#just. feeling a lot of grief. a lot of anger. a lot of shame and guilt and simply not good enough in every single aspect of my life

[bixels]

Learning that fans hated Applejack and called her "boring" is crazyyy to me because I genuinely, unironically believe AJ's the most complex character in the main six.

Backstory-wise, she was born into a family of famers/blue collar workers who helped found the town she lives in. She grew up a habitual liar until she had the bad habit traumatized outta her. She lost both her parents and was orphaned at a young age, having to step up as her baby sister's mother figure. She's the only person in the main gang who's experienced this level of loss and grief (A Royal Problem reveals that AJ dreams about memories of being held by her parents as a baby). She moved to Manhattan to live with her wealthy family members, only to realize she'll never fit in or be accepted, even amongst her own family. The earlier seasons imply she and her family had money problems too (In The Ticket Master, AJ wants to go to the gala to earn money to buy new farm equipment and afford hip surgery for her grandma).

Personality-wise, she's a total people-pleaser/steamroller (with an occasional savior complex) who places her self worth on her independence and usefulness for other people, causing her to become a complete workaholic. In Applebuck Season, AJ stops taking care of herself because of her obsessive responsibilities for others and becomes completely dysfunctional. In Apple Family Reunion, AJ has a tearful breakdown because in she thinks she dishonored her family and tarnished her reputation as a potential leader –– an expectation and anxiety that's directly tied to her deceased parents, as shown in the episode's ending scene. In The Last Roundup, AJ abandons her family and friends out of shame because believes she failed them by not earning 1st place in a rodeo competition. She completely spirals emotionally when she isn't able to fulfill her duties toward others. Her need to be the best manifests in intense pride and competitiveness when others challenge her. And when her pride's broken, she cowers and physically hides herself.

Moreover, it's strongly implied that AJ has a deep-seated anger. The comics explore her ranting outbursts more. EQG also obviously has AJ yelling at and insulting Rarity in a jealous fit just to hurt her feelings (with a line that I could write a whole dissection on). And I'm certain I read in a post somewhere that in a Gameloft event, AJ's negative traits are listed as anger.

Subtextually, a lot of these flaws and anxieties can be (retroactively) linked to her parents' death, forcing her to grow up too quickly to become the adult/caregiver of the family (especially after her big brother becomes semiverbal). Notice how throughout the series, she's constantly acting as the "mom friend" of the group (despite everything, she manages to be the most emotionally mature of the bunch). Notice how AJ'll switch to a quieter, calmer tone when her friends are panicking and use soothing prompts and questions to talk them through their emotions/problems; something she'd definitely pick up while raising a child. Same with her stoicism and reluctance at crying or releasing emotions (something Pinkie explicitly points out). She also had a childhood relationship with Rara (which, if you were to give a queer reading, could easy be interpreted as her first 'aha' crush), who eventually left her life. (Interestingly enough, AJ also has an angry outburst with Rara for the same exact reasons as with EQG Rarity; jealous, upset that someone else is using and changing her). It's not hard to imagine an AJ with separation anxiety stemming from her mother and childhood friend/crush leaving. I'm also not above reading into AJ's relationship with her little sister (Y'all ever think about how AB never got to know her parents, even though she shares her father's colors and her mother's curly hair?).

AJ's stubbornness is a symptom of growing up too quickly as well. Who else to play with your baby sister when your brother goes nonverbal (not to discount Big Mac's role in raising AB)? Who else to wake up in the middle of the night to care for your crying baby sister when your grandma needs her rest? When you need to be 100% all the time for your family, you tend to become hard-stuck with a sense of moral superiority. You know what's best because you have to be your best because if you're aren't your best, then everything'll inevitably fall apart and it'll be your fault. And if you don't know what's best –– if you've been wrong the whole time –– that means you haven't been your best, which means you've failed the people who rely on you, which means you can't fulfill your role in the family/society, which makes you worthless . We've seen time and time again how this compulsive need to be right for the sake of others becomes self-destructive (Apple Family Reunion, Sound of Silence, all competitions against RD). We've seen in The Last Roundup how, when no longer at her best, AJ would rather remove herself from her community than confront them because she no longer feels of use to them.

But I guess it is kinda weird that AJ has "masculine" traits and isn't interested in men at all. It's totally justified that an aggressively straight, misogynistic male fandom would characterize her as a "boring background character." /s

At the time of writing this, it's 4:46AM.

[s-4pphics]

soul ties. part I (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: a product of brokenness. WORD COUNT: 13.4K WARNINGS: ellie’s a painter/art dealer, heavy angst[oc is suicidal and has dissociative episodes + abusive parents/SEXUAL ABUSE(nothing explicitly written but aluded to) + patriarchy/men being predatory/traditionalist households + mentions of cheating + alcoholism + disordered eating/self-harm(cuticle picking) + thoughts of murder + mommy issues/daddy issues + parental grief + homophobia + more patriarchy but with dykes + unhealthy relationships with sex(coping) + brief mention of masturbation + sexual tension + making out + fondling + slapping + DUBCON + just matching freaks to avoid trauma], miscommunication, just 2 socially inept crash outs lol  A/N: hellloo lol. fixed plot bc im venting… s been a very rough few months. i was convinced i lost my very acute skill so uhhh consider this a test. uhh what else… idk when i’ll be back bc im now a piano player #NEWFOUNDESCAPISM LOL.  suggestion: this technically could b read alone but if u care ab context read this first. then this. that is all LOL byeee :p hi taggies we back: @dyk3ang3l @acidblum @mellifluousgirll @elliesatchel @callmewhenyoukan @natgf123 @elliesstella @spaceforescape @floridaopal @lonelyfooryouonly @ellies-converse @amiorca @darkerstarsstuff

fuck the bitch that made this game.  dont buy his shit.

aid links from my inbox: one, two, three, four

What to do, what to do… 

Ellie is a wreck. An agitated, craving, mess. 

What to do… Love your wife, fuck the daylights out of your wife, kill your wife before she kills you… What to do… 

It can’t be that hard to hide a body. Is it still murder if it’s self-defense? Ellie’s sure the next bath you run for her will either be filled with bleach or result in her being forced underwater until she’s lifeless. There are lots of people willing to get their hands dirty for her if that’s the case. Not a trace of you or her would be left and she’d finally be able to escape with only the clothes on her back. The weightlessness in her pockets wouldn’t move her in any way. Nothing compares to freedom. What a suffocating life she lives. 

The guest room mattress becomes less and less plush every time she lays in it. The sheets are itchier and cold and she’s stuck pondering with each swirl of the ceiling fan, wet hair wrapped in a bath towel; restless, fidgety, and honey-like ache in the pit of her stomach, mind warped with lecherous thoughts of her wife that she despises but not as much, her supposed life partner and fuck, how did you two get here…

Stuck with a tension so thick it permeates your home; if you’d even call it that. You’re both successfully trapped between your own walls; Elegant windows take the place of rusted, metal bars that confine you from the life you both dreamed of before all this; one soft and doting and colorful, one where your light isn’t dulled. 

Why does she feel so guilty, suddenly? You’re not lovers, and neither in love, so why does her chest ache with every glance she steals when you’re unassuming? The pain that’s always etched on your face, and if not, in your eyes — fills her with regret. She would abandon you for days — weeks at a time, not at all concerned about what you might be experiencing to rid herself of shame. And to think that you were merely a younger version of your mother; villainous and cruel and greedy when… when you’ve barely spoken. She finds herself, unfortunately, reminiscing on how bushy-tailed you were after marriage. So eager to please and prick her mind and annoyingly mechanical. You cooked at the same time everyday. Cleaned, did both your laundry, sunbathed, swam in your pool. She hated how rehearsed your lifestyle was; it reminds her of the worst parts of her childhood. When her mother was alive. So, Ellie chose to step out on you the second you took her last name; ravaged other women, released her anger and desires on strangers when she should’ve had you beneath, above, on your knees for her. Where has that craving to harm you gone? For months, she’s ached for your suffering to mirror hers, but now… What’s happening to her? What’s happened to you? 

Ellie believes you’ve lost it, and somehow she’s found herself chasing that unforeseen part of you; unfiltered and angry and wild. This manufactured doll your mother molded you into is shattering at the core and Ellie craves to see more of you. Guilty. As hurt as you were, that night was the most alive she’s seen you be. You shouted and cried and tore at the seams, desperate for someone to hear you, and Ellie did. Loud and clear. She saw you for what you are. Mangled from the inside out, entirely hopeless. Just like she is. An unspeakable link that binds the two of you.

Soul ties. 

She shook and pleaded for you to enter the bathroom and see her battered against the shower wall with a hand between her legs and your name dripping from her lips, but the knob never twisted. Her orgasms were unsatisfactory, and she accepted with irritation that it was because you weren’t there. She ignored the throbbing between her legs and vacated the bathroom. Ellie, with legs that trembled, found you wrapped in satin and snoring. They sounded like whistles. 

She stood for a while, just watching you twitch and wiggle in your rest, eyes glazing to the space beside you that could easily fit another body. The sheets are already warm from where you lay. The two of you have never slept in the same room, let alone bed. 

Her feet carried her out. Silently left the room with an unfamiliar ache in her chest. 

Her mind made an enemy out of you because that’s what you are. When she thought her life couldn’t get any worse, you appeared and destroyed everything in her path. Left her world in ruins. Disrupted her pattern. You’re an enemy and deserve to hurt. 

Aren’t you? Don’t you? 

Everything is unclear. Ellie hasn’t been this conflicted since she was 15. She wishes she could sleep forever so she wouldn’t be forced to think. 

If she had any sense left, she would paint her agony away. In the past, her mind would shut down with every splash of color on a canvas to compensate for the darkness that conjured in her mind. She refrains from that now, though. She’s horny; scared she’ll start imagining what your pussy looks like and sketch it all over the bedroom walls. That’d be too much; a boundary that will remain untouched.

But her brain knows she’s not a good person; she can’t help but imagine how gorgeous your pussy is because you are and she’s known that since the beginning, the second she saw you drenched in white. Drenched in sorrow. 

She clutches your wedding band in her palm. 

What to do… what to do… 

Birds are artists. 

They never fail to sing every morning; sonnets aimed to awaken life as sun rays spill from behind mountains. You've always appreciated their tunes whenever you were pulled from a hollow rest, no longer surrounded by darkness. 

Maybe it was the routine your mother set for you from young. You were 9 when she first coddled your drowsiness as she shook you awake at five in the morning; the early bird catches the worm, a saying you naively assumed as preparation for the day, for your homeschooling. An energy booster, possibly. Motivation. Something to get you through. 

How stupid could a child be? 

You were 12 when your cycle started. You were 12 when you realized that your mother never envisioned actual birds and worms like you had. Your mother has games she plays and she cheats. She’s had you on a leash for the past decade; the scars around your neck are forever a reminder of the hell you’ve endured under her hand. It took no effort on her part to be uncaring of your suffering, and somehow that aches more than anything else. 

Even more than the existence of him. A demon walking.

Animals aren’t like your family. Birds aren’t. The minute specks of sunlight begin, their job starts, and they complete it happily without compensation or praise or the slightest acknowledgment. Everyone wakes, and they fly to anywhere to wake the next. 

But wealth is dirty. Wealth makes people dirty. They swindler and lie and experience life with a vacancy that’ll never be filled with anything but greed. Your mother trained you for years to accept whatever was given as long as you were taken care of. Play your part, she’d say. It took you years to learn her strategy — and unlearn yourself — but you’re here. Married. Successful by association. Rich. Unhappy. Unloved. 

Birds guided you. They never shy from their duty, and you hadn’t either… 

But you’re human. You crack and cry and scream and you hate. You despise so strongly that you lash out and everything in your path becomes victimized. Sometimes it gets to a point where you crave blood. You want to drown in it, drink it until you’re sick. Your soul is dead. Everyones’ should die with yours. 

You don’t know who should go first. Your mother, your stepfather, or your wife. 

You want to swallow Ellie whole—

“Good morning.” 

You’ve never seen Ellie not dolled up. She clearly just awakened with her wrinkled MILFS ONLY shirt and sporadic hair. Timidity doesn’t suit Ellie. You're so used to seeing her exasperated. Her weary eyes don’t meet yours. You should tell her your plans to adopt a hummingbird. Or maybe you shouldn’t. She might laugh at you.

“Hello.” 

“… Hi.” She seems like she wants to say something. You sip your coffee. 

“My dad called.” 

You hum around the rim of your mug. “Woke you up?” 

She merely shrugs. “I uh… did anyone tell you about tomorrow?” 

“Of course not.” 

You don’t expect Ellie to flinch at your tone. You weren’t that sharp, were you?

You might’ve been because she slows her speech. Like she’s approaching a wounded animal, “Dad’s hosting a dinner. Corporate bullshit but we have to go.” 

“Why.” 

She squints at you. “Why what.” 

“Why do we have to go.” Your mug lands on the table harder than expected. 

“To make mommy and daddy look good.” She sneers while approaching her seat, “Did you forget?” 

“I just thought they wouldn’t want two dykes contaminating their spaces anymore.” 

Ellie snorts. “They don’t. Companies do. Gets their cocks hard. Two gay daughters, how progressive!” She mocks and plops on the chair directly across from you, wiping at her eyes. Your throat dries when you notice her wedding band. She hardly ever wears it. You don’t know where you left yours. Since when does she care to wear it? “They’ll do anything they can to get on their good side. They’re… merging organizations or whatever the fuck he said.” 

She swallows. Shrugs uncaringly, “We going?” Her eyes watch your hands squeeze your mug. 

“Are we.” 

She regards your cup with caution. Does she think you’ll throw it? The thought nearly makes you laugh. 

“Yes.” She answers. 

“Okay.” 

Your wife finally looks up and stands, nose upturned, “Okay? That’s all you got?” 

“Yes. Okay.” You sip silently. Your foot taps on hardwood. 

“Excited to see your family? You like ‘em now?” 

Excited is laughable. 

“No, I don’t.” 

The sudden calamity from your wife confuses you. She tugs at the strands that flop on her head in agitation. They look soft as they bounce with her pacing. You’ll never feel them. Or you might later. Who knows with her. Who knows with you. 

Ellie’s still talking. Her arms flail like she’s annoyed by you. You’re not sure why. You’re following. You’re allowing her to guide. To control. That’s the entire point of this. That’s why you’re going to dinner with her. She told you to go and that’s it. 

Play your part play your part play yo—

You don’t remember much of anything; the past, the present, but you recall what Ellie sounds like when she’s angry, whether it’s at you, her father, the woman her father is fucking or married to or whatever. If you’d listen, you’ll discover what ticked her off, but your ears ring too loud. Much louder than her screaming. 

You sip your coffee silently. Ellie leaves you at the dining table with a slam of a door. 

You think it’s the first floor’s guest room. 

The sun sets. Ellie can’t remember the last time she’s been home this long. 

She hates the weekends. The gallery is never open and she can’t drown herself in deals. She hates being home when you are. Why the fuck are you always here? You don’t have friends, a job, a life outside of this goddamn house? There’s a sinking in her stomach at the thought of your isolation, but she ignores it. Tries to ignore it.

… Can’t really ignore it. How pestering. You’re a pest. 

She knows nothing about you, only bits of your past expressed through photographs at your mother’s or outbursts in your bedroom. Your stepfather is fucking creepy and your mother’s glare is killer, but that’s about it. Still, she doesn’t think she can hate your parents more than you. 

You’re so fucking weird. Just like them. Unforgiving and unchaste one day then apathetic the next. How the fuck can one communicate with a person like that? 

That feeling in her chest again. Sharp and annoying. Try try try, it says. Begs from her. 

Try and do what? Do fucking what—

It took Ellie 3 seconds to unlock the guest room door and fly down the stairs when a crash rings from the first floor. Glass clatters and you sound in pain and oh fuck did someone break in

There’s red all over the kitchen floor but it’s not blood it’s red wine. Red wine red wine it’s not blood— 

You’re on the kitchen floor surrounded by green shards and dressed so pretty. Hair coiled and free and your face is done up and you’re wearing flowers. There’s flowers all over and your skin shines and why do you have heels on like a play doll?

Ellie palms at the scattered racing of her heart. Everything’s fine, her brain blares, She tripped, that’s it. Clears her throat. Rustles her hair to appear normal. 

She’s not dead. 

“… You good?” 

An unsteady hand rises to throw her a thumbs up. Your body wobbles when you attempt to stand. Ellie ushers to the counter to slide on her slippers, tells you to stop when your palm nearly plants on a shard. 

“Move back before you hurt yourself.” Ellie takes a quick lap around the kitchen for the broom and dustpan. Finds you just as quickly so you don’t accidentally slice an artery. 

Your lashes flutter and her heart follows suit, taking in the mess. “I think I fucked up.” You croak.

Hearing you curse is always odd. She huffs, “It’s fine. Can you stand?” 

Your head shakes and your bottom lip juts. “My… my shoes…”

You slowly plop onto your bottom and rest your back against the dishwasher. You struggle to grip your buckles to pull and slide the strap and Ellie remembers why she hates heels. She sweeps the glass away from you and realizes she should’ve mopped first because the bristles are soaked and streaking the clean parts of the crystal porcelain. When was the last time she cleaned? The maids always do. Sometimes you help. 

You look stunned when Ellie moves to squat in front of you. Jumps back when she adjusts your ankle. 

Her palms hang in surrender, “I’m gonna help you. Relax. Do your knees hurt?” 

You landed right on them. They should. You don’t disarm, eyes guarded and body locked tight, but you shrug. It’s good enough for Ellie. 

She unravels the buckles around both your ankles and tosses them next to you and you just watch. Ellie’s glances are quick and flitting, but she follows the traces of her hands; the sharp inhales whenever her fingers brush against the skin of your leg. You’re not as close as you were last night but she can smell you. Her chest is throbbing. You look like you’re about to cry but you’re drunk. It’s meaningless. Drunk people cry. 

Try try try try 

“Can you stand now?” She croaks. 

