#( like i could make a fuckin dissertation on this shit )

[rayclubs]

Hi I would like to request the dissertation on "What's it called, Engie?" please <3

FUCK YEAH there's so much shit going on in that fic, if I wrote it a bit more competently it could have been a masterpiece, thank you for letting me brag about it, let's fucking go.

So I already explained how the trees/bees metaphor works throughout the whole fic and I'm not gonna do it again, but, believe it or not, it's not the only metaphor the fic is built on. Another one is spiders, which represent negative thoughts, fears, trauma, or even - in a segment - a malevolent outside force. Unlike the trees-bees metaphor which gets its resolution at about midway through the fic, when Soldier accepts Engie's affection, the spiders theme NEVER resolves, and the closest the characters ever come to it is saying "I don't know" and leaving it be. That is completely intentional. By the end of the fic, while the characters have grown as individuals and as a pair, the negative elements of their lives don't disappear. They're there, they're gonna be there, it's not the kind of story where things simply get better, it's a story about people who get better at managing them.

Another detail that's really good is Engie's sense of order and rationality. In the beginning, Soldier's presence is a distraction, making him drop a tool when he gets caught off guard by a loud noise. Later on it becomes a comfort, he sees Soldier and immediately gets his thoughts in order, remembers where he'd put a pencil he couldn't find earlier. Then his sense of security and normalcy is challenged during a battle. By the end of the story it is restored into a new normalcy, where Soldier's company is constant and expected.

ANOTHER THEME that I think is fucking awesome is names. The story alternates between Soldier's and Engie's POVs, and you can easily tell because Engie thinks in titles ("Soldier", "Engineer") and Soldier thinks in names ("Jane", "Dell").

Well, if you look at what they actually CALL each other, you'll see that Engie says both "Soldier" and "Jane", demonstrating that he is comfortable and secure in their interpersonal dynamic, while Soldier DOESN'T say "Dell", because he views their relationship as more distant than it really is, and inadvertently puts that distance there himself because he is emotionally unintelligent and it places a great weight on all his social interactions.

When he does say "Dell" eventually, it's treated as something unusual, and is a growing moment for him. He actually gets to explain his way of thinking ("you call me Jane all the time", invoking a sense of fairness, something very natural for him to think of in this context), AND he makes sure to leave the matter open in case Engie has any objections ("I won't call you Dell if you don't want me to", as in, look, he doesn't register social clues so he learned to be more direct in letting other people set boundaries, and has become more confident as a result). It's fuckin. Growth, man.

As a side note, I was re-reading the fic and remembered I described Engie's eyes as "honey-brows" which. BEE IMAGERY. A.

I'm actually terrified of bees, I dunno if it's a phobia or just a strong fear but I stepped on a wasp nest accidentally as a kid and haven't been the same since. I dunno how I wrote bee imagery in a positive light. Like, I have a separate original work in progress where a horror villain is portrayed using bee (and wasp and hornet) imagery as a tool of creating an absolutely disgusting and terrifying presence. I do NOT vibe with bees. The ghost of a beekeeper briefly possessed me to write this fic.

BUT YOU KNOW WHAT MY FAVORITE THING ABOUT IT IS??? The reception. Throughout the fic Soldier struggles to explain his emotions and uses analogy instead. Happiness is yellow, sunny, cornflakes, air balloons. Well, if you go to the comments of the fic, there are people saying they "can't put their thoughts into words" and explaining it like Soldier does. There's yellow heart emojis, mentions of air balloons, cats, back when the fic came out some people sent me asks literally saying "I don't know how to say this so I will say it like Soldier"... It's!!! So heart-warming to me!!! I struggle with emotional awareness too and metaphors are a huge part of how I process that (which is why I write metaphors so good bro just trust me), and me projecting my own experience onto a character I think would have a similar issue, and then seeing people adopt the same "tactic" I give to said character to help him navigate his world? It just makes me want to keep writing. It's why I do it. It's everything.

P. S. Forgot to mention how gay Heavy and Medic are in the background. They go on a date in Teufort and then Medic explains love to Soldier by letting him hold Archimedes in his hand. Homosexual behavior. Me and who

[palmtreesx3]

Alright.... Please buckle up for my dissertation - and don't read this whole thing if you haven't read the fic.....just don't.

First...why is it that all I could do in my brain was hear this playing in the background the whole fucking time? BOTH sides. Steve and reader, just....feeling it. going THROUGH IT. Both feeling victims of their own circumstance until they each shook up one another lives. Wanting just to go that last mile and say what they want but always getting interrupted - by their own intrusive thoughts or literally by someone else....like fuckin' Eddie.

Moving on...

We're doing compliments right now, because so much of that was reader's whirlwind of jumbled thoughts and emotions and reading what you wrote - describing the feelings and somehow making the internal chaos going on for so much of this chapter sound so fuckin' poetic was so real. I felt it. I felt like I was reading her racing thoughts and .... it put me right in it.

Side note: I KNEW IT. I KNEW HIS FUCKIN DAD..... all those calls in your bonus features ..... I wanna be a fly on the wall with those calls - whether they were his parents or her..... but at the same time I don't. I'd knock his Dad's teeth out. Stop interrupting your son's impeccable bubbles of balcony sex and fall boyfriendism, you twat.

I could blabber on about that heartwarming time in the kitchen at Friendsgiving, or how clutch Eddie is as a friend dragging us out of our feels, or how impeccable the addition of Murray was at this stage (like..Murray with the chest hair joke? Are you kidding me?!) but I digress. I have shit to say and I'm doing it under the cut to avoid spoilers.

I just want to gush about how you made these two. How they're going through the same shit different ways. Steve just wanted to be saved from what other people want for him and all she had to do was say anything to make it all stop. You made the GUY WHO BELIEVES IN LOVE AND WANTS IT SO BAD BE IN AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE!>!?>>23.21,m3O@!)O*&@^!*!(!UR$@(@(*@) Criminal. CRIMINAL. And I know we don't get his POV but, I feel like that had to hurt him just as much as convincing herself that love doesn't exist hurts the reader. Like, he had every reason to believe that all the shit she believed about love was true as he sits there facing an impending arranged fucking marriage....but he just...doesn't. He knows.

AND IT MADE THAT FALL BLURBY YOU WROTE BECAUSE IM INSUFFERABLE EVEN MORE PERFECT. Like...wait a damn second, that's all he fucking WANTS! That was all so boyfriend.... And that was probably KILLING HIM knowing it was all going to get tossed out the window for a crock of bullshit from his DAD? ugh.

And the last thing I have to say is really about how I just love how much he was inspired to be authentic. The way his clothes, appearance, posture changes in his various states of influence... but how reader feels soft when he's not putting on the act. the way he hides things and puts them out of sight for self-preservation...all the things that tangibly represent what he wants and can't have...but reader sees them anyway and validates them. the way he is just so close to being the man he wants to be the whole time, all he really fucking NEEDED WAS HER! Oh my god.... The clothes and the quitting the job all savage like that and ..... yes YES STEVE. For someone who wasn't much of her own authentic self that whole time, she still made him want to be his. And Jesus....I would definitely call that love.

I'm traveling for work this week and I know I'm re-reading all of this. And every time I come back to re-read it (because I will), you know where you'll find me (ahem...right in that ask box being annoying about it for the 100th time)

Thank you @superblysubpar for sharing this. It was a beautiful story - really it was - but what's even better is that you can really feel that it was made with heaping loads of love. You should be proud.

masterlist | the music

19.7k words | Sorry freaks, no smut this chapter - but the series is 18+ and so is my blog so skedaddle on out of here if you're not!

A/N: I have a really long one here - so I'll just say thank you once again and that I love you. Also, another special thank you to @sweetsweetjellybean and @loveshotzz💛💛

chapter warnings: very brief mention of religion (but not reader participating or believing in one in particular) | small mention/description of reader's maternal death and cancer symptoms | teeny tiny spoiler for the ending to the movie 'when harry met sally' | use of dialogue from the movie 'My Best Friends Wedding'

Why do we want to believe in things like fate or destiny - divine intervention? Why do some put their faith in religions with blind following? Why do we look to the stars in moments of despair, when we’re desperate for hope, when we’re lost? 

We seek out answers from something we can’t see but we want to believe in. Whether it’s a fortune cookie in your take out, a penny head’s up on the sidewalk, a community of like minded souls coming together for prayer or worship, or a horoscope you read on your morning Instagram scroll - the reasons have to be the same for choosing to believe, for the hope that starts to rise in you for the promise these things try to offer. 

We look for solutions to problems. We need reason. We need purpose. We need to feel like we’re not alone. We need confirmation that it’s all gonna work out even though nothing can really guarantee that. 

When you look up at the stars that work hard to shine through clouds and a full moon, your chest rises with air trying to fill your lungs and you wonder if they’re up there. Your eyes blink up at that indigo sky, searching. Steve sits next to you and Leigh waves, whispering their hellos. His hand rests next to yours on the plaid blanket, he clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. It’s all too stiff, too on edge, and you hate it. That attempted deep breath is unsuccessful, lungs deflating as it catches in your throat, and your thoughts wander back to the stars again. They wander to him, and them, and seek answers. 

What if they are up there, watching, like it’s one of those movies your mom was always putting on and your dad and you boo’d at from your spot playing cards. When he walked in with her with that on her finger, your mom would have gasped, she would have paused the movie, she would have yelled at you and your dad about the plot. She would have thrown popcorn at the TV and declared there’s something going on, he couldn’t, no way - there was no way. She’d have calmed herself down, rationalized there was still time left, gone to the pantry for more chocolate, kissed the top of your head and your dad’s cheek as she passed. By the end of the film, her prediction would have been right, she’d be crying and sighing at the couple who got their happy ending.

So could Steve declare his feelings for you here in a dramatic scene? Tell you it was all a big misunderstanding - that he’s sorry, that it was a rocky road but being together is worth fighting for? Could you leave here, hand in hand, as a top forty song plays and the credits roll? 

Of course not. 

Because this isn’t a rom com your mom would have loved. Life is not a movie full of soul-mates and cosmic connections. People like your parents are the exception to the rule. The couples who make it work - the ones who don’t let the trials of life take their love away like Allie and Noah, Kate and Sam, or Westley and Buttercup, are fictional characters. They’re stories to escape into when the despairing reality of yours is too much to read or write anymore. It’s exactly why you don’t like most movies or stories like theirs. Because eventually, the movies end, the credits do roll, and you have to face real life once again. Love like that doesn’t exist off the big screen, and you’re just kidding yourself when you fall into their traps. 

Knowing this simple fact of reality doesn’t stop the hope though. 

That painful, aching hope that clings to your skin like honey when you can feel the heat from his arm even through the sleeve of your sweater - like your bodies burn hotter when closer together - too close to the sun. It feeds the hope that your brain tries to squash away but your heart thuds harder for. The what if, what if, what if replacing each beat of it. Hope that makes you want to cry out ‘please let this just be a bad dream’ to the universe. Hope that tries, but can’t escape the gnawing pit in your stomach that’s growing wider, threatening to swallow you whole. Hope that makes you wonder why this can’t be a story - why can’t you just be the grandson, yelling at his grandfather that he can’t be telling it properly? Someone is getting the story wrong. He can’t be marrying her, you’re just sure of it. Screaming at him, at someone, to please, just get it right. 

You wonder if someone were watching, would they be feeling the despair you are? Is this the moment? That scene in the movies is always the gut punch - for the audience and the character. It’s meant to hurt, make you hold your breath. Made to be dramatic - yell at the screen, break your heart, make the character in the action get back up and fight. They’re moments made to ignite that hope - but really, it’s the double tap - coming right after the feeling catches flame, that’s made to shatter you completely. 

The moment that extinguishes the what if for all it’s worth. When the audience’s heart's already breaking for the grandson, only for the grandfather to ask who says life is fair? Where is that written? When the knife is entering your chest, but the mask falls and the killer turns out to be someone you thought you could trust. When you’re untethered in space only for your last moment of consciousness to be watching a friend cut the cord. The person who sucker punched you is now kicking you when you’re weak, taking it one step too far, leaving you crumpled on the mat. It’s all enough to make that fight, that urge to be angry instead of scared or hurt, disappear. It’s enough to knock you down so hard, you can’t possibly get back up - the hope is extinguished, and the story seemingly over. 

Robin squeals quietly, pulling Leigh’s hand across you to admire the ring, knocking Steve on the shoulder and saying something about the Dingus doing good. Your gaze flits down to the brown sugar and apple donuts in your lap, convinced you’re about to get sick right on top of them. Not because he’s marrying her, but because instead of being angry with him, you feel like you’ve been squashed, you’re hurt, you’re betrayed. Despite your better judgment, despite the past several years, you’ve let a man make you some pathetic, sad, heartbroken, and weak version of yourself. 

When Leigh’s hand retreats from Robin’s, lifting and curling a piece of hair behind her ear, diamond sparkling in the moonlight as she smiles over at Steve, your story’s end is written, and you need to accept it if you ever want some semblance of normalcy to return. You can’t lose him and them. But when Steve’s pinky brushes yours and you look over, his eyes resemble the broken beer bottle from the football game all those weeks ago. Shattered emerald and amber, cutting you to shreds with each shard of glass as he murmurs, “Can I tal-“

“I’ll be right back!” You whisper-shout, cutting him off and squeezing Robin’s shoulder as you get up. 

She yanks on your wrist, halting your attempt at an exit. Her eyes narrow as she interrogates, “Where are you going?”

Swallowing harshly as her blue eyes peer directly into your soul. She can probably smell the desire to run on you. Remembering your vow that Steve won’t take them away from you, a not quite a lie falls from your lips as you gesture to the concession food trucks, “You don’t have those cinnamon roasted almonds. They were my mom’s favorite and the smell is driving me crazy. Promise that’s all.”

“I swear to god, if you don’t come back, I will literally come stand outside your window on the sidewalk and scream-sing Monster Mash until someone calls the cops and I’ll drag you down with me.”

Her eyes blink, features incredibly serious despite the amusing threat. Your laugh mixes with Leigh’s and you ignore the shared moment, tugging your wrist free. “Would expect nothing less Robin.”

She motions she’s watching you, fingers to her eyes then yours, lips twitching in the corners before she turns back to the screen. 

Your feet feel heavy as they drag through the damp grass, and come to a stop to wait in line. It shouldn’t be a surprise after ordering when you hear his voice behind you. It floats through the air, soft, barely audible over the popping kettle corn, “I really didn’t know you’d be here. I wouldn’t have…” he sighs, settling on restating, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Your shoulders fall and your eyes stay focused on the truck. You’ve had time, since that night on the sidewalk, but your hurt still sits fresh under your layer of armor - tender like an open wound you need to keep protected. Your palms slide further under the sleeves of your sweater, clinging to the garment like the shield you’re willing it to be - you don’t want to fight with him anymore, no matter how hurt and angry you are. 

So the tone you respond with aches to sound indifferent, if not a tad harsh, reminding him you’re mad and pretending there isn’t any spark of hope within you still. It’s over, it has to be over, and all it ever was to him was something to kill time - fun and no strings exactly what you wanted. So your words are really just a reminder to yourself, another layer of the wall you need to keep up around him, “It’s fine Steve. Would have been nice to get a head’s up,” your shoulders shrug, “But, well, that’s probably too generous for the girl you were just fucking while waiting for the one, right?”

The people next to you clear their throats and you can’t find it in yourself to care, to be embarrassed. 

Steve moves in front of you, his face filling your vision. He shaved - no more scruff you like. His jeans are dark again, with fresh, new creases, and a light blue sweater pulls across his chest and shoulders. He’s picture perfect, his polished uniform in place.

He shakes his head, eyes bouncing between yours as he asks, “Is that really all it was?”

Your shoulders shrug again, because it’s easier. It’s easier to try to deny, to ignore the flutter the question causes in your stomach. Easier to bite back the words that try to form on your tongue. Because of course that’s not all it was, at least not to you. You wouldn’t feel the way you do right now if that were true. But what’s the point in telling him that though? What happens? Can you forgive each other for the words said, that, no matter how true, can’t be taken back? Things like this only end in heartbreak - because what happens if you tell him how you were starting to feel - does that change anything for him? And even if it did, that means a broken engagement, it means complicated truths coming out, it means attempts at forgiveness. And even after all of that, life won’t give you a guarantee. There is no promise of zero fights, of nothing bad ever happening. There is no happily ever after where the possibility of a break up, of losing everyone you’ve grown to care for deeply, doesn’t exist. 

So yes, it’s easier to not say any of that, because you know. This isn’t how life works. This isn’t a movie. No one is immune to life’s misfortunes. These sorts of open-ended questions and complicated emotions that come from his simple ask are unmeasurable and unreliable. Wondering and giving into those feelings only open you up to be used as a target for someone else’s shooting practice. You’ve known this, but you allowed yourself to forget, hating it was Steve who had to remind you. 

Which is why you look away from his eyes as you say, “I believe that is what was established a few weeks ago at that party Steve. You were there, remember? You were dressed as a pirate.” 

His head drops, hands running through his perfectly styled hair as he laughs, breath shaky, like the laugh is covering up any feeling in his voice. “So, that’s it? We’re just gonna act like none of it happened? You don’t wanna talk. You run away every time we get a chance to do so, a beer in my face and-“

Your hand rising in the air cuts him off, his mouth clamps shut as you make eye contact with him. “You deserved that and I’m not apologizing for it.”

He takes a step closer to you, his hand reaching towards you, then back into his hair, second guessing himself. “I’m not asking you to, and I’m not apologizing for what I said either.” Steve swallows, hands on his hips as he looks at the ground then back up at you, “What I said wasn’t a lie.” 

He breathes out the next words, both of you staring at each other with the weight of what he says hanging in the air between you.

“You couldn’t tell me.”

Your hands shake from the confrontation, from his request you left unanswered that night. The emotions that still want to bubble over, the time apart did nothing to cool either of you down. That what if, what if, what if that replaced your heartbeat grows louder, but your brain only shuts it down harder. If you hurt now, how will it feel if you keep feeding the flame only for him to extinguish it again?

The beat of your heart and those hopeful words thud in your ears as your head shakes and your voice tries not to, barely audible as the words leave your lips, “I don’t want to do this anymore Steve. We’re just going in circles. You’re getting married. You didn’t tell me. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you were really my friend while you were clearly getting engaged this whole time?”

Blue light flashes from the screen, catching the corner of your eye and illuminating his, their gaze bouncing over your face. Your bodies move closer like they can’t help it, like they know they won’t be this way again. Steve’s tongue darts over his bottom lip before his breath blows out, your name a whisper on it. The way he says your name with that look in his eyes, chests almost touching, it’s easy for your head to tilt with familiarity. Your breath out is his breath in, and it’s even easier to forget the last time you were this close. Sounds other than his harsh swallow and your heartbeat fade away. Time freezes, just a little, and the air pulses with a tangible possibility of hope. 

A shrill classic horror movie scream shatters the bubble. Your name is called, you blink, and take a step away. Guilt washes over you as you see your friends staring intently at the movie you’d practically forgotten you were there for. Leigh and Robin talk quietly and your eyelids flutter as you will whatever wants to escape down your cheeks away.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore Steve. I just want to go hang out with my friends. I need this to be over. Can it please be over?” You stare intently at the ground, one single tear slipping past your lashes. It feels like it rolls down your cheek for an hour before Steve finally answers. 

“Okay,” he quietly agrees. 

Your head nods once and you brush past him, barely choking out a whispered ‘by the way congratulations’ as you grab your snack. Hand swiping at the stray tear as you make your way back to the blanket slowly. 

When you sit back down, Leigh’s typing on her phone. She squeezes Robin’s hand before whispering a goodbye to everyone. She jogs over to Steve, cocking her head at him. He pushes his hands through his hair again, giving her a short smile. He runs his thumb and forefinger down the bridge of his nose, swiping under it with the back of his hand. His other extends towards her as she reaches him, fingers lacing together as they walk out. 

Robin’s shoulder nudges yours and your head turns to find her with eyebrows pinched together. She leans in and quietly asks, “Is he okay? Did he say something about leaving to you?”

Your head shakes, and you extend the bag to her with a tight smile. You will just keep lying to her. Steve and you will move on, and maybe, one day in the distant future, you’ll be able to tell her. It’ll all work out.

She mirrors your sad smile, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening as she takes a small handful and turns her attention back to the movie. Or she tries, but you watch as her eyes glance down to her phone every few minutes, until it lights up with his name and she quickly starts typing a response. 

It’ll all be fine. 

“Said ‘I’m fine’ but it wasn’t true. I don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you…”

The pop song playing overhead makes your teeth grind, your skin itch, it pries at your armor. It clangs its melody like fists on the metal plates around your heart, screaming to let it in. 

Fuck Taylor Swift and her poetically relevant lyrics. 

You’re fine. 

“Mommy, why is that lady wearing pajamas?”

“Well, sometimes people, um, well maybe they’re sad or-“

“Not sad,” you call over your shoulder, but spin as you decide to face the stranger. The poor, unsuspecting stranger who is unprepared for the wrath of a person wearing blue, fuzzy pajama bottoms with ducks all over them, yellow smiley slippers, and holding several pints of Cherry Garcia in her arms. “Could just be sick. Or lazy. Could be a lot of different things, but sad is not one of them, and it’s rude to assume there’s any reason at all. I could just have wanted to stay comfy today, you don’t know!”

It’s almost laughable, if it wasn’t so humiliating or awkward. A practically audible record scratch kind of moment. Conversations of several other customers quiet then stop altogether. Eyes blink at you in concern and pity under too harsh of fluorescent lights, surrounded by neon advertisements and packaging trying to convince you the world isn’t shit as long as there’s junk food. The poppy beat overhead seems to play even louder, yet a pin could drop and people from another state would hear it. 

The mother’s hand runs through the small child’s hair next to them as she stammers an apology, “I really…I’m sorry, I just-“

“No, no, I’m so sorry. It’s fine…I…” You close your eyes and turn back around, mortified beyond a depth you ever thought possible. The pints of ice cream tumble onto the sticky counter-top, lottery tickets beneath it staring up at you and mocking ‘hey wanna test your luck even more?’. Your hand flies up into the face of the cashier as you grumble, “Not a word, Keith.”

The employee you’ve come to know on your late night and early morning snack runs snorts. His mouth closes, slurping his Mountain Dew through a straw as he rings up the ice cream. His lips leave the red plastic, squeaking it against the lid harshly, about to tell you the price you already know, when a bottle of wine is placed on the counter with a low thunk. A leather clad arm extends across your vision, a second bottle landing beside it. A deep and familiar voice from behind your shoulder calls out, “These too. But definitely not because she’s sad.”

Turning, you find Eddie just as you knew you would, his brown eyes the same as they have been since you met. Full of warmth that’s contagious, except now something darkens them, they’re colder. Reminiscent of how they looked in a bathroom that feels like you were in it ten years ago instead of a month. They’re kind, but they’re hurt, confused, and most importantly - disappointed. 

“Right,” you clear your throat and look away from them. Embarrassed, but adamant in your denial of the purchase and your appearance having any connotation with the emotion they all think you’re feeling. “These are not sad items.”

Despite the look in his eyes, Eddie’s lips twitch in a fight of a smile. He looks over your outfit and the hint of amusement disappears. His mouth turns down in a grimace. He faces Keith, hand waving across your form, “Right. Sad people don’t wear duckie pj’s to the store to buy ice cream and wine, they just don’t. People who ignore their friends though, they might…”

Honestly, the call out is nicer than what you deserve. You hadn’t dared to miss a text or call from Robin again, but all other group contact had gone unreciprocated for two weeks - convincing yourself it was easier for everyone that way. Biting the inside of your cheek, your eyes blink up at him apologetically, hopeful you can fix a small part of the mess you’ve made still. “Yeah. But if a person,” your hands wave as you speak, “Who isn’t sad,” you quickly tack on before continuing, “Did ignore their friends, it was probably for a good reason and she probably feels really bad about it and-“

“Jesus Christ, pay for your sad shit and get out,” Keith groans, snapping his fingers and then waggling them for payment. 

Eddie mashes his lips together, a genuine smile threatening to break as he hands over a bill. He salutes as he grabs the bag of items. “Keep the change, dude.”

“See you tomorrow, new shipment of Ben and Jerry’s at nine A.M!” Keith calls to your retreating forms. Eddie and you turn in tandem, flipping him off. 

“Mommy, what did that mean?”

Eddie snorts, his laugh finally bubbling out of him as you hide your eyes under one of your hands. The door swings closed behind you as the brisk November air does little to cool off your embarrassment.

His laughter trails off in a sigh and yours in a groan. When you peek at him from behind your fingers, you hold your breath as they fall to your side. Eddie’s eyes seem to poke and prod at you with their gaze, like you’re a frog laying open on a table for dissection. Like he already knows what he’s about to find, but he’s giving you an opportunity to just say it before he makes the first cut. 

Gesturing towards the bag in his hand, your eyes drop to the ground as you clear your throat. “Thank you, you didn’t have to pay. And I really am sorry for going radio silent. I’ll get better at that.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you risk a glance up. His brows are furrowed, meeting under parted bangs, brown eyes glued to your pajama pants. Eddie nods slowly, tucking his tongue into his cheek before clicking it against the roof of his mouth. Rocking back on his heels, the plastic bag swings at his side. “Sure. What are friends for?”

His eyes meet yours again finally, and as your lips part, he keeps going, his voice a little crisper than it’s been to you before. “Cause, we are friends. Right?”

