#ivy and barbed wire

[encryptidarchivist]

devon has a cat

[encryptidarchivist]

HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!!!! screaming crying throwing up ELLIS SHE’S SO GORGEOUS AUAUGFH <33333 LOSING MY GODDAMN MIND

hiii i drew your girl!!! :D @encryptidarchivist

[madbirdwoman]

[sagent-of-chaos]

the symbolism of heterosexuality

[haunt3dh3art]

Born In Blood | Yandere Dexter Morgan x reader

i’ve been watching almost a season of Dexter a day now i’m on winter break!! i know you guys lurking in the Dexter community have been waiting for some more work, so this is for you <33 i'm also posting this on my ao3 page if you prefer that formatting - type in "haunt3dh3art" and you'll find me.

TW: Blood, slight gore, slight torture, mention of blades and rope, canon-typical violence, slight obsession hinting

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Chapter 1 - Silence

Miami is full of gorgeous, witty women, and plenty of them would love a piece of Dexter.

But, none of them have ever held his attention for more than a few months. He tries not to let his lack of emotions get in the way of relationships, but its like everybody he meets eventually gets the feeling that something is very, very wrong.

A sixth sense, like when a dog growls at the darkness. You can't see what they can, but go back the way you came anyway.

So, eventually, everyone leaves, as is the next logical step for their survival.

When Dexter first sees you, whether you are an "almost victim" of the Miami Metro's latest killer or someone he sees on the street, it’s like he forgets to breathe. His eyes squint, a darkness glazing them over and something changes. His Dark Passenger appears behind him, but Dexter pays no attention to the ramblings of his damaged subconscious.

For argument's sake, here, you present to him as a victim. Or you would have been, had Dexter not figured out the location of the killer's lair in time.

He's led to a decrepit church, stone bricks falling off the walls, thick ivy covering almost every surface he can see. He makes no sound as he creeps towards the entrance. Slowly, he pushes the door open - it makes a lowly creak and Dexter slips into the darkness.

There is no light here, no ceremonious candles for the next killing, no flashy weapons to be seen on many of the stone slabs Dexter passes. Then, he sees a soft glow in the back corner of the vast church.

A cellar. The trapdoor won't quite close, and a whisper of light is allowed to seep through the thin crack against the floor. Dexter lifts it with deft fingers, careful to not make a sound. His steps make no sound as he glides down the stone stairs down, down into the basement. It's cold down here, and the air is thick with moisture. His silence, although usually an upper hand on an opponent, was not necessary here.

Your guttering screams rang out through the entire lower level; as loud as they were, Dexter was left wondering how they couldn't be heard until down here. You sounded animalistic, clearly fighting for your life and barely hanging on. As he got closer to the awful sounds of clanging metal and splitting screams, a chill rose up on Dexter's skin.

Then, he heard the killer's voice for the first time.

"How stupid can you be? You're nothing but a sacrifice to me." A low voice cut your screams into nothing but whimpers.

The slow dragging of a metal blade rang out into Dexter's ears and he was glad he came more than adequately prepared for a fight.

The killer was one Joseph Butler, serial womaniser and priest. Clearly, God had abandoned this disciple. The victims were most often strippers caught in his charming web, or occasionally single women looking for human connection. They must have thought they had struck gold.

His call card had been arranging his victims' hands into a prayer stance, nailing nails through the palms to keep the pose in place, and deftly placing a barbed wire "crown" on the person's head. They were always sat upright, bound with rope to a chair and lathered in blood.

The blade was new - Joseph was on the cusp to evolve his method, but he would never get the chance.

Candles lit the basement with a warm light, contrasting the suffocating atmosphere. Dexter suspected Butler had been torturing you with hot wax, or something similar, perhaps flames and the heated blade?

There was only a cloth curtain separating you, the killer and Dexter now.

"These are your final moments on this demented Earth. I suggest you use them to say a prayer." The killer spoke.

Dexter pulled back the curtain with one finger and saw he had his back to him.

This was the moment.

Moving as a snake slithers, Dexter stepped towards your torturer, and injected him with a tranquilizer. He instantly collapsed to the floor, making a satisfying thud.

Dexter stepped over him, and reached for his pocketknife to cut you free of your binds. You began to scream again and writhed in petrifying fear in your seat.

It was now that Dexter, crouched to your level, could finally see your face. Butler had obscured his view of you before, but with him out cold on the floor, Dexter could take the time to look.

You, caked in dirt and filth.

You, a look of horror beyond comprehension etched on to your face.

You, born in blood, just as he had been.

The moment Dexter was to undertake his duty once again as the necessary evil of Miami, he paused. Each time he had a killer strapped to a table, he paused for a moment to collect himself and appreciate the serenity of the moment. Perpetually holding the blade above his subject's heart, the point positioned perfectly, quivering in the air for a second of peace.

It was this moment, as he looked at you, that the constant roaring and wailing inside his head fell silent.

His eyes were fixed on yours, searching for an avenue of the same peace. He saw oceans reflected in your eyes, deep and dangerous.

"Shh, shh, shh. I'm not going to hurt you, I'm getting you out." He pleads, leaning forward on his knees.

He places the cool blade of his pocketknife on the rope next to your skin, making a quick, efficient cut of each loop around your wrists. It's a welcome sensation, despite the distant threat of pain.

Your screaming subsides, replaced by hyperventilating. Dexter's eyebrows pull together as he quickens his pace cutting the ropes around your feet.

Butler was only beginning his spree, killing 3 women in only 6 weeks. You would have been his fourth, had Dexter not been 10 steps ahead of his own department.

'Clearly an amateur,' Dexter thinks. The rope was too weak to hold a victim who had fight left to give, but that's easier said than done.

Finally, you were free, and instantly pushed the chair back. It crashed on the floor with a loud bang, but Dexter paid no attention to it. His eyes were stuck to you, mesmerised by you, even in your condition.

"What are you going to do to me?" You whispered, rubbing your fingers over your aching wounds.

Some of the blood on your skin was still fresh, glowing a crimson red against the candlelight. Dexter shook his head.

"Nothing," He said. "But, you need to stay with me, here. I can protect you, keep you safe, but you have to stay."

Dexter never imagined this happening to him. He knew the chances of you trusting him were beyond slim, but he hoped that by seeing your torturer on the floor, knocked out by his hand, that you wouldn't see him as a threat.

Dexter watched you with bated breath, his hands tightly clenched into fists.

You didn't move, weighing your choices. Would you really survive if you ran? How would you know there weren't more of these psychopaths waiting outside, ready to pounce the second you walked out into the night?

You shook your head, pacing around the room.

The curtain was pulled in a circle around the chair and it waved in the air as you walked past it.

"What's your name?" You asked.

"Dexter."

Saying his real name out loud felt like a violation, a curse. Only people in his life knew his name. Were you going to be a part of that now?

You nodded and stopped pacing. Pointing at the killer, you asked another question. "What are you going to do with him?"

Dexter let his gaze break from you to the man on the floor.

He would be out cold for the next 7 hours at least, unless Dexter chose to wake him up sooner. However, on this occasion, he didn't have a plan. He had all the supplies needed for a killing in the boot of his car outside, but he hadn't anticipated for you to be here tonight. The timing of the killing wasn't quite right, and a sign that Butler was becoming a bigger problem than the Miami Metro could handle. The FBI would soon step in, and Butler would be out of Dexter's grasp.

"I'm going to make it look like you were never here, which is why you have to stay with me. I have to.. dispose of him, but it won't take more than a few hours." Dexter said, choosing his words carefully to not scare you even more.

He checked his watch. 10:47pm. If he was to kill Butler and get to the marina in time, the process would have to be quick.

The sun was beginning to rise earlier in Miami.

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[lushleona]

HOW MANY THINGS. mattheo riddle.

mattheo riddle x fem!reader.

summary ; mattheo was never the type to stay where he wasn’t wanted; that is, until he met you… inspired by the song how many things by sabrina carpenter. words ; 5.7k warnings ; modern au (cellphones are used), angst, swearing, drinking, vague sexual innuendos

navigation. masterlist.

Mattheo had never been a pushover; no, he was rather a force to be reckoned with — a hard-ass, for lack of a better word. Born with razor sharp thorns pricking up from under his skin, leaving him bloodied red as roses and torn up before he ever even needed to fight, and barbed wire forced into his throat as he grew older in a world that proved itself impossibly difficult to conquer, he didn’t put up with bullshit.

He didn’t take disrespect or let people get close enough to see even the faintest scab marks of an old wound, and if anyone crossed him, he would make sure they’d live to regret it, erase them from his world like they were nothing more than chalk on pavement — quick, cold, and final.

Maybe he should’ve kept it that way with you too.

He finds himself unable to recall the exact moment that you’d managed to cut through the vines of poison ivy that had snaked their way around his heart, but he does recall the moments that may have led up to it, the ones that brought you closer and closer to his softened center without even trying.

A brush of shoulders every morning when you walked through corridors, secret smiles exchanged like swapping keys to locked rooms, long-lasting conversations that moved from crowded classrooms to the cozy confines of your homes, allowing you to make your own little corner in his heart. 

You never had to beg for space in his world. You carved yourself into him like you belonged there. Not forcefully. No, it was slower than that, more deliberate. Like water through stone. You wore him down until the sharpest parts of him didn’t point at you anymore. Until his anger softened at the sight of your tired eyes. Until your name stopped sounding foreign in his mouth and started sounding like home.

