#these are low key old and have been in my drafts for a while but whatever

[lizardboiii]

At The Tone ┃ DCU

Barry Allen x Spider-Woman!Reader

┃ Summary: Sometimes bad things happen to good people - and that’s where the Justice League comes in. Too bad you weren’t interested.

“Think I forgot how to be happy Something I'm not, but something I can be" Billie Eilish, "What Was I Made For?"

│cw: SFW, alcohol abuse, unhealthy coping mechanisms, grief, hurt/comfort, violent themes

│wc: 3.9k

│chapters: One shot

│notes: This fic has been sitting unfinished (with 2k words!!) in my drafts for a WHILE. randomly decided it needed to see the light of day ig. was gonna make it nsfw but i low key hate it and just wanted too move on oops. enjoy <3

・❥・

│One Shot: At The Tone

You have five new messages.

“Good afternoon, Spider-Woman this is Cla-”

You heard a throat clear.

“It’s Superman. I see you still aren’t picking up any of the team’s calls,” He swallowed thickly, “I understand your recent loss was… hard. Something none of us would have wished for anybody.”

You could feel the tension in his voice.

“Please take all the time you need. The league is more than capable of taking care of New York in your absence for the time being.”

The sound of a pen clicking disrupted the message every so often, “But at least give us some indication you're alive…and well. The team cares about you,” He chuckled warmly, “Even “Mr. I Work Alone” Batman himself.”

His laugh dropped abruptly with a soft sigh, “Call me back when you can.”

Beep

You crawled out of bed slowly, dragging your duvet behind you like a cloak. The plush cotton laid heavy on your shoulders. You wondered if this was how Big Blue felt every morning - the weight of knowing everything depending on him once he bore his iconic red cape. 

You knew what that weight felt like, and you knew what it felt like to have it all come crashing down.

You have four new messages 

“How’s it hanging, Spidy? Haha, you get it?” A dramatic sigh escaped the machine, “Sorry, poor timing.”

He took a moment to regroup, “It's Green Lantern, just calling to check in. Headquarters has been depressing without you. I mean even Martian Manhunter is down in the dumps. It's a total bummer.”

Another sigh, “Listen you don't have to call me back if you don’t want to, but at least let Flash know you're still alive. He needs you more than he lets on.”

Beep

You groaned at the shrill ring of the answering machine. The outdated tech was too cherished to be discarded but the pulsing headaches you received from it almost outweighed the fond memories of Aunt May.

Thoroughly woken up, you entered your kitchenette. Your eyes shifted between the week old coffee pot on your stove to the half empty Hennessy bottle next to it. 

Maybe this time you would make the right choice. A sober evening is a good evening. However, the battle was always rigged to begin with and the winner already predetermined.

The Hennessy felt burdensome in your hand as you took a long swig. It burned violently down your throat, eating at your skin, before finally settling warmly in your stomach. Though you hated to admit it, it satisfied you more than any pot of coffee could.

Staggering to your couch, courtesy of one of New York’s finest sidewalks, you flopped down. The cushions were well used and musty. But who were you to pass up a free couch?

You have three new messages

“Spider-Woman.”

There was a lengthy pause.

“Your recent inactivity has caused some concerns regarding your whereabouts. The league seems to be having a hard time focusing on missions with your absence.”

Bats’ uncertainty leaked through the phone as he thought of his next sentence, “You have my condolences, Webs. However, the league cannot continue to work with this distraction. Please report to the Hall of Justice immediately.”

He hesitated, “We are worried.”

Beep

An involuntary snort escaped you. Bats’ attempt at comfort was interesting to say the least. He was surprisingly awkward for a leader of the Justice League. Though you supposed dark and brooding was his brand.

You have two new message

“Greetings, Spider-Woman, Wonder Woman speaking.”

You could hear muffled arguing in the background.

“Batman may have been a bit…straightforward in that last voicemail,” She attempted a fake laugh, “Please do not mind his bluntness, he is merely just as concerned as the rest of us. In his own way at least.”

A loud slam made her curse under her breath.

“I apologize I must go, the “children” are fighting again. Don’t hesitate to call back. See you soon, Webs.”

Beep

Lifting the liquor to your lips, your brows creased when only a drop hit your tongue. Out already?

You let out an exaggerated sigh before placing the empty bottle on your coffee table. A quick glance at your barren pantry told you everything you needed to know. You’d have to go out and get some more. You felt your face scrunch. That means you have to go out in public.

You weighed your options. 

You could stay inside and continue to peacefully hide from the world, but you're guaranteed to sober up eventually.

Or you could make a quick trip to the convenience store down the road and pray the minimum wage employee can’t smell the alcohol on you from a mile away. 

You hummed thoughtfully. Though, now that you think about it, there’s a off chance you might run into the supe that’s covering your city for the time being. Then again, there’s a very high chance it’s not someone from the Justice League, a member from The Team at best. 

Massaging your forehead, you tried to remember the last time a Justice League member took a leave of absence. A blonde goatee flashed in your mind.

That’s right. Green Arrow was out for a while when he got busted up pretty bad. His protégé, Speedy, ended up babysitting Star City in his absence. You bit your lip. 

But you didn’t have one of those anymore.

You have one new message

“Hey Webs! Sent me to voicemail again, huh?”

An awkward laugh made the machine crackle.

“Just calling to check up on you. How are you doing? Feeling alright? Just say the word and I can grab you anything from anywhere. I mean literally anywhere. They don’t call me the fastest man alive for nothing!”

You could practically hear the large smile embedded on his face.

A large sigh passed through the speaker, “It’s been a month now. The team misses you…I miss you. A lot actually.”

He paused.

“Just call me back alright? I need to know if you're okay.”

Beep

Your hand paused over your front door handle. Flash’s deep voice was like a siren's call, beckoning you in. 

What you’d give to turn around. What you'd do to call him back. It took everything in you to force yourself away from his voice.

Your best friend. 

Your confidant. 

Your everything. 

You have zero new messages

・❥・

You weaved through the bustling sidewalk with a slight wobble, managing to dodge a third of the people you almost crashed into. Night was quickly approaching. That meant the streets were only going to get busier. 

More people = More crime = More superheroes.

Fumbling into a dimly lit alley, you avoided Main Street completely. It was too risky. Even in your civilian disguise there was no guarantee your voice wouldn’t be recognized - mainly by your teammates but especially by… Flash.

You recalled how often you sought each other out in the Hall of Justice. Whether it was meddling in the business of others, or simply enjoying the company of one another.

His hand always seemed to find its way to the small of your back. Gently resting. While his thumb delicately circled the thin fabric of your suit. 

He leaned in closer than he should. The dull smell of his cologne inevitably picked up by your heightened senses. 

It wasn't how friends should behave - but that's all you ever were. Friends.

Thwack!

You slammed yourself against one of the side walls in surprise, extinguishing your mind of complex thoughts. Creeping closer, you cursed in your head when harsh thumps and muffled grunting filled the air. 

“Where’s my money, Huey?”

Crack!

“I-I don’t know! Please!”

Whack!

You recognized the tell-tale sound of blood splattering against the ground, akin to paint splashing. The sound made you nauseous. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you thought of your next move. 

Now, on any normal occasion you’d swing in all heroic and save the day. But today was different. You were different. 

Excuses flooded your brain as you tried to explain to yourself why you felt little desire to help the abused man. 

Your suit was at home crammed somewhere in between an ugly Christmas sweater and a latex bodysuit you practically begged Cat Woman not to give you. 

Even if you had the energy, you were still considered MIA to the league. You’d basically be spoon feeding them your location. 

Your internal dilemma didn’t last long as the pummeling swiftly came to an end. Peaking around the corner, you watched the assistants retreat into an adjacent alley. They moved lazily. Clearly they didn’t expect to be caught.

You could still catch them.

You found yourself making an internal description. Two Caucasian males both wearing black beanies and disgustingly outdated puffer jackets. The taller one sported purple and green. While the shorter preferred yellow. 

Your foot shifted before you felt yourself hesitate. Maybe you shouldn’t. They’d probably be caught soon enough anyways. 

If anything, the supe covering your city would swoop in and haul their asses to the local jail. Especially when you called an ambulance for the man who was passed out on the ground. It would put this area on tonight's map. You sighed and finally allowed yourself to relax. 

This was fine. 

Everything was fine. 

Shifting your eyes to the ground, you located the poor soul who suffered the attack. His breathing was ragged and wet. You were quick to put two fingers on his neck, checking for a pulse. A wave of relief crashed through you when you felt a steady beating.

Pulling out your phone, you immediately dialed 911 and requested an ambulance, anonymously of course. You stayed with the man until you could hear loud sirens growing closer. Your sign to leave. 

Exiting the alleyway, you reached the small convenience store in record time. The adrenaline in your system was starting to make quick work of the alcohol in your bloodstream. 

You could feel your senses beginning to come back. Eyes clearer. Ears sharper. You could practically hear the heartbeats of everyone in the store. 

Groaning at your misfortune, you beelined for the alcohol section in the back. My god was it beautiful. Itching to return home, you grabbed a random bottle that had the highest percentage. Taste didn’t matter. Only the effect.

Glancing at your selection you choked on your own spit. 30 dollars?? The glass bottle was swiftly put back as you grabbed the cheapest one you could find. Tucking the Shitty K under your arm, you turned to walk to the register.

“PUT YOUR FUCKING HANDS UP, OLD MAN.”

You froze. Extending your neck out, you caught a glimpse of the register. 

Purple, green, and yellow.

You had to be fucking kidding.

You watched as the two assailants from the alley held the elderly cashier at gunpoint. His form shook like a leaf. 

“Please! Just take the money and leave!”

You caught his eyes as he begged for his life. Tear filled and shaking. You could have prevented this. If you would have just stopped them when you had the chance none of this would have happened.

You could have saved the man in the alley. Saved the poor cashier.

You could have saved Uncle Ben too. 

Your eyes watered. Fucking pathetic mistake. What the hell were you doing? You weren’t a teenager anymore. You were a grown adult who should have learned from your mistakes by now.

Shifting your eyes from the vodka to him, you pressed your lips in a thin line. You didn’t know what hurt more. The fact that you were repeating past mistakes or the fact that you wanted to take the more expensive alcohol and leave unnoticed.

When did you become this? 

No wonder you let Spider-Girl die.

You needed a drink. Desperately.

Abruptly, a whiplash of red and yellow snatched you from your daydream. The streaking shape blew over the newspaper stand before spinning around the starstruck perpetrators. You knew those McDonald's colors from anywhere. 

Kid Flash.

Like any speedster, he removed the gun in milliseconds before tying up the confused robbers. They stood no chance against the meta-human.

Dusting off his hands, Kid Flash smiled smugly at the dumbfounded duo, “Guns aren’t currency, you know?”

The man in yellow thrashed violently, “What the hell-Kid Flash!? Why are you in New York? Spidey taking a break or something?”

You cringed.

Kid Flash’s boyish voice laughed awkwardly, “Something like that.”

You need to get out of here. Now.

Slowly backing into the aisle, you clenched your teeth when your elbow hit the shelf. The bottles tinked in a symphony, altering everyone in the store of your presence. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Instantly, you snatched your coat hood and covered your face and hair. Staring into the grime covered tiles, you prayed Kid Flash wouldn’t think too much of it.

“Hello?”

Of course. The one time he’s actually thorough.

“Are you alright?”

Bright yellow boots came into your vision as you tried to conceal yourself further. You hunched into yourself with clenched fists. Mistaking your actions for something else, Kid Flash placed a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, hey it’s okay! You don’t have to be sacred!”

You bite into your lip eager to escape the conversation, “I’m not. Please let go.”

Kid Flash laughed, sounding a little too similar to Flash in your opinion. Removing his hand from your shoulder, he stood next to you with his hands on his hips. 

“Then why are you hiding?” A red glove entered your vision. It was headed straight for your hood.

You slapped his hand away, “Didn’t your parents tell you not to talk to strangers.”

He shrugged, “That rule doesn’t really apply to superheroes.”

You couldn’t contain the breathy laugh that left your throat. You hate to admit it but you actually really missed the kid. 

However, you failed to realize your mistake. If anyone knew your laugh it was Kid Flash. You spent way too much time around him and Flash for him not too.

There was a long pause. 

“…Webs?”

You flinched hard, “Wrong person.” You internally cursed at yourself for the obvious slur in your voice.

“Are you drunk?”

“…No.”

His hand grabbed your upper arm tightly, “Where have you been? Are you okay?”

You gently pulled against his hold, attempting to break free without force, “I’m fine.”

“No you aren’t,” Kid Flash raised his hand to his ear piece, “Just let me notify Flash-”

“NO!”

Your arm flew up to the communicator without thought. Taking advantage of his surprise, you were able to snatch the high tech earpiece from his loosen grip.

“Hey!” 

Kid Flash grabbed at you. His lanky limbs attempting to reclaim his lost device, “Let go!”

“You let go!” You shoved his face away with the palm of your hand. 

Kid Flash merely continued to grab at the air around you, “Never!”

If this was any other situation you would have laughed. The pair of you looked like children fighting over the last dessert.  

However, this wasn't just any situation. This situation involved Flash. 

“Listen to your elders you brat!” Finally, after a well fought struggle, you managed to hold the device out of arm's reach. A much needed success after the month you've had- 

“Webs?”

You halted in your tracks.

The small communicator in your hand blinked on and off, identifying an unstable signal. 

“Webs is that you?” Flash was urgent, “Wait there! I'm coming-”

You crushed the device in your hand. Terrified.

Small fragments engraved themselves into your skin, dotting your hand red. What have you done? 

“Batman’s gonna kill you for that, you know?” Kid Flash laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood. 

You frowned, uninterested in entertaining him. Kid Flash merely smiled awkwardly. It was evident the boy was taken aback by your unusually serious demeanor. 

The thought didn't take up much space in your mind. You could only think of one thing. When would Flash decide to appear out of thin air?

As if conjuring the hero, a red bolt flew through the mostly empty convenience store. The glass doors shook from the force. While newspapers scattered through the air, Vogue landed atop the cashier's head. 

Though he moved faster than the speed of light, he stood before you still. Unmoving. It was as if you might fade away if he got too close. 

“Webs,” His voice was laced with reverence. 

Your mouth went dry, “Flash.”

The tension between the two of you was thick enough to cut with a knife, suffocating you. Maybe this was how Flash planned to get back at you for ignoring him. Slowly killing you with hypoxia. A metaphorical death pertaining to how he felt during your absence. 

“Woah, this just got really awkward.” 

Kid Flash’s voice suddenly reminded you of his presence. He swayed uncomfortably. Trapped between you and Flash.

The younger male pointed his thumbs at the door, “Should I leave…or?”

“Yes.” 

Startled at your synchronous voices, Kid Flash quickly shuffled toward the door, “Alright. See you later?”

Flash nodded his head in response, ushering his protégé away. Kid Flash couldn't leave fast enough. Magazines, once again disturbed, twirled around the ground from where he left.

You stared at the loose paper. Preferring the sight of perfume ads then whatever expression Flash held. From the corner of your eye you should see him shift. He moved with unease. Your mouth curled slightly. He never was able to stop moving for long. 

“Webs, I-”

You cut him off, “I’m sorry.”

Flash furrowed his brows in confusion, “You don’t need to apologize. It's not your fault.”

“But it is,” You clenched your teeth in frustration, “It's always been my fault.”

The taller male crossed the space between you hesitantly. You flinched when he placed his large hands on your shoulders, completely engulfing them. 

“It wasn't your fault, Webs. Nobody could have known.”

“I could have saved her,” you finally met his gaze, “I was right there.”

You saw his eyes widen slightly, clearly used to your masked form more than your real face. 

Your name spilled from his lips. 

Not just Webs - your name.

You took a shaky breath, “Barry.”

The name was foreign on your tongue. You had tried to keep your personal life separate from hero work. Though that only lasted a year. Barry managed to weasel his way into your home life before you knew it.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

Barry’s hands slid from your shoulders down to your hands, caressing them softly. “Believe me when I say this,” He took a deep breath, “I’ve been in your position before. We all have.”

Breaking eye contact, your stare bore into the wall of cheap booze, “I know.”

“And I know,” He cupped your cheek, “That drinking away your problems won’t help. It only makes it worse.”

You bit your lip, “I just want to forget.”

“I know. God, I know. I want to go back and change that day every time I open my eyes,” He placed his head in the crook of your neck, “But I've been down that road before. And it's not sustainable.”

Your eyes felt hot, your throat dry, “I don’t know what to do.”

Barry pulled your smaller frame into his arms, “No one does.”

You sunk into his embrace, inhaling his scent.

“Let me take you home, Webs.”

“Okay.”

・❥・

You held tightly onto Barry, arms circling his neck, as he brought you home. You had barely enough time to blink before you were standing in front of your apartment’s door.

Barry hesitantly let you down from his hold. Though his arm stayed wrapped around your waist for support. You gave him a gentle smile as a thank you. 

Unlocking your door, you were immediately reminded of the state of your apartment. Dirty laundry and loose items scattered the floor. 

Shame crept up your neck. The uncaring attitude towards your humble abode seemingly disappeared.

Barry entered slowly, taking in the messy state. His eyes were quickly drawn to the empty bottles strewn about your floor. Unsurprisingly, he began to pick one up. Then another. And another. You snapped when he started to replace your trash bag.

“Barry.”

His head whipped toward you, only focusing on you.

“That's enough,” You tried grabbing the bag from him, “You don’t need to.”

Barry held onto the plastic tightly, “I want to.”

You shook your head, “It's my mess. Leave it.”

“No.”

You jolted in surprise at his commanding tone, “Why?”

He tossed the bag to the side, “Why?” 

Laughing dryly, he shook his head, “Why not? Why wouldn't I take care of you?”

You averted your gaze, “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“But you do,” his voice was imbued with desperation, “If you didn’t, I wouldn't have spent a month doing everything in my power to find you!”

Your face felt hot, “I didn't ask you too!”

Barry closed in the space between you, “You didn't have too!”

You weren't sure when the tears began to pour down your cheeks, “I never wanted you too! I just want to be alone! Why can’t you let me be?”

“Because I can't let you be!” Barry’s hand slammed down on your tiny island counter, “You're all I think about! From the moment I wake up to the time I go to sleep, all I know is you. I would rather you hate me for the rest of my life just to see you for a moment than ever ignore you.”

You felt like a deer in headlights, “What?”

“That day when Spider-Girl died,” He gripped the counter, slightly cracking it under the force, “I felt like I lost a piece of you too. And I could bear it.”

You felt like you lost your breath when Barry met your gaze again. His eyes were laced with anguish. Bloodshot rims already forming.

“I know you're hurting. I know what I am experiencing is nothing compared to what you are going through,” He searched your eyes, “But I'm in love with you! And I have been for as long as I can remember.” 

