#if he was in it any more he might have got in this list

[luvsferrariss]

˚⟡˖ ࣪. ʚ 💌 ɞ who said that I hate you? - OO1

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Synopsis: S/n, the rookie in Formula 1, challenges sexism in the sport, facing criticism, intense rivalries, and false accusations. Amid fierce disputes with Charles Leclerc and unexpected support, she fights to prove her talent.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Charles Leclerc x Female Reader! Red Bull Driver

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ warnings: Heavy sexism, fake news (??), Charles being a complete jerk, and angst. Let me know if I forgot anything.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Author’s Notes: This was supposed to be a short story, but I got carried away and had to split it into two parts. If you guys like it, I’ll post part two tomorrow! English is not my first language, so there might be some mistakes, sorry 🤍

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ part two here! ✨

Formula 1 has always been a male-dominated sport, but who said that would stop rookie S/n from claiming her place? No, giving up was never on her list of options.

You’ve spent your whole life hearing that you would never make it into Formula 1, that you could never compete on equal footing with a man. But when you finally signed a contract with one of the top teams on the grid, you realized the biggest challenge wasn’t on the track—it was the people who wanted to see you fail.

Among those people was Charles Leclerc, one of the most beloved drivers among fans. Charles hated the attention you were getting, convinced that everything you did was just marketing and nothing more. He made sure to make that clear, with interviews filled with sharp remarks and intense on-track battles.

To Charles, S/n was nothing more than a lucky rookie. To S/n, Charles was just another jerk trying to bring her down—like so many before him.

“S/n, are you okay? S/n, if you’re alright, just answer!” Your engineer’s panicked voice echoed through the radio just as your car crashed into the tire barrier.

Everything happened in a blur. You had been fighting for the lead on the final lap against Charles Leclerc, and suddenly, you were struggling against your aching body to get out of your wrecked car.

“I’m fine. Just sore, but I’m fine,” you responded firmly as you stepped out of the cockpit.

Adrenaline still coursed through your veins. You kicked the car hard before shrugging it off, trying to calm yourself. The medical team rushed over, but you simply nodded and got into the rescue vehicle, removing your helmet and letting out a long sigh.

Back at the garage, you waved briefly at your trainer and went straight to your private room.

You threw your helmet into a random corner, kicked the couch, and collapsed onto it. The TV in the room replayed the crash. Anger boiled inside you. Without thinking, you got up and stormed back to the garage, determined.

“Do you have any idea what you just did, S/n?! You could have been seriously hurt… or worse!” Your PR manager, Adele, exclaimed as soon as she saw you walk in. Your trainer, Steve, and your public relations assistant, Bree, rushed to you.

You looked down at your race suit, still covered in dust. You brushed it off lightly, but nothing could erase the bitter taste of defeat burning in your throat.

“That clueless idiot is entirely to blame! He threw me into the wall on purpose! Did you see how he closed that corner?! Asshole.” Your voice dripped with indignation.

Steve and Bree immediately agreed, but Adele sighed, running a hand down her face.

“S/n, you can’t afford to lose your head over him. The media is already waiting outside, and I can guarantee they won’t go easy on you,” Bree warned, her voice calm.

You huffed, closing your eyes for a moment before facing them.

“Sorry, guys. But this time, I won’t stay quiet.”

The paddock sweltered under the scorching sun, and the sound of cameras clicking was deafening. You adjusted your team cap, trying to hide the simmering rage.

In front of you, a journalist held out a microphone with a smug smile.

“So, S/n… Do you think that crash was due to incompetence or inexperience?”

Your jaw tightened, but the journalist continued, not even bothering to mask his sarcasm.

“I mean, a lot of people were already questioning your place in Formula 1. Isn’t it obvious now that this sport just isn’t for you?”

You clenched your fists, trying to keep your anger in check. But before you could respond, a firm voice cut through the air:

“Excuse me, are you planning to ask serious questions and act like a professional, or are you just going to keep up this ridiculous circus?”

You turned to see Max Verstappen standing beside you, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

The journalist tried to laugh, taken aback, but Max didn’t back down.

“If any other driver had crashed, you’d be analyzing the data, not mocking them. But of course, it’s easier to tear down a woman than admit she has talent.”

A lump formed in your throat—not from weakness, but from gratitude.

“If you want to talk about who deserves to be in Formula 1, start by actually analyzing things properly. But I suppose real journalism is too hard for you,” Max finished, pulling you away from the journalist, who stood speechless.

When the interviews finally ended, you leaned against a wall near the exit.

“Thanks, Max. I don’t think I’ve ever been at a loss for words before.”

He smirked.

“It’s alright, S/n. Look, I know what it’s like to be criticized. Not like you, of course. It must be even harder for you… Society is still so sexist. But you’re strong. You’ll get through this.”

He draped an arm over your shoulder.

“And since I was so nice, how about you buy me an ice cream?”

You laughed, finally feeling some of the pressure and anger fade away.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

( . . . )

Just minutes after you left, the same journalist who had humiliated you was now grinning at Charles—the one responsible for your crash and disqualification. The contrast was brutal.

“Charles, what a race! You mastered the corners brilliantly and proved once again why you’re one of the best on the grid. How does it feel to be such an inspiration to aspiring drivers?”

S/n watched the broadcast while picking up her ice cream. Max had been smiling at you, but as soon as he saw your expression, his own smile faded. Your muscles had already tensed in anger. The way Charles smiled and basked in the praise made your blood boil.

“Well, I think some drivers need to understand track limits better. But… it’s all part of the learning process, right?” Charles spoke modestly, but his tone carried clear provocation.

You felt your entire body tremble. How dare he act like a hero after what he had done?

Max, standing beside you, whispered:

“S/n, don’t do anything. This is exactly what he wants.”

He gripped your arm, worried about what you might do next, and pulled you away from the shop.

You took a deep breath, but every word from that reporter felt like a knife sinking deeper into your skin.

Minutes later, Charles approached you in the corridors, hands in his pockets, wearing a smug grin.

“Are you okay, princess? That was quite the accident… Shame you couldn’t keep the car under control.”

S/n clenched her jaw, fists tightening. Every fiber of her being screamed to punch him right there.

But she held her ground, her voice a cold, sharp blade.

“Careful, Charles. Because when I win, there won’t be any excuses left to save you.”

And with that, she walked away, leaving him speechless.

When you reached your motorhome, Adele was waiting for you, pacing back and forth.

“Hey, Adele! What happened—” Before you could finish speaking, she pulled out her phone and showed you a news article.

“S/n under suspicion: FIA investigates possible data manipulation in the rookie driver’s car.”

Your eyes scanned the words, your heart pounding. A lump formed in your throat. It was a lie. A dirty, planned lie…

You felt your fingers trembling.

Lando came up behind you and read the headline over your shoulder.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” Lando said, frowning. You jumped at his sudden presence and immediately turned to face him.

“They want me out of the game,” you murmured, pure anger in your voice.

You walked into the motorhome and threw yourself onto the couch, running a hand over your face, exhausted from all the accusations.

( . . . )

Two weeks had passed since your confrontation with Charles, and finally, it was another race weekend. You smiled as soon as you stepped into the paddock—nothing could shake you here.

Everything was perfect. You were in a great mood, and everything felt in perfect harmony.

As you made your way to your team’s garage, you suddenly felt someone grab your arm before you could step inside.

You stumbled, but someone caught you. Looking up, you saw Lando, his hand on his chest as he tried to catch his breath.

“Lando! What happened? Why did you drag me here?” you asked, laughing at his reaction.

The worried expression on his face made your heart skip a beat.

“S/n, did you check social media today?” Lando asked, and you shook your head.

“No, why?” You asked, looking at the phone in his hand.

Frowning, you grabbed the phone, your eyes darting over the bold headline on the sports website:

“SCANDAL IN FORMULA 1: S/N INVOLVED IN AFFAIR WITH COMMITTED TEAMMATE”

“Internal team sources reveal that rookie driver S/n isn’t just trying to make a name for herself on the track but also off of it. According to exclusive reports, S/n has allegedly been having an affair with her teammate while he was still in a relationship with his now ex-girlfriend, who is pregnant!

The secret relationship has supposedly caused numerous arguments within the team, with rumors that tensions in the garage became unbearable after a confrontation between the ex-girlfriend and S/n. Some team members, speaking anonymously, claim that the driver’s performance has been questioned because she has allegedly been receiving internal favors to keep her seat.

Moreover, speculation has arisen that her closeness with her teammate may be influencing certain strategic decisions in her favor, raising doubts about the legitimacy of her season results.

The FIA has yet to comment on the matter, but the negative backlash is growing on social media. Has S/n used Formula 1 not only to prove her skills but also to climb the ranks through scandal?”

“WHAT?!” you shouted, and Lando quickly covered your mouth.

You felt your blood boiling in your veins. Your heart was beating so fast it echoed in your ears. You reread every sentence, every disgusting lie, and the anger inside you grew into a suffocating knot in your throat.

“This is absurd,” your best friend said in a low but furious voice. You looked at him in desperation, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your body shaking with fear.

“What kind of sick joke is this, Lando?” You stared at the phone in your hand. “Who would have the audacity to make this up?! How the hell am I ‘influencing strategic decisions’ when they barely trust me to change my tires at the pit stop?” Your voice was low, but Lando looked at you worriedly, already knowing you well enough to see that you were on the verge of an outburst.

“Whoever did this wants to destroy you, no matter what. First, that ridiculous accusation about the car’s data, and now this?” Lando leaned against the wall, running a hand through his hair.

“And the worst part is that people are going to believe it!” you said, deadly serious but clearly terrified.

“S/n, I know you want to explode right now, but we need to think about what to do. They want to destabilize you.” Lando spoke, and silence fell over the place. You weren’t just angry anymore—you were sad, upset. You wanted to cry.

You took a deep breath, but it felt like you couldn’t get enough air. Your eyes returned to the phone, where the article was already going viral. In the comments, a flood of toxic messages appeared:

“Knew she wasn’t actually talented.”

“Women in F1 always end up making headlines for the wrong reasons.”

“Of course, it had to be a woman. Getting ahead the easy way.”

“Shame on the sport. Who’s protecting her?”

That was the final straw for you.

Your chest ached. Not from weakness, but from a deep sadness that made your body tremble.

Lando noticed.

“This isn’t just about destabilizing me, Lando! This is a direct attack on my reputation! They’re basically saying I’m only here because I slept with someone?! This is disgusting!” Your voice cracked, and tears started streaming down your face. You had never broken down like this in front of anyone. Your legs gave out, and Lando noticed, rushing toward you and pulling you into a tight hug.

“You can’t let them win, S/n. You’re not alone, okay?” Lando murmured, running a hand through your hair.

“Why, Lando? Why do they hate me so much? I never did anything to these… assholes, I swear! I may be explosive, but what did I ever do to them?” you sobbed, your voice failing. Your best friend was always there for you, and you were grateful for that.

( . . . )

“What the hell is this!?” Max bursts out, furious, as he storms into the meeting room where you, the team leader, and the PR team are gathered.

You still felt the sadness burning inside you when the door swung open forcefully. Your teammate, Max, rushed in, his eyes blazing with indignation. Right behind him, Kelly, his girlfriend, clutched her phone tightly, as if ready to smash it.

“Oh, so you saw the ridiculous nonsense they’re spreading too? Welcome to hell.” You sigh, your tone calm. Everyone stares at you, surprised. They expected you to be angry—or worse.

Max ran a hand through his hair, visibly upset.

“I saw it, and it’s unbelievable! Who has the audacity to make up something like this? I’m still with Kelly, and now they’re trying to turn this into a scandal?” Max says, sitting down beside you. Kelly joins him, and despite her frustration, she offers you a reassuring smile.

“This is so ridiculous it’s actually offensive! As if I would end a relationship over a stupid rumor!” Kelly says, clearly frustrated with the situation. She looks at you, her expression softening when she sees the emptiness in your eyes. “I know you would never do something like this. Just because you’re a woman working in a male-dominated field doesn’t mean you have to sleep with someone to earn your place. Whoever wrote this deserves to be sued.”

An unexpected tightness grips your chest. After everything you had endured that day, hearing Kelly defend you instead of accusing you was a relief you didn’t even know you needed.

You offer a small, tired smile and meet her gaze.

“Thank you for believing in me,” you whisper, and she smiles back.

“The problem was never you, S/n. The problem is people who refuse to accept that a woman can be great at what she does without relying on anyone,” Bree, your PR assistant, speaks up, and you let out a deep sigh.

Max nods in agreement.

“Exactly. They want to destroy S/n’s reputation because they know they can’t beat her on the track,” Max finally says after a long silence. He takes a deep breath, grabs his phone, and starts typing. “I’m shutting this down right now.”

Within seconds, his Instagram post is already going viral:

@maxverstappen: “Just to be clear: the rumors about S/n and me having any kind of romantic involvement are completely false. Kelly and I are together and doing great, and this attack on S/n is just another disgusting attempt to discredit her. Enough with the fake news. Respect the sport.”

Kelly follows suit, posting a story:

@kellypiquet: “Let’s get one thing straight: S/n has NEVER disrespected me or Max in any way. This story is just another example of how women in sports are attacked for no reason. Grow up.”

