#that’s wild! my phone has hundreds of gigs on it!

[zephsomething]

Listen yall, lots of things are really very shit rn for many reasons, but I’m genuinely still not over the fact that I get to have a whole ass computer in my pocket. It’s got multiple games and everything! Most of the games I played as a child would fit multiple times over on my phone! A little computer in my pocket! That’s so fucking cool!

[sirhamburrger]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥

𝐦𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐨 𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐞 [𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

word count: 1251 || prev (ch 2.5) || next

kei has splinters in his fingers.

he sets down his tools, combing an aching hand through his blonde curls. glancing over at the analog clock on the wall, he sees that it's less than a minute to midnight. as he sits and stares, the second hand ticks slowly towards the upright position. signaling the start of the new day, the twenty-seventh of september.

happy birthday to me, he thinks dully.

as if on cue, his phone pings loudly in the dark room, startling him from his half-asleep stupor. he assumes it's probably one of his sleep-deprived contacts wishing him a happy twentieth, but he opens his messages and sees it's from bokuto in the group chat. strange, because he should be getting wasted at the club right about now-

the club she has a gig at.

interestingly, it turns out to be a video of bokuto's wild dancing - kei’s initial questions are answered when the camera pans around to show an equally hammered atsumu screaming something unintelligible into the camera. just as soon as he appears, the camera is flipped to show the stage where the band plays their hearts out to some rock song. “TSUKKI!” he can hear hinata yelling. “IT'S LIT HERE!”

he sends a message of his own: do you have a designated driver? bokuto responds soon after with: hi, this is sakusa. i have my own idiots to bring home. would you mind picking them up when you can?

be there by 1, he types out. don’t think i’m rushing over there just for your dumbasses. he chuckles slightly at his friends’ antics - oh, he’d never be caught dead acting so sappy in front of them - and starts to wish he’d come along with them. even if it meant having to see you.

and even that might not be so bad after all.

his phone pings again. 

it’s tadashi. of course it’s tadashi. he’s a good friend, better than kei deserves, because unlike himself, he hasn’t let their literal and metaphorical distance divide them as best friends. waseda students are crazy busy, and yet he’s the one who’s been leaving his friend on read. 

happy birthday, tsukki! hope everything goes well for you this next year.

and below that:

i miss you, you know. i really do.

that’s enough to make kei feel as if his heart's been pierced by an arrow. 

shaking his head, he picks up his tools and gets back to work. his lithe, slender fingers smooth over the wooden reed when he's done, and he blows into it to find that it produces just the right sound. it’s quickly drowned out the shrill ringing of his phone, though, signaling that an unknown number has called him. sighing, he presses the ‘accept’ button, placing the mystery caller on speaker. “hello?” he says.

“hey, this is tsukishima, right?”

he freezes. 

why is she calling him at midnight on a saturday when she’s supposed to be playing music for about a hundred other people?

“i don’t have all day, tsukishima!” she snaps, derailing his trail of thought. “listen, kuroo got in a brawl with some… some sick creep. i think his nose might be broken.”

“whose nose?” he finds himself asking unsympathetically, a smirk on his face. “the guy’s or kuroo’s?”

she lets out an frustrated sigh, and her breaths are shaky with repressed anger as she murmurs into her phone’s mic. “you think i give a damn what happens to that middle-aged perv? look, just swing by and pick kuroo up, okay?”

“okay, fine, i’m on my way right now,” kei replies testily, stuffing his car keys into the pocket of his messenger bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “tokyo red, right?” 

she confirms, repeating the exact address for him in a clipped tone, then hangs up abruptly.

insufferable brat.

he drives for about half an hour to get there, parking on the sidewalk outside the club where he hears the bass thundering out into the empty street - yaku’s doing, most definitely - and the melodious sounds of a muted electric guitar. getting in is easy enough - the bouncer simply nods at him, and he pushes through the double doors into the building.

she locks eyes with him from across the room almost immediately, yelling something to her bandmates on stage before setting her guitar down and hopping off the raised platform to make her way to him. kei tries to push his way to the front of the room, but he only makes it halfway before she’s slamming into his chest, seemingly spit out by the crowd dancing around them. she pulls back immediately, stumbling as far back as she can go. 

her hair is slightly mussed, and her cheeks are flushed. her skin is radiant and glowing, a flush covering her face down to her bare shoulders. maybe it’s from the excitement of performing, or she’s had a couple of shots. maybe it’s both. “sakusa's already brought kuroo to the hospital,” she tries to say over the noise. 

kei feels a twinge of annoyance. they didn't even think to tell him before he rushed over? “then what the hell am i here for?” he shoots back sardonically.

she glares up at him, her expression saying you’d better stop talking while you can. “he started showing symptoms of a major concussion, so we thought it’d be best to send him off first.”

he nods grudgingly. “what did they fight over?”

her eyes flick down to the ground, then back up again. “a guy threw a beer can at my head, then tried to climb onto the stage to grope me. kuroo was sitting in the front row and just… went to town on the guy.” her expression is equal parts guilty and bitter, and kei decides he'd rather not say anything that lands him in the hospital alongside kuroo. “sorry to drag you all the way down here, birthday boy.” she practically spits the last two words out, tone laced with venom.

how does she know that?

“what, am i not allowed to know things now?” she says dryly, as if she's read his mind. “i suppose i should buy you a drink or something. what do you like?”

“i don't drink,” kei says curtly, but finds himself following her over to the bar anyway.

“just as well, you are the designated driver after all. root beer, then,” she declares gamely, ordering one alongside a tequila shot for herself. they sit in awkward silence together, knees almost brushing as they face each other. kei sees suna staring at them from up on stage. he averts his eyes immediately.

he sips his drink. “did you have fun with kuroo at least?” he watches her expression sour, her eyes narrowing at him over the rim of her glass. “that's none of your business,” she snips.

“looks like you were looking to go home with him tonight, huh?” he jabs, his own tone growing confrontational as a grin stretches his face. “too bad your plans were ruined.”

she lets out an incredulous scoff, downing her shot and slamming the tiny glass down on the table. “gave you one more chance,” she mutters as she hops off the bar stool, brushing past him. “that was my mistake.”

he looks at her departing form, and a twinge of guilt at antagonising her arises in his chest. he pushes down the unpleasant feeling, sipping on his drink. he can’t help but feel it was his mistake, too, coming here tonight.

author's notes:

self-sabotaging tsukki? check!

i was thinking that kuroo needs to get punched at least once in this fic and i decided it has to be now

happy birthday tsukki 😀 have this not-so-happy chapter as a gift

likes, comments, follows and reblogs are greatly appreciated :) don't hesitate to correct any factual discrepancies or ask questions about this fic!

taglist: @obamakinnie

send an ask to be tagged!

[m.list]

© sirhamburrger 2024

[flamingo-writes]

Hi flamingo how are you? How are you with your leg pain since the move? Have you been resting? I hope so!

Well as always I leave you a mini request before starting the week ;)

What do you think that, reader is a not so well known singer ,who is starting out in the world of music and meets Hobie in one of their own performances when they are singing on stage.

hope you have a wonderful week tysm <3!

I’m not going to lie to you, I’ve had a bit of a writer’s block. I powered through it though. I thought of a million ways this could’ve played out and went for the one I liked the most. I hope you like it too, and I’m sorry for the late reply 😢 I rewrote this like three times help 😭 whenever I wanted to sit and write I ended up doing a lot of other things.

With A Little Help — Hobie x Reader

Title inspired by the song by the Beatles With A Little Help From My Friends. The bicycle thing is inspired after a real accident I had once, except I don’t play the guitar and but I did get hit on a freshly made tattoo 🥲

Warnings: cursing,

The moment you decided to start a band with your friends, you knew from the beginning it would go one of two ways.

You could either sign with a producer and basically sell yourself like whores. Somehow gaining a debt just by signing a piece of paper, and working an ungodly amount of hours just to pay your debt, and hope the fame you’ve gained actually helps you make money after the percentage the producing house gets. Becoming puppets for the producer to move around the way they want.

Or you could do everything yourself working with what you had. Recording wherever you found available –sometimes that place being your own room–, asking friends if you could borrow equipment or instruments. Asking for favours. Gathering coins your couch has been swallowing and hoarding for years to print a few hundred copies of posters announcing your next gig.

And out of the two, you knew perfectly well which one you wanted. One of them helped you maintain your freedom, which was exactly what your music spoke about. Gathering a small and loyal fanbase was relatively easy in the low underground bars. The punk scene, the alternatives, and the rock fans soon spread the word around their friends. Eventually, these same people started offering their help with equipment, a few bills for copies, even instruments. It was still a small fanbase, but it was more than enough and they were all somehow more helpful than most people

One day in particular, your guitar player gave you a call. To your nerves, you picked up your phone, furious.

“Where the hell are you?! You’re so late! We’re supposed to start playing in ten minutes!” You barked.

“Ye-yeah…About that…” Your guitar player said with an awkward chuckle. “You see, it’s a funny story…”

“Oh god, no…” You groaned.

“Listen. First of all I’m fine–”

“What the fuck does that even mean? Wait, shit, bruv, did something happen to you?”

“You see, this is where the story gets funny…” They said with an awkward giggle. “I was minding my own business, on my way to the bar. I was on my bike. Riding it, you know. When an old lady and a tiny ass dog appeared out of nowhere, from the corner. In an attempt to not run over either of them, I turned and there was a tree–”

“You can’t be serious…” You gasped, “you alright?”

“In the greater scheme of things, yes I am…But…I kinda hurt my wrist very badly…”

“God, I’m scared to ask…how badly…?”

“Uh, I don’t think my skin is supposed to look purple…And the lady I almost ran over is offering to drive me to the emergency room?”

“Shit. What do we do? Do we cancel—“

“No! Don’t! I don’t know. Improvise?”

“How? You’re our guitar player!”

“Go wild on the bass?”

“Fuck off!” You groaned, annoyed.

Hobie Brown was not far from there, hearing to actually both sides of the conversation through his enhanced hearing. Helping your drummer setting everything up.

“I think something happened to your guitar player, mate?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m hearing…” Your drummer said nervously.

“If you guys need help, I know how to play the guitar…I can sight read too, but if you give me a couple of minutes to look through your songs, it would be better…” Hobie said as your drummer’s face widened in surprise.

“Dude, seriously?”

“Yeah,” Hobie said, smirking confidently.

“The motherfucker broke–”

“We found a guitar player!” Your drummer interrupted, raising both arms in the air happily.

Hobie giggled and looked over at you. Your eyes remained wide and confused, wondering when the roller coaster of emotions was going to end. You knew him. You didn’t really, but you’d seen him around enough to recognize his face.

“Seriously?”

“Sure, why not?” He said, shrugging.

“Oh god, thank you! Thank you so much, mate!” You said happily, running your hands through your hair in relief, making Hobie chuckle.

“Call me Hobie,” He said with a cheeky smirk.

You introduced yourself, as well the rest of your band. As you discussed what t do for the set list, you insisted Hobie didn’t improve and sight read all of your songs, and instead settled for a set list made out of mostly covers from famous songs, and just leaving a few of your original songs distributed for Hobie to take a break from a hyper concentrated state.

As the anxiety was rising in your belly, about to make you puke a minute away from starting your gig, Hobie grabbed your shoulder, catching your attention.

“Hey, it’s going to be alright,” He said, trying to comfort you. “And if it blows, then what the hell? It’s not going to be the last time you play. That way you could always make a dramatic comeback and look even cooler,”

His words while making you feel less scared about it all, it did nothing for your nerves.

Although as soon as you started playing, the music consumed you. Playing with Hobie instead of your guitar player was simply different. Not that any of them was better or worse than the other, but the dynamics changed drastically. Despite not really knowing Hobie that well, the interactions on stage were fun, spontaneous, even comfortable, like you’d known him for way longer than just the last hour.

Hobie not only exchanged glances with you and walked over to you while playing his guitar, he also went over to your drummer. Sometimes jointing you for the choruses of the covers, or adding spontaneous riffs to guitar solos.

By the end of the gig, people were crazy, screaming, jumping around. As you grabbed the mic, covered in sweat and breathless you thanked them.

“We’d love to stay, but we actually have to go check out on our friend…” You chuckled. “Our guitar player had Ana vidente earlier today, and couldn’t play. We had the magnificent Hobie, here, helping us out!” You sighed. “Let me hear it for Hobie for being a real one!” The crown screamed and clapped, as Hobie smiled at you.

“Thank you for letting me help,” Hobie said, walking over to the mic and grabbing it. “Thank you guys as well!”

“Oh yeah. You guys made this very fun!” You said going back to the mic, your face bearing Hobie’s as he glanced at you with a smirk, “Have a good night, everybody!”

As you walked behind the stage, you grabbed a towel you had nearby and dried your face and hair.

“Good job out there,” Hobie said walking behind you.

“Thank you! It was all possible thanks to you!” You said looking up from your towel. “I’d love to stay and talk but…”

“Yeah, go check on your friend. You can buy me a beer some other time to return the favour,” He said with a cheeky smirk.

“Just one? An entire gig for just one beer?” You joked.

“Well, at least three,”

“Sounds like a deal,” you sighed, meeting his stare and biting your lower lip softly. Seriously, thank you…”

“My pleasure,” He said confidently, meeting your stare, as you noticed something in them sparking.

“See you around?”

“I hang out here an awful lot so, yeah,” He shrugged, putting his hands in the pockets of his vest.

[jcmarchi]

CSS Chronicles XLII

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/css-chronicles-xlii/

CSS Chronicles XLII

Remember these? Chris would write a post now and then to chronicle things happening around the ol’ CSS-Tricks site. It’s only been 969 days since the last one, give or take. Just think: back then we were poking at writing CSS in JavaScript and juuuuuuust starting to get excited about a set of proposed new color features that are mostly implemented today. We’re nesting CSS rules now. Container queries became an actual thing.

CSS was going gosh-darned hog wild. Probably not the “best” time for a site about CSS to take a break, eh?

That’s why I thought I’d dust off the chronicles. It’s been a hot minute and a lot is happening around CSS-Tricks today.

I’m (sorta) back

We may as well begin here! Yeah, I was “let go” last year. There was no #HotDrama. A bunch of really good folks — all in the DigitalOcean community team — were let go at the same time. It was a business decision, love it or not.

Things changed at DigitalOcean after that. A new leadership team is on board and, with it, a re-dedicated focus on re-establishing the community side of things. That, and Chris published a meaty post about the CSS-Tricks situation from his perspective. Coincidentally or not, a new job opened that looked a lot like my old gig. I had feelings about that, of course.

This little flurry of activity led to a phone call. And a few more. And now I’m back to help get the ol’ CSS-Tricks engine purring, hopefully making it the rich resource we’ve loved for so long. I’m on contract at the moment and feeling things out.

So far? Man, it feels great to be back.

What I did during the “lull”

I jumped over to Smashing Magazine. Gosh, that team is incredible. It tickles me that we still have Smashing Magazine. And here’s a piece of trivia for your next front-end cocktail party: Smashing Magazine was launched in September 2006, a mere 11 months before Chris published the very first article here on CSS-Tricks.

I also spent my time teaching front-end development at a couple of colleges that are local to me where I live in Colorado. I had already been teaching but bumped up the load. But not too much because I decided this was as good a time as any to work on a master’s degree. So, I enrolled and split my days as a part-time editor, part-time educator, and part-time student.

The degree went quicker than expected, so I used the rest of my time finishing up an online course I had started a couple years earlier and finally got around to publishing it! It’s probably not the sort of course for someone reading this post, but for complete beginners who are likely writing their very first line of HTML or CSS. You ever get asked how to build a website but don’t have the energy (or time) to explain everything? Yeah, me too. That’s who this course is for. And my mom.

I call it The Basics — and I’d love it if you shared it with anyone you think might use it as a starting point into web development.

What I want for CSS-Tricks, going forward

This site’s always been great, even long before I was brought on board. Historically, it’s been more of a personal blog turned multi-author blog with a steady stream of content. Nothing wrong with that at all.

What’s lacking, though, is structure. Most everything we publish is treated like a blog post: write it, smash the Publish button, and let it sit on top of the stream until the next blog post comes out. We’re talking about a time-based approach in which posts become a timeline of activity in reverse chronological order. Where do you find that one post you came across last month? It’s probably buried by this point and you’ve gotta either hit the post archives or try your hand searching for it by keyword. That might work for a blog with a few hundred posts, but there are more than 7,000 here and searching has become more like finding the metaphorical needle in the equally metaphorical haystack.

So, you may have noticed that I’m shuffling things around. Everything is still a “post” but we’re now using a Category taxonomy more effectively than we had been in the past. Each category is a “type” of post. And the type of post is determined by what exactly we’re trying to get out of it. Let’s actually break this out into its own section because it’s a sizeable change with some explanation around it.

The “types” of things we’re publishing

OK, so everything used to be an article or an Almanac entry. We still have “articles” and “entries” but there are better ways to classify and distinguish them, most notably with articles.

This is how it shakes out:

Articles: The tutorials that have been the CSS-Tricks bread and butter forever

Guides: Comprehensive deep dives into a specific CSS topic (like the Flexbox guide)

Almanac: Reference pieces for understanding CSS selectors and properties that can be cited in articles and guides.

Notes: A post for taking notes on things we’re learning. They’re meant to be loose and a little rough around the edges, just like taking notes you’d take from a class lecture — only we’re taking notes on the things that others in the community (like you!) are writing about.

Links: Things we’re reading that we find interesting and want to share with you. A link might evolve into a Note down the road, but they’re also useful resources that can be cited in the Almanac, a guide, or an article.

Quick Hits: I hate this name but the idea is to have a place to post little one-liners, like a thought, an idea, or perhaps some timely news. I’m openly accepting ideas for a better name for these. 😇

This is what we’re looking at right now, but there are obviously other ways we can slice-n-dice content. For example, we have an archive of “snippets” that we’ve buried for many years but could be useful. Same with videos. And more, if you can believe it. So, there’s plenty of housekeeping to do to keep us busy! This is still very much early days. You’ll likely experience some turbulence during your flight. And I’m okay with that because this is a learning place, and the people working it are learning, too.

Yes, I did just say, “people” as in more than one person because I’d to…

Welcome a couple of new faces!

The thing that excites me most — even more than the ice cream truck excites my daughters — is bringing new people along for the ride. Running CSS-Tricks is a huge job (no matter how easy I make it look 😝). So, I’ve brought on a couple of folks to help share the load!

Juan Diego Rodriguez

Ryan Trimble

I got to know Juan Diego while editing for Smashing Magazine. He had written a couple of articles for Smashing before I joined and his latest work, the first part of a series of articles discussing the “headaches” of working with Gatsby, landed on my desk. It’s really, really good — you should check it out. What you should know about Juan Diego that I’ve come know is that the dude cares a lot about the web platform. Not only that, but pays close attention to it. I’m pretty sure he reads CSSWG specifications for pleasure over tea. His love and curiosity for all-things-front-end is infectious and I’ve already learned a bunch from him. I know you will, too.

Ryan, on the other hand, is a total nerd for design systems that advocates for accessible interfaces. He actually reached out to me on Mastodon when he caught wind that I needed help. It was perfect timing and I couldn’t be more grateful that he poked me when he did. As I’ve gotten to know him, I’m realizing how versatile his skillset is. Working with “design systems” can mean lots of different things. For Ryan, it means consistent, predictable user interfaces based on modular and reusable web components — specifically web components that are native to the platform. In fact, he’s currently working on a design system called Platform UI. I’ve also become a fan of his personal blog, especially his weekly roundups of articles he finds interesting.

You’ll be seeing a lot of Juan Diego and Ryan around here! They’re both hard at work on bringing the trusty Almanac up-to-date but will be posting articles as well. No one’s full time here, me included, so it’s truly a team effort.

Please give ’em both a hearty welcome!

This is all an ongoing work in progress

…and probably always will be! I love that CSS-Tricks is a place where everyone learns together. It might be directly about CSS. Maybe it’s not. Perhaps it’s only tangentially related to web development. It may even be a rough idea that isn’t fully baked, but we put it out there and learn new things together with an open mind to the fact that the web is a massive place where everyone has something to contribute and a unique perspective we all benefit from — whether it’s from a specialization in CSS, semantics, performance, accessibility, design, typography, marketing, or what have you.

