#more angst

[ghostbsuter]

I'm on the writing grind, you can see that I just finished rewatching the Teen Titans (2003).

Edit: Here is some art I did for Titan!Phantom

.・゜-: ✧ :-

(The end is near.)

Gripping the communicator, the bright yellow case with a cartoonish 'T' on top glared back at him.

(The portal was growing.)

He presses the button, the communicator switches on and he calls out.

"Phantom to Titans, do you hear me? Phantom to Titans."

The crackling sound came as a sign of connection, It didn't take any heavy weight off, however.

"Robin here, Phantom? Everything alright?" The soothing voice of Teen Titans leader answers him, and he suppresses a sigh.

"Robin," he bites his lip, the portal only growing.

The ghost zone is eating Amity and all just because fucking Vlad couldn't, for one ancient time, sit still.

"I—" a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he apologises with a wince. "You're gonna be really angry at me when you... find out."

Concern leaks through the voice as Robin speaks. "Phantom? What's going on?"

Thr screen on the communicator switches on and Robins brow knitted expression stares back at him.

It quickly changes, alarmed. "Phantom." The vigilante says. "Is Amity Park okay? Do you need backup?"

Always on the right track, dear leader. Danny shakes his head fondly.

"It's too late for backup," he admits quietly.

"Phan—"

"Just tell new members of me, okay?"

Danny doesn't let the other finish, giving a bitter smile before throwing the communicator on the ground, breaking it.

The familiar yet threatening green of the ghost zone welcomes him.

—

"Titans! Emergency call, Phantom got a situation!"

The bright red lights is enough for the rest of the team to flood to the common room.

"Rob?" Cyborg asks. "What's the situation?"

"We don't know!" The bird answers, stressed. He's pulling the audio and video recording of the call up to the monitor, replaying it for the team.

They don't figure it out until they are at Amity, landing with the jet and jumping from their seats.

Raven and Starfire fly ahead, and they all reach the border of Amity.

Or what of Amity remains.

Because–

The entire city is gone—!!

Complete annihilation.

(When robin finds out who did this, he will have words with them.)

"Robin," Raven waves them all over to her side. She's crouching, hand in a sphere of black, her magic. "Amity wasn't destroyed. It was relocated."

Her expression is grim. "Someone abducted a whole city."

All he does is nod, looking at the team before him.

"Someone call Herald, Titans, we got work to do. Our mission is to find Amity Park, Phantom, and save both." With sombre nods, they prepared for take off.

"Titans! Go!"

And they separate.

[tanglepelt]

Dp x dc idea 103

Danny is the biological son of who would of guessed it Bruce Wayne. He can be a clone/test then baby/one night stand. Whatever.

Danny was found out and caught by the giw. Poking and prodding around in him. Testing his blood overall he isn’t having a good time.

Imagine Bruce’s surprise when he gets an alert on the bat computer. He set it up to get an alert any time his, his kids and any blood family members dna gets run by the government.

[an-au-blog]

I came up with a bad idea...

cw: kidnapping, abuse, suicidal ideations

After Rodger gets killed people find out that Shanks and Buggy were on the crew and decide: since they're kids, they'll be easy catch. They couldn't catch Shanks because... well... he's Shanks but they somehow manage to capture Buggy. It wasn't easy and it involved sea stones but they managed. The problem was this happened after the crew fell apart and after they had their fight with Shanks. So no one was going to look for him.

For years they try to get information on the one piece from him. And for years he's endured torture and abuse. He keeps telling them he got sick and couldn't go, but I started sounding like a stupid excuse even to Buggy, so he stopped talking all together.

He had spent his entire adult life in a small (what he supposed is an) underground cell with no food and running water and with the sea stone cuffs on him at all times.

One day the door busts down. His captors have never been so aggressive. He balled up in the corner, trying to be as quiet as possible but the clanking of his cuffs from how much he was shivering wasn't helping. There was a heavy atmosphere that lifted as he heard the boots that walked in.

These weren't the boots of his captors.

"Buggy?"

That wasn't the voice of his captor either.

Someone else from the back shouted happily "He's here!"

Just as Buggy though he was taken by another greedy bunch, the man behind him scooped him up enthusiastically into a hug.

Buggy did his best not to show his pain from the sudden movements or the brushing across his wounds. But then he felt something wet land on his shoulder where the man's head was nuzzled.

"I've been looking for you. Oh, I'm so happy I found you, Buggy!"

He pulled away to look at his face, the red hair looked so familiar but he didn't recognize him. He learned to block out anything from his past as a trauma response. But there was water streaming down this smiling man's face. Buggy had been left without water for three days as a punishment for his silence. So it was almost on instinct that he tried to collect or drink it.

Seeing Buggy like this broke Shanks. But after he was fed and watered, Buggy seemed a bit better. He was malnourished and the place where his cuffs were left a huge dent in his skin. It made him wonder how he didn't lose his hands from lack of circulation. Every piece of food was devoured and treated like it would have been taken away at any moment. It hurt. It hurt seeing this. It hurt thinking Buggy was avoiding him and finding out from some drunk a month ago that he wasn't and that he was kept all these years. How horrible could he be that it didn't cross his mind that this could happen. That he had to search for his friend.

After being fed and taken to the ship, Buggy kept staring at the ocean with awe.

Shanks wanted to leave him be. He couldn't blame him after all what is a sailor without the sea. But just as he turned around he heard a splash. He had fallen in. Shanks jumped to save him. After coughing up the water, Buggy stood up and jumped into the sea again. Shanks fished him out once more.

"Stop that! What is wrong with you, you'll die!"

But Buggy just laid there on the deck with a slight smile and teary eyes.

In the next few months, whenever Buggy wasn't sleeping there had to be at least one person watching him. Just in case.

[halfa-failure]

Project idea har har har

[lavineyou]

A Twisted Bond: Trapped in the Depths of Manipulation

Warning: Angst? A/N: Might make more chapters of this if i manage to gain enough motivation to do so... I think y'all can see how i'm that bias towards Miranda LMAOOO okey enjoyyy hopefully? idk

You had been by her side for as long as your memory allowed. From the moment you emerged from a deep slumber, she was the first face you beheld. With her cold blue eyes, long flowing blonde hair, and a pallid complexion, she seemed like an ethereal being.

In those initial moments, she regarded you with a gaze that made you feel like a mere specimen in her grand experiment. And as if to confirm your suspicions, it didn't take long before she revealed that you were indeed a subject of her unsettling antidote injections.

Try as you might, resistance was futile against her overpowering strength. It was a harsh realization that struck you mere minutes after awakening.

As you reflected on those memories, a sigh escaped your lips. A decade had passed since that fateful awakening. Now, you served as her loyal subordinate in the village, functioning as her watchful eyes and attentive ears alongside the crows she strategically positioned throughout the area.

Unlike the lords who handled general tasks and experiments, you were assigned to the most specific and delicate missions she desired. Whether it was eliminating a troublesome villager, uncovering infidelity among the inhabitants, or acting as the messenger between the lords, you executed each task with unwavering obedience.

As you made your way home, a sense of weariness settled upon you. For the past nine years, you had resided in this modest abode. You vividly recalled the day when Miranda, your enigmatic overseer, had expelled you with the declaration, "It's time for you to prove your worth." Unconcerned with her words, you had forged your own path.

Walking through the village streets, you exchanged warm smiles and greetings with the unsuspecting villagers. To them, you were known as the helpful carpenter, a facade carefully crafted by Miranda to ensure your seamless integration into this community of unsuspecting lambs—lambs primed for her twisted experiments.

But beneath that veneer, you were a wolf in sheep's clothing, concealing your true nature.

As you approached your dwelling, the heart of the village, the familiar sound of wings flapping reached your ears. With a resigned sigh, you instinctively glanced upward, spotting a perched bird on your head. Taking hold of it, you entered your home, preparing for yet another encounter with Miranda.

Upon turning around, your eyes met the sight of the blonde woman who had haunted your thoughts. Standing before the wall adorned with pictures you had carefully arranged as decorations, she appeared lost in contemplation.

"I hadn't expected your return," you uttered softly, your confusion mounting. After all, she only resurfaced when she required something from you.

Minutes passed in silence before she finally spoke, her voice laced with a hint of annoyance. "I thought I had made my arrival quite clear," she replied, her brows furrowing as she tilted her head. Perplexed, you furrowed your own brows, struggling to comprehend her cryptic words. "Of course, you wouldn't have noticed. You were too busy mingling with that village girl instead of fulfilling the duties I had assigned you," she declared stoically, causing an uneasy gulp to rise in your throat as you lowered your head.

Anger simmered within her, and you knew it well. It was the wrath that consumed her when her desires went unfulfilled. Gathering your courage, you reasoned, "Mother, I have diligently accomplished everything on my list for today." You nodded, hoping to convey your commitment, but she hummed skeptically, still refusing to meet your gaze.

Her attention turned to a portrait of you and Elena, her eyes fixated upon it. "You're growing soft, Charlatan," she hissed, her words like venom. Bewildered, you raised your head, furrowing your eyebrows in protest. "I haven't..." you began, but she abruptly shifted her focus, her face devoid of its usual mask.

A scowl etched across her features, her eyes piercing into your soul like a thousand daggers. With an explosive motion, she hurled the portrait against the wall, shattering the glass and splintering the frame. "She's corrupting you, my dear lup," she spat venomously, referring to Elena.

Drawing closer, she seized your cheeks in an iron grip, her fingers digging into your flesh. Holding your waist, she pressed her lips against yours with a mixture of urgency and aggression—an expression of her seething anger. As you reciprocated the kiss, her hand slid from your cheeks to the back of your head, deepening the connection.

When she finally released your lips, your faces remained in close proximity. Opening your eyes, you beheld her, her eyes shut and her mouth slightly parted. With a heavy sigh, you rested your head against her shoulder.

This had become the routine in your life for years on end—an existence where you served as her plaything, a tool to further her control over the village, and a source of pleasure. Strangely, you found solace in this twisted dynamic, as if it were the only reality you deserved.