( . . . )

After the fake news scandal, you expected Charles Leclerc to use it against you, but to your surprise, he remained silent. No provocative comments, no sly remarks in interviews. He just watched you from a distance, as if analyzing your every reaction.

Charles truly didn’t feel comfortable mocking this kind of situation—not after everything he had witnessed.

Then, the day after the media chaos, when you were alone in the garage reviewing race data, he appeared beside you, casually leaning against the table.

“So… what’s it like being the most dangerous woman in Formula 1?” Charles asked sarcastically, but without the malice he once had.

You narrowed your eyes, already expecting a jab. You were used to his teasing.

“Listen, Charles,” you said, stepping closer, “if you’re here to make jokes, you can turn around and leave. I’m not in the mood.”

Charles crossed his arms, but his gaze lacked the arrogance it usually carried.

“Relax, hothead. I’m not here to fight. I just… wanted to see how you were holding up,” Charles said, scratching the back of his head. You hesitated for a moment, confused.

Charles was asking how you were?

“As if you care,” you spat, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms.

Charles shrugged.

“I’m not going to lie—I enjoy messing with you. But I know what it’s like to have the world call you a fraud.”

Your eyes widened, surprised by his admission.

“You? The media’s golden boy? Ferrari’s prodigy?” you mocked, and he rolled his eyes.

“The media chooses who to attack. Today, it’s you. Tomorrow, it could be anyone,” Charles said before walking away.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel immediate hatred for Leclerc.

( . . . )

After the false news spread, the journalists still hadn’t let go of S/n. Now, more than ever, she was the main target. During a team event, a persistent reporter started pressing her with loaded questions.

“S/n, do you think your involvement with Max could affect your career in the long run?”

The reporter’s words instantly irritated you.

“I’ve already said there was no involvement. That’s a lie.” You responded confidently, keeping your anger in check.

But he just smirked, still trying to provoke you.

“But rumors always have some truth to them, don’t they? Maybe it’s just a matter of admitting it…”

Before you could snap, Charles appeared by your side, resting a casual yet protective hand on your shoulder. You glanced at his hand, then at him, then back at his hand. You raised an eyebrow, confused.

“Interesting… you ask very specific questions for someone who has no proof of anything.” Charles stared directly at the reporter. The journalist hesitated, and Charles continued. “Formula 1 is a competitive sport, but it seems like you’d rather turn it into a cheap reality show.”

You were surprised. It was the first time Charles had publicly defended you or had any interaction beyond provoking you.

When the journalist finally gave up and walked away, you turned to him, suspicious.

“Okay… what was that?” You asked slowly, still looking at his hand on your shoulder. Charles pulled it away, made a face, and wiped it on his clothes.

He shrugged.

“You already have enough problems. You don’t need an idiot like that making it worse.”

You stared at him, trying to figure him out.

“You hate me. Why are you helping me?”

Charles held your gaze a second longer than necessary before smirking.

“Who said I hate you?” He said and then walked away, leaving you more confused than ever.

( . . . )

After Charles’ unexpected defense, the dynamic between the two of you became dangerous territory. You started noticing how often he was around—sometimes teasing, sometimes protective, but always testing your limits.

Then, during another press conference, Charles defended you again. Lando and Max exchanged glances before looking at you, waiting for your reaction. You stared, mouth slightly open, completely lost. You turned to Lando and murmured:

“What was that?”

Lando just shrugged, looking even more confused than you.

That really sent some intrusive thoughts your way.

At the paddock gym? He was there, running on the treadmill next to you.

In team briefings? He made a point to sit close and throw in snide remarks.

At sponsor events? He joked about how you had to smile for journalists who clearly hated you.

And the worst part? He never crossed a certain line.

One night, after a mandatory team dinner, you were walking back to the hotel when you heard footsteps behind you. You turned abruptly—there he was, hands in his pockets, walking casually as if it was nothing.

“Are you following me now?” You rolled your eyes.

Charles gave you a slow smirk, completely unfazed by the accusation.

“Relax, hothead. I’m not that obsessed with you. We’re just heading to the same place.”

He said it so casually, making sure to emphasize the nickname he had given you, something he always did when you were alone.

You crossed your arms, suspicious.

“Right. And you just happen to always be where I am lately? And what’s with that nickname?”

Your arguments didn’t bother him one bit—unlike you, who desperately wanted answers.

He shrugged.

“Coincidence. Or maybe I just like seeing you get worked up.” He clicked his tongue. “And the nickname? It’s just a fact. You’re really stressed all the time, S/n.”

You narrowed your eyes. You wanted to hate him completely, but something about his calm, teasing demeanor made your blood boil in a different way.

And the nickname? He wasn’t wrong.

So you turned on your heel, walking briskly toward your room.

You didn’t want to think about him. You didn’t want to be around him.

That was it.

Avoid him. You told yourself.

[mythalism]

i feel like all of my pondering and analyzing and criticizing veilguard over the past few months has actually truly given me a better understanding of what dragon age meant to me, what about it specifically was so meaningful, and why, as a result, veilguard felt so wrong. it took a while for me to figure it out. about three full months of relentless essay writing, actually. but i think if you had asked me a few years ago what the core of my love for dragon age was, whatever answer i gave would not have truly gotten to the root of it, because i think i had to experience the disappointment of veilguard to fully understand why i love dragon age. and ive realized that core is that i loved how the previous dragon age entries demand so much of the player, and deliberately prompt introspection and critical, often political, thought.

dragon age games have historically forced the player to be self-reflective and introspective about their worldview and beliefs. solas is obviously a fantastic example, as he was deliberately written to be a reflection of the player in order to prompt them to reflect on how they treat people, how our expectations of people influence their behavior, and how people are pushed to extremes and turned into monsters or saved by love and kindness. how do people become monsters? what drives them to blow up buildings or start rebellions or destroy the world as you know it? are they right or wrong? does it even matter? how did you contribute to this? are you innocent? it puts these insane, politically and morally charged situations in your face and forces you to confront them. slavery, a refugee crisis, poverty, class disparities, racism, foreign occupation, the list goes on, and you are not given the option to look away or be a bystander. you have to ACT. you have to choose, you have to make judgements, you have to take responsibility and explore your role in this world as someone with the capacity to act upon it, to make your will a reality, to fail, to make mistakes. i honestly can't think of any other video game that does this to the same extent? nor any media at all because the act of being IN the world as one of it's people through the act of role-playing is essential to how it provokes this experience in the player. its ballsy. they deliberately try to make you uncomfortable. these games are full of liars, deceivers, betrayers. the games themselves lie to you. its character try to deceive you. did you catch it? or were you fooled? what else might you be fooled by? who else might be lying to you? in the game? in real life? and then you get to play it again knowing the end, and what the game prompts changes with your new knowledge. now it asks, do you forgive them? what makes someone worthy of forgiveness? where do you draw the line? what do you think?

i dont think i realized until recently how impactful this was for me considering how i first got into dragon age at 16 years old. i dont think i had experienced anything up to that point that would put a situation like judging a war criminal who ordered the deaths of children or another war criminal who just left me to die and orchestrated a near-coup or a traumatized terrorist who just blew up a church right in my face, and said MAKE A DECISION. and i didnt know it at the time, but looking back i can see how valuable it was for me at that age to have what was effectively an avenue of exploration and self-expression of all of these moral and political issues that i was grappling with as a young adult. i played inquisition for the first time just months before i voted in my first presidential primary. i already had a political consciousness at this point, but it was nonetheless new and vulnerable and still blossoming into something more concrete. inquisition, then, almost provided a sort of political, moral and personal sandbox for me from ages 16-20 to better help me understand myself in relation to the world. the RPG-ness allowed me to put myself into these situations - like the mage-templar war and its metaphor for mass incarceration and police brutality - while i was also simultaneously grappling with and trying to understand these issues in real life. having dragon age to help me further unpack my own beliefs and conception of these issues was undeniably impactful. it provided a space, through a narrative i enjoyed and cared about, to make choices and judgement calls and better understand who i was, and what felt right to me. it asked, "what do you think?"

veilguard lacks this. completely. and lets be clear that the previous games did not always do a perfect job. many of these depictions are messy and harmful and problematic, but they at least, by extension of their own existence in a narrative that forces you to THINK and JUDGE and DECIDE, give me the space and opportunity to judge them as messy, as problematic, as harmful. i can confidently say that i think da2 is too sympathetic to the templars as an organization because the fact that da2 presents me with so many narrative conflicts regarding the templar organization allows me to not just make in-game decisions and play as a staunch advocate for mage freedom and circle abolition, but to form opinions on the game itself by extension. i can confidently say that i believe the qunari's portrayal is islamophobic because the game has prompted me so many times; what do i think about the qunari? what do i think about the oppression of the elves? what do i think about dorian being a seemingly good person but defending the practice of slavery? who should rule orzammar; the progressive asshole or the conservative traditionalist? do i forgive loghain? do i forgive anders? do i forgive solas? this in-world critical thinking about issues in thedas leads to meta critical thinking. further questions naturally follow -> what message did the writers intend to send through anders? how can i notice the echoes of how this story came into fruition in the shadow of 9/11? what do solas's endings tell me about the writers view of retributive punishment? how is bioware's portrayal of the dalish, as inspired by indigenous north americans, reflective of deep-seated anti-indigenous canadian sentiment? why did the writers stop prompting these hard questions at all in veilguard? did they only like it when it was about characters, not when it led to critical thinking about them and the company as a whole? through these processes of in-world interrogation, i am inevitably invited to analyze the effectiveness of their narrative portrayals and the writing itself. perhaps this is why dragon age is so famous for its discourse lol.

ive said before that im not sure that veilguard could ever have been as impactful for me as the previous games, partly because when you are 16 everything is more impactful because your brain is an eager sponge, unless it did something that really resonated with me as an adult. but what it should have been, at the very least, is something that could have been as impactful and formative on a current 16 year old that sees a gif on tumblr and decides to check out the game, as inquisition was to me 10 years ago. and im sure there are teenagers and younger adults out there playing this game and loving it and loving the characters and the world and thinking its great, good fun. thats great. however it fundamentally cannot have the same profound, developmentally catalytic experience it had on me because it simply does not challenge the player. it does not prompt them to question their own beliefs and the power structures within their lives. it does not prompt them to reflect on the political narratives they may have been fed all their lives. it does not confront them with the sorts of topics that get books on banned lists in florida and force them to bear witness, to think deeper, to feel guilt or horror at the outcome of your own poorly-made decision, to make moral judgements, to make mistakes, and to live with the consequences.

i think i now understand why veilguard was so disappointing to me and ultimately would be a failure in my eyes no matter if i enjoyed the combat or the exploration or whatever other shiny coat of paint sits atop it. veilguard does not ask much of you. it does not prompt any sort of introspection or interrogation of your presently held beliefs. it does not demand anything from the player except to dodge at the right moment. this is a fundamental, core departure from what made me fall in love with dragon age in the first place. if you love dragon age because you want "fantasy escapism" and fun characters to smooch, then i am happy for you. but i would remind you that can find fantasy escapism all over the steam library - farming sims, cozy games, a witch looking for her cat in the alps, etc. what you cannot find are games that are willing and brave enough to challenge and provoke the player into a better, more thorough understanding of themselves in relation to our world and it's many, complex and daunting political and moral issues. to have lost such a thing, when media like this has become so few and far between, and during a time when we need it more than ever, is a devastating loss.

[neovillains]

DEATHBED | PART THREE.

( NO INTEGRITY : FUSHIGURO TOJI ) you never typically accepted male clients, but after being the only one left in the office, you let your fear consider your safety. and now... you're kind of grateful for it. | watch time: 4.0k words.

── perverted gilf!toji fushiguro & esthetician!reader, fem-bodied!reader (s!her pronouns), toji gets a manzilian, high age gap, bribery, sadomasochism, facial, masturbation, oral fixation, blowjob/deepthroating, dirty talk, features esthetician!geto suguru, etc.

notes. i had so much fun writing this tee bee ayche. i want toji to cum all over my face. n e weighs... we almost done ! one more chapter to go !

gojo satoru | nanami kento | sukuna ryoumen

You never really took in male clients. It’s something you made sure of early in your career of being an esthetician. It only took one man to put the entire gender on the hard no list. However, as this older man stands in front of you, hazel green eyes that intimidate and should send alarms through your mind, you’re contemplating on making an exception. From his ID, he’s in his late seventies. He should be mature enough to handle what he’s requesting— a manzilian. 

Looking at the clock, it’s inching closer to six p.m., when you’re supposed to be clocking out for the evening. The clerk having left already and leaving you to your lonesome, anxiety spikes within you and being your sole reason for why you’re even considering scheduling an appointment with him. You inhale through your nose, exhaling through your mouth. You glance at his idea once more, reading his name as you’re typing his name into the system— Fushiguro Toji. 

Then, you’re glancing up at him. Salt n’ pepper hair, and lines underneath his eyes that show his years. His eyes pierce into yours, still waiting for you to confirm it. He cocks up an eyebrow, impatience growing inside of him. “Are you usually this slow?”

“Sorry,” you say under your breath, eyes going back to the screen as you click on the calendar, checking the most available slots. You grumble to yourself when you see that you have an opening just for tomorrow at five. You consider lying, but rationally, you know it would be better to get this over with quickly more than anything else. “I have tomorrow at five available. Is that fine with you?”

