#angst here I come!!!!

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

MDZS x ISAT part 1: In Stars and Necromancy.

(Part 2)

[electrozeistyking]

tomorrow

[strawberryspence]

Robin "Tired of Pining" Buckley

Steddie Week / Day 1: Pining & Somebody To Love ( @steddie-week )

[hyolks]

look at what you did to him.

[starflungwaddledee]

💘 happy valentine's day! 💘

[studioghibelli]

MY FRIENDS! NEW FIC PREVIEW!!!!!!

leather & lace- a joel miller x reader series

chapter one: the silver stallion.

summary: an untamed cowboy and the sheriff's daughter. an outlaw and a goodie two shoes. a hardened piece of leather and a perfect cut of lace. at first glance, you and joel miller are polar opposites, yet somehow fate has managed to tangle you both up in the same spool of yarn.

"You're saying I'm fragile, I try not to be. I search only for something I can't see. I have my own life, and I am stronger than you know."

warnings: violence typical to the wild west, various mentions of death, as historically accurate as my little history (b.a.) heart can handle, the behemoth amount of angst & story line will take precedent over smut but there WILL be a lot of sexual tension and eventual sex, cowboy!joel with a foggy moral compass.

Chapter One: The Silver Stallion

in which our two leading stars meet under unprecedented circumstances.

Chapter Two: Danger and Dread

in which a ransom letter is created, and a transactional companionship begins to blossom.

Chapter Three: The Ramblin’ Man

in which a life is saved, and an old wound is opened.

Chapter Four: From the Gallows

in which a terrible secret is revealed.

Chapter Five: Goodbye, Stranger

in which some truths are just too much to bear.

Chapter Six: Life Eternal

in which some things aren’t meant to be.

If you would like to be added to my tag list for this fic, please let me know!!! I am very excited about this story, as it is a way for me to practice my more serious writing that is based on a plot, rather than just a one shot.

Thank you friends. I love you all xx

[codfanficedits]

The Silent Treatment.

Pairing:

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader.

Wordcount: 3695| Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: Arguing, cussing, swearing, mommy issues, communication, mention of a finger in an ass, angst with no comfort.

A/N: No alternative endings for this one, life's a bitch and if I have to suffer so have you <3 also maybe thinking about taking request, idk.

There were three rules in your relationship with Simon.

One – NEVER eat leftovers that aren’t yours.

Two – Bending over is NOT an invitation to poke someone’s ass.

Three – Never go to a mission while still in an argument.  

Rule number one was an easy one. You’d gotten fed up with him eating your leftovers. You’d spent the whole day dreaming about the leftover pasta carbonara only to be met with an empty plate when you came home. An innocent look on his face when you scolded him. “I was hungry.” He pouted. “If your name isn’t on it, it isn’t yours!” You scolded him.

Simon would just put a post it with his name on your leftovers. A cocky grin on his face whenever you called him out on it. “Whaddya mean lovie? It clearly says my name.” In the beginning you wanted to wipe that cocky grin of his face, but over time you found yourself cooking a little extra, just so there would always be a portion of leftovers for Simon. In return you would just keep the good leftovers in an old, empty tub of butter. Your little secret and he didn’t need to know.

Rule number two was brought to life when Simon was finally fed up with you trying to poke his ass every goddamn time he bended over.

“It’s off limits!”

“But that’s not fair.” You protest. “My ass is not off limits for you.”

“You like it.”

“You won’t know it if you won’t try it.”

“You are out of your goddamn mind.”

“Just once.” And with those words you take a step closer, holding out your pointer finger.

“I swear to God, one more step and I’ll put you up for sale on Facebook Marketplace.”

A loud exaggerated gasp leaves you while you lower your hand. “You would never!”

“Correct.” A twinkle in his brown eyes. “I would have to pay people to even be interested in picking you up.”

“Simon!”

You’re met with two arms around you and a million soft kisses on your cheek, forehead, neck. “I would never do such a thing.” He mutters into your ear. “I like my money too much.”

It became a little inside joke. Every now and then he would take the most unflattering picture of you, his favourite was the one where you’d fallen asleep on the couch, your mouth open, snoring while a little bit of drool was on the side of your face. Simon would proudly show you the picture.

“This is the one I would put up with that Facebook Market place ad.” He would grin.

“Please do. Maybe some rich prince will pick me up.”

“Yeah if you count someone with a Burger King crown a prince.”

In return, when the two of you were watching tv, you’d point at some of the rich women you’d see on there.

“That would be me when some rich man responds to the ad you made about me.”

“Be sure to send me some allowance every now and then.”

“As if!” You scoff. “I’d be too busy being rich and pretty to think about sending you a tenner every month.”

It would always be met with a low, grumble, mixed in with a laugh. “You’re already pretty, lovie, pretty sure you can miss a tenner too already.”

But he would always, always pull you close to him and press a kiss onto your hair, and you were pretty sure you could hear him mutter the word “mine”.

Rule number three came to life after the first time the two of you had a big argument. While the two of you could communicate perfectly fine most of the time, every now and then it would escalate. He had a temper, you were so fucking stubborn and sometimes it just had to clash.

And this was the first time. The two of you had just moved in together, and with that came a lot of irritations. Both of you were used to living alone. You didn’t have to worry about people nagging you about your dirty sock scattered around the floor. Simon was used to putting his socks directly into the hamper when he took them off. In return, he could make the kitchen explode while cooking and was perfectly fine with leaving it like that for the night, your fingers would itch whenever the kitchen wasn’t spotless after dinner. But this was new for the both of you, and all of the sudden the two of you weren’t just soldiers, but two people, madly in love but both trying to be right on an argument that only needed compromises.

And it felt as if the world was coming to an end at the kitchen table, while the two of you were arguing and crying, eating of the last, sweet bite of your relationship.

Unfortunately a mission doesn’t stop for a little argument, so the argument had to be cut short. You’d be sent away for no longer than two weeks, and leaving tore your heart out, leaving it behind on the shoe rack for him to look at while you were away. You didn’t even know if you would be single or not when you would come back.

Inside your shared house, Simon would be sitting on the floor, gaze fixed on the door through which you left, hoping you’d come back through that door, tell him you love him, and that you would clean up your socks.

But you didn’t.

Instead he received the news that the communication was cut off between your squad and base. An unforeseen enemy ambush that no one had seen coming. And your socks on the floor no longer mattered to Simon, he promised himself he would never, ever complain about the socks scattered on the bathroom floor if that meant you would come home safe. Simon had never been a religious man, but he would find himself praying at your empty side of your bed every night he was home, begging all the Gods above that you would come home to him.