In your eyes, she was perfection incarnate. And despite yearning to build a life with her, to bring back her daughter and create a genuine family, you were painfully aware that such dreams were forbidden.

Because, in the end, you were nothing more than an experiment—a used tool, a discarded plaything.

[alternianavenues]

Tehatl and Hersha start talking. You don't really catch what they're saying from this point on. He nudges her shoulder, and that's when you catch it.

That stupid fucking ring.

You should've seen it coming. No, really. This is your fault for thinking the trolls around you could keep to one simple rule.

The three of you were friends. Only friends. Of equal agreement, you asked of them one simple thing:

No in-team quad-coddling.

No kismesii, no moirails, no matesprits. The three of you were on equal terms. You could quad-up with others sure, but.

Oh, who are you kidding. You shake the ash from your cigarette, turn on your heel, and walk right back out the apartment.

SS: where d¤⁠ y¤⁠u think y¤⁠u're g¤⁠ing?

SS: we're n¤⁠t d¤⁠ne.

AC: nah nah, : th:nk we are

AC: :ts f:ne

AC: :m sure u 2 paleb:rds w:ll f:gure :t out just f:ne on your own

AC: bes:des

AC: :m not look:ng 2 b a th:rd wheel on ur proverb:al tr:cycle r:de

CE: ww ..WHAT? ww

CE: ww WHAT IS HE.. ww

AC: ohhh

AC: :ts "what :s /he/" now?

AC: good 2 kno

SS: Jejrik.

AC: nah

AC: :ts cool.

[aoi-kanna]

Mermay 2022

:D

1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 5.1 - 6

Leviathantale by @skumhuu​

[eldritch-horror-from-the-void]

Imagine Maul living long enough to find out how Vader/Anakin died, and realizing that even the darkest of Sith can turn back to the light

[streamafterlaughter]

Fundamental Differing

nav | masterlist | playlist | pin board | chapter XVII | add to taglist

Chapter XVIII: I Gave My Life Away

pre warning: tags contain some non specific spoilers

warnings: 18+ MDNI mentions of a suicide attempt, alcoholism, narcotics addiction, depression. Adult content not meant for people under the age of 18. (spoiler for next tag!) Grinding/heavy petting, an inkling of smut. Angst, hurt feelings, heavy subject matter. reminder that this is fiction and i do not condone the actions of my characters! afab!gn!reader, they/them pronouns, rockstar!eddie, use of y/n lol i did not use y/n once!, pet names

a/n: i am… so sorry. that’s all i’ll say for now.

Disclaimer: I do not give permission to have my work reposted on other sites. Reblogs are more than welcome, but please inform me if you find my work elsewhere unless otherwise stated.

—

January 1991

Eddie’s POV

“Eddie? Eddie!” The voice is familiar, but too far away. He can’t see anything beyond a spinning figure, but he feels the harsh slapping on his face before someone drags him by his armpits into the bathtub. “Cmon, man, please.”

Then there’s water, and it’s cold, and Eddie’s trying to move but he can’t, he can only cough and choke as the shower spray gets into his nose and mouth.

“Oh fuck, thank fucking God.” Then there are footsteps, and Eddie’s hauled out of the bathroom on a stretcher, the frantic voice following closely behind.

-

Present Day

Eddie’s POV

“Ed, they’re looking for you. Two minutes.”

Eddie nods, waving the security off and turning back to her. “You’re still in Ohio, then?”

“Yeah, seems it. Nothing really goin’ on here, though.”

“Isn’t that kind of a good thing?”

She shrugs, her lips pursed. “Guess so, if it means you’re here.”

Eddie chuckles shyly. “Well, I should get moving, or Steve will have my head.

She nods eagerly, wrapping herself tightly around Eddie’s torso, causing him to shift uncomfortably. He hasn’t seen her since before, and he realizes now he’s not that person anymore. It causes his heart to skip with anxious energy.

“See ya.” She sends him a wink, and he waves as she turns on her heel to venture back into the crowd.

The security guard is still there, humming the chorus to Under The Bridge as it plays out of the house speakers, leaning against the wall as he waits for Eddie to finish with the pretty, dainty girl he’s with, and Eddie returns to him like a scolded child. “Alright, let’s go.”

“That your girl?” He asks, making small talk with the rockstar he has likely no interest in.

Eddie shakes his head. “God, no. A friend, maybe. Not even that much, not anymore.”

“Guy like you doesn’t need to dwell on that, man. Sure you got plenty of ladies lined up for a chance with you.”

He snorts, amused by this guy’s casualty. “You’d be surprised.”

The guard escorts Eddie all the way to the stage, where Steve is seething and huffing about, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Sorry, sorry. Ran into someone.”

Steve’s expression softens slightly at the mention. “Was it-“

“Yeah. But it’s fine, really. Civil, even.”

“Right. In that case, I’m still mad at you,”

“Sure, of course. Can we hold off on my discipline until after the show?”

Steve runs a hand through his hair, breathing deeply as if to prevent himself from taking a swing at Eddie. “Fine. Go.”

Eddie bows his head to thank him, and takes his place next to his bandmates, who’d been left waiting restlessly for their frontman, again. “Hey-“

“Shut up.” Jeff silences him. “Don’t wanna hear it.” And it’s fair. They shouldn’t have to listen to his excuses. He’s supposed to be working on himself, and all he’s managed to do is piss off the people that matter to him most. The house lights dim, and Eddie watches as the crowd grow feral, shoving toward the stage, shaking the metal barricades standing between them and the stage. His heart thumps in his ears, in time with the crowd’s eager chants of “COFFIN, COFFIN,” a command he’s inclined to obey. It drags him forward, led by his band onto the stage to present themselves to a mass of people that want to tear them apart.

The stage lights up with the first chord, and Eddie hears the audience beyond his monitor. He looks back to Gareth, who’s awestruck at the noise, then to Jeff who holds his hand over his chest, genuinely thanking these people for coming. Eddie wants to feel it, too. The warmth these people seem to offer his friends, but he’s somewhere else. He can’t get used to it, like he’s wearing shoes half a size too small. It makes him shift uncomfortably inside his skin, constantly feeling the eyes of thousands on him, relying on him, there for him. It’s then that he realizes he’s sober on stage, for the first time in five years.

He’d stuck to his word, now twenty four hours without consuming a drop of alcohol. He feels his chest tighten, like a hand made of knives has broken open his ribcage to squeeze his heart until it pops. His lungs will fill with his own blood and he’ll choke, he watches as it flashes before him, a panic stricken fantasy but Eddie wouldn’t say unrealistic.

His friends are looking at him. The crowd is calming with their increased confusion; a late start and now a strange, empty pause. He has to fill it. He can’t find you, and he’s taking too long, and it’s starting to confuse his band, so he shouts into the blackness “HELLO, COLUMBUS!” and the room combusts with the release of tension. “I am so sorry we’re late. Thank you for waiting. Let’s burn this fucking place down.” Gareth hits his sticks together, both a warning and a courtesy that there’s no stopping now, and Eddie rides the momentum. He nails every incoming note without thought, and he can feel the vibrations through the building, both of the music and the crowd. He gets the same rush he used to, when he was wide eyed and bushy tailed, younger and in love with the life of a rockstar. For a second, he feels it again, in the same place he’d felt the least alive at this time two years ago.

-

Your POV

“What the hell!” You stomp up to Steve, screaming over the noise of the stage into his face. “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Steve only smirks. “How does it feel, huh? To not have a fucking clue what’s going on? He’ll tell you. I can’t-“

“Blah!” You throw your hands into the air, “I get it, you can’t tell me. Just… who’s the girl?”

Steve’s smile only grows. “Are you jealous?”

You groan, more from exhaustion than embarrassment. “Of course I’m fucking jealous, Steve! Don’t play dumb! Please, don’t make me feel stupid.”

His face falls, and he grabs you by the shoulders, jolting you into focus. “You have nothing to worry about. That I do know.”

It’s not enough, but it’s all you’re gonna get. You can’t help but respect it, the commitment to keeping Eddie’s business to himself. Truth be told, Steve is probably dying to tell you. “It’s that big, huh?” He nods sadly, and you mirror him in understanding. “But he’s going to tell you. He’s gonna tell you everything, and it’s gonna be a lot to digest. So I’ll be here when he tells you.”

“Steve, you’re scaring me.”

He nods. “That’s my intention. You might not get the answers you want, but you’ll get answers.”

-

You watch the tail end of their set with your brain going in circles. What could Steve possibly mean, the answers you don't want? What answers do you want? Who’s the girl, for starters. But mostly, what happened, in the two years without contact? What made you so angry? You can’t imagine an answer heavy enough to break you, not off the top of your head. Whatever it is, you want it. Even if it’s just to understand Eddie a little more. Even if it means he can’t be with you. Even if it means you have to let him go.

“Thank you!” Eddie shouts after the final note of a song you couldn’t name. “Thanks for comin’ out, Columbus!” The crowd shrieks, ratting your brain inside your head. “And give it up again for DEATH DANCE APPROXIMATELY!” The crowd politely continues cheering, and a small girl next to you sends you a bright smile. “So, so grateful to have them on this whole tour with us, you have no idea.” Eddie laughs bashfully, out of character for him to do while on stage. It’s a small thing, something you shouldn’t have noticed, but of course you did. He’s nervous. You squint, as if it will help you read him better, and it doesn’t. “This is our last song, I wanna hear you all. Loud as you can, alright?” The crowd whoops, and Corroded Coffin start in on Sweetheart, and you almost choke on your tears immediately.

Eddie has always said the closing song is the most important. It’s the one freshest in their mind, the one that will stick with them the most. It has to be perfect. He’d never used Sweetheart as the closer, and it’s obvious Gareth and Jeff weren’t ready for it, probably assuming Eddie skipped it reading the setlist. Eddie’s voice shakes slightly as he sings, but it’s perfect. His eyes stay closed the whole time, and you desperately wish he’d open them, find you in the wings, and sing the words to you again. Like he had, any time you’d asked him to just because you could. You sing along, lose yourself in the lyrics for the first time in years, actually hearing the words meant for you.