Do you wanna write for CSS-Tricks?

You can and you should! You get paid, readers learn something, and that gets people coming to the site. Everybody wins!

I know writing isn’t everyone’s top skill. But that’s exactly what the team is here for. You don’t have to be a superior writer, but only be willing to write something. We’ll help polish it off and make it something you’re super proud of.

More than 200 web developers, designers, and specialists just like you have written for this site. You should apply to write an article and join the club!

So, yes: CSS-Tricks is back!

In its own weird way! In my perfect world, there would be no doubt whether CSS-Tricks is publishing content on any given day. But that’s not entirely up to me. It not only has to be of at least some value to people like you who depend on sites like CSS-Tricks but also to DigitalOcean. It’s a delicate dance but I think everyone’s on the same page with a shared interest of keeping this site around and healthy.

I’m stoked I get to be a part of it. And that Juan Diego and Ryan do, too. And you, as well.

We’re all in it together. 🧡

[dailytomlinson]

While many artists would jump at the chance to tell you how lockdown has been a fruitful opportunity for self-improvement, full of pseudo self-help books and pompous podcasts, former One Directioner Louis Tomlinson is adamant that he has done, well, nothing.

“I’ve just watched loads of s___ TV,” he says after a long pause. “The Undoing is decent, isn’t it?”

Twenty-eight--year-old Tomlinson from Doncaster was always the down-to-earth Directioner, frequently describing himself as fringe member who spent more time analysing the band’s contracts than singing solos, known for chain-smoking his way through several packs of cigarettes a day and swearing like a trooper. A rarity, these days, among millennials who’d rather suck on a stem of kale and tweet about their #blessings.

He's getting ready to rehearse an exciting one-off gig that will be live-streamed from a secret London location on December 12, announced today exclusively via the Telegraph. The proceeds of the night will be split across four charities: The Stagehand Covid-19 Crew Relief Fund and Crew Nation, Bluebell Wood Children’s Hospice and Marcus Rashford’s charity FareShare, to help end child poverty.

The gig means a great deal to Tomlinson, whose first ever tour as a solo artist, to promote his debut solo album WALLS, was cut short back in March after just two concerts in Spain and Mexico. It was an album he’d spent five years working on: a guitar-led project that ruptured with the preppy pop anthems of One Direction, inspired instead by Tomlinson’s love for Britpop.

No doubt he was anxious to get it right following a decade “grown in test tubes”, as Harry Styles once described the band’s formation on the X Factor, where they came third before going on to make a reported $280,000 a day as the most successful band in the world. The pressure, too, was intense: all four bandmates had already released their own solo debuts.

Was he left reeling, I ask, unable to perform at such a crucial moment?

“The thing that I always enjoyed the most about One Direction was playing the shows, so my master plan, when I realised I was going to do a solo career, was always my first tour. It’s something I’ve been looking forward to for the best part of five years now. I got so close, I got a taste for it, and it’s affected me like everyone else, but I’m forever an optimist,” he says down the phone, with what I can only imagine to be a rather phlegmatic shrug.

Sure, I say, but the last year can’t have been easy. Didn’t he feel like his purpose had popped?

“You know what,” he says, reflecting, “maybe because I’ve had real dark moments in my life, they’ve given me scope for optimism. In the grand scheme of things, of what I’ve experienced, these everyday problems...they don’t seem so bad.”

Tomlinson is referring to losing his 43-year-old mother, a midwife, to leukemia in 2016, and his 18-year-old sister Felicite, a model, to an accidental drug overdose in 2018. The double tragedy is something he has been open about on his own terms, dedicating his single, Two of Us, from WALLS, to his mother Johannah, while often checking in with fans who have lost members of their own family.

It’s not unusual for Tomlinson to ask his 34.9 million followers if they’re doing alright, receiving hundreds of thousands of personal replies. It’s not something he will discuss in interviews, however, after he slammed BBC Breakfast for shamelessly probing his trauma in February this year. “Never going back there again,” he tweeted after coming off the show.

“Social media is a ruthless, toxic place, so I don’t like to spend much time there,” says Tomlinson, “but because of experiencing such light and shade all while I was famous, I have a very deep connection with my fans. They’ve always been there for me.”

In return, Tomlinson is good to them. Last month he even promised some new music, saying that he’d written four songs in four days. Does this mean that a second album is on the way?

“Yeah, definitely,” he says. “I’m very, very excited. I had basically penciled down a plan before corona took over our lives. And now it's kind of given me a little bit of time to really get into what I want to say and what I want things to sound like. Because, you know, I was really proud of my first record, but there were moments that I felt were truer to me than others. I think that there were some songs where I took slightly more risk and owned what I love, saying, ‘This is who I want to be’. So I want to take a leaf out of their book.”

Fans might think he’s referring to writing more heartfelt autobiographical content such as Two of Us, but in fact, he’s referring specifically to rock-inspired Kill My Mind, he says, the first song on WALLS. “There’s a certain energy in that song, in its delivery, in its attitude, that I want to recreate. People are struggling at the moment, so I want to create a raucous, exciting atmosphere in my live show, not a somber, thoughtful one.”

He sighs, trying to articulate something that’s clearly been playing on his mind for a while. “You know, because of my story, my album was a little heavy at times and a little somber. And as I'm sure you're aware, from talking to me, now, that isn't who I am.”

It must be draining, I say, the weight of expectation in both the media and across his fanbase, to be a spokesperson for grief and hardship. To have tragedy prelude everything he does and says.

“Honestly, it’s part of being from Doncaster as well, I don’t like people feeling sorry for me. That’s the last thing I want.”

Too many incredible memories to mention but not a day goes by that I don't think about how amazing it was. @NiallOfficial @Harry_Styles @LiamPayne @zaynmalik . So proud of you all individually.

The problem is, says Tomlinson, he doesn’t have the best imagination. “I have interesting things to say musically, but what’s challenging from a writing perspective is that I write from the heart, and I can’t really get into someone else’s story. And right now, being stuck at home, you have so little experience to draw from. It’s actually quite hard to write these positive, uplifting songs, because actually, the experiences that you're going through on a day to day basis, you know, you they don't have that same flavour.”

There is something that’s helping, though: a secret spot near Los Angeles, where he divides his time. “It’s remote and kind of weird, and I’m going to go there for three days and write. I don’t know why I’m so drawn to it. I found it via a YouTube video. It’s got some very interesting locals who live there, it’s sort of backwards when it comes to technology. It feels like you’re going back in time when you’re there. But I don’t want to give it away.”

Another source of inspiration for his second album is the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ back catalogue. “I grew up on their album Bytheway. And during lockdown I've been knee deep in their stuff. I’ve watched every documentary, every video. And I find their lead guitarist John Frusciante just fascinating.”

Has he spoken to Frusicante?

“I f______ wish,” snorts Tomlinson.

Surely someone as well-known as Tomlinson could easily get in touch?

“No, honestly, I think he’s too cool for that. He’s not into that kind of thing.”

Tomlinson’s passion for all things rock is also spurring on a side hustle he picked up as a judge on the X Factor in 2018: managing an all-female rock band via his own imprint on Simon Cowell’s Syco label. While the group disbanded before releasing their first single, and Tomlinson split from Syco earlier this year, the singer is keen to nurture some more talent.

“I'm not gonna lie, my process with my imprint through Syco, it became challenging and it became frustrating at times,” Tomlinson says a little wearily. “The kind of artists that I was interested in developing – because I genuinely feel through my experience in One Direction, you know, one of the biggest f______ bands, I feel like I've learned a lot about the industry – they weren’t ready-made. So I had lots of artists that I took through the door that were rough and ready, but major labels want to see something that works straight away. I found that a little bit demotivating. I love her and she's an incredible artist, but not everyone is a Taylor Swift.”

Tomlinson spends much of his free time scouting new talent either on YouTube, Reddit or BBC Introducing – he’s currently a huge fan of indie Brighton band, Fickle Friends. His dream is to manage an all-female band playing instruments. “Because there's no one in that space. And I know eventually if I don't do it, someone else will!”

Before he drives off to rehearsals, we chatter about how much he's been practising his guitar playing, and how he can't wait to take the whole team working at his favourite grassroots venue, The Dome in Doncaster, out ice-skating after he performs there on his rescheduled tour. “Because I've got skills,” he says, and I can hear his chest puff.

And then I ask the question every retired member of One Direction has been batting off ever since they broke up in 2015, after Zayn Malik quit. Rumours that his bandmates saw him as a Judas went wild after some eagle eyes fans noticed they’d unfollowed him on Instagram. Payne, Tomlinson, Horan and Styles have barely mentioned him since. Recently, however, they re-followed him, and Payne has teased that a One Direction reunion is on the cards.

So: might 2021 be the year of resurrection?

“I thought you were going to ask something juicier!” say Tomlinson witheringly. “Look, I f______ love One Direction. I'm sure we're going to come back together one day, and I'll be doing a couple of One Direction songs in my gig. I always do that, so that's not alluding to any reunion or anything. But, I mean, look, I'm sure one day we'll get back together, because, you know, we were f______ great.”

[louistomlinsoncouk]

While many artists would jump at the chance to tell you how lockdown has been a fruitful opportunity for self-improvement, full of pseudo self-help books and pompous podcasts, former One Directioner Louis Tomlinson is adamant that he has done, well, nothing.

“I’ve just watched loads of s___ TV,” he says after a long pause. “The Undoing is decent, isn’t it?”

Twenty-eight--year-old Tomlinson from Doncaster was always the down-to-earth Directioner, frequently describing himself as fringe member who spent more time analysing the band’s contracts than singing solos, known for chain-smoking his way through several packs of cigarettes a day and swearing like a trooper. A rarity, these days, among millennials who’d rather suck on a stem of kale and tweet about their #blessings.

Far from aimless, however, today the singer is full of beans, cheerily shushing his barking dog as he potters about his North London home where he lives with his best friend from home, Oli, and his girlfriend, the model Eleanor Calder.

He's getting ready to rehearse an exciting one-off gig that will be live-streamed from a secret London location on December 12, announced today exclusively via the Telegraph. The proceeds of the night will be split across four charities: The Stagehand Covid-19 Crew Relief Fund and Crew Nation, Bluebell Wood Children’s Hospice and Marcus Rashford’s charity FareShare, to help end child poverty.

The gig means a great deal to Tomlinson, whose first ever tour as a solo artist, to promote his debut solo album WALLS, was cut short back in March after just two concerts in Spain and Mexico. It was an album he’d spent five years working on: a guitar-led project that ruptured with the preppy pop anthems of One Direction, inspired instead by Tomlinson’s love for Britpop.

No doubt he was anxious to get it right following a decade “grown in test tubes”, as Harry Styles once described the band’s formation on the X Factor, where they came third before going on to make a reported $280,000 a day as the most successful band in the world. The pressure, too, was intense: all four bandmates had already released their own solo debuts.

Was he left reeling, I ask, unable to perform at such a crucial moment?

“The thing that I always enjoyed the most about One Direction was playing the shows, so my master plan, when I realised I was going to do a solo career, was always my first tour. It’s something I’ve been looking forward to for the best part of five years now. I got so close, I got a taste for it, and it’s affected me like everyone else, but I’m forever an optimist,” he says down the phone, with what I can only imagine to be a rather phlegmatic shrug.

Sure, I say, but the last year can’t have been easy. Didn’t he feel like his purpose had popped?

“You know what,” he says, reflecting, “maybe because I’ve had real dark moments in my life, they’ve given me scope for optimism. In the grand scheme of things, of what I’ve experienced, these everyday problems...they don’t seem so bad.”

Tomlinson is referring to losing his 43-year-old mother, a midwife, to leukemia in 2016, and his 18-year-old sister Felicite, a model, to an accidental drug overdose in 2018. The double tragedy is something he has been open about on his own terms, dedicating his single, Two of Us, from WALLS, to his mother Johannah, while often checking in with fans who have lost members of their own family.

It’s not unusual for Tomlinson to ask his 34.9 million followers if they’re doing alright, receiving hundreds of thousands of personal replies. It’s not something he will discuss in interviews, however, after he slammed BBC Breakfast for shamelessly probing his trauma in February this year. “Never going back there again,” he tweeted after coming off the show.

“Social media is a ruthless, toxic place, so I don’t like to spend much time there,” says Tomlinson, “but because of experiencing such light and shade all while I was famous, I have a very deep connection with my fans. They’ve always been there for me.”

In return, Tomlinson is good to them. Last month he even promised some new music, saying that he’d written four songs in four days. Does this mean that a second album is on the way?

“Yeah, definitely,” he says. “I’m very, very excited. I had basically penciled down a plan before corona took over our lives. And now it's kind of given me a little bit of time to really get into what I want to say and what I want things to sound like. Because, you know, I was really proud of my first record, but there were moments that I felt were truer to me than others. I think that there were some songs where I took slightly more risk and owned what I love, saying, ‘This is who I want to be’. So I want to take a leaf out of their book.”

Fans might think he’s referring to writing more heartfelt autobiographical content such as Two of Us, but in fact, he’s referring specifically to rock-inspired Kill My Mind, he says, the first song on WALLS. “There’s a certain energy in that song, in its delivery, in its attitude, that I want to recreate. People are struggling at the moment, so I want to create a raucous, exciting atmosphere in my live show, not a somber, thoughtful one.”

He sighs, trying to articulate something that’s clearly been playing on his mind for a while. “You know, because of my story, my album was a little heavy at times and a little somber. And as I'm sure you're aware, from talking to me, now, that isn't who I am.”

It must be draining, I say, the weight of expectation in both the media and across his fanbase, to be a spokesperson for grief and hardship. To have tragedy prelude everything he does and says.

“Honestly, it’s part of being from Doncaster as well, I don’t like people feeling sorry for me. That’s the last thing I want.”

The problem is, says Tomlinson, he doesn’t have the best imagination. “I have interesting things to say musically, but what’s challenging from a writing perspective is that I write from the heart, and I can’t really get into someone else’s story. And right now, being stuck at home, you have so little experience to draw from. It’s actually quite hard to write these positive, uplifting songs, because actually, the experiences that you're going through on a day to day basis, you know, you they don't have that same flavour.”

There is something that’s helping, though: a secret spot near Los Angeles, where he divides his time to see his four-year-old son, Freddie, whom he shares with his ex Briana Jungwirth, a stylist. “It’s remote and kind of weird, and I’m going to go there for three days and write. I don’t know why I’m so drawn to it. I found it via a YouTube video. It’s got some very interesting locals who live there, it’s sort of backwards when it comes to technology. It feels like you’re going back in time when you’re there. But I don’t want to give it away.”

Another source of inspiration for his second album is the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ back catalogue. “I grew up on their album Bytheway. And during lockdown I've been knee deep in their stuff. I’ve watched every documentary, every video. And I find their lead guitarist John Frusciante just fascinating.”

Has he spoken to Frusicante?

“I f______ wish,” snorts Tomlinson.

Surely someone as well-known as Tomlinson could easily get in touch?

“No, honestly, I think he’s too cool for that. He’s not into that kind of thing.”

Tomlinson’s passion for all things rock is also spurring on a side hustle he picked up as a judge on the X Factor in 2018: managing an all-female rock band via his own imprint on Simon Cowell’s Syco label. While the group disbanded before releasing their first single, and Tomlinson split from Syco earlier this year, the singer is keen to nurture some more talent.

“I'm not gonna lie, my process with my imprint through Syco, it became challenging and it became frustrating at times,” Tomlinson says a little wearily. “The kind of artists that I was interested in developing – because I genuinely feel through my experience in One Direction, you know, one of the biggest f______ bands, I feel like I've learned a lot about the industry – they weren’t ready-made. So I had lots of artists that I took through the door that were rough and ready, but major labels want to see something that works straight away. I found that a little bit demotivating. I love her and she's an incredible artist, but not everyone is a Taylor Swift.”

Tomlinson spends much of his free time scouting new talent either on YouTube, Reddit or BBC Introducing – he’s currently a huge fan of indie Brighton band, Fickle Friends. His dream is to manage an all-female band playing instruments. “Because there's no one in that space. And I know eventually if I don't do it, someone else will!”

Before he drives off to rehearsals, we chatter about how much he's been practising his guitar playing, and how he can't wait to take the whole team working at his favourite grassroots venue, The Dome in Doncaster, out ice-skating after he performs there on his rescheduled tour. “Because I've got skills,” he says, and I can hear his chest puff.

And then I ask the question every retired member of One Direction has been batting off ever since they broke up in 2015, after Zayn Malik quit. Rumours that his bandmates saw him as a Judas went wild after some eagle eyes fans noticed they’d unfollowed him on Instagram. Payne, Tomlinson, Horan and Styles have barely mentioned him since. Recently, however, they re-followed him, and Payne has teased that a One Direction reunion is on the cards.

So: might 2021 be the year of resurrection?

“I thought you were going to ask something juicier!” say Tomlinson witheringly. ���Look, I f______ love One Direction. I'm sure we're going to come back together one day, and I'll be doing a couple of One Direction songs in my gig. I always do that, so that's not alluding to any reunion or anything. But, I mean, look, I'm sure one day we'll get back together, because, you know, we were f______ great.”

[hlupdate]

While many artists would jump at the chance to tell you how lockdown has been a fruitful opportunity for self-improvement, full of pseudo self-help books and pompous podcasts, former One Directioner Louis Tomlinson is adamant that he has done, well, nothing.

“I’ve just watched loads of s___ TV,” he says after a long pause. “The Undoing is decent, isn’t it?”

Twenty-eight--year-old Tomlinson from Doncaster was always the down-to-earth Directioner, frequently describing himself as fringe member who spent more time analysing the band’s contracts than singing solos, known for chain-smoking his way through several packs of cigarettes a day and swearing like a trooper. A rarity, these days, among millennials who’d rather suck on a stem of kale and tweet about their #blessings.

Far from aimless, however, today the singer is full of beans, cheerily shushing his barking dog as he potters about his North London home where he lives with his best friend from home, Oli, [...].

He's getting ready to rehearse an exciting one-off gig that will be live-streamed from a secret London location on December 12, announced today exclusively via the Telegraph. The proceeds of the night will be split across four charities: The Stagehand Covid-19 Crew Relief Fund and Crew Nation, Bluebell Wood Children’s Hospice and Marcus Rashford’s charity FareShare, to help end child poverty.

The gig means a great deal to Tomlinson, whose first ever tour as a solo artist, to promote his debut solo album WALLS, was cut short back in March after just two concerts in Spain and Mexico. It was an album he’d spent five years working on: a guitar-led project that ruptured with the preppy pop anthems of One Direction, inspired instead by Tomlinson’s love for Britpop.

No doubt he was anxious to get it right following a decade “grown in test tubes”, as Harry Styles once described the band’s formation on the X Factor, where they came third before going on to make a reported $280,000 a day as the most successful band in the world. The pressure, too, was intense: all four bandmates had already released their own solo debuts.

Was he left reeling, I ask, unable to perform at such a crucial moment?

“The thing that I always enjoyed the most about One Direction was playing the shows, so my master plan, when I realised I was going to do a solo career, was always my first tour. It’s something I’ve been looking forward to for the best part of five years now. I got so close, I got a taste for it, and it’s affected me like everyone else, but I’m forever an optimist,” he says down the phone, with what I can only imagine to be a rather phlegmatic shrug.

Sure, I say, but the last year can’t have been easy. Didn’t he feel like his purpose had popped?

“You know what,” he says, reflecting, “maybe because I’ve had real dark moments in my life, they’ve given me scope for optimism. In the grand scheme of things, of what I’ve experienced, these everyday problems...they don’t seem so bad.”

Tomlinson is referring to losing his 43-year-old mother, a midwife, to leukemia in 2016, and his 18-year-old sister Felicite, a model, to an accidental drug overdose in 2018. The double tragedy is something he has been open about on his own terms, dedicating his single, Two of Us, from WALLS, to his mother Johannah, while often checking in with fans who have lost members of their own family.

It’s not unusual for Tomlinson to ask his 34.9 million followers if they’re doing alright, receiving hundreds of thousands of personal replies. It’s not something he will discuss in interviews, however, after he slammed BBC Breakfast for shamelessly probing his trauma in February this year. “Never going back there again,” he tweeted after coming off the show.

