#and then giving myself even more grief by having to deal with someone i really admire calling me lazy all the time when i'm firing

[paperbodiesamongthestars]

Halfway out the door, but it won't close

Yeah, I'm still mad. The show flatly refuses to address the emotional fallout of the events that take place on it, so I guess I'll do it myself.

Title from Say Don't Go by Taylor Swift, because I love a T Swift lyric as a fic title.

Read the whole thing below, or on AO3.

For the first time in a long time, Buck wants to run. 

The roots he spent so many years putting down washed away more easily than he ever could have imagined, and that hurts. He’s always known Bobby was important—the linchpin of the 118, in addition to being the father Buck always wanted—but Buck was somehow still surprised when things spiraled apart so quickly and so completely without him. 

And Buck gets it. He does. Everyone is retreating into their own corners, taking comfort from their families, and that’s good. He’s glad everyone has that kind of support system. He’s glad they have families to lean on, and to grieve with. 

He just wishes he had someone in his corner too. 

And Maddie’s got him—he knows she does. If he called, she’d be there in a heartbeat, no questions asked. But she’s pregnant. And Chimney almost died. And Bobby did die, making sure Chimney got out. They have a lot going on, and Buck doesn’t want to be selfish. 

Besides, he’s managing. Sure, he wishes he didn’t feel quite so alone all the time, and he wishes that all of the ways he’s trying to help weren’t fundamentally selfish, like they apparently are, but he’s dealing. The hardest part is that he’s been doing his best to be what everyone else needs—to live up to Bobby’s last words—and he’s falling short. He doesn’t—he’s really not sure what else to try, at this point. 

It really doesn’t feel like anyone wants him to keep trying. 

The temptation to pack up his jeep and just choose a direction is intense. He doesn’t, because he promised to take over Eddie’s lease, and Maddie’s baby is coming, and maybe there’s something Athena will need from him at some point, but he looks at the horizon on his way to work and all he sees is freedom.  

He compromises, and requests a transfer. The 118 doesn’t mean what it used to, to him, and maybe at another house he can get up for work without feeling like the grief is going to pull him under. Maybe at another house he’ll stop wanting to take a hard turn onto the freeway, and drive until he loses track of where he is. The 118 is already changing anyway. Eddie will head back to Texas, and the team will get a new captain at some point, and Buck isn’t at all sure that he can see someone else in that seat. Maybe this way he can keep his love of the job, even if it feels like he’s lost just about everything else he cares about. 

And then the building goes down, and the 118 pulls together to help. 

Buck withdraws the transfer paperwork. He doesn’t want to feel disloyal to Bobby’s memory. Going to work every day at that station, like things can ever go back to the way they were before, still makes him feel like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s paralyzed; every decision he wants to make feels like the wrong one. 

What he really needs to do is start looking for an apartment. Eddie and Chris are coming back to LA, and of course Buck is going to give him them their house back. He’s happy they’re returning—obviously he is. And the house never really felt like home anyway, aside from—well. It’s never felt like his, is all, aside from one bright, hopeful morning in the kitchen. 

He tries not to think about that too much. The warm light, and the billowing hope in his chest, and Tommy’s familiar scrunchy smile before everything went sideways. It’s too bright to look at for long, so he’s gotten used to locking it away again. 

He should call Tommy, probably, but it feels like it’s been too long. Tommy took a lot of risks to help them, and came to the funeral when Athena asked, to round out Bobby’s first team at the 118, and Buck didn’t even call him after. Never really thanked him. He’s got some texts on his phone—how are you really doing?—that he never responded to, and a couple of voicemails he hasn’t listened to. So yeah, he assumes that window is closed, no matter how much Tommy put on the line for him—for them. 

It’s one more thing that Buck used to have and doesn’t anymore. 

Buck is quiet at work, and the team thinks he doesn’t see the worried glances and the wordless conversations. No one asks him about anything, so he doesn’t share. He spends a lot of time thinking about how he used to picture his life, where he thought he’d end up. 

It should be enough, to have what he has now. He has his sister and the 118. He’s loved, certainly.  He matters to people—he knows he does. But it doesn’t feel like quite enough anymore. He knows everyone lost Bobby, and everyone is dealing with it in their own way, but he doesn’t think he should have to feel like an afterthought, or an inconvenience. He has the vague sense that he shouldn’t have to keep making his grief smaller, but he does it anyway. What else can he do?  

Eddie sets a firm date for his return, and he keeps telling Buck that he doesn’t have to move out, but Buck does. He does have to move out. It’s just—it’s the right thing to do. He thinks it is, anyway, but maybe he’s making it all about him again. He can’t tell anymore. 

Buck goes on calls, and he gradually packs his life back into boxes and labels them, and he goes to look at apartments. He doesn’t find any that he likes. They’re too small, or too dark, or in the wrong neighborhood, or they just don’t feel right. Big shock there—nothing feels right to him. 

Buck knows his realtor is frustrated when he tells her the kitchen in one of the units faces the wrong direction, and he gets it; he’s frustrated with himself. 

Buck goes back to his—to Eddie’s—to the mostly packed house, and he finally admits to himself that he’s not really looking for an apartment. 

He goes to see Gerrard, with a request for vacation this time. 

“It’s a good chunk of time,” Gerrard says slowly, from behind the desk where Bobby should still be sitting. 

“It is,” Buck agrees.

“Sometimes staying busy is better, in these situations,” Gerrard says. Buck can tell he’s trying to be gentle about it, but all he can see is Tommy’s shoulders hunching when Gerrard all but called him a fairy at the medal ceremony. He doesn’t waver. He holds Gerrard’s gaze until the man looks away, clears his throat, and signs the request. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Buckley.” He sounds irritated, and Buck feels a little better. He also hopes he knows what he’s doing, but he has a good feeling about it. He’s optimistic, maybe, for the first time in a while. 

Buck shows up to his next shift with a countdown clock in his head, and the rush of relief he feels almost makes him dizzy. He’s got another ten days before his time off starts, but it’s sitting there on the horizon now, an emergency exit, an escape hatch from his life.

He feels steadier now that he can see it up ahead. He’s a little more settled in himself, and he knows everyone sees it. His friends exchange relieved glances when they think he isn’t looking, and some part of him wonders why they can’t just talk to him. He wonders why they couldn’t just sit him down and tell him they were worried, but maybe that’s unfair. Maybe everyone is doing their best, and Bobby’s loss is just insurmountable. It feels that way sometimes, like Buck won’t survive this. It feels like all the bonds tethering him to his life snapped at once, and they’re just dangling now, the severed edges fraying by the day. 

Buck doesn’t say anything about the time off. He works and he smiles at his friends, and no one eats together or makes plans to hang out after work. He tries not to be too hard on himself for giving up—for betraying the last thing Bobby asked him to do. He tried—he really did—but he just can’t anymore. He can’t throw himself into holding everything together when no one seems to want to be held. 

He hopes Bobby would understand, but he can’t be sure.  

The day finally comes. Buck’s stuff is packed into his jeep or his new storage unit. He works his last shift and still doesn’t say anything. He thinks about it, but he’s not sure what he would even say. He figures his friends will have questions when he doesn’t show up for the next shift, but that’s a couple of days from now. Maybe by then, he’ll be far enough away to have found some answers. 

Buck makes it a little over an hour into his drive, heading north, before he has to pull over; he’s crying so hard he’s afraid he’s going to hit something. He takes the next exit, doesn’t see the number through his tears, and parks in the first parking lot he finds. He turns the car off, leans over the steering wheel, and gives in to his sobs. 

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he takes one deep breath, and then another. He feels calm for the first time in a while, emptied—for the moment—of the deep, terrible sorrow that’s been suffocating him for so long. He cleans off his face and then sits up straighter and looks around. He’s parked near a Jack-in-the-Box and he’s suddenly starving, so he goes inside and orders about half the menu. He goes back to his car to eat, windows down, staring unseeing at his surroundings as he thinks. 

Getting even this far out of LA, he feels like his brain has rebooted itself, like he’s stepped out of a fog and can suddenly see clearly again. He considers what he wants to do next. 

He could turn around. He could drive back into the city, and find a place to stay for a couple of weeks while he keeps looking at apartments, and he could use the time off to get settled into a new place. He could rebuild his routine. The thought of it makes a pit of dread open up in his stomach, so that’s a no. 

He could keep going. He could get back on the road, head north the way he planned, drive until he feels like stopping and find a place to stay the night. He could do that for weeks—he’s got six of them before he has to be back at work. It’s what he should do, probably. He could rely on himself, learn how to be alone. Only he feels like he’s already pretty good at that. He’s been alone a lot in his life, and he knows he could do it. But six weeks on his own suddenly feels a lot more like loneliness than freedom. 

Buck tilts his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. With this unexpected—and almost certainly temporary—feeling of calm and clarity, he’s suddenly confronting some uncomfortable revelations. 

Underneath the grief and the helplessness he’s been feeling for weeks, he’s angry. He’s angry at Eddie for getting in his face, and for implying that he didn’t do everything he could to save Bobby. It felt like shit to hear it, and Eddie was a dick for saying it. He’s angry at the rest of the team, too. For not taking him seriously. For assuming he was as fine as he seemed, even after losing someone who was more of a father to him than his own father ever was. For not even asking where he was moving to when he left Eddie’s house. He loves Chim, but maybe he was wrong; maybe Buck doesn’t owe it to Bobby’s memory to stay in a place where he doesn’t really feel seen anymore.

Buck knows he’s a lot—he can be a lot. But he also knows that he’s grown up in the last few years. He’s loyal, and will do anything for the people he loves. And even before Bobby died, he wasn’t getting that back from his friends. He understands why—they all have lives, and kids, and it’s been a crazy year for everyone. But he consistently made the effort to be there for them, and it doesn’t feel great that no one could find the time to do that for him. 

Well. One person did. One person always showed up for him.  

Maybe Buck doesn’t actually need to get out of LA for six weeks. Maybe he needs some space from his friends and family until he’s got a better handle on his anger with them. But maybe he doesn’t have to spend the next six weeks alone. 

It’s entirely possible that Buck’s silence the past few weeks closed that door for good. But Tommy’s been texting and calling, even though he’s not getting anything back, so maybe it didn’t. There’s only one way to find out. 

It’s early afternoon by the time Buck parks in front of Tommy’s house. He doesn’t know Tommy’s schedule anymore, but he gets lucky—Tommy’s truck is parked in the driveway. Buck’s hands are sweaty all of a sudden, and some of the conviction he felt earlier has drained away. There’s enough left to propel him out of the jeep, though, and up the steps onto Tommy’s porch. 

He rings the doorbell and waits. It’s only a few seconds before Tommy opens the door. His face creases with surprise when he sees Buck, but his eyes are warm. 

“Hi,” Buck says a little awkwardly, and then he barrels on before Tommy can say anything in return. “I want to be friends,” he blurts, without really meaning to. Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up and then furrow as he frowns, and Buck watches his eyes shutter, the way they did in the kitchen that morning. “For now!” he adds hastily. “I’d like to be friends for now.” 

Tommy’s expression does something decidedly judgmental before he gets a handle on it. He’s such a bitch sometimes, and Buck likes him so goddamn much. Loves him, in fact, but he thought about it the whole drive here, and he’s a mess right now; if he says it for the first time today, neither one of them will ever trust it.

“Maybe you should come in,” Tommy says slowly, and his tone is so neutral that Buck winces. It’s fine. He can fix this. Tommy’s willing to at least hear him out. 

He follows Tommy into the kitchen, and sits on one of the barstools at the island while Tommy makes two cups of coffee. He slides one over to Buck and sits at one of the other stools. He’s got his expression under control now, and Buck hates it. Tommy’s so expressive when he’s comfortable that this carefully polite mask feels like a slap. 

Still, Buck feels more relaxed right now than he has in weeks, just because Tommy is sitting across from him, watching him, and yeah, he should probably start explaining. 

“I put in for a transfer,” he says, and there go the eyebrows again. Buck smiles despite himself. “I withdrew the request, later, but then I took some time off. Kind of a lot of time off, actually.” He has a thought, and he looks up. “S-sorry I didn’t get back to you.” 

Tommy shakes his head. “It’s fine, Evan. I figured you were busy with your family.”

“Not, uh. Not so much,” he says, feeling tears pricking at the backs of his eyes. “It’s”—he waves a hand—“everyone has their own families, you know?”

