#they are things ive really given some thought to myself

[colinarmistead]

i actually have a lot of feelings about my little micro film BONEHEAD and since this is my account im going to post some of those feelings

sorry for so many thoughts about a film thats 1 minute long but

making Miracle-chan took absolutely forever and more people then I had ever worked with to make something, so many parts of hit had to go through so many hands and it required so many resources. In response to how frustrating that was, for the Calarts one week screening I wanted to make something simple, scrappy, and more then anything quick.

narratively i knew for a while i wanted to make a short, probably in a white shirt and black tie (all i was ever wearing at the time) and this is what came of that prompt. I don't like explaining my work but given how short and simple this is i think it wouldnt kill me here. Bonehead is more or less about me trying to get across why someone might be into things others find macabre or gross, something ive had to explain to people about myself, like if i see a dead deer (and i love a dead deer motif) my fascination with it isnt vouristic, its an interest of self identification.

another point brought up alot is the ending, the whole deer humping thing, which really colored the perception of the entire thing on twitter. the reason for it is because 1. its a funny gag to end on in my slightly comedic film, and 2. because Bonehead uses sex as a means of trying to connect, its what he things he should do. the first scene is him slapping his bone pelvis on that guy's ass not because he is getting off in any way, but because he thinks "this is what im supposed to do" i think this whole theme to his character doesnt land great cuz the film is SO short and doesnt explore it but hey thats what a sequel is for-

because of how quickly i needed to make it I had to go on instinct for everything (which is very unlike me i think way too much about everything) and the visual style in it ended up being very similar to my diary comics at the time (another medium that I made a point to go on instinct with - WHICH AGAIN i must reiterate is not how i often worked) because of this it visually and tonally really feels very me in a way that i was really surprised by. it also forced me to do backgrounds quickly and i am NOT a background person at all but i was so happy with how they turned out.

Bonehead taught me so much about not just what i want to be doing with art, but also what im even capable of. as someone who doesnt like a lot of animated films and much perfers live action ive always struggled to imagine what type of animation i would want to make, or even if i want to do animation at all. but idk, bonehead showed me there IS a way to make animation that i can be very happy with and even very proud of despite it's simplicity, i hope to bring this sort of spirit into BONEHEAD 2

[bogos-bint3d]

random thought bc i was making alphyne sims LOL, do you think undyne would ever want to have children? how do you think she’d be as a parent?

While I personally don't quite have a "definite yes" or "definite no" answer for this I personally think that, yeah, possibly! I think it's a question with a lot of layers to it, "is it something the character would want?" "Is it something the character should do?" "How much thought would the character put into it all beforehand?" "How long would the character wait before making that choice?" And first of all I think I should talk about fandom culture's view on kids in general. Why? Because I'm obsessed with validating my opinions like this

It's been said many times by many people now how there are a lot of times where fans end up writing completely out of character for the purpose of placing characters into positions of stereotypical familial structures- ESPECIALLY forcing women into the roles of motherhood where it doesnt fit or make sense for them to the point where I don't think I can really add anything substantial or important to the topic. The pros have very much said what needs to be said.

HOWEVER. I ALSO LIKE TO HAVE FUN WITH FUCKING CHARACTERS. I LIKE TO EXPLORE DIFFERENT TOPICS AND SITUATIONS WITH THEM. I WANT PEOPLE TO BE ABLE TO SHAMELESSLY ENJOY THEIR RIGHT TO INTERPRET CHARACTERS WHERE THEY THINK NESCECARY. WHERE THEY THINK FUCKING FUN!!!

So with that said, while demeaning female characters to singular sad and one dimensionsional traits of "Mother" is very clearly to me Not A Good Thing, people should stop acting like it's a fucking sin to imagine the possibility of a character having a child while still retaining all their accurate attributes, because it is a very possible thing that can be and IS done!!!!!

What are my thoughts on Undyne with all this?

Hehhaahehehaa....... strap in.

Where do I BEGIN. How about the inspirations behind the character of undyne herself.

Ok so see this wonderful lass here. That's a sculpture by Chauncey Ives of the mythical water spirit, Undine. Thinking about it, you all probably know this anyway because I do fairly often reblog Undine themed stuff too. Because I'm just like this. But how about the interesting stuff?

The original myth, created by Paracelsus, an alchemist and philosopher born in the 1400s, I believe comes from his work "A Book on Nymphs, Sylphs, Pygmies, and Salamanders, And Kindered Spirits". I think that's what it was called. I'm too tired to talk fully about it specifically and we need to get to the point so have a video of some guy reading it here

Yay :]

It's pretty much what it says. Paracelsus essentially believed that elemental beings (whom he had adapted and reimagined from ancient or traditional at the time sources) were simply part of the strangeness of God's natural creation and should be studied, as part of appreciation of the Bible etc. And we know ALL ABOUTTTTT utdr and its biblical links/imagery. But back to undine :]

Paracelsus named his takes on the classic concept of elementals: gnomes for earth (YES HE INVENTED THE WORD GNOME!!!!!), sylphs for air (yeah he also invented the word sylph), salamanders for fire (he didn't invent that :[), and of COURSE! UNDINES FOR WATER! He believed undines to be fairly similar to humans, a significant difference being the lack of a soul. Which surely means nothing when talking about Souls Are Important the Video Game. And anyways according to him they were apparently fairly capable of getting a soul through love. Wikipedia also says that Paracelsus says that a child from this love will too have a soul which is nice

Blablabla Wikipedia says undines are like fucking desperate to get a husband or whatever but dudeeeee she can do whatever she fucking wantssssss. I think she can and should be enjoying her life with alphys rather than it being a thing just for a living soul or whatever. They're just happy, no mythology attached

Onto the most iconic interpretation of the myth, 1811s Undine by Friedrich De La Motte Fouque. When you think of the tale of Undine it's almost always that it's this specific story you pull from. Apart from another one I'll briefly touch on later (please hope it's brief). In it, Undine is a woman adopted by a fisherman, who was taken in by the fisherman after his own child died. Hmmmmm wow hmm sort of like how asgore took in undyne after his children died HM BACK ON TOPIC. Personality-wise, Undine is described by Wikipedia (because I don't have the book) as "erratic", and "capricious", which Google dictionary describes as "given to sudden and unaccountable changes of mood or behaviour", which again sounds quite similar to the Undyne we all know and love.

It mentions that when married to Huldbrand (the main guy in the book he's not important tho) she is "kind and gentle" and yeah imo the writing with this IS kinda shit HOWEVER I think if were simply using this as inspiration for undyne I can definitely imagine her *eventually* becoming a calmer and more thoughtful person with A: the presence of someone like alphys to mutually love and understand her for her and B: the absence of having to worry about a war to fight and always sort of being on edge and just being. Like that. And again this would all be a *progressive experience*, rather than in the book where undine literally switches up over night. I do like to consider character and stuff

There's this line from the Wikipedia summary which jumpscared me

I 0% believe this has any significance to deltarune whatsoever however it was so funny out of context I had to add it

Another completely unrelated thing here but there's a fucking guy called "Kuhleborn" and I just. Can homestuck leave me alone. FOR FIVE MINUTES.

Sorry back to cherry picking the story to fit undyne.

Ok so truthfully I don't find anything else from that specific story that I find particularly helpful to undyne, the rest of it's kinda just useless to my point. Re-establishing the fact here that I skipped over a most of the actual significant parts of the story because I specificly want to talk about how I see it parallel to undyne. But that's it really. I just especially wanted to mention this adaptation of the story as it is pretty much the most iconic interpretation of the myth.

That is, interpretations that specifically refer to its source by name. Because by far the most well known media to draw influence from the myth of undine is the iconic Hans Christian Andersen fairytale, "The Little Mermaid". I don't have much to say on how the little mermaid does take much inspiration from undine, other than the way andersen himself interpreted the story. Simply, the fact that Hans Christian Andersen, a man who based this story off of his own feelings at the inability for another man to reciprocate feelings of romance for him, and resonated with the story of undine so much that it was a source of inspiration for the little mermaid itself is so crazy to me. Like. Here is a queer man who read the tale of Undine and understood it so much he wrote his own story inspired by it and made it tie in with his own experiences of homosexuality! Like that's so crazy to me! Because it just makes the undertale character of undyne being sapphic so much better to me! It took the sad story of gay tragedy and took it and made it a story of gay joy!!!!!!! We are all so happys forever!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok ummmm. I got carried away because we are steering very far away from what this post was originally about. Umm. Point is. Original story was of queer sadness but undertale is now of queer joy + the story of queer joy being based on story where being with this person who you really love and being truly and properly bonded in an undeniable and magical way is enough to give you a soul that will live forever. I think that's somewhere near the point I'm trying to make but at the same time it's not quite the point I was trying to make. And this is absolutely just one interpretation of one relationship and this is by no means in any way supposed to be the end all be all of what ANY relationship should be. I really don't think this is what the definition of love is. However for these characters I feel it can be a huge aspect of it for them

NOW FINALLY MOVING ON TO THE ACTUAL CHARACTER FROM UNDERTALE THANK FUCKING GOODNESS!!!!!

Oh undyne. With some of the implications in game that she lost her family, I very much imagine her being cautious with this sort of situation. Would she be able to handle is for example? Would she know what to do. Given its something she might not even have real first hand experience of, is it something she would even want to risk forcing upon another person? I think she struggles so much with responsibility as it is. She wants nothing more than to protect people and cheesus if she had a kid of her own you know she would be doing every single thing in her power to make sure that kid never has to face what she did. Undyne says at one point in game (if you kill her in neutral i believe) she never told alphys the way she felt because if/when she died in battle, she wouldn't want alphys to deal with that. And again, she really would not want to have a kid if she worries that one day that kid would have to worry about someone they truly care about not being with them anymore

So *would* she want them? I don't really think it would be an overwhelming innate desire or anything like that, but really not against it. Sged need a lot of time beforehand first. Some time to live her life to the fullest, time to make sure it's something she can handle without guilt, time to make sure it's something that does bring her joy. And then yeah, 6 or 7 years minimum I can see it happening. And I think it would be nice

"Now let's talk about susie, can we talk about susie? Please stun (and other readers) I've been dying to talk with you about susie all post, okay?" /ref

I don't really have anything to add I just think alphyne should adopt susie. In every timeline. Undertale deltarune I just think ok. Because she doesn't have a good home life to the point where she's like just Not Safe and hm young couple with no children in her area? Undyne would want to help her soooo bad because she understands just what it feels like to be young and alone not really cared for and she would NEED to fix it. That's defo how it is for undertale at LEAST. Idk entirely with dr if it'd be exactly like that cause we don't know what undynes got going down in dr yet.. but even so that's nothing to stop them

Anways yeah I think you mightve been waiting just a wee bit long for the answer to this ask I uhh.....m.....mmmm. yeah man I... yeah. I really do genuinely hope you enjoyed his tho cause uts currently quarter to 2 in the morning and I'm going on a train & to the aquarium tmrw so my ass CANNOT be waking up at 11 am again. Shits fucked. But when I tell you when I'm locked in on an undyne topic I AM LOCKED IN. IT TOOK A WHILE BUT I FINALLY DID IT. MORE THAN HALF OF THIS WAS WRITTEN WITH NO BREAKS OF CHECKS BUT THATS THE BEAUTY!!!!!! FLY MY SCARAB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[larrythefloridaman]

WOAH, HE'S BIGENDER? I DIDN'T KNOW THAT!

[skyburger]

"fnaf is the scariest game ever" "no its silent hill" "well i think its resident evil" everyone shut up!!!!!! youre all wrong. its actually zack & wiki quest for barbaros' treasure (on the nintendo wii) but only the level "keeper of the ice". that level scared me so bad as a kid and you can tell because its the only individual level i remember the name of off the top of my head. like there is nothing scarier than a) being chased and b) being on a time limit. and you know what this level has? BOTH OF THOSE. this level is still scary to me im like AHHHHH!!!! and then i die

[imflyingfish]

Aggh feeling super proud of myself like im getting on so well atm im learning to drive and im learching french and my art is going really well and ive been enjoying spending time with myself and ive been organising more things for my future and now it feels possible and i hit that deadline and ive been more equiped to deal with things that definetly would have given me a breakdown in march and like. This year is going to suck and im not getting everything i want done but its not going terribly either

[anxiously-going]

.

