#like... even not considering the money part

[originalleftist]

There is certainly some truth to this- in a system like America's, without a strong social safety net, and with the cost of housing and health care being what the are, even people who most would consider fairly well-off are often only one catastrophe away from poor, or even destitution. Which means labels like "poor" or "lower class" and "middle class" can be somewhat misleading.

At the same time, a "middle class" person is likely more comfortable and secure than a "poor" person, and is likely not going to have all the same concerns as a poor person.

In terms of who you try to include in your coalition, politically it is always going to be advantageous to have a big tent, to draw in as much support as possible for your position or interests, whatever those may be. This is true by the way regardless of whether you are in a democratic or authoritarian system, and whether you pursue your goals by violent or non-violent means (one of non-violence's main strengths is that it often attracts a bigger tent). Ignoring this in favour of niche movements and ideological purity is an enormous mistake that the Left frequently makes, and has damaged its effectiveness as a political force going all the way back to its emergence in Revolutionary France.

But there does come a point where if you expand your coalition by trying to appeal to too many peoples' interests, your risk watering down your message and goals too much, or even betraying parts of your coalition to appeal to others. And if a political movement or organization finds itself having to choose between the interests of its "middle class" supporters and those of its "lower class" supporters, the incentive will often be to favour the "middle class," as they have more resources and influence to offer.

This is a problem for the "lower class," especially as their needs are often the most urgent and pressing.

And of course, there are other factors that influence how secure or vulnerable one is in our society, including but not limited to age, race, disability (physical or mental) or lack thereof, gender/gender identity, sexual orientation, religion, race, ethnicity, nationality, citizenship status, and (in more authoritarian countries especially) connections with/loyalty to the governing party or lack thereof. And while it is true that oligarchs often use racism, sexism, queer phobia etc. as a way to divide the working class and keep them from uniting around shared economic interests, these issues also have real effects that cannot be ignored. It is a common mistake of parts of the Left to minimize or dismiss other forms of privilege and discrimination and treat economic class conflict as the only "real" issue.

But getting back to the point about the working class including the middle class- yes, to a point, but not everyone who works or is vulnerable will have the same interests- and not everyone who works (even discounting being a corporate executive or political leader as "work" for the purposes of this discussion) is necessarily middle or lower class.

Since you specifically used Hollywood actors as an example, I'll note that there are quite a few actors or other entertainers who do work, often very hard (acting is a profession notorious for its long hours), but who's wealth runs into the hundreds of millions if not billions. Most actors are not rich, of course- many actors are dirt poor. But some are very rich. Maybe not "control a government" money, but certainly what most would consider "rich" rather than "working class," despite the fact that they are working. And many of them do hold considerable political influence too- Johnny Depp for example is friends with the ruler of Saudi Arabia, while George Clooney was an influential voice behind ousting Biden as Democratic nominee last year.

And yet even celebrity wealth (up to a certain point) can prove surprisingly transitory.

As an example (since I followed the case quite closely), according to networthanalysis.com, actor Amber Heard had a "net worth" of 12 million dollars in 2021, with her highest earning year 2019, when she made $3 million- certainly not "middle class," easily enough to be considered "rich" by any normal standard, probably just edging into the infamous "1%" (in the US the cutoff is currently between $11.6 and $13.7 million, per Forbes). Yet due to costs of litigation against her and loss of work due to negative PR, she lost basically all of that- had the full 10 million dollar judgement against her stood she would have been utterly ruined, with a debt of $6 million dollars. And even when that was reduced to a $1 million settlement on appeal, by 2024 her "net worth" was estimated at $500,000. Since that would include the value of her home, it is quite possible that she was/is "cash poor." Which means she's potentially one house fire or uninsured medical crisis away from being lower "middle" or even "lower" class. Even $12 million was not enough to grant her immunity, nor to be secure from being erased by, essentially, one big thing in her life going wrong

So is Amber Heard rich or working class or neither or both? She certainly was rich by most peoples' definitions (probably "middle class" now)- but not "upper class" if you define that by political power or immunity.

Also, of course, where one draws the lines between these categories will change based on inflation/cost of living. And how vulnerable you are will change based on how good your country's social safety net is, how politically stable it is, etc.

Do I have a point with all this?

Mostly just that this shit is way, way more complicated than most people realize, and that trying to divide people into two or three simple, fixed categories is mostly impossible and often actively harmful.

Edit: Corrected some omissions/typos.

leftism would be a lot more efficient if people realized this: the working class and the lower class is not the same thing.

as a child, my family was middle class. dad made $100,000 nzd per year. we moved and bought a new house without renting at any point, simply so we would be in a convenient place closer to dads workplace. dad bought a $10,000 dollar motorbike just because he wanted to. we were well off and if we had better budgeting skills our family could save a million bucks by the time my parents retired.

we lost everything.

middle class people still need unions. they still need to deal with abusive bosses. they can still lose all that financial security just by divorcing the worker of the family or making a bad decision.

now im lower class, as are both my parents.

upper class people dont work. they are ceos, upper millionares, and billionares. people work for them and they dont answer to anyone. there is a huge difference between a very well paid worker (hollywood actors for instance) and a ceo who never has to negotiate his pay with a superior.

dont get it mixed up. an upper middle class person is not the same as the billionare who can buy his way into a goverment or fund a goverment to change the way the law works.

just because someone is well off does not mean you have no shared experiences. they may or may not be out of touch, but you should organize with those who also answer to a boss.

[sunderwight]

Bingyuan where Shen Yuan figures the only reason that someone as sophisticated, handsome, and brilliant as modern day Luo Binghe would be interested in him is the same reason most seemingly-inexplicable parties suddenly develop an interest in him -- he needs money.

It's the only thing that makes sense, really! I mean what's more likely? That Luo Binghe desires Shen Yuan carnally, or that he's hit a rough patch and is between some dire debt collectors, possibly some leftover harassment from his father's era and something bad going down with his company etc, and needs a quick source of income to help keep him afloat until he can resolve the situation?

Poor Binghe, he probably had to find the nearest port in a storm, and he couldn't even track down a wealthy heiress to play the part of his benefactor! He had to settle for the only unattached son of the Shen family! Probably because they're not only wealthy, but unlikely to be involved in anything to do with Luo Binghe's people or whatever might have happened to put him on hard times (opposite ends of the business world). Really considering it, it would probably be difficult for Luo Binghe to find someone who was rich enough and uninvolved enough with his company to suit his purposes.

Well, far be it for Shen Yuan to turn him away in his hour of need. After all, if he does, who knows where Luo Binghe might have to turn next? And whoever he goes to is unlikely to be as understanding as Shen Yuan, nor as discreet. He can help Binghe out without either letting him know he's deduced his weakness, or taking advantage of the situation to do anything untoward to him! He'll keep Binghe comfortable and safe in the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed until Binghe's ready to dump him, and keep his hands to himself, too! He'll be a perfect gentleman!

If it breaks his heart a little bit to imagine the day when Luo Binghe inevitably cuts ties with him, well, that's probably just because he's getting accustomed to his delicious cooking and delightful company.

[millermouth]

𝙭𝙤𝙭𝙤

Masterlist || Harry Castillo x Reader || Part II: RingGate

Summary: After a carefully crafted meeting over coffee, your public debut with Harry unfolds better than you ever expected. Each event slides effortlessly into the next as the plan is executed, performance convincing, and everything seems to fall into place exactly as you intended. And yet, you never could’ve predicted the effect it would have on you. || fake dating, tabloids, Gossip Girl AU, socialite!reader, richgirl!reader, kinda bratty!reader, NYC, reader is in her mid 20s, old money lifestyle, trust fund babies, age gap, rich people problems, reader has a last name for storytelling purposes, no y/n, alcohol consumption, implied drug use ||

You weren’t entirely sure why you’d called Harry back. 

Well, no, that was probably a lie. You knew exactly why. 

Harry Castillo made sense in a way no one else did. He was everything your parents meant when they spoke about a ‘good man’ to ‘settle you down’. He was sophisticated and predictably traditional, he came from a wealthy family, understood reputations and legacies, and didn’t have a scrap of dirt on him being seen at coke fueled yacht parties. Just nice tailored suits, understated luxury watches, and generous golf outings with potential investors.

But there was something else, too. Something that made him even better than all of that combined.

Harry was old enough to make anyone seeing you on his arm do a double take. Old enough to raise eyebrows. And you liked that. Hell, you loved it. Because while your mother would probably sing the praises of dating a nice, rich man with so much generational wealth he could bury you in it, the second she would see it was him, you could almost picture her face falling. 

The Castillo name always earned a reaction in your family. Some long standing rivalry between your father and his, some sort of stock market tension or power play. Your mother always made a face as if the name sounded spoiled on her tongue and your father always got a set in his jaw at the briefest mention of Castillo Investments. And though your families orbited each other for decades, running in the same circles and sharing the same tables, they never managed to sit comfortably side by side. 

So yes, Harry was perfect. 

Because if you had to play by their rules, you’d make sure it still felt like your own game.

He looked the part now, sitting across from you in his crisp button down and open tailored blazer, the espresso cup held delicately between two fingers. The drink had long gone cold, but he swirled what remained, mulling over something in his mind. You were halfway through your latte, bringing it to your lips for another slow sip. 

“So,” he said, voice low and thoughtful, “we’re agreed on hand holding?”

You nodded, watching him over the rim.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “And…kissing?”

You set the mug down with a soft clink. “It’s supposed to look real, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“Real relationships don’t shy away from touch. I think a few public kisses are okay.”

He nodded back to you, “Just…you’ll have to let me know when you feel uncomfortable. If it gets to be too much.”

“Same to you. I don’t want to look like we’re in some rom-com soap opera.”

He leaned back in his chair, finally setting down the espresso cup with care. “I think you’ll find I’m quite good at moderation. But for clarity’s sake… what is off-limits?”

You considered for a moment, brushing a crumb from your napkin. “I mean… I guess the only rule I really care about is not humiliating each other. I seem to do that to myself enough as it is. So no divulging about us in interviews, no winks or jokes about the bedroom. If people ask, they can assume what they want. But we don’t talk about it.”

Harry nodded, his gaze steady. “Agreed. No innuendo, no details. Private things stay private.”

“Yes,” you agreed, your stomach doing a little flip at the thought.

“How long do you see us doing this for?” he asked.

You took a beat, thinking. “I only need eight weeks. By then, my family and I will be in the Hamptons hosting the annual Midsummer White Party—you know, everyone in white, garden tea, obligatory polo matches, and networking paraded around as philanthropy.”

Harry smiled, knowing. “Ah, yes. The crown jewel of performative generosity.”

You lifted your cup in mock salute. “Exactly. So if that works for you, we can bow out gracefully then.”

Harry nodded, “That should work. Camilla should be back by then and will most likely be attending. So the timing lines up.”

“Perfect,” you said, setting your cup down with a soft clink. “She can blend in with the party, and we can quietly let the news of a breakup make its rounds and...go on with our lives as if none of it happened.”

"Sounds very civil," he murmured, and then, eyes finding yours again as he sipped his espresso, “And when questions get asked about when we started dating?” he added.

You perked up. “Actually, I was thinking about that. I might have an idea.”

“Oh?”

You grinned. “The Met Gala. I’m already on the list, and so are you. I’m thinking, what if we made our public debut at the afterparty?”

“You and after parties, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, “It would be a good place to be seen together, and then if some civilian takes a photo of us cuddling in a booth, I think that would sell the thing perfectly. Rather than playing it up on the red carpet which might look more forced.”

“That’s next week, is that too soon for you?”

“Not at all. In fact–”

You reached across the table, gently taking his hand and adjusting the way he held his coffee cup. You tilted his fingers slightly, so that the emerald ring on his finger caught the light just right, gleaming against the white ceramic.

He gave you a curious look. “What are you doing?”

You brought your own latte closer, arranging your hand just so, both of you touching the handles of your mugs, your nails freshly painted and perfectly visible. You snapped a photo.

“This,” you said, opening Instagram, “is called a ‘soft launch,’ Harry,” 

“Soft launch?” he asked with an amused grin.

You didn’t look up. “It’s where you show just enough to make people wonder who you’re with, but not enough to confirm anything. You post it to stories and let the speculation do the work.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, clearly entertained. “You really have this down to a science.”

You tapped through the filters without much care. “You said you wanted a distraction, right? This is how you make a splash without stepping outside.”

He leaned forward slightly, studying the image on your screen. “No one will know that’s me.”

“That’s the point,” you said. “Gotta keep it mysterious at first.”

He watched you with something that might’ve been admiration, or at the very least amusement. “You’re not what I expected.”

You smiled, “Would’ve been quite boring if I was predictable. Besides, you don’t want calm. You need chaos, and it just so happens the chaos you’re looking for is dressed in Chanel.”

That earned a real laugh — not the polite kind, but a rich, unguarded one that curled warmly at the edges. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, and for a second it made your chest pull in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Alright then,” he said, lifting the last of his espresso in a little toast. “To soft launches.”

