#not when there are real people attached to them

[amberinn]

something between

yess she's so insane and fucked up (having specific one of my friends in mind for this too, tysm for supporting me and accepting me lowkey it's good to have ground you believe to be semi-stable) (attachment issues are real and a bitch)

deemed problematic

ignoring me, because I get in the way of a ship

minor coded (which i will at some point grow out of. I mean I swear a lot, that must mean people would find me at least somewhat scary and mature---- wait, fuck, tommyinnit. oh im doomed.)

get hc'd as something and reduced to the hc

?? people in media usually strive for positive autism representation, right

knowing that I'm on my own journey of actually growing out of being albeist (which I only ever was in the first place, because I was scared of myself)

and somewhere in between where I accept who I am, and sometimes still flaunt stereotypes around trying to half heartedly con (lie/convince) people into believing I deserve some sort of .... I don't know? things? benefits?

and sometimes I double lie, because I actually DO need to (get out of the meeting, because it's getting to me, but I don't want other people to think I'm this weak, so if lie about pretending to lie)

and there will be sides to me, but people WILL at some point think I represent something with me being me

and they'll be displeased it's most likely bad.

I have flaws, like.

lots of them.

I'm like the least kinneable character in existance tbh ;

it's so crazy how that was my first thought when people can p much also reduce me to

pathetic wet cat

angry bitch

child

or something worse, yikes.

"shes so pathetic and bbg i want to torture them" (pls dont im already tortured enough.... ok finneeeeee.... for enrichment)

[jjscrybaby]

first dates <3

jj maybank x fem!reader | fluff | (friends to lovers, just pure adorableness tbh, sexual jokes, kissing, smoking weed.)

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

“So, what does a date with JJ Maybank look like?” Your arm was linked through his, the two of you walking down the beach; the gentle breeze had goosebumps spreading over your bare skin. Sue you for wanting to look nice.

About 97% of the days you’d spent with JJ were in a bikini, pyjamas or just some old denim shorts and a crop top. You never tried to look nice for him, because you didn’t have to. He wasn’t your boyfriend, he was your friend. Ever since Sarah had started dating John B your circles had merged and the two of you had become particularly attached at the hip. Maybe you should have realised sooner you had feelings for him, but the line between friendship and romance is difficult to differentiate sometimes.

Surprisingly, you weren’t confused when he asked you out. It felt normal, felt right. You’d given him a sweet smile, kissed his cheek and told him to pick you up at seven.

“I can’t say I’ve been on many,” he admitted, shrugging his jacket off to put on you. “But, usually, I start with food.”

“You always do,” you tease, putting your arms through the hoodie with a grin. He linked his fingers through yours, throwing you a wink as he changed directions. You didn’t realise where you were headed until you were stood outside. “You want to have our first date at the Wreck? We eat here all the time.”

“You love the cheeseburgers,” he shrugged, holding the door open for you. The bell jingled above you, you looked back at him with a giddy smile.

Kiara, luckily, wasn’t working tonight so you didn’t have her eyeing the two of you like an overbearing mother. A waiter came over to your table and he ordered, knowing just what you wanted without you having to say a word. He’d decided to sit beside you instead of opposite, in a little booth in the back, you were pretty sure it was just so he could rest his hand on your thigh.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he complimented. You’d decided on a sundress, knowing he had a thing for them.

“You’ve told me several times,” you teased, tucking your hair behind your ears. “You look beautiful, too.”

“Aww, thanks,” he laughed, making you giggle.

First dates were usually awkward, you’d always need at least two glasses of wine to loosen up. You hadn’t even had a sip for this. You adored JJ, he already knew everything about you so there were no awkward conversations needed to be had. He’d held your hair back whilst you threw up in a bush after one too many tequila shots, so you couldn’t possibly embarrass yourself. You felt completely relaxed, it was the best you’d felt in a long time.

Your food and drinks arrived, his hand didn’t stray from your thigh the entire meal. He flirted with you nonstop, but you very quickly realised he’d been doing that since you met. The teasing comments, the unsubtle looks, it was nothing new; and yet you still blushed every time.

“What’s next?” You asked as the two of you left the restaurant, his wallet the only one feeling a little emptier.

“The nice meal wasn’t good enough for ya?” He joked, arm around your shoulders.

“It was exquisite, but I think you can do better,” you shrugged, reaching up to hold the hand he’d wrapped around you.

“We’ll see.”

The arcade was your favourite place on the island, not for the games, no, they were fun but they weren’t the reason you loved it so much. You went there purely to people watch. A variety of people came into the arcade, and you loved to make up fun stories about them. And, of course, JJ knew that.

“What ‘bout them?” The two of you were sat, sipping slushies and looking around the room. You’d played a few games, he let you win every time, and now it was time for the real fun.

“She’s pregnant but hasn’t told him yet, because it’s not his baby,” you replied. He gasped dramatically, making you snort into your cup.

“Who’s the daddy?” JJ asked, subtly pulling you closer to him so your back was leaning against his chest.

Your cheeks went pink, but you chose to ignore it and take another sip of your drink; even as he let out a chuckle. “That guy.” You pointed to an elderly man who was standing in the corner.

“Damn, he’s still got it,” JJ murmured. You giggled, turning to face him with an amused smile. Your faces were inches apart as he grinned back at you.

For a second, you thought he was going to kiss you; he cupped your cheek and gently stroked his thumb over your cheekbone, but just as you were about to lean in he brought his hand back, licked his thumb and then rubbed it over your top lip.

“Slushie juice,” he explained, licking his thumb before looking around the room again. “Ooo, what about her?”

You were on his back as you walked back across the beach, your feet were hurting because you decided to wear uncomfortable shoes that went with your dress and you’d refused to walk any further. He didn’t even flinch, just bent down in front of you and waited. He was carrying your shoes, babbling on about something John B had done.

“Where are we headed?” He asked, adjusting his hold on you. “The Chateau?”

“On the first date? Who do you take me for?” You smirked.

“Says the girl who slept with Brandon Gibbs after the first date. Am I not good enough for you?” He replied dramatically.

“Hey! You promised to never bring that up again,” you whined.

He laughed, suddenly stopping in his movements to drop you back down. Instead of giving you your shoes like you expected, he sat down on the sand and waited for you to join him. “There’s one part of a JJ Maybank date that we haven’t done yet.”

“On the beach? Dirty,” you smirked, sitting down next to him.

“Shuddup.” He pulled out a pre-rolled joint from his pocket, waving it in your face. “My speciality.”

“Did you grow it?”

“I’ve had enough of the smartass comments, baby.” You couldn’t come up with another one, not with the way the pet name left his lips. He’d called you baby plenty of times, but something about that moment just made it feel special.

You shared the joint, passing it back and forth as you talked softly to each other. By the time it was finished, you were sitting in his lap with your eyes half open and kisses being pressed to the side of your head.

“So, how’d I do?” JJ murmured, lips only inches away from your ear.

“10/10,” you replied, running your hand through his hair with a lazy smile. “Best date I’ve ever been on, hands down.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” he grinned. “You think I did good enough for a kiss?”

“Mhm, maybe,” you teased, turning your head so your lips brushed against his. He let out a shaky exhale, cupping your cheeks in his warm hands like he’d done earlier on; except this time, there was no juice.

His lips moved smoothly against yours, hands pulling you as close as humanly possible. His tongue licked over your bottom lip, causing a hum to leave yours.

“Do you want to go on a second date?” He murmured against your lips.

“And a third,” you grinned.

When you both finally pulled away, both your lips were puffy, your hair messy and cheeks flushed. Neither of you had ever looked happier.

“C’mon, you’re carrying me to the Chateau if you want that second date,” you stated, standing up.

“Am I gonna be the new Brandon Gibbs?”

“Not anymore, you’re not.”

[not-neverland06]

𝚂𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Tensions rise as you continue to pull against Dutch's taut leash. You seem to be the only one who sees him for the trickster he is. Infuriatingly, that means you and Arthur butting heads about the man. But you don't expect your latest fight to end with him coming back to you nearly dead.

As much as you’d love to bask in the newness of whatever this is that you have with Arthur, the law has other plans. While the gang has grown comfortable, fat in their complacency, the Pinkertons have gotten closer. You are beginning to realize just how rare these moments of peace are in the life of an outlaw.

“I’m gonna sell her, I swear,” you tell Arthur angrily as you try and get a stubborn Lady to obey your commands. You finally feel comfortable enough to head back into Valentine, you know the woman he’d been with is gone, Arthur told you as much. You doubt he’d have any reason to lie about something as silly as that.  

Arthur laughs and leans down, smoothing over Diablo’s mane. “No, you ain’t, you like her too damn much.”

“You’re right,” you acquiesce. “I’ll sell her to a glue factory, instead,” Lady lets out a stubborn noise, flicking her head back and forth. “Unless you start to listen, you insolent little bastard.” Arthur brings Diablo to a slow trot while you relentlessly tug on Lady’s reins to no effect.

He watches you struggle, laughing as he hitches up Diablo. When Lady comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the road, he lets out an amused sigh and comes forward to take her reins from you. You hand them over easily, nudging the horse with your spur in retaliation.

He hitches her next to Diablo and rounds her to stand at your side, holding his hand out for you. You take it in your own, relishing his touch as he helps you down from your saddle. Your movements are still clumsy but you’re starting to get a little bit better at riding her. Even if she still refuses to listen to you. 

“If you stopped insultin’ her, I’m sure you’d get along better.” Arthur leads you towards the general store and you glare up at him. 

“Whose side are you on, Mr. Morgan?” He chuckles and leans down, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek. It’s chaste and near prudish, but you still find yourself flushing. 

“Not on anyone’s side, sweetheart. But if you want to start getting along with her, you’ll just have to learn to trust her.” You nod, not listening to anything he’s saying, too busy admiring how handsome he looks. 

He seems to realize what you’re doing, rolling his eyes and pushing you forward. A man’s voice booms through the air, interrupting the both of you. “Well, isn’t this a pretty picture?” You pause, turning to face the man watching you from the porch of the hotel. Men with large guns move around the side of the store and come to stand in front of him.

Your brows furrow, eyes roving across the street, suddenly noticing the stark lack of people out and about. You’d been so distracted by Lady that you hadn’t realized just how dead Valentine was. Something glints in the sunlight on the roof beside the hotel. You narrow your eyes, peering through the glare and seeing a man with his rifle pointed at you and Arthur. 

“I’m sorry,” the man calls out, sounding wholly unapologetic. Arthur’s hand tightens around yours and he drags you slightly behind himself. “I should introduce myself,” the man drawls. 

You take note of his finely tailored clothes, and the way he’s not fully leaning against the wall because he doesn’t want to dirty his suit. The pocket watch attached to his vest is real gold, something you haven’t seen a whole lot of in Valentine. He’s too prim and proper for a low-down town like this. He could easily have been one of the men from the city you grew up in, upper-class and elite. He’s not from around here and he seems to, at least, vaguely recognize Arthur. You don’t see this going any way but bad. 

“Leviticus Cornwall, I believe you’ve heard my name before.”

“God dammit,” Arthur curses under his breath, he nudges you further back in the direction of the horses. Your foot freezes in the air as you hear the familiar click of a rifle being loaded right by your ear. Swallowing hard, you risk the slightest glance back and see another black-suited man with the tip of his rifle pointed squarely between your eyes. 

Arthur sees him in his peripheral, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Cornwall. “I know what you want,” Arthur calls out, one hand raised in surrender, the other still holding yours. “But leave her out of it, she’s got nothin’ to do with any of this.” 

Leviticus laughs and tilts his head patronizingly. “If she’s with your ridiculous little gang, then she’s got something to do with what happened to my train.” Your eyes flutter shut, dread filling every crevice of your body as the realization finally sinks in. In your last days in the mountains, the men had gone off to rob a train. 

They’d mentioned the same name a few times but you’d never cared to pay attention to it. It comes back to you now. Leviticus Cornwall. He was here to collect what they’d stolen.  

“I know you are your master’s favorite little lapdog, so why don’t you go fetch Dutch for me and I won’t have my men splatter your lady’s brains against your boots.” Your nails dig into Arthur’s palms, body tensing with fear as you lean further into him. 

Arthur gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, keeping you firmly tucked into him. “I’m afraid neither of those things is gonna happen, Mr. Cornwall,” Arthur calls out to him. He leans slightly towards you, voice lowered so even the man behind you can’t hear, “When I tell you, make a run for the horses.” 

You so desperately want to look towards where you know Lady and Diablo are hitched by the saloon, but it would only give your plan away. Instead, you force yourself to focus on the man with the rifle pointed at you. You maintain eye contact with the barrel of his gun, refusing to look away. 

You try and force your heart to be silent and still, hoping you’ll be able to hear Arthur’s order over the rushing force of your blood. Arthur keeps a tight grip on your hand as the men begin to close in. 

“I’ll only say this once, Mr. Morgan. This will be your only chance to escape my wrath, alive.”

“Right,” Arthur moves you in front of him and you suck in a shuddering breath when you see just how many men surround you now. They’re everywhere, on the roofs of buildings, on horseback pacing the streets, and the worst of them have their guns trained right on you. “Well, I’ll say this,” he rips his hands out of yours and practically tosses you to the side. “Run!”

You don’t think, just blindly follow his orders and take off towards the horses. The shots start going off instantly, mud flying up around you as bullets narrowly miss you. You run in a wild pattern, trying not to be such an easy target. 

“The times of outlaws is over, Mr. Morgan!” Leviticus calls from behind you, voice tainted with wrath as it penetrates the air. “There’s no place for you anymore!”

You’re running with the instinct of a prey trying to outwit a predator who's actively snapping their maw. It feels futile, though, when you’re so wholly surrounded. Arthur comes up behind you, hand snatching up the back of your shirt and dragging you faster behind him. 

Your feet scramble to keep up with his pace as you make for the horses. The men seem to catch onto your plan faster than you’d hoped. One of them jumps in front of you but his body topples to the ground before he can say a word. When you turn, Arthur’s got his revolver out and the end of it is smoking. 

You’d barely even had time to process the threat before Arthur had shot him. You’d never seen what a quick draw he was in person before. If you weren’t feeling the breeze of bullets whistling past you, you’d have time to be impressed. 

You reach Lady and she’s already stomping and kicking her legs out, terrified by all the noise. You grab her reins, hands shaking as you try and keep yourself steady. You don’t have time to let Arthur help you up. You place your foot in the stirrup and jump, you’re barely seated before she goes flying. 

You lean forward, holding on tight as she moves like fire’s licking at her heels. “Come on, Lady!” You shout, not once looking back to see how many of them are after you. The sounds are getting closer and you swallow bile down as you risk a look over your shoulder. 

Arthur’s just behind you, turned in his saddle, and shooting at as many of them as he can. Lady lets out an odd squeal and your brows furrow, glancing back at her. You see a streak of red across her side and feel your blood rush to your head. 

They’d shot her. They’d shot your damn horse. You don’t even like her all that much, but right now she’s the only thing between you and a bullet through your head. Forcing yourself up, you slip the revolver out of your holster and turn like you watched Arthur do. It’s disorienting, feeling your hips rocking forward while you try and keep a steady aim behind yourself. 

There’s no way for you to know which of them actually managed to knick her. But if they can hit your horse, they’re not far off from hitting you. You don’t have time to take in deep breaths and settle yourself, you can only start wildly shooting and hope you hit one of them. You don’t care to spare your bullets, firing off without any real aim and spotting a few drop from their saddles. You don’t know if it's you or Arthur that claims the kills but they eventually start to slow down and the space between you all grows wider. 

Arthur tucks his gun away and rides up closer. “We need to get back to camp,” he shouts. You nod your head and follow along the path behind him. Your gaze drifts towards the wound across Lady’s side and you run your fingers through her mane as she races back home. 

You brush out Lady’s coat as you wait for Arthur to finish up with Dutch. Hosea had promised that Lady would be fine, horses were sturdy but she’d have to make it through a lot worse if she wanted to stay with the gang. You understood what he meant but you didn’t appreciate it. 

It’s only as you finish up with her that you realize what happened on the way back. You’d seen and, possibly, contributed to more killing and you hadn’t felt a thing about it. Not only that, Arthur had seen you shooting at men with no remorse. 

Your heart flips itself into a knot in your chest as you look over to where he’s speaking with Dutch. He was quiet on the ride back and you’d assumed it was because he was worried more people would show up. What if it was because you ruined your image for him? The only former lover of his you know about was a lady like you. But, now, he sees you as someone who’s perfectly fine riding around and shooting at men without question. What if he doesn’t want you now?