Tommy’s frowning at him now. “You’re their family too,” he says slowly, like it’s an obvious truth, and that does it. The tears come, and so does the whole of the last few weeks, words spilling out and over each other as Buck tries to convey his loneliness, and helplessness, and what Bobby said, and how hard he tried, and how no one seemed to want that, and then Eddie—

He loses the thread a little bit, and he’s not sure what he’s saying. He’s trying to get the important parts out through the tears, but he’s not sure he’s even making sense anymore. And then Tommy’s arms are around him, big and warm and grounding, and he stops talking at all and just cries for a little while. 

When Buck is composed again, Tommy takes a step back. Buck wishes he wouldn’t, but he holds out his hand and Tommy takes it, and that’s something. There are some things Buck still needs to say. 

“It got a little jumbled earlier, so I’m not sure if I mentioned it, but I, uh. I gave Eddie his house back.”

“You said,” Tommy says, and squeezes his hand. 

“I didn’t find a new apartment,” Buck admits. “I was going to go on a road trip, just drive for the next few weeks, stay wherever I felt like staying.”

“That sounds nice,” Tommy says. 

“It did at first,” Buck says. “Then it sounded really lonely.” Tommy makes a soft noise in his throat. “So I—I turned around and came here instead.”

“Because you want to be friends,” Tommy says slowly. 

“Because I want to be friends right now,” Buck corrects. “I absolutely want to try again. I wanted to try again last time, before—but I screwed it up.”

“Pretty sure I screwed it up,” Tommy says. 

Buck shrugs. “Maybe we both did. I want to do it right. But I’m a mess right now, and I don’t want you to think that I’m only here because…because everything else in my life is falling apart. I want to choose to try again when we’re both solid.”

Tommy nods, but his gaze stays on the countertop in front of him. “What if”—he clears his throat—“what if you get your feet under you, and realize this isn’t what you want?”

“I won’t,” Buck says, calm and sure. He tugs on Tommy’s hand to get him to look up. “Tommy, I won’t. I’ve been missing you for months. The only reason I want to wait is because I want both of us to know for sure that we’re building on a solid foundation, okay?”

Tommy stares for a long moment, searching his face, and then he gives one short nod. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

Buck can feel the smile stretching over his face. “Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and smiles back. 

“I thought you weren’t ready to move in together yet,” Buck says without thinking, when Tommy shows him the spare room. 

Tommy rolls his eyes. “This doesn’t count. This is me helping out a friend, like everyone should do.” His tone is pointed, and Buck tries to ignore the little burst of pleasure he gets from knowing Tommy is mad on his behalf. He can work on being less petty about it later. 

“Yeah?” Buck asks. 

“Evan,” Tommy says, leaning in. His voice is low and intimate. “When I actually ask you to move in with me, you’ll know it.”

“Yeah?” Buck asks again, and it’s a lot breathier this time. 

“Yes,” Tommy says with a smirk, and Buck briefly wonders how committed he has to be to the friends thing. He watches Tommy saunter out the door, heading for the kitchen, and he firmly reminds himself that waiting is the responsible choice, and will absolutely be worth it.  

He’s by himself for the moment, but he doesn’t feel alone at all. He looks around the spare room, at his clothes hanging in the closet, and the soft blue comforter on the bed. Tommy put fresh sheets on it earlier, and they smell faintly of lavender. He sits on the edge of the bed, closes his eyes, and breathes. He feels good here, safe and comfortable and wanted. 

He knows his grief will be back, and the real world will intrude sooner rather than later. He’ll have decisions to make, and explanations to give when the team realizes he’s gone. He and Tommy still have a lot of talking to do. 

For right now, though, he can smell the faint scent of lavender, and Tommy’s body wash underneath that. He can hear the sound of Tommy moving around in the kitchen, and birds chirping at each other outside the window. His hand moves over the comforter, and he feels the echo of Tommy’s palm against his. 

Buck blinks his eyes open and smiles to himself. He’s not okay yet—not by a long shot—but for the first time since Bobby died, he knows that he’s going to be.  

[stinkbeck]

i’m like “oh this is probably happening bc my mom feels bad that she hasn’t been helping me and we’re just out of practice around giving/accepting help from each other” but then it turns out she just needs someone to fucking bully bc her job’s gotten hard

[v88sy]

Lmao but for real. Idk if it's bts drama with Ryan or something but it's getting more and more obvious. Bobby, his captain just died and the guy is just over there offering a cookie to Ravi in these trying times like an extra on set with a blank expression on his face.

I refuse to feel bad for enjoying this situation. Bvddie shippers have made their own bed. I don't like Ryan at all, but even I can admit there's only so much toxicity an actor can take. Buck was at least allowed to exist in his own right in their eyes even if they couldn't stand him canonically dating a man (so much for being LGBT warriors and caring for representation!). But the way they're obsessed with Eddie and try to bring every plot he has back to him being "gay" is exhausting and weird as fuck.

Imagine being an actor and being excited for the storyline your character is getting that season and your fans are just like "we don't care, when are Buck and Eddie going to fuck on screen tho?" Not saying Eddie's plots have always been exciting at all, lord knows they've done some stupid shit with the character, but still. Eddie arguably had the most interesting SL in years while trying to mend his relationship with Chris and they could not have cared less because it meant he was in Texas and not bending over for Buck. I wouldn't blame Ryan if he wants out, if his acting in this ep is any indication, his heart just isn't in it anymore.

I didn't mind Eddie at first, I really didn't. But, it kind of feels like after Shannon died, the writers just...didn't know what to do with him. His entire existence became about grief without any real action to address it or deal with it. I get it, grief never really goes away, but you can't just Fight Club your way out of it either.

I often wonder if the writers intended to write him as insufferable and selfish as they have. He says things to hurt others and never reflects or takes accountability. It's been talked about ad nauseum here, but his friendship with Buck is incredibly one sided. Again, I don't know what's more scary...to think this was all by design...or that it wasn't.

And, since we're just going for it here, Ryandrew Tateman absolutely hasn't done himself any favors here. I know what he did. You know he did. And I wish I could say that was the only thing, or even the most recent.

On a personal note, I've worked in healthcare for 20 years, including the height of covid, so being an anti vaxx/anti covid vaxx is an instant 'fuck off' from me.

And the memes he's been sharing about Pete/Bobby? Salty edgelord.

You make excellent points about anything and everything being boiled down to Gay Eddie™ in some people's minds. Not even bi or demi, or any other shade of queer. It has to be gay, and Buck has to serve as the trad wife self insert surrogate. Which, really makes me question their motives, because it ain't representation. We already got that, and have since day one. Not that they'd ever know.

Look, it's very clear by now that I'm not his biggest fan by a long shot, but it's absolutely disgusting that people want to disregard his body autonomy by saying things like "it doesn't matter what he wants, they're gonna force him to do bddie anyways because it's what the people want".

No, they don't, and honestly, that makes me wonder about your views on consent. The role would involve, at the very least, kissing Oliver, (not that I'd mind myself, but that's another topic for another day) so...yes. It absolutely is his choice, as it should always be when engaging in contact with someone, acting job or not.

And yeah, I'll give it to you that he's probably tired as fuck about being reduced to nothing more than "the guy who absolutely must be gay because *insert harmful stereotype here.*"

And that's in addition to having every. single. interview. harp on the ship that he has said repeatedly that he doesn't want to do, for actually valid reasons, assuming those are the real reasons and he's not just blowing smoke up our ass.

So, yeah, I don't blame him for wanting an out, but I also don't think we should be blamed for wanting to be able to enjoy our show and the fandom as a whole once again.

All that being said...are you trying to put me in jail, katey 😂

[cecilysass]

My (Late, Sorry) Perihelion Review

I’m late on this, but I wanted to offer my review of Perihelion, the official XF novel released this summer. I am going to aim this mostly at people who haven’t read it, so I will go for no spoilers (or minimal spoilers as when you typically read a review), but I will add a little spoilers section at the end for those who have read it.

First off, I really liked this novel. I'd recommend it, especially to those who have Feelings about the revival, which is almost everyone I know who has watched the revival. I think one’s reaction to this novel is going to relate a lot to one’s reaction to the series finale, as the plot here is inextricably tied to the events of that episode. I found this story very satisfying because of how it handled those events while still trying to respect the feel of the show.

To give my own bias: I am not a big revival fan, but neither am I someone who ignores its existence. I think it has many problems and some unwatchable moments. I loathed the twist about William’s parentage with every fiber of my being. But I also find some elements of the revival to be kind of interesting, and there are moments I actually like. I am not someone who is going to stick my fingers in my ears and sing loudly and pretend nothing happened in this universe after the 90s. I’d even go so far as to say I LIKE revival fix-it stories; I have even written some myself.

More coming clean of my perspective on this: I have read the work of the author of Perihelion, Claudia Gray, before, both her work as a YA novelist and as a OG X-Files MSR fanfic writer. In fact, true story—years before Perihelion, I saw her speak in person about her other novels and she mentioned in the Q&A that she once wrote X-Files fanfic. I raced to figure out who she was on Gossamer. (She was Amy Vincent.) So I am a fan of this author, and I like that she’s an old school fan. 

To sum up the story very briefly, we resume action some months after the events of My Struggle IV. Scully is further in her pregnancy (just barely showing). She and Mulder have moved to a DC townhouse together, but aren’t quite back together. They are suspended from the X-files due to the events of MSIV, and they are staggering a bit with dealing with the grief and trauma of the revelations of that episode. In this context, they’re approached with not one but two serial killer cases, one that involves pregnant women and one that involves what remains of the Syndicate.

Part of Gray’s mission is very clearly to do damage control for the revival’s most egregious offenses, and honestly, this might be my favorite aspect of the book. It’s just emotionally cathartic to see someone do that in a pseudo-canonical text. (I say “pseudo-canonical” because CC backed away from this book a little, but whatever.) Because this is a CC approved book, Gray can’t settle any dangling plot threads completely conclusively, but she offers many suggestions that take us in a more hopeful path.

For example, she does very, very well at providing narrative context for Scully’s behavior in the last scene of MSIV. I’m referring to when Scully—who we saw give birth to William, be his mother, give him up in heartbreak, and then pine and wonder about him for years—suddenly rejects the same child as an “experiment” that was never theirs. This abrupt U-turn always felt like it perhaps could be explained as her entering into some self protective state of denial and emotional shutdown, but the show itself didn’t explain or earn that moment. Gray gives us a whole arc for Scully around this, and she shows how it relates to Mulder, too. It’s much, much better.

Actually, if I am not mistaken, Gray has in mind some intentional fix-it for the show overall. There are more diverse characters in this novel, including a nonbinary nurse (Casey) who plays a pivotal role and an informant who breaks the old demographic patterns. There is a moment in which Scully writes in her journal that she wishes her career at the FBI had not become so defined by her maternity. And while Scully is (again) targeted by those who want to do her ill, Gray seems to really, really resist her being victimized, her being overwhelmed with fear, or Mulder coming to her rescue. Gray gives us a confident, action hero preggo Scully. 

This novel often reminded me of fanfic in the best possible way. It reads sometimes like OG classic XF fic along the lines of Syntax6, which is absolutely a compliment. Yet it also was spot-on at recreating the "feel" of the show sometimes, especially in the characters' journal entries. By the end of the revival I came to hate voiceover monologues on TXF, but Gray found a way to tap into the charm of how they used to be in earlier seasons.

Delightfully, there are MANY deep references to past events and episodes—again, like in fanfic in the best way.  You know how on the show they almost never reference Emily again, and they almost never mention Melissa? Gray doesn’t forget. She also references making tape Xs on windows, Modell, Scully shooting Mulder, running in cornfields, going to Antarctica, and every single tiny thing that happened with William. She’s got a serious fan’s attention to show canon, which I appreciate. 

The novel is mostly about the casefile and their work-related questions. That said, it does include details like that they trade off cooking and that they both hope to be sharing a bedroom some time soon and both agents’ feelings about parenting, both William and the new baby. I would not say MSR is the main focus, but I also would describe this as an MSR story. More than that, though, it is a story about how they recover individually and together from what happened during MSIV.

The actual plot—the casefile(s) starts out very scary, even disturbing, but does (in my opinion) never quite reach climactic stakes. In part I think this has to do with Gray not wanting Scully to be victimized, which I am not going to argue with her about. But I also wonder if it’s because there are limited revelations Gray can make. I would have dropped some more reveals if it were my post-revival fic and I had no limits imposed on me. But it’s not … and she no doubt does. I do have the vibe that we are set up for additional novels in the series, which I would happily read—although I’d say at some point she is going to have to be allowed to make some reveals if she is going to continue the story.

There is one aspect of this novel I did fixate on a little too much. The story takes place directly after MSIV, so … 2018, right? Yet there are some references to specific pop culture (Wandavision, Andor) and some cultural references (remote work, hybrid work) that place the events of the story after 2020. I can only assume this is intentional, maybe to make it not matter what year exactly the revival happened and just set it “present day.” But because we are all mentally dating these characters from the original series, and because the ages of say, William, or pregnant Scully, do arguably matter, it’s confusing. This is such a Cecily thing to perseverate on, but it is what it is.

