#reposting feels so embarrassing to me like here’s my old shit christ

[swordmaid]

i have made. the nsfw bluesky account.

[hatsukeii]

One where y/n has been obviously in love with Tsuki since they were kids and not afraid to show it, but he’s always been lowkey mean to her and thinks she’s annoying and then finally years later she decides he’s not a nice guy and let’s him know she’s fine with all that crap and then he realizes he’s falling for her and does something really sweet for her and they fall in love? 😭😭🥺👉🏻👈🏻 ty in advance. Sorry if this is too long or specific, if it is, feel free to ignore

I genuinely hope you didn’t think I would actually ignore this<33

IM SORRY IM A MASTER PROCRASTINATOR ILY ALL AND YOU ALL DESERVE AN APOLOGY FROM ME

Dear diary//Tsukishima Kei x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k+

Warnings: Cursing

Genre: Angst??? I guess???

Summary: He’s an ass, but you still love him to bits, and it’s killing you.

July 16, 2008

Dear Diary,

I got to play with Tsukki again! He had his dino with him, it was super cute! He told me his front teeth came off last night, and there’s a big hole in his teeth, but it’s okay, because he said it will grow back. I tried to hold his hand while going down the twin slides but he said it was sweaty, so next time I’ll wear gloves!

You flip through the hot pink diary, cringing at your young infatuation. Your diary entries were cringey as fuck, but they always rekindle something within you whenever you read them. You can’t even remember when you stopped writing in the book. Was it when you turned 10? Maybe 12? You don’t have a single clue.

April 30, 2011

Dear Diary,

Tsukki refused to marry me in the playground at break:(( I’ve known him for so long though, aren’t we supposed to get married? I just wanna hold his hand and hug him and give him a biiiiig kiss<33

Chuckling at the memory, you recalled the event from that entry clearly. You were seven years old only, still an immature kid. You still thought that getting married in a middle school playground was a huge milestone in life, almost as crucial as a legal marriage.

May 29, 2016

Dear Diary,

Love how Tsukki didn’t even remember my birthday:,) Must be nice getting made fun of. Half the students in my class felt my second hand embarrassment from when he completely forgot about it. God, why am I even in love with this asshole? I’m gonna have to go to school tomorrow and deal with all my classmates making fun of me for being hopeless. Brb, currently digging a hole for myself:)

Frowning at the memory, you think back to when you were twelve. He was an asshole then, still is an asshole to this day. And yet not an ounce of your unconditional love and support for him has faded. Grabbing a tissue, you wipe the remaining tears from your eyes, ignoring the dried tear stains on your cheek. Your hand slams onto the bedside table, lazily feeling for your phone. Tilting it towards your face, you sigh at the empty lock screen, accepting defeat. Flicking through the rest of the book, you are welcomed by pages and pages of white. “So that’s when I gave up on this diary...” you mutter to yourself as you lift yourself up from your bed. Heading towards your desk, you absentmindedly grab yourself a pen, notebook in hand. Slamming the diary down, you open it up to the next entry page after your last one, gently placing the tip of your pen on the first line. You grab your hair out of frustration, the ink bleeding into the thin paper. “What to do, what to do...?” You mumble, starting to form sentences in your notebook.

July 17, 2020

Dear Diary,

It’s been a while hasn’t it? Holy shit, all my entries were about Tsukki weren’t they? Jesus, of course they were. At least I was able to get it off my chest this afternoon. Telling him that I’ve been in love with him for years, that was fucking terrifying. Telling him that although I know he’s an ass, an animatronic dick complete with ballsack, that won’t stop me from falling harder, it was gut wrenching, but also relieving to a certain degree. I’m still waiting for some form of response, although I’m not sure I’m gonna get one anytime soon. I can’t decide whether telling him was the dumbest or bravest decision I’ve made. Maybe it was both. Just wait until I look back on this entry like a decade later and still cry about it lmao. Tbh he’s a genuinely nice person at heart. I know that all too well. He may be an ass most the time, and he may think I’m annoying, but despite how hard he tries to push me away, I’ll never abandon him. Jesus Christ, I sound like a yandere here, but it’s not that. It’s that I care for him a lot. Maybe even a bit too much. It’s ridiculous how absolute and utter shit a crush can make you feel.

