#It's just leftover emotions from something that's not in my life anymore

[siena-sevenwits]

🫖

[hederasgarden]

Stand By Me - Part 3

Summary: When a local ranch hand’s attention evolves into something more sinister, Rhett Abbott becomes an unlikely source of comfort and protection for you. Pairing: Rhett Abbott x F!Reader Word Count: 4.8K Rating: Mature, future chapters will be explicit and 18+ only. Stalking, anxiety, and Rhett being protective. Future chapters will include some violence. No spoilers for Outer Range. A/N: Welp, here we are a year later. 😬 Sorry it has taken me so long to update. I cannot thank my beta N, @mayhem24-7forever and @whatblogisthis216 enough for their help and support putting this together. Thank you @callsignhurricane for the absolutely gorgeous header.

Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed this story. Your interactions keep me writing and inspired.

Masterlist | Lewis Pullman Characters Masterlist

"I see you're in with the Abbotts now," your boss remarks, watching Rhett climb into his truck. "Got a phone call from Cecilia this morning about you not closing up by yourself anymore. That woman has a real way about her, all polite-like when she's handing you your ass." 

“Mr. Anderson,” you start, rushing to explain but he waves you off. 

“She was right, of course. I know you got that, er- fella who hangs around too much.”

“My stalker?” You question, your tone harsher than you intend. He looks down at you, surprised. There’s an apology on the tip of your tongue but you resist, meeting his brown eyes. Maybe it’s knowing you had Rhett and Cecilia on your side, or maybe some leftover frustration from the Sheriff. Either way, you don't back down from your statement. 

“I suppose he could be,” Mr. Anderson agrees. “Anyhow, I’ve got Johnny set to close from now on. You go on and tell that to Cecilia now. One dressing down from that woman is enough.”

“I’ll let her know.” 

He nods, patting your shoulder briefly before disappearing into the back office. You exhale and look back out to the empty street. It’s stupid to miss Rhett but a small part of you does. You’re safe in the store; there’s no need to have him here with you. He has a life of his own and a ranch to help run. 

“Was that Rhett Abbott?”

You turn to face the owner of the voice, finding your coworker Sandra watching you excitedly. She’s got that glint in her eye, the one that means she’s not going to let this go easily. Wabang didn’t have a town gossip, but if they did, everyone knows she’d happily take the job. In high school, she was in everyone’s business, spreading rumors and ferreting out information. She never looked twice at you back then, you were too boring and quiet. 

“It was. He just gave me a lift. Not a big deal,” you promise her.

“Uh, nope," she says, popping the p and stopping you with a hand on your arm. "We’re not going to breeze past the fact that you left your car here last night and now the manwhore of Wabang is dropping you off. Spill," she demands.

"We're not…," you start, an automatic denial falling from your lips before you can stop it. She gives you an incredulous look and you stammer out an answer. "It's not a big deal. We're, um, dating," you explain.

"Rhett Abbott doesn't 'date'," she tells you, eyes narrowed. "He has sex with whatever buckle bunny catches his eye.”

“He’s not like that,” you argue, defensive at the way she speaks about him. You know Rhett’s reputation, pretty much everyone does, but you saw a different side of him last night and this morning. You know there’s something more under that charming smile. He listened when no one else did and that means something to you. 

“Honey, please,” she says dismissively. “That boy is nothing but trouble and trash. You best stay away from him."

“Don’t talk about him like that,” you tell her, voice warbling with emotion. “He’s not like everyone says.”

Sandra’s perfectly plucked brows disappear into her hairline. “Alright, alright,” she concedes, hands held up. “Just be careful. He might not stick around after he gets what he wants from you.”

“He’s stuck around the last two months just fine,” you fire back, only realizing after the words are out that you and Rhett never talked about a timeline. 

“Really?” Sandra says, leaning in closer enough for you to catch the fruity scent of the gum she smacks noisily. “That certainty explains why he hasn’t been hanging around the Handsome Gambler lately. I just thought maybe he was getting serious about bull riding or Royal had him on a short leash after the last fight.” She leans back, looking contemplative. “Well, that was some exciting gossip for a Friday morning.”

“Please don’t spread this around,” you ask her, knowing full well she would. Although the idea of people talking about your personal life made your skin crawl, you knew if Rhett were here he’d say it was good. The more it spread, the more likely your stalker would learn of it and back off. 

“Your secret is safe with me,” she promises you, crossing her fingers and winking. 

Sandra spends the rest of your time together on her phone, chewing on the endless supply of gum she keeps next to the register. You’re normally not a self involved person but you’re fairly certain she’s texting about you and Rhett. During lunch, you send him a text of your own about your conversation with Sandra. He responds immediately with a thumbs up emoji which doesn’t help your anxiety. What if he was mad? What if he was with another girl at that time and you just screwed up this whole story?

You spend your shift distracted, overthinking what you told Sandra enough that you keep losing track of the inventory you’re working on. Eventually you give up and volunteer to work the till. An unexpectedly busy afternoon keeps your focus on the task at hand and you don’t even notice it’s 5 p.m. until you look up and find Rhett in line for your register, a shopping basket in hand. 

He steps up to the counter and smiles. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you return, feeling unexpectedly shy. You stare at him long enough that he clears his throat and nudges the basket towards you.

“You gonna check me out?” he asks, his tone playful. 

Beside you, Sandra scoffs. When you spare her a glance, you find her watching Rhett. His attention, though, is focused on you. 

“What’s all this?” You question, taking out the deadbolt kit and some window locks.

“For your apartment. When I was there last night I saw they could use an update.”

“Rhett…” you trail off, embarrassed. 

He seems to sense your emotions and leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “I think this is the part where you ask me, cash or card,” he whispers. 

“Will that be cash or card?” You ask, thankful for how easily he dispels your discomfort.

After you’ve finished checking him out, you clock out and let him walk you to his truck with an arm around your shoulder.  Once you reach your apartment he pulls out a tool bag from the bed of the truck and says he’ll install the new deadbolt while you get ready. A part of you wants to protest or offer to pay him for the supplies, while another is too embarrassed to draw attention to what he’s doing for you, so instead you say nothing and disappear into your room.

“Pretty sure they’re doing line dancing tonight,” Rhett calls out in between the sounds of the power drill. “You got some boots you can wear?”

“Uh…I think so," you half yell back, staring at the contents of your closet. 

You have to get on your hands and knees and pull aside a few boxes to find a pair of brown boots. The last time you wore them was for high school graduation, back when your grandfather had been alive. You trace the delicate lines of embroidery around the calf, pale pink and periwinkle flowers connected by green vines. There hadn’t been a reason to wear them since, all you did was go to work and come home. 

Tonight seems as good as any and you stand to finish getting dressed. The sundress and jean jacket are a little dated but they’re comfortable and look nice enough. Once you’ve managed to fix your hair and makeup, you return to the living room to find Rhett replacing the old window locks.

The creak in the floor draws his attention to you briefly before his eyes return to the window. A second later they’re back on you. He blinks and stands, clearing his throat. 

“I think I’m ready," you announce. 

“You, ah, look real nice,” he tells you, nodding. “I like the flowers.” 

“Thanks. You look nice too,” you add, touching your neck self-consciously when he doesn’t immediately speak again but keeps watching you.

“Well…we should probably get going then.”

“Yeah,” you agree, watching Rhett gather up his tools. “Thanks again for installing that stuff.” 

Rhett nods. “I’ll finish up with the other windows tomorrow.”

The drive to the bar is quiet. Rhett’s fingers drum on the steering wheel as you wait at the stoplight. You cycle through potential conversation openers but discard them all. Nothing feels right, and you realize that the sour pit in your stomach only grows the closer you get to the Handsome Gambler. 

Would he be there tonight you wondered? Just the thought of seeing him is enough to make your breath come quickly and your hands tremble. You exhale and close your eyes, trying to get yourself together. Rhett is here. 

When the engine cuts out you look up, eyes drawn to the neon glow of the Handsome Gambler’s sign. Rhett’s quick to meet you at the curb, offering his arm. You curl your hand around his bicep and he draws you close. At this time of night, the bar is busy, humming with energy and conversation. Rhett navigates the crowd with ease, exchanging brief hellos with a few people, finally stopping at an empty booth. You slide in and he follows. 

“Want a beer?” He asks.

You’re not much of a drinker but you nod anyway. Rhett flags down a waitress and a few minutes later two cold beers are dropped off at your table. You fiddle with the label as Rhett takes a long swig and leans back, shoulders relaxing. When you sense him watching, you bring the bottle to your lips and take a drink. It’s cold and a little bitter on your tongue. Your distaste for it must show because Rhett cocks his head to the side with a faint smile on his lips.

“I can order you something else,” he offers. “Wine? Something fruity?”

“Maybe something fruity… honestly though this is okay. I don’t want it to go to waste.”

Rhett shakes his head and flags down the waitress again, ordering you a daiquiri. “It won’t go to waste,” he assures you, pulling the beer toward him.

You return his smile as he rests his arm along the back of the booth. His fingertips hover just above your shoulder, not quite touching your jacket. This close to him you can smell his cologne, faint and a little musky but nice. Everything about this is surprisingly nice, including the way his denim-clad leg presses against yours, warm and firm. 

“He’s not here,” Rhett announces and you look up at him sharply. He’s still scanning the bar as he sips from his beer. For one silly moment, you forgot why you were even here, something that seemed impossible earlier. 

“Should we go?” You ask Rhett.

You’d only come to make it clear to the man that you were with Rhett.

“What?” Rhett’s brow furrows as he glances at you. “Why? You wanna go?”

“No.” You shake your head just as the waitress arrives with your drink. “We came so he’d see…”

“There’s more than one way to make sure he knows,” Rhett tells you, pushing up the brim of his hat before leaning in close. You can feel his breath against your cheek. “Look to your right, past the pool tables. You see those men?” You nod, watching the rowdy group in the corner playing darts as you absently sip your drink. 

“They all work at the Dustin ranch, including the one in the baseball cap who keeps looking at us.” At that moment, the man in question stands up for his turn and looks back, meeting your eyes. If he is surprised to find you looking, he doesn’t show it. He holds your gaze for a second before glancing at Rhett who smirks and waves. His expression doesn’t change but when he turns back you catch a brief flash of something.

“He’ll make sure Jimmy gets the message that you’re with me.”

“Jimmy?”

“Your stalker," Rhett clarifies. "After I dropped you off this morning I paid a friend of mine a visit that’s friendly with the foreman of the Dustin ranch. That’s the man’s name. He hangs out with the guy in the baseball cap, Rick.” 

“Oh.” You stare at the table, trying to process the information Rhett gave you.

When he says your name softly you realize several minutes have passed in silence. “Sorry, I….” you trail off and look back at the man with the baseball cap. 

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Rhett says. “This is a lot.”

You nod, lips pressed together because you don’t trust yourself to speak. 

“Line dancing looks fun,” he notes, taking a swig of beer. “Might be a nice distraction and you can put those fancy boots to good use.”

“They’re not fancy,” you defend. 

“Hmmm, don’t look like nothing I’ve seen at the feed store,” he teases. “Come on.” He stands and offers his hand. 

You let him pull you up and follow him to the dance floor as Vince Gill’s What The Cowgirls Do fades from the speakers and a soft, more subdued song  plays. The crowd thins and you realize the remaining dancers are pairing up. Rhett doesn’t seem deterred by the change in music, grasping your right hand and wrapping his left arm loosely around your body. His palm rests firmly on your shoulder blade, pulling your body close to his. After a moment of hesitation, you settle your left arm on his bicep.

“It’s been a while since I’ve danced like this,” you admit, watching how easily the other couples move around the dance floor. 

“Nothing to it. All you gotta do is follow, I’ll lead,” Rhett promises, surging forward and taking you with him. 

You stumble a little but he’s quick to adjust his pace for you, whispering words of encouragement. Maybe it's how Rhett guides you around the dance floor or some long buried muscle memory from high school but soon enough you’re moving in sync. Then he raises his arm to spin your body in a circle before quickly drawing you back into his arms. When he does it again a second time, a breathless laugh escapes you. 

“Atta girl,” Rhett says, drawing you closer. 

Your skin tingles and you feel warm all over when he speaks those two simple words. The world narrows to Rhett’s handsome face, his blue eyes dark pools in the dim light. Your chest constricts, only allowing you to pull in shallow breaths that leave you lightheaded. It’s only when someone else bumps into the two of you and the spells breaks that you realize a new, more upbeat song is playing. 

Rhett’s lashes flutter and he releases you, his gaze falling away a moment later. 

“Beer’s probably getting warm,” he says and you hum your agreement, letting him lead you back to your seat.

Before you can make it, two men you don’t recognize stop Rhett. 

“Shit, that you Abbott?” The shorter one questions, swaying on his feet. 

You watch Rhett for his reaction, only relaxing when he smiles. “Smitty.”

“Heard you’re riding tomorrow.”

“I am,” Rhett agrees.

“Damn,now we gotta go to see that,” he tells his friend before turning his attention to you. “Did you know your boyfriend's one of the best damn bull riders in these parts?" He asks. 

You’re not sure what to say so you just nod. 

“You guys gotta come get a drink with us,” Smitty says. 

“Thanks, but my girl and I were about to head out,” Rhett says, capturing your hand in his. “Y'all have a good night.”

My girl. 

Rhett uses that phrase so casually, like he’s done it 100 times before. For a moment, you let yourself imagine a world where it’s true, losing yourself in the fantasy long enough to miss the rest of their conversation. When Smitty and his friend stumble away, Rhett leads you back to the booth where  your daiquiri has all but melted. If Rhett’s beer is warm, he doesn’t show it, finishing it off in one gulp. 

“If you want to get a drink with your friends…,” you start hesitantly.

Rhett’s quick to cut you off with a shake of his head.  “Not with those two dipshits. They’re fun for sure but… trouble too.”

You turn to face him. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

He waves your comment away, grinning with one side of his mouth. “Maybe, but it aint suitable for girls with flowers on their boots.” 

The rest of the evening passes surprisingly easy, so much so that before you know it, it’s nearly midnight and you’ve all but forgotten about Jimmy and the man in the hat. Rhett pays your bill with cash and walks you to his car, keeping a hand on your lower back. 

Once you arrive at your apartment, Rhett turns off the truck and leans forward to look out the windshield.

“Want me to stay the night?” He asks, leaning back. 

You do, but you’re aware of just how much he’s done for you already; staying over last night and pretending with you at the bar. You should decline and let him go home to sleep in a real bed but behind him you can see the dark windows of your apartment and the words catch in your throat. 

“Never was an Eagle Scout,” he starts, pulling a black duffle bag from behind the seat, “but I came prepared.”

You stare at the bag, surprised, and when you look back at Rhett he gives you that half smile of his, brow arched. You find yourself nodding before you can think too hard about it.

“Alright,” Rhett says, opening his door, “come on.”

That night you sleep better than you have in weeks and when the morning comes, you quietly slip out of your bedroom.  Rhett is already up, a mug of coffee in hand. He looks lost in thought, a deep crease between his brows but his expression clears when he sees you. 

