#but yeah literally every single exorcist we know has been fucked over in some way by the higher ups they should definitely unionize

[frobby]

I think the exorcists should unionize

#in my future au there actually is an exorcist union to make sure they arent getting fucked over by the vatican and/or mephisto #in the actual timeskip there isnt one cuz it turned into a dictatorship they literally got an exorcist draft #militaristic government just like in the crusade times ❤️ #can you tell i just reread the timeskip chapters like yesterday? #but yeah literally every single exorcist we know has been fucked over in some way by the higher ups they should definitely unionize #blue exorcist #ao no exorcist

[thefanficmonster]

Kick Some Ghost Ass

”Until Dawn Gang x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Swearing, Sex jokes (excuse my bad humor)

Genre: CRACK, Humor

Summary: It’s one thing when trouble finds this gang, but why don’t we take a look at what happens when they go actively looking for trouble. Needless to say, chaos ensues and no one is spared. Some are more affected than others, and some are dead-ass traumatized, but isn’t that just how life is in general?

Requested by my dearest ever - Until Dawn Anon. Hi lovely! I’ve missed writing your requests and I’m really happy to be back, creating another chaotic fic! I’m sorry it has taken me so long to post it but here it finally is - crazy as ever! I hope you enjoy it! Love you to Blackwood Pines and back baby ❤❤❤

I don’t know how I’ve found myself in this situation but I’m not complaining. If I get to do dumb crazy shenanigans with my crew, I’m ready for just about anything. Not to mention I’m no stranger to ghost hunting. I’m that kid that made DIY Ouija boards and took them to cemeteries with their terrified friends. You should’ve seen us leaving after capturing no ghostly activity - my friends relieved as fuck, and me pissed as fuck.

But today, I’m not expecting nor will I be accepting any disappointment. Especially not with Jess swearing on her Chanel purse that she wasn’t making things up when she said she had a haunted house she wanted us to visit. I must say, I appreciate this group’s enthusiasm when it comes to the paranormal. Never have I had someone who catches my vibe on the subject so well, let alone an entire gang all sharing the same opinion as me - that ghosts, demons and poltergeists are so fucking cool. Sure, Emily took a bit of convincing and Jess is not one to give a shit about the other world creatures invisible to the human eye, but something allegedly happened that changed her mind.

Her a-hundred-and-something-year-old great-grandmother passed away recently and though the death itself didn’t shake Jess up as much as it probably should’ve, the events that followed led to this moment right now - the eleven of us pooling out of two minivans that have pulled up to a terrifying looking house in a wooded are of the suburbs. Jess literally gathered us all on an ‘emergency meeting’ in the courtyard of our college just so she could explain the situation in detail - she doesn’t do well with explaining things in general, let alone when she’s hysterical - so we only understood what she was trying to say when she mentioned the word ‘ghost’. That’s when we all started listening more closely, with the exception of Emily, Beth and Sam but the latter two were intrigued despite trying yo hide it. You can only imagine how excited Josh, Chris and I were, Mike and Matt following a close second behind. Ash was a tiny bit more hesitant but Chris convinced her to give in. And just like that, a week later, here we are.

“I gotta ask, did your great-gran own a VHS player? Or a chest in the attic? Bonus points if there’s a creepy, child-sized doll in there.“ Josh asks as he yanks all the equipment he insisted we bring out of the trunk of the minivan.

“Quit fucking around, Josh! This is serious!“ Jess complains from the spot she’s standing in, shivering in the cold autumn breeze.

“Yeah, Josh! VHS players, creepy dolls, that’s all child’s play.“ I scold him as I pull on my jacket, wrapping it around me more tightly, “Shit gets serious when there’s a secret basement.“

“Y/N!“ Jess shrieks in exasperation. Honesty, how am I supposed to NOT bother her when doing the opposite is so much easier and brings more amusement? “You’re not helping!“

“Wasn’t trying to.“ I wink at her, driving her into a new level of fury that almost leads her to chuck her phone at me. If it weren’t such a prized possession of hers, I’m pretty sure she would’ve chucked it with the intention of knocking me dead. I’m lucky she has the aim of a drunk toddler that spun around fifteen times.

“Hey, quit pissing my girlfriend off, will ya?!“ Mike, who is basically halfway inside the trunk of the other van calls out to us.

I roll my eyes but choose to let it slide. However, someone else doesn’t. Emily does a dramatic turn on her heel, turning to face Mike, or at least the only part of him which is visible. You can imagine how hard it is arguing with an ass like THAT. I don’t know how Emily does it but oh well, I guess I do it too, in a way.

“So it’s girlfriend now, huh? No space between the words?“ Oh that smile she’s flashing him, it could make the Devil himself shiver. I find it kinda hot though - it means shit’s about to go down or hit the fan, either way, the rest of us will be entertained.

Mikey boy straightens up, gracing the rest of us by-standers with his dazzling features. Nah, I’m capping. I honestly think Mike is as attractive as I am patient - very little, almost not at all. It’s surprising how him and Jess are now apparently together since I always pegged her to be the superficial type.

“Got a problem with that, Em?“ He asks, eyebrow raising, head tilting to the side. Oh yeah, it’s on now. But, as someone who’s been quite excited to do some ghost hunting, and also as a representative of the peanut gallery formed of the rest of us who find it amusing and annoying, I feel the need to cut it short before it goes where it shouldn’t. I came to see some exorcist shit, not Keeping Up With The Bitter Exs.

“Jess, I sure hope your grandma is a blood-thirsty ghost cause I can think of at least two people I’d serve to her on a silver platter.“ I snatch the keys the blond has been jingling nervously between her fingers and jog up the stairs to the front door.

Ok I maybe overexaggerated the eeriness of the house. It sure wouldn’t sit right with you if you saw it around sunset or at night, especially not if it’s foggy, but a horror movie house it is most certainly isn’t. It’s pristine and well kept, not a single crack in the walls, the only reason it’s unsettling is because: 1) We’ve all seen a few too many horror movies; 2) There’s been reports of ‘ghostly activity’ - as far as Jess is to be trusted.

While I’m surfing through all the keys, checking each and every single one of them on the door because the real key is unmarked, I can’t help but overhear the conversation going on behind me on the porch.

“Can you believe we got all this in a single day and for a discount on top of all?! Whoever says Craigslist sucks isn’t doing it right.“ Chris’ enthusiasm over the deal him and Josh got on the ghost hunting equipment has been what’s keeping a wide grin on his face this whole time. Though I’m proud of my boys for not getting murdered by the Craigslist seller, I must say I hate that I lost the bet we had - I had to pay them each ten bucks if they didn’t get scammed/kidnapped/murdered and I’m now twenty bucks poorer. I’m not saying I value those twenty bucks more than my friends, though my broke ass needs all the bucks it has and all the dollar bills it could get, but Lord knows I hate losing.

“Yeah, and the guy was only mildly sketchy.“ Josh adds just as excitedly and proudly, “To be honest, Cochise and I were probably the scary looking ones in that parking lot.“

A look over my shoulder shows the twins, Sam, Matt and Ash giving the duo skeptical and somewhat disappointing looks and shakes of their heads. I’ll admit, the equipment is in very good condition and it’s the complete set for ghost-hunting, according to BuzzFeed at least. I’m impressed with the purchase - probably had something to do with how scary Chris and Josh actually look. The all-nighters we’ve all been pulling lately have taken a toll on them worst with the dark circles and bags under their hollow eyes, pale faces and brains turned to mush. I know I’d give them a discount to avoid them pulling out meat cleavers on me.

“That’s all fine and dandy guys, but do you know how to work any of this?“ Sam asks, hesitantly lifting the EMF reader and turning it in her hand, analyzing it with a curious gaze. 

Josh and Chris exchange a look before the former replies, “Just the cameras and voice recorder, the rest falls on them.” He points a finger at me and laughs, “Though they aren’t able to work something as simple as keys, they are more than qualified to be a ghostbuster.”

“You know, Josh, jokes on you, I can work keys! Jess, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be able to work well with organizing things, hence my problem with these keys.“ I hurl the bunch of keys connected my a scarlet keychain at Josh, “Lemme demonstrate my true skills.“ I hop down the flight of stone stairs and approach the pile of equipment the guys have created smack-dab in the middle of the house’s driveway. 

“Oh, I gotta see this!” Mr. Ex-Class-President all but runs over, frowning when we all turn to look at him just as I pick up the spirit box to show off how it works, “Oh that’s what you meant. So you aren’t taking your clothes off?“

Jess and I are alike in one thing - the need we feel to chuck objects at people who piss us off. “You’re girlfriend is, like, right behind you, Munroe. Have some decency!”

“I was gonna enjoy a show as well, but I’m guessing we won’t be getting one.“ The girlfriend in question replies, looking at me quizzically as though that’s gonna convince me into discarding my outfit.

“No, unless you’re a ghost.“ I point the device I���m holding at Mike, “But if your boyfriend here keeps acting up I might turn him into one.“

“That sounds kinda kinky.“ Beth’s comment surprises me. The wink she sends me even more so. “And I kinda like it.“

Ok, ok, ok, hold on. 

Flirting with Munroe is one thing, but Beth is a completely different story. I can be threatening Mike with a knife one moment and cracking sex jokes with him over cold beer the next. While Beth actually has the ability to get me flustered and blushing, and my close relationship with her brother doesn’t help. Mother fucker can just whack me upside the head every time he catches me fussing over my silly crush on his sister.

“Ew, you too! Keep it in your pants or at least get a room.“ Emily doesn’t miss a beat when it comes to being herself. She’s truly a garbage bin full of treasure.

“We’d do the latter if SOMEONE could get the door open.” I glare daggers at Josh who is making hopeless attempts at what I was doing earlier - unlocking that damn door.

“I’d be more than happy to come through for you ladies.“ Mike says, getting in a stance of a runner before a race, his body directly opposite the door.

Oh I can’t wait to see where this is going. I SHOULD RECORD IT.

“Mike, it’s still breaking and entering and it’s still against the law even if the person’s dead.“ Sam points out, entering her mother-like mode, ruining the fun and causing me to pout at her. She gives me a look of disappointment - one worse than I’ve ever seen on my parents - so I just shut my trap before she can also express said disappointment through words and have me feeling guilty for the rest of the day.

A loud crash suddenly echoes causing us to turn our heads to look for the source of the terrifyingly startling sound. One glance is all it takes to put our minds at ease and a second one is enough to provoke different reactions in all of us - the broken window telling the story of where Josh has disappeared.

“What did I just say about breaking and entering?!“ Sam shouts after him while the vast majority of us are cracking up like hyaenas. Jess is just gaping at the broken window next to the front door in disbelief. She obviously can’t decide whether to join in on the fun or serve as back-up to Sam. Josh did technically damage private property that’s partially hers, but if you ask me it serves her right for not marking her keys.

“Sorry, I was too busy breaking the window to hear that part of the conversation!“ Josh’s apologetic smile appears on the other side of glassless frame. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely sorry or holding back laughter but either way, he looks innocent enough for Sam to let him off the hook as long as he doesn’t cause any more trouble - in which case: tough luck. Chris, Josh and I are nothing if not troublemakers, especially when we’re together. Chris tones it down when Ash’s around, and the same goes for Josh with Sam while I’m simply problematic regardless of who’s watching. My chaos is untamable, it’s a blessing and a curse and I love it, even though it’s landed me in hot water more than once. It’s nice to be around people on the same wavelength - chaos resides within this group and not a single one of us can hide it.

“At least we have a way in now.“ Ash offers Josh a helping hand in this argument after she recovers from the overwhelming fit of laughter. “I hope the broken window doesn’t anger your gran, Jess.“

The blond snaps out of her trance briefly, “No, she was a very sweet lady, but damn is Josh creative!” She hurries to correct herself, “Destructively creative.”

I hurry to correct her once again, “Chaotically creative.”

“Guys, do you mind coming in? It’s very creepy standing here alone!“ Josh calls out to us, looking over his shoulder at the interior of the house, “I’m expecting to be snatched and dragged to that secret basement we mentioned.“

“Mention it one more time and I swear to God-!“ Jess screams, fists tightened.

Before her angry wrath could crash atop us, we all make our way into the house through the broken window, carefully avoiding the shards of glass strewn about. One step inside and we’re met with the upmost of horror clichés - a drop in temperature. We’re all wearing thick hoodies because the weather outside is chilly in and of itself, but said hoodies aren’t as efficient at holding the house’s cold at bay and away from out skin.

Chris and Matt make their way in last, carrying the equipment consisting of three cameras, flashlights for everyone, an EMF reader, a spirit voice box, a voice recorder and a motion detector. I help them hand a light to each group member as well as a ghost-hunting device before we venture onward.

“If I were your grandma’s ghost, I’d be ten times more pissed about that window. It looks to me like that lady payed a lot of attention to keeping things in order.“ Matt comments while he examines the expensive looking painting hanging in the hallway.

I hear Emily scoff, “Unlike some.” but the remark is said so quickly and quietly I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who heard it.

Jess laughs, “She did like things in order, but she was never as strict as you might think. As I said, she was very sweet.“

“So do you just not take after her at all or were you adopted?“ Emily’s remarks are no longer a mumbled jumble of words, “No, nevermind, of course you’re not adopted. Your parents are smart people, they wouldn’t have chosen you if they had the chance.“

Jess laughs again, much more menacingly this time, causing me to exchange a look with Hannah who’s walking beside me. “Twenty bucks says one of them isn’t making it out of here.” It’s just a matter of time, to be honest. If not the lodge, or any party we’ve ever attended as a group, this haunted house is the perfect opportunity for a murder. We could even argue it was a ghost.