[ovegakart]

Sorry if this is a stupid question, but are you still okay with lu fans following you? Given recent happenings it looked like you wanted to disassociate from the lu fandom as a whole, and I don’t wanna step on toes if that’s the case. I really like your recent art, but I saw some replies implying it was to drive away lu fans, and if that’s the case then I’m fine with keeping my distance (I have a whole portion of the fandom blocked so I get it lol)

to explain myself, I got a gift fic recently that was a rewrite of one of my lu comics and i ,,, didnt like it. they wrote it in a way that was completely opposite of how i write the characters and it really felt like they didnt even like my comic. so i blocked them and out of frustration made a very vague post about it.

then the writer made a temporary account to yell at me under that post, how the fic was an AU (even tho it was a gift?), bring up my medication, and other ramblings i dont. hmm.

anyways, i got mad and thought about stepping back and not posting for a while and then got madder and decided to draw a bunch of art i thought this writer might hate to get them to leave me alone.

given that they seemed to be a huge LU fan, and linkshipping seems to be largely Forbidden by them, i just slammed out as many random link kissing pictures as i could to make them block me. because i hate talking.

i dont hate the Linked Universe comic. I dont mind LU fans following me. I DO hate being policed on what i draw. if someone brings up "but jojo said" on any of my stuff again i Will go insane, i kinda already feel like i am

the writer blocked me on the account they made to get around my block, so im okay now. im not saying who it was.

sorry to go off, ive been really wound tight about this whole thing and idk what to do

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter IV

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 7.914 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

I was feeling angsty when I wrote this y'all, so please forgive me for what you’re about to read. Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

You stumble, back hitting the door with a thud. You can’t move. You can’t breathe. You can’t look away. The door handle digs into your hip as JJ cages you in. – What’s your problem, JJ?! Let go of me already!

His grip tightens, pulling you even closer, and you can hear the venom in his voice when he spits out his reply. – No! I’m not! I’m not gonna let go of you! You know why?!

– I’m on the edge of my seat, here!

He scoffs at your mocking, that bitter laugh falling from his lips like poison, his nails digging into your flesh. – I’ve been sitting here all night waiting for you to get back. I tried to be patient with you. I tried to give you space, but you don’t respond to me being nice, do you?! You don’t even acknowledge me! I bet you’re getting a real kick out of this, aren’t you?!

– Oh, yeah. Loving it. This is exactly how I wanted to spend my night. Getting shoved against a door while you channel your anger.

– DON’T— He stops himself short, watching his tone. – Don’t fucking play around with me right now, okay?! Don’t do this.

– What, then?! What the fuck do you want me to do?! You don’t want me walking away, you don’t want me talking, what do you want from me?!

– I want you to listen!

– To what?! To your little lecture on why I should’ve been nicer to my brother after the way he treated me?! After he called me pathetic?! After he took my own phone from my hand?!

– He was trying to protect you!

– Protect me?! From going out?! From having fun with my best friend?! I’ve known Barry since I was a kid! I can handle him.

JJ shoots backwards, dragging his hands through his hair as if he was going insane. – HE’S TRYING TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF YOU!

– Advantage of what, JJ?! My overwhelming wealth?! My deep connections in high society?! I don’t even buy his drugs—unlike you!

– Don’t! – He raises his finger, stepping forward again. It’s like having a whirlwind moving through your room, he can’t just leave things how they are.

– Don’t what? Don’t point out the truth? You and John B can buy drugs, get arrested, blow all your money on some half-baked Pogue adventure, but I can’t even hang out with the guy that’s been my best friend since I was twelve?!

– No! No, you can’t, not when Rafe Cameron is involved!

– Oh, so Rafe is the problem, huh? If Barry had showed up here alone, you and John would’ve just given me a cheerful send-off? Maybe packed me a lunch for the road?

– Don’t do this right now.

– OH MY GOD, JJ! What can I fucking do?! I can’t do anything! Am I supposed to sit here in silence like some nun while you accuse me of every stupid shit that goes through your mind?! Listening to you lie your fucking face off?! And I can’t even defend myself?! What’s your fucking problem?!

– You are my problem! You are! – It’s infuriating, having to whisper to one another when you’re so angry, because JJ couldn’t wait thirty minutes for the nerves to die down. But he makes it up to you by grabbing at you, the tips of his fingers pressed so tight against your skin that you can feel the bruises forming. – I’ve thought about you all day! You’re gonna listen to me now!

You stare at him, heart hammering, pulse like static in your ears. It’s not the words that get you—it’s the way he says them, voice fraying at the edges like he’s barely holding himself together. Like he’s already lost, and he knows it.

You wrench against his hold, nails biting into his forearms, but it only makes him squeeze tighter. His eyes are burning—wild, desperate.

– You’re gonna listen to me now, – He repeats, voice low but shaking with barely contained rage. – I don’t give a shit what you think you can handle. I don’t care if Barry was your best fucking friend since birth—he’s bad news. And you know it.

– Right. Because you’re such a great judge of character!

JJ scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you. Like you’re the one being unreasonable. – At least I know better than to run off with people who are just looking to use me.

You let out a groan.

This is exhausting, draining. Your head pounds and your chest feels heavy. You don’t even know where this conversation is going. – News flash, JJ, I’m not a fucking asset! There’s NOTHING to use me for!

His jaw clenches, and his hands are trembling now, even as he holds you in place. – You don’t get it, do you?! – His voice is quieter this time, rougher. – It’s not about what you have! It’s about what he can take. About what he can do to you!

Something in his face stops you—just for a second.

It’s not just anger. It’s something else. Something raw, something afraid.

You swallow hard, pushing past the sting in your throat. – And what, you think you get to decide that for me? You think you can just hold me here and—what? Teach me a lesson? Are you gonna bend me over your knee or some shit?!

JJ exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before gripping your jaw, tilting your chin up just enough to force your eyes on his. – I don’t want to teach you shit, I just want you to stop acting like this is a fucking game!

– I’m not—

– You are! – He growls. – You’re acting like this is just some little rebellion. Like it’s just about proving a point to your brother. And I get it, okay?! I do! I don’t like the way John B treats you either, but this vendetta, this shit you’re trying to do, isn’t okay! It’s not, alright? It’s not. You don’t know how Rafe is! You don’t see the way Barry looks at you!

His words sink into you like a stone.

– And how does he look at me, JJ? Huh?! The way you look at me, or the way you look at Kie?!

His breath catches, just for a second, but it’s enough. Enough to make something in your chest twist painfully. Because you already know the answer.

You want to hit yourself.

You want to dig your nails into your palms until you bleed.

His grip falters. His fingers twitch against your skin. And for a moment—just a moment—you think he’s going to let go. Maybe it isn’t so bad after all.

You think maybe he’ll understand.

But then he exhales, and his hand tightens again, his forehead nearly brushing yours as he leans in, voice hoarse.

And he laughs.

He laughs in your face like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. – So this is what this is about.

– What?! – The question comes out before you can stop it. You want to sew your mouth shut. You want to tear your skin off your flesh. you should have learned by now that speaking your mind never gets you anywhere. Especially when you speak about your feelings. – What, JJ?! What is this about?!

– You’re jealous. You’re jealous of me and Kie, that’s why you went with them. Are you kidding me?! – Your skin crawls at the sound of his laughter. But disgusting as it is, you’re not angry at him. You’re angry at yourself for having said it. – You’re pathetic. – The word cuts into you. But it isn’t sharp. The opposite, actually. It feels like he’s stabbing at you with something blunt. Bruising your skin and breaking your bones before he can sink into your flesh. – This isn’t about your brother. This is about me! This is about you being completely fucking twisted!

You hate yourself more than anything as tears start brimming your eyes. – Don’t talk to me like this. – You try to move, try to turn your face away, but JJ just grips you harder.

– Like what?! You don’t want me to say the truth? You want me to lie? I can do that, babe. But you’re not gonna like it.

– Get off of me.

– I don’t think I will. – His laughter is manic, loud. At first you hated that he cared so much about John not hearing anything that he didn’t speak his mind, but now you just want him to stop it. – I’m not gonna get off of you. Because I clearly can’t fucking trust you not to do anything stupid when I’m not there to wrangle you in.

– Stop it, JJ. Just get off!

You’re crying now, and you hate it.

You hate crying.

And you hate yourself.

– I can’t fucking believe you! I can’t fucking believe you were so jealous that you had to jump on Rafe fucking Cameron to make you feel better about yourself! Because that’s what you did, wasn’t it?! You slept with him!

The sudden vitriol in his laughter sends you into a spiral. – What are you even talking about?

– Don’t! Don’t fucking lie to me. – He grabs you by the jaw again. – Tell me the fucking truth, just say it! YOU SLEPT WITH RAFE!

– I did not! I didn’t sleep with Rafe, I just met him!

– I CAN SMELL HIM ON YOU! – You can barely breathe within his grip in a second, and he jerks backward in the next, as if the words had knocked the wind out of him. He stands there for a minute, back turned to you, hands pressing against his head, and you don’t know what to do. You just stand there, against the door. – I know you did! I KNOW! I know it! You slept with him, you— You didn’t even see him grab anything, but whatever it was that he took went flying and it shattered against the wall into a million pieces.

The noise was deafening.

You didn’t even realize you had covered your ears until you heard the stark silence jar you in the aftermath.

Your gaze remained on the floor for a second, trying to grasp at what just happened, when a sudden sound startles you out of shock: John’s door was the loudest in the house. No matter what you did, how you oiled it, whether you fixed the hinges or not, the sound still tore through the house like a scream.

You could hear him, his steps, running.

Your hands flew to the deadbolt just in time to see the handle turn.

The door remained in place as he struggled, then called for you, banging against the door in a panic. – What happened?! What was that?! Are you okay?!

You were leaning on the door now. Your strength gone, the fight in you having vanished. – Get out, John. – The voice felt foreign. Cold. Dead. As if it’d come from an outer ego.

You could hear your brother’s stutter. His hands still moving against the handle. Then something else, a twinge of something painful in his voice, something just as foreign. Guilt.

He calls out your name, almost begging. – Open the door, please. Please. Just let me see you.

You can’t think straight.

– I’m fine. Get out.

Your head is spinning.

– Please. Just— Just talk to me. Lets–

– GET OFF JOHN! JUST FUCK OFF! Go back to your room and leave me alone!

You don’t know where the rage came from, how it’d surged on you so fast, how it disappeared just as suddenly. But the scream lingered in between you like a live wire. The door seems to stretch, pushing him away, away from you, farther than you can hear.

John whispers your name one more time, almost thoughtlessly. Like he’s calling for someone he knows is gone.

Silence.

He stands there, wordless, for a minute. Shifting back and forth before your door.

All you hear is his breath before he mumbled: – I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? – You barely recognize his voice. It’s like you're hearing him underwater. – You should go to sleep. – He whispers.

You don’t answer.

But you lean your head against the door, breathing deeper, and tears roll down your chin.

You don't know how long you stood there.

But you heard the hesitation in his steps as he walked away. You heard the floorboards creaking. You heard his door squeaking loudly, slowly, until it finally snapped shut.

And you remained there, absorbed in the silence, for a long while before you turned around again:

JJ is sitting on your bed, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking softly. You don’t know when he started crying. You’re not very sure why he is.

But you trudge forward, almost in a trance.

It takes two steps for you to be right in front of him, the ends of his blonde hair brushing against you. Whispering against the fabric of your skirt.

You've been here before.

In this weird deja-vu.

The way he reaches for you, it's almost like slow motion.

His eyes are steel blue, like the edge of a knife. His lips are red, swollen. There are tear streaks running down his face when he looks up at you. Under the dim light, he almost seems like an angel. His knuckles are pale, but you see the rapid pulse beneath the skin of his wrists as his hands reach forward, arms wrapping around you, pulling you in.

You once heard moths weren't smart enough to struggle against flytraps if they closed in on them fast enough.

JJ's arms lock around you before you can react. He holds you like his life depends on it. Tears soaking through your top as he buries his face in your stomach, hiding from something unidentified. Himself, maybe. Perhaps guilt.

Though nothing about the way he acts seems guilty.

Your arms were at your sides before. You don’t know when they came to rest around his shoulders. You don’t know why your hands are tangled in his hair. But you feel his teary lips flutter against your skin as you stroke through the soft strands within your fingers.

He isn’t shaking anymore, but he shudders.

He's still crying, but when he lifts his face to look at you, he almost seems at peace. – You drive me crazy. – He whimpers, bare knuckles cracking against your hips as he squeezes you closer, like he’s feeding off of your warmth. – I feel like I’m going insane… I don't know how you do this to me.

You don't know what to say.

Even if you did, your mouth wouldn't open.

You've never felt this numb.

His breathing steadies against you. Slow and deep, like a wave pulling back into the ocean. The warmth of his breath seeps through your clothes, the heat of his skin pressed against your stomach, the damp trail his tears left behind cooling under the soft stroke of your fingers through his hair. He exhales sharply when your nails scrape lightly against his scalp, the sound somewhere between relief and something else, something deeper.

