#who ready to take the frying pan in her hands and punch assholes in the face

[vilochkaaa]

i did what i've been planning to do for a long time - a fem. version of Pierre..

(*n´ω`n*)

[sooibian]

Flambé (Preview)

poster and edits/collage credits to @is-that-baekhyuns-shirt !

🍜 pairing: kyungsoo x fem!reader

🍜 description: pull up a chair. take a taste. come join us. life is so endlessly delicious. - ruth reichl

🍜 themes: fluff, crack (ish), slight angst, a lil bit of spice (in the future), rivals to lovers au

🍜 word count: ~ 2.8k

🍜 a/n: a little preview of a chef kyungsoo story that i've been working on. while i have the plot fleshed out it'll honestly be a while before the long one/two-shot comes out since a lot of research goes into the details. and....i write at a snail's pace. thank you for your patience and lmk if you'd like a tag in the updates!

this story is inspired by a lot of random yt videos and netflix's shows - street food and chef's table.

tagging *deep breath* @j-pping and @changshapatrol (the real rotten banana is here!)

___________________________________________

Water bobbed in frenetic bubbles in a massive ancient stone pot that was perched atop a fort of raging wood. Amidst brutal peals of thunder, a gushing stream rose from a nearby hill, obscuring the shrill cries of the sacrificial crab.

Chanting a spell, you lifted the enormous crustacean by its pincers and lowered it into the growling, pitch black utensil. Blubbering helplessly, it lodged its claws at the rim of the pot in desperation - seeking escape. The sound of your maniacal laughter reverberated through the cave as you thrust it back into the violent undulation with the flick of a bladed-spatula. 

All of a sudden, a wave of unconsciousness swept over you. You felt your skin singe as boiling water started to fill up your lungs. 

You were alone - at the bottom of the very same utensil.

“Help!” frantic, you staggered up, gasping for air. But the bladed-spatula wielding crab, who was now free and hovering over you, roared at your defenseless form.

Maybe your spell didn't land, you thought. 

“Please, Chef!” you whimpered. 

In one swift motion, it swooshed down to your eye level. 

Bushy black brows sprouted on its forehead, just a little over a pair of big brown circles for eyes. Then came the nose, followed by a bloody red mouth that snarled at you.

zzzz... 

“Late again?” It drawled in a jarring tenor.

zzzz...

zzzz...

zzzz…

4:00 a.m., your phone blinked.

In a sleep befuddled state, your hand reached out for the wailing device. ‘Late again’, Chef’s cold, deep voice sounded in your consciousness as you wiped the droplets of sweat off your forehead.

Chef. 

Doh Kyungsoo had insisted on the title and you'd defiantly refused to call him that. What business does a man working at a Kalguksu stand in Gwangjang Market have, being called a chef. You'd seeked redressal with the higher ups. The owner. Your aunt.

"Aegiya, he has something that you don't."

"A dick?"

"YAH! He has a degree in culinary arts. It's only befitting that we give him the respect his degree deserves!"

"Imo, haven't you watched Parasite? Anyone can forge documents these days and if so then why is he here? He could very well get a job at Four Seasons like Hyun Jin. Think, Imo. Think!” 

“Exactly! With forged documents, he could be anywhere. But he’s here, no?”

“Maybe you’re just easier to manipulate.”

"Chef. You're calling him Chef."

Every time the egotistical madman opened that darned mouth of his, it made you want to knock him down with a roundhouse and beat the living daylights out of him. 

But, with a deep breath, you always resisted the temptation. 

Because one day, one glorious day, you’d take over your aunt’s business and the very first item on your agenda would be….well, the obvious. With a glimmer of hope, you floundered out of your comforter, muttering every cuss word you’d learnt...and crafted in the course of working with the devil himself.

.

.

.

“Ahh 3000 is a bit too much for cucumbers", he said to the middle aged vendor, flashing a boyish grin. 

The face of sourcing had drastically changed in the last six months since Kyungsoo’s arrival. Prior to his dictatorship, your aunt had a tie up with some of the local vendors who’d hand deliver the produce every single day, without fail. Guess Kyungsoo didn’t fully comprehend the benefits of customer loyalty. ‘There could be better quality ingredients out there, Sajangnim...economically priced, I might add’, he’d convinced your aunt using his military corporal voice. No matter if it meant awkward break-ups with the vegetables ahjumma or the prawns ahjussi. You had to do the dirty work.

And tag along for the routine 5 a.m sourcing runs. Every morning, he greeted you with an accusatory ‘you’ve killed my cat’ expression.

You groaned, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. If only he’d quit flirting with every woman in the market and hurry up! The purchases had long exceeded the capacity of your humble cart. Flailing your numb arms awake, you urged him to speed up with a nudge of the knee but he glared at you like you’d asked him for a kidney. 

Kyungsoo had a tendency to overbuy but never would he help with a single bag. ‘I don’t like to sweat’ was his excuse. Which was pretty ridiculous considering he spent over ten hours a day overseeing a scorching frying pan. But you knew better than to argue. Because as much as you loathed every fibre of his existence, he terrified you a little. The man possessed the duality of a psychopath. As fierce as he was in the Market, ruthlessly competitive even, he was quite the sweet talker. And you could bet your life on the fact that every woman - whether or not a rival - would take a bullet for him.

“Ahdeul-ah”, the woman cooed at him, making your insides violently contort, “you know how tight the market is these days. But I’ll throw in some more only for you.” 

The additional weight of three kilos on your right arm ended your sourcing run for the day.

***

“Chef”, huffing, you said to him on your way out, “I had a late night last night.”

“And I need to be privy to this little nugget of unwarranted information because?” He paced ahead of you at his usual lightning speed.

“No, I meant, could we stop”, panting you continued, “could we stop for a quick cup of coffee.”

Halting abruptly, he turned around to look you in the eyes, “No.”

“Asshole!”

“I heard that.”

.

.

.

Monday at Choi Yoonsun’s was busier than usual. 

It went by in a daze amidst a cacophony of a sizzling girdle, clanging of pots and pans and your aunt’s relentless vocalization inviting customers to the stall. Having served thousands of bowls of Kalguksu and Kimchi Mandu, you heavily relied on muscle memory to get you through a workday’s demands.

Despite its chaos and commotion, you quite enjoyed working in the Market. 

Not being particularly skilled at much and having nearly flunked out of high school, cooking was the one thing that defined you. It was your safe harbour. You’d lost your father in an accident at the tender age of ten and your mother was forced to work long hours to put food on the table. So you honed your culinary skills, little by little, because you thought it vital for your own well being as well as your mother’s. 

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

At the end of yet another gratifying day, you left a wet towel soaking in vinegar for Kyungsoo to clean the iron girdle and proceeded to tend to the dirty dishes. 

“Yahh!” Imo called out for Kyungsoo and you, thumping her hand on the table, gesturing for you to join her.

“Ahh! Imo, there’s a huge pile of dirty dishes!” You cried, only to turn around to find that ass-kisser already at the table, schmoozing with your aunt. Hastily taking off your grubby apron, you washed your hands and wiped them clean with a rag cloth. Straightening your black shirt and flattening unruly flyaways, you rushed toward the table but she was already up and ready to leave, “We’ll have dinner together tonight. I want to have a chat with the both of you.”

“But -”

“Sajangnim”, Kyungsoo interrupted, wagging a finger in your direction, “this one’s had a late night last night -”

“Chef! So I guess I’ll be seeing you tonight. As if seeing you every day of every week wasn’t enough already!” 

An overtly saccharine smile spread across your face and his jaw tightened in response.

“Aish….you two...I’m leaving now”, she sighed, shaking her head, “see you both in two hours.”

.

.

.

Kimchi jjigae, pajeon, tteokbokki, jajangmyeon, some leftover bibimbap with sides galore from Hong Lim Banchan Stall. She clearly had something important to talk about. 

But the vibe at the dinner table just didn’t sit right with you. 

The reason could be the bespectacled black hole of negativity that was seated besides you in all black clothing but there was something off about Imo. 

She was being a little too...nice.

Fear gradually started to settle in your bones. Was she finally closing down? Was this delectable fare an attempt at softening the blow? After all, she’d settled her husband’s debts and her sons were doing well for themselves. Quite well, in fact. One of them was a banker and the other even went to culinary school and was working as a chef at Four Seasons’ Chinese restaurant. It only made sense for her to trade the Market’s gruelling ways for some much deserved peace and quiet.

“We’re closing down the stall”, she said coolly.

It was like a punch in the gut.

“Imo -”

“Aga”, she said resting her chin on her hand, “the Market’s given me everything. It’s given me a sense of pride...a sense of independence. It put my family back together. I used to think that I’m nothing without my husband and my sons...but the Market gave me an identity.”

A million scenarios cascading through your head drowned out your aunt’s voice. Would you now have to go back to Bucheon? Or invest in a stall of your own at the traditional Gwangjang that’d never accept your big and bold ways with cooking? And to start from scratch? With a new recipe? Kalguksu with a twist, perhaps? But you had no insight into your aunt’s special broth. She’d barely even let you whip up the hand-cut noodles.

You realized that you weren’t the only one caught in the eye of the storm. Kyungsoo’s eyes were scarily fixated on the bowl of jajangmyeon before him. His seemingly miserable state gave you a fleeting sense of relief and it was right in that moment that he chose to say something unpalatable.