It takes a second for you to register her inquiry, but you shrug, and she sighs. When Ellie stands, both her hands extend out to you, but you don’t accept them; She gets jittery under your scrutinizing gaze after nearly a minute passes. Her throat dries and her face burns when you brush her hands away; standing on your own is an unstable journey, but you do, back against the counter to stabilize yourself. You look ill. Your brain must be jumbled. 

“Can you get upstairs on your own?” 

“You talk a fucking lot. Shut up.”  

The corner of Ellie’s mouth rises, but she says nothing. Gives you space to move. 

You take one step, then two more, then your eyes shut and your throat jumps. Uh oh.

“Oh shit, come—“

Ellie guides you to the garbage can near the front of the counter, away from the glass, and you dry heave. Liquid splatters inside the can and Ellie hates this so fucking much. The sounds are enough to make her own stomach lurch. It’s been a while since she’s been around someone this drunk. 

But she holds your waist so you don’t faceplant into your own vomit. 

“Get it out,” She hums with a grimace, “You’re fine.” An I gotcha almost rolls off her tongue but she catches it. She glides a comforting hand over your curved spine because you’re drunk and you won’t remember such gestures in the morning. She prefers it that way. 

You’re not gagging anymore so Ellie removes herself from you. Until she hears a whimper. And a sob so quiet she assumes you’re trying to mask it. Drunk people cry; she’s seen it countless times. Why does that seering feeling spark in her chest for what felt like the billionth time today? Fucking try, for fucks sake! 

“Let’s… let’s get you—“

“I wish I was dead.” 

Your prayer is hollow. Not even sad despite your tears. So, so empty. Ellie’s seen this before, experienced that nothingness countless times, but despite it all, she never learned how to console. Hell, she barely knows how to self-soothe without falling victim to her dark temptations. Even her paint brushes can’t eliminate the constant ache she feels. She just watches the tremble of your shoulders from behind. 

“I really don’t wanna go tomorrow.” You whisper. 

Ellie sighs. There’s no other choice. You know the stakes; follow your families’ commands or lose everything at the drop of a hat. They’ll leave you both on the streets to rot with no remorse if they please, replace the two of you with two normal children. Het children that won’t deviate. You’re both on thin ice as it is. Mainly because of Ellie. She can’t seem to keep herself out of trouble.

“I…” 

I’ll be with you the entire time. I don’t like being around those cunts either. 

“It’ll go by quickly.” She settles. 

“I hate when p-people look at me.” 

“Me too.” 

“I wish my family loved me.” 

Ellie’s softer now. Only slightly. 

“Yeah…” 

A tug in her ribcage. Try. Please, try. 

“Me too.” 

The pounding beneath your skull wakes you quicker than the birds. You shove your face in the pillow you rest on. 

The devil tells you to check the time so you do. The bedside clock says noon, meaning a new day, meaning it’s Saturday meaning you’ll die. Maybe not physically but mentally. You’re so drained and you’ve barely opened your eyes; the idea of leaving bed alone is enough to exhaust you. Your wrists and legs ache like fucking hell on top of that. 

You make fists with both hands. Repeatedly clench and unclench. The weight is different on your ring finger. Heavier. You haven’t seen your ring since yesterday… or a few days ago — you’re not really sure. You must’ve found it in your drunken stupor. Just when you hoped to never see it again. 

The universe will always remind you who you are. 

If you stand you’ll vomit but your phone is ringing from the drawer you stuck it in weeks ago. How is it not dead? You know your mom’s calling. You hate that she is… 

The ringing stops and you thank the heavens. 

You curse them when it starts up again. 

The drawer slides open with reluctance. The ringing sounds 20 times louder. You retrieve your device blindly and your throat snaps shut when you speak. 

“You rang.” 

“Did your… partner tell you about tonight.” 

Hard and distant. That’s how she speaks to you. Your heart cracks. 

Your mom already knows Ellie did. She loves to bother you with nonsense. You don’t think she’s ever called Ellie your wife. 

“Yes.” 

“You’re attending.” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” 

“Is that all.” 

“Your gown was delivered here. Come by well before 8 to get ready.” 

And she hangs up. Just like that. Always. She’s never told you to have a nice day, or to rest well, or that she loves you, at the minimum. And if she had, you don’t remember any of it. There’s a lot you force yourself to forget. 

The selfish part of you disregards the burning of your eyes to stare at your phone — low battery and… no messages. No texts, no phone calls from anyone except your mother, no likes on Instagram because your mom scared you into not making one when you were a teenager. No one cares about you. People care about your wife, though. Maybe because she’s talented; she’s certainly not nice. 

Your darkest memories are always the most prominent. 

Your phone drops to the floor and you don’t reach for it. You just pray to sleep again. 

Tonight will be interesting. 

The ride to your mother’s is silent. 

At least she chauffeured the two of you. Ellie can be scary when she drives. You’ve never been in a car with her, but she did ram into a lamppost on the sidewalk a few nights after your wedding. 

Your wife is already dressed despite the party being hours away. She sits right next to you in all black; in a trenchie and turtleneck and slacks and loafers with fur and gold jewelry. When she descended the staircase, you gawked when she wasn’t looking. So simple, but she had your heart fluttering when she’d asked, ready? You’re still in your sleep shorts, teeth unbrushed and starving. When was the last time you ate? 

What an embarrassment — you’re an embarrassment, but you can’t bring yourself to care anymore. If only newly wed you could see herself now. 

You swallow a lump when you feel eyes on the side of your face, but yours remain glued out the window. The closer you get to your mom’s, the faster your mind starts to shut down. Everything passes you by in a blur. 

By the time the gates with your father’s initials come into view, your thoughts go silent, only filled with the calming images of nature and the song of birds. Your only escapism. 

The only way you’ll make it out of here in one piece. 

Ellie! Darling! We’ve missed you! Give us a smile! 

Ellie! Ellie, look this way! 

Ellie, where’s your wife? 

She wishes she knew. You’d barely made it into your mother’s home before getting swept down the hall by 4 other people who poked at your appearance. Ellie didn’t even get to give your mom the passive, spine-chilling hi, mom like old times before another SUV came to whisk her away from that hell hole. Her dad always knows somehow. 

She hates being at your mom’s; it’s stifling and quiet and the aura is dark. Like mother, like house or whatever the fuck. 

She scowls when the bombarding questions redirect to you. Some concerning, some sarcastic, some raunchy — those get under her skin in particular — and she can’t stop fiddling with her ring. Her chest tugs tugs tugs. 

Trouble in paradise? 

You were caught leaving the bar with another woman on your arm a few weeks ago! How’d your wife react to that? 

She doesn’t know. She’s never home to see you break. 

Guilt ate at her when the door of your mother’s mansion shut behind her, but she disregards it now. You shouldn’t be forced to listen to their guised jabs; You get enough of that from everyone in your life. She hopes you’ll go through the back entrance when you arrive. 

When will you get here? 

Ellie’s never made an event appearance without you. You’d pose and fidget and display awkward affection so that they’d buy your love a little bit, then enter the gathering as two separate hearts, riddled and torn, never to cross paths until the bustle is over and it’s time to go home. 

Finally, security moves and barricades her until she gets past the 20 foot gate and treads the steps. The flashing cameras are still blinding from behind. 

The tended garden is the first thing she notices. Wide and green. The daisy and rose bushes are no longer tangled with weeds and surrounded by dead grass and gnats. How could Joelene not see that and be vengeful? Ellie and her dad may not be close anymore, but she knows him; maybe even more than he knows himself. He still misses her mom after everything, and chooses to express it through her favorite hiding spot. Keeps the flowers that bloom and trims the ones that don’t so she lives through them. Ellie hardly remembers a time when her mother wasn’t covered in dirty overalls and sunburnt. 

She manages to hold it together when the large double doors open. The violins suddenly sound like nails on wood. 

Voices fade into nothing. People are outside your car. Light hurts so terribly. 

One second you’re here, the next you’re not. Your mom and her husband sit across with twined arms and the lace from your dress is itchy and you wanna disappear. When you blink, you’re gone. You only exist on this plain if your eyes are open. 

Something hard and leather brushes against your ankle, scratches against your stockings, slow and snake-like. You know what it is, who it is, and you freeze, eyes locked onto your mother. No matter your hopelessness, there’s still a young girl in you that wishes your mother would defend, act on anger, be disgusted at minimum. At least when his crimes are done in secret you can’t blame her for not knowing. 

But you’re here and she’s here and he’s here. A shared secret between the three of you. 

His shoe doesn’t halt on your leg. Your mother never looks at you. 

Birds and songs and sonnets. You’re a bird and you can fly against the strongest winds. Music is your guide and you follow the clouds. 

Your fingers twist together in your lap and the black interior of the car glows red. If only… he’s not the only one with sick intentions. If only. 

You’re flying you’re flying you can fly and there’s someone who’ll love you gently. They’re out there somewhere and you’ll find them and they’ll find you like every trial was worth it. 

Patience. That’s all you need. Just be patient. 

The rest of the car ride is unbeknownst to you. Next thing you know, your door is being opened and two men await your entry at the glass door. 

Champagne is good. Tequila is better. The two mixed is hell. 

Ellie’s throat burns and her mind swirls but she plays it off well enough. Mingles with pensive, old bastards while their daughters’ gawk at her with bright-eyed curiosity and you haven’t arrived yet. 

She lost her dad somewhere in the night. He greeted her briefly upon her arrival, pointed out the important men of the night, called your mother a selfish bitch, then walked off with his mistress by his side. Ellie’s eyes keep meeting the back door from the living room. 

Where are you? 

“Ellie!”

She downs the rest of her chute and guards her agitation with a grin. Shakes the hand of… 

What the fuck was this dude’s name? 

“It’s an honor! Your art is incredible! I’ve truly—“

—Fucking Ronald? Reginald? … Ronald might be it—

“—Your father, ya know, he’s an interesting man, incredibly smart! I’ve never—“

Her dad gave her a run-down of the … merging or whatever the fuck but what the fuck did he say and holy shit, is she sweating? The man’s handshake threw her off, frankly; almost snapped her wrist in two. Fucking old piece of shit. More business jargon that she pretends to understand and care so much about because it’s a show after all. All cheers and stiff laughter. 

“And your wife! By God, what a looker!”

Her jaw clenches. Where are you where are you where are you

“What we’d give, I mean, c’mon!” Men that pass laugh with him and it’s taking everything in Ellie not to smash this glass over his head. One quick swing and it’s over. For him and her. How promising.

“Where is she anyway? You two didn’t come together?” 

“She um, she’s with her parents right now. They’ll be here.” She jerks her chin toward the entrance. 

“How lucky are you. Treat her like the star she is!” It looks like the shithead’s leaving, but not before taunting, “Holler when she arrives, will ya?” 

And just like that, he leaves Ellie to simmer. Three deep breaths. A man in a suit and tray filled with champagne waltzes passed her and she snags two glasses. Downs the first in one thick swallow before another clinks with hers. 

Why does everyone keep fucking with her? 

“Cheers.” 

Ellie doesn’t need to look to know who it is. She scoffs. “Sounds like you’re having fun.” 

Jolene stands next to her, shoulders slouched and dress glowing under the chandelier. She arches a dark brow, “Who wouldn’t? Men are the most entertaining when they’re on ego trips.” 

“Same goes for my dad?” She snips, and Jolene shocks her with a smile. 

“Meh.” 

“Why are you here.” 

“I just told you—“

“No, where are you here.” Ellie gestures between them, “Why’re you talking to me right now?” 

Jolene downs her drink and shrugs, “My attempts at bonding. On a scale of 1 to 10, how shit were they?” 

“900. Leave me the fuck alone.” Before Ellie can run, a hand clamps down on her wrist. 

“I know—“ The woman rushes, “I know we don’t have the best relationship, but I’m not—“

Ellie almost corrects her out of pettiness; They don’t have a relationship, period. There’s no best or worst. But her sudden desperation halts her. 

“—the enemy. There’s not a lot for us in these spaces. I just wanted to try and establish something. Anything. Between us. It can be so lonely without a real support system.”

Ellie hates the direction her heart turns her mind. Suddenly you’re there and you’re crying and clawing at your chest and Ellie just watches like she did that night. So powerless. So empty. 

But Jolene isn’t you. She chooses to be selfish. Yours comes from self preservation and nothing else. 

Ellie snatches her hand back and throws her the deadliest stare. “You don’t know shit about being lonely. You’re the one who gave up everything you had to fuck my dad when my mom wasn’t looking. How much did you care about her loneliness then? Hm?” 

The timing was perfect, really. 15 year old Ellie watched her parents get into one of their most abhorrent arguments; her dad leaves first, then her mom, then only one of them returns, and it was not her mother. Imagine her shock when a news reporter confirmed that her mother’s body had been thrown in a garbage bag and left in a dumpster to rot. It only took two weeks to mourn before he was marrying another woman. 

Nobody cared that her mother had been shot or stabbed or gutted. She was just a woman married to a successor who raised a deviant child. 

Ellie forces herself to not point fingers, though. Anyone could’ve killed her, she always reminds herself; to keep her from going fucking crazy. But timing… 

How telling is time. 

Jolene’s eyes widen and her grip weakens. Ellie takes that as an escape before she has a breakdown in front of the caviar platter. 

She barely takes a step before she collides with a body. 

Funny. 

She bumped right into a star that shines a royal blue. The woman of the hour, for sure. In her mind, at least.

“Sorry.” You whisper.

“You’re fine. All me.” Ellie says lowly as she takes you in, and you do the same to her. Shy, but yearnful glances. Glossed lips tightly sealed and brows tense. Your dress shimmers and holds you snug and she feels guilty for staring at your curvature. She’s suddenly hyper aware of the vultures that disguise themselves as men and she has an instinct to hide you. And your ring is on. The thumping in her chest picks up. Only slightly. 

“It’s great to see you again.” Jolene says shakily from beside Ellie and she almost loses it before a grating voice interrupts. 

“You, as well. And your husband is…?” 

Your mother. And her lap dog wagging his tail beside her. What a bitch. Both of them. 

Your stepdad says something and you inhale sharply and no one notices but Ellie. She studies you carefully. You look like a frightened cat with a frilled tail as he speaks. Claws out, not because you’re ferocious, but so, so scared. She glances at your stepdad; greasy smile while he ogles at Jolene; what a nasty son of a bitch. 

Ellie whispers to you, “Is everything o—“

“Joel! Man of the hour! How are—“

“Where’s the bathroom again?” You whisper back. 

Ellie takes your hand in hers and flees while the family’s distracted, leading you down a hallway that’s way too long with lights too bright. 

She gestures towards the door. “It’s… This is it. One of ‘em at least.” 

“… Thank—“

“What’s the matt—“ 

“I’m fine.” 

“You look like you’ve seen a fucking ghost. Did that piece of shit say something to you?” Ellie glances to make sure no listeners are hiding in the shadows. 

The widest smile grows on your face as you laugh, hearty and loud with your head thrown back. Ellie stares in confusion. 

“Oh, Ellie! You’re so silly,” She jumps when your hands hold her cheeks. You’re fucking freezing and they tremble. Your eyes are a dark void. 

You lean in closer, lips right against her mouth and they part slightly on instinct. She’s concerned and should ask more questions, but your skin is so soft. Are you gonna kiss her, she wonders? You haven’t kissed since your wedding; your breath hits her mouth and her tongue swipes her lips. Her eyes flutter shut and she aches to touch you—

“Save a seat for me, love? Please?” 

It happens so fast; the frost of you is gone and the bathroom door slams shut while an elderly woman fondly whispers, “young love,” as she walks by. Ellie only nods with a rigid curl of her lips, throat cinched too tightly to swallow. 

You puzzle her. She’s tempted to wait for you, to ensure you make it back safely without bombardment, but then 

“Ellie! Why didn’t you call me! Your wife made it safely, I see!” 

A hand claps on her shoulder while men laugh from the side, boisterous and predatory and so wide their fangs show. Ellie’s sick and a war rages within her. 

“Your father sent me to find you! It’s time to eat!” 

She sends them a weak smile. She rushes away from the door and they follow close behind. 

Anything to lure them away from you. 

Attendees have dwindled, only Ellie and her family and you and yours and some CEOs that are really getting on her fucking nerves. But you’ve eaten, thank God. She can breathe a little. 

Only a bit, though. You’re putting on a fucking show and it’s scaring her; Even her dad seems impressed. Charmed by you. Clinking glasses and telling jokes and smiling. Did your mom hold you at gunpoint before you got here? How much did you drink? Not much from what she’s seen. 

That one fucker from earlier — Raymon or Robert or whatever the fuck — keeps leaning over the table whenever you do. Peeping at your chest, probably. She wishes these steak knives were sharper. 

“So! Our young couple,” says Old Bitch with a Combover and wiggly brows, “When are we getting those heirs?” 

You cough uncomfortably and Ellie squirms in her seat. Your mother scoffs, “Two women can’t have children—“

Said Old Bitch shrugs, “Well, not biologically—“

“My point exactl—“

Ellie’s father cuts in with a tense grin, “When they get to that point, we’ll discuss their options. There’s… many nowadays, evidently.” 

Neither you or Ellie interrupt, but she notices you’ve moved closer to her. Inched your seat a bit. You squeeze your hands so hard in your lap she’s scared they’ll shatter where they lay. You’re not smiling anymore. 

Her dad and your mom are subtle with their blows at one another; snarky with brutal stares, unremarkable to strangers, but you and Ellie know. When dinner ends, you’ll both be caught in their crossfire. 

“There’s no shame in me wanting my grandchildren to be by blood. I shouldn’t have to go shopping for an heir.” Your mother hisses. 

“Sh—“ Joel huffs with disgust, “Shopping for an heir? That’s what you think adoption entails?” 

“Does it not?” Your mother’s tone rises. 

Reggie, Rory, or Russell interjects with a dismissive wave, “C’mon, you too! No need to argue. I’m sure girls like them will be fine with obtaining children! It might be more… complicated, I will say!” 

“May I be excused?” You croak, and Ellie straightens. 

“Why? So you can wallow about dying childless?” 

The table silences. No laughter, no wittiness. Completely still. That wasn’t from your mother. Ellie doesn’t remember the last time she’s heard your stepdad speak so clearly. Her blood thrashes beneath her skin so harshly that her tongue unties. There’s a darkness in her that whispers, “grab that steak knife”. Brutalize him. Just for a second. Do it for you. 

