#but i keep seeing ambulances and i am so filled with love

[swiftwyll]

listen. I am in love with the way that everyone clears a path for an ambulance. people are inherently good. when we can't help, we help the helpers.

[dfortrafalgar]

I'm Losing You... (But We're Filling the Cracks)

Having a family isn't always as easy as fairy tales make it seem. But sometimes, you just need a little bit of love... and a little bit of science.

Warnings: read chapter 1 for warnings.

Taglist: @phsycochan | @mirillua | @augustanna | @chaixsherlock | @whore-of-many-hot-men | @nerdisthenewcool | @lilypadmomentum

Chapter 25

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The shock did not go away.  If anything, it packed its bags and moved into your home.

You stood in front of the mirror in your bathroom dressed in only your bra and underwear.  Law stood behind you, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest.  The air in the room was stifling as you gazed at the bump that had already started showing in your belly.

You had an approximate due date.  May 22nd.

You were officially, according to your implantation date and calculations done by Robin, on your ninth week of pregnancy.  Your hCG levels in each blood test had increased as expected, and your babies had heartbeats.

Your babies.  Plural.

Your symptoms were exacerbated by the fact that you had not one, but two embryos inside you.  Breast tenderness, backaches, nausea, dizziness, the whole nine yards.

Though, if you were being fair to yourself, your dizziness could easily have been a side effect of being labeled as ‘extremely high risk.’  Due to your history, and now due to being pregnant with multiples, you were given strict instructions to be much more present at your doctor’s office.  You were given prenatal vitamins to begin taking daily every single morning.  You were given foods to avoid in order to lower your risk of developing gestational diabetes.  You were also given foods more encouraged to eat.  Raise your blood iron.  Raise your sodium, but not too much.  Eat an increase of around 1000 calories a day to support the growth of two placentas and two babies.  Watch out for spotting, bleeding, pelvic pain, irregular bowel movements.  Watch out for headaches and weight gain or discolored urine, you might die.  Keep an eye on your mental health, what stresses you, stresses the babies.  But mostly, be excited!

Yeah, right.

Your hand traced the small bump in your belly.

“You know…” you began, making Law perk his head up to listen to you.  “I always thought that seeing a baby bump would be the most exciting moment of my life… but I’ve never been more scared.  Ever.”

Law approached you from behind, wrapping his hands around your bare waist and resting his chin on the crown of your head.  His scent enveloped you like a blanket, instantly warming your skin and calming your heightened nerves.  One of his hands traveled down the skin of your abdomen, resting on top of where yours lay above your uterus.

“I can’t lie to you… I am, too,” he added, his voice heavy with thought.

“Am I a bad person for not being excited?” you asked, your voice surprisingly stable despite the racing heart in your chest.  “I mean, I am excited.  So far their hearts are still beating… but…”

“You’re not a bad person at all,” replied your husband, planting a kiss to the back of your head.  “It’s perfectly rational that you feel scared.”

“Terrified…” you clarified for the both of you.  “I feel terrified.”

You and Law made eye contact in the mirror.  The way he had his arms wrapped around you reminded you of a security blanket given to trauma victims in an ambulance.  The thought made a wry smile break out onto your lips, making your husband cock an eyebrow.

“What’s got you smiling all of a sudden?” he asked with a slight upward turn to the corner of his mouth.

You mustered out a dry chuckle.  “You’re my trauma victim security blanket.”

The randomness of your sentence made Law’s shoulders bounce slightly as he laughed, holding you closer to him.  “I know it’s really hard for you to do so, but I think we should both try as hard as we can to think positively.  It’ll probably be healthier for you.”

You looked up at him, a smirk dancing over your face.  “That sounds crazy coming from you.”

You yelped in surprise as Law scooped you into his arms and carried you to your shared bedroom before plopping you down on your mattress, him sprawling out beside you.  “What was that for?”

“So you wouldn’t stress yourself out in the mirror,” he replied, his voice hoarse yet tender as he stared at you from his pillow.  “I’m being serious, though.  I know the stakes are high, but there’s gotta be things we can think about to prevent you from getting stressed.”

You turned your body to lay on your back, lacing your hand with his as you stared at your ceiling.  “Any examples?”

Law hummed in thought, glancing around the room.  His eyes landed on your framed, signed Sora poster.  The frame had a very small crack in it from being moved out of your sophomore year dorm room, but the poster inside was still in perfect condition.  “Think about our kids watching Sora.  Maybe we can dress them up as Sora and Stealth Black for Halloween.”

The tender thought almost immediately made you smile.  Your mind flooded with even more thoughts of Law as a dad, tailoring Halloween costumes for his kids and making them feel perfect.  Your thoughts of Law with one baby had now evolved into thoughts of him with two, rocking two armfuls of swaddled infants to sleep, kissing their little foreheads, pushing them in a double stroller.  Your eyes began to well with tears which you quickly blinked away, choosing instead to push yourself up and roll over, hooking one of your legs in between Law’s and laying across his chest.  His arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, tracing invisible patterns into the skin of your back.

“I get really happy thinking about you as a dad,” you sighed.  “You’re gonna be so amazing.”

Law chuckled, his chest rumbling.  “That’s the kind of positivity I’m talking about.”

You giggled.  “I mean it, though.  Remember before we got married and you said you were so scared to have kids one day?  Because you didn’t want them to go through what we had?”

His face fell slightly, recalling the memory.  He was still in the middle of his residency program, and you were jumping job to job with random, unstable freelance gigs.  It wasn’t the instability of your lives that made him weary, however.  Rather, it was the looming anxiety that everything good in Law’s life would someday be snatched away from him.  And that had happened to you, twice.

But when he stepped back and thought about the broader picture, it got easier for him to see clearly.  How you put up with his shitty attitude when you first met.  How quickly you opened yourself up to him, exposing your deepest fears and troubles and being patient with him when he struggled to reveal his own worries to you.  How you told him you loved him after only five months, terrified that you were going to scare him off, and all he could do in response was give you the most awkward, inexperienced kiss you had probably ever received.  And you stayed by his side even when it took him almost a full year to say those three little words back.

You brushed your fingers along Law’s cheek, tracing the soft hair of his sideburns before hooking around his head and burying into the fluffy black wisps behind his ear.  You pressed a smattering of kisses across his jaw and cheekbones, over his nose and finally on his lips.  “When I think about positive things, I think of you.”

Law’s lips broke into a wide smile, the kind of smile he only ever showed you.  The kind of smile that wrinkled the skin around his eyes and revealed the single small dimple he had on his right cheek.

A sudden ringing from his phone on the bedside table startled the two of you out of your lovestruck daze.  With a grumble, he reached over and grabbed the device, you rolling off of him and sitting criss-cross on your side of the bed.  He tapped the answer button and pressed the phone to his ear.  You could just barely make out the words spoken on the other end.  After a brief goodbye, Law hung up the call and uttered a heavy sigh before standing up and grabbing his uniform coat.

“Emergency surgery?” you asked.  You were only slightly disappointed with the interruption of your intimate moment, but it was nothing you weren’t already used to.

He nodded with a frown before walking back over to you and stealing a quick kiss from your lips.  “Patient just came into the ED with a STEMI.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t worry about me, go save the world,” you said with a smile.  He tossed you a somber grin as he stepped into his shoes, grabbed his work bag, and booked it out the door.  Living two minutes away from the hospital by car definitely had its perks.

You were surrounded by silence in your apartment when the front door was closed behind your husband.  With a sigh, you stood from the bed and paced toward Law’s wardrobe, opening the bottom drawer and pulling out one of his old sweatshirts.  It had a custom design on the front of it, one that he also had tattooed on his back.  His living situation after he lost his biological family wasn’t ideal, but the little ways he held onto the memory of his adoptive father always brought a smile to your face.  You pulled the hoodie over you, taking off your bra underneath it and throwing it onto the end of your mattress, tiredly rubbing your sore breasts underneath the soft cotton of his shirt.  You turned around to face the rest of your bedroom.

The pregnancy journal that you barely started writing in was placed on top of Law’s desk.  With a deep breath, you grabbed the book, a pen, and a roll of white-out tape and proceeded to your couch in the living room.

You smiled at the sight of Bepo, stomach completely upward facing and paws outstretched as he snoozed away on his dog bed.  You had a feeling Bepo was going to be an absolutely incredible big brother.

You leaned against a pillow rested along the arm of the couch and propped up your knees to place the book on your thighs.  You finally mustered up your anxieties and opened the cover.

“Nothing but positivity,” you muttered to yourself.  You uncapped the pen and started writing.

[hanluex]

Something really really painful sad with dick Grayson but happy ending

♡ I’M SORRY — DICK GRAYSON

bf!dick x fem!reader | wc : 0.7k words | content : possible grammar and spelling mistakes, lowercase intended, angst, established relationship, mentions of an accident, mentions of blood, crying | request : um i mayhaps have forgotten the happy ending part, so a part two soon hopefully 😭

“wow, this is all your fault. i can’t believe you, y/n.”

dick grayson mumbled under his breath playfully, enjoying the disgruntled expression on your face.

“babe, i said i’m sorry!” you whined, pouting as you grabbed your boyfriend’s arm. “honest mistake, my bad.”

the two of you were invited to a charity ball, and you hadn’t realized you left the invitation back home until you were at the venue.

fortunately, you were a couple of blocks away from your apartment, which was why you two were walking back, with dick grumbling the whole way.

“we should’ve taken the car. i told you we should, but no!” dick stifled his smile, looking away so you couldn’t see his façade. “you insisted we walk. who even walks to a charity event?!”

you frowned, disheartened. “i’m sorry, babe. i didn’t think taking the car was necessary,” you confessed sincerely.

dick smiled, unable to keep up with his charade any longer. “i was just joking, love. gosh, you are so fun to play around with,” he stated, chuckling at your look of betrayal.

“you are such an idiot. i hate you!”

“now, you better take that back because we both know that’s a lie.”

you fastened your pace, walking away from the brunet. "nope, i'm being very honest." you laughed, amused by his reaction.

"y/n, come here!" dick called, chuckling as he followed you. "babe!"

the traffic lights turned red, causing the cars to come to a stop. you continued teasing your boyfriend as you crossed the road, sticking your tongue out in a mocking manner.

dick laughed as you did a little dance in the middle of the road, amused at the extent you went to make him laugh.

a loud zoom made the brunet freeze in his place, watching as an oncoming bike increased its speed despite the red light.

just as he opened his mouth to warn you, his gaze was filled with the slow motion image of the bike hitting you, your body being thrown a few feet away at the impact.

fuck, fuck, fuck. no, please, no. fuck, no.

"y/n!" dick yelled, his heart beating harshly against his chest as he ran towards you.

his breath quickened as he saw the blood, shakily taking out his phone as he kneeled next to your half-conscious body.

"i called for help. they said they'll be here in ten minutes."

the phone fell out of his hands, immediately reaching out to hold you in his arms as tears filled his vision.

"oh, baby." he touched your face gently, hot tears falling from his face to yours. "no, please."

you blinked softly, in a dazed state. "dick?" you called out, causing the brunet to nod in reply, more tears falling down his face.

"you have t-to talk to m-me, babe. how e-else am i g-going to stay a-awake?"

"i c-can't." dick cried harder, feeling your hands on his face. "i'm so sorry."

"richard, t-take … take a deep breath, p-please. calm down, o-okay?"

"how can i stay calm? y-you are … you—"

you felt lightheaded. "i'm sorry," you apologized, wiping away his tears. "i got blood all over you," you added.

"is that what you are worried about?!"

"i know this is your favorite suit."

despite your attempt at a joke, dick cried harder, feeling worse as he was supposed to be the one to console you.

yet here you were, lying in a pool of your own blood, still having time to make lighthearted jokes about the situation.

dick grayson ignored your words as you assured him you were fine, rambling away about anything and everything under the sun.

he didn't even know what language he was speaking in, let alone what he spoke about. he just rambled, hoping you'd stay awake until the ambulance came.

"i l-like this view." you interrupted his chattering, smiling through the pain. "r-really good an-angle of y-you."

"not the time, y/n."

you heaved a breath as you reached out to hold your boyfriend's hands, groaning quietly as the pain became unbearable.

"does it hurt bad?" dick asked softly. "is there anything i can do for you?"

you took a deep breath, wincing. "i-if i don't m-make it, i h-hope you know how much … m-much i love you. and if p-possible, look out for jay b-because—"

"no! don't give me this 'last word' talk." dick shook his head. "you'll be fine, and you will be the one to look out for jay because he'll listen to no one except you, and only you can handle him."

"babe, please—"

"no, just no. i will not let you leave me. if you even think about dying, i'm going to kill you."

"i love you, richard grayson. so fucking much, i do."

taglist : @maverick-wingman (to be added, please send a dm or ask!)

[thatgirlstrawberry]

How to Lie to a Behavior Analyst pt. 5

In which Rossi flies down to LA that very night and Y/N finds out who her attacker is along with how her dad had known all along

Warnings: angst, crying, sadness, protective rossi, cursing, lmk if I missed anything!!!

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Every hour in a hospital had been said to last 500 when you were waiting on someone you love. Spencer sat in the waiting room with his leg bouncing up and down. His eyes were trained on a spot in the floor.

On the phone, Rossi said that he was on his way and that he would be there in an hour or two because he would be taking the jet. He also sounded angry, scared, worried— just all of the emotions really.

A million thoughts ran through his head. Who would want to hurt Y/N? What did the note say— the note.

He quickly got up from his seat and rushed towards the doors he came in from. He decided that he should probably move it so ambulances could come in.

So that’s what he did. He quickly moved it out of the way and into a parking space near the doors before turning on the lights in the car and looking for the note.

He avoided the bag of puke sitting on the floor and searched for the piece of paper.

When he finally found it, he decided that he’d wait until he was inside to read it so, he stuck it in his pocket.

His feet carried him quickly into the hospital and he looked around. His eyes landed on a familiar figure damn near leaning over the reception desk.

“I don’t care who fucking brought her here, take me to my damn daughter or I swear to god I’m gonna—“

“Rossi! Rossi, stop!” Spencer shouted, rushing up to him.

The man turned around. “What the fuck happened, Spencer!?” He shouted. “Why won’t anyone tell me anything?”

Spencer was going to answer but he saw the doctor who took Y/N coming their way. “Her doctor.” He pointed.

Rossi moved away from Spencer and met the doctor halfway. “Please, you gotta tell me what’s wrong with my daughter.”