That said, I would definitely recommend to all interested fans. I listened on audiobook, by the way, which was fun, although Mulder's voice sounds a little like Keanu Reeves. Spoilers section to follow.

SPOILERS SECTION FOLLOWING. STOP READING IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO KNOW. SPOILERS.

All things considered, Gray did a deft job of sort-of-kind-of-but-not-quite revealing information. She partially revealed to Scully that Jackson was alive, but she only gave that info to Scully through a source Scully wouldn’t entirely trust. She gave us a gender reveal but took pains to say “it wasn’t certain.” She hinted that Scully’s pregnancy (maybe even both of them?) was caused by her really young telomeres but didn’t confirm that either.

I found Scully’s tendency not to share info with Mulder in this novel to be very, very frustrating, although not entirely out of character. Failing to mention the telomere thing when he was theorizing about her newfound ability seemed really absurd. She didn’t even give it any consideration in her internal monologue, which was hard to understand. I know she doesn’t want to let him down or hurt him, but sometimes it’s just important, Scully.

The number one thing I kept thinking in the second half of the book—the thing that was never addressed, although perhaps it will if there are more books—is that there is a very possible explanation for Scully’s supposed abilities that nobody floated. Which is that it isn’t Scully who makes the electrical shit happen, but the fetus, picking up on Scully’s fear and adrenaline. I don’t see any reason why that couldn’t be true, but the exact mechanisms for these genetic abnormalities being spread were a little vague. I couldn’t figure out if this was just me thinking wild thoughts or if the book was really preserving room for this to be true.

Anyway, anyone else read it? What did y’all think? If you want to talk about it and discuss spoilers, mark them in case someone hasn’t read yet.

[bittertincture]

Turn My Eyes | Chapter Four | Words are a Honeycomb | Priest!Joel

The Rating: Explicit (18+)

The Chapter Summary: A lighthearted exchange between you and Father Joel reveals a fleeting moment of connection, despite your guarded nature.

The Tags: I would like to withhold some tags for the sake of the story. But I will tell you that this story will deal with the following: Religion (which may be offensive to some readers), Religious Imagery, Religious Trauma, Violence, Explicit and Consenting Sexual Acts between Adults, Forbidden Relationship, Power Exchange, Mentions of Death, Angst. There is much more but those are the pertinent ones.

The MC:  The female character of “You” is able bodied with hair long enough to be grabbed. She is English speaking and while I wrote her from a white, former Catholic woman’s perspective, I hope the language I use is inclusive enough that many walks of life you can imagine themselves as her.

The Author’s Notes: It's been really lovely seeing all the hearts on here for my tale. It's been restrained so far but we have some dark and twisted lust on the horizon. Thank you so much for the wonderful response to this story! I’m truly grateful for your support and for taking the time to read along. If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments, and feel free to re-blog. Your feedback and shares mean the world to me.

The Credits: The Line Dividers are by @saradika-graphics The Story Image is made by myself. If you would like to use it please give proper credit.

Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones - Proverbs 16:24

The morning light filters through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns against the walls of your childhood bedroom. The bed is soft; the scent of lavender lingering on the pillow from Nana’s careful hands that feels like homecoming, but the weight in your chest reminds you that you don’t belong anywhere right now.

You roll onto your side, staring at the ceiling, your mind circling back to yesterday’s potluck. To the way Father Joel carried himself; poised, unreadable. You don’t trust people like that. The ones who hold themselves too still, who keep their words measured like they’re afraid of what might slip if they let their guard down. You saw it in his hands, the faint scars on his knuckles, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly when someone spoke to him. He’s hiding something.

They always are.

You exhale, rubbing your temples, trying to shake him from your thoughts. It doesn’t matter. You won’t see him again.

The sound of dishes clinking from the kitchen downstairs reminds you that Nana is awake. You force yourself up, stretching your aching limbs. The bruise inside you, metaphorical, but no less painful, throbs dully. Your ex’s voice still lingers in your mind, twisting the truth until you don’t even trust your own memories. You wonder if you’ll ever feel like yourself again.

Downstairs, Nana greets you with a warm smile and a plate of biscuits. “Morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?”

You lie, because she deserves that much. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t believe you, but she lets it go. Instead, she starts talking about yesterday, about how happy she was to see you at church, even if she must have known you didn’t want to be there. She talks about the way things were when you first came to live with her, when you were just a grief-stricken teenager trying to make sense of losing everything. You love her for the way she tiptoes around the hurt, for the way she lets it settle without poking at it.

Then she brings up Margaret.

You don’t need to hear much to know Margaret already dislikes you. You could see it in her pursed lips, the way she sized you up like she’d already decided who you were before you even spoke. The kind of woman who thrives on rules and unspoken expectations. The kind you’ve always seemed to disappoint.

“I never did take to Margaret,” Nana admits, in the closest thing to gossip you’ll ever hear from her. “But she means well.”

You hum noncommittally. You aren’t sure you believe that. “She doesn’t like me.”

“You don’t know that,” Nana insists, stirring her coffee with slow, deliberate motions.

Sure I do. Women like her are all the same.

“Has she read my books?”

Nana sighs, pressing her lips together. “She knows about them.”

And there’s your answer; Margaret, self-appointed morality police of St. Vincent’s Catholic Church, would sniff out any perceived scandal like a bloodhound. You let out a short, humorless laugh.

“I don’t write them anymore,” you say, more for Nana’s benefit than anything.

She nods, taking a sip of her coffee before setting the cup down with a soft clink. “I know. And I think that’s for the best.”

Your jaw tightens. You know she never approved, even when the royalties paid your bills better than your ex ever could.

“But you used to love writing. I know you did. You got that scholarship remember? For that short story?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you just need to write something like that again, something more wholesome.”

You swallow hard, fingers curling into your palm beneath the table. How do you tell her that the ugly, the taboo, the twisted are what flow so easily from your fingers? That the darker corners of the mind are the only places where the words come naturally? How do you tell her that purity feels like a lie when the world is anything but?

“Maybe,” you lie instead. So many lies so early in the morning.

Nana watches you, eyes warm but knowing. “You won’t know unless you try.”

She says it with such conviction, such unwavering faith in you, that for a brief moment, you almost wish you could be the person she wants you to be. But you aren’t. And you don’t think you ever will be.

"So, what did you think of Father Joel?" she asks, her voice full of expectation. You hesitate, the memory of the potluck still fresh, the way he felt just a little too polished. But Nana is watching you, waiting, her smile unwavering. You force a polite nod, unwilling to dampen her enthusiasm, but deep down, your opinion hasn’t budged.

“Seems nice.”

“He’s done so much for St. Vincent’s,” Nana beams at you, her eyes alight with admiration as she stirs a generous spoonful of sugar into her tea. “Just wait until you hear him preach during Easter. Wowee.”

She expects you to join her in that church full of people with forced smiles. They make your skin itch. You can’t imagine sitting through another sermon, pretending it means something to you when it doesn’t. You tell her as much, bracing for the disappointment in her face.

She nods, taking it in stride. “I understand, sugar. I do.” There’s a pause, then, softer, “Would you consider helpin’ with some volunteer work instead?”

You could say no. You should say no. But Nana asks for so little, and right now, she’s the only solid thing in your life. You owe her more than you can ever repay.

Nana is quiet as she waits for your reply, her hands wrapped tightly around the caramel-coloured drink in its chipped floral mug. The same mug she’s had since you first lived with her after the car crash that claimed your parent’s life. The car taking them to Sunday Mass of all places while you lay in bed with a fever, unaware that only two miles from home they lay unseeing in a fiery wreckage.

How can you deny her anything?

“Alright,” you say, the word heavy on your tongue. “What do you need help with?”

Her face lights up, and despite yourself, you feel the smallest flicker of warmth.

“On Tuesday we make up baskets for the needy,” she says. “Could always use an extra set of hands.”

You take a breath, letting the weight of it settle over you. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

She pats your hand, small but steady. “I knew you would.”

And just like that, you are tethered to something again, whether you want to be or not.

Father Joel had noticed you the moment he stood behind the pulpit that Sunday morning. Not because you carried yourself with reverence, not because you bowed your head in quiet contemplation, but because you didn’t.

You sat stiff-backed in the pew beside your grandmother; arms crossed over your chest, mouth curled ever so slightly into what could only be described as a smirk. You weren’t here for God. You were here for her. That much was obvious.

When he spoke his homily he observed that his words crafted with care and meant to uplift did not reach you.  Forgiveness would not reach you that morning. He knew this not because of any grand revelation but because he heard you scoff. A small sound, barely there, but in the cavernous quiet of the church, it may as well have been a shout.

Fascinating, he had thought, if not a little frustrating.

At the potluck you confirmed his suspicion. You had no love for the Church, no reverence for the men who donned collars and spoke of sin and salvation. You met his gaze too directly and your sharp words laced with a dry amusement that should have irritated him.

And yet Joel was no stranger to disdain. He had seen anger, grief and bitterness. He had counselled the lost, the faithless, the doubting. But you weren’t searching for answers, you weren’t looking for peace. You had built a wall, brick by stubborn brick and you had no intention of letting anyone inside.

The way you spoke to him was churlish, dismissive, yet edged with something lively, something almost teasing. It lingered in his mind longer than he cared to admit. And though he knew he should have been perturbed, he found himself amused instead.

You had not returned to mass since. Had he driven you away? Or had you simply indulged your grandmother’s wishes for one morning, never intending to come back at all? The question needled at him until, after the following Sunday service, he found himself approaching your Nana.

She smiled when she saw him, small and knowing, as though she had been expecting this conversation. After the casual greetings and enthusiastic praise for his sermon was over, Joel felt he could broach the subject of you more casually.

“Was that your granddaughter I met with you at the potluck?”

“Yes sir. My one and only.”

"She hasn’t been back," he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. “I worry my sermon scared her off. Or perhaps she was just visiting.”

Your Nana looked disappointed, sighing softly as she adjusted the gloves on her delicate hands.

"She’s here to stay for a while, though I doubt she’s happy about it.”

“Oh?” 

“She’s been through a lot, Father. The divorce, for one. Cleaned her out. The way that no-good s-” she catches herself, her weathered cheeks pinking. “Well, I can’t say exactly what he is in polite company.”

Joel can’t help but grin. He’s heard it all.  “Sure you can.”

“No,” your Nana insisted with that brittle immovability. “I can’t.”

Joel remained silent, allowing her space to speak, though the mention of your divorce sent an unbidden twist through him. He wondered if it had hardened you or if you had always carried that sharp edge, but before he could ask, Nana continued, her voice quieter now.

“But it’s more than that, really. Life hasn’t been kind to my granddaughter. She knows loss better than most. It started young, you see."

Oh.

"The Church used to be her refuge, once upon a time." Nana’s voice was wistful, her eyes drifting toward the stained glass windows. "But something changed. Now it feels more like a wound she can’t stop pressing on. She’s severed from it."

He had seen it, in the way you had sat in that pew, like an outsider, like someone standing at the edge of something once beloved, now foreign.

"She’s a lovely woman," Nana continued, and there was that small, amused glint in her eye, like she knew something he didn’t. "Smart as a whip, funny and a heart as big as all get out. She just doesn’t make it easy to see."

Joel chuckled under his breath.

“She’s gonna volunteer here with me on Tuesday night though,” your Nana said with a renewed enthusiasm. “With the hampers for the needy.”

“That’s wonderful,” Joel replied, a little taken aback by this He had assumed your distaste for the church would extend to every branch of it.

"Be patient with her," Nana said, her voice gentle but firm, as if she were bestowing a great piece of wisdom. "Not everyone finds their way back so easily."

Joel nodded, though he was not sure what patience would accomplish. He could not make you return. He could not make you see something in the Church that you no longer believed in.

And he could not, should not, dwell on the way your sharp tongue and unreadable eyes had lodged themselves into the quiet corners of his mind.

The evening air is crisp yet warm enough to kiss your cheeks as you and your Nana step inside the church hall that Tuesday evening. The scent of wax and old wood lingers in the space, mingling with the warmth of brewing coffee and the faint sweetness of donated pastries. Around the room, folding tables are lined with cans of soup, boxes of pasta, and bags of rice, all waiting to be packed into hampers for families in need.

Your Nana, determined as ever, rolls up her sleeves, though the weariness in her movements don’t escape you. She is smaller than she once was, her energy dipping in a way that worries you. Still, she smiles at you as she sinks into a chair at the head of the table, insisting she can manage just fine from there. You don’t argue. You know better.

