#love rob’s house though

[crusheswhimsandfancies]

Charlie’s outfits in the podcast 1/?

The Gang Runs For Office

Charlie Goes America All Over Everyone’s Asses (pic 2 & 3 bc he took his jacket off)

Dennis And Dee Get a New Dad

The Guys Take Some Calls

The Gang Finds A Dumpster Baby

The Gang Gets Invincible part 1 & 2 (pic 7 & 8)

Everyone Browns Out (extra pic bc guitar!!!)

[gert-the-disaster]

cable weathervane 😀👍

[slime-sandwhich-nom]

Ngl gumball is the type to not fuck around when someone says anything about his gf he's very obsessed with

the tags aren't letting me tell you how gumball literally brought an entire PERSON, probably a dead one of unconscious as a SACRIFICE to a fake cult made by his own teachers and classmates (they didn't take it well)

[khazadspoon]

Just finished the end of season 4 and oh my lord that stings. It’s supposed to be amusing but……..wow it stings.

Gil didn’t get the ranch because of lost time, his plan to be with his kids again has been pushed back yet another year. That’s another off season to find work, another drive to struggle through, another year of pain and waiting and problems and drovers with chips on their shoulders. The dejection he shows when saying quietly that another drive will have him on it h u r t s. He just wants out.

And they close the episode with this image:

Gil walks through the little crowd (which poignantly includes Wishbone and Rowdy, really the two of the original outfit left he is closest to, and even then Rowdy is getting further away because of both their actions) with his hands in his pocket and his head down. There is no home away from home for him. There’s only his girls far away in Philadelphia and him stuck between them and Texas or Kansas. He knows he can’t keep doing it and it won’t be long before he’s just going through the motions and making mistakes he can’t recover from.

This was supposed to be a fun old-timey show about cowboys and their silly antics. There is a lot more here than the first couple of seasons let on and it’s starting to hurt more and more.

[n3croman1a]

if otis driftwood was real, he’d definitely kill you for calling him your “grimy little kitty meow meow”

[ice-sculptures]

@bylertruther's post has got me thinking about jonathan driving all the way into the city to lonnie's house to look for will. jonathan volunteered first to go find him, and then ignored hopper's explicit instructions to stay put ("stay here with your mom, she needs you"), went to school only to put up will's missing poster, and then skipped the rest of the day and willingly went back to a place where he'd have to face his abuser - the man who walked out on them, the man who left jonathan to work two jobs at sixteen just to make ends meet, the man who was supposed to protect their family but ended up being the person who they needed protection from - just on the off chance that will, his little brother who he loves more than anything, would be there. just because will might have needed his brother there too.

[harmonybarmy]

decided to not let the bullshit get me down 😤 🖕🏻

[fingertipsmp3]

I love sim drama

[teaboot]

Sometimes at work it's not my place to tell people the things I want to say, and I find I often go home at the end of the rougher days to stand blankly in my shower and tell myself over and over what I wish I could pass on.

This accomplishes very little, and mostly just gives me a tension headache, but through it all I think I've narrowed myself down to a few solid things I'd like to tell people the most.

You can't change people. Not permanently, not for anythig. You can support them, encourage them, love them, give them tools and opportunities and resources, but you can't make them change. They can change themselves if they want to, but they have to want to, and they have to want it for themselves, because they're the only one that's certain to be with them forever.

For better or worse, you make your own choices, and blaming bad choices on others doesn't only work to absolve you of responsibility- it also robs you of control. Because if you say you only did something because I did something, then you arent only shifting blame- you're admitting that you cannot control yourself, that you cannot truly make choices for yourself, that other people can control you- and as long as you truly beleive that, you'll keep facing the same problems over and over. You'll keep letting others dictate your choices, because you'll beleive that they can, and you'll never be free.

White knights on horseback are from fairytales. Nobody can help you if ou're not willing to help yourself. To try, to put the dirty work in, to belive you're worth that effort- Act as though nobody is coming to save you. From a struggle, from pain, from bad relationships, from yourself. And when you do save yourself, because you will, because failure here isn't an option if you want to survive, you'll never find another dragon that can keep you prisoner.

Don't say anything to anyone that you wouldn't want them remembering forever.

Doing the right thing in bad circumstances is hard. It's the hardest thing. But if you make the choice to do that hard thing anyways, despite your fear, you'll go on the rest of your like knowing that you're the sort of person who did something.

The present only seems the hardest because the past I over and the future hasn't happened.

There's so much joy ahead of you, the kind you can't possibly understand until you see it yourself.

The responsibility of consequences is often disguised as the power of permission. "I won't do this if you help me", "I'll work on my anger if you do this for me", "I promised you I'd quit, but can I have just one?". The unspoken question is, "Can it be your fault if this goes badly?"

You cant make someone love you the way you need to be loved. Someone can love you very much and still be bad for you, even if you love them very much in return. Two people can love each other very, very much, and try their very best, and still be wrong for each other.

Sometimes being near to someone changes you, even in good ways, and the people you become don't fit together as well as the people you were.

Caring takes work. Even if it's real. Especially if it's real. And the most important gestures aren't the grand, poetic, songs-and-flowers-and-tears moments; they're getting out of bed even though you don't want to. Paying attention to things you don't enjoy. Scrubbing pans, or opening a window, saying "thank-you", or helping carry groceries into the house. The small things fill the big things- without the small, boring, mediocre things, big things feel hollow.

Thrre is honour and dignity in humble work.

If you are a cruel and spiteful person, then you will find every place you visit to be full of the same cruel, spiteful people. This is not because the world is as cruel as you, but because everywhere you are, you will be disliked. This is the curse that comes with being persistently cruel and spiteful.

If you are a kind and ppsitive person, you will repeatedly encounter kind and positive people, because as they grow familiar with you, they will be happier to have you near. This is the reward of being a kind and positive person.

When splitting paths with loved ones, briefly or forever, aim for your last words to always be "I love you".

[yanderenightmare]

TW: NSFW, yandere, stepcest

fem reader

Creep Step-bro – who steals the keys to your shared bathroom on account that you use too much time in there. He’ll barge in when you’re in the shower in the mornings to take a piss even though you squeal at him to get out. You’ll turn around to hide, still needing to wash out the shampoo from your hair, annoyed “ughs” and curse words leaving you – and he’ll sneak a snide look, watching the soapsuds and water run over the plump of your ass, glossy skin, perfect curve, down between your thighs and legs.