Spencer made his way to them and the doctor glanced between them. “You’re the father and you’re the husband?” He asked.

Rossi shook his head. “This— no this is not her husband. It doesn’t matter, what’s wrong with her. What happened?”

The doctor clicked his tongue. “We pulled some of her blood for testing but I suspect she was injected with a high dosage of Opiates causing her to overdose. We gave her narcan but I’m not sure we gave it to her in time to prevent any brain damage.”

Rossi sighed and covered his face. “Okay— how is she? Can I see her?”

The doctor nodded. “She just woke up but she’s not fully down from her high. Her words aren’t gonna be coherent but I would try to keep her awake for as long as possible so we can asses her brain activity.”

Spencer and Rossi nodded. “Thank you.”

“And try to talk one at a time. Don’t confuse her.” He waved his hand and began walking back towards the room.

It was silent between Spencer and Rossi as they walked. The doctor rambled on about her symptoms and side effects.

He lowered his voice to a whisper and smiled as he walked I to the room. “Y/N?” He spoke. She sat in bed, a frown on her lips. Her eyes were narrowed and they were darting around the room.

“Hi…” She spoke quietly, her voice hoarse.

The doctor glanced back at the two men. “There are some people here to see you.”

They stepped into the room and she looked confused for a moment. “Daddy?” She whispered. She looked at Spencer.

“Hi, Y/N.” Rossi spoke softly, walking up to his daughter’s bed. “How are you feeling?”

She cleared her throat. “Uh… I don’t know how I feel.” She shrugged.

Rossi nodded. “That’s okay, honey.”

Her lip quivered and tears filled her eyes. “Am I dying? I-I don’t know why I’m here— I think I’m dying— Spencer, please. I don’t wanna die.”

Spencer walked up to her, looking at Rossi making sir he knew that it was his turn to speak. “You’re not dying, Y/N.” He shook his head with a small comforting smile. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Her hands fidgeted with each other. “W-well what happened? I don’t know what happened.”

“We’re not sure yet, honey.” Rossi answered. Her head snapped over to his direction. “But we’re gonna figure it out, all right?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “I need to talk to you.” He told Rossi, nodding towards the door.

He nodded and looked at his daughter. “We’ll be right back, okay? Try to stay awake for me.” The men walked out of the room after she nodded sleepily.

“What, Reid?” Rossi snapped when they were in the hallway.

Spencer took the piece of paper out of his pocket. “This. On the way here, she said whoever did this gave it to her.”

Rossi snatched it from between his fingers and unfolded it. “‘A liar, your… father is… I deserve someone too. The twig’s heart will be snapped in half when I get you back because it will be forever. And you will be mine.’” Rossi furrowed his brows. “What the hell is this? What does it mean?”

Spencer shrugged. “I don’t know. Our best bet right now is to look at the hotel security cameras. We might catch him there.”

Rossi sighed. “You know I’m gonna have to call the team if we can’t do it ourselves right?”

Spencer nodded. “Rossi, please. Please don’t tell anyone about us. That way, I can still work on the case. You know that you need me.”

The man sighed. “Why don’t you get ahold of the LAPD. I need to stay with my daughter.”

Spencer nodded and sighed heavily, walking away and pulling his phone out of his pocket.

.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.

The LAPD showed up at the hospital and hour after Spencer called them. He stood outside of Y/N’s room getting the sense that Rossi didn’t want him in there.

The doctor told them that a side effect of the Narcan they gave her was crying so he stood out there listening to her sob uncontrollably. Rossi had to resort to singing her an old Italian nursery rhyme to get her to calm down.

The lead detective met Spencer in the hallway followed by a few officers. “Good evening. Mr. Reid?”

He kicked off of the wall and nodded. “Yes, hi. Detective Lassiter, thank you for coming.” He nodded.

“So, unfortunately, we don’t have a warrant to look at the security camera footage.” Detective Lassiter explained. “But we do have permission to sweep the floor for any DNA left on the walls and floors only.”

Spencer was angry. “No cameras? Are you fucking serious?” His chest heaved. His fists were in tight balls.

He nodded somberly. “I’m sorry sir. We’re gonna need to ask the victim some questions, if now’s a good time.”

Spencer shrugged. “I’m sure she won’t remember anything but you can try.”

He turned into the room and his eyes softened when he saw Y/N in her father’s arms rocking back and forth.

“Y/N?” He called softly. She lifted her head from her father’s shoulder and looked at him.

“Oh h-hi.” She looked at the men behind her.

He walked forward slowly. “This is detective Lassiter. He wants to ask you a few questions, is that okay?”

Y/N looked at her dad nervously. “C-can I?” She asked. Rossi tilted his head and nodded.

The woman sat up and pulled her knees to her chest. She looked up at Spencer and glanced at the chair next to her bed with pleading eyes.

He cleared his throat and moved through the room, sitting beside her. He scooted the chair a little closer.

Detective Lassiter sat in the chair in front of the bed and the officer behind him pulled out a pen and pad.

“What’s your name, ma’am?” He asked.

She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Y/N R-Rossi.”

The officer scribbled down on the paper. “And how old are you?”

“26.”

The detective straightened up and cleared his throat. “And I understand that you were… taken out of the hotel by someone. Do you remember what you were doing when it happened?”

Y/N inhaled sharply. “I uh… I remember my teeth hurting.” Her voice was quiet. “And it was cold. And I remember… Ice.” She shook her head.

She glanced up at the officer who was nodding and writing. “Anything else?”

She looked down at her fidgeting hands. “I know… he said something to me.” She nodded. “I can’t remember— I just know he said— something.” Her eyes watered. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember anything else.”

She reached for Spencer’s hand but remembered who all was in the room and played it off like she was just grabbing the edge of her itchy hospital blanket.

The detective nodded. “Okay that’s okay. Take your time.” He sighed. “Can you remember anything before the ice.”

Y/N pressed her lips together. “Um… her eyebrows furrowed. Um… sweating a-and feeling really… good.” Spencer could tell that she didn’t know what was happening. She was describing the sex that they had before she left the room.

Rossi behind her and glared at Spencer. Of course he knew what was happening. He cleared his throat. “Okay. That’s it, detective. Thank you.” The father nodded. “I think Y/N needs some rest.”

He nodded. “Of course.” He got up from his seat, looking at Y/N. “Ms. Rossi, thank you. If you remember anything else, give me a call.” He leaned forward and placed a card on her bed.

She nodded and looked at her father and then Spencer. “Thank you. I will.”

The officers and Detective Lassiter left the room and it fell silent. Y/N squeezed her eyes shut tightly. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

She let out a heavy breath. “I’m trying to remember the words.” She said. “I— I Can hear the voice but the sounds are— like mixed a-and I don’t know- I can’t—“

Rossi shushed her soothingly. “It’s okay, Y/N. I promise. We’ll find this son of a bitch one way or another.” Y/N nodded and Rossi stood up. “I’m going to go get you something to eat, okay?”

She gave him a weak smile. “Thanks, dad.”

He left the room and she looked at her boyfriend. “W-wait, Spencer why does he think you’re here?” She asked. He looked at her with furrowed brows and parted lips. “Wait, how did he even hear about this? Did someone call him?”

Spencer sighed and leaned forward. “Um… Y/N, he knows.”

Her eyes widened. “He knows?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

She covered her face with her hands and groaned quietly. “Is he mad at me?” She asked. “At you? Oh, I don’t want him to be mad at you.” She shook her head.

“He hasn’t said anything about it yet. He’s not mad.”

Spencer still felt like he was lying to her somehow.

.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.

Spencer paced the halls of the hospital trying to get ahold of Penelope. He bit his lip as the phone rang too slowly for his liking.

“Boy wonder! How’s your mommy trip?” She asked when she answered the phone.

He cleared his throat. “Garcia, I need you to hack into a set of hotel security cameras but I need you to do it privately.” He spoke. “And I need you to send the feed to my phone.”

“Uhhhhhh first of all, say hi to me first. Second of all, why and what hotel?”

He licked his lips. “Hi, García. Angeles, 6th floor please.” He nodded.

“You never said why, Reid.” She hummed.

“Because I’m trying to figure out who drugged Y/N, now can you please just do it?” He snapped.

There was a gulp on the other end and his phone made a beeping noise. He pulled it away from his ear and pressed accept on a feed share notification.

Suddenly, his screen filled with a not so smooth video. “Can you switch angles so I can see room 612?” Spencer asked quietly, biting his lip. The camera switched angles four times until it stopped so they can clearly see the room and the ice machine across the hallway. “Okay, now can you back it up to like 9:45 pm?” He asked.

The video began to reverse itself quickly and Spencer saw a familiar figure on the screen. “Okay, stop!” He shouted.

Garcia stopped pressed rewind and let the feed play. Y/N was seen walking out of a hotel room with a black bucket. She had a smile on her face and a pep in her step.

She stopped at the ice machine and a figure dressed in black pants and a black shirt came from the entry way of the hall. It didn’t look like Y/N noticed him. He came up behind her and grabbed a handful of ice out of the bucket and shoved it into her mouth. There was no sound on the feed but he could tell that was to muffle her shouts.

Spencer furrowed his eyebrows and brought the phone closer to his face. He hated seeing her like this but he had to figure out who did this to her.

Y/N began kicking her feet as he lifted her off the ground with one arm as he reached into his pocket with his other. The bucket fell from her hands and spilled all over the floor. Spencer’s eyebrows popped up when he saw her bite his hand.

Then, he pulled a syringe out of his pocket and jabbed it harshly into her neck. She went limp in his arms and a few ice chips fell from her mouth.

He put her down on her feet and propped her against his side and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. Her feet were barely moving and her head hung down low.

“Oh my god.” Penelope gasped.

Spencer shook his head. “Rewind it to the part where he came into the shot.” He ordered.

She did and he told her to pause and zoom in. “There.”

“Is that…?” Penelope started.

“Benjamin Fitz.”

.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.

Y/N looked between her dad and Spencer. Rossi still had no idea who drugged Y/N. Neither did the victim.

“Okay.” He looked at Rossi. “I know I wasn’t supposed to do this but I called Garcia and I had her hack into the security cameras at the hotel.”

Rossi sighed. “What the hell, Reid.”

“Just stop- I know who did this.” He told them. “It was Benjamin Fitz.”

Rossi looked down and Y/N gasped. “No, no. That’s right.” She nodded. “I think I recognized his voice. I knew I recognized his voice.”

The older man sighed. “Shit, Y/N. I’m sorry.”

She furrowed her brows. “Dad, it’s not your fault-“

“I only set you up with him because I wanted to get back at you and Spencer for going behind my back.” Y/N paused her movements and looked up at him. Spencer shut his eyes like he didn’t want Rossi to say anything.

Y/N scoffed. “Wait. Y-you knew?” She asked, her face getting hot. Rossi nodded and she looked at Spencer, tearing up. “And you knew that he knew?”

Spencer opened his mouth but no words came out.

“So.. you set me up with a psycho because you were mad and you…” She looked at her boyfriend. “You let me run around like an idiot when I didn’t even have to all along?”

“Y/N, I—“

“Get the fuck out.” She snapped. Rossi tilted his head but neither of them moved. “I’m serious get the fuck out!”

Rossi sighed and looked down before doing as she wished and leaving the room. Spencer was still left standing there. “Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t want—“

Y/N scoffed. “Spencer, get out. Seriously, I don’t want to see you right now.”

He let out a sad breath and turned around, walking out the door and shutting it.

Y/N sat there in tears for a moment.

A moment until she heard a shout and a gunshot.

.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.

AHHHHHHHHHHH

Next chapter is the last!!!! Also who expected it to be Ben from the book party?!?!?

And the ending to this one might seem a little rushed so sorry about that :)))

Love ya bunches ❤️❤️❤️

Taglist:

@mrsgweasley

@tuesday-yellowxx

@blue-willows

@monzarella

@winkev1

@criminallymagic

@mermateyepmatewithte

@lipstixstain

@urlovelydarling

@dreatine

@f-me-reid

@fantastic-fans

@aleyda5

@thatsonezesty13

@creativeuser101

@d0ntfeedaftermidnight

@jacksonms31

@scorpiofangirl1109

@perseuswaves

@baseballmama35

@lilybarnesposts

@s-udaku-my-love

@melifluorei-d

@lavenderrway

[shadowhaert]

would u consider making a post with ur lottienat fic recs??

hi anon! i would love to, so here it is! these are all of my favorites right now and i keep coming back to most of them

(disclaimer: unfortunately none of these are 2021 lottienat because i am incredibly biased towards courtney and sophie)

Rated T:

(we're not) swapping blood - ohmars (1/1)

fellas is it gay to clean each others wounds? fellas is it gay to call each other pet names and share cigarettes? seriously, the writing in this is hypnotizing

words left unsaid - h4igha (1/1)

first kiss wilderness lottienat you will always be famous to me

paper flowers - julesgrays (12/20)

no crash lottienat in high school very obviously pining for each other. this is a really good high school fic filled with fluff, which can be hard to come by in the fandom since it's inherently a heavy show

good men die too (so i'd rather be with you) - uniqueusernamegenerator (1/1)

post-crash lottienat where lottie seeks nat out for comfort, going to her house every night to sleep. natalie is extremely cc (grouchy, frowny, etc etc) and i love them both in this

it's you and me (there's nothing like this) - aliciaclarkes (1/1)

yes, this is mine. yes, i'm self promoting for funsies. i also have another T (??) one coming soon

Rated M:

all your blood, for her to step to your floor - bluebaric (1/5)

okay this one makes me genuinely insane. i cannot recommend this one enough, i've been sending it to everyone with a pulse. i haven't read a fic that made me react so viscerally in a long time. this is no crash lottienat where natalie starts staying at lottie's house. some tw for parental abuse

give me shelter or show me heart - freefallvertigo (1/1)

picture a one bed scenario but in a cave in the middle of the wilderness with an injured natalie and a brewing hopeless romantic vibe (canon typical violence)

open my eyes (so i can see brighter) - shapeyoutake (2/2)

natalie realizing that having feelings for a girl is actually pretty cool. their first kiss in this makes me go reeeee it's characterized so well

Rated E/Smut

bury me at makeout creek - cityseeker (2/3)

this one gets bonus points for being a mitski song. college!lottienat with some "one night stand" vibes that keep turning into more

the coffin dancer dances like he has something to prove (because he does) - trixiepixiee (1/1)

dominant!lottie happens. seven dead ten injured. im literally calling an ambulance.