“Sajangnim, you’ve worked too hard. It’s time for you to reap the fruits of your labour. We’ll be fine you don’t have to worry about us.”

Of course he’ll be fine. 

All the stall-owners in the Market have been vying for him ever since the day he set foot into Choi Yoonsun’s. Whereas, you had nowhere to go. The world conveniently assumes your aunt hired you only because you were her poor sister’s daughter who she sought to help financially. Not because you had what it took to be there and survive.

"Did I say I was ready to retire?” She laughed, eyeing Kyungsoo quizzically, leaving you dumbfounded. 

“Here’s the thing..I met up with a friend last month. She was looking for a buyer for her little family run marinated crabs restaurant in Gangnam. So I took out a loan, made her an offer”, balling her hands into fists she sighed, “put in the deposit...and the place is pretty much mine now!”

“IMO!”, you yelled, “why did you scare me like that! I thought I was laid off!”

“Well, it’s a big move, I’m not sure the two of you are ready to make...requires a tonne of work and I may not be able to pay half of what you earned at the Market for at least two months until we open! It’ll take us two years or so to break even and only then will I be able to afford you a pay raise. I could help you get a job at the banchan stall since you love seasoned spinach so much and Kyungsoo stands a chance at even managing one of the Pakgane stalls!”

Pakgane was the mung bean pancake stall that had gotten so popular that the owner had managed to branch out of Gwangjang. So even your beloved aunt believed that you’d make for a better “help” and Kyungsoo, a Manager. 

Ugh!

“I’m coming with you”, you said firmly, “I’ve saved up a little and Mom will gladly pitch in, if need be...”

At this point, you’d expected Kyungsoo to be ready with his luggage considering the little sycophant he was but his expression was stoic, eyes still glued to the jajangmyeon bowl. It filled you with insane hope. 

He was going to jump the ship...finally!

“Chef...”, you couldn’t resist, “you don’t have to worry about us...I’m more than enough for Imo. You may...”

He shot you an angry glare making you chew on your unsaid words. But you wanted to rile him just a little more. So you excused yourself to bring a bottle of ketchup and squeezed it generously atop the stack of pajeon while eyeing him maliciously. 

Ketchup. 

The tangy, unassuming condiment was the sole reason Kyungsoo despised you. As this dinner marked the end of his torturous regime, you celebrated with ketchup - lots of it - right in front of his nasty eyes.

.

.

.

Steam swirled in different directions and at every twenty metres a contrastive redolence tickled your olfactory senses. Experiencing Gwangjang as a customer was a far richer experience compared to the donkeywork involved in a life as a vendor. 

A proper send-off was essential lest Kyungsoo decided to stay, even if it burned a hole in your pocket. You planned on giving him a final tour of the Market where he (and you) could say his goodbyes while receiving a premium fuel of vitamins, minerals and carbs. 

A whole lot of carbs.

“Let’s start with Pakgane”, said Kyungsoo, with a skewered sausage in his hand.

You shook your head in response. You wanted to start with the best and mung bean pancakes weren’t it. This was going to be a farewell he’d never forget.

With every step you took, the aroma of scallops drizzled with butter and cheese grew stronger. You started your tour by ordering two portions of the delectable street food which set you back considerably. But you were too elated to care. You refused Kyungsoo’s offer to pay as the woman set the scallops on fire with a blow torch.

“Do you know what that technique’s called?” Kyungsoo gave a little nod in the direction of the aflame food.

Another teachable moment.

You’d made a firm resolve to not let any of his condescension bog you down so with a sweet smile, you replied, “No, Chef. I do not.”

“Flambé. But minus the alcohol. Do you know how they manage that?”

The ahjumma came to your rescue and you jumped to collect the order. You could’ve sworn that you caught the corner of his mouth twitch slightly.

***

The Market supposedly looked the same as it did fifty years ago and you quite enjoyed eating your way through it. The tour made your heart grapple with nostalgia even though your partner’s personality was akin to a mug of insipid coffee.

Although you’d spent only a little over a year with Choi Yoonsun, the goodbyes were long and hard. Some of the vendors squeezed you and Kyungsoo in heart wrenching hugs, the others gave you a little cash to help you through the transition and for some of the food, you paid in smiles and love.

After a gastronomic fiesta that entailed tteokbokki, pajeon (minus the ketchup - you did it Kyungsoo’s way), sashimi, kimbap, different types of banchan, a thousand more teachable moments, the both of you ended the day on a sweet note with hotteok. 

The ahjussi wished you both luck, making you choke back tears. 

Kyungsoo noticed.

“Are you…. Is the hotteok spicy? No, I mean it’s obviously not...erm”

The dam of your tears burst. 

You were going to miss this place. Even the less appealing aspects of it. You were going to miss the kimbap unnie who greeted you with a hug everyday, also the snooty mandu ahjumma who could hardly stand the sight of you. You were even going to miss washing dishes in the winters with water that was supposed to be ice and the sweltering summers which had you sweating through every layer of clothing. 

Hell, you were even going to miss Kyungsoo.

“No”, you sniffled, “No, no Chef, it’s nothing. Take care of yourself. As much as I’m glad that our fateful working relationship has met its rightful end, I truly, genuinely, wish you luck. And learn to smile more often, yeah?”

“Are you dying?” He gleamed.

“What? NO! What? You’re leaving. What is wrong with you?”

“Who says I’m leaving?”

“You! You’re not coming with us to Gangnam!”

“Says who?”

“Your stupid face that looked like it was hit by a freight train when Imo broke the news last week!”

“I’m not leaving?” He mused.

“This is no time to joke, Chef. You are leaving!”

“Says who!”

“Your stu-”

“Stupid face? I wasn’t planning on leaving at all. I’ve even found myself a place close to the restaurant. Oh yeah, sorry for having misled you. It was really just - my stupid face.”

[carol-effing-danvers]

push me, pull you

this is part three of the series “run long, roam far, return soon” part one: “knock me the fuck out (i dare ya, babe)” (cont.) (fin.) part two: “where we grew up”

(click here if you’d prefer to read this in AO3′s format)

“You guys have been in here for over twenty minutes,” Steve complains, turning into the kitchen of the Wheeler’s house – not the same as the one they lived in while Nancy and Mike where in high school. Karen got her heart set on a fixer-upper after Mike left for college and it became a passion project for her. It’s old, charming, and deeply haunted. “What are you two doing?”

Quickly, El turns away from Billy, nervously running her hand over the end of the braid draped over her shoulder. She’s dressed a little nicer than he normally sees her today, in a sweet flowing dress patterned in butterflies that leaves her shoulders bare. There’s always been an innocence to her, despite her childhood, or maybe because of it. A wide-eyed wonder that he secretly hopes she never loses.

Steve notices that Billy looks concerned as he informs Steve “El’s gotten herself ready for a big date.”

“Billy,” she pleads, mumbling at her hands. “I can’t.”

“Just ask,” he coaxes softly. “Even if he says ‘no’, anything is better than wondering. You know that.”

“Ask who what?” Steve asks, confused. Then, feeling like he’s been hit with a frying pan: “Jesus fuck, please do not say Lucas, I will have a fucking heart attack-”

Lucas has spent six years hoping that Max would see what a monstrous snake her husband was and leave his ass and Max has, from what Billy’s told, regretted most of the eight years since they broke up for good. Steve can’t take watching life break El’s heart that way, not sweet and loyal Eleven.

“Henderson,” Billy says, clipped and brusque. “She’s talking about Henderson.”

“Why would you talk El into asking Dust on a date?” he says, even more confused now. “Eleven doesn’t even want to talk to Dustin. I mean, I don’t think you hate him, but he’s pretty sure that you do. He can be dramatic sometimes.”

El trembles as she slides down the wall into a crouch. “I can’t!” she tells Billy, her eyes filling with tears. “Billy, I can’t! I’ve already messed it up.”

Crouching beside her, Billy says, “Why d’you never talk to him, honey?”

She shrugs, staring at the floor as she wipes furiously at her cheeks. “I can’t-I can’t remember how to talk around him,” she says, swallowing against a fresh urge to weep. “I forget words.”

“Yeah, baby, I know. Love can make you super dumb.” Billy says sympathetically and Steve feels sucker-punched when he realizes that he is talking about the way teenage Billy felt about teenage Steve.

Turning on his heel, Steve enters back into the group of people laughing around a game of mock D&D in Max’s living room. “Hey,” he says, smiling at Dustinas he gestures wildly with a half-empty glass of Guinness. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Um, yeah.” Dust downs the rest of his glass and hands their shoddily made up script to Erica. “Have fun. Make me proud.”

“Wow, the bar has never been lower.”

“I love you too, you little shit.” Steve begins pulling him along toward the kitchen. He’s not sure he’ll ever get over Dustin growing up to be bigger and taller than him. Bemused, he asks, “Where are we going?”

“I think that it’s time for El to apologize to you,” Steve says firmly. It was the one thing he was sure of – his realization may never have arrived if Billy hadn’t been laying in the hospital bed and apologized in that dead, traumatized monotone.

Dustin begins to resist a little. “No, Steve, c’mon. The six of us don’t really have to be attached at the hip.”

“You think she hates you.”

“No, I said she didn’t like me,” Dust replies patiently as they approach the kitchen. “That’s not the same thing.”