Head nodding as your brows bunch together from the tone delivering the question. That and his gaze makes something under your skin itch, your feet restless against the pavement like a horse before a race. 

Hesitation heavy in your words as you respond, “Yeah, of course…listen, I have to get back but-“

“Great,” he spins on his heel, heading down the sidewalk like he was waiting for those exact words to leave your mouth, “I’ll walk with you, sad girl.”

Blinking at his abrupt interruption, hand still raised to take the bag from him, it takes you several seconds for his words to register. He’s already halfway to the corner, your apartment just around it and you have to take a quick few jogs to catch up with his long strides as you call out, “I’m not sad.”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie nods, flicking a zippo in his hand, converse scuffing against the sidewalk as he kicks a pebble, “And I’m the King of England.”

Tired of his tone and demeanor you didn’t invite or ask for - you don’t need this. Eyes rolling as you huff past him, your shoulder bumping his harshly as you do. Eddie scoffs, but falls back into step close behind you, not letting you get away. “Quite the attitude to have with the friend who just bought your sad girl treat, even threw in the wine.”

Your shoulders hunch at his words, eyebrows pulling together and face growing hot as you fiddle with the first key to the apartment building. “Well, I didn’t ask you to buy it and if you only did to just rub it in my face you’re not really my friend. And I didn’t ask you to come here.”

Eddie’s hand lands on the door above your shoulder as you push it open, arm blocking you from entering. “Quit the tough girl act, you’re not fooling anyone.”

Your skin burns at his accusation, hands balling into fists at your sides. “I’m not trying to fool anyone, Eddie, or do anything. I literally don’t know what you’re talk-“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you can keep trying to sell this shit to everyone else, but I’m not buying.” He points inside, “Let’s go.”

Face feeling hotter than when you were six and scolded in public, you stomp through the entryway, each step echoing across the old tile. As you turn to head up the stairs, if only to get away from his all seeing eyes, the realization of what your apartment looks like and how extremely not ready it is for guests has you pausing mid stride. 

When your gaze makes contact with his again, Eddie simply makes a statement. Flat, disappointed, and no question in his tone, “It’s worse than I think isn’t it.”

Before you can argue, before you can tell him to leave, the keys in your hand are snatched by swift fingers, and Eddie’s long legs are jumping up the stairs, skipping over several steps and disappearing around the landing. Chasing after him, the thundering of both of your feet is dulled by the faded and dingy carpet and the shriek of his name leaving your lips. 

Watching as he pushes the key into the lock, turning the knob, you sprint down the hallway. Your body barrels into his, but it’s too late. Eddie falters from your weight crashing into him, but he remains upright, although slightly hunched, as your body clings to his, trying to drag him down. The door swings open and he winces, and you drop to the ground, defeated. 

For the first time in a few days, you take in the state of your living space from an outside perspective. You watch as Eddie reviews it all for the first time - the take out on your counter, the empty beer bottles pushing the lid of the recycling up. The stack of Double O Seven DVDs on the coffee table. The couch covered in blankets because you’ve been sleeping there, your bed still sitting free of sheets in the other room. The bag of chips and the tub of frosting. It’s not a pretty picture. 

Eddie suddenly crouches, hands grabbing at you and you push him away shrieking, crawling into your apartment and away from him. Both of you swat at each other, hair flying in faces and grunting like you’re siblings fighting over the remote. 

 “Go-get off! What the hell is your problem! Eddie!”

He manages to grab your phone out of your sweatshirt pocket and you leap towards him, arms over his shoulders, you reach for the phone, and he holds himself up on his knees, arm extending it away from you. He manages to tilt it just right to get your face to unlock it and you growl, thumping on his bicep as he shoves you off. He presses the familiar green icon on your home screen while you accuse, “What is your deal? What the fuck are you-“

Eddie groans, holding up the screen displaying the last song you’d been listening to and getting to his feet. He points towards your bedroom. “Go put on some jeans. No more sad girl music. No more cheese out of the can. Field trip. Let’s go.”

Your hand holding a slipper that had fallen off in the scuffle points towards the open door, any neighbors paying attention getting a hell of a show. Your scowl meets his frown. “Um, you can go. Don’t basically break into my home and insult Britney and Easy Cheese in the same sentence asshole. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, they disappear under his bangs and he looks at you as if you’re the child you’re determined to act like. He sighs, voice dripping in drama as he heads into your kitchen, “I really didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me with no other choice.” He spins the cheap metal cap off of one of the bottles of wine theatrically, flicking the cap onto the counter before turning the bottle upside down as he stares at you. “I’d get going. The ice cream is next.”

Your eyes roll as you scoff, “You’re not gonna do shit to the Ben and Jerry’s, you and I both know it.”

He starts on the second bottle, both ringed hands holding tight to each, red liquid splashing the sides of the sink. “I will literally drag you back out of here in your sad girl jammies to a very public place. I’m generously giving you the opportunity to avoid that embarrassment, but if you insist…”

Eddie sets the bottles down in the sink, stepping over to you in two strides, hands on your waist as he moves like he could toss you over his shoulder.

Your hands push at his chest. “Fucking fine! Give me a few minutes.” You start towards your room but spin sharply on your socked heel, one foot still in a slipper that skids as your finger points in his face. “Touch my ice cream and see what happens.”

He snorts, crossing his arms. “Big, tough words coming from a girl with chocolate frosting on her chest and ducks on her ass.”

You turn away from him, slamming the door on his call of, “If you ever want to see your precious Ben and Jerry’s again, you’ll be back out here in five minutes!”

When you make eye contact with the chocolate stain in the mirror, you have to suppress your groan. 

Eddie’s Jeep tires crunch over gravel before coming to a stop in a homemade parking lot. Tan dust kicked up and floating through the air partially obscures where he’s taken you. 

The entire twenty minute drive had been enveloped in stilted silence. He had managed to dump one of the pints while you changed, claiming to have thought you weren’t coming back out, and now he was on the receiving end of one of your finest silent treatments. His hand flexes on the gear, moving the car into park. As his jaw clenches while yanking the keys out of the ignition, you start to rethink your silence. There’s a part of you that wants, maybe needs, to run back to your apartment, lock the door, and never speak to him again. But there’s another part, far larger, and riddled with guilt, that made you follow him. 

Staring out the window at the dilapidated bar, your voice feels scratchy from the lack of talking as you push out, “What are we doing-” Eddie’s driver’s door slams, and the end of your question falls into the empty car, flat, as you blink at his back walking away from you, “Here.” 

As Eddie makes his way to the building, you hoist yourself out of the Jeep and begin to follow despite the cold shoulder. You’re willing to appease him and participate in whatever this field trip is if it means you can somehow get the apology you definitely owe him out - try to make things right for the mess you’ve pulled him into. 

A faint and familiar sound echoes in the quiet and practically empty parking lot. The distinct whip of a ball and the ting and harsh smack of metal meeting it, mix with the crunch of rocks under your rubber soles. Behind the tired and washed out brick building, chain link fencing rises, hinting further to what the sounds are and where they’re coming from. The large red letters above the doorway spell out “Murray’s” in distinct vintage lettering, hollowed out with unlit bulbs reminiscent of an old theater’s marquee lights. You pause beneath the sign, stealing a deep breath because something tells you Eddie has officially pinned you to the table, and the first inevitable cut of the dissection is imminent. Your fingers curl around the gray, metal door’s industrial handle and pull, and you step inside. 

Billie Holiday’s voice croons from somewhere deeper in the building. Voice and music crackling and staticky, like it’s playing off a real vinyl. The urge to find out why Eddie’s brought you to a place seemingly stuck in the past draws you deeper down the dimly lit hallway. Rich, red paint on the walls partially covered by framed photographs line the entire space. Black and white film prints of American icons, with individual golden lamps lighting up each from their spots attached to the frames. Your feet carry you past Elvis, Jackie Robinson, then Marilyn, and Michael Jackson before you enter a spacious and circular room. 

Red vinyl booths line the curve on one side, small round tables meant for two lit by glowing lamps scattered across the floor. A stage and space for what appears to be a dancefloor sit opposite of you, nestled between the booths and a bar running across the opposite curve. Speckled and worn mirrors behind the bar reflect the wide range of liquor bottles and the different glassware in a variety of shapes and colors, clearly thrifted antiques, hanging above them. Eddie leans against the bar talking to an older man, neither of whom spare a glance in your direction. 

This room’s photographs on the walls are covers of Life and Time, clippings from other renowned news outlets - all famous headlines like when man went to the moon and the JFK assassination, the Cubs winning the world series, spanning all the way to current events. As you spin, you see the vintage photo booth, much older than the one you and Steve took photographs in at Replay, and you push the memory away, focusing on the bulletin board next to it instead.

The flier for Corroded Coffin has your attention as the song crackles on it’s end notes, the next from the album playing softly. Billie’s voice sings the familiar lyrics of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ and your heart drops into your stomach, palms sweating profusely. Why the hell are you here? Why this song? Why, why, why.

“Ouch. Who broke your heart?”

The unfamiliar voice asks the same question Eddie had asked you back in September, and this time you’re even more unprepared for it. Your head whips to the side, gaze looking over your shoulders that hunch. Your body turns to face them head on, but your arms cross in defense. The man Eddie had been chatting with now has his focus solely on you. Wire rimmed glasses frame eyes that stare intently at you as he wipes down a glass. His balding head of hair and the confidence he carries, along with the way he tosses the rag over his shoulder before leaning on the bar, has you feeling like you’ve suddenly entered a sitcom. 

Eddie continues to ignore you, one foot resting on the metal of stool as his ringed fingers crack peanuts. He avoids your gaze as you turn your frown on the man who seemed to have read your mind. You keep your voice as neutral as you can when you ask, “Excuse me?”

“Written all over your face, kid.” The nameless man, but you have a hunch the name of the establishment and him are one in the same, winces with his words. He pulls down three amber colored, short glasses, then a bottle of vodka. Before you can argue, he keeps going as he pours, “Well, maybe you’re not in love. Not yet anyway,” he muses to himself, “Or maybe he is and you don’t know how to let the poor sap down?”

His eyes lift from the glasses of alcohol to yours and he squints. Pausing before pouring the third glass, humming, “Wait, no, well…maybe.” Keeping his eyes on you as he tips back one of the generous shots before he breathes out with finality, “No.”

Eddie smirks into his own shot, as the man snaps in his face, but technically commands, “Name.”

Your mouth opens to stop this nonsense and analysis you absolutely didn’t ask for, but Eddie beats you to it. Eyebrows raised, mouth pursed as he offers up, “Steve.”

The man behind the bar hovers the liquor bottle above the now empty glass, blinking wide behind his frames. He sets the bottle down, pressing his palms to the bar top. Scoffing with an incredulous tone, “You’re kidding.”

“Excuse me!” You try to interrupt, but the man shakes his hands, ignoring your objection. 

“We’ll deal with that little slip in the simulation some other time,” pushing the third glass down the bar towards you as he continues, “So, Steve,” he laughs a little, licking his bottom lip, “Right. So he loves us, maybe, but perhaps it is us who loves Steve? Mm, tragic, because he doesn’t reciprocate? Or are we too scared to tell him how we feel?”

Your shoulders are up to your ears now, arms wrapping around yourself even tighter, trying to make whatever see-through, vulnerable shield this man can penetrate more resilient. Your gaze is harsh on the side of Eddie’s face, death stare glaring and attempting to burn his cheek with only your eyes as you ask again, “What are we doing here?”

“The cosmic question, isn’t it?” The bartender muses, pouring another glass for himself. He raises his eyebrows at Eddie in a silent question who shakes his head no. 

“I’m leaving.” You start to turn towards the door, but Eddie’s call behind you makes you freeze.

“Have fun walking back then!”

Your hands go to your pockets, searching, even though you know they’re empty. When you look at him, you see your phone in his fingers and his brown eyes that have turned to stone. “Yeah, I still have this. So either you can participate in the field trip, or you can walk all the way back home to your sad girl cave.”

“I’ll just have him call me a cab.” Gesturing to the nameless man with your solution. 

“Murray,” he offers with a toothy grin and head nod, confirming your assumption. 

Eddie laughs, cold, tossing a peanut shell on the bar, “Yeah? And pay for it how?”

You’ve been very, very, dumb, because it’s only now you realize the empty pockets would also mean you don’t have your wallet. Your eyes close in defeat. 

When you open them, Eddie is staring at you and it feels an awful lot like that scalpel is resting just over your heart, waiting for any final words. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he says, “I’ll take those quarters now.”

Murray rolls a tube across the bar to him, eyes darting back and forth between you two like he is watching a ping pong match. 

Eddie grabs the roll, storming past you and down a different hallway, out the back door of the bar. The chipping black paint flutters as the door swings closed, a slam as it meets the frame making you flinch. The final notes of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ finish and you release a shaky breath. 

“And I suppose I’m to follow him and his mysterious quarters?”

Murray’s lips twitch and he raises his hands in surrender. Your sigh and step towards the door has him dropping his hands though, nudging the still full glass of vodka towards you. Figuring it’s his way of telling you to clean and sterilize the wound before the prodding at it begins, you take a step closer. Hesitating slightly, your finger wraps around the amber glass, a deep breath leaves you as you tip it to your lips. 

He nods his head towards you and raises his own glass, and as the liquid flows into your mouth, he toasts, “To Steve.”

The liquor sits on your tongue longer than you’d like it to as you glare at him. Swallowing it down, you blame the harsh burn in your throat for the prickle that’s forming behind your eyes.

Spinning on your heel to follow Eddie, Murray’s voice calls out quietly, making you pause.

“I’d tell him sooner, rather than later.”

Looking over your shoulder, he puts the glasses in a bin underneath the bar, not looking back at you as he quietly adds, “In my experience, there’s always space to dive deeper into the story. Things are often not what they appear to be. And well,” he chuckles to himself, “Harrington’s got a lot more going on under all that hair than meets the eye I think.” Your brows furrow as Murray looks up at you, patting his hand over his heart with a smirk on his lips, “And I’m not talking about the stuff on top of his head.”

Normally, the joke about Steve’s chest hair would have your lips twitch into a smile, a roll of your eyes, but instead, his words float through the air until they arrive in your gut, sitting heavy and dragging you down. They try to ignite that hope again, but you know it’s no use in letting it light anymore. 

Your feet push forward, stomping down the hallway without a word back. As the door swings closed behind you, your eyes blink, adjusting to the harsh sunlight you’d forgotten was shining outside. The sounds from earlier now connecting to what’s before you. Several enclosed batting cages sit just beyond a wooden and covered back patio of the bar. There’s two older men with their bags of gear sitting at their feet. Each drinking a beer at a small wooden table, rubbing their shoulders. Eddie is inside one of the cages. His leather jacket hung on the fence, a blue helmet squishing down his curls. The white cotton of his baseball tee stretches over his flexing back muscles as he swings at a ball released by the machine. 

As your feet scuff against the deck and then the gravel, you take another deep breath, mouth opening to just blurt out some sort of apology to him. Eddie stops the machine with a harsh smack to a button on the side of the cage. He comes out the door, holding the helmet and bat out to you, chest moving up and down with each ragged breath. He offers a closed lip smile as he says, “Your turn.”

“Eddie, I really don’t…” you trail off until you settle on just asking, “Why?”

“Would you just do it?” He frowns, tone annoyed as he extends his arms towards you further. 

Eyebrows raised in anticipation he nods once as you take the items with a huff and stomp into the cage. As you place the helmet onto your head, and stare down the machine, you exhale and press the button. It whirs back to life as your hands wrap around the bat and you step up to the metaphorical plate, Eddie’s voice calling from over your shoulder as you do. 

“So, wanna tell me why you’re sad? Talk about anything Murray said?”

Your fingers curl tighter around the grip, shoulders going up in defense again. Your jaw clenches before you grit out, “For the last time Eddie, I’m not sad. I’m fine.”

Eddie snorts behind you as you swing at the first ball released, missing.

Strike one. 

“Sure, figured that’d be your answer. So,” he sighs heavily and you hear the fence rattle like he’s kicking it, “Why’re you avoiding us again then?”

You knew this topic couldn’t be dodged forever. It’s true, you’d been pulling away again since Halloween, and getting the save the date was the nail in your friendship’s coffin. As the wedding looms in the not so distant future, it’s easier to pull away from him, from all of them, because you know that they were and always will be Steve’s friends first. Intentions of not letting Steve keep them from you seem futile now, when you know the history and depth of friendship you’re up against. You’re not gonna say that to Eddie though, so as the next pitch is released, you swing and stammer out a pathetic lie. 

“I-I’m not.” The ball makes contact, causing your forearms to vibrate from the bad swing. Your grip tightens so the bat doesn’t fall from your fingers as the ball pops up and behind you, rattling the fence. 

“Well that’s a load of crap. Wanna know what I think?” Eddie yells, not pausing for you to refute and sarcastically continuing, “Great, I’m overjoyed to tell you.”

Your heel digs into the gravel and your eyes narrow on the whirring machine, waiting for him to sink the scalpel into you, defenseless - trapped from running away from him, stuck in this cage with nowhere to go to avoid what he’s about to tell you. 

“I think you are sad. I think Murray was right and you don’t wanna admit it to him, to anyone, and especially not yourself. Instead of an easy fix of talking about it, you wanna sit in your pity and throw a party.” Eddie’s voice takes on a dramatic, high pitched imitation of you as the next ball is released and you swing, “I’m Y/N! Woe is me! I’m all alone! Nobody loves me!”

You miss the ball again, shoulders hunching in, desperate to make yourself smaller with each of the words that he shouts at your back. Turning to look over your shoulder, you glare at him. 

Strike two. 

Eddie leans against the fence, glaring right back at you with his eyebrows raised as you hiss, “You’re being an asshole.”

“Yeah? At least I’m an asshole who’s got friends,” he gestures towards you, “You clearly think you don’t.” You twist your toe in the gravel deeper, returning your focus to the machine and taking a deep breath as he keeps going. “I’ll have Murray pour you some more vodka and you can sit here and think about how your life is horrible. Truly tragic.”

Your eyes narrow from his bored tone, lifting your chin and elbow, adamant to ignore him. 

“You have nothing and no one.”

Another exhale, your chest rises and falls with a deep inhale and your shoulders relax. Straining to hear the hint of the ball being released instead of Eddie yelling at you. 

“Maybe you’ll get a cat one day, but ultimately you’re gonna die alone!”

SMACK.

Your bat meets the ball and it soars to the end of the cage and you spin on him. Face hot, your emotions bubbling and ready to explode. Anger mingling with adrenaline coursing through your veins from the hit, amping up how the words fall out of you in an angry cry. 

“Yeah! I am Eddie! And that’s what I want! So fucking lay off!”

“Why?” 

“Because it’s easier!” 

When he yells right back, without pausing, asking you for a reason, the excuse falls out of you easily. Your mouth closes immediately after the words tumble out in your scream, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as Eddie’s narrow. He shakes his head, volume lowering only slightly. 

“Nah, that’s just fucking running. And take it from someone who ran for a long time, it feels easy, but it’s the furthest thing from. Eventually, you are going to get tired, and your problems will be right on your heels. 

Facing the machine again so you don’t have to look into his eyes any longer, you shake your head no at him, letting a ball hit the end of your bat, popping forward limply as you try to speak with confidence. 

“I’m not running from problems Eddie, I’m just…it’s easier to be the one who does the leaving than to be the one who’s left, okay?”

The words float through the air, unable to be taken back, and their weight makes something in your chest squeeze and constrict. 

“That’s some next-level, glass half empty, pessimistic, depressing shit. And who the hell said anyone was going anywhere? You’re refusing to see that if you looked back for one second from the door you’ve been half out since you got here, that nobody else even has their shoes on.”

The squeezing in your chest only intensifies, his cut getting deeper as he searches for answers, and your bat hesitates halfway through your swing, sending a ball straight up into the air above you. You breathlessly ask, “What?”

Eddie waits until you look over your shoulder at him, emphasizing each word. “Nobody’s leaving you.”

His words hit you harder than your bat has hit any of the balls. It feels like one was pitched right into your gut, expelling all the air from your lungs and causing the tears that have been right behind your eyes to well up hard and fast. You spin to avoid his gaze again and square up for another pitch. 

Eddie doesn’t know that it’s not a promise anyone can make - life doesn’t care. 

Your head shakes, tears brimming on your lash line as you argue, “You can’t know that Eddie, not really. It’s better this way.”

SMACK.

A tear slips over your bottom lashes, trailing down your cheek as the bat makes good contact again and Eddie digs the scalpel in for his final cut. “Fine. Believe that. But you need to admit that you’re slamming the door on our faces and pretending like no one is still standing on the other side, knocking and asking to be let back in.”

The machine whirls, it wooshes with the release of a ball as another tear, and then another falls. Your vision progressively grows fuzzy, the world around you blurring as you swing again and his voice washes over you. 

“Did you know that Nancy is a freak just like you, and I’m sure she’d be happy to split some Cherry Garcia any time? God help you both for liking such a disgusting flavor.”

You let the tears fall openly, but silently, as you swing harder this time. The weight in your stomach - the knots that have been forming since the very first lie was told - twist and tug harder. 

“I know you’re not stupid enough to think I wouldn’t come have a beer with you, or take you to Target to get some new sheets or food that doesn’t have the Frito-Lay logo plastered on it.”

Another ball pops up and behind you as you clear your throat. Refusing to believe what he’s saying, you wonder if he can see the tears hitting the tan gravel beneath you and darkening it like drops of rain.

“And Robin! She’d love to watch Double O Seven with you. You should hear her Sean Connery impression. It’s terrible.” Eddie laughs a little and you twist the toe of your converse into the gravel, covering up a dark spot. 

“But no. Instead of any of that, you just gave up. You didn’t give any of us a chance. Steve Harrinngton’s dumb ass is the only thing to blame for all your loneliness, sadness, and problems. So keep ignoring the footsteps running behind you and the knocking, or open the fucking door.”

You want to believe Eddie, you really do. But what happens when you come to rely on someone, need the support to lean on, and they’re gone?

Your head shakes harder, a sob stuck in your throat as you barely murmur, “Eddie, I can’t.”

His voice is softer than it has been all day as he asks, “Can’t or won’t?”

More tears fall past your lashes. The last ball is pitched and you choke out, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t attempt to swing at this one and it hits the fence behind you. The machine whirs one final time then stops. 

“Yeah, me too.”

Heavy, suffocating, disappointment lingers in the air around you. 

It takes several minutes, even more tears falling quietly, for you to remove the helmet from your head and drop both it and the bat on the ground with a clang. When you turn around, swiping at your cheeks, Eddie isn’t there. 

Each drag of your feet inside is an active fight. Limbs heavy, heart even more so, because you know what awaits you inside before it’s confirmed. 

Murray looks up from a keg he’s tapping and simply nods to the end of the bar. Your phone and wallet sit there and you know the Jeep and Eddie will be gone when you push out the door crying. 

You’ve somehow done the leaving and were left this time. 

Strike three. 

It’s literally a symptom, or as some like to claim - stage - of grief. 

Denial. 

We lie all the time. We tell lies to spare or protect feelings, and more importantly, we lie to ourselves, instead of facing truths head on. 

Because it’s easier to lie - to avoid, to shut something down, or deny its existence when it’s too hard to look at directly. Which is interesting. Why has there not been some sort of evolutionary transformation from this reaction? And really, the longer you wait to face something, the harder the truth is going to hit you. The time you give a truth to sit untold, unacknowledged, it only grows larger. That truth takes hearty roots, and your avoidance in the form of lies, whether to yourself or others, or both, only allows it to spread more rapidly. 

Eventually, you will have to stop lying, to stop running, and that truth will have grown in strength. It has sprouted new truths or problems because your lies only fed it the fertilizer it needed to do so, and now it’s suddenly not the one thing you have to face anymore, but the multiple harder truths. 

Which may be why you’re still outside, staring up at Nancy’s brownstone, where all of your friends, or well, the people you hope are still your friends are-

“Out of the bike lane!”

You jump forward onto the sidewalk just in time for a man in bright yellow spandex to zoom past you shouting some sort of curse as you clutch the dessert in your hands tighter. 

Grateful you had a firm handle on it to begin with, it's one of the few family heirlooms you held onto along with the recipe it’s holding. Hoping to gain some sort of courage from deep within it, like your mom can offer you some through the dish, you make your way up the brick steps. 

The only reason you're here, the only reason you’re facing this day the way you’re feeling just so happens to be the one to open the door before you can even ring the bell. 

The door is flung open and her bright blue eyes fight to sparkle behind squinted eyelids that are almost shut she’s smiling so wide at you.

“Happy Friendsgiving!” Robin shouts louder than she needs to and holds her arms out in a dramatic greeting. She’s covered from fingertips to elbows in thick, orange goo, her clearly thrifted oversize old man sweater sleeves pushed up to her shoulders. You smile your first genuine smile in weeks as she goes to hug you and you both pause, rethinking it. 

“Fall in a pumpkin?” You quip as you balance the dessert in your hand to shrug off one arm of your coat. 

Robin wiggles her fingers and hands spirit and jazz style with a beam that shows off her dimple as she corrects, “Sweet potato casserole.”

“You fell in a sweet potato casserole?” Following her deeper into Nancy’s, you take in a long breath, the tight chest you’ve had since Eddie left you at Murray’s loosening with each word exchanged between you and her. But knowing you have to face him, Nancy, Steve and her, and continue to pretend nothing is wrong while around Robin, has the constricting pressure around your heart returning quickly. 