Do it for her. 

“Go fuck yourself.” She spits. 

Your neck almost cracks with the speed you turn to her, eyes wide as the moon. Her father condemns, “Watch your mouth, Ellie.” 

“Or what, you old fuck?” 

Her heart rattles noisily in her chest; her hands shake where they rest on her lap, her cells trembling with the instinct to harm. The gaze of her father is distant and filled with inadequacy for his only line. Nothing unbeknownst to her, but there's a flash of something so deep, so forbidden for them, but she sees it every time they hold contact. Beneath all the loathing and lesions left to drain, there’s longing. An inkling of gratitude that she knows he’ll suppress until he’s buried underground. He’ll never look the same to her, and she imagines the same for him. Too many bridges burned. 

“How’d I do?” Ellie rasps to him, “Hm? The night went how you hoped?” 

Look at what you’ve done, she hopes her eyes say. Tears welt against her will. When was the last time she cried in front of him? She hadn’t even given him that honor at her mother’s funeral years ago. 

Ellie’s stiff stature nearly cracks at the light brush atop her knee. A wind catches in her throat when a pinky turns into three fingers, then five, then a palm that squeezes comfortingly, desperately. Maybe partly to keep her glued to this chair. She gulps the dryness down and a flame lights in the pit of her stomach. 

Her glance to you is brief, barely out of the corner of her eye, but you’re watching her. Intensely, and it scorches her cheeks, all the way down to her neck. Scared cat. Scared cat. Shrilled and cold and frightened to hell and she despises it. 

What changed? She’ll always wonder. That look hardly shook her a week ago and now it makes her teeth ache. 

Suddenly, it’s too warm here. 

“Get up,” Ellie rushes you. Grabs your arm and yanks you from your seat, “Not dealing with this fuckin’ bullshit tonight. We’re leaving.” 

There’s suddenly shouting from all directions of the dinner table with each step Ellie takes for you, but you never drop her hand. She clenches it tighter when you finally reach the back door. 

The door slams shut on the wreckage behind you. 

Consider plan MERGE a bust. 

Ellie’s a thief. You think. Maybe. 

Is it stealing if the car belongs to a family member? Where she snagged the keys from? You don’t remember. One second you’re at dinner, then watching the city pass you by the next. It’s silent in here. 

“Stop.” 

You slam back into your body. Still in the car. You wish you were asleep. 

“Huh?” 

Her eyes watch the road, but a hand rests on both of yours to pry them apart. 

“Stop. I hate that sound.” 

“… Wha—“

“You’re gonna rip your skin off if you don’t stop.” 

… Oh. Yeah. Bloody cuticles. It was all accidental, you swear. 

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize.” Her eyes shut briefly and she sighs, sounding so worn. Exhaustion is her white flag. “Just stop.” 

“Alright.” 

“Thanks.” 

It’s quiet again. The red from the stop light reflects in the car and you’re instantly reminded of your stepfather. 

“Ellie.” 

“Hm.” 

“We should get a bird.” 

“… And do what with it.” 

You shrug, “Pet it. Feed it, too.” Sing with it, you wanted to add. Ellie would’ve probably laughed at you. 

She snickers dryly, “That’s usually what you do with a pet.” 

“I never had one.” 

The light turns green and the car revs. Your wife hums, “I had a fish once or twice.” 

“Lucky.” 

A small — very, very minuscule grin quirks Ellie’s lips and your heart hollers. For joy? In warning? 

“Not really. They kept dying so I gave up.” She snickers to herself, and you can’t help but stare. She starts talking then. Eyes gone, tension gone. She’s suddenly relaxed. 

“My mom… she, uh… loved water. Was always in it or… watching it on TV or something. She always bought fish from fucking… PetCo—“

“PetCo?” You laugh, then Ellie does. 

“Right? She’d take me and be like, “get one”. And I went home with a new fish every time.” 

“I thought you only went once or twice?” 

“… Times 100,” She giggles, “My mom lived there. She would always talk to the cats through the glass.” 

You don’t hesitate, “I wanna go.” 

“To PetCo?” 

“Yeah.” Why not? 

Everything is almost over. So, why not? 

“… K.” 

“So we’ll go?” 

“Mhm.” 

And the conversation ends. The car is silent. Suddenly tense again when you ask, 

“Do you think we’re cut off?” 

Ellie’s jaw clenches and the car is suddenly tense. Back to square one. “Possibly. Tonight was a shit show. It went by fast, at least.” 

“What’s gonna happen to me?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m…”

Alone. You’re fucking alone and know nothing about life outside of what was built around you. Without it, you’ll spiral and fail and face a dreadful reality. No more rose colored glasses even if they’re browned and wilted as is. You’ll be eaten alive by the creatures in the night without a protective border. 

But the curse will end. You won’t inherit or be forced to lie or play a game that ends in fire. Decades of legacy down the drain just like that, and by your own hand. It fascinates you, that power. A force you’ve been withheld from. 

“I don’t know.”

“Still thinking about divorce?” A void in Ellie’s tone. 

“I don’t know.” 

“They’ll never allow it, you know that, right?” 

“What if I just leave?” 

“And do what?” Her voice raises. 

“Who knows. Who cares.” 

“Please,” Ellie exasperates, “Your mom will get fucking SWAT to bring you back.” 

“What good will a corpse do for her?” 

You’ll be dead but you’ll have a bird. A colorful one. That’ll be your legacy. That’s all you need, really. Ellie doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. 

More buildings flash by and suddenly you’re home. Parked in the garage with Ellie beside you, gazing off into opaque walls. You wonder what she’s thinking. If she sees everything in black and white like you do. Maybe she’s the opposite, vision bright and full of suppressed color. She is a painter after all. 

“What’re your plans?” Ellie suddenly whispers. 

“For?” 

“Life. The future. Anything,” She pries and digs for something, “There has to be something that interests you! That gets you excited! There’s so much shit to do.” 

You shrug. Not much. Not anything. 

“I used to be excited for my wedding,” You mumble, “Like… as a kid. White dress and flowers and everyone’s just excited to be there. For love, and whatever, you know? That’s how it was in movies, at least.” It’s embarrassing to admit, but it’s off your chest. The unhealthy romanticization of the happiest day of your life ended up being just another day to honor the greed of your families. Everyone was so lifeless when they watched you and Ellie kiss. It hadn’t even lasted 3 seconds before she shoved the band on your finger with teary cheeks. Such beautiful scenery was wasted on misery. 

You look over and Ellie’s eyes are roaring, palms squeezing together in her lap while her wedding ring twists around her finger. You watch it cycle. 

“Now I…” You chuckle sadly, “I just want a bird, to be honest.” 

With your heels and purse in hand, the car door opens and you exit, forcing yourself not to peek through the windshield at Ellie again. 

The second floor, your bedroom, your bathroom, are all quiet. Did Ellie not follow you inside? For a while, you envision what it would be like if you weren’t married. If you weren’t born as you, would your world be this still? 

It haunts you in the shower. Wolffish eyes and dry hands grasping at your shoulders and waist but everything’s quiet. 

You wash your face, brush your teeth, wrap your hair alone. You wonder if anyone is actually in the house. Was Ellie a figment of your imagination? Is this one of the nights that proves she doesn’t exist and that your brain is your greatest enemy? You shove your face into the mattress before your thoughts venture. Silence rocks you to sleep, but not forgetting the taunting desire to know 

Is death this quiet? 

Your mom’s calling. 

Vibrations rattle in your bedside dresser. The sun isn’t up yet. The birds are still resting. She never calls this early… or late. Something bad must’ve happened. It takes 17 seconds for your drawer to stop shaking before it starts again. 

You can’t move to answer, though. Your body isn’t yours at the moment. Your soul will reclaim its shell soon enough. Or maybe it won’t. 

Your drawer shakes shakes shakes. Your heartbeat eventually matches the pace of its vibrations. You think it’s been 20 minutes. Maybe longer. When will the birds wake? 

Finally, the calls stop. Your eyes shut again. Instantly taken by darkness. 

You never wear normal clothes. 

Ellie’s only ever seen you in thousand dollar dresses and high heel shoes that scrape your achilles and cloth that squeezes you so tight she thinks she might explode by just looking at you. No matter how fucking good you look in them. 

So what the fuck is that? Moreso, why does she like it so much? Her cheeks are on fucking fire and her heart is trying to flee its enclosing. 

You have a t-shirt on. A simple, non-Gucci white tee that says LAS VEGAS and black shorts and a scarf on your head and socks with squirrels on them. Is this the fucking matrix? 

You never wake up this late, either. It’s 20 till 10. 

“Did my mom call you at all?” 

No… no she didn’t… Why can’t Ellie speak? She’s sitting there gaping like a fish and taking guilty glances at your nipples through your shirt. She shakes her head. You nod yours. 

“I uh…” She mumbles with a cotton mouth when you step into the kitchen, “I made coffee.” 

“I smelled it.” You serve yourself at the counter. 2 Splenda packs, no cream.

“Did your mom call you?” 

“Yes.” 

“What’d she say?” 

“I didn’t answer.” 

… Interesting. Odd. Her calls are never missed by you. 

“I hope it’s something bad.” 

Ellie swallows her sip thickly. “… Damn. Why?” 

“She deserves it.” You say calmly while stirring. “He does, too.” 

“Your dad?” 

“My stepfather,” You hiss and slam your mug on the table. Ellie flinches, “Yes.” 

Her palms raise in surrender, “Sorry.” 

“Where do you go at night?” The chair across from her scrapes on hardwood when you sit. 

Nowhere, recently. Ellie shrugs as nonchalantly as she can, “Anywhere. Wherever I want.” 

“Take me next time.” 

She pauses her sip to ogle. “Hm?” 

“Take me. I wanna see what’s fun for you.” 

Ellie huffs a shocked laugh, “No, you don’t.” 

You squint, “Yes, I do. That’s why I’m asking to see.” 

“It’s not your scene, dude, trust m—“

She jolts where she sits when a hand — your hand, soft and agile and cold, slams down on the table, rattling both your mugs and the vase that holds dead flowers, nearly shattering the glass with an accusatory finger. 

“You dunno know shit about me! I’m fucking going whether you like it or not! Whether she likes it or not, and if I have to do it myself, I fucking will, you fucking psychotic fucking bitch!” 

You rise and stomp to where she sits with a pounding heart and a lecherous swirl in her gut. You look about ready to slice her open with a blunt butter knife. 

“You treat me like fucking trash just like everyone else,” You whisper venomously, and Ellie shakes, “The least you could do is listen for once. Scared to take me to the place you cheat on me at? Don’t want me to see it? That’d be too real, huh?” 

Ellie exhales a shaky breath of your name, but your nails, cut and manicured to perfection, sink into her cheeks so tightly that she winces and blushes and her tummy twists with heat. You don’t flinch when her fingers delicately entangle around your wrist; doesn’t want you to think she’s holding you there even though she is. 

“You’re gonna show me a good time tonight. If it’s as fun as you say, that shouldn’t be an issue, right?” 

Her eyes must read yes, yes, it’s not a problem; Your grin is wild like a hyena; pretty lips swelled around pretty teeth and you always smell good. Caramelized sugar and nectar.  

“Who knows,” You purr and Ellie feels goosebumps forming, “Maybe I can meet one of your little friends.” 

She chokes around a gasp before her lips curl into a conniving grin, cheeks plush around your fingers, “Aren’t you a little hussy.” 

“Fuck you.” You shove her so hard her back collides with the seat but her eyes glow pink. She watches you leave the kitchen and stomp up the steps with a burning chest until a door slams from upstairs. She releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding, wracked and desperate. 

-

-

-

Ellie will never admit — or maybe she will, but she purposefully uses your shared bathroom to catch glimpses at you. She always expects to find you out cold and wrapped in warm blankets, chest fluttering with each twitch of your socked feet that peek from below the blankets. 

What she doesn’t expect to see, though, is your phone shattered to pieces and left to drown in the clogged sink. Right next to a weighted rubber mallet; Where’d you find that? All your pent up emotions were taken out on your device… and the counter, apparently. The marble is chipped. 

She can only laugh in astonishment. Amazement. Fear when she realizes… 

Your mom.

Did you ever answer the phone?

Another day you’ve slept away. Either you were dreaming or someone was holding you suffocatingly tight; you enjoyed it, strangely. The sun is completely gone and there’s rustling and music echoing from the bathroom. Ellie’s in there. 

All the blood rushes to your head with how quickly you sit up, but your feet carry you past your closets until the light from the room sizzles your vision. 

Your wife stands by the mirror, drying her hair with a towel with a cigarette between her fingers. The guitar synths coming from her phone are grinding in your ears. 

Is she really keeping her promise? 

Did she promise to take you? You don’t remember. 

“Hi.” Her eyes meet yours in the mirror and your spine twitches. You say nothing, so she chuffs with a teasing lift of her lips, “Chickenin’ out?”

“No.” 

“K.” 

“What do I wear?” 

She shrugs, “Whatever you want to.” She speaks around smoke and her timbre’s dry. 

“What are you wearing?” 

“Whatever I want to.” 

She must sense your skepticism because she’s suddenly reassuring, voice crackly, “You’re not under any expectations tonight. You wanted me to show you what I do for fun, and I’m gonna. You just have to do your part and enjoy it.” 

Your nails dig into your thighs while you watch her. She has her ring on and her body wash coats the room in cinnamon. With a pounding heart, your hands slowly drag up your sides, fingers dragging at the hem of your shirt. She’s not looking. 

Enjoy it…

“Did you eat today?” 

“No.” 

She gives you a look. Stern. What is she mad about? Your tummy flutters, “There’s leftovers downstairs, you can have ‘em,” She shakes her wet hair and puts on her glasses, checks her watch, checks her phone, hits her cigarette. “We’re kinda behind so you should get read—“

Enjoy it. 

Her eyes meet where your shirt drops to the floor, breasts on display while your hands inch up your legs to drag your shorts down, all while you watch her. And she watches you. It’s overwhelming, your wife as an audience while you undress. But she told you to enjoy it. Enjoy the night. Enjoy the stares. Enjoy the attention. Enjoy her, for once. It all seeps into your pores. You step out of your bottoms and peel your socks off. 

Ellie drinks you in slowly. Says nothing. Simply takes her time memorizing every line, curve, dip, scar of you. You like how ravenous she looks. The sin in her pupils only darkens when your thumbs hook in your underwear to shed them. They dangle from your index finger when you walk; You smile when her throat jumps. 

She watches your filled hand travel to her pant pocket to shove the flimsy cloth in. The muscles in her back twitch when your finger traces her spine. Ellie’s pretty, littered in cute, red and brown spots. 

“I’m gonna shower.” Your lips brush her ear, and goosebumps rise all over her arms. Her eyes flutter in a pleasant blink, nodding in understanding. 

Your wife takes her lighter and reignites your favorite candle while your water warms. How sweet of her to set the mood for you. 

Ellie finishes her cigarette while you lather, watching her through the fogged glass of the shower walls, massaging soapy hands into your breasts and your legs and everywhere. She lights another at some point, bent over the counter while she smokes, ogling you through the mirror shamelessly. You smile when it settles in your chest.

You’re gonna fuck your wife tonight. 

What a fucking oddball you are. It’s cute. A little sexy, too. Only a little, she swears. 

… Fuck. 

She waits for you on the bed, dressed and jewelried, fiddling with her watch out of nerves because what the fuck are you playing at? Whiplash; that’s what she’s had all fucking day because of you. She works in the morning, for fucks sake. 

Still…

Does she deserve this sudden… What the fuck even is this? Certainly not affection; you nearly strangled her at the dining table. Attention, possibly? Seduction? She’s wired to hell, she wants you so bad. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

She could act on her attraction, sure. She’s positive you’d allow her to take whatever she wanted because that’s what you’re trained to do; to satisfy your partner — husband, she imagines your mother grating — in any way he desires. But Ellie’s not a man, and she doesn’t want that. She needs you to love it, to crave it as much as she does. To take from her like she dreams of taking from you. Ellie needs you to batter her, and if you’d like, she’ll do the same to you. 

If only you’d give her something tangible. Teasing isn’t enough. She’s desperate to get a grasp on your headspace; she wishes she could prick and prod at your brain for a second. What an experience that would be. 

You enter the bedroom like a ghost; hair still wet and coily, dressed in all black like she is, only decorated with gloss and earrings. No heels either. Just very shimmery looking flip-flops. Ellie bites down a smile. 

“Where are we going?” 

She shrugs at your inquiry, “Somewhere really, really loud.” 

“Will people find us?” Paps, you mean. Ellie denies. 

“Not where I’m taking you.” 

“Must be secretive.” 

She tuts, “Not… well, maybe. It’s fun though. I think you’ll like it.” 

“Okay.” 

Ellie stands with her wallet and keys and kiddingly offers you an arm to hold onto. “M’lady.”

But you don’t accept it; back turned, halfway out of the room towards the stairs.

Pleasant. She doesn’t mean to smile. 

She makes sure to grab the to-go box from earlier before locking the front door behind her. 

It is very loud here. And hot. And raunchy. 

… You like that. Your mom would have a heart attack if she were to ever walk in here. 

The trip to this whatever, wherever place was pretty far. You counted every second of the nearly hour ride, mainly because Ellie’s jittery knee made you nervous. It’s smaller than you assumed, but not quaint. Not at all. There's a ruckus from the entrance to the back exit, people your age and older, screaming and shouting words that you don’t know while people pound on drums and shred on guitar. They sweat through their clothes while their makeup streaks down their faces as they make love to microphone stands. 

… Better than tea time, you suppose. How exhilarating. Your heart’s pounding like crazy.

Not much can be said between you and Ellie. You can’t hear over the bass and rumbles from the floor but she holds your hand and small purse. Guides you to a small section in the back with a bar. She hands the tender her card and… that’s it. Four clear, questionably large shots are poured and slid to her like nothing. You want all of them. 

Ellie seems so at home as she guides you, already a burning shot down, into the crowd. You’re shoved instantly by party goers, but she catches you, holds you strongly. You look at her, puzzled with shock, but she uncaringly lifts her shoulders, downs a shot, and starts thrashing. 