Luckily, the two cats clawing at each other’s throats don’t overhear, “No, my parents aren’t stupid, but your boyfriend clearly is. He chooses to date you! Or are you holding him captive or something.“

Ok that’s enough. I can tolerate a lot of things, but people calling one of my best friends stupid is not something I’m about to put up with, “How dare you call one of my hoes stupid?” I sneer at Jess, eyes narrowing.

“I thought I was your hoe too!“ She fights back, looking almost offended.

“Even more reason you shouldn’t have called him that! I don’t tolerate my hoes not respecting each other.“ 

I don’t get to see where this argument goes because Ashley’s shriek echoes throughout the hallway, stealing mine as well as the attention of everyone else. 

“There’s a ghost in here!“ Making it to the doorway of the room she’s in first, I peak my head inside and see the EMF reader she’s holding going nuts as if it’s detected something.

“Don’t worry, Ash, there’s a dead cactus here. That’s not the ghost we’re looking for, is it?“ Chris, my amazingly bright friend says, quirking an eyebrow suggesting that remark was nothing short of dead-ass serious.

“Chris, darling, that’s not how it works. Cactuses are plants.“ I point out as sweetly as I can as to mask my laughter.

“Don’t the same ghostly rules apply?“ The genuine look of confusion he gives me almost makes me lose it.

“Ok children, leave the room, we need to set up a motion detector to be sure.“ Beth says with a tone that suggests she’s more than over our insanity. Jeez, count on her and Sam to start parenting us through our chaos. They are of high authority, must admit - one genuinely feels bad if they don’t comply to whatever these two girls demand.

We all pile out in the hallway while the twins set up this interesting motion detector with green dots. I don’t know what Jess’ granny looked like, but I bet that even the most unattractive of people would look hella good with this lighting. Thankfully the room is dark enough with the shutters closed and the curtains drawn, allowing the dots to be perfectly visible.

We stare at the minimalistic room littered with fluorescent green dots on every surface for maybe a minute or two but not much happens to the disappointment to some and relief to others. However, as if not wanting to let us down, the ghost makes a shy appearance if the shift of the green dots is anything to go by.

“Oh shit, is that a ghost?“ Chris whispers, sounding as amazed as I feel in this moment.

“It better be.“ I mutter in response, refusing to blink and risk missing anything important.

The sudden presence of the obnoxious noise of the spirit voice box makes us all jump. As I turn my head to glare at whoever’s using it, Josh speaks up. “Are you an attractive ghost?”

“Josh, that’s my great-grandmother, you ass!“ Jess barks with disgust in her voice.

In the meantime, I catch glimpse of Mike rolling up his sleeves. Oh shit, this ain’t good.

“I’ve been waiting for this!“ He shouts victoriously, cracking his knuckles.

Knowing this won’t end well, the first thing I do is snatch the camera from Chris’ hands and turn it on.

“Um, Mike, what do you mean?“ Sam’s back to being concerned, turning to the rest of us when Mike doesn’t give her a response, “What’s he gonna do?“

“Fight it.“ I answer as though it’s the most normal thing to ever have been done, “Or, ash he calls it - kick some ghost ass.“

“A freaking ghost?! He’s gonna try to tussle with something he can’t see?“ I can’t tell if Matt’s tone is disbelief, amusement or disappointment, but I believe he isn’t about to try and stop or dear ex-president in his pursuit and that’s all that matters. I ain’t about to let someone stop whatever’s about to go down from going down.

“That’s still my great-grandmother, you dumbass!“ Jess shrieks with something alike terror.

“Don’t worry Jess, I’m sure she’ll go easy on him.“ I say in an attempt to reassure her but I can’t even be bothered really, I’m too laser-focused on the circus that’s about to take place in front of me.

Mike, as if encouraged by my words, charges into the room. Much to his dismay, before he could even reach the ghost, he’s met with a much more vigorous enemy - the carpet. The rascal trips him up and Mr. Munroe falls flat on his face.

The group stays silent, looking at the glorious aftermath of the glorious fall. Told ya these lights could make everything fabulous. Must say, it’s truly an honor for me to have been able to catch all that on tape.

“10/10, would ghost-hunt with Mikey Munroe again.“

#until dawn #until #dawn #the dark pictures #the dark pictures little hope #the dark pictures man of medan #the dark pictures anthology #the dark pictures house of ashes #dark pictures little hope #dark pictures anthology #little hope #man of medan #supermassive #supermassive games #video games #video game fanfic #mike #sam #chris #josh #jessica #ashley #matt #emily #sam giddings #josh washington #chris hartley #ashley brown #mike munroe #jessica riley

[miss-anna-banana-blog]

I never thought I’ll be writing something like this, specifically the part of exposing myself in front of the people who follow me + the ones who don’t but still are checking up all the time. These pictures take me back to summer 2017. The worst year of my entire life. You couldn’t tell of course because I made sure no one wouldn’t be capable of noticing these kind of things. I posted positive, happy and silly things and I “became the best version of me” lmao. Now I can finally admit that was some huge ass bullshit and I’m mad no one said a thing. A few months before those photos were taken, I started to battle with my super toxic new old friend Anorexia, followed by her cousin Bulimia. I could remember having a goal: To be as skinny as possible. To look as good as I could ever look on a family trip to the beach (now that I think about it, it’s like, come on, it’s your family they don’t give a shit). Also, before that, I had my high school prom and you can guess what my new eating disorder did for me. Did you guessed? Yes, it made me bought a smaller freaking expensive dress! So that I could have a motivation to lost all the freaking weight I hated. I remember being asked by the lady in charge of the dress store “Don’t you want the L size? I think you could feel more comfortable” And my whole face started to burn. I felt awful. But I remained calm, laughed and said “I’m about to go on a diet. I’ll loose all this weight” and she ofc had to be this supportive “buy all my shit” kind of person. So she suggested me to get the S size. But around that time I was dumb, but like not that dumb after all because I knew that, there was no way in hell I could fit into that shit, even if I stopped eating for like a whole month. So I decided to get the M one. And yes, maybe M is kinda considered a fat girl size, but this dress was made of lace. fucking lace. Which means, it was tight and getting the M was sort of a big deal. That day I paid for my own dress (because my parents had no idea about my future plans) and went home all happy and excited because I finally had a goal to achieve: To fit in that dress, because I couldn’t afford to throw all my money away. So at this moment I’d like to state that I have a mild pill addiction (nothing serious, but sometimes they still appeal to me as candies or some shit) and it appeared around this time because this girl had an eye opening moment when she found out about...*drum rolls* LOSING WEIGHT PILLS. It was a whole thing. I was shocked. Like, I could lose weight by taking this lil pill? Everyone said “yes” forgetting that ofc It’s not that easy. So I started to take them daily, even surpassing the recommended dose. I began to let those pills solve my whole eating problems. I started dieting but sometimes I had these huge cravings (I could also say I’m kind of a compulsive eater?) anyways, I wanted to eat junk food, but I couldn’t do it. My whole brain was like “No honey” and then we started to have a battle and when I won that battle, I decided to choose the losing weight pills as my ally. So, in resume, I ate a lot of shit and then I’d let the pills do it’s job. And what job I’m talking about? Diarrhea LMFAO. I mean, I had to get used to be shitting my pants every single time because everything I ate ended up in the freaking toilet in a very gross way. The thing is, I learned to live with this awful thing. I made it look like something normal. But the truth is, it wasn’t normal and I could have gotten a serious disease by doing that. But as always, that wasn’t enough. And when I realized the pills process was kinda slow I decided to cut most of the foods I considered “bad”. I ate once a day, drank tons of water and detox tea; courtesy of my mom. Because, now that I realize all this stuff, I didn’t started all of this by myself. I let my mom help me develop it. She has always talked about losing weight methods, pills, creams, all the things that would help you lose weight, my mama knew. So I always had this fear of my mom targeting my fatness. I had the fear that she would be disappointed because of the weight I had after all the advice she gave to me and my sisters. I mean, she always had something to say about this losing weight thing, How could I be fat? She literally was giving me options to not be fat anymore. So to her, at first was kinda normal that I decided to go to sleep to avoid eating. I would literally had a small plastic bag with some granola for breakfast and water. Then I would eat tuna with lettuce and lemon and more water and then I’d have more tuna for dinner. And when I felt hungry as hell? I went to sleep. It helped me a lot to be a sick person at it’s fullest. But hey, I def started to lose weight. With all the things I cut and the pills I was this close to achieve my goal. I decided to join my mom on her gym routine and people there started to compliment me about how skinny I started to look. I was living the dream!! I started to push myself way harder on the gym (I also almost fainted like 2-3 times a week) but Hey, I needed to get toned! Being skinny wasn’t enough. So I started to realize I could get myself to look better. And guess who helped me achieve my skeleton look? My dearest friend, index finger. We had our first meeting one time at the bathroom. That time I didn’t thought I’d be capable of doing something like that. I was scared of the result. But somehow we managed to forget that rocky start and the first time I vomited I was like “woah so this is how it feels. My god, can’t believe I’ve missed this my whole life” and it was so easy. I didn’t even need to cut foods. I could eat whatever I wanted! And then It would be gone for good! And all I had to do was push my finger deep in my throat. So fucking easy. And that’s how I finally achieved my goal, by playing the girl from the exorcist movie in my bathroom every day after every meal. I should’ve been happy, but my ED said “nope” and I had a whole breakdown and missed my prom. I went trough a lot of changes, decided to cut and dye my hair and tried to become a whole new person while stile carrying my oldest two versions (The one before the ED, and the one who had the ED) and I felt like I became an actress in this movie called “how long could you keep it cool until you become crazy”. Around that time, I weighted like 43...42 kg. I was way under my weight. My legs were tiny and I loved them. I loved to feel my ribs, my hip bones. I loved to see how my clothes looked bigger on me. I even sent some of my clothes to be fixed so that they would be smaller and fit me and yet, they didn’t because I was too small now. And I loved it. No one said a thing. My family was like “Oh now you’re skinny? It must be from the gym” My mom was thrilled. She never said it, but I could tell by the way she looked at me when I asked her if she could send my clothes to her friend because they didn’t fit me anymore. She even started to buy me clothes on smaller sizes and we even joked about how now I would have to buy on the kid’s section because I was so small and I couldn’t be prouder. I took photos with the clothes that looked bigger on me. I had to have proof that I was tiny! I was having a moment. And people started to notice that I became tiny but never asked how I got to be ‘that’ tiny. So, they never asked. I never answered. Until now lol. So the family trip to the beach happened and there I ate all the things I couldn’t while achieving my goal, because what the hell I was already skinny, I could eat whatever I wanted. And I ate, and ate and yet, I looked good on the bikini photos. I MEAN, for the first time in years I bought a TWO PIECES swimsuit. I had a great time there, it felt like a culmination in my life. I took cute pictures in front of the beach house, my cousin complimented be about looking skinny and pretty and yeah, happy ever after. Back at home, the struggle wasn���t over. I started to eat normally again but always fearing about my weight. I was perfect. I couldn’t lose that. So it begins the journey of “eating and regretting and then vomiting and then regretting it and then sending everything to hell and eating once again” and that went on repeat ALL DAY. To summarize, this isn’t exactly a story with a happy ending. It got to a point where I realized “WTF DUDE. YOU’LL DIE FROM THIS” and I stopped doing all that shit. Even my parents noticed the whole thing before I could send it back to hell. Tbh I was kinda expecting them to be mad or anything but they were like “we could hear you vomiting” and that’s all. Um, so you heard? Uh, sorry? My mom was more worried about how the toilet looked after I threw up on it. She said the stains were awful. So, I’d like to say sorry to my mom for staining her toilet while dealing with all my shit. My bad mom. 

Now, I’d like to state that it’s been three years since that happened and my family and I still haven’t spoke about it. I had to seek help somewhere else. And you know, I’m not stating that my parents are the ones to blame. No, I was 17. I was totally aware of how awful having a ED was and yet I decided to participate. However, I totally believe they should have said something. I mean, it took a very short time for me to lose more than 30 kg and I slept all day. Wasn’t that weird for them? Maybe. But my parent’s weren’t exactly raised to be aware of people’s emotions. My parents were raised to be emotionless. They rarely show emotions and that’s something regular at home. So, if they ever felt worried they never expressed it because they didn’t knew how. And that’s normal, At least to me. 