“Social media is a ruthless, toxic place, so I don’t like to spend much time there,” says Tomlinson, “but because of experiencing such light and shade all while I was famous, I have a very deep connection with my fans. They’ve always been there for me.”

In return, Tomlinson is good to them. Last month he even promised some new music, saying that he’d written four songs in four days. Does this mean that a second album is on the way?

“Yeah, definitely,” he says. “I’m very, very excited. I had basically penciled down a plan before corona took over our lives. And now it's kind of given me a little bit of time to really get into what I want to say and what I want things to sound like. Because, you know, I was really proud of my first record, but there were moments that I felt were truer to me than others. I think that there were some songs where I took slightly more risk and owned what I love, saying, ‘This is who I want to be’. So I want to take a leaf out of their book.”

Fans might think he’s referring to writing more heartfelt autobiographical content such as Two of Us, but in fact, he’s referring specifically to rock-inspired Kill My Mind, he says, the first song on WALLS. “There’s a certain energy in that song, in its delivery, in its attitude, that I want to recreate. People are struggling at the moment, so I want to create a raucous, exciting atmosphere in my live show, not a somber, thoughtful one.”

He sighs, trying to articulate something that’s clearly been playing on his mind for a while. “You know, because of my story, my album was a little heavy at times and a little somber. And as I'm sure you're aware, from talking to me, now, that isn't who I am.”

It must be draining, I say, the weight of expectation in both the media and across his fanbase, to be a spokesperson for grief and hardship. To have tragedy prelude everything he does and says.

“Honestly, it’s part of being from Doncaster as well, I don’t like people feeling sorry for me. That’s the last thing I want.”

The problem is, says Tomlinson, he doesn’t have the best imagination. “I have interesting things to say musically, but what’s challenging from a writing perspective is that I write from the heart, and I can’t really get into someone else’s story. And right now, being stuck at home, you have so little experience to draw from. It’s actually quite hard to write these positive, uplifting songs, because actually, the experiences that you're going through on a day to day basis, you know, you they don't have that same flavour.”

There is something that’s helping, though: a secret spot near Los Angeles, [...] “It’s remote and kind of weird, and I’m going to go there for three days and write. I don’t know why I’m so drawn to it. I found it via a YouTube video. It’s got some very interesting locals who live there, it’s sort of backwards when it comes to technology. It feels like you’re going back in time when you’re there. But I don’t want to give it away.”

Another source of inspiration for his second album is the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ back catalogue. “I grew up on their album Bytheway. And during lockdown I've been knee deep in their stuff. I’ve watched every documentary, every video. And I find their lead guitarist John Frusciante just fascinating.”

Has he spoken to Frusicante?

“I f______ wish,” snorts Tomlinson.

Surely someone as well-known as Tomlinson could easily get in touch?

“No, honestly, I think he’s too cool for that. He’s not into that kind of thing.”

Tomlinson’s passion for all things rock is also spurring on a side hustle he picked up as a judge on the X Factor in 2018: managing an all-female rock band via his own imprint on Simon Cowell’s Syco label. While the group disbanded before releasing their first single, and Tomlinson split from Syco earlier this year, the singer is keen to nurture some more talent.

“I'm not gonna lie, my process with my imprint through Syco, it became challenging and it became frustrating at times,” Tomlinson says a little wearily. “The kind of artists that I was interested in developing – because I genuinely feel through my experience in One Direction, you know, one of the biggest f______ bands, I feel like I've learned a lot about the industry – they weren’t ready-made. So I had lots of artists that I took through the door that were rough and ready, but major labels want to see something that works straight away. I found that a little bit demotivating. I love her and she's an incredible artist, but not everyone is a Taylor Swift.”

Tomlinson spends much of his free time scouting new talent either on YouTube, Reddit or BBC Introducing – he’s currently a huge fan of indie Brighton band, Fickle Friends. His dream is to manage an all-female band playing instruments. “Because there's no one in that space. And I know eventually if I don't do it, someone else will!”

Before he drives off to rehearsals, we chatter about how much he's been practising his guitar playing, and how he can't wait to take the whole team working at his favourite grassroots venue, The Dome in Doncaster, out ice-skating after he performs there on his rescheduled tour. “Because I've got skills,” he says, and I can hear his chest puff.

And then I ask the question every retired member of One Direction has been batting off ever since they broke up in 2015, after Zayn Malik quit. Rumours that his bandmates saw him as a Judas went wild after some eagle eyes fans noticed they’d unfollowed him on Instagram. Payne, Tomlinson, Horan and Styles have barely mentioned him since. Recently, however, they re-followed him, and Payne has teased that a One Direction reunion is on the cards.

So: might 2021 be the year of resurrection?

“I thought you were going to ask something juicier!” say Tomlinson witheringly. “Look, I f______ love One Direction. I'm sure we're going to come back together one day, and I'll be doing a couple of One Direction songs in my gig. I always do that, so that's not alluding to any reunion or anything. But, I mean, look, I'm sure one day we'll get back together, because, you know, we were f______ great.”

[alleiradayne]

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story…

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE

Long is our list of ghost stories laid to rest. But when the dark rider returns thirty years after his exorcism at the hands of the Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and I are faced with the possibility that we’ve been wrong about one thing.

Some urban legends never die.

Part III - Unsolved Mysteries

Summary: Sam, Dean, and the reader head to the Old Dutch Cemetery. Warnings/Tags: General elements of horror and fear, graveyards, coffins, sorta-not-really-death... Characters/Pairings: First Person Female!Reader/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Word Count: 5,385

The Impala jostled over the transition from street to gravel path as Dean turned for the graveyard. Tall, stout trees lined the trail to the Old Dutch Church, their long sinuous branches reaching out as though to grasp and pull unwary travelers into the shadowy depths of the surrounding forest. A chill ran down my spine as the car lumbered on, descending into the darkness, and a foolish sense of fear filled my stomach with dread. I had vanquished many vengeful spirits with Sam and Dean. The last decade of our lives had been nothing but. And yet, something about the case had me on edge.

Around a shallow bend in the path, the church materialized from the darkness atop a hill as the Impala’s headlights flashed across it. Dark windows and a distinct lack of exterior lighting shrouded the building in impenetrable black despite our approach. The car climbed the steep hill, and as it crest the top, I saw a thick stone wall and a tall iron gate in the distance.

“At least we’re alone,” Sam mentioned as he followed the church.

“Good,” Dean started, then squinted through the windshield as we neared the gate. “Is it open?”

“I’m guessing the graveyard isn’t maintained if the church is abandoned,” Sam stated.

As he pulled up to the gate, Dean put the car in park and climbed out. Sam and I followed, and between the three of us, we managed to pull the gate apart wide enough for the Impala to pass. Dean returned to the car and, as he pulled into the graveyard, that chill, loitering beneath my skin, clawed deep into my bones. The Impala entered the great yawning maw and slid into the belly of the beast.

When I remained still too long, Sam ushered me along with a reassuring hand at my shoulder. His wide stare betrayed his crooked smile, and that creeping dread seeped into the very marrow of my existence.

“This feels too easy.” I had intended to speak with more conviction, but my voice faltered.

“Don’t jinx it,” Sam retorted.

“I’m not trying to,” I said as I rubbed an ache in my left arm. Drawn to the darkness, I scanned the graveyard from edge to edge. “I’m… something feels off. Like we’re forgetting something.”

He turned to me then, and the warmth of his large hand enveloped my shoulder. An odd sense of calm replaced my looming anxiety. And his voice assuaged my worst concerns. “Whatever happens, we’ll get through it together. I’m here, Dean’s here. You know what you’re doing, too. I believe in us.”

And I believed him. I didn’t just know it to be true, but felt it, like that deep ache in my bones. But the case, the urban legend. It all had me on edge. Despite my oscillating emotions, I smiled a wry smile and looked up to him. A slanted ray of silvery moonlight illuminated his own crooked smile, and the last of my concerns receded to the edges of my mind. “Thanks, Sam. You’re really good at that.”

He turned for the car as Dean stopped up the path. “At what?”

I followed with a skipped step and said, “Making a lady feel special.”

His subtle smile turned into a devious smirk I’d not seen on him in age. “Good. You are,” he said. A hitch in his breath hesitated his next statement, but then he turned to me once more and said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while, but I’ve been feeling pretty shitty myself since Chuck.”

Dean remained in the car, illuminated by the glow of his cell phone. Safe, for the moment at least, I figured it couldn’t hurt to hear Sam out. “What’s on your mind?”

“Dean and I care a lot for you,” he stated as he closed the space between us. He scoffed before he said, "But I… Dammit, we weren’t supposed to be in fucking graveyard when I finally told you… and especially not on a case. I’ve wanted to say this for months, but we haven’t taken a break, and I never get five minutes with you alone—”

“Sam.”

His teeth clicked shut at my interruption. A thick swallow bobbed his throat before he said, “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”

“I can tell,” I replied with a short laugh. “But I get it. I am, too. I’ve… felt the same way for a while.”

Despite the darkness, his entire face brightened at that. “Really? Like… how long?”

I turned for the Impala and said over my shoulder, “Longer than I care to admit.”

He trotted to catch up to me at the trunk. When he opened his mouth to speak again, the driver’s door opened, and Dean’s boots crunched on the gravel. Before he squandered the moment, Sam slipped his hand to the small of my back and whispered in my ear, “We’ll talk more later?”

I sucked a breath through my nose as I bit my bottom lip but managed a quick nod as Sam straightened. There is a reason I don’t play poker; Dean spotted the obvious a mile away, his approach slowing and his glare narrowing on me, then on Sam, who had busied himself on his phone.

“What’s going on?” he grumbled as he unlocked the trunk.

Sam hardly looked up. “Hm? Nothing, just waiting for you. C’mon, let’s go,” he said as he grabbed a shovel and flashlight, then strode away for a set of plots.

Dean’s glare fell to me then, as though he measured me under a microscope, and I shifted on my feet. “Y/N…”

“What?!” I squeaked, then cleared my throat. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” he declared as he rummaged through the trunk. “You look… do you need to take a leak or something?”

The surge of sensations from Sam’s attention passed, and I stilled. “No, I’m fine. Just… graveyards, right? This whole case has me kinda freaked.”

Look, I’m not dumb, and I know Dean isn’t either. But thankfully, he let my half-truth slide and grabbed a shovel. “You know the drill. This’ll be quick once we dig it up.”

I took the shovel from him, then the flashlight. “Got it. I’ll start helping Sam look for this needle in a haystack unmarked grave.”

“Good idea,” he replied. “I’ll catch up in a minute. Need to grab a few more things here. Go on ahead.”

With my shovel shouldered, I turned and hesitated. Headstones sprawled to the opposite tree line three hundred yards away, and between them rolled a thick mist. Cloud cover rolled in almost as if it were on a schedule. Darkness masked the moon and plunged the graveyard in a night so deep, and my flashlight flickered like a tiny shivering candle flame.

One foot in front of the other. That was all I needed to do. Just walk. Read headstones. Find the unmarked grave. Not that hard. Lost count of the graves I've dug up over the last decade. Like I mentioned earlier, Sam and Dean changed my life—for the better—the day we met. Digging up graves happened to be a part of the gig.

As I traipsed through the graveyard, headstones passed beneath my flashlight, materializing out of the dark mist. The light lingered long enough for me to see any sort of epitaph, then moved on, the stone vanishing into the fog once more. My mind wandered as that monotonous repetition seeped into my muscles, weary and aching. Hypnotized by the swinging flashlight—left, right, left, right—the graveyard faded away, the headstones ceased to exist, and I wandered aimlessly.

"Over here!"

Sam's booming baritone echoed through the darkness, a bodiless voice carried on a bone-chilling gust of wind. Another shiver coursed along my spine, and my flashlight quivered in my white-knuckled grip. Strange trees and unfamiliar headstones surrounded me, appearing and vanishing in the thick mist that languidly coiled through the graveyard. Sam's voice breached the silence again, emanating from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Each echoing thump of my heart beat faster than the previous. Each breath filled less and less of my lungs, shallow and thin. And each thought muddied the waters further as I waded through the muck until not a single coherent idea remained. Silence settled in, stilled the graveyard's night sounds, and death's icy breath lashed out at me.

Long seconds stretched so thin, one tick of my watch marked an entire lifetime. As my heart raced, its sharp staccato strikes drowned out the world. A moment, one terrifyingly calm instance of hyperawareness passed before I realized that thumping no longer beat in my head but from through the ground and into my chest. Horse hooves raced in the distance, and with each expeditious plot, they neared.

Pressure. A shift in the air behind me snapped my instincts into action. I wheeled about and brought the shovel to bear only to find more of the thick graveyard mist ambling between headstones and trees. Sam's voice echoed again. And again. And again. I tried to call back, but no sound escaped my throat, dry as the desert in a drought. Though desperate to move, my feet refused. Rooted in that hallowed ground, I firmly remained where I stood, my head spinning.

That was until I heard the most terrifying sound in recent memory.

The blood-curdling bray of a horse screeched through the night air, so shrill and ethereal. Impossibly sustained, the cry lingered an eternity. That haunting melody accompanied the thundering hooves’ rhythm, both building in a wild crescendo until out of the mist burst the stuff of nightmares.

Black as pitch, a horse bearing a headless rider barreled through the graveyard straight for me. Fire fanned from the steed’s wide eyes, and smoke blacker than his coat roiled from his nose. Bones and ligaments jutted through his muscles, and his jet black hide scored with whip lashes, runnels of blood, and burns beneath crimson and iron tack.

And yet, the horse paled in comparison to its burden. Astride the cursed beast sat a giant of a man clad in green armor so dark, it was nearly black. He wielded a fiery whip that cracked like thunder with a flick of his wrist, and in the other hand, he manifested a flaming cannonball. He hefted it high over his head—the empty void where his head should have been—and aimed.

Never in my life had I run so fast. Like lightning, I leaped through the graveyard, racing for whatever outlet I could find. Reaching tree branches snagged my coat, my jeans, and one sliced a gash across my cheek. Pain and fear fueled my survival, and the last ounce of hope I had desperately clung to echoed once more, so much closer.

“Y/N?!”

Sam’s shout distracted me a second too long; the fiery cannonball singed my hair as it hurtled past my head and destroyed a headstone. Graveyard turf caught my toe as I threw my arms up to shield myself from flying stone, and I crashed to the dirt face first. Blood poured from my nose and soaked my shirt as I scrambled to my feet. Whitehot pain rolled in waves across my face, and tears blurred my vision as I searched for my thrown flashlight and shovel. Thundering hooves closed on me, drawing closer and closer until my hand seized the metal grip of my shovel. I torqued my entire body and swung the bladed end with all my might.

The rider’s whip coiled high above his shoulders, then unfurled with a wicked snap of his arm. Inch by inch, the flaming bones rolled to me until time raced to catch up. The last foot disappeared in a single heartbeat. An earth-shattering crack of thunder rattled in my teeth as the bone whip wrapped around the steel shaft of my shovel. He snapped it from my hands with little effort and freed his whip, then raised it again for another strike.

Despite the fact that I knew I had no chance of escaping, I ran. Thunder rolled once more as the whip descended upon me. Sudden clarity steadied my heart as death’s icy chill breathed down my back once more. Final heartbeats counted down my last seconds as the whip’s scorching grasp coiled about my neck. Where time had once moved too fast, it slowed again, creeping until it stopped.

The world faded away to nothing. No sound, no light. No racing hooves or hearts. No shrill horse’s cry. No fire and no ice. No pain. Suspended in a nothingness sea, I drifted aimlessly. Lost. Even time’s relevance ceased to exist. The threads of my consciousness unraveled as though tugged by anxious fingers. Soon, I knew that I, too, would unweave until I remained nothing but a mere memory in other's minds.

Then a cry pierced the silence, muted, as though it belonged to someone else’s. Desperate, I focused every conscious sensation that yet belonged to me on that singular sound, a siren’s salvation, and clung to it. The voice thinned and focused, sharpened as though I dialed in on the perfect frequency until it burst through the emptiness and rendered me senseless.

And then I fell. Hundreds of thousands of feet, I descended, plummeting faster and faster as the shout continued to grow. Another voice joined, bellowing my name as I sank. The onslaught of vertigo ravaged every fiber of my pitiable existence as I tumbled through space and time until my mind and body reunited. Reality returned in a blossoming of flashlights, two men shouting in shock, and a freshly dug grave into which I dropped the final five feet. I screamed as I crashed onto the exposed coffin, then collapsed in a heap.

My first gasping breath dragged in dirt and grave rot, and I choked. Before I could string a coherent thought together, two sets of hands grasped me by the arms and hauled me from the grave. They set me on my feet, but I collapsed to the ground, sprawling on my back and stared up at a clear, cloudless night sky.

A cascade of brilliant stars dotted the emptiness, teaming with ancient light. Cool, clean air filled my lungs for the first pure breath I’d taken in a century. Clarity followed, and my first thought echoed between my ears like a struck church bell.

Did I just cheat death?

“Y/N?”

Sam’s strength slipped beneath my shoulders and legs as he hauled me into his lap. His face, knotted and twisted with worry, flooded my vision. “Y/N, are you okay?”

Inventory. No sliced cheek. No burnt hair, no broken nose. Most importantly, no burned lashes on my neck. I started a few thoughts before I settled on, “I think I’m fine.”

He seated me on the ground once more and sat beside me. Dean knelt as well and placed a stable hand on my shoulder. “What happened? One second, I was right behind you, and then the next, you were gone.”

The chilling scream of an undead horse echoed in the furthest recesses of my mind. “I saw it. The…” I stuttered as I motioned to my head. “He had a whip of bone engulfed in flames and a fiery cannonball.” I paused, seized by the memory of such fear. “He... he ran me down—”

“That’s it, I’m putting an end to this shit right now,” Dean interjected as he hopped into the grave.

Sam and I leaned over the edge as Dean pried open the old pinewood box. Wood splintered and popped as he made short work of the rotted enclosure. But then the top snapped free and fell aside to reveal nothing and everything all at once.

Ash and black scorch marks marred the entire interior of the coffin. “What the fuck?” Dean spat. He sifted through the ashes, flinging them about, searching. “No, this can’t be right, there has to be something—”

“Dad did it.” Dean and I both turned to Sam. “Thirty years ago, he had the same idea we did: roast the bones, send the spirit on.”

Dean turned back to the box and stared. A long minute passed as thumped his crowbar on his thigh, the gears in his head churning so hard, I swore I heard them. Then he replaced the cover and crawled from the grave with Sam’s help. He dusted off his jeans but remained silent as he paced, deep in thought.

I grasped Sam’s hand and hauled myself up to stand beside him. His warmth enveloped me as I curled into him, and he held me close. With a reassuring squeeze, he asked, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I will be,” I sighed. “I think I…”

The thought trailed off as Dean began shoveling dirt back into the grave. “Son of a bitch ghost,” he spat with a violent stab of the shovel. “Fucking piece of shit curse.” Another stab. “Stupid fairy jerk.” Another stab. “Lame ass urban legends!”

“Dean!” Sam insisted, “what the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?!” Dean barked. “We gotta get out of here and figure out what to do next before this circus freak shows up again.”

Sam sighed as he smoothed his hand across my shoulders and said, “You can head back to the car, I’ll help—”

“No!” I declared, far louder than I had intended. “Sorry, no. I’ll…” I spotted my shovel and flashlight lying not three feet away from me. Unwilling to question how either object had returned with me, I hefted both. “I’ll help. I need something to do.”

Concern clouded Sam’s visage, but he shrugged and made room for me to dig. As I started in, fresh memories flooded my mind’s eye, and I did my best to relive the moments as clearly—and objectively—as possible. Undead horse. Crimson tack. Headless rider. Fiery whip and cannonball. Green armor that could easily be mistaken for black.

“He was wearing green armor,” I stated.

Dean froze at that. “Green? Like the Gawain legend?”

“I assume so,” I replied as I continued shoveling. “I think we’re still on the right track. It’s an amalgamation of urban legends. The Hessian, the dulachan. Gawain. A fae-cursed german soldier that fought against the colonies during the American revolution. Not sure how the English legend plays into it though.”