You swallow down the lump in your throat and try to get your fingers to still. You’d been shaking from the adrenaline for the last few minutes. Your blood is still rushing so fast you’re getting dizzy standing still. You try to convince yourself that it’s just the nerves of the day getting to you, but you’re not so sure. 

Arthur finally turns away from Dutch and heads back towards you. You give him a shaky smile but he doesn’t return it. Instead, his brows are set with anger and he’s glowering at you. 

You feel your stomach drop as you scramble for a way to explain why shooting at those men was so easy for you. “Arthur, I’m sorry-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He demands. Your face falls flat and you feel like you might throw up. Has he somehow found out about your husband? “I didn’t realize they’d hit you,” he reaches forward and you frown with confusion. His thumb brushes against your upper arm and you hiss. 

Off instinct, you swat his hand away, fingers stinging at the force. You glance down and notice blood soaking the sleeve of your shirt. One of the bullets had done a little bit more than graze you, leaving a deep gouge in your arm. “So you touch it?” You ask him, only now starting to feel the pain of the wound. 

He stutters over a defense before rolling his eyes. “Come on,” he sighs and places a light hand over your back. He presses you forward, herding you towards his tent. “Let’s clean it up.” He sets you down on his cot and begins rummaging through the chest he keeps next to it with all his supplies. Glancing up at you, he asks “What were you apologisin’ for?” 

“Oh, um,” you feel a bit silly now. You almost don’t want to say it but that doesn’t feel fair to lie straight to his face. “I feel sick that you saw me shoot at those men.”

His brows furrow and he pauses his rummaging. He glances around like he’s waiting for you to finish but you just shrug. “Oh,” realization dawns on his face and he looks a little stunned. “That’s it?”

“Well,” you stutter and stumble over your words as he walks over to you with a cloth and some alcohol. “Yes,” you finally land on.

He tips the bottle over, soaking the cloth in the liquor. “Darlin’, I’ve seen death more times than I can count to. I don’t care about a little shoot-out. I only care about you bein’ alive.”

He presses the cloth to your wound and you jerk back, hissing in pain. He mutters small reassurances to you, soothing you like a bucking horse. “You mean that?” You ask through gritted teeth. 

He laughs a little, kneeling and smiling at you. “Kill as many men as you like, sweetheart, just don’t point that gun at me.” Despite the aching pain in your arm, you find yourself smiling back at him. 

The new spot for camp isn’t awful. The town nearby isn’t much to write home about. Two families have been feuding here since before the war. They haven’t seemed to fully accept this new society you live in. And you’re sure that their crops thrive on Braithwaite and Gray blood rather than water.

You weren’t allowed to go into town with Arthur and the others. None of the ladies were. Dutch had said that the people here wouldn’t react well to so many unmarried women. Especially not women like Karen. She hadn’t appreciated the dig, but she hadn’t argued with him. 

You found it difficult to follow along blindly to Dutch’s whims. Sometimes it feels like you just traded one master for another. Your father, then your husband, and now you can’t do anything without Arthur constantly running to Dutch to get his approval. As much as you’d like to pretend you have a newfound freedom, you know that Arthur will never leave the gang behind. Dutch has practically brainwashed him into a loyal soldier. So long as you love Arthur, you’re stuck under Dutch’s thumb- and he knows it. 

“I said go and get another slab. How hard is that?” Pearson’s voice carries through camp, his tone tight and irritated. Your brows furrow and you turn in your seat to see what he’s fussing about now. 

“It would be a lot easier if I wasn’t havin’ to fight with a goddamn fool the whole time!” Sadie picks up a slab of deer meat and hurls it at the man. He throws his hands up, just barely managing to catch it in time. 

You stifle a laugh, figuring you should have known what was causing him so much grief. Sadie’s been having to follow his every order ever since Dutch changed her over from Mrs. Grimshaw to Pearson. You know it’s driving her mad, same as you, to do nothing but cook and clean all day. 

Even when she was married she had gone out hunting and fishing with Jake. They’d always taken care of your land, they were never house servants. She only knows how to cook because she’d had a husband to take care of, not an entire camp. 

You place your book down on the table before you and get to your feet. You figure you should step in before this gets nasty. Again. You’re worried Sadie might actually stab the man. You can see them both considering it as you approach. Neither of them are happy with the arrangement. Pearson thought he was getting a quiet assistant and Sadie just plain hates him. 

“Mr. Pearson!” You call out before they can say anything else. You lift your hand in greeting and he grunts noncommittally. “If you wouldn’t mind, I need Sadie’s help with a task.”

Sadie’s lip curls up at him and he crosses his arms, leaning back like he has any power to hold over you. “Oh, yeah? What would that be?”

You glance away, eyes down like you’re flustered. Your hand hovers over your stomach and you grimace, “I’m afraid it may be more feminine in nature.” His face blanches and he turns back to the slab of meat before him. 

“Get.” He waves Sadie away and refuses to look at either of you. 

You grin at her, holding your arm out and nodding towards the trees around camp. She chuckles slightly, looping her arm through your own and following alongside you. With Dutch and most other men out of camp today, you can afford to explore a little further than you might normally be allowed. 

“Has he been giving you much grief?”

Sadie rolls her eyes with a scoff and sets you with a deadpan look. “What the hell do you think?” She doesn’t actually give you a chance to answer and continues with an angered tone. “He seems to be of the belief that women are of better use quiet and obedient.”

“Well,” you tilt your head in consideration and nod. “Most men think that. We haven’t yet reached a point in society where women hold much power, Sadie. Do you expect a group of outlaws to be fighting for our rights?”

“I don’t want none of them fightin’ for me. I just want to be able to take a ride, go huntin’,” she throws her hands up and sighs, “somethin’.”

You realize you do have a slight bit more freedom than she does. Arthur often takes you into towns with him or, at the very least, on some rides for space away from everyone. She’s been holed up with all these strange people since they first rescued you. You purse your lips and give her a sympathetic look. 

You lead her further towards the grove of trees and hope some new scenery will help her calm down. 

Arthur’s white button-down shirt lay across your lap. Needle in hand, you check it over to make sure you didn't miss any holes or tears. Satisfied with your efforts, you get to your feet and walk towards Arthur’s tent. 

You don’t sew or fix anything up for the others unless they’re willing to pay. You find yourself doing this naturally for Arthur, without telling him. You're not sure if it’s because your finishing school teacher had ingrained into you the good qualities of a wife, or it’s simply because you want to. 

Part of you will always resent the fact that you can’t recognize your own actions versus your training. You try to keep those thoughts at bay most days, but sometimes, when you do something like this, it’s a little more difficult. 

Orange light glares into your eyes and you lift a hand to block it. Peering through one eye, you watch as the sinking sun sets against the horizon. Orange, red, and pink swirl and dance around each other to create a scene so perfect it almost doesn’t feel real. 

It makes you think of Arthur, of how he would draw it. He’s incredibly gifted with art, even if he won’t admit it. Even with a piece of charcoal, he manages to capture the life of the animals he sees or the people around him. 

After working a few odd jobs in camp, writing a letter for someone or doing some tailoring, you have some meager savings. You’ve been considering buying Arthur a proper drawing kit. You’re sure it would be foolish to spend it all on him, but you’d think he’d like it. 

The people in camp only think he’s good for shooting and providing muscle. As much as they care about him, they don’t see the value in some of his finer skills. And you know it affects him. Anytime you catch a glimpse of one of his drawings he immediately starts tearing his work apart, always calling it trash and a waste of time. You wish that he could see the beauty of his creativity like you do. But a skill like that isn’t rewarded around here and you know he’ll never truly understand just how much more he’s capable of than what he’s been told. 

Your gaze moves from the setting sun to the table in his tent. His journal rests on the edge and you frown. He doesn’t normally leave it behind. Reaching forward, you snag it off the edge and tuck it under his pillow. There are a lot of nosy people in camp, you doubt he’d want anyone getting their hands on it. While you fuss with that, you notice the picture on his table. Or lack thereof. 

It’s been a while since you’ve paid attention to the interior of his tent. Most of the time you’re here, you’re focused on him. But you can’t help and snoop, just a little. The picture of his mother is still there, along with a folded-up one of the gang. But the picture he used to keep of his former lover is gone. 

Curious, you take the shirt and turn towards the chest at the end of his cot. You bend over slightly, undoing the buckles and propping the edge up. 

You lay the shirt flat, straightening out any wrinkles, and your hand accidentally slips toward the turned-over picture frames beside his clothes. You lift the first one and find another one of his mother. Pursing your lips, you debate if you should dig any further. Glancing over your shoulder, you don’t notice anyone watching you or coming close. You bend over a little more and rifle through another frame. 

There it is- the picture of the woman buried beneath the rest. You don’t blame him for keeping it. You know how much she meant to him. You’re just curious as to why he went so far as to bury it below the rest. 

Someone clears their throat behind you and you let out a squeak, slamming the lid of the chest shut. You whip around and find Arthur leaning against the post of his tent. “Arthur,” you're breathless as you clutch at your chest, not having even expected him back in camp yet. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

“No,” he lets out an amused huff, “I don’t imagine you did.” He nods towards his chest and you flush with guilt. “What’re you doin’ in there?”

You tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear and shrug innocently. “Just putting away a shirt I fixed up for you.” He moves away from the post and takes a slow step towards you. 

“And that’s all?” He looks completely serious, as though he’s about to start interrogating you, but you can hear the slight tease lingering at the end of his words. 

“Yes,” you lie, “that’s all.”

“Alright,” he stops in front of you and chuckles a little. “I’ll pretend to believe that. How ‘bout next time you want somethin’, you just come to me?” You nod your head and he steps around you. He takes his hat off and places it on the table, running his hands through his hair. 

“Actually,” you grin at him as he turns around, “there is somethin- wait, what is that?” You demand, pointing to the deputy’s badge on his shirt. 

He glances down with a sigh and rolls his eyes. “Bill went and got us deputized. Don’t know how, but Dutch seems to think it’s best if we want to stay here.” You try not to sigh at the mention of Dutch. He’s been getting stricter ever since the incident in Valentine and Arthur’s obeying him like a leashed dog. It’s beyond frustrating. 

“I can’t believe they gave you all badges,” you can’t help but laugh. The sheriff has got to be touched in the head to have looked at those men and thought they were anything but outlaws. 

“Buncha fools,” Arthur grumbles. He sees the look on your face, the way you bite your lip to keep any more laughter from escaping, and sighs. “Quit laughin’ at me, woman. What was I supposed to do? Say no?” You shake your head mutely and he rolls his eyes. “What did you want?”

“Right,” you clear your throat and let out one last huff of laughter before straightening up. “I need you to do a favor for me. Sadie’s been itching to get away from camp, especially from that old bastard Pearson. Could you take her out for me, tomorrow, or sometime soon? I’m worried she’s going to drive a knife through his skull if we don’t deal with this.

Arthur doesn’t look convinced, eyes narrowed and head tilted in a way that makes you think he’s going to say no. You risk a step forward, taking his hand in your own and pulling him close. “Oh, please, Arthur. It would mean the world to me.”

His eyes meet yours, and you widen them, giving him your best pleading look. He holds out for a minute longer than you thought he would before letting out a rough sigh. “Alright, alright, fine. But she better not cause any damn trouble, she’s got a worse temper than Bill.”

You can’t promise she won’t, so you just lean up and press a kiss to his cheek in thanks. He rolls his eyes and takes your chin between his fingers. He tilts your face up towards his, narrowing his eyes at you, “Come on, give me a real kiss,” you smile slightly and wind your arms around his neck, pulling him down to meet you halfway. You suppose there are worse ways to have to pay him back. 

Arthur and Sadie were both out on a supply run before you even woke up. By the time you’re properly dressed and cleaned, you can see the wagon cresting over the hill. Your eyes widen with alarm when you see Sadie with the reins, driving the horses even worse than you do. 

You know she’s driven a wagon before. You think she might just be trying to give Arthur a heart attack. You can hear them shouting at each other from where you stand and you snicker. You wonder if those two were separated at birth or something, they get along about as bad as most siblings you know. 

You go over to Arthur’s tent and rifle through his bullets until you find a few extra for the revolver in your holster. Eventually, you’ll have to start buying your own supplies. But he doesn’t seem to mind much. Either that or he hasn’t caught on yet.

You load the bandolier on your hip and walk out to meet them as they return. Sadie doesn’t quite park the wagon in time, nearly taking out Bill’s tent as she drives them back into camp. “Enough!” Arthur barks, ripping the reins out of her hands. “I am never lettin’ you drive again.”

“Didn’t know you were such a coward, Arthur,” she taunts, hopping out of the wagon. You find yourself grinning when you see the clothes she’s sporting. Pants, a new hat, and some fresh boots. You’re sure Dutch won’t appreciate her use of camp funds but you applaud her latest show of rebellion. 

You round the horses to greet Arthur as he gives Sadie a bewildered look. She hauls a sack of flour out of the back and tosses it at Pearson’s feet. “Have fun?” You ask airily as you greet him. 

He whirls around on you and points an accusing finger towards you. “I said no trouble.”

“She couldn’t have been that bad,” you admonish, swatting his hand away. 

He purses his lips in irritation and crosses his arms. “She nearly killed me drivin’ back. Women can’t drive!” You gape at him as he hops out of the wagon and begins storming towards his tent. “They can’t!” He shouts and you gasp, face twisted in a bewildered smile. 

“Arthur!” You admonish, chasing after him. He shakes his head, not looking at you. 

He scoffs and shakes his head, looking for all the world like a madman. “Think I don’t remember how you drove when we came down from the mountains?”

“You broke the wheel,” you throw back at him. With his shoulders nearly up to his ears, he continues his stubborn march towards his tent. “Oh, Arthur, come on.” You catch up with him and dart in front of him so he can’t get around you.  

“How about a ride to calm you down?” He looks to Sadie and then back at the wagon with a sickened look and you laugh. “On the horses,” you laugh and grab his arm, dragging him to Diablo and Lady. “Sadie ain’t the only one feeling cooped up,” you tell him. 

His low sigh sounds a little apologetic but you hadn’t meant anything against him. It was Dutch keeping you under lock and key. “I know, and I’m sorry about that. But we can’t risk too many of us bein’ seen.”

“Dutch can’t risk it, you mean,” you grab onto the saddle’s horn and swing up, glancing down at him. 

He frowns, mounting Diablo with more grace than you can manage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You bat your lashes and shrug, leading Lady towards the edge of camp. “Nothing really, just that it seems to be Dutch forcing us all to lay low.” You take the lead through the trees, ducking underneath a few low-hanging branches. “No one else seems to be as worried, or even know what’s going on out here.”

Arthur slows down and you’re forced to match his gait if you want to hear what he says. You turn back in your saddle and give him a questioning look. He’s looking at you in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s distant like he’s gazing at someone closer to a stranger than a lover. 

“You’re doubtin’ Dutch?” His voice is low, tone giving nothing away to you. 

“Well,” Lady shifts restlessly underneath you, seemingly sensing the change in your mood. “Not doubting per se. I just don’t think things are as dangerous as he makes them out to be. It just seems to be-”

“Do I need to remind you how you got that scar on your arm?” Arthur snaps, pointing towards the slight bullet wound left behind by Cornwall’s men. You blanch as he nudges Diablo forward, quickly surpassing you. 

“No Arthur, I think I remember getting shot at pretty damn well.” You’re getting angry now too, you really hadn’t meant much by the comment. But he had to realize how out of proportion Dutch was making everything feel. The “threats” surrounding you, the grand plan of escape, it was all too magnificent. 

“Look, you can’t be questionin’ Dutch like that. If we stop trustin’ each other or start turnin’ on each other, it’s all gonna fall apart faster than you can blink.” He slows slightly so you can catch up with him but it doesn’t seem as natural as it normally does. 

“That’s not what I was trying to imply Arthur. I’ve been in camp for too long. The world outside seems so distant to me. It’s just hard to believe we’re in any real danger.” You try to downplay what you said. Pretend you hadn't been suggesting exactly what he’s accusing you of. Playing the ditzy little lady used to get you out of trouble in the past, but now, he sees right through you. 

“Well, we are,” he snaps, “and you’d do your best to remember that. Just because you can’t see it, don’t mean it’s not real.” There’s a sense of finality to his words that tells you the conversation’s over. Whatever hope you’d had of a peaceful ride is gone. 

