#ouaghhhhhh

[greensaplinggrace]

every day I think about how much better sab would have been if baghra was the villain and nikolai was another antagonist...

[fairyysoup]

so myo

my beloved

i read this on AO3 a while ago and it has stuck with me forever since. and i forgor what it was called but i was thinking about it yesterday, so when i say i SCOURED my AO3 history looking for it 😭😭 i learned things about myself that should have stayed buried in the history ngl but i found it and imagine my face when i saw my beloved mutual. my bestie in arms. my darling my light my sweet angel MYO WROTE IT??? i was like

so i had to come here to make a comment bc of course i would. this fic had me dry heaving but also happy crying but also yearning???? it's so incredibly well written and you have done such an amazing job of capturing the gravity of what both eddie and the reader are going through (idk if you've ever heard of the Stage Dive novels by Kylie Scott but she's got a novel in it that this reminds me a lot of). all this to say Myo you outdid yourself and i love you and i'm swallowing this fic whole. also i'm bookmarking it on AO3 🫡

Like Real People Do - e.m.

Part 1/2 - Why were you digging?

ǁ  summary: 30 days into your stay at the Betty Ford Center for Rehabilitation, Eddie Munson gets brought in against his will. While in the middle of trying to figure out your own issues, you find yourself being followed around by a detoxing rockstar who won't take a hint and get lost.

ǁ  tags: angst, hurt/comfort, heavy themes. depictions of inpatient rehab in the 90s. implied fem!Reader, no pronouns used, no y/n. strangers to reluctant acquaintances to lovers.

ǁ  content warning: both parts will contain mentions of drug use, struggling with addiction, self worth, society's view on drug users, grief, and death by drug overdose. brief mention of domestic violence and drug assisted disordered eating. please consume thoughtfully and if you have any questions before reading, feel free to message me.

ǁ  word count: 7k

ǁ  Part 2 ǁ  Read on AO3 ǁ

The lock on your door clunks open at exactly 8am every morning. A glaring alarm that your new day is about to start whether you want it to or not.

At 8:15, one of the workers on staff is barely knocking before pushing in to make sure you and your roommate will be ready for breakfast at 8:30 sharp.

At 8:30, you’re standing in line with everyone else to get your morning meds. Amoxaphine for depression. Atenolol for high blood pressure. Methadone for opioid withdrawal. Acamprosate for alcohol withdrawal.

A little paper cup of water to wash them all down, your mouth presented to prove you did actually swallow them, and then a verbal pat on the back before sending you over to the breakfast line.

A styrofoam plate of scrambled eggs and toast with jam on a plastic tray, balanced carefully with a cup of whatever juice they decided to buy this week. Carefully set down on one of the small tables by the window where you’ll sit and eat alone – appreciating the quiet and serenity for the few moments a day you get it before you’re shoved off to the next task.

The same thing for the past 28 days since you were deposited in the Betty Ford Center. You’d gone from euphoric, cold, and totally out of it to anxious, shaky, unable to sleep, and just fucking miserable. And while some days were getting easier and others seemed more difficult than ever, at least you had gotten into the routine of inpatient rehab. At least you knew to expect the same thing everyday. At least you were prepared to deal with what the external world threw at you.

Until you weren’t.

The moment the doors to the main hall are thrown open – impacting the opposing walls with a slam –  you get an overwhelming feeling that something is about to change. Something big.

“Hey fucker! Hey! Get your meat hands off me, lughead.”

Most of the heads in the room turn toward the source of the yelling, a parade of 5 coming through the double doors. Two you know, the medical director Mr. Ford and one of the doctors Dr. Lincoln. They both look annoyed and uncomfortable as they walk ahead of a set of 3 men. 

Flanked on either side by a buff orderly, getting borderline dragged across the floor, is a man you’ve never seen. His long, messy waves whip wildly around his head as he lets out expletives and pulls against the sharp hold on his biceps. His voice is ragged and slurred as he makes nonsensical arguments towards the two men leading him away. He’s in regular clothes – outside clothes – with torn jeans and metal chains hanging off his hips, ripped sleeves showing off his tattooed arms, and large rings on every finger.

Someone new?

Having gotten their eyeful, half the room goes back to pushing around their breakfasts with plastic cutlery while the other half continues to watch with amusement. A new person only comes through every 15 days or so, and this was only the second since you’d arrived. The first one, a meek boy named Thomas, had been admitted so quietly that he all of the sudden appeared one day in group, already through the worst of the detox, before you had ever even heard of him.

It makes you wonder if more inpatient admissions are like that or like this.

You wish you could remember yours.

In a whirl of movement, the man rips his arms free and flies backwards with a stumble. Had he been more coordinated, and probably more sober, than he is, he might have made a decent break for it. As he is, he’s barely able to turn toward the doors they came through before the men are grabbing him again from behind, hooking their arms around his to now actually drag him down the hallway toward the hospital wing.

The heels of his black boots drag against the beige tile floor as he slumps in their grip, eyelids fluttering slightly before he manages to bring back enough energy to yell another, “Fuck you!” at his captors.

Just before they disappear behind another set of locked down double doors, the two of you make eye contact. From this distance, you can still see how bloodshot his eyes are – deep brown ringed by red toned white. They are steadily falling closed with each blink as he most likely loses the fight against some kind of sedative. But somehow, with what must be the last moments of consciousness he has left, he sees you watching him. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a lazy smirk. And he winks.

The motherfucker winks at you right as his head lulls to the side before falling forward and the group of 5 disappears.

Something new indeed.

You don’t see the stranger again until 6 days later.

New admissions normally spend anywhere from 3 days to a week and a half in the hospital wing after arriving. IV fluids, heavy meds, and a more prepared medical staff to deal with the worst of the detox period. Depending on what you were on, how recently you took it compared to when you arrived, and the length of your addiction makes a huge difference in how much time you spend there before being sent back to the rest of the floor.

4 days is average, which is the amount of time you spent in the hospital wing before being put into room 102 with Melissa Redding. Teen beauty queen of the Betty Ford Center who got hooked on meth after a consultant for the pageant used it to help her lose weight.

The center had a neat little tradition of having your roommate show you around on the first day. For you, that had meant busy bee Melissa whispering in your ear in and outs of who was who and all of the drama entailed even though you didn’t care in the slightest. That continued through the rest of the day as she showed you around the main hall, gave you a tour of the garden during your mandated 1 hour of outside time, and into the Therapy House.

While she had initially been excited to have a roommate, she very quickly learned you would not be the entertainment she wanted. So she went back to gossiping with Kathy the housewife, who was in for a bad habit of using too much Adderall to get through the day with her kids. Leaving you to your own devices.

It was better that way.

You’re already in your seat by the window with breakfast by the time the stranger stumbles in after Howard, the gruff old man whose family sent him here for drinking too much (drinks the same amount as any other man his age, but who are you to judge?). He gets right into the med line, now half diminished due to their late arrival, and doesn’t seem to pay any attention to the stranger as he wanders away.