[adrienneleclerc]

On The Job

Pairing: Walter Marshall x Hispanic/Latina!Reader

Summary: Walter Marshall is a protective man by nature, it’s part of being a dad. But being this overprotective with his detective girlfriend can cause some issues

A/N: just a random blurb, I have NO IDEA how real cases like this work so…hope you understand it

Walter and Y/N have been dating for a few months but they’ve been working together for years. However, one case may put a strain on their relationship.

They entered the house with their guns and flashlights in hand.

“Okay, you check the basement and I’ll go upstairs.” Y/N said.

“Are you sure want to split up?” Walter asked.

“Walter, It’s fine, we’ll cover more ground this way.” Y/N said and headed upstairs. Walter headed to the basement slowly, trying not to make much noise in case the kidnapper is near.

“Y/N, what do you see?” Walter asked on the walkie-talkie.

“I found disturbing things…but he’s not here. The closet has a fucking wall of pictures of teen girls.” Y/N said.

“Please be careful up there.” Walter said as he walked further into the basement and saw 3 girls chained up to a wall in their underwear with duct tape over their mouths. “Sh, everything is okay, I’ll get you out of here.” Walter started looking for the key to unlock these chains, or at least some bolt cutters. Everything was going well until Walter heard a gunshot. “I’ll be back.” Walter ran upstairs and saw Y/N standing over the kidnapper. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Im fine, did you find the captives?” Y/N asked

“Yeah. I’ll take him and you go downstairs.” Walter said as he got the kidnapper off the floor, out him in handcuffs, and walked outside while Y/N released the girls and looked for clothes to cover them up.

“We’ll take you to the hospital, we’ll get you sorted, okay?” Y/N said, trying to comfort them. She helped them out of the house and got them to the ambulance. She met up with Walter.

“I’m so glad you’re okay, you’re not hurt, right?” Walter asked, looking over Y/N.

“I’m perfectly fine, okay.” Y/N said, but as she walked, she felt a pain on her left side. Walter looked over at her with a worried look in his face.

“I’m going to lift up your shirt, okay?” Walter said and when he did, he saw a stab wound. “Fuck, I need to get you to the hospital.” Walter said. They drove to the hospital and the doctor was stitching up Y/N’s wound.

“Alright, you are all set, you just need to clean your stitches everyday with warm water and antibacterial soap. Don’t make any strenuous movement so the stitches won’t open up and keep it covered until your next appointment in two weeks.” The doctor said and he left the hospital room.

“It’s good that the stab wound didn’t hit a kidney or anything, you’re lucky.” Walter said.

“Do you think I can’t do my job?” Y/N asked as they entered Walter’s house.

“Where did that come from? I think you’re a wonderful detective.” Walter said.

“It doesn’t seem that way because tonight you were being all overprotective like ‘are you sure you want to split up?’ And what was that about you leaving the victims downstairs because you heard a gunshot? We’re cops, Walter. It’s not like I’m new to the job, I know what I’m doing.” Y/N

“So what if I’m overprotective? I just want to make sure you’re safe.” Walter asked.

“I AM safe. But this isn’t the first time you’ve done this. It’s like because we are dating, you can’t focus. I thought you said that you can’t let things get personal.” Y/N said.

“I know what I said, Y/N.” Walter said exasperated.

“Then why are you letting things get personal?” Y/N asked.

“Because you are the first woman I’ve dated since my divorce. You are a great detective, I love you so much, but I am overprotective by nature.” Walter said.

“I know you are, bear. But if you could stop, that’d be great.” Y/N said.

“I’ll try. I know you can take care of yourself.” Walter said kissing Y/N’s forehead.

“That means a lot to me, thank you.” Y/N said.

“Now let’s get out of here, we have reports to fill out.” Walter said as he helped her off the examination bed.

[edelfan]

Trigger warning: suicide attempt

I'm sorry for this. I'm going through a rough time myself and this just wanted to be written.

It was way past midnight and the hallways of the Naval hospital were deserted except for the night nurse who kept making her turns. One room though was filled with people, all gathered around the pale figure lying in the bed and being kept alive by the countless machines he was connected to.

I'm sorry that it has come to this, but then it's not like you guys are gonna miss me anyway.

Admiral Kazansky had used the power of his rank as COMPACFLT to make sure that they could stay with him 24/7 - especially after learning that there was no family or other next of kin to be called.

My father was right. I'm not good for anything, not even when I brought home straight As, not even when I get those meaningless medals.

The room was small. The only two chairs available were occupied by Phoenix and Rooster. The rest of the Daggers were lined up along the walls, Bob having a supporting hand on Phoenix's shoulder. Maverick was standing at the foot of the bed, leaning on the rails as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.

I know I've been an asshole most of the time. It's the only way I managed to survive for this long. Don't show weakness, don't let them come close because you'll only be hurt in the end.

"Anybody, but him... I mean if I'd only known how he really felt," Phoenix mumbled, clumsily wiping at the tears that kept coming. Without saying a word, Bob wrapped her in a hug from behind.

Maverick was right in not choosing me. Rooster was right when he said that I lead people to an early grave. Funny that in the end it seems to be my own.

"The doctors said that the next 72 hours are critical. He needs to start breathing on his own or else..." Maverick sighed, laying his hand on the blanket over Jake's legs in hopes that the young man could feel that he wasn't alone. "Damn it, kid. Not like this, you hear me, son?"

I really thought that I had proofed myself by saving Maverick and Rooster. I had really hoped that I found a squadron, in which I am not the one on the sidelines. I had hoped that maybe we could be friends...

For a long time there was silence in the room - except for the hissing ventilator and the beeping heart monitor.

But I keep fucking up. I keep running my mouth and I keep making the same mistakes over and over again.

"I shouldn't have said those things to him the other day. Hell, I know how it is up there... Fuck, Jake, I'm sorry." Fritz's voice was hoarse as he let himself slip down the wall, ending up in a heap on the floor.

Tell Javy that I am sorry. I'm just too tired.

Javy was standing by the window, looking out into the darkness. Ever since he had helped Rooster and the medics getting Jake into the ambulance, he hadn't said a word.

Tell Rooster Bradley that I am sorry. I am sorry for what I did the first time we met at Top Gun. I shouldn't have pressured you so much into... well, you know what I'm talking about. If only... who knows, we could have been quite the power couple, right? No matter what I said back then, I still love you... so much.

Bradley was a mess. He hadn't left Jake's side since breaking open the younger man's door and finding him on the floor. Sitting next to the bed, he held Jake's hand while also caressing his hair. Too many people had left him behind already, he wouldn't let Jake go, he couldn't let him go. "You damn idiot... Why didn't you say anything? I still fucking love you, too. You can't leave me, baby, please..."

See you on the other side.

[scream4ash]

tw 4 addiction, talks of self harm, talks of disordered eating, mental illness, self destructive tendencies, just overall me being a piece of shit.

hey, guys. ash here. i guess i wanna apologize for just dissapearing. when i had originally started posting, and decided i was going to be a writer i was sober, n in a better headspace. since then i have relapsed, n fallen into the cycle of addiction n destruction n just overall have not been in a good place.

i have struggled with substance abuse since i was around 13, mainly being alcohol or weed due to easy access. more recently in january of this year i had started abusing antihistamines. that way, i could tell myself it was just medicine, there was no harm in what i was doing. for those of you who don’t know, antihistamines are anti-allergy meds.

on march 17, i had overdosed. my girlfriend had found me on my bedroom floor seizing out. i was brought to the hospital via ambulance, n released the same day. i would love to say i stopped, n i realized the way im going would kill me, but i didnt. i had overdosed again 8 days later. this time when i was brought in to the er i was put on suicide watch. then i wouldve denied any attempts at harming myself, but deep down i didnt care the outcome. though im just now realizing i never really cared about what’d happen to me, but i think part of me always knew. i knew the consequences, i decided that god shall decide my fate.

i was then transferred from the er to a psychiatric unit where i was treated for depression n bipolar disorder.

when i was released a week later i decided it would be a new chapter. i had gotten a job, i was sober, n most importantly people saw me.

that lasted for around two months. the euphoria i felt had all come crashing down. i had slowly rejoined the forgotten, my own friends forgetting about me. i had fell back into isolation n self-hatred. i was fading out again, n no one noticed. no one noticed when i had started skipping meals, or the way my body physically could not allow itself to keep a single bite of food down, or the lack of sleep, even the empty look in my eyes. i have yet again fallen into the hand of addiction, seeking comfort from what i know is no longer there, what may have never been there in the first place. i have barely left my house, only going outside to walk my dog. i can no longer recognize who i see in the mirror. more recently i havent even been able to get out of bed to go to work.

i feel the need to clarify that i am 19 years old, the life i am living is not the life to live. i am actually all alone in the world. guys, if u, or a friend, or a parent, or a loved one, hell even ur worst enemy. if anyone u know, or may know of is struggling with addiction, let them know you are there. let them know that you havent gave up, youre still fighting for them. if ur thinking about trying drugs, or alcohol, hell even weed. don’t. take it from me. dont.

i havent been very active on here, n i am sorry. i am going to reopen my requests and start posting short works/blurbs. i will also get to the requests in my inbox, n those will be filled as blurbs. again, i’m sorry 4 bailing on you guys.

also so super sorry for the sob story, idk. kinda feels good to get this shit of my chest. idk, makes me feel like u guys know me kinda.

@calumikey @ashen-char @f4ngtooth @theactualqueenelizabeth @brittanysnowsgf @iheartambss @phorsphyn @spiderb00 @allsovls @jennaortegaswifey @liaisbaeee @xxxninjaxxx23 @chaejiberry @nohumanityhope @blakeroni @mm-myluv @amberfreemanmygirlfriend @lilahaga @mikeymisser @carolcunha7 @not-alesha @burninghotlava @shaunashipmanism @chaoticghosthoagiegoop @paigesbabymama @spidersareskrunkly @ghostampire @cursedashes @yveslish

tried to tag all of my followers, or as many that it’d tag. idk, i really want this to be seen.

[ladylooch]

Do you feel like writing something angsty. I have an idea and I kinda wanna cry 👀

Let’s have our home girl Emma having a nightmare (or it actually happens) of T getting badly injured to the point he might have to get hospitalized and T is begging to see Emma. I’m in desperate need of vulnerable Timo

Omg… maybe this will heal us…. And the trauma from our dreams. Amen!

I didn’t even want to come to this game, I think to myself as my boots pound against the concrete. My YSL purse swings up and down my back as I hustle down the tunnel with a member of the Devils training staff. The babies are with Lexi. She told me to go when they said Timo needed to go to the hospital.

“Leave your keys. Nico and I will figure it out. Go, Em.”

I kissed my crying babies, wondering if I was making this all worse by leaving them, then turned and ran from the suite towards the elevator. 

My boots slow as I come to the back of the open ambulance. The paramedics hoist me up. I slide onto the bench next to Timo’s head, looking down at his closed eyes. He is white and looking unwell. A mask for oxygen is over his face as they work a needle into his opposite arm. They start him on a strong pain killer, hoping this will bring him back from the shock of his shattered leg from a trip into the boards.

“I’m here, baby.” I whisper, reaching out to rub the back of my knuckles over his face. 

“He’s starting to get pretty out of it.” The paramedic warns.

“Baby?” Timo suddenly asks. “Baby!” His face scrunches up, eyes starting to fill with tears. I can see how afraid he is. It rocks me to my core.

“Shhhhh.” I soothe him gently, leaning down to press my lips on his forehead. “You’re okay, T. I’m right here. It’s okay.” He is shaking as he reached for my hand. 

“Don’t leave me. Please.” 

“I won’t.” I promise.

"They tried to leave without you." I know this. They had not wanted to hold the ambulance for me but Timo had been screaming, causing a huge scene, saying he had patient rights.

“I know. I love you. I'm here.” I assure him.

“I’m scared.” He tells me honestly. “It’s bad. I can’t feel anything below my hip.” I glance up at the paramedics who avoid eye contact. Is it worse than I think? The sirens blare while the rollup door for the arena raises. The ambulance races through the streets of New Jersey in the middle off falling snow, sliding through stop signs and launching me into the side of the truck. Suddenly, Timo begins to writhe in pain. 

“I feel everything! Help me!” 

I am powerless as he begins to scream louder. My eyes squeeze shut, unable to handle the distressed look on his face.

“Emma? Emma?” Someone calls to me, making Timo’s screams fade.

My eyes pop open and I suck in a heavy breath. The walls of our living room come into focus, illuminated by the faint glow of a few candles I had been burning. Timo is rubbing my shoulder.

“Quite the dream..” He smiles softly.

“Oh.” I sigh, sitting up to throw my arms around his shoulders. I curl into his body. His arms come around me, holding me close. “It was so bad. You were hurt.” 

“I’m not hurt tho. I’m right here. I’m okay.” I reach down for his right leg, seeing it in perfect condition. I pull away, looking at his face which is tan and flushed from the warm Fall night we had been having. A heavy sigh calms my racing heart.

“Okay.” I nod. “What time is it?”

“9:30pm. Babies are tucked in. Now it’s time for you.” He kisses my nose. I blink a few times, trying to ground myself back in reality, but I’m still shook. 

“I don’t know what I would do if something ever happened to you out there.” 

“You’ve seen me get hurt?" He questions. It is true, including three years ago when he broke the same leg in question.

“Not like this.” Timo gets serious, sensing my distress is more than just a bad dream. 

“I’m okay, baby. I promise to keep myself safe out there for you and the babies.” I close my eyes, nodding in appreciation.

“Okay. Put me to bed.” He stands, picking me up in the process. 

“Chances I get lucky from this dream?”

“High. Extremely high.” 

Timo fist pumps discreetly behind my back. 

[candied-peach]

ao3: "seize the night" rating: T warnings: romantic LAMP, epileptic seizure clusters, hospital visits, medication, needles mention, food mention, unsanitary mention genre: hurt/comfort description: Virgil sees something flashy. Then the world is whisked away.

The first thing Virgil realizes is that he can't breathe.

Then he realizes that all he can hear is great, swooping gasps of breath lodged in his ears, but it doesn't sound like it's coming from him. He's blurry and disoriented and painfully confused as the room fills up with people he doesn't know, but look official. They keep asking him questions, but he's having a hard time answering. Everything aches, especially his right side. His mouth is dry.

They ask him to stand up. He does. They ask him to step with his right foot. He goes left. Everything is spinning in his head. It feels like it's on fire, like static electricity is crawling through it. He keeps twitching as he manages to sit in the stair chair. He prays he won't have another seizure coming up the stairs. Disjointed thoughts swirl in his brain as they carry him. He is right.