“Yes,” he answers curtly.

“And if you’d like,” your eyes light up when you see your male coworker also has an opening alongside your name, taking the opportunity. “Our male esthetician is open—”

“You’ll do just fine.” Your heart drops. You can tell that this man means what he says and that any type of persuasion would be shut down. But, you still try. 

“Are you sure?” you continue. “You might find yourself more comfortable—”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine with just you,” he interjects once more. The corner of his lips rising and when you look at that scar, anger fills you. You’d love to make it deeper. 

Of these years that you’ve been an esthetician, you think you’d have grown a backbone. You thought you had, but whenever issues with clients came up, you always had someone else along your side to back you up. Right now, that desperation to go home and the fear of being the only worker inside the building runs all sense away from your mind, making you too afraid to stand up for yourself in the possibility of experiencing any harassment. So, as quickly as possible, you type in the information you need, asking him for his form of payment before he slides his debit card into your hand and you click confirm. 

“Just check to see if you’re received a notification that your appointment has been scheduled and you’ll be all set for the night,” your voice is higher than typical, looking up at the man behind the desk and watching as he pulls out his phone. You can’t help but notice how veiny his hands are, littered in melanated dots as he swipes across the screen. When he sees the text in regards to the appointment, he gives a curt nod and a grunt. “Got it.”

“Great,” you say, letting out a deep breath as you reach for your handbag and head towards the door. “Well, have a good night! I’ll be seeing you tomorrow evening.”

However, as you reach for your car keys inside of your bag, you can still feel his calling presence over you. “You’re closing up, right?” 

“No,” you lie. “Our last esthetician’s cleaning up around back.”

“Hm,” he huffs, silently calling your bluff, but doesn’t say anything else about it. “Let me walk you out. It’s getting dark out.”

Oh, your eyes widen. That was the last thing you were expecting from him. Though, you still hesitate, glancing outside of the building. You typically park in the closest parking spot. Who wouldn’t? It’s very convenient, but it’s coincidental how you were running late today and someone else managed to snag your habitual spot. Now, you have to walk a fair distance to your car. “Thank you.”

The walk is silent and he never says anything to you, simply waiting for you to unlock your car door. He opens it for you, watching you drop your bags onto the passenger seat before getting inside yourself. Good night, he told you before shutting the door and walking away, never giving you a moment to respond back. As you start up your car, you wonder if your judgment has been misplaced. Maybe your appointment with the man wouldn’t be as bad as the nightmare stories you’ve heard and experienced. 

—

When you’re finished with your second to last appointment, you glance at the clock. You have fifteen minutes to prepare for your last appointment for the day, something you’ve been anticipating to get over with so that you can go home. Sanitizing the bed and cleaning out the wax melter, you’re surrounded by silence before leaving the small room. Conveniently, Geto Suguru— the only esthetician to work in the afternoon alongside you— is in the main area. Pulling off his gloves before glancing at you, he motions you to follow him. Bringing you to the side, a look of concern washes over his face.

“I can’t believe you accepted a male client,” eyebrows scrunched together, he gets straight to the point. “Why didn’t you mention to me that someone came in after I left? I would’ve come back to handle it.”

“I didn’t want to bother you with that,” you explain. “You were probably at home by the time he came in.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter,” Geto says. “You know I’m willing to drop everything if you need the help. We’re here for each other.” 

“Don’t worry, Sug,” you try to calm his worries. “I’m just going to hope and pray that everything goes smoothly and try to go as quickly as I can.”

“I’m going to wait for you tonight,” he says, leaving you nowhere to argue. Nonetheless, you try. 

“Sug,” your shoulders drop, exasperated. “You don’t have to.”

“I don’t have to, but I will.” Just as he says that, the bells to the door jingle. You hear Geto’s deep sigh. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear—” In a low voice, Suguru whispers. “—That’s him, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, nudging him. “And go home—” you point. “—don’t wait for me.”

He doesn’t say anything, but underneath your skin, you know that there’s no way that he actually listened to you. Toji’s eyes are on you and you put on a bright smile. “Good evening. How’re you?”

“I’m doing alright,” the older man answers simply. You check the time, realizing you only have five minutes before his appointment officially starts. And instead of taking responsibility, you blame your lack of preparation on your coworker. Damn, Sugu. 

“That’s great,” you chirp. “Give me around five minutes and I’ll call you back to get started.”

He nods silently before finding a seat in the waiting area.  You put some pep in your step, heading back into the room and getting everything ready. Though you did the brunt of what you needed to do, you wipe down the bed once more heading to the door and poking your head out, you meet his sitting stature focused on the running television. 

“Fushiguro,” you call his last name out, catching his attention. “I’m ready. You can come on back.”

Leading him inside, you hold the door open for him as you gesture to the bed. “I remember you briefly telling me this isn’t your first time getting a manzilian, but would you like for me to do a brief rundown of what to expect?”

“If it means hearing more of your voice, then that’s alright with me, love.” The sentence catches you off guard, making your heart plummet to the pit of your ass. Your body stiffens up as you turn yourself away from the man so you don’t have to look him in the eye. The way he had said it so seamlessly makes your skin crawl. You feel a bit foolish to have dropped your guard simply because he offered to walk you to your car last night. Letting out a breath, you ignore his sentence. 

“Because you’re an older man, it might be more painful for you, so I’ll try to be as gentle as possible, but—” After your brief rundown of the expectations, you give him a bit of privacy before coming back inside. You change into another pair of gloves before reaching for the thing of wax and the strips. The thin veil of the paper-like cover rests over his lap as he lays patiently on the bed. You just want to get this done as quickly as possible. “Are you ready? First, I’ll be cleaning you up first, but do you feel prepared for me to start the entire process?”

Mhm is his only response before you’re asking him to rest his feet up. “At any point, you want to stop, just let me know.”

“I’m pretty sure with hands like yours, you’ll be treating me very sweetly,” he says. “Don’t worry, dear.”

Drowning out everything, you lift up the veil before pausing. Over the past couple of years, you’ve taught yourself to keep up a stoic expression, keeping yourself as calm and collected as possible. However, you can feel your eyes widen ever so slightly and you feel like the most unprofessional esthetician ever just at the fact that you’re gawking over this older man’s appendage. 

When he walked in last night, you had taken into account his build. You can tell that in his younger years, he did extensive workouts and deeply cared for his body. He was handsome for his age and you can tell that he knew that. He was silent, but there was a silent stir of confidence within him that you couldn’t ignore. And even now, while you’re stagnant, you can feel a heat of confidence building up inside of him. Still, however, you never look as you’ve calculated inside of your head that he’s at least eight inches, probably— most likely— bigger than that. And you don’t like how you feel something in the pit of your stomach, and it’s not due to discomfort. 

Just like you’d typically do, you clean him up. When you feel a tremor from his leg, you pause and finally look up. “Are you alright?”

“You can keep going,” he says, not directly answering your question. Shoulders dropping as you try your best to relax, you continue. And it’s apparent, the erection that’s building up as you clean his pubic hair. You’re gentle and careful with every move you make, noticing how his chest rises every time your glove-clad hands graze his length. It’s strikingly silent that it’s killing you. Typically, you liked to spark up conversations during your client’s appointments, but what were you to say to a man that’s getting hard from simply being cleaned?

After you finish cleaning him, you dispose of the cloth before switching into another pair of gloves. Reaching for the wax and the strips, you pause. “I’m going to start waxing. Just like before, let me know if you’d like to stop at any point.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says gruffly.  And with that, you adjust his legs before setting the wax onto the strip. A sense of haste runs over you as you plaster on the strip and then quickly ripping it off. It was your preferred method as the shock seemed to make it less painful. Majority of your clients liked that you said no warning and just ripped it off. 

It seemed to be the same way for Toji. Despite the curse muttered from under his breath, his cock jumped as a strip of hair was extracted from his skin. You glanced up, waiting for him to say anything, but he never did. Continuing forth, you noticed how his tip started to leak pre. You tried to ignore it, but you started to subconsciously go slower, which only seemed to be fortunate on the older man’s part.

Toji should feel some shame within him. To insist on you giving him a manzilian and for the blatant flirting he’d throw your way on occasion, but fuck, he doesn’t. The feeling of your hand against him, gently cleaning him before hastily pulling at his skin with no sense of TLC. It only continued to spark that heat within him, making him painfully hard. Precum leaked through his mushroom-shaped tip and he didn’t feel any sort of humiliation for it. He was a man and for him, this was normal. However, while he usually didn’t need anyone to touch his length directly, he was yearning for more the more you went on.

Your moves were getting slower and it was as though you were edging him now. Gnawing at his bottom lip, when he felt your hands touch at his pelvis, finally clearing off his inner thighs, he felt a pathetic sense of desperation run through him. “How much would it take?”

“Huh?” He had evidently caught you off guard, causing you to retract. 

“How much could I pay you,” he started, “to let me masturbate?”

Halting all actions, you nearly knock over the thing of melted wax. You stumble to catch it, making the older man chuckle. “There's no reason to make a mess now. ‘S just a simple question.”

On the other side of the door, the moment that Geto heard the slight fumble, he was quick to his feet, standing behind the door and knocking on it. “Everything alright in there?”

You curse to yourself, your coworker’s voice not doing anything to settle your nerves. “Yeah, Sugu. Just clumsy as always.”

There’s a pause before he responds, “Alright.”

When you no longer see the shadow of Geto’s shoes from under the door, you let out the breath you were subconsciously holding. “Don’t tell me you had a guard dog out for me. I’m not gonna hurt you, love.”

“I don’t know that,” you answer truthfully. “If you want, you could probably kill me right now.”

“Probably,” he doesn’t deny. “But, you’re not dead right now, so that should let you know all you need to.”

You look him in his eyes and then back to his hardened length. He chuckles before you could truly contemplate and dissect what he’s asked you. “How much?”

“Is there a possibility that I can say no?”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t have a few extra bucks in your pocket.”

“75,000 yen.”

“45,000,” he quips instead.

“70,000.”

“50,000.”

“60,000,” you watch his eyes squint, considering it. He nods, “Fine.”

You watch as he knocks off the veil, letting it slowly fall to the ground before wrapping his fist around himself. The size of his hand makes him seem small. He shudders, his hands feeling like ice against his cock as he waits. It calls for confusion from the both of you as he waits expectantly. “You can continue.”

“Continue what?” He finds your moment of idiocy to be adorable, making him chuckle once more, “Continue waxing me.”

“That’s unsanitary,” you start. “You could possibly start bleeding and I—”

“This entire situation is unprofessional and I could have your license revoked,” he finishes for you. “Would you prefer that instead? Don’t worry, if I bleed, I won’t report you, love.”

You slouch forward, reaching for another strip and trying to continue as if your client isn’t palming at his cock as you try to maneuver around him. Your hands start to shake as his fist moves up and down. He’d stop ever so often to rub over his tip, smearing the precum around it. So copious as he causes his length to glisten. 

You don’t like how you feel yourself growing aroused, clenching around nothing as you wonder what he’d feel like inside of you. And he finds your squirming to be adorable as you try desperately to keep yourself together as you rip hair from his skin. You could’ve finished a long time ago, but you’ve come to enjoy watching this. You won’t admit it, but you find it intriguing how a man finds pleasure in pain and there’s a boost of confidence within you knowing that you’re the one inflicting it. 

There are points in time where Toji would stop, feeling himself close to releasing. His hands would be back to the base of his length as you’d pull another strip. It wasn’t until you were on your last spot that he finally decided to let go. His balls would slap against his fist every time it came down and the wetness of himself jerking off while he was being waxed sounded the room. He wondered if your coworker could hear and he wondered that, if he did, what was stopping him from interfering?

And the possibilities that coursed through his mind only egged on his impending orgasm. Your touch rivalled between rough and soft. When your glove-clad hands gently rested against his thigh before the next hand pulled at the wax strip, it was all that it took for him to release. 

Your gasp was high-pitched, the feeling of cum hitting your spray as Toji’s head hit the bed in relief. He didn’t care, simply continued to aim for your pretty little face and you let it happen. Again, a next set of knocking came to the door. Geto, again. “(Y/N), are you sure you’re alright?”

You didn’t want to sound annoyed, knowing that he was only looking out for you and your well being, but you did remember telling him that you would be fine. “I’m alright! I just nearly burnt myself.”

“Shit,” you can hear from the otherside, a set of keys following that sent your heart racing. “Do you need help? Is it bad?”

“No,” you answer. You’d feel embarrassed to have him walk in on you in this current predicament, and it’d go against protocol. “I said nearly. I’m alright.”

Checking the time, it’s almost been an hour. With a sigh, you just want Geto gone. “Look, I understand why you’re staying late and I appreciate it, but I really am fine. Just go home. If I need help, I’ll call this time, okay?”

When he doesn’t answer, you ask again. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he sighs. “Have a good night.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When there’s silence, your older client chuckles. “You should've run him off a long time ago.”