Your jaw slacks and lights beam and flicker at a rapid pace but you’re smiling. Your wife meshes with the scene so nicely. You wanna be like that. So you follow. You drink and jump and flail and scream your head off. 

You and your wife are synched for once. Terrible dancers. No rhythm whatsoever. Who cares who cares who cares.

You wish your mom was here to see you like this. You hope your mom’s dead so she never has to see you like this. A thought so dark shouldn’t bring you this much joy. You laugh and holler at the imagery. Blood all over the marble. Blood all over the doors of your childhood home. Blood blood blood everywhere because they deserve it. Look at what they’ve done to you. Sick evil people.

You wanna kill your stepfather. This music makes you wanna kill your stepfather. It’s gorey in itself, almost. Abborherent verbiage. You think Ellie wants to kill your stepfather, too. You should ask her later. Maybe when you're both sober. Maybe you should make your mom watch you skin him alive. Him dying would damage her more than you ever could. 

When your eyes open, Ellie’s gawking at you, seemingly surprised. Impressed? She holds your cheeks to get your attention, gesturing, asking if you want another drink. You nod and shout in her face and she laughs. Ellie holds you by the waist and guides you to the bar. The bartender must like Ellie. You leave with a full bottle this time. 

You and Ellie pass it between yourselves, the night becoming more and more broken. Touchy. Feely. Ellie rubs all over you while you pour liquor into her mouth. A bit dribbles down the sides but she doesn’t care. You don’t either. So you lick the drops from her neck like a cat with milk. Ellie stops and you stop and everything stops. It’s just the two of you, suddenly; all other patrons evaporate to nothingness. Her eyes are blown and heavy as she searches your face, and they halt their wandering at your lips. She’s thinking about it; You want her to see how bad you crave it. Even if it’s just for a second. She smiles, pleased. You shudder. 

But she doesn’t do it. She spins you so your back is against her chest, lips at your neck while she pushes her hips into your ass. She’s messy, drenching your already sweaty neck in spit. Her nails dig into the fabric of your dress, guiding your hips, swaying you on her. You follow. You follow so blindly because you like her hands on you a little too much. You drink and drink and drink. Everything feels light. Good. 

You think Ellie’s speaking to you. Or singing words in your ear. Or maybe she isn't speaking at all. You’re not sure, but your face is burning hot. She tongues at your ear and you make a noise that you can’t hear but hope she can. You need this. 

Her hands are suddenly slow where they crawl up your sides until they rest on your breasts. Your empty hand lands on one of hers to squeeze so that she can squeeze you. You feel her smiling on your skin when your jaw slacks. 

Your head turns to chase her mouth, but she does you one better. Whisks you once more so your chests smash together. She snatches the bottle from your hand, takes one last swig before passing it to eager, drunk hands that wave from behind. You gasp when her thumb catches your bottom lip, pulls it down to get your mouth open enough for her to dribble liquor into. You moan loud enough for Ellie to hear over those booming drums, swallowing down everything she gives, nails sank into her waist while her hips push into yours. When you swallow the last drops, she kisses you. Messy and hot, tongue and teeth; it gets your heart singing. Her pink muscle swirls inside of your mouth and your arms wrap around her neck, yanking her into you so no space is left. Her hands are everywhere; tangled in your hair, grabbing at your hips, your ass, your thighs. Everywhere everywhere everywhere like she can’t get enough of you. You’re overwhelmed and high out of your mind but you follow her guide. Anywhere she wants you, you are. 

Maybe you’re just as bad as she is. After everything she’s done, you should hate her. You think you do. You hate her for leaving you. You hate her for embarrassing you. Abandonment. Her only gift to you. Maybe that’s why you kiss her with such conviction. 

Her touch is passionate; strong but not forceful. She breathes you in like a rarity, something she treasures, all while she licks and tugs at you like a slut. There’s a pulse deep within you when her lips enclose around your tongue to suck it. Your thighs squeeze and she grins madly, giving you one last innocent peck before she grabs your hand to spin you. You laugh and twirl with her. 

You understand why people fall in love so fast. You hate that you’re one of them. 

Or are you simply as delusional as they come? 

You’re even more enthralling when free of restraint. 

Ellie’s drunk and sweaty and exhausted but she uses every last bit of strength to stare at you. She sits at the bar as the crowd dwindles, artist after artist, established or aspiring, all go on to perform, and you haven’t taken a break once. You simply twirl and spin and mouth incorrect lyrics with the widest smile on your face, all while Ellie brings you her drinks to finish. 

You’ve been here for hours it seems, but Ellie can’t drive. But the night is young. You certainly don’t look ready to go home. 

What more can she show you?

“Thank you all for comin’ out! Tonight was a dream—“

You’re a dream, Her chest screams. You you you you fuck—

You clap like the happiest seal on the planet before spinning around to face Ellie. It happens in flashes: you come closer and closer until you’re in front of her, warm hands on her cheeks, ears tingling when you whisper, 

“I didn’t get to meet your sluts.” 

You sound upset about it. Ellie stumbles about how they didn’t come, how they’re not here. How she doesn’t wanna see them right now and she means it all, but you don’t believe her, and her chest hurts. Guilty guilty guilty. 

“Get up.” You step away and Ellie pains to pull you back, savor the night a second longer. But she signs the receipt before following you towards the exit. The cold air feels so good. She needs water now. 

She gives you a little yank when you start wandering the opposing direction, “Come… come here. This way.” 

You grin and slur, “Where to?” 

Ellie’s brows wiggle playfully, “Gas station. You hungry?”

“…Yes.”

Ellie extends her hand for you to hold, and surprisingly, you accept. Her heart jolts to life. 

The walk is quiet. Your eyes are glued to the sky, wide and innocent; the large moon entrances you, surrounded by glittery stars. You both wobble down the sidewalk, trying to avoid bumping into pedestrians and other drunkards. She thought the rowdiness of nightlife would frighten you, but you seem drawn to the chaos.  

Soon enough, you’re both surrounded by aisles filled with chips and sodas and a fuck ton of candy. Ellie cringes at the fond stares she gives you holding 4 packs of watermelon sour patches. You’re cute as hell right now. Have you never been to a convenience store? What the fuck. 

“El! El, what the fuck! Where ya been!” 

Her sluggish brain is trying — really trying to figure out who the hell just left the staff room and is walking towards the two of you. It’s someone that knows her name or whatever shortened version they’ve created and the closer this person gets the more you shield yourself behind her fuck fuck fuck

Arms latch around her neck in a strong hug. Muscular, nice voice, smells like cherries. 

Abigail Anderson. Shoulda known. Great. 

“Jesus fuck, you smell like my dad’s liquor cabinet! We fucking missed you! We haven’t seen you in…” 

When Abby pulls back, her eyes immediately find you. Ellie steals a glance; eyes wide, soft with curiosity. They darken slightly when they lock onto Abby’s shoulders, all the way down to her arms and Ellie… why the fuck does that annoy her? 

“Who’s that,” Abby whispers suggestively and Ellie sighs. Scratches at her eye in irritation. 

“I’m her wife.” You say causally, and it shocks both of them. Abby moreso. Did Ellie never tell her? She’s sure she did. Everyone knows she’s married… right?

“Wh— wife?” Her eyes shift onto Ellie, “Bitch, you got married? What the fuc— when—“

“3 months ago.” You answer.

“Fucking — holy shit. Congrats? Uhh… sorry! Nice to meet you! You’re gorgeous, by the way,” She stutters to shake your hand, but you accept it, “I’m Abby!” 

“Hi.” You smile in delight and your shoulders relax. Abby smiles just as gently and Ellie thinks it’s time to go because you’re both getting on her nerves. 

“Alright, well, we're gonna pay, so… yeah. I’ll text you tomorrow or something. We’re tired.” 

“Mhmm,” Abby hums cockily, eyes glued to the mess Ellie made of your neck, “Looks like y’all had a great time.” 

“We did,” She confirms with pointed eyes, “See ya.” 

“Byeee.” Abby sing-songs with a chuckle before Ellie leads you towards the service counter to dump your snacks. Ellie gives the cashier a familiar nod. 

“Is she who you fuck?” 

Ellie chokes on her water and the cashier gawks at you from behind their reading glasses. You couldn’t have been any fucking louder in that moment, what the fuck.

“What—“

“Do you fuck Abby? I hope not in that bathroom,” You clumsily point to the gender neutral sign near the entrance. “I heard they’re filthy—“

Ellie whispers even though there’s no point, “Dude, are you fucking crazy—“

“… It's just a question—“

“Have a nice night.” 

The cashier rigidly hands Ellie the stuffed baggie and receipt. She snatches them before snatching you to leave. She drops your hand the second briskness surrounds you, “The fuck was that about?” Her chips are calling her. She needs a stress reliever. 

“What—“

She squeezes the bag and the pop rings like a gunshot, “Why the fuck are you asking if I fucked Abby? What the fuck—“

“She’s hot and you kinda are… to a certain degree, I guess. I just assumed.” 

Ellie’s appalled, but doesn’t have the energy to look offended. “Stop assuming, it’s… that’s fucking weird—“

You simply shove tiny watermelon slices in your mouth and steal her water to chug it. She watches you impatiently before you hand the crumpled, half-empty plastic back to her. She downs the rest and discards it some-fucking-where. 

Her thoughts are clouded. Did she fuck Abby? Are you forreal—

“I don’t care, you know.”

“About what?” 

You shrug, “If you fuck her.” 

“Please be quiet.”

“Okay.” 

You both do for a while, dead grass and Dorritos crunching around you. 

Until Ellie speaks again. 

“You’re quiet.” 

“Mhm.”

“Sleepy?”

“Nmhm.” 

Wide awake, actually. The world passes you by with each step the two of you take, swirling with bright lights and laughter. You follow Ellie closely, handfuls of candy shoved in your mouth while she munches on her chips. You never had those orange triangles before. Neither of you are in a rush to make it back to the car. Can Ellie drive in this state?

“Do you, uh, like places like that? Concerts?” 

“Yes.” You break out in a grin. 

“What else do you like?” 

“I dunno. I haven’t… experienced much.” You shrug, accidentally brushing against your wife’s shoulder. Electricity sparks near the end of your spine where a steadying hand rests. “Your friend… does she go with you? To concerts?” 

“Who?”

“Aaabby.” You tease, mocking the blonde girl from earlier, and Ellie’s expressions flattens. She's unsure why. 

“Oh, uh… yeah,” Her chip bag is suddenly very interesting. “Sometimes. I met her at one a few years back after a showcase I hosted.” 

“I like her.” She’s nice and smells nicer. You regret not shaking her seemingly strong hand a few seconds longer. Strong all over, actually. 

“… Uh huh.” 

Your brow arches at that, “Does that bother you?” 

“Why the fuck would it bother me? You can like whoever.”  

“Exactly how you like whoever, huh?” You sneer lazily, and Ellie goes stoic. And just like that, the conversation dies once more. You’re glad for it; selfishly, you’d rather refrain from telling your wife about how attractive you found her friend. She’s left you guessing under too many circumstances. Consider this a sliver of revenge. 

You both make it back to the parking lot in silence, minus Ellie’s agitated crunching. You lean against the passenger door while you watch her dig around for the keys. 

“Where to?” 

“It's almost 4 in the morning.” She hisses. 

“So?” You came home later than that for weeks. You wanna say it. You should say it. Grind your thumb deeper into that open wound, but you save it. Another day, maybe. Maybe not. 

“So we’re going home. I’m tired.” 

“Well, I’m not.” 

“Okay? Whatever, I’ll drop you off somewhere.” 

“You wouldn’t leave your poor, defenseless wife unattended, would you?” You whisper slowly, and Ellie tenses when you plant a soft hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t acknowledge you, just stares through the window behind you. You scoff and drop it by your side. Cross your arms stubbornly. 

“You’re mad because I like Abby.”

“There’s nothing for you to like! You just met her.” Her voice raises, and annoyance flares in you. 

“Exactly! I just met her, and I like her! The fuck did you think I was gonna do? Flash her right in front of the gummy worms?” 

“I don’t know! Fucking maybe!”

“So you can fuck other people but I can’t?” 

Ellie’s very close to you suddenly. Your heart jumps, “Oh, now you wanna fuck Abby? She’s the first person you’ve interacted with besides me since we got fucking married!” 

“SO?” You holler. 

“SO YOU’RE NOT FUCKING MY FRIEND! ARE YOU INSANE!” Speckles of spit land on your face and it sizzles into your pores. You might be. You fucking are. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Ellie’s forcing herself into your space, so why do you fight? Why are you hungry? 

Your palms crash into her chest and she nearly loses her balance, “I DON’T NEED PERMISSION FROM YOU! WE’LL FINALLY BE EVEN, YOU FUCKING WHORE!” 

“Yeah? Think Imma fucking whore?” Her grin is sinister, and excitement coils in your belly. Gets your fingers twitching from how hard they’re clenched. 

“Maybe I do.” Vehemence scathed your tongue. 

“You know what I think?” 

“I don’t care—“

“I think you do.” She mumbles against your cheek, “I think you’re jealous.” 

You still. Ellie’s eyes pierce through yours, burning and hot, nostrils flared: she looks like she could snap you in half. Your spine tingles with delirium. 

“You’re mad because I get to be. I can exist and fuck and party and come and go as I please and you hate it. You wish you could do what I do.” She stares like you killed her mother yourself. Strangled her with your bare hands. “I don’t have mommy and daddy breathing down my neck every 2 seconds. You want that so bad it makes you sick.” 

“So why stay?” 

It shocks her. You don’t waver; passive as usual. 

“You’re free and can do whatever you want, right? Why are you here? Go and be that. Be whoever you wanna be because you can.”

Everything will be over soon. Might as well. Ellie simply glares through you. 

Curiosity is your worst enemy. Might as well ask. 

“Why’d you defend me at dinner?” 

What does she know what does she know what does she know what

She rubs her eyes stubbornly, “Oh my fucking god, who gives a fuck!” 

“Me! I give a fuck! Why’d you do it! Why! You’ve never done it before!” 

She knows she knows she knows she knows she knows she knows

“BECAUSE FUCK HIM! FUCK EVERYBODY THAT DID THIS TO US! FUCK YOU, TOO!” 

You might cry, you might not. You’re unsure of everything and you’re angry and hurting. Ellie’s a reflection of you, and vise-versa. You hate her hate her hate her. 

Hatred. It might be the reason why kissing her feels so good. Because it shouldn’t be happening. Ellie shouldn’t have you trapped between her and her car, grinding so harshly into you that your spine bends. You shouldn’t tug at her hair to expose her neck to lick and suck and bite her neck red while she curses in your ear. 

This is the distraction you’ve been desperately searching for. To think you’d find it in your wife after all this time. 

“I’d be a whore for you,” She shamelessly seers against your throat, hands wandering to unbutton her own pants, “You know that, right?” 

… That’s cute. Makes you blush. 

“Yeah?” Her laugh is thick like syrup, “Gets you hot? Knowing how easily I’d give it up for you?” 

That sideways grin makes you tick. Your hand closes tight around her throat and she nearly bloodies her bottom lip with her fangs. Your wife looks pathetic; thumbs hooked into her pants, so ready to drop them for you in the middle of the parking lot. People are wandering about; she’s willing to fuck in front of them? 

How pretty would she look trying to be quiet for you? Nervous eyes searching for privacy, praying no one walks by and sees her on the edge with your hand down her underwear. Hopefully no one recognizes her, pulls out their phone, records the two of you. Blasts you both on social media while Ellie moans in your mouth. What would people think? Your families? How ashamed would they be? Their two girls making a mess of themselves in public. 

The thought makes you smile. Scares you. Makes you choke her harder. Her pained whine vibrates in your palm. 

“Get the fuck in the car.” 

The windows fog with the heat of your bodies; her body trapped beneath yours in the back seat that’s roomier than you anticipated. She rolls your hips on top of her, desperate and eager to rip your fucking clothes off and feel you for real. Your dress rests around your hips, your panties on display and she wishes she could see them. She only has her hands for reference, tracing over each thin seam littered with lace and patterns she tries to memorize. Your tongue belongs in her mouth. You feel so fucking good; you’re not close enough. She needs you closer. 

Her mouth chases yours when you finally separate, only connected by a thin string of saliva, but a stern hand collides with her chest to keep her flat. Her hands tickle your waist. Rests your dress even higher until she can see your belly button. 

“Wanna know a secret?” You whisper down at her, and she smirks. 

“I know you’re a virgin, baby.” She whispers giddily, and your teeth grit. A flame coils in your chest. You ignore her.

“You could’ve had me after our wedding, you know? With my face buried in the pillows and my ass in your face. I would’ve let you do whatever you wanted that night.” 

Your sudden vulgarity stuns her silent. Your wife looks like she’s imagining it; lip bruised from both your and her teeth, mind racing with filth of you in every position she can think of. She wouldn’t have been able to separate from you if that was the case. It’s one of the reasons she kept her distance; those pretty brown eyes rolled back would’ve put her underground. She’d never tell you that. 

“But no,” You say like it aches, “You wanted to go and bend over all those girls that follow you around like fucking dogs. You wanted a bitch, not a wife. Right or wrong?” 

She can barely breathe and your hand pressing on her chest isn’t helping; reduces her to sharp gasps that make her lightheaded. The more ragged they become, the harder you press. Your brow arches when she innocently bares her teeth. 

Her palms squeeze at your ass, “I thought about you the entire time—“

Your hand cracks and her head flies to the side. Right on her left cheek is the already reddening imprint of your hand. The crackles in your palm are numbed by the alcohol and your core burns at the shock on her face. She gawks off to the side, that meddling smile dropped completely, chest ragged with her breaths. 

“Ellie, put your hands down.” You spit, and they drop from you completely, palms flat on the seat beneath her. 

“You had every chance to do right by me and you wasted every single one.” You sound like you’re about to cry; Ellie’s too scared to look at you. Not the good scared that she’s felt around you this entire time, but a hollow scared. The one that freezes you. Her fight or flight is triggered. 

