#I felt like the question was 'who' and 'when' rather than 'if' | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tvboaerosmith · 2 days ago

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I thought it'd be good fun if I did a list like this for Smith and Neo, so I took one that looked interesting and this happened. Happy reading.

1. When did you start shipping them?

I first watched The Matrix somewhere around May or April of 2023. I didn't ship them on my initial watch through of the Matrix... It was just more of a gradual like for them as a pairing. I think I started concretely liking them around August 2023? In fact, the first ever ship related art I drew for the Matrix was Morpheus and Neo, and my first ship fic was quite literally *Merovingian* and Neo!

2. What do you like about them as individuals?

I'm surprised to say that what I love most about Neo isn't even actually his looks or his personality (even though I like these parts of him too) but rather what he represents. He's a second chance, freedom personified.

Though he was indeed a puppet in the end, I loved what he built for himself even as he was stuck to his role, how calm and collected he can be. He really is elegant, svelte, but that doesn't mean he's blank or wooden — It makes me smile that sometimes classic "90s badass hero" speech leaks through, like "Hiya fellas".

As for Smith, I initially only found his writing interesting. I cannot say I am attracted to Hugo Weaving. Gradually I understood his character more and more and found that I really can relate to him. Actually, people often call the Matrix movies a trans metaphor, and I feel like this metaphor for self discovery and struggle with the world can actually be found most in Smith?

Of course I'm not saying I think his character is trans, just that his problems really felt like mine. I like that he's such a lonely character in perfect parallel to how popular Neo is, I like that he is the perfect personification of bigotry because people hate what they do not understand because they are crucially scared of it just the way Smith is terrified.

He reminds me of a child grappling tearfully at things he just can't understand, because he simply has a mental blockade to these things because he was made and bred and raised in a totally different purpose and world than that of Neo's.

3. What about their dynamic appeals to you?

Actually, I often see others say their appeal is in Smith and Neo as the classic enemies to lovers troupe. I admit a lot of my favourite ships fall under this too, but I've always viewed Smith and Neo's story as one of redemption and one of a second chance.

Smith represents somebody who doesn't fit into society, suddenly finding himself ripped away from the comfort of conformity, even when he was made specifically for that. He hates everything that he perceives, because to him they are mentally and physically vile. He craves the comfort of belonging.

And when he is totally thrown and discarded from the system, instead of changing himself the way Neo does for his own freedom and peace of mind, he foolishly deigns to change his cage, to hijack The Matrix.

He struggles, and in this struggle I find sympathy with his character. Neo on the other hand is Smith's saviour, as is his entire character as the saviour of the human race, but I like to think he can save other races too, even when Smith is to me the most human of the two.

This is important: Neo is the ONLY one in the whole world who can possibly understand Smith's anguish. Inexorably they are linked not just through fate but also by choice. They need each other, they love each other, they hate each other, and all these things surmount to such importance it cannot not be mentioned in tandem with the names of Smith and Neo.

They are together in life and in death. Neo is the only one who can soothe Smith's fears, and it is Smith's own refusal to accept that Neo understands that dooms him. They matter more to each other than anybody else. The Matrix is a love story—but not between the characters of Neo and Trinity.

4. What are their favourite things about one another?

This is a hard question to answer, considering Smith and Neo aren't just some regular pairing.

I can't decide if Neo's favourite thing about Smith would be his machine side or his humanity. Would he enjoy that Smith is a program, because it shows him the whole new world he didn't know of, of programs who love just like Rama Kandra told him, or would he enjoy that Smith is so human in his emotions and his inner conflict and find it beautiful in a creature meant to be incapable of them?

Would he love that Smith can access these emotions, that Smith chose to access these emotions, that it means he can love and hate Neo so deeply and so subconsciously and so truthfully?

Either way, Neo's favourite thing about Smith would definitely be his character. I think speaking on terms of by the end of Revolutions, he'd like to watch Smith struggle, because it shows Smith is trying, Smith is alive. But he would not like Smith's pain, or his fear.

And how about Smith's favourite thing about Neo.... Hmm, I don't know! I thought maybe "his capacity to understand Smith" would be a good answer, but Smith's just scared of that as proven by his reaction at the end of Rev.

I think I'll still have to keep that as my answer though, but with some notes, that Smith would come to love this part of Neo, that he is the ONLY ONE for Smith, but only with time and only by learning this very very slowly. In the end, what he likes (or maybe more accurately, what part of Neo successfully attracts the most of Smith's attention whether positive or negative) most about Neo is that he *is* Neo.

He's human in all the worst ways, he's relentless, he's able to learn his own mistakes, he's able to rise above conflict, he's able to accept Smith as his death, that Neo believes in love so fiercely that he'd throw the world away for said love.

5. How do you envision them getting together?

I don't think there's such a thing as "dating" or "talking phases" for these two. It's more of a natural, unspoken thing. From the start they've "gotten together" after all, they're stuck to each other from beginning to end!

Technically they've been "dating" since conception, even. To be honest, I have never once agreed with any portrayal of Smith or Neo confessing to each other, because they understand each other so innately that none of it even has to be said. It comes to them like breathing, their love for each other.

Maybe if I had to picture it, Smith would be the first to explicitly say something like "I love you" years into the future after Revolutions (this is following the theory that Smith and Neo become tutelary saints after Rev), but only just to say what they've already known, and what they've frankly already said a thousand times with their eyes or their actions, just to set it all into concrete, to acknowledge this in a healthy way because Smith would definitely become a changed man after everything.

By then, Neo wouldn't have any reaction to it, he'd probably just reply "I know", and they'd continue on as normal.

6. What would their dream home look like?

7. How do they split up the housework and chores?

Going to skip both these questions because by the way they operate, neither Smith nor Neo would require anything like a house. But whenever I imagine them in any kind of living quarters I surprisingly imagine either the mail building where Mouse was killed and Morpheus got captured, or in The Merovingian's chateau (thanks to this old RPG on LJ). Though I do think Room 303 would be a place of significance to them both.

About question 7, I don't even need to elaborate on why I can't even answer this one.

8. What are their love languages, and how do they show their affection?

If we're talking about affection the way a regular couple would show it like buying flowers or a peck on the cheek or holding hands—thats just a big fat MAYBE for this pairing, and probably only YEARS after Revolutions with a lot of character development for Smith.

Otherwise? I think the way Smith would show affection in a very unhealthy way would be by possession. He must own Neo. He will chase him (the exact way he did in Reloaded through Revolutions, even chased him all the way into the real world!) until he gets him. He'd be overly territorial to the point it'd be overbearing.

If we're talking about how he would show affection while the timeline is still set in the movies, he simply would not be able to understand his own intense feelings for neo adequately enough to be able to interpret and act them out in a way that wouldn't be completely destructive. In order for his manner of "affection" to win Neo over, Neo has to be a god that understands and forgives and sympathises, and thankfully, Neo really is this kind of "god". Smith would break the moment Neo sees through him.

Neo on the other hand, if I'm going to go off what I can parse out from the movies.... To be honest it'd probably be sex. We can see that he never ever once gets his hands off of Trinity in Reloaded. For fucks sake he jumps on her the MOMENT Link walks out. He'd probably crave sexual contact with Smith.

In the draft script of Reloaded though there isn't any such thing as an explicit Neotrin sex scene, there's still a scene where Dujour and Chong tell them about how important it is that they should have sex, etc etc. Plus the existence of the rave orgy scene implies that apparently this is what is considered the highest form of affection and intimacy for Zionites, so it'd be the same for Neo.

Otherwise and on a far less sexual note, his way of showing affection is probably just *being there* for Smith as he struggles through his messy existence. Quality time together, you know.

9. Do you see them getting married, and if yes what does their wedding look like?

No, they wouldn't get married. Marriage is only a piece of worthless paper made from only human customs to signify a relationship. It doesn't have to be the end point of any relationship to "perfect" or "complete" it. Neo and Smith have a deeper connection than this, but I still think there is potential for fun in an OOC type marriage scenario.

10. Can you imagine them having any kids or pets?

I actually have this weird running thing that keeps popping up in my head where Neo and Smith adopt a white cat called Jamais Vu, a parody of Deja Vu.

Of course the word "adopt" doesn't quite fit here, it'd be more like the cat shows up often from time to time til the point Neo can name it and they recognise each other.

And a little bit of OOC guilty pleasure: I like to think they might unofficially adopt Sati, though she'd definitely think of Smith as the bad parent and Neo as the good parent and get grumpy when she sees Smith. You best believe Seraph would be "fighting for custody", though.

11. How do they comfort each other?

With presence, with existence, with words and feelings and their connection. With deep, unrivalled understanding of each other and therefore who they are, what they're here to do, how they feel.

12. Is there anything you don't like about this ship?

Nothing. Not even the fact it isn't canon, actually, in fact I think that makes it even better. "The fact Smith died!" Could have been a potential answer, but even then, that was such masterful writing on the Wachowski's part, that I can't say anything.

13. What would be their least favourite thing about each other?

LMAO.

Smith hates Neo's ability to understand, ability to believe in love or even in something no matter what it is, hates Neo's ability to be unbothered by the stench and smell and abhorrence of his own human kind, he pretty much hates Neo himself, even, even if I like to interpret that hate as more of a messed up byproduct or outcome of his own hard to understand, burning love for Neo that he interprets as obsession, and because he is wired the way he is and made for that one purpose and that purpose only: To Kill Neo, his love comes out as hate.

Neo probably hated Smith too in the beginning, but as a personification of the system. After all Smith is an enforcer of it, this fake digital prison that has so many of his fellow men in it. And also Smith literally kidnapped Morpheus, a man Neo already had held in high regard. But frankly, that hate turned into understanding into a little bit of pity or sympathy.

14. What sorts of things might they argue about?

Everything they already do argue about in the trilogy (take special note of their final conversation in Revolutions). I have nothing to add onto this.

15. Do they face any pushback from friends, families, or society over their relationship?

Now THIS is an interesting question! I read once in this really cool RPG a scenario where nearly all the programs and rebels disapproved of Smith and Neo's public relationship because they were "different races", and they even had a made up slur for a human that dates a program (little questionable, but keep in mind this RPG was made in 2005)

Meanwhile, Neo's "parents" who are still alive in this AU are deeply shocked that he's dating a man, but if we are to be precise, Smith is not a man, he's genderless lines of ageless code meant to look behave and talk like society's portrayal of a man and to inhabit a man's shell. We don't even know for sure if Smith has a dick, I don't even think he's ever taken his clothes off before frankly!

So basically I mentioned this AU because it got me thinking: holy shit, Smith and Neo would be the ONE and ONLY program/human mixed relationship in their world. That'd be cool. I like to imagine they'd be more of a beacon of the humanity in programs and the ultimate symbolism of humanity and machinekind's ability to love each other and work together more than a point of disdain for all three factions (machine, programs, humans) though.

So no, no pushback, though I imagine it would definitely be shocking to learn that the adored One is in a relationship with what is considered the "enemy", but that's nice too, because it shows the ultimate acceptance, and isn't that exactly what progressives(the rebels) strive for?

16. Who has more experience with relationships?

Definitely Neo lol. Neo would be the first ever person Smith would have ever had something going on with. I think Neo may have had relationships with others before Trinity, too.

17. What physical traits do they find most attractive about each other?

Hmm, this is tricky.

I can't exactly see Smith outwardly liking anything physical about Neo to be honest? I know that sounds absurd, but if following canon we all know Smith finds humans repulsive to smell touch and even see, I think. It'd be hard for him to overcome this problem even when together with Neo.

But then again, that's the thing about being in love. When you love them, you will love the body that holds the mind and the person that you love. The more you speak to them, the more you are enamoured by them, the more attractive they appear to you, the more you are able to romanticise their body. That's the case for me as well.

So maybe.... Smith's favourite thing about Neo's body is... His elegance??? The way he moves with totally unconscious grace. He'd love everything about Neo's body, there wouldn't be a favourite part, all parts are equally liked.