You touched your mug to his and took a sip, the two of you smiling at each other over the rims.

You were rather pleased with yourself as you sat down at the table marked with your family name. The tablescape was decadent with pink and white flowers, crisp linen pressed to perfection beneath the gleaming gold flatware and bone white china. Tiny menus rested at each place setting and were printed on thick, textured cardstock with  blush borders and embossed initials. Mimosas floated past in crystal clutches, delivered by white-gloved staff as the bridal shower brunch officially began beneath a silk-draped pergola on the Van der Woodsen terrace.

A harpist played delicately in the background, drowned only by the clinking of glasses and happy conversation around Serena. She was absolutely glowing in her white floor length gown and long white gloves, the essence of bridal straight from a magazine. 

But it wasn’t the atmosphere that had you feeling so content. No, the smile tugging at the corner of your lips was from the fact that you’d sent the bait and people were flocking to it. Your soft launch with Harry had gone perfectly. You went unnoticed in the coffee shop but public online, it was purposely vague and yet sparked obsession across Gossip Girl and your DMs. Your plan was working. And across the table, it made your mother’s glare taste even better.

“Honestly, you think you’d want to actually be on time given the circumstances.” she scoffed as she aggressively snapped her napkin across her lap. Her greying hair was scraped back into an uptight bun, silver Tiffany hoops glittering in her ears and a beautiful, fresh look to her makeup. She was the picture of nobility, even as she sat across burning daggers into you. 

And you too looked put together, good enough to pretend our weekend scandal never happened. A gauzy, floor length floral dress tickled your ankles, with woven wedges and golden teardrop earrings to accompany your understated look. But you could still feel the eyes, the whispers, the people around you looking over. 

You knew your headline wouldn’t die with a simple coffee date exposition. 

“I wasn’t even that late,” you muttered, sipping at the bubbly flute of champagne and orange juice. The look she gave you doesn’t go unnoticed, but it was cut off by another voice behind you.

“Did you really block my number again?”

You didn’t even have to turn to see who it was.

“Are men even allowed at these things?” you asked your mother flatly, ignoring the voice behind you.

Your mother exhaled, “Charles,” she said in greeting, though tired, “thank you for joining us. But yes…usually it is just the women who come to these.”

You glanced over your shoulder to see your brother with his hands gripping the back of your chair. Impeccably dressed, a crisp blue blazer and freshly cut hair. Of course, he also had a faint white dusting beneath his one nostril.

“How’re the donuts?” you smiled sweet as syrup, using your code for wipe your fucking nose, dumbass.

He clocked your meaning with a swipe to his nose with the back of his hand. “Delicious,” he murmured with a mocking smile, reaching for a glass of champagne like it was a handshake.

“But seriously,” he added as he flopped into the seat beside you, “are you mad at me or is this about your Girls Gone Wild debut?” 

“Can people please stop calling it that?” you whined into your hand, covering your face, “I especially don’t need to be hearing it out of my own brother’s mouth, Chuck.”

He shrugged, “Kind of iconic, sis,”

“Charles.” your mother hissed with a scowl.

“Where’s B?” you asked him, hoping to god for a change of subject.

Chuck didn’t look at you as his jaw tightened and he stared out onto the terrace.

“Busy, I think.” he finally said.

You narrowed your eyes, “Busy with what? I just talked to her last night. She’s supposed to be here too.”

He leaned back in his chair and downed the rest of his glass. “I didn’t ask. She said not to come over last night, so I didn’t.” His voice was casual, but you knew him too well, there was a crack in it, right under the surface.

You didn’t press, you rarely did. It was their thing, whatever strange, codependent gravity held them together all these years. You’d long since stopped trying to understand it, and it wasn’t worth messing into anymore, even if it was the strangest feeling in the world: having your brother and best friend dating, that is.

But before you could say anything else, you felt a shift in the air, could smell warm perfume and that glowing Serena energy that always preceded her like a weather front.

“There you are!” she beamed, sliding up behind your chair and throwing her arms over you. You stood automatically, turning into her embrace, your arms sliding around her waist in return. Her hair brushed your cheek, smelling clean and floral and always so impossibly soft, and for a moment it felt like being sixteen again, sneaking out of benefits and charity galas just to smoke in the park and talk about boys you’d never marry.

She squeezed you once more than necessary.

And then, right beside your ear, voice low and lilting, she said, “Harry?”

You pulled back, blinking. For a second, you forgot where you were. She was smiling tightly, eyes bright enough to register the glee beneath it all. Your pulse spiked.

She knew. You didn’t know how, but she knew. 

She gave a tiny nod, conspiratorial, and you mirrored it automatically, your body moving before your brain could catch up. 

She giggled, delighted, and pulled you back into her arms

“I won’t tell a soul until you’re ready!” she whispered like it was sacred, “I recognized the Darius ring immediately!”

Your stomach dropped. Because if she knew, if she could identify it from a vague, cropped, untagged post over morning coffee... then everyone else wasn’t far behind. You’d set the match and the fuse was lit.

It was only a few seconds that you held each other there, but as you let go of each other you realized your hands were clammy when you reached for your champagne glass. You’d wanted this, you’d pictured how it’d go, when people would finally figure it all out and the gossip would start. But it was another thing to see the knowing in Serena’s eyes. To realize it had worked.

And the nicest thing about her was that she never asked about your messes or pressed you to do better or change your ways. She had her own fallouts once, and you were each other’s favorite bad influence until she got help junior year and started using words like boundaries and healing. But even now—clean, radiant, engaged—she wasn’t sanctimonious. She never needed you to explain yourself.

She just watched, knew, kept secrets like a dragon keeping its jewels. And she didn’t miss much, least of all a man’s ring.

The following week, you arrived at the Gala with your nerves fluttering beneath a glittering, bespoke Gucci gown. As the car crept behind a long line of black SUVs outside the Met, you ran your hands over the hand-sewn jewels stitched across the fabric, trying to steady yourself. The fabric clung like a second skin, sheer and opalescent, dusted with crystals that caught every flicker of light. Soft tulle spilled from your hips in delicate, weightless layers, each one shifting like smoke when you moved. The bodice swept off your shoulders in an ethereal curve, barely there, as if the entire dress had been spun from stardust and breath.

Outside the windows, camera flashes strobed like lightning. Journalists, paparazzi, and red carpet interviewers stood pressed against barricades while celebrities floated past them, their stylists, managers, and handlers hovering just out of frame. Everything looked exactly as it always did every year, controlled and perfect and expected. But something about this time felt heavier, almost electric.

Maybe it was you, maybe it was the buzz of cameras flashing in your face while you were sober this time. Maybe it was the fact you and Harry were going public tonight. The thought of him made your stomach turn and flutter into your lungs. 

The moment your driver opened the door, everything shifted. The hum of the carpet swelled into a roar with the snaps of camera flashes and sharp cries of your name cutting through the night. From the left and the right, voices shouted, whistles pierced the air, all of it crashing toward you in a dizzying rush of flashbulbs and frenzy.

Typically, you just waltzed into these without so much commotion, just a pretty daughter of a major donor to the museum. But tonight there was no chance you’d sneak by with only one or two photos. At least this time your dress, though it clung to every curve, was full coverage. Elegant and thoughtfully styled and tailored to your body. Not like last Saturday when your nipples made headlines.

Your heels hit the carpet and you glided forward, plastering your best soft smile across your face, though the redness in your cheeks was hard to miss. You didn’t stand for photos, you kept moving, kept walking, because you thought your knees might give out if you didn’t. 

Just find your family, find your table and your family and just sit before you throw up.

And then, once mercifully inside the grand doorway, a softer, elegant buzz fell around the room and you let out a long breath. Crystal chandeliers glowed above long tables dressed in gold and white, set between marble statues and famous paintings. It was breathtaking, curated within an inch of its life.

You spotted your mother and father at a table across the room and began to move towards them, when you were suddenly stopped short. There, stepping directly into your path, was a woman with a sleek, dirty-blonde bob and an icy blue coat draped over her shoulders. Her sequined gown shimmered with an elegance that commanded a room without question.

“Anna-!” you blurted, “Ms–Ms. Wintour, how are you?”

She didn’t smile or even reply to your greeting. Her eyes were like sharp daggers through silk.

“Miss Montclair,” she said crisply, “You were removed from the guest list earlier this week due to recent…events.”

The words hit like a slap across the face. You almost wish she had slapped you instead.

Your mother’s words from last week rang through your mind as you stared into Anna’s cold, green eyes.

You can forget about your cover with Forbes. Vogue sure isn’t going to take you back.

And here was the truth, standing in your path— the editor and chief of Vogue herself telling you that you were no longer welcome. 

“I—what?”

“Your family is, of course, still welcome. I believe they’re in their seats right now. But you were struck from the official list.”

You didn’t even realize how tight your hands had curled until your fingernails pressed so hard into the palms of your hands you thought you might start bleeding. You glanced over her shoulder at your mother who was suddenly not looking at you at all.

So this was how it happened. Your first public appearance since the scandal, in front of every person who mattered, and you were going to be escorted out.

You felt your chest tighten—your throat caught, eyes already hot.

But then, there was a warm hand at the small of your back.

“Ah, Ms Wintour, thank you for finding my date.”

You turned, and there he was.

Flawless in all black Tom Ford, tie knotted perfectly and not a single hair out of place. He stood beside you, his chest emitting warmth as it brushed your shoulder, steady and calm as his eyes met Anna’s without blinking.

“Mr. Castillo–” Anna said, surprised.

“I’ll take her to her seat now, thank you,” he said calmly.

“You’re attending together?”

“Yes,” Harry said, “she’s my guest tonight.”

There was a long pause as Anna looked between the two of you, her eyes momentarily caught on the way his arm was around you.

“Very well,” she said with a nod, stepping back. And just like that, she turned and disappeared into the crowd of curated faces and brand sponsored gowns.

You stood frozen, watching her go.

You heard Harry’s voice, so gentle beside you, as it brought you back to the moment, “You okay?”

You took in a gulp of air, remembering yourself, and nodded. He didn’t say anything else before gently guiding you forward, hand staying at the small of your back, through the velvet ropes and into the glittering madness of the main hall.

“You look really nice tonight,” he whispered in your ear as you closed in on the table with your family. It was decorated with white orchids and gold place cards, and you could just make out your name when he stopped you. He turned you towards himself, his hand coming up to your upper arm, steady and gentle.

“Thanks,” you swallowed, but your voice felt so small. You weren’t sure all you were thanking for, but it was for everything, really. For saving you from social torment, for guiding you through the buzzing crowd when you could barely catch your breath. Maybe even for the compliment.

He smiled, just slightly, then lifted a hand to your chin. His thumb brushed softly against it before he glanced behind you. He nodded once, tight, toward your family before turning away and melting into the crowd.

You watched him for a long moment, already being stopped by some hedge fund heir in a pearl bespoke tux.

Sinking slowly into your seat, you could already feel your mother watching, your father’s eyes on the back of Harry’s head.

Both of them confused, and more than anything, furious.

“Care to explain what exactly that was?” your mother said tersely over the rim of her champagne flute.

The swell of the room came back to you as if you were stuck in a whirlwind and finally climbing back out. Around you, the long table buzzed with idle chatter as guests admired the floral arrangements, whispered about other guest’s attire, and traded gossip beneath the glow of crystal chandeliers.

“Can we do this later?” you managed to say, barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure you had it in you to explain everything in the midst of your near social exile.

Your mother opened her mouth to object, but your father cut in first. “She’s right. Later.” and then his deep, stern eyes were on you, “But I expect to hear about it.”

You gave a small nod, grateful for the reprieve, even if temporary, just as Blair slid gracefully into the seat beside you.

She looked like she’d walked out of a fashion editorial, or perhaps an old film—her deep plum gown cut sleek and sharp across her collarbones, the satin catching the light like still water. A band of silver sequins wrapped low around her hips, subtle but stunning, accentuating the drape of the fabric. Her hair was curled softly around her shoulders, her expression calm but knowing.

She didn’t say anything at first, simply reached for her water, took a slow sip, and then leaned in slightly toward you. “You looked incredible,” she murmured. “Even with the parental firing squad.”

You smiled, immediately at ease with your best friend beside you.

“I’m so glad you’re here, B.”

“Please. Like I’d miss this circus. Besides, half of these people are wearing Waldorf gowns, you think my mother would let me miss out on her chance to boast?”

You exhaled, shoulders lowering just slightly. Around you, the room went from a buzzing livewire to hushed tones and the scrape of chairs as everyone took their seats. With Blair beside you, you almost felt like you could face everything the night had in store.

And when all the glitz and glamor dissolved into a haze of flashbulbs and farewells, you found yourself grateful to slip away from the velvet ropes and instead, behind a nondescript steel door with music blaring from inside.