His arms are still locked around your waist. The grip loosens, just enough for his hands to move, sliding slowly over the curve of your thighs, fingertips dragging across the fabric. Not a caress. Something closer to an anchor, as if grounding himself in the presence of you, in your softness, in the fact that you’re still here, still touching him, still letting him take and take and take. His hands flex, curling into the back of your legs before going still again. You don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.

You feel the shift before you see it—the slow tilt of his head, the subtle shudder in his ribs as he exhales against you, his lips parting just enough for his breath to warm your skin. He’s watching you now. His lashes are wet, his eyes still rimmed red, but the way he looks at you is something close to reverence. The way your fingers move through his hair, the way your thumb ghosts along the damp trails on his cheekbone—he drinks in every motion, every second, as if memorizing it. As if memorizing you.

– I don’t like fighting with you. – It’s a whisper, barely there, but the words settle between you, heavy and delicate all at once.

You don’t answer.

You just keep running your fingers through his hair, and his eyes flutter shut, his body softening against yours like an animal melting into its keeper’s touch. His forehead presses into your stomach again, his arms slipping around the backs of your legs, pulling you closer. The tension in his muscles fades as he exhales another slow, steady breath. He’s calm now.

The fragments of whatever he threw at your wall litter your bedroom floor, making a glittering constellation out of the floorboards. But he’s calm now.

– John B’s right, – He murmurs after a long moment, voice muffled against you. – It’s been a long day. – You feel his lips shift into the barest hint of a smile, like a child reassured after a nightmare. – We should go to sleep.

You don’t react when his hands shift again, when he tugs lightly at your shirt, when he tilts his head just enough for his lips to brush over the fabric. You don’t react when his grip on you tightens, when he starts to rise to his feet, hands still firm at your waist, guiding you toward the bed.

But when he tries to pull you down with him, you stop him.

His brows furrow, the haze in his expression flickering into something uncertain. He waits for you to move first, to change your mind, to follow the unspoken rhythm between you. But you don’t. You just stand there, looking at him, the weight of exhaustion pressing into your skin.

– You should go home, JJ.

JJ blinks. Confusion first. Then something else. Something vulnerable. His hands flex at your waist like he’s making sure you’re still there.

You shake your head, and his grip tightens.

– We shouldn’t go to sleep mad, – he says, voice smaller now, unsteady in a way that makes something deep in your stomach twist. – We can fix this.

– I’m not mad at you. – His lips part, like he wants to believe you. Like he needs to. But something in your voice, in your face, keeps him from speaking. – But I don’t want to be with you, right now.

The words land between you like a stone.

His breathing stutters. His fingers twitch at your waist, hesitating, before slipping away.

You don’t look away.

– Baby…

– I don’t want to sleep next to you. – Silence. – I really don’t want to see you right now, JJ.

For the first time since he pulled you into him, JJ doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for you. He just stares. – I know you’re mad, but—

– I’m not mad. – Truthfully, you weren’t sure. But when it came to feelings, exhaustion always outranked them all. – I’m not. But I want you to leave, JJ. I can’t do this right now.

His face shifts as his arms fall back to his sides.

Contempt.

Maybe ridicule.

You don’t know. You can’t bring himself to care.

But he scoffs before he steps away, shoulder bumping yours, almost by accident.

Almost.

And the door knocks closed at last, the sound absorbing every last bit of tension from the room like a sponge.

The sun streams through your lace curtains as soon as it comes up, 6:30 on the dot on a sunday, but you can't toss around and fall back asleep.

You barely slept.

Whenever, by some miracle, your conscience drifted away from you, it always came back, headlights burning your eyes open to hit you like a truck.

You feel disgusting.

The sweltering heat pushes down against you like a layer of wet concrete: heavy, overwhelming and inescapable.

You’re still wearing the same clothes.

The lower half your body hangs off the mattress, and having kicked off your shoes just before collapsing into the bed, your naked feet brush against the shards JJ's outburst left behind, stinging.

All you can glimpse of the cuts as you move your head to look down are the crimson streaks of blood now running dry.

You struggle to sit up, your head sways when you finally do so. The pounding in your skull is unbearable. You squeeze your eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. The world still spins when you pry them open again.

Glass glints like jagged stars across the floor, scattered in violent constellations.

You stare at the mess, at the thin, half-dried ribbons of red trailing through it, and realize there’s no way out of this without making things worse.

You’ll have to put your shoes on. Walk through it. Grind the shards deeper into the floorboards, deeper into your own skin.

Just the thought makes you shiver.

You reach for the beat-up sneakers, thrown half-hazardly amongst the chaos, and look at them for a moment. Your eyes drift from the shoes to your feet, the pulsing sting of each cut almost begging you not to do it.

You don’t have a choice.

The second the fabric scrapes against the cuts, you hiss through your teeth. Your fingers instinctively curl into a fist. You bite the inside of your cheek and try again, slower this time, forcing yourself through the sting. The laces come undone too easily, sticky with blood. You’ll have to wash them later.

The thought makes your stomach turn.

Once you manage to step out of the room, the pain accompanying you every step of the way, you wonder why you decided to do so in the first place.

Everything is too much.

The pain, the heat, the regret.

No one likes being talked down to, but you’ve always been the sort to dig your heels in when you feel challenged. The way your brother spoke to you before —Before you jumped into Rafe’s car, effectively sealing your fate— was not the sort of thing any sane person could take with a smile.

But it’s tricky, the way it trickles down.

You knew going with Barry was a bad choice, and you followed through for the sake of defiance.

You knew you shouldn’t have fed onto the fire when John first raised his voice, and you did so because you refused to let him walk all over you.

But was it worth it?

You sweep the floor over with a broom, the glass quickly mounting against the wall. Your feet are bleeding, your head is pounding from how much you cried, your back is sore from dragging Rafe everywhere, and you can feel the new bruises both John and JJ left you with already pulsing.

You lean your head against the broomstick, and close your eyes for a moment.

And then—Rafe.

The thought creeps in uninvited, sudden and suffocating. If you feel this bad, if your head is splitting open and your body is aching, how is he feeling? He wasn’t just drunk. He wasn’t just reckless. He was a breath away from dying.

You clutch the broom tighter, fingers aching with the pressure, but the grip on your chest doesn’t ease.

Is he even awake yet?

Is he okay?

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat doesn’t go anywhere.

Maybe you should check.

But how would you check on him? You don't have his number. The person closest to him you can ask is Sarah, who you doubt Rafe would like to be aware of his drug mishap. And Barry, who does know, probably won’t be responding to anything from you for the next week or so.

You sit back down to take off your shoes and wonder.

It gnaws at you, the not knowing. You don’t care—at least, you tell yourself you don’t—but the weight of it settles in your chest anyway, coiling tighter the longer you sit still.

You should get up. Move. Do something other than dwell on the wreckage, both in your room and in your head.

So you try to force yourself into motion.

Your body protests as you pull yourself up, legs stiff, joints aching. You peel off last night’s clothes, wincing as the fabric sticks to your skin, a mix of dried sweat, salt, and blood. The shower is lukewarm at best, John still hasn’t fixed the heater like he promised, but it rinses the worst of it away. You brace your hands against the tile, letting the water drum over the back of your neck, waiting for it to wash the rest of this feeling down the drain.

But it doesn’t.

By the time you're dressed, tugging your damp hair into something passable, the weight in your chest hasn't budged.

You pull open your dresser and grab your uniform, the cheap fabric wrinkled from being shoved into a drawer.

You should be thinking about work—about the bus you have to get in 5 minutes, about the lunch rush, about the heat in the kitchen, about whether Kiara will be on shift today and if she’ll look at you like she doesn’t remember the talk you had three days ago.

But instead, you think about Rafe.

About how easily he could have died.

About how no one else knows.

About how, if he had, you would’ve been the last person to see him alive.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, itching for a cigarette, a distraction, anything to pull your mind somewhere else.

You’ve given in to the nicotine cravings as you run about the empty living room, looking for your keys. You have your father to thank for your smoking habit, he smoked maniacally ever since you could remember, but the reason poverty hasn’t forced you to go cold turkey a long time ago is JJ. —Your house might be empty of food, and maybe you’re behind on the light bill and the city shuts down your power again, but if there are two things JJ and John keep in stock around the place, those things are cheap beer and marlboro lights.— You fish a cigarette from a half-smoked package on the counter, struggling with the lighter for a while before you finally give up and use the stove.

You think you’d be a little more relieved when the chemicals finally start sinking in, but your eyes catch the door just as you inhale. JJ’s shoes are still sitting beside it.

He hasn’t left.

You look around for a moment, mind slowly drifting back to the blonde. But you don’t let yourself linger there. Instead, you grab your keys and slip out the door before you can bump into him.

Public transport in the Outer Banks is less than stellar. Everyday you commute with at least 70 other people, just as broke and anxious as you are, in that crammed bus: the single line that goes from anywhere near your house to about a 20 minute walk away from The Wreck.

It’s a miracle anyone ever found a place to sit, and of course, no divine intervention permitted that miracle ever happen to you. So you spend the half an hour ride standing on your cut up feet, to prepare yourself for the next eight hours of running around in that stuffy kitchen, listening to Anthony, the head Chef, and his inexorable screaming, and Mr. Carrera’s endless scolding of the kitchen’s staff’s time.

The air inside The Wreck’s kitchen is thick with the scent of seared meat and butter, the hum of the ventilation system barely cutting through the clatter of knives against cutting boards and the sharp hiss of oil meeting raw protein. The moment you step through the swinging doors, the heat slams into you, clinging to your skin like a second layer.

Willis is already at his station, sleeves rolled up, hands working quickly over a slab of beef. He doesn’t look up as he calls out. – Took your sweet time getting here, didn’t you Routledge?

You sling your bag into your locker, ignoring the jab. – Morning to you too, hon.

He snorts, finally glancing up. – Barely. – There’s a glint in his eyes, you’ve seen it a thousand times before. The look he gets when he wants to gossip.

– Go ahead, Will. Spill it.

It’s early enough that the kitchen is still in its controlled chaos phase —everyone moving, prepping, getting ready for the inevitable hellstorm of the lunch rush. You grab your apron, tying it tight around your waist, and wash your hands before heading to your station. The prep list is long, but that’s nothing new.

– There’s nothing to spill. – He hums. – Unless you know something. – Willis mutters as you start working, his knife gliding through a rib rack with practiced efficiency, you raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for the bomb to drop. – Boss is in a mood. Apparently his daughter didn’t come home last night.

– Kie? – He hums in agreement. You wonder why.

– I heard the two of them arguing in the back this morning. He was talking about a boy driving her here. It’s not your brother, is it? Aren’t they friends?

– John has a girlfriend.

Willis laughs knowingly. – That never stopped anyone. – You force yourself to smile back at him, though it's the last thing you want to do. – Anyway. Don’t get in his way today. You know he’s already iffy on you.

– Well, there go my plans for the morning! – You mutter, and he chuckles, passing his cut over to you. The conversation’s over. But his words still echo in your mind.

You're thankful for the work, for once. The familiar motions take over—seasoning, basting, trimming fat, getting everything ready to be fired later. The methodical nature of it helps, the repetition keeping your mind from wandering where it shouldn’t.

The doors swing open, and Kiara walks in with an empty tray balanced on her hip.

The noise of the kitchen swallows whatever she says to another server, but you feel her gaze before you see it. When you glance up, your eyes meet for just a second—hers unreadable, yours careful— before you turn back to your work. There’s nothing to say, nothing worth dredging up in the middle of prep.

Hours slip by in a steady churn of orders, the quiet build of the morning shifting into the controlled chaos of the rush. By noon, the kitchen is swamped, the air thick with steam and stress. Anthony's voice cuts through the din, barking orders as plates fly from station to station. Your hands move on autopilot, flipping steaks, checking temperatures, slicing roasts. Willis works beside you, muttering curses under his breath every time an order gets sent back for modifications.

Then, the ticket comes in.

You don’t read it at first, just reach for the next cut of meat, eyes scanning the details like second nature. Roast dish, standard sides. Peanut-glazed roast chicken.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the words sticking out. It’s been a while since you saw that dish being ordered, you were almost sure they took it out of the menu. The request is simple enough, nothing unusual. But something about it needles at the back of your mind.

You push the thought aside, refocusing. Just another plate in the middle of the rush. Another ticket among dozens.

Nothing to worry about.

You get to work on the glaze. The sauce pan is already waiting on the stove, a thin layer of oil shimmering in the heat. You move fast, scooping a generous spoonful of peanut butter into the pan, letting it loosen and melt as you stir.

A splash of soy sauce, a drizzle of honey. The scent blooms instantly—sweet, nutty, rich. You reach for the rice vinegar next, just a touch to cut through the heaviness. Then, garlic, grated fine, barely a whisper of sharpness underneath the smooth layers of flavor. The heat coaxes everything together, the sauce thickening, darkening, turning glossy as you work.