When you grab the towel, you sneer at him, “asshole,” before stomping out. He’ll shrug his shoulders, brushing his teeth with jaded eyes – casually pushing his hips forward against the sink, acting like he doesn’t have a boner he plans on rubbing out to the pretty picture of your wet naked body along with that cute scowl on your face.

You’re practically begging for it walking about the house in those little pajama shorts – so tiny he can see the crease of your cheek, so tight he can see the puffy outline of your cunt. Not to mention the loose tank top you wear with it. Sometimes without a bra on. The round of your soft titties going jump on every step you take.

Of course, he’s going to use any excuse to brush up against you. Coming behind you when you stand in the kitchen – prepping snacks for you and the gaggle of girlfriends held up in your room. He’ll push his crotch against the fat of your ass, pretending to reach for a bowl in the cupboard above you, and you’ll whine out something like “ew, gross, personal space-” but he’ll only savor the struggle even more – only raising his brow at you when you turn around with a strict pointer pressed up beneath his chin, telling him with a frown how he better not perv on any of your friends.

Shit- you’re so clueless…

Clueless as to how he robs your panties from the laundry bin and fucks the silky lace until they fray from his rough handlings – how he winds it so tight it strangles his cock, scrunching his face while imagining it’s your tight pussy before he blows his messy load into the dainty thing – loving the thought of you cluelessly walking around in them. 

Sure, it’s been washed since then, but still… 

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Denki, Kirishima, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Mahito, Geto, Gojo, Toji, Yuuta, Choso ♡ HQ – Kageyama, Kuro, Miya twins, Suna, Tendou ♡ CSM – Denji ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ AOT – Eren ♡ DS – Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[theclaravita]

BANDWAGON TIME

Ready to have my preconceived notions about my entire reality shaken by this HYPERSPECIFIC POLL. >:D

[pomefioredove]

So idk if I'm requesting in the right place. But I would love a twst scenario with a yuu that just says all their intrusive thoughts. Like just out of NOWHERE, as they reach for a water bottle hanging out with the first years they go.

“I robbed a house back home”

Or when Azul tries cornering them with the twins for something they just blankly turn to Floyd going.

“duck off you look like you can't steer a shopping cart”

But feel free to do it with whoever you want and if you don't want to do mine that's perfectly fine and I hope you have a great day :)

certainly!!

summary: reader who speaks all their impulsive thoughts type of post: headcanons characters: heartslabyul, octavinelle, scarabia, diasomnia additional info: platonic or romantic, reader isn't specified to be yuu, reader is gender neutral author's note: for some reason I had the hardest time thinking up new nonsense, so many of these dialogue lines are from lewis carroll poems, which I have a wonderful nostalgia for. check those out as well!

Ace and Deuce are pretty much used to you saying whatever's at the top of your mind... with no filter

so used to it that it barely even registers with them anymore

whenever it's quiet, they can expect you to come out with some incomprehensible nonsense.

if you didn't, they'd probably ask what's wrong

"I robbed a house back home,"

"Yeah, okay,"

Riddle, on the other hand, gets frustrated alarmingly fast

despite running an entire dorm based on nonsensical rules, he has a low tolerance for outside nonsense

and... well, despite his name, he's not really a fan of riddles

Trey matches your energy immediately

no joke. he doesn't even bat an eye

"I eat plastic,"

"hm. sometimes I eat muffin wrappers,"

honestly, sometimes his tangents get even weirder than yours

Cater probably wasn't listening very closely when you first started going off, or maybe he's just become accustomed to riddles, though the next time you say something he just thinks it's cute

might use your "thoughtful anecdotes" as a caption for his next post

would it be surprising if I were to say Azul is used to randomness?

Floyd has a tendency to say the strangest things out of nowhere, after all, and the sea itself can be a surprising place

he does not, however, appreciate how you keep speaking in tongues when he's trying to have serious business conversations with you

(seriously, how hard can it be to swindle one person?!)

"Please, just talk normally,"

"But the mome raths outgrabe!"

he doesn't know what that means, but it sounds like an insult

...and then will refuse to converse with you again until you're in a "better mood" (in his own words)

Jade, on the other hand, finds you quite fascinating

he keeps a little notepad on him just to jot down the things you say. why? you can't imagine. he just finds it interesting, you suppose

"'Twas brilling..."

"Really? How interesting. Go on,"

Floyd isn't really paying much attention

your funny words amuse him at best and annoy him at worse

if you ever find yourself in a bad place with the octotrio, you can just say something like:

"You look like you can't steer a shopping cart,"

and Floyd will take actual offense to that, and just straight up leave

(much to Azul's dismay)

Kalim adds on right away

and keeps going

and keeps going... and keeps going...

"How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail..."

"Oh, I know! He pours waters on every shining scale,"

at one point Jamil has to pull you aside and beg you not to encourage him

"No promises!" is your answer

Kalim even buys a parrot to add onto the fun

it becomes a three-person (or two-person-and-a-bird?) act

...even if you're not really doing it on purpose

Jamil is who ends up taking care of the parrot while it squawks your old nonsense thoughts, though

he likes the parrot much better than either of you

Malleus will entertain you based on his own curiosity

none of his other human classmates speak in such odd and puzzling words, so he knows it's a "you" thing

might try to solve them if they sound like riddles

but he mostly just thinks they're cute

"O, oysters, come and walk with us,"

"How interesting... I do wonder where you come up with all this,"

Sebek will listen to you because Malleus does, and Silver has enough nonsense to deal with as it is. will definitely fall asleep while you're talking to him

Lilia responds in like terms

meow at him? he'll meow back

in fact, he'll meow at you every time he sees you until you say something else to capture his curiosity

might go ahead and start speaking to you in tongues before you even say anything

he just thinks you're neat!

[idkyetxoxo]

Aegon Targaryen - Debt Owed

Summary - A marriage, once feared as duty, blossoms into love. Tragedy strikes shattering their bliss when ruthless debt collectors demand a terrible price, leaving them adrift in a sea of sorrow. Now, haunted by loss, they cling to fragments of hope amidst shattered dreams.

Pairing - Aegon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Violence, infanticide, pregnancy complications (very slight)

Word count - 2275

Masterlist for Aegon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"I cannot join you tonight, the babe hinders me from even walking long distances, let alone staying up and drinking with you and your companions," I explained softly. The disappointment in my voice was impossible to hide, even from myself.

My loving husband, Aegon sat across from me, concern etched on his handsome face. His thumb traced gentle circles on the back of my hand, a gesture that never failed to soothe me.

"Then I shall accompany you in settling the twins abed," he offered suddenly, standing up and extending his hand for me to take.

I hesitated, feeling torn, the words catching in my throat. Part of me longed for his company, while the other feared robbing him of his deserved celebration.