Billy and El are where he left them, and if he didn’t believe it before, he believes it when he actually looks at her reaction to seeing Dustin.

Eleven’s back straightens up and her eyes widen, leaning away from their approach like someone is actively holding a gun to her head. If Billy’s reaction to his own love was rage, El’s reaction seems to be terror.

“Dude, what did you guys do to her?” Dustin is just as clueless as Steve was, but it doesn’t take a genius like him to notice that she’s been crying recently. “Eleven…”

Even the simple act of hearing her name makes El tremble. Dustin can barely seem to stand looking at her and it pains him. Steve says, “If you guys ever want to get past this, then she needs to apologize to you.”

“Why the hell do you think she needs to apologize to me? I’m the asshole, you dipshits! Have the two of you seriously been telling her that was her fucking fault?!” Crouching, Dustin mutters, still without looking quite at her, “C’mon, you don’t need to do this. Go to The Party, I’ll talk to the idiots.”

“Dustin, what you talking about?” Steve demands, “What’s your fault?”

Startled, the younger man looks at him, blinks, then quickly says, “Nothing, stop harassing her about this. She doesn’t need to apologize, we don’t talk to each other, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have my back, okay?”

Billy tries to say something, but Steve cuts him off. If he knows what Dustin sounds like when he’s tired, then he also knows what Dustin looks like when he’s done something he shouldn’t have. “Why do you look guilty? Dust, what did you do? Why did you call yourself an asshole?”

Awkwardly fluffing his curly hair, like an exceptionally sad-looking poodle, Dustin grimaces and tells El, still without looking her directly in the eye, “Sorry, I thought you already told him. I should have known you wouldn’t rat me out. I’m sorry they’ve been bugging you.”

She stares at him, wide-eyed, as he turns to Steve and bluntly says “Eleven doesn’t like me because two weeks after graduation, after she broke up with Mike, I basically shoved my tongue down her throat.” Everyone in the room gapes at him in shock and he sighs heavily, “We were all at a bonfire, I was drunk, she was really drunk, She didn’t want to talk to me anymore, and I totally respect that. You guys need to stop this weird crusade to force her to like me, because it’s my fault. I earned it.”

Dustin flails his arms in a ‘so, there’ kind of gesture, and adds, “El, I’m so sorry for this whole thing, I should’ve apologized immediately, but you look so freaked out anytime I go near you, and I didn’t wanna corner you like some kind of creep. You’ve always been Mike’s girl, and it was so fucking gross and sleazy for me to…”

“I’m not a possession.” Eleven interrupts, her voice hard and cold. “I don’t belong to Mike Wheeler. Michael Wheeler doesn’t own me.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Dustin assures her. With a nervous laugh, he adds, “I don’t think anyone could if they tried.”

And El’s face fills with a helpless rage that reminds Billy painfully of himself. You idiot, he thinks, watching Dustin’s face, so full of friendly sympathy. So clueless for a kid so smart. She wants to belong to someone. She wants to belong to you.

Were his feelings that obvious?

Oh, totally, Robin’s voice answers in his head, explaining to Erica on the phone. There poor Billy-boy was, heart on his sleeve, checkin’ Steve-o out like he was on the effing menu. And Steve got so flustered every time Billy walked in, he never even noticed.  

“You kissed me,” she repeats angrily.

“I’m sorry,” Dustin repeats, miserably. “I took advantage of you, El, and it took me so fucking long to apologize, but I really am so sorry.”

“I don’t remember,” El seethes, fists clenched. “You kissed me, and I don’t remember.”

“You were really drunk,” Dustin says gently. “But I promise, I won’t ever do that again, okay?”

Oh, that is the opposite of the thing Eleven wants to hear. She’s so angry – she feels like something she so desperately wants has been taken from her, and now Dustin is telling her she doesn’t even have the chance to get it back again.

“Bastard,” she hisses, eyes beginning to shine and glitter with unshed tears. On the stove, a kettle begins to whistle sharply, even though the burner it’s sitting on isn’t even lit.

Dustin begins backing away, eyes wide, and El lunges, grabbing the front of his sweater with clawed fingers and kissing him, passionate with anger and six years of love that she’s just been choking herself on.

She pulls away just as abruptly, and Dustin’s lower lip begins to bleed sluggishly. “You bit me.”

He doesn’t sound mad, just quietly shocked.

“That’s all you can say to me?” she demands, as the tears begin to slide down her face. She has made herself into a fool, and for no good reason. She told Billy this was a mistake.

“I…yes?” He’s bewildered by the combination of passion and violence, and even more bewildered by the tear. Maybe the kiss made them even now? But then why the hell is she crying? Fuck, he’s been trying not to upset her, Dustin can’t stand it when Eleven cries, but somehow, he’s managed to do it anyway.

Swiping angrily at her eyes, El darts toward the back stairwell beside the sink. Dust, feeling like something important was slipping away from him, grabs her arm, though he knows that’s the last thing he should do with El when she’s upset. That’s how you end up suddenly knowing what the ceiling feels like on your back. “What do you want me to say?” he pleads, grabbing both of her elbows. “Just tell me what you want, and I promise I’ll do it.”

LOVE ME BACK!, she wants to scream.

“Nothing,” she says dully, limbs going slack like a puppet with its strings cut. The lie crushes her. “I don’t want anything.”

“Do you just…really not like me, then?” he asks in a small voice, and the question startles her into a half turn. “Because you didn’t remember my dumb drunk kiss, but you always act like I’m a Demogorgon that’s about to…eat…you…”

Her face is a brilliant crimson, arms crossed defensively over her chest. His lower lip still stings. “Oh.”

“Don’t look at me,” she says in a mumble, shoulders hunching. She covers her eyes, tears spilling out from beneath her fingers. Chin trembling, she repeats, half-pleading, “I don’t want anything.”

Dustin swallows hard, licks his lips. He’s been less nervous presenting his actual dissertation plan. “What if I want something? Would that be okay?” He watches her chewing on her lower lip before she nods. “Can you please look at me?”

Slowly, arm trembling, she lowers her hand and stares at him, her gaze darting at him and then away, frightened and hesitant. She’s barely able to raise her voice. “...okay.”

He never had the slightest conception of the power his touch could have over her, but when his hands cup her face, all of the cupboard doors suddenly swing themselves open. His thumbs wipe at the trails of tears on her cheeks and the dishes on the shelves tremble along with her. Dustin lets her relax enough to look him straight in the eye and says, deadly serious, “Do you have any idea how fucking difficult it is, finding a girl who can measure up to you?”

Her brows pinch together.

“Because I’ve tried,” he confesses. “For twelve years, in three different states, I’ve tried to find a woman who can compete with the first girl I ever fell in love with, and it’s asking way too much of one person.”

Eleven listens, stunned, as he continues “Because that girl is the kindest person I know, and the strongest, and the bravest. She’s clever, and funny, and beautiful, and wise. She’s stubborn as a mule and she pushes anyone who’s ever loved her to be the best version of themselves. She can flip cars without breaking a sweat, and she makes a chocolate cake so delicious that after my first bite, I cried literal tears of joy.”

She’s crying again, and the bags of flour and sugar on the counter have split their seams and begin to pour their contents all over the countertops and the floor. Like Eleven’s heart is bursting, and they burst with her in sympathy.

Pressing his forehead to hers, Dustin whispers “That’s all I want. Find me your equal. I’ve tried, but every time I come home, I see you and I know it’s no use. No matter who they are, they can’t be better than an Eleven.”

“…I can’t say anything that nice,” she admits, holding his hands to her skin. “I’m-I don’t have the words…”

Karen’s tulips, half dead in their vase, are suddenly blooming in full life on the center island. Billy and Steve grin at each other.

Very quietly, Eleven says, “You carried me.” At his confused look, she continues “In the school. When we were young. You carried me. I remembered that.”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t know why, because she seems to think this is very important.

“It was the first,” she tells him. “The first time I really knew what ‘safe’ felt like. It was you. It’s always been you, too.”

Dustin laughs. “We’re a pair of perfect fuck-ups, aren’t we?”

Seriously, she asks “Are we a pair?”

“We could be. If you want.”

She considers that for a moment. “Does it mean I can have a real kiss now?”

His eyes flicker down to her lips. After fully breaking, his voice has always had an almost musical quality, but it seems especially nice to her. “They both felt pretty fucking real to me.”

The back of her neck tingles. As stubborn as he accused, El insists “More?”

Dustin glances nervously at Steve and Billy.

Steve laughs and Billy rolls his eyes. “At least go upstairs, we don’t need to watch the two of you making out.”

Billy sighs as El drags Dustin up the stairs. He’s intensely familiar with dating someone who looks innocent but turns into a fucking maniac in the sack when they’re in the right mood.

Fuck, I hope the kid has a seatbelt and a fucking helmet.

