasant little man, to be sure. Aubrey is having a bad time, though— he has not been promoted and he doesn’t have a ship so he has nothing to do but get in trouble, and his spirits are too low to get into a fight with the unpleasant little man, though he briefly considers it. We soon find out that the sole bright spot in Jack's life is that he's fucking his boss’s wife, which seems like a bad idea but who are we to judge. But lo! He gets back to the inn where he’s staying only to find a letter informing him that he has been promoted! He is now the master and commander of his very own ship, which we are informed is a sloop. Also throwing us into the deep end of Listen Baby It’s Just Vibes. The nautical language and technical shit comes fast and thick and if you just sort of roll with it you figure it out. Don’t Worry About It. There Will Be Context Clues.

Now that Jack is professionally fulfilled he is happy, and so the next morning when he happens to see his unpleasant little man from the previous night, he shows his true colors: he immediately bounds across the street and wholeheartedly, unreservedly apologizes for being a dipshit, like the golden retriever he really is at heart. The unpleasant little man is so shocked by this that he loses all his unpleasantness, has a really nice conversation with Jack, and immediately gets distracted by the sighting of a rare bird. Stephen Maturin is now successfully introduced, exactly as he means to go on as well. He is a physician, but his patient died and he's stuck without money to get home, literally sleeping rough because no one will answer his letters and he's out of cash. Jack meanwhile has a ship with no surgeon on it, and a vacancy, and they like one another, so it seems a simple solution. And so Stephen shall go to sea.

I suppose, really, that’s the genius of this series. The characters are round, complicated creatures, with obvious and consistent surface qualities but also equally consistent, apparently-contradictory, deeper qualities. Even minor characters sometimes possess this level of depth. Even the cartoony-awful little shit Harte (sometime captain, then admiral, the boss whose wife Jack has been fucking but in Jack's defense so is everybody else) has depths. Unpleasant depths, but he's got reasons and motivations and you do really believe in him; this pays off in book 8 in particular.

We meet Jack's first command, the Sophie, the loveliest tiniest little ship ever, staffed by a pack of utter weirdos. TOM PULLINGS makes his first appearance (he is my favorite supporting character throughout the series, so he will be capitalized henceforth) along with his delightful henchman (the other senior midshipman) Mowett who is James in his first and last appearances and most of the others but for some reason becomes William for a while in the middle, most notably in book 8, and has thus passed into the movie as William. Those are our master's mates, or senior midshipmen. In O'Brian's typical fashion we don't get really concrete physical descriptions of them in the normal sense, but instead get really evocative but nonspecific ones. TOM PULLINGS is "a big shy master's mate", elsewhere specified to be sort of gangly, long and thin, young, with a country accent and foremast-jack antecedents (i.e. started out as a regular sailor and was promoted, instead of the more normal approach where a family of means sends a son to sea as a midshipman), who absolutely blossoms under Jack Aubrey's leadership-by-enthusiastic-example, and we will see him through most of the rest of the series continuing on this trajectory with great competence and charming humbleness.

James Mowett gets a great introduction. He's had a few lines prior to this, mostly repetitively described as (and shown to be) cheerful and generally enthusiastic about things, running around and getting to be the one to fetch Stephen from the shore, and later we find out that he is a prolific writer of somewhat-terrible poetry, which we'll get plenty of excerpts of over the course of the series. But his first real description is:

“James Mowett was a tubular young man, getting on for twenty; he was dressed in old sailcoth trousers and a striped Guernsey shirt, a knitted garment that gave him very much the look of a caterpillar."

There are also the youngsters. Meet my beloved son William Babbington, a miniature midshipman of between eleven and thirteen who has every venereal disease and gets drunk a lot. He also cries and swears a whole lot, mostly while sober. I love him immoderately and we will see him in several more of the books. He never gets much taller or less obsessed with womanizing. Adolescence was hard in the Georgian era. (Yes, this is the Georgian era; the Victorian era does not begin for another thirty years.)

“'I suppose you grow used to living here,' [Stephen] observed, rising cautiously to his feet. 'At first it must seem a little confined.' 'Oh, sir,' said Mowett, 'think not meanly of this humble seat, Whence spring the guardians 'of the British fleet! Revere the sacred spot, however low, Which formed to martial acts an Hawke! An Howe !' 'Pay no attention to him, sir,' cried Babbington, anxiously. 'He means no disrespect, I do assure you, sir. It is only his disgusting way.”