Oftentimes he found himself reminiscing on the beginning of your relationship, when you were warm and inviting, your love being the kind of fire he’d learned to cup his hands around to protect from the wind, aloof to the burn that grazed his fingertips every once in a while. For he was willing to put up with any pain as long as it meant your soul was still intertwined with his, his fingers mindlessly pulling at the strings to keep you close.

But lately, it felt like the fire had been snuffed out. What was once an embery, bright red blaze had dwindled to a lone candle flickering in the dark — and Mattheo couldn’t shake the sense that he was the only one still trying to keep it alive.

At first, he tricked himself into believing it was just a fluke. You were tired, or stressed, or busy; that had to be it. That had to be the only reason why he felt like there was a fucking chasm growing between the two of you — why he felt like you pulled away every time he got close.

It had to be something small. Temporary. Fixable. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

He was certainly never one to pry, opting to bury his feelings under layers and layers of soil from which beautiful flowers would sprout to cover the truth. If he could just make everything look okay — if he kept showing up, kept kissing your forehead, kept making excuses on your behalf — then maybe things would be okay. Maybe you’d notice. Maybe you’d come back to him without him ever having to ask.

Because asking meant acknowledging, and acknowledging meant accepting the possibility that he wasn’t imagining it. That it really was slipping.

Being a bother, a burden, was his worst fucking nightmare. He lived under the fear that you would grow even colder if  he troubled you with asking. He knew what happened when people got annoyed with him. He knew what abandonment tasted like — cold and metallic, a childhood memory rotting behind his ribs — and he wasn’t ready to taste it again.

So he didn’t say anything. Not when you stopped reaching for his hand the way you used to. Not when you started spending more time on your phone. Not when you kissed him absentmindedly like it was part of a routine instead of something you wanted. He told himself it was just life getting in the way. Just stress, just timing, just hormones.

It was ridiculous; he knew that. You weren’t some ice-hearted monster that would shut him out for trying to communicate, but maybe that would’ve been easier. Because at least then, he could’ve hated you. At least then, there would be something clear to hold onto, something he could point at and say, this is why it hurts.

Instead, it’s all this fog. This slow, suffocating quiet where your love used to live, and somehow, that’s worse.

Mattheo stares at the wall across from him like it might offer answers, like it might tell him when exactly things changed. When your love became absentminded. When he became convenient. A fixture. Familiar, but no longer thrilling. Something you didn’t hate, but something you didn’t crave like oxygen either.

He hears the soft rustle of your perfume spritzing into the air in the other room and imagines the way it’ll cling to your coat, to the hollow of your throat, to someone else’s memory when they catch a whiff of it in the street. You’ll smell like something perfect and untouchable, and no one will know that the boy who notices every time you change your scent is sitting on your couch, barely holding himself together.

You hadn’t even asked him to come tonight, wherever you were going. Not even a throwaway “you can come if you want.” Not even a lie.

And maybe that’s the part that hurts most — how easily he’s been written out of your world, how you make it seem effortless. Like love was never supposed to be permanent, just something you tried on until it no longer fit.

He sinks further into the cushions, elbows on his knees, hands dangling uselessly between them. He hates this, hates the version of himself he becomes when you’re like this: quiet, pliant, desperately waiting to be noticed again. It’s humiliating, really. He used to take pride in being cold, in being impenetrable. But now?

Now he stays alone at your flat when you’re out and remembers how you like your tea and flinches when you forget to kiss him goodbye.

Your heels click down the hallway. He doesn’t look up until you’re at the door.

“Do I look alright?” you ask, tugging your coat sleeve down, eyes flicking toward him only briefly.

He nods, eyes trailing over you, heart already unraveling. “Yeah. You look beautiful.”

You smile, distractedly murmuring a soft, “thank you,” before reaching for the door.

“I love you,” he says quietly, like a reflex. 

“Love you too. Don’t wait up,” you mutter, adjusting your coat, pulling your phone out of your bag without sparing him more than a glance.

He nods and forces a small smile, the kind that feels like a lie made flesh.

“I won’t,” he says.

But he will, of course he will.

The door clicks shut behind you, and Mattheo stares at it like if he focuses hard enough, it might open again. Like maybe you’ll come back and say you forgot something — your wallet, your lipstick, him.

But you don’t.

He sits there for a few minutes, motionless, before finally dragging his phone out of his pocket and opening his messages. 

Mattheo: You doing anything tonight?

It takes less than a minute for a reply to come through.

Theo: Depends.

Theo: Are you trying to get drunk or are we brooding in silence again?

Mattheo exhales through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he can manage.

Mattheo: Bit of both.

Mattheo: Come by.

Theo: Be there in 20.

By the time he stands up, Mattheo’s limbs feel heavy. He stretches them out like he’s been sitting there for hours instead of minutes, runs a hand through his hair, and glances around the apartment — too clean and too perfect, all the edges smoothed out to fit your preferences. 

He heads toward the kitchen, opens the fridge, then closes it again. Nothing sounds appealing. He’s halfway to the couch again when he remembers — your cat.

The tiny gray menace you insisted on adopting from a shelter last winter. She hated him at first. Clawed up his pillow and pissed on his shoes. But eventually, she started curling up on his lap when you weren’t home, started head-butting his chin like she chose him. He didn’t say it aloud, but he liked that. He liked her, mostly because she never made him wonder if she wanted him there or not.

He finds her in the corner of the living room, perched on the windowsill like she’s waiting for you too.

“Yeah,” he mutters, kneeling down to scratch behind her ears. “Don’t hold your breath.”

She blinks at him slowly, then jumps down and pads toward her empty water bowl.

Mattheo goes to the kitchen to fill it, and that’s when it hits him.

The memory comes sideways, like most of them do lately. It’s nothing big. Just a night with you barefoot in the kitchen, your hair messy, laughing at something he said, one hand absentmindedly stroking the cat’s back while the other held a mug of tea. You were wearing one of his shirts — he remembers because he liked how it looked on you, the way it hung loose on your perfect frame, driving him mad with temptation and adoration.

“You’re staring,” you’d said back then, smirking without looking up, and he instantly knew your thoughts of lust and love mirrored his own.

“Can you blame me?” he’d replied, walking up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist before his hands slid down to squeeze at your ass, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck. “You’re kind of perfect like this.”

You turned, kissed him slow and sleepy, and murmured against his lips, “I love you, y’know.”

He’d believed you. With everything in him, he’d believed you.

Now, standing in the same kitchen with the same damn cat and none of that warmth, he feels the grief of it. Not for a breakup or for something that’s over, but for something that’s still here, still breathing and just not alive anymore.

He closes his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against them like he can shove the memory back where it came from, but it clings. The knock at the door a few minutes later makes him flinch.

Theo.

Good. He needs the distraction. He needs something to do with his hands besides remembering you.

His best friend steps in with a bottle of firewhisky and a raised brow, already shrugging off his coat.

“You look like shit,” he says, by way of greeting.

Mattheo huffs a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so hollow. “You’re one to talk.”

They settle in the living room without ceremony. No need for pleasantries; they’ve known each other too long. The bottle is uncapped, poured, and the silence stretches comfortably between them, thick as smoke. Mattheo drinks like he’s trying to set fire to something inside of him. Maybe he is.

Theo throws his feet up on the coffee table — your coffee table — and leans back with a sigh. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“Mm,” Mattheo says, noncommittal. He takes another swig, the burn catching in his throat like a warning he ignores.

Theo’s voice cuts through the silence again. “You still working on that bike?”

Mattheo nods, grateful for the shift. “Put in new pistons last week. It’s still fucked, though. Can’t get it to run clean.”

Theo grunts, swirling the amber in his glass. “Sounds like you.”

Mattheo lets the jab land and doesn’t argue. He just presses the rim of the glass to his lips and stares ahead at nothing in particular.

Truth is, he does feel like a broken engine. Still functioning, technically, but something deep in the machinery has been misfiring for a while. Maybe it’s grief. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s just the slow, dull rot of being in love with someone who’s stopped remembering to look at him like he’s hers.

But he doesn’t say any of that; he can’t.

Because saying it would give it shape. It would make it real.

Theo doesn’t push; he never has. That’s part of why Mattheo still lets him around — why he doesn’t flinch when he hears his voice, doesn’t tense when he catches his gaze. Everyone else wants pieces, explanations, a crack in the armor so they can stick their fingers in and pry it open. But Theo? He just sits there and lets him speak or not speak. Drinks the same as he always has, like it’s just another Thursday.

Mattheo leans back, glass balanced on his knee, firewhisky burning down into the pit of something he hasn’t named yet. The cushions under him dip like they’re caving in from the weight of all the words he won’t say.

Theo breaks the silence again, voice low but not soft. “You ever think we peaked in sixth year?”

Mattheo snorts. “I peaked in fourth, mate. Back when I still thought I was fucking invincible and didn’t know what it meant to be gutted sideways by things you can’t punch.”

“Mm,” Theo hums, tilting his head. “I miss when the worst thing we had to worry about was detention.”

“Now I gotta worry about whether I forgot to take the bins out and if she’s gonna come home pissed about it.”

“She usually pissed about it?”

Mattheo’s silent for a beat too long. Then, flatly: “She’s not usually anything lately.”

Theo nods, just once, like he understands, because he does, he always fucking does.

Mattheo shifts in his seat, tilting his glass in his hands like it might tell him something if he stares hard enough. “You ever feel like you’re—” he stops. Swallows, then tries again. “Like you’re… giving so much of yourself to someone that there’s not even anything left to miss when they don’t notice?”