Guess he decided that wasn’t his job.

Tall, dark, and lanky looks like he’s been through the ringer. Skin pallor and clammy, hair pulled into a bird’s nest of a bun on the back of his head with the top and bangs matted flat with what you assume is sweat, hands fussing in front of him like if he doesn’t move as many muscles as possible at once he’ll explode. There are deep purple bags under his wide eyes as he approaches one of the other windows in the space, 30 feet away from where you’re sitting. 

He looks over the frame like he’s trying to find a way out, coming back with nothing before heading to the next window, closer to you. His appearance and behavior make you think of a wet rat trying to claw its way up the side of a bathtub – unable to grip onto anything and getting sent back down into the water again every time he tries to climb.

Hoping not to catch his attention, you direct your gaze down, focusing back on your under salted eggs and grape jam. Between the lack of seasoning and the juice of the week being some kind of weird pineapple mix, you’re left wanting even more so than usual over your bare bones breakfast.

Despite your half assed attempt to be invisible, the single chair across from you at your table is pulled out, flipped around, and then settled into by the stranger. In your shock, you look up at him before you can second guess the reaction.

“I saw you, I remember,” his voice is deeper than you thought, raspy at the edges with exhaustion and hardship. His gaze flicks rapidly from the table, your food, your face, the rest of the room, his hands. Everywhere at once it seems. “The day they brought me in.”

“Yup,” you confirm with an awkward nod of acknowledgement before looking back at your food.

Please leave, please leave, please leave.

“I’m Eddie. Eddie Munson.”

Looking back up at him, he has a bit more life in his face. Something that looks a little bit like hope.

“Okay.”

His face falls.

“You… Doesn’t ring any bells? Eddie Munson, guitarist, Corroded Coffin, biggest rock-metal band of the 90s?” The longer he goes, his wet eyes widen, making him look like a pleading animal looking for food scraps. When you show absolutely no recognition for anything he’s saying, he brings his hands together, fingers moving to twist at rings that no longer sit there. When he doesn’t find them, his leg starts to bounce under the table and his palms start tapping on the top of the chair at his chest.

“If you’re looking for celebrity worship, I’m sure Melissa or Kathy would be happy to provide.” You inform him, hoping he will lose interest and go searching for them to give him the attention he seems to be looking for. You go back to spreading jam on your slightly burnt toast.

He doesn’t take the bait. “How, uh, how long have you been here?”

Taking a long inhale through your nose and out through your mouth, you set your plastic knife back down. “A month.”

His hisses out air through his teeth, eyes searching over the rest of the room, like he’s waiting for something bad to happen. “How long do people normally stay locked up in here?”

Ah. 

“I dunno. A couple months? I’m not exactly some kind of authority here. You should go ask–”

“Has anyone ever broken out?”

Though you’re not sure why you’re surprised, you still struggle with the question. He makes eye contact with you again and the look in his eye is different now. Smaller.

He’s scared.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

He scoffs, using his hand at his chin to crack his neck in either direction, looking unsatisfied with your answer. “Come on, like nobody has ever tried to get out? You’ve never tried?”

A weight presses down on your chest. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yeah right, I’m sure that there’s some–”

“Mr. Munson!”

An orderly stalks toward the table, looking crabby and annoyed this early in the day. Eddie looks about ready to bolt after their bark but somehow remains seated until they arrive. “I’m sure Howard didn’t inform you, but first thing in the morning you’re supposed to come up to the nurse window to receive your medication.” They present their arm back to where the now empty med line stands, everyone else settled into seats with their breakfasts. “After you’ve taken your medication, you can grab some breakfast and…” They make eye contact with you that you’re quick to avoid. “Converse with whoever you want.”

“See, your mistake was that I don’t need any medication, so I don’t need to wait in line.” His voice is slowly raising in volume, drawing more and more attention as he goes. “In fact, I’m not even supposed to be here!”

“Mr. Munson, please lower your voice, you’ll disturb the other residents.”

“Fuck the other residents,” he slams his palms down on your table, almost knocking off your plastic cup of juice when it rocks and you jolt back from the show of aggression. All eyes in the room are on him now, and by extension, you. Other residents, other orderlies, nurses, the kitchen staff.

Too many eyes.

While the attention makes you want to crawl into a hole and die, it seems to please Eddie. He pushes up off of his chair and makes a show of arguing with the annoyed orderly all the way over to the nurse’s station. All eyes in the room follow him and his suddenly animated features, looking like he has gained 10x more energy than when he walked in. You use the distraction to your advantage.

By the time Eddie has had medication forced down his throat, a plate of shitty eggs deposited in his hands, and he turns around to look at your table again, you’re nowhere to be found.

He finds you again in the garden before group therapy.

You’re tucked away in a painted white, wrought iron chair that’s bolted to the ground next to a tall shrub. It’s still in the gated off outdoor area, but mostly hidden from view. The orderlies know to find you there if they need you because that’s where you always are – sitting on that single chair in the sunshine with a paperback book on your lap. Today it’s Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.

When a body blocks the sun over your book, your first assumption is that it’s an orderly coming to tell you it’s time to head to Therapy House. But it seems too early for that, and you’re normally a pretty good judge of time (at least, in here), so when an unfamiliar voice clears its throat in front of you, you huff a breath before you raise your head to acknowledge him.

“Is that seat taken?” He asks with a grin, motioning to the empty table bolted to the ground beside your chair. It’s obviously a rhetorical question – maybe to get you to smile or laugh. You do neither and give him a flat look.

“Actually, I’m saving it for someone.”

This seems to delight him even more, eyebrows raising and eyes getting some more life in them as he takes a seat on the table anyway. “Well I’ll keep it nice and warm for them until they show up.” He pulls his facility-issued navy sweatpants covered legs up to cross under him, effectively draping his knee over your arm.

Accepting your fate to not get rid of him, you open your book again to where you left off. 

“Best not to speculate, really,” said Aziraphale. “You can’t second-guess ineffability, I always say. There’s Right, and there’s Wrong. If you do Wrong when you’re told to do Right, you deserve to be punished.”

“I checked the perimeter of the garden,” his voice is lowered, as if someone would overhear him, “looking for weak spots.”

You hum an acknowledgement, keeping your eyes on your book as you reply in a sarcastic monotone, “Because that’s definitely not suspicious.”

He waves you off out of the corner of your eye, beginning a light tap of his hands against his knees. Even with the medication. He either needs a higher dose or he’s hyperactive at baseline. “They probably just thought I was giving myself a little tour or something, I don’t know. I don’t really care if it’s suspicious, actually. All I know is there’s like… Nothing. At all.”

“Shocker.”