Moving forward to 2020, I’m 21. I’m an ED survivor (hate the word but you know, I didn’t died so I guess I kinda survived?) and I’m still in recovery and def not fully healed. That’s why I said this didn’t exactly had a happy ending. Because when you have an ED you can’t just put it away and make it disappear from your life. Nope, it’s not that easy and if someone says it is. They’re big liars. People talk about how difficult is to recover and gain weight without having these awful thoughts but they never tell you how your relationship with food changes forever. Or maybe they do, but it’s very rare tbh. Now, 3 years after having an ED I can say I still have it in me. Every time I eat something, I can’t help to feel guilty. To have the urge to vomit everything or the amount of times I say in my head “You need to cut food again” I get a losing weight goal every month. And I have the same feelings and thoughts I used to have 3 years ago. I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t feel proud. I get the feeling I’m not having my best moment. And it sucks, you know? Because it’s tiring. Having your mind working 24/7 on the food you just ate and you could have replaced it with something healthier. And not being able to stop it. It also doesn’t help the fact that my mom is still obsessed with losing weight. She still has this habit of checking what I eat and making this “I don’t approve it” face. A month ago, I kinda had a relapse. I started to cut foods and then I was like “Hey, remember those pills? They still exist, you know?” But, I had no money. I couldn’t go outside to get them (bc quarantine, yikes) and I had no idea which ones would help me this time. So...I asked the expert; my mom. I’d like to state again I’m not blaming her. Anyways, I told her I felt fat and awful (she never said “you’re not fat” bc I have to admit, I am, at the moment) and asked her for her advice on losing weight stuff. She quickly recommended some popular diet pills she once listened a woman recommend in the radio. She even told me about a deal they had! Which included 3 bottles, all of them with 60 pills. Bro, I was in paradise at that moment. 180 pills plus having the opportunity to lose weight? WHAT A FUCKING DEAL My mom was thrilled, she even got the deal for herself (and both suffered from the same consequences, that my mom tried to cover up by saying that “it was the body’s reaction” and that we were detoxing our bodies” but I decided to cut that bullshit and stopped taking them bc I had awful results (and also, I wasn’t exactly losing weight which was the whole goal) 

Today, June 2nd. I reflected about this whole thing. I am proud I never went to the bottom and to the hospital. But I’m not proud on the fact that I still haven’t recovered. Not even a bit. I mean, yeah, now I have double thoughts before doing something my ED tells me to do, but I still have the urge of being skinny. I still compare my body and feel like that is the only thing I could offer. Most stories shared this day, are successful ones. Most have this cute ending with them still being skinny but now, reflecting on life and talking about healthy weight gain. But not all stories are like those ones. There’s people still struggling. Like me, I haven’t even recovered but yet, I’m sharing this shit. Because that’s the reality behind having a daughter, sister, friend, with an ED. 

We would never openly say “I HAVE AN EATING DISORDER” but it’s always in the little details. It’s in the way they read the menu and search for the healthy options and the calories, the way they express about their bodies, the way they constantly say how much they need to go to the gym. It’s in the way they look at food whenever you offer them, like if they could calculate how many days would it take for that food to get stuck in their body, specifically in the abdomen area. It’s there, but not many people gets to see it. It’s a matter of paying attention. And no, we do not want attention all the time, we do not want you to save us. It’s not about that. It’s about being aware that we are struggling and that we might need your support at least once. 

Personally, I do not want to be saved. I just want to cope with it. I want to be able to eat healthy without falling again into these crap. I want to be able to look back and say “I fucking did it”. If I’m totally honest, the thought of losing weight will always be here with me. I’ll always have this little voice telling me “You could be smaller, you know? “You could stop your dad from saying that you’d be perfect to play football again because you could tackle everyone with that body” “You could be as tiny as your sister” “You could show your ballet teacher that you do not look like a ball anymore” “You could make your mom proud because you have taken her advice” “You could fit in that shirt and those pants again” and the most important one “You could have it all” because sadly, in this world, skinny means successful. And while I still try to achieve being that successful, the ED thoughts won’t go away, not at all. And I’m being honest. Terribly honest. But at least, I’m not lying and saying I’ll do better. Because, I’ll be better, just not today and maybe not even in two years from now. But I’ll be one day. 

This story was shared to commemorate the World Eating Disorders Action Day (June 2nd) to spread awareness about what ED really mean and what they actually look like in real life. 

#world eating disorder action day #june 2nd #spread awareness #eating disoder things #eating disoder thoughts

[winterromanov]

keeping all the promises (we made years ago) - a romanogers fic

Peter’s mixing a bad gin and tonic when Natasha and Steve finally come into the back. Her tiny frame guides him through the throngs of people as a The 1975 song plays in the background, crooning about skinny jeans and spare time and she’s got a boyfriend anyway. They disappear down the basement steps and Natasha must be a little drunk, he reckons, because the door is barely shut when they start kissing. And this—this, he realises, is the only narrative of the two of them that matters. (rock band au. chaos, man.)

/one

It’s Uncle Tony that gets him the job. Well—perhaps gets isn’t quite the right word, because get implies a bit of shuffling behind the scenes and handshakes when in reality Uncle Tony can get whatever he wants whenever he wants. He’s not even his biological uncle. Sometimes, Peter wonders if Uncle Tony just fancied having a nephew and saw him in kindergarten and thought, hey, he’s the one. May’s never told him how Tony ended up being his sort-of guardian, usually financially but sometimes otherwise. He’s just…always been there.

The always been there feels a little more literal now, ever since Peter mentioned that he might not want to go to college after all. Yeah, sure, the Princeton physical sciences program is like, the best in the country, but is that really all there is? He likes music and evening walks and the shitty little apartment he shares with May in the city. He likes the familiarity and the way it covers him like a safety blanket.

It wouldn’t be an understatement to say that Uncle Tony was pretty fucking pissed at the idea. Of, you know, not making the most of the thousands of dollars he’s invested in Peter’s education and not going to an Ivy. Nevertheless, there’s not much he can do about it. Even Tony Stark can’t force him to go to college, even if he looks at him with that disapproving glare every single goddamn day for the rest of his life.

(Uncle Tony’s disapproving glare is one of the scariest things Peter has ever seen, period. And Ned once made him watch all The Exorcist films in one sitting back in freshman year. Took him a good few weeks (months) to shake the paranoia and realise that, realistically, he probably wasn’t going to get possessed by some angry old spirit anytime soon.)

But Uncle Tony can ask him what he’s doing instead of going to college, and Peter quickly discovers that a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders is not an adequate response. He thought that maybe Tony would get him some sort of starter position in his company, but Tony isn’t the kind of guy who gives out jobs to anyone (even if they’re his sort-of nephew). No, if Peter ever wants a job at Stark Industries he needs a college degree first, and a good one at that.

“You need a taste of the real world, kid,” Tony had said, Peter idly spinning on the office chair in front of his desk. “And then you might think twice about giving Princeton the boot.”

And that’s how he ends up in front of Endgame.

-

Peter knows a hell of a lot about Uncle Tony, but also absolutely nothing at all. There are things he deliberately keeps hidden and Peter knows better than to ask about but he’s also ridiculously open, especially about how fucking rich and clever and sexy he is. May says it’s a confidence thing—that he must be hollow under all that blithe arrogance, but Peter has never met anyone more solid. He thinks. Tony cannot be anything other than whole, because he’s sure helped keep Peter’s foundations stable all these years.

He knows that Tony’s business is his life. That he’s a bit more…forward, with women than he should be, but it’s all talk because Pepper wouldn’t stick around if it wasn’t. He knows he prefers Turkish food over everything else and that he cares more than he lets on, always.

But he absolutely didn’t know that Uncle Tony kind-of owns a nightclub in the city; the super cool kind that has live bands and plays British indie rock and a menu with over fifty different kinds of cocktail on it. It makes so much sense, when he thinks about it. It’s exactly the kind of place he imagines Tony heading to after a day working non-stop at the tower.

It’s only three in the afternoon but the place is unlocked, Tony pushing open the double doors at the front with his shoulder. Inside, there’s a jarringly bright room with a bar and a stage that feels wrong not swathed in darkness or the muted glow from overhead lighting. A woman with long, brunette hair that falls down her back is mopping the floor off to the side. She looks up when she sees them enter.

“Wanda,” Tony greets, pushing Peter forward. The girl smiles bemusedly, shoving the mop back in a red plastic bucket. “Working hard?”

“As always, Mr Stark.” Her accent is soft, European. Peter likes the twinkle in her eyes. “You’ve just missed Nat, but Clint is still in the basement, if you’re looking for them.”

“Barton. Perfect.” He tugs on Peter’s arm, and Peter vaguely feels like some naughty kid being dragged around by their dad. This must be what that feels like, he muses, not that he knows much about the whole parent thing. “Come on, Peter.”

Peter rolls his eyes. Wanda catches him, and she laughs a little, returning back to the mop.

Tony drags him through a hallway lined with black-and-white checked squares and down a set of stairs labelled staff only, the walls covered in aggressive-looking graffiti which he assumes are song lyrics he’s never heard of. He likes music, but he’s the soft-spoken acoustic type. Not the mosh-pit type.

(Alongside Tony Stark’s disapproving glare and horror movies, he’s also kind of terrified of being swallowed by crowds. He doesn’t like the feeling of being lost or untethered. He likes being anchored to something. Someone. It’s kind of ironic, really, considering.)

Tony opens a door at the bottom of the stairs that leads onto what he assumes is some sort of staff common room, the walls all exposed brick and lined with tattered leather sofas probably pulled from a garage sale. Band posters either hang loosely with blue thumb tacks or, in some cases, in black frames—some scribbled with messy signatures. A makeshift bar stands in front of a small kitchen, lined with more liquor bottles than he cares to count. A coffee table is littered with vinyl cases and sloppily written notes, a wire charging an iPhone trailing all the way from the door. A man with brown hair and a strong jawline sits on the sofa nearest the back wall, Doc Martens kicked up on the table, scrolling through his phone. His eyes barely flicker when they enter the room, like he’s waiting for Tony to talk first.

“Welcoming as always,” Tony remarks, urging Peter to walk further into the room. The other man snorts.

“If you want a fucking parade every time you enter a room, Stark, you should stick to those dumb expo things you still insist on doing.” He’s still scrolling through his phone. “Who’s the kid?”

“I’m not a kid,” Peter can’t help but say, because he’s eighteen and a high school graduate, for God’s sake. Both Tony and the man raise an eyebrow, in that patronising way Peter is all too used to. Like, you’re basically just fresh out the womb, boy.

“You’re a kid until you stop thinking like one,” Tony says, and it looks like Peter is still going to be getting a lot of that. He gestures towards the man and back again. “Clint Barton, Peter Parker. Peter, Barton. He’s your new boss.”

“Half-boss,” Clint quickly corrects, “Nat would probably slit your throat if she heard you say that. Also…” Clint pauses, finally putting his phone down. He seems to examine Peter carefully, eyes flicking up and down. He feels oddly exposed. “Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, be doing AP Literature homework or something?”

Peter sighs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I’m not in high school. I graduated high school.”

“I refuse to believe that. How old are you? Fourteen?”

“I’m eighteen!”

Clint narrows his eyes. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know my own age.”

Clint hums. He shifts his feet from the coffee table and to the floor, leaning forwards. “Don’t get me wrong, Peter, but are you sure you want to work here? Aren’t you better suited to…like, a computer science major? You just don’t look like the kind of guy we’d usually hire.”

Peter takes that to mean you look like a massive fucking nerd, moron. Well, Clint’s not wrong, but it’s always a bit jarring to hear someone say it actually out loud. He’s not the kind of person who works in a cool bar with cool people who wear Doc Martens and listen to the Arctic Monkeys.

“He’s hired because I say he’s hired,” Tony interjects, pressing his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “And because this little punk thinks that he doesn’t want to go get a STEM major.”

Clint smirks a little at that, like he’s gone from zero to just a touch of respect for him. “Teenage rebellion, huh?”

“No,” Peter replies, not that convincingly. “I just don’t want to go to college, alright?”

“Not right now, but a few weeks of working with these absolute head-cases will have you handing in your transcripts before you can say Ivy League,” Tony states and Clint chuckles, “You will be begging for the sweet release of the Princeton marching band and that compulsory calculus class.”

Peter looks over at Clint, who merely nods in a faux serious manner. “We’re special here, Parker. Absolutely one-of-a-kind.”

“Who’s one of a kind?” Another voice rings out behind them, clearly feminine but surprisingly low and sultry in tone. When Peter turns, he sees a petite woman with red hair that scuffs her shoulders, skinny jeans hugging her legs and a leather jacket over her shoulders. She clutches a shopping bag in her left hand, her nails painted the same shade as her hair. Her Converse sneakers are black and streaked with dirt, but like they were made that way, like it’s all staged.

He has to actively fight his jaw from dropping open. Because, Jesus—he isn’t blind. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen…and there’s something about her, a familiar quality he can’t quite place, like he’s seen her before in another time or place. She smirks when she finds him staring. Peter flushes, looking away, and thinks idly about beautiful gardens and being tempted in by a Devil.

“You are,” Clint replies effortlessly and, like that, Peter realises that there must have fucked at some point. Her eyes glint as she drops her bag on the counter.

“I assume you’re here for a reason, Stark,” she says, “If this is your new intern, I’m dying for a coffee.”

“Funny,” Tony shoves his hands in his pockets. “And as I was just telling Barton, this is your new employee.”

“As of when?”

“As of right now.”

When this woman assesses him, it feels more scathing than it did with Clint. Her eyes are slower, her expression less readable. Clint was clear in his uncertainty. It’s impossible to tell with her. Eventually, she halts, lips pursed. “Huh.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Clint responds. He’s back on the coffee table, like he’s bored by the whole situation.

Tony stands back, folding his arms. “You have an opening now the other Maximoff has moved on, and this moron needs a reality check. You lot are probably the worst people I could think of to give it to him.”

The redhead blinks slowly. She rests her chin in one hand, her elbow on the bar. She’s looking straight at Peter, green eyes blazing like exotic jewels. “You have any bar experience?”

“Uh…” Peter scratches his head sheepishly, “No?”

“You train him, Nat,” Tony says when Nat looks skeptical, “You train the hell out of him. Or get him to do the 4am bathroom cleaning shift. Your choice.”

“We have Clint for that,” she says, and Clint throws a scatter cushion at her. She catches it with ridiculously quick reflexes and dumps it on a bar stool before hopping onto it. Her shopping bag is exclusively filled with grapefruits. “Although, we do need a new bartender now Pietro has fucked off.” She pulls a knife from seemingly nowhere and points it in Peter’s direction, which gives off a threatening air that Nat looks all too comfortable with. Worryingly. “But no doing homework at the bar. It’ll ruin our image.”

