#non-listener reader

[sinnersweets]

Fetch

Angel: *Sitting at the beach reading a book*

Damian: *Builds a sand castle city*

DogDay: *Playing volleyball with KC*

DogDay: *Looks over to Angel and gets an idea* Be right back KC. I have this urge to go bother my wife.

KickenChicken: *Rolls his eyes* Dude, can’t you see your wife is reading? She doesn’t want to get interrupted.

DogDay: *Swats away at KickenChicken while walking towards Angel*

Damian: *Starts putting sea shells on his sand castles, then notices his dad walking towards them* Mom, dads coming over here

Angel: *Looks up from book*

DogDay: *Starts to walk normally but then gets on all fours*

Angel: *Raises an eyebrow*

DogDay: *Continues walking over to Angel and has a smug look on his face*

Angel: *Starts getting nervous and covers mouth with book*

DogDay: *Walks up to Angel and hovers over her. Starts to speak in a deep voice* I want you to play fetch

Angel: *Starts blushing* O-okay…

KickenChicken: *Starts laughing like a maniac* DOGDAY WHAT THE FU-

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

A/N: You guys this video had me WHEEZING!!! Please watch it to hear how deep DogDays voice is for this short story.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

gojo always seems to be off in a world of his own.

a little detached, you think. awkwardly long limbs constantly on the move, eyes stuck in a direction no one else can follow, a trajectory you don’t think even he knows. one blink and he's gone, just like that. too far ahead, too far above, even on the occasions he slows down and lets you catch up.

flimsy, maybe. like he’ll get carried away by the breeze when spring rolls around. like he’d turn into seafoam if you reached out and touched him.

satoru gojo is an anomaly, a blurry cluster of stars. or maybe more like a planet, big and blue, spinning around its own orbit, out of reach for every single star in the sky. high and mighty, cocky and cool, silly and bright — but there's a softness to him when he's alone. something that almost seems fragile, under the light of the moon, when the dark sky casts a shadow to obscure the contours of his face — and no one’s around to notice if his smile isn't as big as it should be.

no one except for you, anyhow.

(you wonder if your presence is really that inconsequential to him.)

the beach is entirely empty, save for you and gojo. and summer’s ending, burning into little cinders, sputtering out before your very eyes.

tokyo is just beginning to dip its toes into autumn, the frost and chill, the hiss of the biting wind. the rusting of leaves, contaminated by a muddy hue, turned orange and brown and red beneath your heavy feet; littering the murky, empty streets of the rainy towns you cross. smelling of rotten apples and cinnamon, old books and burning wood.

it’s dark out. painted a thick gray, the sky is blanketed by heavy clouds, the entire world hidden behind that coating of wool. not a single sliver of starlight slips through, but there's a comfort to it, that feeling of being cocooned — safe and warm. a feeling cruelly stripped away by the nipping of the wind at your bare skin, but you digress.

everything smells of saltwater. a little like rotten fish. every breath you exhale turns into a flurry of vapour, mingling with the breezy seasalt of the open air; scattering away into the thin layer of mist all around you, until you can’t tell which is which. 

and a sense of foreboding sinks into your veins.

(you look out at the jagged rocks piercing the surface of the sea, and dully wonder how they’d feel piercing your skin.)

something shivers, to your right. a flicker of movement, a barely audible chatter of teeth. and then, a white puff of vapour.

”man, it’s cold.”

gojo looks displeased. 

only vaguely, a little crease between his eyebrows as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his puffy baseball jacket. moving his feet a little, to warm up, snowy tufts of white hair tousled by the ocean breeze. his shoes are muddied by the wet sand, but he doesn't seem to mind.  

a soft scoff leaves your lips, mostly harmless. maybe just a little smug. ”told you,” you click your tongue. 

gojo whines. his sunglasses are starting to fog up, you notice. ”it’s still summer!” he pouts. ”i thought the sea would be nice and breezy!”

an unimpressed look smooths over your features. gracing him with a raise of your brow, you don’t fully manage to bite back the soft smile that follows. don’t even really attempt to.

it’s been a long day. evidently not long enough for gojo, seeing as he dragged you down here — even though he knew it meant missing the train you were supposed to board after successfully finishing your mission. he just had to get a closer look at the sea. just for a moment or two. 

and he was insistent, persuasive. awfully whiny. assuring you that he’d be quick, that you wouldn’t miss the next one. 

(what made you agree was simply the thought of spending some more time with him. not like you could ever tell him that, though.)

so there you stand. two juveniles, shivering and shifting from foot to foot, on the brink of nightfall, the edge of summertime. watching the sea stretch out into infinity, across the gap between this world and the next. a murky blue. easy on the eyes.

the noise of the sea fills your ears; waves crashing into sand, the whistling of the wind, seagulls crying out in the distance. and faraway, the chatter of a rattling train. a cacophony of sounds, buzzing and crackling, melting together. scattered across the beach are countless tiny white seashells, and the occasional green glimmer of drift glass — mermaids’ tears, shed for lost sailors, or so you’ve heard.

you wonder if the mermaids ever shed tears for lost sorcerers. probably not.

a shiver runs through your body, down to your cold hands, the tips of your fingers. reddish and itching for warmth. you tuck them into your pockets with a breathless exhale, still shaking a little. 

in truth, you and gojo aren’t very close. you’d like to call him a friend, but it's kind of hard; when he's so enamored with suguru, so animated around shoko. with you, he always seems kind of —

stiff? 

or maybe more like bored.

he doesn't laugh as loudly, doesn’t act as cocky. doesn't flaunt his knowledge on sorcery, and isn't as clingy as he is with the other two.

(you've never liked people touching you. it's not hard for others to discern, with how you flinch away when they get close.

still, you can't help but feel a little jealous when you see him tugging suguru and shoko around.)

deep within your chest, like a stunted seaweed, sprouts a tiny pang of disappointment. it’d be nice if you could grow closer, you think.

just a little would be fine. 

”i like the sea.”

you turn your head.

gojo looks a little lost in thought. gaze trained on that expanding ocean before you, those splotches of blue and gray, the waves that bruise the edge of the sand. forlorn, maybe.

a hum buzzes in your dry throat. ”do you?”

”mm.” little white breaths slip from his lips. you wonder if they’d taste as salty as the air. ”’ts nice.”

a silence stretches out before you. delicate, like a sheet of glass. gojo picks at a piece of lint on his sleeve, and you shift from foot to foot. then he closes his eyes — a flutter of his dewy eyelashes.