And Neo's favourite thing about Smith's is his expressive face that shows his humanity, particularly his eyes, the window to the soul.

Sorry, I can't answer these questions sexually as originally intended. I realise that I've never even put in thought to that question before answering this, which is a bit shocking.

18. Do they ever engage in PDA, and if so, to what extent?

Neo seems to be more private. Everybody knows what goes down behind doors, but he still has the decency to wait until they'd be alone to go ham on Smith. If in public, I don't think I've ever seen him even ONCE touch or hold trinity's hand or kiss her in the audience of several people.

If however let's say they haven't seen each other in a long time etc or something serious is going down, Neo would probably abandon all pretense and kiss him and throw his arms around him at his first chance, just the way he did for Trinity in Mobil Ave and after she revived.

Smith on the other hand.... Oh boy. He'd PDA all OVER the damn place. In the first place he wouldn't hold any regard for what is considered acceptable in human society or etiquette in the first place, he's a rogue program.

That's ironic, since he is supposed to be the personification of those societal expectations. Plus because of his tendency for possessiveness that I mentioned earlier, he'd probably feel a need to signal to everybody and anybody that THIS IS MINE, HISS, DO NOT COME CLOSE.

Besides, Smith is childish in the sense that he is just now figuring out his own humanity, so like a child he'd probably want to completely own the one constant and one thing in his life, Neo, and cling onto him.

19. What are the most sensitive parts of each others body?

Neo: Waist, stomach, back. He probably doesn't have a ticklish neck if he can wear that long mandarin collar all day every day. Maybe his inner thighs if I let myself be a little idealistic?

Smith: Does Smith even feel sensations???? Or does he just mechanically register them in code or some shit? Maybe he only is able to start registering them after he goes rogue? Either way I don't think Smith would be sensitive literally anywhere. That or the complete opposite, where he is sensitive everywhere because he is unused to the new sensation of pain or pleasure or touch etc, and hates it.

20. What is their dynamic like in the bedroom?

As for the question of top or bottom, I honestly am only interested in Neo as a bottom and Smith as a top, but realistically speaking they would switch. Although here's my take on that: I think the very first time they do it, Neo would definitely have to be the receiver, because of Smith's desire to consume and own, and because Smith who has always craved a position of power/security would probably rather shoot himself in the head than ever bottom.

For Smith to bottom would have to take time and would only happen later into their relationship once Smith fully trusts Neo, and once he's developed enough. Besides, Neo would probably like to try something different from what he's used to with Trinity.

And no, I don't believe Trinity would have ever pegged Neo at all, because that's a common projection from the queer fandom onto two characters who are a typical cisgender heterosexual couple. So yes, Neo would have something different in bed with Smith. I think that's a cool parallel with the two people most important to Neo's story.

Okay, seems like that's it. Thanks for reading through this whole thing, if you did! Feel free to make your own SmiNeo or TriNeo or etc etc versions of this, I'd love to read that.

20 Shippy Questions for your OTP’s, OT3’s, and Polycules

The basics

1. When did you start shipping them?

2. What do you like about them as individuals?

3. What about their dynamic appeals to you?

4. What are their favorite things about one another?

5. How do you envision them getting together?

The fluff

6. What would their dream home look like?

7. How do they split up housework and other chores?

8. What are their love languages, and how do they show each other affection?

9. Do you see them getting married, and if your answer is yes, what would their wedding look like?

10. Can you imagine them having any kids and/or pets?

The angst

11. How do they comfort each other?

12. Is there anything you don’t like about this ship?

13. What would be their least favorite things about one another?

14. What sorts of things might they argue about?

15. Do they face any pushback from friends, families, or society over their relationship?

Bonus ~saucy~ questions

16. Who has more experience with relationships?

17. What physical traits do they find most attractive about one another?

18. Do they ever engage in PDA, and if so, to what extent?

19. What are the most sensitive parts of each individual’s body?

20. What is their dynamic like in the bedroom?

#ship meme #ship questions #otp meme #otp questions #the matrix #Matrix reloaded #matrix revolutions #agent smith #neo #neo x smith #SmiNeo #Cp: Smith/Neo #Ramble

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soo0hee · 2 days ago

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Just One Chance

This is part of the Lonely Hearts Cafe Collab by @camandemstudios

Pairing — Boo SeungkwanxReader

Summary — while for some valentines day was a day spend filled with love, compassion and roses, for you it was a total disaster. Alone and dissapointed you return home after what was suppossed to be the saving grace for your relationship where you were met with your best friend and roommate Boo Seungkwan. Maybe your night wouldn't end with total catastrophe...

Genre — fluff, maybe a lil hurt/comfort if you will

AU/Trope Info — Non!IdolAU

Wordcount — 3.1k

Warnings — ex-boyfriends being idiots, Kwannie being a jealous and rambling cutie

Rating — PG-13

Disclaimer: this fic is written and copyrighted by ©soo0hee on tumblr. do not rewrite or repost on any other plattforms without my permission.

“And you are sure you want to give him another chance?” Seungkwan asked with his eyebrow raised almost into his hairline and his arms crossed in front of his chest. He was leaning against the wooden frame of your door, eyes not straying away for even a second and more than a little displeased about the fact that you had yet again, chosen to give that asshat you called your boyfriend a chance to make up for all the dates he had missed over the last few months.

Yes, months. How you were still able to simply look past all this dicks faults when he had already told you he would change for the, what felt like millionth time, and every single time it left you more disappointed than the last time. And every single time it was Seungkwan, who had picked up the pieces after he was met with teary eyes, hunched over shoulder and the expression of a kicked puppy that had his heart skip a beat upon you entering your shared apartment after another failed night with Nick.

Oh, how Seungkwan learned to hate that name. Just the mention of it made him feel livid enough to want to punch a hole into his rooms wall and yet he would wait for you to come home time and time again with your favorite fuzzy blanket, your favorite cup; a bag of your favorite tea already waiting to be poured over with boiling water, a tub of ice cream equipped with two gigantic spoons and open arms for you to fall into when you needed him to just listen to your angry huffs that, in his humble opinion made you look more like an angry teddy bear then a real threat to society.

Not once had he send you away when you were faced with yet another disappointing night in which your boyfriend had either failed to give you more attention than his phone, flirted with anything that wasn´t sitting in a tree at the count of three while you were sitting right beside him and not bother showing up at all. And even when he hated how the result always seemed to be the same, Seungkwan would rather burn in hell then stop being the person you came to after your failed nights with Nick.

Even if it ripped his heart to shreds to witness you running back to a man that was so clearly not interested in what you had to offer. A man that didn´t see the love, the care, the kindness and so many more things you were willing to give in a relationship. A man, who was evidently not him.

Even then he would wait for you.

“Just this last time Boo. It´s Valentine ’s Day after all and I want to see if at least tonight, Nick can follow through with his promises. If he does, then fine I’m willing to give him another chance but if not, he can finally go to hell.” You sighed and applied one last layer of lip-gloss before smacking your lips together with a pop.

Seungkwan pursed his lips, already having a feeling that this night was not going to be different to all the other times.

“How do I look?” Turning around to face your friend and roommate you tilted your head to the side with a questioning look on your face.

Many words were burning on the tip of his tongue to be said.

Beautiful, ravishing, gorgeous, stunning, angelic and so many more clouded his mind and yet he only settled for a simple, “Good.”

You rolled your eyes at his blunt answer but you also knew that Seungkwan meant it when he said so. He was no liar, at least he had never lied to you about anything and you trusted your judgment and gut maybe a little more then you should. After all, your gut had also once told you what a great guy Nick was.

Seungkwan watched you get up and grab your purse from your desk.

“Do you know when you´ll be home again?”

His question was met with a shrug. “Depends on how the night will go really. I could be back in an hour, late at night or tomorrow morning. Honestly at this point can´t say I expect much.”

‘Then don´t go!’ was what he wanted to say but stayed silent. It was no use. He knew how stubborn you could be and that if you put your mind to something the chance of him getting you to change your mind was slim to nonexistent. And so he sends you out the door with a wave.

His own plans were rather simple. Without a date and no real desire to leave the coziness of your shared home, Seungkwan preferred the quietness of a night in. His companion for the night? Left over Jajangmyeon that was still in the fridge, Netflix and maybe, if he was lucky enough he would find the Soju you had hidden somewhere in the apartment.

The plans were quite sad if you remembered that today was Valentine’s Day but that was nothing that really bothered him. Sure, his friends had teased him mercilessly for not asking out the girl that served him his coffee every morning before he went to work with an extra sweet bat of her eyes but Seungkwan could not remember a day on which he had even once indulged her flirtations. So yes, his plans were boring and Seungkwan was absolutely fine with that.

One movie turned into two and just when he thought his night would be spent alone, he could hear the beeping sound of the entrance code be punched into the lock system before the door opened and you entered the apartment on soft soles. How you managed to do that in the heels you were wearing Seungkwan had no clue.

The man turned his head to catch your eyes and the slightly amused smile was immediately whipped from his face; the “I told you so.” That had been waiting to be said suddenly stuck in his throat.

Fresh tear tracks were glistening on the apple of your cheeks, make up smudged and your eyes still watery like you had stopped crying just a few moments ago.

You dropped your purse carelessly on the floor, kicked the heels away and trudged over to where your roommate was waiting with his arm held out so you could take his hand; pulling you down and into his side where you buried your face into the soft material of his shirt.

Seungkwan didn´t mind the mascara which would no doubt stain the fabric. He´d just wash the shirt the next day when he did his laundry either way.

“Don´t you want to tell me that you told me so and that I’m dumb for thinking tonight could be any different?” your words were muffled by the fabric but could be heard well enough and while the words had undoubtedly something he was going to say, he also felt quite bad that he even had the chance to say them. He had hoped that for once you didn´t come home downtrodden and that for once Nick had gotten his shit together.

“No, I’m just sorry that it happened again. What was it this time? You were out for quite some time?” Seungkwan comforted gently, fingers tracing over the back of your neck where your hair exposed the skin.

“It was fine. Nick was punctual, nice and paid attention and I thought, wow! He really surprised me there. And then when we were about the order dessert suddenly this girl stood at our table. Causing a scene and yelling about what an ass he was and if I’m the bitch he replaced her with as if, and I quote, “He hadn´t spend the last 6 months fucking her every weekend!” Kwan he didn´t cheat on me. I was the he cheated with! It was so humiliating.”

Two things were on his mind hearing this. One, the urge to drive over to Nicks place and punch the lights out of him. And two, tell him what an utter fool he was for treating you like a toy that could be put on the shelf until he wanted to play again.

“I feel so dumb. How did I not see this? How did I honestly thing he was worth giving him so many chance when all Nick did was treat me like dirt?” you twisted your head a bit to glance up at Seungkwan`s face through your lashes.

Pushing back the urge to bend down and press his mouth to the slight pout of your lips, Seungkwan shook his head.

“Don´t say that, you´re not dumb! You were just… in love…” he choked out his last words like they were poison in his mouth.

Somehow his words shook something inside you.

Were you really in love with Nick? Was that really what it was? Or was it you holding onto someone because you didn´t want to be alone anymore?

“Maybe…” you sighed just to turn your head back into your roommate, arms thrown around his mid section.

The TV filled the silence between you with mindless banter which went in over your head.

“You know what? We won´t let tonight end like this! Go to your room, wipe those tears away and wear something comfortable.” He nudged you a bit, words met with a grumble on your side.

“What why?” you questioned and refused to move.

Seungkwan nudged you again, this time harder and you let go to sit up and stare at him as he freed himself from the blanket thrown over his legs and lap to get up. Your arms fell a bit, hands reaching for your own to pull you up from the couch.

“You´ll see. Meet you here in 10.”

Confused but following his instruction you stumbled to your room. You got rid of the slightly too tight dress and opted for sweat pants and a hoodie you had stolen from Seungkwan some time ago. Well, stolen might not be the right word for this. Seungkwan knew very well where it was, he had seen you wearing it often enough and even put it on your bed again after having done his washing multiple times. Ignoring that half of your closet at this point consisted of his clothes.