You don’t answer him, watching as he comes to sit up before you place a hand against his chest. Your heart starts racing as you take into consideration what you’re about to do. “Wait—” despite his release, you can still see it. He’s still hard. Pulling off your gloves and aiming them towards the trash, your fingertips graze his shaft. “—Let me…”

You don’t have to say anything more before he gives you the okay and he’s leaning right back into position. The corner of his mouth, where his scar is, twitches upward. Looking down at you like this, he finds you so pretty like this. This young esthetician’s face was covered in his seed, and now she’s offering herself up to continue on the session. He’s never gotten to experience this, quickly believing he’s found himself a keeper. 

You reach for the hand that was previously connected to his cock, noticing the droplets of cum still staining them. You’ve become bold in the timespan, holding eye contact when your mouth opens and your tongue lulls out to clean off his fingers. Plump lips wrapping around the digits and suckling on them until the only thing that’s coating them is your saliva. When they’re nice and clean, you’re dipping to his length. 

Your dominant hand takes hold of it, your heartbeat picking up as you’re still incredulous to the sheer size of him. You pause, taking in a deep inhale before your mouth opens once more. You can still smell the stench of wax, the years of working making it ingrained in your senses that it nearly overpowers any bad body odor. Toji watches how your lips wrap around his thick cockhead, how your eyelashes flutter upwards to look at him. 

To think that the previous night, you were trying to ship him off to that long-haired brooding esthetician and now, that fear is leaving you to the point where you offered yourself up to him. He feels triumphant as he feels arousal leak through his tip once more, but this time, on your tongue. “I bet that pretty pussy of yours is all wet.”

He’s right. Your panties cling to your pussy, a wet patch well formed from the past hour and only worsening now that your lips are around his cock. His hand reaches to caress your face before it travels to the back of your head. Your hair combed into one, he grips at the band and forces you to take more of him. He lets out a breath, “Saw the way your cute body was squirming around watching me. All you young girls are just sluts nowadays, I swear. You’re the only one who holds no shame in it.”

He pushes your head down until your lips are at the base, the head of his cock, hitting the back of your throat and causing you to gag. The corner of your eyes prick with tears before he’s pulling you off and giving you a chance to catch your breath. 

“Ah,” he tsks. “Seems like I gotta train your throat to handle me. You’ll take down that stupid rule of yours, right? Just for me?”

You nod, inhaling deeply as your chest rises and falls. Toji chuckles. “Good girl. I’ll probably have to train that pussy, too, it seems— wrap your hand around the base.”

It’s so seamless how he goes to throw commands at you, and it should be embarrassing how obedient you’ve become. Doing as told, you don’t waste a second to wrap your mouth around him once more. However, he takes all control and fucking your mouth like you’re just a toy for him. 

You’re grateful that Geto left, not wanting him to hear what’s happening behind closed doors and how you’ve gotten yourself in this predicament. The man’s cum has long dried up on your face, but fuck, he’s imagining the possibility of making it messier. This time he has his imagination running rampant as he uses your mouth to get off. And you’re imagining the possibility of him filling you up, spurting his load in you as you let this old man take advantage of your body. 

His veins protrude, blue highlighting his skin in lines as he uses his strength to use you. Weakly, his hips rise to meet your lips as he’s enveloped by your wet warmth. This orgasm is all too quick to approach him and he has no intention to stop, feeling how your grip has tightened around the base. 

“Fuck,” his voice is guttural and raspy. “Gonna cum in your mouth, and you’re gonna swallow, right?”

You mumble around his length, but that short nod is all he needs. The vibrations sent waves through him and called for his release. You feel the way his cock twitches inside your mouth before tasting the salted seed kiss the back of your throat. And just like he asked, you’re swallowing him as you feel his grip on you weaken before finally letting go.

Gradually, you remove yourself from him and catch your breath, your chest rising and falling in a rushed rhythm. When the both of you have cleaned yourselves up, you leave together. Though, when Toji goes to walk you to your car, he squeezes your ass before holding the door open for you and leaning to whisper in your ear, “That pussy will be the next thing I claim the next time we meet, alright?”

Nodding, you whisper out a ‘yes.’

Bidding you a good night, Toji leaves you to your lonesome. When you get home, you make a small change to your rules.

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[zepskies]

hiiii, i hope your friday is going well lovely 💞💞 :) how has your week been?💕

i’m currently stuck at work and it’s beeeeeen quite the day already, but you always cheer me up so i have a random question :p

i’m thinking about the scene when dean tried cafe con leche in the midnight espresso-verse (also i’m a barista loll🥲), and he was pleasantly surprised, so it has me wondering;

if they were to get something besides plain coffee, what do you think dean/ben/beau/russell would like to drink if they ordered at a coffee shop?

i always love to hear any and all your thoughts 🙂‍↕️🤍

Hello my lovely! 💞💞 I actually am in recovery this week after having a surgical procedure yesterday, so I'm finally getting a chance to catch up on my TBR reading and the shows I've had on my watchlist. 🤪

Ooh introducing Dean to Cuban espresso was the scene that inspired that whole fic of Midnight Espresso, and ultimately turned it into a whole series of Dean x plus-sized Latina fun!! lol

This is such a fun question though!! You as a barista probably know way more about coffee than I do, but here's my take on these guys' orders...

HEADCANON: What Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Russell Shaw would order at a coffee shop. ☕

Dean Winchester

Why, an espresso of course! 🤎

Cram that little cup full of sugar, and you've got Dean hooked on a heavy-hitter fix that'll keep him up during long research sessions. (It also gives you the opportunity to distract him from said research, give him a taste of another steamy fix. 😘❤️‍🔥)

Beau Arlen

Ooh I feel like he'd protest at first and claim to solely drink Americanos, but he's a basic latte guy.

Hit him with some caramel or hazelnut, and he's happy. But you could also hook him into being a little adventurous with a pistachio or "brown sugar" latte lol. Like most things, Beau is willing to try almost anything once. 😉

Soldier Boy (Ben)

So he's definitely going to be thrown by all the modern selections of coffee. (i.e. "What the fuck is oatmilk?") And how the hell can you get milk out of cashews and almonds?

All the health crazes, "drip" coffee, and milk alternatives are definitely going over his head, or he's mocking them. ("Save that pussy drink for Hughie." 💀)

But one thing he might go for, other than a black coffee, is a nice cold brew, hold off on too much foam -- can't be getting the milkstache, now can he? But he'll like it even better if you make it "Irish." 💚

Russell Shaw

Last but certainly not least, we have Russell! I don't think he's picky about his coffee, considering he probably drinks a lot of free motel coffee. lol

But! I think he'd appreciate a nice flat white at a proper café. It's more robust than a normal cappuccino and less milk, so he'd argue that he's getting more "bang for his buck." 😂

AN: @wvffles Hope you liked this little headcanon, friend, and that it cheers you up! I LOVE me some coffee, so this question with the guys was really fun to contemplate. 😘☕

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[frostyhelltime]

Can I request Husk, Vox, Alastor with reader who drunkenly cofess their love to them? I adore drunk confessions!

I am back from the dead!

I am happy to be back and writing though. Hope everyone is doing well!

Characters listed: Alastor, Vox, Husk.

Warnings: None.

Husk

Honestly…it feels almost inevitable that you would drunkenly confess to Husk. The main times you got drunk were around him after all.

Didn't make you feel any less embarrassed, of course.

But as for Husk he's just…confused at first.

He looks around to see who it was you were actually trying to confess to.

It doesn't occur to him that it is, in fact, him.

His gut reaction is to deny, to push you away.

Tell you you don't even know what you're saying, trying to brush your confession off.

But you are very adamant and it eventually sinks in that drunk or not, you meant what you said.

He's very flustered as he tries to help you to bed, his heart pounding as your words replay in his head.

He promises to talk to you about it in the morning when you're sober.

But you end up having to bring it up first when morning comes.

Part of him is afraid that you hadn't really meant it, and he would have felt foolish asking.

“For a bartender you’re shit at reading signals.” You slur, leaning over the bar with a foolishly excited grin on your face. Said bartender laughs and shakes his head. “How did you come to that conclusion? I read everyone right.” He teases with a raised brow, but your reaction is almost immediate, a scoff as you lean back, holding onto the edge of the bar to keep yourself from falling.

“You can’t be that great because you never once clocked that I have feelings for you.” You drunkenly roll your eyes as you pull yourself back to the bar to smile at him, only vaguely aware of what you’ve confessed. But Husk is more than aware, his eyes blinking rapidly as if that would somehow make what you said make any more sense. Maybe…he turns around, looking at the rest of the bar as if there had been some secret person hidden in a corner you were actually talking to. Perhaps a hidden camera? A prank?

“I mean I was just joking but…you really didn’t know? I really thought you knew.” You laugh, curling your drink closer to your chest and laughing more, not noticing the slight crestfallen look on Husk’s face at first.

“Joking about the reading thing. Not the feelings thing. I really thought you knew, you just couldn’t figure out how to let me down easy.” You chuckle again, taking another sip. 

He’s quick to shake his head, narrowing his eyes as he looks you over for any sign of deceit.

“You clearly have had too much. I’m cutting you off and getting you to bed. You don’t have any idea what you’re saying.” He shakes his head again, huffing as he rubs his temple, desperately trying to fight the building hope he feels.

“Drunk thoughts are sober words! Oh wait. No. It goes….Drunk words are sober thoughts? I think?” You mumble as he crosses the threshold and slings one of your arms over his shoulder as he helps you to your room.

“You really don’t believe me?” You sound much more aggravated than he expected.

“My words won’t change in the morning. Perhaps I’ll be a bit more embarrassed about how honest I was. But they’ll still be my words.” 

You were so focused on putting your words together you didn’t realize how quickly you had reached your door.

How odd.

The next thing you actually remember is the sun shining through your window, painfully so as you groan and roll over away from the light. You’re too hungover to even really startle when you hear a chuckle in your room, but you crack an eye open enough to see it’s just Husk in a chair by your bedside, medicine and water in hand.

“Thought you might need this.”

You look at it a moment before sighing and sloppily grabbing for it, drinking the water down as well with the medicine.

“I still mean it. That I have feelings for you, by the way. If you don’t believe me, ask Angel how many times he and I have talked about ways to make you notice me.” You manage to get out before rolling over and curling up into your covers again.

Which is for the better, Husk thinks. He certainly knows he doesn’t want you to see the startled look on his face, the way his ears twitch in confusion and excitement, or the way his tail swishes about from a happiness he hadn’t dared to let himself dream of.

Vox

It starts with you two drunkenly insulting each other for fun.

No harm, no foul. There's very little off limits for you two, and you both know which touchy subjects to avoid.

Plus, most people were too afraid of Vox to insult him to his face, so it was a refreshing and silly change when you two did this.

But then your insults…change, and it's weirdly both complimentary and insulting.

At first he thinks you're joking, but then he realizes you're actually upset and then he's even more confused.

He hadn’t said anything that should have actually made you angry.

But then he realizes…you seem mad at…yourself?

He’s about to ask what the hell is wrong with you when he hears the…admittedly…backwards sounding confession, both insulting and praising him all at once.

“You have that fake charismatic smile plastered on your face all the time! I’m surprised the image isn’t burned into your screen!” You laugh, shortly before he joins in.

“Least I’m not dumb enough to see a feather duster and mistake it for Val’s feather! Imagine, me startled by a feather duster, I could never.” Vox is laughing, and even though that has happened to him as well, he certainly won’t admit to it.

“Hey! It had the exact same coloration! Not my fault! Least I’m not too stupid to realize when someone has a crush on me!” You scoff, and he laughs at first before looking confused.

“Nah, that’s not a good insult. I am very aware of my secretary’s crush on me. I don’t give a shit.” He raises a brow, looking at you. You’re backpedaling almost immediately, not realizing how easily you had given yourself away. You’re already beginning to mentally curse yourself for making such a foolish slip up.

But Vox’s expression changes from confused to the same type of predatory he gets when he knows he has a sale in the bag.

“Unless…? You meant someone else had a crush on me that I wasn’t aware of?” He hums nonchalantly, leaning across the table and laying his screen into his hand as he looks at you. You only seem to fluster more, looking around for any possible distraction or way out, but your attention is brought back by the sound of his claws rapping against the table in impatience, that stupid smug smile still on his face.

“....M-Maybe…” You mumble, looking down and away now, but the hand making noise against the table stops almost immediately and cups your chin, pulling you to look at him. No hiding.

“Perhaps I can fix that then? The not realizing someone has a crush on me bit?” He teases, and there is something both dastardly mischievous and honest in his next words.

“Besides, you’re just as stupid for not realizing someone has a crush on you back.”

Alastor

It happens after a night of drinking and dancing to jazz.

Well, during, is when it starts.

Both pleasantly drunk on whiskey, you more so than him.

You casually admit it, hardly even aware you’ve confessed.

But he is painfully aware, unsure if you’re genuine or, like every other sinner, attempting to get something out of him.

But you’ve always been so…ridiculously honest and genuine in Charlie’s program. It’s hard to imagine you even saying a white lie, let alone a manipulative one.

He decides to test it in the morning, getting unusually close to you to see your reaction.

Surely if you were simply trying to be manipulative you would be afraid, trying to fool the radio demon himself?

“Oh I love this one! Just one more dance!” You laugh, your grip on his hands tightening. An action that would normally annoy him with others, but with you was almost…pleasant.