A final stir, a taste.

It’s perfect.

The timer dings. You pull the chicken from the oven, the skin crisped and golden, the juices pooling at the edges of the pan. With a practiced hand, you brush the glaze over the surface, the deep amber sheen soaking into the heat, clinging to the curves of the roast. Another minute under the broiler—just long enough for the sugars to caramelize, for the edges to darken into something tempting.

The moment it’s done, you move fast. A quick slice, checking for doneness. Then plating: the chicken settled onto a warmed plate, nestled against a bed of seasoned rice. A handful of crushed peanuts sprinkled over top, a sprig of fresh cilantro for contrast. Every detail placed with intention.

One last look.

Then the plate is up, Kie already reaching for it, her eyes drifting through you one last time. You watch over your shoulder as she carries it out, disappearing beyond the swinging doors.

It’s out of your hands now. But the feeling lingers. That quiet, nagging thought.

Something about this order doesn’t sit right.

You throw yourself into the rhythm of the kitchen, trying to drown out that nagging feeling with movement. There’s too much to do, too much heat, too much noise—no room for doubt. The oil hisses as you slide a seared steak onto a plate, the scent of garlic and thyme curling up with the steam. You reach for a handful of fries, tossing them onto the side, then move on, wiping down the station before plating the next order.

Your hands are steady, but your mind isn’t.

It’s stupid. It’s just a dish. But something about it lingers, sticks to you like the grease on your skin.

– Hey, – Willis speaks up from beside you, not looking up from the salmon he’s searing. – You got that worried look on your face again, what's going on?

You scoff, grabbing a garnish. – What, my thinking face? I know it's hard to believe, what with me being so pretty and all, but sometimes I do actually think.

He finally glances up, raising a brow. – Spill.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you reach for another plate. – I’m fine. Just wondering if we’ll make it through lunch rush without Anthony popping a vein.

Willis snorts. – Fat chance.

You flash him a smirk, hoping it looks convincing. It doesn’t matter, because before he can push any further the kitchen doors burst open.

The air shifts.

A new kind of heat floods the room—thick, charged, the kind that makes people tense without thinking.

Mr. Carrera stands in the doorway, eyes scanning the kitchen like a predator. – Who made the peanut-glazed chicken?

The words slice through the chaos like a knife through flesh.

You freeze for half a second—just half. But Willis notices. His gaze flicks to you, sharp, before you even turn to face Mr. Carrera.

Your throat is suddenly dry. – I did.

Mr. Carrera moves. Storms down the kitchen like a bull with a target, weaving through stations without breaking stride. The space around you tightens, the air sucked out of the room.

Willis takes a step back. He’s not going to get in the way of this.

No one is.

And then—he’s there.

Standing in front of you, looming.

And you know, whatever this is, whatever you missed, it’s bad. – You could’ve killed someone, Routledge. You know that?!

Your mind rushes.

You think of every step and every second you spent on that dish. Every spoonful of each spice, every condiment, every sauce. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

If anything, you paid more attention to it than to any of the other dishes you were making. – I don't understand, sir.

The kitchen remains a vortex, the noise of plates, the roar of fire, the shouts from the servers, they still echo again and again through the thick walls of the room, but none of the cooks make a sound.

They don't scream.

They don't curse.

They don’t ask.

They're all quiet, eyes drifting between you and their work.

– The customer you made that for. He has a nut allergy. You could’ve killed him, Routledge! Do you have any idea how long I spent trying to convince him not to sue?!

You freeze.

For a moment, you want to laugh. You feel it coming up your throat, inching into your face in the way your cheek twitches. But you bite your tongue the last second.

– Did he eat it?

– We ought to be glad he didn't! Do you have any idea what could have happened if he had a reaction here?! How much money we would’ve lost?!

– He asked for a peanut-glazed roast chicken, sir. There was nothing else in the ticket. Just that. – Kie is standing by the door, looking over at the two of you. A couple servers look at her weird as they push through her. You can't read her face. —Concern, doubt, curiosity— Whatever emotion dances in her face remains shrouded in her attempt to keep it blank. – Kie was the one who rang it in. Right, Kie? The ticket said peanut-glazed roast chicken.

She doesn't even make a move to speak.

But her father is already shouting at you again: – You want to tell me that a man who is allergic to nuts would've asked for a peanut-glazed dish?!

You don't want to insult him.

You can't afford to lose this job.

But this conversation is getting more idiotic by the second. – It wouldn’t be the first time it happened, sir.

You’re not lying.

Your breaks are populated by the endless recollection of people who knowingly or not ask for dishes they're allergic to, then come back to make a scandal.

All the other restaurants you’ve worked at were the same.

But Mr. Carrera looks at you as if you had just spat on him. – What did you just say to me?!

– It wouldn’t be the first time it happened.

Anthony comes in, pushing his sleeves further up his forearms like he does whenever he wants to seem tough. – What’s happening?

You open your mouth, but the owner cuts in before you can utter a word. – Your cook just made a peanut dish for someone who is deathly allergic!

–You did what?! – It's a scolding, but he shouts it at you like a bark. You try not to shrink into yourself. – What the fuck is your problem, Routledge?!

– The customer asked for a peanut-glazed roast chicken, Chef! I just did what was written on the ticket!

You don't like the way your voice rises. The way it trembles slightly. But you can't help it. You feel your pulse starting to roar in your ears, the adrenaline that was already there making you shake.

– The customer did?! The customer that's allergic to fucking peanuts?!

Anthony's favorite past-time is wishing people choke to death on whatever they're allergic to. He says it at least once every shift. Yet he’s acting like it’s the most absurd thing he ever heard. Treating you like an idiot.

– You know better than anyone it’s not the first time this happened, Chef. – You shouldn’t have to explain yourself. You don’t know why they're going so hard on you. – Joey, – You’re calling for the pastry chef before you can help yourself. – Joey! Didn’t you just have to re-do the caramelized pineapple tarte because the customer was allergic to pineapple?

The freckled boy looks up from a dessert plating, and nods, but before his mouth opens, Mr. Carrera interrupts you again: – Don’t try to shift the blame here Routledge!

– I'm not shifting any blame! This isn’t anyone's fault! The ticket said Peanut-glazed roast chicken, so I got on my station and made a Peanut-glazed roast chicken! I can’t read the customer's mind!

– Don't start getting smart with me now, girl! You got the dish wrong and you don't want to admit it!

– I did what was on the ticket! That’s all I did!

You turn around, already looking over the tickets on the dashboard, but as soon as the paper is in your hand, someone yanks you back. – Don't turn your back on me!

– Look, Look here— This is the ticket!

– Don't talk back at me!

– I'm not! I'm just trying to show you—

– Take off that apron! – Your face falls. You look back at Anthony, his eyes widening for a split second under his thick black brows, but he remains there, naked arms crossed over his Chef's whites, not moving a muscle. – Take that apron off right now, Routledge!

– Mr. Carrera—You're stuttering. Head spinning. You don’t know where to look. – Please—

– Take it off!

– I need this job, sir, please. Please. I'm sorry—

– Take it the fuck off before I have security drag you out of here, Routledge! Take it off!

Willis places his hand on your shoulder, pulling you back softly. You're shaking. His eyes shift as he looks at you as well, and only then you realize you were crying. How long has it been? Months, Maybe a year since you cried. And now you've done it three times within the span of 12 hours. – With all due respect, sir—

– I don’t need your due respect, Redfield. Get back to your work!

– Mr. Carrera… – He tries again.

– GET BACK TO WORK!

Willis retreats as soon as he's come forward.

– Please, please. I can’t lose this job. – You look at Anthony, then back at Mr. Carrera before the pity starts forming on the chef's face.

– Should've thought about that before you disrespected me!

– Michael, – Anthony's voice is level, the closest to pleading he'll ever come. Even he seems a little confused. – I can’t finish the day with a single Roast chef, half the orders go to them.

– Chef? This girl isn't a chef, Anthony! She's just a cook! A cook that clearly has no idea of what she's doing!

– Chef, please… – You're begging. You don't know what else to do.

– I won’t tell you another time, Routledge! Take that fucking apron off!

Anthony looks away from you as the screams echo around the kitchen. He shifts on his feet for a moment, almost as if he didn’t know where to go.

You reach for your back, undoing the double knotted bow you became so used to doing with shaky hands.

Mr. Carrera still looks at you expectantly after you lay the apron in his hands. – The uniform, Routledge.

You want to disappear. – I'm not wear—

– TAKE IT OFF!

You feel a dozen pairs of eyes on you.

The tears that fall from your eyes feel like acid as they run down your face, more and more constant as humiliation sears you from the inside out.

Your fingers reach for the black buttons of your chef's white. You had stolen a couple buttons from your dad's old suit to fix this uniform, when they tore at the beginning of this year, before he’d disappeared.

It's fitting that, even if spirit, he's here to watch you be scrutinised.

You can just hear him now:

“What’d you think would happen?”

The cheap fabric scrapes against the bruises on your arms. The fainter bruises around your neck, where JJ had grabbed you, in full display.

“You should've known better” He would say.

You can't say you're glad for the less revealing sports bra you're wearing. Because you feel as if you're standing, naked, in front of these men when you finally pull the coat off.

“Can't say I'm surprised”

– Get out of my kitchen, Routledge. – Kie's father's voice is a blade. You can’t look him in the eye. You don’t want to see him look at you. – I better not see you when you come to get your things.

You barely muster the strength to whisper a “yes sir” before he pushes past his daughter, out into the salon again.

Anthony holds your coat. His pity burning holes into your skin. – Routledge—

You don't let him finish it.

You just raise your hand, holding down a sob, and say – I'm sorry, chef.

The door doesn't hit you on the way out, but it feels like the world has crumbled around you as you sit down on the concrete and sink your head in your hands.

You sink onto the curb, your knees knocking together as you fold in on yourself, arms wrapping tight around your middle like you can hold yourself together by force. But it’s useless. You feel hollowed out, like a pit has been scooped from your chest, leaving only raw, open air where something solid used to be.

The sounds of the restaurant leak out onto the street—laughter, clinking plates, the rhythm of a dinner rush you are no longer a part of. The life you've had for three years, ripped away like it had never belonged to you in the first place.

JJ's words are the ones that echo in your mind now: "They always win, don’t they? They always win and we're left to scrap by."

You stare down at your hands, your fingers stiff, still curled like you’re gripping something, though there’s nothing there. Nothing left. The buttons, stolen from your father’s suit, glint dully in your palm. You try to close your fist around them, but they press into your skin, sharp, biting. A cruel joke. Even the things you steal for yourself are taken back in the end.

The back of your throat burns, tight and aching. Your breath stutters, and for a second, you think you might stop crying—but you don’t. You can’t. Instead, the grief settles, thick and choking, pressing against your ribs, your skull, crushing you from the inside out.

You tilt your head back, staring up at the sky, searching for something—anything—to ground you, but the sky is smudged, blurred, swallowed by the glow of a city that’s barely there. There’s nothing up there. Just empty space stretching forever, indifferent to the small, insignificant thing you have become.

Have always been.

And then—your father’s voice again. Not real, but real enough.

“Is this what you thought would happen? Did you really think you could keep up?”

Your nails dig into your palms. You know you should move. Get up, go home, figure out what comes next. But you stay where you are, stuck in this moment, in this feeling. Stripped down, exposed, like a wound left open to the air.

A car rumbles past, the headlights flashing over you. And for one terrible, fleeting second, you think about standing up—stepping forward—just enough.

But then it's gone. The thought, the headlights, the car.

You exhale shakily. Pull your knees closer. And keep sitting there.

A sound cuts through the noise—sharp, distant. Your name.

You don’t move at first. The world around you is muffled, drowned beneath the weight pressing against your ears, the thick, suffocating quiet that only grief can bring. The restaurant’s noise hums at the edges of your senses, blurred and detached, as if you are hearing it from underwater.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. Time has unraveled, slipped through your fingers like the buttons in your palm.

Your name again, firmer this time. A presence at the edge of your vision.

Slowly, you lift your head.

Rafe stands a few feet away, his Range Rover parked in the shadowed corner of the lot. The keys dangle from his hand, catching the light. He’s smiling—like he always does, like this is nothing, like you’re just two people crossing paths on an ordinary night.

But then he sees you.

Sees your face.

And his smile vanishes, something darker flashing through his face.

