#and they gave the constant some killer lines

[tmwwriting]

Lucas Grey (Hitman) // The Fallen Angel - Alexandre Cabanel

[builtbybrokenbells]

belladonna | i

Too beautiful to resist, and too deadly to survive; the tragic tale of belladonna in all its glory.

Masterlist | Taglist

Pairing: Danny Wagner x f!reader, f!reader x OC

Word Count: 12.5k

Warnings: mentions of toxic/abusive parents, mentions of/toxic relationships, mentions of criminal activity/criminal records, poverty, mentions of physical violence, mentions of blood, mentions of AA/NA, addictions, use of/mentions of drugs, mentions of drinking, mentions of hookups/sex, smoking, depression/anxiety, mental health struggles, swearing, sorry if I miss any!!

hi everyone! I’m so so excited for this one. I will forewarn you that this series will touch on some pretty heavy topics. i’ve been using this as therapy to avoid paying actual therapy bills 🤭 i hope that you enjoy this as much as I do, and I really hope that this series does for you what it does for me 🤍 as always, enjoy, be kind, and don’t mind any grammar mistakes!

March 31st, 2022

The sound of the radio hummed through the air, wrapping you in a blanket of comfort as you wiped crumbs from another dirty diner table. Your tattered converse were covered in spills and specs of food and your apron was stained so completely that the baby blue color no longer existed. The line cook in the back was whistling every time you bent over one of the booths, causing a blush and a slight smile to pull at your lips. Every so often, he’d make an obscene comment, just to see if you’d turn around to face him so he might be able to catch a glimpse of your cleavage underneath your black v-neck. Dylan knew his limits, but he loved to push them.

“Don’t you have a job to do?” You glanced back at him over your shoulder, pushing your hips out slightly to entice him even further. He would never have the chance, but it was fun to let him believe it, sometimes.

“Yeah, actually. Why don’t you come back here and keep me company?” He sent a wink your way, causing you to chuckle. He was around your age, and undeniably attractive. His neck was littered with the peek of tattoos from his chest, and a gold chain hung around them to accentuate the detail. He looked permanently stoned, but he had a killer smile and a certain charm despite his vulgarity. His arms were strong and despite his constant flirting, you knew he would never make an unwanted advance. The only reason you refused to indulge in him was because of his very extensive criminal record, but even then, the temptation grew stronger every day. He loved poking fun only because you seemed to enjoy it so much.

“You’d like that too much.” You rolled your eyes, chucking a dishcloth through the kitchen window at him. He caught it midair, giving you a cocky smirk.

“Anything else you’d like to throw my way?”

“Leave the poor girl alone, Dylan.” The second line cook gave him a shove, pushing him out of view and popping into your line of sight. “Give me a chance, would you?” Not long after the words left his mouth, a playful wrestling match ensued on the other side of the wall. Instead of engaging in their antics, you turned and cleared the dishes of the last table of the night.

“Vincent!” You scolded, watching them battle for your affection. “If you guys break anything else back there tonight, I swear to god I will not cover for your asses!” Just as you spoke, the wrestling came to an abrupt halt, and Vincent’s head peeked up from the window. He raised an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side slightly. His loose brown curls hung down over his forehead, and the veins in his forehead were protruding slightly, showing you how much energy he’d put into getting Dylan to the ground. His skin was flushed red, partially due to the heat of the grills, but mostly because his blood pressure was always peaked. His emotions got the best of him, no matter good or bad, and his heart was ready to give out at the ripe age of 22.

“You wouldn’t do that to me, would you sweetheart?” He flashed you a smile, his eyes softening the longer he looked at your face. Your heart gave a small flutter at the expression. Dylan was attractive, but Vincent was completely captivating. You wish you could say that you had enough strength to abstain from both of them, but it just wasn’t true. Way back in the beginning, you’d fallen victim to Vincent’s intoxicating charm and fell into bed with him. You blamed it on being new to the city and lonely, but you knew it was all because of him. You were certain that Dylan did not know of this, because if he did, it would crush him. Also, you had cut it off pretty quickly after it started once learning about all of Vincent’s baggage. Save for a few drunken nights, the two of you were nothing but friends.

It was easy to tell yourself that, but every so often, when your eyes lingered on each other for too long, you could feel the energy in the air.

Although it was clear that Dylan’s only intent was to get in your pants, sometimes you had to question if Vincent actually felt more for you than physical attraction, or if you were just making it up in your own head. Then again, you knew he looked that way at every girl who stood before him, and you wouldn’t allow yourself to feel special (again). Also, upon learning about his aggravated assault charge from a bar fight in his late teens, you found it much easier to keep your distance after the initial hookups.

Although you hadn’t seen the criminal side of either of the boys, you knew that they hadn’t learned the right lessons from their brief stays in jail; they just got better at avoiding the cops. You made it a point to stay straight when you moved to the city, and you were intent on keeping the promise to yourself. Involving yourself with those two would be nothing but trouble, and you had grown to hate trouble with a passion.

Besides the painful flirting, they were good company to pass the time, and when you all spent so much time working together, it was impossible not to form some kind of bond.

The Foxhole was a fabled place, and after decades in business (albeit, with many changes), it was still one of the most popular diners in the surrounding area. It sat just outside of city limits, drawing in attraction from travelers and all of the concrete jungle dwellers, too. New York was a large place with many different types of people, and after a year and six months of living there, you were still trying to find your place in the world. When you moved, you had little money in your pocket and lots of hope in your heart. You had a backpack full of clothes and personal items and nothing else but a dream, running as fast as you could to get away from the curse of being your mothers daughter.

Eighteen months later, it felt like you were still running.

You went to a public library and printed off a million copies of your resume (which was incredibly bleak, with only one previous job and a reference stated previous employer, but was really your best friend from high school) and you applied at every bar, restaurant and corner store within walking distance of your low income rental. The Foxhole, although not your dream job, responded within days to schedule an interview. You showed up with a smile and kindness, but quickly realized that not even friendliness was a requirement to be a server there. John, the (third) owner, asked if you had a criminal record (with a follow up question of ‘if you do, how extensive is it?’). Not ten minutes later, you had an apron in hand and you were scheduled for the upcoming week.

Not long after starting, you quickly gauged the environment of your new workplace. The Foxhole, although popular with the public, was an absolute shithole (You soon learned that this was actually the nickname your fellow employees referred to it as). In the seventies, it started as an old tavern. It was popular with middle aged men who hated their families, but not many others. It ran for just under a decade before the original owner stopped paying his mortgage and filed for bankruptcy, and the whole establishment flopped. It was then purchased by a younger couple in an estate sale from the bank in the early eighties, who decided to keep the bar theme. Instead of marketing themselves to middle aged, miserable men, they painted it bright colors and added a dance floor, trying to push the disco theme. To nobody’s surprise, they followed in the same footsteps as the original owner.

Although they did try a bit harder, and the proof remained to this day. You could see bolts in the floor of the old dancing area, signifying a stripper pole was once installed. They put in some more booths and tried to push a menu, but eventually, it went belly-up. Before the banks could foreclose a second time, John stepped in and made the purchase, which ended up changing his life. From the stories you’d heard, you could not gauge if it was for better or for worse. John gutted the whole place and painted over the abhorrent neon colors, placed an old jukebox in the corner and refinished the interior. He named it Foxhole, and seemed to strike gold despite the building causing nothing but shit for previous owners. With a small menu and cheap food, he’d been milking the success for over thirty years.

Success meant little when it equated to making only enough money to keep the doors open, though.

Employed at the Foxhole was four female waitresses who were older than the building itself, five line cooks (three who had a criminal record), two busboys, and four young women who waitressed the overnights (including you). John worked nearly 24/7, and his wife sat in the office and yelled at him all day. They capitalized off employing older women who had nowhere else to go, struggling students, and ex-convicts and addicts. That way, they could offer employment to the desperate and still pay them much less than anyone else. Plus, shared tips were a great selling point. Besides, how else would you find staff for the only 24-hour diner in the area?

You took the Thursday-Sunday overnights with a girl named Katie, while the other young waitresses took the rest of the nights. The older waitresses split the days, and the line cooks worked according to a similar schedule. Vinny and Dylan almost always worked with you, and a part of you was grateful for it. Although they had their flaws, you had grown to enjoy their company, and could honestly say that they were the only real friends you’d made since moving to the city.

“You gonna go home and write your silly little poems?” Vinny asked, his Brooklyn accent nearly grating as he hoisted himself up on the counter. As he waited for a response, he gave you a smirk. You rolled your eyes, dunking your hands into the steaming water in the industrial sinks. It was nearing 5, which meant you only had an hour left to go.

“Yeah, all about me.” Dylan cut in, leaning against the door of the walk-in freezer.

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.” You could only manage a half-smile as you spoke, the thought of writing nearly tearing your heart in two.

“What’s wrong, dollface?” Vincent asked, picking up on your withdrawal. “You better still be writing. That’s the whole reason you came here. That’s your ticket out of here.” His lips turned down into a frown.

“I… I am, yeah.” You nodded, drying your hands on your apron. You didn’t have the heart to look him in the eyes, nor could you admit that writing was the last thing you wanted to do. Inspiration had run dry, and now you were stuck wondering if this really was the end of the road, or if your mother was right and you would come home with your tail between your legs. For the last year and a half, you wrote about everything; the way the trees looked in the sunlight, the skyscrapers, the way the birds chirped, and even the cracks in the sidewalk. You found inspiration in your own sadness and fear, and your own happiness when it came along (even if it was rare). You wrote about failed relationships and lost friendships, and most of all, you wrote about the broken kinship between you and the woman who gave birth to you.

Writing was your safe space, but now that the motivation had passed, you were left feeling unsecure and lost. You feared that you had written every single thing that your brain could come up with, and that the desire would never return. Since the decline began, you’d been desperately searching for something to give you that spark back. You sat at the grocery store for hours, overlooking the produce, brightly coloured yet blemished. You looked between the cracks in the city stone, finding moss rooted and peeking out from the concrete. You looked at the sprouts of weeds in the sidewalk, and the crying babies and laughing children as they passed you on the street.

You searched everywhere for just a hint of an idea, but you were left with nothing. The feeling was gutting, and you feared that you did not know how to live without your pen pressed to paper.

You’d heard stories of writers block, and lately, even found yourself reading articles about it, but you had come to one, horrible realization; you had never experienced it before, and you were unsure if it was truly just a bout of writers block, or if it was a permanent, more serious issue. After twenty three years, you had never felt this way, and you were beginning to believe that it was just the way life was, now. You went home after work, sleeping for hours instead of your usual routine of writing until your eyes forced themselves shut. You couldn’t look at your laptop, and your journal was a stranger.

You came to New York to write a book, but you feared that you were now stuck in New York with nothing but a wasted dream and crushed hope.

“I’m definitely no palaeontologist, but I think you might be lying.” Vinny raised an eyebrow, pointing a finger at you.

“P-palaeontologist?” You asked, stifling a laugh. “Do you by any chance mean… a psychologist?”

“Oh, fuck off with all your fancy words.” He snipped, getting defensive. For a moment, you could see the vein in his forehead pop out again in frustration. “Clearly you know what I fuckin’ meant. You know I didn’t graduate.”

“No, no, I think you have me misunderstood. I’m actually quite impressed you know that word.” You assured him.

“Yeah, but I don’t really know what it means.” He calmed down, laughing at his own stupidity.

“That’s okay, darlin’.” You reached out, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “I guess I am lying.” You shrugged, looking towards the floor. “I haven’t really been writing much at all, lately.”

“Why not?” Dylan joined, immersed in the conversation now that the laughter died down.

“I don’t know,” you sigh “guess I just haven’t had much inspiration. Hard to write something meaningful when I know nobody is ever going to read it… or fucking care about it.” You grumbled.

“Listen, I know we can’t read very well, but I’m sure the two of us could piece it together.” Dylan gave Vinny a pat on the shoulder, smiling over at him. Vincent nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, we care, sweetheart. Don’t we count?”

“Of course you do.” You chuckle, finding your cheeks heat with a blush. “It’s just… weird, right now. I usually want to write about everything, no matter what. Emotions, memories, places I’ve visited, but now I don’t feel like anything is worth writing about. I don’t feel like it’s interesting enough.” You tried to explain it. “Feels like I’m just putting words on a paper, and nothing more. Think maybe I’ve been in my head a little too much. Sad and angry, and all of that… fuck, I don’t know.” You groan, running a hand through your hair.

“Why don’t you write about that, then?” Vincent offered. You looked up at him for a moment, contemplating his words. “If you’re feeling all of that stuff, then maybe it’ll mean something more.”

“Yeah,” Dylan agreed. “Go home tonight and write about not wanting to write. Maybe it’ll help you figure your shit out.” You looked between the two, giving a soft smile. After a few moments, you gave a slow nod.

“Yeah, maybe I will. Think you guys might finally be right for once.” You teased, trying to keep the conversation light. Vincent’s face lit up with a grin, happy that you thought it was a good idea.

“What can I say? I’m more than just a pretty face.”

April 3rd, 2022

You stood, top half leaned out the back door of the building as a cigarette smoldered in your hand. The night was darker than usual, and the city was much quieter, even for a Sunday. You took a long inhale of smoke, puffing your cheeks out and pursing your lips as you blew it outside in the direction of the dumpsters. As you did so, you felt a hand on your lower back as someone reached to open the door a little more. Vincent leaned his head out beside you, just over your shoulder as he gave you a cheeky smile and raised an eyebrow. Without any words exchanged, you rolled your eyes but brought the cigarette to his lips. His eyes fluttered closed as he took a drag, waiting a moment before he exhaled through his nose. His hand remained on the small of your back, the gentle touch sending a shiver down your spine.

“You can use your words, you know.” You tried to sound stern, but there was a smile on your face as you continued holding the cigarette to his lips.

“Why should I? You already know what I want, sweetheart.” He shot back, taking another haul.

“I do,” you chuckled. “For some reason, I don’t think it’s a cigarette, though.” His grip on you tightened for a moment as he shot you a sideways glance.

“What do you think I want then, Miss know it all?”

“An excuse to talk to me?” You raised an eyebrow, offering the idea. He stayed silent for a moment, but eventually gave a slow nod. A smile began to break out on his lips, knowing he’d been caught.

“So what? You have a problem with that, sugar?” His body was closer to you than it had been in a long time, and you wondered if he was taking his shot while Dylan was preoccupied with the freezer inventory.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Unless I should have a problem?”

“Nope,” he popped the p, shaking his head. His head was still turned to face you, his lips unbearably close to your own. He watched as your gaze flickered down towards them, but he didn’t move any further. “Goin’ to the Pony after this, if you’re interested?”

“Are you actually, or is it just an excuse for me to let you sleep at my place?” You questioned. The Pony was a bar just around the corner from your apartment complex, and it was in just as poor shape as the Foxhole. The drinks were strong and cheap, but it didn’t have much else to offer (except for smoking inside, which was a rare thing to stumble upon). There were a few old slot machines in the back, and they played blackjack in the main room on Tuesday’s.

It was mostly occupied by gangbangers who were looking for a new client to sell to, and 70 year old men who chose drinking over starting a family. Vincent went quite often, but you feared that it was for one of two reasons; he was still caught up in his old habits, or he was trying to find an excuse to wiggle his way back into your life. He lived on the other side of town, and once he had a few beers into him, the drunk calling started, and you were never one to let him drink and drive. He knew this well, and he used it to his advantage.