Continuing to ignore your lackluster responses, a bopping of his head joins the beat of his palms. You attempt to reread the same paragraph over and over to try and comprehend it through his talking and fidgeting, failing time after time. “Not even like a locked gate or anything. And the fence itself is too high to get over with no footholds, unless you got something to stand on to grab the top and pull yourself over. Yeah…” 

“Oh!” The sudden volume of his voice makes you jerk away from him again, not expecting the sharp change. “What about your chair, is it loose?” One long fingered hand grips the backrest between your shoulder blades and the other the chair arm closest to him, attempting to give it a shake. “Maybe we could get the bolts out and use it to climb the fence.” He only succeeds in making an annoying rattling sound and jostling you back and forth.

“Fuck, Eddie, will you –” Using the paper cover of your book, you smack at his forearm a few times, causing him to quickly withdraw and hold his hands up in front of his chest like he’s worried your attack will continue. “Fucking, stop it.”

“Geez, sorry,” he mutters, looking slightly sheepish but still not exactly apologetic. “What’s your name, by the way? I forgot to ask.”

“Seems a little too late to ask now, don’t you think?” You turn the page of your book to make it look like you’re making progress despite the fact that you haven’t been able to finish a sentence since Eddie sat down beside you. Anything to help you look less interested in his attempted escape and, therefore, him.

An amused snort leaves his nose, tapping hands turning to a hold on his knees to let him lean back without falling off the table. “Well you are just a ray of sunshine,” he snarks back, looking more amused than annoyed. “Anyone ever told you that before?”

Finally lifting your head to give him a placating and overly artificial smile, you meet his eyes to make sure he can see your insincerity when you say, “Only every day.”

And while he opens his mouth to probably throw back another sarcastic retort, he’s interrupted by the “relaxing” (read: fucking annoying) gong by the Therapy House going off, signaling it’s time to head inside. You snap your book shut and push off your chair without a word to join the rest of the group outside in the unenthusiastic shuffle toward the birch wood doors. Another set of slip-on shoes, a matching pair to yours, sidles up beside where your own drag through the dirt path.

“So what happens now?” He asks, leaning a little bit closer to you as he speaks again, like the two of you are conspiring together on something. Based on your interactions so far, maybe he thinks you are.

“Therapy,” is your sharp reply. And, as if finally understanding he probably isn’t going to get much more information, he shuts up and just walks beside you toward the two story building off of the main facility.

All 12 of you wander through the doors in your similar outfits – sweatpants, t-shirts, and hoodies in shades of blue, grey, and black. Crossing from dirt and stone pathways onto the pristine wood floors of the Therapy House that’s awash with sunlight. As many windows as possible in all directions and a huge circular skylight above leaves the whole room bright and airy.

There are 13 metal folding chairs set up in a circle beneath the skylight, 1 more than yesterday, and the one directly across from the door is already occupied.

Mrs. Penelope Windsor is the head of therapy at the Betty Ford Center for Rehabilitation and wears that title with the utmost pride. She’s put together, ambitious, intelligent, and damn good at her job. Not to mention attractive, with her long legs crossed under her black pencil skirt, her crimson red button up blouse showing just enough collarbone to still be ‘professional’, and the long brunette braid draped over her shoulder. Her black heels are patent leather and perfectly shiny along with the matching briefcase sitting beside her chair. She stands out sharply from the white walls and birch wood floors of the Therapy House – but she commands your attention that way. A focal point in a room of white and tan and beige nothingness.

And the moment you walk through the doors with Eddie beside you, you feel her hazel eyes on you like a fucking hawk.

You avoid making eye contact, as per usual, and settle into the seat you’ve been using since the first day you came here. To your displeasure, Eddie immediately grabs the seat to your right, flipping it around to sit backwards in it, folding his arms over the back with a certain lazy confidence.

Tony, who normally sits there, hovers uncomfortably for a moment behind before scuttling over to the only remaining chair between Mrs. Windsor and Melissa.

As soon as he’s seated, heavy and tense silence settles over the room while the rest of you wait for Penelope to greet the group. You could hear a pin drop in the room in these moments, everyone shifting uncomfortably in the quiet as she takes a few moments to look over the group before her.

Almost like she enjoys making us all squirm under her authority.

Her sharp eyes settle on Eddie, her face as passive as always. He does very little to react to her stare but takes it as a sort of challenge – staring right back where most would shy away. The corner of her mouth lifts almost imperceptibly, like she appreciates the challenge.

The silent standoff is broken as Thomas’ wooden cane clatters to the floor beside his chair from where it had been leaning. He immediately turns bright red from the collar of his black t-shirt all the way to the tips of his ears. “Shit – Wait, oh, shoot, sorry!” Scooping it up in shaky hands, he is quick to tuck it between his knees, white knuckle fisting the handle in his embarrassment.

“That’s quite alright, Thomas,” is Penelope’s serene reply, a gentle smile directed his way before she addresses the group. “Good afternoon, everyone. Welcome back to our group session for today.”

No one says a word as she takes another uncomfortable moment to scan the group before doubling back to land on Eddie. “I see we have a new member of our group today. My name is Mrs. Windsor and I’m the head therapist here at the Betty Ford Center, but you’re more than welcome to call me Penelope. Could you introduce yourself for us, please?”

“Eddie Munson, guitarist, Corroded Coffin.” He answers cooly, and you watch his eyes do a quick scan to see if anyone shows any recognition. When there are a few reactions, his smile grows into one of satisfaction before he returns his gaze to Penelope. “Am I supposed to say what they locked me up for now or somethin’?” It comes out in a teasing lit, like he is trying to make a joke of it all.

No one laughs.

She takes it in stride. “You’re more than welcome to share what you’re struggling with, if you’d like.”

His shoulders rise slightly, like a cat going on the defensive. “Okay, first of all, I’m not struggling with anything. I’m not even supposed to be here. I keep telling them if they just let me call my manager we could get this whole thing cleared up so I can get the fuck out of here and back to my life.”

“Your manager…” She leans over, plucking a file from her briefcase and unfolding it on her lap. “Mr. Scott?” She looks up through her eyelashes for confirmation.

He settles again, looking slightly relieved. “Yeah, Jonathan Scott, Razor & Tie.”

“Mhmm…” She looks back at the file, flipping a page up in what looks to be a show. Like she already knows what she’s supposedly ‘looking’ for. “It says here Mr. Scott is the person who applied for your stay in our center and is the sign off as your legal guardian while you’re completing your treatment.” She lightly closes the file, sitting up straight again to look at him. “Did you know that Eddie?”

“No,” he answers, voice suddenly unsure, eyebrows drawing together on his forehead and shoulders falling. “No, I didn’t.”

“Well then,” her smile is nothing but satisfied when she slips the papers back into her briefcase. “It seems there’s nothing to be cleared up here after all. And I’m sure we’re all very excited to get to know you over the next few weeks, Eddie.”

Challenge won.

