#also the jesus imagery was made FOR ME

[gaypirate420]

I'm not going on twt a lot today it seems. I'm liking Viktor's arc, did I want Transhumanist Viktor? Of course but I'm also a BIG sucker for the "died and came back wrong" type of shit. And whatever the fuck the Hexcore is going to his mind is making me so invested. I want to see what he is going to do and I want to see if he stays like that forever (which I kinda don't want honestly) or he comes to his senses and goes mental.

[crazymecjc]

don your crown of thorns, and prepare to die in your precious sinners’ stead.

[p2ii]

I'm so glad fictional characters exist because if they didn't I probably would've converted to another religion and have been worse off for it

[luveline]

i'm missing coworker!james so much... is he doing okay?

James is poorly :( fem

James is a cruel kind of ill. Desperate to escape the dreaded ‘man flu’, he tries hard to portray the common cold. Doesn’t whine, groan or moan, simply suffers the near constant sneezing and his twinging neck without comment. 

Luckily, he has two —two! because you like him enough to be concerned! barely!— nice deskmates who ply him with tea and worry alike. 

“Did you take that antihistamine?” Remus asks. 

“I did, yeah. You watched me take it an hour ago and try as I might, I haven’t regurgitated it yet.” 

“Don’t be disgusting, he’s just worried,” you say. 

A month ago, you might’ve said it with deep, genuine ire. James annoys you and his choice of imagery is hardly workplace appropriate, but for some reason you’re good to him lately. You’re softening, and why shouldn’t you be? James is a boy worth softening for. 

He sneezes hard into a tissue in his palm and knocks the desk, sending his small crowd of figurines skittering, their light green bodies scuffed with scratches. They fall over each day. You like rearranging them. 

You also like feeding James biscuits, and pretending you don’t like him. Or maybe pretending you do. It’s hard to tell what’s real. 

“Jesus,” he says, forgetting to be demure as he drops his forehead against his closed fist. “I can’t take it much longer.” 

“You need to calm down, is all. Every time you sneeze you trigger the inflammation in your nose, which makes you more likely to sneeze again,” Remus says. He doesn’t sound particularly pitying, but he does then stand to grab James’ mug as he heads to the kitchen. 

In an office made up of mostly Brits, it’s extremely common for everyone to make one another a tea or coffee when they get one for themselves, but it’s a sweet gesture for Remus to keep James topped up nonetheless. It also provides for moments like this: you and him alone. Not awkward anymore. 

“Do you have painkillers?” he asks.

You open the drawer of your desk and offer him your pouch. “Here.” 

Inside are many things. A box of lil-lets, plasters in sterile wrappings, throat soothers, ibuprofen, a treasure trove of cures for little ailments. 

“Just, help yourself to anything you want.” 

“You’re an angel.” James unveils a shiny purple chocolate bar. “I can have Freddie?”

“Freddo,” you correct. “Come on, James, it’s on the packet.” 

He doesn’t truly want it. He doubts he could taste it, and he drops it back in. 

“Oh, no, you can have it!” you say, softer. “I’m just being pedantic.” 

“Thanks, but I don’t think I can do chocolate right now.” 

“Right, um… well, I have a sandwich?” 

“What kind of sandwich?” he asks. 

“One of those impossible BLT’s. But I can get you a proper sandwich, James. They have those sesame seed rolls in the vending machine.” 

James doesn’t understand why you’re being so nice to him. “I must look awful,” he murmurs, letting his aching, pulsing head drop onto the desk. He sniffs uselessly. Fuck, he hates work. Why can’t he go home?

“You never look awful,” you say. 

James turns his face to see you’ve lowered your own, resting your cheek in your hand, your knuckles grazing the table. 

“You’re being too nice to me. I’m dying.” 

“You’re the one who’s mean to me, James. I’m your unwilling victim.”

“As opposed to being my willing victim.” James hates being ill, his lips are dry and his throat feels sharp and he’s changed his mind, he does want the Freddo. “Please be nice to me again.” 

“You know what’s good for this? Nasal spray. That’ll fix you.” 

“You could fix me,” James says. You don’t answer. He presses his nose to the table. “My days are always good ones when you can't be bothered to pretend you don’t like me.” 

“Who says I’m pretending?” 

James whines. “That’s worse.” 

You tease a bit of his hair behind his ear. James is content to let you, content to never move again, balmed by the softness of your touch as you draw along the outline of his ear to his jaw. “Don’t press your glasses into your nose, you’ll start sneezing again,” you whisper. 

James refuses to move. “Stroke my hair,” he demands.

“No way.”

“You’re no fun.”

“But I’m having a much better day than you are.” 

He sulks. This is exactly why James hides your stuff and leaves you off of email chains you should probably be in. You’re horrible, awful, evil, with no sympathy for him and no friendliness, either. James was far better off when he was solely annoyed at you, and not whatever useless state of being this is where his mood depends on your willingness to make friends. If James could, he would—

“Are you okay?” you say, your voice as soft as your fingertip where it traces slowly through his curly hair. “Maybe you should go home and rest. I’m worried about you…” 

James might fall in love with you if you keep whispering sweet stuff like that. You hesitate at the nape of his neck before dragging your hand up through a tuft of curls. 

“If you don’t get better soon, your voice will go and I’ll have to talk to Lang and Co. on the phone again. You know I hate their finance team leader,” you finish. 

You sound so pretty that James almost misses your slight. Then decides he’ll allow it as long as you keep stroking his hair.  —

coworker james au

[crunchycrystals]

im gonna go out on a limb and say that right now i like would've could've should've more than all too well AND dear john. genuinely i think it's better

[sugarlywhispers]

a.n; SMUT, oral sex (fem receiving), izuku is pussy-drunk because we know no other izuku than the one who LOVES eating pussy. lol i had an izuku itch that needed to be scratched so here it is *wink wink*<3

You and Midoriya Izuku have been friends for a long time now. He's such a good friend, always attentive, kind, funny and respectful. Yet he becomes cheeky, flirty and sometimes sarcastic when there's more trust in your friendship.

Friendship. It's just friendship. You have to remind yourself of that everyday. Push your stupid little –strenuously huge– crush on him very deep inside and lock it away. He's fucking Number One, Pro Hero Deku. How could you not have a fucking crush on him?

Still, when he gave you the opportunity to be friends, you didn't doubt it. You dug your feelings very deep and just accepted what he gave you; a funny, sincere friendship that you honestly didn't want to ruin. Especially because Izuku was also very intentional in watering this friendship with you.

It got to a point where you even slept in each other's places with complete normalcy sometimes. He had clothes in your closet for when that happened, and vice-versa. Izuku even talked to you about the dates he went on, and so did you.

He even held your head after a hard night out with friends, where you found the guy you were in a “relationship” with snogging another girl. Too much alcohol trying to bury what you have witnessed and an ugly date with the toilet as you threw up. Izuku held your hair back and caressed your back with patience and care that early morning. Even dried your tears and hugged you through the feelings. No, you didn't love the guy, but you could have if he hadn't been a fucker.

No one would ever fit into the standard Izuku had made you build around men. But you had to try and find, considering that the main standard was not interested in you that way, and would never be.

It's exactly why, here you are. Waiting in your car after texting said man “oi!, i'm here!”, after he expressed that he has had an awful week and was so stressed he could throw a train towards the sky, up to the atmosphere. Holy fuck. The imagery made you laugh at the moment, but also sent a shiver down your spine at his tone because damn, he was so frustrated and angry. So, you didn't doubt it. Told him to get ready, that you would pick him up in 20 minutes to take him out.

There was no other intention other than pamper him, help him distract his mind from all the troubles that stressed him. Like a friend would.

It had been a lovely night, filled with lots of laughter, jokes and accomplished smiles that felt too normal by then.

You suddenly feel his eyes on you, his body directing his attention towards you as you ride the car, softly mumbling to a well known song that it's playing.

“What?” You ask a moment later, stopping right in front of Izuku's building and looking back at him.

“I just realized… You took me out to dinner. We had ice-cream as dessert and even some cocktails after. You drove and paid for it all. And now you took me back home…”

You snort, “And? What's the problem with that?”

You are a bit confused, especially because he's talking looking dead serious, like he has come to a realization that makes him even imagine in his head whatever it is that he is thinking. Jesus, even his eyes look so determined and shiny it makes you feel weirdly nervous.

But of course, you were not expecting at all what he said next.

“Do I have to suck you off?”

You look directly into each other's eyes for a full minute. Death silent. Song playing in the background. A car passes, its light making Izuku's face become clearer and exposed for the second it took until it drove away. Both your breathing suddenly heard loud inside your car. 

And then you both laugh your hearts out. Almost to the point of crying.

It's so ridiculously funny. The way Izuku asked it was so sure and ready for it and also keeping a serious tone. This type of humor with him has become so funny and comfortable to portray, you can't help but to answer back, “I mean… if you want to.”

You obviously mean it as a joke. It's not the first time you joke with double meaning in your words. It has become normal by now between you two.

Yet Izuku suddenly stops laughing. Again looking dead serious as you slowly come back from your laughter. You clean a small tear that threatens to fall from your left eye as you look at him. His expression is... alert, attentive; eyes are on you, shining, waiting, excited. And as time passes, you realize with a quiet and small gasp; he wants to suck you off.

Next thing you know, you’re sprawled over Izuku’s big and expensive couch, your jeans and panties thrown around somewhere in his living room. Legs open, exposed, as Izukus delves into the taste of your cunt. Both his hands, callous and a bit raspy due to his injuries and in contrast to your soft skin, hold you down by the waist as his mouth doesn’t even separate a millimeter from its place, tongue dancing all around your very wet pussy. 

His eyes are closed and he lets a few grunts here and there that travel up in your body and make you shiver in pleasure, followed by a tongue movement that makes you roll your eyes back. He's fucking enjoying having you like this.

Finally.

[logansbaby]

CLOSER | DARYL DIXON

SYNOPSIS ❥ On the road, you can’t seem to focus on anything other than wanting Daryl to fuck you senseless. Because he’s such a good boyfriend, you get what you want.

Pairing ❥ Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Content warnings ❥ 18+ content (MDNI), porn without plot, creampie, unprotected p in v, oral (daryl receiving!), dirty talk, car sex, basically reader being feral (like we all are)

Word Count ❥ 2.3k

A/N ❥ hi my loves!! long time no see, i know </3 been busy with stuff irl but i wanted to get this piece out for you all as a thank you for hitting 100 followers! it means the world to me <3 hope y’all enjoy this, im squeezing my legs as we speak bc whew. and also, the picture is purely there to generate imagery, there are no descriptions of the reader! xoxo, sammy

— ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

“You let me violate you

You let me desecrate you

You let me penetrate you

You let me complicate you

…

I wanna fuck you like an animal

I wanna feel you from the inside

I wanna fuck you like an animal”

Closer by Nine Inch Nails

— ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

“What?”

His gruff voice spooked you from your lustful haze, where you’d been glancing over at Daryl every couple seconds. You shook your head in a fruitless attempt to clear your sinful thoughts, before meeting his eyes.

“Hmm?” You spoke softly, it was all you could do in your state. Oh, how you wanted him to pull over and let you have your way with him.

“Been starin’ at me since we got in the car. Do I got somethin’ on my face or what?” Daryl sounded annoyed, but you knew him better to just be deeply confused by your actions. You couldn’t exactly blame him, it’d been over twenty minutes and you’d barely spoken since you both had left for a supply run.

But you couldn’t help it. With your panties soaked, slit slippery and clit throbbing in neglect, you were desperately trying to act normal.

Clearly, you’d failed.

It was Daryl’s fault; you’d been fine until you saw him leant against a porch pillar, lighting up a cigarette. You couldn’t explain it because you’d seen him smoke before, but something about the way he looked then had your thighs squeezing, breath catching.

He was busy talking to Rick, blowing smoke as he spoke intently. His arms were bulging, muscles on full display as they moved to further prove his words. The vest did nothing to offer cover and with his pretty lips wrapped around the cigarette, you felt faint. His brown locks were shaggy, covering his eyes in a way that made you wanna tug them as you kissed.

Simply put, you’d wanted him to ruin you.

“No, baby. Jus’ look pretty today is all.” You sighed, now staring at him shamelessly as you leant against the car door to have him in your full view.

“Pretty?!” Daryl scoffed, affronted at the very suggestion. Even so, his ears heated up and his cheeks tinged the slightest shade of pink. “Can’ say I've heard that one before.”

“You are,” You promised, voice filled to the brim with adoration for him because yeah, your archer was fuckin’ pretty and deserved to be told. “Look super handsome today.”

“Shut up.” His gruff voice sounded, rolling his eyes at you as you’d made him flush again.

“I’m serious! Got me all flustered, ever since this mornin’!” You huffed, voice whiny and light, throwing your head back against the window for relief on your heated skin.