The other women are already gathering, the ones you remember from the service, kind, gentle-faced, welcoming in a way that leaves you unsettled. You are an outsider in this world, yet here, they act as though you belong. Mrs.Clifford pulls you into a sweaty hug that you return, hiding your grimace.

“I was worried we might have scared you away,” she says with a jovial laugh.

“No. Not at all,” you lie.

Margaret, of course, is present too, standing like a sentry near the door with her arms folded over her chest. She is all tight smiles and sharp eyes, her voice coated in saccharine sweetness that does little to mask the steel beneath.

The group of you load the items onto the large folding tables creating an assembly line of perishables, socks and of course, a bible for each package. Chattering voices are on either side of you, your Nana giving you a sly wink from one end of the table. You return it, still feeling out of place.

"Well, let’s get organized, shall we?" Margaret’s voice carries over the quiet hum of conversation. "We’ll start at this side-"

She pauses as the doors squeal open and in he strolls.

Father Joel.

The room shifts around you, the air subtly changing, though you can’t quite explain how. In your mind he is not meant to be here. He is a figure of the pulpit, of hushed confessions and quiet authority. But here he is, rolling up his shirt sleeves like any other volunteer, stepping forward with that same steady warmth that unsettles you more than anything.

"Ladies," he greets, nodding to the group before his gaze lands on you. "Good to see you here."

“So wonderful to see you here, Father Joel,” your Nana says surprised.

"I hope y’all don’t mind if I join," Father Joel says, flashing a charismatic grin around the room. The women all give fluttering shakes of their head, their coos like the sound of a loving dove. You want to roll your eyes but hold it in.

“Of course not, Father,” Margaret gushes with delight, motioning to the space between the two of you. “Here, there’s a place right next to me.”

And you realize with an internal groan, right next to you. 

You hold your breath as he moves to stand beside you at the table. He’s taller than you, his profile striking when you spare a brief look his way.

“I didn’t think we’d see you tonight,” Margaret coos, the hampers on the table forgotten. “I thought the schedule said you would be at that seminar in Round Rock?”

Joel shifts his broad frame to look over to her, his shoulder bumping yours in the process. You pull back instinctively, your face twisting in irritation.

“Decided to skip it,” he murmurs. “Feel’s hypocritical to go to a meeting about volunteering in churches and then not do it with mine.”

The others, especially the older women, beam at him, their fondness apparent. Even your Nana brightens, sending you a look as if to say, See? Isn’t he lovely?

Margaret goes on to explain how the assembly like will work. Each partnered couple will place their items in the hamper and slide it to the next. Not rocket science and not all that interesting to you.

“You wanna partner up?”

Joel’s voice is low and warm, surprising you. You glance up to see him watching your face, his gaze unreadable. You shrug, aiming for nonchalance.

“Sure.”

His lips twitch, as though he’s suppressing amusement.

As the assembly line forms, you and Father Joel work quietly with one another packing canned goods, stacking boxes, ensuring each bag is filled evenly. You don’t speak much at first, but as the rhythm of work settles in, the stiffness eases.

The rhythmic sound of cans clinking together echoes softly in the church hall as you and Father Joel work side by side, your hands moving with practiced precision yet the air between you feels thick.

“So when did you move back here?” His voice is low, warm, the kind that lingers in the air like sunlight catching in a morning fog.

His eyes, steady and searching, don’t demand a response, but you feel them on you, and the question hovers between you like a weight.

You barely glance at him, a small shake of your head as you clip your reply, “A few months ago.”

There’s no elaboration, no invitation to know more, but his quiet persistence doesn’t let the silence stretch too long. He tilts a little closer ever so slightly, though not intrusively as he grabs the loaf of bread and tosses it into the bag.

“And how long will you be stayin’?”

He asks it gentle, measured, as though testing the waters of your reluctance.

You catch yourself for a fleeting moment, considering your words. You are tethered here only by the tenuous thread of your grandmother’s hope, but saying it out loud feels too raw. Too much of the truth for a conversation like this.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, your voice softer now, the edge dulling, just a little.

 Your hands hover over the pile of cans, arranging them with deliberate slowness. He nods, as though expecting nothing more, but there's an underlying note of quiet understanding in his gaze, something that makes you feel seen, not as a stranger or an outsider, but as a woman wrestling with more than she cares to admit.

You continue your work, and the rhythm settles again between you, but this time it’s different. The silence is not heavy with judgment or discomfort; it’s simply the space where things are left unsaid, and yet, in that space, you feel a strange kind of ease. He is warm in his presence, steady but not overbearing. He does not pry, does not push. And somehow, that makes it easier.

Father Joel’s hands pause over the cans, his eyes flicking to you with a glimmer of mischief.

“You know,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a soft chuckle, “I’ve always wondered why canned peas seem to find their way into every single hamper. Are they some kind of universal cure-all?”

His question hangs in the air, lighthearted, inviting a spark of humor. The corners of your lips twitch before you can stop them, the tension from before starting to loosen just a fraction. You meet his eyes briefly, the briefest flicker of amusement passing between you like a secret. It’s the first time you’ve truly relaxed since you walked into the room, and for some inexplicable reason, you find yourself responding just a little.

“You’d think they were the holy grail of vegetables,” you reply, your voice quieter, but with a touch of playful sarcasm you hadn’t intended to let slip.

You almost laugh but bite it back, letting only the slightest exhale of amusement pass, the sound surprising you more than him, but the way he smiles at you genuinely and without a hint of mockery makes it feel like you’ve been let in on some quiet, shared joke.

For a moment, you forget to guard yourself, and the weight of everything else; your past, your doubts, your walls, lightens just a little.

 He chuckles in return, a sound that resonates deeper than you would expect. You don’t know why, but the way he’s looking at you now, as though you’ve just cracked open the door to something more, unsettles you. Still, you let it linger, this small shift, this brief connection.

Until Margaret decides she’s had enough.

"My, my," she says, her voice too loud, too pointed as she curls around Joel to look your way, like the serpent testing Adam. "Look at you two, workin’ together so well. It’s lovely to see.”

Joel gives a brief nod by way of reply as he places the large ham into the hamper, his eyes focused on the task. You don’t bother looking over from what you’re doing, your mind elsewhere.

“It’s so nice to have new folks pitchin’ in, helping others.”

You glance over with your hands stilling over the box of pasta you were about to place in the hamper. You know that tone. It is the tone of a woman looking for a crack to widen a wound to press.

Joel, however, remains perfectly composed. “She must take after her Nana.”

“You’re right about that!” Your Nana laughs at the end of the table, her face pinking delightedly. “Now if y’all will excuse me, I’m gonna go powder my nose.”

Nana gives a soft grunt as she pushes herself from her chair. You watch her hunched form move out of the kitchen, her cane tapping away until it diminishes altogether.

As the assembly line continues to take shape, the older ladies hum in quiet conversation, their hands moving with an ease that comes from years of doing this work.

“It really is so lovely to have you here,” Mrs. Clifford says from across the table, her upper lip wet with sweat. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman.”

The words linger in the air longer than you’d like, hanging like delicate threads of praise that you’re not sure how to untangle. A flush creeps up your neck, your cheeks burning beneath the weight of it.

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table from the older women. You feel your face heating uncomfortably and you hunch your shoulders as you mutter out your thanks.

You clear your throat, shifting uncomfortably as you glance down at your hands, suddenly aware of their slowing movements of the way the air feels heavier around you. That familiar, awkward feeling stirs inside you, but it’s quickly followed by something else, something more guarded, a prickling sense of self-consciousness.

Your eyes flicker over to Father Joel, his body close enough that you can feel the subtle shift of his presence beside you. Is he thinking the same thing as they are? Does he see it, too? Your breath catches in your throat, but you force your gaze back down to the hamper in front of you, unsure of how to move past the sudden vulnerability that has overtaken you.

The question hangs there, unspoken, but you feel it, his proximity, the quiet energy between you, the way his hand brushes just slightly against yours as you both reach for another can. You wonder if he notices it, too, or if it's only you who feels the fluttering pulse of something unexpected.

Margaret’s sharp gaze never strays far from you, her eyes glinting with a predatory watchfulness. She’s been hovering at the edge of your conversation, and as you and Father Joel continue working side by side, her attention shifts toward you with a kind of deliberate timing, as though she’s been waiting for just the right moment.

Her mouth, always tight, curves into a too-sweet smile as she curls around Father Joel to gaze at you like the serpent tempting Adam.

“The rest of us so little about you,” Margaret offers.

“Not much to know,” you say quickly.

You think you feel Joel’s eyes on your profile but you don’t give into your curiosity to make sure.

Margaret tilts her head, her smile polished to a gleam. “I never asked you at the potluck. What is it you do for work, dear?” she asks, her voice thick with the kind of saccharine interest that makes your stomach twist.

You hesitate. Not for long, but long enough for her and the other women to notice. The truth isn’t something you parade around town, especially not in a place like this, surrounded by insincere platitudes and old morals.

“I’m a writer,” you say carefully, hoping that will be enough to placate her today. “Or, I was a writer. I don’t really write anymore.”

Joel makes a noise of interest, but you barely notice because Margaret’s eyes have lit up with something that isn’t quite delight.

“Oh, how wonderful! We don’t get many writers around here. What do you write?”

The words are laced with meaning and the way she says it, so innocent and dripping in false politeness that it makes your skin prickle. She knows damn well what you used to write.  

You clear your throat, shifting your weight as another bag of rice goes into the hamper. “Romance,” you admit, keeping it clipped. “I used to write romance novels.”

You feel the temperature rise in your chest, your pulse quickening, as Margaret continues, her words laced with a thinly veiled edge. Her smile deepens, just a fraction.

“Oh, I thought so.” She folds her hands primly in front of her. “I remember hearing about your books a few years back. You did quite well for yourself, didn’t you?”

Your fingers tighten around the loaf of bread you package. You did do well for yourself back when sales were strong, before marriage, before the messy divorce that left you too drained to write anything that didn’t feel like pulling teeth.

“One book. Yeah.” You raise your head to give Mrs. Clifford a warm smile. “Mrs. Clifford, could you pass me the-“

“I remember hearing about it,” Margaret continues with a little giggle to herself, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.

Father Joel’s posture stiffens beside you as Margaret’s gaze flicks to the other ladies, who are now listening with curious interest, like hens pecking at a scrap of gossip.  Her voice lowers dramatically, but not so low that everyone can’t hear.

“It was similar to that… Twenty Shades book, right?”

You want to shrink, to disappear, but instead, all you can do is stand there, feeling the sting of her words like an open wound being scraped raw. You can’t reply.

Margaret’s expression is all warmth on the surface, but there’s a glint in her eyes, a quiet triumph, like she’s just coaxed a confession out of you without ever having to ask. “You must let us know if you ever write something… more wholesome,” she adds, her smile never wavering.

Margaret’s thin smile widens, but you catch the faintest flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. She’s relishing this, the discomfort she’s causing, the way your past is spilling into the present, tainting everything.

You feel the heat of Joel’s body press a little too close as he shifts, his hand hovering near the edge of the hamper. When you finally raise your eyes Father Joel is watching you. Not with pity. Not with amusement. Just... watching. Waiting to see how you will respond.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hands over the table. Then, with deliberate ease, you pick up the pasta, drop it into the hamper, and meet Margaret’s gaze head-on.

 “Sure, Margaret. I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Wonderful,” she says about to say something to Sadie across from her when you cast your own syrupy grin her way.

“But it’s nice to know you enjoyed my book,” you say, voice light, lilting, just enough of a smirk curling at the edge of your mouth.

She stops dead in her tracks, her pale eyes widening as she stares at you. “P-Pardon me?”

“You mentioned knowing my book,” you say with a casual air of indifference. You place the can of green beans into the paper bag. “So I just figured you were a fan of my work.”

Margaret’s face is pink and splotchy. From your peripherals you think you see Joel’s mouth twitch into a suppressed smirk under his facial hair.

“I don’t… I don’t read dirty books,” she says the last two words in a whisper. You’re gratified to see her face has turned a deep maroon. It takes everything in you not to laugh out loud.

“Oh, I see,” you give her a thoughtful look. “So then you’re just a fan of me.”

A pause. A beat of silence. And then Father Joel laughs. It’s not a chuckle, not a restrained, polite sound. It’s a full, rich laugh, genuine in a way that sends heat curling through your chest.

Margaret purses her lips, clearly un-amused but the other women chuckle as well, shaking their heads in amusement. Clearly Margaret is not the beloved figure she thinks she is. You watch as her polished face morphs and she gives a false giggle, something that feels like nails on a chalkboard.