And then it’s over, and they’re thanking the crowd and bowing, and walking off stage, and even though you know you’re gonna see it all again night after night, even though you have seen it tens of times already, you miss it. The feeling of a shrieking crowd feeling all of their feelings while you feel yours. The feelings you hope you can give to your own audience. You feel like a teenager seeing their favorite band for the first time, and you’d forgotten how good that felt.

Robin seems to appear from thin air next to you. “Hey!” She semi-shouts over the bustling crowd. “Are you crying?” It’s a question you should absolutely be used to by now. You hadn’t noticed this time, though. “Oh!” You sniff, wiping a tear from your cheek. “Yeah, guess I was. Not sad, though.” Not necessarily true, but for now a nonissue.

“We’re all goin’ out tonight.”

You shake your head. “I’ll catch up.” She frowns at you. “It’s okay! I’ll tell you everything I can after.”

The possibility of a gossip session soothes her curiosity, and she squeezes your arm before continuing to wiggle through the crowd. You follow her backstage, into the massive dressing area backstage, where Eddie sits with his bandmates in a circle of metal fold out chairs, each of them holding a beer. Besides Eddie, who fiddles with the label of his water bottle.

“Right!” Jeff pats Eddie’s knee as he speaks, “We’re goin’ out. celebrating our biggest show to date.”

It’s then that Eddie lifts his eyes and catches you staring. You don’t bother averting yours to the floor, already having been caught red handed. “Do you guys mind if I sit this one out? I uh, have a prior engagement.” The girl, you’re sure. The girl you have nothing to worry about, the girl Eddie knows in the nowhere state of Ohio. You chew on the inside of your lip until you draw blood, anxious and suddenly unsure of everything Steve had tried to warn you about.

“Yeah, man, of course. Come out if you change your mind, though.” With that, Gareth and Jeff exit the room, and your friends follow suit soon after, leaving you and Eddie alone.

-

Eddie’s POV

Now, I have to do it right now. “Hey,”

You face him, eyes wide with questions he so desperately wants to answer for you. Your hands are clasped tightly together, your knuckles white and arms flexed, jaw clenched. “You wanna get some coffee?”

Your nod is vigorous, and he holds his elbow out for you. You quickly latch onto him, and Eddie feels just how anxious you must be. He can’t imagine where your head’s at, with your nightmares and your constant, irritating habit of caring about him so much. He’s exhausting you, and all he wants now is to let you rest.

Eddie asks a remaining staff member to escort the two of you out the back way, and into the warmth of the summer night. “Is there even somewhere that sells coffee around here? Let alone somewhere that’s open?” You joke, and he chuckles.

“I guess I didn’t think that far ahead. Ah!” He points down the road, to the glowing 7-Eleven sign. “Onward!” You laugh, and it floods through Eddie, like it’s drenching his head in ice water, refreshing him. He’s since dropped his arm, but yours stays locked around him, like if you let go he’d run away. As if he’d ever think to do such a thing.

He breaks the thick silence finally, after several minutes of walking through it. “You uh, said you wanted to talk?”

You look up at him. “I did?”

“Yeah, uh, this morning? We didn’t really get the chance.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah I guess so. I just,” You shake your head, frustrated, “I have questions.”

“Okay,” Eddie shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. He wants to give you the answers. Finally, he wants to be completely open with you.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, shoot. I’ll answer your questions.”

“Any of them?”

“All of ‘em, sweetheart.” He can’t help it, he loves watching you shy away at the nickname, cute and soft, under all that armor.

-

Your POV

“Okay…” You have to be careful. One wrong move, and he’s shutting you out again. “Where’d you go tonight?” A subtle way to ask it, you think. Not accusatory, just curious, bordering on nosey.

“I ran into an old friend. From group.” You snap your neck, catching the words he says so casually.

“Group?”

Eddie nods, “NA-slash-AA.”

This is nowhere near where you thought this conversation would go. Every question you’d had crumbles at his answer. “What?”

“I’m more of a casual attendee, lately.” You feel your head fill up with more questions, and you’re drowning. “When did you-“ You’re expecting him to cut you off, but he waits. “When did you start going to meetings?”

Eddie looks to the sky as if to find the answer in the blackness above. “Early into 1991. There was still snow on the ground.”

“What um,” You’re walking the tightrope here, and you heed Steve’s warning. “What made you decide to go?”

Eddie looks at you again, his expression sad. “Had a really, really bad night.”

“What happened?” You ask, too quickly. It’s not fair, and you don’t have any right to know the answer, but Eddie snorts a laugh, like this news isn’t breaking your heart to learn. “Steve saved my life. I’m surprised he hasn’t divulged this story to you, even with the fact that I begged him not to tell anyone. Took me years to even tell the guys. I had gotten so bad, I didn’t care what happened to me. I was drinking myself to sleep every night, wallowing in self pity, barely able to function. I was worse than any time before. Worse than I was when you’d called me that night.”

“What night?”

“You were drunk, you probably don’t remember. Sometime in September of the year before, I’d been up all night trying, and you called me at home.” The memory comes back in a tidal wave. You’d just finished recording your EP, your first cohesive body of work, and with it had been signed to Sub Pop. Things had been looking up for you after cutting things off with him in July, but somewhere far away, Eddie had been drowning.

Before you can say anything, he continues, “Anyway, we were on a kind of hiatus as a band, had been for about a year at this point. I had nothing to get me out of bed before three in the afternoon, nothing to distract me from my pity party. I went out every night, drank until I couldn’t see, and did lines in the bathroom with people I didn’t care to know. I probably slept with six or seven different people a week, sometimes more. I couldn’t stop, because then I’d have to feel my feelings, and I was so afraid of them. One time,” He has the gall to chuckle, “after I got kicked out of a bar in New York for trying to fight the bouncer, I was so wasted and beaten that I fell asleep in my front yard with my pants around my ankles. Really glad I don’t have neighbors.”

It all pours out so easily now, like he’s telling you about his trip to the grocery store. “I uh, only got worse after that.” He stops, and you look up at him, waiting with wide, stinging eyes. “You sure you want me to keep going?” You nod. You don’t want to know, but you have to. As much as you suspect it’s gonna hurt, it means something that he’s finally willing to tell you.

He pushes forward. “On New Year's Eve of ‘91, I mixed whiskey and Steve’s Xanax. Way too much of it. Harrington found me passed out in the bathroom of my hotel room at around 1AM and called an ambulance. I'd written a note and everything.”

He pauses again to let you digest it all, and the silence sends a piercing ring through your ears. The words coming out of his mouth feel so far away, disconnected from the mouth they’re coming from. You’d never known Eddie to give up. Nothing had stopped him before; from finishing high school, from getting out of Hawkins, from being a rockstar. Regardless of how angry, or frustrated, or beaten he'd gotten, Eddie had always bounced back.

He finally pulls you from your thoughts. “That was the worst of it, but it had been a long time coming. When we were,” He gestured lamely to the air, “seeing each other, I was usually either on a run or coming down. I didn’t hide it well, I was almost sure you’d known, or at least suspected something. I was so angry and twitchy all the time. As much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t bring you into it, though. I never wanted you to know, and in a lot of ways I still don’t. Actually, please tell me you don’t wanna know. I’ll shut right the fuck up.”

“Nice try, but you underestimate how nosey I am.” He laughs, and you smile despite it all. “When did you start, I guess doing coke?” He doesn’t think about it for long. “Ironically, New Year’s Eve 1990 was the first time. I was a pro at it by May. I'd been drinking heavily for years by then, guess I wanted to jazz it up to ring in the new decade.” He stops walking and pivots to look at you, suddenly eager, and in no way aware of how jarring what he’d just said was. “Do you remember when I would get nosebleeds all the time, or when I’d sneeze and there’d be a giant snot bubble?” You nod, your face contorting with disgust at the memories. You remember a specific time, when you’d been making out with him in his hotel room in Boston, and his nose had just started dripping blood onto your bare chest. He’d gotten so pissed off at himself he’s left without putting his shirt or shoes back on. “Yeah, that had nothing to do with the humidity. Deep down, I think you knew that.”

He’s right, but you can still feel the crack in your heart spiderweb and spread as you hear these suspicions about Eddie confirmed.

“When was the last time?”

“The first or second night of the tour, I think.”

“Are you still drinking?” Dustin’s question makes more sense to you now. You wonder how he’d found out.

Eddie hesitates, as if fighting himself on whether to answer truthfully. “I didn’t today. It’s the first full day I’ve gone in a while. Touring is always difficult, and I’m sure you understand why this time is uh, particularly stressful.”

“Because of me.” Obviously.

“Because I know how badly I’ve hurt you, and because I know I haven’t made it up to you yet. I haven't earned your trust or even your time by any means, and I hate that you’re seeing me like this when you should be enjoying your first full US tour.” He chokes the last words out. You’ve stopped walking again, waiting at a deserted intersection, not yet ready to cross. “I’ve been fucking up recently, which is why I haven’t said anything. It’s not because I don’t want you. I want you so, so much. I just can’t do it yet.”

“Eddie,” You reach for him, and he lets you. You hold his face in your hands, feeling his flushed cheeks warm your palms as you look at him under the streetlights. “You don’t earn things like help and support, Eddie, not from people that-“ You pause. Not now, it’s not fair. “People that care about you. Thank you for telling me, I can’t imagine what you must be feeling; surrounded by triggers at all times, having to see me so much. I never would have agreed to the tour if I’d known—,“

He cuts you off, shaking his head, wafting the scent of his shampoo at you. “Don’t do that, please. This is not your fault, this is my own undoing. You are exempt from blame here.”

“I wish I’d known you were struggling. I wish I could have helped.”

Eddie traps your hands with his own on his face. “I know. I do, too.”