When he doesn’t respond, she moves on. “Now, Kathy, it looks like your nails are doing better…”

You tune out the rest of her interaction, focusing on the man beside you. He has his head slightly hung down, eyes on his hands as he holds one wide and uses the opposite thumb to rub along his palm. There’s an air about him – closer to one you saw this morning. Confused. Lost. Scared.

You almost feel sorry for the guy.

Two hours later, you’re in one of the ‘office lofts’ of Therapy House, a 5x5 closed room with a loveseat for you and an armchair for your therapist. After group is over, there are rotations of 1 on 1 therapy with one of the various counselors on staff, herding each of you into tiny rooms for an hour at a time. At the beginning of your stay, you had somehow lucked out to being assigned to Queen Penelope herself.

She sits across from you with her holier-than-thou attitude and a spiral notebook clutched in her well-manicured hands – filled with notes about you that you’re not supposed to see. In the sunken down cushions of the loveseat, you end up sitting below her eyeline even if you tried to sit up straight. So you don’t try – tucking your legs under you and crossing your arms under your chest.

As per usual, she starts the session with a few moments of horrifying silence. Almost as a dare to get you to talk first just to break it.

You never have.

“So, how are you feeling today?”

“Fine. Same as always.”

She clicks her pen, like she’s already prepared to start taking notes off that one sentence. “Indeed. Everyday is always ‘fine’, isn’t it?”

Eddie must have made you more snippy than usual, because you’re already ready to turn on her. “What point are you trying to make, exactly?”

“Everyday, every time anyone asks, the answer is always ‘fine.’ Fine is a noncommittal answer that means nothing.” She leans back in her chair, cool and collected as always. “Fine is the answer you give when you’re avoiding the answer.”

It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes at her. “Okay, what is my answer supposed to be then?”

“The truth, preferably.”

Wow, thanks, that’s helpful.

When you don’t respond with a new answer, she moves on. “Are you still having nightmares? Flashbacks?”

A shiver crawls up your spine, creeping toward the cold sweat that starts to build at the nape of your neck on instinct. “Sometimes.”

Liar.

“How often, would you say? For the nightmares?”

Clammy hands press into the fabric of your grey sweatpants. “Maybe once a week.”

Liar.

She scribbles something down in her notepad. “And the flashbacks?”

A vision of cold, blue tipped fingers reaching out toward you from the dark comes to the forefront of your mind before you blink it away. “Less than that, I think.”

Liar!

“And are they all still about her?”

The cold from those blue tipped fingers permeates through your body, settling into your bones in a chill that never seems to leave you anymore. “Not all of them.”

LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LI–

“Actually, can we talk about something else?” Your request comes out quicker than you’d like, giving a show of desperation as you adjust in your seat. “Please,” you add as an afterthought.

Her gaze is sharp as ever and calculated in her perusal of you for another few moments, but she concedes. “Alright. What would you like to talk about then?”

When you flounder for an answer, mouth opening and shutting uselessly, she offers an alternative of her own. “I saw you walk in with the new guy today. Eddie, right? Did you talk to him at all?”

You let out a huff, eyes directing down to where your wandering fingers have landed on a piece of loose thread on your pants. “More like sat there while he talked at me.”

“He didn’t give you a chance to talk or you never took it?”

“I don’t exactly have anything I want to talk to him about,” is your cold response, once again looking up to make eye contact with her.

“You know, it wouldn’t actually hurt to try to connect with someone again. Maybe open up to a new friend?”

This time you’re not able to withhold your eye roll. “Junkie rockstar is not exactly the kind of friend I’m looking to make.”

“That’s a bit of a hurtful representation, don’t you think?” She is writing another note as she speaks, eyes looking between you and her page. “How would you feel if someone didn’t want to interact with you because you’re a ‘junkie’?”

Your gaze flicks back down to the thread between your fingers as you mumble, “They wouldn’t exactly be wrong.”

“Do you think you’re a bad person because of your drug use?”

I think I’m a bad person for a lot of reasons.

“It doesn’t exactly give you a glowing perception in the eyes of the public,” you answer defensively.

“That may be true. So you did something that was frowned upon by the general public, making it ‘bad’ or ‘wrong’.” She adds in the air quotes, even though her tone was enough to warrant the assumption that she was being facetious. “What about all of the good things you’ve done? Is there some kind of threshold for the amount of ‘bad’ things a person needs to have done in comparison to the good ones to brand them as a ‘bad’ person?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

Her eyes flit over to the book beside you, resting on the cushion with the cover Good Omens facing up, before returning to you. “I think, personally, that it’s possible to have done bad things without it making you a bad person. It doesn’t make you a good person either, mind you. Because there’s also no such thing as a person who is wholly good either.” She folds her hands over her lap like she always does when she thinks she’s about to say something really profound.

“Good and bad are just malleable descriptions we give to things. People are not simply good or simply bad. People are just… People. Where good, bad, and everything in between coexist.”

Then why do I feel like this?

Eddie plops down in front of you at breakfast looking slightly less like a wet rat than he has so far.

"Good morning, sunshine." And he grins, way too fucking chipper for being 2 weeks into detoxing.

"Don't call me that."

"Whatever you say, sunshine," he repeats with the same grin, like he's glad you don't like it. "I have a plan for us to get out of here."

Get out? A plan? Us? You don't even know where to start with that. "Ah. No wonder you look like it's Christmas morning."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment." With a noncommittal 'mmfh', you go back to pushing around your over salted scrambled eggs. "Aren't you going to ask what my plan is?"

"No."

"Well, since you asked," he ignores you and leans over the table, once again lowering his voice to a soft murmur. "One of the night nurses is a fan of my band."

He pauses there, like he's looking for some kind of response. You offer up a completely lackluster, "Congrats."

"Sooo, maybe I can butter her up. Promise her VIP tickets or backstage passes or something. Bribe her to get us out."

Stabbing into a chunk of egg hard enough to almost pierce through the styrofoam beneath, you mumble, "Good luck with that."

He points his fork at you, eyes narrowing in a glare. "You don't think it will work."

"I don't care if it works," you sigh as you bring a hand up to rub at the sudden tension in your temple. "What do you think is gonna happen when you get out, huh? They're just gonna say 'Well, he got out of rehab, guess that's it then!' Your manager is just gonna have you delivered right back here."

"Then I get a new manager." Another flat look is leveled in his direction. "Seriously, I can figure it out once I get out of here. And if you're gonna be this negative about it, then maybe I won't take you with me," he says it like a threat, looking smug as he sips at his not-quite-pineapple juice.

"Good."

His plastic cup hits the table fast enough that a bit sloshes out and onto the vinyl cover. "What do you mean 'good'? You're telling me you don't want to get out of here?"

It's like he's finally hearing you for the first time. "Yes, that is what I'm telling you."

"As if." He scoffs, shoving a chunk of scramble egg in his mouth before continuing to talk through chewing it. "Nobody wants to be in here getting pumped full of happy meds and talking about our feelings with the Ice Queen."