Throwing the pen down, you flop back onto your bed, huffing into the thick blankets. You stay silent, not sure of what to think of the situation. “I’ll just deal with it all tomorrow, I’m tired of this shit.”

On the other side of the incident, Tsukishima is currently going through a mental crisis.

The blond sits at his desk, eyes unwavering, but focusing on nothing. It feels as if he hasn’t blinked in what seemed to be hours. Just hours of staring at his wall that led to nothing. Your confession plays in his head nonstop, like a broken record that refused to run out of battery.

“The thing is I like you. I’m pretty sure I always have. And I know that you’re such an asshole and all that, you won’t treat me as well as people would expect, but it’s fine. I’m fine with all that. All the dumb, stupid, careless insults you’ll throw at me, the side eyes and sneers, telling me to shut up and go away, I’m fine with it. I know you’re a good person, and that’s all that matters to me.”

“Well shit what the fuck do you want me to say?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

Maybe he should have let you down slowly.

But as he stares at his wall, the photos of the two of you framed and balanced on his floating shelves, he starts to reconsider his feelings.

The way your expression faltered then as you hastily took your bag and rushed away without a single word, the way you avoided him in the halls, the way you stopped talking to him throughout the day, it drove him crazy. He couldn’t handle the realisation that he hurt you so incredibly badly, so now all he can do is stare at his empty, blank wall. Did he know why he felt that way? No. He didn’t and still doesn’t. He’s Tsukishima fucking Kei, the emotionless, provoking, unlikeable king, yet a mere girl is somehow able to mess with his mind so badly, that all he can do is wallow in regret and confusion? What is this weird feeling? His throat itches, his heart is beating like crazy, sweat starting to gather around his temples. He clamps his two hands together, slamming his forehead onto them and squeezing his eyes shut.

How could I have been so dense?

How was he unable to see that you were absolutely in love with him? Even with the bento boxes, birthday gifts, constant compliments, he still only ever thought you liked him as a friend. However he never did. He likes you more than that. Way more. Yes, he thought, and still thinks you can be annoying at times, especially when you nag at him about not eating enough or being rude, but it was undeniable that there was something else he felt. But his stupid ass shitty ego would never let him admit it. And now that you finally confessed, he freaked out and fucked up. Even then, he didn’t think it would affect him to this extent.

“It was a stupid middle school crush, I’m over you (Y/N).”

He says that over and over again, desperate to cloud out the disagreeing thoughts in his head that scream otherwise.

“It was a stupid middle school crush, I’m over you.”

“It was a stupid middle school crush, I’m over you.”

“It was a stupid middle school crush, I’m over you.”

The guilt didn’t go away.

In fact, now that he’s said all that, he feels even worse. Oh how much he wants to find you right this second, wrap you in his arms, tell you how incredibly sorry he is, but he can’t. He doesn’t deserve to do that. His heart is begging for him to just get out of the house and run to yours as fast as he could, but his body won’t move. He wants to cry. Scream. Shout. Throw something. Shatter something. But most of all, he wants to get another chance.

Picking up his phone, he hesitates, before typing in your contact, the cleared out, empty chatroom showing up on his screen. Going as fast as his fingers could, he typed out the one sentence he’s been dying to let out.

“It was a middle school crush, but I’m still into you. I always have been.”

Is it just me, or is this bad-

Idk man it seems like all my fics are pretty much the same and I hate it😌

Tags:

@sunshines-and-tatertots @izzyphantomgamer @justachillgirl @trashcanweeb @just-another-bored-writer @poppirocks @majorfangirl37 @kaylacinderella @random-fandomlover @tiger1719 @tiredgr3mlin @itmekisuu @skyeackermans @talks-a-lot-of-stuff @shoutsukii @agentvicinity @sakusasgarbage @kuroo-thought-of-a-better-un @sneezefiction @bokutokoutarou @thirstyvolleyballhoe @iwaixiumi @iwaigroomi @inlwlevi

Feel free to comment or pm to be added to taglist!