“I’m not…” Peter starts, but Nat’s smirking again. So. He’s just going to have to accept the fact this is going to be a running joke, right? Anything that gets Tony off his back.

“You’re kind of adorable,” Nat says, looking over at Clint. “Steve will love him.”

“Steve will try and adopt him.”

“Steve will try and adopt anything that looks vaguely pained and puppy-like,” She chops a grapefruit in half, then into quarters. “It’s taking everything I have to convince him we don’t need a golden retriever right now. It’s exhausting.”

(At this point, he stands gormlessly and watches both Clint and Nat bicker back and forwards about this Steve, this guy that Nat must be dating, and nothing clicks. Nothing clicks yet. He feels like a bit of an idiot when he eventually does, though, because of course. That’s why Nat looks so familiar.)

“Well,” Tony interrupts in a tiny pocket of silence where Clint and Nat aren’t snarking at each other, “Consider Peter your anniversary gift. He’s every bit as charming as a golden retriever without having to pick up the shit. I think he’s already potty-trained. I think.”

Peter shakes his head out of disbelief. Not biological, but every single bit as embarrassing as a blood relative in front of anyone cool. Nat doesn’t take her eyes off the grapefruits.

“Our anniversary was last month, asshole, and all you gave us was a fucking star named after us. You know, one of those dumb certificates you buy online for about ten dollars.”

Tony clutches his heart dramatically. “It’s romantic, not that I’d expect you to understand. Imagine looking up at the night sky and knowing a little piece of you and Steve is up there, glimmering just for you, courtesy of me. That’s special, Nat. Money can’t buy that feeling.”

“Money can buy that feeling. You bought it for ten dollars. Fortunately for you, Steve is a gullible and the sappiest son-of-a-bitch we know so at least someone enjoyed the sentiment.” Natasha pauses for a moment, resting the knife down on the counter. “Now. You—Peter—how much, exactly, do you know about cocktails?”

-

There are things he learns incredibly quickly when working with Nat—facts, logistics, statements. Both Clint and Nat have known Uncle Tony for a while, but he’s not sure why or how. Tony helped Clint and Nat buy Endgame and he continues to invest in the business, taking a share of the profits. It’s been open five years, but Clint and Nat have known each other way longer than that. He’s not sure why or how. Actually; he’s sure why, because Clint and Nat are pieces of the same puzzle, irrevocably interlocked. The way they look at each other is haunted by years and years of shared history. You’d have to be blind not to see that.

Also—Nat mixes drinks with a speed and precision that is impossible to replicate. He watches hopelessly as she grabs spirits off a rack on the wall from memory, barely glancing at the labels. Wanda occasionally brushes past and Peter can see the amused look in her eyes, like she’s in on a joke he doesn’t know about.

She’s trying to teach him how to mix a basic mojito—not their most popular drink, but one of the easiest—when the front doors swing open and a man walks in, tall and broad-shouldered, blonde hair mussed from the motorcycle helmet that hangs in his right hand. His shirt is way too tight for his torso and arms but he looks so good anyway, in a way that Peter could only ever replicate in his dreams.

It takes Peter a moment to realise, when the man smiles at Natasha like she’s every good dream he’s ever had, that this must be Steve. And then it takes another moment once he gets a decent look at his face, that this isn’t just any Steve. This is Steve fucking Rogers. And Nat… Nat is Natasha Romanoff.

“You certainly took your time,” Nat says coyly as Steve sidles over to the bar. He reaches over and takes her face in his hands, kissing her gently and casually on the lips. It’s like Peter isn’t even here. It’s nothing too intimate, though; Nat seems aware of her privacy and what she wants other people to see. She seems to have a strict code on showing and telling. Peter isn’t part of her exclusive inner sanctum (yet).

(Clint struts in, then promptly struts out again, muttering something about letting someone else be the third wheel for a change.)

“Meeting overran,” he confesses, still curved over the bar, “Honestly, I keep telling them I’m retired.”

“Show them your birth certificate. Can’t possibly expect a man in his nineties to record another album.”

Steve laughs, and honestly, it’s like watching a scene out of a romantic movie. “For some reason, they just won’t believe me. They might believe you, though. You have a way of getting people to do what you want.”

Natasha pats his cheek gently. “Absolutely. Oh—and this is Peter, by the way. Anniversary gift from Stark.”

Steve’s eyes settle on him for the first time since he arrived, because it’s very clear that he’s the kind of guy who tunes out the rest of the world when his girlfriend is in the room. “I thought Stark got us a star for our anniversary. I love that star.”

“Of course you do,” Nat titters, “And Peter is filling in for Pietro.”

Steve offers Peter his hand, and he shakes it tentatively, because this is still Steve fucking Rogers. “Great to meet you, kid.”

“Oh,” Nat lowers her voice, “He’s not a kid. He just graduated high school.” When Peter’s mouth opens, she grins. “This is Steve. He hangs about here sometimes. Can’t seem to get rid of him. I have tried, believe me.”

“You’re Steve Rogers,” Peter breathes, dumbstruck, and it’s only when Nat and Steve share a bemused look that he breaks out of his stupor, cheeks flushed. He nervously looks at his feet. “Sorry—it’s just I’m a big fan.”

There isn’t anybody who hasn’t heard of Steve Rogers, as far as Peter is aware. He’s got all his albums on CD stacked on the shelves of his bedroom and he listens when he’s feeling particularly nostalgic, pressing them into the portable player May got him a lifetime ago and lying back on his bed. Steve is the Golden Boy of America’s pop music scene, his songs soulful and sad with a quiet, yet constant, lingering optimism. It’s the kind of music that reminds him of leaves in the fall and sitting alone on the subway. The kind of voice you could get lost in, but not in the unknown, terrifying kind of the way. It’s like he’s trying to guide you home.

Steve and Nat share a look and Peter fears that he’s made a bit of an idiot of himself. Again.

“Whatever you do, don’t ask for his autograph,” Natasha scrunches her nose, glancing up at her boyfriend. Steve looks mildly entertained. Like he’s used to it. “His ego is big enough as it is.”

Steve shakes his head. His hand reaches across the bar and squeezes Natasha’s shoulder. She softly runs her hand over his knuckles—it feels weird, to use the word soft to describe Natasha, because from what Peter has seen (in his admittedly limited experience) she’s never anything but razor sharp. “You’ll come to realise, Peter, that this woman never has a day off.”

Natasha’s smile is wistful, longing. “I don’t have time for days off.”

The room suddenly feels heavy and Peter can feel something lurking under the surface of their dialogue, something that’s not being said while he’s there watching. Steve looks away, smiling at the ground. Look—he’s not that into tabloids or dumb E! News twitter threads where their pictures are plastered about like incriminating photo albums, but he’s not totally unaware of it either. He knows Nat’s surname because he’s seen her red hair on the cover of magazines at the drugstore countless times, on May’s coffee table. Some of them have been holding Steve’s hand. Some of them are just Steve. Some of them are Steve with other women.

He’s got enough knowledge to know that this relationship mustn’t be…easy. Or conventional, at the very least. Not that he knows much about that. He knows about as much about romantic love as he does parental.

(Aka, not much at all.)

Wanda is the one who breaks the moment. “Nat, Clint is asking—oh, hi Steve!”

Steve smiles and the two share a quick embrace, because Steve definitely seems like the hugging type. Meanwhile, Natasha walks round the bar and beside him—Steve slings an arm casually round her shoulder, and it’s so comfortable and natural that Peter feels something shift in his chest. Wanda lets them know that Clint needs to run over the inventory before opening in a couple of hours, so Nat leaves Peter in Wanda’s capable hands while her and Steve head down to the basement together. Peter can’t seem to drag his eyes away from them.

“You too, huh?” Wanda remarks, one eyebrow raised. Peter blinks, not sure what she means. “They’re magnetic, right? And not just because they’re both ridiculously attractive.”

Peter flushes—for what seems like the millionth time since he arrived—and covers his hands with his sleeve. “I don’t—“

“We’ve all thought it, one time or another. There isn’t anybody else like them.” Wanda smiles softly. “They haven’t had it easy but they’re happy now, so. Every cloud, yes?”

Peter nods hesitantly. “What do you mean…haven’t had it easy?”

Wanda’s smile is still gentle, but there’s an unwavering nature to it. She seems to float past him, like she’s not quite real, an ethereal ghost. “That’s not for me to tell. But I can tell you how to make more than just a mojito, if that’s adequate?”

Peter feels himself relaxing, the tension vanishing from his shoulders. Wanda is a little less terrifying than Natasha. Her eyes are big and touched with melancholy, but there’s no bitterness there. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be really adequate, thanks.”

-

His first shift—well, his first shift is insane, and he completely and totally understands why Tony thought this place would cure his college related existential crisis. The bar is packed from the moment the door opens because even though there’s no live music tonight, Clint and Nat’s sick playlists seem to reel in people from all over the city and further out. A bearded guy in a Led Zep shirt drunkenly tells Peter that he’s come all the way from Toronto to listen to Hawkeye and Black Widow, and he’s really not sure what that means.

There are also people who are here when they realise Steve is about, from Twitter or whatever. He’s not exactly under the radar as he seems to spend a lot of his free time in Endgame (for obvious reasons) but as soon as the customers start coming in, he edges away, disappearing off into the basement while Nat, Clint and the rest of them work. Other than Wanda, there’s only one more employee who turns up—a tall, buff British guy called Thor who wanders in about fifteen minutes before opening time with hair off a Herbal Essences commercial. He slaps Peter on the arm and almost knocks the wind out of him.

By the time closing time hits Peter feels battered, bruised and a little like he’s fallen out of a top floor window, his shirt covered in shit tons of unnameable alcoholic combinations and his head beating like a bass drum. Clint, Nat, Wanda and Thor weave between people and the bar like it’s ingrained in them, grinning and laughing and seemingly knowing everybody. As the cool, 2am air of August hits his face like a slap round the face, Peter wonders if he’d actually been holding his breath the whole time, waiting for the storm to be over.

He almost throws up on the stairs. Almost. He kind of wants to go home, go to bed, and never come back here again. Everything—it just happens a lot, always. Maybe he is just a kid. Maybe he’s not ready for a life outside of education, like Tony had said.

He feels a hand curl round his shoulder and he starts, but when he turns he sees Steve, oddly reassuring and stable in this new world that makes no sense whatsoever.

“You alright, Peter?” he asks, warm and empathetic, “Maybe you should sit down.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, instead sitting on the damp, stone steps that lead up to the entrance. Peter sighs heavily, goosebumps bristling up and down his arms. Cautiously, he eases down next to him. Wonders how his life got to this.

“It can get pretty intense in there, huh?” Steve nudges him with his shoulder. “I thought that when I first started singing in public, like my heart was just going to rip out my chest. But it gets easier. Maybe you’ll even enjoy it.”

Peter laughs a little at that. There’s a scab on his left thumb and he picks at it out of habit. “I think Clint was right. I’m not the kind of guy they like here.”

“God, don’t let him hear you say that. Clint can’t ever be right. The universe would implode.”

Natasha appears at the front door from nowhere, as is the pattern, and it’s the first time Peter’s seen her all evening properly—she’s wearing a black lace camisole and leather pants that leave very little to the imagination, but Peter knows better (and is better) to let his eyes hover for too long. Her lipstick matches the color of her hair. She’s absolutely breath-taking, like a rebellious Hollywood starlet. It’s the first time he’s seen her tattoos, too; she has a spider on her left shoulder, an arrow on the other and there’s the smooth curve of a circle that peaks out of the waistband of her trousers. She hands Peter a paper cup filled with water. Come to think of it, not drinking anything all night was probably a bad idea, adding dehydration to a general sense of, you know, existential dread.

“It’s just your first day, buddy,” Steve says, “It’s new. That’s all.”

“I think you did pretty well for someone with no experience,” interjects Nat. Steve gives her an exaggerated look of shock. “Hey. I said pretty well. He’s still got a lot to learn.”

“Praise indeed! You should be proud, kid. Took her over a year for her to say anything remotely nice about me.”

“That, and also I’d take every opportunity to prove Tony Stark wrong about something.” Nat smirks. “You just got to get into the music, then you won’t be able to fucking wait to come back.”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles, looking up at her, “She’s pretty exceptional at making mixtapes.”

He’s entering yet another moment that feels like an intrusion just being there, another conversation without words. He’s been the third-wheel before—countless awkward dates at the Cheesecake Factory—but this feels like a whole other level of it, because the worst kind of couple to tag along with are the ones that use silence like it’s not silence at all.

“Am I…alright to go?” Peter asks quietly, folding the cup in his hands. He’s not sure how all this works.

Nat nods. “Yeah, seeing as it’s your first day. But tomorrow you’re helping with the clean-up.”

“How are you getting back?” Steve is already sifting through dollars in his wallet, “Get a cab on me.”

“Oh—Mr Rogers, I couldn’t possibly…”

“It’s Steve, and you absolutely can.” He hands him twenty, and Nat audibly sighs from behind him. “What? What is it?”

Natasha looks totally unsurprised. “Clint was right about something. You’re totally adopting our new bartender. He’s only been here a day!”

Peter has to admit, having Steve Rogers look out for him is hardly the most disastrous thing to come out of this shift. He half-smiles, mostly to himself, unfurling the twenty between his fingers. Steve just shoots Nat a withering, long-suffering look, because this is what Steve calls being nice.