"That is not necessary," I replied with a gentle strain as I pushed myself to my feet, using the chair for support. "You should celebrate with your companions. You deserve a moment to breathe, laugh, and be free, if only for a few hours. I do not require any assistance."

Aegon's expression softened, his eyes warm with understanding.

"Try not to startle me awake this time," I teased affectionately, feeling a surge of love for him as he kissed my forehead in return, the warmth of his lips lingered, a silent promise of his unwavering presence.

With a warm smile, he opened the door, allowing me to exit.

When our betrothal was first announced, dread had seeped into my bones. The whispers of Aegon's reputation haunted me, conjuring images of a life steeped in cold cruelty and indifference. I steeled myself for a marriage of duty rather than affection, prepared to endure whatever fate awaited me.

 But reality, it seemed, had woven a far different tapestry.

To my surprise, Aegon was nothing like the man I had feared. Instead of coldness, I found warmth, instead of disdain, I found respect. He never found a reason to dislike me, and in turn, I gradually began to see him in a different light. 

As days turned into months and then years, we grew to understand each other deeply.

Aegon has shown me a kindness I never expected, and in return, I have given him my heart. Though our union was born out of political necessity, it has blossomed into a genuine love story, one that neither of us could have anticipated.

As I walked out of the room, I glanced back at Aegon, who was still watching me with that familiar look of concern and affection. I smiled, feeling a profound sense of gratitude.

I entered the nursery, my heart filled with a mother's joy as I greeted the wet nurse with a warm smile. 

"Your Grace," she curtsied respectfully before leaving the room, leaving me alone with our precious twins. Their innocent faces, nestled in their cradles, brought a moment of peace.

The tranquillity shattered like fragile glass as a sudden noise caught my attention. 

Before I could react, a strong arm wrapped around me, crushing me against a solid chest. A cold, sharp blade pressed against my throat, and a rough hand clamped over my mouth, stifling any sound of protest. 

Terror gripped me as I stared into the eyes of a burly man who emerged from the shadows.

"Who's this?" His voice was gravelly, filled with menace.

"The queen," the man behind me chuckled darkly, his grip tightening with every second. Tears streamed down my cheeks unchecked, as multiple horrifying scenarios flashed through my mind.

"Who are you?" I managed to mumble through the stifling grip on my mouth.

"Debt collectors," the man answered callously, his voice a cruel contrast to the tenderness of the nursery. "A debt is owed, an eye for an eye, a son for a son."

My heart pounded against my ribcage, a frantic drumbeat of impending doom, as the man's foul breath brushed against my ear, his grip on my throat tightening like a vice.

"Tell us which one is the boy, and no one else will be killed," the man demanded, his voice edged with menace as he held the blade steady against my throat. 

His accomplice's eyes darted between the cradles, calculating and cold.

"Kill me instead," I pleaded, desperation cracking my voice as the tears continued.

"You are not a son," the man behind me sneered, his grip tightening on my mouth and the blade pressing deeper, sending a searing pain through my neck. 

The physical agony was unbearable, but it paled in comparison to the overwhelming anguish of knowing my innocent children were in danger.

My mind raced, frantic with fear and helplessness. The nursery, once a sanctuary, now felt like a trap closing in around us. The twins, my twins, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, lay peacefully unaware in their cradles, oblivious to the horror unfolding around them.

Every fibre of my being screamed to shield them, to protect them from the cruelty of the world, but I was powerless, held fast by the brute behind me.

The man in front of me took a deliberate step closer to the cradles, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the infants. 

"We don't have all night," he muttered impatiently, his voice a harsh reminder of the ticking clock counting down to unspeakable tragedy.

"Please," I gasped, struggling against the iron grip that held me, my heart pounding with frantic desperation. "They're just children. They haven't done anything wrong. Whatever debt is owed, take it out on me."

The man behind me chuckled darkly. "Do you think we're here to negotiate?" he sneered, his breath hot against my ear. "A son for a son. That's the price."

His words hung in the air like a death sentence, each one a cold dagger to my heart.

Tears blurred my vision as I pleaded with them, my voice raw with emotion. "Please, let them live," I begged, my entire body trembling with fear and sorrow. "They are innocent. This isn't their fault."

My voice cracked each word a plea torn from my soul. "Please," I begged, the strain of my sobs turning my breath into ragged gasps. "Spare them. Take me instead."

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the soft rustling of the infants in their cradles. Then, the man at the cradles turned to his partner, his tone chillingly casual. 

"Which one, then?"

The pressure on my mouth loosened slightly, allowing me to speak through ragged breaths. 

"I'll tell you," I whispered hoarsely, my voice barely audible amidst the turmoil within me. "But promise me, spare the other."

"Get on with it before I kill them both and then carve this one out of you," the man sneered. His mocking hand rested on my swollen stomach, a reminder of the life growing within me, now threatened by unspeakable violence.

My arm trembled uncontrollably as I lifted it, pointing at Jaehaerys with agonizing slowness. The man behind me released his hold, shoving me aside with a brutal force that sent me stumbling. 

I watched in numb horror as both intruders descended upon my precious son's cradle, their movements swift and efficient, devoid of any trace of humanity.

Tears streamed down my face unchecked, my entire being torn apart by the unimaginable agony of witnessing such brutality against my own flesh and blood. Every fibre of my being screamed to intervene, to protect him, but I was paralyzed by fear and shock.

The sack they brought with them soon bulged with the weight of my son's head, their callous satisfaction cutting through me like a knife.

Then, as if snapped out of a trance, a surge of primal instinct took hold of me. With Jaehaera clutched tightly to my chest, I turned and ran my vision clouded by tears and fear.

Desperation fueled me as I dashed towards the stairs, every part of me focused on reaching safety. Panic clawed at my throat, threatening to overwhelm me, but I pushed forward, driven by the need to protect my remaining child at all costs.

To my horror, there was no sign of the Kingsguard. Dread surged through me, clouding my thoughts and then, disaster struck. My foot caught on the edge, sent me crashing to the ground with a sharp thud. 

The world blurred into a fog of grief and terror as I stumbled, my vision dimming, consumed by the horror of what I had just witnessed. 

My son, my sweet Jaehaerys... gone.

Pain shot through my body, but it was nothing compared to the anguish that gripped my soul. Jaehaera startled awake by the commotion awoke and I finally let out a piercing cry.

Before I could gather my bearings, rapid footsteps approached, and strong arms enveloped my trembling form. Aegon rushed to my side, his eyes wild with fear, his face a mask of panic and fury as he assessed the scene before him.