There had been many nights where he came knocking on your door, or when you stumbled out into the darkness to find him drunk, leaning against his car with a grin but no intent to drive. His brown eyes would sparkle in the moonlight, and his soft lips would invite you in. He wouldn’t have to speak a word to get you to open your arms, inviting him in for a hug before you inevitably invited him upstairs. He spent many nights on your couch, but a few in your bed. As much as you wanted to scold him for pushing his luck, you knew you were the only one to blame; you invited him in every time, and you woke in the morning with a sense of freedom and happiness, like you’d just broken free from the chains you had placed so tightly around your own wrists.

You wanted him, and somehow even after convincing yourself that he was bad for you, you never felt a shred of regret for what you did with him. He wasn’t all that bad, but you knew that distance was your best option; he did not seem to outgrow the bad habits you had tried so hard to keep yourself away from. That did not make him a bad person, nor did it make him any less important to you, but you knew that if you wanted to keep yourself on the right path, a relationship with him was out of the question.

“If I wanted to come over, I would ask, and you’d say yes.” The cockiness radiated from him, and you hated that it only seemed to entice you further.

“Vincent…” you warned, giving him a sad stare.

“Oh, would you cut that shit, y/n?” He snapped, the withdrawal seeming to sting him. “You make it seem like I’m a monster.”

“That’s not… that’s not what I meant, and you know that.” You felt the fire burning in your chest, but you managed to swallow it back.

That was another reason to stay away from Vincent; he always seemed to bring out the worst of your emotions at the drop of a dime.

“Then what do you mean, doll? ‘Cause I don’t seem to be understanding.”

“Fine, Vin. You want me so bad, get clean.” You snapped, just the thought of it irritating you. “I’m not going through rehab all over again ‘cause you want to fuck me.” The words seemed to hurt him, but you were unsure of the reason. Part of you wanted to believe it was because he was appalled that you would ever think that he would let you backslide, but the more logical part of you knew it was because he hated your rejection. He had a taste of the sweetness you had to offer, and he couldn’t stand the idea of never having it again, but it came between you and his lifestyle, you knew what the priority was. “The Pony’s a shithole anyway. Wouldn’t want to waste my morning there.”

He looked like he wanted to fight, but instead his lips turned into a tight frown as he gave a curt nod of his head. “Once an addict, always an addict, right?” He said, moving back from you completely.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” You rolled your eyes, turning to face him.

“It means,” he said, narrowing his gaze at you. “That’s all you’ll ever fuckin’ see me as.” You swallowed the sour taste in your mouth, scowling at him as his chest heaved with his hurt. Vincent’s biggest flaw was not the addictions, nor his history with the law, but how every emotion he felt always seemed to dissolve into anger, and his ability to turn every conversation into a fight. “At least getting high never makes me feel the same way you do.” With that, he turned on his heel, storming off to join Dylan in the freezer. You tried to hide the look of hurt on your face as you tossed the cigarette butt in the bucket, slamming the door with enough force to shake the walls. You threw your lighter down next to the pack of smokes sitting on the metal shelving unit, walking back out into the main area to keep cleaning.

When you walked out the swinging half-door, the other waitress, Katie, leaned against the counter while scrolling her phone. She looked up at you just for long enough to give you an expression of distaste, almost biting her tongue hard enough to hold back a snide comment.

“You planning on working tonight, or are you just going to make the whole place smell like cigarettes?”

“Yeah, ‘cause you sure look like you’re fucking hard at work.” You grumbled, kicking the rolling mop bucket out from behind the counter. The dirty mop water sloshed from the sides, spilling over onto the floor and inevitably pissing you off even further.

“You have another fight with your boyfriend?” She smirked, the sneer in her tone making your skin crawl.

“Do you ever take a night off from being insufferable, or is that a permanent kind of thing?” You grabbed the blue metal handle, ringing the head of the mop out before swinging it over the side. It landed on the tile floor with a squelch, and you wasted no time in cleaning up the mess you made. She didn’t respond to your jab, instead making a move to restock the jam holders at all of the tables. You worked hard scrubbing the grime from the floor while she took her time making sure the single-serve condiments were organized. Every so often, you shot a piercing glare at the back of her head, wondering what it would be like if you threw the whole mop and bucket at her.

Katie was undoubtedly the worst part of working at the Foxhole, and you considered it a victory when she called in sick for her shifts. It was a regular occurrence, and since you were hired, you’d heard that it only became more common. Your distaste for being around each other was shared, and you knew hers stemmed from your ability to get along with Vincent and Dylan. Or, perhaps, their ability to get along with you.

From the beginning, it had been clear that you were not the only one who’d fallen victim to Vincent’s charm, yet you seemed to be the only victor when it came to his heart.

When you first arrived, Katie did not seem all that miserable. She was timid, but smiled at you and taught you the ropes. You would have to be blind to miss the nervous stutters and blushing cheeks when she was around Vincent, and it made you think the two of them had something beyond what it looked on the surface. You quickly learned that was not the case, and her schoolgirl crush resulted from a lazy hookup in his car after a long night shift, and after that, his interest in her greatly declined. When you both walked in the front door of the Fox one day, standing a little too closely with matching hickeys on your neck, her smiles became scarce and her desire to get to know you fled.

You did not know the history between the two when you first hooked up with Vincent, nor did you know much of anything else. It did not take long for her to do whatever she could to make you miserable, starting with explaining Vincent’s criminal record and (required by parole guidelines) his AA/NA meeting combination. Instead of jumping the gun and shutting him out, you approached him with the new found information looking for an answer, and after some heavy avoidance, he admitted to all of it. It was a long night shift with many conflicting emotions, but you eventually came to the conclusion that you had to stay away for your own sake, despite already falling for him beyond anything you’d felt before.

Even after you ended things, Vincent and you remained close friends, and every so often, broke the boundaries you had set in place. Katie still hated you, despite your efforts to apologize and make amends, and Vincent seemed like he struggled to comprehend the fact the two of you could not be together. It was a shitshow, yet it was oddly comforting. You weren’t sure if you could handle it if something were to suddenly change. Even when your misery got the best of you, you knew that Katie would always hate you and her snide remarks would keep you on your toes, that Vincent would always trip over himself to flatter you (which would eventually lead to a fight), and Dylan would never know the true extent of the situation and serve as comedic relief.

As you finished mopping the corner tiles, relieved that most of the dirt was lifted from the floor, something light struck you in the back of the head. You furrowed your eyebrows, letting out a small huff as you turned in the direction it was thrown from, first looking at the floor to find a balled up piece of receipt paper. Then, you saw Vincent looking at you, a playful smile on his face, but regret in his eyes. You placed the mop back in the bucket, using the handle to wheel it along with you as you walked towards the back. Vincent’s eyes followed you as you moved towards him, but he didn’t speak. When you joined him in the kitchen, wheeling the bucket towards the mop closet, he followed close behind.

“You have something to say?” You grumbled, opening the closet door as you flipped the bucket upside down on top of the grate covering the drain. You were still upset, and he could see that. His words, like always, had a huge impact on you. You wished he would think before he spoke rather than speaking out of anger and trying to apologize ten minutes after the fact. For someone who claimed he cared, he wasn’t very good at showing it.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, looking down at his feet. “Shouldn’t have said that.” You held back a scoff as you let the closet door fall shut, not straining yourself to soften the slam. “Do you ever think that maybe, instead of turning straight to insults, you should bite your tongue for a second and fucking think about what you’re saying?” You brushed past him, grabbing the spray disinfect and a new rag. This time, he didn’t respond, which only seemed to piss you off more. “I’m not out to get you, Vincent. I’m protecting myself.”

“From what, y/n? You keep saying that, and I don’t get it.”

“I moved here to purse my dream of being an author, but I also came here to get away from the life I made for myself at home. I spent six months in rehab, and the minute they let me go, I packed my stuff and I ran. I thought that once I got here, I could start over.” You paused for a moment, spraying down the metal countertops. You took a long breath before speaking again. “I like you, but I don’t like that lifestyle, Vin. I’ve already fucked up too many times, and I’m scared that if I do it again, there’s no going back. Besides, I can’t pay for another detox at the hospital.” You chuckled at the thought, knowing that the seven days of torture was not worth the thousands of dollars, even with insurance coverage (which the Foxhole definitely did not provide).

“Okay,” he gave a slow nod, looking across the kitchen to gather his thoughts. “So… if I get clean, you say you’ll give me a shot?”

“Sure, yeah.” You forced out the words, the pained look on your face clear. In a perfect world, that’s how it would be, but you knew that he’d never stick to the promise. You couldn’t force him sober, and he didn’t really want to recover. Even if he did, you weren’t sure if you could trust him enough to believe he would stick with it. The conversation went the same way every time, and clearly no progress was made, hence why you were sitting in front of him explaining the same things for the millionth time. You could not allow yourself to get your hopes up, and you could not trust him while knowing that making a promise to stay sober for any person other than yourself is a terrible idea.

“I think… do you think that I don’t care?” You stopped for a moment, your whole body freezing as you wiped the lemony-smelling cleaner from the countertop.

“What?” You asked, looking back over your shoulder at him. His brown eyes looked sad beneath the tough exterior he’d built up. His cheeks were red, irritated from the cold of the freezer. He was only a couple inches taller than you, but in the moment of high emotion, It felt like he was towering over you. For once, anger did not seem present in his face.

“I know… I’m not the best at the whole emotions thing, and I say shit I don’t mean, but I care if you’re sober too, doll. I mean, your last detox was… it was hell. I don’t want you to go through that again.” You swallowed hard at the thought of the relapse, and the thought of his concern.

“You just hated working without me.” You forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. When focusing on your own addictions, you began to panic. The fact that he knew that part of you so well scared the shit out of you, but also made you feel like he should understand why you were setting the boundaries. There were many things you didn’t understand about Vincent, the biggest one being his long list of red flags, yet his huge heart that cared about everyone so deeply. You knew that it was not entirely his fault; he had no guidance growing up, nor did he have anyone to help him correct his mistakes, but that did not change the fact that he was a 22 year old man that did not know how to hold himself accountable for anything.

Vincent was many things; a son born into a family who did not care if he lived or died, a child who was never loved the way a child should be, and a hurt little kid who grew into a man that was angry, lost, and trying to bargain with his crushing disappointment over his own failures. He struggled with the law, but more than anything, he struggled with his own demons. He had an addiction he could not face up to and overcome, and monsters in the closet that all looked like his father with a belt in his hand. He had a criminal record which stopped him from pursuing the things he once dreamed of, and was destined to be stuck working at the Foxhole until he could either clean himself up, or he died.

He was vindictive, sly, arrogant, and naive. He was raised by drug dealers who taught him all of the wrong morals, and who always made it a point to show anger before any other emotion. He was taught how to evade the law, and how to use fists instead of words. He picked himself up off the ground every time he fell, and grew a nasty amount of independence. He relied on nobody but himself, and would not let anyone take that away from him. He did not know how to trust, nor did he know how to love, but god did he want to. He felt like he needed to, especially when his eyes landed on you.

Despite his struggles, he was not a bad person. He cared deeply for the people that were important to him, and he would die for them on any given day. He was funny, and he was goofy, and he was great company. He was easy to fall in love with, but that was the danger. Although all of those things were true, down to the core, what he said earlier was correct; he was an addict, and worse than that, an active addict. Nothing was more important than a fix, and it turned him into the worst version of himself. You were no stranger to the evils of substance, but now that you were sober and intent to stay that way, you could finally see the monsters it created. His irritability and his lack of control over his emotions was staggering, and his inability to understand the harm he was putting on to others was catastrophic. He was selfish, and so much so that it constantly hurt others in the crossfire.

You could not judge him too harshly, because you knew all too well that it would take little for you to become that person again, too.

Even though you saw him for all of his flaws, you saw him as a human being, too. You saw him as the charming man who only had to smile in order to make your stomach fill with butterflies. You knew him as the boy who would drive you around as needed, or would lend you his car if he needed to be elsewhere. You saw the man who showed up at your front door with a wrench and a smile when your pipes burst in the kitchen sink and your landlord did not care enough to fix it. He was your friend, and he was someone you cared deeply about. His addiction was not who he was, but rather what made him be so hard to digest sometimes. You knew that if he managed to get clean and stay that way, he could be that person all of the time.

Unfortunately, you did not have the courage nor the ability to help him get there, and the thought of that alone nearly killed you.

Helping him was all you wanted to do, but you knew better than anyone that the only person who could help Vincent was himself.

“Don’t look so sad, sweetheart.” He said, reaching out and laying a gentle hand on your arm. You looked down as his fingers connected with your skin, the touch sending jolts of electricity through your whole body. You caught his eye, your lips turned down into a frown. You wished so bad for it to be easy, but after twenty three years, you knew that this lifetime was never meant to be kind to you.

Before you could speak, you heard the familiar chime of the bell above the door. You looked between Vincent and the empty dining room. As if she knew, Katie peeked her head back into the kitchen, giving you a look and a raised eyebrow.

“They’re in your section.” You could hear the distaste in her voice. Unlike usual, you didn’t have a witty comment or a sarcastic response to shoot back at her.

“You… you can have it. Take the tip, too. Don’t care.” You muttered. “I’ll finish cleaning.” For a second, you thought you saw a shred of humanity in her eyes when she caught sight of your pained expression. Without any further words, she turned and left the two of you alone again. Before Vincent could continue your earlier conversation, Dylan pushed open the door of the freezer and stepped out, shuddering at the sudden rush of warmth on his skin. The tip of his nose was burning red and his teeth were chattering together.

“Cold enough for you, dumbass?” Vincent asked, baffled and Dylan’s refusal to wear anything other than a t-shirt while he did inventory.

“Keeps me awake.” He said, doing a couple small jumps in his spot to get the blood rushing through him again.

“No, makes you look stupid.” You corrected, wiping at the counter again. “Is that grill on? We’ve got a customer.” You nodded towards the blackstone grill that looked awfully cool. No billows of black smoke were filtering into the air, telling you they definitely turned it off in anticipation of having no more customers for the night. Dylan rolled his eyes, but flicked on the heat to the max, hoping to get it hot before Katie brought back the order.

“Who the fuck goes out to eat at,” he paused, looking at his watch “two in the morning on a Sunday?”

“Obviously them, and enough people that John decided to keep us open 24 hours.” You sighed, knowing you would have to clean the dining room all over again.

“Okay, miss know it all.” Dylan put on a mocking smile as he walked to the window to grab the order slip. Once you deemed the kitchen clean enough, you sat atop one of the counters you’d just scrubbed clean. Vincent seemed to be keeping his distance, now. You weren’t sure if it was because you had hurt his feelings, or he was too afraid to show his emotions around Dylan. Katie hung out by the window, using the soda machine just underneath to pour the customers their drinks. “You write about not wanting to write, yet?” Dylan asked, throwing a veggie burger on the grill.

“No, not really.” You chuckled, looking down at your hands. “I mean, I did, but it was terrible.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad, doll.” Vincent said, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Yeah, no, it definitely was.” You gave a slow nod. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Feels like I can’t write anything anymore.” You sighed. “I’m trying to find inspiration in anything, but it all just seems… bleak.”

“It’ll come, always does.” Dylan assured you, flipping the food with the thin metal spatula.