“I think you owe me an apology.” You whisper against her burning face before you kiss it gently. A pained groan escapes her, and you laugh. Loud, in her face. Even louder when she tries to grind her hips up into you. 

“Take us home, wife.” 

[diaryofawhoretbh]

it's too late. | thanos (choi su-bong)

| in which a pregnant girl encounters her ex-boyfriend in a game of survival, for a shot to win some money to pay off their debts.

wc: 1.1k

warnings: none really... just a lot of angst!

NOT proof-read!!

"hey señorita... y/n!"

oh don't tell me that's who i think it is...

i turned around slowly, my heart hammering in my chest. it was like time had frozen for a moment. the moment i had feared, the moment i never expected. there he was.

choi su-bong.

my high-school sweetheart. the boy who once promised me everything. the boy who left when i needed him the most. the boy who broke my heart and disappeared without a trace.

i could hardly breathe as i met his eyes. those same eyes i had fallen in love with at sixteen. the purple hair that was styled but messier than i remembered. the tattoos that covered his hands and his fingers; each one a reminder of who he'd become. the coloured nails, the silver rings that flashed with every movement. that same damn smile; the one that made my heart race, now felt like a dagger lodged in my chest.

"su-bong..." i said, my voice barely above a whisper. the words so heavy with unspoken moments of pain and longing. my hand moved instinctively to rest on my stomach, the one thing that had grown in his absence. but i didn't expect him to notice. why would he? not after everything.

he froze for a moment, as if he didn't know what to do with me. his eyes flickered to my stomach, then quickly shifted away, the confusion creeping into his expression. he looked...lost. like he was seeing me, but not really understanding. i could see the change in him; the same boy i loved at sixteen, but somehow... different. colder.

"you look different," he said slowly, taking a step forward, his voice carrying a touch of hesitation. his eyes searched mine, like he was trying to find the girl he once knew in the woman standing before him. but he didn't get the chance.

"yeah," i replied flatly, trying to keep my composure, my voice colder than i intended. "a lot has changed su-bong."

i wanted him to know how much he had missed, how much he had left. i wanted him to feel the weight of his absence, the pain of being alone when i needed him the most. but i didn't want to show him any weakness. not now. not after everything.

he shifted uncomfortably, like my coldness was making him second-guess himself.

"look i know it's been a while, but we need to talk."

we need to talk? what the fuck. my mind screamed. we've already had this conversation, haven't we? but the words caught in my throat. i couldn't bring myself to say it. not yet. the truth, the pain, it was all so close to the surface, and if i let it out now, it would swallow me whole.

"what do you want, su-bong?" i asked, my voice tight, trying to keep the shaking at bay. "why are you even here?"

his face darkened, the usual cocky swagger replaced by something more... raw. something real. "debt," he said, the word coming out low, reluctant. "i invested everything into crypto. lost it all. i’m here because of my mistakes."

i nodded slowly, the reality of his words sinking in like ice water. "yeah, i know," i muttered bitterly. "i’ve been paying for it too, haven’t i?"

he looked away for a second, but i could see the shame in his eyes. the guilt. it didn’t matter, though. it never mattered before, so why should it matter now?

but then, as if the silence between us wasn’t enough, his eyes flicked down to my stomach. a quick glance, but it was enough. his face went pale, his breath catching in his throat. the shock was instant.

"wait…" he whispered, stepping closer. his voice cracked slightly. "are you-"

i didn’t let him finish. i couldn’t. i felt it welling up inside me—everything i had kept hidden for months. the hurt, the anger, the grief. i pressed my hand to my stomach again, my heart racing as i forced the words out.

"i’m pregnant," i said, my voice barely a whisper, but it felt like it echoed between us. "and it’s yours."

his face went blank. completely blank. like he couldn’t process it. like the words hadn’t even reached him yet. i saw his mouth open, but no sound came out.

i stepped back, keeping my distance, my chest tight. "you weren’t there, su-bong. not when i needed you. not when we needed you."

his expression crumpled, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "i didn’t know," he said hoarsely. "i didn’t know, y/n. i swear."

"you should’ve known," i shot back, my voice cracking despite my efforts to stay composed. "you should’ve been here. but you weren’t. you walked away when i needed you the most."

he took a step closer, but i held up my hand to stop him. "no. don’t come near me."

"i messed up," he said, his voice rough, guilt and regret flooding his words. "i was stupid. i didn’t mean for any of this to happen. i thought… i thought i could fix it. i was trying to make something of myself, but i messed everything up. i messed us up."

"us?" i scoffed, shaking my head. "there was no 'us,' su-bong. there was only you and your damn dreams. your rap career. your crypto, your debts, your selfishness. there was never any 'us' when i needed you. i was alone, and now you think you can just walk back in like nothing happened?"

i felt my hands shaking, my breath coming faster as the anger bubbled up. i wanted to scream. i wanted to cry. but all i could do was stand there, staring at the boy who had left me. the boy who would never understand the weight of what he had done.

"i should’ve been there," he muttered, the words barely a whisper. "but i wasn’t. i’m sorry, y/n."

the words meant nothing anymore. they were hollow. meaningless. he was sorry, but sorry wouldn’t change anything.

"yeah," i said, my voice trembling now. "you should’ve. but you weren’t. and it’s too late."

i took a shaky breath, pushing the tears back. i couldn’t break down in front of him. not now. not after everything.

"you can’t fix this, su-bong," i whispered, the finality in my voice cutting through the space between us. "you can’t fix what’s already broken."

he stood there, staring at me like he didn’t know what to do with himself, with us. i turned away, my heart pounding in my chest. my body felt heavy with the truth i had finally told him.

"i’m done," i said softly, my voice breaking. "you should leave. just go."

without another word, i walked away, leaving him behind.

[3-aem]

Since I was a kid, talking 5 or 6, my parents always told me it would be impossible to make a career in art and I remember thinking why can’t I be the exception? Why can’t you just support me and help me get there? I remember feeling on a gut level, that I had it in me I just needed the practice and investment.

To their credit they did initially support it. Until of course, they felt I had gotten too invested in my Sunday art class, and pulled me from enrollment.

Art was then something I did in secret, something I learned to feel ashamed of. I’d shove my drawings behind the couch to hide them. Lie about the time spent on art assignments. Feel shame at how only my art teachers ever had compliments for my work. But after I failed to get into the international baccalaureate program - a status symbol, I still woke up to my father ripping pages out of a notebook I had been sketching in, calling every single one trash.

Laughably, my dreams went from artist to animator to architect and finally settled on what could only make my parents proud - engineer. Each step a concession to their concerns until there was nothing left to concede.

“I’ve seen other peoples work, yours is nothing to even compare. You wouldn’t have gotten in.” Was all that was said after I submitted my final university applications.

Of course, after years of being forbidden to practice, of not receiving any support to pursue it, of course it was nothing to compare.

A topic that has come up a lot lately in my therapy sessions is this negativity I still feel towards art. If I feel bad that week due to poor engagement, I also feel shame at the loss of focus and misplaced priorities.

If I look at my work and think this is just awful, I then beat myself up not just for failing to make a good piece but for wasting time and for even caring about something like that. When art is useless why waste time trying to make it better.

But someone I met recently asked me why I didn’t quit my job right then and pursue this full-time.

I explained there were many reasons actually. The sense of instability I experience being one. Feeling beholden to the whims of an algorithm and a crowd terrifies me.

However, internally I felt disgust at their suggestion.

Today I realize, that perhaps at the bottom of all this shame, hatred, and loathing is grief. Grief that in the end my parents were right. That I couldn’t pursue this path. That try as I have, I squandered and missed.

I think I will never be allowed this. And it angers me. And it saddens me. Still I keep trying still I keep moving forward. Still I feel shame still I resist.

The same person then asked why all that mattered.

“I know how a true artist thinks and works, and I know myself. And I draw things to be pretty and safe and appealing. So I know I could never be a true artist.”

“No, you’re just a coward.”

“Yes. I am.”

[gffa]

Another reason I agree the Plagieus story is bullshit: when I saw ROTS again in theatres last week, I noticed that Palpatine seems to almost...grin? when he tells Anakin/Vader that Padmé is dead and it's Anakin's fault. The dark side feeds on strong emotions, especially despair, self-loathing, anger, shame - everything Anakin would feel after being told the person he (thinks) he has risked everything for is dead and further isolating him...perfect for Palpatine's own plans. Like, narratively, does Palpatine even know padmé is dead (I don't think so) -- saving Padmé thru the dark side is 100% bullshit concocted to sway Anakin into rationalizing the the dark side. Sorry for the word vomit lol

Anon, you just sent my mind spinning in a whole bunch of different directions! I noticed Palpatine's smirk when Vader starts ripping apart the room in his anger after learning of her death, he absolutely enjoyed that, because he knows that will sink Anakin into the dark side forever, I don't think he ever had any intention of saving Padme. But, to be fair, I think he could have worked with that if they had found a way--if Vader were constantly afraid that she would die, Palpatine could use that really, too. Having her live would have been a useful manipulation tool that would have lasted forever. It also would have been great because Palpatine was good at manipulating Padme as well, so he could have played them against each other, could have played them against each other, as Padme was willing to run away with Anakin, but she drew the line at his actions. Her being torn on her feelings for him, her desperation for him, but also revulsion at his actions, would have put so much fear, anger, self-loathing, and resentment into Anakin's mind. I do think Palpatine knew that Padme was dead--he spent a lot of time with her as well (his greatest connection in TPM was with her after all) and knowing when someone lives/dies seems to be based on how well you know them, how connected to them you are--and Palpatine knew her enough to know that she was dead. But how did he know that Anakin had been the one to kill her? I think he probably saw it in Anakin's mind (he's an evil psychic space wizard, after all) and saw Anakin's memory of it. Whether he believes Anakin killed he or not is up in the air, but he's certainly not going to tell Anakin anything different, because he wants him as steeped in the dark side as possible. That's why he sent Anakin to the Temple to kill the Jedi, even the younglings, because it would be impossible for Anakin to climb out of the dark pit in his soul after that. But as for whether Padme lived or died? I don't think he cared, because he could work with both. Either she lived and he constantly made Anakin fear losing her, being angry at her and then guilty for being angry at her/yelling at her, or she died and Anakin was so out of his mind with grief that he could never get out of the dark side. Both ways, Palpatine wins.

[biting-miguel-ohara]

i love you - John Walker x ftm!Reader

A/N: this is legitimately the longest fic I’ve ever written and I wrote it in two days on my way back from vacation 🫠

This was heavily inspired by the AO3 work Look my Way. It’s a WinterAgent fic but omg does it capture the essence of something I’ve been trying to write about for years now. Definitely check the series out if you like angst with a happy ending but absolutely mind the tags

Also, thank you so much to @fandoms-are-my-h0me for all your help with this story! It wouldn’t be this good without you! 😊

If I’ve forgotten to tag anything, please let me know! Also, don’t like, don’t read!

Dividers by @/enchanthings

CW: Reader is a fireball; Reader is an enhanced anti-hero; mentioned shame rooms; Reader is emotionally volatile; mentioned nightmares; mentioned dysphoria; obsessed!Reader; Reader is emotionally insecure; mentions of wearing a binder; Reader wears a suit; Bob is a good friend; jealous!Reader; Reader wears boxers; kissing; explicit sexual content; smut; biting; masochist!Reader (?); grinding; Walker carries Reader; Reader’s parts are referred to as core, dick, and hole; Walker calls Reader a brat; one mention of the words pussy and whore; dom!Walker; praise kink; oral sex (Reader receiving); cumming untouched; cumming in pants; making out; mentioned top surgery scars; doggy style; dirty talk; fingering; light spanking (?); multiple orgasms; penetrative sex; intense sex; cumming inside; no aftercare; cuddling; angst; protective!Walker; Reader is bad at feelings; Walker is also bad at feelings; ‘I love you’s

4444 words

You and Walker aren’t dating.

That’s what you tell everyone. That’s what he tells everyone. That’s what Valentina tells the public.

You and Walker are just teammates. Teammates with a hell of a lot of tension between the two of you, but teammates nonetheless.

In reality… things are a lot more complicated.

You don’t know how to explain how things started.

You and Walker had always been more amiable towards each other. You’d treated him cordially when you’d first met. It had been easier for you than for the others. You understood the pressure of performance, the way grief turned to anger.

After all, you were supposed to be America’s sweetheart. The pretty, perfect, sweet one. Instead, you’d been angry. Violent. Ferocious and uncontrollable. You’d lashed out where you should’ve been sweet. You’d fought when you should’ve been peaceful.

And it had earned you the scorn of nations.

But when you’d stared Walker down in that death trap of a vault, he hadn’t snapped at you. Hadn’t sneered at you or mocked you beyond a mild comment. Instead, he’d just looked at you with an expression akin to begrudging respect.

And that had started it all.

When everything with Bob went down, you’d been the first to charge after Yelena. The memory of your shame rooms still haunted you, trailing after you in nightmares and in the dark corners of rooms.

It had been Walker who’d found you. Punching through the wall with a yell. Shaking you from your fear and shame and grief and riling you back up into the fierce image of anger the public knows you as.

It’s Walker who continues to rescue you from your nightmares. When you wake up screaming in the middle of the night, terror clawing at your chest. Bitter fear bubbling inside you. It’s his room you seek shelter in.

It’s his arms you hide in. It’s his body you seek relief in. It’s his murmured words that soothe the roaring beast of dysphoria beneath your skin.

But you’re not dating.

Not for lack of want. Definitely not for lack of want.

You want him so bad it feels like a physical thing in your chest. A lump slowly growing and simmering, collecting scraps of obsession and adoration and need. You need his presence to breathe. To function. To exist without feeling untethered and broken.

But you’re scared to ask.

Walker likes you. You know this. He’s told you, in murmured words after sex. In between morning breath kisses. With every meal he cooks for you. You know it as surely as you know who you are.

But it’s not enough.

You don’t want him to like you. You want him to need you. You want him to adore you. You want him to love you.

But you’re pretty sure his heart still belongs to Olivia.

And you’re scared of losing him. Of losing the first bit of stability in your life you’ve had in years.

So you don’t ask. You just want in silence and hope that it’ll be enough for your starving heart.

Most of the time it is.

Tonight it isn’t.

You all are at some gala or other. A charity event, probably. In any case, you all are dressed up. Valentina pulled out all the stops this time, even going so far as to get you a fitted suit. One with a corset vest that hides your chest so you don’t have to struggle with a binder for tonight.

Everyone’s giving you space, except for Bob, of course. He’s clinging to your arm like a nervous dog, using your reputation for starting fights to keep from being asked prying questions. You don’t mind his presence. He’s good company and he’s good at keeping you from drinking too much.

Which you are definitely about to do.

Your mood is worse than usual. You’re practically glaring daggers across the room, wishing with all your might that Ava will phase through the floor all of a sudden and leave John alone.

Not that you’d be able to dance with him tonight. That’d be too close to a scandal. Too close to boyfriend behavior. But you can at least be angry at those who do get to dance with him.

“You know it’s not Ava’s fault, right…?” Bob asks, waving a hand in front of your face. Your jaw clenches and you turn away.

“I know.” The knowing doesn’t help the burning jealousy in your chest.

Bob frowns at you as you down another drink, the alcohol only making you a little fuzzy. You’re by no means a super soldier, but you’re enhanced nonetheless. You haven’t been able to get really drunk in years.

“Maybe you should slow down,” Bob says hesitantly. You don’t respond; your glare intensifying as Ava laughs at something John says.

That should be you.

It burns at your mind, itching under your skin. A furious beast snarling to be released.

“Hey.” Bob nudges you. Your glare turns on him, but softens immediately when he flinches.

“Sorry,” you mutter. You turn away, putting your back to John and Ava’s little happy moment. “It’s just…”

You don’t finish your sentence. You don’t have to. It’s Bob. He knows.

He flashes you a sympathetic smile. “You can dance with me if you want.”

You shake your head. It’s a sweet offer, but it wouldn’t be the same. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

You exhale slowly and assess the room. Yelena’s chatting with Bucky. Alexei’s talking to a reporter while Mel hovers nearby. Valentina is nowhere to be seen.

Giving you the perfect opportunity to slip away.

“Alright.” You nudge Bob in Yelena’s direction. “Go be a duckling with ‘Lena. I’m turning in for the night.”

Bob casts you a worried look. “You sure?”

You force a smile and nod. “Yeah. It’s… probably best I leave now. Before…” You wave your hands vaguely.

He nods. “Alright.” But he lingers for a moment. “Just… don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

That makes your smile turn genuine. “Don’t call John stupid.”

Bob snorts. Shakes his head. And walks away.

You stay at the bar for only a moment longer before you start making your way towards the door. Predictably, no one stops you. They’ve all seen you glaring. No one wants to be the one to pick a fight with you.

“Hey!”

You turn. Walker jogs up to you, giving you one of those stupidly attractive grins that you love so much.

“What?” You wince internally at the sharpness of your voice but he doesn’t even seem fazed.

“Wanna get out of here?” He asks, slinging an arm around your shoulders. Guiding you out of the room with ease.

You should resist. The bitter jealousy is still curled behind your ribs, but you can’t help it. You can’t say no to him.

“Do something fun?” You ask, giving him a small but genuine smile.

He chuckles and pats your shoulder. “Read my mind.” He leans in closer, his voice a soft breath in your ear. “You look goddamn handsome in that suit. I wanna see how handsome you look without it.”

That’s all it takes for your body to light up with arousal. A few words and you’re already wet for him.

“Only if you let me wear your coat while you fuck me,” you murmur back.

His answering grin is blinding and makes your heart thrill.

Your camaraderie turns to lust as soon as the elevator doors close and the cameras are off you. The two of you collide like gravity’s pulling you together. Your hands find his waist, your lips crashing together.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s hungry and desperate and you want to be mean. So you bite at him, nipping at his lower lip till the acrid tang of blood spices your mouth.

He groans, nudging a knee in between your legs. You growl into the kiss, hands working at his shirt. The buttons are a pain to undo but you’re persistent. As soon as enough are undone, you’re pulling at his undershirt and smoothing your fingers over his abdomen.