With your admission, he averted his gaze from the road to you, silently groaning at your blown out pupils, the pink flush dancing across your cheeks and down your chest.

Jesus, you were serious. How the fuck was he supposed to continue on driving when he had his girl next to him, needy for him?

“Fuck.” He spoke, noting that you had now taken your seatbelt off and were shuffling closer to him. “What’re you doin?”

You’d opted to take an old pickup truck and there wasn’t any middle console, just a continuation of the bench. For what you had in mind, you silently thanked whoever came up with that design.

“Pull over, Daryl.” With a breathy voice, you pressed a wet kiss onto his neck. Hearing a hitch in his breath, you licked up his neck until you reached his scruffy cheek, moaning as you did so. “Please, need you so bad.”

The car jerked suddenly as you palmed his strong thigh, teeth nibbling on his earlobe. He felt himself harden in his pants at the feel of your dainty hands touching him, of your plushy lips soothing the sting your teeth had left behind.

“Can’t, sunshine. It’s not safe to be sittin’ in the road bein’ distracted.” He spoke with regret, especially as your hand palmed his dick over the material. He wanted you safe though, and he wasn’t lying when he thought it was dangerous to pull over in the middle of nowhere. “Just wait til we get— fuck.”

His words muddled into a string of curses, car wobbling again as you’d released him before pulling his cock from his pants, zipper undone.

“Wanna suck you off.”

And shit, with the way you were looking at him, with the way you wet your lips as you looked at his dick, he wanted to stuff your mouth full.

“Dammit, you’re such a fuckin’ brat.” You bent down, level with his crotch as you gawked at his exposed dick, precum now bubbling at the tip.

You licked your lips at the sight of white, pearly beads and before he could process it, his engorged tip was in the warm confines of your mouth, suckling soft and slow.

“Cant ever behave, can you? Jesus, baby.” He looked down at you, grunting as your eyes met his just as you swirled your tongue over him, dipping into his drippy slit. You hummed at the salty flavor of him, giving a few more sucks to his tip, before releasing it with a ‘pop’, a string of saliva connecting your puffy lips to him.

You’d only stopped because you noticed he’d let off the gas, the car barely even moving down the deserted street.

“Drive.” You demanded, gripping his base and jerking at a teasingly slow pace, eyes piercing his pretty blue ones. You leaned in to his face, licking his bottom lip before sucking the soft skin into your mouth. Daryl was so unbelievably turned on from your behavior that your voice barely registered. You released his lip, planting a wet kiss onto him before looking at him again. “Drive the car, or I’m stopping. It’s not safe to stop, remember?”

And from the snarl that appeared on his spit-slick mouth, you knew you’d pay for saying that.

“Nah, I can’t focus when your mouth is o—“

“Drive.”

Your command surged him into action, partially because your bratty attitude was making him throb and partially because he needed his dick down your throat, now.

The engine roared as he pressed down on the gas. Then, he gripped your hair tightly, scalp tingling as he made you look at him.

“Suck.” When you made no move, because you’d been too fucking entranced by how hot Daryl was, especially as he yanked your hair roughly, he grunted. “Now, your pissin’ me off with your little fuckin’ angel eyes.”

His words, along with his grip on your hair, had you parting your lips and sucking him down.

The car was filled with the filthy noises your mouth made as you switched between licking him from base to tip and then wrapping swollen lips around him. His taste was overwhelming your senses and your cunt ached to be filled. The rumble of the car kept jiggling your body and you gagged around him as you slid lower onto him.

Tears pooled your lash line but instead of letting up, you bobbed your head up and down to hear more of his groans. The only time Daryl was truly vocal was when you sucked him off and shit, if it didn’t make you wet.

You snuck a hand around to pet your pussy, the throb becoming too much to ignore, when Daryl suddenly pulled you off him. And the sight of you had him bucking into the air; a mix of spit and his precum coated your lips, your eyes wet from crying on his cock, hair messy around your face.

You looked so pretty like this, all cock-drunk.

“Don’t get to touch yourself, not with your fuckin’ attitude.” His tone was so gravely, so assertive that instead of being annoyed, you whimpered. “Now, get your pants off and c’mere.”

It was only then you’d noticed that he’d stopped the car, trees surrounded the vehicle as nothing was in sight for miles.

Your demanding act was far gone; you needed Daryl inside you.

Without another thought, you clambered from your kneeling spot and wiggled out of your pants as best as you could, though your movements were jittery as Daryl watched you the entire time, eyes nearly black with need.

Finally free, you swung yourself onto his lap and moaned loudly; his cock, hard and still coated in your spit, rubbed at your thinly covered cunt as you sat atop him. The buckle of his pants was cold and you jolted as its coolness hit your puffy clit.

“Fuck, Daryl.” You gripped his long strands, yanking as you humped him. The sight of you all whiny and pathetic for him made him grunt lowly before catching your parted lips in a kiss. “Mmph.”

Immediately, the kiss was obscene. Daryl rubbed his tongue with yours, swallowing your whines as the muscles danced with one another. Spit was pooling at the corner of your mouth and as he pulled away, a string of saliva connected you both.

Breathing heavily, Daryl reached between you both and pulled your underwear to the side, swearing as he did so.

“So fuckin’ wet, honey. All this for me?” His eyes flickered across your face as you stared back, lust drenching your features as you huffed.

“All for you,” you gasped, lips bumping his and fingers pulling his hair. His fingers found your entrance, marveling at how fucking soaked you were. Daryl leaned into you, capturing your mouth with his as you whimpered into him as he shoved two fingers in at once.

For a bit, thats all it was and it was a fucking sight. You, clinging to Daryl as you greedily kissed him, moans spilling from you as his fingers filled you. Him, fucking you with one hand whilst the other gripped your ass harshly, pulling the flesh as he rocked you against his fingers inside you.

You would’ve come like that, if he hadn’t then removed them just as your orgasm tickled your gut.

“What the fu—“ you were cut off by Daryl as he shoved his fingers, the ones that were just inside you and therefore covered in slick, inside your parted mouth.

“Shh, thats it.” He marveled as you sucked and cleaned his fingers like the good girl he knew you were.

Pulling them from your lips, he dragged the wetness across your cheek before crashing his lips to yours. You both made noises because the musky and sweetness of you lingered on your tongue. With your taste coating his tastebuds, he snapped.

Daryl parted from you before one hand gripped you and the other grabbed his cock, moving until you were sinking down onto him.

Your cries mingled with his groans; your tight, wet heat sucked him down and finally, he was inside you and filling you up, just like you’d wanted.

“Fuck, Daryl.” You whined, hips swiveling to get used to his size. You were torn between the relief of being filled to the brim and the discomfort because of how big he was.

“This what you wanted, huh? Just so fuckin’ needy you had to stop us in the fuckin’ road?” He grunted, a calloused hand coming to grip your throat, the tightness steadying you. “My filthy girl.”

Then, he thrusted up into you and the sound you made was like a symphony of music to his ears. Spurred on, he kept thrusting into your pussy, groaning at the wet, slippery sounds filling the car. You were so overwhelmed with pleasure and the feel of him that you just clung to him, rolling your hips and humping your clit against him as you took each thrust he gave you.

Though, one particular move was so fucking deep it had you mewl, fingernails digging into the soft skin of Daryl’s neck.

“Daryl,” you gasped, euphoria pumping through every crevice of your body. The buckle of his belt was now slick as your clit continued to hump. “So big— uh, uh— so big.”

His hand gripped your throat firmly, fastening his pace as helped you move with him by lifting your ass in tandem with his hips.

You were a mess; blubbering nonsense to him as your cunt repeatedly clenched down on him as you grew closer to your peak. Daryl was so high on you, your pretty sounds, and suddenly, he needed to see more of your skin.

He removed his grip from your ass to yank your shirt up and he let out a grunt as he saw your absence of a bra. Then, without any other preamble, his lips wrapped around a peaked nipple, sucking wetly.

The mix of his mouth making out with your chest and his cock filling you up at such a haste pace had you crying out, tears spilling down your cheeks as you shuddered on his lap.

Your orgasm had triggered his own; the feel of your sopping pussy squeezing him and your cry of pleasure sent him over the edge.

His moans were animalistic as he filled you to the brim, thrusts losing their rhythm as he pumped his spend into you.

“Daryl—“ you whispered, suddenly exhausted and wanting him closer to you, despite your limbs being intertwined with one another tightly. “Baby.”

“Such a good girl,” he spoke into your neck, making no move to remove his softening cock from you. Even if he did try, you wouldn’t let him. The crazed feeling you’d felt was finally soothed, his cock inside you released relief throughout your body.

Daryl brought a finger between your thighs and his cock twitched inside you as he collected both your orgasms. “Open.”

Because you’d do anything he told you, you wordlessly opened your mouth and moaned as he stuck come covered fingers between your lips. He watched you as you sucked his fingers clean, eyes hooded with tiredness.

“C’mon, gotta get home.” He patted your waist, adoration swirling in his chest as you made no move to return to your seat. In fact, you just scooted closer until your nose grazed his sweaty neck.

“Thought we needed to get stuff.”

“Nah, we’ll just say we couldn’ find anythin’” Daryl brought a hand to your hair, gently brushing your head as you pressed kisses to his collarbone.

You both stayed connected for awhile; maybe two minutes, maybe two hours. Being close with Daryl was exactly what you’d needed to feel a little less feral.

Though, as you both finally rolled through the gates with messy hair and flushed faces, everyone looked at you both knowingly.

[doraminatook]

We're About To Get Playfully Blasphemous Here (or...The Metaphorical Death and Resurrection of Me)

2023 was the year I turned 33, and in case you didn’t know, many religious scholars cite that as the age Jesus was crucified and rose from the dead.  Now, within literature there’s a trope called the Christ-like figure in which a character sacrifices themself and from that death, something happens in order to advance the plot.  Usually that something is either the “dead” character rising from the ashes and obtaining new powers (think Gandalf the Grey battling the Balrog and then coming back as Gandalf the White) or the protagonist being so moved by the death of this secondary character that they are reborn in some way (think Red Badge of Courage’s Jim Conklin (JC…get it?) whose death changes Henry’s opinion on war.)

Because I’m a storyteller and have a dark sense of humor, I began to wonder if I would somehow have a Christ-like-figure-moment within my thirty-third year of life.  (Not long after my birthday, I told my mom that I just had to make it to 34 and then I would have “beaten” Jesus; being a good Lutheran woman, she did not appreciate this joke.)

Now, I may be reaching or forcing figurative imagery into the literal world (isn’t that what artists do?), but I think I did have a “death” and consequential “resurrection”.  

I’m at a strange place in my writing career in that I am not famous (by any means) but I’m also not considered emerging.  Recently, I was told by a theater that I should “sit this contest out” and give someone else a chance but at the same time my work has not been produced enough to catch an agent’s eye.  (It doesn’t help that theatre companies have an intense fixation on world premieres.  They want to be the first one to do the show, apparently assuming that as soon as a piece gets produced once, that means it’s finished.  But that’s a rant for another day.) 

Currently I live in Milwaukee and for a long time I thought (or at least hoped) that I could maybe just make it work here; it is technically a theater town.  Add to that the fact that my whole family lives in Wisconsin, my financial situation was not ideal, and my best friend (platonic soulmate) had made it fairly clear to me that she did not wish to move away from Milwaukee.  When I was honest with myself, I knew that I wanted to get out, but there were so many things holding me back from making the jump.  

As soon as the thought of moving away entered my head, Anxiety would perk up.  Always eager to be the backseat driver, it would shout things like, “Isn’t life here good enough for you?  You’ve got a roof over your head, a job that allows you to pursue your passion, and you’re perfectly healthy.  Be grateful for what you have and stop expecting something more!” 

I attended a workshop for other playwrights from the area and, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I didn’t have a lot in common with many of them.  Discussions and questions whirled around about how we find time to write, where we get inspiration, and how we format a script properly.  Some of the writers present had never even finished a full script.  I certainly am not bringing this up in order to shame anyone, but it was an eye-opening experience for me.  Was I a proverbial big fish in a little pond?

My anxiety had an opinion for that, too.  

“Wow!  Way to be egotistical, D!  You think you’re so much better than everyone here?  Get over yourself!  You’re not special.  You’re just another ‘artist’ who thinks they’ve got something special to say!”

A few weeks later I was at my cousin’s wedding and after the ceremony, he approached me to offer congratulations for all the success I’ve had…only to then immediately cut me off guard with the question, “So when are you moving to New York?”  As the groom, he was quickly called away for photographs and I never really got to answer his question.  

If this moment had been in a play, the spotlight would have hit me right then and there and I would have begun some contemplative soliloquy where I openly pondered, “New York, eh?  Maybe I should go to New York!”