The start of a cry made his voice waver, “And this is definitely poor timing for a confession, but I can’t lose you-”

You weren't exactly sure which one of your muscles was still intact enough for you to move. However, the feeling of plush lips against your own thwarted any other thought.

Barry stood rigid for a moment. Hands clenched at his sides. Then, he dominated the kiss like his life depended on it. His hands held onto your waist tightly, before slowly making their way to your face. You couldn't remember the last time you felt this happy.

Pulling away, you took shallow breaths, “I love you.”

Barry smiled and swiped a loose teardrop from your cheek, “I love you too.”

The warm moment didn't last long. Your mind was quick to remind you that there was a reason Barry had to confess in a messy studio apartment rather than someplace special. That reason was because you were broken.

You pressed you mouth into a thin line, “Do you still want me even if-”

“I want you no matter what,” Barry didn’t allow you to get another word in, “We can go through this together.”

He placed a soft kiss on your forehead, “You're not alone, Webs. You never were.”

You swallowed hard, “Together?”

"Together."

・❥・

[lilyinmysoul]

Sleepwalkin’ I

Note: This is a Joel slow burn that I’ve had in my drafts for a while. Tags are at the bottom—though, there aren’t many for this one. This chapter isn’t long, it’s kind of like a little preface. Let me know if this is a concept you like, tell me what you think!

Series masterlist (+ summary)

——————————————————

There is low chatter around you, small strings of words and hums that ring softly in the air. The booth in which you sit in the corner of the Tipsy Bison is as nestled away from the others as you can get, and it earns the spot as your favorite table due to the old—but still functioning—record player that rests on the surface.

You come to the Bison for two reasons: drinking beer and listening to music. The best part is that for whatever reason, the people of Jackson don’t properly appreciate a good song. Therefore, there is no scramble for the seat with the turntable, so it is yours nearly every time you come.

There are many positives to living in Jackson; a guarded and safe community. One with sustenance and food, adequate water. But of them all, you would accredit most of your joy to the music selection. Records had been found sitting in homes when the town was first cleared, or dug out from collapsing buildings while scavenging, eventually making their ways to the shelves of the town’s only bar. You were free to pick through them as you pleased, play whichever records you saw fit. You recognized quite a few of them from your limited years before the outbreak, either by their covers or the first few notes of their songs. You’d listen to new albums, from artists unknown and times long before yours. There was something so magical about their melodies, and their abilities to either invigorate you or fill you with sorrow.

Aside from your official job as an assistant at the greenhouse, you found some sort of responsibility in curating the sound of the bar when you were there. On a cold, drizzly morning, you might come in to drink a coffee. You may also play a slower record, something soft, jazzy. On a night like tonight, when the bar is half-packed and you’re on your third beer, you would rifle through the albums on the table for something peppier, rockier, heavier.

The Doors spins on the turntable, the staticky sound of ‘60s bass rings through the room, partnering with the homely lighting to make you feel warm inside. Warm, yet still empty; a little less so when you hear the songs’ notes. You contemplate putting on something else, but you leave it for now. You feel as though it encapsulates the spirit of the tavern—a handful of men drinking, a couple dancing, a few lone drinkers settled at the bar.

Tomorrow will be a bleak day, you presume. You don’t have work, so you can stay here longer, sit in this booth as the night eventually bleeds into the early morning. It’s particularly pathetic, you think; budgeting your time to spend as much of it at the bar as possible. And while it’s true—you drink too much—you aren’t here for the alcohol. The only thing that comforts you as of late is the sound of music—shit, that’s another movie you’d kill to see again. There are many things you’d kill to see again.

Your hand grips the brown bottle, dripping with condensation and dampening your fingers. You don’t pull away, instead bringing the glass rim to your lips and taking a drink of the bitter liquid. It doesn’t taste particularly good; you aren’t sure why you drink it. Compared to other drinks, it doesn’t numb your mind particularly well. It feels more like a harmless pastime, but it’s safe to assume that your liver does not agree. You’re not oblivious to the fact—you just don’t care.

Jim Morrison’s rich voice croons over the keys of a piano and you thank the forces of the universe for the preservation of this record player. Your bottle is half-empty, and rather than succumbing to drunkenness, your mind has taken to scrutinizing itself. You contemplate the general direction of your life.

-

Across the bar, Joel sits on a stool, whiskey glass in hand. Scratch that—he wasn’t sure what type of alcohol it was, only that he would need a refill soon. It was a wonder that he hadn’t been banned from the establishment by now, for all of the drinking he did here. He didn’t know why the town’s supply of alcohol seemed so endless, but his only choice was to be incredibly thankful.

For Joel, patrols could be either a blessing or a curse. On one hand, each shift seemed to account for hours lost—days, even. He felt as though he was losing time, rapidly. Sometimes, a sense of despair would creep over him, and he couldn’t help but feel as though his life was slipping through the fingers of a figurative set of hands, and being lost to in infinite well of darkness. It wasn’t a pleasing thought, but it was an unavoidable one—especially in times like these.

On another, Joel suspected that it might be nice to waste his time. Policing the premises of town in an often silent excursion alongside a fellow resident might be a grueling experience, but it effectively distracted his mind from other pressing matters. Ones less physical and far less significant; like the numbness of his mind or his sudden bouts of sadness.

It was almost pitiful to him; how could he complain about his spells of anguish when there was no terror around him? He once lived day-to-day, faced with the mangled atrocities that are infected, and the cold truths of the world. He didn’t seem to be affected at all, then—only haunted by an occasional and fleeting dream of his blue eyed girl. There was none of that now; only an empty house and a bustling town, and there was no barbarity in the streets, or in his heart. It was completely irrational.

In his numbness, Joel came to the Bison. To drink away his sorrows wasn’t the plan—it was to wait them out. But in his gloom, he would sit up in his house and pass time. He would carve—intricate figures of wood and polish—he would play guitar—old songs from times before, or original series of strings that were rarely any good—or, in fact, he would build his own. The guitars themselves took hours; a long damn time, but wasn’t that the point? He needed to cut the faces perfectly, hollow out the sound-hole, and glue it all together with precision because filling his hours with whatever he may was what he did most. The tunes in the bar were nice, but he had a player in his house. It was the only thing that drowned out the sounds of his mind.

Joel hadn’t spoken to Ellie—not a single word, not even one muttered greeting—in almost a year. He believed he had exchanged a few nods of acknowledgement in passing over the last few months, and hopefully it wasn’t in his head; but, that was it. That was all, because, like most people he had come to love, she had passed along too, like a memory. However, she wasn’t one. She was alive, real, and wanting nothing to do with him. That crushed him, he thought, more than anything.

It was often that Joel found nothing to think about, the buzzing thought of his mind giving way to something like numbness or serenity—he wasn’t sure which. Joel hadn’t been a fan of large crowds since that last father-daughter dance before the outbreak, and loud chatter always seemed to bother him. Regardless, in the warmth of this bar, under the low humming of a record as its creator sings without a care, he doesn’t mind the noise at all.

Joel downs the rest of his drink, setting the chipping shot glass down on the table. It reads, ‘That’s Wyoming!’ on the front, and he wonders what kind of guy would ever buy such a mundane cup. Maybe he would’ve, back in the day, if it instead read something about Austin. Or maybe Sarah would’ve bought it for him for Fathers’ Day at the corner store with her allowance, reading: ‘Don’t mess with Texas!’ No, don’t… he pushes the thought away.

That’s enough, he thinks, standing up from the old bar stool as it creaks with the pressure, putting an end to a night of utter futility. He gives a preoccupied wave of thanks to the bartender, unsure of whether it landed or not. His boots step against the old floor, the sound a little softer than wood ought to be, on account of its age. As he pushes open the double-door, the final notes of ‘The End’ play and Jim’s voice comes to a halt. Perfect timing—Joel always loved that song—and he walks out onto the rainy street, the laughter and gossip of the bar vanishing from his earshot. He tells himself he won’t, but he will most certainly be back tomorrow.

-

It must be a self-fulfilling prophecy; the way he doubts his willpower. It leads him right back to the Tipsy Bison, the very next day. It’s an early evening and the sun looks golden as it reflects on the sidewalk, and when he pushes open the bar’s door, he is met with silence. There is next to no one inside, and a glance at the record player confirms that there is in fact no music playing. It is a peaceful moment, one in which he can relish a cold beer and think. Contrary to his usual decision to occupy one of the barstools up close to the taps, he seats himself in the booth, the far corner table on which the sacred turntable is resided.

It is unoccupied, which is certainly unusual, but Joel won’t pass up the chance to spin his own record for once. Playing the music reminded him of an old throwback diner he’d go to as a kid, a big clunky jukebox in the corner. Other than that, he’d never seen one—he had been a bit too young.

The vinyl sleeves are scattered on the table’s surface and Joel fishes through them, scanning each cover for an image or title that he recognizes.

Beside the booth, there are shelves storing even more music, and he’d consider donating some of his own found albums had he been a bit more generous. For now, he fans out a few and puts on a record—an old rock album he used to keep in his truck—and lets it start to spin. Watching it is mesmerizing, and he figures that the longer he loses himself in the turning black disk and the sound of electric guitar, the longer he will put himself off from ordering alcohol—a distraction seems to be what he needs.

-

You slip your arms into your jacket and hug yourself as you leave your house. Even this—your second thickest coat—did not prepare you for the cold air outside. You grew up far from here, nowhere near Wyoming, and the cold got to you a little more than you’d like to admit; physically, of course, you weren’t used to it—but mentally, as well. Gloomy weather makes you sad.

Your feet set a steady pace, and the tired urge to walk in a stroll mixes with your restless need to feel Stevie Nicks’ preserved and feathery voice in your ear. Maybe you’ll play Belladonna, or put on some Fleetwood—possibly Kiln House. You tell yourself to focus; all of this thought is slowing your step. You wonder what you’ve come to; how your only fantasy regards what album you’ll hear next. This either frames your life as impossibly peaceful, or impossibly sad. It seems, to you, like a mix of the two.

The closer you get to the heart of town, the nicer the sidewalk gets. There are less potholes in the road and not as many weeds overgrowing the asphalt, a pointless detail you can’t help but pick up. The evening light is golden, families and children beginning to retreat into their homes, concluding their days’ activities—yours are just beginning. In fact, your trip to the bar is often a highlight of your day. God, that does sound pathetic—but, it really isn’t what it looks like.

You pass stores, some empty and others occupied as you trek toward your destination. From the looks of it, the Bison isn’t too full, your heart almost speeding up with anticipation, and you sometimes wonder if your ears have minds of their own, urging you constantly and distracting your focus from tasks at hand. If you had many friends, they’d probably joke that you were addicted. To music, to that damn record player, to the Tipsy Bison. However, you don’t, but you really do wonder if you have some type of unhealthy dependance. You don’t think much of it, though—most things you do are quite destructive, more so than a couple of hours at the bar.

You’re welcomed by the warmth of the room, pushing open the doors as your cold cheeks thank you for coming inside, sparing them from the (surely freezing) weather. The relief doesn’t last long as you turn your head to the booth—your booth—and find it occupied.

You knew vaguely of Joel Miller, seeing him around town occasionally and lounging at the bar as he nursed a glass of gin—or whatever else he drank. You often noticed people, catching their names and registering their faces, but you paid little mind. It seemed like a waste of time to decide whether you liked them or not, but, although illogical, you weren’t too pleased with Joel now.

Taking a deep breath, you calm yourself as you glance around the bar. Most of the other seats are empty, and you could settle there for now, waiting for him to leave. But looking around, there is nothing appealing about it. You no longer feel the warmth and invitation that you usually do as you stroll into the Bison, and Levon Helm is singing to you, but you wanted Stevie. You feel disappointed, irritated. A bit territorial. You inhale again before turning and pushing open the door, stepping back out into the cold. Maybe tomorrow.

-

It’s an entire week before you work up the strength to return to the bar. The weather is especially excruciating as its temperatures dip further and further down, dustings of snow beginning to fall.

Icy or powdery, snow is beautiful. You love to watch it fall, coating tree branches and falling poetically atop roofs. But as mesmerizing as you find it, you cannot bring yourself to love it. Trudging out into the white expanse, boots crunching on chunks of slippery ice has not ever been preferable. So, naturally, you haven’t been to work in a week. You have not left your house in a week. You have lost out on an entire week of social interaction, of sunlight (what little there is) and of music. You haven’t felt the weight of rigid and smooth vinyl in your hands, you haven’t spun a record… you have hardly gotten out of bed.

Although you haven’t done it, you’ve thought about it. At many intervals, you nearly slipped on your boots and stepped into the wintry air. You had assumed that the rigid wind would whip against your face, dry your eyes, stiffen your joints… hopefully one day you would become accustomed to such weather. Now, your brain saw it as nothing short of torture.

It was the seventh day, and you decided to stick it out. You would walk six minutes to the Tipsy Bison, and you were gonna like it. You would march right in, take your seat, and play your songs. You had been fantasizing about Fleetwood Mac for an entire week, and today was the day that you would hear the opening notes of Songbird—hopefully. Assuming that Joel hadn’t made a habit of stealing your booth.

Your walk is determined—you’ve mustered the energy for it, you’ll make the best of it. It’s a Saturday, so people are outside. Despite the snow, the sun is out and it reflects across the ground’s dusted surface. You watch kids play, kicking up cold white powder and attempting to pack it together into snowballs that quickly fall apart. There isn’t much on the ground, but it’s a sight.

The streets are a little louder today. The fun thing about Jackson is that nobody drives—there’s no need—so, people walk in the middle of streets. There are families and children, couples holding hands as they stroll. In summer, you might feel lonely at the sight, but the winter months make you enjoy the isolation. They often made you feel like you’d never spoken to anybody and you’d never need to again.

You’d pushed the bar door open by only a few inches when you see Joel’s form sitting at your table—again. There is no registry that endows you ownership of the table, but it pisses you off that somebody else wants it.

What’s worse than someone else in your seat—that you’d waited a week for—is the fact that he’s playing Billy Joel and there’s nothing you can do about it. You want to hear Lindsey Buckingham play guitar, damn it, but this time you don’t turn and leave; it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. You decide that you need a beer, and since you’re here, it won’t hurt. As you approach the bar, you contemplate taking the bottle for the road, drinking it down as you walk home, but you take a seat anyway.

You wave down Seth and when you get your bottle, you pop it open and take a sip. Your eyes flit around the room, glancing at framed photos and drunken guests. Winter seems to be the town’s preferred drinking season, even though booze is year-round. You wonder if the rain hits everyone else as hard as it hits you.

Your eyes land on Joel’s messy head as his chin rests on his hand. He’s got an empty plate in front of him—no drink, and he’s tapping his fingers on the table. You never liked Billy Joel, but he does, and you wish he’d do it somewhere else.

You contemplate asking him to switch it—that would be pettish. You remember being asked once to turn off your Iron Maiden—you had said no. In fact, you’d spun the record again just to piss them off. Because, just like it was your turntable then, it’s Joel’s turntable now, but despite your logical mind’s reasoning, you slip off of your stool and step towards Joel’s booth. Your booth—your booth that Joel happens to be sitting in—and you stop just a few steps short of him.

His gaze rests on the floor, but when your worn hiking boots enter his view, he looks up and his eyes meet yours. Your hair is only the slightest bit disheveled, but you flatten it nonetheless, your sweater pulled tightly against you as your arms rest crossed over your chest.

You put your hands in your pockets and say, “I’d like you to play Rumors, please.”

He doesn’t argue or comment, only looking at you for a few more moments, one hand moving toward the needle. “Alright.”

Billy’s voice cuts off abruptly, and is moments later replaced with Stevie’s.

Tags: Many music references (anticipate many more), again, extremely depressed MCs, Sarah is referred to as ‘blue eyed girl’, I chose to picture game Sarah so as not to confuse her with Ellie who also has brown eyes, you could argue that both reader and Joel are alcoholics, reader is a tad bit entitled but don’t give up on her yet, proofread a little but not fully, lmk if there are errors.

[greynatomy]

reputation

ella toone x reader

first ella toone fic! was in the drafts for a while and got around to finally finishing it. honestly don’t know where i was going with this

———

You had a reputation.

Once you turned eighteen, you started to rebel, wanting to make your point across. At eighteen, you started getting tattoos and buzzed all your hair, looking completely different from the colorful person you used to be. You wanted to steer away from the child everyone sees you to be and be seen more of an adult. The thing is, your management thought that the only way to do that is to make you out to be a womanizer, getting girls left and right.

The smoking, though, that was on you. Becoming well known starting at the age of fifteen, you’ve been under the spotlight from a young age, being told how to dress, how to act, everything in your life was controlled. The smoking, getting tattoos, cutting your hair was a way for you to get some of the control back.

You are now twenty-five. Fired your old management, signed into a new label who let you be you. Its been two years and you’ve been writing and producing songs on low profile. Your fans still figure out which songs have been written/produced by you - even under pseudonyms. You were loving being out of the spotlight for once.

—

The sun shining through the curtains wakes you up from your sleep, eyes fluttering shut from the light. Your arm tightens its hold from the body it’s slung over, pulling them close.

“Mmm, five more minutes.”

You didn’t reply, just pulled her closer than she already is, drifting back to sleep. About an hour later, you wake up to footsteps running around. Sitting up, back resting against the headboard, you see your girlfriend running around, stuffing things into her training bag. You sat there quietly, admiring your her chaotic form rushing in and out the room.

“You’re staring.”

“Just admiring.” You mouth twitching up in amusement.

“Well, I need to leave now or I’ll be late.”

“Did you pack any going out clothes? Wanna take you out after training.”

“Yeah, but what about my car?”

“I’ll take a cab to the facility. Wait for you.”

“Alright, text me when you’re there.” She leans down, giving you a kiss. “I love you.”

You grab the back of her neck and pull her back when she moves away, pulling her back in for another kiss.

“I love you. Now, go before you’re late.”

“See you soon.”

To make time go by faster, you decided to busy yourself with some cleaning around the house. You quite liked being a little housewife for Ella, cooking, cleaning, waiting for her to get back home from training.

Few hours later, dressed casual, you’re in a cab on the way to St. George’s Park. paying the cab driver, you walk to the parking lot looking for Ella’s car.

Rockstar 🎸🖤

at the car. forgot the spare key. take your time

Looney Toones ❤️⚽️

give me a few minutes

You leaned against the car, answering some messages and emails from your phone. You were too focused to notice a couple of footsteps coming towards you.

“Uh, excuse you. Don’t lean on the car.”

You look up, taking the hood off your head, to see Ella’s best friend, Alessia, and one other.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Hold on.” Mary, the goalkeeper that Ella’s told you about, spoke up. “Why do you look so familiar?”

Before you could answer, you’re cut off by a very loud voice.