[supposed2bfunny]

It’s a collaboration for Murdoc’s big day!! @trashfrog99 and I worked together to produce this art and story to celebrate our favorite Satanist! Also, I must credit @elapsed-spiral for the concept of Murdoc’s gift being a sort of “Kong 2.0″ (her words, her story Yearz). That chapter was a huge inspiration for what this story would morph into. Rating: T Warnings: None Murdoc’s grand plan to sleep until approximately four in the afternoon was dashed by the tentative knock on his door around lunchtime. “Boss?” Ace’s voice called, “you up?” He fumbled around blindly until he found a bottle opener on his bedside table and threw it at the door to communicate his annoyance. “I am now,” he growled, sitting up and smoothing his disheveled bedhead as best he could. “Give us a tic, you twat, I’m not decent.” After the pre-birthday celebration that he’d had with Stu, that was a wild understatement. The cap to a bottle of lube and a veritable parade of condom wrappers scattered across the floor as he threw his bed sheets aside and groped around for something to wear. A full two minutes later, he was zipping up a pair of jeans and trying to sort out his rattiest Prince tee-shirt, which seemed determined to remain inside out. “Yeah, what do you want at the ass-crack of dawn anyway?” he asked, opening the door and half-expecting Ace to have vacated already. But the American stood there, sunglasses hanging from the neck of his tee and a smile on his boney face. “Happy birthday, bossman!” he replied, punching Murdoc’s shoulder (he was strong for such a scrawny guy; it hurt). “Fifty-three, bet you never expected to make it that far, huh?” “That’ putting it mildly,” he responded, but he smiled, and he knew that of all people, Ace felt no discomfort with the cryptic humor. “Now can I go back to sleep, or did you want to sing that insipid birthday song to me?” “Actually,” Ace ducked forward to look over Murdoc’s shoulder, then back the way that he had come up the stairs to make sure they were alone. “I wanted to give you a little something. Something the rest of the crew might not appreciate too much, if you catch my drift.” “Gang stuff?” Murdoc asked, perking up and feeling awake for the first time. “Is it drugs?” “No!” the younger man snorted. “You know I don’t do that shit no more. Now hold out your hand.” Murdoc agreed, expression suspicious as Ace reached into his back pocket. A moment later, he dropped something cool and heavy into the bassist’s palm. He withdrew his hand and Murdoc’s eyes widened in amazement. “Brass knuckles? The Gentle Green Giant owns a pair of brass knuckles?” “Owned. Want you to have ‘em, boss.” Murdoc slipped them on, impressed at their weight. He’d never worn a pair before, though he’d known plenty of people in his life who’d owned them between his drug-filled youth and many days in prison. “You never used these,” he accused. “Same as your switchblade. It’s all for show.” “Used ‘em exactly once, actually,” he corrected. “Back when I had my crew in Townsville, some junkie came after one of my guys, Lil Arturo. And little Artie was just a kid, see? I had to protect him. I panicked: punched the guy once, twice, saw blood, ran,” he pushed his long black hair behind his ears. “You know I was never really much of a fighter. But these have been used to protect family, and that’s why I want you to have ‘em. After that experience is when I decided to quit the gang shit and pursue music more seriously. And opening for Gorillaz? That was my first official gig that landed me some cash so’z I could turn my life around.” He took a deep breath and pointed at the brass knuckles. “Those’re significant to me. And all you’ve done to let me stay with you guys, even after you came back from the slammer, well…it’s been significant to me too…” Murdoc could see that Ace was becoming emotional, and though there was a day where he would have laughed at the younger man, he instead placed a hand on his shoulder. “Pretty cool gift, I must admit. Not as great as some blow, but it’ll do.” “They’re not for violence, got it?” Ace looked at him seriously. “They’re symbolic. Using those things changed me, set the course of my life in a new direction!” “Right, right, great life changes and all that, got it, Ace,” he looked into the younger man’s eyes. “You’re uh, you’re all right. For a ‘guido’.” “I’m the one who taught you that word!” Ace snapped, misty eyes suddenly fiery with anger. “You don’t get to call me that! That’s practically a slur, you know!” “Right, riiight, if this little heart-to-heart is over,” he replied, “I’m going to go get some breakfast.” “It’s past noon. That’s lunch, you stupid old man.” “Youth is wasted on the young,” he replied, but he made sure that Ace saw him slip the brass knuckles into his pocket, a new treasure to keep close at all times. In the kitchen he was greeted first by the strong smell of frying bacon, and then by Russel standing at the stove, spatula in hand. “You’re normally up earlier’n this, Russ,” Murdoc commented, eyeing the sizzling bacon with interest. “Everything all right?” “I’ve been up, Muds. This is for you.” “What? A man turns fifty-three and suddenly everyone learns how they should have been treating him all along, huh? I quite like this worship.” “Don’t push your luck. But there’s beans in the microwave; get those out and grab a plate.” “Russel, I could kiss you.” “I can smell your breath from over here, man; you’d better not even think about it.” Murdoc cackled and did as he was told, fetching a plate and finding a Pyrex container of baked beans warmed in the microwave for him. As he spooned some onto his plate, Russel came over with the frying pan, offering him several slices of one of his favorite foods. “Bon appétit.” “Now you wouldn’t happen to have gone the extra step and made—” Russel turned back to the countertop and grabbed two mugs of coffee, sliding one over to the bassist. It was his favorite mug no less: one that had been sent to Stu from someone alleging to be his child, a tired ‘World’s Best Dad’ print across it either a deluded or a very ironic statement. They’d never determined which. While Stu had begged to throw it out, Murdoc had adopted it with glee, smirking every time the singer glared at him for using it. The drummer had a cup himself as well, and they each took a sip, nodding in approval at the taste. Russel had always been of the philosophy that no one should have to eat a meal alone, so he kept the bassist company as he ate, a comfortable silence falling, interrupted only by the sound of silverware scraping the porcelain plate. “We’re getting old,” Russel finally said, watching Murdoc push his plate away with finality although he hadn’t cleared it. His appetite, which had never been big, was even smaller these days. “Yeah, well, not like we’re slowing down,” he countered. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Not when there’s still so much left to do. I mean, you’ve got that bloody non-profit for immigrant kids who want to learn tambourine or whatever.” He pulled a face. “Crass, Murdoc, very crass. But yeah, I have a lot of work cut out for me with the Kids with Drums foundation. I was also thinking that we still have a lot more music to create.” Murdoc paused, clicking his teeth against the ceramic rim of the mug. It was the first time that Russel had been the one to propose more music. “You thinking another album, big boy? Gorillaz or…solo?” Russel smiled enigmatically. “I’m thinking sky’s the limit. But hey, I have a lot to do before tonight’s big dinner, so I’ll leave you to your coffee.” He rapped his knuckles against the table and pushed himself up to leave. “Oi, Russ?” He paused, mid-stride. “Yeah?” Murdoc poked at the remaining beans on his plate with a fork, watching them slide through bacon grease. “You’re the only one in this bloody house who isn’t afraid to fry this shit to a crisp. Well done.” The drummer shook his head. “See you later, asshole.” Once he’d finished his coffee, the bassist carried his dishes to the sink, looking out the small window and into the backyard. First Ace talking about the past and how he’d changed careers, then Russel being all vague about making new music. It felt like they were giving him subtle warnings of change to come, and the bassist felt apprehension begin to coil in his gut. They were offering clues to him, clues that seemed to suggest change. He wasn’t ready to retire yet, and it wasn’t until he dropped his mug into the sink, causing a harsh clatter, that he realized his hands had begun to shake. “Snap out of if Niccals,” he muttered. He was jumping to conclusions, that was all. He hoped. He double checked that the mug had not cracked, and, satisfied, left the dirty dishes for someone else to take care of. He made his way to the screen door in the back of their house, hoping a smoke would calm his nerves. Before he could make it outside, a pair of arms wrapped around his middle from behind and he jumped slightly. “Happy birthday, Dad.” “I appreciate the sentiment, luv, but you only call me that about twice a year.” “Christmas and birthdays, right?” The guitarist asked, squeezing him just slightly, reminding him that in spite of her small stature, she was strong enough to snap him in half if she wanted to. “Proper submarine daughter you are, popping up to show face then disappearing again for six months. Relax, I haven’t written you out of the inheritance yet.” She laughed and turned him around to hug him properly. “Your breath stinks.” “So I’ve been told,” he said with a shrug. “If you think I’m going to brush my teeth on my birthday you’ve got another thing coming. Live with it.” She pretended to gag, but grabbed his wrist, placing something small and metal in it with a simple “here’s your gift.” He looked down to see a house key and again, a wave of nervous energy hit him. “You changed the locks?” he looked at her. “Noods, what happened? Everything okay?” “I can’t tell you all the details; it’s not my story to tell,” she replied, patting his arm. “But don’t worry. I promise you’ll be happy when you hear the whole story. Just don’t lose this key, okay? I have no patience for you tapping on windows asking me to let you in at four in the morning after a night of revelry.” “That only happened once or twice!” he cried in indignation. “Once or twice that you can remember,” she corrected, crossing her arms over her chest. “Happened way more than that. Lucky for you, I forgive you for disturbing my beauty sleep.” “Very generous of you,” he said, pulling out a pack of Lucky Lungs and placing one between his lips, offering her one as well. He really didn’t love that she smoked, but he knew there was no stopping Noodle from doing what she wanted to do. “I’m good,” she replied, holding up a hand. “Care for some company, or was this Murdoc Meditation Hour?” “Was actually looking to sort my thoughts out if it’s all the same to you,” he answered, nodding towards the door. No need to risk slipping up and showing the poor girl how unsettled he was on a day that was supposed to be happy. “Seems that everything is starting to change, have you noticed?” “Change doesn’t have to be bad, Murdoc. Issun saki wa yami. You’ve got the support: whatever comes your way, it will be kind.” “No idea what you just said, but it sounds nice. Thanks, pet.” “Looking forward to dinner tonight,” she said brightly, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Don’t make yourself sick with cancer sticks: the restaurant is supposed to have amazing desserts.” “I don’t—” “Desserts so good even you will like them!” she corrected herself as she headed back upstairs, presumably to find her partner in crime, Ace. Murdoc sighed and headed outside, enjoying the warmth as the sun broke free from the clouds for a moment. He took a seat on one of the aged folding chairs on the patio, lighting his cigarette and trying to control his thoughts. Something was coming, and he was terrified. Even more upsetting than the promise of unwelcome change however was the fact that he hadn’t once been able to speak the words he wanted to say. To Ace, to Russel, to Noodle. They’d all spent time with him, they’d all been so kind. This time last year, he’d been certain that his moments of fame had ended. Alone in prison and with no contact from his mates, he’d listened despondently as news came through that Gorillaz were producing a new album without him, and he’d smuggled in enough technology to be able to watch in real time as many fans took to social media, celebrating the band’s new bassist and suggesting it was a new era for Gorillaz. A better era. Murdoc shuddered at the memory of his cot in prison, of the time spent reflecting on how quickly the world seemed to forget about him. He’d thought frequently of his father, who had died alone and miserable in his home in Stoke, no one to mourn him, no one to express sympathy for his passing. He’d been so certain that he was destined for the same fate, and that he’d been delusional to hope for a better outcome. Murdoc stubbed out his first cigarette, having smoked it down in record speed. He lit a new one, eyes fixed on the grass sprouting up between cracks in the patio. Stop it, he willed himself. Stop working yourself up. You have to put on a show for the others in a couple of hours. For the love of Satan get it together! The sound of the screen door shuttering open and closed startled him from his thoughts, and he heard someone approaching him. He recognized the ungainly gait by sound alone instantly and searched his anxiety-rattled brain for a dry comment to make. Stuart beat him to it, singing softly, looking ahead at the backyard rather than at his boyfriend. “Why you rolling waves over me now, that’s all I need, dreaming,
