#she ought to be pretty if she wasn’t fucking abused

[im-out-of-it]

“Sophie straightened, turned to Tessa, and bobbed a curtsy. “Miss,” she said, but the novelty of being curtsied to was lost on Tessa as Sophie raised her head and her full face became visible. She ought to have been very pretty- her eyes were a luminous dark hazel, her skin smooth, her lips soft and delicately shaped- but a thick, silvery ridged scar slashed from the left corner of her mouth to her temple, pulling her face sideways and distorting her gestures into a twisted mask. Tessa tried to hide the shock on her own face, but she could see as Sophie’s eyes darkened that it hadn’t worked.”

SO IS TESSA TRYING TO INSINUATE THAT SOPHIE ISNT PRETTY

because if we learned anything, it’s the mind and soul that is beautiful not the looks. like did CC not learn anything while she had wrote two or three books for the TMI set? Clary is extremely jealous and envious of other women and can’t fathom that women can be smart and beautiful. and I’m not saying that Tessa is being the same but just because Sophie has a scar, she isn’t as pretty????

am I reading into this too much???????

this is another reason why I can’t really fuck with Tessa’s character. she looks at someone if they’re beautiful on the outside (how she sees Will) but if they don’t look absolutely perfect, what??? they’re not beautiful?

Sophie is one of the most beautiful characters in this series. I honestly think she doesn’t get paid enough for this lmao of course her eyes darken because you’re staring at her!!!!!! no one wants to be stared at unless they’re dying to be the center of attention

why can’t CC have a main character that isn’t jealous of other women?????? I don’t count Emma because she was in her own world and I’m not touching any of that. I understand being startled by Sophie’s appearance but I don’t like the way it’s worded. “She ought to be pretty if it wasn’t for-” GIRL STOP ALREADY

if you learn anything from a CC book, (and in life) just because someone looks beautiful, it doesn’t mean they are. Will isn’t beautiful. his hideous actions and words outweigh how he looks. those are my three cents about this

BUT OUR GIRL SOPHIE IS HERE 🥰🥹🫶🏼

[charleslee-valentine]

For the Texas Chainsaw Massacre Fan Works Event Day 5: The Saw is Family

Ship(s): Lefton

Word Count: ~2,000

Warnings: Pregnancy and sexual themes, pregnant ftm trans character, discussion of abortion and miscarriage, implied abusive family dynamics, period typical transphobia, brief misunderstanding about consent.

note: This is the groundwork of an au where Drayton is Sissy’s father who raises her like a brother, rather than being just her brother. Inspired by this post from @fry-house

@texas-chainsaw-fanworks

________

Still living with his mother, it was nothing short of humiliating that he fell pregnant.

Leave it to Drayton to get himself knocked up just as soon as he got even a few folks to recognize his chosen name. Even mama was starting to be willing to call him by something other than a throwaway nickname like “girl.”

Not if he comes home with a round belly.

Boude would be the one to know what to do, but he’s also the one waving his dick around gettin’ people pregnant. One time. Let him get that horrible thing near him just once, and he ends up with child.

He’s heard the horror stories. About men like him so desperate to not carry a little one to term they end up bleeding out in their own bathrooms. That could never be his choice. Drayton’s too much of a coward to take his own shots, let alone perform an operation on himself.

He’ll have the baby. It’s just, he doesn’t have to pretend to be thrilled about it.

Can’t un-dead this rabbit, though he’ll certainly try to ignore it as long as he can.

When mama's sister Nancy was pregnant, she was out working on the farm ‘til she couldn’t even stand anymore. He’s got at least three or four more months in him before he’s resting in bed.

Except Nancy never had her baby. Maybe following after her isn’t the best idea.

Cold, sickening dread settles heavy in every bone that makes up Drayton body. Some things you just can’t wish away. Like the damned organs in his body that make it possible for him to even be in this mess, God knows Drayton tried to wish that the lady parts away.

Maybe this is punishment. A cruel fucking trick from the big guy in the sky himself for changing what ought not to be. Too damn bad God gets to sit on clouds all day while there’s mortals in their human body’s going through the evil he placed onto this earth. So fucking what if being a predestined, pretty little baby factory wasn’t the life Drayton wanted.

Damn it all to hell. Burn the bridges of the past self.

As much as he hates to admit it, if he’s going to be this stubborn, he can’t do it alone.

Already he’s suffocating under the weight. Or maybe he needs to loosen the bandages some. It’s the same damn issue either way, and he needs his boy to help fix it.

Drayton usually pays his visits under the guise of business. Trading meat for dairy, wool for fruit. Just in case the folks are home and he shows up without reason knowing damn well they don’t approve.

Though that cover today doesn’t go as gracefully as he’d hoped.

The packages he and mama wrapped up this morning for the job smelled something awful. Usually it don’t bother him at all, being raised in meat and everything, but he was off the path and hurling up his guts before he was even halfway to the neighbors. Heightened sensibilities.

That’s of course, how Lefty found him. Doubled over in the weeds. Sweaty and pale and a disheveled goddamn mess. No worse than the done deed itself, Drayton supposed. At least this time, he wasn’t totally vulnerable.

Still, he’d like to not be gawked at. He swipes the back of his sleeve, pulled over his hand, at his mouth, “You just gon’ stand there, Enright?”

“Right. Sorry.” Lefty goes into action mode quick, taking both of Draytons hands and steadying him, letting him choose how much contact he needs. Drayton settles for leaning into his side, so Lefty throws one arm around him to support him best he can. They walk together, at a pace set by the weaker one between them.

Growing a human ain’t easy work.

It’s silent until Lefty asks, hesitant but too concerned to let the unknown linger, “You.. alright, Dray?”

Before he can stop himself, Drayton scoffs, “You should know..”

Those big blue eyes sparkle with worry and remorse, “Did I do something?”

If he weren’t relying on him to walk, he’d be pushing the oblivious asshole away, “Oh yes sir. Oh-ho yes…”

Lefty gets him into his yard and sits Drayton down on a random crate, taking away the little excuse package. Thankfully nobody else from the Enright family is home at the moment, won’t be for a while either, so they’re free to talk in the open air. Mama’s lazy ass surely won’t come snooping.

Maybe he shouldn’t say that about her; Drayton’s not the only one going to have a baby. Mama’s six months or so along. Just a few ahead of her son. That’s half the reason he’s fucking terrified. Having kids that close together, they might as well be siblings.

Lefty don’t know the reason yet to be afraid as he should be, so he keeps prodding, “Whatever I done.. Let me make it right, lover.”

He’ll blame the sickness for how red his face gets, a fever at fault for the warmth under his skin. Blame that quickly turns into frustration and lashing out at him, “This one, you can’t fix. Can’t just, fuck it away, ‘cause- ‘cause thats the damn problem, you hear!”

Lefty’s face sinks. The dread and the anguish in his features, tells Drayton he gets the wrong implication.

He sounds like he’s choking, “I’m sorry, I-I thought we both..”

Drayton cuts him off. Angry as he is, he doesn’t want that kind of anguish in Boude’s heart.

“You’d be right, Enright. But it’s your damn hair-trigger got us into this mess anyhow.”

Confusion. Revelation. Something else unreadable. Almost.. pleasant.

“Are you telling me you’re-“

“Yessir.”

“Drayton that’s-“

“Don’t tell me. I don’t need your damn opinions. I’m keeping it, damn it.”

Really, he shouldn’t be as confident as he is. Lefty Enright can be trusted, sure, but that don’t change that he’s an open transsexual, and now a pregnant one at that. A poor little farmer's child in the most fragile of situations, acting like he has total control.

His Boude is more than used to that. Lefty smiles gently, “I was going to say it’s great.”

“You’re not the one lugging it with you.” Drayton counters.

He won’t argue that it’s a positive. Or even that it’s amazing really. Every part of him is just so afraid, so not used to this particular struggle on top of all the others that he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Really, he feels guilty for taking it all out on his boy.

The very same who so heroically offers, “I would if I could. For you.”

Lefty bullies his way onto the crate seat next to Drayton and holds him. Proving even more of his gentle and sweet nature. His face won’t show it, but Drayton knows he’s desperate. Trying to be heard.

His heart wants to give in. So badly. To roll over and show his (swelling) belly and let Lefty have the validation. For the moment, he’ll indulge some, by leaning heavily into his embrace.

Something rises up. Not just bitter bile, but even harsher words. Mostly, dear.

“That don’t make you some saint, you know that? You still got an unwedded man, a queer, pregnant.”

And then he hurls onto the grass. Instant Karma.

Lefty just rubs his back through it. Soothes him. Only argues with him a little bit, “But I’m a lover, right? A partner, who done nothing but care for your little ass. That makes me a father too.”

A father. They both will be.

They’re only young. Not too young to handle it, but life just started for real. Popping kids out is a lifelong investment to no longer goin’ sneaking. Experimenting. Whatever you could call what it is they’ve been doing together.

It’ll be expected that they get married right away. Before this damn bump starts to show itself would be ideal. A nightmare for someone whose legal name on the certificate wouldn’t match the one his favorite people know him by.

Drayton isn’t ready to face those realities. He shakes his head, pulls away from Lefty just a little, “We can worry about that in a few months.”

It’s not outright denial. He wants Lefty involved and that is thankfully obvious. The intricacies really can wait. For the sake of him not losing his mind already.

Lefty agrees, focusing on the present as well, “What do you want from me right now?”

“Take me inside. Please.” Drayton holds his arms up, finally allowing himself to be as weak as he feels.

He’s not expecting to be fully lifted up and carried there, but since he’d just delivered some relatively life changing news, he’ll let that slide as well.

Lefty assures, as strong willed as he is physically tough, “We’ll figure it out, Dray.”

That’s not the part Drayton was afraid of. He never doubted that Lefty would want to do right by the kid. A man who places that much value on his family isn’t going to just kick a child he’d created to the curb.

His partner is maybe another story.

Lefty loves him and he loves Lefty, easy, but it’s not been as simple navigating what that meant when halfway into their almost decade long relationship, Drayton confessed the truth about the disconnect between body and identity. His boy has always been perfect with it, which is what makes it so terrifying. Unlikely as it is, there’s always that whisper that he’s only been pretending to accept it.

Now that Draytons put out, and of course got knocked up on the very first time doing so, there’s no real reason to keep him around. Lefty could pick up the kid on the weekends, settle down with a nice woman. Move the hell on.

They’re so in sync at this point, Boude sort of reads his mind, “I’m not gonna leave you.”

Tears burn in his eyes and ball up his throat with emotion. Drayton just nods a little in acknowledgment of his boy, not saying a word still.

It’s exactly what he was thinking and it still blindsides him. Some wounds, like the ones that come to be when his daddy left years ago, well maybe they never close up.

Lefty can’t take the silence. He tries to prompt, “I lov-“

“Enough.” Drayton stops him there. He knows it already. But talking about it isn’t his thing. Loving somebody is enough without all the sappy bullshit. “I’m not ready to talk.”

Lefty looks sad. Frowns a little bit. But he doesn’t argue. Never does. That sort of makes Drayton feel worse.

But they really will talk. One day down the line. Give it some time and he’ll be ready.

He places a hand on his belly. The baby is too small to be moving yet. Probably about the size of a pebble. There’s time. Mama will have her baby first, almost like a trial run.

Yeah.

They’ll be able to do this.

Shaking, Drayton takes Enright’s hand. He doesn’t know what to do with it, it’s awkward, but he wants to show him, in some minute way, that he gives a shit about him too.

A small smile is all the acknowledgement he gets. It’s enough.

Hopefully it’ll be enough to save them until Drayton is ready to talk more. Best he can do now is stay curled up in Lefty’s arms for the few hours he’s able. Going back home at the end of the day won’t be easy, it never is, but neither will parenthood be, so. Guess it works out anyhow.

[marxism-transgenderism]

Wendy had spent her childhood frightened and being hit by boys. Her dad began to teach her how to fight when she came home the first day of grade one with a bloody nose. He thought she ought to fight back. Wendy was big, but there were always more of the others. She never got hurt that bad, in the end, but she was afraid of these boys, always. Not that she and her dad lived in the roughest of neighbourhoods but—there were better.

It’d all stopped around high school when they’d moved south of the river (a third floor apartment in a well-kept house off Lilac and Corydon; Wendy’d loved that house), but the memory of that fear bubbling up in her bones was permanent.

She knew trans girls who described fears of suddenly being seen as a faggot, but Wendy’d heard the word since she was old enough to hit a baseball. It wasn’t that she was particularly feminine, but she was never exactly closeted either. She wanted dolls, sure, but she didn’t pine after them. She wanted to wear pink—but she liked black and grey too. Hand flips, voice lilts, a love of beautiful, pretty things—she was no more inherently femmy than any average scrappy girl with a weirdo poor single parent, but these clear traits still came out regularly, and no one failed to notice. Ever. Even at the new high school, where kids handled her brand of odd a little better, even when the response wasn’t abuse, everyone always noticed.

When she transitioned at twenty-two, that old bodily fear from childhood reawakened. She was living in a shitty room by the U of W and working at the music store up Portage. She was a year on lady pills when she moved in and was passing as cis for the first time. Guys would whistle and slap her ass with their jackets. Before this, she’d always been brave enough to tell boys to fuck off and throw fists when she had to, but passing as cis, she was suddenly demure and weak—how could she say anything back at them without them realizing the girl they were teasing was a man? Her dad had said, Aw, that’s just what guys do. Play along, and they won’t bother you. And, hey, look at you—you’re attractive! But the belligerent well of bluster that, for better or worse, Wendy’d always drawn on for strength was—it wasn’t the same anymore. She didn’t know how to talk about it.

And once, a tall man followed Wendy into her building and said, “You a transsexual? A guy told me you’re a transsexual! You a man or a woman?”

“What guy?” she’d said, but he repeated, “Are you a fuckin’ man?” He followed her inside, made a grab for her, demanded she let him suck her dick, and spit in her face before he left. He was definitely high on something (bath salts, maybe?). He yelled, “I will never die, bitch!” And she learned right then: You always had to be on your guard. It didn’t matter how often you passed, it could always be taken away. Always. She’d never be little, she’d never be fish. It could always be taken away.

The next day, one of the ass-slapping dudes screamed, “Hey! Turns out you’re a fuckin’ man, hey?” That group of guys on her block got meaner then. They never hurt her, per se. They’d mock-scream, “It’s a maaaaaaan! You think you fuckin’ fooled us?” They threw rocks at her, stuff like that. Someone threw a sandwich at her once from the top floor of the building next to hers. One night she was chased to her building and got in just in time. In retrospect, it wasn’t too different from escaping from a few torturing kids in grade school who were agnostic about hurting her physically but got deeper pleasure from messing with her brain. If you could freeze-frame the first second she came around the block, some of those boys would’ve looked glad to see her.

Now, bussing back from work, Wendy did not feel mad. She only felt tired and jumpy. And as she got off the bus and walked home, she called on some internal, gentle well of knowledge that shortly she wouldn’t be scared again, that her fear would congeal into scar tissue.

She tramped up the stairs to her house and changed into a nightgown. She made a vodka-diet-soda and drank in the rocking chair beside her bed, the nerves settling, like leaves floating down through her insides.

***

Wendy felt more normal by the weekend. Look, if she saw that dude again, she’d just sock him. Done. Sealed. He was a loser. Whoever that guy was, he was an evil fucking do-nothing loser who was probably some unloved poor drunk and a fucking dipshit. Whatever. Fuck him. He was a snivelling piece of cowardly shit, and if she saw him again she’d sock him, end of story. Maybe he was stronger than she thought, but she was still fucking bigger. Done. What more was there to think about. It’s not like anything really horrible went down in the end!

– Casey Plett, Little Fish: A Novel

[lordofwaffless]

15. Fiona

“C’mon, Stu, hurry your tiny little goat legs up!” Fiona called. They were walking down

the sidewalk downtown, passing small clothing boutiques and bookstores. The town of Basilton

was known for being full of folks with a literary bent; the library where Ezra worked was even

larger than the main library in Everin City, where Stu was from. (Ezra worked in the magic

history section; Marlowe had often commented that she thought she only worked there because

she was such an important part of magical history. Ezra had always shrugged her older sister off

and declined to respond.)

“Fiona, I’m walking as quickly as I can!” Stu actually was walking extremely quickly

(certainly faster than Wesley), but Fiona had all the advantages of being an air witch: all she had

to do to go quickly was step lightly and let the wind carry her along.

“Goddess fuck, can both of you slow down, please?”

Fiona chuckled. “There is no Goddess Fuck in our religion, Wesley, Our Lady’s name is

Endalyn!”

“My aunt’s name is Endalyn,” Stu chimed in. Fiona had slowed down somewhat at

Wesley’s request, and Stu had finally caught up to her. “They’re named after the Goddess, but I

don’t know why.”

Fiona stopped walking altogether. “Why do you refer to your nonbinary guardian as your

aunt? Do they prefer that, or-?”

“Mmm-hmm. I don’t know why that is, either,” Stu replied. “Just is.”

Wesley finally caught up to him. He doubled over, completely out of breath. “I- ha-

hate-,” he panted, before taking a deeper, shuddering breath. “I hate you both.”

Fiona kicked him lightly in the shin. “Noted. You’re such a little bitch, you know that?”

He lifted a hand off of his knee, gesturing, as he declared, “I am not a little bitch, you’re

just mean. And you use the wind to walk, which is bloody cheating, anyway, so-”

“Biiiiiiiitch. Bitch. Whiny little bitch baby.”

Stu tried to intervene. “Fiona-”

“Shut up, Stu. Wesley, you are a whiny little bitch baby.”

He straightened, having finally caught his breath. “If you weren’t so pretty I’d punch you

in the nose,” he said.

Stu decided he really ought to interrupt. “If you two are done abusing each other, can we

go?” He glanced between the two of them, bemused and concerned; both feelings which grew

when the two of them burst out laughing.

“It’s fine, Stu, neither of us means it,” Wesley explained. “If either of us were actually in

the mood to punch the other, we definitely wouldn’t be saying so; and she definitely would not

be calling me a bitch.”

Fiona was laughing too, a softer sound than the cackle Stu had grown to expect. “Mum

always gets so freaked out when we have an argument, she’s like, ‘You guys get so scarily polite

and I’m like what the hell happened? I haven’t had to tell them not to curse indoors in over an

hour!’ and it really freaks out Da, he refuses to leave the greenhouse when we’re in the middle of

an argument, he says he can’t get over the ‘please pass the butter knife, Wesley,’ and the ‘I hope

you have a lovely day, Fiona,’ he says it’s too ominous to bear,” she chuckled. She seemed

lighter, and softer, almost, outside of St. Baz’s; more like an ordinary mortal and less like a

terrifying whirlwind of destructive power.

“You live with both of your parents?” Stu asked, his eyes widening. “And they like each

other?”

“Yep. Well, generally. Mum and Da both live at home, though Da got a job offer back in

Verity and refused to go, which caused quite the row. Said the money wasn’t worth leaving us,

though Mother knows we could’ve used it.”

Wesley shook his head. “Honestly, Fi, Mother’s worse than Goddess fuck. You’d get

beaten in the temple for that one.”

“I think you should both stop cursing,” Stu whispered. Neither of the pair noticed.

“Who cares? Maybe I wasn’t cursing. Maybe I was simply pointing out that the Mother

Goddess is well aware my parents have more kids than means to provide.”

Wesley scoffed. “The fact that you used the Goddess as your excuse instead of trying to

claim you were talking about your mum says enough.”

“Oh, come off it, Wesley. You have no right to be on a high fucking horse and you know

it,” she responded. She started walking again. “C’mon, guys! Don’t be whiny little bitch babies,”

she called, already ten feet ahead. The two boys groaned, but more or less managed to keep up.

After another twenty minutes of walking, they were out on a path just entering the woods

by the fields that surrounded Basilton. Stu had never been around the farms in this direction; the

Veritable Forest was situated at the halfway point between Basilton and Verity, and it lay in the

opposite direction of the farms.

“So, your family lives on a farm?” Stu asked Fiona. He was skipping along in the chilly

country air. Although it was bright and sunny, it was still quite cold, and he found that skipping

warmed him up better than regular walking.

“Not really. It’s more of a fairytale cottage kind of place. There’s a garden, a babbling

Brooke-”

“Oh, you’ll love Brooke, Stewart. She’s the least ill-tempered water nymph I’ve ever

met,” Wesley chuckled.

“-And of course, the house itself. It’s kind of large by normal standards, four big

bedrooms with walk-in closets and actually nearly six bathrooms, but since there are ten of us-”

“There are ten of you?!”

“Including my parents, yes.”

“Are the twins still sleeping in your closet?” Wesley asked. The last time he’d visited the

cottage, the Witch twins, Fair and Starlight (they’d chosen their own names at the age of seven)

had been sleeping in loft beds in Fiona’s closet.

“Yep. Mum made me move my clothes into a wardrobe so they’d have space for all of

their shit.”

“Lovely. Just lovely. I’m sure that sucks balls, Fi.”

“I’m sure you suck balls, Wesley. I’m sure you suck an entire bag of-”

“Fiona Witch! That language is not appropriate, well, ever, but certainly not in front of,”

here Fiona’s mother, a seer who’d come round the bend at that moment, paused and gestured to

Stu, before leaning in and stage-whispering, “children!”

“Ma! It’s his balls Wesley’s sucking, I don’t see the point of-”

“Fiona!”

Wesley, trying not to burst out laughing, glared at her and chimed in with, “Yes, Fiona!”

“Oh shut up, Wesley-”

“-Hello, Wesley, dear, how have you been, I-”

“-Mum, he’s been a twat, is how he’s been-”

“I’ve been fine, actually-”

“No you haven’t, you liar-”

“Fiona, the kid-”

“He’s just a goat, not a child, he-”

“-he isn’t a kid, he’s-”

“Yes, alright, ok. Wesley, you and your friend must be freezing, let’s-”

“Why are you even-”

“Do you know what she-”

“Wesley, don’t you dare-”

“Fiona, be polite-”

“She said-”

“No, I-”

“Can everybody please just SHUT UP?!”

The three who’d been arguing in the woods turned to look at each other, shocked, before

turning their attention to the satyr sitting on the ground. Stu was rocking back and forth, his

hands firmly clamped around his ears, tears streaming down his face as he glared at his

boyfriend, his friend, and her mother.

Something, unfortunately, clicked in Fiona’s tactless and easily confused head. “Oh, wait, Stu, are you neurodivergent?” she asked, with all her usual lack of tact. Wesley elbowed her. “Ow, Wes, why-”

He glared. “That’s not the sort of question you ask when someone’s losing it,” he stage-whispered, “and besides that, it’s not like that actually matters right now.”

“How does that not- ow,” she held her side and grimaced.

Wesley sat across from Stu. “What’s wrong, love?”

Stu shook his head.

Wesley tried again. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Stu shook his head again. He was sobbing much harder than he’d been that morning.

Wesley had seen Stu cry plenty (more than plenty), but never quite this much. Goddess, I think

we triggered something, he thought, his invocation less a curse than an observation to an unseen

force.

“Wesley, we’re going to go,” Fiona whispered to him after a while. “Don’t get eaten.”

(There were no monsters in that part of the woods.) She and her mother walked the short distance

away to their home, which was just around the bend from where they’d paused.

The two boys sat across from each other for about half an hour in the cold. Stu had cried

himself out fairly quickly once the argument had ended, but he didn’t move from where he sat

curled up on the ground for quite some time.

“Wesley?” He asked, peeking over his knees at his boyfriend, who’d been watching two

robins fight over a bug.

Wesley turned to him. “Hmm?’

“Sit closer.”

Wesley was more than happy to oblige. He scooted over across the cold dirt, settling next

to Stu. Stu leaned into him, glad for the extra warmth. “My parents used to fight like that,” Stu

whispered. “Layers and layers of words, with the housekeeper butting in every few minutes to

remind them that I was there, but they wouldn’t listen and would keep shouting as if I were

invisible.”

Wesley rubbed Stu’s back with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his own knees. He

pressed a kiss to his forehead. “That’s awful. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Mmm-hmm. It was not fun.”

“I can imagine.”

They sat in silence for a while. Though it was still fairly early in the evening, the sun was

beginning to go down, and dusk was starting to fall around them.

“Wes?”

“Hmm?”

“Are your parents like that?”

Wesley sighed. “My parents don’t argue much; really, my parents don’t say much of

anything to each other at all. Or to me, for that matter.” He stared off into the distance,

exhaustion seeping from every bit of him. “At least, my dad doesn’t. My mother’s around a bit

more, but she’s not very focused.” He chuckled bitterly. “People always assume she’s the faery,

since she’s so graceful and detached and flighty. No one assumes it’s the balding middle school

teacher with glasses and a vintage bike obsession.”