Theo raises a brow, not surprised by the half-confession, but not pouncing on it either. “Yeah.”

Mattheo exhales. It’s not relief. It’s more like… confirmation. That this ache, this raw, bone-deep hollowness isn’t unique, isn’t special, isn’t even interesting. Just another fucking casualty of caring too hard.

“You ever say anything about it?” he asks, voice quieter now, but not weaker. Just less performative.

Theo laughs, sharp and short. “Fuck no. What good does it do? You either say it and scare them off, or say nothing and rot from the inside out.”

Mattheo lets out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Cheery, aren’t you.”

“I’m drinking with you, aren’t I?”

They clink glasses without ceremony. The sound is dull, like the whisky knows it’s not celebration but survival.

Mattheo stares down into the amber, watching it slosh against the sides like it might spill all the things he’s too much of a coward to say. And he is a coward, though no one would dare call him that to his face. Not when he’s always been the firestarter, the mouthy one, the first to throw a punch and the last to back down. But when it comes to you? He folds like a paper bag, like one sharp word might split him clean through the middle.

“I think I broke something,” he says suddenly, gaze still fixed on his drink.

Theo tilts his head. “What kind of something?”

“Dunno.” Mattheo shrugs one shoulder. “Something inside me. Feels like there’s this… noise all the time. This pressure. Like the inside of my chest is gonna collapse under it. Like if I breathe wrong I’ll fall apart.”

Theo watches him for a second, then offers, “Could be your ribs.”

Mattheo gives a weak laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re such a prick.”

“And you’re dramatic as fuck.”

“Says the bloke who wrote a sonnet after that girl dumped him in fifth year.”

“That girl had cheekbones carved by angels and smelled like cherry pie. Show some respect.”

Mattheo smiles, despite himself. Not because he’s okay or because he feels better, but because this — this banter, this brutal kind of loyalty masked as sarcasm— is the only kind of safety he’s got left.

“Thanks for coming,” he says finally, not looking at Theo.

Theo nods. “You’d do it for me.”

“Yeah. And I’d mock your heartbreak the entire time.”

“Obviously.”

They fall silent again, but it’s easier now. Less like drowning.

Mattheo leans back against the couch, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fluttering shut. He can still hear your cat pawing at the edge of the hallway, somewhere near the closed bedroom door. He knows exactly where she’ll curl up when she gets back. He knows she won’t come to him first. He knows he won’t say anything about it, about how you don’t come to him first either.

He’ll stay quiet. He’ll stay still. He’ll let it fester like a wound wrapped in silk.

Because saying something would make it real. And if it’s real, then he has to admit that this version of love — the one where he’s always last, always small, always too much and not enough all at once — is the only kind he’s ever known.

And if he loses this?

He’s not sure there’s anything left worth being. So instead, he’ll cling on as long as he can. Who knows if he’ll ever find anything better?

Time passes until he’s not sure how late it is, the hours blending together like chalk left out in the rain. Somewhere between his nth drink and Theo’s incessant babbling, the sound of the front door unlocking cuts clean through the air.

Your laugh filters in first, bright and bubbly. Something about it makes his stomach twist, because it’s not for him; it hasn’t been for a while.

Mattheo sits up straighter, suddenly too aware of how much he’s had to drink. His pulse stutters. You walk in a moment later, eyes sparkling, coat still half hanging off your arms like you rushed home in the middle of a story you couldn’t wait to tell.

“There you are,” you say, breathless. “Oh my god, baby, you’re not gonna believe this.”

His heart stumbles again at the word baby. You haven’t said it in days — maybe weeks — but now it’s casual, light, tossed out like a sweet nothing instead of a tether back to him.

You spot Theo on the couch and smile. “Oh, hey, Theo.”

Theo nods. “Hey.”

Mattheo’s mouth curls upward, slow and tentative. For a second, all he sees is you. The version of you from months ago, when you used to walk in the door with that look in your eyes and fall into him like home. You’re glowing now, lit from within by whatever you’re about to say, and fuck, he lets himself believe, just for a moment, that maybe it’s about him. That maybe you’ve remembered him again. That maybe he still matters.

You laugh, tossing your bag onto the floor, and sit beside him, cupping his jaw with both hands and pressing a kiss to his lips like it’s still the most natural thing in the world. He melts into it, eyes closing, body sighing against yours like it’s been waiting all night for this moment.

Then you pull back, grinning. “I said yes.”

He blinks. “What?”

“To Spain. The study abroad program. My friend Daphne and I — remember, I told you about her? — we’ve been talking about it forever. And today, we just looked at each other and went, ‘Why the hell not?’ So we signed up. We’re going next term.”

It takes him a second to process the words. Another to feel the floor tilt beneath him.

You’re still smiling, proud of yourself, waiting for him to join in your joy.

And he wants to. Fuck, he wants to.

But all he can hear is the shatter of something delicate breaking inside his chest.

“You… what?” he says slowly, blinking. “You signed up?”

“Yeah,” you say, eyes sparkling. “Isn’t it crazy? I wasn’t even planning to do it, but it just felt right.”

He stares at you, blinking once. Twice. The smile doesn’t come back this time.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m telling you now,” you say lightly. “It all happened so fast.”

Mattheo forces a tight breath through his nose, jaw working. “Did you even think about me?”

Your face falters slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, and his voice is rawer now, frayed at the edges like old rope, “you made this massive fucking decision — one that changes everything — and I wasn’t even in the room for it. Not even a conversation. Just… you and Daphne going ‘Why the hell not?’ like it was booking tickets to a bloody concert.”

Theo shifts slightly, rising from the couch. “Right,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m gonna go ahead and, uh, not be here for this.”

Neither of you look at him as he leaves. The door clicks shut behind him and the silence that follows is dense. It wraps around Mattheo’s ribs like iron.

You sigh, the kind that sounds like it’s been waiting to happen all day. “I didn’t think I needed to ask permission.”

“I’m not saying you needed permission,” he replies, voice quieter now, but colder. “I’m saying I thought we were a we. And I guess I was wrong.”

You frown. “Mattheo, don’t do this. It’s an amazing opportunity.”

“I know it is,” he snaps, then winces and runs a hand down his face. “But I’ve been sitting here for weeks wondering if I’m even in your head anymore, and then you come home smiling like the sun to tell me you’re fucking leaving. And I wasn’t even a passing thought on the way to the decision.”

You look at him, softer now, but not in the way he needs, not with the urgency he craves, not like he’s the thing you miss when you’re gone.

“I didn’t think you’d care this much,” you say finally.

And that is what kills him.

Because he has never cared about anything more.

Mattheo swallows it down, lets it burn on the way to his stomach like the firewhisky still warm in his veins. He nods slowly, then stands up without a word and disappears down the hall

You call after him once, quietly, but he doesn’t answer. He’s already in the kitchen, filling the cat’s bowl, hands shaking slightly as he listens to the soft mewling by his feet. And it’s that — the goddamn cat — that triggers it.

Because last winter, you brought her home shivering and tiny, wrapped in a scarf you’d stolen from Mattheo’s drawer. You’d fed her with an eyedropper every three hours like she was a child. He remembers you laughing when she curled up in the crook of his elbow for the first time.

“See?” you’d whispered, like it was some profound truth. “She knows you’re safe.”

He stares at the cat now, blinking hard. She nudges against his leg like nothing’s changed.

But everything has. Everything is.

You come after him a few moments later — he hears the soft tread of your feet against the wood floor, the tentative way you stop at the doorway like you’re not sure if you’re supposed to enter.

He doesn’t look at you, just crouches down beside the cat, scratching gently behind her ears while she eats, her tiny pink tongue darting rhythmically into the bowl like she’s unaware that the air is thick enough to choke on.

“Mattheo,” you say, quiet. “Can we talk about this?”

He lets out a breath that feels like it deflates something inside him as he stands back up, deliberately keeping his eyes off yours. His voice, when it comes, is low and tight. “Sure. Let’s talk. Now that the ticket’s booked and your bags are already half-packed.”

You cross the threshold slowly, arms folded like you’re trying to shield yourself from something. “Mattheo, please.”

He wipes his hands on a dish towel, not because they need drying, but because he needs something to do before he turns around and sees your face. Because he knows the moment he looks at you, he’s going to feel it all over again. The ache, the hope, the slow realization that maybe he’s been more alone in this relationship than he ever wanted to admit.

Still, he turns. And when he sees you — eyes wide, arms crossed over your chest like you’re cold or nervous or both — it hits him like it always does. That gut-deep devotion that refuses to die, even when it’s being starved.

“You didn’t even think about me,” he says again, quieter this time. Not accusing. Just… hurt. Bone-deep hurt. “That’s what kills me.”

You shake your head, stepping closer. “That’s not fair. It’s not like I’m moving to Spain forever. It’s one semester. Five months. It’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” he repeats, and there’s a bitter edge to the laugh that leaves his throat. He tilts his head slightly. “You didn’t think about what it would do to me. Not once. You didn’t think about how I’d feel waking up in a bed that smells like you, in a flat that echoes without your footsteps in it. You didn’t think about how I’d spend the next four months pretending I’m fine while you’re off drinking sangria and forgetting I exist.”

“I’m not forgetting you,” you say, voice a little sharper now, defensive. “You’re being dramatic.”

He laughs again, harsher this time. “Yeah. I guess I am. Must be all the fucking firewhisky.”

You glance at the half-empty glass on the counter. “Maybe you should stop drinking.”

“Maybe you should’ve told me you were leaving before you already packed your goddamn suitcase.”

