#i’ve been doing this for nineteen years and. what’s the fucking point!!!

[backhurtyy]

everyday my diabetes burnout gets worse 👍

[antimonyandthyme]

Wouldn't it be crazy...if carcar in the situational prompt list no. 60... one/both of them being hit with truth spell/serum

They’ve all been through it. Oscar isn’t special, or any more special than the nineteen other people who share a track with him. On the cusp of breaking into Formula 1, every one of them had someone who sat them down, acted all nice, like a friend they hadn’t seen in years, then pried them open to get a glimpse of anything rotten. Oscar’s just thankful it was Mark. Someone who Oscar knew cared for him, for real, and this way he could look past the interrogation and assign it some form of kindness. In true form, Mark had gone about it in the most awkward way possible, as only someone who hated doing the questioning as much as he hated doing the answering could, and that at least hadn’t made Oscar’s skin crawl.

Hey, uh, kid. Is there anything you think I should know? Uh, romantic, or otherwise?

Even then, he’d been defensive. His past life wasn’t for sale, newly minted F1 driver or not. The girl he dated for longer than he should have, the guy he kissed in maybe too public of a place. Even in the face of Mark’s sincerity, he’d been torn between honesty and mortification.

He doesn’t know why the memory’s popping up right now. It’s Vegas, and so many things happen in Vegas that outside of the race, not a single other thing bears significance anymore. Oscar doesn’t question it when she gestures him over, or when she points to a deck of cards, laid out on a low table like a trap. Something in the air here shakes out his sensibilities, loosens his tongue.

“Will you tell me who will win?” He pauses, backtracks. She might not even know who he is. There are no cameras around. “I could place a bet if you help me.”

“You aren’t a gambling man.” Her voice is strong, rich like an anchorwoman, completely unlike how he’d expected her to sound. “And anyway, you’ll live it out, tomorrow.”

Oh. So she does know.

The furrow between his eyebrows he cancels out with a bland smile. He gets the impression he should leave.

“I could tell you other things.”

“What other things?” It’s good to keep his mind distracted on the eve of a race. He’s always said that. Has he always said that? Well. He’s saying it now.

She draws a card. “The Fool.”

“Not a good start,” Oscar says. “I think I’m gonna—”

“Inexperience and improvisation,” she says. Her teeth are wondrously bright, straight like gravestones lined up in a row. “Not bad, all things considering.”

All things considering, being how this season is going? What does she know.

“I’ve read this somewhere before,” Oscar says. If it’s a fight she wants.

“The Suit of Swords,” she continues, as if she hasn’t heard him. “A logical mind and a spoken word.”

“You have a preplanned deck, for anyone who walks pass.”

“The Tower. Misery, distress. Unseen catastrophe.”

Oscar grits his teeth. “And then you use the same cards, in the same order, for every person. You’re purposely vague.”

“The Three of Wands. Stepping outside of comfort. Persevering.”

“Everything you say can apply to anyone,” Oscar says. This is as combative as he gets. “It’s all a trick.”

“Ah,” she says, and for a second, Oscar thinks he’s broken through, that she’ll snap at him, shoo him away. “But the Seven of Swords, reversed. A turning point. Starting anew.”

“I’m leaving,” Oscar says. Getting distracted on the eve of a race is folly. He’s always said that. Said that to Carlos, only a month or so ago.

“Only one remedy, for someone as recalcitrant as yourself.”

“I’m leaving,” Oscar says again, tongue like cotton. His feet stay right where they are.

She presses the last card into his hands. That video that had gotten viral years ago, the one where you could hand literally any item off to someone who was speaking on the phone. A shoe, a burger, a baby. This feels weightier than a baby. Oscar’s fingers open and close around the card, a wind-up doll dancing along to someone else's tune.

“Norris is winning tomorrow,” she says.

“Oh, fuck off.”

--

They both went into it with the exact same intentions: to come out of it perfectly intact. It was such a foolish notion from the beginning that they were unwilling to allow any heartbreak over it. So stubbornly, wholeheartedly, they worked their damnedest to come out of it perfectly intact.

If he can look past the way his heart wobbles in his chest whenever Carlos so much as looks his way, Oscar will say it’s been a success. He goes to bed, wakes up, races, while forgetting the intimate press of Carlos’s lips against his. They have a renegotiated new normal, the distance between them adjusted to a boring meter. Just close enough so as not to appear frosty, but far away enough that their shoulders can’t possibly accidentally bump.

“Oscar,” George greets cordially. “Feeling good about today?”

“Like hell I am,” Oscar says, with all the earnestness of a puppy still learning how to use its paws.

Multiple calculations flicker across George’s face. Like how much he actually wants to get into it, and how best to weave his way out of it.

“Chin up,” George says, then turns to Alex.

Oscar rolls his eyes. Catches himself doing it, and makes a concerted effort to pull his eyeballs back down into place. It isn’t like him to be so careless with expression. People act like honesty’s a virtue, then jump back like it could scald the moment it pops up in conversation. He sidles away, and finds himself waving at the crowd, a painless armlength from Carlos.

He suddenly, fervently, hates night races. He’s exhausted. It must be why. When Carlos opens his mouth, says something entirely cordial and normal, like How are you, Oscar’s tongue wriggles itself and lets loose.

“I miss you,” he says. The words are out before Oscar can clap a hand over his mouth. “I feel like shit and I miss you.”

“Right,” Carlos says. Still waving at the crowd, but with his shoulders pushed all the way up to his ears. “And I’m Cleopatra.”

“You’re more beautiful than—aw fuck.” He actually bites his tongue. To stop himself from talking. He needs to stop talking.

“Oscar,” Carlos says. He looks a second away from bolting, except there’s not much place to go, being on a moving bus. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Recalcitrance,” Oscar recites. “And an inability to be honest. Fuck. Fuckkkkk.”

“I’m serious, Oscar. If this is some mind game, you can drop it, yeah? We’re both adults. We can be adults about this.”

“I can’t,” Oscar says pleadingly. “I can’t stop thinking about you and I can’t stop wishing it could be different even though I know I was the one who—”

“Enough,” Carlos says, more hurt than Oscar’s ever heard him. This is what honesty does? Oscar should have burned those cards in front of that woman. “You can’t do this now, it’s not fair. After all you said before, you don’t remember that?”

“I lied, I’ve been lying,” Oscar says. “But I can’t now, apparently, you have to believe me.”

“I don’t have to believe anything,” Carlos says. “I don’t need you fucking up my race.”

“Lando’s going to win,” Oscar says miserably.

“You’re an asshole,” Carlos says, then goes to shoulder his way into some other group, and return to waving at the fans, leaving Oscar now a very painful one, two, three, four, five meters away.

--

Lando—wins? Then gets his win stripped away because of some penalty, moving Max up into first, Oscar into second, and Carlos into third.

She’s right, but only on a technicality. Oscar doesn’t want to give her that. And anyway, second place is pretty damn euphoric. He also gets to spray Carlos with champagne. Soak Carlos with it. Pretend the crinkles on Carlos’s face are for him.

He’s not thinking about his lack of filter when there’s a mic shoved up into his face.

“Obviously, I feel for Lando. It’s never a nice experience when you think you have something, but you don’t.”

Behind him, Carlos is waiting to give his interview. In front of him, the reporter’s face is suitably sympathetic.

“I mean, obviously, sometimes. It’s not even your fault. But sometimes—it is?”

“Right,” she says. “About the penalty, right?”

“Uh huh, the penalty. Sometimes it’s totally your fault. When you push people away.”

“You mean off the track?”

“Yeah, off the track,” Oscar nods fervently. He needs to buy this lady a bottle of wine, bless her. “But Lando will recover, the team will come back stronger.”

“Are you happy with your podium today?”

“Of course,” Oscar says. “I’m happy Carlos was up there with me. He deserves it. I’m happy he’s getting these podiums with Ferrari, so they can see—”

What they’ve given away, what they’ve pushed away.

Carlos is suddenly closer, behind him. Hand on Oscar’s lower back, subtle enough that no one else can see. Chiding, but gentle.

“—see him celebrate with this team.” Safer, but no less true. “I’m. Uh, very happy.”

“Right,” she says. “Just one more thing.”

“Ay,” Carlos says, in that lovely, good-natured way of his. “Is my turn now, no?”

“Of course,” she laughs, utterly charmed. “Oscar, thank you for your time.”

Carlos’s hand on his hip feels almost protective, the way he nudges Oscar away from the pen. Go, go. Button it up. You’re not for sale. Go.

--

Carlos examines the card under the neon glow of the strip. The waxy paper’s almost see through when he holds it up. You stare too long and in the end, you find you’re just looking directly at the lights, hurting your eyes. Unsurprisingly, when Oscar took him to where the woman had her little table set up, she wasn’t there.

“I think you got sold some snake oil.”

“I didn’t buy anything,” Oscar says.

“But you’re being made to pay,” Carlos says, grinning. “I’ve never heard you like that before. I’m happy for Carlos, just like that! To the media too. Impressive.”

“Go on,” Oscar says. “Kick a guy when he’s down.”

“Sorry,” Carlos says, sounding like he means it. Oscar’s heart does that pathetic quiver before it rightens itself. Carlos is always so quick to retract his claws, the moment he thinks he’s drawn blood. “It’s just, you know, kinda nice, having you like this. You’re never like this.”

“You could.” Oscar swallows. Prays that he has it in him to be brave. “Ask me anything now. I wouldn’t be able to lie.”

Carlos looks at him, before looking down at his feet. “That’s cheating, no?”

“For you?”

“No,” Carlos says. “For you. You’re cheating, like this.”

Ah. If Carlos had been anyone else, maybe he could have just asked and spared them both the trouble. Something like, Hey, hey. Be honest. Do you have feelings for me? Instead, Carlos hands the card back. Unwilling to go for the jugular. Classic Carlos.

Oscar wants so much to take his hand.

He clears his throat. “Do you remember. Uh. Before you started in F1. Did you ever have to. Like. Go through all of your past with anyone? Tell them who you dated and stuff?”

“Ah,” Carlos says. “Eh. Well. My Dad mostly already knew everything.”

“I think Mark wanted the ground to swallow him up, asking me.”

Carlos giggles. “I bet you were very embarrassing.”

“I, uh. Wasn’t very honest with him.”

“Good,” Carlos says.

“Good?” Oscar says, like some lost puppy.

“Yes, good,” Carlos says seriously. “It’s not for anyone else.”

Oscar waits for Carlos to ask, even while knowing Carlos never would. Not like that. Ball’s in Oscar’s court, as they’d say. For when he finally works through his recalcitrance and inability to be honest. I don’t want to reveal you to the world. Risk you in the slightest, Oscar wants to tell Carlos. That’s why I said all that I said. That’s why.

The card’s not strong enough for that. Not when Carlos, who’s equally as stubborn, refuses to invoke its magic. He’s protective like that, Carlos. Oscar offers him a wobbly smile, an olive branch. All that he can give right now. Generous that he is, Carlos allows the distance between them to shrink to something almost friendly, almost enough to bump shoulders.

--

Just for the fun of it, Oscar goes back, a couple of hours before he’s due at the airport.

She’s there now, of course.

“I don’t need this anymore,” he says, placing the card back onto her table.

She tuts at him like she’s disappointed, but shuffles the card back into her deck anyway.

“Also, Lando didn’t win.”

“Boy,” she says. “Do you think I actually watch Formula 1? Run along now. Do this your own way.”

“I will,” he says. “Thanks, I guess?”

She laughs. Grins at him in a way that’s both sinister and encouraging. Were her teeth always gleaming gold? “Your flight’s going to be late,” she says.