And you did.

He had been waiting for you the moment he got the news you and your squad had been found. Nervously pacing around, while he was Ghost out on the field, for you he was just Simon, and right now Simon needed you more than ever before. You had been gone for nearly a month now, and he could no longer care about your socks, or the way you would kick out your shoes. All he could care about was you, and having you.

You on the other hand, had no idea what you would come home to. Maybe he had left, maybe you would come home to an empty house with a lover long moved on. But that wasn’t the case, you were greeted by a large man, his hands instantly cupping your face, lips all over your cheeks, nose, lips, eyes, forehead as if his lips were trying to imprint your face in his mind.

After that, the two of you decided to never, ever leave on a mission again while still mad and that rule needed a little tweaking.

By the next big argument, months later, the both of you stayed up all night, trying to talk out the argument. The lack of sleep only fuelling the anger on both sides. It made you both irrational and unable to think in solutions. Eventually the both of you fell asleep, Simon sitting at the kitchen table, you had made your way to the couch, holding on to his hoodie out of spite. The next morning the two of you could in fact talk it out, without the crying, without raising your voice, without the cussing.

So eventually rule number three became really simple. Don’t go on a mission while you’re still in an argument. No matter the subject, no matter how angry one of you was. If someone had to leave for a mission, the argument was put on hold, almost always accompanied by some soft words.

“I’m still mad, but I love you, and we’ll find a solution when you’re back”

“You’re still a pain in my ass, but I love you, and we will work this out.”

“When you’re back, we will talk about it, but for now, all you need to know is that I love you.”

A kiss always followed afterwards, usually on a lips, a single time on the forehead.

Today the two of you were about to break rule three. The past few months had been hectic, to say the least. A lot of missions, birthdays, other obligations. Not enough sleep, not enough intimacy, not enough time for each other. It had placed a ticking bomb under your relationship with Simon. An argument waiting to happen. The little things that would usually just make you shake your head and go on with your day, suddenly became a big deal. The way he would leave the kitchen, the way he would drape his shirts over the armrest over the couch. How he would leave his razor in the shower, always next to your shampoo. Speaking of it, you were certain he was using your shampoo, despite you asking him not to. Multiple times and he never fucking listens.

On the other hand, Simon was getting annoyed by you more and more, the way you would leave your socks on the bathroom floor, how you would leave a door open if you had been in that room. And you always left the fucking light on in the bathroom, no matter how often he would tell you to be mindful of it.

So there you were, walking into your kitchen after he had come home after a long, tiring mission. You had just come home from a day full of meetings and preparations for your upcoming mission.

Your whole kitchen a goddamn mess, who the fucks needs two pans, a cutting board, three plates and a fork, a knife AND a spoon for a portion of scrambled eggs anyway? But you try to let it go, you try counting to ten, you try to ignore the eggshells on the stove, the ketchup on the counter, you try to ignore it all.

Then he barges in, a pair of your socks in his hands, while he looks you in the eyes, using his foot to open the bin, tossing your socks in there.

“What the fuck is that for?”

“I’m sick and tired of finding your fucking socks everywhere.”

“Oh so you can throw away my socks, but throwing out eggshells while you’re cooking is too much to fucking ask?”

“I was going to do it after my nap.”

“Sure you were.” An eyeroll from you followed.

“Don’t give me that fucking attitude lovie.”

“Attitude?” You narrow your eyes.

“Attitude. All I want is some fucking peace and quiet and all you’re doing is fucking nagging.”

“I wouldn’t have to nag if you would just clean this fucking kitchen! Other people want to live and cook here too.”

You can see him press his lips together, a sign that the temper in him is rising, but you don’t care, you can feel your own anger building up and it needs to get out.

“Well, other people would like to go to the fucking bathroom without having to cross a fucking path of dirty, filthy fucking socks!”

“They’re just fucking socks, what is your big fucking deal?”

“My big fucking deal is that little miss perfect over here is nagging like a fucking bitch, while I’m following her around cleaning up her fucking socks, closing fucking doors behind her fucking ass. You can’t even turn of the fucking light after you’ve been in a room and you’re whining about the fucking kitchen!” His voice is raising with every word that comes out of his mouth.

But you were raised by a woman couldn’t love herself, so you don’t back down, instead you get in his face, your tone and volume matching his. “Because this kitchen is fucking disgusting Simon! How the fuck could the army recruit someone so fucking filthy?” Bringing in his career was a low blow. “How fucking hard is it to clean the goddamn ketchup if you spill it?”

His hands form two fists, clenched while they hang beside his body.

“Do not.” His voice is a hiss. “Bring my fucking work into this.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Whatever you fucking say Simon.” You turn around as you spit out your words.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Out of this fucking swinery of a kitchen.”

“We’re not done talking.”

“What else is there to fucking say? You’re a fucking pig and I am the problem apparently.” Another turn to face him again.

“You know, when you act like this, you’re just your mother.”

Oh, your mother. The woman who was your first friend and your first enemy. The woman who had taught you that your worth was what men thought of you, while slut shaming you in the same sentence. The woman who never loved you how you needed her to. The day she called you ugly wasn’t the day you stopped loving her, but the day you stopped loving yourself, and you had told him. You had cried in his arms about your fucked up relationship with your mother, you had cried about what you had wanted her to be, but what she never could be for you.

“If I’m my mother, then you’re your fat-“ He cuts you off.

“Don’t fucking go there.”

“Why not? You can compare me to my fucking mother. My MOTHER out of all people!” It’s your turn to raise your voice at him.

“It’s different.”

“You’re a fucking hypocrite Simon.”

“I’m the hypocrite? I can’t even come home without you nagging on my fucking ass about this fucking kitchen while you leave a trail of your fucking mess throughout the whole fucking house.”

“Oh well, I’m sorry for not wanting fucking eggshells on my stove, or your fucking shirts all over the couch. Or your FUCKING razor next to MY fucking shampoo!”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“Oh don’t fucking act all innocent now, Simon. I’ve told you plenty of times to keep your hands of my fucking shampoo. That shit is fucking expensive.”

“So I don’t deserve nice, expensive things?”

His comment makes your blood boil. “Stop trying to be the fucking victim.”

“The fucking victim? I can’t even use some nice smelling shampoo in my own fucking house without it being used against me.”