“Maybe it doesn’t,” Sam said with a grunt. “Maybe being decapitated by an enemy soldier during a war is close enough to match the English urban legend.”

“Could be why he only comes back once a year,” I agreed.

Dean shook his head. “Let’s just get this grave filled and figure it out back at the motel.”

With a sense of finality on the topic, we continued to shovel. As I worked, I couldn’t help but lose myself in thought to the point where I hardly recalled shoveling. A filled grave stood before me less than half an hour later. Wordlessly, we gathered up our things, then turned our backs on the grave and started for the car.

No more than fifty yards from the unmarked headstone, Sam stopped first, frozen solid. I lurched to an awkward halt beside him, my hand held fast in his. I looked up to him and asked, “What’s… Sam?”

He stared straight ahead at the car, then looked at me. “Didn’t you hear that?”

“No,” I said as I turned to the Impala, then back to him. “What are you talking about?”

“C’mon, Sam, let’s—”

I heard it then; the relentless cry of a terrifying horse careened through the still graveyard. Dean had heard it too, his thought suspended, unfinished. The echoing bray of the horse faded as a fresh thundering of hooves clamored in the distance.

“Get to the car!”

My shout startled Sam and Dean into motion. The first hundred yards passed, but beating hooves pounded in from all sides. Another terrifying whinny screeched through the night, and in the last hundred yards to the car, my nightmare returned in full force.

The undead horse and its rider materialized from the mist and leaped the car’s trunk, heading straight for us. I screamed and skidded to a halt, then twisted to run back into the graveyard. Sam and Dean followed, catching my shorter gait in a few sprinting strides. With one final look over my shoulder, I spotted the headless rider gaining on us and shouted.

“We can’t outrun him!”

Ahead, Dean pointed at a wide paved path on the far side of the graveyard. “Follow that road! I’ve got an idea!”

“INTO THE WOODS?!” I screeched.

“Trust me!” he shouted back as we reached the road and turned towards the treeline.

I trusted Dean with my life. But he had not seen what I had. Just as the thought crossed my mind, an iron ball of fire lobbed past Dean’s head and landed in the asphalt, spraying dirt and rock. Dean leaped the divot and checked back over his shoulder. “Seriously, who throws fucking cannonballs at people?!”

Without a second to retort, we rounded a sharp curve in the path that twisted around a copse separated from the forest. On the other side sat a fork in the path, our only options left or right. At the last possible second, Dean darted right, and we followed. The road narrowed considerably, too small for a car to pass. Asphalt transitioned to dirt, and thick forest trees encroached. No light from the moon or stars penetrated the dense canopy above.

I checked behind me to see the rider and his nightmare steed gaining ground, no more than fifty yards away. “Dean, what are we doing?!”

He searched the trees, the path as his head whipped about, but I knew he saw nothing but the same desperate hope of salvation I sought. Thundering hooves counted down the final moments of our lives, one gallop after the next. Though I had seen dire situations hunting beside Sam, Dean, and Castiel over the years, none compared to the complete despair I felt in that moment, running ragged through the woods from the Headless fucking Horseman.

An urban legend was about to kill us. A friggin' fairytale told to scare kids. 

Dean skidded to a halt so suddenly, Sam and I blasted twenty yards past him. I spun about gracelessly and gripped Sam’s arm for leverage. Behind us, Dean stood in a pool of opulent moonlight illuminating the dirt path through a clearing in the forest canopy. Beyond the lighted path, the rider and his horse closed the distance so fast, Dean risked losing his chance to escape.

"Dean, what are you doing?! Run!" Sam bellowed as he started for him.

"Sam, no! Stop!" I pleaded as I ran to catch him, but his legs proved too long and too fast for my own.

Despite his speed, I knew he'd never make it. An unseen force hindered him, as though the hands of the dead emerged from the ground and snatched at his ankles. He reached for Dean, his entire body straining and stretched to its fullest. The horse’s hooves pounded the dirt only a few yards away, but Dean stood fast, head held high and feet planted. And there in the darkness, I understood.

Dean knew something I did not. Something worth its weight in gold. Literally.

Heavy coins landed in the dirt as he backed into the shadows and flung his arm in a wide arc. Like so many shards of broken glass, they scattered. Each tumbled and turned end over end, glinting and glittering as they flipped and rolled to settle in the dirt.

With Dean's final cast of the dice, time stood still. He distilled everything that transpired that night in that singular moment. I watched helplessly as Dean stood defiant in the shadows, and Sam failed to reach him. The horse leaped the final feat as the rider raised his whip, coiling high over his shoulders. Hooves breached the moonlight as the rider brought down his arm in eternal judgment, the flaming lash his gavel. Horse and whip bore down on Dean, crossing the golden coins’ threshold and thoroughly bathed in brilliant moonlight. My last hope of salvation incinerated, and in that final second, I screamed.

But that second never came. In a single, raging beat of my heart, time, and reality reunited, and I hardly believed my eyes. Smoke and cinders smoldered at the horse's hooves, engulfing him and the rider to headless shoulders as though fire had caught dry tinder. The nightmare steed cried out its ethereal scream. The rider raised both hands, whip, and a new projectile brandished high until consumed by the squall. And then a turbulent gust scattered the ashes as though they had never existed.

My scream faded as it echoed through the woods. Sam whipped about, terrified eyes searching for me in the darkness. Found, he raced to me, and I grasped onto his arms. One massive hand cupped my cheek as he looked me in the eye, searched for any sign of injury, and begged for reassurance. I dove into his embrace then, unwilling to stand alone any longer. All my anger and fear drained in the safety of his arms as though it ran through a sieve.

A soft clinking of metal drew my attention past Sam, and I saw Dean gathering up the golden coins at his feet. He returned them to his pocket, then headed for us, dusting his hands on his thighs along the way. When he reached us, his typical smile spread across his lips, and he spoke.

"That's one way to waste a ghost."

"Is it…" I asked, hope clouding my better judgment.

"It'll buy us some time," Sam said with a reassuring squeeze of my shoulder. "We need to get back to the motel and figure out what's next."

Dean started back for the car first. "You know, I'm starting to wonder if it's a tul—"

"It's not a tulpa, Dean," Sam spat as he followed, urging me along beside him. "Seriously, we've only ever seen one of those things."

Dean shook his head and laughed sardonically. "It's got all the signs. A big ol' mess of urban legends and myths. An entire country that believes in it. And real power. I mean, did you see that thing, it damn near ran me down." When neither of us responded, he turned over his shoulder and his ridiculous grin faded. "What?"

"You could have died," I stated.

Of course, he shrugged. "But I didn't," he said as he pointed to his pocket. "Back up plan."

"Speaking of which," Sam said before I could give Dean a piece of my mind. "Where'd you get that idea?"

As we neared the fork, Dean jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at me. "That website. I looked up a little on each legend and found the dulachan is sort of banished for a hot minute if a gold coin is tossed in its path. So I figured, why not try twenty gold coins?"

"Try?" I repeated.

At the fork, he stopped and turned to face us. "I had a hunch."

A hunch. I knew what that meant. He had no clue. One or twenty, Dean had not the faintest notion if a gold coin would stop the spirit. No additional research. No supporting theories. Nothing. Just a fucking hunch and the confidence of a man with a death wish.

I opened my mouth, intent on giving Dean the tongue-lashing of his life. My hands shook as I parted from Sam, trembled as one coiled into a furiously extended index finger, and the other balled into a tight fist. Unbridled heat twisted in the pit of my stomach, contorted my face, and rattled in my throat as I began to speak.

But cold dread drowned my rage, and my words succumbed to that torrential fear. A ghastly pale man astride an equally pale horse rounded the sharp corner past the fork, less than twenty yards behind Dean. No clop of hooves announced his approach, no horse’s chuff, no clatter of tack. Silent as the dead, he followed the path and stopped only a stride short behind Dean. 

I gawked openly, as did Sam, and when neither of us spoke, Dean glanced over his shoulder only to startle and shout as he leaped to my side. “Christ, man, don’t sneak up on a guy like that!”

The pale rider’s gaze lazily drifted down and stared each one of us in the eye. Otherworldly, he appeared as though he had been ripped from his timeline and placed in ours. A three-point hat covered his long hair tied back with a thin leather strap, and a once-fine wool coat covered his linen shirt and felted vest. Thin gloves sheathed his hands, holding the reins. Heavy wool pants draped loosely down the thigh to gather at the knee where thick stockings tucked in beneath. Wide-buckled shoes with short heels completed the ensemble.

A gray layer of ash covered the rider, his clothes, his tack, and his horse, most terrifying of all.

“Good evening, my lords, my lady. Would any of you know the way to the schoolhouse? I seem to have gotten lost again…”

I glanced at Sam, who shook his head, then Dean. He cleared his throat and said, “We’re not from around here.”

“Pity,” the rider said. A twitch of the reins shifted his horse down the path to his right. “It’s always this fork that gives me trouble. Mayhaps the right will prove correct this time.” With a gentle prod of his heels, the horse obeyed and began walking once more. “A good evening to you all.” He tipped his hat as he passed, then turned ahead for the trail.

The sudden need to confirm my suspicions gripped me like a vice. Talk about a wild hair.

“Wait!” I squirmed from Sam and Dean’s arms and followed the rider. “Who are you?”

The horse turned broadside as the rider’s glassy stare fell upon me once more. Though I knew the answer before he spoke, my fingers and toes burned with anticipation.

“I’m the new teacher. Ichabod Crane.”

He turned back to the path with a final touch to his hat, and his horse started ahead once more. The dark depths of the forest swallowed him whole, vanishing as though a figment of my imagination.

Wordlessly, I returned to Sam and Dean, who also said nothing. A stunned silence followed us the remainder of the walk back to the car. Without anything to pack up—I made a mental note to recover our shovels and flashlights, lest they be found later—Dean slid in behind the wheel and started her up. I slipped into the backseat, beyond exhausted and unsurprised to find Sam there as well. Unintrusive, his fingers slipped between mine, and I clung to him, an anchor in a sea of madness.

Dean grasped the steering wheel, white knuckles twisting over the leather and a thousand-mile stare gazing through the windshield. When Sam tapped him on the shoulder, he shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, then wrenched the shifter into drive.

Through the gate and past the church, we returned to the main road. Small town Sleepy Hollow passed us by as though we drifted through another world. Halloween decorations no longer appeared quaint or impressive; grisly murals and disturbing effigies hooked into fresh memories, and I looked to Sam for solace. For comfort. For grounding.

And it worked. Kaleidoscope colors diffused the dull gray world around me. Only Sam and the distant, soothing rumble of the Impala remained. Though fear roiled in the pit of my stomach, a renewed sense of hope tempered that heat. Special. I’d meant it in jest earlier. Sam didn’t make me feel special. He helped me feel. In a world where I blocked out so much, he managed to give me something worth feeling again.

Just like that, the Impala undulated up and over the driveway as Dean turned into the parking lot of the motel. In his spot before our door, he snapped the shifter into park and slumped back in his seat. A long moment of silence stretched between us all until he sighed.

“Son of a bitch.”

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[traumatized-motherfuckers]

Friendship Dissolutions; A Lesson in Asshole Trauma Reactions

So this is normally my school day, but I’m feeling the need to dig into something else this morning. The past events of this weekend, annnnd the past nearly two years. Because, if you  hadn’t heard, relationships are hard and I like to embarrass myself by telling you about all my fuck ups.

You know, romantic relationships are a disaster for yours truly, but I always thought I was pretty good at the friendship thing. Since high school I’ve almost always had robust friendly relationships - both in depth and breadth. With the exception of a few difficult points in my life since 16, my phone has never been quiet, my weekends have only been isolating when I’ve been isolating myself, and I’ve always felt like I had humans on my side who were closer to kin than my actual family.

The thing is, there have been periods when this hasn’t been the case. I want to say that it’s generally when I’m in my worst mental health downfalls, but I don’t think that’s universally true. There have been variable reasons for separating myself from other people, or vice versa. Sometimes getting too busy, sometimes naturally growing apart, sometimes getting too obsessed with a romantic partner.

But, taking a more analytical view, underlying my lost friendship events, trauma has often been one of the influences that corrupted my friendships and left me lonely, even if it doesn’t seem like it at face value. The thing is, the trail of breadcrumbs might go back 20 years or so. I might not have been in a full-blown trauma state at the time, but those early life non-learnings about relationships have left their mark. So, yes, I do believe that CPTSD is the prerequisite for interpersonal disruptions and we’re not alone in that.

Anyways, in this Fucker’s life, for the past almost 2 years I’ve been in one of those friendship lulls. I’ve had casual friends, roommates, work-associates, distant relationships, some of those hey-how’s-it-going-every-two-months relations. But I haven’t had those deep, rich, all-encompassing friendships that used to define my existence. The ones that used to make me feel safe enough to have an existence, at all.

It’s all because I lost my core group of friends, I didn’t understand and couldn’t fix the problem, and I had no idea how to move forward.

And this last time when I lost everyone I loved, it was definitely due to trauma. Acute, historical, and recovering trauma, to be specific. It was a horrible period of my life, I was a human wrecking ball, and I had no emotional control… because, partially thanks to said friends, I never had to develop those skills.

Basically, I’ve been on my own since a whole series of mental health related isolation events and relationships dissolutions that have persisted since - I want to say 2019 - but to be more holistic, the ship started sailing earlier than that. Like, when I was born.

This has all come to mind more than usual because, this weekend? I had a strange rush of humans back into my life. For the first time in a long time, I saw my best, closest, most important old friends, who were closer to siblings…. In our natural habitat, with our normal friendship routines, with hundreds of memories from the past decade flying around the room.

And today… or, realistically, since I tried to go to sleep after seeing them each day this weekend… I have the relationship reckoning to deal with. The emotional and cognitive processing of everything that’s happened. The lost years. The sense of abandonment. The feeling of being cast out of a family. The inkling that everyone was talking about me. The realization that I was acting a fool, and maybe they should be talking about me. The sense that all parties were partially responsible, but I was the one to blame. The voice in my head that has called me a crazy, miserable, unlovable mess the entire time I debated this at 6am and 6pm and 3am for the past several years.

And now, in the aftermath, I have to work through the dynamic cocktail of feelings, the sense of waiting for the other shoe, and the big decision - are these relationships that I feel secure pursuing again?

And I don’t think I’m alone in this one.

So, today I thought it would be good to talk about this. The history of losing my favorite people on the planet, how I perceived it at the time, how I see my own trauma-actions fucking shit up in hindsight, how I’ve forgiven myself for being such a wild one, and… well… my hesitancy to have close friendships with humans who hurt me in the past. The ways I realized that being separate was beneficial to my mental health and life progress. The self-sabotaging enablement patterns that I now recognize, ran deep, in our old group of friends. The fear that being around them again will let my trauma brain run away with me.

Woo - it’s a whole personal relationship reckoning over here. Let’s just do this, so I can get to my school work at some point soon.

History

So let me set up this situation. You need the background details, of which, there are many dramatic twists and turns.

Be me, Spring of 2019. My romantic relationship with my ex in Atlanta - the musical narcissist that I followed to the city - is going terribly. Since we moved things have been rocky, but now our relationship has been pumped full of disappointment, unfair expectations, emotional codependency, resentment, horrific fighting, and abuse of all colors. Every day is a battle. We’re rarely ever “happy” together. We’re closer to enemies than friends. And we live under the same roof - the one his parents bought for him, outright in cash - to make matters even more fun.

Other than him, I’m alone in this city. I work at the brewery, where no one really likes me. I have one friend from work, but little time to interact thanks to the demanding schedule of my ex with his gigs and out-of-state child visitation.

Financially, my savings have been depleted by floating my significant other’s horrible decisions for the past 2 years. We can never get ahead. He never pays me back for anything. I’m basically in his pocket, as far as needing resources to survive.

As you can imagine, and as I’ve described previously, my mental health is in THE SHITTER. Maybe worse than it’s ever been, although this is hard to judge against some of my earlier years in my 20’s. I’m definitely ramped up in an aggressive and defensive trauma state more than ever before, thanks to living with my aggressor every day. I feel like I’m surviving against the will of my partner, who seems to legitimately be doing his best to drive me into an early grave every single time the sun rises. He’s moved into the territory of intentionally triggering me for hours on end, upsetting me to the point of mental breakdowns, and then gaslighting me for “acting so crazy.” Things have become dangerous, I have no one to turn to, and no cash to get myself into a better situation… not that I know what a better situation even looks like.

But one day, I left. Packed my two bags, went to work, wound up at that single sort-of-friend’s house, never went back home.

And that’s when the real nightmare started. I mean, my ex was a terror over time as we lived together, but a narcissist scorned is a narcissist determined to ruin your fucking life. He harassed me daily via text, phone call, FB messenger, email, stalkings… whatever you can think of. When I blocked him on everything, he started trying to leverage our therapists against me until they refused to interact anymore. He wouldn’t let me into his house to get my stuff. He tried to have me arrested for attempting to do so, after he made arrangements with me to move that weekend. He suddenly refused to even acknowledge that he owed me a dime, and found a way to tally up venmo transactions to show that I actually owed him. He took my only support - our dog, who was really my dog - away and wouldn’t let me see him. Later, he reported my car stolen, so I had to purchase a new one without warning.

The list goes on and on. Just, assume every pathetic, cruel, desperate attempt at getting under someone’s skin and reminding them that they had the audacity to leave you. That’s what was going on in my world.

Meanwhile, with those financial and social pressures I mentioned earlier. No close friends in the area, no spare cash, an unstable job where I was on the chopping block for the reason of “the CEO didn’t like my personality,” nowhere to live, no idea where to go next or how to start a whole new life.

Annnnnd this is right about when my closely knit friend group back in Illinois sort of, well, dipped.

My bestest, best, most treasured friend in my lifetime had always been there for me. But now, she wasn’t. We had exchanged a handful of phone calls over the past month in the aftermath of this relationship ending, but she had been pretty detached from it. I wasn’t offended, because she had certainly heard enough of the drama in real time… of course she was tired of hearing about it...  but I was feeling especially alone and incapable of handling everything on my own, so the distance was difficult, nevertheless. Then, one day she told me that I was being too much for her. I had too high of expectations. It had been bothering her for a while. She needed me to understand and give her some space.

And this was the completely avoidable beginning of the end of my friendships. Let’s talk about why.

How I perceived it

So, I’m pretty sure you can guess how I took this challenging message from my best friend. Uh, poorly. I was so shocked that in my darkest hour, my comrade would feel like my problems were out of her paygrade. It felt like a stab to the heart and straight down through the gut. Here I was, completely alone and isolated, reaching back to my most trusted companions for a lifeline to keep my head above water, and… nothing. She didn’t want to reel me back into the boat.

I responded with some shitty messages about how I really wasn’t asking that much from her and I didn’t appreciate being blindsided by her sudden decision to get rid of me. I had only taken up a few phone calls to talk things through based on her schedule. I had visited her one weekend as I went to a job interview nearby. I had asked her to come visit me soon, so I could feel less alone for a few days. I didn’t think it was fair that she was responding this way. I couldn’t believe she would turn her back on me at this particular moment.

And so, the rift developed. We stopped speaking. I started sobbing. I was absolutely beside myself, as if I hadn’t already been. This wasn’t what I wanted, at all, but I also felt like I had no control in it.

.......

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(Traumatized Motherfuckers)

[quillsareswords]

Coping

Damian Wayne

(angst)

Vampire Reader, because I have a problem.

Coven: for all purporses of this fic, a Vampire coven is an organized underground society of Vampires. Often take pleasure/amuse themselves by partaking in violent and cruel acts toward Humans.

WARNING: USE OF UNIDENTIFIED DRUG AS A COPING MECHANISM (ESCAPE).

Prompt List // Masterlist (in bio)

When Bruce had told you what happened, it'd knocked the breath clean out of you.

When you'd tore off on your bike, helmet strapped on, eyes glowing a dangerous shade of red behind a dark visor, no one had moved to stop you.

When you cut all communication, they started to worry.

When the waterfall parted and the doors drew open, everyone had sucked in a breath.

You wouldn't look at them. You couldn't. Your eyes remained on the cement floor before you. Your tongue locked behind fanged teeth.

