#definitely cathartic but motherfucker

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Alright I need a cap for a drawing ref for something silly with meruem which means I need to watch the scene where he slaughters an entire government building for the 3rd time in a month

[papermint-airplane]

WARNING: HUGE RANT AHEAD

As per the request from @nectar-cellar:

Oh boy prepare yourself for a foul-mouthed rant because I am MAD!!!! 😠😠😠😠 Not at you, NC. I love you. You can do no wrong in my eyes. 😘

No I am mad at this STUPID FUCKING SIM holy shit

OK FIRST OF ALL

He started life like THIS

What I can only describe as "Disney's Aladdin visits a dude ranch". Yes, I know I have used that exact outfit (minus the boots) for Roman before, shut up, you're not here to expose my hypocrisy, you're here to suffer with me because OH BOY DID I SUFFER.

Ok so he turned out like this. Not bad, you say? No. Bad. Very bad.

I SPENT TWO AND A HALF FUCKING HOURS ON THIS STUPID MOTHERFUCKER AND THERE'S STILL SOMETHING OFF ABOUT HIS FACE AND I CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHAT AND I PUT CONTOURING MAKEUP ON HIS FACE AND YOU CAN BARELY SEE IT BECAUSE FOR SOME REASON, THIS SKINTONE IS IMPOSSIBLE TO COLOR MATCH TONIGHT AND I DON'T KNOW WHY BECAUSE I'M USUALLY GREAT AT COLOR MATCHING FUCK THIS GUY

Yeah so I got him in Live Mode and there is just something about him that is pissing me right the fuck off and I don't know what it is. Is it the eyes? Are the eyes too big? Jaw too square? I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS AND IT'S PISSING ME OFF!!!!!!!!!! I really feel like the eyes are too big but I kept shrinking his eyes until he literally looked like this .👄. and it still didn't help.

I went in and out of CAS at least 7 times and I can't figure out what's off and I can't fix it and I HATE HIMMMMMMMMMM

"Who's made of pixels and sucks ass? This guy!"

"Don't you just love me?"

NO I WANT TO HIT YOU WITH A BUS

I know that making masc men is a challenge for me. This is not new information. It's been a problem for 20 years, it'll be a problem for 20 more. I know what I find attractive in a man, I just don't know what looks good on a Sim. Know what I mean? No? Stop being difficult, you know exactly what I mean.

I also tried using NC's new torso and oh boy that was an adventure because the torso is fire and his face is A FUCKING DISASTER. There is something about his head and his torso that are incongruous with each other and I don't. know. what. it. is. It's driving me crazy. No correction, it has DRIVEN me crazy, past tense. I am crazy now and this fucker is why!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

LOOK AT THIS PIECE OF SHIT WHY DOESN'T HIS HEAD FIT WHAT DID I DO WRONG

I even expanded my slider multiples so I could fine tune things thinking that would help but no I think it made everything worse ESPECIALLY MY MENTAL HEALTH

I hate him. I HAAAAAAAAATEEE HIIIIIIIIIM

So by now you're like "Laura there's nothing wrong with him, Laura you're taking this too seriously, Laura he's fine" and I know. I KNOW! I STILL HATE HIM

And you're god dang right I put that fucker on a pole. If I get community labeled because of this shit heap, I'm gonna lose my shitting mind.

Literally fuck you, I hate you so much. I didn't even give you a name. Do you know what your name is? "Stupid asshole who won't behave" that's what your name is.

I even threw Monica the Devil Girl in there hoping that would help. It didn't.

Know what the worst part is?

I enjoyed this. I mean yeah sure I hated the whole process and I hate the result and I hate this Sim and in a minute, I'm going to have an alien Sim land a meteor on top of his head, but there's something really cathartic about just unloading all of your vitriol on a Sim, you know? And it was definitely a challenge and definitely out of my comfort zone. I'll have to keep trying until I make a male Sim (other than Roman and Aiden) that I'm happy with.

This was a learning experience for sure.

Piece of shit.

[colonelpancakes]

Watching The Dragon Prince Season Six Part Eight: We All Fall Down. I made so many distressed noises while watching this episode that I actually hurt my throat

Under the cut as per usual.

Already, the shots of the people looking up at Sol Regem combined with the music is making me so fucking nervous is Katolis about to get destroyed??? Nothing better happen to Barius and Jellybug you hear me, they better make it out unscathed.

sakfdljskla it’s okay Soren, I heard “physical exercises” too. This is why I watch shows with subtitles.

OH MY FUCKING GOD THAT ESCALATED. SHIT.

That’s really bad, oh my god. Fuck.

Oh noo, honey… She had to leave her toy behind no…

Oh thank God, Soren and Opeli are somehow okay.

Guys, I appreciate the efforts, but I DON’T THINK ARROWS ARE GOING TO DO ANYTHING. Ballista? Maybe. Arrows? Definitely not.

OKAY CRAP IT GOT WORSE. They burned the bridge??? Man’s really just trying to kill as many people as possible, huh. That’s. Oh my god.

Oh crap.

OH FUCK! SOREN!

Okay, shit that’s a lot of blood um. Okay. That’s definitely a concussion. Hat’s okay, that’s good. Fuck. Soren you need to survive this episode, you hear me? You are not allowed to die.

Oh my god, the score here is. Oh my god. It really drives home the sense of fear and tragedy. The composers are fucking killing it.

SORENNNNN!!!! MY BOY!!! I LOVE HIM SO FUCKING MUCH OH MY GOD. I love the fact that he prioritizes citizen’s lives over the castle because 1) it’s absolutely what Ezran would want done in this situation and 2) it’s a direct contrast to season two where Soren causes MORE harm by insisting that a dragon be shot down but then 3) it’s a continuation of his character arc from that episode because after he realizes he made a mistake, he frees Corvus so that he can help evacuate the town. And then here, he’s making the call to stop shooting, sacrifice the castle, and focus entirely on evacuating the people. I love Soren so much, look at how much my boy has grown.

Is he going to get Viren out of the castle?

SOREN. SOREN, NO. NO SELF-SACRIFICING you hear me? NO. You are GOING to reunite with Opeli and you are GOING to be there to take care of Hat, Soren, I swear to god-

Oh, Hello motherfucker! I am about to reach through this screen and start biting you. Is that a fight I’m going to win? No. But it would be cathartic.

Oh, wow. Viren’s facial hair has really grown since the episode before last. I guess he doesn’t anything to shave with so that makes sense. Sure caught me off-guard though.

Oh? He’s asking VIren for help, I didn't expect that.

Oh! Soren you are so smart, I would not have thought of that, that’s a really good idea.

There’s a lot going on here, but also, ooh that’s interesting. I’ve always wondered how staffs were enhancing primal magic but then this answers it! They have primal stones embedded in them. Cool, I like that detail. Now back to heart-crushing drama.

Ohhhh Soren… I love Soren. The way he’s prioritizing people’s lives over EVERYTHING else, over any moral objections to dark magic, over the potential cost of any ingredient. Soren… You are so good.

Oh, god, what’s the ingredient for this one. It better not be another situation where you have to kill your child, if it is, I swear to god, Viren-

Oh. Oh shit. Ohhh noo, that’s um. Oh. Okay. Uh. Fuck.

SOFNREN! SONR NO. SOREN. NO. Not allowed, nope. Given all the emphasis on Viren’s value of his family this season I don’t. Think that he would sacrifice Soren. But. Honey. Darling, Sweetheart, no. I reiterate what I said earlier, Soren, you are NOT ALLOWED TO DIE.

VIREN DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE.

Viren. Viren where’s Soren. Viren.

Oh, shit, Viren stabbed himself didn’t he. Fuck.

Yeah… Yeah, he did. Shit. That is. Yeah, that is a lot of blood.

I'm out of images??? Already??? Oh my god. Uh. Continued in reblogs

[child-of-the-danube]

So this is truly it, huh? Just like that, no more Doom Patrol?

I don't think I can completely explain how I feel about the show as a whole and how much it means to me, but this final episode just left me empty for both good and bad reasons.

WARNING!!! SPOILERS INCOMING!! DO NOT READ FURTHER IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE EPISODE YET!

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The whole Immortus/Butts resolution felt like such a cop-out. Immortus just going "Nah, you know what, I'm fine. Here's your longevity. Oh, and I'm besties with the Butts now. Too-da-loo 🥰" after being presented as their biggest threat ever? Meh

It would have been more cathartic had they somehow defeated Immortus when she was occupied with the Butts and got the longevity thingy off her neck to then run home only to find Rita already dead with Laura frozen with shock/grief beside her. To have them think they managed one more victory but with their biggest loss yet. And for Rita and Laura, the moments before she died could have been used to have a proper conversation and resolution between them. I would have loved if the final scene between them (and with alive non-ghost Rita in general) would have been Laura bringing her the Immortus nail just for Rita to decline cause she's at peace with dying. Even a simple "You're forgiven" would have been enough. And what was the point of telling Laura she's part of the Doom Patrol now to go "Yeah, you should all go your own way now" five minutes after she kicked the bucket???

Vic's ending was expected. It was obvious from the start that he would make it. And I'm glad cause he deserves happiness and to build a future that HE feels is right for him finally.

I'm also delighted Jane (a.k.a just K now) got her happiness both within herself and with Casey. And she's the only one we saw on screen saying goodbye to at least one person properly. Her and Cliff's realtionship was one of my absolute favourite things about the show.