“Oh, fuck off.”

[itsallmouthwashing]

Ghost Adventures AU- Survivor!Curly (Part 1)

Alright fellas, I got stupid high last night and rubbed this out with some editing while I'm at work. Please enjoy and feel free to write your own interpretations of this AU!! I don't really want to claim 'ownership' or whatever (if that's even a thing with AUs? Listen I haven't been in fandom for a while before Mouthwashing. It hath risen me from the soil like a necromancer and I am it's silly little skeleton minion) I just want to see what everyone else thinks may be going on

Anyways, please enjoy part one (out of Only God Knows) of the Ghost Adventures AU!

“Are we ready? Cameras are rolling? Yeah? Alright… We’re here at the site of the historic Tulpar Massacre-”

God, I thought I could handle this. He’s not even said anything but Tulpar. Fuck, I need to tune it out. The images are already flying through my mind. I’m reliving it all at lightspeed and it keeps fucking repeating. Every second I’m seeing it all-

“Behind us is a long-haul freighter that belonged to a company known as Pony Express. This corporation was known for cheap and speedy deliveries, along with being one of the last few companies to rely on human employees in an age of automation.”

I hope they know. We’re all heroes today.

“However, while Pony Express may have provided jobs to hundreds of people, the abuse these employees suffered is the real root of this tragedy.” Zac puts his hand up and turns his head to me. “Would you like to say a few words?”

“Huh, oh- No, I trust you.”

He nods, short and with a small smile like he’s seeing it all happening behind my eyes. Maybe he knows I'm not listening. Trying to, anyway.

“Employees aboard Tulpar were only allotted a mere FIVE hours for rest. This does not include recreational activities, which they were not allowed to do in the other nineteen hours in their day. NINETEEN hours, non-stop working around Tulpar.”

His eyes are on me. He wants to know if I’ve changed my mind.

“That’s not the worst part, oh no, friends,” He says when he realizes I won’t, “For a company that claimed to care deeply for its employees, they made it hell to file complaints or go to upper management for help. While on this year long trek-”

My stomach is in hell. I cover my mouth, pretend I’m stifling a cough, and swallow the vomit before it floods their headquarters. Think about something else. 

Anything, Anya. Anything.

“Joining us for our lock-in tonight is the sole survivor of this tragedy, Captain Grant Curly.” He opens his arms to welcome me into the frame. “We’re happy to have you here, Captain.” He says, shaking my hand.

“Happy to be here with you, fellas,” I lied. 

We aren’t even to the door and I already see the inside. We’re simply standing in a residential space travel unit, on the landing pad, which connects to the main door. To the lounge, my quarters. The cockpit, the medical bay. The lounge. Utility. The Pod.

“Captain, off the record,” He nods for his partner to turn off the camera,” In all seriousness, I want to express my appreciation. Please know that at any point you can bow out. Or if you don’t want to be in the episode at all. You just let us know if you need a break or leave all together.” 

I smile. I have to or else I may break. 

“Of course. I think more people need to be aware just how awful Pony Express was to us. It’s great that you guys are covering this.” 

They’re all waiting for me at the door. Swansea and Jimmy cross their arms and grumble something about dying to get started. Two grouches on the ship could be difficult. But Anya and Daisuke are chatting about expectations. She’s stitching the air, mimicking the motions shown in a textbook on her lap. Daisuke copies her and she rolls her eyes playful, remarking that she’s glad he’s not her intern. Swansea tells her to not give him ideas.

“Captain, where’d you go-”

“Besides, who is a captain without his crew?”

“You really loved them, didnt you?”

“Yes,” I say.

They were my responsibility, I don’t. 

Zac smiles back at me before stepping back and observing the map of the ship. He mumbles something to his crew, all of two other people, and they go separate ways to gather equipment. Zac marks something with what looks like a bingo blotter around the blown-up image of my ship. 

“Zac?”

My face looks back at me in question. I’m in my uniform, bent over the blueprints of my ship. My belt buckle, a gift from the company when I was promoted to Captain, shines in the harsh light of the ship. 

“Yes, Captain?” I ask. 

“Uh,” I start, running a hand over the dim and rusted buckle of my own, “Why do…” I have that look. The one like he sees it all before it all comes back to the front of my mind. Zac blinks and leans forward.

“What’s up, Cap?” He asks. 

“Can you read minds… or something?” 

“Ha!” He laughs, hearty and true. “No, nothing like that Mr. Curly.” He wipes moisture from his eyes. “I’ve been told I’m something of an empath."

“Ah, no wonder you’re so kind.”

Zac starts to say something, but his crew is back and dropping equipment on the floor with heavy grunts and sighs. 

“Guys! You need to be careful-” Zac rushes over, but I’m still standing at the table.

[softlyapocalytpic]

I feel like I remember a post going around a while ago about the inherent tragedy of Fallout 4 and the anti-climax that is Finding Shaun and- I just can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t.

(Going under a cut because this post got away from me LMAO)

It’s a tragedy. Your son is a cold horrific monster of a man who looks at people as experiments over being people. He’s egotistical to the point of thinking of himself as somehow larger than life- not quite godly, but something more adjacent to that- because of his control over life. *Because of how they groomed him to be. He was never allowed to be a “normal” kid. The Shaun we meet is doomed, hopeless, and it’s… heartbreaking. That’s your son and.

And he’s dead. He dies no matter what faction you choose. There’s no chance for true reconciliation.

(*There’s something to say about the parallels between Shaun and Maxson as characters that I’ve talked about to others in the past but still sticks with me. Not the post for it necessarily, but I wanted to mention it.)

For me personally, the ending of Fallout 4 wasn’t victorious, it was hollow. Now, part of that is definitely influenced by what I was going through at the time, but it has stuck with me how the only lights of hope I felt were… well it was Deacon. He made it less empty. Made it feel like it meant something good.

I didn’t like pushing the button though. I thought about all the shit that could’ve taken from Institute and used for the wasteland for something good. Thought about Shaun. Thought about how I couldn’t truly say goodbye to him. Felt like I was playing out the motions, and that fucking slideshow did nothing to help the hollowness.

It’s not victorious. But then we keep going anyway. There is still work to be done. And there’s companions to keep you company, to make the world a little brighter.

And Jesus Christ I love that fucking game. I love the sandbox and I love the way that when it hits? It fucking hits.

And guess what! Fallout 3? Fallout 76? Also fucking tragedies.

Sure, Broken Steel brings the LW back from the dead, but Lone died even if Lone isn’t “dead”. The slideshow still plays. You wake up and suddenly aren’t dead, but you should be. You should be. You, a nineteen year old kid were tasked with being a martyr. Sarah is pissed off when you ask her to do it. It should be you in the eyes of the narrative. You should be the one bearing the weight of martyrdom. Follow in your Father’s footsteps.

Fallout 76? I… your nuking the Appalachia repeatedly. Everything is gone by 2277. The bright future meant to rejuvenate the Wasteland ends up destroying it. Idfk what else there is to say on that front.

And these are just… the main Bethesda titles. 1, 2, and NV are arguably in the same boat but there’s a bit more in the sense that… well for those ones it’s much more about the “you’ve won, but at what cost?”. In the original Fallout, and let’s say you take the (I think more popular route) of talking to the Master rather than fighting him: you watch someone realize the weight of the atrocities they’ve committed, realize they had no purpose, and then kill himself and everyone there after you personally have gone through actually psychic hell to approach him. Then, you get kicked out of your only home you’ve ever known!

Fallout 2? You home is decimated, your people traumatized, and you must rebuild it from the ground up. You defeated the Enclave, but they took something from you that can’t be replaced or forgotten.

New Vegas… god there’s so much there and there’s another point I want to make to this post- make I can make it feed into this but- the Mojave gets ravaged by war. No matter who wins, atrocities will continue to have been done and to be committed. There’s deadly forces on the horizon who don’t give a SHIT about this petty war and the fucking dumb politics of these major powers. It will hit any faction hard and unmercifully. And there was still a war that consumed an entire land. So companion has a truly “happy” end. They’re all scarred and broken and have to make peace with the path they’ve chosen. People win, but they don’t win, y’know?

And I wish- as much as I love these tragedies- I wish there was more… hope. I wish that the world of Fallout allowed the brightness to shine through a little brighter. To allow the people who try to rebuild into something new to be more successful, to be allowed to take the narrative into their hands, bECAUSE HOLY FUCK DOES THIS DARK ASS WORLD HAVE SO MUCH MORE HOPE THEN ITS EVER GIVEN CREDIT FOR.

Begin Again is a rallying cry for me. The end of Lonesome Road, if you spare Ulysses, is a rebellion against the fucking cycle of violence and hatred. You want to BUILD something. Create rather than just regurgitate the old world into something more twisted than it’s corpse.

Surviving the purifier? Rebelling against the notion that you must die, that you must be a martyr, taking your life into your own hands? Watching a source of clean water be handed out for free and spread across the Wastes? Fucking! Breathing new life into Harold and so he breathes new life into the Earth?

Living even though you’ve lost all your family? Getting a new one in the people who follow you? Helping people rebuild the Commonwealth after it’s been terrorized and destroyed? Leaving this world stronger and safer then when you came into it?

Honestly- this post got away from me. @persephotea got me in my Fallout 4 thoughts (of which I have so many and they’re always trying to burst out of me) and I got to thinking about what I try to write about in my fics. Hope. Hope, hope, hope.

I choose a kinder Fallout world not because I’m trying to soften the edges, but because I want to believe that humanity has such an ability to be kind if it chooses to. That a world ravaged by destruction would CHOOSE kindness and growth. That despite all the darkness and selfishness, people would choose to Begin Again.

It’s all a fucking tragedy, but that’s only if the cycle continues. We can change it. We can end it. Just gotta choose to do it.

If you got this far, thank you for reading my tired thoughts and please please please share yours. I want to hear your thoughts so bad. Okay okay, I’ll post now.

[ballroomfitz]

Build Me Up Buttercup- A Fallout New Vegas One-Shot

Dr. Alex Richards/Male Courier 6

On a quiet night at Camp Forlorn Hope, Dean joins Dr. Alex Richards for a cigarette

Camp Forlorn Hope was quiet for once that night (or as quiet as anywhere in the Mojave could get) and Dean couldn’t sleep. Boone was sleeping for once, and Dean couldn’t shake the paranoia that came without at least one of them having their guard up. He could stand to be more trusting, he supposed, but then again, the last time he relied on the kindness of strangers, it got him a bullet in the brain. 

He wandered lethargically through the camp, whistling a song from long before the war he’d caught on some morning radio show or another.

“What’re you doing up so late, handsome?”

Dean turned around. Dr. Richards was sitting on a rough wooden plank, his face lit only by a lit cigarette. Dean shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Tell me about it.”

Dean sat down. “Spare a cig?”

Richards handed Dean a cigarette. “C’mere.” He carefully leaned in, with a lit cigarette in his mouth, and touched the tip of his cigarette to Dean’s. Dean closed his eyes, trying to take a moment

Richards pulled back and laughed. “Chrisssakes, are you wearing cologne?”

Dean laughed, a little embarrassed. “Found some herbs growing by the highway on my way from Primm. Keep ‘em in my coat pocket.”

“Unbelievable,” Richards shook his head with a smile. “Well, just wait it out. Believe me, you spend enough time out here, vanity goes out the window fast.”

“Guess so,” said Dean. “But I gotta hold on to the little things, just so I don’t lose myself.”

Richards looked out at the sky, thick with smog. “I used to wear cologne. Real stuff, from the bottle. I used to get my suits tailored. Used to go out dancing, even.”