Throughout this series, O'Brian so so so vividly shows and describes the many phases of awkwardness that young men go through especially in military settings. It's incredibly vivid; the breaking voices, the smells, the idiotic capers, the weeping, the complete lack of foresight, the incredible cruelty and also loyalty and bravery, the sheer adolescent enthusiasm coupled with shocking laziness.

We also get some insight into contemporary social mores through the introduction of Marshall, the sailing master (a warrant officer)-- 1) he's gay and 2) Jack Aubrey is extremely his type. Different people's different attitudes toward this unspool throughout various points of the book, but the critical point is that Jack Aubrey himself has absolutely zero gaydar and while he has heard the rumor about Marshall's tendencies, he doesn't care about that stuff, studiously avoids enforcing any of the regulations against it, and he absolutely never at any point relates this to himself, and never ever realizes why the man is so driven to excel at his job. Not even when an injury to his head and face gives Jack a horrible haircut and worse appearance, and Marshall is horrified and dispirited about it; Jack never twigs just what's amiss.

To be fair to Jack, many many many of the men aboard also respond to him in a similar, though crucially different, way. This is a common thing in this kind of cooped-up little setting; you have a guy who's in charge and gives you positive feedback and like, immediately you'll die for that guy, which is kind of how the military works because you may in fact have to literally die for that guy and it's easier if you're intrinsically motivated in some way. And Jack is very, very good at this in most cases, at taking the measure of the people under his command and getting them to respond to him.

(We can return to Mowett for an explicit example: “'You may light up the sloop, Mr Mowett, and show her our force: I don't want her to do anything foolish, such as firing a gun - perhaps hurting some of our people. Let me know when you have laid her aboard.' With this [Jack] retired, calling for a light and something hot to drink; and from his cabin he heard Mowett's voice, cracked and squeaking with the excitement of this prodigious command (he would happily have died for Jack), as under his orders the Sophie bore up and spread her wings.”)

Anyway so back to the plot summary: a very good side plot throughout is that the ship's first lieutenant, James Dillon, is an Irishman, and he and Stephen Maturin were both involved in the Irish rebellion in 1798. When they meet, James recognizes Stephen, and cautiously sounds him out about having met before, and Stephen very coolly replies we've never met but you must be thinking of my cousin who looks just like me but uglier, *so* ugly, he has the face of an informer, and everyone hates an informer and james is like Ah. You Are Absolutely Correct Sir We Have Never Met. This subplot develops into a delicious meditation on divided loyalties and the agony of staying true to oneself while doing what one must do. Highly recommended, A++. Begins to give us some insight into the various depths of Stephen, who doesn't understand tides or wind and hasn't the sense to come in out of the rain but has a deep and complicated history and identity and above all an incredible capacity for ruthlessness, absolutely none of which Jack understands.

Stephen and James in dialogue when they're finally in privacy enough to discuss it (Stephen is the first speaker, James the second):

“I speak only for myself, mind - it is my own truth alone - but man as part of a movement or a crowd is indifferent to me. He is inhuman. And I have nothing to do with nations, or nationalism. The only feelings I have -for what they are - are for men as individuals; my loyalties, such as they may be, are to private persons alone.'' "Patriotism will not do?'' "My dear creature, I have done with all debate. But you know as well as I, patriotism is a word; and one that generally comes to mean either my country, right or wrong, which is infamous, or my country is always right, which is imbecile." ''Yet you stopped Captain Aubrey playing Croppies Lie Down the other day.” "Oh, I am not consistent, of course; particularly in little things. Who is? He did not know the meaning of the tune, you know. He has never been in Ireland at all, and he was in the West Indies at the time of the rising. [...] But as for that song, I acted as I did partly because it is disagreeable to me to listen to it and partly because there were several Irish sailors within hearing, and not one of them an Orangeman; and it would be a pity to have them hate him when nothing in the manner of insult was within his mind's reach.”

uhhhhhhh but meanwhile: Jack Aubrey and the Sophies wreak havoc in the Mediterranean and make a lot of money and enemies, to the point that the local merchants band together to commission a fairly serious ship expressly to fuck them up. They meet this ship unsuspectingly, manage just in time to disguise themselves, and Stephen hails the ship and asks them in bad Spanish if they know anything about treating the plague, could they send a doctor over, could they spare any medicine. This scares them off and they go away. But now the Sophies know what this ship looks like and what armament it has. So the next time they meet it, they fight it, and so the tiny 14-gun Sophie with 82 men and boys aboard manages to capture the 32-gun Cacafuego with 319 men aboard, and it's very gallant and dashing and probably should not have worked, but it does.