Seems I managed to guess Larry's ending almost exactly. It was so sweet and beautiful. He didn't just return to space with Keeg but Rama as well. Can't lie, I've shed some tears during that scene. And his moment with ghost Rita... 12/10 wouldn't change anything about it

Cliff's ending is my favourite and the one that got me bawling my eyes out. "It's ok. I made it home" Uhm, excuse me?????? How dare the writers break my heart like that???? I am unwell and will need 5-7 business days to recover from it. Poetic, beautiful, amazing, showstopping etc. I love Cliff so fucking much

Dorothy who? Guess she just fell off the Earth after Immortimas

Also, Shelley? Never heard of her. Try looking in the woods when it gets foggy maybe 🤷

I guessed Rita would definitely die too but her whole "Each of you will be better off on your own" turnaround just didn't sit right with me. She's the one that spent her life keeping this little, broken, miserable bunch of just the unluckies motherfuckers known to the world together and managed to create a family that loves and supports eachother to death and THIS is her conclusion?? That they should just disband? Nope, not buying it. I guess it's somehow a way of telling that now the one that held them together, the heart of the show if you will, is gone that it's all done but I feel like that's a an insult to the rest of them and to the strength of their bond. Yes, Rita's insistence brought them together at first, but they've grown and gotten close so much since then even without her interfering in their one-on-one relationships. It just doesn't feel right. I also knew we'd get a Malcolm reunion scene but am I the only one that doesn't really care about him? Tbh, we didn't get to know much about him beside the fact that he was Rita's lover that tragically died. I just can't care about a character I know nothing about. I guess have fun posthumously frolicking in a field, Rita and Malcolm 🤷

So Jane got Casey and her sanity, Larry got Keeg and Rama, Vic got his friends and students, Cliff got see his family, their future and die peacefully beside them, Rita got to reunite with the love of her life in eternity and Laura got to, uhm, *checks notes*, play with a flamethrower? Like, ok, I do dig that she got to destroy the place that ruined her whole life guns a-blazing but what exactly does she get to do later on? The ones who remained alive all got someone to share their new found joy with, a proper plan for the future, they're at peace. Laura didn't get to neither truly reconcile with Rita, nor the Sisterhood, and now the only people she felt close to either died or went their own way without a true goodbye. What, pray tell, does her future look like beside, once again, loneliness and grief???? I fucking hated her ending. Give us a Laura de Mille spin-off, you cowards. Make it right...

[rcubens]

☞ Wakeup Dead Man 🕑 DAY -2 — AUGUST 31st, WEDNESDAY ☏ @woodrowhub

Everyone got antsy around their birthday, getting older, inescapable change. Especially when it was a milestone birthday. Your first, entering the double digits, being able to buy cigarettes and lottery tickets— then alcohol. Then there was 30. It felt like the official end of adolescence, from eighteen to twenty-three, every year that ticked over was more and more definitive. He paid taxes and rent, bought his own groceries, and spent his disposable income on stupid things without fear of judgement. He was, for all intents and purposes, an adult.

Though, the looming number up ahead gave him pause. He still lived in the same apartment he did at twenty-three, he owned two sets of dishes— and bought paper plates every now and again when washing the dishes felt like an insurmountable challenge. He had one of each utensil, Chinese takeout at the back of his fridge from last Christmas, and didn’t own a dining room table. His only friends were his old college roommates who now sent him holiday cards of their wives and babies and sun soaked holidays. His last serious relationship was a three week stint in middle school, and he had been a junior lobbyist for five years where his last, and only, promotion had been from assistant to his current position. His only assets were his apartment, the contents of his safe deposit box (which held mostly sentimental things from his late father) and, maybe the house in Virginia, but he wasn’t really sure because no one ever called him about it.

It felt a bit like Groundhog Day. Except it wasn’t a day, it was a year. Maybe even five. Nothing's changed, he looked the same as he did ten years ago barring some new permanent under eye fixtures and a disc in his back that tweaked every now and again. Shouldn’t he have done something by now? Traveled Europe, ran a marathon, wrote a book? Maybe those ideas were slightly grandiose but the point still stands. Even a promotion would feel metamorphic. The three guys he started with had all already surpassed him, one of which even left to lobby for Wall Street— which in evil lobbyist speak was practically Valhalla. Sure, comparison was the thief of joy but jeez, would somebody throw him a bone? He did the fancy prep school thing, the great college, he even had the last name! That used to mean something! It got him this far, but it was like the ride had run out of time and he needed to put in another quarter.

Realistically, the only person to point the blame at was himself but, Reuben had never done so before and wasn’t about to start now. So he needed to find someone else to blame, not needlessly— that served no purpose. Someone with even a semblance of responsibility for his current sorry state of affairs would do. He contemplated on the bus ride home, white wired headphones playing Nine Inch Nails. His mother? No, too easy and unrealistic— Reuben loved her dearly. For everything he wasn’t, he was still her little star. Never made to feel any less as she held him close. Plus, as a man, hating your mother was untoward. He rifts around for keys in his pocket as he stood at the front door of his apartment. What about his father? He lived in his shadow all his life, then was swallowed by it after his death. He resents him for never teaching him how to drive, or for never seeing him graduate. The man never taught him how to tie a tie, or change a tire, or how to be the most charming motherfucker in a room and grease palms with the best of them. Those were the things he needed, the sort of advice you got from a patriarch on his back deck with a cigar and a whiskey. Instead, he got shipped eight hours upstate and fielded whispers in the hallways and insane conspiracy theorists who saw no qualms in approaching a child. Realistically, a therapist might tell him that having a chat with a gravestone in Macon, Georgia would be cathartic. Right now, he wanted a target.

A Budweiser is opened on the edge of the counter. It sends a metal bottle cap clinking across his kitchen floor. He shuffles around the apartment, a mix of anger and resentment simmers within him. There was only one other person he could channel this frustration towards. He’d spent so long silently resenting Richard, it felt almost a given. Everyone, nearly everyone, who came into Woodrow went through a phase like that. Though they eventually grew out of it, growth and accountability were things Reuben sorely lacked. He had never received an apt apology or restitution for what happened to him. Though his first couple of days at Woodrow were not the axiom of the issue, they certainly didn’t help. It was a pre-existing condition that was only stoked along at Woodrow. He never fit in, then the world he once knew ceased to exist and with the chance for tabula rasa, nothing changed. He was still fundamentally the same kid. Awkward, overlooked and forgotten. Though it may not be the axiom, it was a memory that hurt deep enough to cause tears to well. He allows himself the luxury of painful reminiscence so long as there is still beer in his bottle. Then he will compartmentalize and store those wretched memories in a shoebox in a closet of his mind. To be dusted off the next time he wishes to be reminded of his lonesome.

The next morning he is called in to his boss’ office. A not uncommon occurrence but, it catches him off Guard none the less.

“Sharpe, you can have a seat—” a heavy sigh of a man who’s out of options accompanies the request. “Thank you, sir.” “I need someone to meet with Imperial in New York and Watts is in London with BAT and Evans is off on vacation, I’d send quite literally anyone else, but there isn’t anyone else and you’re my last junior so…I guess you’re representing us in New York.”

Almost reluctantly, two boarding passes are slid across the mahogany. Reuben stares down at the offer in awe. He’d been away on business before but more so as a lackey. Never given the reigns. There are a few too many beats of silence in which his boss sorely regrets bringing up the whole ideal. He might just be better off having the meeting notes and documents faxed to the office.

“I’d be happy to, sir.” His hand lands atop the passes and shuffles them over to his side of the desk with some resistance. “Sharpe, these talks are important okay—” Not entirely true, but he’d tell Reuben these were nuclear armament talks if it meant assuring he’d actually get the job done. “I need you in there, representing us well,” “Have I ever failed to do that before?” “Do you want an honest answer?” “No, sir.” “Then I’d get out of my office and on the way to Reagan, your flight leaves in three hours.” “Yessir.”

With that, he headed home to pack a suitcase. It was as though the universe delivered him the opportunity on a silver platter. Comped travel, comped accommodation, no travel points— darn, and an excuse to visit Woodrow for once. He rarely if ever thought about returning unless explicitly asked. He was hardly ever asked. Just an occasional quarterly digest slipped into his mailbox of all the children they’d helped and how their work impacted the community. He wondered if he was supposed to be donating.

He took a cab, opting not to trust public transport on such a time-sensitive matter. The security line snaked, and he felt an immense level of scrutiny from the TSA guards before navigating to the business class lounge to not only look the part but feel it too. Stuffing mini muffins and bread rolls into his pockets for later. He wasn’t very fond of flying, it felt more akin to a game of chance than a practiced science. However, the attendants in their little blazers certainly eased tensions. LaGuardia is a mess of corridors, other disgruntled business passengers, and small children to trip over if not paying attention. Another taxi is written off as a travel expense, and he checks in at a Manhattan hotel he isn’t entirely sure the company could afford. It was growing more evident by the second that he wasn’t supposed to be the one on this trip.

There wasn’t even time to settle into the room before the start of the meeting. He just left his suitcase and headed back out with a messenger bag that had a pad of paper and maybe a pen if he was lucky. Despite the windows of the cab being rolled all the way up, it was as though the city’s volume was turned up to eleven. So many concurrent people, sounds and smells too. Even just standing on the corner felt like it drained him off all his energy. A tall glimmering office tower awaited him. Marble floors and packed elevators. He wondered how these people did it. Where they hid at the end of the day after passing about 10 000 people on the street. If being invisible in a city of seven million ever felt challenging. Though, he doubted the men in blocky charcoal grey suits and women in pencil skirts thought about things of that nature so intently.

The meeting was by all accounts boring. He sat in the far corner against the wall and listened to c-suites regurgitate information someone six floors down had spent months gathering then took another team a few weeks of rewording to sound strong and definite. He had gotten distracted by the view from the conference room windows. He looked north and wondered how far north he could see. Somewhere out there was his childhood home. As they moved onto upcoming legislation they heard was coming down the pipeline, Reuben had decided he would make the drive. Two and a half hours was manageable with a couple gas station stops for soda, Airheads and Jolly Ranchers. Then he’d drive back and see if Dante was on any fight cards, go to sleep and head back to D.C. the next morning.