They both turned at the sound of leaves crunching behind them, and found themselves

looking up at a shivering Fiona. She was wrapped in a cosy-looking pea coat, in a soft pink that

bordered on twee and clashed alarmingly with both her hair and the bright red scarf wrapped

around her neck. She looks like a valentine, Stu noted.

“You two ought to come inside. Mum’s promised to play nice, and Da’s in the

greenhouse, though he might come in in a bit,” she murmured. Her ears were turning red in the

chilly evening breeze. “The kids are working on their homework in the family room, so we’ll

have the big kitchen to ourselves.”

Wesley looked at Stu. “Do you want to go in, love?”

Stu nodded. He stood up, wobbling for a second, before steadying himself against a

suddenly upright Wesley. “Fiona has snacks, right?”

His friends chuckled. “Fiona has so many snacks,” she laughed, taking Stu’s free hand.

The three of them walked round the bend into the clearing where Fiona’s house was located.

Stu’s jaw dropped. While Myrtle’s garage had been full of faery lights, the clearing where

the Fallonson-Witch family lived was full of actual faeries. Pixies and wood sprites hovered

about the clearing, darting from tree to tree and landing on folks’s shoulders. The aforementioned

babbling Brooke was chattering merrily in her stream to a dryad who was hanging laundry from

his branches; in the flower garden, flower fae were tending to their blooms, and in the orchard,

wood nymphs and satyrs danced as they collected fruit that had fallen to the ground.

The entire scene glittered in various shades of pink and blue and gold. It looked homey,

like some strange, family-owned farm, but it also had the dream-like (or perhaps nightmarish,

Stu couldn't help but think) quality that one associated with dissociating. It all seemed too perfect

to be real.

“Where are we?” Stu asked, nearly certain that they’d somehow been transported into the

wild Fae lands at the heart of Everin.

Fiona didn’t bother with much of a reply. She gripped his hand more firmly and dragged

him towards the house, where, if nothing else, she could make sure he didn’t accidentally sell his

soul to one of the vampires who lived in the orchard or get eaten by wood sprites.

“Doesn’t matter. C’mon, Stewart, I can’t let you die in the woods, your aunts would

literally kill me.”

“Fiona-,” Wesley butt in, although her resulting glare shut him up immediately. It was

about a three minute walk at a brisk pace across the edge of the clearing to the house, and Fiona

dragged them along with her wind at the fastest pace she could manage. When they reached the

door, she opened it without even touching the handle and yanked the boys inside, slamming the

door shut behind her with the wind.

“Alright, boys, we’re indoors now. It’s safe enough here to ask whatever questions

you’ve got, Stu, but I would suggest we get to the kitchen first,” Fiona said, chucking off her

coat and shaking her hair. She unwound her scarf from her neck and draped it around Stu, who

was shivering.

“Well damn, Fi, I thought you were going to wrap your scarf around me,” Wesley said.

She whacked him lightly atop his head with her hat. “No, you absolute fucking twat.

Goddess, Wesley, let’s go sit by the fire if you’re cold.”

She grabbed both of the boys’ hands and dragged them away in the direction of the

kitchen, stopping to hurl an insult at Starlight in the hall before finally pausing in front of the

hearth in the family’s big kitchen. Fiona’s house, like Wesley’s, had multiple kitchens; the one

they were in currently was the family kitchen. (There was also the summer kitchen in the

courtyard, and the potion and spell kitchen was in the basement; because the house was

technically set into a hill, the basement was built a lot like Wesley’s front kitchen, with large

windows and a sliding glass door.)

She thrust Stu down in front of the fire, nearly throwing him in. (Just like Ezra, he

thought. Hmph.) “Sit down and get warm, Stu, while I take your stupid boyfriend to grab more

Firewood.”

Wesley poked her in the head. “You said let’s sit in front of the fire if I’m cold! I’m cold,

Fi, go get the wood yourself.”

“Wesley,” Fiona hissed at him, gesturing discreetly in an “I need to talk to you, you

moron” sort of way. “We should gather more firewood.”

Wesley cottoned on, not being as half as thick as he acted, but he shook his head.

“I want Wesley to sit down,” Stu said, not bothering to look up at them; he was staring

into the fire, watching the logs slowly turn to ash.

“Fine! Have it your way, you two, then! I will go get more firewood-,” they really were

running low in the kitchen, “-and you two can sit nice and cosy by the fire, and then when I get

back, we can eat and I can spring my news on the both of you without any proper warning and

you can choke on your food, since apparently that’s what you want! Lovely. Just bloody lovely,

you two,” and she stormed out of the house through the back door.

“She’s going to end up selling her soul to a vampire one of these days,” Wesley muttered.

“On purpose?”

“No.” Wes considered it for a moment. “Well, maybe. If the vampire were really cute,

she’d probably consider it.”

“Why do you think she’ll end up accidentally selling her soul to a vampire?” Stu asked.

He scratched the tip of his nose; it was itchy and warm from the heat of the fire.

Wesley turned to him. He reached over and pushed one of Stu’s long-ish brown curls

behind his gently pointed ears. “She’s too impulsive. She throws herself headlong into stupid

situations without much of a thought for the consequences, simply because she’s so damn

powerful that most of the consequences barely affect her at all. One of these days, though, she’s

going to tangle herself up in something she can’t cut or curse her way out of, and then where will

I be?” He turned back to the fire, his head resting on Stu’s shoulder. “She’s my oldest friend; I’ve

known her nearly since birth. I’m pretty sure her parents love me more than mine do. We fight a

lot, joking mostly, but she’s-”

He sighed. “She’s like a sister to me. More than a sister to me, she’s like my bloody

platonic soulmate or something. I’d be devastated if anything were to happen to her.”

Stu looked down at the head on his shoulder. “Have you told her that?” he asked, running

his hand through Wesley’s hair.

“I tell her every time she does something stupid! I used to just text it to her every

morning- ‘Good morning, Fiona, I love you, so please don’t accidentally kill yourself trying to

fight your English teacher,’ or whatever mess she had going on at the moment. I think she

thought I was joking. Honestly, I think she still thinks I’m joking.”

“Well, at any rate, she clearly cares about you,” Stu said. “I do think she would have

given you her scarf if I wasn’t so much smaller and cuter.”

Wesley pulled back. “Stewart! Are you seriously saying that I am not small and cute?”

Stu giggled. “You’re like, six foot five, Wes.”

He scoffed. “Ok, so I’m maybe not small, but I’m definitely pretty cute! I might not be

tiny little bunny rabbit cute like you,” he poked him in the nose, “but I’ve at least got to be

Flemish Giant rabbit cute, right?”

“Yes, Wesley, you are every bit as cute as a ginormous rabbit that could literally kill

someone. You are murder rabbit cute.”

“Ok, that is not what I meant.”

It was too late, though: the concept had stuck. Stu had stood up and was doing what

would probably be classified as an interpretive dance to the chant of “Murder rabbit, murder

rabbit!”

“Holy fuck. What have I just walked into?” questioned Fiona, standing in the doorway

with snow sitting stark against the red of her hair, holding a bundle of firewood. “I leave for

eight minutes and I come back to- What, exactly? What in the name of all that’s good and holy

and made of cheese is going on here?”

“It is called,” said Stu, standing upside down now. He tumbled to the ground and pointed

at her with one long, slender finger. “-interpretive dance.”

“You have caster’s fingers, Stewart.”

“You know, I’ve told him that, actually,” interrupted Wesley. “I told him so in class once

and he threw a pencil at me. He says it’s from piano.”

“Do you play piano, Stu?” asked Fiona.

Stu nodded. “Mmm-hmm. I’ve been playing since I was four. And that,” he turned to Wesley, “-is why my fingers are so long.”

Wesley scooped him into his lap and nuzzled his neck. “Sure. Definitely not because of a

shocking level of magical ability that you’re keeping from us.

Stu held up a finger, giggling. “I know one spell, Wesley. Would you like to see my one

spell, Wesley?”

`Fiona cackled. “I think we’d all like to see your ‘one spell’, Stu. C’mon, let’s have it.”

Stu pointed a finger at his shoe and stared at it very intently for a few moments. After a

second or two, the bright red rubber of his wellingtons turned green, and then faded back to red.

Fiona’s jaw dropped. “Really, Stewart? Your ‘one spell’ is a colour changing spell tested

in the practical exam of eleventh-year saint candidates, performed without an incantation or a

wand?” she scoffed. “You’ve just damned yourself irrevocably, Stewart, as A, you’ve clearly got

loads of innate magical ability, and B, I will never believe a word you say since your worldview

is clearly skewed if you think that that is going to convince me that you don’t have loads of

magical ability.”

Stu peered up at her in bemusement. Though he’d sat back down after his dance and was

now sitting on Wesley, Fiona had remained standing the entire time. “What’s the big deal?”

Fiona gaped at him. Wesley simply shook his head. “Colour spells alter the way the

human eye perceives light. You’re not actually changing the colour the way you would if you

were, say, dying a coat; depending on the spell, you’re either changing the entire wavelength of

the light, which is the simpler option, or you're modifying the eye itself to be able to perceive

the new colour. You’re forcing your brain to accept a reality that is not, in fact, real.”

“-hence why it’s so bloody difficult,” Fiona said, grateful for the explanation she hadn’t

been wholly sure how to give (she’d always excelled at the practical side of magic; Wesley was

the one who competed and won awards in the theoretics categories in Sport). She flopped down

on the hearth rug next to the boys. “Wesley. Go get snacks.”

“No.”

“Do it for your husband, Wesley. Be a good little housewife and get your husband some

snacks,” she grinned, knowing that Wesley’s want to please Stu would get her some snacks, even

if the precise wording of her supplication might get her hit in the head with hard fruit. “I cannot

believe you just threw an apple at me.”

“You should feel honoured that I didn’t throw a pineapple at your head, Fi. There’s one

right here, it’s not too late,” he pointed out, smirking.

“Guys, no fruit throwing,” Stu commanded, pouting at them from the cosiest spot at the

hearth. Wesley sat back down next to him with a plate of sandwiches from the basket Fiona’s

mum always kept full and a tin of biscuits. Stu turned to him. “Wes, are you going to eat?”

Wesley nodded. “I’ll have a sandwich or two.”

Fiona waggled her finger at him. “Have two, Wesley,” she mumbled through a mouthful

of jam and homemade bread.

“Fiona, that’s disgusting.”

She swallowed. “Whatever. Have two sandwiches. And some of those biscuits- my aunt

made them, and I know you like the lemon ones.”

Stu stared at her. “The mayor made these biscuits?”

Fiona nodded. “It’s the only thing she’s actually good at. She comes over every Sunday to

bake for us; brings Rafe, of course, who’s a fucking prat, but otherwise it’s fine, and we get

biscuits out of it, so-,” she trailed off, searching through the tin for something particularly sweet.

Wesley chuckled. “It gets pretty confusing since both Rafe and Fi’s brother Eric are the

‘son of Fallon’, and Fi’s dad refuses to call Rafe anything other than Fallonson.”

“Why grandma Fallon decided to name both of her children Fallon too, I will never

understand,” Fiona said as she crunched down on a raspberry chocolate walnut biscuit decisively.

“Ok, but anyway, Stu-”

“Fiona, be polite,” Wesley warned.

“I am always polite! Stu, what happened in the woods?”

Wesley shook his head. “That’s not polite.”

Stu laughed. “It’s fine, I’d rather she just ask me then try to manoeuvre around in search

of answers.” He turned to Fiona. “I have PTSD (weeeell the doctor said it might be C-PTSD,

actually), which was triggered by the yelling. As for your earlier question, I do have ADHD, so

yes, I am neurodivergent.” He crunched down on the apple Wesley had thrown thoughtfully. 

Wesley chucked a tomato slice at Fiona. “See? I told you it wasn’t relevant.”

Stu poked him. “I mean, it wasn’t really not relevant, Wes.”

“Actually, you said it didn’t matter at the moment, which was true,” she nibbled on her

third biscuit. (She’d decided to make him pay for the tomato later; at the moment, she needed

things from him.)

Wesley hummed. “Why are we here again?”

“To enjoy my delightful company? Because you always eat after long walks? To protect

whatever’s left of your little faerie boyfriend’s innocence?”

“Nothing. Literally, absolutely nothing,” Stu muttered.

“...that’s a very bitter take, Stewart.”

“Well, maybe he’s a bitter little person, Fiona, under the rosy cheeks and giggles. Why

are we really here?”

She sighed and ran a hand through her now-messy red hair. In moments like that, her

similarities to her best friend were unmistakable. “So, I was reading last night,” she began.

“As you tend to do,” Wesley said.

“-Right. I was flipping through a book my aunt gave me on blood rituals (kind of

concerning, actually), cross-referencing certain important bits with a book on historic incidents

of dumb fucks trying to intimidate casters with cadavers, cursed objects, whatever. You know,

dark magic shit that most of us would never touch.”

Stu’s eyes widened. “You think someone was trying to intimidate Aunty Ezra with the

remains of a blood ritual?”

“Pretty much. And not one of the fun ones where you try to summon a demon or

Whatever-”

“Fiona!” Wesley glared at her.

“-or one of the normal ones that even saints use, to tie specific doors to your bloodline or

whatever. One of the proper bad ones, where you cut the Magick out of someone or something

else to make yourself more powerful or ‘balance the universe’ or whatever bigoted crap you

believe in.”

Stu blinked. “Summoning demons isn’t one of the ‘bad ones?!’”

She grinned her feral grin at him. “Depends on who you’re summoning.”

Wesley chucked another tomato at her. “Goddess, Wesley, fucking quit it-”

“Fiona. No. We’re not summoning demons again.”

“Again?!” Stu gaped at them. “When- why- who even- what? What?!”

“You know- It’s- oh, whatever. So, anyway, I need you guys to help me summon a

demon,” she declared, pulling tomato seeds out of her hair.

“Fiona, I literally just said-”

Stu fainted.

Wesley stared at him before turning to his friend. “Oh my Goddess, Fiona, you just killed

my boyfriend.”

She poked Wesley in the head. “Wh- Hey!”

“Good. Go ahead and draw some of his blood,” she grinned.

“No, Fiona!” He glared at her. “You’re not stealing my boyfriend’s blood. How would we

have even done this during lunch?!”

“Eh, you know, we would have- Nevermind. Your blood is too weak, elfling, I need his,”

she explained, in a tone that suggested Wesley was a complete moron.

“Why would his be any stronger?” he questioned, half-ready to throw that pineapple at

her.

“Were you not paying attention just now? Your little Faerie boyfriend has more magic in

his pinkie than you have in both of your pinkies!”

“...that’s not saying much, Fiona. And anyway, he’s not a Faerie.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Right.” She glared at him. “You know precisely what I mean,

Wesley. Yes, you’re strong, but not strong enough, I’m sorry, Wesley, it’s just how it is!”

Wesley opened his mouth, and then shut it again. His face turned as silvery as the bowl

that sat on the counter. Finally, after a few frustrated moments of opening and closing his mouth

like a carp and running his hands through his hair, he spoke. “Alright, we can’t argue like this.

Not because we shouldn’t argue about this, because we definitely should, but because Stu is right

there and he’s been staring at us nervously for the past few minutes,” he murmured, his voice

low and cold.

Fiona rolled her eyes and turned to the satyr, who’d sat up and was now biting his nails as

he watched them. “Stewart, my mother’s a seer. Your aunt isn’t going to come back on her own.

You can believe me or not, but if you intend to ever do so, I would suggest believing me now

that we have something closer to the upper hand, rather than when it’s been several months, and

you’re living with Myrtle, and Edie and Ezra have disappeared entirely.”

Stu stared into the fire, his chin tucked into his knees. After a moment, he turned to her.

“So, summoning demons. How do we do that?”

She grinned. “You know, Stewart, I’m glad you asked."

[moki-dokie]

Netflix Cowboy Bebop Review (From Someone Who Loved the Anime and Watched it an Unhealthy Amount of Times)

Kinda tired of seeing these reviews from the people who either A) haven’t actually ever watched the anime yet still want to compare the two or B) saw the anime once 20 years ago and think they’re an expert based on that alone or C) binged the whole show all at once and didn’t actually take the time to truly watch everything and digest the story. I watched this show every. single. day. for fucking YEARS. until Toonami finally took it off the air. And then I bought the DVD set and watched that constantly. I thoroughly love this series and very few animes have ever been able to be close to as good.

People are allowed their opinions, of course. Even true diehard fans aren’t always going to like adaptations of the original. But they can respect it, which makes a huge difference. Anyway, lets get into this shall we?

Obviously, there will be spoilers.

I’ll start with the Cons just to get them out of the way. There aren’t many.

Vicious: This is probably everyone’s biggest gripe and for good reason. He is the main antagonist of Spike (And kind of by proxy, to all the main characters) and even though in the original series he wasn’t actually on screen much, his presence was always very much there and very important to the plotline. Vicious is his name incarnate. He is cold, calculating, ruthless, smart as a whip, a man of few words, deadly in combat, and extremely level-headed to the point it may seem like he’s emotionless and unbothered by anything ever. Netflix’s version absolutely was not this. In any way at all. This version of Vicious was almost... comical. A parody of what a villain ought to be and it’s honestly a damn shame. The casting was so very wrong for him that it kind of blows my mind. They got it so very right with 99% of everyone else. Not only is his look completely off but it seemed like the hair/makeup department kind of gave up after dying his hair. The dark eyebrows and chest hair (also, why tf did he need to be shirtless so much. ugh.) were just a very weird contrast to the ratty silver hair. His personality is utterly wrong. This Vicious is hot-tempered, has anger issues, blatantly abusive (both physically and emotionally and like more in a wife beater kind of way rather than just a cold heartless killer kind of way), talks way too much, and is easily and frequently bothered. By like, everything. I would have much rather of had casting similar to Hugh Laurie, Jeremy Irons, Rhys Meyers, or Alexander Skarsgard. Rhys, with the right hair/makeup crew, could have been stunning as Vicious. But alas. Netflix’s version does not have the same lingering threat in the background. Nothing about him invokes fear. I’m so very disappointed with how hard they failed on such a hugely important character.

Ed: I only have a few issues with Netflix’s Ed. 1. She isn’t POC. Ed is brown in the anime, full stop. Ed’s father is HELLA brown. Ed is Brazillian-coded and this has been known pretty much since she made her first appearance. Sure, its always been ambiguous... but it’s ambiguously brown. And there is a big difference when erasing a POC vs adding one. 2. The actress tries a little too hard with the over-the-top Edness. It felt really... weird. Inorganic. 3. She’s older, or at least bigger, than Ed should be, which makes the forced wild-child behavior even more out of place. Idk, just feels like the casting for this one was a bit off? doesn’t ruin the character by any means, just feels a little clunky.

Gren: Idk what to say about this one. Gren has always been my favorite non-main character. I loved how tragic his story was. I loved how smooth and suave he was. I loved how he came to accept who he was forced to become. And Gren was the first time I had ever seen someone who could be considered intersex in any form of entertainment media. He was a very profound character at the time and very unique. I always wished he could have lived and joined the Bebop family - he would have fit right in. I understand that the trope of his character hasn’t exactly aged well, but that doesn’t take away from the fact it was a tremendous step forward in the 90s and I wish at least part of that could have been preserved. Netflix’s Gren... don’t get me wrong, I love that character as well! But it isn’t the Gren we know in the slightest. It’s just some dude with Gren’s name. I fucking adore him, but I’d rather he be a different character.

Fighting Choreography/Stunts: They could have spent a little more time on the fighting scenes. Some of them are a little clunky and obviously taken step-by-step. Not terrible, not fantastic. Really could have done a better job with flying stunts especially. I know it’s supposed to be campy to a degree but jfc they might as well have just left the wire in for some of those shots.

Camera focus: Not sure wtf was going on with the focus in most of the shots, but it was like, strangely blurry outside of the main focal point. Like if the camera was focused on Jet, but Spike was beside him and talking, Spike would be just sliiiiightly blurred/out of focus. Just annoying more than anything.

And thats it, really. Julia/Vicious bugs me just a bit, but not enough to really be a con. Just kind of like, ehhhh they could have gotten to the same ending place without that, yknow?

Now, onto the Pros.

Respecting the Source Material: I have never seen an adaptation done with so much care, diligence, research, and all out respect as this was. Say what you will, but everyone tried their damn best to not only recreate some of the most iconic scenes, but to do the series justice with the new twists and fresh stories. From framing the shots, to costuming, to set design, and of course to the music. This is how you honor the source material you’re adapting. I think, best of all, the campyness of everything remained. Bebop is a fucking cool anime, but you absolutely cannot deny how stupidly silly it can be as well. I enjoy they kept that alive. It’s hard for it to translate into live action without getting cringey (and certainly, in some parts it is) and I’d say on the grand scale they acheived just the right amount of camp.

Music: Bruh. What the fuck else can I say other than, as expected from Yoko and the Seatbelts... THIS FUCKS. I am 1000000% going to own this very lengthy soundtrack that I hope is going to be multi-disc like the original.

CGI: I’m actually very extremely pleased with the graphics. Yes, many times you can blatantly tell they’re greenscreening something but the level of detail that went into this shit is stunning. The ships are fucking spot on. The planets each feel unique and look realistic while honoring the original designs. The space shit like billboards and whatnot are badass. The astral gates look even cooler than the anime’s. Honestly, big fuckin kudos to the VFX team. My one and ONLY complaint is that they didn’t edit out Cho’s contacts in post production. Very small complaint, and most people don’t even know to look for them. But when you’ve worked in eye care before they stand out like a sore thumb.

Set Design: It baffles me how they made the interior of the bebop look EXACTLY like it does in the anime. like holy fucking shiiiiiit. I adore the mixing of real, actual, authentic 80s/90s technology into so many things. I can’t express how much I love how so much tech is still analog in some way. Every room we’re taken into feels like a place you could walk into today, or went to 20 years ago. It feels so familiar. And hell, even the outside scenes look cool as fuck. and as I’ve mentioned before, all the places we’re taken to feel very unique. Considering a huge portion of these sets were likely built in studios with only a handful of scenes being on location somewhere, I really gotta hand it to them.

Diverse Casting: Aside from our main characters, I love just how many side, minor, and background characters are so very diverse. Not just ehtnicities, but body types, age, all spectrums of gender, accents, ect. It really cements how intermingled humanity has become since leaving Earth. 

Ein: I know it’s a little silly to sing the praises of a canine actor but listen. The fact they used a real dog instead of doing some bullshit cgi dog is worthy of praise. Not only that but that was a VERY well trained dog. You know how a lot of times you can very obviously tell there’s a handler directly behind the camera coaxing the dog into doing whatever it should be doing? Yeah, I very rarely got that from this pup. Very good job from a very good boi.

Spike, Jet, and Faye: Honestly there’s not much to say about them because they all fuckin kicked ass. They all felt so much like the actual characters. They had such chemistry and charisma. Loved everything about them. I know a lot of people got butthurt that Faye wasn’t the half naked femme fatale trope of the 90s, and they can die mad. I LOVED this Faye. She was every bit as sexy, fiery, witty, and cunning as the original. Plus she has the added bonus of having the mouth of a sailor. All of them being aged up feels... right, too. I mean lets be honest here. Even if Spike was in the syndicate from like age 15 to 25 and then goes 3 years on his own, I still cannot fathom him having the set of skills that he does. That kind of stuff takes decadeS to master. Or Vicious being 27 and somehow a katana master, top assassin, fought in a war for a while, ect. Shit don’t make sense. I don’t know if they actually aged any of them up but considering the actors they got, I’d assume yes. It would make way more sense for Spike to be late 30s and Jet somewhere in his 40s. Faye still looks and feels like a mid-20s something. idk man. It feels way more grounded and real this way. I could NOT imagine this same plot playing out by a bunch of baby-faced actual 20-somethings who are barely even legal adults, yknow?

Plot/Storyline: There wouldn’t be much point in simply remaking the exact same thing 1:1 throughout the entirety of the series. So, understandably, the story has some differences. I thoroughly enjoy being able to identify each episode and know which one of the anime it’s based on, yet still not quite knowing what’s going down. The overarching plot, however, takes a pretty drastic turn from the original and frankly I’m very curious to see where it goes. Julia becoming a villain (maybe??) isn’t something I expected at all, and yet it makes perfect sense after all she’s been through. And hell, maybe this is her way of eventually getting rid of the entire syndicate once and for all. No clue! Thats the wonderful thing about it! I don’t know what will happen next and I am interested in that! Furthermore, this series feels way more seamlessly connected than the original ever did. That was kind of the thing back in the 90s so that episodes could be watched independently without needing to know what was going on, but they tried doing both at the same time and admittedly it didn’t always work out. Netflix’s version does a fantastic job of making each episode have a unique thing they have to overcome while still dealing with the main plot. It seems like Season 2 is going to incorporate the Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door movie, which feels like a good move since that is about where it comes in on the timeline And dear god I hope they release it around Halloween. If we’re lucky enough to get a season 3, that will be the grand finale build up. They’ve done a great job with pacing, almost matching the anime’s. I can’t say it enough how much respect the showrunners have given to the original. You can honestly tell the writing is done to remain faithful yet give us something new. I really hope they can take the backlash with a grain of salt. Those of us who truly and honestly love this series can seriously appreciate the dedication that went into this. The story certainly feels like it was made for us, the original fans who are grown up now. I’ve been dying for more sci-fi that can be both dark/gritty AND fun/silly. Reminds me a lot of Firefly (which, lets be honest, took heavy inspiration from Cowboy Bebop) with the mixture of serious story and things that’ll make you laugh. If you can love Firefly, you can love this series.