“Oh my God! You could’ve bought your own fucking shampoo. But noo, you always have to take my fucking things. Not even my fucking leftovers are safe from you!”

“Are you still upset because I ate some leftovers?”

“Yes!”

“You’re a fucking child.”

“You’re a fucking leech.”

“A leech?” His fists turning white at your comment.

“A fucking leech. Feeding off others like a fucking parasite.”

“It would be a very good idea if you learned how to shut up, lovie.” The last word didn’t even sound as a pet name anymore.

“Oh I’ll fucking shut up.”

“Finally some fucking peace around here.”

You press your lips together, not making another sound. If he wants some fucking peace he can get it. You turn around to leave the kitchen.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

Without looking at him you point at the whiteboard, the date of the mission you had to go on today circled with a red marker.

“Be sure to pack some extra socks so you can litter the fucking battlefield.” He shouts at you as you walk off to pack your bag.

Never break rule number three.

You’re angry when you pack your bag, stomping around, making sure he hears how pissed off he has made you. You even want to take your stupid fucking shampoo with you, but you decide against it, it would be too much of a hassle.

You go downstairs again with your packed bag, and the two of you make eye contact. But neither of you says a thing. Neither of you say the words you had promised each other to always say before a mission.

You turn around while his eyes look back at the tv again, and you make sure to slam the door a little too hard while you leave on your mission.

Turns out all Simon needed was a good nap, some food, a shower and some more sleep. When he wakes up from his little nap and the sky outside is already dark, he realises how much he misses you, how he didn’t tell you he loved you when you went away. He lets out a sigh when he gets to the bathroom, your socks still on the floor, and with a small huff he bends over to pick them up, his hand automatically covering his ass, a force of habit to make sure you don’t poke him while he is bending over. A soft sigh leaving his lips when he realises you’re not there.

For the first time since the two of you got together, your side of the bed felt extra cold, extra empty, and he found himself on his knees again, praying to the heavens you would be home quick, so he could tell you he loved you, and so the two of you could have an actual conversation about the things that had been bothering the two of you.

Simon lets out a soft groan when he sees the kitchen, you had been right, it looked like an active warzone in there. Maybe he should learn to clean up the kitchen after cooking. He’s a grown man for fuck sake.

He rolls up his sleeves, puts on some music and it’s time to clean that goddamned kitchen. And while he is cleaning his thoughts wandered to you, how hurt you looked when he compared you to your mother, and a jolt of guilt shoots through him. It had been unfair to compare you to your mother. You were nothing like her, and when you would be back he would make sure to tell you that.

He's sweaty and Simon isn’t sure how it happened, but he got eggshells in his hair, but the kitchen is clean, and he intends to keep it that way. With a light spring in his step he makes his way to the shower. He automatically reaches for your shampoo, he just loves how your hair smells when you’re laying on his chest, or when he is your weighed blanket and his face is buried in the crook of your neck. Washing his hair with your shampoo reminds him of you during the day. Simon unscrews the cap, bringing the bottle to his nose and he closes his eyes, the steam and the scent of your shampoo give him the illusion that you’re with him again, and when he opens his eyes he feels empty when you’re not there.

He promises himself to tell you he loves you when you’re finally back.

When he lays in bed at night, and you’re not there to hold, he feels lonely, for the first time since forever, you had always feel like home, and now his home was gone. Simon keeps reaching out for you, only to be met by the cold feeling of your empty pillow. The scrolls past the pictures he has from you, the ones he had always threatened to put in a Facebook marketplace ad, and they bring a smile to his face. He remembers the first time he gave you the playful threat and how he had to make sure to smother you in kisses in case you were angry at him. But you weren’t, you had always been a saint and today he had let his anger take control.

He promises himself to tell you he loves you when you’re finally back.

But when you finally return and he gets the chance to tell you that he loves you, the words get stuck in his throat. Rule number three had been broken and he wasn’t sure how to continue from there. Eventually he finds the courage to speak to you again.

“I love you.” The words are simple, yet raw. But you’re not done being silent, after all, he wished for some peace and now he was getting it.

And so the minutes pass, the hours pass, the days pass, but your silent treatment doesn’t end, you’re a stubborn one, and he knows it.

But he has to speak to you, it is the least he could do, but it’s hard to speak to you when he knows you won’t say a thing back.

“I should’ve hugged you tighter the last time I saw you. I just miss you, in a quite simple, desperate, human way.” The words are raw again, as if they are ripped from the very core of his human being. Again there is no answer from you, and it rips his heart out. He just wishes the last thing you said to him were words of love, not words out of anger.

And now he is sitting next to you, a blanket around the both of you, while he finds the courage to speak to you. Simon’s gaze shifts from the flowers in front of him, to the stars in the sky.

“The stars will go out before I forget you.” His voice is soft, a whisper, the words are meant just for you.

He sighs when you stay silent, oh what he would give to hear your voice once again.

“You know, this is not how I had imagined life, lovie. I want to stay on the back porch, while the world tilts toward sleep, until what I love misses me, and calls me back to bed.” His voice breaks in the middle of his sentence.

Simon rests his head against your tombstone. “This silent treatment has been going on for long enough, don’t you think, lovie?”

[linimoonlight]

All the people who Bad wrote a letter to...

Aypierre just lost Maximus, his love, and has not been coping too well. Now he lost his business partner, his partner in crime, his friend and one of the fathers of his child. He doesnt only have to go through this for himself but also for their daughter.

Baghera was traumatized by her best friend in purgatory and purgatory itself and the assumed loss of her children broke her. She just got back from hell just to learn that said best friend is dying. They didnt even really have time to reconnect. But they still have time to fix this, right? Of course Bad wont actually die. Its Bad after all!

Foolish never thought Bad could die. He never imagined a life without him. Because after all they were both immortal, right? Bad was always there to annoy the shit out of him. He was his best friend. That wasnt supposed to change. Ever.

Bagi has only known Bad while he was sick. But he was also one of the first friends she made on this island. He was always there to help or just hang out in the lonely nights. She always wanted to help him, get his kids back, get his color back, make im happy, save him from dying. But there was nothing she could do. She failed. Just like she failed to protect her daughter.

Cellbit was the letter that was never written. The person who lost himself when he was a kid and was saved by Bad. Bad is the only person who really knows him and all the darkness. But also the person who reminds him about these parts of himself he hates the most. And all he ever wanted was to make his mentor proud...

It really is funny when you have an immortal demon character who becomes the constant in everyones lifes and then suddenly dies and leaves all of them a little lost.