You could feel their stares. Bruce, Dick, Alfred, Barbara, Tim. All of them staring at you with horror, disappointment, and fear in their eyes. Dick's eyes were glistening with tears—you could see the shine out of your peripherals.

Your grip on the rear gasket of your helmet tightened, nails digging into the plastic. Not that it particularly mattered, anyway. The bloody crack down one side, peppered dents, and shattered visor put it beyond repair.

Heavy footsteps echoing angrily through the otherwise silent cave, you marched right through the small cluster they'd formed. You still couldn't bear to see their faces.

Bruce called out to you and stormed toward the elevator. At the wide doorway to the Medbay, Alfred waited dutifully as you passed. He would have treated the many cuts and bruises newly littering your skin, or stitched the holes in your jeans, your jacket, or your shirt, had you stopped. But you didn't.

Again, Bruce called you. He called you by a moniker you no longer deserved. This time, you could hear his boot steps gaining on your own.

Then, his hand his on your shoulder, and you're stopping abruptly to spin on your heel. You smacked his hand away, fury burning red-hot in your eyes. "Don't fucking touch me," you snarl.

His mouth hangs open for a moment. He recovers quickly. "Where is he?" He sounds breathless, and he looks tired. Terrified.

You all but leap away from his touch as he reaches to grasp your forearm. The rest of his family gather behind him, all anxious eyes and shivery hearts. You look away. Hurl your helmet across the cave with as much rage as you can pack into the motion. It shatters like glass and leaves an indentation where it hits the wall. "Gone."

Bruce let's out a breath that shakes as hard as your hands. "Gone?"

Dick braves a few steps forward. "What do you mean, gone?"

You bear your fangs and shout your answer, "Dead, you idiot!" It's angry and raw and pained. The word reverberates off the rock walls, echoing back in your ears like piercing needles.

You can't stand the look on Bruce's face, or the pain in Dick's eyes. You turn away, crossing the short distance to the elevator back up to the Manor. You punch in your code and slide in before the doors are comple open.

You should have known better. You should have been there. You should have seen this coming.

You'd warned him about that damned building at least a hundred times. You'd warned all of them. As unassuming as those dirty brown and red bricks looked, the horrors they held were beyond their pay grade.

You knew, though. You'd seen it.

It was a nest, you explained. An old, multipurpose building bought by a suspicious little group decades ago. Likely by the founder, but you weren't sure. A Coven, you'd said. Nothing to play around with.

You'd seen the spark in his eyes. A challenge. You did your best to stomp it out as quickly as you could, and you succeed. You made him promise that he'd stay away from it. And he never broke a promise to you, as cheesy as it seemed.

You had been keeping tabs on them since you'd moved to Gotham, a few years back. It was after they'd approached you, knowing you had a few strings to pull inside the circle of local vigilantes. You'd never liked Covens, but you were fairly new in town and decided that it was worth seeing how others like you acted around one another here. When you'd seen the horrors within those brick walls, you'd turned down the offer for a place among their ranks on the spot.

You should've known they'd turn their eyes on your partner. You just hadnt thought they'd be so bold.

They knew you, after all. They knew what you were capable of. That's why they invited you. They knew your power.

Or at least, now they did. With a building of bodies and blood and flames licking at those filthy bricks, you were sure they knew.

The steel doors pulled apart, a grandfather clock sliding to the side. You moved out and down the hall as quickly as you could with a new limp.

Hours later, you're locking a deadbolt to a dingy door in a dark apartment.

The first thing you did was shut off the heating. You didn't mind the cold—you hadnt since you were Turned—but Damian did. The warmth only reminded you of him.

Next, you unlaced and kicked off your boots, then tossed your jacket toward the kitchen counter on your way through the doorframe.

Then, you find yourself staring blankly into the freezer.

A to-go box, a tub of ice cream, a shelf of tofu, six ice packs, and a bottle of rum.

All of it his.

You slam the heavy door and growl. You growl, because if you don't, you'd whimper.

Finally, you're relacing your boots and marching back out to the city in a different leather jacket.

• • •

Even from across the street, the strong scent of alcohol burns your nose. Red eyes hide behind dark glasses, picking carefully through a steady stream if exiting patrons.

In such a bad part of Gotham, you aren't questioned about such dark glasses so late at night, nor your lonesome leaned against a brick wall in a dim alley.

Finally, your eyes find one man, stumbling about like a newborn fawn, dopey grin, and sloppy words spoken to the breeze.

You push off the wall and cross the slow traffic on the street.

For nearly three blocks, you tail him. Waiting for a buddy to catch up, a phone to ring. Your suspicions are confirmed when no such thing happens.

At last, he all but collapses against the cement wall of a building, obviously fighting for consciousness.

You move in.

As he begins to fall to the ground, you catch him by the collar of his shirt and swiftly haul him into the nearest alley. You slump him behind a dumpster and crouch next to him.

"Sorry bud," you grumble, ripping the collars of his coat and shirt from the base of his neck, "but I could really use a pick-me-up."

Teeth sink into flesh with a sickening noise. Blood draws immediately, spilling out just a little faster than you can drink it. You gulp it down with a desperation you haven't felt in years.

Eventually, the intoxication hits you. Your mind grows fuzzy at the edges, and thoughts become sluggish and tired.

When you've had your fill, you brace yourself against the wall for stability to stand.

You breathe deeply, taking in all the wild, horrid smells of this wretched city.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Your head turns slowly, to peer over the arm still braces against the wall. You arch an eyebrow, glasses slid lazily down your nose. Tim Grayson. No, no. That's not right. Tim. Tim Bake. Drake. Tim Drake. You snort. "What does it look like, Red?"

You can imagine the horror in his eyes as he stares at you from the other end of the corridor. His quiet for a long few seconds. "I thought you laid off the, uh . . . live feeding."

You pushed off the wall, found your balance with little difficulty, and whipped the excess blood from your mouth with the sleeve of your jacket. "Yeah. I did." You stalked closer, hands shoved deep into your pockets. "About the same time I took up the whole hero gig." You waved your hand around in a general sense, before returning it to your pocket. "For obvious reasons."

You stopped a few feet in front of him.

His grip on that bo staff loosened. The sneer of disgust at his mouth softened. You wonder if he can see it in your face.

You're both very quiet for a very long time.

Unfortunately, it didn't last. "You know," Tim started, voice timid and soft, "he really loves you." He'll be back. For you, if nothing else."

You rolled your shoulders. Shifted your gaze. That rock is awfully neat.

"Did you . . ." Your eyes meet his, briefly, before he continues. "Did you see it happen?"

And just like that, whatever buzz you've built up off drunk man's blood subsides. You go rigid again, and your hands are shaking again.

He deserves to know.

"Yeah," you whisper, voice curling like smoke in the air, but it's not in the same way Tim's breath does. "I was so close I could have touched him."

He doesn't reply.

You shrug off the chill that runs down your spine. Your eyes glow a little brighter. "Shouldn't you be patrolling?"

Tim glances back down the alley, the way he'd come. "I was. Then I heard there was some shady person hanging around a bar down the street . . . I'm guessing that was you?"

You nod.

"Right." His eyes drift back to the man slouched beside the garbage. "Is he, uh–"

"No." Liar.

He nods stiffly.

You blow a hard breath through your nose. "I'd better be on my way."

"Uh, hold on," he grabs your arm before you turn away completely, but the look you throw him has him shuffling a step or two back. "Bruce wanted me to tell you, if I saw you, that he wants to talk to you."

You roll your shoulders higher, turning back down your side of the brick passage. "Tell him to shove it," you growled.

"You aren't the only one who lost him, you know," he says suddenly.

You try hard, you really do. But in the end, you've already got him pinned to the wall. When you speak, it's dangerously low and he can't tear his eyes from yours, gleaming threats under moonlight. "You weren't there. You didn't have the chance to stop it." Your teeth were bared, pink-stained fangs on full display and you snarled. "It wasn't your fault."

Forcefully, you released him. Hands shoved back in your pockets, a silent promise to your lover lingering in the back of your mind, you stalk off again, vanishing around the corner and into the shadows.

Tim watches you go.

• • •

Your head is absolutely spinning. You feel dizzy, despite laying perfectly still on your beat up sofa. Colors and shapes swirl behind your eyelids, entertaining you easily in the silence. Your mind is numb, vague thoughts blurring around the edges.

God you love this. You'd never done drugs like this before, partly because you were young and partly because it wasn't who you were. But you needed something stronger than second-hand drinking. You couldn't keep seeing his face. You couldn't keep hearing his voice.

So here you were, half asleep on your empty, dark apartment, exactly a week after that night. You didn't know that, though. You were blissfully unaware of the date, the time, and the dimming sunlight creeping beneath and above thick, drawn curtains.

Your jacket is still half on from the night before, boots still loosely laced on your feet, one flat on the floor and the other tossed over the arm rest opposite your head.

Your lips are parted in a dopey smile, fangs only barely visible through the crack.

You jolt at the knocking.

Red eyes snap open, lips clamp shut. Colors and shapes just barely line you vision and you silently search for the source of the noise.

Your eyes hit the door, finally, and you see the shadow shifting in the crack of yellow light beneath the door.

Standing from the couch is a task of it's own, as you have to take a good minute to find your balance. Whoever it is knocks again. Boots barely leaving the floor as you cheat steps, you make your way to the door and flip the deadbolt, before you haul the door open.

Dick stands before you. His clothes are rumbled, and he looks as though he'd rather be absolutely anywhere else.

You have to squint against the buttery hallway light, using a flat hand to shield your eyes from what seems to you like a bare bulb. "What?"

He looks a little startled. You aren't sure why.

(In reality, he hadn't anticipated your eyes to be do dark around the edges with days old makeup, or your complection to look so sickly.)

Your jacket has fallen down on one side, now bunched around your elbow. You make no move to fix it, obviously leaning against the door for support.

He stammers before he answers. "Are you okay?"

You know there's a reason he's asking you. There's something big that happened, but you aren't sure what it is. Was it recent? What's it about? "Yeah?"

He blinks at you dumbly once, twice. "Really?" He runs a hand through uncombed hair. "Nobody's heard from you since the, uh . . . since last week. I thought I'd check on you." He doesn't meet your eyes.

You rest your head against the door, too. "Uh, thanks, I guess." Your eyebrows slump together.

Now his gaze flickers to yours. "Are you sure you're okay? You seem a little . . . out of it."

You nod, wood scratching your scalp. "No no, yeah, I'm totally good. Little high, is all." You shrug, as if you've said nothing out of the ordinary.

His eyes blow wide. "You–You're–? High?"

"Mhmm."

Again, he stares. "Are you serious?"

"Well," you make a face, "yeah. What do you do when you wanna, uh . . . I don't know. I had a reason, but I kind of forgot it." Your head raises from the door and you snap your fingers. "That's it! I wanted to forget something."

A blank stare hits you. His jaw is left slack by astonishment. Shock? You aren't sure.

"Anyway," you scratch the back of your head, "what did you come here for?"

This seems to rouse him from his daze, but the expression that replaces it pulls at your heart. He seems disappointed, maybe even a little sorrowed. "I, um. I wanted to check on you after what happened to Damian."

There it is.

Your mood sours immediately, stills and snipets if memories flashing through your mind like a messy animation. Your eyes hit the floor as his screams rip through your subconscious. Eyelids squeeze shut.

Your thoughts are still muddied. It feels like trying to pull something free of tar.

"(Y/N)?"

"You should leave."

"But–"

"You should leave," you repeat, eyes cracking open just enough to see his. You ignore the blurriness and the knot in your throat. "Now."

He nods silently. He understands. "I'll come back in a few days," he warns. You nod.

Your deadbolt is back in place before he's to the elevator.

Peering around the apartment, at the dark shadows lining every wall and outlining every piece if furniture, the mixed drink on the coffee table, the empty vile beside it; your press your back against the door.

Your gaze turns to the bedroom door, still closed from the night you left. You haven't had the strength to even near it.

A dim, deep red light casts odd shadows over his face, especially from where you lay beside him. His eyes look odd, too. You aren't sure if you like the way his features appear, bathed in red.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks you, eyes meeting yours in the semi-dark.

You continue to trace careful patterns into the back of his hand the nail of your middle finger, cradling it in your other palm. "Nothing worth talking about," you assure quietly. "Just you."

"Are you insinuating that I'm not worth your words?" He cracks a grin, though it's lopsided and tired. He's been out all night. The sun is coming up, and yet he's only just going to bed.

You opted to call it an early night. The shine in his eyes had you sure he needed the company.

You'd always been good and weeding out the good night's from the bad. Maybe it was just because you'd experienced them yourself, or maybe you were just more observant than you should be.

You chuckle softly. "Well obviously. Why do you think our schedules contrast do much?"

He smiles at you directly. He's silent for a moment. It's long enough that your gaze moves away from your hands and his to his eyes, to see if he's fallen asleep. You find his eyes staring deeply into yours.

"I love you so much," he states, voice all velvet and honey, every syllable dripping adoration.

You scrunch your nose. "And I love you more than the stars and the moon, but what's got you saying it now?"

You only ask because he isn't typically so forward about it. You've always had to look for it, seek it out between lines of poetry or small favors or little gifts. His love is always coded and complicated, and it's part of why you love him so dearly.

He doesn't answer you. Instead his eyes refocus on your hands. He focuses on the shapes you're drawing. He listens closely to your breathing.

He's never going to tell you that he came so close to death only two hours before hand. He'd felt the icy grip on his heart, threatening silently to freeze it completely.

You enjoy the quiet moments before you both nod off.

You tear your eyes from the door. Focus on the floor. Focus on breathing. Focus on the sound of blaring horns and roaring engines outside. Focus on anything but the laughing silence.

And laugh it does. It cackles at you, howling with a malicious roar, hell-bent on pounding the understanding into you: you're all alone now.

No one is coming for you now. No one is going to pick up the phone now. No one is going to be sliding into your bed at noon. No one is going to surprise you with hand crafted chocolates you can actually enjoy. No one is coming home.

You squeeze your eyes shut again. You can't go in there. You've been sleeping on the couch for the past week, blankets thrown over every curtain hanger to keep out the sunlight. You've done it to the entire apartment. The second bedroom, the bathrooms, the living room, the attached kitchen. You'd come to associate the sunlight with him.

From sunkissed skin to stories of life before cloudy Gotham, your mind thought sunlight and Damian was never far behind.

You can't take it.

You cross the room in a blur, picking up the glass from the table and hurling it at the opposing wall.

It shatters on impact, splattering dark red liquid down the wall and splintering glass all over the wooden floor.

• • •

Your posture slouches as you trek down a wet sidewalk. You don't know exactly where you are, which isn't the best idea, but then again, you haven't been having many of those lately. You aren't even paying attention to anything around you. Music playing through your headphones, eyes trained straight ahead.

The people around you don't spare you much attention. Some darkly dressed seventeen year old shuffling around in a hoodie is the least of anyone's concerns, this time of night. You know this. You use this.

At the sound of a particularly sharp car horn, your eyes jolt sideways, mostly out of instinct. Just some bastard too impatient to wait for the light to change.

You take the moment of broken concentration to look around some. You're a few blocks from that building, you realize.

You turn immediately. Start walking the other way, keeping your distance from the buildings and the main stream if people by walking right next to the road. Sure, you're gonna have to dodge a few street signs but–

"Josephine!"

Your eyes jump again at the shriek. Your body goes rigid, your mind recognizing the panic in the man's voice instantly after patrolling for too many years.

You haven't been out properly since that night, and you aren't sure if you ever want to out again. But those instincts never seem to leave. There's no off day once you've gotten into the swing of things.

You see it before you realize it. Across the street, a little girl, about seven or eight, with dark hair and brown skin, chasing after a robotic dog as it turns and rolls right into the road.

Before your even have the chance to regard the situation, you're charging into traffic. You hoodslide a towncar as the horn blares, and then you're leaping out if the way of a Ford. You race through the temporarily empty lane, and then you're bringing down and scooping the little girl and her toy up and ducking off the road completely.

You set her down in front of the stricken looking man, who proceeds to thank you profusely. You forge a tight lipped smile and tell him it's not a problem, that you're just happy to have been fast enough.

And once again, you're on your way.

By the time you make it home, the sun is starting to think about rising, and your playlist has cycled through twice. You unlock your door with a dry throat, a blank white plastic bag in the crook of one arm.

The room is dark when the door opens, but you smell a person the second the hallway light spills in.

You don't tense. You recognize the remaints of expensive calogne before you even get in the door. "Morning, Bruce." You lock the door behind yourself and flick on the kitchen light.

He still stands in the shadowiest part if the large room, behind the armchair by the window. "We haven't heard from you in two weeks."

"Dick came by," you stated. You kept your back to him, pretending to be too busy putting away two pints of A Positive.

You can't look at him.

You can't look at his face, especially. It's too similar.

And besides that, you already know why he's here. His son is dead, and you are the only one who knows what happened.

"That was six days ago." You hear the give in his tone. He doesn't want to talk about this any more than you do, but he has to know. He moves toward you. "You were supposed to come back. Tim said he told you."

"He did," you assure, getting a glass down from the cabinet by the refrigerator, mostly empty plastic sack in your other hand.

You hear anger seeping into his voice. "Do why didn't you?"

Hesitance. The glass is on the counter, but you aren't pouring yet. Your eyes are on the splash back in front of you.

"(H/N)–"

"Don't call me that," you growl. His steps stop. "Don't call me that."

"(Y/N)," he corrects, "I have to know what happened to my boy."

Your shoulders slump. You have to flatten your hands on the countertop to ground yourself. The bag of red liquid lays on the counter beside the glass, waiting to be poured. You stay that way for a good minute, weighting your words carefully. You reach back into the fridge, but your hand hesitates over the bottle.

Fuck it.

You grab it by the neck and twist off the cap. You half off your glass, and leave the bottle open on your counter. You open the bag and add it's contents to the glass, emptying the bag and filling the cup.

You aren't even sure you'll get a buzz off of this, but you're more than willing to try.

Bruce watches you carefully from the end if the counter on the other side.

"Drink?" you offer, holding out the bottle of rum where he can see it. It almost feels wrong, to offer up something of his so freely.

He pauses before he answers. "No."

You bob your head. Turn around. Lean against the counter. You swirl the concoction idly. You still don't look at him. You keep your gaze on the painting in the living room, through the wide gap in the wall between the counters and the cabinets.

You remember when he was still painting it.

"I told you all not to go around that place," you begin. Your voice is gravely and sharp, a hardness he hasn't heard from you in a long while guarding your words. "This is exactly why."

"What is it?"

You take a long drink. You revel in the burn it leaves. Your eyes glazed over. "A Coven nest. They gather there, live there, thrive there. It's like a church for a particular group." He crosses his arms and leans against the wall. "They do things there I hope you never see.

"You see, a lot of vampires like to believe they're above humans. That they're inferior. Some Covens use them like animals. Bull fights, gory plays and musicals. You've seen Interview With a Vampire, yeah?"

He nods.

"Kinda like that. Sometimes worse, sometimes not as bad. I've been watching that particular Coven since I got to Gotham. They approached me shortly after I started the gig, wanting to know if I'd join them. I turned them down, obviously." Another long drink.

"I told Damian and the rest of you to stay away from that block. It's crawling with Vampires like that. I didn't want to see any of you getting snatched or worse. I should have wiped them out then and there, looking back. But I didn't. Just watched. Kept tabs.

"Then you called me. Told me he was gone without a trace, and you said he'd been down at that old car rental place. I knew the area. That's why I didn't wait for details.

"When I got there, they already had him tied and ready for something. I still don't know what they were planning on doing with him. I didn't ask questions, because I didn't have time. They jumped me the second I got inside. I had most of them dead or dazed by the time I got to the Big Kahuna."

When you didn't continue, Bruce prodded. "And?"

Your voice came back quiet. "And I wasn't fast enough." You downed the rest of your drink and slid it towards the sink. You misjudge the trigectory, and it slides off the edge and crashes to the floor. You stare down at the chunks and splinters of pink stained glass darkly. Emptily. "I couldn't get to him fast enough, and Regdoral killed him right in front of me."