Robin rolls her eyes, turning and walking backwards and making a face at you. She huffs as she turns back around, “No. Steve is making his famous mac and cheese and apparently I was annoying him, can you believe it? So him and Nance put me on mashing duty to keep me busy like a toddler.”

“You said it, not me!” Steve calls, his wine glass stopping before his lips when he makes eye contact with you. 

Weeks of not seeing each other after the way you left things was going to be hard, you knew that. But you really weren’t prepared for how he looks today, or how it would affect you. 

He’s got a burnt orange, almost brown, thick sweater on with light wash jeans. You’re sure both are from the section of his closet you stumbled upon months ago. That part holding his clothes he doesn’t wear often for whatever reason. He looks comfortable, casual, content. Down to the tube socks on his feet and the worn brown leather of the band of his watch. Your chest aches a little as you wonder if it’s Leigh that’s gotten him to relax into this version of himself. Even his hair, longer than a few weeks ago, is different than you’ve seen from him. Far messier than usual - like it hasn’t seen products or been styled lately, and several days of facial hair evident on his jaw. He looks like a version of Steve designed to torture you - a Steve who you’ve only gotten glimpses of and you miss before you’ve even really met. 

“Hi,” he says quietly, smiling closed-lipped at you.

“Hi,” you offer with your own hesitant smile. Your fingers fiddle with the tinfoil over the edge of the dessert from your spot where you linger in the doorway.

“How are you? Do you…wine?” Steve stammers over his questions, cheeks turning pink. He spins and starts pouring you some without waiting for your answer. It gives you a small bit of relief that he’s as anxious as you are, neither of you knowing what comes next. Do you ever return to normal? And what is normal for you and Steve?

“Sure, yeah, good. You?”

Steve nods his head too quickly, spinning to face you again with the wine. “Good, yeah, thanks.”

“Good.” 

“Yeah.”

Steve blinks at you, hazel eyes bright under the soft glow of Nancy’s pendant lighting hanging above her island. As you stare at each other, unsaid words float in the air, it was silly to think it could ever just be over with him. You miss entering a room and not sharing this awkward, palpable, tension - when it was a smile or joke exchanged instead of forced greetings, a warmth and joy felt instead of dread. 

You hate that you don’t hate him. 

You hate that there’s this horrible ache in your chest, like words want to tumble out but you physically can’t say them - why can’t you both just apologize? Why can’t that save the date be ripped to shreds? Why can’t it all work out? 

“You two are acting weird.”

Robin’s voice bursts whatever bubble you were both in, and you clear your throat, looking down. Steve’s fingers adjust on the wine glass and he shakes his head. 

Steve stammers, “N-no, we’re g-”

“Good?” Robin questions, eyebrows raised, “Yeah I gathered that.”

Before either of you can say anything in response, Nancy’s voice calls from the front door, “Crisis averted! I found a bag!”

Her brown curls bounce against her cheeks as she jogs into the kitchen. Dressed up in black suede boots and flared jeans, her tan peacoat left open showing off a silky black blouse. She pauses, mid stride, bag of marshmallows held aloft and her smile faltering as her gaze darts around the room.

Feeling warm under Robin’s sudden perceptiveness, you’re grateful when Nancy springs into action, relieving the awkward tension. 

“Geez Robin, did any sweet potato end up in the dish? I left you alone with them for twenty minutes.”

Robin’s lips twitch slightly, eyes finally leaving Steve’s as she looks down at her hands, flexing her fingers, the orange goo becoming stiff and hard on her skin.  

Nancy gives you a look, her eyes narrowed in a question but smiles when Robin looks back up. She places the marshmallows on the counter and grabs her hand. “Well, Y/N, can finish up.” She directs her next words to you, head nodding to a pan on the counter, “Put those marshmallows on top and stick it in the oven. Steve, your cheese isn’t gonna grate itself. And you,” Nancy tugs Robin out of the kitchen, smiling sweetly at her, “Are gonna come get cleaned up with me.”

Robin’s entire face turns pink, freckles standing out on her skin, from the way Nancy stares at her intently, like no one else exists. You look down, hiding your smile when Robin coughs, sputtering out something that you’re sure is supposed to be a yes. She eagerly nods and Steve huffs loudly, which makes her turn to glare over her shoulder at him, but it quickly turns into a smile as you call out, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” to their retreating forms. 

Their footsteps fade and Steve reaches out with one hand, looking at the dessert as he asks, “I can grab that from you?”

As the door to her bedroom clicks closed, you breathe out an exhale, unsure of how much longer you can keep it all up. His eyes are warm as his fingers brush the dish and you pull it back from his reach a bit, whispering, “It’s really fragile.”

Steve’s eyes bounce over your face, setting the wine down, both hands reaching for the dessert as he promises, quiet and sure, “I got it.”

Your fingertips graze each other as he takes it, and the electricity of just one more touch from him is enough kindling for the hope to spark. The heat from his stare has your cheeks warming and his turning pink. Steve’s lips twitch slightly in the corners as he glances down at the dish, then back up at you. 

“So, this just from Mariano’s then?” 

Your eyes roll hard at his assumption, scoffing as you turn to rip open the bag of marshmallows and keep your back to him. “You would ask if it was from there instead of Jewel.”

Steve knocks the faucet off from washing his hands, shaking them into the sink and flinging water across the stainless steel before drying them. He sucks his teeth with a wince as he turns to the counter, his shoulder next to yours. “Yeah, okay that’s fair.”

You laugh quietly, popping a marshmallow in your mouth in between placing them haphazardly across the orange mixture. Steve sighs next to you and gestures to the dish. “See, this is why I asked. No way you baked something. Didn’t think you could do anything in the kitchen except keep your take out menus impeccably organized.”

“Impeccably huh? That your word of the day on the calendar Robin got you?” You toss another marshmallow in your mouth with a smirk. 

“Actually, no today’s word was assiduous.” 

The veins in his hands flex as he grates the cheese, and he gives you a look as he says the word with confidence and emphasis, eyebrows raised.

You stall, taking a sip of your wine and hiding your smile in the glass before asking, “What, am I supposed to be impressed or something?” 

He dumps the cheese into the pot and turns to you, cocking his head, tongue in his cheek before he frowns. “You’re not?”

Steve’s lips twitch, his facade breaking easily and you both laugh. Your shoulders relax further and so do his. Why does it have to be so easy with him, yet so hard?

“Actually, I think it will be you who’s impressed,” you start, making the marshmallows a little more purposeful and pretty for his sake. 

“Oh yeah?” 

You hum, nodding, “I made that pie from scratch.”

“No you didn’t.”

Looking up, you see him shaking his head. He makes eye contact with you and he shrugs, adamant, “Nope. No way.”

Your hands land on your hips as your tone turns indignant. “Yes I did! I made the crust from scratch, cold butter into flour and everything. Rolled it out, doctored up the filling in a pan on the stove. Brown sugar, the works.”

His hand stops on the second block of cheese, eyes narrowing at you as he questions, “Really?”

A laugh leaves you from the tone of his suspicion as you slide the pan holding Robin’s dish into the oven. “You sound like my dad when my mom made it the first time.”

Steve doesn’t say anything and your lip tugs between your teeth as you remember the moment between your parents. Maybe it’s the holiday, maybe you’re just tired, maybe it’s the few sips of alcohol that let the story fall out of you so easily. 

“She was really awful at cooking,” you laugh, taking a sip of wine and waving your hand in the air, “I mean like, awful. She could serve you a grilled cheese that was somehow burnt but the cheese was cold? She got better, but anyways, I really don’t know why she thought she’d be any better at baking…”

Steve’s eyes meet yours briefly as he takes his own sip of wine and you look away, grabbing some of the cheese and deciding to help as you keep talking. 

“I don’t remember how she decided to do this, but my dad was out of town for work, and she wanted to make him something special, and to her that was a pie, I guess? But she was adamant that it be from scratch. Made and baked with love. And so we did. We went and got all of the ingredients, and we destroyed the kitchen, but it was the most fun I’ve ever had with her. We listened to Dolly Parton and drank wine all day, totally got flour and butter everywhere, I told her about classes, and the guy I was seeing…”

Your eyes drift off the counter, remembering it was right before you knew she was sick and your chin trembles as a watery laugh leaves you, “And then my dad got home. Oh my god, his face. He, he…” you blink away tears as you start laughing harder, “He just dropped his duffle bag on the ground and shook his head looking around in shock and my mom yelled ‘We made you a pie!’ and my dad just raised his eyebrows and said ‘Sure looks like you made somethin’.”

The last words come out shaky and it isn’t until you feel a pressure on top of one of your hands that you realize you had been grating the cheese down to almost nothing, stealing it from him. Glancing up through blurry vision, tears continue to fall down your cheeks as Steve quietly asks, “But it was good?”

You snort, more tears leaving you as you shake your head no. “It was inedible,” you laugh harder, “Like raw, but somehow dry and clumpy, so bad.”

Steve squeezes your hand, eyebrows furrowing together as his confusion settles deeper in his face and he starts cautiously, “So…you…made an inedible pie for us tonight?”

Your head shakes more and you take a deep breath, laughter and tears slowing. “No, after that, she, um…” closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and push out, “She needed to keep her hands working…” 

When you open your eyes again, Steve’s staring intently at you, waiting. You wonder why he can wait patiently for this story, look at you like he’d wait an eternity for you to tell him the ending, but he couldn’t wait for you. But, would you have wanted him to? When you’re certain that the potential of losing him, all of them, completely, isn’t worth the risk. Would he have waited forever for you to change your mind?

Your voice breaks as you finish, “Her chemo…she started to get neuropathy, and making the crust and keeping her hands and brain busy helped. So she kept practicing until it was perfect. And now it’s one of the last things I have from her. The dish too, we went and searched for the right one…” Fingers of your free hand form quotation marks as you roll your eyes with a laugh, remembering her ridiculous insistence on it and the day of estate sales and thrift stores.  

It’s silent as the unsaid ending washes over you both, the importance - the weight - of the dessert and the story. The immediate need to take it all back rises up in you hard, wishing you could put the entire thing back inside yourself and rewind the last few minutes. The vulnerability leaves you cracked open and exposed to him and you’re not sure you can handle his reaction. 

“I’m sorry,” your brows furrow, “I don’t know why I just…”

Steve’s fingers wrap around yours tighter and he squeezes. Your eyes meet the moss and honey you want to avoid because you’re sure they’re looking at you with that look. The pitying one, the one that everyone gets before they tell you a sorry that doesn’t help. 

But Steve’s eyes shine with something stronger - admiration and amusement as he winces, “So, see, that story tells me that your mom practiced and practiced to make a perfect pie not you and-”

Your hand smacks at his chest lightheartedly, laughing around a protest. Steve holds his hands up in surrender, “Hey, hey, okay!” 

Both of your laughter subsides and he smiles, a genuine smile, one side of his lips twisted up as he looks at the pie then you. “I’m sure it’s great. I’m excited to try it. Thank you for telling me that…I wish I could have met…”

As he trails off, your fingers brush against his on the counter, your bodies shift closer, letting the story and laughter pull you into each other’s gravity once more. Maybe it doesn’t have to be hard - there’s a reason you can fall so easily back into each other. A reason you can offer up a story you normally keep close if he’s the one listening, a reason you can forgive. There has to be a reason your body wants to be closer to his, a reason you want to feel his lips on yours again. Maybe there are cosmic connections, unexplainable phenomena of the universe, fate and destiny and invisible strings. 

Hope flourishes inside of you, it catches on every bounce of his eyes over your face, the way his finger nudges against yours just like they did in that car ride to a lake so many weeks ago. It sparks and drifts into the air, it floats around you like embers from an actual fire as he breathes your name out and your body takes one step closer, making you chest to chest. One easy tilt of your head, one bend from his and maybe it’d all be okay again.  

The doorbell rings, making both of you jump apart. The reality of the situation hits you, like someone dumped an entire bucket of water over the hope as Steve looks toward the door and frowns. You keep letting yourself end up in this position and eventually it’s going to hurt so much you’ll never be able to come back from it. 

You’re not his, he’s not yours, and it’s too late. Another girl calls him baby, he calls her honey, and they go on and have the life you were certain you never wanted - all because you can’t let him in the way he wanted you to. This isn’t a movie, there is no rewind, there is no pause, and it’s time to move on. 

“I’ll go get that, you have cheese to…uh…” 

“Y/N, wait-”

You’re already out of the kitchen, speed walking to the front door. Dreading the girl you’re certain is on the other side, you start to pull your shoes back on. Maybe you could slip out with an excuse and leave. Your destiny isn’t Steve, it’s to always run, to always be alone. 

The door swings open and you look up from your crouched position, one shoe on. Eddie is standing in the doorway, holding a bag of Hawaiian Rolls and looking at you, eyebrows raised in wait.  

He holds open the door and gestures outside as he asks, “Should I leave this open?”

Your stomach swoops, thinking of the chance he’s giving you, the opportunity to do what you want, no questions asked. But your heartbeat thuds loudly in your ears at the opposite side of the coin - the other chance he’s giving you. 

A deep breath is exhaled as you shakily ask, “That depends…are you still knocking?”

Eddie shrugs. “Maybe. Only one way to really find out right?”

Nodding once, you stand. A limped step over to the door with one shoe on, and you close it. Your palm rests flat against the wood as you take another calming breath. The sounds of the others in the kitchen are muffled as you turn around and look up at Eddie. You kick off the shoe, take a step forward, and mime opening a door.

Letting a tear slip past your lash line, you shrug, standing in the metaphorical open doorway and hold your breath. 

He smiles, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Thank god, my arm was getting really tired.”

Another watery laugh starts to escape you and you wrap your arms around him in a hug. “I’m sorry. For everything, for dragging you into all of this and for leading you on and…and…”

He extends his fingers, counting his points as he sighs, “You forgot for being stubborn, for not asking me to be the Inigo to your Buttercup, for-”

“I’m sorry.” You force every ounce of meaning behind the words as you squeeze his waist tighter and he finally meets your hug, long arms wrapping around you. 

“We’re all good sweetheart, don’t sweat it.” He pats your shoulder and takes a step back, cocking his head, “But that’s not all…” he taps his finger to your forehead, “What else is going on up there? Why were you leaving?”

“Y/N, please don’t…” Steve trails off as he comes into the entryway. You duck your head and sniff quietly, hoping there’s no evidence of your tears that escaped and break away as Steve clears his throat. “So-sorry. I thought you were…nevermind.”

Steve turns quickly on his heel, back towards the kitchen where the sounds of Robin and Nancy arguing about something echo louder down the hall. Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes at Steve’s back, and gestures for you to go before him, quietly whispering, “We’ll chat later about that.”

“Why does it smell like that? What did you put in it?” Nancy is bent down, looking at the dish you placed in the oven. Her hair is damp, curls weighed down against her cheeks, but her sleek outfit is back on, sans coat, sleeves rolled up. 

Robin’s hair has a towel twirled on top of it, though she’s otherwise back in her jeans and sweater, her hands on her hips. “I don’t know! I did exactly what you said!”

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks, tossing the bread onto the counter. 

“You don’t smell that?” Nancy shakes her head, hand held out to the air in exasperation. 

Steve’s back is to you as he dumps cooked noodles into his pot of melted cheese and Eddie shakes his head no. Your nose starts to wrinkle though the longer you sit in the space. 

Your hands raise, “I swear I just put the marshmallows on.”

It takes Nancy gagging on a bite she tries to eat of the casserole and Steve going through his spices next to his pot to realize Robin used paprika instead of cinnamon. A lot of paprika. 

She throws her hands up in the air as she storms out to the deck, where you’ve all decided it’d be better to eat, bundled up from the cold, than inside trapped with the smell. “You know what, I never asked to cook anything so eat you’ll eat your paprika sweet potatoes and like it!”

As everyone sits at the table, Eddie looks around and asks, “Shouldn’t we wait for one more?”

“What?” Steve asks him, tone a little sharp, sitting down in the seat across from you.

“Your fiance? Isn’t she coming?” Eddie prods, meeting Steve’s cold attitude with an equal sting and rolled back shoulders. 

“I’m sure she was earlier,” Robin mumbles into her wine glass, “Ow.” She glares at Steve who kicks her under the table. 

Nancy rolls her eyes as Steve shakes his head no, clearing his throat, “She’s…we haven’t…she’s with her family already.”

Robin sighs from her spot next to you and your eyes meet Steve’s before jumping down to your plate. The pressure around your heart squeezes even tighter - maybe it was only easy with him because she’s not here, and that is not always going to be the case. Your fingers itch, neck rolling from the tension. You want to get up and walk away, but Eddie’s knee nudges yours and your shoulders relax slightly. 

Nancy raises her glass, changing the subject, “Okay, before we dig in, I want to say that I’m very grateful for you all, and here’s to many more years of Friendsgiving.” She smiles at Robin when she uses the name. 

Robin beams, holding her glass up too, “Here, here! Now everyone take two scoops of the potatoes.”

Glasses clink and laughter shared, it's easy for you to believe Nancy. Easy with Steve smiling across from you and Eddie and Robin bickering about the food next to you, with her not there, to believe that you’ll be a part of their stories. Maybe - 

“So, Dingus, it’s time to spill all the details about Leigh.” Robin leans forward on the table, her eyebrows raised as Steve’s glass pauses halfway to his mouth. “We don’t know anything and you’re getting married in like five months.”

Nancy and Eddie’s bites and glasses also freeze, not so discreet looks at you from both of them. Nancy finishes swallowing and shakes her head, “Robin, we know enough! Let Steve-”

“No we don’t! I don’t know how you met, or if she’s moved in, and how he proposed and why on earth he didn’t tell his best friend! I have him cornered finally and you’re all gonna help me. Don’t act like you guys don’t want to know either!”

“Robin,” Steve starts licking his lips as he looks at her then you, “Can we not do this right now?”

“Time’s up bub,” Robin frowns, shaking her head, “I promise we like her, she’s cool. But you’ve been dodging the questions and me for weeks now. Start with the easy one, how’d you meet?”

Steve looks at you like he’s in physical pain and you look down at the liquid in your wine glass, swirling the red wine around as you wait for the story that is sure to kill you. You wish he’d just rip the band-aid off, get it over with.  

“We, uh, met through my parents.” Steve swallows a large gulp of wine. 

Your head whips up at the comment and Steve stares at you, frowning before he looks up at the sky. 

Robin’s brows furrow as she asks, “Your parents?” Equally shocked as you are. It isn’t a secret that Steve and his parents aren’t always on the same page. 

Steve rubs at his forehead, closing his eyes before he sets the wine glass down. He straightens, rolling his shoulders back, “Okay, it’s all going to come out anyways so…our parents set us up. It’s been arranged for awhile, we didn’t really date or anything, we’re getting married because that’s what we do. She’s from a good family and I’m from a good family, it makes sense. For business and life and…that’s it.”

The table is silent as Steve’s lips twist, waiting for someone to say something.

Your heartbeat isn’t loud in your ears, your stomach doesn’t swoop - it’s like all noise has left the planet. It’s like someone actually hit pause as his explanation and the last few months catch up with each other in your brain until they meet in a loud explosion. It’s an actual glass shattering sound effect. Heartbreak and hope and disbelief and anger swell inside of you like a wave ready to devour anyone who was stupid enough to enter the unpredictable ocean. 

It’s surprising to everyone, including yourself, when you’re the one to break the silence. The question leaves you so quietly, you weren’t even certain you asked it out loud until he looked at you. 

“So you’re not in love with her?”

As Steve stares at you, the table floats away, it’s just you and him. His mouth parts, but no response falls from it. You stand abruptly, chair scraping against the wood deck harshly as you push back, muttering something about needing to put the dessert into the oven. Your stomach that’s been twisted into knots for months feels like someone pulled one loose thread and it’s unraveling inside of you. A box of bouncy balls released, an unpredictable canon of confetti, trapeze artists, butterflies, boulders, and a deep ocean swallowing you. All of it, finally coming together and creating catastrophe. 

It’s like every single moment you’ve been angry with him is turned up to eleven, but so is every look and touch. Every single one feels like a lie, a slap to your face - he was just using you because he was indecisive, scared, afraid to give up his single life. Steve Harrington was just like every other man. Your entire last few months swirl around inside your brain, replaying every moment, every emotion like a favorite movie. But it’s like someone took that film and told you every single thing wrong with it. Like they pointed out how everything you loved was just covering up the real and horrible plot - bright lights and pretty sets to convince everyone they had a good time, when in reality it was cheaply made and not worth it. 

Your hands shake as you start to rip at the foil covering the pie, and his voice calls out behind you, “Please let me answer that question. Please let me explain.”

A scoff leaves you, eyes closing as you bite back, “It’s fine Steve. Clearly I was just some placeholder for you the whole time.”

“Placeholder?”

You spin, hands in the air as you search for words to make him see how much this hurts you. “Yeah, yes. Some, I don’t know. Last hurrah!”

“What?” The word comes out sharp, like he truly doesn’t understand what you’re saying. His cheeks are pink, his hair blown from the wind outside, eyes wide and blinking at you like you’re crazy.

“You heard me! I was just some fun fuck before you sealed the deal on your spoiled brat fate.”

Steve’s mouth falls open, then quickly closes, taking a step closer, hands clenched into fists as his brows furrow. His jaw tightens with each word, “I’m not a spoiled brat!”

Another scoff, a cold laugh as you wave your hand again. “Oh please Steve! You used me to bide your time and prolong the inevitable! You were just avoiding looking at the contract you signed!”

Steve stands over you, both of your chests rising and falling in time, the air inside the kitchen warmer from the oven being on all day and your words shouted at each other - the sparks leaping from your bodies and engulfing each other. 

“I didn’t use you! You offered! It was all your idea! I’m so sick of this-”

You shove at his chest and he grabs your wrists, as you mock him, voice dripping with fake pity, “Oh, poor Steve Harrington. I have to get married and say goodbye to my single life, but let me use this girl-”

“This isn’t about me, I have to make decisions that affect my whole family, I can’t just say no! And what was I supposed to do? The person I want doesn’t want me!” HIs voice cracks as he drops your hands, fire cracking and sizzling between you both. His admission, the chance to tell him he’s wrong, that you do want him, makes your heart beat turn rapid, like it’s actually trying to punch its way out of your body. 

You shake your head, pushing down the flames of hope threatening to burn you alive, pushing him away. “You saw an opportunity to postpone but not fully deny. It’s fine Steve, I get it. It was the safe option.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Grabbing the pie, you sob, “Security. Money. You couldn’t say no to them. And then when I offered to fuck you no strings attached? Man,” you scoff out another laugh around your tears, “You probably thought you won the lottery, huh?”

Steve grabs for the pie, his eyes wet as he shakes his head. Voice hoarse as he argues, “You’re so unbelievably wrong. I couldn’t fucking wait for you to maybe, hopefully, open up one day! I have to move on! And it’s not like she’s a bad person, and I don’t know why we’re arguing about this again, because clearly you’re with Eddie.”

You tug harder on the dish but Steve doesn’t release as you cry out, “Oh! No! Don’t even try that! Eddie and I aren’t together and we never were! You’re using that as an excuse! Tell me Steve. Tell me you love her, that you want to marry her.”

“I-”

“Is that what your future looks like? Huh? Ten years down the road, it’s her? That’s what you imagined and not your parents?”

“Y/N, it’s not that simple!”

“It is! What do you want, Steve?”

You need him to tell you and he needs you to tell him and neither of you will - because you’re scared, stubborn. Two suns burning too hot and close together, and it was inevitable for it to end this way. You both stood on the edge of that cliff and saw the end you’d meet and you jumped anyway. Was it worth it? 

“I can’t believe you two.” 

This is the moment. 

It wasn’t when he showed up at the football game with her. It wasn’t the party. It wasn’t the engagement.

It’s the look Robin is giving you both from her spot in the doorway. It’s the pie and the glass dish hitting the floor in shards of sapphire blue and orange peaches. It’s Steve and you both turning to her, shaking your heads no, saying her name in the same pleading way.

Her bright blue eyes turn to glass as she chokes around a tearful laugh, “I knew, I knew you both were hiding something, I just…why? Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

Nancy reaches for Robin’s wrist, “Robin, they didn’t mean to…”

Robin recoils, swiping at her cheeks. She looks at Nancy, then at Steve whose head falls, his hands in his hair. Eddie looks down too when Robin turns to him and she steps back again. “Everyone knew, huh? You all have been lying to me this entire time? Why? I don’t…” She shakes her head again and runs past you both, down the hall and slams the door. 

Steve starts to go after her when a small frame stands in front of him like she’s twice his size, hand pressing to his chest. Fury burns in Nancy’s eyes as she blocks the hallway. Her voice low and far more angry than you’ve heard it be before. “I think you’ve done enough.”

“Nance, come on, that’s not fair,” Steve steps forward again and when she stops him with two hands now, his voice turns sharper, “Don’t act like you’re the only one who cares about her.”

“Yeah, well you’ve got a funny way of showing it Steve.” Nancy looks at you, “I think you should leave. All of you.”

Eddie grabs your elbow, speaking quietly, “I can drive you home.”

Steve laughs, “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

“Steve,” you start and he interrupts you, hands running down his face. 

“No. It’s fine. It’s all my fault right? I’m the only one in the wrong?” He pushes past you, shoulder hitting Eddie’s hard and the door slamming even more so behind him. Pictures rattle against the wall, Nancy and her family's smiling faces tilted in their frame. The world turned off its axis. 