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

hi dove!!! i love your new event, the vibe is so fun and relaxing (⁠つ⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)⁠つ could i request floyd with no.8? for backups maybe leona with no.9 or jamil with no.2? thanks!! as always don't overwork yourself ꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖⁠♡

side note: pls no angst the pain from last time is still here(⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠)

Fairytale Scene; Leona Kingscholar

Content; Fluff, gender-neutral reader, some really soft Leona

Word Count; 650+

Author's Note; Had to use your first backup, as Floyd got snatched up, but I hope you enjoy this fluffy scene and soft lion! [Damn, those eels go fast]

As a reminder, do not put my work — or others for that matter — into AI as it steals. Link to Masterlist

An old vinyl was playing slowly on the record player, a slow jazz ensemble letting out low notes. It was pleasant, the calm music mixing with the gentle crashing of the waves coming onto shore, and the filtered sunlight coming through the linen curtains and warming up your skin. There was no rushing, no tasks that needed to be urgently done, and no one to boss you around. You could definitely get used to this. 

“You’re looking right at home there,” a soft chuckle broke you from your relaxed spell. Leona was standing in front of you, giving you a curious look. “Like a house cat sunbathing.”

You rolled your eyes, “Fitting coming from you.” You stretched out, and rolled off of the chaise you were lounging on. 

Leona sighed in mock annoyance, but he could get used to seeing you without the weight of all your responsibilities resting on your shoulders. You looked — and by all the lounging you had been doing since you had both arrived — and felt lighter as well. And in the golden sunlight? Leona swore that you were glowing.

You lazily walked over to him, placing your arms around his neck. “Is something bothering you?”

Bothering me? “No, nothing at the moment,” he said quietly. What was there to be bothered by? The two of you were together, and there was no one around to annoy the both of you. “And you?”

You hummed along to the song playing, “Nope!~” You let out a breathy chuckle and started to gently sway back and forth to the music. “Would you care to join me for this dance… your majesty?~” 

Leona groaned at the nickname; you only brought it out when you were feeling teasing. He didn’t mind though, since it didn’t hold the weight it did at the palace, or the mocking tone that others sometimes used. You just were being a teasing menace and a cute one at that.

Letting out a showy sigh he adjusted your hands so that he was holding one and the other was placed on his waist. “I suppose I can spare one for you,” he said lowly, voice barely above a grumble. 

The two of you swayed gently together to the soft music, gentle swaying, and long, slow, looping circles around the room. You were still humming the non-existent lyrics to the song, and Leona hummed softly from time to time as well, adding to the melody. Never did he think that he would end up in such a scene; dancing with someone he loved so dearly in something that he could only explain as a fairytale scene. It was soft, domestic, tender, and filled with such innocent love. All things that Leona had convinced himself that he didn’t want. But then you came into his life. You threw a wrench into his life, but what a lovely wrench it turned out to be.

The song came to an end far too soon, and the two of you came to a slow standstill, still in each other’s loose embrace. Neither of you made a move to let go, instead you both just stood there, hand in hand, your hand on his waist, and his on yours.

“You make for a good dance partner,” you chuckle.

Leona raised a brow, “And are you surprised by that?”

You bring his hand to your lips, placing a kiss on the inside of his wrist while looking at him through your lashes. “No, it’s just endearing is all.”

Leona had received kisses from you before, both soft and passionate, but this one actually made his heart flutter. He didn’t know how to feel about it, but he did know that the way you looked at him just then… he wanted you to look at him with such adoration again and again and again. It was addictive.