That silences you. He watches the way you flinch, just barely, and it makes him hate himself a little more, because he never wanted to be cruel to you; he just wanted to matter.

You take another step toward him, arms still folded, like you’re bracing yourself. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“I am happy for you,” he says, voice breaking around the edges. “But I’m also fucking heartbroken. Do you get that? Can you even hold both of those things at once, or is it just easier to pretend I’ll be fine no matter what you do?”

He can feel the frustration building under his skin like pressure in a pipe, threatening to burst. But underneath it, worse than all of it, is the fear. The slow, creeping terror that this is just the beginning of the end. 

“You didn’t talk to me,” he continues, hands flexing at his sides. “You didn’t even ask if I’d be okay with it. You just… made the choice.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” you say, voice rising a little now. “You’ve never made me feel like I couldn’t do things on my own. I thought you’d be proud of me.”

“I am proud of you,” he bites out, because of course he is. That’s the sick part. That even now, even as he’s drowning in the weight of being left behind, he still wants you to fly. “But I’m not made of fucking stone, alright? I’m not some goddamn statue you keep on your shelf to cheer you on from the sidelines. I’m your boyfriend. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to matter enough to be part of the decision.”

You look down, suddenly quiet. He swallows hard.

Silence stretches again. The cat meows softly, as if trying to bridge the void.

You stare at him. He can see the tears swimming in your eyes now, but it doesn’t undo what’s already been said.

He shakes his head and leans back against the counter, running a hand through his hair. “You used to tell me everything. Now I’m lucky if I get leftovers. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve been trying to not be that guy. The clingy, jealous boyfriend who can’t handle his girl having her own life.”

His eyes meet yours, bloodshot and bright. “But fuck, love. I didn’t think I was completely disposable.”

“Mattheo, you’re not—”

“Then why do I feel like I am?” he cuts in, and it’s louder than he meant, harsher. “You didn’t even consider what it’d mean for us. What it’d do to me. You didn’t think, ‘Oh, maybe I should talk to the person I come home to every night before I decide to vanish across a continent.’ You just decided. Like I’m some guy you’re dating, not... not me.”

You look down, and for a moment he thinks you might apologize. That maybe you’ll reach for him, finally. That maybe he’ll feel like yours again, instead of some antique you pass by daily without noticing the dust collecting.

But instead, you say, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

And maybe that’s what wrecks him most. Because you didn’t mean to. You just did. Like it was easy, like hurting him was just a side effect you forgot to list on the bottle of whatever freedom you’ve been chasing lately.

“I know,” he says, voice barely holding together. “You just didn’t think about me at all. And I don’t know which is worse.”

“I just thought—” you pause, struggling to find the right spin, the safe angle. “You never say much when things are bothering you. I figured if there was something going on, you’d have said something before.”

“I don’t say things,” he repeats, letting the words echo in the space between you. “Right. And what, that means I don’t feel them?”

You flinch, ever so slightly.

Mattheo’s hands come to grip the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles going pale. He’s trying not to let it spill, but it’s close. He’s spent so long swallowing every sharp edge that his throat feels permanently bruised from it. And now, there’s blood on his tongue and no way to pretend he can’t taste it.

“I don’t say things,” he says again, quieter now. “Because every time I’ve opened my mouth to ask someone to stay, they’ve left anyway. Because I learned a long fucking time ago that needing someone is a liability. So yeah, I didn’t say anything. But don’t mistake that for not caring. Don’t twist my silence into apathy. You’re not the only one who matters here.”

He watches the way you absorb that. The way your eyes dart, the way your mouth opens, then closes again, like maybe you didn’t realize how far he’s been falling. 

The cat hops up onto the counter and purrs by his back, utterly unaware of the storm between the two of you. Mattheo reaches around and scratches her behind the ears, the movement grounding, automatic.

Mattheo’s voice is quieter now, but there’s no softness in it, just weariness. “You didn’t even ask me to come with you.”

You flinch. You weren’t expecting that.

His laugh is bitter. “Guess you didn’t think I’d want to.”

“Would you?” you whisper, barely audible.

He meets your eyes, and there’s something hollow in him now, some void that’s widened and finally swallowed the last of his hope. “I’d follow you anywhere,” he says. “That’s the problem.” 

He doesn’t know how to tell you that you’re still everything to him. That he still waits for your messages like a schoolboy, still sleeps on his side of the bed even when you don’t come home from hours. That he notices the way you’ve stopped wearing his hoodies. That he’s counted the times you’ve kissed him in the last week and still has fingers left over. That he finds your name engraved into every mundane object he sees. 

That he’s got ways to find you any and everywhere.

The silence returns, heavy and absolute. You take a step forward, like you might close the gap between you, but Mattheo steps back.

It’s not out of anger, not meant to punish you. Just... self-preservation. What little of it he has left, anyway.

He swallows hard, voice rough. “You’re gonna do what you want anyway. I just wish, for once, you’d wanted me enough to factor me in. You used to want me. I’m not even a priority anymore.”

You’re still, eyes shining with something you don’t say.

But he’s not waiting anymore. Not tonight.

He turns from you, opens the cabinet to pull down another glass. “You want a drink?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Mattheo,” you murmur. “I love you.”

He gulps down what’s remaining in his cup, then lifts his gaze and stares at you for a long moment. Your words should be enough; for most people, they would be enough.

But love without presence, without consideration; it’s like flowers growing in a room with no light. They bloom for a while, but they always die in the end.

“I know,” he says.

And he does. You love him in the way people love things they’re used to. Love the old songs they don't play anymore, love the sweater that sits untouched in the closet. It’s love, but not the kind that stays.

Eventually, he hears your footsteps retreat. The door to the bedroom clicks shut a moment later, soft and final.

Mattheo stays in the kitchen long after that, staring at nothing, the cat curling up by his feet like a cruel reminder of what used to be.

He pours the drink, slow and steady. Not because he wants to forget.

But because remembering is killing him.

© lushleona 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

reminder that reblogs, feedback, and comments are very appreciated and make me smile :)

a/n: completely unintentional but a line somewhere in here also reminded me of the song scared of my guitar by olivia rodrigo so there’s that too </3 this is not fully edited and i’m tired so i’m sorry if it’s kinda shitty :’)

[contract-crawdad]

Look Outside epilogue thoughts!!

You know the Shovel Knight ending credits? Where you get a little epilogue vignette for each area? The following are my thoughts for if Look Outside had something like that, probably more like one still image, where you get to see how the choices you made effected certain characters.

Spoilers for… well, pretty much everything in the game down below!

No Going Back/Flawed Ritual/Screaming Skies

The following occur regardless of which of these three endings you get. Basically, any ending in which the world isn’t perfect but there IS still a world for people to keep living in!

- Lyle

If you killed him, it’s just a shot of an empty dilapidated dark room.

If you peeked during the second kiss, Lyle is in the dark room, tearing up pictures of Sam.

If your relationship with Lyle was good for the whole game, he finally unveils his ‘big project’: a collage of Sam, made entirely out of pictures of Sam!

- Jeanne

If you didn’t help Jeanne, her heads are continuing their feeding frenzy. She looks dead ahead, with a catatonic stare.

If you killed her main body, the room is full of lifeless hydra heads. Though the ‘Jeanne’ head is giving a relieved smile, even in death.

If you took out all the feral heads, Jeanne’s main head is chatting with Hellen and Leigh in Mutt’s Fish n Chips (extending down from a hole in the ceiling).

- Frederick

If you fell for Green Frederick’s trick, he’s enjoying having the apartment space all to himself… and painting more green clothing items with the implication that he’s going to use them to do the same thing he did to you to more people.

If you sided with Wriggly

Frederick, he’s trying on Fred’s clothes in the mirror, posing proudly. A single tear rolls down his cheek.

Deciding not to put tumor Frederick out of his misery reveals that he’s grown up and through the apartment ceiling. And will presumably only continue to grow and suffer further.

Leaving Bright Frederick as the last shows that he converts the studio into a clinic to help those still recovering from the Visit. He’s tending to multiple patients at once.

Letting Bitey Frederick alone shows him painting a sign that reads ‘WARNING: KEEP AWAY! All shows affection are appreciated but best performed remotely’.

If (for some reason??) you choose to leave only Black Frederick alive, it has smashed the paintings the other Fredericks got returned to.

If there are no other Fredericks than Shy Frederick left, he is seen peeking out of the door to the studio and into the hall.

Frederick the Many is using his many heads to eat cereal, read a newspaper, type at a computer, and smoke at the same time. Livin’ the casually life. Still can’t find clothes that fit him, though.

If you fell for Faceless Frederick’s ruse, his blobby paint form is pondering which face to wear from a large collection of newly acquired faces. Some of the faces are familiar.

If you saved the real Frederick, he’s burning a pile of his paintings.

- Mr. Henderson

If you haven’t paid off your rent, the outside of Mr. Henderson’s apartment has barbed wire creeping along the ground outside it like ivy, as if the spatial anomaly within it is spreading.

If you have paid off your rent, a blue hand is seen hanging a ‘NO LEASE’ sign on the door.

- Rat Baby

If you sacrificed the baby rat to the wall mouth, you just get a shot of the now-empty crib. The music box slowly winds to a stop.

If you instead sacrificed an arm for rat baby, you get a shot of them in front of the apartment door, waiting for Same to return. If you have recruited them, Joel and/or Sophie are also present and comforting the rat.