Overall, this was a VERY enjoyable show to watch and I’ll probably watch it a few more times to try and pick up anything I may have missed in the background. I’d really recommend ignoring the folks out there whining that they butchered the show - most of them are literally basing it on clips and stills rather than, you know, actually watching it. And obviously it shouldn’t need to be pointed out that this is an adaptation and things will be different. Don’t go into it expecting everything to be exactly the same across the board.

I’d probably give this 8.5/10. There are definitely areas of improvement that I sincerely hope they work on in season 2, but this was really damn good. Mad respect to everyone who worked on the show!

[get-shiggy-with-it]

gin and tonic and bad, bad men

Collab Masterlist

✧ pairing: bartender!dabi x waitstaff!fem!reader

✧ word count: 6k

✧ warnings: misogyny, scummy dabi, noncon/dubcon, yandere vibes, cat calling, toxic relationships, toxic work environment, face fucking (?), smut, semi-public sex (in an alley), alcohol, drunk reader, drunk sex, smoking mention, brief spitting, humiliation, light degradation, probably incorrect use of restaurant terminology, reader is implied female but no body parts are explicitly gendered

✧ summary: Dabi is willing to protect you from those awful, nasty men who torment you at work, but he never does anything on the house -- or the newbie at the bar catches dabi's attention and everyone else's.

✧ a/n: Heyy my first dabi, and he's scummy as hell in this. who's shocked? Not me. This is for the BNHAREM collab and it's a coworker/workplace au! Please go check out all the other works, everyone is so talented! Enjoy~

Dead men tell no tales, but drunk men’s mouths run wild.

Liquor loosens the lips like no other force of nature.

Dabi knows this to be true.

Whiskey runs hot in the blood and makes hands reach to lay claim on whatever is closest, whatever is prettiest within their grasp.

Alcohol on the tongue draws forth cravings from deep, hidden pits in men—bears their ugly truths to the world—and Dabi is the master of this liquid sorcery.

He sits, high and mighty, behind the safety of his bartop and watches the sea of bodies grow loose with vodka and gin and in turn he drinks their secrets. Sees the things they hide in sobriety and knows their nature with a removed certainty that is only found in those who have seen the darkest depths of mankind and come out the other side stinking of their filth.

The mahogany slab that separates Dabi from the waves of slobbering drunkards does nothing to stop the infection from spreading. He knows their thoughts, knows their truth, knows what their hands long to bruise, because they’re his thoughts too.

His truth.

His longing.

Kept only at bay by the simple fact that the boss doesn’t like him drinking on shift. Likes to keep his air of professionalism even if the bar is nothing more than a seedy dive in the bad part of the bad part of town.

Whatever keeps him off Dabi’s back is fine.

“The bar is over there and that door is to the kitchen…”

Toga’s voice pulls him from his stupor. The dirty rag he’d been using to halfheartedly wipe down the counters leaves his skin slick, calluses soft and plump as the water eats at them. She’s showing around one of the new hires. The turn over rate for staff here is so goddamn awful that this is a near weekly occurrence, so Dabi doesn’t pay her much mind as she wanders over.

It isn’t until her face is shoved up against his across the bar that he looks away from his task.

“Say hi to the newbie!” she cackles, smile just deranged enough to keep her safe from the crowds on packed nights.

Toga doesn’t look it but she belongs here too, in the filth and squalor of humans. But not like him. She thrives and gorges herself on their foolishness, twirling through the mob of patrons, always knowing who’s back to pat for gracious tips and who’s to stab when she needs to.

He glances up through his lashes and is both shocked and unsurprised by what he finds.

Hanging off the end of Toga’s arm, you stand out against the dingy background of the taproom. The smog of the bar clings to it’s staff, making their hair dull and their eyes red rimmed. You haven’t been poisoned yet though. The smell of the downpour raging outside still clings to you and errant raindrops drip down your chin like tears.

“Hey,” he grumbles and with another prodding look from Toga tacks on a gruff, “name’s Dabi.”

“He’s our bartender,” Toga provides after his silence and you smile. He guesses cause you don’t know any better.

You’ll learn not to do that down here soon enough.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

Your name slips off your lips and onto his like top shelf tequila. There’s rain on your palm as you reach out for him, so when he takes it to shake, you can’t feel the way the grime clings to his skin—can’t feel the roughness etched into his fingers through the chill.

Can’t see him for what he is.

Meanwhile, you’re practically transparent in the dim, neon light of the bar.

The buttons of your shirt are undone too low, he notices as Toga drags you away to the back. He could warn you, should warn you. That when the late night crowd stumbles in, you’ll want those extra inches of skin covered up. That dressing like that is just asking for something to get smacked.

You must be stupid to not know it, because he doesn’t think you do.

You’re not really carrying yourself like a slut, he thinks, watching you trail along behind his boisterous coworker smiling and nodding and eager to please.

He ought to warn you.

But he knows he won’t.

You’ll be gone within a week and Dabi will swiftly forget your name and face just like the others before you. He’ll sneak shots in while his manager’s back is turned and any memory of you will be filtered out by his abused liver.

But for now, Dabi reigns himself back in to polish some of the obvious stains from his glasses and prepares himself for the show. The doors open in an hour, and he wants to be ready for the action.

The drunk antics of all the city's criminals gets old fast when you’re the one who has to clean up their shit.

Fresh meat is the only real entertainment they ever get around here.

So Dabi watches as you don one of the stained, black aprons and doesn’t tell you to cover up that sliver of your chest practically glowing in the electric red and blue light. Just looks on from the relative sanctuary of the bar as Toga instructs you on how to carry the drink trays and waits patiently to see you be devoured.

After you trip on the way back to the kitchen, Dabi pulls a twenty out of his pocket and shoves it in a jar hidden under the bartop. He makes a mental note to tell the chef he’s betting on just under a week you’ll last.

At the very least he’ll get a free performance and a neat hundred out of your inevitable failure.

He goes back to polishing, only looking up once as you breeze past the bar on your way to unlock the gates for the nocturnal animals of the city to filter in as they please.

You smile at him again as you pass.

Dabi tosses another twenty into the jar.

***

Well, he may have lost the bet, but he can’t find it in himself to mourn the forty dollars too hard.

Today would be your two week anniversary, and honestly, Dabi felt a bit of grudging respect for the determination you showed, no matter how pointless it was.

Determination and foolishness often came hand in hand.

He couldn’t help but think you looked more than a little the fool as you smiled and made unbridled eye contact with the patrons while walking your rounds from table to table. You’d learned enough to cover up a bit more, but he can’t be sure if that’s because you’ve started to notice the stares or because a spring cold front has rolled over the city. Either way, he watches you shiver under the gaze of a particularly rowdy guest and feels a chill run up his own spine as he watches the man’s eyes trail up your thighs, drinking down the slivers of bare skin like his fifth beer of the night.

Dabi is intrigued now.

Wonders how you’ve made it out of the fray every night so far.

Wonders what you’re hiding under those skimpy clothes and friendly, thoughtless smiles.

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out.

It’s inevitable really. When you’re working nights there are certain occupational hazards to expect. So when the little clock above the bar reads just past one in the morning, and you drift out once again into the raging mass of bodies, Dabi isn’t shocked to hear the yelp and smash of glasses just a few minutes later.

The first die has been cast.

He looks up from pouring out two fingers of whiskey just in time to catch the man’s hand slipping between your thighs, dirty fingers digging into the flesh and yanking you down onto his spread legs. The tray of drinks you’d been carrying clatters to the floor, lacing the air with the sweet burn of alcohol and futile outrage.

It’s far too loud to hear what the man says to you, but the way his blackened, ragged nails press five perfect, filthy crescents onto your skin—how they mark you as a worthy target, claiming you with their muck—sends a clear enough message.

Dabi wouldn’t bother watching if it wasn’t you trying to squirm your way out of being passed from lap to lap around the booth. He’s isn’t the least bit ashamed to admit how curious he is to see which way you’ll react.

And while he expects passivity—a drawn look with wide eyes, hoping no reaction at all will leave them bored and searching for a more interesting conquest—Dabi finds himself on the wrong side of the tracks once more.

His eyebrows shoot up, quite the reaction from the generally stony bartender, as your hand cracks open palmed across the face of your captor. A strange, heavy silence falls over the bar. It lasts only a few precious seconds but it’s enough to draw the attention of your manager who pulls you, cursing and snarling like a dog without it’s muzzle, back to the kitchen.

It’s your face that does him in—seals both your fates in dripping cream and purple wax.

Working down here, in this pigsty bar with it’s air that clings and dirties and tarnishes, brightness of any kind is foreign.

Alluring.

And your eyes that shine with the glow of reckless willpower have the same draw as the fat wads of cash that slip too easily from drunk fingers into his tip jar. Defiance is a rare currency in the underworld and Dabi’s fingers itch as your secret is revealed.

You believe you’re worth something.

Even as he hears the rasp of his boss’ voice, berating and threatening from behind the swinging doors, Dabi can’t help but hold the image of your smile turned snarl. You’ll get off with a warning because you’ve lasted this long and it’s a hassle to find replacements with pretty enough faces. But only this once, do it again and you’ll be out on the street.

For his part he tries to look sympathetic when you crowd yourself behind the bar and pout with your tail between your legs.

You haven’t spoken to him since that first night and he hasn’t exactly made an attempt at conversation either.

It wasn’t like you were worth the effort before.

But now, as you sniffle and pretend the pin prick tears in your eyes are just from the bite of the liquor slicked floor, Dabi feels an old heat rise in him. Something stokes the embers that laid dying out inside the prison of his ribs, and he welcomes the familiar burn.

Like an old friend, like a knife at his throat.

The man from before approaches the bar to order another drink and his cloudy eyes don’t even seem to register the way you cower from him, back turned and sinking into the peeling wallpaper. They’ve forgotten you already. To them you are one of dozens, not worth the fight it takes when plenty of properly meek flesh hops from table to table, ripe for picking.

But Dabi see’s the flint in your hands and knows it’s you that lit this fire licking up the back of his throat.

With two rough fingers he beckons you over into the soft overhead spotlights of the bar. Like a beast to its master’s call you shuffle forward into his gravitational pull and look up at him warily.

“Wanna learn how to mix?” he asks, even to him his voice sounds harsh with disuse.

“...sure,” you say quietly, after a brief pause.

You’re warm and soft as he settles behind you, caging you in with his arms under the guise of reaching for a strainer or a jar of olives. Unlike that bastard, now long passed out from drink, Dabi’s face remains free of your claw marks when his chest brushes against you or his hand wanders to the small of your back to move you aside as he serves customers.

He even works up a little smile of his own when you stare, sunny bright over your shoulder at his attempt to distract you from the incident.

The city, the bar, the underground—all of it is an angry, storming ocean filled with angry, storming bodies that swiftly drowns its victims as they desperately tread water in the open, black abyss.

Without him, you’d learn to take the wandering hands and vulgar words or you’d be foolish enough to inhale them in lungfuls and sink to the bottom.

But as you smile and nod while he shows you how long to stir an Old Fashioned, Dabi feels his own neglected determination rise to the challenge.

By the end of the night, you already trail behind him as he does his rounds to each abandoned table. Like a stranded victim to a raft, you cling to the safety he’s dared to provide.

And if he plays his cards right.

He might not come out of this bet so empty handed.

If only you knew, he was no better than the rest of them.

You’d run straight from the trees into the wolf's den.

***

“What’s your favorite drink to make?” you ask.

Dabi glances up at you, his chest pressed against the cool surface of the bar as he surveys the empty taproom. It’s a little over an hour till opening, but the only thing waiting for him outside of this hellhole is an even deeper hellhole, so Dabi almost always finds himself lounging around the abandoned bar. The boss doesn’t care anyway as long as inventory gets taken and any dried blood from the night before is gone by the next day.

You’ve taken to drifting in early too, even sometimes on the nights you don’t work.

Normally, he’d be annoyed, but it’s better you’re here than out on the streets.

At least if you’re bugging him behind the bar, he can keep an eye on you. Dabi’s found recently that you’ve been on his mind with increasing frequency. It’s easier if you’re in his line of sight. There’s a certain reassurance in your dopey little smile and your hand fisted in the back of his shirt—your body knows where you belong even if your pretty little brain hasn’t quite caught up yet.

Pretty.

“My favorite or my best?” he grunts, pushing off the bar and wetting his lips.

“Is there a difference?”

You’re looking at him with what he assumes is meant to be a cocky grin, but he has a hard time taking you seriously with your crossed arms squishing your chest up like that.

“‘Course there is,” he turns to grab one of the highball glasses from it’s rack and sets it down on the counter. “Just because you like something, doesn’t mean you’re good to it.”

When he looks back at you over his shoulder, you’ve got this comical little furrow in your brow.

“To it?”

Dabi presses the tip of his finger into your forehead, “At it, whatever. Don’t frown so much, you’ll look old as fuck soon if you do.”

“You don’t know how old I am,” you scoff and slap his hand away.

“Bet I’m older,” he mumbles, searching the shelves of bottles idly while dropping a few cubes of ice into the glass.

It melts in his palm, slipping through the spaces between his fingers.

Dabi clenches his fist tighter.

“I don’t know about that,” you’re trotting around to the other side of the bar now, slipping into one of the worn, red topped stools and watching him start to mix.

He likes having you for an audience. Any other customer is only concerned with getting his drink as fast a possible, to numb whatever wounds need to be numbed on their insides. But you appreciate the art form of crafting this liquid destruction.

“I’m older where it counts,” he replies simply, pulling a bottle of gin down from near the top shelf and plopping it on the counter.

“Oh really? How’s that?”

Dabi measures out two ounces of sharp, clear liquor and pours it smoothly over the ice. He doesn’t bother looking at you as he works. He knows your eyes won’t leave him.

“Experience,” he offers and doesn’t elaborate.

The tonic water cracks open with a satisfying hiss and bubbles as he tips it into the glass. You trail your fingers through the condensation on the bar absentmindedly.

“I’m not as clueless as you think I am, you know that?”

He does glance at you then, senses the lack of your attention that’s focused on the fading finish of the bar top.

Dabi waits in silence.

You do elaborate.

“There’s some real fucking choice clientele here, but nothing that’s gone down on shifts is like, a new development.”

“No?” he asks because you expect him to respond and because he enjoys the way you perk up when he actually engages in a conversation with you.

He likes that you like it.

His attention.

It’s not often he finds anyone worth the effort.

“No.”

You stare at him expectantly now, eyes flicking between him and the glass as he stirs the drink a few times and grabs a lime wedge.

Dabi rolls his eyes at the clear fishing line you’re casting for more questions, but takes the bait anyway.

He hopes you know how lucky you are.

“What, got groped on the train a few times and now you think you're a seasoned member of the criminal underground?” he squeezes the fruit between two fingers lightly to spread its juice around the rim and lets it float atop the ice. “I fucking knew you were a dramatic little bitch.”

“I am not dramatic,” you pout just like you do every time the boss chews you out.

He gets the distinct feeling you’re just as much of a petulant little brat elsewhere as you are at work. Then again, that is what makes you so interesting. If you didn’t try to gnash those little baby teeth at him every now and again, he wouldn’t have bothered jumping to your rescue so often.

Dabi doesn’t partake in...partners often. People disappoint him, which isn’t shocking considering the amount of shit he’s seen them spew in his years behind the bar. People are dirty and never in the sexy way all those pop songs talk about, and that makes them boring. The allure of inviting someone else into his shoebox little life is shaping them to fit it. You can’t sculpt mud that loses its shape, slips through your fingers and back to the filthy earth where it belongs.

But you haven’t been stained yet.

You sit at his bar looking like a perfect slab of clay, ready for his hands to dip past those sweet, sweet lips and form them to fit only his fingers.

A rare find in a place like this, just like the single malt on his top shelf—unexpected, leaving behind a pleasant burn on his tongue.

He thinks back to that man on the first night he showed you some of the drinks and all the others that came after him. Here, in the bar, you can come scurrying over and hide behind the wall of his chest. You can put Dabi and the counter between you and the mass of hands and whistles.

He hadn’t really bothered to think of what might happen to you when he’s not around.

Who might touch his precious treasure he’s managed to dig out of muck.

Who might try and ruin you before he gets the chance.

His brain is working to rationalize the growing feeling of possession he feels towards the half frown half permanent smile that you fix him with. But he knows.

He knows exactly what he’d like to do to you and how he’d like to do it.

Knows it’s exactly what all those creeps on the train or drunks that stumble in one hour to call would like too.

It’s fine though. People like him wouldn’t be so attracted to people like you if you weren’t asking for it.

And you were asking.

Every time you stood by him, attached at the hip and let him chase off the assholes who tried to get in your pants or practically begged him with your eyes for some scrap of attention—you were asking for him to take control.

Even if you were too stupid to see it for yourself.

Your body knows what you want, even if you deny it with every fiber left of you.

He doesn’t offer another response, just slides the concoction across and into your outstretched hands.

Gin and tonic is simple, bare bones and hard to fuck up. He likes that. Everything else is so goddamn complicated, this type of magic doesn’t need to be.

You seem to forget the weight of the previous conversation and peer curiously down into the glass. Dabi is shameless as he watches your lips wrap around the curved edge and your throat constrict as you swallow.

He likes that more than the floral gin that hits his tongue when you pass the drink back and he sips.

“So which is it, your favorite or your best?”

There’s a pause as he considers the questions before passing the glass back to you.

“My favorite.”

He isn’t looking at the drink when he answers.

“Oh,” you respond quietly, sipping lightly on the drink he’s made and looking at him like he isn’t seconds away from taking you then and there.

“Stay awhile after your shift,” he says, not much thought behind the words. “I’ll drive you home.”

***

You look almost angelic, a beacon amongst the refuse and grime of the back alley, silhouetted by the dying orange glow of a lone street lamp. The door to the kitchen is still rattling in its frame as Dabi pulls you stumbling behind him.

He isn’t angry.

But there’s something burning in him.

In reality, he’d felt the potential of the night the instant he walked through the front doors, slipping behind the bar to clock in only to find you leaned up against the drink racks, ready and waiting.

The same sensation since the first time you’d smiled that dopey smile his way was raging to a crescendo under his skin. He’d been doing you a service all these weeks, keeping you from the prying eyes and fingers of the patrons—keeping them from soiling what was his to ruin.

Tonight he would take what he was owed.

Indulge a bit in what he’d won, the gold nugget he’d plucked from the dirty, city sewer riverbed.

After all, he needed to make sure you were a worthwhile investment.

If the boss thought the restaurant business was risky….well, Dabi knew better.

You struggled a bit as his fingernails dug into the skin on your bicep, but he just tugged harder, clicking his tongue at the jumble of slurred protests you groaned into the sweet summer air. There was a space between the two massive dumpsters out behind the kitchen Dabi used to go to smoke. It was a nice, private little spot. Didn’t smell too great but nothing here did, and that wouldn’t matter when he had you to distract him anyway.

In seconds he had your back to the wall, hidden on either side by steel containers. The brick caught on your uniform and Dabi watched the fabric tighten around your chest and throat. You brought your hands up to his shoulders, but your hands were weak as they shoved at him, easy to gather in one palm and pin down.

He wasn’t exactly sure what put this idea in his head—the urgency in his blood—but it definitely had something to do with that last customer.

It was halfway through your night shift, closing in on one in the morning. Dabi was stuck behind the bar, churning out cheap beers and lines of shots. You’d been forced to brave the sea of regulars, too busy to hide yourself away in the kitchen with Toga or watch with owl-wide eyes as Dabi doled out liquor.

The bar was unusually packed. Not that it was strange for a bar to be full on a Friday night, but he’d never seen the place without an empty seat in sight.

Maybe it was because you were so easily swallowed up by the roiling mass of bodies, or maybe it was because Dabi lost himself in the magic of the drinks—of the mixing and matching and perfecting—that he didn’t notice the man.

That the way this particular customer stared and touched and spoke to you miraculously didn’t end in a smart slap to the face and a screaming session from the manager.

No. It seemed that somewhere along the way he’d let that light in you, the matchstick spark, dwindle just a bit too much, let you sink just a bit too far into the mud of the place. Cause when this man pulled you into his lap and plied you with shot after shot, cheering all the time, calling you his ‘pretty little thing,’ you didn’t put up any fight.

No.

No you smiled that dumb, bright eyed smile at him.

Flashed this nobody asshole Dabi’s sweet little smile and drank the shots he’d poured like Dabi hadn’t wasted the nearly a month driving you home and keeping you safe from the human garbage that wandered in off the street. Like all that work had been for nothing, up in ashes the instant that man’s hand found purchase on your bare thigh and you didn’t so much as squirm in his grip.

You squirm now though.

Fight despite the alcohol blurring your vision and turning your bones to jelly. Normally the boss hates it when his employees drink on shift, but if you want to take it like the fucking slut you were well, who’s Dabi to stop you?

He kept pouring rounds for that table and watched the man tip sweet, top shelf whiskey down your throat. It didn’t take long till you were losing your balance and sinking deeper into the quicksand debris of the bar.

Gin and tonics used to be medicinal—mixed up with quinine to treat malaria. Dabi likes that. Likes the idea that he’s whipping up healing potions instead of Molotovs. Likes the freshness amidst the burn.

But Dabi wants you to burn now.

Wants your throat on fire with the betrayal.

It’s easy to force your knees. The whiskey made you pliant even as you shake your head and look up at him with bleary eyes.

“You’re looking at me now, huh?” he works his tongue across his teeth as the words leave him, spitting straight on your cheek to watch you recoil in disgust. “Didn’t seem too interested in me earlier.”

“I don’t, I’m sorry...what?” you mumble.

He thinks if you were more coherent you might be crying.

Maybe he should have cut you off sooner.

“Don’t act stupid with me,” he still has your hands held above your head and his free hand moves to grip your scalp. “You’ve been behind my bar so many times, there’s no way you don’t know I see everything.”

“Why didn’t you…” Dabi shakes your head as your eyes droop and you gasp at his nails raking your skin. “You could have helped me!”

“What? Help you get fucked by some drunk shit? I don’t think so.”

“No,” you shake your head yourself this time, face screwed up in confusion and as the grit of the alley bites into your knees. “They wouldn’t let me leave, I was scared, Dabi please—”

He is swiftly losing his patience, hand leaving your head to fumble with the clasp of his belt and pants. The look on your face—tears beginning to bead at the corners of your eyes and mouth opening up as words try but fail to find their way off your tongue—is enough to have his cock twitching with interest.

“Listen sweetheart, cause I’m not gonna fucking say this again,” he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in his chest as his dick falls free from his boxers and your eyes go almost all white as he strokes up the ladder of piercings on his shaft. “You might think you’re cut out for this job, but you aren’t shit. Everything’s got a price down here and you’re gonna have to pay the fuck up for what you owe me.”

You look like you want to protest, even in this state—on your knees in an dirty as fuck alley with a fat cock nudging your lips—but he’s got his thumb worked between your teeth, shoving down on your tongue until your jaw pops open and he can sheath himself inside.

The half choke, half sob, half shameful moan that squeezes out past his dick only has Dabi growing harder. It’s been so long since he’s fucked someone’s throat. So long since he’s fucked anything at all, he’s nearly forgotten how goddamn good it feels to have something other than a fist wrapped around him.

His fingers migrate, moving to grip you by the cheeks, keeping your mouth open and jaw locked so you can’t bite him. Not that he thinks you really would.

Your body knows what you want.

And it seems like you really want a fucking dick in your mouth.

He pulls out, listening to the click of the little metal barbells against your teeth and the gasp of air you take before he plunges back in.

“Look at you,” he muses, daring to release your hands which flop uselessly to your sides as he holds your face still and starts to roll his hips. “Don’t know why I waited so long to collect, fucking shit.”

Your neck bulges with every stroke of his hips, and when the ring at the tip of his dick nudges the back of your throat, you gag so pretty he can hardly stand it.