"What happened?" His voice trembled as he gently pressed his hand over the cut on my neck, trying to staunch the bleeding.

"They killed him," I managed to choke out between sobs, my voice breaking with every syllable. "They killed our boy, Aegon."

A guttural cry of anguish tore from his throat, mirroring the devastation in my own heart, a sound that would haunt me forever.

"Who did this?" His voice cracked with desperation, his eyes searching mine for answers that I couldn't provide in my shattered state.

I could only bow my head, desperate tears coating my cheeks, unable to find the words to articulate the horror that had unfolded moments ago.

"Lock the place down! Nobody leaves!" Aegon's command rang out with authority, his fury fueling the urgency of the guards who swiftly moved to secure the area. 

Their faces were grim, hardened by the gravity of the situation.

"Aegon, he's dead," I repeated, my voice a hollow whisper, as he held me tighter.

Aegon's hands trembled as he tried to shield me from the brutal reality of our loss. "I swear to you," he vowed through clenched teeth, his voice thick with determination and sorrow, "we will find them. They will pay for this."

But his words felt distant, like echoes in a void. My mind replayed the last moments in the nursery, the terror, the helplessness, the sight of Jaehaerys being ripped from me. Each thought was a dagger to my heart, each memory a fresh wound.

I clung to Aegon, my body shaking with sobs, as the reality of our shattered lives sank in.

"Aegon," I gasped, my eyes locking onto his with desperation. "It hurts," I whispered, my hands instinctively cradling my swollen belly. 

The pain intensified to an unbearable level, drowning out Aegon's voice filled with concern amidst the flurry of activity around me. 

As darkness closed in, I reached for him once more, my voice barely a whisper, "Aegon... it hurts." 

The pain wasn't just physical, it was a deep, all-consuming agony that hollowed out my soul.

The last thing I remembered before slipping into unconsciousness was the haunting echo of the queen dowager's screams resonating through the hall.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

When I woke later, I found myself lying in bed, the soft light of dawn filtering through heavy curtains. My head felt heavy as I struggled for a moment to recall where I was. Then, I felt the warm, reassuring grip of Aegon's hand clasping mine.

The maester stood nearby, his expression a mix of relief and ease. 

"You are awake," he said softly. "The babe is fine, your grace. The pain and discomfort were due to strain and worry, nothing more. Rest assured, both you and the babe are safe."

"Aegon," I gasped again, turning my head to find his eyes filled with concern and love. "I want to see Jaehaera," I insisted, urgency trembling in my voice. I threw off the sheets and attempted to stand, but Aegon quickly rose and gently eased me back into bed.

"Please, rest," he urged, his tone both soothing and firm.

Just then, a voice called from the doorway, "Your Grace." It was one of the guards, and beside him stood Jaehaera. The sight of her filled my heart with relief and joy.

As soon as she saw me, Jaehaera broke free from the guard and rushed to the bed, throwing herself into my arms. I held her close, feeling her small, warm body against mine.

"Mother," Jaehaera whispered, her voice muffled as she buried her face in my neck. I stroked her hair, crying softly.

"My sweet girl," I murmured, my voice choked with emotion.

Though Jaehaera was too young to grasp the full extent of our loss, she sensed the absence of her brother. I tried to be strong for her, but my own strength was waning, my heart too shattered to offer comfort.

In the following weeks, Aegon and I grew distant, our shared grief creating an insurmountable chasm between us. He became consumed by his quest for vengeance, while I found myself trapped in a relentless cycle of despair. 

Our conversations dwindled, filled more with echoes of pain than words of solace.

One night, I sat alone in the dimly lit nursery, clutching one of Jaehaerys's tiny blankets close to my chest. His scent lingered, a bittersweet reminder of what we had lost. 

Unable to contain the torrent of grief any longer, I allowed myself to weep freely. The tears flowed unrestrained, a mixture of sorrow and anger that had been building since that dreadful night.

Aegon found me there, his face etched with sorrow as he knelt beside me. His hand rested gently on my shoulder. 

"They will answer for what they've done" he whispered with resolve, his voice tinged with heartbreak.

But as I looked into his eyes, I knew that no amount of vengeance could fill the void left by Jaehaerys's death. 

The wound was deep, aching with a pain that would never truly heal.

A/n - I did listen to Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby by Cigarettes After Sex on repeat whilst writing, might have influenced some of the heartache

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Three

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ no smut but this fic contains mature themes. Medical inaccuracies, hospitals, medical procedures, medications, nurse!reader. Feelings of fear and anxiety. Flirting. Emotional hurt/comfort. Panic attack. PTSD. Comfort. "You'll be with him?"

“-nna let ‘im die out here-“

“-is too risky without adequate-“ 

Johnny is drowning in a sea of shattered voices, whispers of words that sound like they might be coming from Gaz, or Price, hushed prayers and promises, jargon he doesn’t understand washing over him from unfamiliar, clinical mouths. 

It’s overwhelming. He can hardly get his eyes to open, and when he does, they stay half shut for what feels like hours, even though he knows, logically, it’s mere seconds. 

He’s no longer strapped into a backboard, but a bed, and the ceiling is not metal and rivets, but white and canvas, voices competing with the constant sound of beeping. 

“Soap.” Price leans into his line of sight, hat gone, exhausted. He’s holding a sat phone, the one they usually carry during missions in one hand, a file folder in another. He looks his age, Johnny thinks, for the first time in his career. Looks like he’s spent eons in combat, like he hasn’t had a full night’s rest in a decade. “John. You’re in the hospital on base.” At the use of his government name, Johnny tries to straighten on instinct. The soft, floating feelings he’s been having for the past who knows how long have faded, and his body is starting to feel like it’s been pumped with gasoline, and then lit on fire. From the inside. “Are you with me, Sergeant?” He tries to vocalize, tries to say yes, or nod, but can hardly get his neck to work, bones and ligaments and everything in him screaming in agony. “They want to take you in a flight for life, get you home to a top hospital. Simon's already agreed, but he- he wants to speak with you.” Price wrenches his fingers open and lifts the clunky satellite phone to his face. “I rang him, on the emergency line, at home. Just… you need to-“ he stops, chest heaving with a desperate breath, an indulgence of emotion that Johnny has never seen. His captain wants to tell him- you need to say goodbye, just in case. But he can’t find the words, and Johnny can’t make it fit in his head, the reality, the stark reminder that he could not be here, in a moment. Or an hour. A day. “Open your eyes, John. Stay awake.” 