“We’re matching!”

Your face instantly lights up at the voice of your girlfriend.

“What a coincidence!”

“Ha. Ha.” Ella realizes you, once again, matched with her on purpose. “What is it with you wanting to match with me?” She smiles at you with adoration.

You shrug. “You ready to go?”

The clearing of a throat breaks the two of you out of your bubble, forgetting about the other two Lionesses.

“Uh, Tooney?”

“Yeah?”

“Who’s this?”

Ella’s face lights up. “Oh! This is me girlfriend, Y/N!”

“Nice to meet your two!” You hold your hand out, but it was just stared at. You let out a chuckle, awkwardly putting your hand back down. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah. Bye guys.”

Mary and Alessia watch as the car drives off with their friend inside.

“I remember now! She’s Y/N Y/LN. The one I’ve seen on the news always bringing a new one home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I wouldn’t be surprised if Ella was just another one of her conquests.”

The next day at training, Mary and Alessia approach Ella during break.

“Hey, guys!” Ella greeted them cheerfully.

“Hey, Ella. Uh, just some questions.”

“What is it?”

“Your girlfriend. You know who she is right?”

Ella was now confused. “Uh, yeah. Of course I do.”

“Well, we’re just worried.”

“About?” Now Ella was getting a bit impatient.

“She’s a bit off a womanizer isn’t she?” Alessia blurts out, speaking up for the first time.

“Excuse me?”

“She’s always seen with a new girl hanging by her arm like every week.”

“I’m not having this conversation.”

“Look, Tooney. We’re just looking out for you.”

“Looking out for me? Nah, I’m done with this conversation.”

You were in the backyard when you heard the front door slam shut. Looking towards the door, you see your girlfriend stomping towards you and plopping down on your lap.

“What’s happened?”

“Ugh! Can you believe Mary and Less? They had the nerve! The nerve to accuse you of being with me only temporarily.”

“What else did they say?”

“They were talking ‘bout how you always have anew girl hanging off your arm and stuff, but those were from years ago before you fired everyone.”

You wrap your arms tighter around her, pulling her closer. “Well, I mean, look at it from their perspective. They’ve never met me, they don’t know me like you do. All they have is what they’ve seen online. And they’re your best mates, they’re looking out for you.”

After a few moments of silence, Ella now has a look of determination on her face. She grabs her phone and sends out a text.

“They’ll be here in a couple minutes.”

Your eyes almost pop out of their sockets.

“What do you mean in a couple minutes. I haven’t even cleaned the house yet.”

You run around the house picking up anything you could see to put away, wanting to make a good first- technically second- impression with Ella’s best friends.

“Babe.”

You go to grab the vacuum.

“Baby.”

You also grab a broom because what if the vacuum isn’t enough.

“Baby!” She grabs you by the shoulders to keep you in place. “Breathe.” You do as she says. “Okay. The house isn’t even messy and even if it was, they’d know it was from me.”

You nod your head. “True.”

Exactly as Ella stated, there was a knock on your front door a couple of minutes later. She greets them, letting them in and goes to stand next to you.

“This is Y/N. My girlfriend, as I stated yesterday.”

“Hi, nice to meet you both.” You give them a small wave.

Mary’s lips form a straight line while Alessia gives you a small smile in greeting.

“Let me get us something to drink.” Ella announces, leaving the three of you alone.

“What’s your game here?” Mary gets straight to the point.

“Sorry?” Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“C’mon! You’ve gotten with singers and supermodels, basically everyone. Is Ella another one of your conquests?”

“What? No!”

“I’m not stupid! I know your reputation, you go from one girl to another.”

“Well, then you don’t know me at all!” You were now getting frustrated. You hated when people judge you just because of what they see from the media. You can’t blame them though, that’s all people know you from.

“What’s going on here?” Ella walks back in, drinks in hand, confusion on her face.

“Nothing. Just getting to know—”

“—Actually.” Mary cuts Alessia off. “I just wanted to make sure she is good for you. Based on all the girls she’s been with, I don’t think she is.”

“Okay, that’s enough Mary!”

“I’m just being realistic!”

“No, you’re being an asshole judging my girlfriend from things you see on the internet. You should know not to believe everything you see online. The both of you.” Mary and Alessia looks down in shame. “Also, if you haven’t noticed, she’s been out of the media for two years so everything you’ve seen was from a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that she’s been with half the population before you!”

“It does when you find out that that isn’t true at all.”

“What?” Alessia’s voice was soft but heard.

“My name is-was a brand by the label. I was legally blinded to do what they told me to do and the acting out, smoking, tattoos, those are the only ways I could take some control back, but I never took advantage of anyone. All those girls I’ve been pictured with, I’ve only slept with one until she left me because management wanted to keep the ‘bad girl’ image.”

You move to the kitchen, grabbing a beer from a refrigerator. Popping it open, you take a swig, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Two years ago, I decided to ‘run away’ to Manchester. Fired my whole team and just disappeared.”

“That’s when I met ‘er.” Ella cuts in, wrapping an arm around your waist, leaning into you. “Started dating two months after the countless dates she took me on and it’s been almost two years. She makes me really happy.” The last sentence was directed right at her friends.

“Okay. I’m sorry for judging you so quick.”

“Same with me. I’m sorry.”

“No hard feelings at all.” You give them both a smile. “Now since you’re both here, why don’t you stay for dinner.

The three perk up at the mention of food.

[internet1girl]

Chapter 0: Rebirth.

Summary: After an arduous day of work, you come home to find someone in your home. Someone who should not be here.

Word count: 3.5k Warnings/Notices: named!reader, major angst, long-needed exposition, mentions of death, violence, a few curse words here and there

First Chapter

A/N: i figured some origins of my favourite character were in order 🫠 this has been sitting in my drafts for a while, i finally locked in and pulled this out of development hell, enjoy ^^

It had been a long day.

From sunrise to sunset, you had been out there. Working. Working in the sense of collecting dried-up debts, enforcing edicts of men twice your age, delivering packages that you’d long since stopped questioning and, if need be, removing people from the mortal plane. You were popular for the latter reason. 緑の死神 (Midori no Shinigami) was the name most commonly associated with you. There were others, but The Green Reaper - or just simply your full name - was enough to strike fear into the hearts of most around Japan. Clean, seamless and efficient. A perfect description of your services.

Anything you had to do to survive.

Jade Houzuki always survives. It had been a decade since the death of your parents. A decade since the news of your mother’s death hit you like a truck. A decade since you saw the light in your father’s eyes fade like the credits to the world’s most heartwrenching film a few months later, his body failing with his mind. A decade since the worst morning any child could ever experience. You could still remember it with clarity, that realization that you were an orphan dropping on you like a weight as you woke up. Just a fourteen-year-old girl. You wouldn’t be able to forget it, nor would you be able to forget that look on young Hiroshi’s face. So solemn. Face devoid of emotion in a way that would haunt you forever. No eight-year-old should ever look that empty.

It’s not like he was here, though. No. Your younger brother was gone, he had walked out on you during that fateful argument that you both had a few months ago. His whereabouts now were lost to you, just like the last real connection you had to a human in this cruel world. Words were exchanged that couldn’t be taken back. Actions were committed that couldn’t be excused. The scars from that encounter, both physical and mental, would last forever.

Entering the new year alone was probably one of the worst times of your life to date. If the 2010s were bad, then you didn’t even want to imagine what the 2020s would entail. More dark work, blood-stained errands and sacrilegious slaughter? The prying prayer that was the hope that this year would be your last was present, it lingered in the back of your mind. Maybe it would be, you don’t know. The future is uncertain, but it’s not looking good. And the present looked worse. Because, despite everything, despite all of your efforts, it was just you.

It was just you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Right now, you were walking the stairs of the apartment complex that you currently lived in. A shitty, run-down block of buildings on the edge of Kōchi, a city in the very prefecture you once called home. There was something poetic about it all, though now wasn’t the correct time for that query to weigh on your mind. You didn’t have homes anymore. Not really. Apartments and townhouses rented out with blood money don’t deserve to be called a home. The sound of boots on wet stone bounced off of the walls. You were tired, your body ached with both fatigue and the bruises of today. You reached your door, a cracked slab of wood that was the only thing between you and retirement for the night. Your keys were pulled out with a soft jingle, the sound barely cutting through the lunar silence. With a click, you opened the door, walking inside with your head held low and your shoulders tense. The day’s events weren’t anything out of the ordinary, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t physically taxing. It’s not like that mattered, though. Today was routine, a droplet in the trail of blood that was your current life. Now, it was time for rest. You weren’t scheduled to work tomorrow, your current employer had made Saturday an off day for you. A small smile appeared on your face at the knowledge that you could sleep in. Yes, a chance to just… recuperate. After training, maybe you’ll try out that cafe a few blocks away that you’d been eyeing up. Maybe you’ll go for a walk in Kagamino Park, and allow yourself to pretend that everything is fine, just for a bit. Maybe you’ll be a little rat and just do nothing at all. Maybe-

“Jade Houzuki.” Wait, what the fuck? “I am honoured to make your acquaintance.”

You spun around to the sound of your full name being recited, literally slamming the door behind you with your whole body as you stared in the noise’s direction. A… man stood there. Big deal, you’d seen plenty of men before. You’d come across some that were even foolish enough to try shit like showing up in one of your places of residence. But this one was… different.

Tall. Broad. Well-built. Long hair and a stance of discipline, hands knitted together as he stood in the centre of the apartment. Objectively Asian but dressed in a Chinese sense of style rather than a Japanese one. A neighbour flying in just for you? How kind. Oh yeah, and just one more thing; his fucking eyes were white.

Stunned. That would be the perfect word to describe you right now. Everything in you right now was on edge. Every instinct you possessed was dialled up to ten. Your own eyes were as wide as they could be, your pupils shrunk out of fear unease. A whole minute passed, both parties in complete silence. Your brain barely handled its reboot, the only thing you could eventually muster up was a:

“…What in the actual fu-”

“I am Liu Kang. Protector of Earthrealm.” The man bowed, clasping a fist and an open palm together as he tilted his body. A gesture of respect, though a gesture that did nothing to ease the spikes of tension pulsing through your body. “I come in peace.”

You didn’t believe him. To be fair to you, this was all a bit much. A part of you was deadset on this being some sort of weird dream. You did tank that particularly nasty hit to your head last week. Maybe the symptoms of potential brain damage are choosing to manifest now? You looked around, checking to see if anything was out of place. From where you were, you didn’t have visual access to all of the rooms here, but you could see the main area, the lounge and the kitchen. Everything was where it was supposed to be, so he didn’t rob you or anything. An admittedly silly thought, given that burglars don’t usually stick around after committing their crime. But you couldn’t be blamed for not thinking straight.

“…Who else is here?” You mustered up again, shifting your key between your knuckles, your body starting to listen to its defensive sector and move on instinct.

“Nobody, I come alone.” Liu Kang took a step forward, halting in his stride when he saw you flinch. His hands raised, open palms a few inches away from his chest. “Forgive me for my intrusion, Jade. But I must speak with you.”

“How did you get into my apartment?” You shot back. You stood up properly, a hand hovering over your bō strapped to your hip.

“I-“ “What do you want?” You shot back again, cutting him off. Your panic slowly started to shift into something more aggressive, evident in the way you spoke and reacted to his words.

“I am here because-“

“Have you been stalking me?”

He sighed. Though he tried to hide it, you could tell he was getting a little annoyed. Not that you cared though. Anyone else and you would’ve been the only person alive by now. But, there was something about this man that made you… pause. You couldn’t explain it. It was weird, just like everything else about tonight.

Liu Kang waited for a bit, both for you to calm down slightly and to gather back his own patience. When the mild ire on his face dissipated, he felt free to speak again.

“I know you, Jade. You are a tragic figure with a noble cause.” He started to walk, steps slow as he looked around your space of living. His fingers wandered, lightly brushing over your worn furniture, tips running across the faded fabric. “This is not how your life was intended to span out this time.”

“This time?” You perked up at that, because, huh? This time?

Shit.

“Forgive me, I misspoke.” He spoke after a beat, stopping his ministrations and turning to face you. He did an excellent job of snuffing out his budding dread, so good of a job that you didn’t even clock any signs of worry. He spoke again after another beat, white eyes looking at you, into you, in a way that you really didn’t like.

“I am here to offer you a path forward.”

“Is that a threat?” You took a step forward, moving like a hunter would to a bear. Your eyebrows were raised, any fear that you possessed now morphed into something territorial, akin to a cornered animal. “No, a promise. I offer you a chance to be a part of something bigger than yourself, to follow a higher power.” Liu Kang walked towards you, hands behind his back, everything about him respectful or at least attempting to be. Maybe if he appealed to you using more divine reasoning, you would calm down, he figured.

“Higher power?” Yeah, that didn’t work at all. You laughed, the sound cuttingly mocking rather than sweetly jovial. “Don’t make me laugh!"

You sighed. “You know, I have to say… I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my time, but whatever this is,” You made a gesture at him as you moved away from the door, face scrunched up, not even bothering to hide your disdain. “Really takes the cake.”

He looked taken aback, maybe even a little hurt at your response. This… wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This encounter, and the course of your years. Though a total stranger to you, the same couldn’t be said otherwise. Not really. Jaded was an attribute he always knew you carried, but this… was disheartening.

Have I really failed you that badly?

“I’m not interested in your employment, Mr. Kang.” You stopped in front of him, arms-length. Your own were folded, your hips tilted. You sported an expression on your face that could only be described as pure defiance.

“Leave my apartment.”

“I… I cannot.” He recuperated, withdrawing as you advanced, the dynamic of control now flipped.

“That wasn’t a request.” With a clank, you withdrew your staff. The pole of metal stuck out, twirled expertly in your hands. The tip of your bō was repositioned to point directly at his chest, threatening to jab at the centre of the space. Your eyes burned into his, brown fury boring into white unease.

“Please.” His voice was soft, contrasting your own. He raised his hands again, backing up slowly. “We don’t have to do this. This isn’t how I wanted to-“

SMACK.

You struck before he could finish his sentence. A clean hit to the jaw, the end of your bō staff slamming into the side of his face. You moved as you always did, quicker than your opponent could register. The intent to kill wasn’t present, but you didn’t dare to hold back any inch of your strength.

Surprisingly, he took that like a champ. His head snapped to the side. His legs staggered backwards, struggling to keep his body upright. No blood was drawn, no teeth were knocked out, but a few seconds of disorientation was enforced. If you weren’t so locked in, you admittedly would be a little shocked, maybe even impressed. Lesser men had fallen to weaker hits.

Liu Kang snapped back, his vision flashing white for a split second. A grunt of pain slipped out, you actually managed to hurt him. Even as a human, you were still a force to be reckoned with. His hand found the back of a nearby chair, he used the frame to steady himself. He blinked, readjusting from that very sudden assault. He didn’t even get another word of plea or protest in, before:

SMACK.

Another blow was dealt. A strike to the ribs, one wound up by a spin. Your staff struck him hard enough for the brief exchange of iron and cloth to produce a sound; a reverberating thud. Another groan of pain was beaten from him at the advance. You raised your bō high above your head, bringing it down with a sickening:

SMA-

This time, Liu Kang caught your attack before it could make contact. His palm wrapped around your weapon, one hand encompassing the tip of your staff. A beat passed. He could’ve counter-attacked. He could’ve brought the bō down to the floor, leaving you open for an uppercut or another brutal reversal. But he didn’t. That’s not how he’s going to do this. Instead, he opted to push you back, enough force behind the counter to send you away, but not toppling over.

This did not go over well with you. At all. First, this intruder dares to show up in your residence - unannounced and unwelcomed - and then he dares to shove you away? Like he’s the victim? No. That’s not how this is going to work.

“Jade… calm do-“

You rushed him before he could complete his sentence, running up with a yell. You were fast, but not fast enough to strike him again. Liu Kang dodged just before your staff came for the side of his head, the sound of the metal ringing through the air like a shing of death.

A fight ensued.

You went at him mercilessly. Fists, feet, and staff. Your bō cleaved through the air in grey blurs, occasionally smacking the wall and any other stray objects that had the misfortune of being in your path. Your opponent didn’t do much in response. Didn’t, not couldn’t. Instead of countering, Liu Kang opted to either dodge, block and/or weave your manic flurry. He wasn’t going to harm you, not any more than you already had been. That’s not how this is going to work.

“Please, Jade! I-“ You shut him up with a swift kick at his leg. He folded at the impact, kneeling onto the floor momentarily to re-gather his bearings. Another action you didn’t respond to well, if the second kick aimed at his face was anything to go by. “Stand and face me! Coward!”

This carried on. You attacking and him evading. Liu Kang tried again to talk you down, to either calm you or disarm you of your weapon. One or both. You’ll have to excuse the fact that he couldn’t exactly think clearly right now.

You fought exactly how he remembered. It had been eons, but he recalled your kombat vividly. The elegance of bōjutsu, with an undeniable twist of brutality. Though, your sample in this encounter had too much of the latter. Hiroshi’s departure had thrown the balance out of wack, every negative emotion that you once kept at bay now flooded the village that was your emotional state. This was one of those times where you let the rage and grief consume you.

It all eventually came to a head. A peak. A few too many hits were dealt, this soured encounter had gone on for far too long. The thread that was his patience was burning like a fuse, and now it had hit its end. Something in Liu Kang just snapped.

“ENOUGH!”

You were just about to land your umpteenth hit when he erupted. Literally. His form ignited. No, I’m not kidding. A burst of orange and blue flame knocked you back, the sudden heat managing to singe a few loose strands of your hair.

What the fuck?

You rushed at again him, for the third time. A cry rang through the apartment as you threw yourself at the intruder, staff raised high into the air. Liu Kang caught your bō with both hands this time. Four hands on your staff, two pairs of matching snarls. He moved, forcing you backwards. Your back hit the wall with a thud. Your head snapped against the plaster, your vision slightly blurring only to refocus on Liu Kang’s face inches away from your own.

You struggled, of course you did. You attempted to fight back, to push him off and away  from you, but damn it he had you pinned with strength that you just couldn’t overpower. You attempted to sweep his feet out from beneath him, another futile effort. You even attempted to go for a headbutt, though something in this man’s facial fury advised you otherwise.

Your body stilled. Maybe this was it.

“…Do it.” You spat the words out, your voice drenched in bitterness, a similar emotion darkening your eyes. Being bested in your own house was too much of a humiliation for you to bear. If this is how you were to die, if this is how you were to rejoin Mother and Father, then so be it. “Go ahead. Kill me.”

“No.” The word was uttered with a weight of certainty, delivered like an Emperor declaring war. Or peace, in your case.

“No?” You gasped out. His response shocked you, evident in the way your eyes widened.