waiting on a lover, come find me, be forgiven.” Of course. That bloody song. The most overt declaration of love that the singer had ever offered him, the one that had signaled to Murdoc that their relationship was not irreparable. A fucking beacon of hope when he’d been at such a low point in prison. The bassist drew his lower lip between his teeth and stared doggedly ahead, not wanting to break down although he felt his walls crumbling under the soothing sound of his lover’s voice. “I’ll be a regular guy for you, I never said I’d do that,
why you looking so beautiful to me now when you’re so sad?” Stu turned to look at him as he sang, and although he still didn’t look at the singer, Murdoc felt his eyes grow damp, felt the wetness hanging on his lower lashes, threatening to spill over his cheek. Pathetic. “I will always think about you.
That’s why I’m calling you back
on my way through. I wanna stay with you for a long time, I wanna be your stone, love. 
I wanna see it lay in your eyes when I’m leaving with your love. I will always think about you.
That’s why I’m calling you back
on my way through.” Murdoc sighed, exhaled gray smoke through his nostrils. This man was going to be the death of him, really. He was simply too perfect. “Why you looking sad to me now, on the day of your birth, luv?” he asked, wording it so he could maintain his cadence. “Enough with the damn singing mate.” He grit out, relieved when his voice didn’t crack or waver. “Seriously, answer the question.” Stu replied. “What can I say? Your voice is so angelic it moves me to tears every time.” “Bullshit,” Stuart reached over and plucked the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a puff for himself. “Muds, you were fine this morning. What’s wrong?” The bassist took a deep breath and blinked rapidly until he felt certain he wasn’t going to loose any tears. “Just, feel like a lot is happening these days. Between you and me, I think Ace is getting ready to move on from the band.” Stuart handed him back his cigarette and furrowed his brow. “That makes no sense. He’s signed a contract to remain a studio musician for us for the next few years. I think he’s happy here. Don’t think he’s going to be leaving anytime soon.” The bassist shrugged. “Just a sneaking suspicion. He opened up a bit to me this morning and was being extra nice. And Russel too!” The singer actually snorted at that. “You think Russ is leaving too? What, he and Ace gonna start a new band?” “Mate, I don’t know, but he was being all friendly and chatty with me too. The man is up to something. These Americans, I swear to Satan they’re hard to understand.” “That’s why you were out here sulking? You’re afraid we’re all drifting apart?” The younger man took his boyfriend’s hand, laced their fingers together in the way that always made Murdoc melt a little. “I think you’re just assuming the worst.” “Even Noodle was acting off. She gave me a new house key. You know anything about that, by the way? Why’d she have to have our locks changed?” “She didn’t change the locks on the door.” “Then why this key?!” he snapped, reaching into his pocket and showing it to the singer. Stu looked at it, then looked at his high-strung bandmate. “Muds, why don’t you come inside?” he suggested. “Sure you don’t want to break up with me first, just to keep things fresh?” “Don’t joke like that,” he said sternly, standing up and offering his hand out to the older man, who took it, allowing himself to be pulled up and into a hug. “Murdoc, babe. It’s okay.” “I’m just mental, aren’t I?” he asked. “I feel like a bloody spring about to snap and I don’t know why!” “I think there’s reasons why you might be upset,” the singer argued. “You’ve got a lot of bad memories from last summer. We all know how susceptible you are to PTSD. Are you nervous because this time last year you were alone?” The connection made perfect sense as soon as the singer said it, and Murdoc felt like an ass instantly. “That’s it!” he practically shouted at the poor singer. “That’s why I’ve been so off. My brain is doing that fucking thing that it does. Shit, I’m such a mess!” “Hey, I’ve told you to be kinder to yourself,” the taller man chastised. He had a habit of talking like a therapist sometimes, the result of all the therapy sessions he’d attended. At first it had been annoying, but sometimes Murdoc secretly felt safe in the knowledge that Stu could help him navigate his mind a little bit. “You’re not a mess. You’ve had a tough year. That’s part of why we’re going to celebrate tonight,” he paused to kiss Murdoc with no warning, and the bassist gasped against his mouth in shock. “Gonna spoil you rotten,” he promised gently. “I…” Emotion was flooding through Murdoc’s system once again, but this time, he didn’t feel as panicked. He needed to speak, needed to say what he’d been meaning to say all day. “Oi, old man,” Stu interrupted him, “have I told you today that I love you? Because I do, you know. More and more every day.” “Thank you,” Murdoc garbled. It was somewhere between a prayer and a sob. “Thank you, Stu.” “Of course,” he murmured, stroking the older man’s bangs out of his eyes. “Murdoc. Let’s go inside now, okay?” The bassist allowed himself to be led back inside, his hand gripping the singer’s so tight it had to hurt a little, but Stu didn’t complain. In the living room, he found the other three, Noodle and Ace both splayed out on the couch, occasionally holding up their phones to show the other memes. Russel sat back in his recliner, smiling when the two came in. “There’s the birthday boy.” “All hail,” Ace commented without looking up from his phone. “Har har,” Murdoc responded. “So let’s cut to the chase: is it terminal? Will I live, doctors?” He tried to keep his voice light as he joked, but his hands had begun to shake again, and he could feel Stu’s fingers tighten around his even more, a silent I’m here. “Yeah, we’ve got a big surprise for you,” Noodle said, sitting up straight. “In case you were too dumb to figure it out, the key I gave you isn’t for this house.” “It’s for our new one,” Stu said, letting go of Murdoc’s hand so he could instead wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. “Our what now?” “Rumor has it that back around 2007, Kong Studios burned down under ‘mysterious circumstances,’” Russel said. “And knowing a thing or two about criminal activity, I can confirm that that’s code for arson,” Ace quipped. “You cashed in on the insurance money and produced an album,” Noodle continued coolly, and Murdoc tensed at the allusion to Plastic Beach. “And due to its history of zombie invasions, shitty weather, and a whole lot of burned garbage left after Kong was melted down, local governance has had an unbelievably hard time selling that chunk of land that you abandoned.” “So recently, I had this idea, and I think you’re smart enough to fill in the rest.” Stu finished, pressing a kiss to his temple. Everything clicked, and a shiver of excitement ran up Murdoc’s spine. “You mean to tell me you’ve bought the property? The hill in Essex? It’s ours?” “Oh Murdoc, don’t sell me short,” the singer said with a pout. “Not just the land. I spoke to EMI. Well, they want me to call them Parlophone, but it’s EMI, right? They wouldn’t grant me a pence without some sort of contract, so I’ve agreed to their terms. Something in the ballpark of six tours and two albums over the next eight years or something. Pretty manageable by our standards, frankly. Some merch, here and there. I’ll leave that up mostly to Noodle and Ace since they know what the kids like.” “EMI gave us money for this?” Murdoc clarified, feeling dizzy with the news. “Murdoc, darling, they’ve built us a new studio,” he said gently. “We’re going back to England, and we’re going to do amazing things there.” “That key I gave you,” Noodle said. “It’s for our new home. Just like at Kong. It’ll be our living space as well as our music space. We need to make up for the year we lost without you and El Diablo.” “Holy shit…” he reached into his pocket for his Lucky Lungs, only to realize that he’d left them in the backyard. With nothing for his hands to do he could only tremble, too overwhelmed to meet his bandmates’ eyes. “This is too good to be true.” “It’s true,” Stu promised, hugging him tight, doing all he could to comfort him physically. “Happy Birthday, Murdoc. Ready to start the next phase of our lives together?” “Y-yeah, alright,” he agreed, voice watery. “We’re going to get it right this time,” the singer assured. “We’re gonna go back to where it all began.” “We’re ready to crash the music scene with you once again, boss,” Ace promised. “I’ll be there to help out, but this band needs their number one bassist back.” “The goal is to move back by the end of the summer as long as you’re okay with it,” Russel explained. “That way you have time to pack and say goodbyes. And maybe start writing down new ideas so we can hit the ground running.” “Are you happy?” Noodle asked, seeing the bassist’s tense body language. “Yes,” he said quickly. “I think he’s a little overwhelmed,” Stu explained, stroking the older man’s hair. “Give us a minute?” “We were here first—” Ace started, but Noodle smacked his arm and they both rose to leave the house. “Fine, fine! We’ll go. By the way, check out Twitter and Insta, Muds. Hundreds of hits from fans drawing you in your skivvies with cake. It’s hilarious!” “We’ll be back in a few hours to get ready for the dinner reservation,” Noodle promised, shoving the American out the front door and blowing a kiss. “I’m gonna take a walk around the block,” Russel said, patting the bassist’s shoulder as he passed them. “Start mentally preparing to say goodbye to America again.” The front door clattered and the two were left alone, Stu’s hand still smoothing the bassist’s hair as Murdoc took deep breaths to keep himself calm. “Too much?” The singer asked once he was sure they had privacy. “No! This is…this was all…” Murdoc waved his hands, lost for words. “I can’t understand why you lot would do all this for me.” “I mean, it’s really for the whole band,” Stu reasoned. “We wanted it to be a surprise for you though. Because you’re a vital part of the band, and we want you to know that. I know you doubted it, even if you don’t ever admit that out loud. I hope this proves how serious we are about keeping you in Gorillaz, Muds. The reason they were all so nice to you on your birthday…it’s because they all care about you, same as me.” The older man smiled up at him. “I guess I should have thought of that,” he admitted quietly. “But! I can’t believe we get to go back to the place that started it all. Out of the ashes, Gorillaz will rise again like a bloody phoenix!” “Like from Harry Potter?” He was able to laugh now, leaning up to kiss Stu in all his quirky glory. “I’m ready to start again, do it right this time. With my soul mate.” The singer’s cheeks turned pink instantly. “I love when you call me that.” “Yeah,” he stole another kiss. “I know.” “Hey, give me one more! That was too fast!” So Murdoc smiled, wrapping his arms around the singer’s waist and pulling him in for a slower, deeper kiss. “It’s like the song goes,” Stu whispered, arms wrapping around the bassist’s shoulders. “I’m calling you back.” “But what came first, your grand plan to rebuild Kong, or Souk Eye?” They both laughed, giddy with the prospect of a fresh start, of more music. Of more time to learn to say the things they’d been feeling for many, many years.