He wonders idly, as you cry and choke on his cock, if you’re thinking about the man in the bar. Wishing it was his length you were lapping at like a good little hole.

Wishing Dabi had been better.

Not like the others.

And for a moment, it has him stilling—the horrid notion that there might have been something not so twisted between you if only he wasn’t scum like the rest, if he wasn’t just hiding his dirt on the inside.

Tar logged lungs and heart.

But then he remembers that if he just fucks you hard enough, you’ll forget all those nasty things until you’re fit just for him. Molded for Dabi right down to the thoughts in your head.

So instead of stopping this now and hoping you’re drunk enough to forget the filth of the alley and the salt of his cum on your tongue, he picks up his pace.

His thighs burn with the effort, not used to this kind of movement after years alone, and your face is a mess of tear tracks and spit that dribbles out in streams around the length of him slamming into your throat.

It’s quick and dirty and hard and everything Dabi has ever been and will always be. Delicious and hot and fresh. His blood is pounding in his ears, drowning out the cries and sobs and whimpers coming from you between his knees. Instead his head is alight with the thought that soon he’ll mark that mouth as his, claim you before the others could. And if the road to hell is paved with good intentions then Dabi doesn’t know where he’s going when he dies, but he’s deep in heaven now.

With a bang and a whimper Dabi will pretend didn’t slip past his lips, he slams past your teeth once more before exploding in your mouth. Thick, white ropes of release coat your tongue and he doesn’t pull out, just works his fingers under your jaw until he feels you swallow around his softening cock.

Only then does he take a step back to survey his work.

Half in shadow, surrounded in trash and debris, cum stained with dirt under your nails, Dabi feels pride well in his chest.

Distantly he thinks that this burning sense of completion, of perfection, of accomplishment, is what an artist must feel—hand finally dropping the brush to gaze upon their life’s work.

A masterpiece.

His perfect, human clay creation.

Your mouth still hangs dumbly open, hands resting on the brick dust coated ground, your eyes are wide and still stare up at him—reminiscent of a peasant gazing onto a king, confused at the power before you. And with the dim burning of the streetlight, illuminating his hair and glinting off the silver piercings adorning his ears, Dabi thinks he must look just that—a king with his crown of bloody jewels.

He watches as you sway and fall forward on your hands and coughing onto the ground. Your chest heaves, your legs shake, and Dabi feels his shoulders soften. He tucks himself away slowly, refastening his belt as your sputtering subsides. With careful steps, he moves to stand in front of you once again, running his hand along the back of your head until your breaths come deeply and his mouth tastes sickly sweet at the way your hands move to grip at his boots.

“Hey,” he mumbles, feeling some strange heat in his face that brings him to his knees before you. “Look at me.”

And you do in an instant.

Dabi half expects a glare, steely and cold like the walk-in but it’s not.

Your eyes are blank and glossy, staring hooded and helpless like a stray cat desperate to be carried away and fed warm milk.

He wipes a bit of his own release from the corner of your mouth and doesn’t question the sudden, intense need to lick behind your teeth. With filthy hands he cups your face and revels in the feel of your swollen lips and the taste of himself on your tongue.

It screams ownership.

And Dabi has never had much to his name so the thought only makes him want to cling harder.

As he pulls away there’s a smear of red dust on your cheek from his thumbs stroking the skin. Marked. Claimed. Coated in a thin layer of grime just like every other poor soul that walks into this place, but that dirt is his. That filth is him, a permanent imprint on your bones.

He thinks you’d look good with his name in black ink etched into your flesh, dark and blatant so anyone who looks at you would know, would see who owns you even when the muck has been washed away.

“You did good,” he says, giving you a smile of his own—maybe his first, surely not his last.

Your voice is nothing more than a sunken ship wreckage of what it once was, interrupted with sniffles and creaks. “I..want to go home….”

“Let me drive you,” his hands reach under your arms to lift you shakily off the ground, head tucked safely into his shoulder as he helps you limp to his car. “Not safe for you to go walking at this time of night. Men can be fucking monsters you know?”

His heart pounds happily in his chest as you nod against him.

“Thanks,” you whisper into his shirt.

Dabi grins wider than he can ever recall. The kind of expression that makes his cheeks ache and his head spin.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” the words drip off his tongue, top shelf truth if he’s ever heard it. “Anytime.”

[fuck-customers]

🤡 employee here with an update!

There have been other incidents, most recent one being that a coworker ( who’s a janitor ) threatened me with physical harm in front of a customer and 3 other coworkers, she was also caught on camera doing this. She’s been specifically targeting me since day one, I believe because it’s a racial thing ( I’m Hispanic and she’s black ), she would follow me during every single one of my breaks and would stand in front of me with her back turned and would mutter to herself and sneak glances at me while occasionally muttering insults all while pretending to tidy up. I’d change spots to eat during my break and she’d always follow me to do this shit, every single time. She would repeat whatever I would say to customers in what sounds like a child’s voice, clearly mocking me, if it was in Spanish she would just mutter gibberish instead. If she wasn’t gossiping about me to whomever was nearby to listen, she would be constantly mumbling “Cuckoo…” or “Oh my god…” repeatedly in that same childish voice while slowly shaking her head like a disappointed parent for some reason. She would also move my stuff to different locations whenever I’d turn around for a second, like if I was restocking sauces, she’d move the boxes to a completely different area on purpose because she would stare at me first while I was busy and wait until I’d go grab more sauce containers to move the boxes. She would also hover over me like some kind of vulture while I would clean and try to order me around in a super bossy tone or remind me that there is a customer at the front counter, when I’d tell her that I’d be right with them in a quick second or that the person was just a Moor Dash delivery guy waiting for the food, she’d immediately get huffy with me and repeat “So fucking rude…” a few times before going to the nearest coworker to tell them about how I’m “just standing there looking pretty”, again she is a JANITOR, she has no business being here at the front counter where I am trying to order me around. She would also scratch at her head A LOT and handle food right after WITHOUT gloves, one of her hands currently having two bandaged fingers! She had threatened me with physical harm because after putting up with her bullshit and constant need to berate me for no reason, I took a deep breath and told her to tone down the attitude and that coworkers ought to treat each other with respect, “I am not your daughter, or your sister, or any other family member for you to be talking to me this way.” ( it wasn’t even the first time I had to tell her this, btw ) she snapped and was instantly inches from my face yelling “It’s a damn good thing that you ain’t my sister or I’d beat your ass! Fucking bitch! You dead! You dead! You dead!” all these witnesses, one of which was actually pulling her arm to keep her away from me, yet no one thought to report this and my coworkers were ushering me back to my register to continue my duties like this was normal ( I have PTSD and was immediately having a hard time focusing due to being forced to relive my childhood abuse ), I later asked the GM if I could talk to her after my break, she said yes and I went to eat to try to calm down and maintain my blood sugar when she ( GM ) approached me and said that she was gonna leave ‘cause her son was conveniently in the ER and said that I could talk to a different manager instead, so I did and asked to switch shifts because I legitimately did not feel safe with a coworker that was constantly stalking me during work and now openly threatening to harm me, I didn’t know the janitor’s name but when I described her appearance the manager immediately identified her by name ( meaning that this was NOT the first time she’s been violent with someone if she was the first person to be thought of when someone’s complaining about feeling threatened ), she then said “Oh, she’s 62 and harmless” before laughing. GM claimed the next day that she “wasn’t really” gonna hurt me and that she’s bipolar. BOTH managers were clearly trying to minimize the situation to make it seem as if it wasn’t really that bad

[disgruntledspacedad]

Javier Peña and commitment

a better love series  character analysis

Okay, not-so-briefly, let me finish what I started with this post, and say a few more words about Javier Peña and commitment. 

I think typical fanon describes Javi as a rogue, smoky, commitment-phobe man slut. The kind of guy who never settles down because he’s too busy having fun with his hookers. And yeah, at first glance, that’s a valid assumption. Javi definitely puts off that vibe. Hell, I think he even believes that of himself. 

I call bullshit, though. 

Javi is obviously an affection starved softie who is seeking intimacy and human contact. He just doesn’t know how to get it. Watch how deeply he connects with each of the women he sleeps with. He publicly greets the hookers in Medellín by name (like seriously what man does this??) and his relationship with Gabby seems intensely personal. He cares about what happens to her. He’s sweet, almost tender with her. 

This is a man with a huge heart and deep, unfulfilled needs.

Now, let me tease apart what I think happened that scarred Javi so profoundly.

I want to start with his family life. 

Now, a lot of this falls deep into headcanon territory, but this entire post is in context of Better Love, so that’s fine. However, I don’t think it’s too far off the mark for canon Javi, too. Just things to bear in mind.

Okay, so in The Kingpin Strategy, Chucho makes references to the fact that Javi has always been free spirited and idealistic. “You couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

Javi says, “It was right here, wasn’t it? The last time we had this conversation.” He sounds resentful, frustrated.

And Chucho replies, “You didn’t listen to me then, either.”

Man oh man, this says a lot. There’s a lot of reference to some very old bitterness, most (but not all of it) on Javi’s end. Let’s break it down.

In Better Love, Javi lost his mom to colon cancer when he was nineteen. We know from canon that he was chomping at the bits to get out of town, so I kind of think that Javi packed his bags the day that he turned eighteen and left. He’s from a small, close knit family, and him taking off into the blue without any warning would have shocked them. It would have hurt. 

The fact that he and Chuco have their conversation in the driveway is telling, too. 

I think Javi spent some significant time estranged from his family, and things were probably still rocky between them when his mom passed away. Colon cancer can be pretty subtle. Javi’s mom didn’t get a diagnosis until it was far too late for effective treatment. It would have hit her hard and fast, and she and Javi may not have had much time to reconcile. Hell, she was upset by Javi leaving - she may not have even told him what was going on.

Ouch.

Now, Javi is a guy that silently shoulders all of the responsibility that he’s not meant to carry, and he’s absolutely going to blame himself for taking off like that, and for being too stubborn to call home and check on Mom. Her death is the first in a series of wounds that lead to Javi’s (very misguided) belief that he’s a shit human, when truly, nothing could be further from the truth. 

Next, let’s talk about Lorraine. 

We know from Javi’s conversation with Steve that he thinks Lorraine was better off without him, giving us another glimpse of that deep seated self-loathing that we know he carries. Javi almost sounds wistful, like he regrets leaving her. Certainly, he regrets hurting her (more proof that Javi is actually a pretty sensitive guy - he knows he fucked up). But then we actually meet Lorraine in season three, and there’s something really weird there. 

Now, granted, Javi left her at the alter. Things are bound to be weird. But look at how he’s drawn to her, like he just can’t help crossing the room to see her again, even years later. That was the first big red flag for me. 

Then, watch how Lorraine treats him. She’s dismissive, pretty biting. And okay, yeah, she’s well within her right to be bitter. But then she says this:

“Can you imagine if we actually were married?”

Like, scoffs it. Guys, that’s a pretty serious dig. Lorraine is implying that Javi is beneath her, that he could never, ever be decent husband material. And watch his reaction. He takes this cut like he’s used to taking this cut from her. I don't know, but to me, it just reeks of a history of toxicity.

Men are absolutely capable of being the victims of toxic relationships and emotional abuse. I mean, duh. But try telling that to Javier Peña, with his tendency to internalize and self destruct. 

It would make a lot of sense to me that their relationship was built on this type of fucked up interaction, with Lorraine constantly pushing Javi to be this perfect dude with a white picket fence, and constantly calling him on his “failure” to do so. Maybe some of it was rooted in racism and classism - Lorraine seems like she could be that petty, materialistic type. Maybe Javi just wasn’t ready to settle down. 

Remember, too, that Javi’s love language is acts of service. He’s not a super romantic guy in the traditional sense, but he wants to do things for the person he loves, practical, tangible things to keep them safe and happy. If Javi thought that he could do better by Lorraine by putting a ring on her finger, it might be pretty easy to persuade him that he “ought” to do that, especially if there’s a continued history of verbal abuse. Remember that we tend to believe the things our abusers say about us, and that most of the time, this stuff starts subtle. If Lorraine is constantly suggesting that Javi’s not good enough for her, eventually, he’s going to fucking believe it. 

And consider the fallout of skipping town on your wedding day. No matter if the relationship is healthy or not, men tend to get the short end of the stick when it comes to breakup sympathy, and to leave a pretty woman like Lorraine waiting at the alter? My god, people would have been vicious to Javi. 

He probably believed all of the shitty things they said about him.

Javi threw himself into his career, and between a dangerous, high stress job with the DEA and never addressing these old hurts (Javi just doesn’t do that, you know), what you wind up with is a deeply wounded, “self sufficient” (read: emotionally constipated) man with raging self esteem issues and an intense fear of emotional intimacy. Now, all of this shit might have scarred Javi, but it doesn’t change his nature. Javi has a huge heart, he’s fiercely idealistic, and he desperately wants to do the right thing. And we all need love and human connection. 

Javi just denies this emphatically. 

But the ugly truth is, Javi avoids long term relationships because he thinks he doesn’t deserve them. It’s not even about being hurt again, not anymore. He almost sees it as an ethical thing, dammit. Give this boy a hug. 

This is why it took a fucking bomb to get him off his ass and admit his feelings for Ears. Javi would never, ever have done that without something very radical catching his attention. He would have let Ears walk straight out of his life, and yeah, it would have torn him to pieces, and he’d have always regretted it and wondered ‘what if,’ but that fear is an old, deeply rooted thing. That’s why I have Ears sort of pick up on the gravity of Javi saying, “I’m all in,” to her at the end of The Rules of Engagement. She’s not eloquent, but she’s pretty intuitive, and she knows that a commitment is something that Javier Peña does not take lightly.

And let me just say this about commitment: Javier Peña is a man who honors his fucking commitments. Watch what he’s willing to do for his informants - he always, always puts their wellbeing first, even before his own, even before the integrity of the hunt for the cartels. 

And Javier Peña is beyond devoted to bringing down the cartels. Like, that’s his entire arc in the show, right?

He’s committed to justice, too. Like fiercely, will do fucking anything to make things right, to make them fair. He wants to do the right thing so much it burns.

So, I don’t think it’s fair at all to say that Javier Peña is a man who fears commitment. He fears intimacy, while at the same time, he craves it. He fears human connection, when really, that’s the thing he needs most. 

But he doesn’t fuck around once he decides something. 

Which is the really, really fun thing about Better Love. For the first time, we get to see Javier Peña, the idealist who wears his poorly disguised heart blatantly on his sleeve, the man who goes for broke trying to get things done, the man who’s passions literally destroy him, in an intensely emotional relationship with another human. One who is just as devoted to him in return. 

So, anyway, if you’re still reading this, wow. I just wanted to babble about how Javier Peña is far more than brooding testosterone. Actually, he’s a very soft boy who needs patience and a lot of healing, and somebody who is willing to meet him exactly where he is and love him because of it.

And I want to give him that. 

[turtle-steverogers]

first kiss on bucky's 17th birthday

Bucky started it but it was an accident, and steve just kissed him back

OKAY SO this totally inspired me but i changed up the thought a bit and it ended up being bucky's 21 birthday adkjflaksdjflaksjflk

anyway here's a fic

warnings: alcohol consumption, a very brief allusion to child abuse-- nothing graphic or detailed

Lips Lined with Whiskey

The bottle feels weighted in Steve’s hands, wrapped in newspaper and secured with old twine he’d found in his ma’s closet, her things still as untouched as the day she’d left for the hospital. He’d been reluctant to meddle with the space, but two years since her passing meant it was about time Steve ought to be using some of the practical things she’d kept around, if only to not let it go to waste. Crumple in the back of her closet and turn to dust, cursed to slip through Steve’s fingers like the rest of her.

Besides, he thinks she’d approve of the way he’d artfully tied the twine around the neck of the bottle, painted dark green and lending the illusion of vines drifting down over a small picnic scene he’d painted on the newspaper. She’d always been one for artfully crafted gifts and he knows she would have wanted this for Bucky, too. Because it’s not every day your best pal turns 21, and steve had paid a pretty penny-- an entire two weeks savings-- to get Mrs. McConnell down the hall to buy this bottle of Gilbey’s.

He rounds the corner onto their street in Brooklyn Heights, feet and back aching from a full day of work and his detour afterwards to pick up the whiskey and wrap it. The straps on his back brace are finicky, but he really should start wearing it again. Maybe he’ll ask Bucky to take a look at them when it’s not his birthday.

It stunk that he couldn’t spend the whole day with Bucky on his 21st, but he hadn’t been able to get the day off. Either way, Bucky had gone out with a few of their pals from school, then to a bar with a couple of his work friends, so Steve’s sufficiently convinced he wasn’t lonely. He takes the stairs, going slow so his back doesn’t protest much further, and tries to gear himself up for a night of drinking. It’s not like they hadn’t gotten drunk together before, but there was something inherently thrilling about doing it for an occasion, and not because Bucky was able to jack some of his father’s liquor on one of their weekly dinners home.

Bucky is back from his celebrations when Steve gets through the door and he looks up at Steve, midway through pulling off his tie. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone and his belt is hanging out of the loops of his trousers. His hair sticks up in disarray where it was evidently pulled at and Steve’s gaze immediately finds the hickey on his collarbone.

Smirking, he says, “Looks like you had a happy birthday.”

Bucky laughs, full and bright, and it’s enough to make Steve’s stomach flip. He’s grown used to breathing through these moments of desire and spares a moment to thank god that he isn’t the jealous type. He’d much rather let his heart soar with Bucky’s laugh than let it sink at the sight of a hickey. Who wouldn’t want a piece of Bucky Barnes? Besides, it’s not like Steve hasn’t sucked dick in the bathrooms of the local queer bars Bucky doesn’t know he goes to, so it’s only fair he grants Bucky the same benefit.

“It was fine,” Bucky says, still grinning. He’s shed his tie completely now and is in the process of shucking off his trousers, hanging that and his shirt on the back of his desk chair. Only in his undergarments now, he slumps down on the edge of his bed and it’s then that Steve notices he’s drunk already. Of course he is. Why hadn't Steve considered that? Oh well, he can catch up, or something. “Got three shots in with the guys, then Lizzy Williams was yanking me out the back door. Gave me an epic suckjob. Think I still got lipstick on my dick.”

Steve’s eyebrows climb up. “Lizzy Williams? From high school?”

“Yup,” Bucky says, slumping back on his bed. He’s half hard in his shorts and his skin is flushed with intoxication. It’s nothing Steve hasn’t seen before, but god, he wants to touch him. He wants to take him out of his shorts and take him deeper than Lizzy Williams had, suck right past that lipstick stain. His own dick twitches and he clenches his jaw, looking away. “She was there with some of her girlfriends, I don’t really remember.”

Steve smiles and sets the bottle gently on their table, working to shed his own clothes.

“Well it sounds like you had a lot of fun,” he says, stripping down to his own shorts and socks.

Bucky hums. “Still wish you coulda come, though.”

Steve’s chest pangs. It’s moments like these where he has to reconcile the fact that Bucky still makes him feel special-- that he could have chosen any best friend out there, and he chose him.

“Me too,” he says. He picks back up the bottle and goes to sit on Bucky’s bed, wincing as his spine creaks when he sits. “But we can celebrate together now. Sit your ass up, I got you a present.”

“Oh, darling, you shouldn’t have,” Bucky teases. It feels like a punch to the gut.

Steve pinches his thigh. “Come on, you lug.”

“Alright, alright.” Bucky sits up, swaying a little until his bicep is flush with Steve’s. “Whatcha got for me?”

“Happy birthday!” Steve exclaims, handing Bucky the bottle.

Bucky takes it, eyebrows quirking up, before his expression morphs into wonder, then something distinctively softer as he takes in the painting. He runs his thumb over the scene, stopping on the two little boys in the picture-- one blond, one brunet. With them is a woman with brown curls and a younger girl with chestnut hair and a pretty pink dress.

“That was my seventh birthday,” he murmurs.

Steve nods. “First one I spent with you.”

Mrs. Barnes had taken them for a picnic in Prospect Park. It had been the first birthday celebration Steve had been invited to and felt like he actually belonged. They’d shared a whole loaf of bread and cheese and tossed grapes into each other’s mouths, making a competition over who could catch the most.

Bucky looks up at Steve, eyes swimming. He’s always been an emotional drunk.

“Stevie, this is--” he shakes his head, wiping clumsily at an eye as he reaches out to pull Steve into a one armed up. Steve goes willingly, face smashing against his shoulder. The angle hurts his lower back, but he stays put and hugs Bucky back. “God, you’re so talented and just-- such a good pal. You’re my best pal ever.”

He presses a sloppy kiss to the top of Steve’s head and Steve laughs, blushing hard and trying to ignore that. He reasons that Bucky’s just extremely affectionate.

“That ain’t even your real present,” he says, gesturing to the package.

“May as well be,” Bucky mumbles, then shoves the bottle back into Steve’s hand. “You open it. I don’t trust myself not to mess up the painting.”

“Sure,” Steve says, and carefully undoes the twine, worried about breaking that, too. He lays the bottle across his lap and eases the newspaper off, making sure to smooth it out afterwards so the painting is more visible. Bucky takes it and sets it on his bedside table.

“I’ll hang that later,” he says, probably to himself. Steve passes him the bottle.

“Happy birthday,” he says again, and Bucky groans, taking it.

“Aw, hell, this is the good stuff,” he bemoans. “Fuck, if I’d known we were gonna have this, I wouldn’t have gotten proper drunk. Shit, how much did that cost you?”

“Don’t matter,” Steve says, eyes twinkling. He’s glad Bucky likes it, even if he’s got a funny way of saying so.

Bucky glares at the bottle, then determinately pops the cap. He wafts it and pulls a face. Steve can smell it from where he’s sitting. It’s really strong stuff, apparently.

“Fuck it,” Bucky says and stands to get two glasses. “I’m having one shot, then you’re catching up and hiding the bottle. Got it?”

Steve nods, mock saluting. “Got it.”

Bucky salutes back with a glass in hand, then motions for Steve to hand him the bottle. He pours them each two fingers of whiskey. Steve takes the glass closest to him, then holds it up.

“Cheers,” he says. “To you being officially an old man.”

Bucky grins. “You’ll get there soon, kid.”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve says, because he’ll be twenty in four months and he really isn’t that much younger than Bucky.

They grin at each other, then take the shots, hissing as it burns their throats. Steve feels it settle in his chest, somewhere in his sternum, and he grins. It won’t take much for him to be where Bucky is.

“Shit, that’s good,” Bucky says, dazed eyes wide and serious.

Steve snorts and takes the bottle, pouring himself another two fingers. “And you’re not having anymore tonight,” he says, and downs the next shot.

A half hour later, they’re laying on Bucky’s bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s spinning and Steve tries to follow it with his eyes, which just makes him more dizzy. Idly, he clacks his teeth together. They’re tingling.

“I’m so drunk,” he says, needlessly.

“Mmm, me too,” Bucky hums.

Steve lolls his head to look at him, studying his profile-- his strong jaw and sweaty hair that’s too long and curling behind his ear. His hand seems to move on autopilot as he reaches out to tug at a curl. Bucky looks at him and smiles.

“Was she good?” Steve finds himself asking. At Bucky’s confused expression, he elaborates. “Lizzy Williams. Was she good at sucking you off?”

Bucky shrugs. “She was fine. Why? You want her to suck you?”

Steve shakes his head, fingers still playing with the hair behind Bucky’s ear. He chocks it up to inebriation that Bucky isn’t pushing him away.

“Nah, not my thing,” he says, before he can think about it.

Bucky frowns. “What is your thing then?”

Steve shrugs. “Rather be the one sucking than being sucked.”

Bucky’s eyes widen and it’s then that Steve realizes what he’s saying-- what he’s telling Bucky while his hands are on his skin, while they’re close to each other in nothing but their boxers. Close. In the same bed.

He freezes, eyes going wide as well.

“Shit, Buck, I-- forget I said that. Dunno why I told you that,” he says, voice slurring as he pulls away. He starts to sit up, heart slamming in his chest. Stupid. He’s stupid. Why did he tell Bucky that? “Fuck, sorry, I’ll just--”

He’s halfway off the bed when he feels a hand close around his wrist. He stops moving, his breathing loud in the quiet space. He doesn’t dare look at Bucky.

“Steve,” Bucky says, and he sounds more sober than he did two minutes ago. “Do you mean that?”

Steve grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything.

“Steve,” Bucky says again, more imploring. “Are you-- is this-- you’re queer?”

“Is that a problem?” Steve snaps, even though he knows he is. He knows it’s wrong, and that his father was right-- he really is some little fairy.

But then he’s being gently pulled back, turned around, and when Bucky tugs him to sit back on the bed, there’s no vitriol in his gaze. Steve looks at him through a wall of unshed tears and prays that there’s no catch. That he’s not about to be hit. He never wanted to be hit by a drunk man again.