”kinda makes you feel like everything’s about to end, huh?”

you look at him, but don’t see anything. a single glimpse of his closed eyes is all you gain from the glance you cast his way, but it’s not enough. not enough blue to fall into, no expression to savour. he looks the same as always.

but you’ve never heard his voice sound like this before.

”… end?”

and with that, they flicker open. there it is, you think. that vibrant blue. only to be obscured once more, when he turns to you fully, a smile playing at his glossy lips. ”don’t think so?”

a second passes. you look forward.

what you see is as follows: waves upon waves upon waves. the same blue and gray, as far as the eye can see. a sea big enough to drown each and every one of your worries. 

something comes over you. a sensation of loneliness, something close to longing. a feeling of being rather lost. searching for something. your heart feels heavy, an anchor sunk to the bottom of your gut. little fish nipping at your ribcage. your eyes trail over those jagged rocks, again; the mermaids’ tears, that all-consuming sea, right in front of you. like it could open its maw and devour the world.

you think of the lost sailors.

(one jump and it’s all over.)

a breath. salty on your tongue. ”… i guess i get it,” you whisper. a soft murmur, mingling with the mist. 

silence.

out of the corner of your eye, you see gojo shift. one moment he’s looking at you, the next he’s staring at the sea. in tandem, the two of you, stuck within that shade of blue. and you think he looks a little mesmerized, like he’s seeing something not even he can fully comprehend.

(maybe he just hasn’t had many chances to go to the beach before. something to do with being a clan kid, maybe?)

but then he clears his throat, hands moving to brush some sand off his puffy jacket and jeans. turning on his heel, hair ruffled by the breeze. he tries to sound chipper, but there’s something else there. you don’t know what it is, but…

”anyway,” he chirps. ”let’s go. we can still make it to the next train if we hurry.”

you look at him. his retreating figure, a head of white hair, surrounded by mist. a little like an apparition. then you turn towards the sea.

”… nah, that’s fine.”

a pause.

gojo stills, just about to take the first step forward. but you stay rooted in place; unmoving, staring at the blue before you, a deep longing reflected in your eyes. 

”let’s stay a little longer,” you hum, unsure of where the words came from. but you know you aren’t ready for the moment to end, just yet. that you aren’t quite ready for summer to pass.

…

all he does is stare, for a second or two. attempting to find some humour in your voice, you assume, any signs that you might just be joking. but he doesn’t find it. uncharacterstically silent, gojo stays frozen in place. 

then he puffs out a breath — amused. 

”you wanna freeze to death?” he grins, and you can hear it in his voice. you turn to face him, almost smiling. a little cheeky.

”you’ll warm me up, no?”

the words fall from your lips before you can think to reel them in. meant to sound a little snarky, you think, something akin to a chuckle — but instead come out sounding a little too much like an honest request. 

the tips of your ears feel a little warm, suddenly.

a sense of surprise smooths over the contours of gojo’s face, and his grin falters. you can’t see his eyes, can’t tell if they widen or not, but his lips part, and you note that they look soft. 

and it’s back. that grin. toothy, boyish. his cheeks are rosy, from the chill of the air, or so you assume. then he’s taking a couple strides forward, broaching the distance between you.

he throws an arm over your shoulder. a heavy weight against you, grounding, causing you to stumble. friendly, tugging you close. into his orbit.

(no infinity, you note. you can feel his body heat seeping through the fabric.)

it's nice. he's tall, and he's warm. cozy, protecting you from the bitter cold, like your own personal furnace. no wonder suguru never catches any colds, with someone like this draped over him all the time.

gojo speaks. there’s a sweetness to his voice, a mellow kind of contentment; bubbling up like seafoam, spilling from his glossy lips. you can feel his warm breath on your skin.

”well, duh.”

when your gaze falls on him, he's already looking at you. leaning closer, sunglasses slipping a little further down the bridge of his nose — enough to expose the blue of his eyes, the tiny splotches of white scattered across his aquamarine iris. like a cracked marble. or a summer sea.

he’s speaking again, and you almost don't hear it. distracted by those cracked marbles, the strawberry red of his cheeks, the warmth shared between you. the pitter patter of your heartbeat, like waves crashing against the sand. mesmerized. not daring to look away. almost like you’d cease to exist, were he to close his eyes. like your existence hinges entirely on the blue of those eyes.

(and maybe it does.)

he nods towards the sea, and grins. a mischievous glint in his eyes. ”wanna take a dip?” he asks, and you can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

it makes you laugh, either way.

”do you want to freeze to death?” you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. subtly angling your body closer to his, hoping he won’t notice.

gojo honest to god giggles, at that, and you fear your knees might give out beneath your weight. fuck, has he always had dimples? why are you only noticing them now? 

”hehe. i just think it'd be fun!” he chirps, still draped over you like an overgrown cat, and you almost find yourself saying yes. just to keep the summer from ending, keep him from being swept away by the breeze.

but summer is ending. slipping away, second by second, like two juveniles drowned by an ocean wave. never to be found. and in comes autumn, the smell of rotting apples, the crunch of sand beneath your feet; an arm over your shoulder, an intake of breath. the taste of nice, crispy air on your tongue. 

a chuckle flows from your lips. all you see before you is blue, a murky shade, a vibrant hue. you think you could drown in it. you’re not sure you’d mind.

”maybe next time,” you whisper.

gojo’s eyes widen. ever so slightly, barely enough to even notice, until they bloom — with a kind of bubbly excitement. unconcealed giddiness. there’s something awfully precious about it, like a child buying cotton candy at their first fair. it makes you want to tuck him into your pocket. keep him safe.

you like him, unfortunately. inevitably. you think you may even like him a lot, a little more than you should. a little more than he could reciprocate. 

satoru gojo. high and mighty, cocky and cool. silly and bright. a seaborne boy with his very own orbit, born to carry the weight of the world, spinning so close that you can almost delude yourself into thinking he feels the same. 

almost.

(gojo glances at your lips. he wonders if they’d taste as salty as the air.)