“You will not fall by my hand, Jade Houzuki.” He loosened the hold he had on you, not enough for you to slip out, but enough that there was now breathing room between your bodies. “Please. Listen.”

“I am here to offer you something more. Something more than the ritualistic murder you commit for survival.”

“Something more?” You questioned, now no longer resisting subjugation. The logistics of… everything about this stranger came into mind. “Are you a yōkai?”

“A mortal description that is by all means fitting but inaccurate.” There was a pause before he spoke again. “I am the God of Fire.”

Well… that explained that little flaming outburst. This little tidbit of information did little to calm the storm of questions in your mind. You opened your mouth to speak again but the words died in your throat as soon as Liu Kang held a hand up, a command of silence that you obeyed. For now.

“All will be explained.” He fully let go of you, taking a few steps back, giving you some breathing room. “For now, what is important is that you have been chosen to be a part of something greater than yourself, a cause of peace rather than survival.”

“…I don’t need your redemption.” You muttered, lowering your bō.

“You misunderstand.” He replied calmly. “I offer you purpose, not forgiveness.”

“I already have purpose.” You responded with certainty, the kind of half-truth that would fool anyone normal. “Do you?” He stepped closer, head slightly tilted. “You bleed for people who would trade you for mere coin. You have been alone in this world for years. You sleep in your futon with a knife under your pillow.” He stopped just in front of you. “Is that the life you desire for yourself?” “…It’s the life I need to survive.” Your voice was quiet, akin to a child after being reprimanded. Your eyes left his, diverted onto the wooden planks below, one part embarrassment and another part shame. His words had hit you harder than any physical blow could. The truth spoken aloud affected you in a way that made you feel… small. Weak. Pathetic. Embarrassed.

“It is a life that you don’t deserve.”

You felt the weight of his response in a way that you never wished to feel again. That sentence was like a knife at your seams, ripping at the fragile fabric holding you together. Your eyes glossed over. The urge to cry was the second opponent you fought tonight.

This is a life I don’t deserve.

“There is a place.” Liu Kang’s voice broke through your sorrow. “An academy in China. A school that welcomes those like you. The Wu Shi.”

There was another pause before he next spoke.

“I will not force your hand, Jade. You are free to reject my offer and continue on your path. But know that it will not lead you anywhere righteous.”

“…I don’t trust you, Fire God.” You finally spoke after some passing time, your voice raw.

“Good.” He nodded, wearing a tiny smile. “I do not seek your trust. Just the acceptance of your elevation.”

He placed a hand on your shoulder, his palm on you surprisingly comforting. “I have faith that you will rise to the challenge. Your display of kombat and determination tonight has already proved you worthy of the path to championship.”

Your eyes met his as you looked up, broken despair looking into quiet aspiration. Liu Kang’s smile widened.

“Your service will change the arc of your life.”

A/N: thank you for reading <3

[lovelyiida]

THE RACE TO WEDDING BELLS ❤︎︎

CHAPTER 7: PASS THE SALT

"You know what they say about secretaries."

KATSUKI BAKUGO X SECRETARY READER

SYNOPSIS: as the years went by... bakugo realized that he was the last to get married. the days grew cold and the nights turned lonely. bakugo wants to marry, but he doesn't really feel like falling in love. at least he has his trustee secretary!

❥ WARNINGS: implied fem reader, aged-up! Pro-hero MHA characters over the age of 27, vulgar language, suggestive wording, and content.

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WORDS: 4.8K

"A what?"

The revelation hit like an unfathomable wave, leaving Katsuki in utter shock and embarrassment. His words slipped out uncontrollably, and he hung his head low, attempting to collect himself before facing his parents' reactions.

With just a grunt escaping him, the blonde struggled to conjure up a somewhat plausible response. "Just… don't freak out. I've been meaning to say this for a while now, just couldn't find the time."

Deep into his face, palms buried, he rubbed his eyes, attempting to shake himself from the grave he had unwittingly dug.

"How long have you guys been dating? I mean, we're happy, right?" Bakugo's father sought assurance from his wife, but all he received was a long stare.

"Um, I've known her for a while, I guess—"

"Ya' guess? What's that supposed to mean?" Mitsuki interjected, a little disheveled from the news, trying her hardest to take things step by step.

"Please, let him speak," his father interjected.

Another loud pause set into motion, catching Katsuki off guard as he had not anticipated bringing up the topic of you that day. "We were talking, then we started to hang out, started to go out, and the rest was history—"

"What happened to not having time to do anything, since you're, y'know… putting our safety first?" Mitsuki quipped at the hero.

"I can still go out and find love; I'm not some sad and lonely prick!" Katsuki yelled. "If it makes you feel any better, she's my secretary. Still ass-deep in my work."

Katsuki's response earned a scoff from his mother. "I just don't understand why you couldn't tell us about this, of all things. These matters are very important. You didn't even ask for our blessing, Katsuki," she said.

He could tell by the tone of her voice that she was hurt, almost feeling a sense of betrayal. One of the most important moments of her son's life has passed and she wasn't a part of it.

"I want to meet her," she says, Katsuki's breath hitches.

Katsuki swallowed hard, the weight of the situation sinking in. He lifted his head, meeting his mother's gaze, and nodded hesitantly.

"Yeah, uh. I'll bring her over sometime soon. You can meet her, ask whatever the hell you want," he mumbled, trying to keep the conversation under control.

Mitsuki folded her arms, a mix of concern and curiosity etched across her face. "You better not be hiding anything else, Katsuki. We're your parents; we deserve to know what's going on in your life."

Bakugo's father, still trying to process the information, chimed in with a more composed tone. "Son, we just want to understand and be a part of your life. If you're serious about her, then we should support you. But communication is key. You can't just shut us out."

Katsuki sighed, "Yeah, I get it. I messed up, I'll tell her you wanna talk"

His mother's expression softened slightly, though traces of concern lingered. "Good. We're not here to judge; we just want what's best for you."

The tension in the room began to ease as the family started to navigate this unexpected revelation. As the married couple soon go their separate ways, Katsuki storms out of the house. Heading to his car, he jumps in with force.

"Fuck, what the actual fuck is wrong with you?" Looking out towards the distance he lays back into the seat with a drafted sigh. The blonde thinks hard about the decision he's made. He didn't want to rope you into the situation though he didn't have a choice. The old bats wouldn't get off his case (Katsuki self-sabotages quite often).

How the hell is he gonna break this down to you?

"He went to see his mom and dad?" you asked, your curiosity piqued.

The redhead nods nervously, his hand reaching over to fiddle with the closest plant in range. The room falls into an awkward silence, and you find yourself shrugging in response. "Okay? I just don't understand why he couldn't tell me that..."

A thought crosses your mind, "It would've saved me a lot of trouble," you muse to yourself.

"It was so sudden, Ms. L/n, we had no idea—" Riot's explanation gets cut short by the sudden buzz of his phone. With a jolt, he quickly grabs it and stares at the screen. His eyes scan the messages with vigor as he quietly reads the words to himself. You can't help but be curious, "Is that Dynamight?" you ask.

The redhead's eyes shoot up to you for a split second, and then he continues reading. With a quick sigh, he places his phone down and puts his hand up against his temples, squeezing with firm resolve. "Uh... yeah, that was him."

Concern flickers in your eyes as you press further, "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah! everything's fine; it's just Monday, y'know?" he says with an offputting chuckle. Your eyes narrow at him for a split second before scanning the room to check the clock.

"Well, thank you for your kindness, Mr. Riot, but I should get going. I have a meeting with my queen-sized bed." You chuckle, attempting to lighten the mood. Giving the office cat one more affectionate pet, you rise out of your seat with ease and turn towards the door.

"Wait!"

Red Riot's voice booms through the room, causing you (and the cat) to jolt in surprise. "Dynamight's on his way; he really needs to see you," he says quickly. As you blink to process the information he just shared, you can't help but let out a defeated sigh. "So close," you whisper to yourself. Releasing the doorknob, you turn around, putting on your best business-coded smile.

"Sure, just tell him I'll be in his office." Turning back around, you head out the door and walk through the proclaimed hero's office. It's striking to see how night and day the two offices are. The aesthetics shift from sleek and black to relaxed and colorful.

Even the attitudes of the workers differ; they actually seem like they want (or at least don't mind) to do their job. The atmosphere is palpably different, and you find yourself absorbing the contrasting energies as you navigate through the hero's domain.

As you traverse back to the boss's office, you smoothly enter his main office, somewhat savoring the familiar ambiance as you feel a little bittersweet about being back at the office. You begin to unpack your things and get straight into work.

One hour passes, the minutes ticking away in a rhythmic dance.

Two hours pass, each moment blending into the next, creating a seamless continuum.

Three hours pass; you tiredly watch the passage of time marked by the silent ticking of the clock on the wall. A rather substantial chunk of time has passed since Red Riot mentioned that Dynamight was on his way. And you're mad as hell.

You completed everything you needed to an hour ago and decided to sit and wait just for good measure.

But now, impatience gnaws at you. Huffing, you quickly gather your things and head out of the office. Taking the elevator down to the parking garage, you aimlessly walk towards the chauffeur, the air heavy with anticipation as you slip into the sleek vehicle.

You know you're not exactly allowed to use the chauffeur, but fatigue has settled into your bones, and you simply don't feel like dealing with the hassle of taking a cab back home. As the chauffeur skillfully maneuvers through the city's nocturnal labyrinth, you find solace in the gentle hum of the engine.

Finally dropped off at your apartment, you collapse into the welcoming embrace of your bed.

Another couple of hours have passed since you left work. Glancing at the clock, a sense of worry creeps in as 10 pm emerges. "Must've been a serious conversation," you ponder. Out of habit, you pull out your phone and mindlessly text your boss.

TO: Dynamight (BOSS)

Riot told me where you were.

Next time… just tell me not to come in.

Placing the phone down, you continue watching mind-numbing daytime TV reruns. "I wonder if he thinks I'm some joke," you say aloud. Anger quietly simmers in your stomach as you shift your feet around, attempting to find comfort in the folds of your bed.

Not even five minutes later, Dynamight answers your text.

Picking up your phone, your eyes widen at his text.

FROM: Dynamight (BOSS)

outside

we need to talk.

Oh, this is serious…

Jolting out of your bed, a rush of adrenaline propels you to the window, where you cautiously peek outside. There he is, waiting at your door. Surprisingly, he looks a tad bit nervous, perhaps uneasy?

Shutting your blinds, you slip on your house shoes and stomp towards the door. Opening it with a swift motion, you look at the hero. He meets your gaze, appearing tired and somewhat defeated as you begin to let loose on him.

"You need to be more considerate of people's time and what they're going through! Do you even know what I went through today? Well, I ended up in your buddy's office today, okay—"

"Please, L/n… just let me in," the blonde's voice rasps at you. Blinking, you notice how unfazed he looks as you stop your scolding. Quietly cursing under your breath, you hold the door open for him to come in.

As the blonde enters your place, he takes off his shoes and sits at the dining room table. Your boss's demeanor today is unusual compared to how you've seen him before. He looks almost vulnerable to you.

"You want anything to drink?" you say quietly. The blonde rolls his neck and then looks you in the eyes. "Got beer?" he says. You quietly nod and go into the kitchen to get him a beer.

"Get yourself one too; you're gonna need it," he says, the last part just below a whisper. You hum in agreement and grab the beers. Sliding one to him, he grabs it and cracks it open with vigor.

You watch as your boss quickly gulps down the contents, as you only take a small swig. Placing your drink down you look at him concerned.

"What did you need to talk about?" you say softly.

"Um… listen," you watch as the blonde shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He lets out a deep sigh, placing his hands into his pockets, and his head hangs low.

"So, I talked to my parents today—"

"I know that—"

"I was talkin' to them, you know… how parents are. They get on your ass when they need to, and they were definitely on mine. My mom said some things, and I got upset. I started to blabber a whole bunch of shit for no reason—"

"I'm having a hard time figuring out what the issue is. So you're being held accountable?" you say, confused. You watch as he clenches his fist and closes his eyes, trying his absolute hardest not to explode in anger right then and there.

"As… I began to ramble, I brought you up, and I told my parents that you're my girlfriend… we're engaged." He says defeatedly, a long pause of silence goes by as you stare at your boss, absolutely dumbfounded.

What?

"WHAT!"

Jumping up from your seat, you start to pace around the kitchen in anger. "I can't even look at you right now— are you serious?" you turn towards him, eyes wide, and lips turned upward in anger.

"C'mon, it's not that serious—"

"Not that serious? Are you messing with me?" you say outraged.

"L/n, please just sit down so we can talk this out—"

"Talk this out? No, I don't wanna say anything to you. God, how could you do this? It's like I'm not even a person to you; like I'm just a toy that you continuously beat against a hardwood table over, and over, and over—"

"L/n!" Dynamight's voice roars over yours, and you flinch at the sound. The rhythmic sound of your breaths huffing is the only sound that penetrates through the air.

"Okay, fine. We can talk, but I'm not sitting down," you say sternly, which makes the blonde roll his eyes. You hear him mumble a quiet "whatever," which almost sets you right back into another frenzy.

Fighting the urge to escalate, you take a deep breath and continue to pace, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

"My parents want to meet you tomorrow, is that okay?" he dares to ask. You wanted to say something witty, something that would tick him off, but you started to go into deep thought.

"Give him a taste of how he's treated you, Y/n; the time is now."

Turning to face him, you look at him with no emotion. "Okay, that's fine," you say. This throws your boss off guard, "uh, are you sure? You seemed pretty against it literally three seconds ago—"

"No… I think it's fine. I know we talked about taking things slow, but it's whatever," you say defeatedly. You watch as the blond takes his hands out of his pockets and places a box out and in front of you.

"You'll need this," he says.

Eyes tracing down from his hand and onto the box, your stomach drops to your ass in a heartbeat.

An engagement ring.

"I'm not forcing you to put it on right now, but just have it on before I see you tomorrow," he says. You aimlessly nod, eyes still glued to the ring. You hear your boss stand from his chair with a screech and walk towards you.

"You don't need to memorize my favorite color or whatever the heck—just be present and actually act as if you're interested, please?" he pleads with you. You hum with a silent nod.

"I'll let myself out," the hero mumbles.

After a few moments, you hear the door close and the sound of his car speeding off into the night. The room is left in silence, filled with the weight of unexpected developments and the promise of an imminent meeting with Dynamight's parents.

Sitting back down at the table, you grab the velvet box. Opening it, you can't help but let out a gasp. The ring is absolutely beautiful, looking way too expensive to be just a regular engagement ring. Taking it out of the box, you can't help but marvel at its beauty.

"I always thought later in my life I would be proposed to a little bit differently…" you chuckle to yourself, unable to help feeling a little bittersweet at the moment you're currently experiencing. The unexpected turn of events, coupled with the striking beauty of the ring, creates a whirlwind of conflicting emotions within you.

Sighing, you place your head down on the table, feeling the cold wood press against your skin. Closing your eyes, you didn't know what to think or feel—you were just there.

"What the hell are you wearing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you look so… fancy?"

Currently sitting inside your "fiancé's" car, you're being berated once more for no exact reason. "I just thought that since I'm meeting your parents and all that I would dress nice," you say unbothered as you fix up your makeup in the passenger mirror.

"Plus, I bought this a year ago; m'not letting it collect dust."

You hear the blonde let out a drawn-out sigh, before you knew it, you felt a surprisingly soft hand wrap around your wrist. Looking over, you see him stare at the ring on your finger.

Swallowing your spit, you look over at his hand.

No ring.

"And where's your ring?" you say sternly. "It's right here," he mumbles as he reaches into his armrest. "I was gonna put it on but… I didn't know which finger to put the stupid thing on," he says.

You chuckle at his words as you grab the box from his hand and open it. He chose a pretty nice ring for himself also. Taking the ring out of the holder, you grab his hand and slowly slip the ring on.

"There," you speak softly.

"Thanks," the hero mumbles before quickly snatching his hand away from your grasp and placing them on the steering wheel. Quickly driving off.

Looking at the sights, you see the transitions from the bustling, busy city life to a quiet suburban city. You watch as the hero drives around the town, memorizing every turn and every stop.

Sometimes he would tell you a story about him from childhood whenever he would see a certain park or store. It was nice.

But that "nice" feeling in your body soon turned into anxiety as you watch the car turn down a neighborhood road. The neighborhood is nice, beautiful homes with nicely trimmed grass. This is a place you'd see yourself growing up in if your family actually had the money to.

As the car slows to a stop, you park outside the home of your boss's parents. Swallowing your spit, you nervously play with your ring before looking up at the blonde.

"Hey," he says, and you lift your eyebrows in response.

“Call me Katsuki.”

Your eyes widen at the thought of already starting a first-name basis. "Okay, you can call me Y/n," you say. Katsuki nods at your words, "nice name" he mumbles (he's too bashful to be authentically nice).

"Thanks, you have a nice name too," you say.

"Thanks."

A beat passes before you then watch the blonde hop out of the car and walk over to your side. Opening your door, he holds out his hand for you. Looking at his hand for a moment, you press your lips into a line before grabbing it softly.

Interlacing your fingers with the pro-hero, you didn't know what waves of emotions were going through you at the moment. You felt like a high school girl going on her first date.

You notice once more how soft his hands were. Who knew hands that were known to brutally fight against evil and maintain justice and peace in the city were so...soft.

Taking your other hand and placing it on his arm, the both of you walk side by side to the front door. As Katsuki rings the doorbell, you squeeze his hand.

"You'll be fine."

You silently nod before hearing the door unlock. As the door swings open, you're met with a man with brunette hair and glasses who looks exactly like your fiancé. Thus, none other than his father, of course.

"Oh, hello!" he says pleasantly with a soft smile. Unraveling yourself from Katsuki's grasp, you reach out to shake. "Hi, Mr..." your brain paused for a moment.

"Bakugo, Mr. Bakugo, dear," he says with a chuckle. Shaking his hand, he gives you a firm shake before letting you go. You smile as you revert to resting your hands at your center.

"Or you could call me Dad, or Mr. Dad—"

"Please, old man," Katsuki groans. This earns a quiet chuckle out of you.

"Please come in," he says awkwardly, motioning you to follow. As you step into the house, you can't help but quietly speak as you feel the warm touch of Katsuki's hand ghosting around your waist.

As the both of you settle in, you can't help but look at every corner of the house. The modern home was everything you thought it would be. Sleek design yet a homey color palette; you wish this was your childhood home.

Your eyes grazed over framed photographs capturing moments of joy from the pro-hero's childhood. A part of you still didn't believe you were seeing the things you were seeing today.

As you move through the house, Katsuki's father engages in casual conversation, sharing anecdotes and stories about their family. The initial nervousness begins to subside as you find yourself being drawn into the easygoing charm of the Bakugo family.