The speakeasy was low-lit and smoky, filled with only the right people. No flashing cameras or press agents. Just velvet booths, a marble bar backlit in soft amber, and a jazz band in the corner with a singer who looked like she was plucked straight from a 20’s Hollywood movie. You let your shoulders drop as the door swung closed behind you, the noise of the outside world sealed off completely.

“Oh god,” Blair muttered beside you, adjusting her diamond earrings. “I see Chuck.”

You rolled your eyes. “He wasn’t even at the gala.”

“Exactly,” she hissed, already backing away. “Classic Chuck, always ruining my night when it’s just about to get fun. I’ll find you later, okay?”

You nodded, amused, and made your way toward the bar.

You ordered your dirty gin martini—Ice cold. Like frostbite. I want my hand to hurt just holding it. The bartender smirked as he went to make it, his gaze lingering too long at your neckline. You stared back blankly until he finally turned away.

Your fingers skimmed your phone screen as you leaned into the bar, scrolling through the expected: red carpet recaps, Vogue slideshows, slow-motion video of someone’s Glambot from the night. You caught sight of yourself in a carousel of photos—you, for once, not for scandal, but for style. A quiet thrill settled in your chest.

Then came a voice, low and close.

“And how many martinis are we thinking for tonight?”

You didn’t have to turn. “You really do have a knack for sneaking up on me tonight, Harry.”

He settled in beside you, his presence tall and steady and gleaming at the edges—like some sleek, expensive car pulling up beside yours at a red light.

“Only one,” you murmured to answer him when he didn’t say anything. “Just enough to take the edge off.”

He lifted his own glass, ice clinking faintly. “Tequila.”

“Of course,” you said, “Can’t help but wonder what that says about you.”

“Dangerously misunderstood,” he replied, deadpan.

You smirked.

The bartender set your drink down with a soft clink, and Harry’s hand brushed your lower back as he gestured toward a booth across the room.

The leather was black and glossy beneath the dim gold light that bounced from the sconces along the wall. Harry slid in first, and you followed, settling beside him as his free arm draped behind you along the top of the loveseat. The heat of him was immediate as he moved in closer. He smelled like sandalwood and amber, sharp and expensive. You could feel the weight of his presence, could hear the shift of his jacket as he leaned in. He was close enough to count the gold flecks in his dark, endless brown eyes.

“Did you have a good night?” you asked, keeping your voice smooth even as your pulse ticked higher. You tried not to shift under the burn of his nearness, tried to ignore the way your skin prickled where his breath grazed your cheek.

He nodded, his thumb lightly circling your wrist as his hand drifted closer on the table, casual but intentional.

“You're a natural,” you added, tilting your head up at him, trying to make it look like flirty banter to any wandering eyes. God he was close.

He mirrored your tilt with a slow, knowing smile. “I saw the bartender looking at you.”

You glanced back toward the bar and caught it. The glint of a phone, half-concealed behind the ice bin. Filming.

“I think he’s recording us,” you whispered when you looked back up to Harry. You leaned in slightly, your voice like a secret.

“What do you say we get this show on the road?” he asked. 

You faced him full, heartbeat quickening. “Okay.” you said, softer now.

“Come closer,”

You set your glass down. Condensation kissed your fingertips as you brushed your hand along the front of his tuxedo jacket, pulling him toward you. The room seemed to fall away—replaced by shadows, low voices, and his warmth beside you.

“I’m going to touch you now, okay?” he asked, and when you nodded, your throat too tight to speak, he added, “Let me know if it’s too much,” 

His breath fanned over your face, smelling like spearmint and alcohol and that oud wood cologne as his fingers trailed from your wrist to the bend of your elbow, cold from the glass of his drink. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin like reflex as he moved in closer—so close his nose nuzzled yours, then traced the high arc of your cheekbone, lingering at your temple before slowly sliding into your hairline, hidden from sight. His breath was warm, slow, steady.

You didn’t mean to grip his lapel so tightly. But your fingers curled anyway, holding him closer than maybe necessary, your knuckles brushing the silk pocket square as if searching for something to anchor you.

Your eyes fluttered shut and he hovered at your ear, close enough for the edge of his jaw to graze your skin.

And then, just when you thought he might pull back, he said: 

“Good job,” voice low, neither smug or insincere. You weren’t sure if he meant your touch, your composure, or the flush you could feel blooming high on your cheeks. Maybe all three.

You drew back slowly, your hand falling from his jacket as your eyes lifted to meet his. But not before they lingered for a second too long on his mouth. When you looked up again, his gaze was already there, steady and a little cheeky, the burned caramel of his eyes catching the soft light and holding your reflection inside them.

You offered him a smile, “Not bad for our first show, huh?”

He shifted slightly, his eyes flicking to the table just as your phone began to buzz beside your glass.

“You tell me,” he said, his voice lighter now, a smile playing at the edge of his mouth.

You picked up your phone, and for a moment, your smile threatened to widen. But you caught it quickly, schooling your expression into something more performative—eyes wide, just the right amount of shock, thumb frozen above the screen like you weren’t expecting exactly this.

Across your notifications, Gossip Girl was already doing what she did best.

“I am trying very hard not to look excited right now,” you whispered, keeping a hand over your mouth so no one could see your smile.

“Why, have I gotten you all twitterpated?” Harry said in your ear, reading the screen.

“Harry, it’s the twenty-first century, no one says that shit anymore,” you said, letting your smile break free as you dropped your hand to reach for your drink and took a sip. The alcohol was cooling against your burning skin, your parched throat, your heavy tongue. Everything felt so real suddenly, like it was snowballing further and further as you saw people around you reaching for their phones, reading their notifications, their eyes finding you in the corner of the room.

“So yes, I think we put on quite a show, don’t you?” Harry said, lifting his glass to his lips.

You leaned back just slightly, letting the confidence settle in your bones. “Close it out with a standing ovation?”

He laughed softly, then set his drink down and reached for you again, nodding. His hands found your waist and tugged you in, your shoulder bumping against his chest. Without another word, he pressed a single kiss to the high point of your cheekbone. Just a small, sweet, calculated gesture. The kind that would photograph beautifully under dim lights of the room.

“How’s that?” he asked in your ear.

You blinked, caught off guard.

“I was thinking of something a little more exciting, but I think that'll do.” you chuckled, voice low, eyes flitting to his lips before settling back on his eyes.

“Can’t give them everything they want,” he said, eyes twinkling.

You huffed in amusement, but then quietly asked, “Can I return the favor?”

His eyes flicked to yours, just a fraction of hesitation before he gave a subtle nod that was measured and careful, like everything he did.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to the edge of his jaw, where his five o’clock shadow covered his skin. It was brief and camera friendly, but still, the second your mouth met the warmth of his rough with scruffy face, your stomach gave a tight and fluttering twist.

“I’m starting to think you’re better at this than me, Castillo,” you murmured, your lips brushing just close enough to make sure he felt the words.

He smiled, soft and smug, “Wouldn’t dream of it, Montclair.”

note from the author: okay yes chuck is your brother and im pretending he doesn't have the last name Bass in this!! sorry bass lovers!! his dad sucked anyway!!

taglist: @ovaryacted, @boscogirlsworld, @or-was-it-just-a-dream, @marisemonteiroo, @obsessedwithjustaboutanything, @umadirectioner, @yslgreen, @blogwagenzmom, @ch0c01atech1p, @vickie5446, @silksepia, @maiamore, @avengersfan25, @indiegirlunited, @tofics, @magicxmiller, @stevie75, @littlcdarlin

[centaurianthropology]

I want to talk about fashion.  More specifically, I want to talk about fashion, and culture, and how the two come together.  Because theory of dress is one of those weird interests of mine, and I really enjoy deep diving into it.  And since my head is stuffed full of ‘Murderbot’ these days, I want to talk about fashion in the Corporation Rim and fashion in Preservation.

This is predominately speculation based on the scripts rather than directly what we see on screen.  As I mentioned in a previous post, I really like how much the show has managed to squeeze out of what is clearly a middling budget, and nowhere do I recognize that more than in the costuming.  It’s incredibly good for being incredibly economical, but I’ve got no budget to work within.  So I can just speculate to my heart’s content about how I think fashion works in both the CR and in Preservation, and how I would costume the show if I had the opportunity (and a gloriously unlimited budget).

THE CORPORATION RIM

I got to thinking about fashion in end-stage capitalism, and that was sort of what kicked off this portion of the essay.  I honestly imagine the modes, if not the forms, of fashion would be very similar in the CR as they are in our current-day, at least in some countries. 

To build a culture of fashion for the CR, I think it would be smart to draw on a few real-world examples.  The first is hyper-consumerism.  The CR is all about selling goods and services, and likely has the same non-sustainable perpetual-growth expectations of their companies that American corporations do today.  And how do you get infinite growth in fashion?  Constant turnover.  I think the five-minute trend-cycle currently seen in fashion would be in full effect in the CR, with aggressive and ‘personalized’ advertising selling the latest look as the real way to self-actualization.

I think the CR would say that they were all about self-expression.  After all, every single week you can buy a newer, better version of yourself!  See how much better you feel in these new clothes!  And the fact that you can keep up with trend cycles is a class signifier.  You can afford to replace your wardrobe every week.  Whether you can truly afford it or you’re going into debt to look rich, everyone is trying to play the game. 

But theirs is a homoginized self-expression, everyone wearing the same fashion for a week before a new trend comes along and everyone throws away their old wardrobe and orders another.  I imagine there are dozens of space Temus and space Shiens supplying the printer patterns for garment upon garment, all to chase the latest trend.  I think what the CR would almost certainly lack, much like current fashion in America, is any substantial fashion subculture or counterculture.  I think that, again, much like we see today, people may belong to subcultures on the Feed, but they can only express that part of themselves where no one can see.  When they’re out in public, they look like everyone else.  And I imagine that homogeneity would be rigidly enforced by a culture of shame and embarrassment.

I also think that cosmetic procedures would be not only widely available and accepted, but if you could afford it you started it an an early age.  I’m thinking of the Korean cosmetic procedures industry, and the culture of getting work done starting in Middle School, how crafting an idealized (homogenized) face is considered the height of beauty.  And I think about the Korean company that put out a style guide with facial proportions (and I believe cosmetic procedures) that would make a candidate look ‘employable’.  And just like the trend cycles in clothing, I would imagine that the procedures would also have cycles, different faces and bodies everyone with money can chase.  And that would be even more of a class divider.  Indentured or low-level workers wouldn’t be able to afford medical procedures for cosmetic reasons.  They likely can barely afford medical procedures for necessities.  Your face would tell everyone how wealthy you were, and the more ambitious lower-level employees would go to backstreet doctors to try to do it on the cheap.

It is a fashion dystopia to reflect a societal dystopia.  Clothing, people, and faces are all disposable.  Nothing is built to last.  You just try to make it to the next quarterly review without embarrassing yourself by looking too poor or ‘out of touch’.

PRESERVATION

Preservation, on the other hand, is a culture of hand-made.  Clothing, therefore, would not be disposable or plentiful.  Most people would own one or two outfits for a given occasion (work, school, leisure, fancy), and they would be owned for decades to be mixed, matched, modified, and patched.  Personalization would come far more from DIY modifications like embroidery, painting, dyeing, and add-ons like patches and collars and cuffs and ribbons and lace.  The work would sometimes be done by oneself, but just as often by a friend or a loved one.  We see that Arada sews and embroiders in the show.  She patches Bharadwaj’s uniform, and in the show notes they mention her embroidering everyone’s socks.  Ratthi makes his own jewelry. 

I would imagine that almost everyone on Preservation has some related skill to personalize clothing, and that they swap those skills around to further personalize what they have.  The work of their hands and hands of friends craft items that mean something.  Each modification is a memory, a gesture of love, making each piece of clothing a unique combination of dozens of hands and efforts.  Something truly personal and unique to that person, to be worn and loved as long as it possibly can. 

I imagine that, to outsiders who don’t understand their culture, they could look shabby, wearing dozens of clashing patterns, colors, random pieces of jewelry and patches and bits and bobs.  The notion of a popular ‘look’ is likely far less the common culture on Preservation, because your look depends on personal tastes, and what is locally available and able to be done by those around you. 

This is not to say that I think that Preservation fashion will be entirely without cohesion.  I think various pieces, fabrics, cuts, shapes, etc, will simply be culturally more common.  I like to think layering, both practical and interesting, would be common.  I think comfort and practicality would be common, but I also think whimsy and color would be equally common.  Lots of interesting jewelry, particularly of non-precious but beautiful stones, wood, and other natural materials.  Personalized tattoos, like Bharadwaj’s, as well as makeup looks, would also be common and meaningful either to culture or simply to the small group of people with whom a person shares an environment.  Preservation is a collectivist culture, so personal style is far more collective, influenced by the works and tastes of everyone around you, as well as yourself.  People certainly have preferences—I think Arada loves an oversized hand-knit sweater, and Pin-Lee likes asymmetry and really bold geometric patterns—but those tastes are elaborated by your immediate community.