Instead, he has one as they transfer him to the stretcher, body jerking and twisting to one side. It hurts when he comes to again, awareness slowly coalescing. He stares up at the lights on the top of the ambulance as the paramedics talk around him, securing him for transport. He wants his boyfriends. He wants to be home. He doesn't want to be here, strapped into an antiseptic nightmare as the EMTs debate what vein to attempt an IV.

The needle briefly stings as it slips in, and Virgil's teeth sink into his bottom lip for just a moment. His thoughts are scrambled. He doesn't- he can't-what-

His body convulses, eyes staring unseeing at the top of the ambulance ceiling. It hurts. Everything hurts, his muscles jerking without conscious will or control. His breath comes in short, pained grunts as he desperately tries to breathe through it.

Awareness irises back in. The paramedic is giving him Ativan. They discuss the proper dose, but Virgil doesn't really understand what's going on. 

"What happened?" He manages to ask. They reassure him. He still doesn't know where Roman or Logan or Patton are. He vaguely remembers the idea of them following to the hospital. Did they? Are they going to come with him? They wouldn't leave him, would they?

Jostled as they come to a stop, Virgil is eased out of the ambulance and swiftly finds himself in a room, hooked up to what feels like a billion things. They tell him to stay still, so they can check his heart, and he obeys. He feels very sleepy all of a sudden. And he has to pee. He is suddenly dying to pee, but there's no one to ask, and his bed is now bracketed with yellow foam.

It feels like forever before Roman slips in.

"They won't let us all back here," is the first thing he says, and Virgil sags in disappointment, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He's still so relieved to see Roman, he has no words. The nurses are so nice, and the doctor was alright too, but he wants to see his loves.

"I'm sorry," Virgil mumbles. "I'm sorry 'bout-" He gestures vaguely around himself.

"No, darling," Roman says. "Don't apologize. You've done nothing wrong." He lifts a bag. "Brought your stuff. Including a phone charger, just in case they keep you overnight."

"Doesn't seem like they will," Virgil says. "The uh, the stuff they gave me in the ambulance helped."

Roman's face softens.

"Good," he says, soft but heartfelt.

"I am dying to pee," Virgil says suddenly, squirming in the bed. "Is there any way-"

"Oh, there's a call button, darling," Roman says, lifting something Virgil didn't even notice and asking for someone to come to the room. 

"They didn't tell me," Virgil says plaintively. "And the bed's old anyway- I didn't know."

"It's okay," Roman reassures him. Virgil has to pee in a cup, but at least he no longer feels like his kidneys are going to explode. It's not long before he's discharged with a sheaf of instructions. Patton and Logan crowd him in the waiting room, giving him a welcome boost of reassurance and love. Roman scoops him up, carrying him out to the car where he half dozes, half chatters.

"Want a treat," he murmurs. "Went to the ER. Wanna treat."

"Of course, darling," Roman reassures him. "Would the gas station be okay?"

"Yeah," Virgil agrees. By the time they reach home, he's set up with a soft pretzel and slushie. He nearly falls over himself as they situate him on the couch, but his brain is clearer than he's felt all night, despite the Ativan swimming through his veins.

"Love you," Roman murmurs in his ear. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get you to bed."

"Kay," Virgil mumbles as he finishes his soft pretzel. Logan presses a kiss to the top of his head and Patton speckles kisses across his cheeks.

"You'll feel better after some sleep," Patton assures him. "Don't worry, darling."

"We'll be right here," Logan promises. Virgil yawns, exhausted.

"Love you," he mumbles. "Love y'all so much."

"Love you, too, Virgil," are the last fading words Virgil hears before sleep overtakes him.

[merwinspeaks]

Dear You,

They say when you’re driving that the most dangerous spot on the road is your blind spot. It’s the part of the road that you can’t see, but you must pay attention to at all times. If you’re not careful, a collision is almost sure to happen. Most cars today have blind spot detectors installed in them. This takes away all the guess work so that you can focus solely on the path ahead. Unfortunately, I never had that luxury. That’s exactly where you came from. You were speeding along in the lane next to me right outside the corner of my peripheral vision. I never saw you coming.

There’s a funny thing that happens afterwards. You don’t seem to feel any pain at all. That’s because adrenaline is deployed into your system. It acts as a temporary guardian angel that shields you from the pain long enough to escape the wreckage. When the pain does come, it’s a sober reminder of what has happened to you. I fell in love with you by accident, but I stayed there on purpose. I was surrounded by the fire, smoke and debris that used to be my heart. Still, you nursed me back to health when I was broken. You stayed and never faulted me even though I was the one that wasn’t looking where he was going.

We spent nights together that now seem like dreams. We spent countless nights together just felt right somehow. We traded stories of the lives we lived before we crashed into each other. After the nights ended, we would end up on the phone competing with each other to see who would be the first one to fall asleep. Through all of the conversation, the words I wanted to say to you remained caged in my mouth like animals in a zoo; fearing that they would never be able to live and thrive in the wild. Imagine my surprise when it was you who said, “I love you” first. In that moment, my mind became filled with infinite possibilities, and all had had you in them. In that moment, reciprocity didn’t seem like some figment of my overactive imagination. It felt like something tangible that I could hold onto easier than just hope.

Before I knew it, I was helpless. I leapt off the edge without making sure that my bungee cord was secure. That’s when I realized that the scary part of falling is not the falling itself. It’s what happens when there is no one there to catch you. I remember hearing “I love you” so vividly and I was so caught up in the moment that I never heard the “but…”. I don’t believe it was ever said, but it should’ve been felt. I’d been down this road plenty of times before so I should have known what kind of love I was getting myself into. Love takes many different forms. Though we both said the word, we were still speaking in different languages. I mistranslated yours. I can’t blame you. I should have gotten on the back of the ambulance. I should have been transported to a facility that knew how to heal my wounds better than I. I chose to stay at the scene of the accident with no insurance and no way to cover the damages. This is how you become emotionally bankrupt. By investing your life’s savings in things that don’t ever yield a return. You are so starved for something that you’re willing to eat whatever scraps you find. That’s exactly what I was. I was a stray dog that never had a home so I would always return to the same place that left the best leftovers. Even though it wasn’t the meal I deserved, it kept me full long enough until the hunger pangs returned.

Over the course of the accident, I never once thought to think of the pain you had incurred. Not only was our love different, but we were also different. I am a stray dog and you; you are a dove. As soon as your wings healed, it was time for you to fly. I couldn’t keep you on the ground with me. It was never where you belonged. I had to learn very quickly the acts of humility, chivalry, and letting go. I watched you spread your wings, defy gravity and fly away. I watched as long as I could until you were out of sight, and I was now staring at an endless sky. Where you are now, I pray it’s where you belong. I hope you’ve built a nest in the highest tree, and you watch out for people who aren’t watching their blind spots. When you say, “I love you” I now will know the place it comes from. I will respond and it will be with the same fervor, but without the same selfishness. Love never is and never has been selfish. I know that now. It takes delight in knowing that you are happy, no matter what that happiness looks like. I’m back on the road now. I’m driving slower now and I’ll make sure to check all areas before I decide to change lanes. Godspeed.

With All the Love I Have Left,

Me.

[h3arts-4-broflovski]

I had a dream of a plot and I was wondering if you could write it? Please and thank you. I will send the plot through a different request

That was actually a really good plot, thank you!

TW’s before we start: slight An0rexia mention, heavy and slightly graphic $h, Su1cide, alcohol, cigarettes, hella angsty, emo asf

If any of that triggers you, please do not read!!🫶

HEATWAVE (Part 1)

The school day continues, and the main 4 are worried about y/n. Lunch arrives and the large friend group containing y/n, Kyle, Stan, Cartman, Kenny, Butters, Craig, and Tweek sit down to eat. “y/n, where’s your food?” Stan asks, she doesn’t answer. “And you never answered me this morning.” She stands up, yelling, “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST STAN GIVE IT A BREAK. I AM NOT GETTING INTO THIS RIGHT NOW.” y/n storms off to the bathroom. “Geez, what’s her problem?” Craig asks. The main 4 fill them in on what happened that morning. Kenny, who isn’t wearing his parka, says, “yeah, I’m worried about her, guys. When was the last time you saw her eat? And she looks so boney..” they then devise a plan to watch her through her window that night. “Okay, Kenny will watch, Cartman will hold the ladder, the rest of us will be listening to Kenny.” They all nod in agreement. The plan is set.

At around 7:30 that night, the group arrives at y/n’s house. They set up the ladder and Kenny climbs up. “See her?” Craig shouts. “No, not yet.. wait, she’s opening the door.” Y/n comes into her room with a huge bottle of whiskey and sits on the floor in front of her bed, facing the window. (Room layout here⬇️) 

Y/n takes a swig of whiskey straight out of the bottle, and grabs her cigarettes and ashtray from her nightstand and lights one. “She’s drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and smoking.” Kenny reports. Y/n begins to sob, puts out her cig, and takes her jacket off. Kenny’s eyes widen when he sees her arm, “he-her arm…” “What about it?” Cartman calls up to him. “It’s all.. cut up..” y/n reaches in her nightstand and pulls out a r@zor that she took out out of a pencil sharpener. “Um guys.. Should I go in?” Kenny asks the guys. “Why?” Kyle replies. “I think… I think she’s about to hurt herself..” Everyone’s face goes white. “Maybe… maybe not yet. Keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t do something more stupid.” Kenny is forces to watch silently in horror as she begins to slit her wrists. “1…2...3...4...” she whispers to herself. Her eyes go blank for a moment while she makes the biggest decision she has ever made. y/n’s eyes shut, releasing more tears down her cheek, while she looks down at her arms. She puts her blade directly beneath her palm, and pushes harder than she ever has down her entire arm. She then does the same to her other arm.  Y/n brings the blade to her neck. Kenny begins to push open the window and yells to the others, “CALL AN AMBULANCE!” Kyle pulls his phone out in a panicked rush and begins to dial 911. Kenny gets into y/n’s room just as she slit her throat. Kenny screams, “OH MY GOD, Y/N!” y/n’s eyes widen at the sight of Kenny. Her eyes brim with tears at the sight of him. “Kenny…. I..I’m….so…sorry..” she manages to croak out, blood dripping from her mouth. “Oh god..no..NO!” Kenny cries out, tears falling down his cheek. Y/n’s blood-stained hand reaches up and caresses his face as the sirens from the ambulance get louder. Kenny leans his cheek into her hand as the rest of the group barges in the door. “Jesus..” Stan croaks, tears welling in his eyes. Craig turns Tweek towards him, “Don’t look, honey.” Butters begins to cry, “oh hamburgers..” Cartman looks away as soon as he catches a glimpse of the gory scene. Kyle just stands there, eyes glossy with tears. He can’t seem to look away, or even move. Y/n gasps, she can feel the end coming. “I..I’m sor…sorry. I…love you guys…” her voice trails off as the shine in her eyes fades, and lets out a deep exhale, her hand falling from Kenny’s face.

[mickgaydolenz]

I would love to hear about Sparrow <3333

hi moth!!!! thanks for asking me about one of my little stories!!! okay @jathis also asked about this, so i'm going to cheat and answer you both in this post <3

for context sparrows is a wip of the story i've been ruminating on since late 2017. originally it was wildly different than where it ended up, AND i kept flip flopping between whether i wanted to write it as a story, a screen play, or as a comic. i think i've finally decided on a comic, but before that i was going pretty hard on the traditional novel route. this is the result of that! for a little more context, the story is about a man named markus who has spent most of his young adult-mid adult life working for his family's taxidermy business (they specialize in birds!). when his father dies, markus is forced to close the business, a move that proves to be extremely traumatic for him. the story itself follows markus post breakdown as he tries to figure out his identity in a world where he's no longer tied to this obligation. sorry to fucking go on about this, but here's a little excerpt (also just a warning but there is a lot of swearing, mentions of gore and blood etc, and some of the language can be read as misogynistic):

Each empty day after that has been filled with my growing anger. It’s such a foreign feeling for me. I’ve never been an angry person before. I hate this festering blackness that builds inside me. I imagine this must be how my father felt when the cancer invaded him. Insidious and reaching. I can feel it eating away at my muscle, tearing away at sinew to expose the white of bone. Not just anger, fear has been growing inside me as well. Another sickness. My fear makes me angry, and my anger makes me afraid. The snake biting its own tail. I might just consume myself. I really don’t want to be back in that office I think as I continue downwards, away from the monstrous building. Coward, I'm such a coward. But, no wait. That’s wrong, I don’t need therapy. I don’t need to think about my past. I don’t want to remember what happened. Because -and this is the rub of it- nothing happened. Vivian overreacted when she found me, like she always does. It was a tragic, attention seeking, stupid fucking stunt for her to call an ambulance. She’s always craved attention, always! If a situation can’t be twisted until it’s about her, then she won’t even bother with it in the first place. So what? I cut myself a little on broken glass, who fucking cares? But no, for Vivian it’s the perfect opportunity to martyr herself. Oh woe is me, the poor, long suffering wife of a fucking lunatic. A joke, a fucking joke! And now I have a doctor who wants to know all about me. She needs to know every little aspect of my past so she can build a whole new Markus from the ground up. She wants to decide who I am for me, but she can’t! I won’t let her! My past is my business, she has no right to pick apart my memories and give them meaning.  

I try not to hold my arms out like an idiot as I go down the hill, but it’s slippery and my feet keep threatening to come out from underneath me. I want to fall, I suddenly realize. I’m tired of being careful, of holding back. My legs start pumping faster, slick and dangerous, and I'm running. My precarious balance only gets worse, and I can feel my legs wanting to give. I’m exhilarated! Such a righteous feeling burns inside me, because maybe, if I do fall and really hurt myself, Vivian will finally have a real reason to throw herself into the spotlight that stupid bitch. I can see myself falling, legs crumpling and my head careening into the ground. I can hear the thunderous crack as my skull splinters against the still frozen dirt. It would hurt, I'm sure, a violent kind of hurt that’s all black spots and confusion. My momentum is so great, so unstoppable, that I would flip over and over in a sick imitation of a somersault. The slickness of the ground mixed with the viscous flow of blood gushing from my head would easily propel me onto the tarmac, the black surface offering enough friction to stop my limp body. Just in time for a large car -or better yet, a transport- to violently come around the corner, too fast to stop, much too fast like my body had been. Its large metal body would zip by in a blur, the bump barely felt as my body is crushed under its fearsome wheels. Blackness, a curtain drawn. Goodnight! 