Something like two hours later, though it felt like nine— they were finally set free. Coming up with an excuse to ditch the power luncheon and find a map with the location of a car rental place near enough to the edge of the island. There were some papers signed, license inspected and exchanging of a credit card before he was saddled with a new car for the next 24 hours. He white knuckles it out of the metro area, only relaxing slightly when it’s just him, the highway and a top 40 pop station. It is the second gas stop when the bends start growing increasingly familiar, and the friendly stop in starts to feel like an opportunity for the internal conflict he was dealing with yesterday to wage on. The things he could no longer vocalize to his birth parents had the opportunity to be heard and digested at Woodrow house, for better or for worse.

113568 is the code punched in at the gate not waiting for Beau to let him in. The conviction he had was a sort of now or never thing he wanted to take advantage of while it lasted. He parks and slams the car door with a ferocity he wasn’t even expecting himself to possess. As he pushes open the grand front doors, he is greeted by the entry hall and suddenly feels very small again. He stands in its vastness, chest rising and falling. There’s a faint sound of activity, which is both odd and comforting. He almost thought the place would freeze once they left. Preserved in a glass jar to be revisited when the embrace of childhood could be deemed comforting.

Without him telling them to, his feet take him to the sunroom first. There’s a smell of potted soil and leafy green in the air though it is empty. The early afternoon sun shone in making the air thick. It had at one time been one of his favourite room in the house though that memory can’t even prevail through the red mist. He’d try the library next, almost prolonging the inevitable. If he wasn’t in the sunroom, then he wouldn’t be reading in the library. He checks anyways, opening the door with a creak. It, too, had not changed. How was expected to be an adult here? He had always been a child within the confines of its walls. Like immaturity permeated the foundation and shot straight up through his legs.

Like lead, or if his shoes had been filled with cement— he begrudgingly drags himself up to the second floor. There’s an office door at the end of the hall that is ajar and whatever confidence he once had has disappeared like grains of sand through his fingers. His ears are already hot, but there’s a courtesy knock before he opens the door.

“Richard?” Hearing his name, Richard looks up from the catering contract he's reviewing for the upcoming gala. "Reuben?" His brows knit together in confusion, but a tentative smile tugs at his lips. "This is a surprise. You should have given us a heads-up. I'd have asked Mrs. Tristan to whip up something for you." He stands awkwardly in the doorway, hands dug deep in the pockets of his slacks. “There’s no need, I’m in the city for work. I can’t stay so, I just wanted to stop in for a minute,” “Then what brings you here, shouldn’t you be preoccupied with work?” Though his tone is light it’s the exact sort of thing the strike a very fragile part of Reuben’s ego. “I mean I would be if I did anything of value ever—” he starts with a shrug. “But I don’t, which is confusing because I should be. I should at least be more than a junior lobbyist. I don’t want to own the whole damn company, but I want to do something. Be somebody. I did everything you told me, I did Woodrow, I did the prep school with kids whose parents own small micronations. I did the good college. I did what you asked of all of us, so why isn’t it working? Why am I the only one out of all of us that’s going nowhere? Some of them are building rockets to fucking Mars or working with multi-millionaires, or running around on Broadway or writing the things that are turned into award-winning stage plays. Natalia is galavanting around Paris making a bigger impact on culture through a god damn magazine than half the politicians out there, Celia helps fucked up people in some deep genuine way, and Naomi is a fucking Michelin star chef in a restaurant I’ll never even get the chance to step into. Some of them are doing the hard, important, political jobs that don’t make the front page headlines, while Dante’s handing someone’s ass to them in front of a live audience for a purse that is more than some people will make in their entire lifetimes. They’re all out there doing fucking great, accomplishing things, and what about me? Where was my guidance? When were you gonna’ notice if I was a chess prodigy or head delegate or fucking, anything. Everybody’s got their thing and I don’t even have you, I never did. What did I have to do to get your attention? Has it worked— will it ever?”

Towards the end of his diatribe, his voice cracks and betrays him. He didn’t want to cry. It felt like such a silly thing to cry about but, with nothing concrete, these were the sorts of things that he felt his entirety being revolved around. “You forgot me, like I meant nothing. Just another name on a list. I don’t think I can ever forgive you fort that. I’m not sure I want to.”

There’s a long silence, where Reuben can her the blood rushing in his ears. Everything he was wearing felt too tight, his palms held pins and needles. The tears that once threatened now leak over his cheeks. He’s a kid masquerading in front of the dad he wished loved him. He wished he’d say something. Anything. It didn’t even have to be sorry. The sadness is quickly replaced with anger the longer the silence.

“Fuck it, it’s fine.” He mutters as he turns to leave. “Reuben- I—” “What, you what?” He turns back for one final acknowledgment but still, nothing could be produced. With that, he left. Determined to never see Woodrow again. It was cathartic in a way. Validating. All this hurt he held inside, it wasn’t for nothing. Richard didn’t care. He couldn’t acknowledge the things he had done, let alone Reuben’s feelings surrounding them. The distinction between him and them had been clear. He was a tether cord trailing behind. His hands curled into tight fists and unfurled repeatedly. He willed himself not to hit anything in the house, leave a mark that he’d even lived in it at all.

He steps out into the courtyard and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It had took so much conviction to get here, to confront Richard. Only for the world to keep spinning, the birds chirping, the smell of fresh cut grass on the air. He had ultimately changed nothing. If he was a little less sane, or maybe more, he’d laugh. Double over with laughter. Because it was honestly hilarious to think he’d walk out of there feeling anything different.

Turning the engine over he turns in the driveway and starts back towards the highway. There’s no radio this time, opting for the sound of a wind flitting past his open windows. There’s an overwhelming feeling as though he’s made a mistake. A tightness in his chest that flows down to the rest of his body. As much as he wanted to sever ties, they were all he had. It was better to exist on the outside of something than be a part of nothing. Almost instinctively, he breaks into sobs. Loud, uncontrollable, childlike, can’t see the road sobs. He slows to a halt in the deserted shoulder. Blond curls fall over the steering wheel as he puts his forehead to the leather. He had to go back and apologize and, say it was all just one big misunderstanding. He needed them more than they needed him and for right now that was okay, for he was nothing without his neediness. He dries his eyes with the arm of his suit jacket and pulls a U-turn. He had not got more than 45 minutes down the road.

He could accept not being a favourite. He could maybe learn to love the hands-off-ness of their relationship. Perhaps if Richard was too involved it would’ve of been more detrimental than beneficial. Maybe he’d still be living here, without a job. Coddled by the comfort Woodrow afforded. He’s prepared to say I’m sorry, and thank you and I love you and I tried my best and you did too. He reaches the second floor landing and the door is exactly how he left it, wide open. A clear look directly into Richard’s office.

Except it wasn’t Richard. It wasn’t his office. It wasn’t even Woodrow. It was Virginia in 1989. Photos littered the walls— his dad’s naval tours, his mother with Mary-Beth and Adelia. Summer nights, holiday parties, the pair before he entered the picture. He walks slowly, as though approaching a mirage. Like if he moved too quickly the reality of the situation would appear to him. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He could do the right thing for once. He couldn’t lose two people the exact same way. Time felt like a flat circle. He was in the past and present simultaneously. A gentle hand turns the slack face before him in his direction. He screams for Mrs. Tristan.

There’s a rush of people, EMTs, staff, and Reuben. He knows this feeling all to well. The sort of hollowness. The guilt could eat him whole. It had started in the soles of his feet. He follows behind the ambulance in the rented car. No radio, no wind. He turned left, while they turned right. He drove far and fast and hit Manhattan by the early evening. The allure of the hotel was gone. The sleek and luxe had turned into soulless and cold. He crawls onto the mattress and curls up to make himself small.

[bromcommie]

🤩🎯

Hi, thanks for the ask! :) 🤩 What led to your interest in the fandom?

Oof, boy. So, I mean, I was a geeky little kid and grew up loving the Spiderman and X-Men comics, so my interest kind of naturally progressed with the MCU boom of 2009 or whatever. As for Cap, I have to admit I didn't like him all that much at first - I'd only seen him in The Avengers and I think like many other people I kind of just viewed him as The Square Old American Imperialist Guy (thanks, Joss Whedon😒). It was only after seeing CATWS and retroactively CATFA that the floodgates opened. The interest was kind of on and off for a while, but it definitely spiked with time and I got into the Cap, WS, Black Widow and some other comics as well after that.

Idk when exactly I got into Stucky, because I distinctly remember having a phase of "why can't guys just be really really really good friends???" (I know, I know.) but between then and CA: CW I definitely fell in love with both characters and a) kind of went through my own awakening lol, b) started rapidly developing an unrelated but helpful interest in early and mid-20th century history and c) watching a shit ton of Cap edits on YouTube because I've always liked vidding. I eventually started making some of my own vids and fanart when my brain just woke up one morning and clicked into "oh shit. oh, not only is the premise of this story compelling on several levels, but these motherfuckers are in love in love" mode, and inevitably that also led to me starting to read fanfiction.

And that was just...a fucking revelation and a half. Because suddenly here were all these people writing heartfelt, compelling stories—sometimes heavy as shit, sometimes downright hilarious and sometimes just publishing quality—about everything ranging from grief and guilt and trauma to bodily autonomy and disability and queerness and self-worth to relationships with faith and nationality and community and intersectional identity to beliefs and morality and perseverance to violence and war and systems of oppression to different kinds of love and devotion etc etc etc I could go on literally forever. All set to a sprawling love story, all in a historical context I was interested in, all with about a million different perspectives you would never actually get to see on screen or on the page. I also fell in with a bunch of very passionate, nerdy queer people in college after, all of whom loved comics characters and shared these interests and had a lot to say on the overlap of the two, and well. I never really stood a chance, after that.

I guess ultimately what really drew me to it was the potential of taking material that was (I'm sorry, but let's be real) sometimes painfully mediocre-to-plain bad but with a great premise, and then projecting and exploring some really interesting and grounded and even vulnerable topics through the very fun sandbox that the more fantastical, epic aspects of these stories present—often in a subverted way and with mouthpieces (read: Stereotypical Empowered Bulky Macho Men) that you don't get to see in that light in mainstream media. And the Cap fandom really had (and has to this day!) an abundance of talented, curious people throwing themselves into that wholeheartedly and with such wonderful passion and creativity and care. So engaging with that as a hobby can be really lovely and inspiring and cathartic. And sometimes it's just plain lighthearted fun! I think the older I get the more I can really appreciate that.