It’s a difficult pill to swallow, knowing no matter how much you care for Arthur, he’ll always pick Dutch over you. And worse, he’ll pick Dutch over saving himself. He’ll never understand just how much he’s worth, or how much he means to everyone around him. He’s a martyr through and through. Always prepared to make a sacrifice, even when it’s not needed.  

You tighten your grip around Lady’s reigns, eyes cast down as you follow along silently beside him. He leads you onto the path towards town and you wonder if you should just head back. You could lie, say you’re feeling sick, and be done with him for now. 

You’re already upset by how the day’s turned, no point in prolonging either of your misery. “Arthur,” you call out. He hums, turning slightly, just barely facing you. “I’m going to go back to camp.” 

He pulls on Diablo’s reins, turning him around so he can properly face you. “I thought you wanted to get out?” He asks, sounding on edge and a little snappy. 

You shrug dismissively, not bothering with an excuse. “Changed my mind-”

“Told you it’d be worth a pretty penny,” your brows furrow as a strong Irish accent starts talking a little further up the path. It sounds startlingly familiar.

“Those wagons are always worth the trouble,” Arthur’s quick to ride up beside you. He doesn’t hesitate as he takes Lady’s reins out of your hand and leads you both off the path. You’re silent as you follow him off the safety of the trail. He tucks you both behind some trees. You have just enough coverage that they can’t see you but you can still see them. 

There’s a sharp pain slicing up and down your back the closer the Irishmen get. You hiss through your teeth, shifting uncomfortably as they continue to talk. Arthur keeps his head low, hat tilted down and you follow suit. They pass by without much fuss and Arthur picks his head back up to watch them go. 

“O’Driscolls,” he curses and the painful familiarity suddenly makes sense. “We need to tell Dutch,” he says, already making his way back to camp. You follow him without much argument, as eager to get back as he is. 

Your heart sinks to your stomach, toiling in hurt the whole way. You know Dutch has instilled a paternal familiarity into Arthur but it hurts knowing the man you chose will always choose someone else. 

Pearson’s ambling back into camp just as you and Arthur arrive. You’re tempted to just go back to your tent but you follow Arthur, knowing he’ll probably need someone else to back up what he saw. “Dutch!” He calls out, interrupting whatever scheming conversation he’d been having with Micah. 

Dutch walks towards you both, Micah following slightly behind, coughing into the crook of his elbow. You grimace at the wet, choking noise. He’s been looking worse and worse everyday. The circles under his eyes are so dark he looks like he’s been knocked across the face.

“Something the matter, Arthur?” Dutch asks, eyes briefly darting to you before looking back at Arthur. 

“Saw somethin’ out on the road.” You cross your arms, mind drifting as you wait to be called into the conversation. You’re roughly jarred out of your reverie as a strong, clammy hand lands on your shoulder so suddenly you’re nearly dragged to the ground. 

The smell of sweat and moonshine sours your nose and nearly makes you gag as Pearson leans against you. “Gost ‘ome news,” he slurs, eyes barely open as he gestures vaguely towards Dutch. 

You struggle under his weight, doing your damndest not to fall into the mud. Arthur frowns and knocks Pearson’s arm off your shoulder. “Get off ‘er, you damn fool,” he grabs him by the bicep, roughly jerking him straight and relying on his strength to keep them both upright. 

“Now, Mr. Pearson, Mr. Morgan, I believe you both have news to share. Seeing as Mr. Pearson is close to toppling over into the mud, he can go first.” Arthur’s lips purse in irritation but he says nothing, only shakes Pearson to wake him back up. 

“Met ‘ome fine mens in the bar. O’durshels, wanna purl.” You narrow your eyes at him and your face twists with confusion. You’re not the only one, the other men around you already look tired of having to deal with Pearson’s inebriated state. 

Sadly, years spent married to a drunkard means you’ve learned the language of liquor quite well. “He met some O’Driscolls in a bar, they want to parley,” you translate, looking to Dutch. 

His brows set with something you don’t recognize and Arthur scoffs. “It’s a damn trap.”

“‘Course it is,” Micah snaps. “Don’t mean we can’t use it to our advantage.”

Arthur drops Pearson’s arm and the man goes tumbling face-first into the mud. He takes a menacing step towards Micah who only grins up at him. “We’d be a bunch of fools to go anywhere near this.”

“Arthur,” Dutch barks his name out like an order and Arthur pauses, still leering over Micah. “I believe Mr. Bell might be right.”

“Oh,” you glare at him, smiling with disbelief. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? Those men are bastards,” you spit the word out with venom you didn’t know you possessed and step towards Dutch. Micah darts forward, protecting him like you’d actually try something. 

“Arthur,” Dutch warns lowly, intense stare set on you. Your skin crawls with the weight of his gaze. You feel like he’s pulling you to pieces, digging around to see which parts of you are weakest. He doesn’t have to say anything more, Arthur walks forward. He’s gentle as he grabs your arm, but he leaves no room for argument as he leads you away from Dutch. 

“Arthur,” you admonish. “You can’t be thinking about this.”

“I’m not,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder at Dutch. “But I ain’t got a choice.”

You laugh in disbelief and shake your head at him as he parks you beside his tent. “Of course you do. You’ve got the same choice as any of us. Just say no.” You’re praying that he sees sense, that he doesn’t go along with what is a clear trap. 

He only shakes his head and turns back towards Dutch. You should have known. Even if he knows there’s danger, he’ll ride in headfirst so long as someone else doesn’t get hurt. You feel something like disgust twisting you up and irritating the anger already present. 

You look towards Dutch and he’s already got his eyes on you. He doesn’t wear it plainly, but you see the satisfaction on his face as Arthur comes to stand beside him and leaves you. As if you were ever a threat to his authority. 

You turn away from them all, unwilling to watch them ride off as you storm back toward your tent. If they want to go be a bunch of fools, so be it. It’s not your business what mistakes men make with their freedom. 

It’s Sadie that wakes you, her hand on your shoulder, shoving you insistently. Your eyes are slow to flutter open, your mind racing to remember where you are and who you’re with. “What?” You slur, one eye open as you try to orient yourself. 

“They’re back,” she hisses, tossing away the blanket and getting to her feet. You sit up slowly, hands landing in your lap as you let your head sink between your shoulders. You listen to Sadie’s rushed footsteps as she runs away from the tent. 

You’re moving slowly as you rub your eyes, trying to force yourself awake. Whose back?

You try to remember the events of the day and then the realization hits you like ice. Your heart palpitates as you scramble to get up. You chase after Sadie, feet bare in the mud as you run to the entrance of the camp. You’re not looking to give Arthur a happy welcome back, you just want to make sure he’s okay. 

You see The Count’s white head parting through the trees first, then Baylock. You come up behind Sadie, peering around her to see if you can spot Diablo through the trees. You know it’ll be hard with his striking black coat, but you figure you’ll manage some hint of him, even through the dark. 

Dutch and Micah are slow as they amble up to you. Your brows furrow and there’s an intuitive gnawing feeling in the back of your mind. John comes out of his tent at the sound of hooves, moving to stand beside you. A few others join the welcoming party but you’re not paying any attention to them.

You move away from Sadie and take a step closer to the men now broaching the perimeter of camp. Your hand balls into the fabric of your night dress and you suck in a sharp breath when you realize they’re riding back alone. 

Red-hot anger hits you like a hammer knocking a blade into place. You run towards Dutch, not even waiting for him to be fully off his saddle before you start hollering at him. “Where is he? Did he have to stay behind? What’s going on?” 

Dutch holds his hands up, lips curled back in irritation as he skirts around you. “There were some complications,” Micah snipes as he jumps down from his horse. His lips are twisted up, humor coating his rotten voice. 

Your chest heaves with panic, heart tapping an odd pitter-patter as you try and process what the hell that means. 

“Complications!” You shout, uncaring for the way the others are staring at you. “Where the hell is Arthur?” Dutch tries to walk away from you, giving you a bewildered sort of look. He’s looking at you like you’re some sort of ranting madman wandering in from the woods. You may be ankle-deep in mud, wearing nothing but a nightgown, but you are not crazy. And you will not let him treat you like you are. 

You shoot forward and shove at the back of his shoulder. You catch him off guard and he stumbles slightly. You reach for him but Micah rushes forward, snatching up your left wrist before you can try again. You don’t see anything but red as you whip around and snap your hand as hard as you can against his cheek. 

You hear the sound your skin makes against his, see the bright burning mark on his face, but you feel no sting. You rip your wrist out of his hold and turn back towards Dutch. “You wicked little-”

“You left him, didn’t you?” You interrupt Micah’s low-brow insult and wait for Dutch to answer. He’s got a surprised look on his face as he takes you in. As if he hadn’t expected you to do anything but sit back and obey. 

His silence is the only answer you need as he tries to turn away from you again. “After everything he’s done for you! You just leave him!” You sound more heartbroken than he looks and it’s devastating. He left him to the mercies of O’Driscolls and he doesn’t seem to care at all. 

“We didn’t leave him!” Dutch shouts, voice cracking slightly. He snatches up your arm, dragging you away from Micah and trying to isolate you from the others. He’s pulling you to his tent, trying to keep you silent so you don’t cause a big scene in front of the rest of camp. You won’t let him do this, you refuse to let him keep his perfect mask of the unfaltering leader. 

You dig your feet into the ground and feel the cold wet rush of mud filtering around your legs as he tries to drag you forward. “This is childish,” he snaps, glaring at you and letting your arm go. You know there’ll be a nasty purple bruise where he’d held you but you could care less right now. 

“You didn’t leave him? What the hell do you call this?” You gesture around wildly, not fully comprehending that this isn’t just one bad dream. “You don’t understand the cruelty of those men. What you just left him to-”

“Excuse me?” Dutch’s voice is low now, no longer is he shouting. Instead, he stalks towards you in two easy steps. 

“Easy,” John warns, coming up behind you both. 

Neither of you pay him any mind. You take a step closer, nearly nose to nose with Dutch, refusing to be intimidated by him. “This isn’t your fight, Mrs. Rowe. These aren’t your people, how dare you-”

“Arthur is my people,” you interrupt, voice a deadly whisper. “How dare you leave him. Fearsome Dutch Van der Linde,” you taunt and his nostrils flair at your impudence, “can’t even keep his people safe. Tell me, if you’re such a great leader, a man who’s always got a plan- what is it? What is your great plan? How are you going to get my Arthur back from this?”

Dutch’s face blanches and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen anything genuine appear. He almost looks concerned. And not for himself or his image, but for Arthur. It makes you hesitate for a moment, startling a step back from him with a furrow between your brows. 

“I’ve got a plan,” he whispers, eyes wide like he’s trying to convince himself. He turns and looks at the rest of the gang, most of them having woken up while you’d been shouting. “I have got a plan!” He yells, turning back towards his tent and storming off. 

Micah follows behind him, shoulder slamming into yours as he passes. You grunt, tripping forward and glaring at his back. You wouldn’t mind putting a bullet between that bastard’s eyes. 

Your mind races with everything the O’Drsicolls had put you and Sadie through. Your skin crawls with the way their hands and weapons had felt against you. You swallow the bile in your throat and turn towards the horses. 

John is right behind you, having been lurking at the edges of your and Dutch’s fight. “Where’re you goin’?” He asks with a tired sigh. 

“Where do you think?” You snap, reaching for Lady. 

Charles calls out your name and you turn to see him standing behind John with Hosea. Out of everyone in camp, you’d think these would be the three men joining you, not trying to stop you like they clearly are. 

You scoff in disbelief, a sardonic smile on your face. “That's it?” you demand, a disgusted glare directed at each of them. “You’re just going to abandon him too?”

“We’re not abandoning him,” Hosea objects, taking a step closer. You flinch away from him and he frowns. “You don’t know these men-”

“The hell I don’t! I’ve got the scars from what they did to me. I barely survived it.” Hosea winces away from your words. 

“Dutch has a plan,” he tells you, but it doesn’t even sound like he believes himself. “We just need to wait.”

“What’re you going to do?” Charles adds, and it feels remarkably like they’re circling you, herding you away from your horse. “You don’t even have a gun and you’re just going to ride into an O’Driscoll camp.”

“I will,” you tell him, all the sincerity in the world backing you up. 

“And you’ll get yourself killed,” John snaps. “I want them dead just as bad, but you are only going to get yourself hurt or caught. We only need some time, we’re not abandoning him. But we can’t just go in guns blazin’.”

“When has that ever stopped any of you?” You snap. You feel all your anger, all your determination, slip right out through the bottom of your bare feet. You know from their faces there’s going to be no arguing with them. They’re just as bad as Arthur, just as blind. 

They truly believe that Dutch has any clue what he’s doing. How could you possibly be the only one to see the truth of what he is? He’s a conman, decorated as a friend, father, brother, leader. He takes whatever form he wants and he knows how to use it against those around him. There’s no plan, there’s no grand escape to some tropical paradise. 

“You’re not leaving tonight,” Charles tells you and you wish you had the energy to cry. You want to weep for Arthur. Here stood the people he would sacrifice himself for, and they aren’t going to kill a few O’Driscolls to save him. 

You let them lead you back to your tent and look toward the horizon. You’re not going to be allowed to leave this camp. And even if there was a plan to rescue Arthur, you’d never be told of it. All you can do is wait. 

You stay up all night, sitting by the fire and forcing yourself to tolerate the feeling of Charles watching you the whole time. You don’t know what it is that makes you look away from the flames and towards the trees, but something pulls at you. 

As the sun crests the horizon, you place your cup of coffee down and turn. Over your shoulder, barely visible, a horse struggles along the path. You squint, head tilting this way and that so you might be able to better make out what it is. You get to your feet and hear Charles follow you. 

“Oh, god,” you gasp, making a run for the horse just as the rising sun illuminates it. Arthur is slumped over Diablo’s head, blood soaked through his shirt. You don’t make it to him before he slips off the saddle and lands in the mud. Diablo stands over him, nosing at his neck and cheek. 

Charles races behind you as you slide into the mud, hands roving over Arthur’s chest until you find the burned-over wound on his shoulder. You press your fingers to his throat, holding your breath while you pray to feel the beat of life within him still. 

“Oh, thank god,” you whisper when you feel the faintest thud against the tip of your fingers. Charles kneels beside you and you both throw an arm over your shoulders, lifting Arthur to his feet. “Susan!” You scream the old lady's name until you see her stumble out of her tent. 

A few of the other’s still awake all stand, Dutch included. “He needs help!” You shout, Charles helping you drag him towards her. 

“Bring him over here!” She shouts, clearing off Arthur’s cot and motioning for you to lay him down. You stumble under Arthur’s weight, ankle rolling the wrong way as you struggle to keep up his limp body. Charles helps as much as he can but you can barely stay standing. Dutch runs over to you, you share a brief look before he slips Arthur’s arm off your shoulder and carries him the rest of the way to Mrs. Grimshaw. 

You turn towards the tent of women and by now they’re all up, watching everything with wide horrified eyes. “Tilly, help me,” you demand, rushing towards the water boiling for Pearson’s stew. She snaps into action, racing behind you and passing you a cloth to lift the scalding pot off the fire. You both carry it over to Mrs. Grimshaw and she barely spares you a glance, too focused on Arthur. 

You can’t look at him for too long, can’t bear to face the way his eyes stare up at nothing. He looks too much like the corpses you’ve seen. But you know you felt life inside him. You couldn’t have made something like that up. 

Mrs. Grimshaw slices through his shirt and hisses at what she sees. You move past Dutch and peer over her shoulder with Tilly. “Oh, you fool,” she mutters. You shake your head when you see what he’s done to his shoulder. You know he did the best with what he had, but gunpowder is a risky move to close up a bullet hole. 

If you’re not careful with how you treat his wound, it’s more than likely to get infected. Besides the gunshot, judging from the bruises on his body, you can tell he was beaten to within an inch of his life. He’d barely been there a day and they’d nearly killed him. If what they’d done to you wasn’t reason enough to want the O’Drsicolls dead, this was. 

“Susan,” Dutch whispers and he sounds so disappointed, “sit by him. Take care of him. Keep him alive.” You refuse to look at Dutch, dipping a cloth into the purified water and wringing it out. You pass it to Susan who only nods her head. 

Tilly draws the tent flaps closed, pushing Dutch the rest of the way out. Susan presses the cloth gently to the area around Arthur’s wound and his shoulder jerks slightly. “He’s burned himself up,” Tilly mutters, rooting through his supply trunk and ripping up some of his clean shirts for extra cloth. 