The living room, adorned with plush furniture and warm hues, invites you to take a seat. Katsuki, still by your side, maintains a protective presence that brings a sense of comfort.

"Dinner will be ready soon. Why don't you make yourselves comfortable?" Mr. Bakugo suggests with a warm smile, leaving you and Katsuki alone for a moment.

The two of you find a spot on the couch, and as you sit together, the air is filled with a mix of anticipation and the gentle hum of family life. Katsuki's hand finds yours again, offering silent reassurance amidst the subtle excitement of the evening.

"He's nice," you mumble softly at Katsuki, which earns a humorous scoff from him. "Yeah, he's too nice, maybe he actually took his meds today," the blonde says. You silently mouth an "oh" before looking around the room some more.

Suddenly, you catch a glimpse of Katsuki's mother in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the meal. She also looks just like him; you watch as her eyes match up with yours. Before you could politely bow or smile, her eyes were off of you.

Looking back down into your hands, Katsuki immediately tells that something is off. "Hey, don't mind the old hag; she's just in her feelings." You breathe in, trying to register your emotions and the "old hag" quip.

"Yeah, but I mean, she has every right to act the way she's acting. If I didn't know my son was getting married—let alone had a girlfriend until it's basically time for them to say their vows—I would feel a type of way as well."

Katsuki rolls his eyes as he attempts to place his hand on your thigh. But you turn away from him with a frown. Before the blonde could say anything else, "Mr. Dad" comes walking through.

"Hey, kids, the food is ready," he says with a smile.

You nod before looking back at Katsuki. As the both of you walk towards the dining table, Katsuki pulls out your chair and helps you sit down. As you settle down, you hear a quiet scoff in the distance. Already gathering that scoff was owned by his mother.

Looking down, you stare at the food placed before you. The aroma wafts through the air, and you can't help but smile. "Wow, this looks amazing! I haven't had a home-cooked meal in so long, thank you."

"No need." Looking up, you notice another figure sitting on the opposite side of the table. "Hello, Mrs. Bakugo," you say with a soft bow.

Nothing in return.

Looking over at Katsuki, you could sharpen a dozen kitchen sets with the look he just gave his own mother. The tension in the room becomes palpable, and you find yourself navigating the delicate balance of emotions while trying to enjoy the anticipated family dinner.

As the family gathers around the table, you notice the strained atmosphere between Katsuki and his mother. The unspoken tension hangs in the air, creating an undercurrent that makes you tread carefully with each bite.

You exchange glances with Katsuki, silently acknowledging the situation of family dynamics. Despite the awkwardness, you decide to break the ice by engaging in conversation with Mr. Bakugo.

"So, how did the two of you meet?" he asks. Looking over at Katsuki stuffing his face with rice, you look back over at his father with a bashful smile.

"We met at work; I'm his secretary," you say with a chuckle. Katsuki's dad lets out a chuckle along with you. You also notice that his mother is chuckling too. As she looks into your eyes with a mischievous smile, her eyes glaze over at her husband.

"You know what they say about secretaries…"

"Which is?" you look over at Katsuki, throwing mental daggers at his mother. She swallows her food and chuckles, "I'm just saying! Clearly, you have a type."

"Keep pushin' me; old dirty hag," Katsuki spits venom with every word that comes out of his mouth. Your eyes widen at the vulgarity of the words he chose. Placing your hand above your mouth in shock.

"Or what? Little bastard—"

"Okay!" Mr. Bakugo yells out.

All eyes snap towards him.

"Mitsuki, do you have any other questions for Y/n?" he says anxiously.

A moment of silence passes before she speaks again.

"Where are you from?" she asks.

"I'm from (hometown)," you respond.

"Education?"

"I'm a college graduate in hero analysis and communications."

"How old are you?"

"27, ma'am…28 in (birth month)."

"How many kids are you willing to have with my son?" she suddenly asks. This makes Katsuki and his father choke on their food, sending you aback, and a warmth grows on your cheeks.

"Oh, what? It's not like they haven't had sex before!" she argues.

"Well—"

"Well, what? You're celibate?" She questions; you look over at Katsuki before quietly nodding. "Oh wow, I guess he's really in it for the long haul." Mitsuki sips her drink before going on another brigade of questions for you.

By the end of dinner, things were…okay? You believe you made a good impression on Mr. Bakugo. His mother, on the other hand, was a whole different case.

Soon, you and Katsuki were in the kitchen washing dishes while the older couple sat on the couch to converse. The clinking of dishes serves as a backdrop to the muffled conversation in the living room. The warmth of the water and the shared task provide a brief respite from the earlier intensity.

As you scrub a plate, Katsuki breaks the silence. "Sorry about that, she can be a real pain in the ass."

You look over at him, a small smile playing on your lips. "It's okay, I can handle it. Besides, I'm getting to know your family."

He grumbles in response, his usual tough exterior softening for a moment. The rhythmic sound of washing dishes continues, and you can't help but feel a sense of unity, even in the midst of familial complexities.

"It's not okay; she's never acted like that towards a guest ever, and it's you of all people," he says. You can tell through the tone of his voice that he's genuinely upset. You watch closely as he washes off some scum from a knife with his fingers.

"You didn't deserve that—god, she can be such a bitch—ah, shit!" Katsuki curses as he holds out his finger. He didn't realize, through his fit of anger, that he'd cut his finger.

Your eyes widen at the sight.

"What's going on in there?" You hear Mitsuki yell out.

"K-Katsuki?" You stumble with your words.

"Damn it, sorry," he mumbles.

"I'm fine, there's a first aid kit under the sink."

Quickly grabbing the kit, you come to his aid. Carefully bandaging up his finger. "Katsuki, I promise I've gone through worse. This is only a nib in the bud," you reassure him.

Finishing up the bandage, you place the first aid kit back under the sink. Looking back up at the blonde, you softly smile, placing your hand on his arm before glancing back over.

As you look over, you see Mitsuki staring into your soul, but this time neither of you breaks contact. "Did you guys want to stay for dessert?" Katsuki's father follows up.

The both of you look over at him, and you begin to speak, "Um—"

"Nah, early patrol and an interview tomorrow," Katuski speaks as he sneaks an arm around your waist. "Mm, yeah. That also translates to a lot of paperwork and notes for me," you attempt to make a joke to lighten the air.

This earns a chuckle from the father, "Well, let us lead you out."

As the four of you head towards the door, you watch Katsuki from the corner of your eye get a pat on the back from his father and a thumbs-up, mouthing "I like her" before he slips away from him.

Before leaving, the both of you turn and bow. "It was nice seeing you both for the first time. I hope to come here more often; the food was great."

"Anytime Y/n, the pleasure is ours."

As the both of you turn away hand in hand, you're stopped by a gasp of your wrist. "I'd like to give you a couple of words," says Mitsuki.

"Oh—"

"Whatever you say to her, you can say to me," Katsuki says sternly. His mother rolls her eyes, "Oh, please go to the car; I'm not gonna bite her head off!" She complains.

You give Katsuki an assuring glance before letting him go to the car. Facing his mother, you expect the worst. "Yes?" you say.

She lets out a sigh before she speaks, looking at you with almost a pitiful look. “I don’t know if you’re a good fit for my son yet, but I can tell you care for him. And that’s what matters the most.”

She then places her hand to touch yours, lifts your hand, and observes your ring. "Y'know I was staring at this the whole night? I just can't believe it."

Staring down at the ring, you nod your head in agreement.

"Me either."

I HOPE YOU ALL LIKED IT!! THE FIRST HALF OF THIS BOOK IS COMPLETE! ONLY 6 MORE CHAPTERS LEFT!

— lovelyiida

[darryscrow]

Hi hello how are you!

Point 1: OH MY GOODNESS!!! I'm a Darrel girl personally so *waves hands frantically* A DARRY BUDDY IN THE WILD

Point 2: If you're up to it could I possibly get more of the Darry Spiderman AU? I've decided it's my favorite thing ever

1) If you're a darry fan you're gonna love my account. I talk about him sm & repost a lot of stuff about him too!! 2) I'm glad you asked. Below are headcanons specific to each character in the gang!

Darrel Curtis Junior.

Darry had a side gig as a photographer at 18-19, taking pictures of villains and himself for J. Jonah Jameson. He used his father’s old prized camera.

Had an internship at Hoscorp for a year, from 17 to 18, until dropping it to do spider-man more often.

His life at school was basically the same as it had been in OG outsiders back in Tulsa. He’s popular, football captain and ‘in’ with the rich kids. He toes the lines with the rich kids, still being from the poor side of the city and more caring than they are. 

He’s more nerdy in this au, being into science a lot more than I think OG Darry was. He’s not outwardly nerdy though, but sometimes his interest in science comes out and he gets teased and made fun of.

Ever since his parents died, he keeps their apartment locked. There’s a spare key hidden for the gang to come and go as they please, (maybe set up something with their fire escape?) as he still wants them to have a place to lie low, despite his paranoia of someone breaking in again.

Whenever he gets really mad, from a fight with his brothers or an overall bad day, he goes out as spider-man so he can throw some punches around and blow off the steam.

Ponyboy Michael Curtis.

Ponyboy picks up the photography gig in The Daily Bugle that Darry left behind, having quite the knack for taking photos. Sometimes he messes with the drafts about spider-man when he walks around the office because he hates their takes on his older brother.

Has almost walked right into traffic more than anyone can count, he’d be pulled back sharply and look up from his shoes to see a car zoom past where he almost stepped to. It leaves everyone’s hearts drumming.

After the accident, Pony hates getting into cramped spaces, getting reminded of hiding in the closet. He feels like something bad is about to happen.

Asks Darry all about the villains he fights & his suit and everything. Darry is actually very excited to show off his smarts when it comes to designing his suit and fighting his enemies. Pony keeps a journal and writes down everything he knows, so he can help Darry if he ever forgets (he wouldn’t)

Sodapop Patrick Curtis.

Asks Darry to swing him around the city after finding out he’s spider-man.

Actually pretty apprehensive of Darry being spider-man, even if he doesn’t do it often, the times he does, it’s extreme scenarios. He’d hear about a bomb or something on the station’s radio and bite his nails down worrying about if Darry went to it or not. 

Works at a DX (yeah it's still DX don’t care) station pretty far from their house so he has to get up as early as Darry for work. 

Always, ALWAYS waits up until Darry comes back after a night patrol as spider-man with a first aid kit ready.

Eventually got his own police radio that Dallas stole for him, and listens to it while at work in case he hears “spider-man” on it. When he does, he runs to the scene if it's close enough, and Steve covers his ass for skipping work.

Johnny Cade.

He hangs around the Curtis house the most.

Found a friendly sheep dog stray and it follows him everywhere. It eats about everything so it’s the gang's compost bin!

Was the first to go against the newspapers calling spider-man a danger. He felt vindicated when they found out it was Darry.

INCAPABLE of lying. Would be Darry’s worst nightmare if he were ever to get in contact with a spider-man enemy. His face always gives away when he’s lying.

Has low blood sugar.

Talks with Cherry outside of school, Ponyboy nearly killed him when he found out, as he wanted to be friends with her ever since he found out she wasn’t just a one dimensional rich kid.

Found Darry’s spider-man journal with suit designs, and actually helps him with adding new tech to it. Smart tech-y boy.

Has put on Darry’s suit before to imagine himself as spider-man, but that suit is built for a 6 feet 2 muscular man. It slipped right off.

Dallas Tucker Winston.

Has OCA1 albinism! I think I’ve seen this headcanon somewhere once and knew I had to add it to this au.

Night person. He prefers going out at night but would hang around outside at day if tempted to by anything.

Has actually fought with spider-man before, he did a job for the Tombstone once and never again because Darry stopped him. After finding out that Darry’s spider-man, he realized maybe he shouldn’t be as buddy buddy with the crooks he knows, in case it puts him or the gang in danger for simply being close with spider-man.

Originally from Tulsa (switcheroo) but he’s basically the same.

Keith “Two-bit” Mathews.

The closest to Darry like I imagine in canon, and the closest thing that Darry has to a support system as he’s the oldest in the gang. 

Is the one who tells him to be the spider-man the most, as Darry had helped out a lot of people Two-bit actually knows, and he knows what a positive impact spider-man makes, despite his image as a menace to society. 

Darry always brushes off his begs to be spider-man, telling him that he needs to work and get money as they’re always behind on some bills. Two-bit tries to earn money at some point to help out, but he does everything but get a job so it doesn’t quite work out.

Steve Randle.

Moved to NYC a little earlier than Dallas, they had known each other back in Tulsa and were pretty close.

Has a sweet car he had saved up months for & fixed up from a bad condition. 

Rides Sodapop to and from work a lot, even if it gets him late for school when he does. 

Covers Sodapop shifts A LOT.

Asks Darry the stupidest questions after finding out he’s spider-man. “Do you lay eggs?” “Do you see everyone as ants from above?” “Do you have eight eyes?” Darry always fucks with him when he replies.

Belinda "Scout" Jenkins.

Moved to New York from Poland in 19, her English is very rough. 

Babied by the whole gang, but she throws a fit every time because “she’s 13 and a teenager!”

Scout and Ace are very close for being the only girls in the gang. 

Ace.

Sees Scout as a little sister, Steve as an older brother.

Also close with Dallas and Steve from back in Tulsa, moved to New York a few years after Dallas.

She and Two-bit run into a lot of mischief together, shoplifting, talking too much and causing havoc anywhere they go together. 

HAS stolen clothes from the gang and cut or sewn them to make them more her style. The only time she got in trouble for it was when she took one of Darry’s fancier shirts (from Paul).

[jack-kellys]

For the bad things happen bingo: Jack + bridal carry?

oh well hey there stranger. it was very much my instinct to have jack be carried but im actually so strong and didn't (quite) cave. also i made this a treat for u

available bingo squares here, ao3 series here! there r also some details in my ao3 tags/notes that make a few things about jack more objective.

Jack doesn’t like his new job, but he’s used to being good at things–adapting to things, maybe–that he doesn’t quite enjoy. 

Selling papers hadn’t been his life’s goal or anything, but he needed people to look out for him and a roof so he got damn good at it all. Same goes for these ridiculous cartoons for Pulitzer: Jack keeps his head down, his trap shut, and his pencil busy. By now he’s learned that making a bunch of very similar drafts is the way to go, so the old men upstairs can mull and hum and mutter about which reads the best when they all read the damn same. 

What is great about this newer gig is Katherine. Without it he’s not sure he’d see nearly as much of her as he’d like, and there’s so many doors to nothing and cramped little hiding places for them to giggle and tease and kiss in when they take a break from work. And since Jack isn’t technically granted any breaks, all Katherine needs to do is talk down to his boss with a cold glare and the whole matter is solved. And more importantly, they can go back to locking lips. The best days are when Davey comes by before the evening edition comes out after school, and the three of them share a cigarette. Katherine’s started to look at Davey the way Jack knows he has been for a while now, and he’s not sure what it means, but it makes butterflies reawaken in his stomach again. 

What’s not great about the gig is observing Katherine’s work life. 

Since the strike, she’s not needing to type up just one article anymore- by now it’s three, and when the Sun’s offices close for the day she ventures over to the World because she has a key and uses the typewriters there. Her father never stops her. And Jack sees her, because, you know, his rules for himself could also be stricter, but he’s used to that schedule. Up at dawn and asleep after he collapses has been his life, never hers. Jack watches her try to adjust- she’s always shooting him an upbeat smile, usually excited to be writing–and writing and writing and writing–when it’s something that interests her, but Jack doesn’t think he’ll get used to seeing circles under her amber eyes anytime soon. 

It’s November now, late in it, the time of year where there’s already a dent in supplies at the lodge that makes Jack sweat since it’s harder to steal in the winter. Jack’s at his drawing desk early this morning, wanting to have some time between when he gets out and the evening edition to try and hit up a few shops for medicines they’re running low on. Blink’s got a nasty cough right now, and the boy’s trying to puff out his chest about it, but Jack knows the truth. 

He heads up the stairs for a quick smoke break after a few hours, and catches Katherine coming in the front door from the cold in a hurry.

“Hey,” he says, greeting her just inside the main door. “You’re here early, what’s the deal at the-”

Jack observes her, and Katherine must read his mind. She sighs, shaking her head. 

“Jack, I’m okay. Rough morning,” she excuses. There’s no way a rough morning can excuse the redness surrounding her nose, the bags underneath her eyes so obvious they nearly look purple, which pops against how pale her skin looks. “And it’s cold out, too, so-”

“You catch Blink’s cold?” he asks. A middle ground, since whatever is going on with her looks worse than a cough. 

“Maybe,” Katherine agrees, which means she’s got to be feeling worse than a cold. “I’ll take it easier today if it makes you feel better.”

“It’ll make you feel better.”

Jack glances down, feeling her fingers against his own. Katherine threads her hand into his, before lifting up, dawn-pink lips pressing a small, cold kiss to his dark knuckles. 

“Go draw, Mr. Kelly,” she says to him, taking her hand away. “I’ll see you at three.”

Three is too long, and Jack can feel the time ticking by in the back of his mind, each hour making his palms itch worse. It’s not easy for him to get up and away–and especially into other parts of the huge building–without Katherine, so if she doesn’t make sure to come down and visit him he can’t really go up and see her. 

He practically rockets into motion the moment the clock strikes three, shuffling his drafts into his portfolio and shoving it into his desk, tugging his coat on, hiking his bag over his shoulder, then stands-

-up too fast. He wobbles, gripping the back of his chair and blinking his sudden spinning vision straight. Jack takes a breath, and finally exits the room, glaring at his boots. He hates whenever Mush’s hypothesis is proven a little right- Jack’s got something weird with his blood, wrong with the iron in his body. It gets him jumpy in the winter, gets him worried about everyone and the cold. 

Glancing around the hall, he sneaks up the stairs to where Katherine prefers to work- Bryan Denton’s office, who’s been out on assignments after shifting from the Sun for two months now and taught Kath a lot of what she knows. Jack knocks, before pushing open the door. 

“Oh, Kathy,” he sighs, smiling slightly. Her head’s tucked on the typewriter’s keys as if it were a pillow, arms rested under her chin as her chest rises and falls evenly. Jack’s sort of glad she fell asleep- doing all this work for hours on end in her condition hadn’t been Katherine’s best idea. 

Jack crosses over to her, drawing a hand through her hair. He pauses.

The ends of her wavy fringe his sweaty, he notices. Jack swipes his hand over her forehead.

Hot- burning hot. And her hands are cold when one of his own closes around them.

“Kath. Katherine,” Jack says, and says again. He shakes her shoulder gently. “Katherine, come on. Wake up, sweetheart.”

Slowly, her eyes flutter open with a small moan. Katherine’s eyebrows scrunch, confused- probably wondering why the first thing she’s seeing is an ‘f’ key. 