It’s Nancy’s quiet knock from down the hall, Robin’s shouted ‘leave her alone’ and Eddie’s sigh of ‘fucking, christ’. It’s that there you stand, the door closed behind him, the mess you made, literally, surrounding you. 

This, the consequences of all of your actions - is the double tap. 

You let the mess build, you let the avoided truths take deeper roots and spread lies to cover them up. All because you wanted the hope to stay - you wanted it both ways - despite telling yourself different, despite lying to yourself for months.

Now, it’s too late. You’re just a girl who isn’t in a rom com with a happy ending. You’re alone, and the hope that maybe you wouldn’t be for once isn’t just gone, it’s ripped from your fingers. 

The book is closed. The knife drips in the killer’s hand as the victim’s chest stops heaving. The spacesuit floats through a noiseless and lifeless galaxy. The body doesn’t get up from the mats and a silence falls over the crowd. 

“Fuck!”

Your hands smack the steering wheel, a sob leaving you as your forehead falls against it. 

You’ve been driving around for hours, hopeless. Your heart hasn’t stopped its erratic and hard beats since you ran out of Nancy’s. Somehow your body still courses with adrenaline, fight or flight still at war inside of yourself. Every time you think about the look Robin had on her face, every time you think about how much you hurt her, or how you may not see her again, you feel real, visceral, pain and panic. Your hands start shaking, the crying starts its cycle over from scratch, and you have to pull over until the snot sobbing stage settles into a calm, sort of silent cry. 

This is a mess, and it’s your mess. Despite wanting to put all of the blame on Steve, you simply can’t run from this truth anymore. It was you who came up with the plan. Steve was hesitant immediately, bringing Robin’s thoughts up right away. It was you who came up with the Red Hot Ranch code, who kept going. It was you who called it off and started it up again despite knowing how it would all inevitably end. It feels like you pushed Steve off the cliff and thought it was okay because you were diving after him. 

As you stare out the windshield, you know you have to stop running. Eddie’s words ring through the air.

Open the fucking door. Nobody’s leaving you.

You have to at least try, right? You have to apologize to her, to tell her it was all your fault so if she at least doesn’t forgive you, maybe you can offer a crack in the door to her forgiveness for the others. The others who simply got caught up in your lies, tripping over the tangled knot of roots they took.  

You’re certain Robin and you met how and when you did not by chance, the universe gave you each other for a reason. You’re certain that there are soul mates, they’re just not in the form you always suspect. And you’re certain that if you don’t try to make things right, you’ll be miserable and truly alone for the rest of your life.

Robin once told you that she was there, and that she would be there when you were ready and you hope the offer still stands. Maybe you can’t make everything right, you can’t rewind, but you have to at least try to make the ending bearable. 

When you turn the key in the ignition though, your car sputters. Your face twists into an expression of disbelief, only deepening when it does it again and your mouth falls open in shock when it suddenly starts to rain, mixing with snow that melts immediately on the ground. You laugh, looking out the windshield at the bleak and miserable sky, washing out the city in a dull gray. 

“Of fucking course,” you mumble under your breath. Getting out of the car, you sigh as you lock it. You shield your eyes as you stare up at the sky and laugh, “You’re real funny. Great joke.”

Maybe it was a sign from the universe that you needed to really work for it, maybe it was bad karma, maybe you really deserved it, maybe it was even supposed to be a blessing - washing away the past to clear the slate for the future. 

Regardless of reason, you don’t take the train, and you make the slow and wet walk back to where you came from. 

The buzzer for her place rings with no answer. You know that she’s home because the light is on, and you intercepted her take out. 

“Buckley I’ll keep buzzing, your egg rolls are getting cold!”

When she doesn’t answer again, you sigh, pressing your wet forehead to the cold brick and hold it down again, pulling out the big guns. “Okay, Robin, I, listen. I am so sorry. And if you want to hate me and never see me again, that’s totally fine, I understand. Because honestly, I am…I am scum for lying to you. I am pond scum. I’m lower than pond scum. I am the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.”

You release the buzzer and when there still isn’t a click of her responding your chin trembles. Maybe you really did fuck it up that badly and there is no coming back from this. It was silly of you to think she’d ever forgive you, especially when she has Steve. You’re about to set the food down and buzz again to tell her you’ll leave when the front door opens. 

“You’re lower actually.” 

A sob leaves you as Robin stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her favorite Hawkins Band sweatshirt. The fuzzy lime green socks with banjos on them that you got her for her birthday on her feet.  

You nod, swiping at your tears with a free hand. “You’re right. Lower than the fungus. I’m the pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.”

Robin’s lips twitch, but she rolls her eyes before they look at the ground. “Quoting Julia Roberts is really unfair. You know how much of a sucker I am for her. Cheap shot.”

A crack in the tightness in your chest starts to pry open as you whisper, “I almost bought roses and had this plan to blare classical music from my car but it broke down and…well, here I am anyways, asking for forgiveness and a chance to explain.”

She raises her eyebrows, waiting, and your chin trembles as your voice shakes, “Robin I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to lie to you about it all for so long. And there were so many times I wanted to tell you. I was selfish and wrong and scared I would lose you - that you’d pick his side and shut me out - but I’m here trying now…please don’t hate me forever. And don’t hate Steve. He did nothing wrong. Or Nancy, or Eddie. It was all me and I’m so, so, so, sorry, please let me explain everything and give me another chance to be even half the amazing friend that you are.”

It’s silent, for what feels like forever, until her eyes meet yours. Shining from tears and her nose wiggles as she sniffles, “You were going to Pretty Woman me?”

You nod, tears roll down your cheeks and mingle with the rain that coats them. 

Robin sighs, choking on her own tears as she laughs, “You just get me.”

She engulfs you in a hug and both of you cry into each other’s shoulders as she says, “I’m still mad you all lied. You’re not off the hook. I think giving me limitless veto power for movie nights is extremely fair and nonnegotiable.” 

Your body feels lighter than it has in months as your arm tightens around her as you agree with a teary laugh, whispering another apology while silently vowing to never let her go. It doesn’t matter what happens next, because at least you have her, and you know you always will. 

Robin trips on a heel as she emerges from her closet. Tilting your head at the dress she holds up, your nose scrunches as you shake your head no. 

She sighs, throwing it on the no pile and groans, “Ugh! This is hopeless!”

As she flops onto her bed with a huff, you laugh and swap places with her, “No, no, come on. Tell me again.”

Robin sits up, staring at her dresser with a furrow forming under her bangs. “I want to look professional, put together, but not like it’s an interview, you know? I want them to take me seriously, but I want to look like me. Ergo, I am doomed.”

Your fingers trail over her clothes, eyes searching again after they roll. “Ergo, you’ve been facetiming Dustin too much.”

A black dress catches your eyes, velvet and cinched at the waist. Pulling it from her closet you hold it up. “What about this? I’ve never seen you wear it. Is it new?”

Her head tilts, “Huh. I forgot I bought that for…” she trails off and looks at you with a sad smile. “Right. Yeah, you don’t think it’s too low cut?”

You shake your head no, taking a deep breath at her change of subject, thoughts drifting to if she bought it for the wedding or something related to it. Maybe you could ask, but you’ve sort of had a non-verbal agreement to not discuss Steve the last month and it’s been working. After explaining everything to her, including how you felt about him getting married, your complicated feelings, it just felt easier to not discuss anything relating to him. 

“Throw a nice necklace on, you’ll be perfect babe,” you make an a-okay symbol with your fingers, “The Wheeler’s aren’t gonna know what hit em.” You smile and look at the clock on her nightstand, handing the dress out to her, “Get to it though, or you’ll be late.”

Robin makes no move to get up, holding the dress in her hands and staring at it. 

She shakes her head no. “I can’t do this.”

Sitting next to her, the bed bounces lightly and you grab her hand. “You absolutely can do this. It’s just meeting the parents and siblings, all of whom you’ve met already.”

“But not as her girlfriend. When I met them she wasn’t even out. What if they hate me? What if I spill something? What if I order the wrong wine?”

Laughing, you hold her panicking face in your hands, taking a deep breath to encourage her to do so too. “Robin. Breathe.”

She does, her exhale shaky and you smile, head tilting as you let her face go, fixing a curl you smooshed. “You really love her don’t you.”

It’s not a question, but Robin answers anyway. She nods vehemently, words tumbling out of her like she can’t help it. “God so much it’s scary. But also not? I want to spend every second with her. I want to tell her about every dumb little thought that pops into my head and I want to hear what she ate for lunch every day. I want to wake up and fall asleep next to her and that’s insane! How can you love a person like that so quickly? Like everything in your body is screaming for it? It’s…it’s that kind of love I’ve only heard about before? That kind of love…” she trails off, maroon polished fingers covering her smile before she keeps going, “It’s easier than breathing. It is breathing, you know?”

As she says the words that prick at something inside of you, prodding on thoughts you’d locked away, her skin pales, looking like she’s going to be sick. “Oh my god I really can’t do this. I can’t-”

“Robin. One step at a time. Change your outfit, you can do that right?”

She laughs, head falling to your shoulder, a sing-song lilt to her voice, “We’ve been here before.”

“Yeah and look at what happened.”

Robin sits up, biting her lip, nodding once and standing. “Right.”

As she changes, you assess her jewelry box. Your eyes roam over the mirror of her vanity, smiling at the pictures. You pause at the one of her and Steve that’s new to you. He has his tongue out, her arm around him and your fingers touch the corner, an ache in your chest wondering what they were doing and what stories they’ll have from the day. 

“Have you talked to him?”

Her question startles you and your shoulders lift. Clearing your throat, you hold the necklace out to her. “No, um, I haven’t. He’s good?”

Robin starts to hook the necklace as she hums, “I think so. It’s hard to tell some days.” She hesitates, her face pinched into a familiar look to you, the one that looks like she’s physically holding words in, a true test for her. She bends down to buckle her heels as she asks, “Is it always going to be this way? Avoiding talking about each other? Seeing each other?”

“No, I don’t think so. I just need some time. I’ll be okay.” Shrugging with a smile, you grab your purse and coat. 

Robin’s blue eyes sparkle under shimmering gold eyeshadow and she tilts her head, a smile forming on her lips as she nods, confident in her words, “You will be. One step at a time.”

“Cute,” you muse, and take a step back. You twirl your fingers for her to spin and she rolls her eyes but obliges. The black velvet dress cuts off at her calves, hugging her curves in a sexy but modest way and the gold pendant on her necklace matches the blocky old-fashioned heels. You yell out, “Ow-ow!” 

Robin laughs, waving you off and grabs her phone. “Okay picture!”

“Ew, Robin no! You look so good and I am literally in my sweatshirt with the mustard stain on it.” 

She shushes you, “Tough tater tots toots.”

She pulls you in as you laugh, both of you easily falling into a goofy pose as she snaps a selfie. She nods her approval and grabs her coat, “Oh yeah, that one’s definitely going on the board.” She clicks her phone closed and you both head towards the stairwell. 

As you step out of her apartment building, Nancy is getting out of an Uber, an emerald peacoat wrapped around her and she stops, eyes only on Robin. 

“Hi,” she whispers, smiling, “Wow. You’re so beautiful.”

Robin’s face turns as red as her nails and you duck your head. “Well, I think that’s my cue to leave. Have a good night,” you squeeze Nancy’s hand, “Tell your brother and El hey from me?”

She squeezes it back, confirming she will, and holds the door open for Robin, then jogs around to the other side and you have to smile at her lack of wanting to scoot across the seat or maybe it’s just her old fashioned, secret romantic side coming out. 

As you start to walk away, you hear your name and spin back around, Robin is leaning out of the window, smiling wide as she asks, “Benny’s tomorrow? 10?”

“I expect a full report!” You cross your arms over your chest, fore and middle fingers crossed in a good luck to her that she mirrors as the car drives away. 

The walk to the train from there is short, your car still out of commission, and you pop your airpods in, debating how your evening will go. Eddie is already home for Christmas with his uncle in Indiana, Robin and Nancy together tonight, and Steve…

Before them, an evening alone like this never would have bothered you. Eating what you wanted to eat, watching what you wanted to watch - you got good at being alone, enjoying it actually. Now, there’s a funny little feeling that pulls at a thread inside of you, trying to unravel the work you’ve done. 

As you wait for the train, pulling your winter hat tighter over your ears, you watch a couple come up the stairs. They have shopping bags in their hands, dressed in warm, wool coats. Giggly, pink cheeks, gloved hands clinging to each other. They sit just down from where you stand against the railing when you get on, huddled together as they look at a map on his phone, and you wonder what their story is - where they were, where they’re going, and if they love each other. It seems like they do, and you wonder if it’s the kind of love Robin explained.

How can anyone love like that aside from fictional people in the movies? How can you love someone so deeply and intensely, without fear of it being ripped away?

But maybe people do fear it being ripped away, and they love regardless. Fear doesn’t make love disappear, it makes it stronger. Because what if that person is gone one day? What if you never told them how you felt? What if you never even got the chance to see if you could love like that? Isn’t it better to try than never know?

As you look out the train doors, the sky is turning a soft pink and purple. The sun is setting over the city in one of those perfect nights, slow, like each color being revealed is a purposeful brushstroke, hand painted. A sign. 

Sunsets. Steve. A good song. Steve. Your friends. Steve. Your family. Steve. 

Easier than breathing. 

An undeniable, unavoidable, unforgiving wave of heartbreak rolls over you. But it’s not alone, it’s hope, it’s questions and answers, it’s relief and clarity and you know what you have to do. 

You unlock your phone, a desperation and need to get all of it out now, fueling each press of your thumbs to the screen. Maybe the story is wrong, but you’re the main character, narrator, and author and you can change it if you just put in the work to do so. Tears begin to fall down your cheeks, and you let them, unashamed, finally free of the place you’ve kept them locked away. Pressing send on the message, you hold your breath, hoping she’s not already too preoccupied with Nancy. 

The train doors open and you rush down the stairs. Each step slams against the sidewalk, sending shocks up your spine, cold air filling your lungs as each stride brings you closer to him, but not fast enough. You have to try to change the story, you have to tell him.  

But when his location is just out of your reach, when you see him, you slow down. 

Steve stands beneath the gold twinkling lightbulbs of the old brick theater, the white marquee sign displaying the title ‘When Harry Met Sally’. He has a black beanie on, hair sticking out and curling slightly. A dark gray peacoat flutters against the back of his thighs in the wind, open to reveal the yellow sweater he has on and your feet come to a skidding stop. His phone is pressed to his ear as he looks up from where he was scuffing his Nike against the sidewalk and makes eye contact with you. 

Your heart beat has thoroughly been replaced again as your hands start to shake, each slow step to him stretched out and lingering, lasting for what feels like minutes instead of seconds. 

What if. What if. What if.

The phone slips, hand falling to his side. His brows furrow just under his hat and you want to reach forward and brush the worry away with your thumb. His greeting leaves him quietly, a puff of his breath and the word floating in the air just a few feet from you.

 “Hi.”

Gesturing with a trembling hand to the sign above that you can no longer see, fully under the gold lights, you blurt out, “Did you know that it came out in 89’? So technically it’s a bad 80s rom com. I was wrong.”

Steve shakes his head, the twinkle of the lights highlighting the brown in his eyes, warm and sweet and deeply confused as he starts, “What are you-”

“I was wrong about a lot of things, Steve. And I know I’m late in saying that. I know I’m late for a lot more, but I think it’s better to say it late, to say it now, than to never tell you and wonder for the rest of my life.”

Steve’s lips part, your name a whisper on them, but you take a deep inhale and prepare to get it all out fast and without fear of needing a breath akin to the way Robin speaks, just so you can leave yourself open and vulnerable despite knowing that it could, and most likely will, hurt. 

“I’m sorry if Leigh is inside or she’s gonna be here soon, but I have to tell you. I…Steve I’m sorry. I wanted to be friends with benefits because I was selfish. You were right. I wanted it both ways. At first, you were just this guy who was hot and funny and knew what he was doing and I didn’t want to lose that. But then, then I got to know you and that’s when it got complicated, because I really didn’t want to lose you then.” You swallow as Steve freezes in front of you, no longer stepping towards you and his shoulders hunch like he’s holding his breath as you keep going.

“I wanted you, but I was scared to commit, scared that if I did commit, I’d lose you all anyways. And I still am scared. Terrified,” you laugh a little as tears start to roll down your cheeks, “But I think being scared is worth it if I’m doing it with you. Because…” Inhaling, you take a step closer as Steve blinks at you, willing the words to keep coming.

“Because I think we could be something special if we gave it a real chance. And I think that we can’t know what’s going to happen, maybe it all blows up in our faces, but at least we tried and we’ll know and we won’t spend our lives wondering what if.” Tears blur your vision as you leave it all out there, words that feel like they’ve wanted to tumble out of you forever just keep coming, faster and faster, your hands gesturing wildly with each one, stepping closer and closer to him.

“And I want to try so badly Steve. I want to hold your hand in public and go on dates and tease you and make memories with you and I think we could fall in love, I think I was already starting to. Like real love. Like that undeniable, scary, kind of love, and I’m sorry you’ll have to wait for me to get there to say it, but if you give it a chance…I think we’re worth the wait. I don’t care that I’m saying all of this too late, I don’t care that you’re getting married because at least I said it and if you wanna stand up there and say I do to her in May then that’s fine, I can move on, maybe, I think, because at least I’ll know I tried and-”

“Woah, woah, woah.” 

Steve grabs your shaking hands, interrupting you. Cedar and mint hit your nose as you inhale, his cologne lingering on his scarf. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. One hand leaves yours, fingers curling under your chin as he murmurs, “I’m not getting married.”

“You’re…” you hiccup a laugh through your tears, “What?”

He tilts his head and clears his throat, repeating it as his thumb brushes a tear from your cheek, fingers squeezing your hand. “I’m not getting married.”

“You’re not getting married,” you repeat it again, quieter, letting the words sink in. 

Steve shakes his head no, the back of his knuckles brushing more tears from your cheek as he lets out a shaky breath. “I called it off the day after…after everything.”

“Oh,” you swallow, eyes blinking up at him under wet lashes as the reality of the extremely vulnerable words you practically just shouted at him sit unreciprocated still, unable to be taken back. 

Steve’s lips twitch on the right, like he’s fighting a smile, eyebrows furrowed deeper as he sighs, “Yeah. Quit my job too.”

“What? Steve, why, what-”

His fingers trace your jaw as he shakes his head again, rolling his eyes but the smile fighting on his lips wins. “This girl that drives me crazy basically quoted The Notebook scene at me and I decided I’d rather have the life I wanted, have her, or have nothing at all. But I didn’t think she felt the same way, and I wasn’t going to push her again.”

You smile, a laugh bubbling out of you as you shake your head, “You’re crazy about me?”

Steve laughs, his hat bumping yours as your foreheads touch. You drop his hand, both of yours pressing to the soft yellow material against his chest. His breath warm against your cheek as you ask, “So what happens now?”

He pulls away, forehead leaving yours and creating a small space between the two of you, you already want closed again. The lights make the green almost disappear from his eyes, golden, sunshine pulling you in and making you beg for more of it to light you up, a tether, your gravity, just like they’ve always been. 

Steve clears his throat, hands reaching up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing over the apples of them as he declares, “Well, rule number one, we tell Robin.”

“Deal,” you tilt your head, playing his game. Your hands slowly crawl up his chest, wrapping around his neck, playing with the collar of the coat as you throw out, “Pet names?”

Steve nods dramatically, pinching his eyes closed, “Oh yeah. So many.” He leans in, nose tracing up the line of yours slowly, foreheads knocking together as the tips of your shoes meet. “I’m gonna call you babe and honey loudly at the grocery store for no reason other than I can.”

“Yeah?” Your top lip hits his with the lift of your smile and question.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Steve’s hands cup the back of your head, tilting you open for him as he ducks down, mouth hovering above yours as he speaks like you’re the only two people in the world. 

“But right now? Right now I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Which bad 90s rom com you steal that one out of, Harrington?” You whisper against his lips. 

Steve smiles, gaze tracing the curve of your lips then meeting yours as he takes a deep breath. 

“You liked it.” 

And maybe the marquee lights twinkle above you a little brighter as you finally meet in a kiss. Maybe snowflakes start drifting down from the clouds lazily, covering everything in a fresh start right at the moment his hands wrap around your waist and pull you impossibly closer, your back arching from the passion of his kiss. Maybe a terrible top forty song blares out of someone’s car as it drives past, your foot popping off the pavement a little when he pulls away for a breath only to lean and kiss you deeper and slower. 

The universe can’t guarantee anything for you and Steve, but it is giving you a chance. There is nothing, not even love, that can keep away the inevitable struggle, heartbreak, or loss life will be sure to throw at you. Which is scary, but doing it together, his hand in yours, makes it less so. Yes, it won’t always be easy, but the hard work you’ll both put in when it isn’t, means it’s real. There is no one other than yourselves who can decide if your relationship could be like the movies. The two of you are the only ones that can calculate if there’s still time for a happy ending in your story. Only Steve and you can be certain that the fear of heartbreak or pain is worth taking the risk, because if you don’t, if you let the chance slip away, you’ll never know if one day you could have called it love. 

WCIL Taglist: @loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @johnricharddeacy @freezaz123 @selfdeprecatingnerd @big-ope-vibes @manda-panda-monium @hellkaisersangel @yogizzz @soulmatecashton @happytimeunicorns @mandyjo8719 @lunarxeclipse @buckleylips @beckkthewreck @differentdeputyfishpaper @supardupar @micheledawn1975 @imjuststeddietrashatthispoint @sagelittleplace @totally-bogus-timelady @steves-babysitter @fallinginlovewithqueue @aftermidnightwriting @omgshesinsane @pootcullen @definitionwanderlust @nostalgiafool @palmtreesx3 @scoopshxrrington @live-the-fangirl-life @eddiesguitarskills @mannstarkey @keepingitlokiii @silkholland @redbarn1995

[hyrulecast]

part of the reason I hate “redeemable” or “sympathetic” Ganondorf/Vaati is out of any villain who deserves sympathy, it’s Lady Maud. Hands down.

BUT NOOO. GANON AND VAATI ARE HOT AND THE FANDOM IS THIRSTY SO THEY GOTTA EXCUSE THEIR ATTRACTION TO THEM SOMEHOW. SO LET’S MAKE THEM ANGSTY AND SAY “THERE’S A REASON HE’S EVILL!!” UWU

Lady Maud? “old hag” “bitch” and every other misogynistic name under the sun followed by “deserves to die”

real nice. real classy.

[nerves-nebula]

2012 has so much room for character analysis. And analysis in general.

I watched it when It was coming out on tv and have been rewatching it for the past couple months very slowwwllllyyyy. Shshsbbdd

Anyway I'm just getting nna ramble my analysis in your direction.

Starting with Mikey! Par tof the reason people sorta cling to Mikey I think is cuz like, splinter sorta ignores him.

It's this sorta odd thing going on where we have scenes like splinter telling Donnie to act more like Mikey cuz he's thinking to much and it's impeding his abilities cuz he's overthinking. Which, is an attempt to address Donnie's anxiety albeit in not the best way but it sorta worked?

Which means splinter is acknowledging mikeys fighting prowess. And that Mikey not thinking to hard and just doing is a good skill to be able to execute.

But ALSO, we get a scene of when the boys first got their weapons, and splinter tells everyone why they're getting what weapon, and why they'll enjoy it. Except Mikey. Mikey just gets nunchucks. Which, is dead ass the hardest weapon to wield there so what the fuck dude?

And Mikey is, so fuckin smart. His brain just in Canon goes too fast for him to remember words and shit. He's so adhd frfr

But Leo is dead ass the golden child. Like, everyone asked to be leader, cuz they are teen boys, but splints chose Leo cuz "he asked for it" and then instills all his ideals in him! He's treated like he's the best at everything and is expected to be the best at everything AND to care for his brothers. And he can only feels like he doesn't really have a life. Which leads into the whole Leo develops a crush on his half sister while not knowing she's his half sister nonsense.

Donnie is just, he's the smart one. He's stressed all the time, but also a. Fucking simp who is never reprimanded by his dad for how he treats april, which he really should be! Having mindmap of every possible way an interaction could go with her is creepy! And literally stalking her!!!! Donnie's also the one who deals with Timothy and he gets in trouble for it with splints despite not even wanting to be dealing with it himself. It's a mess.

Raph has just, obvious anger issues. And splinter does not address them in a healthy way frequently. It's a lot of, "just breathe" and Raph is just: "I want to punch someone or something yesterday."

OH and splint sets his brothers shoot him with plungers while yelling at him and roah like, has a whole ass panic attack. That manifests aggressively cuz raphs anger oh so obviously comes from anxiety. But splinter like never picks up on that.

2012 splints treats the boys like students more then sons ALOT. But also cares about them enough to do shit like, break brain control cuz he didn't wanna kill them ✌️

I could probably word that better but I'm still a little high on laughing gas rn cuz I just had a dentist appointment.

yall be out here writing fandom dissertations & shit after going to the DENTIST yknow what I do after going to the dentist??? lay around in mild agony cause my sensitive ass teeth hurt...

anyway these are fun times.

i still cant get over the fact that i made my neglected turtles stay underground and never go out as a way to reflect my weird family isolation as a kid and then i watched the first ep of 2012 and it was like "yea they're fifteen and they've never left the sewers. they only know each other" and im LIKE!! WHAT!! THEY'VE LITERALLY ALMOST FINISHED PUBERTY AND THEY NEVER LEFT THEIR HOME???? THEY ONLY KNOW EACH OTHER????

i dont think the writers understand how fucked up that makes you and your relationships to people and its just like a part of the turtles story i guess???