Denial Ending

The best of the best! Where do people wind up in a positive future that has fully recovered from the Visit? All of these are assuming that the character in question is alive, and replace the respective ‘best’ paths in the other endings.

- Lyle

Becomes a world renowned ‘landscape’ photographer. Almost exclusively photographs landscapes containing earth’s protector, for some reason. Yes, he’s awkward if pressed about it.

- Jeanne

Attending a support group with other warped individuals, such as the folks from the sewer settlement and the cafe! Hellen, Lyle, Frederick, and Leigh are also there. Leigh looks like she’s so bored that she wants to die.

- Frederick

If you saved Frederick and let all the other nonhostile Freds live (well, the ones that WANT to live, anyways), you get a shot of all of them having a good time together playing poker.

- Mr. Henderson

The small group of somewhat lucid hand-mutants inside Henderson’s warzone are seen exiting his apartment, confusedly taking off their military gear.

- Rat Baby

Being sent off to his first day of school by one of Sam’s tendrils. The tendril is waving.

[iwantwillwoodasmytherapist]

My ailen-ized Jonny design is finally here!

Thank you @gizm0-gadgetz for the ring hc! As I said, the stories/descriptions for each ring will be added below! I know this probably isn't the best design I could've made, but I still had a lot of fun making it so in the end that doesn't really matter:3

TS's ring

The ring TS made for Jonny is a beautiful handcrafted ring made of dark carefully polished wood, thin steel wire, and small rubies edged into the cracks to bring it all together. Nobody knows where it gat the tools to make it, and when later asked how it had made the ring is showed no interest or skillset in the art of jewelry making.

Ashes' ring

The ring Ashes commissioned for Jonny is made entirely from the most precious metal of a planet they had long since burned down together. It's plain from the outside, but the inside depicts carved images of playing cards, alcohol, and shot glasses.

Tim's ring

The "ring" that Tim had given Jonny shortly after becoming immortal is actually just barbed wire wrapped onto itself and bound together to make a ring like shape. Jonny shot him for it, but he still wore it. Besides, Tim made it too loose, so it's not like it it hurt too much. Tim has since given him an actual ring (a thin gold clamp bracelet, simple in design and not particularly expensive, still pretty though), though Jonny still keeps the old one in his room

:readmore:

Raph's ring

Was originally an experiment to see what Jonny would do with a more delicate piece of jewelry. It was a nice bead necklace, pinkish white with a ruby centerpiece.

She expected him to give it back saying it'll just break, to destroy it immediately, or to hide it somewhere in his room never to be seen again- what she did not expect, was for him to wear it along with the others, protect it from damage in battle, and to dispare when it finally started losing beads.

Brian's ring

Brian didn't have much materials going in, only the ones he uses for his own repairs. His ring is made out of fine wire and a scrap of metal positioned to hold it all together. He's still kinda disappointed with it, but it's hard to work with daunty big metal hands.

Marius's ring

Marius had absolutely no idea what to get Jonny, but he still wanted to partake in "decorating the cat" (in his own words) so he just tried his best to find something expensive and shiny! He ended up with a chunky silver bracelet that depicts inky black tentacles holding up the emeralds imbedded into it.

Nastya's ring

Was once the cuff of an old jacket she had, when the jacket itself fell apart, the took the cuffs and fashioned them into matching bracelets for her and Jonny. It's millions of years old now, tattered and moreso the strings holding it together than the bracelet itself, but he still wears it on top of all the others.

Ivy's ring

Once when they were planetside, she went into a ruined jewelry shop and calculated which one Jonny would like the most. She ended up with a simple gold chain bracelet with a smaller offshoot chain to attach charms on. She picked out a tiny book charm to represent herself, and a feather pen to represent his overdramatic monologues that he enjoys writing so much.

[goodbye-hurtles]

To whom it may concern:

On the bad days

when the door looks like an open maw

and the light from the sun burns images

into your retinas that you’d rather forget;

When the wind feels like knives

and the rain soaks you through

even as you stand dry under the shelter

of an umbrella;

When the screams you know are hidden

and the muffled crying echos

down the dark halls;

When time feels as if it is simultaneously in molasses

and white river rapids,

throwing you deep to drown;

When hands make you itch

and touch makes you sick

as if their skin are made of poison ivy

and barbed wire;

When the anger is overtaken by the sadness

and the sadness is overtaken by despair,

and you lock yourself in the closet

holding still so no one knows you are there;

When you see the past

within the present

and very little future...

Remember that tadpoles grow funny little feet

before they lose their tail,

and migrating monarch butterflies avoid a mountain

that doesn’t exist anymore;

Remember that dogs and cats

love their favorite people,

and some caterpillars are fluffy

like teddy bears;

Remember that all things take

and many things give,

like the trees breathing so you can too.

Understand that those who hurt you

with their rough hands

and short tempers,

with their mocking voices

and stronger force...

They will die.

They will rot.

And you,

you can think

of those silly little frog legs

the love of a dog greeting a human

or a cat kneading bread

and those fuzzy caterpillers

or that mountain that does not exist

as much more important than they ever could be

to anyone ever again.

[crimsons-whump-pile]

what about intentionally painful restraints? barbed wire, or even thorny and irritiating vines? i know from experience that greebriar is an itchy painful mess of enough thorns at the base to look furry, and as you go up the thorns have more space between them, but they are huge, sharp, and get through leather gloves easily :D

ICONIC!! I know barbed wire is the classic one, but thorny vines is something I’d never even considered before! though now that I think about it, vines of poison ivy, oak, sumac, or hogweed could also be fun, especially for the aftereffects of having them pressed against whumpee’s skin for so long…

[encryptidarchivist]

woe, devon and val art dump be upon ye

click for better quality, tumblr’s going to crunch my aesthetically pleasing arrangement of these so bad

[encryptidarchivist]

:DD thank you!!

i’m having such a good time with it, it’s so interesting to think about how a character interacts with fear and devon and valerie actually fit sooo nicely into the tma universe

the lore has been expanded upon since i sent you this ask if you want to hear more about it :] i can also tell you about the dark fantasy knights au. oc hyperfixation so bad i had to go and make multiple alternate universes haha

hello i’m here to ramble a bit about tma universe devon and valerie

i don’t have any art yet or that much of the lore but i can tell you the valerie is spiral aligned and devon is an end avatar. i haven’t decided exactly where val falls on the spectrum from spiral victim to spiral avatar but seeing as her greatest fear is losing control of her actions and reality and thus hurting someone probably not a full avatar. end!devon can tell when people are going to die soon (oliver banks style) and “read” remains, seeing the last moments of a creatures life when they touch them. their bone collection is basically a library in this au

so yeah definitely more of this nonsense in the future. i’m so obsessed with these two. hope you don’t mind me appearing in your asks to infodump

YOOOOO THIS IS SICK!!!! i love the bone library idea thats so cool and silly!!!

and Valerie being a spiral victim is so fitting!!! i love assigning ocs fears this so so fun!! :D

[itsladykit]

Atypical, Ch. 16 - An outside perspective

Link: HERE

Summary: Twist pays an old friend a visit.

CW: Canon-typical references to murder/supernatural death, spiders, sexual innuendo (that goes over our dragon's head)

Twist paused outside the heavy gate. Though old and worn, the wood faded to grey by sunlight, it held firm against the steady wind. A barbed wire fence stretched to either side of it, adorned with ‘No Trespassing’ signs every fifty feet or so. A cow mooed in the distance.

He'd announced himself before he landed, but even he wasn’t foolish enough to risk surprising the residents of the distant cottage. Bending low, he plucked rhythmically at the thick lines of spiderweb that followed the fenceline.

Then he settled on his heels to wait.

It wasn’t long before a figure crested the hill. To an unfamiliar visitor, it would look almost like a woman on horseback. At first. Then they’d count the legs.

Most visitors turned back at that point.

Twist, however, wasn’t put off by the way she scuttled over the dirt road, forelegs pawing at the air to “taste” it. Or how she plucked at the draglines that covered the ground, using them to navigate—and to sense nearby prey. No, no. He wasn’t at all unnerved, despite the prickling at the back of his neck. In fact, he’d have waved at her if she could have seen it. They knew each other well enough now.

Besides, driders might prey on baby dragons, but he was long past grown. She was no threat to him.

“Lace!” he called when she was close enough.

She paused, forelegs grasping at the air as the wind brought his scent to her. A smile broke over her face, revealing the neat row of fangs behind her incisors. “Twisted! I thought I heard you, but—ah, the wind, you know. And it’s been so long since you’ve visited.”

If there was chastisement in her words, it was at least gentle. “Ah, yeah. Sorry, sweetheart. Been busy. All right ta come inside, or…?”

She paused, head tilted. Her eyes stared blankly over the windswept plain, unseeing. “I suppose,” she said with a shrug. Her grin turned sharp. “I told him to put on his veil, but as I said, it’s been so long since you’ve visited…. He may think it’s just the delivery boy again.” Not such a gentle chastisement now.

Still, it hit its mark. “Ah, darlin’. ‘M sorry. Lot’s been goin’ on. I’ll tell ya all ‘bout it over tea, yeah?”

Her head tilted. “I do love gossip,” she murmured. “What else have you brought me?”

He slung his pack from his shoulder, hefting it. “Edge’s sharin’ some ‘a his recipes with ya. But he wants yer recipe fer…” He fumbled the note out of his pocket. “Boodin no-war?” he said, stumbling over the foreign words.

She snorted. “Of course he does. And…the demon?”

“Fabric scraps, an’ a quilt fer ya.”