“Thank you, Steve,” Peter says, standing up, “And thanks for the water.”

Steve salutes a goodbye and Nat walks down the stairs, filling the space Peter leaves. As he saunters down the sidewalk, he picks up snippets of their conversation:

“Which star do you think is ours? You know. The one Stark bought us.”

“Oh, shut up about that goddamn star. Stark will really try and buy anything, won’t he? Even bits of the universe. You’re supposed to—I think you should just leave the cosmos the hell alone. We don’t have to understand everything.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” A pause. “The science is neither here nor there for me. And Stark’s capitalist consumerist ideology aside…I just like to think the stars all come out for you.”

(He thinks about that all the way home, in the slow hum of the cab, the buzzing tinnitus in his ears. He thinks about loving someone so much you want the whole universe to exist just for them.)

-

The first thing he does when he gets home is Google them. He can’t help himself. He just—he has to know more. But as soon as he types in their names, and a ton of unsavoury articles mentioning other women and possibilities about Natasha’s past come up, he feels disgusted with himself. This isn’t the truth. This is just hearsay and shady sources and the edges of facts cobbled together with hyperbolic adjectives and PVA glue. This feels voyeuristic and weird, like he’s doing something explicitly wrong, like he’s listening to high school gossip.

He turns to Instagram instead. Natasha’s—predictably—is on private and he’s too awkward to send a request, and the blur of red on the icon might not even be her. Steve’s is a lot easier to find. He’s got almost three million followers and a blue tick, his photo an outtake from some shoot where he’s laughing like a maniac. His most recent picture isn’t even of him. It’s Natasha, caught off guard in the basement of Endgame, looking through the stack of records he’d seen on the coffee table. When he swipes along there’s another where she’s using a Bon Iver vinyl to cover her face, looking beneath her eyelashes at the camera. The caption reads though she be but little, she is fierce.

And this—this, he realises, is the only narrative of the two of them that matters.

-

The next day he wakes with a thumping headache. When he asks May if there’s any aspirin, she looks at him with a mix of disappointment and muted shock.

“Yes, I agreed with Tony when he said getting a job would be good for you, but really Peter?” she tuts, to Peter’s confusion, popping two tablets out of the tray and into his hands. “What was it, then? Beer? Rum? Vodka?”

Oh. Oh. She thinks… “Relax, May. I didn’t do anything. The music was just loud, that’s all.”

May doesn’t look entirely convinced, her eyes slightly narrowed, but it admittedly isn’t in Peter’s character to engage with any underage drinking (even though that’s what he’d probably do in college, if he was still going). Clint had slid him across a jack and coke with a wink at some point after midnight, but he’d let it go warm on the counter. The only time he’d ever really drunk was at Liz Allan’s New Year’s party at the end of junior year, and that was only to prove to that dumbass Flash Thompson that he wasn’t a pussy. His puke tasted like beer and then that just made him puke more.

“I just worry about you. I’ve never pictured you working in a place like that.” May sits at the kitchen counter, watching him as he swallows back the pills. “Couldn’t you send your resume to a bookstore or something? Bryony from Pilates says she’s looking for a new waiter at her place. Maybe that’s more your… thing.”

It’s quite likely that’s more his thing, but the told you so that would come out of Tony’s mouth is persuasion enough to keep on at it. Yeah, he feels like death and another night like yesterday is not going to make that any better, but surely he’ll get used to it. Right?

“I’m not quitting already. It wasn’t so bad. Plus, I got to meet Steve Rogers.”

May’s eyes almost bulge out of her head. “Excuse me? Steve Rogers as in…?”

“Yep,” Peter pops the ‘p’, grin tugging at his lips. His aunt isn’t exempt in the nationwide crush everybody has on Steve Rogers. “The manager—well, one of the managers—is his girlfriend. You know Nat Romanoff?”

“Oh, so she’s Nat Romanoff to you,” May chides, “Didn’t realise you two had got so close already.”

“Shut up. She’s kind of terrifying. So is the other guy who runs the place. But there’s a girl there—Wanda. She’s pretty awesome.”

May purses her lips, studying his expression. “Is she pretty pretty too?”

“No!” Peter replies a little too quickly, to May’s delight, “No—she’s… nice, but she’s a bit older than me. Anyway, I’ve told you before. I’m not looking for anything like that.”

(It’s been almost a year since Liz Allan tore his heart to pieces and he’s still not over it. It’s kind of pathetic, really. They were never really dating to begin with, but it all felt so real anyway.)

“Alright,” May hums, “Just…be careful, okay? I heard you come back late last night and I hate thinking about you walking about on your own.”

He wants to say that he’s eighteen and basically an adult and that New York City at 3am doesn’t scare him, but him and May have been so close his whole life and it must be difficult, her watching the little boy dropped abruptly on her doorstep all those years ago growing up and moving on. Other than Uncle Tony, who walks in and out of his life when it suits him, May is all he has. And she’s only got him. There’s a lifeline there that holds them indefinitely together and she hates watching it stretch, fray.

“Steve got me a cab,” he says gently, “And I’ll bring my bike tonight. I’m totally fine. I promise.”

She gets up, kisses him on the top of his head, between the curls that are still damp from the shower. It makes him feel like a kid, but not in the restrictive, controlling way Tony does when he’s pissed at him. It makes him feel nostalgic for the time where May would kiss his scraped knees better when he tripped on the sidewalk and make him peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off for his lunch box.

“I love you more than anything,” May says, her mantra. You don’t have a lot, but you do have me.

Peter smiles. Blinks slowly. “I love you too, May.”

-

Just before he leaves the apartment for another round, a notification lights up his phone. He doesn’t recognise the number, but he opens the text anyway, and it’s a link to a Spotify page ran by username blackwidow. The playlist is titled for peter.

-

“You’ve looked them both up on Instagram, right?”

Wanda says this as she drops on the sofa next to him, propping her feet on the coffee table. Clint and Nat are bickering in the office adjoined to the kitchen and occasionally he can see one of them through the window—he’s almost certain at one point Nat had Clint by the throat, but Thor looks at him, shaking his head. You just gotta let them ride this one out.

“Uh…what?” Peter absent-mindedly replies, dragging his eyes away from the pot of pens that has just collided with the window. Wanda doesn’t react. It must be normal.

“Steve and Natasha,” Wanda elaborates, “I did. It’s the first thing I did, after I met them. You wanna know about someone’s life, you find their social media. Or lack of it.”

Peter sighs. Well, at least it’s not just him. “Yeah, I did.”

“I’m assuming you haven’t sent Natasha a request.”

“Nope.”

Wanda grins. “She’s meticulous. Natasha. Obsessed with privacy and who gets to see what. I’m surprised she has social media at all. I mean…it’s not illogical, considering, but she does not reveal her soul to just anybody. Steve, on the other hand, is an open book. Not very good at hiding anything. Which is usually a good thing, sometimes not.”

Peter tilts his head, taking Wanda in. She’s wearing makeup today, black smudged round her eyes. May’s right, she is pretty pretty. “You seem to know quite a lot about them.”

“I’ve worked with them for a while now. And anyway. They’re interesting. You see it, too. Sometimes it’s hard to look away when they’re together.” Wanda doesn’t flinch when another crash comes from the office. “You wonder how they work, because they seem so very different.”

Peter shrugs. She’s not wrong, obviously, but he doesn’t want to look too interested, like the creepy fans that leave leery comments on Steve’s pictures. “People do say that opposites attract.”

“People are stupid. And vague. What even are opposites?” Wanda’s laugh is low and sort of croaky. “I am just glad they found their way back to each other.”

“How did they even meet?”

Wanda’s smile is the same one he saw yesterday, like he’s encountered a dead end and she knows it. This is not her story to tell, like so many others. “I am sure you will find out eventually.”

Clint bursts out of the office, then, dabbing at a cut on his cheek with a napkin. He looks kind of like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards, flustered and breathing hard. His eyebrows lift when he sees Peter sitting there, offering the two of them a quick greeting.

“Oh, and Clint!” Natasha calls out, appearing from behind the door, “Could you get me an iced latte?”

Clint considers for a second, before nodding. She throws him her reusable mug and he catches it with one hand before turning to leave.

“Don’t even try and get me to explain that relationship,” Wanda says, “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Peter laughs under his breath. It’s like Nat said, in the conversation he shouldn’t have heard. We don’t have to understand everything.

-

At about 11pm that night he joins Wanda for a cigarette out the back fire door and for the first time, he feels kind of cool, watching as the end burns a tiny amber dot, ripping a hole in the black. He’d never smoke one himself—the fact that May is horrified by him consuming alcohol is bad enough—but he likes watching her, how oddly and decadently beautiful the smoke unfurling from her lips is.

At the bottom of the alley, a motorbike pulls up and a man that looks vaguely Steve-shaped jumps off of it. Wanda glances at him with a smirk, stubbing out the cigarette with the toe of her boot. His arms fold out, and a woman runs into them, their laughter echoing down the street. They obviously don’t know that him and Wanda are watching; it feels like a private glimpse that they’re not supposed to see, a privilege. Natasha’s legs wrap round his waist. They hold each other for what feels like minutes, hours.

He can’t take his eyes away the whole time.

“I told you,” Wanda elbows him, brushing past to get to the door. “They’re magnetic. You’re pulled into their orbit.”

“I just…I don’t know why,” Peter says, dumbfounded, “Maybe it’s the way they look at each other? Like the whole world could burn to ashes and they’d just…stand, in the afterglow.”

“You’re poetic, Parker,” Wanda muses, “But you’re not wrong, either.”

They’re pulled back into the heat of the club when Clint realises they’re not working, grabbing them both by the shoulders and violently shoving them back onto the bar. He’s not paying them to gossip about snapchat and heelies, or whatever the kids are into these days, apparently. And Thor can only handle so much attention before his ego combusts.

He’s mixing a bad gin and tonic when Natasha and Steve finally come into the back. Her tiny frame guides him through the throngs of people as a The 1975 song plays in the background, crooning about skinny jeans and spare time and she’s got a boyfriend anyway. They disappear down the basement steps and Natasha must be a little drunk, he reckons, because the door is barely shut when they start kissing.

-

It takes about two and a half weeks, give or take, for things to start to feel normal. The hours fuck up any semblance of a sleeping pattern, but he’s no longer waking up with a thudding in his skull like a second heartbeat and Wanda’s tip about earplugs help a ton. He arrives at about three, sometimes earlier, sometimes later. He’s usually off again by two unless Nat or Clint are feeling generous about clean-up. The bar is shut every Sunday and the freedom is near divine. He doesn’t get up until midday and spends the rest of the day in his pajamas, eating pancakes and watching shitty reality television about people who are paid to sing badly or hate each other.

Steve is in the bar most nights and whilst he doesn’t always talk to Peter, he begins to miss him when he’s not there. He’s usually got a motivational speech or two in his back pocket, and it feels pretty fucking awesome that Steve Rogers seems to care a little about his wellbeing.

He hasn’t had the nerve to ask about how they met, yet. Wanda is still tight-lipped and Clint is borderline psychotic anyway, so each of them feel like a dead-end. He’s stuck with assumptions and watching them from his peripheral.

“You know, he wrote his last album about her,” Clint says in a rare moment of honesty, while they’re preparing for opening. Steve and Nat are tucked in a booth by the door, her knees brought to her chest, speaking impossibly close together. “It’s abhorrently adorable. Almost puked when I heard it.”

“What?” Peter says skeptically, “You mean the whole of See You In a Minute is about Natasha?”

“The whole goddamn thing. Sickening, isn’t it? I think the title is some sort of private joke between them.”

Peter doesn’t mention that Steve’s last album is his favorite, because he doesn’t need more excuses for Clint to bully him. Plus, he needs to push on. He needs to know more. “Have they always been like that? You know. Close.”

Clint pauses. He’s polishing glasses, but lays the cloth on the counter, looking over at him. “I’ve known Nat a long time. Long enough to know that it takes…a lot, to impress her. To pull her in. Even with me—and with Steve—it took her months to realise there was a mutual trust there.” He grins a little, showing the softer side to all that strident energy. “If you tell her this, I will violently murder you, but I love that girl to bits and I wouldn’t accept just anybody taking her away from me. But I accepted Steve immediately. So take from that what you will.”

It doesn’t really answer his question, but he supposes it answers a bunch of other unasked ones.

There’s a moment of silence. And then—

“Have you and Nat ever…?”

The look Clint gives him makes him realise he knows better than to finish that sentence.

-

(He brings up See You in a Minute on Spotify the moment he has time alone before opening, back on the leather couch in the basement. He figures the songs might have a new meaning now he knows who they’re about. His thumb taps the titular song—a slow, atmospheric ballad that sits in the recesses of his heart as soon as he hears the opening piano chords.

I have one last dance all saved up for you

He really wishes he wasn’t crying, but he just can’t help it.)

-

A band is playing that night called The Guardians who everyone but Peter seems to know well. They’re a six-piece retro rock band that the crowd goes wild for—they all have crazy hair colors and equally crazy names, apart from the lead singer, who’s messy brown hair is barely brushed and is weirdly also called Peter. They stay for a while after their set has finished, building up a substantial bar tab that Clint’s on their ass about. Peter Quill and his girlfriend Gamora (the other singer and guitar player of the band, her hair bright green and her lips painted black) sit on the stools and tease Peter (who they call Little P, hilarious) until closing time.

“Are you even allowed to serve alcohol?” Quill jibes, sipping a beer, “Isn’t there a rule against children being anywhere near liquor in public?”