LIKE THINKING ABOUT IT, I GET IT, and im sure thats how it is in a lot of tmnt iterations, but thats crazy. these boys would be so fucked up irl.

sorry for the ramble i just aint got much to say about ur analysis, cant say if i agree or not cause i aint even watched much 2012 lol.

[leiascully]

Fic: Citius, Altius, Fortius (MSR, T)

This ficlet is dedicated to the commercial about the adopted Paralympian that makes me sniffly every time.  I don’t even know what they’re advertising.  All credit to AAVE for the “hip” slang Mulder uses and basically all cutting-edge words in American English.

The Olympic theme was more of a suggestion than a fanfare, but Scully still leaned forward and turned the volume down a few more notches.  She could feel Mulder giving her that crinkly-eyed smile.  She knew the remote worked just fine over the distance between the tv and the couch, but it felt like it worked better when she leaned.  It was like Jackson and his video games, a sympathetic movement.

“I don’t want to wake Gracie,” she said.

“Good plan,” Mulder said, and put his arm comfortably around her shoulders as she leaned back.  Jackson snorted and looked away, but peeked back at them to check in.  Scully was glad she was there for him, the Ginger from his journals, she and Mulder solid presences in his life, bracketed by the ghosts of his adoptive parents.

“I didn’t think you two would buy into all this jingoistic shit,” Jackson said.

“We are still employed by the United States federal government,” Scully pointed out.

“They’re basically our coworkers when it comes to repping the flag,” Mulder said laconically.  “Gotta respect the hustle.  Besides, compared to a lot of national anthems, ours kinda slaps.”

Jackson winced, predictably, at Mulder’s attempt to use slang.  Scully sensed Mulder mentally adding a few tallies to his side of the imaginary scoreboard.  It was all so sweetly familiar, a song she hummed in her dreams.

“Still,” Jackson said.  “It’s all so fuckin’ rah-rah America.  I thought you knew better.  Like you said, you work for the government.  You know all the shit they pull.”

“For two weeks every two years, I support the finest athletes that wealth, health, grueling training, and the opportunities inherent in living in the country possessing the world’s largest economy can produce,” Mulder said, a trace of irony audible in his voice.  “And also anyone competing against Russia.”

“It’s a distraction from all the shitty things happening in the world,” Jackson said.

“It’s a damn good one,” Mulder countered.  “At least they’re not supersoldiers.”

“Some of them might be,” Jackson grumbled.

“Those abs,” Mulder said, sounding a little mournful.  He patted his stomach.  “I should have gone for the upgrade when I had the chance.”

“When I was little,” Scully said slowly, “my mother would tell me that the prowess of Olympic athletes was proof that God loved us.  She said that their bodies were miracles.  I don’t think about it exactly the same way now, but there is something almost holy about that quest to go farther and faster than anyone else ever has.  In a sense, we fly without wings.  We climb higher than we thought we could.  We run faster and farther than early humans imagined.  We lift heavier burdens.  We test our nerve and our resolve in feats of endurance.  We subject our bodies to almost-unbearable forces and conditions.  We test the laws of physics, twisting in the air or gliding over the ice.  For a moment, we defy expectation, gravity, and in a sense, mortality.  The athletes of the Olympics show us the potential of the human body and the human spirit in a way that our daily lives don’t, and we feel like we are there with them as we perch on the edges of our seats, our bodies echoing their movements as if we could lend them our strength.  It’s possible that sometimes a distraction is a welcome respite.  For a short time, the world is focused on something other than war.  Many of the results may be predictable, but astonishing things happen and we learn to expect the unexpected.  Athletes from nations and peoples that have been overlooked and exploited dazzle us.  A runner falls and someone pulls them up.  Someone may shatter their leg and because of that tragedy, someone else realizes their lifelong dream.  The Olympics are a microcosm of our own attempts to strive for perfection, a supercondensed spectacle that reminds us of all our potential.  In pitting us against the people of other nations, the Olympics somehow unite us in the pursuit of a singular goal, reached by various paths: a gold medal, and the accolades of an awestruck world.”

“I love it when you give a dissertation on everyday life,” Mulder murmured, kissing under her ear.

“A spectacle that displaces the people who are already the most fucked-over,” Jackson said, but there was a little less disdain in his words.  “A profit machine for corporations and a propaganda outlet for governments.  It’s a slippery slope from athletic superiority to eugenics.  Only the strong survive.”

“George Orwell said that athletic competitions were essentially a proxy for war games,” Mulder told her.  She craned her head to look at him.

“I thought you liked the Olympics.”

“I do,” he said, “but Jack has a point.”

“Hell yeah, I do,” Jackson said.

“I wasn’t saying the Olympics are perfect,” Scully argued.  “Just that they could be perceived as creating a net good.”

The broadcast cut to commercial, sentimental strings music welling quietly from the speakers.  Mulder looked away, rubbing at his eyes.  Jackson chuckled.

“It’s that easy, huh?” he said.  “All they need to get into your psyche is footage of someone winning something and some sad music, maybe a Morgan Freeman voiceover.”

“Wait until you get old,” Mulder said.  “Then you’ll be welling up at every Visa commercial.  These ads are designed by experts in psychological warfare.  The Olympic mindgames.”

“They remind us of you,” Scully told Jackson.  “You weren’t supposed to exist.  You weren’t supposed to survive.  And here you are, capable of things your father and I could never have dreamed of.”

“Whatever,” Jackson muttered, looking away and definitely not dabbing his face on the shoulder of his t-shirt.

Scully settled back into the couch.  Grace would be waking up soon - she wasn’t an Olympic-level napper - but until then, she had a moment to enjoy the half-scripted pageantry of the Games, savoring the bittersweet combination of impossible victories and unpredictable defeats.  It wasn’t unlike her own life, in a way: she’d accomplished things she’d never imagined, uncovered truths too painful to endure, run up against her own limits over and over and overcome them all to be sitting here, in her comfortable home, with her stalwart partner, dragged back from the dead, and their miraculous children.  The glint in Jackson’s eyes as he argued with Mulder was more precious to her than any medal; the sound of Grace’s sleepy sighs stirred her heart more than any anthem.  She stood atop the podium of her destiny.

She leaned her head on Mulder’s shoulder and watched the marathon swimmers cut through the water, one stroke after another, keeping themselves afloat for hours. She understood their exhaustion.  She understood their triumph.

“I like the dressage,” Jackson said unexpectedly.  “It looks like mind control if you do it right.  I’m not, like, asking for a pony.  I just think it’s cool.”

“I knew we could find some common ground,” Mulder said.  “What’s your opinion on medals for horses?”

“Horse-sized medals,” Jackson said immediately.  “Bankrupt the IOC.”

“That’s your son,” Scully told him.

“No denying it,” Mulder said in a smug voice.  The broadcast changed to gymnastics and they all sat forward, watching in awed silence, as history was made.

[hausofmamadas]

Okay so much like tofu, any time you’re like “This is Not Good,” I will never believe you bc you said this was the most ooc thing and you could replace Javi with whoever and it’d be the same. Full Lies. So, here’s my PhD dissertation explaining to you all the reasons this thing actually reads very Javi aka here’s several words on why You’re Deeply Incorrect and I’m Right

Okay, so …. *pinches bridge of nose and sighs in defeat* before we fully get into the Javi Of It All, we have to talk about it. Bc you did this thing that is so effective and disgusting and infuriating by using the setting and specifically lighting as a way to frame? position? physically contextualize the emotional disconnect between these 2 ppl, and like I’m marveling at the ingenuity whilst also sharpening the stake with which I will use to exact my revenge upon you aka stabbing you in the heart like youve just done to me bc no, seriously, actually how fffffffffucking dare you for painting with words, this gorgeous, impeccably lit, chiaroscuro-looking-in-the-movie-in-my-head scene: He looks from you, to the floor, to the half-drawn curtain over your window. Nobody’s bothered to turn the overhead light on, so he’s orange, and you’re blue.

BC YOU KNOW THAT VISUAL SHIT IS MY MF WEAKNESS. YOU KNOWW I ONLY FUCKING THINK IN TERMS OF CAMERA ANGLES AND LIGHTINT AND MOVIES IN MY HEAD AND TOU WERE LIKE COOL, TIME TO EXPLOIT THAT IN WRITING FORM IN A WAY NO ONE HAS EVER DONE BEFORE, YES, GOOD, GREAT, FINE, MY MISSION IS TO RUIN LIVES

But beyond that, I actually think what you’ve done here is as impressive as having some really pithy dialogue that screams Javi from the page, in the sense that his mannerisms and physicality are Very Fuckin Javi. For example: He’s leaning against the table, which stands against the cabinet by the bed, because you’re yet to buy any dining chairs, and he’s yet to find a way to be comfortable here, as often as he comes, which makes you both look like strangers, really. And anotha one: He waits until the amber glow is steady again, and then he nods, like you’ve asked something, and his brows pull together like he’s apologising for it.

Like I was legitimately thinking bout it if I was going into this like some blind challenge and I had to guess the characters, I’d be able to guess that it was Javi bc of the body language also ngl the subject matter would be a dead giveaway too bc lbr, if Javi Having Relations with anyone, it’s bound to be fucked up, dysfunctional, backwardsly one-sided bc the man is the conductor of the Pobrecito Expressway and a functional relationship just Aint It for his particular brand of Ridiculous but Lovable Manchild SKSKS

And something that occurred to me, reading this, is I think Javi’s general thesis about himself is kinda, “I’m in trouble and I should be bc I’m bad. Mom/Dad/Insert-Alt-Personal-Caretaker is mad at me” and the way he exhibits that physically is by trying to fold himself like a soft pretzel with cheese shrink himself into a corner. Bc in the show, how many times have we seen him, fuckin sksk arms crossed, shoulders crunched up practically to his fucking ears, in the corner of a room or off to the side against a wall?? So many that I did not at all have to suspend my disbelief that this☝🏽☝🏽was him. So, there we have it. Reason#1 why You’re Incorrect

OKAY BUT THENNBBNBSJWJWHWHE YOU DO SOWMTHINT EVEN MORE MASTERFUL I COULD ACTUALLYYYYYY HAVE YOU COMMITTED TO AN INSANE ASYLUM FOR NOT SEEING TBIS SHIT OKAAAAAAAAY, here: ‘Yeah, I noticed last time ... you don’t fuck the same when you’re thinking about something.’ ‘And you’re just telling me this now?’ he says. ‘I could hardly tell you then.’ OKAYYYY THIS IS AXTUALLT THE MOST JAVI FUCKING TBING ON TBE PLANETTTTTTJDJDJD like we have canon evidence to support this bc that one lovely sex worker, the redhead who’s name I can’t remember bc the adhd makes it impossible for me to hold anything in my mind for more than a nanosecond even says something like “you were different this time.” So we got source material that says Javi Peña is such a basket case, the man cannot fuck right… er whoops, I mean cannot fuck consistently when he is stressed, like his mental state affects his body language so much, it is perceptible even when the man is Actively👏🏽UpInThemGuts👏🏽 and this calls back to that. Like this was where I was remembering you saying you could replace Javi’s name at the top with anyone, that’s how standard it was and I was like NOOOO SKSKS NO YOU CANT. So there, Reason#2 why You’re Incorrect about this being ooc

I mean this next one has nothing to do with my Javi thesis, it’s more just fuck you for this. Like from the bottom of my tinygrinchheart, FUCK ALL THE WAY OFFFFFFF(cariñoso pa’ siempre): From here his cheek is gold, his hair is gold, and the rest of him is grey, muted by the moonlight through what’s left of the window. 

Okay and finally, the last thing that you did very subtly but masterfully was capture the contradictions and black-and-white thinking in his thought processes and that is just textbook Javi, alright. Like this shit right here: ‘Please sit,’ you say, and when he doesn’t move you add, ‘it won’t hurt less from the table.’ And this shit right here: ‘Don’t tell me until the morning, Javi.’ ‘How is that any better?’ he asks. ‘For either of us?’ ‘How is it any worse?’ okay THAT’S OUR MAN TO A FUCKINGFFKDJ TEE, with the classic black-and-white thinking.

Yknow it’s like, if I can’t commit to a serious relationship. Then yes, I must be 5ft away when we break up instead of sitting next to each other, that will make, yes, All The Difference and totally won’t hurt the same either way! Esp when I lowkey ratcheted up the intimacy from the get by invading their home without their permission. If we don’t have sex One Last Time, I can’t be in trouble anymore when I do what I came here to do which was to end things, even tho I showed up, also knowing I have almost no conception of healthy boundaries and very little self control and we usually end up having All The Sex when I’m here. If I can’t catch Escobar through bluughd leGiTiMaTE means, let’s just yeah! Let’s enlist the help of right-wing extremist guerrilla armies and a rival cartel who can do all the killing and maiming that I can’t do cause I’m in the sTuPiD DeA, thatsa great idea, nothingbadwillcomeofthatsurely *starts sweating, pulling at shirt collar, hyperventilating and IS IT HOT IN HERE?IT FEELS REALLY HOT IN HERE, RIGHT?OH AM I TALKING REALLT LOUD?OH, IM SCREAMING?SOSORRY, ITS NOT AT ALL BC IM NERVOUS AND SCARSD THAT YOURE LOOKING RIGHT THRU ME.*

Like going back to my “I’m always in trouble” thing, that narrative puts Javi in a position where he’s constantly thinking in terms of how can I achieve any temporary state of relief bc these Ew Big Feelings make me blegh, uncomfortable and powerless and muiuuurrrgrghe I don’t wanna deal with them bc I already know I’m shit, so I don’t want to focus on all these reminders of why I’m shit the most healthy so it’s easier just to FULLY B&E READER’S APARTMENT BY JIMMYING THEIR LOCKS, SHOW UP UNANNOUNCED, GO INTO THEIR HOME WHEN I KNOW I HAVE VERY LITTLE SELF CONTROL BC I ONLY SEE THINGS IN FLEETING MOMENTS OF RELIEF AND STARK ABSOLUTES WITH NO NUANCE, TO BREAK UP WITH THEM AND NO????? HOW DARE YOU INSINUATE THAT– OF COURSE WE’LL END UP IN BED– I MEAN, NO, WE WONT END UP IN BED TOGETHER!!!!!!!!! I WOILD *cough* I WOULD *starts choking on the lies* NEVER DO SUCH A THING ……….

*Bam. Immediately goes and does the thing* dammit Javi, I turn my back for five gotdamn minutes so, HA TAKE THAT Reason#3 why You’reObviouslyIncorrect about this being mediocre and ooc

And then one final fuckoffwhatisactuallywrongwithyou, whywouldyouwritethissuperinventive,poetic,gutwrenchingconcoctionofwords like I know it’s Halloween but there is no need to be MoreOfAMonster thankyou: You’re both orange, and you’re both blue, and you’ve known the colour of him since the beginning, really. Since you first told him how to get the lock just right. There’s nothing here that you hadn’t seen coming, and nothing left to say, either.

YOUVE KNOWN THE COLOROFHIMSINCETHEBEGINNINGREALLTDJDIWIWIWISISWOWIWJWIJW FUCKKJJKJJJJ YOUUUUUUUUUUSUAUWHWHQ OKAAYYYY???

Aaaaaaand, *shuts fancy, professional looking folio thing with a SLAP* I believe my work here is done😌

On Your Mind

javi x gn!reader, sort of hurt sort of comfort, 866 words for day 3 of narcoctober: song prompt, there is something on your mind - big jay mcneely a/n: i can't believe this is my first time writing javi and i cant believe its something like this and not a 30k friends to lovers kjfhg tagging: @narcosfandomdiscord @garbinge @drabbles-mc @hausofmamadas @cositapreciosa

He’s home before you are, though you never gave him a key. The lady downstairs is kind and stupid enough to let anyone into the foyer, as long as they ask politely, and you’re kind and stupid enough to have told him exactly how the lock jimmies open, if you get it just right. So here he is now, un-expectantly expectant of you. 

‘I should look into getting an alarm system,’ you say, shutting the door behind, and pouring the day from your shoulders to your feet. 

‘Maybe.’

‘Are you here for long?

He shrugs. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

You pause where you are and look at him. He’s leaning against the table, which stands against the cabinet by the bed, because you’re yet to buy any dining chairs, and he’s yet to find a way to be comfortable here, as often as he comes, which makes you both look like strangers, really. Neither of you have settled. It’s more of an introduction on neutral ground than anything else.

He’s got his arms crossed. Bare forearms, rolled sleeves. He looks from you, to the floor, to the half-drawn curtain over your window. Nobody’s bothered to turn the overhead light on, so he’s orange, and you’re blue. 

‘Bad day?’ you ask.

‘No worse than the rest.’

You try a smile, pull that card from your deck. ‘Something a whiskey might solve?’

‘Look.’ He sighs and draws his gaze back to you. ‘We should talk.’

The lamp on the bedside flickers. He waits until the amber glow is steady again, and then he nods, like you’ve asked something, and his brows pull together like he’s apologising for it. 

‘Can I take my shoes off first?’

‘It won’t—’

‘Please.’

You get another nod, and a raised hand to wave you on, before it’s tucked back under his forearm again. Crossed and waiting. 

The lace of your boot has become knotted, so it takes a pregnant minute for you to get it off, leather fighting the curve of your heel, then it drops to the ground with a thud. 

The second comes off easy and quiet. 

‘You want a drink?’ you ask, sock-footed and able to move again. You cross the room before the offer’s been answered, hand on the fridge before drink has even tilted up into a question. 

‘It won’t take,’ he tries again, ‘I shouldn’t stay.’

‘That’s what you say every time.’

‘This is different.’

You take two beers from the case on the shelf. White light there and gone again. 

‘You’re different?’ you guess.

He lets the quiet have its turn before answering. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘Yeah, I noticed last time.’ You could tell he wanted to talk then, too, but he’d been too scared, or too happy, or too greedy, to want to tell you so. ‘You don’t fuck the same when you’re thinking about something.’

There’s a laugh that you reward with one of the beers, handing it to him as you reach his side of the studio. 

‘And you’re just telling me this now?’ he says. 

‘I could hardly tell you then.’

He snorts and you match it, smiling, before dropping onto the side of the bed. From here his cheek is gold, his hair is gold, and the rest of him is grey, muted by the moonlight through what’s left of the window. 

‘Please sit,’ you say, and when he doesn’t move you add, ‘it won’t hurt less from the table.’

‘I was trying to give you space,’ he admits, standing as he does. Arms slack, knees straight. He walks two steps then dips the bed as he goes down beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

You switch the lamp off. No more orange, just blue.

He starts before you’ve even tasted the beer, which sits damp between your palms. 

‘I don’t think,’ he says, ‘we can keep doing-’

‘Wait.’

‘-this.’ His eyebrows trick his eyes into looking soft. Or tired. 'Baby,’ he reasons.

‘You’ll have to give that up,’ you reply. ‘Baby.’

You imagine his palm on your thigh and his thumb running the outer seam. Replace it directly with the sight of his fingers now, threaded together, and balanced in the gap between his knees.

‘In the morning,’ you offer him. ‘Let’s save it for then, okay?’

He exhales and looks away before the last of it can hit your face. ‘It wouldn’t be fair.’

‘To who?’ You’re smiling somehow. ‘I’m the one suggesting it.’

‘We can’t just keep on—’

‘Don’t say it,’ you interrupt again, because you know already. ‘Don’t tell me until the morning, Javi.’

‘How is that any better?’ he asks. ‘For either of us?’

‘How is it any worse?’

You’re both orange, and you’re both blue, and you’ve known the colour of him since the beginning, really. Since you first told him how to get the lock just right. There’s nothing here that you hadn’t seen coming, and nothing left to say, either. 

‘One more night?’ you ask, for a final hopeless time. ‘Don’t tell me now.’

You watch his throat as he swallows the request, his lips as he nods in reply. ‘Alright,’ he says, ‘until the morning.’ 

And then there’s his hand. There’s your thigh. 

______

[morwensteelsheen]

I struggle with figuring out what the expectations are for aristocratic marriage in Gondor and Rohan. One thing I’ve toyed about with in my head is treating LOTR as not just unreliably narrated, but as super unreliably narrated, and taking ‘the Steward and the King’ not as gospel, but essentially as a bit of PR/marketing. Because wow, isn’t it really, really convenient that the Steward of Gondor/second most powerful man in the realm gets married to the most powerful woman of the Riddermark, Gondor’s closest ally? Isn’t that a little too convenient? What if Frodo just copies down the press release given to him by Faramir and instead of being this stunning high romance, he and Éowyn are basically just a run-of-the-mill political marriage?

(Obviously I don’t believe this fully, but it is an interesting thought.)

Here’s where it becomes harder to justify though, and here’s why I’m really confused about how marriage works for both Gondor and Rohan’s nobility. 

If political marriage were a thing in either of them, it stands to reason that it’s quite strange that neither Boromir nor Théodred are married with kids. The appendices say that Denethor ‘married late’ for having married Finduilas when he was forty-six, but when Boromir dies he’s forty-one. So he’s not far off at all. Théodred is the same age as Boromir, and we know that Théoden was married to Elfhild at least by the time that he was thirty, though he probably married her before that. So Théodred’s really late. 

So not only do neither of the heirs have kids, they’re not even married. Even if they didn’t have kids, you would think that, if political marriages were the norm, they’d be shipped off post-haste, right? Dol Amroth was secured in its loyalty to MT through Denethor marrying Finduilas (and obviously the whole happy go luck proto-nationalism shit that’s going on), and it seems like the rest of the major provinces are mostly in line, so why not use a marriage to secure the alliance with the Mark? I would have Boromir married off to Éowyn ASAP since there are no women to marry off to Théodred. But the fact that that doesn’t happen is interesting, I think. And also really complicates my HC that Éomer/Lothíriel is mostly a political thing, tbh. 

It’s all even more interesting in light of Faramir’s line in TTT where he’s explaining why the Kings of Gondor fell apart:

Childless lords sat in aged halls musing on heraldry...

Because, like, buddy, you are a childless lord sitting in an aged hall. And not only that, but since his brother was unmarried and childless before his death, he was probably always going to become the Steward at some point anyways, even if only briefly. So it’s not like he gets to claim amnesty via spare-status, because until the moment Boromir had kids (which he never did), he was constantly in secondary heir mode. So??? why wasn’t Faramir married off either? My dude was THIRTY-SIX during the war. He could’ve had fuckin hunners of kids by that point, but you’re telling me everyone was just gucci with him maintaining bachelor status?

Also, Faramir pointing it out does have the effect of politicising marriage somewhat. We know that Faramir’s somewhat out of step politically with the rest of Gondor, at least that in he appears to be very, very obsessed with bringing back the Númenor stuff and criticising Gondor over the last five hundred or so years. So if he’s diagnosed this childless lords problem as a problem that led to Gondor’s decay, he’s probably doing it because others don’t really see it that way. ‘Others’ here could be either Boromir (see the bottom of this post) or it could be Gondorians generally, we can’t know. Either way, Lord Faramir, thirty-six years old and unmarried, seems to think that lords not ensuring there were heirs to their houses was a problem. That contradiction/incidental hypocrisy is noteworthy!

I’ve typically taken this in my fics as an indication that the war was quite an intense and cataclysmic thing even before the official War of the Ring starts, and that all of these guys are way, way too busy dealing with that to consider marrying, but that opens up the question — when did things get so dire that securing the future of the ruling houses got deprioritised? Sauron openly declared himself in TA2951, but twenty-six-ish years later both Denethor and Théoden get married, so marriage is still at play in ~TA2976. Not a huge amount happens between 2976 and 3018 in explicit canon. We know that Elrond recalls Arwen from Lórien in 3009 because everything east of the Misty Mountains is becoming dangerous. By this time Boromir and Théodred are 31 and Faramir is 26, which made me wonder if it would be reasonable to have expected any of them to be married at that point. I did some quick math to see how old the title-holders were when they were married, stopping at the fifth generation back to accommodate Thorondir, who was the first Steward to not crack a century of life. Here’s what I’ve got:

(Where an actual wedding year wasn’t given, I based it on the year their eldest child was born.)

(Worth noting that Denethor’s not that much older than Ecthelion likely was when he married, so the ‘married old’ remark could instead be a reference to when Gondorians got married generally, not specifically to the Númenórean lot.)

There’s a chance all these guys got married way, way earlier and just spent ages childless, but… I sort of doubt that. Also I’m doing this based on what I can access from my laptop, so both HoME and PoME might contradict me or give more specific dates. If that’s the case — sorry! 

It is interesting that if we accept HoME’s dating of Faramir and Éowyn’s wedding as TA3020 as canon, then Faramir (married at 37) is actually younger than the average for the previous five generations of Stewards. So is Éomer, because by marrying Lothíriel in 3021 he’s actually just getting in early by a a year or so. 

Regardless, it makes statistical sense that neither Boromir nor Faramir are married by 3009, though Théodred is sort of pushing it. Certainly by 3018 when he dies he’s really taking the piss, but Boromir is still sort of in the clear (but getting up there), and Faramir’s kind of fine. 

We know, at least, that there’s a canonical acknowledgement of Boromir’s bachelor status, per Appendix A:

Rather he was a man after the sort of King Eärnur of old, taking no wife and delighting chiefly in arms.