“Yeah,” you noded, trying to believe it. You ran your hands over the hem of your apron, pondering your lack of a muse, when suddenly it seemed like the universe was laughing at you.

No, it wasn’t the universe laughing; it was something far more beautiful and melodic than something that was normally so sinister.

Your head snapped up and your heart pounded against your chest. The sound was so powerful that it seemed to shake the whole building, making the rotten foundation quiver and threaten to give way. More than powerful, it was breathtaking, and you were desperate to know where it was coming from. You looked out the window, peeking into the dining room to see what the commotion was, and why it was so striking that it made your heart skip a beat. Your eyes soon landed on the corner booth, taken by the only two customers in the entire store. Sat in the very corner, shoulder pressed against the window that onlooked the road dimly lit by street lamps, was a man who was certainly the most beautiful you had ever seen.

The smile was still lingering on his lips and the ghost of his laugh hung thick in the air. His hair, long and curly, hung down over his broad shoulders to frame his beautiful crafted face. A tattered band shirt with the sleeves cut off and a worn out logo magnified his strong arms. His jawline was sharp, angling down into a soft chin, and although large, his nose was stunning. His eyes, even from far away, managed to make your stomach flutter with curiosity.

Whoever he was, he had turned your entire world upside down in an instant. The warm embrace of his presence was more profound than anything you had ever felt before, and as you sat staring at him, you were aching to know him. His beauty was blinding, and his laugh seemed to strike more inspiration in your heart than you even thought was possible.

It was in that moment that you realized a muse was not something you could search for, but rather something that finds you when the time is right.

After weeks of feeling defeated, wondering if your entire life had lead to nothing but disappointment, or spending hours in bars and coffee shops trying to find inspiration yet met with nothing, it only took a split second for your hands to beg to be wrapped around a pen. You needed your notebook, or your laptop, because the sight of his face prompted enough emotion for you to write entire novels about the feeling.

Dylan served the two plates in the window, and you watched as Katie walked it to the boy and his company. Whatever his friend said prompted another laugh that blossomed straight from his chest, echoing off the walls and making home in your heart. His friend seemed loud, definitely more talkative than the curly haired boy. He was facing away from you, his long brown hair falling down his back. You did not even truly care what he looked like, because you were certain he would pale in comparison to the boy who already managed to steal your heart. You sat, completely immersed in the sight with no shame about your staring. You hung on to every small detail and miniscule expression, hoping to sear it into your memory for the rest of time. Every time a laugh fell from his lips, butterflied erupted in your stomach.

He did not notice you, but god did you notice him, and so much so that it was hard to see anything else.

When you finally broke from the trance and looked back into the kitchen, Dylan and Vincent’s eyes were both burning into you. Dylan was smirking, like he already knew what was running through your head without you having to say a word. Vincent, on the other hand, was definitely not even close to smiling. His jaw was hard set, the vein in his forehead protruding slightly as he clenched his teeth together. He knew exactly what you were thinking, and it absolutely gutted him. Your cheeks tinged red as if it were the cherry on top of an already catastrophic disaster, and you wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Instead of speaking, Vincent grabbed the pack of cigarettes the three of you shared and walked out the back door, making sure to slam it for extra salt in the wound.

You swallowed hard, looking back at Dylan with a flicker of anxiety in your eyes. He shrugged it off, clearly not understanding the extent of the situation and leaned against the counter beside you.

“So, are you gonna go talk to him?” He asked, giving you a goofy smile as he gazed out at the man in question. You looked back towards the dining room too, your eyes shining with wonder at the two unnamed men. You have a slow shake of your head, knowing that you would never, but wishing that you would.

April 4th, 2022

You woke with a start, your head pounding as the sun shined brightly through your large panel windows. You shifted in your position, immediately wincing from the aches and pains that ravished your body. You blinked a few times, trying to focus your eyes as you took in your surroundings. You were on your living room floor, head propped up against the couch with your journal still laying atop of you. You must have fallen asleep writing, as your pen was still clutched tightly in your hand.

You quickly located the source of the disturbance, seeing your phone ringing loudly and irritatingly beside you. You picked it up, focusing your eyes on the screen to see who could be calling. When you saw John’s name on the screen, you felt your stomach drop for a moment. You swiped across the screen, accepting the call as you hit the speaker button.

“Hello?”

“Hey, y/n.” He said, almost sounding pained to be calling you.

“What’s up, John?” You asked, stretching your limbs out to rid yourself of the pain lingering in your joints. Sleeping on the floor was definitely a bad call, even if it was only for a few hours.

“I hate to ask this, but could you come in and cover the lunch rush? I know you worked overnight last night, but Linda had to leave; her husband fell and she had to take him to the emergency room.” Linda was one of the older ladies who worked the mornings. You quite liked her, even if you did think she smelled like the basement of an old Catholic Church. “I’ll pay you time and a half.” He offered, hoping to bribe you with the extra pay.

“Yeah, that’s no problem.” You would have agreed anyway, but the offering was not something you were willing to refuse. “Give me about thirty minutes and I’ll be down.”

“Thank you, darlin’. You’re a lifesaver.” You could hear his relief through the phone.

“Love you too, John.” You chuckled, ending the call and making a move to stand. You quickly ran to the bathroom, jumping in the shower and washing away the night shift that was still lingering on your skin. You washed your hair and took an extra minute to condition it and sit under the warm water, then rinsed off and jumped out. You blow dried your hair and styled it slightly, dusting on some light makeup. You always made sure to look nice for a busy serving shift, because it made the older men much more generous with their tips.

You ran to your bedroom, pulling out a pair of black leggings and an old Zeppelin shirt that once belonged to your brother. One thing you liked about the Fox was that the dress code was nonexistent. You could show up in your pajamas and John would just be relieved that you showed up at all. You stuffed your purse full of the necessities and grabbed your phone from the couch as you passed by. You locked the door as you made your way into the hallway, throwing your keys in your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. As you walked down the stairs of the creaky old apartment building, the sun already began to hurt your eyes before you even reached the door. You pushed open the front door and took a long breath of air, the coldness filling your lungs and making your chest ache for a moment. Spring was just around the corner, but winter still seemed like it was trying to hang on.

As you slipped your headphones in your ears and hit shuffle on your playlist, your eyes noticed something familiar across the street. You furrowed your eyebrows, your lips turning into a frown as you recognized the rusted out body of the 80’s model car. As you walked a little closer, you noticed the silhouette of Vincent, sleeping soundly in the driver's seat. You approached the vehicle, raising your fist and rapping it against the glass with force. It only took a second for him to shoot awake, looking around to try and figure out where he was. With a defensive stance, his head whipped towards the window. As always, he looked ready for a fight, but when his eyes landed on you, his expression softened. As you pulled your jacket closer to your body, he rolled the window down.

“What are you doing sleeping in your car, Vin?” You asked, clearly displeased with his actions. “You know what type of people hang out around here.”

“Drank too much last night,” he grumbled, rubbing his face in his hands as he squinted at the sunlight. “Knew it was best not to drive.”

“You could have called.”

“Thought you didn’t like it when I did that, doll?” He cleared his throat, the rasp of cigarettes still heavy in his tone.

“I…” you paused, shifting your weight between your legs. “I'd rather you be safe.”

“I’m safe, don’t worry sweetheart.” He chuckled, his cockiness peeking through. Vincent loved framing himself as unafraid of anything, but it simply was not true. He thought he was invincible, even if you knew he was just a man. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“John called me in, something about Linda’s husband falling. She had to leave.” You explained.

“That guys always fucking falling. Should get him one of those little stair elevators, you know? Like in the commercials?” You laughed at his idea, nodding in agreement.

“They probably would if they weren’t poor.” You reminded him.

“Yeah, aren’t we all?” He leaned his head against the headrest, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to keep the hangover at bay. “You want a drive over?”

“Sure, if you’re headed that way.” You agreed, walking around to jump in the passenger seat. He started the car, the old engine turning over a few times before eventually sputtering into a slow start. The interior immediately began to smell like gasoline, but you ignored it. It was one of the most charming quirks about the vehicle.

“You sleep last night? It’s awfully early to be going back in.” He noted, looking down at his watch. The radio system in his car no longer worked, including the digital clock (it read the wrong time when it did work anyway, so it did not really matter).

“A little, fell asleep on the floor of all fucking places.” You chuckled, pulling your jacket closer to your body again. He rolled the window up, noticing your small shiver. “I’m only going in for a few hours, so it doesn’t matter much anyway.” He did not respond to this, instead pulling the car around and driving out onto the highway. The rattle of the engine filled the stale air, and you looked out the window as he drove.

“You’re going to miss NA.” He stated, glancing over at you for only a second. “You didn’t go last week, either.”

“I know, I know.” You sighed. “I’ll catch the Wednesday meeting instead.”

“You promise?” He pushed, not willing to let it go. You bit your tongue, knowing he was the last person in the world who should be scolding you about missing your meetings.

“Yeah. Are you going today, or do you want to come with me on Wednesday?”

“I’ll come with you.” He said without hesitation. You were the only thing that made the meetings bearable for him. You did notice he was slightly withdrawn, and he did not even attempt to reach over and put his hand on your thigh.

When you turned your head to look at him, you finally noticed the details you managed to overlooked before. His eyes had dark circles underneath, and the whites were bloodshot. His pupils were blown, nearly engulfing his irises, and if you squinted hard enough, you could see the red ring of blood lining his nostril. He was still coming down from the high the night before, and the thought almost made you sick to the stomach. The emotion was not because he chose to do drugs, but because in the moment of seeing him like that, you could remember what it felt like so vividly that it made your head spin. Your hands went clammy and your fingers began to tremble as you bargained with yourself to just make it to the diner.

He clicked on his turn signal, cutting sharply into the parking lot and pulling up to the door so you wouldn’t have to walk through the parking lot. “Thanks, Vincent.” You choked out, still trying to distract yourself from the idea of his endeavors the night prior.

“I’ll see you Wednesday.” He said, forcing a smile. The come down had hit him hard, and you could tell his whole body felt like lead. His eyelids were heavy, and he would likely park in the empty lot next to the diner for a while to get some more sleep.

“Yeah,” you nodded, forcing him a smile, too. You jumped out of the car, pulling a half smoked cigarette from your pack to smoke before you went inside. You stood a few feet away from the door, and finished it as fast as you could. You crushed the butt beneath your old ratty converse and took two large strides to the entrance, pulling the door open and stepping inside.

The chatter in the room was immediately overwhelming, and the smell of the deep fryer hit your nose almost instantly. You rushed behind the counter and through to the kitchen, grabbing a clean apron and an order pad. You shoved the book and a pen in your front pocket, and knocked on the door of the office to grab a cash float. You heard John tell you to come in, and as you opened the door he sent you a smile. He already counted the cash and had it waiting on the desk for you, which you shoved in the second pocket.

“Thanks again, darlin’. You only have to stay for the rush.”

“Don’t mention it.” You smiled, closing the door behind you. You moved back out to the dining room after punching in a time card. John had not yet moved to an updated system, because computers were not his forte. Nobody complained, because you got paid all the same. Betty gave you a wave as she dropped off some order tickets at the window, relieved to see you there.

“Linda has the back section, and there’s a couple people who haven’t been served yet. You mind starting there?”

“No problem.” You assured her, grabbing a stack of menus to bring over with you. You stopped first at a booth with a family. They had two small kids with them who seemed to be getting impatient. The mother held the baby in her lap while the little boy sat next to his dad. You handed out the menus and took drink orders, stopping to crouch down and talk to the boy who looked to be only five.

“And how old are you, baby?” You asked, giving him a warm smile as he played with his tiny model car on the table.

“Four and three quarters!” He grinned, looking over at you.

“Three quarters?” You exclaimed, matching his excitement. “That means your birthday is coming up soon?” He gave an eager nod. “That also means,” you stopped and checked the front of the menu to make sure of the policy before saying the wrong thing. “You get to eat for free today!” You glanced up at the mom, sending her a gentle wink. Not often did you serve kids, because you usually only worked at night. According to the menus, kids under 6 ate for free. “So you can have all of the Dino nuggets you can eat.” The prospect seemed to excite him even more as he looked to his dad, hoping he would verify if you were telling the truth. “I’ll be back in a few to take your orders and bring your drinks.” You told the woman, who was smiling at you while bouncing the baby in her lap.

You moved on to the next table, an older couple who was sweet and already knew what they wanted without even having to look over the options. You wrote it down, knowing they were likely regulars. You assured them it wouldn’t be long before moving to the last table. You barely looked up as you made your way towards the corner booth, but when you did, your heart nearly jumped straight from your chest. The curly hair was unmistakable, and the outline of the big nose made your stomach twist with anxiety. You hated to admit that he noticed you and spoke long before your brain could formulate a word, ultimately leaving you looking like an idiot.

“Hey, mind if I have one of those?” As if it were some sick trick from the universe, his voice was just as heavenly as his laugh was the night before, and his eyes were just as soft and warm, inviting you in even further. His teeth were white and impossibly straight as he smiled at you, and it made your heart thud dramatically against your chest.

The boy that you’d spent all hours of the morning writing about was in front of you, sitting in the exact same seat he was when you had seen him for the first time.

“Y-yeah, f’course.” You forced a smile, your cheeks burning red as you handed him a menu from the dwindling stack in your hand. “You, uh… what brings you here?” You asked, internally facepalming at the stupid nature of your question. It was a diner; obviously he was there to eat.

“Uh… food?” He raised an eyebrow, smiling at you as he answered. He didn’t seem concerned about your nervousness, and if anything, it sparked an intrigue in him.

“Yeah, obviously, sorry.” You chuckled, shaking your head as you tried to straighten your thoughts. “I mean, you were here late last night, too. I know the food’s not that good, so it has to be something else bringing you here.” You flashed a real smile, your wit seeming to find its way back to you.

“Oh, yeah.” He laughed, nodding. “I’m not from here, actually. My friend and I are traveling. We booked an Airbnb for a few months, so it gives us some time to explore New York. Our flight came in late, and this was the closest spot last night…. And this morning.” He explained.

“The truth comes out,” you chuckled, cocking your head to the side. “Where you from?”

“Michigan.” He replied, trying to read over the menu, but his attention seemed to only want to be on you. “What about you? You definitely don’t have the accent like the rest of the city does.”

“Utah,” you grinned, surprised he picked up on it.

“So how the hell did you end up here?” He smirked, seemingly very interested in the conversation and uncaring that you were working amidst a lunch rush.

“Long story, sweetheart.” You laughed, brushing it off. He didn’t really want to know, and you didn’t want to bore him.

“I’ve got all the time in the world.” He shrugged, motioning to the empty both. You pondered his words for a moment, biting the inside of your lip. He was completely enamouring, and you barely even knew him. From the twenty seconds of conversation, you felt compelled to keep talking to him, wanting to know everything you could.

“Why don’t I take your order, and if you still want to know, we can make that happen.” You offered. He thought about it for a moment, finally seeming to realize you were working. He was so enthralled in your face and your words that the whole world around him seemed to disappear.

“Yeah, that’s probably a better idea.” He nodded. “Any recommendations?” He asked, completely ignoring the menu in his hand in hopes that you would keep talking.

“Breakfast or lunch?”

“Breakfast.” He confirmed.

“Omelet is good, vegetarian or not. Can never fuck up one of those.” You explained, smiling down at him.

“Sure, one of those, however you like it.” He said, his brown eyes lingering over your face. “And a coffee, please.”