“Made coffee,” he says, raising his mug. “Hope that was alright.”

“Of course,” you’re quick to tell him. 

“I won't be able to pick you up after work,” Rhett says, following you into the kitchen and leaning back against the counter. “Gotta be at the rodeo early but my Ma said she’d be there.”

“Okay.” You yawn as you doctor your coffee to make it sweet enough to drink.

“Looks like I kept you out too late,” he observes, watching you over the rim of his mug. 

“No, it was…” you pause searching for the right word but come up short. “I appreciate it,” you finally settle on. 

Rhett nods, looking away. “It’s nothing.”

When he sets his empty mug in the sink, you head back to your room and get ready for work.  Once you’re dressed, you reach for the beat-up tennis shoes you always wear, stopping short when you see your boots from last night. You hesitate for only a second before slipping them on instead. 

Rhett drops you off with a kiss on your cheek and a wave to Sandra, who watches the two of you from the front window display. The day passes uneventfully, without any sign of Jimmy. A little after 6 pm the Abbotts come to collect you. Cecilia is warm and open, asking about work while Royal drives, glancing at you occasionally in the rearview mirror. You’ve only met Rhett’s father in passing and always found him to be an intimidating man. Tonight he’s mostly silent, only chiming in when you tell Cecilia about an issue that happened today with Donald Everrtt’s lumber order.

“That man’s got more cows than sense,” Royal grumbles and you laugh when Cecilia chastises him.

Leaning back and gazing out the window, you think about your own parents. They weren’t so different from Rhett’s and you’d forgotten how nice something as simple as this could feel. Thinking of them hurts like it always does and you swallow around the lump in your throat, distracting yourself by listening to Cecilia and Royal talk about Rhett and the bull he’s meant to ride tonight. 

When you arrive at the rodeo, it’s loud and chaotic. The announcer booms something about the bull riding beinging soon. It doesn’t escape your notice that Royal and Cecilia keep you between them as they guide you through the crowd of people to the metal bleachers where Rhett’s brother and his family are waiting. Their daughter, Amy, is quick to question you once you’re seated. 

“Are you Uncle Rhett’s girlfriend?” she asks, leaning around Cecilia to see you.

You stare at her, unsure how to answer with so many people around. Rhett had shared the plan with his parents but you weren’t sure who else knew the truth. Your silence makes Amy’s  little brows furrow, a look so reminiscent of her uncle that it almost makes you smile. 

Thankfully Cecilia interjects before you have to figure out what to say. “Yes, Amy.”

Before Amy can ask you any more questions, her mother suggests they get some popcorn. Once they disappear, Perry takes a swig from the flask in his boot, and when he sees his mother looking, he makes a face.

“Come on Ma,” he grumbles, but Cecilia pins him with a silent, angry look and he eventually puts the flask away, sighing heavily.

There are several riders before Rhett and you watch each of them get thrown from their bull with increasing anxiety. You search for him among the crowd of riders at the far end of the fence. When you spot him, you’re surprised to find he’s watching you. He grins, tipping his hat. It’s such a simple gesture, but it fills you with a fluttering warmth that lasts long after he looks away to acknowledge his parents. 

When it’s finally Rhett’s turn to ride, you rub your hands on your thighs anxiously. The buzzer goes off and you flinch as the gate is ripped open. The world narrows to Rhett, the bull, and the sound of your own breathing. The seconds tick past agonizingly slow until he’s thrown from the bull. 

Dust flies and the bull stomps. You stand up, searching until you find him stock still in the dirt. You make a small, terrified sound and Royal touches your shoulder drawing your gaze. 

“He’s okay. Just got the breath knocked from him,” he assures you. 

You look at Cecilia who seems just as concerned but then a second later the bull is gone and Rhett stands. His gaze is focused on the scoreboard but you watch him. His expression is serious, lips pressed into a thin line as his chest heaves. Then suddenly he smiles, open joy written across his features and the crowd cheers. When you look up his name is first on the board. 

Beside you, Royal yells and Perry sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly. Cecilia shouts his name and Amy jumps with excitement. You expect Rhett to come straight to his parents but he makes a beeline for you, climbing up the bleachers and past people with ease. 

“Rhett,” you start, whatever you were going to say cut short by his lips on yours. The kiss is intense but brief. When he pulls away, he looks as surprised as you feel. You stare at one another before suddenly he’s pulled back by an older man who claps him on the shoulder. More people push forward to offer him congratulations. 

“Let him hear you one more time,” the announcer encourages. “Ladies and gentlemen, your hometown hero, Rhett Abbott!”

You touch your lips, mind working hard to process what just happened. Rhett looks back, eyes glued to yours as he’s pulled back into the ring.

“Come on sweetheart,” Cecilia urges, patting your arm. “Let’s wait for him at the other end. Less people.”

You can’t see her eyes under the brim of your hat but you suddenly realize she and about a hundred other people just witnessed what Rhett did. You have no idea what his parents must think. There’s another feeling under the embarrassment and awkwardness that you don’t investigate too closely. 

“Well that was something,” Royal says and you glance up at him sharply before you realize he’s talking about Rhett’s ride. 

Cecilia smiles. “He’s gonna ride next weekend in the finals for sure.”

“I knew he’d make it,” Royal says proudly and you smile at both of them, nodding your agreement. 

After a few minutes, Perry arrives alone. “It was getting late so I thought it best Amy went home,” he tells the three of you, hands on his hips. “She can celebrate with us tomorrow.”

“Hmmm and I suppose you’re gonna help your brother celebrate tonight?” Cecilia asks, judgment clear in her tone.

“Yeah. Handsome Gambler,” he confirms, clapping Rhett on the back as he arrives. “You’ll be drinking for free, that’s for sure.” 

“Did you consider that your brother might not want to go?” Cecilia asks, looking at you pointedly. 

“Oh, that’s alright. We can go,” you say, feeling even more awkward.

Perry grins and leans in. This close you can smell the alcohol on his breath. “Great, I’ll get us a booth.”

He disappears before Rhett even has a chance to speak. Cecilia sighs and Royal rubs her back. “Nothing wrong with having a little fun,” he reminds her.

“I know,” she concedes. “But be safe,” she adds, looking intently at Rhett.

“I will,” he promises her, nodding seriously.  

Cecilia offers you a tight hug, promising to stop by the store later in the week. Once she and Royal are gone, you’re alone with Rhett. He rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat. 

“I’m sorry.” He pauses, looking back at you. “For the kiss. I shoulda asked if you were okay with that. I was out of line.”

“It’s okay. It uh, was good. Lots of people saw. That’s the point right?”

He stares at you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face. “Yeah, that’s the point," he agrees, finally before his gaze flicks away. “But, we don’t have to go to the Gambler tonight. Perry’s just… Perry,” he finishes with a long suffering sigh. 

You think about how excited he was before and what tonight means for him. He’d done so much for you lately, the least you could do was go with him to the bar. There was no way he’d drop you off and home and go alone. You had fun with him last night after all. Maybe tonight would be just as nice. 

“We can go,” you tell him but he frowns, clearly unconvinced. It’s late and you’re tired but it isn’t hard to manage a genuine smile for him. “Afterall, I brought my dancing boots,” you add, pulling up your jeans to reveal them. 

“Alright,” he agrees, his expression lightening. 

The bar is more crowded than last night and Rhett keeps you close. Everyone wants to talk to him, including Maria. You can’t help but feel jealous at the way she lays a hand on Rhett’s arm and leans in close to speak to him. She’s even more beautiful than she was in high school when half the town knew he’d been in love with her.

Watching them together and seeing the easy way he smiled at her, you wonder if he still is. That makes your chest ache, which is silly. You and Rhett weren’t actually together. Nothing, from the dance last night to his kiss earlier, was real. It was an act because you caught the wrong kind of attention. Suddenly, you want to be anywhere but here. You take a step away but Rhett’s quick to face you, his hand shooting out to grasp your elbow.

You lean in to be heard over the din of the bar. “I need to use the restroom but Perry said he can come with me,” you lie, looking over your shoulder at his brother. 

“I can come,” Rhett tells you, setting his beer down. 

You wave him off. “Catch up with your friends.”

When you realize Rhett doesn’t turn around immediately you’re forced to actually ask Perry. He agrees and finishes off his beer, following after you a little unsteady. You take your time in the bathroom, splashing water on your face and staring at your reflection. It’s quiet here but your mind is buzzing. You close your eyes and sigh. You’re not sure how long you stay like that, lost in thought but eventually a toilet flushes and you stand straight. You were being selfish, Rhett deserved to celebrate tonight without worrying over you. 

With a deep breath you head back into the bar, searching for Perry. When you left he was leaning against the wall, scrolling on his phone. Now he’s nowhere to be found. You only make it a few steps before someone’s hand closes around your wrist and tugs you back. You spin around, half expecting to find Rhett but it’s not him. 

Green eyes meet yours. 

“Hi baby,” Jimmy says, smiling. 

[daistea]

I started writing an imagine request but got distracted and produced This Thing. I’ve been wanting to write out my thoughts and my analysis on Mithrun’s state of mind for a while, actually

tw suicide, depression, discussions of mental health and self worth

Dungeon Meshi Spoilers ahead ‼️❗️

Sooo despite a lack of desires, Mithrun lives by habit.

These habits aren’t driven by preference, likes or dislikes. They’re still culturally acceptable though, mainly because Milsiril and his brother were the ones that instilled these habits in him(Mithrun doesn’t care what’s acceptable if it has nothing to do with the demon.) And there are still a few quirks leftover from his old self, things he never had a stark desire or choice to do but still did simply because he was used to them. Even after 40 years, the ins and outs of what the demon did to him remain still so complex.

Mithrun doesn’t really care about the details all that much. I like to think that outside of the dungeon, he has a regular bathroom schedule. He bathes every day when possible. He brushes his teeth for exactly two minutes, twice a day. It isn’t that he desires to not stink, it’s that he has to do these to keep his team willing to be around him so he’d have a better chance at finding the demon again and finishing the job.

In my headcanon, there are a few small habits he hasn’t quite picked up yet. He often doesn’t bother to brush his hair— the thought doesn’t even enter his mind. It gets stringy, something his old self never would’ve allowed. Its only when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror— a very rare occurrence, since mirrors remind him of the demon and the demon makes him want to shatter things— that he realizes that he should probably brush it for the sake of functionality.

Taking care of his skin is yet another habit he’d never really formed. Elves have naturally perfect skin anyway, so there’s no use. But they could still be scarred, and marred, and reflect physical neglect. Like with dark eye bags, a lack of sunlight, and dehydration.

Mithrun is incredibly dehydrated.

He doesn’t realize that, of course. While his body would feel the neglect, it doesn’t send those signals to his brain. With things like peeing, he only realizes that he needs to go to the bathroom because he recognizes the physical feeling, not because his brain says ‘got to pee now.’

With hunger, he feels pangs, but those pangs dont translate into appetite or a desire to eat. He only eats because it would keep him alive long enough to encounter the demon again.

Dehydration is also slightly physical, in that his throat will sometimes feel dry or his lips will chap, but he has not a single thought of ‘I’m craving water,’ Plus, what does that have to do with defeating the demon? Applying burts bees watermelon flavored lip balm ain’t getting him nowhere.

Everything goes back to the demon. Every move he makes is either because it’s a necessity of staying alive(to kill the demon) or because it’s part of the intricate web that will eventually lead him to the demon.

Mithrun gets hurt, he feels the physical pain, but his only desire is to patch it up quickly and keep moving to get to the demon. Healing himself for the sake of relief doesn't matter. Demon comes first. The demon is everything. It’s in the air he breathes, it’s in his bloodstream.

He doesn’t realize that he’s still Mithrun. He doesn’t consider himself as Mithrun anymore, that’s just his name. He lives for revenge(so he says) He Is An Instrument, a weapon that exists and is only maintained for the sole purpose of Revenge

A common misconception is that he has no emotion. Not true, he just doesn’t desire to fake a smile or joy or laughter for the sake of making someone feel comfortable. He can still smile quite naturally when he’s, ya know, getting closer to the goddamn demon. He can still be surprised and feel adrenaline and be angry at the things that happen in life. He can still get irritated or annoyed at his companions. He still has opinions, thoughts, feelings. He’s himself.

Idk. It’s incomprehensible almost, not having desires. It brings up so many variables. It’s not something you can be very literal or cut-and-dry about. My most effective way of connecting with his character is applying my experience with depression and the lack of desire I feel for doing certain things, and how I only do them for the sake of my family and friends. I think that’s considered relatively functioning. And I think honestly Mithrun would be considered high-functioning. But it’s not that he wants to do those things, he does them because he’s supposed to, because it all leads back to the stupid bitch face demon.

Mithrun tells himself he wants it dead. That’s his desire. But he knows if he ever succeeded in getting rid of it, he would have nothing. He’s okay with that. He’s going to die anyway, no matter if it’s by passively wasting away or by the mouth of the lion. He’s prepared for death, it’s inevitable. He’s not scared.

But once he decides to live again, he still functions mainly by habit. Except he starts to apply himself a little more.

“I’m going to wash myself today because my companions would appreciate that” and not “I need to stay clean to keep the team around to lead me to the demon”

And “I’m going to make noodles today to keep me busy.”

“I’m going to get a dog so I’ll have an obligation to go outside every day to walk it, because it’s good for me to do that.”

They’re still conscious choices, and sometimes he falters, he doesn’t register that he should do something. But he’s chosen to live and he’s trying to function not for the sake of his one goal, but for the sake of the gift that is existence.

He’ll learn to love, to have genuine friendships. On good days, he’ll appreciate a warm meal, the feeling of relief when drinking water, the soft touch of someone close to him. And he’ll experience these things because that’s what living people do. They’re nice things. He doesn’t do things anymore simply because they’ll take him closer to the demon.

It’s freeing, in a way. It’s scary, in another way. Imagine you’ve lost your one purpose in life, the one thing that keeps you on your feet, how would you react? Terrifying.

Mithrun is incredibly brave and strong for making the choice to find a new purpose, to exist, to eat.

[luveline]

hi sweetheart , ur amazing , was wondering if you could write an eddie & roan fic , where whereas eddie was in the hospital that one time , its r’s turn , not to serious but definitely something youd fine yourself worrying about ! and ed and roanie r so worried , sorta like the scene from the work trip 🥹

PLS i love u angel

thank you for your request, ilove u! eddie and roan —dad!eddie juggles his daughter roan, nearly step mom!you, and his own rollercoaster emotions when you end up in hospital for a few days. 4k

cw hospital stay, seizure recovery, temporary paralysis

Eddie's never been this tired in his entire life, and he can't sleep. 

He looks up at his bedroom ceiling (your ceiling, your house), hands under his back in the same clothes he wore yesterday. She'll worry if I show up looking like a slob, he thinks eventually, getting up to shower. The last thing he wants to do when he can't take care of you is take care of himself, but he has to, because that's what you'd want if you were home. 