“Johnny.” The Manchester accent crackles through the receiver. Johnny can almost see him, cell pressed to his face, pacing in the living room. He wonders if he’s got the fireplace lit, if it’s chilly now that it's turning to winter, if there’s been frost on the windows of their little house. If Simon is wearing a pair of sweatpants, if he’s got the television on as he tries to make dinner. “Johnny. Sit rep.” The status check comes through harsh, but the truth is tucked away beneath the grit. Fear. Life altering, heart breaking fear drenches every syllable that spills from his partner. 

Pain sizzles through his muscles, across his brain, but he swallows it, shoves it down into a dark hole for another minute. 

“Pretty banged up.” 

“They’re going to lift you to a hospital,” He thinks he knew that. “and you’re goin’ be alright. I’ll meet you there.” 

“Ah love ye, Si.” It’s all he can say. All he can think about. The excruciating agony that is radiating through his body robs him of everything else. 

“I love you too. Hang on.” Johnny grinds his jaw, blowing short breaths through his nose to try to control his pain response, and then holds his breath when soft babbles echo through the phone. “It’s Da, Pen. It’s Da. Can you say Da?” 

“Da?” Penny mimics her dad, and Johnny wonders if they’re sitting on the couch, Penelope tucked up against Simon’s chest, wispy curls tickling just below his nose as she climbs all over him like a jungle gym. 

“Ma wee lamb.” Johnny whispers. “Ah love ye, Pen.” There’s more babbling, half strung together words, more than appropriate for a fourteen-month-old, and Johnny’s temples shine with tears that drip from the corners of his eyes. There’s talking, around him, people bustling back and forth. A hand brushes against skin, sharp pinch squeezing along the inside of his arm. 

“Can you say, I love you?” Simon encourages, but Johnny knows it’s a lost cause. 

“When she’s old enough to understand, ye tell her Ah loved her, loved her so much. Ye an’ her, is all I ever wished fer.”

“Stop.” Simon breathes. “You’re going to be fine.” 

There’s another poke in his arm, someone lighting a fire in his veins, and he loses the battle to his eyes once more. 

Your neck grumbles in protest when you try to twist it, working out tight muscle and tendon, rolling it across your shoulders and down, back and forth, over and over again.

You should go home. 

You know you should. It’s two hours past seven, you should already be home. Should already be in your flat, showering the workday off and crawling into bed. You could be having a tea, snuggled up in your sweatpants, moving playing on low in the background. Warm, safe. Nearly asleep.

Johnny twitches beside you. His fingers clench in the blankets and then relax, face smoothing out in his dreams. The mask is gone, replaced with the cannula that loops beneath his nose, and the monitor beeps in soothing, reassuring, stable tones. One chime right after another, relaying his vitals to where you sit in Simon’s chair, feet slung over the side, kindle in your lap.

You made a promise. 

And even without that promise, for some reason, you couldn’t just leave Johnny here to wake up alone. The idea of him coming to and being confused, or scared, again, made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Even before you promised Simon to stay earlier, you already knew.

You wouldn’t be leaving.

“He’s had a seizure.” Simon’s eyes widen above the mask and then flatten into something harder, something almost distrusting. “Neuro’s done an exam and they’re of the opinion there will be no long-term deficits, but we’ll need to wait until he wakes to be sure. They’re still trying to figure out what caused it, but most likely it's a result from surgery.” He moves to shoulder by you, no doubt trying to beeline back to Johnny’s room, but you hold your hand up with a pause. “I can’t let you go back in there yet.” 

“Why not?” 

“He’s not awake.” 

“I don’t-“

“Simon, this is the ICU. I don’t know who or what strings you pulled to even be allowed to sit with him in there twenty-four seven, but it’s not the norm. You won’t be allowed back in that room until we are sure he is stable.” You don’t tell him that you don’t want him to be there when Johnny wakes in case there are deficits, that you’re trying to save him from the pain, the heartbreak, of seeing things that patient’s loved ones are not meant to see. 

He regards you silently, and you fidget under the scrutiny, waiting for him to speak, trying to ignore how your mouth is going dry. This isn’t the first he’s watched you like this, stared at you like he’s trying to pick you apart, and you swallow your grimace until the long moment passes, his voice low, gritty with stress. Exhaustion. 

“I’m supposed to go home today for a bit. I… don’t want to leave ‘im.” 

“You can still go. He’s sleeping for now, and when he wakes, they’ll have to do some more tests that you won’t be allowed in the room for anyway.” He looks down the hallway towards Johnny’s room, before his eyes find yours, heavy with grief, indecision. 

“You’ll be with him?” He can’t hide the hopeful inflection at the end of his question, his need for a light in the dark of this situation. 

“I-“ The thought didn’t occur to you, to not be there. You imagined you’d wait until Johnny was cleared by neuro and Simon was allowed back in the room, but the morning has dragged on, and he’s been sleeping peacefully. There’s been no desire to wake him unnecessarily. “Yes. I’ll stay with him. I promise.”  

“He go home?” Johnny’s voice, scratchy from sleep and medication and everything else, startles you from a half doze, spine straightening into a rod before you’re leaping to your feet, leaning over his prone figure.

“You’re awake.” You find his good hand, slipping two fingers into his grip. “Can you squeeze my hand?” When he does, tightly, more strength in it than you were expected, you give him an honest, happy smile, and retreat to the end of the bed, flipping up his blanket to poke at the bottom of his feet. “Can you feel that?”

“Aye.”

“And this?”

“Aye.” He huffs at you, impatient. “Did he go home?” You sigh in response, hand on your hip.

“Yes.”

“Finally. Been tellin’ him he had to. The man’s back ‘s not made to sleep sittin’ up.”

“Well, I’m sure he didn’t want to leave. I told him I’d sit with you.” You reach over to press the page button, looking intentionally away from where those bright blue eyes track you, sweet and soft and open, lips slightly parted. “How’s your pain? I’m not on the clock any longer, so I can’t page the neurologist, but they’ll have come and do a few tests.”

“Ye wanted to sit with me, pretty girl?” Your face gets hot, blood pooling beneath your skin, pit of your stomach liquifying into something honeyed and potent that flows through your veins until you swear you can feel the room getting warmer.

“How’s your pain?” you repeat your question, words dumb on your tongue.

“A five.” You raise an eyebrow. “Alright, a seven. And a half.” The days nurse knocks with perfect timing, all hustle and bustle, bright and cheery, and asks Johnny the same questions, keeping up a perfect stream of small talk between you and Johnny until Neuro is standing at the foot of his bed, and you’re excusing yourself.