“Sure thing.” You gave a soft smile, reaching down to pick up the menu again. “I’ll be back.”

“Can’t wait.” He shot back, keeping his eyes glued to you as you walked away. As you went to drop off the order tickets and collect the drinks for your tables, your cheeks were burning and your chest was filled with curious excitement. You didn’t know him, but you wanted to, and it was almost hard to believe that he seemed to want to know you, too.

You did not want to get your hopes up, because men had always let you down, even if they had ample amounts of promise. Then again, he seemed different than anyone you’d ever spoken to before. He didn’t seem creepy, nor did his eyes travel anywhere other than your face. He was friendly, soft spoken, and kind. He didn’t think your anxiety was strange, and he didn’t even mention it in efforts to keep you comfortable. You didn’t know him at all, but he seemed better than anyone you’d ever laid eyes on, looks and personality-wise.

You never know unless you try, and try was the only thing you knew how to do. You were determined to know him, and only then you could truly judge his character. Even if he turned out to be an asshole or disappointing in some way, he would at least be nice to look at in the meantime.

You dropped off drinks at your other two tables, then doubled back to brew his coffee. You tapped your foot against the floor in anticipation, hoping it would speed up the process. When the coffee maker sputtered the last pathetic spurt of liquid, it let out a tired groan as the button and lights clicked off. You poured a mug and grabbed a milk and cream dish. You carefully walked it over to his booth, setting it down in front of him with a sigh of relief. You were known as the coffee spiller amongst the staff, and you finally seemed to deliver one successfully.

“Thank you,” he smiled up at you, the sight nearly taking your breath away. “I’m Danny, by the way.”

“Danny…” you pondered, the corners of your lips tugging onwards. “I like it. I’m y/n.”

“Pretty name for a pretty girl.” He smirked, tearing open a sugar packet and dumping it into the steaming cup. Your cheeks dusted red again, your entire body heating at the compliment. “So you said you were here last night, but you definitely weren’t the one who served me. She seemed a bit…” he trailed off, trying to find the proper words.

“Bitchy?” You offered, raising an eyebrow. He let out a laugh, so similar to the one you heard last night. It nearly made you weak in the knees.

“Sure, yeah.” He nodded. “That’s not how I would word it, but that’s probably the best way to say it.”

“I shouldn’t be so mean,” you sympathized with the girl, even if she wasn’t standing there to hear it. “She’s not the worst person in the world, but she is hard to get along with sometimes.”

“Yeah, I can see that. She was giving Sam dirty looks the whole time.” He chuckled at the memory. “I get it, though. Sam’s loud, and he’s a lot to take in. I’m sure you guys weren’t expecting that at two in the morning.”

“We’re usually a bit busier at night, but last night was super slow. Think she was just doing it because technically you were sitting in my area, and I was busy.”

“Busy, but still concerned with who was sitting out here?” He questioned. You prayed your cheeks would stop rushing with blood as you tried to think of a proper response.

“I’m nosy, what can I say?” You shrugged.

“I must have left an impact, cause you recognized me today.” He pointed out, taking another sip of coffee. You gave a slow nod, a smile pulling at your lips.

“Yeah, well, we definitely don’t get too many cute boys in here. Usually just drunkards from the old tavern and teenagers who snuck out.” You explained.

“Cute?” He pressed, liking the sound of the term. You rolled your eyes, playful but sweet.

“Yeah, yeah, get over yourself.” You gave a soft laugh.

“No, actually.” He shook his head. “I’m sure I’ll be thinking about that for a while, especially coming from someone as beautiful as you.” You smiled, biting down on the inside of your lip again. Instead of continuing the conversation, you decided to play hard to get.

“Your food shouldn’t be too much longer.” You gave a smirk, adding a little pep to your step as you turned and walked away. Again, he watched as you disappeared behind the counter, waiting for your plates to be served.

Soon enough, the meals for the family of four were served on the windowsill. You grabbed the ticket and brought them their food, letting them know to just give a holler if they needed anything else. You went back and retrieved the plates for the older couple and dropped them off to them just the same. Eventually, Danny’s meal was served and you had to stop for a moment, regaining your composure before you brought it over to him. You picked up the omelet, carting it close to your body as you walked to the corner booth, being mindful of your steps so you did not trip over anything. When you reached his table, he gave you a smile as you placed it down in front of him.

“Looks good,” he commented, happy with the recommendation.

“Definitely not a Michelin starred restaurant, but we know how to make an omelet.” You grinned.

“Seems so,” he gave a nod of approval.

“Let me know if you need anything else, sweetheart.” You said, looking over your shoulder as more customers filled up the seats in your section.

“I will for sure.” He promised. “Thank you.” You didn’t respond, but gave another smile as you walked to greet the new customers.

After a while, the buzz began to die down. People were leaving with smiles on their faces and full bellies, and the tips were flowing generously. You brought the debit machine from table to table, allowing people to pay so they could make their way home. Every time you saw a customer out, you checked to see if Danny was ready. He seemed to be taking his sweet time, but you didn’t mind at all; it saved from another person replacing him in his seat, and it gave you something pretty to look at. If you could have it your way, you’d never let him leave.

He was intriguing, and you seemed to like every exchange of words more than the last. He was someone you wanted to keep talking to, and someone you wanted to share things with. He was interested in everything you had to say, and you hung onto every word that fell from his mouth. He was the most interesting person to ever sit in the diner, in the best way possible. You wanted to ask for more, to see him again, but your fear was stopping you. Rejection terrified you, and embarrassment was not any better. Instead, you stole glances at him and hoped that he would ask first, or that he would at least come back once he decided it was time to leave.

When most of the crowd filtered out, John let you know that you could head home, and that he convinced the night waitresses to come in a little early to cover the dinner rush. You nodded, letting him know you had one more customer to see through and then you’d be on your way. He thanked you again, wasting no time returning to the office. You liked John quite a lot; he was friendly, nice, and didn’t really care much about what you did during your shift as long as the job got done. He was old, and he was tired. The diner had given him a run for his money, and he was excited to retire, but realistically he knew it would never happen. You felt bad for him, but at the same time, you were happy to know he would be running the show for the foreseeable future.

You walked over to Danny, hoping to catch another quick conversation with him. He seemed to be pleased with your decision to join him again, smiling as you advanced towards him. “Back again?” He asked once you were in earshot.

“Just couldn’t stay away,” you smirked. “You all finished?”

“Yeah, think so.” He nodded, draining the last of the coffee from his mug. “Trying to get me out of here?” He asked.

“No, but the sooner you leave, the sooner I get to go home.” You explained. He gave a slow nod, picking up on the situation, now.

“If that’s the case, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“No need to rush.” You assured him, hoping you didn’t come off as rude. You’d stay all day if it meant you got to talk to him.

“I know, I know,” he chuckled. “But Sam’s probably wondering where I am, so I probably should get back.”

“Yeah, no problem. I can grab your bill?” You offered.

“Sure,” he nodded. “Mind if I borrow your pen for a second?” You grabbed it from your pocket, handing it over to him before running to the counter to print off his receipt. You brought it back over to him, placing it face down on the table.

“Shit, do you need the debit machine?” You asked, remembering that you hadn’t asked him yet. You were too caught up in the beauty of his smiling face.

“No, cash is fine.” He promised, flipping over the bill. You mindlessly watched out the window as he pulled some money out of his wallet, leaving it on the table as he made a move to stand.

“Oh, hold on.” You stopped him, eyeing the fifty dollar bill with unease. For a second, you thought you might have charged him wrong. “I’ll get your change.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he smiled. “I’ll see you again sometime?”

“Danny, that’s way too much-“

“Ah,” he cut you off, shaking his head. “Whatever happened to the customer is always right?” He raised an eyebrow. You let out a sigh, knowing that it was best not to argue with him.

“Thank you,” you said, feeling guilty for accepting such a large gesture. The tip was nearly four times his bill total.

“No need for thanks, the service was excellent.” He assured you. “You said you work the overnights here, right?”

“Yeah, usually.” You nodded. “Thursday to Sunday.”

“I’ll have to stop by sometime.” He noted, slipping on his jacket. Your eyes lingered over the muscles of his arms shown off under the sleeves of his t-shirt. You swallowed hard, trying to push the thought away.

“Guess so,” you agreed, nodding slightly. “Have a good rest of your day.”

“You, too.” He said, his shoulder gently brushing with your own as he passed by. The contact sent a shiver down your spine, and you turned to watch as he walked out the front door, wishing that you had the courage to follow after him or ask him to stay. Instead, you saw him disappear from view, and you were left with a sinking feeling in your stomach and regret looming overhead.

You turned to the table, grabbing the cash he’d left and your copy of the receipt. He’d penciled in the tip total, but what caught your eye was a napkin laying underneath that had black pen scribbled on it. You picked it up, bringing it closer so you could read the messy handwriting. As your eyes drifted over the words, your stomach filled with butterflies and your cheeks began to ache from the smile that took hold.

It was fantastic meeting you. If you ever have the time, I’d love to hear about Utah.

Below that, he left his phone number and a series of X’s and O’s. You bit down on your lip, slipping the note in your pocket to save for later, turning away to count your tips. As you went to the register, you couldn’t help but notice the excitement filling you, and how eager you were to get home and use the number he’d left, even if it was just to tell him about Utah. For the first time in eighteen months—no, for the first time in years, your happiness was genuine and you were eager to see what the next day would bring.

TAGLIST: @imleavingyoufornewyork @itsafullmoon @bladenotblaze @jessicafg03 @dont-go-home-without-me @peaceloveunitygvf

[a-deceptive-calling]

”It is not your flesh that sustains me, it is your fear.” CW | GORE, BLOOD, AND DISTURBING IMAGERY

One of the most underutilized aspects of Springtrap and Deliah, are the nightmares brought upon Deliah and Nick through the child spirits. My main gripe with the spirits is how they mostly exist to belittle Springtrap for being a serial killer (rightfully so) in order to make the audience feel bad for him. This, will soon change. First, however, I intend to give Nightmare Springtrap a new form. Detailed below are notes for both the original design by GraWolfQuinn, and the sketch for my redesign that provides more insight to my creative decisions.

The original design for this form was quite lacking in my opinion, as it made minimal changes to the existing Springtrap design. The tentacles in particular were a strange decision, as Springtrap himself doesn’t really call for it, that and given his constant run-ins with fire. However, I will give props and say that I really liked the detail of the springlock failure blood stains being present on the suit, it was a clever detail to include. I understand Quinn was a minor at the time, and I’ve been there at making not-so-stellar designs at that age too.

In my redesign, I took inspiration from my own childhood fears of a grandpa I had who was quite tall, and me being terrified of his towering height. I seriously think Fnaf 3 was criminally underutilized in this comic, so I gave my redesign more of the withered features shared with the OG Springtrap. I was also inspired by the one panel with Purple Guy inside of Springtrap during Deliah’s nightmare for this design, as Afton and his creation are now one of the same.

I usually never go this hard on line art, but this design warranted it. A major emphasis of this design is the usage of darkness. I love playing with black and white, and obscuring his figure with shadow really benefits the horror of not fully knowing what’s there. Additionally, I took some notes from Scraptrap and added some more skeletal features enfused with bones and mangles of what flesh remains, or at least, what Delilah can memorize.

I am extremely happy with how this design turned out, and the chromatic zooming effect really enhances the overall look!

[thefirstradiant]

DEAN WINCHESTER!

Okay? Did I get y’all’s attention? I heard this song in the car a few day ago and immediately had a million thoughts. I also immediately began crying, thanks. This song cuts deep to Dean’s core (some Sam thrown in there too) and I think you all should give it a listen. If you care to read my line by line thoughts, they’re under the break because it got LONG lmao.

I made a home here in unsteady things

It was hard to think that I could ever leave

For me I see most of this song through Dean’s perspective, but that could also just be because I’m so Dean-coded that it’s also just my perspective. I’m picturing the constant moving around as kids with John and trying to make a home in the hundreds of motels. I’m picturing the Impala, adult Dean’s first real home, and how he brought Sam back into it. I don’t think Dean thought he could ever leave this life and at times he didn’t want to, even if it was unsteady.

So I gave my breath each time she couldn't breathe on her own

This is both of them, but from my Dean perspective of the song and the earliest time we see it in the series, this is Dean trading his soul for Sam. It’s also Dean as a kid giving Sam all his food and treats and energy and his everything so he could breathe just a little easier and contentedly.

I felt her scars and asked her nervously

Who was the thief that stole your certainty?

Demon-blood Sam to me. This is Dean scared of his brother and his powers and realizing that he may be more messed up by their childhood than he thought. This is Dean cursing himself for not doing a good enough job of protecting Sammy so that nothing could ever hurt him. Dean can see all the scars that that addiction left on Sam and it kills him and confuses him at the same time.

She didn't know, she lost it some time long ago

Oh Sammy. This part is just sad. No matter how hard Dean tried as a kid and young adult, Sam was already damaged. He was bound to fall into the demon blood addiction.

I've fought so long, it's what I do

My fists are fine, it's just my soul's a little bruised

Daddy’s blunt instrument. Soldier of Heaven. Ultimate Killer. Need I say more? This is Dean hearing everyone else tell him that fighting is what he does. He comes back every time so he must be fine right? Wrong. Some wounds aren’t visible.

But I'll stay on my feet until I lose

But I never learn to lose

My favorite lines. They give me shivers. This is what we know Dean for. The man who absolutely never gives up. Who would get back on his feet a million times over again for Sam. And then the “learn to lose” part. Throughout the show we see this in Dean. He doesn’t know how to process his loved ones leaving him or dying or their plans failing. He just needs that next “big win”. This is my favorite unfinished (thanks finale) exploration of Dean.

It's hard to know me

At least you tried

It's hard to love in the cold

And it's gotten so cold outside

Ah the chorus. Really punches home how Dean feels. He loves that Sam tried to know him and stay with him, even if he still can’t see that he ever deserved it. The cold gives me such amazing imagery here of desolation, of emptiness. It is HARD to love in the face of such emptiness that we see time and time again during the apocalypse events and times when the brothers get separated. But they’re still trying. They’re shivering in the cold, but trying.

My younger years went by so urgently

And left me grief that I'm still servicing

Quite obviously Dean. Just want to point out I love the word choices of urgently and servicing. I think Dean will always be servicing his trauma from John and his upbringing, but I just so wish we could have seen some conclusion to his attitude of not caring about himself at all. Stupid finale with the “it was always about you, Sam”. Dean deserved to love himself.

If good times change, why do the bad days stick around?

No thoughts just me crying over Dean sitting in the bunker, happy, maybe cooking and smiling with Jack. Sam’s reading the paper and drinking coffee. Sometime in the later seasons when they think they’ve won. And then Dean just feels this crushing weight and wonders why, when everything around him points to being happy, he just can’t feel it.

She said, I'll just keep going to be kind

To that same little girl who wondered why her parents cried

Ah back to Sammy. I could write a lot about Sam watching John abuse Dean as a child, but I won’t because it would go on forever. These lines feel to me like Sam as an adult trying to understand how different his childhood experience was from Dean’s and coming to terms with, yes, Dean may have seemed to have it worse, but that doesn’t mean Sam was unscathed. Sam realizes this and has to change his thoughts toward himself. Also Sam comforting Dean.