Natural materials would be preferred over synthetics across the board.  Natural and organic forms in clothing, extensive patterning (dyed and painted and woven and embroidered), knits and crochet and other fun handmade construction techniques. 

I take a lot of inspiration from Afro futurism and from the Indigenous fashion scene as design inspirations, particularly for shapes and patterns.  (I admit I may be working on civilian designs for the entire PresAux crew).  The fashion shows in Santa Fe are a major inspiration, but also hippie styles from the late 1960s to earliest 1970s, before it was fashionable, and a lot of the gear was heavily modified or hand-made itself. 

I would love to see a show with a crazy budget really go in for hand-made items, with multiple cultural inspirations, creating a very different vision of a sci-fi future from the sterile visions of homogenized Western culture we often see.  Something colorful, fun, fashionable, not bleak or boring or earth-tone-poor-laborers-in-a-dystopia or only-the-rich-evil-queers-can-afford-color, but truly embracing fashion as a cultural expression. Having fun with it! Letting it be living and wild and fun in a way that, inevitably, some of our very CR-leaning-cultural audience would find embarrassing.

Just as much as the hellish five-minute-trend-cycle of the CR would be incredibly fun to visualize, so too would sourcing, commissioning, and creating the vibrant culture of Preservation through its fashion.

[theotherbuckley]

Maddie knew that there were risks, having another baby at her age. But risks were one thing to consider, yeah it was possible… but you never really expected them to actually happen to you. 

Getting told during her ultrasound that her baby boy would likely have Down syndrome, scared her a lot more than she’d like to admit. She knew she’d love her baby no matter what, but she was not immune to being scared. 

Scared of ruining her child’s life. Scared of running away. Scared of not being good enough for a boy who’d need her most.

Howie was ecstatic to learn he was having a baby boy. It didn’t faze him that his son would probably have Down syndrome. He didn’t care. He was over the moon with joy. 

Maddie wished she could be more like that. But she was worried. Worried that she wasn’t built for this. She wasn’t even there for Jee when she should have been. Still, she tries so hard not to dwell on the past, the what ifs.

When Lee Robert Han is born, she knows she’s fallen in love all over again. He’s smiling even as a newborn, looking up at her with his almond-shaped eyes sparkling. And yeah, she’s in love with her baby. 

She’s scared though, underneath the immense love she feels there’s this nagging voice inside. She’s still so fucking scared because she did this to her baby, and what if she’s not a good enough mom for him?

Everyone tells her how beautiful he is (she knows), and everyone congratulates them, eyes watering over the tribute to Bobby. But nobody really talks about it. Except Buck spewing facts he’d learnt in his latest research binge so that he could ensure he’d be the favourite uncle to the little boy. She’s so grateful for him, but nobody else really acknowledges the implications of the boy’s condition, until…

“Hey,” Eddie says, sitting down beside her bed. 

The two have never been close, which is surprising considering the man is her brother’s best friend, her husband’s colleague, and part of her extended family. Regardless, she’s a little surprised when he stays behind once everyone else has left for the night, and Howie home with Jee. 

“Hi, Eddie,” she replies back a little curiously.

Eddie fidgets beside her, mouth opening and closing like he’s figuring out what to say. She recognises the time to be quiet and waits whilst he gathers himself, finally articulating his thoughts.

“When Christopher was diagnosed with CP I reenlisted for a second tour,” Eddie starts, and Maddie lets out a small involuntary breath as she processes what he’s telling her. 

“I told myself then, that it was to provide for my family. You know, medical bills are expensive. That’s what I said. Shannon was furious. And I told myself I was doing the right thing for them.” Eddie takes a breath and Maddie waits patiently for him to continue, her eyes flickering to her baby laid in the crib beside her.

“I didn’t leave because of the money. We could have figured it out. I left because I was so damn afraid. And I didn’t wanna screw that kid up. Shannon kept telling me that she was sorry and that she didn’t know how to fix it. Like, it was her fault that Chris has CP and that that meant something was wrong with him. For a long time, I let her apologise, because I was scared too. But I regret not being there for her then, not being there for both of them. I wouldn’t change Christopher for the world. And I know that if she were here, she’d feel the same.”

There’s tears falling down Maddie’s cheeks as he speaks. She tells herself it’s the hormones but it’s not. 

“Eddie…”

”At the start, I know she was scared, and I know she blamed herself as though she’d hurt her son. But Christopher is Christopher, and I love him so much.” Eddie looks up at Maddie, staring her in the eyes. “I’m telling you this because I know— I know other people don’t really understand. But listen to me when I say, you didn’t fail your boy. He’s perfect.”

She chokes out an involuntary sob at his words. Melting into his touch when he wraps an arm around her pulling her gently into his side. Offering up a little bit of comfort which she takes eagerly.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “I want to be there for him, for everything, I don’t want to run this time. But— but sometimes I just worry that maybe he’d be better off if I did,” she admits, verbalising her internal thoughts. She was too scared of upsetting Howie, but Eddie— Eddie seems to understand.

Eddie shakes his head. “I can’t go back in time and change how I reacted then. But I can be here now and tell you that we are all here for you. And I know you’re going to raise an amazing boy. Just remember he’s not broken, and you’re not broken. I— I wish Shannon were here because I know that she’d understand, more than I do, but I’m here if you need anything. Okay?”

“Thank you, Eddie.”

“Of course,” he says, standing up. “I’ll let you get some rest.”

She lets him go before scooping her son into her arms. She feels lighter already, even though her worries still plague her. She’s not alone, her family is there and she doesn’t know what she’d do without them.

“I love you,” she whispers to the bundle sleeping against her chest. “I love you.”

For @hiineedholywater who came up with the idea for Lee 💜

@911hiatuspositivity Kid fic

[redeemingvillains]

ch1: the salt & shadow - sea captain!mattheo riddle

summary: His plan was simple. Spend a season on the frozen waves off Dutch Harbor, catch as much as possible, make as much money as possible, and don't fucking die. Easy enough. Until he met the only thing that scared him more than his rig tipping in a tidal wave: you.

word count: 1.7k

a/n: i genuinely have no idea where this concept came from, but i'm in love with it. almost all of this is completely made up, though it was heavily inspired by deadliest catch; the type of fishing they do is considered one of the deadliest jobs in the world. the death rate during the main season averages out to nearly one fisherman per week, while the injury rate for crews on most boats is nearly 100% due to the severe weather and the danger of working with such heavy machinery on a constantly rolling boat deck 🥺* 

⪼ sea captain!mattheo (home)

You huddled into yourself as the waves crashed loud and angry against the seawall beside you spraying a humid saltiness in the air that mixed in the icy wind leaving everything feeling damp and cold.

It was still dark as you pushed the heavy wooden door open and flicked on the lights. You set fresh candles in each of the windows, letting them flicker like beacons, like tiny lighthouses to the world outside.

It was blessedly warm inside, and you shed your jacket as you flipped on the coffee and the small radio, the gentle hum of both doing their job of waking you up as you listened to the rolling crash and boom of the waves just outside the windows, a sound as familiar to you as your own heartbeat, having been the steady melody of your whole life in Dutch Harbor.

You knew better than most how much those waves could give and just how much they could take away, but you didn’t let them consume you; everyone else in this town was weather worn and weary, like the sea was corroding them like the skeleton of the old pier, pulling them under day by day, because this was a fishing town, but not an ordinary one.

The men here weren’t looking for a nice bass or even a prize tuna, they hunted the predators that lurked in the depths, in the darkness; the things you’d seen them pull out of the water were enough to make you never want to get near it again, sharks the size of cars, and crabs like sea spiders, their legs as long as your own.

Their boats were big and loud, foreboding in the way they clanged like shackled ghouls in the harbor with names like Arctic Hunter, Devil’s Snare, The Bandit. And the men that manned them were salt and iron; strong, brusque, angry. Angry at the sea when it was calm, angry when it was rough. You’d learned at a very young age what it meant to curse like a sailor, your cheeks blushing crimson at what you'd hear behind the counter when you were old enough to work here, though it was yours now, The Salt and Shadow.

Perhaps you were lying to yourself but you thought you played a small part in making their sharp edges less jagged. When they came in now their shoulders dropped in relief, lured as to a siren to your flickering candlelight; your coffee, always scalding hot, with a secret dash of salt and a pinch of cinnamon had them dragging one another in until it became a regimen, a rule, a superstition, just like you didn't leave the dock on a Friday and you entered every establishment right-foot-first.

But no amount of warm liquid could change the fact that these men lived wild and raucous, with an intimate knowledge of just how short life could be. Because if they made it through the season, through just three months battling the Bering Sea, they could walk away with enough to live on for a year, but the cold, the tides, the black waves and the shadows beneath them did everything in their power to prevent it.

You heard the door chime and sure enough they came stumbling in, one and then another, with hangovers, split knuckles and black eyes, begging for something to make them feel alive again, to get them through another day. Each looked at you with tender affection, some with longing, most with the wisp of a daydream but every one of them knew better than to act on it, because the only thing that flew faster than rumors of what lurked beneath the water was your rule. Just one. You didn’t date sailors. No exceptions.

“What’s the deal there?” one of the rookies had muttered last season, nodding in your direction. The scratch of cutlery and chatter at the long table stopped and the seasoned elders at the far end put their forks down to look at him as they leaned back in their chairs.

The blood drained slowly from his face before one of the younger guys closer to him leaned in, counting off the pertinent facts on his fingers, a short but necessary lesson.

One. “She’s one of us."

Two. "She lost her brothers three seasons ago" he said, pointing to a picture of a pair of sailors behind you on the wall, arm in arm in front of a rig Stella Marina.

Three. "She doesn’t date sailors.”

The rookie weighed that information against your smile, the way you lovingly leaned over the counter, your head propped on your palm as you listened intently to a farfetched story one of the guys from another crew was telling you.

THWUMP

One of the elders midway down the table slammed a boning knife on the table hard enough to rattle their plates.

The rookie eyed the four-inch blade. Swallowed.

“Got it.”

Another season was around the corner now, whispering like the wind off the water that kicked up the fronds of the pine trees, shaking the string lights you’d hung outside.

It was late and technically you were closed, but you sat behind the counter, legs crisscrossed on a stool, leaning over your book, completely lost to the world when the heavy door swung open sending with it a gust of wind that flipped your pages, causing you to raise your head.

At some point the image of every man walking through your door had blurred together in the same silhouette of broad shoulders, strong arms, grease-stained hands and sand-covered boots; they’d wear a grimace, maybe a smirk... but something about this one made you pause.

Time slowed to seconds and you tilted your head as you tried to figure out what was decidedly... different about him.

It was his eyes, you realized, after a moment as you sat up a little bit straighter. He wore a familiar smirk, a cockiness that came with the profession, but his eyes were dark brown, warm, and like your coffee, swirling with cinnamon.

For a heartbeat he just stood there, looking around. Because he’d been in a hundred dockside coffee shops, but none that looked like this, soft, with fairy lights, candles, quiet music, seashells in the window and… a beautiful girl.

No, beautiful girls should be far far away from places like this.

He cleared his throat. “Coffee?” he said finally.

You nodded slowly, sliding off your stool and gesturing to a similar one across from you on the other side of the counter.

He shrugged off his heavy jacket and set it over the back of the stool before he sat and continued to look around. The whole room spoke of a love for the ocean, not in the usual pirate flags and fish mounted on the wall, but in photographs, books with worn spines, in mementos, his eyes slid over the picture of the two sailors hung prominently behind the counter.

“Black?” you asked, your back turned.

“Mhm” he muttered.

You sprinkled in salt and cinnamon before you turned and placed the huge mug in front of him.

He wrapped both hands around it appreciatively and allowed himself only a quick glance at you before he took a sip.

His head cocked back as he looked down at the amber liquid.

Dockside coffee shops weren’t supposed to look like this. Beautiful girls weren’t supposed to be here. And the coffee wasn’t supposed to taste this good.

He looked up to see you smiling knowingly, perhaps waiting for his feedback.

“S’good, s’really good” he admitted despite himself.

You smiled wider and he thought briefly he might be safer on the water than in here, with you.

“What’d you do to it?”

“It’s a secret” you said, crawling back onto your stool, and leaning across the counter into his airspace, confident, assuredly.

“A secret?” His eyebrow cocked.

He sat back slowly, appraising you, really looking at you, unabashedly drinking you in, the way you glowed softly in the light, the way your eyes sparkled both mischievous and calming; they reminded him of the water off Barbados that bobbed and rocked, unrushed and pleasant. He eyed your full lips and the way you tugged at the sleeve of your oversized sweater, noting that your ring finger was decidedly empty. Interesting.

“A secret” you confirmed. Then, “Shouldn’t you be—” your head cocked to the large window and down the cobblestone street where he could see the bright lights of the Fair Maiden, the only bar in Dutch Harbor and the people pouring in and out of the small doorway.