I do slip then, but momentum propels me backwards, onto the seat of my pants. The impact sears through my tailbone and rattles my teeth hard enough to break. I slide, but not fast enough, and I soon spill to the bottom of the curve. I stop all at once and sit in a shameful crumple amongst snow and dirt. I don’t even have the decency to fly out onto the road, get my body under the wheels of a transport. It’s undignified, and everything hurts. My ass, my back, my fucking mouth -everything hurts, but all I want to do is scream. Unhinge my jaw and scream, and scream, and scream. I let my head fall back against the earth, the weight too much for me to support in my anguish, and I listlessly gaze at the top half of the forest. 

[yllem]

My Grandma Died

I have avoided this post for a long time. Today is January 2nd, 2024. I haven't written in several months and this is a very hard post to make.

Mid October was one of the craziest weeks of my life. Let's start with Monday:

October 16th: I hear that the first client I ever signed is looking to get out of their contract. I win $170 in an NFL pick em's league. Low. High. I receive a call from Kelli, Bruce's girlfriend. This seemed weird. It was after 11pm in Ohio and she does not call me. I answer the phone expecting bad news. My dad had been in Ohio a lot in 2023 visiting his parents, mostly my grandpa who was not doing very well. I was prepared to hear the hard words from Kelli.

She says something like: "Melly, I don't know how else to say this, but I can imagine you know that I'm not calling with good news. Grandma had a stroke. She's in a coma and it's a matter of days. We can't get ahold of your dad." I shot up in bed. GRANDMA? I immediately call Laura who I know will be across the hall. She relays the message to which he responds "whaaaaaaat" three times. I forgot to mention the coma, but he goes to call Bruce. On the phone with Laura I hear him reenter the room, she is in the kitchen with mom, and say "yeah, my mom is going to die."

While all of this is going on, Bob is in the hospital. They think he may have cancer.

The rest of the week is sad. Dad does not give any updates to me, so I hear everything from Laura. There isn't much to say.

October 19th, 2023: Dad sends a text at 1:34pm letting us know grandma has passed away. It is all very surprising and fast. Mom calls me. She says it's the best ending for her. She was a worrier and didn't have to feel scared about dying. She didn't have to deal with the pain or suffering of sickness. Her ending, while surprising, was very peaceful.

I still feel the emptiness that she filled. The sadness is different than when grandpa had died last August.

October 21st: Mom and Laura leave for Ohio. Dad calls asking if Joe can stay with Belle. He's been attacked by two pitbulls on the run and needs to get stitches. Tim continues to be a pain in the ass about when we will leave together for Ohio (has flag football and softball on Monday nights). He eventually comes to his senses.

October 22nd: I am in Chicago because Joe and I have fall ball playoffs. Our team has a chance at the championship. We win game one and go on to the 3pm game. This team has only one loss: to us the weekend prior. During the second or third inning a girl on our team has her first seizure in the dugout. Her parents were not there. She had mentioned a strong headache and then that she couldn't see. She started a groaning cry before collapsing in Bob and Joe's arms who were steadying her. A mom on the other team is a nurse and times everything. She is a great help. The player is taken away by ambulance with her younger sister. She makes a full recovery. The team goes on to win, not by one like last weekend, but by 7. We lose in the championship on the 24th, but it was a great team to be a part of.

October 23rd: Tim and I go to Ohio and it is sad. It is sad to see my grandpa who spent more than 65 years loving her and all of her quirks. They spent every day together and I'm sure she filled much of his quiet days brought on by old age.

October 24th: Everyone worried about grandpa during the wake. The casket is closed because Grandpa says that's what she wanted. Mousey, Danny, Dee Dee, Mark, Grandma, Eileen, Tom, and Anita come. The funeral is sad as Bruce's friend Frank chokes up during the funeral. Dad, Tim, Taylor, Bruce, Chris, and Mack are pallbearers. Dad, Mom, Bruce, and Grandpa sit in the front. Dad chokes up after setting down the casket about how light it is. He tried hard to keep it together, but little things get that man.

The weather is beautiful. Despite it being end of October, the weather is near 80 degrees. There is lots of sunshine. She wouldn't have to be cold.

The luncheon is at Bennetts. Tim, Laura, and I grab hamburger wagon for the non-Ohio guests to try. We spend the day at a bar later with Kaley, Chris, Madison, and the girls. It felt like good bonding.

Ohio is a sad place to be these days. A reminder that, eventually, we all must go. I am not good with loss and it is sad to see my grandpa get older and older- something we did not witness with my other grandpa given his distance. It is still nice to visit the cousins. I will be sad to update this again, eventually.

[carolmunson]

HERE WE FUCKING GOOOOO:

Time stretches like a rubber band, lengthening each moment. People in uniforms hurry past, paying you no attention as you call out his name. The smell of damp earth mixes with the acrid scent of diesel from the idling vehicles. Bright lights from inside the house spill out into the dark from the open front door.

Jelly this is so gorgeously written, I can literally see and smell it.

Frightened doe eyes peer back from a pale face tinged with blue. Sitting in the back of the ambulance, he looks much smaller, like the world has pressed its full weight down on him. The gray blanket covering his shoulder doesn’t protect him from the shattering of the only life he knows. 

MY BABY.

“I’ll do the brioche french toast with the salted caramel and bananas. And extra whipped cream, please. Oh, and a side of sausage links.” “What?” Robin asks after the waiter has left. “I’m hungry.”

The smile across my face right now, God. Your characterization is insane.

“Yoga actually wasn’t that hot this morning,” Robin admits, biting her lip, reaching for the creamer pitcher at the center of the Formica table.

I AM HERE FOR SLUT ROBIN.

“I know.” You pick at your eggs. It’s moments like this that make it clear they’ll always be Steve’s friends first. 

Oof, fuck. Yikes.

“Because then it wouldn’t have been a surprise,” Nancy tells her, “You’ve never been able to keep a secret.” “But you’re very pretty,” you chuckle, diffusing the situation. “Thank you. I am,” she responds, swirling her last bite in caramel before popping it into her mouth.

Jelly, the dialogue between the three of them is so smooth and real. This is like, how me and my friends talk to each other. It's so seamless. Again, I feel like I'm sitting at the table with them.

“Whoa. Careful, doll,” he says, surprise lacing his tone.

FUCK OFF.

“Doll-” Keeping your pace purposeful, you push past people heading in the opposite direction, feigning deafness to his voice amidst the sound of traffic. “Doll, just wait,” his hand brushes your elbow, but you spin before he can secure a grip. “Jesus. Will you give me a minute,” he mutters, frustration etching lines on his forehead as he rakes his hand through his hair.

I WILL GIVE HIM SEVERAL MINUTES. HE CAN HAVE MY WHOLE LIFE. I LOVE HIM.

You nod, turning in the direction of your car, leaving him standing on the sidewalk to watch you walk away, the city filling the space between you.

I am ripping my fucking hair out.

"Damn.” He pauses with his coffee cup suspended halfway to his mouth, eyes roaming up and down your body. ‘Someone’s a lucky guy.”

Do not fucking do this to me rn.

“Just an hour,” he reiterates, “Then I’m taking you to dinner alone. And we’ll go home for dessert,” he promises as his lips find their way to your neck.

I am conflicted on my affections and deeply unwell.

“Yeah, I know.” You glance at him, offering a warm smile. "But I wanted to run through my outline for the series with him so he can be fully prepared,” you explain, pulling your phone from your pocket and opening your email.

Liar! You lie!

“I think he bought it,” Jonathan says, coming up beside you, weighted down with bags full of equipment.

Nothing I am thinking right now is in the bible.

Standing in the room’s center, you take a slow spin before locking your gaze with Eddie’s. “What a dump.” A deep furrow appears on Eddie’s forehead as his lips press into a disapproving line. 

OMG READER (ME), DON'T BE MEAN TO HIM!

Eddie waits for Jonathan to wander back into the hall before he crosses the room in three big strides, stopping directly in front of you, closer than what would be considered polite. But this is Eddie, and it’s all part of the game. Your hands move to your hips as you straighten in defiance. The scent of mint on his breath reaches your nose as his index finger barely brushes your skin as he lifts the gold circle and bar necklace that rests at your throat.  "Harrington’s money has sure got you spoiled, princess,” he mocks, giving it a light tug, causing the anchor end of the chain to rise up the valley of your breasts. When your eyes flash, his lips pull to the side, twisting in a smirk. 

DO NOT. FUCKING. LOOK. AT. ME.

He settles next to you, spreading his legs wide and crossing one over his knee, his arm landing on the top of the cushions behind you. He’s sitting too close, the heat of his thigh pressing against yours, the spice of his cologne surrounding you. Close enough to see the light stubble on his jaw as he swallows. You shift forward to the edge of your seat, creating some space between you. “You can’t even sit next to me anymore?” He asks, his tone a mix of disappointment and irritation. 

-feral animal squealing and snarling in the distance-

“My god, you’re like a little kid.” Switching the phone to your opposite hand, you hold it at arm’s length, “Haven’t you grown up at all?” His lips turn up until his dimples are on full display. “Why would I want to go and do a thing like that? 

I'm truly aching.

“I’ve read everything you’ve written,” he prattles on as you cross your arms over your chest, your fingernails leaving half moons in the fabric of your jacket.  “I buy a subscription to Stax every year. I get Wayne one, too. Do you know he saves every–” “Stop, Eddie,” you say, cutting him off. “You don’t need to do this.” “Do what?” He asks, his brows sinking. “This.” You wave your hand between you. “Whatever this is. I’m going to write a good story. You’re getting what you want.” “What I want?” He looks surprised. “You think this is about the article?”

no no no no no fuck fuck fuck, jelly i am gonna kick your fucking ASSSSSSfnrjgotgndkmgfnd

You narrow your eyes, inspecting Eddie as he gets into position.“Did you cut your hair again?” “I’m a thirty-two-year-old man. Sometimes I do that,” he responds, scratching at his beard. “Tip your chin to the right,” Jonathan instructs from behind the camera, the shutter clicking in short bursts. “Well, it looks stupid.”

lma she's so fucking MEEEEE. (i cannot wait for him to plow us)

“Is it?” he asks, his eyes locking onto yours, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “All I see is you.”

stop. doing this. to me.

“Steve, the house is going to be a museum to her ex-girlfriends. We’ll be able to give guided tours.”

LMAOOOOO AHAHAHAHAHA

You: He doesn’t have to hope. Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me? The wait for a response is short-lived as an image pops up on your screen. Sockclad feet are propped up on a coffee table beside a take-out box of tacos and a half-drained glass of beer, its foam running down the side. A hazy view of a television screen in the background. 

Why am I folding for this LOSERR whe my hottie rich husband is IN FRONT OF ME?!

Eddie: Thanks for clearing it up. I should let you get back to your date. Steve probably has steam coming out of his ears. You: He had to take a call. Eddie: He left you all alone? It’s a good thing I was around then.

The entire text exchange I...I'm not well. I am not okay.

Jelly, this is a fucking masterpiece. It ended and I literally was transported back to my kitchen table. I am so sunk in when I read this. I am there, I am her. I am in 2012 and wearing faux leather leggings and Litas. I am aching for my fiancee and my ex lover, I am tasting the salmon at dinner and breakfast at the diner -- I know exactly what that painting looks like and would look like in my office.

This is easily truly one of the best series I have ever read, I cannot WAIT for part four.

Forgotten sons, Forgotten dates, & Florence.

Masterlist

TW: 2012 AU, Older!Eddie, Older!Steve, Femreader, Second Chance Romance (not a slow burn), Love Triangle, Smut, Mentions of DV, 18+ No minors WC:8554 beta'd by @superblysubpar

The slow roll of red and blue lights reflects on the big picture window in your living room, casting a glare across the TV screen. Shifting from your stomach, your head turns to meet the anxious expressions worn by your parents. The handful of popcorn you were holding falls to the beige-colored carpet where you’d been sprawled. 

‘Honey…” your dad’s concerned voice cautions, but it’s too late. You are on your feet, greasy fingerprints transferred to your flannel pajama pants as you walk straight toward the door.

“Honey, don’t. It’s not our business.”

As the door swings open, a gust of frigid November air washes over you. Your bare feet meet an icy sting from the frozen boards of your porch. The staticky voices from police radios crackle through the cold night air, their words blending into an indecipherable hum as they float down the street. The wood underneath your feet turns to the scrape of cement as you leave the warm safety of your home and run down the rain-washed street towards the ambulances and police cruisers. Fallen red and yellow leaves stick to the pavement, their colors vivid in the flashing lights reflecting off the wet road.

Time stretches like a rubber band, lengthening each moment. People in uniforms hurry past, paying you no attention as you call out his name. The smell of damp earth mixes with the acrid scent of diesel from the idling vehicles. Bright lights from inside the house spill out into the dark from the open front door.

“Eddie,” you cry out again as a hand closes over your elbow, tugging you back.

“You can’t be here.”

You struggle, attempting to break free from the policeman's grip as he pulls you away. Your head turns, and your eyes finally find his. Frightened doe eyes peer back from a pale face tinged with blue. Sitting in the back of the ambulance, he looks much smaller, like the world has pressed its full weight down on him. The gray blanket covering his shoulder doesn’t protect him from the shattering of the only life he knows. 

“Eddie,” you whisper his name, your voice trembling. He tries to stand, shrugging off the woolen blanket, his hand reaching out as the EMT seals the doors. The ambulance roars to life and speeds away, leaving you alone with the taste of salt from your tears mingling with the cold, crisp air. A gurney rolls past, bearing a figure lying motionless beneath a white sheet. Only a portion of her face is visible, her features obscured by a patchwork of black and blues, her dark hair falling to the side like a shroud.

"I've got her."

Your dad's strong voice breaks through the chaos as he sweeps you up from the policeman's grip. He holds you close, carrying you away like he did when you were much younger, your face buried in his shoulder, tears dampening the fabric of his jacket. The world blurs as his steps bring you closer to home. You cry for the boy who will face the rest of this world alone.

“Egg-white omelet with tomatoes, mushrooms, and onions. No spinach. And I’ll have a side of bacon, very crispy but not blackened,” Nancy says, handing her menu to the waiter before shifting her eyes toward you. 

“Two eggs over easy, please–avocado toast and the fruit salad.”