And a little later, the Sophie accidentally meets a pair of very powerful French ships and gets taken in return despite doing some really heroic evasive manoevers.

The French are super nice to them, and we meet a French ship captain named Christy-Palliere who becomes a recurring character, who has English cousins and speaks great English and is both charming and nice, saying things like gather ye rose pods while ye may and being generally gallant. Until some even more powerful English ships heave into view, and the tables turn, but even then Christy-Palliere remains gallant and well-behaved.

We end the book with the court-martial. Any officer who loses his ship for any reason has to go before a court of sea captains to ascertain whether he did everything in his power to avoid losing his ship. So all the officers of the Sophie, including the midshipmen, including the surgeon, have to testify about this. (I feel like the other warrant officers should also have had to testify? but they weren't there and i'm not sure why. TOM PULLINGS is also not mentioned in the scene which he absolutely should be present for, so it's possible that they were just omitted for time.)

“They had each received an official notification the day before, and for some reason each had brought it with him, folded or rolled. After a while Babbington and Ricketts took to changing all the words they could into obscenities, secretly in a corner, while Mowett wrote and scratched out on the back of his, counting syllables on his fingers and silently mouthing. Lucock stared straight ahead of him into vacancy.”

Spoiler: the jury decides that there's not really anything more a 14-gun sloop could have done against two French ships of the line, so they exonerate Captain Aubrey for the loss of his sloop, and thus ends the book.

[faetima]

i absolutely love your hanahaki fics 😭

if you dont mind, can i request a hanahaki fic with xiao? he's my fav character and haven't seen any hanahaki fics with him in it 🥹🥹

thank you soooo much 🫶🫶🫶

𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰. .

. .you don’t care about him, do you?

// tws ; little blood :3 ; gn reader ; modern & hanahaki au

a/n: i’m sorry this took so long </3 i hope you like it though!! i apologize for the lack of posts lately 💗

you didn’t care about last summer.

you didn’t care.

you had to keep reminding yourself that you. did. not. care.

after all, how would xiao getting together with someone affect you? you didn’t even like him! you just found him cute! he was probably a jerk anyways! why should you care?

but, if you didn’t care, why were you lying on the floor, coughing out bitter lavenders?

fuck. you would be lying if you said you didn’t like him. it was time to just face the truth already.

you loved him so, so much.

so much to the point your lungs were filled with lavender flowers.

they were dainty and soft.

they were ugly, they were so fucking stupid.

you wheezed out another batch of the stupid purple flowers, coughing. clumped pieces of lavender flopped onto your newly polished floor (you had just cleaned it yesterday!), leaving a trail of blood and mucus in their wake. they laid there lifelessly, resembling what you would be like in a year.

or month.

or week.

who knew how long the disease would take in taking over your lungs, filling them to the brim with lavender?

at this point, the only thing you knew was that your demise would come soon.

you gagged, the scent of lavender overwhelming you. you used to love lavenders, but of course this goddamn disease had to ruin everything for you, even your favorite fucking flowers.

as if ruining your life wasn’t enough.

you dry-heaved, flowers stuck in your throat. sobbing, you collapsed, breaths shallow and rapid.

why couldn’t this just end? why did you have to like xiao of all people?

you couldn’t find another if you wanted to. you had tried, yet nothing worked. your heart would always belong to him.

just being in his presence made you short-circuit. just looking at his silky, teal hair, at his amber eyes, at his porcelain skin, which could only be as delicate as which it were described as. just smelling the soft, sweet scent of almonds which came from him whenever you were close enough for it to waft your way.

god, you were pathetic. 

even if you were brave enough to go up to him, you would and could never be with him.

he already had a girlfriend. 

—

you hated her, and you didn’t even know why.

lumine was sweet to everyone. she had everything. she was kind, outgoing, hardworking, attractive, everything you wanted to be.

so why would you hate her for no reason?

maybe it was your jealousy talking, maybe it was because you were envious.

how could you not be? she was happy and healthy, she had already found the love of her life.

the love of your life.

fuck, you hated her.

—

maybe if the timing had been right, you could’ve been with xiao.

maybe you could’ve woken up to his voice every morning, could’ve been the one to run your fingers through his hair, been the one to kiss him, been the one to laugh at him getting flustered.

too bad you weren’t.