You can feel his muscles flexing under your touch and you grin into the kiss. He knows how much you love his muscles.

His lips find your neck and he bites. You moan, arching against him. “Fuck, John!”

The pain makes your head all floaty; the sensation sharp enough to soothe the ache in your chest. He pushes his thigh harder against you and you grind down against it. Not caring in the slightest that you’re ruining your suit.

By the time you reach the floor with your rooms, you’re panting into each other’s mouths. You’re palming him through his pants, already soaking through yours.

You move to pull away and he grunts. With one fluid movement, he scoops you up. Carrying you through the darkened common room like you weigh nothing. It makes your core clench; the feel of his arms supporting you making your head spin.

You bury your face in his neck, kissing and nipping like crazy. Making him stumble and groan as he makes his way towards his room. “Fuck, babe. Gonna make me cum before I even get inside you.”

You smirk against his skin. “Like you wouldn’t just get hard again within a few minutes.”

He chuckles and kisses your shoulder. Giving you a soft bite through the fabric of your suit. You groan and roll your hips against his, grinding hard against his bulge. He curses, stumbling again.

“That one was on purpose,” he growls.

You grin. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Your grin vanishes when his eyes gleam with triumph. Your head turns, but you already know. He opens the door to his room, kicking it shut behind him as he enters. He drops you on the bed, already shedding his coat.

Walker tosses it next to you on the bed, gazing down at you with a smirk on his face. “What am I gonna do about it? Well, darlin’…” He leans down, resting his hands on either side of your hips. “I think I’m gonna eat that bratty little hole of yours out.”

You flush and squirm, core clenching at the thought. If there was anything he was good at, eating pussy was number fucking one the list.

He grabs your chin, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Then, I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget your own damn name. Understand?”

You swallow and nod.

His eyes darken. “I said, understand?”

“Yes, sir!” You gasp out.

He smirks, all slow and smug. “Good boy.”

You bite back a moan. If your boxers weren’t soaked already, you’d’ve soaked them through just from that. He knows how weak you are to praise. His praise from him especially.

He pulls back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Strip.”

You swallow again and obey. You work as fast as you can, tossing your clothes carelessly on the floor. You hesitate for a moment before taking off your undershirt. Exposing your scars to his gaze.

His expression softens, but he doesn’t say anything so you continue. Stripping off your pants and boxers before sitting back down on the edge of the bed. Completely and totally naked in front of him.

When you slowly spread your legs, you can see his gaze darken. Hunger filling his eyes. He drops to his knees in front of you, groaning softly. “Fuck, babe. You’re so handsome.”

A whimper crawls up your throat. You can feel your arousal spill from your core, dampening the sheets beneath you. He growls softly, reaching out to swipe two fingers against you. Gathering up your slick. You gasp, hips jolting. He just smirks, popping his fingers into his mouth.

His eyes flutter shut, a moan spilling from his lips. “You taste so goddamn good. Could fuckin’ feast on you all day long.”

You just groan and thread your fingers into his hair. Tugging him towards your aching core. “Shut up and eat me out, Johnny.”

Magic fucking words. He shoves his face against you, growling against your core. His stubble scrapes against you, making you gasp. Then he’s going down on you like a starving man, licking and sucking and eating you out like he needs you to live.

And you wail. “Fuck! Johnny, Johnny, fuck, yes!”

Your heels dig into his back, pulling him closer. You writhe, squirm, grind against his face. It feels like heaven, his stubble adding a layer of pain that makes you delirious with pleasure.

He pins your hips to the bed and sucks on your dick. Swirling his tongue around it and over it in that way that has you seeing stars. You cum with a cry, a broken gasp of his name.

You can feel the way his body jerks. The muffled groan that spills against you. He pulls back, expression dazed and hazy.

You pant, gazing down at him with wide eyes. “Did you just—“

“Shut up,” he grumbles, smacking your inner thigh. He rests his forehead against your leg, exhaling harshly. You grin. “Oh, you did.”

He lifts his head to give you a mild glare, but you don’t care. You push yourself up, giving him the smuggest look you can muster. “Big bad John Walker, cumming in his pants like a teenager. Whatever happened to fucking me till I forget my own— Fuck!”

He surges upward. Lips colliding messily with yours. You moan at the taste on his lips. Your taste.

He bites at your lower lip, sucking it harshly into his mouth. “Fuckin’ brat. Can’t give me a moment of goddamn peace, can you?”

You open your mouth to answer and he pushes you down. Climbing on top of you and shoving his tongue in your mouth to keep you quiet. You moan, legs wrapping around his waist. Hands sliding up his toned chest. Shamelessly feeling up his muscles as the two of you make out.

He’s too distracted to notice when you brace yourself. With a grunt and a huff, you flip the two of you over. Switching so you’re straddling him. Your dripping core nestled right over his covered cock.

You smirk down at him. He scowls. “Don’t even say it—“

“Is that a gun in your pocket, Walker?” You ask smugly. “Or are you just that happy to see me?”

He growls and rolls his hips up against you. Making your breath stutter in your lungs. You moan, thoughts flying away as you start to grind down against him. He’s big and he feels big, even through his pants. And you’re oh so empty, clenching down hard around nothing.

You quickly melt into whimpers, half-humping him as he groans underneath you. You’re just beginning to chase your high when he taps your thigh. You whine, but slide off him. Giving him space to breathe and room to yank off the rest of his suit.

While he fumbles with his belt, you snatch up his abandoned coat. Slipping your arms into the sleeves and buttoning it up just enough to hide your chest scars. It’s comfy. And the collar smells like him; like his nice cologne. The one he wears when he wants people to like him.

John eyes you as he steps out of his clothes. You eye him right on back. You don’t even try to hide the way you’re ogling his dick. The way you’re practically drooling over it. He’s big and he knows it.

He nods at you, jerking his head a little. “Go on. On your hands and knees.”

His tone makes you shiver and you scramble to obey. You get on your knees, ass up in the air. Dropping hole on perfect display for him.

He smirks. And you get no warning before he’s lightly smacking your core. Not enough to hurt, but enough for you to feel it. “Look at you. Soaked already. You get this wet from my mouth or from grindin’ on my dick?”

You moan. Loudly. Unashamedly. Your whole body feeling hot from his words.

He chuckles, slipping two fingers inside you, all the way up to his knuckles. “Look at you. Moanin’ like a whore and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You whimper, eyes squeezing shut when his fingers curl inside you. He’s a god at eating you out, but his hands know your body like nothing else. You’re a mess within seconds. Whining and sobbing pitifully as he fingerfucks you.

And he doesn’t stop when you cum. He keeps going; the sounds obscene in the air around you. You cry his name, chanting it over and over. Voice cracking as he coaxes wave after wave of pleasure from your body.

And then he pulls his fingers out. And you cry from the emptiness instead.

“Oh, shut up,” he grumbles softly. Nothing but quiet affection in his tone. “You’re so needy.”

With a grunt, he lines himself up. Thrusting forward a few times to coat his cock in your slick before pressing in. And you both melt into delirium.

He’s so big. And the angle is just right, making the stretch delicious as he slides in.

He’s panting, forehead dropped against your back. His hips stutter, a moan ripped from his lips. And he cums, spilling inside you with a gasp of your name. You don’t make fun of him this time; too wrapped up in the moment to care.

It only takes him a moment to recover anyway. And then he’s pounding into you. Not even giving you a moment to breathe before he’s bullying his dick deep inside you. And you cry out; desperate pleas of his name, urging him on.

He fucks you with superhuman focus. Hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. Yanking you back against him as he thrusts in. You babble his name, face shoved into a pillow. You can’t think; you can’t breathe. All you can do it take it, drowning in the pleasure.

You cum a third time. He fucks you through it. But his hips stutter, his pace messing up. And you know you have him. His hips slam home. His dick twitching inside you as he fills you up with hot cum.

It leaks out of you as he slowly pulls out. A swear bursting on his tongue as he watches his creamy seed spill from your core. You can see the desire in his eyes. The involuntary motion forward, as if to lean down and taste his own cum leaking from you.

You pull him down next to you instead. Both of you take a moment to breathe. To rest. To bask in the afterglow.

And then he pulls you to him. Tucks himself up along your back and nuzzles into your neck. His breath ghosting along your skin.

It’s the perfect moment. The words spring up behind your lips. I love you. But you wait, desperately hoping he’ll say them tonight. That he’ll finally give name to what’s between you.

But his breathing evens out. His body relaxing against yours.

The disappointment is immeasurable. Soul-crushing and bone-deep. Any other day you’d shrug it off. Feed your hungry heart with imaginary scraps of a relationship you’re still not in.

But tonight it’s not enough. It’s never really enough. And, once you’re sure he’s asleep, you get up and leave.

The next two weeks are… weird. You don’t avoid Walker, but there’s an odd sort of tension in every interaction you have with him. A quiet strain on the easy routines you have with him.

You feel it like a gaping chasm.

It’s when the team starts to notice that you know it’s not just in your head. It starts with Bob, a soft question of “Are you okay?”

Then it’s Yelena making a quiet comment about your training session with Walker. You catch Ava talking with Walker in the kitchen one morning. It makes a spike of jealousy jump in your chest; one you do your best to stifle.

Finally, Bucky pulls you aside. “What’s going on with you and Walker?”

“Nothing.” Your answer is immediate and blank.

He’s visibly not convinced. His brow furrows and he steps closer. “If something’s going on that’ll affect the team…”

You exhale and look away. Across the room, Walker’s watching the two of you. An unreadable expression on his face. You meet his gaze for a moment.

“Nothing’s going on,” you say quietly. You turn back to Bucky. “Walker and I aren’t dating, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Bucky frowns. “Still?”

Something about the way he says it makes you bristle. You can feel yourself going on the defensive, your stance shifting a little. “Yeah. Still.”

Bucky runs a hand over his face. “Look, you two need to get your shit together.”

Your jaw sets. You force your mouth to stay shut. Biting back the scathing words that itch to be let out.

“You can’t keep dancing around each other forever,” he says tiredly. “Something’s gonna give and I don’t want it to be—“

Whatever he was about to say is cut off. Because the second he reaches out to rest a hand on your arm, Walker’s there. Chin raised and shoulders back. Slowly nudging his way between the two of you before you can do something rash.

“Back off, Barnes.” There’s nothing but icy steel in Walker’s voice. It makes the ball of anger in your chest loosen a little.

Bucky says something about good intentions. It makes Walker scoff, his arms folding over his chest. “I said, back off.”

They glare at each other for a moment before Bucky takes a step back. He glances between you two for a moment before nodding and walking away.

You gaze at Walker’s back. He lets out a breath and the tension slowly leaves his body. He turns to you, eyes searching yours. Neither of you say anything.

He reaches out, brushing a thumb over your cheek. Your breath hitches. Some quiet part of your brain screams at him to kiss you.

But he just lingers for a moment before pulling away. Leaving disappointment and uneasy butterflies behind.

He gives you a nod. Some unspoken affirmation of something you didn’t know needed an answer. And the disappointment smoothes over.

You give him a half-smile and take a step back. Slowly you tear your gaze away and turn to leave. He doesn’t stop you, but you can feel his gaze on you all the way to the elevator.

It makes your stomach flutter and your cheeks heat. And for the first time in days, the chasm between you two doesn’t feel so wide.

That night, there’s a knock at your door. It startles you, but doesn’t surprise you. You pull on a shirt and answer the door.

It’s Walker. Standing there quietly. Looking not all stern and demanding, but soft and determined. You smile a little. “Hey.”

His lips quirk up. “Hey.”

You step back to let him in. He lingers by the door, closing it softly behind him. You take a seat on the edge of your bed, gazing at him. You both are silent, as if waiting for the other to speak.

Finally, he clears his throat. “We need to talk.”

You try to ignore the shards of panic that splinter through your heart. Nothing good ever comes of those words. Still, you nod. “Okay.”

He takes a breath. You brace yourself.

“What are we?”

You blink. “What?”

He swallows. “What are we?”

“No, I heard you.” You stare at him. “What do you mean?”

He shifts as if uncomfortable. “Are we dating? Are we friends? What are we?”

“Well, we’re not dating.” You mean for it to be a joke, but it comes out harsher than intended.

Walker flinches. You scramble to continue. “I mean, I guess we’re fuckbuddies?”

It’s your turn to wince. Just saying it aloud hurts. It feels cheap, like it’s lessening whatever you two have between you.

“Fuckbuddies.” He stares flatly at you.

You avoid his gaze. “Friends with benefits, maybe?”

His expression doesn’t change. “Right. That’s all we are.”

Your chest hurts. Like someone’s slowly but surely ripping your heart from its home. You swallow and stare at the ground. Your mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, all of them screaming to be spoken.

Silence stretches out between you. Walker’s expression slides into something like disappointment. He scoffs softly. “Fuckbuddies.”

He shakes his head and turns away. “Of course that’s all we are.”

You just stare at him wordlessly. He sounds so… bitter. And you can’t help but wonder if this is it. If this is the moment he’ll turn and say it’s over.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at you. Gives you this pained look. Gaze flicking across your face like he’s searching for something.

“Is that all we are?” His voice is quiet. Bordering desperation. It sinks into your heart like a knife, gutting you from the inside out.

The whirlwind in your mind comes to a screeching halt, only one thought left in your mind. A selfish, greedy, hungry thought. “No.”

He steps closer. Gaze now intensely focused on yours. “No?” It’s barely a whisper.

You let out a breath. “I don’t know what we are.”

He steps closer again. Something changing in his expression. “But we’re something?”

You nod. Your palms are sweaty; your breath coming out all shaky. It takes a terrifying amount of courage to speak. “We could— We could date. If you wanted to.”

He doesn’t look away. “I want to.”

The wall of fear around your heart cracks and shatters. Butterflies erupt in your stomach. “You do…?”

He reaches out, cupping your face in his rough hands. “Yeah.”

A smile twitches at your lips, tugging them up until you’re grinning at him. “John?”

“Hmm?” His thumb brushes your lower lip.

“Will you be my boyfriend?”

His gaze flicks up to yours. His lips quirk up. He leans in. “Hell fucking yeah.”

The kiss is soft. Slow and deep, like you both are savoring the contact. You pull back slowly, smiling. He chases after you, pulling you into another, hungrier kiss.

You nip at his lower lip, making his breath catch. “John Walker,” you whisper. “My boyfriend.”

He chuckles lowly, dipping his head to nuzzle along your jaw. “We should make that my new alias. John Walker, your boyfriend.”

A laugh startles from you and you lean back to grin at him. He smirks up at you.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

Your eyes widen. “I love you too,” you whisper back. And something in your chest curls up and settles down.

Finally, finally no longer starving.

[crunchyspaghetti]

I’m so interested to know how other people perceive the team and Daisy’s arc in the beginning of season 4. I feel like I’ve seen a lot more of the “I’ll never forgive the team for how they treated her in S4” sentiment recently, which is interesting because I’ve never taken that perception away from that storyline at all.

Did the team say or do hurtful things? Yes, for sure. (I usually see the aforementioned comment on videos on that one scene with Daisy, Mack and Fitz)

But does Daisy also do and say hurtful things? I honestly think so.

That’s what makes that part of the season so phenomenal to watch, story wise. There is not black and white, good or bad, there just is. That is the reality of grief, that is the reality of mental health struggles, that is life.

There are no “right” answers when coping with the impossible, honestly. I think there are healthy and unhealthy ways to handle things, sure, but it’s not really a moral issue, on its face.

I mean, between the team and Daisy there are some rough interactions. Fitz is certainly a little hypocritical when he’s criticizing how Daisy handles things, given that he wouldn’t have reacted well if it had been Jemma. But He has been there for Daisy, up until this point at least, with Ward, her powers, they’ve been through a tremendous amount together. He feels abandoned and, yeah, he’s expressing it in a less than ideal way. But he cares. You know he cares about her. He and Mack wouldn’t be so angry if they didn’t care.

Mack is upset when he finds out Yo-Yo’s stealing the bone pills for her because 1) he’s been lied to for months, and 2) more importantly, it makes it seem that Daisy doesn’t trust him enough to directly come to him for help. That’s the thing. He would’ve helped her, probably given her anything she needed medically. She never needed to get Yo-Yo to steal any of it. It’s frustrating, it hurts. Mack is genuinely a deeply loving person, you know it’s killing him to not be able to get through to her.

Everyone on that team wants to help her, more than anything. They are begging her to let them in. I mean, lest we forget Coulson gave up his fucking job, in part, to keep chasing any lead he has on her.

When blaming the team for the rockiness at the beginning of season 4, you’re completely ignoring the fact that Daisy is actively running from them the entire time. She doesn’t want them to find her, and I really get it, honestly I do. I deal with things the way she does, radio silence, isolation, running away, being avoidant, self destruction, etc, etc.

Who could blame her, honestly? The anger and the self hatred and the guilt and the grief. Lord knows I’d take off, shut myself out. How do you even begin to manage that kind of pain, especially when it’s still fresh?

Well, you manage it any way that you can. For Daisy that means trying to atone for all of the pain she caused, which, are also things that caused her pain. Especially at the beginning of the season, it doesn’t matter how much she’s told that she is forgiven. Lincoln was at peace with his decision to sacrifice himself, Mack forgave her for hurting him while she was under the influence of Hive. Nobody is directly blaming her, except for herself. To try to heal from the pain she is in, would mean being able to extend herself grace, mercy. The only person who needs to forgive her, is herself. And she just- can’t.

She believes that all she does is hurt the people around her, which is what she is grasping onto to justify hurting herself. The hard truth of living that way is that when you’re stuck in your own, self harm, self hatred, shame-spiral is that you are the only person who can break out of it.

That’s a huge part about what I love about the storytelling of this arc. It’s genuinely some of the best mental health representation I’ve seen in a show like this.

Obviously, mental illness is not your fault. Being stuck in a bad place is not your fault. Daisy is not at fault for her grief. Her descent into isolation and a self-hatred, suicidal, shame-spiral does not in any way mean that she is a bad person. But there’s only so much another person can do when it comes to a battle that is completely contained within your own brain.

The team never stopped caring about her. Coulson, May, and Yo-Yo, specifically, never gave up on her. That’s important. She would’ve most likely been dead if they had stopped giving a shit about her. That’s significant.