Roan is stirring by the time he's dressed again. He tugs his socks on and walks across the landing, residual steam from the bathroom warming the air, his hair dripping a cool path down his back. 

He creeps over a mess of things that hasn't been touched in two days. Roan's eyes fly open at the sound, but she sees him and they squint to a more sluggish expression, little hands rubbing sleep from her eyelashes. 

Eddie thinks maybe she thought he was you. 

"Hey, bubby," he says, as loving and bubbly as he can manage, "did you have a nice sleep?" 

"Can we go see Y/N now?" she asks hoarsely. 

Eddie sits on the side of her bed and pulls her effortlessly into his lap. She's boiling from the sheets, her hair curled tight at her neck from the heat. 

"Remember what I said yesterday about visiting hours?" He strokes hair from her face gently, an arm wrapped around her waist to say I'm here. "They won't let us in until nine, and it's not eight yet." 

He drops his nose into her hair. 

"Maybe we can go get a really yummy breakfast," he suggests, thinking about you. You're probably awake, and if he's lucky you've eaten your own breakfast, but it's more likely you've refused it if you're as lethargic as you were yesterday.  

"I don't want diner burgers anymore," Roan says. 

Eddie gives her a kiss and her back a rub. "No, I bet you don't. Sorry, sweetheart, it's not nice having the same foods for two days in a row, is it? That's my fault." 

"It's okay. Let's make waffles." 

He kisses her forehead, taking a contemplative breather, just the two of them in their quiet house, her body a familiar weight in his lap. The sun is up and shining through her window, sunlight across the floor and her spilled toybox. It doesn't quite reach them on the bed, and Eddie snorts at it. Of course it doesn't. Home without you isn't sunny.  

"Waffles," he agrees. 

They make waffles with leftover strawberries and squirty cream. Roan is perky enough to want to have some straight from the can, giggling a storm when he plops a dollop of it onto her nose. He gets her ready as she eats, brushing her knotty hair and changing her pyjamas for a striped long sleeve shirt, wool leggings, and a dungaree dress you'd begged him to buy for her. The front pocket sports a small embroidered Russian doll. 

She should've had a bath, but it's getting on, and Eddie wants to get to Hawkins General dead on visiting time. She's not dirty, just her hair isn't as nice as it could be. He figures the universe will forgive him. 

He really has to see you. 

Getting Roan into the car rehashes a fresh memory. The day before yesterday… things should've been normal. Eddie was walking out of the shop, keys swinging around his finger ready to see his girls for your usual Friday plans: movies on the couch until one or all of you falls asleep. He's thinking kettle corn, a sheet of a dozen donuts, a gallon of Roan's favourite grapefruit juice and maybe another punnet of strawberries so she can dip them in chocolate and sugar. 

But Wayne jogged out after him calling his name. There was a phone call from your work, your coworker frantic. 

Eddie blinks and shoves his keys into the car, listening to the engine sputter, trying to focus. A tonic-clonic seizure, seven minutes counted before it stopped. You were already in the ambulance when they called. 

"What do I do?" Eddie'd asked, frozen to the spot. His heart pounding unsteadily in his chest, the image of you in convulsions behind his eyes. "What do I–"

"You go to the hospital," Wayne said, because of course that's what he had to do. 

Wayne vowed to pick up Roan and Eddie got in the car. His hands shook so bad he couldn't turn the key at first, but he managed it, and he got to Hawkins General in one piece, and he didn't panic at the reception desk asking if you'd been checked in yet. 

Eddie doesn't think he'd described you as looking small before, but you looked small. They laid you out in a snug bed with square orange stickers on your head, chest, and arms, unconscious. You didn't wake up for hours. 

And that was normal, Eddie reminds himself now, the car huffing and puffing its way down roads he's been driving on for almost a decade now on autopilot. You had a standard generalised tonic-clonic seizure. It started from nowhere, though they later found your blood sugar had been very low. That was deemed the cause. Eddie blames himself for it in a hundred different ways, remembering that morning, how he'd made you late for work cuddling you when you should've been getting ready. 

You skipped breakfast. He thought you'd have something on the way, but you never did. 

It's my fault, he thinks, then and now, the same thought that's plagued him for three days. 

"Do we wanna talk about how we feel today?" Eddie asks, tearing himself away from the aching remembered fear and back into the present. Five minutes until he gets to see you again, until he knows for sure you're alright.

"I feel okay. I want to see mom." 

"We're almost there. You have your flowers from the back yard?" 

Roan waves her picked daisies at him assuredly. Eddie hadn't thought to buy you flowers. He could barely manage the essentials; pyjamas, toothpaste and lip balm. He forgot to get you a toothbrush. He forgot underwear —he had to go back to the store. It was a disaster. 

"What about scary feelings?" Eddie asks softly, reaching back to make a grab for her knee. 

"You said she's okay now." Roan sits forward. "What if her arms stop working again?" 

It was only one arm. You could've come home yesterday if you hadn't been experiencing a weakness called 'Todd's Paresis', a paralysis of the limbs. You slowly regained functionality of it throughout the day, but your headache and confusion remained. 

Eddie thinks that was the worst part. You, in bed, crying because you didn't understand. His eyes burn and well with tears every time he thinks about it. Eddie, I feel sick, you'd mumbled tearfully, reaching for his arm, smudging his tattoos between your careless fingers, I don't know what's– why are we here?

But you were genuinely going to be fine, even if you were scared. In the same way Eddie's going to be okay, and Roan will be, too, as long as he makes sure this isn't hurting her as it's happening. 

"Baby, I promise you her arms won't stop working again. When she had the seizure," —he doesn't like using a big word like that with her, only there's no alternative and she needs to know— "her brain was confused. It was confused for a couple of hours, 'n' when she woke up her body needed time to catch up." He doesn't know how true it is, but it's for Roan to understand her feelings, not to help her medicinal education. "When we said goodnight she could wave bye to us, yeah? So don't worry about mommy's arm." 

"I'm worried about mommy's everything." 

"Yeah?" Eddie feels a mixture of stress at her admission and relief as the hospital parking lot creeps into view. "You want to tell me?" 

"What if she gets another one?" 

"Another seizure?" Eddie asks, turning the wheel. All he has to do is drive into the lot and find a space without crashing. 

"Will she have to come back to hospital?" Roan asks. 

"Yeah, she would have to come back. But… okay, sometimes, people have lots of seizures all the time, and they aren't dangerous. Sometimes they are dangerous," he amends. "But lots of the time they're not. So if she did have more, I would make sure she didn't get hurt and we would have to be brave all over again. We can do that, can't we?" 

He parks the car. 

Roan doesn't look as though his explanation helped. Eddie's running on an empty tank, scrubbing his hands through half dried hair and wishing he was better at this. He gets out of the front seat and opens her door, unclicking her straps, helping her down onto her feet. 

"Babe, I forgot your jacket," he says, surprised at himself as he realises she only has two layers. "Are you cold?" 

She holds out her arms and assesses for herself. "I think so." 

"You'll have to come inside my hoodie. Shall we do that?" he asks with a grin.

Eddie picks Roan up, has her cling to his neck, and zips his hoodie up over her body, their head sticking out of the hole all squished together. She's a laughing mess as they cross the lot and head into the main building of the hospital, infectiously happy as she calls him, "so silly, daddy." 

They do look silly, but Eddie's glad he forgot her jacket. It's nice to hear her laughing like that after such a tough weekend, far from the one he'd pictured. 

He tries to set her down after they've entered the elevator, but she won't go. He holds her tighter instead. 

"We're going to be nice and quiet on the ward 'cos there are other grown ups here, and some of them are in a lot of pain," he reminds her.

"We should've brought flowers for everybody." 

"How many do you have, sweetheart?" he asks, watching the floor number tick upward. 

"I have, um." She pulls her hand back from his neck, four rumpled daisies choked in her fingers. "No, I can't give them to everyone else, I only have enough for mommy." 

Eddie's noticed a very high ratio of 'mommy' when compared to Roan's usual mix these last few days. If anyone asks who her mom is she says it's you enthusiastically, but if she's talking to you face to face she'll call you whatever she feels like. Mom tends to come out more when she's tired, when she's feeling adored, or when she's upset, but that isn't to say she won't call you mom at random moments. Why is the window glass all blurry, mom? I didn't 'member to feed Lucky, mommy, you have to get the fish food. Mom, I need more soda. 

Roan was too old when you met to mistake you for her mother. You're growing into the title. Roan's growing into using it. 

"That's okay. You keep them all for mom," he whispers. 

"We won't show anyone so they don't feel left out," she whispers back. 

"Good plan." 

When Wayne brought Roan by the first night, she was just happy to see you both. Unlike when Eddie burned his arm, you weren't alert enough to be in any pain, and so she didn't have to be scared of that. Wayne kept his cool when he picked her up, mitigating most of the panic she probably would've felt had Eddie been there. She wasn't happy to see you unwell, but she wasn't scared. She hasn't cried. 

Eddie knows from experience that a lack of tears now doesn't mean they aren't coming. 

You're sitting up in bed, showered, in a fresh pair of pyjamas with a cup of coffee held between two strong hands. You have a magazine on your knee. Even your hair looks nice. It's a goddamn miracle in Eddie's eyes —he nearly drops Roan. 

"My Munsons!" you say happily, putting your coffee on the tray table wheeled over your bed. "What the heck, you told me you'd be here at nine and it's nine oh seven. I thought we loved each other?" 

Oh thank fucking God, Eddie thinks. You're okay. You sound yourself again, no pain, no hazy confusion. 

"You're conjoined," you say, smiling. 

Eddie scrambles to unzip his jacket. Roan throws herself out of his arms and on to the end of your bed. You push your tray table and coffee sloshes everywhere in your rush to make room for her. 

"Good morning," she says, slamming into you. Eddie winces at her force, and Roan must recognise her brutality, saying, "Sorry, I hugged you hard." 

"That's okay, I like hard hugs," you say, wrapping your arms around her. 

Eddie gets his knee on the mattress to grab you both in his own hug. Tears burn in his eyes. He doesn't have the wherewithal to blink them back, dropping his lips to your forehead. "I was so worried," he says, unable to hide how high and fraught his voice is. 

"Eddie," you murmur softly. "My love, it's okay. I'm just fine, you didn't have to worry about me." 

"But I did, you were–" He clears his throat. "I love you." 

"I love you too," you say, your hand crawling up his front. You curve your palm around his neck. "Baby, I'm so sorry." 

Eddie laughs and sniffs, sitting back on your bed to wipe his eyes with his wrist. His hands are shaking. "It's okay, it's alright. I don't want you sorry for nothing. We just wanted you to get better. Isn't that right, Ro?" 

Roan picks her head up from your neck, tears pumping down her face. 

Eddie's heart hurts seeing it, even if he was expecting it. You, on the other hand, hadn't had that foresight. You look at her like she's split you clean in two. 

"Princess, what's the matter?" you implore, cuddling her back into your chest. "I know it's really scary being here, lovely girl, I know. It's okay." 

Roan doesn't explain herself, just sobs little sobs into your shirt, clutching you as though she's worried you'll push her away. 

Eddie puts his hand on her back. 

"I'm sorry," you say softly, sounding weak yourself.

"Don't be sorry, are you kidding? It was my fault," Eddie says. 

"What?" 

"I made you late, you didn't eat breakfast–" 

"Eddie–" 

"Don't fucking say sorry–" 

"Eddie," you say again, rubbing Roan's back. You give him a soft look. 

"Sorry," he says. He takes a big breath, victim of an overflow of emotion. 

Eddie slides further up the bed to get a better hold on Roan where she's being hugged. "I'm very sorry for cussing, baby. How are you feeling, huh? Happy to see mommy with both arms, is that it?" 

"So happy," she sobs, pushing her lips closer to your ear and her flowers into your neck. "I brought you flowers to help you get better but you're better already." 

Eddie doesn't know what to do besides pat her back and cling to you.

After a big healthy cry fest, you lay back in your pillows with Roan propped against your front, speaking at a much more acceptable volume considering your three neighbours in the room. You rub her back with one hand and feed her hard pretzels with the other, passing your pinky finger over her cheeks as a makeshift handkerchief to collect the last of her tears. Her daisies wilt in a cup of fruitless water on the nightstand. 

"Is that what all the fuss was about? You worried daddy wasn't gonna enable your snack addiction?" you ask fondly, 

"Dad gives me lots of snacks. We had Benny's two times yesterday and then we had ice cream with every topping for after dinner." 

"I'm glad he's been spoiling you," you say. 

"Too much Benny's, wasn't it?" Eddie prompts, meeting your eyes with a bemused grin, his head twitching with a headache that doesn't fit the mood. "She said to me before breakfast she didn't want any today. We had waffles in the waffle maker and blueberries and strawberries." 

"With squirty cream," Roan says, opening her mouth wide for another pretzel. 

You indulge her and feed her. 

"You didn't enjoy burgers for lunch and dinner?" you ask. 

"We had Reuben sandwiches and loaded fries for dinner, it wasn't as torturous as it sounds." 

"It sounds delicious," you say, kissing Roan's pale forehead. "I wish I'd been there to steal all the bacon bits off of your fries. Now I'm better, maybe we can go and have them again, give me a fighting chance."  

"No!" Roan says with a laugh.

"No? So selfish, Ro, you know I want whatever you're eating." You kiss her crown and adjust your arms around her.

"Now you're better, I think we should have the, um, the special curry dad makes with rice and peas." 

"Oh, yeah?" Eddie asks. "Mom's better so dad can go back to his life of serfdom. That's awesome." 

In actuality, Eddie would make you complicated, exhausting meals multiple times a day for the rest of your life if it meant you didn't end up here again. He has a strict breakfast plan forming in his mind as you speak.

"They said they were gonna check me one last time and if I'm okay I get to go home. Soon as the doctor can come and see me and make sure I look okay," you say, planing a pretzel past her mouth and into your own with a self satisfied smile.  

"You look beautiful," Eddie says, squeezing your knee. 

"Dad! I was going to say that!" Roan stands up from your lap and pushes him. "You steal everything!" 

"I do not! 

"You do! You stole my strawberry at breakfast and you took my soda straw last night!" 

"I did do both of those things but that doesn't mean I steal everything," Eddie says, looking up into her face happily. 

She has fire behind her eyes, even though her lashes are still wet and clumped together from her earlier tears. Roan harrumphs at him. "You do. You stole one of my gingersnap cookies–" 

"Baby, those were mine. Uncle Wayne got them for me 'cos they're my favourites and I was upset," he says, laughing. 

"Well. Why did you let me have them?" 

Eddie finds her hand to roll her fingers. "Because I'm good at sharing, something you never learned how to do." 

"Don't listen, bubby," you say, tipping pretzels into your mouth. "You're a good sharer." 

In the end, the doctor comes by and tells you to stay until the shift changes for a last set of observations. Eddie and Roan stay just past visiting hours to wait with you, Roan now firmly wedged in his lap, you with his hoodie over your shoulders. In all the chaos, he didn't remember to bring your jacket either. 

"This is why we're getting married," you say. 