I’m back to writing lmao I’m bored in two week quarantine rn

Edit: cue me realising I was half asleep and missed something in the request don’t be surprised if I repost this💀💀💀💀

Btw the hq manga just ended time to cry

💕💕💕💕

[sunlightdances]

Blooming in the Shadows (1/6)

Pairing: Dean x Female Reader Rating: Overall PG-13 because of canon-typical violence. Also swearing. Words: 2,573 (this part) Warnings: Angst! Dean and the Reader swearing like sailors! Mutual pining with a dash of bed sharing and a slow burn romance added in for extra fluffy goodness. Summary: You and Dean Winchester are barely friends. His sudden reappearance from Hell brings you together, and you find yourself right back in the life you ran away from when you were a teenager. (Canon AU that takes place during season 4, specifically starting at 4.01 - for reference, Dean is 29) Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural or Dean Winchester. I also don’t own “Love is a Wild Thing” by Kacey Musgraves, which I used lyrics from for the title. I do own original elements of the plot. Please don’t repost my work on any other sites (ao3 and wattpad included!) - reblogs are welcomed, as are replies and likes! 

Links in posts are acting dumb, but you can find the master list for this fic on my blog, as well as my full master list :)

The gravel crunches under your boots as you walk slowly across the parking lot, your gun at the ready, your heart hammering in your ears. You feel half-deaf - the high pitched noise from a few minutes earlier enough to knock out the windows in this gas station, and the hearing from your ears.

It makes you jumpy - worried that something is going to have an advantage over you because your senses are muted.

Your car had all but died driving down this lonely stretch of highway, your hunter senses instantly on alert when the radio fizzled and faded out, your engine following suit soon after. Your car windows were the next things to bite it - the sound so piercing it shattered every window. You’ll have time to be embarrassed about the pained scream you had let out later.

“What the hell…” you whisper, looking at the doorway and the blown out windows, seeing salt lines spread across.

“Hands up.” A deep voice from behind you startles you, and you curse as you flinch. “Where I can see both of them.”

You turn slowly, and your hand drops when you realize who you’re looking at. “Jesus Christ--” you curse, gun flying back up at the ready.

His eyes widen as he recognizes you, and your own eyes harden, because no matter what your eyes are telling you, your heart knows this is not Dean Winchester.

Dean Winchester is in hell.

“Kid, you have no idea how good it is to see you.”

Another strike. The Dean you know would never be happy to see you, no matter the circumstances. “Don’t move,” you hiss, taking a step towards it. “Don’t fucking move or I swear, I’ll--”

“It’s me.”

Strike three.

“Bullshit. Give me one reason I shouldn’t take a shot right now.” You will your hands not to shake. You need to have the upper hand here.

“Do the checks.” His voice is sharp. You flinch again, cursing under your breath softly. “Do it.”

Still aiming your gun with one hand, you take a step closer, pulling a knife from your back pocket. He’s in short sleeves, so it’s not difficult to slowly move down, eyes on his, nicking him with the silver knife.

If he hears your audible sigh of relief, he doesn’t say anything.

“Wait,” you say before he can move, “One more.” The knife goes back in your pocket. You did your flask out of your other pocket. A quick flick of your wrist and his face is doused in holy water. His eyes scrunch in discomfort, but otherwise there’s no sizzling of flesh, no screams of fury.

It’s him. It’s Dean.

You both stare at each other, not sure what to do. You’ve never been huggers, so you say the only thing you can think of.