Gamora pokes his shoulder. “Maybe it’s some sort of psychology project. He’s studying us for a paper.”

Peter can’t even be bothered to argue at this point. He still gets this same genre of comedy from Clint on a daily basis so what’s a couple more age-related jokes? He just smiles, mixing a cosmo for Gamora’s scary looking sister who silently glares at him from the stool next to her.

“You know what would be a fun psychology project,” Quill points a finger in Peter’s direction, “Nat Romanoff.”

Peter pauses for a second. “What makes you say that?”

Quill’s limbs are loose from all the drink he’s been downing before, during and after his performance, so his movements are all exaggerated and floppy. “Don’t tell me you’re not interested. Clint too. They both have shit in their pasts they don’t want us to know about.”

Gamora is decidedly more composed. She shakes her head, looking at Peter seriously. “All conjecture, of course. And none of our business.”

“I heard she was a spy for the Russian government,” Nebula casually mentions, her tone completely void of inflection. “She can slit someone’s neck with an envelope.”

All three of them look at Nebula, slightly aghast, but Nebula’s expression is so stoic and emotionless Peter can’t tell if she’s joking or not. Even Quill blinks heavily, knocked speechless.

“That’s…not what I meant,” Quill slurs, leaning in closer, “But there’s something there.” He taps the side of his nose. “Mark my words.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Gamora says, “Having a past you want to remain in the past is hardly rare.”

Peter’s beginning to notice a pattern with his colleagues. They all guard their memories under heavily armored doors and it’s only in occasional moments of softness or weakness where anything is ever revealed, and rarely by the person themselves. Clint let’s something slip about Natasha, Wanda about Clint. None of them really know anything about him.

“How long have you guys known Nat and Clint?” Peter asks, before tentatively adding, “And Steve?”

Quill and Gamora smile knowingly, like maybe this is a question that’s been asked before. Gamora presses a hand down on Quill’s shoulder. Peter hides the urge to sigh at another dead end. “We’ve been performing here since they opened, but if you actually want to know anything about them we’re probably the worst people to ask.”

Quill nods. “They don’t talk. If you ever find anything out, though, feel free to let us know.”

Peter laughs disbelievingly. “As if they’ll ever tell me anything.”

“Have you asked them?” Gamora replies, and Peter’s expression answers her question. “Little P, if they didn’t think they could trust you, they wouldn’t have hired you. They don’t let just anybody into their inner circle.”

“My uncle got me the job—he’s like, an investor, or something. Trust had nothing to do with it. Probably the opposite.”

Gamora’s lip curve, unconvinced. “I think you know it’s never quite that simple.”

“I don’t…I don’t even know why I’m so interested.”

“That’s what everybody says,” Gamora says wistfully, sliding him a tip across the counter. “And we should probably leave before he makes a fool of himself.”

(The he in question is Quill, who has since disappeared to join the dancing crowds with his shirt off. Nebula’s eye roll is mechanical, like the rest of her. Peter wonders if Quill and Gamora are her Steve and Nat; two wildly different individuals that seem joined together by something no-one else can see, that no-one quite understands. She downs the rest of her cocktail and makes her way towards the couple, who have since started kissing in the middle of the dancefloor.)

Gamora kind of reminds him of Michelle. Clever, beautiful, existing on a plane that floats way above everybody else. He swallows hard. He’s not sure where that thought came from.

-

By coincidence, MJ actually messages him about a week later. He’s been so busy either sleeping or working that all his friendships outside Endgame have taken a bit of a back-burner, texts stacking in his inbox that he’s been too tired to respond to. Besides, the only person he really keeps in contact with from high school is Ned and he’s spending the vacation before he goes to college with his family in Hawaii—he’s kept updated with sunkissed snapchats from the beach, exotic flowers and drinks in coconut shells. He’s hovered over Michelle’s name a few times over the past few weeks, but she isn’t always the kind to message back. She flies off grid as soon as school is out. There’s no point in tormenting himself over her lack of read receipts.

But when she messages, asking if they want to meet at the mall, he types sure before he can properly think about it. It’s a Sunday, after all, and he’s been thinking an awful lot about the limited relationships he has lately. What he wants them to be.

(That’s definitely a bi-product of Nat and Steve. He can’t put it down to anything else.)

MJ is sat by the fountain in the middle of the shopping complex reading a copy of Marx’s The Communist Manifesto, making notes with a tiny wooden Ikea pencil. Her dark hair is long and loose and she’s wearing a plaid shirt with sneakers, casually beautiful in the way she’s always been. It takes her a minute to look up and actually see him standing in front of her and when she does, her mouth opens a little, curved in a bemused grin.

“Woah, Peter,” she says, closing her book, “Didn’t realise you were edgy now.”

(She’s talking about his new Doc Martens that Wanda helped pick out. They’re shiny black leather and extremely uncomfortable, but you know, he’s getting down with the culture.)

“I’m…not,” Peter says. MJ laughs at his awkwardness. “You should see the people I work with.”

“This your new job, huh?” MJ eases back into the bench, crossing her legs. “Now you’ve decided to fuck college. Is this the beginning of a crisis? I’m getting vibes, here. Smart kids who screw college to work in a nightclub are definitely going on some sort of downward psychological spiral.”

Peter shrugs, smiling. Trust MJ to be brutally honest about his life choices. “Do you wanna grab coffee?”

“Yeah, as long as it’s not Starbucks. I’m not using my limited finances to fund their crooked corporate empire.”

They trail around for a bit before they find a cripplingly expensive but decidedly independent coffee house, filled with mismatched vintage furniture and hipster-types crowding the front windows with their moleskin notebooks. Peter feels out of place but Michelle fills the space like she owns it, lounging in an armchair angled away from the counter. She closes her eyes and asks for a chamomile tea and a blueberry muffin which he—he just gets for her.

He returns with an Americano for himself, because for some reason he wants MJ to think he’s the kind of person who drinks black coffee now, when in reality he’d prefer something fruity and sugary that has him flying off the walls.

“So…” Michelle starts as he falls into the sofa opposite, “You’re definitely not going to Princeton?”

Peter folds his legs. Tries to get comfortable. “I’m definitely not going to Princeton.”

“Interesting. Even though Tony Stark will probably fund, like, all your tuition fees?”

Peter rolls his eyes. He hates her insistence on bringing up the fact he has Tony in his life, a handy billionaire safety-blanket, like he can’t complain about anything ever. Yeah, sure, Tony would probably fund his way through college—but he wonders how much of that is guilt money, the dollars his mom and dad would have scraped together if they were still alive. Not everything is about money. Tony Stark is the kind of person MJ hates with every fibre of her being, but… Peter still loves him, and not just because he’s rich as shit. Even when he’s being super annoying.

Michelle smiles sadly when he doesn’t reply. “I’m sorry, Peter. It’s just hard for me to get my head around, you know? I would commit homicide for someone to fund my way through college. Maybe I already have.”

Peter chuckles. Has a sip of his god-awful coffee. “Where are you even going for college? I don’t think you’ve ever said. In-state?”

“It’s what I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually,” MJ admits, “It’s a bit further out than in-state.”

“Oh. Right. Pennsylvania?”

“Bit further than that.”

“…California?”

“Not exactly.”

“MJ, are you going to make me run through every college I know about? Tony’s shoved just about every prospectus in my direction so we might be here a while.”

“I got accepted onto a philosophy program,” MJ starts, bringing her teacup to her lips. “At University College London.”

Peter almost spits his coffee out everywhere.

“I honestly didn’t think anything would come of it. The whole admissions process in England is completely whack, and they don’t have SATs and stuff over there so I didn’t think I had a chance. But—I don’t know. Something happened, and I got in. So I guess I’m moving to London.”

He’s not completely sure what she’s saying, just watching her mouth move and nothing but blurred, incoherent noise reaching her. She said London. MJ is moving to London, and that’s a hell of a long way from anywhere.

“You’re moving to London?” he just about manages to squeak.

“Yep. Totally aced it, dude. Time to live my English dream. You know. Try and abolish the class system they have over there and stage a revolution against their monarchy.”

A vacuum opens in his stomach, like he’s just now realising that he doesn’t really want to live in a country that isn’t the same as MJ’s. But she looks so happy. He doesn’t want to be, but he can’t help it. He can’t not be happy for someone who is about to do everything they’ve ever wanted.

Nevertheless, it’s an inconvenient epiphany. Wanting to hold onto someone as soon as they tell you they’re going to leave.

“Congratulations,” he says, hoping there isn’t a crack in his voice. “That’s…incredible, MJ. You’re awesome.”

“I know! And now you’re earning a proper wage like an adult, you can totally come and visit me over there. We can eat scones and laugh at how ridiculous British accents are.” She kicks him gently, grinning. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Peter says quietly. “Yeah, of course I will.”

“Cool. Now we’ve got that out the way…” MJ reaches into her bag, bringing out her little black copy of The Communist Manifesto. “Can I interest you in a dialogue with my new BFF, Karl?”

He sinks back into his chair, feels his whole body bleed between the fabric and through the floorboards.

-

He walks into work the next day and finds Steve and Natasha sitting in one of the booths. Steve has an acoustic guitar and he’s strumming chords while Nat is nodding along, pointing at something on a scrap of notebook paper in front of him. Occasionally, he’ll grab a marker and cross something out or scribble something down. When the door shuts behind him, the two of them look over. God. He’s got a running habit of ruining moments.

“Hey Peter!” Steve calls out in his usual, friendly way, “What’s up?”

He’s about to reply, but Natasha edges in first. “Come over here. Let’s talk.”

There’s something ominous in her tone but Natasha is impossible to predict, so a vague sense of anxiety haunts him as he sidles over to the booth and sits slowly in the space Nat has made for him. He wonders if she’s firing him but Steve looks chipper—surely he wouldn’t look that happy if he was about to lose his job, right? Maybe his not so discrete interest in their relationship has…got back to them? He’s already imagining the look on Tony’s face. I said you needed a reality check.

“Am I in trouble?”

Nat laughs. Even that is low and sultry, somehow sexy. Steve laughs too. “Peter—I know we tease you about it, but you do realise you’re not in school, right? And…calm, measured conversation isn’t usually how we deal with things here.”

He recalls the argument in the office a few weeks prior. Yeah, sounds about right.

“We just want to know about you,” Nat continues, “Because—I know a lot about the people I work with. But I don’t know anything about you, other than what Stark has said. And I trust his judgement about as much as I trust Steve’s.”

“Hey!” Steve says with a pout, “My judgement is perfect, thank you very much.”

“It’s the opposite of perfect, but okay, Mr I-trust-everybody-I’ve-met-ever.”

Steve shakes his head at him. “This is what I get for not being openly hostile all the time.”

“It’s got me and Clint this far. Anyway, I digress.” She nudges Peter gently. “Tell us something about you.”

Peter is mildly suspicious about the whole thing and doesn’t know what to say, so just stares vacantly at the two of them.

“Okay…well, at least we know you’re not a talker,” Nat murmurs, “So how about I ask you a question. Who was the girl you were with at the mall yesterday?” Peter’s jaw swings open like a door on a loose hinge. Nat half-smiles. “I saw you when I was coming out the Urban Outfitters. I’m curious.”

Steve glowers at her. “Peter, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. She’s insatiable.”

“Oh, yeah. But if you don’t answer it you’ll be kind of answering it, if you get what I mean.”

Peter’s taken aback. For someone who is so private about everything, she’s appears to have no qualms investigating his private life. He coughs on nothing and shifts in his seat awkwardly. “Just a friend. From school. It isn’t—she isn’t…”

Nat laughs under her breath, looking over at Steve. “He’s right. It’s none of my business. But you two looked good together. That’s always a good start.”

“Is it?” Steve asks, and she sighs.

“I think so,” Nat splays her hands out on the table. He notices her fingernails are painted electric blue. “But, sure. It isn’t everything.”

“What is everything?”

The question catches both of them off guard and Peter instantly regrets asking, wishing he could catch his words back in a butterfly net and shove them back inside of him. The two of them are…they’re untouchable, Wanda and Clint have both made that equally clear. It’s something you find out, not something you’re told. But it’s too late now. Steve and Nat look at each other in a minute of an intense, burning eye contact and not for the first time Peter imagines being swallowed up by the seat whole.

“I guess…” Steve begins but trails off. Peter watches as his fingers inch closer to Natasha’s on a table, like they’re playing a complex game wherein they discover where their boundaries are, how far they can go while he’s still there. “I guess everything is when you’re sat in a room, and there could be just one person it or thousands, but it doesn’t matter because none of those faces are the one you want it to be. The only perfect room, the only one you’ll ever be happy in, is the one they inhabit with you. To leave it…or for them to leave, feels like you’re constantly just gasping for air.”

Natasha looks away. Somehow, Steve manages to drag his eyes away from her, after saying all that, and back to Peter.

“But sometimes everything is just knowing the favorite brand of ice cream they like to eat when everything is awful or the setting they prefer their washing machine on. It’s all about striking a balance.” He half-smiles. “Sometimes it takes a while to find it.”

Peter frowns. He likes Michelle, likes her more than he’d ever let on if the uncontrollable reaction his body had after she said she was leaving is anything to go by, but how can he know if it’s everything? What Steve is saying sounds suspiciously like soulmates, if they exist. That not being with them feels like dying. What he feels for MJ is blurry, inconstant; but it’s there all the same. He’s not sure if that flame is supposed to become anything more. Not that it matters.

“Michelle is moving to London for college,” Peter says desolately, then rolls his shoulders. “She’ll be living a whole other life over there. I can’t expect her to fit me into it, even if she liked me back.”