Also, not to be super sappy or make it sound more serious than it is, but stories about goddamn superheroes overcoming painful, fucked up real life situations and aspiring to do and be better were a great comfort to nerdy Little Me, and so was getting to talk to people about the things I saw in them that meant something to me. I think Steve's character and origin—and the perspectives on it I got from other people—were just a big deal to my baby teenage brain during a time when I was starting to develop a real life social and political awareness and a sense of all the ways in which the things we do and say and how we stand up for each other matter. And as a grown-ass adult today, I still cherish that. And I cherish that even though I've matured and evolved and so have my other interests, I still got to come on here in the year of our lord 2024 when this particular hyperfixation suddenly came out of its long winter slumber and indulge in a comforting, creative hobby and stretch my writing muscles, and that I still got to find people to play in that sandbox with in a way that is extremely satisfying.

So there you go, and I'm so sorry. I have a lot of thoughts and feelings on this. Make of that rambling essay what you will.

🎯 Do you have a writing milestone you’re working towards?

In terms of fandom works, I really don't. I started writing fic just as a fun hobby for myself, and I never really thought of it in terms of goals like I do the original work I try to write, just because I think that'd probably take some of the fun out of it. I'm in a bit of a rut at the moment though, so I'd really like to be able to break out of it soon and post the next few chapters of orpheus I've been trying to work on, if that counts!

[capnhanbers]

Motherfucker on a bitch im coming here freshly finsihed from joat, which was the most amazing story I have ever read. From the characterisation to the plot and the world building, this fic had been living in my mind rent free for the past months.

Your writing style matches perfectly with the story you're telling and the reading flow is amazing and effortless. This feels like magic.

I could write endless praise but what I really want to mention before I change my mind is how much this story has changed and helped me in the few months it took me to read it. Reading through nayas journey felt cathartic (is that's the right word) and made me face the shit I experienced in life. It convinced me that yeah, I definitely want to pick up teaching, even with my bad experiences. I've applied to work as an assistant for a few months, and I'm so glad I did. This is the right path for me, thank you for giving me the final push.

My view of relationships changed for the better, for a healthier view. Thank you.

This story will forever be in my heart and remind me to stay determined and achieve my goals.

I am very sorry for this word dump but if I don't get this out I will explode lmao

(Also I definitely feel you with the baldurs gate brainrot. Same boat)

this has been sitting in my box for a minute and oh my goodness. like.......what an unimaginable honor. thank you for the praise but most of all just thank you for telling me the positive changes you're making in your own life, facilitating real life happiness is. that's the dream baby. seriously thank u

[pastrydragon]

Disney villains reacting to a sensitive s/o who is tired of being good and now wants revenge and to go ape shit, if you want.

Just got back from camping and the power of nature(and marshmallows) has revitalized me.

This is the hottest thing they have ever seen and they are DOWN BAD "Wow you're sexy when you're angry- Which is secondary to you being upset, of course, please stop looking at me like that.": Hades, Ursula, Chernabog, Clayton, Alameda Slim, and Shere Khan.

They had a banner that says Welcome To Villainy! ready to go, an empty photo album titled S/O's Evil Plans, and a written list of people S/O hates and why. They have prepared for this day with the care and joy most people would put into their weddings. "Too much? I knew it was too much when I put it together but I'm so exited!": Professor Ratigan, DORIS, Jafar, King Candy, Scar, and Zira.

An appropriate amount of exited and horny. They're happy S/O decided to stand up for themselves and that they get to do villain stuff together. "This is gonna be a lot of fun! Mostly cathartic, but also really fun!": Dr. Facilier, Yzma, Cruella, Hook, Gothel, Rourke, Maleficent and Grimhilde.

They're supportive of whatever makes their S/O happy. But mostly they want permission to go fucking feral on that one guy. You know, that guy. Yeah that guy is a dead motherfucker, no mercy, no forgiveness. "I'm gonna get us matching t-shirts for when we take a selfie with his grave. Nothing incriminating but definitely a pun based on the murder method.": Shan Yu, Headless Horseman, Mim, Oogie Boogie and Tamatoa.

They mean this in the most respectful and loving way possible, but they would like to destroy S/O's enemies for them instead. S/O shouldn't put themselves in danger or get in trouble because other people didn't know how to behave, and imagining killing someone is very different from actually doing it. This way S/O may go to bed tonight upset, but they'll wake up with no problems in the morning. It'll be like nothing upset S/O so badly in the first place, right? "I know you can do it yourself, but you shouldn't have to. You shouldn't have to change just because they're trash.": Horned King

They don't think S/O means it, they're so squishy. S/O is just especially upset today, they'll calm down and then take it all back. Obviously. "Have you eaten today? Oh I just want to know how much I should order, I really just want you to feel better.": AUTO and Helga.

"... It's not worth it.": Randall and Ernesto De Le Cruz.

[brainrotdotorg]

Jean and Harry for the shipping bingo (I don’t know the ship name lol)

Lol I think it’s just jeanharry! And good LORD these fucking guys. Yeah this is definitely a type of ship I’ve opened myself up to only recently which is that. They would be BAD for each other but it’s amazing to see. These motherfuckers are like creatures that are homoerotically licking the blood off of each other. I think they should get in a fistfight then fuck about it. In a romantic actual relationships sense I don’t think it can work but in a venty and cathartic hatefuck sense?? They were made for each other tbh

[mixsethaddams]

Another tag game

Thanks to @freddykicksasses for tagging me. Same as the last one, I’m not sure who has or hasn’t done it at this stage, so to avoid me tagging people who have already taken part, consider this an open tag to anyone who wants to get involved!

What I usually wear:

Pyjamas, mostly. I work from home so I don’t often actually get dressed. When I do go out, I most often wear a long black dress with some boots. I have a big soft spot for 90s grunge fashion and romantic goths, so I think my personal style is a mish mash of those. 

How tall I am:

5 foot 3 and a half babyyyyyy

My star sign. Do I know any celebrities or historical event that shares it:

I’m a March pisces, so you know, god help us all. I think Matthew Gray Gubler has the same birthday as me?

Do I go by a name or nickname:

I go by Seth online in settings like tumblr, discord, etc, where I have a more anon vibe. If someone wanted to try, they could probably string together a link between my tiktok and my tumblr, but other than that I keep my real name out of spaces where I don’t show my face. I prefer to be unhinged anonymously. 

Did I grow up to be what I wanted to be as a child:

I found an old school workbook when I moved out of my family home a few years back and there was an essay in there that I wrote when I was 7, all about wanting to be a Model slash Vet slash Millionaire when I grew up. Dear reader, I am none of those things.

Something I'm good at vs Something I'm bad at:

I’m a good cook! I can follow a recipe like a motherfucker and I’ve got enough of a foundation that I can mess around with flavours successfully. My husband isn’t vegan like I am, so I had to put a lot of focus into learning how to use my sense of smell more than anything when I cook for him too. It’s fun.

I’m terrible at doing anything in half-measures. If there’s a small, medium, and large drink option, I’ll get the large. I’ll only get the most expensive and biggest thing I can, at any time. If I can’t, I’ll be sad about it. I’ll force myself to finish a full plate even if I’m stuffed. I’m very all or nothing and it definitely comes with it’s own challenges. Especially with money, because I’m not well-off by any stretch of the imagination. I read once that growing up in a poorer situation can lead to not knowing how to manage money as an adult and boy howdy, am I a great example of that. 

If I draw or write, what's my favourite of anything I created this year?

2022 I’m guessing? I’m proud of how crushcrushcrush is turning out, despite everything. I’ve always struggling to write so much dialogue and I’m happy with how I’ve done it in this fic I think. When He Loved Me was a very cathartic thing to write for me as well. I spent a lot of time really thinking through how that mental state can manifest itself and how it can present in certain situations. Honestly though just for the sheer fun factor, I’d have to say Eddie/Hotdude Official Megathread! is my number one. 

I’m trying to work on an original story this new year so hopefully I end up being proud of that too. 

Dogs or cats:

I have three dogs and six cats so I think I have to remain neutral here.

Something I would like to make content for:

Myself! I spent years and years writing what I thought other people wanted to read and it only led to me not writing anything for a very long time. I’ve been using fanfiction to reignite my spark and so far so good!

Something I was excited about that turned out to dissappoint me:

Panic! At The Discos last two albums. They were my absolute favourites right since AFYCSO but I just couldn’t fall in love with Pray For The Wicked or Viva Las Vengeance. 

Hidden talent:

I have double joined toes and can move them like fingers. I used to be able to roll my tongue into two rolls but then I got a load of tongue piercings and can’t do it anymore

[absolutewriting-rubbish]

I can't find my cat so instead I cried for a solid 15 minutes, took a break, and started crying again

[gallusrostromegalus]

everyone's fight/flight/freeze/fawn/f???/etc instinct?

Yugi: Freeze. Used to be flight but he learned that just makes people chase him.

Yami: Freeze. Used to be Fight but Mahad and the other advisors trained him the FUCK out of that because that instinct starts wars and WE JUST FINISHED HAVING LIKE 12 OF THOSE, PLEASE-

Joey: Fawn. Joey desperately wants everyone to get along, and unfortunately, that fawning reflex saved his ass a whole bunch with his drunk and belligerent father.

Tristan: Fight. It's more tempered than Tea's instinct, but his first instinct is to get riled and oppose this bullshit.

Tea: FIGHT. She'll throw a bitch through a window without thinking about it.

Seto: FIGHT. Possibly even worse than Tea's fight instincts, but his preferred weapon is emotional abuse.

Mokuba: Flight. Learned real fast the best way to avoid problems was to not be there when they were happening.

Odion: Fawn. Like, if you look up the textbook definition of 'Fawning Reflex" You'll find Odion's picture and Case Study.