“Oh you are so funny,” she says with a toss of her silky hair over one shoulder. “Just like your Nana. I bet the both of you just sit up there all alone in that big house laughin’ all day and night.”

Your smile and amusement dies in an instant and Margaret sees the change. Her eyes linger just a moment longer, as if savouring whatever small victory she thinks she’s won, before giving you a final, knowing smile and sweeping her gaze away toward the other women.

Father Joel takes a slow breath, his gaze soft but steady as he turns toward Margaret. His voice, when he speaks, is gentle, almost paternal in a way that carries weight without needing to raise itself.

“Today I was thinkin’ about this weeks homily,” he begins, his tone calm and measured as he continues to work on the hamper. “There’s a verse in the Bible, from Proverbs 16:24, that says, Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones. It reminded me that the words we speak can either lift someone up or tear them down.”

His eyes shift briefly toward you, though he’s careful to keep his focus on the group as a whole, ensuring no one feels singled out. “It’s wonderful to know how words have this powerful ability to soothe or hurt.”

His words hang in the air, thoughtful, but not reprimanding.

"A kind word is a sweet thing, like honey in the heart," he says as he smiles, the corners of his plump mouth softening with understanding, but his gaze never wavers from the group.

“I don’t recognize that verse,” Mrs. Clifford says softly.

“That’s alright Helen, it’s because it’s not from the Bible. It’s from a poem. "A Garden of Peace by John Masefield.”

With one final glance around the table, he lets the silence linger for just a moment longer before turning his attention back to the task at hand. “Now, shall we get back to building these hampers, so we can spread some of that sweetness around.”

There’s no accusation in his tone, no judgment, only a quiet reminder of the grace that should guide their words and yours. A flutter of soft laughter like the wings of a butterfly sounds around the table, the tension broken as busy hands get back to the task in front of you. You don’t bother looking over at Margaret.

He tilts your way, shoulder against yours only now you don’t pull away. You accept it, your hands busy working. At this closer distance you observe he smells incredible. Something clean, fresh, with a whisper of something deeper. Sandalwood, maybe. It clings to him, just as the hint of warmth from the night air lingers on his skin.

You hate that you notice. You hate that the sight of him, sleeves pushed up, forearms dusted with fine hair, does something strange to your stomach. Unaware of your inner turmoil Joel leans just slightly closer, voice lowered so only you can hear.

"You think you’ll consider comin’ to Mass on Sunday if I bring canned peas? They are the holy grail of vegetables after all."

[fanficmanic]

I've finally watched 8x16 and 8x17

Just to be safe cause I don't want anyone coming at me with pitchforks and fire - spoiler alert for 8x16 and 8x17

Oh, and probably long post ahead - be warned. I need to let this off my chest and vent.

For 8a, I didn't watch any of the episodes live. I didn't have a source for that at the time, and I always kept an eye on here to sort of give myself a heads-up of what happened in each episode. Then 8b came and I found a website to watch live - which is 12 pm Friday where I live, meaning the episode airs while I'm at work.

Still, I kept watching each episode live, and put in live reactions, and went nuts over predictions and obsessed over possibilities.

Then March 31 happened, and nothing was the same again.

A week later, I went on vacation (still in that vacation as I type this - got 5 more days), where episodes air at 3 am local time. I watched 14 the day after cause I was jet lagged and couldn't wake up for it, then I watched 15 live and cried so hard to the point that I woke up my husband and he freaked out. When I explained what was going on, he just hugged me and asked if I wanted him to stay up with me to vent (this is important for another point I will be making below). I'm kinda glad that all of this was happening while I was busy seeing friends who I haven't seen in years, cause otherwise, I would've driven myself insane during that one week hiatus before 16.

Still, I couldn't find it in me to wake up for 16 and watch live. I wanted to, I really did, but I just couldn't do it. Then I read all the negative feedback and I was like, nope. Not doing this. So I found a clip of the funeral, watched that, and called it a day. This, for someone like me who hasn't gotten so hyper-focused on a tv show in years, is so OOC. I still didn't watch it, even after 17 aired, which I didn't watch live either (not for lack of wanting, but the website I use is blocked where I am currently).

This morning, I woke up to an insane amount of posts here about 17 - and my fandom bestie whose opinion I treasure the most (looking at you @cathcer1984) said that I have to watch it. So, I downloaded 16 & 17, and only was able to watch them now.

Here are my thoughts on 16 (better late than never, I suppose):

No matter what Gerrard does, and no matter how he acts, he'll always be an asshole to me.

Hen and Chim were phenomenal. Their acting was out of this world, and the makeup department deserves awards cause it felt like Chim had aged 10 years.

Buck, who has a chronic case of abandonment issues-itis, was clearly barely holding himself together. He was putting on a strong mask because Bobby told him that they'll need him, and he'd die before disappointing Bobby even through the great beyond.

Eddie only being there for a few minutes pissed me off, but man did he do an excellent job. That single tear that trickled down his face when they saluted Bobby broke me.

Athena's dealing with her grief by working the dead child's case was so in character that I wasn't even upset.

Even though I had watched the funeral scene last week (and cried), I still cried again - and once more, my husband just hugged me and wiped away my tears.

I'm kinda conflicted about Bobby being buried next to his first wife and kids. I mean, it's a beautiful move and very emotional, but that doesn't give people a place to visit him and talk to him. I'm also kinda pissed that Buck, Eddie, Hen, and Chimney didn't get on that plane with Athena, May, and Harry.

Now, like I said, I woke up today to insane posts around here, and I was so confused that at one point I thought I'd be watching Buck and Eddie throwing fists at each other.

However, now that I've watched the episode, I'm starting to wonder if I'm watching the same show as everyone else is - particularly those who are calling Eddie abusive.

Again, the acting was phenomenal, the cases were typical 9-1-1, and the team work at the end kinda showed that the team might still be grieving, but they still work together seamlessly.

The talk that Eddie had with Hen and Karen proved to me that they actually don't know what Bobby told Buck - that they'd need him. I don't think they'd be annoyed by it if they did. On the contrary, I think they'd be working on helping him unburden himself from the heavy load Bobby (unintentionally) put on him.

As for that kitchen scene, I honestly think it was incredible. The acting OS and RG pulled was crazy, and I could feel their grief and anger and helplessness as if it was my own. Again, I don't think Eddie knows what Bobby told Buck - he's still not over the fact that he wasn't there with the rest when the worst happened. And he's lashing lashing out - justifiably so. And this brings me back to what I was saying about my husband earlier.

See, the thing is, we all know that Eddie was brought up to the notion that showing any sign of emotion is weakness. He's repressed and feeling guilty on top of mourning someone who has literally saved his life. In all the past seasons, we've only ever seen him cry when he had that meltdown - and he did that behind a locked door that Buck had to break down. We actively saw him hold back his emotions and become completely stoic: when Shannon died; when he thought Chris was dead during the tsunami (even if it was for a few minutes); when Buck was struck by lightning, during Bobby's funeral, and so on. Yet, we see him try to hold back his tears when he's talking to Buck in the kitchen after pointing that menacing finger at him (can you hear the irony?).

This brings me to what I mentioned about my husband earlier. My husband and I have been together for almost 16 years - married for 14. We've been through so many different things that have caused us immense pain and resulted in one of us lashing out at the other. Our most recent issue is related to my health, which has been going on for about 3 years now, and if you ask anyone who knows me, they'd tell you that I'm ok - managing but ok. They never see my frustration and my pain and my tears, only my husband does, because he's my safe space. I know I can vent and express my frustration in whichever way I find helpful at the time, and that he'll always hold me, help me up, and support me.

This is what's going on with Eddie. He said that he couldn't cry when he received the news because he didn't want to freak out his kid. We saw him with his clenched jaw during the funeral. Still, maybe on an unconscious level, he knew that, standing there in front of Buck in his old kitchen, he's safe to let go of everything that's been eating at him regarding Bobby's death.

On a not-so-different note, Chimney punched Buck and everyone is a-ok with him (even though it's been years since), yet, here we have people calling Eddie abusive and toxic.

Then we've got Buck, who has a chronic case of abandonment issue-itis, and who (even before Bobby died) always wants to help his family and fix things. He's going around rating people's grief so that he can figure out how to help them - it's the only way he know how to do things. But he can see that they don't need him, not the way Bobby said they would, and he ends up in a confessional booth trying to contact Bobby (may I suggest a Ouija board next time?).

But even though Eddie lashed out at Buck, and even though Buck called Eddie a jerk after reading his note, Eddie (who can barely afford anything by being an uber driver) flew his son over to cheer Buck up, and Buck - the man with a heart bigger than the universe - accepted that with the good faith that it is because Eddie gave him what he needs (his family) without him having to ask for it. Because Eddie saw that Buck was trying to help everyone BUT himself, and he stepped up to do that.

Was Buck making everything about him again? Maybe, but then again this is the same person who has had to spend his entire childhood working on getting his parent's attention. Nothing makes sense about grief - like Karen said: you're grieving, fair can go fuck itself (she didn't say that, but she might as well have).

Anyway - if you've gotten this far, I thank you for reading my rambles and venting. I needed to get this off my chest because I've been feeling like I want to scream at my phone all day after reading all the different posts. Like I said in an earlier post - the amount of people I've unfollowed after the last two episodes is a lot.

[romionestinyballoflight]

"The snow may fall, but the sun also rises."

I finished reading Sunrise on the Reaping on Sunday, and even now I feel like it hasn't fully sunk in. I knew it would be rough going into it, but my expectations were far exceeded. I keep asking myself how in the world they're going to adapt this one into a film without giving it an R rating, because there's simply no way they can't. They try to soften it, it'll lose it's meaning and that ultimately defeats the purpose.

I'm sure fellow book nerds/Hunger Games fans have seen the videos floating around on TikTok, Instagram, Twitter, etc., of people crying over Sunrise. Somehow, I didn't cry while reading this. I came close a few times and had to set the book down for a few minutes, but I never actually cried. The only explanation I can think of for that is I really went into it expecting the absolute worst.

Sunrise focuses on Haymitch Abernathy and his Hunger Games. If you know Haymitch, you know he's an alcoholic protagonist who won his own Games twenty four years before the original trilogy begins. Not only that, but he wins in a way that could be seen as "sticking it" to the Capitol. And sure, you can attribute his alcoholism to the fact that had to fight to the death against forty-seven other kids when he was sixteen and he's forced to mentor two kids from his own district every year after. But there's actually more to it than that. Which is freaking awful, considering the aforementioned description I provided would be enough to drive someone to drink. Haymitch deals with so much grief and loss at such a large scale in such a short amount of time, it's horrific. I'm not sure who pissed off Suzanne Collins the day she developed Haymitch's character and backstory, but they owe her one hell of an apology.

I also feel the need to put this out there, for some reason or another -- Sunrise is an IMPORTANT book; just like all the others in the franchise. Anyone who tries to say the Hunger Games books/movies are too politicized are either kidding themselves or are not paying attention. Suzanne Collins has even said she only writes when she has something to say, and she includes four quotes about propaganda at the beginning of this book. Not to mention there are themes of government control, distrust of authority, class discrimination, resistance, etc. woven throughout all of the Hunger Games books. Despite the fact that these books are marketed as YA, they're meant to be political and spark political conversations.

I say all of that to say this: this is a brilliant installment to the Hunger Games franchise, though obviously very heavy and not for the faint of heart in some areas. I would encourage any Hunger Games fan to read this if you can -- if you already like Haymitch, you'll like him even more; if you don't already like Haymitch, you'll gain a ton of respect for him.

Sidenote: I mentioned when I first read Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes that you absolutely do not need to read that if you're not compelled to, but you absolutely need to read Ballad before you read Sunrise.

[museofzia]

Hii I hope you're doing well. I want to share something with you. I want to believe in you, but how can I be sure you're telling the truth? Or at least, how can I believe in you? It feels like anyone could just be telling stories here, and honestly, I'm so tired. Please understand that I’m not trying to be hostile—I’m asking this from a very objective place.

Can you give me even the smallest thing? Something to believe in, a bit of hope? I just want to be sure about something and move forward because I feel like my belief is fading. I don’t know if you understand what I mean, but I’m not asking for anything unreasonable.

You talk about your experiences and how real this is, which is a big deal. Giving people hope and then taking it away is a serious thing. Maybe you truly believe in what you're saying, or maybe you're just sharing things you've imagined to create engagement, connecting with like-minded people to build an energy around it. I don’t know. I’m not judging—I just have all these thoughts running through my mind. And honestly, I feel a lot of sympathy for you.