“Dean, what the hell?”

~~~~

Hours later, your hearing is almost back to normal as you sit with Dean in the grimy restroom of the gas station, watching as he washes his face and takes some antiseptic to the cuts littering his forearms and face. He winces, meeting your eyes in the mirror. You look away quickly.

“So…” He starts, clearing his throat. “Come here often?”

You meet his gaze with a blank look. “I was driving. Car stopped. Then the noise, and… you know the rest, I guess.” You stand, starting to pace. “How are you here? How is this possible? Sam--”

“Sam said I was in hell.”

You shrug. “Well, yeah.”

“Didn’t know you two still talked.”

You roll your eyes. “Are we really going to do this right now? One of you was going to hell - he thought I should know about it.”

He doesn’t say anything, and you’re about to tell him how typical it is that he’s ignoring you even though you’re literally the only one who can get him out of here right now-- you see that he’s staring at his shoulder.

There’s a fucking handprint burned into his arm.

“What the--”

“Fuck.” Dean finishes, and you think it’s the only time the two of you have ever been on the same page in your entire lives.

“Don’t panic,” you say, more to yourself than him, but he takes offense anyway.

“I’m not panicking. You don’t panic.”

“I wasn’t--” You stop yourself with a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Never mind. We have to get out of here. Whatever that was… I don’t really feel like sticking around to find out how pissed it’s going to be when it comes back.”

Begrudgingly, he agrees. You gather up your bag and sling it over your shoulder, Dean following you out of the building, the sunlight reflecting off the broken glass making you shield your eyes.

Your car is only about fifty feet away. Dean stops halfway there. “Your car?”

You groan. “Really, Dean? How else are we supposed to get out of here?”

He glares. “I meant -- you said your engine died. Am I going to have to work on this car?” The again goes without saying, images of a teenage Dean grumbling as he changes the oil in your car flashing through your head.

You shrug. “I guess so, I don’t know. I didn’t do this on purpose, you know.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he’s not arguing either, so you take it as a win. He opens the hood and you watch as he goes to work with the few tools you had in the trunk, grumbling to himself the entire time.

You can’t help but be on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop - either for whatever blew out the windows in town to show up again, or for Dean to decide he’s had enough and leave you here.

“Get inside and turn the key, kid,” Dean says, and for once you don’t argue. You get in the driver’s seat and start the engine, laughing triumphantly when it starts right up. Dean peers around the hood, an answering grin on his face. He shuts the hood and slides into the passenger seat, tossing both of your bags over his shoulder and into the back seat.

“Careful, the glass--”

“Just drive,” Dean says, “You remember the way to Bobby’s?”

You glare at him, the car still in park. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Just wondered if you remembered where it was, seeing as how you turned tail and never came back as soon as you were old enough--”

“You can walk there, if you’d like.” Your voice is cold. You hate him. You hate that he has the ability to make you feel like you’re the absolute scum of the earth. As if you don’t feel enough guilt about the way you left things all those years ago.

“I’m--” He stops himself, closing his eyes briefly. He lets out a deep exhale. “Sorry. I’m just--”

“I know.” You keep your voice quiet. “Let’s just-- we’ll get to Bobby’s and he’ll know what to do.” Almost to yourself, you repeat it. “He’ll know what to do.”

Your foot hits the gas, and you start to drive.

.

.

.

Bobby reacts much in the same way you had, splashing holy water in both of your faces before he grabs Dean into a bone crushing hug. You stand there, arms wrapped around your stomach, trying to remind yourself that there’s clearly something bigger going on here, so you don’t have time to feel like an outsider.

“Don’t just stand there,” Bobby says, gruff, grabbing your elbow and tugging you in, so you’re awkwardly pinned underneath Bobby’s arm and pressed up against Dean’s side, the weirdest group hug in the history of mankind.

“Okay, okay,” Dean says, “I hate to break up this happy family moment, but we have to figure out what the hell is going on. How long have I been gone? Where’s Sam?”

You could hear a pin drop.

“It’s been four months,” You say quietly.

“That’s it?” Dean looks back and forth between you and Bobby. “That doesn’t answer my other question.”

“I haven’t seen or heard from Sam since we buried you.” Bobby says, and you freeze. Yikes, that’s not what you were expecting.