“Closed up the wound,” Susan mutters, “but we’ll need to watch for infection.” Her hand drifts down his chest, pressing down on one of the purple and yellow splotches along his ribs. His eyes shoot open for a moment, a pained groan coming from his cracked lips. 

“Broken rib?” You ask, rooting around in his table for some of the ointment Hosea had made for him. She hums an affirmative and you hear Tilly rip up some more cloth for binding. 

“It’s gonna be a long night, you best listen to every damn thing I tell you,” Susan snaps, not taking her eyes off of Arthur. You nod your head silently, pulling out the tin of salve and presenting it to her. Your eyes drift towards Arthur and you let out a shuddering breath, not willing to look at his broken form for more than a few moments. 

Susan helped the most the first night Arthur was back. It was because of her that he made it. Tilly and you assisted her the best you could. But she had the knowledge only a doctor should as she staved the infection away from his wound. 

She wasn’t capable of a miracle, but this seemed damn close. Still, even with all the work you’d put in, someone had to stay by his side at night, make sure he didn’t slip away quietly. You volunteered yourself, opting to let them watch him during the day while you slept. 

His recovery was a slow one. You have to make sure his ribs are wrapped tight enough to encourage them to heal again. You need to ensure he doesn’t flip around in his sleep and do any more damage to himself. More importantly, you have to do everything you can to keep his fever down. 

Despite the heat of the day, it seems worse at night. Sweat soaks through his clothes and blankets, he’s constantly twitching with shivers. You try and make sure the cloth along his brow stays cool, but he seems to heat them up like a fire. 

There’s no puckering green skin around his wound, none of you can figure out where the infection is stemming from. You don’t have the medicine he needs to fight it, only sheer will and prayer. 

You lean forward in your chair, pressing the back of your chilled fingers to his cheek. Same as the night before, it’s hot to the touch. You’re surprised your skin doesn’t sizzle as it touches his. His breaths come in short pants as you slip the cloth off his head and dip it into the bucket of water beside you. You wring it out and place it gently along his brow again. 

Standing, you perch yourself on the edge of his cot and peel back the bandages on his shoulder. It sticks slightly to the skin, yellowed and bloody as the skin works to heal itself. He’d done the best he could with the gunpowder, but all it had done was stop you from getting below the surface and healing what needed it. 

Your eyes are fighting to stay open after being awake all night. You know the sun will rise soon, that you’ll have an opportunity for rest. But you haven’t been able to sleep well, not since he was brought back. You nearly drift off and then you think of him dying while you’re dozing away. 

He might have made it through the first night, but there are no promises with things like this. Your hand slips into his and you let out a heavy sigh. You take in his sallow face, the gauntness of his cheeks, the circles under his eyes. His beard has grown longer than you’ve ever seen it, his hair nearly reaches his shoulders. You don’t recognize this beaten man below you. This isn’t the Arthur you know. 

You squeeze his rough hand in yours, “You better not stop fighting, you stubborn bastard.”  You feel a familiar burn in the back of your throat and look away from him, choking down your tears. You can’t cry over him again. You’ve done it so often your eyes have run dry. 

Just as you’re about to get up to leave, his hand twitches ever so slightly in yours. Your brows furrow and you glance down at his hold on you. It was nearly imperceptible, a barely there movement. You watch his arm carefully, seeing if anything else happens. When he doesn’t move again you dismiss it as your mind playing tricks on you. 

Again, almost as if he knows you’re going to leave him, his hand twitches. This time, you can’t dismiss it as a reflex or simply something your addled brain has conjured up. The movement is deliberate, purposeful, as if he’s trying to hold on to you in every way he can. His fingers squeeze your palm weakly, and a sharp gasp escapes your lips.

“Arthur?” you breathe, voice trembling as your heart skips a beat. You turn back to his face, ragged and pale, the shadow of the man he once was. But there’s something in the faint wrinkle of his brow and the uneven parting of his lips. It’s the most life you’ve seen in him in days.

You’re practically shaking as you move further up the cot. You stick yourself as close to his side as you can. “Oh, Arthur?” you plead, leaning closer, searching desperately for any sign that he’s still fighting. A low mutter slips from his cracked lips, the sound so faint it’s almost lost in the silence. You freeze, straining to hear, your breath caught in your throat.

You’re so close you can feel the shallow rise and fall of his chest against yours. His lips move again, his ribs quaking with effort. It’s a whisper, barely audible, but you hear a cracked version of your name slip through his lips. 

This is the most you’ve gotten from him in days. There had been moments where, as hard as it was to accept, you’d begun to realize he could be dying. His lips move again and if you weren’t watching him so intently, you might have missed it.

Your heart shatters and mends all at once. “Arthur,” you choke, nearly crying with relief. Your body slumps over his with the relief that he’s not been lost to you yet. You clutch your hand in his as though sheer will can keep him with you. For a moment, the unbearable weight of your fear is lifted.

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and unrelenting, as you press your forehead against his. “You’re still here,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “Just keep fighting for me.”

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t have the strength, but his fingers twitch again, his grip just a little firmer. It’s enough for you. You hold on to him like he’s your lifeline, and in a way, he is. You can’t let him go, not now. “I’m here, Arthur,” you promise, voice shaking but just steady enough for him to understand you. “I’m not going anywhere. Just, don’t leave me. Please.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a flicker of hope in the darkness. It’s fragile, so fragile, but it’s there.

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to start coming back around. Most nights, he’s still groggy and spends more time asleep than awake, but the fever has broken, and that’s enough for you.

You no longer go to sleep every night worrying he won’t be there in the morning. Now, when you check on his tent, you find him waiting for you, even if it’s with little more than a tired glance and a hoarse word or two. Tonight is one of those nights. He doesn’t have much energy for anything beyond picking at some stew and lying down, but you don’t mind.

You stay by his side, fussing over him as you fluff the pillows behind his head. He’d teased you the other day, comparing your fretting to Mrs. Grimshaw. You’d laughed, too relieved he felt well enough to joke to take offense. The memory makes you smile as you smooth the blankets over him.

“Quit,” he mutters weakly, swatting at your hands.

“Oh, hush,” you retort, tone light as you sit back down in the chair by his cot.

His hand catches your wrist before you can settle. When you glance down, you find him peeking up at you through one half-lidded eye, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Come on,” he mumbles, tugging gently.

“Arthur, I’m fine right here,” you reply, hesitating. His cot isn’t exactly spacious, and you’re worried about jostling him or hurting his still-healing ribs.

He doesn’t answer, just tugs again with what little strength he has.

“Oh, alright.” You laugh slightly and shake your head. “You’re so stubborn,” you grumble, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. Carefully, you climb onto the cot, curling into the space he makes for you on his good side. His head tucks into the crook of your neck, his arm settling around your waist like it belongs there.

You comb your fingers through his hair absentmindedly, thinking that maybe you’ll cut it for him when he’s stronger. His breathing slows against you, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He’s nearly asleep when he rasps out a question, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“Why didn’t they come?” He rasps against your shoulder, nearly asleep as he asks.

Your hands still in his hair, and the quiet around you feels suddenly heavy. His arm tightens around your waist, as though he senses your hesitation. You close your eyes and draw in a shaky breath.

How are you supposed to answer that?

You could tell him the same tired promises Dutch fed you, that there was a plan, that he was never really abandoned. But you’ve been here, tending to him alone for days. You’ve watched Dutch only appear when Arthur’s too far gone to notice, his visits perfunctory and brief. And you know, deep down, what Arthur would never admit, if he keeps believing Dutch’s lies, it’ll kill him.

You swallow hard and take his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Arthur,” you whisper, voice trembling but firm enough to hold his attention. “You’ve given Dutch everything, and he left you there. He left you to die.”

You hear him exhale, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. His grip on your hand loosens just slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” you continue, leaning closer so your words sink in. “I just- I need you to know the truth. He’s not the man you think he is. He never was. Please, Arthur, when you’re strong enough, tell me we’ll get away. We’ll leave this all behind before it’s too late.”

You fall silent, letting your words settle in the quiet. He doesn’t respond, his breaths deepening as sleep overtakes him again.

You tighten your hold on his hand and rest your forehead against his temple. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice breaking. “You deserve better.”

You doubt he’ll remember this when he wakes, and maybe that’s best. But you had to say something, you had to try. It feels wrong, though, to try and twist Arthur’s loyalty. You’ve barely had a chance to know either of them the way they know each other. 

Still, you can’t shake what you’ve seen. Dutch’s words, his cleverly painted lies, they turn into nooses, and he’s got a rope around everyone in camp. You know his kind, once he sinks his claws into someone, there’s no letting go. 

You glance down at Arthur’s face, softened and unguarded in sleep, and your chest tightens. He deserves to be free of Dutch. At the very least, he deserves to see the truth and to live for himself instead of chasing someone else’s dreams. 

Doubt still creeps alongside you. Did you have a place to say anything at all? 

You brush a hand through Arthur’s hair one more time, listening to his breaths as they even out. Curling closer around him, you drift to sleep with your heart heavy, praying he sees the truth when he wakes. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea @pokiona

[blueraith]

What does fanfiction mean to you?

I'm asking this question because today I came across some ugly, mean-spirited, catty behavior towards a fic author that I haven't seen in a very, very long time, and I think it's important we discuss it as a community.

Y'all know how long I've been doing this? Fanfiction, that is.

Eighteen years.

I've posted across different platforms, on different handles, in different ways for a long, long time. More than half of my life at this point, from fourteen years old.

Fanfiction is how I personally engage with fandom the most. It's THE most important thing to me, frankly, because it is the common thread between each and every single fandom I have ever participated in.

It's self-expression to me. Folk art. Collaborative and fun. I truly hope that most people who engage in fanfiction learn what it is to beta for someone even if you don't write yourself. It can be a fantastic experience in and of itself. Being the backboard to someone else's ideas, watching as they take genuine joy out of spinning a story together to put onto the page, seeing it come to life before anyone else and feeling almost as proud as the author themselves after they finally post it.

It's ultimately why I decided to make this post far more positive and productive than the angry, grumpy, blood boiling rant that I initially was churning over in my mind after the horrible posts I saw earlier.

I'll detail them here purely for context because I think it's important to recognize toxic fandom behavior when we see it. And speak out when we stumble across it.

The first post lauded itself as an 'honest review' of a popular fanfiction in a community I am a part of. That honest review was nothing more than a pop-critique filled with a sort of catty, snarky write up that is so popular nowadays online purely to gain clout more than to act as actual, constructive criticism. It was unnecessary and acted as though the fanfiction author was a professional, New York Times Bestseller rather than someone devoting hours of their free time and effort into a hobby that is ultimately meant to be fun and pleasant.

The second post by the same person claimed that their friend had challenged them to write their own version of the premise of this fanfiction under a read more cut. It spent some time applying a thin veneer of so-called respect to the original author, but was merely nothing more than contempt really. I simply fail to see the need to ever do this while publicly attaching an author's name and work title and arrogantly parade your own work as superior to their own. Why tear down someone else?

I pushed back against them directly on this post, they took it down, but not before childishly trying to excuse their actions and claiming that 'if someone is publicly posting, then they should be able to handle vocal criticism.'

But you know what? One, what that person was doing was not constructive criticism. I think back to the beta session I had with a friend right after this incident and I think to myself, how sad must it be that this is what this person thinks is valuable criticism. That this is the way they chose to engage with the fanfiction community and thought they were in the right to do so.

Two, and perhaps even more importantly, people are accountable for the things that they post. The things that they say. It would have cost this person nothing to never make those posts in the first place. To never risk an author coming across a mean-spirited and malicious teardown of the work they put hours into and risk harming their self-esteem, mental health, or confidence in their own writing.

Because we do not know who these people are behind their handles. We do not know if they're new to writing. If they are experienced but going through a tough time. There are real people who write the content you choose to consume.

Fanfiction is a collaborative process. Writers provide the free content, and it is the reader's responsibility to know when their input would be valuable.

Is what you have to say helpful? Is it kind? Is it necessary?

If the feedback you want to provide does not hit at least two of those things, what you have to say does not matter. Period.

And I daresay that in the vast majority of cases, kindness should be considered mandatory out of the three.

In return, writers will often throw in ideas they've read out of reviews, they'll reach out to their most ardent followers for things like beta-ing or joining a discord server nowadays. There's always been a give and take in this community.

Fanfiction is a cornerstone of fandom for a reason. And it is particularly important in the queer community, going all the way back to actual physical magazines in which people mailed in their KirkxSpock fic decades ago. Over time we've experimented on the process, moved to countless different platforms, survived collapses of all sorts of communities, only to rally over and over again around each other to be able to tell the tales we wanted to see but were not getting as queer folk amongst mainstream media.

And in that time, it's been long agreed on in this space that you do not tear down another writer to build yourself up. Ever. Period. This has long been the only thing in fanfiction that has been aggressively policed, called out, and nipped in the bud when experienced members of this community come across it.

It will not be tolerated.

I shouldn't have to make this post, but I suppose this is the changing of the guard, so to speak. We have a new generation of fic writers and readers coming into the space daily and while so many of you are wonderful, creative, and welcomed members of this space that has been here long before me or anyone of my age, there are some who do not know how to act in the fanfiction community.

And it is up to us to make it clear in no uncertain terms that they will need to either get with program or be pushed out.

To become the best version of yourself as a writer requires hours of work, of posting again and again, of experimentation, of putting hints of your own life and experiences onto the page. The vast majority of us will never be published, and that's just fine for most of us. We engage in this hobby because of how joyful it can be to write something dear to our hearts, share it with the world, and be validated that others enjoyed the work that we put in.

Frankly, readers will always owe it to us to respect that process and work. To be respectful and kind when interacting with authors. Constructive criticism can be welcomed but perhaps ask if the author is open to it and do not take it personally if they are not. And if they are, then learn how to give it with the writer's best interest in mind rather than your own ego.

I don't ordinarily request reblogs to my posts, I rant into the void and it doesn't matter to me if anyone really interacts on an ordinary day lol. But today, I want to ask that people share this message out in your fandoms, because I will be tagging it in the fandoms I interacted in, both past and present. Because fanfiction is a common thread that unites so many of us, and I think this is an important reminder on how we need to be respectful and kind to one another in this space.

If you feel comfortable, I would also love to hear how fanfiction is important to you. How you got into it. Why you love to either read, write, or beta it.

This is hobby that is meant to be fun, so let's have fun.

[smileybasics]

Defending @lil-liaa

I usually don’t post in this blog cause i have other ones but i don’t think this is being fair, me and Lia have been moots for a year and I have seen all her work over the years, I don't know a more creative person than her and I have been with her while she makes her moodboards by call and it is simply impressive the hours she invests in doing it, today I She wrote so devastated and we made a call talking, she has worked on this for so long, I remember how excited she was when she reached 1k, what I mean is that her community and her blog are very important to her, these people are accusing her because three Posts are similar to those of other blogs and that seems stupid to me since you have not even seen her other posts to know if she really makes an effort or not, Lia has made collages, dividers, banners, and a lot of other things, to she is really passionate about digital art and the only time she left her blog was because of the loss of a loved one and the truth is I don't care how many people are going to believe me after this post I just want them to leave her alone, here I am attaching some evidence...

This doesn’t even have so much in common just a three pics, in case you don’t know how moodboards are made, 2 or more colors are taken as a base and the images that best match the tones are searched on Pinterest, not only what she "copied" are just two photos but she also made a divider and a collage

Here’s just pinterest pics (proofs that are from pinterest in keep reading) and again i saw a lot of rude comments towards her that so unfair and hurt feelings cause considering how long Lia has been on her blog it's like invalidating all her hard work!!

In this post she even clarify that the divider isn’t made by her but the collage it is, also it’s just 2 pics that are similar!

This pictures are from pinterest, everyone can use it!

People bullying her

This doesn't just happen on the internet, but in real life, one of Lia's moots simply republished the post where they accused her of copying, she asked him/her why he/her did it so quickly, If they were supposed to be moots, if someone betrays you so quickly without questioning anything, they were never your friend and instead of responding privately she/him made a post just to make her/him moots laugh and the comments are gross, my god it's disgusting, this is directly bullying, if you are a thinking person and if you have ever had some kind of link you should try to talk something privately instead of calling the crazy girl and tagging all your moots so they can laugh, the worst thing is that you can tell that this girl only wants interaction because when she and Lia were chatting she threatened Lia with blocking her but then when Lia blocked her she made another post like "she blocked me" it's like, besides being a treacherous rat you can't have the decency to talk to her about it, Lia has been so nice to everyone but after all, this is where you can see who the ones who truly supported her are, and not the fake friends.