Cause she grew up and learned to lie like them

Dean watching Sammy grow up a hunter and fight and kill and all the things he really never wanted for his baby brother that he swore to protect.

I've tried to lie to you

But boy you listen to me with your eyes as well

In the song, this is still from Sam’s perspective and it’s really interesting to me with the closeness and codependency these brothers have. They don’t lie to each other well at all. It’s a forced closeness from their childhood and lifestyle where all they have is each other. This is Sam trying to persuade Dean to let him go his own way etc. Dean doesn’t listen well and sees Sam instead and how much he needs him, both because he wants to help him and because Dean is very codependent as well.

And it's hard to see me

At least you tried

It's hard to love in the cold

And it's gotten so cold outside

Beautiful chorus again. Makes me cry. This time saying “it’s hard to SEE me”. Dean almost never feels seen, even when people try to, because he just can’t accept their love unless he loves himself first.

Farewell my uncle

And farewell his son

I mean, this is the Winchester farewell to all the family that they’ve lost along the journey. The bitter cold outside takes its toll not just on Sam and Dean but everyone around them. Uncle of course makes me sad about Bobby again. And son could be a lot of different people. I read it a lot as Dean’s feelings about his “kids”. Claire, Alex, Jack, Ben… Just a very full circle moment to Dean saying goodbye to his childhood and trying to make a difference in some other kid’s experiences.

Farewell the pieces

Cause they're all I was

This is older Dean looking back on his years of hunting and watching all the pieces and fractures he was at the times. When he felt like he was only half there or had to put aside his grief because the world was ending, like it always was. I like to think Dean is trying to say goodbye to that. He wants to be whole, he wants to be happy but he doesn’t really know how. He never learned how.

Will you stay with me,

As I turn to dust?

Like I said, he never really learned how to “carry on”. In a part of his mind, he would just be turning to dust. Once the world is saved, once Sammy is saved, what then? He reaches out, clutching to whatever he knows, just wanting to not be alone. He finds Sam and Cas and family and thinks, maybe I can just stay like this. I still think he thinks he’s in some limbo, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When you tell their story

Tell them I was loved

Cries. Just,, Dean doesn’t even think of himself as the one to tell the story. He just passes himself by. Sam can tell the story. Sam can carry on. Also he doesn’t want to be this tragic story he’s been playing out for years. When he’s gone, just tell a happy story, tell about his favorite foods, his Impala, how much he loved cowboy hats. He doesn’t want to be a heavy burden even when he’s dead. Maybe in a bedtime story, he can be a firefighter in small yeehaw town without depression or a traumatic childhood. And maybe he can just Be.

So now you see me

For the first time

This song is Dean laid bare. His grief, his purpose, his pain, his love, his family, his fear, his determination, his strength, his Sam. He WANTS people to SEE him, but at the same time, he can’t put that heavy burden on anyone. Except he learns a little about how to place it on Sam towards the end. If anyone really Sees Dean, it’s Sam. And it took him a long time to see him “for the first time”.

It's hard to love in the cold

But boy, it's time I tried

And there we have the core of Dean. His love. His love in the face of everything. The fact that he TRIES. And TRIES. And TRIES AGAIN. He may not ever have thought he was good enough, but to so many, he was. He was more than good enough. He was the best. And they all loved him so much. Especially Sam.

*sighs* time to go listen to the song a few more times and cry about how Dean never got the chance to finish his story and his growth. We could have had Dean loving HIMSELF. That’s his ending. His real one.

[shewholovestoread]

GYEONGSEONG CREATURE SEASON 1 PART 2

Part 1 review and character breakdown are here and here respectively.

Wow, this was such a roller-coaster. It was everything I expected it to be and then some. Let’s get into it. As always, beware of spoilers.

To start, let me congratulate myself on guessing correctly that it was indeed Nawol-daek who gave up Tae-sang’s mother’s name. The way it was shot and edited actually made it pretty clear.

I also guessed that the threat would widen but I didn’t anticipate that there would be a massive time-jump between seasons 1 and 2. That actually raises so many questions which we’ll get to later. For now, I am very happy with the way the season ended. The show actually made it very clear just how things would go and in that respect, the foreshadowing was done well.

The pacing of the show is absolutely amazing. Having seen Part 1 when it first came out and then Part 2 just a few minutes ago, I am still not complaining that they decided to split the season. I think it may actually have been a good idea because that division was like the calm before the actual storm and I think that brief respite was necessary. When your characters are in a constant state of peril, it can sometimes make the audience disconnect because it almost becomes monotonous, the stakes no longer matter. Here, they definitely did.

The writing was also super tight with no fluff and this surprised me, once it got dark, it didn’t really try to lighten the mood with levity which a lot of other shows might have done. I think that also ties in with the subject matter and the gravity of just what they were showing. The brutality is ever present and for the perpetrators it was matter of routine which made it all the more horrifying. But when you view the other person as sub-human, it becomes easy to justify your actions irrespective of how heinous they may be.

Part 1’s focus was wider in terms of the number of characters we were introduced to and once Part 2 got going, that focus shrank so it only paid attention to Tae-sang, Chae-ok, her father, General Kato and Yukiko Maeda. The others were still there but they were no longer central to the plot and that was okay.

I admire Tae-sang’s drive to protect the people he cares about. His character went through perhaps most growth, starting from indifference to putting his life on the line multiple times to save Chae-ok. He didn’t have to do that considering he met her not too long ago but he does it anyway. He also doesn’t try to hold her back (as he tried in Part 1) and I liked that he keeps telling her that they both have to live, he gives her hope when there really didn’t seem to be any.

Chae-ok was still an absolute badass. There is a problem that a lot of dramas have where they start off with a kick-ass female character but as you get closer to the climax, she gets de-powered to prop up the male lead. I was so happy that they didn’t do that here. Chae-ok is nothing if not persistent, no matter how many times she gets knocked down, she still gets back up. There is a fire within her that nothing could put out, you could try to intimidate her but it wouldn’t get you very far.

Chae-ok and her father were always going to go back to the hospital, there was no way they would leave Seishin there at the mercy of those psychopaths. It was also always clear that her father would be the one who wouldn’t make it out. I think that when he realised just what they had done to her, he lost something within him. Death would have been better than what she had been subjected to.

The primary focus in the show was always Chae-ok and her mother and the bond between them and it wasn’t random, it all paid off in the end. It was the memories of Chae-ok that reawakened Seishin’s humanity, made her more than a mindless killer. Her final gift to her daughter was the Najin so she could live. In the end, Seishin was finally free from her tormentors, in giving up the Najin, she died but she died knowing that her baby was alive.

I had a feeling that Chae-ok would become like a hybrid form of the monster. We saw that with her mother, she was different from the other people who were infected with the Najin. She still had control of herself and if not for the anthrax, I think she would have managed to retain her humanity. Considering how Seishin reacted, it would make sense that Chae-ok would also be more in control than say Myeong-ja for instance. It’s also why Kato was so curious about her and tried to infect her.

Kato took Myeong-ja’s baby and that child is definitely a hybrid. If they have any hope of defeating it, they would a hybrid of their own. But with the time-jump, I don’t know how Maeda and Kato will figure in Season 2 since it seems to take place with a considerable time jump (in the 80s perhaps?). Unless they’ve been experimenting and have figured out a way to live longer. Especially Maeda, considering her burn injuries, I’m curious to see what form she will take in Season 2.

There are still a lot of unanswered questions like - How does the time-jump make sense? - What is the history between Maeda and Seishin? They hinted at it in Part 2 but didn’t give any definitive answers. Did Seishin cause the death of someone close to Maeda, who was it, how did they know each other? - How is Ho-jae related to the Tae-sang? - What is the meaning of the scar on Ho-jae’s back? - What did Chae-ok do all these years? - How do her powers differ from Seishin or even Myeong-ja?

I may get into some of these questions because there are answers we can glean from the show. But I’ll make a separate post about that so that this one doesn’t become obnoxiously long.

This show was an epic ride from start to finish and while it didn’t give us the conventional happy ending some expected, the ending it did give us is excellent. It sets up the next season perfectly while still giving a good closure to season 1. I can’t wait to what season 2 brings us.

[coldresolve]

maybe a stupid question: where is the line between violence and torture? as someone who writes a lot of intense action, when would a line be crossed between “this is portraying torture as revenge as a good thing” and “a character is doing an action scene for revenge-motivated reasons”? Are there a lot of similarities between torture and action, too many for a clear cut line to be drawn?

also I really appreciate how much research you put into your blog, the stuff about perpetuators experiencing ptsd is really useful and gave me a lot of perspective for my writing!

bruh thats not a stupid question by far, its actually so deep in the nerdery you made me write it on my list of topics i wanna dive into on dark-audit lmao

where is the line between violence and torture?

the definition of torture and especially the definition of violence are up for constant debate. both vary in broadness both legally and philosophically, and either way there is in fact no clear line between one and the other.

gonna go the lazy route and give you some wikipedia screenshots for now, but like i said both definitions are rabbit holes. theres an entire wiki page just about the definition of torture, and that's just the quicknotes, so yknow

you can follow the source list on any of these articles if you wanna get nerdy with it, then follow citations in those sources if you wanna go extremely turbo-nerdy with it. personal thoughts + the other questions:

afaik, torture is always violence - the question is just how far you can go with violence before it veers into torture. if you go with the UN's definition, which limits torture to something only state officials are capable of doing, then police brutality is torture, but a serial killer ripping out someone's fingernails in a basement isn't. and even if you go with amnesty's much broader definition, there's a lot of stuff hinging on the choice of words

generally, it seems to me that the term 'violence' has more to do with the action performed (threat of or actual exertion of physical force or power) but also sometimes needs the intention to 'cause harm', at the very least, while torture is mostly about the intention itself, not just on the victim but also on spectators (torture as a crime deterrance, for example).

when would a line be crossed between “this is portraying torture as revenge as a good thing” and “a character is doing an action scene for revenge-motivated reasons”?

im not sure i understand the question, mainly cause i don't know what you mean by the last bit in quotes. but if your character uses torture as a form of revenge, ie. something akin to corporal punishment, portraying that as a moral good would justify the use of torture, no? theres a whole lot of 'torture is okay if the good guy does it' in the action/thriller genres. im not a fan of it, it's apologism

Are there a lot of similarities between torture and action, too many for a clear cut line to be drawn?

torture is an act. action is a fictional genre. i don't really know how you want me to compare the two ?

[blacklister214]

Honesty and Codology: Chapter 1 (Eejit)

I've had Scarnash on the brain since 4x06 and a strong hankering to write a POV fic for Patrick. This one takes place in the middle of 2x06 while Patrick is recovering in the hospital. I may do more chapters, but I have to warn you, my muses are fickle. Replies, questions, and reblogs are always appreciated! Apologies in advance for the typos I'm certain I missed. Enjoy!

___________________________________________________________

Patrick shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. There had been times when he’d slept on much worse, but the feathered bed he'd used for the past five years had spoiled him.

The nurse had administered the pain medication, so his leg was no longer leaving him in constant agony, but the ache was still there. Perhaps it was better to focus on that, than the disquiet of being alone in the hospital room. Patrick never liked silence. It gave him too much time with his thoughts.

He’d had his men stake out every entrance to the building, so he could, theoretically, go to sleep without endangering his own life. Unfortunately, some instincts were harder to overcome than others. How much did he really trust his men? If the bribe were right, would one of them allow his would be killer chance to finish the job? Such contemplations made it rather hard to relax. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and willed the medicine to send him into a peaceful slumber.     

“Hello Patrick.” Patrick’s hand immediately dove beneath his sheets to where he’d hidden his pistol. He tried to blink the blurriness from his vision as he aimed his weapon at the figure in the visitor’s chair. 

Black bowler hat. Worn green waistcoat. Pocket watch. Fond, but vaguely disapproving expression on his face. It was Michael, exactly as he’d been the last time Patrick had seen him alive. 

"That laudanum must have been strong.” He’d been warned about the possible side effects of the drug, but he didn’t recall seeing spirits as being one of them. 

“Interesting way to greet your brother.” Patrick realized that he was still pointing the gun at Michael…no not Michael…at the empty chair where he was imagining Michael to be. Still, best to return the gun to its hiding spot before a nurse returned and caught him with it. Strictly speaking patients weren’t allowed weapons, but he’d gotten Clarence to smuggle one in. 

“You’re not my brother. Just a hallucination, brought on by painkillers.” It was important for Patrick to state it out loud. He’d enjoyed reading A Christmas Carol as much as anyone, but he did not believe in ghosts. 

“Does that mean you’re not pleased to see me?” The vision raised one eyebrow in a manner that was so familiar, so perfectly Michael, that Patrick had to swallow hard to keep tears from welling in his eyes. To see a memory animated before him was a miracle he’d never dreamed he’d witness.  

“Nice to have visitors of any sort, I suppose.” Patrick frowned. He’d been aiming for nonchalant, but that had come out a bit self-pitying. He didn’t need a constant stream of people bothering him while was trying to rest. 

“Clarence stopped by.” 

Patrick almost asked about how Michael knew about Clarence, since he’d been hired after Michael’s death. Then he remembered he’d already decided that “Michael” was a product of his own brain. Whatever Patrick knew, Michael would as well. 

“He needed me to sign some papers. God forbid my being shot interferes with the running of the accounts.” Clarence was a good employee. Loyal, hardworking. Certainly one of Patrick’s shrewder hires. Still, it wasn’t like they had a friendship. Employer and employee was a difficult line to cross and frankly they didn’t have much in common beyond a desire to see Nash and Sons succeed. 

“Maggie would be here, if you’d bother telling her what happened. Eamonn, as well I suspect.”

The tone of gentle chastiment was all too familiar to Patrick’s ears. Whenever Patrick has caused mischief, and he had quite frequently, it was always the same. Why Patrick? Why did you leave a dead mouse in your teacher’s desk drawer? Why did you throw Liam O’Toole’s fishing pole in the river? Why did you steal the tart off Ma’s tray, when she told you to wait until after supper? 

“No point in worrying them.” He’d gotten to know the witnesses to his brother’s murder over the years, and Patrick liked them both. Still, the dark history that bound them all together made him reluctant to form any tighter bonds. He was convinced he’d only survived his brother’s death because of Nash and Sons. He poured everything he had into the business, into making Michael’s dream a reality. Patrick couldn’t have done that with regular reminders of what he’d lost. 

“True. What are a few bullets in a leg in the grand scheme of things? You have two, after all.” 

Patrick has a strong impulse to cross his arms over his chest. He was no longer a child attempting to stand his ground with his much older brother. Patrick realized with a jolt that they were the same age now. Good god, seven years had flown quickly. What once seemed an impossibly large chasm was no more.   

“The situation is well in hand. I have the best investigator in London working the case.” He considered qualifying that statement, with “outside himself”, but rejected it. “Michael” was in his head, and Patrick had no illusions about how he rated against Eliza Scarlet.  

“The lady detective.” 

There was something odd in Michael’s inflection when he used the sobriquet. Perhaps a slight emphasis on the word “lady”? Patrick doubted that even a Michael of his imagination would take issue with a female PI. Their own mother, God rest her, had had a commanding presence that generals would envy. 

Perhaps it was the poshness the title implied. Patrick himself had made the mistake of dismissing the “Lady Detective” for that very reason. Women of the middle and upper classes, as a rule, hadn’t much in the way of grit. The only ambitions they were encouraged to nurture were of a matrimonial bent.  