[mediumgayitalian]

Found this on YouTube and thought I send it to you :)

see this is interesting. ive heard this take before and im honestly not sure how i feel.

part of it is like.....i love percy. i have a very hard time criticizing him for much of PJO (although there are few choice things -- his treatment of annabeth and rachel in the later books, for one) because of the sheer amount of good he did, intentionally, while enduring so much active and hostile sabotage. like, nobody told percy SHIT. he was confused all the time in a way no one else was because no one told him anything ever. and when he asked he was ignored or, worse, mocked. percy is at the core of him a deeply kind and caring person who was given the worst possible hand in every possible way.

every time percy is framed as the villain i really just think of sea of monsters tbh. frequently the least favourite book in the series, somehow, but that whole novel was percy desperately trying to work with the information he had to keep the people he loved safe, while his peers and friends were actively turning against him. i think people forget that, for the vast majority of his time at camp, percy was NOT beloved. he had friends, and he liked it there. but people turned on him pretty easily! they blamed him for thalia's tree poisoning, they scapegoated him for the gods' bullshit, they made his quests harder and belittled his accomplishments. percy was and always has been expected to save everyone's ass and then expected to sit there and take it when people list all the ways he could have done a better fucking job. i don't buy it.

percy was friends with michael. he was hurt when he died. he was hurt when ALL his friends at camp half-blood died; he considered the deaths of even those he didn't like as personal failures. percy always TRIED to help, even people he couldn't fuckin' stand. think of how often he has saved clarisse's ass, even though she actively tries -- and, over time, he learned to like the challenge -- to make his life miserable. like, percy didn't personally kill michael yew. he didn't disregard his life. he watched his friend die, too. all while the closest person in his life was bleeding from a poisoned dagger she took to protect him. and while the living embodiment of the end of times was destroying his home and every person he loved in it.

maybe im missing something. was michael not the one to know his own death coming? did he not die laughing, having asked percy to put the events in motion, knowing the sacrifice he was making?

i went back and checked. before michael even died, there was this, from percy:

A hellhound lunged and I sidestepped. I could have stabbed it, but I hesitated. This is not Mrs O’Leary, I reminded myself. This is an untamed monster. It will kill me and all my friends.

and then, a few paragraphs later:

I tried to wound his men, not kill. That slowed me down, but these weren’t monsters. They were demigods who’d fallen under Kronos’s spell. I couldn’t see faces under their battle helmets, but some of them had probably been my friends.

and for michael's death -- i was right. he sacrificed HIMSELF. he was friends with percy, too, and he knew the goddamn cost of letting percy -- their forced savior -- die. michael made a CHOICE. read it for yourself, i'll emphasize some of the more important parts:

I got unsteadily to my feet. The remaining Apollo campers had almost made it to the end of the bridge – except for Michael Yew, who was perched on one of the suspension cables a few metres away from me. His last arrow was notched in his bow. ‘Michael, go!’ I screamed. ‘Percy, the bridge!’ he called. ‘It’s already weak!’ At first I didn’t understand. Then I looked down and saw fissures in the pavement. Patches of the road were half melted from Greek fire. The bridge had taken a beating from Kronos’s blast and the exploding arrows. ‘Break it!’ Michael yelled. ‘Use your powers!’ It was a desperate thought – no way it would work – but I stabbed Riptide into the bridge. The magic blade sank to its hilt in tarmac. Salt water shot from the crack like I’d hit a geyser. I pulled out my blade and the fissure grew. The bridge shook and began to crumble. Chunks the size of houses fell into the East River. Kronos’s demigods cried out in alarm and scrambled backwards. Some were knocked off their feet. Within a few seconds, a twenty-metre chasm opened in the Williamsburg Bridge between Kronos and me. The vibrations died. Kronos’s men crept to the edge and looked at the forty metre drop into the river. I didn’t feel safe, though. The suspension cables were still attached. The men could get across that way if they were brave enough. Or maybe Kronos had a magic way to span the gap. The Titan lord studied the problem. He looked behind him at the rising sun, then smiled across the chasm. He raised his scythe in a mock salute. ‘Until this evening, Jackson.’ He mounted his horse, whirled around and galloped back to Brooklyn followed by his warriors. I turned to thank Michael Yew, but the words died in my throat. Five metres away, a bow lay in the street. Its owner was nowhere to be seen. ‘No!’ I searched the wreckage on my side of the bridge. I stared down at the river. Nothing. I yelled in anger and frustration. The sound carried forever in the morning stillness.

like...i want to know every little detail about will solace as much as the next person. but this post is genuinely in direct ignorance of canon 😭😭 not only did percy stay to search for michael -- he was the FIRST to search. percy cared about him. and he recognised the depth of michael's sacrifice, the risk he undertook. he tried to stop him.

this is no one particular person's fault. i think as the percy jackson universe has gone on, percy, as a character, as been (ironically) kind of watered down. it has been easy for people to forget who he is, how kind he is. but i see it a lot. i see percy as this kind of apathetic, uncaring villain too often and it drives me insane. im BEGGING people to love the side characters and the barely-mentioned as much as i do, but to remember whose voice drew us in the first place.

[noise-misato-boy-destroyer]

i really, really like seeing posts from your blog. uh. leftist infighting and purity politics stuff has had me feeling so awful lately that im too scared to even make this post off of anonymous mode, and its so bad that ive been considering cutting myself off from the LGBTQIA+ community online entirely, which will essentially tie a noose round my neck given how isolated I am IRL...... but then I see your posts and feel like not everywhere or everyone is like that, and I reconsider if maybe things arent so bad after all and I shouldn't cut myself off from my community because not everyone is like that everywhere. idk i just thought you might like to know that your reposts of edgy 2000s comedy and doing stupid shit like flashing your boobs and hitting 4 vapes at once literally might of saved the life of a 30-something tgirl who is worried she's no longer allowed to have fun. (oh, and you look pretty btw.)

That's seriously so heartwarming, I cried a lil bit c: I'm glad this dumbass thing I've created does something more than give me an outlet for my pornbrained thoughts and validation from my selfies, damn girl I'm glad I could help :3 ya I mean don't get me wrong I have a blocklist a mile long because it's not like people on here haven't given me shit for saying faggot and tranny and hell I've even caught shit for daring to live my life in an openly sexual manner and "making things worse for the rest of us" but once you get a lil trigger happy with it your inbox clears up and before you know it you're surrounded by other dolls who aren't super weenie hut jr and who are gonna dig you for who you are and not some convoluted vision of what they think a tgirl should be. If it weren't for the "cancelled tranny" community on here I wouldn't be half the woman I am today, reveling in who and what I am and apparently inspiring other people to do the same??? Idk you got the right idea, don't give up on the community cuz yeah not everyone's like that c: anyway, I'm not good at writing shit like this, here's more vape and tits :3

[kingdoms-and-empires]

Hello there! I want to say, I LOVE your story! Fantastic world, fantastic characters, and plot. I can't wait for more (please, give us plebs some food! I mean more chapters and updates.) And by the way, I am happy to hear you are back on your feet. I noticed something in the RO options: Why does the M!MC have 1 Gay romance and the F!MC 1 Lesbian and 1 Bi? Don't you think that is a bit limiting? Is there a narrative reason? Thank you, and I wish you the best. :D Good Day!

It's supposed to be a surprise, but since im close to releasing the public update... in the Great Rewrite, all the ROs are playersexual now. They're open to be romanced no matter what!

Im telling you since your words made me smile <3 and cause i cant hold it in anymore!

I'm aiming for a more grounded romantasy feeling for KaE since romance will be very important to the story. Especially the whole potential-

-problems that'll happen once a certain point is reached.

(I recently rewatched the Revenge of the Sith in the recent rerun lmao)

I've always thought of my work as being inspired by

Homeric Epics (i was always a fan of Greek and Roman myths and stuff since i was young.)

Nordic Sagas but mostly Beowulf (only got into them cause of Vikings the show lololol, but I found myself increasingly engrossed by the Sagas)

Romance of the Three Kingdoms (Dynasty Warriors 4: Empires on the Xbox 360 introduced me to the series and ive been in love since lol)

And because of the above, the game series Nobunaga's Ambition.

Plus isekai and reincarnation manga/anime in general!

I feel like what makes worlds and stories interesting isn't the worldbuilding (though that helps alot, and is without a doubt my crutch atm) but the human emotions that can cause characters to act out, crash out, and do the things they do that can throw a wrench in any well-laid plan.

The new version is far more character driven than before as a result, and I love it. And what's more emotional than love?

The geopolitics, intrigue, war, kingdom building, and the rest of what makes KaE KaE is remaining, of course! Hell, I'd say there's even MORE now, as some of my Patreons would most likely agree with.

It's just that romance is being elevated to be more important to me.

I made this decision a while back because I felt the narrative and restrictive reasons of before no longer hold up with the rewrite changes I made to the world and story.

Cause I changed ALOT.

And we never really even met a majority of the ROs in previous versions so... it's not like im doing something like changing characters yall know and romanced lol, which btw, is ironically a bonus with all the rewrites and time ive taken to find my bearings with this story ;-;

Who helped me reach this decision a while back?

Why...

@when-life-gives-you-lemons-if thank you for putting up with me!!!!!

@leiatalon also helped me reach this decision (also thanks for putting up with me)!!!!!

Both are published authors with multiple titles below their belt that focus on romance, so they definitely had my rapt attention. They were especially kind enough to share their experiences and some advice when it comes to that area with me, and its thanks to their encouragement that I felt this was the right decision.

Please, check out their Tumblr blogs and look at the games they've released! They might interest you!!

What may also interest you?

You can actually see all the progress reports ive given on Patreon! They're free, and you can start from oldest to newest. Plus other articles that detail what im adding to the new version that's soon to release to the public. After all, this upcoming update is the last one that ends our childhood! And it'll be the one that finally makes it so everyone of you can read what I've worked on.

Once my Patreons test out the epilogue for the arc and give me the all clear, the public will get it!

That's all from me for now. Im still busy at work with the epilogue!

[dalessandrablog]

My theories on love triangles in Bridgerton IV

Needless to say, the teaser brought back my full-blown Bridgerton mania.

I actually got into the show while reading Benedict’s book, so you can imagine—his love story with Sophie is by far my favorite.

As a Cinderella fan, how could it not be?

Anyway, after going through a few fandom opinions and theories about what’s still to come... I started wondering if, in this case, a love triangle might actually work well.

At this point, we know the show loves to include that little spark of jealousy from the male leads—and honestly, I have to laugh thinking about people who said months ago that it wouldn’t suit Benedict. (Myself included)

The teaser showed the exact opposite—and he didn’t even present himself yet!

In the book, Benedict is torn between Sophie and the mysterious “lady in silver,” who’s actually her in disguise—but there are a few things that make me think we might be getting a proper third wheel this time… if not a fourth.

They’ve confirmed we’ll be seeing more of the Bridgerton household staff (especially since Sophie becomes one of them), and Rosamund—rather than just being a stereotypical “evil stepsister” like in the book—is apparently willing to do anything to win over Benedict.

Now, I’m not saying Michelle Mao and Yerin Ha look identical, but… considering the hair color, their height, and the fact that the lady in silver wears a mask that hides most of her face… I immediately thought Rosamund might try to pass herself off as her.

Honestly, it could work. They need drama.

But I’d be really annoyed if this Cinderella story turned into a Little Mermaid situation.

And knowing they’re currently filming in a church… I really hope it’s for Benedict and Sophie’s wedding and not a scene where he’s about to marry the wrong woman.

A “So it was you all along” moment would be so cringe to me. I’d much rather have a reveal more in line with the book.

I hope I’m wrong about that theory—but not the second one.

Because I’m definitely not the only one who’s thought of this:

Benedict being jealous of Footman John.

We’ve seen way too much of him in spoilers for it to be nothing.

And he doesn’t even have to be a real love interest for Sophie!

He just has to be a possibility.

Let’s be real—Benedict has had four official love interests over the course of the series. Not a bad choice, and it actually fits the “bohemian artist” vibe they’ve given him in the show.

In the books, he’s experienced, but not a full-on libertine like Michael, Anthony, or Simon.

It works, and it makes his offer to Sophie (to become his mistress) more understandable. But it also creates a huge imbalance between them romantically.

Neither Kate, Penelope, nor Daphne had any real romantic or sexual experience before their husbands, and with Sophie… it’s hard to believe she’s had any.

First, she literally wouldn’t have time.

In the book, Araminta never gives her days off, and I doubt that’ll change. Sophie’s only real escape is through books.

Second, she doesn’t want illegitimate children.

She wouldn’t risk it. She doesn’t even do it with Benedict—why would she with someone else?

Also, her strength and sense of self-worth in the book are exactly what make her so special in Benedict’s eyes.

That trait, to me, is non-negotiable—because otherwise you’re completely changing the core of her character.

I’d love to see a version of Sophie more like Danielle from Ever After (though book Sophie already reminded me of her).