“Ah, you know me. How can I ever say no to a Glen Miller song?” He hums, chuckling as he spins you before bringing you close to him again, arm wrapping around your waist a moment in the middle of the energetic and fast paced number.

You lay your head into the crook of his shoulder and grin to yourself.

“My, my, are you losing energy? Already?” Alastor can’t hide the amusement in his voice, nor does he want to as he continues to sway with you to the music.

“Oh no, never. Just…enjoying dancing with my love.” You say it almost absentmindedly, without quite realizing what you’ve said. But even muffled against his lapels, he hears it, and freezes for just a second before continuing his movements.

“Your love? You say?” He asks curiously, eyes almost boring into you as he waits for a response. You tilt your head back just enough to look at him, hands still rested in his.

“My love? Oh. Did I say that out loud? Fuck.” You frown a moment, the pout you wear almost adorable despite how infuriated you were with yourself.

“Language.” He playfully reminds you, spinning you in a way that makes the room spin so much faster than it already was.

“Yeah I speak one.” You slur out, hands gripping onto the lapels of his suit and clinging to him once you’re spun back to him.

But this just makes him laugh, whole heartedly and unabashedly.

“I think it’s time to head back.”

He knows it’s silly to interrogate you in your current state, but still, you babble as he helps you back to the hotel.

“What’s the point of even liking the big bad radio demon? Nothing will come of it.” You laugh, clinging to him as you stumble alongside him.

“Oh? Well I think it depends on how much you like the ‘big bad radio demon’.” He is clearly bemused as he listens to you, still aware enough himself to get you both back safe and sound.

“Like? Love. Romantic feelings. Whatever. I’m sure it’s all unrequited. These lovely dances with you are probably the closest I’ll ever get to that fantasy…” You mumble, sighing to yourself as you finally cross the threshold into the hotel lobby.

The sight of you two practically attached at the hip is nothing new, so barely anyone even bats an eyelash at the sight of it now.

However, unlike previous times he’s helped carry you back, his smile is decidedly strained, deep in thought as he analyzes everything he can about this interaction, and previous ones.

Was this genuine? Highly unlikely. Or was it simply a ploy to gain a favor from him? A loyalty you could utilize and take advantage of?

However in all the time he’s known you…that seemed…unlikely.

Surely you couldn’t have truly meant it? Surely just a silly thought that flitted across your mind as the two of you danced. But still, he helps you to your room, careful to help you into bed, and assuring you he would bring water and medicine in the morning.

When the morning comes and you awaken, you feel a flush come across your face immediately as you remember what you confessed the night before. You groan into your pillow, burying your face in it in a vain attempt to suffocate yourself, but you just hear a familiar and jovial laugh from nearby.

“Oh my dear! That isn’t how you suffocate someone at all!” Alastors laughs, throwing his head back before smiling at you.

You dare to open an eye, looking at him curiously.

“...Do you remember last night?” You ask cautiously, but he just leans closer, until his lips are just a breath away from yours.

“....Do you?”

[harrisonarchive]

Photo by David Magnus.

“I hit it off with George Harrison as soon as we met. We kept running into each other at parties and gatherings and always found our eyes meeting no matter how many other people were in the room.  George and I talked whenever we’d see each other. We found we liked the same things, long walks while wearing comfortable clothes and being with sincere people who liked us for ourselves and not because we were in show business. I think I was the happiest when I was talking with George. There was something about him that made me open up and spill out anything that was on my mind. I think he felt the same way, for he’d often call late in the evening and talk on the phone for hours. […] Neither of us felt any obligations, we just enjoyed being there together.  George playing and I, listening. […] Over there [at home in England] he’s at his best, he’s relaxed, he’s George Harrison, Englishman and not George Harrison, Beatle.” - Estelle Bennett, Photoplay (?) “George saw Estelle and flew over to her [at the Plaza Hotel in February 1964].” - Steve Brandt (journalist), Photoplay, June 1964

"Estelle and I went out on double dates with John and George a couple more times before we left London. They’d take us to all these romantic white-tablecloth restaurants, but once we got there all they’d want to talk about was American rock and roll. ‘Tell us about the Temptations,‘ George would say. Then John would ask, ‘What’s Ben E. King really like?‘ So we’d just go down the list, telling them stories about all the acts we worked with at the Brooklyn Fox. And as we’d talk, John and George would sit there like they were hypnotized. [...]

That night [ in NYC] John and George picked up Estelle and me in a limousine for a feast of ribs and chicken at Sherman’s Barbecue on 151st and Amsterdam in Harlem. And they loved it. Sherman’s is just a little takeout counter today, but back in 1964 it was beautiful, with lots of tables and a great big jukebox in back. But for the Beatles, the best part of all was that they could eat in peace. They may have been mobbed at the Plaza, but very few of their fans followed them into Harlem. In fact, the Beatles were no big deal up in Harlem. The people at Sherman’s were not exactly Murray the K’s crowd. They took one look at these guys with their long hair and funny clothes and went back to their ribs. If anything, they might have thought the Beatles were dorks. But you can bet Sherman never forgot that day. Every so often I still go into Sherman’s for takeout, and whenever I do, Sherman comes out from the kitchen to say hello. ‘I remember you!’ he always says. ‘You’re the little girl that brought the Beatles!’” - Ronnie Spector, Be My Baby (1990)

[crescenthistory]

Hey Carina congratulations on 2k!! Such a wonderful milestone for a even more wonderful writer I'm happy for you it's more than well deserved

Perhaps I can ask for an Argue? I thought of the prompt 6 from List B the Bookshop AU with Regulus and muggle reader just for the twist inside Reggie's brain baby definetly doesn't know how to act around muggles but is smitten by reader at first sight

thank you so so much my love<33 you're an angel

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i will ARGUE for prompt 6 "bookshop au" with regulus black

carina's 2k celebration

✶・•・✦・•・✶・✶・•・✦・•・✶

cw: fem!reader, use of y/n, muggle!reader, references to walburga and orion's great parenting (abuse + discrimination), shy!regulus, implied overstimulation, exposure therapy

wc: 1.3k

Sirius insisted that part of deconstructing everything they had been taught growing up was emerging yourself in the muggle world.

While Regulus thought that logic was sound when they were sitting in his living room, talking everything through over a glass of wine, he most decidedly did not think so anymore. He was taking his first stroll down a strictly muggle street in Central London and though he would not admit it, he was beyond stressed and overwhelmed. 

He kept overthinking, second-guessing everything he did and whether it would give him away too much, hand constantly itching for his wand. Regulus felt naked, exposed, and was two seconds away from tucking tail and running back home to Sirius to promptly tell him exactly what he thought of this plan.

It was something he had never thought much of before as he would always just spell away any annoying sounds, but the noise level around him was deafening to the point where it genuinely hurt. Becoming increasingly desperate to get away from the sound and hide in a corner where he could apparate without being seen, Regulus began scouting for a place to hide. An alleyway, a quiet shop – anything.

When a wooden sign stood out to him in the sea of neon lights, with something scribbled about books, he knew he had found the spot. 

Sidestepping the many strangers in his path, Regulus reached for the narrow door and pushed it open, all but clambering into the space.

The bookshop was a stark contrast to the outside world, to his relief seeming more like something he might find in Diagon Alley than Oxford Street. There were small glowing orbs on grey wire strung up around the ceiling to soften the light, all the furniture was wooden and dark, and several plants decorated the space to liven it up.

At the very back, past all the beautifully decorated shelves, was a desk that he currently saw only a tuft of hair poking up from behind. On instinct, Regulus took a step closer to see what it was when the person rose back up to their full height, holding at least five books in their arms.

“Oh!” you exclaimed as you saw him, nearly losing all the books you were holding. He jumped too, clearly not having expected to see someone, despite being the one fleeing into your shop. “So sorry, darling, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Regulus tried to get his vocal chords working again. “That’s quite alright, my apologies.”

You waved him off with one hand as you rounded your little till to walk up to a semi-full shelf and begin putting the books into it. “No apologies needed around here. What can I do for you, love?”

Your voice was so melodic, almost lilting through your sentence as if you and Regulus were old friends, as if you knew him. He wondered how that was even possible, if you could be a witch in disguise using legilimency on him.

When you turned your head to look at his awestruck expression with an entertained smile, he realised that was certainly not the case — and that he had yet to answer your question.

“Sorry, no, I, uh–” Regulus had to stop himself to gather his thoughts, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose a bit abashedly. “No, sorry, it’s just my first time in this… neighbourhood and I got a bit overwhelmed by all the noise.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to the treacherous, big and confusing world outside.

You pressed your lips together as you smiled, almost as if you were holding back an even bigger one. You nodded in complete understanding. “It’s rowdy at this time of day, even for us seasoned veterans.” You kept talking as you walked around your shop, fetching a ladder to fix something at the top of the shelf he stood by. “You are more than welcome to hide away in here with me, no pressure.”

Part of Regulus was terrified at the thought of being alone in a room with a muggle that he had to keep this huge secret from – it was different than with Ted, because at least he knew about magic by the time Regulus met him. You had no idea and the thought really messed with his head. More importantly though, part of Regulus was terrified at your offer because you were painfully pretty and he was too much of a stumbling mess to be trusted around you right now.

Yet a simple glance over his shoulder told him that there was no way he was heading back out there right away. 

With a sigh and his slumping shoulders, he resigned himself to his fate. He closed his eyes in defeat for a few second before turning them back on you, accompanied by a small and probably shy smile. “I would really like that, thank you…”

“Y/N,” you supplied at his pause. “And it’s no problem, it’s usually during rush hours that I have the most time to kill anyway. Those who head out for books are usually the ones wishing to avoid that chaos.” You gave him a knowing wink as you climbed back down the ladder and stowed it away in favour of bringing out a paper box filled with more books.

“You… this is what you do?” Regulus asked as he took in the place, almost in awe. “You get to just spend every day surrounded by books?”

You looked at him with a curious smile, almost as if he asked a very obvious question. “Yes, it’s quite neat, isn’t it? I organise the shelves and various seasonal collections, I dust and keep everything clean and I sell books to passerbys. There’s much worse gigs to land.”

“Sounds like kind of a dream, actually.” He had never seen a bookshop that wasn’t kept running mostly by magic. Watching you unload the books yourself and organise them, floating around the small shop with an inherent elegance was magical in itself. “I assume you’re a reader, then?”

Finally a topic he might be a bit more steady on. Until this, his only interactions with the muggle world had been through its literature. As he scanned the shelves while you worked around him, he saw various titles and names he recognised. He basked in the atmosphere of them, in how this was going quite well despite his previous shaking fear. 

You laughed heartily. “Of course, I think that has to be part of the application you send in. I trust you’re the same?”

You gestured vaguely to Regulus, presumably making some comment on how he was dressed. He didn’t quite have the muggle social cues to decipher it, so he just smiled nervously and nodded. “Yes, though I have mostly only read classics. You know, old philosophers and the like. I would like to expand my taste.”

Upon that comment, you stopped in your work to lean against a bookshelf and study him. A small smile was sneaking around your lips. “I never did ask you your name.”

“It’s Regulus. Regulus Black.”

Any hope that you might have been a witch disappeared when the name invoked no response in your face. Yet, Regulus was finding that so far, it really was no huge problem that you were a muggle. There was still some connection to be found, and you most certainly were not any of the words leftover from Walburga rattling in his brain.

“Well, then, Regulus,” you drawled with your gaze happily trained on him. “Care to have your taste expanded today?”

There was no hesitation in his smile. “I would love to.”

You had no idea to what degree that sentiment rang true for him.

[sldlovescartoons]

…Ah, what the hell, it’s been a minute since I’ve been intentionally cruel, I might as well give myself a little treat by being an asshole on purpose. Don’t worry, I’ll put MY thoughts in a numbered list, maybe that will help out your comprehension.

1. Let’s get this out of the way first, I am the original replier. You’d think someone with an English degree would have a high enough reading comprehension level to catch that.

2. While there are contexts that ‘but’ would mean two things true at once, that is not what you did in the instances I indicated to, as I specified the occurrence of compound sentences

Since I’ve decided I’m in my asshole bag, I went ahead and clearly marked out the incidence so you can’t miss it. When ‘but’ is used like this, it’s generally considered negatory language. I’m surprised they didn’t teach you that in college, I only got a measly degree in computer graphic design, and they still bothered to teach me this.

3. If you didn’t want to come off as thinking that people salty about the prominence if VM and M9 in the finale/campaign as silly or otherwise ignorant, starting out the top of the post with “I know some folks are going to be upset about the amount of time Vox Machina and the Mighty Nein took up during this finale” and spend one whole bullet point dedicated to reminding people that it’s not other people’s fault if you only watched c3 or if c3 is your favorite. That’s definitely not indicative of a pattern of thought/belief about certain parts of the fandom. Oh wait, it is! It also risks people of that group not wanting to have discourse with you, especially when everything you say on the matter indicates that you’ve already made up your mind and won’t be any fun to talk to because you’re going to pull out the shows nature as some sort of gotcha card to dismiss their feelings/thoughts on the matter.