“You still dance?”

“Maybe when the war’s over, honey.”

“I’ve heard Cali’s good for that,” said Dean. “Dancing.”

Richards smirked. “God, has the cruising dried up around here. No pun intended.”

“Do you have anyone waiting for you back home?” said Dean.  

Richards smiled bitterly. “I did. He used to write every week. Silly little love notes I’d hide in my cot to look at when I got lonely. After a few months, though, they dried up,” Richards flicked some ash off his cigarette. “I like to think he’s moved on, for his sake. How about you, handsome?” 

“I could never hold on to anyone for long,” said Dean. “Boyfriends, girlfriends- somehow we always seemed to drift apart once the novelty wore off,” Dean paused. “But it gets lonely out here, don’t it?”

“You have no idea,” sighed Richards. 

“Heard through the grapevine the NCR isn’t the most accommodating,” said Dean. “For boys like us.”

“You heard right, more or less. Though it depends where they stick you. Out here? Not a chance.”

“Don’t your superiors mind?” said Dean. “Let’s call a spade a spade, you’re not exactly discreet.”

“What are they going to do?” said Richards. “Discharge their only halfway competent medic? Maybe if I stop being useful.”

“You ever wish you’d stay behind?”

Richards stopped and blew out a puff of smoke. “I won’t put on some kind of show of self-sacrifice for you,” said Richards. “Every goddamn day. I thought I was here to serve my country. To defend glorious democracy. What a joke, what a sick fucking joke. But if it wasn’t me, it’d have to be someone else. And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” 

Richards took a drag of his cigarette and closed his eyes. “But I try not to dwell on it. Sounds awful, but they all melt together at a certain point. But God, some things . . . Two years ago, I had to amputate the leg of this kid, Christ, he couldn’t’ve been a day older than nineteen. I had to use the last of the morphine to knock him out, he wouldn’t stop bawling,” Richards sighed. “And they posted him up in the watchtower, figured he was still good for something if he could hold a gun. I told them they’d be crazy not to send him home, they said he wasn’t on the front lines so he’d be fine,” Richards kept his gunpowder green eyes fixed on the horizon. “They killed him, they killed that kid. They told his girlfriend and his parents that he’d died in combat, they let them imagine he’d gone down in some big heroic stand. Kid died for nothing, he got shot by a Legion sniper before he even had the chance to see him,” Richards rubbed his temples. “God. Yeah, I do, I do wish I’d stayed behind.”

Dean leaned over to touch Richards’ hand. Richards looked at him and took a long drag of what was left of his cigarette, before he flicked the butt on the ground. Richards grabbed the back of Dean’s head and pulled him in hard for a kiss. Dean leaned forward hungrily, feeling his rough, stubbly chin, keeping an iron grip on the neck of Richards’ shirt. Richards slowly pulled away and gently ran his calloused thumb along Dean’s cheek. “In another life, buttercup. In another life.”

[estrellami-1]

In tradition of giving prompts that are just things happening in my life : steddie buy their first home (as a couple or pre relationship) and struggle with trying to figure out how to do maintenance and home repairs (what the Jesus fuck is the difference between nineteen different types of wood filler? And what are the pros and cons of mesh tape vs paper tape for drywall? If these are questions you’re struggling with baby I’ve been doing the research and I have answers lol) and maybe one of them start to feel a little in over their head and like they don’t know what they’re doing even though they’re trying SO hard to get everything right and comfort ensues 😇💜

(This is for the post about wanting to write but I’m so sorry if this is too long of an idea or something feel free to ignore love you also if it is also past midnight for you go to sleep you can write tomorrow haha) 💜💜💜💜💜

Hello my darling!

(It is after midnight but my sleep schedule has long since been decimated and I will sleep… sometime. Probably after I write this.)

Please keep in mind I’m impatient and want to write this Now and am not willing to do research and also am 24 and still live with my parents and only know about fixer-uppers what I’ve learned from HGTV. Which is to say, not much. But I’ll do my best! ❤️

“Stevie, my love,” Eddie sings, in the way he does when he’s getting frustrated but doesn’t want to take it out on Steve. “What in the everloving, flying fuck is this?”

Steve laughs as he joins Eddie in the bathroom, then sighs as he sees what Eddie’s pointing out. “That would be an external wall. With no insulation. In goddamned Indiana.” He sighs again. “I’m making a list of things we need. I guess I’ll add fucking insulation to the list.” He runs a hand through his hair, tugs on the ends.

Eddie looks at him sharply. “What’s wrong?”

Steve blinks. “What?”

Eddie smiles softly. Brings a hand up, tugs at a lock of Steve’s hair the way he just had. “You do that when you’re overly stressed.”

Steve stares flatly. “We’re trying to rebuild a house, Eds.”

“Overly stressed, baby. You handle stress like a champ. It’s when all the little things get to be too much that you pull out that little move.”

Steve sighs, lays his forehead on Eddie’s shoulder. Hums when Eddie’s hand immediately connects with his hair in response. “‘S just… all of it. It’s a lot, there’s a lot to do, there’s a lot of little things that need work that I didn’t know would need work. I just feel… inadequate.” He grips at Eddie’s waist, fingertips digging into the top of his jeans. “There’s fuckin’ nineteen different kinds of wood filler and it feels like we need about twenty-six different types. And I don’t know why just one isn’t enough. Or even why we need wood filler in the first place.”

Eddie hums, moves so Steve’s standing on his own. “Hey.” Fingertips touch Steve’s jaw, a silent request to look up. “Dance with me?”

Steve smiles, like somehow, after all these years, Eddie’s ridiculousness is still endearing to him. “In an unfinished bathroom? In an unfinished house? With no music?” He pauses. “Actually, no, the no music makes sense for us.”

Eddie laughs lightly, already swaying in a kind of dance, grabbing Steve’s hands and spinning him around, pressing his back to Eddie’s front. “No better time, no better place, Stevie, my love.” He hums a few bars of a song in Steve’s ear.

Steve gives in, dances with the man he promised his forever. Who promised him a forever right back. “Eds, why are we dancing?”

He can feel the curve of Eddie’s lips on his neck as he smiles and presses a kiss to his spine. “Because it makes you smile.”

Steve melts. “I’ve gotta go to the store.”

“We’ve gotta go to the store. After we’ve danced in our unfinished bathroom, in our unfinished house. Ours, Stevie, my love. It’ll take however long it takes, but this is ours. Just like the ridiculous ragamuffins you adopted all those years ago.”

“You adopted them. They adopted me.”

“And then you adopted them right back, quit with the minutiae when I’m making a point.” A teasing finger pokes Steve’s side. “Just like Robin, and Nance, and Wayne. They’re ours, our family, and they’ll be here as soon as we tell them we need help.”

“I don’t want to need help.” He sighs after a pause. “This is one of those bring-it-up-in-therapy things, isn’t it?”

“Probably so, Stevie, my love.” A slow kiss to his spine. He shivers. “But for now, we’re going to dance. We’ll go to the store. We’ll call at least Nancy, because she scares me and will probably shave our heads in our sleep if she finds out we were struggling and didn’t ask for help. And even through all that, this will be our house. After all that, this will still be our house.”

Steve turns around in Eddie’s arms, silences him with a quick kiss. “Ours, Eddie, my love,” he agrees.

[ccfever]

LeBron James on Caitlin Clark: My advice to Caitlin, or to anyone that comes in with this level of notoriety, out-of-this-world expectation… be a horse, man. (…) Put your blinders on, go to work, show up to work, punch your clock in, prepare yourself, work on your game, work on your craft. You know… kind of keep your mouth shut and just learn from the vets. If they ask, voice your opinion, if they want your opinion that early on. Because everybody is looking for you to say anything and they’re gonna splice it and cut it, and make it a negative thing. And I think for her, the one thing that I love that she’s bringing to her sport, more people want to watch. More people want to tune in. I saw for the first time, that they had a charter plane. For the first time in their league history, they flew private. That should be celebrated in its own right. Anyone that’s in sports that’s flown commercial, flown charter… that should be celebrated and it’s because of Caitlin Clark. Don’t get it twisted, don’t get it fucked up. Caitlin Clark is the reason why a lot of great things are gonna happen for the WNBA. But for her individually, I don’t think she should get involved in nothing that’s being said. Just go, have fun, enjoy. People need to realize that the Indiana Fever, this is the second year in a row that they’ve had the number one pick. So you know what that means? That means they’re not that good. (…) People are just crazy about why she should be doing this, and they should be doing that. “If she’s so great, this team…” Like, it’s still a team game, people. But I’m rooting for Caitlin because I’ve been in that seat before. I’ve walked that road before. I hope she kills. I hope Aliyah Boston does amazing. I hope they do great. I’m just kind of in this mode right now, because I’m getting the same thing from watching my son, who’s a nineteen-year-old, get a lot of animosity and hatred towards him when he’s just a kid trying to live out his dream. There’s a very small number of men and women that actually get to live out their dream of playing a professional sport. We have grown ass men and women out here doing whatever they can to try to make sure that does not happen. That is the weirdest thing in the world, but it is what it is, and I’m glad that Caitlin has a great head on her shoulders, she seems like it. I don’t even think I’ve met her before, but it seems like everything is gonna be great for her because she’s a great talent and she seems like a great gal. I hope she turns that franchise around to where Tamika Catchings had it at one point.

[imtooscaredforthis]

Tethered

Part III- Chapter Thirty One: Confession

Mentions of: Angst, Memory Loss, and Frank being a desperate lil baby

A/N: Happy Holidays!! Hope you enjoy!!

Tags: @prettycutebunny @dead-bxxxtch-walking @mama-miya @vandeaad @moonshineinasippycup

Susie opened the door to Frank’s room, finding him smoking and slouched back on his mattress. “What the hell, Susie? You can’t just barge in here!”

She ignored his anger, tossing the notebook down on his bed. His expression changed from wrathful to guilty in a heartbeat. Like he got his hand caught in the cookie jar.

“You knew her. You knew (y/n). And you haven’t said anything.” Frank grabbed the notebook, throwing it under his bed. “It’s none of your fucking buisness. Get out.”

He seethed. She flinched slightly, but she didn’t move an inch. “Why?”

He stared at her, and he knew she wasn’t going to leave without an answer. The cat’s out of the bag now. There’s no point in hiding it.

“It’s not like she remembers me or anything. And it’s better if we keep it that way. You know how jealous Julie can get and..I was horrible to her. I didn’t deserve her, not for one second. I don’t know why The Entity brought her here. She’s too damn good for this fucked up place.”

Susie couldn’t help but notice the look in his eye. She had never seen that look before. Not even when he was with Julie.

“So that’s why you and Julie have been fighting. You love (y/n), don’t you?”

“…I did. A long time ago. I don’t really know if I feel anything for her now. I don’t want to. But I guess I don’t want to see her hurt.” He murmured.

“What do we do?” Susie couldn’t help but ask. Frank shrugged. He didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t since you had gotten here.

He thought he knew what he wanted. He thought he knew where he belonged. But ever since you got here, everything’s been flipped upside down. Everything’s been wrong.

He wanted to hate you. He did. But god, how could he? How could anyone?

“Just forget about her. Stop being her friend. It’ll be much less trouble that way.” He replied.

“You can’t be serious.” She said, her eyebrows furrowed. “That won’t solve anything. That’ll hurt her.”

“It’s for the best. Do you have any better ideas?” He remarked.

“Yeah, I might actually.”

—

With a tired sigh, you rested your head on a log, shutting your eyes. You were exhausted after another long day of trials, and you just wanted to sleep. Unfortunately, someone had other plans.