“Did I…? Jack?” she mumbles, lifting her head. Her face turns to his, and she pouts, blinking sluggishly. “Oh, I didn’t go down to you, did I. I’m sorry.” 

“That’s alright,” he reassures, two hands on her shoulders now. “Day’s over, yeah? Lemme get you- I’m gonna take you to the lodge for now. So you can rest some more.” 

She shakes her head, expression pinched.

“Not necessary,” she insists, carefully standing up. “Everyone falls asleep at their desk, right? Right. One time- one…”

She sways suddenly, but catches herself just as Jack’s muscles go taut. 

“One time.. thing,” she manages. She takes a step, and her dull eyes flutter, and Jack’s taut muscles send him surging forward as she falls sideways, only six inches or so from the side of her head slamming into the wall. Jack catches her, thank god, her form crashing heavily into his outreached arms. He hefts her up shakily, her temple finding his shoulder to rest on while his arms curl around her back and under her knees. 

“Kath?” he tries. “Katherine. Katherine.” 

She doesn’t wake, expression lax save for the strained twitch of her brow. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, because he’s alone, with his unconscious partner, in an office that isn’t his and in a building that doesn’t like letting him inside. And Kath’s not waking up. Jack’s heart starts to pound louder, it feels like- sounds like.

Stairs. Stairs. He needs the stairs. 

Jack rushes to them, doing his best not to jostle Kath as he starts downward. He needs to mind his footsteps- Katherine is practically his height, and her dress could easily cause both of them to go sprawling. 

He makes it down, trying not to breathe too hard, and shoves with his back out the front door.

“Jack? -Kath?”

Jack’s head swings to the right, and Davey’s there. 

“What happened?” the boy rushes out, striding over to Jack. “I was waiting for you two, they wouldn’t let me- is she alright? What-”

Jack lets Davey touch her forehead, watches him recoil and his eyebrows shoot up, before he traces her cheek gently.

“She’s sick. Came in and worked a whole day anyway,” Jack mutters. The November breeze makes Katherine shiver suddenly, but she still doesn’t wake, only looks more pained. Jack bites his lip.

“Hold her for a moment?” he asks Davey.

“What?” Davey splutters, eyes going huge. “Jack I can’t- I dunno if-”

Jack sets her in the taller boy’s arms anyway, and quickly sheds his coat. “Knew you were strong enough, Dee.”

“Whatever,” Davey mutters, narrowing his eyes at Jack, who sets his coat over Katherine. “Jack, you need that.”

“I ain’t sick,” he says, and carefully takes her back into his grasp.

“You’ll get sick. Or, you’ll-”

Jack starts walking. He’s fine. His nose is already chilled to the bone, but he’ll manage. He hears Davey quickly keep up, and they walk in strained silence for a while.

“You know, it’s my textbook on anatomy I had Mush borrow,” Davey murmurs. “And I read a good amount of it.”

“Good for you,” Jack mutters, though his body tenses up more than it already is as another gust of wind blows through. 

“It ain’t good for you to be out and cold like this,” Davey continues, and Jack keeps his gaze pointedly forward. “You’re already losing color and it’s only been ten minutes-”

“Dave,” Jack interjects, gazing down at Katherine. His coat’s helped, maybe, but she still shivers and burns and shakes in his arms and he wishes he could somehow grip her even closer. “I’m worried about her, alright? Lemme- just lemme hold her.”

Davey goes quiet for a moment. Before too long, Jack feels the boy’s arm come around his waist, rubbing his back, warming him.

“Okay,” Davey says softly. “Okay, Jack.”

They make it to the lodge, and the front door of it is all Jack can focus on. He lets Davey open it, and he heads in with her, going up the stairs, away from the colder first floor. He sets her in Racer’s lower bunk, since that’s always a safe bet. Pulls the covers up. 

Now what. 

There’re other things he should do, he knows that, but his brain can’t seem to connect the dots, the red string of his thought process being held limply with no direction. 

The hand on his back returns, and his name’s being said.

“-ck, you should get some rest too,” Davey’s saying. “You listening?”

“Always,” is Jack’s smart reply. “Yeah, I- well, I gotta run down to Mush first if he’s around, let ‘im know what’s going on.”

“Well, I can do that,” Davey brushes off. Then, he takes Jack’s hands, finding his wrists and cupping his palms around them. “You need to warm up, and rest, Jack, you just carried Katherine for a mile.”

“Yeah but I-” Jack shakes his head slightly. His shoulders hike as he fights a sudden shiver, slipping out of Davey’s hands as the red string finally lands around a thought. “I gotta grab some extra blankets, too.” 

“Jack-”

He stands up, gripping the bottom of the top bunk to steady himself, blinking a few times. Fine. He’s fine. He’s going- he was going to get… something. 

The red string suddenly slips away, and his head aches, his chest clenches, and he’s really, really cold. His vision flits between darkness and wood bunks as his eyelids flutter. Stronger arms than he thought he knew slip under his own right as he feels he’s about to sink, though, and his face lands against a warm chest. He yawns, lightheaded, brain feeling separate from the rest of his body.

“Breathe,” Davey’s saying, urgently. “Jack. Jackie, can you hear me? Just breathe, in slowly, out slowly.” 

Jack’s trying to focus, but he’s not totally sure why he can’t, and his knees want to buckle. Davey’s strong, holding him up like this. Jack doesn’t feel like he’s holding anything. 

He feels his eyes close, which makes the breathing easier but the focusing harder. Davey’s holding him close, safe. He’s tracing the side of Jack’s head soothingly with a finger in the space between his braids, and Jack lets himself yawn again, though this time his brain feels less like it’s suffocating than it did a minute ago. 

“You gonna let me find Mush?” Davey says softly, but Jack can picture the ‘I was right’ smirk that’s probably residing on the boy’s pink lips. Jack simply nods into his chest. He lets Davey sit him on the bunk, still leaned into the other until he feels Davey shift him- trying to lay him down. Jack thinks he falls asleep before the boy even can- he remembers Davey’s chest as his resting spot, not the pillow beside Katherine. 

He wakes groggily a couple hours later, his suspenders and dress shirt missing. His shoes are off, too, and there’s wavy, auburn hair tickling his nose and someone’s back he’s tucked into. Just barely, he raises his head, opening his eyes just enough. 

Katherine’s awake, thank god, attire loosened. Jack’s arm is rested over her hip, but she’s petting someone’s hair, looking down at someone the way she looks at Jack. His head raises higher.

Davey’s fast asleep sitting half on the floor, face pillowed by his arm on the bunk mattress and hair being delicately combed through by Katherine’s fingers. Suddenly she pauses, and glances behind her. Jack meets her gaze, and she looks exhausted, but she gives him a tired smile. Jack tries to return it despite the fog going through his brain. 

“Go back to sleep, Jackie,” she whispers, so gently it nearly convinces his eyes to shut then and there. “You’re off duty, alright?” 

“How long’s he been asleep?” he asks her anyway. He leans over her a little, arm slipping away from her waist to find Davey’s cheek to caress. 

“Maybe an hour,” she provides. “Adorable, hm?”

Jack hums his agreement, but feels his head bob downward, despite his desire to ask Katherine how she feels. Jack wraps himself closer around her middle, nuzzling his face between her shoulder blades. The hand that isn’t resting against Davey’s cheek finds Jack’s hand over her stomach, their fingers threading together. All three connected, like one snaking string. He smiles to himself. 

“Sleep, Jack,” Kath says again over her shoulder. He listens. 

[joealwyners]

Joe Alwyn for 'The Guardian Saturday' on April 30, 2022, interviewed by Rebecca Nicholson.

Photographed by Elliott Wilcox.

Joe Alwyn on Conversations With Friends and sex scenes: ‘They’re like filming fights – quite mechanical’

He’s about to make you swoon in the new adaptation of the Sally Rooney blockbuster. The actor talks about earning the author’s seal of approval and winning a Grammy alongside Taylor Swift.

The plan was to meet Joe Alwyn at an old‑fashioned pub in the area of London where he grew up. It’s a nice pub, tiny, a selection of beers with wacky names on tap, percentage proofs that would make your eyes water. But we both arrive just before noon, and the doors are locked, so we awkwardly hang around outside, peering in through the window, looking to all the world as though we are desperate for a late-morning drink.

I am not sure that Alwyn is as desperate to speak to me, though over the course of a slow and steady pint, he is very polite and easy company. The actor, 31, has been on the brink of being a big star ever since he left drama school in 2015, but his route to fame has run at a slightly different angle from his route to acting success. His partner is Taylor Swift, one of the most famous women on the planet, so there is that. He is tall, handsome, with floppy 90s heart-throb hair. He is quick and funny and confident, low-key in a fleece and jeans.

For a while, we are the only people in the pub. He uses humour to deflect awkwardness, and I suspect it suits him that nobody can hear what we’re saying. Alwyn is about to star as Nick, the married, maudlin actor who has an affair with a student, Frances, in Conversations With Friends. The adaptation is the second of Sally Rooney’s novels to be made into a television series, after the lockdown-fuelled smash hit Normal People. The director of both, Lenny Abrahamson, said he cast Alwyn as Nick in part because he was “soulful”. “What does that mean?” Alwyn splutters. You tell me, Joe. “I’ll take it. I don’t know! So soulful,” he repeats, with a hint of embarrassment.

Rooney had a say in who played her characters. “I was told she was doing this and that,” he says, waggling a thumb up and down. “I mean, not literally doing that, like a gladiator or an emperor. She was involved in casting and watching tapes.” When he got the part, due to his soulfulness presumably, he contacted the author, and they exchanged a few emails. The shoot was going to be in Dublin, where they planned to meet, but late in the day it moved to Belfast. “So we didn’t. But I sent her an email just being like, ‘Thank you’, basically. Thanks for the thumbs up, Sally.” Rooney’s books are full of highly articulate emails and texts. “She does a good email,” he nods. So how did you approach the pressure of emailing her? “Many, many drafts. I did my best email. It just felt really nice to have her blessing.”

Alwyn had read Conversations With Friends and Normal People already, long before his involvement in the former. “I read Normal People before I knew they were making a show out of it, and I remember when I saw it thinking, I’d love to be in something like that.” Normal People’s sex scenes between Connell (Paul Mescal) and Marianne (Daisy Edgar-Jones) became such a talking point that people began to lust over Mescal’s silver chain, as if everything else about him had been exhausted. In Conversations With Friends, Nick has a heated affair with Frances, and Alwyn is fairly regularly, if tastefully, naked in it. “We were guided through it with an intimacy coordinator, Ita O’Brien, who is great,” he says. “They’re essentially choreographed. So they’re like fight scenes. They’re quite mechanical. And obviously they’re weird, funny, strange things to do with your friends. But when Lenny’s in the room, cracking jokes, and there’s 10 crew members around, and it’s freezing cold or boiling hot, it just takes all the sexiness out of it.”

Besides, he says, the sex scenes are there for a reason. “They are kind of extensions of the conversations, in their own way. Each one, hopefully, should feel slightly different and mean something different to the people involved, and they’re not just kind of gratuitously thrown in. But, I mean, obviously, it’s a weird part of the job.”

Normal People and Conversations With Friends are different stories, and different series, in many ways, but if his series follows the Mescal trajectory, is he prepared for the idea that he might become a pin-up? “I honestly just don’t have any thoughts about it,” he says. They only finished filming four months ago. “I haven’t let myself think, ‘Oh God, people are actually going to see it’, so I haven’t thought about that side of things. Which is a boring answer, I know.”

Anyway, this is a serious drama, not a bonkbuster, and it deals with serious themes. Nick is married to Melissa (Jemima Kirke), a successful writer, and their marriage has not always been monogamous. But when Frances (newcomer Alison Oliver) and her best friend and ex-girlfriend Bobby (Sasha Lane) start to entangle themselves in their lives, the four of them are forced to ask grownup questions about love, jealousy and honesty. Nick is certainly a complicated character who runs hot and cold, and he is difficult to pin down. “When you meet him, he’s in a place of recovery – he’s been through a storm and is slightly numb to the world. And he’s just kind of functioning, and we meet that version of him, but we don’t really know why,” Alwyn says. It isn’t until later in the series that we start to learn who he is. “He can be a real enigma, and sometimes frustratingly so. He’s quite aloof and enigmatic and unreadable.”

I am not sure that Alwyn is aloof, but he has more than a touch of the enigmatic and unreadable about him. He has been a steadily successful actor since 2016, when his first job was to star in the Ang Lee-directed Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk, alongside Kristen Stewart. He followed it up with smaller roles in a series of award-winning films, including The Favourite, Mary Queen of Scots, and Harriet. He has fronted campaigns for Prada, and has also won a Grammy, after collaborating with Swift on her 2020 album Folklore. Despite all of this, I say, I don’t know very much about you. Few details of his life are public, which he seems to prefer, but it does mean we have to start at the beginning. So you grew up …

“I grew up in this pub,” he cuts in, grinning. “I was born in this garden and I’ve never left. Very happy here, thank you.”

He actually grew up near where we are today, in Tufnell Park, a well-to-do neighbourhood in north London. His mother is a psychotherapist. “I never felt like I was lying down on the couch and being analysed every evening, which is probably a good thing. I managed to escape that. But she’s great with people and great to talk to. People always think that must be strange, having a mum who’s a therapist.” Well, it is interesting. “It definitely is. It’s an amazing job. I actually think if I didn’t do this, I would be interested in doing something like that.”

His father is a documentary film-maker who also teaches film-making. He instilled a love of films in the young Alwyn by giving him stacks of VHS tapes for his birthday and Christmas presents. “He makes fly-on-the-wall, observational human stories. When I was growing up, he was often away, and I remember him being in these far-flung places a lot, bringing back cool gifts for me and my brother.” Did you ever go with him? “I was never invited.” He leaves a beat. “Don’t worry, I spoke to my mum about it,” he quips.

He has two brothers, one older, who works for an NGO, and one much younger, who was born when he was at secondary school, and has just left school himself. Alwyn went to a private boys’ school, on a scholarship and bursary. He enjoyed it, and made a group of friends that he still speaks to all the time, even today. He didn’t really act at school; he mostly played sport. “I was good at football. Tennis. I just like athletics, generally.” He squirms. “Just generally’. It sounds so arrogant! ‘All of them’.

"I’m aware of people’s interest in my relationship, and the more it’s fed, the more you open a gate for intrusion."

Were people surprised that he wanted to be an actor? “I feel like I’d given enough hints that it wasn’t a complete bombshell when I wanted to do it, but I do think there was probably a feeling of, why?” He studied English and drama at Bristol University, and then went to drama school in London. Immediately after his final showcase, so the fairytale version of the story goes, he signed with an agent and was asked to audition for Lee, the Oscar-winning director of Brokeback Mountain, Sense and Sensibility, and The Ice Storm.

Was it really that simple? “It was as mad as that,” Alwyn says. He sent over a tape, and got a call saying Lee wanted to meet him that weekend. “So they put me on a plane. I hadn’t been to America before.” He landed in New York, in the snow, and immediately went out to find a New York slice of pizza. “Within five days, I’d left school, had a visa and was in boot camp in Atlanta. As it went on, I managed to relax and enjoy it. But at the beginning, in the first week or two of shooting, I was shitting myself.” And then it was over. “Everyone else stayed in America. I had to go back home and walk the dog the next day, it was pouring rain and I was back in this garden,” he smiles. “And life continued.”

After Billy Lynn, Alwyn had a run of nasty characters, historical figures, and sometimes both. He was a slave-owner in Harriet, and the son of a Nazi in Operation Finale. In The Favourite, he has a comic turn as Masham, who seduces Emma Stone’s Abigail, dances a silly dance with Rachel Weisz as Lady Sarah, and is a thorn in the side of Olivia Colman’s Queen Anne. “All three of them are amazing. Just down-to-earth, funny, nice people.” He says that it is fascinating to watch Colman work. “Because it can be so easy to sit in the corner full of nerves hyping yourself up for a scene, but she is so chilled and fun and cracking jokes, and then she’s just in it and out, and then it’s done.”

Masham is a supporting character, a small-ish role, but Alwyn decided early on that he would rather take smaller parts with directors he admired than always go for the big, splashy jobs. “There are a couple of things I probably did just because I wanted to work, but I’ve tried to be pretty picky,” he says. Does that require a healthy ego, to be happy to play the supporting role, rather than insisting on being the star? “The idea of being the lead role just for the sake of it seems ridiculous,” he says, then catches himself. He likes to make sure he is being understood. “Well, it doesn’t seem ridiculous. Each to their own. But I’d much rather play an interesting support role in an interesting film. I find that more attractive.”

Since 2016, if the internet is to be believed – details are sparse, and will remain so, largely – Alwyn has been in a relationship with Swift. His film career brought him a level of recognition, but the level of fame he has been exposed to around his relationship is something else entirely. Was that a shock? “It’s not something I think about, unless I’m in situations like this, and someone says, ‘What’s it like?’ and I have to think about what to say about it,” he says, though he does have plenty to say on it, which suggests he has thought about it at least a little bit. He is more clipped when he talks about this side of things, and a bit less jokey, as if practised in being firm. “It’s just not for other people,” he says, of their relationship. “And I don’t say that with aggression.”

He will concede that he can see why people might be interested in it. And people are interested. Her 2019 song London Boy, about fancying a charming, sporty north London boy with lots of mates, is rumoured to be about him, but, other than that, they say very little about each other in public. I tell him I watched a nine-minute compilation on YouTube that collected everything they had said about their relationship in public into one handy video. “Well, I hope that was illuminating,” he says, drily. It wasn’t, actually. “That doesn’t surprise me, because I don’t know what people would be going off.”

He pauses, for what seems like an age. “I don’t know how best to talk about it. I mean, I’m aware of people’s … of that size of interest, and that world existing. It’s just not something I particularly care about, or have much interest in feeding, I guess, because the more it’s fed, the more you are opening a gate for intrusion.” He is aware that this makes him sound guarded. “I think that’s just my response to a culture that has this increasing expectation that everything is going to be given. If you don’t post about the way you make your coffee in the morning, or if you don’t let someone take a picture when you walk out of your front door, is that being private? I don’t know if it is. So I just don’t really feed that.”

"The songs came from us messing around. It was like baking sourdough in lockdown. The Grammy was this ridiculous bonus."

His own Instagram is strictly work-based, and there is little hint of anything beyond a film set. “If you and I were having a conversation, and having a shandy in my house, and it wasn’t being recorded, then, of course, other things would be said,” he says, echoing what Swift told this paper in 2019. (“If you and I were having a glass of wine right now, we’d be talking about it – but it’s just that it goes out into the world,” she said, back then.) Did they decide, from the beginning, to have a party line, and not to talk about each other? “Erm. It was just like, well, why? There are more interesting things to talk about and I just think it feeds into a weird part of the culture that I’m not really interested in being a part of.”