“Probably better if I’m not” he admitted, flexing his fingers.

“A sailor who’s not at the bar in the precious weeks before season?” you prodded, studying him. Interesting.

You sat back and your finger traced your bottom lip in thought as your eyes narrowed on him.

“Longshoreman or trawler...?” you pondered out loud, trying to figure out what had brought him here.

He traced the movement of your finger on your lip, back and forth, back and forth.

You smiled. “Your hands are stained with engine grease and I can see rope burn there too. You’re in a quiet café when you could be a bar, which means you’re smart… or trying to be… But your cheeks are windburnt and you have the sea written all over you.”

And he did, in the way he moved, steady and thoughtful, unused to spending long periods of time on even footing, his was gaze sharp like he knew nothing was certain, and his eyes held that telltale spark, that little bit of crazy every man needed to spend more time at sea than ashore.

You tapped your finger against your lip.

“Longshoreman, final answer” you concluded, thoroughly satisfied when he smiled and looked down at his lap. He didn’t have the heart to correct you. Not yet.

“Beauty and brains” he said, looking up at you.

Your heart tossed and tumbled sinking and then settling again as it thumped in your chest. But you pulled in a deep breath. You had a rule and you had it for a reason as you thought of the faces framed behind you: you wouldn’t love anyone that loved the ocean more, and you wouldn’t love anyone the ocean could steal from you.

“You’re sweet” you conceded. “But I regret to inform you of one very important rule that I have, one you should learn quickly if you’re going to last the season.”

His eyes never left you as he stared at you across the counter.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I don’t date sailors.”

He let out a breathy laugh, looking down as his finger trace the rim of his mug before his eyes shot to yours again.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m a captain, isn’t it?”

⪼ chapter 2 - coming soon!

⚓first mates: @kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf, @sleepiibunniiii @darlingshecried, @girllblogging777, @foivetimesacharm, @clar2aa, @broadwaybaby123, @slytherinscreamqueen, @loverliner, @smut-anarchy, @locknco, @wybieivy, @itznotsophia, @cipheress-to-k-pop, @aur0ral1ghts, @revesephemeres @midnights-with-him

[germiyahu]

It's also a red flag that Zohran Mamdani said, on camera, that Palestine was a cornerstone of his political development, and it's a core part of his identity now. Because he of course sees it as emblematic of the ills of the world. This is left wing populism.

He has that one unattainable pet issue and everything else coalesces around it. The Rightists want the Ethnostate, most of the rest of their policy ideas are in service of that. Project 2025 is their Bible. The Leftists want the end of American hegemony, and they don't care about the consequences. They view Palestine as a microcosm of every group of people America has ever oppressed. And so it is that every other policy platform must bend the knee to Palestine.

I think they know that this "end the American Empire and destroy NATO and any other American ally" fantasy is completely incompatible with "end capitalism and transition to a socialist luxury abundance economy," or maybe they don't.

But to them, Israel is not just a state that has and is committing human rights abuses (like many other states but whatever). It's the apotheosis of American influence in the Middle East, possibly the whole world. Just like the Rightists think there's a cabal of Jews funneling money to Democrats, encouraging mass immigration, and forcing Woke Ideology down everyone's throats to weaken the White Race and desecrate America's status as a Christian Nation, Leftists think there's a cabal of Israelis who are the last hurtle to ridding the world of violence, war, segregation, colonialism, even capitalism.

In fact, a lot of Leftists think climate change is tied to Palestine's liberation at this point.

But that's the thing, that anyone with a brain could tell you. Freeing Palestine, and I mean from the river to the sea, purging "Zionists" everywhere... will do nothing to fix climate change (considering all the Israeli technology that would be lost in the chaos and the probable desertification of the land, it would be a detriment to climate action), will do nothing to stop global capitalism, will do nothing to quell the rising tide of fascism. Just like doing whatever the Rightists think should be down about George Soros won't fix any of their perceived problems.

So when a politician is very close to becoming the mayor of the largest city in America, and he thinks like this? No, it's not a cute look. Thankfully, he'll have to contend with the entire governmental apparatus of local and state politics. He'll have to compromise, he'll have to take his job seriously and not just wield power to pursue his ideological purity crusade. And the Leftists will turn on him just like they turn on every Leftist who acquires power and is then forced to use it responsibly to, you know... govern?

They don't want a competent mayor, even one with new ideas that probably wouldn't pass a vote. They want a revolution. They want the free stuff they were promised, including a Free Palestine. In actuality, those are all just words, and when it comes to Israel and Palestine, when they can't get what they wish for snapped into existence, one of two things happens:

The more normal supporters are content to just use this all as virtue signaling. They will "own" Israelis on Twitter, stick out their tongues and say "Hahaha New York City has a pro Palestinian mayor! You tried to silence us!" and they will turn a blind eye to antisemitism of course. They never cared. Their only interest is in being sore winners and "punishing" the Democratic Party.

The deranged supporters will go out and do antisemitism, because they're frustrated that politics are politics and Zohran Mamdani can't arrest Netanyahu through the ether, can't shoot his eye lasers at Israel and disintegrate the entire IDF at once. So they'll keep protesting, keep harassing Jews, keep threatening Jews, keep assaulting Jews, and keep killing Jews. Mamdani will give the most milquetoast condemnations and try to keep the focus on Palestinians, and in the process tacitly encourage the deranged supporters to keep up the good work.

The "normal" supporters will then demand that we all should focus on shielding Mamdani from Republican attacks and yellow journalism, all while they gaslight Jews. I mean, the Leftists are now saying that it's actually Israel holding the reins, and America is the puppet. So they don't even believe it's American hegemony anymore. They fully believe it's Zionist hegemony, and that's responsible for colonization, war, genocide, global economic systems that keep hundreds of millions of people poor and hungry... they're antisemites!

They think Jews control the world. I don't know Zohran Mamdani and I never will, but how could I not narrow my eyes in suspicion if he openly talks about having the same thought patterns? I would not be shocked if he also thinks Jews control the world.

[stickandthorn]

I know the horse is already long dead, but a thematic issue with C3 that has stuck out to me more and more as time has passed is class- especially when compared to the C2.

While C2 wasn’t necessarily explicitly about class, class was a huge underlying theme in both the larger narrative and for individual characters. We see a lot of examples of class disparity, like when Caleb was barred for entering the Tri-Spires because he looked too lower class to enter, and then had his cat kicked by the guard barring him. Much of the plot of the early campaign is driven by the Mighty Nein trying to earn enough money to make do, but beyond that, class disparity becomes a crucial part of the ealry plot.

The Knights of Requital are a group fighting against corruption in Zadash, and they explicitly lay out how these corrupt officials create poverty, suffering, and injustice amongst the lower classes of Zadash. While this story line isn’t followed up on iirc, it connects to the larger questions of corruption in Wildmounte and the Cerberus Assembly the campaign deals with on a larger scale.

Class is also baked into many of the character’s backstories. Caleb is a very obvious example, his years of homelessness, his background in a poorer rural area that (at least in part) made him an easy target for Trent, but he isn’t the only one. Fjord and Veth’s struggles with poverty are foundational to their characters, and contrast with Beau and Jester’s wealthier upbringings. We see these disparities in the party dynamics, such as the conflict that arose over Jester seeing 50 gold as nothing, when that amount of money was more than Caleb’s family made in a year.

Even as class becomes less relevant to the characters and the overall plot, the themes of class built up in the early episodes shape how the Mighty Nein interact with the world through the whole campaign. While I’m not arguing C2 does an especially good or thorough examination of class (I have critiques for another post), nor an especially bad one, it’s a clear element of the story and the world that is engaged with.

C3 sets up a lot of the same stuff as C2 does. Jrusar has clear class disparity, with wealthier sections of the city literally being built over the poorer sections of the city lower in the spires, and the characters both see these disparities and interact with the systems that create them. Class is baked explicitly into many character’s backstories. Ashton is an orphan from a very poor area, and is directly coded as a crust punk, a real world subculture that (afaik) largely came out of struggles with real world class disparity. On the other hand, Dorian comes from an extremely wealthy and sheltered upbringing. Laudna was a farm girl killed as a powerplay by the elite of her city, and Imogen comes from a rural background that is comparable to Veth’s.

But all of this set up is completely neglected throughout the larger story. Bells Hells almost immediately get monetary sponsorship and never have to worry about money, the issues with class and the government in Jrusar are abandoned in favor of a large scale fantasy story, and the characters work happily with governments and leadership across the globe without any thought to the systems they run. While there are a lot of nods to class in Bazurus or in the Ruby Vanguard’s recruitment of impoverished and neglected people as a vague metaphor for class or other systematic disparities, these nods never turn into anything more. The character’s don’t even have to think about money for the majority of the story.

I think the best example of this Laudna. When she died and was taken to Whitestone, her story line had nothing to do with why she was killed, it was all about who killed her. Laudna was killed because she, as a poorer citizen of Whitesone, was considered disposable. This theme is nodded to earlier on, but her arc in Whitestone, her murder is fully removed from any larger context. Her death is narratively attributed to Delilah’s cruelty and not any larger systemic issue. The resolution to this arc is fighting the specter of Delilah with the help fo Whitestone’s current rich elite. Therefore her death is framed as the bad deeds of one bad actor, motivated by general villainy, and not any systemic issue that could be connected to the current or past rulers of Whitestone. Class is inherent to her backstory, it is at least implied to be a thematic part of her story by the players and by Matt that will be explored, but it never is.

I’m not saying C3 has to be a story about class. If it hadn’t engaged with class at all, I wouldn’t be mad. But C3 set up class as an element of the story the exact same way C2 did, more so even with the weird vague metaphors of the Gods and the Ruby vanguard that can vaguely be interpreted as about class, and then refused to actually engage with class in any real way.

[big-poppa23]

Something Like Her Part Seven

synapse: fate was on their side. they lived and now, they were gonna get that happy ending in thailand like they talked about

pairing: cho hyun-ju x female reader

contains: implied abusive ex-boyfriend, bit of transphobia, bit of homophobia

a/n: so i’m very tempted to watch the glory as my second k-drama ever specifically because of that beautiful man so yeah im writing him in this (cuz why not and reader has a ‘type’ lol-just park sung-hoon aka also my type) i could be very wrong with the way im writing his character so sorry, its based on what ive read about him. One more thing: im gonna be writing one shots for my queen after this but I consider this an ending

. . .

It had been days since the Games ended.

Days since the final vote passed in a landslide.

Days since they were blindfolded, loaded into vans, and dumped back into the real world—this time with ₩1.724 billion in their bank accounts. Blood money. Dirty. Heavy. But enough to buy silence… or a second chance.

Her parents didn’t even want to look at her when she came home. They screamed. Called her things they hadn’t said since she was a teenager. “Filth.” “Sinner.” “Ruined.” And when they saw Hyun-ju standing behind her—quiet, still, unflinching—they turned uglier.

So she kissed Hyun-ju in front of them.

Not gentle. Not shy. Deliberate.

And she didn’t look back.

Now, she stepped out of a taxi into the muted gray of Incheon Airport’s morning fog. Her arm was still in a sling, healing slower than she liked.

She tugged her suitcase behind her, boarding pass clutched in her good hand, eyes scanning the crowd.

And then—

Pain jolted through her shoulder as she collided with a hard chest, sending her sprawling onto the cold tile floor.

“Fuck—shit,” she muttered, breath catching as she scrambled for her ticket.

A familiar voice cut through the din.

“Y/N?”

She froze.

Her stomach dropped before her eyes even found him.

Jeon Jae-joon.

Polished to a fault. Designer shoes that never scuffed. Tailored coat draped over his arm like he’d just walked out of a fashion spread. That same effortless cologne. That same condescending smirk. Her parents loved him. Wanted her to marry him.

God, she hated how fast he could twist her back into that old version of herself.

“Didn’t think I’d see you crawling around like a stray dog,” he said coolly, looking her over like she was dirt in Dior. He offered a hand—more mockery than help. She didn’t take it.

“Still too proud?” he mused. “Some things don’t change.”

She stood on her own, jaw tight.

“I thought you’d disappeared for good. What happened—run out of places to sleep? That what the sling’s for? You finally tried to fuck the wrong man?” he remarked.

She said nothing.

But of course, silence never stopped Jae-joon. He took a step closer, his eyes sharp as glass. “I never said we were over, you know.”

She didn’t move.

His fingers wrapped around her arm. Possessive. Familiar. “You loved me once.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“You disappear without a word and think I’d just forget you?” he muttered, his grip tightening. “You owe me answers.”

“I don’t owe you a damn thing.”

His expression hardened. He leaned in close, his voice low enough to burn. “Always had a mouth on you. Always needed someone to remind you who you belonged to. Maybe I should remind you right here—”

“Let go of her.”

The voice was soft. But it cut through him like a blade.

Jae-joon turned, slow and smug—until he saw her.