Obviously, as a theatre person, the idea of moving to New York had crossed my mind; it’s the theatre capital of the US for obvious reasons.  But, at the same time, New York just didn’t feel like me.  (I have a lot of opinions on NYC, especially when it comes to the outrageous ticket prices.  When it costs a small fortune to see a Broadway show, art becomes a luxury rather than a necessity.  But that’s a rant for another day.)  It certainly seemed daunting, and every good dream should be at least a little daunting.  But New York was daunting without being exciting.  It felt like something I should do…something that was expected of me.

LA didn’t do it for me, either.  Nor Seattle.  I considered many locations, but nothing really made me sit up and take notice.  I wasn’t about to dive headfirst into debt and throw away a good thing unless it was something that truly excited me…something that was enticing enough to spark a change.  

Again, Anxiety spoke up, “Calm the fuck down, D!  New York?  Even if that is what you wanted, they’d eat you alive there!  You’re a soft midwestern girl who can’t take criticism and cries at the drop of a hat!  You really think you could handle New York or LA?  Also, the cost of living in any of those places is way more than you will ever hope to make!  Stick with Submission Helper.  Stick with the contests and the festivals.  Go back to dreaming only as big as The Milwaukee Repertory Theatre.  Sit down and shut up!”

It may have gone on like this…if not for the summer of 2023.

Close your eyes and picture it: WGA strike, Barbenheimer, The Eras Tour, OceanGate, the Grimace Birthday shake…and in the midst of it all, I was having an epiphany.  

A favorite television show of mine dropped its latest season and I eagerly pulled out the Chardonnay and the popcorn to binge it all.  The vast majority of the show takes place in London and features several actors whom I admire greatly.  Between the giggles, sobs, and various twists and turns of the emotional rollercoaster that was Season 2, something all at once occurred to me.

This is what I want.  

That’s where I want to be.  

I want to move to the United Kingdom.

Was it daunting?  Hell yeah, it was daunting.  

And it was exciting.  

It was a dream that excited me.  

It burned inside me.  

It raged.

It burned so hot that I didn’t know what to do with it.  I paced around my tiny apartment, simply stunned by the prospect of it all.  

Anxiety was in the process of drinking a quad shot espresso con panna and promptly did a spit take upon hearing this new idea.  In a frenzied panic, it bellowed, “Are you nuts?  What the hell do you think you’re doing?  YOU can’t move to the UK!  It would be so difficult!  You’d need to apply for a Visa…or something like that!  Do you even know how to apply for a Visa!”  

“No,” I metaphorically replied, “but I could learn.”

“I bet it’s super difficult!” Anxiety shot back, trembling in fear, “I bet it’s expensive and complicated and you’ll never figure it out!  I bet your sense of humor wouldn’t translate!  I bet you’d end up broke and living under a bridge and crying because you threw away this good thing you had!”

For a split second, Anxiety almost won…but somehow, prompted by the promise of this new dream, I dared to ask, “But what if it worked out?  What if I could figure it out?  What if I somehow scraped up the money and did the research and filed the paperwork and just made it work?”

If it were a play, I would have been standing center stage, staring out into the audience like some kind of dramatic hero and whispering hopefully, “Yes…what if…?”  

It has been a long road to get here, but, despite what Anxiety likes to tell me, I did figure it out.  The process has been stressful enough to induce atypical Shingles and a few anxiety attacks, but it’s happening.  It’s actually happening!

This October I’m going to grad school at the University of Essex where I’ll pursue my masters degree in Scriptwriting.  I’ll hone my skills as a playwright while learning the ins and out of writing for film, television, and radio.  I’ll take the train into London on the weekends and see every show I can at the National Theatre.  I’ll get new life experiences.  I’ll do my best to explore every inch of that beautiful island.  I’m going to do something new because it’s scary and, most importantly, it’s exciting.  

(To add to the awesomeness of this new adventure, my best friend (platonic soul mate) is moving with me and pursuing her own dreams of studying acting…also at the University of Essex.)

My “death” was not as dramatic or world-changing as Jesus’s, but it gave way to a new life for me.  The power of storytelling combined with a newfound confidence was enough to catapult me into something new, something different.    

And I know you’re wondering what show I was watching that prompted this sudden change; if you know anything about me, you’ve probably guessed it already.  

Along with seeing as much theatre as I can on my visits to London, I also plan to have surreptitious meetings at The Bandstand, feed ducks some frozen peas at St. James’s Park, and maybe help avert an apocalypse (or two).  My birthday is in January and it just so happens that Season 3 is scheduled to begin filming around that time; perhaps on my winter holiday, I’ll put myself onto a train and take myself up to Edinburgh.  I have so many thoughts on what could possibly happen next to my favorite angel and demon…but that’s a rant for another day.

(Fun fact: I say this line at least once a week...if only to myself.)

[pennycat83]

Take Me Home

Curly (post crash) x reader

This got 1,103 on AO3 so I decided to share it here as well. I'mma also warn for described graphic imagery and the usual Mouthwashing suffering

5 months, almost 26 days since your last job. Your legs slumped limp against the control panel, arms folded lazily against your stomach as you dozed. Your ship was far from desirable, nothing more than a scrap ship you used to get what little change you could gather from abandoned ships. Old habits died hard, you joked. 

That being said it wasn't anything to sneeze at. Despite only really holding one person most of the time, it still had a quaint medical bay, storage unit, washing facilities and two sleeping quarters. You often forgot you even had a home on Earth with how cosy the place felt. 

You jolted at an abrupt sonar ping. Another ship, you grunted, straining your arms behind your back, you set the auto pilot to maneuver closer. Heading to a beaten up locker in the back for something other than a tank top and shorts. You let the jumpsuit hang around your waist, tightening your bootlaces before zipping it up. Rummaging around further, you retrieved a well beaten axe from the back, tucked haphazardly between a few boxes, you slipped the holstered axe around your belt loop.

A Pony Express Ship, it looked like hell. Foam coated most of the exterior, making it had to identify the original entrance. You grumbled something regarding how incompetent the crew must've been.  Making your way to the ship was enough of a challenge for such a simple 'job', hacking into a bit of the foam in an attempt to weasel in, you knew too much would mean the goods would spill out. Your breath hitched, carefully sinking your axe bit by bit until you made a decently sized hole. Finally, you tumbled into what was most likely the storage unit. 

The ship groaned as you tucked your axe back into its holster, whipping out a flashlight to inspect the hull. Walls of boxes surrounded the modest space, what little lights that remained flickered above, you continued on. Moving through the endless rows until you reached the steps to the exit, you noted a few of the boxes had been ripped open, bottles of mouthwash littered the floor, dribbles of the remains sticking to your boot heels.

"What the fuck?". You scoffed before exiting, the  doors were open. That was enough an indicator that something wasn't right, moving through the rest of the rooms confirmed your suspicion. The hallways bathed in a harsh red, foam tripped you up at points, beloved items were scattered haphazardly, until you finally entered the main area. 

Jesus Christ, you froze. A large T.V. system flickered the same piercing error message as darkened patches of...you sighed shakily. Looking over to the table, a party. "Shit-fuck-s-sorry to intrude! I...I just-I'll...". You faltered, noticing the violent lack of a reaction. Your legs hesitated forward, moving one of the bodies closest to you. It slumped forward, slamming hard against the plate. You had to stifle a scream as you watched the neck loosen slightly. You looked around the table, almost all of the bodies were in some different state of decay, the one across you drenched in blood, her hair matted hair almost withering off her head. You almost choked on your own shaking urge not to freak out. 

Quivering, your legs shuffled away from the party. Moving onward, you found yourself hugging the axe slightly. Unfurling only when you entered the medic bay. You noted a now bloodied gurney resting against one of the false windows. The crimson lighting only intensifying the horrifying feel ."Least this'll be one of the more interesting stories". Your voice wobbled as you tried to twist this into some kind of joke. You remembered why you came here, moving around the space to grab anything of worth. You hesitated on the computer but decided on most of the medical supplies. 

You nodded at your new pile of bounty, finishing up your rounds by finally entering the engineering room. The darkened hallways tightened your nerves  Another body, this one slumped against a few rows of pods, a gun nearby. You kicked the body with the tip of your boot, almost expecting it to lurch like a slasher and attack... Nothing. You moved around once again. Finally contempt you..

You paused, someone was here. Your head whipped instinctively towards the row of cryogenics, a piercing blue eye watched, unblinking. Finally, you let out a heart dropping scream in shock, dropping a tool kit in a jump against the wall. The eye remained fixed on you, you moved forward carefully. You noticed that it almost looked like a corpse, bandages covering most of the face. You looked around hesitantly, scuttling back to the toolkit before making your leave. You dropped it by the pile, you cursed yourself out slightly as you had to whittle down your carrying size for the passageway back. Sighing as you looked around once again, someone must've gone mad, you pondered if the person in cryostatus wasn't the culprit but, given the body next to it, you almost questioned if it wasn't him. 

You let out a weak chuckle at the idea as you pushed another  pile of loot into your own ship. Turning to finish up, you hesitated. Looking towards the flickering lights. You were stupid, so fucking stupid for this. Once again hacking into the foam to make the exit big enough, and making sure your own medic bay  was loaded with all the things you had grabbed, you stormed back towards the cryogenics. Moving the slumped body against one side of the wall, you consulted the pod. You fiddled with a pin pad aside it, frowning at the absurdity of the idea before finally giving up and cracking out your axe on the poor thing.  The door slid open in a hiss of dry ice. The man slumped forward, drooping slightly as you slid over to grab him, struggling with the abrupt weight as you finally noticed the state of the body. 

Burnt, bloodied flesh stained your jumpsuit, you noticed the body was essentially a torso. One leg shorter than the other, you let out a shuddered gasp as you stumbled for support. Finally, your leg gave up, letting you and the body drop against the wall with a thud, what remained of his legs getting caught between yours slightly . "Ah! I am s-so fuckin' sorry sir!", nothing. You got back up shakily, moving the person around awkwardly until he was resting in your arms, part of his chest resting against yours. 

You had no idea where to begin, leaving the ship had been a pain in it of itself but you barely remembered CPR procedures, let alone any actual medical practices. For now you carefully redressed the body as you could and waited, making sure not to jostle it too much and slid a pillow under his head. He twitched slightly, you ignored it. Going about your organization of the items. You felt shitty pocketing someone's Gameboy, but you at least hoped the owner would've been proud it got to be enjoyed again...maybe. You had also decided to grab some of the mouthwash as a joke, putting it in your bathroom alongside one of the first aid kits. Some cute Pony Express safety posters now also blessed your sleeping pod and main work space.

You smiled, moving through the rest of the haul, until a series of weak croaks and groans made you jump, whipping to return to first aid over the finally awake body. "S-sorry 'bout that bud!", you turned to consult him. Turning around to fumble with the first aid kit as he began to writhe, "alright alright cool it!". You hesitantly let a few pain killers slip into your hand as you attempted to drop them in, his mouth remained shut. Your fingers padded delicately against his jaw. "What's wrong?".

He stayed silent, you sighed, putting the pills on the side of the bed, you made your way to the sink. You were honestly amazed you hadn't considered this before, then again you were the kind of madman to dry swallow anything that was smaller than a penny before. You placed the cup to one side and put the pills near it. Turning to watch your patient, he seemed somewhat antsy over the meds. "Look I'd rather bring a living person back if that's ok so...". He remained tense, jerking his head around as you tried to hold it. "So you don't like it when I touch ya...".

You lent down to meet his eye, your gaze softening. "I promise to be gentle 'kay? Just...". You faltered, you didn't know how to approach this. He watched in paranoid silence. "I'll be careful ok, if I hurt you I won't prod any further". He stayed silent, a feverish wheeze punctuating the silence. Finally, his mouth cracked open slightly, your fingers carefully sliding the pills far back down his throat, a trickle of  water washed them down more as you lifted his head slightly. Finally he relaxed, you let him rest back on the pillow as you sat back, "y'good now?" he choked out an affirmation. 

You sighed, you knew what this meant, instant u turn to Earth, you let him be as you went back to alter your course. An automated voice confirmed your command as you went back to the medical bay. The man continued to stare at the wall, watching your own T.V windows in a daze. You lent against the wall, letting your arms fold over themselves. You watched silently, he didn't seem to be in any additional pain aside from the burns. You couldn't help but feel slight guilt over his  bloodied gown, not wanting to remove for fear of hurting him. You faked a cough to get his attention. His bloodshot eye turned to watch you, slightly panicked, as you made your way to the chair once again.

  "Set a course t' take us back to Earth...this is way too outta my hands for me to do anything. If you need anything though I won't be too busy". The unblinking eye burrowed into your lazy gaze as you stifled another cough. "I'll let you be then-". The stub of his arm had moved towards your resting elbow. It flinched away on instinct before hesitantly moving back. Carefully, you let it rest against the stub. "Guess it's been a while huh? S-speaking to anyone I mean". He let out a groaned sigh (you assumed at least) of longing. You nodded solemnly, "Y'want me to sleep here for the night then?". You left before he could answer, grabbing a sleeping bag from within your wardrobe and  returned, cosying it against the medical bed. 