“Psst, psst, (y/n)!” A familiar voice whispered. At first, you thought it was just a dream, but when you felt rocks and sticks getting thrown at you, you knew it wasn’t.

You glared at the pink haired perpetrator with a grumpy frown. “You really need to find better ways to get my attention.”

“Whatever. Will you just get over here? I want to talk to you.” So you reluctantly got to your feet, and stretched a little, before walking over to the younger teen.

“What’s up? Is something wrong?” You asked when you approached her.

“No. I just wanted to talk.” She replied. She was acting weird. “Okay, what do you want to talk about?”

“I’ve been thinking about you and your memories. It must’ve been tough to not remember anything or anyone from your past. I don’t know how I could manage that out here. Speaking of, have you remembered anything new?”

“Actually, I have.” With a grin, you pulled out a plastic card. Your driver’s license.

“This helped me a bit. Now I know I was from Canada, I’m twenty years old, and I was around during the nineteen eighties. I also remembered the most recent stuff, like how I was studying to become a doctor and stuff at college in America. But that’s it. There have also been some people I remember, but when I think about it, it’s too blurry to remember.” You explained.

“So you can’t remember anything? No names or faces?” She asked.

You shook your head in response. “Nope. But I’m fine with it. I mean, if I’m going to be here for eternity, my past doesn’t really matter right? And I know some stuff about who I am..so..it’s okay.”

The fact that you had accepted it so easily made Susie sad. It was like you were a shell of the person you used to be. While you weren’t going to be in the past anymore, wasn’t it important to know? There could be people out there that still care about you. In fact, there are.

“Wanna head back to Ormond?” Susie offered. “I don’t know..I’m kinda tired and Frank kicked me out the last time I was there. Aren’t he and his girlfriend fighting too? I just- I don’t want to intrude.”

“You won’t be. I promise. I’m inviting you so it doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll just kick them out or something.” She replied.

You shrugged. “Okay.”

—

The next thing you knew, you were seated in between Susie and Frank at Mount Ormond’s Ski lodge. After a few minutes, Susie got up and announced she had to leave.

“What are you doing?” Frank mouthed to her, the moment you had your back turned. She rolled her eyes. “Just talk to her.”

Frank cleared his throat nervously, messing with his bandaged fingers. “So, Susie told me about your memory. You don’t remember anything?”

Why is everyone asking you about that? You shrugged your shoulders. “No, I do remember some things here and there.”

“Like what?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“Well, I remember a little about who I was, and some of the things I did. I’m from Canada like you guys. Which is kind of a funny coincidence. I remember some people…but it’s all blurry, like I can’t recognize them.” You rambled.

“You know what would be funny? If we knew each other.” He remarked, causing a confused look to cross your face. “Yeah, I guess.”

He slipped a finger under your chin, tilting your head towards him. He was looking deeply in your eyes now, and you could see desperation and desire deep in them.

“C’mon, (y/n). It’s me. You have to remember.”

Remember? Remember what? Your head throbbed, as something panged inside your heart, but when you looked at Frank, you saw nothing. This has to be some sort of sick joke.

You smacked his hand from your chin, pulling away from you. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Is it fun for you to play with my feelings or something? Is that what this is? Some stupid game to you? You have a girlfriend, Frank! And I don’t know why you’re trying to play these mind games, but I’m done with it.”

You stormed out, with Frank calling after you, but just before you could leave, you bumped into a certain someone.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Twelve (Part 4)

Sometime before midnight Dean finally shows up with three guys from work and the moment I look at him my stomach drops. He’s so far from sober that I’m surprised they even let him in, and the look on his face strikes me as absolutely insane. 

“Who’s that?” Claire says with alarm. 

“Dean Cullen.” I reply. 

“He doesn’t look well.” And he really doesn’t. He’s got that grey, sweaty sheen on his skin that I’ve only ever seen once before and it was on Jen that time I met her at the cocktail bar. When he spots me across the room and raises a limp hand in salute, I find myself wanting to run away from him.

“Birthday girl.” He says, and I watch in dumb horror as he approaches our table. I do a quick evaluation of the others, Jen apprehensive, Claire surprised and Shane, eyes wide in disbelief and disgust as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. I immediately feel ashamed of Dean. He slumps into the seat next to me, rubs his nose vigorously and obnoxiously and then drapes an arm around my shoulders. His breath is like pure undiluted alcohol. I’ve never seen him this drunk, even after half a dozen vodka tonics it’s never been like this. “Hun.” He says. “I got you a gift.”

“Oh, did you? That’s so nice.” I say nervously, glancing again at Shane who’s looking at him like he’s something sticky he found on the sole of his shoe, lips twitching and eyes flickering with a thousand disgusted thoughts all at once. I pray that he won’t say anything.

Dean pulls a big bottle of expensive whiskey out of his coat and hands it to me. The first thing I notice is that it has a huge sticker on the side that says Primo. 

“Oh,” I say, “Thank you. But did you… did you just steal this from work?”

“Yep. But I’ll replace it. It’s fine.”

“Oh right, well, if you’re sure you can, um, yeah, I mean, thank you.”

“Yeah yeah it’s grand I’ll just…” The rest of his sentence is incoherent so I ask him to repeat himself. “I said it’s grand I’ll just get another one, that’s what I said.” He wiggles his earlobe at me. “Listen.”

“I don’t want to take it if it’s going to get you into trouble.”

“No no no, nobody is going to care, I swear.” He grabs my chin and forces me to look at him. “Evie, it’s fine I swear.”

“Yeah I believe you.” I say and cough out an awkward laugh, glancing at my friends. 

He sighs and leans back heavily in his seat, sniffing and rubbing his nose with the side of his hand again. “I have to go to the toilet. Where’s the toilet.”

“Um, over there.” I point him to the clearly marked door across the room and he gets up and stumbles towards it, almost tipping a chair over as he goes only someone puts their hand on the seat to stop it.

There is a long pause at the table when he’s gone. 

“Alright who the fuck was that.” Shane says eventually in a loud, irritated voice that he doesn’t use a lot. It frightens me just a little bit and I sink into my chair. “Dean Cullen.” I squeak

“Your man from the drawing classes?” 

“Yeah.”

“I thought you hate him. Do you not? Why is he here?”

“We’re actually friends now.” I admit. “He’s not so bad, I think he’s just had a bit too much to drink tonight.”

Jen and Claire look at each other and say nothing. 

“And he had his hands all over you.” Shane goes on.

I blush. I never told a soul about how Dean and I have been… hanging out and kissing, and now I fear that his drunken, hands-on approach to me has given the game away. “He’s just drunk, he’s not usually like that, I’d say he just got a bit handsy without meaning to.”

“He doesn’t even seem your age. How old is he?”

I clear my throat, feeling like something invisible is tightening around it. “Twenty four. He’s twenty four.”

“Well what in God’s name is a twenty four year old doing hanging around a load of nineteen year olds?” He demands.

“What? We’re all adults, it doesn’t matter.”

“He should be hanging around women his own age.”

Jen finally chimes in. “He’s right, Evie. Usually when a guy hangs around younger girls like that it’s kind of a red flag. Like, you have to ask yourself why girls his age aren’t interested in him.”

“It’s because he’s in our year.” I say with exasperation. “He’d be hanging around people his age if there were any in our college class, but there aren’t. We’re all nineteen so he hasn’t got a choice.”

“He has a choice.” Shane says, a muscle twitching in his jaw. 

“You actually both seem really judgemental.” I say, trying to sound as level headed as I can. “And honestly, you’re freaking out over nothing.” I look at Claire to see if she’ll support me on this but her eyes are on the table, so I just barrel on without her. “And I can handle him, he’s just a normal guy, no different to any of us.”

“Except the six years he’s been an adult, as opposed to the three hundred and sixty four days that you’ve been.”

I scoff.

“When he was eighteen, Evie, you were twelve.”

“Am I meant to be shocked? I can count. It doesn’t matter. We’re only friends anyway, you’re acting like I’m sleeping with him.”

Shane opens his mouth as if to say something else but then decides against it. He sighs and shakes his head in defeat. “Right, well, okay, whatever you want to do. I’m going to get another round of pints for the table, so-” He starts to get up but I stand up first. “No, I will. I’ll get it for you. You can all stay here.” 

Prev // Next

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Light on the Darkside - Chapter Twenty Eight.

Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty One Twenty Two Twenty Three Twenty Four Twenty Five Twenty Six Twenty Seven

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.

Words - 3,724

Warnings - 18+ throughout. Topics cover depression, suicide and eating disorders. Minors DNI!

He hadn’t attended the funeral service, but he knew where Carole was buried. She’d been interred in the same plot as her mother, his granny Gladys. He hadn’t really known his grandparents well, his grandpa not at all as a casualty of WWII and his gran passing away when he was just six years old. He felt like he knew her, though, from all Carole had spoken of her.  

Arriving at the grave, it felt strange, seeing her name carved there in white marble headstone, sitting down cross legged. “Don’t really know what the fuck to say now I’m here,” he began, picking at the blades of grass before him. “Just knew I had to come, innit, get some shit off my chest. Not that you can hear any of it.”  

It wasn’t for the benefit of a woman long dead, though.  

“I dunno, mum. Wow, that felt weird, calling you that. You’ve been Carole and nothing else for a long time. Well, a few lesser pleasant names, too. All of which you likely reserved for me at some point as well.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pack of Benson and Hedges, the first he’d bought in a long time, using his old petrol lighter and lighting one up. He didn’t intend on starting up smoking again regularly, but definitely felt like he needed some on hand, with how life was right at that moment. 

“I think I get it, you know, where you were coming from. You were scared to death that whatever you knew was wrong with you - but never acknowledged or spoke about - was what was wrong with me, too. You went about it differently to how I have, and I don’t forgive you for that. When I needed you, you were there, but you still fucking blamed me. Ain’t no forgiveness there, but I forgive you for being scared. I forgive you for not being perfect. No parent ever is, innit. I can see that now, now I’ve had my own kids. Now I have Lyra going through something so shitting similar. 

“It’s frightening. Seriously, I ain’t ever been so scared as I was when I saw her there in the bathroom, whether or not her intention was as serious as mine was. Doubt it was, but I know she ain’t right. I think like, trying to be as far removed from how you were ain’t helping. Ella’s right there, not that you’d ever acknowledge that. I wish you hadn’t gone off the way you did, for your sake, because my wife is a fucking top grade woman. Best mother to our girls I could ever ask for, and she would have been good for you, too, in the time you had left. If only you’d let her. 

He paused, taking a long drag on his cigarette, picking a flaked piece of leather across the crack in his boot. “It didn’t have to end the way it did, but I forgive you for that, too. Mental illness is tough as shit, and you didn’t know how to handle it, did you? I mean you must’ve been really sick, up in your head, to have it right there in front of you, all evident in the fact you lost your family cos’ of the way you were. It still never fell into place. I wish you would have let someone help you. I wish you would have let me help you, but nah. Just pushed me away, didn’t ya?” 

The bitterness of his mother’s rejection, of her cruelty rose up in him then, his jaw flexing as he ground his teeth. “I bet you probably hate that Alice adopted us, that to me and Sam, she’s mum now. She earned it, though. She accepted us, with our flaws and everything. Celebrated our triumphs, loved us through our failures, did what a fucking mother is meant to do.” He stopped himself there, realising he was giving way to an anger he was desperately trying to cleanse himself of, the years of bitterness caused because of her. 