Hyun-ju stood just feet away. Calm. Steady. Dressed in black jeans and a bomber jacket, eyes sharp beneath her fringe.

He blinked. Then scoffed. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m her girlfriend.”

His lips parted in surprise before he barked out a harsh laugh. “Girlfriend?” He glanced back at Y/N. “This is what you ran to? Are you fucking serious?”

“Dead serious,” Y/N said, her voice flat.

“You’re a dyke now?” He looked Hyun-ju up and down, sneering. “She doesn’t even look like a woman.”

Hyun-ju didn’t flinch. “You don’t look like a man. Just a boy used to people flinching when he snaps.”

“Watch your mouth, bitch—”

She stepped closer. “Walk. Away.”

“Or what?”

Her voice dropped. Low. Lethal. “You don’t want to find out what I’ve done to men who touched her without permission.”

For the first time, he hesitated.

Hyun-ju didn’t break eye contact.

Finally, Jae-joon scoffed, brushing imaginary lint off his suit as he looked at Y/N. “Whatever. You’re not worth it. Never were.”

“Neither were you,” Y/N said.

“Charity case,” he remarked as he walked away, muttering something else under his breath—but he didn’t look back.

Only when he was gone did Y/N let out the breath she’d been holding. Her hand trembled, the adrenaline crashing down all at once. Hyun-ju reached for it and held it. “You okay?” she asked.

Y/N gave a small nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“You don’t owe him anything,” Hyun-ju said gently. “Not even a reaction.”

“I’m not scared of him anymore,” she whispered. “I just… realized there are better people in the world.”

Hyun-ju smiled faintly. “You better be talking about me.”

“Who else would I be talking about?” she said, lips twitching into a smile.

Her gaze dropped to Hyun-ju’s leg—still favoring it. The stab wound. Hidden under clean stitches and compression bandages, but obvious in the way she limped.

“You sure you’re good to walk?”

“We’re about to sit on a plane for five hours,” Hyun-ju said dryly. “I’ll survive.”

“That’s what we do best.”

They didn’t say anything after that.

They just held hands.

And walked into the terminal together.

. . .

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting streaks of orange and pink across the sky. The air was warm and still, heavy with the scent of salt and blooming frangipani. Somewhere in the distance, the ocean whispered against the sand.

Y/N stood barefoot on the patio, her arms resting on the railing of their new home overlooking the coast. Loose linen pants clung gently to her hips, her shoulder still stiff in its sling but healing. The breeze lifted strands of her hair, carrying them across her face, and she didn’t bother to tuck them back. She just breathed.

Thailand was different. Slower. Quieter.

For once, she wasn’t looking over her shoulder.

Behind her, soft footsteps padded across the wood. A moment later, warm lips pressed to her bare shoulder—gentle, reverent. Hyun-ju’s arms slid around her waist from behind, and a glass of iced tea appeared in her hand.

“Still out here?” Hyun-ju asked softly, resting her chin on Y/N’s good shoulder.

“Mm,” she hummed, gently taking the glass of iced tea from her. “Didn’t want to go back in yet.”

Hyun-ju didn’t answer, just kissed her again—this time behind the ear—and stayed pressed to her back like she belonged there. Y/N leaned into her, letting the warmth soak into her skin.

“It doesn’t feel real yet,” Y/N whispered after a while. “This. Us. All of it.”

“It is,” Hyun-ju said softly. “We made it real.”

Y/N finally turned slightly, just enough to see her. “Do you ever think about it? The Games?”

Hyun-ju hesitated. “…Sometimes. In pieces. Mostly in dreams.”

“Me too,” she admitted. “But then I wake up and you’re here. And it gets a little easier.” Y/N looked down at the drink in her hand, then turned her face toward her. “We probably should’ve died in there.”

“But we didn’t.”

Y/N exhaled. “Do you think they’ll come looking for us? I know we voted to leave but…”

Hyun-ju’s arms tightened just slightly around her. “Let them.”

That made Y/N smile. “You’re always the calm one. Even back in the dorms.”

“I wasn’t calm,” she said. “I was terrified. Of losing you.”

Silence stretched between them for a beat, heavy and full of unsaid things.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her gaze dropping, vulnerable and soft. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to have this. You. A home. A real home.”

“You do now. And I have you.”

Another beat passed.

Then, in a voice just above a whisper, Hyun-ju said it:

“I love you.”

Y/N froze. Slowly turned in her arms. Her eyes searched Hyun-ju’s—no hint of fear there, just quiet certainty.

She reached up, brushing a hand against her cheek. “Say it again,” she whispered.

Hyun-ju smiled. “I love you.”

Y/N closed her eyes, breathed it in like air. “I love you too.”

The kiss that followed was soft. Lingering. No urgency. No desperation. Just warmth. Just peace. The kind of kiss you give when you know—truly know—that the worst is behind you.

And the future, for once, is theirs.

[identitty-dickruption]

the worst fucking part of how the NDIS assesses applicants is that you have to have already had a certain amount of medical care before they even consider your application. I'm not talking about diagnosis here (although obviously diagnosis also can be expensive and difficult). I'm talking about the fact that you need to prove that your condition is stable And that the NDIS would be able to provide things that would make your life better. which is to say. they need you to have tried every possible treatment on the planet and have doctors notes saying "nah the bitch did not get better after that". one physiotherapist appointment costs me $65 WITH my chronic health plan. one rheumatologist appointment costs me around $400. so far, the costs of all of the diagnostic work I've had done is in excess of $4k. I am a phd student who receives exactly $0.00 (nothing nada fuck all) from my parents. and I cannot emphasise enough that none of that shit is enough to qualify me for NDIS despite... uhh.. *gestures broadly at my body and mind*

even some abled allies seem to act like getting government assistance with disabilities is doable for most disabled people. I need to emphasise the extent to which this is just Not true. you need a certain amount of privilege and money and access to medical resources in order to earn government funding, and this does leave a lot of vulnerable disabled people without anything. and this is before I even talk about how dehumanising these processes can be, and how much harder it is again for people with intersecting sources of oppression. if you're abled, I want you to spend ten minutes on the application websites for the NDIS and the DSP and think about how many hoops the average disabled person is having to jump through for access. because I can promise this shit is even worse than you think

[the-pallid-king]

"Yeah. A few videos." He smirks, amused in spite of the inconvenience of it. "They got all our good angles. It's a fun watch." He most definitely has one or two saved on his phone now.

He knows Ichigo wants an answer now, or as soon as possible. He knows it must be irritating to have to wait to ask again. Ichigo keeps bringing it up. He knows. He gets it. And he doesn't want to give the impression that he's on the fence. "I like him, but he's second choice hands down." He just really needs to be sure that Ichigo's sure.

Ichigo says that with such confidence that Shiro absolutely believes him. In this moment, he is exactly what Ichigo wants. But he was what Ichigo wanted before, maybe all along, and he still left him. He still let his brain do the talking and left Shiro alone with nothing but heartache and the career move that Ichigo caused. Still. He snorts a quiet laugh, watching that tapping motion. "Figures. I got all this money to throw into something like that, and you want it as plain as possible." It's something he'll keep in mind though. "Maybe I should go the oposite. Get you some diamond encrusted brass knuckles or something."

That is quite the reaction. It makes him sure he needs to meet this person. "What'd you say her name was? Yoruichi?" But then he makes a face. "Turn me? Turn me into what? A vampire? An assassin? A werewolf?" He knows what Ichigo's getting at. "A vampire, werewolf assassin? Because she'd have to be a god to turn me straight and if she has that power, she could do way cooler things than fuck with my sexual preference."

It's not at all surprising that the idea of being catalogued doesn't sit well with Ichigo but Shiro trusts he wont do anything rash about it. He shrugs. "Habit. Don't you walk into a room and assess possible threats even when you're not there for violence? Same way I walk into a bar and clock everyone I think I could buy from or convince to buy me a drink, even though I can get whatever I want and I could buy the whole bar." His brows furrow. Parting Ichigo out would have been such a fucking waste, even from a strictly business standpoint, but the idea still makes him want to rip someones throat out with his teeth.

He nods. It would be a lie if he tried to say he wasn't curious about this Yoruichi lady. If Ichigo is actually asleep when she calls, he's going to invite her over for drinks on Ichigo's behalf. For a second he considers telling Ichigo he knows where to find the bedroom, but he's not actually feeling that petty right now. Besides, if the way Ichigo struggled down the stairs is anything to go by, Ichigo might not make it down the hallway.

He straightens from his seat, leaving his glass and the bottle behind, and starts in the direction of the bedroom, pausing at Ichigo's side to offer him a hand.

He rolls his eyes. "I only woulda yelled at you 'cause you coulda just used the front door." He might have closed the door in Ichigo's face every once in a while, just to keep him humble, but he would have let him in at least 80% of the time.

His attention flickers down to his glass for a moment. Empty. He busies himself with grabbing the bottle and refilling it while he shrugs a shoulder. "Don't worry about it." He takes a drink, but he's had enough that he's not really tasting it at this point. Kind of a shame, because it's an expensive bottle. "He asked about you. He saw the video from the party." And he's only just now realizing that he probably recognized Ichigo from the car bombing thing. Shit. "If you're serious still in a few days, I'll break it to him."

A laugh bubbles from him without his permission when Ichigo makes that face. Serves him right, really. "Obviously. And yes I can. You underestimate my ability to be jealous." But he heaves a sigh about that last detail. "I'm gonna keep you around. I always want you around, always have. I just have to know you're serious and not high on pain meds and, I dunno. Endorphins from being alive. I'm not sure I can take committing only for you to change your mind. If fucking gutted me the first time, I don't know what it'll do this time." That's all a little too honest and open which means it's probably time to stop drinking.

That explains the level of professionalism. His brows arch a little, impressed. "When are you gonna introduce me? You should have her over for drinks sometime." He watches that secret knock of a phone call. Very interesting.

Snorting, he takes another sip. "Of course it was and his catalog is in his head. I'm sure he was taking inventory." He's pretty sure Szayel is always taking inventory. "He's a creep but he's not stupid. You're safe. He wouldn't touch you wrong with a ten foot pole."

Ichigo stands and looks like he might not stay that way for a moment. Shiro tenses for a brief second, before relaxing again when he's sure Ichigo's not about to fall. He glances to his phone. "Am I supposed to answer it or let it ring?" Because Ichigo looks ready to pass out. He shrugs, "I dunno. I got a couple hours yesterday morning I think. You should get some rest."

[dolliedyhard]

I’ve changed many things about my Jeff over the months so it’s time 4 an update! A lot of this is copy & pasted from the old hc’s but ofc there r many new ones as well. I also made the og hc’s post private. Other than reposts u can’t access it. If i come up wit moar ideaz, I might make a part 2 or edit dis post.

To find moar information about mah Jeff, read my creepypasta AU under his section. I left some info out from here bc itz just repeating what waz said there. The doc will also expand on certain headcanons + give them moar context. So if ya interested in dat, read mah doc.

HERE HE IS! (๑>◡<๑) This is liek my “official” design 4 him. I rlly didn’t like the last ver OMGG.

♥︎Attributes♥︎

He loves keeping his hair long. He’ll never CONSIDER cutting it short. His hair is one of his favorite parts of himself.

He for certain wants his hair to be down to his waist one day

Hair type is 1c

Jeff’s hair is naturally brown. When the “incident” happened the fire made his hair temporarily black. (Ik that’s not how real logic works but cmon let me have fun >:c)

After a few months his hair went back to brown

Now he dyes his hair black bc he prefers it that way.

He smells like incense and ash

His veins are most visible in his forearms and hands

Still no voice claim :/ but if i find one I’ll update

He has dark circles under his eye from staying up for days at end

He got some sharp ass canine teeth. In my AU he got bit by a vampire. He didn’t get turned into one bc the transformation was stopped right after his vamp fang came in. #ISupportVampireJeffTheKiller!!!!1!!11!!!! X3

Warm to the touch. Doesn’t matter what season it is, his body manages to retain a significant amount of body heat.

His skin is literally ghost white. This due to bleach, lack of sunlight, and frequent blood loss.

♥︎Personality♥︎

When meeting him for the first time he comes off as an asshole.

He insults everyone and it’s hard to hell if he’s joking or not.

And if he’s really pissed he’ll get REAL creative with the insults.

Swears like a sailor

Jeff loves stroking his ego, it’s so obnoxious but he could care less.

Lowkey thinks he better than everyone

LAWD he’s handsome and he knows it

Doesn’t care about ur personal space

Will creep up on u to whisper shit in ur ear to scare you. And other stuff like that.

Gives people the nastiest stares of all time. And I dare u too say something to him about it, he’ll square TF UP.

Says some really offensive shit but he doesn’t care if you get upset because of it.

And he’ll say it loud and proud no matter how much of a dumbass he looks like saying it.

Jeff’s one of the most defiant proxies in the mansion

He listens to NO ONE and hates more than anything to be bossed around.