[ghost-proofbaby]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER FOUR: CASTLES CRUMBLING

AND HERE I SIT ALONE, BEHIND WALLS OF REGRET. FALLING DOWN LIKE PROMISES I NEVER KEPT.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, mentions of RUMORS of workplace sex scandal, minors dni

☆ WC: 5.4K+

☆ A/N: if you would like to listen to the song that eddie is recording at the end - it is an actual, real life song. :-) it is called "blood sport" by sleep token (one of my favorite bands i get to see live next week!!), and i highly recommend listening to it during your reading. especially the latter half of this chapter.

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

“Alright, so – anyone care to fill me in on what the Hell that was?” 

Matt stands like a disapproving father figure as the band lines up opposite of him just outside the building. Eddie had hoped nothing would be mentioned until they were in the car, but the driver was clearly running a few minutes late.

Three of the boys glance at each other, worried expressions immediately giving up the hoax even as Eddie only shrugs and says, “What do you mean?” 

“Cut the shit, Munson,” Matt had never appeared so livid, so undone by irritation. His usual patience with Eddie is nonexistent, “What’s going on between you and that girl? Is she a past groupie?”

The insinuation gets a scoff out of Gareth. Jeff side-eyes him in warning, but Eddie couldn’t care less, “No, she’s not a past groupie. This was the first time I’d ever-”

“Don’t lie to me,” Matt points an accusatory finger at Eddie, narrowing his eyes, “I am your manager. If you have any unsavory connections with that girl, I need to know so I can decide if we need someone else to organize the event. We are not having another repeat of the Lewinsky scandal.” 

“I knew it! I fucking knew you called it that, too!” Gareth cheers, but he’s quieted by one look from their furious manager.

The Lewinsky scandal had been their code-word for when the tabloids had become convinced that Eddie was fucking an assistant at the label. A girl had even come forward and claimed to have had sexual relations with Eddie, and he had taken heat for it for a full month before the buzzing novelty worn off.

Eddie had only spoken three words to the girl. No, thank you when she’d offered him a mug of coffee during a late night at the studio. He wishes now he’d been less polite. 

And he also finds himself wishing that’s all this was. He wishes you were just another scandal, another terrible rumor spread around. If all the accusations between you two were false, if all the hatred was based on misconstrued circumstances, it would be so much easier. He can talk himself out of that. He can confess to those sins and get off with no more than the order of one hail mary from Matt. 

But you? The reality of all that had happened, both all those years ago and just thirty minutes ago? He can’t find the words. They choke him up, unwilling to leave the cavern of his chest and enter the world, just like all the songs gathering dust as demos. 

“It’s not going to be another Lewinsky scandal,” Eddie scowls, feet shuffling against the concrete below him. Can’t be another Lewinsky scandal if she wants nothing to do with me anymore, “Maybe she just doesn’t like me. I am allegedly a very polarizing public figu-”

The car pulls up, and Matt is quick to grab Eddie’s shoulder before glaring at the boys, “Get in, I’m not finished with our polarizing public figure yet.” 

Grant and Gareth only let out low whistles, following instruction without lingering as they clamber into the back row of seats in the SUV. Jeff takes his time, though, going as far to pause beside Eddie and place a hand on his back.

“Just tell him the truth, Eds.” 

It’s the final nail in his coffin. Eddie is cursing Jeff’s retreating figure as he climbs into the vehicle and shuts the door, leaving him alone with Matt. 

“Explain,” Matt demands, “Now.” 

Eddie’s eyes focus on a gaping crack in the sidewalk, jagged and uneven, right down the center. 

He has two options. He could continue to lie, insist he knows nothing about you until Matt just gets bored of not being offered the truth. Or he could admit it all, reveal the muse behind the art he had been fiercely protecting over these last few months. Every line, every chord, every broken note that had left his lungs during those witching hours in the studio. 

On one hand, it’ll rip away the opportunity that has been offered to him on a silver platter – the opportunity for closure. Selfish, bloody closure that neither of you had gotten, it seemed. But on the other hand, it might grant him some sympathy. Matt, the label, the producers – they had all grown tired of the dance Eddie led them in every time they’d inquire about the music. But if Matt knew-

It’s a dead end trail of thought. He knows he won’t admit to the worst of his atrocities he’s committed. No scandal, no late night ending with him in handcuffs, no fraudulent headline is going to compare to what he did to you. What you did to him.

It’s a little too late for damage control, anyways.

“I went to high school with her,” the lie works well enough, easing some of Matt’s frustration, “I was just shocked to see her. All of us were shocked to see her. No big deal.” 

Eddie knows the people around him have come to learn that they must pick and choose the battles they engage in with him. And he can see that decision flash across Matt’s face as he decides that this is not a battle necessary to the war.

“Alright. But if you’re lying to me-“

“I’m not lying.”

“If you are, that’ll be one of my last straws, Munson.”

It won’t be. Eddie knows it won’t be. Everyone, every single goddamn person in this world it seems, is capable of giving Eddie Munson unlimited chances — except you. You, it seemed, were the only person who had come to their senses. 

You always were smarter than people gave you credit for.

—

“Run the track again.” 

They’d spent a few hours in the studio already. It was an odd hour for them to be haunting the space, more used to visiting in the dead of night rather than the middle of a weekday, but it was down to the wire now. Vocals needed to be recorded, instrumentals fine-tuned, tracks properly mastered. Eddie could no longer hide in the night when it came to recording the haunting melodies stained with the blood of his past — no matter how wrong it felt to see a sliver of sunlight breaking through one of the windows, just through the top of the blackout curtains.

“I really think that was the one, man-“ the producer starts, probably just tired after repeatedly running in circles with Eddie’s perfectionism.

He doesn’t care. He’s paying them, they can stand to let him re-record as many times as necessary to satisfy Eddie, “Run it again.” 

The silence only continues to buzz in Eddie’s headphones. He’s ready to cuss out the producer as he angrily shoves them down, off his ears and hanging loosely around his neck, the wire a leash as he whips to face the one-way glass wall. The lights are off at the main board, guaranteeing that they can see Eddie but Eddie can’t see them.

Until suddenly, the light comes back on, and the reason for the absence of the repeated track Eddie had requested becomes obvious.

Gareth.

He stands at the center of it all, a few paces from the seated producer with a deep scowl on his face. 

“What the fuck?” Eddie says, mouth just close enough to the mic for them to catch his overflowing annoyance, “I said-“

“We heard what you said, Eddie,” Gareth interrupts, his voice just loud enough to be faintly heard even as the headphones curl around the nape of Eddie’s neck, “But I need to talk to you.” 