—

you didn’t want to close the door behind you.

you laid there on the cold, hard wooden tiles of your house’s floor, taking shallow and shaky inhales.

a pile of lavenders, clumped together by mucus and blood, laid besides you.

you coughed another batch, the flowers leaving a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

you collapsed, heaving out more flowers.

you could barely breathe, lungs overflowing with lavender flowers.

maybe you should’ve cared about last summer?

[hypothermiatapes]

Do you think Tom Riddle would’ve been a good professor?

I think he would. I see him really engaging the students and also talking about philosophical questions, especially since defense against the dark arts brings a lot of questions like “what is right or wrong?” “What is evil?” “Is it okay to do evil for the greater good?” and he would be the only professor daring to talk about the ethical dilemmas in the wizarding world. (And also influencing his students thinking in these debates.) He would be super strict, but would still have a close connection to every single one of his students so he could subtly pull the strings.

Yes, he definitely would have been a pretty good professor (posts relating to Hogwarts education are here and here).

I will never say Tom Riddle is a good person, especially by the point that he asks Dumbledore for the position. If I’m being honest I wouldn’t hire him either by that point, but let’s play around for a minute and imagine if he was hired straight out of Hogwarts.

Tom is incredibly intelligent, has seen how ugly humanity can get, and has a unique world view in my opinion. He would have made an amazing DADA teacher because of these traits, he understands humanity in a way most wouldn’t and understands not all things are black and white.

DADA is taught usually as right and wrong, you are right to defend and wrong to use the dark arts. The class is rooted in an agenda that all dark magic is bad and that you should only ever defend yourself. They’re taught that magical creatures like werewolves are dangerous, dark and shouldn’t be trusted.

Tom Riddle knows humans are just as dangerous, understands you don’t have to preform dark magic to harm and kill others. He grew up during WWII and the Great Depression, he’s seen people who are completely down on their luck and are desperately fighting to survive. He’s seen the destruction muggle inventions can cause and how many lives can be lost.

This is not me saying he’s morally righteous, fuck no, Tom is most likely morally dark and morally grey at best. However, he would challenge his students world view, their morality, and force them to think outside of what they’re told to think. I always interpreted Tom as a character that doesn’t care for laws, rules and society norms unless it’s convenient for him. He’s aware of what society claims is right and wrong, now he’ll challenge it.

This is a class that has tons of grey area and is great for exercising a students mind. Even if they’re not talking about morals they could talk strategy that could be applied elsewhere. They’ll learn to understand what could be going on in a perpetrators mind, learn what leads animals and people to violence. DADA is a great place to strip a student down to just thinking logically for a moment, forget societal norms and beliefs for a moment.

This will help students tremendously in their futures by helping them understand themselves and others to an extent. I’ve had many teachers in my day challenge my morality, force me to try and understand the why behind horrible events. There’s always a reason behind actions, whether emotional and logical, and Tom would teach this.

The next generation would be interesting because they would be able to identify what people in the government are doing because they recognize strategy. They’ll see when propaganda is released to turn them against another group because their morals are being challenged. They won’t just blindly trust what they’re told because they’ve been taught to look deeper, not just at what they’re fed.

And yes, Tom could use his position to try and influence the younger generations, but that’s what Slughorn did. If he wanted he could try and turn the students against the government by pointing out the lies they’re told, slowly nudging them towards his agenda. He’s capable, a genius, but I wonder just how much different the magical world would be if he had become a Professor.

[wolfertinger]

I have been really thinking a lot about everything as all of this Wis stuff is going down. And I’m just perplexed by her inclination at every move to demonize Sawyer when Sawyer has always been simply REACTING to Wis’s outbursts and the situations in front of them. However Mari would always project her insecurities onto Wis, Sawyer calling her out on this as seen in a screenshot posted here. Even with this Wis insists on protecting her, a literal rapist.

I am coming as a former friend of Mari, we had became friends in 2023 if I remember correctly Via Sawyer. Me and Sawyer have been friends for YEARS(2017) I know them very well, we lost contact for a bit but gladly able to find eachother again.

Something about Mari that simply Wis chooses to ignore is the fact she’s a HUGE Salem / Puppychan orbiter and has been for years. And she constantly tried to get Sawyer and Salem to be friends acting as if she were a peacemaker. By doing this it constantly undermined Sawyer’s comfortability and problems with Salem for keeping contact with Torin and LYING.

Mari by forcing a friendship between the three of them in itself shows you her character. To be quite frank, I don’t care if my gf’s ex is someone I had idolized, just the fact they’re broken up and have good reason to not talk to their ex anymore is ENOUGH for me. But Mari doesn’t hold much consideration for anyone but herself.