A part of you actually wants to be amused at the term Ice Queen, but you're quick to beat it down. "Yeah, well, maybe I do."

He takes a big bite out of his stiff toast next, crumbs flying with the force of it. "I think," he pauses to swallow the bite before pointing the toast at you this time. "That you have Stockholm Syndrome. And have accepted defeat in your captivity."

"Whatever you say, Munson."

You should've known better than to assume it would end there.

After breakfast, all of you scatter throughout the main hall to do various things to fill your time. As usual, you sit down on a chair by the window so you can continue your book. You're quickly approaching the climax of the narrative, when the four horsemen begin their ride toward the end of the world.

Eddie has set up shop at a table nearby, bent over the top that's scattered with papers that are all covered in drawings of various mythical creatures. He's currently scratching away at a sketch of a three headed Hydra, mouths roaring fire toward the sky.

You'd never tell him this of course, but you have to admit that they are pretty good.

It's 30 minutes of blissful silence with plenty of progress made in your book until he starts talking again.

"Do you actually not want to get out of here?"

You exhale through your nose sharply, annoyed that you're being forced to continue this conversation. Closing your book with your thumb tucked in to save your page, you turn your upper body toward him. "Is that really so hard to believe?"

"Yeah, actually, it is. What are you even in here for anyway? Like what 'problem' do they think you have?"

"None of your fucking business," is your extremely grumpy reply, settling back into your chair and opening your book again in hopes he'll drop it.

"Well, whatever it is, it's not worth sitting in this glorified prison for months on end, I can tell you that much."

Something about the way he's talking really starts to grate on your nerves, making you want to fight more than you want to ignore him. "I'm sorry, would you rather be in actual prison?"

This makes his face drop, a muscle in his jaw rolling with tension. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that coke and meth are illegal, in case you forgot. And can actually get you arrested." Your tone is condescending, tinged with venom. "So maybe you should be grateful to be in this 'glorified prison' instead of a real one."

"Grateful?" He lets out a fake laugh, looking at you in disbelief. "Yeah, let me just try to be grateful to have my every move watched and my entire day planned for me like I'm in a fucking daycare."

An orderly walks in through the double doors to the garden, propping them open in an invitation to move outside for the hour. You're quick to rise, tucking your bookmark into your spot and muttering a dismissive, "Whatever," as you pass.

You're barely off the stone path and into the grass towards your seat when he comes barrelling out after you.

"Hey, I'm not done."

"Listen," you continue forward, talking over your shoulder at him as he marches after you, "I get you're still in denial and everything. But it's not my job to make you accept that you're here for a reason. So why don't you just leave me alone."

A hand grips your shoulder, forcing you to turn toward him. The sun is behind his head from this angle, leaving him silhouetted in light and you standing in his shadow in the grass.

"And what exactly do you think the reason I'm here is?"

"I don't know," you push his hand off your shoulder, tucking your book in against your stomach. "Why don't you ask yourself that question?"

"I'm here against my will because a fucking corporate prick thinks I need 'fixing'," his voice comes out as a hiss through his clenched teeth. His hands tighten into fists at his sides. "Everybody thinks we need to be 'fixed'."

"Maybe we fucking do, Eddie! Did you ever consider that?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your argument getting some attention from other patients and an orderly standing watch, but you're too caught up in your anger to care.

You jolt in surprise when Eddie's hands grip your shoulders, forcing your attention on him. "Are you even fucking listening to yourself?!"

"Eddie, let go of me."

His hands only tighten, his wide eyes going wild. "They fucking infected you with their bullshit doctrine of what society thinks is right and wrong, but it's not true."

You try to pull away from him but his grip just turns bruising in response, fingertips digging into your skin painfully. Fear takes hold, tears starting to push at the back of your eyes as you plead, "Please, Eddie, you're hurting me–"

"They're hurting you!" He's borderline yelling in your face now, emphasizing his next point by shaking you where you stand. "Don't you fucking get it? They're the ones hurting you by making you think there's something wrong with you!"

An orderly appears beside him and grips his shoulder, ordering a tense, "Let her go."

This seems to shock him as his hands release you mid-shake, sending you backwards onto your ass. You make impact with a yelp, the tailbone pain enough to force the tears that were threats before to start to spill down your cheeks. You're sure that if your hands weren't pressed to the ground behind you, they'd be trembling.

Heels click along stones on the approach, heated and quick. "What the hell is going on here?" Penelope Windsor asks sharply, barely faltering as her heels meet grass and dirt.

You look up at Eddie with tears in your eyes, shocked and terrified.

He looks down, as pale as a ghost, the orderly's hand still on his shoulder as he stares at his own like they don't belong to him.

"Are you alright?" Penelope asks when she kneels to the ground beside you, fancy slacks of her pantsuit in the dirt. A gentle hand hovers over your shoulders, concern evident in the way she looks you over.

Swallowing hard around the lump in your throat, you break away from your stare at Eddie to glance at her and then the ground. "I'm fine."

"I…" Eddie's voice sounds small, scared. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened. I didn't mean to–"

"Come on." Penelope is calm as she interrupts him, more caring and gentle than you've ever heard her. "Let's go get you cleaned up."

You manage a nod before you allow her to help you to your feet and put a protective arm around your back as she leads you over toward the Therapy House.

Eddie stands there with the orderly, hands shaking and tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he watches you go. Hoping you'll look back. That you'll tell him it's okay, that you'll forgive him. Tell him that you will be okay.

You don't look back.

Once you've disappeared behind those birch doors, the orderly finally lets him go. Walks back over to the main hall without another word – leaving Eddie alone to his panic and shame while he stares at your copy of Good Omens from where it sits half open and abandoned in the grass.

Your chair is empty in group that day.

-

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-

-

thanks for reading!! please reblog if you liked it and let me know what you think, feedback means everything!! read part 2 here

[yorktaylor]

ougahhh

[strawberry-seal77]

SHES SO CUTE SNORK MIMIMIMI HONKSHOO ZZZZZZ

[margindoodles2407]

so here's the deal guys. in the past week i reread my way through prisoner of azkaban, goblet of fire, order of the phoenix, and half-blood prince. i am currently halfway through deathly hallows. and as i was eleven the last time i seriously read harry potter. i forgot that it allows me to unlock secret shrimp emotions that humans aren't normally capable of feeling

[thatpadfooted-boy]

and my body remains (but the person is gone)

Chapter 3: my god, of course you'd know (they sink into the floor)

Ao3 | 3.7k Words | Milo's POV

Milo comes running.

TW: Colm Greer being Colm Greer. References to alcoholism and addiction, intimidation of a child, could be seen as emotional and mental abuse.