He brought your hand to his lips, and returned the kiss, letting it linger so he could feel your steady pulse. Perhaps the two of you should come out here more often if this was what happened… Leona could spend the rest of his life with you in this picturesque moment.

~~~~~~~

Tags: @eynnwwyjth, @inkybloom-luv, @leonistic, @savanaclaw1996, @twistwonderlanddevotee, @xxoomiii

[whataduck]

scars, 1

more comic and transcript under cut

AAAND CUT!

mostly just me thinking about what arti thinks of her own scars, and there's more coming, eventually >:). It takes a long time to draw though :')

transcript:

Image 1: At first, my scars were an ugly reminder of the volatile ability I have.

Image 2: Which threatens to

BREAK

OUT

Image 3: though... My pups made me realize that didn't have to be the case.

Image 6: My ability gives me the strength to protect, and my scars are a testament to that.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Cannot Unsee. Cannot Unknow.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[sonicfrontiers]

i think every splatoon player should look up at least some of the band lore bc it’s all so fucking funny. all of it is like

“the frontman of the most popular influential band of all time doesn’t actually know anything about music theory or even how to read music he just makes noises with his guitar that he thinks sounds cool and it works” 

“the lead singer of this band sucks at music and the rest of the band berates him for it all the time. the fiddler of the band is particularly violent about it and has almost dissolved the band multiple times because of it. there is official art of them beating the fuck out of each other”

“the bassist of the most popular influential band of all time left because everyone was too nice to each other. he met a dj who he fucking hated and the two of them fought so hard they formed a duo. they refuse to record together and don’t even look at each other during performances and their music bangs bc of it”

“pearl used to be the lead singer of this band but the rest of the members did not like her so they kicked her out. they replaced her with a 10 year old child they found on twitter”

[amielot]

I really wanted to draw Hob’s apartment. I also wanted to draw Hob sliding down a wall. I have simple needs.

From the fic Dream a Little Dream of Me by @myszteczka. (it’s a dark fic! so mind the tags!)

[ghost-proofbaby]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER FOUR: CASTLES CRUMBLING

AND HERE I SIT ALONE, BEHIND WALLS OF REGRET. FALLING DOWN LIKE PROMISES I NEVER KEPT.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, mentions of RUMORS of workplace sex scandal, minors dni

☆ WC: 5.4K+

☆ A/N: if you would like to listen to the song that eddie is recording at the end - it is an actual, real life song. :-) it is called "blood sport" by sleep token (one of my favorite bands i get to see live next week!!), and i highly recommend listening to it during your reading. especially the latter half of this chapter.

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

“Alright, so – anyone care to fill me in on what the Hell that was?” 

Matt stands like a disapproving father figure as the band lines up opposite of him just outside the building. Eddie had hoped nothing would be mentioned until they were in the car, but the driver was clearly running a few minutes late.

Three of the boys glance at each other, worried expressions immediately giving up the hoax even as Eddie only shrugs and says, “What do you mean?” 

“Cut the shit, Munson,” Matt had never appeared so livid, so undone by irritation. His usual patience with Eddie is nonexistent, “What’s going on between you and that girl? Is she a past groupie?”

The insinuation gets a scoff out of Gareth. Jeff side-eyes him in warning, but Eddie couldn’t care less, “No, she’s not a past groupie. This was the first time I’d ever-”

“Don’t lie to me,” Matt points an accusatory finger at Eddie, narrowing his eyes, “I am your manager. If you have any unsavory connections with that girl, I need to know so I can decide if we need someone else to organize the event. We are not having another repeat of the Lewinsky scandal.” 

“I knew it! I fucking knew you called it that, too!” Gareth cheers, but he’s quieted by one look from their furious manager.

The Lewinsky scandal had been their code-word for when the tabloids had become convinced that Eddie was fucking an assistant at the label. A girl had even come forward and claimed to have had sexual relations with Eddie, and he had taken heat for it for a full month before the buzzing novelty worn off.

Eddie had only spoken three words to the girl. No, thank you when she’d offered him a mug of coffee during a late night at the studio. He wishes now he’d been less polite. 

And he also finds himself wishing that’s all this was. He wishes you were just another scandal, another terrible rumor spread around. If all the accusations between you two were false, if all the hatred was based on misconstrued circumstances, it would be so much easier. He can talk himself out of that. He can confess to those sins and get off with no more than the order of one hail mary from Matt. 

But you? The reality of all that had happened, both all those years ago and just thirty minutes ago? He can’t find the words. They choke him up, unwilling to leave the cavern of his chest and enter the world, just like all the songs gathering dust as demos. 

“It’s not going to be another Lewinsky scandal,” Eddie scowls, feet shuffling against the concrete below him. Can’t be another Lewinsky scandal if she wants nothing to do with me anymore, “Maybe she just doesn’t like me. I am allegedly a very polarizing public figu-”

The car pulls up, and Matt is quick to grab Eddie’s shoulder before glaring at the boys, “Get in, I’m not finished with our polarizing public figure yet.” 

Grant and Gareth only let out low whistles, following instruction without lingering as they clamber into the back row of seats in the SUV. Jeff takes his time, though, going as far to pause beside Eddie and place a hand on his back.

“Just tell him the truth, Eds.” 

It’s the final nail in his coffin. Eddie is cursing Jeff’s retreating figure as he climbs into the vehicle and shuts the door, leaving him alone with Matt. 

“Explain,” Matt demands, “Now.” 

Eddie’s eyes focus on a gaping crack in the sidewalk, jagged and uneven, right down the center. 

He has two options. He could continue to lie, insist he knows nothing about you until Matt just gets bored of not being offered the truth. Or he could admit it all, reveal the muse behind the art he had been fiercely protecting over these last few months. Every line, every chord, every broken note that had left his lungs during those witching hours in the studio. 

On one hand, it’ll rip away the opportunity that has been offered to him on a silver platter – the opportunity for closure. Selfish, bloody closure that neither of you had gotten, it seemed. But on the other hand, it might grant him some sympathy. Matt, the label, the producers – they had all grown tired of the dance Eddie led them in every time they’d inquire about the music. But if Matt knew-

It’s a dead end trail of thought. He knows he won’t admit to the worst of his atrocities he’s committed. No scandal, no late night ending with him in handcuffs, no fraudulent headline is going to compare to what he did to you. What you did to him.

It’s a little too late for damage control, anyways.

“I went to high school with her,” the lie works well enough, easing some of Matt’s frustration, “I was just shocked to see her. All of us were shocked to see her. No big deal.” 

Eddie knows the people around him have come to learn that they must pick and choose the battles they engage in with him. And he can see that decision flash across Matt’s face as he decides that this is not a battle necessary to the war.

“Alright. But if you’re lying to me-“

“I’m not lying.”

“If you are, that’ll be one of my last straws, Munson.”

It won’t be. Eddie knows it won’t be. Everyone, every single goddamn person in this world it seems, is capable of giving Eddie Munson unlimited chances — except you. You, it seemed, were the only person who had come to their senses. 

You always were smarter than people gave you credit for.

—

“Run the track again.” 

They’d spent a few hours in the studio already. It was an odd hour for them to be haunting the space, more used to visiting in the dead of night rather than the middle of a weekday, but it was down to the wire now. Vocals needed to be recorded, instrumentals fine-tuned, tracks properly mastered. Eddie could no longer hide in the night when it came to recording the haunting melodies stained with the blood of his past — no matter how wrong it felt to see a sliver of sunlight breaking through one of the windows, just through the top of the blackout curtains.