“I’ll do the brioche french toast with the salted caramel and bananas. And extra whipped cream, please. Oh, and a side of sausage links.”

“What?” Robin asks after the waiter has left. “I’m hungry.”

“We just worked out,” Nancy scolds. 

“I did hot yoga. I need to replenish,” Robin explains, raising a mug of tea to her lips.

After moving here, a night out always ended with breakfast at The Friendly Toast, welcoming the sun as it rose over the city. As habits and routines changed, it evolved into a standing brunch for just the ladies after morning gym sessions. The diner’s retro black and white flooring and red vinyl upholstered seating still bears the same traces of syrup as it did all those years ago, but the food is good, and the wait is never long. 

"Was it the hot yoga or you're Saturday night with Taylor," you tease, earning a dreamy smile from a pink-cheeked Robin. 

"Yoga actually wasn't that hot this morning," Robin admits, biting her lip, reaching for the creamer pitcher at the center of the Formica table.

Now that you all have a bit more cash to spare, Nancy leans towards the idea of brunching in a bougier spot in your shared Gold Coast neighborhood, but Robin is a stickler for traditions. The charm of Nancy Sinatra playing over the speakers and the selection of boozy milkshakes are what win your vote. 

The food arrives quickly this morning. “Three hot plates for three hot ladies,” the waiter winks as he delivers generous portions on the ceramic oval plates. The smoky scent of bacon mixed with the sweetness of caramel. He pulls a silver canister from his apron pocket, giving Robin’s dish an extra squirt of whipped cream.

“Oh, he’s getting a very good tip,” Robin says, placing her napkin in her lap.

Laughing, you pick up your fork and break the yolk, letting the soft yellow drip onto the smashed avocado. Nancy rolls her eyes and picks up her beeping phone. 

"No phones," Robin chides around a mouth full of French toast.

"Sorry," Nancy says, tapping out a quick reply before placing her phone face down on the table, "My brother is driving everyone crazy.” She unwraps her silverware before continuing, “He wants us all to come to Florida for Christmas since it will be the first one in their new house, but Hawkins is so much easier for everyone. Holly is still in school, and Jonathan doesn’t want to take that much time off from work.”

“Sounds like Steve.” Your eyebrow lifts as you take a bite.

“Steve only works so hard because he wants to take care of you,” Robin says, pointing her fork in your direction.

“He adores you,” Nancy agrees, “You're lucky.”

“I know.” You pick at your eggs. It’s moments like this that make it clear they’ll always be Steve’s friends first. 

“Did you get the Bulls tickets for his birthday?” Nancy asks, before picking up a piece of bacon with her fingers and biting into it with an audible crunch.

“I ordered them last week,” you tell her, taking a bite of pineapple.

“I hope you got extra,” Robin says, dabbing some whipped cream from the corner of her mouth with a napkin. 

“You're not thinking of going now?” Nancy looks at her, surprised.

“No. Not for me,” Robin says, waving her off, “I’m sure he’ll want to invite Eddie now that he’s back in town.”

You sit up straighter in your chair, just the mention of Eddie's name has tension rippling down your spine. “I got him six tickets. He’ll have three extra to invite whoever he wants,” you say, settling the matter.

“Let me know how much I owe you for me and Jonathan,” Nancy tells you.

“I got it,” you assure her, “Just buy him a foam finger or something.”

“It’s his birthday. You’re really not going?” Robin prods, her voice carrying a note of judgment.

“Not if I can help it. You know I don’t like sports.” It's the same answer as the first time she brought it up, a few weeks ago. “He’ll have more fun with people who appreciate it. I’ll celebrate with him when we’re alone.”

“Say no more,” Nancy says, raising her hands as she looks down at her plate.

“Come on, Nance,” Robin laughs, “You used to celebrate with him in the exact same way.”

“Robin,” Nancy whispers through clenched teeth, darting her eyes toward you.

“I don’t care, Nance. It’s ancient history,” you chuckle. Steve’s high school relationship with her ended with a lot of heartache, but they obviously weren’t right for each other. The friendship that they share today is different from his and Robin's. She understands the pressure that he's under. 

“I’ve always wanted to know,” Robin says, her eyes glinting with mischief, “Who is better, Steve or Jonathan?”

“Don’t answer that,” you chuckle, patting Nancy’s hand as her face cycles through several shades of pink. 

“I won’t,” she glares at Robin. “Oh, wait. I don’t owe you,” she says, turning back to you and shifting the conversation, “You owe me. I can’t believe you scooped us on Eddie’s studio opening.”

Sighing heavily, you fill your mouth with a big bite of your breakfast, but the taste is off now. This story is a relentless storm cloud, always hovering, disrupting the peace. He's only been here a week and here's another argument. Hurricane Eddie. He must be pleased, relishing the storm he's brought into your life.

“Spectrum doesn’t even write about music,” Robin points out with a slice of banana at the end of her fork.

“It would have been a great piece for Chicago Lifestyles. We even could have hyped it up on an episode of Chronicle,” she complains, mentioning the human interest show that Spectrum runs profiling things happening in the city. “I’m the one that organized his welcome night, and this is the thanks I get.”

“Don’t look at me." You raise your hands in front of you. 

“Why did he tell you and not me that he was moving here?” Robin adds her own touch of gripping. “I should have been in charge of that.”

“Because then it wouldn’t have been a surprise,” Nancy tells her, “You’ve never been able to keep a secret.”

“But you’re very pretty,” you chuckle, diffusing the situation.

“Thank you. I am,” she responds, swirling her last bite in caramel before popping it into her mouth.

Your laughter blends with the background din of conversation and the gentle clinking of silverware as you savor the last bites of your meal. When the check arrives, Nancy insists on covering the bill, urging you to put your share toward the cost of Steve's tickets, and Robin leaves behind the promised very generous tip. With your plates cleared and goodbyes exchanged, the three of you leave the crowded restaurant.

As you trail behind Robin and Nancy, your phone starts vibrating with an incoming call. Fumbling through the pockets of the jacket you're carrying, you step out onto the bustling sidewalk, teeming with people entering and exiting the diner. Lost in distraction, you collide head-on with a solid chest. Strong hands instinctively grasp your biceps, preventing you from stumbling further. As your gaze lifts, you're met with the chestnut eyes that have been the wind, stirring up your world. 

“Whoa. Careful, doll,” he says, surprise lacing his tone.

“What are you doing here?” You demand.

Flecks of gray paint pepper the tangle of dark curls pushed back from his face, joining the streaks and spatters covering his ripped jeans and a long-sleeved white tee, his wide eyes drinking you in.

“He’s meeting me,” Robin says, appearing beside you. “I’m taking him to meet an artist he’s commissioning. See, I can keep a secret.”

He’s still holding you, his eyes locked with yours, each ridge of his fingertips searing into your skin, the pressure of grip alternating like he’s reluctant to let you go. 

“I’m late,” you murmur, pulling away from his touch and turning in the opposite direction to walk down the road toward your car. 

"I’ll be right back,” he tells Robin before his footsteps echo on the sidewalk behind you. He waits until the restaurant is just out of sight.

“Doll-”

Keeping your pace purposeful, you push past people heading in the opposite direction, feigning deafness to his voice amidst the sound of traffic.

“Doll, just wait,” his hand brushes your elbow, but you spin before he can secure a grip. “Jesus. Will you give me a minute,” he mutters, frustration etching lines on his forehead as he rakes his hand through his hair.

“What do you want?” You ask, cradling your jacket closer to your chest.

“I had no idea you were here. I wasn’t trying to ambush you back there,” he tries to explain.

“It’s fine, Eddie.” Your eyes glance at the people passing around you. “You made it perfectly clear you’re going to go wherever you like.”

His tongue peeks out, wetting his top lip as he shakes his head. “Look, I wanted to tell you I don’t want you to do the interview.”

“Wow, okay.” Your eyes scrunch as the sting of rejection overpowers the butterflies filling your stomach.

“No,” he winces at his choice of words. “I want you too.” 

“You’re giving me whiplash here.” You finally meet his gaze. 

“What I’m trying to say is that I want to see you. Talk to you, but I don’t want you doing this interview hating me because you were forced into it.”

“It’s a little late for that-”

“No. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I can tell them…I can say I changed my mind.” His words carry a weight of earnestness, a sincerity that chips at the wall you’ve built between you. The instinct not to trust him, to remember all the times he’s let you down, wars with the truth in his eyes, begging you for acceptance. 

“We are both professionals. I can write it.” Your foot taps a quick rhythm against the pavement, as your face stays blank with defiance.

“If you’re sure...” he trails off, his eyes burning into yours as he waits for your answer.

The words form and reform on the tip of your tongue until the truth slips past, “I don’t hate you, Eddie,” you admit just above a whisper. 

“Well, that’s something,” he murmurs, searching your face.

The buzzing from your pocket resumes as the world shifts back into focus, breaking through the momentary understanding. 

“I’ve got to go,” you tell him, motioning towards your car. “The magazine will call and set something up soon.”

He blows out a breath as his shoulders lower. “I guess I’ll see ya round then,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

You nod, turning in the direction of your car, leaving him standing on the sidewalk to watch you walk away, the city filling the space between you.

Steve’s assistant is at his desk, fingers flying across the keyboard as he speaks into a headset. With a pleasant smile and a wave, you pass by him, pausing at the double doors to knock once under the brass nameplate reading Harrington. You turn the knob without waiting for a response. Steve is seated behind his immaculate metal and glass-topped desk, not a paper out of place. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind him frame a breathtaking view of the city's skyline while the afternoon sun casts long shadows across the plush beige carpeting. 

"Damn." He pauses with his coffee cup suspended halfway to his mouth, eyes roaming up and down your body. ‘Someone's a lucky guy.”

Biting your lip, his compliment has a smile lifting your cheeks. The velvet blazer covering over your shoulders crowns the plunging black silk tank you put on this morning. Its lacy edges trace the curves of your breasts, while your faux leather pants and ankle boots make your legs look miles long and hug your curves just right. 

“Yeah, well, big assignment today,” you reply, running your fingertips along the edge of his desk. 

In the past six years at Stax, you've delved into Ozzy's addiction, engaged Thom Yorke about climate change, and held the hand of a teary-eyed Taylor Swift as she cried over her ex. Your words have canonized the music that has woven the fabric of our culture. Eddie Muson is going to see you're not the same girl with stars in her eyes and headphones pressed to her ears. 

Steve’s brow furrows, etched with a deep V. "I was talking about me. Date night tonight, or did you forget?"

The blood drains from your face as you respond with a forced smile, "Of course, I didn't forget." The lie tastes bitter in your mouth. “I always want to look pretty for you.” Spinning his chair, your knees find their place on either side of his thighs as you straddle his lap. Your fingers gripping his starched collar. The notes of sandalwood from his cologne hit your nose, mixing with the scent of coffee. His features soften as his hands glide to your hips, and you tip your head and press your lips to his. “We’re meeting Robin’s new girlfriend tonight, right?”

“Taylor,” he confirms with a nod. “You’ll like her. She paints naked while listening to Jane's Addiction.”

“And how do you know this?” You laugh, your lips meeting his for the second time.

“I met her the other day when I took Robin to lunch.”

“Ahh," you respond with a playful grin, your thumb tracing along the stubble that lines his jaw. "That explains it."

“So, just an hour at the gallery, okay? We’ll have a drink and say hello-”

“If Robin lets us go,” you interrupt.

“Just an hour,” he reiterates, “Then I’m taking you to dinner alone. And we’ll go home for dessert,” he promises as his lips find their way to your neck.

“Hmm. Where are you taking me?” You ask as your eyes flutter closed.

"I'm not sure," he mumbles against your neck, “My assistant booked the reservation.” His lips trail lower, his grip tightening as his phone suddenly dances across the glass surface of his desk, its baseball jingle shattering the moment.

He picks up the phone, checking the number before setting it back down. “I’ll call them back,” he says absently before turning back to you. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but I have a conference in fifteen minutes. What are you doing here, Ace?” He asks, his eyes glancing towards the desktop screen that has been chiming with incoming emails. 

“I’m meeting Jonathan. He’s driving over to CursedSound,” you say, climbing off him. “Thought I’d come say hi before I left.”

"Okay, you can tell me about it tonight," he responds, his tone distracted, as if he might not have truly registered your reply. He adjusts his glasses before refocusing his attention on the screen.

“Alright.” The clacking of his keyboard drowns out your quiet tone. You smooth out your shirt, sensing that you’ve been dismissed. He squints behind his glasses, tugging a handful of hair. Worry nags at the edges of your thoughts–he’s pushing himself too hard.

“See you tonight,” you call over your shoulder as you leave his office, not bothering to wait for the response that won’t come. 

"All set?" Jonathan asks as he slides behind the wheel of his Volvo XC, his camera equipment already secured neatly in the back.

"Yup," you reply, clicking your seatbelt into place and settling into the plush leather seat.

"You know you didn’t have to come today," he comments as he maneuvers onto the bustling streets of the Loop, navigating the notorious Chicago traffic. "I’m just taking a few shots of the inside before it’s all put together and maybe a few portraits for the digital content."

"Yeah, I know.” You glance at him, offering a warm smile. "But I wanted to run through my outline for the series with him so he can be fully prepared," you explain, pulling your phone from your pocket and opening your email.

Eddie hadn’t reached out or texted once since the diner. The clock ticked slowly all week long, surrounded by magazine articles and album inserts, piecing together clues about what Eddie had been doing for the last eleven years while your outline came together, his silence crawling under your skin like a nagging itch. Maybe press for the studio had been all he was after, and his interest after all this time had nothing to do with wanting to see you again. Well, this time, he doesn’t get to dictate the terms, to decide if you’re useful or if you should be discarded like a day-old newspaper. Given the circumstances, showing up uninvited and unannounced seems fair. 

After circling the block once, Jonathan finds a space to park across the street from the old brewery.

"Is this it?" You ask, using a hand placed over your brow to shield your eyes from the sun.

The older building stands out amidst the sleek, modern high-rises that dominate the commercialized neighborhood. Its rough limestone-clad facade wears the scars of time, with colorful graffiti adorning any surfaces within arm's reach of the fire escapes and a rather questionable-looking bodega with covered windows attached to the corner. However, the copper-framed bay windows gleam with a warm, aged patina, and the asymmetrical turrets, adorned with stamped rosettes and scallop patterns, give it a soul hiding beneath the urban decay—very Eddie.

"I wonder how much he’s paying to rent for this place?" You mumble.