“Are you ready?” Seungkwan called from the hallway and stuck his head through the door.

You nodded and slipped into your sneakers; Seungkwan handing you your jacket he had picked up from the living room floor.

“Then come on.”

The cold of a February night hit you in the face and you hooked your arm into the man`s by your side.

“Are you going to tell me where we are going?” you asked, still not sure what he was up to.

“Just walk with me. You´ll see.” He hummed and pulled you along with him. You realized that Seungkwan was not planning on telling you where you were going and so you decided to simply enjoy his company.

The night was cold and you were glad you had your jacket on because you were sure you wouldn´t have survived this walk if not.

You took in the neighborhood, walking past stores and restaurants you usually hurried past without paying them much mind when you either went to work or returned from it and only wanted to bury yourself in your bed. They looked cozy, like something you would love to check out sometime soon. Maybe Seungkwan could join you for that and only as you walked further did you realize where you went.

The sight of the water of the Han River rippling as wind brushed over it, on some place close to the shore even frozen from the drop in temperature opened itself and the lights of the city reflecting beautifully on the surface as you made your way to the park close to where you were.

Visiting this place was definitely something you should do more often. The sight was amazing and in midst of the buzzing city, it was a welcoming place of quietness that had something magically to offer. The light of the street posts lighting up the way, bathing it in a soft glow and giving Seungkwan a little halo over his dark brown hair with his muffs on his ears.

You watched his side profile as you walked together, and something inside your stomach stirred.

It wasn´t that you didn´t know Seungkwan was handsome, no you weren´t blind after all, you could see why he was constantly fawned over by your girlfriends or why when he was out men and women were turning their heads to look after him when passing by them. But never had it made you feel like you were a fool for not realizing just how beautiful he was when you looked closer like you did now.

His soft, slightly ruffled hair fell in gentle waves, strands framing his face like the frame of a portray, enhanced its impact. The puffy coat he was wearing almost swallowed him, making him appear much smaller then he actually was and like a giant teddy bear you wanted to hug as much as he would let you.

“You should just take a picture if you plan staring at me all night. It holds longer and you can take it anywhere you go, that way I’d always be with you.” He teased and winked at you.

You felt heat flush your cheeks at being caught in your staring.

“Sorry!” you squealed higher then you had intended and looked to the ground in shame. Seungkwan chuckled in amusement.

“It´s fine. I know I look amazing.”

You scoffed in mock offence and punched his shoulder with the hand not hooked around his arm. He dramatically pulled a face.

“You´re so mean! Punching me when all I’m trying to do is being a good friend!”

“You´re a little shit, is what you are!”

Seungkwan grabbed his heart, acting like he had just been shot in the chest. His theatrics made you laugh freely. It was the first time since you had left the restaurant a few hours ago in which you felt like you were where you were supposed to be.

“This? That smile you have right now? This suits you so much better than the tears from earlier.”

You let out a soft sigh, smile still painted onto your face. Seungkwan lifted his arm, brushing a lose lash away from your cheek as it clung to it. The warmth of his skin seeping into your bones, even if only for one tiny moment. Your heart sunk at the missing feeling just the smallest bit.

“I´m glad, I-” you began yet stopped when your eyes caught his. The lumps in your throat making it almost impossible to speak without sounding like you were going to cry again. Not because of Nick, no. All you were able to think about was Seungkwan.

Seungkwan who made you laugh every moment spend together. Seungkwan who cared more for his friends then for himself oftentimes. Seungkwan who had a soft spot for his baby bookkeu. Seungkwan who breathed smiles and energy and Seungkwan who managed to make your knees weak with the simplest of actions.

Waiting for you to continue Seungkwan looked at you with his hand tilted to the side.

“Thank you, for being here. For having my back…”

His eyes softened at this.

“You never need to thank me for that, y/n. You can always trust me to have your back when you need me. I´ll be there.”

His breath fanned over your cold skin, eyes flickering down to your mouth as nibbled on your lower lip.

“Boo I-“you whispered into the night when you felt his lips on your own. Gently moving against them like he was afraid you´d run away any second before pulling away. The touch was only fleeting. Barely a few seconds and yet you weren´t able to shake it from your mind!

Abrupt Seungkwan pulled back, taking two steps back and away from you. His wide panicked eyes looking anywhere but you and your heart dropped at his violent reaction.

“I´m sorry, I´m so sorry! I shouldn’t have- this shouldn´t have happened and I wasn´t supposed to-“

Quickly you reached out to hold his flailing hands still in yours.

“Seungkwan stop!” you called out hoping to break through his panic but it was unsuccessful. Avoiding looking at you and trying to get his hands out of your soft grip, he tucked them back with little to no force.

“Stop!” you yelled once more and the man froze.

“Stop.”

“But you-“

“I´m not mad.”

“Why not? You should be. I shouldn´t have kissed you, it was a mistake! A mistake that shouldn´t have happened because I CAN`T lose you!” he rambled more to himself than he was talking to you.

Giving him your best –Don´t bullshit me- face you stared at him. “Who, in the ever loving fuck told you that you could ever lose me?”

Seungkwan shook his head, devastation written all over his face.

“You don´t know that. Because if you knew you would run.”

“Try me.”

Staring at you like you had grown a second head Seungkwan stood there not knowing what to do with himself.

“Try me and see what will happen Boo. I bet you´d be surprised.”

He sighed loudly and looked to the ground. Not brave enough to see how your face would inevitably change to one of disgust and rejection.

“I love you y/n. I´ve done so for ages and those last few months have slowly been killing me inside! I- i hate Nick for treating you like you weren´t something to be cherished every second of the day and I hate that you went back to him so many times even if you knew, you knew that he wouldn´t change. Nick was an asshole who is blind to how amazing you truly are. Who never knew how to treat you…”

It was amazing to witness the usually smooth talking Seungkwan fumbling for words. Stuttering like he didn´t know what to say and a scared in a way you rarely ever got see.

“…and if you could give me just one chance to proof that I can treat like you deserve, I would…”

Rushing to cut him off you roughly took a hold of his face to press another short yet sweet kiss to his lips before raising an eyebrow with a teasing smile dancing on your lips.

“One chance.”

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shipper4everships · 15 hours ago

Text

BuckTommy Fluffebruary: Day 16

~AU: didn’t know they were dating~

It all started by chance. Buck had just started his service at 118th station, while Tommy was in the process of transferring to station 217. Tommy’s transfer was delayed, so they began working together. Tommy was usually a composed and somewhat introverted guy, not quick to let people close, but Buck was so sincere and open that Tommy let his guard down.

They became friends, and Tommy showed Buck some of his secret tricks that helped him on the job, which later came in handy for Buck on calls.

"Hey, you only told me about them in my second year here - why does the rookie get such privileges?" Eddie asked teasingly.

On their days off, they sometimes went to the gym together or invited each other to the bar for a beer and to watch a match.

"I thought you weren't very into basketball before, Buck. Something changed?" Chim in with a grin. Buck just waved off the question.

When it came time for Tommy to complete his transfer to station 217, he briefly thought about refusing it because he was afraid their communication would end. But Buck turned out to be better than he could have imagined and supported Tommy’s decision to transfer.

"If flying is your dream, then you have to follow it!"

Tommy couldn’t argue with that.

Now they didn’t see each other as often, but they were always in touch. There were nights when they both stayed up until morning, texting or talking on the phone about everything under the sun.

"Buck, you look awful... You were up all night talking to Tommy again, should I tell him to stop messing up your schedule?" Hen said, half-seriously, half-joking.

"He’s not messing anything up, I called him first!" Buck blurted out, then realized what he’d said.

They continued meeting occasionally at the bar, but it became harder to sync up due to shift changes. One day, Tommy suggested Buck come over to his place for a couple of hours so they could see each other, and Buck gladly accepted.

They kept visiting each other to watch movies or cook together. Until one day, the moment happened: Buck cuddled up to Tommy while they were watching a horror movie, and Tommy turned to him and kissed him in the dim light of the room. To Buck’s surprise, he didn’t pull away. On the contrary, he eagerly joined in.

Since that evening, not much changed between them, except that their texts became more flirtatious, their touches more frequent, and that kiss on the couch wasn’t the last, but rather the first in a series of others.

They wished each other safety before every shift, and it was always the case, but now it felt different - as though there was something more behind that wish, as if they started caring for each other more.

Buck wasn’t sure how to feel about it, but he was afraid of losing the connection that was growing between them, so he decided to keep everything between the two of them and see where it could lead.

Was it really a surprise when, not long after, they slept together for the first time in Buck’s loft? They didn’t talk about it or anything that happened between them, but Buck lay in bed in Tommy’s arms the next morning, feeling like he was exactly where he needed to be.

Maddy called him a few days later and invited him to dinner at the Buckley-Han house, and Buck enthusiastically agreed.

"Buck, I just wanted to check… if you want, you don’t have to come alone," Maddy said cautiously.

"…What do you mean?" Buck was caught off guard by her words.

"Maybe you’ll introduce us to your boyfriend?"

"Boyfriend?" Buck asked, glancing at Tommy, who was sitting across the table from him. Tommy had overheard Buck’s part of the conversation and looked at him. In his eyes, Buck saw curiosity and something more… maybe hope?

Buck ran through their relationship over the past few months in his mind, and everything in his head and heart finally fell into place.

"Yeah, you’re right." Buck smiled into the phone. "Set another place at the table because I’m bringing my boyfriend." Buck said those words and caught Tommy’s answering smile.

When he hung up, Buck leaned across the table, and warm lips met him halfway.

He wasn’t sure where this would lead, but now he knew. Now he would do it right. @bucktommyfluffebruary 💗

#bucktommyfluffebruary #bucktommy fluffebruary #bucktommy

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alleyross · 1 day ago

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dawn breaks through zayne mercilessly.

the first time you remember him changing in a second was not so clear. you almost missed it, just to reminisce about it later.

it still was zayne, standing in front of you, giving you a jasmine branch, but the next moment it felt somehow strange. his hand gripped yours tighter and it looked like all the colors left his face. you couldn’t even comprehend what you’re seeing, and the second after he moved away slightly, frowning to himself, like he just got lost for a moment.

it wasn’t too serious. he could look into your eyes for too long and keep silence eagerly, even though you tried to scold him for not replying. you thought to yourself “that’s just zayne”, how he is, calm demeanour and silent gazes were his specialties. only that he got a bit confused every time it happened. like he couldn’t remember what was going on just now. like he just snapped out of space.

then his mood changes became brighter. he laughed out of context and then frowned in the middle of casual conversation. he grabbed your hand out of nowhere, causing you to flinch, and then got upset for scaring you. he kissed you softly and then bit into your lips with sudden hunger, like he just got there after 10 years of longing from afar. once he messed with you during it and pulled your hair with so much strength it had you startle. it was like he lost control in a heat of the moment. only that he has never been like this before, and now he is, and his guilty impression makes you wonder.

and then sleepwalking starts, and it becomes more obvious zayne’s not okay. you wake up at night to him standing two steps away from you in a dark room, and your heart sinks at the sight of his face in a deem light from the window. street lights in the night open for you something, that a bright light of a day couldn’t. it’s the first time you actually question, calling out his name.

“zayne?” like it could’ve been anybody else here.

he didn’t answer, snapping back into reality as fast as usual. only then he took a few steps back, and a fear, written all over your face, reflected on his own.

and you still didn’t talk about it. not during those moments, not after. he’s silent, and then scared, and then he’s distant, until you cling to him and caress his back, asking him about anything else, to put his mind at ease.

then that happens, and you just know you should’ve asked earlier. when you’re intimate and zayne breaths into your mouth like a madman who just ran a marathon, and his hands grip a bit tighter under your thighs, scratching your skin red, and his moves change so suddenly, it makes you gasp. and you like it, the way his body weighs above you, and his feverish warmth that comes off his skin, and the sight of his parted lips, whispering nonsense on repeat, you almost miss the point, but then he gets louder, almost hissing in your face, swallowing vowels, two words, and you say them back every time, cause he makes you feel so good, and it’s true. he does love you, and you do love him too.

and when he makes you fall apart, holding you under your chin firmly, trying to catch your unfocused eyes, and repeats again, hitting syllables, like he nails a coffin with his own tongue.