Taking another cigarette out, he lit it straight off the almost finished one, crushing it out into the grass beside his foot. “Gotta continue finding my peace now as I get my daughter through this, her lack of that exact thing; peace. She needs me to be there for her, and I will be. Probably gonna mess things up a bit along the way, but fuck, that’s being a parent. You can’t get it right all the time, can ya? For everything I’m unsure on, I’ve got Ella, too. Need to go make up with her there, admit I was wrong.  

“Even though I say all the time that it don’t bother me, I think it does, you know. Bothers me that she has all this insight that I don’t, and then I end up doing the exact same thing Lyra does, the same thing I tell her, ‘nah, you mum don’t do that’ over and accuse her of analysing or therapizing me. All because I still resent Dr. Beaumont a bit and her methods. What shitting kills me is that Ella ain’t even close to her, innit! She’s just like Michael was when he was still practising!”  

He wished he still was, so he could entrust his daughter to him for therapy, but that lovely man truly deserved his retirement. They were still in touch sporadically, mostly over Facebook, liking comments, having little catch up chats, talking about their joint passion of music.  

“See, though? Admitted my wrongs there. Wasn’t scary at all.” Taking a long drag on his cigarette, he then snorted softly, a smile curling his lips. “Might have stung me a little bit in my pride, like, but nah. I’m fucking lucky as hell to be married to such a wonderful woman. I know you always hated her, but she’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I wish you could have seen that. She never tried to take me away from you, like you said. Fucking right off the mark there, you were. Like when you said me and her were poisoning dad against you. Nah. Fucking laid that poison all by your bloody self.” 

Again, he pushed his anger down, realising it was no good to keep on venting that. He was there to cleanse, not stoke a fire that he was trying hard to put out once and for all.  

“If I’m really honest, I’m still fucking angry at you, mum. I am, but I gotta put it aside properly, and that means forgiving you for what I can, and I do. Wherever you are, and I don’t fucking know about any of that afterlife bollocks, but I hope you’ve found a bit of peace you were lacking when you were alive, innit. I at least want that for you.” 

He sat there in silent reflection of everything he’d unloaded, everything he thought he had dealt with pertaining to Carole in the aftermath of her death, but what he’d experienced rising up sharply over the last forty-eight hours. Parents were not perfect, just like he’d said, he had his flaws as a father as much as she’d had as a mother. How he dealt with them though, it would be worlds apart from her methods, even now while dealing with the toughest challenge to date in being a father.  

Finishing his cigarette, he kissed his thumb before pressing it to the marble, standing up and walking back to his truck. The drive home was taken at a sedater speed than usual along the motorway, stopping to collect Freya from nursery when he arrived back in Atherstone and buy a peace offering for Ella in the form of a massive mixed bouquet of flowers, cursing Waitrose under his breath for having the nerve to charge so much. She’d like them, at least. That was all that mattered. He also picked up some snacks for the kids, having his ear bent by the destroyer of worlds over her wishes for the mixed fruit bowl. 

“Expensive chaos of the night, you are,” he spoke, kissing her cheek while juggling her and the basket. 

“I’m worth all of the pennies!” Yes, she really was.  

Once done there, he picked up Zara from school, her and her sister amusing him greatly with their absolute nonsense along the drive home, his girls the tonic he needed after such an emotional unload. It had soothed him, made him feel much lighter to face Carole’s last resting place and unburden himself, but still. His mental balance was obviously a little precarious at that moment, with all that was revolving around his eldest.  

When he arrived home, Zara went straight upstairs to change, Freya being set up with her fruit and the jigsaw puzzle she’d demanded from the toy box in the corner. Once she was content and provided with her fruit bowl, he went into the kitchen to find Ella pottering, wiping down surfaces as she nodded along to the old Fatboy Slim album playing. She was likely distracting herself, he thought, from the fact Lyra was sitting in her therapy room right at that moment, receiving her first session with Sadie.  

Turning to see him looking at her through the huge pink, white and purple blooms, a sheepish smile on his face, she took the flowers with a kiss. “Thank you, they’re lovely.” 

“They come with a massive apology too, innit,” he began, reaching up to grab a vase from the cupboard while she peeled away the cellophane wrap. “I’m sorry I was a dickhead to you. You were right, but I just didn’t wanna hear it. Then I did that predictable bullshit of pushing you away, just like I used to when I couldn’t deal with my head being a mess. I’m sorting it, though. Started doing that when I went out earlier.” 

“Oh?” she asked, grabbing the kitchen scissors and beginning to trim down a few of the flower stems. “How so? Before you tell me, though, I’m sorry as well. I know how I can get; I leave my therapist hat on sometimes and I don’t mean to, but I understand how it comes across.” 

He was glad she’d acknowledged it, but he had to let her know that it was okay for her to have done so, in what her doing such had led to. “Nah, babe. In this instance, you were fucking right to. With both me and Lyra. As for what I did, I went to the cemetery. To Carole’s grave.”  

Turning to him, she placed the scissors down, taking the vase full of water he handed to her and setting it down on the side. “Oh, oh... wow. I think that was the very last place I expected you to end up.” 

“Yeah,” he laughed softly. “Me too until this morning and found myself driving up to the cemetery. I needed it though, darlin’. Had a lot of shit to get off my chest that all got stirred up after Lyra did what she did. I needed to forgive Carole for what I could, and emphasise the things I’d never forgive her for. Felt like a bit of a twat talking to a headstone, but I feel better for it.”  

Winding her arms around his waist, she pulled him close, kissing his chest. “I’m glad that you do. I’ve been worried, what this might do to your own mental balance, with it all hitting so close to home for you. Hardly bleedin’ slept last night as it was,” she confided, James resting his chin atop her head, loving hands stroking her back as he cuddled her tightly.  

“Yeah, yeah it ain’t great up there in my wonky brain, but I expected that to be fair. Just gotta pull myself together for Lyra, innit. That’s why I did what I did. Thought that was what Michael would probably have advised I do, and in lieu of him actually being able to tell me that, I did it for myself.” 

Stroking his chest, she looked up at him fondly. “He gave you all the tools you need to navigate these wobbles since his retirement, though. I’m proud of you for using them. Twenty-three-year-old James would have snorted, curled his lip and given an absolute mouthful of disgust at that. The forty-year-old version is much improved,” she smiled, pulling him into a kiss. 

“You two are disgusting!” Zara admonished upon entering the kitchen, James making a further show of it by bending Ella back over his arm and kissing her some more as she giggled against his lips. “Daddy, where’re my snacks?”  

“In the bag, kid. Dried mango and those evil rice cakes you like,” he spoke, Zara grabbing the bag, opening it and wafting it in his direction. 

“Sour cream and onion! Yum!” 

“Get away!” he frowned, his lip curling. “They smell like manky belly button fluff. Top grade nasty.” Anything with a fake onion flavour and James heaved. Ella couldn’t even eat cheese and onion crisps without cleaning her teeth before coming anywhere near him. He left his daughter to her snacks and wife to her flower arranging, heading into his office to finalise a few jobs, finishing up just as Lyra was emerging with Sadie. The fact she flew into his arms in tears wasn’t the best sign.  

“Now, Lyra. There’s no need for more tears. I’m very pleased with you, I think we covered quite a lot there in our first session,” the therapist spoke kindly, looking then to James. “She did really well, but as you know yourself it can be very emotionally exhausting.” 

“I’m never doing that again!”  

Her dad smiled a little thinly. “Thought she might say that.” Telling her to go through to the lounge, he managed to untangle himself from her embrace, leading Sadie through to the kitchen to sit down and discuss it with him and Ella.  

“Now, like I said to James, she did very well there, but as with all twelve-year-old girls she does have a penchant for the dramatic, bless her little heart,” she spoke kindly, receiving her requested glass of sparkling water with thanks as Ella handed it over, taking a seat opposite her at the island next to her husband. “I think that little outburst of never wanting to do that again had a lot more to do with yanking at your heartstrings to get her own way rather than any genuine distress.” 

James scratched his chin, nodding. “Yeah, she does that a lot. Tries to get round me first. It’s always me she’s clingy with too, when she’s upset or poorly especially.”  

“Well, like I said, it can be emotionally exhausting, too. I shan’t discount that. Lyra is at her heart a very stubborn child, though. If she can get out of something she doesn’t want to do, she has no qualms about resorting to whatever she can in order to do that. In saying that, however, she did respond well. A lot better than she will likely make out in aftermath of her first session.  

“Now, down to my observations. Quite comfortably, I would say she’s suffering from PMDD. Her fluctuations in mood all track to her menstrual cycle, and they also explain why this has only been happening with her since her periods first began last September. The suicide attempt I do tend to lean towards James’s inclining, that it was a cry for help from a young girl very jumbled up by her emotions and not anything truly relating to any serious wishes to expire.  

“Tentatively too – and bearing in mind as psychologists our field does not stretch to prescription of medication – I would say she doesn’t need to be on anything for the time being. That’s something to chat to your GP about, should what I propose not yield beneficial results. I feel that at her age, they are likely to perhaps advise the benefits of the contraceptive pill for treatment as opposed to SSRI medication, but like I say, that’s a future we are not yet at. 

 “I think therapy would benefit her, as well as more regular exercise as by her own admission she does fall into periods of inertia. Perhaps up her swimming more than every other week, insist she accompany you when you walk the pom frites, too. Love that nickname, by the way,” she smiled, pointing down to where the dogs hovered by the counter.  

“I think a gentle approach is honestly all that is needed, but by no means do I want to downplay any of your parental concerns. I’m happy to make time to come and see her here at home, too, as this is where she’s most comfortable. I can pencil you in for sessions on a Friday afternoon going forward, from five thirty until six thirty? I wouldn’t usually, but Ella, you of course get friend privileges.” 

“So, for the unenlightened musician who don’t understand this jargon, what is PMDD, exactly?” James asked, catching Otis and hauling him up when he scrambled to jump into his lap.  

“PMDD stands for premenstrual dysphoric disorder. It's essentially a type of depression brought about by hormonal fluctuations during the cycle, manifesting in the days prior to a woman’s period arriving. Similar to pre-menstrual stress, but more severe.”  

Yep, that definitely tracked, he noted. She was always her worst in the sullen misery or screaming harpy stakes right before that time. It was a weight lifted from them, to have an answer beyond normal teenage moodiness as to why she was acting out and becoming a concern to them, but yet when Sadie left, Lyra didn’t see it as anything positive.  

“I don’t want to see her again! You can’t make me!” she shouted, trying to wrap herself around her dad. 

“Nope,” he spoke, unwinding her arms. “Lyra, you can’t get around me like that. You’ll be seeing her again next week, no excuses. She told us that you did a lot better than you’d likely let on in there, and it helped everything too because now we know what’s wrong and how to help you manage it.”  

“What, that my body is a shit and attacking my brain whenever I get a period? Loads of people get that, it’s PMS! I don’t need a therapist for PM bloody S!” 

“No, sweet, it isn’t,” Ella tried, reaching to stroke her hair. “It’s worse than PMS, it’s why you have your periods of feeling bleak and getting snappy. Nobody is downplaying this, and you shouldn’t either just to get out of it, but please, give the therapy a try. It’d be a lot better than the alternatives, which would be to include medication as well.” 

“I’ll take a load of pills again if you make me!” she cried, rubbing her eyes on her sweater sleeve. Those words made a shard of discomfort slice sharp against her mum’s chest, but she knew it wasn’t a serious threat. Merely an emotionally manipulative foot stomp.  

“You won’t, because as of now all the medicine will be locked away. You don’t have that trust any longer to leave it when you can access it. I don’t think you really mean that anyway, do you?” Ella continued stroking her head, Lyra sniffing, eventually moving to hug her. She was out of luck with James, her first port of call, so now trying with her mum. 