No accounting for Théodred, though based on Faramir’s bitching about Rohan and Gondor becoming more alike, you could probably chalk it up to the same thing as Boromir. I note, however, that Théodred’s need is slightly more urgent because in absence of an heir from Théodred, the throne would then pass to Éomer. I think we might reasonably assume that he wouldn’t have a problem with this (Théoden might have, given how effective Wormtongue’s manoeuvring was), but we can’t know for certain.

Worth pointing out as well that Elphir’s son Alphros is born in 3017, so it’s not like nobody is getting it on. 

I was interested in what the numbers for the ladies would look like, and obviously this is complicated by the fact that there’s like twenty named human women and even fewer with birth dates/marriage dates, but here’s what the table looks like:

(Because so many of the women we know of are women who crossed between Rohan and Gondor, I put them in columns based on their birth culture, not where they married into.)

Also here’s some fuel for the age gap discourse:

(Can you tell I’m procrastinating my dissertation???)

Anyways, outside of some apparent liberalism towards the ol’ begetting of heirs, there’s not a huge amount of information floating around to help us understand how or if marriage was understood politically in Rohan and Gondor. You get bits and pieces (Aragorn’s ‘no niggard are you, Éomer’ comment at Éowyn and Faramir’s trothplighting, for example, Wormtongue being after Éowyn, for another), but nothing extended or particularly explicit. 

Just one of those things, really… 

[ace-trainer-risu]

oh here! i’ll come ask you for book recs lol. do you have any spooky and/or autumn-y book recs? or just your fave books :)

First of all, I'm sorry this took me SO long to answer. I want to say I've been busy but it's just been general [waves hand vaguely] life.

ANYWAY thank you for asking! I actually don't read scary stuff a lot b/c I'm a wimp, but I have a few spooky/autumnal books up my sleeves! Let's see what we've got!!

1) The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters

Let me just start by saying that Sarah Waters is one of my absolute favorite authors ever! All her novels are suspenseful, twisty historical novels with great female and queer characters. Although, fair warning, actually The Little Stranger is like her one novel that isn't queer, but it is VERY good. If you read The Little Stranger and like it, please read Fingersmith and/or The Paying Guests.

The Little Stranger is set in the countryside of post-WWII England and follows a mild-mannered doctor as he becomes increasingly involved in the lives of the family living in the local, increasingly decrepit, possibly haunted mansion. Think Downton Abbey but creepy. Strange things keep happening inside the house, from dog bites to mysterious sounds to creepy black spots. Literally just typing that gave me goosebumps. It seems like someone may be out to get the family, but who...or what? Is it simply the ghosts of their own painful memories, or is something more? Sarah Waters is excellent at lush, intricate historical detail, and she leans into that here to create an atmosphere of slowly building dread and horror and mystery.

That being said, as a person who isn't normally a fan of horror, I don't think this book is too scary. It's more of an atmospheric, psychological horror than a jump-scare, bloody horror. It's not a book that will give you nightmares (probably), but you might lie awake thinking about it.

Also. Pro-tip. As a haunted(?) house story, the house is obviously fairly central to the story. Dear fellow Americans, keep in mind that the British refer to the floors of a building differently than us. For Americans, the ground-level floor is called the first floor, the floor above that the second floor, etc. For the British, the ground-level floor is the ground floor, and the floor above that is the first floor, etc. There's all sorts of creepy references to characters hearing noises above them on the first floor, but I was just like, Why are they always in the basement?

2) Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno Garcia

This and the above are two very different books, and yet they are both set in the mid-1900s and both are about weird, creepy, maybe-haunted houses. What can I say, I like gothic fiction.

After our heroine, Noemi, receives a bizarre, borderline incoherent letter from her beloved cousin, she sets out to visit her in the literally decaying mansion she resides in with her husband and his new family deep in the countryside of Mexico. All Noemi wants to do is persuade her cousin to come back home with her, but her cousin's new in-laws are very determined not to let that happen...or to let Noemi leave either. Secrets abound in the bizarre house and even creepier nearby cemetery, and soon Noemi finds that she too is suffering from bizarre dreams and visions...although, are they just dreams?

This book is so weird, but in such a good way? I read it for a book club and every week we had increasingly bizarre theories about what was going on, we were googling alchemy and fungi and St George, and some of our theories were even right. Although definitely not all. Another very twisty one that keeps you guessing.

In terms of scariness, interestingly I think there's more overtly creepy and horrifying moments in this novel than The Little Stranger, but I found TLS more overall scary? But that may be because I read it quickly, which I think is the ideal setting for suspenseful stuff, and I read Mexican Gothic over a longer amount of time since it was for a book club. This one does have some more typical horror elements to it, but I don't think it's more creepy than terrifying.

3) The Echo Wife by Sarah Gailey

I listened to this one as an audiobook and the audiobook is excellent so would recommend that, but have no doubt it would also be great to physically read.

Oh my god this book...it's more thriller than horror, but I think it fits the brief. There were multiple moments listening to this book that I literally gasped or said "OH MY GOD!" out loud, and there are moments which are very creepy and horrifying. There's a particular scene in the backyard... Again, incredibly suspenseful and twisty. And the character development and character psychology is just! really really good! There's also really interesting and knotty feminist stuff which is a lot more complicated and nasty than some of the "girlboss" stuff which is popular right now.

Super minimal summary: All you really need to know is that it is a sci fi novel about a scientific researcher trying to pick up her life after her marriage has imploded, only for everything to go BATSHIT WRONG. Trust me, that's all you need to know, it's better to go into this not knowing what's going to happen or what to expect. I had no clue what this novel was about when I started it, and holy shit. Very good book, absolutely recommend this if you want some super suspenseful, creepy sci fi that will make you say "oh my GOD" repeatedly.

Okay, shifting gears a little now b/c autumn isn't just spooky, it's also cozy and restful and daydreamy!

4) The Thinking Woman's Guide to Real Magic by Emily Croy Barker

This isn't maybe a cozy book per se, but it's a great book to cuddle down with on a dreary day and lose yourself in. If you've ever asked yourself, "What would it be like if you crossed Pride and Prejudice with Howl's Moving Castle except the wizard was way worse but somehow still sexy" - then you should read this book! I actually came across this book b/c I was like, I wanna read a book that's a portal fantasy but for adults, and this book was like OH here's everything you wanted.

It's about a grad student, Nora, who has totally stalled out on her dissertation and is at a shitty wedding when she accidentally wanders through a portal into a beautiful, fantastical fairy world. At first, everything is amazing and literally perfect...but surprise surprise, not all as is it seems, and soon everything goes to, how should I put it, shit. Nora escapes, but rather than returning home, she finds herself trapped in a far more dreary realm. But not one without it's own charms and it's own magic, and Nora finds herself the student-slash-sorta-captive of the crochety, sexy, maybe-killed-his-wife magician Aruendiel* and she begins to learn magic herself.

Unlike the above books, this is not a fast-paced, twisty book, and I think if you go into this expecting high fantasy along the lines of Game of Thrones, you may be disappointed. It's not really a typical high-fantasy novel, it's more of a cross of an 18th/19th century realist novel, a fairy tale, and a fantasy novel. But if you want that, then it's REALLY good! I loved this book! And the magic in it is so cool, something about the way its described feels so visceral and real and like you could really do it if you just tried hard enough. There is a romance and it's totally, intentionally hashtag problematic, but it's very laid back, very slow burn, so I think even if you aren't a person who digs romance you can still enjoy this. If you're looking for a feminist-leaning fantasy novel that you can just sink into and lose yourself in, this is the perfect book. You will long to magically fix broken plates.

5) The Ruthless Lady's Guide to Wizardry by C.M. Waggoner

Honestly I can't even justify why I think this one is an autumn book. It simply is. It's autumn colored in my head. It is the coziest book I have ever read about necromancy and crime. Also I just want to recommend it. This is another one that I listened to as an audiobook and it's also a good audiobook, for those who are interested. But it also means I will not be able to spell absolutely any of the character's names.

This novel follows Delly, an enterprising young scoundrel of a fire witch with a teeny tiny gin habit as she attempts to support herself and her hot-mess of a mom in the roughest neighborhoods of Fantasy-City-That-I-Can't-Remember-The-Name-Of. Lice...gate? When Delly comes across an advertisement for a bodyguarding job for young women for a hefty fee, it seems like the answer to definitely not all but at least some of her problems. She accepts, along with an interesting assortment of other sorcerous young ladies, including a wonderfully bitchy Absentia (my love), a young woman who can turn into a boar, boar girl's necromancer mother, and the very sexy part-troll Winn, who in my imagination looks like Gwendoline Christie and talks like Miranda Hart. Which. Perfect woman. Winn being a fine, wealthy young lady, Delly can't help but think to herself that it wouldn't be such a bad thing if Winn happened to fall in love with her and carried her off to be rich and spoiled the rest of her life.

Of course, things quickly don't go to plan, and soon Delly and her companions find herself caught up in wicked schemes of murder, drugs, and an undead mouse named Buttons who says BONG. I love Buttons SO MUCH.

This book is just a silly romp of a novel which worms into your heart and your brain. It's fun and cute and gay, and also it made me cry. I haven't stopped thinking, "Not quite regulation hammerball" since I listened to it like half a year ago.

Also, while I'm here, this novel is set in the same world as and features a few of the same characters as Unnatural Magic. Which is also a hell of a book. Literally the best bisexual relationship I have ever fuckin read. It's a winter book tho, so I simply can't go into it here.

Aaaaand...that it's! Happy autumnal reading :)

[verdandasrsblog]

So this week I got Annoyed™ at Kara-Meir and Garlandia’s designs (Partially due to @enkoro-rs suggesting I do Kara-Meir, after which I fell down a rabbit hole). Like with the Laniakea overhaul I’m going to put my reasoning/inspo under the cut for anyone that’s interested

Honestly, where do I even start with Kara-Meir? I guess I’ll just go top-down, 

1) Hair - Based on the novel covers it seems like she was supposed to be blonde originally, and just have an absolute shit ton of hair. Since the flow of the in-game design’s braids didn’t make no goddamn sense, I found some ACTUAL braided bun hairstyles and combowombo’d them into one mega hairstyle.  The pins in the buns with the danglies are really just to be fancy, but I also wanted to incorporate the bits hanging off her belt in her in-game model’s concept art. 

pictured: whatever the fuck these are supposed to be

2) Skin/Face/Eyes - So originally I actually colour dropper her skin from the concept art and then realized she was maybe a bit tanner than the concept, but you know what? Fuck it. I tried to keep her face shape from the concept since the cover art of her is just kinda “Generic white lady” but honestly she got a bit pointier than that in the end. I’m also not sure what her canon eye colour is supposed to be; Zooming in on the ref just gave me brown, which is what I ended up using, but if that’s not correct and anyone has the novels let me know. 

3) Clothing - So I restrained her cape to something someone could maybe fight in, but my main concern was her armor - She’s supposed to be a knight but what’s up with the bikini boob breast plate? She’s portrayed as wearing both chain and full plate in the cover art and is clearly a melee fighter, so changing her to plate armor seemed obvious. Since she can wield Sunspear (t75) it makes sense to me that her Def would be somewhere in the 70s to match, which with the rework means necronium. 

So like, obviously Necronium is a particular aesthetic that didn’t seem quite right for her. Looking at her lore, she has a wolf theme in her backstory and since she's also supposed to have some smithing ability (she was raised by dwarves) I thought it'd make sense that she might make her own. She’s also been to Morytania in the books, meaning she could have access to Phasmatite (Her access to the Necrite is a bit more iffy but she is hanging out on Tuska after that event so she has at least some experience with the desert).  I had tried out the red glow initially but it looked like shite and didn’t really fit her anyway, so I think the gold is a better compromise both character-wise and aesthetically. 

4) Sunspear - So she canonically has a sunspear, and I ended up using the current in-game design for it since her concept art one just seemed... unstable 

I get that it’s reforged or whatever but it looks like it’s gonna shatter on impact with anything

Truthfully, though? You know what she should have? One of THESE bad boys:

AKA just a Grecian-style spear head. It’d also be more believable that she thinks it’s a dagger if it looks like this. I still think the in-game sunspear is a bit more ~dramatic~ but it should just be a spear tip quite frankly 

Okay, onto Garlandia: 

1) Hair/Face/Skin/Eyes - I’m grouping the hair in here since I honestly just left it as the in-game version (At least from what I can see from her chat head, I can’t remember if there’s some BS going on on her back or not).  Ancient Greek women did tend to braid their hair so that’s accurate-ish, I guess. For her skin though, she mentions in dialogue that “Her skin shed its colour”, but her model isn’t any paler than the other icyene in game. Accordingly, I made her significantly paler, and gave her a bit of frost bite damage on her extremities from the winter she had to endure after her wings were ripped off (I considered making it darker but there’s a point where they just need to be amputated since it won’t heal, so I went with something less intense to show that it’s healed since). For her eye colour, I zoomed in on her chat head but it wasn’t quite clear - 2/4 icyene in-game have blue eyes, but I went with gold to match the rest of her pallet. 

2) Clothes - This is a big one since I spent a lot of time staring at Greek art trying to figure out what a Greek-inspired character would wear when they never want to be cold ever again (It would make sense for her due to the trauma). Additionally, her skin is kinda fucked, and having it be uncovered would probably just lead to sunburn which is the last thing she needs. The shape of the middle woman’s chiton below inspired the hem of her dress, since I wanted to give her a very flowing, fashionable look:

She was supposed to have been a noble so like, fuckin’ Fashion, Baybee

I also turned her weird metal underpants into a girdle, since a waist band of some form or another isn’t uncommon in the images we have of ancient Greek attire: 

Garlandia, why did you have metal panties? 

Since she’s a bard (I THINK?) I also strapped on some extra storage for sheet music. Her jewelry was inspired by the following pieces, though TBH she could probably be decked out more, I just wanted to leave her hands mostly free for that good good harp playin’ 

3) Shoes - These get their own section because I did way too much research for it not to. Basically, most Greeks straight up didn’t wear shoes, never mind socks. Also, in her model, is it just me or do her shoes look uncomfortable as fuck??

Yikes girl are those cutting into your thighs?

Anyways, with her feet/toes being fucked up from frostbite, I wasn’t going to NOT give her shoes/socks, which meant I started looking at roman artifacts instead:

I found mention of romans wrapping their feet in fabric when it got cold, but the only “sock” I could find was from a roman fort in Britain:

So, like, needless to say after all that and also getting suckered into reading about the nuances of gladiatorial combat for like an hour I ended up going for something more modern:

So anyways they’re 0% accurate from what I could find but I like the vibe 

4) Himation - So remember what I was saying about how Garlandia would probably hate being cold? Check out these bad boys: 

Basically the ancient Grecian version of the Blanket Cape, and also used as outerwear in the winter! It seems like the winter ones would have been made from wool, I’d imagine she’d wear it most places except maybe the desert or Karamja since those are warm enough on their own. 

Anyways thanks for coming to my fucking runescape character redesign dissertation, next on the chopping block? Who knows. Maybe Zuzu (I heard her voice acting recently since I never play with sound and YIKES YIKES YIKES YIKES I HAD NO IDEA OH GOD)

[buckyscrystalqueen]

Too Smart for Your Own Good: Part 1

Pairings: Machine Gun Kelly x Reader, (Past and Future) Henry Cavill x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, one night stand, unprotected sex

Word Count: 2,551

A/N: Doesn’t have a completed end yet, but just giving you more content to try to get myself out of a writing funk. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So there’s something you need to know about my cousin.” Ashleigh sighed as she took her ID back from the guard at the gate of your very exclusive Malibu community. Colson looked over at his best friend and manager as she ran her fingers through her hair and looked out the front window for a moment. With a small shake of her head, she looked over at him with a small sigh. “She’s weird, OK? And like… stupid rich.”

“Stupid rich.” He confirmed with a huff as the guard got off the phone with you and let your guests into the beach side development. “What, you got a fucking actor in your family I don’t know about, Ash?” Your cousin sighed again, trying to figure out just how to explain the one branch of her blood line no one really ever talked to or about.

“She discovered a new branch of stars and like micro planets and shit in the Milky Way that no one knew existed… when she was eleven.” Kels felt his jaw actually drop as his friend continued past the extravagant houses to the only gate guarded house at the very end of the road. “So her grandmother, Ann was the woman that invented the baby carrier in the 60’s for her son, my Uncle Negan, who is now the president of a motorcycle gang in LA- the Sanctuary? You heard of them?”

“Heard of ‘em.” He confirmed with a nod as he looked up at what he could see of the massive house through the slow moving bars of your personal gate.

“He married my mom’s sister, Lucille, and they had (Y/N). Aunt Lucille died in child birth, and Negan and my family got in a huge fight over who was a better fit to raise my cousin. With all the money that she was lined up to get, it was almost a sickening free for all for my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. But in the midst of the arguing, it turned out she was genius level smart. Like Sheldon Cooper from Big Bang Theory was literally loosely based off her and she gets royalties off that shit. And after seeing all of the fighting going on over her for no reason, she convinced her dad to write us all off as a toddler. Which he happily did because he does anything his little girl asks him to do. She doesn’t talk to any of the older generations of my family but she talked to must of the cousins occasionally as long as they weren’t asking for money. Which, in the end, basically left me because I just see her as my cousin and not for her money.” Kels nodded his head slowly as Ashleigh parked her car and turned off the ignition. 

“She’s an amazing person that has had one hell of a life because of her circumstances. Picked on for being rich, for being smart… for actually remembering her mother’s death. And it doesn’t help that her dad is in a gang or that he’s in prison for manslaughter or something like that.” Ashleigh shook her head again and grabbed her purse off the back seat to go inside. “She never had a chance. But I love coming up here when I come to town…”

“You better have my love child with you!” You shouted as you headed up the stairs on the side of your house that ran along the edge of the cliff which acted like a giant privacy wall for the left side your property. “Hi, I’m all sandy but still.”

“He’s with me.” Ash giggled as you wiped your hands off on your short jean shorts and stopped for only half a second to kiss her cheek. “I need a favor.”

“This is not favor town, Ash.” You said as you pulled open the back door to coo at your second cousin, Ashton. “This is Auntie love time! Hi munchkin!” 

“(Y/N), this is Colson Baker, AKA Kels, or Machine Gun Kelly.”

“Kels is fine.” Colson said as you tossed Ashton up in the air a few inches to make him laugh.

“Mr. Baker works just as well.” You cooed to your cousin as you put him on your hip and turned to head inside. “Because I’m going to assume that the favor the pair of you need involves him, which leads me to deduce that this is a business transaction of some kind. You may either follow, or stand in my driveway all day, either option is acceptable in the world today. Freedoms and whatnot. Unless you are waiting for a formal invitation in which case, I’d be more than happy to write one up for you.”

“Her social skills with new people aren’t the best either.” Ashleigh whispered as low as she physically possibly could as she slung her bag over her shoulder and followed you toward the wrought iron gate at the entrance of your atrium. “But it’s better when you get to know her…”

“I can hear you talking shit, bitch.” You said evenly as you stopped and held the gate open for your guests. You gave the stranger to you a once over with your eyebrow raised as he passed by you and gave him a slight half nod. “I don’t see the purpose of small talk and sarcasm is the best defense in the world.”

“Small talk is over-rated.” Kels agreed as he, too, checked you out as shamelessly as you had. “Nice ink.”

“Save it.” You huffed with a smirk as you walked through the guest atrium and pushed open your ten foot tall, solid wood, pivot hinge front door to reveal the breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean you had. “What do you need? Yes, I’m putting you down.” You giggled as you set Ashton down on the floor and reached down for his hand to lead him over so he could push the window button, which made the glass panels slide open like doors into the walls so he could play out in the little private yard you had.

“Well… OK, so every year…” Ashleigh started as you helped Ashton into his favorite swing. “…we put on this concert for Christmas called XXmas. It’s fuckin’ crazy and it’s been sold out the last few years easy. It’s a two hour long set and they do some local Cleveland rappers for openers. (Y/N), you gotta see it some time. I mean, the following that Kels has managed to create…”

“The concert is in two days.” Colson interrupted when he noticed the slight hint of annoyance on your face. “And my guitarist broke his arm in a car accident last night. Now, Ash says you’re some kinda musical genius or some shit and you’d be able to help…?”

“I have plans.” You stated evenly as you kept your eyes locked on the toddler in front of you.

“It’s one night.” Ashleigh breathed, pleadingly as she took a step closer to you so you’d almost be forced to look up at her. “One night and I can make sure you are on a plane back that night or early the next morning. I’ll even pay for a private jet out of my own pocket to get you back on time to see your dad for Christmas if I have to.” With an audible sigh, you looked up at your cousin with a small shake of your head.

“Fuck you.”

“I love you, too.” She beamed, knowing that you were never going to say no to helping her out. You rolled your eyes and growled as you continued to push your cousin.

“Alright, play your songs. Which ever ones you want me to know, start playing them before I change my mind.” Colson looked a little stunned and glanced over at Ashleigh, who quickly pulled out her phone and nodded.

“She has an eidetic memory. All she needs to do is hear it once and she can memorize it.”

“Changing my mind over here.” You joked, flatly as you shot her an annoyed glare. “And it’s too close to Christmas to fight with flights so I’ll hire a jet. Hope your tickets are refundable.”

——

You choose to spend the four and a half hour flight sitting in the back of the private jet, with three different head phones in, listening to the full set list on repeat in your right ear, a narrated dissertation of someones research on further exploration of one of your original dissertations about the Milky Way’s cannibalism of surrounding stars in your left, and the feed back from your electric guitar in the head set you had over both ear buds. Your dad always told you you were crazy when you ‘nerded out’ like this, not being able to understand how you were able to have three different forms of audio stimulus going at the same time, nor how you could differentiate and focus on all three simultaneously. Even though you had your eyes closed, you could see the shift in the sun light in front of you and no matter how much you tried to ignore the feeling of eyes boring into your face, you couldn’t.

“This better be good.” You sighed as you pulled off your head set and pulled out both ear buds in an attempt to look civil.

“Three head phones?” Colson asked as you dropped the hardware in your lap and paused the two recordings on your phone.

“Keeping up with a dissertation from a colleague, listening to the set list, and messing around with it on my guitar.” You told him as you pointed to the corresponding head sets.

“Messing around with the set?” He asked as he scooted forward a bit in his chair and looked at the classic honey burst Les Paul on your lap. “Gunna share with the class?”

“Didn’t plan on it.” You responded as you tucked your legs up on the chair and held out one of the headphones. “But I’ll indulge all the same.” He nodded his head and put only one side over his ear while you handed him the other music headphone, put the original one in your ear, and pulled up the next track on the list. Your eyes closed again as the opening cords for ‘Rehab’ started playing, and you jumped right in with the riff that you had wrote in your head more to play for your father when you went to see him for Christmas.

“You wrote that?” Colson asked when you had finished. “You write music, too?!”

“No. No, I don’t.” You said quickly as you took back your headphones from him and put the extra ear bud away. “I… well, I remix songs. For my dad, mostly. When I go and visit… well I have a guitar there, and on nicer days, we sit outside and play name that tune. And I get my competitive side from him so I’ve gotten really good at recreating songs so that he can’t guess them but so they still sound like the original track.”

“So what’s he in for?” He asked innocently, which made you instantly stiffen and throw a wall up.

“Does it matter?” You retorted a little sharply. “He’s in prison.”

“Yo, my bad.” He said quickly as he held his hands up in surrender. “Didn’t know it was a touchy subject.” You nodded your head and glanced down at your lap as you started putting your headphones back in.

“Look, I’m not here to make friends, Mr. Baker. I’m here to help out some family, then I’m going home. That’s all. I don’t need friends…”

“Yea, you fucking got it.” He barked back as he got up from his chair to go back to his friends. With a shake of your head, you started your music and your paper back up, and slipped back into your anti-social bubble for a little bit longer.

——

You had never been an adrenaline junkie in your life, having had enough experiences with the club, but as you stood on the stage, playing through the set, you actually started craving the feeling. The high that the crowd was creating, feeding your soul and the music pouring out of the speakers behind you. You felt like a total rock star and you were glad that this feeling was something that you would remember forever.

It hadn’t taken you long into the set for you to notice Kels either, and not just notice, but really notice him. How sexy he looked in his low slung red pants with his ethika boxers peeking out. You hated that you were turned on by this stupid punk… but fuck if you couldn’t help but want to fuck his brains out. Even if his kid was only a hundred feet away from you, even if you never planned on seeing or speaking to him ever again. You almost needed to be under his sweat drenched body as fast as you could or your head was going to explode.

“She smiles.” Colson teased when the last cords of the last song faded away in the auditorium. You smirked and pulled out your ear phones as you handed off Ace’s guitar to the stage hand.

“Occasionally. Only when I’m having a really good time.” He nodded his head and looked around for a moment before grabbing your arm and turning you toward a side stage door. “Colson…?”

“You… are driving me fucking crazy.” He growled as he locked the door behind him with a shake of his head. “And I want to be pissed off at you for being a bitch for no fucking reason… but fuck I wanna fuck you way to Goddamn bad.”

“Oh, fuck…” You moaned as he pushed you back against a shelving unit and quickly started ripping at your jean shorts button.  “Kels… the crew… your daughter…”

“Guess I’ll just have to be quick then.” You whined at him as he shoved your bottoms off, and lifted you up off the floor by the backs of your thighs. He pushed his boxers and pants down only as far as he needed, and slid into you. Your eyes rolled back and you grabbed on to his shoulder and the shelving unit you were pressed up against. It was short, quick, and dirty, and you both got off within a couple minutes, but it was absolutely worth it… until it wasn’t.