“i! love! you!” and the “i” is not zayne’s.

like someone else trying to speak to you through his mouth.

and when he comes right after, hiding his face into your neck with a whip, trembling with his whole body, the first ever thing you feel after is pity. it bursts out of your chest with a cry, floods onto him with soft caressing movements of your hands on his shoulders and back, and you bathe him in your pity like a saint would bathe a sinner, and it’s the first time you’re rather scared of what comes after zayne comes back to you, than of who you’re holding close to your bare chest right now.

#yeah cause i like to suffer and you do too!#just dawnbreaker casually taking over zayne in random moments #zayne IS aware which is WORSE #mc can’t help but pitying a man whom she never knew as long as it’s him #always him #the desperation was so big he literally tore through a dream #can we like DISCUSS the possibility #love and deepspace #lads #lads zayne #lnds zayne #zayne love and deepspace #zayne #zayne x mc #dawnbreaker #dawnbreaker zayne #dawnbreaker x mc

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ingravinoveritas · 2 days ago

Note

Is it me or is there something off about DT's smile in the pic with Jeff Goldblum? Or was it an awkward angle and bad timing?

Thanjs

No, I don't think it's just you, as I've actually talked to a few folks over DM who have noticed it as well...

The thing is, I don't think it's just this picture. It felt like David's entire appearance on the One Show was "off" somehow. There could be any number of reasons for it--he's been busy filming GO 3, flying to and from the set, doing rehearsals and press for the BAFTAs, or just because the One Show tends to be very hit and miss in general (a big miss was David and Michael's unfortunately straight-washed appearance in 2023). But as I watched a few clips from the show tonight, there seemed to be something about his demeanor that just wasn't like usual.

It was most noticeable (at least in my opinion) at this moment, when David was answering a question about celebrating the British film industry:

The most likely explanation is that David was tired, but I think something to consider is that there are different kinds of tired. We've seen David give interviews while tired before, but he is still always upbeat in those, despite being tired. Take, for example, the BAFTA promo video from just the other day. David clearly looks tired in this video and his eyes are red (likely from just getting over being sick during the Macbeth run last Fall, which is when that promo was filmed). Despite that, however, he is still cheerful and sparkly (and funny!) in his responses, in the way that we've all come to know and love.

But in the clip from the One Show here, that's exactly what is missing. David's responses seem far more muted and subdued, which is very unlike him. For this particular question, you can tell that he knows he should be enthusiastic in answering, which is what makes it so much more noticeable that he can't quite muster it up. So that makes me feel like what we're seeing here is David being tired in the mental/emotional sense, rather than physical. It's a feeling of weariness mixed with preoccupation--as if his mind is somewhere else other than in that interview--and I can only guess as to what or who is causing it.

As I said above, there's a good chance this is all tied into the hectic schedule David must have right now, and that once the BAFTAs are over, he'll feel a lot better. I just feel sad for him more than anything else, and hope that he can soon be free from whatever is weighing on his mind...

#phoenixthemenace #reply post #david tennant #soft scottish hipster gigolo #the one show #BAFTAs 2025 #there was a lot that was 'off' about this interview in general #the whole thing made me think of when he was on Craig Ferguson: 'I'd rather hide under a table and not speak to anyone'#but David and Jeff vibing was absolutely the best part #i just hope David knows that he is lovely #and deserves good things #thoughts #discourse

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fizzing-imagines · 3 days ago

Text

Ink Part 2 | Customer! Eddie Munson x Tattoo Artist! Reader

Notes: I have been screamed at to do a part 2, and I am here to serve the people. Enjoy:

Words: 1.1k

Warnings: None

Eddie let out a "Hmm." while hugging you from behind. His chin rested on your shoulder to take a proper look at the test. "I think we're doing a speedrun here, huh?" You didn't know whether or not to laugh, but you still giggled. "So in a month, you get a girlfriend, two dogs and a baby.", you said in a quiet tone. He knew from your voice alone that you were indifference about the situation. "And you get a boyfriend, two dogs and a baby in a month. If you want that, darlin'. Whatever you decide, I'll be with you."

You two had a long conversation about whether to keep the baby or not. From financial situation, up to how you'd do your job and if you felt ready to have a baby. But both of you agreed: You two will keep the baby.

"I can't get tattooed for 9 months.", you groaned as you two left your OBGYN. "I'll pay a big one for you once they're here.", your boyfriend said before kissing the top of your head. After you two sat in his car, Eddie took another close look at the sonogram you doctor printed out for you. "I'll be honest, I don't see much.", your boyfriend said. You giggled at that. "They're the size of a poppy seed right now. It'll be more visible at the next appointment."

Eddie kept looking at the sonogram with a wide grin on his face. "There's poppy seeds on everything-bagles, no? I think I want one." You leaned in to kiss him before he drove you two to the next best bakery.

Eddie started coming to your work more regularly than before. Every day, at 1pm he made you eat lunch with him since he knew you forget to eat during tattoo sessions. "I also got you a fig, because that's their size right now." You both crashed on the sofa in your staff room with his head on your shoulder. "You're really into the fruit sizes." Eddie laughed a bit before placing a few kisses on your neck. "It's just...really nice." He made sure you ate your entire lunch and some more, like he did every day.

"I think it's obvious that you're gonna have to do a tattoo for baby bat for me.", he eventually said once you were putting away your lunchbox. Baby Bat is the nickname you two eventually started calling your growing child. "You already have some bats. Or do you want a special one?" Eddie helped you stand up. "We can change the plan we made for my chest tattoo. So it's right above my heart." That suggestion was so sweet that you almost cried. "I think I can do that."

Marli and Hot Dog loved laying on your stomach at this point. You already knew that they'd be great with the baby. Eddie was at work right now and you were laying in a living room filled with moving boxes. Since you inherited your grandparents house, him moving in with you was a given. And you were so determined to put up his figurines in the living room, but your second trimester floored you with fatigue and stomach aches. 30 minute naps turned into a 4 hour sleep, and when you were awake you could barely get up.

"Who do we have here?", Eddie said when he walked into the living room. Without a question or a complaint about the mess, he laid down next to you and pulled you close. Your dogs adjusted and cuddled up to your back. "I don't feel well.", you mumbled. "Napping didn't help." He gave you an understanding hum before kissing the top of your head. "That's okay, darlin'. You're doing great carrying baby bat, I don't expect more from you." Eddie, despite his rather intimidating looks, was a softie on the inside. Especially when it came to you, he was calm and cautious. "I love you.", you mumbled tiredly while resting your head on his chest. His heartbeat was extremely calming right now, especially when mixed with his after-work smell of motor oil and diesel from the car shop. Right now, that was the only thing you could smell without feeling sick. "I love you, too.", he replied while holding you close and kissing your forehead.

Once you got over the fatigue, you were glowing. Everyone always told you about the pregnancy glow you'd get, but you didn't expect it to hit you after such a grueling time with feeling ill. You could work as normal, with the exception of your belly making it hard sometimes to hunch over the tattoo you were working on. But you had lovely customers who understood and gave you your time. Especially today, the tip was wonderful.

"Isn't that adorable?", you said to Eddie with a huge grin while showing off the tip a customer gave you today: A baby onesie that read 'Baby Bat'. She was a regular, just like Eddie was, and wanted to get you something before you'd leave for maternity. "That's really cute.", he agreed with a grin. At this time, you were just about ready to give birth and meet your baby bat in person.

"One more tattoo, then I'm staying home.", you happily sighted that night while getting into bed next to your boyfriend. "Aren't you glad that's gonna be me?", he asked while cuddling up to you from behind. You sighted happily while getting comfortable. "Very much. I love you." He kissed your neck and whispered "I love you, too." before the two of you drifted off to sleep.

Just like that, Baby Bat was born. It felt like time flew by in the blink of an eye until she was here. Sabrina was a perfect, healthy, tiny girl with a bit of brown hair like her dad.

"Isn't she perfect?", you said in a dreamy voice while watching your boyfriend hold her. He was doing skin-to-skin with her on the chair next to your bed while she napped. Her head was laying right in the middle of the bat tattoo you put on Eddie's chest. "She got it from her mommy.", he replied in a quiet tone. You didn't even know he was capable of keeping his volume down until now.

Watching him with your daughter while looking at all the artwork you permanently drew on his skin made you feel a difference kind of love. There was not a universe in which you thought all of this would be possible, yet it was happening to you.

"Let's get married.", you suggested. Eddie chuckled and looked at you, up from Sabrina.

"Let's."

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine

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jazziejax · 1 day ago

Text

𝐒𝐦𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - David Cliff x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - In which David meets a woman so alluring in a place so vibrant and magnetic

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - seductiveness(???), drinking, idk really know….

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - this was supposed to be something small and one off, that why the songs I chose are basic but it turned into something more…she want even supposed to have a name but here we are. UNEDITED, sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 7,542+

The chatter within the café was soft, the sound of ceramic dishes cloning together louder than the sound of actual voices within the small establishment. David sipped at the hot coffee from the beautifully colored mug he was given, the taste of three creamers and an unknown amount of sugars packets making the beverage just to his liking. The sun was shining through the windows of the place, surprisingly with gentle rays in the summer heat. The soft bell above the door would ring every now and then, people leaving with their order or a new person entering only minutes after the other. And although everything seemed to swell on this fine summer day, David couldn’t help but be a little down as he sat across from Margaret, sipping at his drink

“You’re talented, David.” The woman across from him said, her head tilting a little as she started in his eyes. And the man couldn’t help the way he thought she looked a little adorable any time she did that, fighting the urge to upturn the corner of his lip. “More than talented. But if we’re gonna make you the next big thing, we have to be a little more strategic.” She finished, tapping her manicured nails against the table.

David leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “Strategic as in what? A gimmick? A viral moment?” He asked in a dull tone, fed up with the way the industry seemed to enjoy curated content rather than authenticity. He has all that, he had the life most artist wanted, the money at least. He just wanted to make music the people’s loved, music that spoke to others. Music that he felt was worthy. Not some pop record that he would have to preform at ‘I Heart Radio’.

Margaret sighed. “Strategic as in exposure.” She said, a small smirk on her lips as she placed her hands on top of the table. “The right rooms, the right performances, the right people.” She grinned. “And I’ve heard about this place once—Smoke and Satin. It’s supposedly the real deal. Classic jazz spot, live music, fancy dressed, invite-only type of scene.”

David raised a skeptical brow, his back still against the metal chair as he tapped his long finger on the side of the hot mug. “And you’ve been there?” He questioned.

This caused Margaret to hesitate, the pale girl opening her mouth for a response as she moved to play with her long brunette locks. “Well…” She began, her voice a little high her than before as David’s brow arched higher, his eyes squinting some. “Well, uh, not exactly. But I know people who have.” She said with an unsure laugh.

David blinked at her. “Do you?” He asked, his tone not changing from before, even at her obviously apparent lie. Margaret let out a sigh, shoulders deflecting some at her stupid attempt to hide anything from the observer man. “Yeah, no.” She said a little dejectedly. David pursed his lips with a nod, but Margaret was quick to reiterate. “But I did know a guy that lived in the apartment complex above the joint sometimes I cooks hear the music when I was in the lobby.” She tried to reassure. David just blinked at her, his eyes still slightly squinted as he brought the cup down from his lips.

“What, you used to date this guy or something?” He asked. He couldn’t help but change the subject at her words, because now he was more curious about that than the actual music spot. Plus, the tension and…situationshhip between David and Margaret was no secret, to them at least, they knew. But it was nothing serious, and the other wasn’t sure of their partner wanted it to be serious, so they were in this weird state of limbo and sexual desire.