One thing he will talk about is their musical collaboration, which turned him into a Grammy winner. I did want to ask about music, I say. “Go for it, and I will sing for you,” he jokes, happier to be back on solid ground. When Swift released Folklore, two of the songs, Betty and Exile, credited a mysterious co-writer called William Bowery. Fans speculated as to who it might be, and Swift later revealed that it was a pseudonym for Alwyn, who also co-wrote some of the songs on its follow-up, Evermore. “That was a surreal bonus of lockdown,” he says, checking himself. “That’s an understatement.”

What was it like to work with your other half, in her line of business? “It wasn’t like, ‘It’s five o’clock, it’s time to try and write a song together,’” he says. “It came about from messing around on a piano, and singing badly, then being overheard, and being, like, ‘Let’s see what happens if we get to the end of it together.’ ” He liked it because there were no expectations and no pressure. “I mean fun is such a stupid word, but it was a lot of fun. And it was never a work thing, or a ‘Let’s try and do this because we’re going to put this out’ thing. It was just like baking sourdough in lockdown.” But not everyone’s sourdough resulted in a Grammy. “The Grammy was obviously this ridiculous bonus.”

Did he have any musical ambitions before this? “I like music, and I played a bit of guitar awfully in a school band when I was 12.” They were called Anger Management, and they covered Marilyn Manson’s version of the Eurythmics’ Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This). “I can play piano pretty badly, but never with the intent of, ‘Right, it’s time for my jazz-fusion album.’” He grins. “Unfortunately.”

He’s joking, but if a jazz-fusion album does emerge one day, it wouldn’t be such a curveball. He is about to take some time off and has no immediate jobs lined up, he says, which is fine by him, as last year was so busy. His recent work indicates a Robert Pattinson-style swerve into the arthouse. He had a small role in Joanna Hogg’s The Souvenir: Part II, and his next two films will be Stars at Noon, an adaptation of a Denis Johnson novel directed by Claire Denis, and Catherine, Called Birdy, a medieval comedy directed by Lena Dunham. “Again, I think that all comes from working with Ang Lee, and the luxury of that at the beginning,” he says. “I would just much rather do that for now and ‘build’, which sounds awful,” he says, beginning to collapse into a cringe, “and like, oh, grow as an actor, which also sounds awful.” He looks mortified. “Do you know what I mean?”

I think I know what he means. He sounds like someone who is satisfied with life as it is, and where it’s about to take him. We finish our pints. Alwyn is heading off to meet someone on Hampstead Heath, and we shake hands, politely, as we say goodbye. He heads out into the street, eyes on the path just ahead.

[the-five-bright-stars]

FBS Draft Scene: Still Undone

Word Count: 1600

Author's Notes: This has been a landmark scene in my head for a long time, but I realized recently I had never really told anyone about it! This takes place in the middle of the story. Content Warning spoils the heaviest part of this segment, so try to skip over it if you want to be surprised! Sorry I can't blank it out!

Summary: While searching the abandoned winter grounds of the carnival Taps once worked for, he and Riker discover the body of Hinge, Taps' childhood sweetheart. Title comes from Orville Peck's 'Hope to Die,' Taps and Hinge's theme.

Content Warnings: Dead robot, body desecration, attempted revival and subsequent putting down

Previously: Taps and Riker were being dragged back to New Amida by Kilroy and Lucy, but at a split second opportunity, stole their car and made off. While laying low, Taps is revealed to have an emotion blocker in his head, which Riker hastily removes, causing Taps to start experiencing extreme mood swings and reactions. Afterward, they decide to search for clues as to the whereabouts of Lindy, Taps' missing sister, and the first place to search is where Taps saw her last-- the carnival winter grounds where they worked together, now abandoned.

-

　Taps shuffled through the dusty papers in the desk drawers, keeping the lights of his eyes dialed up. Riker had their one flashlight tucked between his cheek and his shoulder and was picking the locks on the filing cabinet on the other side of the room, muttering under his breath. They’d checked a few other rooms in the deserted building before finding this office, all of them trashed in the time since the winter grounds were abandoned. The rooms had been shifted around after Taps left the carnival, except for the big storage room where they’d found, miraculously, a still sealed gallon of diesel.

　　Taps was trying not to let that diesel’s presence distract him. There were lots of reasons why a carnival might have that on hand, not just the one that he feared. Right now he had to focus on finding clues of where Lindy had gone.

　　“Got it,” Riker said, pulling open the top cabinet drawers. He wrinkled his nose at the contents; they probably smelled musty. “What year did you leave, again?”

　　“1959,” Taps said. “November.”

　　“Right, so--” Riker paused. “You were built in ‘47? Christ, you were still a kid.”

　　Taps silently straightened up and walked around the desk. “Demétrio had to move our contracts fast,” he said. “Medical bills. Here, I found a key, if there’s nothing in that one.”

　　In the second-to-bottom drawer, they found something. The manila folder nearly crumbled as Riker shifted it up into the light. It was unlabeled, but as Riker flipped through the tops of the papers within, he perked up. “Contract receipts. Jackpot.”

　　Taps leaned closer, staring at the papers as Riker jumped to the back of the folder. Focus, he thought. Don’t think about--

　　“Bettencourt!” Riker exclaimed. He grinned at Taps, pointing to a yellow page. “Bettencourt, L. Sale of contract: 1961. I can’t believe we fucking found it!”

　　Taps was frozen; his engine slowed. Riker’s smile began to dim.

　　“Hey,” Riker said softly. “You OK?”

　　“Yes,” Taps said, voice stiff. His illuminators had turned to pinpricks. “Yes. I just--”

　　Riker reached out and rested a hand on Taps’ shoulder. “Relax. This is big, and you’re just getting your feelings together. You need a minute before we get out of here?”

　　Taps vented a small burst of air, his head dropping forward, and he nodded.

　　Riker gingerly folded the receipt along its age-old crinkles before putting it in the inner pocket of his jacket. He stood with a grunt, rubbed his knees, and then held his hands up to his mouth, puffing a faint, misty cloud of hot air over them.

　　After a few minutes, the pair stepped out into the hallway, the shattered window at the closer end spilling moonlight across the floor. They walked carefully toward the exit, but stopped at the door, hearing whooping voices in the distance.

　　“Those damn teenagers are still here?” Riker growled. “Shit. They better not fuck with the car.”

　　Taps opened the door a crack and peaked through. “I can see their flashlights. They’re between us and the car, but I don’t think they’re moving toward it.” Taps paused, thinking. “There’s should be another way around, through the warehouse. I think the door was this way…”

　　They slipped as quietly as they could through the office building to the side door, then darted to the warehouse. Like the office, any sort of padlock had long been broken off, and the door opened with a soft creak. Riker flinched at the sound, then ducked inside, turning to wave Taps through. Taps only hesitated for a split second.

　　The main chamber of the warehouse was a disaster. Riker tried to keep the flashlight pointed at the ground as they walked, but the light would twitch nervously toward any open doors they passed. Riker’s foot collided with something and he yelped as it tumbled forward; Taps froze again, staring at the black diesel canister lying on its side, lit up in the circle of yellow. Riker breathed through his teeth.

　　“Christ, thought that was a rat for a second,” he said.

　　Taps stepped forward and picked it up, sloshing the liquid inside. Riker frowned at him-- or more specifically, at his eyes. Taps could feel his lights narrowing again.

　　“Taps?” Riker asked, voice a quiet hiss. “What’s the matter?”

　　“There was another robot,” Taps said. “His name was Hinge, and he ran on diesel.”

　　Riker stared at Taps for a moment, and Taps stared past him. There was a large doorway with no door just ahead of them, with smears on the ground, grimy shoe prints leading in and out. Before Riker could form a response, Taps had moved into the doorway.

　　There was something in there, against the far wall.

　　Taps’ footsteps were jerky as he took one, two steps in. Even with his illuminators turned all the way up, the shape was hard to make out. But it was big and bulky, crumpled forward over itself.

　　The flashlight shone past Taps shoulder, and Riker swore.

　　Hinge’s body sat with its back against the wall, head bowed forward over its bent legs. The left arm was missing below the elbow, and the chassis and the wall surrounding it were covered in spray paint. The graffiti on the wall made a terrible halo around the slumped form.

　　Taps barely registered his legs moving. He walked forward as if compelled, the carnage that had wracked Hinge’s body more apparent with every step. At some point he had dropped the diesel canister; it wasn’t in his hand when he knelt, almost falling, and reached out to touch Hinge’s knee.

　　“You stayed,” Taps whispered to the corpse. “Why did you stay?���

　　Taps couldn’t stop staring at Hinge’s face-- the hanging jaw, the dark holes of his glass-broken eyes. Some irreverent vandals had messily applied zigzags and meaningless blobs and a singular holographic sticker across his wide torso. Hinge would have hated it. Would hate it. Hated it.

　　Taps stood and turned sharply, nearly knocking into Riker. He ignored the words that stumbled out of Riker’s mouth and snatched the diesel canister off the ground, unscrewing the cap as he hurried to Hinge’s side. His fuel intake was just behind his left shoulder.

　　Taps did not stop pouring when Riker grabbed his arm and pointed the flashlight in his face, but he did start to hear him again.

　　“--can’t do this, buddy, there’s nothing left--”

　　“He has two ignition switches,” Taps said. “One on each side. I can’t reach both at once.” He turned his head and locked eyes with Riker. “I need you to hit the other switch.”

　　Riker’s eyes were round, the whites of them catching the light that bounced back into his face.

　　“What? No. I won’t,” Riker stammered. “Taps--”

　　“Do it,” Taps snapped. And then, venomously: “You owe me.”

　　Riker’s jaw snapped shut, and slowly his brows furrowed, the crease between his eyebrows deepening darkly. For a long moment he said nothing. Taps removed the nozzle from Hinge’s intake, and was just feeling the stirring of hesitation when Riker whipped around. Taps thought he might be storming out of the room, but he turned at Hinge’s feet and came back to his other side.

　　“You’re going to fucking regret this,” Riker snapped, casting the light over Hinge, looking for the switch.

　　Taps reached out and pried Hinge slightly more forward from the wall, enough to slip their hands beneath his shoulder blades. “Just press, and hold for three,” Taps said. “One… two… three--”

　　There was a gurgle and a bang from within Hinge’s chest, and he jerked violently. Black smoke spat from his mouth, and one eye flickered. Riker pulled back, and Taps’ hands snapped out, ready to steady him.

　　“Hinge? Hinge!” Taps cried. “It’s alright, it’s--”

　　Hinge continued to spasm, and Riker jumped back as his only arm swung aimlessly. Sounds gargled out of his voice box, a waterfall of half-words and metallic screeches, and with a full-body jolt he fell onto his left side, nearly taking Taps down with him. Hinge-- his body-- contorted on the ground, thrashing and scraping itself on the concrete, howling.

　　Taps stared and realized what he had done.

　　“Hold his head.”

　　Riker was holding a long metal rod, some piece of detritus from the floor.

　　Taps could have screamed, but with threadbare restraint, he did not. He only knelt and did his best to hold onto Hinge’s head, a hand on both sides. Hinge was--had been-- was so, so strong, and it was difficult to steady the head.

　　Riker missed the first blow, the end of the rod bouncing off the center of Hinge’s faceplate. The second spike hit true, going deep into the eye socket, back into the elongated skull. Riker wrenched the rod to one side, then the other, and with a snap something gave away, and Hinge’s body went still.

　　Taps kept holding the head as Riker-- Riker was crying, Taps dimly realized-- as he pulled the rod free and tossed it aside. The flashlight had been left on the ground, pointing at Hinge, and Riker retrieved it, knuckles bone white around the grip. He was breathing heavily, teeth grit, and his wet eyes shot accusing darts at Taps.

　　‘“I owe you?”’ Riker hissed bitterly. “I should have told you to get in line.”

　　And then he did leave, stalking out into the hallway. Taps heard him begin to retch, and he looked down again. He ran a hand over Hinge’s forehead.

　　“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, love. You deserved the whole world. Better than this. Better than me.”

[mjrdm]

I found an old headcanon? fanfic? in my drafts I want to share. About the Butler's handlock

This takes place in my AU, where the Pretender and the RCG survive the fall and live in the Nest together. But you can read it as just some headcanons.

Text under the cut.

About his handcuffs.

One time, after the Pretender becomes the mistress of the house, the Butler kindly asks her to remove his handcuffs.

She says that she don't mind, but she doesn't have a key/lost it and it's his business to find it.

He asked her to, please, try to remember where was the last place she saw it, but she had positively no clue.

Oh, he searched the house up and down and found nothing (because its in a small secret room - Six stole it).

He came to the Craftsman - he never felt more humiliated in his life, but he was becoming desperate, - the Ctaftsman found a circular saw and said sorry if I accidentaly chop your hands off🤓 and the Butler was like NONONONONO

SO the Craftsman tried to pick the lock and failed, because its not just a simple lock, its some magic bullshit. The Pretender's family relate to magic stuff.

The Butler lost hope and remained that way, trying to be as comfortable as he can.

Until RCG came to the Nest.

She and adults once started a conversation about it, why they are they way they are, why the Butler the way he is. He didn't say exactly why, no family drama backstory*, but he said that he can't take this thing off so that's why.

RCG saw him that way, but never actually paid too much attention to his handcuffs. Now she saw that It's a lock, like the one on the doors or the boxes. The pattern on solid metal looked like..

"It needs a key, isnt it?"

"Well, yes. But it's been long-lost."

"I know where it is."

The silence filled the room. The Craftsman immediately looked at her, while the Butler didnt move at first.

"..What?" he turned to her with blank expression - not entirely believing her, but listening closely.

"I know where it is. I saw it."

"Dont make fun of me, girl. Even he did not fell that low." he nodded in the Craftsman's direction, the doolmaker rolled his eyes.

"It's in the small room in the wall! Wait- I can bring it here! If it is it, of course, but I recall it looked pretty similar to your-"

"Hurry up." he said the same monotone voise, but she could swear there was some drop of vunerability in there. She wasnt particulaty fond of the guy, but even she would feel bad if she failed at her task.

The RCG wandered and got lost a few times - when you're running away from the danger, you're not particulary paying attention to where you are and what's around you. But she was always observand kid. Thats why she managed for so long.

At last, she found it. She came back to the same room adults were in, nervous. The Butler had a sour face, but not the angry one he usually wore, something more complex - she knew if she came back empty-handed, he would throw something at her with no hesitation. Maybe, he will throw something at the Craftsman too. Or even on himself.

But his face quikly changed.

Yes. This is it. He could recognise it from any other key in the world - his heart started beating faster (he didnt know he had it still) with anticipation and fear and god knows what else, he felt his breath quikens. But he kept the stone face. He didnt dare to hope. No, after all these years- but it was there, right in front of him, in girl's hands. He could mistake it for a dream.

"It IS it." behind butler the Craftsman said almost in whispers. "What's you waiting for, girl?" he said more loud, wavering hand to her to approach.

Were they really gonna do this? Right here right now? It felt like a fever dream.

"...Wait! Just one moment." she said as stern as she could, though fear and guilt were eating here inside (how they did a lot of days).

Some sort of hope on the Butler's face quikly wanished and it looked like he was going to kill her exactly where she stood.

"I want to ask you one thing for that," she showed the key in her hands. "Just-a tiiiny little thing. Nothing fantastical."

The Butler grunted, but managed to spit out:

"Go on."

Were she's going to ask to send her home? After all that talks with their Misstress of how she liked the place and liked to stay here? The Misstress was going to be upset.

"A promise."

Well, that was interesting.

"I want you to make a promise. Both of you," she pointed at the Craftsman. She was going to take all that she could get out of this.

"That... You won't threaten me no more," she sighed. "Please?"

"... And, that's all?" the Butler was honestly surprised.

"It means no more throwing sharp objects, chandeliers or washing machines at me. No more threats of feeding me to the dumpster monster, baking me into soup, making a garden decoraton out of me or turning me into a doll!"

"When was the last time I did that?!" the Craftsman exclaimed innocently, placing his hand on his heart. He got an angry glare from the Butler.

"M'kay. Whatever."

"... Agreed." said the Butler dimly.

She wasn't going to leave. That was bad for him.

It means he must be... More patient with her. He has to try... Yes, he could do that. As he did with the mistress.

"Well, since we sorted this out..." started the RCG, the Butler looked at her expectantly. "OH, yes."

She walked to the Butler, past him, where the Craftsman stretched out his hand for her to stood on. He lifted her to the handcuffs on the Butler's back. She's put the key in and turned it a few times.

It was surprisingly easy, though old mechanisms creaked a little. Then, the handcuffs made a "poof" sound and cracked open in half, and fell on the floor.

The Butler stopped floating and stood on his slightly shaky leg. He didnt turn to them, nor made a sound. He slowly unfolded his arms and took them in front of him. Then, he rolled his shoulders, that made an unpleasant sound, and - with some kind of grunt, - straightened himself. His spine made more of unpleasant sounds - cracked in a ways it most probably shoundn't have.

He hunched again, though not as much as he did before. It will take some time, RCG assume. The Butler took a deep breath.

"You alright?.." RCG don't believe she ever heard the Craftsman speaking so softly before.

"Yeah," was the first thing the Butler said.

He turned to them, smiling - but not the way he usually did. It was a honest smile.

"Never better."

* They fucking chained him like a naughty beast he were in his powers. He learned how to control these powers in his life, but could never quite manage his temper. So he was sent in the Nest especially for that.

Cruel but judgemental masters (really tho?) that could deal with these paranormal things required someone skillfull, smart and hardworking as their butler.

The Mama was never a kind woman - only when she needed to be. The Father never played pretend, he was as cold and absent as shore cliffs of their island. They knew a thing or two about magic - why, that's exactly how they did bring their daughter to life. It was a cherished child - the one and only, the sick one, the last one. Anyways, after some incident the Father decided to punish the Butler for misbehaving. They did this from time to time, but never for too long. The handcuffs made the Butler's powers weaker, and in some way he was even thankful for that. That was until one day they has gone away and never came back. They left exactly the day the Butler was punished once again.

The key was always in their room, but when the Butler understood that he has to take the problem in his own hands (huh) the key was stolen.