Bruce was silent for a long time. Neither of you moved to clean up the mess you'd made. "When we went to check the building–"

"I know."

He follows your gaze. His words are softer than you expect. "What happened next?"

You chuckled, but there was no humor there. "I snapped," you shrugged. "I slaughtered every one of them where they stood. Burned every one of them in the Crypt."

Bruce doesn't speak.

Your next words are hardly a whisper. So light and airy that Bruce has to strain to hear them. "Did you find him?"

He goes quiet as well. Then, "Yes."

You close your eyes. Bite your lip. You pinch your palm. Anything to jolt your mind away from him. The memory of that silver sword gliding through him with a sound that still turns your stomach.

"Why did you leave him?"

You pick at a spot on the lip of the counter. "I dunno. I guess, maybe, some part of me hoped he'd beat me home. Maybe he'd been faking his death for one reason or another. Maybe I thought if–if I didnt–"

You sniffle. Your teeth sink into your lip and red spills down your chin and over your tongue.

Bruce shifts his weight. He wants to comfort you, but he doesn't know how, or if you'd let him. He doesn't what to do.

Your legs are shaking as hard as your hands, but they don't last as long. Your knees give out, and you go sliding to the floor, tears streaming freely down both cheeks.

Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you speak. Not until you stand, shakily, supporting yourself with the counter.

"Bruce," you all but croak. He turns his eyes on you. "I miss him so much."

"I know," he replies quietly, risking a few steps toward you. "We all do, (Y/N)." He rests a hand on your shoulder. He's testing.

You slip forward from the counter, wrapping shivering arms around him in a desperate pursuit of comfort.

He gives it willingly, hugging you tightly.

You cry. He cries. All in a dark, bitter silence that traps you in a place you once knew as a home.

PART II COMING SOON

[volunaryroom3]

CHAPTER 4

My keys rattled in the door as it locked it behind me. It clicked shut and I rested my head on the door, hair tangling over my ears. Thank fuck that was over. Being a slave to the wage crushes your soul, some more days than others.

Now I was home. My sanctuary. A place where I was safe from the anger of the public, complexity of the world and could batten down the hatches with my favourite human before I had to once more put on my armour and head back into battle.

“What are you doing” said Jamie from the kitchen, who could see me resting my head on the front door, sighing in my zombie like state.

“I don’t know” I muttered into the wood. I straightened my back and walked through the to living room, kicking my shoes off and flinging myself onto a chair.

I took my socks off a wriggled my toes above the carpet. There’s something about bare feet that’s so rebellious. Being completely naked, free from the constraint of polyblend, gives you the pleasure of freedom but is also attractive and conventional. Feet were meant to be covered. They can be ugly, toes utterly offensive and fragile so they must be protected and hidden. For them to be naked feels so audacious, to feel carpet fibres beneath was so unruly and these small rebellions got me through the day.

“Here” said Jamie, entering the room and grabbing my naked big toe as he walked past and placed a mug on the table.

“Is that for me?” I said perking up.

“Well I don’t drink tea” he answered, not looking but gesturing with one hand and scrolling through his phone with the other.

“Okay, what do you want?” I asked, raising one eyebrow and looking at him with a wry smile.

“Just drink it” he said laughing.

We both looked at each other and smiled and I felt my heart skip a beat.

There had been a lot of heartache but then there was Jamie.

In my life there have been many boys, many girls, many people and subsequently much loss and sorrow.

My last boyfriend cheated on me. One minute he was one the phone telling me he loved me and the next he was snapped in an incriminating photo with someone else.

It was early morning when I saw the photograph online. I hadn’t been able to sleep, i was scrolling through my phone under the sheets when I saw his hand on her thigh, my eyes widening in the glow of the screen. A series of incidents flashed in my head; the missed calls, his phone vibrating accompanied by shifty glances, disappearing from the room to take a phone calls, whispering in secrecy, always carefully placing his phone face down on the cabinet, me touching my hand on his and him recoiling, leaving me cold. All these images flickering, falling on top each other like dominos until the last one dropped- he’s cheating on me.

My confrontation was subtle. “It looks like you’re having a good time haha I miss you” I text hoping my agony and urgency would feed through the phone.

No reply. Message read. No reply.

Hours passed as I laid in bed staring at the ceiling until the light of dawn rolled over the walls, White noise humming in my ears.

I went to work that day and I smiled, drank tea and did my job but I wasn’t there. I was on a autopilot. I was trapped in my mind, those images flittering past, unable to escape like a slideshow I could not take my eyes off. The pieces of a puzzle were falling into place, my head putting them together and I was lost in my thoughts, nipping and clawing at me through the day. My stomach tight and head spinning.

That evening I was staring into the TV set, blind to the screen and still arguing with myself. I was paranoid. Yes I was paranoid. This isn’t real. The words all muddling together and stacking on top of each other until it just became noise.

Suddenly a text.

“I’m sorry”

My world crashed around me. I felt my hands tightly grip onto each other and my tears fall in slow motion.

“Why?” I cried softy.

A numbness fell over my entire body and I collapsed onto the sofa, my tears running down the tip of my nose and staining the cushion.

After a while the numbness wore off and was replaced by pain. A sharp slice from neck to stomach not visible to the naked eyes but real to my nervous system. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I was just an exposed nerve; open with excruciating pain.

Weeks passed and I was still spiralling into oblivion. I was in trouble at work for mistakes and absence. I was worrying my family and friends but even that wasn’t enough to stop me slipping into the black hole. The dark pit of depression is all consuming and once you are stuck in the tar, you sink further down, you gasp for air until there’s no return.

“What a bastard” everyone said

“What a loser. His loss!” They chanted

And they were right of course. However this did not help me. I loved him. Somehow he subconsciously became my whole world and now I was lost. Lost and isolated in my loneliness but I knew I had to stop. This wasn’t healthy behaviour.

Grief has a timescale. Death can be a lifetime but the breakdown of a relationship? You are limited. You have the get on with it. You have to bare your teeth and show the world how strong you are. You have to prove to others that you are leaving it behind and if you aren’t moving on? You are weak and you can’t show weakness. You can’t be the one to lose.

So I moved on. I washed, I put clothes on and pushed myself back into life. I had an amazing few months embarking on journeys and weekends away by reconnecting with my lost friends. I immersed myself in live music, healing my soul with the beauty of beats and sound with pilgrimages to gigs and festivals. Wild, drunk nights in the sun building hundreds of memories to last a lifetime. The evidence consisted of a mosaic of Polaroids pinned around my desk: my favourite a muddy photo of me grinning ear to ear, hands in the air which screamed look at me! I’m living life!

When I talked to people I laughed. When I looked at people I smiled.

But every night I still cried in the shower.

Later I found out the girl that in the photo was his ex. They have a child together now. In the end it was all for the best but that still doesn’t stop that painful twinge whenever it crosses my mind.

Every time you are hurt a part of your heart breaks and creates a gap. Tiny shards splinter off and disintegrate into tears. You heal, you recover and you fight but there’s now a hole there that will never close up.

Once I am hurt, I am hurt forever.

He wasn’t the first but he was the last one who took a sledgehammer to my heart and shattered the remaining pieces. With the fragments I had left I swore I would never do it again, that I wouldn’t open up because I could cope, the pain would kill me. From then on I lived my life as half a person. Content but never allowing myself to fully feel. I was comfortable in my solitude but always empty.

That was until I met Jamie.

After lounging around the living room for a while I heard my stomach rumble.

“I’ll make tea” I said stretching. I got up and padded through to the kitchen.

I laughed as I heard him yelling at the tv. I know the match was on and I loved how passionate he was; the same amount he showed about everything in his life, including me.

I opened the cupboards and reached for the pan on the top shelf. I stood on my tiptoes, unbalanced and stretching, my fingers fumbling on the tip of the handle. Just as I felt my hand grip the handle they all came crashing down. Metal clanged onto the worktop, thundered to the floor and onto my bare feet.

I didn’t even make a noise, I just bit my lip and fell to the floor.

“What’s happening?” Yelled Jamie running into the room, seeing me rolling around on the kitchen floor.

“Ow! Sorry” I laughed but still grimacing in pain.

“You’re an idiot” he laughed

“I know”” I said rubbing my toes and frowning.

“It’s not funny” he snapped, his tone angrier than before. “I keep telling you to be careful. You’re so stupid. We were having such a nice time and now you’ve done this’

For a moment he stood over me, towering and serious with disappointment. I felt so small looking up at him and feeling shame wash over me.

“I’m really sorry, its been a long day”” I replied, looking at my feet in remorse.

He helped me up and marched me back to the living room in silence. I sat down on the sofa, raising my injured foot and resting it on the table. Jamie sat down on the other side, his attention brought back to the match.

I’ve always been clumsy. Bruises, broken bones and bangs peppered my childhood memories followed by reckless behaviour as an adult. He was right I needed to be more careful. He was only stern because he cared.

I turned my head towards him but he was still fixed on the tv, unwavering and stoic. I looked down at my feet and felt tears well up in my eyes.

There hadn’t been any trauma, no life changes and nothing worthy to make me unhappy but recently I’d started to feel a weight press down on me. My head had began to feel heavy as tiny bits of stress had started to drip on me and one by one it was building up. I was starting to feel cold and disconnected. Sometimes I’d suddenly freeze in time, stare at the wall, feeling like I was floating away until a friendly face asked if I was okay and brought me back down to earth. I was finding it hard to fall asleep and sometimes I was waking up with a bolt in the night, sweating after a bad dream and then worrying about insignificant things until my alarm called me to work. The other day it rained and I didn’t feel it. I saw the rain fall and land on my face but I didn’t sense it dripping down and onto my collar. I couldn’t feel anything anymore.

It was just a few bad days and I was being dramatic.

I sucked the tears back into my eyes and reached for the cold cup of tea on the table.

Things will get better soon.

[tabloidtoc]

OK, February 8 -- part 1 of 3

You can now buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: Olivia Wilde and Harry Styles wedding of the year

Page 1: Big Pic -- Chris Hensworth is Hugo Boss' first ever global brand ambassador

Page 2: Contents

Page 3: Contents

Page 4: Clare Crawley and Dale Moss have ended the engagement and she is crushed but they wanted different things and there was no compromising -- cracks began to show after filming ended when Clare wanted Dale to move to Northern California with her but he didn't want to leave New York

Page 6: Lisa Marie Presley is one of the most private stars in Hollywood but as she marked her 53rd birthday on February 1 she's letting her guard down and opening up about her life in a jaw-dropping memoir -- publishers have been clamoring to get her story for years and Lisa Marie will leave no stone unturned and she's kept everything bottled up for so long and now it's time to let it go

Page 7: Now that Taylor Swift is settling into life in London with her British beau Joe Alwyn the pair may be penciling in a special date on their post-lockdown calendar: tea time with Prince William and Duchess Kate Middleton -- the Cambridges are huge fans of Taylor and they've extended an invite to her and Joe to visit at an appropriate time to chat about her career and charity initiatives plus their kids want to meet her too

* He's been single for more than a year but Bradley Cooper has been reaching out to a special someone from his past which is former flame Renee Zellweger -- he's telling friends that of all his exes Renee's the only one who really got him and he realizes he gave up the best thing he ever had by letting her slip through his fingers -- the exes have chatted on the phone several times and the conversations are anything but awkward -- they have a ton of mutual friends and a shared philosophy on life and Bradley would love another chance to date Renee and see where it takes them so now the ball's in Renee's court

* Heather Rae Young may be regretting that she ever asked Chrishell Stause for help planning her big day because her meddling is getting out of control -- Heather's griping that she and fiance Tarek El Moussa may very well elope unless her Selling Sunset costar backs off -- Chrishell has taken charge of all the organizing down to the place settings and it's gotten to the point where Heather feels Chrishell is trying to hijack her wedding

Page 8: Angelina Jolie has been secretly cutting back on her household staff as her nasty and costly court battle with ex-husband Brad Pitt rages on -- the mom of six still has a team of helpers but instead of doing just one job everybody has to double up like her security guard will be sent to go shopping and her personal assistants have to help with the cooking -- the custody battle with Brad has set her back hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees and Angie is incredibly mindful about who she lets into her private world and she doesn't want to risk any of her staff providing evidence that could be used against her in court

* Sophie Turner loves her new mom duties but she is also back to firing on all cylinders and itching to get back to work -- she's already joined the cast of The Prince which is a cheeky animated series about Prince George and now she's really looking forward to her next acting gig and if she has her way she'll cram as many projects as she can into 2021

* Bindi Irwin and her brother Robert Irwin are both passionate conservationists but she's worried sick that his wildlife encounters are getting too close for comfort and Bindi thinks he's taking too many risks and feels he's acting way too reckless in order to generate publicity -- Bindi fears Robert could meet the same fate as their late father Steve Irwin but Robert thinks Bindi is just overreacting and being bossy and his daredevil stunts are great for business

(continued)

[theashemarie]

Demo Brew Ch. 1 | Pearlina

☆ Reblogs appreciated! ☆

↪Chapter 2: [The Squid Sisters]

↪Chapter 3: [The Song]

Read one chapter ahead on AO3!

[It starts as a simple bet--Pearl's attempt to prove to her father that she can work a minimum wage job like anyone else. It quickly becomes anything but simple. A web of secrets, a music opportunity, and a chance at love--what could go wrong?]

[The coffee shop AU has always been a favorite trope of mine, so I decided to just go for it. Plus, I love putting my own spin on these things--domesticity and small, meaningful moments are my bread and butter. So, this fic is the culmination of everything I love.

I flubbed the timeline a little in this, but that's mostly to do with the timing of the entrances of certain characters. This story still takes place in the world of Splatoon--there's just a little bit of a timing change, and Callie and Marie enjoy secrets more. As a result, I've tried to follow a bit of the inkling/octoling anatomy (mostly the inclusion of three hearts and the avoidance of any reference to bones). Just a heads up.]

Chapter 1: The Bet

Here’s the deal: Pearl got this job to make a point. Her father said, “You wouldn’t last one week in a dead-end, minimum wage job,” and Pearl, competitive and aggressive to a fault said, “WANNA BET!!” in a voice that was all capital letters and begged more than one exclamation point. So, she trotted her little ass to the nearest over-priced coffeeshop and applied, right there, on the spot. The owner, Callie, hired her immediately, because she liked her fighting spirit and wanted a cut of Pearl’s hundred thousand gold winnings if she pulled it off.

That was two months ago.

Pearl doesn’t know why she stayed. (That’s a lie. She stayed because Callie needed her. With Marie off to Calamari County to care for their aged (“Not decrepit!” Cap’n Cuttlefish declared as Marie guided him out over six weeks ago) grandfather until such a time as he stopped trying to get into the sewers (don’t ask), Callie was down half her staff. Pearl stayed because Callie gave her the sad eyes, the big ones that looked like a sunset on the ocean.) Her father upped the ante—an extra fifty thousand gold for every week she stayed—but she doesn’t need the money. Not really. Her allowance is building steadily in her account and she still lives at home, where her every need is taken care of. She doesn’t take Callie’s money because she doesn’t need it, so she’s working for free. “Volunteer work,” Callie assures her, “it looks good on your resume.”

Fresh Start is a small place, with only a handful of tables and no to-go window. There’s exactly two people who work there—Callie and Marie, co-owners and cousins, who somehow had enough money to open a coffeeshop in the middle of Inkopolis Plaza, the richest area of the city. There’s a decently sized pastry case and their sweets rotate every day of the week so you can never get the same thing two days in a row. Their savory offerings are mostly sandwiches, though Callie is looking into learning how to make flatbread pizzas. Callie handles most of the paperwork while Marie seems to enjoy working the counter, especially the fancy espresso machine. Overall, it’s a small place, a blip on most people’s morning and evening commutes, but there’s something about the familiar, friendly atmosphere and staff that keeps people coming back.

Pearl beginning to think that this is a distraction. Her father doesn’t approve of her sudden swerve into the punk scene, mostly because he doesn’t like to see his little princess wearing so much black, but she isn’t just going to drop that for some stressful job. Sure, Callie is great to work with, but the customers can be awful, especially because they’re smack in the middle of Inkopolis Plaza, where all the fifteen-year-olds obsessed with sports come after turf wars. You don’t know true brats until you’re face to face with a sweaty fifteen-year-old who has to have their latte with exactly two and a half pumps of sweetener in it, and Pearl is the queen of brats so she can say that.

So yeah, the punk gig. She still does it. Late at night, when her dad is out of town usually. She’s twenty-years-old and still sneaking out of the house. The irony isn’t lost on her.

This is all to say, Pearl is ready to jump ship as soon as she can. The second Marie steps foot back into the store, she’s peaceing out and collecting her check from the International Bank of Dad, splitting it with Callie (because she’s not about to renege on that deal), and never looking back. The world needs to hear her music, and, really, she just wants to scream into a mic at the pit of night. Is that too much to ask?

Then, predictably, things change. Marina walks in, and Pearl finds herself returning to the shop, even after Marie has given up on keeping their grandfather out of the sewer (don’t ask).

Pearl realizes that she’s in love with Marina about two days after meeting her. It isn’t a surprise. She falls in love a lot—with hips and large, gentle hands and sleep-heavy limbs and bright, alive eyes and long legs and long hair and short hair and sometimes even with a laugh. She isn’t picky. She falls in love with pieces of people all the time. The most recent one, a fling of a relationship on the road with her band, was a girl who loved human fashion; Pearl fell in love with the way she wore her old-fashioned hats, cocked to one side, tentacles cut short into a bob. She really liked the bob. She might have copied the bob.

Of course, relationships with pieces of people never work out. But, Pearl always reasons, she’s young, she’s wild, she’s got piercings, and she’s disappointing her father with her screamy music. Her bandmates don’t get along and it seems like they’re sick of her, but she doesn’t let that get her down; typical punk stuff, she’s assured herself. She’s going through a phase where she’s allowed to only love fractions of individuals. It’s not healthy, but she’s coping, more than anything, with broken hearts. She always has at least one broken heart.

Until, of course, Marina walks in, orders her coffee from Marie with a soft, accented voice, and Pearl has to try very hard to keep her eyes in her head.

“That’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” Pearl hisses to Marie, as she turns to froth up some milk for a latte. “Do you know her?”

“Her name’s Marina,” Marie answers, uninterested, in her own world. She’s always like that—like she’s far away, thinking about some other reality, some other world. Calamari County or something. Man, these country people.

“You actually know her?” Pearl demands.

Marie smiles then, a small thing, and holds up the paper cup, treating Pearl to her slanted handwriting—Marina.

“Oh,” Pearl says, and sounds just as foolish as she feels. “What’d she order?”

“Green tea latte. You can go talk to her, y’know. I won’t tell Mom.”

She’s talking about Callie, who has a strict no flirting policy after an unfortunate incident involving Marie and a dare—chain flirting for tips, which Pearl let her keep, just because she actually did it; she even flirted with the tiny horseshoe crab that owns the weapon shop. Pearl swore he was thisclose to hiding in his shell. It was especially hilarious because Pearl knows that Marie is like her—she falls for girls, sometimes boys, but mostly, Marie maintains, she loves food. Pearl can respect that.

“But, she’s so...” Pearl glances in Marina’s direction. She’s standing at the pickup counter, scrolling through her phone. She’s got on an oversized sweatshirt and tight leggings with boots that Pearl immediately wants for her own wardrobe. She also has large, expensive headphones over her ears. But, most notable is her hair. It’s so different from what she’s used to seeing in the plaza, where being fresh means having one of two haircuts. And it moves so fluidly, like a silk sheet being spread over a bed.

“She’s so...?” Marie prompts.

“She’s so... out of my league!” Pearl moans, modulating her tone so that she can’t be heard over the percolating coffee pot. It comes out as a low whine.

Marie glances back at Marina and then back to Pearl, at her dark, but designer clothes, and her pink-tinged bob, and then at her boots. “If you say so,” she says, and then turns to slide the latte across the counter. “Marina, this one’s yours.”

The first time Pearl gets up the nerve to talk to Marina, the Squid Sisters are playing over the radio, which gives her the opening she wants. Marina always has those headphones, so she has to know her stuff about music—and anybody who’s anybody knows the Squid Sisters.