“She’s very good. Tenacious. Ambitious. Clever. Hoodwinked me, more than once.” St. Clair had been furious when he’d shown up at the office, ranting about “that woman” making fools of them both. Patrick had agreed to buy up every available copy of the circular just to calm him down. Months later and Patrick was still using the story of his humiliation as tinder for his fires.  

“That must have been quite the experience for you.”  

Patrick looked down, smiling to himself at the memory of surprising her at her home. She had been confused by his smile and words of congratulations. She had a right to be. By her own admission her trick had hurt his relationship with St. Clair, embarrassed him in the eyes of the public, and potentially stuck him with a lawsuit. By rights he should have been furious with her…but he wasn’t. 

The fact was, he couldn’t remember a case where he’d enjoyed himself more. As he’d told her, he loved a challenge, and Eliza Scarlet was nothing if not challenging. Any anger he felt at the outcome was overpowered by the swell of admiration for her and the intense desire to make her a part of his agency. 

Patrick, glanced back up, suddenly aware he’d been musing to himself for over a minute. That was rude, even to a figment of his own imagination. Michael did not seem at all perturbed at being ignored. On the contrary, he was smirking at Patrick in a disconcerting manner, as though he were enjoying a joke at Patrick’s expense. 

“The point is, she’ll find out who was behind it.” Who had shot him, and why? A difficult question to answer. Someone he’d put away? A source of information he’d squeezed one time too many? A jealous husband? Not, of course, that Patrick would deliberately dally with a married woman. Too much trouble. But it wouldn’t be the first time a woman claimed widowhood a bit prematurely. Then, of course, there was always the possibility it was O’Driscoll. He had received no word from Eamonn or Maggie, but ships came in and out of the docks every day. It was possible his brother’s killer had avoided them, choosing to have Patrick removed before eliminating the more vulnerable targets. 

“Does it trouble you that you’ve angered so many people, you haven’t a clue who wants you dead?”

Patrick looked at Michael sharply, the memory of O’Driscoll coating his tongue with bitterness. 

“You’re a fine one to talk.” An old anger blossomed in Patrick’s chest as he returned to that night in his mind. Michael had gone to the docks alone that night, rather than wait for Patrick. If Patrick had ever done something so foolish, Michael would have tanned his hide.  

“That’s unfair.” 

“You should have taken me with you.” They were supposed to stick together. That was the deal they’d made. Michael, for the first time in his life, had broken his word, and he’d left Patrick all alone. 

“You weren’t there when the tip came in.” 

A fact continued to haunt Patrick to this day. He hadn’t been there. He’d been down at the tavern drinking and flirting with lasses.  

“We’d worked for two weeks straight on the case for next to nothing. I needed a break!” The words felt hollow, even as he said them. Selfish. As hard as Patrick worked, Michael had worked double. He never complained either. He had been so good. He’d always been so good. Patrick sometimes wondered if his being born was the universe balancing things out. 

“I never said you didn’t. I told you to go, remember?” 

Of course he did. Michael had forever been Patrick’s greatest advocate. Smallpox took both their parents when Patrick was only 8 years old. Michael had kept them both housed, fed, and clothed, working odd jobs until he was old enough to join the Royal Irish Constabulary. When Patrick was old enough, Michael had given him a recommendation. Patrick had been drummed out for insubordination, and Michael had immediately resigned his post. He’d gotten them passage to London and worked menial jobs until they’d saved enough to open Nash & Sons.      

“You should have come with me.” Just once, couldn’t Michael have been selfish? Ignored responsibility for a single evening? 

“I couldn’t. I’d made a promise.” Patrick briefly closed his eyes. He remembered the look on the faces of Maggie’s family, desperate for their daughter’s return. Did he really blame Michael for not wanting to waste time tracking Patrick down? No. Not with Maggie’s life on the line. In his heart of hearts, he knew where the blame truly lay.

“You and your honesty.”

“You and your codology.” 

Their old refrain. He remembered returning to their very first office with a small sign engraved “Nash and Sons.” When Michael had pointed out neither of them actually HAD sons, Patrick had explained that they were the “Sons.” The name implied that business was inherited, with a legacy of success, rather than an upstart agency. Michael had shaken his head in exasperation, but allowed Patrick’s his way.

Patrick had often joked that if it bothered him so much, he could find himself a wife and have some children. Michael had always smiled and said, “Or you could.” Then they’d both laugh at the likelihood of that happening.   

“You’ll be pleased to know I have been a bit more truthful of late.” The look on Michael’s face was skeptical.

“Oh really?”

“Miss Scarlett. I offered her a fair rate for referring cases to her, rather than just taking my finder’s fee off the top.” 

Today had actually been something of a success, bullets in his leg notwithstanding. His months of careful planning had paid off. Sending cases her way. Paying Detective Phelps for news regarding Inspector Wellington. He’d waited for the perfect moment, then struck. 

At first his proposal had not had the warmest of receptions, but in the end she had capitulated. Not totally, of course. Not yet. And naturally she’d managed to rest a small victory of her own from the encounter. Still, being out an extra month’s pay was more than worth the exhilaration that came with going toe to toe with a worthy opponent.  

“A noble gesture, I am sure. Not in the least self-serving.” Patrick rolled his eyes at the rebuke. 

“I didn’t grow our business to what it is today by being altruistic. Besides, Eliza despises charity. I would have mortally wounded her pride.” 

Her disgruntled tone when she decried needing his help told him everything he needed to know on that score. She could accept a business exchange, but under no circumstances did she want his pity. She was a unique woman, who was more offended by chivalry than chicanery.

“Eliza?” Patrick realized that he’d unintentionally used her first name. Odd, that.   

“I meant Miss Scarlett. A slip of the tongue.” 

“That would be a first.” Michael wasn’t wrong. Patrick's words were his best weapons and he usually wielded them with great care. Patrick shook his head and attempted to shrug it off.

“I am, as I mentioned, on rather strong medication.” 

Michael made a non-committal sound and rose. 

“Perhaps it's best I leave you to rest then.” He turned toward the door, as though he were a flesh and blood visitor, not a phantom of Patrick’s mind. Phantom or no though, Patrick wasn’t quite ready for him to disappear.

“Michael?” His brother paused and glanced back at him,  “Why now? After all these years, why am I dreaming of you now?”

Michael scratched his beard.

“I thought you said it was the laudenum. That I’m just in your imagination.” Patrick supposed Michael had a point. Any answer Michael gave would ultimately come from himself. Still, he wanted a response.

“I’m curious about what I’d imagine you to say.” That same mysterious smile from earlier returned to his brother’s face.

“You’re the detective. Has something changed in your life lately? Something you’d want to talk to me about? Or someone?” Patrick’s eyes widened as Michael's implication suddenly dawned on him. Eliza Scarlet. Somehow she had triggered this…encounter. 

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Michael. What exactly was he saying? That he fancied her? She was strong and clever and funny and pretty and a man would be mad not to be drawn toward that. And yes, she had a disturbing tendency to make him want to be more fair and honest, at least with her. All that though, was besides the point.

His affairs with women were uncomplicated things. He was interested in experienced women who enjoyed occasional companionship, but didn’t want the burden of a husband. That suited him perfectly. He didn’t have time for anything else. Besides, it was clear to anyone with eyes she had her heart set on Inspector William Wellington. Not that the fool deserved her, but that wasn't the main issue either. The issue was that she was going to be an excellent asset to his business, and he would never do anything to compromise that. Nash and Sons came first. Always.

Though he had to admit, it had been nice, when he’d opened his eyes and found that she’d stayed with him from his transportation to the hospital through the surgery. It was nice to have someone who cared, at least a little. Feck.   

Patrick glared up at his brother.

“Eejit.” Since when had Michael been the one to stir up unnecessary trouble? That was Patrick’s role and he’d thank his brother to remember it.  The corners of Michaels’ lips tilted up at the insult.

“According to you, you’re only talking to yourself. Now, get some sleep.” Patrick’s eyelids suddenly felt impossibly heavy and began to close. Fighting against his stupor, he managed to get out the words he hadn’t been able to say all those years ago. 

“Good bye, Michael.”

“Good night, Patrick.”

[kagami--uchiha]

It's just when I think there was some kind of steady line going on. But the steady line has been consisting of being in permant pain because of work.

But now our cat isn't doing well. She had developed athrosis quite a while ago, she's old, already 17, but it has gotten so bad for her that she wakes up screaming in pain. She stopped getting on the sofa, she stopped demanding to be cuddled and loved.. We had taken her to the vet yesterday and we're already prepared to let her go... But our vet wasn't too sure after having a thorough exam on her.

But despite pain killers and an infusion to build her up some she's just doing worse. She refuses to eat and has retreated.. and we know that she is ready to go... our next appointment is on Thursday.. and I think it is the time we are going to let her rest..

I've grown up with her from my early teen years.. I've known her since she was an itty bitty baby and so it hurts to see her like hat but also to prepare to part from her.

Work has been getting shitty since march.. first a lot lost their job within the company since we gave up on express package delivery. They had kept me, but I've practically been without a real job ever since, barely getting up to my 8 hours since there is not enough to do. Now I've been stuffed into another department which starts with me loading tons of packages I to two transporters and bringing those packages to our depot, unloading them and loading up my own deliver tour from them. I have had surger on my arm at the end of February and ever since I am starting to overwork it, I've been in constant pain, crying like a fucking bitch whenever I turn the steering wheel of my car and I am afraid I'll have to get another surgery just because my superiors aren't really listening to em saying that I need help with loading those fucking packages... so yeah.

Life is shit.

This was my rant.

I am sorry for whoever had to sit through this fucking mess.

[clatoera]

MY POOR BESTIE GLIM GLAM 😭😭😭... the way her first thought was to comfort Clove. they are truly the bestest of friends. the one child-killer to another line... chills. REALLY can't wait to see how this turns out! the victory tour isn't for another 6 months so im wondering if they're going to have a little breather until then or just constant capitol coverage!?!?

ALSO! i was wondering why Enobaria (or literally any of the other victors) don't sabotage their favorite tributes? Eno has known Clove for about 15 years now and has been a victor for over a decade at this point, why doesn't she just pay someone at the academy to break Clove's kneecaps a la Tonya Harding a month before the reaping. LMFAO. (ofc there wouldn't be a story if this was the case but im just wondering what the victors think) Don't even get me started on Cashmere and Gloss letting their baby sister go into the Games.

Thank you for the great chapter! This one was a thinker!! Can't wait for more!

One of my favorite things is that people surprisingly really seem to like Glimmer??? Like i wrote this with the intention to redeem Glimmer, to bring her life after all the misogyny Glimmer has faced in the last 11 years of fandom, but I didn't expect people to like her so much omg. I LOVE GLim Glam, truly, and it makes me want to give her a bigger role than I already did. Even this most recent chapter, her part just happened very naturally and unintentionally. I'm very pro female friendship, girls supporting girls, and I think Glimmer would be a girls girly. Justice for Glimmer 2023.

Whey they don't sabotage their favorite tributes I think comes down to what winning means in careers districts. While the mentors know the truth, what future does Clove have in a life without going into the games? She'd be miserable, angry, and probably would never be able to look at the victors again out of sheer jealousy. Winning, while it has it's downs, also comes with immense honor. Maybe her advice to Clove would have been to make herself undesirable somehow (think razor sharp teeth), maybe thats common? Winning is still an immense honor and they DO have more privileges.. because really, what IS life like for those who don't go into the games, especially in 2.

In terms of Glimmer, especially being the younger sister of TWO victors (who are facing the horrific abuse that they do)..I think that was more of a "when" not an "if" she'd go into the games, since we know that relatives of victors (kids, siblings) are reaped far more often than the odds would suggest. In knowing that, I think they'd want her to be trained so she could survive, and also let her volunteer to take agency. If it's going to happen, let it be on her terms, let her hae some semblance of control of her life for a short time, before she loses authority and autonomy over her body. Let her feel agency for one time in her life, because volunteer or not, they were going to do those things to her after the games, you know? I think it breaks their hearts, to know what will come to their baby sister. All that to say, too, If she's the 3rd and final child, of course she wants to be like them. She wants to be like her older siblings, to complete the set of victor kids. Their parents would be hella proud. I don't think they could have stopped her from going if they tried, and so instead they gave her the best chance she could get.

Thank you thank you thank you, this chapter was nothing like I anticipated but i'm weirdly okay with how it turned out!❤️❤️❤️

❤️❤️❤️

[ponderingkettle-blog]

One

I hate the way my body has failed me.

Three years ago, I started to get a pain in my left thigh and left hand. I can't explain the pain very well - it was like my nerves were on fire - the pain was deep. Uncomfortable.

I ignored it for a while, hoping it would just go away on it's own. Over time though, it started to get worse. It spread all through my left leg, left arm, left side of my chest, left side of my neck, left side of my face. As if someone had drawn an invisible line down the middle of my body.

Of course, I went to the doctor. I've had so many consultations and scans. No one could tell me what was wrong. Eventually, I was sent to a specialist. After examining me, they gave me a leaflet about something called 'Function Neurological Disorder' and sent me on my way. No follow ups. Nothing. During all this time, I also had to go through occupational health at work, and subsequently lost my job.

I'm now 3 years in, on a heavy mixture of pain killers, and still struggle daily. There isn't anything they can do about it. They don't know what causes it.

Symptoms to date: Continuous pain down the left hand side of my body. Some days are better than others. Fatigue. I didn't know what this was before I got FND. I thought it was just tiredness. But fatigue is so much more. It's debilitating. Confusion/brain fog. I often have times where I will be doing the simplest of tasks, but get confused and struggle to complete them. My memory is horrendous. I forget words, names, dates, things people have said to me.

I don't work. I spend a large amount of my time sitting or napping on my sofa. When I can, I draw. When I can, I volunteer. I spend time playing with my kitten. I never know how I will be from one day to the next. Some days are okay, and I can do house work and go out. Other days I can barely get down the stairs, and the pain is debilitating, despite the medication. If I do something physically or mentally taxing, it causes flare ups, often on the same day, but definitely the next day. I find using a walking stick helps on my bad days. But, I don't use it in the town where I live. It's a small town. People talk. And stare. I can't be dealing with it. What I find hard is trying to explain my condition to other people. I am in constant pain. 24/7. Yet because I have good days, people seem to think I'm 'getting better'. Because people don't see me on my bad days, how I struggle to even make a cup of coffee, they think that I'm doing okay, doing better. I have become used to being in constant pain. I have become used to having to do things in different ways. I have become used to having days where I can't do anything. I have become used to the fatigue and the brain fog.

But the thing I find the hardest - accepting I have a 'disability'. I don't know why. I find it hard to apply this word to myself. That's it for today.

[zaestya]

hello there, dont be fooled by the art, this is actually “chapter zero” i guess you could call it of my ocs’ uhhhh fiction? without the fan? hope you guys enjoy some vampire love and angst

“Does your heart desire revenge, my love?”

Katarina’s words echoed in the spacious bedroom, from the luxurious bed she was laying on all the way to Ema’s toilette, where she was fixing her hair and putting on a de-aging mask.

The question lingered in the air for a while.

“I don’t think so, no.” she answered, quietly. She stood in silence now, but Katarina could feel just by looking at her from the back that she was thinking about it, considering it.

“I don’t have to remind you I’m pleased to do whatever you ask of me, do I?”