I'm not going to censor his/her username, he deserves it, tumblr is as much as real life, the importance of moots is like friends in real life, because if you want you can just harass someone and all your friends will laugh without question anything.

Also, Lia has a tutorial of a lot of things that she made! If she knows how to do it, why would she steal or copy from other blogs?

She has tutorials of gifs, texts, banners, etc, if she really stole and copy, why she knows how to do it by herself?, and if she knows how to do it by herself she doesn’t even need to stole!

LIKE SHE DIDN’T CARE?! Sorry but this is so wrong, i can tell that, SHE CARES, all these people who are making posts mocking her and calling her crazy because according to them she "copied" three measly posts, when if I were in her place and all my years of work were at stake I would also act like a crazy person because it's worth it, here it is demonstrated clearly her hypocrisy, if Lia wants to defend all her hard work or defend herself from bullying by blocking you she is crazy but if she makes a post explaining everything it seems like she doesn't care, this frustrates me so much

Here more evidence of Lia’s drafts

Just a few of her drafts

And last but not least I want to give credit to Lia's great work these years, so you can see that there is a true artist behind all this nonsense controversy, here are some of her moodboards, my personal favorites that I can't imagine how much time it would have taken

Extra: “Lia we know it’s you” Don’t acuse me of being Lia, i’m just a real friend

Evidence: Contact of Lia and me

Hi guys, it's come to my attention that someone in the moodboard community known as lil-liaa has been copying / taking heavy "inspo" from other creators like @y-unjins and @iluvrei view more for more info + evidence + my opinions on the whole situation

before i start, i'm not trying to run lil-liaa off the platform nor am i trying to stur up drama, this is just to bring light to the situation as not many people know and many people (including myself) defended her when this first happened, i also want liia to realize that what she's doing isn't right and that she shouldn't just brush off "accusations" like these when there is evidence.

proofs

you can see the similarities as lil-liaa used 3 of the exact same pics as iluvrei's including one edited by the original creator without adding credits to the post.

2nd

here you can instantly tell that the moodboard was copied (lil-liaas on the right being an exact replica of y-unjins), only changing 2 pics excluding the idol change and

3rd / last

lastly, you can see how one lia used the exact same divider (+ didnt give creds), two she uses the same images not only in the moodboard but also in her gif (same pics from y-unjins moodboard including the png)

now, lil-liaa was sent multiple anonymous ask from last year and one recently accusing her of stealing moodboards, although a lot of people defended her last year including me due to the ask having no sorts of proof of moodboards being stolen and no one else speaking on it but now the recent ask she has received included proof and her response to it was very (in my opinion) rude and just sounded like she didn't care.

in my opinion, i don't believe this was just a draft she had premade and i don't believe she somehow got the same exact photos from y-unjins moodboard recommended, i believe since this isnt the first accusation and now there's proof of this i believe she has been copying moodboards since last year when she was accused. i don't believe lil-liaa cares about this, the fact she's stealing from other creators and when she gets called out for it she pushes it off with the same excuses

tags

@miujo @rkkuri @lvioung @ciestial @aeraras @sugarish @gyareii @i-kyujin @daddldee @i-mmaculatus @haerinism @chaeryeos @bloomqi @h-yeoni @p-oisn @bitchey @yeritos @yonkiibums @y-vna @y-urios @fairytopea @shuaver @yeoniis

[hrizantemy]

Her name was Taryn.

Nesta had learned that much, though she hadn’t bothered to ask at first. It had just come to her one night, somewhere between the second drink and the steady hum of the music in the background. Taryn had introduced herself easily, but that was about all she gave. There were no stories, no explanations, just a quiet presence that seemed to stretch out into the space around them.

And Nesta hadn’t pressed. Not for details, not for more than what was offered. She wasn’t one to pry, especially into someone who had mastered the art of silence the way Taryn had. They didn’t need words to fill the gaps. The tavern’s music spoke enough for both of them, and in the stillness between their conversations, Nesta found an unspoken understanding.

Taryn didn’t talk much about herself either, and in that silence, Nesta had come to appreciate it. They both had their walls, their secrets. Neither of them seemed inclined to tear them down. Sometimes, when Nesta would glance over at Taryn, she would catch that glint of something behind her eyes—something old and knowing. But Taryn didn’t press either. She had her own past, a quiet one that Nesta had no interest in unraveling.

It was an odd sort of companionship, the two of them sharing the space without the need for constant conversation. Neither of them asked questions they weren’t prepared to answer, and in that, there was a strange comfort. They shared the same unspoken understanding: there were things you didn’t need to explain, not when you were already carrying so much.

So, they sat in silence often, watching the night unfold with the music as the only conversation between them. Neither of them bothered to ask why the other was there. Neither of them needed to.

Nesta had long since assumed that Taryn came to the tavern for one of two reasons: to drink or to go home with someone. It was what most people did, after all. The tavern was full of people seeking fleeting comfort, whether it came in the form of a drink or a companion for the night. Yet, Taryn didn’t fit into either of those molds.

She barely drank, always nursing her glass instead of downing it, a contrast to the usual faces that crowded the bar. Her movements were measured, calm, as though she had no real need to escape or forget, unlike many of the others who came to drown their troubles. Taryn’s consumption was almost ritualistic—an occasional sip, a slow swirl of the liquid in her glass, but never enough to abandon control. She was deliberate, thoughtful, as though she had no desire to lose herself in the haze that so many others craved.

And when the night ended, when the music faded and the crowd began to thin, Taryn always left alone. Nesta had watched this countless times—the quiet exit, her back straight and her steps sure, as if she was already on her way to something far more important than whatever was happening inside the tavern.

It was strange to Nesta, the way Taryn moved through the world with such purpose, yet seemed so… untethered. She had expected to see her approach someone, to watch her flirt with a stranger or get lost in a conversation that led to a bed. But it never happened. Taryn didn’t leave with anyone. She just went home by herself, night after night, no strings attached, no attempts at distraction.

Nesta didn’t quite understand it, not at first. It felt unnatural—everyone came to places like this for some kind of escape, didn’t they?

Nesta had long since figured out that Taryn preferred the company of women. It wasn’t something that had come to her immediately—it wasn’t like Taryn wore it on her sleeve—but as time passed, certain things became clear. The way her gaze lingered on women more than on men, the subtle shifts in her demeanor when a woman entered the tavern. It wasn’t overt, but Nesta could sense it, a quiet energy that surrounded Taryn when she spoke to them, an ease that never quite appeared with men. It was something that Nesta had noticed, and, after a while, she couldn’t deny it.

One night, after enough drinks had dulled the sharp edges of her thoughts, Nesta found herself asking the question that had been sitting on the tip of her tongue for weeks. Her words slurred a little, but there was a certain curiosity behind them that couldn’t be ignored. She asked, almost without thinking, “You prefer women, don’t you?”

Taryn had raised an eyebrow at the question, but there was no hesitation in her response. She simply nodded, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “I do,” she said, her voice low and unbothered.

Nesta expected something—an uncomfortable pause, maybe, a feeling of rejection or some sort of judgment, but nothing came. There was no judgment in Taryn’s eyes, no moment of awkwardness that made Nesta feel small. It was just… a fact. Something simple, and Nesta had found herself surprisingly unaffected.

She thought she would be offended, that some part of her would react as if Taryn’s admission was something that needed to be dissected or questioned. But it wasn’t. There was no anger, no surprise, just a strange calmness that settled over her, as though Taryn’s truth didn’t change anything between them. It didn’t matter. Taryn didn’t owe her an explanation, and for once, Nesta didn’t feel the need to dissect every detail of it.

After Nesta had figured it out, something began to stir in her thoughts. Night after night, when the tavern was quiet and the music had faded into the background, her mind would return to Taryn and what she had said. Taryn preferred women.

It wasn’t something that Nesta had ever really thought about before, at least not with any depth. She hadn’t been around women like that, not in the way Taryn was. It wasn’t that she disapproved, or even felt disgusted—it was just… foreign to her. Nesta didn’t really understand how someone could love a woman the way Taryn loved them. She couldn’t grasp the feelings, the pull that must have existed there.

She had known attraction—men, their rough hands and demanding gazes—but women? It wasn’t something she had ever considered. How did it feel to want another woman the way she had wanted men, to feel that same fire, that same need? The question lingered in her mind like a dull ache, but Nesta didn’t know how to answer it. She hadn’t experienced it herself, hadn’t felt that longing for someone of the same sex. It made her wonder if there was something wrong with her, or if she was just missing some piece of the puzzle that Taryn had seemed to find so easily.

The confusion would wash over her in waves, late at night when she was alone with her thoughts and the empty glass in her hand. She didn’t understand it. How could someone fall for someone of the same sex, when everything in her had always told her it was supposed to be a man who sparked that desire?

But still, there was no judgment—just curiosity. She wasn’t offended by Taryn’s preferences, but a strange kind of distance remained. It was as though she were on the outside of something, unable to fully comprehend it, even though she wanted to.

Some part of her, deep inside, was disgusted—not with Taryn, but with herself. It wasn’t something she could admit, not even to herself at first, but it gnawed at her. The confusion, the curiosity, the questions—it all circled back to something darker, something deeper.

There was a part of her that felt a strange shame, not for Taryn’s preferences, but for her own inability to understand them. It made her feel… small, as if there was something wrong with her for not being able to accept this part of the world so easily. She wasn’t repulsed by Taryn, not at all. No, it was the way Taryn’s reality highlighted a flaw in her own. A flaw that she wasn’t ready to face.

Nesta had always prided herself on understanding things—on having a handle on what was right, what was wrong, what made sense. She had always known the rules, the roles, the expectations. But this? This was different. It made her feel as if she were somehow behind, unable to catch up with the rest of the world. There was nothing wrong with Taryn, but there was something wrong with her for not immediately understanding it. She hated that she couldn’t just accept it without questioning everything, without feeling like there was something missing inside her.

It wasn’t just confusion. It was shame, like she wasn’t enough—like she was the one who didn’t fit, who couldn’t keep up with what felt like an endless flow of new realities and experiences. She didn’t know if this was something that was wrong with her, or if she simply didn’t belong in this world where there were so many shades of gray she couldn’t even begin to color in.

And the worst part? She couldn’t bring herself to admit it. Not to anyone. Not even to herself in full honesty. So, she buried it, just as she buried so many other things. But it was there, lurking beneath the surface, and every time she saw Taryn, every time she thought of how easily Taryn moved through the world, it stung a little more.

Nesta found herself at the bar again, seated beside Taryn, a drink in hand. She wasn’t sure what brought her here this time. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was the feeling of drowning in the chaos of her thoughts, or maybe it was something about Taryn that made her feel a bit safer, even when her mind was a tangle of contradictions.

The drink was strong, just like the last time, and as it burned down her throat, something in her cracked open. The questions that had been bubbling inside her for weeks, the confusion, the shame, the disgust—everything that had been building up inside her suddenly felt like too much to keep quiet. She couldn’t stop it. It tumbled out before she could even stop herself.

“How… how do you like women?” The words came out blunt, unrefined, as if she didn’t even care how they sounded. The alcohol had loosened her tongue, and now the question hung in the air between them, raw and uncomfortable.

Taryn turned to her slowly, her gaze steady. There was no judgment in her eyes, just a quiet kind of understanding, something that made Nesta feel exposed. She could feel the heat rising to her face, the vulnerability settling into her bones. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but now that it was out there, she couldn’t take it back.

Taryn didn’t immediately answer. She took a sip of her drink, her expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, she spoke, her voice soft, almost gentle.

“It’s not something that’s easy to explain,” Taryn said, her tone thoughtful. “It’s not about how you like someone, it’s just about who you’re drawn to. It’s not about logic or reason… it just is. And that’s enough.”

Nesta swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Taryn’s words settle deep inside her. It didn’t quite answer her question. It didn’t give her the clarity she had been hoping for. But there was something about the simplicity of it that made her feel… lighter.

Taryn’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, and then she gave a soft, almost imperceptible shrug. “It’s not about having to explain it to anyone else, either. It’s about what feels right for you.”

Nesta took another drink, trying to process the words.

Nesta stared into her glass, swirling the drink as the silence stretched between them. The music in the background seemed to blur into a distant hum, and her thoughts ran wild, chaotic as always, trying to piece together what she couldn’t understand. There was still something gnawing at her, some question that had lingered in her mind ever since she had asked Taryn how she could like women. The question, so simple but so tangled, wouldn’t leave her.

She glanced at Taryn, her lips pressed into a thin line as the words formed in her mind. It wasn’t a question she’d ever thought she’d ask, but the weight of it was too heavy to ignore.

“Have you… ever wanted men?” The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them. She didn’t know why she was asking. She didn’t know if she was prepared for the answer, but it was there, and she couldn’t push it back down.

Taryn didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem surprised. She just regarded Nesta with those steady green eyes, as if she had been expecting this question all along. Her fingers rested on the edge of her glass, her thumb tracing a pattern absentmindedly.

“Once,” Taryn said quietly, the word soft but lingering in the air. “A long time ago. But it was never the same, never what it should have been. I thought it was, but I was just trying to convince myself.” She paused, the briefest shadow crossing her face before her expression smoothed again. “It wasn’t real. Not for me.”

Nesta didn’t know how to respond to that. Part of her felt relief, but another part of her, the part that had been taught to look for logic, for reason, felt unsettled. How could it have been so clear to Taryn? How could she know so fully? Nesta hadn’t even started to figure herself out, let alone something like that. She couldn’t understand what it felt like to desire something different from the world she knew, from the expectations she had been raised with.

Nesta’s thoughts drifted back to the human lands, to the world she had come from. The world of strict rules, of things expected of her, of the roles she was supposed to fill, the people she was supposed to be. She thought of her mother, of the old traditions, of the whispers that ran through the halls of their estate. The idea of deviating from what was “right” had never really been a possibility for her—until now.

It wasn’t even about wanting to understand it. There was a part of her, deep down, that wanted to push it all away, to close her mind and shut off the curiosity. She couldn’t even explain why. The idea of being with another woman—the thought felt foreign, as if her mind recoiled at it instinctively, as if the concept itself was something wrong, something forbidden. It was so deeply ingrained in her, this fear of being different from what society expected, from what she had grown up knowing.

In the human lands, they had rules—rules that told you who to love, who to marry, who you were allowed to be. Her mother had made sure she understood that. “A woman’s place is with a man,” her mother had said, a reminder as harsh as the walls that had caged Nesta into her place, into the role she was supposed to fit. Her mother had always tried to push her toward the ideal match, toward the right kind of man, the one who would give her a future she didn’t even want. And the thought of anything else—anything different—had always been wrong.

Nesta’s chest tightened as she thought about it. It wasn’t about Taryn. It wasn’t about her at all. It was the world she had come from, the world that had shaped her. The idea that something other than a man could be right, could be enough, felt like betrayal. The weight of that shame pressed on her, and she found herself questioning: Was something wrong with her for even thinking about it?

The very thought made her feel small, like she was doing something dirty, something shameful. She didn’t want to admit it. She didn’t want to acknowledge that there was a part of her—hidden, deeply buried—that felt that way, that recoiled against the idea of being with a woman. Her heart raced as if the very thought would tear apart everything she had ever known about herself.

She swallowed hard, trying to push the feelings away. She could never have said it aloud—not even to Taryn. It was too much. Too foreign, too uncomfortable. It felt like it would unravel her, like it would expose something broken in her, something twisted that shouldn’t exist.

Nesta’s mind spiraled back to her mother—the woman who had molded her, who had carved out her place in the world for her, a place that always involved a man. Her mother’s teachings, her expectations, had been so clear, so concrete. There had never been room for anything else. Nesta had been raised to believe that her worth, her purpose, lay in pleasing the men around her—whether it was her father, the suitors she’d been pushed toward, or, later, Cassian.

She thought of Cassian then. His strong, comforting presence, the way he seemed to always be there, as though he were the anchor to her storm. She’d felt something for him, or maybe it was just the relief of finally having someone who didn’t look at her with disdain. He’d taken her by force, claimed her as his own in every sense of the word, and for a long time, Nesta had convinced herself that that—him, his touch, his dominance—was the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t love, not really, but it was what she had come to expect. It was what she knew.