[warriorsquest]

Maybe Friends SL together with @Warrior_md

Blay: *Wandering into the empty kitchen I went straight for the fridge and cupboards to get out all the things I needed for a recovering males breakfast. Even if the male in question was human and maybe more so needed good food to help him heal. It been three days since the incident at the clinic where Murhder had gone berserk when he found Manny and Jane necking. It was funny how Manny, knowing what he knew about them and how he didn’t stand a chance he never back down from either of them, in my mind that made me respect him. He was fearless like any of us, maybe even a little bit more just because he was at the disadvantage of being human. Me liking his spunk was one of the reasons I was there in the kitchen to arrange breakfast to take to him. The second reason was to try to find a way in with him and maybe get him to let his guard down a little bit. It couldn’t be much fun for him to wake up each day only to feel like you had to go into battle. Manny didn’t want to be here but it was because he felt like he was a prisoner not a person with choice. I wanted to change that. Fixing the batter for pancakes I grabbed frying pans one to make pancakes but first I was making bacon. Pancakes cooked in bacon grease was after all the best. When it all was done I set the tray with the food coffee for two and orange juice and ventured off to Manny’s quarters.*

Manny: *Pushing the bathroom door open I let the cool air from my adjoining bedroom in, the slight chill of it making my flesh break out in goosebumps, but I managed to drop two towels on the floor and after showering and the pain that raked through my body I was too sore and simply too exhausted to even try bothering to pick them up. Hell I was contemplating how to get back to bed. Letting out a loud growl, annoyed at my predicament, especially since it was caused by one of those damn leeches. I didn’t like Murhder on a good day and right now if I could I’d kill him with my bare hands just to see life slowly be drained out of him. “Cocky, arrogant asshole.” As for Jane, I knew she was fine which was good or I wouldn’t have denied her to come visit, I knew she wanted too I just wasn’t ready. I was sick and tired of all of it, the excuses, the back and forth and being second. I never done well with being second, ever. I heard a knock on the door and before I could tell whoever the hell it was to not enter the door opened and I heard the redhead’s voice, Blay. I let out a sigh, at least it was the least annoying one together with the one they called Cop.*

Blay: *“Manny are you okay in there?” I chuckled because I could hear him, which wasn’t hard since the door was wide open, but I kept a distance wanting to give him some privacy. When there was no answer I called again taking a few steps closer. “You alive?” The humor was gone from my voice because I was scared that he fallen and hurt himself. “Can you please answer me man because if you don’t I’m coming in.” I’d give him 30 more seconds and then I was going in there him liking it or not.*

Manny: *God this annoying lot of leeches if they could only leave me the hell alone. “Yes, I’m fine. You can leave now.” My voice sounded strained even to me but I still hope I either fooled him or pissed him off enough that he would leave.” I was getting tired my knees shaking a little from the work of keeping myself standing straight. Damn it to hell when I got my hands on Murhder I would make his death slow and painful.*

Blay: *Hu, he sounded off, like he run a marathon. “You don’t sound good. Can I come in?” I was right outside the bathroom now, to the side of it, all it would take was one step and I’d be inside. “No!” his answer immediate and angry. “Look Many I know you don’t like us very much but I promise you I’m only here to help nothing more nothing less. I’m coming in.” I said giving him a 3 second warning before turning the corner and entering the bathroom. The sight that met me was not as bad as I feared but still not good. Manny was leaning heavily with his hands against the counter, breathing hard, face pale and his legs visibly shaking, and he was naked.*

Manny: *”Get the hell out! I don’t want you here!” Damn leech never listen for shit. I felt the heat of my embarrassment flood my face, there I was naked as the day I was born and some damn giant sub human looking at me with pity. “Didn’t you hear me, get the fuck out!” But did Blay listen no of course not no matter how much I glared.*

Blay: *Leaning down I grabbed the towels Manny dropped on the floor. I hung the wet one on the rack and took the almost dry one and wrapped around his waist to shield him. “Please, let me help you back to bed before you fall down. I brought you breakfast, chocolate chip pancakes, bacon and coffee.” I hopped I could lure him into trusting me for a few minutes by the allure of food.*

Manny: *My stomach grumbled at the thought of food and it did sound really good. Damn him he knew it too! There was no point in denying it. “Fine, let me just hold onto your shoulder that will do it.” He nodded and I grabbed onto his shoulder trying to steady myself between him and the sink but it was hard because I was tired and sore. As we go to the door opening and I had to let go I wobbled and without hesitation Blay wrapped his arm around my waist to steady me until I reached the bed. Sitting down with a heavy groan I wanted to be mad but the exhaustion and smell of food took over and I ignored the anger for the moment.*

Blay: *I didn’t make a big deal out of helping Manny to his bed and as he sat there just collecting his strength I went to his dresser to get a pair of sweats for him. Bringing them back to the bed I bent down lifting first one foot and then the other to help him get the pants on. When it came to pulling them up I did that too simply helping him lift up to get them all the way up. If Manny was too tired to argue he was far from healed up. “Let’s get you comfy so you can eat. I slaved over this food you know and I expect you to eat all of it.” I said with a friendly smile.*

Manny: *He cooked for me, really, why? My eyes narrowed as I pushed up the bed while Blay fluffed a couple pillows so I could lean against them. “What do you want?” I asked suspiciously. “What do you mean what do I want?” he asked looking honestly confused. “Don’t tell me you cooked me breakfast out of the goodness of your heart.” He smiled then, he had such a friendly smile it almost made me want to smile back or punch him in the face, I wasn’t sure which yet. “Of course it was. You’re up here alone all the time, that can’t be a shit load of fun. Besides you need a friend in this place since you pretty much alienated everyone in here.” Blay put the tray of food on my lap and my mouth watered so much I swallowed down my next sneer comment.