“I really think that was the one, man-“ the producer starts, probably just tired after repeatedly running in circles with Eddie’s perfectionism.

He doesn’t care. He’s paying them, they can stand to let him re-record as many times as necessary to satisfy Eddie, “Run it again.” 

The silence only continues to buzz in Eddie’s headphones. He’s ready to cuss out the producer as he angrily shoves them down, off his ears and hanging loosely around his neck, the wire a leash as he whips to face the one-way glass wall. The lights are off at the main board, guaranteeing that they can see Eddie but Eddie can’t see them.

Until suddenly, the light comes back on, and the reason for the absence of the repeated track Eddie had requested becomes obvious.

Gareth.

He stands at the center of it all, a few paces from the seated producer with a deep scowl on his face. 

“What the fuck?” Eddie says, mouth just close enough to the mic for them to catch his overflowing annoyance, “I said-“

“We heard what you said, Eddie,” Gareth interrupts, his voice just loud enough to be faintly heard even as the headphones curl around the nape of Eddie’s neck, “But I need to talk to you.” 

It’s the strictest tone that Gareth has used on their lead singer in an unfathomably measure of time. Probably because it’s the most words he’s said to Eddie in a very long time, as well.

Eddie finally removes the headphones, hanging them carelessly on the mic stand and moving towards the door — surprisingly, without putting up a resistance.

The control room is warmer than the fairly large area that served as a ‘booth’. Smaller, as well. Cramped with a low couch and one too many chairs available to trip over, the control board spanses the entire wall that holds the oversized window into the recording room. A plethora of small lights twinkle like stars, and numerous switches that Eddie had come to know better than the back of his hand alternate positions to guarantee the clearest sound. Only Gareth and the producer occupy the room, the rest of the band having taken off around the fifth time Eddie had requested a redo of his vocal tracking.

“This better be good,” Eddie complains, furrowing his brows, agitated at the interruption. 

But Gareth shows no remorse, “We need to talk.” 

“Yeah, you said that already.”

“We need to talk,” Gareth repeats, eyes flickering to the poor soul still seated at the controls, “Alone.” 

Eddie hardly has to open his mouth, the man jumping out of his seat the moment the lead singer flicks his wrist to signal for him to leave.

Whatever Gareth was about to say had to be important, and it’s that thought rather than the difference in temperatures that has sweat building on Eddie’s brows.

Is he about to quit the band? Is he about to tell me he’s had enough? Maybe he’s done with my bullshit — I would be.

“Speak, Emerson,” Eddie flatly insists, grabbing a small water bottle out of one of the mini fridges in the room before he throws himself onto the worn leather of the couch, “And make it quick. We’re on a time limit, you kno-“

“We’ve gotta talk about her, man.” 

Her as in you. 

For a moment, Gareth sounds like a friend again. He’s dropped all the persistent perturbation he’s taken to defending himself with when it comes to  Eddie, his voice pleading as he stands before the distant man. All the rueful power plays that had developed over the last year vanish. It’s just Eddie and Gareth, bandmates who started out in the latter’s garage in some small Indiana town. Not Eddie Munson, infamous rockstar with a chip on his shoulder. Not Gareth Emerson, passionate drummer overshadowed by the ego of his lead singer. Just Eddie and Gareth.

 “We all know you didn’t tell Matt the truth.” 

“I did tell him the truth-“ 

“Not the whole truth, then. There’s no way he’d let it slide if he knew that she was your ex-girlfriend.” 

The defiance vacates Eddie’s body quickly. He doesn’t even attempt to prowl his mind for a quick quip in response. All he does at the words is drop his shoulders, the defeat creeping up on him as he deflates. 

Ex-girlfriend. The title feels so pitiful to truly describe what you were to him. 

But to be fair, even when he had been in your good graces, girlfriend had also never felt significant enough.

“Did-“ Gareth starts after a beat of silence, noting the way Eddie couldn’t quite hide his wounds on the topic, “What did you guys talk about? When you went after her, what did she say?” 

“Nothing important.”

Eddie turns into a shell, a zombie as he stares straight ahead and tries to compartmentalize. That always worked; with meetings, with arguments, with lectures. Even before the fame, it worked.

It doesn’t work quite as quickly when it comes to you. His brain, it seems, is incapable of uncrossing all the wires you twist within his brain.

“You two were alone for, what, ten minutes? And you’re telling me she didn’t say anything important?” 

“What the fuck is there to say?” Eddie laughs soullessly, “Oh, hey, stranger! Remember me? The guy you up and left without a word?” 

“Yes!” Gareth shouts unexpectedly, “Yes, that’s exactly what you should have done! She left. Not just you, but all of us. We never even really knew why. And now- what? Are we just supposed to pretend we don’t know her?” 

Eddie knew why. She’d never had to say it, and that was the issue. He always thought about all the answers he swore he craved, and always let every question he claimed to have haunt him during the waking hours. But when the day turned to night, when he was left to nothing but his own devices in a dark and empty apartment during the witching hours, he knew. The question of why had been answered since the first phone call cut short with you during that goddamn tour.

The songs knew, too. He supposes it had been an arrogant assumption to believe the band had read into his lyrics and put the pieces together. 

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Eddie nearly whispers, throat tightening and fighting him on the words. It’s the opposite of what he wants and needs — but it’s what you want and what you need. And so he plays the messenger, even as it kills him, “We are going to completely disregard my past with her. We are going to treat this entire situation as professionally as possible. I’m talking the full nine yards: you will not mention the fact that we know her, you will not question her about anything from the past, and you will not, under any circumstances, ask her why.” 

His own set of rules he’d privately set for himself in his own mind during the car ride over. 

Gareth squints his eyes in disbelief, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Are you serious?”

“Deathly so.”

“This isn’t just about your past with her,” the boy nearly passes, starts to reach up to tug on his hair before he thinks better of it, “This is about the way she left all of us. Not just you. She was a friend to all of us. She was the one who taught me how to tape my drums when I’d bust a hole in them, she was the one who helped us design our first merch, she was the only person any of us would let be in the room during practices. And not just the band stuff, either,” Eddie watches tears form in Gareth’s eyes, “She was the only one who had the patience to help me with my fucking math homework back in school, man. She was the one who nearly curb stomped Jason Carver the week he sent Grant home with a black eye. She was the first person Jeff called when his parents broke news of their divorce, for fucks sake. Not me, not you, not any of us — her,” Gareth’s breaths come out as pants as he stops his pacing and stands before Eddie. The tears continue to lace his bottom lash line as he heaved silently at the end of his rant, his pained expression completely unexpected to Eddie. 

This is the part Eddie chooses to forget. He’ll let himself swim in the memory of you late at night, he’ll indulge in vices that always amplify his pain rather than succeeding in his attempt to numb it, he’ll stare down the mirror each morning and curse the reflection he finds with all the blame in the world he is capable of holding in the palms of his hands. But in all the ruptures of his own old scars, he fails to consider that he is not the only one burdened with loss. 

They all lost you. When Eddie lost you, so did the band. You’d become a ghost to more than just your abandoned lover — you’d become a tired haunt to boys you’d known, boys you’d befriended and burrowed your way into the lives of, just as well. 