Bucky shakes his head and reaches up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing away a tear that’s fallen. “Breathe,” he murmurs, and Steve realizes his chest is tight. He pulls in a desperate breath. “How long have you known?”

How long has he-- oh.

“My whole damn life,” he whispers.

Bucky nods. “Me too,” he whispers back and Steve gasps, hand flying up to cover the hand on his cheek.

“Buck?”

“Wasn’t sure, but then I laid my eyes on you and I knew. I knew.”

And Steve’s world feels like it’s screeching to a halt, ears ringing as he latches onto Bucky’s gaze.

“Me? But, Buck you-- all those girls and--”

Bucky shrugs and he looks nervous now, dropping his hand to his lap. “I like girls, too. That wasn’t a lie or-- or a cover. I just-- I like both? Fellas and girls and-- mostly you. Just… never knew how to, you know. Or if it was even safe and sometimes you’d look at me a certain way and think maybe, but… but then I always thought it was my imagination.” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Even now, I’m jumping to assumptions you’re queer for me. It’s dumb.”

I’m too drunk for this, Steve thinks vaguely.

“Not dumb,” Steve mumbles, reaching out for Bucky’s hand. “Had eyes for you before I even knew what it meant to notice someone.”

Bucky swallows, lifting his gaze. There’s a weight between them that feels terrifying and whole. Steve revels in it, leans into the feeling, and laces their fingers together.

“I want to kiss you,” Bucky says.

“I want that, too,” Steve breathes, then shakes his head. “But not-- we’re drunk. I don’t want to while we’re drunk.”

Bucky’s face falls for a moment, but he nods. “Can I hold you then?”

Steve answers by moving into Bucky’s lap, straddling him in a way that could be heated, but turns soft and sweet the moment Bucky cups the back of his head and carefully kisses his cheek-- unassuming. Not a sealed deal yet. And when they fall asleep, the alcohol pulling them under an indiscernible amount of time later, Steve feels warm where their chests meet.

-

When he wakes, the first thing Steve notices is that he’s hungover, cotton on his tongue and head steadily throbbing. The second thing he notices is that he’s in Bucky’s bed and there’s a weight behind him-- warm and heavy-- and oh fuck. Oh fuck.

The night before comes flooding back. The whiskey, the talk of Lizzy Williams and suck jobs, the admissions that Steve remembers clearly despite the alcohol. He scrambles to turn around, terrified for a moment that he was remembering it wrong and Bucky will be gone, or change his mind or--

Fingers catch under his chin, a thumb smoothing back to soothe his jaw. He sucks in a breath instinctively and looks up at Bucky, who is already awake, propped on an elbow and looking down at him.

“You sober?” he asks, an easy smile on his face. Steve can see the tightness of his eyes, though. The fear.

He nods, words evading him.

Bucky thumbs over his lip. “May I?”

With all the willpower he can muster, Steve manages to breathe, “Yes.”

And then they’re kissing, a quiet fanfare that turns into flickering sparks as they sink into each other. It’s nothing like Steve imagined and everything he thought heaven would be. Warm and whole and utterly safe.

He reaches up to cup Bucky’s jaw in turn and moves to lay over him, bearing down with his heart and soul as the kiss deepens. Unknowns fill the space around them, but as Bucky’s arms wind around his back, pulling him close, he knows it will be okay. They’ll be okay.

Tilting his head, Steve takes a step off the edge, knowing Bucky will take the freefall with him.

-

thanks for reading y'all!

[rein4r1]

Portrait

Wc: 1.9k

Warning/s: Homophobia, Signs of Mental Illness, Mentions of Mental and Physical Abuse, Mentions of sexual activity, Dark Content

Pairing: [Modern AU] Mikasa x F!Reader (They/Them)

Genre: Fluff if you squint, Angst

Synopsis: On which Mikasa offers them a solution to their problems

or

They couldn't help but create a different reality

MINORS READ WITH DISCRETION

“So tell us Y/n L/n”

“Tell you what? I have nothing to tell you!”

“Tell us why you killed your parents.”

They pulled her knees to their chests, tightening their hold. The air from the AC doing nothing but worsen the already dreadful atmosphere. With shaking hands, they touched the side of their face, feeling the sting from where their father slapped them from hours ago. It wasn’t his aggressiveness that hurt them nor was it the shattered frame of a portrait that stood proudly on top of the island table, but it was their mother’s words; “I can’t believe we have a homosexual under our roof!”

Their parents were always conservative, believing that people who like the same sex are nothing but sinful. In all honesty, they believed every word they fed growing up. At least until they met her. Maybe deep down, they were already different from what their parents fear, just hiding in the closet. The first time they saw her was in the middle of the hallway, junior year in high school. To be honest, they didn’t have friends, them having friends is far-fetched anyway.

Not only did they hate their situation at home, but they also hate their situation at school. It’s not like they’re physically troubled by other kids, but they can always hear their murmurings, clearly them being the subject of their gossip.

“For someone with a pretty appearance, they sure are crazy.”

“Shut up! They might hear.”

School was already hell for them; just in the middle of the hallway stood a girl with short black hair, there she stood in the sea of despondence. They always had a downcast look, when was the last time they stared at anything but their feet. They can’t help but be drawn to her dark orbs, something about her enigmatic look draws them to her. The felt their body move automatically towards her, but in the heap of the crowd, she was gone. Their eyes searched any nook and cranny for her, hoping that there’s something she left by. And they felt it, the erratic beating of their hearts, as if nothing will help to calm it.

The next time they saw her was at the school’s courtyard, sitting at one of the benches looking like she’s lost in her own thoughts. They slowly approached her, sitting just at the other end of the bench. As if sensing their presence, her head turns towards them. Her face shows aloofness, but their eyes bore in theirs with curiosity. She turned her head back to the horizon, clearly not minding their presence.

“You look sad.” ‘What?’

“You look like… you’ve been failed by the people around you…” she continues as they look at her with sadness in their eyes.

“Wha- What are you talking about?...” And out of the blue, she pulled them towards her, letting their head rest on her shoulder. She brought her hand to caress their hair, and all they could do is cry. It’s been so long since they became vulnerable, looking no different than a walking corpse. “Don’t worry Y/n, I’m here now.” ‘Huh but how does she know my name?’

“Wait how did you-“

“I’ve always been watching you Y/n, I’m sorry it took me a long time.” They look at her face and saw genuine repentance. “But I haven’t- I don’t know who you are.” As if sensing their growing confusion, she smiled; “Mikasa, my name’s Mikasa.”

Mikasa is their first friend and the first person they talked outside of their family. They didn’t feel alone anymore with the girl beside them. The once suffocating halls didn’t feel smothering anymore. Their eyes didn’t look downcast, it slowly began to look less dull and look more with vigor. But that didn’t do anything to lessen the outlandish look their schoolmates gave them, their mumblings only continue to worsen. It didn’t matter anymore, since Mikasa is by their side, and she didn’t feel alone anymore.

Mikasa slept over at their house, this was something they’ve been looking forward the whole weekends. Lying together in their bed as they faced each other, Mikasa brought her nimble finger to draw in their features as she reached stay strand of their hair and placed it behind their eye. As if there was an unknown force that compels them to each other, they felt her lips brush against theirs in a gently manner. Feeling the way their lips moved in sync with each other, Mikasa’s kisses were steady, gentle, and slow

She looks at them as if she revers them with her whole entirety. They felt her hands drag across their skin like an adagio. Mikasa looked at their eyes for any signs of discomfort, but they only brought themselves closer as an answer. And that night, they made love under the light emanating from the moon.

A few days later, Y/n sat at the dining area with their parents for dinner. Their mother was babbling about how charming their neighbor’s son is. It fell into deaf ears of course, only having Mikasa in their thoughts.

“Y/n you should meet Mr. Grice’s son, I heard he’s about your age.” They snapped their head towards their father, they could not believe the words that came out of his mouth. Never in her life did he appreciate them having any malefriends. “You ought to have friends at your age, create a network with people.”

“I already have a friend ‘pa” he could only dismiss their reply. Their mother clearly being insistent on bringing the Grice boy and them together. “I know both of you are taking your exams for university, it doesn’t hurt having room for more people in your life.”

“I thought you never wanted me to have any guy friends.”

“But it’s the Grices we’re talking about.” They came to understand their mother’s intentions. The Grice family were considered wealthy and influential, who doesn’t want to marry into a rich family anyway? Obviously, Y/n L/n who only has Mikasa in their heart. Plus, the Grice boy already had an army of girls (and boys) willing to be his significant other. It was supposed to be a normal dinner, with them minding their business, leaving their parents to whatever chit chat they’re engrossed in. That is until, their father said something that triggered more on her already displeased mood.

“God, those sinners, parading around for some rights when they clearly don’t deserve any.” Her father muttered in disgust. The television was on, displaying news about a protest done by the LGBTQ+ community in accordance with the rights of their transgender brothers and sisters, considering that there is a rise of crimes towards the group. “If only they weren’t that then people wouldn’t-“

“I’m gay.” Their parents snapped their heads towards her, their expressions full of vexation.

“Y/n come again? What did you-“

“I’m fucking gay ‘ma, and I appreciate that the both of you stop asking those people for liability for something they clearly didn’t do, especially that they- we, are discriminated by people like –“ SLAP

They looked at their horrific faces, hand on their cheek. They expected this, they knew they were like this, but they couldn’t stand them any longer. They couldn’t help but think of Mikasa, the fact that they have this kind of mindset already means that after learning Mikasa’s existence, they’ll get in between them.

“I can’t believe we have a homosexual under our roof!” Their mother cried and their father’s face full of furry. “Go inside your room! We’ll deal with you later. FuckI can’t look at you right now without having the urge to murder you! And I don’t want to commit a sin like you!” Their father’s voice echoes around the room, as they quickly left her unfinished dinner, seeking solace inside their room. Sitting at the innermost corner of their bed, they leaned against the wall and brought their knees towards their chest. They expected them to be like this, but deep down they were hoping that they’d understand, that they’d accept them for who they are.

They felt their phone ring as they moved towards the bedside table and saw a text from Mikasa.

They immediately dashed towards their mini balcony, and there she is, Mikasa in all her glory. Seeing her made them break down, they found solace with this woman. To them, Mikasa is their sanctuary. Mikasa held them tight under the dark sky and the cold wind of the early hours of morning. She listened to them as they bawl their eyes out, pressing kisses on their face in hopes that this will make them feel better.

“I have something for you.” Mikasa reached something in her pocket to reveal a necklace with a vial as its pendant. They looked at the necklace with an astonished look, Mikasa then proceeds to wear the necklace on their neck. “You know you can do this Y/n” Mikasa smiled at them as she pressed another kiss on her shoulder, wrapping her arms around them. “I know you can”

Their parents woke up at the delightful smell of breakfast. They were bemused at the food that is already prepared on the table.

“Oh, both of you are awake, I prepared breakfast.” Their father looked at them suspiciously, but she only smiled cheerfully.

“What is this? Didn’t we tell you to-“

“I would like to apologize for yesterday, I was clearly stressed because of my exams. I was probably just confused… Yeah just stressed” they chuckled, they felt a bit unsure of their words, but they only brushed it off, content that their child finally came into their senses. They took a sip of their tea, as they began to converse with their parents. “You know about Grice, maybe I’ll approach him later at school.”

“Really? That’s great Y/n!” Her mother chimes.

“Yes ‘ma” They continue to look at their parents. Minutes pass as something went eerie that they could not explain. ‘Something’s weird’ their father glanced at their grinning face. They suddenly lack the ability to speak. As they slowly grow limp from their chairs. They could only stare at their child’s retreating form as the light in their gets swallowed by darkness.

“Tell us why you killed your parents.” Are they out of their mind? Kill? Why would Y/n kill their parents? They may have hurt them too many times, but they could never hurt their parents.

“Kill? I did not kill them!”

“The autopsy showed signs of poisoning, and the investigating team found its connection with the tea they drank. In addition, you were the last person they were last seen with.” They were confused, the tea?... The tea!

“It wasn’t me… It was… It was Mikasa!” Their eyes widen in confusion. “She gave me a vial. It was her!” They wrote their claim down on a piece of paper.

“Mikasa?... I need her last name.” He probes. ‘Wait, she never did give me her last name.’ The officer slid a small envelope. The opened it to reveal a portrait that looks oh so familiar. It’s one of the portraits her father flounced in the heat of anger. A portrait of a young woman with a baby in her hands. ‘No this can’t be… this is just a coincidence. This woman-‘

“-is Mikasa Ackerman, the one who gave birth to your mother.”

That night, they never received a text from her. It was only their alarm setting off.

An: I feel like this is badly written so bsoibhaoibh

I apologize for any grammatical errors and improper use of punctuation marks.

[mirandalinotto]

Why I hate the CAOS video essay that came out a week ago

Did anyone else get extremely angry at the way Friendly Space Ninja discussed all of the female characters in CAOS? like, don't get me wrong... I understand most of the points he's making, and agree with a lot of what he says in the video essay (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina: A Frustrating Waste of Potential), but when he speaks about Zelda, Lilith, Prudence, and Rosalind, I don't know... i just get a bad vibe. It's like he's doing a "bad faith” analysis, and it bothers me, because CAOS has so many parts to validly criticize, and yet he missed the mark more often than he hit it, in my humble opinion.

He basically says the same thing over and over again: that the actors were good, but the characters were bad, because they were all boring, shallow, and one-note, or whatever... and it's like... dude? of all the things you could say (especially about Zelda and Lilith in particular), the characters being “boring" isn't really the biggest criticism one ought to have of this show...?!? and it isn't even accurate?

Like why aren't you criticizing the trauma porn? Why aren't you criticizing the butchering of Lilith's mythology? Why are you ignoring all of the character development that does happen (particularly with regard to Zelda, whom he actively seems to hate) in favor of insisting none of these characters have an arc? It’s not beneficial to anyone if you’re going to criticize a show’s characters by actively misrepresenting them!

Which brings me to my next point: one of the things that bothered me the most was just how surface-level his analysis was. You could tell he hadn’t watched the show in a while, and clearly wasn’t interested in celebrating any part of it—which is okay, if you just want to roast Roberto for an hour, be my guest—but why does it feel like this video essay was the YouTube video equivalent of writing a book report on a novel you only skimmed…? He made a lot of generalizations that made it seem like he only watched the first season, and then paid no attention to the rest.

For example, some of his arguments are just so random and insignificant? Like why does he make shallow observations the basis of whole arguments about characters, such as when he goes on about how Zelda says 'Praise Satan' too much and “it got old"...?!?! Like what kind of bullshit analysis is that...? How is that even close to being something worthy of talking about in a video essay that is an hour and twenty minutes long...? Why are you taking such a trivial aspect of her character and making it a talking point in a video that is already much longer than it needs to be?

And while I agree with what he said about Lilith's motivations being inconsistent/unclear at times, and that Zelda's character growth wasn't as linear or developed as it could be, it really feels like he didn't even try to understand these characters at all. I realize I'm biased, because all I do is try to understand them and explain their motivations... but still! If you're making a video about the wasted potential of CAOS, why do you immediately dismiss almost the entire female cast, pretty much out of hand, when they're the foundation of the show...? They ARE the potential?! The good parts about them ought to have been given some credit? Like why does he fail to acknowledge all of the trauma these female characters went through that very much informs their decisions, and instead makes it sound like nothing the characters do make sense? While I might not always agree with every choice these characters made, there usually is something driving them to do whatever it is they’re doing, and particularly in the case of Lilith and Zelda, it’s not that hard to understand why they make irrational decisions sometimes, when they’re literally surrounded by abusers and everything is constantly blowing up in their faces.

Also, something smaller that really pisses me off is that he includes Zelda sending Blackwood out of the room during the birth of the twins as an example of the show's misandry and "bad feminism," but that's literally not what that moment is about? If he stopped to think about it for a moment, the moment is perfectly logical. Zelda is a midwife, who was most likely trained in the 1800s, when men literally weren't meant to be around when the the birth happened, so how is she being a misandrist just by doing what she’s been taught, especially when they’re all in a crisis situation? Men not being allowed in the room is an established part of the history of women’s health/childbirth, and it isn’t exactly obscure knowledge! Men used to be forced/asked to sit in the waiting room during labor, and before that, when home births were the status quo, midwives definitely wouldn’t allow men in the room as a matter of course. In fact, it wasn't until the 1970s that men being in the delivery room became a more normalized practice. So, men being present/witnessing a birth is a far more "modern" thing than I think people realize, and the exclusion of them from the delivery room has absolutely NOTHING to do with women hating men...? like fuck off with that “misandry” argument, in this instance. do some research before you start reaching that far, so as to act like Zelda was being hateful for simply following “industry standards,” if you want to call it that. There are medical articles that still come out to this very day that argue that no one should be in the delivery room besides the person giving birth and the doctors and nurses, because the husband/partner often gets in the way and distracts the medical team at critical moments. (Also men tend to faint or get sick at the sight of the birth, which then forces the team to split their focus in order to see to the unconscious man on the floor.)

And don't get me started on the anti-Zelda rant he goes on towards the end!! While I agree very much that Zelda is a flawed character, he uses an example of her degrading Hilda that isn't even something she actually did?! It's from a dream sequence!?!?!? like dude, did you even watch these episodes/scenes before you talked about them?!? He uses the example of dream-Zelda criticizing Hilda's appearance as a reason why Zelda is such a bitch, and I'm like... seriously? that literally wasn't her? just because Zelda said it in Hilda's nightmare, doesn't mean Zelda said it in real life, and should be criticized for it...?!

But yes, Zelda is abusive to her sister, and classist, and rude, and many of the things that he says--but when he tries to argue that because she's a woman, nobody cares that she's like that, and it’s a problem, because that’s evidence of more misandry… that’s where he loses me. He sees it as yet another issue with Roberto's writing—that he gives qualities that would be condemned in a male character to a female character, and allows that woman to be one of the "good guys" ...but yet again, dude... you're completely missing the point?!? Women are allowed to be flawed, without you seeing it as some gross failure of feminism?

He also at one point claims that Zelda resents Ambrose, and hates having him around, when I would argue Zelda actually really values Ambrose and has a close relationship to him...? Like did we even watch the same show?

I didn't expect to get this heated about a video essay that made a lot of other points that I agreed with (mainly the dragging of Roberto parts). But in my opinion, this guy got really offended by Roberto's fake feminism (which is valid), but then proceeded to tear down all of the female characters for an hour and twenty minutes straight...?! All he did was talk about how they're all misandrists and shallow characters and therefore the show isn't worth watching? like okay... but here's the thing... plenty of women have made it through shows that have misogyny at their very core, and have still managed to find the good points...? Game of Thrones is like the most popular show of all time, even though there's misogyny in every aspect of it, for historical “realism" purposes (*rolls eyes*). Zelda and Lilith's defining qualities aren't solely related to hating men, so it really pisses me off that he made it seem like that's all that shapes them, and that every time they insult or manipulate a man, it’s completely unjustified.

idk. I feel like I just watched an 83-minute roast on a show I love despite it's flaws, and that roast wasn’t mostly focused on all of the biggest flaws that I would’ve brought up, but rather on how all of the female characters are terrible and their misandry makes the show unwatchable.

So let me get this straight: you're hating on the female characters... in order to show how much of a feminist YOU are, as opposed to Roberto...?

Wow. Much feminism. Very enlightened analysis.

[soulwillower]

crush culture • richie tozier

(richie tozier x reader)

requested: fic where Richie and reader have been best friends since kindergarten, and have always had feelings for eachother secretly, until one day richie gets a girlfriend (just to take his mind off her), and the reader gets jealous and distances herself from him? he obviously gets upset by this- and things go on from there? sorry if it’s too specific! love u!

warnings: swearing, brief mentions of death, fighting, mentions of an abusive relationship, intentionally pissing off richie, a bit of angst, richie is an oblivious idiot, but reader is MUCH more of an idiot, like dude lmao, but i think that’s it, unedited tho

this isn’t rly based off crush culture, but i took the title from conan gray’s song :)  

[losers + reader are 18+ in this!!!]

3.8k words L O L :))

♡

you swear to god, you’re getting sick. that’s what this was, for sure.

it started about a month ago, when you started to get headaches and terrible hollow feelings in your stomach. it happened everywhere - in the line for coffee, in class, driving home from school, at the dinner table. but it got a hundred times worse at night and then seemed to triple in force every morning when you woke.

and it all came at you some time after richie announced he had a new girlfriend.

you were really sick the few days after that, enough that you stayed home from school and laid in bed, the pit in your stomach sinking. it didnt take long for you to realize how bad richie’s girlfriend was - she treated him like a dog, like he embarrassed her - and he didn’t even seem to mind. he just brushed off every offhand comment, rolled his eyes with a grin when she told him she didn’t want to see his friends or when she told him to stop talking. 

he still seemed to like her, anyways. and that thought made your stomach convulse.

so then you had to distance yourself from richie because it hurt you to see him with her. it hurt you to see him with someone who didn’t treat him like the incredible person he was. 

so yeah.

you say you’re sick, but you know that’s not really true. it’s easier than accepting reality at this point, though, so you spew this nonsense (to yourself, mostly) in order to justify ignoring your best friend of nearly a decade because christ, he is becoming unbearable.

like the other day, at lunch while you were all sitting in the courtyard. it was your first time eating with them again after almost a week and a half, as you’d been eating alone in your car recently to avoid richie. “rich, why’d you take off the nail polish?” bev asked, out of the blue, sounding disappointed as she grabbed his free hand and examined it.

he blew smoke out of his mouth slowly and you had forced yourself to look away, the sight of richie doing nearly anything these days being pretty dangerous for you. it also made you sigh a bit - you knew he only smoked at lunch now, since his girlfriend hated it.

“don’t want my paws to be prettier than y/n’s when we hold hands.” he had joked, wagging an eyebrow at you. you’d shook your head and looked to the ground in lew of a real response, just as you had been doing a lot recently.

you'd missed richie’s frown at your reaction, but you did catch his next statement as it was added on, “nah, actually it’s because the ol’ G-F didn’t like it. thought it looked too girly.”

you, stan, bev, and mike all stopped chewing to look at richie, in varying stages of bewilderment. you'd cleared your throat quickly but decided against speaking up just as richie’s phone started to ring. he’d answered it nearly immediately, the enthusiasm of which made you feel like you’re going to be sick again - because richie never answers your calls until the last possible minute.

god, jealousy is a fucking disease.

“hey, sugar.” he had purred suavely into the phone and for some reason, hearing him call someone else sugar had you abruptly rising, gathering your things and nearly running off to put as much distance between you and four-eyes as you possibly could, because you’re not sure how much more you could take.

after that, you were absolutely sure it was just pure denial on your part.

as far as you could tell, richie wasn't noticing too much. he still phoned your house every day, just to be met with your mother telling him you 'weren't available,' and then he'd call your own phone, which you'd let buzz itself into a dark hole on your bedside table while you stared at it solemnly, guilt heavy on your mind as he left voicemail after voicemail. 

he doesn't deserve it, you think as you open the doors to the school library, backpack on your shoulders. but you can't help it. you're not his girlfriend, and you're not mature enough to accept that with any ounce of elegance so instead you just ignore him all together. at least you're self-aware, right? that ought to count for something.

you shake your head just as a voice catches your attention, “well look who decided to show up!”

richie's sitting at the usual study table in the very back corner of the library, a spot tucked away by rows upon rows of dusty books and an alcove of couches. bill sits at the head of the table, scribbling his chicken scratch handwriting onto graph paper, mike next to richie with a textbook spread out flat. across from mike is stan, writing out his statistics work. 

all three of them wave at you before going back to their work, whereas richie just watches you expectantly. his feet are kicked up on the table, textbook balanced on his lap as he hovers on two leg chairs. his smile is as blinding as always, a dimple faint on his left cheek and full eyebrows raised in jest. his curls frame his face perfectly and you want to scream.

but you take your seat next to stan with a tight lipped smile, not really sure how to respond to richie. are you even allowed to be flirty with him like you used to? he still does it on the rare occasions when you do see each other - but that itself is the issue, you figure. his flirting is just a joke, a tiff from one friend to another. but you can't see him as just a friend, and that’s unfair to him.

so you stay quiet, which makes it infinitely more awkward.

richie clears his throat and you pull out your work with an awkward expression, the minutes slowly churning by in what has to be the quietest hangout with the Losers yet.

you feel the tension building in your body and in the air, and you're not sure what's wrong with you or why you have so much resentment towards richie in this moment, because he's not done one single thing to offend anyone in the last ten minutes.

then richie's phone rings suddenly and mike jumps a bit as he's startled out of the passage he's reading. you all look down to richie's screen, where his girlfriend's name blares up at you and all you can feel is white hot jealousy coursing through your body.

richie looks half way exhausted and annoyed at the call, which you find extremely odd and out of character, not to mention persistently frustrating.

as you all stare at the phone, the tension in the room stretches tighter and tighter, like a rubber band and you can't breathe -

"uh, why is she calling you?" mike asks, as if this was something that was forbidden or shocking in any way, and for some reason, that is finally it.

the rubber band snaps.