This doesn’t necessarily sound reassuring, or sweet, Ema thought. Katarina was willing to start a war for her but it felt more like showing off rather than taking care of a loved one. On the other hand, though… revenge, huh. She guessed it wasn’t hard becoming drunk with power in their position.

Ema had finished her routine, so she got up and started undoing her new silk robe - a gift, of course. Her pale skin, almost of a translucent gray, shined under the soft light of the crystal chandelier. Katarina looked fascinated by her walk, but something in her eyes betrayed that she had seen countless girls join her in the bed like this before. The stupor wasn’t about the novelty necessarily but more about retrospective comparison. I did well saving you, Katarina thought. We really did well putting some meat on those bones and some good quality blood in your veins.

You could still hear the vampire club’s music playing - it was only 1 pm. In a couple of hours the visitors would start moving through the tunnels to get back home. Katarina was almost naked, but not yet undressed: she was supposed to make one last appearance in the club before closing time. Ema could swear sometimes her tattoos moved around - she didn’t know enough about vampire cosmetics, but could guess it had to do with the constant healing. She surely had never seen something like it. 

The silence was starting to feel heavy. 

“Is this the impression I give? That I’m a revengeful person?”

“You aren’t a person anymore, love.” Katarina corrected her. “Besides, who isn’t revengeful among us? Some would even consider it a good quality. Revenge builds character, too-” She bit her lip. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant. But you know that, don’t you, sweetheart?” 

Ema didn’t seem to give the supposed insult much thought, and instead she smiled softly. It was new, being with someone who apologizes after a mistake, even a little one. “Don’t worry about it.” She paused. “I suppose you’re right, actually. The truth is that I never gave revenge any consideration because, you know - I wasn’t really in the position to plan anything. But it’s been so long at this point, I don’t know if he’s even alive.”

“Oh he’s alive alright” Ema shot a glare at her “What? A girl’s not allowed to do some research? Besides, it’s not exactly like he’s a new face around those parts, I just had to… pry a little, from a common friend. I know you like to think you’ve put a good amount of miles between you and him, but the truth is he isn’t that far away in my terms.”

Ema was now sitting on the edge of the bed, turned the other way. This is not a conversation she wanted to be having. Why does Katarina care so much about her taking her revenge? 

“Come on, lay here next to me. I don’t have much time left before I gotta go down there again. Don’t think about it too much for now, if it makes your head spin - maybe you just weren’t born a killer.”  

Ema kept quiet, but she was now looking her way. Softly, she snuggled in Katarina’s arms. 

The huge suite echoed with the muffled bass lines, the beat drops, and the general commotion coming from downstairs. Katarina’s skin was soft, and smelled of several different perfumes and body lotions, but Ema could still detect a faint iron trace - she smelt like your hand smells after holding pennies for too long. With the decades passing, vampires get more and more accustomed to this odor, until they can no longer identify it, and in fear of humans detecting it they start wearing fragrances, trying to cover the inevitable blood scent. 

With her head laying on Katarina’s chest, Ema had to admit to herself once more that she was never going to hear her lover’s heart beat, nor her own, again. It was never truly clear to her how their bodies even worked, but ever since she was turned she never had the chance to lie there and think about those things. She was sure Kat knew some sort of vampire medic, though, or at least a chemist, who worked with them on the drug side of the club. Ema was guessing normal drugs wouldn’t have worked on vampires. But she was so new to all this, she knew she couldn’t push too much with the questions, not right there at the time. 

Her heart may not be beating, she thought, but K sure is breathing slowly right now. Did she fall asleep? Lifting herself from her chest just a little bit, she was able to look at Katarina’s face: her mouth was slightly open, breathing deeply but slowly, maybe twice in a minute. Her head was tilted to the right, her hair relaxed and spread on the deep cushion, thus revealing a side of her face Ema rarely got to see. Curious… she seems to be wearing makeup on her right eye too, even if she never shows it. Without giving it too much thought, she approached her face. Close, closer, until she could see the reason behind Katarina’s constant and heavily curated hairstyle: it seemed she had a discoloration of her skin, starting around her ear, and rightward toward her temple and cheek, avoiding the eye. It didn’t look like a condition, though, more like… a paint stain, absorbed by the skin. You could say it looks like the illness humans call vitiligo? But the color…

Ema suddenly noticed Katarina’s eyes starting to move behind her lids. There was no time to pull back: in one moment, she was staring right into the always concealed right eye. At once, the air around them got heavy, dark, as if full of electricity. Katarina’s right hand sprung to Ema’s neck, clutching tight. Her nails had grown an inch in a split second, and were now clawing on her skin, almost making Ema bleed. Their eyes were still locked. Katarina’s kept shifting between her usual deep red hue and a new, bright gold. Ema’s started crying, while she gasped for air, with her hands up to her neck trying to break free.

The vision of tears streaming down her lover’s face finally stunned her out of her combat mode, her hand eventually letting go of Ema’s neck. She fell back on the bed with a loud thud, while Katarina was still on her knees, her arm extended, as if she was still holding her pray. 

Some long, silent minutes passed. The club’s closing mix was playing: Katarina’s cue to come give her goodbye.

Ema seemed to have passed out. Nothing a quick nap couldn’t fix, Katarina estimated. She lifted her head up, laying it down on the pillow as gently as she could, then pulled the blanket over her. She finished getting ready once again, put on her shoes and oversized fur coat, picked up her earrings from the bedside table, and left.

[goboymusic]

I remember hearing @tomdelonge’s voice as a child and thinking it was hilarious. Before I knew what he looked like, I imagined a really nerdy, skinny guy with thick frame eyeglasses. Fast forward to today, and he is hands down my favorite vocalist. Most unique voice I’ve ever heard, particularly on the 1999-2003 @blink182 albums when he sang a little higher.

Coffee sound effects + beat + bass guitar + vocals = “#Coffee Song.”

The goal for “Coffee Song” was to reimagine the chorus of “Summer Breakdown (Song 5).” Adapting the chorus chord structure to the new beat was easy, but after about four days of trying to adapt the chorus melody, I gave up, deleted the old chorus melody, and made the “doo doo” falsetto vocals the new chorus. The beat could have been completely altered to fit the old chorus melody, but by that point I had added the coffee sound effects and bass guitar line and didn’t want to mess with their magnificence. Seriously, I love the combination of the beat and coffee sound effects.

These were the first of many food-related lyrics throughout GoBoy 5. The focus on junk food lyrics actually increased my craving for it, leading to me eating far more of it than usual for a solid year. Taco Bell, McDonalds, Ben & Jerry’s, Doritos, etc. I only stopped after developing health issues related to diet. Those health issues cleared up after a few months of strict dieting.

The original version repeated the lyrics “taste of your hips” rather than “taste of your lips.” Six months after it’s original release, I uploaded a new version with clean lyrics. This particular song didn’t benefit from being more explicit.

During the final days of production, I attempted to add a new chorus with the lyrics “I like you like I like my coffee, black and sweet.” So cringe. Luckily, the vocals weren’t meshing with the beat, so that chorus idea was removed.

The vocals were difficult to figure out how to mix in “Coffee Song.” For the first few days of mixing, they simply weren’t meshing with the instruments. They stuck out like a sore thumb. After spending some time sifting through lofi plugin settings and adjusting them, adding that to the verse vocals solved the problem.

Lofi vocal effects are popular in pop rock music. The Killers use it for many of their songs (example: “Mr. Brightside”). Green Day uses it once in a while (example: “American Idiot”). Lofi plugins usually cut out lower frequencies and add some distortion to the vocals, making it sound like someone’s singing through an old radio transmission. When used in the right places, it sounds cool (excerpt from post 78).

Regarding the sound effects, I worked as a sound designer for the film industry for a few years during the seven-year hiatus (more about the hiatus in posts 23 and 36) where I learned the utterly worthless skill of creating / manipulating sound effects. That skill was utilized in this song, along with songs like “Mermaids,” “Food Song,” “Seattle” and “Rebecca” (excerpt from post 75).

Beat + bass + melody. That’s the style of GoBoy 5. While I’ve appreciated this minimalistic style for years, “Tell My Mama (Song 42)” was the first time trying it. I went whole-hog with GoBoy 5, in which most songs primarily consist of a beat, bass and melody (excerpt from post 80).

For GoBoy 5, instead of creating for the sake of creating, like I did for GoBoy 4, I wanted to make poppier songs that would appeal to a larger audience. Was that goal accomplished? Well, maybe, I guess. It resulted in the song “In Love (Song 82),” which everyone and their mother seems to like (excerpt from post 79).

GoBoy 5 ragdolled me. I remember wondering if I’d live to see the completion of the album. While the style is minimalistic, the writing and production processes were chaotic, akin to throwing darts with a blindfold on. Most songs turned into a puzzle once they reached the mixing phase, with a portion of the pieces being destined not to fit. It required constant compromising - discarding segments, restructuring, rewriting, etc. The combination of the difficult production process and temporary chaos at work left a blood-soaked trail behind me (excerpt from post 80).

In April, 2021, almost all of GoBoy 3, 4 and 5‘s songs were restructured to be under 3 minutes (preferably under 2m 30s), including this song. I became okay with releasing songs around the 2 min mark after realizing The Beatles and The Beach Boys had some songs around that length. In an attempt to increase replay value in this streaming era, most of GoBoy’s songs are now purposely around 2m 20s (excerpts from post 37).

A bass boost was added to songs 37-99 in Nov, 2021, while I was stuck at home with covid. As a result, this song feels more powerful. The bass boost isn’t a simple plugin nonchalantly added to each song. It’s a process that took about 3.5 hours per song, or one whole month to complete all songs. Admittedly, I pushed the bass boost a little too far for some of them. The bass in some songs sounds like a freaking earthquake (unnecessarily pronounced low frequencies 20 - 50 Hz). Might dial that back someday. The bass boost was also applied to every song on GoBoy 6 and beyond (excerpt from post 37).

[andhumanslovedstories]

I'll put my bias right up front: I'm someone who loved The Sandman ten years ago in high school where it was tremendously influential and meaningful to me, but I haven't read it in the intervening years. So all interaction I have with the show is a combination of nostalgia, overanalysis of my youth's media that I haven't thought about in a while, half-remembered recognition of story elements that blasted my tits off a decade ago, and a constant questioning attitude of "wait did they change that or did I not remember it correctly".

For me, the main problem of The Sandman TV show is that while the show is quite good at depicting the supernatural world, I don't like the plotlines with the straight up humans because I do not recognize their characterization as based in the real world. And unfortunately since Rose is our primary outsider to the magic world we spend time with, she becomes the crux of my issues. (I dislike Lyta and her plotline a lot more, but her characterization is not nearly as important to making the entire back half of the story work.)

Neither Rose nor Jed seem to react to their situations in a way that makes sense to me. Rose reacts to everything from "I have a long lost 118 year old great grandmother who gave birth while in a coma?" to "my friend is pregnant with her dead husband's dream baby" to "my brother who has disappeared from a house where his foster family has been murdered and now I'm getting a call from a man who just randomly has him and is driving him out of state" with the same level of like "huh. well that was weird." It makes sense when Abel reacts nonchalantly to his own murder because he's a mythological figure endlessly reenacting his own story. It doesn't make sense when Rose is as emotionally blasé about seeing a guy murder someone in front of her and then offer her a hotel room, because despite her role as a vortex, she's also a human being and we more or less know how humans generally react to things. You can (and should!) have characters act counter to our expectations, but you need to do the narrative character work.

But also part of this is the fault of the conceit. Like ROSE GIRL your ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat no matter happened last scene or the current emotional stakes? Undercuts narrative tension. I think the show could do a much better job with Rose's characterization over all because the cumulative effect of her scenes and her character decisions are of someone barely invested in the strangeness and stakes of what's going on around her.

(I'm also struggling to articulate how race fits into this and I hope someone smarter can better explore that or dispute me, but the change of Rose from a blonde white woman to a dark skinned black woman with relatively little changes to her story leaves some scenes feeling...unresolved? Like Rose, a black woman, raising her voice to the social worker who won't tell her about her brother, and then Lyta, a white woman, comes back privately to apologize for Rose's anger, at which point the social worker goes to check on this black child being fostered by two white people, in a room where the vibes are so rancid, and the social worker is like "I don't need to talk to the child privately, this is a good placement and I'm a good social worker"--there's something there! I don't know if the tv show should have pointed at that and gone "hey this is racism" but it feels underdeveloped in a way that undercuts the story line. It feels almost inorganic, or like a wasted opportunity to place Rose concretely in her surroundings in the waking world. But like I said, I am still thinking about this and would very much welcome other people's thoughts.)

I don't love being bothered by these things! It's very boring to watch an epic sprawling mythology like The Sandman and to be distracted by thoughts like "ummm actually it's wild that two people can just steal badges and sneak into the serial killer convention, is this one pedophile the only security at this function." Because if Rose was not there, I wouldn't be thinking that! It would be this surreal atmosphere unmoored from our reality. I'd be like sure! A serial killer convention! I love this! (And I really did love it in the comics, and might be misremembering its execution because it is such a dope idea for a setting. Such a dope idea can transcend issues of execution.) But instead, we have two outsiders, two human characters interacting with this convention, and instead of their presence grounding the scene with horrible reality, it's still so dreamlike. It feels neither magical enough to transcend nitpicks about logistics nor grounded enough to provide a contrast to the magical world and dreaming.

Anyway, genuinely looking forward to season two.

[muselessscribbles]

Crying to a Stranger- Azula x Fem!Reader Part 2

Warnings: Deals with the topic of mental illnesses, mentions scaring, disfiguration, and burns. (if you think I missed a warning feel free to let me know and I will edit the post)

Word Count: 1148

Azula wasn't sure when in the night she had managed to fall asleep, despite the uncomfortable thin mattress that she was forced to lie on. The image of her father, the parent she had believed, would always treasure her and had constantly drowned her in praise, mocking her was a constant, floating about in her head along with the other self-deprecating thoughts that made up the turbulent sea of her mindscape.

At some point though she had fallen asleep, or at-least she reasoned she had as she awoke to a whispered one sided conversation. Y/N's voice was scratchy from sleep but nevertheless Azula could recognize it from last night.

"yeah yeah, I killed you guys, I get it alright?" Y/N spoke, her legs hanging off the side of the bed and facing forward towards a wall, where her younger brothers face floated, taunting her, "you know you always have to get new roommates because they think you'll kill them too, this girl will be no different." the ghastly figure shot back. Y/N knew he was right, in the time she had been here there had been fifteen different roommates, yet she knew she couldn't admit the truth of the statement, a rule she had made for herself, agreeing in anyway with the voices, gave them power that she did not want them to have, " like I could kill anyone else, besides, you heard her when she got in here, she's the heir to the Fire Nation throne, she could probably kill me before I even had a chance." Y/N said with venom lacing through her tone, she was done with the morning conversation, it was nearly breakfast time and so she hopped off her bed and stretched.

Azula had remained silent the whole time, listening in on the conversation, still as an oak tree against a light breeze. The horrifying thought of becoming just like the clearly insane girl she was sharing a room with jolted through her head, would she wake up everyday to her mother or her father taunting her? No of course not she reasoned to herself, because she was not insane. Merely in pain, strange things happen when one is in pain, such as feeling a bit of sympathy for Y/N. "do they always harass you this early in the morning? because if so I very well may have to kill you to get some sleep." Azula spoke angrily, shocking herself, why did her words come out so harshly when she meant to try and come across as caring.