Ishizu: FIGHT. it used to be flight but as she got older, she bulked up and discovered the cathartic joy of showing a motherfucker what.

Marik: Freeze. He talks a big game, but he locks up when genuinely frightened.

Bakura: Flight. Sometimes it's a race to see if Tea throws a bitch out a window or if Bakura jumps out of it first:

TK: Fuck. Danger makes him horny and being irrationall magnaimous and at ease and flirty has actually defused so many situations he's not wrong to be like this.

[ticketstomydaydreams]

5:3666

(All We Have: Part Two)

Part One

Colson x Female Reader

Summary: You and Colson fall into a night time studio routine when he starts keeping you company through your insomnia and you decide to work though some past demons

Word count: 3,200 (ish, I lost count editing)

Feels: Fluff with a dash of past trauma

Warnings: Drug & alcohol consumption, domestic violence, cursing, Colson being so sweet it almost makes your teeth hurt

Companion playlist:

Machine Gun Kelly - 5:3666

Warren Zevon - I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

The Vamps - All Night

Halsey - You Should Be Sad

A/N: If you've been affected by anything in this story, please know you're not alone. My inbox is always open and I'm all ears 🖤

______

During the first couple of weeks of moving in, you’d been partying A LOT. The guys wanted to show you just how mad it got, breaking you into their chaotic household, blending the days together. Everyone was hyper and the house was buzzing with energy. You'd been so exhausted from all of it that you'd been all but passing out each night, but you couldn’t lie, it was great fun.

You’d tried to pass on a few nights but Colson would never hear of it, often forcing you out of your room to get involved as the house was filled with people, jam sessions taking place in between drinking games. It was a far cry from your usual homelife, your last housemate mainly kept to themselves so your place was normally pretty chilled. Colson had used your place as a quiet escape over the years, but it seemed you wouldn’t have the same set up extended to you here with this lot.

With the pandemic unfolding, the house had started getting quieter, less people in and out every night and everyone was settling into a lazier way of life. The gang were mooching around the house throughout the day and while the house was still lively at night, it wasn’t quite the party central you’d almost started getting used to. Your normal working routine went out the window as everyone had started working from home mainly and without your daily routine, followed by nights out partying, your insomnia was back with full force.

______

You were lying in your bed, trying to force sleep on yourself but after trying to nod off for a couple of hours, you accepted defeat and got back up. Throwing some sweats on and one of Colson’s huge hoodies (you’d been slowly sneaking them out of his closet, finding that the masses of material drowning your small frame were super comforting), you headed down to the kitchen, turned the stove on and filled the kettle up. You were scrolling through your phone when you heard footsteps on the tiled floor. Colson strolled into the kitchen looking disheveled in a white tank top and boxer shorts, hair ruffled and looking sleepy

“Dude, it’s 3am how come you’re up?”

“Couldn’t sleep, living that oh so fun insomnia life again” you sighed “Did I wake you?”

“Nah, I was already awake. Couldn’t sleep either and heard someone moving about so thought I’d come down” He replied, climbing onto one of the breakfast stools

“Yeah, I think it’s not having much of a routine. Hate lying in bed staring at the ceiling so just got up. You want a cup?” you offered, pointing to the chamomile tea you were brewing

“Sure, thanks” he says, taking the steaming mug from you

You sit down at the breakfast bar with him and start chatting, scrolling through instagram as you do. After about an hour, as you’re talking about an article you’re reading, you notice Colson doesn’t respond and you look to your right and see he’s fallen asleep, leaning on his hand, his mouth slightly ajar.

“Hey, sleeping beauty” you whisper, rubbing his back with your hand “Go to bed”

He slightly jolts at your touch, opening his eyes “Nah man, I’m keeping you company”

“Some company” you laugh softly “pretty sure you just slept through all my rambling there”

He leans against your shoulder, closing his eyes again “Hey, at least you’re not sitting here alone. That’s something right?”

“That’s true” you smile, leaning your head against his “You’re very appreciated, do you know that”

You gently push him upright and stand up “Come on, let’s go to bed. I’m pretty tired myself, so you’ve definitely helped”

He’s laid his head down on his arm on the counter, his breathing getting heavy immediately so you pull his other hand making him stand up. He stands up and puts his arm around your shoulder as you walk towards the stairs, your legs feeling heavy as you climb each step, carrying some of Colson’s weight as he sleepily walks with you

Once you’re standing outside your bedroom doors, he pulls you in for a hug

“Night kid, don’t be wandering around bored if you can’t sleep yeah? Just come get me. Nothing worse than sitting up alone at night…”

“Will do. Thanks Col” You squeeze him a bit tighter as he kisses the top of your head

“Night” you smile, as he let’s you go and turns and heads into his room, waving his hand up behind him

Undressing and crawling into bed, your eyes feel heavy as your head hits the pillow. Colson was right, insomnia was a much less lonely experience with a friend.

______

Of course, as is always the way after your sleepless nights, you sleep in super late the following day meaning the cycle continues and you find yourself wide awake as the witching hour approaches. Feeling restless in your bedroom, you get up, and decide to head downstairs and out into the studio because you figure you might as well put this time to good use. You settle into a chair with your acoustic guitar and started playing, stopping and starting as you figure out a melody, working your latest lyrics in with it

“I wanna start this out and say, I gotta get it off my chest. Got no anger, got no malice…”

“I thought I told you to come get me if you couldn’t sleep”

You almost drop your guitar as you hear Colson’s voice behind you, “Jesus, how are you such an enormous human but you still manage to creep up on me all the time?”

“Just a stealthy motherfucker I guess” He laughs, flopping into the chair next to you

“Whatcha working on? That sounded sweet, keep playing…”

Colson knows you sometimes get a bit self-conscious with people watching you sing, so he lights his joint, rests his head on his hand and closes his eyes. You smile as you see what he's doing, thankful he always understands what you're like.

You turn back to your notepad, reading over your lyric outline quickly before repositioning the guitar in your lap and resetting the metronome

___

‘I wanna start this out and say, I gotta get it off my chest

Got no anger, got no malice, Just a little bit of regret

No, nobody else will tell you, so there's some things I gotta say

Gonna jot it down and then get it out and then I'll be on my way

No, you're not half the man you think that you are

And you can't fill the hole inside of you with money, drugs, and cars

I'm so glad I never ever had a baby with you

'Cause you can't love nothing unless there's something in it for you

Oh, I feel so sorry, I feel so sad

I tried to help you, it just made you mad

And I had no warning about who you are

I'm just glad I made it out without breaking down

And then ran so fuckin' far, that you would never ever touch me again

Won't see your alligator tears

'Cause, no, I've had enough of them’

___

“Man, that was beautiful Y/N. I got some chills right there…You just wrote that?”

“Nah, it’s something I dug up from ‘back then’. Been going through some old lyrics and samples while we’ve got all this time on our hands. It’s kinda cathartic to go over some of that stuff now there’s a bit more distance you know”

______

A couple of years ago, you’d been stuck in a really toxic relationship with your ex, Stevie. Your time with him had been a tornado of arguments, drugs and the constant heartache of him cheating on you. Every time you’d get close to having the strength to leave, you’d always cave in and the mess would continue with you losing a bit of yourself each time you stayed. You’d become pretty used to his violent outbursts, he had always been controlling and short tempered, often pushing you and throwing stuff around your apartment. Despite his own frequent infidelity, he flew into a jealous rage with you constantly.

He’d always hated Colson, despite him being one of your best friends, and while he’d play nice to his face you’d always get it in the neck once you were alone about how you and Colson were ‘too close’ and he ‘didn’t trust him’. Before that final night you’d spent with him, things had been pretty good with the two of you for a few weeks, there hadn’t been much drama and so you hadn’t thought too much of inviting him out with you and the gang for a night out clubbing. Your good run had clearly come to an end, when you felt his hand grab your arm tightly and drag you off the dancefloor where you’d been dancing with Colson. You’d been bundled into an uber so quickly, you hadn’t even managed to get your handbag from inside. You saw Colson running out of the club, followed by Rook and Slim who was holding your bag, as the cab pulled away.

Once you were back at the apartment, he flew into a rage. You’d never seen him this bad before, his eyes were dark and when you tried to argue back, calling his jealousy ‘pathetic’ he snapped. He’d grabbed you by the throat and slammed you against the wall, “Don’t you ever disrespect me like that again” he’d spat in your face, before striking you so hard with his fist that the skin across your cheek split open. It was as if his actions had knocked him back to reality, he’d let go of you and you ran to your bedroom, locked the door behind you and started packing a bag. He hammered on the door, begging you to open it and you could hear that he was crying. You looked around for your phone before you remembered you’d left it at the club. Desperate to get away, you opened your laptop and brought up instagram, managing to send Colson a message asking him to send you an uber to his house straight away. You’d thrown your laptop and a few more bits in your bag, the battery dying before you had a chance to wait for a reply, before pulling the bedroom door open and barging past Stevie. He’d tried to grab you, but you’d finally had enough “Never fucking touch me again” you spat, pushing him off you. The hatred in your voice rooted him to the spot and he said nothing as you walked out, the door slamming behind you.

Once you were outside the apartment building, the reality of what had just happened and the situation you were in started to wash over you. You had no phone, no wallet, your laptop was dead. Just as you were starting to seriously panic, an uber pulled up and Colson had leapt out of the backseat. You’d been in total shock and had just let Colson guide you into the cab and then out into his house, up to his room. He didn’t say anything as he led you to his bathroom and lifted you up onto the counter. He grabbed a flannel and soaked it with warm water, rinsing it out before pressing it softly against the cut on your cheek, gently wiping away the blood that had mixed with your mascara laced tears. The tenderness of his actions was almost too much and you started to sob again.