Blay: *”Why is that you fight with everyone?” I had to ask even if I knew why. I wanted him to open up to me and make me understand, because if I understood then maybe I could help. “Well if you were held captive against your will you’d be pissed too. I’m not some damsel in distress with Stockholm syndrome.” Manny muttered taking a strip of bacon and put it in his mouth humming as the taste hit his tongue. “You’re not a captive, we just value your life since you don’t seem too and don’t want to see you dead.”*

Manny: *I snorted rolling my eyes and stuffed another bite of bacon in my mouth. “Uhu, whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night.” He couldn’t honestly believe all that shit did he. “Why do you even care? Shouldn’t it be up to me what I risk, I rather risk dying than being a prisoner. Maybe I’d have stayed if the choice was mine.” I stopped moving, hand midway to my mouth. Oh, where the hell had that thought come from. Staying, that had never been an option for me before.*

Blay: *I don’t know who was more surprised by his admission him or me but he stopped moving and so did I. Our eyes met over the rim of my coffee mug and his fork with pancakes and for what seemed like long minutes we just stared at each other. Eventually I broke the silence “I can understand that. Let me see what I can do to help with that.” He looked completely shocked mouth open, “For real?” I nodded. “For real. You are an adult and I can see how you are angry for having everything stripped from you even if we are doing it to protect you but I can understand how you don’t feel like that’s why.”*

Manny : *Was he actually saying what I thought he was saying?! Was he going to help me get out of here. “You aren’t pulling my leg are you?” He shook his head without hesitating. “No of course not. Let me talk to Wrath and see what I can do. But if I do that I want you to promise me something.” I narrowed my eyes again, here we go, the ultimatum. “If I managed to talk Wrath into letting you go, I want you to promise me that you’ll think long and hard about what you have here and about coming back. I want you to see things from our perspective and Jane’s and that we have a need for someone with your skills here. We can protect you here. Can you do that as a friend to me, and for Jane?” Wow, was this guy for real. Sure I’ll do it, I’d agree to anything as long as it get me out of there. “Yes, I promise!” Blay held out his hand to me and after a moment I took it and shook it. We sat in silence for a long time until it grew strangely weird. “So, you seen the last Thor movie?” I asked reaching for the remote. “No, I haven’t but I’ve been dying too for a long time, but rotation keeps me occupied.” Blay seemed happy I asked. “Cool, then maybe if you keep not to annoy me too much you could stay awhile and I may put it on.” Blay threw his head back laughing. “Ok, Manny I’ll try not to but that is asking the impossible when coming to you.” Blay winked rearranging his chair so it faced the TV rather than me. I flipped him off as I pressed start on the movie and I held out the plate with bacon offering him a piece.* #MaybeFriends #BondedBrothers

[b-radley66]

Draq', youthful pride

Pride Goeth Before the Dragon

Jamestyn Blackthorn looks up from the engine design that holds his attention. The butler-droid hovers just outside of his vision.

“What, Effie?” he asks irritably.

“There is a...gentleman here to see Mistress Laira, Master Jamestyn,” the droid says.

Jamestyn quirks an eyebrow. “She didn’t say anyone was coming to visit. Strange. She usually lets Mother know if anyone is coming.”

After a moment, he nods. “Send him back. Let Laira know he is here.”

“Very good sir.” The droid starts to flit away, then stops, turning back to Jamestyn. “Should I alert Mistress Ina?”

Jamestyn lets his crooked grin flow to his features. He puts down the engine design. “No,” he says, “I think that I am enough to intimidate any of Laira’s so-called conquests.”

The droid’s photoreceptors hold the look on the young man with the gray eyes. “Very good, sir,” he finally repeats and turns away.

Jamestyn breathes in and runs his fingers through his dark hair. He releases his breath and turns around as he hears the door open.

Standing in the door is a tall young man. The stranger eyes Jamestyn with a pair of piercing blue eyes. He stands with his hands on his hips, without an ounce of consternation at his surroundings. His eyes gleam with a bit of wry humor as he steadily focuses on Jamestyn, without looking around at the room. Jamestyn grins, looking up at him.  The young engineer is not a small man, but the newcomer is easily several centimeters taller.

He walks up to the would-be suitor, who looks to be a couple of years younger than Jamestyn’s nineteen years. Jamestyn starts as he sees a miniature of his own Chain’s symbol on the collar of the worn leather jacket. He narrows his eyes.

“So you’re from Covenant House?” he asks.

“What if I am?” the young man asks, his accent a mixture of several different drawls.

“Not exactly the answer of someone trying to impress my sister’s family,” Jamestyn observes.

“Didn’t know I was trying to impress anyone,” the suitor says. “Much less some fancy-pants with a toy surprise on a chain around his neck.”

Jamestyn feels his anger rise, his feet planting to the burlwood floor. “You might, if you want to get any further with my sister,” he says, an edge to his voice rising.

The interloper makes a non-committal gesture. “Don’t rightly care, if I get any further. She asked me here. She obviously has taste, unlike some, cupcake,” he says.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Jamestyn replies, swelling to his full height. “You might get hurt with all of my ‘taste’, bud.”

“Really? I haven’t beat yet by anyone of your stature, half-wit.”

Jamestyn closes his eyes, then opens them. Well, your latest no-brawling promise lasted longer than the last one.

As he shoves the interloper into the hard paneling, and his head collides with the chest of the taller man, he hears a high voice yelling, “Styn! Draq’! Would you two assholes stop it? Enough!”

Draq’? That’s kind of a stupid name, he thinks, an instant before the orphan’s fist strikes his jaw.

~=~=~=~=~=

Draq’ Bel Iblis, pride of the Covenant House Orphanage, and its more advanced ‘finishing school’ for licensed thugs, cheats, and thieves, stares at his bleeding nose in the mirror across from him, as he sits in the corridor next to the half-wit prat.

Laira Blackthorn sits across from both of them, her brown eyes flashing with contempt and anger. Draq’ looks over at the prat. He grins as he sees the resemblance between both of them.

Especially when they are pissed off.

Laira stands up. Jamestyn starts to as well, the eye that is not swollen shirt looking at her. Laira shoves him back down. His hand grasps the silver symbol on the chain around his neck.

Draq’s eyes soften as they did the first time, when she had stood in front of him, her eyes barely at his mid-chest. Her hands on her hips, as she took him to task about something.

A something that he couldn’t even remember. He can only remember staring at her enraptured, not even listening to the words. Only the music of her voice.

He realizes that the symbol on the chain around his opponent’s neck is the same as the one on his own collar. The symbol of the Protector of Corellia—the Covenant.

Draq’ shakes his head as he realizes that he probably should’ve paid more attention to his civics classes.

Another voice breaks into his consciousness. “So what the hell do we have here?” says a voice remarkably similar to Laira’s. Similar except for the fact that every word seems to be stretched out into three syllables. An accent he had heard only once before in his life. From his brief contact with his father. Before he had gone off to spread his seed elsewhere.

An older, only slightly taller version of Laira stands looking at all of them from the corridor, her arms across her chest.

She looks them, her gray eyes narrowed. Her lip quirks up as she sees her daughter’s expression at the two combatants. The lips straighten into a thin line as she looks at her son. Jamestyn has the grace to look away, chastened.

Her eyes lock on him. Draq’ forces himself to meet the gaze. His refusal to yield is rewarded by one of the warmest smile of welcomes that he has ever seen.

She walks up to him and holds out her hand. He takes it, surprised by the strength. The strength of a woman who had clawed her way from a place on this world where sunlight only lasted from mid-morning to mid-afternoon to the seat of the Electoral Signet. From the hollows of the Gordian mountains.

“You must be my daughter’s tutoring appointment—the Dragon,” she says. “She has told me so much about you.”

“Tutoring?” Jamestyn manages. “I thought he was one in the long line of gomers she has brought home—ow!” he finishes as his sister punches him in the gut.

Their mother looks at them with amusement. “You might not be too far from the truth, as far as him being another stray, Styn,” she says.

Draq’s eyes flash in anger. The older Blackthorn holds her hand up. “Peace, Dragon,” she says. “I know that my daughter is tutoring you in mathematics. I know you are up for a scholarship to Bar’leth, if you can just learn to add two plus two.”

He remembers his manners and bows his head. “Thank you, my lady. You are the only one who has ever known what my name means in High Corellian.”

She grins. “I, too, am cursed with a name from our mythology, Draq’. My name is Ina Blackthorn. You may call me Ina, in private,” she adds.

He nods. “Ina. Ruler of the Ninth Hell. The Realm of Creators and the Wielder of Hammers.”

She laughs. “Yes, dear. Although some texts translate that as a frying pan, rather than a hammer.” She looks in his eyes. “I have been known to wield both, boy,” she says. “So tell me, little Dragon,” she says, “the original Draq’, the conqueror of the Nine Hells, was felled by his own pride. Is that something that might happen to you?”

He looks away, unable to answer.

She reaches up and touches his cheek. “No matter. I think that you might have a great deal to be prideful for. Just watch that it doesn’t turn to arrogance. It nearly did when you went after my son, just for asking a question.”

He starts when he realizes that the Elector, the widow and successor of Corellia’s previous symbol, has lost her deep ‘holler’ accent. She nods as a functionary comes up to her, whispering in her ear.

“I have to go. It was good to meet you Draq’.” She grins. “Good luck in the chase, my lad,” she finishes.

His eyes widen as she turns and leaves. Jamestyn walks up to him and extends his hand. His gray eyes are now warm and welcoming, when coupled with the same crooked grin that Draq’ had seen on his mother. “You have a mean left hook, Draq’,” he says.

“Your right cross isn’t too shabby, your Eminence,” he says, suddenly remembering those civics classes.

“Call me Styn,” he says. “If you’re brave enough to spark my sister, you can call me by the name my family calls me.”

He dodges the blow from his sister as he turns and leaves.

Draq’ is not as lucky as he fights not to rub his chest. “Just because my mother and my brother are ready to marry you, doesn’t mean that the one you have to impress with your math skills is ready to listen to you read love poetry or anything.”