Margaret sighed at his words, rolling her eyes at him as a don’t smirk graced her face. “That’s not important.”

“Well, I think it is important.” David slightly grinned. “I mean, I’m technically going to this man’s house. Imagine he comes downstairs to see us in his lobby.” He said, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the thought, of Margaret bringing her current “fling” to her old guys place of residence, even though they were technically waiting in this supposed renowned music spot.

“It’s gonna be fine, David.” Margaret grinned along with him. “If you stall on this anymore, I’ll start thinking you’re getting cold feet, mister.” She said, raising her brows at him before being her coffee to her lips. David jerked his head back at her, a playful smirk on his lips. “David does not get cold feet. There is nothing cold about David Cliff.” He smirked. Margaret just rolled her eyes at him, bring the cup down as David’s smile widened some more. “You should know.” He stated. And Margaret almost chocked on the hot beverage at his words, looking up into the seductive eyes of the man across from her who still held a grin.

David was doing anything to distract his mind from the stress that came with music most time, and he couldn’t help but be a little intrigued by the music spot, Smoke & Satin. He didn’t want to be just another industry puppet. He wanted his music to be felt, not mass-produced. He wanted it to be passionate and for it to have meaning. And if Smoke and Satin really had that authenticity, maybe it was worth checking out.

It wasn’t long before night came, and that’s when they had planned to visit the spot. That night, they arrived at a place called Lullaby’s Lounge, the building that housed Smoke and Satin. It looked like something out of another era—a blend of modern upkeep and vintage charm, resembling an old luxury hotel. The golden lighting from the entrance cast a warm glow on the polished black-and-white tiled floors. The place has sort of an art deco style to it, the chandler’s hanging making the place bright but calm. It was nothing like the grittier, hole-in-the-wall places David expected from a so-called authentic jazz spot. He was dressed in a normal suit, although he spiced his outfit up with a green dress shirt and sweater, giving the outfit a pop of color.

Margaret was dressed nicely as well, her long brown hair flowing down her back, dressed in a simple black dress that reached below her knees with a square neckline. They both analyzed the room as they walked in, but were intercepted by the polite voice of a man near the door. “How may I help you two this evening?” They looked over to see a ginger man, dressed in a simple tuxedo. Margaret smiled at him. “Uh, we’d like to go into Smoke and Satin, please.” She said. The man grinned, giving them a small and barley noticeable bow. “Right this way.” He said before walking before them, heading to the left.

Since the apartment and the bar were essentially different spots, he led them to an area directly parallel to the door, passing for the feminine windows until they made it to a hotels booth. Now David thought the club being there was pretty obvious for a place that’s supposed to be weird if mouth, could see the place with a simple turn of your head once your entered. But he figured it was that way to not disturb the actual residents of the complex above that were just trying to go about their day.

“Here we are.” The ginger man said, leading them to the small line outside the large, dark wooden doors behind the woman at the podium. “You two have a wonderful evening.” He flashed them a pearly grin before moving on his way, back to where he found them. David tried to ignore the look the man gave them, noticing the small eye sawing the glint in his eye. He tossed the interaction up to him assuming David and Margaret were a couple, and that was fine by him.

As they stood in line outside Smoke and Satin, the warm night air carried the distant hum of jazz from within. The line moved slowly, filled with people dressed in sleek suits, silk dresses, looking effortless out together. Margaret adjusted the long strap of her small bag, shifting onto one heeled foot. “You’re quiet.” She said softly, looking over at him.

David exhaled, eyes scanning the golden-lit entrance. “Just taking it in.”

Margaret smirked. “I doubt that, you’re never taking things in. You’re thinking something.”

David soared her a small glance, trying to hide to stop the smile that wanted to appear in his lips at just how much she knew him. His gaze then drifted back to the doors behind the hostess, trying to catch a glimpse into the place anytime another wakes in as the door was held by the tall man standing next to it. “I don’t like scenes like this.” He stated.

This caused her to raise a brow, ceasing her arms. “Scenes like what? Exclusive? High-end? Full of people who actually know good music?” She inquired playfully, causing him to cut his eyes at her. “Scenes where people think they know good music.” He reiterated firmly.

“You’re such a snob.” Margaret scoffed, though a grin was apparent in her lips.

David smirked. “I’m particular.”

She sighed, tilting her head toward the entrance. “Look, all I’m saying is—if this place is as good as I’ve heard, maybe you should enjoy it instead of tearing it apart before we even get in.”

David rolled his shoulders. “We’ll see.”

Margaret studied him for a second before nudging him lightly with her elbow. “You need to get out of your head. Have a drink. Maybe even—God forbid—have a good time.” She stated.

David shook his head, but there was amusement behind his eyes. “I’ll consider it.” He said with a coy shrug, causing the girl to let out a small laugh, both unbeknownst to the man they waited in line behind them, eyeing the two.

The line eventually led them to the front desk, where they were met with a knowing smile from the host. “Reservations?” The tan skinned Asian woman asked them, flashing them a polite smile. Margaret glanced towards David at that, a little taken aback at the new information, before looking back at her. “I didn’t know we needed them.” She said, letting out a small nervous laugh.

The host gave a polite but firm smile. “Most nights, no. But when she sings, we fill up quick.” She said, giving them a light nod.

“She?” Margaret and David asked at the same time.

“Stella Mougly.” The name was spoken with reverence from the hostess and a deep voice from behind them. Before either Margaret or David could turn around and respond to the woman in front of them, a man stepped in beside them—a tall, well-dressed figure with light brown skin, enticing eyes and an air of familiarity about the place. “Let them in, they’re with me.” He said smoothly. “You got it, P.” The woman at the desk said as she gave a playfully stern nod. The man, ‘P’, as she called him, gave her a small laugh, his voice deep as he passed the pair and moved over to the doors.

David and Margaret exchanged looks before trailing behind the man, who led them through the lobby and into Smoke and Satin. The interior was cozy—their lighting was romantic, the seats were covered in this sexy green velvet, the floors had the same polished checkered patterns as the thick stripes in the lobby. David didn’t see how such a place bled authenticity.

Their guide turned to them with a grin as they walked through the establishment. “Lucky night for you two.” He said. “I’m Pierre, the manger.” He said before turning back around and maneuvering his way though . They walked through what looked to be the common area, some people sat in booths and at well decorated tables that were wrapped in a thick table cloth. This area also seemed to be more crowded, booths lined the wall while the tables were close enough for a person to fit through.

They thought their seats were gonna be there but they continued to follow the man that invited them in, not questioning his friendly nature. Pierre passed the bar on the other side of the wall, the trio walking down the checkered path that was available in case you wanted another drink. Passing the bar, he spoke to the man behind the counter. “Wassup, Bernard.” He called out, causing the man to look up. The brown skinned man with a thick mustache smiled at him, giving him a small salute as he flashed his perfectly straight teeth with his silver grills. “Wassup, P!” He cheered before going back to mixing the drinks in front of him.

The pair behind the tall man were then led to further into the room, passing some men who opened a velvet rope for them and then going down some steps that separated this sitting area from another. This section was separated from the other, an styled a little different but still styled cohesively. The floors were a dark brown wood, matching the tall walls not covered in picture frames, records and instruments. The lighting was dim and candles sat at the center of the occupied tables, encasing them into this romantic atmosphere. There was plush red-velvet seating, chandeliers that dripped from the ceiling like golden constellations and hum of conversation mixed with the soft melodies of a live band warming up.

Margaret and David were in love with the place as is, but this section was something more. It was alive.

Pierre led them through the large room, passing people dressed to the nines and in chatting away. The man stopped a table in the center of the room, the chairs almost like small couches with how large and plus they were. They were also set up sort of like a booth, two small sofas on either side of table while the other ends held large cushioned chairs as well. “These are some of the best seats in the house.” Pierre smirked as he took a seat in one of the chairs at the end of the table, while gesturing for David and Margaret to have a seat on the plush sofa.

They sat down and almost immediately, a waiter was at their table. “Any drinks in mind?” They looked up to see the same ginger man from earlier, a polite smile on his face as she place the leather menus down on the table. Margaret and David glanced at each other since they didn’t know what the place had.

“I’ll take an a sidecar.” Pierre said, not even opening his menu for food as he looked down at the fancy silver watch on his left wrist.

“Uh, I’ll have a Negroni, I’d you serve that.” Margaret said. The ginger man smiled at her whilst nodding. “Yes, we do.” He said before turning to David, and the man couldn’t help but to see that same flint in his eye. “And you, sir?” He asked, not even bothering to write any of the drinks down. “I’ll take an old fashioned.” David stated. The bright haired man hummed. “Ah, excellent choice, monsieur. I’ll have those to you in no time, let me know when you want to dinner.” He said before drifting away from their table in the blink of an eye.

One he was gone, Pierre looked at the pair, a soft smile on his face. “May I ask the name of the two people I invited to enjoy dinner with me?” He asked as he picked up the match box from the center of the table and sparked a light, the small ember brightening his face as he leaned to light the wax sticks at the center of the table. Their attention snapped over from admiring at the place to the man’s at the other end of the table, watching as he set the atmosphere further.

“Oh! I’m Margaret.” She smiled at him.

“David.” The man said with a small smile and a simple nod of acknowledgement. Pierre nodded with a hum, sparing a quick glance down at his watch again before looking back up with a grin. “Well, welcome to Smoke & Satin, one of the best places on earth. Time spent here is more than just an event. It’s a feeling not many get to experience, so I hope you enjoy.” He said. And it seemed that checking the time on his wrist time everything perfectly, since the waiter from before being over their drinks on the silver platter. “Here are your drinks.” He said, sitting there glasses down on the crème colored cloth that draped the table.

“Thank you.” David said, making sure to give the man his gratitude. “You are welcome, monsieur.” The man said before sitting a drink down in front Pierre. “Thanks, Hughy.” The green eyed man thanked him ginger. “No problem, P.” He said before walking away. David couldn’t help but to squint his eyes as he sipped his drink, not only at the intersection between the two, but also just at the ginger man in general.

Is he…flirting with me? He questioned himself as he smacked his lips a little, savoring the smooth bourbon. The thought lingered in his mind as he sat the glass down, questioning the eyes and the doorman turned waiter was giving him, and the French word that simply meant ‘Sir’, but felt like it had a different meaning to him. They were only got a few sips into the beverage before the light around them dimmed further, causing the room hush. A spotlight flared to life, illuminating the red curtains on the stage about twenty steps away.

A smooth voice resonated through the speakers, deep and velvety as it spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have our most esteemed guest of the evening. Sit back and relax to the most wonderful, the most talented, and just down right gorgeous… Stella Mougly.”

The curtains parted.

And there she was.

She was dressed in a sheer, tiger-print babydoll dress, that thin material shimmering under the soft glow of the stage light as the music began to play. The delicate fabric draped over her body like liquid silk, giving teasing glimpses of her figure. There were specs of glitter dusted across her brown skin, making her glow like something celestial. Her hair was long and black with subtle waves in it, making her look even more exotic and intoxicated. Dainty gold jewelry adorned her wrists and neck, catching the light with every subtle movement. Her heels were like gold as well, a thin strap going across her ankle and across the ends of her polished toes.

“Ooh, la-la-la-la.” Was sung by the deep voices of the band as they eased into the song.

And then she sang.

“I did you wrong. My heart went out to play. But in the game I lost you."

"What a price to pay.” As she sung that last part, the lights became a little brighter to show the men that were singing as they played the instrument behind her. She smiled as she spared them a quick glance before going back to singing.

Her voice—soft, sultry, effortlessly controlled—wrapped around the melody of 'Ooh, Baby, Baby' by Smokey Robinson & The Miracles. The live band played in the shadows behind the spotlight, letting her be the centerpiece, the guiding force.

“I'm cryin'. Ooh, baby, baby. Ooh, baby, baby.”