“Okay, I’m-“

“Dinnae leave.” He protests, voice quiet. Your stomach lurches at the vulnerability there, and you’re quick to reassure him.

“I’m just going to get a tea.” You promise, even though you know he’ll probably be half loopy by the time you’re back, and the dayshift nurse gives you a nod, acknowledgement of his state, an understanding that she’ll be here with him.

Not an hour later, your pocket chimes with a text from the dayshifter as you half sip your tea, letting you know that Johnny’s exam is done, and as you pass her in the hallway, she gives you verbal confirmation of what you were hoping for: his brain function is normal. He’ll have to go for CT later, but she’s just given him another dosage for pain management. You yawn in the middle of her pass-on, and she tells you that she'll keep an eye on him. You can go. 

She's not wrong. 

You need to go to bed. 

You know your presence at your patient's bedside won't be viewed as unprofessional, since others have done it in far less severe situations, but the pendulum your emotions swing on every time you step foot in that room leaves you with a sinking feeling that's starting to crawl across your skin.

You wanted this. You wanted to stay with him. 

Simon asked you stay with him. 

Yeah, but for how long? He cannot expect you to spend all day here. You have to go to bed. Are you just going to leave him all alone? Are you going to wait for Simon to come back? 

The dread spiral is easily answered when you slide open the glass door and lay eyes on the very handsome man from the other night, the younger one from the chair vigil, now sitting beside Johnny, the two of them softly chuckling.

When Johnny spots you, he manages to fire off your name as a half-effort introduction, more than expected considering his slowly slipping state of consciousness.

“I’m Kyle. Soap an’ I work together.” Soap? Who is Soap? 

“She doesnae know me b’ Soap, only calls me Johnny.” He explains your confused look, to which Kyle raises an eyebrow.

“Wow. Letting your nurse call you Johnny, eh? Simon better-“

“Ach, stop.” He rolls his eyes, but sleep tugs his lids downward.

“It’s nice to meet you.” You give Johnny and his monitor a once over, catching yourself on his sweet, sleepy gaze, flushed face and lazy smile, before directing your attention back to Kyle. “I told Simon, I’d sit with him for a bit before he got back, but…”

“I’m here in his place.” Kyle explains, motioning to the chair, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. You will get to go home and get some sleep, after all. 

There’s a woman with a confused look on her face just outside the elevator. She looks exhausted, skin raw under her eyes, clutching a baby who’s maybe a year, or a bit older, in her arms, glancing up and down the hall before she spots you.

Fuck. You’re still wearing your scrubs. 

“Hi.” You smile, and she visibly relaxes, obviously relieved. The baby tucks her face into the woman’s chest like she’s shy, coyly looking at you from corner of her eye. “You look lost.”

“I’m looking for the nurse’s station. My husband was supposed to meet me here but he’s running late and I-“

“It’s all the way down, take the first left, and it will be at the end of that hallway.”

“Oh my god, thank you so much.” She glances at your ID, punctuating her gratitude with your name, and you give her another smile, leaning to extend towards the baby as well.

“So cute.” You tell her, pressing the elevator button with a ding.

“Cute. But she’s a little terror, especially when she’s missing her Da.” She grumbles, and then waves, setting off against the white tile as you laugh to yourself. Pretty much sums kids up. Cute little terrors.

A week passes easily, beds and rooms changing over, room two sixty-eight remaining a constant. Johnny takes his battles on the chin, burn debridement on his side, casting for his wrist, removal of his chest tube, a third surgery. 

“He’s a fighter.” Simon tells you one night in the dark after he’s slipped off to sleep. “Always has been. He's strong. Spirited.”

“I can see.” You agree, holding out the extra blanket you’ve pulled from a cabinet. When Simon takes it, his eyes meet yours, something soft shining in them, and you give him a smile in return. 

“Thank you.” He murmurs. “For everything.”

A few days later, you’re surprised, and secretly pleased, to find Simon in the café.

He’s standing in front of the counter, paying for what you think might a baked good of some kind, sweet lady behind the register eyeing him up suspiciously as he deposits the note into her hand, and you stay on the outside of the doors, lingering in the hallway, watching.

At least he’s eating something. He’s still wearing the mask, and although it’s not uncommon, especially in a hospital setting, it does give you pause. Does he wear it all the time? Is it just because this is a hospital? He observes the room, steadily taking in all of the people meandering about, some eating, some standing, making their selections, engaging in conversation, and you notice how his hand slides to the back of his neck, distractedly rubbing the hair at his nape before he makes his escape, long legs eating up the distance between him and the door, him and… you.

“Hi.” You squeak when he steps into the hall, turning the corner to find you standing there like a deer in headlights, your water bottle clutched in one hand, phone in the other. His head tilts, eyes narrowed, and you manage to give him a half smile. “Getting something to eat?”

“It’s for Johnny.” He notes. “I ah, had something to eat earlier. When I was home.” Oh, good. Being in the hospital twenty-four seven isn’t healthy for anyone. Not even patients. 

“Cool.” Cool? What is this, a pub? You swallow your embarrassing, awkward acknowledgement, breezing past the word like it didn’t happen. “Well, I’m about to badge in, so I’ll see you in a bit?” He nods, eyes still trained on your face, and you beat back the heat that’s spreading through your body like a fever when they drift down to your shoulders, and then to your badge.

“Cute sticker.” He points to where it’s clipped to your top, shiny bunny sticker from a patient’s child still there, holographic print sparkling in the dusk.

“Oh, thanks. Another patient of mine has a little kid. I was hanging out with him for a bit yesterday.”

“Suits you.” His gaze dips downward, glancing over the curve of your hip, plush from the swell of your ass, taut pull of your scrubs all of the sudden feeling too tight, too stretched across your waist, and you scramble to make sense of his comment. 

“A bunny?” Your brows raise in disbelief, confusion, but he only nods, head tilted slightly, posture broad. Your brain turns over, frantically trying to think of a response, something clever, but he continues to talk, clearing his throat with a question.

“What do you call a line of rabbits hopping backwards?” Huh? 

“What?”

“A receding hare-line.” Wait. What? Is he… joking with you? Your mouth drops into a little o of part surprise, part confusion, before you squint at him in disbelief.

“Oh… my god. That’s…”

“’s not that bad.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, giving you the impression that he might be smiling beneath the mask, making you wonder if you’re hallucinating.

“It’s pretty bad.” You croak, nervous laughter bubbling up in the back of your throat. “Well, I… uh-“ His phone dings, pulling his focus to the screen, and he swipes out something quickly with his thumb.

“I’ll see you up there.” He jerks his head towards the elevator, and you mumble out a mild, flabbergasted reply.