It’s the strictest tone that Gareth has used on their lead singer in an unfathomably measure of time. Probably because it’s the most words he’s said to Eddie in a very long time, as well.

Eddie finally removes the headphones, hanging them carelessly on the mic stand and moving towards the door — surprisingly, without putting up a resistance.

The control room is warmer than the fairly large area that served as a ‘booth’. Smaller, as well. Cramped with a low couch and one too many chairs available to trip over, the control board spanses the entire wall that holds the oversized window into the recording room. A plethora of small lights twinkle like stars, and numerous switches that Eddie had come to know better than the back of his hand alternate positions to guarantee the clearest sound. Only Gareth and the producer occupy the room, the rest of the band having taken off around the fifth time Eddie had requested a redo of his vocal tracking.

“This better be good,” Eddie complains, furrowing his brows, agitated at the interruption. 

But Gareth shows no remorse, “We need to talk.” 

“Yeah, you said that already.”

“We need to talk,” Gareth repeats, eyes flickering to the poor soul still seated at the controls, “Alone.” 

Eddie hardly has to open his mouth, the man jumping out of his seat the moment the lead singer flicks his wrist to signal for him to leave.

Whatever Gareth was about to say had to be important, and it’s that thought rather than the difference in temperatures that has sweat building on Eddie’s brows.

Is he about to quit the band? Is he about to tell me he’s had enough? Maybe he’s done with my bullshit — I would be.

“Speak, Emerson,” Eddie flatly insists, grabbing a small water bottle out of one of the mini fridges in the room before he throws himself onto the worn leather of the couch, “And make it quick. We’re on a time limit, you kno-“

“We’ve gotta talk about her, man.” 

Her as in you. 

For a moment, Gareth sounds like a friend again. He’s dropped all the persistent perturbation he’s taken to defending himself with when it comes to  Eddie, his voice pleading as he stands before the distant man. All the rueful power plays that had developed over the last year vanish. It’s just Eddie and Gareth, bandmates who started out in the latter’s garage in some small Indiana town. Not Eddie Munson, infamous rockstar with a chip on his shoulder. Not Gareth Emerson, passionate drummer overshadowed by the ego of his lead singer. Just Eddie and Gareth.

 “We all know you didn’t tell Matt the truth.” 

“I did tell him the truth-“ 

“Not the whole truth, then. There’s no way he’d let it slide if he knew that she was your ex-girlfriend.” 

The defiance vacates Eddie’s body quickly. He doesn’t even attempt to prowl his mind for a quick quip in response. All he does at the words is drop his shoulders, the defeat creeping up on him as he deflates. 

Ex-girlfriend. The title feels so pitiful to truly describe what you were to him. 

But to be fair, even when he had been in your good graces, girlfriend had also never felt significant enough.

“Did-“ Gareth starts after a beat of silence, noting the way Eddie couldn’t quite hide his wounds on the topic, “What did you guys talk about? When you went after her, what did she say?” 

“Nothing important.”

Eddie turns into a shell, a zombie as he stares straight ahead and tries to compartmentalize. That always worked; with meetings, with arguments, with lectures. Even before the fame, it worked.

It doesn’t work quite as quickly when it comes to you. His brain, it seems, is incapable of uncrossing all the wires you twist within his brain.

“You two were alone for, what, ten minutes? And you’re telling me she didn’t say anything important?” 

“What the fuck is there to say?” Eddie laughs soullessly, “Oh, hey, stranger! Remember me? The guy you up and left without a word?” 

“Yes!” Gareth shouts unexpectedly, “Yes, that’s exactly what you should have done! She left. Not just you, but all of us. We never even really knew why. And now- what? Are we just supposed to pretend we don’t know her?” 

Eddie knew why. She’d never had to say it, and that was the issue. He always thought about all the answers he swore he craved, and always let every question he claimed to have haunt him during the waking hours. But when the day turned to night, when he was left to nothing but his own devices in a dark and empty apartment during the witching hours, he knew. The question of why had been answered since the first phone call cut short with you during that goddamn tour.

The songs knew, too. He supposes it had been an arrogant assumption to believe the band had read into his lyrics and put the pieces together. 

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Eddie nearly whispers, throat tightening and fighting him on the words. It’s the opposite of what he wants and needs — but it’s what you want and what you need. And so he plays the messenger, even as it kills him, “We are going to completely disregard my past with her. We are going to treat this entire situation as professionally as possible. I’m talking the full nine yards: you will not mention the fact that we know her, you will not question her about anything from the past, and you will not, under any circumstances, ask her why.” 

His own set of rules he’d privately set for himself in his own mind during the car ride over. 

Gareth squints his eyes in disbelief, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Are you serious?”

“Deathly so.”

“This isn’t just about your past with her,” the boy nearly passes, starts to reach up to tug on his hair before he thinks better of it, “This is about the way she left all of us. Not just you. She was a friend to all of us. She was the one who taught me how to tape my drums when I’d bust a hole in them, she was the one who helped us design our first merch, she was the only person any of us would let be in the room during practices. And not just the band stuff, either,” Eddie watches tears form in Gareth’s eyes, “She was the only one who had the patience to help me with my fucking math homework back in school, man. She was the one who nearly curb stomped Jason Carver the week he sent Grant home with a black eye. She was the first person Jeff called when his parents broke news of their divorce, for fucks sake. Not me, not you, not any of us — her,” Gareth’s breaths come out as pants as he stops his pacing and stands before Eddie. The tears continue to lace his bottom lash line as he heaved silently at the end of his rant, his pained expression completely unexpected to Eddie. 

This is the part Eddie chooses to forget. He’ll let himself swim in the memory of you late at night, he’ll indulge in vices that always amplify his pain rather than succeeding in his attempt to numb it, he’ll stare down the mirror each morning and curse the reflection he finds with all the blame in the world he is capable of holding in the palms of his hands. But in all the ruptures of his own old scars, he fails to consider that he is not the only one burdened with loss. 

They all lost you. When Eddie lost you, so did the band. You’d become a ghost to more than just your abandoned lover — you’d become a tired haunt to boys you’d known, boys you’d befriended and burrowed your way into the lives of, just as well. 