“Thanks for helping out… and not just on stage…” Colson said, almost dismissively as you both pulled up your bottoms. You let out a huff and ran your fingers through your hair.

“Do me a favor and don’t even so much as think my fucking name ever again.” You snapped as you pushed past him and threw the door to the closet open. You walked quickly to the green room, grabbed your bag and your guitar case off the floor and pulled out your phone to call a cab as Ashleigh called out your name from across the room. As a lone tear fell down your cheek, you simply walked away from her, back through the stadium halls, and out the back door, leaving your brief lapse of judgement in the janitors closet behind you.

Part 2

[honeyedlashton]

Ok buckle in babies, we’re making a ship list. (Part 1)

(I don’t know why I’m making this other than the idea gave me dopamine and I like gay shit.)

Basically I’m gonna be going through each ship and going through the realness, the type of relationship they have, whose top and whose bottom, and overall how much they hype each other (in interviews, on twitter, on live-streams. You name it.) Then I’ll be grading them on a scale of 1 to 10.

Now first a disclaimer: I’m making this ship list is based solely on my opinions, the evidence I’ve seen, and what the tarot cards have told me. And even though it’s fact in my mind doesn’t mean it’s fact for real. So honestly just enjoy them cause we’re in for a wild ride. Feelin good?

Good. Let’s go alphabetically shall we?

1) Cake

Cake is a great ship. I think it’s one of the more plausible ships in 5sos cause you better believe giggly baby boy Luke loves him some Calum. I think this relationship is actually just a booty call though. Like Luke and Calum are friends with benefits, I have no doubt about it.

Look at that.

So needless to say the top and the bottom are pretty obvious. Luke being a bottom, and Calum being the top. Take one good look at both of them together at /any age and tell me I’m wrong. Calum could beat the shit out of Luke anytime. It just helped when he got muscles.

Luke was trying to get dicked down in this live stream, and the one before that. Fr. Quarantine’s got this boy going crazy. And generally on twitter they’re flirty. And Calum Luke’s to roast Luke a LOT.

Final review of Cake: 7/10

—————————————————

2) Cashton

An unbreakable bond. The best of friends. Two sides of the same chaotic coin. They’re as real as it comes. If Ashton does something, Calum’s there. You cannot separate them. And why would you want to?

Now I don’t think that Cashton fucks, let’s be completely honest. Who the hell would top? I feel like Calum is more likely to bottom than Ashton, but he’s not likely to bottom with Ashton. They’d fight over it. Physically. Full brawl beatdown. So no drunk hookups for them. But I feel like they probably do send porn to each other, smfh. They’re chaotic.

They hype each other up all the time. As best friends do. They wrote a fucking song about their friendship sober, and then another one drunk. Ashton has now been seen writing Calum fanfiction, it’s done. They’re inseparable. Name a more iconic duo.

Final review of Cashton 8/10

—————————————————

3) Lashton

Ok I know. I’m a bit biased on this one... it is my handle, but, it’s my handle for good reason. I mean where should you even start with these two? I mean obviously they’re real. Obviously they’re real. If you choose an interview—any interview—and focus on either one of them, they’re likely looking at each other. Like they’re the kings of staring at each other when they shouldn’t be. Get a fuckin room already, damn.

You don’t have to watch him all the time buddy. He’s not gonna disappear. And not to mention everytime they’re beside each other, THEYRE

ALWAYS

TOUCHING.

Like there is so much more, this is just a basic search through commonly used gifs.

So I’ve seen a lot of discrepancies between who tops and who bottoms, and you can’t tell me that Luke could ever top Ashton. I’m sorry, but I’ve seen the outline of Luke’s dick in leather pants, and to think he tops anyone is a stretch. But Ashton? No. Ashton tops.

Maybe he was verse way back in the day? But after he got muscles and started wearing bandanas? The days of bottom!ash were done. I’m really sorry guys. I hate to do it to you. But Luke is a soft boy who likes being picked up, and Ashton likes caring for Luke too much to be his sub.

Speaking of care, Ashton could write a dissertation sized paper on how much he loves Luke. He would go on about it. And has. Numerous times. He always tries to boost Luke’s confidence, and sometimes roasts him as well. Tell me that’s not boyfriend moves right there. And it’s constant. Ashton is in love with Luke. And that’s the point.

Final review of Lashton: 10/10

—————————————————

Ok that’s part 1. And I’m only breaking it up, cause there’s only 10 images per post. What a fuckin rip off. Anyway, part 2 soon and we’ll go into the three M’s cause Mikey deserves love and his own post.

[kyberborne-a]

@solereus​ said: 💞 (ps I love you with my whole heart and I hope you know how much I appreciate your friendship and our chats! they make me smile and I’m lucky to have you as a friend, darling 🥰)

*CRACKS KNUCKLES* TIME TO WRITE A WHOLE FUCKIN NOVEL! no but really gates i could go on and on about how much i absolutely fuckin adore you. we’ve literally only been friends for about six months (since january i think??) but it feels like i’ve known you forever. you are an absolute delight and i enjoy our little chats and check-ins every day. you are literally the fuckin bestest. you are smart, kind, so talented and creative. me and you have been through some shit ya know wading through the trenches and our bond has only come out stronger because of it!! i know i can come to you with anything and hopefully you know that you can do the same to me, i am always here for you to vent or rant or problem solve i’d take a bullet for you babey! not to mention how funny you are, i literally always bust up laughing when we talk or explode into a keysmash<3 your passion and your love really shines through in all of the characters you write. whether its luke or cassian or seth or matt (can u believe we rped together on matt and rook before we even knew each other then didnt realize...our minds!!), you hit the nail on the head every time! you put so much time and effort into each and every portrayal and it’s literally a gift to be able to write with you and create lil mini worlds inside canon. i am in awe of your prose (u absolutely deserve that first on your dissertation and so much more) and every thread is like a work of art i would hang in the lourve! not to mention how much i absolutely adore shipping with you and that ot3 is the literal best it brings me so much joy to see these feral gremlins get a little crumb of happiness!! every interaction we have is just so wonderful. i would follow you to the ends of the earth my dude! bangs and undercut club FOREVER! 

[disgracedprinceera]

Tommy/Alfie 12 Days - Day 12

Summary: Day 12 - Family

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

“Here we are,” Ada announces, stopping in front of a festively decorated pub.

It takes Tommy a moment to register what Ada’s said as they never go drinking on this street. It’s an unexpected turn of events to say the least, but Tommy walks back a few steps until he’s standing near the entrance in front of his sister. His eyes linger on the windows where a few parties catch-up over over-priced beers. There are event posters in the corner advertising all manner of things—open mic night, a book club, a singles event. Tommy wonders how he can go about convincing Ada to drink literally anywhere else but this place.

“This doesn’t look like your typical haunt. Is there a particular reason why we’re drinking here tonight?”

“It isn’t,” Ada says matter-of-factly. “And I’m not.”

When Ada crosses her arms over her chest and gives him the look, Tommy knows he’s been had.

“You’re going in there.” Ada points to the door. “They have this singles mixer tonight. James said it was decent. Met his last boyfriend there even.”

“What the fuck, Ada?”

“You’ve been an utter shit lately. John thinks you need to get fucked more regularly. Thinks it’ll help improve your mood. And I don’t disagree.”

Tommy stares at her a moment, but when he realizes she’s dead serious, he looks away and exhales, his jaw working. “I get fu—”

“Yeah, and you pay for it. At the rate you need to be laid, you’ll bankrupt the whole fucking company, won’t you. So go in there and get yourself someone who doesn’t charge by the hour.”

 *

As he scans the room, Tommy hates himself a bit for being bullied into this by his little sister. (He doesn’t dare tell her no though, which is why his brothers likely sent her in their stead.) In the far back is a partitioned off section that looks like it’s meant for an event. Tommy can’t help but think that—based on how fucking pathetic the group of people there look—that’s where he’s meant to be.

Except it’s not where he’s going. He knows he can’t leave the pub for an hour at least—Ada probably has fucking spies watching the place in case he leaves straight away—so he takes a seat at the bar and orders a whisky. The first of many tonight, he thinks. No sooner is it passed to him that he slams it back and signals to the barkeep for another.

“Findin’ some courage, hmm?” the man next to him asks, nodding in the direction of the group.

Tommy doesn’t bother to respond to that, and instead asks his own question.

“Are you here for this ridiculous fucking thing?”

“Me, mate? Nah.”

The man makes it sound as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s heard of, which has Tommy suddenly warming towards him. When he looks at his neighbor again, Tommy spares him more than just a passing glance this time. He’s bearded with hair sticking up in every direction at the back of his head. Broad in the shoulders, his flannel shirt straining a bit around his arms. His wrists hidden beneath a collection of mismatched bracelets and fingers bedecked in equally as random rings. Tommy takes a quick look at his legs—not particularly long, but fuck if they don’t look strong beneath the denim. He’s Tommy’s type of man to the letter, and Tommy wonders if fate or Ada put him in this bar tonight.

“Do you know an Ada Thorne?”

When the man’s brow furrows, Tommy waves him off with a never mind gesture.

Fate, then.

“Tommy Shelby,” Tommy says. “Can I get you another?”

“Why the fuck not,” he replies with a shrug. “Alfie Solomons.”

 *

Tommy loses himself while talking with Alfie. He learns a few basic facts about the man—thirty-three years old, occupation: baker, lives in Camden—and a few things he could do without knowing—has a dog (with photograph evidence), lives next to his mum, sports all manner of awful tattoos. (The ink itself isn’t what’s offensive—Tommy finds that quite appealing; it’s that this strange man would tattoo padre fiero on his body in honor of his dog). Tommy also soon discovers that Alfie Solomons is incapable of telling a short story and suspects that half of what he’s told is pure artistic license.

He would be a liar if he denied that he’d spent the better part of the last thirty minutes of their conversation half-hard.

While he can’t be certain, Tommy thinks that Alfie has noticed. At least, he’s done nothing to hide it exactly or discourage what he interprets as flirting disguised as playful banter. But Tommy had also learned a very hard lesson in school when he’d misinterpreted such things for interest. Since he has no interest to get into a fist fight tonight, Tommy is perfectly content to just let Alfie make a move. Otherwise, he’ll go home alone. Arthur, Ada, and John can put up with his shitty mood for a while longer; not like they don’t deserve it after pulling this little intervention.

“—and that, right, that right there, is how the Solomons got into the bakin’ business.”

“Cover for an illegal rum distillery, eh? Impressive story there. I’ll give you that,” Tommy says, grinning. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe most of it.”

Alfie places his hand on his chest. “You wound me, Tom. Right, square in the fuckin’ heart, mate.”

“You would hardly be the first.”

Alfie claps him on the shoulder and squeezes a bit, and Tommy can’t help but allow his eyes to shut for just a moment. It feels nice; his hands strong, sure. Tommy wouldn’t mind feeling them on his bare skin, all over his body. And he’s had a touch too much whisky, he realizes, because he can’t remember if he actually gives Alfie an appreciative groan or not.

Alfie winks, and suddenly his cheeks begin to burn.

Definitely too much whisky then.

Alfie opens his mouth to say something when they’re interrupted by a man who Tommy’d seen lingering back with the singles. The man’s attention is focused solely on Alfie though, his body angled away from Tommy and nearly stepping between the two of them.

“I’ll call you soon?” the man says, lifting a slip of paper that Alfie had apparently given him earlier.

“Yeah, well, about that. You can go ahead and bin it on your way out.”

The man’s face falls, and he mutters a few curses as he makes his exit. Tommy doesn’t miss the annoyed look thrown his way, as if Alfie had already been spoken for before Tommy had ever entered the pub.

When they’re left to themselves again, Tommy arches his brow and Alfie shrugs. They share a smile.

“Are you always so blunt?” Tommy asks.

“Just savin’ meself the trouble, ain’t I?”

“I thought you said you weren’t here for singles night.”

“Tommy,” Alfie says, placing a hand on his knee. “I say a lot of things, don’t I? And, if I’m rememberin’ correctly, which I usually do, on account of havin’ a memory like a bloody steel trap, I distinctly recall you sayin’ that you weren’t here for it either. And, on top of that, you outright mocked these poor sods because, and ‘m quotin’ you directly here, ‘no one meets anyone at these fuckin’ things.’”

“And? Get to the point, Alfie.”

Alfie squeezes Tommy’s knee, his fingers lingering. “Well, you met me, didn’t ya?”

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

Notes: And that's it! We're officially at our 12 days. I hope everyone has had a great holiday season so far and wish you all the best in the coming year!

FYI, I'll be wrapping up the Inktober drabbles (they'll be Inkuary at this point, I suppose) next, and I have a lot of ideas for T/A fics that are either longer one-shots or multi-chaps. However, output might be a little slower for me after Inktober is wrapped. I need to finish writing my dissertation and will be getting married all before the end of March. However, I'm always happy to chat T/A. Cheers, lovelies!

[artificialqueens]

Not Nineteen Forever (12) (Branjie/Scyvie/Ninex)- Ortega

a/n: hey friends! here’s chapter 12 of Not Nineteen Forever, i’m sorry it’s so late but i want to thank everyone who waited patiently and was so polite and encouraging while waiting. it really made me smile! remember i always love and am so grateful for sweet comments either on AQ, through reblog, or on my blog, so keep them coming bc they motivate me no end!! hope u all enjoy this chapter (p.s. finally accepted the ninex in this fic is not in any way background any more xo) xxxxxxx

trigger warning: alcohol n naughty texts xo

please note: this fic contains young adults often behaving in irresponsible/unadvisable ways with regards to alcohol, drugs and sex. if you are someone who feels as if they could be heavily influenced by fic and incorporate what happens in the plot into ur own life, pls steer clear!

summary: Brooke, Yvie and Nina are three flatmates who forged a friendship in their first year of university and picked up some other waifs and strays along the way. Now in their final year, there are feelings that need to be unravelled and confessions to be made whilst navigating drunk nights, hungover mornings, takeaways, group chats, library meetups, cafe gossiping, and the small matter of getting a degree.

last chapter: Monet and Nina continued to be adorable, Yvie and Scarlet continued to be cute, but Brooke wasn’t sure if she wanted the same for her and Vanessa.

this chapter: there’s library woes, a flat party, a lilac-haired, tattooed bombshell, and Yvie confides in Scarlet.

***

Scarlet let a long puff of air out of her cheeks and blinked at her laptop, bored. She’d been so eager for Uni to start back again, so excited to get back to the city and see her friends that she slightly forgot about the whole academic aspect of everything. Lectures had started that week and in between trying to force four different modules’ worth of information into her head she had caught up with Vanjie, chatting before, after and in between lectures when they could. It was interesting, Scarlet thought. Before Christmas she could never get her to shut up about Brooke and how things were going with her but ever since the holidays it seemed as if Brooke was a subject to be avoided. Scarlet knew something must have changed but she didn’t want to push Vanjie for information if she wasn’t ready to share it. They still seemed to be together, anyway, even if things seemed a little strained.

At least she could say that wasn’t the case for her and Yvie. After many long evening Skype sessions during the holidays, the pair of them had decided that they couldn’t bear to be apart a moment longer and so Scarlet had taken the six hour train to go and stay with her girlfriend at her family home for a few days. She had been a bag of nerves at the thought of meeting Yvie’s family, but her Mum had been lovely (and seemingly just relieved that her daughter had settled down), her Dad had been welcoming, if a little quiet (“He’s under strict instructions not to speak because every time he opens his mouth he embarrasses me”), and the brothers and sisters that were still at home and not out somewhere or back to uni themselves were kind and friendly. In the three days they spent together, Scarlet and Yvie went for cold, crisp walks along the beach, curled up on Yvie’s old battered leather sofa the family had had since she was small and watched Disney films, gone ice skating, and looked out over Yvie’s city on a rickety ferris wheel that had looked as if it would take one good sneeze to knock it down.

But all that movie-screen romance was behind her now, as the most romantic Scarlet had been with Yvie in the week since they’d been back at uni was a Tesco Finest £10 meal deal cooked in Yvie’s flat and then watched in front of the TV as a perfect accompaniment to Coronation Street. They were both busy and waiting for their academic life to slow down a little again. The same could be said for their whole friendship group, really. The whole gang hadn’t done anything all together since their Christmas dinner, and Scarlet was itching for a night out where she could get absolutely off her face and forget that she was working towards the degree that would define the rest of her life. Sighing again and feeling the words on her laptop merge into a big blur, Scarlet looked up at the big clock on the wall. Five o'clock. She turned to Akeria who was sat at the desk beside her. She and Silky had come to join her mid-study, the latter having been dragged into the library by her flatmate because she still hadn’t handed in an essay that had been due since before Christmas and Akeria was quite frankly concerned.

“Akeria,” Scarlet whispered, the other girl quickly finishing a sentence she was working on, turning away from her laptop towards Scarlet and pushing her reading glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I want a night out. This is shit.”

“This is what we signed up for, baby,” Akeria gave a small laugh and shrugged, turning back to her laptop. Akeria’s dissertation wasn’t due until May but she had already started writing it, which struck the fear of God into the majority of their friendship group and made them all feel like slackers. “This is uni. This is our fuckin’ degree, girl.”

“You’re really making me feel better,” Scarlet rolled her eyes, Akeria giving another laugh under her breath.

“Hey,” Silky said from her position at the desk across from them, her voice entirely at speaking-pitch and causing a few heads to turn their way. “What’re you hoes talkin’ about? I want in.”

“We’re bitching about you,” Akeria deadpanned, tapping away at her keyboard.

“Fuck off, Kiki.”

“I want a night out,” Scarlet hissed over to her as quietly as she could. “But Little Miss Law Degree wants to stay in the library from dusk til dawn every evening until she graduates.”

Scarlet’s face lit up as Silky bellowed a laugh so loud it caused the girl beside her to put a set of earphones in. Looking at Akeria and hoping she hadn’t been offended, she was relieved to see the other girl giving her a wry smile.

“This bitch can be so savage when she wants to be, Jesus. Ouch. No, I’m just sayin’! This was what we chose to do, so quit complaining,” Akeria rolled her eyes, leaned back in her chair and stretched. “That being said…I do think I’ve earned a night out.”

“Well me fuckin’ too, bitch!” Silky exclaimed incredulously, Scarlet laughing in spite of herself.

“How much have you written, Silk?” she asked, the girl opposite looking down at her laptop, clicking a few times, then looking back up to the girls in front of her.

“You know what…it don’t matter how many words I’ve done, it’s the level of mental energy I have needed to use in order to-”

“Silky, how many words,” Akeria demanded, fixing her with a stare that looked as if it could slice her in half.

“Ninety-four.”

“Jesus Christ on a crystal meth binge,” Akeria sighed, Scarlet letting out a splutter beside her. Silky looked at them both pleadingly.

“Hey, now don’t make me feel bad! We only been in here-”

“An hour and a quarter,” Akeria stared at her.

Silky threw her hands up. “Well I been doing readings an’ shit! Do you know how hard it is to get any articles that have the exact quote ‘Boris Johnston is a piece of dog shit’? Fuckin’ hard!”

“Why the hell are you looking for that?” Akeria blurted out, unable to keep herself from laughing. Scarlet was laughing so hard she thought she would pass out.

“Because, bitch! I want to use that exact wording in my essay but I need some academic shit to back me up.”

“Fuck me.”

“To be fair, that is the worst,” Scarlet shrugged, not wanting Silky to feel too demoralised. “Searching for three hours to find one reference that can back up one of your points. Like, why can’t you just make the point because you want to? You know? Why is your opinion only valid if it’s been previously thought up by a white man in a suit?"

"Very profound,” Silky nodded emphatically. “Anyway, this bitch needs to get her drink on. I’m going to ask the girls."

As she watched Silky pick up her phone, Scarlet was reminded to check her own. She’d deliberately sat on it and put it on flight mode in an attempt to force herself to do work. Now, she felt as if she could excuse a small break. Turning off flight mode, she watched as a small flood of notifications came through. There had been fifteen new group chat messages, Nina had tagged them all in a meme, and she had two messages from Yvie. She checked the latter first, wondering if she would ever get tired of the feeling of her heart soaring like a balloon every time she saw, heard or spoke Yvie’s name.

Y: if i told u i was considering buying a set of faux-leather underwear would that be weird or a turn-on

Y: also that lasagne is even better on the second day u need to have some of it when ur round

S: Sorry this took me so long!!!!!! I turned my phone on flight mode in an attempt to get some work done

S: No such luck

S: Leather look underwear is a yes from me but i’m inclined to ask for pics first xoxoxoxoxo

S: Also yes i want lasagne

S: That’s not a euphemism btw i actually really do want some lasagne

Y: 😈

As Scarlet gave a soft laugh to herself, she checked what had been going on on the group chat since she’d been studying. She wondered what exciting plans could have been made, or what drama could have happened, or if anyone had any exciting or interesting news.

Okay Then: oh my god

Kim Kardashian-West: ??????

Okay Then: has anyone seen the state of Simon Cowell’s face

Scarlet gave a colossal roll of her eyes. She should have known that, at times, the groupchat could become one massive shitpost.

Kim Kardashian-West: No??? What’s he done to it?? Has he been in a crash?

Okay Then: he might as fucking well have been

What followed was a picture of what seemed to be a man whose face had been partially melted with a blowtorch, until Scarlet looked closer and realised that it was indeed the TV talent show judge.

mose: Jesus Fucking Christ what’s he done to himself

Scarlet’s bitch: that’s frightening

Okay Then: RIGHT???

Scarlet’s bitch: that’s what i see in the corner of my room when i have sleep paralysis

Kim Kardashian-West: That is TRULY the stuff of nightmares!!!!

Brooke’s Ford Transit Vanjie: Fucking hell Plastique don’t fucking frighten us like that!!!

mose: He must surely see that he looks like shit? Like how could you not?

Okay Then: how can he see anything when his eyebrows are now entirely obscuring his eyes

Kim Kardashian-West: I am actually quite frightened guys

At this point, Scarlet caught up to the current conversation.

large incongruous silkworm spiced praline: AS TERRIFYING AS SIMON COWELL’S FACE IS

large incongruous silkworm spiced praline: CAN WE TALK BUSINESS FOR A SECOND?

Kim Kardashian-West: Of course!

mose: I’m all business

Brooke’s Ford Transit Vanjie: Sure you are baby xxxxxxx

Scarlet’s Bitch: that is fucking vile keep that shit off the groupchat u big gays

large incongruous silkworm spiced praline: YA FAV BITCHES ARE IN THE LIBRARY AND WE ARE GAGGING FOR A NIGHT OUT

large incongruous silkworm spiced praline: WE AIN’T HAD ONE IN AGES

Okay Then: yaaaaaaaaaas bitches let’s do it

Okay Then: thursday night fever

Kim Kardashian-West: Well Monet invited me to this flat party she’s hosting tonight

Kim Kardashian-West: I could ask her if you guys could come too?

Brooke’s Ford Transit Vanjie: Omg yes I’m down!

large incongruous silkworm spiced praline: YES BITCH FLAT PARTY!!!!

large incongruous silkworm spiced praline: AND IF SHE SAYS NO JUST SAY SHE AIN’T GETTIN ANY PUSS FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE

Kim Kardashian-West: SILKY!!!!!!!! THAT IS DISGUSTING!!!

Yvie’s Bitch: We were all thinking it xoxo

Brooke’s Ford Transit Vanjie: AHAHAHAHAHA SILK

Okay Then: YES Scarlet

Kim Kardashian-West: You’re all horrible. And uninvited.

mose: Ninaaaaaa

Okay Then: Nina pls

Scarlet’s Bitch: fuck i’m not even sure i can do tonight ladies

large incongruous silkworm spiced praline: YVIE DONT YOU DARE

Scarlet’s Bitch: i’ve got a 9am tomorrow and i want to get that first u know

mose: Yvieeee the last time we were all together was literally over a month ago

Scarlet pouted to herself, disappointed at the thought of Yvie being the only one not out. Suddenly, an idea began to form in her head. Biting back a smile, she took to her chat with Yvie.

S: Yvieeeee

Y: Scarleeeeet

S: Please come to the flat party :(((((((

S: I’ll do anything you want

Y: anything i want?

S: Yesssss

Y: that sounds like a challenge princess

Scarlet crossed her legs and felt herself squeezing her thighs together. Looking around at the rows of silent people, she turned her phone brightness down to make extra sure nobody could see her messages, just in case the conversation turned the way Scarlet thought it was about to.

S: Well it depends on what you want me to do x

Y: wellllll

Y: i’ve been wondering if u can take a strap like a good girl

Scarlet felt briefly as if she’d been shocked by a defibrillator. Yvie always seemed to go from 0 to 100 real fucking quick, and Scarlet couldn’t help but love it.

S: You know I could baby

Y: i know you could, you’re such a good girl

Y: so how about if i come to this party i get to watch u bounce on my dick until u cum all over it

Scarlet could feel her face growing red. She and Yvie had messaged like this before, when they had been at home and miles away from each other and alone and very much not-in-a-public-place, but this was so fucking different.

S: Christ Yves I’m in the library!!!!

Y: shut up u started all this!!

S: Yeah I kinda did

Y: deliberately getting me to tell u what i want to do to u later when ur sitting in public in a fucking silent building

Y: jesus fucking christ Scarlet that’s so hot

Scarlet felt an urgent pulse of heat between her legs and she squirmed in her seat.

S: Where are you just now?

Y: i’m in bed

Y: touching myself at the thought of u sitting absolutely soaking wet and being able to do fuck all about it

S: So you’re coming to the party baby?