She perked up. “Fabulous! Is that it…?”

“Ya know I got books fer ya,” he said.

She opened the gate for him. “Well, then, what are you standing out there for? Come in, dearie.”

He chuckled. “Won’ wait so long next time,” he said, reaching out to catch her hand.

“You best not,” she said. She followed his arm up to his shoulder, then cupped his jaw with one hand so she could lean over to kiss his cheek. Pulling away, her smile dimmed a little and she said, more seriously, “It’s lonely for him, you know. I am marvelous company, of course, but…” She swallowed. “He misses being around other people. He won’t say so himself, but I know it hurts him, being so isolated out here.”

Twist winced. “I know, darlin’. I know. I wish….” He scrubbed a hand over his skull. “I’ll come by more of’en, yeah. Promise.”

“Hmm.” They started walking toward the house then, following the gentle slope down the hill. Her forelegs were busy, scenting the air and plucking the near-invisible draglines that marked their path. Her spinnerets added to the lines as they passed, laying down fresh markers.

The air cooled as they descended, the path now shaded by trees. They passed the first statue halfway down, the stone now so shrouded in ivy and lichen its features were obscured. Twist paused, but only briefly. The next two were obviously more recent. They stood close, crouched down and clustered together. Mischief was frozen on their faces, like they’d been caught mid joke. Dried flowers rested at their feet.

“I could get rid of ‘em, ya know,” he said as they side-stepped the statues. “So he don’ have ta look at ‘em at least.”

She sighed. “You know he won’t let you do that.”

“Yeah,” he said, chest aching, “Yeah, I know.”

They continued on in silence. The path wound circuitously through the woods. The brush was thick—intentionally so—but he caught glimpses of the cottage through the trees.

The path ended in a broad clearing, the trees cut back to make room for the extensive gardens. Even this early in spring, the tomatoes were starting to bear fruit. Cucumber vines and pea stalks reached toward the sky, climbing up thin bamboo poles. Blueberry bushes reached out with new green growth, and a spreading peach tree was just beginning to bear fruit. The air was alive with the hum of bees, their square white hives stacked amidst the vegetables. Chickens walked between the fenced off garden beds, scratching at the dust. A row of solar panels stretched along the rear of the house, tracking the sun. In the distance, goats and sheep bleated.

Pup, he knew, would be jealous—especially of the large greenhouse that dwarfed the cottage itself. The sight made Twist’s soul ache, though. The garden was beautiful and bountiful, but it was tended out of necessity, not desire. It wasn’t possible for them to be entirely self-sufficient, but they did their best to provide for themselves.

The last statue stood just outside the entryway. The stone was crumbling now, and the features had been smoothed by the elements. This one predated Lace, which was the only reason he’d managed to get so close.

Twist knocked and called out, “Heya, darlin’! Are ya decent?”

From above, a window opened and Lotus leaned out. “Decent? Not so boring as that, I hope.” A veil hid his features, the gauzy material weighted by coins to prevent any accidental exposure. “But you’re welcome to come in. Please excuse the mess.”

Twist offered a small salute and stepped inside, holding the door for Lace. The ‘mess’ as Lotus put it was nothing to his draconic eyes—he recognized a hoard when he saw it. The haphazard stacks of books, the nest of blankets, the scattered notebooks; it all felt like home to him.

Lotus hurried down the stairs to greet him. His arms and legs were bare, dressed as he was in only shorts and a crop top. Snakes slithered over his shoulders, wrapping his spine and ribs. They flickered in and out of existence, composed primarily of smoke and mana.

Lotus embraced him, pulling him down to kiss his cheeks through the gauzy fabric. Up close, Twist could see his eyelights through the veil, but only just. “It’s so good to see you!” he said, holding Twist by his upper arms. He looked him up and down, and though Twist couldn’t see it, he could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “Now, you have to tell me everything that’s gone on since I last saw you! Sit, sit—I’ll make tea.”

Lace cleared her throat and held out her hand expectantly. “Ah, right.” Twist passed the pack over to her. She slipped easily around the stacks, using her forelegs to navigate, and began sorting through the pack.

Lotus returned while she was laying out the books. He cocked his head and held one of them up, showcasing the lurid cover. “I believe we have this one, dear.” A snake slithered down his arm, wrapping the book before dissolving into smoke.

Twist snorted. “Right, yeah—almos’ fergot. Rus wants ya ta sign tha’ one for ‘im.”

He trilled softly. “Oh? I had no idea he was a fan.”

“Sweetheart, he’s a sex demon. ‘Course he loves yer books.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to give a special inscription—just for him.” He fished a fountain pen from the desk, blotting the ink before he opened the book. “Why this one, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Twist shrugged. “Dunno.” He tilted his head, scratching his jaw. “He was usin’ it ta make Pup blush fer weeks. Lotta fun fer ‘em, I—”

“Pup?”

Lotus was looking at him, pen frozen. Lace stopped sorting through the fabric, head cocked so she could hear him better. “Shit. Sorry, darlin’. Really has been too long. Si’down—I’ll tell ya. ‘S a long story, though.”

They sat, and he started talking. It wasn’t until he reached the part about Cash—finding him on the rock, losing his voice, trying and failing to get it back, Rus being so angry at him, at them—that he realized how badly he needed to talk about this with someone who wasn’t part of the problem.

When he was finished, Lotus just stared at him through the gauze. “Oh, dear,” he said, then got up to make more tea.

Twist nodded, falling silent to drain his cooled tea in one long gulp. When Lotus returned, he brought something stronger than tea with him. He splashed whiskey in each cup, before pouring hot water overtop. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he rasped, claws clicking against the thin porcelain. He’d lost control of his shape at some point, and his horns and claws were on full display. “I jus’…I don’ know what ta do.” He winced. “Sorry. Didn’ mean ta—wasn’ tryna dump all this on ya.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Ain’t fair ta ya, ‘specially when I ain’t seen ya in a while. How’re you doin’?”

Lotus laughed softly. “It’s—it’s been quiet around here. Same as always. Which,” he emphasized, “is a good thing. I’m afraid the only excitement we get out here is…” He looked out the window at the worn statue. From this angle, it was clear he’d been peeking in when he caught a glimpse of Lotus. “Unwelcome.”

Twist nodded. “Yeah. No news’s sometimes the best news.”

Lotus nodded. “My publicist bought another book, but…” He shrugged. “It’s nothing special.”

“Send Rus a copy anyway, darlin’. He’ll love it.”

Lotus leaned forward, hands folded under his chin. It drew the veil tight across his features, allowing Twist to see the faint glow of his eyelights through the fabric. He was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he asked, “Your guardian, he has a shrine, correct?”

“’Course. Been tryna draw ‘im to it, but…” Twist huffed. “He ain’t takin’ my offerings. Jus’ ignores ‘em. C’n hear ‘im in the trees, sometime. He’s watchin’, but….” He sighed. “He don’ wanna talk.”

Lotus nodded. He drummed his fingers on the table briefly, then said, “Heart’s blood. No god or demon I know of can resist that.”

Twist cocked a brow-bone. “Sweetheart, I ain’t gonna sacrifice someone on ‘is altar. Think it’d make ‘im mad more’n anything, anyway.”

Shaking his head, Lotus flicked his fingers, as if brushing the words away. “No, no. Of course not. I wasn’t suggesting you do. We’re monsters, though, and we have a distinct advantage—”

“Or disadvantage,” Lace murmured.

“—over humans.” Lotus glanced at her, but didn’t comment on the interruption. “We can summon our souls. That’s how you feed your vampire, right?”

“Yeah. Don’ see what yer gettin’ at, though. Tried offerin’ ‘im mana—he ain’t in’erested.”

“Mana directly from your soul is more potent than mana drawn from elsewhere.”

“Mana’s mana, sweetheart. Why’s it matter where it comes from?”

Lotus shook his head again, then laid his hands flat on the table, smoothing his fingers over the tablecloth. “Forgive me. This is…complex. I’ll try to simplify matters. So, yes—for you, for me, even for Edge, mana is mana and blood is blood. The source doesn’t matter.” He took a breath. “It’s different for spirits. A human’s heart is symbolic of their core being. Their life-force. For a monster, our souls are our cores.”

He spread his hands. “Symbolism is important when dealing with gods and greater demons. What is merely symbolic for us, here in the physical realm, is literal in the spiritual one. It’s why rituals are so important in rites of worship, rites of summoning. That’s why mana drawn from your soul—the very essence of your self—is more powerful, more significant than mana drawn from elsewhere.”

He sat back, then shrugged. “But, of course, I could be wrong. My...patron—” He paused a moment, taking a breath before he continued. “—was not a forest spirit. However, I think it’s your best shot of luring him out. If…if that’s truly what you want.” He paused again, watching Twist through the gauze.

Twist just cocked his head. He glanced at Lace, wondering if she understood what Lotus was getting at, but of course, she was busy running her fingers over the fabric scraps Rus had sent, sorting them into piles that made sense only to her. “Sweetheart, ‘course I wanna draw ‘im out. Kid needs ta give Cash ‘is voice back. ‘S the only way ta send ‘im home.” Even if his soul ached at the prospect.

Lotus took a delicate sip of his drink, careful to ensure the veil shielded his face. “With respect,” he said carefully, “I think you’ve gotten too comfortable with him. Your spirit, I mean. They see the world—see us; mortals and immortals, humans and monsters alike—very differently than we do. To him, taking your siren’s voice was nothing. But to Cash….”

“’S everything.”