Someone who can stand up for herself when needed, but who’s also fragile and deeply yearning for a family to love her, and a partner who sees her for who she really is.

Before I go off too much about how I want to see Yerin Ha wield a fencing sword for any reason whatsoever, let’s go back to Footman John.

Honestly, I don’t think there’ll be any real flirting between him and Sophie—but since they’ll be working together, it’s impossible that some kind of bond won’t form.

Some people think John will have a crush on Sophie’s new maid friend—and I agree.

But Benedict could easily misread the whole thing.

And that fear of losing Sophie might be exactly what he needs to feel.

Sure, Benedict’s faced rejection before, but when it comes to love, he’s always kind of won anyway.

He’s a privileged noble (and I love Benedict, don’t get me wrong), but I do want to see him suffer a bit after making us wait this long for his season.

So how does a man like that deal with the idea that he could lose the woman he loves to someone who has less to offer?

Because that’s the point.

Benedict thinks he can give her more—protection, a roof over her head, fine clothes—but in secret.

Meanwhile, John, who comes from the same social class as Sophie, could offer her marriage, legitimate children, and not wealth, no—but a love she doesn’t have to hide.

And those are the things Sophie actually wants.

She doesn’t care about Benedict’s money—she wants love and the peace of knowing her children are protected by a name.

That realization—that someone else could give her what she wants more than he can—might finally force Benedict to reconsider his proposal, realize how unfair he’s being, and decide, yes, this woman is worth more than any society that always felt like a cage to him anyway.

And if it turns out John was never into Sophie at all? That would honestly be hilarious.

Now, I’m not the showrunner, obviously, but if they must go the love triangle route, something like this?

I’d be totally on board.

Whether I’m right or not… time will tell.

[i-willstealyourtoes]

can we get some engineer and trans male reader food im starving here... spicy perchance... holds out change jar

i love your work though—ive been meaning to request you for a while and you finally have your requests open!!!! whoopee!!!!!

Hell yeah you can get some Engie content !! I'm not trans myself so I hope I did this justice :'>

Engineer with Trans male!Reader (T4T)

Not like, he doesn't care about your body - he loves your body - rather it doesn't concern him that you're trans.

Some people HC Dell as trans, so I thought maybe we could work with that ??

Anyway, trans or not, Dell doesn't really care whatever you got in your pants.

Maybe if he was like, an insecure teen he'd bothered by his partner's identity like that, but now that he's a mature adult? He's just happy if you're happy !!

And it's even better you're happy with him :)

He might not understand everything, but he tries his absolute best to take mental notes of the trans experience to help you out with any struggles !

"I don't want you to ever feel uncomfortable or self-conscious with me, alright? I wanna make you happy."

Now, trans Engie? He doesn't need to learn as much, given he also knows the struggle of being constantly ostracized by the whole world.

But obviously he still wants to hear about your personal experience, since everyone has different journeys.

But it certainly is time saved not having to spend hours of explaining something he'll never fully understand (if he was cis)

He gets what it's like to be scrutinised for absolutely anything, put in a category or a box simply for being alive

For him, the whole being berated for his identity doesn't affect him anymore; he's solid in his identity.

But if anyone hurts you? As in, chip away at your confidence and leave you insecure?

It's all over for his patience.

He won't start a shouting match, or get physically violent, but he will definitely pull you away from the situation and give the person a firm warning to back off.

But after that he'll just lead you somewhere away and reassure you that you're just as valid as he is :')

"Some people stare, some people judge. Those types, they'll never understand. You ain't gotta worry about them, alright? You owe 'em nothing."

Once you two get back home/to base, he will shower you with all the affection you could ever ask for !!

Kisses on your temples, cheeks, hands,

Up your arm, down your neck, in between your legs

"Y'know, dreamin' about you ain't got nothing on the real thing."

He loves every part of you, even if you don't

In fact, he loves your body so much it's more than enough to make up for your own insecurities

But if you still don't believe him, he'll hopefully convince you by slowly coaxing you out of any of the remaining items of clothing you have, compliments flowing out his mouth like it was his first language.

"So handsome. I'm so lucky to have you. You make my world, honey."

Even if you don't want to do anything, he'll still comfort you, caressing your bare skin, guiding you to look at yourself in the mirror (if you can manage, of course)

"See? Look at you. I don't see how you could see this body as anything other than sexy."

Basically, he is in love with you and your body, and he's more than happy to prove it :)

[lateatnewyork]

Moonflower

(Flowers part II)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Azriel x ex!reader, Rhysand x sister!reader, future Helion x reader

Warnings: angst, brotherly fluff (love u rhysie poo), swearing, elain and azriel slander (minor)

warnings & summary will be updated at every part.

Prompts: N/A

Summary: Nesta and Feyre had taken your wedding dress from Elain and handed it back to you. With the help of Rhysand, you burn it. Rhys suggests for you to go to Day Court and take some time, while he sorts things out with Azriel. What happens when a certain High Lord catches your eye?

a/n there’s going to be so much angst in this series😭 if you ever feel like killing me just know i love you guys, the names of this series are gonna be based off flowers this one is called moonflower as a homage to the night court

I had gone upto my room, not wanting to see the pitying looks of my friends.

Growing up as a High Lord’s daughter made me detached from the world, forced me to hide my emotions. Which is why, I didn’t shed a single tear until I was in the safety of my bedroom.

Shrinking down against my door, I finally allowed the thoughts to catch up.

Every single time he told me he made love to me, he really meant “I’m fucking your brother’s sister in law right under your nose,”.

I don’t even think I can call it making love anymore.

When he told me he loved me, he really meant “I love Elain, not you”.

All of a sudden all his words had double meanings.

“I’m going out,” meant “I’m going to Elain’s”.

“I already ate,” equaled “I ate at Elain’s”.

And at the very end of it all, “I have a mission” was actually “I’m going to get married to Elain,”.

Elain, Elain, Elain. What did she have that I didn’t? I had known him for centuries, been there for him through nightmares, defended him from others, hell I had given my everything to him.

And instead of returning them properly, he had broken them, trampled on my poor heart, fed my mind lies and broken my every being.

Sobs wracked my body as I hunched over myself. My hair was sticking to my face by the tears. Crying quietly, I twisted the ring off my finger, chucking it somewhere in the dark.

Hearing the soft clang of the metal landing made me sob even more. It was a beautiful ring, truly. A silver ring with diamonds encrusted on the top, 3 beautiful gems the colour of Azriel’s siphons. A blue so dark it could pass as black.

My ears were ringing, I could hear a knock on the door, but it was just some background noise compared to the noise of rushing water in my ears.

A talon of power scraped against my walls gently. Getting up, I open the door.

Rhysand stands there with my dress in his hands.

“I said I didn’t want it,” I state, stubborn as ever.

“I know that’s why I came to ask if you wanted to burn it with me,” he says hesitantly.

My eyes flick between Rhysand and the dress, a silent war forging in my violet eyes.

“Fuck it, let’s go”

My meltdown dazed mind didn’t seem to realise that Rhysand hadn’t taken me out through the main hall, but through the back entrances. Too tired to comprehend anything, I didn’t ask even when I realised it.

As if waiting for me a bonfire pit had formed.

Before we had left the room, I had grabbed a box filled with Azriel’s things that I wanted to burn.

With a flick of Rhys’ wrist the dress was positioned on the stand. A stick with fire was commissioned and he handed it to me.

“Would you like to do the honours, little star?” He says waving the stick towards me. I smile slightly at the use of the old nickname.

I grab the stick and throw it at the dress, revelling in the way it burnt.

One by one I added the items from the box.

A human polaroid of the two of us. His comfy grey shirt. All his letters. Flowers he had given me 2 days ago. A glass rose, funny really because my favourite flower isn’t a rose, it’s a moonflower. A promise ring he had got me. The prototype wedding invitation.

Rhysand watched me as I threw object after object into the endless pit of fire. Once the box was empty, I lunged the box into the fire as well.

That’s when he finally spoke up, “Little star, do you want to go visit Day Court for a while, Helion said any one from our court could visit his,”.

I nodded, the anger I had grown from the objects fading into sadness. Rhys held me close wiping my wet, tear stained cheeks. “It’ll be alright” he soothingly whispers.

I had packed my bags the night of the burning and had prepare for going to Day Court the next day.

“Rhys I can winnow myself,” I huffed as he dragged me along.

“I know, I know I just wanted to make sure you got there safe,” he sighs. Understanding, I let him take me there.

If Day Court was beautiful then they’re High Lord was gorgeous.

a/n i need sleep

taglist: @esposadomd @impossibelle @acotarfics-mharmie009 @stqrgirlies-blog @balam-sen @cumuluscranium @witchymomfrien (striked out means i couldn’t tag you)

[bluemoviegirl]

UNDER THE SAME SUN CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 1 HERE

joel miller x reader

tw: death (ah oh)

summary: maybe you didn’t hate Joel before, but you sure do now. And he hates you just as much.

wc: 5k

a/n: im really excited to turn this into a full story!! ive got so many ideas lined up. again, please do comment wether you liked it, what you liked etc. it makes my day!! also cant believe i got like 80 likes on chapter 1! i still have no idea how tumblr works lol

------------

Chapter 2.

It’s Thursday, two days since you went on that repair job with Joel Miller. You had thought about it a handful of times, thought about the sassier replies you could’ve given to his sassy answers, rolling your eyes every time you came up with something better.

You’re sitting on your bed with your sketchbook on your lap but your pencil is just hovering over it. Your mind is everywhere but the paper. Focus, just focus and draw something you like! Easy. Easy….. Nope. Nothing.

Instead, a different idea pops into your head. As you walk into your living room, you notice how bleak it really is. Even with the sun shining in on it, it’s just not you. At least not the you that you used to be. Maybe some paint will do it some good?  Your fingers start tracing along the walls. They’re so empty. Simple plain white walls, not even a single frame hanging on them.

As if the inspiration has taken over, you start sketching on the walls. They’re simple abstract lines and shapes, simple flowers making their way through it.

After a while, you step back and look. You seem satisfied as there’s a smile on your face you can’t seem to wipe off.

You need some fresh air, you’ve been cooped up in your apartment  and it’s now around 4pm.

After the sketching, the motivation to get it done tonight is too big to ignore. So you’re headed to the Workshop where they’d probably have some unused colors laying around. You put on your boots and coat and shut the door behind you.

The feel of the outside world is different from the stillness of your apartment. A sharp chill clings to your skin, slipping through the gaps in your coat. The cold air tugs at you, waking your senses, making you all too aware of the space around you.

By the time you leave the workshop, you’re lugging three paint cans—deep blue, light blue, and a pale yellow—and your arms are already burning. You jammed a couple of brushes into your coat pockets, their handles sticking out awkwardly. The buckets knock against your legs as you walk, heavier than you anticipated. Every few minutes, you have to stop and switch arms.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Y’need any help with that?” You hear a voice behind you. It takes you a moment to register that they’re talking to you. When you turn and see who it is, relief washes over you.

“Tommy,” you exhale, dropping the buckets onto the snow-covered ground. “Yes, please.”

He huffs a laugh and steps forward, easily scooping up two of the buckets. “Damn, you weren’t kidding. These things are heavy as hell.”

“Thank you, I was seriously about to just leave ‘m there.”  You chuckle as you pick up the last bucket. “To my place, please.” You say nudging your head. You were about a street away from your apartment.

“It’s no problem, couldn’t let you bust your ass like that.” The two of you start walking, the sound of crunching snow filling the silence. He gives you a sideways glance. “Not that it’s my business, but… what exactly are you doin’ with all this paint?”

“I’m going to paint my walls.” You say, kicking a ball of snow in front of you. “Like, a mural kind of. Not just paint the whole walls.” You sounded a bit unsure, you didn’t ask anyone for permission but you figured you didn’t have to right? Now talking to Tommy has you a bit nervous.

“Oh that’s cool! A mural.. I didn’t know ya were a painter.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I mean, I wouldn’t call myself a painter. But I like drawing. Figured I’d try.” You smirk. “Worst case, I’ll just paint over it.”

Tommy chuckles. “Well, if it turns out bad, just tell people it’s modern art. Folks’ll eat that up.”

You snort. “Noted.”

“So, is it big? Like, a whole wall kinda thing?”

“Yeah, pretty much the entire side of the living room wall.” You tuck your hair behind your ear. “I already sketched it out. Hoping to get it done today.” A pause. “Wanna see?”

“Yeah, I’m real curious.”

“It’s nothing crazy, a toddler could probably draw it.” You say, you’ve always been nervous about showing your art to others, even if it was just a sketch.

“I’m sure it’s good.” Tommy replies.

As you both enter the apartment, Tommy sets the paint buckets down inside and you remove the paint brushes from your pockets.