But I need a way to be sure, to believe in someone. I know shifting is a personal journey, and ultimately, the only thing we need is ourselves. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Even just a bit of faith, something to hope for, would be enough. Some people really do need a mentor. Maybe anyone can achieve it in different ways, even with limiting beliefs.

You’ve come this far, you have these stories, these experiences—even a reality where you're a god, and so on. Can’t you share something that would truly make me believe in you? There must be something.

In all honesty, you do not have to believe me. There is no force in my posts, telling people to believe me. If you do not think my stories or advice are plausible enough to trust me or my word, that is fine. I do not know how to prove to you that I have shifted and experienced the things that I tell people I have, because reality shifting is mental. It all revolves around my mind-- unless there is a form of technology to observe my every thought and every crevice of my brain, I do not believe I am able to full prove to you-- or anyone-- that I have shifted. My own personal growth revolves around shifting, meaning I believe that I have developed different mindsets, mannerisms, opinions, and overall another sense of sense from reality shifting to places where I have a boyfriend, or I am famous, or maybe realities where I am notoriously a very disliked person. I have experienced being exploited, assaulted, and abused. I have experienced eating disorders, grief, and heartbreak. However, I have also experienced the euphoric feelings of fame, love, and company. I have also experienced many different forms of anger, frustration, and I am aware of different aspects of life that I would not be aware of if I had not discovered shifting in the way that I did.. You do not owe me your trust, respect, or your belief. However, what I request from you is for you to acknowledge my age, then my knowledge. I did not acquire it from growing up around adults, I did not acquire it from enrolling into college early, and I did not acquire it from the very short years I have already lived. I acquired it from the things I have gone through to shift, the things I have gone through when I shifted, and the things I continue to go through as I shift even more. There's no physical, or essentially objective way for me to show you that I have shifted. I think the only thing you must rely on is the advice, the mannerisms, the words, and the exposure of myself that I have to offer to the internet. Thank you :)

[qilingxiong]

四樓的天堂 | Heaven on the 4th Floor (2021)

One drama has crept into my life during the last days of 2024 to become my favourite one I've watched this year, and I barely know how to start talking about it. But let's give this a go anyways.

Heaven on the 4th Floor (四樓的天堂) is a Taiwanese drama starring Anthony Wong, Hsieh Ying-xuan, and Fandy Fan. I would call it mostly slice-of-life with some melodrama, as there's no strongly focused overarching plot. Rather, it follows a cast of characters and the struggles/hurdles in their lives they have to face, all of whom are helped/guided by the something all of them have in common— seeing a tuina masseuse named Tianyi (Anthony Wong).

I don't quite know how to describe the way this show develops, as everyone's arcs separate and overlap at different times, but I would say Heaven at its core is about healing. First and foremost about healing the relationship one has with their body and oneself, but also those with other people, with the past, and with the present-day world around someone. There's some interesting juxtaposition between the physical healing Tianyi can offer his clients, and the mental healing Hsieh Ying-xuan's psychologist character provides for her own, with a look at how one cannot do the work of the other. Some characters are recurring throughout the show, others you get to watch take a step forward in the span of one episode, but eventually, no one remains where they were at the beginning.

The character who has the most growth throughout all this, in my opinion, is Fandy Fan's Yuzhou, a young graffiti artist. It's by meeting Tianyi that he gradually manages to stop hiding from the past, but also start looking with hope toward a future, and find a way to be better in tune with himself, his body, and the art he creates.

Aside from healing, Heaven is also about loss, and how someone reckons with it. Past loss (the disappearance of one's loved ones, the yearning for something you never got to have), present/recent loss (the death of a family member, the ending of a relationship), and loss that inevitably lies ahead (the destruction of one's home and the fight to resist it, even if it's all in vain). Characters war with their grief and are forced to find ways to release and gradually accept it, and while my heart ached for different people at different points in time, it was beautiful to watch.

I cannot stress enough that with all this combined, Heaven is one of the most cathartic pieces of media I've ever seen. I cried an unexpected number of times, from the beginning of the show to the end, and it was never, ever in a bad way. The three leads especially did a truly incredible job bringing the viewer into their lives, taking them along for the emotional ride, and I wish all the actors had won awards for that (only one of them did, but she truly deserved it).

Production-wise, I also adore the quality of this show. It's somehow very soothing to watch, visually, and the accompanying soundtrack made me tear up several times. I had to shake myself out of a daze every time I took a break from watching; it both felt like I'd run a marathon, but also had been sitting still, head quiet, and had had someone tell me not to worry about anything else in the world for a while. (It also made me feel more physically present in my body. My shoulders haven't been un-tense in years, and I think thanks to Heaven I'm going to have to do something about that.)

In addition, this isn't the main focus of the show, but queerness is worked into it in wonderfully ordinary ways. There's more than one queer character and a trans character who show up in this, and one protagonist who is either heavily coded as or possibly explicitly aroace spectrum, depending on how much you read into it. Her arc ended up being one of my favourites; the show deals with her relationships lining up with aroace experiences in a way I haven't really seen onscreen before.

Overall, I'm absolutely going to rewatch Heaven in the future, when I feel that I need to return to that story. If you want a grounded, very character-driven show to get gently lost in for a while, this is it.

(Though admittedly, I know this drama definitely isn't going to be for everyone. It's a little bit sleepy-going, and not everyone is interested in or is braced to deal with the emotions of the story. Normally even I'm not, but here I am. However, if you're interested, here's the trailer for Heaven on the 4th Floor:

And I don't tend to do this, but I'm also going to toss out two tracks that sound how this show feels, to me: In My Breath Again from the soundtrack of After Yang, and 披星戴月的想你 by Accusefive. Sit with those for a while and see what you think, if it helps you decide whether to watch or not.)

Note: Unless you have Taiwanese Netflix, you're gonna have to jump on the pirate ship to find this show. However, as far as I'm aware there have never been English subtitles made for it on any site, so if you can't read the Traditional Chinese in the episode raws, then you may have to sit this one out for the time being.)

[borderlinereminders]

Identifying and clarifying emotions can be really helpful in learning how to cope with them.

For me, I start with “what just triggered this feeling?” No matter how small it was. Even if it was just a minor thing that unraveled a bigger issue. Maybe it’s something like your friend didn’t reply to you when you thought they would. Maybe your friend said something that unintentionally hurt your feelings.

I then focus on “what physical feelings do I have?” For example, is my heart racing? Do my hands feel shaky? Does my stomach feel like it’s turning? All of the above could indicate I’m feeling anxious. Where things like clenching your fist or feeling “hot” could indicate anger. Take a note of what you’re feeling physically and if you aren’t sure what it might indicate, looking it up might help!

The next thing I ask myself is “what urges is this feeling giving me?” If I’m feeling like yelling at someone, this could indicate anger. If I’m feeling like hiding under my blankets, this could indicate anxiety. If I’m feeling like sobbing on the floor, this could indicate grief, sadness or something like that.

Once you’ve identified your feeling(s), you can start to look at ways to deal with it. A lot of times, our urges to deal with the feelings aren’t the things we should do.

Skills like urge surfing can help with this and working on some grounding exercises might help clear your head to rationally figure out your next step. This might be where we look at how to deal with the feeling. Maybe to deal with the feeling of sadness, we need to let ourselves cry. Maybe to deal with rage, we need to scream into a pillow. Everyone is different and every situation is different but the goal is to find a way to deal with the feeling.

Another skill I usually find useful in dealing with feelings is the wise mind skill. This helps me figure out how to proceed in a situation like something a friend said unintentionally that upset me.

If I’m feeling frustrated with my friend for not replying, I may step back and look at the situation. I may be feeling frustrated because I feel like they’re ignoring me so I then consider the possibility of an alternate explanation. Could they be busy? Possibly overwhelmed? Could there be an explanation that isn’t about them ignoring me?

Another thing I ask myself is “what can I do to feel something else?” For this, I have a list of things on my phone that I know make me happy. Things like cute animal videos, my favourite songs to listen to, etc. I keep the list because these things can be hard to remember when other feelings are so strong. But a lot of the time, doing something in the list can help me get beyond the other feeling. While we do need to deal with our feelings, sometimes it isn’t the time or place and it’s better for us to focus on something else for the time being. This can also help us be able to look at the situation more rationally once we’re not so caught up in the feelings about it.

I think I could go on and on about ways to deal with different feelings, but this post is getting very long already, so I’ll leave it here.

[greatcelestialhieroglyphs]

Backslide, Vignette, Snap Back, and Oldies Station are so desperately important to me.

For the past few years, I’ve been struggling with a self-destructive habit that I haven’t been able to break. Even though my family has been super loving and understanding, I keep feeling like THIS time is going to be the time that they get fed up and give up on me for good. “Do you think that now’s the time, you should let go?” I feel like I’ve asked that question a thousand times. And the repetition, which sounds (to me) like he’s TELLING the person he’s talking to that they should let go. They SHOULD get tired of me. My self-destructive habits are hurting the people I cared about. I should have fixed it for THEM if not myself, I should have loved them better.

Vignette just sounds like a relapse to me. The way Tyler sings “Man, it’s been a long night” and “Where do I go from here?” are so filled with exhaustion and desperation. The mental image of people he cares about finding him in the woods, covered in bites, as someone finding you after a relapse and seeing what you’ve done to yourself.

Snap Back is. just. Sometimes you can FEEL your resolve getting weaker, you can FEEL yourself buckling under life’s pressures and going to familiar coping mechanisms. You want to be stronger, to have more resolve, but you’re so freaking tired and it feels inevitable. After all, it only takes ONE weak moment. You have all day to relapse. You have all night. You have all week. Can you REALLY stay determined that long? You’ve done this before. You know you can’t.

(And this line of thinking is inherently self-defeating. You’ve relapsed so many times that you’ve lost faith in yourself. You don’t have faith in yourself, so you can’t win. It’s a self fulfilling prophecy.)

And at the end, when you’ve tried everything and said everything to the people you love as they’re sad and angry and worried and afraid and proud and everything else over the years… “I’ve run out of excuses for why I am this way.”

Finally. Oldies Station. Because life is going to keep coming, and you’re probably going to relapse. You’re still learning to deal with fear and pain without hurting yourself in the process. But you’re still here.

“Make an oath, then make mistakes. Start a streak you’re bound to break.” This philosophy is one I’ve been trying to adopt for years. No matter how many times you relapse, you NEED to keep fighting. There is so much freedom in staring again, KNOWING you’ll probably fail, but putting your all into it anyway. Because sometimes, your all isn’t enough. Whether that’s because life is too hard or you’re too weak doesn’t really matter. That’s not what you need to be focusing on. When darkness rolls on you, when you’re filled with grief and shame and whatever emotions plague you in a vicious cycle, you push on through.

You get better. You get stronger. It’s so slow, but it happens. You’re still here.

And when you do relapse again, you may be disappointed, but you can feel yourself on the come up even when you’re at a low point.

You fell into a backslide yet again, but you don’t quite mind. And isn’t that the goal of healing?

Peace?

[crying-fantasies]

Within you

Masterlist

If Sideswipe relationship with his human is based on "Take my breath away" then Sunstreaker's part of the story is based on this song (I still don't remember who started the whole "Streaker likes David Bowie" but the first blog I found talking about that was @rocksinmuffin if my memory is correct).

Within you and the whole Labyrinth movie was created before I was even born, first time watching it as almost a baby gave me the impression this song was centered in how the goblin king was mad at Sarah, maybe even hated her, again, I was a child, one very messed up by Disney and the idea of "married happily ever after", so imagine Amy flabbergasted face when my cousins translated the son for me, like "so he hated her this whole time and still wanted to marry her?".

Just to then hear him say "How you turn my world, you precious thing".

I didn't get it, nor David Bowie's acting, but then I watched it again as an adult after realizing my love for Henson's work back again, just to be smacked in the face by the whole deep meaning of a suffering man as Jareth, while not telling her that he loves her, still does tell how much it hurts him to love and court her (incorrectly, mind you because it's obvious Jareth is suffering to give the message) but don't have the very same love back for him.

Creativity crashed onto me while my niece was watching the labyrinth, asking myself if the brothers each should've a different lover, but with the fact of split sparks gave another deep meaning, of course everyone can love someone different, but the idea of twins courting the same interest seemed more interesting for me as many others did before (and also, two boyfriends).

Within you was the right decision for Sunny.

Sunstreaker affection for his human partner started from disgust because organic, of course, but Sunny, no matter what he says or how he acts, loves his brother, so if we want Sunstreaker to interact with a human then Sides needs to be in the picture.

It starts small, a little "oh, now he is bringing strays, great" that soon morphed to him smacking Sideswipe's helm when he almost dropped you "Do you want to clean organic insides from the floor?!" but still being very gentle by his own standard to grip your clothes and put you on a safe enough place, cleaning his digits afterwards as if you carried some disease, what an idiot.