“Exactly. Even if you manage to call him up, there’s no reason to believe he’ll give back what he stole.”

Twist stiffened. “He will ‘cause I asked ‘im to.”

Lotus sighed, and Lace chuckled. “You spend so much time in that shape, I forget you’re a dragon sometimes,” she said, “And then you say something so stupidly arrogant that I feel foolish for it.”

“Lace….”

“No, let ‘er finish,” he said, looking at Lace now. “You got sumthin’ ta say ta me, darlin’? ‘m listenin’.”

She shook her head, still sorting fabric. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just that you dragons—once you get to a certain size, you start thinking that nothing can ever harm you.” Twist swallowed, clenching his claws to control his temper. “The thing is, dearie, even if nothing hurts you, that doesn’t mean your little hoard is quite so invulnerable.”

“The fuck’s tha’ s’pposed ta mean,” he growled, smoke curling from his nasal aperture.

Lotus held up a hand. “Easy, easy. Lace, will you give us a moment, please?”

Lace sighed. “Really?”

Lotus looked to her. “If you can’t contribute positively to this conversation, then yes. Really.”

“Fine, fine. I’ve been meaning to check our perimeter anyway.” She stood, then offered Twist a mocking bow. “It’s been so nice talking to you. Tell Edge the secret is to cook the rice the night before, then let it dry out overnight before incorporating it into the sausage filling. Otherwise, it really is just a standard mix of blood, onion, salt, rice, and some smoked paprika. I imagine he’ll want to omit the garlic, of course.” With that, she took her leave—letting the door slam shut behind her.

Lotus sighed. “Forgive her, please. She only means to say that you are not as…vulnerable as some of us. And that may cloud your judgement when it comes to dealing with dangerous creatures.” He laughed softly. “Not many would risk stepping into my home, for example.”

“You wouldn’ hurt me, darlin’. I know that.”

Lotus nodded. “Never. Not intentionally, at least. But…” He spread his hands. “An errant draft could dislodge my veil. Something may startle me, causing my snakes to bite.” He lifted one from his chest, holding it between them as it coiled around his hand, slithering down his arm. “Even a dragon is not immune to that, my dear. There’s a reason that you haven’t allowed me to meet the others, correct?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. He looked away, suddenly ashamed. “Yer careful, sweetheart. Know that. Know ya wouldn’t….”

“But there’s a risk. You’re not willing to risk them, but you’re willing to risk yourself. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing; I appreciate your company, after all, and I would hate for you to stop visiting. I’m just…making an observation.”

“Alright. Tha’s fair ‘nough,” he said, then took a sip of his drink. The whiskey warmed him, like dragon’s fire in his mouth. “Wha’s that got ta do with the guardian?”

Lotus folded his hands under his chin again, cocking his head slightly as he stared across the table at Twist. “I think you misunderstand him. Or, at least, you aren’t seeing the full picture. He’s a forest spirit. Protecting his woodlands is…it’s more than just his duty. His whole being is shaped to that purpose. If that were all he were protecting, that would be one thing, but I believe he sees you as a part of his forest.”

Twist stared at him blankly, not quite able to connect the pieces. Lotus leaned forward. “Dear, he knows that it will hurt you to let Cash go. He’s keeping his voice from him so that you won’t have to suffer losing him.”

His mouth fell open. Then he shook his head. “No, no—no. I told ‘im—told ‘im we don’t keep people if they don’ wanna stay. I told him tha’. He knows it. He…”

Lotus reached across the table, wiping the mana from Twist’s cheekbone as it slipped from between the cracks in his skull. “I’m sure you did. But, frankly, that doesn’t matter to him.” He shrugged. “What’s a little kidnapping to keep his dragon happy? To keep his forest safe? To him, it’s nothing. Nothing at all. Do you understand, now?”

Twist held his face in his hands. “So even if I do draw him out…”

“You’ll have to prove that losing Cash won’t hurt you—” He whined softly, just at the mention. “—or that Cash will be staying whether he has his voice back or not.” Which, of course, Rus would never agree to.

Feeling defeated, Twist lowered his head to the table, claws scraping over his skull. “Fuck,” he rasped.

“Hmm. I’m afraid I have to agree. You are well and truly fucked, my dear.”

Head still on the table, he tilted his skull to look at Lotus. “Darlin’, d’ya think…maybe you might try talkin’ to ‘im?”

Lotus took a deep breath, primly folding his hands in front of him. “No.”

“Please? Ya know—ya know shit. Like the heart’s blood thing. Maybe you could—”

Lotus laughed, the sound bitter and sad. “I only know enough to get myself into trouble.” He caught another snake, letting it slide through his fingers. “I couldn’t even bargain properly with my own god, dear. What makes you think I can bargain with yours?”

Twist sighed again, running his claws over his skull once more. He knew better than to keep pressing. “So, wha’ do I do, then?”

Lotus shrugged and took another sip. “Tackle the problem from another angle.” Twist looked up at him, waiting. “Well, I don’t think we have much hope of convincing him that you won’t be hurt if Cash leaves, so we need to convince him that Cash is going to stay regardless. The main obstacle to that, of course, is—”

“Rus.”

Lotus nodded. “Exactly.”

“How the hell am I s’pposed ta do that? Rus hates ‘im. Has since the start. Thought maybe he’d cool off once Pup and Cash started gettin’ close, but….” He shook his head. “He’s gettin’ mean about it, now. ‘S causin’ sum hurt feelin’s. Pup ain’t talked ta ‘im in days, an’ Edge ain’t sleepin’ in his bed. Cash’s been sittin’ at the bottom of ‘is pool, won’ talk ta no one—only comes up ta eat.” He sighed, smoke curling from his nasal aperture. “I jus’…I jus’ wan’ everyone ta be happy.”

Reaching across the table, Lotus ran a hand over his skull. “I know you do, darling. I know.”

“Shoulda never brought ‘im home.”

“Then he’d be dead, dear.” He shook his head. “I know things are difficult right now, but I don’t think you made any particularly bad decisions—well. You really should have talked to Rus before installing the pool, and you should have been honest with him about it.” Twist winced. “You know that now, though, so we won’t dwell on it. Anyway, pool aside, I don’t think anyone has done anything wrong here. You wanted to save someone you care about, and Rus isn’t being unreasonable—”

Twist jerked out from under his touch. “Darlin’, I love ‘im, but…I don’ think he’s bein’ fair.”

Lotus cocked his head. “Oh?”

“He’s been stubb’rn ‘n jealous fr’m the start. Ain’t willin’ ta look past what Cash is ta see who he is.”

“Hmm.” Lotus clasped his hands and rested his chin on them. “Is that how you see it?”

“Well, yeah. How d’you see it?”

“I think that you invited someone very dangerous into your home—for understandable reasons, yes, but dangerous regardless. You don’t think Rus has a reason to be uncomfortable with that?”

Twist opened his mouth. Shut it. He huffed, dipping the tip of his claw into his whiskey. “All ‘a us ‘re dang’rous, sweetheart. Cash ain’t anymore dang’rous’n any ‘a us. Ain’t as dang’rous as you, fer one.”

Lotus snorted. “Perhaps. Considering you wouldn’t be willing to host me in your own home, though, I don’t think that’s really proving your point, now is it?” Twist winced, and Lotus took a sip of his drink. “Besides, intent is far more important in this case.”

He touched the tip of his phalange to the pad of his index finger. “Your Pup is a werewolf, but it sounds like he is a naturally gentle creature when he’s in his right mind. I’m sure he’d be horrified to learn he’d hurt anyone.” He held up another finger. “Rus is a sex demon. It’s his nature to feed off pleasure. While some can take it too far—and, of course, their reproductive cycle can be incredible traumatic—by and large, sex demons aren’t especially malicious. Rus in particular would never use his abilities to cause harm.” He raised another finger. “Vampires on the whole are more of a mixed bag, but Edge is not inclined to be deliberately hurtful or murderous.”

“Think he did more harm as a mortal, than he ever did as a vampire,” Twist said softly.

Lotus lifted his shoulders. “Perhaps. That’s a matter of perspective. My point is that Pup, Rus, and Edge may be capable of hurting people, may have even hurt people in the past, but I don’t believe any of them would have relished it. Cash, though…. Sirens drown people. Innocent people that haven’t so much as threatened them. I can understand why Rus would find it difficult to accept his presence in the household.”

Twist looked away. “Didn’ really think ‘bout that, ta be honest. Jus’…siren’s ‘re sirens. Can’t blame ‘em fer it. ‘S like being mad at the wind fer blowin’.” After a beat, he added, “’M a dragon, darlin’. Can’t say I ever gave much thought ta hurtin’ other people b’fore I started livin’ with ‘em. Used ta hunt down hunter clans, ya know? Kill ‘em b’fore they could kill more ‘a my kind. Don’ feel bad ‘bout it neither. Happy there’s less of ‘em nowadays, in fact.” He stared at Lotus, wishing he could catch his eyelights through the gauze. “Rus’ seen the arm’r I keep in the treasure room. He knows what I am, what ‘ve done. Why’s that any different’n what Cash’s done?”

Lotus tilted his head back, thinking. He stood, then, and started a slow circuit of the room. “Edge was a hunter, is that right? When he was mortal?”

“Yeah. So?”

Lotus paused in his circuit to look at him. “Do you think, if you’d met him back then, would you have killed him?”

Twist’s sockets went wide. “I.” His jaw snapped shut and a whine escaped him. He pushed away from the table, fresh mana dripping from his chin as his bones ached to shift shape.