“Please, mummy. Don’t make me,” she sobbed, Ella gently rocking her in a tight hug. 

“You’ve got no choice, my little love. PMDD can’t go untreated. It’s serious, we need to look after you and you have to meet us halfway and be receptive.” A whine sounded, Lyra burying her face against her neck, Ella smiling in soft entertainment across the table at James. “Sadie’s nice, isn’t she? She said you opened up and talked very well to her, so what’s the issue there?” 

Truly, there was no issue. Lyra was, as was her teenage nature and hormonal imbalance, being difficult for the sake of it. Also, as Ella correctly guessed, she was having a little moment of thriving on the attention. It was to be expected.  

“Are you coming back out from my neck at any point, baby cakes?” she asked, turning her head to kiss her cheek. More noises of discontent sounded. “You can whine and curl your lip up just like your dad does when he’s pissed off too, but you’re not getting out of therapy. You can shout, foot stomp and be moody as well, but the answer will remain the same.” 

Eventually, she emerged, combing her fingers through her hair. “Fine. I’ll see Sadie.”  

Ella reached for her cheek, stroking the apple with her thumb. “Good girl, I’m very proud of you.”  

Lyra smiled, giving her dad a hug when he told her the same thing before going into the lounge. A few minutes passed, the kid seeming to perk up a little for being with her sisters, her parents hearing her shouting and laughing as Freya decided to use her as a human climbing frame. They stood and watched the scene through the glass panels in the door, both laughing as Lyra pulled up her t-shirt and offered raspberries blown upon the destroyer of world’s tummy.  

“Going to get my army on you! And do a black magic!”  

“Yeah?” she chuckled, lifting her aloft as she lay back on the sofa. “I’m gonna use you as a tiny human weight. One, and a two, and a three!” she added, raising her sister repeatedly, Freya screaming with joy as their adoring parents watched, their laughter escalating. 

Turning to James, Ella flopped against his chest, leaning her full weight on him as he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head. “This parenting stuff is hard.” 

“Innit?” 

“But they’re amazing.” 

She had that right. “They are, little.” 

“But still, I have all this residual stress whirling around, so I’m going to require that you take me to bed and bang me like a shed door in a hurricane tonight.” 

His filthy laugh filled the kitchen. “Done deal, babe.” 

Later that night, he kept to his word, too, ensuring they both fell asleep with nothing but contentment abounding. 

[sapphireginger]

You Left Me

Summary:

A house needed a foundation to build on and so did their pack but by the time Stiles got the pack to listen, they all blamed him. He didn’t understand why but during one pack meeting they pointed out how all of their problems somehow connected to Stiles. Stiles panicked because in truth he was the one who saved them time and time again. So how was he at fault?

AO3 Link

Stiles didn’t know where he was going as he ran through the forest. All he knew was he couldn’t go back. Home wasn’t home anymore as evidenced by the way his friends couldn’t stand to look at him. He thought he could stay and ignore how they avoided him, but he gave up after a week. The final straw, the reason behind him running through the forest, was a fight with Scott. He felt tears stream down his cheeks as he thought back on the conversation they had less than an hour ago.

✠ 🐾 ✠

“I don’t know what more you want from me Scott!” he shouted.

“I don't want anything from you. I don’t want you around,” Scott shouted back.

Stiles froze and his eyes narrowed. “Seriously? I haven’t done anything wrong. I defended myself. You know that, and I’ve already resigned myself to being ignored by all of you. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“You can leave. You can stop filling the halls with the scent of sadness and hurt. You brought this on yourself. You’re not allowed to walk the halls trying to make us feel bad for wanting nothing to do with you. This is all your fault. You can’t blame us for defending ourselves from you. I mean we know what happened to Allison and then Donovan. Who’s to say Lydia’s not next? Or Isaac? Or Danny? Or Jackson? It’s like the Nogitsune never left!” Scott yelled with a growl.

“Allison wasn’t my fault, Scott. That was all him. I fought—”

Scott snarled. “Don’t lie, Stiles. You killed her and you loved it. Stop using him as an excuse for how fucked up you are! Leave! If I see you again after tonight, I will kill you,” he spat.

Stiles felt his heart shatter. When he looked up again and saw that Scott was serious, he turned and ran.

✠ 🐾 ✠

The blood pounding in his ears snapped him back to the present. His shirt was soaked through from the downpour. It was late into the night and he didn’t know where to go or what to do. Why should he keep going? His dad intercepted a robber while he was off duty one night and was killed. His dad was dead and he had nothing and no one left.

Beacon Hills had been Stiles’s only home since he was born. It was eighteen, almost nineteen, years later and that was still the case. Through all the clashes with various supernatural beings over the years their small pack stayed strong but it was also fractured. Stiles did his best to mend the cracks in the foundation but it was almost impossible when they didn’t have one to begin with.

A house needed a foundation to build on and so did their pack but by the time Stiles got the pack to listen, they all blamed him. He didn’t understand why but during one pack meeting they pointed out how all of their problems somehow connected to Stiles. Stiles panicked because in truth he was the one who saved them time and time again. So how was he at fault?

Everyone had ignored him for some fault they found in him. Stiles knew their reasons were meritless, but it hurt so bad. He stopped caring. When he tripped on a root and crashed to the ground he didn’t bother even getting up. He just laid on the ground letting the tears stream down his face. He was so tired. He was tired of being alone, ignored, blamed, and a part of him was tired of living. It was a downhill slide from then on. Stiles closed his eyes, curled up into a ball on the forest floor and drifted off.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂

He woke with a start, his eyes wide as he tried to get his bearings. He wasn’t outside anymore and he looked down to see himself in dry clothes. He wondered how that happened as he looked around the space he found himself in. It seemed like a small cabin but he didn’t remember any cabins in the forest, and he would remember if there had been one because he’d grown up exploring every inch of it. He rubbed his eyes and blinked several times but the scenery didn’t change.

He looked at his hands and counted. 1, 2, 3…all the way up to 10 to prove to himself that he was indeed awake. He was cold and pulled the blanket closer around him. Wait! He looked at the blanket and then took a deep breath in through his nose. When the scent filled his nostrils it threw him into a pile of memories.

✠ 🐾 ✠

“Mischief!” a boy called out to him.

Stiles beamed and hurried over. “Hi, Theodorable!” he said giggling.

✠ 🐾 ✠

“Mischief? Did you ask your mom?”

Stiles nodded and held up a sleeping bag. “She said we can sleep in the tree house!”

✠ 🐾 ✠

“Happy Birthday dear Mischiefffffff! Happy Birthday to you!” Theo laughed and handed Stiles his gift.

Stiles gasped and squealed. “How’d you get his autograph?!” He threw himself at Theo and beamed.

✠ 🐾 ✠

“Don’t worry, Theo! I brought all your favorites. Movie night is on!” Stiles cheered

Theo curled up under the blanket. “You’re the best, Mischief.”

✠ 🐾 ✠

“Hello?” Stiles said quietly as he entered the house. He looked around at the now empty building. His breath caught and he teared up. “No! Where’d you go?” he cried out before searching the entire house, finding no one and nothing. He went outside and collapsed on the porch steps sniffling. “Theo.”

✠ 🐾 ✠

Stiles’s eyes snapped open and he looked around again. “Theo?” he whispered.

“Hey, Mischief,” a voice to his right said quietly.

Stiles whipped his head in the direction of the voice and came face to face with a guy his age. He was gorgeous and Stiles blushed lightly taking in the blonde hair, blue eyes, chiseled jawline (unlike Scott’s crooked one), and the smile. “H-Hi,” he replied quietly. He was struggling to hold back tears when he heard his childhood nickname spoken for the first time in years. Only his mother and Theo had been allowed to call him Mischief. Stiles didn’t realize how much he missed hearing that name.

Theo gestured to the couch. “May I sit?”

Stiles nodded and went to move his feet but Theo simply lifted them, sat down, and let them rest on his lap.

“You had me worried.” Stiles quirked an eyebrow and Theo continued. “I found you. Your lips were blue and when I touched you, you were so cold. I did my best to warm you up but I was scared I’d lost you,” he whispered and started rubbing small circles on Stiles‘s ankle with his thumb.

Stiles melted at the touch and looked down. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I just had to leave. I guess if dying was truly my goal, I could’ve just stayed and let him kill me.”

Theo growled low at that but with a bemused look from Stiles, he cleared his throat. “Who?”

“Scott,” Stiles replied in barely a whisper.

Theo didn’t stop his growl this time. “He threatened you?”

Stiles nodded.

“Why?”

Stiles shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just say I can’t go home anymore. Once I’m warmed up, I’ll get out of your hair too.”

Theo frowned and shook his head. “No. You’re not bothering me and I wouldn’t have brought you here if I wanted you to disappear.”

“But you disappearing is just fine?” Stiles asked, meeting Theo’s gaze.

“I—” Theo started but sighed. He swallowed thickly, struggling to speak with the lump of emotion lodged in his throat. “I didn’t want to leave. I was forced to. They threatened you. So, I left, but I kept an eye on you as best I could. Once I was old enough to deal with them myself, I did so.”

“Really?”

Theo nodded. “There was nothing that would ever stop me from coming back to you. I can back to you, came back for you, Bambi. I’m here.”

“Now you’re here?”

Theo nodded and met Stiles’s gaze with utmost sincerity. “I’m here.”

Stiles tilted his head, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “For how long?”

“As long as you want me here.”

“So, forever?”

“Is that what you want?”

Stiles swallowed and nodded before averting his gaze. “Yeah,” he admitted in barely a whisper.

Theo moved closer, his hand sliding up to grip Stiles’s thigh, the touch grounding them both. “Then I’ll never leave you again.”

“Never?”

“Never ever.”

“Promise?” Stiles inquired, leaning closer, unaware he was doing so but not pulling back nonetheless.

Theo shook his head, stopping just short of kissing the amber eyed man. “I promise.”

Stiles closed the remaining distance between their lips and sighed into the kiss, finally finding what had been missing all these years and vowing to never let go of Theo, to never let go of his happiness, ever again.

[emmy-dekarios-bg3]

Heart of the Weave - A Baldurs Gate fanfiction - part 3

{to view everything I’ve written so far, find me on AO3 💕 Emmydekarios}

Chapter 6

Rage. Confusion. Disbelief. I feel all of these negative emotions build up inside of me, eating at my insides as I try to understand what the hell I just read. Jenevelle can’t see how I’m feeling because I’m trying to hide it the best I can, but the emotions are overflowing, overwhelming, and hard to contain. Gortash is my FATHER? I’m nothing like that tyrant, what the fuck is this news?

“Emmy, dear, you’re breathing very heavily, are you alright?” Tara asks, placing her paw on my leg and staring at my eyes as I try to mask my frustration.

“Not even in the slightest.” The book…Dare I open it? I close my eyes, fighting angry tears. Fighting the temptation to shriek. “Gortash is my dad.” I open the large book, noticing older photos of my mother, who seems to be around eighteen or nineteen years old, with Gortash who appears to be the same age. He looked well-dressed, happy, and like he actually took care of himself. There are photos of them kissing, laughing, and sitting in a field full of flowers.

As a child, his parents caused corruption. His soul was given up to a devil because they were poor and needed money to survive. How cruel of grown adults to do such a horrible act to a child. When Gortash meets my mother, it seems his miserable anger turned into happiness, but I wonder what caused him to turn back to hatred?