Taking time he gets familiar with your presence, but then there is this itchy thing on his spark when he sees you, the itch keeps going, silent like a mouse surrounded by cats, but growing like mold, like a forgotten seed trying to catch a glimpse of sunlight, when it does, he makes double takes, going through the many levels of grief (because how could such a perfect being like him feel even an ounce of affection for a fleshie?) and currently in the stage of depression before noticing the way Sideswipe looks at you while scoping you away from your old computer for things to finally connect and make sense.

Also sending him back to the stage of anger morphed into rage (directed mostly to you due to his own reason of not really hating his own brother).

Sunstreaker anger reaches new levels that has everyone looking twice when his usual sour but accepting EM field twisted to such hatred, Ironhide almost got to the decision of getting the human away, "just let him deal with whatever is his problem" he said while trying to make you go with Ratchet's group of humans but choosing not to interfere when Sideswipe gave him the most woeful optics he has ever see once noticed what he was trying to do.

Later on the thing gets worse and Sunny is splashed in the face in the same way Blurr did (the world doesn't move around me FUCK) Just tht he did when he was finally separated from Hunter and got a very needed moment with his own thinking.

Does he get a very hard moment on it? Yeah, it's even pointed that he suffered from it since he feels bad for Hunter and not having the strength to at least say goodbye, tell him "hey, we did it", and dealing with his feelings on that matter, Sunstreaker couldn't, and that makes the fact of him trying to put himself straight the most painful as every other autobot, while not saying out loud, still can't easily trust in him again.

Sunstreaker is trying, but only time will tell if it's even worthy to try and heal a wound that is sure to leave a permanent scar.

Sideswipe loves Sunstreaker, they're brothers, they'll forever have one another, and Sideswipe has you, if only for a bit, and Sunstreaker also has to make amends with you, maybe to at least talk like decent people in company of one another, he will take whatever you throw at him because he knows Sideswipe liked you, just to realize his brother now loves you, Sunstreaker doesn't only see it, he feels it, near enough to his brother again to feel that tingle now tremor inside the bond.

He knows it's great, he feels it and his own spark resonates with the same feeling, he is happy for Sideswipe even when the idiot has yet to talk to you directly about the courting, but no matter how much Sideswipe tries, Sunstreaker doesn't know how to have a normal chat with you, or at least have you not reacting like you are about to kill him.

"You look great today"

"As if"

Your story with Sunstreaker is full of hatred directed to you for things you never did to him, the brothers fear such feeling will never fade away as Sunstreaker tries to seat beside you, looking at his pedes, trying to make small talk, say things he knows would rock the world for anyone, when words just don't work because Sunstreaker is always the one being fanned over and not the other way around, actions fade easy as all you center on him is that he is doing it a certain purpose to make you cry like before.

"I move the stars for no one", Sunstreaker could be showing you the beauty of late Cybertron's most intricate pieces of art and you would be thinking if he is going to make an offhand comment for you at any moment, not realizing he is letting you see them through his own databank, displayed for you to see in one of the most intimate displays of affection a cybertronian can do for a loved one, free vision to his precious memories, Sunny would try to give you ride once the war is over, trying to sound as soft as he can push his vocalizer and too close to imitate a purr with his engines, door open and inviting, he knows you had a long day shift, you're slow and the strange coloration under your eyes is too evident, he hates it, as it shows you're exhausted, but no matter, you keep walking, in any other occasion Sunstreaker would have abandoned you there for make him look like a fool, whatever, but he can't, he wants to, all he does is get into root mode and walk slowly next to you, commenting that Sides will never stop pestering him if something happened due to your foolishness and he was near the place.

"Your eyes can be so cruel", Sunstreaker, being like he is, guided by your rejection continuously, returns your hatred if only to protect himself, because how could you do this to him, "just as I can be so cruel", but he does understand, his anger more similar to a sad mech that is just a click away from scoping and shout at you to stop it, because you're hurting him.

Within you is a song about love, longing, but also heartbreak, Sunstreaker fits good in here.

"I can't live within you".

It will take time, a very good amount he hates with all of his being because every moment you stay in your stupid bubble of self-preservation the brothers have a day less to cherish due to your stupidly short lifespan, but apparently all has it's own reward for him, as one day he does shout at you, this time, however, is to tell you, he may have needed real psychological help with all of his trauma, but while pouring his inner hell to he last person he wanted to see him like that, he finds your gift in front of him again, patched up, offered more than a peace symbol, more like a proposition.

"I, I can't live within you"

[idontknowreallywhy]

Gulp, here goes. Putting myself out there a bit here… and have dithered about pressing ‘post’ for days!

I’ve set myself a challenge - to finish my big Earth&Sky fic, Resurface. It’s so close and I have an absolutely gorgeous piece of fanart I commissioned from someone wonderful which I wanted to post when the story was complete and I’ve had it waiting almost a year now which is crazy! 🤭😖🫣

It has now been so long that it feels kind of strange to just post the ending to it out of the blue, sort of anti-climactic which would be a shame when it’s a really big deal for me to finish something like this, so I thought I’d try something to give myself a kind of run-up…

…

I’m going to repost the series as I read back through it over the next couple of weeks. Actually in order this time (rather than the haphazard way I wrote it) and so I can tidy up all the loose ends and typos I was intending to and also as an exercise in writing short chapter summaries because I suck at those and want to get better at it!!! I guess my success at that will be determined by whether anyone clicks read more 😏

I shall tag it all with #idkry fic repost and #mia fic repost so please feel free to filter either or both of those if you’ve seen it before / don’t want to see stuff that isn’t brand new / just not interested. If it’s annoying, I’m sorry but it’ll be short lived!

For once in my life I’m not going to be all bashful about it - I actually think it’s pretty good (best thing I’ve ever written anyway) and from a very random start it developed in an interesting way and has lots of themes and references and mirrors and all that gubbins that had proper names when I was studying English Lit but I’ve forgotten now. And… well, I’ve had a lot of fun with it.

As always, if you’re reading and you enjoy please do fling a ❤️ on the post - I really don’t subscribe to this passive-aggressive ‘likes don’t count you have to reblog or comment’ business on tumblr - not everyone has time or energy for that and I find the likes beyond encouraging. This will hopefully push me to get the thing wrapped up - the ending I have planned is quite satisfying I think :)

General series TWs for military, prisoner of war, non-graphic torture, grief, mental health issues, relapse, hospital, section, poor coping strategies, psychosis… but also despite that making it sound really grim the majority of it is a lot of brotherly love, puppy piles, deep talks, hair product headcanons, Kansas, octopus Scott, artist Virgil, the clothing fairy, Grandma being Grandma… not to mention a bit of actual character development (some people might even learn some lessons and try to effect positive change)!

All the Tracy boys feature and get a little prodded by my big meanie writing stick, but despite Scott being the one incarcerated at the start of it, it’s dear Virgil who gets the majority of the whacking over the head with it in this. Kayo is there but doesn’t get a lot of plot (apologies, she just didn’t speak to me much this time).

It starts pretty bleak… if you don’t wanna see poor Scotty in prison camp then skip the first of the stories (Bearded) and start at Presence - there are a fair few imagery references back to the first part later on, but it isn’t vital plot-wise.

Ok enough rambling… next post I’ll get going!

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙

Bearded

1. Bearded

Awaiting rescue from the prison camp, Scott tries to maintain a grip on the one thing he has a lot of. He just needs to be patient - someone would come soon, right?

2. Cold

The weather has taken a turn for the worse and Scott is trying not to do the same. Maybe his family can be an anchor in the storm?

3. Disappointment

Scott’s captors try an alternative method of breaking him but he’s not as alone as they think believe he is.

4. Quiet

Scott’s not sure how long, or how much of himself he has left. But something has changed and he just needs to hold on long enough…

Presence

1. Presence 2. Absence 3. Divulgence

4. Patience 5. Essence

Composition

1. Da Capo 2. Call 3. Response

4. Poco a Poco Crescendo

[rpmemecollection]

Florence+The Machine's How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful Sentence Prompts

A series of prompts taken from Florence+The Machine 's 2015 album How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful(Deluxe) Change bits and bobs as needed.

01 Ship to Wreck

❝Don't touch the sleeping pills, they mess with my head.❞ ❝Oh, my love remind me, what was it that I said?❞ ❝I can't help but pull the earth around me to make my bed.❞ ❝Oh, my love remind me, what was it that I did?❞ ❝Did I drink too much? Am I losing touch?❞ ❝Did I build this ship to wreck?❞ ❝What's with the long face? Do you want more?❞ ❝Don't let the curtain catch you, cause you've been here before.❞ ❝The chair is an island, darling, you can't touch the floor.❞ ❝Did I drink too much?❞ ❝Am I losing touch?❞ ❝Under starless skies we are lost and into the breach we got tossed and the water's coming in fast.❞

02 What Kind of Man

❝I was on a heavy tip trying to cross a canyon with a broken limb.❞ ❝You were on the other side, like always wondering what to do with life.❞ ❝I'd already had a sip so I reasoned I was drunk enough to deal with it.❞ ❝You were on the other side, like always you could never make your mind.❞ ❝With one kiss you inspired a fire of devotion that lasts for twenty years.❞ ❝What kind of man loves like this? To let me dangle at a cruel angle.❞ ❝Oh, my feet don't touch the floor.❞ ❝Sometimes you're half in and then you're half out but you never close the door.❞ ❝What kind of man loves like this?❞ ❝You're a holy fool all coloured blue, red feet upon the floor.❞ ❝You do such damage, how do you manage to have me crawling back for more?❞ ❝I can't beat you, because I'm still with you.❞ ❝Oh mercy❞, I implore.❞ ❝How do you do it? I think I'm through it then I'm back against the wall.❞

03 How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful

❝Between a crucifix and the Hollywood sign, we decided to get hurt.❞ ❝Now there's a few things we have to burn.❞ ❝Every city was a gift and every skyline was like a kiss upon the lips.❞ ❝How big, how blue, how beautiful.❞ ❝Every day I wore your face like an atmosphere around me, a satellite beside me.❞ ❝What are we gonna do?❞ ❝We've opened the door, now it's all coming through.❞ ❝Tell me you see it too.❞ ❝We've opened our eyes and it's changing the view.❞ ❝So much time on the other side waiting for you to wake up.❞ ❝Maybe I'll see you in another life if this one wasn't enough.❞

04 Queen of Peace

❝Oh, the king gone mad within his suffering called out for release, someone cure him of his grief.❞ ❝Oh, what is it worth when all that's left is hurt?❞ ❝Like the stars chase the sun over the glowing hill, I will conquer.❞ ❝Some things never sleep.❞ ❝Suddenly I'm overcome, dissolving like the setting sun like a boat into oblivion 'Cause you're driving me away.❞ ❝Now you have me on the run.❞ ❝The damage is already done.❞ ❝Come on, is this what you want? 'Cause you're driving me away.❞ ❝Oh, the queen of peace always does her best to please.❞ ❝It isn't any use, somebody's gotta lose.❞ ❝My love is no good against the fortress that it made of you.❞ ❝To give yourself over to another body, that's all you want really.❞ ❝To be out of your own and consumed by another. To swim inside the skin of your lover. Not to have to breathe, not to have to think.❞ ❝But you can't live on love; salt water's no drink.❞

05 Various Storms & Saints

❝The air was full of various storms and saints.❞ ❝I'm in the throes of it somewhere in the belly of the beast.❞ ❝You took your toll on me, so I gave myself over willingly.❞ ❝You got a hold on me.❞ ❝I don't know how I don't just stand outside and scream.❞ ❝I am teaching myself how to be free.❞ ❝The monument of the memory, you tear it down in your head.❞ ❝Don't make the mountain your enemy.❞ ❝You saw the stars out in front of you, too tempting not to touch.❞ ❝Even though it shocked you something's electric in your blood.❞ ❝If you could just forgive yourself.❞ ❝Still you stumble, your feet give way.❞ ❝But you had to have him, and so you did.❞ ❝Some things you let go in order to live.❞ ❝Who made us this way?❞ ❝I know you're bleeding, but you'll be okay.❞ ❝Hold on to your heart, you'll keep it safe.❞ ❝Hold on to your heart, don't give it away.❞ ❝Your heart is there, it's in your hands.❞ ❝I know it seems like forever. I know it seems like an age but one day this will be over, I swear it's not so far away.❞