“Hey, hey. Y/N, look at me” he said softly, lifting your chin so you looked at him, his blue eyes misty themselves “It’s okay, you’re safe here. Don’t move, I’ll be back in a sec”

He left the bathroom and returned with a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. Putting them on the counter next to you, he crouched down and undid the straps on your heels, slipping them off your feet and then helping you down from the counter. “I’ll leave you to change”

When you came out of the bathroom, Colson was lying in his bed “Come here” he said, holding his arm and beckoning into his side. You crawled under the covers next to him and snuggled into him, his long arms wrapping around you.

“Col…” you said quietly

“Yeah?” he whispered back, stroking your hair off your forehead

“Thank you…”

“You don’t need to thank me. I’ve always got you Y/N”

______

“I hated that fucking guy. That night...I wanted to kill him after what he’d done to you”

You see him tense up at the memory and you lean over and squeeze his knee “You’re such an amazing friend, do you know that. I don’t know what I would’ve done that night without you”

"You're a fucking warrior Y/N, you'd have handled your shit. I was just happy you trusted me enough to let me be there for you. You deserve so much better than that" he says, covering the hand you'd placed on his knee with his, staring you in the eyes and returning the smile that's crept across your face

"You know there's been a few punches I've wanted to dole out on behalf of you over the years, but you've never let me" you tell him

"Too right I'd never let you. I never want you in the drama, you're too good for getting caught up in that shit" he replies, pointing at you with mock sternness

"Hey" he says, seeing your expression wash over with a tint of sadness "At least the sleepless nights aren't what they were then…

… If we're gonna work through some old demons this lockdown, I'm sure I've got some songs and lyrics that have never seen the light of day" He reaches over the desk and pulls his laptop towards him "You've inspired me… "

"Oh no, are we gonna fuck our heads up with this?" you joke nervously, worrying that Colson's going to delve into something that's going to upset him

"Nah, I got you covered and you got me, right?"

"True dat" you say, as he holds his fist out so you can fistbump, his eyes now focused on his laptop screen

______

You felt kinda bad, having kept Colson up all night with you the last two nights, especially as you'd got him reminiscing about some tough memories, so tonight you tried to sneak past his room when your restlessness got the better of you.

"Nice try kid!" Colson says as he throws his bedroom door open, causing you to yelp in fright. standing there topless with his sweatpants hung low in his hips, he lights the joint hanging from his mouth "I told you we were in this together now"

"I felt bad, making you stay up with me"

"You didn't make me do shit…Wait a sec, let me find a hoodie. If I have any left in here…" he says, giving a pointed look towards the huge blue hoodie you were wrapped in before walking back into his room and rummaging through his drawers

"Oh shush, you have like a hundred…"

"Right come on" he says, pulling a pink hoodie over his head and flipping the hood up over his messy hair "Let's see what we get into tonight…"

______

And so the nights went on like this, the two of you falling into an easygoing studio routine. If there wasn't anything else going on in the house, you'd eat dinner together then head to the studio and work through the night into the small hours, skipping out the pretense of trying to sleep. You were both pretty productive at this time it seemed, both being proclaimed night owls, and keeping busy during these uncertain times was keeping your minds off the unfolding pandemic.

Considering he’d referred to his home studio in the past as the ‘rage cage’ (and it certainly could still be party central when the entire crew got involved), it was actually a place you drifted towards to relax these days. You’d always worked well together in a studio, but over the weeks spending so much time just the two of you, you became more in tune with each other, noticing when one of you had hit a wall and it was time for bed. Sometimes you'd work in comfortable silence, side by side, engrossed in your own seperate tasks. Sometimes barely any work would get done as you put the world to rights talking about anything and everything in a late night impromptu therapy session.

This evening, you'd been sitting cross legged in your chair for hours now, focusing so hard on editing a song which was driving you mad, you hadn't realised your feet had gone numb. As you try to move, your knees crack and pins and needles shoot through your legs. Colson looks up from the screen he'd been engrossed in after hearing you groan and sees you rubbing your feet trying to bring back the feeling to them

‘C’mere’ he said, before turning his chair towards you and leaning down to grab your legs, bringing your feet up onto his lap. He pulls your socks off and begins massaging your feet. You lean your head back, eyes closed and let out a long ‘hmmm’. You don’t see Colson glancing over at you and shifting in his seat as he lets out slow breath before turning back to his screen

“Now this is the kind of work session I could get used to”, you sighed "You being my studio bitch on hand for foot rubs. Although, I imagine this enjoyment goes both ways Mr Foot Lover” you tease, throwing him an exaggerated wink

Colson throws his head back with a hearty chuckle, and light heartedly slaps your calf

"Keep it in your pants Y/N"

You laugh and wiggle your toes, Colson letting out a dramatic, throaty groan in response. "Those are some sexy little toes though" he states, sticking his tongue out.

Still laughing, you put your hand to your chest, and gasp as you feign prudishness and try to pull your feet away. He grabs both your feet in one of his hands, keeping them in place then leans over the desk and pulls your laptop towards you

"Get on with some work you, this is supposed to be keeping you motivated, not distracted"

He scolds affectionately, with a smile on his face

“Okay, okay, spoilsport” you grumble as you pull your computer onto your lap

Half an hour passes, your legs still on Colson’s lap with him still massaging your feet absentmindedly with one hand while he works, and your eyes begin to feel heavy. You don’t realise you’ve fallen asleep, until you’re awoken by a “woah” from Colson as he catches your laptop which is about to fall. Taking it from your lap, he states “Right, time for bed you”

You check your phone and see it’s already 5:36am.

You stand up and stretch then walk over behind Colson, putting your arms around his shoulders, and resting your chin on his head. Looking at his screen, you yawn “You got much left to do?”

He leans back into you, bringing his hand up to rest on your arm, “Making some good progress so just gonna finish a couple of bits”

“Okay dude” you gently kiss the top of his head and squeeze the back of his neck a couple of times as you turn to leave “Try and get some rest, we’ve got a long day of sweet fuck all to do tomorrow” you say through another big yawn

“Heh yeah, Night Kid” he says softly, letting out a yawn himself. Colson turns and watches you head out of the studio and lets out a big sigh. Feeling the back of his neck still tingle from where you’d squeezed it, he’s suddenly aware of how empty the room feels without you in it....

______

Taglist: @triplexdoublex @thisshitisfuckingdifficult @brightblaqkkheaven

Lace Up! ❌❌

[1ddiscourseoftheday]

Fri 28 May ‘21

Zayn’s rap EP??? Dropped yesterday???!? “Breaking my silence” says Zayn on Yellow Metal- Cathartic (Zayn is Yellow Metal here) and he DOES in 24 minutes of political, personal, complex and lyrically dense rap zoems! It was leaked/dropped whatever you wanna call it by being posted to Z’s cousin’s account (like the cover the other day); but clearly Zayn is behind these drops and that’s what matters, he is releasing this stuff in a way that will get to the fans but not inspire the media uproar (or contract issues) that posting to his own accounts would. As he says “don’t say I can’t communicate, you know I conversate with you in several different ways”, plus “I’ve had enough of being my own enemy, come a long way since 17, I have a few things to say when I get up on a microphone, I didn’t give up on fame I need this time like therapy it’s just to keep me sane… and to be honest it’s offensive, offensive to my still open wounds, trying to ask me questions they know they don’t have I ever replied, I prefer to sit down be online and respond to fanart,” I LOVE THAT. And the political content?! “What a family needs, and the planet bleeds, the damaged trees, it's never leaving to a real sense so FUCK THE FEDS” (or fuck the fence, not clear, either way, YES ZAYN!), “the snake that’s called Biden, none of them abiding by what they put in writing we should be used to it by now say whatever for the vote and then just chose another route say they’ll never kill another unless that brother’s skin is brown” and “been facing the racists back when I was a kid...kicked me out of the schools, they had a problem with me and the kids that would call me paki still sit in the classroom chilling, and now that I’m older I see they treat us different, got me thinking I was the problem cuz they never dealt with those issues, 20 years later I’m still in the same boat, tryna treat me like my grandpa, say I came up off the boat, came to tell you what I stand for, man I think this shit’s a joke. How can I be civil, when they got me by the throat, ‘Boy your skin is so light’, ok motherfucker take my name up on a flight, try to convince immigration that your bloodline’s half white, my name ain’t on the list unless they label it ethnic.” HELL YEAH ZAYN. PLUS: “never lose me to fentanyl, scared when I take a benadryl,” not gonna lie I LOVE to see this GOOD good good, "just became a dad so now I’m taking all the checks" HA yes get it, "trying to be a better person than the world deserves to see," and, “with a cigarette, sun coming up, write my thoughts on the internet, feeling deep, I'm just bored with the silhouette, get fucked up for the thrill of it,” “I’m just here for the rap then I’m leaving.” AND SO MUCH MORE all in Zayn’s excellent voice and accent, a GIFT that’ll take much more than a day to really unpack and appreciate!

And happy 28th, Louis is writing music! Looks like he is working with producer team Rick Parkhouse and George Tizzard in London (they call themselves Red Triangle Productions and put out music as SuperHi)- they posted a studio picture and tagged Louis. He’s just visible in the booth, singing. Also present- writer/ musician, Paul Whalley and songwriter Robert Harvey (The Music, The Streets) who were both posted and tagged Louis in as well. Louis followed Harvey. Hell yeah, what a line up! Not only that, Jamie Hartman answered a ProjectKMM participant’s question about other songs with Louis-- are they still working on new stuff? He says “I’m sure Louis has been working on new songs with lots of people!” [as we see, yes] “But yes we have done some too- who knows what will make the next album but he’s a top man and I would always write and hang w LT.”

Harry won Best Lyrics for Adore You at the iHeart Awards and Best Cover Song for Juice but failed to take the Artist of the Year or Song of the Year Categories, but more exciting than that- he’s listed as the Director of a new cosmetics and perfume company!!! People have been speculated about him doing something with Gucci Beauty for a long time now (he’s been noted to use their cosmetics, and definitely models their nail polish), and he has of course done perfume ads for them- there’s speculation that this could be for something with them, or it could just be a new thing of his very own. Well the Harry Styles palette would be a damn hit and we all know it, bring it on!