"how could you forget, mike? they're in love!" you say with mock enthusiasm. 

bill shoots you an alarmed look that you probably should read into or at least consider for a moment, but instead you're looking directly at richie, as if challenging him.

he blinks at you and clenches his jaw, "she and i haven't really been... talking recently." richie says lightly, shooting a glance to mike.

“well then maybe you’re just not right for each other.” you quip, the blood boiling in your veins. richie's eyes snap to you and you see the fire behind them as he suddenly breaks.

“sorry, did i miss the divine intervention when god floated down on a cloud of marshmallows and deemed you expert in relationships?” he says abruptly, making your eyes widen at his outburst. he continues, “because last time i checked, you’re a bit of a failure in that department. so i don't need some jealous, disappearing-act wannabe criticizing my life when she's barely even in it.” he seethes. it’s near quiet in the library anyways, but his words seem to silence the entire town.

with a quick glance to your right, stan and bill sharing an uncomfortable look, and mike is staring down intently at his work with wide eyes.

you want to die.

does richie know? has he known this whole time that you're just deeply, painfully head over heels for him? 

"i'm so sick of your bullshit. maybe you're jealous because you want what i had, but you’re being really fucking rude."

you nearly cry. or scream.

“criticism doesnt equal jealousy, okay?” you spit without thinking, immediately regretting even opening your mouth. you're so intent on covering for yourself, you don't even take into account the phrasing he'd used when referring to his girlfriend, instead fighting with richie in order to keep your secret from him.  

this is not how you’d intended today to go. he stares at you, eyebrows furrowed in a way that almost makes you keel over in sadness, the guilt of the situation falling too heavily on your shoulders and crushing you.

it’s tranquilizing to see him like this -  he's fuming, but he's also got bright, glistening eyes which you think may be filling up with tears.

“i didn’t really ask for your input, though.” he mutters, cheeks reddening as tears definitely well in his eyes behind his lenses. “you can’t just ignore me at your every whim just to come right back and tell me what's good for me.”

you blink, shaking your head quickly, deciding to back off. now is not the time to fight, especially when you know he’s right. you had no idea it was hurting him like this. "richie, i... i just wanted-" you gape at him, extremely embarrassed.

“-i don’t fucking care what you wanted, y/n.” richie says sharply, causing you to shut your mouth so quick your jaw clicks in the silence. clearly, even the other boys are perturbed by richie’s actions and everyone’s staring down in silence at their homework.

it’s quiet like that for a few minutes, the tension so thick that you’d need a jackhammer just to chip away at it. but stan rummages through his bag suddenly, pulling out two painkillers and dry swallowing them. you don't look at anyone else, your stomach hollow and your heart thumping so hard in your chest you think you may explode.

"d-do you have a headache?" bill asks, looking at stan with concern. the sudden voice causes you to perk up, head flowing with humiliation at the fight you and richie had just had in front of your friends.

“yeah, but it’s not that bad. i guess i’m used to it.” stan says, pen between his teeth.

“just because you’re used to something doesn’t make it any less unhealthy for you.” you say louder than necessary, your mouth suddenly deciding to speak without consulting your brain. 

the glare of pure frustration that richie throws you pierces your lungs and suddenly makes you feel lightheaded. 

your pettiness doesn’t go unresponsive, of course, and mike sighs into his hands, standing up to gather his things. "alright. i can't study when you two are like this. i'll see you guys later."

richie sighs quietly and bill and stan mumble good-bye's. the library goes back to quiet for maybe three more minutes, until you see stanley start to fidget like he usually does when he's anxious. and then you notice it after a few seconds, too.

richie won't stop tapping his foot on the desk.

for everyone's sake, you try to ignore it, because you know richie can't help his compulsions - especially when he's upset (which, your mind painfully reminds you, is all your fault).

but it's driving you crazy.

“-if you keep doing that i’ll throw you out that fucking window rich, i swear.” stan mutters not unkindly, his eyes rolling to meet richie with a concerned gaze as richie stares out the window.

you raise your eyebrows, “what’re you even looking at?” you ask, trying to mend a bit of the open, festering wound you’d created in you and richie’s friendship.

without looking at you, richie shrugs. “checking to see how high the drop is. may be worth it to have schnoz just toss me down. it would certainly do you a favor right? gettin ol’ trashmouth gone for good.”

what was he saying? you look at him, scandalized. stan and bill don’t even say anything about the offensive nickname as you gape at richie. "what the fuck?" is all your brilliant mind can think.

"what, you can dish it but you can't take it?" richie says sharply. he shakes his head, looking upset. "i'm tired of trying to be friends with a fucking brick wall."

then he's gathering his one notebook and swiftly exiting your alcove in the library in a wind of cigarettes and cologne. 

you blink, his words sinking in and making you sigh shakily. your stomach feels hollow as you remember the expression of glee on his face when you'd walked into the library, and how completely different and broken he'd looked as he'd left. you think you're going to cry.

“every minute that you don't follow him digs yourself deeper into this grave, you know.” stan says, giving you a stern but encouraging look.

you let out a shaky sigh and scramble to grab your bag, tripping over your feet as you run out of the library, flying down the staircase faster than you've ever gone and making it to your lifelong best friend just as he reaches his car in the parking lot.

"-a brick wall?" you ask, out of breath. you see richie hold back an eye roll, his arms crossing over each other as he serves you a look of discomposure.

he shrugs helplessly, looking as if he's at his wit's end.

"what do you want me to say, y/n? you've been avoiding me for weeks. i know i'm annoying and obnoxious and whatever, but i'm not blind." he says, making you swallow as guilt pangs through your chest. you have been so fucking selfish, haven't you?

it hurts to hear him say that about himself. 

he sniffles a bit, sounding choked up as he goes on, "i've had a rough couple of days - weeks, even. but every time i'm near, it's like you've had more than enough, and you just leave. am i that repulsive? why do you suddenly hate me?" he asks, looking desperate as his eyes rim red, filling with tears again.

“what did i do?” his voice cracks as he whispers the sentence and your heart breaks in two.

your own vision goes glassy as he continues, "-i've needed you, y/n/n. i'm lost, i'm seriously not okay and you just don't care at all."

you're stunned for a moment, mouth opening and closing silently as your mind races to rush something out, anything,because you aren't sure you can bear to see richie look at you like this for one more second. but your silence comes off wrong to richie, and tears slip out of his eyes.

“don’t you love me?” he asks, voice hoarse and cutting right through you, deeper than any knife ever could. "don't you want me to be happy?" he adds and you take a shaky breath, looking helplessly at him, where you're met with nothing but glassy eyes and tear trails. your heart is slamming in your chest, tears falling from your eyes and you can't breathe.

"a-are you?" you ask, trying to keep your tone even although it comes out just as vulnerable as you feel. “h-happy. with her?”

richie freezes at your words, mouth slightly open and you watch a single tear course over his high cheekbones and down to his bottom lip as it shakes faintly. you curse yourself for the longing to feel those very lips against yours.

"i was." he whispers, voice shaking as he rubs his face with his hand under his glasses, the moisture of his fallen tears clinging from his long dark lashes onto his slender, shaking fingers. "and then - and then i lost you. and y'know, i got my girlfriend so i could distract myself, but she made me feel like absolute shit all the time and so i went and broke up with her, but -" he hiccups through his tears and you blink, biting your lip as tears cascade down your cheek in wet trails.

they broke up?

he broke up with her, and he's going through this breakup and trying to better himself after she tore him down and you've just been ignoring him - he thinks you don't care about him, that you don't love him. you start to cry harder. 

"-i thought she'd distract me from you. i-i'm sorry." he says, his voice muffled by his hands as they cover up his angelic face, his shoulders shaking as more tears fall. "i'm so sorry."he repeats. 

you see double for a second, completely shocked by his words as the breath leaves your lungs. he tried to distract himself from you... and he’s so hurt because of what you did. 

but finally, for the first time this whole damn day, you find the right words. "i-no, richie, i'm sorry, please - fuck." you break, letting out a sob as you rub your eyes furiously in search of any relief from the guilt ripping you in two. "i didn't mean to hurt you. i'm so sorry, i can't believe i did this, i didn't want to hurt you, i'm just so selfish." you babble, his sniffles making you open your eyes.

he looks so alone and so vulnerable as he hugs his arms around himself in search of comfort, tears still falling from his bright eyes and down his rosy cheeks. 

he looks devastatingly beautiful in the golden sunlight of the afternoon, a breeze ruffling his curls lightly. "just please, i can't - i can't deal with you hating me. please, please, please."

he's pleading with you and you think you may be sick from the guilt and sadness that envelopes you, so you spring forward and wrap your arms tightly around him. the force of your body pushes him against the side of his car and the way he clings back to you like you're the last thing holding him to earth just makes you cry even harder.

"i don't hate you, richie. i love you, i love you too much." you say, your body shaking as he just holds you tighter against him. "i'm so sorry, i didn't mean any of it. you're right. i was just jealous... i'm so sorry. i was so jealous of her, i couldn't see you be with her." you mumble. "i'm so sorry."

richie pulls you back gently at your words, his eyes wide and wondering as you look at each other. "what?" he asks so innocently, his eyelashes wet and dark and his lips parted. 

you can count the freckles on his nose and cheeks, you're so close. you can feel his shuddering breath against your face as he huffs in a breath. your hands hold onto his shoulders and you decide to fuck it, you just have to tell him how sorry you are, to explain yourself.

"richie, i'm in love with you. and - and when you and her got together, it hurt so much, and i didn't want to deal with the fact that i couldn't have you, so i just ignored you. i’m sorry, i’m so sorry." you say it quickly and in one breath, looking down at your shoes and how they point straight towards his.

"you're in... love with me?" he says weakly, sounding hopeful as you finally look back into his eyes guiltily. 

you laugh wetly, "of course i am, richie. how could i not fall head over heels for everything about you?"

he tears up again at your words, but this time it's accompanied by a beautiful smile and a light, wet laugh. he shakes his head, his arms circling your waist tighter as he presses his forehead against yours. your butterflies tickle your stomach at your proximity.

"fuck, y/n. i can't believe i spend my time trying to get my mind off you." he says and your breath hitches a bit. "do you have any idea how long i've been in love with you?" he asks quietly, and you let out another small laugh out of shock, but it's wet and gleeful.

"i'm sorry." you whisper, your finger curling around a strand of the dark hair on his head. he shakes his head, your noses rubbing slightly. "it's okay, y/n. i love you so much. please let me forgive you." he says, pulling a smile out of you that you don't think anybody else ever could. you nod shortly, looking into his eyes as one last tear falls. 

he kisses you tenderly then, taking your breath away.

richie fills up your every sense as he clings to you desperately, his lips salty from your combined tears and his arms strong. his tongue is gentle as it runs along your lips and enters your parted mouth, one of his hands sliding up to tilt your head up towards him. you're breathless because of him for the millionth time in your life and you decide kissing richie is the only thing you want to do forever. 

you pull away slowly, and as you lean back he presses a chaste second kiss to your lips, causing you to grin. 

you barely make eye contact as you pull apart and then you greedily pull him back to you, his lips finding yours yet again with a sweet, loving laugh.

"i love you too, rich." you mumble against his lips. he sighs almost dreamily as you pull back, biting your lip and laughing when he opens the passenger door, gesturing to it with a shy grin.

"now can i please buy you a burger?" he asks, almost bashfully, and your heart does somersaults. you nod and kiss him again, his hand falling to the small of your back, palm wide and fingers lower than you'd expected. he pulls away and his grin is loving, his eyes hooded in pride as you caress his cheek softly before you slide into the car seat.

he holds your hand the whole night and refuses to let go until you slip through your front door at near midnight, blushes on both of your cheeks and lips kiss-bruised.

the butterflies you feel as you fall asleep with a grin on your face are the exact same ones richie feels as his head finally hits the pillow, a giddy smile on his own face as he smiles to himself in the dark halfway across town.

tag list: @gabiatthedisco @blisshemmings @stenbrozier @simplesammyx@brxken-heartsclub @clownsloveyou @baby-yoda-a @moon-shine-baby  @daughter-of-the-stars11 @trashedfortozier @oceandog13 @finnskindofwoman @kait-tozier   @upamongthestarss @fiantomartell @beverlyparkerr @beauregard-s  @leighjaenikhowell @cowbellies @deepestofwaters

[yumihoe]

{You'll float too }

A yandere villain  Uraraka x gn reader 

Wordcount :1.5k

Tw: Mentions of Kidnapping, undescriptive gore , Drugging , abuse , 

Your arm hurt.

That was the first thought as the grogginess of sleep left you. Your arm was pulsing, a rhythmic, heartbeat-like throb. The pain intensifies as the final slithers of sleep slipped away.

Fuck your arm hurt.

You forced yourself to sit up, moving from the fetal position you had tucked yourself into the night before.

The memories of the night's occurrences flooding back into your memory.  

Uraraka had strapped you down, onto a gurney of some sort, cooing as she injected one of Kurogiri’s concoctions into the vein on your leg-or had it been your arm -Reassuring you that it would numb you enough that you would hardly feel what she was about to do next.

What- What had she done next? Whatever it was the pain it caused had made you pass out. Which leads to waking up on the cot in the corner.

The room smelled awful. A smell you couldn't exactly pinpoint. Sickenly sweet and rotten all at the same time. The smell so overwhelming that it made you nauseous and that coupled with the pulsating of your arm made your head spin.

You almost laughed to yourself.

What were you expecting? For your prison to smell like roses and fresh fields of lavender? You had managed to be kidnapped by the league of villains. This wasn't a five-star resort.

Of course, it would fucking stink.

You had spent the first two days of your captivity wondering what any other sane person in your position would, Why you?

There had been instances - few-  when people were kidnaped by the love to be recruited. you recalled watching the news a while back - while you were in high school - A particular story about a boy, now pro hero Dynamight being kidnapped by the league of villains in his U. days as a failed means to recruit him for their cause.

But that was the problem. Dynamight had a wonderful, flashy quirk, one that landed him the position as number 2 hero. Your quirk was hardly flashy or powerful, a simple healing quirk, one that couldn't even be used to heal yourself. That coupled with your lack of training equated to you being an ordinary civilian.

Maybe they wanted to make an example out of you. Broadcast your death for thousands of viewers, similar to the way the villain Dabi had exposed his father's crimes to the world on a national stage.

It was on The third day of your stay you received your answer.

There was no grand cause, no divine reasoning behind your kidnapping.

She had brought you here on a whim. Because as she put it

“ I saw you and I wanted you, so I took you .”

As if you were a pretty knickknack on the ground, to be picked up and pocketed, instead of a human being.

Maybe there had been more to it than that, but that was all you caught before passing out from the pain again.

Uraraka seemed to take great joy in strapping you down to the makeshift gurney. Round Face tinged red as she shocked and carved and prodded and poked. You were brought here to suffer

no less, no more.

The sound of footsteps edging closer to your room snapped you out of your thoughts. You retracted back into the corner ignoring the searing red pain from your arm as you shriveled back into a ball. Uraraka bounced into the room Flipping on the light switch and shutting the door sharply behind her. Under the pale flickering white light, You took a moment to study her features.

Round face, rosy cheeks, button nose Auburn hair falling on either side of her face.

In another life, you might have said she looked innocent.

Cute.

Albeit except for the all to familiar look of demented infatuation in her oval eyes. The brown orbs seeming to be forever dilated.  

“ Your awake “ She stated skipping closer to your huddled form.

“ I was beginning to worry that you lost too much blood while I was giving you your gift.” You pushed yourself further back into the wall as she inched closer to the cot. She ignored your clear discomfort in favor of grabbing at your heavy arm. Now that the room was illuminated you noticed the bandages wrapped tightly around the limb.

“ I took extra care to make sure it doesn't get infected, and ill even have Dabi cauterize it later for you.” She said cheerfully picking at the wrappings. Slowly undoing them.  

The wrapping fell onto the cot. Uraraka smiled, admiring her handiwork. Your eyes widened looking at the thing that was making your arm ache so badly.

“Property of Of Ochako Uraraka”

The repulsive branding had been scribbled on your arm in pretty cursive. Starting at the curve of your elbow and ending right before your hand.

The room started spinning.

“ Do you like it pet?”

Her voice sounded far away now, drowned out in your dizziness.

Why was the room spinning?

She looked at you- head cocked to the side slightly, reaching out and forcing your chin straight to make eye contact with her.

“ You really ought to be more grateful you know” She sneered dilated eyes now small, black beads. The look of infatuation was replaced with something- something darker.

“You have no idea how hard it was to convince Shigaraki to let you stay here. Trying to make him believe that worthless little healing quirk of yours could be of use to us.” She sneered, the light fluffiness in her voice gone now.

“ The least you could do is answer me when I speak to you pet.”

Your voice comes out broken and horse, “ W-Why Why could I like this y- your f- fucking sick you cra-

You hear the smack before you feel the sharp tingling on the side of your face.

“ Pet you really must learn to mind your manners .” She hissed. Snatching the collar of your tattered shirt, yanking you upright until you were flush against her face. For a second you were sure she would kill you then and there. With that sick fucking look in her eyes it wouldn't be a stretch. Maybe she would kill you and put you out of your misery. She kept you like that ….staring deeply into your eyes before letting go of your shirt. Your body falling back onto the cot.

“ Come pet, I want to show you something .” She said standing up swiftly. you try to stand up shakily legs quivering. Since you'd been brought here you hadn't been allowed to leave the room. You warily stood up and started to slowly trail behind her.

She skipped cheerfully down the hall and up a flight of rotting wooden stairs. You tried to take in your surroundings as best you could as she pulled you along, But the only thing you recognized was the smell. The same sickenly sweet offsetting smell. It was stronger now, clouding your senses.  

You walked for what seemed an eternity - were your legs this sore before? - until she halted suddenly in front of a door at the end of a long hallway.

The sweet rotting smell was the strongest here.

She moved to open the door before stopping and turning around flashing you a sly cat-like smile “ O-OO-OOO” She squealed giddily jumping up and down, “c’mere pet It'll be a surprise “ She yanked you closer to placing your hand on the doorknob. She placed her head in the crook of the neck before covering your eyes with her palms, pinkies on each hand slightly raised as to keep you from floating away. “ I'm going to count down from three and when I reach one I want you to open this door, can you do that for me pet?” She whispered deliriously. You nodded - much too afraid to put up any form of protest.  “ Three.” She started, pausing to bite down sharply on your neck.

“Two “ She continued pink tongue darting out to lap at the sweet red liquid from the wound she created.  

“one.”

Your hand turned the doorknob and Uraraka urgently ushered you into the room. Flicking on another light switch. The smell coming from the room was enough to make you sick, though Uraraka seemed to be unbothered by it.

You looked around for a second, confused.

Splat

Something wet had fallen on your nose. Your hand reached up to touch the foreign liquid.

To your horror, it was blood.

you slowly tilted your head up to be met by hundreds, no thousands of floating bodies.

Your brain finally registered the suffocating smell

of death. These people were dead.

“ What -what is this.” You choked out .” Uraraka took her hand in yours smiling like  a woman possessed.

“ This pet, This is my collection.” She said almost proudly. The room wasn't spinning at this point, it was convulsing. She took your face into her hands squishing your cheeks together.

The room finally stopped moving as you focused in on those brown dilated pupils.

“ See pet the way I see it, you could submit to me, and mind of your fucking manners, learn how to be more fucking grateful or, she said moving closer to ear nibbling at it bit before continuing

“ You'll float too”

yes I got the idea for this from Georgie from It. 😭✋

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Remember Me ~ Worick Arcangelo x Reader

Disclaimer: This is going to have mentions of past abuse and supposedly illegal behaviour, but considering it’s Gangsta we’re talking about, I don’t think anyone should be surprised by darker themes addresses.

Birthdays...Have always been tedious. A drag. More work than they are worth...So, I wonder...Why do I actually bother doing a party at my home?

I mean, it’s true, I get it, I’m 21, I’m of age...Legally an adult, legally allowed to drink, legally everything whatever...The same as it has been for the past 3 years...

And MAYBE it’s fun to sometimes gather around with your friends and do the same things everyone always does at parties, loud music, alcohol, cigarettes and gossips...

But there is always that annoying anxiety feeling surging through my veins whenever I have to be around more than 3 of my friends, considering this is a party organised by me, and everything has to be done perfectly, everyone must feel good, and at home, not to be left out...

I can already envision myself being the only outcast, anyway, but that’s besides the point.

It’s already evening, the alcohol is sitting on the table, the pizza boxes are stacked up in a mountain on the floor, plastic cups everywhere, ash trays placed strategically, dim lights, coloured light projectors to make the room look like a disco...

And then there’s me. Sitting anxiously on the couch in the living room, dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a long plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, along with some silver rings and a necklace. Casual, comfy, yet pretty elegant in its simplicity.

My friends arrived soon, very loudly congratulating me on aging one more year, fantastic...But they had a mischievous smirk on their faces...

And they brought in a tall, blond man who looked very macho, and I could only blink in confusion as everyone walked inside.

“Uhm...Who is he? One of yours boyfriend or something?” I asked, eyeing everyone attentively. “Nooo, silly! He’s our gift for you!” my best friend grabbed the man by his arm, shoving him towards me. “I’m...Not sure I follow.” I spoke with even more unease, not wanting to believe what I was hearing. “He’s Ergastulum’s most wanted Gigolo! And tonight, he’s all yours to do with as you please! C’mon, you deserve to let loose and have fun once in a while, y’know? Forget about all those jerks and enjoy pleasure like you’ve never felt before~!” my other best friend grabbed me by my shoulders from behind, putting her chin on top of one of her hands, slurring seductively. “...I see.” I muttered, looking away, trying to mask my displeasure at what I was hearing. “Anyway, let’s get you drunk! You won’t get to enjoy anything if you’re so cold and reserved with everyone, y’know? Maybe that’s why you’re always alone! Now c’mon, let’s have fun!” she dragged me to the drinks table, and we started playing drinking games like never have I ever...

Gotta say, Vodka and Bailey’s has always been a shot combination that I adore, and I’m grateful that it takes a long time to get me drunk, because these girls are wasted, while I’m not, so I can escape their grasp. Drunk dancing isn’t that fun, even to watch, and they were making fools of themselves, screeching, giggling...More or less sounding like pained donkeys.

Or maybe I’m just too judgemental and mean because I’ve been in a bad mood and spiraling since they got in my home. To be fair, I don’t even care what is the truth. These are my feelings and I’m not going to play them off as insignificant or non-existent.

Eyeing them carefully, I take a pack of cigarettes and make my way out of the house and sit on the stairs, taking a deep breath of the cold winter night air, I light up a cigarette, taking a drag and staring up at the sky, letting my endless train of toxic thoughts overwhelm me.

I was so long in my own mind that I didn’t notice the door opening until a shadow blocked my vision, and I noticed the platinum blond man sitting down on the stairs below me, resting his back on the wall on the side.