Milo didn’t know what happened, exactly. He just knew that David didn’t show up to take him to school one morning in the middle of finals week. He just knew that no matter how many texts and IM’s he sent, neither he nor Asher would answer. He just knew that he had to ask his ma for a ride to school since he’d long missed the bus by the time he was certain David wasn’t coming. He just knew that he sat anxiously through his classes, his lackluster English final, and hoped that somebody would tell him what the fuck was going on. 

This wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for him. Ash and David were his very best friends, but they were a grade ahead of Milo and much, much closer to each other than they were to him. That was alright, of course. He understood, if not on an emotional level, than on a much deeper, primal level the bond those two shared. 

Even with that understanding, he couldn’t deny the sting when he was left on the fringes a lot of the time. David and Asher shared a language with each other that he didn’t speak; a language of glances and head tilts, grins and sneers, shaking touch and affirming, steady presence. Sometimes he could decipher it, but often it was so complex he failed to grasp the nuance. His parents quite literally spoke another language, a strange mix of Italian and English that he was only half fluent in. They shouted it so quickly at each other across the house that he couldn’t keep up. Even Gabe, who made a point to include him when Milo found himself insulating and reserving himself from others, who Milo was pretty certain had put David up to including him with the other kids, often skirted around explaining things fully to him. Milo’s most heard phrase in this life was; I’ll tell you when you’re older. 

Something bad had happened. His brand new core thrummed with uncertain distress, the ties of his pack pulled this way and that in chaos and grief. He was worried, somewhere in the back of his head as he struggled to remember the names of everybody in the Tempest, that somebody had died. 

David’s car wasn’t in the parking lot when his last class finally got out, so he rode the bus home. It was a grueling walk from the stop to the Greer apartment in the sweltering heat, and it was made that much more uncomfortable by his company. 

Gabe called them Trouble , and they seemed to grin and take that particular nickname on the chin. They refused to be called by their given name, sneered at anybody who identified them that way. They took on any number of monikers instead. Tanker. Misfit. Chew-toy. Milo hadn’t dared to talk to them directly. 

Trouble and their parents had only been in Dahlia for a few months, and they had been attending a public school after their first week at the private academy Gabe made sure most of the pack’s kids went to. Everybody knew why. Milo hadn’t been there at the time, but he knew that Trouble had gotten into a fight on their third day in town, had hit so hard that the older, much bigger boy who started it landed in the hospital. Milo had seen plenty of fights before. He had, in fact, had Ash’s back in one two years ago, when some boys from another pack had a few things to say about his humanborn parents. That was off of school grounds and after hours, though. Trouble had jumped the guy, seemingly unprompted, in a hallway during passing period, before the lunch bell had even rung for the day. 

Whatever the reason was, it must have been deserved, because Gabe came down to the school instead of their parents to try and smooth everything over. It only worked to a certain degree. Nobody pressed any charges, but Trouble was kicked out of their academy. That meant they went to one of Dahlia’s rougher public schools. If anybody was cut out for that, it was Trouble. They had looked so uncomfortable in the starched uniform button up and slacks. Milo thought they probably fit in better there. 

Turns out, Trouble’s bus dropped at the same stop as his, and they walked the same direction as he did to get home. They were pack, he could feel that tenuous bond between them, so some part of him felt safer just standing next to them. Trouble made him nervous, though, in a way he couldn’t explain. He wished Ash was there. Ash could talk to anybody, make friends with anybody, even them. 

They didn’t talk as they walked. Milo kept his eyes away from their face, and instead found himself staring at their arm. There was a fresh, puffy tattoo carved into their forearm. It looked to be a snake of some sort, wrapping around their forearm, its fat, diamond shaped head resting against their wrist. It’s forked tongue flicked out over the back of their hand. They were in the same grade as David and Asher. Milo wondered if their parents let them get that, or if they went off and got it without telling anybody. He imagined his Ma finding a tattoo on him, shivered at the yelling and crying that would most likely result, and resolved that tattoos were likely not ever going to be for him. 

“What are you staring at?” Trouble ground out after a few minutes, startling Milo from his concentration. 

“Nothing!” He squealed, his voice cracking. He shrunk back from them, already so much shorter than they were. He hated that he did that, pulled away from challenges, got small when somebody stepped up to him. It made his chest swirl with shame. His father’s voice rang around in his head, slurred and dangerously close; Come on, boy, stand up! Stand the fuck up for yourself! 

“Yeah,” Trouble spat, their head swiveling towards him, “relax, Greer, I’m not gonna bite you.” Their voice hid the beginnings of a joke, but it either didn’t finish or didn’t land. 

“Right.” He half-laughed out. The anxiety that had been swirling in his chest all day crescendoed as he swallowed thickly and tried to contain his voice. He always got chatty when he was nervous, and he always said the worst thing imaginable. He bit at the insides of his cheeks to try and keep his big mouth shut. 

“I can feel it too.” Trouble said after a moment of tense silence. The scuff of their sneakers on asphalt was not enough to drown out the buzzing in Milo’s chest. “It’s your core. Somebody in the pack is in trouble, and it’s telling you so.”

A plain, simple explanation. Milo’s chest ached for theirs, and their threads replied back; pack, pack, pack. 

“Even though I don’t know what’s wrong? My core does?” 

“You’re a pack animal, Greer.” Trouble shrugged. “Even if you don’t know, your wolf does.”

“Will it go away?” He asked. They shrugged, squinting against the afternoon sun as they rounded a corner and came upon Milo’s apartment building. 

“Not as long as you’re a part of a pack.” Trouble said, as if there was another option. They stopped right at the front door of his building. “It’s a trade off. You feel their danger, but they feel yours too. So the pack will be there if you need them.” 

“You too, right?” Milo asked. He didn’t like that Trouble hadn’t said we. They stared down at him for a while before clicking their tongue and rolling their sharp, cold eyes. 

“Yeah, whatever.” They turned on their heels and walked away, back in the direction the two of them came. They’d walked past their place to make sure Milo made it to his. 

His ma’s car wasn’t in the tiny lot outside of their overstuffed apartment building. His father’s was. Milo sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face as he felt his chest tighten up. 

The whole building smelled of stale beer, but their unit was particularly bad. When they’d lived in a house on the same street as Ash’s family, his ma had managed to keep that smell to a minimum. She made sure his father kept all of that shit in his office. When they’d lost the house, when they went from a four bed, two bath to a one bedroom apartment, suddenly there was a whole lot less room to tuck Colm’s ugly parts into. Milo got to have the bedroom, and his parents slept on a pull out couch in the living room. His father’s cans and bottles and bullshit piled up around it, only cleared when Gabe paid a visit. 

Milo remembered those two weeks he and his ma had spent at the Shaw house after the bank took the house. His father slept in his office at D.U.M.P.. Milo had really thought that his ma was going to divorce the bastard. It was a really good two weeks. 

Marie Greer was a good, Catholic girl. She was never going to divorce her husband, no matter how much of a deadbeat he was. No matter how much better off the two of them would be without him. Milo was going to have to live with that. 