The greatest mystery of Inkopolis, the Squid Sisters are the most secretive musical act that’s ever hit the mainstream idol scene. They cover their faces at performances and don’t appear on television, which really makes Pearl wonder sometimes. What if she’s passed them on the street? The smoke and mirrors make them even more of a commodity, and then they drop music without warning, as if they exist outside of the laws of record labels. Pearl is something of a fangirl, but everyone is. The Squid Sisters have it all—adoring fans, lots of gigs, and anonymity. Pearl doesn’t quite understand it; she wants to be adored, wants to crowd surf, wants to be approached on the street for autographs, but she can respect the desire to be left alone.

“Turn that off,” Callie says from the back room. She’s never been a huge Squid Sisters fan. But then, she doesn’t seem to like music much on the whole. She and Marie never sing, never dance, just keep their heads down and make coffee. Pearl has been trying to shake them out of it, but they’re both stubborn in their own way.

“No, leave it,” Marie says from where she’s spreading cream cheese on a bagel for someone. She’s got that smirk, the one that she always wears when Callie starts in on the Squid Sisters. “I like this song.”

Callie makes a loud sigh. “Of course you do.”

Fresh Start is mildly busy right now, probably because it’s near lunch, so Pearl is taking orders. Not her favorite job, but it beats making the coffee. And, this way, she can duck into the back if Marina ever shows.

It makes her uneasy, how unsteady Marina makes her feel. Usually, she’s great at this. She makes girls swoon with a bright, sharp smile, and then makes them fall for her with a well-placed hand and simple pickup line. But Marina? She’s scared to talk to her. It’s not normal, and Pearl doesn’t like.

But, also, she’s determined to see her again, at least once, before she quits and returns to her gilded castle of wealth. (There’s always an “I want to see her again” after she sees her again. It’s a never-ending cycle.)

Except, today, when Marina walks in, jangles the bell, Marie refuses to trade Pearl jobs. The Squid Sisters are singing “City of Color” over the speakers and Marie is grinning at her like a shark. “I’m perfectly comfortable right here,” she says, and turns the blender on so Pearl can’t beg further.

“Callie...!” Pearl tries, but then Marina is there, right in front of her. She has on a beanie today, so her headphones are around her neck, and Pearl can see how well-loved they are, just by how discolored the cushioning is.

“I’m up to my elbows in cookie dough! You’re on your own!” Callie yells back. Behind her, she hears Marie snort.

“Hello...?” Marina says, unaware of the power play occurring behind the counter. Pearl forces herself to smile.

“Hi!” she chirps, voice incredibly high-pitched and slightly panicked. There goes her hard-punk exterior. “H-how can I help you?”

Marina hums as she looks up at the menu. She gets something different every day, as if she’s cycling through the whole menu before picking something she really likes. Her finger comes up to tap her bottom lip, which really is unfair. Pearl has to force herself to swallow.

“Iced coffee, please. No sweetener.”

“Iced coffee!” Pearl yells, not because that’s what they do here but because she’s panicked. Marina is so... so pretty... and regal and—and—and...

Okay, so maybe Pearl is a lost cause.

“I heard her,” Marie mumbles from behind her. Above them, the song changes from “City of Color” to “Ink Me Up.” Callie appears, mysteriously free of cookie dough, and goes for the radio.

“Okay, that’s enough,” she declares.

“Oh, please leave it,” Marina calls, looking past Pearl and to Callie. When Pearl, Callie, and Marie all turn to look at her, she fidgets, pulls her hat tighter over her head. “Sorry, it’s just... The Squid Sisters changed my life.”

From anyone else, that would have sounded dramatic, but Marina says it without a single ounce of irony. She looks down at her hands, with their long turquoise tips.

“No problem,” Callie pipes, suddenly back to her happy, chipper, non-Squid Sister self.

“I’m very glad,” Marie puts in, as she appears beside Pearl with an iced coffee in her hands. “I’m very glad that the Squid Sisters helped you.”

Marina doesn’t say anything, merely takes the coffee with a small smile on her face. “How much...?” she asks.

“On the house,” Callie says, and she disappears back into the back room.

After the Great Zapfish goes missing, Callie and Marie leave to care for their grandfather. Something about his weak hearts. They leave Pearl in charge, and she promptly closes the store for half its hours, because there’s no way she can run this place by herself.

She does okay, all told. She considers asking for her father’s help, but she doesn’t want him buying her out of this problem. She needs to figure it out.

Mostly, that involves thanking people for their patience, because she not only has to handle the money, but make the coffee, clean the tables, and wash the dishes. Callie insisted on using real plates and cups unless the drinks were to-go, which left Pearl with large stacks of mugs in the sink at the end of every hour. She’s dealing with it.

Marina appears every day that week, and every time she asks after Callie and Marie. Pearl answers honestly—“I have no idea where they are or when they’re coming back!”—and Marina tries her hardest not to laugh at Pearl’s anxious, out of control energy. They even have real conversations, which is a step up from Pearl’s lovestruck sputterings of a few weeks ago.

“So, what do you do?” Pearl asks today, as she scoops ice into a cup for a frappe.

“...do...?” Marina asks, as if she’s unsure of the word, feeling the sound of it in her mouth.

“Y’know, like for a job?”

“Oh!” Marina laughs at herself, and it’s possibly the cutest thing Pearl’s ever heard. She has to try very hard not to grin stupidly. “I work in retail.” She gestures out the window, in the direction of the Galleria and its overpriced shops. “On the weekends, I’m an indie producer. I do a lot of remixes. I’m working on some Squid Sisters now.”

Pearl feels like she’s been struck by lightning. “You do what? No way! I’m in a band! I knew you were into music!”

“What’s your band called? Maybe I’ve heard of you.”

“Doubt it.” Pearl slams the blender closed and turns it on. They stare at each other for a few seconds as it does its work. “It’s punk,” she continues when it’s done. “Probably not your style.”

Marina shrugs. “Can’t know until I listen. Will you bring me a sample?”

Her eyes are so bright and excited. Pearl can’t feel two of her hearts, they’re pounding so hard. “Yeah,” she says, “I will!”

[hollowistheworld]

Never Say Never Say Never

Read on AO3            Support Me on Ko-Fi  

Sabo misses one New Year's party and apparently he misses all the important family updates.

A lot of people wanted to know how Sabo felt about this dating thing, so here’s a quick one-shot of him finding out. 

“Koala,” Sabo protested in a tone that was definitely not a whine, “I have to go. Do you know how much of a douche it’ll make me if I’m late to my own brother’s birthday dinner?”

Koala added another laptop charger to the bundle already in his arms. “No one in your family has ever been on time for anything. You’ll live.”

Sabo scowled at her, though it didn’t matter because she’d already gone back to rummaging around in the cabinets. “I thought deep cleans were supposed to be done in the spring.”

“It’s the new year, Sabo. I’ve put up with all of this garbage for too long. You said you’d help me clear it out, and now you’re going to.”

Sabo frowned down at the steadily growing pile of wires and cords and boxes and who knew what else that kept appearing from their apparently bottomless cabinets. “I didn’t think you meant on the first. It’s a holiday, you know.” He was not pouting.

“Only for white collar workers.” Koala reemerged and added several more cords to Sabo’s arms. “There. Finally. What, were they breeding in there?”

“They must have been. I don’t think we have a phone that goes with that one,” Sabo said, nodding vaguely to one of the charger cords.

Koala waved him off. “Go see which of those don’t work and then you can go.”

“I don’t remember you getting promoted over me, Koala.”

She raised an eyebrow and held eye contact with him for an impressively long time. Sabo could withstand one of her stares better than anyone else she knew. Sometimes he could even outlast her.

Not today though, apparently. “Alright, alright,” he said, surrendering. “What are you doing?”

She gestured at the main computer. “Clearing all the useless files off of this thing. So be glad I gave you the easy job, okay?”

Sabo stuck his tongue out at her and went to find an outlet to start testing the cords in.

It wasn’t too bad, once he started working at it. Half the cords could be tossed out without being tried; they were frayed or cracked or had tooth marks (from what, Sabo couldn’t even guess). A few were a pain, sending him on a wild goose chase for something to plug them into, but he was still done in under forty-five minutes, leaving him with plenty of time to meet Luffy and Ace at Sanji’s restaurant, as long as he got a decent cab driver. He'd mostly said he might be late in the hopes of convincing Koala to let him skip out on helping her clean.

“I’m leaving, Koala!” he shouted back into the store, front door already half open, not intending to give her a chance to find something else for him to do.

“I expect you to come in early tomorrow to help me finish!” she yelled back, and Sabo shut the door in a hurry, already planning to insist he’d been gone before she’d said it.

He loved his job, and he loved Koala, but he wasn’t going to spend one second more cleaning than he absolutely had to. That wasn’t why he’d joined up.

Knowing Koala would likely blow a gasket if she was bothered by someone who didn’t know how to read a CLOSED sign, Sabo locked the door behind him and made sure the sign announcing the store as DRAGON ELECTRONICS was turned off before turning to find a cab.

He’d probably have been more willing to help Koala clean if they’d been cleaning stuff up in the important parts of the store. Down in the basement - which was actually a much nicer workspace than the store above - shredding documents they no longer needed and couldn’t risk anyone finding, organizing files that had been left scattered across desks for far too long, or checking that the computers were still up to date and secure.

Sabo didn’t know how the electronics store itself, which was just a cover for an entirely different sort of business, could possibly have generated so much clutter in just a year. It rarely even got more than two customers in a day, though those customers had an uncanny ability to walk in at the worst possible times. Listening to people complain about their computers catching viruses from visiting sites they had no business visiting was a drag at the best of times; it was worse when they had ten minutes to get out of the building before their chance to get corrupt-rich-bastard-of-the-month taken down vanished.

Sabo shook his head to clear it. He had to be careful about thinking about work while outside of work, or he ran the risk of saying something he shouldn’t in front of Ace and Luffy - and once Luffy knew a secret it was only a matter of time before the word spread. He could be persuaded to keep his mouth shut if one could impress the seriousness of the secret on him, but Sabo would prefer to just avoid the problem altogether.

Ace, meanwhile, would probably burst a blood vessel if he ever found out that Sabo’s ‘boring IT desk job’ was a cover for what could generously be called a vigilante gig. His big brother instincts tended to only kick on in extreme situations, but Sabo was willing to bet committing felonies would be enough to set them off. And Ace would notice if Sabo let something slip that he hadn’t meant to, unlike Luffy, who could be easily distracted.

Sabo was just grateful that Garp rarely came up to visit for anything besides Christmas, maybe Thanksgiving, and a summer camping trip. He’d kick Sabo’s ass through half the city if he knew what Sabo really did for a paycheck.

So Sabo carefully but quickly, with the efficiency that came from years of practice, boxed up all of his thoughts about work that went beyond ‘Koala’s making me help her clean the store and it’s a nightmare’. By the time the cab stopped at the curve Sabo was fully back into the persona of ‘the best behaved brother’, a position he had worked hard to maintain. He would also argue he deserved it even with his job - he may have been breaking the most laws of the three of them, but he had better intentions than either of his ‘chaos storm’ brothers, as Dadan had used to call them. And everyone always said that he was the most polite.

Sabo entered the restaurant and made his way to the usual table, where Ace and Luffy were already sitting, Luffy staring towards the kitchen with laser focus.

“Look at you two, being on time for once,” Sabo teased with a grin.

Ace was frowning at Luffy rather than joining him in staring at the kitchen in anticipation, which struck Sabo as odd. All three of them tended to hyper-focus on food, and it was generally a bad sign when something could distract them from it.

“Marco gave us a ride,” Ace told him, still eyeing Luffy, tone distracted. “He had to come out this way anyway, to talk to Doma about one of the dogs.”

“So he dragged your asses out of the house kicking and screaming, I take it?”

Ace finally looked at him, grinning a little. “Luffy went kicking and screaming. I can be easily bribed.”

Sabo knew it. Marco didn’t seem to have a lot of interest in getting Ace to do much of anything most of the time, but when he was interested Ace rarely lasted more than a few minutes against him. Sabo figured that was probably a good thing - if Ace was allowed to run out the full gambit of his stubbornness his partner would probably murder him in cold blood. And he’d deserve it.

Sabo slid into the booth next to Ace, sidling up closer to his brother than he usually did. Being close to any of the three brothers during a meal was dangerous - every one of them had bitten at least one person who had gotten too close to their food over the course of their lives. Most often, it had been each other. Luffy was lucky to not have scars in the shape of Ace’s teeth marks.

But food hadn’t arrived yet, so Sabo was safe for a little while longer. And Luffy was thoroughly distracted by the prospect of dinner incoming, so he was unlikely to eavesdrop.

Not that Luffy was much good at eavesdropping anyway. Eavesdropping required at least a little bit of subtlety, and Luffy and subtle didn’t have so much as a passing acquaintanceship.

“What’s going on?” Sabo asked in a low voice, just loud enough for Ace to hear over all the background noise of the restaurant.

“Huh?”

Sabo rolled his eyes. “You’re looking at Luffy like he’s grown an extra head. What’d he do?” Sabo would have thought they were immune to Luffy’s oddities by now. Sabo had over a decade’s worth of exposure, and Ace had twice that. What could Luffy pull out of his hat that wasn’t some variation on something they’d seen a hundred times before?

Ace shook his head. “You are not going to believe this.”

There wasn’t much Sabo wasn’t ready and willing to believe in. “Try me.”

Ace shook his head harder. His expression was complicated - Ace’s expressions often were - but Sabo had had years and years to learn how to read them. There was fondness, exasperation, a little bit of annoyance, and a lot of disbelief. “Luffy’s dating someone.” He kept his voice low, so that Luffy - now chatting to one of the waiters who had made the mistake of passing too close to their table while collecting empty glasses - wouldn’t hear him, but the words seemed to burst out of him all the same.

Sabo raised an eyebrow. “Dating someone?” he repeated. That didn’t seem likely at all. Luffy had never once expressed an interest in dating. He was scornful of soulmate bonds, and beyond that he’d always seemed vaguely skeptical of the idea of romance or crushes. He’d certainly never showed any interest in trying it out for himself.

Ace nodded. “You remember that doctor with the gang tattoos?”

Sabo considered once more telling Ace that he was in no position to be judging other people’s tattoos, but decided it wasn’t really the time. “Yeah, the one whose dog we watched at Christmas, right?”

“That’s him.”

“What about him?” Sabo glanced at Luffy - if Sanji didn’t hurry up with dinner he was going to break into the kitchen - and back at Ace. “Luffy’s not…?”

“Yeah. Announced it last night. This morning. Whatever. At the party.”

Ace and Luffy had spent last night - New Year’s eve - at Whitebeard’s place, at one of their impressive parties. Sabo hadn’t gone, desperate to catch up on his sleep after a string of bad luck had nearly landed Hack in prison. And then he'd been nice and come in to help Koala with the cleanup from all that, and she'd tricked him into helping her clean up the literal mess of the storefront. See if he every volunteered to help her with something again.

“How long has that been going on?”

Ace shrugged one shoulder. “Not that long. At Christmas I - Luffy, where do you think you’re going?”

Luffy had sprung up from the table. “I’m gonna go find Sanji.”

There was no time to protest. Luffy could really move when he wanted to, even if he wasn’t actually running. He was halfway across the restaurant before Sabo or Ace had finished hearing what he’d said.

Ace waved him off. “He’s lucky he’s got a friend who’s a cook. Anyone else would have banned him ages ago.”

Sabo laughed. “Pretty sure he is banned from every restaurant between here and our place.”

“Probably. Anyway, as I was saying - I ran into the guy at Chopper’s birthday party. Law was getting fucking smashed at the bar, having a crisis about soulmates.” He looked at Sabo expectantly.

Sabo looked back, confused, for a few long seconds, and then his eyes widened. “Luffy’s that guy’s soulmate?” It shouldn’t have surprised him so badly, really. Just because Luffy didn’t have a soulmate didn’t mean anything about someone else having him for one. But it was still strange to even imagine.

It wasn’t personal towards Trafalgar Law. Sabo would have felt equally shocked no matter who Ace had said it was. With the possible exception of Zoro. Sabo could have believed Zoro had Luffy for a soulmate, he thought. But the idea of anyone else made his brain buck a little.

“Yeah. Not even two weeks after Trafalgar gets done telling me about how he can’t ever see himself dating his soulmate he’s sitting on our fucking couch holding Luffy’s hand, with Luffy’s damn name written on his arm.”

Sabo paused a second, distracted from the point. “It’s Luffy’s name? That’s his soulmate mark?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Sabo laughed a little. “God, that’s so cliche.”

Ace smirked, and it broadened until he was laughing too. “Christ , I know, right? Poor guy. He said it didn’t start as Luffy’s name, but can you imagine going through life with something that boring for your soulmate mark and then that comes hurtling into your life?” When he said ‘that’ he gestured towards the kitchen, where Luffy was no doubt making a nuisance of himself.

The two of them laughed, trying to be quiet at first, then realizing Luffy wasn’t there to overhear and demand to know what was so funny, and they grew louder and louder until they were doubled over the table, clutching their sides and getting funny, judgmental looks from the other restaurant patrons.

Sabo recovered first, wheezing and hiccuping back to sanity in fits and bursts. “Okay, okay,” he managed, struggling not to start laughing all over again at the sight of Ace still giggling to himself. “Does Luffy at least seem happy with him?”

Ace shrugged. “Dude, it’s Luffy. He seems happy with everyone.”

That was a fair point. “Happy dating him. Like, Law’s not being… I don’t know, weird about it? He’s not trying any shit about how Luffy has to do whatever he wants because he’s his soulmate?” It was hard to imagine Luffy allowing somebody to be a dick to him for any reason, soulmate mark included, but Sabo was his older brother. He was supposed to worry about things like that.

“Not that I saw.” Ace took a drink of water and reached for the table’s pitcher to refill his glass. “I don’t even know if Luffy knows they're soulmates.”

“Should we tell him?”

Ace shrugged again, but with a more serious look on his face this time. This was one of the things he’d been thinking about while he’d been staring at Luffy. “I don’t know. You’re better at this relationship crap. What do you think?”

“How am I the one who’s good at relationships? Apparently, I’m the only single one.”

Ace made a broad, vague gesture with one arm. “Not just dating. You’re better with people. It’s why you’re in retail.”

Sabo was nowhere near good enough with people to really be in retail, but he didn’t say so to Ace. “This just started last night?” he asked instead.

“Yeah, far as I know. And like I said, Trafalgar was having his life crisis at Christmas time, so it couldn’t have been much longer than that anyway.”

Sabo glanced back towards the kitchen. Luffy had reappeared, walking backwards, as though he had to guide Sanji to their table. “Let’s give him a couple of days. If he doesn’t tell Luffy about it, we’ll know he’s a bastard, and we’ll send his ass back to kingdom come.”

“And if he does tell Luffy?”

“Then we’ll play it by ear. Come on, this is Luffy we’re talking about. If Law pisses him off we’ll be able to hear him complaining about it from space.”

Luffy reached the table, Sanji and dinner in tow, and Sabo slid a safe distance away from his brother. It wasn’t surprising that Ace was so concerned. In addition to his - their whole family’s - complicated tangle of emotions regarding soulmate bonds, Ace just didn’t trust other people very easily, particularly not where his brothers were concerned. He was always worrying about the sort of people Luffy was hanging out with, if they were trustworthy, if they might take advantage of Luffy’s friendly, trusting nature.

Sabo worried about that sometimes, but mostly he tended to worry about what he considered to be more realistic concerns - like Luffy falling off a building while parkouring around town and splitting his head open on the concrete. Maybe dating a doctor would be for the best.

“So, Luffy,” Sabo said as the three of them began digging into their dinners. “I hear you have a boyfriend?”

Despite having his mouth full, Luffy grinned.

[kkruml]

STAY chapter 8

Thank you everyone for your patience with this chapter!

I had some serious writer’s block about 2/3 through this chapter but @smoakingwaffles upped her BETA game and is to thank for helping me put a string of thoughts into what has become my favorite exchange in this chapter. YOU DA BEST MY DEAR.

Mood music.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

AO3

Previously

His eyes were pained, his shoulders dropped as his voice cracked, “Annalise.”

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but the name of another woman was not it. But she wanted the truth- he was giving it.