"Yeah, they take turns really, today was Akun, my younger brother, he's uh the most angry about the whole situation" Y/N answered calmly, she wasn't expecting comfort from the same girl that had laughed manically after she had tried to comfort her in the night. Akun was the most devilish of her family members that haunted her sight lines with melted skin and her ear drums with curses at her actions, he had locked eyes with Y/N as he burned watching as his older sister stood outside their house and stared in emotionless, shock dancing in her eyes, as far as he was concerned she was a cold blooded killer who had gotten sick of the family casting her aside in favor of the more prolific bending children. "he thinks I'm a few seconds from snapping and killing someone again, or a few someones I guess if we're going off of what I already did, does that scare you?" she asked cautiously.

"you said you couldn't control your bending, you think I could possibly afraid of you? no, I am not scared of a weakling of a child who made a mistake. Like you said, I could kill you much faster than you could react I'm sure. " Azula shot back as she stood up to match the movements of Y/N, "now what do we do?" she questioned as Y/N slid her feet into a pair of slippers and gestured for her to the same, pointing down to a matching pair next to her bed. Azula followed suit easily, following behind Y/N as they walked through the halls of the facility. " they let everyone freely walk around? aren't you all insane, won't you hurt each other?" Azula asked as they turned the corner into a courtyard, "no reason to, if you do they add time to your stay, and everyone wants to leave, besides it's breakfast time, no one fights at breakfast, who would want to? Congee is a meal of peace." Y/N explained as the pair had reached a large doorway, walking inside, Azula could hear the mumbling of voices growing louder and louder until she saw the mass of people gathered around tables, bent over their respective bowls, looks of complacency and boredom on most of the faces, besides a few who smiled brightly at empty spaces across from them and others that looked so sad Azula almost felt her heart pang at the conditions, before Y/N had spoken up again, "what do you want on yours?" she asked prodding Azula with an elbow to the side as the cook was growing impatient at the absentminded girl, who looked over at what she hoped would be vast assortment to which she frowned at her little options.

Azula had settled on a scoop of almonds, grimacing as she was roughly handed a bowl, as she began to speak, voice sure to be laced with venom towards the cook, Y/N had tugged her away, gripping her elbow and dragging her to a table in the corner, which just happened to be next to the table of caretakers. Azula wanted to question the choice of seating as she saw the rows of empty tables they had passed to get here, before she saw the pointed looks Y/N was sharing with a few of the caretakers, this must be where she has to sit Azula reasoned. "who said I want to sit with a weakling like you?" she grumbled as she sat down across from the other girl.

Y/N shrugged, "who said I wanted you to sit with me? I would rather you go find someone else to mock, there's plenty of us, but you have to sit here for today. They want to make sure I didn't do anything to you." came her answer anger dancing along her tone for the first time, and Azula was a bit taken aback by it, someone so sweet just moments before turned sour, by the least of her rude comments.

They ate in silence for the rest of the morning, until Y/N had got up with her empty bowl and disappeared into the crowd, Azula losing sight of her, a hint of frown playing on her lips, now what was she meant to do.

[queendeeshorrorimagines]

Short Fanfic please? a chubby, trans masc. s/o (He/HIm) with Pinhead/Elliot Spencer. Lookin' for a pick me up of some sort...something romantic if possible.Rating can be up to you. (Started T again recently after a while and I'm feeling extra emotional lately...) I am prepping for eventual top surgery later in the year, and dysphoria's been a real killer...i am sorry if it's a tough request. Any amount of support helps, honestly. --K

I'm so sorry for the long wait. Between work and writers block from hell, I've been struggling. I hope that you enjoy this!

FtM/ trans masc reader

Warnings: mentions of transphobia (not from elliot, a side character), violence (not towards reader)

Word count: 640

An Angel to Some...

You were curled up in a fetal position as your arms wrapped around your chest, hugging yourself in an attempt to soothe yourself from a rather horrible day. Tears pebbled down the sides of your cheeks as you softly hiccup from your sobbing. 

 It was already a bad day because of the combination of your dysmorphia and the constant harassment by your coworkers, the constant verbal abuse coming from your parents only made your day more unbearable. 

 It didn't help that your manager accused you of being on your phone when you weren't even on it in the first place. To top it all off, you've been dealing with the recovery of your top surgery. 'Can I get a break for once today.' You mentally vented to yourself. 

A soft lullaby faintly echoed your bedroom as you looked towards the antique puzzle box that you got from an unmarked package that only had your name on it, sitting on your bedside table. 

Curiosity filled your mind as you carefully grabbed the box, the music becoming louder. It was rather soothing as you started to touch the textured lines of the puzzle box. You could tell that the box was well built from the minimum damage the box had. The sudden thoughts about opening the box filled your mind intrusively as your sons slowed to the occasional hiccups and runny nose.

The longer that the box was in your hands, the more intense the desire of wanting to solve the puzzle you felt. A loud banging could be heard from your bedroom door as you gave into temptation, carefully solving the puzzle. 

Light illuminated your room slowly, making your vision slightly hazy as you continued to solve the puzzle. Your body felt as if it was on high alert as the banging on your door grew louder and more frantic, your father was slurring out words of anger out of an intoxicated rage. 

Pushing the piece in, the light became brighter, blinding you temporarily as you heard the sound of chains and a distant chattering noise growing closer and louder as your father broke his way through the door. 

As the smoky lights begin to clear away you see chains swung towards your father, ripping his flesh away from his body. His screams brought you a sadistic sense of pleasure and fear as you wished many times that he would feel the pain and suffering that you've felt. 

Time felt nonexistent as the leader of the trio continued his sadistic game towards the man who was supposed to be your father. As the cries died down, the leader turned his attention towards your shaking form, using one of his chains to obtain the box from your bed. 

His gaze was intense against you as he took in the sight of you. His eyes met yours, as if he was looking through you. If it wasn't for the fact that the demon just killed your father, you might've been more crushing on him. Yet, his presence felt safe to you, almost arousing as he made his way towards you. 

The Male's obsidian eyes popped on his pale skin as the metal of the pins sticking out of his head shined duly in your dimly lit room. The leather outfit he wore framed his body perfectly, showcasing the hooks coming out of his chest and stomach. 

"I- I didn't know that opening the box would summon you.." you stammered, afraid that he would hurt you next. The Male's hand gently touched the side of your cheek, his thumb was uncharacteristically careful as he brushed the stray tear away as you continued to speak. 

"Who are you?..." you asked, welcoming his touch. The leather spoke up, his powerful voice causing shivers to go down your spine. 

"An angel to some.. a Demon to others."

[howdoyousleep3]

where’s that hc about bucky learning to touch 🤲

I was hoping someone would notice that tag and hit me up. Thank you, sweet pea. This one is special to me, one of many. ❤

Bucky doesn’t say much about what happened to him after the fall and before Steve was miraculously given a second chance at a life with him. Steve is thankful for that. The details he does know come from Bucky’s therapist and from files that have been scrounged up over time, ones Steve can’t stomach through, ones he hands to Natasha and asks only for the information she finds pertinent.

Steve is sure he’d die of a goddamn broken heart if he knew every detail of Bucky’s 70+ years of brainwashed torture.

What he needs to know about Bucky is constant and will never change: this is James Barnes, the one in the same Steve spent his entire life falling in love with, Steve loves him now more than ever, and he is going to live every day he’s gifted with in this life for Bucky.

There are things Steve expects after Bucky joins him and the others back at the Tower, things Bruce has helped him comprehend in such a volatile predicament.

“It could take months, years even, for him to come back to you in full. And honestly, Steve...I would be ready for the possibility of him not returning to you in full. This may not end up being the Bucky you knew and grew up with. He needs therapy, needs patience, needs reminders of his life before, of who he was and is. This won’t be easy, Steve.”

Anything for Bucky.

There are things Bucky took to right away and other things that took much longer for him to enjoy or remember. Steve is with him every step of the way.

Sleep was one thing that Steve thought would be a struggle. After only one month of sleeping on the floor in the corner of his bedroom, Steve able to hear him tossing and turning and breathing heavily through his own bedroom wall, it took one afternoon nap on the couch to make him want to move to his new bed. While nightmares continued, Bucky slept albeit in small increments and sometimes through the day, but he slept.

Steve thought that would take years.

Crowds were another story. Crowds came with trust and Bucky rightfully didn’t trust others easily. He barely trusted Steve at first. It took time to get him out of the apartment, baby steps, one step forward and two steps back. They started with walks at dawn, fewer people, gave a shot at stopping for coffee on the way home a few times.

“It’s a Venti here, Buck,” Steve had tried to explain and Bucky huffed. “Why are things so goddamn complicated now? Just want a coffee, a—”

“I know— a black coffee with too much sugar. I got it.”

They’re working on interactions with others and the anxiety that comes with crowds. That one will take time.

What hadn’t taken time, and what startled everyone in the tower beyond belief, was Bucky and affection.

Steve may not know much of what Bucky has spent most of his life enduring but he at least had the assumption that what Bucky went through shouldn’t make him want any kind of touch from another person. Steve wrongfully assumed that any sort of gentle or soft touch wasn't something Bucky would like.

Bucky had spent the past 70+ years walking this earth as a killer, a robot, a machine, an assassin. He surely spent decades thinking he wasn’t worthy of anything, let alone love. He had been touch-starved, void of the tenderness and closeness Steve knows Bucky deserved and craved underneath the brainwashed parts of him.

It took time for Bucky to remember who Steve was to him. While he had recognized him immediately, remembering him but not how, it took months for Bucky to remembered the capacity in which he did so.

And Steve waited.

And waited.

Steve was gifted with small moments along the way, on this journey of Bucky remembering both himself and who Steve was to him:

“You...you were real small once,” Bucky said, factual with no trace of a question, hands in soapy water as he handed Steve a plate to dry. Steve had merely hummed. “Yeah, was...was maybe half the size I am now. Real small.”

“Could fit both’a my hands right around your middle…”

It had been a long while since Steve blushed like that.

Bucky standing over Steve’s sleeping form, heaving chest visible by only the filtered moonlight, Steve mumbling out a, “Buck, wha—?” before Bucky whispered, “You...you’ve been inside of me.” Steve sat up.

“I have,” Steve breathed, on cautious ground, shakier when Bucky then whispered, “But you like it better when I’m inside’a you.”

When Steve had swallowed audibly, nodded his head wordlessly, Bucky had turned and left the room.

It took months of moments like those to compile together, to form the picture of what Steve once was, what he yearned to continue to be, to Bucky. All of these moments, these memories, came to a head so unpredictably during yet another movie night. Knees knocking, fingers brushing, small touches that Steve absolutely soaked in, had gotten used to, had relearned.

When a glance towards Bucky had the wind knocking its way out of Steve’s chest, the familiarity of that look a bone-deep ache—

Bucky was going to kiss him.

A look full of determination and want, lips parted, eyes a bit glassy. Steve didn't dare move, had let Bucky come to him for fear of scaring him away. The moment their lips touched was the moment Bucky started crying. It had only been a short brush of their lips but Steve barely breathed, barely moved. Bucky had pulled back with wide, wet eyes, shaky breaths. “Buck, it’s okay. It’s okay. Everything’s alright, sweetheart,” are the words that easily slipped from his mouth, unable to stop them in a moment of progress that satiated his entire being.

That was the moment that changed everything. It was a startle to everyone involved. Steve had been ready to wait years, this entire life, for the moment he could touch Bucky again, could show him that physicality he knew his Buck craved. After that night on the couch it was as if the floodgates had opened—

Bucky remembered and wanted.

Regardless of where they were or what was happening, he wanted to be touching Steve: soft kisses on the cheek and lips, laying his head in Steve’s lap as he read, lacing his fingers between Steve’s during meetings, an arm wrapped around Steve’s waist between bouts of sparring. He’d trace patterns onto Steve’s thigh as he watched Steve draw, press against the line of his back while he cooked dinner.

Steve was floating on a cloud, was in heaven, never happier. It was perfection.

But what Bucky wanted, Steve couldn’t provide, couldn’t meet. Steve was only one man, couldn’t provide Bucky, whom touch had been stolen away from for decades, with everything he wanted. And that was okay, something Steve accepted, because there were other people Bucky could turn to that Steve trusted.

“I’m sure you all know why I asked you to meet with me,” Steve started, choosing a time Bucky was napping to meet with the rest of the group that either lived in or frequented the Tower. “Bucky has shown us a new side of him, has made some progress I think it’s worth discussing with everyone, since we’re all...we’ve all been affected...”

“Uhh, yeah— your Barnes-y boy has been all over me lately. I’m almost offended that everyone else is here to talk to Cap though. Thought he was just comin' onto me.”

“I have to tell you, I didn’t...I know we talked, Steve. But I’m honestly shocked at Bucky’s progress. It’s baffling.”

“I haven’t minded it. He lets me braid his hair.”

“Wait— y’all are getting touches?”

It was a group effort, supporting Bucky in this way. It was an adjustment, Bucky never prompting and questioning before touching or requesting touches— he just went for it. He was quiet still, not shy, merely observant. And just like he nudged at and leaned against Steve until his hands were on him, he did the same to others.

“I just ask that you show Bucky grace during this time. It’s a delicate situation. I need to know if you don’t want his touch or don’t wish to give him any kind of touch. I think it would be best if it came from me instead of from you in the moment.”

Natasha was who Bucky went to for scratches. Steve thinks it’s the nails. Steve also thinks Nat is Bucky’s favorite to go to for touches, even over him, but Bucky refuses to admit it.

When Bucky wants mindless touches, when he wants tickles and scratches, he goes to her. She naturally took to Bucky’s need for touches, the first occurrence one that came without hesitation. She’ll braid his hair, let him turn his head right where he wants her head scratches, naturally reaches for his back or shoulders to run her nails across when he saddles in close to her.

Thor is one of Bucky’s favorites too. Steve isn’t sure if it’s because of his strength or because of his warm and accepting demeanor but Bucky gravitates towards Thor often, mainly for neck and shoulder rubs. One, “James, my friend. You musn’t be afraid of asking for touch with me. I will always be willing to assist,” and that was all Bucky needed to feel comfortable walking over to Thor and nudging at his hands.

He puts his head on Bruce’s shoulder as soon as he can, likes sparring and playing hide and seek with Clint, enjoys putting his feet in Sam’s lap. Tony took some warming up to, but even then Bucky spent many hours in Tony’s lab, Tony guiding his hands, showing him what to do and how to work different machines, the two of them tinkering on his own arm.

Bucky kinda turns into the Tower kitty cat, wandering around quietly, napping in the sun, snacking, demanding affection from anyone he crosses paths with and trusts.

Everyone had their form of touch they shared with Bucky and Bucky absolutely blossomed under this form of support. Steve is forever grateful to be surrounded by a group of understanding individuals.

And every night when he lifts the comforter and feels the solid line of Bucky’s warm form against his side, the arm that now easily and inevitably slips around his waist, the familiar lips that always press against his temple, shoulder, and cheek, Steve is reminded this day was for Bucky and that the one they’ll wake up to will also be for him.

"I love you, Buck."

"Mhmm love you too, pal."

Steve doesn't even mind that Bucky spends his nights snoring in the crook of his neck, hot breath wafting over Steve's skin, hands grabby even as he dreams—

This is heaven.