A sob shoves its way through your lips, and you can’t rebuild the dam fast enough. You’re crying, ugly sobbing with snot and mascara painting your face into a sad clown. It may be a cry of relief, having finally understood where your love had gone, so to speak, and seeing a glimpse of him right now. A version of Eddie happy, warm. He smiles at you, a big, beautiful smile, but his eyes are so sad. “I wish I had known to ask. Would have saved us both so much trouble.” Eddie drops his hands to your waist and pulls you closer to him, your coffee quest long forgotten. “I am so sorry.”

“Thank you.” You do not fight it, because there’s so much for him to be sorry for, regardless of if you want the apology. You trust that he means it. “I won’t push you for anything else. But I need you to ask for help, when you need it. I'm not gonna turn you away.” You wrap your arms around his torso, as physical proof of your words. You feel his arms as they surround your head, and he pulls you further into his chest. His breathing deep and even, heart beating soundly, you let yourself inhale him, indulge in his closeness even for a second. You eventually start to pull away, but he catches you, and you crane your head up to look at him, your nose inches away from his. Eddie’s eyes flick to your lips. It’s a fraction of a second, but you notice because you always do. You mimic him, flicking your eyes over his soft, pink lips and back to his deep, sweet brown eyes.

He moves first, but you’re quick to follow, and Eddie catches your lips with his, and you fight the urge to once again burst into tears. The kiss is one you haven’t felt in so long, like sleeping in your own bed after months being crammed inside a van or a two star motel. It’s a deep, yearning type of kiss you hadn’t known you were missing. Eddie moves a hand to cradle your head, like he’s holding the most valuable thing in the world. He’s gentle, almost timid, like the wrong move will ruin everything, break you both into pieces you won’t be able to fit back together. His lips are so soft, with no aggression or anxiety behind them, no nervous, frantic energy like he needs to consume you before you disappear. He takes his time, and you swim in the calm of it all. You rest your hand on his jaw, your finger lightly brushing his ear, the other stuck with your palm against his chest, squished between your bodies.

The last time Eddie kissed you like this was the day before he almost died. Before he cut that stupid sheet rope and tried to be a hero, he’d held you like you were the only thing on earth worth dying for. This time, though, there’s no rush, no impending doom to cut it short. You wonder if you’re pushing it, if this is too much for him, because it’s almost too much for you.

You pull away for a second. “Is this allowed?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “I think I know what you’re asking, but what do you mean?”

“Like, while you’re recovering. Shouldn’t you be more focused on that?”

Eddie shrugs. “Probably. And I will be. But I’m sober right now, at least, and all I can think about is you. And now you know everything, and you still kiss me like I’ve always been worthy of it. Even when I’m still not.”

“Do I really know everything now?” You lace your fingers through his and resume your walk.

He looks at you. “Do you have more questions?”

You have so many, but you’re so tired, so emotionally drained. “What do you think about, when you think about me?”

Eddie snorts a laugh at your question and you hide your face in your free hand. “Nothing good. You’re under my skin, doll. Always have been. Hey, look at that,” you look to where he’s pointing, the bright lights of the 7-Eleven store. “I’m kinda over coffee. You wanna watch a movie? For old time’s sake?” You nod wordlessly as your heart skips about, and he opens the door for you so you can grab some snacks instead.

-

Another hotel room, with boring white walls and bright white bed sheets. Eddie’s suitcases already sit in the corner, placed there by the hotel staff, complimentary mints on the pillows. Eddie flicks the bedside lamps on before fiddling with the remote, and you immediately realize, you’re once again without your own clothes. “Could I borrow-“ Eddie throws a shirt that lands perfectly draped over your face and you’re overwhelmed with his scent. “Thanks.” You deadpan, removing the fabric. He’s tossed a pair of his shorts onto the bed in front of you as well, and you’re silently grateful, because you wouldn’t have asked for them. He quickly flings his shirt off his head, and you watch as he swaps his jeans for a pair of worn flannel pajama pants.

Eddie then clicks the TV on, searching the channels aimlessly for something to watch before quickly giving up, muting it on a late night talk show. “How are you doing?” He’s already sprawled on the bed, resting his head in his hand to look at you, still in your clothes.

“I’m just digesting, I guess.” You face away from him to pull your sweat soaked shirt over your head and toss it on the floor, feeling his eyes on your bare back. You never wear a bra onstage, but you’re regretting it now. You yank Eddie’s shirt over your head to hide your butt as you yank your tights down, suddenly very aware of the color of your panties: red, and far too lacy for these circumstances. You yank Eddie’s boxers up your legs, and feel decent enough to face him again.

“We have to stop meeting like this.” He blurts as you slide into the space next to him, on top of the covers still.

“What do you mean?”

“After dark, sharing a bed, sharing my clothes,” He gestures to you, dressed head to toe in Eddie Couture. “Someone might see us. People are gonna start getting suspicious.”

“You think they’re not already?” You shift to lay on your side, now looking at him straight on. “We aren’t exactly being discrete as of late.”

He gives you a half shrug. “Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me?”

“The fans, making assumptions.”

You think about your choice of words. “I thought it would. I think it bothered me more that they weren’t right.”

Eddie cracks a goofy smile, and you swat at him uselessly. “You want to be having a steamy secret affair with the douchebag frontman of Corroded Coffin?” He teases, poking at you.

“Oh, shut up.” There’s no malice in your voice. “You know what I mean. They have it all figured out. We’re together, in love, not ready to share it with the world or whatever. Much less complicated than whatever it is we’re actually doing.”

Eddie considers this for a moment. “Guess that’s true. I don’t think I could explain any of what we’re doing to Steve, let alone the public.”

You sigh. Poor, ignorant Steve. There’s only so much you’d be able to tell him for sure. “He’d have a heart attack.”

“I’ve already spooked him enough for a whole lifetime, I can’t drop this bomb on him too.”

“Let’s not worry about that. We don’t even know what we’re doing.”

“I just know I wanna keep doing it.” The way he says it sends you reeling instantly, drawing you into him, closing the distance between his lips and yours. You melt into him, wrapping your leg around his waist as he grips the flesh of your hip. Your hand slides effortlessly into his hair, tangling around your fingers, pulling a moan from Eddie’s throat as you tug him further into you. You can feel his gentry twitch in his pants, only a few thin layers of fabric separating him from your core. You roll your hips against him, sighing as his tip bumps against your clit, desperate for friction.

Eddie moves, latching his lips onto your throat causing your brain to fog. Your chest heaves as he nips at your skin, marking you, making your head swim with pleasure. You feel his fingers toying with the hem of his t-shirt, his calloused fingers sliding under the fabric to caress your skin, sending chills up and down your whole body. You shiver, and he pulls away. “Wanna stop?”

“Shouldn’t we?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

So you kiss him again, hungrier now. You help him yank his shirt over your head, abandoning it on the floor next to yours. Eddie shifts again, pressing your bare chest against his before breaking the kiss suddenly. “May I, uh,” He stutters like he’s a nervous teenager again, as if he’s seeing his first pair of boobs ever.

“Please.” You sigh, and it propels Eddie on, shifting down the bed until he’s eye level with your chest.

“God, I missed you.” He rasps, and you don’t have time to ask if he’s talking to you or your tits before he runs his tongue over your nipple, pulling a whine from your throat. You feel his other hand slide down your torso, freezing when it reaches the waistband of his boxers. “Sweetheart?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you let me take care of you?”

—

chapter XIX

haha hehe hahahahah ha ha. ha

tag list: @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @wiildflower-xxx @beebeerockknot @champagne-glamour @xxgothwhorexx @therensistance @chonkzombie @brxkenartt @sidthedollface2 @bibieddiesgf @gaysludge @eddiesguitarskills @littlepotatobeansworld @poisonedluv @kellsck @m-chmcl-rmnc

[goforth-ladymidnight]

A Second Chance

Ch. 4 of (I stopped counting, ok?)

Pairing: Tamlin x Lucien

Word Count: 6k

Summary: Tamlin reveals what happened to him seven years ago

Warning: This chapter involves some heavy themes and implied SA, but it is not explicit

Read on AO3 or read on below:

Lucien carefully set down the steaming ceramic coffee mugs on matching cork coasters before taking his place on the loveseat next to Tamlin. “Do you want anything else?” he asked gently.

Tamlin huffed a laugh and rubbed his eyes. When he dropped his hands, his face was flushed red, and his green eyes were swollen, like some sad sort of Christmas card. “How about a do-over?” he sniffed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I wish I could have a do over of the last seven years,” he said, voice cracking.

“Are you ready to talk about it?”

Tamlin winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “No, but… I need to.”

Lucien reached out and gently rested his hand on his friend’s back. Tamlin stiffened at first, then sighed and softened as he began to rub. “I’m sorry I pushed you,” Lucien said softly. “If you don’t want to tell me, I completely understand.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Tamlin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s the problem.”

Lucien sighed, then leaned over to reach for the box of tissues. “Here.”

Tamlin breathed a teary laugh, then took two tissues and wiped his face with them. “Goddammit,” he whispered. “I’m such a wimp.”

“You’re not a wimp,” Lucien said firmly. “That’s your dad talking.”

“No, if it was really my dad talking, he would grab an empty mug and tell me to fill it up if I was going to cry so much.”

Lucien grimaced and removed his hand to pick up his coffee and Tamlin’s. “I don’t have any empty mugs,” he said, “so if you want one, you’re just going to have to drink this up first. And something tells me you won’t feel like crying into it when you’re done.”

Tamlin’s red-rimmed eyes fell to the proffered coffee mug, then he sighed. He slowly, carefully took it and wrapped his hands around the warm cup, then inhaled the fragrant steam. “Thanks, Lu,” he murmured.

“Anytime.”

When Tamlin seemed more interested in holding it than drinking it, however, Lucien gently nudged him.

“Hey.” When Tamlin looked up, he lifted his mug in salute. “Here’s to your health,” he said in Scythian, then sipped.

Tamlin’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

When Lucien translated, Tamlin’s lips curved into the softest of smiles.

“You used to drive me crazy, you know, practicing Scythian on me all the time,” he said with a breathy chuckle. His gaze grew distant, as though remembering, then he sighed. He had been doing that a lot lately, Lucien noticed, but at least he didn’t look like crying anymore.