“Since you buried me? What the hell?” Dean asks through grit teeth.

“Sam was dead set against a hunter’s funeral. I couldn’t-- it wasn’t my decision to make. Lucky for you,” He adds, glaring at Dean, who rolls his eyes.

“No one’s heard from Sam in months?” He looks back at you.

You shrug. “He called me when-- when you died. That’s the last I heard from him.”

“He doesn’t want to be found, Dean.” Bobby says.

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “I-- I need some air. We need to find him.” Dean says, voice tight, before he pushes through the screen door and out into the yard.

You watch him go, wary, before looking back over at Bobby, who’s already looking at you. “What?”

“Did you get him out?” Bobby asks, almost a growl.

“Excuse me?”

“You brought him here. He was supposed to be in hell.” Bobby takes a step closer. “Did you make a deal?”

The air is practically sucked out of your lungs. Jesus, no wonder Bobby is so pissed all of a sudden. “No! God, Bobby.” You cross your arms tight over your chest. “I found him. It was coincidence, the whole thing. I don’t know any more than you do about how he got out.”

“I’m just saying, I know how you feel--”

You hold your hand up, “Stop right there. I don’t feel anything.” You’re so angry you can barely see straight. It’s not like you’re not relieved Dean isn’t being tortured in hell. No matter how much you two can’t stand each other, you’d never wish that on him. But you absolutely do not have feelings for him.

Maybe you did once, when you were young and stupid and didn’t know how the world worked. Before you realized what a fucking cliche it was - a young, starry-eyed hunter and the over-protective, broody type. God. What a riot. Sure, you thought he was attractive. You knew deep down he was a good person. It was easy for you to develop a crush on him when you were sixteen and constantly in close quarters with him.

But then he developed a mean streak, and you received the message loud and clear. You hit the road as soon as you felt confident enough to hunt on your own, and didn’t look back.

10 years earlier…

You’re struggling to keep your voice down as you stand almost toe to toe with Bobby in the kitchen, very aware of the Winchesters asleep in one of the bedrooms upstairs.

“I’m not asking for your permission,” you tell him.

“Good, because I’m not giving it.” He fires back.

You resist the urge to stomp your foot. Certainly wouldn’t help your case. “Bobby, I-- I am so grateful to you. You have no idea. But I have to do this. I can’t stay here anymore. I’m just in the way.”

“You’re not in the way. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“What’s going on?” A deep voice interrupts, and you turn to look at Dean standing at the bottom of the stairs.

He looks between you and Bobby, and then his gaze finally settles on the bag at your feet.

“Going somewhere?”

“I’m not doing this. I’ll call when I get to a motel,” you say, leaning in to give Bobby a hug before he can say anything else.

Dean says your name, but you ignore him. You shoulder your way out the front door, trying like hell to keep your tears at bay, because despite what Bobby thinks, this actually isn’t the easiest thing you’ve ever had to do.

“Hey!”

You stop, shoulders slumping as you hear his voice. Jesus, you really don’t want to argue with him. Not now.

“What the hell is going on?” His eyes are a little wild. You chalk it up to it being the middle of the night. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.” You take the few remaining steps towards your car, wrenching open the driver’s side back door to toss your bag onto the seat.

“What are you talking about?”

“God!” You whirl around, “Why is this so hard for everyone to understand! I’m leaving. I’m going to hunt on my own, or find some friends, or whatever. I’m going.”

Dean actually looks a little speechless, which would be a first for him. “Why?”

You can’t help it, you laugh. You laugh so hard you know he’s probably thinking you’re possessed. “Isn’t this what you wanted, Dean? Now it’ll be just the three of you, the way it was before I came along and ruined everything.”

He looks like you’ve slapped him across the face. “I never--”

“Yes, you did. Look, I don’t know what I ever did to make you hate me so much, after all, it wasn’t my fault that demon killed my parents and I had nowhere else to go. But you do, and I can’t-- living here with all of you and constantly feeling like I don’t belong here is… it’s suffocating. I can’t stand it anymore. So I’m going.”

Dean shifts his weight, his hands going to his hips. “What about Bobby? Sam? You’re just going to turn your back on them.”

You try not to flinch at the way he pointedly leaves himself out of the list of people you care about.

“I’m not turning my back on anyone. I don’t belong here. I never have.” You can’t help but add, “You’ve made that perfectly clear.”