“Y’know...I haven’t been to many birthday parties before, but I’m pretty sure the birthday girl is supposed to be pampered and the center of attention, and yet, here you are, outside, alone and sad.” the man spoke seriously, with his usual light glint. “How much did they pay you?” I muttered, lighting another cigarette, realising that the other one burn without taking another drag of it. “Hmmm? What do you mean?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at me. “I’m tipsy, not stupid. You think I can’t think rationally after 8 shots? You’re dead wrong. Now, tell me, how much did they pay you and what exactly did they tell you to do?” I asked in a pressed tone, side-eyeing him. “You’re certainly perceptive, I give you that. T’was quite a lot of money to spend the night with you.” he tilted his head in a playful way. “Not only they have no faith in me to get someone to even remotely like me...They have to pay someone to do something that I dread with a burning passion. Do you even know my name? I don’t know yours.” I shrugged, hanging my head, gritting my teeth in annoyance. “I see your friends screwed up a bit. Name’s Worick, nice to meet you.” he extended his hand towards me. “...Y/N. Nice to meet you too...I think.” I sighed, staring reluctantly at his hand, before slowly shaking it. “Pretty name for a pretty girl. Wanna talk to a guy you’ll never see again? I heard that venting and letting out pent up emotions helps.” he offered, making me look at him with a weird face. “You know you’re not gonna get any action, so you try to do something for the money you earned, huh?” I snorted, raking my fingers through my hair. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. Contrary to my profession, I’m a pretty chill guy. What do you have to lose, talking to someone you’ll never see again? And besides, I have little room to judge you, so if that’s your worry, you can throw it away.” he lit up a cigarette, puffing up into the sky. “You’re...Not wrong here. Okay, fine, Pretty Boy. Imagine this. You’re not even of age, you get your first lover and you’re happy. You finally feel superior. Someone gives a fuck about you...That’s the definition of a lover, after all, I guess...But here’s the deal. Barely one month into the relationship, the person starts getting very pushy and pressures you, without you realising. Words and actions. It goes to the point that they force you to do things that you don’t want to and you’re not ready to, mentally or physically...And you can’t do anything except for denying, since they don’t listen and they overpower you. How is that, so far?” I spoke, taking a few breaks in between sentences to keep myself grounded and lucid. “Very suckish. Does any of your friends know that?” Worick asked in a gentle voice. “They do...My two best friends do. The ones who apparently paid you. I don’t know what’s in those tiny brains of theirs, but I don’t think a one night stand is going to somehow magically get me rid of all problems, traumas, self-issues and nightmares I’ve been having for the last years. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. I don’t know, and at this point, I can’t stay that I care.” I shrugged, leaning back on the stairs. “Maybe you have the wrongs friends. I heard words about you that I don’t think friends should speak like that about their so called best friend who trusted them enough with their bad experiences.” he pointed out nonchalantly, as I shifted my gaze towards him with a frown. “After today...I...Think the same. I...Just...Wasn’t expecting something like this. What more can I say. I am disappointed. And if that wasn’t enough, my second boyfriend, who was a virgin, saw my own virginity as a prize. And the third pity-dated me. Can it get any worse? Because, if yes, I honestly give up.” I sighed, ruffling my hair, obviously done with life. “Life sure sucks, huh? And most people don’t make it any better. All we can do is get stronger, carry on, and fight our nightmares.” he nodded in agreement, clearly sympathetic. “...I see you’re speaking from experience. I wonder what happened to your eye...It may sound insensitive, but after what I just told you, I don’t think there’s any more need for caution.” I smirked at him with a dark sort of self-deprecation that I could also sense in him. “Well, y’know...Sometimes parents aren’t the safe haven they ought to be.” he shrugged, extinguishing the finished cigarette on the stairs. “I see. Yeah, life sucks. I guess I can see why you become a Gigolo. An attractive guy selling his body for money...By what they said, you are the most popular. I can see why. I feel sorry for you.” I gave him a sympathetic smile that disappeared as fast as it came. “You have a pretty smile, y’know? I always thought that people who can smile despite all they’ve been through are the strongest.” he commented, smiling back. “Is that why you appear to be so cheerful? You’re strong, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally too? Wish I was the same. Maybe people won’t find me such an easy target to take advantage of.” I snorted sarcastically, making him chuckle. “It’s a pity people are shit to the few remaining ones who don’t give in to society’s awfulness. But what is a sweet girl like you doing in a shithole like Ergastulum? Doesn’t quite add up.” he asked, getting in a better sitting position. “Life happened. Dad left us, and mum is abroad working to get me enough money to go to university by the end of this year. This place, despite how scary and dangerous it is, was the cheapest place I could afford.” I bit my lip, trying not to worry too much about the future. “I’m sure you’re gonna nail it, so don’t worry too much. You seem like a smart girl, so just study hard and don’t forget to enjoy life. By your standards, not others’.” he smirked, tilting his head towards the door. “You’re funny, Worick. I wish we met under different circumstances.” my voice became lower, only to get interrupted by the door slamming open and the girls leaving the place. “Well, look at you two, lovebirds! You look so cuuuuuuuute! Hey, Gigolo, better take good care of her, got it?! The night is still young for you two! Awesome birthday party, as usual, Y/N, see ya next time!” the girls left, making me blush from embarassment, looking away. “You’ve got very sensible friends.” he muttered ironically, shaking his head. “I’ll...Go tidy the apartment. Maybe I’ll be able to focus on something else. Come one, I’ll warm up some pizza.” I shrugged, getting inside the house. “I didn’t think you’d want me around in your home.” Worick pointed out, leaning on a wall. “You got paid to spend the night with me, correct? Then you’ll do what you got paid for. Keeping me company. You have no idea how refreshing it is talking to someone with some fucking brain in their head.” I plopped down on the couch, putting my feet on the table, turning on the TV to a rock music program and patting the seat next to me for him to join. “It’s an honour to spend time with you.” he chuckled, taking a slice of pizza, leaning back on the couch and mimicking my position.

For the rest of the night, he was gracious enough to help me tidy up and clean everything, and when we were finally done, I went to change in my nightgown, taking a book and getting in bed, only to see the man leaning on the frame of the door awkwardly.

“Ah, yes, how could I forget. Let me find some larger clothes for you to change into.” I put the book down, going to the wardrobe and finding some oversized clothes in which I sometimes sleep. “Are these yours?” he chuckled in amusement. “Yep.Gotta be comfy when you sleep, right?” I shrugged, getting back in bed. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s why I sleep naked.” his grin grew wider, making me frown in confusion. “Sleeping naked is comfy for you?” I put the book on my lap, looking at him for an answer. “Did you try?” he asked smugly. “Yeah. I felt incredibly uncomfortable and anxious the for hours and couldn’t sleep. At 4 AM I couldn’t stand it any longer and I put a nightgown on.” I scratched my cheek, looking away. “That’s adorable. What were you reading?” he asked, getting closer to me. “Get changed and you can come over. I’m not letting you sleep on the couch. You got paid, you deserve better.” I waved my hand at him dismissively, only for him to leave the room, get changed, take the book from my hand, flip through all the pages, and return it. “Ah, Picture of Dorian Gray. I’ve been wanting to read it for a while, thanks for the opportunity, I have to say, I rather appreciate his monologues.” he gave me a shit-eating grin, plopping in bed next to me. “I...You...Huh?! You can’t tell me you just read THIS book, right now, for the first time in your life, by just flipping rapidly through the pages!” my expression was that of pure shock and disbelief, which clearly amused him. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, sweet cheeks.” he smirked, laying his head down on the pillow. “You...You have an extraordinary visual memory?!” I asked in a voice that I wasn’t sure was heard. “You’ve got that right, darling.” he chuckled with a satisfied smile. “...WHY THE HELL ARE YOU A PROSTITUTE?! YOU ARE A GENIUS! YOU COULD DO SO MUCH MORE WITH YOUR LIFE! EARN AN UNBELIEVABLE AMOUNT OF MONEY! DO YOU HAVE NO AMBITION AND SAFE-LOVE?!” I grab him by the shoulders, shaking him, until he stopped me. “Calm doooown, Y/N, calm down. Thanks for looking out for me, but life is life. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got all I need here. You, however, have the whole life ahead of you, so don’t waste it like I did.” he advised in a soft voice, making me look at him for a few seconds, before sighing, getting up, and picking another book. “We won’t be seeing each other again, will we? Well, if that’s the case, take this. It’s a thanks for being nice to me today...But promise me you will take your time reading it, unlike now. Rest, relax, drink a hot cup of tea, and read each page carefully. Enjoy it, live it, feel it. Can you promise me that?” I asked, handing him the book. “The Hobbit, huh? Pretty cover, intriguing summary on the back...Fine, Y/N. I can’t 100% promise you, but I will try. Are you really willing to part with this one? It seems special for you.” he asked, more serious this time. “...Maybe sometimes the stupid ideas that your heart gives you are better than the rational ones from your brain. Now go sleep, I want to read.” I looked away from him, opening my book and pretending to read, away from him.

Five minutes passed, then ten, and fifteen, all of them in a deadly silence, almost awkward, until a chuckle split the atmosphere, making me turn around, looking at the man with a confused look.

“Usually, when people read, they turn the page after five minutes. What’s on your mind?” he asked, taking a strand of my hair and loosely twirling it with his finger. “..Well...You’re a stranger. And...We’ve only talked for a few hours. I know it makes no sense to ask this of you, but...I won’t be seeing you tomorrow anyway, so...Uhm...Do you think...I'm...Cold and mean...And unapproachable?” I mutter, looking away from him. “Not at all. I find you very endearing. The quiet ones are always the ones who have the best surprises once you get to know them. People deal with problems differently, it just takes the right person to want to understand you.” he kissed the strand of hair, making me bite my lip and turn off the lap light so my possibly pink cheeks won’t be noticeable. “Great. Thanks for the info. Now...How about you earn the money you got paid? You can do that by holding me and playing with my hair until I fall asleep.” I try to keep my voice from wavering. “You don’t have to put that pretext as a front, I would do that even if I wasn’t paid.” he chuckled lightly, holding me close to his chest, his fingers masterfully soothing my senses as he caressed by hair. “...Thanks.” I muttered, hiding my flustered face in his chest. “I have insomnia and general sleeping problems, including sleep paralysis and nightmares...And the only thing that used to be able to put me to sleep without waking up in the middle of the night would be mum holding me and playing with my hair until I fell asleep.” I confessed, my voice becoming softer and more emotional. “Thank you for trusting me with this precious memory, Y/N. It’s going to be okay. Now close your eyes...Sweet dreams, Y/N.” his peaceful, velvety voice was the last thing I heard before falling into a restful and calm sleep, for the first time in ages.

When morning came and I woke up, the bed was empty on the side that Worick was and I almost feared I imagined the whole thing...Until I noticed a piece of paper on the pillow where he slept.

“You’re a beautiful person, don’t let the darkness take over you. I hope to hear from you again, in the future, under better circumstances. ~ Worick”

To that, a phone number was written, and the first thing that came into my mind was to get that it tattooed on my body so I won’t lose it.  Of course, that will never happen, so I’ll settle for writing it everywhere I can.

For some reason, I wanted to make him proud, and I still had no idea why, so I only called him once a year, on my birthday, and on that day, we would chat on the phone all night, in memory of that night.  Finally leaving Ergastulum to go to University and get a better life for myself was something revolutionary for me, but after over 6 years, I managed to do just that. However, there was something that never left my brain, and that was the platinum haired man that completely changed the way I viewed life and how to approach it.

And I returned to Ergastulum after almost a decade.

I was dressed in a cute dress, and this time, unlike last time, a confident smile was on my face. Even though it’s fake, I adopted the “Fake it till you make it” motto, and nobody has to know about my problems.

I vibe.

Asking around for Worick, I find out he works as the Benriya with another man called Nicolas, who’s a tag, and even better, I got his address, so I knew just where to go.

As I entered the shabby apartment that was, for some reason, unlocked, I see a meek looking woman sitting on the couch, looking down.

“Did Worick get a girlfriend?” I leaned on the wall, a playful smirk on my face. “Wh-What?! G-Girlfriend?! W-Wait, who are you?!” she shot up to her feet, looking at me with big, blue doe eyes, frightened, might I say. “You’re adorable. What’s your name? And can I ask where Worick is? I’ve been told this is where he lives.” I played with a strand of my hair, trying not to intimidate the girl...Too much. “U-Uhm...He...He’s in his room...Who are you, miss?” she asked, trying to get some courage. “A friend, I’d like to think. From about ten years ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me...” I was ready to go look for him, only for a door to open, and the man in cause to appear, wearing only black boxers, and stretching...He obviously just woke up. “Ally? What’s all the noise?” he yawned loudly, rubbing his eyes. “Do you have a cute nickname for me too, Worick?” I smirked at him, as he widened his single eye, his jaw dropping in shock. “Y/N...?” he muttered my name, making me grin widely. “Glad you remember me. It has been quite a while since we’ve seen each other...And you age like fine wine, I’m telling you...You’re a sight for sore eyes.” he chuckled softly, only for him to come and pick me up, spinning a bit, before putting me down, cupping my face and kissing my forehead, leaving me a surprised and flustered mess. “And look at you! Can you get prettier than this? I told ya, you have a beautiful smile!” he grinned childishly, pinching my cheeks, making me yelp in pain and slap his hands away. “Jerk! That hurts! Ahem...Anyway, dear Gigolo, how are you? I heard some stuff about you working with someone named Nicolas...But I doubt her name is Nicolas.” I chuckled, pushing him softly away. “Oh, yes! Y/N, this is Alex, our new friend. You can say she’s kinda...Our secretary? I guess? Anyway, come over, we have a lot to catch up on!” he guided me to his bedroom that was, unsurprisingly, messy. “Wonderful and clean, just as expected. Have you ever thought of opening the window?” I teased him, plopping on his bed that was unexpectedly soft. “You, lazy little vixen...Here. I bought it years ago, after finishing the book you gave me, and I wanted to find out more. Now, I’m giving it to you. Are we even?” he smirked, handing me a copy of Fellowship of the Ring book. “We’d be even if I’d spend the night over as well. And if you gave me drinks and pizza. Basically a date. That will do.” I told him, looking dearly at the book I got gifted, although I already read it before. “My God, since when are you so bold?” he asked, getting on the bed, resting his chin on my knees, looking at me like a happy puppy. “Did you miss me, Worick? I hope you did, otherwise that little piece of paper you left would be incredibly disappointing and misleading.” I pointed out, booping his nose. “I’ve been thinking about you since then. By the looks of it, so did you. Are you sure you want a date with someone like me? You are beautiful, you are brilliant, your attitude in endearing as hell...And I’m still a Gigolo and my life is here, in Ergastulum. Don’t regret it later on.” he asked with a more serious tone, only for me to scoff and pull on his hair playfully. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Besides...Unlike you, I don’t need to be paid to spend quality time with you, doing nothing but chilling and chatting.” I teased him, making him laugh, as he plopped next to me, poking my cheek. “Great, problem solved! You’ve got yourself a parasite latching on you. Good luck getting rid of him now.” he grinned cheekily, only for me to cup his face and pull him into a kiss. “Why would I wanna get rid of a parasite this cute? Now shut up and hold me, it’s been ten years and I’m touch starved.” I grinned, nuzzling in the crook of his neck. “Damn, how I missed you.” he held me tightly to his chest, occasionally peppering my face with kisses.

It was definitely worth coming back to this God Forsaken place, even if it is for only one person. There’s place for everyone in this world, and in others’ hearts, and I found my place, in Worick’s warm arms, where I feel safest and most loved.

[moldisgoodforyou]

how lucky am I

gif by @toesure​ 

summary: jj and charlie return home to the outer banks after their engagement. jj shows charlie around where he grew up - and sees his dad again after six years. 

a/n: this is set in a post-grad universe (read this for background)! and thank you always to my friends @oopmyheartwent-obx​ and @sunnypogue​ for reading it over for me beforehand!! 

warnings: cursing, emotional abuse, mentions of physical abuse.

wordcount: 4.7k

Charlie and JJ took an Uber from the airport as they flew home for the first time since they were engaged, about six months since when they had come home for Christmas. They entered her parents’ house, leaving their suitcases at the door. Charlie took JJ’s cap from him first, fluffing up his hair and giving him a quick kiss before bringing him into the kitchen. Both her parents were busy in the kitchen with their backs to them, music drifting over the radio. “Hey guys!” Charlie greeted cheerfully. 

Her mom reacted first, whipping around at the sound of her daughter’s voice. “JJ! Charlie!” She hugged JJ first, catching him off guard, but he smiled and hugged her back after a beat. “Hi, Mrs. Walker. Whatever you’re making smells incredible.” Charlie had to resist rolling her eyes as her mom pulled back with her hand to her heart. “I told you, JJ, call me Suzie. We’re family now!” JJ nodded, grinning. “Yes ma’am.” 

JJ then extended his arm toward her dad for a handshake, like usual between the two - but her dad pulled him in for a hug, clapping him on the back. “Good to see you, son. Your flight go okay?” JJ beamed at the approval, nodding. “Yes, sir - uh, Mr. Walker.” He corrected himself. Charlie’s dad shook his head and dropped JJ’s hand. “Mike is fine, JJ. You hungry?” He pulled Charlie into a hug, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Dad, can we put our bags up in my room first?” Mike pulled back, giving her a look. “JJ’s bag goes in the guest room.” Charlie rolled her eyes. “Dad, we’re literally engaged -”

Her dad shook his head. “Guest room. Go put them away.” She sighed but nodded, pulling JJ upstairs. They could hear her mom berating her dad for not being nice enough as they walked upstairs and Charlie laughed. “The second they go to bed, you’re coming into my room.” JJ shook his head, but stayed quiet as he lugged their suitcases upstairs and into her room. “You good, J?” She asked, kissing his cheek. JJ nodded, a small smile on his face. “He called me son. Your dad.” Charlie softened, not knowing how much that would mean to him. “You’ve been a part of the family for a while now, baby. Now it’s just official.” 

The next morning, the two took advantage of being back in the Outer Banks, visiting all their favorite spots from growing up. They woke up early to surf for a couple hours with the sunrise, then got breakfast with John B and Sarah afterward. Charlie and JJ then drove by the coast for a while, aimlessly. “Can we go by one more place?” JJ asked after a while. “Of course, what are you thinking?” JJ gave her a small, hopeful smile. “You’ll see.” 

_ 

He drummed his fingers on the wheel as they drove closer to the Cut, toward his old house. “We don’t have to go here if you don’t want to, JJ -” Charlie started, but JJ shook his head, cutting her off. “No, no, I want to check it out.” He gave her an uneasy smile, forcing it. Charlie nodded, squeezing his arm gently but stayed quiet. She had heard most of the stories before and had pretty much made up her mind about JJ’s dad - no in-person meeting could change that. 

He pulled up onto the gravel, taking a breath before turning the key and getting out. Charlie started toward the house, but JJ quickly grabbed her hand, pulling her back. “Can - can you just wait out here first, just for a second?” She nodded, biting her lip out of worry. “Of course. I’ll be right here.” JJ seemed to relax slightly and released her hand, then flipped his cap backward before heading inside. 

“Dad?” He called out, tense. He walked through the house tentatively, listening, then relaxed more once he realized his dad wasn’t home. He surveyed the mess and shoved some trash (and a small white bag) into a drawer before heading back outside. “Charlie, c’mere.” 

Charlie was hesitant, taking his hand again once she reached the porch. “He’s not here, but, uh, you can see my room, at least.” JJ offered. He was clearly embarrassed by the house and Charlie tried to conceal her surprise at the state of disarray, holding his hand a little tighter. JJ led her to his room and pushed open the door - then smiled. 

His room had been untouched since he had moved out and into the Chateau with John B on his 18th birthday. It looked exactly like how an 18-year-old boy’s room would look - rumpled sheets, a few lewd posters on the walls, a spare history textbook used to prop up the uneven leg of the desk. Charlie rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t look too different from your freshman year dorm, I’d imagine.” JJ laughed, splaying his hand over one of the posters. “Pretty much.” 

She took a tentative seat on the bed. “It’s not as bad as you were describing it to me. It’s...homey.” JJ scoffed, looking around. “No, homey is how I feel at your place. This is just fucking sad.” Charlie frowned, reaching out for him, and JJ waved her off. “I’m fine, just. Feels weird being back.” 

Suddenly, there was a bang out front and the sound of splintering wood, like the door was just kicked in. Charlie jumped up from the bed, clinging to JJ. “What the -” JJ clapped his hand over her mouth and put a finger to his lips, shushing her. 

A gruff voice rang out. “I have a gun! Better get the fuck out!” 

Upon hearing the voice, JJ relaxed a bit and moved to walk out. Charlie gripped JJ’s bicep tighter, eyes wide and scared. “What the fuck are you doing!” She hissed, yanking him back. JJ shook her off, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “It’s fine, Charlie, it’s just my dad. And he’s a fuckin’ liar.” They could hear footsteps coming closer and Charlie’s heart rate quickened, tears welling in her eyes. “It might not be - JJ, please, we should hide.” She begged, stepping away from the door. 

JJ walked out of his room, hands up. “Just me, Dad!” He called out. Once Luke Maybank saw him, he stopped dead in his tracks - no gun in hand, just as JJ expected. “Oh. JJ? Why the fuck are you here?” JJ let out a sad, short laugh. “Good to see you too, Dad.” Charlie peered out from around the corner, tentative, and Luke immediately spotted her, pointing. “You’re 25 and you’re still sneaking girls into the house?” 

At JJ’s beckon forward, Charlie stepped out, standing slightly behind JJ. “He’s 24, actually,” she corrected before she could stop herself. “She’s got a smart mouth like you.” Luke pointed out, smirking. JJ grit his teeth. “Dad, this is Charlie. My girlfriend I told you about - well, actually, my fiancee.” He was still getting used to saying the word. Charlie took JJ’s hand, then took a small step forward. “Hi.” 

Luke eyed the ring on her finger right away, skeptical. “Where’d you get the money for that rock?” 

“It’s my grandmother’s.” Charlie responded before JJ could even open his mouth.

“Hm.” Luke hummed, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. Charlie stayed tense but JJ did the same, pulling out a chair for Charlie first. She hesitated, but he tugged on his hand gently to show her it was okay. “Where did you meet again?” Luke asked, feigning interest - though his eyes kept flicking back to check out Charlie’s ring. He kicked back in his chair, swinging his feet up onto the table. JJ ran his hand through his hair. “Well...in college. We’ve been dating since senior year, remember?” 

“But I grew up here, we knew each other from high school before that.” Charlie added. Luke raised his eyebrows. “Oh? What’s your last name?” JJ squeezed her knee gently underneath the table. “It’s Walker, Dad.” Luke nodded in recognition, then laughed. “That touristy ice cream shop? Marrying into money, then.” He directed his gaze to Charlie, cracking a smile. “How’d he trick you into bothering with him?” 

Charlie frowned, keeping her tone even. “He didn’t trick me into anything.” 

Luke looked smug. “I’ve known him longer than you, kid, I know how he works.” 

“You should be proud of JJ. He’s intelligent, and kind, and loyal as hell.” She paused, lifting her chin a little. “No thanks to you.” JJ set his jaw and nudged her knee under the table, a private sign to knock it off. 

Luke leaned forward, both hands on the table. “Better watch your pretty little mouth in my house, girl.”  

“Don’t talk to her like that.” JJ quickly admonished, tensing. 

“Am I invited?” Luke asked, a small smirk on his lips. JJ paused, trying to process. “To...to the wedding?” He glanced at Charlie, a mix of emotions displayed on his face. Charlie kept her hard resolve. “We only got engaged two weeks ago, we haven’t worked on a guest list.” She stood, trying to make it clear the conversation was over, and JJ followed suit reluctantly. 

“You’re making a mistake sticking yourself with this lazy piece of shit.” Luke told her, gesturing toward JJ. 

Charlie took a quick step toward Luke, ready to retort, and JJ wrapped his arms around her waist just as quickly, pulling her back toward his chest. “Don’t.” He murmured in her ear. She stayed tense in his arms. 

Luke just laughed. “She’s feisty, huh?” 

JJ kept his arms around Charlie, protective. “She’s loyal.” 

Luke nodded, folding his hands behind his head.  “How long are you around? Back home?” JJ fidgeted with the bill of his cap. “Just ‘til Monday. I gotta get back for work.” Luke made a small noise of acknowledgment and stood, pulling a beer from the fridge. “Well. You ought to come ‘round again before you leave, sounds like we need to catch up.” JJ managed a small smile, confused, but nodded anyway. “Yeah, if we have time.” 

Charlie stepped out of his arms toward the door. “Well, uh, we have to go, but. I’ll see you around.” Luke popped the bottle cap off the beer and took a swig. “No one’s blocking you. Door’s open, kid.” 

The tips of JJ’s ears turned red and he nodded, silently following Charlie through the door and out to the car. “JJ, I -” Charlie started, and he shook his head. “Let’s just go.” The two of them got in the car and he gripped the wheel hard as he drove away, jaw clenched. He flicked through the radio until he found a classic rock station and cranked the volume, foot pressing harder on the gas. 

“I’m just gonna drive.” He told Charlie, eyes set firmly on the long road. She nodded, quiet, but was analyzing his every move, noticing the way his shoulders were tensed up to his ears and his knuckles were white against the steering wheel. 

A few minutes later, it was like JJ had a lead foot against the pedal and the car climbed five, ten, fifteen miles over the speed limit. He stared out at the road but was unfocused, radio static in his ears. “J.” Charlie tried again, for the fourth time. She reached out, shaking his arm. “JJ!” He swerved slightly and glanced over at her, blinking, then finally registered her worried expression and slammed on the brakes, pulling over to the side of the road. 

Charlie reached over and pushed the car into park as his foot stayed on the brake, then unbuckled and quickly got out. She opened the driver’s side door and reached over, unbuckling JJ’s seatbelt. “Out. I’ll drive.” He nodded numbly and stood, turning into her touch. Charlie looked worried and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, but nothing more. 