“Alright... yeah.”

Your first break comes up fast. Your morning, everyone’s evening, is busy, with a code, a tricky vent, and a needy, elderly man in two fifty-two. It goes from busy to worse, an argument with the pharmacy heating your blood, spurring anger through your veins and you have to physically bite your tongue to keep from berating the poor tech at the window. Useless. You seethe in your mind all the way back up to your floor, frustration driving you to seek solace, eager to escape the eyes of the hospital, running away from the possibility of being noticed.

But supply closet 2b is occupied, a frazzled resident huffing into a pillow in the back, hyperventilating with tear-stained cheeks.

Without even fully realizing, you find yourself inside two sixty-eight, Simon’s sharp eyes falling upon you with scrutiny. He looks at Johnny’s monitor like something might be amiss, relaxed posture straightening into something tense, structured. There’s a card game in progress on the swivel tray table over Johnny’s lap, the glaring reality of your interruption, and you blanche.

You’re immediately incredibly embarrassed. What are you even doing in here? 

“Miss me already?” Johnny coos, beaming, and your throat feels dry. He’s feeling the best he has since he got here, albeit not great, still in awful pain, still staring down the barrel of more surgeries, but the pain medication from earlier is working its way through his system, and you’re happy to see it’s taking the edge off it all for him, allowing him comfort and conversation with his partner.

“My um… usual break spot is occupied?” You don’t know why you phrase it as a question, it just comes naturally. Like you’re seeking permission. Agreement.

“Ye want to sit with us? While ye eat?” Johnny asks, somewhat pointing to your yogurt cup, and you shrug, but Simon motions to the extra chair, the one that now sits on the other side of the bed, across from him. Guess facilities finally brought down that recliner you requested. 

“Would… would that be alright?”

Johnny looks to Simon, and Simon nods. Slowly.

Your yogurt goes down easy, light chit chat bouncing around the room, Johnny nodding in and out with drawn out answers to your questions, until a noise startles you from the chair, pushing you onto your feet to peer out the door.

It’s a man, yelling, screaming, from a room down the hall, not from sadness or despair, but rage, and your mind goes haywire when security is paged over the PA system.

Deep breath. 

This happens sometimes. Patients, or loved ones, become disruptive. Secrets and lies all come out in the wash in a hospital. Custody agreements, battles, DNRs, last wills and testaments, any of these things are a perfect tinder box. One match, and it all goes up.

A siren blares.

“Code black, code black.” echoes through the hospital, each room on every floor, down every hall.

Johnny startles from his near sleep stupor, eyes alert, the outline of his muscles solid beneath his gown.

Security risk. Lockdown. 

You straighten your spine.

Deep breath.

This is your job. 

Part of your job is being able to handle things like this. Protect, take care of your patients, and their families. Keep them safe.

The man shouts again, sharp tone of anger snapping through the air and across your frame, forcing your muscles tense.

You slide the door lock into place, pulling the curtain to only allow a small line of sight.

“What’s going on?” Simon stands, turning towards the door, and Johnny pats his hand, like he’s trying to soothe him.

“Oh, uh. It’s… just a lockdown. I don’t know.” You’re vaguely aware of the numb feeling that’s spreading from your chest down into your hand, and the sound of the irate man gets closer. Fuck. 

“Ye okay?” Johnny’s voice is gentle, and when you glance over your shoulder to reassure them, you realize they’re both watching you, Simon’s eyes locked onto your now trembling fist, as Johnny regards you softly, with kindness.

“Um. Yeah.” You suck in a quick breath, forcing yourself to steady, gritting your teeth against the frozen, involuntary fear that’s trying to overpower you. You think Simon might be frowning beneath the mask, confusion shading his question.

“Why are you standing at the door?”

“It’s standard operating procedure. If there’s an issue, or a disturbance. If you’re in a patient’s room, if I- I’m in a patient’s room, I’m supposed to act like a… barrier. Just in case.” You keep your eyes fixed out the glass, watching for any sights, listening for any sounds. The door is locked, and glass is thick, and security would be here if anything were to happen, they’re already down the hall, everything is fine. Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep-

“Go sit with Johnny.” Simon's standing just behind you, voice pitched low, sweetened into one of those softer hums, the kind of tone he usually uses with Johnny. Not with you. He’s so close, you can almost feel the heat radiating from his body, and you shake your head with a refusal.

“I have to stay-“ He cuts you off, not even letting you choke out the rest of your quivering protest.

“No. Go sit with Johnny.” He pauses, stepping around to angle his body in front of yours, looking down at you over his shoulder, and you think, for a moment, you see a glimmer of the tenderness there that’s reserved for Johnny. “Please.”

“My wrist hurts.” Johnny calls hopefully to you, mischievous smile and eyes sweet, his good hand outstretched with an open palm. “Need ye to rub it.” Simon nods, serious look quashing any rebuttals you might have, protocol and procedure slipping far from your mind as you let yourself drift to Johnny’s side, settling back into your seat previously abandoned. Johnny offers you his wrist, smile fading when he looks closer at your curled fingers. “Ye’re shaking, pretty girl.”

“Low blood sugar.” You lie. The man in the hallway shouts again, closer, loud and awful, roiling with rage, and you inadvertently tense, jolting minutely in the chair.

“Hey now.” Johnny reaches for you, gentle touch against your skin, warm fingers holding onto yours. You look down to where he tries to give you comfort, where he tries to soothe you, instead of the other way around, as it has been, as it should be, and you get lost in it, the idea of comfort, the feeling of care. It makes your heart stumble in your chest, almost like you can’t breathe, staring off into space, trying to pretend like there isn’t a man screaming down the hall, like you’re not the person you are, buried beneath the insurmountable weight of scars, memories of pain and fear etched into the very tissue of your brain, the backs of your eyelids, every strand of hair.

Ingrained inside of you, forever.

Someone says your name, and you blink back to the face of your patient, who looks to Simon, his expression unreadable until it shifts into tender warmth, re-focused on you. “What is it?”

“I-“ You picture yourself, letting your lips go loose, entrusting your secrets and worst fears to these strangers, these men who you don't even know, who don't know you. “I’m exhausted.” You offer, and shadow flickers across Johnny’s eyes. It’s not a lie, not technically. You’re always exhausted.

“Ye-“

“Code black lifted. Code black lifted. Lockdown complete. Resume normal operation.” The PA system drones, tension between your shoulders draining, and you jump to your feet, palms and fingers smoothing over your scrub top.