Though he partially listens to Slenderman, yk, bc he has to so he can live in the mansion. Masky too bc he’s Slenderman’s right hand man.

For Jeff it’s more about if you guys get along and have a good time together than having the same interests.

♥︎Interests♥︎

Wannabe lead guitarist

He’s not good enough to be the lead but his ego says otherwise.

He owns a sick ass guitar tho

Started out being emo in his early teens, now he’s more of a metal head.

(I don’t know much about nu-metal or any metal at ALL so I can’t rlly say who his favs are. SORRY IM AN EMO FUCK AT HEART OKAY???)

Listens to goth music occasionally too

Loves going to concerts no matter who’s performing

If you happen to bring up a band he’s seen live before he will 100% without fail say “I saw them live at _!” And will proceed to info dump about what went down.

Even worse if they were in their prime when he went.

Fashion wise he dresses alternative but it’s nothing fancy.

A band tee + hoodie or jacket, jeans, shoes (cons, or boots), for accessories belt and some spikes bracelets. That’s about it :v

Paints his nails black on special occasions

Likes to collect weird stuff

His biggest collection is of knifes

Some of them are ornamental and some he actually uses to kill

He gets the money to fuel his collection off the dead bodies of his victims

Also has a strange fascination with history

Specifically historical torture methods & atrocities

Sometimes he uses the same torture methods he learned about on his victims.

HUGE HORROR NERD

He collects dvds of slasher & horror movies

And of course you can’t forget about the vintage TV to play them on!

He’s not a fan of snuff films or gore videos

Killing🔪

To Jeff killing is something he does for 3 things. Survival, satisfaction, and emotional regulation.

Once he’s got you in his grasp you won’t make it out alive.

Jeff commits the worst murders when he’s having a IED or BPD episode.

He’s not a kidnapper type serial killer

He likes to get the job done by the end of the day at the longest

He loves the taste of blood and often licks it off his knife (ZOMG VAMP TENDENCIES!?!?!?!?!?!)

He thinks he can train himself to be able to taste the differences between blood types.

He just likes inflicting pain on complete strangers, it’s thrilling to him.

And it’s usually not a stab and go kill, when he first started out that’s how it was bc it was more for survival.

Now Jeff has the taste for blood. And he’s got some horrifyingly creative ways to extract it.

Nowadays you’ll be lucky if it’s a stab and go. His goal is to make sure u feel the agony, every. second. of. it.

He would never consider hurting someone close to him, that would severely fuck with him.

Since the murder of his family he has no one. So he cherishes the few people close to him a lot more than he used to.

He’s never had any regrets about any of the many murders he has committed.

The one and only time he’s ever felt bad about inflicting violence on someone is his older brother Liu.

xxx Vices xxx

Jeff is a regular smoker (hence why he smells like ash)

He’s able to blow different shapes out of smoke

Prefers cigarettes over anything else

Hates vapes tho, he think they make you look like a massive pussy.

He’ll flat out refuse to fw you if you whip out your fruity-tuti flavored e-stick when yall go on a smoke break.

Jeff’s not a big drinker

Drinking just ups his already high sex drive to the max and he acts like a complete idiot when he’s drunk. Then after all that his hangover is fucking hell.

At the most he’ll get a bit tipsy cause the boost in arousal makes sex tenfold better.

Jeff has done hard drugs b4, Ben was the one who introduced it 2 him.

Jeff started doing drugs at 15

Jeff & Ben did heroin and cocanie together

♥︎A/N: Btw in my au Jeff had a much shitter life than the og Jeffery Woods so all of this with context makes sense.

Jeff doesn’t s/h anymore but did it heavily in his teens before he went crazy.

His life was genuinely a miserable hellscape that was picking at his sanity and at every turn it only got worse.

His mother and father didn’t care about him at all. The only person that actually cared and loved Jeff was Liu. But Liu rarely showed any affection towards Jeff so it didn’t really matter how Liu felt about him.

No one knew what Jeff was doing to himself up until he ended up in the hospital with the gashes on his cheeks.

[crepesuzette2023]

I'm a bit puzzled about the tags you wrote about Mike McCartney and Tara Browne. Could you elaborate? 👀

Dear Anon, With pleasure! The tag #Mike/Tara the tattoo of my soul (I believe it was) refers to the idea Paul wasn't the McCartney brother canoodling with Tara—Mike was. The little brother, who had more freedom, relentless curiosity, and a raw talent for weirdness. And he was so strangely handsome, too!

How likely is this? I don't know. But consider this: Tara took Mike to Paris, asked him to share a bed, and introduced him to his mother and her Magrittes. (I'm starting to think "show him your Magrittes" is code for something! Just kidding.)

Here is Mike, describing the trip in his memoir. This is on the long side, so it goes under the cut.

Note: "that's what Vadim was on about" refers to Roger Vadim, Bardot's husband, who drew women with fish heads for Mike at a party where both were bored with the real women. Only later, Mike said, did he realize that the drawings were references to a recurring theme of Magritte's. PARIS II (ca. 1965)

From “The Macs: Mike McCartney’s Family Album” by Mike McCartney (1981)

The second time I went to Paris was at the request of young Tara Browne. Tara was a Guinness heir (and a right honourable one at that). I was a Beatle brother, so we had mop and hop tops in common (or should I say commons, as Tara's Dad was in the House of Lords).

Being two gay young blades, one with too much money, the other with not a lot of sense, we believed in living life to the swingin' London full, but when Tara suggested we go to Paris for a week or so, I had to admit to him that I wasn't that well off.

'Oh, don't worry Mike . .. I'll pay the difference.’ 

Being of stubborn, Liverpool working-class stock, with great Northern pride, I readily agreed (vive la difference), and as my passport was in the Pool and I was in Tara's Eaton Row Mews house, a provisional passport was arranged and we were on the next flight to gay Paree.

At the airport to meet us was a chauffeur with the most extraordinary Mercedes I'd ever seen. It was so long it looked as if a bit had been stuck in the middle. This magnificent creature (and the Merc) floated us to Boulevard Suchet in the posh Trocadero part of Paris, where we disembarked into the wrought iron lift which zoomed us slowly to the roof garden apartment.

Tara's mum, the Lady Oranmore and Browne was in the south of France, so Tara showed me round the Magritte-littered lounge (this was the first time I'd seen a Magritte 'live' -so that's what Vadim was on about . . . not at all fishy, but very tasty) and up to the bedrooms.

'Shall we share bedrooms?' he asked.

'Oops!' I thought. We didn't know each other that well, and here is a gay young titled gentleman asking me to go to bed with him.

'D'you mind if we have separate bedrooms . . . I snore.'

'Not at all, see you downstairs in half an hour.'

I needn't have bothered. Tara was as straight as a dye; he was just being courteous.

After a shower, I dried off in head-to-toe towels, had a lie down, (the champagne on the plane was mainly to blame), and we met downstairs in the more than comfortable lounge (with a telly in the bookcase ... disguised as books!).

'Right! Show me Paris . . . I missed it last time as I was feeling a little gay.'

Tara showed me Paree all right; the chauffeur-driven Merc took us to La Coupole for a drink and a bump into Vidal Sassoon, then to a beautiful little restaurant called La Petite Bedon where I had my first sparrow in red wine (I think they called it quail but whatever it was, it was excellent). The pot-bellied chef even came to our table, he didn't do anything . . . just came to our table. And then on to the gay Paris nightclubs, where some ale was supped, eventually ending up at Castell's . . . the club of the day.

Here we were checked in by a beautiful, cool Paris lady, who spoke not a soupspoon of English.

'I fancy that,' I overstated to Tara.

'That's our Letty, it's good to know her.'

'Letty,' dictated I as a mental note, as we descended the Castellian stairs to debauchery. We were posing in the middle of our whisky and Cokes when through the dark, staggered the Yardbirds. As soon as they saw me they chirped in perfect unison 'Today's Monday, today's Monday, Monday's washing day, is everybody 'appy? You betcha life we are' (Scaffold's first resounding, but popular flop).

It's lovely being loved, but Tara and I were there for the serious purpose of enjoying ourselves, so we opened the Castell cage door, sent them flying, and continued with our night-time revelry alongside beautiful, black and white, pencil thin models, and me popping upstairs to let Letty in on the fact that my intentions were entirely honourable.

Just as dawn was breaking (or was it Françoise) we swayed gently out of the 'in' club and across to the restaurant opposite, where we nearly got in a fight over our chilli con carne (because I hadn't clicked with Letty at the nightclub . . . if the truth were known).

As we emerged to the even chillier French morning, as if by magic the limo drew up and we fell in. He'd been waiting all night! Being working class and drunk (what could be worse!), I gave the chauffeur hell for not joining us in the night club.

All at once, in the early Parisian morning light, we were faced with a strange predicament. The limousine was suddenly surrounded by thousands of French cyclists on their way to work . .. all facing us.

Either we were in a one-way street or they were cycling backwards.

Whatever, it was a stalemate, and we all stopped.

The gruff garlic comments from yer actual working-class Frenchies could be felt through the Mercedes skin. I put myself in their position:

I've been up all night after drinking pastis, with the petite monstre-baby. . . shouting above the Pierre Douglas Show, the wife nags at me over coffee and France Soir . . . I climb on me cold velo bike . . . cycle through the freezing five o'clock rain ... join my thousands of Parisian rat-pack colleagues...and there in the middle of the narrow City rue is a long black car going the wrong way, containing two young, drunk, mop-top goldfish (not only that . . . it's a bosch car).

Let's just say that if we were in the middle of a revolution and there was a Bastille nearby, they would have simply said 'Off wiz les cochons 'eads,' before carrying on to work.

Luckily, one of my many disguises is as the Scarlet Pimpernel and indicating a secret side-street escape route to the chauffeur, we avoided the hoard of Robespierrean Rats and headed for the safety of our Magrittien mansion (zey seek us here, zey seek us zere, zose damp froggies seek us everywhere).

More power-packed Parisian nights followed with the inevitable falling in love with me by Letty and many torrid nights of 'love' were enjoyed by all. In contrast to 'being in love' with Celia, here was a woman who taught me how to make love with more positions than an Indian Yoga teacher would dare to attempt, and all in French!

Tara's mum, Lady Oranmore and Browne, paid us a visit in the middle of these 'sumestas' and after my customary Butler-served fresh orange juice I felt slightly apprehensive about my first meeting with the upper crust lady matriarch (particularly with a bit of French fluff in the bedroom)!

Once again, I needn't have worried. "Oonagh' turned out to be one of the warmest, coolest, quick-witted, most subtle women I'd ever met, and she made us both most welcome. She was a lady, but not just the lady in the title. A real lady. I call her Mum', she calls me Dad, and we shall remain friends till the end.

[oliversrarebooks]

Rare Bookseller CYOA Part Five

Accept the deal.

October 1999

tw: mind control, human auction

Greg didn't have that much of a choice, did he? This vampire had him over a barrel. If she wanted to, she could sell Drew off to the highest bidder, and the odds that Greg would be able to afford him were slim-to-none. And what were his other options, try to bust Drew out of a heavily guarded auction house? Fight the vampire who bought him?

No, he'd never been the sort who had been capable of such feats. Despite being free of his sire, he was a weak vampire, and he knew it. Vampires strong enough to run an auction house, to protect that much money and those valuable thralls from other vampires… no, he wouldn't stand a chance against them.

Drew would be fine, wouldn't he? He was always so sensible. Surely they wouldn't destroy a mind like that. He'd be lightly enthralled, Greg would get him back, and with a little help it would wear off in time. He'd be back to his old self.

"I'm willing to accept your deal," said Greg, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

"Excellent!" chirped Lily. "My general prices for labor are two hundred dollars an hour --"

"Two hundred?" said Greg. Shit, he should have known he wouldn't be able to afford this, either. Money had been running low since he hadn't been paid for his latest job yet, so he had maybe twenty bucks on him.

"Let me finish," she said, irritatingly amused. "I understand that you might be rather impoverished, and I'm absolutely willing to allow you to pay in installments. You might owe me a favor or two, however."

"Favors?"

"That's right. It won't be anything troublesome. Perhaps I could ask you to design some flyers for the auction house, something of that nature. That seems reasonable, doesn't it?"

She knew way too much about him. Some of Lily's minions must have been stalking him and Drew, waiting to make their move. "I don't understand why you'd want a favor from me. I'm new to the city, and…"

"And in need of friends. I believe in community, you know. And even with your eccentric relationship, I see no reason why we can't get along."

Greg felt a lot more like he was being involved in organized crime than in a beneficial deal. But then, the only reason why the auction house wasn't considered organized crime was because vampire society considered kidnapping and trafficking of free humans to be legal. Despite his urges, Greg had never wanted to be involved in that, didn't enjoy the thought of stealing some innocent human away and hearing them beg as their mind was spirited away.

And now, that was going to happen to Drew, wasn't it?

Maybe he should have never gotten involved with a human in the first place.