She moved with ease, swaying with the music as she glided across the stage in a slow pace. The band’s harmonies rolled like smooth waves beneath her voice, their presence steady but never overwhelming. Stella’s sultry tone melted into the melody, drawing the audience into her grasp as effortlessly as a siren luring sailors to sea. She moved with intention—each step, each glance, each soft note weaving an intoxicating spell.

“Mis-takes, I know I’ve made a few,” She crooned, her voice dipping into a gentle rasp that sent shivers down spines. She reached out towards the crowd, her nude colored nails catching the dim glow of the chandeliers above. “But I’m only human, You’ve made mistakes too…oooohhh.”

The hush in the room was thick with longing. Conversations had faded into whispers, drinks were momentarily forgotten. Eyes followed her every move as she sauntered toward the grand piano at the far end of the stage, closer to the crowd. “I’m cryin’,” She sang again, this time softer, letting the words linger before rolling into the familiar, aching refrain. “Ooh, baby, baby…”

The pianist’s fingers ghosted over the keys, his touch delicate yet assured. Stella trailed a fingertip along the glossy black surface of the instrument as she circled it, her dress shimmering under the low lights.

“Ooh, baby, baby,” She repeated, her voice like warm honey, eyes lidded as she let the music carry her, eventually making her way atop the grand piano at the edge of the stage the the help of a hidden step stool.

“I'm just about at the end of my rope.” She sung into the microphone as she came into a resting position upon the sleek instrument effortlessly, leaning her weight on her right hand while her legs were thrown to the side in a seductive crossing. A small bouquet of roses sat at the center of the piano, wrapped in a satin gold bow. “But I can't stop tryin', I can't give up hope.” She continued, her eyes flickering over the crowd she could barely see due to the bright light beaming down in her.

David was entranced.

The world blurred. The chatter of the audience, the clinking of glasses, even Margaret beside him—it all faded. There was only her. He watched as he pulled a rose from the bundle before her, the dark red a nice contrast to her honey skin that glistened with her every movement.

“ 'Cause I feel that one day I'll hold you near.” She sung, her voice lifted highly match that of dear Smokey as her eyes drifted to the young man playing with focused intensity. He faced up at her, flashing her a large white smile that complimented his deep skin well. “Whisper, "I still love you. Until that day is here.” She sung softly as she leaned further towards the man the played the piano before her, letting the petals of the flower brush against his lips before trailing it down. She ran the flower along his chest that was covered by the black and white tuxedo.

“I'm cryin'.” The pianist stole a quick glance at her, his fingers never faltering but his ears burning red. Her heels dangled, catching the light, and the faintest hint of perfume drifted toward the pianist, who was doing his best to keep his focus on the music rather than the woman now practically lounging atop his instrument. A smirk tugged at her lips as she leaned closer, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he noticed her lingering presence.

She was practically laid out on top of the instrument now in order to tease the musician.

“Ooh, baby, baby,” She cooed one last time, drawing out the final note, her voice floating like smoke, lingering even as the music faded. With a teasing smile, she let the flower drift lower as she turned over onto her back, its stem tracing the air just above his knuckles. He flinched slightly, barely suppressing a flustered chuckle, his dimples making an appearance as he tried to shake it off. “Ooh-ooh, baby, baby. Oo-hoo-ooh, baby, baby. Ooh-ooh.” She continued to sing, laid out on her back as one of her legs bent at the knee, her full body shining under the spotlight.

A beat of silence followed before the applause erupted, a mix of whistles, cheers, and appreciative murmurs filling the room. David blinked at it ended, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was hiding as she small smile graced his lips before he began calling along with them. The lights the shift off again, encapsulating them in darkness as they waited for the next act.

"Ladies and gentleman, welcome, The Midnight Muses." The lights slowly brightened as the unmistakable drumbeat of Be My Baby by The Ronettes began, that iconic, heart-thudding rhythm filling the air. A hush fell over the crowd, anticipation thick as smoke in the dimly lit lounge. There, with a soft glow illuminating the stage, Stella stood—standing tall at the center, draped in a new black boa that had to be given to her in the darkness, her presence commanding yet effortlessly elegant as she danced along to the thumping beat before they began.

To her left, slightly behind, stood her backup singers, dressed in matching black baby doll dresses. Their silhouettes were sharp, their high ponytails swaying ever so slightly as they moved in perfect synchronicity.

“The night we met, I knew I needed you so. And if I had the chance, I’d never let you go.” Stella sang, her voice warm and inviting, wrapping around the melody like silk. The boa curled in the crook of her elbows, its feathery texture contrasting against her smooth skin. Her backup singers swayed, their harmonies tight, a perfect echo to her lead. “So won't you say you love me?” She continued, following the same choreography as the girls behind her, being her arms out in a pleasing motion. “I'll make you so proud of me. We'll make 'em turn their heads every place we go.”

Her eyes flickered across the crowd, a knowing smile tugging at her lips as she shifted her grip on the boa, her fingers brushing against the soft feathers as the chilies dropped. “So won't you, please.”

“Be my, be my baby.” The girls behind her sung, their voice harmonized perfectly, the sound soft but powerful.

“Be my little baby?” Stella continued, her voice capitulating the perfect raspiness of Ronnie Spector. “My one and only baby.”

“Say you'll be my darlin'.”

“Be my, be my baby.”

“Be my baby now (My one and only baby) Whoa-oh-oh-oh.”

Then, as the music swelled, she took her first step down the stage’s grand staircase. She moved slowly, purposefully, letting the song breathe as she descended into the audience.

“I’ll make you happy, baby, just wait and see, For every kiss you give me, I'll give you three.” She promised, each note carrying a teasing lilt as she eased onto the dining floor, the crowd clapping along, enchanted by her presence among them. She trialed her fingers along some propels shoulder as she passed them, singing powerfully within the audience.

David was watching, his eyes never leaving her, even as he took a large sip from his glass, gaze trained on her at her over the brim as she moved within the crowed. And he could’ve sworn her eyes caught his as she continued to sing. “Oh, since the day I saw you, I have been waiting for you. You know I will adore you 'til eternity.”

From the moment she stepped off that stage, his eyes never left her. He leaned back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of his chair, but his body was taut, his focus razor-sharp.

And then before he could even think about it—she was there. At the same table as him, singing her beautiful song. She draped an arm around Pierre, offering him a soft smile through her singing before slowly dragged it away, her soft hands growing over his expansive suit.

She then sifted around the table, leading to the boa trailed along David’s shoulders, a feather-light touch against his skin. His breath caught, though he masked it well. The world around him dimmed, the clinking of glasses and murmured conversations fading into nothing. Her voice—low, sultry, hypnotic—wrapped around him like the boa itself, pulling him deeper into her gravity.

“So won’t you, please…” She continued as she pulled the black scarf around the man, whose eye didn’t leave her once. The words curled between them, her eyes locked onto his. “Be my, be my baby?”

David’s lips parted, but he said nothing, just watching—captivated, mesmerized.

She was singing to him. She had to be. He knew it. He felt it.

“My one and only baby,” She crooned, the intensity of their eye contact sending a charge through the space between them as the Blake scarf slowly forged from his figure. “Be my baby now!”

Then—just as quickly as she had ensnared him—she was gone.

She turned on the “Whoa-oh-oh-oh!” spinning away, leaving nothing but the lingering warmth of her presence and the faint scent of of jasmine as she moved through the tables and back to the stage.

The crowd erupted, their cheers filling the lounge as she hit the final notes, her backup singers right in step, harmonizing flawlessly until the music came to a dazzling close.

A thunderous applause followed, whistles and calls of her name ringing out as she stood center stage once more, soaking it all in.

And David—David sat there, still feeling the ghost of her boa on his shoulders, still hearing her voice in his ears. For the first time in a long time, the infamous playboy was at a loss for words.

Stella smiled, radiant and full of life and she waved and bowed to the crowed with her singers next her. She then turned to blow kisses to the band behind her. The stage lights dimmed again, bringing everything back to its romantic atmosphere as she gave the crowd another playful wave before disappearing backstage.

Pierre turned to them with a deep chuckle, still elated from the small performance as he watched David and Margaret‘s expression. “She gets to you, huh?”

Margaret exhaled. “She’s incredible. That was… effortlessly amazing.”

David frantically blinked, still processing. “She’s a true performer. But more than that—her voice is clean. You hear how she bent those high notes? That’s a real soprano, but she’s got jazz in her chest. Her breath control is crazy.”

Pierre’s grin widened as he slightly arched a brow at the man adjacent to him. “Well, look who knows there stuff.” He said with a small smirk, gesturing to David as he glanced at Margaret, who shared a small smile with the man as well. “I told you. Smoke and Satin isn’t just a place. It’s a feeling. The history here is deep.” He said, sitting up more in is seat as he began to explain the lore of Smoke and Satin, not caring if they didn’t care to hear.

“As you can tell by walking in, Smoke and Satin is the restaurant/ jazz bar, connected to the apartment complex that we call The Lullaby’s Lounge. The complex was actually the first black owned business in Los Angeles, which sort of gave it an easy target for racism, especially being in closer to white neighborhoods of that time. All people tried their damndest to turn this into another example of a ghetto, white people to love a point that all blacks were alike while black people thought the others that lived there were saditty and sell outs. Not long after all their attention since opening, the establishment gained a lot of traction.” He stated.

“It soon became a place of refuge during the civil rights era. Rallies, meetings, after school programs, different practices, hell, church, were all held at this building at some point. Right in that room over there.” He said counting over to the lit section that the pair had to walk though to get to the section they were in. He then gestured to the room they were sitting in. “This little VIP-esque section was actually hidden. It was a secret jive joint that brought in black folks from all over. A place for grown folk to unwind from their hard days of trying to gain freedom. This room would hold everything from poetry to swing dances. It’s a place of comfort for the community, and it still is in way. The owners still live in the building to this day.” He explained.

David and Margaret blinked and gaped in astonishment at the life history they were sitting in, getting to experience.

“Time passed and this section became a restaurant, a cover up for the secret room in the back when cops started snooping around just because they wanted to. It then became really popular among famous jazz musicians and Black Hollywood elites of that time, and it never really lost its touch. The shtick of the exclusive word of mouth thing was something that rich people enjoyed.” He explained, his bright eyes drifting between the two as he told them the run down. “Traction didn’t start becoming what it was with reservations and stuff until Lady Stella showed up.” He said, not missing the way David’s eyes seemed to glint at the sound of the woman’s name.

“She was getting major attention for not only her voice. I, on the other hand, started out working here as a creek receptionist, but I’ve been a loyal customer from the beginning. My parents took me to Lullaby’s all the time growing up, that’s why when business stated getting more than serious around here with how money Stella was bringing in, I was allowed to take over to help the elderly owners run things smoothly. And that’s essentially how Smoke and Satin became what it was today, though I would owe majority of my thanks and graduations to Stella for that.”

Margaret and David listened as Pierre explained the history of Lullaby’s Lounge—how it was the first Black-owned housing complex in Los Angeles, how it became a refuge during the Civil Rights era, how jazz legends and Hollywood’s Black elite once filled these very booths. And how Stella, in many ways, revived the magic.

Pierre then smirked. “This place only comes to you when you need it, not when you just want it, die to his rich history. I like to call it magic sometimes.” He said.

Margaret leaned forward, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her glass as she took in Pierre’s words. Her expression was one of quiet awe, her usual sharp demeanor softened by the weight of the history he had just unraveled. “That’s… incredible.” She murmured, glancing around the lounge as if seeing it with new eyes. “I mean, I knew this place had a vibe, but I didn’t realize it was history.” She then smirked, shaking her head slightly. “And magic? That’s a hell of a way to put it.” She glanced around the lounge, her gaze landing on the framed photographs lining the walls. “I’ll admit, though… this place does feel different.”

David, meanwhile, sat back in his chair, absorbing it all in his own way. His gaze drifted across the room—from the framed black-and-white photographs on the walls to the way the candlelight flickered against the mahogany wood. He exhaled, a slow, measured breath, through his nose, drumming his fingers against the table. “So, what—you think certain people just end up here for a reason?” His tone was casual, but there was something thoughtful beneath it. He doubted he believed the useless tale for even a second, but why did he wait for a reasonable response from the man. Why did he sound curious?