“She was our friend,” Gareth chokes out, fists curling at his sides, “Jesus Christ, I- I get it. She was everything to you. Whatever. But she meant a lot to the rest of us, too. Whatever happened wasn’t just some isolated event — you two didn’t just hurt each other. You set off whatever bomb erased her from our lives, but it left the rest of us with some damage, too. Don’t forget that.” 

This is the part where Eddie should apologize. This is the part where, once upon a blissful time, he would have said his repentance. 

He doesn’t.

“I don’t care how hurt anyone is,” he lowly responds, eyes unable to meet Gareth’s any longer, “I’ve told you the rules, we’re going to follow them. End of discussion.” 

Gareth throws back his head, and Eddie winces at his scoff, “She’s not your fucking property, Eddie! She isn’t solely yours to keep or whatever the fuck you think you’re doing!” 

Eddie can’t even deny the action of keeping you. All the demos, all the songs laid to the grave because he couldn’t stomach the thought of releasing them for others to experience. 

But that’s not what this was. This, the cataclysm that was sending Gareth to finally release all this pent up frustration, was him following your rules. You’d made your wishes for this project very clear, and he needed to at least try to respect them. They all did. 

So he takes on the role of the bad guy. He lets them paint him as the villain if it means no red will stain your ledger. 

“Oh, I think she’s made it very clear that she isn’t mine,” the mask slips on far too easily for Eddie. Cool demeanor, compartmentalizing. Not you, but his emotions towards his friends, if he could even still call them that. His bandmates that he had once seen as brothers. “Doesn’t change what I said. Don’t push it, Emerson, or there’ll be Hell to pay.” 

“What are you going to do? Disappear on us?” Eddie finally looks back up to meet Gareth’s fiery gaze as he spits out hateful words, “Hate to break it to you, but you already left this band behind two years ago. And if you ask me, you should start leaving the vanishing act to her. At least she doesn’t make us pay for her mistakes.” 

Eddie is by no means done with the conversation, more than willing to continue fighting with Gareth, but the other boy clearly feels differently. He leaves his words hanging in the air as he spins away, storming out of the door, the air in the studio now several degrees hotter now with the irate fuel of the fight.  

It was all a blood sport. All of it. It didn’t matter if Eddie was fighting with the band, the management, with you. It was all bloody and fruitless, and it all left him the same awful type of hollow in the end. 

He stares blankly at the wall as he makes a silent decision.

By the time the producer has timidly returned to the room, Eddie has already set up his laptop to connect to the studio's system, prepped so that any recording would automatically copy into his personal hard drive. A way for him to listen and ruminate in the privacy of his own apartment. 

The sheet music torn from his notebook already lays at the table besides the entrance to the booth. 

“Do you… want to run the track again?” the man, the stranger, asks. He clearly heard the fight. Eddie and Gareth hadn’t been exactly quiet in their screaming match. At least, Gareth hadn’t been. 

Is it really a screaming match if only one side fights back? 

“I want to lay a new track,” Eddie’s voice is deadpan as he clicks a few buttons, finalizing everything. He only needs the man to click record, “A raw piano and vocal demo. We can add the rest of the band later.” 

“I-“

One look from Eddie, hardly passed over his shoulder with a glimmer of unbridled determination, and the man quiets as he takes his seat. 

Eddie storms into the booth without another word, fist curled around the page of lyrics and terribly hand-drawn music clefts. 

She isn’t yours to keep.

Eddie was aware of that. Painfully, painfully aware. But it had never been about his claim to you. 

Gareth was right. Eddie never wanted to own you. Keeping you, however, had been something he should have taken more care with.

The chill of the small room to record in does little to lessen the flames eating Eddie up as he bypasses the assembly of various instruments all crowded in the space. Gareth’s drum set, Jeff’s guitar, Grant’s bass — he storms right past them, eyes locked on the grand piano in the fair corner. It took up the most space, far too large to have been forced to be contained within this compact room. 

Eddie drags the mic from where it had been stationed previously with him, quickly and recklessly resetting it at the piano. 

Once he’s seated on the bench, crumpled pages thrown up onto the music desk of the piano and headphones snug over his ears again, the producer finally clicks on his mic to speak.

“Hey, uh… Does this demo have a name by chance? Or do you just want to label it as an unknown for now?”

It certainly does have a name.

“Blood Sport,” Eddie spits out. “Just name the file Blood Sport.” 

The hum that would indicate to Eddie when those on the other side of that glass window were speaking clicks off, and he takes it as his cue.

He’d written the song a while before. There were some gaps in the lyrics, some notes he’d played with on his personal piano scribbled over and never replaced. He’d never played it in its entirety before. 

It starts slow. His fingers hold the ivory keys delicately, arranging for the first opening notes as if he were slotting his knuckles against your own for the first time over again.

She isn’t yours to solely keep. 

Were you ever his to keep, ever? 

Even the ivory keys of the Steinway are more solid than you ever were. You were nothing more than water, than blood, destined to slip between Eddie’s fingers. He never stood a chance in having you, in holding you, in keeping you. 

Not just now, but before all the blood shed, as well. He should have recognized Cassandra’s curse the first day he looked into your eyes. He should have known the twist in his stomach was only Fate sinking its claws into the two of you. 

A tale fit for a Shakespearean stage — a tragedy always meant to be.

“I want to roll the numbers, I want to feel my stars align again.” 

Eddie’s voice is soft to match the steady beat of piano notes that emit from the crooked curl of his hand against the keys. A soft thump, a gentle lull. And instead of losing himself in the music, he finds himself wrapped up in one of the many memories he’d chosen to lock away for the last two years.

Something was off. 

Eddie’s stomach had twisted with anxiety of something being wrong for weeks. You stopped answering his calls, his texts, every form of connection with him. But as he stood in front of the door to your shared apartment, the bile rose even higher in his throat. 

He smelt the decay of what he had done before his key had even entered the lock. 

“Would you invite me again? Won’t you pay for your arrogance? Won’t you show me your weakness?” 

You were never his to keep. 

His voice nearly cracks as he approaches the first chorus, not finding the strength behind the vocals he’d always envisioned for the song.

The click of the door opening echoed through the apartment. It felt empty the moment he’d crossed the threshold – you could have just been tucked away in the bedroom, or even in the bathroom, but he knew. 

You hadn’t been returning his phone calls. You hadn’t been returning his texts. He knew something had happened, something had changed. Irreversible damage had been done, and he would now have to face the mess he’d created to return home to. 

“I made loving you a blood sport.” 

He repeats the line until it rings in his head, over and over. Until he swears the words could crack his bones, and the stars that will show in the night sky will do nothing but mock him for the self-inflicted pain.

At first, he convinced himself you just weren’t home. You’d gone to the store or to see friends. You’d be home soon enough and then, the two of you could scream at each other all you wanted. You were angry with him, rightfully so, but he’d rather you yell and scrap with him than the alternative. He didn’t care. Because he was here, back in the flesh and willing to take any and all cruel words you had sharpened for him. The two of you would fight, yes, but at least that meant there was still something there worth fighting for.

After the first three hours, he realized with a sinking stomach that the alternative might just be his reality. 

“I want to be forgiven.” 