“Hey, Peter?” Nat says with a sympathetic smile, “Distance sucks, but you know what sucks more? Waiting too long. We know a thing or two about it, and I’d recommend quite heavily against it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve adds his two cents, “I’d give it a one star review on Amazon for being the worst ever. Not what I ordered, arrived broken, the lot.”

Clint enters and asks if they need a witness to sign the adoption papers and Nat throws a dirty washcloth at him, everything returning to normal. But there’s a warm feeling in Peter’s chest, because this is the closest he’s ever got. Maybe Gamora was right.

-

He sends Michelle a text that night, asking if they could maybe meet up again. She doesn’t reply. Maybe she never will, because that happens. But he’s not waiting too long. It’s not what he ordered.

-

They have an evening off a couple of weeks later because it’s Nat’s birthday. Apparently it’s tradition that whenever her or Clint turn a year older they fuck potential profit for a day and spend the night drinking whatever they can get their hands on. Instead, Peter’s invited to a small party that is hosted at Clint’s apartment across town—he’s still dragged to the bar a couple of hours before, however, to roll kegs of beer and various bottles of multi-colored spirits from the storeroom to Clint’s car for the occasion. He vanishes back home to shower and change before returning, May hastily shoving a bottle of wine into his hands as a gift as he leaves. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen Nat drink white at all, but hey. He’s only little. He doesn’t know much about liquor.

Clint buzzes him in and he follows the drum beat in the corridor to his top-floor apartment; the door is open so he just walks in, but is surprised when he sees nobody about. The speaker is blasting music into an empty room and if it wasn’t for Wanda entering the kitchen, he’d assume he’d come to the wrong house.

“Peter!” she says excitedly, squeezing him into a tight hug. Her dark hair is loose across her shoulders and she’s wearing a burgundy dress that floats above her knees. He can’t help but smile at her. “So glad you could make it!”

He leans out of the embrace, putting the wine on the counter. Glasses are spread out without any clear design, interspersed with opened bottles of various drinks. As far as he can see, there’s no non-alcoholic alternatives—May would probably freak out. “Where is everybody?”

“Did Clint not tell you? We’re on the roof. I’m just off to the bathroom but if you go through the door off the kitchen and up the fire escape you won’t miss it.”

She bounds away so he slowly makes his way up as per Wanda’s instructions. As soon as he opens the door he can hear chatter and laughter, and upon reaching the top he finds an area covered in strings of white fairy lights and odd chairs from jarring furniture sets. A bar runs along the edge near the wall where Clint is mixing drinks, rows of glasses filled with a very generous amount of vodka and garnished with olives. There are people he recognises—Steve and Natasha are tucked into a loveseat, finally comfortable with the eyes on them, with Thor perched on the edge—but mostly people he doesn’t. A man with white hair sits comfortably with a brunette woman, while two unknown men stand deep in conversation off to the side. Nobody notices him straightaway and he feels little odd, the youngest there, but Clint dramatically fist-pumps the air.

“Parker!” he exclaims, walking over and clapping him ferociously on the shoulder. He wonders just how long the drinking has been going before he arrived as he tries not to cough up his lungs. “No extra-curriculars tonight? Lacrosse, maybe?”

“Leave him alone, Clint!” Natasha says, to Peter’s surprise, but then— “He’s way too little for lacrosse. I think he’s more of a mathlete.”

“Who’s kid brother is this, then?” One of the men he clocked earlier calls out before heading over, “Could be Rogers, I suppose. You both have that needy white boy look about you.”

Peter sighs, stretching out his arms. “Should we just get all the insults out the way now? Then we can move on with our lives.”

Needless to say, the insults don’t decrease with time—if anything they continue to spike as more vodka is consumed and less fucks are given, which are outstandingly little to begin with. Sam—a friend of Steve’s from his touring days—is by far the most scathing, not letting him rest for a second. Peter kind of likes it, though. It’s the way a lot of them show affection for each other, brutally kicking the shit at every opportunity. Steve’s other friend is Bucky, someone from childhood, and the white-haired guy is Wanda’s brother Pietro who left Endgame for music management somewhere. Maria and Phil work in legal and know Clint and Nat from wherever they were before Endgame. A good-natured yet authoritative man called Rhodey turns up later, who Peter recognises from Tony’s offices but has never actually met. Maybe Tony and Pepper will turn up at some point. Maybe they won’t.

Clint offers him one of Nat’s Special Birthday Martinis. He’s on the edge of turning it down, but everybody is laughing and he kind of feels part of this, so why not. The taste is bitter and awful and Clint laughs at him for a very long time, until his eyes water and he has to go and sit down. He talks to Wanda and Pietro, about their life in Sokovia before civil war ripped it to pieces, and Steve mentions how he took Nat out for Chinese food and champagne.

Steve brings in Natasha’s cake and Nat flushes—just a little—as she sees the candles flicker in the relative darkness, like Steve is holding a fire in his hands. Her eyes flutter closed as she blows out the candles and Peter muses on what she wished for, or if she wished at all. The alcohol makes his stomach feel warm, and the people make him feel warm, and he thinks this little party in this pocket of New York City may be one of the happiest moments of his life.

As the hours lull into the coolness of the morning, guests in various states of drunkenness either leave or continue on into Clint’s apartment. Peter takes a minute to steady himself, his heady heart and clouded head. He clings onto the metal railings until his knuckles turn white, staring out over the city. His city. He can’t go to college because he can’t leave here, all the lights and the heat and the music. New York is him and he is New York. This is something that cannot be ever taken away from him.

He hears footsteps and instead of you know, staying, like a normal person, Peter’s instinct is to duck behind the bar. He’s not ready for anyone to see him yet. He just wants a couple more moments alone with the world—plus he feels a little drunk, and being drunk is the best right here.

The footsteps come to a halt barely feet away from him. He’s not trying to listen as this is weird enough as it is, but it’s difficult not to. It’s Steve and Natasha.

“Another year, another one of Clint’s illegal martinis.” Steve’s voice. “Or two. Or several.”

Nat laughs lightly. “I’m going to go with several. I better not be holding your hair back while you puke tonight, boy. It’s my birthday.”

“Well—technically it stopped being your birthday a few hours ago, Nat, but I’ll let it slide because I love you.”

“You love me, huh? That’s certainly a new development.”

“Nah, it isn’t. Loved you the moment I saw you.”

“You fall in love with everybody.”

“Not in the way I love you. God, Nat. Do you actually realise what you do to me? Every time I look at you—you rip all the air out of my lungs.”

“That sounds pretty painful.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s agony. But it’s worth every second because…because you’re you. After everything. You’re you.”

There’s a few seconds of quiet. Peter wishes he’d just gone because as much as he wanted to know about them, to feel closer to them, this isn’t…this isn’t it. This is too private. Maybe if he edges along, he could sneak…

“Marry me.” Steve’s voice hangs in the night, like one of his songs. Poignant. “Marry me, Natasha.”

Nat is quieter than Peter’s ever heard it. It’s quiet, and it cracks in the middle. “Is that Clint’s martinis talking?”

“No. No. This is me talking. Marry me. You know—you know I’d be happy, forever, with what we have now. But I want to. I really, really want to.”

“Steve…” her voice is barely a whisper. Peter’s hand balls into fists. He’s here and yeah, he shouldn’t be, but he’s goddamn invested at this point. “I’ve been told that I can be pretty hard to deal with, sometimes. I’m reluctant to inflict that on somebody forever.”

“For you to inflict your inconstant, confusing, ridiculous self on me forever would be a privilege, Romanoff.”

“You really do have an answer for anything, don’t you? Insufferable asshole.”

“I’m your insufferable asshole.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

At that moment Peter’s leg just…involuntarily spasms. His foot collides with a nearby chair and it shifts across the concrete loudly, his cover completely blown. Shit. There’s no hiding now, so he peeks round the edge of the bar, finding Steve and Natasha stood with their arms around each other.

“Hello,” Peter says sheepishly, pointing towards the door, “I was just—“

“Parker, you’re not going anywhere.” Nat grabs him by his shirt and pulls him up, but there’s no malice on her face. Instead of violently throwing him off the top of this very high building for perving on their proposal, she drops him on one of the sofas. Steve hands him a nearby martini, amused by the whole situation if anything.

“You’re sitting there, and I’m telling you everything you want to know.”

#marvel cinematic universe #mcu #avengers #captain america #black widow #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #stevenat #steve x natasha #peter parker #mcu fic #fanfic #romanogers fic

[christinaroseandrews]

Part 1

First off, I’m going to have to break this review up into pieces. I’ve got too much to rant about - complete with screen grabs - that tumblr will hate me. Not to mention, I want to show you the pain and then talk about some of the more salient problems with this book in depth. 

A little over a month and a half ago I said I was going to do something stupid. I was going to read my way through Faleena Hopkins’ book You Don’t Know Me. I got through the first half in a fairly decent clip - the writing was not good, the characters weren’t good, the plots were flying more than mosquitoes in summer... and then I got to the part where I just started continually shouting.

Laws of physics, laws of nature, laws of storytelling were all thrown aside as if they were garbage and then literal garbage was shoved into its place.

This was not a good book. This is not me ragging on her as an author. But I am not joking when I say I’ve read stuff by actual teenagers that was much, much better than this. And because I had to suffer through it, you have to suffer through my ranting.  Aren’t I nice?

The story takes a common trope “Secret Love Child” and combines it with another “The Missing Heir” and adds a dash of “Draco in Leather Pants” and “Poor Little Rich Boy” into the mix. By the way, if you can’t guess, TV Tropes is my wiki-walk rabbit hole and I have no regrets. The same cannot be said for this book.

Rue Calliwell (and I don’t care if I misspell the name - the author doesn’t; why should I?) is trying to make it in Los Angeles. She works the graveyard shift at a local grocery store while trying to catch her big break as a dancer. When Jack Stone, one of America’s Famous Billionaire Playboys, suddenly appears on her doorstep hopping mad, she wonders what died in his Wheaties and maybe if she can kiss away the frown he’s fixing her with. (Yep, she’s dreaming about some brother banging.) After dragging the story out for way too long, it’s finally revealed that Rue is the bastard daughter of Jack’s father and that he’s been embezzling from his company to stock up an inheritance of $50 million that has Rue’s name all over it. If she refuses the money, it goes to the KKK and she can’t allow that to happen. While her other brother, Sean, treats her to a Pretty Woman makeover, Jack wrangles their best friend Alec (and super hot lead singer of a band that’s never mentioned and isn't important to the plot in any way) to seduce his sister and then break her heart. Because that’s what all pissed off brothers do, dontcha know? 

So where do I even begin with this?

How about at the beginning... I have over 120 notes that I made on this as I read it. I’ll share some of them with you.

This is the opening paragraph to this book. There is so much wrong with this I just can’t even. From the random thought, to the run-on sentence (a Faleena Hopkins Trademark), to the weird-ass descriptors. Frowning Forehead? Are there lips on this forehead? Another face? Not to mention that there are missing en-dashes and it’s in a confusing tense. (Most of the book is in first person/present tense... because of the contraction, the sentence can be read as both present and past tense.)

The story introduces us to Rue, Jack, and Sean in pretty short order. Rue is supposed to be the heroine. The one we’re rooting for. Jack is the antagonist. One of the two wronged brothers and the one who thinks that Rue has an agenda. He is not a nice character. Then there’s Sean who is too good for this world and is written like every single stereotypical gay best friend but he’s got a “SECRET!” You have one guess what that is going to be.

If you can’t tell, this is in reference to Jack. But not only do we have a wild apostrophe, but we also have Exorcist levels of neck contortion. Not to mention a super awkward sentence.

This is also a Faleena Hopkins Trademark.

See...

I also mentioned that the story was in need of a good editor. Not just a proofreader, but an actual story doctor who could prune the 15 or so subplots down to something manageable while actually giving us a romance. Not a sex story shoved into a family drama. By the way, this story BARELY qualifies as a romance and I’m not totally convinced it is. The main characters end up together, but it is in no way satisfying and the focus of the story wasn’t on the relationship. More on that later.

But let’s go back to the editing.

Sorry about the italics not translating between Goodreads (where I can access my notes) and what’s in the actual book.  Trust me when I say that this woman hasn’t met an italic she didn’t love, except when she should use them.

As you can see, there are now enough errors for me to mark it down a star for poor proofreading.  And I’m not even a quarter of my way through this. The errors continued including something I find a death knell... the author spelling her main character’s name wrong. I’m not going to bother sharing more of her proofreading errors, unless they are really eye-roll enducing.

Another reason why this book is so bad is because the foreshadowing is heavy-handed as fuck. Like I’m going to hit you over a brick with it but I want you to act surprised when the reveal takes place. It’s that bad.

Here’s one of the most egregious examples.

We didn’t get the actual reveal of what was in the summary until 7% of the way into the book. Which is 21 pages and 5 Chapters into the book. Even then, the author played with it for a while, making it so that Rue didn’t believe the lawyer and thought this was some elaborate reality show prank. Yeah.

The author also wasn’t terribly good at hiding her foreshadowing.

This was in the character’s head. You don’t hide that kind of thing in your own head. It’s why most mystery writers don’t write from the POV of the killer, “The Strange Case of Roger Ackroyd” aside. It gives away the mystery. Coupled with the over abundance of POVs and this heavy handed handling of the character. I would have dropped this plot line entirely.... More on this later.  Trust me, what goes on with Sean is a rant in and of itself and is enough for me to rate this one star.