But they’re not mind readers.

To go back to the scene with Mack and Fitz too. I think that scene is really important because it’s Daisy being confronted with the reality that her actions, her running away, isolating herself, really is hurting the people that love and care about her. She runs away to protect them from that very reality, of course, but how could they know that?

She doesn’t want them to care, and she hopes that if she just pushes them hard enough, if she bares her metaphorical fangs, they’ll stop. She’s accepted being alone, she’s accepted her own self destruction, because even if it hurts them at first, even if she’s absolutely miserable, they’ll be safe. Inside, she’s unwilling to admit that she needs them, and she’s acting in a way that allows her to avoid the cognitive dissonance of her actions (i.e. yo-yo stealing the pills they’d willingly give her if she asked).

But the fact that she’s hurting them doesn’t push them away. It just makes everything hurt more for everyone. She wants to embody that hurt, she’s cannibalizing her self to try to take on that pain but it doesn’t make anything better.

This storyline is not a case of right and wrong, if anything it’s an antithesis to it. It’s about how the ambiguity of life and grief and mental health are like tangled strings, messy and knotted, it’s about the love and effort and dedication it takes to hang on to/fight your way back to the people that love you, it’s about the strength it takes to carry on and forgive yourself, and, as May tells Daisy once she comes back, it’s about that: “you can’t choose who cares about you”.

[callsign-rogueone]

rest

Brennan Sorrengail x chronically ill reader words: 2.5k 🏷: gender neutral reader, use of nicknames sweetheart and honey, implied past FWB-type relationship between reader and Bren. descriptions of pain and sickness (congrats, u now have my symptoms), downward-spiral of self-deprecating thoughts, reader shaming themself for being weak / ill, one (1) suggestion that reader wants to die but they don’t mean it, confessions of love, cuddles.  this may be the most self-serving thing I’ve ever written. I wrote it to process my grief and anger about my current situation, but I figured I’d post it for the Brennan girlies and anyone who feels like I do right now and could use a handsome mender boyfriend to make it all better.

The gentle movement of the mattress and the smell of smoke and soap and leather wakes you from your nap — Brennan is back. You roll over to face him, every muscle in your body protesting the movement. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispers, brushing the hair from your forehead with gentle fingers. “How are you feeling?”

“Same old,” you murmur. 

He lays a hand on your forearm, and the pain dulls. You know better now than to let him block it off completely — he’d done that once before, but when he let go, it was unbearable. 

Better to sit with it, not get used to any relief — it’ll only hurt you further when it all comes back, knock the breath right from your lungs and leave you in a heap on the floor, a mess of knots for him to untangle.

He’s done enough for you already. He does enough for everyone. Never anything for himself. Or if he does, you never see it.

“Was worried about you,” he says softly, still stroking your hair.

The idea of him worrying about you makes you feel sicker than you already are, but a different kind of sick. Guilty, maybe. Disgusted — not with him, but with yourself, for being so fucking weak and needy and such a crybaby. You’re a dragon rider, for gods’ sakes. 

Or you used to be. You haven’t acted like one in months, and haven’t felt like one for longer than that. 

You’d accepted that you’d never fly again, or told yourself that you accepted it, three months ago.

“I can keep fixing the damage, but I don’t know if I can fix what’s causing it,” Brennan had told you in a whisper late one night in this same room, holding you as if he was afraid to let go, that you’d crack and splinter even further if he wasn’t pressing the pieces of you together. 

You used to be able to hold yourself together. You used to be able to do a lot of things. To spar with him, to run with your squad and mount a dragon, swim in the ice-cold streams of Tyrrendor with your friends on days off, to spend hours tangled up in bed with him after lights-out, exerting yourselves in other ways.

But then something came and ruined it all.  You still don’t know what it was — is. It didn’t come quickly — not one big wave that drowned you, not an assailant that shattered bone and sliced through tissue, but a gradual decline that you didn’t notice until it was too late. 

No, you definitely noticed. You just didn’t want to believe it. You made up excuses for everything— reassurances, placating remarks, designed to convince yourself and those around you that there wasn’t anything wrong with you.

You couldn’t sleep through the night, but that was because of the awful things you’d seen that day. But then they started happening even if you hadn’t left the barracks, even if you hadn’t witnessed any horrible sights in weeks.

You couldn’t hold on to your daggers tightly enough, struggled to grip a pen, but that was because you’d injured your hand — but that was only one hand, and months ago. Brennan had mended it for you within minutes of the injury.

Your entire body was aching, all the time, but that was normal with how much riders were required to exert themselves. You just can’t move like you did when you were younger. You aren’t a kid anymore.

But no amount of rest days, no ice or heat or elevation seemed to be enough to recover. That’s the worst of it, really. Being stuck in bed, not by doctor’s orders, not because you physically can’t get up, but because you can’t do anything outside of this room.

Not without pain, anyway, and not without pitying looks and whispered questions about what happened to you — the very same Captain that had rescued an entire squad from certain doom just last year, the most powerful air-wielder in two generations — and concerned words from your colleagues, who miss you, and tell them if you need anything, okay? They’re here for you.

But are they really your colleagues anymore? Is Deòir really your dragon anymore? He hardly speaks to you these days. He’s just too kind to admit that he’s just waiting for you to die, so he can move on, and find a new rider.

Maybe kind isn’t the right word, but you can’t think of a better one right now. It’s hard to think of anything other than how tired and uncomfortable you are.

You used to be top of the class, and now you’re struggling to form complete sentences.

“Talk to me,” Brennan coaxes, still gazing down at you, softness in his eyes.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you whisper. 

“What?”

“I know we were… involved for a while,” you say carefully, “but you don’t need to do this for me anymore. You can’t keep worrying about me. It takes up too much time that you just don’t have. You’re running a revolution; you have more important shit to do than to play nurse.”

He furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “Where’s this coming from?” he asks softly. “What happened while I was away?”

“Nothing happened, Brennan. Nothing ever happens in my life anymore, because I spend my entire day, every day, laying here, wishing I was dead.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, but it’s too late. The words are out in the air, and he’s heard them. “I didn’t mean…” you whisper, “I don’t want to die, I just…”

Tears fill your already-blurred vision, but you can see him in front of you, the mass of his chest and shoulders, the slow movement of his arms reaching out to wrap around you and hold you close, to guide you up into his lap.

“I’m just so tired,” you sob, too-long fingernails digging into the black leather of his jacket, your hands too weak to hold on to him properly. “I’m so tired of being tired, and in pain, and feeling useless.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he soothes. “I’ll keep looking. We can look together. We’ll figure out what this is, and how to fix it.”

“We’ve read every book in the library,” you sniff. “We’ve talked to every healer we know.”

“There are other libraries, and other healers,” he replies, as if it’s that simple, that easy. You suppose to him, it is that easy. To him, everything is easy. He’s not the one wasting away here, you are.

Wasting away. Crumbling. Deteriorating.  

Decaying.

“Why aren’t you giving up?” you ask quietly. “I’ve given up. Deò has, too. He hasn’t spoken to me in days.”

You know the answer, and it makes you feel sick, but you need to hear it.

Maybe that’s selfish of you, to make him declare it out loud to you, to your face, when you very well might not be alive this time next year to celebrate an anniversary — not that you’d be able to do much celebrating if you were. But that little part of you, the only part that’s left of the old you, from the reality where this could work, needs it — needs him. 

“Deò hasn’t given up on you. He went with us, as backup — that’s why he wasn’t responding. And I haven’t given up, either. I’ll never give up, because I love you,” he whispers. “I’ve loved you for years, and I’ll keep loving you as long as I live, and well into whatever afterlife I earn, if such a thing exists.”

You loose another sob, your nails scraping the leather as you cling to him tighter, your anchor in this storm, your lifeline, hiding your face in his neck and letting three months worth of tears continue to fall. 

“I’m not going to let go,” he soothes, laying a hand over yours, that’s still feebly clutching at the sleeve of his jacket. “Not until you ask me to.”

You release your grip, the ache lessening as you do, but your knuckles still throb with every beat of your heart; another reminder that even just existing is painful, that your body can’t even move blood around without complaint.

“There you go. Just breathe with me, honey. Nice and slow.”

You don’t know how long you spend there, trying to steady your breathing. Time has seemed to run together lately, somehow both fast and slow — that happens when you lose your routine, and spend half of a normal person’s waking hours asleep, and normal sleeping hours lying awake, enveloped in pain. He continues to murmur praises to you all the while; sweet, reassuring words that you don’t really process. 

“Do you want to lay down?” he asks after a while, his voice soft and gentle. 

He’s always so gentle with you. Endlessly patient, and endlessly caring.

You nod, thoroughly exhausted— the crying had zapped any energy you’d had left. You feel like a little kid again, soft and confused and small. 

Fragile. 

You’re still in your pajamas, anyway, still in bed. You’d only gotten out of it once today, to use the bathroom, but you’d forced yourself to brush your teeth while you were in there, leaning on the counter for stability all the while. That’s your idea of success and productivity these days.

“Okay. Let me take my boots off, hm?” — You nod, pulling back to let him get up. — “Alright. Can I get you anything? Water?”

You shake your head. “Just you,” you whisper. 

“I can do that.” Jacket, boots, and pants off, he settles in with you, letting you cozy up to him in a position that feels the most comfortable— or the least uncomfortable, really. He starts stroking your hair again in soft, slow motions, the weight and warmth of his scarred palm soothing your headache.

It occurs to you that you’d never responded to his declaration — the one you’d needed so badly that you’d nearly asked for it outright — you’d just clung to him and cried, and he’d held you, even though you hadn’t said it back. He’d stroked your hair and calmed you down from your grief over the life you no longer have and can never return to.

He’s still holding you, still dulling the pain in your body and in your soul.

“I love you, Bren,” you murmur. “M’sorry I didn’t say it earlier.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve known for a long time.”

“Really?”

He hums softly. “Oh, yeah. Years and years. Since you nearly broke my jaw in challenges and then insisted on personally escorting me to the infirmary.”

You laugh at the memory. “I felt so guilty about that. I didn’t want to hurt you at all. I was pulling my punches.”

It’s his turn to laugh. “It certainly didn’t feel like it.”

There’s a soft pause before he speaks again, hesitant, like he doesn’t want to bring it up again now that your tears have dried, but he knows you haven’t forgotten the pain. You’ll never forget this pain for the rest of your life, even if it goes away.

“When I was in Poromiel, I talked to a healer there who‘s seen something like this before. She wrote down as much as she could before I left, and she promised to ask around and send more information through the boys when they do their next drop-off.”

You cuddle into him closer, ignoring the ache in your back as you do. “Thank you, Bren. I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. I guess… I’m just still not used to being taken care of. I know it’s dumb, but it makes me feel worse sometimes, even though it’s helping.”

“That’s how I felt,” he says quietly. You both know what he’s talking about— his recovery from being shot in the battle of Aretia, from dying and being brought back to life. “It was always me taking care of the girls when we were young. I was never the one who needed taking care of. It felt wrong, and I felt guilty, and mad at myself for needing the help. But you wouldn’t take no for an answer. You made an excellent nurse, if a little scary.”

“I was scared myself. Seeing you like that…” You swallow. “That’s when I knew that I loved you — you don’t know what you have ‘til it’s gone, I guess.”

“I am very much not gone,” he scoffs, offended. 

“Fine. Slipping away from you,” you correct. 

“Not doing that either. I’m staying right here.” He lays a kiss on the top of your head. “And we are going to have a nice long nap, and then I’m going to draw you a warm bath and make us some dinner, because I like taking care of you, because I love you, and because you deserve it. Okay?”

“Okay.” Another pause while you work up the courage. “Bren?” you ask softly.

“Yes, my love?”

The sweet name is enough encouragement to say it. “Can I kiss you?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He holds you in place with a gentle hand on your back, leaning his head down to meet you. You tilt your chin up, your noses brushing.

“This feels familiar,” he muses. “Very familiar.”

You roll your eyes lazily. “If you’re going to be all smug about it, then you don’t get a kiss.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

You rest a hand on his jaw, guiding him closer. Your fingers twitch and shake, but he holds them steady, his hand pressing yours against the stubbled skin gently — a silent statement that he’s not going anywhere, and he’s ready when you are.

Endlessly patient.

The kiss isn’t desperate and hungry like they had been before your affliction had started, when surges of need and emotion had led you into each other’s beds two nights a week — you aren’t taking from each other now, you’re giving. It’s gentle. Sweet, loving, reassuring.

Each soft movement is a promise, a whispered oath — he’s here, and he isn’t leaving. He’s determined to figure this out and fix it, with you.

You don’t need anything more than that.

He takes your hand, moving it from his jaw to his mouth — kissing your palm. “I love you,” he repeats, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “You’re important to me,” again, to the back of your hand, “and we will get you the help you need. But for now we both just need to rest.”

“Thank you.”

“Always,” he responds, helping you tuck yourself back into his arms, and pulling the blanket up over you both. 

“Goodnight, child,” Deò says softly. ���I love you. We will get through this together.”

You’re a little surprised by the declaration — he’s never told you anything like this before — but you return it nonetheless. “Love y’too,” you murmur.

Sleep comes to you easily, and this time, you have a good dream.

[falkarph]

CLAIR OBSCUR STARTERS

rp prompts from clair obscur: expedition 33 by sandfall interactive

why‘d you wait until today to say something? it’s a bit late, isn’t it…

i never faulted you for wanting to believe.

we’re the only ones left. you don’t get to die.

i didn’t take you for a coward.

fuck the mission!

there was a time when thirty was young, you know…

been a long time since i’ve seen you play.

you seem to know me.

the more information we get, the more questions i have.

i haven’t seen a human in so long!

we are but a fragile dream, a singular weed, resisting, ever resisting.

i wish we could have spent more time in … less hopeless contexts.

legacy can take many forms, right? you taught me that.

when you’re at the mercy of a power you don’t understand, you might try anything.

this is a kindness, not a cruelty.

you only care when things are right in front of you.

stay out of this. you chose to walk away. you don’t get to involve yourself now.

i‘m not gonna get much sleep tonight, am i?

i‘m really sorry i didn’t arrive sooner.

see you… in the next life.

did i die again?

what are the stars whispering to you?

you know, it meant a lot to me. the comfort we shared that day.

i use the pain. i use the shame, the guilt, the anger. i use it all to keep going.

i can almost feel them beside me. everyone we’ve lost… walking with me.

how do you always know what to do…

i‘m not fine.

how many times must you hurt our family…

family is not my favourite topic.

because it’s personal and it’s painful. and it’s none of your business.

i love the way you see the world.

you’re always so calm about everything.

death is a friend who will welcome me home.

masks are not just to obscure. they are also to illuminate.

are you planning to die anytime soon?

i want rage to consume me, anything to fill the hollow. but rage won’t come. i just float in an endless nothingness…

you lost me years ago. and I lost you.

family is … complicated.

if saving you means losing you, then so be it.

remember who your real family is.

you’re too drunk on your own illusion to understand.

at least this will keep you out of trouble until i get back.

they’re counting on me. i won’t abandon them.

i refuse to abandon you.

which is worse? to die, or to be the one who survives? to grieve? or to be grieved?

even when i sleep, it’s still there. like a breath i can never release.

you didn’t give me a chance to say goodbye.

life keeps forcing cruel choices.

grief often blinds us. until we make choices we can never take back.

you can hate me, but that’s a choice i must make.

you treat me as if i‘m still five…

i‘ll keep the light on for you.

see things as they are, not how you want them to be.

this is not worth your life.

don’t do this. don’t leave me again…

[wooshofficial]

I’ve been ruminating on this last garages album for a bit, and wondering why I haven’t been sad.

For anyone unaware: The Garages released the last album of the “we are the garages” series, titled We’ve Been The Garages, as our last album before the release of Expansion and the simmering shutdown of the band as we knew it.

I had a huge hand in this album. I wrote two songs for it—one old, one new—and helped on two others. I helped with tracklisting. I put a lot of emotion + energy + work into this, and now that it’s out, I’m left with this feeling of pride and joy.

But from reactions here on tumblr and by friends, it’s clear that feeling just pride is a singularity. A lot of people are grieving the terminal loss of the band and at large, the shocking, sudden loss of Blaseball, the game that started it all. People are left with a hole where it used to be, and it is making them rightfully very sad. I’ve gone through these same experiences with them, so I should be sad, right? Hell, I’m a part of the band that’s ending- I should be distraught. I should be grieving, it feels like.

But I’m not. I can’t find it within myself to be sad about this release, nor can I be sad about the loss of Blaseball, nor that I have to do other things now. This is because of two reasons, one of which is more important than the other:

I’ve always been terrible at handling grief in a healthy or normal way (unimportant)

I have a very different mindset about this particular ending.

For me, this album isn’t a death. This is a graduation.

I’ve known for a long time that Blaseball was finite. It was born of an era that existed only because it had to, and once that era was over, so was the game. TGB put it best when they shut it down- it was unsustainable now that the pandemic had been societally declared over. Blaseball was built in the absence of a thing that was now back, and no one could dedicate their full time to it anymore now that they weren’t locked in their houses indefinitely. When I heard the news, I had a flash of anger on how it ended, but it was quickly replaced by a resolute feeling of knowing this was going to happen eventually. It was always going to end, and it’s a shame that it did so in this way, but it had to. I wasn’t sad about it.

And with the death of Blaseball came the death of the thing that had been the Garages’ muse for so long. How long could a thing last without life support, especially when we, the people behind the band, were subject to the same situation of being needed somewhere else? The Garages’ end was going to follow Blaseball’s eventually, even if it took nearly two years to do so. I knew this and understood this deeply.

I also knew that the end of the band wasn’t going to suddenly kill the bonds I had made with my bandmates, people I have the honor to call friends, best friends and colleagues. None of us were suddenly going to drop dead (knock on wood, you bitches better survive), we were just going to stand there after the lights went out and say “now what?”. There was always going to be an end, but there was also always going to be an after.