The soft glow of the artificial moon now seeped into the room as you went through your nightly tasks, sorting anything else you had forgotten. You let your jumpsuit soak in the washroom as you cleaned up, returning to the medical bay just as you watched the torso flop onto your sleeping bag. You trotted over and helped him back up carefully, holding him once again in your arms, "you good?!". He squirmed in your arms, hugging your chest whilst his head burrowed into your neck, almost avoiding eye contact with the bed. 

"Damn bud w-what...". You sighed weakly. Moving him back onto the bed as you grabbed your sleeping bag to form a makeshift blanket over you. Pulling the chair close enough, you struggled to hop over the man so you were facing the window. You couldn't help but sleepily close your eyes. The man shuddered again, you turned to face his back, letting your hand rest delicately against it. He winced, your hand retracted just as quick. Struggling to pull your head against the pillow properly, you found yourself rambling. "Y'know...I kinda like the beds here better than the ones in the sleeping bay". You chuckled slightly as you continued, "way nicer". 

Your eyes shifted to watch the breathing of the man. His movements ragged and visceral, you hesitated. Resting a hand against the fabric of his gown. He jolted, a sharp dry shriek of pain, your hand retracted. "S-sorry! S...so it...hurts less with the painkillers?". A faint grunt that confirmed your question. You nodded, turning once again as to not stress him. A faint comment seemed to grab your attention, 's...stars...'. You hummed in agreement, you didn't remember why you felt the urge to douse the medical bay in glow in the dark stickers, but you supposed it made you feel more comfortable. "I like 'em". Your voice was softer, almost light as you began to slip deeper into a sleepy lull. 

You shuffled slightly in your sleep, pressing up against the wall as the figure turned. Your eye slid open, meeting the glistening bloodshot view of him. You flinched, a mirrored response as you let out a breathy chuckle, "asshole". You laid on your back, watching the false stars shine softly overhead. "Gotta be hard to sleep though...". Your arms folded under your head, propping it up tightly as to not touch the flesh beside you. "I got a sleep mask if that helps...". He continued watching, an unreadable gaze that irked you slightly. "Can I...I know this sounds stupid, but...". You got up. 

Dragging the sleeping bag along, you flicked the nearby table lamp on. Looming over the now frozen form of your pseudo patient, he immediately began to writhe, bucking in fear as he watched your hands. You paused, relaxing your shoulders, you rested your hand onto his jaw, your cold fingers ghosting over his burned cheek. You could've sworn his cheek weighted slightly into the curve of your palm for a bit. Carefully, you re adjusted the pillow under the his head, before cautiously scooping him back into your arms.

Carefully, so carefully, you zipped him just enough into the sleeping bag. The thick padding seeming to muffle most of your contact with him. You couldn't help but let out a proud scoff, moving back to the window as you watched him wriggle slightly. "Feelin' better?". No comment, you smiled softly. "Y'know, I never managed to get your name". It took a bit before you got an answer, albeit punctuated by infrequent wheezes. "Curly...kinda ironic now huh". Another unamused grunt retorted your quip.  You slipped closer, your chest  resting against him tenderly. You lay there for a bit once again, the cold groaning of your own ship echoing slightly as you lay. Some stupid part of your brain finally kicked in when you embraced him, wrapping your arms around his chest. He writhed under your embrace. Attempting to free himself, his back spasmed and a series of frantic wheezings escaped his weak jaw. You hushed him slightly, nuzzling your head into his padded chest. "It's ok...you're ok...". You continued to soothe him softly.  He froze, sighed pathetically after a while, the fatigue finally sinking in for him, resting his chin softly against your neck. Your grip remained soft, gently reassuring him he was safe.

He was going home.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

2 months 29 days before reaching Earth. 

You frowned from your calculator to your pile of perceived valuables. Just under $90 in estimated value. Sighing, you put the calculator back to one side and slumped forward, cradling your head between your hands. You were already struggling with keeping Curly alive long enough before you reached Earth. Your own quantity of painkillers now dwindling. His state and breathing getting more ragged and feeble.

Some morbid part of you considered killing him in a twisted form of sympathy. I mean, you were almost always alone in space, you hadn't alerted that many people to your plight aside from a friend's lawyer for a legal chew out on what remained of Pony Express, and an awaiting hospital. Your hands physically coiled at the very concept. You'd done this on a whim, letting out a quivering huff, you returned to your own miniature dining area.

The table was one you had managed to save from wood rot, and it was sure as hell obvious. Some of the new legs looked to be from different makes, despite a fresh coat of wood dye. Curly sat on one side, you felt bad just letting him wither in bed all day, allowing him to move from space to space kept him somewhat upbeat. Even letting him sit next to you on your usual naps in the cockpit.

He seemed to be as frail as you felt, still wheezing pathetically, staring ahead whilst his mouth silently gasped. You moved over, his body shook ever so slightly, but relaxed once you pulled up the chair across from him.  Your fingers fiddled between each other in a grip. "We're running low on painkillers". Your tone dried, you felt stupid admitting it out loud but given how he could still react via often jerky movements. It felt like having a mute puppet living with you, one that at least seemed to acknowledge your small talks. "I'm not sure if this will affect anything but I might have to start cutting you down to one, just in case". 

His head turned away. You frowned weakly, "I'm sorry if this hurts but, I can't risk anything before we get back". He stayed silent, you looked out to where he was staring, the 'living room', two beaten sofas and a busted radio resting beside a small lamp, you had played a few songs for him already that he liked, he always preferred your softer ones over the more aggressive music you played during work (at least when you were alone), maybe... "We can relax if you want...", nothing. You wearily admitted defeat for once, "I'm....I'm going to sort a few things out if that's ok...". His arm moved towards yours, resting tenderly against yours for a bit. You cocked your head slightly, "I...I don't wanna sound corny but.. y-y'know if there's anything wrong you can tell me". 

He stayed silent, his ragged breathing filling the space as you waited hesitantly.

'Sc...a...red'. His voice almost sounded timid, "of what, going back?". No reply... you looked back down at his stub, you swore if he had hands he'd be frantically trying to grasp yours. "welp, I won't pry if you don't want-". You paused, both of his stubs rested against your arm now, almost trying to pull you back towards the chair. You looked back at him, for once he made direct eye contact, his burning gaze moistening slightly. Your mouth quivered, you felt your heart sink in weakness. Getting up slowly, he seemed desperate to keep you near. You beside him, what remained of his legs shifting slightly as you knelt next to him. 

Without saying anything you slowly rested your hands on what remained of his, your finger pads gently stroking them, he continued. An uncomfortable pathetic wheeze of a cry that made your heart ache for his unintelligible plight. "It's ok...", the same drying comfort. His already strained voicebox struggled as he let something slip. 'P...pl...ease...I'. You pulled him closer, his body slipping away from the chair slightly as you continued to console him. His arms rested at his sides, his voice quivering harder from the slight pain. He went limp, you froze. His breathing remained ragged against your ear. Your own breathing began to weaken, moving him back to the medic bay in a daze. You rested him rest gently on the bed as you checked him. 'he must've passed out from stress...'.

Finally, you gave up. Sitting back down on the chair and waiting for him to wake up. Once again, you got up after what felt like hours and sat back in your armchair, playing a random song.

1 month before reaching Earth. 

He seemed emotionally shell shocked, falling silent whenever you brought up himself. You tried to think of  any reasons on why but you assumed, still remembering the haunting scent of decay and iron on the ship, that he had witnessed something. You tried to keep his spirits up as well, still coming in to check on him with a friendly tone and playing songs for him. But he remained silent, you felt your stomach sink ever lower. Catching him wake up in a panic or trying to hide his gaze from the blazing warmth of the artificial sunset when it began to dip into the night. You managed somewhat to keep yourself going with something-anything else, but your mind continued to linger on him.

You found yourself resting against his bed as you dozed. The day had dragged harder than normal, not being able to get a full contact going with the hospital for any advice. Alongside the usual feeding of one pill causing Curly to nearly choke. You slept before him, too tired to move away.

His arm fidgeted near yours, his eye resting on your face. He watched. You shifted slightly, your head nestling further between your arms. His arm strained until it reached your head, petting the top of it gently as you slept. He turned away, looking up at the static moon that washed over the room in a melancholy light. She would've like you, he struggled to smile slightly at the notion. He was sure Daiskue would be ecstatic to know you had managed to beat his own high scores. His eye warbled slightly as tears began to trickle down his cheek at the thought. You shifted, he turned over to watch as you sat up, blearily rubbing your eye. "Guess I'll go back t'my room...". Your voice sounded softer than usual. 

His mind went blank, his voice hoarse as you began to make your way back to your roo- "d-don't go...". You almost screeched at how humanly coherent the voice was. Your head instinctively whipped back around into the room to a splutter of coughing and wheezing from Curly. "Y-you...". You slid back into the room, flicking the bedside lamp on, looking over him as he tried to maintain his breathing. "A-are you ok?!". He tried to maintain his breathing for a bit before nodding. You sat back down in your chair, almost feeling guilty for waiting so hopefully for another response. He motioned with an arm something. 

"You wanna talk?". He nodded, you smiled weakly. "Y'wanna nod?". He paused, sheepishly nodding with a small chuckle. You sighed, sitting beside him, "le'mme guess, you're annoyed you can't do much right now". He paused, his eye tracing your face before nodding. You smiled slightly, you hit him with a few light hearted ones first. Slowly building up the courage before you blurted out something that was gnawing at the back of your mind since his episode. "You don't want to talk about your crew but you feel terrible about them". 

He froze, then slowly nodded. "I'm also gonna assume you feel responsible even though your like this?". He stopped for a bit, looking back down at his hands before turning back and shaking his head slowly. That genuinely caught you off guard. Finally, you had a gut churning thought. "You feel responsible for not helping them because you got yourself like this?" His nodding began to grow timid, finally you got an answer. "But the burns aren't your fault?". He shook his head, "you did something wrong?". Another nod, you felt your chest heave as you made your biggest leap in assumptions. "Someone else did this didn't they? but you're talking the wrong blame". 

Your eye caught a near nod as he jerked upwards slightly. Once again, slumping back in bed. "Whatever you did, it's ok to feel guilty for. It's natural but...you can't blame yourself for another persons fuck up if they were in full control". He looked back to you, his eye once again wavering. He motioned for you to come closer, leaning in hesitantly for another hug. You stayed in his embrace for a bit until you had the same idea from when you first picked him up, once again writhing out of his embrace before moving back to the window. Slipping onto the bed alongside him as you continued your soft embrace. 

Your hands found themselves resting on his back, stroking his back delicately, you lulled yourself slightly into a sleepy daze. His strained, rapsy voice slipped out in-between the gentle strokes, but you understood what he said perfectly. 'I don't want to go back...I'm scared, please...you're the only thing I've been able to keep close for this long...I...I want you to hurt me, I...', he let out a slight wheeze of a laugh as he continued his gentle rambling. 'I want to know I've done wrong...to my crew...to my friend. I-I...I'm scared of facing what I've done". 

He motioned you to pull away for a bit. His eye fixating indefinably on your face. Your brain did it again, another stupid impulse as you melted into the rotten kiss he suddenly pulled you into, your lips struggling to stay gentle against his vulnerable teeth and flesh. 

'please...'. He panted his plea out weakly between the moment. 'T...take me away'. You almost nodded, before realising what that would mean, you pulled away, looking into his soft gaze. "I-I can't...I told you...you can't be responsible for everything, but...but you have to own up to what you've done, I swear I won't let the world see you if it's too much, I promise".

You raised a pinky and let it dink delicately against his nub of an arm as his embrace weakened. "You're ok, I told you before...", your voice lightened with a small smile. "You're going to be ok". 

0 months 1 day from destination.

[orphiclovers]

Ya ever think Pre-Scenarios Yoo Joonghyuk went to church / ya think Yoo Joonghyuk has catholic guilt?

You would never get asked questions like this on any other site. Gotta love tumblr. And of COURSE I have thoughts on this that I will ramble on in great detail.

In general, I always try to be careful to not accidentally project my western understanding onto things with a different cultural context. Especially in regards to things like Christianity, since it’s not universal and…idk it would feel inaccurate to ascribe it to characters who wouldn’t realistically encounter it themselves? Not that you can’t, but I personally try not to. That's irrelevant with ORV though, they literally made the biblical Garden of Eden be a place YJH has been shirtless in. So I’m just going to go ahead and assume that all the Christian motifs I find are intentional and fair game lol

I’ll start with your second question: KDJ’s the one with the catholic guilt, not YJH. YJH has something much more sinister going on.

He gets two main monikers in canon - ‘Pilgrim of The Lonely Apocalypse’ and ‘Puppet of The Oldest Dream.’ In ORV your moniker basically reveals what your ‘story’ is all about. These two names are supposed to show what Yoo Joonghyuk represents, and my thoughts there are…

1. Puppet of the Oldest Dream

He’s the incarnation of the all-seeing and all-knowing god that created the world. 