“She was our friend,” Gareth chokes out, fists curling at his sides, “Jesus Christ, I- I get it. She was everything to you. Whatever. But she meant a lot to the rest of us, too. Whatever happened wasn’t just some isolated event — you two didn’t just hurt each other. You set off whatever bomb erased her from our lives, but it left the rest of us with some damage, too. Don’t forget that.” 

This is the part where Eddie should apologize. This is the part where, once upon a blissful time, he would have said his repentance. 

He doesn’t.

“I don’t care how hurt anyone is,” he lowly responds, eyes unable to meet Gareth’s any longer, “I’ve told you the rules, we’re going to follow them. End of discussion.” 

Gareth throws back his head, and Eddie winces at his scoff, “She’s not your fucking property, Eddie! She isn’t solely yours to keep or whatever the fuck you think you’re doing!” 

Eddie can’t even deny the action of keeping you. All the demos, all the songs laid to the grave because he couldn’t stomach the thought of releasing them for others to experience. 

But that’s not what this was. This, the cataclysm that was sending Gareth to finally release all this pent up frustration, was him following your rules. You’d made your wishes for this project very clear, and he needed to at least try to respect them. They all did. 

So he takes on the role of the bad guy. He lets them paint him as the villain if it means no red will stain your ledger. 

“Oh, I think she’s made it very clear that she isn’t mine,” the mask slips on far too easily for Eddie. Cool demeanor, compartmentalizing. Not you, but his emotions towards his friends, if he could even still call them that. His bandmates that he had once seen as brothers. “Doesn’t change what I said. Don’t push it, Emerson, or there’ll be Hell to pay.” 

“What are you going to do? Disappear on us?” Eddie finally looks back up to meet Gareth’s fiery gaze as he spits out hateful words, “Hate to break it to you, but you already left this band behind two years ago. And if you ask me, you should start leaving the vanishing act to her. At least she doesn’t make us pay for her mistakes.” 

Eddie is by no means done with the conversation, more than willing to continue fighting with Gareth, but the other boy clearly feels differently. He leaves his words hanging in the air as he spins away, storming out of the door, the air in the studio now several degrees hotter now with the irate fuel of the fight.  

It was all a blood sport. All of it. It didn’t matter if Eddie was fighting with the band, the management, with you. It was all bloody and fruitless, and it all left him the same awful type of hollow in the end. 

He stares blankly at the wall as he makes a silent decision.

By the time the producer has timidly returned to the room, Eddie has already set up his laptop to connect to the studio's system, prepped so that any recording would automatically copy into his personal hard drive. A way for him to listen and ruminate in the privacy of his own apartment. 

The sheet music torn from his notebook already lays at the table besides the entrance to the booth. 

“Do you… want to run the track again?” the man, the stranger, asks. He clearly heard the fight. Eddie and Gareth hadn’t been exactly quiet in their screaming match. At least, Gareth hadn’t been. 

Is it really a screaming match if only one side fights back? 

“I want to lay a new track,” Eddie’s voice is deadpan as he clicks a few buttons, finalizing everything. He only needs the man to click record, “A raw piano and vocal demo. We can add the rest of the band later.” 

“I-“

One look from Eddie, hardly passed over his shoulder with a glimmer of unbridled determination, and the man quiets as he takes his seat. 

Eddie storms into the booth without another word, fist curled around the page of lyrics and terribly hand-drawn music clefts. 

She isn’t yours to keep.

Eddie was aware of that. Painfully, painfully aware. But it had never been about his claim to you. 

Gareth was right. Eddie never wanted to own you. Keeping you, however, had been something he should have taken more care with.

The chill of the small room to record in does little to lessen the flames eating Eddie up as he bypasses the assembly of various instruments all crowded in the space. Gareth’s drum set, Jeff’s guitar, Grant’s bass — he storms right past them, eyes locked on the grand piano in the fair corner. It took up the most space, far too large to have been forced to be contained within this compact room. 

Eddie drags the mic from where it had been stationed previously with him, quickly and recklessly resetting it at the piano. 

Once he’s seated on the bench, crumpled pages thrown up onto the music desk of the piano and headphones snug over his ears again, the producer finally clicks on his mic to speak.

“Hey, uh… Does this demo have a name by chance? Or do you just want to label it as an unknown for now?”

It certainly does have a name.

“Blood Sport,” Eddie spits out. “Just name the file Blood Sport.” 

The hum that would indicate to Eddie when those on the other side of that glass window were speaking clicks off, and he takes it as his cue.

He’d written the song a while before. There were some gaps in the lyrics, some notes he’d played with on his personal piano scribbled over and never replaced. He’d never played it in its entirety before. 

It starts slow. His fingers hold the ivory keys delicately, arranging for the first opening notes as if he were slotting his knuckles against your own for the first time over again.

She isn’t yours to solely keep. 

Were you ever his to keep, ever? 

Even the ivory keys of the Steinway are more solid than you ever were. You were nothing more than water, than blood, destined to slip between Eddie’s fingers. He never stood a chance in having you, in holding you, in keeping you. 

Not just now, but before all the blood shed, as well. He should have recognized Cassandra’s curse the first day he looked into your eyes. He should have known the twist in his stomach was only Fate sinking its claws into the two of you. 

A tale fit for a Shakespearean stage — a tragedy always meant to be.

“I want to roll the numbers, I want to feel my stars align again.” 

Eddie’s voice is soft to match the steady beat of piano notes that emit from the crooked curl of his hand against the keys. A soft thump, a gentle lull. And instead of losing himself in the music, he finds himself wrapped up in one of the many memories he’d chosen to lock away for the last two years.

Something was off. 

Eddie’s stomach had twisted with anxiety of something being wrong for weeks. You stopped answering his calls, his texts, every form of connection with him. But as he stood in front of the door to your shared apartment, the bile rose even higher in his throat. 

He smelt the decay of what he had done before his key had even entered the lock. 

“Would you invite me again? Won’t you pay for your arrogance? Won’t you show me your weakness?” 

You were never his to keep. 

His voice nearly cracks as he approaches the first chorus, not finding the strength behind the vocals he’d always envisioned for the song.

The click of the door opening echoed through the apartment. It felt empty the moment he’d crossed the threshold – you could have just been tucked away in the bedroom, or even in the bathroom, but he knew. 

You hadn’t been returning his phone calls. You hadn’t been returning his texts. He knew something had happened, something had changed. Irreversible damage had been done, and he would now have to face the mess he’d created to return home to. 