"Why, so someone remembers to put jackets on you both?" he asks ruefully, Roan in his lap, your bag packed and ready to go at your feet. 

"No…" You tip your head toward your shoulder a touch. "Because you've done such a good job looking after me, sweetheart. You really have. Thank you for taking care of me." 

"I think the hospital did all the looking after," he says. 

He tries uselessly to shove down that awful feeling again. The memory of you prone in bed with your IV and your heart monitor beeping. It felt like it was beating behind his eyes. 

It's easier to forget now you're feeling almost one hundred percent again. Your hand at his elbow, in your nice white and blue pyjamas, content to be going home again. 

"That's not true… I can't imagine how tired you are right now. If it were you in here, for three days…"  

"Only two," he says. "Today doesn't count." 

"It absolutely counts." 

You pout for a kiss that Eddie eagerly gives you. He kisses you, your cheek, your ear, a line of gratitude because he doesn't care how tired he is or how hard this was. You're better. You can rest at home. 

"I'd be a mess. Don't feel bad about the jackets or start thinking you did a bad job," you say, combing your fingers through his hair. You scoot back to look him in the eye, a ridiculous amount of fondness lining your own, your pinched brows. "You did awesome. A-plus for everything."

"It's not over," he says, stroking Roan's arm where she squirms in his lap, bored. "You're on bed rest, I don't care what the doctor says. And you're taking time off work. Promise me." 

"Promise," you say, holding your hands up. 

"Can I have the time off too from school?" Roan asks. 

Her big doe eyes and her tiny frown would convince him if he hadn't already thought about it. 

He squeezes her chubby cheeks in his palms. "You need a few days to feel better," he agrees. 

"Really?" she asks with a gasp. 

"Yeah, really. You've been really, really brave." He kneads her cheeks gently. "You're such a good girl. You're my brave girl." 

"Super brave," you agree, cheek on Eddie's shoulder. 

Roan sits back with a proud shrug, arms wrapping around her stomach. "I was a bit brave." 

Eddie chucks her under the chin with his knuckle. You get discharged a little while later, Roan and Eddie like a small parade pushing your wheelchair. You hate the attention, complaining to the nurse lightly that you can walk to the car without falling. No one wants to hear it. 

"You're legally required to take it easy for a few days," Eddie says. "You promised me." 

You slump back in the chair. "Fine. Ro, come and sit in my lap, at least? This hospital is a maze, I need company while they find our way out." 

Roan loves that idea. She sits on your knees, back to your chest, your hands around her waist like a seatbelt. 

"Can I push her the rest of the way? I'm sure you're busy," Eddie says to the nurse. He says it so nicely, so politely, that despite his tattoos and his long hair, she doesn't put him in the 'hooligan' box as people tend to do. She hands you over.  

Eddie waits for her to round the corner before ducking down, your backpack in the crook of his elbow, hands tightening around the wheelchair handles. 

"Girls. You better hold on tight. I'm sick of this place and we're leaving right now." 

"Don't you dare." 

"All arms in the ride?" he asks, charging up his push. He takes a preparatory step back. "On three. One, two–" 

"Three!" Roan shouts. 

Eddie races you down the hallway, your nervous laughter so loud it bounces off of every wall on the way out.

[fangirl-writes]

Pop the Question

John B. Routledge x Fem!Reader; Topper Thornton x Ex!Reader

Also featured: Kiesarah and Cleopope

Warning(s): Swearing, underage drinking, jealous Topper

Request: Hey, can I please have a request John B x Reader, where your on the docks with the pogues, just sitting by the water. You and John B are flirting, while Kiara, Pope and JJ are teasing you guys. Then Your ex Topper comes along being an asshole because he’s jealous.. on his boat. He asked you why your with John B and not with him.. because he hasn’t accepted the fact that you don’t like him anymore. Then John B blurts out your something more than just dating.. you said your husband and wife. Toppers reaction is too good not to laugh at! Thank you so much, love your writing because it’s amazing 🥰

Notes: This is waaaaay overdue. I'm so sorry. I had the hardest time writing it for some reason.

Anyway, I went back and forth between wanting this to take place before the seasons began or after and ended up going with after because it made more sense in my head.

It had been exactly one year since the pogues returned to the Outer Banks after getting the gold.

Alongside being hired by various high-status people to be essentially treasure hunters, they were getting used to living the good life.

John B. had a house built on the ruins of the old chateau, which JJ, Sarah, and you immediately moved into. Pope took his share into a college fund and Kiara donated to conservation efforts, with plenty leftover because come on it was actual gold. 

Historic actual gold.

Of course, Rafe Cameron was still a pain in the ass and Topper was more of dick every time they saw him.

But none of that mattered today.

Because today they were boating and drinking some cold ones in celebration of a year on.

A year since John B. and Sarah said goodbye to their fathers.

For the second time. For the last time.

John B. was laying on the dock, feet dangling above the water, waiting for Pope and JJ to get back from filling up the HMS with gas. Kiara and Sarah were cuddled up behind him, Kie whispering sweet nothings into Sarah’s ear.

It was a bittersweet day. Such that if the weather were to match his emotions, it would be raining.

But the sky was blue, the water was clear, it was a perfect day.

The sound of footsteps coming down the dock drew John B. from his thoughts and he sat up to see you coming towards him.

You were holding a cooler, swinging it alongside you as you walked, flip-flops smacking all the while.

The sight brought him back to the beach, where you were walking towards him all dressed in white, barefoot on the sand.

A bright smile came across your lips when you met his eyes and he couldn’t help but smile back.

And suddenly his gray skies became sunny.

It had been a long road for the two of you, but your relationship was finally on a steady path.

After all the drama with his dad, the gold, his brief fling with Sarah, and all that time stuck on a deserted island, sometimes he couldn't believe he still had you.

“Hey, beautiful,” John B. greeted, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and kissing your temple.

“Hey,” you replied, a small blush dusting your cheeks. “Hey guys.”

“Hey,” the girls replied, Sarah still lying in Kiara’s lap.

"Here, let me get that for you," John B. said, taking the cooler from your grip.

"Thanks, handsome."

"No problem, babe."

"Uh-oh, are JB and Y/N smothering us with their flirting again?" JJ said as Pope drove the HMS up to the dock.

"No, thankfully, you interrupted before they could get started," Kiara said, standing up with Sarah.

"Come on, you act like you weren't just showering Sarah with compliments," John B. retorted.

"At least I have the decency to keep it between us."

"You're all just jealous of how perfect our relationship is."

"Whatever you have to tell yourself," Kiara said, allowing JJ to help her step into the boat before doing the same with Sarah.

"You two really are insufferable sometimes," Pope piped up.

"Oh, you really wanna start this, Pope? Cause I can bring up exactly what I saw you and Cleo doing yesterday," John B. replied.

Pope blushed and JJ wolf-whistled.

"Okay, let's not bring Pope's exploits into this," You said, patting him on the shoulder. "We've got a celebration to be having."

"Now there's some sense," JJ said, grabbing for the cooler in John B.'s hand. "Let's get this party started."

But, as usual, something had to spoil the fun before it even began.

The noise of Topper's boat engine caught everyone's attention as he stalked over, the usual pissed-off look resting on his face as he glowered at you all.

You could feel John B. tense next to you and you grabbed his hand.

No, you wouldn’t let this lead to a fight. Not again, not today.

“Hi, Topper,” You said, painting on a smile.

“I see you big fish pogues still like to hang out around the bottom of the pond,” he said. “Good to see nothing’s changed.”

“Topper, go home,” Sarah spoke up, completely over his holier-than-thou attitude.

“Sorry, Sarah, but I’m actually not here for you. I want to talk to Y/N.”

You frowned.

“You ready to tell me why you’re with Routledge here and not me? Because if it’s the money you’re after, I’ll say I have plenty of it.”

You rolled your eyes. “You ready to accept that I’m over you and that your money is actually your parents’?”

You and Topper dated for a while after John B. and Sarah went missing. At the time, you both needed a shoulder to cry on and, unfortunately, found each other.

JJ, Pope, and Kiara still haven’t forgiven you for abandoning them for Topper during that time. But it didn’t stop them from telling you when your friends turned up alive, and you'd all moved passed it by now.

Except, it seemed, for Topper. “You didn’t answer me.”

“I shouldn’t have to," You snapped. "Topper, you and I have been over for so long. Please let this go.”

“No, Y/N, I won’t let this go because you-”

“Topper, man, seriously, we’re just trying to have a nice day. Can we not do this?” John B. asked, trying with every bone in his body to stay calm.

"I wasn't talking to you, Routledge, butt out."

"Anything that involves Y/N involves me too."

"Oh yeah? You're that kind of boyfriend? Surprised she lets you control her that much."

"Fuck off, Topper, he doesn't control me!" You shouted.

"You know, just because you're his girlfriend doesn't mean you have to follow his orders."

You were fuming. Your mouth opened to say something else, but John B. beat you to it.

“She’s not actually my girlfriend,” he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Topper seemed caught off guard by this response. “Wh-what? She’s not?”

You smiled, reaching into your bag.

“No, didn’t you hear?”

The group around you began to snicker and grin.

Topper’s face flushed, embarrassed and no doubt feeling like he was missing something.

“Yeah, I’m not his girlfriend,” you said before holding up your left hand where a glittering ring now sat on your finger. “I’m his wife.”

You wished you'd have been thinking enough to get a picture of his reaction.

He looked like a fish the way his mouth opened and closed with nothing coming out of it.

John B. put an arm around your shoulders, his own wedding ring now on and sparkling in the sun. "Husband and wife, that's us. Had a nice little wedding on the beach and everything."

If looks could kill, your husband would be dead where he stood.

"Whatever. I'm done with all of you pogues. Have a nice life."

Topper put his boat in gear and started driving away while the rest of you waved sarcastically.

"Au Revoir!"

"Hasta Lavista!"

"Bon Voy-agee!"

"Hey!" Cleo came running down the dock. "Sorry 'm late! Got caught up at da market...did I miss somethin'?"

The group of you laughed.

"Nah," you said. "Nothing important."

"If you say so," Cleo replied with a shrug, taking Pope's hand as she jumped into the boat.

You nuzzled further into John B., playing with his wedding band. "That felt good."

"Good? That was fantastic? Did you see his face?" JJ said. "I want it framed."

The others animatedly dove into the story of what just happened to catch Cleo up while John B. settled for pressing light kisses to your neck.

"Feeling a little possessive there, Mr. Routledge?" You asked with a grin.

He hummed. "What do I need to be possessive for, Mrs. Routledge? I don't think I need to worry about him anymore."

[smallnico]

can you tell esper is uhhhhh. ill?

got tagged by @beecreeper for the character insp meme! (check out his here!!) this was a lot of fun, there are a couple of honourable mentions i'll get into under the cut, along with some elaborations for the curious.

list of names, L > R 1: harrowhark nonagesimus -- the locked tomb saga 2: isaac -- castlevania (netflix series) 3: cole -- dragon age: inquisition 4: blackbeard -- our flag means death 5: (bingo free space) 6: seven of nine -- star trek: voyager 7: katya zamolodchikova -- real life / unnnhhhh 8: paul muad-dib atreides -- dune 9: maomao -- the apothecary diaries

1: harrowhark nonagesimus -- the locked tomb saga

if you've read the locked tomb, this one's pretty self-explanatory. but i took a lot of inspiration from harrow's grief-sodden religious zealotry for esper's pre-tadpole self, and i think about harrow the ninth every time i write from esper's perspective during the events of the game. it's the amnesiac goblin madness for me. esper would also absolutely put their bone marrow into a soup to kill someone if that was something they could do. they're extra like that

2: isaac -- castlevania (netflix series)

i just fucking love isaac, man. he's such a fascinating character, taken from a place of pain and degradation into the service of a mad god-figure hellbent on destroying humanity, then banished and forced to just. figure out for himself what he wants to do with his life. and it turns out that what he wants to do is relate to the hellbeasts he raises to use as soldiers, and let them try to eat strawberries and live in houses for a change, take a chance at living as something other than vessels of violence. i love him. that's really all esper wants, too -- to find a peaceful existence after a lifetime of pain and brutality and monsterhood.

3: cole -- dragon age: inquisition

cole is such a vibe. he lives in the attic staring unsettlingly at people and reading their minds and exhuming their pain so he can help them with it, including with his knives. he has that unearthly creepy vibe that esper projects, as well as their tendency to poke around in people's private emotions and their slight uncanny distance from human morality and ethics. making cole more human also ends up around the same for esper -- cole is never quite all the way there, but happy to be truly Among the people whose souls he reads and finally able to experience those things for himself.

4: blackbeard -- our flag means death

apart from the leather and queerness and propensity for violence, blackbeard was also a big influence for esper's journey from "yeah, this violence thing is fun for me, besides it's not like i can Leave this life, i'm stuck here so i might as well enjoy it" to "actually even though it's fun it's also exhausting and all i really want is peace. maybe even a monster like me can love and find a community that loves me."

6: seven of nine -- star trek: voyager

god, where to start? "i was a child who was raised to be perfect, my humanity and individuality were completely overridden and my very body was used as an object for unimaginable violence, and now even though i don't know how to be a Person anymore, i'm cut off from everything i've ever known and i don't know what to do." and now, like seven, esper is just trying their best to build a personality out of the leftover scraps they have with the help of their crew of misfits and weirdos. also, perpetrator trauma -- like seven, esper doesn't feel Guilty about their past actions, but it does haunt them, and they don't really know what to do with it. also, i didn't mean for the two images of esper and seven here to make them look exactly the same, but hey.

7: katya zamolodchikova -- real life / unnnhhhh

this one's more of a bit. i watch unnnhhhh with my wife a lot, and every now and again katya will just say something that makes us both go "that's esper-coded". she has that slightly imperfect balance of genuine darkness and unhinged silliness that esper also teeter-totters between, which results in a specific kind of charisma that you kind of have to see to understand.

8: paul muad-dib atreides -- dune

esper's pre-durge and pre-tadpole backstory draws a fair bit of inspiration from paul's narrative arc lmao. he starts out life as a male heir to a bloodline of female psychic specialists, trains with them, and ends up sacrificing his humanity to fulfil a violent divine path pre-ordained for him. real evil messiah hours. esper has way fewer qualms about killing from the start, and the match isn't perfect, but this is an inspiration, not a stencil.