His mouth opens and closes again, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. You hate yourself for the tiny flare of hope that springs up inside you.

“If you go now, you don’t get to come back.”

And… that’s it. The last piece of your already fragile heart breaks. You’re surprised it isn’t an audible sound. A tear slips down your cheek, but you’re too exhausted to wipe it away.

“I have to go,” Is all you can say, softly, and you watch as he takes a half step towards you before stopping, clenching his fists at his sides. He turns on his heel and heads inside without so much as a backwards glance, and only when you’re in the car, pulling out onto the main road, do you let the rest of your tears fall.

Now

Bobby checks you over for a concussion even though you insist you’re fine, and you convince him to go check on Dean, too.

You take the precious few minutes you’re alone to reacquaint yourself with the old house, running your fingers reverently over the spines of the books on the shelves, and smiling at the pictures of the Winchesters and Bobby.

You have to remember that whatever is going on here is bigger than you. It’s bigger than whatever bad blood there is between you and Dean. You decide you’re going to take the high road and help them with whatever this is, but leave as soon as they’ve got it handled. You won’t be a burden to them. Not anymore.

When they come back in, Dean’s sleeve is rolled up again, the edges of that burn mark peeking out underneath black cotton. You try not to stare at it.

“I got a hit on the GPS on Sam’s phone.”

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New chapters posted every Friday!

[dudebroreg]

I am home

(I wrote this around the start of season 2. Reggie’s characterization is therefore heavily based on comic books mixed with Riverdale’s plot. He is not a great person. Story is Fred-centric so I wanted to repost!) After learning of the shooting of his greatest rival’s father, Reggie Mantle reflects on his history with the Andrews family. Warning for heavy profanity, references to teen bullying and child abuse.

I think one of the earliest memories that I still have an actual picture of in my head is waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, totally spooked with this feeling like I just knew that I wasn’t home in my own bed anymore. I rolled over to my left and saw little Archie Andrews sleeping next to me. And even though I was in my own bed when I’d passed out on a stomach full of Pringles earlier, there wasn’t much of an explanation necessary for why I was here now. I knew my mom left again and I knew my dad went off to go find her, leaving me with the Andrews like he always did. It was so normal that no one had even bothered to wake me up, expecting me to just be cool with it when I opened my eyes and saw the ginger dweeb drooling on me in his fucking Sailor Moon PJs. The little fruit.

Archie looked so peaceful sound asleep in his bed that night, an a-doooo-rable smile on his freakish pale freak face, knowing that he was in his own house with a mom and dad who loved him. It pissed me off, so I kicked the kid off his own bed and took all of the blanket for myself, setting into motion a relationship that at its core is about me wanting everything that he has. Fred rushed upstairs to the sound of his son crying. My eyes were squeezed shut pretending to be asleep, but I heard the man sigh and ask me why I did it.

“Because,” I countered, wanting to leave it at that but hearing myself continue: “I want to go home.”

“I told you before, Reggie,” Fred said while scooping Archie into his arms and leaving the room with his son, letting me have the whole bed. “When you’re here, you are home.”

“Jesus Christ, Reg,” Fred would say to me years later when I was 11, catching me hopping over his fence in the middle of night. “Why aren’t you home?”

Dude damn near blinded me with the flashlight in his left hand, but at least he saw me before he used the baseball bat in his right. Two things sucked about that light in my face. One was that it was fucking obnoxious and the second was that he had a perfect view of my super cool black eye. I could tell he immediately regretted asking me the question, sighing like he did that night I kicked Archie out of bed.

“Uh, because when I’m here I am home?” I answered brightly with my most endearing boyish smile, picking myself up off the grass after a nasty fall off the fence.

Fred nodded. Archie was sleeping over at Jughead’s that night, which was cool for me because that meant Jughead wasn’t here and there was actually going to be food in the fridge. We stayed up for awhile watching a Married with Children marathon on FX. I remember him trying not to laugh at the sexist shit coming out of Al Bundy’s mouth to set an example, while I laughed enough for the both of us and to my total embarrassment murmured the words “I wish you were my dad” while drifting off to sleep.