Milo’s father was sprawled out on the pull out sofa, empty can in his hand, the perfect picture of stereotypical alcoholism. Milo scoffed as he threw down his backpack and kicked off his shoes. Shitty, roach infested apartment that it was, Marie Greer would kick his ass if he tracked dirt inside. 

His father stirred as Milo made his way into the kitchen, clinking around in the fridge for something to eat. Empty . It was a Wednesday. Grocery day . The fridge was stripped bare. Ma bought only what was absolutely necessary, so when it was time to go shopping again, there wasn’t a scrap of food left in the apartment. He shut the fridge door and tried to cut across the living room to his bedroom quick enough his father couldn’t pull him into conversation.

“You’re late.” Colm snapped, just as Milo reached his bedroom door. He sighed and turned around, his arms coming up around his middle. His father sat up on the bed, day-old clothes rumpled and smelling. 

“David wasn’t at school.” Milo said softly. “I had to take the bus.” His father snorted, kicked a can halfheartedly off of the sheets. Christ , he’d slept with his boots on. Ma was going to chew his head off when she got home with the shopping. 

“Yeah, I figured.” He slurred. Colm dragged a hand over his face, scrubbed over his day-old scruff and dark rimmed eyes. Every day Milo’s father looked more tired, more worn down, as though he were under a somehow even heavier weight. Every day the light in their near identical brown eyes dimmed, slipped away, drifted further from the few memories that Milo had of some time before . “Asher cries, David comes running.” He spat. A shiver ran up Milo’s spine. 

“What’s wrong with Ash?” He breathed. Colm eyed him blearily from the sofa-bed. 

“You listen to me,” his father stood, unsteady, and stalked across the room towards Milo. Colm had never hit him, never hurt him. Milo had never had any cause to fear for his safety around his father. And even still, he shrunk back. “Don’t you ever let somebody lay a hand on you without fighting back, you hear me? If somebody tries to touch you, you make ‘em regret it. ‘Cause I ain’t coming to save you.” 

“I don’t-” Milo’s chest felt tight with panic. His core was thrumming, his wolf squirming under his skin and fighting to burst out of him. He didn’t have a proper hold on it, he’d only had it for a month or so. He squeezed his hands into fists to fight off the shift. “What happened to Ash?” 

Colm must have felt his core fluctuate, because his own power pulsed out, his threads smothering Milo’s handily. A growl echoed through the room, a predator’s warning that made Milo’s breath stutter. 

Colm leered over him for a tense, breathless moment before he pushed away, staggering towards the kitchen. Milo breathed finally, raggedly, and pressed his clenched fist into his sternum until it hurt. He would not shift. He would not lose control. 

The refrigerator door slammed and his father cursed, the lack of food throwing him off too. The sink ran for a moment. A glass clanked into the half-full sink. Milo didn’t wait any longer. His core was pounding in his ears; pack, pack, pack, pack. Asher was in trouble. He needed to get to him, to see him, to see with his own two eyes that he was alright. That the horrible things his father spewed when half-drunk and full of shit were not true. 

He had to be full of shit. Milo would know if something like that happened to Asher. He would feel it. 

But then, he had, hadn’t he? His core had ached for something all day. Now he just had a name for it. 

He ripped for the door, moving quicker than he thought possible. He didn’t stop for his sneakers, his bag, for anything. He took the stairs two at a time and his socked feet nearly slipped across the creaking wood. The complex’s exterior door passed him by in a blur, his street, his bus stop, the shitty, poorly paved roads of his side of town morphing into perfect suburban lawns and level sidewalks. He ran, sweat sheening his body, dripping down into his eyes and blurring his vision. 

He used to live right across the road from Ash. Seeing him was as simple as crossing the street. Now, Milo’s house was filled by somebody else’s family, and he had to cross town to get to his pack when they needed him. 

The sun had begun to dip behind the horizon by the time he made it to the O'Connell's front step. He was banging on the door loudly, his chest tight, sweat dripping from his nose onto their bloody front step. 

Good God, what had happened? Why hadn’t anybody cleaned this up? The neighbors would see. He kicked the welcome mat over the coagulated blood stain. He rang the doorbell, but grew impatient waiting for an answer. He rang it again. Then knocked. Knocked again. 

The door opened out from under his fist. He pitched forward, his breath still stuttering and uneven. Warm- too warm, god he was hot- hands landed on his shoulders.  

“Milo,” Gabe’s rumbling voice filled up every part of his misfiring brain. That shake in his core stilled immediately. He nearly sobbed in relief. “Take a deep breath, kiddo. Asher’s here. He’s safe.” 

He did sob then, that swirling, tightening spiral of dread in his gut finally snapping, releasing him, unraveling around him as his body let go at last. 

Gabe was there, crowding over him. It wasn’t like with his father. Gabe surrounded him and Milo knew, in his gut, in his core , that nothing would touch him while Gabe was there. He had always felt safe around Gabe, but now that his core was twisting up his insides, it was something tangible, something real. His core cried out its unsteady song; alpha, alpha, pack, pack. 

David was there, just like his father said he would be. When Gabe finally pulled Milo inside, the first thing he did was walk him back to Asher’s bedroom. Milo knew the way. He’d chased Asher down this hallway a thousand times, steered clear of the hung, black and white photos lining the walls, scuffed his knees on the plush, long rug. He knew exactly what he would see on the other side of the door. 

He thought he knew. He thought it would be Asher’s messy, heavily decorated room. Hiis new, bigger bed to accommodate his recent growth spurt, his cheesy posters and stacks of books and video games. Instead, Milo came face to face with Ciaran O’Connell’s hulking, snarling wolf. Fear gripped his body tight and seized his muscles into useless tension. He wasn’t capable of defending himself against Mr. O’Connell at the best of times, but now, he couldn’t even throw up an arm to shield himself from those razor sharp teeth. 

Gabe surged forward, one large hand clamping down on Mr. O’Connell’s scruff, and redirected the bone-crushing bite that would have latched itself around Milo’s throat otherwise. Milo remained frozen in place as Gabe wrestled Mr. O’Connell to the ground, his big arms locked around the wolf’s neck. 

“It’s Milo,” Gabe growled, his voice taking on a distinctly animal edge, “it’s just Milo. He needs to see him.” 

Slowly, the growls and snarls that had overtaken Mr. O’Connell melted into high, pitiful whines. He lowered himself to the ground, ears pinned back, and nipped at Gabe’s arms until he released him. Mr. O’Connell moved slowly, body tense, and pressed his nose into Milo’s hand. 

“It’s okay.” He said automatically. Mr. O’Connell’s cappuccino coat was thick and warm. Milo threaded his fingers into it at the base of his neck, and pressed his human forehead to the wolf’s as he rose to meet Milo. 

Mr. O’Connell leaned into him as Milo leaned into the room, shoulder to shoulder. Milo pressed his face into Mr. O’Connell’s fur. 