Pierre leaned back in his chair, nodding once. “Something like that. People don’t just stumble into Lullaby’s Lounge. They find it when they need it, even if they don’t realize it.” He gestured around. “That history, that energy? It sticks. And somehow, it knows when to pull the right folks in.”

Margaret studied Pierre for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t know if I buy all that, but I do know I don’t wanna leave anytime soon.” She took another sip of her drink, looking satisfied.

David chuckled, shaking his head as he pushed his chair back. “Well, I guess we’ll see if I start feeling enlightened after a bathroom break.”

Pierre smirked knowingly. “You might.”

David shot him a look but didn’t press. Instead, he stood, rolling his shoulders before heading toward the back of the lounge, weaving through the tables as the warm hum of conversation and music followed him.

David exited the lavatory shortly after entering and a good wash to his hands, but he wasn’t quite ready to return to the table yet. Do instead, he made his way to the long, mahogany bar that lined the far wall, lining up with the same bar in the upper lounge, the bars connecting with a small set of store and separated by a tiny wooden door that stopped at hip height. His trudge over to the bar with the lit counter top was slow, his hand in his pockets as he contemplated what drink to order next, and questing if he should get food.

And that’s when he saw her. The ethereal being from the stage.

Stella.

Up close, she was even more stunning. The slights sheen of sweat on her collarbones from dancing under that beaming light, the slight smudging of her mauve lipstick—signs of a woman who had just poured her soul into a performance. She leaned against the bar, stirring her drink absentmindedly.

David wasn’t one to freeze up, so before he could even think about he it, he was at the bar standing next to her as he ordered his own drink. He did a double take the at same ginger man, Hughy, behind the bar, mixing up drinks. Hughy glanced up at him with a small smile and an arched brow, waiting for his order. “A Black Orchid, please.” He stated—a rare, moody cocktail with an air of mystery, much like the man himself. The choice catching Stella’s attention just enough for her to glance over.

Hughy brows raised in surprise before he finished the drink he was making for a man at the other end of the bar and began to work on David’s. Hughy’s eyes then drifted to the singing woman who glanced over at David, a small smirk drifting upon his features.

The drink arrives in a sleek coupe glass, its deep, inky purple hue shimmering under the low bar lights. A single black orchid petal floats delicately on the surface, almost too perfect to disturb. The scent carries hints of dark berries, aged rum, and the faintest trace of smokiness, intriguing yet smooth. He was quite surprised they even had the drink, not many places did.

Stella, perched gracefully at the bar with her own drink in front of her, watches as he lifts the glass to his lips, ones she couldn’t help notice the plumpness of. Her curiosity is piqued not only by the drink, but as well as the handsome man’s next to her. .

“That’s not on the menu.” She remarks, voice low and velvety as she looked over at him, her head rested on her arms lazily, giving her this sultry look as she gazed at him.

David softly grinned, taking a slow sip as he looked over at her. “It didn’t have to be. I hear you can order anything at this bar.” He said with a simple shrug. Stella nodded at that with a subtle hum that he could barely hear over the music and chatter that filled the vibrant atmosphere, causing him to lean closer subconsciously. “So, this is your first time here?” She asked. David, who was now closer to her just nodded, looking her in the eye. Stella blinked as she looked into his eyes, his taller frame making her catch the candle lights flickering in his eyes.

She then tilts her head with a small and curious smile, amused. “So what’s in it?” She asked, softly jutting her head to the drink. David blinks from their small staring trance, looking down at the drink and sailing the skinny black stew lightly, the ice shifting against the glass. “Dark rum, blackcurrant liqueur, a little vanilla, and just enough mezcal to keep it interesting.” He leans slightly toward her, his voice dropping just enough. “Not too sweet. Not too bitter. Just…balanced.” He said, looking her back in the eye.

Stella watches him for a moment, her own smirk forming. “Profound taste, monsieur.” She said, giving the man a small clap. David’s brow twitched at the familiar word he’s been called all night, causing his eyes to glance up at the bartender, who was now gone and replaced by a woman. His eyes furrowed slightly at the disappearing act the ginger man kept pulling, but didn’t dwell on it due to the fact that he was speaking to someone. “You speak French?” He asked, looking back down at Stella, noticing her perfect accent when she said the word.

“No, not if you want to count the required class I took in college.” She said with a small smile, this one far more genuine and amused as she watched David laugh a little her her. “But fancy people like you usually love it when someone else pulls out another language. It’s good for business.” She said with a small shrug.

“Well, no business on my side, because I am far from fancy.” He said before bringing his glass up to take another sip. Stella arched a perfectly shaped brow at him, causing him to shrug a little. “I try.” He added, causing the woman to smile with a nod, now agreeing with him.

He waited a beat before speaking, watching as she never once sipped from her own drink, just slinking the beverage around as its ice melted in the ball round glass. “That was… unreal.” He said softly, causing her to look back up at him. She blinked with a glint of confusion. “Your performance.” He stated. “It was really good.”

Her smile turned soft as looked at him, but he could see something unreadable. “Thank you.” She said softly.

David leaned against the counter, tilting his glass slightly. “Most people hear a song. And even though those are basic classics, I felt those. It was like hearing it for the first time all over again.” He explained before taking another sip of the drink that was starting to make him buzz some.

His compliment made her smirk over at him. “Ah, are you a musician?” She asked.

“Something like that.” He shrugged as he swirled the dark liquid in his glass. “You’ve got crazy control. The way you flipped those transitions—seamless. And your band? Tight as hell. You got them playing behind you like it’s second nature.” He began again. And now, Stella looked at him. Really looked at him.

Most people gave her the same rehearsed compliments—“Your voice is amazing,” or “You’re so talented.” But him… he paid attention. He listened.

She finally took a sip of her drink, mainly out of pure nerves of being under his intense gaze and heavy compliments, her eyes lingering on him for a moment longer. “Sounds like you know your stuff.”

David chuckled. “Gotta know what you’re talking about when you’re in the game.”

That piqued her interest. “So you are a musician.”

He smirked but didn’t answer right away. Instead, he raised his glass in a small toast. “To real music.”

Stella watched him for another second before clinking her glass against his. “To real music.”And just like that, the air between them shifted. It had already been thick, humming with something unspoken, but now? It was stronger. More certain.

Neither of them wanted the moment to end.

But it had to.

David glanced over his shoulder toward the table where Margaret was still waiting, Pierre now missing as well, which was understandable since he was the manager. With a slow exhale, he straightened up, setting his glass down on the bar.

“I should probably get going.” He said, though he didn’t move right away and his voice didn’t sound too convincing to either of them. Stella blinked out of the trance the handsome man had put her in, nodding at his words but there was something reluctant in the way she did it. “Yeah.” She said softly, just now realizing that his close proximity had her entrenched within his dark amber and smoked vanilla scent.

Neither of them moved.

For a moment, it felt like the whole lounge had quieted, as if the world had carved out a small space just for them, just for this moment as they started at one another, trying to end the night.

Finally, David forced himself to step back. “Guess I’ll see you around, Stella.”

She blinked, realizing then—she didn’t know his name. “Guess so.” She said softly. And before she could ask, he had already turned, disappearing into the dim light of the lounge.

And as he walked back toward his table, the strangest thing hit him. Margaret was still waiting. The woman he was in a situation-ship with, the woman he had come here with.

And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty of the time he waisted with another woman.

Not at all.

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kittendreaw · 3 days ago

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Has Anyone Else Died For You? | Megumi Fushiguro

00: The Devil Within

Words: 1 k

Mainlist

I made myself at home In the cobwebs and the lies I'm learning all your tricks I can hurt you from inside.

Megumi was never a normal kid, and that was obvious to everyone. He didn’t grow up in a family like the other kids’, and he never bothered to adapt to them either.

He was who he was, and he didn’t care what anyone thought of him.

Megumi didn't know how to love, he didn't know how to be loved and he didn't want to learn it either.

He hated that godforsaken shithole of a town, hated the ignorant people who lived there.

To be fair, he’d always thought moving from Japan to America was a terrible idea, but Satoru insisted it was for the best—a quieter life, far from all the bad memories, blah, blah, blah. Megumi couldn’t change his mind, and now he was stuck there.

Maybe it was the day he broke another kid’s nose for making a xenophobic joke about him, or the time a girl called him satanic because of his style, and he threatened to sacrifice her, or maybe when he called his math teacher a bitch—but Satoru eventually realized Megumi was going to be trouble sooner rather than later.

But no matter how many child psychologists he took him to or how many times he tried to talk to him, Megumi never changed. He never even tried. And he was sure he never would.

He didn’t want to be nicer; he didn’t want to fit in; he didn’t want more friends. All he wanted was to get out of that place, which felt like a prison to him.

Even though his shitty attitude made him an outcast, Megumi was rich and good-looking. He stood out, even if it pissed him off. He was smart and mysterious, with that dark aura wrapped in leather and chains. Maybe he was a troublemaker, but he was also magnetic.

He’d always thought there was nothing interesting about that dump—until he saw you.

Soft and sweet, that’s how you looked. The prettiest girl he’d ever seen. But he immediately noticed there was something else beneath that layer of shyness and charm that had everyone eating out of your hand.

If he were as dumb as the rest of them, he probably would’ve fallen for it too. But he was determined to find out what was hiding underneath all that innocence and kindness that made his blood boil.

Maybe because you were a fake bitch, maybe because he couldn't take his eyes off you.

You were everything he hated, A little saint too good for that people, you were just like all the withered ones who lived there, a liar and a two-faced, but there was something about you that made it impossible for him to get you out of his mind.

You always loved lying—or well, you loved making everyone believe you were someone you weren’t. Some people call it a split personality, others an alter ego, but to you, it just felt like heaven. It’s not that you were a compulsive liar or anything like that; you just liked to sweeten the truth, showing a version of yourself that wasn’t entirely real but wasn’t completely fake either. Something innocent, something that made life easier. Little white lies, that’s what they’re called.

One of your favorite lies was saying you didn’t remember your childhood or your early teenage years. That way, people would stop asking questions. The truth? You remembered everything perfectly. But you were a locked vault, and nothing was ever coming out because now you were someone completely different.

Ignoring that small, miserable part of your life had worked perfectly for you so far. Because, really, was there a sweeter girl in that town? Of course not. You were pretty, sweet, and popular. Everyone’s eyes were on you, and you loved the attention.

It’s not like you were an attention seeker, but honestly, who doesn’t like being noticed? Especially after being completely ignored for so many years. You were finally getting what you’d always wanted, and you weren’t about to let it slip away.

You were shy when people complimented you, a total prude when a guy tried to flirt with you. Smart, always ready to help everyone. In a town so small, where gossip spread faster than wildfire, your reputation was solid. It was something you’d worked hard to build, and that effort had definitely paid off.

You gave everyone what they wanted, You showed them the face they wanted, the version they preferred. You wouldn't call yourself a peoples pleaser because you weren't doing it for them, you were doing it for yourself and the pleasure of knowing that you were the one in control of your own life, of your image, you were in control of saying something and that everyone believed it as the absolute reality.

But of course, nothing lasts forever.

For a couple of years, no one doubted you. You were like a little saint, someone everyone trusted, the good girl everyone wanted to be around.

To yourself, you weren’t a liar or a fraud. You were just someone who had built her own life. Whether it was fake or not, nobody needed to know but you.

You probably could’ve kept weaving your web of lies if it hadn’t been for one stupid fight with your so-called “friends.” One of them accused you of sleeping with her boyfriend, and suddenly, everyone was pointing fingers at you. God, he wasn’t even your type—you’d never do something like that. But all of them turned their backs on you, and the people who used to follow you started following them instead. Now you had a bad reputation.

Your lie had been broken by another lie, the same people who claimed to love you now hated you, the person you had created had been buried by those you had always longed to be with. You’d fallen from your pedestal, the one you’d built brick by brick. But you were determined to climb back up Because that was the place you deserved.