She thought about her mother’s words, about the unspoken pressure to marry, to produce heirs, to keep the line intact. Men, men, men. It was all men. Every lesson, every expectation. That’s what she had been raised to understand: that women were supposed to belong to men, to be shaped by them, molded by them, loved by them. But when Nesta thought about it now, all she could feel was the tightness in her chest, the frustration, the resentment. She wasn’t sure if it was the men or herself she hated more, because somehow she felt complicit in it all. She let them define her, let them use her, let them claim her, even when it made her feel empty inside.

And now, she sat here, with Taryn, who was the opposite of all those expectations, who didn’t want a man at all. It made Nesta’s mind spin. How could someone—someone like her—be different? How could a woman choose to love another woman? It felt like an intrusion on everything she had been taught, like a rejection of her very existence. The very idea of it, of choosing a woman, felt so foreign and wrong, even if Nesta knew in her heart that Taryn wasn’t broken, wasn’t flawed.

It was her mother’s voice in her head, the disapproving glare she’d have if she knew. It was the legacy of generations of women who had never been given a choice, whose only purpose was to serve men.

As the silence stretched between them, Nesta couldn’t shake the feeling that Taryn might be able to see right through her, to the ugly thoughts lurking beneath the surface. She felt a cold knot twist in her stomach. What if Taryn knew? What if she could somehow read Nesta’s mind, understand the internalized disgust, the way her brain rejected this idea of women loving women?

Would Taryn hate her for it? For the part of her that recoiled at the thought? For the way she had been taught to see things in such narrow, rigid lines—men, women, roles, rules? The part of her that had tried to bury everything she thought she knew about herself, to keep it locked away so no one could see just how deeply confused she was by this new world she was stumbling into.

The thought gnawed at her. Taryn had never pushed, never tried to make Nesta feel anything other than comfortable, but Nesta couldn’t help but wonder if Taryn would look at her differently if she knew what was really running through her mind. Could she still see her as someone worthy of her company, or would she see the disgust, the shame?

The last thing Nesta wanted was to lose the only person who hadn’t looked at her like she was broken—who hadn’t looked at her like she was someone to be fixed, or worse, to be discarded. Taryn had made no judgment, offered no expectations. But now, Nesta felt like a fraud. Was it even possible to be around someone like Taryn without being honest with herself? Would Taryn hate her for thinking she wasn’t even capable of understanding who she truly was?

The weight of it all settled in her chest, the fear and the shame wrapping around her, tightening with each passing moment. She had come here, night after night, trying to numb herself, to forget. But now, she had no choice but to wonder if, deep down, Taryn could see her for what she truly was: a woman who didn’t even know herself enough to trust her own thoughts, a woman scared of everything she felt, of everything she was.

The night she’d run, it had felt like everything had collapsed on her. She had been suffocating under the weight of her own thoughts, the fear, the shame, the uncertainty. The silence that had stretched between her and Taryn had felt suffocating, and for the first time in a long while, Nesta had wanted to scream, to lash out at something, at someone. But instead, she had done what she always did when things felt too much—she ran.

Her feet had carried her out of the tavern before she even knew what she was doing. She hadn’t said a word to Taryn, not a single syllable, even as she saw the confusion in her gaze. She had just turned and fled, not caring where she went, just needing to escape. Escape from herself, from the thoughts she couldn’t stop, from the feelings she couldn’t control.

After that night, she hadn’t returned. Not once. The thought of walking through the door again, of facing Taryn, of facing herself, had felt impossible. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let herself go back there. What if Taryn saw the truth? What if she knew how broken, how lost Nesta really was? What if she saw how much she hated herself, how much she despised everything she had come to believe about herself, her desires, her place in the world? It was easier to just avoid it all, to pretend she had never gone to the tavern in the first place.

So she ran. It was the only thing she knew how to do. When things got too hard, when the weight of it all became too heavy, she ran. She ran from the pain, from the thoughts she couldn’t escape, from the guilt that seemed to follow her everywhere. She ran from herself, because it was easier than facing the truth.

Each night, she found herself staying away from the places that once felt like a refuge, from the people who might see through her carefully constructed facade. The tavern had been a place of escape, a place where she could lose herself in drink and company, but now it was just another reminder of how far she had fallen, how much she was drowning in her own mind.

And so, Nesta kept running. From everything. From the woman who had never asked her for anything more than to be herself. From the very thing she was too scared to understand. And, most of all, from the person she might become if she ever stopped long enough to look.

One night, after weeks of running, Nesta had found herself standing at the edge of a decision. She had tried to convince herself it was time to stop hiding, to stop running. The pull of the tavern had been too strong, and there, amidst the warmth and the laughter, she had found herself looking at a woman, someone who seemed to gaze at her with an openness that stirred something deep inside her—a feeling she couldn’t name, something that felt raw and unguarded. It was tempting, too tempting to push away.

She had approached, hesitant but curious, the sharp edge of her emotions still cutting through her resolve. The woman had smiled, and they had shared a drink. The conversation had flowed easily, and Nesta felt a strange, fleeting connection. She had told herself it was just a drink, just a conversation, that it didn’t have to mean anything. But in the back of her mind, she knew it was more. She wanted it to be more.

When the woman leaned in, her breath warm against Nesta’s skin, she didn’t pull away. It had felt so easy, so natural in the moment, and she had thought for a second—just a second—that maybe, just maybe, this was how it could feel.

But when the woman’s hands had touched her skin, when their lips had met, everything had shattered.

It wasn’t the woman’s fault. It wasn’t even her fault. But as the kiss deepened, as the heat of her touch spread through Nesta, a wave of discomfort hit her, too strong to ignore. The hands on her body felt wrong—too familiar, too foreign at the same time. The lips, the warmth, the taste—it all blurred together into something unnatural. Her stomach twisted, her chest tightened, and her mind screamed for her to stop.

And then the voices came. The voices she’d tried so hard to push down, to ignore. You were never meant for this, they whispered, cold and harsh. This is wrong. You’re not supposed to want this. You’re not supposed to be like them. Her mind, once so clouded by drink, now seemed crystal clear, every word sharp, every fear magnified. She heard her mother’s voice, distant but unmistakable—You are a disappointment. A failure. Do you really think they’ll accept you? The voices of men from her past, from her childhood, echoed next—You were made for a man. You’ll never be enough for anything else.

Her chest tightened painfully as she shoved the woman away, her hands trembling as she backed off, unable to breathe through the storm of thoughts and shame that overtook her. She felt trapped in her own skin, like every part of her was screaming at her, telling her she had done something unforgivable. That she had crossed a line she couldn’t uncross.

Nesta didn’t even say anything. She just turned and ran.

She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself. The kiss hadn’t been bad—it wasn’t the woman’s fault. It was her own mind that had betrayed her. She could still feel the heat of the woman’s skin against hers, but all she could hear were the horrible things in her head, the accusations and judgment she had spent so long trying to bury.

The guilt felt suffocating, the rejection of herself complete. She had wanted to give in, to let herself feel something different, something that was hers. But the moment it became real, her mind spiraled into chaos. The whispers of everything she had been taught, of everything she was supposed to be, consumed her.

Nesta had retreated into the dark confines of her apartment, the world outside fading into a blur she no longer wanted to confront. She barely left anymore, choosing to stay in the silence of her own misery. Each day bled into the next, a cycle of self-loathing and numbness. She had stopped even pretending to care about the world beyond her door. It was easier this way. Easier to hide from everyone, from everything, from the part of herself she didn’t understand and feared.

The apartment had become her refuge, but also her prison. The walls closed in on her, suffocating, but it didn’t matter. It felt like the only place she belonged now, the only place she could hide from herself. She spent her days numbing the pain—drinking, sleeping, avoiding. It was a hollow existence, but it was all she had.

Some nights, as the darkness crept in, Nesta found herself wishing she could disappear entirely. If she stayed here long enough, isolated and buried under her own guilt, maybe the world would forget about her. Maybe the whispers in her head would finally fade.

She had no real desire to live anymore. The constant weight of everything—the shame, the confusion, the fear—felt too heavy to bear. If she was lucky, maybe she’d wake up one day and find that it was over. That she had disappeared without a trace, like she had never existed at all.

But she didn’t die. Not yet. So she kept hiding, kept suffocating in the quiet, hoping for something—anything—to end it. The thought of dying seemed almost comforting. It would be easy to slip away, to not have to feel anymore, to not have to face the parts of herself that made her want to run and hide.

The knock at the door came suddenly, breaking the silence that had swallowed her whole. Nesta froze for a moment, sitting on the edge of her couch, eyes fixed on the door. For a heartbeat, she convinced herself it was Cassian. Maybe he was finally here to tell her how horrible she looked—how pathetic she had become. He would taunt her with some sharp, sarcastic comment, maybe even drop some well-meaning remark about how Feyre had been concerned, about how her family was worried for her. He might mock her for staying holed up in her apartment, running away from everything, expecting a comeback from her, some biting response to make him feel justified in his judgment.

It would be just like him.

Her heart pounded in her chest, not from fear but from the dread of facing him—of hearing him look down on her again. The thought of seeing his face made her stomach churn. What did it matter if he came? He wouldn’t understand. He never did.

But then the knock came again, louder this time, pulling her from her spiral. She gritted her teeth and stood, her legs shaky as she walked toward the door. Her breath hitched in her throat, and for a moment, she considered ignoring it. Let whoever it was think she wasn’t home. Let them go away.

But the knock persisted, and against her better judgment, she turned the handle.

When the door creaked open, it wasn’t Cassian standing there.

It was Taryn.

Nesta tensed, every muscle in her body tightening as she stood in the doorway, staring at Taryn. Her mind screamed at her to close the door, to retreat back into the safety of her isolation. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need anyone seeing the mess she had become, seeing how far she had fallen. But for some reason, her feet didn’t move, and she found herself staring into Taryn’s calm, unwavering gaze.

“What do you want?” Nesta asked, her voice harsher than she intended. Her stomach twisted with unease, but Taryn didn’t flinch.

Taryn tilted her head slightly, a faint, knowing smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “Company,” she said simply. “I thought I’d come by, see how you’re doing.” She paused for a moment, as though weighing her words carefully. “If you don’t mind.”

Nesta’s heart pounded in her chest. She felt the walls of her apartment pressing in, felt the weight of every empty bottle, every wasted night, all of it hanging heavy in the air. She wanted to slam the door in Taryn’s face, tell her to leave, but she couldn’t. Something held her there.

Taryn didn’t look disgusted or appalled by the mess—she didn’t even flinch when her eyes scanned the room. Her expression remained the same: calm, open, unbothered. Nesta almost wished she would say something—anything—that would make this easier. But instead, she just waited, quiet and patient.

Nesta swallowed, her voice coming out almost a whisper. “How did you know where I lived?”

Taryn didn’t seem surprised by the question. She simply shrugged, her eyes never leaving Nesta’s. “You’re not as hard to find as you think,” she said, her tone light, teasing. “I pay attention.”

The words hung in the air, and Nesta felt a strange, uncomfortable shiver run down her spine. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was that made her so hesitant, so conflicted. Was it the fact that Taryn had found her so easily? Or was it the way she made Nesta feel—like someone cared, like someone was actually willing to step into her mess without turning away in disgust?

Nesta didn’t answer right away, her thoughts a tangle of confusion and something she couldn’t quite name. She should send Taryn away. She should shut the door, lock it, and forget this ever happened.

But then she felt herself step aside, the door opening just enough for Taryn to slip past her. A part of Nesta wanted to stop her, but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

“Fine,” Nesta muttered under her breath, almost to herself. “You can come in.”

Taryn gave a quiet nod, stepping into the dingy apartment with a grace that almost made it feel less suffocating. She didn’t comment on the state of the place, didn’t judge Nesta as she thought she would. Instead, she simply walked in, her presence calm, her eyes taking in the room without speaking. It was as though she had seen it all before.

Nesta closed the door behind them, the weight of the decision settling heavily in her chest, but she didn’t regret it. Not yet.

Taryn’s voice was soft but certain as she glanced around the cramped apartment, her eyes landing on Nesta. “Are you hungry?”

Nesta almost wanted to laugh at the question. Hunger felt like an impossible thing to focus on—so distant, so unimportant compared to everything else swirling in her head. She shook her head, her voice dismissive as she replied, “No.”

But as soon as the word left her mouth, her stomach growled—loud, unrelenting, betraying her in a way that made her wish she could disappear into the floor. She flushed, embarrassed, but tried to hide it by crossing her arms tightly over her chest, looking away.

Taryn didn’t miss it. Her gaze softened, a small, knowing smile curling at the corners of her lips. “Alright then,” she said, as though it were no surprise. “I’ll make something. You look like you could use it.”

Nesta wanted to protest, wanted to tell her she didn’t need anything, but Taryn had already turned toward the kitchen before she could voice another word. Nesta stood frozen for a moment, watching her. She didn’t know why Taryn had decided to stay, why she seemed so determined to take care of her when Nesta had been doing nothing but pushing everyone away. The kitchen was barely big enough to be called a kitchen, just a small counter and a stove with cabinets that had seen better days. Nesta knew there wasn’t much in the cupboards. A few cans of vegetables, some dried pasta, maybe a bottle of sauce if she was lucky. She hadn’t made much of an effort to restock lately.

She rubbed her face, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling on her shoulders. Why does she care?

Taryn, though, didn’t seem bothered by the small, threadbare apartment. She walked over to the counter with a calm, purposeful air, and as she started pulling out ingredients, her movements were fluid, practiced—like someone who had done this countless times before. It made Nesta feel awkward in contrast, as if her own existence in this space wasn’t enough. She had no idea why Taryn would want to be here, but a part of her was too tired to question it.

Nesta moved toward the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe as she watched Taryn work. Her mouth felt dry, her stomach protesting as the scent of something delicious began to fill the air. It wasn’t much, just a simple meal, but the warmth of it felt like something she hadn’t experienced in far too long.

Taryn turned to Nesta, her hands steady and sure as she set a plate in front of her. The dish was simple—scrambled eggs with soft, buttery potatoes and a side of fresh herbs sprinkled over the top. There was something rustic about it, nothing extravagant, but the way the steam rose from the plate and the rich smell of the food made Nesta’s stomach growl again.

She looked at the plate, unsure how to react. It wasn’t much, but it was the kind of thing that someone would make for you because they cared, not because they were obligated. The warm yellow of the eggs, the golden crisp of the potatoes, and the fresh green herbs dotted on top—it all seemed so foreign to her now. She hadn’t felt like she deserved something like this in ages.

Taryn stood back, watching Nesta’s expression carefully, her eyes calm but knowing. “Eat,” she said quietly, her voice soft but firm. “You need it.”

Nesta hesitated for a moment, still unsure of what to make of it. She didn’t want to accept kindness. She didn’t want to let anyone see her weakness. But as she sat there, the hunger that had been gnawing at her for days surged forward, her body demanding attention. She slowly picked up the fork, her fingers trembling slightly as she brought a bite to her mouth.

The food was simple, yes, but the warmth of it was like a balm to the raw, hollow ache inside her. It was comforting, in a way she hadn’t realized she needed, and despite herself, she found herself taking another bite.

Taryn, who had sat across from her with her own plate in hand, simply watched her with a quiet understanding. There was no judgment in her gaze, only something that felt like patience, like she knew this was just a small step.

But it felt bigger to Nesta—like a crack in the wall she’d built around herself.

As Nesta set the fork down, her stomach full but still tight with an uncomfortable mix of hunger and unease, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The silence between them stretched for a moment, and just as she thought she might breathe easier, Taryn’s voice broke through it, soft but unyielding.

“I know what happened,” she said, her gaze unwavering, eyes steady on Nesta.

The words hit her like a blow to the chest, and immediately, Nesta’s stomach twisted. Her breath caught in her throat, the sudden rush of nausea threatening to push everything she’d just eaten right back up. She couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t breathe. Her pulse raced, her skin feeling too tight, too warm.

The last thing she wanted was to talk about it. She didn’t want to relive it, didn’t want anyone to know the ugly things she’d buried in her past, things she hadn’t even let herself acknowledge until now. She should have seen it coming—Taryn was perceptive, too observant for her own good. But hearing those words from her lips was like standing on the edge of a cliff, with the wind howling in her ears, ready to push her over.

Her hands shook as she gripped the edge of the table, trying to steady herself. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nesta forced out, her voice strained, cracking under the weight of the lie.

But Taryn didn’t push her. Instead, she sat back in her chair, quiet, waiting for Nesta to meet her gaze, her expression calm, almost unreadable. The silence stretched, and Nesta felt her chest tighten, her heart pounding painfully. She couldn’t even look at her—couldn’t stand the thought of being seen so completely, so raw.