9: maomao -- the apothecary diaries

another weird one, but probably the most purposeful inspiration on the board here. when i was first playing as esper and trying to sort out their personality, i was also watching apothecary diaries, and maomao's feline predilections and sense of mischief and flawless composure and cunning without ambition had me completely enraptured, so i thought, what the hell. she also shares some backstory elements with esper as the [spoilers] bastard daughter of a disgraced but extremely talented courtesan and a creepy war tactician. like esper, maomao just wants to keep her head down and make enough money to fund her special interests. they also both drink poison for fun (at least, esper does pre-tadpole). i think the main thing they diverge on is that esper thinks poison is for basic bitches.

honourable mentions

jimmy "pickles" hoffa -- jimmyhoffathecat

just look at him. that's an esper. photo credit here

tilly -- my parents' house

pretty self-explanatory for any cat owners out there. esper acts like a cat in general, but they specifically act like this cat. she's so influential and talented and perfect.

towa "murase" -- slow damage

this one is an honourable mention instead of being on the board because i didn't meet towa slowdamage until like 3 weeks ago (well after esper was already realized), but the two of them have so many specific things in common it's actually ridiculous. convergent evolution at its finest.

fenris -- dragon age 2

esper and fenris have very little in common story- or personality-wise, but i can't deny that he was a huge visual influence, especially for pre-tadpole esper. i mean, come on. look at him.

yelena belova -- black widow, hawkeye

i'm not much of an mcu person, but the concept of the black widows in general did influence a lot of esper's pre-durge backstory, and i like yelena. she's like a more charismatic and more down-for-murder natasha. she's not a specific inspiration for esper as a character, but they do have a rhyming vibe.

selcis aureus, umbras heltor -- exodusbound

hello, it's fantrolls! i disqualified selcis and umbras from the inspboard because they're literally other ocs i had a hand in creating, and a lot of the things they have in common with esper aren't public, but they both did (and exodusbound did in general) have a lot of influence on esper as a character. i can't help that i like themes of alienation and life persevering in spite of it all in my characters. art shown here by my wife barbelzoa!

espurr -- pokemon

literally a pokemon, not a character. special place in my heart though because i literally named esper after this thang when i first made them in the character creator. they just had the same dead eyed stare and psychic magic, so i went, yeah, that'll do.

thank you so much for reading this much if you did!!!!!

[circledemptiness]

Can't Get You Out Of My Head – Chapter 2

Fandom: Batman (Arkham Knight) Pairing: Edward Nigma (The Riddler) x Reader Rating: Explicit +18 Tags: Angst, Romance

Your mind spirals into painful memories of your last encounter with Edward, unearthing emotions you thought were buried for good. But when an unexpected turn of events disturbs the dreadful routine in Arkham, you might just see an opportunity to exorcise your demons.

✦ Chapter index ✦ Read on AO3

Hey Eddie, you’ve been inside my mind.

Dinner time at Arkham Asylum mirrors every other meal: chaotic, messy, sad, terrifying –or, on rare occasions, oddly calm. Tonight happens to be one of those calmer evenings, which you’re grateful for; it helps make up for the meal itself –not bad, not great. Tonight, it’s mashed potatoes, boiled vegetables, something resembling meat, and even some applesauce. Dennis coos happily as he swallows his plate, blabbering about his day and how the weather was nice enough for a walk in the courtyard. You promise you’ll go for a walk with him tomorrow, and the fucker smiles with the brighteness of a thousand suns.

While Dennis rambles on, you exchange a glance with the woman across from you. Her eyes are as hollow as yours, her hair a tangled mess that could pass for a bird's nest. You’re not even sure what her name is (Carol? Carmen? Catherine?) –nobody ever uses it. She absentmindedly drags her spoon through the mashed potatoes, tracing aimless shapes without ever taking a bite. As you swallow a spoonful of applesauce, you nod in her direction, gesturing toward her untouched plate with a tilt of your chin –a small, polite gesture to ask what’s up with her. You don’t actually care, not really, but you also don’t want to be anywhere near her if she has another one of her glorious meltdowns, hurling her tray and screaming bloody murder.

“Therapy day” she mutters under her breath with a disdainful sniff, and you nod again, a quiet understanding passing between you.

What is your relationship with Edward Nigma?

You’ve grown to passionately loathe therapy in Arkham. It never feels genuine –more like the doctors would rather dig into old wounds than truly help. After all, you're not one of Gotham’s most wanted criminals; you doubt your profile truly interests them. Thus, at best, therapy only touches scars you’d rather leave alone; at worst, it just adds more fuel to the fire of your criminal case. Maybe you're just exhausted from telling the same story over and over, recounting the absurd chain of bad luck and even worse decisions that landed you here. You’re not particularly fond of constantly hearing your own words, rehashing the tale of your failures.

Were you in love with Edward Nigma?

Your spoon scrapes against the plate as you finish eating, the sound cutting through the fog of your thoughts. Your expression hardens, brow furrowing as you stare at your empty tray, almost as if the leftover gravy could reveal the answer to a mysterious question you haven’t even formed yet. Or perhaps it’s taunting you, a remark left unsaid in the grease. Bird nest lady nods, and you shrug in response. You just want to go to fucking bed, you tell her.

“One of these days, uh?” she asks with a knowing grimace. Yeah, one of these days. 

There’s a special connection among the inmates of Arkham, well, among those who haven't completely lost their minds or forgotten their own names –the ones who still hold onto the hope of leaving this wretched place someday. You all understand how these walls suck the life out of you; you all feel like forgotten pieces of a puzzle no one cares to play with anymore, as if Gotham has draped a rug over you, pretending they never failed you in the first place. You’re almost resigned to the idea of rotting away; at times, you truly feel like there is no fight left within you, only bitterness and anger. It’s a particular sentiment that you also see in Carol’s eyes (fuck, is it Carol?), with her disheveled hair and darkened eyes that seem to scream “burn the world, burn it all down”.

Somehow, finding a semblance of companionship here, built on a foundation of mutual acknowledgment and understanding, soothes your nerves. You don’t need to explain yourself or feel any shame, no matter how broken you are. It makes counting the days, weeks, months, years easier. Helps keep your mind from drifting too far into thoughts about your life, the reasons that brought you here, about him.

Hey Eddie, I still can’t get you out of my head.

At some point, you could sense that something was breaking, cracking, within Edward when he started developing feelings for you –or at least, the nearest thing to what he might perceive as feelings. You can’t pinpoint the exact moment his façade started to truly crumble or what kind of anguish twisted in his gut, nor can you fully grasp the passion that stirred in his heart. All you know is that he resented it deeply, absolutely loathed being the victim of his own heart. For someone like him, emotions were probably a sign of weakness, a crack in the armor that he meticulously polished. Losing control over any given situation was something unbearable, perfectly unacceptable; the Riddler had to maintain total dominance at all times.

You wonder if he ever realized that this need for control is what ultimately kept him trapped in a cycle of loneliness, unable to embrace the very thing he craved the most; connection, intimacy, tenderness…

The most peculiar thing is that you’ve actually seen through the cracks of his vulnerability and caught a glimpse of an almost lovable man, deeply hidden beneath layers of bravado and utter arrogance; perhaps because you were yourself a creature of deep empathy, for better or worse. Or maybe it was because you weren’t as stable as you once believed –perhaps they were right to lock you in here after all. Though, as the days stretched into weeks, when you finally stopped showering him with undeserved love and care, the way he looked at you began to shift. Looking through his eyes, you sincerely couldn’t tell whether he absolutely loathed your guts or wanted to fuck and defile you with an almost primal urgency on the nearest surface.

You probably mirrored his gaze, though yours held more nuances –an unspoken asterisk that suggested a deeper layer beneath the surface. It doesn’t have to be this way, you wanted to tell him. Just let me in. What was he so afraid of?

Until the very end, you held the naive hope that there might be a happy ending to your internal struggles. The sheer tension between you two was palpable, a volatile mixture of warmth flickering in his eyes and biting insults thrown your way whenever you made a mistake. It only seemed to escalate, growing more intense with each encounter, until it only felt inevitable that something would eventually break and explode. 

You often imagined that it would end with you bent over a desk, surrendering to him completely as he passionately rearranged your insides, and, somehow, you would have genuinely accepted it.

If it meant he would finally be honest with himself, you would have accepted anything. Then, you could reveal the layers of hurt and confusion that plagued him. You could have worked from here, together. You could have taught him love –how to embrace vulnerability instead of shying away from it. You could have healed the wounds he had carried for so long, could have given him the tenderness and adoration that his life always lacked. You wanted to be the one to help him piece himself back together.

God, you’re so fucking stupid.

It’s always the worst when bedtime arrives and the lights go out. Sometimes, in the oppressive silence, you can hear one of the other inmates screaming or sobbing in the distance, haunted by their own nightmares, traumas, and fears. On your first night here, you were one of them –crying like a baby into your pathetic excuse for a pillow. Everything was so new to you, and everything hurt. But now, when the room is somewhat quiet and enveloped in darkness, you find yourself alone with your thoughts, and that’s the worst part.

You try the stupid breathing exercises the psychiatrist taught you, filling your mind with happy thoughts; do you even have any left? They quickly dissolve into a gray miasma, a swirling fog of anxiety and despair that seems to leak directly from your brain. Each breath feels heavier, and you wonder if there will ever be a time when the darkness outside doesn’t mirror the turmoil inside. In this stillness, you fight and struggle against the weight of your memories, the shadows creeping in, reminding you that peace feels painfully out of reach.

Eddie?

It was a night like any other, cold and damp, as you helped him with different tasks in the sewers beneath Gotham. The air down there was heavy and thick, carrying the familiar, pungent stench of decay and rot, but you’d grown so used to it that you barely noticed it, and even welcomed it, somehow. It’s a scent that sometimes reminded you of him. It was familiar now, it was comforting.

The narrow corridor where you stood stretched into an abyss of darkness, lit only by the occasional flicker of a dusty old lamp casting long, eerie shadows on the glistening, grimy walls. You could hear the distant rush of water trickling through the old tunnels, mixing with the faint hum of the busy city above you.

Tonight, you and Edward were installing an elaborate system of neon green lights, a perfect match for his obsession with branding everything he touched. His signature shade of green now bled into this hidden labyrinth, a domain he just claimed as his own. The neon tubes, connected by bundles of wires, snaked through the holes in the walls and arched over metal lines, glowing like toxic veins in this industrial tomb. 

You had grown accustomed to it by now –the way he had to leave his mark on every piece of the city, even its forgotten underbelly. Had you been more cocky, you would have said he reminded you of a petulant cat marking his territory. 

The task was tedious, involving the precise placement of electronic components he had designed himself. You handled some of the physical work while he stood at a makeshift control station nearby, calibrating circuits, his fingers working deftly over tangled wires. His voice echoed in the tunnel, giving you instructions in his usual clipped tone, though you’d long since stopped needing them. This was definitely not the first time you'd worked together, your movements in sync like clockwork, just another cog in the machine of his larger plan. He knew this as well, yet he kept reminding you of the different steps, as to ensure he was still in control –or to convince himself you still needed him. It bothered him, how compatible you were when working together, you could see it. Churned something deep in his stomach that he didn’t like, something too domestic for his own taste.

Along one of the walls of the tunnel, there was a massive iron door –a recent addition Edward had personally designed and secured. It stood imposing, thick and unyielding, its surface etched with equations and symbols only he could solve or know the meaning of. You knew it was his safe exit, his escape route, the only way in or out of this place without being detected. It opened up to the depths of Gotham’s underworld, where he could slip in and out with ease, hidden from the prying eyes of the Bat or anyone else who dared to interfere with his schemes. This was also the exit you would use to navigate through the sewers safely.

You finished fastening another neon light into place, wiping your brow with the back of your hand as a bead of sweat mixed with the dirt and grime on your skin. The green glow intensified, casting an almost otherworldly light over the area, turning the sewer into something between a hideout and a sanctuary; something sacred that only reflected his greatness (and oh would you have knelt for him). For a moment, you looked up, watching as he bent over the control panel, the green light reflecting off his goggles glasses, painting his face with a toxic, ethereal hue. 

When he caught you looking, you exchanged a look, filled with something almost tender. You said nothing. There was no need to. This was routine by now –a normal night in the bowels of Gotham, serving the Riddler’s grand design, where every inch of this space had his mark, and every flicker of neon green was a testament to his obsession. And yet something felt different, this time. He seemed calmer, not as angry as usual. So you took it as an opportunity –silly you. Exchanged looks during the night, a passing word that almost sounded friendly. He laughed, once; one of these chanting laughs that always made your heart skip a beat.

There was a comfortable silence between you as you finished the final touches, looking at the glowing cave before gazing at his form. He smiled at you, a shy line on his face that had a taste of truce.

And then, you heard them.

Sirens, several of them, shrieking through the night above, getting closer with each passing second. Panic hit you like a jolt of electricity as you whipped your head toward the end of the tunnel. Your heart raced, and you could already see the telltale flash of red and blue lights bleeding into the sewer's entrance. Dread surged through your veins, your body trembling with fear, but it was Edward who made your stomach drop.

He stood frozen, as if he had stopped breathing altogether, eyes wide and fixed on the distant lights. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You had covered your tracks so carefully, ensured no one would ever know what was happening beneath Gotham’s streets. Yet, here they were. You could almost see the gears in Edward's mind grinding to a halt, his normally sharp, calculating expression crumbling under the weight of his horror. So close to his goal, to launching his grand plan of revenge, and now… this.

But he’s the Riddler, Gotham’s one true genius, and he won’t allow anyone to stop him, stop his revenge, not when he’s come this far. You watch as he snaps out of his stupor, squaring his shoulders, his chest rising with a deep breath. And how handsome does he look when he’s pumped full of confidence, you thought to yourself. You know in your heart that you could have followed him anywhere, all he had to do was to guide and lead you.

In one swift, commanding motion, he points toward the control panel on the other side of the platform and gives his orders, his voice sharp, decisive. He’s already regained control; or at least the illusion of it. The gates at the entrance must be closed immediately. It won’t stop the police forever; they’re flimsy at best, more cosmetic than functional, but they might buy you both enough time to escape, you figured.

Without hesitation, you obey. Anxiety vanishes, replaced by the only purpose of following his lead. You act faithfully, loyally, your heart holding no fear. Even though police officers are already yelling in their megaphones at the entrance of the sewers. Even when they order you to freeze and surrender. Your hands move with practiced precision, flipping switches, pressing buttons; closing the gates just as the distant noise of megaphones echo through the tunnel. 

They’re still too far to reach you, but you know it’s only a matter of time before they stop you. The gates clang shut with a metallic echo, sealing off the entrance, though you know it’s only a temporary reprieve. The barrier will hold them back for a short moment, but it might just be enough for you to leave the place.

You both know this is just a weak, last-minute effort to erase any trace of your presence. There’s no real stopping them. But the time you’ve bought may be enough to slip away, to sever ties with this portion of the sewers, and to vanish before the police can arrest you. And so you work, side by side with him, as the distant shouting grows louder, your escape narrowing with each fleeting second. 

Glancing back, you catch sight of Edward standing by the heavy iron door –the only true escape. It groans under the weight as he turns the large, rusted wheel, his grip firm and strong. It’s a door built to withstand anything, a final layer of security. You offer him a small smile, a reassurance, as you hastily gather your last few items from the grimy floor, preparing to join him.

But then, something freezes you in place.

You look up again, and his expression hits you like a punch to the gut. Anguish. Sadness. Guilt. It’s written all over his face, emotions you never expected to see from him. Your heart sinks, your shoulders slump, and you don’t even need to ask, you already know.

The realization crashes over you like a wave –he’s not planning to let you out.