06 Delilah

❝I can never let go.❞ ❝Cause I'm gonna be free and I'm gonna be fine.❞ ❝Now the sun is up and I'm going blind.❞ ❝Another drink just to pass the time. I can never say no.❞ ❝It's a different kind of danger and the bells are ringing out.❞ ❝It's a different kind of danger.❞ ❝My feet are spinning ‘round. Never knew I was a dancer 'til ___ showed me how.❞ ❝Too fast for freedom, sometimes it all falls down.❞ ❝These chains never leave me, I keep dragging them around.❞ ❝Now I'm dancing with ____ and her vision is mine.❞ ❝Took anything to cut you, I can find a different kind of a danger in the daylight.❞ ❝Can't you let me know?❞ ❝Now it's one more boy and it's one more line. Taking the pills just to pass the time.❞ ❝Never knew I was a dancer.❞ ❝Strung up, strung out for your love.❞ ❝I'm wrung and wringing out.❞ ❝Why can't you let me know?❞ ❝Strung up, strung out for your love. Hanging, hung up, it's so rough. I'm wrung and wringing out.❞ ❝As I pull the pillars down it's a different kind of danger.❞ ❝These chains never leave me.❞

07 Long & Lost

❝Without your love, I'll be so long and lost. Are you missing me?❞ ❝Is it too late to come on home?❞ ❝Is it too late to come on home? Can the city forgive?❞ ❝I hear its sad song.❞ ❝Without your love I'll be so long and lost.❞ ❝Can the city forgive?❞ ❝It's been so long between the words we spoke. Will you be there up on the shore, I hope?❞ ❝You wonder why it is that I came home?❞ ❝I figured out where I belong.❞ ❝It's too late to come on home.❞

08 Caught

❝It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do, to try and keep from calling you.❞ ❝Well, can my dreams keep coming true? How can they? 'Cause when I sleep, I never dream of you.❞ ❝As if the dream of you, it sleeps too but it never slips away. It just gains its strength and digs its hooks to drag me through the day.❞ ❝I forget all that I've been taught.❞ ❝It's the hardest thing I've ever had to prove.❞ ❝You turned to salt as I turned around to look at you.❞ ❝Old friends have said, the books I've read say it's the thing to do.❞ ❝I went blind for you.❞ ❝Then you leave my head, crawl out the bed, you subconscious solipsist.❞ ❝For those hours deep in the dark perhaps you don't exist.❞ ❝I can't keep calm, I can't keep still.❞ ❝I'm thrashing on the line, somewhere between desperate and divine.❞ ❝Persephone will have her fill.❞

09 Third Eye

❝Hey, look up, don't make a shadow of yourself.❞ ❝Always shutting out the light, caught in your own creation.❞ ❝Look up, look up!❞ ❝It tore you open and oh, how much?❞ ❝Cause there's a hole where your heart lies and I can see it with my third eye and though my touch, it magnifies.❞ ❝You pull away, you don't know why.❞ ❝You don't have to be a ghost here amongst the living.❞ ❝You are flesh and blood and you deserve to be loved.❞ ❝You deserve what you are given and oh, how much?❞ ❝Cause there's a hole where your heart lies.❞ ❝I can see it with my third eye.❞ ❝Cause your pain is a tribute, the only thing you let hold you.❞ ❝Wear it now like a mantle, always there to remind you.❞ ❝Your pain is a tribute.❞ ❝I'm the same, I'm the same I'm trying to change.❞

10 St Jude

❝Another conversation with no destination. Another battle never won.❞ ❝Each side is a loser, so who cares who fired the gun?❞ ❝I'm learning, so I'm leaving.❞ ❝I'm trying to find the meaning .❞ ❝St ____, the patron saint of the lost causes.❞ ❝Maybe I've always been more comfortable in chaos.❞ ❝I was on the island and you were there too but somehow through the storm, I couldn't get to you.❞ ❝I couldn't keep my mouth shut, I just had to mention grabbing your attention.❞ ❝Even though I'm grieving I'm trying to find the meaning, letting loss reveal it.❞

11 Mother

❝Oh Lord, won't you leave me on my knees? 'Cause I belong to the ground now and it belongs to me.❞ ❝Oh Lord, won't you leave me just like this? 'Cause I belong to the ground now, I want no more than this.❞ ❝How I long for the autumn, the sun keeps burning me.❞ ❝Can you protect me from what I want? The lover I let in who left me so lost.❞ ❝Make me a big tall tree so I can shed my leaves and let it blow through me.❞ ❝Make me a big grey cloud so I can rain on you things I can't say out loud.❞ ❝All these couples are kissing and I can't stand the heat.❞ ❝I lost my shoes and left the party.❞ ❝No use wishing on the water, it grants you no relief.❞ ❝Make me a bird of prey so I can rise above this, let it fall away.❞ ❝Make me a song so sweet Heaven trembles, falling at my feet.❞ ❝Oh Lord, won't you leave me.❞ ❝I belong to the ground now and it belongs to me.❞ ❝I belong to the ground now I want no more than this.❞ ❝It belongs to me.❞ ❝I want no more than this.❞

12 Hiding

❝I think you hide when all the world's asleep and tired.❞ ❝You cry a little, so do I.❞ ❝I think you hide and you don't have to tell me why.❞ ❝Tell me I will be released?❞ ❝Not sure I can deal with this, up all night again this week.❞ ❝I know that you're hiding. I know there's a part of you that I just cannot reach.❞ ❝You don't have to let me in, just know that I'm still here.❞ ❝I'm ready for you whenever, whenever you need, whenever you want to begin.❞ ❝I know you've tried but something stops you every time.❞ ❝It's your pride that's keeping us still so far apart but if you give a little, so will I.❞ ❝I know that you're hiding.❞ ❝I know there's a part of you that I just cannot reach.❞ ❝I know I seem shaky, these hands not fit for holding but if you let me, oh I will see you right.❞ ❝I'm still here.❞

13 Make Up Your Mind

❝I never thought I'd be a killer.❞ ❝If I can't drink the water what else can I do?❞ ❝Although the axe is heavy, it just sits in my hands.❞ ❝Every time I try to bring it down you always turn my hand around.❞ ❝Make up your mind. Let me live or let me love you.❞ ❝While you've been saving your neck, I've been breaking mine for you.❞ ❝The power is on, the guillotine hums. My back's to the wall, go on, let it fall.❞ ❝Make up your mind before I make it up for you.❞ ❝I never thought that I'd be facing a sea that's bluer than the tide.❞ ❝Now my knees are shaking and I can't look in your eyes.❞ ❝If you're gonna make me do it, how'd you want it done?❞ ❝Is it best to sip it slowly or drink it down in one?❞ ❝Let me live or let me love you.❞ ❝The executioner's within me and he comes, blindfold ready, sword in hand, and arms so steady.❞

14 Which Witch

❝It's my whole heart weighed and measured inside.❞ ❝It's an old scar.❞ ❝It's my whole heart deemed and delivered a crime. I'm on trial, waiting 'til the beat comes out.❞ ❝Who's a heretic now?❞ ❝Am I making sense?❞ ❝Who's a heretic, child?❞ ❝I'm miles away, he's on my mind.❞ ❝I'm getting tired of crawling all the way.❞ ❝I've had enough, it's obvious.❞ ❝I'm not beaten by this yet.❞ ❝You can't tell me to regret.❞ ❝Been in the dark since the day we met.❞ ❝Fire, help me to forget.❞ ❝It's my whole heart, while tried and tested, it's mine.❞ ❝It's my whole heart trying to reach it out.❞ ❝It's my whole heart, burned but not buried this time.❞ ❝Chained and shackled, oh I'll unravel.❞ ❝It's a pity.❞

[deadrayg2mf]

The Gargoyle's Captive (A Deal with a Demon #3) by Katee Robert

Honestly, like, what do I even say at this point that ya'll haven't heard from me about how much I freakin' love Katee Robert and this series. I will keep this one brief for real because if I don't it'll just be like "Oh my god, Ray, shut the fuck up we get it - this book came out three months ago you're late to the party!"

Okay, so aside from it being Katee freakin' Robert, this book is full of enemies to lovers, femdom, grief-consumed protags, and - my favorite, of course - angst. Yeah, did I see the plot twist coming from a mile away? One thousand percent. Did I care? Frick no. Okay, so we're following the same story - deal with a demon, seven years basically married to leader of demon territory, maybe a baby... But this time, it's Grace the monster hunter and Bram the Gargoyle.

Grace is another enjoyable female lead who is a headstrong take-no-shit kinda gal, probably what you would expect from someone who makes a living out of hunting monsters. She's the last of her family and she's really only here for answers because Azazel happens to be the same demon her mother, who disappeared, made a bargain with, and by golly, she is going to get those answers even if it means selling seven years of her life. Bram is traumatized, grief-stricken, lonely, and at this point has the most sad-boy, giving up on life, fuck it energy I've ever seen in a protagonist - and I am so here for it. I eat that shit up. I love the tragics - stories and characters. He's also the last of his family after his entire family was murdered by an outsider his father brought in. He doesn't actually really want to be there but the opportunity and benefits it brings are too good to pass up, especially when you're in the leadership position he is...

I loved the story clearly, and really liked how handling grief was portrayed, no two people will be able to handle it the same even when they are in the same situation. Grace dug her heels in and became even more stalwart and determined while Bram gave in to the grief of loss and resigned himself to an empty life... and even potentially having it purposely ended at the hands of a scrappy little monster hunter in the bath... They are two people coming to terms with events of the past, the shadow of their parents, and suddenly dealing with someone new who they bought at an auction/got auctioned to for the next seven years that they don't necessarily get along with. That's right, they're totally toxic for each other. Don't worry, we're always promising happy endings here :) It's fast paced, there's a lot to get through in 186 pages, but I really think it was done to the best of its ability. Do I wish this was 500 pages? Uh, YEAH, but it is what it is and what it is, is really good. I will admit... it took me a hot minute to slug through obviously. I actually feel a little bad about this review because I was kind of forcing myself to read this. I wasn't in the right headspace and so while objectively I knew I was enjoying it I was also aware that I was, like, not locked in. I am very much intending to reread it when I'm not begrudgingly reading while rotting in bed just because nothing sounds enjoyable.

With that, I swear I am not just pulling shit out of my ass with everything I've told you. I really did enjoy the book, I love the way it's written, I liked the characters, the cover art is amazing, and it's just another great addition to the Deal with a Demon series. I think I'll give it a solid.... 7.9/10 with subject to change in the future :)

Would I read again? Yes, I plan to. Once the pesky ole depression and imminent demise anxiety wear off.

Would I recommend? Of cousre, I'm always recommending Katee Robert... I'm not sure what happens on the day I don't...? Does the world end?

[colfy-wolfy]

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYNYAN hoping this year will be at least half decent for myself and all of you!! huge-ish vent below cut btw, just a warning for whoever doesn't want to read that. Hope everyone who reads this has had an amazing holiday and i wish you all a happy 2025!! I love all of you who follow me and I especially love all my friends and mutuals, you guys are awesome. ❤️❤️

This year, especially the last couple months, was one of my most depressing years of my life I think. That's my only excuse for such a lack of art posts. I don't owe anyone who follows me anything, I post whenever I feel like it, but I myself would've liked if I were able to draw and post more often simply because I love it when people find happiness and inspiration in what I make and it personally makes me happy to draw things for myself, getting to take what's on my mind and translate it on a canvas. But that was made nearly impossible because of the sheer amount of grief and stress I was put under these past couple months. I didn't even have any motivation to draw anything for myself, most of my best drawings were of things I hyperfixated on. Anything else was stupid doodles or quick sketches that drained me for days. I've had way too many loved ones die this year for my comfort, and I've never experienced even one death of a loved one before this so for me to have to deal with so much sudden moments of grief was a lot on me and even now I can't believe it. It's not something I can or would like to dwell on every moment of every day but the effect it's had on me does exist even when I don't think about it. On top of that, my family life seems to have gotten worse now that I'm an adult and also understand how broken of a family I've got which is a whole complicated thing I'd rather not get into.

I don't like talking about such real serious shit on my main blog like at all, I like to keep my blog friendly and positive, so venting here so personally is a bit out of my comfort zone.. but I just wanted to get that out there because despite all of that's happened, I've had my close friends with me the entire way down and I am so incredibly grateful for that. You all know who you are, I love you all and I really REALLY mean it. You guys mean so much to me it hurts, even when we argue or when some negative shit happens we still get through it and care for each other. You guys are my real family. Anyone else reading this, I hope that even during your hardest moments that you have someone to lean on and they can lean on you too, someone who supports you and who you can support back. Even if you have no one now, please try to take care of yourself and hold on there until you can find a friend who you can count on and that you can give all your gratitude to. There's no family like your found family. Care for others and they will care for you back. Happy new years. <3