Anne Marie’s Big Weekend performance aired today and yes! She did Our Song with Niall! It’s the performance they recorded last week or so that we saw the pics from, yay first time getting to see them play it, but it was very quickly followed by the next time as their Jonathan Ross show performance also aired! And in case you’re sad about Niall’s previous promo buddies being replaced, there’s no need for that, he’s only adding to the pack; he tweeted Julia Michaels just today, “love ya hules” AWWW. He posted a bunch of cute OS video bts pics too, followed Oprah Winfrey and said he’d like to go to space and that he “would have liked to have been” a godfather to a 1D boy’s baby but “maybe the next one.”

Meanwhile Liam is looking at the fanart submissions he asked for- he retweeted a terrific drawing of himself laughing and said “this is amazing!” and liked a couple of other art posts. Feels like it’s about time for a monthly Liam catch up video, perhaps? Something else to look forward to!

[cool-island-songs]

Time to be predictable and say BUTTERS for the bingo

Thank you for the ask and sorry this took 1,000 years!!! Putting this under a cut because it ended up being so long.

I have such weird mixed feeling about Butters, but first and foremost, I don't actively dislike him or feel he gets too much screen time now. There was a period during the airing of the mid-late teen seasons where I stopped finding the show as funny, and I definitely thought they were using him for too many hack jokes. So I associated him with my losing interest in the series, but he's just a lil feller and it wasn't his fault.

Some of the best, most cathartic moments in the series revolve around Butters - his speech that saves Bradley's life in "Cartman Sucks", his speech to Stan in "Raisins" (though where does he get off calling Stan a pussy and then starting an incel movement when his Canadian gf of a few months dumps him???), "Yeah!" in response to "Love doesn't follow a plan!" in TxC, his whole,,, everything in "Super Fun Time", the way he stands up to Cartman in "The Magic Bush", this moment:

Calling everyone a skank, ball chin boy, sassing Trent in the moments before disaster strikes. He's bold, he's ignorant, he's Butters.

I don't think everyone is wrong about him but me by any means, but I struggle with the way he tends to be portrayed in fanworks. He gets uwu-fied even harder than Tweek, and it's more perplexing to me in his case because this kid gets angry.

He represses a lot of rage because he internalizes the things his father teaches him, but his father's punishments are arbitrary, harsh, and contradictory, so of course he's all mixed-up. He's sweet and naive, but he's also angry, misogynistic, and tends to latch onto other more violent, dominant boys like Craig (in the early seasons) and Cartman.

I project most onto Tweek, and will sometimes joke about Butters that I made my choice re: abused fictional blond SP boys onto whom to project and I'm sticking with it. Butters honestly does trigger me because he's the abused kid who is unable to consistently grasp that he's being abused. That's very real. It's played for comedy obviously, but I just think this kid would have serious problems accepting love and dealing with his anger as an adult. You know how people ship Cartman with good mental health ironically? That's me with Butters unironically.

Anyway, because I feel insane having this many mixed feelings about a fake guy, I have a fic idea that will hopefully help me exorcise these demons and become slightly less insane. It's just a gen fic examining the home lives of Butters, Kenny, and Tweek.

Some fave Butterses from fics just because:

the Three Sides series by cocoacremeandgays (v heavy themes)

your princess is in another castle by delmareve

I find sycophantic little shit Butters in Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space by gremlinteeth extremely compelling

There's A Room Where The Light Won't Find You by PBJellie

More Effeminate Than You (orphaned)

pimp Butters in tweek doesn't wanna make some real motherfucking money by Tweekpuncher

(also for "why does he look like that", honestly, just,,,, wtf is up with the hair. i hate drawing it. every time i try to draw butters he looks like ellen degeneres. someone help plz)

[mistydear]

soften me now, let me take as is given (i)

billie dean howard x reader

summary: You meet Billie in mourning. She’s too professional, and you’re too angry, and it takes too long to see her again. And again. And again as your lives tumble together.

w/c: 3.4K

notes: not quite enemies to lovers but there's definitely a strong dislike to lovers lmao. multi-chapter slow burn! warnings for grief, death of a loved one in ch 1. title from The Lady is Risen by Johnny Flynn

chapter two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen

It’s a particularly awful day when your doorbell rings. You’ve been curled on the couch for most of it, unable to eat or sleep or do much of anything but cry. There’s a used tissue crumpled in your fist as you bite absently at the side of your thumb, paralyzed by the emptiness that follows rough sobs. You blink at the sound of the bell, your eyes refocusing briefly. You’re in no mood for company, and you’ve told everyone who matters that you’d like to be left alone right now. So you suck in a breath—what feels like the very first one in your life—and burrow defiantly into the cushions, into the blanket that still smells faintly of her.

After a minute, there’s a firm knock on the door, three successive raps. You startle at it, clenching your jaw.

“Motherfucker,” you hiss, anger swelling in you. It feels like that’s all you’re capable of lately. Because if it’s not anger it’s the most oppressive, suffocating sadness or the most hollow numbness you’ve ever felt in your life. But yelling at someone instead of this empty house seems cathartic to your grief-addled mind, so you trudge to the front door, sniffing roughly and wiping your red rimmed eyes. “What is it?” you snap, throwing it open, anger burning and itching under your skin.

The woman behind it is startled, blinking as she stands on your porch. She’s wearing pearls and a dusty pink silk blouse and the most obscenely tall heels for a Wednesday afternoon. Her dark brown eyes narrow briefly, and she cocks her head in confusion.

“I was told I’m expected,” she says, eyes flitting over you. There’s no judgement there, but you feel self-conscious about your days worn sweatpants and greasy hair anyway. You find yourself irritated by her pensive calm, the way she absorbs the storm radiating off of you and dissipates it. You need to burn hot and bright. It’s the only thing that’s kept you from completely losing your mind lately.

“You certainly are not,” you shoot back, mocking her propriety, the careful way she’s holding herself. She glazes over your rudeness like it never happened which absolutely infuriates you.

“This is the correct address?” she attempts to clarify, reciting from a piece of paper in her hand. You clench your jaw.

“Sorry, Rotary Ann, looks like you’re in the wrong place.” You both know she’s not, and she presses her lips together, determined. As you move to shut the door, she grabs it, stepping forward.

“Margot Hill called me?” she ventures, and you pause, releasing your grip on the door. She gently swings it open. “Billie Dean Howard,” she says, holding out a hand to shake. The name sounds vaguely familiar as you consider her. Then she sees the wadded up tissue in your right hand and thinks better of shaking it, sliding her thumb across the pads of her fingers. “Maybe not.” You don’t blame her. In fact, the whole thing makes you laugh when you finally recognize where you’ve heard the name.

“Wait a minute,” you start, amused, pointing to her. “The Craigslist psychic?” For the first time, a twinge of irritation shows on her face, and you revel in the rise it gets out of her.

“Medium, dear,” she clarifies tersely. A week ago, Margot sat in your living room showing you an ad for Ms. Howard, careful but insistent, claiming she was the very best—the real deal—and that she could give you closure, give both of you closure. You’d shut her down with a derisive laugh and a firm no, and you should have expected that she wouldn’t listen.

“Wow. I’m gonna kill her,” you muse, biting hard into your lip, a distant grin on your cheeks.

“I’m sensing I might be a little early.”

“Oh, really, are you sensing that?” you mock, and she lowers her chin, giving you a reprimanding glare over false lashes.

“I’m sorry. I don’t like surprising clients. It puts both of us in a very awkward position,” she offers, shaking her head.

“So this has happened before?” you ask, motioning between the two of you. She shifts and sighs, giving you an uneasy nod. You watch as her long, manicured nails tap an uncomfortable rhythm into her purse.

“Family does what they think is best for grieving loved ones. It’s not the first time I’ve been put in the middle of a divided household.” Grieving loved ones. The phrase makes your stomach cramp and a lump lodge firmly in your throat. How small and ordinary that makes such an unfathomable loss seem. You find yourself getting angry again.

“By divided household do you mean rational human beings and people who believe in ghosts?” You ask sharply. A slow smirk spreads across Ms. Howard’s face, and she hums dangerously, like it’s a challenge. Which is exactly when Margot runs up the front steps and stops between the two of you.

“Oh god,” she gasps, out of breath as she brushes strawberry blonde hair out of her eyes. She seems to realize the mistake of letting you two meet before she could be there to act as a buffer, and her face is struck with a horror you find gratifying. Even Billie Dean Howard looks both mildly irritated and relieved. Anyway, you aren’t sure her high society, sculpted face is capable of twisting with emotion the way yours is. “What time is it? I’m late, aren’t I? Shit. I was gonna prep her, really. Fuck,” she explains in a hurried breath to Ms. Howard who just raises her brow.

“I’m right here,” you drawl, narrowing your eyes at Margot. She turns to you, steading herself before grabbing onto your upper arms and shaking you once.

“You are going to suck it up and behave.” Her eyes are blue as crystal, just like Catherine’s, and tears well in your vision.

“I don’t want this bullshit in my house,” you insist, though your voice wavers, and you swallow harshly, avoiding Billie Dean’s curious, unoffended eyes.

“I don’t care. If you won’t do this for you, do it for me. Please, Y/N,” she sighs, brow furrowed tightly. You chew your lip, wishing not for the first time that Margot didn’t look so strikingly like Catherine in the eyes, in the way she begs. There are sharp, painful moments every once and a while in which you see it, and they never fail to make you weak in the knees. So you relent, bowing your head and nodding tiredly, sniffing and wiping your nose with your used tissue. She rubs your arms and kisses your forehead, and then she invites Billie Dean into your home, leading you to the dining room and away from the living room which looks like a tornado swept through—tissues on the floor, blankets crumpled on the couch.

You sit across the table from Billie Dean and pick at your fraying tissue as Margot makes tea and opens the blinds, dust dancing in the sunbeams. You watch her closely, the way she looks around, assesses the place. It’s almost as though she’s listening for something. So much so that she’s startled when Margot sets a mug down in front of her, a distracted thank you leaving her painted lips.