Edward’s fingers tighten around the wheel, his lips pressed in a thin line as he averts your gaze and seals the door behind him, locking it shut with a heavy metallic thud that echoes through the tunnel. He knows the police will break through the flimsy gates with ease. Knows that the only thing that truly can buy him enough time... is you. A cruel, desperate choice. He knows that, for the police, having you is better than leaving with nothing at all.

You don’t fight. You can’t. Instead, you sink slowly to the cold, damp ground, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. Your mind goes quiet, numbed by the shock and betrayal. You don’t even hear the pounding at the gates, the crash as they finally break them open, the vicious shouts and commands.

In fact, you hear nothing at all.

Eddie?

The next morning, your body feels like it's made of bricks –heavy, stiff, weighed down by an invisible force. Your eyes are puffy, sore. You probably cried in your sleep again. Fucking nightmares. You sigh deeply, a weak trembling sound that bubbles in your throat akin to a whimper. The air is getting colder now, you realize. It’s already October, even though times and dates don’t seem to mean much to you anymore.

Breakfast is the same dreary routine: the same tasteless food, the same sense of emptiness, surrounded by the same shattered souls. You don’t touch your tray, you can’t; your stomach is tied in a knot, pulling so viciously you swear your innards could spill if you swallowed anything. “Don’t throw up in front of me” Carol threatens, but you know it’s her own way to tell you she cares, at least enough to see when you’re not alright. You scoff in false irritation and she smiles triumphantly; you wish it would be enough to soothe your soul, these small yet so particularly humane interactions.  

Despite the heaviness of your morning, something seems different today. You sense it in the air, the nervous energy buzzing around the inmates, their excitement palpable. They’re pacing, gathering in front of the hobby room’s small, dusty television, crowding it like it’s some kind of altar. Some of them whisper with each other, some of them even snicker, and all it does to you is pique your curiosity. Joining the mass, you frown, raising a curious brow, wondering what the hell is going on.

Squinting your eyes, you spot Dennis near the front of the group, staring at the screen with an almost religious intensity, his hands clasped tightly together, his face contorted into an unreadable expression. It’s hard to see the screen with so many bodies blocking your view, the low hum of whispers filling the room like a sinister background noise. It’s as if they’re all sharing some dark, unspoken secret. You push through the sea of inmates, and when you finally reach him, you tug at Dennis’ arm, snapping him out of his trance.

“What’s going on?” you murmur, leaning in as his hot breath brushes against your ear. His voice is soft, but something about it sends a chill down your spine.

“They’re coming.”

Fucking Dennis. His mind’s too far gone to make sense of anything, but there’s a weight to his words that unsettles you. You shake it off as you groan, squinting harder, stepping through the crowd until the sight on the screen makes your heart stop, then race again –pounding with adrenaline and something darker, something you can’t quite name.

There they are. Gotham’s most infamous criminals, caught last night by the Bat. Crane. Dent. Valentin. Cobblepot. Tetch. So many others, glaring at the camera when they’re not looking elsewhere, avoiding any contact, pretending nothing around them exists. And then, there’s him. Your breath stops, the blood pumping in your veins the only sound you can hear. His mugshot flashes on the screen –his face bruised and bloodied, his arrogant sneer wiped clean, replaced by a weary, furious stare. You feel a vicious satisfaction curl in your chest. Yeah, he ate shit alright. And for some reason, that makes you so fucking ecstatic. 

The asshole refused to call an attorney, as expected of him you suppose, deciding to defend himself instead. It’s almost laughable, how predictable he is. Still, you huff quietly, a bitter grin spreading across your face as the news roll, spurting informations that don’t reach you. Then, the reality of the situation truly sinks in. They’re all being sent to Arkham Asylum, pending trial.

You’re going to see him again.

The grin freezes on your face, a strange knot tightening in your gut. You’re not entirely sure how you feel about that; as if your body emptied itself of all emotions in a second, the shock too great to process. So, you do nothing. Instead, you turn, walking out of the hobby room, your mind a chaotic mess. Dennis follows you, blabbering about something frantic and unclear, something you don’t care to hear right now. Then, suddenly, his hand clasps around your wrist. You stop, turning sharply, glaring at him with an intensity that could cut through stone. His face remains blank, undeterred by your silent fury, but his brow is furrowed with something akin to concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer than you expected.

Fucking Dennis. You force a smile, and that’s all he needs. He releases your wrist and skips off, humming a tune you don’t recognize, while you stand there, frozen in place.

Hey, Eddie. I can't get you out of my head.

Previous chapter ✦ Next Chapter

[prettygirl-gabi]

Broken home

Rating: General Audiences

Warning: angst, argument, slice of life, happy ending

Category:F/M

Fandom: ATEEZ (boyband)

Relationships: !Idol-husbnd Jongho x !f non-idol reader

Summary: Love can often be seen to have been painted with vibrant hues of passion and romance, but seldom do we explore the complex emotions that arise when two individuals are torn apart by circumstances beyond their control

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Yours and Jongho's relationship had always been a whirlwind of emotions. The love was intense yet tender; it burned brightly like a flame that refused to be extinguished. However, as Jongho's career as an idol skyrocketed even more over the years, you both found yourselves caught in a tempestuous storm.

One fateful evening after a particularly grueling day at work for you all because of your boss. Wanting to spend time with Jongho, only for him to get ready to leave and head back to the studio; an argument erupted between you and him.

You had just finished cooking dinner after getting off at 2 instead of 4 that evening. "Jongho! It feels like you're slipping away from me! We hardly spend any time together anymore."

Jongho raised his voice a bit as he walks into the kitchen to get his car keys and other things for a long studio night. "I know it's tough right now, but this is my dream, its my fucking job! I can't just abandon everything I've worked so hard for, just for some stupid night in." He shakes his head as he tries to ignore the argument that has started.

The words hung heavy in the air as they stared at him with tear-filled eyes. "Fuck you! Jongho just fuck you!" You screamed as you stormed out the kitchen tonyour shared bedroom with him hot on your tail.

"Why, why must you be so damn needy and stubborn!" He yelled at you but continued his rant. "The boys and I are getting ready for tour, comeback and solo things!"

"I'm not asking for every single day to spend with you but, just once every week, I barely see you now!" You scream at him, rubbing your make up off before you change out of your fancy clothes.

Jongho threw his head back While he watched your every movement. “Why can’t you be happy for me for once?” You put your hand in front of his face, before he continued “Why are you doing this....Stop being selfish.”

You felt like you has been punched in the face. "Really me selfish like I don't get off work every other day to cook, clean or do something that was meant for you! But becauseI know how demanding your job is; and don't want more things on your plate like the good wife I am!" You yell as you start poking him in the chest as you continue to try to make your point.

"Just go! Go to fucking work and when you get back who knows if I'll still be huere!" You yell at him pushing him out of the room and out the door.

As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, the marriage began to crumble under the weight of distance. The constant touring schedule left little room for personal connections or quality time together; especially after that argument.

After you both sat down the week before he left you both found a compromise. "I miss you so much... Jonggie" you sigh as you get off the elevator and head to your car after a late shift at work.

Jongho could hear it in your voice as he was just waking up from the morning sun hitting him. "I miss you too... But what can we do? This is the life I chose. We talked about this, baby."

The pain in each other's voices was palpable. The both of you yearned for each other's touch, but reality had dealt a cruel hand.

However, amidst the anguish, you and Jongho, found solace in the shared memories, you made before he became too busy.

"Remember that night we spent under the stars? It was just you and me, no distractions... I wish we could go back to that." You say as you walk through the front door of your shared home to tired to anything besides warm up leftovers and a glass of wine.

Jongho sucked in air and let out a chuckle or two. "I remember it like it was yesterday. We'll find our way back to each other, Y/n. I promise."

The hearts ached with longing, but hope flickered within the both of you like a beacon of light in the darkest of nights.

As time passed by, Jongho's career eventually reached a turning point where he could prioritize his personal life without compromising his dreams. You both reunited stronger than ever before with the bond you forged through trials and tribulations.

Jongho kissed the top or you head as you checked the nursery one final to to make sure your new bundle of joy was still asleep. "Y/n, I'm sorry for all the pain I caused you during those difficult times. Im glad to have been able make up for lost time."

You giggle quietly as you gently closed her door "I forgive you because our love has always been worth fighting for. Let's keep creating new memories together."

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Thanks for reading! 🩵🩶

-Mrs. Cody-Song

[froppygurl]

What if they truly survived? Chapter 2: Interrogation

One radiant light beams against Drake’s face, bringing him back to consciousness. Drake opened his eyes, feeling soreness all over his body from the burns. He observes the entire room with shaky eyesight. His left eye is doing most of the work to seeing the surroundings. Yes, his right eye ended up damaged from the burns.

He tries to move himself forward, but he realizes that he’a restrained against a chair. He groaned with a voice that is slightly more hoarse than expected. Is this seriously a joke? He thought. Two guards came to the room after noticing Drake has awakened. The guards had smirked expressions which could indicate a red flag.

“Dr. Drake, huh? Didn’t expect a scientist with a “pristine” reputation to be all bruised up now,” One of the guards responds in a taunting manner. Drake didn’t say a single word besides a single eye roll. Both guards laughed as they how far they could get to making this scientist crumble.

“What were you using that rocket for?” The other guard questioned, filled with dangerous aura. The guard moved closer. He leaned against Drake’s ear with a smirk so sly it’s like the grinch came to life. “Is it for you to get away from this world and destroy it?-“ In a split second, Drake used one of his legs to kick the guard against the hip and does a side head-butt. The anger is pouring in from head to toe. The guard fell down against the floor from two brutal blows and turned towards Drake, filled with rage. “You motherfucker….You think you’re gonna get away with that shit!?-“

“Enough!” A voice echoed from the hallway to the room. A woman walked into the room. Long, silky black hair, fair skin, and cafe eyes. Her eyes gazed upon Drake, her eyes squinting with suspicion. “Didn’t expect you to have the urge to fight one of my guards while being tied up.” It was Olivia Skirth, Dora’s sister (author note: oh yeah she’s an original character for this writing exert).

“…What are you getting from this, Olivia?” Drake finally spoke. He’d recognized Dora’s sister right off the bat. He knew that she’s Dora’s lawyer as well. He remembered being sued by Dora in the past, but it failed due to lack of evidence. He knew that Olivia decided to do dirty work to get revenge from Dora’s demise. “Sounds hypocritical for you to go against me while thinking kidnapping me is a good idea-“

“-Don’t you try to test me, Drake. You know what you did. You’re responsible for my sister’s death!” Olivia’s more driven with intense emotions more than Drake. She’s filled with grief, but mostly anger. She wants to punish Drake so much, but she knew that the authorities wouldn’t bother to try harder on believing in the evidence against him. “The authorities won’t do anything about this, I know that. That’s why I’ve already arranged something for you to make you realize what you did.”

“You know, Dora wouldn’t like this either. None of us are any better than the other.” Drake tries to avoid talking too much about him being responsible for Dora’s death. He is aware that he isn’t morally righteous, but he knows how bullshit it is for Olivia to think that she isn’t a moral person either for how she responds to her sister’s death. Olivia sighed under her breath. She turned towards her guards.

“…Make sure you get him ready for the delivery. Make sure he’s delivered tomorrow morning.” Olivia then abruptly leaves the room, could not deal with Drake anymore. She receives a phone call from one of her sister’s kids. She answers the phone call willingly. “Heyy! Are you kiddos doing okay?”

“Hi auntie! Where is the food for dinner?” One of the kids asked. They seem very excited to hear their aunt.

“Oh! If you check the top row in the fridge, you can find leftovers from last night.”

“Okay, thanks auntie! Byee!”

“Bye!” The call ends. Olivia then continues to walk down the hallway, feeling the urge to just go home and have her guards deal with Drake. Meanwhile, Drake was confused when Olivia mentioned that he’ll be delivered. He turned towards the guards.

“Delivered? You guys think I’m some kind of “present” or something?” Drake is clearly frustrated. He’s tired of being in this captive state now. He’s already lost everything, he doesn’t want to be someone’s captive as well.

“How about you figure it out yourself, smartass.” The guard who replied was the one who got beaten by Drake. The other guard pulled out a needle, it contains a substance that would immediately knock someone out in a sleeping state.

“This will get you to shut those eyes.” The guard inserts the needle to Drake’s neck. Drake saw this coming, but he’s still thinking how much of a joke this whole stunt is. Once again, consciousness begins to drift away. Just like after escaping the escape pod, he’ll be unconscious until when it’s convenient for him to open his eyes again. Where could he be taken to now?

[iggydabirdkid]

Almost done! This is my 5th drawing for Pride Month! 

When The Passenger was still just the demo version I must have played it 100 times over. I just love the whole concept of the game, and anything with Eldritch Horror like themes is just my sort of thing.

So here’s a little something I did for my MC Amara Newman and her love Fiama Brandle.

 +++++

I think I could do this forever

You wake up first of course. You always do. You don’t need much sleep, at least that’s what you tell yourself even when you constantly yawn halfway through the day. You open your eyes to the pale ceiling above you only visible thanks to the moonlight coming in through the window opposite the bed. Still dark. Too early. You let out a sigh and slowly sit up, being careful not to wake the sleeping form to your right. She’s facing you and you smile as you look upon her face, so serene when she’s asleep and you quickly slip out without disturbing her. Bare feet hit cold ground and you shiver as you look around for your pair of slippers, finding them finally half-hidden under the bed. You stretch, yawn, and tie your hair half up before you pad from the room.

Your stomach growls at you and so you head into the kitchen to grab something to eat and you spy the clock along the way. Ah. Not too early then. Just up before the sun, which, is not uncommon. If you were at your mom’s you’d probably have gone back to sleep to save yourself from the potential outcome of being asked question you couldn’t, and didn’t want to answer. But here? At Fiama’s? You don’t have to hide anything from her or Bruno. Not anymore. You allow yourself a smile as you open the door to the fridge and bend over to take a gander at its contents. You know for certain that there’s some leftover spaghetti in here, and you’re sure Fiama won’t mind if some of it goes missing…

“Amara?”

The flash of the kitchen light turning on and the tiny voice behind you takes you by surprise and you jump, smacking your head on the fridge and hissing out a quiet curse before pulling back and turning around.

“Kiddo!” you laugh as you rub the back of your head, “Did I wake you?” You ask to which he shakes his head.

“I was already awake. What are you doing?” he asks.

“Getting some food,” you turn back around, grab the bowl of spaghetti, and shut the fridge, “Want some?” you grin as you shake the bowl. You see his eyes light up and you chuckle, “Alright, go sit down and I’ll make you a plate. But be quiet!” you tell him as he scampers off, “We don’t want to wake your mom!”

-----

You sit at the table with only the light from the kitchen to illuminate your night time feast. You watch Bruno stuff his face as you readily enjoy your own meal and the only reason you aren’t actively shoveling it into your mouth as fast as you can was that you promised Fiama you’d try to teach Bruno some manners. Be a respectable role model. Well, as much as you can be anyways. And as you watch Bruno enjoying his meal you think you could just about do this forever, be a part of something like this. It wasn’t something you ever thought you would want but emotions can be fickle (as you have come to find out), and now you can’t see yourself continuing this life any other way.