When I was 14, I hit this movie perfect home run in my first high school baseball game.

“Holy mackerel!” the announcer screamed hysterically while I oh-so smugly ran the bases, soaking in the cheers and adulation. “Let’s hear it for MANTLE THE MAGNIFICENT!“

A legend was born. And don’t think I’m exaggerating how epic and sexy that shit was, either. It was at that moment, watching me, that sweet innocent Betty Cooper had her first orgasm on the spot, and our ex music teacher realized that she has a thing for underage boys, and Kevin Keller finally accepted that he’s into dudes. I was a sight to behold, and everyone was beholding except for…

"Dad!” I whined indignantly, pointlessly, into the stands, watching my stupid idiot father being oblivious to the whole thing while trying to make a move on that adolescent dick garage Miss Grundy. OH YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME.

“Good job, son,” another voice called out to me.

“Thanks, Mr. Andrews,” I said while dejectedly walking back to the bench. Another black eye on my night and another save from Super Riverdad, just like when I was 11.

When I was 17 ��� when Blossom’s murder was totally trending on Twitter – I knocked Archie out in the student lounge for having the audacity to stick up for his budding serial killer of a best friend – my favorite victim – after I so accurately pointed out that Jughead is exactly the kind of loner loserfreak who lies in bed at night writing weird first person fanfic on tumblr and ends up snapping. “Ho-ly crap. Did you and Donnie Darko kill him together? Was it some sort of pervy blood brother thing?”

“Aren’t we a little old to be getting into unnecessary fist fights with our friends to impress our other, less important friends?” Fred asked me the next day outside of Pop’s, catching me and the boys on the way in while he was on his way out with his usual order.

“.. Aren’t ‘we’ a little old, period?” I quipped back with a grin so cocky that my reflection in the window almost made me want to knock my own lights out. Mostly, I was just trying to make Chuck and Moose laugh, trying to impress, just like Fred guessed. By then, I had fully become Reggie Mantle: the Lord of the Douche Flies. I may have still had love for the old man, but I sure as fuck was not going to let myself be lectured by someone else’s dad in front of my crew. I respect no one and everyone is temporary.

Mr. Andrews, rock star that he is, responded with a tight-lipped smile and a look in his eyes that said I see right through your shit, Mantle.

“I know you feel like you have to be this person now, Reggie, but I know you. You’re not your dad. You’re better than this.”

For some reason, that just really fucking set me off. I was straight up triggered like Cooper going through Archie’s phone text history.

“Well,” I began full of acid, tilting my head to a side and smirking coldly. “Maybe it won’t be so bad, being like my dad. Where do you think I learned to hit so hard? Thanks for the wisdom or whatever, but you’re not my father. I don’t give a fuck about you.”

yo did you hear about Archie’s dad - Moose Mason first of all, no, i am not going to nude model for your little painting or whatever, but omg reg have you heard about mr. andrews? - Josie McCoy Kind of awkward because your last text was an unsolicited dick pic, but Archie’s dad got shot. We’re at the hospital. He could use the team’s support. - Veronica Lodge

Archie’s dad got shot. Archie’s dad got shot. Archie’s dad got shot. Fred got shot. Mr. Andrews got shot. My friend’s dad got shot. My friend got shot.

Different versions of it replayed in my head. I tried to let go of it and just be numb for awhile, but every time I was close to succeeding, the words ricocheted off the wall and hit me all over again. I sat in my seat in the designated Bulldogs corner of the waiting room, head buried in my hands and hoping no one heard the little sniffles that it took me awhile to realize I was making.

I remembered those last words I said to him.

You’re not my father. I don’t give a fuck about you.

“Bulldogs are here for you,” I told Archie with my hand on his shoulder, and in hindsight it was the lamest fucking thing to say ever. Like a close second to if I had asked him if he was okay. What I said didn’t matter, though. Neither did how much me and him had drifted apart these past few years. All the crappy things I said and did, the fight, competing with each other over every possible thing.

We were instantly as close of friends – brothers – as we’d ever been. Archie let me back in without a second thought, because that’s what families did. I was here with the Andrews in this fight, and when I’m here I’m home.

- R.M.