"I think he bought it," Jonathan says, coming up beside you, weighted down with bags full of equipment.

You follow Jonathan around the corner to a rusted metal door adjacent to a brushed steel sign displaying the CursedSound Recordings name and logo, securely affixed to the brick wall. He presses the buzzer next to the door, and a screeching bell reverberates from inside. Metal grinds against metal as the locks release, and the door swings open.

"Right on time, Jon," Eddie greets, his eyes widening when he catches sight of you standing behind Jonathan. Your lips raise into a smirk as you stride past him, catching a whiff of the smoke and leather that cling to his skin as you enter through the open door. The short hallway opens into a bigger space. The heels of your boots clack against the scuffed parquet flooring as you move further into the room. Sofas and chairs covered by sheets surround a custom reception desk in the dimly lit room. Dust motes float in the beams of light that pierce through the rips in the brown paper-covered windows, revealing that this is inside of the bodega.

"This, uh... this will be the lobby," Eddie offers, gesturing vaguely around the room before his fingers rake through the curls at the back of his neck. He’s clad in a pair of expensive jeans that seem tailor-made for him and an open light grey dress shirt with a white tee underneath. His hair and beard are freshly trimmed but not too short, giving off that effortless California cool vibe. He’s grown into himself, carrying a confidence that comes with age and success. He looks good – it's annoying.

His stare prickles on your skin as he blinks at you like maybe you’re really a ghost of his past come to call. 

"Is there more?" You ask, your tone haughty.

"Yeah. The studios are upstairs." He nods toward the propped open door, revealing a stairwell behind. He takes one of the heavy bags from Jonathan before following him up the stairs. You grip the green-painted metal railing as you climb the grey-bubbled stair treads, pausing at the landing to take in the view of the street. The city moves by at the same blurring pace, unaffected and unaware of the collectives of its inhabitants. Someone should stop and look once in a while. 

The door at the top of the stairs leads to the wide hall that smells of drywall and paint. The deep red wall-to-wall carpet, the kind you’d find at a theater, looks new and plush, a contrast to the stark walls primed but not painted. Heavy black doors with the silver letters ��� A, B, & C denote the entrance to each studio. 

Jonathan sets the bag he’s carrying down by his feet and eyes the room. "Mind if I look around?"

"Knock yourself out," Eddie tells him, placing the other bag beside the first. "Studio C is the farthest along."

Jonathan crouches to unzip a bag, pulling a camera from its depths, fitting the strap over his head before he wanders to the first door marked A and lets himself in.

"Didn’t expect to see you here today, doll. You aren’t on my calendar til next week." Eddie turns to you once Jonathan disappears from sight.

"I came to see what I was working with." 

"By all means." He waves you forward.

Moving down the hall, you choose the door on the opposite wall – Studio C. The carpet is different in here, a rich velvet blue. The glass wall that is already in place reveals a spacious live room with strips of soundproofing covering half of the walls and more neatly piled on the floor. An isolation booth, where artists can focus on their vocals without distractions, has been framed out but remains unfinished.

"Well, what do you think?" Eddie asks.

An Interesting question. Your eyes wander, exploring the mixing room, where an impressive-looking soundboard remains veiled in plastic. A newly painted mural dominates the entire back wall – graffiti art portraying a massive skull shedding tears made of music notes that cascade onto yellow-bricked path winding through a cityscape. It exudes raw emotion and authenticity, just like the music that will soon resonate within these walls. You can already sense it murmuring from deep within, poised to fill the voids in people's souls, for that's what music does – it's an indelible tattoo on the heart, amplifying both pain and joy. This music – his music, will endure.

Standing in the room's center, you take a slow spin before locking your gaze with Eddie's.

"What a dump."

A deep furrow appears on Eddie's forehead as his lips press into a disapproving line. 

"Should I be wearing a hard hat?" You raise your hand above your head and inspect the sturdy ceiling like it might collapse at any moment. "Has a building inspector been out?"

He crosses his arms over his broad chest as his eyes narrow, pausing for a breath as his lips part. Jonathan strolls into the room, unaware of his interruption, surveying the space with a thoughtful expression. 

"Nice art. Is this the guy Robin hooked you up with?" He questions Eddie, who remains locked in his scowl. 

"Yeah, it is. He’s coming back to do a wall in the lobby," he answers without looking away from you.

"That will look great," Jonathan says, nodding. "I’m going to set up some lights and get a few shots in here." 

Eddie waits for Jonathan to wander back into the hall before he crosses the room in three big strides, stopping directly in front of you, closer than what would be considered polite. But this is Eddie, and it’s all part of the game. Your hands move to your hips as you straighten in defiance. The scent of mint on his breath reaches your nose as his index finger barely brushes your skin as he lifts the gold circle and bar necklace that rests at your throat. 

"Harrington’s money has sure got you spoiled, princess," he mocks, giving it a light tug, causing the anchor end of the chain to rise up the valley of your breasts. When your eyes flash, his lips pull to the side, twisting in a smirk. 

"I make my own money, Eddie." You remove your chain from his hand. "You sure have a lot of opinions about my life, considering you don’t even know me."

"I think I know you, plenty–"

He steps back when Jonathan reappears, bags in tow. He sets them down lightly before casting glances back and forth between the two of you, "Have you gone over your outline?" He asks. 

"Not yet," you reply, flashing a sweet smile up at Eddie.

Jonathan clears his throat, growing slightly impatient. "Well, this won't take me long, and I'll be ready to head back. Why don't you go downstairs? I don't want you in my shot."

As you stomp down the stairs behind Eddie, the echo of your boots reverberates off the empty walls, the window glass reflecting an image of the unassured, sad girl you left in Hawkins. He’s wrong. He doesn’t know you or the lengths you’ll go not to be her anymore. 

The reception area sits in hushed stillness, broken by the distant hum of traffic outside and the gentle ticking of pipes like a clock counting the seconds. Eddie pulls the sheet covering an orange velour couch, sending a light cloud of construction dust into the air. Without waiting for an invitation, you take a seat at one end of the sofa. He settles next to you, spreading his legs wide and crossing one over his knee, his arm landing on the top of the cushions behind you. He’s sitting too close, the heat of his thigh pressing against yours, the spice of his cologne surrounding you. Close enough to see the light stubble on his jaw as he swallows. You shift forward to the edge of your seat, creating some space between you.

"You can’t even sit next to me anymore?" He asks, his tone a mix of disappointment and irritation. 

"I’m sitting next to you right now." you point out, straightening your back further.

"Then relax. Jesus. You used to get mad if there wasn’t a seat for you next to me."

"Well, we’re not in high school anymore, Eddie."

"I’m not talking about high school," he murmurs, looking down at his lap before he raises his eyes to lock with yours. 

The first few notes of a song you never wanted to hear again ripple to the surface, dragging up memories that should have remained weighted down in the cold depths of things forgotten. He disarms you so effortlessly, whether with a smile or his words. This was all a big mistake.

"I'm sorry," his fingers encircle your wrist, knowing he crossed a line he shouldn't have. You pull your hand away from his grip, and he quickly changes the subject before you have a chance to stand up and leave. "Did you want to tell me about the article?"

Lips parting, you pause to exhale, the sting slowly dissipating. "My editor…" you clear your throat, reaching into the pocket of your blazer for your phone. "My editor wants a series. There will be three featured articles." You tap on the screen bringing up your notes. Eddie raises his eyebrows and leans in, trying to read over your shoulder, but you angle it away as you continue, "That means I'll need three interviews…will you stop," you say when he tries again to see the screen. 

"It's about me. I just want to see it," he argues, leaning further into your space.

"My god, you're like a little kid." Switching the phone to your opposite hand, you hold it at arm's length, "Haven't you grown up at all?"

His lips turn up until his dimples are on full display. "Why would I want to go and do a thing like that? 

The exasperated scoff that leaves your throat is accompanied by your eyes rolling to the side. 

"Not like you," he admits, his gaze roaming over you from head to toe. "After you interviewed Win Butler, he told me he couldn't have denied you the truth, and I'm beginning to understand why. Harrington’s got good taste. You've only gotten more beautiful."

Your features remain even as a gentle heat rises up your chest. "I'll be sure to pass on your compliments. I'm sure Steve will appreciate it. Three interviews," you say, displaying that number of fingers, dragging his attention back to the matter at hand. “The first will be on your past – early career, your move from Hawkins to LA. Then we'll move on to your present. Why you chose Chicago.The work you're putting into the studio and any projects you have booked when you open." You refer back to your notes, and this time, his eyes don't leave your face, intent on studying you. "The big finale will be the future. Where you see the studio in five years, your predictions on the direction of the industry. "

With a final tap, you show him the mock-up displayed on your screen, "I’m titling it Behind the Mixer: The Past, Present, and Future of Eddie Munson's Cursed Sound." You look up from your phone, your gaze locking with his.

His eyes are hesitant before he breaks your connection to look down at the device in your outstretched hand. "Wow, I'm impressed, doll." A rosy tint colors his cheeks. "It's so professional. Not used to seeing my name printed like I'm somethin'."

"You’ve had plenty of press," you remind him. "What did Rolling Stone call you? The man with the ear for platinum."

"Yeah, that's true. I've been written about before." He looks up, brown eyes burning into yours, your heads now just a few inches apart. "But never by you. They weren't your words."

The weight of his stare is too heavy. You turn your head to look around the room. Liar. The familiar itch prickles beneath your skin. 

"I’ve read everything you’ve written," he prattles on as you cross your arms over your chest, your fingernails leaving half moons in the fabric of your jacket. 

"I buy a subscription to Stax every year. I get Wayne one, too. Do you know he saves every–"

“Stop, Eddie,” you say, cutting him off. “You don’t need to do this.”

“Do what?” He asks, his brows sinking.

“This.” You wave your hand between you. “Whatever this is. I’m going to write a good story. You’re getting what you want.”

“Isn’t it?”

“What I want?” He looks surprised. “You think this is about the article?”

His mouth parts, words teetering on the edge of his tongue, when Jonathan's footsteps cause the stairs to groan under his weight. "Finished?" Jonathan inquires, "I'd like to wrap up with a few shots of Eddie by the sign."

"We're done," you confirm, slipping your phone back into your pocket.

"No, we're not, doll," Eddie argues, "Actually, you go ahead, Jon. I'll give her a ride home."

"No, you won't." You stand, not sparing him a glance. "I have somewhere else to be."

"We're losing the light," Jonathan laments, camera in hand, gesturing for both of you to follow.

“You got big plans tonight? Sure you aren’t looking for an excuse not to finish our conversation?” Eddie presses, trailing behind you as you step through the side door out onto the street.

“Believe me, it’s definitely finished,” you state, firmness lacing your words, stepping aside to get out of Jonathan's way.

"Just stand in front of the brick," Jonathan directs, "To your left," he motions with his hand.

“And not that it’s any of your business," you let an air of condescension lace your tone, "But I have a date tonight with my fiancée.”

“Relax, Eddie. Don’t look at the camera," Jonathan instructs when Eddie's jaw clenches.

Eddie's thumbs hook into the pockets of his jacket. "Sounds romantic," he snarks. "How long have they been engaged now, Jon? Two years? And we still haven't received a wedding invitation. Someone's having cold feet. My money's on Harrington."

"His name is Jonathan. No one calls him that, Eddie." You cock your hip, crossing your arms. 

"I'm sure he would tell me if he minded," Eddie retorts, matching the irritation in your voice.

"I don't care," Jonathan sighs, "Can you just move around a bit and look down."

You narrow your eyes, inspecting Eddie as he gets into position."Did you cut your hair again?"

"I'm a thirty-two-year-old man. Sometimes I do that," he responds, scratching at his beard.

"Tip your chin to the right," Jonathan instructs from behind the camera, the shutter clicking in short bursts.

"Well, it looks stupid."

"Okay, I think I've got it," Jonathan says, lowering the camera. "Jesus, what is it with you two? If I wanted to listen to bickering, I’d go home to Nancy," he complains, with a red face. "Let's go."

The rush of water as it overflows from the upper stone basin into the fountain's pool blends the conversation of the other diners at the 3 Arts Club into the background. The atrium is dimly lit, relying on the massive crystal drop chandeliers cascading golden light and the flickering hurricane lanterns spilling candlelight onto the marble-topped table you're seated at. Steve smiles, holding your gaze as the waitress sets the plates in front of you. Swirls of green in his soft eyes are set off by the towering olive trees behind him, that give off a subtle woody aroma. 

“For a minute, I thought we weren't going to make our reservation.” He unwraps his silverware from the cloth napkin and places it in his lap. 

“We almost didn’t,” you point out, “I think Robin wanted us to stay and join them after Taylor’s show.”

“I’m glad we didn’t. I want some time alone with you.” He reaches across the table, fingers closing over yours.

“Thank you for bringing me here. This place is really beautiful.” Your gaze sweeps upward toward the towering glass ceiling, where the night sky glows a deep plum hue painted by the lights of the city.

“Is it?” he asks, his eyes locking onto yours, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “All I see is you.”

Your cheeks warm, a shy smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Eat your salad, you charmer.” You roll your eyes before looking up at him from under your lashes.

The side of his mouth lifts as he lets you go to pick up his fork, mixing the shavings of parmesan in with the crips romaine and the delicate bites of chicken. Your phone vibrates against your hip through the pocket of your blazer.

Eddie: What I said had nothing to do with the article. 

Without answering, you place your phone on your thigh, picking up your fork to break off a piece of salmon. The honey and black pepper melt on your tongue as you take your first bite. 

“What did you think of Taylor?” Steve asks, spearing a few of your truffle fries with his fork and setting them on the edge of his plate.

“You were right. I liked her,” you tell him as a faint buzzing emanates on your thigh. 

Eddie: If you would quit running away, I would have told you that in person. 

Run away? A knot ties itself in your stomach as you blink down at the message on your screen, only hesitating for a moment before tapping out a reply. 

You: I didn't run away. I had something better to do. 

"Did you like the blue watercolor of the thistles she did?" He asks as you look up, placing your phone face down on the table. 

"It matches the blue of the built-ins in your office. We could get rid of that old chair from your parent's basement. Redo the whole thing."  His eyebrows lift hopefully as your phone rattles on the marble.

Eddie: Is that why you're texting me right now because you're busy doing something better?

“You're not touching my chair. My entire office is off-limits. I like it the way it is,” your voice comes out too sharp. Your gaze flickers between Steve and the glowing screen of your phone as you type your response. 