A graduation is not a funeral. You can grieve the fact that it’s over, but really, you are meant to reflect on the wonderful (or horrible) things that have occurred in the time since you’ve started. Take all the good and the bad and the deeply complex and turn it into fuel for the new you’re about to step into. Understand just how far you’ve gotten since that initial point, and maybe see how far you can go.

I graduated high school in June 2022, about 10 months into my being a part of the band. They were among the first people I told I was going to college and that I had just thrown my cap. It rained that day, and the venue was outdoors, and I had food poisoning, but when I threw that cap, I wasn’t upset at any of that. I wasn’t upset that high school was over (for a plethora of reasons), nor was I sad that I was going into a new part of my life. I was actually thinking about my graduation cap itself, and how hard I had worked on it the night before, painstakingly painting it and making sure it was perfect. I was so happy that I had done the damn thing, and it had gotten a moment to glimmer in the air, even if a little smeared due to the rain. I walked out of there that day so proud of myself for making it through and making that cap.

And almost ironically, the words I had painted were “I’ll figure it out eventually”. I didn’t know entirely what I was going to do after high school besides go to college, or what I wanted to get a job in, I just knew that there was going to be something there. I knew that I would keep going. All I had to say was “now what?”, because this was an end, yes, but there was always going to be an after.

I don’t know what the band will become after we release the last of our stored works. We have some ideas. We don’t know what our legacy will look like in a year, or five, or ten, or fifty. We don’t know what’s coming for us, but we’ll figure it out eventually. There’s always an after, and we will make it ours.

And I’m not sad about that.

[plotsignificanthaircut555]

Bereavement VI

An extra special epilogue for our two lovers. after all they have been through, the really deserve it.

i recommend reading the fic that lead up to this before anything else. No addendum, I feel like this is some of my best work and it would mean a lot for you to read it, but of course, as alwayse, you can do whatever you want forever.

Thank you. <3

Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four part five

Retirement

Your first trip to Malaysia was all too quick, like a dream that feels like waking up. The next two were longer. It was the fourth trip that brought you out there permanently. You found a beautiful house right on the shoreline of Langkawi. Private beach, easy travel to and from, not that it was used too heavily. You were married within two years in a small, private, really just the two of you and witnesses ceremony. You thought often of your first husband, but never with the hatred and anger you once did. The sadness followed you, of course, you would have days where you cried for him. But no longer for yourself. 

 Nanami never made the call to rejoin Jujutsu society. It was about a year in when he finally told you of his time working as a sorcerer; his time training as a child, being the only sorcerer in his family, about his technique, about Haibara, about all the other losses and betrayals that came with working as a sorcerer. He worried you would be angry. He kept it from you for so long, but you just held him tighter to you, as did he. More reasons to be grateful for one another. He would never get the call from Gojo about the revival of Sukuna, he would never be called upon to join the forces in Shibuya. When things got worse in Japan Nanami’s name had been redacted from the ranks of available soldiers to call on.

He spent his days cooking and reading, watching old movies, and going on walks with you. It took him a few years to realize he wouldn’t have to worry about bills or working ever again, old habits die hard. But when he finally did, you had the pleasure of watching him come alive. Language, literature, cuisine became his passions, became his avenues for study and for fulfillment. Next to you, of course, who he loved more and more every day. 

You worked remotely to help Hiromi set up his own practice, completing your education and getting your credentials to practice, although you never did. It was more to complete the achievement rather than to work. Nanami was so proud of you, having watched you study and work to get through your classes online, bringing you snacks and coffee, carrying you back to bed when you fell asleep working. 

Now you sit in your patio chair outside, the sun on your face, the ocean in your ears, the salt in your lungs. Years have passed, you’ve set up a home here. And the cornerstone of that home stood at the shore’s edges, with his pants rolled up and his feet in the cool summer water. Chest bared, shoulder pink from the day’s exposure. More freckles litter his body, he's grown fuller now. As have you. Grief and stress and self punishment had let go of your bodies. The weight of your pain, your memories, your shame was now off your shoulders, lengthening your spines, and had instead become kind, soft weights around your middles and legs, your arms and backs. The physical manifestations of your love and your comfort. You love seeing him like this. Free and soft, not so rigid and stark. Even more handsome than the strung out, dark eyed business man you met in the cold office at, what you knew now, was the lowest moment of your entire life. There were no moments that low again, there wouldn’t be. 

Nanami turned to face you, smiling and squinting against the late afternoon, soon evening sun. His face has changed too, wrinkles around his eyes, grey coming in at his temples, cheeks still hard and cut, maybe even more so. And something that he never would have anticipated, two deep smile lines around either side of his mouth. For a moment, a splash of the waves, a glint of the sun, he was twenty-seven again, sleek and shattered, but yours even then. And for the next moment, you saw him much older. A white-grey having taken over, elevens and smile lines deeper, fuller, rounder. Just as beautiful, and just as yours. 

“Honey, the water’s perfect!” He called to you from the foamy tide. 

You stood from your chair, setting aside your glass and your book, taking his hand and feeling the warm ocean lap at your ankles. It was perfect, warm and clear. Like the sky above you. He held you tight in his arms, looking out at the horizon. 

“You know, for a moment, I thought I saw what you would look like as an old lady.” He kissed the side of your temple, smoothing your hair back and studying your present face. 

Your heart surged, nose twitching as you felt your eyes wet, but you smiled, “Oh yeah? What’d you think?” 

“Beautiful as ever.” He kissed your head again, you hummed happily, “Maybe even more beautiful.” 

“Careful.” You warned. 

He chuckled, rubbing his thumbs into your shoulders the way you always liked, “Okay, just as beautiful.” 

You looked at the horizon together, watching the sun tuck itself away into sleep. Before deciding to do so yourselves.

[wc-confessions]

i hate swiftpaw x brightpaw tbh. like even besides the fact that they're first cousins which is a semi recent retcon (not all that recent really but not stated clearly in the first arc) what does making them romantic add to their story?? it adds a weird undertone to brightheart immediately moving on to cloudtail, even though she actually already liked him and never showed signs of liking swiftpaw instead, aaand... that's it

they barely even have any scenes together before the dog attack so the extent of their romance and what's always shown in art of them is brightheart mourning swiftpaw and feeling conflicted about getting with cloudtail and swiftpaw watching on sadly but approvingly from starclan and i honestly just think this is kind of a bummer. like that's a sweet dynamic but it's not them! it's just not in any way. brightpaw and cloudpaw were already sharing a nest and grooming each other to sleep i really really doubt she had a secret crush on swiftpaw the whole time. and ignoring the immense guilt, regret, anger, shame and grief swiftpaw must have been feeling after the dog attack to focus on how sad he is because the girl he almost got killed has a new boyfriend is... a bummer!!! there's a lot you can do with swiftpaw and this is the least interesting choice imaginable in my opinion

warriors has more than enough romantic tragedies already, why can't one story be about a pair of best friends or family? why is someone mourning a close platonic friend they lost in a traumatic accident so unheard of that they just HAD to have had a crush on them?

ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ

[drunkenlionwrites]

To all the people that are shaming James for having the repressed sexual desires that manifested in the looks of the monsters in SH (like moaning mannequins, sexy nurses, to some extent the overtly sexual “Maria” etc): sexual frustration is no joke. It doesn’t mean he’s a depraved psycho.

Imagine your wife slowly dying of a crazy incurable disease, her body and mind slowly deteriorating. Of course you wouldn’t even think about having sex with her. Except your subconscious would still crave it. Your body would still crave it. Yeah, we’re highly cognisant creatures and we can suppress all the bodily urges, but that doesn’t mean we can be completely stripped of them.

Imagine adding feelings of anger, grief, guilt and helplessness to your sexual frustration and you’ll get a crazy cocktail happening in your brain.

I’m not absolving James of what he did. Just saying that the fact he had those thoughts and desires hidden in his mind is not as great of a sin that a lot of people online are making it out to be.

[gooseypoopsie]

Its been a long time but I'm back to thinking about Captain Mactavish, Roach, and Ghost again :' )

I was talking to one of my friends earlier (@i-n-k-s) about how i would love to see an animatic/animation to Placing the Blame by Self of Ghost and Roach talking to Mactavish. A lot of this idea stems from the recent tiktok trends with this song that feature people's ocs and like,,, Bucky Barnes (don't even get me started). Its kind of a shame I didn't talk about this or actually do it when I first had the idea because a lot of people have done similar concepts now. However, what I am having insane brainrot over is Roach and Ghost saying "are you man enough, are you man enough" with a cut to Mactavish during the next line "are you man enough, to take the blame for this." I know this part repeats 4 times at the end of the song but I think I would only actually do it to the last two times.

On the first "Are you man enough, are you man enough?" I want Ghost and Roach to look relatively normal, MAYBE slightly blurry. Then on the jump to Mactavish, I want him visibly distraught/upset in some way during the next line, "Are you man enough, to take the blame for this." Then when "Are you man enough" repeats for the second time I want Ghost and Roach to be right out of a horror movie, not only charred but covered in their own blood - not nessecarily what happened to them but instead what MacTavish imagines happened to them. Instead of cutting back to MacTavish during "Are you man enough, to take the blame for this?" it stays on Ghost and Roach and they look even WORSE.

A lot of this is SO clear in my mind because I brainrot about MacTavish's guilt, shame, and grief CONSTANTLY. It is why I love him so much I think that his journal really changed the way I think about him and his relationships with all of the other characters, including Gaz and even the other 141 members that died when Shepherd turned on them. If you've never read his journal I highly recommend it is like 60 some pages of pure pain that you can find a scanned version of on the Call of Duty wiki page. A lot of his journal adds this aspect you never see of Soap in the actual game play because for most of the games you're playing AS him, and just about every second you see of anyone is during a mission where youre getting shot at, so it makes sense that he lacks a lot of the humanization his journal has. For the most part his journal covers downtime between missions, plans for future missions, and how he feels about the people around him. Soap unpacks a lot of his guilt and different ways as he tries to cope with loss in his journal. What I'm trying to get at is there is a really interesting turning point when MacTavish loses the 141 and specifically Ghost and Roach. Earlier on he mentions how he sees a lot of himself in Roach, and even mentions he catching Roach with a journal of his own at one point. Soap also mentions Ghost's skill and reliable nature although MacTavish doesn't ever speak on Ghost the way he does with Roach. After their deaths, there is a CLEAR difference in how MacTavish uses his journal. First is his handwriting shift, with when he actually writes that they have died the whole page is written sloppy and with a lot of pressure on the pen. Nothing does it justice unless I use a picture:

What's so different about this page is that although Soap has shown his emotion before, there is so much more anger and his need for vengeance. Which, spoiler, he gets when he kills Shepherd.

Something I really want to point out here is that on the wiki page they speculate that the blood on this page is from Shepherd's knife and is a mixture of both his and Soap's,,,, (makes me insane). This page also has my all time favorite quotes from MacTavish, "How many times can a man save your life until its no longer your own?" and "Loyalty doesn't operate on a sliding scale. It's a safety. On or off."

Anyway, back to Ghost and Roach : ) For the rest of the journal, neither of them are mentioned which is really out of character for MacTavish considering how he talked about Gaz and Price after their deaths (when he thought Price was dead). MacTavish holds a lot of guilt for Gaz's death and not being able to tell his family about really happened, along with guilt for Price. He idolizes Price to an unhealthy extent by obsessing over his pistol, beginning to drink the same kind of whiskey, smoke Villa Claras, and bet on horses - all things that Price did. It comes from a place of wanting to match Price and fill his shoes, as Soap is promoted to Captain and given his own Task Force. It hits me so hard that MacTavish talks about feeling like Price and trying to emulate him in how he leads his team, and then to lose all of them the way he did? It has been making me crazy for years now (not exaggerating). As someone who absolutely loves Roach and Ghost I sometimes forget that they aren't the only people in the 141.

During "Takedown" (the mission in the favela with Roja) Meat is the first of Soap's men to die, which he writes about in his journal and criticizes himself for the death. During this mission two other 141 operatives are listed as K.I.A. on the Cod wiki (I haven't played or watched a playthrough of this game in forever so this may or may not be true). What I really want to talk about though is "Loose Ends" because Shepherd and Shadow company don't only kill Ghost and Roach. They also slaughter Toad, Archer, Ozone, and Scarecrow, all of which are npcs and don't contribute much to the actual story but are relevant when I try to get into Soap's head. Just, the way that yes Soap lost his Liutennant and his Sergeant, he also lost his ENTIRE team, because those who were not on this mission were elsewhere in the world, and most likely punished for their involvement with the 141 in some way. It is even noted on the Cod wiki that remaining members were either killed or imprisoned because Shepherd labeled them all as war criminals. I think the worst part about it is that all of this really was MacTavish's fault because he didn't see it coming. I think that Soap blames himself for not being the one to go to the safe house, and instead letting Ghost and Roach go, I think he feels guilty for cutting their lives short. It gets me so good because of the relationship that MacTavish had with Roach </3

I will forever be crazy about Captain MacTavish and his guilt. Waiter waiter! Please give me a Placing the Blame animatic of Roach and Ghost tormenting Soap thanks!

[fantasy-nerdddd]

SPOILERS FOR THE VENGEANCE HERMES SAGA

What I find remarkable about 600 Strike, specifically the torture scene, is that it had no parallels.

Okay, let me explain. It isn't that there weren't any parallels, but other than the Different Beast instrumental (edit: it's a theme actually) at the beginning of that scene and whatever is said specifically to hurt the other, there are no parallels. Think about it - Ody has been absolutely traumatised and broken by everything, that's a main point of the song. One would expect that while acting as ruthlessly as he did, he'd have a flashback to something. Just A Man? Open Arms? My Goodbye? Ruthlessness? No Longer You? Monster? No matter what song, something would be on the song normally, probably in Love In Paradise or Monster type. You'd expect the finale to have a lot of parallels.

It could definitely be due to pure coldness. But I don't like that idea. So...

If you listen to the song, you'll notice that he mentions a ton of friends. But none appear. I'm thinking it's because he's either lashing out or straight up keeping himself from remembering.

He doesn't want to remember the dead. He keeps himself from thinking too much about them. That way, he might not be as pained. Not as shamed. Bottling everything up is normal for traumatised people, even to the point you convince yourself.

The second theory is the opposite. He's lashing out. All of his pain, grief, guilt, anger and fear were directed into Poseidon's chest. He didn't have to think about things that saddened him for relief. For a little. He's letting out some of the bad feelings by torturing the second most responsible man for his crew's lives - right after himself

Anyway, that is just my thoughts. What do you think?

EDIT: Ok Jorge you did not just prove me wrong like that. Go to 2:48 on the song and listen really closely. Or I guess you could go to an instrumental. When "You didn't stop when I begged you" starts playing, around the "begged", there's Tiresias' theme. It ends with Poseidon's "Alright", I believe. OKAY BUT TIRESIAS OUT OF ALL PEOPLE. Did he see this on his vision? If so, how in the world did he not spoil anything? I would never manage I'd break out laughing while singing. Did he not see this and the instrumental defines the very moment Odysseus finally changes into a total monster? Is it just a reminder at the back of his mind that he's proven the prophecy right? Or, the more promising, everything in the prophecy that doesn't include being at Ithaca has happened. He's finally getting home. I'm not even sad to be proven wrong because that's genius.

[mejcinta]

Writing and Directing Choices of HoTD Season 2 and How They Harmed Storylines and Characters.

Hotd is a cinematic marvel...that much cannot be denied. However, I can't help but wonder had they just directed scenes better, if we could've gotten MORE from the characters as a result?

To me, what is off about season 2 compared to season 1 is this feeling that we're shoved outside as the audience. We're not in the characters' heads and experiencing what they're experiencing in the moment, therefore we wound up feeling like their actions in season 2 are ooc.

Think of Aemond in s1 vs s2. In season 1 we had time alone with him as a kid, when he went hunting for a dragon TWICE. The camera lingered on his face during tense moments to convey his feelings like when his eye was slashed out and he was boiling with anger and vengeance at Viserys' dismissal of his pain. Additionally, we had a lot of screen time with Aemond in s1, whereas in s2 he barely has any.

It's hard enough having a season slashed down to 8 episodes from 10, now we have more new characters thrown into the mix that need focusing on. So the writers had to be smart and the directors super efficient.

A scene of Aemond walking through the Streets of Silk, despondent about the B&C incident before he stops to go inside the brothel to be with Sylvi and vent out his frustrations and hurt would've done WONDERS for Aemond. Just that one scene would put us in his headspace and take us through this new development he has taken up over the 10 days since Alicent pushed him away, his shame, his guilt and resentments. With this one Aemond centered scene we would have perfect set up and context for why Aemond does what he does in RR to Aegon, why he clips Alicent's wings at the small council and tries to force Helaena out of her comfort zone.

Instead, the brothel scene started off with the pleasure house and we followed whores around before being thrust with the shocking scene of Aemond there without any explanation or justification.

Helaena also suffered a bit from poor visual direction. Instead of following her around the Keep before the B&C attack, we're forced to hang around with the criminals and at some point attempts are made to make them seem FUNNY and relatable (Cheese and his dog).

In all that confusion, we are somehow thrust into Jaehaerys' bedchamber where Cheese is holding Helaena captive. So random. Why did we not see HOW that happened?

Would it not have been better to cut from Blood and Cheese approaching to HELAENA preparing to retire to bed and suddenly seeing Cheese in the doorway??? Would it not have been better to be in the room with Helaena as she spends her final moments with her peacefully sleeping children before horror strikes?

Wouldn't it have been better for Helaena to remain in the chamber with her dead child in her arms as his head is carried away, unable to scream...instead of distracting us with her walking into Alicent having sex?

This moment was supposed to be about Helaena and her mental trauma, her grief, her pain. If anything her stumbling into Aegon as she tries to escape would've made more creative sense. And we end with Aegon screaming.

I feel like so much story potential and character potential was wasted in efforts to forcefully remind us that House of the Dragon is Alicent and Rhaenyra's show. In fact if you carefully observe the season, you can notice easily how focus is put on pointless and repetitive scenes featuring them while other characters remain underutilized and unexplored, even just by visual direction.

I truly hope that season 3 will apply better directing and writing that adds depth to characters in the minimal screen time that they have because this season just wasn't it.