What I’m saying is, he's a Jesus figure, alright? HEAR ME OUT. He is cursed to walk the world and suffer eternally to bring salvation to one man - at the end it's revealed that he willingly chooses to bear this burden (talking about 0th here). It’s that classic scapegoat story, bearing the sins of the world to save everyone else, but he's also choosing to do this, despite knowing it will be awful.

At the end of his regressions, when he breaks free of his chains, stops being a puppet, he finds himself lost and missing their weight. He had a terrible purpose in regression - without it, he's meaningless again.

2. As Pilgrim of the Lonely Apocalypse

He's literally called a ‘pilgrim’ - someone who goes on a journey to find god. Catholic guilt is about thinking you deserve to suffer for some perceived sins, but Yoo Joonghyuk already is in Hell. ‘Hell of Eternity’ specifically, which manifests with the Christian imagery of fire and brimstone. His ‘journey to find God’ takes him through a world of unimaginable pain and cruelty that he has to somehow find meaning in. (Both YJH and SP have different answers on what that meaning is in different points in their life. )

Needless to say, he has A LOT of imagery associated with religion.

On a more personal level, YJH is motivated by this ceaseless search for the meaning of his own existence. There's the extra layer there that he knows instinctively he was put on this earth for some grand reason, only no one ever tells him what it is. He’s cast into the world without memories and has to stumble through life blind, just like the rest of us. He desperately seeks someone who can tell him what he’s supposed to do, parent, god, prophet or anyone else. (Basically, he's an edgy atheist teenager.)

That’s why he never reaches his ‘▪️▪️’ - the cruel thing is that he can’t ever truly find his purpose, because he is driven by having an unreachable goal.

To answer your first question: Pre-scenarios Yoo Joonghyuk is busy trying to survive his shitty job and taking care of Mia. He doesn't have time for church or having a life or anything. All he can do is daydream of one day finding whoever created him and gave him life. He puts all his hopes on getting enough money to hire a private investigator and keeping this single goal in mind for years. 

He will meet his parents and they will tell him what he’s supposed to do right? The really fucked up thing is, he does eventually get there.

The investigators give him an address, which he visits but finds only an empty house. On the way back, he has a little bit of an existential crisis and starts really thinking about it all. even thinks the classic YJH ‘who am I?’ Then, not even one second later, THE FUCKING APOCALYPSE STARTS. THERE’S HIS ANSWER I GUESS!!!!!

[mykneeshurt]

Pray

Image by - emmakatka on Flickr

Priest AU

Father Keegan Russ x AFAB!reader

Warnings - 18+, minors DNI, explicit smut Heavy use of religious imagery, sexualising religion (Christianity/Roman Catholicism), so much smut and blasphemy, all chapters are explicit but all consensual

A/N - I’ve kept this as AFAB as there are no pronouns used, however you are a nun. Which is a female vocation, so if this needs to be changed to female please let me know! This was inspired by joyceartworks on instagram, her nun series is one of my favourite pieces of artwork.

———

You stepped off the coach, into a small beaten up town in the middle of the Appalachians. It was late afternoon, verging on evening as the sun set behind the mountain range in the distance. The trees were starting to turn, in front of you was a beautiful valley, filled with reds, oranges, browns as the autumn took hold of the sleepy town. The town looked run down, eerily quiet even. Holding the tunic of your habit you fought against the strong breeze which suffocated the town.

A white church sat in a field opposite the coach stop, rotting in the deafening silence of the misty mountain town. Gravestones littered the perimeter, each one covered in moss, crumbling back into the earth. A sign next to it read ‘Jesus is Lord. He is coming soon. Repent.’ This would be your home for the next few months, your Reverend Mother had sent you here for your next mission.

‘Help Father Keegan Russ with the souls of the damned.’

You’d met him briefly before on a few occasions, and ever since his piercing ice grey eyes had lingered in your mind. The smirk he gave you when he shook your hand still kissed your skin and the heat from his gaze still penetrated your core. He was going to test your faith, that you knew for certain.

As you entered the church the door closed behind you with a thud. The old wood barely hanging onto life with each use. The floor was stained a dark cherry colour, with stark contrasting white walls. Cracks crept along the structure, the wooden floor creaking beneath your feet with each step. A huge cross loomed over the alter, also a deep cherry colour.

Darkness soon slithered through the windows of the Church, a cool draft following it. The pre-lit candles on the walls illuminated the room with a golden glow, shadows danced in the dark corners where the light refused to touch. Each flame danced with the chill that filled the old building.

A door opening at the side of the altar made you jump. Clutching your chest you spun around only to see Father Russ emerge from his quarters. ‘Ah! You’re here!’ He bellowed as he approached you. He was dressed in all black, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his Roman collar contrasting perfectly against his shirt. It made his eyes pop even more. Almost hypnotising.

Grabbing your suitcase he gestured for you to follow him, both pairs of footsteps echoed in the empty church as he led you to his quarters. You instantly felt the energy shift, his presence permeated your being, not even the rosary you wore could keep him away.

He showed you around his quarters and to your room, which was adjacent to his own. A simple bed, desk and wardrobe adorned your room. A dull orange glow emanated from the single light in the centre of the room. Dropping your suitcase down he leant against the door frame. ‘Dinner will be ready soon, why don’t you get freshened up. We can eat then I’ll show you the Church and go through what your duties will be.’

You nodded, giving him a warm smile. But not before casting your eyes over his body, you tried to fight it but you were drawn to him. His biceps bulged under his black shirt, his broad frame nearly filled the door frame, accentuated by his small waist, only adding to his impressive physique.

———

Sometime later there was a knock at your door, opening it you were met with him. An embarrassed look on his face. ‘Father Russ? Is everything ok?’ You asked, trying to fight the heat that bubbled to the surface. ‘Change of plan. I’ll show you the Church now, I forgot to turn the stove on.’ He admitted whilst scratching the back of his neck. Giggling you gave him a bright smile ‘ok, lead the way Father.’

He showed you the confessional booth, where the hymn books were kept, and took you through your duties whilst you stayed here. Sitting on the altar steps you exchanged pleasant conversation, he sat close to you. Thighs spread as he leant on them, watching you from the corner of his eye. ‘Would you like to pray before dinner?’ He offered, as he shifted his posture.

‘Yes Father.’

‘Kneel’ he ordered before he got to his feet. Doing as you were told you knelt before the altar, hands clasped around your rosary. He brought forward the Ciborium, a simple golden cup which held the host. You looked up at him through your lashes, eager to please the man before you. Eager to please God.

Standing over you he peered down into your eyes, an invisible force pulling you deeper and deeper into the temptation of sin. You tried to rid your mind of the impure thoughts that plagued you, you tried to focus on Gods words, you tried to ignore the primal feeling that surged within your core.

God how you tried.

Releasing his hand from the cup he traced his thumb along your bottom lip, along your jaw. ‘May God keep you in enternal life’ he muttered as he pulled your jaw open. You were the picture of innocence, on your knees, doe like eyes, mouth open ready to receive the body of Christ.

But within than innocence a deep wickedness hid within the shadows.

His eyes lit up as he noticed your tongue piercing, ‘and what’s this?’ He asked as he cocked his head to the side, thumb still burning on your lip. Your face changed, from an innocent lamb to a wolf in sheep’s clothing. ‘What the Reverend Mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her’ you purred as you gently kissed the pad of his thumb.

You watched as his breath caught in his chest. Maybe God sent you here to test him. A test you hoped he’d fail.

He placed the host gently on your tongue and watched has it melted in your mouth. You kept your focus purely on him as you swallowed, slowly. Biting your lip as you rose to your feet. You were mere inches away from each other, the empty space in between you bursting with energy.

Reaching down you picked up the host, he raised a brow ‘you know you shouldn’t be touching that.’

‘Better to ask for forgiveness than for permission, maybe you should take it back’ you quipped as you placed it on your tongue. Pulling him in by his belt his body slammed into yours.

He regarded you for a second, battling with God, battling with his faith.

Eventually he snaked his hand around your neck pulling you into a kiss, using your tongue you moved the host from your mouth to his. Using your neck he pulled you deeper, closer. Your hands still lingered on his belt, feeling his erection grow beneath the fabric.

You pulled away and watched as he swallowed the host. You searched his icy eyes, the windows to his soul. While his face remained stoic, his eyes had a glint to them. A twinkle. Much like your own. Both of you in this moment wanting to test your God, wanting to give into this sin of lust, wanting to bite the apple.

He moved first, pushing you against the altar. He lifted you onto it with ease, pushing his lips onto yours, unrelenting, unforgiving, all consuming. You kissed him back, arms wrapped around his neck as he laid you down. His hands slipped under your habit, mapping your body beneath your clothes.

Palming at your breasts he felt the unmistakeable presence of a nipple piecing. He groaned into your mouth at his finding, rolling his hips into you. His hard cock slowly rubbed against your cunt as he held your waist, fingertips threatening to bruise your skin. Nipping at his bottom lip he pulled away, ‘I knew God was testing me when he sent you to me’ he smiled.

‘Mmm’ you hummed as you cupped his jaw, ‘seems like we’ve both failed.’

Sitting up you pulled at his belt, desperately trying to get to what you wanted. Hiking up your habit skirt he pulled down your tights, finding beneath them lace adorned panties. ‘God’ he whimpered, already feeling how wet you were for him. ‘Don’t take the lords name in vain Father’ you smirked. He ran a finger along your slit causing a sharp moan to burst from your chest.

Placing his forehead against yours he inhaled your moans of pleasure as he inserted his finger. Cradling the back of your head he held you close, whispering words of praise, words of adoration.

Gazing into his eyes your pupils were blown wide with pleasure, breath heavy and thick as he added another finger. ‘Don’t stop Father, please’ you muttered under a strained breath. Thrusting his fingers in and out of your pussy, you said a silent prayer to yourself. Begging God forgiveness, begging him to let you cum.

‘Take me Father, take me here, in front of him, in front of his angels, in front of his cross’ you pleaded, gripping onto his shirt, his neck. He removed his fingers, watching as they glistened in the golden light of the Church. Placing them on his tongue he savoured your taste, his once icy grey eyes now a river of black. ‘Divine’ he whispered beneath his breath.

Unbuckling his belt he released his painfully erect cock, and lined it up to your entrance. With one smooth thrust he pushed into you, leaving you gasping for air at his stretch. ‘Yes Father’ you whined as he pulled your hips off the alter forcing you to wrap your legs around him. Each movement was calculated and swift, adoring rather than punishing.

You leant back onto the alter, eyes fixed on the cross as he fucked you. He watched as you bit your lip, as you gripped the white linen between your fingers, as your eyes rolled. He’d wanted this since the first time he’d met you, spending many a night cock in his hand thinking of you. Thinking of your taste.

It was better than the host.

It was better than the sacramental wine.

Better than forgiveness.

Better than God.

Soft whines fell from your lips as his breathlessness hung in the air. Each slap of skin rung out in the Church, each thrust begged for forgiveness, begged for redemption. He knew he’d spend the rest of his life begging God for absolution of he could keep his cock buried in your perfect cunt.

‘Pray for me Father. Pray for us’ you managed to ask, in between your pants and whines. Pulling out he quickly repositioned you, your back arched against him as he held your throat to his shoulder. Slipping inside you once more as he hovered above your lips.

‘Soul of Christ, sanctify me’ he began … ‘body of Christ, save me - thrust - Blood of Christ, inebriate me; - thrust - Water from the side of Christ, wash me; - thrust - Passion of Christ, strengthen me’ he whispered, his breath tickling your lips. His eyes transfixed on yours, his words being absorbed into your skin.

‘O good Jesus hear me; Within your wounds hide me;’ he said as he added a finger to your clit. ‘Separated from you, let me never be; From the evil one protect me’ he emphasised the word evil as he added more pressure to your clit. You moaned into his mouth, providing him with the very oxygen he needed to live.

‘At the hour of my death, call me; and close to you bid me; That with your saints, I may be praising you forever and ever. Amen.’ As he finished the prayer your orgasm washed over you like a blinding light, your muscles constricted, wound tightly as if round a tree. Your eyes screwed shut as the intense wave of pleasure made you ascend.

He held you close to him still, watching as your face contorted with the ultimate pleasure of lust. His fingers still lightly brushed over your sensitive clit, making you buck from overstimulation. He was close. But this isn’t how he wanted you.

His thrusts slowed as he kissed you, slowly releasing your neck and finally pulling out of you. Breaking the kiss he placed his fingers in your mouth, you ran your tongue over his fingers. ‘Kneel’ he whispered just like he did before. A sign of reverence. Except this time he used his fingers in your mouth to push you down, guiding you.