4. You’ve yet to point out in any meaningful way why it being a DnD actual play would interfere or make narrative satisfaction different than any other type of story telling. Since you have an English degree, I’m sure you know that conflict, cause and effect, and consequence are core to good storytelling and narrative satisfaction. There is a long storied history of people being mad that stories don’t have proper consequences for choices. Most complaints about I’ve seen about the show’s consequences or lack thereof have been pretty legit. Some kooks, like always, but mostly pretty grounded. I’d maybe give your opinion on it being for the cast more weight if the other campaigns didn’t have lots of consequences with narratives that actually affected the world/events because of the characters choices. Fjord was chased down by sea monsters everytime he was on the ocean until the first Reunited Ep where they took on his former patron, but Orym? Nah. Vax got indebted to the raven queen to save his sisters life and that resulted in him being a revenant and Champion of the Raven Queen, taken away for 30 years, but the Bells can just do Ludinus’s plan for him and get bailed out by the previous parties because why would choosing to turn the gods mortal result in things like consequences from all the religious people on the planet? It being an actual play doesn’t negate people’s biggest actual complaint: lack of consequences! A thing that actually happened prominently, though not always and not always perfectly, in previous campaigns. It’s always nice to see the cast have a good time, but that doesn’t unexist flaws in a narrative. Being happy for a character being happy doesn’t stop me or anyone else from being critical of that ending if it doesn’t feel narratively satisfying.

5. Not gently, as mean as possible: you should either get a refund or go back to school because it appears you have trouble with reading comprehension, abstract thinking, and complex reasoning. You didn’t get your money’s worth, I’m afraid.

6. Looking at a bunch of people upset with how one of their favorite “live” shows has played out and basically saying “um, actually, this isn’t about YOU.” Is both dismissive and a massive dick move. And while you were likely targeting a certain brand of Entitled Crazy Fan, the way you went about it originally was just disjointed and vague enough to be easily read as a slide against large chunks of different opinions.

I’ll probably delete this later, I don’t relish in crashing out as much I like to think I would, but I already spent so much time typing so might as well send

i know some people are going to be upset by how much time vox machina and the mighty nein took up during this finale, so i want to say a couple of things

these campaigns have always been and will always be for the entertainment and enjoyment of matt and his players, first and foremost. their good time has always been and will always been more important than that of the audience, which has been invited in to watch something that existed before we even knew about it. we are of course entitled to our opinions about what we watch, but it's important to remember that those opinions will never, ever matter as much as those of the people around the table.

it is an unspeakable feat of storytelling, collaboration, creativity, and friendship for these people to have done what they just did. over ten years (well over, including the time they played pre-stream) of building a narrative that spanned decades and continents and planes and celestials bodies, of making decisions and seeing their consequences out to the fullest, of bringing to life characters that felt more genuine and real than anything one can find on the silver screen—this is the kind of expansive storytelling that marvel thought it was doing with the mcu. to be able to tell a story so powerful that it cannot reasonably contained within the confines of distinct d&d campaigns is a staggering accomplishment, and we're all lucky to bear witness to it.

it is no one else's fault if you only watched c3, or weren't caught up on c1/2 when you watched the finale, or if you didn't like c1/2 but did like c3. again, you're entitled to your opinions and to how you spend your time, but this story did not begin in jrusar, so it is unreasonable to expect it to end there.

no one, including you, benefits by being salty that these people were having fun. no one, including you, is made better by your dissatisfaction with how these people chose together to tell this story. i have read countless books and watched countless tv shows and films in my life, and none of the stories therein have been told exactly the way i would have told them, and that's what i love so much about being human. if i'd been at that table, of course i would have made different decisions, and of course you would have too. but we got to see these decisions, and these consequences, and the ephemeralness of that is so beautiful i could cry.

as i have i said eight billion times before, and will probably have to say eight billion times again, critical role is not a tv show. critical role is not a novel. critical role does not have a writer's room or a five-year plan. (well, matt might, but not in the moment.) critical role is a story that happens in the moment, a story built on matt's careful planning and the players' in-the-moment decisions and, of course, the rolls of the dice. if you are holding this kind of story to the narrative standards of something crafted for the sole purpose of entertaining an audience, you are always, always going to be disappointed.

[hurlumerlu]

A mother always knows

A short THK fic. (AO3)

The boy is good, she’ll give him that. He has a knack for making himself small, when he should be towering above her, so that it barely takes any strain to reach his mouth. It’s almost always right where she wants it – and travels with zeal when it’s not.

Then there are his hands, firm but humble, their strength at her service. She has no doubt he’d show more initiative if he had determined she wanted that – by now he would already have lifted Anusara on the chest of drawers, and probably apologized for getting carried away, all bashful enthusiasm – but he thinks he’s got her pinned in other ways. Besides, he admitted to her face that he wasn’t interested in women, so even though he’s given her a few moans – quickly cut off as if they’d taken him by surprise, a nice touch – he knows she doesn’t expect passion.

He must think this is the appeal, for her, all the things she can make him do regardless of his own wants – he’s been sickeningly deferential all evening, but with a hint of comradery, as if they both knew what this was really about. He’s not entirely wrong, of course.

Just wrong enough.

He falls with a mix of grace and artlessness, when she shoves him toward the bed, and looks up at her with wide, obedient eyes, lips slightly parted. It’s so charmingly artificial that she considers pushing it all further, to tear a real moan or two from him. Stain that silver tongue a little.

But she’s a busy woman.

"Ma’am?" he asks, when she opens the top right drawer. Then again, when she trains the gun on him: "Ma’am. What – why are you –" The nervousness is real, the confusion isn’t. She would have thought him a better actor than that.

"Imagine my surprise the other day," – his recoil at her tone isn’t discreet enough – "when my driver told me how nice it was that my son joined me for golf. Imagine how it grew, when she described the man he left with."

"I don’t –"

"Tall, rather pale... Would it please you to know that she found him handsome? Not a very bright woman, my driver, but she would make an excellent eyewitness. Of course, tattoos help with identification."

She sees it pass through him, the urge to button up his shirt, to pull down his sleeves. He raises a placating palm instead. "Ma’am, please, calm down." Even at gunpoint, men can never stop themselves from telling others to calm down. "He hired me, I’m not –"

"Did he hire you to kiss him on the cheek too?" He closes his eyes with a sigh, self-recreminations evident, and she can’t resist pouring salt on the wound. "I know this isn’t your world, but security cameras are not for show in these places, boy."

When he looks up again, there’s no trace of obedience left in him, the eagerness fallen from his shoulders. It makes him seem almost relaxed – sullen only in the set of his jaw. Did her son fall for the pleading eyes, or for that assessing stare? Knowing Bison and his escapades, the fake moans might have sufficed.

"Give me your phone." A flash of something on his face, sharp enough that she adjusts her shooting stance, yet he pulls the phone out of his pocket with slow, cautious movements, and unlocks it. Hands it over.

It’s not the phone he uses habitually, that much is certain: the list of contacts mostly consisting of the strapping young men he brought with him, and four influential ladies that were drinking in the lounge when they left for her room. He added an emoji next to each one – a star, a flower, a butterfly, cherries: the devil in the detail.

Three names, on this list, do not belong to the aforementioned categories.

"Which one is my son? Penguin, Rome, or Sunshine?" His jaw shifts, locks. She doesn’t have time for this. "If you don’t answer, I’ll simply text all three numbers the same picture of your corpse."

His gaze holds hers for a handful of seconds before falling to the floor in shame. "Sunshine," he replies, and the vindication almost tastes bitter: her youngest – whiny, ungrateful little backstabber though he may be – deserves more of a fight than that. If only he'd listened.

She puts the phone between them, on speaker. It doesn’t ring for long.

"Sorry, I messed up." The boy says when the call is picked up. He sounds so resigned, she realizes too slowly that he made sure to speak first. There was an emoji next to Penguin, too. "Don’t let him come for me, Fadel."

[wooahaeruby]

Chapter 43: Light Behind The Door

TW

Description of panic attack/flash back

Master List | Prev | Next

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Seonghwa stated bluntly, shaking his head. “Sit down on your bed so I can check you out, please.  

“Hey, give me a break, be happy I slept yesterday uninterrupted.” You huffed, sitting down as he asked. “I’m not exactly in the best mental state, alright?” 

Seonghwa sighed, motioning if you could turn your face side to side so he could see how things were healing. “Have you been eating?” 

“As much as I can tolerate. Some days are better than others but I am trying to keep up eating at least once a day.” 

You could tell he didn’t like the answer by his frown but made no comment. “Pain?” 

“There is some pain. If I move weird or lay on my sides too long, my ribs and sides still hurt, but I can tolerate it. The burns on my side itch, especially the one on my chest but you said nothing can really help with that. I feel pretty weak too, but that could also be the mental block.” 

He asked you to unbutton some of your shirt so he could see the healing brand. You had removed the bandages prior to him coming in, knowing there was no use to cover it back up if it needed to be checked out. Leaning your head back, you tried your best to hold back from flinching when Seonghwa leaned in, but still leaned away. Seonghwa hummed, standing straight and turning to dig into his bag. 

“So far, everything is looking alright. I’m not concerned about anything physically. I’d like you to try and eat more, get more sleep as well. I did get that heart monitor, you could be fine at this point, however, please humor me and wear it for two weeks.” He showed you the small device, explaining that it needed leads and wires since the wireless one would need to sit on the sensitive skin around the brand. This made it easier to get around that. 

You weren’t going to like it, but you’d listen and do as you were told to get healthier. He asked you to reapply the bandages to your chest before continuing. Slowly, Seonghwa showed you where to place all the sticky leads, avoiding as much of the healing skin as possible. You hated the feel of the adhesive and the wires ghosting over your chest, skin crawling and the already annoying itch jumping to a new level. 

“Only two weeks and if it’s all clear, you can trash it, got it?” He managed to crack a small smile, seeing you pout and hearing your huff. “It’s going to be alright, Mouse, at some point you might not even feel it.”

“F to doubt.” You scoffed, dropping your gaze. “Can I ask you something?” 

Perking up, he nodded, bringing the rolling chair over and sitting down. “Of course you can, Mouse.” 

“Have you ever pursued therapy?” 

A quiet hum left him, nodding his head in understanding as he gazed aimlessly. “Personally, no, though multiple within ATZ have. Are you considering it?” 

“Last night I was asked by Cheol if I would. Rheia has someone, I said it was a good idea but I have a lot of self doubt that is fucking me up. And also needing to trust someone else with what I’ve gone through… I’m not sure of everything basically.” 

Staying silent for a moment, Seonghwa clasped his hands together in thought, leaving you wondering what was running through his mind. “You are going to be unsure of yourself every single day, there isn’t a doubt in the world about that. However, do you think you’ll regret not speaking with a professional to help? Will you regret not taking a healthy step to overcome this? In my eyes, the pros will always outweigh the cons of it. Yes, you can worry about trusting someone, but they hold more confidentiality then I probably would. If Rheia trusts this person, I doubt there will also be any issue.” 

Swallowing thickly, you understood what he meant perfectly. You would regret not pursuing help for yourself, you’d regret that you could stay a shell of yourself willingly. 

“Can I ask who in ATZ got therapy?” 

“Jongho, Hongjoong, San, and Mingi.” There wasn’t any hesitation in his answer, the strongest all have a low point. “All for similar but different reasons. They got treated nonetheless. They know when they want to go back after something happens. They know that it’s a safe space and it's a healthy space with no judgment. I believe they are stronger for seeking help since they are willing to treat themselves.” 

You unintentionally started to pick at the loose skin around your nails, giving a short, minuscule nod to yourself. “Did…you bring Jongho with you?” You were sure you heard him earlier…

Seonghwa snickered, shoulder shaking. “He has been yapping my ear off, asking to come today since you’ve replied to zero of his texts.” 

“Yeah, it was overwhelming with over a hundred messages between everything. I was lucky I could message one person in the house.”

“I could only imagine.” He shook his head and stood, reaching into his bag once more and retrieving the cream for your brand, bandages, and medical tape. “These should last you until I see you next, but let me know if that changes. Would you like for me to send Jongho in?” 

“If you don’t mind?” 

“Not at all. I’ll message you when I’d like to stop by next.” 

“Thanks, maybe next time I’ll be able to come to you.” 

His lips slipped once more into a gentle smile. “I’d like to see that, Mouse.” 

Seonghwa bid you a farewell, clicking his tongue just beyond the threshold. “You are a pest.” 

“Shut up-” You could hear the pout on Jongho’s face. 

“Go on, we came in the same car so please don’t take forever.”

A thank you left the younger man’s lips before Jongho stepped in, shutting the door behind him. He looked frazzled, needing a few nights rest similar to you, but you said nothing. They would be the pot calling the kettle black. He quickly placed himself down on the chair Seonghwa once occupied. 

“Hi.” He started and you let out a breathy laugh. 

“Hey, sorry for not getting back to you-” 

Jongho shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Don’t even worry about it. Wooyoung talked to Chan and they said you were alright so I wasn’t too worried.” 

“Thank god because opening my phone has been a no go. Too many messages.” You huffed out a sign, shivering at the thought. “Kinda wanted to send a mass fuck off but I decided against it.” 

“I think a lot of us might have raided the house if you did.” Hearing him laugh had a light, calm feeling settling in your chest. “But I'm glad you’ve been taking care of yourself as much as you can. You’ve been through something horrible and I’m proud of you.” 