Bruno must be able to sense you staring because he looks up at you and you wonder if he would be happy with you around for him as he grows. The answer comes to you as transparent visages split left and right of him and as his mouth stretches into a wide, food-filled grin, those to the left of him grin at you also. You shake your head, the images fading and you chuckle.

“Nobody likes see-food,” you tell him and he frowns.

“Sea food?” he questions. You grin and spoon some spaghetti into your mouth before opening and sticking your tongue out.

“See? Food!” He laughs at that, food spraying from his mouth and you have to lean to the side to avoid getting any on yourself. You watch as he claps his hands over his mouth and looks up at you. You swallow your food and snort a laugh but then you realize he’s not looking at you, but past you. You freeze and tense up, your shoulders bunching up to your ears as you slowly turn in your seat to see Fiama standing in the doorway.

“You two enjoying yourselves?” she crosses her arms over her chest and quirks an eyebrow as she looks at Bruno before finally settling her eyes on you.

“We were hungry?” you shrug and give a sheepish smile and she shakes her head as she laughs softly and walks to Bruno’s side.

“C’mon kid, lets get you back to bed. And you,” she turns her head to look at you as Bruno hops down from his seat, “Make sure you get all the spaghetti from the table okay?”

“Yes Ma’am,” you grin as you push your chair back and get to your feet. You lean in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek and then you head back into the kitchen to grab a cloth.

+++++

“Sorry about eating all the spaghetti.” You murmur into Fiama’s hair as you lay together in bed a while later. The sun is up now, its light bathing the room in a soft golden glow. She laughs and snuggles up closer to you. You half sit up to wrap your arms around her and pull her close into your chest.

“That just means you’ll have to help me make more,” she replies and you smile as you lean back and look out the window.

“I’ll be happy to.” You give her a brief squeeze and feel her grab one of your wrists and gently wrap her fingers around your skin.

“I know you would baby.”

You both lapse in a comfortable silence and the warmth of the encroaching day threatens to lull you back to sleep. But a thought is stuck in your head, one that’s been there for a while but stirred more into awareness since you woke up this morning.

“Fiama?” You’re uncharacteristically hesitant and you know she hears it as she tilts her head to look up at you with a slight crease in her brow.

“Amara?”

“I was thinking…” You trail off a little, unsure of how exactly to word what you’re thinking, “I feel like I could do this forever. Being here with you and Bruno, being a part of this small family and I… I want to make it more official. As much as we can do and I know I’m not great with words or feelings but this here? Here and now? It feels good. It feels safe.”

You see her eyes water and for a moment your stomach drops and you think you’ve said something wrong before her mouth splits into a grin and her grip on your arms tightens.

“Amara Newman,” you hear the waver in her voice as she wipes the tears from her eyes, “I would love nothing more.”

“Good.”

You’re smiling now as well as you bend slightly to kiss her on the forehead before you wrap your arms tighter around her and lean back against the headboard.

“Good.”

[r1ver-6]

Steve sat in the corner and sighed, definitely not still nursing the wound of finding out Eddie had a boyfriend. Well, he thought he’d found out Eddie had a boyfriend. Why else would Eddie have thanked “Sam” as Steve hoisted him out of the Upside Down?

He really tried not to let it bother him though. There was no point. Not anymore. If Eddie was taken, he was taken, Steve’s feelings be damned. At this point he was more upset that this prick hadn’t shown up at Eddie’s bedside. Maybe it was for the best, though. Steve had a feeling his right hook would get a lot better if he met the guy who’d stolen Eddie’s heart before he could.

He sighed again, earning a look from Dustin.

“Can I finish one chapter without your sorry ass interrupting?” He accused, slamming a thick book closed as he stuck his thumb in between the pages to keep his place.

Steve just rolled his eyes and slumped further down in the hospital chair. As soon as Henderson had been able to hobble from his bed to Eddie’s, it had been impossible to keep them apart. He’d asked his mom for a book from his room, a title Steve vaguely recalled belonged to the Lord of the Rings. Rise of the King or something equally uninteresting.

Steve refocused on Dustin’s voice suddenly. It had gone tight. “I am glad you a re here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam,” His young friend struggled to finish the paragraph, tears welling in his eyes. It took Steve a moment to register that he too was crying. But not from the book. Those words. They were the ones Eddie had muttered as Steve climbed the sheets to get out of the Upside Down.

‘I’m glad you’re here with me…’

They echoed in his mind. What had once been a blow to his heart now made him swell with pride.

“Steve?” Dustin’s voice was small as he took in his friend’s tears. He didn’t think Steve had been paying close enough attention to care that Frodo and Sam had defeated the great evil of Middle Earth.

“He…um…” Steve struggled to form words as he glanced at Dustin through more tears. “He said that to me… before… before we escaped.”

Dustin glanced between Steve and Eddie, putting two and two together. A few weeks ago, he couldn’t force Steve to even meet Eddie, now he couldn’t get him out of his room.

“That’s a high honor,” he whispered, voice cracking from leftover emotion.

“It is?” Steve looked heartbreakingly hopeful.

“Yeah. This is Eddie’s favorite book.”

“It’s a good one,” Steve agreed, not taking his eyes off the boy in the hospital bed, fighting for his life after he’d saved everyone else’s.

Dustin nodded. “I have time for another chapter before my mom gets here. Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes,” Steve said emphatically, taking them both by surprise.

Dustin nodded and Steve focused on his word this time.

Neither noticed as the the lips of boy in the bed twitched into a grin, barely noticeable and not at all conscious, but a grin nonetheless.

Eddie, Lord of the Rings fan that he is, looks up at Steve Harrington carrying him out of the upside down and says, "I knew you'd carry me out of here, Sam." He then promptly passes out.

Cut to Steve spending weeks jealous of Eddie's boyfriend "Sam" that Eddie obviously mistook Steve for. He just can't seem to figure out who it might be and when they're meeting up. He wishes Eddie would just tell him about his boyfriend. Steve can be supportive even if his heart is breaking.

[automatismoateo]

I find more comfort in the idea of death without religious notions of an afterlife. via /r/atheism

I find more comfort in the idea of death without religious notions of an afterlife. I will die one day. I don't know when. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, or maybe many decades from now... All the more reason to enjoy my life as much as I can now, and do the things I want to do, love the people I love, spread kindness because it's not worth spreading hate, no matter what some ancient texts written at a time when humans had no idea that we had our own personal microbiomes on and in our bodies. The concept that our consciousness simply fades into nothing is all the more reason to make a positive impact on the world, not less. One day the electrochemical processes that make me, me, will fade. My heart and all my other organs will stop. My own memories, good and bad will die with me. The various microbiomes that populate my body will start to break the seemingly lifeless leftovers of my body down. I won't hurt, I won't be stressing over anything, I won't be tired, or struggling anymore. I won't feel any negative (or positive) emotions. I won't be sick. I won't feel depression or fear or anything. The people I love will miss me, surely, but they will have their memories. If I'm lucky and/or I set things up right prior to this occassion, my remains will be allowed to decompose and be spread as fertilizer for other living things to use as energy and some parts of me will live on and on, perhaps infinitely until the universe itself ends... but there is the concept that the universe may infinitely expand and collapse in a cyclical manner on such a gargantuan timescale that it makes our short lifespan an invisible blip. So perhaps the atoms that make up this body of mine will go on to be part of the universe forever and that itself is a beautiful concept but even if one day the universe itself just expands and cools to the point that no life is sustainable, that's okay too. There's still plenty of time for the atoms that make up me, to be part of many other things. That is so much more a beautiful conceptthan any biblical claim of a heaven or hell or any other religious claim of an afterlife or rebirth as someone/something else. Heck, even the biblical heaven seems like torture, especially considering the views people who claim to be "good insert_religious_group_here" seem to largely hold, and their deeds... The concept of heaven seems to either be a place where anyone would be constantly forced to praise an entity that supposedly is responsible for every random thing and yet somehow does not have control over it's hell-dwelling counterpart, or a place where anyone who pledges at any time (even moments before they die) to worship said entity, will be forever. That means, if the likes of Hitler made that pledge at any time prior to his death, he would be there. That concept alone is revolting to me. I would rather eat mustard and cucumber pickles straight out of their relative containers, and I strongly dislike the taste of both mustard and cucumber pickles. Yeah, I'll take the promise of nothing except the decay of my body over a heaven of any sort any day. Submitted November 28, 2024 at 06:24PM by aperocknroll1988 (From Reddit https://ift.tt/Vn7TN9x)

[angelbluediary]

Every single day for the past week has been something, but I can relax today. But I still have to plan out tomorrow and “study” for my interview and shower at just the right time for my hair to air dry.

Yesterday I was meeting with V for dinner and he offered to meet anywhere—here in town, or we could meet halfway, but noooo I told him I’d meet him in the city since I needed to go to the mall anyway. Plan was to go to Sephora to test expensive foundations first, find my match, instead of buying blindly online. Then with leftover time before dinner I could look for cheap flats or simple heels to wear with my only decent interview outfit (I have no appropriate shoes that match) and maybe even look for a more professional outfit to wear since I really need this job.

Well! The Sephora in the mall must be gone and I had naively trusted my gps to take me to that old location. Instead I wound up at a random Kohl’s with a tiny little Sephora section that had nothing I’d driven all that way for in my hot ass oven-like car.

Dinner was fine and I offered to pay since V has gotten me the past 2 times, but he insisted on paying for drinks, so we both got martinis. It was strong AF and not very good and in the end I paid the entire bill, so I wish I had just stuck to water. Also regretted my dish of choice as soon as I was looking at it. Then V invites me as his date to a family wedding?… and I gave a noncommittal yes because I had no idea how one responds in that sort of situation?? I’d never casually take a friend I rarely see as a date to a family wedding and maybe it’s different for his family but I wish he hadn’t asked me. It doesn’t sound fun, just stressful. Now I have to figure out a way to weasel out.

12:21 on the clock now.

Today I also finally sent a proper response to Anne about my feelings. On Thursday, I’d just apologized and acknowledged her feelings while I was driving M around and reeling from the whole thing. I’ve wanted to avoid her ever since, so before I got too deep into that, I wanted to state my case as gracefully as I could. Because again, you knew this about me, and it’s nothing personal and never has been, and also YOU COULD HAVE TEXTED OR CALLED or reached out some way other than my muted discord if it was that important???????

But whatever.

Truth be told, I only get sad at the idea of not having friends at my future imaginary wedding. I’ve been without community for so long I’m just used to it by this point. I can’t deal with expectations of always having to be around and within reach and going out with people to maintain relationships. I’ve been struggling to get myself together for years, to find a sliver of real, true peace for YEARS. How am I supposed to pour into others when I haven’t learned how to let go of the past and stop looking at my life from a lack perspective? God knows I’ve been trying.

And I don’t want to talk to Z today either! I’m still stung by him thinking it’s acceptable to respond to a personally made playlist with “there’s a song on there I didn’t care for even 1%, can you guess which one?” and then it turns out to be a song that means a lot to me and immediately uplifts me every time I hear it. Like okay message received, not sharing anything with you like that again. Thanks for contributing to my perpetual shame around sharing my personal interests. I’m totally used to people either ignoring me or criticizing my tastes by now, so thanks for joining in on that fun.

Like. I’m this close to just meeting up with someone off a kink app even if they’re not demisexual or as into emotional connections as I am. Or if I’m not super attracted to them. All my standards and basic boundaries are dissolving in the heat of my need to have an outlet, to maybe be touched in a way that helps my mind find some quiet. I’ve been so goddamn patient for so long. I’m never impulsive, never risk-taking anymore. What do I have to show for all this time?

Ugh. Ughhhhhhh.

[coy444]

being the youngest sibling is like. i haven't known a life without you, and i never will. you will always be part of my life. mom knew not to make the same mistakes to me, what she did raising you. and that doesn't mean she didn't make mistakes, she just didn't make those specific mistakes. and you will never get to knew how i felt childhood. and i wont ever get to feel yours.

i remember you as an angry teen, not wanting to play with me, and yelling at mom. i ran behind her legs. you looked at me with nothing in your eyes, before running up to your room to cry by yourself.

i remember myself standing behind your door, begging you to come out to draw with me, or braid each other's hair. and i still remember when i realized you aren't busy, you just don't want to anymore.

i remember you as a teen, smelling like a cheap cologne and cigarettes. you always wore black and everything that had staples on them. you had so much eyeliner i thought you must have been trying to drown in it.

but i also remember you as the bravest humanbeing i had ever seen. you went to ask our neighbours our football back, when i kicked it over the fence. and you had so many school deadlines. and you sang in front of the whole school. wow, you were brave, i remember thinking.

and i remember you as a funniest person on earth. always trying to lift me when i was feeling down. and always cracking jokes, even though you would have been the only one laughing at them. you dried my tears with your shirt, and secretly gave me one of your candy, without moms permissions. it was peach flavored. i still remember how it tasted.

i remember you as my childhoods safeperson. you protected me when no one else was able to.

and a few years later, when everything was crumbling down, and i started to experience the same emotions you covered with the eyeliner – instead of giving me an eyeliner, you asked me how i was doing and took me out to eat at mcdonald's. again, without mom's permission.

and when a boy broke my heart for the first time ever, you were the one i called knowing i didn't have to know what to say, you'd know. you answered and you knew. you came to pick me up, we went to a drive, and you played me the same songs you listened to back then, with your broken teenage heart.

and the time when i baked, and tried to make a new cookie recipe for 3 hours straight, only for them to come out horrible — you tasted them, and just bursted out laughing. we laughed together even though i felt like i could throw the cookies out of the window, out of frustration. but you were the only one whose laugh i didn't take personally, and could just join.

and when i went to my first houseparty, secretly from mom, and you texted me: " stay safe, and hit me up if you want for me to pick you up in case something happens or you drink too much. or if you lose your friends. love you have fun". i didn't get too drunk and stayed with my friends, but i thought about you through the night, knowing i was safe even though if something would happen. mom never got to know, but you did. you always got, and will get to know more than mom.

and at all of those tiny moments, we were girls together. and you were there . it was what mattered.

i will always remember you as the teen who messed with my hair when walking by and the one who i've had my greatest laughs with. i look up to you even when i'm 67, and still baking you cookies.

you have done so much for me, and i'm so incredible sorry, for you not having a person like you are now, when you were a kid.

i love you, and i still wanna steal your clothes and eat your leftovers from the fridge and i wont ever stop wanting to. those are my duties as a little sister. you are still my biggest enemy but at the same time my lifes most important person. and still, in my eyes the coolest.

[thesinglesjukebox]

INDIGO DE SOUZA - "YOUNGER & DUMBER"

Another reflection on one's youth, via Vikram...