“Get in and we’ll go home, hon.” He nodded again and did so, wordless. She started the car again, reaching to turn down the radio, but JJ reached for her hand, stopping her. She twisted her wrist to intertwine her fingers with his, resting their hands on the center console and holding his hand tight. 

They stayed quiet as she drove toward her house - but after a glance toward JJ and seeing how hard he was blinking, Charlie turned away from the neighborhood and toward the beach. “You missed the turn.” JJ mumbled, holding tight to her hand. She nodded. “I know. I want to see the beach.” JJ sighed as she pulled toward a secluded lookout spot. “Charlie, I’m fine.” 

Charlie shrugged, putting the car in park and turning the key. “I know. Come on, let’s go sit.” She got out and tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the beach and sitting down with him. After a beat, she scooted closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. JJ leaned down into her, taking a deep breath. “I’m fine.” He repeated, shakily. He swiped the back of his hand across his cheek roughly, not allowing any tears to fall. She tightened her grip on him, letting him rest his head on her chest. 

“It’s okay if you’re not, J.” She whispered, stroking his head. He mumbled something into her t-shirt, still for a moment, then slid his arms around her waist, clinging tight. Charlie frowned and pressed a kiss to his head. “Hm, hon?” 

JJ lifted his head slightly. “You scared me.” 

Charlie let out a short laugh, incredulous. “I scared you? He threatened a gun on you!” 

JJ sat up a little but kept an arm around her waist, looking serious. “You can’t talk to him like that, Charlie. He’s unpredictable. He - he could have hurt you.” 

Charlie frowned. “I can handle myself.” 

JJ furrowed his brow, frustrated. “No, Charlie, I’m serious. You can’t talk to him like that - if he did something to you, I wouldn’t be able to handle it.” 

“His words aren’t gonna hurt me.” She replied, stubborn. “If you go back, I’m going with you.” JJ sighed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get anything through to her in the moment. “Yeah. We’ll see.” Charlie set her jaw, lifting it toward him. “I’m not letting you go back alone, JJ. I don’t trust him.” 

JJ gripped her chin gently, kissing her softly. “You’re too fucking stubborn.” She pulled out of his touch, frowning. “I just want you to be safe.” JJ nodded. “I know.” He glanced down at her phone as it chimed. “We gotta get back for your family thing soon, sweetheart.” 

Still annoyed, Charlie stood, crossing her arms. “I’m mad at you, you know.” JJ held back a small laugh as he stood, nodding seriously. “I know. Think you can fake being in love for the engagement party?” He teased. Charlie rolled her eyes and tossed him the keys. “I still love you. I’m just mad.” JJ smiled and got in the car with her, kissing her cheek. “Good. Love you too, Walker.” 

_

After the majority of her family left, Charlie dragged JJ upstairs by the hand to her room. She instantly flopped back onto the bed, kicking off her heels. “We survived!” She teased, tugged on his hand to pull him down next to her. “Do you think they liked me?” JJ asked, taking a tentative seat on the edge of the bed next to her. 

At that moment her dad Mike walked past, pushing the door open. “They’ll like you better if you keep the door open, son.” Charlie rolled her eyes, turning her head to glance at him. “Dad. Might I remind you we’re 24? And engaged?” Mike just laughed. “And you’re under my roof, and JJ’s staying in the guest room tonight. Again.” JJ nodded quickly, running his hand through his hair. “Yes, sir.” Mike grinned, walking away. “Night, you two!” He called over his shoulder. 

“Good night!” Charlie called back, then sat up to shut the door. JJ pushed her back down, grinning. “Did you not hear his rules?” Charlie smirked, lowering her voice. “I didn’t know you were into the idea of getting caught.” JJ laughed and stood, hands raised in surrender. “That’s it, I’m going to the guest room.” 

“No, stay!” Charlie reached out, hooking her finger in his belt loop, and tugged. “You’re trouble, Walker.” He teased, but fell forward onto her anyway. She grinned, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him tight. “Yeah, yeah, but you love trouble. Anyway, I think - no, I know that they loved you. They’ve all met you before, too, so it’s not like you had to make a grand first impression.” 

He shifted to be on his side, facing her, and propped his head up on his elbow. “Yeah, but this was an extra big deal. First impression as your fiance.” Charlie nodded and kissed him, sound. “You did just fine, hon. I think my grandma would marry you herself if she was younger.” He laughed, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “She was not happy about the last name deal. Mrs. Maybank.” He teased. 

Charlie rolled her eyes. “It’s a totally antiquated belief, and I’m working -” 

“Incredibly hard for your degrees, including your PhD, I know, I know.” JJ cut her off, finishing the speech he had heard quite a few times. “Just teasing you, Char.” She smiled, pleased. “Good.” JJ paused, like he was going to say something, then just sighed. Charlie frowned, picking up on it right away. “What’s up?” 

He ran his hand through his hair, messing it up. “Um. I think I want to go see my dad again before we leave.” 

“JJ…” Charlie sighed. “Why?” 

He shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “Dunno. I’ve barely talked to him in six years.” 

Charlie bit her lip. “There’s a reason for that, J, he’s an asshole.” 

JJ started, then paused. “Well - I mean, yeah, but did you hear him when we left? He wants to come to the wedding? Maybe he’s trying to be better.” 

Charlie frowned. “He’s had six years to try. I don’t know about this.” JJ set his jaw, frustrated. “Well I’m not asking, I’m telling you out of courtesy. And you’re not coming.” She raised her eyebrows. “You’re not going alone.” 

He sat up, crossing his arms. “Yes I am.” 

She did the same. “No, you’re not. I’ll drive you and sit in the car.” 

He swung his legs off the edge of the bed, standing. “Fine.” 

“Fine. Where are you going?” She questioned. 

“I’m going to the guest room.” JJ replied, raising his eyebrows back at her. She rolled her eyes. “J, you don’t have to -” He waved it off, dismissing her. “It’s not because of this, it’s out of respect for your dad.”

Charlie softened, unable to argue with that. “Oh. Okay. Well...goodnight.” JJ offered a small smile and bent down, giving her a short kiss. “Goodnight. Love you, Charlie.” She smiled back, giving in. “Love you too, J.” He gave her a teasing salute as he walked out of the room.

_ 

The next day, they went back to JJ’s house around 6pm. Charlie drove, turning up the radio and humming along softly to their favorite songs, trying to ease JJ’s tension. As they pulled up on the drive, Charlie frowned seeing some broken glass bottles scattered around the yard. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go in?” JJ nodded firmly. “Stay here. Please. He won’t do anything.” Charlie bit her lip, nodding back. “Don’t be too long.” He gave a small, tense smile and a short kiss. “I’ll be okay, sweetheart.” 

With that he got out, adjusting his hat as he walked up to the porch. The scene was all too familiar - empty beer cans scattered across the table, a medicine bottle with some pills strewn out on the glass. JJ nudged open the door and sighed when he saw Luke passed out on the couch, hand curled around an empty glass bottle that was cradled to his chest. 

“God damnit, Dad.” He said aloud, kicking one of the beer cans across the floor. Luke stirred, stretching as he woke up. JJ cursed under his breath, not sure if he wanted him to wake or not. Luke cracked one eye open, shooting at glare at his son. “The fuck are you back here for?” 

JJ flipped his hat backward, running his hand through his hair as he went. “You asked me to come back.” Luke scoffed. “Don’t know why I would have done that.” He leaned over, popping a cap off another beer and took a swig. “Your girl didn’t want to come back?” JJ shook his head, willing himself to not glance at her car outside. “I didn’t want her to have to see this piece of shit place again.” Luke sat up, gesturing at him with the beer bottle. “You should be grateful for this piece of shit, I raised you in it.” 

JJ crossed his arms, jaw set. “Saying you raised me is an overstatement.” 

“You gonna use some of that Walker family money to pay me back, then?” Luke stared him down from the couch. JJ scoffed. “Stolen bread and peanut butter from the store didn’t cost you shit, Dad.” 

Luke stood, swaying a little, and met him at eye level as he took another long drink. “You think the fucking utilities were free, boy? The running water? The A/C?” JJ stood his ground, his fists curling. “We had that maybe half the year, and a fucking box fan in the middle of the summer doesn’t do shit.” 

Luke shook his head. “Still cost money. You’re lucky I even gave you a place to stay.” He knocked back the rest of the beer and twirled the bottle in his hand. “Not sure how you even convinced that girl to stick around for long.” He grinned. “Just watch, she’ll leave too. They always do.” JJ swallowed, white-knuckled, but kept his fists by his side. “Fuck off, Dad, she loves me.” 

The corner of Luke’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Just like your mother loved you and then left in the middle of the night, first chance she got?” 

JJ took a deep breath to steady himself. If he was younger, his fist would have slammed into his dad’s cheek three insults ago - but he reminded himself he was better than that, too old to resort to injury. “She left because of you. We both know that.” 

Luke shook his head. “We got the same blood, boy. What runs in me runs in you.” 

“I’ll be a better husband and father than you ever were.” JJ shot back, chest puffed up and shoulders tall. 

Luke smirked. “That’s what I told my dad too, kid. Now look. Full fuckin’ circle.” 

JJ huffed in frustration, flipping his cap forward again and tugging down hard on the bill. “Fuck you.” 

Charlie had been sitting in the car long enough, anxious, and got out of the car, against her better judgment. Quietly, she walked up to the house, frowning as she heard unrecognizable yelling - from Luke or JJ, she wasn’t sure. Inside, JJ and Luke kept going, flinging insults at each other, the tension rising as they got in each other’s face. Charlie pushed open the screen door, staying quiet - but the hinges creaked at just the wrong moment. 

Luke hurled the glass bottle at the wall just behind Charlie’s head, making it shatter everywhere. She screamed, cowering, and JJ fisted the front of Luke’s shirt in his hand instantly. “What the fuck, Dad, she did nothing!” He roared, shoving him backward hard enough to land him on the floor. 

He ran over to Charlie, who had a small trickle of blood trailing down her cheek from a shard of broken glass. “Fuck, Charlie, are you okay?” She nodded quickly in response, eyes wide, a little stunned. JJ scooped her up into his arms and carried her out of the house hurriedly, not taking a second look back. He set her in the passenger seat, then looked around worriedly. “Keys, Charlie, I need the keys.” She bit down on her lip, hard, gesturing toward the porch. “Keys, Charlie.” He repeated, looking her over with concern. 

“Dropped them. On the porch.” She got out, gingerly touching her fingers to her cheek. JJ cursed under his breath, nodding, and shut the door quickly. He jogged back up to the porch, glancing inside for a split second to see his dad still lying there on the floor. He hesitated just long enough to see his dad stir, no blood in sight, and grabbed the keys and ran back to the car. 

His hands were shaking as he jammed the keys in the ignition, starting it up and driving away quickly. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. God - did he hurt you? Did it hit you?” He asked rapidly, glancing over at her. Charlie shook her head, pressing the heel of her hand to her cheek. “No. Um, just a small nick.” She paused before speaking again, her voice shaky. “I’m sorry, J.” 

“What?! No, no, why are you sorry?” He reached over and took her free hand, pressing the back to his lips. 

“You said not to come in, and I got scared, I thought he was hurting you.” She frowned, her voice small. “I can’t believe he talked to you like that.”  

JJ sighed, softly. “That was hardly anything, honestly.” He bit the inside of his cheek as he drove back to her parent’s house, trying to focus more on her than the thoughts running through his head. Charlie blinked hard, trying not to let any tears fall. “That was harsh, J.” He gave her a sad smile. “Been through worse, sweetheart.” He pulled into her driveway, thankful her parents were out for the night.  

They made it up the stairs and into her room, quiet, both not wanting to be the first to speak. “You’re sure the bottle didn’t hit your head?” JJ asked as he sat next to her on the bed, gently running his thumb over the small nick across her cheek. Charlie had her knees drawn up to her chest, closed off. “I’m sure.” He nodded, but kept a worried frown. 

“I’m proud of you, J.” She murmured, taking his hand. He raised his eyebrows, confused. “For what?” She gave him a small smile, for the first time since leaving the house. “You stood up for yourself.” He shrugged, keeping his eyes trained on the comforter. “Yeah, well. Thanks.” 

Charlie frowned and moved closer, pulling him into a tight hug. “You don’t have to see him again, JJ.” 

“I just -” JJ’s face crumpled and his voice cracked. “I don’t know why he’s not proud of me.” Charlie held him tighter. “JJ…” He pulled her into his lap to hold her closer, then buried his face against her shoulder. “I graduated high school, and college, and I got out of the Outer Banks on my own, I…” he faltered, letting out a single sob. “I don’t know what else he wants from me, Charlie. Am I not good enough?” 

“Oh, hon.” Charlie murmured. She nudged his chin up so he could meet her gaze. “You’re more than good enough, J. You’ve done all those things, but more importantly, you’re the best damn person I could ask for.” JJ pressed his forehead to hers, listening. “But I’m a mess.” 

She shook her head. “No, you’re not. You’re responsible with your job, and hard-working and creative. You notice all the little things and you’re kind to just about everyone you meet.” He ducked his head away in embarrassment, not used to the praise. “Charlie.” 

She continued, giving him a smile. “I can’t wait to be married to you and show you off even more, JJ. I’m so fucking proud of you.” He lifted his head and kissed her, hard. “I love you.” 

“And how lucky am I to experience your love?” Charlie told him, nudging her nose against his. She caught his lips in a gentle kiss, threading her fingers through his hair. “Stop, you’re going to make me cry.” JJ told her with a small laugh, tears welling up in his eyes again. Charlie kissed him again. “Love you always, J, don’t forget it.” He nodded, kissing her back. “Love you always.” 

[foxymoxynoona]

Amended Ch. 1

SUMMARY: Getting into a bar fight is the least surprising part of Isabella's return home. She sure doesn't expect to run into her childhood friend turned high school enemy, now not just surprisingly a law-abiding citizen but a police officer. Things seem to be going great for him, but Isabella is struggling with more than a bar fight. A single mom with a sick grandmother, an alcoholic mother, an abusive ex, and a short fuse herself, matters are not helped that Jungkook seems to be everywhere. All the time. Especially every time Isabella messes up. Can she really believe him when he says he just wants to help?

Police officer! Jungkook x Single Mom Childhood Friend Named OC

CW: abusive parents, alcoholism, abusive exes, descriptions of childhood abuse, domestic violence, sexual abuse, illegal acts, side character death, discussions/references to underage sexual activity/alcohol use/drug use, teen pregnancy, explicit sexual content

Also hosted on AO3. Not sure if I’ll keep posting on tumblr or not, but I thought I’d try it out!

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Isabella honestly couldn’t have said who threw the first punch. She was drunk, certainly, but she didn’t tend to throw punches first, though it wasn’t entirely unheard of if the other person was mouthy enough. And Brianne was definitely mouthy, and also drunk. Still, Isabella was certain Brianne had slapped her first, after Isabella had grabbed her arm and muttered a threat --but even that had been in response to Brianne’s unending cruel remarks. Those had grown louder over the evening until the whispered gossip wasn’t, was just full on taunts. And really Isabella thought she’d done a remarkable job ignoring it until Brianne had mouthed off about her children and what kind of mother she was… could anyone have expected her to stay quiet? So maybe she’d grabbed Brianne’s arm and then Brianne had slapped her and then Isabella had punched her right in the jaw and things had exploded from there.

Brianne was an idiot and Isabella was a scrappy fighter by this point. If the bar patio hadn’t been so crowded she probably would have managed to throw Brianne further away more quickly. Instead Brianne’s friends grabbed Isabella, interrupting her swings and kicking at her, only for her to twist away and throw herself back at Brianne until she didn’t even remember what was said. She was just drunk and angry and fighting.

The fight was broken up after only a few minutes, strong arms wrapping around Isabella’s chest and dragging her backwards while someone else did the same with Brianne. Isabella thrashed and struggled but the hold was crushing.

“Let go of me you motherfucker or I’ll bust you up next!”

“Careful, it’s a bigger deal to threaten a cop.”

“Like I give a flying fuck, let go of me,” she hissed, trying to bash her head back and kicking her feet, lifting them to use her whole weight to try and break free. Unfortunately the person was stronger than she was and it made no difference.

“Stop resisting or I’m going to have to take you in.”

“Stop holding me. They let her go!”

“She stopped resisting.”

“Motherfucker, let go of me--”

“Ok, she’s disorderly, I’m taking her in,” he announced, dragging her backwards.

“Let go of me!”

He ignored her, dragging her backwards still until they were clear of the bar deck, and then still in view of everyone began reciting her Miranda Rights.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” she demanded. “She threw the first punch! That bitch has been after my since we were sixteen and now I’m the one getting arrested? You can’t arrest me, I have to get home.”

“Then you shouldn’t have been fighting, ma’am,” the police officer sighed, turning and shuffling her forward to the cruiser parked on the side of the road. The lights weren’t on or anything.

“You don’t understand, I have to get home. I have to let the babysitter go.”

“Your husband will have to take the kids tonight.”

“Don’t be a piece of shit, I don’t have a husband.”

“Do I have to handcuff you or will you behave while I unlock the car?”

“Do not handcuff me.”

“Please don’t make me handcuff you…” He let go of her, which surprised her, though kept one hand clenched around her arm. He had a key fob to unlock the car and pulled open the door to the back seat, shoving her in with a muttered, “Watch your head.”

“This is bullshit,” she scoffed, glaring at his back as he slammed the door and walked around. She felt panic rising as she realized she was getting taken to jail. She was going to spend the night in jail. There was no one to bail her out unless she wanted to call-- no, absolutely not. She’d have to call the babysitter and beg her to spend the night…

She started crying angry tears as the police officer slid into the driver’s seat, “This is bullshit. She talked shit about me and my kids all night and assaulted me and I’m the one you’re arresting.”

“She settled down.”

“I’m settled down now.”

“Are you?” he asked, turning in the seat as he turned the cab light on. They both froze in shock.

“Jungkook?”

“Isabella Desmond?”

She stared, too shocked to even answer. She had not been prepared to see him, certainly not in this state, and she didn’t know which was more shocking, to find herself suddenly face to face with him or to realize…

“You’re a cop ?”

“Yes,” he answered, giving her a crooked grin. “What the fuck are you doing back here? Why are you fighting in my bar?”

“Your bar?”

“What are you doing here?” he asked her again, staring. It had shocked her sober, seeing him. She still felt fuzzy and amped up but winded now. Her face hurt. Her hand hurt.

“My grandmother is sick,” she explained. It felt silly to give him that answer when he’d just dragged her out of a bar backwards. “I came home to take care of her.”

“I didn’t know you were back.”

“You know everything that happens?”

“Pretty much, yeah. You’re staying at her place?” She gave him a short nod, annoyed that he apparently knew where that was. But of course he did, he’d lived next door a lifetime ago. When they were friends. “Isabella,” he sighed, shaking his head and looking out the window. He turned to face forward in the car. “Shit. What are you doing back here?”

“I told you, my grandmother is sick.”

“I know.”

“Yeah, yeah, you know everything it seems,” she retorted.

“So why are you out drinking and brawling instead of home?”

“It’s been a long week.”

“Are you an alcoholic?”

“Fuck you,” she glared, kicking the back of his seat.

“It’s just a question.”

“I know what a question is, I taught you to speak English, you fucking asshole. I’m not an alcoholic, I’m just drunk.”

“Ok ok, it’s just a question.” She saw his sigh, saw the way his gaze narrowed as he stared out the windshield into the night. He was surprised to see her and even though her head was spinning with shock and adrenaline, she knew this was an opportunity.

“I need to go home,” she said again. “I’m sorry for fighting. I’m just drunk and tired but I need to go home.”

“That’s the first rational thing you’ve said.”

“Woah, you’re a cop and you use three syllable words? Jesus, you’ve really changed, huh?”

“Shut up, Isabella,” he sighed, a deeply annoyed sigh.

“Ok, I’m sorry. Just let me go home, ok? My kids will freak out if I’m not home when they wake up.”

He let his head fall back, “Isabella…”

“Come on. Let me off, just this once…”

“Isabella,” he sighed again, turning in the seat. “You fought, threatened a police officer, resisted arrest, and bashed me in the face with your stupid hard head.”

She glared, “My head isn’t hard or stupid.”

“Tell that to my bruised jaw.”

“Did I really get you? I didn’t even feel it… guess I’m invincible right now…”

“Do you feel that gash on your cheek?”

“Huh?” She shifted in the seat, trying to see in the rearview mirror but she couldn’t get the angle right. Gingerly she reached her fingers up but everything just felt fuzzy and numb as the adrenaline began to seep away, leaving her drunk and tired. “Eh,” she shrugged. “I’ve had worse.” She giggled suddenly, “Your best friend gave me worse.”

“He wasn’t my best friend.”

“Aw, shit, that would hurt his feelings.”

“Do you still talk to him?”

The question surprised her. It made her laugh even though she didn’t like the question. She leaned forward, pressing her face against the metal grating separating them.

“Not by choice,” she said. Then, “Jungkook.”

“Isabella.”

She let her voice be small and quiet as she asked, “Please just take me home. I promise I’ll be good.”

He didn’t look back at her but he looked serious, staring down at the steering wheel. It pissed her off, actually, him acting all high and mighty just because these were their seats in the cruiser. He’d been a dirtbag in high school. It ought to be him back here. It had been on numerous occasions.

He didn’t say anything, just started the car. She didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign, so she stayed quiet, watching him as he drove. It was disorienting, actually, to see him after all this time. It would make her feel shy later, she thought, but right now she just felt curious and angry. His face had finally grown around his nose and eyes, but they were still strong in profile, his jaw still sharp, his hair still a bit unruly. Or maybe that was her fault, from the struggle, what little struggled she’d been able to maintain against him.

Without meaning to, she dozed off, leaning forward against the grate. He woke her after parking, shaking her shoulder.

“Hey. We’re here.”

“No,” she groaned. “It’s not fair, Jungkook, I was just defending--”

“You’re home,” he interrupted her. “I’ll let you off with a warning this time. But this is your only warning. You’re a mom. You’re better than this. Don’t pull shit like this in my town,” he scolded as she stumbled from the car. She fell on her knees and pushed him away when he tried to help her to her feet. Instead she straightened and rubbed her eyes sleepily.

“Don’t lecture me,” she scoffed. “I never lectured you.”

“I’m a cop. It’s my job to lecture you.”

“You’re really proud of being a cop, huh? You’ve said it multiple times. I’m stunned your ego fit in the driver’s seat.”

“Inside the house, Isabella,” he said with another sigh, nudging her towards it.

“I’m going, I don’t need your help. I can do it on my own.” She glared at him over her shoulder and trudged forward, reaching the door before she realized she didn’t have her purse. It was still at the bar, with her wallet, keys, and phone. “Fuck.”

“Missing something?” She turned to see him holding her purse out. She didn’t know when or how he’d gotten it, but she stomped back to him and took it.

“You’re real smug for a delinquent.”

“I’m not a delinquent anymore.”

“Yeah, I heard you’re a cop?”

“And I heard you’re a mom, so act like it.”

She glared at the sting of his words but turned away, scoffing, “I am.”

“Better than your mom, I mean.”

“Fuck you. You don’t know anything about me, Jungkook,” she said, walking back to the door. “So don’t act like you do.” She started to dig for her keys but the front door opened, the babysitter stepping out with her backpack and shoes already on.

“I heard you get home,” she explained. “Um… hi Officer Jeon.”

“Hi Tara.”

“Hold on, I’ll get your money…” Isabella dug her wallet out, grabbing the three twenties she’d set aside for tonight, for what was supposed to be a rare fun night out. She shoved the bills into Tara’s hand, then stepped inside and shut the door without a further word to either of them. Because she needed to throw up and quickly.

**

Isabella Desmond. Isabella Fucking Desmond.

Jungkook couldn’t believe it as he drove himself home. It was supposed to be his evening out but he didn’t much feel like returning to the bar. Instead he parked in front of his house and just sat there for a few minutes. Reeling.

Isabella Joy Gertrude Desmond. The first love of Jungkook’s life. The girlfriend of his best friend in high school. The arch-enemy of his girlfriend in high school. The brightest star in his sky, who he’d watched wink and twinkle and fade until she’d crashed to earth, burned upon entry, and then fled their hometown, never to be heard from again.

And now she was here again. Living with her grandmother and children, apparently. More than one, he was certain she’d said children. And she was spending her nights getting into drunken brawls at the bar.

He wondered if Landon knew she was back. Maybe not. It wasn’t any of his business but he felt stressed about it, about her being here with Landon around. It didn’t seem like things were going well for her if she had multiple children and no husband and a drunken bar brawl on a Thursday night.

Isabella Desmond. The smartest girl he’d ever met. So much potential, fucking wasted. What a tragedy. It wasn’t any of his business. But what a tragedy.

Read Chapter 2