“I have a long road ahead of-” 

“It is still a road to travel forward, no matter the bumps in it.” 

Your gaze fell, brushing your hair back from your face. “Jongho…Can you tell me why you went to therapy?” 

He paused then sat back, folding his head in his lap. “After I aged out of foster care, I had a lot of anger built up. I can’t even begin to describe it. Once you and I got separated, it just got more and more angry. I met Seonghwa at the clinic after I got into a fight on the street and was banged up pretty bad. I lashed out a bunch at him especially when he introduced me to Hongjoong. Joong suggested it and I’ve been going on and off for a lot of reasons from my childhood to my current work.”

You took in his words wordlessly, nodding along so he knew you were listening. He didn’t look troubled by talking about it either, which was refreshing. You know some people are scared to admit to seeking therapy due to the stigmas of mental health. 

“I’m going to try therapy out.” You admitted to him and the tenderest smile spread on his lips. Sighing through your nose, you scratched the back of your neck awkwardly. “We’ll see how it goes. I’ve never gone before now.” 

“Unless they are shit, they will, well should , work on your pace to build up the confidence and trust to talk. Most have amazing patience. Mine matched my energy greatly back then and evolved how I needed them to.” He snickered, drumming his hands on his thighs before standing. “Tell me how it goes, okay? Let some people help if you can manage.” 

You shook your head but grinned. “I’ll try, Jongho. Tell everyone I said hi and that I’m doing okay so they don’t worry.” 

“Will do, chief. Get some rest.” Jongho gave a wave on his wave out, closing the door behind him.

You got the information from Seungcheol after Seonghwa and Jongho left. Staring at the number, ready to be called, you panicked, frozen on the bed.

Why was it so hard to ask for help? 

Was it your long standing hyper-independence? More than likely. You were used to handling all your issues by yourself. You were used to getting up despite your problems and moving on with your days. 

Now you couldn’t easily do that. 

You closed the phone app and directed yourself to your messages, finding the one group chat you needed at that moment. 

[To Threeway 12:23 PM]  Are you home? 

From beyond the door, you heard something drop and a call of Joshua’s name from Jeonghan. You couldn’t help the smile that fought to spread on your lips. 

[To Threeway 12:24 PM] Very subtle Can you both come here?

“Are we in trouble?” Joshua questioned Jeonghan and the other groaned. 

“If we are, I’m not at fault, I haven’t done anything. I am blaming Cheol if we did something wrong.”

They approached quickly and knocked, waiting to hear permission to enter before the door opened. They stepped in with wide eyes, curious as to why you had summoned them into your safe space. You tucked yourself into the pillows against the headboard, clearing your throat. 

“Can you sit?”

Jeonghan took his desk chair while Joshua pulled an ottoman over. They looked nervous, tired, maybe a little lost. Jeonghan’s nails were picked at and the skin around his nail beds were red and irritated. Joshua’s lips were dry, picked, and had definitely bled at some point. They looked as hollow as you felt. 

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?” Jeonghan fired off questions and you shook your head, leaving him stumped. “Then-” 

“How are you two ?” 

Both of them made a face, like you just asked the dumbest question on the planet. You waited, raising a brow the longer the silence stretched on. They shared a look, unsaid words you couldn’t read. When they both looked back at you, Joshua was the first to break.

“I miss you.” His shoulders dropped. “I’m worried about you. So is everyone else. We are just going through the motions of each day. It hasn’t been easy.” 

Jeonghan picked at his nails and you grabbed a small pillow, tossing it quickly at him. He huffs and sits on his hands like a child, leg bouncing anxiously. He takes longer to speak but his head drops when he does. 

“I can’t sleep. We know we can’t fix this and, god , does it fucking suck. I wish this was a dream we could all wake up from soon-” Jeonghan groaned out of frustration, throwing his head back. A sniffle was heard. “I’ll kill whoever hurt you the minute you feel comfortable enough to tell us, Mouse.” 

The seriousness in his tone wasn’t necessary to know he was speaking the truth. Joshua gave a short nod in agreement, the rest of SVT probably held the same opinion, let alone the entire mafia alliance.

The faces of the Monsta X members flashed behind your eyes and you sunk into the mountain of pillows. Goose bumps spread all over your body, skin stinging with pins and needles. Your eyes went unfocused, breath held in your lungs burned to come out. The back of your throat burned and you were reminded of the gasps for air you took once you were pulled out of the water filled box. Your mind honed in on the pain that subtly radiated through your rips and the skin covering there, the electrical burns you tried to ignore. You bit the inside of your cheeks, holding back from scratching your skin raw. 

You still felt trapped in Limbo, only a new version of it. 

“Mouse?” The call of your name snapped you back to reality. You boyfriends looked concerned, shaky eyes scanning you. “You with us?” 

Nodding, you blinked a few times to clear the fog that settled over your mind. Looking down, you noticed your nails were digging roughly into your palms, leaving harsh credent indents. Unclenching your hands, and your jaw, flattened your palms out on your thighs, sighing. 

“I’m trying to start therapy…for all of this.” You motioned aimlessly at yourself. “But I’m having a hard time calling to set up an appointment.” 

Joshua leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. “Do you know why it is hard?” 

“I have a few guesses.” Shrugging, you rolled your head to the side and felt the needed stretch. 

“Would you want to talk to us about them?” He continued, “if you are comfortable.” 

There wasn’t a reason to hide the reasons from them. You know you trusted them despite the proximity issue you had going on currently. 

“Asking for help when you’ve never seen a professional is hard. I’ve always been a keep it to yourself, hold onto it, and move on.” Your leg bounced with jitters. “I never sought out therapy before and now that I am, I’m nervous of what will happen. I have so many ‘what ifs’ running through my head that are also getting the better of me.” 

Jeonghan cleared his throat. “I can’t speak from experience, but…you won’t know what will happen until you call and take that step.” 

How did so many of them know what to say when you needed it even when the comments were simple? They spoke with grace and a wind beneath their wings. You envied the decorum they showed. 

You sucked in a deep breath and held it in your chest for a few seconds, calming the anxious heart beating. Placing a hand over the bandaged brand, you made up your mind and reached for your phone. 

“Will you both stay as I call and make the appointment?” Why the fuck were you nervous asking that? 

“Of course, sweetheart.” Joshua’s sweet, calming voice grounded you.

Jeonghan hummed his similar answer, smiling. “Always here to help, love.” 

It still took you a few moments to make the phone call, staring displeased at the numbers boring back at you. Your significant others were waiting with bated breaths, silence as you built up the mental courage to proceed. When you pushed the call button, they both gave you gazes full of pride but the dial tone spiked your anxiety. 

The woman who answered sounded nice, maybe an older woman. Before she was able to get any information, you informed her that Rheia had given you the number and she hummed into the phone. She asked you some general questions for your name, birthday, and asked if you’d like to be seen as soon as possible. She took a note of you saying you’d like online appointments to start, hearing the clicking on a keyboard on the other side of the line. You would need a computer and a webcam, the doctor deeming it a hundred per cent necessary to know what she was working with. 

By the end of the call, you had an afternoon appointment the next day, a lighter feeling in your chest, and two wide, gorgeous smiles gleaming back at you. 

“You did good, sweetheart.” Joshua beamed, nudging Jeonghan with his elbow. 

Jeonghan looked just as proud, still sitting on his hands to stop his nervous habits. “I’m – We’re proud of you.” 

“That took more energy out of me than I expected.” You slumped, pulling a pillow close to your chest. 

“Join us in the living room?” Jeonghan asked. “We can put on some movie and eat since we were going to make something anyways.” 

You thought through the idea, knowing you leaving the room would be beneficial. You also needed to speak to Wonwoo about using Pandora tomorrow afternoon…

“That sounds amazing…let’s go.”

It was the second time you had fallen asleep in the living room and woke hours later. Similar to the first time, you didn’t dream, only calm, necessary slumber. 

After your previous loveseat nap, you stayed up all night. Once Seungcheol went off to bed fully, you really tired to fall asleep once more in bed but it never came. Though he said he would wash the blankets, your antsy energy had you washing and drying them all, sitting impatiently on the floor of the laundry room. With hours to spare after the laundry, you…did all the dishes and cleared out the dishwasher

You snuck into Pandora again, continuing on with simple games and a movie to occupy you, curled up in your bundle of blankets. At some point, you fell asleep, waking up to a nightmare covered in sweat, and trudged upstairs after cleaning up to sit in Jeonghan’s room. 

Now it seemed about the same. 

The house was peacefully quiet, you definitely missed dinner but a small note was on the side table, only noticed when you sat up. 

Didn’t want to wake you, dinner is in the fridge - JS 

There was a small, attempted doodle of a chicken, if you had to guess, directly under his handwriting. It made you shake your head and smile. Quietly, you found the plate of baked chicken and vegetable medley. How did you honestly sleep through them cooking? Typically they were loud, sound filling the whole house, especially at dinner time. 

“Maybe games…” You whispered to no one, heating up the food in the microwave, watching it spin and spin until it was heated through. “Definitely games…” 

With food in hand and a blanket acquired, you kicked the Gengar bean bag chair towards the door to Pandora. You pushed it down the stairs, landing unceremoniously at the door. You tried to step over it to press your hand to the print pad, keeping the food from spilling, and pushing the door open with some struggle. 

Kicking the bean bag through the door and shutting it behind you, the clearing of someone’s throat had you looking up. 

Wonwoo was sitting comfy in his computer chair, hair a mess, headphones on, and two monster energy drinks beside his keyboard. He pushed his glasses up tiredly, blinking up at you. 

“Hey,” He spoke first, eyeing the bean bag chair. 

“Typically you are asleep at this time.” 

“You know I know you’ve been coming in here, right?” It was an innocent question, there wasn’t any accusation behind his tone. 

You set your lips in a flat line, kicking the bean bag chair lightly to make more talking room. “Kinda figured. I only came down when you weren’t here because- you know…” 

A beat of silence passed before he snorted, holding back his grin. “You want me to leave my space?” 

“What- no- shut up.” You stammered, shaking your head. “It’s fine, just-” 

“Not too close, got it.” 

You paused, stepping away from the bean bag chair. “This is heavy, can you help me?” 

Wonwoo let out a low rumble of a laugh and took his headset off to stand. You moved further away, letting him easily lift your gift from Jun, finally being put to use after a while. He waddled over to the lounge area and placed it in a spot beside the coffee table, pushing said table over to make more room. 

His eyes shifted to you, wordlessly inquiring if it was good enough.  With your nod, he returned to his previous spot at his desk and you moved to settle down with your food and blanket. You ate quietly, listening to each clack of him pressing keys on his keyboard in the tranquil space. 

“Do you want to play a game?” You asked, both of you knowing the meaning behind your outwardly innocent question. There was always a conversion to follow the flow of video game teamwork. You had questions and he would give you honest, non- I’ll kill them answers. 

Lifting your head to look back at him, there was hesitation in his eyes. 

“Are you sure?” 

Those words rested heavy in the air, a moment for you to take back your question if you wished to. There was no knowing where the conversation would devolve into or how you’d react, but you wanted some clarity before your therapy session the coming day. 

“Yeah I am.” 

He sat himself down as far as he could from you on the couch, watching you pull up some two player game and slide a controller across the coffee table to him. Neither of you jumped straight into questions, getting into the rhythm of the game before taking that step. The air around you felt heavy, thick enough to be cut through with a knife. 

“What did Seonghwa say about your condition?”

Wonwoo, thankfully, broke the silence first after that teamwork rhythm was in place, making you let out the breath you were unknowingly holding. 

“He said everything is healing alright but I need a stupid heart monitor until I see him next.” You hadn’t forgotten about the wires that rubbed uncomfortably on your skin, having to fight the urge to rip it off for hours at that point. 

“Everyone has been in a better mood since you came out of your room yesterday.” He chuckled through his nose. “I hope Jihoon’s ultimatum wasn’t too hard.” 

“Really it was the push I needed.” Truthfully you were grateful for the other man’s quick thinking, not…that you would tell him that yet. “I’m still a little iffy but everyone is being respectful which I appreciate.” 

A hum left him. “Do you know why you are feeling like that?” 

“Not exactly, there are some ideas in my head but…I’m planning to figure it out in the first therapy session tomorrow.” 

“Oh.” Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him nod, keeping his focus on the game. 

“And I either need to borrow a computer or come down here for a webcam tomorrow afternoon.” 

“I can set it up down here. Probably more privacy than upstairs.” He winced when his character fell off the edge of the map. “I could lock everyone but you and me from Pandora.” 

“That would be mean, Wonu.” 

“But effective for maximum privacy.” 

“You just like being an introvert that lives in his man cave. If Cheol let you, this would be your room, hermit.” 

Wonwoo rumbled with laughter, letting a pleasant silence settle over the space now that the awkwardness was broken. The quiet clicks from the controllers were familiar, preparing you for the questions bubbling in both your and his minds. 

The silence stretched for nearly an hour before Wonwoo seemed to have enough, pausing the game and setting his controller down. He said nothing at first, only leaning forward to place his elbows on his thighs and face in his hands. He took in a slow deep breath, his leg starting to bounce restlessly. 

“Mouse,” His somber tone had the hair on the back of your neck standing on edge. “I need you to be honest with me and we never have to bring it up again.” 