“Well look at that, that looks great already.” Tommy immediately says, his eyes actually lighting up a bit. You tug at your earlobe, at the little hoop earring you had in. “Really? You’re just saying that.”

He turns at you as you say that and his brows pulled a bit together with a smile at his lips. “I’m serious!” He turns back to the wall. “With the paint n’ all, I can see it lookin’ real nice.”

You smiled a bit wider, his remark giving you a bit of a confidence boost. “Thanks Tommy. Oh, would you like something to drink?” You quickly say, having forgotten he’s a guest in your apartment and also someone who just helped you carry those paint buckets.

Tommy looks at the time and back at you. “Oh no I’m okay, needda get going. Thank you though.” He makes his way to the door and turns around one more time before shutting it. “It’s gonna look great!”

You chuckle to yourself as you watch him close the door. He was being very cheerful, which influenced the way you were feeling too.

Time to bring this wall to life.

Okay, it’s been three hours. You’re covered in paint and the wall isn’t even halfway done.. You look at the wall, you’re just one woman trying to paint the entire wall and having set the deadline for yourself to today. Come on, set some realistic expectations, you literally haven’t painted since forever.

You deserve a drink. You can’t even be bothered with a change of clothes, the paint stained clothes will have to do.

As you enter the bar, the familiar mix of voices and clinking sounds of glasses immediately puts you at ease. Like it’s a little approval of you wanting to relax. You take your usual spot at the bar and Knox makes his way over to you from behind the bar.

“You’ve been painting?” He asks you as he leans his palm on the wood, glancing at your clothes.

You look down at your clothes, already forgotten you wore these clothes. “Don’t even mention it, I’ve been painting my ass off for hours and it’s not even close to finished.” You sigh and smile to Knox. Knox laughs, wiping down the bar. "Sounds like the canvas put up a hell of a fight. Want me to pour one out for your sanity?"

“Don’t have to ask me twice.” You say as you look around as to who else is here. You hadn’t realized it but Tommy and Joel were there too, sitting in a booth across from the room. They hadn’t seen you and you felt a bit silly for being covered in paint now.

Knox slides over the drink to you and you two catch up about your current ‘paint project’. “Sounds like to me you just need another set of hands.” He states.

“Ugh yeah maybe. But I don’t really know if I want to saddle anyone with this task. I want to finish it tomorrow so I just have it done. Otherwise my heads just going to keep spinning on and on about it.” You bring the glass up to your lips as you watch Knox just chuckle back at you.

“Knox, a beer and a whiskey will ya?” You hear a gruff voice a couple feet from you. It’s a recognizable voice and you look over to see Joel standing at the bar.

You’re subtly (not as subtle as you think) staring him up and down, you knew many women around here thought he was a catch. You could understand why, he doesn’t speak much, but when he does, his voice is low and rough, his jaw is strong, lined with just enough scruff to make you wonder how it’d feel against your ski-

“You’re starin’.” Joel says, without even glancing your way. Not expecting that, you choke a bit on the sip of beer you had just taken, quickly swallowing down another cough and your face immediately reddens. “I was not.” You reply quickly. You notice the smallest glance to you before his eyes turn back to Knox, who has two drinks in his hands.

You focus back on your drink, immediately starting to daydream again, you could always get so caught up in that. Your mind was thinking about the wall, and what the finished result would look like. You could picture yourself bundled up on the couch and staring at the art you’ve made.

“Here ya go, Joel.” Knox says, handing over the drinks as Joel nods and is about to walk back to Tommy.

“Actually Joel-“ Knox says as Joel stops walking and turns his head to Knox.

Joel had barely taken a sip of his whiskey when Knox leaned on the counter, smirking like he had something planned.

“You busy tomorrow?” Knox asked, way too casual.

Joel gave him a look. “Why?”

Knox shrugged, wiping down the bar like he wasn’t watching for a reaction. “Just got someone lookin’ for an extra set of hands. Figured you might be free.”

Joel exhaled, already tired of whatever Knox was up to. “What kinda work?”

“Painting.”

Joel huffed. “Pass.”

Knox grinned like he expected that. “Didn’t think you were the type to turn down a favor.”

“That depends on who’s askin’.”

Knox only smiled at that, tapping his fingers against the counter. “Well, let’s just say it ain’t anyone you gotta worry about.” He slid Joel’s drink back toward him. “And if you’re feelin’ charitable, all you gotta do is show up tomorrow.”

Joel eyed him suspiciously, but Knox had already moved on, pouring a drink for someone else like he hadn’t just set him up.

Suddenly two hands shake Joel’s shoulders. “What’s taking so long?” Tommy says.

“Knox asked me a favor.” Joel turns to Tommy, nudging his hands off of his shoulders.

“What favor?” “To help someone paint.” Joel huffed again, as if it was so crazy for Joel to paint.

“Paint? Who needs help paintin-“ Tommy’s eyes shoot to you, you were completely oblivious as you had zoned out but Tommy obviously remembered helping you carry paint, and the fact you were currently covered in paint. He grins and you could almost see a lightbulb lighting up above his head.  “You should help Knox out. Come on!” Tommy says, taking the beer from Joel’s hand.

Joel’s brows knit together. “What?” “Come onnn, I know you’re free tomorrow.” All Tommy could think about was that this could finally be the opportunity for Joel and you to tolerate each other. This way Tommy wouldn’t need to find someone else for the repairs. Plus, Joel could use some womanly influence in his life.

“Hm.”

-----

The next morning, you’re up and ready to start painting again. You didn’t bother changing out of your sleep clothes—a big sweater you cut the neckline off, some sweats and a pair of fluffy socks.— You still remember the day you found these socks two years ago, buried in the back of some abandoned store. It had felt like a gift from heaven.

You grab a paintbrush, dipping it into the soft blue before bringing it to the wall—

Knock, knock.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

When you open the door, you’re even more surprised by who standing there. And by the looks of it, he’s… also surprised?

“Joel?” You say, the paintbrush still dangling between your fingers as the cold breeze from outside makes it way in.

The cold morning air seeps into your apartment, making you shiver. Joel blinks at you, eyes flicking from your oversized sweater to the paintbrush still dangling between your fingers.

“Wrong house,” he mutters, already turning to leave.

But then his eyes catch on the paintbrush again, and something clicks. He exhales sharply, rolling his eyes. “Son of a bitch.”

You frown. “What?”

“Knox and Tommy,” he grumbles. “Set me up.”

Your confusion deepens. “Set you up for what?”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m here to help you paint.”

You blink. “To help me paint?”

“Yep.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“I know.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Joel shakes his head, already stepping back. “I’ll see you Thursday.”

“Wait!” You’re not even sure why you stopped him. But something about the idea of having him here, working on this with you, doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe Joel wasn’t so terrible. And maybe—just maybe—this would make the upcoming job together more bearable.

“I could use the help,” you say quickly. “There’s… uh, some corners and edges I can’t reach.”

Bullshit, you’re tall and capable.

Joel sighs again, like he’s already regretting this, but after a moment, he steps inside and shrugs off his coat.

Now you’re standing in the middle of your living room, suddenly hyper-aware of how awkward this is.

Joel glances at the wall, then at the paint. “So?”

“Right, uhm.” You hand him some paintbrushes and point to the paint. “It’s simple, just paint over the lines.”  He nods.

"Let’s get this over with."

The room settles into silence as you both work. Minutes pass, the only sound being the soft scrape of bristles against the wall. You don’t mind the quiet, but it feels too heavy with Joel. Too thick.

So, instinctively, you start humming to yourself. Knockin’ on heavens door..

A few seconds later, Joel glances at you. “Bob Dylan?”

His voice startles you just slightly, and you glance over. “Yeah. Bob Dylan. You like him?”

He dips his brush into the paint again, nodding. “Mhm.”  After another moment of silence, Joel speaks up again. “You sketched all this?” His tone is unreadable.

“Yeah, ya like?” You smile, hoping for a tiny bit of approval.

He just grunts. “’S alright.”

“I mean, I’ll take it.”  Suddenly you feel kinda silly at the outfit you’re wearing. It’s as if he could read your mind cause he’s giving you a once-over before turning back to the wall.

You fiddle with your locket as you take a step back from the wall, checking out the way the paint is looking so far, but also quietly admiring how good Joel looks with a paint brush.

“What’s your favorite color?” You blurt out.

Joel thinks for a moment. “Green.” You both say at the same time, his eyes snapping to yours.

“I figured you’d be a green person.” You grin to yourself, feeling smart.

“What does that even mean?”

You shrug. “Nothing... Nothing at all.” You chuckle.

"You say somethin’ like that, you gotta explain it." He lowers the paintbrush, eyes meeting yours.

"Nope. You’ll just have to live with the mystery, Miller..”

"That’s ridiculous."

"Maybe." You chuckle as you continue painting. Why was this Joel Miller not that bad? It’s like his guard is let down just a little bit and he tolerated you just a bit more. And damn you enjoyed it. If it stayed like this, repair jobs would actually be fun.  

After a while, you guys are done. You can’t believe it, but you are. To your surprise the wall looks.. great. The shades of blue made a beautiful pattern across the wall, the flowers being accented with the yellow really pulling it together. This felt like it could actually be your home.

Maybe you guys hadn’t chatted a lot but it did feel like you booked some progress with this potential friendship.

You wipe your face, not realizing the blue paint you’re smearing across your cheek. “I can’t believe we finished it.” You say as you look at Joel, who’s put down the paintbrush.

“Don’t think I’ll pick up another paintbrush for a while after this.”  He says, his voice having a light huff to it. “Not exactly how I wanted to spend my morning.”

“You’ll live.” You reply, not bothered by his snarky comments.

You chuckle quietly, Joel having somewhat of a sense of humor made him come across more human instead of just the stoic guy he acted like. It was obvious to you that there was so much more behind the walls he put up, not that you would ever push him to talk about it. You barely knew the man.

Joel rubs his jaw as he turns to you. “I oughtta get goin’.”

“Oh yeah, of course.” You say as you follow him to the front door. He puts on his coat and walks onto the porch, turning to you again. You leaned against the doorframe. “…Thank you.. for today. Even though you were set up to coming here.” You grin as you look down to your feet before meeting his eyes again.

“Yeah well, had a free day. Don’t mention it.” He suddenly steps closer to you. Your breath hitches ever so slightly, which you quickly try to control again but are unable to when he raises his hand to your jaw.

His palm is warm, calloused, steady. His thumb swipes along your cheek, smearing away a streak of dried paint. It’s such a simple movement, but it knocks the breath right out of you. Your eyes widen just a little bit, Joel noticed, thinking he may have overstepped. He’s quick to retreat his hand and tuck it in his jean pocket.

“Some paint on your cheek.” He says, clearing his throat. You quickly nod.

“I’ll see you Thursday.” He says.

“Right, yeah. Thursday.” You manage to say before swallowing. Why did that just make you feel a bit flustered? Quit it, you’re desperate.

--

When Thursday finally rolls around, you find yourself lingering near the horses earlier than needed, arms crossed against the cold. Dread curls in your stomach at the thought of another trek into the woods, but—much to your own annoyance—the idea of spending the day with Joel Miller doesn’t seem quite as bad.

Which is probably why, for some unknown reason, you decided to put in extra effort today.

You had worn your hair down (something you never did when on the job). A nicer coat too, one that wasn’t as ripped, even though you’d changed four times before finally just going with it. Stupid. Dumb. And yet, here you were, tugging at the sleeves like it might somehow make a difference.

You scowl at yourself. It wasn’t for Joel. Not really. He didn’t even like you.

…Okay, maybe it was a little for Joel. But who could blame you? The world had already ended once—what harm was there in wanting to look a little nice for someone still standing in it? Even if that someone was someone who actually disliked you.

On the way to the outpost, everything was the same as last week. Not much for talking. Frankly, you didn’t know what to talk about. “The paint dried nicely.” You spoke. ‘The paint dried nicely.’ ??? Get a grip! You wanted to smack your forehead, but were able to resist. All Joel did was give you a little nod.

When you two finally arrived at the outpost, you tugged again at your sleeves. Sure, the coat looked nicer but it didn’t even fit well. It left your hands cold and you stupidly didn’t bring any gloves.

Again, as if Joel can read your mind, he throws some gloves at you.  

Your head snaps up at him and he’s just stood there, waiting for you to respond. “You don’t have to-“ You say, looking at his bare hands. “M’ fine.” Joel said before heading inside of the outpost. Your lips parted, as if searching for words, before closing again.

The repair went somewhat smoothly, now that the floorboards had been removed, it was time to put in some new planks. Joel would saw them and put them into the floor. Your duty was to hammer them down with the nails Tommy had brought by to you earlier that week.

You were doing a decent job, the nails going in smoothly. You could tell Joel was satisfied because no snarky remarks were being made.