[7.38]

Vikram Joseph: "Younger & Dumber" is overwhelming in the sheer scope of its emotions. It's the confusing, intoxicating feeling of growing out of your teenage shell into someone you don't recognise. It's the knowledge that pain and heartbreak shape you into the person you've become, for better or for worse. It's the realisation that you contain tidal waves of feeling, enough to drown another person, enough to rupture the dams you may have built around your own heart without even knowing it. It feels like epiphany and takes me back to moments where I lay awake in bed and understood that my life was changing. And yet, for a song so heightened, the transformative power comes from its composure. An alt-country ballad that builds and breaks, builds and breaks, "Younger & Dumber" is so utterly self-possessed: unhurried and lucid, every production detail shimmering and perfect, from the crystalline piano to the billowing walls of percussion. (I will always be a sucker for pedal steel, but I'm not sure the instrument has ever glowed as much as it does here.) Indigo De Souza delivers a sensational vocal performance, exhibiting a wavering control that renders almost every line emotionally shattering. Just listen to the way she lets a syllable gently cave in on "prouder", the tiny vibrato on "over you" in the first chorus, her intuitive grasp of cadence, her flawless instinct for when to go big and when to drop to a whisper. In mood, scale and palate this makes me think variously of "All Systems Red", of "Thirteen Grand", of "Song For Zula", but it really is an absolutely singular achievement. "And the love I feel is so powerful it can take you anywhere," De Souza sings at the song's climax. May we all get to have that, at least from time to time; may we all get to remember how it feels when our lives change. [10]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: My favorite Indigo De Souza songs have a certain bite to them, an acrid taste that cuts through the lushness of the song's arrangements and the hookiness of their riffs. "Younger & Dumber" is more of a torch song, a vast and loping thing, and try as I might, I cannot quite get into it. Maybe it's missing some last lift, or maybe I just am not in a place right now to be moved by something this meditative and dreamy. [4]

Hannah Jocelyn: Slow-burning theatrics from Mitski and FKA Twigs, bathetic Midwest angst from Wednesday, slide guitar and chord progression from Mazzy Star, piano chords from The National, "lonely/alone" wordplay from everyone. I don't know why I would listen to this over any of the artists I just mentioned; it feels like a meal of tasty leftovers. [5]

Taylor Alatorre: A strung-together bracelet of country affectations that's crafted with such patience and tenderness that they cease to be affectations anymore. [8]

Brad Shoup: The lyrical bones remind me of Bill Callahan, following Chan Marshall to a little South Carolina town. She mended herself there; he eventually hightailed it to the big city. This is half a song about someone following someone they outgrew. And it's half a song about the peculiar intoxication of towering over everyone in your mind. That second half is supposed to justify the power-ballad structure, maybe, but I can't even detect the love, let alone wilt before its force. [4]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Indigo De Souza's voice is the primary focus here, but the straightforward lyricism and general emotional arc only work because of the supporting cast. That first cymbal strike, in particular, arrives with the perfect amount of force. It feels like the warmth of a friend's hand during a hug -- the kind that comes without warning but is obviously needed because the rest of your body's so numb. The congeniality feels like Over the Rhine for the Phoebe Bridgers set. [6]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: Saccharine, maudlin, and wailing to the point of self-indulgence and self-parody. I had to look up Indigo De Souza's age (26) to confirm, but this is just bait for twentysomethings who are soon headed for 30. This is all to say: I'm the prime demographic. [7]

Katherine St Asaph: A colossal build and a devastating story. Despite the title, De Souza doesn't really blame her younger self for being dumber. Who among us gets to choose our formative influences? [8]

Michael Hong: The title itself implies growth: that with aging, De Souza has become smart. The proof is how she turns a track built around rage into love, a series of pained and furious howls shifting into a tender acceptance of the woman she's become. [8]

Dorian Sinclair: I can see two paths stretched ahead of me when I sit down to blurb "Younger & Dumber". One of them is deeply personal and is about the aching vulnerability and pain that can come with trusting somebody who abuses that trust, and the way that can rewire your entire brain for years after. How sometimes it means not only not feeling at home "in this town," but not feeling at home anywhere, and most especially not feeling at home with yourself. That blurb is about how despite (or because of) the lack of detail in De Souza's lyrics, it's easy to hear my own experiences reflected in her narrative. But that blurb is scary to write, and it's been too long since my last therapy appointment, so instead I'll just note that her voice is very expressive, her instrumentation is very pretty, and I'm a sucker for this kind of folksy confessional writing even when it's not reinventing the wheel. A pleasant song, even without any deep emotions involved. :) :) :) [8]

Ian Mathers: Too often, for very human reasons, we recast everything that's come before as either for the best because of where we are now, or the source all of our current problems, probing it like a wound we can't leave alone. But the same things that have helped build your strengths and brought you to your joys can be inextricable from the pains and traumas that you're still struggling with. De Souza saves "I didn't know better" for the end of the song, and by then it means something different from the clichéd way it's often used. How wonderful, and terrible, that we all start out not knowing any better. How wonderful, and terrible, that we never stay that way. (And the pedal steel. Why does the pedal steel here just kill me?) [9]

Nortey Dowuona: Indigo's voice is so deeply bracing that when she begins doing runs towards the end of the third verse, it is warming to feel the frustration -- not anger, not repair, not fury, frustration -- bleed though the words and through John James Tourville's slight pedal steel. It braces you because anyone who has loved and loved the wrong person feels that frustration; once one has finally vented their speed, all that is left is the frustration, the realization that the time spent chasing love with this person was a failure and is now gone. When we are young, loving that way is simply the way we know to love since we have no frame of reference of how to love someone, so the first time we feel it -- even and especially for friends -- is all and completely. As Indigo says, "Which way will I run when I'm over you?" Why stay or wait or try when the best option is to run from what has hurt you? Better to heal somewhere where you are safe. But "the love I I feel is so very real it'll drag you down," and so running feels at first like an admittance of failure. But that's what the young feel when they fail -- when I fail. It's the end of the world, the end of everything, we cannot survive it. And we -- I -- Indigo learn that we ran, we survived, we kept living, and we chose to love again. We learn but stay dumb. We age yet stay young. We keep wanting to lick the spoon. [9]

Aaron Bergstrom: I've spent most of my life angry at younger versions of myself. With the dangerous gift of hindsight, I have seen that my younger selves regularly failed to achieve perfection: they didn't know things, they didn't see things, they didn't take risks, they didn't possess the necessary skills, they didn't act when the moment was right. Those selves let me down over and over again, and it has always been so easy to blame them for my current hardships and failings. It's taken me a long time to forgive them, and even longer to realize that they had nothing to apologize for. This is the project of "Younger & Dumber," an immersive journey that clicks when you realize that every pronoun is one version of Indigo De Souza addressing another. No outside force made her somebody, just as no outside force made her sour. The song takes time to reveal itself, opening on the vulnerability of a plaintive country ballad, the flower waiting to be picked, dumb but proud. Each turn picks up layers of depth and texture, tentatively reaching out into the darkness for more, different, better selves. The way De Souza whispers "run" at 1:31 is the vocalization of an ambient, directionless longing that I've felt since before I can remember. "Go. Somewhere. Anywhere." It builds, slow but unstoppable, the march of time. Add but never subtract, even if you want to. Carry those mistakes, those failures. Try to use them. It gets bigger, louder, better (yes, better!), but also more complicated, splintered, fragmented, dissonant. At its apex, De Souza briefly harnesses the power of all those younger selves still inside of her, the power that could take her anywhere, the power that could drag her down. That's an incredible accomplishment. It ought to mean that she no longer needs to run. It ought to mean that she feels at home. But it doesn't. It's just one more self that will be seen as younger and dumber by those to follow. May your future selves be quick to forgive. [10]

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[goldenboywrites]

Whether Isaac knew it or not, his words were a knife aimed directly at Apollo’s heart. Because the life he had craved since he was a child, the life he clawed and dragged his way to, was not only his- but theirs. He had thought that what he and Isaac built, the friends that turned into family was theirs, but hearing him now, Apollo realized that it wasn’t theirs. It was his. He had no one to blame but himself because he assumed Isaac had wanted this, and he craved a found family the way Apollo always had. The four had spent most of their time at university and post-university together. Yeah, he had ignored the rift between Isaac and Cassio because he thought they would grow out of it, but looking at Isaac now, Apollo wasn’t sure about anything anymore. 

Apollo fought the instinct to step closer to Isaac, seeking out the familiarity and comfort his boyfriend gave him, but he knew the chances of him finding that from the other were slim. He forced himself to back away from Isaac but kept his gaze on the other man. It felt like something had fractured between them; the distance between them was so significant that Apollo feared it would swallow him whole. “I didn’t call them tonight, Isaac, fuck,” He said again as if that would make a difference. “When this happened, I ran to you. I fucking called you. And you can stand there and say it’s never just the two of us? Everything has been the two of us,” He spat out, crossing his arms over his chest. “This house, our life has been because you and I made it. Because I choose you, and I continue to choose you, but you have it so screwed up in your mind that I want him, and I have given you no reason to distrust me when it comes to Cassio.” 

He shook his head. Leaning his hip against the counter, he broke his gaze to look out the kitchen window, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check. “I thought this was ours, too. I thought this was the family we chose, and maybe that was my mistake, thinking you were choosing them too; I guess it was just me the whole time.” Some leftover fucked up desperation to have a family because he hadn’t grown up with a good one. How silly of him to think he could have this. Apollo inhaled sharply, looking down and rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Yeah, um,” He felt the thickness in his throat, his skin twitching with the suffocating need to run. “I think I will call her and see if she’s available.” He kicked off the counter and walked towards the kitchen door, stopping just before it, his hand on the doorknob. “I think it’s best if I…” He swallowed, the words choking in his throat, “I think I’ll take Theodore to her house and stay there while I track down Alexandria. Oliver is probably already in love with him by now, and I wouldn’t want my friends to bother you in your house if they want to see him.” Apollo pushed open the door and forced himself through it. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll get everyone out of your hair.” 

Apollo walked down the hall, stopping to check in on everyone in the living room. “Theodore,” He called out and was greeted with the wildest smile he had ever seen awhile Apollo was still weary of the situation, it was hard not to remain distrusting around the kid. “Start cleaning up your toys.” This was met with a groan and a soft, but we’re playing whine. Apollo glanced at Cassio; the blonde was searching his face for something, and Apollo knew he would find it. He always could, even when they were kids. “I don’t want to ask again,” Apollo said, continuing past the living room and up the stairs to the bedroom. He couldn’t stay there while Cassio tried to decode the emotions he was attempting, and failing, to bite back. 

He moved swiftly through the bedroom, grabbing his phone from the nightstand and thumbing through his contacts. The call connected as he pulled a duffel bag from the closet. “My favorite brother,” the voice purred as Apollo riffled through his dresser drawers, pulling out clothes. 

“Your only brother. I need a favor..” __________ After Apollo had come through the living room barking orders and looking two steps away from losing his shit, Oliver had expected Isaac to leave the kitchen too. So far, he hadn’t. He shared a glance with his boyfriend, raising a brow at the blond. “What should we do?” He whispered, leaning his head on the blond’s shoulder. Theodore started begrudgingly packing his toys back into the boxes and bags. “Should we even do anything?” He slipped his hand into Cassio’s, squeezing his fingers lightly. “Maybe we should just sneak out now and pretend we didn’t witness any of this.” But he knew he couldn’t leave Apollo or Isaac in such a state, especially when it was probably his fault for inviting himself over without warning. It was just Oliver loved them both so much, and now there was Theodore. “Maybe we should steal Theodore and run, raise him as own our.” He looked at the boy, then back at the kitchen door. It was still silent. “I’ll follow your lead, babe. Just tell me what you think we should do.”

Isaac closed his eyes and just let everything happen. He let Apollo pull him to him and try to console him. He stood quietly and listened to the sweet words that came out of his mouth again. Because this wasn't the first time this sort of conversation had been had. And at this rate, it surely wasn't to be the last. He'd made his peace with that. For whatever reason, with Apollo came Cassio and by extension, Oliver. The last of them being his particular favorite at that moment. He was at least doing something productive. Like keeping the pair of them the hell away from one another. He slowly breathed in and allowed parts of himself to relax and mold in against Apollo. Whatever that was, was going to have to wait. There was still a child that called priority over all.

"I don' wan' ya ta teach me." He said after a few moments, blinking back the sting of a few tears that wished to be released from the well. Isaac sniffled them back and moved to pat Apollo on his back gently, smoothing over the fabric of his shirt. There'd been a time or two he'd wished he was more like his kind and didn't care all that much about free will. It certainly would have made his life easier, especially after meeting this particular Maddox sibling. "I wan' for once ta jus' figure somethin' ou' wi'h jus' us. I ge' tha' maybe this is a bi' differen'." He paused, pulling back to look at him just then. He did his very best to keep his features neutral because like it or not, there was still company that was more than likely able to hear some of what was being said. "Sometimes i' feels li'e there's no' jus' two of us in this."

Before he could really feel the weight of what he said, Isaac pulled from Apollo's arms and moved to the sink. He flipped the tap on, cupping his hands underneath to splash some water on his face. He stood hunched over the sink and drummed his fingers along the basin. "Maybe you should ha'e called ya sista." His head craned around and tried to ignore the look on Apollo's face. If they were going to have a house full then so be it. "'f he recognized the two o' them then I'd be willin' ta bet he migh' her too." He shrugged and folded his arms over his chest. "Maybe she can fin' his mum o' someone tha' migh' know mo'e than we can fin'."

_______________________

Cassio stood back with his shoulder pressed against the door frame watching Oliver with the boy. He hadn't expected to care so much about a child he knew nothing about but to see Oliver with him, well. He heard the voices coming from the kitchen and stepped inside to stand just behind one of the armchairs as he surveyed the pair of them closer. He clearly didn't understand what the problem was between him and Isaac. Cass had never advanced on Apollo in their time together and they hadn't for some time before that. Especially not when Oliver had come into his life. Jealousy was one thing but whatever that was, Isaac was the only one feeling it. He'd thought to ask Apollo but he also didn't want to put him in an awkward position. Leave it to him to find a male veela that not only didn't have a colony but one with a very nasty disposition when it came to his lover. Naturally.

The blond shook his head and came to join the pair on the floor. "Yeah, his birthday was pretty fun." He chimed in, reaching out to take one of the weird and colorful contraptions Oliver had bought for him. He smiled at how crazy it looked back attempted to make it do ... something. He was really trying to understand where this kid could have come from. The way he spoke about them sounded almost like he'd taken memories from them directly. He sighed and finally gave up on the toy he'd had which made the little boy laugh. He really liked that. How innocent this boy was. It made him want to protect him, if for no other reason than he could understand that vulnerability.

But he also wanted to test that theory. He had a memory of just Apollo and himself that was hold enough and insignificant enough to not totally throw Oliver off but Apollo's worry was getting the better of him. Maybe that's why he hates me. "I was thinking about asking your dad if he wanted to go back to that one spring we found out at your grandparent's house." He smiled and moved to take another toy, this one was a bit more managable. The little boy looked at him and he sighed so loudly just to be dramatic. "The one way out past the garden. The one your aunt really, really loves." He smiled and leaned in to nudge him gently. "I'll ask him if we can take you again. I won't throw you in like that again. I promise."