She wanted to run. She wanted to hide. She wanted to disappear. Instead, all she could do was breathe, shallow and quick, as the room seemed to close in around her.

“I’m not going to force you to talk,” Taryn said softly, her voice gentle but firm, like she knew Nesta needed that space.

Taryn’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it felt like a lifeline in the thick, suffocating silence. “It’s okay,” she said, her tone steady and warm. “You don’t have to be okay right now.”

And then something cracked inside Nesta.

The words weren’t anything special—they didn’t offer a solution or make any promises. But the way Taryn said them, with such quiet understanding and no expectation, it was enough. It was enough to tear away the facade Nesta had been holding together for so long, enough to let the tears fall. She wasn’t ready for it, didn’t even know why it was happening, but suddenly there was no stopping it.

Her breath hitched, the dam inside her breaking, and before she could even think, the tears spilled over. She didn’t make a sound at first, just blinked rapidly, trying to suppress the feeling of weakness, of being so exposed. But it didn’t help. The tears kept coming, faster now, like a storm she couldn’t control.

And still, Taryn didn’t say anything more. She didn’t reach for Nesta or try to comfort her in some grand, overbearing way. She just sat there, still and patient, letting Nesta cry, letting her feel what she’d been holding inside for far too long. There was no judgment in her eyes, no pity. Just a quiet acceptance, like she understood, like she knew that sometimes, it wasn’t about fixing things—it was just about being there.

Nesta wiped at her eyes roughly, but the tears didn’t stop. She felt embarrassed, humiliated even, but something in her—some part that had been broken for so long—was unraveling. She hadn’t expected it, hadn’t known she needed it, but the simple act of letting someone in, letting someone see the cracks, felt like a release. It felt like freedom.

Taryn didn’t rush her, didn’t try to say anything else. She just stayed silent, her gaze soft but unwavering, like she was giving Nesta the time she needed, even if Nesta didn’t know how much time that would be.

She just let her cry.

And Nesta didn’t stop.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites

[lover-of-mine]

You and all have blown my mind with that bt/Tommy meta bc it's just so right.

Of course tommy deflects any attempt at a deeper conversation because he avoids the risk of forming a deeper connection to buck at all cost. It's easier to tell evan his dad is still alive and make some daddy joke rather than have evan explain how much of an actual father Bobby is to him, showing Tommy once again where his shortcomings are when it comes to his past behaviour with the 118 and how he left right before they became the family he sees now, all those years later. (and that he's dating buck, not Evan). (Does he ever lay in bed at night deluding himself into taking credit for the 118 family because buck took his spot a that was the catalyst so it's only fair he gets to be welcomed in again?)

It's easier to go into the madney wedding completely blind rather than ask for family dynamics and things to look out for, because it's way too early to get attached to and form opinions on Evans parents when they live across the country and he doesn't really think he'll stay around for long (Eddie brought his grandma and son to the wedding instead of his girlfriend, surely buck can't be this blind)

Of course he calls Eddie to take care of bucks boils rather than tending to them himself, because if he shows Evan that he's dependable the breakup will be that much harder.

Does that make him a little bit of an asshole? Maybe, but then again, it's casual, and he's just protecting himself from getting hurt again, and then there's the Eddie of it all.

Like, whoever said it's better to have loved and lost than have never loved at all was clearly stupid to Tommy, bc nothing hurts more than letting yourself have everything you've ever wanted (118 fam, nice boyfriend who almost cares too much), just to have all of that ripped away again because Tommy didn't protect his peace.

I gotta say @buckgettingstruck and I have been enjoying the way y'all seem to agree because we were tense writing it because trying to suggest some of those things last year would be a one way trip to a lot of hate lol

But yeah, Tommy wanted an easy way into the thing he wants, connection, and Buck is too much of a people pleaser to correct him, so he ends up with the belief they are on the same page and he will get the friends out of the relationship even though he acting as if he knows deep down that they have an expiration date. And since he is probably making the assumption Buck will break up with him, then he gets to have fun with a hot guy and get everything else in the end.

But by keeping Buck at arm's length, dating Evan not Buck, he didn't know that Buck is crazy. Buck is intense and everything is real to him until it isn't, and the relationship was real for Buck. So he had to sabotage himself because the urge to protect himself is stronger and he failed to actually create a connection with Buck that would get him what he wants.

[memientom0ri]

Analyzing the metaphorical connection between Squid Game/Round 6 and the movie Parasite.

Before we begin, it is important to know that these two films are different metaphors for social inequality in South Korea; a social factor that is caused by:

• Gender discrimination: women receive 36% less than men;

• Racial inequality: immigrants face difficulties.

• School bullying: 15% of students report it.

• Stress and mental health problems.

Now let's analyze the metaphors of the two works and how they resemble each other, despite the different ways in which criticism is portrayed in both.

SQUID GAME:

The metaphor in the form of social criticism shows us how human beings subject themselves to absurd situations when there is no other option, and how those above the lower class have control over that class and over society (politicians, millionaires, businessmen, among other important positions).

Here are the points I gathered to write my review:

• Games portray the need, fear about society and (de)valuation of life. Players both value and devalue their lives as they choose to continue playing, even when they see people die, because the combination of the need for money + greed (this greed that equals the lower class to the upper class, showing us that some of those who are above were also inferior), does not make them want to stop because the world out there will humiliate them, devalue them and kill them little by little, just as it happens in the game.

• No matter how superior you think you are to someone, whether it's due to intellectual, social or racial level, within the game everyone is humiliating themselves equally because they need the same thing: money (representing not only the literal money that the lower class needs, but also social validation, the minimum of respect, to be taken seriously).

• The real world is no different from the game: politics controls society as the boss and guards control the game; work (or lack thereof), represented by sadistic games, is necessary to obtain money and social validation.

• Bad people are just as sadistic as the controllers of society and the game. Since, in both seasons, bad people were responsible for sowing chaos among the players, killing each other before the games even started. People in society don't care if you need it as much as they do (even if they are in the same social class as you), they will walk all over you if they have the opportunity.

The sadism of the upper class.

The controllers watch the players kill each other and are killed during the games with class and tranquility, not lifting a finger to help. The villainy of the series represents how those above do nothing to change (even though they could),because they don't want to give up their money, because they don't care, because they've been consumed by greed for a long time.

• We are > always < being controlled by someone above us.

In both Season 1 and Season 2 we see 456 approaching and becoming attached to Player 001 (the first being the old man, and the second being Inho), both Bosses of the game infiltrated among the lower class. I observed this detail as a suggestion that there will ALWAYS be someone above controlling those below, even people in our daily lives. It is unconscious, but it is a form of submission; we obey those above us because it is moral to follow the rules. From teachers above students, parents above children, to bosses above employees and politicians above citizens.

I am passionate about the way film directors manage to fit these criticisms in such creative metaphors. It's like in The Matrix; which suggests that we all live in a control system, with the metaphor of Artificial Intelligence. It's so different from Squid Game, but at the same time the same.

In 2022, Lee Jung-Jae won the Emmy for Outstanding Lead Actor for Squid Game. The series received 14 nominations in total and won 6 (including Best Director).

Lee Jung-Jae made history by becoming the first Asian man to win this award.

PARASITE:

The metaphor here is less "fantastical" than in Round 6, leaning towards the more realistic side of the critique.

A poor family is hired to work in the house of a rich family, but it is not as simple as it seems. Tired of extreme poverty and a difficult life, The family devises a plan to gradually infiltrate the wealthy family one by one, until they are all working in the house.

They begin to take over the wealthy family's house as time goes by, but the film wanders through situations where social criticism masterfully made by Bong Jon-Hoo, it surprises and terrifies us in the face of such inequality.

The place where the poor family lives is well below the streets above, and they have to go down very long stairs to get there (it is interesting because it metaphorically shows how the lower class is so far below, that they live in a place where the sun barely touches).

At a certain point in the film, the poor family finds a man in a terrible situation, living hidden below the house of the rich family (once again, there is always someone below, even below the lower class. It can always get worse), and when they find this man, the mother of the poor family does not even listen to him, picks up the phone and says she is going to call the police; this scene suggests a lack of empathy that can be present even in the most needy. She did not even think that she herself could be in that man's place if she had not gotten a job in the house of the rich; she forgot that she is also inferior, but, as I said, there will always be someone worse off; and that is when people feel superior, even knowing that they are not.

Just like in Squid Game, in Parasite we see social inequality represented in two uncomfortable, different but equal ways.

Players vs. Bosses / Poor vs. Rich = Us (society, lower class) vs. Them (politics, industries, corporations, digital influences, upper class)

Below = Players / Poor family

Above = Bosses (001, guards) / Rich family

Metaphor: poverty, financial need/validation/respect = Games / Job in the rich house

Metaphor: politics, industries, companies, millionaires = Boss/001/guards / Rich family

The series and film have been widely awarded and recognized for their metaphorical perfection and cinematic work.

In 2020, Bong Jon-Hoo won the Oscar for Best Director, Best Film, Best International Feature Film and Best Original Screenplay for Parasite.

There is a lot of xenophobia behind the industries, so it is important to remember and highlight the victory of these great artists. Korean cinema is incredible, but it is undervalued.

[jadesolayray]

I think it's an important thing to mention that the Eggs weren't supposed to be a permanent thing. Originally, the only thing they could do to communicate was hold up signs with specific words on them like "Yes" or "No". They couldn't speak, it wasn't until someone gave an egg a proper sign so they could name something that them communicating through typing things out on signs was considered due to it making communication easier.

The reason the eggs became permanent was because the streamers and audience got attached once the sign system was implemented.

But let's not forget that the real problem with the Eggs wasn't that they existed, it was that the people Quackity trusted to help him run the server and pay people were not doing their fucking jobs and taking care of things like they should. They absolutely should have gotten rid of the two lives system, but they didn't because they liked the reactions those deaths caused. (Look into what the former admins have reported about Empanada's death at spawn, she wasn't supposed to die, but the head admins liked Bagehera's reaction so they kept the death cannon.)

When managed properly things like the Eggs can work and be fun, but the Head Admins of the QSMP did a lot of stuff behind Quackity's back by taking advantage of his trust in them, so if we have anyone to blame for the mental trauma it's them.

(And I don't blame Quackity for any of that, we've all made the mistake of trusting people simply because we've known them a while and/or are friends with them. He trusted the wrong people, and he isnt the first person to do that, and he won't be the last)

Bads talking about how he got irl trauma from the qsmp and how the way the eggs worked made him get paranoid to form attachments and that if he ever gets therapy irl he'd definitely bring it up and ask what the therapist thinks about it

[amaya-143]

hello. part two of me ranting about the fear of memory loss in isat. is it that obvious i have autism?

part one was about the kings fear of forgetting. Go read. *clicks my fingers like a cat* go.

disclaimer not a psychiatrist blahh blahhhh u get the idea :p king rant was long, this will be longer. maybe one singular person is as normal as i am about this game and will enjoy. otherwise at least its out of my system and into words

So yeah, the king is afraid of forgetting. Siffrin, however, is afraid of being forgotten.

Siffrin, is late 20s, and just like the king lost the majority of their memories to the island.The people they loved, all that jazz i don't need to write the cinematics again. They too end up in an unfamiliar place, however they end up a rouge. They travel from city to city, never staying anywhere solid, never making any real connections for years (at least as far as we know.) To him, he is just a guy* who lost everything that they knew, and that's that. No point if it'll just happen again. In fact im not even sure if they're aware they're from that island, since I'm pretty sure he learns it ingame. He just exists. Thats it. Their life doesn't matter, doesn't impact anyone. He is forgettable

But then, they meet Mira, Odile, and Isa. Then Bonnie, and when things couldn't get more confusing, he loses an eye for them. The party loves Siffrin, even if they never say it pregame. They appreciate him. And even if Frin doesn't think it directly, they definitely subconsciously believe it pregame. Otherwise, it wouldn't be such a shock when odile says they're colleagues at best. So how can Siffrin go back to his old life? A life on the go, with no connections, nothing but the millisecond bumps into strangers and polite conversations with the clerk at the hotel desk. Nobody to come home to, no one to ask how their day was.

Its like trying chocolate after eating coco beans all your life. Maybe you can tolerate going back to coco beans for a bit, but you'll never forget the chocolate. It'll be something you think about all the time, your thought before sleep takes you, as tiktok would say your 'roman empire'.

So Siffrin cannot let them go back home. He wishes to stay with them. and thus, the loops happen.But after a bit he, quote, 'understands the king more than he'd like to'

He refuses to be forgotten, to have to go back to that life. They've lived the span of their memories being so blindingly forgettable, now someone, some people see them and its so close in his grasp. Isabeau is so close to confessing to him. Mirabelle is so close to her full potential as a housemaiden. Odile is accepting she's more than her roots. And Bonnie, the kid he lost an eye for, disabling him permentantly, HUGGED them. a massive deal for a fella whos been living off small talk and avoiding eye contact for the last 10 years. Just one more loop, if they do it all right then just maybe..

Not here to talk abt the loops. moving on.

After all these people who love him, they don't wanna be forgotten. Trauma isn't just a factor in disorders. Trauma can, and often does create its own reactions. For a real world example, Children who grow up with absent parents often react with avoiding and distancing tendencies, where as children with emotionally unstable parents tend to grow to be anxiously attached to those they love. These aren't disorders, but they are a reaction to the trauma faced and ingraned. Frin's fear of being forgotten is just as much a trauma response as it is a result of the way he lives. Who knows how many people Siffrin forgot in the island. What's stopping him from being like them? What's stopping him from being so forgettable.

Side note, act 5 is next to the Sunny vs Basil fight as my favorite two scenes in games, especially when it comes to imagining/reading about them in other characters povs other than the mains. And bigfrin is my absolute joy in the world. not sorry.

But after loops n loops of trying to prevent it, hearing off handed comments about how bonnie hates them, and how isa will say i love you to anyone except him, Sif's self worth is at an all-time low. They just don't have it in them anymore. They cant do it. we're looking at months of living the same two days over and over. Same lines. Same people. Same events. Years, if you're an insane person who does like 500+ loops. I think most people did like 70-150 though. Siffrin has been reliving this for so long he's begun to find comfort in it. It feels safe. Its boring, its insufferable, yes, but its SAFE. After suffering all those months, they're leaving anyway. They are going home. They will go home and forget Sif and it will all be for nothing. When Odile stops them from looping back, they strike. Either at themselves, or those they love. They would literally rather attack those they've gone through months of suffering just to spend more time with, or attack themselves time after time till it kills them. They'd rather it than risk them all leaving and forgetting him. I don't really have much more to say i guess i just ugh

i love act 5 i love bigfrin and if theres any writers reading this write some act 5 from other party members pov and you will get the juciest kiss.

if you read all this way, congrats!! i diagnose you with autism 💜

*guy is used as a unisex. i know the correct term for siffrin is fella. i went to gender school.

[resande]

Steddie fic idea

‼️‼️‼️If you’re a writer that wants to collaborate with me into giving life to this big project, hmu. I’ll draw for it and all i need is someone who will put into words and also help me build up more on this story and fill the gaps. Also someone that won’t give up on the project when it’s not completely done. This story will also have nsfw scenes in it so take that into consideration aswell.

This project doesn’t have a deadline at all. It’s my baby and i wanna give it the life and attention it deserves because i love this idea so much.

Soo, if you’re interested, DM me🫶🏻

Also if you have other works, i would like to see them aswell. You can attach them to your message, in case there’ll be more people that want to take the place.‼️❤️❤️

The idea in question: (copied from x)

Edward being a witch and in a life before this, him constructing this Colossus of a gothic cathedral for his love, Stephen, who was a priest.

The town found out because the cathedral was finished too soon (stephen was terminally sick and edward wanted him to see this monument dedicated to their love while Stephen was still alive, so he said fuck it and used his powers to finish what supposed to be a +600 years of work.

The town people found out he was a witch and began a witch hunt so they can burn him at the stake.

Eddie faked his death right before the burning thing in the middle of the town, right in front of the cathedral happened. No one knew except Stephen. There was a scarecrow made to look like eddie (magic happened there aswell). And because Stephen was The priest of the town, he

was forced to burn the witch. (Including here a “no one mourns the wicked” scene because that tore my heart out and i need it here and also bc Stephen felt like the real wicked between the two, because of betraying god (but also without any remorse towards it)

Once he set fire to the scarecrow, the town tried to set fire to the cathedral aswell. But it never burned. The fire would go out as soon as it started and the skies would rip apart and heavy rain would fall. So the cathedral will stay intact.