“Easy, dear. Easy.” Lotus stood behind him, pressing on his shoulders. Twist shut his sockets as Lotus smoothed his hands up the column of his neck, then used his fingers to massage the base of his horns. “I’m not trying to upset you. I’m trying to make a point. You were able to see past what Edge was because—in the state he was in when you found him—he wasn’t in any position to harm you, was he?”

“Nah. He was…fuck he was mis’rable. ‘Sides, I didn’ know what he was—before—back then. If I had known….”

“You would have made different choices. And you probably wouldn’t have known enough to regret those choices.” Slowly, Twist nodded, and Lotus came to rest his hands at the juncture of his neck and shoulders. “The difference, darling, is that Rus has something to protect. Several somethings. Edge. Pup. You.”

“He don’ gotta—”

“Hush, now. Let me finish.” He squeezed Twist’s shoulders and rested his chin on his skull. He leaned forward, hugging him from behind. Twist shut his sockets while snakes slithered over his ribcage. One wrapped his neck, tongue flicking over his jaw before fading into smoke. “Rus is scared, dear. He’s scared of losing you. All of you. He thinks you’ve allowed a viper into your home, and he’s the only one that can see the fangs.”

“The guardian defanged ‘im, though. ‘Is voice is gone—he can’t hurt no one, now.”

“And that’s the only reason Rus agreed to this. What you need to do now is prove to Rus that he’s not a danger. Not because he’s been defanged, but because he has no reason to use them on you or yours. You understand?”

Slowly, Twist nodded. “Good. Now, close your eyes, love. Keep them closed, no matter what.” Obediently, he shut his sockets. Lotus pulled away from him, and he heard rustling at his back. A moment later, he reappeared, once more draping himself over Twist’s shoulders. Gently, he lifted Twist’s chin, fingers cupping his jaw. Bare bone brushed his cheekbone. “Keep them shut,” he reiterated, and Twist could feel his breath on his acoustic meatus, felt teeth against the back of his jaw, where the mandible joined the rest of his skull. Snakes wrapped his shoulders, and he could feel the flutter of a serpentine tongue over his other cheekbone.

Through his shut sockets, he saw a light flash and heard a whirring sound, but he never opened his sockets.

Lotus released him a moment later, and the snakes that wrapped him faded into smoke. It smelled sweet, like water lilies in summer. “You can open your eyes now,” Lotus said.

When he did, Twist saw that he was shaking a polaroid photo between his fingers. His veil was firmly back in place. He studied the picture for a moment, then nodded to himself. He retrieved the fountain pen and signed the back, scribbling in elaborate cursive. Once it was dry, he held it out. “Give that to Rus. I think he’ll appreciate it.”

Twist took it and his breath caught. Lotus’ face—his bare face—was turned toward Twist, but his eyelights, red and sultry, were focused on the viewer. Though his touch had been light in reality, in the photo it nonetheless looked possessive, commanding. The snakes that wreathed them both, their scales translucent in the flash, only added to the effect. On the other side of Twist’s face, a particularly large snake, its head hooded like a cobra, nuzzled his cheekbone in mimicry of its master. Twist swallowed. “You tryna start a fight, sweetheart?”

“You think he’ll be jealous?” Lotus asked. Again, Twist could hear the smile in his voice.

“’A me? Yeah, think he might be.”

Lotus chuckled. “Well, tell him if he makes uses of the photo, then I expect one in return. Fair’s fair, after all.” Twist cocked his head, uncomprehending. Lotus sighed. “Don’t worry about it, dear. Rus will understand and that’s the important thing.”

Slowly, Twist nodded.

“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”

[outsideyourhousewithaknife]

Visiting southern relatives is wild. On my weird step-step-grandfather's fence is a sign reading, "These dogs bite, these people shoot," but then in his entryway is a sign reading "welcome, friends!!" So presumably, if you survive the gauntlet of turkeys and chickens and rabbits and prickers and poison ivy and barbed wire and tar spills and random piles of garbage and fires and dogs and guns and questionably made moonshine and vaguely racist comments, you've become a friend and earned the right to enter the house. There's a lesson there somewhere. Maybe in the moonshine.

[sylviesparks]

HI! You can call me Ashi or Sylvie, I don't mind which!!

>I'm a digital artist, character designer, and storywriter who's always full of ideas!

>My main projects currently are:

THE BAT'S BELFRY: A fantasy/coming-of-age webcomic that follows the story of Margot Lilycrowe, a student attending The Donahue Institute for Sciences and Magic, who must navigate new friendships and experiences all while trying to save her entire realm from impending forces with friends and allies by her side. (2.5 years in development as of writing!)

KAZOO AND YOU: A horror/dark comedy project surrounding the mystery of the colorful puppet cast of Kazoo (With O'Malley and Lou), a late '70s television program that's been pushed into obscurity after its cancellation. Now nothing but alleged lost episodes, discarded merchandise, a long-abandoned and small theme park and a dusty, decrepit studio behind barbed wire and ivy, many are convinced that Kazoo may have a much bigger mystery lying deep beneath its surface of colorful characters and silly songs, but of course, it's all the mere speculation of a bunch of wannabe detectives and horror fanatics. Right…? (Nearly 2 years in development as of writing!)

HELLCHASER: A story blog that takes the reader along with fallen angel Azra Stormchaser as he tries to navigate his way out of the underworld Styx using the reluctant but powerful assistance and gifts from the 7 Pillars- Wrath, Pride, Greed, Envy, Sloth, Lust, and Gluttony, in order to find and expose the truth about Heaven, and hopefully stop the apocalypse in its tracks. (Nearly 2 years in development as of writing!) >That's about it!!! I hope you like what I've got to share, and thank you to all who've stuck around all this time to see what I've got in store!! ♥♥

[taylor-swift-bracket]

🎇Please reblog!🎇

Comment your favorite bridges!

Notable Bridges

(Under the cut)

evermore

champagne problems

Your Midas touch on the Chevy door

November flush and your flannel cure

"This dorm was once a madhouse"

I made a joke, "Well, it's made for me"

How evergreen, our group of friends

Don't think we'll say that word again

And soon they'll have the nerve to deck the halls

That we once walked through

One for the money, two for the show

I never was ready so I watch you go

Sometimes you just don't know the answer

'Til someone's on their knees and asks you

"She would've made such a lovely bride

What a shame she's f*cked in the head," they said

But you'll find the real thing instead

She'll patch up your tapestry that I shred

ivy

So yeah, it's a fire

It's a violent blaze in the dark

And you started it

You started it

So yeah, it's a war

It's the fiercest fight of my life

And you started it

You started it

tolerate it

While you were out buildin' other worlds, where was I?

Where's that man who'd throw blankets over my barbed wire?

I made you my temple, my mural, my sky

Now I'm beggin' for footnotes in the story of your life

Drawin' hearts in the byline

Always takin' up too much space or time

You assume I'm fine, but what would you do if I

marjorie

The autumn chill that wakes me up

You loved the amber skies so much

Long limbs and frozen swims

You'd always go past where our feet could touch

And I complained the whole way there

The car ride back and up the stairs

I should've asked you questions

I should've asked you how to be

Asked you to write it down for me

Should've kept every grocery store receipt

'Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me

Watched as you signed your name Marjorie

All your closets of backlogged dreams

And how you left them all to me

right where you left me

Did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen?

Time went on for everybody else, she won't know it

She's still twenty-three inside her fantasy

How it was supposed to be

Did you hear about the girl who lives in delusion?

Breakups happen every day, you don't have to lose it

She's still twenty-three inside her fantasy

And you're sitting in front of me

Midnights

Hits Different

I find the artifacts, cried over a hat

Cursed the space that I needed

I trace the evidence, make it make some sense

Why the wound is still bleedin'

You were the one that I loved

Don't need another metaphor, it's simple enough

A wrinkle in time like the crease by your eyes

This is why they shouldn't kill off the main guy

Dreams of your hair and your stare and sense of belief

In the good in the world, you once believed in me

And I felt you and I held you for a while

Bet I could still melt your world

Argumentative, antithetical dream girl

Would’ve Could’ve Should’ve

God rest my soul

I miss who I used to be

The tomb won't close

Stained glass windows in my mind

I regret you all the time

I can't let this go

I fight with you in my sleep

The wound won't close

I keep on waiting for a sign

I regret you all the time

You’re Losing Me

How long could we be a sad song

'Til we were too far gone to bring back to life?

I gave you all my best me's, my endless empathy

And all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier

Fighting in only your army, frontlines, don't you ignore me

I'm the best thing at this party (You're losin' me)

And I wouldn't marry me either

A pathological people pleaser

Who only wanted you to see her

And I'm fadin', thinkin'

"Do something, babe, say something" (Say something)

"Lose something, babe, risk something" (You're losin' me)

"Choose something, babe, I got nothing" (I got nothing)

"To believe, unless you're choosin' me"

You’re On Your Own Kid

From sprinkler splashes to fireplace ashes

I gave my blood, sweat, and tears for this

I hosted parties and starved my body

Like I'd be saved by a perfect kiss

The jokes weren't funny, I took the money

My friends from home don't know what to say

I looked around in a blood-soaked gown

And I saw something they can't take away

'Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned

Everything you lose is a step you take

So, make the friendship bracelets, take the moment and taste it

You've got no reason to be afraid

Anti-Hero

I have this dream my daughter-in-law kills me for the money

She thinks I left them in the will

The family gathers 'round and reads it and then someone screams out

"She's laughing up at us from Hell"