Tamlin raised his mug to his lips, then paused. “How do you say that again? That little toast, or whatever.”

Lucien smiled and told him, then grinned as Tamlin repeated it. His accent was atrocious, but it was the thought that counted. With an approving nod, he clinked his cup against Tamlin’s and repeated it once more, then gladly drank when his friend drank.

After that first swallow, Tamlin lowered his mug with a contented sigh. “God, I’ve really missed this,” he whispered.

“Hey, there’s more plenty more where that came from,” Lucien said, raising his mug with a smile.

“No, I meant… Being with you.”

Lucien’s smile faltered. There was such pain and sorrow in those big, amber-flecked green eyes… and yet, there was a glimmer of something like hope. Like an abandoned tomcat that had found its way to a warm fire. I know this can’t last, his eyes said, but thank you for letting me rest.

Lucien suddenly wanted nothing more than to wrap Tamlin in a giant blanket and feed him latkes and coffee and pie until he was too stuffed to move, then tuck him into bed and promise that nothing would ever hurt him again. Tamlin was no tomcat, but still, the idea was a tempting one.

For now, Lucien contented himself with patting Tamlin’s leg. “I’ve missed you, too,” said softly, trying to smile.

Tamlin dropped his gaze to Lucien’s hand still resting on his knee. Worrying that he might have crossed some kind of line, Lucien removed it to cradle his coffee mug.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he said, shifting his position to sit sideways on the loveseat. “What are the odds of us running into each other again after all these years, right?”

Tamlin flexed his fingers as he readjusted his grip on his coffee cup and smiled sadly. “Yeah. Right,” he murmured.

In the silence that followed, unsure of what else to say, Lucien looked away and took another sip of coffee.

“I know you’re wondering what happened.”

Lucien winced. “That doesn’t mean it’s any of my business. It was seven years ago. If you don’t want to tell me, we can just move on, you know?”

Tamlin scoffed. “I wish I could.”

“Why can’t you?” When Tamlin hesitated, Lucien chided himself. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry…”

“You’re not. It’s just… I’ve never really told anyone about this before, except Jurian.”

Lucien grimaced. “I am kind of curious how you two met,” he admitted. “So, if you don’t mind telling me that much…”

Tamlin sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “For that to make sense, I’d have to start at the beginning.”

“Which was when?”

“When I met the Dean… Amarantha.”

* * *

Tamlin still remembered the rap of his knuckles against the heavy hardwood door, and the emptiness of the administrative office when he stepped inside. There were no windows, but miniature twinkle lights and strands of tinsel decorated the walls and the desks of those who had already gone home for the day, and the holidays, for that matter. There must have been a party earlier, because discarded napkins and cups and plates filled the garbage cans as he passed by.

A long table rested along one wall, covered in a festive disposable tablecloth. He didn’t remember what foods were left, except perhaps the usual sugar cookie crumbs and frosting smears that always made their appearance at such parties. There might have been sandwiches, too, but he didn’t remember. There was a punch bowl, though, with citrus slices floating in bright red liquid. That, he remembered.

It looked like it had been a fun party, but he wouldn’t have thought so based on the look the secretary gave him when he walked in. If the abandoned office was a tomb, she was the corpse, with her leathery skin and dusty-gray hair and pinched, puckered mouth. In all fairness, she was probably only in her mid-fifties or so, but she might as well have been a hundred.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah, hi… Um,” he began, reaching into his jacket pocket. He held up a handwritten appointment card and explained, “I’m here to see the Dean.”

She stared hard at him over the tops of her horn-rimmed reading glasses. Her hands, which were straightening a stack of bright red folders, were long and sharp and bony. There was a shapeless gray cardigan resting around her shoulders, and a tight pearl choker at her neck. She was probably a very nice lady to her grandkids, if she had any. But somehow he doubted she did. She breathed loudly through her nose, then asked in a patiently impatient voice, “And you are?”

“Oh. My name is Tamlin, sir—uh, ma’am. That’s T-A-M-L-I—”

“No. You are late. L-A-T-E. Late. Do you know what time it is?”

Tamlin lowered the card with an apologetic wince. “I’m sorry. My last exam was on the other side of campus. I didn’t think—”

“Young man,” she said sharply. “You were expected to arrive over an hour ago. This office is now closed until after New Year’s. When the office reopens, you may make another appointment. That is, if the Dean agrees to see you. She does not tolerate tardiness.”

Tamlin winced at each snippy, enunciated syllable. So much for tidings of comfort and joy. “I am sorry,” he said, trying to smooth things over. “I thought she might still be here. If you could just put me down on the schedule for the next available opening, I promise I won’t be late.”

The old bat stared at him, then loudly sighed as she set aside her folders. “I suppose I could take a look…”

“That’s all right, Ms. Attor,” an authoritative voice said nearby. “He’s here now. Let him in.”

Tamlin turned to see a tall, imposing woman wearing a long black coat standing in the doorway of the largest corner office. The door had been closed when he walked in. When she caught his eye, she smiled at him with lips as red as her ruby-tinted hair.

“Hello, Tamlin. It is Tamlin, isn’t it?”

He nodded, but the secretary tried to protest.

“But-but-but… It’s after five o’clock! The office is closed—”

“This won’t take long,” the Dean declared, not taking her eyes off him. “You go home. I’ll lock up.”

Without waiting for an answer, she stepped aside and motioned for him to join her. Her long fingernails matched the crimson shade of her lipstick.

“Tamlin. If you please.”

He stuffed his hands inside his jacket pockets and smugly ignored the squawking protests of the Dean’s power-tripping secretary to step inside the spacious private office. She motioned for him to sit while she stepped outside to have a private word with her employee. Part of him wished that he could listen to the verbal dressing down, but the heavy door blocked out all sound.

Unlike the rest of the office space, this room was free of all Christmas decorations. The desk was dark, polished wood, and the rest of the minimalistic décor consisted of polished, black marble sculptures. There weren’t any photos, but there was a large mirror on the wall. Everything was cool and stark and purely professional. Tamlin was studying an abstract painting of a lone mountain peak behind the desk when the door closed behind him.

He turned to see the Dean carrying a single red folder. The tab, he noticed, had his name on it. He gulped.

“You must excuse my secretary,” she said as she took her seat behind the desk. It sounded less like an apology and more like a command. “She didn’t realize how important this meeting was to me. I do hope that your studies were not affected in any way.”

“Oh. No,” Tamlin said, shifting in his chair. “Like I said, I just had my last exam, so…”

“Good,” she said with a cool smile, then opened the folder and laid it flat. “Now, it says here that you had your Language Arts final today, is that correct?”

Tamlin blinked in surprise. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Please. Call me Amarantha.”

“Yes, m—Amarantha.”

Her lips curved upward into a pleased smile. “Good boy,” she purred, then returned her attention to whatever was written in his file. “Would you say that this is your best subject?”

“Second best,” he replied honestly. “I like poetry well enough, but ever since my mom gave me my first violin, music has been my best subject. Well, I mean, it’s my favorite subject, anyway.”

She smiled again. “You are far too modest. Your record says that you’ve been first chair in the orchestra for two years running. That is quite an accomplishment for someone of your age and background.”

“Yes, m—I mean, thank you,” he said, confused.

“Are other members of your family similarly gifted?”

Tamlin took a deep breath, considering. He could have told the Dean how his mother had given up a career in music to marry his father while he pursued a career in the military. He could have told her how his mother used to write her own songs and sing them to her three boys when their father was away. He could have said that out of his three brothers, he was the only one to follow in her footsteps, even though the oldest had become a star quarterback, and the second the captain of the wrestling team. He could have mentioned his father and his five-star ranking, but he didn’t want to. No one but his mother had supported his dreams in any way, so they didn’t deserve any credit. Besides, Amarantha didn’t really need to know the details; she was a complete stranger, even if she was the Dean.

Knowing that she wanted some kind of answer, though, he said simply, “Well, my mom used to play the cello before she—she passed away.”

Amarantha made a small, sad noise. “Oh, dear. I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said politely, then asked, “What about your father?”

“What about him?”

Amarantha chuckled at the clear disdain in his tone. “Oh, dear,” she said again, continuing to smile. “You are not very fond of your father, are you?”

Tamlin snorted. “Should I be?”

“Hmm. It certainly isn’t required,” she remarked thoughtfully, fiddling with her pen. “I, myself, was raised by a single mother, and look at me now…” She smiled proudly. “The first female dean in Middengard University’s history, and I’m not even forty.”

Tamlin nodded politely. “I had no idea,” was all he could think to say, but now he was beginning to wonder.

Her smile grew, and he noticed her eyes crinkle at the corners. “You are a darling,” she said sweetly. She set her pen down to lace her fingers together and delicately rested her chin upon them. “Just between us,” she began in a congenial way, “I was there for your final performance with the orchestra last week, and I have never heard a finer rendition of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony in all my life.”

Tamlin couldn’t help his pleased grin. “Thank you, ma’am—I mean, Ms. Amarantha,” he amended when she gave him a look. “I worked very hard on that piece.”

“I could tell,” she said sweetly.

“It wasn’t just me, though,” he offered. “It was a group effort. Everyone worked just as hard as I did.”

“Yes, but they aren’t the first chair violinist, are they?”

“No, ma—No, Amarantha.”

She smiled and picked up her pen. “Modest, talented, and handsome,” she remarked. “You must be beating off the girls with a stick.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, no?”

He didn’t want to admit that girls didn’t interest him that much. They never had. He was more interested in playing his music, or keeping his head down. Lucien was the first person to weasel his way into Tamlin’s affections, but he was in Scythia for another semester. There was a girl he had known for a while and recently gotten together with, but he had been so busy prepping for finals, they hadn’t spent much time together yet.

Still, he had to say something, so he shrugged. “It’s just… I already have a girlfriend, so…”

Amarantha’s smile faded. “Yes,” she said slowly, turning a page in his file. “A Miss… Feyre Archeron.”