“I made loving you a blood sport.” 

He repeats the line until it rings in his head, over and over. Until he swears the words could crack his bones, and the stars that will show in the night sky will do nothing but mock him for the self-inflicted pain.

At first, he convinced himself you just weren’t home. You’d gone to the store or to see friends. You’d be home soon enough and then, the two of you could scream at each other all you wanted. You were angry with him, rightfully so, but he’d rather you yell and scrap with him than the alternative. He didn’t care. Because he was here, back in the flesh and willing to take any and all cruel words you had sharpened for him. The two of you would fight, yes, but at least that meant there was still something there worth fighting for.

After the first three hours, he realized with a sinking stomach that the alternative might just be his reality. 

“I want to be forgiven.” 

He recalls the look on your face when you’d first seen him today. The fall of your act, the discarding of grace and composure.

The look that told him that he can want all he’s capable of. He can want, he can crave, he can yearn, he can tear himself apart bit by bit with his feeble yet shattering cravings — it won’t change a thing. 

You were never his to keep.

After the clock struck the fifth hour of his return, he started his calling.

Over and over and over, he was met with your voicemail. Endless messages spoken and sent alike. Every single one trying to be gentle as they inquired where you were. Letting you know he was back. Going as far as to ask you if the two of you could talk. 

He wanted to fight. He wanted to fight, because it meant you still saw something worthy within him.  

But even more than Eddie wanted a fight, he wanted you to come home. He wanted you to be there, to welcome him into your safety and remind him he was human again. It was selfish – he was so goddamn selfish – but he needed to feel your skin against his and remind him that he was still a person beneath it all. Beneath the demand, beneath the unwarranted adoration from strangers, beneath all the fractures the sudden traction had left him with – he was still a breathing, living person. He was still your person. 

Eddie’s fingers begin to slam against the keys with increasing urgency as his chest heaves out with every syllable. Repeating, and repeating, and repeating the chorus as if it changes a single thing. He loses himself in it all; in the music ringing in his ears and the memories now drowning him as he confesses all his sins to the microphone. 

You never came home. 

There was no fight, and after the hours reached double digits right along with his ignored phone calls, he had to accept the truth.

You weren’t just at a friend’s, or the store. You were gone. Truly, truly gone.

The drawers once filled with your belongings were vacant. The smell of your perfume was nothing more than a whisper across the pillows. Eddie scoured the entire apartment for signs of you, turning every single piece of furniture over looking for clues. He never thought to check the counter until he’d already ruined the space, terrorizing it in a frenzy before his eyes landed on the letter and the key.

He had approached them both hesitantly. All his denial drained from his body, like the blood pumping through his veins, as his fingers pinched that silver key so gingerly.

A past he can never return to. A home he will never hold the key to again. 

The joints of his fingers ache and his lungs begin to burn for all that he lost — all that they all lost — because of him. His  own foolishness, his own downfall. He did this. 

The aftermath is blurry.

He read the first few words of your letter before promptly crumbling it with his tortured fist, knowing exactly what it said without needing to fully swallow all the words just yet.

He never fully read the letter. He skimmed it, a week later, but not that night. 

Then came the flashes of the pain. The way he’d swung his fists at air and menial objects alike. A vase holding wilted carnations met its demise on the kitchen floor, a hole in the wall appeared that he later had to patch up, one of the coffee tables ended up across the living room with a leg splintered half off. 

He never dropped the key. 

Even as he dropped to his knees in the center of the broken glass, bleeding shins to match his bruising knuckles, he still held that small piece of silver fiercely. He pressed it so tightly, dug it so deeply into his palm that it later left a scar. And not even the way he had grabbed at the broken glass surrounding him had the capability to mar it away as he let it slice his skin, crying out, hopeless and devastated. 

You were gone. He had lost you, and he had been arrogant enough to never even notice it.

“You say it doesn’t matter.” 

The headphones had long since slipped off his head, and he makes no move to adjust them. He hadn’t even noticed that his body had begun to fall forward and curl into the piano until he’s weakly choking out the final lyric that he hadn’t even written down onto the page. 

He hadn’t noticed the tears falling, either.

What were meant to be gasps for air as his fingers fly across the keys in a haunting melody are only sobs. Cries of pain as he no longer can see mere inches ahead of him, a scar of the center of his palm stinging as if brand new, his heart and head pounding in sync. He isn’t even sure if the producer he’s forgotten the name of is still recording. He lets the sobs slip out as he continues to play. 

He can’t quite end the song yet. The moment he does, he’s terrified of the version of him that he will have to face once more. All those surface blemishes from the beginning of the end had run deeper beneath his skin. He was nothing more than rubble and fractures now, splintered every which way until he had become unrecognizable. When he looked in the mirror, all he could see was a creature of destruction.

“You set off whatever bomb erased her from our lives, but it left the rest of us with some damage, too. Don’t forget that,” Gareth’s voice echoes in the silence beginning to gather between the notes.

Another wrecked sob leaves Eddie as he finally finishes off the melody, playing entirely unaffected up until that point. Reality crashes down. His body shakes, shoulders hunched as his forehead connects against the freezing wood of the piano and he pinches his eyes shut tightly enough to be left in total blackness. 

He couldn’t play another note if his life depended upon it.

The memory fades with the final note before his head rattles with a new image. The smile, the grimace, you had offered him before you two parted ways today. An effort at professionalism that Eddie had seen right through. 

Pain. That’s what had twitched in the corners of your mouth. The same pain, if not worse, as the one that now radiated through every atom of Eddie’s broken figure on the piano bench. 

He can’t fix it. Not your pain, not Gareth’s pain, not his own pain. The time for damage control, for sincere apologies and any reconciliation has passed. Just like watered-down blood through his fingertips. 

Eddie hopes that the producer has had half the mind to stop the recording when he stands and slams the drumset behind him into the wall. Destructive, just as he had been the night he returned to an empty apartment. Just as he had been when he’d been the one to rot and wither away all that you two had once held between you. 

They can replace the drum set. Surely, he has a person for that. 

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @gagasbee @d64d-n0t-sl66p1ng @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n

join my taglist!