He recalls the look on your face when you’d first seen him today. The fall of your act, the discarding of grace and composure.

The look that told him that he can want all he’s capable of. He can want, he can crave, he can yearn, he can tear himself apart bit by bit with his feeble yet shattering cravings — it won’t change a thing. 

You were never his to keep.

After the clock struck the fifth hour of his return, he started his calling.

Over and over and over, he was met with your voicemail. Endless messages spoken and sent alike. Every single one trying to be gentle as they inquired where you were. Letting you know he was back. Going as far as to ask you if the two of you could talk. 

He wanted to fight. He wanted to fight, because it meant you still saw something worthy within him.  

But even more than Eddie wanted a fight, he wanted you to come home. He wanted you to be there, to welcome him into your safety and remind him he was human again. It was selfish – he was so goddamn selfish – but he needed to feel your skin against his and remind him that he was still a person beneath it all. Beneath the demand, beneath the unwarranted adoration from strangers, beneath all the fractures the sudden traction had left him with – he was still a breathing, living person. He was still your person. 

Eddie’s fingers begin to slam against the keys with increasing urgency as his chest heaves out with every syllable. Repeating, and repeating, and repeating the chorus as if it changes a single thing. He loses himself in it all; in the music ringing in his ears and the memories now drowning him as he confesses all his sins to the microphone. 

You never came home. 

There was no fight, and after the hours reached double digits right along with his ignored phone calls, he had to accept the truth.

You weren’t just at a friend’s, or the store. You were gone. Truly, truly gone.

The drawers once filled with your belongings were vacant. The smell of your perfume was nothing more than a whisper across the pillows. Eddie scoured the entire apartment for signs of you, turning every single piece of furniture over looking for clues. He never thought to check the counter until he’d already ruined the space, terrorizing it in a frenzy before his eyes landed on the letter and the key.

He had approached them both hesitantly. All his denial drained from his body, like the blood pumping through his veins, as his fingers pinched that silver key so gingerly.

A past he can never return to. A home he will never hold the key to again. 

The joints of his fingers ache and his lungs begin to burn for all that he lost — all that they all lost — because of him. His  own foolishness, his own downfall. He did this. 

The aftermath is blurry.

He read the first few words of your letter before promptly crumbling it with his tortured fist, knowing exactly what it said without needing to fully swallow all the words just yet.

He never fully read the letter. He skimmed it, a week later, but not that night. 

Then came the flashes of the pain. The way he’d swung his fists at air and menial objects alike. A vase holding wilted carnations met its demise on the kitchen floor, a hole in the wall appeared that he later had to patch up, one of the coffee tables ended up across the living room with a leg splintered half off. 

He never dropped the key. 

Even as he dropped to his knees in the center of the broken glass, bleeding shins to match his bruising knuckles, he still held that small piece of silver fiercely. He pressed it so tightly, dug it so deeply into his palm that it later left a scar. And not even the way he had grabbed at the broken glass surrounding him had the capability to mar it away as he let it slice his skin, crying out, hopeless and devastated. 

You were gone. He had lost you, and he had been arrogant enough to never even notice it.

“You say it doesn’t matter.” 

The headphones had long since slipped off his head, and he makes no move to adjust them. He hadn’t even noticed that his body had begun to fall forward and curl into the piano until he’s weakly choking out the final lyric that he hadn’t even written down onto the page. 

He hadn’t noticed the tears falling, either.

What were meant to be gasps for air as his fingers fly across the keys in a haunting melody are only sobs. Cries of pain as he no longer can see mere inches ahead of him, a scar of the center of his palm stinging as if brand new, his heart and head pounding in sync. He isn’t even sure if the producer he’s forgotten the name of is still recording. He lets the sobs slip out as he continues to play. 

He can’t quite end the song yet. The moment he does, he’s terrified of the version of him that he will have to face once more. All those surface blemishes from the beginning of the end had run deeper beneath his skin. He was nothing more than rubble and fractures now, splintered every which way until he had become unrecognizable. When he looked in the mirror, all he could see was a creature of destruction.

“You set off whatever bomb erased her from our lives, but it left the rest of us with some damage, too. Don’t forget that,” Gareth’s voice echoes in the silence beginning to gather between the notes.

Another wrecked sob leaves Eddie as he finally finishes off the melody, playing entirely unaffected up until that point. Reality crashes down. His body shakes, shoulders hunched as his forehead connects against the freezing wood of the piano and he pinches his eyes shut tightly enough to be left in total blackness. 

He couldn’t play another note if his life depended upon it.

The memory fades with the final note before his head rattles with a new image. The smile, the grimace, you had offered him before you two parted ways today. An effort at professionalism that Eddie had seen right through. 

Pain. That’s what had twitched in the corners of your mouth. The same pain, if not worse, as the one that now radiated through every atom of Eddie’s broken figure on the piano bench. 

He can’t fix it. Not your pain, not Gareth’s pain, not his own pain. The time for damage control, for sincere apologies and any reconciliation has passed. Just like watered-down blood through his fingertips. 

Eddie hopes that the producer has had half the mind to stop the recording when he stands and slams the drumset behind him into the wall. Destructive, just as he had been the night he returned to an empty apartment. Just as he had been when he’d been the one to rot and wither away all that you two had once held between you. 

They can replace the drum set. Surely, he has a person for that. 

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[starcurtain]

I have this small, deeply personal headcanon that after his grandmother's passing, Alhaitham's home was so unbearably quiet that he started--just barely, just one or two words--to speak out loud to her as if she was still there.

"I've been accepted to the Akademiya, Grandmother."

"I passed my promotion exams."

"I debated with Haravatat's sage."

Just that, and quiet again.

But one day, it's: "I met someone strange."

"He keeps showing up when I'm trying to study."

"We don't agree on anything. Still..."

"I made a friend."

"Today, Kaveh and I were researching--"

"It's already dark. I didn't realize we spent so long in Razan Garden. Kaveh wanted to hear about my article--"

"He's going to be furious when I tell him the whole point for his portion of the lecture is based on a false predicate--"

The house where his grandmother used to be gets a little louder again; the noise lasts a little longer.

Until one day, when there's no words at all.

One day, when there's just the sound of a single sob, and then a long, long silence.

[treasureplcnet]

also quite obsessed with karl being as detached from the story as he is. there's nothing that makes him have to be the detective that has to be involved, but he unknowingly dooms himself by agreeing to work with the KYAL cult. every other detective basically deals with elias head on except weissman, who only meets him right before he kills him. like he's right when he says "by my choices" because everything that leads him to being mixed up with the mannix cult is himself. it's the gambling debts and the choice to do the dirty work for an organisation he knows nothing about. he's the only one that doesn't encounter that body doing police work and it's specifically because he's told to cover it up. he gets himself into the mess and eventually fixes it but the fact that esther always dies in the doomed timelines and he's always too late even if he starts wanting to change things ("till this child. esther.") it just makes me very ill