Kneeling before him your clasped your hands once more watching as he pumped his cock before you. Biting your lip you recited your own prayer. ‘I’m truly sorry for all my sins. Please fill me with your grace.’ After the final word you stuck your tongue out, the silver piercing in clear view. He caressed your jaw as he neared his high, soft whimpers and grunts rang in your ears as he came into your mouth, onto your tongue.

The silky white fluid ran to the back of your throat as you swallowed eagerly. Not wanting to waste a drop. Not wanting displease his holiness, instead wanting to show your devotion to him. His face was flushed as he lifted his head, smiling down on you as he tucked himself away. Giving you his hand he helped you up, kissing you one last time, ‘I fear we may really have to beg for forgiveness for this’ he smirked.

‘Oh I’m counting on it Father.’

—————

A/N - I fucking love Appalachian gothic/mid west gothic it has my heart

Taglist - @tiredmetalenthusiast @glitterypirateduck @lollycotton @00ops1e @cowyolks @soapyghost @dontfearthereaperazura @ghostslillady @luminousbeings-crudematter @villainsoftheweek

[conceptofjoy]

I wonder if people would sorta see them like Jesus and Judas. And then start shipping them. Pov you're already having intimacy issues and then you go online and people are shipping religious versions of yourselves together with a ton of symbolism and attention to detail

akehdnjf it doesnt help that a lot of it is completely made up so its not even like they can be self reflective about it. it just wigs them out. also yes like jesus and judas is the way to explain any homoerotic imagery.

Why the FUCK is he the one forgiving ME? < depicted as the intrusive thought demon on dirk’s shoulder who eventually grew legs and scurried off.

… <unsettled by religious art of him attempting to kill hal (NO ONE besides the two of them know, this was just something that showed up over time in lore organically)

[lemon-natalia]

Nona the Ninth Reaction - John 15:23

the imagery of the numbered days, specifically three days, seems very biblical to me, and John’s discovery of necromancy and eventual resurrection of the Nine Houses seems to tie in a lot to how the Gospel of John features the resurrection of Lazarus, and Jesus’s death & resurrection. i also find it very interesting that it was A— who was the first to believe him apparently 

and his eyes have now changed to that yellow colour that will eventually be Alecto’s. characters really weren’t just being dramatic when they said Gideon or Alecto’s eyes were golden, they really are some weird unearthly shade. 

listen objectively I knew that this is set sometime in our (present-day) future, but C— describing Twilight as an old movie is something else

and he and the narrator (Harrow? Alecto? Halecto??) are hiking through some kind of destruction, cars and other man-made objects being submerged in water, presumably caused by the apocalypse. where exactly are they headed hmm

poor C—, some random lawyer whose ended up getting involved in all these crazy scientists weird experiments on non-rotting dead bodies

‘I only wanted to be with my bodies’ haha John what the fuck

ooh and the way John describes these newfound powers and having heightened senses of sound and people and animals is very similar to the way Harrow experienced Lyctorhood, being able to sense everyone on the Erebos’s hearts. i also find it intriguing that the other similarity to gaining Lyctorhood here is the previously mentioned eye colour change … not entirely certain what it could mean, its not exactly the same as they haven’t changed colours completely. but there has definitely been some kind of change to his soul 

okay, Ulysses and Titania were the later names of some of the other Lyctors - I’m guessing John renamed everyone after the Resurrection, and just kept those? also he named Ulysses after a dog? poor Ulysses. also also apparently dogs are a running theme in this book as well??

and oh shit he finally has properly discovered necromancy. not just the ability to preserve dead bodies, but to puppet them around, just like Harrow later does with her parents. also John is very casual about it here, but the imagery of him just uncontrollably laughing while remotely moving around dead bodies is … disturbing. no wonder M— threw up. 

And so far the coded message reads: ‘THE/TOW’. i suppose it could be ‘the to [word beginning with w]’ but i don’t think that would make much grammatical sense? unless its something very abstract

[soukokucchi]

There is no way Fyodor is dead. I don't believe that Fyodor would die just like that. It doesn't help that his final words are "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?"—this is the same words Jesus uttered during his final hours when he was crucified. This was also accompanied with religious imagery and music. Perhaps, this implies some sort of resurrection after his death and he will come back again to fulfill his mission.

Also, we still don't know anything about his ability except for a few snippets of it, but they don't explain how exactly it works. There is also a popular theory that Fyodor is immortal mostly because of what we have seen in Dead Apple regarding his ability. This seems to be likely especially knowing about his final words. We also don't know what happened during the "information exchange" between Sigma and Fyodor. What did Fyodor get out of it to the point that he is willing to tell Sigma his secrets?

I think that it is too anticlimactic for the main villain to die just like that. I am inclined to believe that this is not the last time we will be seeing him especially when, aside from the lack of information regarding his ability, we don't even know anything about his back story. Why does he want to use the Book to erase all the abilities? It doesn't make sense to me to end it just like that. I also find it very out of character for Fyodor to simply accept his death because anyone who doesn't know the taste of defeat is more likely to be angry and frustrated during their final moments. It almost felt like it was not real. That there was something more going on behind that.

Lastly, I want to believe that Fyodor would have not been shortsighted towards Dazai's plans as implied in the scenes—he would have predicted that this will happen and made a backup plan in case Dazai succeeded and he failed. Maybe, in later chapters or arcs, we will get a grand reveal of Fyodor's ability and him coming back to fight the others once again. Honestly, I don't think this would count as a defeat yet for Fyodor, especially if he ends up alive, but rather a means to an end. It would be a waste of a good character and lazy writing to kill him off this time around.

[artist-issues]

idk anything about 21 pilots, but you talk about them a lot and they seem cool!! Who are they and what are they about and where do i get started in their music 😁

GIRL

These kinds of questions make me so happy. People who know me in real life organically ask me to talk about movies and stuff sometimes, but never bands, and when they find out I like twenty one pilots, never them 😂

Anyway,

Twenty one pilots is a roughly 15 year-old band led by Tyler Joseph, who used to be an intern at Five14 Church (New Albany Church) in Columbus, Ohio, and a rising basketball star in his schooling. Then, my understanding is, he taught himself how to play piano, got interested in/wrote songs during his senior year of high school, and then eventually dropped out of college to pursue making music full time. The band is named after a play by Arthur Miller called “All My Sons.” Tyler Joseph studied it in school—he was inspired by the plot of having to make a hard decision that ultimately costs lives…and you can hear through all the songs the sense of urgency, and the way the lead singer is convinced that every single choice you make can have dire consequences.

At the start of the band, it had him and two other members. Their first album is called “Twenty One Pilots,” and it has sick album art that everybody loves:

The band played local shows (like in literal houses and backyards and stuff) and were mostly performing songs from this album. My favorite twenty one pilots song is on this album: it’s called Addict With a Pen.

(Specifically, my favorite is this version of him performing it live several years after its release, which I saw after returning from the camp where I got saved.)

In those early years, twenty one pilots performed songs off of Self-Titled. But they also did a few that Tyler Joseph wrote independently, the ones not featured on the album.

One of the songs that he wrote that isn’t on this album was written when he was in high school before he had a band. It’s called “Save.” He probably recorded it in the early 2000s, but if I don’t have my years mixed up, I didn’t hear that song until I was 14-turning-15 in the year 2011. And it, along with another song of his called “Clear,” played with it, was the first song I ever heard by twenty one pilots. I heard it the week I gave my life to Christ. Save is a gut-scream song about the need to be saved. It’s hard to listen to. But in the context I heard it in, I needed to be hearing the idea of “needing salvation” in that extreme and real of a voice. So I love it.

Clear is about Tyler Joseph’s struggle with trying to figure out if it’s better to get people thinking with cryptic lyrics about their need for a savior—OR should he just come out and say, “I’m a Christian, I believe Jesus Christ is what you need, please believe in Him like I did?” He winds up settling on the first option (sometimes I wish he hadn’t) and “telling the audience what he can,” and not pushing it on them when they “let him know when they’ve had enough.”

Clear planted the germs in my brain that led to me considering art, and then storytelling as a tool to deliver hard truth “under the eyes of watchful dragons.” He talks about the concept of Romans 7 using the philosophy of disguising his words, like in Clear, in this interview, which, when I saw the part at about 9 minutes, made me start paying attention to Tyler Joseph as a person instead of just listening to his music.

Anyway. Back to the band.

One of these independent songs, NOT on the original album of the band, was called “Time to Say Goodbye,” and it has a pretty intense ‘cycle of knowing you’re messed up (like really messed up. suicide attempt and purposeless darkness levels of messed up) -> unable to fix it on your own -> trying anyway -> failing -> driven to accept Christ’s ability to kill the old you so you can live for something bigger than your messed-up self’ concept in the lyrics.

That whole progression, the “Romans 7 Progression,” I think of it as, winds up being one of the strongest recurring themes in every album afterward.

But I bring it up because the legend is, when performing that song, Time to Say Goodbye, at a little venue, Josh Dun, who already had some experience drumming in a different Christian band, saw twenty one pilots for the first time. And he thought the song and Tyler were brilliant. The current drummer of the band introduced him to Tyler, and when everybody in the band except Tyler quit, Josh Dun quit his job with no fallback plan and became the drummer of twenty one pilots. Since then, they have been a two-man band.

They have their own genre, because they’re both self-taught, and one of the identifying factors of the band is that both Josh Dun and Tyler Joseph are intensely opposed to giving in to the draw of “Fame” or “Success.” They stubbornly insist that they just make music they like. Whatever, that’s not unique, lots of bands are punk rock and go “fight the power, we don’t care what anybody thinks, etc.”

But then you listen to Tyler Joseph adding screamo and ukulele and rap over…like, church-piano, and you hear him say things like, “I just rap because I needed to fit a lot of words in, and also my brother likes fast rap.” and you go, “oh. They meant it. They don’t know how any of this works and they just do what they like.”

Especially in their early stuff.

I “got into” twenty one pilots in the year 2011. That’s the same year they signed to a record label. They produced what I think is their best album, “Vessel,” (nobody agrees with me.)

I could break down every song on the album but nobody wants that and nobody would read it, so I’ll just say; it has deeper exploration of the band’s same themes:

Be Introspective - All the time, the lead singer is writing lyrics that urgently explore the dark corners of his own fear, doubt, and insecurity—and then he flips it around and begs his listeners to be introspective, too, because “there’s something you desperately need.” It’s this idea of not running from your emotions, but letting them drive you to what you need. (He’s never clear about what that is, though, beyond the general word “faith.”)

Focus on Your Purpose - They insist that being introspective should lead to picking what you believe, and living it out to make the most of your time.

What Music Should Be For - The lyrics are all about how music should be used to fight darkness, because it can be exorcism of your inner demons, and a rallying cry to gather around and show you that you’re not the only person who has demons. With that in mind, the band is consistently opposed to “heartless,” “mindless” music that’s just there to make you dance or indulge.

Peace Wins, Fear Loses - This theme is where they usually get closest to their Christian roots. The pattern, like I said, is the Romans 7 Cycle: I’m afraid of who I am because the digger I deep, the darker and crazier I am…but I don’t have to act on that fear. I can just throw myself at the mercy of…._____ which brings peace. Peace wins, fear loses. (After signing to the record label, Tyler Joseph went full-on into the idea in Clear of never saying point-blank that Jesus is the answer. He hints and alludes. But from that moment on, he disguises Biblical principles in zombie-and-darkness metaphors. And he hasn’t stopped doing that since 2011.)

Doubt - A recurring theme that actually has nothing to do with the audience is “doubt.” Tyler Joseph exorcises his issues with not being able to physically see God, and doubting His existence (usually because of a lack of feeling), or doubting His ability to wash Tyler clean, in his songs. All the time. Just…constantly. He sings about it so often. Which, on the one hand, is cool, because many Christian artists sing about the resolve to have faith in the face of doubt. They don’t sing so much about the feeling and the addiction to doubt that comes with doubt. If that makes sense. But on the other hand, that’s not cool—because when you only talk about the fact that you have doubts, but you don’t ever resolve them, then what you’re doing is you’re constantly rolling around in the problem without ever introducing the solution.

It’s worth noting that I think their very best song of all time is on this album, and it’s “Holding Onto You.”

It’s their full Romans 7 Cycle in a way that addresses doubt, too. The imagery is everything I love about twenty one pilots, which I would sum up as:

“Use dark imagery to prove how defeatable darkness can be.”

I like that kind of imagery for the same reasons I like Halloween.

People started noticing the band, mainstream, worldwide, in 2015, though. When they released “Blurryface.”

They did it in such a cool way. The band loves giving their fans a sense of “uncovering” what they’re doing next. That gives the fans a sense of ownership—like they’re a part of what the band is creating. And, it makes them want to investigate the concepts in the songs—which is one step closer to examining what they believe. Organically.