Tamlin straightened in his chair. “How did you know that?”

She glanced up and gave him a cool smile. “I make it my business to know.” She returned her attention to his file and recited, “Feyre Archeron, age 20. Art major, Educational minor. She is passing most of her classes, although failing Literature. Her father paid her tuition in full, but it would seem that she is more interested in socializing than social economics.” Amarantha folded her hands over the file and gave him a stern look. “I certainly hope you are using protection,” she said coolly. “A mid-level student like her will only bring you down.”

His face grew hot. “No offense, but that’s none of your business.”

“As Dean of this University, the success and failure of each of my students is my business.”

“Then why aren’t you lecturing her?” Tamlin said angrily. “If you think she’s doing so badly, then tell her off, not me.”

“Tamlin.” He was already halfway out of his chair, but her tone made him pause. She pointed to his chair with her pen, and said quietly, “Sit down. Please.”

He didn’t want to, but she was the Dean.

When he reluctantly resumed his seat, she lowered her hand and slowly tapped her pen on her desk. “It seems that you have a temper,” she said coolly. “You get that from your father, I take it.”

Tamlin’s temper flared at the accusation, then stuttered out as he realized that he did, in fact, share his father’s temper. And he hated it.

When he remained surly and silent, Amarantha went on, “Don’t get me wrong. A temper can be quite useful, when honed correctly. The same fire that can burn bridges can also create a stained glass window. In your case, the stained glass window is your music. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” he muttered and looked away. The sooner she was done talking, the sooner he could leave.

“I can see that I have offended you, and for that I do apologize.”

When he finally turned his head and met her gaze, she smiled.

“You are a bright, passionate young man who cares deeply for others. I know you care for your girlfriend, but her path is not your path. I would hate to see you shackled to someone whose greatest ambition in life is teaching children how to fingerpaint.” Amarantha sighed and shook her head. “I cannot tell you how many talented students I have seen who had to give up on their dreams because they decided to get married to their college sweetheart and have children before they completed their studies.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I don’t want kids, then.”

“Yes, I—” She sat up, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said I don’t want kids.”

She stared at him open-mouthed, then stammered like her secretary. “But-but—I… W-what about your legacy?”

Tamlin snorted. “Just a second ago you were telling me not to have kids.”

“I was urging you to reconsider having children with someone who is not on your level both creatively and academically.”

“Look, it’s not that serious, okay?” Tamlin said, pushing himself to his feet. “We’re just dating. Besides, everyone I know has had a crappy father, and I don’t want to be one.”

“You don’t have to be to be one.”

His brows furrowed as he looked at her askance. “Huh?”

She gripped her desk and leaned forward. “I don’t think you realize what a treasure you are,” she said fervently. “Not only are you a talented musician, you are tall, handsome, intelligent, well-spoken, and polite. Most of the men I meet have only one or two of those qualities. I have been looking for someone like you for a very, very long time. I had very nearly given up.”

Her unblinking stare made his skin prickle. “Um… okay,” he said, nodding slowly. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Can I, uh, go now, please?”

“Not just yet,” she said, turning to the last page in his file. “We still need to discuss your future here.” When she looked up and noticed that he had remained standing, her features softened. “Oh, dear. I see I’ve made you uncomfortable.” She rose to her feet and motioned for him to sit. “I know you are eager to be on your way, but we are nearly done. Please, have a seat. When I return, we will complete our interview, and then you have my permission to go.”

There were three steps to the door. Three steps to freedom. And three steps to potential academic ruin. So Tamlin sighed, and he sat.

Amarantha smiled. “If you will excuse me for just a moment, I will be right back.”

When the heavy door swung closed behind her, Tamlin glanced at his wristwatch. It was getting late. Feyre was expecting him to pick her up for dinner at seven. At this rate, he would barely make it back to his dorm in time to change.

He could have walked out, but Amarantha was on the other side of the door. Besides, she had access to his file… and Feyre’s, too, for that matter. She hadn’t mentioned it, but it wouldn’t surprise him if she had Lucien’s file on hand, as well. His friend had worked too hard to qualify for this trip to Scythia for Tamlin to mess it up in any way. Amarantha didn’t seem like the sort of person to sabotage a student’s record, but there would be no stopping her if she did.

When the Dean returned, she was carrying two clear cups of bright red punch, complete with floating lemon slices and cinnamon sticks for extra holiday flair. “Here you are,” she said brightly, handing him the fuller glass. “This was served at the faculty Christmas party earlier today,” she explained, taking a seat on the edge of her desk. “There is plenty left if you’d like another glass, but it would be a shame to waste it.”

Before he could protest, she had already lifted her cup to toast him. “Cheers,” she said, and tipped her head back to drink.

“Oh, okay. Cheers, I guess,” he said quietly, then took a tentative mouthful of fruit punch. He grimaced at the surprisingly bitter taste, and swallowed hard. Perhaps he’d swallowed a lemon seed, or a clump of cinnamon by mistake.

“Now, then,” Amarantha said, setting her drink aside. “What are you going to do to celebrate? You’ve finished your last final, and here it is, nearly Christmas.”

He was distracted from answering as he watched her unbutton her coat. “Um… I thought we were almost done.”

“Oh, we are,” she said, shrugging it off her shoulders. “I was feeling a little warm, and I thought I’d make myself more comfortable. You don’t mind, do you?”

He swallowed hard as he watched her lay the coat beside her on her desk. Her dress was cut above the knee, and her long, shapely legs were very, very bare. “No, no, of course not,” he muttered, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“You were saying?”

He scratched at his eyebrow as he looked away; his face felt flushed. “About what?”

“Your plans,” she reminded him, then began playing with the long gold chain that had fallen into her exposed cleavage.

Had she been wearing that dress under her coat this entire time? The little black dress was unbuttoned below her cleavage and cinched at the waist. It was not exactly what he would have pictured a dean wearing, but who was going to stop her? Some of the guys in the dorm would have called this a fantasy come to life; he felt more like he had walked into a nightmare.

He suddenly remembered she had asked him a question. It was difficult to think. “Um, I’m having dinner later, I-I guess…”

“Oh, really?” she asked, taking his glass from him. “What kind of foods do you like?”

“I—um… Is this rel—rev—revela…” He frowned. His tongue wasn’t working right.

“Relevant?” she finished for him, then laughed. “Very.”

He blinked. “A-all kinds, I-I guess…”

“Good,” she purred. “I do hate picky eaters.”

“W-why?”

Instead of answering, she set his glass aside and pushed herself off the edge of her desk. She stepped closer and reached out to slide her fingers over his scalp, then grabbed his hair and bent his head back.

“Hey,” he tried to say, but his mouth refused to cooperate. His body, too.

“You have green eyes,” she mused, looking into them, then she smiled. Her own eyes were such a dark brown that they were nearly black, or at least they appeared so in this light. Her entire face was in shadow. “They’re the rarest color, you know. I’ve always liked green eyes. They’re so attractive.”

He could only groan in answer.

Her grip softened as she looked him over, and her hands slid through his hair and down to his collar. “I didn’t want to do it this way,” she said, pouting softly as she ran her fingers along his shoulders. “I had so many more questions, but you forced my hand.”

To his horror, she began unbuttoning his shirt, and there was nothing he could do to stop her.

She bent down low, pressing herself against him and filling his nostrils with the sickeningly sweet smell of her perfume. Her breath was hot against his ear as she whispered, “Don’t worry. You won’t remember a thing, but I promise, I’ll make it good for you.”

The last thing he remembered was the sensation of greasy red lipstick pressed against his neck.

* * *

Lucien stared at his friend in horror. Tamlin’s eyes were shadowed and unfocused as he shrugged a shoulder.

“The next thing I knew, I was on the floor with all these security guards standing over me. They said someone had spiked the punch bowl, and did I need to go to the hospital. I don’t… I don’t remember much after that.”

Lucien covered his mouth and looked away, speechless. Of all the stories his classmates had concocted about Tamlin’s disappearance, none of them came close to the horrifying truth. If he had heard the story from anyone else, he would have dismissed it as something they saw on a detective drama or made up for a creative writing class. But to hear this from Tamlin’s mouth… He hadn’t expected this. Never this.

“It took me a while to piece everything together,” Tamlin said quietly, staring into the bottom of his empty coffee mug. “Sometimes I think that I dreamed it all up. Or maybe I’ll wake up, but…” He trailed off and shrugged again, listlessly.

Lucien shook his head to clear it. “Did—did you report her?”

Tamlin’s jaw tightened. “I tried.”

* * *

The police station was a dizzying whirl of sights and sounds and smells. The bluish tint of flickering overhead lighting, the squeak of police-issued shoes against dull laminate flooring, and stale coffee mixed with cheap aftershave. Tamlin sat alone on a barely padded metal chair with uneven legs, next to a scratched wooden desk covered in coffee ring stains and scattered paperwork, waiting to make his statement. With his arms resting on his knees, he tried to block out the tinny ringing of telephones, the blurred murmur of voices, and the slamming of metal filing cabinets by slowly rubbing his palms together, feeling the light calluses in his fingertips that were already beginning to fade. He hadn’t touched his violin since… the incident.

The nurse at the hospital had tried to suggest a r*pe kit, but the idea was absurd. Unthinkable, even. It was just a glass of spiked punch. Nothing more. Nothing except… He hadn’t been sleeping well. Nightmares plagued him. He snapped at Feyre for no reason, and often forgot to eat.

It was the get-well-soon card delivered to his dorm that did it. It smelled like perfume. Her perfume. So on a bitterly cold January day shortly before the start of spring semester, he gathered his courage to go down to the local station and ask the police to look into it. He couldn’t ask the campus police for help. Not when they worked for her.

“Someone say something about reporting a r*pe?”

Tamlin startled and looked up to see a tall, leathery-faced officer with short, iron gray hair frowning down at him. The officer gestured with his clipboard.

“Are you the witness?”

He swallowed. “Um, sort of.”