For as many years as Stephen had, and so many more after that, the town tried to burn down the cathedral thousands of times. The only thing that happened was the color of it became black. And it stayed that way, protected forever by eddie’s powers.

They promised eachother they will find one another in afterlife, until stars will cease to exist. Stephen told Edward “to make your searching easier, you’ll find me right here. In our home (the cathedral)

“In every life i’ll live, until my soul will decompose, i will cherish our love.”

Also right before eddie would get captured, eddie made a scene in front of the cathedral and the whole town, by swallowing the cathedral’s front door keys. (Magician trick Get it. Or nawt) as to show everyone that no one has power over what he created, other than himself (n stephen ofc).

————

After hundreds of years, a mechanic & struggling musician called eddie, got a hitchhike by an old weird man, and kinda got kidnapped into a town that.. weird enough, doesn’t show on the map… . Stuck in time, set in the 40-60’s, and has in the middle of the old town the most bone chilling creation eddie had ever seen. That damned colossal cathedral. (Eddie also has a tattoo of an old key on his sternum)

eddie gets into town And has so many weird reactions from peers when they look at his face.

(They have pictures of the witch that created the cathedral and eddie looks identical to him). He has a breakdown out of nowhere while stopping in his tracks, right in front of the creation. All the people surrounding him, not moving a muscle. They’re convinced they are assisting to a historical moment. The prophecy. The second coming of the witch.

No one dared to touch eddie while he was sobbing and having a panic attack on the ground.

No one, except a young priest,

In his 20’s.

Calming him down. And taking him away from prying eyes. In the back gardens of the cathedral, where only priests and nuns are allowed. Found an empty spot and sat eddie down. Told him everything.

Eddie had one week until the mark of the 300 years, since the death of the witch. To do what the whole town - turned into a cult, wanted since Edward died. To open the old chest that lies in the attic, so “the second coming of christ will come” or so that’s what all of them

Believed. (Actually someone sniffed edward and stephen out and selfishly wanted to open that chest to prove everyone that stephen must die for his sins. Basically a Carver invented one of the oldest lies they ever heard.)

If people find out about the key tattoo eddie has

That he got from his dreams, make a real copy out of it and try to open the front doors + the chest, and it works, “then the second coming of christ is happening and at dawn everyone and their animals will enter in the afterlife/eternal heaven.”

They also need to burn the witch

Again so he won’t stop “this process for once and for all.”

From here on out, in this one week, eddie faces the psychological horrors of this fucked up cult town, hunted by its people, couple of times but gets away because now steve sees through all the bullshit he got indoctrinated all his life, has time to fall in love with eddie, helps him out, and tries to put a stop to all of this.

In the end it becomes a ghost town, while eddie and steve get away, steve getting to see life outside of the town’s walls, for the first time in his life.

It’s not all thought out but this horror-ish idea i’ve had for a long ass time and i wanna draw for it… my babey🤲..

[causeimcrayzeebee]

have you seen the kamimura lore drop and what are your thoughts?

ohbmy god this could’ve been so embarrassing cause i hadn’t seen it yet and was so confused as to what you meant so I was planning on just yapping about kamimura in general but then I saw it LMAO UM I WAS SO HAPPY CAUSE KAMIMURA CONTENT!!!!! KAMIMURA LORE!!! AND THEN SO FUCKING INCREDIBLY SAD FROM IT LIKE....THAT'S GORE... THAT'S GORE OF MY COMFORT CHARACTER.... um yeah I have work for law to do but I got too into reading the lore drop so lets talk about it! (I will get to my work after trust) spoiler warning for chapters 1-3 and tetro typical trigger warnings!!! take care of yourself!!

I am not going to cover the ableism portion or too much of the diagnosis/hospital parts because I am not personally disabled and would like to let other disabled people talk about it, so i'll leave the rest of the conversation to others in the community!

also i took notes while reading it to organize my thoughts like usual (im so bad at putting words together well). some of these are kinda funny so here are some highlights lmfao

alright, now lets actually be serious.

firstly, I'm so glad that kamimura at least had a good childhood. I think it really shows in the way he interacts with the tetro pink cast that he was a sociable and happy kid! my mom actually teaches preschool so shes taught me a lot about early childhood psychology (shout out to my mother guys!!!!!). one of the biggest takeaways I've had from her is that the first five years of one's life are the most important in development! that's what Montessori programs keep in mind and throughout preschool and early kinder, they take time to establish learning through play; a lot of people have the misconception that letting kids play at school is just letting them mess around, but it's crucial in building their skills! kids learn to socialize with others and to problem solve; that foundation is very important for everything else moving forward in life! I could rant about how preschools need to utilize this more, esp in the American education system, but I digress. my main point goes to something I (and a couple other people I'm not original in this LMAO) have mentioned before about how it makes more sense out of hasegawa and kamimura, that they'd kill off kamimura because he had other people. kamimura, despite having further and further cut himself off from the world right till the end (until the kg at least), still managed to make meaningful connections, like tamba and hayashi, even if they weren't like ideal. the way he approaches tamba is very caring in a way that can seem like it's not, yk? likely it stems from his trust issues, it's scary to put your genuine real feelings out there, so hiding them with some snide remarks is easier. luckily, tamba has a similar approach so hey. shout out tamba n kamimura you will always be special to me.

anyways, its both so amazing and so heartbreaking that his parents were so loving and supportive, but died too soon. I do wonder about the role of attachment in this case; like specifically in babies/toddlers, they get attached to their parents usually because that's the first person they see, the first to take care of them. kamimura was able to get that love and support from his parents, even when it got so much harder and the days in the hospitals got longer. so having it all be taken away when you're NINE? that's obviously gonna destroy you, and that leads to his trust issues and isolation. he was able to thrive still as a young child because he had his parents to support him! so when that's all gone, how else are you supposed to cope?

yeah fuck you family friend, that was brutal. I cant even imagine coming home from school to find your parents absolutely desecrated. the day of his parents death beginning the routine of staying locked in his room.... oh my god like what if I cried (I did). that probably changed the way he thought about his room; his room was an escape from the horrors of the outside world. if he just stayed in the room, he wouldn't have to experience the fucked up world. it became a habit. EUGAHHD I'm in shambles.

after the murder of his parents, it's understandable that it shook kamimura and his aunt to their core. that was a violent murder (by a man who was literally just rejected romantically.... its so fucking upsetting that that is a common crime). his aunt wasn't even ready to have kids so having the responsibility of taking in kamimura must've been a lot. In regards to homesick, despite the very clear distance in their relationship, kamimura really seems to appreciate her being there, even if it was very distanced; she was still an important part of his grieving process and his whole life honestly.

oh boy here we go. isao when I catch you istg..... sorry that's an exaggeration, likely this was from a societal disgust, yk just homophobia from the world, so I cant really blame this kid too much.... but we still have beef. god, this was one of those actually crushing crushes, hm. it's so fucked up; someone who was starting to get kamimura a bit out of the dark space that was his life, giving him something to enjoy and be happy about! and all of that was just thrown away because kamimura was vulnerable and shared his feelings. not having your feelings returned can already be devastating, but this? the spread of rumors, the bullying, the losing his one friend? it's like the world wants to torture him omfg. here the trust issues become worse; those who loved him leave, those who he loved leave. everyone just leaves, so what's the point?

this explains his relationship with hasegawa, and the issue after trial 1. it had to have felt way too familiar; telling someone he was fond of vulnerable information, only for it to be told to a bunch of people he never wanted in his fucking business. however, I think the reason why they made up rather quickly in clean up crew (which btw I watched w my friend earlier today bc I got them into tetro........ god I love that episode) is hasegawa's response. hasegawa, unlike isao, is remorseful, he CARES. hasegawa even shares something personal to him, about his own loss.

I think this also changes the scene of hasegawa coming out a bit. before, he was rejected by isao because he was a homophobic douchebag. but in the student spotlight, hasegawa casually says he's not into girls. while its funny thinking that kamimura was having some gay panic then lmao, I think actually it was probably processing that in a confused comfort, not exactly because his feelings could be reciprocated, but for this; hasegawa was so comfortable with coming out as gay, so comfortable with the concept, unlike isao. if kamimura confessed his feelings to hasegawa, and were (somehow) not reciprocated, he likely still wouldn't have ran away. of course, with kamimura's trust issues, he probably wasn't confident in that assumption, but hasegawa is not the kind of person to drop someone because they confessed to them. he would've kept the person that had become so important to him. and because of that maybe, just maybe, kamimura would've said what he really wanted to say if the interview had happened before woodshop.

once he's on his own and moves out, he no longer has someone reminding him to do things, so with no motivation to simply live, he ends up staying locked in his house like we've seen before. what's the point in anything? when that kind of spiral hits you, and you don't have other people present in your life to keep doing, how would you ever stay motivated?? I know it was a really informal post, so I might be going insane trying to add this to the analysis, but the repetition of 'but life goes on' I think really solidifies the importance of a support system. when things are difficult, the world never just stops, it keeps going despite your struggle. but having people who care about you around you can help make each day easier, they can help 'slow down time' if you will. kamimura has gone through an amount of stress no one should have to face, but people around him could have made it easier on him by being there. that's the tragedy of tetro.

it's especially tragic that at the very end, right before the kg, he was taking his own life.

(plot wise, I need to know what y'all theorists think of this bc I have ideas but i need to finish the staffside logs before I can even actually consider my thoughts lmfao.)

sorry to be captain obvious on a majority of this post lol but gosh wow. I really loved that we got this, it was so much information I am kinda stoked despite basically all of it being depressing as hell. tetro has really become an inspiration for me and writing, I am constantly so impressed by von's writing and it's given me perspective on how to approach writing as a whole. i feel as though this gave me so much perspective on kamimura himself as a character. some of this just confirmed my ideas already, but it strikes me as something so human just learning all of this. when I, or anyone really, first meet people, I only know surface level things, yk cause I don't know them. but then I start talking to them, and I learn about different things that have happened to them, how they feel about certain issues or what they're doing on a day to day basis. you can never know everything of course, but when you discover new parts of someone, it makes them more complex and they don't fit the idea you had of them before because people are complex!! and that's the beauty of writing, capturing humanity! the impact of each character, esp kamimura, has been so beautifully done, I'm just constantly moved as the story progresses.

thank y'all sm for reading my excuse to talk about kamimura, this was A LOT of blabbing I'm so so sorry but I hope you enjoyed haha! :)

[clubsmarties]

He couldn't wipe the silly little smile off his face as she corrected him. She liked the movies and now he had even more inside look to how much she paid attention to movies. Disney movies to be exact. That alone made him chuckle to himself. "Who needs human companions when you've got Dolly." His pup knew his voice and even in her sleep her tail wagged. She truly did love him.

"Don't have to. You just said it." Wally laughed. "But, no. Talking to you keeps my mind from running back to work and the thousand other things that need to be done. Your voice is nice to listen to. Should do an audiobook of your favorite book. I'd for sure buy it." She could sell a sack of potatoes and he'd still buy it.

Her hey made him smile and had him chew on his lower lip. It was something he'd noticed when she truly enjoyed something. Where he thought she'd let her guard down enough to be seen. It was nice. "Not a bad thing. It's cute. Like dimples." Or so he had heard. People commented on the family trait more than he cared to admit. Then his eyes went to her arm covering her face and saw it. His hoodie. Even in the dark he'd recognize it. It was the one he had given her at the lighthouse. It was a funny feeling seeing her wear it when he wasn't around. It gave him the very possible scenario that she wore it more times than she had admitted and that it hadn't indeed collected dust in the back of her closet. She kept it. Now that made hope bloom in his chest. Maybe, perhaps, she did feel the same as he did about her.

Deflecting was the name of the game sometimes with her but that still didn't deter him. "Like what? If you say body then you can't say that. You can't copy me." He teased knowing that if anything whatever she stashed in her closet couldn't be as horrible as she made it out to be. "You'd have the best time with a collectible Disney sweater."

He laughed and shook his head. Clearing his throat a second later. "No, not forcing you. Your call remember. I just pack things in so you wouldn't be one to call me a boring tour guide. You can decide what you want to do. But I am gonna insist on the lighthouses trip. Those are always fun and you don't have to be attached to me the entire time. You can explore and meet me in the middle. Sunset tour is really cool though. If you like it maybe you can take Anna and Charlie and Orion out there."

He could tell she was on her way off to sleep and let her continue to talk. His somewhat lopsided plan was working of getting her to fall asleep first. That was the real reason he could fall asleep knowing she was safely off. Sweats and his hoodie made him smile. "Great idea, you got it," he whispered as he made sure to lower it and whistled lowly to his pup who had her ears perked. Gave her the snuggle command in French and saw his dog further lean her head on her chest. Goodnight lila. Was the last thing he said before he fell asleep without hanging up the call.

The morning light hurt his eyes as he opened them up and saw his phone was at 17% battery but still could see Dolly on top of Liz just looking at the screen. She put her head on her paws happily wagging her tail. He waved at her and made a shh sound as he got up and plugged in his phone getting up. He put it on mute so he could get the shower and eat something before she woke back up and realized they'd fallen asleep together on the phone and they were still on call.

After he finished and got dressed. This time in a dark blue long sleeve shirt and his hair was not covered in gel yet, his one bang laid on his side as he shuffled around cleaning up after himself. When he turned the phone around and unmuted it he figured he'd make his presence known.

"I'd totally share my waffles with you if I could. Though I don't know may rethink it because these are really good. Reminds me of the ones at the diner. The ones you didn't realize were hot."

"Nope. I did not quote. I merely commented on the situation and its comparative nature to this situation is all." Elizabeth rebutted, voice growing softer as she let the calm motions of absentmindedly petting Dolly and the stillness of not doing anything seep in. "And it's just a movie, no big deal. And for the record I'm glad too, she's a wonderful hiking companion."

She was too tired to keep up a façade about how he didn't make her smile sometimes, especially now when he acted like a kid. Ever since the lighthouse, in which she slipped up more than she usually did, she couldn't place her finger on it. At first she found it too childish, annoyingly so, especially from someone that was an Agent. Somehow, she had began to find it endearing? Was that it ? Well whatever it was, a wide smile replaced her usual stoic features. "Well, that sounds like a lie," She sighed snuggling closer to Dolly. "Seeing as you're still wide awake. Just admit that I am the only one that would pick up at this hour so you decided to annoy me. "

At the mention of her teeth, her hand came up to her face. "Hey!" There was no denying she was in his hoodie now as it was more visible. Fingers and his hoodie sleeve covered her nose and mouth, no one had ever mentioned it before or bothered to care or ever noticed her teeth. She hadn't ever thought them that prominent, just once when her stepmother called them out in her teens on a job. It made her feel seen, exposed. He had such an uncanny ability to hone in on the things others never saw. He is an agent, her brain reprimanded her, she needed to stop thinking that he was just someone else. One false move would land her where she never wanted to be.

"I'll put it in the box, don't want to be hoarding your things in my closet. There are things I could be stashing in there." Was she being slightly mean, sure, but she also didn't want me to get too comfortable. She would be gone soon, she kept telling herself, she just needed the right person to take over the office and she'd be off again. "I might borrow it though, if Anna and Charlie decide to come to the resort. I'll try to blend in."

Just the thought of all the activities that Wally was trying to cram into one week made her feel tired already but there was a sense of adventure that she couldn't deny. She was too tired now to start an argument about how hope is not real and just meant to crush people, it would be for another time. "Sunset Tour? You're making me hang out with you all day everyday aren't you? " There was no bite to it as nuzzled against the back of Dolly's head, the stillness, the quiet of the apartment seeping in and lulling her to sleep slowly. "Crowds are fine. I like crowds. Easy to blend in. Gossip to hear." She muttered. "Sweats. Sweats are comfortable. I'll wear sweats. And your hoodie." A soft sigh as her eyelids began to close over her hazel eyes. "It's comfortable too." Dolly moved slightly getting more comfortable herself, making Elizabeth smile lazily and sheepishly before snuggling against the border collie again. "Can we go to the falls? I heard its pretty. I'll do the cave if we can go to the falls." It was all soft muttering, not too different then when a child tried to keep from falling asleep.

[vociferans]

somehow this is like the third day in a row ive cried abt em

[blossoms-phan]

many people are afraid to be real lovers. dan and phil are not

[ghostofsnails]

so did you guys know theres this character called tristan vik disventure camp and