The lights were off. As evening fell over the space, he could only see by the light of the street lamps that filtered through Ash’s space curtains. Translucent stars and planets scattered the hardwood floor, the dusty panels, the tangle of limbs and bodies on the ground. 

David was laid out on his side, long, teenage-awkward limbs bent and folded. A wolf was at his back, her head resting over his hip, eyes half lidded and observing. Asher was on the ground too. His clothes were ripped. His pale skin was covered in dark, dried blood. His eyes were opened wide. They were light and wild and flicking around the space like he was looking for… something. Someone . 

He looked haunted. He looked fucked up. Something about the sight of him made Milo’s chest ache. That push from his wolf was back, the ache of his skin and the beds of his fingernails to shift , to protect , to rip apart whatever had left Asher looking like that pounded through his body. 

“Come on,” Gabe said softly, “let’s get you something to eat.” 

Gabe Shaw never could let a hungry stomach go unfed, and he always smelled it on Milo before he could even notice. He hadn’t eaten since lunch that day. The school lunches at their academy were incredible. Most days he picked off of Asher and David’s plates, scavenged fries and chips from their plates. David ‘accidentally’ bought two of nearly everything he got, and always offered the spare to him as they passed in the hallways. Milo was sure that Gabe would give him money for school lunch, but his ma was a proud woman. She didn’t ask for help until she was beaten, and she was rarely ever beaten. She packed him a lunch every day. A peanut butter sandwich, a handful of pretzels from the giant, bulk bags that she bought every few months, an apple or pear or orange; whatever fruit was in season and cheap. 

It wasn’t enough. It was hardly ever enough to fill him up. But he didn’t starve. 

Without Asher and David there, he’d had a hole in his stomach he couldn’t fill all day. 

Somebody had cooked. There was a giant pot of soup on the stove. It was cream based, filled with soft potatoes and shredded chicken and chopped vegetables. Gabe put a bowl down where Milo had settled at the kitchen island, and it was gone before he could even really think about it. His shaking hands shoveled spoonfuls into his mouth too fast to chew. He had been so hungry and he hadn’t even noticed. 

“You ran all the way from your place, huh?” Gabe asked as he dished out another portion of soup for Milo. He nodded, sweat-stiff curls bouncing on his forehead. “What is that… three miles?” 

“I don’t know.” Milo shrugged. He did know. It was closer to five. 

“What spooked you so bad?” 

Milo was quiet for a moment, his eyes downcast. 

His father had never hurt him. But he always hesitated to tell Gabe about how Colm treated him anyway. Something in Milo’s gut knew that Gabe would react poorly. He didn’t want to make anybody upset. 

“It was buggin’ me all day.” It was only a half-lie. “My um… I think my core just… knew.” 

Gabe nodded slowly, his eyes lingering on Milo’s face and posture. There was no accusation in those clear, dark eyes, just quiet understanding. 

“Your wolf.” Gabe nodded. “They’re protective things. Asher’s part of your pack. He belongs to you. It’s natural that you would feel something was wrong.” Milo swallowed heavily and stared down at his half finished second bowl. 

“What happened?” He asked. The silence that followed told him all he needed to know.

What his dad had said was true. 

Gabe sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand down his face. 

“I can’t tell you.” He said simply. Milo scoffed without meaning to, his nerves too frayed to hide his frustration. “And not because… Milo it’s not because I don’t think you could handle it. You could.” Gabe turned Milo’s kitchen island seat on its stem, placed two, too-warm hands on Milo’s shoulders. Those clear, dark eyes leveled him with a severe look. Importance. Understanding. Trust. It was how Gabe looked at David sometimes. “It’s not my story to tell. I won’t take away Asher’s privacy. Not in this or anything else. But listen to me, okay?” Gabe waited for Milo to respond. 

“Yeah, okay.” He said softly. 

“Ash is gonna need you.” Gabe pressed his lips into a thin line. “He seems… distant from himself right now. It’s gonna be your job this summer to stick by him. Don’t let him withdraw. You stick by his side no matter what, okay?” 

Gabe’s big, dark eyes were filled up with tears, making them seem that much bigger and that much darker. Gabe was a crier, had been Milo’s whole life. He cried at sad movies. He cried when giving Solstice speeches. He’d cried for the first day of every school year Milo had ever witnessed. He cried when David made him proud, which seemed like every moment of every day. So it wasn’t a surprise that he started crying now, his giant shoulders shaking as he gripped onto Milo for dear life. 

“I can do that.” Milo nodded his head furiously. “Anything he needs, I’ll take care of it. You don’t gotta worry about a thing, Gabe. I’m here.” 

A smile broke out across Gabe’s face despite the tears.

“I knew I could count on you, kiddo."

[waspguarding]

POOKIE

[moving-to-dreamwinged]

ohhhhhg i love him so bad

[t4tstarvingdog]

go here ^^

[danmiles]

LUCAS TOMORROW !!!!!!!!!!!

[phantom-forces-pkmn]

…mom is stuck at airport. one more day

[franollie]

"penny for your thoughts" dickkory panel ouaghhhhhh

[art-that-fucks-you-up-tournament]

QUARTERFINALS MATCH THREE

"Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on 16 November 1581" (c. 1883-1885 - Ilya Repin) / "Two Earthlings" (2003/2009 - John Brosio)

IVAN THE TERRIBLE AND HIS SON IVAN ON 16 NOVEMBER 1581: OUaghghhhhhhhhhhh oughhh the fact that they have the same names the blood ouaghhh the anguish ouaghhhhhh (snowdoesntexist)

TWO EARTHLINGS: When I first saw this painting and then it’s title it was like getting punched in the gut. In a good way. It’s super contextualized by it’s title, of course, and it really gets me in the heart!! There’s lots of artwork around that juxtaposes our modern lives with humans of the past in ways that make you feel connected to them and feel a sense of kinship for them, but this one stretches that feeling back millions of years beyond humans back to earlier eras of earth, and makes you feel that sense of connection with ancestors so old and different we aren’t recognizable as each other unless put into perspective in the way this painting and it’s title do, all because we share the same planet. It really really makes me emotional and I think at the very least more people deserve to see it and think about it. (reactorc0re)

(“Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on 16 November 1581” is an oil on canvas painting by Ilya Yefimovich Repin. It measures 199.5 cm × 254 cm (78.5 in × 100 in) and is on display at the Tretyakov Gallery.

"Two Earthlings" is an oil on canvas piece by John Brosio. It measures 48 x 48 in (122 x122 cm).)

[brw]

Where's that Defunctland quote "the only thing worse than making a movie is not making a movie". Ouaghhhhhh.

[thatelitra]

I need some random extrovert to adopt me so bad ouaghhhhhh

[oldbutchdanielcraig]

if we are doing arctic monkeys - do me a favour for devil’s minion era fights

ouaghhhhhh this is making me want to read like a million fics about the end of DM era. very good