The officer let out a resigned sigh and took a seat at the desk. He turned in his rolling chair, then leaned back to cross his legs on the scarred wooden desktop.

Resting the clipboard in his lap, he clicked his pen and flatly said, “Please state the date on which the incident occurred.”

Tamlin cleared his throat. “Um. The Friday before Christmas.”

The officer’s eyes flicked up at him, apparently waiting for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t, he let out a loud, annoyed sigh to look at the exact date on the calendar. After scrawling it down, he continued, “State the name of the victim if you know it.”

Tamlin rubbed the back of his neck and whispered his own name.

The officer looked him over, frowning, then tersely said, “Spell it.” When he did so, the officer murmured, “…L-I-N… Okay. And you are?”

Late. L-A-T-E. Late. Tamlin blinked, and looked more closely at the officer’s badge.

Attor. T. Attor.

Tamlin’s blood ran cold. “Excuse me, sir. Um, do you…” He cleared his throat. “Do you h-happen to know someone that works f-for the University?”

The officer’s dark eyes narrowed as he looked him over. “My mother works for the Dean’s office, not that it matters. Why, you want to accuse her of something?”

Tamlin blanched and quickly shook his head. “No. Um, thank you for—for your time.”

As he stood, the officer shrugged with the clipboard. “What…?” He made a noise of disgust as Tamlin walked away and muttered, “And thank you so much for wasting mine.”

When Tamlin shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and turned for the exit, he heard the distinct sound of paper crumpling and being tossed into the nearest wastebasket.

Gray slush lined the street and reflected the overcast sky as he trudged to the nearest bus stop. The dirty glass enclosure offered little shelter from the cutting wind, but it was better than nothing. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t feel much anyway.

No one else was waiting around except a brawny, dark-haired fellow in a long coat with an unlit cigarette between his lips. He was patting his coat pockets and muttering something when Tamlin took his seat on the frigid metal bench at the other end of the enclosure.

He had just turned up his collar and shoved his hands into his pockets, trying not to imagine how painful walking in front of a bus would be, when the man at the other end cleared his throat.

“Hey, kid, you got a light?”

Tamlin glanced over, then slowly shook his head. “No.”

“Neither do I.”

To his dismay, the man got up to join him on his side of the bus shelter.

Taking the cigarette out of his mouth, he remarked, “I suppose it’s just as well. I’ve been tryin’ to quit, but you know how it is.” As he replaced the cigarette and its box inside his coat pocket, he continued, “Miryam, that’s my wife—well, now she’s my ex-wife—she used to buy me those patches that are supposed to lessen the cravings or whatever, but damned if they don’t just make ‘em worse. Besides, they don’t keep your fingers warm when it’s colder than a witch’s tit outside, ya know?”

Tamlin managed a shrug. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeah, well… You’re still young.” The man thumbed his nose and sniffed before copying Tamlin’s stance and shoving his hands in his pockets. “I hate taking the bus, but I hate cabs more. Those bloodsuckers will drain you dry and then run you over to squeeze out loose change.”

Tamlin breathed a tiny chuckle, but the man didn’t seem to notice. Not that he minded. It had been a while since anyone had tried talking to him without some kind of agenda or pity. It was… kind of nice.

“So, my wife—well, ex-wife—got the car in the divorce, so I got a new one, only it got impounded.” He nodded at the police station across the street. “Turns out, cops don’t like it very much when you park outside their house to go birdwatching.”

Tamlin’s brow furrowed. “Birdwatching?”

“Yeah, birdwatching.” The man nudged him and raised his brows in a meaningful way. “You know: ‘A little birdie told me that…’ No?”

Tamlin shook his head, confused.

The man’s mouth shrugged. “Yeah, well. Let’s just say it’s code for ‘I got hired to take some private photos’ by a cop’s wife—who now happens to be his ex-wife—and the cop involved figured it was me. So now, I get to try to make friends with the impound lot desk clerk. Except she doesn’t like me very much.”

Tamlin glanced between the man and the station across the street. “So… what are you doing over here, then? Why aren’t you over there, trying to get your car back?”

The man sighed and smiled to himself. “Because I’m trying to quit smoking.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter and flicked it on. Tamlin stared at the flickering orange flame as the man explained, “I was a cop for four years before I decided that wasn’t the life for me. There’s a whole lot of paperwork and not a whole lot of justice goin’ around. So, when I saw you walk out of the station, I figured that my old pals over there didn’t treat you very nice. And, I figured, what the hell; if nothing else, you just needed someone to talk to.” He flicked off the lighter and returned it to his pocket. “Was I right?”

Tamlin managed to swallow down the lump in his throat, and he nodded. “Yeah,” he rasped.

The man smiled, then sat back on the bench. “We’ve got some time to kill before your bus comes. My date at the station can wait, so, spill.”

Just then, the bus appeared at the end of the street, and slowly rattled to a stop as it approached.

“Well, it was worth a shot,” the man remarked. He slapped his knees and sat up, then reached into another pocket and pulled out his wallet. With an expert flick of the wrist, he pulled out a business card and offered it to him. “Here. Any time you need someone to talk to, I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

Tamlin took the card and looked it over. The logo was an eyeball surrounded by a ring. “You’re Jurian?” he guessed, reading the name from the card.

“Yep, that’s me. How about you, kid? You got a name, or should I just call you ‘kid’?”

He thought about it for a moment, then said, “Tamlin.”

“Tamlin,” Jurian said, offering his hand, then shook his. “Good to meet you.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

As the bus screeched to a halt in front of the enclosure, Tamlin came to a sudden decision. He caught the eye of the driver and waved him on.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Jurian asked him as the bus doors closed.

Tamlin slid the business card into his pocket and rose to his feet. “Sure,” he said, then nodded to the station across the street. “I’m going to help you get your car back.”

Jurian’s eyes widened as he pushed himself to his feet. “You’d do that?”

Tamlin shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s worth a shot.”

A slow grin grew on Jurian’s face. “Kid, if you can do that, I’ll treat you to lunch. Anything you want. As long as it’s at Annie’s Diner, which is all I can really afford.”

Tamlin chuckled, and he was surprised that it didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. “Sure,” he agreed. “I’ve never been there, so… Why not.”

Jurian pumped his fists and made a triumphant sound. “Yes. I’m comin’ for you, baby,” he said to himself, and Tamlin wasn’t sure if he meant the desk clerk or the car or even Annie herself. Before he could ask, Jurian pointed at him and said, “You, my friend, have just earned yourself an all you can eat buffet.”

Tamlin smiled nervously and shrugged again. “But I haven’t done anything yet.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re willing to try, and that counts for something.”

“Yeah,” Tamlin said quietly. “I guess it does.”

“You bet it does,” Jurian said, slapping him on the back. “Come on, kid. Let’s go get my car. I hope you like latkes.”

[mikomiproblemateke]

Hehehe do you remember my last post? I promised you that I'll translate mini fanfic about this au. Andddd... I did it.

It's really small and quite old(also ooc) but I hope you like it. Sorry if you find some mistakes, my english still not very good.

(little headcanon time: Izm calls A.E.D. "holy man" or "holy bastard" it's depends on situation.)

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

Battle priests, too, unfortunately, are not immortal and are the same ordinary people exposed to dangerous work. A.E.D. was going to suffer the same fate, it was just a matter of time before he let his guard down and they could attack.

– Fuck, fuck, fuck... – Izm ran as fast as he could to help his saint man. It was just necessary to take the weapon, .D is strong, he would have coped with a bunch of pathetic demons... Isn't that right?

There were only a couple of demons left. They were trying to take .D's soul for this Lucien Rire, their king. It's a pity that they had to run away with their throats chewed off. Izm picks up his priest and notices this huge hole in his chest. He curses people for the fact that their bodily shell was so fragile. As well as myself for leaving him there alone.

He runs, hoping that some Wei Ren or someone else knows how to stop the bleeding, but another part of him screams at him that it's useless, that he needs to leave this priest or kill him right away so that he doesn't suffer.

But Izm feels A.E.D.'s hand on his chest. He can feel his bitter smile even when .D is on his back. He feels like the priest is trying to say something, coughing up blood.

– Shut up, you holy bastard! We're almost there! Bear with me a little longer, I beg you, holy man... – His voice shifts to a more whiny tone, not typical of demons. But he continues to feel his smile.

– Izm... I'm sorry I didn't tell you this before or rarely did... But I love you. Please don't give my soul to Rire... – Those were .D's last words before he took his last breath.

Izm's hands are shaking. He slowly lowers the priest to the ground, trying to find at least something like a pulse or breathing. He was taught how to find them, but he curses himself for not being able to find them.

The process of extracting souls is vile, but it was .D's last wish. He must fulfill it. The demon puts his hand down the priest's throat and takes out a bottle of a smoky-white substance. As pure as .D's desires and intentions. He presses the bottle to his chest and squeezes it tightly.

– I-I... I'm not giving you up to that tentacles brat, holy man... – His voice was getting firmer, but more angry.

"I swear, I'll rip out the throat of anyone who dares to encroach on your soul, even if it's your God."

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

I'm sorry Izm but I love tears of my friends :3

Characters belongs @darqx

[delicrieux]

MOM please more sandman and more angst love you

THE SECOND GLANCE | endless drabble series (sandman edition)    

summary: a new star is born and coincidentally, you start appearing in dream’s path pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader a/n: ok tw for angst & death tho <3

masterlist. ☕. back. next. reqs are open for the september prompts! make sure to check out the autumn features as well! <3

It’s another walking, another excursion into the young Earth and humanity that’s set to conquer it. They have discovered a new God, a kind one, and decided to dye the streets in blood in his name. Conquest and war breaks between plagues and dead wives birthing soldiers for the brave new world. There are more nightmares than there had ever been before – all of his creation, a punishment for the sake of balance. Death joins him, lost in a throng of starving families.

The Lord of Dreams is an esteemed traveler and a guest in a noble house whose name will eventually be swallowed by history. The father is old and the wife is young and their children are sickly – the oldest of the bunch, a daughter, is their biggest disappointment. He’s seated by a large wooden table that overflows with wine and cheese and bread and fruit. A gloomy evening glowers outside the castle. An ominous, melancholy atmosphere permeates the walls.