I see a letter in the book with some burn marks on the corners. It looks like a note she wrote to him perhaps; but how did she get it back if she gave it to him>

“Dear Enver Gortash,

I love you but you aren’t the same man I wanted to marry. I thought we would have our happily ever after, everything was perfect. We were going to have a family at some point. Your patron is causing you to become so self-absorbed in your power that it’s changing your image completely. You were so happy with me, so loving. The past six months have been hell and I have been praying that it would change. I can’t handle it anymore. It’s time I move on, Enver. I hope you open your eyes and realize you are NOT your parents. You are not their money bag. Do better.”

I turn the page, noticing another piece of paper that appears to be a journal entry ripped from a journal.

“Hi, it’s me again. I left him two weeks ago and I’m aching terribly. He had his patron put the note I wrote him under my pillow. Nothing else was said. He saw what I wrote and it’s only a matter of time before I see him again. Also, I’m pregnant. Perfect timing, right? What do I do…?”

Holy FUCK. I can’t even begin to process this horror presented to me.

“Oh my GODS!” Tara shouts, her feline face expressing pure shock.

“Tara, I don’t even know how to even accept this. I can’t.”

“How did he find out you’re his daughter?”

“I don’t know. My mother didn’t add that part in the note. She probably accidentally told him, or he found out somehow that she’s my mom.”

I observe my smiling daughter, her eyes glistening as she stares up at me with unconditional love. I smile back, despite the painful void I feel inside. I’m not Gortash and I never will be. I pick up Jenevelle and hold her close to me as I sob at this unfortunate surprise. Tara curls up in my lap to bring me comfort as I sit here on the floor, aching for some sort of good news.

Just moments later, Gale walks through the front door after an eventful day of teaching, immediately noticing me on the floor holding the baby.

“Oh, baby. You’ve been crying. Is everything alright? What’s that book?” I can only hope that Gale won’t view me differently after all of this, while I’m holding our daughter. I sob into his robe as he keeps me close, but I’m trying to calm down. “Whenever you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here to listen no matter what.” I dry my tears and take a deep breath, gazing at him with serious eyes.

“Gale… Gortash is my father.” He hesitates to say a word for a moment as he stares blankly at my pained face.

“Wh-what? He’s your…oh gosh.” Not quite the reaction I expected, but I’ll take it. I hand him the letter from my mother and I observe him engaging heavily into it, trying to process everything she wrote. “Oh, well gods be damned.”

“That’s more of what I expected on the first take,” I mumble.

“I hope you know this doesn’t change a damn thing on how I feel about you, but I am morbidly curious: what are your thoughts?” I’m not the least bit surprised he asked about how I’m taking this information, but it’s best I’m honest with him.

“I’m filled with hatred toward the man. He missed out on so much of my life and he had so many chances to change, but let power consume him. He could have fought it. He could have tried. He’s walking the streets again with Orin and Ketheric, hoping to find a way to dominate the world once more. Oh, and I have a brother out there somewhere.” I do want to know more about my brother and who he is. Is he like me, scrambling for answers? Does he know Gortash is his father?

“What really sucks is that Gortash now knows I’m his daughter, which means he knows about Jenevelle.” Gale takes my hand and squeezes it reassuringly.

“He won’t touch her, I swear it.” I take a deep breath, finally calming down from this anger high as I accept my fate, as much as I disagree with it.

I feed our daughter as Gale eats his lunch I made him, and I try to focus just solely on Jenevelle rather than what’s happening right now. It’s urgent we tell the others, though I hope no one thinks less of me.

“I’m glad you’re holding up okay, but you can always let your feelings out with me,” Gale reminds me, smiling and taking a sip of his wine. “I’m here for you through thick and thin.”

“That’s why I love you. Well, one of the many reasons.” I prepare myself mentally for how I’ll tell the others of this god-awful predicament, but I try to keep a calm mind. The challenging part will be spewing the news that Gortash is running rampant on the streets again, strictly looking for me alone.

Later that evening, after relaxing and being outside for a while to destress, we decide to summon Withers to alert our friends of the dire situation that needs to be addressed. I figured it would be best to do this when my mind isn’t in an anxious frenzy. Gale holds our daughter and tiptoes to her room to put her down for a nap while I wait here for everyone to show up.

“I truly think they’ll understand, Emmy. Surprised? Absolutely. Angry? Not at you. Well, as long as you aren’t defending that self-righteous tyrant,” Tara comments, making me feel a little sense of relief. “Just don’t let him know you’re immortal if he finds you. Ketheric will thirst for taking that away from you.” She has a point. Who knows what could happen if they find out? Dame Aylin was chained and her immortality was being used by Ketheric as she’s bound to his chambers. The same could be done with me.

Our usual group of friends show up so we can discuss this shitshow. Astarion holds their sleeping toddler as him and Shadowheart sit on the purple suede sofa across from me.

“Thank you all for coming.” Wyll and Karlach are already on edge, suspecting the news is related to Gortash; but I’m confident I’m about to ruin their whole day.

“What’s going on, Emmy? Is everything okay?” Shadowheart asks with worrisome eyes that are staring me down intensely. “You’re not moving away or something, are you?”

“No, but erm…” Gale places his hand on my thigh, giving me a reassuring smile to give me the push I need to tell them. “This isn’t easy to say, but Gortash…is my father.” Before I could even take a breath, Astarion’s jaw drops and his eyes widen.

“Holy fuck,” he murmurs under his breath. “Gortash?”

“He’s WHAT?!” Karlach shouts, and then covers her mouth, realizing there’s two sleeping babies in this house. “Shit, sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I still have the same negative feelings toward that cretin, maybe much worse than before.” Silence fills the room and boy is it loud. I swallow nervously, watching everyone stare at me with horrified expressions. “Please say something.”

“Let me clear the air by saying we aren’t mad or scared of you. At least I’m not. Just wow… At least he’s dead, right?” Wyll questions confidently. Gale and I sigh and shake our heads.

“Unfortunately, you’re incorrect. He’s roaming the streets once more,” Gale responds.

“What. The. Hell. That bastard gets a second fucking chance? Why?” I can feel the overwhelming rage within her, and she’s trying not to lose her cool. She has every right – I mean, why do people like Gortash get another chance but if Karlach’s engine exploded before getting it repaired like she did, she would have died with no more chance at all?

“Well, theory number one: the Gods allowed them all another chance. Or theory two: my half-brother made a deal with the devil on behalf of Gortash. If he’s evil, that is. I hope I meet him so I can find out. I’ll explain more about that entire situation later.”

Everyone, including myself, is distraught, though there’s nothing we can do right now except wait. I received a lot of hugs and reassuring talks from my dear friends tonight, which fills me with joy and some relief. All I have to say is that I’m grateful for such incredible people in my life.

[novankenn]

Unnatural (v1-4)

(Chapter List)

MATURE CONTENT WARNING : This story deals with some disturbing themes. Check the tags. IF any of these are triggers for you or will disturb you... then DO NOT READ!!

Jaune was hacking and coughing. His chest seizing and pain burning through his lungs. He could taste the iron of blood in his mouth; a taste he was intimately familiar with. He didn't have a destination and just kept running, feeling his fragile body starting to break from the strenuous activity. Tripping over something on the uneven woodland trail, he crashed face-first into the leaf covered ground. His body screamed in protest as he tried to get back to his feet. He made it to his knees before he threw up. Bile, the remains of his birthday cake, mucus, phlegm and blood splattered the ground between his hands as he held himself up.  As he struggled to breathe, his mind replayed the events that lead to his current situation...

/==/

“Saphron.” Jasmine, addressed her second eldest, “I think it's time. You need to tell him the truth.”

“I can't do that. He’s happy how things are… why ruin it?”

“Saph you mother him already. You’ve been mothering him his whole life… it’s time, he’s old enough.”

“No… I’m not… it’s destroy him…”

“Saphron… you need to admit it… he needs to know the truth, before it’s too late. We’ve had so many close calls… too many.”

“You KNOW what dad did to me! I’ve just about been able not to relive it every fucking night! Even now… I can still feel him touching me!”

“I do know, and that's why the fucking bastard is sitting in a cell for the rest of his life, and IF he ever gets out, he won't be around long enough to be a threat to you girls, or Jaune.”

“Then why? Saphron shouted back at her mother. “Jaune's happy, he's better off not knowing how he came to be!  Why punish him, punish me for something neither of us wanted or asked for?”

“I’m not punishing you, Saph, despite what you think, what you’re feeling… I’m not.” Jasmine ran her hand through her mane of golden blond hair. “You’re getting ready to move out, start living your own life… are I KNOW you’re thinking of taking Jaune with you… that’s going to be confusing to him… he deserves to know why.”

“I…”

“He's YOUR son, Saph. Your baby, your blessing.” Jasmine spoke in a reassuring tone, “It's time. You showed how strong you were… despite how things came to be… you are his mother, you always have been, and you took to the role…”

“Took to the role?” Saphron laughed darkly… “Yeah, took to the role when I spent the first year of his life… hoping he would die! Wishing all his pain would stop!”

“That PROVES my point!” Jasmine snapped at her daughter. “You wanted HIS pain to stop… not yours, his! And considering what your age and what you went through… dark thoughts are… understandable… yet all you have EVER done is shower him with care and affection.”

“I can’t… I’m not…”

“You are nineteen, Saphron, it’s time to stop. You need to…”

“Yeah, I'm nineteen with an eight-year-old son, given to me by the bastard who FATHERED ME!!!” Saphron completely snapped instantly moving beyond upset, to nigh on hysterical, “WHY didn't you stop him! You had to see what he was doing! Why mom? WHY?””

“I did stop him... when I caught on! If your uncle hadn't been there, I would have killed the fucker!”

“Not good enough!” Saphron screamed. “I'm not telling my son that not only is he a bastard, but that his father is a fucking incestuous pedophile! He's so weak already... that'll outright kill him! Is that what you want? For me to stress him out so badly that he dies, and you can ignore your MISTAKE!”

The slap echoed about the small den the pair of women were arguing in. But it was what was heard after that caused both of them to stiffen. A small, sharp, pained intake of breath. They turned and a double set of blue eyes took in the slim, sickly looking form of an eight-year-old boy, clutching a rather creepy looking redheaded doll in his arms, whose whole world had just been crushed around him. Tears were starting to roll down his cheeks, as his small body started to shake. It was obvious to the two women that he had heard it all.

“JAUNE!” the pair shouted as the boy bolted down the hallway.

[jmflowers]

For the weird questions to writer thingy 4-6-7-13-15-25-37 pleaseeeeee. And do you actually think writers are that weird?

4. What is a word that makes you go absolutely feral?

I’ve answered this once already, but I love those words that don’t really have a synonym. Like, there may be another word that means sort of the same thing, but it doesn’t convey the same way – the colloquialism is wrong or there just isn’t a way to translate it. Visceral is one of those words for me, since it takes so much description to express as much as it does on its own. Hygge is another really great one, though there are more version of it in other languages. I also love the word syntax because it’s one of the only words I remember and still use from grade ten English class.

6. What is your darkest fear about writing?

That what I believe about my own writing abilities is untrue. I’m terrified that one day someone will lift the veil and prove to me that I’m not any good at this. To imagine all the time and effort and energy I’ve put in to reach a point where I can be satisfied with what I accomplish just being for naught is devastating. I think I’d completely lose my sense of self if anyone were able to shake me that drastically.

I’m also terrified, with all things, that one day my health will fail me (again) and I’ll no longer be able to do what defines who I understand myself to be. I think I could eventually cope with never walking again, or being able to talk, or eating solid food, or whatever could befall me, but not being able to tell stories in some way would destroy me. I think, for me, words are the backbone of how I translate my love to others and I’m not sure how I would fill that gap.