"I… appreciate your offer to let me pay in installments," said Greg stiffly. "When will I be able to pick up my -- my thrall?"

"Well, now, that all depends on exactly what sort of treatment you'd like for him…"

She describes several options.

@whumpsday @morning-star-whump @soft-vampire-whump @irregular-book

@andithewhumper @whump-me-harder @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @ba-bhump @und3ad-mutt

[luvbugwriting]

Hidden in the Rainfall

Starring: Photographer!Reader and Racer!Rafe

Warnings: Swearing, very brief mention of childhood trauma

A/N: Sorry for the late post! I'm try to post within a week, just busy :(. Also, lots of Outsiders references. Dallas is Dally's full name if you don't know

Three. Four. Five.

Rafe followed you outside not thirty seconds after you left. "You don't have your camera with you."

You glanced at him from your phone, debating whether or not to get an uber. Your apartment was on the outskirts of the town. Not close enough to be considered part of the Cut, but not far enough to be considered anything else. It was sort of a grey area. You didn't have a car and a mile and a half was a long way to walk, but you needed the money more than you'd like to admit. "Observant, are we?" You muttered.

An easy smile fell on his mouth. "You looked pretty freaked out in there. You in some kinda trouble or something?"

"No. What do you care?"

"Call me curious, Cherry."

Your fingers paused. "What?"

"Outsiders. You insulted me and I called you the soc. Cherry."

Your eyes narrowed as you looked up at him, and you opened your mouth to give a retort—but there was that look again. That faint glint in his eyes, the pull of his lip. The look you knew meant he thought he knew something because your father had got the same look right before every big fight. Only Rafe's weren't as dangerous as your father's had been. His eyes had that same glint when he analyzed you in the cafe just minutes before, when his eyes ran over you when you met in the parking lot for the first time. He thinks he knows something and he doesn't. But you do. You know what someone whose grown up constantly reading other people like books, like warning signs, looked like.

Even if you are giving him more credit than what's deserved, maybe he knows to recognize the tells of people like you do. Maybe he knows how to spot the weaknesses, the flaws. Maybe he knows that the defiant raise of your chin, the now-crossed arms, the hair you'd taken out of your claw clip was all a show. Just like you know that the easy grin was practiced in front of a mirror for hours; the unkempt hair was like that not because he didn't care, but because he had ran a his fingers through it one too many times; the impossibly relaxed set of his shoulders was to hide the tension, the anger, beneath his skin.

And if he does know all that, then he can use that to his advantage and fuck everything you've done to build this life. But then, so could you. Even if this is uncharted territory, the game of chameleon is far from that. Rafe hasn't been playing the game as long as you have. He's trying too hard for that, and his tells are more pronounced. He thinks his moves are offensive, thinks he's one move away from the checkmate of your king, but his moves are sloppy. He's not thinking of the next when he makes his current move. He has the luxury of focusing on the here and now and letting the future remain undecided.

You do not, which is why you're choosing to walk to your apartment. Why your probably going to hate yourself even more for whatever you do tonight to get the money you need for that camera.

You hated that he saw through you, and so quickly too. You'd interacted three times and he was acting like he knew you. He saw through your carefully curated persona like it was see-through. Like it was easy. You loathed him for that. But the little voice in your head, the little voice everyone had, just wondered if he saw through you, would he want to be anywhere near you?

And you knew that was dumb, because you'd only met a total of thrice instances. Because no one wanted to be anywhere near you, not really, and especially not after they saw you for who you really are. Fuck, even your own parents didn't. They hadn't even blinked when you moved out. No calls, no texts, no nothing. Not even a goodbye.

But, you gave him the same clipped smile you'd given Linda and said with a saccharine voice, "Thought I was the journalist, Dally."

He smiled again and you knew you'd been right. He didn't see through you completely. He'd picked out a few tells, but he didn't see nearly as much as he thought he did. "And I thought I was the greaser."

Your expression didn't change, shoulders shrugging. "I'll see you tomorrow, Dally."

"Let me walk you to your car."

You clucked your tongue, offering a polite smile instead of the clipped one. "How chivalrous, but really not necessary."

His next smile was simply patronizing. "Oh, c'mon, Cher."

You clenched your jaw, avoiding eye contact and re-crossing your arms. "I..." You sighed, and muttered with a clenched jaw, "I don't have a car."

He blinked and paused, titling his head. He lost the smile. "So, what, you walked?"

"I got an Uber." You said softly, and Rafe's eyebrows furrowed further.

"You got another one coming?

God, you sounded so pathetic but for some reason you just didn't feel like lying. "No."

"Let me give you a ride then."

Your eyes went wide, but you scoffed in a futile effort to disguise the surprise on your face. "What? No. No, it-it's fine. That's nice, but it's fine."

"I insist."

You stared him.

He stared back.

"No."

"Yes."

Your hand came up to rub at your temple and he smirked, knowing he'd won. "Just get on behind me, journalist. You can take the helmet."

You clenched your jaw. "Not a journalist."

He smiled again, less so than before but still very much patronizing. "And I'm not a greaser."

Your eyes narrowed and, with as much annoyance as you could muster, you sighed in defeat, looking away and grumbling, "Just show me the damn bike, Dally."

By the time you made it there, you arms were tight around Rafe's torso—which, much to your dismay, happened to be extremely muscled and very sturdy. The stupid descriptions of men in romance novels who are a 'brick wall of muscle'? That's exactly how you would describe it.

Nonetheless, he brought you home without any incident, though you could have sworn he drove a little too fast just to freak you out.

You peeled yourself off his back, slightly surprised by how tight you'd been holding onto him, and stood. You didn't know why he'd driven you home, why he reached back a few times to make sure you were still okay. And you especially didn't know why he stood and grabbed your neck with surprising gentleness. You flinched and he gave you a look, finger brushing over your jawline. You jerked back.

"Rafe—what are you-"

"You don't gotta be so freaked out, Cher. Just helping you with the helmet," His hand found your neck again, and the other undid the clasp. He pulled it off and looked down at your hair. "Cute."

Your eyes narrowed, hands flying up to smooth out the flyaways. "Shut up. And don't grab me."

He smirked and looked up at the apartment building. "You live... here?"

You glared up at him. "Yes, Rafe Cameron, I do live here."

He inhaled, raising his hands again. "Full name, huh? You must be real mad at somethin'. Don't know what though. I mean, I did give you a ride home."

You ground your teeth. He's being nice and you didn't like it. "Just..." You sighed, looking away and running a hand through your hair. "What do you want from me?"

His hands fell and his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you drove me home and you're being weirdly nice for no reason. I don't have any money."

Rafe paused. "I don't want anything. I was just giving you a ride home because that's a lot way to walk." He looked up at the apartment again. "Wasn't there a robbery here or somethin'?"

Your nails dug into your palms. "Yep."

"Do you know who got robbed? I bet it was one of the damn pogues who did it."

You chewed your lip. Of course he'd blame the pogues. Every entitled kook did. All Rafe is doing is just confirming your already set beliefs that he's like all the other kooks on this goddamn island. Only... he had been nice to you. He'd given you a ride home and said he didn't want anything in return. But that had to be a lie. There's no way it's not. No one does anything just to be 'nice'. That's a luxury for the rich and well off. "They don't know who did it and surveillance didn't capture anything."

"What'd they take?"

When you answered his question truthfully and told him they'd taken your camera and tripod (the only at least somewhat expensive things in sight, being as you didn't unpack anything), and they'd gotten in through a window that wasn't locked, his head had whipped to you.

"You got robbed?" But even though the end of the sentence went up like a question usually did, the way he said it made it sound more statement that ask.

"That's what I said, isn't it, Dallas?"

His jaw clenched. "They took your camera?"

"Mhm. Do keep up."

"You gotta backup or somethin'?

Your brows furrowed and your voice raised. "How rich do you think I am? No, I don't have a fucking back up camera. I got mine at a pawn shop. It was used and barely working. It's a goddamn miracle it still worked by the time some asshole stole it."

"How're you gonna be my little photographer if you don't have a camera?"

You blinked, a lot more irritated now than you'd been before. God he's so fucking patronizing. 'Little photographer' he'd said. 'My little photographer'. Fuck, that made your blood boil. "I don't know, Rafe, I'll figure it out." Your words were over pronounced now, like they always were when you were pissed off. Like you were drawing out every syllable. "I appreciate you giving me a ride, but I don't owe you anything. So if you don't mind, kindly fuck off."

Rafe just stared at you. God, he was so patronizing.

"Did you hear me? I said fuck off, okay? Leave." You repeated, pain shooting through your arm as your nail broke the skin of your palms. You relished that feeling.

"Linda won't lend you out any gear."

You started at him this time, eyes wide and anger pulsing beneath your skin. His eyes met yours, never having quite left, and you were surprised to find that as irritated and annoyed as he looked, he hadn't taken a step towards you.

Then you spun on your heel and marched into the apartment building, taking the stairs because the elevator was broken and had been for at least half a year, according to the neighbors.

taglist: @rafessbaby

[jesterjaxx]

rq request for some writing advice

how tf does one write duncan??

he is. a teenage boy and also a delinquint. i have been neither

Ive only minorly been a teenage boy and minorly been a delinquent but some messy teenage and messy adult honestly traits I try to stick to with Duncan are

Impulsive: the guy makes impulse decisions all the time. He has a diagnosed impulse control disorder (pyromania) he says shit off the cuff and does things without thinking, anywhere from tripping Harold while he walks by to saying shit that if he thought about it he knows would get him punched. Write him as adhd or as just really bad at thinking ideas through as you want. He looks down at his hands and realize he accidentally stole something again just cuz he didt realize he picked it up. He steals again because that shits funny. He feels like the type of guy to set his exs car on fire and then get surpised when this gets him in trouble. Hes reckless, hes craving adrenaline, he wants to be funny and cool. With leads me to

Attention: He wants attention so so bad. He likes it when people look at him. Half of the reason he does delinquent things is so people turn their heads. Hes on Total Drama to get money for bail, according to his parents, but as with everyone on that show a good half of the reason is fame. If he likes a person (isert whatever ship or use the canon idea of Courtney) being ignored by them is almost painful. Dude needs to know someones watching him make sarcastic comments or light shit on fire. He wants to control how hes perceived. He wants to be edgy and the bad boy and wanted. He doenst express this honestly though of course because Duncan is

Emotionally Constipated: he can have a lot of feelings going on but rarely will he share them. They get forced out of him. At his core hes sweet and even sentimental but its surrounded by layers of defensive asshole. Hes more real with people he knows more personally, especially with people he thinks wont mock him for gasp having feelings. But he deflects with humor either aimed at himself or more likely others. Nice comments get sandwiched between insults. He can't say something honest about how he feels without undermining his words in the next breath. He is, an asshole. Its frustrating trying to talk to him when hes decided he doenst want to. He takes things lightly and doesnt respect most people. Authority pisses him off. Hes an anarchist but only in words typically because hes also lazy. I personally write him a bit more genuinely punk but thats personal hc. He says the wrong thing more than half of the time and laughs when your upset.

I dont have a lead in but

Sentimental: like genuinely. In canon examples, he carves a skull for Courtney and gives it to her as a parting gift. He writes her initals in things. He keeps a photo of her under his pillow. He keeps scruffys box with him after scruffy gets killed. Scruffys whole existence. He, without even knowing the real story about Geoff accidentally getting Bunny killed, hears Bunnys missing and how upset DJ is and like immediately leaves to go find him. He cried over the idea of hurting a bird. Hypocritical king. I think he gets better at this as he grows but you can put him in emotional torture hell all you want.

And final thing because this is getting long

Delinquent: he likes to act out. Hes a punk, hes anti authority. (Im not gonna make this a separate thing but he does also seem to crave control in his personal relationships though based of canon relationships and dialog about past ones? Idk) He would call his dad pig to his face. He likes to vandalise things. This is where i project my own experiences so feel free to pick pocket what you like. More than half of the time you do "delinquent" shit is just because its fun. There can be some deeper emotional reason obviously but you arent really thinking about it in the moment, its not even a moment. Its just casual. I think its same with Duncan considering how many cut aways we get of him just idly vandalizing shit. (I realize this sounds hypocritical but to me he does both show off being a delinquint for attention and is also just lowkey like that. If he didnt want attention so bad he wouldnt do super attention grabbing shit that actually lands him in jail. But he wants to be cool and edgy so he makes sure someones watching.) Bored? Scribble a tag on the wall, you have your marker on you already. Cops are here? when they turn around you sprint, half the time they dont care enough to chase you down. Trespass casually. Spraypaint over camera lenses. Hang out in a decrepit place cuz fuck else are you gonna do and it looks cool. Boredom should be gunned down, go light your textbook on fire. Yes these are things ive done I was 16. Also i think more people should lean into him being a pyro more. Dude is figiting with his Winston constantly, hes always eager to help light a campfire. He zones out looking at flames. He burns shit when hes bored.

I need to be done now i could just keep going until the sun explodes