His wife is sick, see, and Death is a doctor from the East. The Lord of Dreams does not pity the man that gorges himself and laughs merrily with spittle falling from his lips, “—and if you saw how much I had to pay – I, me!” His fist lands on the dining table with a thundering thud, “For that knight to take my daughter, why I should have had him executed. But alas, what is a father to do without a son? What must I do, if not pay, for someone to take my daughter?”

The heavy wooden doors part open and in slinks a figure clad in expensive cloth and jewelry. Dream straightens in his chair, momentarily frozen at the sight. You. You, with a golden pitcher swishing with wine, approaching in soft footsteps and wordlessly pouring a glass for your father, then Death, then him. You smell different, now, like rose oil and a day spent between ink and parchment. The same features, the same body, only the curl of your hair is different.

Your father motions to you with his head, “’s her.” He glowers. You don’t react, more than used to the spite, “My first wife died to birth her.” It’s an accusation, “Midwife said she’s cursed.”

Your hands tremble lightly as you set the pitcher down. The tight set of your jaw indicates of a deep dissatisfaction you dare not voice.

“Am I dismissed, father?”

Even your voice, though strained, drawls a song-like tune. With a dismissive wave of the baron’s hand you’re half-way across the room and gone behind shut doors.

Death regards her brother with a strange look. He pretends not to notice.

He finds you later that evening, sat lonesome by the stained glass windows of your tower. And as he approaches, he feels it again, your dreams pouring out of you – of freedom, of future, of endless swaying fields of wildflowers and sunny skies. There’s no pain in that image, no possibility of hurt – an utopia, a safe haven for all unwanted, unfit, unlikable.

You startle when you notice him, dyed in a pale blue between the arches. You feign a smile, though you’re deep in thought that much he can tell.

“…I shall tell you a secret if you promise to tell no one of it.” You start after a pause, your voice tired and somber, like a mourning bird’s.

“I’m listening.”

“My husband is a terrible, evil man.” You find his gaze in the shade, “I should rather die than marry.”

The morning comes and Dream finds Death in the labyrinth of halls. His steps are quick and angry, almost, and when he stops his sister there’s a tight knit between his brows and a sneer on his lips, “You lied to me.” Death regards him silently, all softness and endless compassion, “You weren’t here for the wife, you were here for her.”

“Who is she?”

“I-what?”

“The Baron’s daughter. Who is she?”

He’s irritated and far too old to be acting the way he is. A frustrated sigh escapes his lips, “I don’t know.”

“Then why do you care?” It’s not a biting question, rather an inquisitive one. Her eyes gleam kindly with knowledge that escapes him, and he thinks Death is either hiding something from him or trying to make him see something that isn’t there.

“I don’t.” He grits.

Her lips pinch into a little smile. A thoughtful hum, then, “Well, then if you don’t care, I suppose you won’t care to know that it was painless. Or that she asked of you.” She drew nearer, whispering in his ear, “And since you’re too stubborn to ask what she inquired, I’ll tell you myself. She only wanted to know your name.”

hope you liked it <3

[askcupcrossovers]

I know this may be a sensitive topic but ah….Do any of ya have a Mugman?

[pinkkinoko]

I’m having a moment so please excuse me,

But Eddie Munson with a heavy crush, not sure how to voice it, not sure how to say it, because in his mind he doesn’t have a chance—he’s not even in the race. First it was Chrissy, with her bright laugh and bouncy ponytail. It was the way the sun shone in her eyes when they crinkled with joy, the few times that smile had beamed at something he’d said and he thought for sure his heart would stop beating.

The boyish crush of a middle school kid, struggling with the bullies, that short hair he’d sported that left him feeling bare—feeling seen.

Eddie Munson didn’t blame Chrissy, the sweetheart, the princess of Hawkins; didn’t resent her popularity, or the way she shaved off pieces of herself until she fit the puzzle. He resented those who’d given her the tools, those who’d made the rules. So he watched as she dated Jason, watched the smile that burned so bright he could just smell the coals underneath. Swore he wouldn’t do it again—

And then comes Billy Hargrove.

He’s dangerous and sharp, he’s nothing like Chrissy with the pointed edges of his canines, the heaviness in his booted step—his barked laughter. He is not fragile, or hurt, or bright. He is like every other bully Eddie has ever seen and he seethes, he feels that hot shame in his cheeks at the traitorous beat of his heart—the one he tries to hide behind the boom of his van’s speakers.

Because Eddie Munson crushes with all the remorse of a high school boy who knows the world will always be out to get him—who has been different in a million different ways and defiantly chooses to never fit. Chooses to dig the knife in deep, to be the monster in the dark, to see every othered black sheep and take them under his wing because it’s what he never had. Eddie guards his heart from that yearning quiver, bites with murderous intent at every interaction he has with the California heartthrob.

He goes home and re-does his laces so they tie from the bottom, he turns his routine upside down, feels the need to prove he’s somehow not that skinny little kid who tears up at the thought of being poor, and different, and pitiful, because now he’s all those things and more, now he’s taking all the words everyone’s ever tried to use to curse him and tattooing them on his skin like a promise.

It’s this chaotic pace Eddie sets that makes him miss the way Billy’s skin has purpled in all the wrong places, miss the exhaustion in his eyes when he’s not puffing his chest, isn’t until he sees the defeat in that young face as Billy comes to buy weed one late night that Eddie realizes; he will never stop falling for the ones with sun in their eyes and bruises on their arms. Eddie will never outrun the love he holds for broken imperfection, youth stolen far too fast.

He’s sure it will be the death of him someday.

[diedinariptide]

If you ever get the chance :)

liv and rhea

prompt: tearful kisses, and not from happiness

Thank you so much for the request, I hope this is the kind of pain you were looking for.

Tearful kisses

In their little bubble, Rhea could pretend that everything was alright. Everything that happened in the last year was only a crazy dream the both of them had together. Eventually, they'd have to wake up to reality and face the consequences.

In this room, the ring didn't exist.

All the reasons why this was a real fucking terrible idea didn't matter one bit. The ache it left the both of them at the end a mere footnote, inconsequential to the joy of Liv's chatter and eternal optimism.

Here, they were just Rhea and Liv.

"Do you think you could braid my hair?" Liv asked, turning her back to Rhea to give her access to the long blonde locks. She waited expectantly, well aware Rhea couldn't say no. Or rather, that she would do whatever it was that she asked. It was an unspoken agreement whenever they were together. Anything Liv wanted or desired, and it was hers.

"Sure," Rhea agreed without a fuss, accepting the brush that was handed to her.

Liv scrolled through her social media feed as the teeth untangled the messy curls, only pausing whenever she found something cute to show Rhea. Most of them were dogs in sunglasses or a meme comparing their fellow wrestlers to an animal doing something weird.

This too, was play pretend.

A particularly loud giggle intrigued Rhea, her fingers still moved through the freshly washed locks as she tamed them in a tight braid. Must have gotten a message from someone. "So what's going on?"

"Oh, you know–," Liv started. She turned off the phone screen to articulate with her now freed hands. "Bayley had this big box of stuff in it, she could hardly carry it you know. She wouldn't let anyone help her, but Sasha wouldn't have that."

Liv paused to make sure Rhea was paying attention to the story. It didn't make much sense at all. Though it rarely did until it had been told in full, and even then, there were holes too big to make sense of it.

Still, Liv was waiting.

"And then what?" Rhea had finished the braid. She rested her head on Liv's shoulder as encouragement to continue.

"She got so mad, you should have seen her. It doesn't make sense, you know? I thought those two were friends. I didn't see them the rest of the day, so I assumed Bayley eventually let her help. But then, then..."

Liv turned the screen back on, showing a picture of Bayley and Sasha drenched in red paint. "Sasha sends me this."

Rhea furrowed her brow. "That, why are they covered in paint?"

"Must have been in that box," Liv concluded as a matter of fact. She must be proud of herself for being the best detective in the world.

"That doesn't," Rhea stopped herself before she could finish her sentence. She was already over this nonsensical story. What in the world would someone like Bayley use red paint for?

Rhea kissed the side of Liv's face with a softness that was unlike her. Liv threw her arms around Rhea's neck, straddling her hips as she turned.

"They looked close," Liv whispered against her lips.

The taste of mint invades Rhea's tongue, as soft lips locked against her own. Insistent and needy, like Liv's life depended on it. All Rhea could do was respond in kind, opening up to the invitation.

A lone droplet hit Rhea's cheek. A tear. A sweet bitterness against the dulcet tongue that danced with her, one followed by another, until it all stopped, and Liv looked at her as if this was a goodbye. Nails dug into Rhea's shoulder blades, sharp enough to cut with the slightest misstep.

"It must be nice to have someone like that." Liv barely choked out the words.

"Liv." Rhea's concerned plea fell on deaf ears. This wasn't part of their agreement. They didn't do this. Not anymore.

Something inside Liv snapped, her eyes glistening a stone cold rage, stormwind brewing as she bared her soul. With a shove, Liv had Rhea pinned down to the bed.

"I hate you," Liv spit out. "I really, really hate you. Stop being so nice to me. That's not who we are. That's not who you are. Hit me, bite me, take me. Anything but this. Rhea..."

Liv placed Rhea's hand around her neck and held it there. "Destroy me."

Rhea had no time to think. Liv's demands were ludicrous, an antithesis to what they had worked so hard on building up over the past few months. As fake as it was, it was safe. They made sense again, after such a long period of time where nothing ever did. Rhea cursed the ground Liv walked on as she flipped them over, giving her what she wanted.

"You're going to regret this."

"Please."

[pumpkinmagekupo]

Turning her attention back to the piano Mizuki  lifted the lid and looked at the ivory keys. She didn’t hate the piano, she loved listening to others play, though she hated playing it herself. She reached down and pressed one of the keys, the low timbre sound echoing through the room and conjuring memories…