Anyway. They accomplished this before Blurryface, is I remember correctly, by making a Twitter account for this mysterious character. They’d livestream Tyler and Josh from the perspective of an unseen, loudly breathing third person. Or the feed would just be a dark shot of the woods. No explanations. At one point I think I remember “he” even started “hacking” popular fans’ accounts and making posts in-character. He always spells things in all caps, with words misspelled or smashed together. And he’d tease new songs that would be on the new album.

And then, BAM, Blurryface the album drops, and it’s a smash hit. Every single song. The band had never seen that level of success before, and all of it is very ironic, because the album concept is this: “Tyler Joseph puts a name to his Insecurities, who want him dead, and battles them.”

So the whole “album cycle,” and all through tour, Tyler Joseph wears inky black paint on his hands and throat, because anxiety gives him the feeling of suffocating. Red is also the signature color of the character representing his dark side, his insecurity: “Blurryface.”

Twenty one pilots have been very intentionally deciding what shirts they wear and what visuals they use from the beginning. Josh was always wearing something alien-associated, and Tyler was always something undead, for example. But this was a whole other level of performance art. During concerts, Tyler Joseph would start out wearing his black paint thick around his neck and hands. But as the live show went on, naturally because of sweat, the paint would get thinner and thinner. So by the end of the show, the feeling is that “Blurryface” has been defeated.

I made a huge post about ranking the Blurryface songs, if you ever have nothing to do for an absurd amount of time and feel like listening to the songs. But those songs are what most people know twenty one pilots by.

Then they took an intensely long hiatus, (I mean. One year of no public appearances.) after the success of Blurryface. I remember wondering if they were ever going to make music again, and thinking “maybe they’re the perfect band” because in my high-school-entering-college opinion, they’d never written a bad song or done anything remotely uncool or worth hating from 2009-2016, so if they never made music again they’d have gone out on top. Plus, at that point, Tyler had married, and, feeling a Christian kinship with him, I had a vague biased opinion that maybe he’d want to settle in with his family and quit the fame game.

But NO. They weren’t done! In 2018, the fans discovered this hidden website associated with the band, and you could read letters written by a new character named Clancy. They were about this whole new world Tyler Joseph created, called “Trench,” which consequently became the name of their next album. This was a full-blown concept album. It was a deeper exploration, not of the Romans 7 Cycle that always made me love their lyrics…but more like an exploration of “how do suicidal thoughts and self-focus captivate you, and what lies do they use…and can you ever really escape them?”

There was also a much tighter focus on suicide being the big idealogical villain, the antithesis, of the band. “Stay alive” and the topic of suicide were always discussed in the rest of the band’s songs. But the momentum of this album seemed very, very specifically targeted at the issue this time. There’s a whole song dedicated to it called Neon Gravestones in the smack middle of the album.

Which is great. I’m glad. It’s awesome. But it’s like…”what’s the answer?” Way back in “Time to Say Goodbye,” the answer is “replace physical life-taking with spiritual self-sacrifice and rebirth.” But Trench, and its whole concept, was specifically engineered to leave you with no clear answer to the problem presented.

Worst of all, Tyler Joseph mentioned, in his vague noncommittal way, that this album saw him flirting with the idea of “a world with no God” and “loss of faith.” But he never really said he wasn’t a Christian anymore, and songs like Morph seem to suggest the opposite.

Anyway. The album’s excellent “story,” with its notes of Shawshank Redemption and The Village and 1984 ended on a cliffhanger. The character Clancy kept trying to escape with the help of a rebellion, and kept getting captured, but he always had this sort of confused resolve to “keep going.”

The next album was weird. They flipped all of their usual imagery on it’s head, from marketing style choices to the literal clothes they wore to tiny things, like whether or not Tyler was standing on Josh’s left or Josh’s right in promotional material. And all of that was intentional. Which is why I’m obsessed with them.

I love this album because I love them and their intentionality. I don’t love it for any other reason; there’s nothing about this album that is “twenty one pilots” aside from what I just said; they are doing all of that reverse-psychology stuff intentionally. In-story, this is still a continuation of Trench; the idea is that Clancy has been captured and the whole album is propaganda from the villains. So that’s neat. But anyone who didn’t know that, and just remembered twenty one pilots from Stressed Out and punk rock were like, “what happened to twenty one pilots? What’s wrong with them?”

The album does this thing that they used to do a lot as like a meta-nod at music—they would make songs with upbeat melodies and happy sounds, but the lyrics would be about insecurity and darkness and doubt. They did that on purpose. But Scaled and Icy took that tongue-in-cheek style and made it the whole album. Plus, it released during COVID. So on top of all the chaos going on in the world, this band that usually releases music that slaps you upside the head and says, “THINK. THINK ABOUT HOW SELF-CONTRADICTORY YOU ARE. THINK ABOUT THE DARKNESS AND HOW TO GET OUT OF IT.” suddenly releases an album that’s more like, “Hey everything is fiiiine.”

This album is pretty godless. But again, this was also the album that has nothing to do with anything serious or real—on purpose—except in a reverse-psychology way. It was all on purpose.

Fast-forward to today. Clancy just released. It’s supposed to be the end of this “story” that started with Blurryface overtly, and the concepts that started in Vessel. Musically, concept-wise, it’s a return to form. They do that thing where they switch up the tempo when you’re not expecting it. You can’t pin it down to any one genre. There’s deep, dark imagery. And the story is back, not with hidden clues, but with in-your-face costumes and a music video for every song.

But the problem is, it won’t end. They said this was the end, and I thought, “if anything forces an artist to use clarity, it’s the end of a story. You have to commit to an ending. You have to say what you believe.” And that’s all I’ve been wishing would happen since 2017, when I started feeling less like “I relate to those dark thoughts and doubts,” and more like, “I’m worried about them.” Because clarity denotes security in what you believe. And the whole “battle” has been against insecurity. And to that extent, doubt.

It’s not happening, though. They released the last music video, and it really looks like the end of the story is, “and the cycle continues.” Now, there’s been hints that they’ll end the story after tour season, maybe by releasing an additional single, or some wishful thinkers are even saying “DELUXE ALBUM!!” But for now, it’s another cliffhanger-maybe-unsatisfying-ending.

The further away they’ve gotten from releasing the song “Clear,” the further away the focus seems to get from “darkness is defeatable.” And they left “it’s defeatable specifically by God” in the rear view mirror first.

And the thing is…I worry about that. Because it really looks like he’s just playing the field. That he started off with the intent to share Christ with people very genuinely, through the gift he was given in writing and music and even the gift he was given in struggling through darkness. And his strategy was, “I’ll use art to help people trust me, and then I’ll share what I’ve learned about the Truth (Jesus.)” But then…I mean, from the outside, it looks like they got popular. And they got popular by talking about their struggles. So how do I know he hasn’t just slipped into a cycle of doubting, then instead of letting brokenness and doubt drive him back to Christ, and pull others along with him, he sits in brokenness and doubt because he’s relying on the people who relate? He’s choosing to lean on crowds of people who feel the same way he does, cheering his songs back at him, as his support, when he used to lean on Christ?

And now he can’t even see his way back to what looked like (to me) the original intent—he says things like “I don’t think I’ll ever come out and say, ‘hey I found the answers, here they are, follow me,” in interviews. He skirts. He says, “stay alive, find your purpose, decide what you believe,” but he doesn’t say “here’s why you should stay alive, here’s what your purpose is, here’s what’s worth believing in, here’s where genuine life comes from.”

So now he gets to tell all his original (and several largely Christian) fans, “I haven’t abandoned Christ, I just struggle with doubt and I don’t want to alienate my friends (the point of the song Heathens.)” But he turns right around and says to his non-believing fan base, “I’m not telling you what to believe—in fact, maybe I’m not even sure of what I believe.”

And at some point, that stops being genuine. I think. I don’t think he’s reached the point where he’s not genuine yet. I don’t believe that of Tyler Joseph. I think he’s still not sure he wants to sing, with all the conviction it would take, about how Jesus is the ONLY way, when he himself feels like he struggles so much with doubt. How do you lead people where you’re imperfectly going? He has a handle on not committing suicide. So he leads them there, as far as he can. But…still. There’s life beyond this life. There’s EITHER life or death beyond this death. At some point, does he believe that, or not? Is he going to keep using his gift to supply bandaids to cannonball wounds, or not?

But I have basically been a nervous wreck whenever I think about them, the backing soundtrack of my growing years, since 2017.

I have enormous amounts of respect and this familial loyalty-feeling for both Tyler Joseph and Josh Dun (Tyler more so, because of his impact on me through his individually-released songs when I was in high school and then up through college.) I look at them on like, MTV and junk and have the same familiar, adoring, well-wishing feeling I did when a friend I knew went on to be moderately famous.

And all that to say, I love them, I don’t think any other band can do what they do or has done what they’ve done, and they’re my unmatched favorite. But I can acknowledge that there’s something that might be rotting in there, now. Something that didn’t used to be this way. And you just can’t keep going so long, claiming you’re talking about hope, without standing up for the Source of Hope. That’s all probably way more than you wanted to know. But thank you for letting me vent it all, even if you didn’t get to the bottom!

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Bolter

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Matt goes to confession to put some things into perspective (at least one that makes sense to him), and you battle demons of your own, though it is only one of you who has their heart broken in the end.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST, self-hatred/doubt, religious imagery & symbolism, graphic mentions of past domestic abuse, PTSD, heavy allusions to past sexual assault, Matt is a dick (sorry)

Word Count: 3.6k

A/n: Long time no see. This is kind of a double POV situation because I'm writing from both perspectives, so I didn't want to put in too many details because the next few chapters are going to be full of angst and character development. I hope you still like it.

Read Chapter 13: The Bolter here on AO3!

The grounds of Clinton Church vibrate at the ringing of the bell. It travels through the stained glass window, through Mary and Joseph, and Jesus nailed to the cross above the altar. 

Matt sits with his head bent in the third row. He’s not praying. He wouldn’t even know where to begin. No prayer in the world could erase the guilt he harbors inside. No prayer in the world could cleanse the thoughts he is plagued with. And no prayer in the world could exorcize you from his mind. 

To him, hurting you is vile, but the vile thing seems to be the only plausible choice in this scenario. 

Claire was right. Her voice keeps going in circles around his head, eating into his brain like a parasite. He should have never pursued anything other than distance with you. 

He was selfish to think the two of you ever had a fighting chance. As long as Matt pretends to be only one thing when he is also another, you only have a chance of getting hurt. No matter what he chooses to do, you will end up in the crosshairs of whatever mess he has gotten himself into now, or you will end up hating him for lying to you about his true identity, or both. You will be heartbroken either way. That’s his purgatory. 

It’s pure torture to know he was of sound mind when he made those decisions. You shared secrets of your past with him that must have been so hard for you to utter aloud to a man you’d only just met. And what did he do? He betrayed your trust in him, and he was aware of how wrong it was from the start. Foggy told him he deserved to be happy, but how could he search for happiness at the cost of someone else’s? Matt has dug his own grave. 

No matter what he does, you will be disappointed and hurt, and he will curse himself until the day he dies for making the same mistake time and time again without learning a single fucking thing. 

“Matthew?” Father Lantom asks from behind. 

He lifts his head, the light of the prayer candles reflecting off his glasses. “Father,” he says. “You have a moment?” 

“For confession?”

“No.”

Matt can sense the heaviness of Father Lantom’s breath. “Alright,” he murmurs, seating himself on the bench behind him. “What’s on your mind?”

Matt chuckles. The sound is bitter enough to poison the air he breathes. “I’ve been wondering, you know, about what I do and… and how I do it. The choices I made. The people I’ve dragged into my mess. My faith,” he says, fidgety fingers playing with the fabric of his trousers. “And I realized that… that no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try to do the right thing, the… the people around me will always end up getting hurt. ‘Cause of me.”

The silence that follows his admission echoes in the space around them and screams in his ear. He tilts his head; the priest’s heartbeat doesn’t waver, only a slight hitch in his breath as he moves suggests that he is contemplating his next words wisely.

Finally, Father Lantom clears his throat. “Well, that’s certainly a sinister take on things, don’t you think?” he says. 

Matt scoffs. “Sinister?”

“Yeah. I mean, I… I’ve known you for long enough to know you’re not malicious. Where is this coming from, Matthew? ‘Cause I’m not sure I believe you came to that conclusion all by yourself.”

“Does it matter?”

Another moment of silence follows. Matt still isn’t sure what he is hoping to get out of this. He’s stuck running in a hedge maze of his own making, and there is no way out. 

Father Lantom picks up the lost words, dusts them off, and says, “It obviously matters to you or you wouldn’t be here.”

Matt tightens his grip on his cane. “Chaos is seeping into every aspect of my life, and I can’t stop it. I can’t…” he trails off, exhaling a puff of air through his nose. “I’ve already dragged one innocent person into this, Father,” he says, barely above a whisper. “But if I break her heart, then…”

“Her?” the priest asks. 