You sat on the floor for a second, admiring your nail-skills. “Honestly, I’m doing amazing.” You say grinning. “Like, I could make this my thing. Nailing nails. The nailer.” You said, imaginging people coming to you to nail things down.

You chuckle at yourself.

Joel just rolled his eyes over to you and back to the wood. “Good luck with that. The nailer.” He mumbles as he shook his head at the fact you didn’t even realize what that sounded like.

“So what did you do before the world ended? Like, job-wise?” You say, finally wanting to start a conversation. He finishes his sawing before answering. “Contracting.”

“Contracting? No wonder Tommy wanted you for this job.” You say before ramming in another nail, completely missing it the first time as you were too busy looking at Joel. Oops.

Joel saw and just shook his head lightly. “You?”

“Oh, I was still in high school.” You felt a bit dumb saying that, like you were bringing attention to the ‘little’ age gap the two of you had. Not that it was relevant.

He scoffed and parted his lips to start another sentence before being interrupted by a noise coming from outside. His eyes snap to the door and he puts down the saw, immediately going for his rifle.

“An infected?” You whispered as you stood up, also grabbing your rifle. Ignore the fact that you’d shot a rifle maybe twice. He just brings a finger to his lips, telling you to be quiet. You quietly make your way next to him, your heart racing.

You guys step outside, the snow muffling your footsteps just a bit. The snow was falling down pretty heavily, making it harder to actually see anything.

But then Joel sees it, he holds up his hand, motioning for you to stop walking. There’s a man, just behind one of the trees, gripping a knife. He’s holding it up halfway, as if he’s unsure to surrender or not when we make eye-contact.

You and Joel both raise your rifle.

“Step out, now.” Joel raises his voice. “Now.”

The man steps out just a bit, slowly, bundled in layers of dirty clothing, fingers stiff with cold, face hollow with exhaustion. “D-don’t shoot, alright?!” The man says, his voice rough.

“You alone?” Joel’s voice was flat.

The man nodded quickly—too quickly. “Yes! I—I swear to God. I was just looking for shelter. It’s real cold!”

Joel’s rifle never wavered.

“Bullshit.”

The man’s breath hitched. “I—”

“I see your tracks,” Joel cut him off. “Heavy. Means you’ve been carrying.” He gestured his rifle toward the man’s feet. “Who were you with?”

“No one!” The man shook his head wildly, his voice rising, frantic. “I mean—I left them. They’re miles back—I swear.”

You look up at Joel as you’re not even really pointing your rifle at the man anymore. “Joel, he’s obviously alone.” You say to him.

He doesn’t reply, his eyes focused on the man.

“Joel?”  What is he going to do? The man just had a knife, he looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. He didn’t look like a threat. You furrowed your brows, Joel was ignoring you.

You inhaled sharply.

“Joel,” you repeated, quiet but firm. “He isn’t a threat.”  You plead.

He ignored you.

The man took a step forward, his eyes darting between you and Joel. “I just want some food man, a place to sleep-“ “Don’t move.” Joel said, firmly. His rifle stayed locked on the man’s chest.

You looked at Joel again and back at the man, your brows furrowing even more. Joel’s acting like you’re not even standing here.

And then—

The man shifted his weight.

Just barely.

Just enough for Joel to react.

The gunshot shattered the silence.

You flinched.

The man dropped his knife. His mouth parted—like he hadn’t fully registered it yet.

Then he collapsed, the red immediately soaking into the snow.

For a second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Your eyes widening as it hit you. Joel just killed that man. Your voice had meant nothing to him.

You turn your head to Joel, your mouth hanging a bit open, eyes widened, brows fully furrowed. He’s just standing there, reloading his rifle as if this was the most casual case in the world.

Joel exhaled, lowering his rifle. He was already stepping toward the body, as if this was justanother chore.

Something in you just snapped.

“What the fuck is wrong with you! He was—he was dropping the knife!” You took a step closer, your breath coming hard and fast. “He was surrendering, Joel!”

Joel didn’t look at you. He crouched down near the body, reaching for the knife still clenched in the man’s lifeless fingers.

All you feel is rage. He just killed that man and now he’s taking the knife as if it’s nothing.  “What is wrong with you!” You yell again.

Joel just walked past you back into the outpost.

“He was going to surrender! It’s not like he stood a fucking chance if he would attack!” You yelled at him but he gave no reaction, just packing up his bag.

“I’m talking to you!” You’re about to shove him out of pure rage, but before doing so, he gets grip on your wrist, stopping you. His eyes finally meeting yours. Now he looked at you.

And you hated the look in his eyes.

Not cold. Not regretful.

Just unbothered.

“He was gonna lunge,” Joel muttered, standing. “You didn’t see it.”

“I saw enough, I was there!” she shot back.

Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “No. Youdidn’t.”

All you felt was anger taking you over. “You don’t fucking know that, Joel! He was alone! And you—you just fucking shot him.”

You sounded hysterical. But you didn’t care. It was wrong, Joel was wrong. How could everything escalate this quickly?

Joel’s jaw flexed. “And if I’d hesitated? If he was lying? You’d be the one bleeding out in the snow, not him.”

You let out a harsh, humorlesslaugh. “Jesus Christ—do you even hear yourself?” You gestured at the body still laying in the snow outside of the outpost, your hands shaking. “He was just a guy, Joel. He wasn’t some monster!”

“You’re naive.” Joel just replied. His hand still gripping your wrist tightly. It wasn’t the fact that he called you that, it was the way he said it. With some sort of disgust, contempt. Like he actually despised you for wanting another human being to live. “You don’t get it, you think ‘cause you’ve survived so far you actually know what it’s like out here? You don’t.”

“Fuck you.”  You spat, forcing your wrist out of his grip. He didn’t even know you.

“No, fuck you,” he growled. “You still think there’s a choice? That we can afford to wait, or talk, or hesitate?” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That kinda thinkin’ gets people killed.”

He walked outside, packing his bag onto the horse. You followed after, you weren’t done with this conversation. The way he was giving you no emotion back whatsoever while you were here, losing it, enraged you.

“Does it even bother you?” Your voice rough. You don’t know why you’re as furious as you are. You’ve seen many people die, you’ve been the reason many people had died. Yet the way you were dismissed, the way he was so cold. It triggered your PTSD, reminding you of a man you had tried to have long forgotten.

You step closer, voice sharp: “Who was it?”

His brows pull together, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Who did you lose to make you like this?” you spit. “Your wife? Your kid? Who was it that died and turned you into a heartless asshole?” It wasn’t a long shot, everyone has lost someone in the apocalypse.

Joel goes still.

That’s when you know you hit something.

For the first time, you sees it—just a flicker, barely a second—but it’s real anger, the kind that simmers so deep it could boil over at any second.

He quickly steps closer. Too close. His voice is dangerously low. His hands fist onto your coat collar, pulling you forward.

“Watch your mouth.”

You should stop. You should back down. Reasonable you, non-triggered you, would’ve backed down.

But you don’t.

Instead, you scoff. “Guess I was right, huh?”

And that’s it.

Joel’s jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle twitch.

“You don’t know a goddamn thing about me,” he growls. “Not a single goddamn thing.” He aggressively lets go of your collar, making you stumble back.

And then he walks off. Just leaves you standing there, the air thick with something neither of them can take back. You drag your hands across your face as you lean back against the wall, wiping away the anger-tears that fell over your cheeks.

God, you feel stupid. Stupid for thinking, even for a second, that this morning—when you stood in front of the mirror smoothing down your hair, buttoning up your nicer coat—meant something. Stupid for thinking maybe today wouldn’t be so bad.

You felt furious, furious that there was a dead man outside the outpost, furious that you had no control over the situation whatsoever. Furious that your words didn’t matter to Joel.

But mostly? You feel humiliated and awful. You know you overstepped. It was a low blow. Especially from you, knowing you’re not too different from Joel at all. But you were still furious, Joel acted in such a cold way, it had made your stomach turn.

And that’s all it took for you to really hate Joel Miller, and the feeling might just be mutual.

[bartsugsy]

You've probably answered an ask like this before because you've been watching robron from the beginning but what are your favourite storylines or scenes from them? (I'm very new to emmerdale, i found it last week when robert came back and I saw people on twitter talking about it and ive been binging their storyline on youtube i just got passed the lodge)

oh my god WELCOME ANON i’m desperate to know how you felt about the lodge (i’m a certified Lodge Stan but that’s not a prerequisite here, everyone was going the hell through it when it originally aired fjfjfjf)

with the caveat of, given just how many storylines they’ve had, this is not comprehensive and i will forget things - and also not being too spoilery for you, here’s some faves:

in terms of storylines:

the storyline you are very fast approaching right now in your watchthrough, that takes place at the end of 2015, was fantastically done imo - the build up, specifically. it’s not really a robron storyline (at all) so much as it is a comeuppance and ultimately redemption for robert storyline, but the show spends essentially the entire year building up to this point and it’s fantastic

i did also absolutely love the entire affair storyline - and i enjoy (and appreciate more in retrospect, because it was a little agonising watching in real time) how long it takes the show to bring that to a head and reveal everything. the aftermath of robert being outed and how that leads into robert eventually discussing his sexuality with people is really good. also full disclosure i just simply love chrissie white.

aaron’s abuse storyline i do find very very difficult to rewatch and so i don’t usually, but i still have to mention it, because i thought it was incredible, and wonderful, and there’s a period of time where aaron goes away and robert enters every single scene by bursting into a room and demanding to see aaron and it’s sooo… like oh the writing for how batshit insane this man would be about his husband was right there on the wall

super soap week 2016 - i’ve never experienced anything like it in my life and i genuinely don’t think i ever will again and honestly maybe that’s for the best because there were several days where i simply forgot to do basic things like eat and move and shower because i was so fucking locked in but oh my god

2017 as a whole is at times infuriating but i genuinely deeply enjoyed myself 98% of the time. robron fight, they get married, they break up, the crash outs are legendary, the scenes are immense, the emotions are soaring. i’m an angst goblin though so honestly, take that as you will

the entire reunion story arc is perfect to me

there is a period of time where they are married and both genuinely happy in their relationship (but not in life because it’s a soap and shit is simply always occurring) and they have the most insane and hilarious run of stories where it’s honestly just robron against the world (there’s a kidnap, there’s blackmail, there’s a pig, there’s money being burned in a bin, there’s so much crime) and whilst i do tend to have more fun watching in real time when the angst is happening, mostly because that means they’re on our screens more and doing meaningful things that are building towards a longer term purpose, that period of time is very very fun to rewatch

one time they do a christmas carol episode with robert as scrooge and it’s absolutely baller

in terms of SCENES (and i don’t wanna get too deep into this or we will absolutely be here all day because the list of robron scenes that will take your whole breath away is so endless):

there’s this one scene where robert is in his scrooge era, having a christmas carol dream, and aaron walks down the stairs and robert stares at him like he’s the most beautiful man to ever grace the planet and that really really spoke to me. gayest he’s ever been.

all of super soap week 2016 i’m deadly serious you’re absolutely not ready

all of the first wedding

all of the second wedding

all of the proposals

all of the BREAK UPS

absolutely every single utterly demented thing robert has ever said about aaron ever bc jesus he has no shame imagine living in the same village as someone who swans around saying things like “my beautiful husband who i love” with his whole chest

there’s one ep at the beginning of 2017 where they’re furiously arguing because aaron has done something terminally stupid and they’re like. teetering on the edge of a break up. and it’s so so so good. it’s SO SO GOOD.

that one time post-affair era where robert offers to help andy set up the barton’s new grain pit and aaron is there and even though they’ve lowkey broken up, they start flirting again and then end up banging in the scrapyard portacabin because they’re absolutely incapable of staying away from each other for too long

the entire experience of aaron getting kidnapped is Peak Entertainment to me and one of my favourite robron stories ever and the scenes in those eps are everything to me

aaron’s reunion speech. every single second of it.

that moment in the lodge where robert tells aaron he’s the worst mistake robert ever made, because falling in love with aaron was so deeply violently not a part of rob’s evil plans and oh boy, maybe he could have done so much worse without all these annoying unwanted feelings for aaron, maybe he could have protected himself so much better if he didn’t have to worry about protecting aaron as well, and also maybe he should shoot aaron because that seems like a good way to be free of this unwanted responsibility because honestly i think robert really did, back in 2015, on occasion believe that he would be so much more successful in life if he could just stop experiencing pesky emotions like ‘guilt’ and ‘love’. like if he could just stop caring about people, he’d be able to follow through with all his ridiculous, horribly evil plans entirely unhindered. sometimes your villain simply isn’t cut out for straight up murder 🤟😔

aaron’s hair during christmas 2016