As Mari continuously did this making Sawyer uncomfortable, she held no regard to anyone but herself. She wanted to befriend Salem, She didn’t want to loose Salem, even if it made her partner upset. Even calling Salem cutting contact with her “almost like a breakup”. This was said during a call we had that night as she messaged me but was very rude to me for some reason because I was saying things she did not like??? Keep in mind I was at work closing a drive thru by myself, she was aware of this too.

I’m not sure why Wis has this narrative that Sawyer bad Sawyer evil Sawyer stalker when I’ve only ever seen her tweak on the internet about them. Mari was the one concerned about Salem, even making an alt to comment on a vent he made on cohost because she wanted to be friends with him still.

Mari has always been the one concerned with Salem and always was watching even going to him and Wis after the breakup crying wolf. Why is that your first thought, to plead sympathy from an ex of ur current ex and their current partner. Who you said you thought was so ugly bla bla bla, projecting your internalized transphobia on how a trans person should look onto her.

That is more in line with stalker behavior than anything Sawyer has ever done. And to be really honest as I write this it’s almost funny how Wis has like this self importance in the narrative. Mari never wanted to really be friends with Wis, only Salem. Cat had no concrete opinion on Wis, the issue lied between Sawyer and Salem. Wis really has nothing to do with any of this, yea protect your partner but you have insane self importance if you think you’re the one anyone is worried about let alone stalking ??

Yet Wis has her own narrative of events, kinda admire her ability to lie so much and pretend she hasn’t admitted and posted herself scrolling on Sawyer’s page. It’s really weird how much she deflects simply because she just really wants Sawyer to be a bad guy in this situation.

It’s just really bizarre, and reading everything on this page made me really see an extreme version of Mari on Wis. They both love to deflect things they have done onto their enemy of the week. They claim to take accountability but when nobody gives them easy forgiveness it’s “FUCK YOU, YOU ARE EVIL YOU HURT ME”. They parallel each other extremely. I don’t understand how you can live life like this not wanting to change for yourself or the better, instead

I can go on about how Mari was not a good friend to have, as there were many situations she had expected me to be emotionally available for her despite me going through a really hard time in my life as me and current gf were having one of the worst years of our lives and had split for a very long time. Mari knew this too, this was no secret.

Sawyer has always been a very blunt and honest person. I never understood why Wis is on this tirade of how they are dishonest. As no matter what Sawyer has kept it real with me, never hiding anything from me. They don’t expect me to formulate an opinion that aligns with them, they give me the facts and I bounce off what I see. We have a very open and honest friendship, there is nothing I wouldn’t say to them I don’t fear anything.

Apologies for the literal novel, I just feel like I needed to say my piece as I have a perceptive that hasn’t been brought up. I don’t engage in stuff like this often, I have nothing to gain from this at all as my online presence is kinda dead as I work and go to school full time.

i have some screens I attached validating the aggressiveness from Mari and harping over Salem cutting her off not worried about her partner being upset and hurt by this only what she felt about it. Most of what she told me was during calls.

.

[admirationandromantics]

I would really like to read headcanons on the until dawn characters' behavior in a situation where the reader says something like "I don't feel pretty today..." I think each of them would react differently, and yet it would be very supportive, sweet and touching! ^⁠_⁠^

Ohhh, they would all be different, I agree. I tried to make them diverse, but you can be the judge of that. Hope you like it anyhow! <3

Sam: If you’re making a self-depriving comment, she’s by your side in seconds. Her powers are her words, continuously explaining why you’re not and trying to make you see yourself from her perspective. “You don’t get it, Sam, it’s just…” “Just what? You’re gorgeous, ever thought about that?” She smiles, pulling hair from your face and capturing your lips in a sweet kiss. 

Jess: She would definitely be the one who tries to “fix the problem”. “What do you mean? It’s probably the lighting trying to play tricks on you”. She adores you, and figures that if you believe an outside factor is the cause of your insecurity, you’ll put a little less pressure on yourself. 

Ashley: This is literally your personal therapist, and gaslighter. “Why do you feel like that?” “Have you eaten today?” “No?” “Then that’s the reason your vision is impaired, let’s get some food”. A bad therapist maybe, but she basically gaslights you into believing her. If she can’t see it, then you can’t either, lol. 

Emily: “Yes, you look like a mess today” “Gee, thanks Em” “Oh, but honey, you’re my mess” Casual, but sweet. She’s not the talking or touchy type in this kind of situation, but will give a small comment here and there, acknowledging your feelings but proving her affection. 