He grins. “Oh. I don’t know. Think I have won half the battle,” he says, dodging the next blow.

He manages to snatch a kiss from his new tutor. He jumps as she grabs his head and holds his face to hers.

[life-liberty-and-peggy]

Long Day

Pairing: Jasmine Cephas Jones x Female!Reader

Warnings: Some offensive terms regarding LGBT+ orientations. (I fully support the LGBT+ community, I promise.) and a couple curses. I tried to censor all that. and maybe I might have some bad grammar every now and then, sorry.

A/N: A while back, I deleted all of my writing because I was having a bad day, and I really felt like I needed to start over. No one really seemed to notice so I guess that’s good that I didn’t make anyone upset? If you want me to bring one of them back, please let me know. Hope this thing isn’t crap, and know that I love to all so much. Thank you for supporting me and staying with me. You guys are incredible. I hope you enjoy what I try to provides my beautifuls. 💚 •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A hug.

That’s all I wanted. That’s all I needed.

Today was absolutely miserable.

This morning, I slept through my alarm clock, so I barely had time to do my morning routine, while trying to whip up something for breakfast. The eggs I had on the stove burst into flames while I was in the middle of drying my face, so I completely panicked. I removed the frying pan on the stove but my shaking hands dropped a good portion of the food onto the burner. I dumped the pan into the sink and turned on the water. The only thing I heard was a loud sizzle and I closed my eyes and hung my head back in annoyance.

My senses jolted like crazy when a sudden crack scared the crap out of me. The cord to the coffee machine melted under the heat of the pan and shocked under the water. I bolted and slammed into the counter as I jumped to shut off the water, as one last (and fairly loud) crack resonated from the damn machine. It was definitely broken and I could already tell today was going to be a terrible day.

Traffic was a mess. There was a crash ahead of a long line of cars, and I was not in the mood to wait. But at least it wasn’t me in the crash.

I arrived to work a good half hour late and my boss flipped out. Whatever. She rambled on and on about how I have to be at work as soon as possible and all that.

“-and this is the last time. I’m not giving you any more second chances!”

You never gave me any chances to begin with, but okay. “Yes ma'am,” I replied boredly, and ambled over to my cubicle.

My co-worker, who sat right next to me gave his traditional exaggerated gag at me. He’s never been too “supportive” of my relationship, to put things nicely. I let out a deep exhale, followed by an eyeroll.

“Hello to you too,” making sure to drag out my sarcasm. ‘Asshole’, I wanted to add on the end.

“Your presence is so displeasing to be around,”

“Thanks. I try.”

“Why are you always like this?!” he stood up, and yelled angrily.

“Always like what? A human being?” I replied as calmly as I could.

“You homosexuals think you can just do or say whatever the hell you want? Because it makes you ‘sassy’ and ‘appreciable’ instead of so damn irritating?!” he spat at me. His disgusting saliva hit my pant leg. As ready as I was to knock him out with a single blow, I couldn’t loose my job, despite how much I hated every bit of it. I slowly grabbed a tissue and began wiping it off.

“You’re really pathetic, you know? You’re too much of a coward to fight back! Is that why you call yourself 'queer’?” he mocked quotation marks with his hands. “Because you couldn’t find a single man who was interested in you?? That you were such a desperate wh*re for a good time, you paid a sl*t to be with you?”

My chest rose and lowered heavily with irritation, and I felt the bridge of my nose begin to heat up. My eyebrows furrowed down in complete anger as I clenched my knuckles in some way to lower my temper. I dug my thumbnail into my palm to distract me from his lashing out.

“You and your imaginary 'identity’ and 'girlfriend’ are all going to rot in hell! And a good riddance too. The world could use one less dyk-”

CRACK!

I’m pretty sure I dislocated his jaw, and knocked out a few teeth. He fell to the floor, hand flying to his mouth. His eyes were tightened shut and he let out a small sob. All my frustration left through my fist and into his face. I instantly regretted my decision, but at the same time I didn’t. I was not going to have any more of his bullsh*t.

“Who’s pathetic now, asshole??” I felt so relieved after such a quick turn of events. But that relief turned into regret. I knew what came next as I heard the approaching of clicking heels.

“What did I just say??” my boss yelled in utter distress. She screamed my last name. I flinched, because of the sudden volume change. “This was your last chance! You’re fired! I want all of your stuff out of here by tomorrow morning!” she screeched. I let that built up flame in me turn into a blazing inferno.

“I’m glad to leave this dump anyways!” I scoffed, “Good luck without me! Have fun with that 20% drop in profits!” I pulled a box out from under my desk and started slamming my things into it, laughing maniacally, “And you,” I turned my attention to the moaning pile of pity on the floor. Bloody drool was oozing out of his mouth and staining the scratchy carpeting, “hope that divorce is going well! I heard she re-married the guy she cheated on you with!”

I grabbed my box of things and sped towards the exit. I didn’t dare look back.

I made my way to my car and shoved my box of items in the trunk. I drove home angrily, not wanting to think of past events. Once I pulled into my driveway, I didn’t get out of my car. I looked to my side and saw Jazz’s car. Right, today’s her day off. I froze, and completely broke down. I dropped my forehead onto the wheel and the horn let out a long honk.

“What the hell did I just do??” I cried to myself. I held my head in my hands in disappointment and let it all out. The one thing I regretted the most was that I’d still need to return to that sad place one last time to finish up all of my unanswered paperwork and end things finally. I hit my palm into my forehead while muttering “stupid, stupid, stupid” over and over.

It took me a good amount of time, and a lot of heavy sighs to heave myself out of the car and to the door. I placed my box down on the ground and fumbled through my purse for my keys. As soon as I’d pulled them out of my bag, they slipped out of my trembling hands and into the box of clamored items. I took a moment to smack my hand against my face, then after a sharp inhale, I dug my arm into the box and scrambled around for those goddamn keys. After managing to cut my arm against a sharp object, I retrieved my keys and opened the door.

I was greeted with the angelic voice of my girlfriend humming a tune I believe she improvised. She noticed me immediately and walked over. Her face read happiness but suddenly cut to worry once she saw my box.

“Oh, baby,” she took the box and placed it on the nearest table and engulfed me in a warm, loving embrace. I couldn’t help jerk out a small cry. She rubbed her arm up and down my back soothingly.

“It’s okay baby, it’s okay,” she reassured. Her voice was gentle and soft. I couldn’t help but feel my sadness lift. Everything about her just seemed to make my mood fade away. I held her tighter. Of all the things I lost today, my time, my breakfast, my temper, my job, I sure as hell was not going to lose my girlfriend.

She was the only thing right about today.

“Do you want to talk about it, baby? Do you need to let it out?” she brought her arm up over my shoulder.

I nodded. “Maybe,” I choked, “maybe in a minute. I just need this right now,” I mumbled.

“Take all the time you need baby,” she loosened her grip the slightest and led me to sit down on the couch. She closed the door and sat next to me, encasing her arms over my shoulders once more. I leaned onto her shoulders, letting a few tears slide down my cheeks.

“I’ve been having the worst luck, Jazz,” I sniffled.

“It’s okay, babe-”

“No it’s not,” I shut my eyes as the muscles in my mouth contorted into a painful frown, “Jazz, I lost my job,” I whispered.

“You didn’t lose your job, they lost their best, and most hard working employee,” her hand rubbed circles into my side. My frustration and anxiety seemed to melt at her touch.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t let him,” I growled out, “freaking him bother me. I promised myself he wouldn’t affect me, and I totally just-”

“Babe, what did you do?”

I sniffed and closed my mouth. I cut the conversation in silence. The house was quiet other than the low vibrating sound of the air conditioner. Jasmine rested her cheek on the top on my head, while she adjusted her arms so one was over my shoulder and the other was around my waist. Then I decided to speak.

“..I might’ve punched him,” I squeaked.

Jazz let out a breathy chuckle.

“That’s my girl!” she laughed aloud.

That damn contagious laugh. I tried to stifle a giggle.

“No, Jazz, I lost my job because of that!”

“Who cares? That d*ck got what he deserved!”

“I’ll admit that, yeah.”

We had a good, small laugh session. Then the fun started to die down. Once again, I couldn’t help but worry.

“Jazz,” I hesitated, “I-I lost my job..”

“Aw, baby, don’t worry about it. You were the best employee they’d ever dream of having. You’ll get such a better job in a matter of minutes!” she pressed a kiss against my cheek.

“You really think so?” I doubted.

“I know so. Babe, you’re the smartest, strongest, most talented person I’ll ever know.”

“Besides yourself,” I added jokingly.

She smirked, “I mean, if you insist.”

I gave her a little playful push. “How is it you know exactly how to make things better?”

“If it’s alright now, then there really was nothing that needed to get better,” she pressed her forehead against mine.

“Wise words of a wise woman,” I lifted my head up to connect our lips. When we disconnected, I just stared and smiled at the goddess I could claim as my own.

This makes everything right. The only acceptance I need is from my Jazzy. The only love I need is from my Jazzy. The only thing that’s right is my Jazzy.

“How about I call Pippa and Née over and we all go see a movie or something?”

“In a minute,” I wrapped my arms around her as she pulled me close once more, “can we just stay like this for a while?”

“Of course, baby”

“God, how did I get so lucky?”

“I ask myself that all the time.”

A hug from her was all I needed.

A long hug after a long day. ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Constructive criticism is always appreciated :)