“Well, I’ve got to check in at the nurses’ station now. Protocol.” You explain, nearly tripping over yourself on the way to the door. Your heart is still raging inside your chest, beating faster than it should, and you steady your breathing with a mental count. One... two... three... one... “I’ll check in on you later.” You promise over your shoulder, slipping by Simon to disappear down the hallway. 

[sp0o0kylights]

Indie horror filmmaker Eddie Munson, high off his first big (underground but notable) success, knows the movers and shakers of the film world have their eyes on him. 

They're just waiting to see if he was a one hit wonder before they open all the doors he's been trying to kick down. 

His next upcoming film is his chance, his shot at finally making it. Of being like Rob Zombie and the other creators he looks up to that masterfully blended metal and horror. 

This is his golden ticket. 

The project starts off smooth. His last success has greased the wheels, and things fall into place faster than ever before. 

He's got the best idea for this insane haunted house story, a true "mazes in mazes" type of deal with a queer twist. A real look at how a place can haunt a person just as easily as a ghost can.

 Everything's going swimmingly--until one of his leads drops out the day they're due to start shooting.

No call no show's, and later, Eddie will find out the guy got a last second call back to be a contestant on one of those Love Island bullshit romance gigs (and laugh his ass off when the main love interest takes one look at Billy Hargrove and goes on a five minute rant about ugly mullets on national television) but right now? 

He's fucked. 

He's called in every favor he has for this film. Maxed out every credit card he owns, tapped every contact, got on his hands and knees and begged his rising star journalist best bud to help him market it. (Which Nancy agreed too, for way less cash than she should have.) 

 Eddie can't get anyone on the phone, much less find a replacement actor and the amazing place they rented, that is so dark and wonderfully eerie, is booked out the rest of the year as an AirBnB. 

If he doesn't film now, he loses it all.

Cue the other lead, unknown theater actor Steve Harrington, watching his hair pulling, tire kicking, 'cursing and hopping while holding a toe' mental breakdown and asks why Eddie himself doesn't act in it. 

"Just go full Kevin Smith man. Act and direct." He says, with an easy grin. 

Jeff, Eddie's tried and true videographer, trades glances with Gareth and Grant (Eddie's long used special effects and makeup team, who double for about twelve other jobs because they're also his best friends and they're all in this together, make or break.)

"We don't really have a lot of other options." Gareth hedges. "You're already using me and Grant as background characters." 

Eddie, hands fluttering around his face as though trying to wave away this entire situation, squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a pained hiss. 

"Fine, fine!" He announces with the air of a man running towards a fire. "Fuck it, this is our one shot and so help me I will be shooting it!" 

Steve politely hides a laugh with a cough. 

"Chuckle all you want big boy, I'm going to tragically romance you so hard people will forget both of our characters actually live." Eddie snarls.

Steve, the handsome bastard, just winks.  "Looking forward to it." 

Eddie blushes, but hides it with a surge of frantic energy, conveyed by lots of yelling and moving and getting the ball rolling. 

Two days later, Steve would give the performance of a lifetime down on his knees, covered in a literal pound of fake gore, booty shorts and nothing else as he sobbed about how a lover could become a home. His hands clawed at Eddie's jeans before resting a tear stained face on a slim leg as he bent his body towards Eddie like it hurt to be away from him. 

Eddie would later receive equal praise in his own acting during the scene, with the world and every reporter in it asking how he conveyed an otherworldly panic so beautifully throughout Steve's performance. What was he thinking, to evoke those expressions on his face? 

The way his own pale hand, unmarred by blood and acting as a metaphor for the plot, would come to stroke Steve's cheeks.

Eventually he'd come up with a smooth polished answer that cheekily pleased his audience, but nothing would ever come close to the truth. 

("Eddie I've known you since grade school." Jeff said that night, a scant few hours after they'd wrapped. "You can act man, but not like that." 

Eddie made a wild "shut up" gesture, looking frantically over his shoulder before admitting; "You saw how close his face was to the prince of darkness!? I was seconds away from popping a boner next to his lips, in front of the 4K camera!” 

Eddie bounced into Jeff’s face so he could hiss: “He fucking had his chin on my thigh, Jeff, and I am only a man. A mere mortal!" 

"So we're gonna unpack all of that later." Jeff said finally, when he'd managed to get his mouth working and Eddie back out of his personal space. "But dude, we've talked about you calling your dick the prince of darkness." 

Eddie flipped him off.) 

One year later and critics named Corroded the best horror film of the year, praising the camera work, practical effects, and how there wasn't a soul alive who was surprised to hear Eddie and Steve were dating after their explosive on screen chemistry.

No one ever quite understood the prince of darkness jokes or why Steve mentioning it made Eddie blush, but that was a secret to find out later. 

Today on WIP’s I have no intention of writing, indie horror movie AU!

[thebirthofvenusfly]

really in love with the way ISAT handles themes of diaspora and cultural disconnect and exclusivity and distance. you know. like odile being mixed, passing enough for ka buan that vaugardians pin her as foreign, but passing enough for vaugardian that ka buans constantly note on her features. knowing she's half vaugardian, knowing half of her blood originates from the other half of the planet from her birth home, but being unable to explore that side for herself until her mid-adulthood. i imagine she's been studying vaugardian as a language and maybe some distant cultural norms for a while, but as we've seen in the game, there's still a lot about the house of change and body craft trends, etc. that she's learning for the first time and just that painfully longing sense of, "this should have been mine. i should know this stuff. i should know it as easily as i know everything i've grown up with in ka bue." you know. and let's not forget siffrin; having been raised in a separate nation altogether as well, but forgotten all connection to it; no memory of his parents' faces, of his neighborhood, of his childhood bedroom. just remnants. just enough internalised dialogue about wishes and stars and the universe. little habits and understandings that they've either never shared with others, or pass off as "weird habits but normal for siffrin." you know. eating malanga fritters and feeling like they're back home in their family's kitchen. honestly ever since adrienne gave siffrin that afro-caribbean nose and mentioned them being not white, but white-passing has stuck with me too. like imagine it. being of a culture, its accent stained on your tongue, its norms ingrained in every passing thought in your mind, but still just never quite connecting. having its features in your face just enough to look foreign, but not, at the same time too. never quite being there, 100%. standing out enough to feel abnormal in vaugarde, but fitting in enough to forget how disconnected he really is from home until he begins looping and actually remembering stuff.

how much of your identity is the culture you should know vs the culture you do know. what about if you want that culture to be yours again, but it was robbed from you by unforeseen circumstances beyond your control and now you're trying to masquerade as though everything is fine when in reality, there's a gaping hole in your chest where your fulfilled sense of self should be.