Y: how about

Y: if u can get to the flat before i cum i’ll fuck u into the mattress and i’ll come to this party or whatever

Scarlet nearly jammed her fingers in her laptop in her haste to get it shut, wrenched her charger out of its socket so hard it almost broke, and muttered a near-breathless goodbye to a confused Akeria and Silky all in the space of about twenty seconds as she struggled into her coat and sped out into the stairwell.

Five hours later Scarlet had managed to fit a lot in. She’d hurried round to Yvie’s to find her in bed in the black lace underwear she knew drove Scarlet crazy, and they’d fucked twice (fast, rough and passionate then sweet, tender and gentle) before Scarlet had reluctantly dragged herself out of Yvie’s bed to head back to her own flat and get ready for the party. Nobody seemed to know what the dress code was, least of all Nina who had sent about nine different outfit options to the group chat for opinions, so Scarlet settled on a tight black bandage dress that stopped at her calves, with trainers to dress it down a bit. She’d hurriedly munched down a bowl of pasta a la whatever-was-left-in-the-fridge, then set off across town to meet the girls at the edge of the park, where they had decided they would all meet then walk together to Monet’s flat.

Scarlet heard her friends before she saw them, Vanjie’s distinctive laugh ricocheting off trees and mixing with Yvie’s Bond-villan one letting Scarlet know she was heading in the right direction. Finally reaching the group, Scarlet gave them all a hug in turn and took in each of their outfits. It was still icy and cold, so most of them had opted for trainers over heels- save for Plastique, who always wore them for any night out and Vanjie, who was wearing chunky heeled boots. Much of their clothes clashed with the weather, though. Plastique and Akeria were in tight dresses, Brooke and Silky were in short skirts and tops. Vanjie had chosen some loose-fitting ripped denim jeans and a tiny bodysuit which left little to the imagination. Nina had gone for a light blue t-shirt dress and a chunky pair of trainers, her nerves palpable even in the group dynamic. Scarlet thought Yvie looked the best though in her burnt orange velvet skirt and tight black long-sleeved bodysuit, her unruly hair tamed and brushed into two huge bunches.

"You look nice, Nina!” Scarlet complimented her in an attempt to calm her down.

“Aww, Scarlet! Do I actually?” Nina smiled brightly, then cringed at herself. “Fuck! Why can’t I just take a fucking compliment like a goddamn normal person? I do this with Monet all the time!”

“Because you got a big-ass crush,” Silky shrugged. “It’s almost as big as Akeria’s ass. Not quite, though.”

“Shut up,” Akeria rolled her eyes and shoved her friend.

“Does it even count as a crush if you’re seeing the person in question?” Scarlet wondered out loud. Plastique shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Don’t know. Ask Brooke or Vanjie.”

The group exploded into laughter, something about it not quite meeting Brooke or Vanessa’s eyes. They were both standing close together, hands entwined, but Scarlet didn’t know. There seemed as if there was something off. Forced, even.

“Okay, let’s go, motherfuckers. I’m freezing my vagina off,” Vanjie said decisively, Nina moving first and making to lead the way.

“Right, a few things before we arrive,” Nina began speaking at a mile a minute before Scarlet could even compliment Yvie on her outfit. “Monet has somehow got it into her head that you guys are cool enough to be invited to this party. She doesn’t know the truth yet, so just try to act like a group of normal fucking human beings?”

“The truth? What the hell is that meant to mean?!” Brooke let out a laugh.

“That you’re all fucking weirdos! And she, for some reason, still likes me, so I am not having you all put that in jeopardy, capiche?” Nina snapped back, only half-joking.

“Jeez, thanks,” Akeria rolled her eyes, Nina instantly protesting.

“I’m joking! I’m joking. But not really. Like Silk, please try not to overdo it tonight?”

Silky raised her eyebrows and sucked her cheeks in. “I’m making no promises, girl.”

“Akeria, please don’t accidentally make out with anyone’s boyfriends?”

“Oh my God Nina! That happened ONCE!” Akeria cried out incredulously.

“And Vanjie, don’t-”

“Nina. We’re not going to embarrass you. Chill the fuck out,” Yvie rolled her eyes and squeezed the shoulder of the girl in front of her.

The girls all finally reached Monet’s old, red-brick building and her front door, and Nina pressed the buzzer nervously. There came a crackly screech of mayhem through the intercom which contained unintelligible speech, and then the girls were all quickly buzzed in. Scarlet looked to Yvie questioningly as she wondered if she’d heard any words, but she also appeared to be as clueless as she was. It didn’t seem to faze any of the other girls though, as Vanjie was already bounding up the stairs with Akeria as fast as her chunky heels could carry her. They didn’t have to walk far, as Monet’s flat was on the first floor. Vanjie moved to open the door first when it was suddenly wrenched open from the other side to reveal a tiny, skinny blonde girl with her hair curled and loose on her shoulders. Her pink dress was as tiny as she was, but regardless of her size she looked ready to fight.

“Who the fuck are you?” she addressed Akeria, barely acknowledging the others. “You here to sell us girl scout cookies, or an Avon catalogue, check our meter readings maybe?"

Just as Akeria looked as if she would instigate a full-scale fight, Nina poked her head out from behind Brooke’s tall frame. "Cracker, don’t be a dick!”

The girl’s face immediately relaxed into a wide, shameless smile. “Nina! Oh my God, you bitch, I never saw you! Come in, God!”

Akeria still bristling and Vanjie not too dissimilar, the girls all trooped into the flat which immediately struck Scarlet as something out of an American teen Netflix special. The hall was dark with the occasional string of fairy lights, and was packed full of people. Scarlet instinctively reached for Yvie’s hand in the crowd and got a squeeze back without even having to look at her. Nina and the girl, Cracker apparently, led them through to a huge bedroom which had obviously once been a living room but had been repurposed by a money-hungry landlord. The room was quieter but still had its fair share of people dotted about in amongst the Morrocan market wall-coverings, tiny elephant incense stick holders, and swathes of printed photos and posters that covered the walls like tiles. A huge bed sat to one side where Monet sat sprawled out with her shoes kicked off, chatting to a black girl with a huge afro that otherwise looked so identical to her Scarlet assumed they must be sisters. Cracker flung herself down on top of the mattress and joined them, gesturing vaguely to the girls.

“Neens!!” Monet suddenly squealed as she looked up, throwing her arms out as Nina launched herself half on the bed and half on top of her. Monet continued, muffled, as the rest of the girls awkwardly lingered. “I’m so happy you came, oh my God, this is so amazing!”

“I brought everyone too. Is that still okay? They can leave if not,” Nina instantly reeled off, Brooke bellowing out a laugh. Monet’s face lit up.

“Oh my God of course not! Brooke! Scarlet! Yvie!! Oh my God, come and hug me,” Monet beamed, her intoxication showing ever so slightly as Brooke graciously leaned down and hugged the other girl them got instantly pulled onto the bed. Monet gestured for everyone to come closer. “Guys! It’s so good to see you all, thanks so much for coming! There’s, like. Endless booze in the kitchen. Feel free to just drink us out of house and home.”

Silky’s face lit up and she immediately grabbed Akeria and Plastique, making to drag them through. “Vanj, you comin’?”

“Get me something? I'mma stay here with my girl,” Vanessa shouted back, giving a smile back to Brooke but finding the other girl looking down at her phone instead. Scarlet frowned involuntarily and then was suddenly distracted by a squeeze of her hand from Yvie (who still hadn’t let go).

“I’m going to go make sure Silky doesn’t give herself alcohol poisoning. You want me to bring you back a drink?” she offered, Scarlet unable to help the smile that spread across her face.

“You’re a sweetheart. Surprise me.”

“A pint glass of tequila it is,” Yvie deadpanned as she walked away, too quick for Scarlet’s hand that swatted at her in response. Scarlet tuned into the conversation that the girls were all having on the bed. It was big, but it was still a bed in a student flat, and so Brooke had her elbows resting on the mattress and her lower body on the floor and Scarlet had had to squeeze up to make room for Vanjie to sit beside her.

“She was guarding the place like fort fuckin’ knox,” Vanessa was saying, a playful side eye being cast to the blonde girl, who let out a laugh.

“You’re an animal,” Monet’s potential sister rolled her eyes. “A living guard dog. We should put a collar on you. One of those ones with spikes.”

“Nah. That’s only reserved for people who want to fuck me. Do you want to fuck me, Bob?” the girl asked easily, before taking a swig of the cider bottle she was holding. Monet hooted a laugh and the other girl didn’t even break her expression.

“I wouldn’t eat your pussy if it was made of chocolate fuckin’ fudge cake. Get the fuck out,” she retorted, Nina looking up at them all from her position on Monet’s tummy.

“Is that not that Lana Del Ray lyric? My pussy tastes like chocolate fudge cake…”

Scarlet let out a laugh that was more like a scream, the others on the bed doing much the same thing. Monet wiped her eyes and took in a deep breath.

“Oh my God, okay. For those of you that haven’t met before- this is Cracker and Bob. Two out of the three girls I have the blessing or curse of living with, I haven’t figured out yet,” she gestured to the two girls in turn and then turned to Scarlet. “And this is Scarlet, Vanjie and Brooke Lynn. They’re Nina’s friends, so they’re obviously amazing.”

“Nina could throw up on your bed and you’d say it was amazing,” Cracker looked pointedly at Monet. Monet shrugged and threw her arms around Nina.

“And what?"

"Nice to meet you guys. Are you two sisters?” Scarlet asked, curiosity getting the better of her as she pointed between Bob and Monet. Monet laughed and Bob rolled her eyes.

“Are you saying that all black people look the same?” Bob asked her with a piercing stare, Scarlet’s entire stomach dropping at the thought of having offended her.

“Oh my God, no! No no no, I just thought-”

“She’s kidding, Scarlet. Being a dick, as usual,” Monet cut off Scarlet’s frantic protests and immediately calming her down. “No, we’re not related. We just look spookily alike.”

“You fuckin’ wish you looked even a tenth as good as me. Hey, where the fuck is Monique?” Bob asked suddenly, both Cracker and Monet shrugging.

“Flatmate number four,” Monet quickly cut in to explain.

“Away making some chaotic cocktail, probably,” Cracker shrugged. Bob gave another roll of her eyes, then turned and smiled at Brooke, Scarlet and Vanessa.

“Nice to meet you anyway. Are you all flatmates too?” Bob asked politely, ignoring the position of the slit on her long skirt as she crossed her legs.

“Not us three exactly. Brooke lives with Nina and Yvie, that’s my girlfriend,” Scarlet explained, her stomach full of fizzy fireworks at being able to say that for real. “Vanj lives with Silky and Akeria over on Antigua Road.”

“They’re the best hoes in the world. They’re through in the other room getting drunk, but you’d love them,” Vanjie cut in. Cracker let out a laugh.

“Oh yeah, shit. Sorry I was so mean to you.”

Vanessa smiled easily, the free alcohol that the flatmates were providing clearly making up for any perceived slight. “Don’ worry about it, girl. We’d probably do the same if some hoes we didn’t know turned up at our party.”

“What about you, Scarlet?” Bob asked politely, instantly seeming far less intimidating.

“I’m over on the South Side. Kinda far out. I found this girl on SpareRooms to live with, but she’s a bit of a dick,” Scarlet explained awkwardly. Cracker leaned in, her eyes shining excitedly.

“What’s her name?”

“Fuck, I don’t want to say in case any of you are friends with her!” Scarlet laughed, but no protestations came. She lowered her voice as she continued. “It’s Ra'Jah? Ra'Jah O'Hara?”

“Oh, FUCK!” Bob cried out, holding onto Cracker for support as she almost fell off the bed. “I know who that is! She’s in my Econ tutorials! Oh my God, she’s an actual fucking moron. I had a group project with her once and she did literally nothing but talk about drugs and bitch about people on our course.”

As Scarlet was about to launch into how horrifically messy a flatmate she was, Yvie came back from the kitchen with two bottles of beer and a tall black girl with a shock of lilac hair swept up into a ponytail and a matching straight fringe. She was wearing a black pair of jeans and a tiny black cropped t shirt which showed off her many tattoos, and in her hand looked to be an elaborate mojito-style concoction.

“I made a friend!” she cried, before slumping herself down beside Vanjie, Scarlet growing ever more squashed up against the bedpost.

“Oh, the wanderer returns,” Cracker deadpanned. “What did you make?”

“Margarita mojito,” the girl shrugged, sipping her drink to punctuate her sentence. “It’s basically a mojito with a big-ass shot of tequila in it. Guys, this is Yvie! She’s Nina’s friend!”

“Oh, you’re Scarlet’s girlfriend!” Bob smiled at her in recognition, Yvie clambering into a tiny space on the middle of the bed, handing one of the beers to Scarlet, and casting her a look through narrowed eyes.

“What have you been saying about me, bitch?” Yvie smiled playfully, the look she was fixing her causing a sudden flash of heat to strike between Scarlet’s legs.

“All good things, baby,” Scarlet smiled innocently, Yvie relaxing and leaning back against Scarlet’s chest.

“This is Bob and Cracker. They’re my other flatmates. You’ve already met Monique, then?” Monet introduced the girls to Yvie.

“Yeah, we bonded over watching Akeria flirt with people. The bitch is a fucking mastermind. She walked into the kitchen and had a guy talking to her within, like, one minute.”

“Introduce me, introduce me!” Monique bounced on the mattress excitedly. Vanjie came dangerously close to falling off the bed and Monique quickly noticed, reaching a hand out to her and pulling her up with it. “Shit, sorry girl!”

Scarlet watched as Vanessa swept some hair out of her face and cast a quick appreciative glance to Monique’s toned arm. “Holy mother of Jesus, I gotta start goin’ to the gym.”

Monique let out a bark of a laugh. Cracker caught her other arm and held it steady, the tequila/rum combo threatening to fly out of its glass.

“Brooke, Scarlet and Vanjie, meet Monique.

Monique, this is Brooke, Scarlet and Vanjie,” Cracker pointed to each of them in turn, finishing with Vanjie who still seemed to be casting her eyes over Monique.

“Well, Vanessa. But these girls call me Vanjie. Or Vanj. You choose, really,” Vanjie explained to Monique, the girl’s ponytail swishing as she cocked her head.

“You ever get called baby?” she asked, feigning innocence. Scarlet couldn’t help her eyes shooting wide and her brain almost went into meltdown trying to register everyone’s expressions at once. Vanjie was laughing, but her face had flushed pink, clearly flattered. Cracker was screeching a laugh, Bob looked long-suffering. Nina and Monet were looking at each other urgently, and Brooke was properly looking at Vanessa with interest for the first time since they all sat down on the bed. Scarlet couldn’t see Yvie’s face, but she’d felt her tense up, and she couldn’t blame her.

“Yeah. By Brooke Lynn over there,” Vanessa finally said through her laughter, Monique not seeming fazed as she cast a glance to Brooke, who was smiling patiently but inwardly seething if the red tips of her ears were anything to go by.

“Oh, sorry girl! I didn’t know she was taken,” Monique laughed pleasantly.

“Yeah, we’re a thing,” Brooke opened her mouth, breaking her silence. Vanessa was smiling at her from across the bed, and Brooke met her eyes and smiled back.

“A thing?” Monique let out a short laugh, spilling a little of her drink. “A thing is, like, a noun. Not a relationship.”

“Technically a girlfriend is a noun too. Thing, place, person,” Nina piped up, presumably in an attempt to diffuse the increasingly awkward vibe.

“Are you a primary teacher, Nina?!” Cracker asked, clutching her chest in faux-surprise. Nina sighed.

“If I could reach a pillow, I’d thump you."

"Monet, you hearing this? Your girlfriend is practically chatting me up,” Cracker laughed, then stopped suddenly as her face became a mix of horrified and regretful, Bob giving her a not-so-subtle thump on the arm. In lieu of gauging Monet and Nina’s facial expressions, Scarlet whispered her thoughts to Yvie.

“When the hell are they actually going to become official? It’s been ages!” she hissed into her ear, Yvie craning her head round to reply.

“Nina would have to be on a cocktail mixer of cocaine, Es and alcohol to gain even half the confidence it would take her to ask Monet, so she’s waiting on Monet to do it for her. The thing is, I think Monet’s not as confident as we all like to think either. Maybe sometimes Nina’s panic can present itself as disinterest.”

“So Monet’s maybe waiting until she knows where she stands with her?” Scarlet nodded in realisation.

Yvie sipped her drink and took Scarlet’s hand, tracing round her fingers absent-mindedly. “I think so. I mean, we all know Nina’s absolutely ass-over-tit in love with her because we’re her friends, but she’s not going to let that show to Monet until she’s ready.”

Scarlet watched as Yvie played with a large turquoise ring on her finger. Her brow was furrowed as she thought about the situation, and Scarlet’s heart felt like an enormous water balloon- incredibly fragile and full and feeling as if it was about to burst. She thought back to Yvie’s words on Christmas dinner night, the ones she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since she’d said them.

Suddenly, she was pulled out of her thoughts by a screech from Vanjie, who was looking at Monique with enrapture as she told a story. Admittedly, most of the other girls were looking at her too, but Scarlet didn’t miss the sparkle in Vanjie’s eyes as she listened.

“And there it was, I swear by almighty God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit…a whole baggie of weed, in the bin, covered in Cracker’s vomit.”

It was an odd moment for Scarlet to tune into the story but judging by the roar the girls on the bed gave, it seemed to be over. Vanjie had doubled over laughing and was clinging to Monique’s arm for support, the girl in question smiling down at her as if her reaction was the only one that mattered. Scarlet frowned and leaned into Yvie once more.

“Hey. What the hell is the deal with Brooke and Vanjie?” she whispered, making sure to keep her voice extra low. She instantly felt Yvie tense up in her lap.

“What do you mean? They seem fine to me?” Yvie murmured back. Luckily for Scarlet, she knew that Yvie lied so rarely that it was easy to spot when she was telling one.

“You know something. What is it?” Scarlet hissed urgently in Yvie’s ear. Hearing her give a big sigh, Yvie shifted and then rose on the bed.

“Me and Scarlet are just getting another drink, save our seats,” Yvie announced to the circle, receiving a cheer from Nina.

“Enjoy your sex!” she cried after them, and Scarlet, confused, simply followed Yvie to another room. The hall was quieter now, but the same could not be said of the kitchen, where as they walked in they saw Silky, Akeria and Plastique ringleading a game of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Ignoring their friends, Yvie turned to Scarlet urgently, concern covering her face.

“Okay, Brooke told me this in confidence but you’re my girlfriend so I kind of can’t really keep anything from you, right?” she began, Scarlet nodding quickly and desperate to hear what Yvie knew. “But you CAN’T tell anyone about this, babe. Honestly, it needs to stay between us. Do you promise?”

“I promise,” Scarlet said instantly, her mind in overdrive. Yvie pulled a pained face for a moment, seemingly incredibly conflicted, and then looked to the floor.

“Brooke is having second thoughts about being with Vanjie.”

Scarlet’s face dropped. “What?!”

“Brooke told me that she felt everything was getting too intense, and that Vanj wanted more than Brooke felt she could give her. She’s sticking it out to see if it’s just a blip, but…yeah. Now you know why they’ve both been so weird,” Yvie explained, biting her lip and looking at Scarlet with concern.

Scarlet didn’t know what to think. It all made so much sense, the oddly distant vibes between them both, the strained atmosphere, Vanjie flirting with Monique. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Scarlet. “Does Vanessa know?”

Yvie rolled her eyes. “Yes absolutely, Scarlet, Vanjie is very happy staying with someone who isn’t even sure if she wants things to go further with her, Brooke’s told her everything!"

Scarlet’s mind seemed to fuse. "She needs to know.”

Yvie’s expression dropped. “Oh my fucking Christ, you literally just promised not to tell anyone.”

“Well I didn’t know what it was you were going to tell me! I mean shit, Yvie, imagine that was me and you and I was having second thoughts! Would you want to be kept in the dark?”

Yvie bit her lip and looked to the floor. Scarlet gave a snort. “Exactly, bitch. I’m going to go find her right now-”

“Scarlet, please,” Yvie stopped her quickly, reaching out and grabbing her hand. “Brooke would be fuckin’ raging at me. I told you this shit in confidence. I know it’s hard because you’re close with Vanjie, but can you please…I mean hold off at least. If she asks you about it then, fine. You can tell her. But don’t run through there just now.”

Scarlet’s head felt as if it was a mess. She tapped her foot against the linoleum floor. “Who’s she told?”

“Just me,” Yvie said sincerely, looking into Scarlet’s eyes. “Nina doesn’t know. It’s just us.”

Scarlet rolled her eyes. “Fine. But I’m pinning all the fucking blame on you if she finds out I know, you know that?”

Yvie nodded understandingly. Scarlet let out a big sigh. The silence between them hung heavy in the air, at odds with the party happening around them. Suddenly, Plastique tottered into their line of vision, her eyes glazed and drunk.

“Oh my God guys! I haven’t seen you like all night! Selfie!!” she cried, sticking her phone in the air. Scarlet felt herself smile weakly but luckily the photo seemed to be too blurry for anyone to notice. Plastique immediately walked off again.

“Okay bye, nice seeing you,” Yvie deadpanned after her. Scarlet pressed her lips together to stop a laugh escaping them. Yvie caught her eye and snorted, and Scarlet couldn’t help but let out the laugh she’d been holding in. The tension had been diffused by a drunk Plastique, and Scarlet was relieved. She ran her hand down Yvie’s arm and squeezed her hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I should’ve just kept the fucking secret,” Yvie sighed, lacing her fingers through Scarlet’s own. She smiled at Scarlet, showing the little gap in her teeth, and Scarlet felt her heart jump. “Hey, I kind of want to go get chips, cheese and gravy and then head back to the flat and watch the Scooby Doo movie. You down?”

Scarlet smiled. She was kind of over the party. She’d been so eager for a night out, but all she wanted right now was a night in with her girlfriend. “Sounds amazing. Let’s go.”

The two headed back through to the bedroom to grab their jackets and say goodbye to the rest of the girls. Notably absent from the room were Brooke and Vanessa, and Scarlet was about to mention this to Yvie when they walked back out into the hall and spotted a tall, blonde girl and a small brunette kissing furiously in a darker, quieter corner. As Yvie opened the front door, she turned to Scarlet.

“I feel like they won’t be far behind us. Brooke must have sorted her shit out, then.”

As Scarlet grabbed one last look at the two girls against the wall, she desperately hoped Yvie was right.

[thweaty]

everyone’s thirsting over connell but he was just so FRUSTRATING!!! like bitch make up your mind!!!!!!

dude i could actually write a dissertation on how fuckin whack connell was like he CONSISTENTLY was the issue throughout the show and there was nothing charming about his mumbly coward ass like who the fuck cares u can’t go home to ur sexist ass pig friends SKNFKN that was the WORST attempt at generating sympathy for a character i’ve seen in a HOT minute 💀 the man was deadass upset that no one knew the real him~ but he only felt that way cuz the people he encountered in college weren’t as shit as his friends back home i was like ??? did i miss an episode that said SIKE to all of this?? cuz all of u seem to LOVE him 😭

[adhdoxford]

With everything going on, I’m trying to let go of things I can’t control this summer and focus on what I can so perhaps here’s a little reminder: 

Things you can’t control this summer: 

How many places are hiring students (or recent grads)  

What jobs are in demand  

How many people apply to grad school 

What grad schools’ acceptance rate is 

What countries institute strict lockdowns and travel bans

Whether your uni reopens

Whether their social-distancing policy impacts your experience

How your family acts when you’re home 

What they say to you about your sleep schedule/eating habits

What kind of food is available at home 

What your parents’ financial situation is

What your friends are doing 

What books and other resources are available online 

When businesses/libraries open 

Things you can control 

Taking free online classes in quantitative skills to boost employability I’m likely about to graduate into a global depression with a degree in modern history (ahahahah). So this summer I’m gonna audit a statistics, Intermediate French, Python, and two economics courses cause I did really poorly in economics at uni so I’d like to have something to make up for it. (I’ll be using coursera and crash course). 

Applying to as many shit essential jobs as you can to earn money for uni (but don’t be discouraged if you don’t hear back) - I had two paid internships this summer that got cancelled. I’ve sent out my resume to thirty different essential stores and haven’t heard back but fingers crossed. Remember that 40 million people are looking for work so keep that in mind if you’re not hearing back from jobs. 

Doing readings ahead of time to ensure you can do well at dissertation and modules next semester - I’ve got some manuscripts to go through and a couple of books are digitized so I’m reading those in the evening after dinner. Keeping in touch with your supervisor and tutors for reading lists also helps for some direction. 

Researching graduate programs at schools with better funding - Fuck it, might do another bachelor’s online for 1/20th the price of my last degree. 

Exercising regularly and eating as healthy as you can - Movement is medicine, I repeat, movement is medicine. Your family might make fun of you for doing a chloe ting ab workout in the living room. but fuck them. Go for a run if you can. Go for a walk and listen to a podcast (My favourite these days is The Anthropocene Reviewed). Try and eat balanced meals with whole foods and limit sugar intake cause that tends to harm your focus and mental health. Drink water. Drink water. Drink water. 

Survive, just survive - All of my efforts to be productive could (and likely will) fail to bring about the most ideal results. And that’s fine. The world is in a crisis. Whether or not you did anything productive with your summer might not make a bit of difference. Everyone is getting screwed and set back in some way and there are people who are much worse off. Take a fuckin’ break, do what you can, but keep things in perspective.