“She doesn’t know what I do, but if I keep lying to her…” He shakes his head and lowers it back toward the floor. “She isn’t safe. Either way, she’s gonna get hurt, and it’s gonna be my fault. How can I… how can I do that to her?” 

Father Lantom pinches the bridge of his nose. “There’s clearly a lot to unpack here, but it’s not something that can be fixed by confession or a few Hail Marys.”

“I know.”

“It’s a deeply personal matter, Matthew. I don’t know...” He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. “I don’t know how to help you. If you want me to tell you to sabotage your life, I’m sorry but I can’t do that.”

Matt exhales a heavy sigh. He knows it’s not something he should ask of his priest. It’s an immoral plea. 

“Have you considered–”

“I’m not gonna stop,” he cuts him off. 

Father Lantom sighs. “Alright, well, does she make you happy?” he asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” says Matt. “The more she knows, the more she will be in danger.”

“Yeah, but you also said she’d be in danger regardless, so… does she make you happy?”

The words refuse to go over his lips. All he manages is a small nod, almost defeated, almost embarrassed that yes, he did feel happier the few times he was with you.

“Could you make her happy?” he asks.

Matt is faster with his response this time. “No,” he says. “Not the way she deserves.”

He doesn’t have to read you like an open book to know the kind of person you are because you wear your heart on your sleeves, and your soul neatly locked away in a maximum security prison. The very thing that makes you who you are could cut him open like a sharp knife if he ever dared to touch it. 

You deserve someone who can pry those bars open, someone who makes you happier than you grew up thinking you deserve. You deserve someone who stays, and someone who doesn’t lie to you. And you deserve someone who can make sure you stay unharmed, always, not add to the risk by putting you in danger. 

Matt can’t deny that he is going to miss you terribly. You’re not the kind of drug he can wash out of his system in a few days. You have left your mark on him, and that torture will be his personal hell for a while; but God would curse him either way. 

Father Lantom opens his mouth to speak, but Matt pushes himself off the bench with the help of his cane. The dull ache in his lips is a cruel reminder of last night’s activities and all that came before to land him here. The dumpster, Claire, and the kidnapped little boy he only barely managed to bring to safety. The memories flash through his mind like the sound of a million blaring alarms. 

“I have to be in court soon,” he says. “Have to convince a jury that a murderer is innocent.”

While Foggy expects him to be on time, it is a pathetic excuse to run from the situation he put himself in. 

Father Lantom gets up, but other than a slight tinge of disappointment he doesn’t seem that surprised. “You know, you can’t run from your problems forever,” he remarks.

“I’m not.” Matt buttons his suit jacket back up. “I know what I have to do.”

As he walks up the aisle toward the bustling of the city, Father Lantom’s voice sounds from behind, “I hope you don’t regret it.”

“Thank you, Father,” he says. Matt doesn’t turn around, his cane steadily tapping against the stone floor until the sun kisses his cheeks, and the wooden doors fall shut behind him.

The sun has long set over the city of New York when you trade the scrubs and the white coat for a faux silk dress. As you look in the mirror though, you know very well that it is not the dress making you uncomfortable; if it were, the feeling would have passed with the countless times you tried to change into something else, even a pair of sweatpants, but nothing seemed good or adequate. 

You spent hours pacing the floor of your apartment, wondering, questioning what you’ve done. You keep thinking to yourself, ‘I can’t do this,’ as if you had the guts to change anything about it. 

At the first taste of the truth, you run like it’s a race. History will always repeat itself just because the one time that you should have bolted, you stayed. 

You convinced yourself that it was okay. Moments of abuse looked like accidents to you even as they were happening. You kept telling yourself that it wasn’t all bad and if you just obeyed, he would love you. You bowed to him, at first, because you thought you loved him and he loved you back, and you found a pathetic excuse for everything he did, but eventually you only bowed to him to protect yourself. 

You couldn’t run. You would have if you had known from the very first time you laid eyes on him, but he had an aura that drew you in—an aura that almost killed you in the end.

With hollow eyes glued to the mirror, you slide a finger over the silk on your body. He used to buy you dresses. For the longest time, you thought it was a token of love. He always did it in a way that made you feel special. 

“A beautiful dress for a beautiful woman,” he used to say. You remember all too well how your heart would skip a beat, and you would smile while covering the ghastly black bruise around your eye with as much makeup as you could. 

He wanted to control you. You were a dog on a leash; all that was missing was a collar around your neck, and even that you would have accepted. Because you were in love. Because you were terrified of disappointing him. Because you were terrified of punishment. 

And when he wanted you spread out and complicit in bed, you complied, too, for even a sliver of affection hidden underneath the sting of his palm against your cheek was enough for you to feel a twisted sense of love. 

Now you know that you were stuck in codependency, associating love with abuse. But the pieces he took, a lot of them, at least, you will never get back. 

A beautiful dress for a beautiful woman. You bury your face in your hands. “Shut up!” you snap at your reflection. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Your head pounds with every directed slap against your temples. 

He split your memories in two and twisted them. If you smashed your head into the mirror, would the same happen? If you abused yourself like he did—even more than you are doing with the constant self-sabotage—would you be able to forget? 

No. You picked this dress yourself. You bought it with your own money, and you decided to put it on. You chose to ask Matt out. You wanted to. No one else had their hand in that. 

Bolting from him now may forever drive him away. Perhaps running would be for the better though. Showing up tonight would mean breaking into a million pieces. Showing up would mean that you could imagine there to be more, and you’re only excellent fun until one gets to know you. You would much rather hibernate in a cocoon of loneliness until the day your ashes get flushed down the drain because no one will be there to pick them up.

Whether it was your choice or someone else had a play in you developing a crush on a stranger you met in the halls of Metro General doesn’t matter because no matter how you twist and turn it, doing the right thing for yourself feels wrong.

You grab your phone from the dresser with shaky fingers. The screen is void of any messages, not even a phone call to be found. After two years, were you wrong about Claire? She pushed you out of your comfort zone just to abandon you. That isn’t like her, but neither is lying to you, moving into your co-worker’s apartment with a cat she is highly allergic to, and telling you some half-assed story about a guy named Mike. 

She was there for you when you needed her, always. She kept you alive these past two years. If it hadn’t been her in the emergency room that night you first met her, you wouldn’t even have a job now. It’s killing you that in your moment of need, she is nowhere to be found. 

You dial her number again, but you’re met with the familiar robot in charge of her mailbox. You decide to leave one last message after the beep.

“If I wasn’t so worried about you, I’d be fucking furious,” you ramble on as you pace the floor. “No, you know what? I am fucking furious! You told me to go out with this guy, and then you’re suddenly too good to answer the phone when I need you. I’m terrified, Claire, and I just need my best friend to hold my hand.” A sob breaks loose from your throat. “You know, I’m so mad that you feel like you can’t talk to me after everything we’ve been through. And I’m disappointed because whatever it is, we would have found a way,” you say. “But… what you’re doing isn’t fair. It’s not. And I’m not gonna ask you to call me back this time because if you can’t find it in yourself to at least answer my texts, I don’t know if I want to hear from you. I—”

The automatic voice on the other end cuts you off. “Sorry, the maximum recording time has been reached,” it says. “Please try and keep your message short, and call back.”

You scream into the silence of your apartment, tossing the device across the room. You don’t care if it breaks. All of this effort and for what? You’re on your own, you always have been. But that means you can’t define yourself by what someone else has done to you. You can’t give into the fear, hoping Claire will magically come and save you from the debilitating voice in your head. Her bandaids won’t fix you—you have to do that yourself.

You pour yourself a shot glass of Whisky in the kitchen, staring at your reflection again. The looming shadow behind you fades to gray. 

“Fuck you,” you mutter. All those who disappointed you can go fuck themselves.

You’re going to meet Matt at the restaurant. You’re going to have a good time, and you’re going to pretend, just for tonight, that things might actually turn out okay.

A few brushstrokes under your eyes get rid of the tears, and you bring some color to your cheeks by pinching them a dozen times. You brush your teeth three times, hoping to bleach the alcohol from your lips with an overdose of mouthwash. All you can rely on is scent.

He picked a fancy place for you to eat. You’re surprised when the cab drops you off on a corner street, yet enchanted by the fairy lights that frame the entrance. Your heart is beating so far up your throat you can taste it—or maybe it’s the iron of your blood from where you bit your lip. 

You like to think that the thought of spiting Claire gave you the courage to show up, but the anger in your veins is quickly placed with an irrational fear of the unknown. Your knees buckle when you set foot into the venue, memories of the last time in a fancy restaurant flashing through your mind. So romantic, such a dream, only for it to turn into a nightmare. What is the probability of that happening again? 

Instead of panicking, you picture Matt’s face in the soft glow of candlelight. It would accentuate his dimples, you’re sure. And when he talks in that mellow voice of his, it’s as though he is wrapping his arms around you. 

You make it inside and to your table without taking off in the opposite direction. It’s a Friday night, and the place is barely busy. 

A few minutes after six, you think, he will be showing soon. No need to order a drink without him. He was punctual the last time, so he must already be on his way—right?

‘Already inside, waiting for you,’ you text him. ‘I’ll see you when you get there.’

You’re not in a rush. 

Fifteen minutes after six. Chances are his cab or Uber got into traffic. ‘You okay?’ you decide to ask anyway. You can never be too careful. 

Couples are seated around various tables, laughing and talking the night away. Good wine is flowing in every corner. The waiters bring our food that, on any other day, would make your mouth water. You’re so nervous, hunger is the last thing on your mind. Nervous, excited, it is all the same to you. 

Another five minutes pass. You’re not proud of checking your phone every five minutes. Everyone around you is so carefree, so why can’t you be? You’re an adult on a date, and that’s a wonderful thing to celebrate. Being late happens to the best of people—right?

You convinced yourself you could do this, and now you’re falling into old patterns: excusing the most suspicious behavior in favor of the other person. At six-thirty though, a sense of doom begins to settle over you like a dark cloud.

‘Hello?’ you text him again. ‘Are you on your way yet? I’m getting worried.’

Realization is slithering up your esophagus like a snake. You don’t want to admit it. 

The waiter comes over again and asks, “Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Miss?” 

You look up at him. “Um, maybe a glass of red wine?” 

“Of course.”

He smiles at you and leaves. You watch him disappear into the kitchen, then direct your gaze back to the entrance. Matt is nowhere to be seen.

The snake crushes your esophagus and breaks through the barrier of your rose-colored glasses. 

It’s six-forty-five now. One glass of wine after another lands on your tab. The snake smothers you with every drink you take. Question marks and desperate ‘Call me!’ texts dominate your chat with him. Claire did the same to you. 

You can’t breathe. The tears burn like hell behind your eyes, but can’t cry in front of strangers. They would know that you waited to get disappointed. 

He’s not coming, you realize. Matt stood you up.

You were wrong about him. So fucking wrong. All this thinking he was a good guy to make yourself feel better for being desperate. He got your hopes up, then left you at the restaurant, drowning your senses in liquor so you wouldn’t have to feel the marble of your heart getting crushed by a wrecking ball. 

That is what you get for having faith in a man who made you feel things you thought had died. It’s the very thing that gets you. You opened yourself up; you felt happy for the first time in years, and he decided to tear it from you with his bare hands. He didn’t even have to be there to set your world on fire. 

Why is everyone suddenly out to disappear on you? 

“Because you’re an infection,” the voice pipes up in the back of your mind. “You were born to kill everyone around you.”

Glasses clink, people chatter; the noise grows louder and louder until it shatters. 

“Unlovable.”

The world might just be better off without you, after all.

In the distance, on a rooftop across the enchanting fairy light front, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen listens to your heart breaking. No, it’s Matt. His mask is resting only against his forehead as he listens to the familiar rhythm start to race. 

The way you’re breathing causes the sobs to echo in your lungs, and he hears every single one of them. You’re ashamed to be the fool he made of you. You’re entire body is vibrating with hurt and hunger to the point you might explode, and Matt knows he royally fucked up. He fucked up, and he did it on purpose, which is the worst part of it all. 

There is not enough penance he can do to make up for what he just did. He couldn’t even salvage it if he tried. Staying away from you is one thing, but deliberately breaking your heart while he is listening like a sadist in the making truly does show to him that he only has the devil in him. 

“Could I get the bill, please?” he hears you ask the waiter, your voice thick with unshed tears. 

You pay for what you had to drink, even leave a generous tip he would have paid if he had shown up, and then you step back out into the cool night air. Matt tilts his head. You smell of alcohol and despair. How many glasses of wine did you have?

A car honks. You’re inebriated. For a moment there, his heart stops. You manage to step out of the way before the passing car can hit you, but the driver curses you nonetheless. 

“Sorry,” you mutter before finally getting into the nearest cab. 

While he’s putting on his mask, you’re crying in the backseat on your way home, and it kills him most to know that he did this to you.

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14 @shouldbestudying41 @kiwwia-wiwwia @writtenbyred @echo-ethe @kezibear @peterbarnes @littleagxs