You: Good point. An error on my part. Goodnight.

“I can always hang it in the guestroom. Who are you texting?” 

His question captures your full attention. “Sorry. It’s for work.” You switch the button at the top to silent and set it back down on the table. “You bought it, didn’t you?” You ask, sinking your fork into a few fries before dipping them in aioli. 

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes a big bite of his salad, avoiding your question as he chews.

“Steve, the house is going to be a museum to her ex-girlfriends. We’ll be able to give guided tours.”

He laughs, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Art is an investment. Even my dad agrees.”

“Oh, your dad, huh? I didn’t know he agreed with anything. Can I have a bite of your salad?” Your fork hovers over his plate as you catch the light of your phone screen lighting up out of the corner of your eye. 

“Yeah. Go for it.” He pushes his plate closer to you. “How was the salmon?” 

“Good. You want some?” You ask around a mouth full of lettuce.

“I’ll try a little,” he says, swapping around your plates as you set your fork aside and pick up your phone.

Eddie: I bet Harrington took you somewhere real fancy. He’s probably hoping it will get him laid.

Your eyes narrow at your screen as your jaw clenches and your heel taps beneath the table.  

You: He doesn’t have to hope. Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?

The wait for a response is short-lived as an image pops up on your screen. Sockclad feet are propped up on a coffee table beside a take-out box of tacos and a half-drained glass of beer, its foam running down the side. A hazy view of a television screen in the background. 

“Is that still work? Who’s texting you?” Steve asks, his eyes speculative as he leans forward and glances at your screen. 

“It’s just Eddie,” you dismiss the question with a wave of your hand as you darken the screen. "What about you? How are things with the radio launch?"

He studies your face a moment longer before his features soften, and he answers, "My workload has more than doubled. City Beats has as many divisions as Second City collectively, and I’m overseeing all of it.” His elbows land on the table as his hands tug through his hair. “I’m coordinating with marketing trying to promote it all across the city, and today, Richard called me into his office and said he wants me to meet the sponsors with Ted. Doesn’t think he can handle it on his own. Says I’m more advertiser-friendly.” He uses his fingers to quote the title.

“Can you tell him no?” You reach across the table for his hand. “It’s too much, Steve–for anybody. You've been working like this for months.”

“I can’t. The launch is in a few weeks, then I'll talk to Rich—” He stops mid sentence as his ringtone breaks through the peaceful ambiance. Pulling his phone from his breast pocket, he squints at the screen in the low light, a frown making him look more weary than usual. “I’m sorry, Ace. I need to take this.” He stands, giving your hand an apologetic squeeze before walking towards the entrance. “Hi, Richard. No, you're not disturbing anything…”

As Steve's voice trails off, leaving you on your own in the dimly lit atrium, the room continues to hum with conversations, laughter, and intimacy. You pick up your wine, the cold glass feeling delicate in your fidgety fingers, the crisp acidity of the sauvignon blanc offering  little comfort.  Dining alone shouldn't feel strange. People do it all the time, relishing their own company as they leisurely turn the pages of books or savor each bite. It's a skill you've yet to master, haunted by an irrational discomfort under the imagined weight of judgmental eyes, a residue of being the girl no one would sit next to in Hawkins. It's absurd, of course, but that old fear lingers, an uninvited companion. 

As you reach for your phone, Eddie's name sits at the top of your notifications, and this time, the distraction is welcomed. 

Until you read it. 

Eddie: I read your album review of Lungs. You really stunk up the page with that one.

You: Lungs by Florence and the Machine? That was two years ago!

Eddie: I told you I read all your work. x

You: And what exactly did you take issue with?

Eddie: You trashed her. You said her vocals were overpowering and meant to cover up mediocre musicians. Said she was an alt Britney Spears.

Your nose scrunches with wince, recalling the words you choose to print.

You: I wrote what I felt at the time.

Eddie: The album sold 3 million copies. Don’t worry, Flo forgave you. 

Eddie: Eventually

You: I doubt Florence Welch reads Stax.

Eddie: Well

Eddie: I had a copy.

You: YOU SHOWED IT TO HER!

Fury. Blind, hot, raging fury rolls through your veins. Your hand smacks onto the table with a resounding crack, causing the silverware to clatter and plates to rattle. A few diners stop to look at you, and you give them a bashful smile as heat creeps up your neck. 

You: I’m going to hurt you. Slowly.

Eddie: Relax. No need to get kinky. It’s all water under the bridge. I worked on that album, and I intentionally asked for that bold, unapologetic vocal style. It was meant to be raw. It seems like the fans agreed.  But, hey, everyone gets it wrong once in a while. Maybe you were on your period or something.

Your fingers dance across the keyboard, a torrent of response surging, ready to pour out, but you restrain the urge to send them – every ugly word remains unsent. His three dots flicker on the screen, and another message swiftly follows.

Eddie: The only reason I remember it was because her album dropped the same week you got engaged. At first, I thought it might be personal, but I wondered why after all these years. Then I realized you were probably far too busy writing Mrs. Harrington with big hearts around it in your diary to be worrying about me.

Words, false as a cracked melody, slip from your fingers with practiced ease, but beneath it all, guilt settles in your chest like a haunting refrain, its weight growing heavier with every truth left unsaid.

You: I don’t remember if I knew you worked on that album.

Eddie: I’m sure you didn’t. 

He went down this path searching for something. Unspoken lyrics to a hidden refrain that have long evaded his grasp. Whatever he’s uncovered and what it means to him isn’t clear, but for now, he’s letting you off the hook. Relief sweeps over you like the final notes of a song, the recording skipping and cracking, ushering in something new between you– a tune you haven’t heard before.

Eddie: Thanks for clearing it up. I should let you get back to your date. Steve probably has steam coming out of his ears.

You: He had to take a call.

Eddie: He left you all alone? It’s a good thing I was around then.

Steve approaches the table, his smile painted on but not quite reaching his eyes. You discreetly slip your phone away into your pocket. 

"Investors from Tokyo," he explains with a sigh. "Richard wants me on all the calls with them until we launch."

You reach out, your fingers tracing the contours of his stubbled jaw, "You're exhausted, baby."

"I know." He turns into your touch. "I've already paid. We can go if you're ready."

He takes your hand as you rise from the table, leading you through the restaurant and out onto the street. His arm goes around to waist to hold you close as you walk home. His hand occasionally dips lower than your waist as he presses a kiss to your temple. It's easy to take the comfort he offers. 

His warm, eager lips meet the sensitive skin of your neck, kissing, nibbling as he pushes you against the inside of your front door, sliding your blazer from your shoulders until it catches on your elbows.

"I thought you were tired," you gasp as his mouth journeys lower, leaving sparks of heat behind. His lips trace the curve of your collarbone, descending to the crest of your breast, where delicate black lace meets flushed skin.

"Not for this." He moves down to one knee, removing your boots one by one. "Never for you." They hit the hardwood with a clatter, their sound reverberating up the stairwell.

He moves back up your body, cursing when he struggles to find the zip at the back of your pants. Your laughter earns his smile as your head rolls against the thick oak door, your fingers searching for purchase on the soft material covering his forearms.

“Steve,” you breathe, your voice a heated whisper, just before his mouth finds yours. 

The baseball rounding of the bases blares from his pocket like a hammer shattering glass. He pulls back, breathing hard, closing his eyes as he leans his forehead against yours. The ringing continues, too loud, echoing off the quiet walls of your home. His apologetic eyes lock with yours before he steps back, pulling out the ringing device.

“Fuck.” His knuckles turn white as his grip tightens, Richards's name lighting up on the screen. He holds it a little higher for a moment like he’s preparing to smash it on the ground. 

"It's okay, Steve." You move closer to his side. Your hand gently glides down his arm, offering reassurance. "I've got a little work to do anyway. Take your call."

"Yeah?" he questions, his thumb hesitating over the accept button.

"Yeah, go ahead." You smile, giving his arm a squeeze.

Steve answers the call with a hint of annoyance in his tone, "Richard." His voice gradually fades as you make your way down the hallway to the small office you've claimed as your own, tucked away behind the kitchen.

With one hand pushing up the creaking door, your fingers fumble along the wall for the switch to the banker's lamp perched at the corner of your desk. A faint light filters in as the first raindrops ping against the glass, leaving meandering trails down the black-paned windows dominating an entire wall. You approach the peacock-blue shelving that Steve had crafted to house your ever-expanding collection of CDs, records, and books. Running your fingers over the album spines, you find the one you're looking for and slide it out of its protective sleeve. 

The mauve vinyl reflects the lamp light as you place it onto the waiting turntable. With a twist of a knob and a careful drop of the needle, the soft crackle emanates from the speakers, filling the room's quiet spaces. A honeyed voice purrs the lyrics as you settle sideways into the old leather chair rescued from your parent's basement. Legs dangling over the patched arm, you reach for the half-smoked joint in the ashtray beside you, lighting in time for the drumbeat to pound out a steady rhythm while the mild burn travels down your throat and into your lungs. 

The soft haze reaches your brain, quieting the uncertainty as the scratch of the guitar joins in with the melody. Curls of thick smoke spiral and twirl with your exhale, dancing through the air. You sink deeper into the embrace of the leather, taking a few more deep puffs before returning the burning joint to the ashtray and pulling your phone from your pocket. 

You: Yeah, Eddie. It’s a good thing. 

Song 4 Coming Soon. Follow @tornupdates for notifications

AN: Sorry I'm a day late. The holiday weekend kept me busy. I'd love to hear from you. Comments, reblogs, and asks are always welcome and appreciated. I'll be doing some traveling soon, so updates might be affected but I will be writing.

Hugs and kisses for all my kittens - Jelly

P.S. To the lovely person who suggested Linger. I can't find your ask because my brain is broken or Tumblr is. I just wanted to know that your song inspired an upcoming scene in chapter 5 that I'm so excited to write. I can't imagine this story without it now. So, extra big thanks.

So everyone keep sending me your song suggestions, please! I promise I'm listening to everyone.

[foxtwink]

i think one reason why i love reading so much, especially poetry and prose, is the depth of emotion i can feel without any real risk to myself. a book is a guided tour, a multicourse gourmet meal you can trust the dedicated chef to deliberately prepare. a book is the drop of a roller coaster: the incarnate knowledge of safety and unreality, despite my suspension of disbelief, despite my inherent fear in the moment. so when i hurt i pick up a book and I try to follow the characters without writing myself into them. but somewhere along the way minds meld together- like smoking weld, two perspectives becoming one. two shards of sharp metal that hurt each other and melt each other and dissolve each other, absolve each other; two corrosive chemicals mixing in a thermal reaction (and a cloud of smoke). i blink and suddenly i am here in a world where you alternate between yourself and a shadow of a character written by some meditation/crystal go-getter in a plush couch.

you know, if you love someone so fiercely that becoming anything more would kill you, you'd rather not love at all. that's me. and if you've lived your whole life destroying things (yourself and others), then one day you start choosing the being alone over the everyone else. that's you. i've been burned so many times by so many different things (the sun and the stars in your eyes). my aversion to fire is strong but not as wildly magnetic as my attraction. you know, my best friend loves the water. as a child, she used to throw herself into open water, into pools and lakes. you know, there was a girl at my elementary school who threw herself off the very top roof of our play structure because she believed so confidently that she could fly. she even tried to convince us all that we could too. they had to call an ambulance. you know, one time asa a child i believed i could tumble, so fiercely that i launched into a flip knowing nothing. i landed on my face, smashed my skull into a corner table, and bled.

i don't know what these things mean; we are deluded and desperate. i don't know what it means when i keep making excuses to see you, refusing to look directly into the desire. see, you are not something i allow myself to explore too closely. like a tantalizing alley, like the twisted dark corridors of an abandoned building. you are dangerous and you are on fire and you are the slowest beating heart i have ever met. you are the glassy surface before a riptide, the great ocean shielding its deep mysteries below. i breathe, exist, simply be within the space. i don't jump down the crumbling walls of empty shafts, don't lay on eons-old furniture and stomp like a rowdy paranoid group of teenagers; don't poke my head inside the doors of musty shops and around corners of heavy shadows. i don't dare swim out into the waves, don't allow them to crash over my face; i don't learn to dive, don't set off with headlamps and harpoons. but i can't stop myself continuing to come back to you, over and over. like those infinite drives to the beach, or the heady smell of pines in the Santa Cruz mountains, over and over again in my mind. some unstoppable will, some hidden knowledge that i am inherently closer to what i seek when i'm around you. can't help the thought that you are mine, that i don't wanna share you, in the ways that an expert carefully guards their secret methodologies. like a particularly whimsical forest clearing, or a hotspot in the sea filled with rainbow fish. you make me feel like running in the rain, or in the dark. breathless, calamitous calm. the soft embrace of a dangerous thing trusting you, of settling dusk upon your shoulders. the ease of putting your bare hands inside the mouth of a malinois dog.

in many ways i return to you with my guards and filters the way i return to all the places that are not mine. like sitting on the beach, watching dolphins leap and spin just a few meters offshore. or the abandoned insane asylum, how i keep refusing to return without proper masks and gloves. there is even a certain apathy in my will to go back to santa cruz and see old friends, to ruin magical memories with fresher, more mundane ones. i know i could put in a little more effort, learn to take the bart and find my way to someplace that feels like a home. instead i watch and allow two threads that crossed to uncross, yanking at the loose end of a bracelet and finding the whole thing built out of slipknots. i watch crumbling history that no one cares about, stand with my feet on the earth and inherently hear the voices of the people, the trees, the wide open sky. i ask if you have work, but i don't ask if you need to go home because i know the ways we are: dancing around each other. an ocean and a wildfire, afraid to touch, afraid to extinguish. i don't know if i'm afraid even just to see you. these days, i don't know anything.

but some nights the last thing on my mind is how severely i shove away the hope of it all. the uncertainty, the doubt, the contained possibilities within an "i don't know." we never want to find out, so you spare me. because you don't want to hurt me, or because you don't want to hurt yourself. and i know you're right; i've been burned a few times. somebody like me, we don't get so close to the sparks and expect to come away clean. when i angle grind i lean my face over the piece, watching with precision while i guide my hands. i feel the sparks prick my face, my arms; i feel them stab and burn even as i stare in meditative stupor at their beauty. but those are sparks, and these? these are fireworks. these are bombs. it's true, i'm very safe in a lab; but i have never stopped a fire. when i play with my lighter you take it away. and the one in a million chance that we can set off something brilliant vanishes over the horizon with all our fears.