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

I’ve answered this once already. But, to add to the previous thoughts, I’ve got a lot of really amazing people in my life that I cherish greatly. However, the deepest, most important connections have been forged (at least partially) through writing. The girl I used to pass stories to in drama class when I was seventeen is still someone I go camping with every year and cry with when life is too fucking hard to comprehend. I spent my thirtieth birthday on a mountain with a friend who used to keep me company on Skype while I was writing my way through depression when I was nineteen – and she’ll still proofread anything I send her way, no questions asked. The first person I talk to every morning, arguably the most important person in my day, has let me sort through ideas with her for nearly a year.

I like that writing allows me to reach people I may never know, may never speak with. I love that what I create can impact someone else’s life in some miniscule way. But I’m truly, truly honoured that this piece of myself, when I choose to share it, can strengthen the bonds I have with people I love. Because words are how I translate my love to others.

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you to write about? What is easy?

I struggle a lot with conveying the challenges of mental health. There’s a really fine line between what feels honest and what feels inauthentic and it’s so easy to tip from one to the other. For someone who has experienced the weird conglomerate of highs and lows, I think there’s a lot more believability factor. But for someone who hasn’t, I think it starts to seem “overdramatic” really quickly. And I’m saying this as someone who used to only exclusively write dark moments, especially while I was in the thick of it myself. Now that I’m older, I worry about discrediting or even fuelling someone else’s experience. It’s easier, at least for me, to write a refuge from that.

Which is, to say, I think what's easy for me to write about is comfort and love. I can’t give every person a place where they can have safety and find redemption, but I can do that for characters and it almost feels like the same thing.

15. Do you write in the margins of your books? Dog-ear your pages? Read in the bath? Why or why not? Do you judge people who do these things? Can we still be friends?

No, no, and no. I grew up with not a lot of money, so we didn’t own most books that we had access to. If we did own them, they were treasured. I was taught very early on not to write in or damage anything that would need to be returned to the library or the person we’d borrowed from or even just passed along to the next person in the hand-me-down chain. It’s broken my heart every time I’ve lent a book from my collection to someone and they’ve either not treated it well or never returned it. I do not forget those things. I had a copy of Christina’s Ghost by Betty Ren Wright (Apple Paperbacks print) when I was a child that I loved so much, I lent it to a friend to read and she left it outside in the rain and destroyed it. I’ve never been able to replace that book and it haunts me even more than that ghost haunted Christina.

25. What is a weird, hyper-specific detail you know about one of your characters that is completely irrelevant to the story?

I like this question, so I’m going to do a few characters from a few different pieces or fandoms I’ve written for and from the current Hygge Universe.

In Extraordinary Measures, the doctor’s daughters are both named after flowers because the woman he loved was a florist and in his grief, he imagined that they would combine his love of science and her love of nature to name their children. If she hadn’t died and he hadn’t been able to create a new layer of reality, they would’ve had different names. Also, the drunk driver that killed the woman he loved is the same drunk driver that later killed Arizona in that layer of reality and then Teddy in the next layer of reality – because that person needed to have the fate of killing someone while intoxicated behind the wheel in order to reach the next step in their own journey and eventually find redemption. He went to jail, served his time, and helped others on their course to recovery.

In Epithet, Charity wakes up in the car in that suburban neighbourhood because Vanessa’s gone there to catch a glimpse of Johnny, who is living with Tracey in a witness protection situation while Vanessa is undercover. In original drafts of the story, Charity and Vanessa actually went there first before going to Vanessa’s agency, and meeting Johnny is why Charity decided to help with taking down her people. But Vanessa wouldn’t risk her son like that. I’d really like to finish that piece in particular because I have it all mapped out, but I’m not sure if the course of action will allow me to explain which of Charity’s kids exist or where they are. Charity's least favourite food is peanut butter.

In Hygge Universe, Maya and Carina settle on a donor who looks a bit more like Maya; each of the kids have one distinct feature from him that allow for a slight physical connection to Maya, though Maya and Carina never expected that would be the case. Carina buys Beatrice her first vibrator and Maya is the only one embarrassed by the experience – she never finds out that Carina did the same for Andrea. Carina’s knee hurts as she gets older because she once fell while out with the kids and never got it looked at because she was too busy trying to convince them that she was okay. Carina is called Mama instead of Mamma because Maya was worried she’d never be able to find her Mother’s Day cards in English with the correct spelling, but the kids usually just get her Italian cards anyways once they’re older and figure out where to find some. Beatrice ends up fluent in Italian; Andrea can understand it but doesn’t speak or write it very well.

In Visceral, Carina is on the shower floor because the guest bathroom doesn’t have a bathtub either. It’s one of only a few things that she dislikes about the apartment, another being that stupid closet tucked into the corner of the sitting room.

In general Station 19 fanfiction, Carina hates soy milk.

37. If you were to be remembered only by the words you’ve put on the page, what would future historians think of you?

Depends on which of my words they’re looking at. I am a different writer in different aspects of my life, different mediums, and with different characters. They’d probably just think I was committed to the process. And a big, big fan of women.

You think historians will ever figure out that people are gay?

And no, I don't think writers are weird. I think, like most sectors of creative people, that our brains function in a slightly different way than other human beans.

writer asks

[toalloftheboysivelovedbefore]

Dear R.A.R.,

This was a journal entry that I had written in November of 2022. It felt like word vomit and what better place to put word vomit than here? Just in case you needed to read it, here it is.

“If you would’ve blinked then I would’ve looked away at the first glance — In looking at me, he saw through the facade that I was wearing that seemed to fool everyone else.

If you tasted poison, you could’ve spit me out at the first chance — It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was not what was supposed to happen and we could have turned back. He could have made it all stop at any time.

If I was some paint did it splatter on a promising grown man — I was paint. I was this thing that marred him, that colored him in a way that changed the persona and the image that her preserved for everyone else to see.

If I was a child did it matter, if you got to wash your hands — Paint is removable , expendable perhaps.

Oh all I used to do was pray — The person I used to be was pure - connected to my faith, maybe even more deserving of being able to pry than the one who was touched by him.

Would’ve, should’ve, could’ve if you never looked my way I would have stayed on my knees and I damn sure never would’ve danced with the devil at nineteen and the God’s honest truth was that the pain was heaven — Everything I knew about who I was, about what was right and wrong was turned on its head because of him and the amount of hurt and pain that it caused me was unlike anything else that I knew, but I loved it because I loved him unlike anything else that I had known at that point.

And now that I’m grown, I’m scared of ghosts, memories feel like weapons — I am affected by what he did and the pain cause haunted me and each memory I have about the whole ordeal is very painful.

And now that I know, I wish you left me wondering — I always used to say I would so much rather say ‘oh well’ than ‘what if,’ but that was the mentality of a child and I wish the man, the adult, could have looked me in the eyes and told me that it was better to wonder than to know.

If you never touched me I would’ve gone along with the righteous — He changed the trajectory of who I was and removed my worthiness to sit among the righteous of my peer group.

If I never blushed then they could’ve never whispered about this — My apparent desire for him made him pursue me and I know that I was the subject of a lot of gossip.

And if you never saved me from boredom, I could have gone on as I was but Lord you made me feel important and then you tried to erase us —My apparent lacking in something, the need to fill a hole grew in him until it no longer severed him at which point, he tried to make it all disappear from sight.

Oh you’re a crisis of my faith — He has undone and made me question everything I thought I knew about my faith/religion.

Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve.

God rest my soul I miss who I used to be — The girl who I was before him is dead and gone and I can’t get her back.

The tomb won’t close, stained glass windows in my mind, I regret you all the time — I’ve been trying to bury this, to lay it to rest but I can’t. My brain keeps trying to commemorate it like a saint or something. I regret you all the time.

Can’t let this go, I fight with you in my sleep — Even my dreams are changed by him and I dream of going back and changing what happened.

The wound won’t close, I keep on waiting for a sign, I regret you all the time — A wound won’t heal if I keep picking at it and won’t leave it alone.

If clarity’s in death then why won’t this die — I can’t fucking let it all go to gain perspective on the whole thing.

Years of tearing down our banners you and I — I’m trying to remove him from my life.

Living for the thrill of hitting you where it hurts — I want an eye for a fucking eye.

Give me back my girlhood it was mine first.

And I damn sure never would’ve danced with the devil at nineteen and the God’s honest truth is that the pain was heaven — The amount of hurt and pain and anger that he has brought unto me is kind of infuriating. I am so affected by him and I can’t seem to let it go long enough for me to heal. The pain is what I know so maybe it is what I inadvertently seek out so that I can feel comfort in the hurt. My formative years were changed by him and I cannot undo that. All I can keep doing is swimming forward. Maybe someday the wound will close and the tomb will shut and I will take a bat to all of the stained glass windows that I erected to him. Maybe he will be a speck of dust in the corner of my life that I forget to clean.”

R.A.R., you irrevocably changed me.

In pieces,

H.L.F.

[lunarimoth]

My grandfather calling me ‘she’ doesn’t bother me, what bothers me is that it’s not of his own volition, his alzheimers is so bad now that he doesn’t even remember me coming out years ago now. I don’t know even if he remembers who I am because everyone uses my new name, I almost want to ask my family to use my deadname with him just so he can remember me, he knows just by proxy because we call as a family I’m related to them but I don’t think he even recognises me as my mothers child or even there, I don’t think he takes me seriously. And I don’t know how to even approach it with my mum because she must be hurting so much more, I barely know him and it hurts. Same with my grandmother, her mother; she has heart disease and dementia and they are both so insistent on not going into a home but they are in their 70s now and they live in the middle of the mountains and no one is there to help them if they fall or pass out except one another, and my grandfather can’t walk and he’s in a wheelchair and has parkinsons. It’s just so much sickness but I know they won’t ever go into a home because of what happened to their other family and how she was left alone in her room for 3 days without care or meals or water and when she was finally tended to she was sitting in her own excrement and had so many infections in her organs that the toxin buildup was leading her to have fucking psychotic hallucinations. The system is so fucked, I want to fly up there and help, I do not care if he flips out or what I need to do to help, I do not care about being deadnamed or misgendered or facing any prejudice because it just does not bother me when it comes to them because I know that his brain has regressed so much he doesn’t remember anything about myself or my sister or my siblings coming out. It’s just so fucking awful. They won’t let me help, and I’d be so willing to but we cannot drive for multiple reasons and that would be a necessity to help them because they literally live in the outback. It’s just… what the fuck do you do. How the fuck do I go up to my mum like ‘hey, I’m sorry your family is dying, I’m sorry your siblings don’t talk to you, I’m sorry that you moved with your husband and my father who cheated on you and followed him around the country and sacrificed your personal connections over and over and over again and your stability over and over and over again and your children’s wellness and childhoods over and over and over again; but also, can I get an apology for that thing you didn’t foresight?’ and i’m sitting here and it’s storming and i’ve moved nine times and i’m only nineteen and most of my family doesn’t know who the fuck i am outside of the fact i’m the ‘transsexual’ and it’s just so fucking insane that i’m only thinking about how insane this is now. not to mention my dads sister dying last year, how the fuck is he doing? he’s been mourning her for years since she became addicted to prescription drugs in 2011 and ruined her body permanently but god how much premeditated mourning can you do to rid of the actual shock of your big sister being found dead on the bathroom floor, the person you grew up alongside? and maybe my idea is skewed because if that happened to me with one of my siblings i would end my own life because they are the most precious things in the world to me but seriously, does he fucking talk about it? did he even cry? i don’t remember him fucking crying, is he that fucking repressed? he’s so repressed but is it to the point that your own older sister dying of drug abuse doesn’t even fucking shock you? this is just reminding me of so many awful fucking things that have happened over these past 5 years, because what the fuck has happened and why?