Trying to keep her tone even, she asked, “Who is Annalise?”

“Was…” his voice was hollow, his eyes focused on a distant shore two-hundred years away. “She was my fiancé.”

Was.

Her stomach knotted as she took in the word, turning it inside out in her head, looking for any alternative meaning. But the look on his face confirmed her fears.

“Jamie…” Her eyes pleaded. “What happened?”

“There was an accident…” he stopped, his hand clenching hers tightly, the skin under his fingers now white but she didn’t move- couldn’t move. Her eyes locked onto his as his wall came crashing down.

No more secrets.

With a look of fear and anguish he finally looked at her, “She’d dead because of me.”

Claire

The clock on the wall slowly ticked in rhythm to the heart monitor of her patient.

Two hours.

Just two short hours ago her arms were wrapped around him, their legs had intertwined in a soul-saving embrace.  

But that had been two hours ago.

The sterile smell of the hospital swirled around her as she took a shaky breath. She closed her eyes and saw his face- broken, scared, beautiful.

She’s dead because of me.

The words had barely made it past his lips, but she saw his face crumple as he closed his eyes. He slowly unlocked his hand from hers. His fingers combed through his hair before sinking into the curls at the back of his head.

She was afraid to touch him but even more afraid to let him drift farther away from her. With a tentative movement, she softly rested her hand on his thigh.

“Jamie,” Claire spoke softly, searching for the calm doctor’s voice she employed when speaking to trauma victims, “What happened to Annalise?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled as he brought his hands in front of his face- staring at his palms.

She waited as he breathed in and out- three times- before gently pressing her fingertips into his muscle.

“We had grown up together, all through school- high school sweethearts, ye ken.” His voice was shallow, distant. “She was all I knew, and I loved her- so I asked. She said yes. I just always assumed...”

She carefully shifted closer to him, watching his eyes dart from palm to palm before closing his eyes tightly together.

“It was a dark night- no moon, just heavy rain. We were celebrating our graduation from University.” He opened his eyes again but did not meet her gaze. One large palm slid down the length of her arm, his fingers pressing into her skin as he closed his fingers closed around hers once more. His voice was quiet, wistful as he spoke, “We were coming home from the pub- I looked over at her just for a moment- she was smiling.”

Her heart constricted at the image- the final fleeting moment before impact.

The last breath before his life shattered.

His eyes were focused on the sheet, but she knew his mind was reliving that night, helpless. “The car came out of nowhere. It hit the passenger side.”

She wanted to protect him, hold him close and shield him from the pain. Feeling useless, she took a deep breath and softly hummed in response.

“All I heard was the sound of broken glass and crushing metal, but above all that was the way she screamed…” His accent was thick as he shook his head, “… there was sae much blood.”

She saw the words as she were reading if from one of her medical textbooks: The majority of automobile accident fatalities are the result of acute internal hemorrhaging.

“I held her in my arms, as I saw the life leave her face, I begged her- ‘Stay. Please just…stay with me’…” A strangled sob escaped his lips as his shoulders drooped. “And then she was…  gone.”

Gone. The word was empty- a ghost of a life he’d thought he’d live.

“These hands-” he stopped, his fingers shaking, “I couldna save her. I called for help but…”

He thought it was his fault.

A massive hemorrhage without immediate medical intervention would have been fatal, and even then… very difficult to save. He was carrying the weight of her death on his shoulders and she watched him slowly crumble underneath it.

He couldn’t live with this unwarranted guilt, it wasn’t fair. “Jamie it wasn’t your fault- it was an accident. It could have been anybody-”

“But it was me. I was supposed to protect her. I failed her.” His free hand clenched into a fist and he drove it into the sheet- years of bottled pain bursting free. “I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with her…”

Slowly moving her hand to his chin, she lifted his face, his eyes slowly meeting hers through a wall of built up tears. “But Annalise- she spent the rest of her life with you.”

Her words broke the dam as a thick line of tears poured over his carved cheekbones and down his face. She pulled his face to the curve of her neck and his arms wrapped tightly around her. She slowly ran one hand through his curls, the other held him steady by his shoulders. She felt the warmth of his tears as they rolled down her neck; without words to soothe him, she guided the heaviness of his body to hers and took a deep breath. It may have been hours or minutes that they held each other tightly. The weight of a death and two years of sorrow slowly lifted from his shoulders with each gentle stroke of his hair.

A soft graze of her skin stirred her awake, and as her eyes slowly opened, she was met with a sea of clear blue. His hair was tussled from sleep and she gently swept a wild curl from his forehead, a small smile pulling at his lip.

“Mmmm,” She breathed quietly. “What is it?”

“Ye ken….” Jamie paused to take a deep breath, kissing the base of her neck softly. “Ye ken I havena spoken her name since the funeral.”

Claire kissed his forehead softly, letting her lips linger as she took in the faint scent of her lavender in his hair. Attempting a light tone, she asked, “Is it cathartic?”

His fingers twitched, and he shifted his weight to sit against the pillows. His arms guided her body to follow, and her head rested on the expanse of his chest- her hand just above his heart.

“Claire… I…” Jamie’s voice trailed off. She tilted her head to see his eyes focused on her hand.

“We don’t have to rush it….” She whispered into him, placing a kiss on his breast.

“Since it happened, I have been a hollow shell of a man- trying to hide in the little bit that has been left of me…” Jamie let out a breath as he brought his hand to hers, gently lacing their fingers together. Turning to look down at her, his voice cracked, “That empty shell…The most I thought I was worthy of was… just shallow company.”

Pulling their hands to her lips, she kissed his knuckles softly. “Go on.”

“Then I met you.” Jamie said, his voice was strong with a fierceness that sent chills down her spine.

She opened her mouth to speak but no words formed. Her eyes filled with tears as she answered his words with a small exhale.

“Sassenach, for a verra long time I have been afraid to feel again….” He unclasped his hand from hers, caressing her chin as he tilted her face to meet his. “I’m scared, Claire. Scared to love again but also scared I will never see your face again or feel your touch.”

“You won’t lose me, Jamie.” She answered the question written on his face he didn’t dare speak.

A small smile pulled across his lips as he nodded, blinking hard to keep his eyes clear. Leaning down to kiss her lips, he let out a soft Scottish purr. He said simply, “Ye’ve made me whole again, mo nighean donn.”

Mo nighean donn.

The sound of his voice wrapped around her heart- constricting and expanding it all in one moment. She didn’t need to know what they meant to feel the depth of feeling behind them. Without words to encompass what she felt in return, she closed her eyes and pulled him closer- placing another kiss on his chest. “Lay your head love, it’s a long time till dawn.”

With each rise and fall of his chest she felt their skin meld into one. The touch of his fingertips on her skin as they lightly strummed across her skin lulled her into serenity.

Jamie

The light was just creeping across the floor when he woke to an empty bed. His hand searched the sheets next to him but found no soft curves or ivory skin. He thought he had imagined the whole night, but the scent of lavender lingered on his pillow. Blinking twice to clear his vision, he wiped his eyes- feeling a thin film of salt residue on his skin.

He told her. And she stayed. She stayed until the call came in.

Trauma- must go.  

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Please.

“I’m sorry, Jamie.”

Don’t.

“I don’t want to leave you, but I must.”

Go.

He replayed the words over in his mind; her voice was soft, warm. He believed her. But with the wounds agape across his soul, he was left with nothing but the throbbing memories of old blurring with the whisper of her healing touch to sooth him.

He stared at the ceiling, slowing feeling his eyelids close as the deep exhaustion of his grief seeped from his bones. Two breaths later, sleep pulled him back under.

The sound of the key in the lock startled him awake.

She was back. Had he given her a key?

He stepped into his pajama bottoms and strode to the door to greet her, running his hand through his hair to tame it.

A gruff voice met him instead, “Ye look mighty peely-wally, lad.”  

“Och haud yer wheesht.” Jamie’s heart sank as he answered his uncle, “What are ye doin’ here Murtagh?”

“Ye didna answer yer phone last night or this mornin’- thought I best check on ye before ye miss another gig.” Murtagh’s brow quirked as he eyed his nephew, taking in his disheveled hair and the faint red of his eyes.

Turning from his inquiring stare, Jamie waved a hand at him. “I took the night off, I needed time to think.”

He shuffled distractedly around the kitchen looking for a coffee mug. His eye caught the clock on the wall-was it already two o’clock? Rummaging through the cupboards and letting the doors swing close with a thud, he meandered without much success.

“Ye always told me music was a way to keep yerself from thinkin’,” Murtagh’s voice was level but Jamie could hear the question behind it.

The faint melody echoed in his ears and he shook his head to clear it, “Lately it hasna worked- it’s made it worse.”

Murtagh leaned against the counter, crossing his arms in front of him as he shifted his weight to one leg. “Ye never did thank me for sendin’ that lass yer way the other night.”

Jamie scoffed at the memory- Laoghaire at the door with Claire in his favorite rugby shirt. “I’ll thank ye never to do that again, aye?”

Undeterred, he continued- his voice stronger, “It’s Sunday- shouldn’t ye be gettin’ yerself ready for the pub… and that table of lasses, aye?”

The image made his stomach turn as he thought of anyone other than her.

“No-” He said without hesitation, his voice firm and strong on the two-letter word.

Murtagh cocked his head as he watched his nephew.

Squaring his shoulders to face his uncle, he finished with a strong Highlander lilt, “There is no one, save for her.”

Murtagh’s face shifted to a serious look covered with a small smile and quirk of an eyebrow. “Just one?”

“Aye. A…” he paused, a smile playing on his lips, “A Sassenach.”

A soft knock at the door started his heart and he launched himself towards the entryway. He opened the door with a flourish and saw whisky eyes staring back at him- dark circles lined just below them.

“Christ! Are ye alright Sassenach?”

“Yes, it was a long surgery but we…” she sighed, the weight of her body sinking slightly as she stepped through the doorway. “We saved him.”

He could see the exhaustion in her petite frame as she shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes were bloodshot and though she gave her best attempt at a smile, he saw the toll his confession had taken on her. The emotional and physical exhaustion was plain on her glass face; she could have been knocked over with a soft breath, so he didn’t press her further. Instead, he opened his arms and she melted into him, her arms wrapping around his waist. He rested his cheek against her curls and relaxed for the first time since she left his bed.

The faint clink of a coffee mug sent a shiver through her body and she tensed. Tilting her head to see his face, he saw panic in her eyes as her voice shook, “Is… someone here?”

‘No… well yes… but it’s no what ye think.” He heard the familiar steps behind him and watched Claire’s face relax as she took in the bushy beard behind him. Jamie kept his arms around her as he turned to see his uncle, a grin wide across his face.

Murtagh raised an eyebrow as he eyed her, “Ye must be the lass, I reckon.”

Claire’s eyes darted to Jamie’s and he smiled as he watched a rosy blush warm her cheeks.

“I supposed I must be,” she cleared her throat, standing up straighter as her hands gripped Jamie firmly, “I’m Claire.”

[lavenderprose]

45 for victuuri please 🙏

Viktor isn’t even supposed to be in Detroit today, and it’s frustrating that such a seemingly-small snowstorm has grounded him in the motor city for the “foreseeable future”. Six hundred flights out of Metro Airport have been cancelled already, with more forthcoming, including Viktor’s ride back home. Yakov is somewhere in Saint Petersburg, pulling out his hair and screaming.

Viktor isn’t even supposed to be here. But the moment he sees Yuuri–almost six years to the day since the last time he saw him–his heart stops, and he experiences a brilliant, stunning moment of religion. 

Dear God. Maybe everything does happen for a reason. 

Viktor sees him through the large picture windows of a hotel restaurant and bar. He’s sitting with maybe four or five other people, all of them business casual like they’ve just gotten off work. It’s seven PM on a Friday, so that’s very likely the case. It’s also the Friday before Christmas. The lights on Woodward are casting festive shadows and Yuuri is wearing a large and comfortable sweater. There are poinsettias along the bartop every six feet or so. A large artificial Christmas Tree has been set up in one corner of the sparsely populated restaurant. 

It’s been six years. Yuuri has grown from the timid boy Viktor knew in college–his shoulders always closing in, his eyes always averting–and into a gorgeous man. He looks easy in his skin, although not completely void of a certain heightened self awareness. But as Viktor watches, standing in the falling snow like some idiot from a B romcom, he sees Yuuri laugh and drag a hand through his hair–a far more stylish cut than he wore when Viktor knew him–and realizes that he’s grown up. 

Of course, as Viktor’s luck as of late would have it, Yuuri turns around just in time to see Viktor mooning. His eyebrows shoot up and Viktor sees him say Viktor? but can’t hear him, for obvious reasons.

His friends look up, too. Viktor doesn’t know if they’re friends Yuuri had in college. He doesn’t recognize them, but that doesn’t mean much–Yuuri never really introduced him to his friends, in the few short months during which they dated.

There are three men aside from Yuuri, all of them dark haired and looking to be around Yuuri’s age–which would mean late twenties now, Viktor supposes. The one closest to Yuuri says something to him, casting a strange glance in Viktor’s direction. Yuuri nods, and the other man sets a hand on Yuuri’s leg.

Viktor thinks he understands what was said, then, even if he couldn’t hear it.

Viktor as in your ex-boyfriend?

Yes.

Yuuri, to Viktor’s surprise, rises from his seat and walks across the restaurant. Viktor, against his better judgement, meets him in the breezeway.

“Oh my god,” Yuuri says, casting a casually appraising gaze over Viktor’s person. “How are you? I can’t believe it’s actually you. What are you doing here?”

“Photoshoot,” Viktor says, shuffling his shoulders in an effort to seem nonchalant. “I was supposed to, um…I was actually supposed to be out of the city already, but…the storm.” He gestures outside, where the snowfall has yet to really pick up speed–but it will, he’s been assured by weatherman after weatherman, sometime overnight. 

“Oh,” says Yuuri, sparing only a brief glance outside. When his gaze returns to Viktor’s, it’s calm, but unsure. Yuuri used to practically vibrate with intensity. Too much emotion and not an outlet with which to express it–too scared of his own shadow to speak his mind. Viktor supposes that a lot changes with time and age. 

“You look good,” Viktor says, because it’s very true–practically an understatement–and it’s the only thing he can think to say. “Um. Healthy. You look like you’re…doing well.”

“You too. I’ve seen a couple of your spreads. The one in–in Vogue, that was really nice.”

“Oh,” Viktor says, and he wonders if the cold-flush on his cheeks will hide his blush. “That’s…nice of you to say.”

“I’m glad that…everything turned out well for you,” Yuuri says, smiling. It’s an earnest smile, if sad. “I was really–I never stopped wanting good things for you, even after you broke up with me. I hope you know that.”

Viktor can’t help himself–he physically takes a step back, as if punched or slapped. He blinks hard at Yuuri, who’s now staring at him in concern like he’s afraid Viktor is in the midst of a stroke.

“Me?” Viktor says slowly. “I? I broke up–broke up with you?”

Yuuri’s brow knits. “Yes?”

“Yuuri, you broke up with me,” Viktor says, shaking his head. “You ghosted me for like two weeks and when I finally got tired of it and went to your house, your sister answered the door and told me I wasn’t welcome. How is that me breaking up with you?”

“That was after you broke up with me,” Yuuri says as his expression furrow even deeper, progressing from slightly confused to definitely pissed with alarming deftness. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Viktor, you all but outright said you didn’t want to stay with me. How am I supposed to interpret that, aside from as a break-up?”

“When!” Viktor says. He knows they’re drawing attention to themselves, because Yuuri’s voice is raising and his own hands are doing wild things around his head, but he can’t help himself. “When did I ever say anything like that!”

“It was–I can’t remember, I think we were–were in bed.” Yuuri blushes, and Viktor watches it travel up his ears and down his neck and feels that old, familiar stab of want that Yuuri Katsuki has somehow always inspired in him since the day they met. “And I said–I told you I–I said something like…I can see myself spending the rest of my life with you. And I knew it was early, and I would have understood if you had just said–that’s nice, or something, because–yeah, I knew we’d only been dating for, like, eight months. I knew it was too soon to say something like that. But all you said was I’ve never wanted to spend my life with anybody, and then you practically got up and ran out the door.”

Viktor’s eyes widen. He remembers the day in question. He remembers it with perfect clarity. It’s the kind of thing that plays on repeat in his head when he has nothing else to think about, in frayed sepia tones like an old movie. “No. That’s not–that’s not what I said. Or at least, not how I meant it. And I didn’t–I didn’t run out the door. I told you I had something to do. That I had to go do something.”

“How else was I supposed to interpret that?” Yuuri asks, and now his voice is back to the low hush he was using before. More sad, now, than angry. “I said the most–intimate thing I’d ever said to another person. Ever, in my life. And you left.”

Viktor shakes his head. “Yuuri, no.”

He holds up a finger, practically touching Viktor’s lips. Insistent, but gentle. “It’s okay. I understand. I wasn’t–I wasn’t the most stable person back then. I wouldn’t have wanted to tie myself down to me, either. It was probably smart, what you did.”

Viktor opens his mouth to protest again–and he plans to keep protesting, until he can make Yuuri understand how wrong he is–but the restaurant side of the breezeway opens, and the young man from before, the one who put his hand on Yuuri’s leg, steps in.

“Hey,” he says, wrapping his hand gently around Yuuri’s arm. “You good?”

“Yeah,” says Yuuri, nodding. “I’m…fine. This is, um…” he turns his head away, and attempts surreptitiousness as he swipes a tear from the corner of each eye. He clears his throat, turns back. “Phichit, this is Viktor Nikiforov. You probably know who he is.”

Phichit nods, and holds out a hand. Viktor shakes.

“Viktor, this is Phichit. I…work with him.” With the glance that passes between them, Viktor knows that their relationship must be more than a working one.

“Ah,” Viktor says, nodding. “I…understand.”

Yuuri says to Phichit, “It’s fine. I’ll be back in a minute. Tell Guang-Hong to stop gawking, he’s going to sprain his neck.”

Phichit chuckles, and Viktor sees his knuckles tighten on Yuuri’s arm in a squeeze. “Alright.” To Viktor, he only nods.

When he’s gone, Viktor looks back to Yuuri and asks, “Does he treat you right?”

Yuuri frowns. “What?”

“Is he good to you?”

“Phichit?”

“Yes.”

“…Of course, but–”

Viktor nods, pulls his scarf tight around his neck. “That’s good. That’s–I’m glad. I’m going to…Um, goodbye, Yuuri. Merry Christmas.”

“Viktor.”

Yuuri reaches out a hand, but Viktor grabs it–takes it between his own, and kisses it, then sets it back at Yuuri’s side. 

“Merry Christmas, Yuuri.”

Yuuri bites his lip. “Happy birthday, Viktor.”

Viktor, despite himself, smiles as he walks back out into the cold.

–

Back in Saint Petersburg, the first thing Viktor does upon arriving home–aside from picking up Makkachin from Yakov’s house, and touch base with his agent who is absolutely losing her mind–is go to the bottom drawer in a seldom-opened dresser in his closet and dig past the contents–mostly memrobilia of college; pictures, old school supplies, a couple of documents pertaining to his first couple of modeling gigs–until he finds a small box. It’s blue velvet, the inside is satin, and on the center of the cushion is a ring.

Viktor vividly remembers the day he bought it. He remembers how excited he was, almost frantic. 

He remembers Yuuri being gone when he returned. 

Several hours later, Viktor is four shots into a bottle of vodka has the open ring box next to him on the table when his phone vibrates.

The text is from a number that isn’t listed in his phone, but it reads:

Viktor–

I hope it’s okay that I never got rid of your number. I don’t even know if this will work. You might have changed your number, but I had to try.

I don’t know what happened between us. I never really have. But I know that we’ve both done a lot of growing the last six years and I think, maybe, it would be good for us both if we got together and talked. 

I know your schedule is busy. Mine is too. But I really want to talk to you. It may sound stupid, since we only dated for a few months in college, but I’ve missed you a lot. Maybe the feeling is mutual. If it is, please consider what I said.

-Yuuri

(Oh, by the way…Phichit isn’t my boyfriend.)

The sound Yakov makes upon discovering that Viktor is returning to Detroit less than twenty-four hours after he left is legendary.