Josh: His head pops up when you say it, disbelief and confusion covers his eyes. “What do you mean?” “Maybe today is just… not my day” “Every day is your day” “You have to say that, you’re my boyfriend” “What, want me to prove it to you?” And he fucks you shitless because in front of a mirror to prove it.

Matt: “What, why?” “I don’t know, something’s just off today” “I don’t understand, you look beautiful” He comes over, hands in yours, caressing your hair and embracing you. His hands wander all over you, neck, waist, hips, just touching and taking you in, feeling every inch of you. 

Chris: Honestly, he would laugh. At first, he thinks it’s a joke, because how can you feel like that when you’re drop dead gorgeous? When he realises that you mean what you’re saying, and actually believe it, he’ll stop what he’s doing, starting to kiss you all over. “Want me to kiss every beautiful part of you, huh? This’ll take all day” 

Mike: “I don’t believe you” “What?” “You’re lying” “Mike-” “No one that pretty has the right to stand there, telling themselves they’re not” He gives you a funny look, trying to lighten your mood with stupidly funny comments and compliments. “I would never date someone ugly, that’s a fact”

Hannah: She gives a small chuckle, walking over and kissing your nose. "How can you say that?" "It's just one of those days..." And she'll keep your attention on other stuff, going out, eating, watching a movie, making you forget about it.

Beth: "You know there are people with actual problems out there?" "Damn, okay, just trying to share my feelings with you" "Sorry, I didn't mean it like that, but you're grasping at straws for my attention now. Not feeling pretty? Have you seen yourself? You're drop dead gorgeous, and if you don't believe it, then I'm going to make you stare at your flustered self until you're drowning in your own embarrassment for saying that"

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

i feel like tan is a man i would hate in real life. but you write him so well?? like sorry for going on a little rant here, i do like atj and i also like tan but i have these little nitpicks about some things he does or says in the movie that just frustrates me yk? like the scene where he tosses the cig on the floor (yes, i will admit that scene is hot but that one bit ughh), or how much he swears, or how he acts with his brother and i'm thinking what if he's like that with his partner? what if he acts nonchalant and you can't tell what he's thinking? what if he jokingly calls you a twat but you're having a bad day and you start overthinking it? and so sometimes i'm thinking that i don't like him as much as i once did but you come up with a new fic where he takes care of things for us, his eyes softens as he gently grabs our cheek and kisses our forehead? and suddently i'm calling him husband material again! or similarly, i'd be like, hey remember when little-miss-dilf-lover posted that one fic on jun 29 2024 where tan literally pulled some strings so that he could marry us? i remember

i'm sorry for this rant, i know it's silly to even think so much about a fictional man and i'm aware i'm kinda contradicting myself here but i know this blog is a safe place. do you ever feel like this about those you write about?

you know what, I so get that bc I don’t really think I would be able to get on with him if he was a real person. he’s too blasé and standoffish and I can’t lead conversations to save my life so I would be fucked😭😭

totally understandable bc yes it’s very very hot, but like it’s littering???? and that’s very very ugly

yep with the swearing thing I do very much get that, but must say bc im also english it doesn’t feel too erugh to me (I do have to add I come from a non swearing household, so my mum would hate it LMAOO)

I often chat with my friend here about tan and we talk about this sort of thing when sharing ideas etc. so I shall regurgitate some back to you🫶 tan is a very interesting and complex character and we don’t see/ learn much of him, but based off how he acts and behaves we learn sooo much abiut him and his character. like that man loves DEEPLY. he protects, he serves and he respects but like he’s also really cold and can be distant and verbally hateful, but honestly I think those traits are more of a cover/ facade. he’s so complicated, I love him

but real talk, I think that man is a once in the lifetime love kinda man. so I don’t think he would be with someone if he didn’t really truly love them and see it as a serious relationship. sooo if the things he usually says don’t get the response from you they usually do, he would do something to rectify that, and wouldn’t want you getting upset by jokingly being called a dick or a nob just bc you’re having an off day

AHHHHHHHHH NO STOP THATS SO CUTE OF YOU!!!💗💗💗💗💗

never be sorry!! I love analysing things, and especially tan bc he’s so much fun! and yep, you’re so totally safe here with your thoughts 😽

and yup I feel like that all the time, or worry that I have somehow personified the character differently and got it wrong and I’ll embarrass myself publicly for it😭😭

apologies this is very long😭