[doofwrites]

[fairyboygenius]

ghost with a partner who also has a past with being SAed is so special to me. they learn together that sex can be about more than asserting power and causing pain and that you’re not inherently a bad person for desiring people because sex, when it’s consensual, can be incredibly satisfying and a great experience for both parties. i feel like he’d be gentle at first, afraid of hurting you like the person or people before him did.

i do also think he would be into CNC but only after a lot of therapy and many long discussions with his partner- you or johnny or whoever- to make sure that this is something you’re both okay with. all kink is prenegotiated with him and he doesn’t spring anything on you.

[malkaleh]

Thinking about Celebrimbor. How he is so good and so gentle and he walks into a horrible lonely torment when he could have been saved but this, this is what he can do now. He can stand with his people to the last. He can make sure that Sauron does not get his hands on the rings. And I think, there’s a way that the way he dies is via his own hand, to prevent Sauron forcing the knowledge from his mind and I will cry.

@nocompromise-noregrets

[thatwasntverycashmoneyofme]

𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋

❥𝗌𝗇𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗍 : 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗒𝖺 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾.

{ 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 — 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝖽𝗁𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗒𝖺, 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗇𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽, 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿-𝗂𝗌𝗁. }

you sigh in frustration, kneading your temple, sitting on the smooth gym floors. "oh great! thanks for getting us stuck noya, i would’ve had this happen faster." your tone had a bite to it that noya didn’t know what to make of as he copied you, hesitantly sitting next to you.

"i don’t know if you’re saying this to be sarcastic or hurt my feelings.. either way you’re managing both completely well." you rolled your eyes. "that’s rough buddy." noya outside of getting y’all stuck in the gym storage had no why you were being so hostile. "why do you hate me?"

you bit your lip looking off to the side before you sighed, eyes feeling heavy. "i don’t hate you.. i just don’t like loud people, you should take a chill pill once in a while.. and then you got us stuck in here! when all i wanted to do was go home and sleep!" he could hear the exasperation in your voice, you must have had a rough day.

"well i’m probably not as comfortable as your bed but you can lay on me.. i-if you want to.. i’ll try to be as quiet as possible." you sigh nodding droopily mumbling an "alright." as your sleepy frame fell on noya’s lap, the two jackets he placed there giving you about as much comfort as two athletic jackets could, but it didn’t matter because as soon as your head hit them you were out like a light.

noya stiffened at the weight of your head in his lap he thought it was a good idea to suggest this, being nice and all, but he needed to move, needed to do anything to distract himself from the fact he was consigned to one place, one spot he looked around near himself, finding nothing but equipment too far from his reach and dust until a lightbulb went off over his head— you were right in his lap duh!

he looked down at your sleeping face, your eyebrows were scrunched with bags under your eyes as if even in your dreams you were busy at work. his eyes dart to your plump lips, gloss from the beginning of the day probably, fading, maybe from the amount of times you pursed your lips listening to the dumb shit people say. (him included) your mouth slightly opened and he can hear your soft breathing if he listens close enough, which he tries to, leaning over bringing his face closer to yours.

"you look so pretty." he mumbles your eyebrows twitch and noya’s face heats up he springs up too fast, a hushed yelp rushed from his mouth, your shuffling and agitated mumble of a "shh! shut up." being the only thing to stop him from his internal dilemma, so he pauses calming himself before looking at you again, this time focused on your hair.

the heaviness of the braids sprawled across his lap that he didn’t notice before drawing his attention, he hums picking up a single braid touching it, fingers sliding down the plait feeling the ridges of it he began playing with your hair, braiding the plaits wearing your hair like a mustache and running his fingers through the weave he he stopped hearing a voice on the other side of the door.

"this.. isn’t supposed to be this way." noya clears his throat to level his voice from not talking for so long. "in here! we’re stuck in here!" he hears shuffling on the other side, beginning nudging you to wake up. you groan as the the door clicks open, nishinoya comes face to face with his high school ace, roommate and best friend asahi who pales before taking in the situation of the sleeping brown girl on his best friend’s lap, letting out a heavy sigh thankful that he didn’t make the mistake of interrupting a couple.. again.

noya shakes you awake and you sit up drowsy, rubbing your eyes turning your face to the side to yawn. "so how long have you two been in here?" asahi asks stumped as you both get off the hard floor, you sigh a tan slipping out. “before my phone died it was.. i dunno like 3:15 or something." asahi grunts pulling out his phone before looking at noya.

"you both have been in here for almost three hours!.. and where was your phone?" noya follows you out the room raising his hands questioningly. "it’s probably in my backpack. i don’t keep it on me when i practice." the taller male lets out a "makes sense" walking in pace with the shorter one looking behind him to find you trying to stay coherent.

"and what about y/n? how’d she get stuck in there.. with you?" noya looks off to the side blush slowly creeping up neck as he rubbed the back of it, a nervous chuckle leaving his lips. "yeaa that was my fault too." he turns noticing you still behind them he pats asahi on the back "i’ll see you back at the dorm." asahi let out a dry "yea just don’t go somewhere getting stuck again because I’m done for the night."

noya laughed standing still as asahi walked ahead, waiting for you to step by his side before walking in tune with you. you hum softly wondering why he left his friend. "can i walk you to your dorms?" and noya can basically see the sandman dancing in your pretty brown eyes. he observes your face recalling earlier when he was so close making him turn red and look off to the side when you mumbled a "sure i don’t mind." a quiet "okay!" squeaked from his flushed face.

y’all walk in silence for the next 8 minutes as you arrive at your door. you fumble for your keys in your bag when noya finally decides to speak. "so i know that being stuck ina closet with me today wasn’t ideal, but maybe we can do it on purpose one day? if you want i mean i jus—" he looked at your tired eyes finding your lips pursed before just spitting it out.

"your number.. can i get you number and we can like hang out or something." you pull out a pen, lightly grabbing his wrist, writing your ten digits on his forearm you turn around as soon as you finished, unlocking your door. "don’t text me today, text me tomorrow.. i’m too tired to do anything for the rest of the day." you walk in turning around softly mumbling a "bye noya." softly closing the door.

when the door shut noya looked to his arm to see your number there with a cute heart next to the last digit, he swore he short circuited for a second a hand in the air as he jumped shouting. "yess!" you smile from your bed at noya’s loudness and his apologies after hearing a few neighbors tell him to shut up.

𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝖣𝖮𝖭𝖳 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅, 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾. ©𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅

[dervampireprince]

ASMR | Rise of the Guardians - Pitch x Listener SFW Fear Itself

[M4A] [First meeting] [TW threats, nightmares, Pitch basically broke into your home and was watching you sleep]

This won't be a popular one, but I had an idea and tried it. Anyone else watched this film in 2012 and thought it deserved so much more attention? Dreamworks barely marketed this film, I would so recommend watching it and also reading the books it's based on. The illustrations from the book series and the concept art book for the film are gorgeous. My version of Pitch here is based on his look and voice from the film, but with his backstory from the books thrown in. Please let me know if you want to hear more of him! I'd be so happy to have him flirt with you. .

Custom audio commissions are open! Full spicy audios on soundgasm and Patreon. Downloadable versions, exclusive  spicy audios and Discord on Patreon. I also stream on Twitch 3 times a week @ dervampireprince . [minors + ageless blogs dni. this blog is for 18+ only.] [do not repost/reupload/edit my audios/videos]

[pastaxandria]

The Red Thread: Chapter 156

The Library of Pastaxandria has recorded for its shelves: Chapter 156 of The Red Thread.

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

Your heart skipped in your chest, picking up speed. Here, here was the information you needed, the road that would guide you to both the orchid and, potentially, some additional clues about where Derek might be hiding. Hell, maybe you wouldn’t even need the orchid. Even if Margaret was headed out, there might be other people in the building who'd formed enough of an attachment to him. The orchid would be the easier option if you could get your hands on it—a single thread you knew reliably led to Derek, one that wouldn’t require you to dig through threads in alleys or during risky conversations. But you’d still take that backup if you could get it, just in case. You’d do whatever it took to find Derek. And once you found him… you'd find Anthony. Could Anthony feel it? That cool shiver down his spine as you closed in? Did he feel hunted, like you did? Afraid?

Wordcount: 5.6k

Warnings for this chapter: brief references to being abused and being robbed, but no other warnings!

Read me on AO3 because that’s where penguins hang out

[faerygardenparty]

Watching Todd’s follow up video on James Somerton makes me ten times more angry because two of his first major points are about comics which are one of my special interests and oh my god hearing what he said about them made me realize just how bad the misinformation problem is WHAT 😭😭

[unexpectedgeese]

Fate is already decided, is the thing. The giants of Gigantomachia have already lost. Secretive Plotter has already lost everything. 999th YJH has already died. Orpheus has already killed his father. And there is no undoing any of that; The stories that unfold on the page are immutable. These people have wounds, and they can’t be healed.

The Star Stream is a system built for tragedy. Again and again incarnations have thrown themselves at impossible dreams of a happy ending; and every time they die for it. There are hundreds of regressions, thousands of victims, a million stories unfolding— Every last one a tragedy.

Is there meaning in a story with a fixed end? The incarnations write their own downfalls, bound into tragedy by an impassive system. Yoo Joonghyuk dies again and again, eventually succumbing to overwhelming despair.

You cannot change the past. You can’t rewrite a story that’s already been written.

You can read it, though. And that’s the point— the entire point of a story is to be read. To read a story is to understand, to love, to pick through a lifetime of suffering and find the good in it; To take that story with you when you write your own.

And what then? What if every story is meant for one reader? What if that reader writes their own story in turn, influenced by their predecessors, bringing those scavenged bits of hope along?

If every story is told and listened to, every failure a building block of some unseen future, are we still writing a tragedy? When that original story is  built on, bookmarked and dog-eared and woven into a final epilogue, is it still a record of hopelessness— or is it a way to survive?

Every story has a flaw. This means that every story can be completed. If reader, writer, and protagonist all band together and just try to reach the ending— 10 times, 100 times, 1000 times, each one compounding on the next— What will happen?

These people can’t be healed. But they can be saved. You cannot change the past, but you can change the future. You cannot rewrite a story, but you can give it an epilogue.

We are not reincarnators, or regressors, or returnees. But if we tell our stories, isn’t it a similar thing?

[hylianane]

i really dont like using my blog to vent or complain cause idk thats not what social media is about to me its just a space to be silly about the things i like. that being said. im just gonna do a mini vent in the tags abt smth that isnt even half as serious as im making it sound

[avibero]

I swear so many people on this site don't read what they're reblogging. Especially if it's a longer post that changes its tune in the included reblogs. Reading comprehension requires READING, folks. If you can't be bothered to read the material then maybe reconsider having an opinion on the subject.

[alloutofgoddesses]

The Nugget plushie is adorable! I will not be buying it!

[dbphantom]

I had the funniest dream last night that there was a new episode specifically for s2 of H2O. It was just a revamp of season 1 episode 10 the camera never lies but Rikki and Zane teamed up to film something underwater at Mako Island. Rikki was the camerawoman and Zane was the actor (as you do when mermaids are involved).

Filming went well, there were no sharks, and Zane had the money to buy a bunch of cool stuff for filming underwater including breathing tubes and air pumps to explain how the camerawoman could stay underwater for so long (the show just used their actual versions of them because I mean. They had them. At the very least they had them for the scene where Zane sinks in the Lorelei. I don't see why they wouldn't still use them for some s2 shots).

But when they finally got back and were watching the footage they were like oh shit. They can't show this because Cleo Emma and Lewis are going to realize what they did, and they're going to realize they're dating and that Zane knows about Rikki.

So it ended up becoming a hot potato game of passing the footage between each other until Nate got his hands on it and entered it into the competition for himself. So that gave Zane and Rikki a bit of an out because Zane could just say Nate was filming him, but Rikki is upset because she put a lot of work into the film and now she's not getting credit for it. Especially since last year essentially the same thing happened where she made a film and couldn't use or get credit for her work.

Zane ended up forfeiting the submission because of it and shrugs it off when Rikki is like why would you do that, you totally would have won again, it was leagues better than everyone else's. And Zane was like. Yeah. Exactly. You wouldn't have gotten the credit for it, and I don't want to win if it isn't with you.

So, totally unrelated note, I think I just came up with a new filler episode for my H2O fic.

[jackgoodfellow]

FINALLY PUBLISHED PART 2. I AM SO HAPPY. HAVE SOME PIRATES.

Top row: Phoenix the Cat & Cat the Phoenix (no relation)

Bottom row: Brook "The Beast" Broster & Otho the Demolisher

You can see more of the Birds of Prey Pirates on AO3 in the published scripts and concept art for my queer buddy-comedy fantasy-adventure graphic novel, The Blacksmith!