Now let’s get into the flashback portion and will portion of the plot.

This is where the first gif really starts showing through.

Part of me really wanted to send Hopkins the Wikipedia article on cancer. The other part of me wondered: if this is what she considers hyperbole, then what other horrors did I have in store?

I shouldn’t have asked.

This is brought up, but never actually addressed. Also I need to talk about how the father gave Rue the money. He gave it to her in a lump sum. $50 million. Not a trust. Not a foundation. Just here! Cash!

The author tries to address it later. But fails.

And that’s assuming that there aren’t locality taxes and again congrats you’re in a higher income bracket.

The biggest problem with this is that the father would know better. Or have the money offshore... not something that would be transferred into a U.S. checking account to make the IRS piddle their pants like an errant puppy. The father who claims to have loved the mother and the daughter, would make sure that the daughter had the money to keep her comfortable for the rest of her life and not able to spend it or give it away all in one go.

I used to work for a lawyer’s office who specialized in estate planning (and real estate) - in most cases, if you have more than $250,000 in assets that will survive your death, it’s recommended to have a trust because the federal government takes so much.

These tricks are one of the many ways that the rich stay rich.

As I mentioned before Rue gets a makeover, courtesy of Sean.

I’m thinking of the now deleted video of hers... But here’s the author.

So of course from here on out, I’m picturing Faleena as Rue... which did not help matters.

The reason why I say this is a nice lampshade is literally until she finds out that Jack and Sean are her brothers, she’s fantasizing about sleeping with them and kissing them.  Which again is “Ew!!!” for the reader and not funny and kinda crosses the pseudo-incest vibe that Amazon will allow and goes into Incest because again, we the reader know what the score is, it’s in the damned summary.

This is a huge problem in the book. The sainted mother who died of the mystical cancer is the sole woman who doesn’t get the slut/bitch/sexist treatment. Huge problem. Not even Jenna is immune (which happens later) and Jenna falls into another bad trope which I will get to later.

There’s more, but let me tell you, headhopping in the first person, present tense is tough. You’re deep into one character’s head. That takes talent.

Crappy talent. But talent.

This is where I’m going to stop my first post. We’ve just got the first mention of the love interest, Alec. And opened up another problem.

How is Alec Sean and Jack’s only friend? I say this as someone whose best friends growing up were identical twins. Most siblings, especially those that aren’t twins, won’t have the same bestie. They don’t want the same bestie. It’s a thing. They may have friends in common, but most best friends tend to be someone else. Mostly so they have someone they can rant to about the other.

If you think this is bad, wait until you meet Alec and the new siblings have a night on the town.

It’s going to be great....

If you want to support reviews like this consider donating to our Kofi!

#faleena hopkins #romance review #contemporary romance #billionaire romance #new adult romance #musician romance #wtf did i just read #cockygate #so much wrong #I'm going to rant #a lot #and you get to suffer with me #because I read this for you! #well #not really #I read it to see why she was so up in arms about her mark and why she thought she wwas the best thing since sliced bread #guess what #her bread ain't sliced #it's shit #Gods why did I do this to myself #send booze #part one #book review

[springlock-bonnie]

Everyone leave Yukio alone.

....Just kidding, literally do the opposite. (see below)

Yukio’s always been going through shit, but the fandom tends to write him off as the “mean” character and leave it at that. Kato finally decides to drop the bass, and now we’ve collectively shifted over to “Yukio, what the fuck”, because now he’s being angry at characters other than me, now. This stupid (persuasive) essay’s gonna look at Yukio’s personality and troubles, a little deeper than “Yukio’s mean to Rin :(”. Also, I’m biased as fuck and have only good things to say about this boy. Let’s roll.

Let’s start from the beginning, what we all universally know about Yukio as a baby. Yukio started training to be an exorcist very fucking early. It’s partially due to schizophrenia, partially due to his desire to take (what’s that one meme right now) Direct Action to supposedly protect me from the outside world. His theory was basically if I’ve always been protecting him in the physical world, he had the upper hand in the… supernatural world? Sure, let’s call it that.

Yukio’s seven years old, deathly afraid of guns and loud noises, but continues along with dad to be the best fucking exorcist at an even younger age than Fujimoto, just for one little asshole that still throttles him on a regular basis. He wants to follow dad, because dad is literally the Paladin, and almost the first thing you learn is the True Cross Exorcist categories and stature. Yukio was lucky our dad was who he was, and took advantage of that.

Growing up, Yukio was only ever working. Think about it. Going to school like a good boy, doing his homework, constantly disappearing on exorcisms, and then doing that homework too. Because he’s so little, he has to be Great. He doesn’t have time to be The Little Boy Exorcist, he has to kick everyone’s ass (Shura included) so that they never think of him as too delicate or inferior. This is where when you guys go “he thinks he’s so important *eye roll*” I physically feel my toes catch on fire.

So his childhood was maturing too fast. Maturing too fast, no matter the reason, is never a good thing. It means something bad happened, or is happening. Yukio isn’t mature because he’s such a mentally healthy boy. The rod up his ass is there, but it’s caked with maturity way before his time (idk how to phrase that). Yukio was naturally very smart, but he was still a kid. But there’s no time to be afraid of butterflies. You have to follow dad, who everyone looks up to, including you. You need to be where dad is.

Dad is also… dad. You may not have seen much of Fujimoto, but from what you did see you can kind of see, he wasn’t very good at being “fatherly” because he never wanted/planned to be. Two baby demons were just sort of plopped in his arms. Bless his soul, but that man wasn’t what Yukio needed emotionally. Ever wonder why the poor boy misses a mother he never had? He knows mom equals soft. Mom equals comfort, affection, love… whatever you want to say, mom means something different from Fujimoto, in Yukio’s eyes.

Yukio clings to that because he lacks it. I’m not like that, dad wasn’t like that, and mom’s been dead since literally our birth. So forgive him for fantasizing about someone who’s maybe gentle with him, or stops and asks him genuinely how he’s doing. He’s feeling a lack of caring, whether he registers it or not. It’s not like he’s going to ask for it or anything, b-baka! We’ll come back to this in a few paragraphs.

Yukio needs to be the best. Not because he wants to be looked up to, not because he wants to feel superior, but because he’s always behind. Even ahead of everything, he needs to be the best at a constant. He’s working up the ranks, but he needs to be able to take on everything. Not only that, but meet everyone’s raising expectations. Yukio? The Yukio? Yukio Okumura? If they think he can shoot three hobgoblins dead in mid-flight, he has to be able to do that.

Yukio does not think he’s better. He thinks he needs to be better, and is willing to do whatever that takes. In fact, that sentence might as well be his motto. Now we’re at Yukio at 15, when dad dies. What does Yukio do immediately? Question dad on following him. “Dad, you just died, should I kill myself too?” Now, he’s lost. Now, dad isn’t his superior, he has to impress people on his own and make it on his own.

I’m not denying we had troubles. He blamed me for dad, I was fucking livid he lied to me for half our life. But he’s human. Ish. He’s a baby, and where we see his early maturity, we have to understand he literally mentally age regresses. Those little scenes in the anime with him suddenly crying as a child because he’s scared? How it’s in that blank room, and is usually directed somehow to dad? That’s his coping mechanism that he’s alone as an adult now, at 15. He has to be.

Everything he is doing, he is doing for me. Remember that. Remember that’s his sole purpose to being an exorcist, and the only reason he yells and hits and is a total ass. It’s because he can’t show weakness, not to anyone. Because if he’s even gentle to one person, everyone’s going to hear about it. Don’t break down, don’t break down. Keep your chin high and be the fucking best. Don’t slip up. Don’t make mistakes.

Remember when you were 15? You might be that age or younger right now, but someday you’ll realize 15 is very young. Dude, I’m 18, and 16 y/os give me a headache. Yukio is young. He’s not even close to hormone maturity, and he’s scared shitless, all the time. But he’s a prodigy, so at 15, he has to act 25. That’s what he’s doing.

Yukio puts others needs in front of his own. He always does, even if it comes off as “mean”. Alright yeah, I do joke about how in the movie he was like “exorcists don’t save people, we kill demons”. WhOoP dE dOo I jUsT LoVe ShOoTiNg a GoOd DeMoN nOw AnD aGaIn. What are we, the republican presidential candidate? But look at all he does. The only times you have to argue are in Kyoto, when he was like, “shit, I guess the Vatican’s going to kill my brother.” But are you really going to hold it against him? He’s not going to argue with the higher ups, and get himself killed, who is arguably the best chance they have at actually getting me out of there. Off what y’all have seen, I happen to know he’s argued mercilessly with them. So basically, when they said death to Rin, they were done with him arguing already and he wouldn’t be of help.

In example of selflessness, Shura’s little arc. It’s a terrible example, but Yukio wasn’t there to kill Hachiro. He was there to assist Shura. I mean, Tiny Boy was like “hey I’m legal I’ll give u a baby so u can be reborn” even though he didn’t want to. Then, he concocted that stupid plan of tricking Serpent Man just to 100% get Shura out of her contract for good. But you know, Yukio’s mean and thinks he’s most important.

Yukio desperately needs something like what he’s searching out for in the recent chapters. Look at how he pried around for mom, and then continued to. Look at how he reacted with Sheimi. He’s trying to reach out, but what’s that Marina and The Diamonds “Numb” quote? “I can’t open up and cry, because I’ve been silent all my life?” That’s my boy. He probably doesn’t even know how, anymore.

Yukio had the potential to grow up really soft and sensual, but lost that ability with his desire to protect. So now, we’ve got this outer shell we see, which is cold and stiff and doesn’t show a lot of emotion. It isn’t because he’s mean. I see a lot of jokes about Yukio not wanting to open up about his feelings. You’re very right, but the joke part of it is where you’re still on the wrong idea.

Right now, Yukio’s going through demon bullshit. Demon bullshit means even more intense emotions he’s not even used to showing in the first place. You know how he’s aggressive, attacks, and then suddenly turns around and apologizes? That apology is genuine. He doesn’t even know what’s going on with him. It’s scaring him, too. I’m not saying his actions are justified. I’m not defending the fact he’s threatened and hurt people.

AND HEY HOW ABOUT THAT CHAPTER 93. That suicide isn’t just, oh look at me, I might as well. And it isn’t a sudden thought. (Side effects may include) suicidal thoughts or actions aren’t spontaneous and not thought out. Yukio wasn’t like, hey turns out True Cross sucks, time to bippity bop the fuck right out. As far as canon material goes, Yukio’s considered death since dad died. But is it really that crazy of a stretch to deny that? Yukio’s never been mentally stable.

I think my main beef is the fact sometimes even folks who see all this, don’t care. “Yeah but he’s reacting inappropriately”. Ah yes, sorry Oliver, I’m sure you would behave so much better in that situation. It’s easy to demonize (Heheh) a character and forget everything human about them. Yukio is very easy with that. It’s so, so easy to look at his “mean”-ness and go “man that kids an asshole, fuck him”. I did it too. But you have to remember he is (part) human, and he has emotions.

And if you want to argue I’m looking too deep, go ahead. But Kato’s stories are the most beautiful things to analyze and I know for a fact she’s not just shitting out some asshole character with no other redeeming qualities. She’s too respectful of every single one of her characters for that. Especially not in comparison to Astronerd, where Yukio stems from. Let’s talk about that for a sec, shall we?

Astronerd, in short, is a story about a boy named Yoshio Fujiko who loves astronomy. But he’s finally decided he’s done with that, and doesn’t want to be viewed as a freak anymore. He briefly talks about his bullying with it. He talks about his crush, Tezuka. He discovers she likes astronomy, too! But it’s okay that she does, “because she’s cute.”

Aliens suddenly come down to destroy earth, and tell Yoshio he’s the subject they’re going to cryogenically freeze to set as an example to other planets to never be like earth. He asks why was he born (*cough*), and they joke and say if someone figured that out they’d get a medal and the aliens would put on a display of fireworks instead of blowing the world up. “But, an inferior life form like you has no chance!”

Yoshio’s about to sign, when he gets a text from Tezuka (who he was mean to), still believing in him! So he gets on his little scooter and races to the school to apologize. Suddenly, there’s a huge crater. Yoshio’s tired, and the aliens are like “what the fuck! You’re killing yourself over an apology?” and he goes “no, it’s not the apology anymore.”

And, my favorite fuckin quote via my mom ever,

“I really was a fool… and fools don’t change unless they die!”

ANYWAY HE FUCKING MAKES IT (Kato told a mildly happy story?!) LIKE SOME E.T. BULLSHIT (and then determines life is too precious) apologizes to Tezuka, and admits he’s an astronerd! He then realizes he was born for realizing that, at that moment. And the aliens are like “shit! Fuck! He’s right! We gotta keep our promise…!”

If I was to go deeper into the summary, you’d see that Yoshio in a sense is a very watered down Yukio as far as things go. He suddenly thinks his life his hopeless, but upon almost dying, he gets a second chance, and ends up literally saving the world and discovering who he is. I’m not saying aliens are going to descend from the heavens and tell Yukio he’s actually an angel (it’s implied), but I think Kato’s planning on… basically explaining that Yukio figures himself out, and it betters him as a person (go Kato, go!)

In conclusion, Yukio is a complicated perfect boy (perfect boy) who needs (and deserves) lots of attention and affection whether he thinks he wants it or not. He’s stiff and mature because he needs to be, and he does everything he does for a selfless reason. He doesn’t want to be the best exorcist to fuck with people. You just gotta remember his original reason.

JESUS FUCK THANKS FOR READING

#blehxorcist #yuckio