Don’t- 

“Just shake or nod your head and I’ll understand.” Wonwoo lifted his eyes, adjusting his glasses. His eyebrows were furrowed together tightly, pain behind his eyes. “Did Monsta X do this to you?” 

Hearing the name out loud for the first time since waking up made every muscle in your body tense. You felt the weight of the world pressing down on your chest, pushing all the air out. 

The warmth that once came from the blanket wrapped around you had long gone frigid. You flinched at the sensation of ice cold water drenching every inch of your skin. You heard something – or someone – but the sound was far off in the distance and…muffled, underwater. Something was- There was this loud beeping. 

You couldn’t move. You were back in that horrid metal chair in that damp, moldy room with Kihyun’s sick, sadistic smirk staring back at you. You knew what was going to happen next, that was the part that scared you the most. The anticipation of what was to come was harrowing. You didn’t want to relive the pain. You didn’t want to relive your worst nightmare play by play, knowing how it is always going to end. And you couldn’t stop it .

There wasn’t any fight left, you couldn’t even attempt to fight in this…state, whenever you were. Had you just woken up and everything before waking up in the ATZ wasn’t real? Were you still their prisoner? Was your mind making up lies to help you cope? 

Dread…

Powerless…

Vulnerable…

Ashamed…  

Ashamed you let them get to you so easily. Ashamed you didn’t realize earlier that Monsta X was your stalkers. Ashamed you couldn’t even hear their group name without having a flashback. 

Ashamed. Period…

Something was touching you, something placed on your head. You weren’t able to move away from it, trying to wipe Nightmare’s and Joker’s faces from your vision. 

The piercing sound of piano keys met your ears. It was played loudly, louder than the scenes flashing through your mind. Your vision started to blur. The sound was soft, a slow rhythm that had your heart beating slower in time with the notes. The slow raise of a violin joined along the piano, calm and quaint, a breath of air rushing into your lungs. A low beat of intermittent percussion fading in wasn’t too bold to remind you of the banging on the metal box, reminding you that you had escaped. The vibration of the cymbal brought some feeling back into your arms, electrifying the reminder you were alive . 

The room slowly transitioned from where you were held captive to the low lit space of Pandora. 

Taking in a shaky gasp of air, your entire body shuddered as you came back to reality. 

You felt the pressure of headphones on your head, the song repeating from the beginning. Wonwoo knelt on the floor in front of you, concern gracing his features. You reached up to wipe your face, met only with tears streaming down your cheeks. Your hands shook with panicked energy, feeling your heart slow to a somewhat normal rate. The other said something but the music was too loud and you felt like a bobble head at how dizzy you were. 

It took you a moment to remove the headset, letting the ringing in your ears play out as you refocused on Wonwoo. 

An apology flimsily spilled from your lips and Wonwoo looked…annoyed, but you didn’t think it was at you. 

“Why are you apologizing?” It was a rhetorical question. “ I’m sorry , do you need anything?” 

“Ju-” Your voice broke and you groaned. “Juice sounds amazing-” 

He was gone before you even finished the request, leaving the door to the basement open in his wake. 

You took a moment to bundle yourself back up into the blanket, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth. Sniffling to calm your tears, you tried to make yourself small, curling up to seemingly protect yourself. 

“Here.” You didn’t hear him return, flinching some as he placed the small glass of juice down, happy to see the straw in it. “Anything else?” 

“I’m okay, thank you.” You shakily reached for the glass and took a long sip, shivering at how sweet it was. “Just give me a second.” 

Wonwoo sat on the floor in front of you, keeping a watchful eye on you for any issues. You were able to hear the song blasting through the headphone still, letting the ballad’s instrumental continue to ground you. 

“I’m sorry.” Wonwoo repeated, fists balled in his lap. “I didn’t mean-”

“Please don’t tell them yet-” You cut him off, downing the rest of the juice and setting the cup aside. “I don’t think I’ll be able to handle hearing everyone talk about them …nor do I think I’m ready to say it or admit everything yet, I can’t even say it…” 

Wonwoo studied you, his gaze flicking around your person, making you huddle in on yourself more. You heard him sigh and he stood, ruffling his hair in frustration. 

“Fine- Fuck, okay…” He didn’t sound pleased, but he stared down at you. “You promise, when you are ready, you will tell them, right?” 

Nodding, you pulled the blanket up to your chin. “Yeah.”

“Can you…promise you won’t tell them I knew first?” 

If you weren’t so mentally exhausted, you would laugh. “Yeah, promise.” 

“I am, however, going to put some eyes on them if I can.” He held your gaze. “Just so we are clear. No moves, just watching them.” 

“I understand.” You and him stared silently for a beat, only for you to point weakly at the still on TV. “I’m not going to be able to sleep anytime soon…can we continue playing?” 

Disbelief crossed his face but Wonwoo sighed, shaking his head. “Yeah, we can keep playing. I’ll need to sleep eventually though and set up the computer before that.” 

“Okay…I might just stay down here all night though.” You grabbed your controller, watching him take a seat. “Thank you, Wonwoo.” 

“Don’t thank me, I spiraled you into a PTSD episode-”

“No, you fucking idiot, not that. Thank you for getting me out of it, for one thing, and another for understanding.” 

“Oh…you’re welcome.” 

“Now help me kick this boss’s ass.”

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[orcelito]

Reading up on the people on my election ballot and there's some combination of "can ANYONE tell me what their policies actually are???" (Specifically with the smaller offices) VS "Oh, so YOU'RE the reason why Indiana has an abortion ban! Duly noted!"

[loving-n0t-heyting]

there are two anecdata being presented here, of different characters

the first, the tragic backstory of the child of the scab teacher, is unusually perverse, since it reports an instance of a failure systematically more common among charter schools than it is possible, bc of structural incentives, to find among public schools. this is a perennial complaint among the detractors of "school choice"—since the schools are marketing themselves to parents (not children, obvs, for whom these schools are generally as "chosen" as any other) on the basis of test results and the calibre of graduates, and since as schools of non-last resort they have vastly more leeway in expulsion and de facto post-admission selectiveness, their ability and incentive to punish embarrassing students for the dishonour they bring upon the school is correspondingly greater. here is fdb on the notorious phenomenon:

There’s also backfill. Backfilling refers to what you do when students drop out of the school - do you fill in those seats, or don’t you? If you don’t fill them in, you’re going to look better by the numbers. The students who drop out of K-12 schools are the more transient by definition and the more transient students tend to be the more academically marginal. Public schools generally have no choice but to backfill given their enrollment policies. Charter schools often get to choose and, unsurprisingly, frequently choose not to replace their poorly-performing dropouts with new enrollees who might prove to perform poorly themselves.

Media darling Success Academy charters are an attrition factory in part because of strict backfilling practices for grades past fourth (previously third). The first incoming Success Academy kindergarten class had 83 students. By the time those kids got to their senior year of high school there were 17 left. This success-through-attrition should not surprise us, coming from the home of the “Got to Go” list. (When Eva Moskowitz is asked about the disparity between the student body that starts and the student body that finishes at Success Academy, she dissembles.) The founder of the celebrated Boys Latin charter school in Philadelphia just straight up said that backfill is how they get the best students3. In general the sheer mass of students who start at charters but don’t finish is a scandal. KIPP schools are similarly ballyhooed, yet 40% of Black students leave before graduation. In the past Washington DC charter schools had expulsion rates more than 72 times that of their public school counterparts. Are you noticing a pattern?

complaining about public schools "basically punishing [students] because [those students] embarrassed them" in contrast to charter schools gets things precisely backwards: it is highlighting an uncontentious advantage of the former over the latter and making the perfect the enemy of the good

the second story is of a genre i particularly associate with the enemies of public and non-tiered education: the supposed vicious hatred of public educators for excellence and their corresponding love for pointless drudgery. now, not knowing the details of the case being described, i cant really judge how reasonable it was for the teacher to get as pissed as he did, but the idea op somehow "proved homework was pointless" is ridiculous: all it proves is that one particular student had it in them to meet the class benchmarks for adequacy without turning any in. i cant speak to this case in particular, but i think there are plenty similar ones where its obvious that whats going on is that a small number of precocious students can get by without work or assistance that most other students need to meet the same benchmarks, and they conclude from this that the extra work must therefore be redundant not just in their case but universally and simpliciter. sometimes the elitist implication, that students in need of more help should be either ignored outright in favour of their more naturally adept peers or at least segregated from them so as not to drag down their worthier superiors, is left implicit, sometimes not, but it lurks behind the conclusion regardless. and it makes it very difficult for me to sympathise with those who make this complaint

Dad was a teacher who loved school choice and hated the teachers’ union.

We believe my high school deliberately made it so I wouldn’t have enough points to graduate because I struggled in my advanced chemistry class the year before. Basically punishing me because I embarrassed them. (Teacher and class was cool it just was too much for me.) Sent to a charter school in a mall and thrived, which imo is more embarrassing for them I loved the charter school.

School choice is needed to protect and serve students.

Yes. Yes it is.

I have a similar story I've told here before about my 6th grade social studies teacher. Short version is he gave us the breakdown of how our grades would be calculated on the first day and I realized that I could skip 99% of the homework and still pass as long as I got 95-100 on every test, so that's what I did. Every parent teacher conference he told my parents that if I didn't start doing my homework, I was going to fail. At the end of the year, I never got below a 98 on a test, and he had to pass me with one point above the minimum passing grade. At the last parent teacher conference of the year he was pissed. Not because I didn't do the homework or because I did the bare minimum (even though I aced all his tests and proved homework was pointless, but whatevs) or didn't apply myself (again, read ahead constantly and crushed every test), but because I proved him wrong.

Public school teachers aren't the selfless, heroic educators of the future they like to pretend they are. They can be petty and venal selfish and actively working against the children they're supposed to be teaching. And in the public school system there is nothing to discourage that behavior other than parents finding out about it and raising hell.

[unnamed-atlas]

Having brain worms. What if uhhhhhh SOS Mianite au

[balladeersbell]

bsd prediction: tanizaki transfers to the mafia. the family naomi is a part of is mori’s.

[13eyond13]

.

[exiled-turk]

he had pieced the picture together since leaving gralea - backtracked through the foggy memories of the past; the airship that had been downed near alstor slough all those years ago, the losses the empire had wrote those soldiers off as, just numbers on a page, no mention or acknowledgement that the airship had been carrying child-soldiers.

baldur had gone against the grain and disregarded orders, but he'd found his son, hadn't he? it had to have been back then that he'd crossed paths with dave auburnbrie. and it must have been that which had made his old friend realise that his boys were nothing more than battle fodder to an old man.

little had baldur known that his and the hunters lives would end up so entwined.

' play along, and we all might just get out of here. ' veld spoke beneath his breath, finally reaching the door. raising his flesh and blood hand, the turk thumped the metal door, waiting a beat for it to open and he stood to the side, holding out the links of baldur's shackles for legend and knife to take the lead - each took hold of one of baldur's arms, tailored black suits stark against the metal armour of the soldiers who stood guard in the corridor - they still believed this to be above their paygrade and didn't question whom they believed to be the leader of the turks.

they'd both have hell to pay for when ulldor realised his prized pony was missing, but they would have to become two more to a long list of collateral damage veld seemed to leave in his wake. but for once, this was for altruistic ends, not for himself or for the turks or the empire as a whole.

' at ease, we won't be long. ' veld curtly informed the guards, keeping his breath even and his voice level as his two turks began leading baldur down the corridor. he followed a few metres behind - far enough back to ensure his own safety and close enough to keep his charges within his sights, but far enough back to ensure there were no whispers of suspicions coming from any guards. the heels of his shoes made a dull click that echoed off of the poured-concrete walls of the base, ringing hollow as they rounded a corner and traversed the network of hallways and corridors that led throughout the base. each corridor a clone-copy of the one before, each step measured and fought against the urge to hurry, veld thought they'd never make it to the door of the vehicle hangar.

but they did, after what felt like forever. a polished black jeep was parked nearest the exit, ready and waiting for them, but there was another betrayal to come yet ... baldur was a variable. legend and knife knew their roles and knew how to play them to a tee, baldur was a seasoned general, but a prisoner of war whose whole world had just been turned on its head and a man who had all the skills and the necessary reasons to kill him the moment they got through the garrison gates.

' forgive me old friend, but you'll have to trust me one last time - i will get you out of here and back to your son. ' veld offered no other explanation when baldur's head whipped around, merely nodded his head at knife, who took her opportunity to plunge a needle into the general's exposed neck - a sedative. one that would ensure their safety for the five hours it would take them to get to caem.

He did not know.

There was no trace.

What if only Reno had survived? That was more than he had been able to hope for these past ten years. And yet it still burrowed the pain that had grown to scars into his soul deeper. Writhing again. Tearing open old wounds.

If Ida and Loqi were dead…

Looking up, his glare dug into Veld’s back. Of course Reno did not trust him – he was smart. Smarter than his old man. Veld had proven to be the last person on Eos to trust. And Dave… Auburbrie. That old hunter from back then… Baldur hoped this man still held to his morals. And listened to Reno. Not to let Veld closer than needed.

Just like Baldur needed Veld now. But as soon as he was free…

“Get me out of here…”