“So what did she tell you?” you ask as Margot plucks the disintegrating tissue from your hands and sets a box of them down in front of you instead. You glare mildly at her and at the assumption that you’ll be breaking down in front of this stranger over things that aren’t real.

“Next to nothing,” she answers easily. “Just that you’re both grieving, and you’d like to make contact with a loved one,” she says, nodding to both of you. “It’s policy, really. I don’t want details.”

“Why? Does it influence what you tell people?” you ask bitterly. She cocks her head at you again, blinking.

“No, but it affects how people receive me. The less I know, the easier it is for clients to trust me,” she explains plainly.

You grit your teeth and sip your tea. It’s made the way Catherine used to make it for you, with an extra sugar you always denied wanting but she knew you liked. You didn’t know Margot knew about that. You imagine them sitting together one sunny afternoon, Catherine telling her about all your silly little rituals and grinning the way she does when she talks about you, cheeks rosy, eyes bright. That gentle affection makes you want to cry again, and you set down the mug, avoiding Margot’s knowing gaze as she sits down beside you.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. Everyone says you’re the best at this,” Margot offers, her hands wrapping around her own mug as she shifts forward. She’s been interested in the paranormal for as long as you’ve known her, so her awe and respect is disgustingly genuine. “Helping people move forward, I mean.”

“Well, thank you,” Billie nods with a faint smile. Her modesty irritates you, and your shoulders tense against it. “But I don’t deal in bereavement,” she explains gently. “I’m not here to coddle you. I’m here to speak for those who can’t anymore.”

“So speak,” you say, and Billie’s eyes drift to you, piercing and blank.

“Y/N,” Margot reprimands quietly, but Billie waves her off.

“It’s alright. I understand why you’re angry. I don’t take it personally.”

“I don’t think you do understand, actually,” you reply, voice sharp and cutting.

“You think I’m a hack. That I take advantage of people’s pain, their desperation. That I’m taking advantage of Margot. And you’re angry because I’m not even nice about it,” she muses, a satisfied smile teasing her lips. She’s exactly right, and part of you wants to throttle her for it. “I won’t try to convince you of the truth. In fact, I don’t care whether you believe or not. What I do care about is Catherine.”

You dislike the way her name rolls off Billie’s tongue, soft and careful, and you hate the way Margot’s spine straightens next to you. You wonder how she knows her name but figured it was easy enough to google. The accident was all over the local news.

“She’s here?” Margot asks breathlessly. You roll your eyes, mostly on principle, partly because you want Billie Dean Howard to know exactly how much you don’t believe her. Billie hums, glancing down and away, rings clinking on her mug as she listens to something you can’t hear. Something you know isn’t there.

“She says she’s glad you got her message,” Billie offers, her eyes closing, and Margot grips your forearm. “And that you knew to hire a translator,” she adds, surprised, and then chuckles, shaking her head. “That’s a new one. Usually I just get called a psychic.”

“What message?” you ask, looking at Margot and trying to ignore the way Billie seems to be bonding with your dead wife.

“Our sign. The one we decided on when we were little,” she explains hastily as Billie begins tapping out a rhythm with her knuckles on the kitchen table. Not even you know what the sign is. The two of them were sworn to secrecy so that they could be sure it was a genuine message from beyond. Margot claimed to have heard it a few weeks ago, and you hadn’t believed her, too sick with grief to deal with that kind of false hope. It was what set her on the hunt for a medium in the first place, desperate to get you to see, to understand. As Billie taps, Margot’s eyes widen. “Oh my god. Y/N, that’s it,” she gasps and then, to prove her point, sings along to the song she and Catherine had made up when they were kids. You remember Catherine saying she’d teach it to your own kids once you had them and tear up for what feels like the tenth time in the last hour.

You aren’t sure how to explain Billie’s knowledge of that song, and the thought sends an uncomfortable shiver down your spine.

Wordlessly, Billie holds out her hand to you, and you look down at her open palm then back at her waiting eyes.

“Kate would really like to talk to you,” she says quietly, and the nickname digs into your heart as a cruel but lucky guess.

“I don’t believe you,” you insist hoarsely, feeling as though the walls are closing in on you. Billie sighs but doesn’t retract her hand.

“She says you’re being needlessly stubborn, sunshine.” The pet name, however, strikes you like lightning, the breath knocked straight from your lungs. Margot’s thumb rubs circles in your forearm, and then all at once you’re crying, hot tears dripping down your cheeks. Your chin wobbles, and you wipe your eyes bitterly, shaking your head as you pull away from Margot’s touch, breath hitching.

“I can’t do this,” you sob, a hand pressed to your heart as you stand up and walk out, making your way through the front door and into the afternoon sun. You gasp, finally able to breathe as you sit down on the step and press your palms harshly into your eyes. You’re barely out there a minute before heels are clicking on the concrete behind you. The noise that escapes you is somewhere between a frustrated whine and a growl as you dig your nails into your scalp, trying desperately to control yourself in front of Billie Dean Howard, Craigslist psychic.

“Do you mind?” she asks, sitting down next to you. You’d expected some kind of platitude on grief, so the question catches you off guard. When you glance over, Billie is holding a cigarette between her teeth, lighter poised and ready. You can only vaguely shake your head, and the lighter flicks on. Her cheeks hollow out when she inhales, blowing smoke away from you as she leans forward on her knees. The sharp, heady smell of tobacco fills your nose, and you think you haven’t had a cigarette in years. Catherine would kill you. You laugh at the thought, just a little, and Billie’s gaze narrows on you, curious and watchful. So, you wipe your eyes and try to stop the tears from coming and coming as you sit up straighter.

“I’m sorry.” Your nose is stuffy, voice muffled, and Billie taps ash onto your front step.

“Please don’t be,” she says immediately, and you’re confused by how soft her voice is, how placating. It leaves room for vulnerability, and your stupid body latches onto the invitation with frightening speed.

“You being here,” you start, but your voice cracks, and you bite hard into your lip to keep the sob down. “Is just another reminder that she’s gone.” Your shoulders cave, and your breathing catches, and Billie’s brow furrows, a frown settled deep into her mouth. She reaches out, carefully, hesitantly, but you shake your head. She retracts her hand as you press your shaking palm into your forehead. You can’t look at her and her perfect hair, her perfect makeup. “It just hurts so much. I’ve barely been able to go through her things. And Margot, god, I love her, but this whole...beyond the grave shit is too much,” you sob and then laugh, near delirious. “Oh god,” you groan, shaking your head and wiping your puffy eyes. Margot, of course, had been right. You did break down in front of Billie Dean Howard.

“I just don’t think she’s ready,” you hear Billie whisper, and you swallow, swiping tears from your cheeks. She’s looking up and behind you, and you turn on instinct—almost hopeful—to find the space empty, devoid of Catherine.

“What?” you rasp, your heart aching. Billie turns back to you, her attention refocused, and shakes her head, taking another drag.

“Your wife isn’t a fan of my smoking,” she offers, amused as she snubs it out on the step. The reminder is unkind, you think, and you’re angry with yourself for allowing Billie to convince you—for a brief moment—that your wife might be standing right behind you, running her fingers through your hair in that soothing way she does. You can almost feel it now, in fact. “Grief is a funny thing,” Billie says. “It only lets us hear what we want to. Not always what we need to.”

Her words strike you as condescending, but the way you’re imagining Catherine’s fingers in your hair is too soothing for you to feel any meaningful irritation. Slowly, your eyes dry, and the two of you sit in silence for several minutes as the birds chirp in the summer heat.

“You know what I don’t understand?” you ask finally, and Billie hums, glancing at you. She looks ridiculous sitting on the step with you, done up and gorgeous while your only accessories are fuzzy socks and the dark bags under your eyes. “If there really is something after this, why would Catherine stick around?”

“It’s not exactly a matter of choice,” Billie admits, folding her hands against her black slacks. “Some spirits can’t move on for whatever reason.”

“Of course,” you nod sagely, sarcastically. “Unfinished business.”

“Do you have any idea what that might be for Catherine?” Billie presses, cocking her head delicately. You scoff, the anger swelling in you again.

“I dunno. Maybe her whole fucking life?” you burst, looking wildly to Billie. She doesn’t react, just presses her lips together sympathetically. You feel as though you’re being pitied now, and you can’t bear it. “Please leave,” you choke, turning away from her. You almost feel Catherine’s thumb against the back of your neck, swirling slowly, and a shiver runs down your spine. If only, if only.

Billie sighs and digs in her purse. She comes back with a business card for you to take. When you do—however reluctantly—she takes your hand in both of hers and holds it tightly, leaning close to you.

“Call me, Y/N. When you’re ready,” she breathes, searching your eyes for understanding. You aren’t sure what there is to understand, but you nod, and she gives you a tight, sad smile. She smells like cigarettes and oranges and cherries. “Take care of yourself,” she instructs, standing up and smoothing down her blouse. For a moment, you even think she means it.

When she’s gone, Margot steps outside and sits where Billie had been, her arms folded across herself.

“I’m sorry, babe,” she breathes heavily. Your eyes mist over, and you shake your head.

“You got what you wanted. Your proof, your sign,” you confirm, sniffing. She swallows, considering you, and then nods.

“Yeah,” she gasps, tears welling in her eyes. “I did.”

“She’s good, isn’t she?” you concede even if you do think she’s a fraud, and Margot laughs, wiping her eyes. Billie Dean Howard is a striking woman, and you wouldn’t be surprised to see her in the limelight one day. Or at least her own little niche of limelight.

“Listen, honey, I probably shouldn’t have…” she sighs, leaning over to squeeze your knee. Margot’s never been as good with words as Catherine, but her heart is just as big. “That was a shit show, wasn’t it?”

It’s your turn to laugh, and you’re chuckling still when you lean your head on Margot’s shoulder. She wraps an arm around you, holds you close, and you think—maybe—that you can feel Catherine’s fingers intertwined with yours.