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flowerbloom-arts · 1 day ago

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[~900 word fic based on the events of a segment from Treehouse of Horror Presents: Simpsons Wicked This Way Comes]

Seymour stared at the empty plate in front of Gary and his heart sank. A constant reminder of the unreal thing that sat across him at the table.

Seymour always took pleasure in serving food for his superintendent, it was one of the few things he thought would impress him, but now… the thing that looked like him couldn't even eat it. Seymour was only serving himself in this regard.

He had killed the real Chalmers a month ago now, someone whose body is probably rotting in a dump after Groundskeeper Willie had cleaned it up and thrown away to the no man’s land that all garbagemen send people’s trash to. Skinner could only feel unnerved at the uncharacteristic niceness radiating out of that face. He could almost sense pity out of it.

“Is something wrong, Seymour?” Gary asked, leaning over crossed arms on the table.

Seymour swallowed his resentment and asked him what he thought was a fairly innocuous question, tangential to the illness making his stomach ache; “Gary, why is it that you’re so nice to me, if Chalmers… the real Chalmers… never would be?”

Gary took a moment to calculate his response, one would be fooled into thinking he was thinking humanly. “I’m only his simulacrum, Seymour, meant to occupy you with utmost patience when he couldn't afford to do that himself,” he answered with brutal honesty, just as any robot assistant should, “But I’m not sure if ‘never’ is the right adverb here. He's always been perfectly capable of kindness towards you, it's simply that… something always gets in the way of it.”

Seymour figured as much, and his mind gravitated towards the answer being his own faults – a habit he was taught by Mother with all the criticism she's given him over the years – but he’d rather his assumptions be backed up by an outside source. “And what do you think that might be?” he asked.

Gary furrowed his brow trying to collect whatever clues in his memory bank could point to a clear answer. He shrugged; “He wanted you to be a different person, I think,” he said, not a hundred percent sure of its completeness as an answer, “Someone who could speak to him as an equal and not as a subordinate. Someone interesting he could engage with as a friend. You're a war veteran, right? He thought that surely someone of your experience would offer more interesting insight than consulting him on design and decor choices that never made any difference to him.”

Seymour hung his head over his plate trying to absorb the observations given to him in Chalmers’ familiar voice. All he could feel was a deep disappointment in himself for not measuring up to his superintendent’s expectations and desires, if only he had known… he raised his head with widened eyes when the clone unexpectedly continued;

“But maybe that's not the whole truth,” he speculated, “The original Chalmers’ thoughts are all extremely oxymoronic now that I try to decrypt them all. He revelled in cruelty towards you because it made him feel superior and in control in a situation where he felt aimless, but he didn't want to admit to being cruel only for his own sake; he wanted to know more about you, but if he were to know more about you he would’ve felt that his cruelty was unjustified. He thought willful ignorance would allow him to be blameless, that if anyone were to ever object to his behavior he would be able to rationalize it by saying he's only been judging your present performance with no regard to your mental situation, claim that he couldn't have known better. He's very odd.”

Seymour had stopped eating and leaned back on his chair as he continued listening with great interest and horror.

“He wanted to like you, but for him to like you he needed to know more about you, but knowing more about you would make him feel guilty of his abuse towards you, meaning that liking you would mean he would have to be disgusted at himself, and his ego as a man of stature trumps all else that is important to him. Therefore, he cannot like you in a way that jeopardizes his own moral validity, despite his actual desires…”

Gary looked down at the table and sat in silence, seemingly deciding on what to say to Seymour next. He sighed and rubbed his forehead as if all the contradictions and circular reasoning were making his thought engine overheat.

“If… if it's any consolation to you, Seymour, I like you. I like you in a way that's based on the original Gary’s behavior. I know that probably won't suffice as I am only a simulation of a real person and not the real person himself, but that statement is true to me. Just know that none of his behavior was your fault or responsibility, he was always capable of treating you better and simply chose not to because his pride wouldn't allow it until the moment he was faced with the possibility of death. He was too selfish to change his ways until he was met with the fatal consequences of his treatment of you.”

The pit in Skinner’s stomach grew more vast and painful as he processed it all in silence.

“It's not your fault that you couldn't trust kindness coming out of a cruel man, Seymour,” Gary reassured him. “It’s not.”

Seymour took another moment of deafening silence before nodding in grieving acceptance. “Yes, of course… thank you, Gary,” he replied very quietly.

#art #the simpsons #simpsons fanart #the simpsons fanart #fanfic #fanfiction #short ficlet #seymour skinner #principal skinner #gary chalmers #superintendent chalmers

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likeadevils · 3 days ago

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I've been thinking about loml since i saw the swiftologist analysis on it and something he said stucked with me: according to his interpretation, she chose joe because he was a safe place and matty was her real love. Based on ttpd it seems like she felt a glow with him that she never experienced before and this made me question her relationship with joe quite a bit. Do you think joe was the temporary move on drug until matty was ready?. And based on ttpd did you feel he was ''the one''?

i think ttpd, while being shockingly truthful in many ways, is also story told by a deeply unreliable narrator-- or, rather, it's taylor intentionally embracing her status as an unreliable narrator. she called ttpd "An anthology of new works that reflect events, opinions and sentiments from a fleeting and fatalistic moment in time." she also said about fortnight:

"Fortnight is a song that I think really exhibits a lot of the common themes that run throughout this album. One of which being – fatalism. Longing, pining away, lost dreams. You know, I think that it’s a very fatalistic album in that there are lots of very dramatic lines about life or death and “I love you, it’s ruining my life” like these are very hyperbolic, dramatic things to say. But, it’s that kind of album."

while i do think taylor's feelings for matty were real, to a certain degree, i think they were spurned on by a lot of other issues that were coming to a head towards the end of her and joe's relationship.

isolation: throughout the album, taylor ties her love of matty to escaping isolation or boredom, two feelings caused by the way her relationship with joe was ending. like, she just says this, multiple times ("I felt more when we played pretend/ Than with all the Kens/ 'Cause he took me out of my box", "I dream of cracking locks/ Throwing my life to the wolves, or the ocean rocks/ Crashing into him tonight, he's a paradox", "Locked me up in towers/ But I'd visit in your dreams", "I look in people's windows/ Transfixed by rose golden glows/ They have their friends over to drink nice wine/ I look in people's windows/ In case you're at their table"). throughout the album matty also feeds into the isolation, not by physically locking her up, but by playing into her insecurities and then telling her he's the only one who can fix them. most notably: "You said normal girls were boring" (with the implication taylor is more difficult to love), and "You said I needed a bravе man/ Then proceeded to play him/ Until I believed it too" (again saying loving taylor takes a lot of effort and painting his ability to love her as unique).

a complicated relationship with aging: taylor also ties her love of matty to youth. there's the obvious refrences to them dating when they were younger ("At the park where we used to sit on children's swings", "Stitching, 'We were just kids, babe'", "Preserved from when we were just kids") but there's also plenty of times throughout the album that she combines yearning for matty with yearning for a previous version of herself (As the decade would play us for fools/ And you saw my bones out with somebody new [...] I changed into goddesses, villains, and fools/ Changed plans and lovers and outfits and rules/ All to outrun my desertion of you", ("Does it feel alright to not know me?/ I'm addicted to the "if only"). outside of either relationship, being afraid of aging is all over the album ("My friends all smell like weed or little babies", "You see I was a debutante in another life, but/ Now I seem to be scared to go outside"), but i think the most notable line is from So Long, London: "I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free"

longing for a soulmate: tied to the fear of aging, taylor was clearly afraid of being alone for the rest of her life. we see how it comes from joe ("I died on the altar waitin' for the proof", "I'm so afraid I sealed my fate/ No sign of soulmates), and then matty wanting to marry her is just. the main redeeming quality in every song about him. a really convenient narrative when you're trying to paint someone as your soulmate is that you've actually been in love with them the whole time you've known them. your brain also likes to trick you into thinking the way you're feeling now is the way you've always felt and will always feel. but that narrative is also undercut all over ttpd. there's references to her feelings being something that she'd lost over time (“I’m running back home to you”, “Falling back into the hedge maze”, “We embroidered the memories of the time I was away”), and other references to him actively winning her back (“You blew in with the winds of fate and told me I reformed you”, "A conman sells a fool a get-love-quick scheme", “Something old, someone hallowed, who told me he could be brand new”).

conflating lingering guilt with pining: chloe or sam and peter both talk about yearning for matty, but it's deeply intwined with worrying about his wellbeing. in chloe or sam, she says "You needed me, but you needed drugs more/ And I couldn't watch it happen" and then beats herself up for deserting him (which, to be clear, not wanting to be complicit in someone else's addiction is not deserting a person). she specifically laments that she was "too impaired by my youth to know what to do". again, we don't here anything about matty as a person that's drawing her back to him, just her guilt over abandoning him in the first place. in peter, she says "I hoped you'd return/ With your feet on the ground, tell me all that you'd learned/ 'Cause love's never lost when perspective is earned" which is explicitly saying that she wanted to know he was doing okay more than she wanted to get back together with him. the bolter comes towards the end of the tracklist for a reason-- part of moving on from him means not only forgiving, but celebrating the part of her that knows when to get the fuck out of a bad situation.

we don’t hear a lot of independently good qualities about matty, just ways he’s an escape from joe— her life with matty is chaotic in comparison to her life with joe being isolated and boring, he’s willing to marry her in comparison to joe dragging his feet, he's tied to an earlier version of herself that she liked more instead of a dull, predictable future that joe represents.

so, no. i think matty was a perfect representation of all her festering insecurities. she fell for him hard because when he forgave them she felt forgiven, but when he left, she lost a big chunk of her self worth along with him.

#asks*#this took forever to answer but hopefully the essay makes up for it #also i can not stress enough florida was recorded before her and matty broke up

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ghost-proofbaby · 6 months ago

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never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice.

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands.

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival.

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall.

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption.

We still on for tonight?

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears.

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution.

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon.

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with?

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall.

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-(

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything?

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead.

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady.

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips.

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both?

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished?

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it.

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure?

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling.

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at.

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes.

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no.

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once.

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment.

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence.

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop.

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer.

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do.

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling?

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become.

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue.

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong.

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open.

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night.

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy?

“Hey, Eds.”

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern.

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship?

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit.

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay.

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair.

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder.

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.”

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does.

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads.

He’s good.

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay.

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips.

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?”

“I’m sick.”

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble.

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring.

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-”

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life.

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling.

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.”

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space.

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.”

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors?

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure?

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls.

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear.

And yet, he doesn’t.

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest. And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years.

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder.

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears.

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you.

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts.

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud.

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him.

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time.

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him.

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place.

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you.

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first.

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-”

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue.

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…”

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love.

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion.

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor.

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind.

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.”

It’s not your job. That’s not your job.

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap.

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you.

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him?

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better.

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear.

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?”

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?”

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…”

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom.

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.”

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-”

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures.

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?”

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.”

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.”

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.”

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face.

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?”

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough.

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.”

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it.

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer.

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.”

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his.

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?”

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?”

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying.

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.”

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room.

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh.

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough.

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night.

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe.

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor.

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

#not using taglist due to the triggering nature of this fic #ghost's stories #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #tw suicidal ideations #this felt more like a journal entry than a fic at times #but i needed to write it so i did #writing eddie's bits were hard because i've always been bad at being on that side of these things #finding a way to have two humans discuss the emotions in question out loud was just hard #and in case anyone who's reading the tags needs to hear this: you're not a burden for telling your loved ones when you feel this way #i guarantee they'd rather have these hard and uncomfortable conversations than the alternative #the ending only feels rushed and like a band-aid because i truly don't know if i'm capable of writing that type of dialogue #it's already scary enough posting this as it is lol #but save the leaves? idk now im using humor as a coping mechanism #alright i'll shut up now no one is reading this far into the tags

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