[theflyingfeeling]

it's my day off and I have already had one formal phone call and I'm now waiting for my new desk chair to be ready for pickup and I had an exhaustive day yesterday hosting vaalikahvit for five adults, one toddler and two dogs, so may I pleeeeaaaaaasssseeee get to fuck around and imagine blorbo nonsense and draft an AU fic I'll never write because I still haven't made that sideblog for this kinda shit instead of doing anything useful?? 😩🙏

so today I'm thinking of a no-band-AU semi-inspired by this post I made a week ago

in which Olli and Aleksi have recently moved in together in their new fancy house and they're so happy and in love and having a lot of sex (yes this is an important plot detail 🥰)

(spoiler alert: there is no plot. not even a little bit (hence I won't be writing this))

their relationship had a controversial start because they were still dating other people when they fell in love

Joonas is pining for Joel who's in a toxic on/off relationship with Samy

Joel may be struggling with something else too idk haven't decided, but Joonas is there for him always and he loves Joel so so much

as for Tommi and Niko: maybe Tommi and Olli used to be an item at some point, although he's not the one Olli broke up with to be with Aleksi

and maybe Joonas and Niko had something going on but Niko ended it because he saw how in love with Joel Joonas was

so Niko and Tommi have lots of deep discussions about whether it's weird for Tommi to see Olli with Aleksi (not really because it's been a while and he can see how happy Olli is now (way happier than he was with his previous partner))

and about how it is for Niko to see Joonas suffering so much because of Joel (it's hard but there's not much niko can do about it is there)

and yeah they end up spending the night together at some point 👀 they decide to keep it casual and low-key though so they tell no one

eventually it becomes maybe a little more than just friends hooking up but they're still sorta chill about it and it feels very natural (for Tommi it's better than the random one-night-stands he's been having and for Niko it's definitely better than worrying about Joonas all time time)

and yeah, as it is a non-band-AU I've also given some thought to what they all could be doing instead of being in a band (which is my favourite part of non-band-AUs hehe)

first of all, Tommi is a paramedic because I recently re-watched this old interview in which they all tell the what they'd be doing for a living if they weren't musicians in a band and that's Tommi's answer

ngl it would be kinda funny if I gave everyone the occupation they mention in the video but I think 'gravedigger' for Niko would be a tad too gloomy for the purposes of this AU lol, so he's a writer. a struggling one maybe, but still, and he spends a lot of time in his head (very in-character I knoooooooww <3)

Olli is a graphic designer at a... ummm... a place where graphic designers work? idk just some company, he works from home a lot (so that he can have sex with his bf during his breaks)

Aleksi is still a producer, has a fancy-ass studio in the house. Robin is one of the artists he works with, because of course he is

Olli and Aleksi secretly want to ask Robin if he'd be up for a threesome but he's a literal puppy and oblivious and they don't know how to bring it up lol

and maybe Johnny's Aleksi's co-producer and they also fantasize about having threesome with him 😂 sorry yes they are very horny and kinky in this AU

not sure what Joel and Joonas could be doing, but I like to imagine them as co-workers in some kinda music business or whatever. maybe they're also roommates, just to make it extra painful for Joonas 😭 and maybe Joel is a musician on the side (plays covers at bars etc.), because I simply can't imagine him another career than music

(Joonas goes to see his every single gig, sometimes without Joel knowing it)

a random "scene" I've thought of includes Niko and Joonas coming over to test the new sauna at the Matela-Kaunisvesi residence, but because Niko and Joonas feel awkward having sauna together, they end up mixing the pairs and so we have Aleksi and Niko having deep discussions in the sauna and Joonas and Olli talking about sex while waiting for their turn lol (they've been friends since forever and maybe had some experiments together when they were teens so it's very natural for them)

but yeah, the reason why I'm not writing this AU is because I have no clear plot for it 😔 but honestly? sometimes it's fun just creating these AUs and characters in my head 🥺

I wish I could write all these ideas into actual stories but I'm scared of biting off more than I can chew, so I intimidate and overwhelm myself from even giving it a fair try 😭

so that's it pretty much! if anyone wants to help me figure out an actual story idea out of this, you know where to find me 👋

next I think I'm gonna go keep on procrastinating by creating Olli & Aleksi's fancy-ass house on The Sims 4 byeeeeeee

[allisonreader]

I am low key tempted to get as much of my rewrite of A Different Kind of Cinderella done as I possibly could for the four loves Inklings Challenge this month.

There's still WAY too much to actually finish rewriting in a month, but doing so might actually get me further from where I had previously stalled out. Especially since I can't seem to get anywhere far on anything else that I've been trying to work on lately.

The only thing about this thought is that that I posted an old Cinderella retelling last year. And while A Different Kind of Cinderella is by far a completely different retelling to that one, it is still an old Cinderella retelling of mine. (By old I do mean old. It's got to be like 20 years old at least by now.)

If I wasn't so stuck on the Selkie Cinderella little mermaid idea, I would consider working on it again. But right now I simply don't want to even look at it currently. Let alone actually trying to work on it.

And I've looked at my retelling of Little Daylight again too, and it's also not going anywhere.

I fear that I'm not going to get anywhere with it this year. But knowing the state I was in for writing, I didn't vote that I wanted to write anything.

And even though I have intended to go through all of the stories this past challenge, I've probably read less of the stories than I have any other year. I think that I'm just going to have to delete all of them that I have saved to me drafts and then just work through the challenge list instead. And not put any pressure on myself about making a comment on every story. As much as I originally had wanted to.

Of course why I'm writing any of this out is because I'm avoiding going to bed currently. Hopefully I'm getting tired enough to actually go to bed and sleep now.

[tetsunabouquet]

The Wicked Powers Book 1: Heir To The Lands Forword;

Alright, considering books usually start with a forward, and I am hereby making my own ideal imagined version of TWP, I have decided to start each book with a forword too.

Well, hi everyone. I have been working on drafts for this for like, forever. This is a project I've been really wanting to do for a while now.

I'm one of the Shadowhunter Chronicles OG fans as I picked up the Dutch City Of Bones translation not long after it came out. I've been here before the movie and everything, I even was one of the first admins on the Dutch Shadowhunters wiki and made like, the first few character pages before I quit because of my personal life demanding me to do so.

So I'm making this project with nothing but love for the franchise in my heart.

It's just that there are the occasional things I cannot look away from, precisely because I'm a long-time fan of Cassie and now some of her old fanfic work like the entire Draco trilogy.

Like the fact almost every big, romantic male love interest being clearly inspired by either Draco or Harry and many of their love interests/heroine of the story clearly being inspired by Hermione or Ginny. And I can definitely see the self-insert allegations happening even in her portrayal of Ginny.

Which, on the topic of Dru and the way she got portrayed to be 'mature for her age', etc because she has curves, to be low-key fetishizing and sexualizing a character who was thirteen at the time. The fact Dane even gets killed for it should mean it's fucking wrong but the way her love interests were already set up and set up to be physically older then her is sending alarm bell after the other off- trying to introduce Faerie time shennanigans to twist this into NOT resembling grooming or ending up with shady age gaps is just problematic.

If you have to introduce various twists and turns to make a ship NOT seem icky, then it's a bad ship to begin with. This is why there are people who still don't like Clace because the numerous of twists and turns to not make it seem incest-y (and Jace is technically still her adopted brother thanks to Valentine), just makes for a poor ship.

I'm definitely trying to steer away from that throughout my version of TWP, though for the sake of interesting drama and actually making a good stance on this subject; this will be a topic throughout the entirety of my version of TWP and I will not settle for a solution in chapter one.

As I stated in earlier conception posts, I do want to do foreign cultures justice as whilst Cassandra Clare does know more about cultures then the average American thanks to her childhood, she does has share the American habit of not trying to do cultures she's unfamiliar with justice.

I have tried to ask for help in regards for a Turkish character, but despite making a post and reblogging it like twice in an attempt to get the word out there, I have received zero response so I just had to wing the last name by taking a Turkish last name that's comprised out of two words from a name site. I hope that's fine.

With all of this in mind, I hope you will enjoy my version of TWP!

-Tetsuna

[cesium-sheep]

I watched some of my dvds now that I have a crocheting project, cuz almost all of them I haven't seen either in a long time or ever, and I probably don't want to keep all of them. (this is actually a couple weeks old but I haven't watched any more in a while so I'll just get it out of my drafts as-is)

assassin's creed (fassbender): the 3 most central present-day characters all bore and irritate me. the "philosophical questions" bore and irritate me. the "science" drives me fuckin nuts. the animus looks like shit. the assassin isn't a character at all. the action scenes were hard to follow and way too long, but the talking scenes weren't any better. everything is yellow for no reason (jk it's cuz they're using the middle east filter on medieval spain). there was juuust enough mildly interesting stuff going on with side characters (the other subjects, the assassin's girlfriend) that I was willing to keep watching, but none of that ever gets fleshed out either. felt like the first and last half hour were a waste of time, especially considering how little use they got out of them. boring and underfed, won't keep.

baccano: discs 1 and 2 had slipped out of their seating at some point and got scratched up, which is a shame, but I didn't run into any errors watching the first couple episodes at least. the reporters both suck but the rest of the narrative is engaging. I stopped after 2 episodes cuz I think matt would like it but I'm not sold on watching the whole thing twice just yet. delay, probably keep.

carousel: wow there is a lot of men yelling at girls and telling them what to do. but I am as ever a sucker for a golden age movie musical, and it is canonically acknowledged that he kinda fuckin sucks. I will always gladly take a meaningless overlong dance scene over a meaningless overlong fight scene. this dvd is old enough that it's 4:3 widescreen so we've got black bars all the way around. also love the line "what if he's a girl?", like it's meant to be him realizing their unborn child could be afab but hey fuck it support your kid no matter what gender they are even if you guessed wrong at first. (it does get into some of that weird "I am my daughter's first boyfriend" shit after that tho.) I adore the rapscallion daughter too. I always cry when they want me to tho unless it's one I've seen a hundred times. I'll keep it.

donnie darko: I remember everyone was like "woah it's so crazy and hard to understand!" and I was like "no it's not? it is cool tho" but I was also in a Real Bad Place mentally so. kinda bites that even this family that is could so easily be all ~dysfunctional~ from his problems is like. still way more recognizable as a Family than a lot of fictional ones and also the one I grew up in. I do feel that donnie is Authentically Weird for good and for ill, which is a nice change of pace. like, he's Weird all the time, not just for Plot Reasons. (also this bitch out here making $200 a session in 1980s money, I really gotta get me a fuckin license.) overall, actually still a good movie even if you're not a fucked up teenager anymore, and honestly they work pretty hard to make sure no child is left behind on the time travel concept. (really dimly lit tho.) keep.

natsuyuki rendezvous: totally low key romance anime except the woman's dead husband is constantly throwing a tantrum about her moving on even though he tried to divorce her when he got sick. couldn't be me on either count lmao. dead husband does have heavily-implied-to-be-cancer plot disease that's never explicitly named. and is also just generally a really pathetic guy? and it's like strongly implied that he's so pathetic and shitty because he'd been sick? and that's like. not a good look. "in the end I was never able to get her to depend on me" skill issue. overall starts off cute, but as soon as he steals his body it goes downhill pretty quick. it even gets into weird suicide pact shit at the end?? they don't go through with it, but all the same. won't keep.

[projecthipster]

Cold Brew Coffee

Yes, that’s the draft of the very words you’re reading on the screen next to the subject of the words you’re reading. Self-referential recursion is hip.

I did make my own cold brew themed playlist a while back, but I like this one better. I played it at work today and enjoyed how seamlessly it transitioned between '60s folk, '90s punk, classic jazz, and classical piano. Really showing the multiplicity of vibes that a coffee shop can entail.

Part I (Wednesday)

It took me a shamefully long time to like coffee. Like, I only started drinking coffee if tea was also available after I’d already started writing Project Hipster. And as if I were trying to make up for missed college years, since then I’ve gone all in and have been trying all the styles across the long menus at my city’s many good hipsterish coffee shops. If I can’t get this post to a thousand words before bedtime tonight, I shall have to go to one tomorrow, order a cold brew, and keep writing this.

Cold brew is made exactly the way it sounds: by soaking ground coffee in cold water, for much longer than the few minutes of your typical hot brew. We’re talking multiple days for the best brew according to some people on /r/coffee, whom I would absolutely trust to know best. The longer, slower brew also makes the coffee stronger in caffeine, which I could clearly tell when I sipped my first can of old Kicking Horse cold brew and it hit my system like a runaway light rail vehicle. The actual brew produces a concentrate, diluted into water or ice or, according to some googling I’ve done into where I can find it near me, crazy stuff like smoked citrus tea. Man, I love hipster cafés. But that can was definitely expired, and I didn’t have a taste for the bean in general back then. So I think I need to take a little journey tomorrow, on the train if I’m working or on my bike if I’m not, and buy a good, fresh cold brew from a good hipster café at the mall or Downtown, and get back to you. Your Hipster Archivist out for now.

Part II (Thursday)

It’s cold today. Not crazy cold, just a few degrees below freezing on the low, a gray sky hanging somewhere over the tops of the skyscrapers downtown. A few degrees windchill below the dry-bulb, and dropping towards the weekend. But that’s cold enough to not be iced coffee weather. Maybe that's better for trying a cold brew and judging it, though. The way I’m feeling the chill channel through the canyon streets, a warm coffee would be great today. So the cold brew is fighting an uphill battle to appeal to me. Plus, it’s the afternoon. I had planned to pick up my cold brew to try it in the morning, but a mixup in the work schedule meant scrambling to get me into the shop and not wait on a coffee down the street in the morning when the extra caffeine would add to the appeal too. Instead, here I am with my heavy-caffeine brew, only available in a big 16-oz cup, cold when I’m already cold, late enough in the day that I’m glad I probably do have tomorrow off and don’t need to worry too much about it keeping me up.

And it’s still pretty good.

Granted this is a pretty good hipster cafe I’m sitting at, across the pedestrian street from the museum under renovation, laptop laid on a rough wood table, Father John Misty playing over the speaker. As I ordered, the barista tried to tell me about selection of single origin beans for sale. At the table next to me, a pair of thirty-something very businessy women are talking about Team Leads, Washington Journal podcasts, decarbonization in the energy industry, critical mineral investments, “capital,” “key shareholders,” and about a thousand three-letter acronyms that I couldn’t break down with a gun to my head. The most hipster cafe would be antithetical to this kind of businessy talk, but maybe that’s no surprise what with how the Death of the Hipster has been one of a decade of corporatization as the prime-Hipster millennial ages into sub-executive power. Also, this is merely one of the best hipster cafés Downtown, which means it’s still a Downtown café. Maybe to get to the most prime Hipster Spot I ought to have caught the Purple Line out to Inglewood, but then I’d be finishing my adrenaline shot pint of cold coffee at, like, 7 pm.

I’m about two thirds of the way down the plastic cup and my eyeballs are vibrating, by the way. The café’s closed and I’m poaching their wifi from a stool in the conference centre outside.

Once I’d ordered, the barista gave me a warning that they serve the cold brew black. So this was a drink that came with a disclaimer. I’m just short of having had to sign a waiver. And with the urge to twitch my fingers now flooding down into my hands, I can see why. I had one sip totally black. It was sharply bitter, a step beyond coffee black as iron, the other end of the spectrum from a double-double (and I think that spectrum aligns with hipsterness level; a double-double is the least hip drink imaginable, and because Tim’s is a Brazilian-owned enshittifying megacorp now, that’s not unpatriotic to say.) Generally I like bitterness, I like tannins. I like stouts, dark chocolate, black coffee. How much of that is my actual taste and how much is the desire to fit the hip aesthetic of it? I don’t know. It’s both. It doesn’t matter. Do I have a limit to going down the dark side? Well, my limit has pushed further as I’ve grown, so maybe it’ll only continue until as an old man I’ll be chewing raw beans. The barista asked if I wanted milk or cream, and I said yes, cream please, partly because I like everything, even tea, fairly creamy and smooth, but also for the aesthetic pleasure of watching that moment of those swirls of heavy pale cream mix into the dark coffee. Swirling and fading at the edges in tiny spreading gradients. Like clouds of snow blowing off a mountaintop, illuminated by alpenglow of a sun already set behind valley headwalls. Like the milky way in a clear country sky. I was a little sad when she took a little wooden stir stick and diffused it all together to a smooth tawny, topped in some inscrutable trick of chemistry with a paler skiff of crema. And that’s why this spot with its cold brew was supposed to be so special: they do pump the cold brew concentrate through a nitrogen-infusing tap, like a dark porter, a properly tapped Guinness. As a result, my pint of coffee (it’s practically dinnertime and my eyes are about to vibrate out of my skull) has the smooth-velvet, deceptively easy-drinking but later-on brain-punching feel of an excellent stout. I’d do this again when I need something to carry me through a hectic day. For now, I’m gonna need a heavy dose of chamomile just to cancel out the uppers from this cup and get some sleep tonight. I can see why the business people with their horrid go-go-go ethos like this. And for the energetic hipster needing to work the other way, to be aggressively anti-growth by slamming out the next great poetic epic about prehistoric fish or whatnot, maybe this Meth Lite could be of help too.

I give this Hipster Food a rating of my teeth are about to fall out.

Project Hipster is a futile and disorganized attempt to dive into the world of things that the internet has at some point claimed "are hipster," mostly through ListChallenges search results.

This review comes from the seventeenth list, Huffington Post’s 22 Most Hipster Foods. I’ve heard of HuffPost but honestly don’t know much about them, so don’t come after me for that. I’m just using a list from someone who reposted their list of Things That Are Hipster. That’s what I do here.

Up next: a slow, atmospheric movie that I might have to rewatch to remember fully.

Stay deck.

[hyperraduo22]

^^ this !! very much this

context is very important so i’ll also gather some other pointers that other people have been saying as well for emphasis (plus my words too):

- the whole act was obviously non-consensual so yes it counts as sexual assault. that’s the baseline

- within context, idc how old knox is or whether he knew it in the back of his head (or if this shit was normalized in the time period idc idc it’s still wrong) but he quite literally went after chris during school hours, kept trying to force himself on her during the night of the play when she was not just checking up on him but also had the intent of literally confronting him and telling him to stop what he’s doing (AND SHE LITERALLY SAID THAT TO HIS FACE), AND of course the really important part: knox says that he would actually k*ll himself if he never got with chris- and honestly if we look into the whole love vs infatuation vs limerence concepts, bro was in a freaky stage crossing over from infatuation to LIMERENCE cause ain’t no way your edgy ass saying this rn and doing all this for what ?!

- ^ looking at the predatory behavior from above, it’s safe to say that yes this is an assault case your honor

- not to mention the scene in the original draft of the script (btw the dps book for those who are familiar with it is based on the original draft so i think this scene is in the book but don’t take my word for it) was actually set up to be a sexual assault scene cause knox quite literally feels up chris without her consent in a sexual way cause she thinks it’s chet touching her and no one else !!!

- so yeah. if the scene was that weird and odd that they had to change it to him simply kissing her while unconscious, then yes i’m sure they still wanted to convey a sense of a different type of problem that happens irl

- random tidbit: i think a lot of us have been in very questionable situations that had some tension in it and later think abt and realize “yo wait that’s low key assault??” like 😭😭 my friend and i were just talking about this recently and its a little concerning !! that’s why context matters !!!!!!

nope, not letting this get labelled mature